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

Two

Do better.

That’s what I said I was going to do. And I used to think that ‘doing better’ would be just a matter of trying harder. Looking at the mistakes I had made and then working to not repeat them.

That didn’t seem to work out so well. No matter how hard I tried to do better, I seemed doomed to make the same mistakes again and again.

But Janelle had offered another possibility: If I was trying to do better by her, wouldn’t it be best if she was the one who decided what better was?

And now, here I am, lying on my back on the carpet of the living room floor. My button down work shirt has been removed and now sits in a pile with my socks and pants. My underwear–the stained fabric of which was already seen by hundreds of strangers from around the world–had been deposited into a trash can. It was a ceremony that I wasn’t privy to, though I was sure I’d watch the replay of it later.

Now, lying here in just an undershirt, I wait for the diaper. It’s what Janelle wants. It’s what the internet wants. It’s…what I want, I think. It’s what I’m willing to think I want if Janelle thinks it’s a good idea. If she says that this is ‘better,’ than I’m in.

The webcam is pointed down at my crotch. We’re streaming live, and–now–thousands of people are staring at my shriveled up cock dangling between my legs as Janelle flattens out a diaper and slides it under my ass. She’s moved the laptop too–positioning it at the end of the coffee table so that I can see the comments coming in from her followers.

Comment from jack-of-all-sporks: “As if you needed another reason to put him in a diaper. Look at that shrimpy little thing.”

Comment from princesspoofly: “OMG look how cute it is! It’s so teeny! You should tie a little ribbon around it.”

“Oh,” Janelle says, interrupting my attempts at reading the neverending stream of humiliating comments. “I almost forgot that I picked up some other supplies.”

“Other supplies?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You be a good boy and stay put.”

I’m not going anywhere. Honestly, I’m terrified to move an inch–afraid that I’ll inadvertently get my face on camera–exposing myself to the still-growing masses that are tuned into my complete humiliation. My options are to just close my eyes and wait, or to look back at the laptop and see what everyone is saying. Of course, my curiosity won’t allow me to just look away from the computer for too long.

Comment from horndogchamp2: “I love watching this guy squirm in anticipation. He WANTS to be in a diaper so badly.”

Comment from fragile_turnip_inc: “This guy’s gonna be pooping his pants by the end of the day.”

Comment from iggyiggyicicle: “JANNY PLEAEES MAKE MWE YOUR BABY NEXDXT!!!”

Comment from buck-lugger: “I’d show her how a real man treats a lady. And I’d take care of that little baby’s asshole too.”

Comment from steeltoe-knight99: “GUYS! Do you see his cock? I swear to god he’s starting to get a little hard.”

“I’m baaaaaaack,” sings Janelle, dumping a few items on the floor next to me.

Oh, thank god.

“First things first,” she says. “We need to protect the baby from potential rashes, right?”

“Rashes?” I ask. “Why would I get a rash?”

“A diaper rash, maybe?” she says.

“But…that’s because babies have to sit in diapers. I’m not, like, incontinent or anything. You’re just making me wear diapers. I still know how to use a toilet and…”

I’m silenced by the sudden sensation of something being shoved into my mouth. For a moment, I have no idea what it is. Soft, rubbery, kind of bulb-like in shape? It dawns on me that it’s a pacifier. She literally jammed a pacifier in my mouth to shut me up.

“You can’t see his face,” Janelle says to the audience. “But you know what I did, right? It was a pacifier. Plugged that baby’s mouth right up.”

I look at the laptop screen for just a moment, but quickly look away when all I see is a sea of laughing emojis.

“I am serious,” she says to someone in the chat. She plucks the pacifier from my mouth for a moment and holds it up towards the camera. My spit drips off the rubber bulb back down onto my chest. Just as quickly as she took it out, she slips it back between my lips. “Sorry, baby. The people didn’t believe me.”

She grabs a white container. Baby powder, it looks like. I haven’t smelled this in ages. Never having siblings, it was rare that I ever encountered this–only when visiting relatives with babies of their own. But there had never been any doubt that this was the smell of an infant. Soon, I’d smell like that too.

The container overturns and she shakes a good amount over my crotch. A cloud wafts up to my nose, and I take in a good noseful of the babyish scent. If asked before today, I’d have said that I was pretty indifferent about the scent of baby powder. Now? I could already tell that it’d forever remind me of this moment–my transformation into Janelle’s baby.

“That should do it,” she says. “Wow. I wish y’all could smell this. Smells like a nursery, you know?”

She pulls the front of the diaper through my legs and carefully affixes the sides to it, taping me in nice and tight to the thick padding. Then, she steps back, giving the camera a good view of what she’s accomplished.

“And there we go. I’ve finally put Dean into a diaper.”

I don’t want to look, but I feel like I have to. I need to know how many people have seen this. How many people are currently laughing at me.

But I’m not prepared for the numbers I see.

Number of people watching: 14,390

Number of likes on the video so far: 9,928

___

“Are we good?” I ask, slowly climbing up to my feet as she shuts off the camera and closes her laptop.

“Good?”

“Yeah…are we…okay? Are we on the path to fixing things now? Where do we stand?”

Janelle laughs and shakes her head. “Do you think that things should be good now?”

“Janelle, you just livestreamed putting me in a diaper. Thousands of people just watched it happen. You…completely humiliated me. And, uhm, you said that you were showing me what ‘better’ was. So. Please tell me that tonight at least buys me a little bit of your good graces.”

“Are you kidding me right now, Dean?”

“No?”

“Look at yourself. Just…go to a mirror and take a look at yourself. You’re wearing a t-shirt and a big white diaper. Up until a minute ago, you had a pacifier in your mouth. You smell like an infant. The whole world just laughed at you. And you’re asking me–what now–if I’ve gained any respect for you?”

“I…I was just hoping that…”

“No,” she says. “You haven’t earned any of my respect.”

“But…” I feel so pathetic. I need something. I need her to throw out the teeniest, tiniest, bone for me.

She sighs, perhaps realizing herself that she can’t just leave this conversation where it stands. “Just…do what I tell you to do, okay?”

“And then what?”

“We’ll see.”

I’m not stupid. Were I to guess, I’d say that she’s stringing me along. She’s setting me up for future embarrassment and humiliation. But that’s okay. By letting her think that, it buys me time. Time where I could show her that I’m capable of change. Time to show her that I’m worth keeping around.

___

“Wow. I wish y’all could smell this. Smells like a nursery, you know?”

It’s my third time watching the entire recording from her social media feed. Everytime I click the play button, the number of views it’s received seems to have multiplied. 20k. 30k. Now it’s close to cracking 50k.

50,000 people have viewed this video. I tell myself it could just be 1,000 perverts who’ve watched it 50 times each, but I know I’m just being ridiculous. The numbers almost don’t matter at this point. This is huge.

This is…viral?

I try to imagine the headlines.

Man Goes Viral After Girlfriend Makes Him Wear A Diaper.

From Skid-Marks to Diapers–The Unbelievable Saga Going Viral Tonight.

But I see no mention of it in my own social media feeds. For now, Deans_Soiled_Pants seems to exist only in a small corner of the internet.

I’m still wearing the diaper. Honestly, I’ve been unsure of what to do with the thing. If I just take it off, is Janelle going to give me hell for it? Or was she expecting for me to have shed the diaper as soon as we parted ways?

I didn’t even bother putting my pants on. I was just sitting there, alone in the den, in the same tee and diaper she had left me in. I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe my sense of modesty had eroded along with my dignity. Maybe I thought that this was how Janelle would want to see me, the next time we were in the same room.

Maybe I…like the diaper?

It’s possible. I can’t stop touching it and running my hands along the smooth plastic shell of the bulk between my legs. Everytime I move, I can feel padding in places I’m not used to feeling thick padding. It crinkles and rustles constantly. And, conceptually, it’s just so…wrong. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t be wearing a diaper. I shouldn’t be laughed at and treated like a child.

It’s all pretty confusing. I shouldn’t like any of this. And if Janelle were here, I’d deny that I liked it on any level.

It’s not all a confusing mystery to me, however. My ass hurts. It feels like someone stuck a firecracker in between my ass cheeks and lit it. It hurts to sit. It hurts to move. The thought of exacerbating my butt cheeks by changing out of this soft diaper and into some pants just doesn’t sound all that appealing at the moment.

As if thinking about her can summon her, I hear her footsteps in the hall. I’m tempted to cover myself, though there’s nothing around. Why didn’t I think to bring pants? Or a cardigan? A fucking blanket?

“Ah,” she says, smirking as she takes in the sight of me sitting on the sofa in my diaper. “So here is where the baby is hiding.”

“What do you want, Janelle?”

“I came to check on you.”

“Check on what?”

“This is what Mommies do, isn’t it?” she asks. “Check to see if the baby has made pee-pees or poo-poos in their pants?”

“You aren’t actually expecting me to use this, are you?”

“You’re still wearing it,” she says, shrugging. “So I have to assume you had plans for it.”

“Are you going to be mad if I take it off?”

She laughs. “There’s only one way to find out, right? Besides, I think you look cute in a diaper.”

“Cute?”

It’s been a long time since Janelle has complimented me. A very long time. ‘Cute’ isn’t what I had been waiting a long time to hear her say, but it was probably the best I was going to get. It was getting the dopamine moving.

“I doubt most boys could rock a diaper like you are.”

“Uhm, thanks, I guess.”

To my surprise, she crossed the threshold of the den’s doorway and took a seat next to me on the sofa. I couldn’t remember the last time we sat on the same piece of furniture.

“Can I be completely honest with you?” she asks.

“I see no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“You were the worst boyfriend I’ve ever had. And I’ve dated some real boneheads.”

I didn’t think I had any dignity left, but she found just enough of it to scrape up before smashing it into oblivion. “Oh.”

“You’re lazy. Self-centered. And just…immature. When’s the last time you paid the phone bill that’s in your name?”

I turn on my cell phone for a moment, confirming that it's still getting a signal. “It must’ve been recently, right? It still works.”

“Yeah, because I paid for it,” she says. “I pay for it every month, because I made the idiotic decision to join your phone plan. And when you don’t pay your bill, it gets my phone shut off.”

“Right,” I say, sighing and scratching my head. “Sorry. I guess I just need to try and…”

“Don’t say it,” she warns. “Don’t tell me you’re going to ‘do better.’ If I ever hear those words come out of your mouth again, I’m going to rip that diaper off of you and shove it so far down your throat that you’re going to shit it into another diaper that I make you wear.”

“That was excessively violent…”

“You understand my point, right? All you do is talk about doing better or changing yourself. And sometimes I think you actually fool yourself into thinking that you’re getting better. But you don’t. You never change. Hell, sometimes I feel like you’re worse than you were when we first moved in together.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“We’ve got a few months left in the lease,” she says, shrugging. “All we have to do is find a way not to murder each other until then.”

“I doubt I’d murder you,” I say. “But I’m not so sure about you murdering me.”

“It wouldn’t actually be that hard,” she says. “All you’d have to do is listen to me.”

“Hm?”

“Be honest with me, Dean. Do you like the diaper?”

I’m hesitant to answer this question. It feels like a trap. But I can’t find any reason to lie either.

“I don’t hate it.”

“What if we…rolled with this?”

“Rolled with what? Diapers? I…I’m not sure what you mean.”

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Let me treat you like a baby, Dean. Full-time.”

“Is this just…like, is this just for the internet? Social media?”

“You’ve seen the numbers, haven’t you? People like what they’ve seen. They want more. And I’d be happy to give it to them. For a price.”

“A, uhm, price?”

“If we’re being honest with each other, I’m tempted to just demand you stay in diapers until the lease is up. I find it hard to get as annoyed with you when you look like a big baby. But…I think we have something here. I keep you in diapers. Treat you like a baby. Sell videos of it online. We share the profits. And then, when the lease is up, we go our separate ways with a little extra padding in our bank accounts as well as in your pants.”

“I dunno…”

“Go back and look at how many views today’s video has, Dean. 50,000. My DMs have been blowing up all day. People are begging me for more. They’re willing to give me money for it.”

Money. Money is good. Money makes a lot of difficult things a lot easier to swallow.

“What do I have to do?” I ask.

“Whatever I tell you to do.”

I take a deep breath as I try to weigh my options one more time. I’m not convinced this is a good idea–in fact, it feels like a downright awful idea. But old habits die hard, and I’m still convinced that if I play along with this ridiculous idea of hers, I might just buy myself the time I need to show her that I’m actually a good boyfriend.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”

“Perfect,” Janelle says. “First things first–I’m going to need you to wet your diaper for me.”

“Wait, are you…serious?”

“Dean, this is what people are going to want to see.”

To my horror, she was pulling her phone out of her pocket and aiming the camera in my direction.

“What are you doing, Janelle?”

“We’re going to go live in a minute. And you’re going to wet your diaper for the first time for my followers.”

___

Later, as I lie in bed and watch the recording of the livestream on my phone, I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life. I don’t know the guy on the screen. I don’t recognize the sound of his voice. I don’t remember saying the things he says. I wonder if I’ve already blocked it from my memory, or if I had somehow disassociated during the moment.

“P-please don’t show my face,” I plead into the camera.

It’s currently aimed at my diaper, occasionally zooming out to give a little more context–it’s still me, in the same tee and diaper she left me in the last time I was on camera.

“Calm down,” she coos from off-screen. “I’m not going to show your face. Just your diaper.”

“Wh-why are you filming this?”

“Hey y’all,” her disembodied voice says, her chipper tone suggesting that she’s talking to the audience. “It’s your girl Janny, back with another video about my ex-boyfriend. And, as you can see, here he is. In the same diaper I put him in during the last video. If you haven’t seen it yet, you should go check it out because it’s a fucking hoot. And, don’t forget to like and subscribe, y’all. This channel is only getting started–and you’re not going to want to miss anything.”

The comments flicker past at the bottom of the screen. Occasionally a stray word or two catches the corner of my eye–things like “diaper,” “pathetic,” “loser,” “baby,” “poopy.” For now, I try to ignore the comments.

“Little Baby Dean here hasn’t gone potty since I spanked his bottom earlier and made him wear a diaper. Deany, don’t you have to potty?”

“Uhm…I do, but…”

She laughs. There’s a lot of laughing emojis in the comments too.

“But what?” she says. “Did you think that I was going to let you go and use the bathroom? Because, honey, you’re wearing your bathroom now.”

I’m a little confused. Am I supposed to be playing a role? Is she? Are we acting now? Or…am I just supposed to be me–the ex-boyfriend who somehow got himself changed into an adult diaper?

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.

“After the countless pairs of underwear you’ve ruined? I wouldn’t think you’d have a hard time with using a garment that you’re supposed to soil.”

I’m now aware of my stiff cock, pushing the front of my diaper–the fresh one that Janelle had put me into, on camera, after wetting myself–into a tent. I slide my hand into it.

I can’t help myself. I’m looking at the comments.

Comment from dickedindenver: “He whines like a little boy, and he’s going to soak his pampers like a little boy. Just you watch.”

Comment from holiday_goat_osu: “Don’t you just love her voice? I’m not even there, and I feel like she’s going to make me piss my pants too.”

Comment from NebulaSneeze: “Give him an enema. Make him load that diaper to the brim.”

I can’t wrap my head around it. These people don’t know me. They don’t know a thing about me or my life. And they’re like spectators in the arena, calling for the gladiator’s head because they demand entertainment.

“Our followers want to see you wet that pretty little diaper of yours, baby. You wouldn’t dare disappoint them, would you?”

“But…”

“I could take a poll,” Janelle says. “Maybe get some ideas for what sort of punishment we dish out to a little diapered baby who refuses to wet himself for Mommy.”

“No,” I hear myself say. I remember being quite sure that I didn’t want that. “I…I’ll do it.”

“Stand up,” she says. “Come over here so that we can get a better view of you in your diaper. We’re going to want to see how it changes as you soak yourself.”

The camera moves and struggles to focus on the moving bodies for a moment. When it finally lands in a fixed, and focused, position, it’s aimed squarely at my diapered crotch. It’s zoomed out just enough that you can see the skin of my thighs and my t-shirt above the diaper–giving some context to the white expanse that takes up most of the screen.

“Are you ready?” Janelle asks from off-screen. “We’re all waiting. So just let ‘er rip.”

I guess, in a way, I’m glad that this is recorded. Because I have no recollection of this moment. The person I’m watching? It doesn’t feel like it’s me. I mean, I know it’s me–I know that body and I know those awkward movements. But there’s just this surreal disconnect in watching myself while not quite recalling this moment.

I hadn’t been thinking about needing to pee–I can remember that much. That entire time, sitting in the den by myself, I hadn’t been thinking about actually needing to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t until Janelle had said something about how long it’d been since I used a toilet that I began to feel desperate pangs from my bladder.

Looking at this poor fool in the video now, I already know what his fate is. I already know that he’s actually going to flood his diapers. I know that the padding is going to swell and sag between his legs. The brilliant white of the clean diaper is going to be replaced by a splotchy yellow pattern. Part of me holds out hope that the video actually surprises me and something else entirely happens.

But, no. I can see the spot of wetness forming in the diaper. I watch it begin to spread.

Knowing how this ends, I turn to the comments instead, curious to see the reactions.

Comment from yogurt_launcher: “HE’S DOING IT!”

Comment from Idris-Elbow12: “Awwww, is the wittle baby pissing himself?”

Comment from CornChexApostle: “It’s cute now. But just wait until he’s pushing smelly messes into his diaper.”

Comment from gelatinriddler: “Where can I get a Mommy like this?”

Comment from donglordsgrandma: “I’m sending this video to ALL of my friends. They need to see this pathetic little piss-boy.”

I decide I need to turn the video off. Not because I’m that ashamed of myself–but because the comments are…exciting.

Somewhere out there, a complete stranger is sending this video to an unknown number of other strangers. Some of them are sharing my video with even more strangers. By morning, an unknown number of strangers–but no doubt more than I can even imagine–will have seen me flooding my diaper like an infant.

I slowly realize that I’ve been stroking my hard shaft for most of the video. It feels like I have this realization just in time for me to reach climax–a new wet and sticky addition is made to the padding.

___

One morning, I wake to an alert from Janelle’s social media account. It seems she has an announcement to make.

“Hey y’all, it’s your favorite Mommy, Janny. I know you’re all itching for some new content, and I’m definitely going to bring it to you. But from here on out, you’re going to need a subscription if you want to see the things I do with my pathetic ex-boyfriend next. And, trust me, you’re not going to miss a second of it. I promise–things are going to get messy.”

It’s a strange feeling to know that this business venture is now in motion, and that despite the fact that I’m at the center of it–I barely know any more about it than the visitors of her channel.

I take my concerns to the kitchen, where I find her happily singing to herself as she flips an egg over in her pan.

“Janelle, can we talk about your video?”

“You’re not going to whine and complain about it, are you?”

“Don’t I have a right to?” I ask. “It’s still my body. And last I checked, you need that for your little content-creation empire to function.”

She laughs, shaking her head as she gently plates the fried egg next to some toast on her plate. “Don’t tell me you’re actually growing a backbone now.”

“I just… I wish you had talked to me first. Let me be a part of this.”

“Later today, I’m planning on pointing a camera at you and making you poop your pants. You’re going to do it, right?”

“A-are you serious, Janelle? I can’t just…shit on demand. For an audience, no less.”

“They make products for that,” she says, sitting down at the table. “Your inability to perform on command wouldn’t be an issue–these products would do it for you.”

“What are you going to do? Give me an enema?”

“Yes,” she says, nonchalantly nodding like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

“Don’t you think you need my consent for something like that?”

“You’re going to do it,” she says. “And you’re going to love it. I’m not too concerned.”

___

She was absolutely right, and I hate her for that.

My plan was to just leave the house. I’d pack a bag with a few things, get in the car, and I’d go somewhere to lie low for a few days. Maybe my mother’s house. Maybe a hotel a town or two away. Just anywhere that didn’t have diapers in it.

But then I looked at the number of paying subscribers that Janelle already had. I don’t think the potential money to be made, by itself, was enough to get me to stay–but it was a surprisingly sound argument for it.

Comments were still being added to her profile. Every time I refreshed, another block of them would appear–all from strangers around the world who were absolutely ravenous to see more of her content.

Reads one comment: “Do you think she’s going to do it? Do you actually think she can make her dumb baby ex poop his pants like a baby?”

A reply quickly appears beneath it: “She already got him to soak his pampers. I think it's safe to say that she can make him do anything she wants to.”

“I want to be there when it happens,” says another comment. “I want to smell his stinky bottom when he does it. I just want to be him so badly.”

“I’m going to blow a load right in my pants if he actually shits himself on camera.”

If it was just about the money, I don’t think I’d want to do it. But as I read these comments, and I feel my cock grow hard at the idea of these strangers getting off on my humiliation, I sense a bit of…obligation. These strangers need my humiliation as much as I need to feel the humiliation myself.

As strange as it sounds, I don’t want to let them down. I’ve never had fans before and…I kind of like it. No matter how surreal the reason for me having them in the first place.

Money. Popularity. The ability to act like a freak with minimal chances–I hope–of repercussions, so long as my face and identity are hidden. The chance to explore blossoming sexual urges. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m actually kind of comfortable with this arrangement.

I know who the audience wants to see–it’s the same version of myself that Janelle wants to see. They want to see the sniveling and pathetic baby-boy. The apprehensive little twit who stained his underwear so badly that he was being forced into diapers against his will. That was fine. I could still give them that–and I doubted it would take that much acting to pull off.

But the truth? I feel like I’m already the person they want to watch me become.

___

I wipe the smirk off my face just before I walk into the den. I don’t want her to know that there’s a part of me that’s excited. This works better when she thinks she’s winning.

The den is to be our makeshift studio, it seems. She has a camera mounted on a table, and her laptop open next to it. She has some extra lights set up in the back of the room, too–which seems excessive to me, but I assume she knows what she’s doing.

“Well, well, well,” she says, looking up from the screen on her phone. “Are you ready to have some fun?”

“Hey, uhm, Janelle? I was wondering if…we could maybe skip the whole messing part?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t be such a baby, Dean. This is what the people want to see.”

So far, so good.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that I’m actually elated about the prospect of having to poop in a pair of diapers while on camera. It still sounds strange and uncomfortable to me. But the payoff–the humiliation that I know I’ll feel after–feels like a reward that’s simply too big to ignore.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” she says. “There’s two options. With the first, I put you down on your back, take off your pants, give you an enema, and then put you in a diaper. And then–you know–ka-boom.”

My cheeks warm and as I sense that my entire face is turning a bright red. “And, uhm, what’s the other option?”

“The one I’m leaning towards. I give you an enema first–before we turn the camera on. Then, while on camera, I put you into a new diaper. We don’t mention the enema, of course. We play it off as you’re just absolutely desperate to use the toilet, and I demand that you use a diaper instead. I get you into the diaper and…”

“Ka-boom,” I say. “I get it.”

“Well? What do you think?”

“You don’t think people will know that it’s all an act?” I ask. “At some point they’re going to stop buying that I’m that pathetic.”

“First of all,” she says, arms crossed now, “the people who are tuning in to watch this? They already want to believe this is authentic. And second? You truly are that pathetic. Given enough time, I’m sure I could get you to push a big log right into a diaper without the use of an enema. I’m just saving us both some time.”

My only response is a sigh.

“Right,” she says, shrugging. She seems to buy that I’m begrudgingly going along with this plan. “Shall we get started?”

“Now?”

“I’ve already told my followers…”

“Our followers.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve already told our followers that we’ll be going live soon. So? Pants down.”

“Maybe I could just give myself the enema?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she spits. “You can’t be trusted to keep your underwear clean. You think I’m going to trust you to give yourself an enema?”

Humiliation is supposed to sting like this, I tell myself. But damn. She sure knows how to twist the knife.

“Do you know how to give someone an enema?” I ask. “Like, is that something you’ve done before?”

She laughs at this. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. All you have to do is hold it. Until you can’t.”

It occurs to me that I have no idea what an enema feels like.

“Come here,” she orders. “Pants down and bend over the side of the sofa here.”

I feel as if I’m on death row as I shamble towards the sofa, getting closer and closer to the place where I’m to meet my fate. She holds the object that I assume to be the enema in her hand. I’m not entirely sure, as I’ve never seen one before, but the shape of it makes sense. A small clear bottle of liquid with a long narrow applicator protruding from the top of it. It seems simple enough–stick the narrow end into someone’s bottom, squeeze the contents of the bottle into said bottom, and…ka-boom.

“This is safe?” I ask.

“They sell them over the counter at the drugstore,” she says with a shrug. “How bad can it be?”

I’m tempted to point out that I can also walk into any store and buy bleach–or any other dangerous chemical that could easily kill me with misuse–but it doesn’t seem to be a point worth arguing. She wins. She can pump my butt full of…whatever comes inside of an enema.

I pull down my pants and underwear, letting them fall to the floor. I do this without being asked. I suppose I could just wait until she tells me what to do, but I know this instruction is coming. I want to be on my best behavior, I’ve decided, and am trying to anticipate what she’ll ask of me. Yes, it’s yet another attempt at just ‘doing better,’ but also there’s already so much of my dignity at stake with the prospect of filming my little diaper-messing adventure–I don’t want to make it any worse for myself by pissing her off.

She helps position me, spreading my legs apart a little as she bends me forward over the side of the sofa. My bare ass sticks up in the air, and she gently tickles my skin with her fingertips. It makes me realize how much I miss the days when we were happy together, and we could touch each other without being for money or internet popularity.

“At some point, you should just start wearing diapers all the time,” she says.

“Why? I thought we didn’t need them unless you wanted to, uhm, film me.”

“Right, sure. But think about it–if you’re wearing diapers all the time, then I could point a camera at you at any time and just capture little Baby Dean as he goes about his day.”

“I’m not sure I like that idea.”

“We’ll come back to that discussion later,” she says. What I think she means is: I’m going to put my foot down about this later, regardless of how you feel about it. I just don’t feel like having that discussion right now.

“Do you need, like, lube?” I ask.

She laughs. “Those geniuses at the enema factory thought of everything, don’t you know? Pre-lubricated tips.”

“Oh goody.” I sound even more sarcastic than I intend.

“Bottoms up,” she says. “Here goes nothing.”

“W-wait,” I say, just as I feel the tip of the plastic nozzle touching my skin. I have only the vaguest notion of what I want to say, but…there’s something brewing in my head. Some idea that feels like it’s been steeping far longer than I’ve realized.

“Yes?” she asks, holding off from pushing the enema nozzle any further.

“I…I don’t need the enema.”

“You’re going to be pooping yourself on camera in a little bit, Dean. Don’t try and squirm your way out of this.”

“No,” I say. “I mean…I’m going to poop. I…I promise I will. I just don’t need the enema to make it happen. Can you help me put this diaper on?”

___

“Wow, I can see a lot of people are already here,” Janelle says into the camera. “Did all you perverts show up because I promised that the big baby was going to do something…messy?”

Number of people watching: 1,013

Number of likes on the video so far: 897

Comment from takeitlikeasissy: “Mommy Janny, we’re not worthy!”

Comment from pineapple_shoes: “I can’t wait to see that little shitstain of an ex-boyfriend make a boom-boom in his diapie like a toddler.”

Out of view of the camera’s lens are the knowing smirks on our faces. For the first time, in what seems like a very long time, we seem to be on the same page.

I had a little epiphany, though I couldn’t say when it happened. It might have been as I was waddling to the sofa for my enema, or it could’ve been days ago. It was the sudden realization that the times spent wearing–and using–a diaper had been some of the best and most exciting moments of recent memory. And for as much as I had been fighting it and complaining about Janelle’s insistence on exploiting my humiliation, I was also learning that I craved said humiliation.

It was feeling the ache of my bowels as I leaned over the side of the sofa that finally did it. It was like an awakening of some sort–albeit a weird kinky awakening. I want to mess my diaper, and I want to do it on my terms. I don’t need enemas to be made to do it…I’m perfectly capable of pooping my pants on my own.

Maybe I am this pathetic little diaper-wearing baby. And maybe embracing this really is how I do better.

And so I’m kind of excited. Nervous too, but not enough to stop any of this. Janelle seems to feel that energy too. When was the last time she smiled at me like this?

“The big baby has been holding it in for a while now,” she says to the virtual audience. “I wish you could see his face. He looks like he has to cry from needing to go so badly.”

I bite my tongue and cover my mouth with my hand, terrified that I’m going to burst into laughter.

“Aww,” she coos. “Poor baby. Does your tummy hurt? Do you think you have to make your poo-poos? Well, don’t you worry. You’re wearing a nice clean diaper, so there’s lots of room for your business.”

This wipes the smile from my face. We’re certainly leaning much further towards the humiliating than we are the exciting now. Now I’m having doubts. Now I’m not so sure if I can do this. Now I’m worried that if I actually go through with this, I’m opening a one-way door that I can’t return from.

“Anything you want to say to your loving audience, Baby?”

I shake my head.

“Poor fella is so focused on trying to hold his bottom closed that he just can’t spare a single word,” she says.

Number of people watching: 3,281

Number of likes on the video so far: 2,610

Comment from a_side_of_mustard: “You should tickle him until he loses control.”

Comment from cornshark294: “Mommy Janny, I hope you’re ready for how stinky your baby is about to be.”

Comment from buck-lugger: “Let the baby sit in his own filth for a while and let me show you how a real man treats a lady.”

Comment from PurpleSock_Cat: “Say goodbye to the last of your dignity, baby!”

I’d argue that my dignity was already depleted before today, but if there was any left to sweep up, I’m sure I’ll be pooping it out soon enough.

Janelle’s still smiling at me. I study her face, hoping I can glean some information about what the future looks like.

In the short term, I wonder what happens next? I poop myself–I fill the diaper. What then? Does she just mock me? Does she change my dirty diaper on camera? Is that really what these strangers want to see?

I wonder about the long term too. I wonder if there’s room in her life for taking care of a big baby like me. If I just said ‘fuck it’ and committed myself to being an overgrown toddler, would she like that? Would she take care of me, even when the camera wasn’t on?

I can’t ask her right now, and no amount of studying her face gives me the answers either.

Number of people watching: 4,187

Comment from longjohnChillver: “Go on, Baby. Make your poopies.”

Comment from kentavius: “Hurry up. We’re waiting.”

Messing my diaper feels like a foregone conclusion at this point, and no part of me is still debating on whether or not that’s happening. I’m just wondering about the future now. Is this ‘better?’

Janelle nods. As far as I know, she isn’t psychic–she doesn’t know the questions I’m asking myself. But the timing is so perfect that I choose to take it as a sign.

“Why don’t you turn around and show everyone the back of your diaper,” she says. “They’re going to want to see how it changes.”

I do as she asks without even really thinking about it. I feel a little disassociated again. I’m there, somewhere, and yet it doesn’t feel like this is happening to me. I’m in the audience too, waiting to see what happens next.

My legs shift apart and I squat. I begin to push on my bowels, though I already know I don’t have to push too hard. It all feels automatic.

“Maybe it’s time to let go,” Janelle says.

___

I try not to look at my diaper on my phone’s screen, instead keeping my eyes fixed on the comments.

Comment from icicleSoup: “OH! I THINK IT’S HAPPENING!”

Comment from DapperLilDuckie: “Was that a fart?”

Comment from fragile-angel69: “Look at the padding! It’s filling up! He’s doing it! He’s literally shitting his diaper right now!”

Comment from looneyprunes: “I’ve never been so excited to see a grown man shit himself before! This is easily the most pathetic man in the world.”

Comment from chequemate: “It’s so much louder than I was expecting! It must smell SO BAD!”

Comment from umbrellachic1994: [Just a long string of poop emojis.]

Comment from HuggyChuggy: “Everytime I think he’s done, he seems to push even more into this diaper. That thing looks absolutely LOADED right now. Is there even room for more?”

Comment from SwissArmyMammal: “Now make him sit in it.”

Comment from sparkle_dumpling: “Make him crawl around in it.”

Comment from chesapeake_cherrie: “Make him beg you to change his dirty diaper. But he has to use baby talk.”

Comment from Joel48272: “Jerking it right now. God I wish I was him so badly. Mommy Janny, please please please answer my DMs.”

Comment from spanked_silly78: “Holy shit, look at how much the bag of his diaper is drooping now.”

Comment from…

My cock starts spurting into the diaper that Janelle had changed me into earlier. I didn’t even realize I had been stroking the front of my padding until now.

I sigh and set my phone down on my bedside table. It’s my first time lying in bed in a diaper–my first time staying in a diaper for a prolonged amount of time after Janelle makes one of her videos. I’m still not sure how I feel about it. It’s a little concerning that it feels so…normal? Like, this is just the way that it should be?

This is usually the part where I get up and go take a piss in the toilet, but I think I’ll probably use the diaper instead. And then, in the morning, I might just try and see if Janelle is interested in changing me into a clean diaper. She might record it, but… Well, that seems okay. It’s good content, afterall.

I can’t help but think that when she sees my diaper–soaked before she even asked me to soak it–that she’s going to be happy with me. Happier with me than she’s been in a long time.

She might even finally admit that we’re doing better.