Doing Business, Part 53 (Patreon)

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Fifty-Three

Weekends never seemed long enough. On most Fridays, I’d see the approaching weekend as this enormous sprawl of countless opportunities. All the movies I could be watching. The beer I could be drinking. The errands I could finally get around to tackling. Hiking. Reading. Calling old friends.

And then, suddenly, it’d be Sunday night and the weekend would have felt like it was just a blip. I had never accomplished all the things I wanted. I rarely even scratched the surface. Then, it was just another week of work. Or, whatever it was I did for 40 hours during the week anymore.

It had gotten to the point that Friday afternoons had begun to lose their luster for me. It was hard to get excited about the weekend when I knew that I’d close my eyes and suddenly it would be Monday again.

For once, I found myself wishing for the weekend to be just an instantaneous blip. I wanted this weekend to be over before it started. I wanted to be walking through the lobby of the office, ready to start a new week of work.

Because as it stood? The next 48 hours–60-ish if we’re counting Friday night–were poised to be the most intense hours of my life. Dinner with Mommy. Brunch with my mother. And then whatever-the-hell Sunday with Megan was going to be.

I simply could not fathom what Monday would be like. It felt like a different century. Would we cars be able to fly on Monday? Would there be offices on the moon?

I felt like crying. I felt like literally breaking down, collapsing, and crying loudly while flailing my legs and arms like a toddler. An honest-to-god temper tantrum. I needed that so badly.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Lyndie asked as she checked my diaper in the nursery. “That’s one helluva pout.”

“Just stressed,” I said.

“Are you still worrying about your mother? Clark, buddy, it’s just brunch. One brunch. Do you know how many terrible meals I’ve had with my parents over the years? She can’t possibly be that bad.”

“She’s…not,” I said. It was difficult to say, but only because Lyndie was right. My mother wasn’t Satan. She had never been evil. She was just a lot. And the longer it had been since I saw her last, the fuzzier the line had gotten between who my Mom was and who I thought she’d be.

“Then what are you worried about?”

I started thinking aloud: “I mean, she’s not always the easiest person to talk to. She knows how to push all my buttons better than anyone else. I’d like to think I can deal with that on most days. But…Lyndie, look at me. I’m wearing a diaper and getting it checked. I call my boss ‘Mommy.’ I’m a mess. And I’m terrified that she’s going to look at me and see that.”

“As long as she doesn’t sniff your bottom, I think you’ll be good,” she said. “How likely is that to happen?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I grumbled.

“Alright, so catch me up,” Lyndie said. “If I’m going to be your date tomorrow, I feel like I need to know a thing or two about our situation, you know? Make sure we’re on the same page?”

“Yeah, alright. That makes sense.”

“Where, even, are we meeting?” she asked.

“Ferdinand’s,” I answered. “10 AM.”

“I don’t know where that is,” she said, shaking her head. “I assume it’s nice?”

I shrugged. “Mommy seems to think so.”

“Good enough for me. Let’s talk about us. The, uh, figurative ‘us.’ Where did we meet?”

“Work,” I said, nodding. “It’s the truth, right?”

“Works for me. And how long have we been dating?”

“It can’t be too long, or else she’ll get upset that she didn’t know about you sooner,” I said.

“Even though you two haven’t talked much in the last few months?”

“Right. It won’t matter. But it can’t be too recently either, or else she’ll think we’re moving too fast.”

“That’s not a bad thing, right?” Lyndie asked. “Maybe she’d see that as a sign that we’re just that sure of our relationship.”

I laughed. “No, I don’t think so. She’d think I was using bad judgment. She’d reject you immediately.”

“So how long do you think we’ve been together? Three months? A month?”

“Two,” I said.

“Fine. And how did we meet?”

“Ugh,” I scoffed. “This is ridiculous. What am I even doing? Why am I so fucking devoted to try and impress my mother? Can’t I just be content with…living my life the way that I want to live my life? If she doesn’t like it, it’s not really my problem, is it?”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Lyndie said. “But you’re the one who thought all of this was necessary.”

“I should just show up in a diaper,” I said.

“Well, I’d like that. But I’m not sure that’s the play here.”

“I’ve got other things to think about,” I said. “Things that I’d much rather be thinking about instead of my mother. I mean, I should be excited about tonight, right? Mommy’s house? Like, any other week, I’d be stressing this much about just that. And it still hasn’t actually hit me that it’s happening in, like, a few hours. And then Sunday…”

I quickly stopped myself. I had already said far too much.

“Sunday?” Lyndie asked. “What’s Sunday?”

“Oh, uh, nothing really...”

“Come on, Clarky. You can’t keep secrets from the gal who wipes your poopy bottom.”

“I’m not keeping secrets. And my bottom isn’t…”

“Not right now it isn’t,” she said. “But you get the point.”

“I just made plans, that’s all.”

“Ooh, post-mother plans?” cooed Lyndie. “And not with your new girlfriend. Me? Let me take a guess. Ava?”

I was tempted to just agree with that. It’d be a lie, but it’d be easier to say than having to explain the truth. But I also knew that to be a terrible idea–given that Lyndie and Ava were pretty close.

“Megan, actually,” I said.

“Is that so?” Lyndie said, eyebrows raising. “Megan?”

“I know, I know, it’s kind of weird…”

“How did that happen? Are you two, like, BFFs now?”

Was that a hint of jealousy I heard in her tone? “I think she was feeling a little left out, honestly. Like the rest of us…she just wanted a friend.”

It was sort of true. Obviously I was leaving out the part about subjecting myself to Megan’s desire to dress me up like a girl for an afternoon.

Lyndie, to my surprise, just shrugged. “If she’s cool, we should all hang out. I’d like to meet her too.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure she’d be grateful for the new friends too.”

“Look at you, Clarky. The social baby-butterfly who brings everyone together. I never thought you had it in you.”

Neither did I. Megan had made a somewhat-similar comment earlier in her office–suggesting that the ‘assistant culture’ had started to change when I had started working here. I certainly didn’t believe that it was my social prowess that had brought everyone together. If anything, it was the united interest in humiliating me that did it.

“So what are you and Mommy doing tonight?” she asked. That seemed to be the end of the conversation about Megan, thankfully.

“I’m not that sure. She mentioned wine and…” She had also mentioned shoving objects up my bottom, but I didn’t want to mention that to Lyndie either. “...dinner. Wine and dinner.”

“A romantic dinner with Mommy! Do you think she’ll unlock you?”

“I hope so,” I said.

Though, that said, if she didn’t unlock me but still found a way to get me off, I probably wouldn’t complain. Hell, I hoped that she served the key to my chastity to me for dinner. Just a key on a plate, and I’d have to eat it.

The thought of that made my shrunken cock strain within its confines.

“Mmm,” I moaned aloud, a bit too lost in my fantasy.

“What was that?” Lyndie asked.

“N-nothing. Just…”

I was extremely grateful for the sudden knock on the nursery door. Our eyes immediately darted to the doorway, wondering who could be.

“Who is it?” Lyndie asked. She looked a little concerned. Were I to guess, most everyone who would normally come to the nursery didn’t knock on the door.

“Tom,” a voice said.

“Tom?” I asked Lyndie in a quieter tone. “Who the hell is that?”

“Pritchard,” she said to me in a quieter tone. To the door: “Yeah, come on in.”

And then Thomas Pritchard was in the room with us. I felt like I saw him often, though we hadn’t talked in a while. Maybe not since the time he accosted me for getting a promotion when he didn’t.

I cautiously extended an olive branch. “Hey, Thomas.”

“Clark.”

I couldn’t help but wonder how long he had known my name. Had he known my name back when we only called him ‘Anderson?’ Or had my name come up in other conversations–the ones about the strange happenings in our office that he was now threatening to expose.

“Tommy,” Lyndie cooed, a wide smile on her face. If she was acting, it was a good performance–she seemed genuinely happy to see him again. “What brings you back to the nursery?”

“Is this a bad time?” he asked, glancing in my direction.

His tone–his body language–was curious to me. It was like he was trying very hard to sound…mature? Important? I never remembered him sounding like this before–though, admittedly, I hadn’t had that many conversations with him. But this puffed-out-chest slice of machismo didn’t seem to be working. It reeked of overcompensation.

“Are you not comfortable having a conversation in front of Mr. Ashburn?” Lyndie said. I recognized the snark in her voice, but I wasn’t sure that Thomas did. And I couldn’t even remember the last time someone called me ‘Mr. Ashburn.’ I almost didn’t recognize my own name.

“Well I was hoping it’d be just you and me,” Thomas said to her.

“I guess I should be headed back to my desk anyway,” I said. It wasn’t true, of course, but it gave me an out. No further conversation needed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Lyndie said to me. Translation: “I’ll fill you in on whatever Thomas and I talk about.”

Though cut short, my conversation with Lyndie still felt fruitful. It felt good to have had that little outburst about not needing to impress my mother. I doubted I could make that my mantra, but it was something to think about. Something that’d behoove me to repeat during brunch.

Getting that off my chest freed up some mental real estate. Temporarily, perhaps, but I wasn’t complaining. Now? I felt I could focus on my dinner with Mommy tonight.

First things first, let’s take care of this dry diaper problem.

There was a time, not that long ago, where I was mortified to just walk around the building with my thick diaper on under my pants. I was terrified of the thought of someone seeing my extra-thick bottom, or hearing the crinkling, or even catching a whiff of baby powder. Now? I was walking down the hallway while wetting myself.

No matter how many diapers I wet, there would still be ones that hit me just right. This was one of those. Feeling the diaper swell and grow dense between my legs as I walked filled me with pleasure. That insatiable kind of pleasure, where I crave more and more–knowing damn well that I’ll probably never have enough. I wanted to walk around for another hour, just to feel the soggy padding squish and rub against whatever remained of my cock.

This was exactly what I needed for tonight’s visit with Mommy. I needed to work myself up. Get so lost in my pathetic headspace that by the time I was going to her house, I was a babbling toddler–practically begging her to forgo actually serving food and just giving my ass a good hard fuck.

My cock ached in its prison. But I realized something–I liked that. That was what getting turned on felt like now.

When I reached my desk, I just kept walking right past it. My body seemed to know where it was going, even if the rest of me felt out of the loop.

A restroom, I thought. But not one of the ones on this floor. I’d need to go somewhere else. Just in case. I jumped onto the elevator, and picked a random floor. How about…4.

Ding.

I both did and did not know what I was doing. I was horny and entering a dangerous headspace to be in while at work. I’d be doing something naughty, assuming I found a tiny bit of privacy. The mystery of it only further excited me.

As the elevator descended, I imagined who would be on the other side of the door when it opened again. Maybe it’d be some cute young woman, standing there with a pile of documents in her hand. Maybe her laptop. The elevator door would open and her eyes would grow wide as her mouth dropped open. There I would be…drooling as I sucked my thumb, my other hand thrust into my own pants that exposed my soggy diaper.

I didn’t put my thumb in my mouth. I didn’t open my pants. There was nobody on the other side of the door. It was such a shame. Maybe next time.

I wasn’t familiar with this floor, but it didn’t stop me from meandering around it. New faces. New curious looks from strangers. Could they hear my diaper? Could they smell the piss that was soaked into it? Or…were they just curious about who this guy was that didn’t normally didn’t work on the floor?

I spotted a restroom off in the corner of the floor. I hustled to it as fast as I could, my wet diaper swishing loudly against the inside of my pants. Let them hear it, I thought as I waddled past a cluster of desks. Don’t bother hiding who you are.

To my dismay, I wasn’t alone in the restroom. Of the four stalls, one was already occupied. I chose the stall all the way in the corner. It was a handicap stall–which I usually tried to avoid back when I used toilets–but I wanted the space.

Besides, is someone going to tell a guy in a diaper that he doesn’t belong in a handicap stall.

And then: the stand-off. I had forgotten about this little ritual from my days of using the potty. Two men in stalls at the same time. Neither wants to do whatever loud or smelly thing they have to do and so they wait for the other to leave. This didn’t always happen, of course. There were men who could barge into a public restroom, plant their asses on a toilet, and unleash an unholy hell upon the porcelain seat. All without an ounce of consideration for who else was in the room.

My neighbor did not seem to be one of those men. I could see their feet under the stall walls. Black leather dress shoes. Black slacks pulled down above them. No movement. No sounds.

I wasn’t there to use the toilet. But what I was there to do–and I was still figuring it out–would probably be just as loud. My pants were pulled down around my ankles and I sat there on the toilet in my wet diaper. God, I just wanted to feel the bloated thing with both hands.

I considered the type of man who would bust into a restroom and make no effort to hide or conceal their bathroom needs from anyone else. What if I had scurried into a restroom and, just as aggressively as my supposed ‘alpha,’ took a sizable and obvious shit–except it was in a diaper. Was that an alpha move? Or was that transcendently pathetic?

In other words: Please, stranger. Do whatever you have to do and get out of here. The longer I sit here, the deeper I fall into my humiliation-craving headspace.

Success. I heard toilet paper being pulled from the roll. The toilet flushed. Pants up. Stall door was opened. Washing hands. Drying. And…the door opened and closed.

I bend forward, hanging my head upside down so I can do one more scan of the bathroom. All clear–I see no other feet.

“Ooohhhhhh,” I moaned, both of my hands grasping the flooded diaper. I pushed it against my cage, squeezing out warm urine that sought new padding to be absorbed by.

That throbbing. That gloriously painful throbbing. I needed more.

My hand was suddenly in my diaper. Did I put that there? I was grasping and pawing at my cage–simultaneously wishing that it could be opened and that it would remain locked shut forever. This was the new pleasure.

Another floor check. Nope, no feet.

I bit my lip as I considered my next move. An idea was slowly coming to mind–something else I could be doing with my fingers. I slowly let my hand slip deeper into the diaper, my fingers waltzing past the pathetic prisoner in his cell.

I had little experience in stimulating myself through my backdoor. And, here in the office restroom with a diaper on, I wasn’t sure I was equipped to take on that task. But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying. What followed was a series of contorted movements and groans as I tried to find the angle that would allow me to get even a fingertip into my ass while I remained in my diaper.

Maybe I should start carrying around some lube with me.

I think I found it. The lack of lubrication made it difficult to do. But my finger felt the tight grasp of my bottom. My bottom certainly felt the presence of a new friend.

I wasn’t quite deep enough–nor did I think I could be–to elicit the deep waves of pleasure Mommy had managed with her toys. But the simple placement of my finger at the threshold was enough to send tingles throughout my body.

Cut off from my cock, I had become ravenous for whatever pleasure I could get. And between the week that had passed since my last climax and the sinfulness of fingering myself in the restroom–diapered–I was a powderkeg primed to explode at any moment.

“Unh,” I moaned. “Fuck.”

And then it was happening. I collapsed against the wall of the stall as I felt myself spurting through my cage and into my diaper.

I was still muttering to myself as it happened: “Filthy…fucking…baby.”

But just as my dirty deed was complete, I heard the door opening. Footsteps. They walked past the urinals and to the stalls. Past the first. Second. They kept walking until they were at my stall. My heart stopped–who was this? Did they know what I had done? Were they here to call me out? Arrest me?

A hand reached out and tested the stall door, finding it locked. They pivoted and went to another stall. And no sooner than the door closed and their pants were down, they went about their business–loudly, and seemingly with no regard for others. Ah yes, the alpha-shitter.

I took a minute to compose myself, taking a few breaths. Not too many breaths, though, the restroom air was quickly becoming less-than-hospitable. I carefully adjusted my diaper and pulled my pants back up–being cautious not to handle too much with the hand that had just been stuffed down my diaper. My diaper was crinkling rather loudly as I fumbled about, but I tried not to think about it too much. I just had to get out of here. The toilet flushed behind me as I readied myself to leave the stall. A detail I would’ve likely overlooked if it didn’t happen automatically. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a normal restroom-user like you.

I washed my hands thoroughly before leaving. Alpha-shitter already seemed to be working on the second round. Godspeed.

Part of me worried that I had fucked myself over with that little stunt. What if I had cheated myself out of that feeling of mindless passion later, in Mommy’s company?

No, I didn’t think that would be a problem. If anything, I was feeling more desperate. I craved more than a tip of a finger poking at my bottom. I needed to be filled. Fucked. Used.

I waddled my way back towards my desk, my mind racing with increasingly filthy fantasies.