Doing Business, Part 15 (Patreon)

Fifteen

“You don’t want to do that, do you?” I asked.

“I know I’ve been pretty vocal against changing diapers previously. But Gabrielle has sort-of changed my mind on that a little. I’m seeing the appeal.”

“I…but…” I paused, taking a deep breath before starting over again. “This isn’t like yesterday when I just wet my diaper. I filled this thing. To the brim.”

“Oh, believe me,” Lyndie said. “I’m very aware of that.”

“And you still want to…change my diaper?”

The words should have been easy to say at this point. It felt like the only thing I had talked about the last few days. Diapers. Diaper changes. Wetting. Messing. Pacifiers. Baby. Mommy. Actual parents probably didn’t talk about diapers as much as I did. Yet I still found myself getting caught up in the words when I had to say them out loud. Especially with Lyndie.

“Is it a dream come true for me to wipe up your poopy bottom? No, I can’t say that it is. But your Mommy–she can be a very convincing woman.”

I didn’t ask her to elaborate on that, though I was quite curious. What did ‘convincing’ look like? Money? A position? Or was Ms. Heller just that charismatic that she could make someone agree to change a grown man’s dirty diaper?

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t have to change you. You’re still welcome to waddle your dirty caboose all the way over to Mommy’s office. Or, you know, wait for her. Both, admittedly, don’t sound all that fun to me. And, I have to be honest, if you’re going to just sit here in your stinky pamper and wait, I’m probably going to leave. I’m worried that at some point I’m going to smell like your diaper myself.”

There were a lot of options to weigh, and even though I had been constantly scrolling through them in my head, I needed one more round. Walk through the office, with my diaper in this disastrous state. Wait for Mommy, all the while sitting in my dirty diaper. Or…allow Lyndie to change me.

Or? I could call it quits. I could end the game. Rip off my diaper, do my best to clean myself up without anyone else’s help. That would, I was pretty sure, end this humiliating and fantastical ride. If I wasn’t going to play by Mommy’s rules, I wasn’t going to get to play at all.

Tempting. But…I wasn’t done playing.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

She shrugged. “Fine? Which option is fine?”

Fuck, I was going to have to say it out loud. “I think it’d be best if…you changed my diaper?”

She nodded. “I think that’s probably the best choice.”

“It’s going to be messy,” I said again. I felt like it beared repeating, over and over. The actual question I was trying to ask was: Are you sure you can handle it?

“Your Mommy said something quite inspirational yesterday,” she said. “Something like: There will never be a mess so bad that you can’t just wash your hands after. So? Let’s get our hands dirty.”

Let’s get our hands dirty. It was so blase. So nonchalant. She could’ve been talking about an arts and crafts project or planting some vegetables in a garden.

“Okay,” I said, nodding. I was doing my best to compose myself.

“First thing’s first, maybe we get your pants off,” she said.

I nodded, sliding my shoes off my feet before unbuckling my pants. This had to have been a record-breaking number of times an employee had taken his pants off in front of his co-workers in a short amount of time. Once again, my pants were sliding down my legs.

The full diaper, free from being bound in place by my pants, sank between my legs with a heavy flop. Having a good amount of the mess pulled away from my skin came as a little relief, but this new configuration somehow felt even more embarrassing. That shameful sag, the backside of my diaper completely filled.

She pointed to the top of our table. “Why don’t you hop on up here. The changing table.”

I carefully climbed atop the table’s surface once more, again thankful for the industrial-grade construction that allowed it to hold me up. I could only imagine a scene where the table gave out at this point–paramedics arriving on the scene, only to find me and my bloated diaper stuck in the pieces of broken wood and metal.

“Bear with me,” she said. “I’m new to this.”

“I think I am too,” I said.

“I pooped my pants once a few years ago,” she said, beginning to carefully peel back the diaper’s tapes.

“R-really?”

“It was a night of bad decisions,” she continued, laughing. “I was young and stupid. Well–younger and stupider, I guess. I snuck into this party I wasn’t invited to. Drank too much shitty beer. Ate too much shitty food. There was this guy at the party who I was flirting with on and off. No idea who he was, you know? But in the state I was in, I was in love with this guy.”

I felt privileged to get any sort of peek into Lyndie’s past, even if it came while she changed my loaded diaper.

She carefully tugged at the front of my diaper to lift it up from my body. I could sense her hesitation. Not that I blamed her–I wouldn’t want to see what was under there either. I half-expected this to be the moment that she bailed, running from the room in the hopes of finding fresh air. Maybe a toilet to throw up in.

No. She persevered. Of course, she didn’t look happy about what she found, but she did appear to be determined. She shook her head while waving away the newly unleashed fumes.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she said, laughing to herself. “I’m almost worried I’m in over my head here.”

My heart sank. Was it even worse than I thought?

Still, she pulled the package of baby wipes out of my bag, setting them on the table and opening them up. She wasn’t discouraged.

“It’s alright,” she said, mostly to herself. “Just getting our hands dirty.” Her attention shifted back to my face, and she smiled. “First things first, I think we need to get this dirty diaper out of the way.”

While it may have been relatively new to me too, I wasn’t without experience. I knew what Mommy would expect for me to do right now. I lifted my legs and bottom into the air, giving her the clearance to remove the diaper and clean my backside easier.

“So where were we?” she asked. “Oh right, so there was this guy I was in love with–while drunk and full of terrible food. I’m feeling pretty gross, right? But I’m drunk enough to think that I can just ignore the fact that this trashy food just isn’t agreeing with me.”

She had drawn a damp wipe from the package and had begun the arduous task of wiping away the caked on filth between my legs. It was somehow more mortifying to watch Lyndie do it than it was when Mommy had. It came down to confidence, I think. Mommy seemed unphased by what she found in a diaper–like she had seen it a thousand times before. Perhaps she had. But this was Lyndie’s very first rodeo, and I had given her a real doozy of a bull to contend with.

But she pressed on, one wipe at a time. Little bit by little bit, she was cleaning me up.

“I’m trying to act all cute and flirty,” her story continued. “You can probably guess, but I’m not normally very flirty, nor am I good at it. I doubt alcohol-enhanced me is any better. And I can feel it in my belly, you know? That sort of urgency where you’re, like, ‘Well, shit, I need to do something about this.’ But I don’t. I just keep talking to him.

“And suddenly, it happens. I guess? I don’t even know because I think it barely registered with me. I felt something happening in my pants, and my stomach felt a little less stressed, but I wasn’t able to connect the dots. And so this guy is, like, ‘Lyndie, I think you just shit your pants?’”

I was captivated by her story. I was just trying to imagine it happening. Lyndie, standing there and talking to a guy while she unloaded into her pants. I tried to imagine her–the brash and independent Lyndie that I knew now–reacting to the man she had a crush on telling her that she just pooped in her pants.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I think, for a minute, I tried to play it off real cool, you know? Like, ‘Nah, man, it’s all good.’ But then I started to smell myself. And I sobered up pretty quickly. So I ran out of the party. And I didn’t drive myself there, I walked. So I had to hoof it all the way back home, my pants completely destroyed.”

Now I was thinking about her sneaking across town, hiding behind cars and shrubs as she jumped from one block to the next in an effort to keep her filthy pants a secret.

This story, as it turned out, was rather arousing. I didn’t want to look to confirm, but…I could feel myself growing hard.

“Well well well,” Lyndie said, chuckling as another wipe was run between my legs. She playfully batted at my swollen member. “Which is doing it for you? My dirty story or getting your own mess cleaned up?”

“Neither hurts,” I said truthfully.

“What a naughty little baby. You’re clearly a good fit for your Mommy, you know?”

I nodded. Believe me, I know.

“I think we got most of the yuckies off your bottom,” she said. She had taken a bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse and had squirted a blob into her hands, which she rubbed together. “I think I’d like a second opinion, though. Gabrielle will have to tell me how I did when she inspects you later. Assuming you don’t mess yourself again before she sees you.”

I blushed at the very thought of having an ‘accident’ like this one again on the same day. Hearing her mutter the word ‘yuckies’ certainly didn’t help.

“Did…you get home?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your story,” I said. “Did you get home without being caught again? And the people from the party? Did they…make fun of you for pooping your pants?”

“I made it home without further incident,” she said, smiling. “Much to your dismay, I’m sure. And, the little humiliation fiend that you are, you probably won’t like that there’s really not that much else to the story. Like I said, I snuck into a party I wasn’t invited to. And I wasn’t exactly popular, so I don’t think many people noticed I was even there. I had heard stories later about the drunk girl who shit herself in the backyard. But nobody knew it was me.”

My cock was throbbing, just thinking about it. All of it. Her story. My increasingly absurd situation. It all excited me. It all made me crave…more.

Her fingers were suddenly wrapping around my cock. I moaned, unconsciously thrusting my hips up into the air, as if some pathetic effort to fuck her hand.

“Whoa boy,” she cooed, giggling. “Baby sure does have a libido, huh?”

I shrugged, a little ashamed of my hormones being so obvious.

“Well, she hasn’t locked you up yet.” She repeated the phrase she had used in my apartment the night before: “Cock jail.”

“N-no,” I said nervously. “Not yet.”

“But your days are numbered?” she asked, gently stroking my shaft. “Not much longer now, and she’ll have you locked up good and tight.”

“Probably…”

“Where do you think she’ll put the key?” Lyndie asked. “I’ve seen women online, they wear the keys on a chain around their neck. It’s kind of cute, I guess. I’m not sure it works for all women. Gabrielle doesn’t strike me as the key-around-neck type.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We haven’t talked about that much.”

Lyndie’s hand continued to glide up and down my shaft. Slowly, and not too tightly. But she had a loose rhythm–she certainly knew what she was doing.

“Some men can still have an orgasm, even after their cock is in a cage,” she said. “Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“All it takes is a finger or two. A toy even. You just go up baby’s bottom and wiggle it around a bit in just the right spot and…voila.”

My breathing had grown heavier as she casually stroked me. I was panting. Moaning. My mind was in a thousand places at once. I was thinking of my messy diaper. Lyndie’s messy pants. Ms. Heller easing her finger into my backdoor again until I climaxed with my cage on.

“Do you like having your bottom played with?” Lyndie asked.

“I…think? It’s new to me.”

She laughed. “Well make sure you ask her to try it out after she gets you fitted for your cage.”

I said nothing, just moaning again as her hand continued to slide up and down my skin. She was bringing me close to the edge.

My head gently rolled to its side, looking at the door, still closed and locked. On the other side of that door, people were working. I imagined that there was some guy, at some cubicle, and he was working on finishing a report to meet a deadline. He hates his job. He hates having to come to the office everyday. He doesn’t get enough respect and he doesn’t get paid what he thinks he’s owed. And he’s just yards away. Feet, even. So close to where I was, getting my cock rubbed after I had just filled a diaper and needed to be changed.

That was my job. Being a baby. Being humiliated. Getting turned on and relieved. And the only meaningful assignment I had been given today was to mess my diaper.

By this metric, I was a model employee.

“Fuck,” I said. “Gonna…I have to…”

My cock spurt its load, the white goo lazily cascading back down my cock and onto the smooth skin my manly pubic hair had once occupied. It was gone now–my manhood having been revoked.

“You’re in luck,” she said, drawing another wipe from the package on the table. “A baby is never far from its wipes, right?”

She cleaned up this new mess, adding in a few extra swipes to make sure she had thoroughly cleaned everything she had gone over before.

“Ready for a new diaper?”

Always. “Please.”

“This is the easy part,” she said, taking a fresh diaper out of my bag. “I’ve never done it before, of course. But I figure it all has to be easier than cleaning your ass.”

Fair enough. I was still reeling from the orgasm. I wasn’t entirely in my body, or even entirely in this room. I was floating around–somewhere between pure ecstasy and crippling humiliation–even if the two were getting more closely connected all the time.

“All done,” she said. Her words grounded me, and I had to shake my head in confusion.

“Done?” I looked down the length of my body, seeing the fresh diaper was already wrapped around me and taped shut.

“Easy peasy,” she said. “You ought to get your pants back on.”

I slowly rolled to the edge of the table and eased myself. I was still feeling dazed when my feet hit the ground.

“Can I be honest?” Lyndie asked.

“I assume you usually are,” I remarked.

She laughed, offering an agreeable shrug. “True. But, I’m kind of liking this whole baby thing.”

“Really?”

“I dunno. It’s not quite like having an actual baby–for pretty obvious reasons. So it’s more like having a doll? You can dress it up and do whatever you want to it. And, sure, sometimes you have to clean it up, but that’s part of the fun, I guess.”

I sighed, imagining myself just sitting on a shelf with other dolls, waiting to be picked up and played with.

“Careful,” I said. “Next, you’ll want an actual infant of your own.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” she said. “But I could get behind having a big adult baby of my own.”

The concept certainly seemed to be catching on. Ms. Heller. Lyndie. Evan. Even Pizza-Girl’s amused smile–or at least, that’s how I remember it. I kept getting exposed, and yet I never seemed to be met with disgust or anger. Everyone seemed to like it. Love it. They embraced it and wanted more of it. Was the idea of infantilizing a man that exciting?

Or did it just make sense when it came to me? Oh, that’s Clark. He belongs in diapers. Honestly, it’s amazing that he went this long without being treated like the baby he is.

“I will be leaving that to you,” she said, pointing at the old diaper, still sitting on top of the table, wide open–stink lines practically emanating off of it. I could see that every single wipe she had used to clean my bottom had been deposited into it. It appeared that many were needed, more than I had expected.

“Right,” I said with a little nod. “Thank you for…changing me.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth.

“Of course,” she said. “Now, I’m going to wash my hands. Like, four times. Then I’m going to get some more coffee. And then I’m going to sit outside in the fresh air for, like, an hour. I’ll see you later.”

After she closed the door behind her, I took a deep breath before slowly exhaling. Admittedly, the air I was taking in was tainted, and post-climax it seemed much less novel to me, but it was still a much-needed feeling of being reset.

I didn’t want to look into the diaper. I didn’t want to know how bad it was, or how much work I had created for Lyndie. I tried to look just above it as I reached down and rolled it up into a ball. When I was finished, I held the heavy shameful package in my hand, humbled by how this literal blob of garbage had caused so much trouble for me.

I had no idea how I’d transport it out of The Closet. And once I left with it, where would I even take it? A dumpster outside, probably. Preferably far from wherever Lyndie was.

Actually, I realized I needed some fresh air myself. I tossed the diaper into my bag, threw the bag over my shoulder, and hoped that the room smelled better by the time I got back.