âWhy arenât you by the door?â Molly barked from the kitchen. She sounded like a mother of three running late for daycare drop-off, not a woman with a fully grown husband in diapers.
She stomped into the hallway, diaper bag already packed, keys in hand. âIâve been ready for ten minutes. What are you doing?â
He was lingering by the mirror, fidgeting, face flushed.
âShoes,â she said firmly, pointing.
He didnât move fast enough.
âDo you need help, baby? Hmm? Want Mommy to velcro your widdle sneakers for you, too?â
He bent down quickly, fumbling.
Molly grabbed the diaper bag and tossed a bottle inside along with a rattle and two spare diapers. Her tone softened, but not out of kindness. It was that syrupy sweetness that always made him feel smaller.
âMommy packed your baba with the carrot-prune formula you hate,â she sang. âMaybe if youâre really good, youâll get to drink it in the cart while we shop.â
She turned back to him, and paused.
âOh no,â she said, stepping closer. âI know that look.â
She marched right up to him, turned his shoulders with one hand, and tapped the side of his thigh.
Her voice dropped into that clipped register she only used when he was on thin ice.
He obeyed, spreading his legs awkwardly and putting his hands behind his back as he'd been trained to do for diaper checks.
She crouched with a sigh and pressed the bloated crotch of his diaper. There was no mistaking the steamy warmth, the sag, the squish.
âOhhh,â she cooed mock-sweetly. âSo thatâs what was taking so long. You werenât brushing your hair or finding your shoes. You were just standing there, wetting your diaper like you had no control at all.â
She gave the front two firm presses.
âUnbelievable,â she muttered. âYou donât even try to hold it anymore, do you? Didnât even think to tell me, hmm?â she added, voice dripping with condescension. âYouâd rather soak yourself and hope I wouldnât notice.â
When he didnât answer, she pressed again, then noticed something stiff inside.
âOh,â she said suddenly, voice still sweet but now laced with sharp amusement. âSomebodyâs excited.â
The soft swell beneath the padding twitched.
âWell this wonât do,â she said, pressing firmer. âYouâre not riding in my car all backed up and leaky like that!"
âAww, shush. You always make such a mess if I donât help,â she added with a sigh, like it was a task she had grown used to. âHold still, baby.â
She rubbed the front of his soaked diaper with practiced ease. Small, circular motions that made his knees buckle slightly. His pacifier clip bounced against his chest with every breath.
âThere we gooo!!â she cooed, watching his face. âMake stickies in your pampers for Mommy. Thatâs it. Go on. You're already soaked, might as well finish the job!"
He gasped, legs trembling, quaking so bad she thought he might collapse.
The front of his diaper pulsed under her fingers once, twice, then he let out the most pathetic whimper as the last of his control gave out.
âThere it is!â she whispered triumphantly. âThatâs my little mess maker!!â
His hips twitched. His knees continued to buckle.
Molly didnât stop right away. She gave him a few more slow, deliberate strokes, watching him flinch, before finally letting go.
âAll done?â she asked mockingly, peeking a finger and a look into his into his diaper. âOooh!! Somewon made a big goo-goo!!"
Molly smiled, sharp and satisfied.
She let the diaper snap back into place with a wet smack, then patted the swollen front twice and stood up.
âSticky and soggy,â she said cheerfully. âPerfect for a store trip.â
âWhat?â she said with mock surprise. âYou thought I was going to change you?â
She grabbed a wipe from the bag, cleaned her hands with a sigh, then pointedly shook her head.
âNo way. You made that mess, youâre going to wear it. Iâm not wasting a fresh diaper just because you canât keep your wittle winkie under control for five minutes.â
From the bag, she pulled the final touch: a pair of bright red shorts. Thin, clingy, and humiliatingly tight.
One foot. Then the other.
She yanked them up his legs and over the bloated diaper, tugging them until the waistband stretched high over the thickest part.
The back sagged slightly. The front was impossible to ignore.
Molly stepped back, admiring her work.
âAdorable,â she smirked. âThey donât hide anything, do they?â
She gave the waistband a sharp snap, then turned toward the door.
âGrab your baba and your rattle. You can hold them in the cart.â
She looked back over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. Then her voice dropped. Low, sharp, and unmistakably serious. âAnd you better not make poo-poos while weâre out. I mean it.â
She stepped closer, her tone tight and maternal.
âI donât know whatâs wrong with you lately. You canât hold it, you donât warn me, and you act like itâs normal to just... let go whenever you feel like it.â
âIf you lose control again, weâre going straight into the womenâs restroom. Right back to the changing station. Just like last time.â
She let that hang there for a moment.
âAwww! You remember, don't you? When those college girls walked in and saw you on your back, legs in the air, bawling like a brat in his own stink?â Her expression turned almost pitying. âPoor baby. Iâd be mortified too. But maybe this time youâll think twice before filling your pampers in public.â
She opened the door, holding it wide.
âLetâs go, pamper prince. And you better waddle fast, Mommy wants to beat the lunch crowd!â
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