Chapter 7 - Bridge Jumper
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Links to earlier chapters:
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6
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“You see? Much cleaner already.”
The sound wasn’t the familiar crinkle of tapes on a diaper this time. It was harsher, meaner: hot wax cooling against my skin, cloth strips pressed flat, then torn away in one merciless yank. Each rip left a burning stripe of smoothness across my thigh, the hair coming with it in ugly black clumps that she dropped unceremoniously into a little stainless-steel bowl.
Another ladle of wax, thick and honey-gold, painted higher this time, right up to the crease where leg meets groin. She smoothed the strip down with the heel of her hand, slow, deliberate, like she was sealing an envelope she never intended to let me open again.
I jerked so hard the changing table creaked.
“Stay still, Ethan, or we start the whole leg over.”
I couldn’t answer. The oversized pacifier filled my mouth completely, the shield pressed tight against my nose and chin. I hadn’t even noticed I’d started nursing it again. The bulb filled my mouth completely, the little ring bouncing with every frantic suck.Weeks of conditioning had turned sucking on it into pure reflex. When the pain or shame hit, my mouth went to work on the bulb without thinking.
Kathy worked inward, strip by strip, the warm spatula spreading the next layer of wax with practiced care. She had already finished my left leg with long, smooth strokes from ankle to hip. Now she was closing in on the last stubborn patch at the top of my inner right thigh. The pink chastity cage, my "clitty jail" as she had begun calling it, sat snug between my legs.
My face burned hotter than the wax. She noticed, of course. She always noticed.
“Almost there, sweetheart. Just the delicate parts left.”
She set the spatula down and reached for a fresh pair of gloves, snapping them on with a crisp pop. Then she folded my knees all the way back to my chest, the way she did every morning for a diaper change, my legs stayed spread and my bottom lifted slightly off the mat. The position left me completely vulnerable, everything on display under the bright nursery lights.
I whimpered around the paci. A thin string of drool slipped past the shield and ran down my cheek.
Kathy dipped the small spatula into the warmer again. This time the wax felt hotter, almost scalding. She held my thigh steady with one hand and painted it carefully along the seam of my left ball. Every single hair glued itself flat against the sensitive skin.
I shook my head frantically, eyes wide with fear. My balls tightened on their own, trying to hide from what was coming. Every muscle in my body tensed, but there was nowhere to go. The table creaked as I squirmed, legs trembling in the cuffs.
Kathy waited one heartbeat. Two.
Then she ripped the strip away in one clean, merciless yank.
White-hot fire exploded through my scrotum. My entire body jerked hard against the restraints. A muffled scream tore out around the pacifier, high and broken. Tears flooded my eyes instantly as the burning pain radiated outward. The skin pulled painfully tight, now completely bare and throbbing.
I gasped and whimpered, hips twitching uselessly in the air.
“Shhh, shhh,” Kathy murmured, almost tenderly. “One more side, sweetheart. Be a good boy and stay still for Gam-Gam.”
She dipped the spatula again. The wax looked even hotter this time. I whimpered louder, shaking my head as much as the pacifier and restraints allowed, but she simply gripped my other thigh and began painting the right ball with the same slow, careful strokes.
The heat made me hiss and squirm harder. My toes curled tight inside the mittens. Fresh drool spilled down my chin as panic rose in my chest.
She pressed the second strip down, rubbed it twice, and paused.
I couldn’t. My chest heaved with tiny, terrified sobs.
Another blaze of white fire ripped across my right ball. I howled into the pacifier, back arching violently off the table. The pain was sharper here, deeper, leaving the skin shiny, tight, and completely smooth. Cool air stung the freshly denuded flesh like needles.
Kathy set the strip aside and ran one gloved finger slowly around both balls, inspecting her work with quiet satisfaction.
My balls were now baby-bare, tight, shiny, and throbbing. The skin pulled so taut I could feel the cool air of the room moving across every inch like a thousand tiny needles.
She gripped my hips and tilted them even higher, rolling me slightly so my bottom lifted clear of the mat. Cool air kissed my hole.
“This part is very important,” she murmured, almost tenderly. “Messy boys get messy cracks. We can’t have that under my roof, can we?”
A fresh, narrower spatula. The wax felt scalding here. She painted a perfect little circle around my anus, coating every stray hair, then drew a thin line upward along my taint. She pressed the first strip dead center, smoothed it with two gloved fingers, and let it set for three long, silent seconds.
I was shaking. Actually shaking. My toes curled inside the soft mittens she’d locked on my hands last night after I’d tried (and failed) to touch myself through the diaper.
I howled into the paci. The sound came out as a high, broken wail that would have embarrassed me if I still had any dignity left.
Two more strips, vertical, then angled, until she was satisfied. She set the spatula aside and ran one gloved finger all the way around the freshly waxed skin, inspecting her work with clinical pride.
“There we go! Not a single hair left to hide anything from Gam-Gam.” She gave the cage a patronizing little flick; the bell jingled brightly. “Look how smooth and pink you are! Just like a proper little boy should be! Much easier to keep the little baybee clean now,” she said, working her fingers between my bare buttcheeks. “No more big-man fuzz poking through your diapies! No more nasty hairs getting stuck in the mess. And when you inevitably poop your diapers again, you’ll see how convenient it is to wipe your little bootycrack.”
She peeled off the gloves, tossed them, and reached for the baby oil. Cool, slick drops landed on my bare skin. She rubbed it in everywhere. Slow, thorough circles over my swollen balls, down my taint, deep into my crack and over my butthole, until every inch gleamed under the lights. Then came the powder. She shook the big bottle over me like she was dusting a cake, a thick white cloud rising and settling into every crease. The sweet, unmistakable smell filled the nursery completely.
She reached for the jar on the shelf…the one with the glycerin suppositories. My eyes widened. I tried to shake my head, but the restraints and the paci turned it into nothing more than a pathetic wiggle.
Kathy smiled sweetly and popped the lid.
“One more little thing before we get you all dressed and ready for company…”
She held up the first slippery bullet between two fingers, letting me see it.
“These should get things moving along nicely by the time the ladies arrive. You’ve been doing so well on your own lately, but we can’t have you disappointing an audience, can we?”
I crawled next to her down the hall, like an obediently trained puppy. The hardwood floor still hurt my knees, but I had at least gotten slightly used to the dull pain by now. The thick diaper crinkled between my legs. The undersized onesie keeping it tight against my skin. The lace edges of the ridiculous bonnet around my head slightly obscuring my view.
The thoughts still spun in my head as to what she could mean by company. Was Claire coming over?? Was I finally going to get to see her again? To plead with her to take me back? To show her how much I’ve changed. Maybe she’d missed me. Maybe she’d heard how obedientI’d become and decided I’d suffered enough. Maybe she’d walk in, see the bonnet and the diaper and the cage, and finally take pity.
But another thought crossed my mind: Kathy had specifically said ladies.
Was Claire bringing friends to laugh at my humiliation? College girlfriends? Coworkers? Women that used to come to our barbecues and give me hugs and compliments on my cooking and figure? The image of their laughter, their phones raised, their giggles and cackles at my shame. It made bile rise even as the first faint warmth from the suppositories spread low in my belly.
When we turned the corner into the living room though, something new was occupying the space next to the playpen. It looked like some sort of miniature crane, despite its size taking up a large amount of living room.
“Say hello to your new jumper!” Kathy beamed.
I stared at the odd contraption, frozen on all fours.
“Towards the end, Charles had trouble getting in and out of bed,” she explained, voice almost fond. “It helped with his mobility, his physical therapy, strengthening what little he had left in his legs. So I figured… why not do the same for a little diaper man who can’t stand on his own two feet?”
She patted the frame. “Up.”
I knew better than to hesitate, even though I was intimidated. I rose awkwardly, the diaper forcing my stance wide, and stood trembling while she worked.
She popped the crotch snaps on the onesie open so it peeled back and hung around my waist like an apron, leaving the massive, bulging diaper fully exposed. Then she buckled me in methodically. Wide waist belt first, cinched snug. Hip straps next, cradling under my padded bottom and framing the obscene swell front and back. Chest strap, underarm straps, finally the crotch strap that ran between my legs and clipped securely, pressing the diaper even tighter against me. Every buckle clicked with finality.
She stepped back to admire her work, and then to the remote on the side table and pressed UP.
The motor hummed.The harness tightened, pressing against my diaper and cock cage, lifting me smoothly until only the balls of my feet brushed the carpet. I swayed gently, suspended, the diaper crinkling with every tiny oscillation.
“One last thing,” she said, brandishing the little booties from the side table.
They looked innocent enough: soft suede in pale blue to match the onesie. I almost relaxed. How much worse could footwear be when I was already bonneted, mittened, and diapered to bursting?
Then she turned them over.
Inside, the insoles bristled with dozens of short, blunt metal spikes. Not sharp enough to pierce skin, but more than enough to punish any real weight.
I cringed. She noticed, smiled thinly, and knelt to cinch them on tight. The moment any pressure hit the soles, the points dug in. I yelped and jerked my feet up instantly. The harness caught all my weight, the spring above creaked softly. I hung there, toes curled tight, bouncing lightly in place.
“Perfect,” she said, stepping back to admire. “You’ll bounce nicely for the ladies. And those little spikes will keep you doing proper baybee bounces! No cheating by standing like a big boy.”
She stuffed the largest rubber pacifier in my mouth and tapped it to tell me that it will stay in place. “You are to be seen and not heard.” She muttered, clenching my cheeks firmly to let me know she meant business.
My stomach twisted hard. The first low cramp rippled through me, warm and insistent, promising worse to come.
Kathy smoothed the front of her blouse, turned toward the door, and glanced back at me once.
“Smile for our guests, Ethan. They’ve been so looking forward to meeting you!”
Three women stepped in with a wave of perfume and quiet excitement. all late-fifties, all still what one would call a “smoke-show”. No doubt they were still turning heads at the country club.
Flowery dresses, pearl earrings, hair perfectly set in soft waves or elegant bobs. They carried themselves with that effortless, expensive poise: tanned, toned, manicured, laughing lightly as though they’d just come from brunch with their heads still spinning from mimosas.
“Oh, Katherine! The house looks lovely!”
“Something smells divine!”
“Is that the famous lemon bars I smel—”
They paused in the doorway of the living room, eyes locking onto me in perfect unison.
All I could do was dangling there, waxed bare, diaper bulging, bonnet ribbons swaying, pacifier bobbing with every shallow, terrified breath.
“Oh my word!” the first one breathed, stopping dead in the doorway.“Ohhh, Kathy, you weren’t kidding!”
She stepped forward first, hands clasped in front of her. “Bless his little heart!!” she cooed, reaching up to pinch my cheek roughly between thumb and forefinger. “Look at those rosy cheeks. And the bonnet! Kathy, where did you even find one that big?”
The other two followed, crowding into a little semi-circle around me. The springs creaked again as I instinctively tried to shrink away.
The second woman folded her arms and studied me like a problem to be solved.
“Wel…,” she said flatly, “it’s certainly thorough.” Her nose turned upward like I was a town oddity hung up on display. She stepped right up and gave the front of the diaper a firm, testing squeeze, like she was checking the pressure on a bike tire. The padding compressed with a soggy squish. To my horror, I realized I was already wet. She noticed it too.
“Already soaked through,” she tutted, raising an eyebrow and stepping back with her nose still upturned, as if I were some sickly circus animal. “Has he been learning his lesson? Shaping up?”
“He’s getting there,” Kathy replied calmly from the doorway, arms crossed. “One dirty diaper at a time.”
“Hmmm…” The third woman tilted her head, voice thoughtful. “I ought to do the same to my ungrateful son-in-law. Thirty-eight and still can’t hold down a job.”
The first woman (still squeezing my chin and cheeks) clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Poor thing! Harold’s been in diapers since the stroke. I’ve never seen him so down on himself. He hates every second of it. Really strips them of their pride, you know?”
“Paul’s neuropathy is so bad he barely feels anything below the knees,” the short-haired one added. “Still, he’d rather wet the bed than let me put him in something this… juvenile.”
“I can’t even imagine Raymond in one of these,” the third chimed in, eyes sparkling with dark amusement. “He’d have died of shame. But oh, wouldn’t it have been glorious? Every time he came home late, I’d tape him up and make him crawl for his supper. Oh what a gas that would have been!”
They weren’t being cruel. That was the worst part. They were genuinely, politely fascinated, the way women discuss a daring new recipe or an especially clever gardening trick.
One of them edged a little closer still, her voice dropping instinctively into something softer, almost tender. “Does he fuss?” she asked Kathy, though her eyes never left me. “Or is he always this… sweet?”
“He’s learned to be,” Kathy answered simply, giving me a quick, cold glare. “He knows what happens if he doesn’t.”
Just the thought of one of Kathy’s seemingly never-ending list of creative punishments made me clench my legs hard. The diaper crinkled sharply, the jumper springs squeaking in protest.
“He doesn’t seem to mind it too much, though!” One of them admired, patting the thickly padded seat of my diaper with an open palm. The impact sent a humiliating ripple through the soggy bulk. I whimpered around the pacifier despite myself.
“You know,” the short-haired one added brightly, “I saw something just like this on the news. Grown men who have a fetish for wearing diapers. Whole communities! They have parties and everything. People get off on anything these days, I tell you!”
Kathy’s lips curved into the faintest, knowing smile. “Oh, we have methods of keeping that in check as well… don’t we, Ethan?”
The three women turned to her in unison, eyebrows raised.
“What does that mean?” they asked, delighted curiosity in their voice.
Kathy waved a dismissive hand, already herding them toward the card table. “Oh, you’ll probably find out later. Come, come, we’ll deal in. He’s fine right where he is.”
They drifted toward the chairs, still glancing back over their shoulders with fond, approving little smiles. The first cards hit the felt with soft taps. Laughter rose in a light, musical, and utterly unbothered sort of way.
Every so often one of them would peek over, murmur something approving (“Look how quiet he’s being!” “Such a good boy now”), and return to the game.
I stayed exactly where they’d left me: strung up in the center of the living room, gently bouncing on the creaking spring with every terrified breath, the wet diaper sagging heavier by the minute, four pairs of eyes occasionally drifting back to their new favorite conversation piece.
Sometimes chatter flowed like I wasn’t even there, making me feel like nothing more than an infantilized decoration.
“Richard’s physical therapist says another six months and he might walk without the cane.”
“Paul still insists on real underwear during the day. Stubborn man.”
Soft laughter. Cards shuffled. The delicate clink of iced-tea glasses.
I tried to stay perfectly still. Every tiny shift made the harness creak and the already-wet diaper crinkle loud enough for the whole room to hear. They didn’t seem to care or mind, but I sure did. The heavy, swollen padding sagged warmly between my thighs with every gentle bounce of the spring.
My stomach gurgled again, louder this time, wet and ominous. The suppositories Kathy had forced into me were working exactly as intended.
I tried to clench. Tried to bargain with my own body.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
I clenched every muscle I could, sweat prickling across my freshly waxed thighs and belly. The bouncer kept me rocking gently, pressing the padding against me in slow, rhythmic squeezes.
Another cramp hit. Harder. I whimpered behind the pacifier, a small, pathetic sound lost beneath the women’s chatter. No one looked up.
Forty-three minutes later (I know, because I counted every single tick on the grandfather clock), the pressure became a fist.
I fought. God, I fought. Sweat rained down my smooth body now. The harness held me open, cradled, helpless. Each tiny bounce pressed the harness tighter against my gut.
A deep, uncontrollable push. My body betrayed me in slow, humiliating waves. First a soft crackle, then a warm, mushy rush that spread heavily into the seat of the diaper. I couldn’t stop it. Another cramp rolled through me and more came, filling the back of the diaper with a heavy, squelching load. The mess ballooned outward, pressing warm and soft against my skin as the bouncer continued its gentle, merciless rocking. Each sway squished it deeper, smearing it across my cheeks and up toward my lower back.
Bea wrinkled her nose first. She paused mid-deal.
“Oh my,” she said lightly. “I believe someone’s had an accident.”
Linda sniffed, using her cards to cover her nose. “Oof! Yea…I think someone needs a change.”
The short-haired one (Marjorie, I’d overheard) sniffed once, then nodded. “Definitely. Quite ripe.”
Kathy didn’t even glance in my direction. She studied her cards for a long moment, then played the ace of spades with a soft, deliberate tap.
“He can wait,” she said flatly, voice bored. “We’re in the middle of a hand.”
The women exchanged glances, noticing Kathy’s resolve, then played along with a ripple of polite agreement.
“Absolutely. Let him stew a bit.”
“They learn faster when they have to sit in it.”
And that was it. No further discussion. The women simply returned to their game as if nothing had happened.
I dangled there in my own filth, tears sliding silently down my burning cheeks beneath the bonnet. Every gentle bounce of the harness ground the warm, mushy mess deeper, smearing it across my skin, working it into every fold, pressing the heavy, soiled diaper tighter against me. The spiked booties kept me from finding any relief. Whenever I tried to stretch my legs or push down even an inch, the sharp little points bit into my soles, forcing me back into the relentless rocking.
Squelch… creak… squelch… creak…
Still, Kathy ignored me completely.
I stewed. I rocked. I wept silently. The harness pressed it all in deeper with every slow, mocking bounce.
Thirty more agonizing minutes crawled by.
By the time Kathy finally set her cards down and rose, the mess had cooled into a heavy, clinging sludge. My skin crawled. Every tiny movement made the diaper sag and shift with a sickening, squelching weight between my legs. I was shaking, tears streaming, utterly broken by the casual indifference of four elegant women who had simply decided my humiliation could wait until it was convenient for them. They were still calmly discussing whether Botox or fillers were better at fifty-nine.
Kathy crossed the room at last, heels clicking with unhurried precision. She stopped a few feet away, tilted her head and inhaled slowly, deliberately, as if noticing the smell for the very first time.
“Oh dear,” she said, voice smooth and mildly surprised. “It seems someone’s made quite the poopy diaper!”
She beckoned the other three women with a casual wave. They all rose together and approached, surrounding me in a semi-circle of flowery dresses and perfume.
Bea leaned in first, eyes soft with condescending sweetness. “Uh oh!! Did somewon have a widdle accident??”
Linda cooed, “Did you make a big stinky in your diapy for us?”
Marjorie smiled gently. “Such a full one, too. Look how it’s sagging!”
They all looked at me expectantly. I could only nod miserably, tears spilling faster, a humiliated whine escaping around the pacifier.
“Awww, listen to that little whimper!!” Bea cooed, reaching up to pat my bonneted head. “Poor baby!!”
Kathy gave the heavily loaded seat of my diaper a single, dismissive pat, squishing the mess deliberately. “Well, ladies,” she said casually, “I think it’s time to change the little dumper jumper’s diaper. Would any of you like to lend a hand changing him?”
The three women exchanged delighted little glances, clearly intrigued by the offer.
“Oh, I’d be happy to!” Bea said at once, “It takes me right back to when my boys were little.”
“Same here,” Linda said with a fond chuckle. “Though none of mine ever filled one quite like this.”
Marjorie smiled. “Count me in. Four of us should make it quick and easy.”
Kathy unbuckled the harness with efficient movements. The moment the straps released, my legs trembled. The massively swollen, sagging diaper pulled downward like a waterlogged sandbag, the cooled, heavy mess shifting and squelching loudly with even the slightest motion. The women guided me gently down onto the soft living-room rug, laying me on my back right in the center of the floor as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
They knelt around me in a loose semi-circle, their flowery dresses pooling elegantly on the carpet while the thick, earthy smell rose from my ruined diaper.
“Alright ladies,” Kathy said, grabbing the changing basket. “Let’s get this sorted.”
Bea and Linda each took one of my ankles, lifting my legs together and holding them high with gentle but firm hands. Marjorie slid a thick changing pad beneath my bottom to protect the rug. Kathy untaped the overloaded diaper and let the front fall open. The warm, heavy stench rolled upward fully.
“Oh my,” Bea murmured, keeping my legs steady. “That’s quite a heavy one, isn’t it?”
Linda nodded, “Oof! And stinky too!”
“I don’t know how you do it by choice, Kathy,” Marjorie said, clamping her nose as she handed over a thick stack of wipes. “With Harold it’s just… what has to be done. Medical necessity. But choosing this? That’s some real dedication.”
Kathy gave a small shrug, as if there was no other answer. “This is the best teacher I’ve found. When a man betrays his wife and refuses to grow up, nothing drives the lesson home quite like forcing him to wear his own toilet. Making him wear and sit in his own messes is the most honest way I’ve found to teach him what consequences and humility actually feel like.”
One of them tilted her head with polite curiosity. “Oh…and what’s this clever little device here?”
Kathy glanced down and gave a small, satisfied smile. “That’s his chastity cage. Keeps him from getting any inappropriate ideas while he’s learning his place. The inner spikes give him a reminder if he tries to get excited.”
Linda let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “How inventive. What will you think of next, Kathy?”
Bea smiled down at me while continuing to hold my legs. “Look at him lying there so patiently while we clean him up. Such a good baby.”
The women worked together seamlessly. Wiping, lifting, powdering, and finally sliding a fresh, thick diaper underneath me. Bea and Linda kept my legs raised while Kathy taped the new diaper snug and secure, the bulky padding forcing my thighs apart once more.
“There we are!!” Bea said sweetly, giving the front a gentle pat. “All fresh and clean again. Doesn’t that feel so much better, sweetheart?”
Linda cooed, “Nice and puffy. Just the way a widdle baybee should be!”
Kathy snapped the onesie back into place over the pristine, crinkly diaper and helped me sit up. The fresh padding felt impossibly thick between my legs.
She looked at me directly, voice calm and expectant. “What do we say when Gam-Gam and her friends take care of your poopy diaper?”
I swallowed hard, cheeks burning. Around the pacifier I managed a lisping, broken whimper: “F-ffank… you… Gam-Gam… an’ fwiends… fow changing my poopy diapy…”
The women let out a collective, warm “Awww!!!”
Bea brushed a stray tear from my cheek with her thumb. “You’re very welcome, baby. You were such a good boy for us.”
Kathy gave the front of my freshly padded crotch one final, possessive pat. “Back in the jumper with you. We still have cards to finish.”
They guided me up and buckled me once more into the bouncer harness. The clean diaper crinkled loudly with every movement, the spring gently rocking me again as if nothing had happened.
The women returned to their seats around the card table, smiling and chatting lightly as the cards began shuffling again.
The game resumed. The cards shuffled. Laughter rose.
And just like that, I became part of the furniture once more. I dangled there slowly in the bouncer, freshly powdered and utterly forgotten… until the next accident.
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