Do Better, Part 1 of 2 [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

One

“Eat an entire goddamn bowl of assholes, you fucking dick.”

So...we’re not doing too well.

That little outburst? It was because I drank most of the orange juice. Not all of the orange juice, mind you. I left her a little bit at the bottom of the bottle.

“You want orange juice, and you have orange juice,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”

“Look at my glass, Dean. Look at it with your fucking eyes.”

Believe me, I’m looking. “Okay, sure. I see…orange juice. In a glass. What else should I be seeing?”

“Notice that the glass isn’t even half-full. You didn’t even have the decency to leave me a full glass of orange juice. And need I remind you that I was the one who fucking bought the orange juice in the first place? In fact, when I came home from the grocery store and put the juice in the fridge, I specifically asked you not to drink all of my orange juice. Do you remember that? Is that little memory somewhere inside of your pea-sized cranium?”

Now that she mentions it–I do recall that conversation. And, yeah, I suppose that I can see how she’d be mad about expecting a full glass of orange juice and not getting one. I’m tempted to apologize, but I feel like I do a lot of apologizing these days. She’s probably as sick of hearing my apologies as I am of saying them.

Do better, I tell myself. I figure that I’ll just be more careful with the orange juice next time. She’ll notice. She’ll see that I’ve done better and then I’ll win back a little of her favor.

But probably not.

Because, see, she’s also putting some cream cheese on her bagel, and I was careful to leave enough cream cheese in the container for her last time I used it. And she doesn’t seem to notice or care. She simply uses the cream cheese and throws the container away without even looking at me. She has no concept of the favor I did for her.

As a quick aside, I’m wondering if the real moral of this story is that I need to do more grocery shopping.

This is, more or less, how everything is these days. Janelle finds fault in almost everything I do, have done, or will probably do in the future. I’m not going to say she’s wrong to feel that way–I’ll be the first to admit that my adulting skills are far from ideal.

I think there was a time she found it to be charming. She, rigid and passionate about everything, was attracted to my more lackadaisical and casual outlook on life. She wanted me to help center her, just as I wanted her to kick me in the ass once in a while to get me motivated. And our relationship worked for a while. Until it didn’t.

Of course, by that time, we were living together in a house that neither of us could afford the rent on if the other moved out. So, until the lease was up–or until one of us murdered the other–we were roommates.

“There’s something else we need to talk about too,” she says, sitting down at the kitchen table with her bagel. It’s rare that she eats a meal with me anymore, so I’m a little surprised. And worried about what she might have to talk about.

“Okay?”

“Look, I don’t really want to talk about this,” Janelle says, sighing. She looks uncomfortable. This doesn’t bode well. “But I guess someone needs to say something to you about it sometime. And, well, since we’re not, like, together anymore…I guess I don’t feel so bad about hurting your feelings.”

I take a deep breath. I really don’t like the direction this is going. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk about your, uhm, hygiene for a minute, Dean?”

“My…hygiene?”

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a pretty lazy guy. Last week I didn’t feel like putting away the dishes from the dishwasher, so I ate a piece of pizza off a newspaper that was sitting on the counter. But I take showers. I use deodorant. I brush my teeth. I clip my nails. Okay, maybe I should clip my nails a little more often, but I’ll do better. What possible issue could she have with my hygiene?

“You leave your dirty underwear all over the floor,” she says.

“Dirty? I mean, sure, they’re used. But it’s not like they have little stink lines coming off of them.”

“Every single time I go into the bathroom, I find your underwear on the floor, Dean. And so that means that I either have to pick them up myself–because you’re obviously not–or I have to coexist with your soiled clothing.”

“Soiled?” I ask, laughing. “You make it sound like I’m taking a big ol’ dump in them and just leaving them around for you to find.”

“You might as fucking well be,” she hisses. “There’s a pair sitting on the bathroom floor right now. Why don’t you go and take a look at them.”

“I’m…probably not going to do that.”

“Color me shocked,” Janelle says, rolling her eyes. “But don’t worry, I took a picture of them to show you.”

“You took a picture of my underwear?”

“Here,” she says, opening her phone to a specific photo and sliding it across the table to me. “What do you see here?”

It’s my underwear, for sure. And they’re on the bathroom floor–I’m already willing to concede that I left them there. What else does she want me to see?

Oh. Oh wait. I think I might see a little issue here.

“Well?” she asks. “Do you see what I see?”

My cheeks redden as I push her phone back towards her. “Look, don’t worry about it. It’s, uh…not that big of a deal.”

“Dean, that’s an honest-to-god streak-mark in your underwear. Like…do you even wipe your ass?”

“Janelle…”

“No, don’t Janelle me. I picked these up, willing to put them into the hamper for you. And what do I see? A goddamn streak of shit in the cloth.”

I fight the urge to apologize. Ultimately, I opt not to–I don’t owe Janelle clean underpants. Sure, I need to be careful, but that’s my problem.

“Alright, well, thanks for bringing this to my attention,” I say.

“Should I call your mother?” she asks, staring down at the picture on her phone again. “Should I let her know that she failed potty training you? That her little boy still doesn’t know how to wipe properly? And I don’t know if you noticed or not, but I can definitely see a little yellow stain here too.”

“I think I’d feel more comfortable if you stopped staring at a photo of my underwear…”

“Believe me, I’d feel more comfortable if I hadn’t touched them.”

“Touche.”

“Here’s a suggestion for you: try diapers. They’re perfect for little babies who don’t know how to properly piss and wipe themselves without getting their pants dirty.”

It’s a bit of a gut-punch, though it feels deserved. “Thanks. I’ll take that under consideration.”

___

My biggest takeaway from the diaper conversation is that I need to be a little better about where I leave my clothes. And for a week or two, I feel like I’ve made a bit of an improvement in that regard. Whenever I take my clothes off in the bathroom, I’m sure to either take my dirty clothes out with me or to at least toss them in the hamper.

I keep hoping for a follow-up conversation. I’m not exactly sure how it’d go. But some sort of acknowledgment of my better behavior would be nice. “Hey, Dean. I couldn’t help but notice you’re not leaving your underwear on the floor anymore. That’s really cool of you to have changed that behavior. I find myself falling in love with you again.”

But she has nothing to say about it. As tempting as it is to be a little bitter at this, I’m at least grateful that I don’t have to hear her complain about it.

I’m not perfect, though. Nobody is, right? I’m trying to do better, but mistakes can still happen during that process.

She wakes me up one morning with a text. No message–just a photo. It’s another pair of my underwear that I’ve, apparently, left on the bathroom floor. I’m tempted to deny that I left them there–but those are the underpants I was wearing before I took a shower last night. And I don’t remember picking them up after.

I can’t be completely sure, given the angle of the photo, but I see a hint of brown staining in the fabric. That’s a little embarrassing.

“Sorry,” I text a little later in response, when I’m more awake. “I’ll do better.”

Her only answer to that is an eye-rolling emoji.

Fair enough. I deserve that. Still, this incident feels like it’s rewound all the progress I had been trying to make over the last few days. All it takes is finding one more pair of underwear on the floor, and she’s probably forgotten all about the fact she hadn’t found any in a week.

I try to go on with my day without thinking about it much. There’s no point in dwelling on it. Hopefully, I figure, she’ll quickly forget about it and she can go back to just being generally annoyed by me instead of annoyed about me because of this specific thing.

We manage to avoid each other until we each head off to work. For a few hours, all those issues seem behind me–far out of sight and out of mind.

When I get home, I head to my bedroom–formerly a guest room before we decide to start sleeping in separate spaces–ready to shed the workday clothes for something a little more laid back so I can get the evening started. This is when I find something sitting in front of the door–a cube-ish shape wrapped in a plastic bag. Without looking at it too hard, I pick it up and carry it into my room.

“What the hell?”

For a moment, I can’t make any sense of what I’m seeing. I can see the words on the package, but it all reads like a foreign language to me. Ultra-Max? Tab-style briefs? What the hell does that mean? Massive capacity? Anti-odor?

It’s not until I flip the package around in my hands and see the photos and diagrams on the back that I realize what I’m holding. Diapers.

Janelle seriously went and bought me adult diapers.

Furiously, I hurl the package at the floor, though it just harmlessly bounces away like a giant marshmallow. Suddenly, I’m stomping my way through the house, on the warpath for Janelle. I find her in the kitchen.

“You’ve never been intimidating in your entire life,” she says, seemingly expecting my arrival. “So don’t start pretending now.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Janelle?”

“Hmm? And just what is upsetting you?” Her smug, faux-naivete is already grating on me.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. Diapers? You put diapers in front of my door?

“Oh, that?” She chuckles to herself and sighs. “Dean, that wasn’t some sort of mean-spirited prank. I was doing you a favor.”

“A favor? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Well, I just figured that since you were having such a hard time keeping your underwear clean, maybe it’d be better if you switched to something a bit more…disposable?”

“You’re being rude and disrespectful. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Do you know what’s disrespectful?” she asks. “Going into the bathroom and finding a pair of your stained underwear in the middle of the floor. Maybe you could at least get into the habit of throwing a diaper into the trash.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. The diapers are going in the trash. The whole damn package.”

“I wouldn’t be too hasty with that,” she says, the smugness in her tone continuing to thicken. “I got sick of putting your dirty underwear in the hamper, so I’ve just been throwing them away. Keep this up, and someday all you’ll have left are diapers.”

“You can’t just throw away my clothes!”

“You should thank me that I’m not burning those disgusting things.”

“Is it any wonder we don’t get along anymore?” I spit. “You’re the most ridiculous human I’ve ever known.”

“Aw, calm down, wittle bay-bee,” she coos in a condescending baby-talk. “Maybe you just need to go and take a nap?”

___

And so starts a new phase of the hell that’s been our attempt at living together civilly. Though I doubt she’s had very much respect for me in some time, any remnants were now completely wiped clean. Everytime we were in the same room together–every time we passed each other in the hallway–she had some little humiliating jab to make.

“Shouldn’t you be crawling on your hands and knees?”

“Where’s your blankie?”

“Can I get you a bottle of milk?”

“How’s the potty training going?”

“Pee-ew! Something’s kinda stinky around here. Is that you, Dean?”

I do my best to let her jokes roll off my back. I’m not a baby. And I’ve kicked the package of diapers deep under my bed. She can say whatever she wants to say, and think whatever she wants to think. I figure I’m just going to do better. If I can be the best version of myself, and stay that way, she’ll eventually have to start respecting me again when she sees I’m not making the same mistakes.

But I don’t know at what point she’s going to see that I’m doing better. It could take weeks. Months. And in the meantime, I’m still living with a woman who gets a kick out of pretending I’m a giant, helpless, toddler.

Sometimes, I start to wonder if she might be right. I’ve noticed that the sum of underwear I own is dwindling. I used to have an entire drawer of my dresser filled with them. Now, I see there’s barely half that. Considering that I don’t think I lost them, the most reasonable explanation is that they’re being thrown away. And if they’re being thrown away…does that mean that Janelle is still finding them on the bathroom floor? Stained in embarrassing spots?

There is another possibility, too.

“Janelle, can I ask you a question?” I ask one morning as we’re both dragging ourselves about the kitchen.

“I hate when you ask that,” she says. “Don’t ask if you can ask a question. Just ask the first question instead of wasting my time.”

“Right, sure. Well… I can’t help but notice that I have a lot fewer pairs of underwear than I used to…”

She laughs into her hand, a sort of spontaneous snort.

“...and I’m concerned that you’re going through either the hamper or my dresser and throwing them out on me.”

She stares at me with barely any emotion on her face for a moment. A very long moment. “So, just so that I’m clear, you think that I’m going into your bedroom, opening your dresser, taking out your clean underwear, and throwing them in the trash?”

“I mean…they have to be going somewhere.”

“And why? Why would I want to do that?”

“The, uh, diapers, I think. You want me to have to wear them.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Do you actually think that I want my ex-boyfriend and roommate to be waddling around the place in a diaper? Dean, it’s bad enough that I’m still picking up your stained underwear. I worry that if you actually wore a diaper, you’d end up using it like a baby. And I don’t have time to be your babysitter. The diapers, and baby-jokes, were fun. But they’re not supposed to be the end-game. You could just, I dunno, learn a valuable lesson about wiping your ass and putting your underwear in the hamper?”

“But my underwear are missing and…”

“I want to show you something,” she says, grabbing her phone off the kitchen counter. She taps a few things on the screen before handing it over to me. “There. Watch that video. And then start scrolling.”

___

It’s the familiar tile floor of the upstairs bathroom. The camera starts near the sink before panning to the right, past the toilet, landing near the hamper by the bathroom door.

“So, this isn’t that big of a bathroom,” Janelle’s voice says. “And this is a pretty big hamper, split into two sections–his and hers. If you were going to take your clothes off in here to take a shower, you’d think that it’d not only be easy to put the dirty clothes in the hamper, but that it’d be necessary. Because, otherwise, you’re taking up some of the limited bathroom space with dirty clothes.”

I swallow hard, transfixed by what I’m seeing. This isn’t just a video, I’m realizing. This is a social media account. This has been shared with people. Maybe strangers? Maybe people I know?

“Now,” she continues, “I want you to look at this.”

The camera zooms into a gray pair of boxer-briefs, lying on the tiled floor in between the toilet and the hamper. It’s there–I can’t deny that. I don’t remember leaving it there, and there is a small part of me that wonders if she fished it out of the hamper to plant it there for the sake of her video. But…the idea of her having to handle my underwear anymore than necessary seems rather unlikely.

Plus, I’m starting to believe I haven’t changed as much as I thought I have. Maybe old habits really do die hard.

“Do you see this?” she asks the audience, getting closer and closer to the crumpled mound of fabric. “I mean, it’s one thing to leave your underwear on the bathroom floor without picking it up. But just look at the state of these things.”

There it is, captured by the camera’s lens: a long stripe of light brown, embedded in the fabric.

“He can’t even wipe his ass, let alone throw his dirty underwear in the hamper. And, in case you’re wondering, this isn’t a 5 year old boy we’re talking about–these belong to an adult man.”

Finally, with her thumb and forefinger, she carefully pinches a corner of unstained fabric and the camera watches as she slowly hoists them into the air, pivots, and deposits them into the trash can.

#belongsindiapers #adulttoddler #underwearistrashed

12,439 views. 1,383 likes.

Says one comment: “If this was my husband, I’d spank him.”

Says another: “Girl, that’s disgusting. Dump his ass and drop him off at daycare.”

The account is called Deans_Soiled_Pants. She has 5,490 followers.

I follow the second part of her instructions, and begin to scroll, finding video after video of her encountering my stained underwear on the floor. Red ones. Blue ones. White ones. I don’t have to watch these videos to know what happens–I already have the jist of it.

But I can’t help but notice that the number of comments seems to grow with each video. Worse, they seem to be growing more and more antagonistic towards me.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” sandrabird32 says. “Why isn’t he wearing diapers?”

Tuftop_sea1 says: “My three-year-old does better than this.”

“This is unacceptable,” says momma-flowerpot. “Your next video better be of you pulling this brat over your knees while you hold a hairbrush.”

I sigh and hand the phone back to Janelle.

___

“What do you think?” she asks.

“You…you can’t just…” I shake my head and start over again. “That’s not fair. I didn’t consent to that being shown online.”

“Not a single person who follows the account knows who you are or who I am. I’ve never shown anyone’s faces or indicated where we were. I simply shared my plight with the world, because I was sick of dealing with it by myself.”

“Please, Janelle. Could you just shut it down? For me?”

“You already have the power to shut it down. All you have to do is finally make good on your promise to ‘do better.’ And then? I’d have no content to share with everyone.”

I thought I was doing better. Of course, I based that on the fact that she wasn’t harassing me everyday about my stained underwear on the floor. As it turns out–it was still very much a problem, she just wasn’t telling me about it anymore. She was telling, literally, everyone else in the world.

“You know what?” she asks. “I lied.”

“Hmm? About what?”

“About not wanting you to wear diapers. I was being honest when I said that I didn’t have time to be your babysitter. But look at the numbers on my posts, Dean. I’m gaining followers everyday. I’ll make time to change your diaper if it means I'm giving my audience what they want.”

___

I’m thinking about Janelle and her videos all day. Hell, I’m a subscriber myself now, just so that I can go through every video and read each comment left in disgust.

“Absolutely revolting. No adult man should be acting like this.”

“He must smell like shit.”

“And you slept with this man???”

Janelle has yet to formally ask or demand I wear diapers in the house, but I feel that it's inevitable. I have no idea how I’d react to such a request either. I feel like any other adult would just balk. They’d say “Yeah, fuck that,” and start packing up their stuff so they could move out.

But I’m not like other adults, and I doubt that other adults have the pants-staining reputation that I do.

I have an inkling of a thought swimming around in the back of my mind, but I’m scared to dwell on it too much, or to let it get any bigger than it is. Something about…accepting diapers if it puts me in better standing with Janelle.

No, no, no. That’s so fucking ridiculous. For a while, I’m angry at myself for even allowing such a thought to start germinating.

But I keep coming back to it. Every once in a while, the idea pops into my head again. What if I wore a diaper for her? What if she appreciated my compliance, as insane as that sounded?

While pissing into a urinal at work, I wonder what it might be like to be peeing in a diaper. Sitting in a stall after lunch, I try to imagine the feeling of pooping myself like a small child would. Both times, I find myself a little frustrated at the fact that I’m not just adamantly opposed to the idea. There’s a small part of me that’s curious.

___

For the next few days, I’m critical of every single move I make. I’m sure to pick up all my clothes, depositing them into the hamper. I spend extra time on the toilet when I use it, ensuring that I’m as clean as I can be. I take longer showers. I wash every dish I use as soon as I use it, just trying to prevent Janelle from having any other ammunition to use against me.

I worry that it’s somehow not enough–like I’m still neglecting something that gives Janelle an angle to humiliate me online with.

But, no. She hasn’t made a post in days. Her audience seems frustrated by this, leaving new comments in her older videos, clamoring for a return.

“Give us an update on him. Is he still dirtying his pants?”

“I can only assume you’ve been silent the last few days because you’ve been too busy feeding him with a baby bottle.”

So on and so forth.

Admittedly, it’s a very strange feeling to have this not-small group of strangers from around the world, all converging into a single place to demand that I be treated like a child. I could–I should–just ignore it. I’m not their entertainment. I don’t answer to them.

But Janelle does. And when I come from work one day, she’s sitting on the couch, waiting for me. Sitting next to her on the couch is the package of adult diapers–seemingly fished out from underneath my bed.

“Can you sit down, Dean? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Do you want to talk about diapers?” I ask. “Because I don’t think I want to talk about diapers.”

“We’re going to be talking about diapers,” she says. “Sit down.”

A stronger man would refuse and walk away. I’m not that man, and so I sit down on the loveseat across from where she sits. I wonder if my compliance–after initially refusing to talk about diapers–has lost me more of her respect than if I had just sat down in the first place without opening my mouth.

“I think we can both agree that I’ve put up with a lot from you,” she says.

I sigh. I’d love to protest this, but I have no idea what my argument would be. “I guess.”

“I want you to be honest with me, Dean. When you say to me, over and over again, that you’re going to be ‘doing better,’ what does that actually mean? Who are you trying to be better for?”

“You,” I immediately spit out.

She laughs. “You’re making this too easy for me.”

“How so?”

“If you’re trying to ‘do better’ for me, then don’t you think that I’d get a say in what ‘better’ looks like?”

This feels like a good point. Worse, I see the error in my answer to her question–shouldn’t I have been trying to be the best version of myself for…myself?

“Maybe?” I say. “What does ‘better’ look like for you?”

“‘Better’ means making me happy. ‘Better’ means doing what you’re told.”

It feels wrong to agree with her–on some level, I just know that I’m betraying myself and whatever remains of my dignity. But her words sound like hope to me. Hope that there’s a future where we’re back together again and happy. All I have to do is whatever she says.

“What are you telling me to do?” I ask. I probably don’t actually have to ask this–I feel like I can guess.

“I’m going to tell you to stand up and pull your pants down,” she says. “I’m going to check your underwear. And if I see any dirty stains…well, I guess we’ll just have to see what I find first.”

“If that’s what you really want…”

“It is,” she says, nodding.

“And are you going to, uhm, record this? For your channel online?”

“You’re such a smart little boy. Now, please stand up.”

___

Janelle speaks: “Hey everyone. Janny coming at you with another video. It’s been a few days since my last, and I’ve been getting a ton of questions about when I’d be back. Well? Here I am. And I have a guest with me today.”

Sitting on the coffee table is her open laptop and a webcam. I can’t help but notice the growing number of comments flashing by at the bottom of the screen.

Number of likes on the video so far: 87

Number of people watching: 192

Comment from ship2sea85: “OMG! It’s going to be Dean, isn’t it?”

Comment from PurpleSock_Cat: “Finallllllllllly. I’ve been craving this little shit’s humiliation.”

“Hi Dean. Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching?”

“N-no…” My legs are wobbly and I’m my heart feels like it’s racing faster than it’s ever raced before.

“Sorry, folks, I’m not going to show you his face. But I hope you can take my word for it when I say that his eyes are welling up with tears.”

Comment from sandrabird32: “Is he going to cry like a literal baby?”

“Dean, come on,” she says. “Hurry up and pull your pants down so we can inspect your underwear.”

“Can we just, like, talk about this first? I don’t know if I can just pull down my pants and…”

“Either you pull your pants down, or I pull them down for you.”

Number of likes on the video so far: 296

Comment from queen-of-bees100: “Just pull them down, Janny! You’re in charge here.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

I unfasten the front of my pants and stick my fingers in the waistband before slowly easing them down my legs. I can’t help but notice that the comments are exploding.

Comment from ToenailKlypperz: “What a fucking child.”

Comment from iceprincess918: “He’s totally going to end up in a diaper, right?”

Comment from sandrabird32: “I swear I can already see a stain in his underwear. Look at the front! It’s stained yellow!!”

Of all the days to wear a pair of tighty-whities–not my ideal choice of underpants, though my options had been dwindling.

“Yeah,” Janelle says. “I can’t help but notice that there is some staining here on the front. Looks like someone had a few dribbles?”

“It’s common,” I say. “Check any man’s underwear.” I have no idea if that’s true or not.

Comment from buck-lugger: “Ma’am, you can come check my boxers any time you’d like. You’ll never find a drop of piss in them.”

“We’re not talking about other men,” she says. “We’re talking about you, and your dirty little habits. Turn around. I want the camera to see your ass right now.”

I’m hoping, practically praying, that the back of my underwear is clean. I’m tempted to just give up and run away, but there’s this pathetic part of me that still thinks that I can win back a little bit of her love if I just play by her rules for a little longer. I slowly spin around until she stops me with her hand–likely in the perfect spot for the camera to be getting a good shot of my ass.

“Well, folks,” she says. “What do you see here?”

I can’t see the responses, but I can hear Janelle laughing. I have no doubt that her followers are absolutely loving whatever sort of vindication they’re getting.

“Look,” she says, presumably to her audience. “Do you see what I’m seeing here? This isn’t some small little light-brown stain. This is…well…it looks crusty doesn’t it? Like, how do you sit down and just not feel something like this happening?”

I’m unsure if this is a rhetorical question or not, but I keep my mouth shut.

“So what are we going to do about this?” she asks. “What do you do with a man-baby who can’t keep his pants clean?”

I wish I could see the responses to this query. All I can do is listen to her reactions to the comments.

“See, that’s not a bad idea,” she says to one. “That’s probably exactly what I’ll do,” she says to another. And then: “Oh, no…I don’t think I can do that. Not without getting arrested.”

She spins me back around again so the front of my pants are facing the camera again. I glance at the laptop screen–I don’t want to read the comments, but I’m curious to see what sort of audience her video is pulling in.

Number of people watching: 583

Number of likes on the video so far: 316

And the numbers continue to increase. Who are all these people? How has Janelle managed to convince almost 600 people from around the world to watch her humiliate her ex-boyfriend in his dirty underwear?

“Just about everyone seems to have the same opinion I do,” she says to me. “If you’re going to act like a toddler, you should be treated like one. And, you know, it’s generally frowned upon to spank children anymore. But I don’t think anyone would take exception to spanking any child that was your size.”

“No,” I say. “Please, we don’t have to do this.”

“You wanted to do better, right? For me? Well, this is how you can do better by me. By complying and listening to your Mommy.”

“M-mommy?”

I can’t divert my eyes from the sudden surge in comments flooding into the feed.

Comment from PurpleSock_Cat: “I can’t believe it’s finally happening! She’s going to make him into her little baby boy.”

Comment from padded-boi420: “If he won’t do it, I’ll be your baby. Please, I promise I’ll be good for you, Mommy!”

Comment from sandwichrobot: “She’s going to make you cry like a baby.”

Comment from igloo-cool-school: “I kinda thought she was kidding about the whole diaper-thing. But now, I believe. She’s going to put that guy into a diaper. This is so crazy.”

Janelle is now sitting on the couch again, and she’s patting her lap, beckoning for me to join her.

“Come over here. Lay across my lap.”

“But…”

“I don’t think you want me to have any other reasons to be annoyed with you,” she hisses. “Get over here like a good boy.”

I sigh and approach her lap. I was never spanked as a child, nor at any other point in my life. But now, staring at the tops of the thighs I was expected to lie across, I couldn’t help but feel like a child–full of fear and regretting the actions that had gotten myself to this point.

How? How did I allow myself to get so lazy and complacent that I couldn’t just…wipe my ass better? Throw my clothes in a hamper?

“We don’t have all day,” she says to me. “People around the world are waiting.”

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She smiles at me. It’s disarming, but also a little comforting. I take a deep breath, thinking about what she said: I can do better by listening and complying. Okay, fine.

I carefully ease myself over her lap, my body balancing on her thighs so that my ass is sticking up in the air on one end while my shoulders and head dangle off the other. As best as I can tell, my face isn’t on camera. Just my ass, the stain on my underwear, her lap, and her hand.

“I feel like I’m supposed to say something here,” she says. “Something like: ‘This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me.’ But I don’t actually think that’s true. This isn’t going to hurt me at all. In fact, I think it’s going to feel pretty good.”

There’s no further warning given. There’s just a single moment of quiet silence before there’s a loud SMACK and a fiery pain that envelopes my ass cheeks.

“Unnngh,” I grunt, the noise being forced out of my mouth by the might of her hand.

I’m given no time to recover, or to brace myself for the next whirlwind SLAP that lands in the exact same spot as the first. Some nonsensical muttering bursts from my mouth again as I feel the tears welling in my eyes–just moments from rolling down my cheeks. How many more?

“You’re right,” Janelle says to some anonymous person on the laptop. “His ass shouldn’t be hidden behind his soiled underwear.”

I detest the continued use of ‘soiled.’ It implies that I’ve done something far worse than just not having wiped as well as I could’ve. ‘Soiled’ implies I–I don’t know–took a huge shit in my pants?

SMACK! This one feels sharper, and I realize it’s because she’s pulled down the back of my underwear and her hand is striking directly against my skin. Here come the tears, streaming down my face. I struggle to catch my breath. I look straight ahead of me, my eyes landing on the unopened package of adult diapers that she bought for me. Soon enough, without a doubt, I’ll be wearing one of them. And if she makes me wear one, she’ll probably make me use one.

And…I already know that I’ll allow that to happen.

“Oh, do you hear that?” she says. “I think we’re about to hear the big baby start crying.”

There’s a few more spanks–a quick sequence of three or four that come without warning or any pause in between. SMACK! SLAP! SMACK! SMACK!

I’m crying. Tears are cascading down my face. And an infantile, and uncontrollable, whine is coming from my voice. The noises are so alien to me that I don’t even initially recognize the sounds as coming from me. I’m not just crying–I’m bawling.

“You hear that, right?” she asks her audience. “You hear him crying? No! I promise you, that’s not a recording! That’s not an actual infant. This is him!”

She allows me to slide off of her lap, and I do, landing on my hands and knees on the carpeted floor. I reach behind myself to carefully rub my tender bottom, both cheeks feeling hot to the touch.

“The audience has spoken,” she says, looking at her laptop screen. “Do you want to see what they’re demanding?”

I don’t. But…I do. I slowly turn myself around so I can see what’s on the screen. Once more, I see a barrage of comments rolling in.

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Comment from angelsladder: “Put that baby back in diapers.”

Comment from hotdog-expressway: “Put him in diapers.”

Comment from Choco_LordBX14: “He needs to be kept in diapers.”

Comment from 69lucifersboot: “Diaper him!”

Comment from slow_motion_chickpea: “The diapers are right THERE. Make him wear one.”

Comment from yerboiBryBry: “Hurry up and put him in a diaper before he pisses himself.”

Comment from dreamqueenanya: “Babies belong in diapers.”

There’s more–so many more. I can barely keep up with the flood of comments. But I also don’t really need to read them all–It seems they all say about the same thing: I’m a baby and I should be wearing a diaper.

“I agree with them,” Janelle says. “Don’t you?”

“Uhm…” I wipe some tears from my eyes and clear my throat as I try to remember how to speak again.

“Go on,” she coos. “Tell me–tell them–what I should do with a baby like you.”

“I think, uh…”

“Mmhmm?”

“I think, maybe, I need to be put into a…diaper.”

She remains motionless, staring into me as if there was one more thing I needed to say. I think I know what it is.

“...Mommy.”

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