Me and Mr. Greene (Part 1 of 2) [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Yeah, okay. I’m a loser.

I don’t feel great about that–but I also don't lose much sleep over it. It is what it is, you know? Someday, it’ll be different. When I’m ready for it to be different. For now, I’m not ready for change.

Helen? She’s ready for a change. She tells me so every day when she comes home from work and sees me on the couch, still in my pajamas with a video game controller in my hands. There was a time she was a little kinder about it, but it seems that I’ve squandered that patience, and in recent weeks, she’s become downright mean about it.

“Did you do anything today? Did you even get up to go to the bathroom? Or are you just pissing your pants now too.”

‘N-no… I get up once in a while.”

“Well if I need to start investing in diapers to keep my couch dry, please let me know.”

It’s crazy to think that there was a time when I thought that Helen was an exceptionally nice woman. I’m sure that was the quality my father saw in her too before he married her.

Before he passed away.

Look, I don’t actually hold her animosity towards me against her. I’d probably be pretty pissed off too if my home was taken up by a lazy freeloader who has long since blown past the expectations of someone who was just grieving the loss of a loved one. I should’ve gone back to college two years ago. Or I should’ve gotten a job. At the very least, I should have at least lent a hand around the house.

Instead, all I really had going for myself was being ranked in the top 100 players in the world for a three-year old online shooter that barely anybody played anymore.

“I don’t need…diapers.”

She was my step-mother, though I rarely thought of her as anything other than Helen. Even when she and my father married, as warm and kind towards me as she was, I never saw her as a mother figure. I had a mother already–albeit one who lived a few states away and who I only ever saw on holidays. Besides, after my father passed, I didn’t want a mother–I wanted space and time to grieve by myself. And she was there to assure me that I could stay with her and take all the time I needed.

I don’t think either of us expected ‘all the time’ to be three years and counting.

I broke her. She was a lovely woman, and I had turned her into a spiteful ball of frustration. At some point, I figured, one of two things would happen: either I’d finally work up the gumption to get a job or go back to school; or she’d simply kick me out of the house and I’d be forced to do one of those things anyway.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, storming past me. “Babies wear diapers. And at least babies want to grow up.”

Remarks like this hurt, but it’s probably good that they do. I need to occasionally be reminded to take a more honest look at myself and think about what I need to do with my life. Her accurate comparison between a baby and I had managed to get my blood circulating. Maybe it is, finally, time to do something.

“I do want to work,” I say to her. “I don’t want to just do this all day, every day.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she spat.

“I think I just…need help.”

She sighs, as if already feeling exhausted by the concept of this conversation. But I watch her shake it off just as quickly. For as much as she may detest me at this point, she is still–at her core–a compassionate person.

“If you need help,” she says, “I’m willing to help you.”

“I know that I haven’t really shown as much ambition for anything in a while…”

A singular burst of laughter: “Ha!”

“...but, sometimes I think it’s because I’m not sure where to start. Like, I don’t even know if I want to find a job or go back to school or what.”

She sighs again, but it seems to be a different kind of sigh. Less bitter, more relieved.

“Did you want help with that?”

“I’ve been nervous to ask you for help. I mean…I feel like I take advantage of you so much as it is.”

“If you need help, then I’ll help you. I do care about you and your well-being. I just wished you cared as well.”

“I care.”

“Okay then. If you’re serious about that, let me see what I can do for you.”

***

The very next day, she has a proposal for me. Her boss, a partner at the law firm she works at, is in need of a personal assistant. He has a receptionist already–he’s not looking for someone to answer phones and schedule appointments. He just wants someone to run errands for him. Get him coffee when he needs it. Pick up his dry cleaning.

Helen describes it as a ‘low stakes’ job. The ‘baby steps’ needed to get me out of the house again so that I can acclimate into society once more. The prospect of working for her boss is a little intimidating, but for the same reasons, it’s also hard to turn down.

Things start off well enough. Walter Greene seems friendly and in no rush to overwork me. I suspect that Helen has already given him a thorough dossier about me. In fact, I’m mostly convinced that there was no actual need for this position–it was just the two of them conspiring for a reason to get me out of the house.

But that’s fine. It seems to be working. I accept my charity, and make coffee runs with a smile on my face. Even if it feels condescending to have to fetch another man’s pressed suit jackets, I’m still grateful to have a reason to get out of the house.

However, this feeling doesn’t last that long. The combination of having little to do of importance and Mr. Greene’s lackadaisical approach to supervising me had torn away the facade of my new position, revealing what was underneath: an uninspiring nothingness.

I tried to hang in a little longer. I didn’t want to let down Mr. Greene, and I especially didn’t want to let down Helen. But I could already feel myself slipping. Spiraling. It was taking me longer to accomplish the simplest of tasks, I was coming to the office later, and I was leaving for the day earlier.

“Hey,” he says to me one day, pulling me aside when I return his car from getting an oil change–hours after he sent me out to do that task in the first place. “Got a few minutes?”

I have nothing but time, of course. “Yeah.”

He escorts me into his office and closes the door behind me before pulling out a chair for me. We each take a seat while I nervously await the bad news. I can already hear the words now: “This isn’t working out. I don’t think you should come back.”

Instead, he lights a cigar. He offers me one, though I decline.

“Y-you can smoke in here?” I ask.

“My name is on the sign in the front of the building. I’m pretty sure I can do whatever the hell I want to do.”

“Fair enough,” I say, nodding.

“Your mother keeps asking me how you’re doing.”

“She’s not my mother.”

“Right, right. Stepmother.”

“She’s not…” I stop myself. She is my stepmother, even if I don’t call her that. “What do you tell her?”

“Well, I’m in a bit of a quandary, you know? From talking to her in the past, I know she’s at her wit’s end with you. She was talking about giving you the ol’ heave-ho out of the house.”

I nod. “Yeah…”

“I’m all for throwing Helen a bone and putting you to work–she’s a good woman and a great employee. I owe a lot to her. But now I’m being put into this pretty shitty position, right? Because you seem like a good guy, but you’re not doing all that great of a job in taking care of the things I ask you to. Does it really take…” He looks at his watch for a moment. ‘...six hours to get my oil changed?”

“W-well…”

“You’re not a good assistant. But I worry that if I tell Helen that, she’s going to throw you out on your ass when I fire you. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“I…I don’t want that to happen to me either.”

“So what am I supposed to do with you?”

It feels like a rhetorical question. My father used to ask similar questions when I got in trouble. “What am I supposed to do with you now?” Except, with an awkward silence, Mr. Greene’s eyes remained fixed on me. He is waiting for an answer.

“I guess you should do…whatever you think is right?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Was that a question? Need I remind you that I’m a rather successful lawyer? Were this a courtroom, I’d be eating you alive right now.”

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with me, sir.”

“Sir,” he repeats. “That’s a good start.”

I feel my cheeks redden a little, though I keep my mouth zipped shut.

“You’ve been coddled for a while now, haven’t you? Helen’s been taking good care of you while you…grieve? Is that it? Are you still grieving?”

“N-no, not really. I mean, I was. But then I think I just…” I pause, finding myself actually contemplating what it was I had been doing for the last three years. The answer that I finally give is surprisingly honest: “I think I just lost myself.”

He takes a long drag off of the cigar, blowing an impressive stream of gray smoke from his lips moments later. “You know what the lost need, of course, yes?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“Direction,” he says, smiling. “They need direction. Would you like some direction?”

“I…I guess.”

“Let me rephrase that proposal. Would you rather I give you some direction, or would you rather I go and tell Helen that her step-son is a failure at even getting me a hot cup of coffee in an acceptable amount of time?”

My eyes widen and my heart races. I look at Mr. Greene again, and I suddenly see him in a completely different way. He doesn’t look like the generic adult I had always seen him as. He’s well-groomed and well-dressed. Young–or at least younger looking than I think he actually is. He exudes power and confidence. Even if he wasn’t blackmailing me, I feel that I’d have everything to gain from his tutelage.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll take your direction.”

“I hope you mean that,” he says. “We’re not talking about getting me coffee and fetching my dry cleaning anymore.”

“What will I be doing instead?”

“Stand up,” he says.

I do as he asks.

“Piss,” he says.

I blink a few times, repeating his one-word statement in my mind a few times. Surely I’m mishearing him, because I can’t make any sense of the word ‘piss’ by itself. As each second creeps by, I wonder if he’ll elaborate on what he said. He remains silent.

But the more I repeat the word to myself, the closer I feel I am to a breakthrough. It dawns on me: It was a command.

“I can, I guess. But where?”

“Right there,” he says. “Where you stand.”

“But…” I already know that there’s little point in protesting. Not only is he a smart and confident man, but he’s a lawyer–what argument could I possibly bring to the table that he can’t just squash immediately?

I decide that I’ll do as he asks. I just need some more info about the logistics. “Should I just do it on the floor? Or…”

“No,” he says. “In your pants.”

I’m suddenly quite flustered. I understand what he wants me to do, but I can’t wrap my head around why he wants me to do it. Is this a power play? A…sex thing?

“I…I can,” I say. “If you really want me to. But then my pants would be wet and…”

“Stand right there and piss your pants,” he says. “Do that, and I’ll take care of you.”

I have so many questions. Concerns. “But…”

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. After I finish this cigar, I’m going to give Helen a call and have her come to my office. I think it’d be good if she knew how things were actually going with you as my assistant.”

“Wait,” I said, holding a panicked hand up to stop him. “Wait…”

“Yes?”

“I…think I can do this.”

“Oh? Go on, then. Show me.”

If I was standing in front of a urinal right now, I’d probably have no trouble just turning on the waterworks. But, for one, he’s staring at me. And also, my body has been trained for a long time not to go to the bathroom in my pants. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think it’s possible.

“I…I don’t think I can,” I say. “I’m sorry, it’s just that…”

He puts his cigar down on the ash tray atop a small table near his chair and he stands up himself. He begins to unbuckle his belt. “I’ll show you how easy it is.”

“A-are you going to…piss yourself?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I’m going to piss your pants.”

I’m so stunned by his frankness that I feel paralyzed in place. I watch as he opens his dress slacks and pulls out his cock. I’ve seen few cocks in my lifetime–but I can’t help but feel impressed when I see his. The length. The girth. I'm in awe of his manhood.

He takes advantage of my hypnotized stupor and shuffles a little closer to me, cock in hand. “Open your pants.”

“I, uh…”

“Just do it.”

I do as he commands, unfastening my own belt before unbuttoning and unzipping my trousers, pulling the front open to expose my white briefs.

“Tighty whities?” he asks, chuckling. “Helen’s mentioned that you can be a bit…juvenile. But I didn’t know you liked dressing like a little boy too.”

This criticism confuses me as much as it embarasses. They sell white briefs in the store for adults. It’s not like I went to the children’s department for these. Does he just assume that all ‘real’ men have moved on to boxers?

But my careful analysis of his quip is interrupted by the feeling of him pulling open my underwear and shoving his own hearty cock into them from the top. His cock is pressed against mine now, and while I can’t see it for myself, I can feel the difference in size.

Then, I feel the heat of his piss. It’s first absorbed into the front of my briefs, quickly overwhelming the thin fabric. Some of the hot liquid spills into my crotch, splashing on my cock and balls. Some travels up my backside, dampening my ass crack. The rest cascades down my thighs and soaks the insides of my pant legs as it flows down into my socks.

All at once, I’m completely and utterly humiliated. My pants drip as he hoists his cock out of my underpants.

“There you go. Next time I ask, I expect you to do it yourself.”

“Y-you’ll be asking me to do that again?”

“That’s right,” he says. “But this task isn’t over yet.”

My heart beat a little faster. “What else do you need me to do?”

“I’m not going to put my cock back into my pants while it’s all pissy,” he says. “You’re going to have to clean it off.”

“Right, of course,” I say, feeling a little relief. After having my pants pissed into, drying his manhood with a towel seemed like a much easier task. “Let me just get some paper towels or something and…”

“No,” he says.

In the back of my mind, I already knew that this wasn’t going to be that easy. Again, I find myself uncertain about what he expects me to do. “What would you like me to do then?”

“Ideally, you’ll get down on your knees in your pissy pants, and you’ll use your mouth to lick me clean.”

“Sir,” I say, shaking my head. “I…don’t really do that. I’m not that kind of guy.”

“You don’t know who you are or what you want,” he says. “That’s how you ended up where you are now. So how about I tell you who you are: You’re just a pathetic little boy who is going to do whatever I tell you to.”

“But…I…” There is nothing I really have to say, try as I might. He nailed it–I’m a pathetic little boy who doesn’t know anything about what I want for myself. And, too, I’m going to do whatever he tells me. Not just because of the threat that he’ll talk to Helen–but, maybe, because I see this strong man before me and I find myself eager to please him. By any means possible.

“I’m a patient man,” he says. “I can wait all day.”

“I, just…I’ve never done this before,” I say.

“Surprising, really. A little mouth like yours? I bet it’d fit nice and tight around the cocks of the boys you went to school with.”

I was blushing again. Was that an insult? A…compliment?

“Just be patient with me,” I say.

“You can earn my patience,” he says. “Just as you have to earn my respect.”

I look down at the floor, seeing the small yellowish puddle that had escaped my pants. The rest of his epic stream was still saturated in my clothes. I could already tell that I’d have to run my shoes through the washing machine tonight. There seems little point in being precious about my pants now. I lower myself to my knees, feeling the puddle work its way into some of the dry parts of my lower legs.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Whenever you are.”

His cock has grown considerably, and it almost looks like a sword in his hand. I swear that it’s somehow twice the size of my own. I feel a little blip of paranoia slip onto the backburner for later–Do I have an absurdly small cock, or is his just absurdly big?

I’m looking up at him again. I know there’s little point in saying anything else, but I still feel like I need to defend myself: “I…I don’t know what I’m doing, so…”

“There’s not much to it,” he says. “You take your mouth and you put it on my dick. You can handle that much, right?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t really think much about the ‘sir,’ it just feels right and natural.

I take one last deep breath and I lean forward while opening my mouth. I don’t have any sort of plan–do I aim for his balls, shaft, or the head? But he twists his hips a little, steering the head of his cock into my open mouth as I approach. For as big as it appears, it feels even larger in my mouth. I feel his hands on either side of my face as he manually guides my face further down the shaft until my mouth has simply run out of room. I cough and sputter a bit, but recover quickly.

I wait for further direction, but none comes. He seems content to leave me to my own devices. So I explore a little, letting my tongue caress his thick manhood. There’s a number of tastes that are unfamiliar to me. He’s salty. Sweaty? I remember that moments ago he had pissed into my pants, and now I’m curious as to how much of what I’m tasting is his piss. It’s quite degrading, yet surprisingly arousing.

“Mmm,” he moans. “Perhaps you’re not completely useless. You make a good toilet. And I think, with a little more practice, you’d be a reliable dick-cleaner.”

I foolishly begin to say something, but it just comes out as a muffled garble as his manhood continues to fill my mouth. I’m not entirely sure what is expected of me, and so I’m just kneeling in my piss puddle with my mouth full. If he had actually expected me to just clean his dick of his piss, I’d say the job is done. But something tells me that my job isn’t done yet.

“Well?” he asks. “Are you just admiring the mouth-feel or do you intend on doing anything else?”

There’s still no direction given. No command. No request. If I was to just slide my mouth off his shaft and stand up, what would he say? Would he consider the task completed, or would he send me back to my knees again?

I slide my mouth up his shaft, unsure of what I’ll do when I reach the end. When I finally do reach his head I pause and then slowly slide my mouth back down his cock. I tell myself that I’m doing this because he’d ask me to if I stopped. But on some level, I know that’s not entirely true.

I like this. I like having this strong and confident man’s cock in my mouth. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like I have a purpose.

“Ah,” he says, almost laughing with delight. “That’s a good boy. You say you’ve never done this before, but this is a rather impressive first attempt.”

His compliment fuels me and it makes the next trip up and down his cock easier. I feel my lips getting tighter around his shaft and I’m finding a rhythm. I still feel like I have little idea of what I’m doing, but the increasing volume of his moans infers that I must be doing something right. I begin to work a little faster, and it seems to be working for him. I feel his hands grip the sides of my head a little more firmly. I suspect, now, that if I tried to pull my head away from his shaft before he was done, he’d hold my head in place and refuse the option.

He seems to take over. Instead of letting me control the pace, he holds my head in one place and begins thrusting his midsection in and out of my face. He’s fucking my mouth. I’m helpless–a living toy.

And I fucking love it.

His groans grow louder and more frequent. And though I’m bracing myself for what I know is coming, nothing prepares me for the final eruption of his cock–a thick blast fills my mouth to the point where I feel it escaping my lips and dribbling down my chin. My body does its best to adapt, swallowing as much of his load as I can manage without even thinking about it.

“Is it good?”

I see no reason to lie: “Mmhmm.” It tastes unlike anything I’ve ever had in my mouth before. It seems gross for a moment, but I quickly warm to it.

He pulls his cock from my mouth slowly, letting my lips wick away the last of his climax from his thick shaft.

“You’ve been more useful to me in these last ten minutes then you have in the last few days combined. I should’ve started you off with tasks like these sooner.”

“I’m still…working for you, yes?”

He laughs again, patting me on the head condescendingly. “Oh, for sure. Keep up the good work, kid.”

“About, uh, my pants, though…” I’m still kneeling in his piss, and my pants are beyond saturated.

He glances at his watch. “Lucky for you, there’s not too many people in the office this time of day. You should be able to get out of here without making too much of a scene.”

Really? That was it? No effort made to get me another pair of pants or to help dry the ones he had soaked? No sympathy for the fact that I’d be in dripping pants until I got home again? I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t think I’d be left to deal with this on my own.

“Oh…okay.”

“Come see me in the morning tomorrow,” he says, returning to his desk and glancing at his computer monitor as if he had already forgotten about the condition of my pants. “I’ll put you to work right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Most days, I commuted to the office with Helen. This was not one of those days, which at least afforded me the luxury of making an escape to the car without the awkwardness of having to confront her while wearing soaked pants. Still, it sounded like there was the possibility of that scenario repeating itself–and maybe, then, I would have to go home with Helen.

Note to self: start bringing an extra change of pants to work.

I drive home in a little bit of a daze. I’m feeling humiliated, but it’s not entirely a bad thing–it’s a buzzy sort of high that I never knew I wanted before now. I was thinking that if I had to do it again for the sake of Mr. Greene keeping Helen at bay, I would. But…I’m quite sure that I’d do it again just because I wanted to.

My erotic high is cut short when I pull into the driveway of the house. Helen’s car is in the driveway, and I’m reminded that she’s been home all day. The prospect of sneaking up to my room in soaking wet pants feels trickier than my escape from the office building earlier. My only hope is to rush through the front door and run up the stairs before she has a chance to talk to me. Rude, but probably better than having to show her what happened to my pants.

But I never get the opportunity to even try this plan. The moment I close my car door, I see that Helen is outside, tending to the garden between the driveway and the house. I make a feeble attempt at stepping behind the car to block her view of my pants, but it feels far too late by the time I think to make that move.

“What happened?” she asks.

“N-nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because it looks like you had an…”

“I just spilled something on my pants,” I say.

Her head tilts and I see concern in her eyes. It’s clear that she doesn’t believe me. “Oh.”

I find myself feeling a little frustrated at her disbelief. As best as I can recall, I’ve never given her reason to think that I’m the type of person who has accidents in my pants. If i was to guess, the last time I had an ‘accident’ was long before she was a part of my life.

Too, I’m reminded of her quip from a few days ago–the one about wearing diaper if I wasn’t going to get off the couch all day. I’m willing to write it off as coincidence, but I’m still a little wary.

“I, uh, am just going to go get changed,” I say.

“Put your wet pants in the hamper and bring it down to the laundry room,” she says. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Okay,” I say. I probably don’t need to say anything else, but I feel the need to reiterate: “I didn’t…pee my pants.” Technically, it’s true–it’s not my pee.

She shrugs and nods politely. For whatever reason, she doesn’t seem sold on my defense.

I sprint into the house and up to my room where I peel the soaked clothing from my body. But looking down at the crumpled pants on the ground–the wet stains having spread across most of the seat–I’m reminded of the time spent on my knees for Mr. Greene. My cock grows in my hand. It’s not nearly the size of his–but that seems right. A bigger dick for a more powerful man.

Before adding my clothes to the hamper, I wrap my soaked underwear around my cock and rub myself to completion.

***

I’m successful in avoiding for most of the day and night that followed my arrival in wet pants, but I’m not so lucky the morning after. No sooner than I step into the kitchen for some cereal and coffee, she appears in the doorway herself, blocking my exit.

“We should talk,” she says.

“About what?”

“Your accident?”

I sigh and shake my head. “I didn’t have an accident. I promise.”

“Right, okay. But…I’m just saying that, you know…if you did?”

I scoff.

“I picked up something at the store for you,” she says. “Obviously I’m not going to make you use them. But if you think you ever need them…I just wanted them to be around for you.”

My mind is drawing a blank, as I have no clue what she’s talking about. “What do you mean? What did you buy me?”

“They’re sitting on the coffee table in the living room. And, I swear, I don’t care what you do with them. Throw them away if you really think they’re unnecessary.”

She turns and leaves the doorway, leaving me to ponder what it is that she bought. I’m tempted to finish my breakfast first, but I’m far too curious to see what it is she thought I might have a need for. And the closer I get to the shopping bag on the living room’s coffee table, the more nervous I am that I know exactly what it’s going to be.

‘Adult incontinence briefs,’ reads the package. I roll my eyes and swear under my breath. Diapers. She bought me fucking diapers. Cheeks completely flushed, I grab the bulky package and storm through the house with it, prepared to haul it out to the garage and immediately dump it into the trash can.

Yet, as I reach the garage door, a strange thought comes to mind: If Mr. Greene intends to use me as his toilet again, maybe a diaper isn’t…the worst idea?

I sneak back through the house, watching out for Helen. The last thing I want her to see is me carrying her little ‘gift’ back up to my room. I have no plans to ever acknowledge what she had bought for me, and I’d prefer her to think that I had just disposed of them.

In my room, with the door closed and locked, I get a better look at the adult diapers. They seem to be just a generic store brand, though these are labeled as being ‘maximum protection.’ I open the pack and pull out the first ‘incontinence brief.’ It isn’t as thick and puffy as I imagined it being–though perhaps I’m just thinking of the baby diapers I’ve seen my cousins wearing over the years. With their cloth-like feel, these seem kind of subtle. I almost wish they weren’t–were they any thicker, it’d have been easier for me to throw the whole pack out. But these? I could work with these. If I was to wear these to the office, I doubt anyone would know, save for Mr. Greene when he ordered me to open my pants.

God, this is so stupid. Am I actually going to do this? Wear…a diaper?

Yeah. It seems that I am.

***

“If I’m being honest,” Mr. Greene says from behind his desk, “I didn’t think I was going to see you today.’

“No?”

“I pissed in your pants yesterday and made you suck me off. I’m not an HR expert, but I’d guess that’s bad for retaining employees. If you’re coming back, I have no choice but to assume that you’re expecting it to happen again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

“It’d probably be rude of me to piss in your pants first thing in the morning,” he says, standing up from behind his desk. “We probably couldn’t expect you to walk around the office all day looking like you wet yourself.”

“Well, actually…”

“What, do you want to walk around in pissy pants?”

“Sir, I’m, uh, wearing something that might help with that…”

He chuckles. “Yeah? What have you got, some extra-absorbent pants?”

“Uhm, yes. That’s…exactly what I have.”

He walks out from behind his desk and approaches me. “Show me what you mean.”

I’m a little nervous to show him the diaper. Not that I think he’ll make fun of me–I genuinely believe that the diaper is a good idea. But it is, in itself, quite embarrassing to reveal that I’m a grown man wearing a diaper.

Not that I allow this to stop me. After only a brief pause, I quickly unbuckle my belt and unfasten the front of my pants, shimmying them down my thighs just enough so that he can see what lies beneath.

“A diaper?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughs. “Yesterday, I felt you were barely qualified to get me a cup of coffee, and then today you show this bit of ingenuity? I’m surprised.”

“You think it’s a good idea, sir?” I stop myself from revealing that this was actually Helen’s idea, even if she didn’t fully know it herself.

“I do. How much do you think one can hold?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “But…I brought extras.”

“Perfect,” he says, opening his own pants. “What do you say we get to work then?”

“Yes, sir.”

He reaches between my legs, grabbing at the diaper. “Still dry. You’re not going to piss in them yourself?”

The thought actually hadn’t ever occurred to me. “I, uhm, guess I was just saving this for you.”

“You’re too kind.”

He wastes no time at all in pulling his semi-flaccid shaft from his boxers. This time he pulls open my diaper with one hand while aiming the head of his cock with the other. In an instant, a hot yellow stream is hitting my skin, cascading over my own boyish manhood and soaking into my diaper. It’s as if he’s been holding it for hours–his powerful stream seems to go on forever, and my diaper continues to swell and grow heavier.

Finally, with a few last spurts, he pulls his cock back into his boxers with a satisfied grunt. “That should do it,” he says. “For now.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”

He reaches to my diaper again, this time feeling how swollen and soaked it is. I feel myself growing a little inside of the diaper–the feeling of having his warm pissed rubbed against my skin is as arousing as it is humiliating.

“Like that, do you?” he asks.

“Uhm…”

“It makes sense, of course. If you were willing to come back–and wear a diaper–I’d assume it gets you a little hot and bothered too.”

“Sorry, sir,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m apologizing for.

He laughs, playfully swatting at the front of my diaper. “No need to apologize. But I don’t want to catch you playing with yourself on the clock.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Now, then, maybe you can go fetch me a cup of coffee? Can I trust you to do that, or are you only useful as a toilet?”

“I can get you coffee,” I say, nodding. I blush a little, feeling foolish for allowing him to think that my only value is being pissed on.

I hoist my pants up, finding that they don’t quite fit around my diapers the way they had before. My pants are tighter now, and the weight of my soggy diaper is causing it to sag some. Were it not for my pants, I wonder if the diaper would simply slide down my legs.

I scurry out from Mr. Greene’s office and down the hall towards the lunchroom. The state of my pants is a little concerning, but I’m choosing to trust that the diaper is doing its job. Aside from a slightly awkward waddle, I suspect nobody has any idea what’s happened.

“Are…you okay?”

I’m pouring Mr. Greene a cup of coffee when I hear the far-too-familiar voice of Helen behind me. I almost drop the glass coffee carafe in surprise.

“Of course,” I say, though my heart is pounding. I almost don’t want to know the reason she’s asking.

“You, uhm…seem to have sprung a leak.”

“Wh-what?”

She takes a few quick steps to get closer to me, and she speaks in a much softer tone: “You’re wearing one of those diapers, aren’t you?”

I open my mouth to rebuff her claim, but I don’t see how I can talk my way out of this one. I say nothing.

“I knew you were having issues with wetting your pants,” she says. “A mother can always tell.”

“You’re not my mother,” I say, almost instinctively.

“I can help you,” she says, shrugging off my response.

“How?” I ask. It occurs to me, almost immediately, that by asking this question and still not denying her claim, I was only proving it to be true.

“I can get you another pair of briefs, if you need,” she says. “I can help dry your pants. Or, if you need, I could…help clean you up.”

“Helen,” I spit in a low-toned growl. “I am not going to let you change my diaper like I was a baby.”

She shrugs. And while I still believe that she genuinely has my best interests at heart–I swear that I detect the faintest hint of smirk on her lips.

“This is a big deal,” she says. “You can’t just be walking around in public and peeing your pants, you know? You should call a doctor.”

“N-no,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Are you sure? Because someone your age really shouldn’t be wetting themself.”

I want to tell her that I’m not actually wetting my own pants, but the truth would probably make even less sense. Still, it’s not like I can just go to a doctor when there isn’t actually anything wrong with me.

“I don’t need a doctor,” I say again. “These briefs just don’t…hold enough.” I could kick myself for saying such a stupid thing. There was no reason for me to say that.

“Oh,” she says, eyes wide. “I…could get you something else if that would help.”

“No, Helen…” I sigh and start over: “I appreciate what you’ve done for me so far, and I know you’re just trying to help. But I’ll take care of this.”

I expect her to try and stop me, or to at least continue the conversation, but she does neither. I make it all the way to the door with Mr. Greene’s coffee before I remember how this conversation started.

“You said I’m leaking?” I ask

She nods. “Just a little. In the back.”

“Is it noticeable?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I just noticed because…” Her voice trails off, and I’m grateful that it does. I don’t need to hear that she’s keeping an eye on my ass.

“Thanks.”

***

To my surprise, the next few days go by without a single mention of diapers while at home. Not only that, but Helen seems to have backed off my case a little. She’s giving me all the space I want, while our interactions tend to be a little more friendly.

Meanwhile, a new routine has developed with Mr. Greene. I show up at his office in the morning so that he can piss into my diaper. Sometimes he’ll ask me to get on my knees and suck him off, though this isn’t as frequent as I thought it’d be. Usually, in the afternoon, I’m called to his desk for a second saturation of my diaper, though I usually change into a clean one around lunchtime.

And for a moment, this all becomes fairly standard. Regular. On two separate occasions, I find myself going to the grocery store to buy more ‘incontinence briefs,’ praising whichever cosmic being was responsible for self-checkouts.

Taking a step back, on occasion, the whole scene seems pretty weird. But it’s working for me, so I try not to question it too much.

***

“Are you a little baby?” asks Mr. Greene–his cock deep in my throat.

“Mmmhmm.”

“I thought so. That’s why you’re always wearing pissy little diapers, right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

It’s a new little wrinkle that he’s added to the routine–calling me a baby. The word had filled me with frustration back when Helen had used it, but Mr. Greene really sells me on it. Hell, if he asked me to don a bonnet and a bib, I’d probably do it in a heartbeat.

“Have you ever thought about wetting your own diaper?” he asks.

I’m not really in a position to respond, so I remain focused on the task at hand and swallow as much of his shaft as I can.

“You really ought to,” he says. “I bet you’d like it. You could piss right on top of mine in your diaper.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, hell, if you want to wet your diaper while you’re sucking me off, I’d be fine with that too.”

“Mmm.” The idea is rather stimulating.

“Of course, babies use their diapers for more than just wetting. Maybe you’d like the feeling of pushing something naughtier into your pants.”

“Mmm…” I’m hard as a rock. I don’t think there’s anything that he could say to me right now that wouldn’t turn me on.

“I know your mother would like that too.”

Actually, that might just have been the one thing he could say that’d turn me off.

I slid my mouth off of his epic shaft and looked up at him from my kneeling position. “Helen?”

“That’s right,” he says.

“She’s not my mother.”

He laughs.

“Does she…know? About this?”

“Hrm,” he says, scratching his chin carefully while his glistening cock continues to bobble in front of him. “This probably isn’t the best time for this conversation.”

“It…might have to be,” I say. I ask again: “Does she know about us?”

“I’d say she does,” he says, laughing a little, “given that this was her idea.”