It was Monday morning, and I already knew I was in trouble. As I said I’m going to a shower the look on her face the sly smile and a ok
The warm water of the shower did little to soothe my nerves. I went through the motions, trying to steady my thoughts for the day ahead. As usual, I expected the familiar sound of the front door clicking shut—my wife heading out with the dog. But instead, the bathroom door creaked open and her voice cut through the steam.
“Your clothes are on the bed. See you later.”
Then, silence. The door shut again.
For a moment, I froze. Something about her tone felt… deliberate. Knowing. I quickly dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist, a pit forming in my stomach. As I opened the bedroom door, my eyes locked on the neatly arranged outfit laid out for me on the bed—and everything stopped.
Pull-ups. A pair of plastic pants. Socks. My skinniest jeans folded just so. A crisp shirt hung from the wardrobe door. But it wasn’t just the clothing that caught my attention. There, folded deliberately, were my pyjamas—turned inside out, the crotch unmistakably highlighted. A quiet, damning display. Evidence of last night. Evidence I thought I’d cleaned up well enough.
My heart pounded. Surely she wasn’t serious? I had a full day in the office—meetings, briefings, people all around me. There was no way I could wear… that. Someone would notice. They’d have to.
I stood there, staring at the bed, weighing my options. But I already knew. If I ignored this—if I defied the message she’d left—I knew that coming home tonight would be much, much worse.
Dread knotted in my chest as I began to dress.
First the shirt—buttoned slowly, my hands slightly trembling. Then the pull-ups, cool against my skin, sliding up with an unnerving ease. The plastic pants followed, gripping tight at my thighs before snapping into place over the soft bulk. I hesitated at the jeans. She’d chosen the tightest pair I owned—no coincidence, I was sure.
Getting them up took effort. The snug denim resisted the new bulk beneath, but eventually, they stretched over. I tucked in the shirt, carefully, trying to smooth out any telltale signs. I turned to the mirror.
Maybe… just maybe… it wasn’t noticeable.
Every movement exaggerated the unfamiliar sensation—the rustle of plastic, the constriction, the soft padding pressing in at every angle. My reflection stared back at me—same face, same clothes—but now with a secret no one could see, and a gnawing anxiety I couldn’t shake.
As I grabbed my keys and stepped out to the car, I already felt the weight of the day ahead—an eventful one, no doubt. Not just because of the meetings or the office politics… but because of what I wore beneath it all.
snowghoul
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
dededos
tangentwithtanner
origamiaround
2087
