Dispatches from the Nursery [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

1.

The most common question I get asked, regarding my divorce, is why we got divorced at all. It’s a fair question, but one with a very complicated answer. An answer even further complicated by the answer to the second-most common question: “Are you and your ex-husband still on good terms?”

Yes, yes we are.

He’s my best friend, and that’s never going to change. It was why we got married in the first place, and it’s the reason we were together for as long as we were.

However, being excellent friends isn’t enough to be in a marriage. A marriage isn’t a friendship–it’s a partnership. And there will be those who wish to counter that argument with something like: “But my spouse and I are the best of friends and have a very happy marriage.” Okay, great. What if, coincidentally, those spouses are great partners in addition to being best friends?

For both of our sakes–for both of us to be happier in our own lives–we had to split apart.

Me? I’m doing fine. I’m dating for the first time in years. Years.

Robert and I had been together since high school. Romance is much different when you’re stuck in a brick fortress with your entire dating pool for 30-ish hours a week . Dating as an adult is an adventure that’s as baffling as it is exciting. Apps. Texting. The ability to summon a stranger to your house for a quick fuck on a whim. But I’m adjusting quite nicely.

He’s doing well. In his own way, of course. I’m tempted to try and describe his best life, though I worry I’d inflect too much of my own struggle to fully comprehend the things he wants.

I’ll defer to his own words, then. From a recent email he sent me:

Things are good.

The nursery is complete now. The custom-built crib arrived two days ago. As it turns out, I had incorrectly measured the back door of the house–failing to account for the space the doorstop took up. This difference–and we’re talking just an inch, or so–resulted in the crib’s craftsman having to dismantle the piece so that the components could be brought in individually and then reassembled.

This mistake was as embarrassing for me as it was frustrating for everyone else involved. I offered to help with the labor of disassembling the crib, but Mommy thought I had done enough damage. I was made to sit on the floor, in just my diaper and pacifier, to watch as a ‘real man’ took care of things. And, given how long it took to get the crib into the house, there was plenty of time for my diaper to turn from a pristine white to a muddy brownish-yellow.

Even if I often don’t get the appeal of his lifestyle, I always appreciate his candor. His trust in me is important, and I’m happy to be a sounding board for him. Especially when I doubt he has anyone else he could share these details with.

For a time, closer to when we initially separated, I found the honesty about his new path to be a little hurtful. I didn’t want to be on that same path with him, but it was hard to read his words and not imagine some additional writing in between the lines: “This could’ve been us, but you didn’t love me enough.”

Bullshit, obviously. I’m happy to report that I’ve gotten over that. Part of a strong friendship is learning that I don’t have to accept what my friend does, only that it makes him happy.

2.

I’ve been seeing a man named Kirk for the last week. On the verge of our third date, I think this is the longest I’ve seen any man since the divorce. Still, I doubt that this will blossom into any sort of relationship. Kirk’s staying power might have something to do with his lack of confidence–which pairs well with my lack of experience. The plan, at current, is to have my way with him before tossing him back. The ol’ catch and release.

Kirk hasn’t actually gotten into my pants yet. Or, perhaps, I haven’t gotten into his pants. Not for lack of trying. I’ve dropped enough hints about it. Poor Kirk, I think he is picking up said hints–he just doesn’t know what to do with them. My plan is to get a little more assertive. He’s coming over tonight, and after a bottle of cabernet, I’m going to insist he either fucks me or moves on.

‘Assertive’ isn’t always a word I’d use to describe myself. I think I’ve been feeling inspired as of late. By Robert, of all people. Or, more accurately, his Mommy as he describes her in his emails.

From this morning’s email, he writes:

We have an agreement in place: I must earn my keep. It seems a little comical, if you think about it, to put a baby to work. But the real world often trumps fantasy, and she’s just one woman who already has a full time job. She simply doesn’t have the capacity to work all day, come home, and clean up both my diapers and the house.

She gives me a list of chores to complete in the morning. Most days, they’re easy enough. Laundry. Scrubbing floors. Running the vacuum. Some days I’m tasked with mowing the lawn or tending to the gardens outside. Still in my diapers and baby clothes. I don’t actually have ‘adult clothes’ any more. She threw them out, or so she says. I haven’t had any trouble with onlookers yet–her property is, thankfully, a little tucked away–but if there was a curious neighbor around, they wouldn’t have to look hard to see me toiling in my humiliating attire.

Would it surprise you to learn that my absolute favorite task is to clean the toilets? I have never once used a toilet in her home–I wear mine, of course. And yet I’m expected to keep them pristine anyway. Poetic, yes?

She is  quite strict about the chores I’m assigned. Even when she overestimates how much a baby can do in a day, I’m still held responsible for completing her list. Not meeting her expectations always results in punishment. This punishment differs from day to day–she often says that she likes to keep me on my toes. But, too, I find that the punishments often fit the theme of the chore I failed to complete. For example, there was a day last week where I didn’t get around to bringing the trash out to the curb. And so, the next morning, I was made to stand on the street in just my infantile attire so that I could personally hand the trashmen my bag of soiled diapers. As brilliant as it was soulcrushing.

Thing is, she could get away with asking me to do anything. I’ve never climbed a ladder in my life, but if she demanded that I clean out her gutters for her, I’d do it in a heartbeat. She has that way about her, you know? She doesn’t make you guess–she just says what she wants. And I, perpetually craving the need to make her happy, will always jump as high as she wants me too.

Tonight, of course, isn’t about having Kirk clean my gutters for me. But, we all have to start somewhere. I, too, can demand things.

3.

I did have sex with Kirk. Though whether or not I consider that to be a success is another story. I got a little less than 2 minutes out of him before he collapsed next to me on the bed; out of breath and his condom full.

But I considered the lesson of assertiveness again. Robert’s Mommy, whoever she was, probably wouldn’t have accepted a man’s quickdraw as being the end of a sexual encounter. I had needs too, and I wouldn’t be stifled by Kirk’s lack of stamina. I asked–demanded–that he put his mouth on my pussy. I could see conflict on his face, as he knew the idea of eating a woman out was supposed to be pretty hot–but with his balls unloaded, and the knowledge that my labia likely tasted of latex and lube–he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit.

Ultimately, he was a man who followed direction well, and did exactly as I asked.

Kirk wasn’t a phenomenal lover, but he wasn’t a complete waste of time. I had gotten a taste of being assertive, and I wanted more.

Of course, it’s one thing to be assertive with a doormat of a man, and another to just be generally assertive in all aspects of life. I asked myself what I needed to do to be more assertive, more often. No matter what angle I looked at it from, the answer I kept coming back to was confidence. I needed to be more confident.

How? I went back to the same well that brought me inspiration last time, my correspondence with Robert.

Mommy’s sister, Hanna, is visiting today. Honestly, I’m not sure how literal I should take ‘sister.’ I get the feeling that they may just be exceptionally close friends, though I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I was in a bit of a predicament today. Constipation. Happens to the best of us, I guess. I actually saw it as a sort of uncomfortable blessing in disguise–perhaps this spared me the shame of having to load my diaper while we had company. And so, I kept this little issue to myself, hoping I could bear the discomfort of a swollen belly all day.

However, Mommy sees through such things.

She pulled me aside and asked why I hadn’t gone ‘boom-boom’ in my diaper yet. Perhaps this is what makes for a good Mommy–the ability to be on top of slight alterations in the normal routine. I could’ve lied and told her that I just didn’t have to go, but that wouldn’t have flown.

She wondered if I was holding it, on purpose, because I didn’t want to use my diaper in front of her sister. I obviously didn’t blame her for thinking that, but I insisted that this was not the case–it was a legitimate case of constipation. I doubt she actually bought that–and it did give me pause to consider how much of my condition was psychosomatic–but she opted to play along.

She said: “Clearly, you’re going to need some help with that.”

Up until this point, it was hard to say how much of our lifestyle Hanna was privy to. Make no mistake, little effort was made to conceal what I am. I’ve been in a thick diaper and powder-blue colored onesie all day. There’s a yellow ribbon pinned in my hair. A pacifier pinned to my onesie. Yet there seemed to be no discussion about it, at least in my presence. Maybe Mommy had already told her about it over the phone and there was nothing else left to say. Or, maybe, I’m just the 180 pound diapered elephant in the room.

This changes in an instant when I’m sent back to the living room to pass along a message: “Mommy is preparing an enema for me. If you’d like to see, come back to the nursery with us.”

Those…may not have been my exact words. It took twice as long to say as you think it did, with plenty of stammering consonants.

Hanna was absolutely delighted to have been invited to this little ceremony, practically galloping back towards the nursery before I had even finished the question. Then, wide-eyed and grinning, she watched everything unfold. My diaper being pulled down. Mommy positioning me on the ground with my bottom sticking straight up in the air. The nozzle getting lubed up and inserted in my back-end. The contents of the red enema bag slowly being funneled into me. The primal groans coming from my mouth as I bloated further, feeling like I’d buckle at any moment.

Finally, when it was determined that enough had been administered, the nozzle was removed and my diaper was pulled back up. At this point, it was just a matter of waiting. And nobody had to wait long.

I’ll spare you all the details…I’m sure you can use your imagination about the end result. But Hanna was ecstatic about the scene. Her hands were on the back of my diaper before Mommy’s were–feeling and squeezing the heavy padding and the swampy contents within. Mommy offered to let her change my diaper.

“Next time,” Hanna said. And I believe that to be true. For this one, she just watched.

Imagine my surprise when, halfway through my diaper change, Hanna remarked that she had no idea how invested we were in our roleplaying. In her eyes, this was just some kinky little dress-up game we played when we were especially horny–not an entire lifestyle.

And I’m thinking: How fucking bold of Mommy, right? She just put me out there in the same room as her sister–dressed like a giant baby–and hoped for the best. Did she trust Hanna that much? Or was she just that confident in general?

There’s something about Mommy’s confidence that rubs off on me. Not to imply that I’m any more confident than I’ve ever been--trust me, I’m still plenty timid and non-confrontational. But when she seems so sure of herself, it’s easy to trust her judgment. It’s like she’s already seen all possible outcomes, and all of them are safe. Or, safe enough. When she makes me fill my diaper in front of her sister, or mow the lawn dressed like a baby, I feel assured that if there’s any consequence to be had–she’s already accounted for it and finds it to be worth the risk.

4.

Kirk keeps calling me. I thought he’d be as done with me as I was with him. Instead, it seems that my demand for oral sex had awoken his inner-puppy, and now all he wants is to roll over on his back and expose his belly to me.

Tempting. I think–I believe–I can do a lot better than Kirk. I’ve got a few spicy chats going on at the moment, and I’m feeling good about them translating to just-as-spicy nights in my bed.

But I keep thinking about Kirk. Not Kirk himself, per se. But the concept of a Kirk–a pathetic little man without much of a backbone who contorts himself to whatever a woman wants. For the first time, much to my chagrin, I’m disappointed that Robert and I ended our relationship before I got the chance to lead him around on a figurative leash the way that his Mommy does now.

Talk about a missed opportunity.

I don’t think diapers are for me. But submissives come in all forms, and I’m curious to see what I could get out of Kirk. This isn’t romance–this is science.

I finally called him back. I made two things very clear: First, I didn’t call back because he had asked me to 100 times–I called him back because I wanted to. Second, when I invited him back to my place, it was for my pleasure and amusement–not his. He graciously accepted, thus beginning the process of wrapping him around my finger.

I was feeling ballsy–perhaps I had re-read the story of Robert’s Mommy giving him an enema in front of her sister a few too many times–and asked him to meet me out at a bar. There, halfway through our cocktails, I told him that if he wanted to go home with me, he’d need to get down on his hands and knees and kiss my boot.

He initially balked, unable to believe that I was actually asking him to do that in a public place. I shrugged, reminding him that he still had the option of going home alone. I expected him to leave. For a moment, I actually wanted him to leave–I’d have taken that as a reality check and reminder that this isn’t who I actually was.

But then, he was suddenly on his hands and knees, literally licking my leather boots. I looked around the bar, finding that Kirk had already attracted a bit of attention. And I had never felt that sort of power before in my life. It’s the sort of power that makes you think: What else could I possibly get away with?

I intended to find out. Back at my apartment, he gave my bare feet a good washing with his tongue. Then, inspired by Robert’s stories, I demand that Kirk also lick my toilet bowl clean for me. Seemingly emboldened by my confident disregard for taboo, he almost seems too eager to complete his task.

What else, what else? I opened my email while he worked on the toilet bowl, randomly selecting one of Robert’s messages in the hopes that he’ll share an embarrassing tale that I can appropriate.

It’s called figging, and it involves Mommy taking a skinned ginger root and…

Seems a little too intimate for me. I move on to another email.

Sometimes–usually after Mommy has a glass or two of wine too many–she’ll lament about how she wishes she had a little girl instead of a little boy. It’s a very wink-wink sort of lament. A signal, really. I’ll crawl back to the nursery and fetch the box from the closet marked ‘Sissy’ and bring it out to her. She’ll pick some things from the box–usually panties or a pretty little dress–and put them on me, over my diaper.

Then, I’m not Bobby - I’m Bobbi. You’re not supposed to hear the difference, but I swear that I do when she says it.

She loves playing with Bobbi. She’ll do her hair. Put makeup on her. Make her try on bras and stuff them with tissues–telling her that this is just practice for when she’s a ‘big girl.’

These sessions usually end with Bobbi getting her ass fucked into oblivion by Mommy.

I’ve come to love my time spent as Bobbi, though I’m thankful that this isn’t the norm. In a world where I’m already living the fantasy of being treated like an enormous baby, it’s good for there to be some things that are relegated to just once in a while. It keeps them feeling special and important.

I’d been looking for inspiration, but I didn’t think I’d ever find such a literal suggestion in Robert’s correspondence. I’ve got plenty of panties that I probably won’t ever wear again, and I suspect they’ll fit Kirk quite well.

I corralled Kirk into my bedroom, and he’s salivating because he thinks that he’s met the qualifications for us to get into bed together. Instead, I practically watch his heart tumble out of his chest when I rummage through my dresser and pull out a frilly pair of black panties that I haven’t worn in years. He seemed to immediately know that they weren’t for me.

5.

Kirk has stopped reaching out to me. He isn’t returning my calls either. I’m not exactly upset about this, but the sudden silence leaves me with a lot of questions. Had I overstepped? What could I have done differently?

Or, perhaps, it was just his problem. Maybe he just wasn’t ready to embrace those parts of himself yet.

Either way, the lack of definitive answers was stirring up some bad vibes in my life. Was I supposed to abandon my newfound interest in dominance? Or should I be dusting myself off and getting back on the panty-clad man again?

And it seemed if I wasn’t the only one getting cut off:

I wouldn’t call it a fight. Maybe a disagreement? It feels worse than it is, only because we’ve never really had conversations where we weren’t on the same page. It’s hard to disagree, really, because I’m usually happy to just blindly agree with whatever she says.

But over breakfast, as she placed a bowl of dry cereal in front of me on the tray of my oversized high-chair, she mentioned that she wanted to make some new changes. Instead of being allowed the hour or two of internet access a day that I had grown accustomed to, I’d have…none. There didn’t seem to be any real rationale for this decision, so far as I could tell. I don’t think I’ve broken any rules. She’s even been supportive of my correspondence with you.

It comes down to tightening the reins, she says. How can I ever be completely committed to my role as ‘baby’ if I’m still allowed to hold on to these vestiges of adulthood? It’s a fair point, but it’s the first time that an ‘adult’ privilege is being revoked that I’d rather hold on to. I protest a little, seeing if there’s any wiggle room. Could she meet me halfway?

Ten minutes–and a very sore behind–later, I’ve agreed to give up my precious internet after today. I’m still a little disappointed, but I think I’ll quickly get over it. Maybe it’ll be nice to be further disconnected from reality. I’m getting a little giddy just thinking about a time when I have no clue what the most popular TV shows are, or what the latest political scandal is. You have to admit–that part sounds nice, right?

Is this permanent? I don’t know. Is anything permanent? Will I still be soiling my diapers in ten years? (Would it surprise you to know that I just soiled my diaper now, while writing this email?) All I know is that, for now, this is the way it is. This may be the last email that you get from me.

Surreal to think that some of my last words to you involve me messing myself.

It’s a ‘sit on the deck and drink a bottle of wine’ sort of night. I haven’t actually lost much–a man I didn’t care much for anyway, and an ex-husband who left me to poop his pants full time–but it still feels like I lost everything.

6.

This morning, I jokingly told myself that I was ‘on the mend.’ As if wanting to be more assertive and domineering over men was just a passing illness that I had to recover from. I was back to responding to flirty emails with strangers online. I still liked it, but it felt like something was missing from the experience.

Take Lucas, for example. 6 foot and some inches, blonde hair, well-maintained beard. He played guitar and spent a lot of time backpacking in the summer. He was also very friendly and polite to me in his messages. And a week or two ago, I would’ve been all about that. I’d have been excited for a date with the guy.

Now? I just sort of…shrug. He’s fine. He can pitch a tent in the woods in the middle of the night with just a headlamp. But can he clean my boot with his tongue? Prance around in my panties? Crawl around…like a baby?

I keep thinking about Robert and the little world that he lives in now. It’s been a little short of two weeks since his last–and final, as he claims–email. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder, or maybe my recent foray into domination has left me more willing to humor his infantile antics.

Not much later after, I get an email from Robert’s account. Coincidence or fate?

This is not Bobby, though he sends his love. You know, if you’ll accept love from someone who just humped his dirty diaper to completion.

He calls me Mommy, but everyone else calls me Jade.

To be honest, I’m a little ashamed for waiting so long to introduce myself. But who knows what the proper social protocol is for a situation like this, right? Am I under obligation to reach out to the ex-wife of the man I now keep in diapers as my full-time baby?

I thought I should reach out. You were an unfortunate casualty while I was trying to lay down some new ground rules. I stand by my decision to cut off my baby from the harsh adult-world internet–I think he’s much happier spending that time watching his little cartoons instead. Still, I disliked cutting him off from you.

A proposition for you: Would you like to come over? You can spend some time with Bobby, and see his nursery for yourself. I’d even make dinner. Not the same thing I make for the baby, of course.

Think on it.

Not that long ago, I’d have refused. No offense to Jade or Robert–it would’ve just seemed like too alien of a world for me to go traipsing through.

Now?

I delete my messages with Lucas. Fuck his mature disposition and ability to perform Dave Matthews covers. I don’t know what I want, but I know I want something else.

7.

When it rains, it pours.

After a week of dwelling on Jade’s invite, I finally decided that I wanted to visit. Jade was happy to see me. Robert–Bobby now, usually–took a little warming up.

You have to forgive Bobby. It’s funny, he’s gotten so much better at not getting flustered with company–even strangers he hadn’t met before. I think it was the visit from Hanna that really turned things around for him there. If he can empty an enema’s worth of liquid into his diaper in front of a guest, he can probably do just about anything, right?

But when you visited yesterday, it was the first time I had seen that uneasiness in his eyes in quite a while. I’m sure you’ve figured out why he was so distant initially for yourself by now. But I had a talk with him about it last night, where he confessed how hard it was to see you again.

There was a time when you were the person who knew him the best in this world, he said. You knew of his interests and the things that he liked–but even then, you had never seen him as he is now–what he’s become.

Was it hard? I’m genuinely curious. It’s hard to even imagine. One day he’s sitting across the table from you as your husband–your adult partner. Then, he’s suddenly a baby again. Like, literally. Crawling around on the ground. Sucking on pacifiers and baby bottles. Making sudden stinky messes in his diaper. Eating with hands.They’re not the same person.

I have to admit, I was as surprised by you as you were by him. Mind you, Bobby has never said a bad thing about you. In fact, he’s gone far out of his way to paint you as a saint. Perhaps my assumptions about you, and your marriage with Bobby, were always just that–assumptions. I had imagined a narrative where you were cold and resistant to his desires, pushing him out of the marriage. Quite unfair of me to craft this delusion. But I’m telling you about it now because it was your genuine happiness for him yesterday that forever dispelled those thoughts.

You were not only accepting of his babyhood, you seemed downright interested in it. You fed him a bottle! You let him sit on your lap! You even watched me change that yucky diaper.

And, again, many apologies that you had to witness that blowout. Believe me, I’m sure he’s quite sorry, himself. Nobody wants to see that size of a mess. Not even me, and I’m the one who wants to keep him in diapers.

I want you to know that you’re always welcome back.

This morning, I woke up to a text from Kirk. Actually, I woke up from a dream about Bobby and Jade, with my hand firmly lodged down the front of my panties. Who was I to argue? I finished the job I had started in my sleep, conjuring some daydreams of having my own pathetic baby to humiliate. Then I checked my phone and found Kirk’s texts.

Serendipitous timing.

Kirk offered a silly apology, claiming he was feeling overwhelmed. Not by me, per se, but by his own desires–he had never realized his love of degradation until I made him kiss my boots in a bar.

I told him that I’d be willing to accept his apology on two conditions. The first was that he’d be coming to my place tonight, and I’d be using his face as my seat for a few hours. I had never really thought much about face-sitting, but it came to me in the moment and I ran with it. The other stipulation was that he was going to have to go to the grocery store and buy a pack of adult diapers. And he’d have to be wearing one of them when he arrived at my house.

And, as a bonus condition, I promised that I’d even allow him to climax if he showed up to my house with his diaper already pissed in.

Would you believe that pathetic son of a bitch was standing at my door an hour later?

I checked right there on the porch, pulling his pants down to his knees. As pathetic as Bobby had looked in his nursery the day before, Kirk gave him a run for his money. His store-brand adult incontinence brief was barely up to the task of containing his still-warm piss–which he had actually gone through with. Not only were his diapers soaked, but so were his pants.

He was told to take his pants the rest of the way off and to leave them on the porch. Inside, I put a towel down on the carpet, and told him to lie down on it. He asked if I would allow him to change out of his diaper.

No, that wasn’t part of my plan.

It didn’t take much coaxing, he simply laid down on the towel in his flooded diaper. A curious thing, the male libido–when there’s even the slightest hint that this could end with them getting off, they become infinitely adaptable. I haven’t the slightest idea if he finds his soggy diaper to be a turn on. Honestly, I don’t think his diaper is all that exciting to me, by itself, either. It’s not about the diaper–it’s about his willingness to wear and wet one just because I asked.

I gave him the truncated version of what I see happening: I’m going to pull down my pants and sit on his face. While I don’t expect him to be licking and suckling at my pussy nonstop for the next however-long, I remind him that it would be in his best interest to keep me satisfied.

It’s fucking bliss. I don’t think he had any idea what he was doing, but he figured it out quickly enough. The hungrier the man, the better he eats. I lost track of time, but I suspect it was somewhere between two and three hours of a rolling pleasure, ebbing and flowing but consistently leading me to another climax. I squirt a few times–I didn’t even know that I could do that. He laps it up.

After, he gets what he was promised. He remains on his back while I stand over him, rubbing the front of his diaper with my foot until his moans reach a fever pitch.

I asked him if he got what he wanted. He says: “Sort of.” That answer delights me–almost more than anything else that happened in his stay.

He asked if he could take the diaper off before he went home. I denied that request, insisting that he send me a picture when he gets home to show that he’s still wearing his diaper. He grumbles a little, but complies–fetching his pants from the porch and taking off.

8.

Kirk informs me that he has a rash. It’s not just a rash–but a diaper rash. I shouldn’t be tickled about this as I am, but what can you do?

He asks if she should start calling me ‘Mommy.’

On one hand, the speed at which he’s acclimated to my whims is impressive. But his commitment far eclipses mine. I’m not in the market for this to be some sort of permanent part of my lifestyle–I’m just experimenting.

I, still, don’t even think that I like diapers all that much. Let alone being someone’s Mommy.

Speaking of mommies, it would seem that Bobby’s has been keeping him busy:

Bobbi is sitting on the ground in front of me as I write to you. She’s a little cross with me right now because I had a date last night. Mind you, not so cross with me that she balked when I told her to fetch her panties from the nursery–just cross enough so that her mouth is in a fixed-frown position. Poor baby doesn’t even realize how much cuter she looks like this–though I won’t tell her.

For the sake of recapping last night, I’ll refer to Bobbi as “he,” but please don’t forget who ‘she’ currently is.

I’ve been quite clear for some time now that my ‘big girl’ needs would eventually require more than what my pants-filling little baby could provide. Honestly, I don’t think that he’s actually upset that I had Lou over last night. I don’t think that he’s mad that he had to sit in his own filthy diaper and watch while Lou pounded me from behind. I don’t even think he’s all that mad that Lou took a piss into his diaper after having fucked me.

I think he’s mad because he liked it way more than he thought he would.

I just had a thought, and I had to stop writing so I could ask the baby a question: “Next time Lou comes over, do you think that he should meet Bobbi?”

Wouldn’t you know it, her frown dissipated a little bit.

“Oh,” I coo to her. “I think someone would like that.”

I can always tell when he gets hard in his diaper. I can’t always see that little firm bump through the thick padding, but I can still tell. It’s the way he positions his legs. His eagerness to grab at his diaper without even thinking about it.

I ask if Bobbi would want to be treated like a big girl by Lou. Not to say that she’d be out of diapers…but to pleasure a man like a lady would. She seems quite into it. I’ve seen the way she sucks on a bottle–I can only imagine what she could do to a cock. And that tight little back door? Lou is going to love that.

I re-read the emails I get from Bobby and Jade while I’m lying in bed at night, my hands in my panties. It’s not his pathetic pants-pooping that gets me off–it’s her. It’s her control over him. Her ability to just summon whatever chaos she wants into the world and his willingness to go with it.

The insatiable desire I feel when reading about their antics continues to inspire me. But what it’s inspiring, I’m not all that sure anymore.

9.

On a whim, I reached out to Jade to see if she was interested in brunch. She did one better, inviting me over to her place to enjoy some homemade waffles and bacon. Served to us, of course, by the adorable Bobbi–who has apparently been around much more often as of late.

In the afternoon after our brunch, she writes me:

I was trying to limit how often I allowed Bobby to be Bobbi. I didn’t want it to lose its luster, you know? I wanted it to always feel special.

But then I’ll just be staring at Bobbi as she crawls around in one of the new dresses I got her and it just hits me that this is just who she is. No, not a girl–she’ll never be one of us. But something more feminine. Bobby used the word ‘sissy’ the other day, and I feel like that one’s going to stick.

Bobbi, my pretty little sissy.

I was a little more blunt than I wanted to be–I blame the strong pitcher of paloma that Jade made. But somewhere, mid-meal, I told her about Kirk and my efforts to be more assertive and dominating. I told her about how it had gone incredibly well–mostly on account of how much of a pathetic doormat Kirk himself was.

I told her about my boots at the bar. How he cleaned my toilet. How he wore my panties. I told her about how I made him buy diapers, and how he then wet himself and got a diaper rash.

And then we heard some whimpering. It was Bobbi, crying to herself under the table while the big girls ate their food.

Was Bobby always this sensitive when you two were together? Mind you, I see nothing wrong with it. But I do genuinely believe that being regressed further and further into a sissy baby is making him a little more temperamental.

He once told me that it hurt him a lot to divorce from you. In almost every other way, he said, you were a great partner. But he wanted to be a baby. Not just occasionally. Not just semi-regularly. All the time. And you, he didn’t think that you were even interested in it occasionally, let alone permanently.

So I think it was very hard for him to hear that you’ve reduced another man to diapers on your own. He doesn’t have any regrets–he’s told me so–he just wonders what could’ve been different if you had discovered this part of yourself earlier.

Personally, I feel you should have no regrets. You were who you were. You are who you are. The best thing you can do is just live your life in the moment and not think about the what-ifs and could-have-beens.

That was nice of her to say. But to be honest? His little pathetic tears didn’t make me feel bad, and they didn’t send me into a bout of self-doubt about who I was in my marriage. Instead, the sound of his whimpering made me feel delighted. It made my pussy wet.

I came home from brunch to find Kirk waiting for me on my porch. He apologized, knowing that he shouldn’t just show up like that–but he just couldn’t help himself. I, apparently, had awoken something in him that he couldn’t get enough of now.

Poor Kirk, timing his surprise arrival for when I was just getting home from Jade and Bobby’s. My conversations with Jade had left me feeling especially inspired and sinister, while watching Bobbi get her dress lifted up and her diaper checked had made me hungry for doing some humiliating of his own.

The fool was on his knees, begging me to take him back. He’d do anything for me, or so he said.

You asked me an interesting question over brunch today. You asked if I love Bobby, or if I just love having a big baby to humiliate and have fun with? I said ‘both,’ and I meant that. But I’ve been thinking about your question since you left and I thought I should elaborate on that a little.

I do love playing with my big baby. I do. But I’ve played with other big babies before, and it wasn’t the same. Fun, for the moment, but ultimately a little empty. Without that grander connection to my baby, it just feels a little too much like…acting. And I don’t want to be playing a scene. I want it to feel genuine. Natural…or as natural as something like this can feel, I guess.

Love is sometimes harder to explain than it is to feel. No, Bobby isn’t ever going to fuck me. He’s not going to share a bed with me. He’s not going to buy me diamond earrings or take me on a cruise to Cazumel. But we share a life together now, and I honestly mean it when I say that I need him just as much as he needs me.

My desire to dominate and humiliate, while incredibly strong wants, still felt secondary to my need for love and companionship.

Partnership.

I told Kirk to give me his pants. He did, leaving him standing on my porch in just his diaper and shirt. I thank him for being my punching bag, but explain that I’m looking for something more. He assures me, tears streaming down his face, that he can give me anything he wants. Truth be told, his pathetic blubbering excites me, but I remain convinced that this should be the end.

There’s only so much groveling I can take, and I go into my house, his pants still clutched in my hands. I advise him that he should get a move on, before my curious neighbors finally decide to see what all the hubbub is about on my porch.

From my living room window, I watch him dart back to the car in his diaper. He’s still crying like a baby.

I’ve blocked his number on my phone.

10.

Lou was over again last night.

I was a little nervous that he wasn’t going to come back. I mean, sure, he pissed in Bobby’s dirty diaper last time he was over, but part of me wondered if we were all just caught up in the moment. With a week’s worth of time to mull things over, I think most men might reconsider getting caught up in that madness again.

But he seemed quite interested in coming over to visit again.

He showed up at the door with a bag in his hands. And, for a moment, I was really flattered. Almost flustered, really, because I couldn’t think of the last time a guy had shown up at my door with a gift–well besides whatever he might have done in the back of his diaper.

But wouldn’t you know it? It wasn’t a gift for me, it was a gift for Bobby. A bib, reading: “Daddy’s Little Helper.”

And I’m of two minds about it. On the one hand, it’s good that he wasn’t scared away by Bobby. But on the other hand, he suddenly seemed much more interested in Bobby than he was in me.

Selfishly, I was a little miffed. It’s a silly thing, right? I was the one who introduced the two in the first place. I was the one who hyped up all the things that Lou could be doing to Bobby. And yet, in that moment, the wind had been taken from my sails.

Bobby was already waiting in the living room. Bobbi, actually. Her pretty little dress that we picked out together. The ruffled panties that just barely fit over her diaper. Her bonnet. The little socks with the pink bows on them.

I say again: It was a silly thing for me to be upset about.

I thought it would play out differently. I thought Lou would come over, admire Bobbi for what she was, and then proceed to worship me. Later, when I had my fill, he’d be welcome to give Bobbi anything he had left himself.

Instead I had gift-wrapped Bobbi in a pathetic little ensemble that only seemed to further rile Lou up.

Alas, I let it happen. The poor baby hadn’t had a good climax in quite a while, and I thought that maybe she deserved one at the strong manly hands of Lou. I stepped back and poured a glass of sherry for Lou and I. Lou didn’t partake–he was far too distracted. I drank both glasses as he pulled Bobbi over his knees to paddle her thickly padded ass with his hand.

The sound of him striking that fluffy diaper quickly snapped me out of whatever selfish rut I had put myself in. It was like music to my ears. I had no doubt that Bobbi felt none of it–a testament to the pathetic bulk of her diaper–but she didn’t need to feel it. She just needed to know her place.

As I think I’ve mentioned recently, the baby has become a bit more sensitive as of late. Spending that much time as a baby probably does interesting things to one’s psyche, yes? I see it as a change for the better, personally.

Anyhow, it took about 12 or 13 swats before Bobbi began to sob and bawl. I’ve seen her cry before, but nothing like this. This was a full on infantile meltdown.

Lou shot me a quick glance. I think he was looking to see if I would stop this from going any further. But I just smiled and nodded, and Lou proceeded to get another 10 or so more smacks in.

“You want something to cry about? I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Yes, he actually said that. A bit cringe-inducing, honestly. The sort of thing an actual father–and probably not a particularly good one at that–would say. I’d say that it worked, in that it seemed to get a rise out of Bobbi. She looked a little fearful. But she looked very excited.

She spent some time on her knees, next, sucking off Lou. She had never sucked an actual cock before. Of course, I’ve given her some toys to practice on in anticipation for a night like this, though it’s still hard for me to assess her performance when I can’t feel it for myself. Lou seemed to like it just fine though, the way he moaned and carried on. I wondered if Bobbi was just that good, or if the thought of being sucked off by a diapered sissy was so thrilling for Lou that he had set the bar incredibly low.

It’s my fourth time reading her email. I wonder if I’d find it so exciting if I didn’t personally know Bobby as well as I did.

There are days where I feel like he could walk in through the front door again, dressed like he had just gone to work, and we’d make dinner and sit at the table and talk about what we were going to watch on TV later. As if nothing had ever changed.

That seemed impossible now. He wasn’t an adult anymore–not in the traditional sense, at least.

Jade’s stories exhilarated me. Also, they made me jealous.

That seemed crazy to me, to be jealous of the lifestyle they lived now. I could’ve had that. He was my husband, once upon a time. And yet I’ve never wanted him more than when he had moved out to wear diapers full-time.

I could kick myself more, or I could just continue living vicariously through Jade’s emails.

At some point, Lou had decided that he had enough of the baby’s mouth. I watched as he effortlessly picked Bobbi up and flopped her down on her belly over the couch cushions. Again, I was a little jealous–being able to pick the baby up and carry her around was one of the few things I couldn’t do as a Mommy–but it was nothing a little more sherry couldn’t help soothe.

Lou pulled down the back of Bobbi’s diaper. I could already guess where Lou was going to go with this, but I wasn’t entirely sure that Bobbi herself knew.

“Dearest,” I said to Bobbi. “This big man means to fuck your little sissy-hole. You can tell Mommy if you don’t want that.”

She grunted and stuck her ass further up in the air for him. It would’ve been hard to interpret that in any other way.

Lou was not gentle or nice about it. He spat on his hand, lathered up his cock, and shoved it into Bobbi’s ass before riding the baby like there was no tomorrow. Thankfully, for Bobbi’s sake, he didn’t last very long. Soon, Lou was groaning and convulsing as he emptied himself into Bobbi’s ass.

Again, just a little jealous. I had wanted that load for myself.

But to my surprise, Bobbi took it like a champ. And when Lou collapsed on the couch, sweaty and out of breath, I pulled up her diaper so that it was there to catch all of Lou’s present as it leaked from her bottom.

That’s love, you know?

I wish there was more to that. I wish that was just round one, with round two being the part where Mommy got a good firm dicking. Sadly, Lou was spent. He made a feeble attempt at trying to get his libido back, shaking his flaccid member about in his hand, but the damage was done and he was excused for the evening.

Instead, round two was a Mommy and Baby endeavor. Since she had been such a good girl with Lou, I rewarded her with a hand on the front of her diaper, rubbing her to completion. There’s something quite naughty about being rubbed off in a diaper full of another man’s load, I think.

But no, still no pussy for baby.

I have a thought, in the midst of re-reading her email yet again: Jade does need a good fuck. A mommy as hard-working as her? Absolutely. And no man is ever going to be good enough for her. She deserves to be fucked silly by someone who gets her.

I peruse some websites that I’ve never been to before in the search of something I’ve never seen myself wanting to buy before: a cock of my very own.

11.

The first time I read your last email, I imagined it taking days of thinking and reflecting to determine whether or not I thought it was a good idea or not.

But I don’t need any more time to know what I feel in my gut. This is a fucking brilliant idea.

So get that new toy of yours and come on over. If you fuck me, I’ll fuck you. Bobbi can watch. She’d even clean up after us, if you would like. And you can use Bobbi for all your dominating needs. I’ll even take care of the dirty diapers for you, if you want.

Doesn’t that sound nice?

The last thing I want to do is get ahead of myself. But in the last few weeks,  I’ve learned a lot about how things need to feel right. And this?

This feels like it might be right.