He was already sniffling when I entered the room.
Not even five minutes in, not even touched, and already his nose was running like a tottler with no tissue in sight.
Of course, I thought as I tugged on a pair of gloves and stepped toward the diaper cart. Itâs always the new ones.
He stood in the corner like he was in time-out, arms awkwardly clenched behind him, hospital gown hanging open at the back. His socks were a reddish pink. They always were. Meant to âease the transition,â supposedly. But somehow they made them look even more ridiculous.
I watched him from the corner of my eye as I sifted through the stack. Thin, daytime, leak-prone? No. He didnât seem like heâd be earning that kind of leniency anytime soon.
I pulled out one of the thicker ones, unfolded it slowly, letting the crinkle echo around the quiet tile and plastic of the room. There weren't any pink ones in the room, but he'd be in them sooner or later.
At the sound of plastic unfolding, his knees crumbled and he let out a shrill, hiccupping wail, so sudden and raw it didnât sound like it belonged to a grown man at all.
He knew what he was in for. They all do if theyâve made it this far. When the Matriarchy deems them unfit to be a man, there is only one path left.
Some come quietly, resigned and numb. Others fight, thrashing and shouting until theyâre strapped down and drained of resistance.
And then there are the ones like him. The most pathetic kind. The ones who cry the whole way through. Loud, grating sobs, as if crying like a baby could somehow prove they didnât belong in diapers. As if wailing might make the sentence seem less fitting, instead of sealing it in place.
I didnât look at him. I didnât need to. I just moved to the exam bed and laid the diaper out with practiced ease, giving it a sharp, smooth pat at the center. The powder and wipes were already waiting.
Routine. Predictable. No different from the last dozen or the dozen before that. His cries didnât matter. They never did. The process was always the same: lay it out, secure the subject, strip them down, and reduce them to what theyâve already been told they are.
âLie down.â I finally said, my voice loud and echoing through the room.
He sniffled. âN-n-no⊠no, p-pleaseâŠâ
There it was. The inevitable plea. The one they all thought might make a difference.
I didnât sigh. I didnât soften. I only waited, gloved hands loose at my sides, letting the silence stretch. The diaper lay open behind me like a patient verdict, waiting.
He shifted on his feet, eyes darting from the diaper, to the bed, to me, to the diaper, to the door, to the diaper again.
âPlease,â he whimpered again, voice cracking, âIâll be goodââ
âAwww...â I said at last, gentle and resigned, trying to maintain my patience. âYou think good behavior changes the sentence? Sorry, sweetie! It doesnât. Not here.â
He trembled harder, chest hitching, eyes going glassy. His feet still didnât move.
I let the quiet drag another few beats, then lowered my voice until it cut like wire. âNow. Lie down. Or I call the guards. And i'm sure you know by now what theyâll do with you.â
His eyes went wide, horrified at the thought, tears spilling fresh down his cheeks. That always worked. They feared the guards more than they feared the diapers.
Another sniff, another hitch in his breath, but he moved, step by step, toward the table like someone approaching their own grave. When he reached it, he hesitated just long enough for me to enjoy it.
Then he sat. Then swung his legs up. Then laid down.
I stepped to the side, folded back the gown from his hips, and took in the trembling mess of him.
Soaked in sweat, trembling like a leaf, still mumbling âpleaseâ like that word had ever saved anyone in here. His thighs clenched together, his hands balled into the sheets.
I tugged at the waistband of his underwear, the last flimsy symbol of adulthood he had left. He gasped as I peeled them down and off, and without ceremony I tossed the bundle into the bin. They would be incinerated with the rest. As gone as the man who once wore them.
Youâre not fighting, I thought. Thatâs something.
At least he wasnât one of the screamers. At least he hadnât kicked. Or spit. Or made pointless threats to call a lawyer.
No, this one was already halfway inside his own cage, emotionally speaking. He'd carried the truth in him all along. The diaper didnât change his fate. It just made it official.â
He whimpered as I spread his legs with a gentle press. Reflexively resisted. But he didnât stop me.
âYouâre doing fine,â I said absently, more to fill the air than anything else.
He was blubbering. Red-faced. Sniffling. Eyes glassy and wide with humiliation. As if thisâlying on a padded table, legs spread, tabs padding waitingâwasnât where he was always going to end up.
âYou know what comes next, donât you?â
His lips trembled. He shook his head weakly, like denial might change it.
I reached for the tray. The cage lay waiting there, gleaming under the lights. Small, flat, designed for restraint rather than comfort. A slender catheter extended from the tip, already lubricated and sterile, its tubing curled neatly like it had been waiting for him.
His sob broke into a sharp cry. âN-no, pleaseâplease donâtââ
I ignored him. I always did.
His penis was tiny. Shriveled. Retracted. Like it thought if it went into hiding it might escape the inevitable. I pinched it, giving it a few strokes with my two gloved fingers so as to coax it into getting at least a little bigger so as to make it somewhat manageable for my next task. He stood at a full 3 inches almost instantly.
With resigned efficiency, I adjusted my gloves and positioned the catheter. It was always an awkward step, but routine: a little patience, steady pressure, and the body yielded whether it wanted to or not. Resistance gave way, the tubing sliding into place exactly as it was designed to. His thighs quivered, toes curling against the paper sheet as it advanced. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, high and wet.
âIn,â I murmured, more to myself than to him. A few more centimeters, until I felt the faint give that told me it was properly seated. I secured the port with a small adhesive strip against his skin, then attached the tubing to the drainage valve built into the base of the cage.
All clean. All self-contained. No control left for him to cling to.
âShhh,â I said over the sounds of his wet blubbering, guiding the head of the flat metallic cage forward with, efficient hands. âItâs better this way. No more accidents to hide. No more bargaining. Just control where it belongs: with us.â
He squeezed his eyes shut, hands knotting the padding beneath him, fingers digging into the crinkling paper as though that would anchor him. His chest hitched, a strangled sob rattling in his throat, but the rest of him stayed limp. Resigned.
Pathetic, I thought. I was relieved that it was so easy, but also a little embarrassed for him. Most of them at least tried. Kicked, cursed, made me call the guards. It didnât change the outcome, but it gave them a shred of dignity on the way down. This one couldnât even muster that. Just sobs and limp compliance, like he already knew he wasnât worth the fight.
The device slid into place with clinical precision, the catheter seated, the chamber closed, his penis pressed painfully inward with little to no room to move. A turn of the key, and the click echoed sharp in the room.
âSee?â I murmured, smoothing the metal once with my gloved thumb. âThat wasnât so hard.â
And you won't ever get to be 'hard' again. I thought, smirking and pondering whether or not he'd realized that himself yet. If he knew his puny penis would never achieve a full erection again.
I wiped him slowly. Thoroughly. Efficiently. He flinched when the cold cloth touched him, a soft gasp escaping his lips. He looked like he wanted to cry harder but didnât have the water left in his system to make it count.
I dusted him with powder. No rash yet, but there would be. New ones always thought they could âhold it.â They couldnât. Not after the formula. Not after the routine. Not after their sense of time and pride dissolved away. The longer he held his bowel movements, the longer they would make him stew in them. I wondered if I should warn him about that.
Na...let him learn it the hard way.
I slid the thick white diaper beneath him, lifting him by the thighs. He let out a quiet, mortified moan. The gravity and finality hitting him in the face again.
âI-itâs notââ he tried to speak, but it caught in his throat.
âShhh,â I said. âYouâre being very brave.â
He wasnât. But he was being compliant.
And thatâs really all I needed.
I brought the front panel up, pressed it down over him with finality, and slowly drew the first tape across with a loud, plasticky rip. Then the second. Then two more, until he was fully sealed in.
Four little sticky declarations that said he no longer had a say in anything. I gave the diaper a light press, smoothing it across his pelvis.
âThatâs better,â I murmured. âNow youâre ready.â
His voice cracked when he whispered it. âR-ready⊠for what?â
I paused, studied him, let the silence draw long enough to sting.
âReady for your assignment,â I said at last. âYouâll still be in a crib, still dirtying diapers, still sucking down ba-baâs and getting spoonfed mushy num-nums.â
His breath hitched, clinging to that faint hope.
âBut donât fool yourself,â I went on. âYou wonât get trucks or blocks or dinosaurs to play with. Youâll get dolls, frilly clothes, and your pacifiers will be shaped very differently.â I leaned in closer, my voice cool, certain. âYou wonât be one of the boys. Youâll be one of the girls pleasing the boys.â
I let the words sink in, watching the last of him collapse under their weight. âBecause youâre going to the sissy ward.â
His eyes went wide, lips trembling.
It hit him like a body blow. His face crumpled, sobs surging up out of him raw and ragged, his hands clawing helplessly at the tapes as if he could undo what had already been sealed.
I only watched. Did he REALLY not see this coming? Did he think all that blubbering, the limp compliance, and the pathetic begging would do anything but solidify his status as a sissy??
I let him sob for another few seconds, his voice breaking, tears streaking down his blotchy cheeks. Then I exhaled, slow and final.
The door hissed, and two guards stepped inside, broad and silent, uniforms pressed sharp. He twisted toward them, panicked, sobbing louder. âNo, please! PLEASE! Not that! Donât take me! PLEASE!â
They didnât hesitate. Thick hands closed around his arms, yanking him off the table. He kicked, thrashed, heels skidding on the tile, diaper crinkling violently with every flail. His voice cracked into high, broken shrieks as they dragged him to the door.
His cries echoed down the corridor, shrill and desperate, carrying long after he was out of sight.
For a momentâjust a fleeting momentâI almost felt it: a shred of sympathy. A twinge of pity at the sight of him broken and diapered, being hauled off to something worse.
But then I scoffed at myself. Sympathy was wasted here. Heâd earned every tape, every tear, every sob.
And so, I turned back to the cart, already laying out the next diaper.
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
