The phone had buzzed three times that afternoon. Three messages, three invitations, three chances to be normal. But she’d swiped them all away with a smirk. Of course she wasn’t going. What kind of woman would trade a night out for the chance to rot in a soggy diaper like a overgrown toddler?
The first invite had been from her old college friends: Drinks at 9, club after. She could already picture them glossy lips, tight dresses, the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were wanted. But she? She’d rather be home, her thighs already damp from the first few sips of water, her diaper crinkling like a trash bag every time she shifted.
The second had been from her coworker, the one who always smelled like perfume and ambition. Exclusive rooftop party, dress to impress. As if she could impress anyone. The only thing she was impressive at was soaking through a diaper in record time.
And the third? The third had been the worst. Her cousin, the one who still looked at her with pity, like she was a project that had gone horribly wrong. Family thing, just a few people. But she wasn’t family. She was a disgrace. A grown woman who’d rather spend her Friday night stuffed with a vibrator and a mouthful of water than face the world like an adult.
So here she was. Alone. Pathetic. A joke of a person.
The diaper was already thick between her legs, the plastic backing cool against her skin as she pulled it up, taping it snug. She could feel the bulk of it, the way it made her waddle like a duck when she walked to the kitchen for another glass of water. Chug, chug, chug. Her bladder ached almost immediately, the pressure building like a taunt. She could’ve been dancing right now. She could’ve been laughing. She could’ve been wanted.
But no. She was here. A little filthy piggy who’d chosen this.
The vibrator was next. She didn’t even hesitate as she pressed it inside, the silicone slick with lube, the base snug against her entrance. The moment she turned it on, the buzz sent a jolt through her, her hips jerking up off the couch. Pathetic. She was already dripping, the diaper swelling with every little leak, the crinkle growing wetter, louder, more humiliating with every passing second.
She spread her legs wider, her fingers digging into the soaked padding, feeling the way it squelched under her touch. The vibrator thrummed against her walls, and she bit her lip, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Real women were out there, living their lives, being seen. And here she was, a useless little mess, her diaper sagging with the weight of her own shame.
“Look at you,” she muttered to herself, her voice thick with self-loathing. “A grown woman, and you’d rather sit in your own piss like a baby than put on a dress and act like a person.”
She drank more. The water sloshed in her stomach, the pressure in her bladder turning from a dull ache to a desperate need. The diaper was a swamp now, the wetness seeping into every crevice, the plastic clinging to her skin. She could smell it, the musky, warm scent of her own pee. The vibrator kept up its cruel rhythm, and she rocked against it, her hips rolling in tiny, needy circles, her breath hitching every time she got so close...
Because she didn’t deserve to come.
She was a disgrace. A waste. A little piggy who’d chosen this over everything.
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