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Tasha’s naked body is on top of mine. She’s pinned my cock down against my skin with her wet pussy, and it’s infuriating to be so close to being inside her without actually being inside of her.

“Do you know what would be hot?” she asks.

Anything. Literally anything would be hot at this moment. Does she want to put on a clown nose and make me honk it? Fine. Does she want me to put on one of those old time-y wigs that George Washington, or whoever, wore and read from the Declaration of Independence? Fine fine fine.

“What?” I ask, finding it incredibly hard to get that one simple word out of my mouth.

“If we had, like, someone else.”

My confusion frees up a few extra brain cells. “What do you mean?”

“Like…if there were three of us in bed right now.”

“Oh. You’d…like that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“I’ll look for someone,” she says.

“Y-yeah,” I say, unsure of how seriously I should take this claim. We say a lot of things in bed. She once said she wanted to fuck me on her parents’ dining room table in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. It made for a good mental image as we fucked each other’s brains out, but–believe it or not–we never actually allowed for that to happen in real life.

But as she finally lets my cock slip inside of her, I see that smile on her face. That smile.

This time, I think she means what she says.

***

“Don’t get too excited, Reg,” Burke says when I tell him a slightly truncated version of the previous night’s conversation. I leave out the part where Tasha and I have sex. Or…the part soon after where she makes me call her ‘Mommy.’

That’s just a little thing we’re working on.

“Why not?” I ask. I’m hesitant to say that Burke isn’t one to bullshit, because maybe not everything he says is accurate. But he at least believes everything he says, and usually that’s enough for me to trust his judgment.

“I’ve seen this go two ways,” he says, pausing to take a gulp of the pint he’s working on in my garage. “The first is that you end up with another cute chick in bed with you and it’s everything you ever dreamed of.”

“And the other way?”

“It’s another guy who ends up in bed with you. And, like, I’m not judging what you’re into. If you want to touch some guy’s boner, or whatever, have at it. But more often than not, that’s trouble.”

“Trouble? How so?”

“It’s a competition, right? Your cock versus his. Who’s better in bed?”

My stomach turns a little. I hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, I guess. But…isn’t that the same if we get another woman in bed? That’s just competition for Tasha.”

He laughs, chugging the last third of his beer in an impressive two seconds. “That’s different, trust me. She’ll love having another chick in bed as much as you do.”

I want to believe him, but his insight seems incredibly shortsighted and biased towards his own experiences. Still, his words linger with me, and when all possibilities are considered, I find myself hoping that Tasha had simply forgotten about her desire for another body in our bed.

***

“Do you remember that thing we talked about the other night?” she says while we make dinner together, a figurative wink-and-nod in her voice.

I already know what she’s referring to. No, it does not seem as if she’s forgotten.

“I do.”

“Don’t be mad,” she says–a common phrase of hers that usually means ‘I was going to do this whether you liked it or not anyway.’ “But I found a potential candidate for a menage a trois today. I took a chance and tossed the idea out there and…I think they’re interested.”

I grimace a little and pause while cutting the green peppers, afraid of what I’d do to my fingers while being this distracted.

“You didn’t think to run it past me first?” I ask. Not that I actually expected her to–but I needed to at least show that I had some concern.

She shrugs. “I saw a chance and I took it.”

“Where were you when you saw a chance? And…who is this chance?”

“Joshua and I had to take a drive downtown today to meet a client…”

I audibly groan. Joshua, her coworker, had long been an imaginary foe of mine. His stupid boyish face always felt like a threat, no matter how many times Tasha had assured me that he wasn’t.

“No,” she says, chuckling and shaking her head. “I promise, it’s not Joshua.”

“Oh… Sorry.”

“But we met this client, Sophie, at this little cafe, right? And we get some coffee and we’re going over some figures and plans–and I swear that she’s giving me ‘the eye.’”

“The eye?” There’s more I want to say–my dislike of the name ‘Sophie,’ for example. But I let her tell her story.

“You’d know it if you saw it. This look, like, ‘I wouldn’t mind continuing our business in the bedroom.’”

“Do you…get that look often?”

“It’s happened before,” she says with another shrug. “But I’m usually a good girl. This time, I’m intrigued.”

“So how does that work?” I ask. “You just…suddenly ask her if she’s interested in hopping in bed with you and your husband?”

“Ultimately, I suppose that’s what happened. It was actually a little more involved than that though. I told Joshua I was going to work on a few more figures with Sophie when he said he needed to head back to the office. And we actually did look at a few more spreadsheets for the first few minutes. But then, you know, we got a little sidetracked.”

“How does that even work?” I ask. “You just ask: ‘Hey, were you making eyes at me?’”

“More or less,” she says, laughing. “We were both curious to see if we were on the same page. And, obviously, we were. I said I had a husband. She asked if that meant I was looking for some action on the side or if my husband would be included in any potential action. I told her it was a package deal, which she seemed happy with. Though, honestly, maybe she’d have been happy with either answer.”

As uncertain as I feel about this conversation that took place without me, I’m at least a little relieved to hear that Tasha didn’t take a darker path in her flirting.

Also, I can’t help but think of my conversation with Burke: Adding another woman, according to him, is far better than the addition of another man.

“So what now?” I ask.

“I scheduled a date for the three of us. We’ll get some dinner and drinks. Chat a little. See if we’re all compatible, you know?”

“Yeah…” It makes sense, but it’s all happening so quickly that I’m not sure how to feel about it. I’m not even completely sure I’m on board with the reality of having a threesome. But there’s a quiver in my pants, and I can’t argue with that. “...alright.”

***

Later, in bed, she rides atop me, telling me all about the fun we’re going to have with our new friend. It’s easy for me to stop fretting about my anxieties when I’m deep inside her.

“Tell me how thankful you are for finding someone to play with us,” she asks, looking down at me while grinding against my pelvis.

“I’m very thankful.”

“Say it again, but call me ‘Mommy’ this time.”

“I’m very thankful, Mommy.”

I’d say it’s weird, but…I rather enjoy saying that name to her.

***

“So tell me more about this woman,” I say.

Of course, I worry that I’m making this request far too late. We’re in a car, driving downtown to meet Sophie at a restaurant. I’m not sure there’s much I can do, short of jumping out of the car, if Tasha reveals any details that I don’t like.

“Not to toot my own horn,” Tasha says, “but I think she’s a lot like me: smart, assertive, not interested in wasting anyone’s time. If you like me, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like her.”

It’s sound logic, though it makes me wonder what it’d be like spending time with two Tashas.

When we arrive at The Steamroom where a smiling Sophie is already waiting for us at the bar, a reddish-brown cocktail in her hand.

I’m struck with two immediate observations: First, she even looks similar to my Tasha: dark shoulder-length hair, big beautiful eyes, slightly curvy features. Second, Sophie looks…a little familiar to me. Maybe.

It could be that she just looks so similar to Tasha that there’s some sort of uncanny familiarity.

Maybe?

The women embrace, both have wide smiles as they greet each other.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting,” Tasha says, looking at Sophie’s glass.

“Oh, this? No, no, you’re right on time. I just got here a few minutes early and decided to loosen my inhibitions a little. Seemed like a good idea, given what's on the table.”

I can certainly relate to that. I order a cocktail for myself and Tasha as well, hoping to level the playing field before we get escorted to our table.

“You look familiar to me,” Sophie says to me immediately after we’re seated.

“I…thought the same thing,” I respond, a little nervous. “But I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”

But I pause. Have we met before? I think back to the night Tasha first mentioned Sophie to me, while we were cooking dinner, and the way I cringed at hearing her name. I had known a Sophie once upon a time. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far, away. A Sophie that ruined the name for me all these years later. Could it be that this Sophie was…

“Sophie…Orlick?” I ask.

Sophie laughs, shaking her head in that ‘I cannot believe this is happening’ sort of way.

“That’s me,” she says. “But you’ll have to forgive me, I feel like I should know your name, but I’m drawing a blank. I know Tasha said your name was Reggie, but I don’t think I’ve ever known a Reggie before.”

“So,” Tasha says, shooting a befuddled look in my direction. “How do you know who she is?”

I know the answer, and I don’t like it. Meeting with Sophie had been a mistake.

“I-it’s not important,” I say, hoping there’s a path out of this conversation. Maybe we can forget that I ever said anything. We just enjoy dinner and go our separate ways. Later, at home, I tell Tasha the truth.

I’ve never had that sort of luck before, so why would I now?

“Just spit it out,” Tasha says, her voice taking on a little bit of an edge.

I sigh. “When I was a kid, I was really self-conscious about my name. Reginald. To the point where I was afraid to even use the nickname Reggie at school because I was always afraid that people would ask what it was short for. I know, I know, the name doesn’t sound all that bad as an adult, but as a kid…”

“I’m actually wondering where this story is going,” Tasha says, rotating her hand to signal that I needed to move it along.

Sophie just chuckles.

“I didn’t go by ‘Reggie’ in school. I went by my middle name…”

“Joe,” Sophie says, smiling.

“Y-yes…”

And now it’s probably clear to Sophie why I’d have any sort of hesitation–for both talking about how I know her and continuing this evening.

“Well?” asks Tasha. “Don’t leave me hanging. Care to tell me what’s going on here?”

I’m working up the strength to explain everything, but Sophie doesn’t need that sort of time. She’s ready to tell the story for me.

“We actually went to school together,” she says to Tasha.

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Neither did we, apparently,” Sophie responds, laughing. “We used to live pretty close to each other too. So we’d often walk to school and back together.”

“Well that just seems serendipitous then,” Tasha says, still impressed by the hand that fate has dealt.

I’m less convinced that this is a good thing. Sophie was never my friend. I never enjoyed walking to or from school with her. I avoided her whenever I could.

Sophie was a bully. My bully.

Those walks–more so the walks home from school–were like her personal play sessions. She’d find new and frustrating ways to torment me. She’d push me over. Mess up my hair. Steal my backpack and run off with it. Randomly jab at my face with a permanent marker. Among many other things.

I’m tempted to just come clean and put it all out there. I’d tell Tasha about how terrible Sophie had been to me. How many times she had made me cry. The number of times I begged my mother to drive me to school just so that I could avoid having to walk with Sophie.

No, I tell myself. You’re an adult with decorum. I’ll simply wait it out. I’ll be polite and respectful during dinner. Later, at home, I’ll tell Tasha everything. And she, a respectful wife and partner, will agree that this wouldn’t be a good idea to move forward with. That would be that.

I quickly realize how poorly thought out this plan is. With every minute that passes during dinner, Tasha and Sophie seem to bond more. Worse, I’ve even begun softening towards the charming and witty woman that Sophie has become. There’s no ribbing or teasing of me. No dredging up old memories. We’re simply talking like adults, and the conversations are good.

We order a bottle of wine with dinner, and when that doesn’t seem sufficient, we order a second. By the time dessert is delivered, we all seem a little more friendly. Even myself.

“I hope I’m not being too forward,” Tasha says to Sophie, a spoonful of creme brulee dangling from her hand, “but it seems silly to call it a night at the end of dinner.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Sophie says. “But what are you proposing?”

“I’d like to know myself,” I add. I suspect we all know where Tasha is going with this, but I’d rather hear it from her own lips. Also, I wish she had talked about this with me first, but it seems far too late for that conversation as well.

“Come on over to our place,” Tasha says. “We’ll have a nightcap.”

“That sounds delightful.”

***

“So you and Sophie knew each other. How wild is that?”

The three of us are back at the house, and Sophie has excused herself for a moment to use the powder room. If there’s an opportunity tonight to tell Tasha about my history with Sophie, this feels like it.

“Quite,” I say.

“Was she this charming then? I bet you had a little crush on her, didn’t you?”

I laugh, probably confirming her suspicions. But I’m actually laughing at the end result of a series of thoughts I had been working on since we left the restaurant: If I ended up marrying a woman who looks remarkably like Sophie, am I to assume that’s just a coincidence? Or was I attracted to Tasha because she looked like Sophie? And if it’s the latter, what does that say about the impression Sophie left on me, all these years later?

“I’m not sure I thought about crushes as much at the time,” I say with a shrug. “But, in hindsight, I suppose.”

“You’re okay with me having invited her over, yes?”

“Not much I could do about it if I wasn’t…”

“So I shouldn’t have had her come over?”

“Uh…” I realize I was being a little too candid. “No, it’s fine. I promise.”

Tasha responds with a wordless nod, choosing to accept that as the truth for now.

“I have a little confessing to do,” Sophie says as she enters the room once more. She’s already lost her black cardigan, leaving her in a shapely black dress that perfectly defines her attractive figure.

“Do tell,” Tasha responds, taking the bait.

“I thought that Joe…no, sorry, Reggie…would have said something sooner. But clearly he’s a gentleman, which I respect.”

She has our attention. I’m tempted to speak up to tell Sophie that she doesn’t have to finish this thought. If she’s going to talk about our past together, maybe we’re better off letting it stay in the past. Instead, I keep my mouth shut and listen.

“Reggie and I’s history together isn’t as sunshiney as I might have made it seem back in the restaurant,” Sophie continued. “I’m a little ashamed to say that I was a bit of a thorn in his side, back in the day.”

“Is that so?” Tasha asks.

“I might have been a bit of a…bully.”

I feel my cheeks blushing as I struggle to find words that express how I feel. I’d like to tell her not to worry about it. But suddenly, I’m feeling a little humiliated at just the thought of some young man being pushed around by a pretty girl.

Tasha turns her head towards me. “Oh. I…had no idea.”

I finally spit out the words: “Look, it doesn’t really matter anymore. We’re all adults, right? Who hasn’t done things in their youth that they’re ashamed of? That’s part of growing up. We learn and better ourselves and…”

“Actually,” Sophie says, smiling a little. “The real confession I wanted to make was that I enjoyed those years of tormenting you.”

My mouth drops open, and I can see that even Tasha is caught off guard.

“I can recognize that I probably wasn’t the most well-behaved young woman,” Sophie continues, shrugging, “and I genuinely hope that I didn’t cause any long term hurt for you, Reggie. But…fuck, maybe it’s the booze talking, but I liked it. I loved having a little plaything. And tonight, as soon as I knew it was you at the dinner table? Every time I looked at you–even now–all I could think about was how I wanted to play with you again.”

“Oh,” is all I’m able to muster.

Tasha, meanwhile, seems far more curious than she seems concerned.

“When you look at him right now,” Tasha says, “what is it you want to do to him?”

“Really?” I ask. “You actually want to know how she–”

“Shush,” Tasha says. “I’m talking to Sophie.”

My ego is flattened and I’m left speechless on the sofa as Tasha effortlessly emasculates me in front of my once-bully.

Sophie laughs, a hearty “Ha!” before getting back to Tasha’s question to her: “He was a bedwetter. Did you know that? I probably wasn’t supposed to know that, but I found that I could tickle almost any truth out of him.”

Tasha looks back at me again. “I…did not know that.”

“One day,” Sophie continues, “we were walking through Reynolds Park, and I tickled the poor boy so much that he started screaming that he was peeing his pants.”

My face has to be as red as it feels.

“Yet his pants were bone dry,” Sophie says, shrugging. “And that didn’t make any sense to me. How could his pants be so dry while he cried to me about having wet himself?”

“Oh,” Tasha says, a lightbulb going off above her head. “Are you saying that he was wearing a…”

“Diaper? You bet. Of course, he wouldn’t ever tell me that he was. So I had to take matters into my own hands. I pulled him into a secluded grove in the park and pulled his pants down. Sure enough, he was wearing little baby diapers.”

“Th-they weren’t diapers,” I interject. “They were…training pants. For older kids who still had accidents from time to time.”

I could really use Tasha’s emotional support right now. With just a sympathetic smile, or a hand on my shoulder, she could take away most of my anxiety. Instead, she’s laughing.

“I’m sorry to laugh,” she says, shaking her head. “But is this true? You actually wore diapers as a teenager?”

“They weren’t…” I stop myself. I don’t need to repeat it, they heard what I said. “I was just having accidents once in a while at night. And…when I was tickled too much in a park.”

“Oh, so I didn’t even finish that thought yet,” Sophie says, looking quite delighted at the chaos she has spawned. “You asked what I wanted to do to him now. Honestly? I want to throw him on the ground and put him in a diaper.”

“Mm,” Tasha says, sipping from her white russian as a thought pops into her head. “Actually, I think I could share a juicy little tidbit with you too. One that might make the whole diaper-thing a little funnier.”

I’m somewhere between tipsy and absolutely mortified, so my mind isn’t the most reliable at the moment. I have no idea where she’s going with this.

“Yeah?” asks Sophie. “Do tell.”

“I’m not sure how it started,” says Tasha. “We were having sex one night a few weeks ago, and he’s really giving it to me, you know? Like…hard. Harder than usual, at least. And…”

Shit. I think I know where she’s going with this.

“...he’s talking as he’s fucking me, you know? That kind of uncontrollable sexy-talk that you just let pour out of your mouth when you’re really feeling the moment.”

“Uh huh,” Sophie says, nodding enthusiastically.

“So, suddenly he just blurts out…’Mommy.’ Not, like, he’s calling out for his actual Mommy. But that he’s calling me ‘Mommy.’”

“Oh!” Sophie’s eyes have grown huge. “Now that’s interesting.”

“It…isn’t worth overanalyzing,” I say, hopelessly throwing a small cup of water on a giant fire.

“Thing is, it worked for me,” Tasha adds, shrugging. “I liked being called Mommy. It’s a little bit of a power trip, you know?”

Sophie nods.

“Now, when we have sex, I’m asking–demanding–that he call me Mommy. And everytime he does, it just pushes me right over the edge.”

“And how fitting is that?” Sophie says. “The once diaper-clad boy is now calling his wife ‘Mommy.’ If I didn’t know any better, it almost sounds like he wants to be a…baby?”

Both women erupt into laughter. I can’t even tell what they’re actually thinking anymore. Do they actually think I want to be a baby? Or is this just a funny joke at my expense?

“I, uh, can’t help but notice that you’re not trying to correct us or say that we’re wrong,” Tasha says to me as she finally collects herself. “Something you want to tell us?”

I sigh as I attempt to quickly compute the best answer. If my silence incriminates me, I need to say something. “I’m not a baby.”

Tasha, having reached prime levels of tipsy, starts to unbutton her blouse. “Well then, come fuck us and prove it.”

“But,” adds Sophie as she kicks her heels off, “you’re going to have to call me Mommy as well.”

***

“Living the goddamn dream,” Burke says, haphazardly smacking his beer mug against mine, spilling some yellow liquid from both glasses. “Two women? And one of them was your high-school bully? Jesus.”

“It still feels surreal to me too,” I say.

I’ve left out a number of details from my retelling of the story. I never mention the words “diaper” or “Mommy.” I leave out the part where they take turns smacking my ass while calling me a ‘bad baby.’ I avoid the whole section where they make me suckle on their breasts like I was a breastfeeding toddler.

And I absolutely make no mention of Sophie’s promise that next time she’s over, she’s bringing diapers with her.

My version of the story paints me as a man’s man. Someone more like Burke, perhaps. The way I describe it, I put both women in their places and made them beg for my cock.

“So what now? Is this other chick going to come back?”

“I bet,” I say. “I think I’ve left them both wanting more, you know?”

“You’re a goddamn legend,” he says, giving me a firm slap in the center of my back–the greatest compliment one can hope to get from Burke.

***

“Well?” asks Tasha.

“Well…what?”

“We’ve got a few minutes to go before Sophie gets here,” she says, sitting on the loveseat opposite the couch I’m sitting on, legs crossed. “Are you still okay with…all of this?”

Surprisingly, we haven’t actually talked about ‘this’ all that much in the week that has transpired between Sophie’s first visit to our home and tonight. Aside from the few times that Tasha had asked if I was actually okay with what happened, and if I’d be willing to have her back again–questions I answered honestly–there was no further discussion or post-game report about being turned into their ‘baby’ for an evening.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“I don’t know yet.”

“But you’re fine with her coming over again?”

“So it would seem.”

I have one question for Tasha, too, as we wait for the sound of our doorbell: “Would you think any less of me if I did like this?”

DING DONG

She smiles as she stands up. But before she goes to the front door, she walks over to me and leans down so she can kiss me on the forehead. “So long as you’re being honest about what you like and what you want, I’ll never love you any less.”

***

Sophie had brought some things with her, all in an oversized brown leather purse that I couldn’t see into. So far, the only thing I knew for sure that she had brought was a bottle of tequila–a weakness of mine. I can’t help but think this information was fed to her.

We’re all a glass or two into an exceptionally strong pitcher of margaritas without a single mention of babies, Mommies, or diapers. I’m starting to wonder if it had all just been teasing, and the truth was that neither were actually interested in going any further with that.

If true, I might be a little disappointed. Just a little.

“Actually, Sophie, I heard the funniest thing today,” Tasha suddenly says. I don’t yet know what she’s going to say, but I can hear it in her tone–this is her opening that door.

“Did you? And what was that?”

“I have this friend. Chrissy? Well…she’s not, like, my best friend. We don’t talk all that much, usually just at social functions. But I ran into her downtown today, and we got to talking for a bit. Well, wouldn’t you know, she told me the funniest thing about Reggie.”

Fuck. How could I have not seen this coming? I feel so stupid, and offer a silent prayer to whatever deity can help me to rewind time.

My prayers seem to go unanswered.

“See, Chrissy is actually the wife of Burke. Burke’s nice enough, I guess. Not really my kind of guy. But he is really good friends with Reggie here. And, you know, they like to have their little man-chats in Burke’s garage every now and then. Well, as it turns out, Reggie had said some really interesting things to Burke who, in turn, passed those things on to Chrissy. Who, in turn, brought them up to me.”

“Is that so?” asks Sophie. “And what was it that Reggie said?

“The exact phrasing might be lost as it got passed around a few times. But the gist of it was: He had a threeway with you and I the other night and he had left us both…wanting more.”

Sophie bursts into laughter. This laughter proves to be contagious, spreading to Tasha who begins laughing hard at her own story.

I’m reminded of the fit of giggles they had both been in last time we were all together. This doesn’t feel any less soulcrushing.

“I mean, technically, he’s not wrong,” Sophie says, composing herself. “He did leave us wanting more. I’ve been wanting to put your husband in a diaper all week.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tasha says. “I set the record straight. I told Chrissy all about how Reggie’s new mommies are working to put him in his place.”

“Y-you didn’t!” I exclaim.

“Afraid I did,” Tasha says with a smug look on her face. “But don’t worry, she promised me that she wouldn’t tell anyone else. Except for Burke, of course. But seeing as how he’s your friend, I doubt he’ll judge you all that much.”

I’m pretty sure that’s not how that was going to work. I wanted to fret about that more, but I’d have to set that on the backburner for now.

“Well then,” Sophie says, cracking her fingers. “Shall we get to it?”

She is all too eager to reach into her purse to show us the goods that she’s brought with her. They’re laid out on the coffee table one by one.

First, baby powder.

“A must-have when it comes to diaper changes,” Sophie says. “It helps absorb moisture, you know? Which, then, cuts down on the chance of catching a nasty diaper rash. And obviously it’s got that lovely scent–one that I’d argue makes a baby smell like a baby.” Then, as if to demonstrate her point, she turned the baby powder container’s lid open and gave it a firm squeeze, blasting a white cloud into my face.

“You’re right,” Tasha says, giggling. “That’s a perfect scent for him.”

“I, uh, didn’t know you were such an expert on babies,” I quip, my guard lowered a little on account of having to swat away the airborne particles from my eyes.

“I did a lot of babysitting as a teenager,” Sophie says with a shrug. “Actually, did you know that I once told your mother that I’d volunteer my services if she ever needed?”

“Wh-what? But…we’re the same age. Why would she think I needed a babysitter?”

“Well, you know, I told her about how I knew you needed your extra protection for accidents and such. I didn’t impose too much, I just let her know that if she needed a hand with you, I was available.”

“What did she say?”

“She politely told me that she’d keep my offer in mind. Of course, she never did call me. I guess you dodged a bullet there.”

I’m making a mental note to call my mother later to tell her I love her.

The next item pulled from her purse is a package of baby wipes.

“No caregiver should ever be without them, really,” Sophie says. “They make unscented wipes too, but I wanted all the scent I could get.”

“Wipes?” I ask. “That implies…diaper changes.”

“And your point?” asks Sophie.

“Are you expecting me to…use the diapers?”

“Don’t be dense, Reggie,” Tasha says, playfully slapping me in the arm. “Diapers serve a purpose. You’re not wearing them to be fashionable.”

I should’ve seen this coming. Perhaps, subconsciously, I was already well aware of how likely this was–which is why I was able to just nod for now.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Sophie says, reaching into her bag again. “The main event.”

She flops down what seems to be a stack of large thick, but flat, objects on the table.

No.

That’s not a stack–that’s a single diaper, it’s layers folded on each other over and over again. My eyes grow wide and my mouth drops open at the absurd size of this thing.

Tasha seems to be in just as much disbelief as I am. “What the hell is that? That’s so fucking big!”

“Don’t worry,” Sophie says, pulling two more from her purse. I’m not even sure how there was room for all three diapers in there. “I brought some extras. And there’s plenty more where these came from–assuming tonight is as much of a success as I think it’ll be.”

I’m tempted to ask where one acquires a large amount of giant diapers, but it probably doesn’t matter. These diapers are here, and it’s only a matter of time before they leave the coffee table and end up on my body.

“Did you actually, like, look at these?” Tasha asks me, picking up one of the diapers. It crinkles loudly in her hand. I’m already blushing at the thought of how loud they’ll be when I’m wearing one.

The thickness was all I had needed to see, but now I’m looking at the design of the diaper. I’m blushing again–or maybe I just haven’t stopped blushing from before. They’re mostly white, with colorful infantile shapes printed on them. Baby blocks. Teddy bears. Bottles.

“They look like…baby diapers,” I say, thinking aloud.

“Quite adorable, right?” Sophie asks. “I saw these and just knew that they’d be perfect.”

“I can’t wait any longer,” Tasha says, greedily rubbing her palms together. “Let’s do this. Reggie? Let’s get your clothes off.”

I look to Sophie, who is looking even more hungry for my humiliation than Tasha. She would love nothing more than to see me nude as a newborn.

“M-maybe I could go into the bedroom for a minute,” I say. “I’ll undress there. Tasha, you could bring a diaper in with you in a few minutes and…”

“No,” Tasha says, firmly. “Either you take your clothes off right here, right now, or the two of us do it for you.”

But I’m not given time to consider that offer. Sophie’s hands are suddenly on my pants, and she’s tugging them down my legs. Tasha has a hold of my shirt and she’s pulling it up and off my body. I resist for a moment, twisting my body and flexing my limbs in the hopes of at least slowing them down. But I can’t fight both of them at once–and each seems able to overpower me if they wanted to. And I think they want to.

I surrender.

All of my clothes quickly disappear. My socks. My t-shirt. My boxers. I’m pushed onto my back, and the clothes are just gone–I have no idea where they’ve been tossed to. Suddenly I’m completely naked, with both women looking down at me.

“Do you know how many times I threatened to change his diapers for him when we were kids?” Sophie asks Tasha, rhetorically. “It was the holy grail of my bratty teenage years. Alas, I’m not a teen anymore. But, thankfully, I’m still a brat.”

That’s one word for it.

“I’ve never spent much time with babies,” Tasha says.

“You’re about to,” Sophie quickly remarks.

It’d be hard to describe the look Tasha gives Sophie. Eager? Completely infatuated–not just with the idea of putting me in a diaper, but with Sophie herself?

“Show me,” Tasha says. “Show me how to take care of a baby.”

Sophie is all but too happy to give a lesson.

“First thing’s first, we open up our diaper. I like to place it down. Admittedly, this is easier with an actual baby–their diapers are quite small and don’t take up a lot of space..”

She opens it up beside me, and when completely unfurled, I feel like the diaper stretches from my head to my hips.

“Next, I like to get some powder on the diaper. There’s no reason to be sparing–this is baby’s skin we’re talking about, after all. Give that baby powder a few real good shakes onto the diaper.”

Tasha has the bottle of powder and follows Sophie’s instruction, liberally shaking it over the diaper. A new thick white cloud forms beside me.

“Now, hold onto that powder,” Sophie continues. “Because I like to add a little more to baby’s skin–but not until the diaper is ready to be taped up. So let’s do that now. Baby? You’re going to have to lift your bottom for us.”

I do as she asks, lifting my ass into the air so my body is put into an awkward arc. This makes me feel even more vulnerable, having my soft cock thrust up into the air.

“So we just slide the diaper under the baby’s bottom like so. There’s no exact science to it–but it’s pretty self-explanatory. You, obviously, want the waistband of the diaper to line up with his lower back–just above his caboose. Now, baby, you can go ahead and lower yourself back onto the ground again.”

I do, hearing the chorus of crinkles under me as my weight is applied to the plastic-covered garment.

“Now is when I like to get those next few shakes of baby powder in. Just sprinkle it right over the baby’s diaper area.”

My diaper area. I wonder if I’ve blushed so much that my skin is now purple.

“This is the hardest part,” Sophie says. “And, really, it’s not that hard. You want to pull the front of the diaper up through his legs and over his pee-pee, right? But you want to be careful about it, especially between his legs, so that it doesn’t bunch up too much.”

Sophie carefully threads the diaper through my legs and straightens it out.

“Then, you just tape it closed. I like to do the bottom tapes first. One at a time. Just peel it back and make it as snug as possible. When the baby uses the diaper for his business, he’s adding a lot of weight to it. It can sag, but you don’t want it to fall off his bum.”

Then, it was done. I was in a diaper. I was a baby. Their baby.

“Oh my god,” cooed Tasha. “It’s cuter than I ever could’ve imagined.”

“A handsome little ladykiller in pampers.”

“What now?” I ask.

“Maybe you should let the adults worry about that,” Sophie says.

“First of all,” Tasha says, “you should thank Sophie for bringing diapers for you.”

“B-but…”

“Are you asking for a spanking?” Tasha asks, her hands on her hips. “Because I didn’t think I was asking for anything too difficult.”

“Actually, you know what?” Sophie shrugs. “This would happen, from time to time, when I was babysitting. You’d find some little boy or girl who just didn’t want to respect my authority. You simply can’t let them get away with it, you know? You have to nip that in that bud immediately and show them that you’re the one in charge.”

“Sophie,” I say, “I…I wasn’t trying to be defiant. I just…”

“No, no,” Tasha says, cutting me off. “I think it’s important that Sophie asserts her dominance.”

“But…I’m willing to let her be in charge! I don’t need to be…”

“Talking back?” asks Sophie. “I’m afraid you just earned some extra spanks.”

I wonder if it’s not too late to just get up and walk away. I doubt I’d be able to at this point. They’d overpower me and hold me down. Who knows what they’d do then. I’m not going to argue my way out of a paddling, so the next best option is to just accept my fate without earning any further punishment.

“Are you going to be a good boy and listen to Sophie now?”

I nod.

“Good boy,” Sophie says, getting up and walking over to the couch. She sits down and pats her lap while smiling wickedly. “Come here, little boy.”

I begin to stand up, only to be pushed back down by Tasha.

“I thought you wanted me to go over there, and I’m trying to…”

“Babies don’t get up and walk,” she says. “Babies crawl.”

“That’s right,” Sophie says from the couch. “Come and crawl to me, baby boy. Come crawl to your new mommy for your spanking.”

***

I can still remember the last day of high school. The last day I had to walk home with Sophie. The last time, for a few years at least, that I had to spend any amount of time with her.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

“That school is over?”

“No, dummy. Are you sad that you won’t get to walk home with me anymore?”

I always played it safe around her. I could tell her the truth–but it was at the risk of riling her up. And there was no telling what she would do to me then.

“O-of course.”

“I’m going to miss this too,” she said, smiling. “More specifically, I’m going to miss checking your diapers to see if you pissed yourself in school or not.”

“Th-they’re not diapers!”

“Right, right. You keep telling yourself that, Joe-Joe. Speaking of which, isn’t it time for you to show me today’s damage?”

In the months leading up to it, I had decided that on the last day of school, I was going to tell Sophie the truth: When I first started having accidents in my pants, my mother sent me to a therapist at the behest of my doctor–who couldn’t find a physical reason for my sudden accidents. It’d take a while for therapy to dig up the origins of my wetting, but we did eventually get there: Stress. Not just stress, but the stress of Sophie. Sophie’s tormenting had driven me to wetting myself.

Obviously, I had never told her this. And when she had made the fateful discovery that I had been wearing a diaper–as she stood over my body, having just tickled me for close to five minutes–I lied and told it had actually started as bedwetting.

On that final day of school, somewhere in the groves of Reynolds Park on our way home, she pulled down my pants to discover that I had wet myself yet again. At which point, to ‘celebrate’ the end of the era, she proceeded to give my diaper a quick barrage of smacks with her hand–spanking me like a toddler.

In the days, weeks, and years that followed that afternoon in the park, two things happened. The first was that, free of Sophie’s presence in my life, I never wet my pants again and stopped wearing diapers.

The second was that, more so than anything else, I frequently masturbated to the thought of Sophie paddling me in a pissy diaper.

***

SMACK!

I feel it, but it’s far from painful. She might as well be punching a pillow that rests on my ass.

But that doesn’t mean it’s painless. My pride. My ego. The adult persona that I had carefully crafted after high school–it’s shattered instantly with a single swat of her hand as I dangle over her lap like a toddler.

Even if I couldn’t admit it to myself most days, this was what I had always wanted.

SMACK!

“Aww, is the poor baby getting spankies on his bottom?” coos Tasha. My wife is off to the side, cheering on my bully as she pummels my diaper. I wonder what’s going through her head. Will this change everything? Will she see me differently after tonight?

SMACK!

Because I can feel myself changing on Sophie’s lap. It’s that old fear again–that uncertainty about what’s coming next. Mixed with the confusing feelings of pleasure I’ve felt about Sophie in the years since. I worry that it’s a combination that isn’t going to look very flattering on me.

SMACK!

“Pathetic little baby boy,” Sophie says. “Getting his bottom paddled because he needs to learn his place.”

SMACK!

I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I wouldn’t have guessed that I was crying, but my eyes suddenly feel exceptionally moist. My cheeks burn with humiliation as I look into Tasha’s eyes.

“Oh my god…he’s crying like a baby.”

SMACK!

I’m just an 18 year old boy again in Sophie’s hands. Which might as well be a 3 year old boy. I suddenly realize my diaper is growing warm. Wait, no. I’m…pisssing myself.

“Oh my god!” Sophie cackles with delight. “He’s pissing his diaper!”

“What?” cries Tasha. “No! No way!”

“Come over here and feel it! He’s totally pissing himself on my lap right now.”

I wish I had something better to say for myself. Some sort of defense I could offer as to why I’ve suddenly been regressed to a pathetic toddler in front of my wife and high school bully.

Instead, I just offer a primal “Unnnnnnh,” as my cock begins to uncontrollably spurt into my diaper.

***

To his credit, Burke is keeping a straight face. But it’s too straight. It’s too quiet in the garage, and I suspect it’s because that’s easier than talking about anything else.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, popping caps off two chilled lagers.

“Can’t complain,” I say.

“I hear you’ve got some company in the house now?”

I nod. “Yeah, Sophie’s been staying with us. I think she’s moving in.”

“Oh yeah? How are you feelin’ about that?”

The answer to that is extremely complicated–far too complex to break down during beer-time in Burke’s garage. I try to whittle it down to the simplest sentence possible: “It’s probably not a bad thing.”

He takes the first bottle of beer and pours it into a frosty beer mug before setting it aside for himself.

“Look,” he says. “I don’t know all the details about what the three of you are doing over there. I guess Tasha told Chrissy some stuff. And, you know how Chrissy is, she had to tell me about it.”

“Yeah…”

“But I’m still your friend. I don’t want you thinking you can’t come around here anymore. I’m here for you, bud. Whatever you need. Anything you want to talk about.”

I shift in my chair a little as I sigh, hearing my thick diaper crinkle in my pants. “I really appreciate you saying that.”

He pulls a toddler’s sippy cup out from him behind a box and sets it on the counter before filling it with beer. He carefully snaps the lid on and hands it to me.

My face feels like it’s on fire. I’m tempted to say something, but I’m not really sure what I’d say. This just seems to be how things are now. At home. At Burke’s. Maybe everywhere.

I slowly bring the sippy cup to my mouth, and drink.