Chapter 3 - Rise and Shine
Read: Chapter 1 HERE Chapter 2 HERE
I awoke groggy, disoriented. My head heavy and thick with sleep, foggy with the remnants of a dream. The strangest dream. That my own mother-in-law had stripped me down, taped me in a diaper, and locked me in a prison-like crib like an inmate. The images clung like cobwebs, absurd and humiliating, the kind of nightmare you laugh off once the morning light comes.
I lifted my arms to rub the sleep from my eyes, only to be yanked short. I pulled again as my vision tried to adjust, but there was a sound of taut leather and creaking of wood. My arms could barely move, I couldn’t feel my fingers, they were tucked inside of something fluffy and warm, I wriggled my legs, but those were stuck too.
My heart lurched. It wasn’t a dream.
My wrists were still tied to the crib rails. My ankles, too. The same soft pastel blue ceiling stared back at me, indifferent. The mobile still turned lazily overhead, its little moons and stars catching the faint glow of the morning light, whirring faintly as it spun.
The thick, swollen bulk between my legs confirmed everything.
I didn’t want to look, but I did. I had to.
The diaper was bloated now. Yellowed. Heavy. My thighs were damp where it had pressed and spread. I could feel it against me. Clammy, sagging. The same way I’d felt it all night.
And just like that, the night came flooding back:
At first, I had tried to hold it. I told myself I would not piss myself. Could not piss myself. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
I fought the pressure. Bit down on the pacifier and breathed through my nose. I strained against the straps, tried to curl my legs or shift on my side. Anything to relieve the building ache in my bladder. I’d twisted and turned as much as the crib allowed, jaw clenched, thighs shaking.
It became unbearable, and then it got worse.
Minutes dragged into hours. Or maybe it just felt like hours. The pressure turned sharp. My body ached in ways I didn’t know it could. I couldn’t cry out, only moan, muffled behind the pacifier bulb in my mouth.
A man shouldn’t moan like that, anyway. Like a baby crying for his Mommy. Or in this case…Gam Gam.
I shook in the dark, whining, squirming, helpless, gagged and surrounded by crinkling plastic sheets and a dry, thirsty diaper.
And then, it happened: I broke.
My body just couldn’t take it anymore. All the strain of trying to hold back the unwavering pressure that wanted to escape. As embarrassing as it was, it actually felt good to finally relax. But then the warm rush spread beneath me. I gasped through the pacifier at the foreign feeling, trying to arch away, but it was everywhere. At first I worried it was going all over the bed and (oddly), I panicked. Worried it would land me in even more trouble with my mother-in-law. But instead, the diaper caught it all eagerly, swelling beneath me, its thick padding ballooning between my thighs. The relief of release I felt was quickly replaced with shame.
There was no toilet flush. No clean underwear. No chance to wipe the slate clean. It stayed. It sat. Soaked and pressing, thick and squishy. Every breath, every twitch of my legs, reminded me of what I had done. Of what I had become.
I tried to ignore it, to shift into sleep, but the sensation kept me awake. The sticky heat between my legs. The crinkle of the plastic. The faint scent of powder and urine rising like a mocking perfume.
Eventually, after a couple of hours of sitting in my own piss, I drifted off into something that resembled sleep.
And then it happened again.
The pressure returned. Not as sharp this time. Just persistent. I didn’t want to go through that whole painful fight again. So I just… let it happen. Wetting myself once more. The diaper swelled even larger against me, the soft hiss filling the nursery’s silence. At least it warmed a bit, no longer cold and clammy against my skin. It was easier. Too easy.
The first time had been a battle. This time was surrender. Some part of me had already accepted it, and that’s what I really hated, more than the wet diaper itself. I lay there, staring at the mobile above, disgust rising in my throat. Each drop that soaked into the padding felt like proof that I was losing something I might never get back.
I drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the night, caught somewhere between dreams and the soft hum of the mobile. Time didn’t move the way it used to, it just kind of blurred. Still, it was enough for me to forget where I was and wake up in a panic, remembering I was strapped to a bed and still stuck in this nightmare.
Then the sounds started from down the hall.
The clink of ceramic. The loud whistle of a kettle. A spoon tapping gently against the rim of a mug. She was up. My devil of an in-law. In the kitchen. Making tea.
And I was still here. Strapped down. Swaddled. Saturated. My wrists tugged slightly as I tried to shift. My fingers curled uselessly inside the stupid padded mittens.
I turned my head toward the nursery door. It was still closed, sealed tight against the rest of the world. I could almost imagine her just beyond it, humming to herself. Pouring hot water. Adding lemon or honey.
I wanted to cry out. To beg for her to come get me. To let me out. To change me.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I held the words back like I had tried to hold everything else. Because I was still trying, desperately trying, to cling to whatever shreds of adulthood I had left. I didn’t want to be a grown man crying for a diaper change. That wasn’t who I was. That couldn’t be who I was.
Even if it’s exactly what I’d become.
So I stayed quiet. My eyes burned, but I blinked the tears away. My jaw ached. My chest was tight. I waited. And waited. Patiently. Unmoving. Trapped in a swollen, piss-soaked diaper. Until, at last, I heard it: footsteps, approaching down the hall. Soft, deliberate, unhurried.
They were getting closer. Louder. Each one like a countdown in my chest. My heart pounded with a bit of fear and anticipation, and that’s when I realized…
The ribbon was still clipped to my chest, but my mouth was empty.
It must’ve fallen out while I was sleeping. I froze. Her voice came back to me, clear and cold: “I better find it in your mouth come morning. Because if it’s not… you’ll get the soap again.”
The taste came back instantly. Sharp, bitter, coated in humiliation.
I started searching, turning my head and twisting as far as the straps would let me. The rubber bulb was right there, just beside my shoulder, dangling from its ribbon like it was teasing me. I reached for it with my mouth, stretching, wriggling, trying to maneuver my body as much as much as I could. My fingers clenched inside the mittens. My shoulders strained.
The footsteps were closer now. The floorboards creaked.
I craned my neck, reaching for the little plastic shield tucked beneath my armpit. Flopping my body to try to get it to bounce into a better position. Plastic sheets and pissy pamper crinkling as I writhed. It was inches away from my mouth. I lunged with my tongue. Missed. Ended up making it roll down my body. I flopped like a fish. Tried again. Desperation rising.
She was close now, footfalls thudding just outside the door.
Another inch. A small grunt escaped my throat. The rubber touched my lips. I snapped at it, jaw closing around the nipple, slurping it into my mouth just as the doorknob turned.
The door creaked open, casting a slice of light across the room.
And there I was. Wide-eyed. Heart still racing.
Kathy’s silhouette filled the doorway, her presence instantly tightening the air. She didn’t speak, just looked, head tilted, one eyebrow slightly raised as if checking whether I’d followed instructions.
The pacifier moved between my lips, a small, rhythmic motion I couldn’t stop. It made me look like I was trying to prove myself, like some obedient pet desperate for approval. Her gaze traveled over me slowly. Examining the ridiculous state of her son-in-law. Then her expression shifted, just a little. The corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk.
I could see it, the whole picture, the way she’d see it: a grown man, sprawled and splayed and on display in a crib, padded, strapped, and sucking quietly like he belonged there. The absurdity hit before the shame did.
“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” Kathy said in a singsong voice as she flicked on the nursery light. “Did we have a nice little sleep in our widdle crib?”
I didn’t answer. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not just because there was an over-sized bulb of a binky bulging in my mouth, but because I was too embarrassed at the state of myself to reply. Any attempt to do so would only further emphasize my current status anyway.
Kathy stepped closer to the crib, I trembled and shook with every squeak of the padded floor tiles. She stood over me, making me shiver in her shadow. In one hand, she held a steaming mug of tea. In the other, a baby bottle filled with warm, off-white liquid.
She looked well-rested. Peaceful, even. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, her expression placid as she calmly placed the bottle and tea on the night stand next to me and stood back up to tug the belt of her white robe a bit tighter around her waist.
“So…” she said with a sigh, looking me over once more, “did we manage to stay dry for the whole night? Or did somewon have an accident in their widdle pampurrs?”
I tried to press my legs together, to squirm and shift away, to hide my shame as her arm reached through the bars.
“Aww,” she murmured, a trace of amusement in her voice. “Is someone feeling shy? What are you trying to hide, little one?”
There was nowhere I could go. The restraints held me firm. The inevitable was upon me. She split my legs apart and told me to spread them so that my saturated diaper was in full view.
“Oh sweetheart…” she murmured with wicked amusement, “you sure did christen this thing didn’t you??” She gripped the padding, pressing it around my penis, making me feel the intense humiliation as her biting words continued. “Were you working overtime all night or what? I’ve never seen a diaper so soaked!”
My face burned hot. Sitting with myself all night was bad enough, having to hear about what a failure I was from her was even worse.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Kathy went on, even though that’s exactly how she wanted me to feel. She clicked the latch and dropped the bars of the crib so I was even more exposed. “This is just our new morning routine. I expect you’ll be waking up like this quite a bit from now on, so I suggest you get used to it. In fact, we’re going to be keeping track…”
She smiled. And then–oh God–she pulled out her phone!
“Claire asked for an update. Said she was curious how your first night went. Isn’t that sweet?”
My heart twisted. I shook my head, the binky bobbing with the movement. I tried to say no, to beg her not to, but it was just muffled panic behind rubber.
Kathy chuckled like I’d just squealed something adorable.
“Oh, don’t pout,” she said. “This is your fault, remember? Actions have consequences.”
She snapped a photo of the front of my swollen diaper, the shutter sound seeming to be louder than usual, and then turned the phone on me.
“I need you to tell Claire what happened,” she said, tapping my cheek with two fingers, “Come on now. Binky out.”
She reached down and plucked it from my lips. A soft pop, followed by a thin string of drool, which she wiped with her sleeve like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
“Now,” she said, shifting her tone instantly. Her voice dropped into something firmer. Parental. Final. “Tell me what you did in your diaper.”
I shook my head. “I’m not saying that. I’m not—”
That was all it took. That look. Not loud. Not violent. Just sharpened, like cold steel. Like a mother who’d told you once, and wasn’t about to say it again.
“Try again,” she said coolly. “Use your baby words.”
My chest rose. Fell. My throat felt raw.
She made a soft tsk with her tongue.
“Still not quite right.” Her voice was slower now, like she was helping someone learn to speak another language. “Say the whole thing.”
I froze. My hands flexed uselessly in the mittens. My legs itched beneath the swollen, clammy padding. There was nowhere to go.
“Say it,” she said. “Or I’ll get the soap.”
“I made pee-pee in my diapy…” I whispered.
“There we go!!” she said brightly. “Now say it again.”
“I made pee-pee’s in my diapy!” I whimpered, louder this time.
“Could you not make it through even a single night without wetting yourself, little one?” She asked for the camera.
I sniffled, ashamed. “N-no, Gam Gam…I couldn’t…”
“Tell your Mommy Claire that you’re sorry. That you’re trying really hard to be a big boy…but you just can’t.”
I repeated the stupid sentence in babbly baby talk like she wanted. The words stinging with every syllable.
“Perfect,” she cooed, tapping the screen again to stop the recording. “I’ll send that right over. Maybe it’ll brighten her morning.”
She extended her arm out so she could see her screen better. Like someone her age would: elbow fully outstretched, squinting slightly, her finger curled and tapping the screen delicately with the flat pad of her pointer finger like she wasn’t sure how hard to press.
I wanted the crib to collapse. To break. To swallow me whole. Instead…
Two firm taps against my swollen padding, like she was congratulating me. Like it was some twisted reward.
“Let’s get that bottle in you,” she said brightly, reaching for it from the nightstand. “Then we’ll get my little bedwetter all nice and clean.”
She tilted it slowly, twisting the nipple once between her fingers before pressing it to my lips.
“Open wide for your baba.” she said, calm as a breeze.
I clenched my mouth shut.
She didn’t sigh. She didn’t raise her voice. She just reached out, gripped my chin with one hand, her thumb pressing into my cheek while her fingers dug in from the other side. My jaw trembled. Her grip didn’t loosen.
I jerked again, but the straps held me down, pinned and helpless in the crib. The mittens kept my fingers useless above my head. I could barely shift, much less resist. I tried to turn my head, but she followed, steady and unrelenting, guiding it in until my mouth gave way. The moment it slipped past my lips, I gagged.
“You’re going to drink this bottle,” she said, voice low and direct. “All of it, if you want that pissy diaper changed…”
Then she pressed the rubber nipple against my lips.
The first suckle hit like syrupy chalk. Sickly sweet, warm, and wrong. It coated my tongue with some chemical aftertaste, like a protein shake, but worse. Too sweet, too thick. Almost metallic.
I spat it back out reflexively, coughing as it dribbled down my chin.
She dabbed my chin with the edge of her sleeve, then shoved the bottle back into place, harder this time.
“You’re done fighting,” she said.
I gasped, trying to turn away again, tears stinging in the corners of my eyes.
“It’s disgusting,” I choked between gulps.
She stilled, looking down at me.
“Yucky,” she corrected, her voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “Big boys call it disgusting. You don’t get that word anymore.”
I wanted to scream. To curse. To beg.
The bottle bobbed slightly as she adjusted her grip, holding it at the right angle, watching me swallow it down one warm, sticky mouthful at a time.
“This is part of your routine now,” she added smoothly. “It’ll help keep you regular, and give you what your little body needs. You’ll get one with every meal. No arguments. No pouting. And no milk left behind.”
She tilted the bottle higher.
I had no choice, I swallowed.
The formula filled my mouth again, nauseating and thick, dripping in the back of my throat, leaving a syrupy trail down my tongue. I gagged again but couldn’t spit it out, not this time. Her grip stayed firm.
“Drink,” she said, with slow, insistent patience.
I did. The worst part wasn’t the taste, it wasn’t even the straps or the helplessness. It was the way she looked at me, like I was nothing more than a stubborn brat that was finally giving in.
So I drank. Suckle by suckle, humiliated and burning, while Kathy just watched. God I hated her.
The smooth way she stood there like this was routine. The way she held the bottle steady with one hand, like she was feeding a goat, the slight upward twitch at the corner of her mouth when I gave a particularly desperate gulp. She was enjoying this. No, relishing it. Every moment of it felt orchestrated. Polished. Practiced.
And it made sense. She'd never liked me. Never hid it. For years she'd treated me like I wasn’t good enough for her daughter. Condescending glances, passive-aggressive remarks, that fake smile she’d wear whenever I walked into a room. But now?
Now I was literally beneath her. Now she had me trapped in some nightmarish nursery, strapped down in a soaking diaper, suckling from a warm bottle, too weak to fight back.
I wanted to spit the bottle out and scream. I wanted to curse her, break the damn crib apart, and walk out of this hellhole with the last shreds of my pride. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the straps held me down. Because she held all the power. Because the only way I could ever get my wife and my life back was through her.
So I kept drinking. Sputtering, sulking, hating her with every fiber of my being… but still suckling, like a good little boy.
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her robe. With one hand still on the bottle in my mouth, she used the other to reach in and grab it, smiling as she tapped the screen. Her thumb moved lightly across the glass, then she turned the screen toward me.
The message was lit up in big, bold text.
OMG stop. That’s HYSTERICAL. I cannot believe you already got him to say that. What did you do, Mom?? He sounds like an actual tottler!! This is working faster than I ever imagined!!!
Kathy didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I stared at the screen as it lowered again. My wife. My wife had sent that. The woman I married. The one I betrayed. The one I still wanted to win back.
And now, she was laughing at me. From the comfort of wherever she was, she was getting updates from her mother on how quickly I was unraveling. And she was thrilled.
I couldn’t even cry, the humiliation was too thick. It coated my skin like the formula coating my tongue.
Kathy looked back down at me, brushing her fingers lightly under my chin.
“Better keep drinking, little guy,” she said with a smug sweetness. “Looks like Mommy’s proud of how far you’ve come.”
The bottle gave a soft glug as the last of the formula slipped past my lips.
Kathy gave it a gentle tilt, checking that it was truly empty, then removed it with a wet pop. My jaw ached. My tongue felt thick and filmy. And my stomach…
God, my stomach felt bloated, like I’d swallowed warm glue. A sickly sweet heaviness settled deep inside me, nauseating and dull. I groaned softly, closing my eyes.
“Big full tummy,” Kathy cooed, setting the bottle aside and giving my chest a few light pats with her fingers. “Come on now, sweetheart. Let it out.”
I tried to resist, tried to turn my head, but she kept patting, rhythmic and insistent, like I was just a gassy little one after a feeding. And then, before I could stop it:
It was small, but loud enough. And mortifying.
“There we go,” she said, beaming like she’d taught a puppy a new trick. “Such a good baby!! All better now.”
I burned with shame. The formula sloshed in my belly. The straps held my arms down, still snug and unyielding.
Kathy leaned in closer, brushing my cheek once with the back of her hand, mockingly gentle.
“Now before I let you out,” she said, her voice dipping into something firmer, “I want to know if you’re going to behave.”
“Because I won’t have another tantrum like last night. I’ve got plenty of energy for another round with the paddle if you need it.” She let that hang in the air a second longer before softening just enough to raise an expectant brow. “Or… can Gam-Gam trust her little boy to be on his best behavior this morning?”
I didn’t speak, just nodded. Small, shaky.
She smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
One by one, she began undoing the crib straps. Each one peeled back with a gentle snap, her movements calm and precise. First the wrists, then the ankles, but not the mittens, those stayed on. But even once I was free, I didn’t move. Because now came the worst part. Kathy peeled the blanket back and gave my thigh a tap.
“Come on, then,” she said, her voice chipper. “Time for your diaper change.”
I flinched, actually flinched, as if the words had teeth.
The shame was coming again, fast and suffocating. I was a grown man in need of getting my pissy pamper changed by my mother-in-law.
She took me by the hand, not gently, not harshly, just…firmly. As if I didn’t get a say. And I didn’t. Each step toward the changing table felt heavier than the last. Heavier than the drooping diaper between my legs. My feet dragged, thick with shame. The crinkle between them didn’t help. It echoed in my ears with every movement, a reminder of what I’d done. What she’d put me in. What I’d used.
The table was worse up close. White wood, polished smooth, with thick padding on top. Drawers beneath, shelves to the side. I hadn’t noticed them the night before, not in my haze of exhaustion and disbelief.
Stacks of diapers. Dozens. All different kinds, colors, and adorned with different (yet, equally humiliating) cartoonish prints. A whole shelf dedicated to just those. She was ready for this. For me.
A fresh one waited, already out and waiting and ready to be used. The wipes, the cream, the powder, all lined up neatly, like surgical tools.
Her eyes met mine. No threat. No raised voice. Just that steady, maternal authority she’d perfected long before Claire was born.
I climbed up before she reached three.
She didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. Just adjusted the pad beneath me with brisk efficiency, as though my obedience had been a foregone conclusion. The table creaked faintly beneath my weight. My legs trembled as I eased myself down onto the soft vinyl padding. The moment I was down, she guided my ankles apart, placing one firm hand on my thigh.
My breath caught. My eyes darted to the shelves again. So many diapers. So many planned for me.
“Let’s not make this harder than it has to be,” she said, her voice mild, almost kind. Then, with that same terrible composure, “This is the first of many, sweetheart.”
She undid the tapes of my diaper with practiced efficiency. Rip. Rip. Rip. Like she was unveiling something she’d seen a hundred times before. Not her son-in-law. Just another soggy diaper to deal with. The front peeled away, and cool air hit my damp skin.
“Such a soggy little boy,” she murmured. “You really soaked this one,” she said, like it was nothing. Like commenting on the weather. “Good thing we’ve got plenty to replace them with.”
I closed my eyes. She opened the diaper and folded it down. My heart stopped.
There it was. There I was. My penis lying bare and useless, soft and shrunken and shriveled from being wet the whole night.Kathy reached for the wipes, humming under her breath.
“I told you, this would be your normal,” she said. “You didn’t believe me then. You will now.”
I twitched when the first wipe touched me. Chilly. Wet. Unforgiving. It wasn’t just cold, it was invasive.
She didn’t even blink. Not when she ran it down my shaft, not when she lifted my balls, not when wiping my buttcrack with impersonal efficiency. She didn’t even smirk. And that only made it worse.
Her calm, practiced motions made it clear she’d done this before. Not to me, but to others. Young and old. People who actually needed it.
And now I was one of them. Not a man. Not a husband. Not a person with dignity.
Just something to be cleaned.
My fists curled weakly at my sides. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to scream.
“See?” she said softly, almost gently. “This isn’t so bad. It’s just what happens now.”
She slid the soiled diaper out from under me and folded it with a sigh, like it was another chore on her list. Then came the cream. Cool, thick, and sticky as she spread it across my skin with her fingers.
“You’ll get changed like this every morning. Every night. And in between, depending on what you do. You don’t need to worry about that anymore. I’ll decide when you’re wet enough.”
She dusted the powder on next, the sickly-sweet scent filling the air.
I lay still. Humiliated. Half-naked. My cock and balls slathered in cream by a woman who used to insult my job, who once told Claire she could’ve done better. Now she was the one between my legs, and I couldn’t even stop her.
She lifted my hips with one hand, slid the fresh diaper under with the other, and patted it into place with a firmness that made me shudder.
The tapes came last. Sharp, loud rips. Like she was sealing something away. Sealing me away.
“All clean,” she said, giving the front of the diaper a light tap with her palm. “Much better. See what happens when we behave?”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to.
She guided me, still waddling and red-faced in my fresh diaper, toward the walk-in closet just off the changing area.
I expected linens. Towels. Maybe her robe hanging behind the door. But instead: rows.
Dozens of outfits, hung with meticulous care. Color-coded by type. Labeled bins beneath with matching accessories. Bloomers. Bibs. Socks. Mittens. Racks of onesies. Rompers. Booties. And worse.
Kathy hummed softly as she slid hangers across the rail, like a mother picking out school clothes.
“Aha,” she said, plucking it down. “This one’s perfect for my soggy boy.”
The shortalls were a washed-out, powdery blue. Matte, soft denim that looked worn to the point of frailty. The straps were wide and a little crooked, stitched with uneven seams that gave them a homemade look, like something made for a costume rather than clothing. The legs ballooned just enough to look ridiculous, gathered with elastic that would puff out no matter how still I stood.
Across the back, two glitter-thread arrows met at the center seam, ending beneath curved, looping letters that read: Oopsie Zone.
As she held them up, the secret of their design became obvious: a flap across the back fastened with neat brass snaps, ready to peel away at a moment’s notice. She gave it a little flick with her thumb, the metal clicking in the quiet room.
“Practical,” she said lightly, holding the outfit up against me. “And adorable.”
She laid it out with a matching pale-yellow T-shirt. Soft. Tight. The kind of cut that would ride up over my belly with every movement.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t dare. My face burned as she turned back to me.
“Unless you'd rather wear something pink with ruffles and different pronouns?”
My arms shot to the ceiling.
She slid the shirt over my head herself, tugging it into place with that same efficient, practiced neatness she used on everything else. I winced as it settled over mem short in the hem, tight in the sleeves. The fabric hovered over my belly button and padding as if itt had been tailored to humiliate me.
Next came the shortalls. She made me step into them one foot at a time while she crouched in front of me. She tugged them up and over the thick diaper with a few practiced wiggles and tugs, then snapped the straps over my shoulders.
The padded weight beneath pressed out against the fabric like a badge of shame.
She adjusted one strap, ran her hands down the front to smooth it, then gave the crotch a light pat.
Kathy took a step back to admire her handiwork.“There,” she said brightly. “All dressed.”
I felt nauseous. Not just from the diaper. From everything. The exposure. The forced helplessness. My wife’s mother dressing me like a goddamn cartoon character while humming through her morning tea.
Then she reached for the dresser again. Something small and brightly colored sat there. Plastic, round, with a little propeller on top.
“Almost forgot the finishing touch,” she said.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. She settled the ridiculous cap on my head and gave the propeller a light spin with her fingertip. It twirled once, lazily, then stopped.
“Perfect,” she said, stepping back and lifting her phone.
I stared at the floor, refusing to look in the mirror, which didn’t matter, because she held up her phone anyway.
“Say cheese,” she said sweetly.
“There we go,” she murmured, smiling at the screen. “Let’s let Mommy see how darling her little bedwetter looks.”
She tapped the screen, her arm extended like she was squinting into the sun, index finger stiff as it pecked the message. She murmured to herself as she typed, like she always did when composing texts.
Then she sent it. No way to undo it. No pause. No dignity left.I was dressed. Trapped. And now documented.
And this was just the start of the day, which she proceeded to lay out the schedule for:
“You’ll get three mushy meals a day in your highchair,” she went on, “three bottles, and–if you behave–a few little snackies.”
She turned to look at me, arms folded.
“You will not ask what’s in it. You will not whine about the taste. And if you use grown-up words to complain, you’ll be tasting something much worse.” She tapped her chin, almost playful.
“What’s our word for that again?”
My throat was dry. I didn’t want to say it. But I didn’t want the soap either.
Her expression barely flickered, but she gave a small approving nod. “Good boy,” she said, though the phrase was stripped of any praise. Just another box checked.
She moved to the colorful chart on the wall. My name scrawled across the top.
“Sunshines are for dry nights. Rainclouds for wet ones.” She looked over her shoulder. “If we need a new icon for messes, we’ll get one.” She glanced back at me, lips twitching faintly. “After last night, I probably should put two rainclouds.”
“Behavior is tracked separately,” she said briskly. “Obedience. Manners. Attitude. I’ll know if you’re trying, or if you’re sulking. You don’t have to like it here. But you will do what you’re told.”
Of course. This was Kathy.
It had always driven me crazy how rigid she was. Everything in its place. Everything scheduled, timed, sanitized. Claire had inherited all of it. The cleaning routines, the pre-packed weekend bags, the rotating chore charts. When we got married, our kitchen pantry was organized like a grocery store. That was Claire. That was Kathy’s legacy.
But this? This wasn’t just control. It was weaponized discipline.
“You’ll get three diaper checks. Morning, after lunch, and before bed,” she continued, closing the drawer softly. “You do not decide when you get changed. You’ll wait until I say so. If I suspect you’re holding it? Wel..l.” Her tone cooled. “We have ways of dealing with that.”
I didn’t dare ask what that meant.
“You get tummy time at least once a day. Playpen time. Quiet time. Nap time.” She slid the drawer fully closed with a crisp click. “And if you’re really lucky, a supervised trip outside. But only if you’ve earned it. Only if you’ve been good.”
She turned toward me, expression hardening.
“No furniture unless you’re invited. No standing without permission.”
Then, as if it were the most natural rule in the world:
“And you are not to touch yourself. Ever.” She looked between my legs with cold disdain, then back up at me with a viscous glare. “I will know.”
I blinked, stunned. “Wh-what??”
She stepped closer, voice ice-cold. “You heard me.”
The room felt suddenly tighter. Hotter.
It wasn’t just the words, it was who was saying them. My wife’s mother, staring me down like some overbearing matron, laying down rules for when I could or couldn’t even touch myself. Like I was some perverted little delinquent who needed his urges policed.
“I know the signs,” she added crisply. “A certain kind of rocking. A certain kind of whining. A certain smell.”
My face flushed with rage and shame all at once.
“If you try it, there will be consequences,” she said simply. “Severe ones.”
I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. There was no rebuttal, no dignity left to stand on. Her voice softened, but it didn’t get kinder.
“That part of you got you into this mess in the first place, and if you continue down that path, you will be in even more of a mess. Trust me.”
“…Y-yes, ma’am,” I said quietly.
I hesitated, then added, voice barely audible:
She smiled. Not warm. Not kind. Just satisfied.
Inside, I was cursing her. Cursing the smug tilt of her chin, the way she spoke to me like I was something to be trained. I wanted to tell her exactly what she could do with her rules, her chart, and her fake little smile. But I didn’t. Because I knew how it worked now. Every word, every look, every tiny rebellion would be charted, judged, and controlled.
And if I ever wanted my life back…
One wet diaper at a time.
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