The Dressing Room Baby [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Not that long ago, it was a funny story that I told at parties and while amongst friends at the bar. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the Dressing Room Baby?”

Then, the story got a little old. Not just because I had told the story so often, but because the Dressing Room Baby remained persistent. And elusive. It wasn’t just this quirky one-off incident that I could use to get a few laughs, it was an ongoing problem that I was growing sick of.

For as common as the occurrences had become, I could still remember how it started. I was somewhere in the Women’s Apparel department, unloading a box of new shirts onto the sales racks, when a customer came running over to me–eyes wide and out of breath. She looked like she had seen death. It was hard not to catch that feeling of dread myself–what could she have possibly seen that would make her look that terrified?

“Miss?” she asked frantically. “Miss? You…You have to do something!”

The possibilities–mostly influenced by recent news stories–raced through my mind. Does someone have a weapon? Some sort of violence? Hate crime?

“What is it?” I asked.

“Come,” she said. “I…I don’t even think I can say the words out loud. I think you just need to see it for yourself.”

Okay, fine. I’m a little less frightened now. In the event of an emergency, it seems unlikely that someone would want to pull you in closer to the danger. So I follow her. We head across the women’s wear and towards the dressing rooms.

I think I know where this is going.

I don’t know what it is about department store dressing rooms that inspire bad behavior, but I had seen an awful lot of it during the time I had worked there. Men pleasuring themselves. People going down on each other. Men sneaking panties and bras into a booth. People just taking a piss on the floor.

So, whatever this lady wanted to show me? I had probably seen it before.

“There,” she said, pointing to one of the dressing room booths.

“There’s nobody in there,” I said, expecting to be shown some other customer in the middle of whatever bad behavior they’ve chosen for the day.

“Well, not anymore,” the woman said. “But they left something behind.”

“Ugh.” I didn’t know what it was going to be, but I could already tell I wasn’t going to like it. Did someone shit on the floor? Leave behind a used condom?

What I found, when I stepped into the booth that the customer had pointed out, wasn’t necessarily worse than my worst fears–but it was certainly stranger.

“Do you see?” the woman asked from behind me. “Do you see what I’m talking about, miss?”

“Yeah, yeah, I see it. Look, I’ll take care of this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“Just…wear gloves,” the woman said before skittering off.

Sound advice.

What had been left in the dressing room was a diaper. Not a baby diaper, either–though I’ve encountered those in the dressing rooms a few times too. Busy would-be fashionista’s deciding to multi-task by trying on some new clothes and creating a makeshift family restroom all at once. But this was a much bigger diaper.

And yet that wasn’t even the strangest part. This disposable garment, while obviously a diaper, seemed to defy everything I assumed I knew about adult diapers. Admittedly, I knew next to nothing about them–but I could’ve taken a few guesses. They needed to be discreet. Simple. Practical. But this thing? It was thick to the point of being obviously plump. And there was nothing institutional or medical about its appearance. With its soft pink and blue colors, and cartoonish print, the only word that came to mind was…infantile.

How does a diaper like this exist? Why? Who would willingly wear such a thing? Where do you get them? All of these were questions I wasn’t quite ready to get answers for. I begrudgingly fetched some rubber gloves and a trash bag and performed my least favorite part of my miserable retail job: cleaning up other people’s disgusting messes.

In the days that followed, as the memory of seeing the urine soaked diaper sitting on the floor became slightly less visceral, I started to crack a smile when I thought about it. I laughed. I began to tell people about it, and they began to laugh too.

“Can you fucking believe it? Some giant overgrown baby is waddling around the store. Pissing themself and ditching their big diapers in the changing room.”

Two weeks later, it happened again. This time, as best as I could tell, I was the one to make the discovery. It was the same place, the changing rooms. In the same changing room stall, at that. Once more, a large disposable diaper was left behind, completely saturated with the most minimal amount of effort made to roll it into a bundle before being dropped on the ground. This diaper? Mostly white with cutesy teddy bears printed on it.

It was still funny, though maybe not ‘ha-ha’ funny. It felt more purposeful this time around. In the days before this second incident, I had tried to imagine the circumstances that led to the diaper being discarded. Maybe it was an emergency. An oversight. An accident. But to have it happen a second time? In the same store? In the same changing room booth?

A week later, it happened again. Same stall.

Sometimes I felt angry about it. Somebody was, assumedly, getting off on this in some way, shape or form. And it was at my expense. I was the one who had to clean up after them. I had to don the rubber gloves and pick up their filthy diapers.

But perhaps more often than I was angry, I was curious. I’d spend my nights on the sales floor, carefully lurking around, staring down everyone who pushed a cart past me. I was inspecting people’s pants. Listening for the same crinkling sounds I heard when I picked up the heavy sodden diapers. I was looking for people who looked…I don’t know. Perverted? Infantile? Just plain off?

I didn’t actually know what I was looking for, I just knew that I was looking.

At this point in the story, when I’m telling it to my friends, someone asks something like: “Well, your store has security cameras, right? Can’t you just…go through the footage of who was using the changing rooms around the time you found the diapers?”

It’s a great thought, and one I’ve considered myself. But when I play out that scenario in my mind, all I see is security and police teaming up to lead someone out from the store in handcuffs, pants pulled down to reveal their diapers.

And, I don’t know, that doesn’t feel like the resolution I want. Whoever this person is, and for whatever reason they’re doing this, I just want to meet them. I want to talk to them. I want to see what this is all about.

So my answer, when people ask why I don’t just talk to store security, is some variation of: “Well…believe it or not, the security cameras in that section of the store don’t work as well.”

Two weeks after diaper #3, and while I’m toiling through the sock aisle, I spot someone moving about in the lingerie. I mean, that seems completely normal, right? There should be customers strolling through the aisles to shop.

But there’s something about this person. They seem paranoid, or they just have an overly nervous nature about them. They’re not shopping, they’re just looking for a place to hide for a moment, out of the view of other shoppers.

I have a hunch that this is who I’ve been looking for.

I walked towards them slowly. I felt like I was walking towards a baby deer–trying hard not to spook them and send them galloping across the store. But the person doesn’t seem to notice I’m there, and I continue to draw closer and closer.

“Hey,” I said to them, finally getting close enough that I think I could open a dialog without them pretending that they just didn’t hear me and walking away. “Can I help you find something?”

They turned around to face me, revealing themself to be a young man. Maybe my age, or around there. Short dark hair. Khakis and a button-down shirt, like they had just gotten out of work. Or church.

“Oh, uhm…no,” he said. “I was just looking.”

“At…lingerie?”

He turned to see what was on the rack he was standing next to, and I watched as he just about jumped out of his shoes from the surprise of standing next to so many bras and panties.

“N-no,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…uhm…I’m…”

I shrugged. “I didn’t mean to startle you. If you need any help, just let me know.”

“I-I think I’m good, thanks.”

He turns to walk away, his pants emitting a most-noticeable crinkle as he does. He hears it, and he looks at me, knowing that I’ve heard it too.

I feel like I have him on the hook, and I just need to reel him in. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I open my mouth anyway, hoping that by the time I do speak, I’ve figured it out.

“Do you, uh, have anything you want to try on in the changing room tonight?”

His eyes widened. He clearly wants to respond, but he seems to have no idea what to say.

So I took another step towards him, feeling a little emboldened by finally catching my mouse. “Are you sure? You’re not wearing something soggy under your pants that you need to take off?”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.”

“Loretta,” I said, tapping the name tag on my vest. “My name is Loretta. Seems only fair that you should learn my name, considering the fact that I’ve been picking up after you for the last few weeks.”

He bolts. Not running, really. More of a brisk trot that carries him out of the apparel section and towards the exit of the store. I’m momentarily conflicted as to whether or not I should follow him, but I quickly decide that there’s a chance that if he flees, he’s never coming back.

Besides, it’s about time I took my break.

I call in to my supervisor, letting him know that I’m taking my 15–which is met with an apathetic “whatever.” Then, I’m racing outside, hoping that I can still catch the diaper-boy.

But I don’t have to go far. As soon as I exit the store, I see him pacing on the sidewalk just outside of the building. If I was to have guessed, I’d wager he was debating leaving altogether, versus going back into the store to finish the conversation I started.

When he sees me, however, he goes right back into a defensive state. “You…might have the wrong person,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know anything about whatever you were talking about.”

“You sure about that? Because I’ve had to pick up someone’s used pampers for the last month or so, and the crinkling sound they make sounds an awful lot like the crinkling that's coming from your pants right now.”

He scratches his head as he takes a step backwards, hoping to reestablish some of the distance between us that I’ve been removing as I slowly step towards him.

But I don’t want to scare him away. I want to talk to him and ask questions. It occurred to me that I needed to soften my approach a little. Dial down any potential intimidation.

“You’re not in trouble,” I told him. “And I don’t think anyone else knows. Unless…you’re leaving your dirty diapers behind more often than I know and someone else has had to clean them up.”

“Wh-what do you want from me?” he asked.

“To start? The truth. Were those your diapers?”

He nodded.

“That’s a good start.”

He sighed, as if to signal that he was waving a white flag. “I could be wrong, but…I don’t think anyone else has ever had to find them,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” he said, staring down at the ground in shame. “I…I only do it when you’re working.”

Huh.

That threw me for a loop, and for a moment or two I’m left without knowing what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “M-maybe I said too much…”

“I’m not sure you’ve said enough,” I responded. “I’m going to need you to elaborate a little.”

“I…well…”

“Is this like a sex thing?” I asked. I should probably wait for him to spit something out of his mouth, but I’ve got too many questions and not enough patience. “Do you get off on this? Do you get off on…having me find your dirty diapers?”

He hemmed and hawed a little longer, making a big production of shrugging like he wasn’t really sure if that was the case or not. But this reaction seemed to speak louder than any of the words he couldn’t find.

“Why?” I asked. “Do you have this weird crush on me, and this is the only fucked up way that you can think of to show affection? Or am I like…just the girl who’s in the right place at the right time?”

“Uh…”

“No, nevermind,” I said. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“Maybe I should just…go.”

All things considered, that seemed like the most reasonable solution to all of this. Go–and then never come back. He’d live on as just a story I told later, once I had recovered from the surreality of the moment.

But…

I also didn’t want this to be the end of the story. Because I had more questions I actually did want him to answer–questions that would stay unanswered in perpetuity if he fled now.

“If I didn’t confront you today,” I said to him, “what would you have done?”

He sighed, backing away from me at an almost glacial pace. “The same thing I’ve always done, I guess.”

“Which is?”

“Y-you know…”

“Tell me anyways,” I said. “Pretend I don’t know.”

“I…probably would’ve gone to the dressing room…”

“Uh huh. And?”

“I would’ve taken off my pants…”

I sighed, feeling like I was talking to an actual toddler. “Okay. And?”

“I would’ve taken off my diaper and left it there,” he said, spitting out the rest of the potential scenario all at once. “And I would’ve left the store–hoping you found my diaper again.”

“I guess I’m still not understanding what you get out of that.”

“I suppose it’s more of a fantasy sort of thing.”

“How so?”

“Like, I’ll go home and imagine you finding my diaper. A-and…laughing at me. And calling me a big baby.”

“And you like that?” I asked. “You basically want to feel humiliated? Emasculated? Infantilized?”

He nodded. Not that he actually had to answer at all for me to know how he felt.

There were holes in his logic, and so many opportunities for things to have gone wrong. I wasn’t the only employee checking the dressing rooms. There was store security. Other customers. Maybe there were other diapers he had left behind that I hadn’t found myself. Who knows how long this had actually been going on? Well, besides him–he probably knew.

It was a strange sequence of risks to take in the name of getting off.

Yet, for as much as I wanted to chastise him for having such a terrible and thoughtless plan, I couldn’t help but notice…that it had mostly worked out exactly as he had wanted it to. I had found his diapers–or at least enough of them. I laughed about them, by myself and with others.

“Your diapers,” I said. “Are they wet now?”

“N-no, not yet.”

“And how does that usually work? Do you just show up in a pair of soggy diapers?”

“I usually, uhm, do it here.”

“Is that part of the fantasy?” I asked. “Waddling around, using your diaper–all while possibly in the view of me or someone else? Nobody knows you’re just a big dumb baby, peeing his pants in a busy department store?”

“Yes…”

“Well, go on then.”

“Huh?” He ran a hand through his short brown hair as he looked at me with a dumbfounded look on his face. “Go on and…what?”

“Go on and do the thing that you like to do. Wet yourself. Piss in your diaper.”

“Here? N-now?”

“Jeez. C’mon, man. The object of your weird fantasies is confronting you and telling you to piss yourself, and you’re going to question her? I’m telling you to do it.”

“I…I can’t just–”

I laughed. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t.’ You’ve done it before, right?”

“But nobody was watching me then, you know? Nobody knew that I was doing it.”

“So wander around a little,” I said. “Go back into the store. Do some shopping. Or, at least, pretend to do some shopping. I’ll act like I don’t see you.”

“Wh-what then? After?”

“You should do what you usually do. Go to the dressing room.”

“Wait…what?”

“And I don’t want you to just, like, come up to me and tell me that you’re going to the dressing rooms. But make a show of it. Walk past me. Get my attention. Make sure that I’m watching you go into the dressing rooms.”

“And then?”

“I’ll come find you.”

Truthfully, I didn’t really have a plan. I had ideas. Parts of various potential plans, maybe. But there was something about just having this level at the moment that was all I needed. He was willing to let me direct him, and I was curious to see just how far I could take that.

I could have imagined him just walking into the parking lot, deciding that he wasn’t going to go through with my request. But no, he slowly meandered back towards the store’s entrance before stepping back inside through the automatic door–though not before giving me one last sheepish look. “Well, here goes nothing,” he seemed to say.

I gave him a few minutes for a head start, pacing outside myself now, while I thought about my next move. Really, the question was simple: What did I actually want to see happen?

By the time I walked back into the store, I was no closer to having an answer. But I was feeling inspired and motivated. I felt pretty confident that I could make it up as I went.

I was soon wandering around the women’s apparel again, looking for things to straighten and tidy up. There were days when I felt like I had a long list of things to accomplish during my shift. And then there were days like this, where I just needed to be a body on the floor. Perfect, really, for my own personal task: keeping an eye on this diaper-wetting weirdo.

I didn’t even know his name. That didn’t bother me much. It seemed better this way. He was just Baby now.

I wondered what he called me–what role he had assigned to me–when he was home alone, after dropping off one of his soiled parcels in the dressing room. Was I just some woman? The store employee who was left to clean up after him? Or had I infiltrated other fantasies of his? Maybe I was the older sister. The mother. The teacher. His boss. The babysitter.

He was bobbling around the store–I’d get occasional glimpses of him as he aimlessly strolled from one aisle to another. Maybe he had a slight waddle to him, or maybe I just imagined it–already knowing what was under his pants.

If we had reliable security, his movements likely would’ve drawn their attention. It was the sort of thing management taught us to look for with potential shoplifters–erratic paths through the store, combined with the occasional paranoid glance around him. As it was, our security was a man named Herman, who was either reading his phone or asleep in his quiet security office. It was likely the reason that Baby had managed to successfully leave so many of his diapers behind in the first place.

Baby would occasionally walk past the area I was working. He was trying, so hard, to act nonchalant and casual. It reminded me of the times I had gotten high and was trying to keep it from my parents, back when I lived at home. I’d put so much energy and thought into the most common movements that it was almost immediately noticeable that something was off about me.

What an idiot. A deliciously perverted idiot.

He was walking back towards me again, still trying to keep up the act of having never talked to me before. The closer he got to me, the more I could see him struggling to hide a big goofy smile that his lips would occasionally fall into. Poor stupid Baby. He wants whatever this is so badly. The changing rooms are behind me, and to stay on this path would eventually get him there.

Must’ve finally wet himself.

I still don’t know what my plan is by the time he passes by me, but I throw out a suggestion anyways: “When you get into one of the changing rooms, don’t take off your pants.”

“Uh…but…”

He pauses for just a moment–a fraction of a second–and I signal for him to keep walking, which he does. From the corner of my eye, I watch him walk all the way to the changing rooms and into one of the stalls.

Time was, when this store was busier, we had people whose job it was to monitor the changing rooms. You’d tell them how many garments you had and they’d hand you a tag with that number on it, and they’d assign you a stall. It was an occasionally clunky system, but some swore it helped with loss prevention.

We were past those days now. It was kind of a free-for-all now. There weren't any men or women-specific changing rooms anymore. There wasn’t any sort of monitoring. Supposedly, that was security’s job now. Assuming Herman was awake.

This all worked to my advantage.

Once I saw Baby disappear into the changing room area, I quickly walked over there myself, checking on all of the other booths to make sure there were no other guests. The coast seemed to be clear.

I pulled out the nylon ribbon tape and the ‘CHANGING ROOMS TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR CLEANING’ sign and blocked off the area to other customers. Could it actually stop someone from barging through and using a changing room booth? Probably not. Would anyone be that bold? Probably not.

Still, I didn’t have a ‘plan.’ I had a pool of ideas that I could pull from. That seemed good enough.

I pulled back the heavy gray dressing room booth’s curtain just enough so that I could slip inside with him.

“Hello,” I said.

“H-hi.” It was hard to tell how surprised he was that I was barging into his changing room. I imagined that, on some level, he was expecting it.

“Did you do it? Did you wet your diaper?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I want to see.”

He hesitated for just a moment before sighing and bringing his hands to his waistband.

“No,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a fraction of a word. “Weh…” He stopped himself, bringing his hands down to his sides again so that I could do as I pleased.

“Have you ever shown a woman your diaper before?” I asked.

“Yes…”

His answer surprises me. “Is that so? A girlfriend?”

“No. A…uhm…” I can see his body tensing up. He doesn’t look like he wants to answer the question.

“Go on,” I say, trying a softer and nicer tone. “You can tell me.”

“It was a, uhm, another young woman.”

That’s not an especially informational statement, but there’s a key word in there I can hone in on. Another.

“Another…store employee?” I ask. “Like me?”

He nods, his cheeks turning red. Meanwhile, I was laughing–I was just the latest in a long line of potential humiliators. I took advantage of his flustered and stunned state to give his pants a firm tug, pulling them down past his thick diaper.

It wasn’t the first time seeing his soaking wet diapers. But it was certainly the first time I had seen them as he wore them. It looked much like I had expected it would. Saggier, perhaps. More pathetic, for sure.

“What happened?” I asked. “Why did you move on to this store? To me?”

He was still a question or three behind, and between the inquisition and his exposed diaper he seemed completely flummoxed.

“Just answer this for me,” I said, gently pawing at the saturated padding hanging between his legs. “How many times have you been in this cycle?”

“Huh?”

“Finding a store. Finding some cute employee who fits whatever needs you have for your fantasies. Leaving behind the diapers so you can get off later. How many times?”

“Oh. Uh…” He probably knew the exact number already, but he paused as if he really had to think about it. “A…few…”

It was as good an answer as I was likely to get. A few. Probably more than two. Or three. Hell, it could’ve been more than ten. Maybe there were enough of us to form a club–a support group for the women who had to clean up after this man’s dirty diapers.

“Step out of your pants,” I said. “I want a better look at your diaper.”

He hesitated, but ultimately complied, letting the pants fall the way to the ground. He kicked off his shoes, allowing him to fully step free of the crumpled up pants.

“Has any of your, uh, targets ever gotten so close?” I asked. “Have they been right here? Inspecting your soaked diaper up close like this?”

“N-no,” he said, shaking his head. “Never.”

“But you wanted this, yes? You wanted to be caught? Cornered? Exposed?”

“Yes…”

“Well, congratulations.”

He exhaled–a nervous and tentative sigh–as he glanced up at the ceiling of the changing room. I could almost read his mind.

“I got what I wanted. Now what?”

There were all sorts of possibilities for what I could have done next. I saw them all laid out before me in my mind, and I could quickly scan them over–watching how each played out. Maybe I’d rub the front of his diaper until he made a sticky mess in his padding. Maybe I’d pull him over my knees for a fittingly infantile punishment.

But there was a word that seemed stuck at the forefront of my mind–a word I had just said aloud myself moments ago. Exposed.

It seemed like it was time for this giant baby to be exposed for who he was.

I reached forward, between his legs, and plucked his pants from the ground.

“H-hey…”

“I’ll be alerting security that there’s a man walking around the store in just an adult diaper,” I said. It was a lie, though he didn’t know that. “So if you aren’t quick in your exit, you’ll be escorted out.”

“B-but…”

“Thank you for showing me your diaper, Baby. Good luck with your next store.”

“You…you can’t just…leave.”

“Oh, I can,” I said. “And I will.”

It was the most confident my strut had ever been, as I stormed out of the dressing room, leaving the curtain billowing in my wake. I marched straight to the stockroom where I threw his pants into the trash compactor before returning to the sales floor. Just in time to see Baby scrambling through the aisles in his diaper. He was doing his best to avoid contact with others, but failing. You could almost trace his movements by the sound of exasperated and shocked shoppers.

Then he was gone, off to who-knows-where.

For a while, I’d start telling a new version of the story–one that starts with finding a man’s dirty diapers and ends with me exposing him to an entire store’s worth of customers. Surprisingly, it didn’t go over as well as the old story, where I just found large wet diapers in the changing room, did. Maybe it was funnier when I was just a victim and not dispensing my own version of justice on the pervert.

Still, it comes up in conversation sometimes. “Hey, remember that time you found that guy’s diapers and you confronted him?”

It came up again last week, while my friends and I were at a bar. It got a few chuckles, as it usually does. But it also prompted a stranger to tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” she said. “But I overheard something about you finding this guy’s diapers in a dressing room?”

“You heard right,” I said.

“That’s the damndest thing,” she said. “I’ve been dealing with something very similar lately.”

I just had to laugh. “I could tell you how to deal with it, if you want.”