He cheated once. Just once. And somehow this is what his life became.
He was face-down on the soft blue sheets, his legs splayed wide, the thick padding between them still warm from earlier. The guest room was dim. Suffocating. His pacifier lay beside him, heād spat it out during one of his pathetic, choked sobs.
But worse, worse than the crinkle, worse than the stuffed animals staring at him from the corners of the room, was the sound from the other side of the wall.
The bed he used to share. The bed they bought together. The bed she now shared with him.
She didnāt need to raise her voice. Not when the moans said it all. Not when the rhythm was soā¦ mocking. Deliberate. Like they wanted him to hear it.
He buried his face in the pillow, the crinkling under his hips louder as he shifted, trying not to move, not to feel it.
The pressure. The heat. The padding. And before he knew what he was doing, he was grinding.
āNo,ā he whispered, his voice muffled in the sheets. āNo, pleaseā¦ā
He hated himself. For what he did to his wife, for what he did to his diaper, for what he was doing now.
But his hips moved on their own. Pathetically. Shamefully. He clutched the blankets. The sobs returned, harder now. Each thrust of the headboard outside matched his own. The rhythm syncing in the worst, most humiliating way.
"Oh yea, Brandon! Ohhh fuck YEAAA!!"
He had never heard her moan like that. Not when they were together. Not even close.
It soundedā¦ real. Effortless. Hungry. Like she was being taken. Worshipped. Ruined in the best way. And loving every second of it.
āGod, yes! Just like that! Yes! Fuck! YESSSS!!ā
Her voice was sharp now. High. Wrung out. Not for show.
He bit down into the pillow, shaking. Trying not to move. Not to feel. But his hips betrayed him again. A whimper slipped from his throat. He hated himself for it.
So he tried, desperately, to imagine her beneath him. That it was her body he was grinding against. That she was the one making those sounds because of him.
But the crinkle said otherwise.
Each thrust was met with that humiliating plasticky squish. That soft resistance of the soaked, swollen padding beneath him. Not skin. Not warmth. Just the same shameful, ridiculous diaper she taped him into hours earlier before telling him not to interrupt their evening.
He let out a noise--half whimper, half sob--as the pressure crested in him. His hips jerked again, once, twice, then a final trembling thrust. It wasn't powerful. It wasnāt satisfying. It was desperate. Twitchy. Weak. Pathetic.
His release came with a broken gasp, muffled into the sheets. An eruption of shame more than pleasure. No moan. No pleasure-cry. Just a dry-mouthed sob as his body betrayed him one last time, spurting into the soaked padding in a series of short, involuntary spasms.
It wasnāt even good. But it still happened.
He clutched the blanket like it might bury him. His breath caught, then broke. Sharp and wet, full of tears. His chest heaved as the realization sank in, deeper than it ever had before.
She was being held. Tasted. Filled.
And he was leaking into his diaper on the guest bed.
Sticky. Spent. Worthless.
He collapsed, trembling. The clarity hit fast, cold and punishing. His legs shook, the damp crinkle against his skin a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. What heād become.
And her moans continued to echo.
Real ones. The kind sheād never made with him.
The kind no amount of padding, pacifiers, or pathetic humping would ever earn back.
He was still leaking into his diaper, and she was still getting even.
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Thanks @brattylittlesteff for the amazing picture!
