Parties Like This [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

“Look, I’m drinking a cocktail out of a skull!”

“I don’t think that’s a real skull, love.”

“It looks so fricking real though,” she says. “Just let me pretend?”

You don’t go to Tracyanne and Josh’s house because you want to play charades and drink a $12 bottle of White Chardonnay someone bought from a grocery store. Those parties are fine–we’ve been to plenty of those parties. You go to Tracyanne and Josh’s parties because you want to feel a little cooler for a night. A little weirder.

Some folks, when they come into a little bit of wealth, buy big dumb things like fancy cars and boats. Tracyanne bought a giant statue of a dragon for their backyard. Josh bought a fancy sword that’s a 1:1 replica of the one used by some guy in Game of Thrones. Or, it actually is the sword? Honestly, I should’ve paid a little more attention–I think I was distracted by the framed The Cure concert poster, autographed by Robert Smith himself, at that moment.

“Do you want a skull of drink?” Bernie asks.

“What sort of drink is in it?”

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I didn’t ask either. It tastes sweet though.”

“I think I’ll see if I can just find a regular can of beer,” I say, splitting away for a moment.

I wouldn’t consider myself all that ‘weird.’ Sure I like a good movie about brain-hungry zombies or dragon-slaying knights too, but most days I feel pretty embedded in the real world. Everyday I go to work, and every night I come and Bernie and I pick up where we left off in whatever TV series we’ve been streaming.

Maybe that’s why I like Tracyanne and Josh’s parties so much. It’s like…weirdo tourism–a little trip into alternate lifestyles that I can observe for a little while before going back to my pleasant mundaneness.

These parties bring out a fair number of folks like us–acquaintances and co-workers, past and present–who sit on the outer edges of the social circle and get to dip their toes into a stranger world once or twice a year. But everybody else is one of them–worshippers of the weird. The types who revel in being called an ‘outcast.’

There’s a lot of tattoos here, and a lot of clothing featuring strategic holes so that said tattoos can be shown off. There’s leather. Mesh clothing. Sometimes both–there’s a man to my left in the tinies black leather shorts I’ve ever seen, with a mesh top featuring such large holes that I wonder why he bothered to put a top on at all.

“Tell me when to stop,” I hear him say. His forearm and fist are pointed up in the air, and the forefinger on his other hand is slowly sliding down his wrist. The lower his finger gets, the louder the ‘Oohs’ get from the crowd around them. When the other person, a rather petite young woman with a pixie cut, finally nods, his finger is near the elbow. The crowd explodes in laughter.

I don’t totally understand, but I think I get it enough that I chuckle along and walk past.

“You look lost,” a familiar voice says from my left. It’s Tracyanne herself.

“Beer?” I ask. “Like, just a can of beer.”

“Oh. Uhm… I think there’s some outside in a cooler. But we have mead too, if you want that.”

“Later, maybe. I think a beer sounds good right now.”

“Well, good luck with that,” she says. “I think…”

But I don’t hear exactly what she says. At the same moment she says it, the guy with the leather shorts says something else while pointing to his fist and there’s another burst of laughter.

I hear her words…but I’m pretty sure I’ve misheard her. Because it sounds like she said “Riley is on the potty,” but that doesn’t make any sense at all. I pretend I heard her, nod like it made sense, and head on my way.

I suppose I don’t really have any regrets about the way I live my life. On most days I’d say I’m happy. Content, at least. But walking around the party, and seeing the way people are dressed and acting–it makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Could I be happier by letting my freak flag fly a little higher? Or maybe, I could start by just buying a freak flag in the first place.

I don’t live under the delusion that these people are like this all the time. There’s a young woman over by the fridge who’s letting another woman drink a shot that’s being poured between her breasts–I’m pretty sure that girl is one of the baristas at the place I get coffee at in the morning. This seems very out of character for the polite girl who makes my coffee–but then again, I don’t actually know a thing about her character.

Out on the back patio, I spot the cooler, though it requires me to walk past a group of people huddled in a semicircle, all excitedly cheering about something. I wonder if this is the thing that Tracyanne had tried to tell me about. ‘Riley is on the potty.’ I laugh to myself, wondering what could actually be happening.

But as I peer through the gaps between the bodies, I do see that there’s a woman sitting on something. And I see the flesh of her legs. And I see something around her ankles–something that I’m tempted to say are panties, but they don’t look quite…right. Too thick?

I find a space between some other gawkers closer to the cooler. It’s here that I take a beat and try to get a better look at what is going on for myself.

Well, I’ll be damned. It’s someone–Riley, assumedly–sitting on a small toddler’s potty chair. Her adult ass just barely fits on the small plastic throne. I follow her thighs to her knees, which look almost level with her chest, before following her legs back down to the strange garment around her ankles.

That’s a diaper.

I simultaneously ‘get it’ and don’t ‘get it.’ This is some sort of sex thing, I’m sure–the woman who dresses like, and acts like, a baby. I admire her boldness. Despite her bright pink cheeks, she looks to be enjoying herself. She likes the attention. And the people seem to like what she’s doing too.

“Alright,” I think that’s enough, says a dark-haired woman who helps the strawberry-blonde on the potty chair back up to her feet. “Just tinkles for now, it seems. Maybe later she’ll make her pushies on the chair. Or…if she doesn’t make it, will someone please come and fetch me?”

This is met with a number of affirmative answers, head nods, and laughs. The dark-haired woman strokes the diapered-girl’s bottom with a cloth–presumably to clean her up, before hoisting the diaper up and back into place. With a firm pat to the woman’s padded bottom, she’s sent on her way and the crowd disperses.

“What’s up with that?” I ask a guy. I don’t know him, but I’m pretty sure we’ve talked to each other at parties before. Tony, maybe?

“You’ve never seen Mary and Riley before?”

“Apparently not.”

“Mary’s like a, uh, mommy? And Riley is the…”

“Baby?”

He nods. “Pretty much.”

I don’t really mean to, but I speak my thoughts aloud: “Kinda weird, huh?”

To my surprise, maybe-Tony just shrugs. “They seem happy.”

They do–he’s right about that. I think about that as I grab a beer from the cooler and open it on my way back to Bernie.

I wish that Bernie could’ve seen that. For one, I don’t know that she’ll believe me when I tell her what I saw. Also–this is the sort of stuff that we come to Tracyanne and Josh’s parties for–the stuff we can analyze and giggle about later on the drive home.

I find Bernie waiting for me right where I left her. In a crowd of leather, spikes, and mesh, she sticks out in her silver R2-D2 tee. But that’s why I love her. She smiles when she sees me, lifting her skull-cup to her mouth with glee.

“Did you find beer?” she asks.

“Mission successful.”

“I bet it would taste better in a skull.”

“Really into this whole drinking-from-a-skull thing, huh? Should we order some online?”

“I think it’d kick our drinking-game up a notch or two.”

“Consider it done, then,” I say. “But I also found something else.”

She laughs, and does her patented curious head-tilt. Her expression says: “What crazy person are we going to laugh at now?”

“I saw this girl–an adult girl–out on the deck. And she’s in a, uh, diaper?”

“Diaper?” she asks, her tone suggesting that she thinks she might have misheard me.

“Diaper,” I say again, nodding.

“Like…a baby diaper?”

“No. Well…yes. Like a baby diaper. But big.”

“Maybe she has, like, issues,” says Bernie with a shrug.

Oh, you sweet summer child. I do love how her first reaction–in spite of seeing the ‘alternative lifestyles’ on display around us–is to assume this is something much more innocent.

“I don’t think it’s like that,” I say. “I think this is, like, a…thing?”

This is where the long time that we’ve been together comes in handy–she knows exactly what I mean when I say it’s a ‘thing.’

“Oh,” she says, eyes wide. “That’s interesting.”

“They had her sitting on the toilet outside.”

“There’s a toilet outside?”

I laugh and shake my head, realizing that as crazy as she thought that might have sounded–it’s probably weirder than that.

“No, like a potty chair? One of those little plastic things that toddlers use?”

Bernie laughs and shakes her head. “Really?”

I shrug. “I don’t know why I’d make something like that up.”

“Did she…use it?”

“I think so,” I say. “I think someone said she peed in it.”

“Good for her,” Bernie says. She sounds kind of sarcastic, but kind of sincere too. “So she’s walking around now in a diaper?”

“I think so.”

“Is it bad that I want to see that?”

God, I love her. “I was thinking the same thing. Shall we look around?”

We slowly make our way through the party together. Occasionally, one of us will tow the other by the hand through especially thick clusters of chatty party-goers.

“So what are we looking for?” she asks. “I assume she’s wearing clothes over the diaper, right? So am I just looking for a, uh, big ass?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing pants,” I say. The last time I saw baby-girl, she was just waddling around, sans-pants. “So I’d say that if you see anyone wearing a diaper, that’s probably her.”

“Oh.” Bernie laughs while pointing towards another woman near the entrance to the kitchen. It’s not a woman in a diaper–just a woman with a rather large ass that’s barely contained within her jeans.

“That’s not her,” I say. “Though I don’t blame you for thinking that she was wearing a diaper.”

Soon, we’ve covered most of the ground in the party, to no avail. There’s other areas of the house we haven’t explored–but these seem like unpopulated zones that might be off-limits to the party.

“So much for that,” I say.

“What if we…just went upstairs,” Bernie says with a shrug.

“Are we allowed to do that?”

“We’re just taking a look,” she says. “Either there’s a girl in a diaper up there–I see her and then we come back downstairs. Or, there’s no girl in a diaper up there and we have to come back down anyway.”

“You want to see her that bad?”

She shrugs again. “Well, you’ve got me all sorts of curious now. I feel like I have to see her.”

While I’m still not completely sure that I want to go tromping around sections of Tracyanne and Josh’s house without being told I can, it seems like Bernie’s mind is already made up. She simply heads down a hallway that branches off from the kitchen and I see her vanish up some steps.

I quickly catch up with her, though she doesn’t pause or slow down for me. We’re doing this, it seems. We’re going upstairs.

Neither of us have ever been up here before, and so once we’ve reached the top of the stairs, it’s not immediately obvious where we go from here. In front of us is another hallway with a number of branching doorways. Further ahead–at the other end of the hall, it looks like it opens up into another lounge or seating area.

“Let’s check that out,” I say, stepping ahead of her as I point ahead. She follows me.

It does appear to be a little sitting room, with some couches and chairs set up and an expansive bookshelf taking over the back wall. It’s tempting to take a second to admire the collection of colorful book spines here, but we quickly realize we’re not alone.

There, in the corner, is the young woman I saw out on the deck–Riley. She’s still wearing just a diaper and a pastel pink t-shirt. But she’s…squatting? Or, at least she was–before we entered the room. She quickly springs up, her face blushing as pink as her shirt when she spots us.

“Oh…uhm, sorry,” I say. “We didn’t know anybody else was up here and… Well, we didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“I-it’s okay,” Riley stammers, straightening herself out. Her cheeks are practically crimson now. “I was just…uh…”

I feel like we just saw something that we weren’t supposed to have–though that doesn’t mean I know what that something was.

But Bernie seems to know, and she just spits it out: “Were you just…pooping your pants?”

I’m shocked. Shocked that it’s a question she’d even ask a stranger, and shocked that it may very be the reason that Riley is up here.

Riley tries to answer the question: “W-well…” But she gives up pretty quickly, the intensifying color of her cheeks seems to be the real answer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly feeling very underqualified for dealing with the situation we’ve thrust ourselves into the middle of. “Uhm, Bernie, maybe we should head back to the party?”

But I’m surprised, again, when I see Bernie’s face. She looks…sympathetic.

“What can we do to help?” she asks.

Even Riley seems surprised by this question. “H-help? But…”

“Bernie,” I say. “She probably doesn’t need our help.”

But Riley shrugs. “Well, uhm…maybe? If you’re offering.”

I have been telling myself that Riley hadn’t actually pooped herself–this is just some sort of misunderstanding. Yet, the stench is finally hitting my nose–the strong and unmistakable odor that could only be shit.

I’m speaking aloud before I can reign in my emotions: “You…actually pooped your pants? Your…diaper?”

Riley shrugs again. “It was an accident.”

“We should help her,” Bernie says to me.

“Do you know how to help a grown woman who has pooped her pants?”

“You’re the one who said we should find her,” she retorts.

Now I’m the one blushing, feeling like I owe an explanation to Riley. “S-sorry. I saw you out on the deck earlier with the, uh, potty chair? And I was trying to tell my wife about you and…”

“My name is Bernadette, though everyone just calls me Bernie,” she says, a warm smile on her face. “That’s my husband Brian. We don’t normally do…this sort of thing?”

“And I’m not sure what sort of thing you think you’re doing right now,” I say to Bernie. “Do you even know how to change a diaper?”

“I think I could do it?” It wasn’t as reassuring when her response was phrased as a question.

“What are you supposed to do when you have an, er, accident?” I ask Riley.

“W-well…I wasn’t supposed to have an accident tonight,” she says. “That’s why Mary brought the potty chair.”

“Should we go and get Mary?” I ask.

“No!” exclaims Riley, shaking her head. “She’d make a big deal about it. She’d…probably show everyone at the party what I did.”

I’m slightly confused. Between the potty chair demonstration on the deck, and the fact that she’s been waddling around the party in a diaper ever since, it seems strange to me that she’d have a problem with people seeing she pooped her pants. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume she wanted people to know she did that.

“I can help you,” Bernie says. “Before anyone else finds out about it.”

“Really?” asks Riley. “Y-you’d do that for me?”

I point to Riley as I try to talk sense into Bernie again. “I actually have the same question as her. You want to change a poopy diaper?”

Bernie seems to ignore me as she continues to talk directly to Riley. “What do you need to get cleaned up? A shower? Some towels?”

“Well…my diaper bag is in one of the spare bedrooms, I think. I’m not very good at doing it by myself. But if you’re honestly offering…”

“I am,” Bernie says. She turns to me: “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

“I already know that I’m not qualified to take care of this,” I say. “Nor do I really want to.”

“Suit yourself,” Bernie says.

I see something in Bernie that I feel like I haven’t seen in a while. It’s more than just compassion–there’s something else, too, and I can’t put my finger on it.

I’m tempted to stop Bernie, or at least pull her away. I feel like this isn’t our situation to meddle in. Whatever it is that these people are into–we’re not one of them, and we’re very far out of our element. But I keep my hands to myself and decide to let Bernie do whatever it is she wants to do. If she really wants to help this girl who just pooped herself…well, she can have at it.

“In that room over there,” Riley says, pointing down the hall.

“Okay, let’s go,” Bernie says to her. She turns back to look at me one more time–a sort of ‘are you coming with us or not?’ sort of look.

“You go,” I say. “I really feel like someone should find Mary.”

“Oh…okay,” Riley says. Despite the disappointment in her tone, she quickly follows up with: “That’s probably a good idea.”

And so we split. I head back down the stairs, the air getting a little fresher with every step. Of course, perhaps ‘fresher’ is the wrong word–I’m just replacing the noxious odors of a messy diaper with the smells of the party–weed, alcohol, sweat, and a symphony of colognes, perfumes, and body sprays.

“Ah, there you are,” says Tracyanne. “Did you find the beer?”

“I…did, actually.”

“And did you see the baby?”

There’s no mishearing her this time. I laugh as I nod, tempted to tell her that I’ve seen far more than I expected to.

“Hey,” I say to her. “Have you seen, uh, Mary around?”

Tracyanne snorts. “What? You want to see if she’ll put you in a diaper too? Get in line.”

Her assumption pulls all the color into my cheeks–I had never even considered how I would feel if I were wearing a diaper. I quickly shake my head clear of the thought–that’s definitely something to ponder much later.

“No, no. I just wanted to, uh, talk to her for a minute.”

“Well, I think, she’s over in the other room there,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. “But good luck. She tends to attract quite a crowd.”

Tracyanne’s warning has gone in one ear and out the other as I walk away from her. It’s not that I didn’t believe her–I just saw my need for Mary superseding the needs of her horny entourage. And, sure enough, when I spot her in the next room, she’s charming a group of wide-eyed gawkers with tales of sexual adventure.

“...and there was Riley, hands down the front of her diaper with a string of drool extending from the corner of her mouth alllllll the way down to the floor.” This summons a round of laughter from her audience.

I try to get her attention by waving to her. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, but there’s no real acknowledgment beyond a slight smirk. Does she think I’m just trying to hit on her? I try to push forward to get a little closer.

“A-are you ever interested in taking on another baby?” a guy in a faded Mudhoney tee asks.

“One seems like plenty to me,” Mary says with a shrug. “But I like to think that if the right guy came along, maybe I’d be open to it.”

“Guy?” pouts a young woman with light-blue hair.

“Well I’ve already got the cutest little baby girl. If I was to do it again, I think I’d want to shove some pathetic little boy’s cock into a big thick diaper.”

I’m only half paying attention as I wave to her again.

“Look at this eager little boy,” she says to the group, nodding in my direction. “Yes, honey? Do you want me to wrap you up nice and tight in a diaper?”

“Oh, uhm…” I didn’t even think I was giving off the impression that I was interested in that. “Actually…”

“Come here,” she says to me, her curling finger beckoning me forward.

I do as she asks. I tell myself it’s because this is the opportunity I need to tell her about Riley, but the closer I get, the more I feel like I’m under her spell. That playful smile. Her eyes, laser-focused on mine. I almost forget why I wanted to talk to her by the time I’m at her side.

“He looks like he’d make a good baby, don’t you think?” she asks everyone else.

The consensus is clearly in favor of this suggestion, though there are a few disappointed groans from other wannabe-babies.

I try, again, to tell her why I’m here: “I actually wanted to talk to you about…”

“All about how you’re such a little helpless baby boy?” she coos at me, cutting me off. “Believe me, I can tell.”

“N-no…I’m a, uhm, baby, I just…”

“Babies, am I right?” she says to everyone else. “Always in denial of who they really are or the help they need.”

My cheeks burn as I see everyone looking at me, their heads nodding at the idea that I would, somehow, make a good baby. I try to set the record straight, trying to spit out the important information as fast as possible, so as to not give her a chance to cut me off again. But in my haste, all I actually manage to say is: “Diaper change!”

Everyone, including Mary, laughs at this.

“Aww, do you hear that? He already knows exactly what he’s going to need.”

I want to try again, but I’m…distracted. Unexpectedly, I feel myself getting a little caught up in the moment. I see these other people who so desperately seek Mary’s approval or acknowledgment, and yet she’s giving it to me.

I imagine myself sitting on the little plastic potty chair. I imagine myself with a thick diaper drooping between my legs. Would that be so bad?

“Come along, baby,” Mary says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s see if I have some diapers in my bag upstairs that would fit you.”

We start walking together, and it's not until we’re on the first step that I remember why I wanted to talk to her in the first place.

“That’s why I came to find you,” I say. “It’s about Riley.”

“Oh? And what sort of mischief did she get herself into now?”

“She, uh…” But when all I had to say was ‘she needs her diaper changed,’ the words just felt way too ridiculous to say. “She just…needs you.”

Mary nods and continues up the steps, with me following behind.

“It was good of you to come get me,” she says, adding: “You’re a good boy.”

My cheeks are warm again, and I can’t help but feel a little buzz from her words. Never in my adult life have I cared about being called a ‘good boy,’ and now I feel like I’d do anything she wants if it meant she’d say it to me again.

“Where is she now?” she asks.

“In whatever room you left the diaper bag in, I guess. My wife is with her.”

“Your wife? And what is she doing?”

“Changing Riley, I think. Or, at least, attempting to.”

Mary chuckles. “Does she know what she’s doing?”

“Maybe? Honestly, it was news to me that she’d want to change another adult’s dirty diaper.”

“How dirty?” she asks.

But she doesn’t need me to answer that. As soon as we’re at the top of the steps, the lingering cloud of Riley’s stinky bottom wafts into our faces.

I follow Mary over to the closed door of what I assume to be the guest bedroom that Bernie and Riley are in. I can only imagine the sort of catastrophe that awaits us when the door opens. In my mind, we’ll find Bernie on her knees sobbing, realizing she’s completely in over her head.

But no. Instead, we see that Riley is lying on her back on half of the king-sized bed, her dirty diaper rolled up and cast aside as Bernie slides a damp wipe over her hairless vulva. They both look alarmingly content.

“Oh,” Mary says. “Oh wow. It almost looks like everything is already under control here.”

“I told you I knew what I was doing,” Bernie says. “Do you think I’d have forgotten the skills I picked up in my ten years of babysitting as a teenager?”

“Forgive me for not realizing sooner that you were a master diaper-changer,” I say.

“Well then, it’s almost like you didn’t need me at all,” Mary says. “Though…I’m a little disappointed I didn’t see Riley before her bottom got cleaned up. I think everyone downstairs would’ve loved to have seen her in a state like that.”

“Told you,” Riley says from the bed.

“Well, you can’t have your baby running around in dirty diapers for too long,” Bernie says. “That’s how rashes happen.”

“Spoken like a true Mommy,” Mary says, nodding. She turns to me again. “You said she’s your wife?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Mary’s grin continues to stretch across her face. “That seems rather convenient, doesn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Well, you’d be such a good little baby. And she’d make such a good mommy.”

Bernie laughed a little. “Yeah right. It’s cute, but I’m not sure that this is our scene.”

“Are you sure about that?” asks Mary. “You did just change a rather stinky diaper on a very big baby that you don’t even know.”

I see that look again on Bernie’s face, and I realize what it is. It’s…excitement. I suspect that I knew what it was before too, but to admit it would be admitting that there’s a problem in our lives–namely, the lack of excitement. Because, well, it’s probably true. We’re creatures of comfort. We work during the day, and watch TV at night. We don’t get out a whole lot, unless friends, or friends of friends, invite us to a little shindig like this.

And our sex life? It doesn’t really exist anymore. A few times a year–when the planets align and, maybe, it’s someone’s birthday–we’ll roll around in bed for a bit. But otherwise…not much is going on. We never talk about it. We never fight about it. It’s just the way things are.

But now, suddenly, as Bernie and I look into each other’s eyes, we both realize the same thing at the same time: we’ve been in a rut, and we need to get out.

“If my services aren’t needed to change a stinky baby,” Mary says, “maybe they could be used to put another baby into his diaper?”

I decide to let Bernie answer for me. I’m okay with whatever she wants.

“I think you should,” she says to Mary. “He needs a diaper.”

Exactly what I hoped she’d say.

“You heard her, baby,” Mary coos to me. “Down on the bed, on your back. Right next to Riley.”

Her request–no, demand–hits me like a punch to the gut. Whether I like the idea or not isn’t important–I’m being demoted to baby. In a moment, I’ll be no different than Riley.

I do what she says of course, carefully easing myself onto the bed next to Riley. Her head slowly turns to face mine, a big goofy smile on her face. “This is so exciting!”

Easy for her to say. I suppose I’m excited too, but I’m mostly just nervous. I’ve seen the way people look at Riley, and the way they laugh at her. She has a thick skin–or maybe just a thick diaper–for letting it roll off her back the way she does, but I’m not as sure that I can do the same. Then again, I think of the way that people were clamoring for Mary to make them the next baby in her care. Sure, they might be laughing at me. But they’d also be jealous that they weren’t me.

“Do you even have a diaper that will fit me?” I ask.

Bernie laughs, and without missing a beat, holds up a new diaper she must’ve pulled from Riley’s bag. I watch as she unfurls it, revealing just how large it is.

“I would say this is a little too big for Riley,” she says. “But it should fit you perfectly.”

“If you take care of my baby,” Mary says to Bernie, “I’ll take care of yours.”

There’s that look on Bernie’s face again. Eagerness. Thrills. Lust. She seems to be feeling this. And, honestly, I can’t blame her. I’m kind of feeling it too. Mary’s words echo in my head: “I’ll take care of yours.” That’s a lot to process.

“Well I already did the hard part,” Bernie says with a shrug. “The stinky part.”

“I owe you one, then,” Mary replies. “I’ll take care of one of his poopy diapers for you someday.”

“Much obliged,” Bernie says.

“H-hold on,” I say. “I haven’t even worn a diaper yet, let alone used one.”

“He’s right,” Mary says. “Let’s give the baby his diaper.”

She plucks the shoes off of my feet and drops them on the ground before reaching forward and unbuttoning my pants.

“You’ll be a good boy and lie still for Aunt Mary, won’t you?”

“Y-yes…”

“Good boy,” she coos. I hate how much I like hearing that.

My pants and underwear are pulled down the length of my leg, leaving me just as exposed as Riley. More exposed now–seeing as how Bernie is now covering up Riley’s bits with a fresh diaper. Mary looks down on my soft cock–far too spooked by the extra eyes to be doing much of anything–like she was looking at a docile kitten that she wanted to cuddle.

“Such a cute little thing.”

Bernie turns her head a little to see it. She’s seen it countless times before, but it’s like she’s seeing it again for the first time. She’s got the same condescending look on her face as Mary. “Looks kind of unseemly with all that hair though.”

“True,” Mary says. “I trust you’ll take care of that later?”

“Oh, for sure.”

Mary eases a flattened diaper under my ass, occasionally moving my legs around when they’re in the way. I’m not sure which I’m more impressed by–how easily Mary is able to manhandle me and put me into a diaper, or how well Bernie is keeping up with her as she diapers Riley.

Clearly I’m not the only one to have noticed. Mary flashes Bernie a big smile. “Are you sure you’ve never put an adult into a diaper before?”

“Actual babies, big babies–they’re not all that different.”

There’s a small window–somewhere between when Mary shakes some baby powder over my shrunken dick and when the front of the diaper is fed through my legs so that she can seal it shut–when I find myself at peace with the idea of being a big baby. It just feels right.

“Alright, I think we’ve got ourselves two diapered babies,” Mary says. “What do you say? Should we head back to the party?”

That window is over. My eyes grow with terror. “Well…I mean, it’s not like anyone has to know that I’m wearing a diaper, right?”

I sit up, reaching for my pants on the ground, but Mary smacks my hand away.

“You haven’t seen Riley waddling around the party with pants on, have you? No–she’s been showing off that plump diaper of hers all night. And now you’re going to be doing the same.”

Hoo boy. That’s embarrassing. The sort of humiliation I might even consider to be ‘soul-crushing’ were it not for the fact that Mary and Riley already had a following downstairs. If I had to walk around in a diaper, in front of strangers, it was best that it happens here.

We’re on our feet and heading out the door. Mary is leading the way, followed by the waddling Riley. I’m ushered out next by Bernie, who seems intent on being last in line–perhaps to make sure I don’t split and make a run for it.

But no, I think I’m good to go. Not many people here know me. And this all seems kind of fun. I’m ready to embrace my identity as a big baby for the rest of the night.

That is, of course, until we actually get to the bottom of the stairs. The music is loud, the people are drunk, and everyone’s eyes are immediately drawn to our thickly diapered bottoms. It feels like the entire party has fallen silent–save for the beat of some dance track–for just a split second as they take in the sight of the two babies. Then, we’re hit with a wall of laughter–insurmountable and coming from all angles.

It hurts for a minute. Shame like this–it gets into your bones like a winter chill and you just can’t shake it. But I feel Bernie’s hand on my shoulder, and that helps. I turn back to look at her and am greeted by her warm smile. I need it.

A cute blonde appears in front of my face. “I want to, uhm, feel your diaper.”

I open my mouth–not quite sure how I’m going to respond, but Bernie answers for me. “I’m his mommy, so you’ll have to ask me.”

“Oh,” the blonde says, giggling. “Well, would you mind if I touch your baby’s diaper?”

“Of course not,” Bernie says.

I’m passed around like a joint, barely aware of who is touching my diaper at any given moment before being shoved towards the next group of giggling faces. My diaper gets poked and prodded. Every few seconds, someone slaps my ass and asks if I need a spanking–as if they were the first to think of it. People hold out beer bottles towards my face, asking if I need to drink from my bottle.

Everyone has something to say, and I try to listen to everything.

“Does baby need his diaper changed yet?”

“Is the baby gonna make pee-pees in his pants?”

“I think the boy baby somehow looks more pathetic than the girl baby.”

“I heard that diapered chick shit her pants upstairs. If he shits himself too, I’m outta here.”

“Hey, baby, wanna suckle on my boobies?”

“Aww, isn’t it time to be put down for your nap, little fella?”

But it’s Traceyanne herself who really knows how to rile up the party: “The potty chair is still out on the deck. Wanna see if he’s ready for potty training yet?”

Oh yes, they want to see that. Everyone is cheering and pushing me towards the door to the deck. A chant starts: “POT-TY CHAIR! POT-TY CHAIR! POT-TY CHAIR!”

I have Bernie on one side of me, whispering comforting and supportive things into my ear: “This is only fun if you’re still having fun. We can stop, or just leave, whenever you want to.” I need to hear these things, but it serves only to strengthen my resolve. I like being the position I’m in.

In my other ear, Mary has a few things to say, herself: “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Rylie–nobody actually wants to see you use the potty chair. They want to laugh at you while you sit on the potty chair. They want to see you use your diaper.”

This is good advice, I feel. Given the choice, I think I’d rather pee my diaper instead of in the potty chair too.

Rylie, she seems to be enjoying the little breather she’s getting as the party’s punching bag. I think back to how tonight’s strange turn had started–with me spotting her on the potty chair herself. As I recall, she had pissed in it–a move I attribute to a more seasoned performance. I wonder if she knew she could get away with wetting in the chair because she knew the real show would be what she pushed into the diaper later.

At the potty chair, I see that there’s still a little puddle of yellow liquid sitting at the bottom of it. My diaper is pulled down–I don’t even know by who, I just know that the hands weren’t mine–and my bottom is pushed down into the chair. My shriveled dick just dangles between my legs, and all I can do is listen to the laughter and chanting going on around me on the deck.

“POT-TY CHAIR! POT-TY CHAIR!”

Looking up from my pathetic throne, I watch Bernie and Mary talk. They’re exchanging phone numbers. They’re laughing together. They’re hugging.

I realize that this is just the beginning. I’m going to wear a diaper home tonight. Bernie is going to treat me like a baby. And this might even carry into tomorrow and the day after that. This might go on for a while. And here? At a party like this? I’ll always be the baby from now on. They’ll want to see my diaper. They’ll want to call me names and mock me. They’ll want to see me use my diaper and they’ll make a big deal out of how I need to be changed.

And, goddammit, I’m going to like it. I’m going to like it so much.

“Alright, I think that’s enough,” Bernie says, pulling me to my feet. “Obviously the baby isn’t going to use the potty. He doesn’t know how.”

And no sooner than the diaper is pulled back up into place, I’m wetting it. I had no idea it’d be so easy. In fact, it feels too easy to do. I do wonder, for a moment, how much of this moment is me just trying to put on a show for everyone, and how much of it is me living up to the expectation of being a big baby.

“Oh my god,” someone shouts. “Look! He’s literally pissing himself! He’s pissing his diaper!”

“And he was just on the potty!” someone else chimes in.

“You are so good at this,” Bernie says to me. “Almost too good.”

“What now?” I ask.

“We wander around the party a little longer while you’ve got your soggy diaper on. Then, I’m going to get a spare diaper or two from Mary. We’ll go home later. I’ll change your diaper. And then…I’m going to fuck your brains out. Sound like a plan?”

I laugh as I feel my cheeks burning again. “Y-yeah.  I’d say that’s a very good plan.”

I waddle back into the house again, my soggy diaper flopping between my thighs with every step. I can barely believe what’s happened here tonight. though, if it was going to happen anywhere, I would’ve put money on it being at one of Tracyanne and Josh’s parties.