Doing Business, Part 63 (Patreon)

Sixty-Three

It was as if I had completely forgotten how to walk. I was bowlegged, taking slow plods forward like each of my feet suddenly weighed too much. I had walked around in diapers plenty in the past–even messy diapers. But this one was a different beast–the enema seemed to have summoned forth a mudslide down there, and every movement of my body caused the mess to shift and slide about in the diaper.

“You doing alright?” Megan asked. She slowed down her pace a bit to match mine. There was some genuine sympathy in her voice, but her lips were also curled into an amused smile.

“It’s just feeling like quite a mess back there,” I sighed.

“I bet.”

“How much further do we have to go?” I had lost all sense of direction and context while in this state. I needed Megan to lead me back.

“A few blocks. Would it help if I carried you back like a baby?”

My eyes widened. As humiliating as the idea of being carried across town by a strong woman while I marinated in my diaper was, it also sounded quite nice.

“Are you that strong? N-no offense. I just…”

“I have a gym membership, thank you very much. But…no, I doubt I could pick you up and carry you like that. It sounds nice though, doesn’t it?”

“A little.” I was being a little more honest than I wanted to be. Which probably meant that my mushy diaper was starting to work some magic on my brain. Slowly, but surely, I was probably slipping into that babyish headspace.

“At the very least, I feel like you should have a stroller, right? Then you can just be pushed around.”

“Do you think they make them in adult sizes?”

She shrugged. “I feel like there’s got to be one online somewhere.”

It was a lovely thought, I had to admit. I immediately imagined Mommy, pushing a large stroller down the street with me inside of it. I was buckled in so that I couldn’t go anywhere, and my diaper would be as swampy as it was now. People would look down at me. Maybe they’d smile. Maybe they’d be disgusted. It really wouldn’t matter–any reaction whatsoever would probably turn me on.

My daydream might have dispersed, but my head was still in the clouds. I was finding a little more rhythm in my steps as we progressed forward, but the back of my diaper was now squishing against my ass and between my legs with every step. I swore that I could almost hear it. Squish. Squish. Squelch. Squish.

“Can you smell it?” I asked Megan, my voice so low that I hoped she could hear me over the ambient sounds of the city around us.

She chuckled to herself and shrugged. “A little? Every once in a while I catch a whiff of something…icky. A certain kind of icky.”

My cheeks flared and I sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what? This was my idea. Well…the enema part. The pooping-your-pants part was your Mommy’s idea.”

Did she say that loudly? Or had she just said it in a normal tone as we passed by a group of strangers–all but ensuring that someone heard her? Either way, I felt a new wave of humiliation course through my body. Somebody in that cluster had to have heard her, while catching the scent of my polluted diaper.

I was tempted to ask her to keep her voice down about things like that, but I bit my tongue instead. The darker part of myself hoped that she said more. Even louder.

“N-no,” I continued, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry that I’m going back to your apartment while smelling like this.”

“It won’t be the first time my apartment has smelled like someone messed their diaper.”

“I know, but…”

“Well, look,” she said. “What if I evened the playing field a little?”

“Huh? How?”

“I’m just saying. If you weren’t the only one with a stinky bottom, you couldn’t be upset that you were making my apartment smell bad, right?”

“I guess, sure. But…it’s not like you’re going to, uhm…”

“Poop myself? I could if I wanted to, I think. Mind you, it’s a dicey proposition–your diapering skills might let me down.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I’m not asking you to do that.”

“I know you’re not,” she said. “But you know what? I think I want to now.”

“When?” I asked. “How?”

“Here,” she shrugged. “And now. Or…soonish.”

“You’re just going to squat here on the sidewalk and…?”

“I’m not much of a squatter.”

I chortled in disbelief. “So, what, you’re just going to…drop a load as you walk?”

“I feel like I’ve done it before,” she said. “But now you’ve got me second-guessing myself. This might be the strangest thing I’ve ever said–but I suddenly feel like I can’t remember how to mess myself.”

We both laughed at this. Honestly, this conversation was helping. It didn’t make my diaper any less disgusting to walk in. Squish. Squelch. Squish. But it at least stopped me from slipping too deep into my infantile headspace–a place where I lost control of how I acted around other people. It seemed like a dangerous thing while we were out in public.

“Do you, like, want to go into an alley again?” I asked, thinking about when she had steered me into one to try pushing something into my diaper on our way to the store earlier.

“No no,” she said. “We’re only like a block from my building. And I think I can just…”

Blorppppp. It started loud, and faded quickly.

I definitely heard that. Her cheeks reddened as the sound rumbled from her bottom. It was actually kind of amazing–there was barely any loss of speed, nor did her steps seem to be altered much.

“Y-you did it?” I asked.

She nodded. “All done.”

“So, you actually just…”

“I swear, I just shit myself,” she laughed. “Do you want to feel? Smell?”

I did, though I wasn’t about to say so. Not out here. “I believe you.”

The rest of the walk was quiet, not that we had much further to go. By the time we reached her building, I was finally noting a distinct stench around us. Was that me? Her? The both of us at once? Too, I noticed that she had begun to develop a little waddle of her own. Either her load was a little bigger than she had initially let on, or her efforts to keep a consistent stride had pushed the mess into inconvenient places.

Back in her building, we strolled past the front desk, Megan offering a little wave to the associate as her cheeks glowed pink. Could they smell us? Had they smelled Megan before?

By the time we stepped off her building’s elevator, my head was getting a little fuzzy again. Baby Clark–Baby Claire, today–was rearing her head again, and the approaching sanctuary of Megan’s apartment was shutting down the part of my brain that felt like it had to keep up more adult appearances.

“Take off your clothes,” Megan said the moment the front door was closed behind us. “Everything but your diaper.”

I obeyed. I would probably do anything she asked of me. Maybe, in this state of mind, I’d do anything that anyone asked of me. If some stranger walked into the apartment right now and told me to pour a glass of milk over my head, I could see myself doing it.

And now I want to pour a glass of milk over my head.

“You need to show your Mommy that you’ve filled your diaper up, yes?”

I nodded.

“First things first, let’s take care of that.” She reached into the pocket of my discarded pants and took out my cell phone, handing it to me to unlock for her. The sleek piece of technology almost felt alien in my hands–like I no longer had the mental capacity to remember how this thing was used. I fumbled with it for a moment before allowing my finger to type in the passcode–more muscle memory than anything else.

I handed the phone back to her, and she aimed it down at my diaper, snapping a few quick photos. She paced around me, taking photos from different angles. Some were close up. Some were from further away. For a few, she opened the back of my diaper and aimed the phone down into the messy abyss. Soon after, she was tapping away at the screen on the phone. Doing what? I couldn’t say. And I certainly didn’t care.

“All done,” she said. “She’ll be getting the photos soon enough.”

“O-oh,” I said, realizing that she had been sending them for me. “Thank you.”

“It’s cute that you have her in your phone as ‘Mom.’

Did I? I couldn’t remember, but that did sound cute.

She then undressed too. Now, we had both shed everything we had worn to the store, leaving it in piles at our feet.

“Look at us,” she said. “Two stinky little babies.”

I immediately dropped to my knees before arching my torso forward so that I was in a crawling position. I couldn’t say why I decided to do this–other than the fact that it felt right.

She followed my lead, lowering herself to her hands and knees as well. Unlike me, however, she had nice, round, tits that hung down from her chest and wobbled back and forth as she moved. We crawled towards each other, her face inching towards my swampy bottom. Just as mine approached hers. I couldn’t help but think of two dogs as they tried to smell each other’s rears.

“You’re very smelly,” she said.

“You don’t smell too good either.”

“Touche.”

For a few minutes, we were just two unsupervised babies. We crawled around without any sort of plan or sense of direction. We’d drift away from each other for a moment or two, and then crawl back towards each other, greeting each other with big stupid smiles like we hadn’t seen each other in a month.

Then, her hand reached out, stroking the back of my diaper, feeling the lumpy mass I had deposited back there.

“You’re leaking a little,” she said, her voice still soft and quieter.

“Is it bad?”

“There’s, like…uhm…brown? On your thighs.”

My cheeks warmed considerably. Mommy or Lyndie, were they here, might have called that a ‘blow out.’ They’d also laugh. Fuck. I wanted to hear them laughing at me so badly.

“Maybe I should…”

“No,” Megan said. “It’s not time for a change yet.”

“But…”

“I, uhm, want to try something,” she said. She was biting her bottom lip–one of the rare times she looked anything less than completely confident. Even when she was crawling around in her dirty diaper, she still managed to look like an absolute boss.

But of course I’d try ‘something.’ I’d fucking try anything. “Okay.”

She repositioned herself and sat back on her diaper–slowly easing her bottom onto the floor so that her mess squashed beneath her. I watched her face as she did, seeing equal parts pleasure and embarrassment in her eyes. She was just sitting there now, her legs splayed out in front of her.

“Come here,” she said.

I crawled towards her, as if crawling was the only way I knew how to move now. I made my way between her open legs, cautiously awaiting the next command. Should I tell Mommy about this? Oh, I was in no state to ask permission for anything. What was that saying? Something about asking for forgiveness instead of permission?

“Can you sit on my lap?” she asked.

“But…”

“Your dirty diaper on top of mine. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I’m already leaking and…”

“Who cares?” she shrugged. “I have a bathtub. And I want to try it. So come here.”

There was no arguing with that command–not that I wanted to. Sure, maybe we were both babies, but she was clearly the big, bossy, sister. The one who got a kick out of pushing me around a little when the parents were away. I found that I was rather fond of that dynamic.

I straddled her lap, a leg on either side of her torso as I lowered my filthy diaper onto hers. I felt the contents of my diaper squishing all over once more, finding new nooks and crannies to seep into. But once I was there–once my diaper was actually pressed into hers–I found myself surprisingly overwhelmed by just how magical it felt. And looking at her face, I could tell that she felt the same way.

“This is so naughty,” Megan said.

“Mmhmm.”

“Bounce on me,” she said. “Bounce on my diaper with yours.”

I gave it absolutely no thought and just immediately began to bounce. Just little cautious movements at first, as I was still nervous that my diaper couldn’t handle too much jostling. But feeling our thick and bloated diapers rubbing against each other quickly erased that caution from my mind, and my pace increased. Megan, too, was now thrusting her diaper up to meet mine. In a matter of moments, we were holding onto each other as we pathetically rubbed our disgusting diapers against each other. Her chastity cage would sometimes rub against mine, a cruel reminder that we could only enjoy this so much. But we were lost in the moment, working even harder to get off, as if there was somehow a way for us to find ecstasy by sheer will alone.

It went on for longer than we probably wanted to admit. Neither of us seemed willing to throw in the towel for a while–we were holding out hope that maybe we could actually end up creaming our diapers from this. But not only did that not happen, but we had completely exhausted ourselves in the attempt. Eventually I slid down from her diaper, landing on my back so that I was staring up at the ceiling. She, too, collapsed backwards onto her back.

For as frustrating as it was not to have achieved a climax, I felt good. It felt like we had accomplished something.

“I…I’ve never done that before,” she said.

“Me neither.”

“Are we insane?”

“Probably.”

“Okay,” she said, sighing. “I’m fine with that.”

“You smell,” I teased, the babyish fog in my head slowly beginning to recede.

“Oh please,” she retorted. “Have you looked down at your diaper? It looks like it’s on the verge of exploding. You’re far smellier than I am.”

“How the hell are we supposed to clean ourselves off?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a hose in the parking garage,” she said. “We could go down there and hose off each other’s asses.”

An amusing idea, though not quite as viable.

I felt a warm stream trickle into my diaper. I didn’t even know it was coming until it started. It seemed fitting for the moment–the pathetic baby dribbling into his diaper again because he’s too stupid to know how to hold it anymore.

“I have two bathrooms,” she said. “Two showers.”

“Of course you do.”

“We’ll see how much longer that lasts, I guess.”

“Hmm?”

Megan let out a long sigh–seemingly expelling the last of her own empty-headed babyspace so that she can get back to reality again.

“I don’t know all the details of what’s going on,” she said suddenly. “But I know enough to know that things are going down at the office. Mr. Yang has been feeding that Thomas Pritchard guy information about all the baby-stuff. I think he was trying to use Thomas to expose the other executives. He wanted Thomas to go and make a big scene about it. Get them fired.”

“I mean, Mr. Yang’s part of that little club too.”

“I don’t really know what his bigger plan was,” Megan shrugged. “But I think it backfired anyway.”

“It did?”

“I’m probably not supposed to know this, but it sounds like Mr. Yang telling Thomas the truth had the opposite effect than he intended. Thomas became, like, curious.”

“Right,” I muttered. Somewhere in there was Lyndie’s part of the story. Had she actually convinced Thomas to try a diaper on? Or had Thomas already been curious about it himself before they ever had a conversation?

“I really don’t know what he thinks he can get away with. But I think change is coming.”

“Probably,” I said. But that also felt like a future-us problem. There were other things we needed to take care of first. “Uhm…about those showers…”

It was nothing short of a miracle that I got myself clean again. By the time I had gotten into the bathroom, my mess had begun to work its way out of every opening possible in my diaper. I needed help so badly that I came incredibly close to calling Mommy and confessing everything–just in the hopes that she’d drop what she was doing and come to Megan’s house to help take care of me.

Somehow I did it. It took a lot of wipes. A lot of hot water, soap, and scrubbing. But I was finally feeling like I was free of the disgusting disaster I had created. And even after cleaning myself up, it felt like there were still consequences. The skin on my bottom felt uncomfortable and raw. A diaper rash, I suspected. That’d be fun to explain to Mommy and Lyndie later.

Megan had left me a fresh diaper to change into after my shower. Fittingly, it was pink in color, with cutesy princesses printed across it. I supposed it didn’t matter, and I wrapped it around myself–again wishing I had an extra set of hands to do this for me.

Megan still seemed to be in the shower when I stepped out of the other bathroom. I took the opportunity to return to the living room where I had left all the clothes I had worn here.

Oh right. My phone was there too, sitting atop a coffee table. I had been so disconnected from reality while Megan and I played with each other that I had completely forgotten about the fact that Megan had sent photos of my dirty diaper to Mommy. I was excited to see what Mommy’s response would be.

Six missed text messages. Hoo boy.

Mommy: “Well? It’s been a while since I gave you your little assignment. When am I going to see the results of that?”

Mommy: “Are you ignoring me, Clarky? That’s not a very good idea. I know I said I wasn’t going to worry about consequences and punishments, but you seem to be forcing my hand here.”

Mommy: “The silence is a little unlike you, Clarky. Is everything okay?”

The texts didn’t really make any sense to me. I knew there were pictures. Megan had taken them. A lot of them. And she even said she sent them to her.

Lyndie: “Hey, Clark. Ms. Heller reached out to me and asked if I knew where you were. I guess she hadn’t heard back from you about something and she was a little concerned? Just checking in.”

Something wasn’t right. There were pictures. And if Mommy didn’t get them…who did?

Mom: “Clark? What is this? What are these photos? Why did you send these to me?”

At first, I didn’t understand what I was reading. First Mommy claimed she didn’t get the photos. Then she said that she did get the photos, but didn’t understand them? What kind of weird game was everyone playing today?

And then I remembered something. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Noo…

Yesterday afternoon, after brunch with my mother, I changed her name on my phone. And Megan…she thought that ‘Mom’ was ‘Mommy.’ Fuck. She had even said so to me, and I was too lost in my infantile headspace to realize the error.

Which meant that my mother–my actual mother–had been sent a very disgusting collection of photos. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the photos myself. For as long as I didn’t see them, maybe I could fool myself into thinking that they weren’t that bad.

Mom: “Clark, when you have a chance, can you call me? I’m very concerned about this.”