Diapered for Her Book Club

I adjust insurance claims for a living, which means people call me on the worst day of their year and I'm the one who has to tell them what a flooded basement is actually worth. I'm good at it. I'm calm on the phone, I'm fair with the numbers, and I never once raise my voice, even when they raise theirs. I'm thirty-eight. I wear pressed shirts and sensible shoes and I keep a spare tie in my desk drawer in case of coffee. My coworkers think I'm the most boring man in the building, and I've always let them.

My wife, Vivian, knows better.

We met at a housewarming party I hadn't wanted to go to, in a kitchen full of people I didn't know. I was standing by the refrigerator holding a beer I wasn't drinking, and she walked up to me with a glass of red wine and looked me over from my shoes to my haircut, taking her time about it.

"Let me guess," she said. "You iron your own shirts. You live alone. You've been here forty minutes and you've already picked out which door you're going to leave by."

I laughed, because all three were true, and asked how she knew.

"Because it's my job to know," she said. "And here's the other thing I know. You're a man who wants somebody to tell him what to do. You just haven't met anyone worth listening to." She took the beer out of my hand, set it on the counter, and handed me her wine instead. "Drink that. It's better. And then you're driving me home."

I drank it. I drove her home. I'm not sure I've made a single important decision on my own since, and I've never once wanted to.

She sells houses, big ones, out by the lake, and she's very good at it, because she can walk into a room and know within ten seconds what everyone in it wants and how much they'll pay for it. She's forty-four, tall, with dark red hair she wears in a sharp bob and a laugh you can hear from the parking lot. She did that to me the night we met, read me in ten seconds flat, and I've been hers ever since.

It took her two years of marriage to find the panties. It took her about two more minutes to decide what to do about them.

That was six years ago, and things had gone a long way since. She dressed me on weekends. Satin and lace at first, then stockings and garters, then a short black maid's dress she found online and had altered to fit my shoulders. She painted my lips and called me Marcy and had me serve her dinner in heels. She bought a strap-on the first Christmas and used it on me before the tree lights were even plugged in. She bought a chastity cage the second Christmas and kept the key on a chain around her neck, and some weeks I didn't come out of it at all.

And all of it, every single bit, happened behind our own front door. That was the rule. The world got boring Mark in a pressed shirt. Vivian got Marcy.

Then, last spring, I told her the last secret I had.

We were in bed, and she was teasing me through the cage, and she asked me what I thought about when I was alone. I don't know why I answered honestly. Maybe because she was the only person I'd ever been honest with. I told her that the most humiliating thing I could imagine, the thing I'd thought about since my late twenties and never said out loud, was being put in a diaper. Not cute. Not sweet. Thick and crinkling and obvious, the kind that made you waddle, and being made to use it, and having her look at me in it and laugh.

She didn't laugh, not then. She went very quiet, and I felt her smile against my shoulder in the dark.

"Oh, Marcy," she said. "You have no idea what you've just done."

The diapers arrived a week later. Pink ones, with a row of white lace printed across the waistband, and a pair of frilly pink plastic panties to go over them that rustled every time I took a step. She put the first one on me herself, on our bed, and taped it tight, and then stood me in front of the long mirror in our closet and told me to look. I looked like exactly what I was: a grown man in a pink diaper and a chastity cage, with his face bright red. She told me to wet it. I couldn't, at first. She waited. She has the patience of a woman who once waited eleven months for a seller to come down on price. When I finally let go, standing right there in front of the mirror, with the warmth spreading and the padding sagging between my legs, she laughed, low and delighted, and I came so close to coming in the cage that my knees buckled.

After that, the diapers were part of weekends too. I wore them under the maid's dress. I wore them to bed. I learned what it was to sit down in a wet one and feel it squish, and to blush so hard my ears burned, and to love it.

And it all stayed behind our front door, until the Thursday she told me about the book club.

Vivian's book club is three women who have been friends since their first jobs out of college and who, as far as I can tell, have not finished a book together in years. They meet once a month and drink a great deal of wine and talk about everything except the book. When it's at our house, I usually go for a long drive.

"Not this time," Vivian said. She was sitting on the edge of our bed, filing her nails. "This time you're staying. Rhea and Colette are coming on Saturday, and I've promised them a surprise."

Something cold went down my back. "What kind of surprise?"

She blew on her nails and looked at me over them. "I've told them, Marcy."

I sat down on the floor. I didn't decide to; my legs just stopped holding me.

"Told them what?"

"Everything. The panties. The cage. The strap-on." She smiled. "The diapers. I've been telling them for a month, a little bit at a time. And do you know what? They've been begging to meet you."

I couldn't speak. My heart was going so hard I could hear it. And under all the terror, under a shame so hot I felt dizzy, my cock was straining so hard against the cage it hurt.

Vivian put the nail file down. She slid off the bed onto the floor beside me and took my face in her hands, and her voice changed, the way it always did when it mattered. "Listen to me. This only happens if you say yes. Rhea is thirty-nine and she's been my best friend for twenty years, and Colette is forty-seven and she'd die before she told a soul. They know it's a game, and they know the rules. You say red at any point on Saturday, and it stops. They put their coats on, they go home, and nobody ever brings it up again. I promise you that."

"And if I don't say red?"

Her smile came back, slow and wicked. "Then you're going to spend the evening as the most humiliated sissy in this county. In front of my friends. In a diaper." She kissed me. "Yes or no, Marcy. You decide."

I closed my eyes. I thought about Rhea, who once helped me move a couch and called me a gentleman. I thought about Colette, who wears pearls to the grocery store.

"Yes," I whispered.

On Saturday afternoon, she got me ready. She shaved me everywhere, in the shower, slowly. She checked the cage, gave the little lock a tug, and kissed the key before she dropped it back down her blouse. She taped me into the thickest pink diaper we had and pulled the frilly plastic panties up over it, and the rustle when I moved was so loud I wanted to cry. Then pink stockings, and a white satin blouse with puffed sleeves, and a short pink pleated skirt that didn't even try to cover the plastic panties when I bent over. She did my face herself: foundation, mascara, a glossy pink lip. She clipped a pink bow into my short hair, which was the most ridiculous thing of all.

"Look at you," she said, turning me to the mirror. "If your claims department could see you now."

At seven, the doorbell rang. My stomach dropped through the floor.

"Go and get that, Marcy," Vivian said.

I opened our front door, crinkling, with my whole face on fire. Rhea stood there with a bottle of wine in each hand, and Colette stood behind her in pearls, and for one long second nobody said anything at all.

Then Rhea's mouth fell open, and she put a hand over it, and her shoulders started to shake. "Oh my God," she said. "Viv. You weren't exaggerating."

"I never exaggerate about real estate or sissies," Vivian called from the living room. "Come in, girls. Marcy, take their coats."

I took their coats. Colette handed me hers without looking at me, and then she did look, all the way down, at the pink pleated skirt and the plastic panties peeking out under it, and her eyebrows climbed slowly up her forehead. "Well," she said. "That's certainly a diaper."

I hung the coats with my hands shaking. Behind me I heard Rhea whisper, "Can you hear it? When she walks?" and Colette say, "Darling, they can hear it in the next town."

For an hour I served them. I poured wine and brought out the cheese plate and stood by the arm of Vivian's chair with my hands folded in front of my skirt while they talked about me as if I wasn't there. Rhea wanted to know if I wore them to work. Vivian said not yet, and all three of them laughed, and my cock throbbed so hard in the cage I had to bite my lip. Colette wanted to know if I was allowed to use the bathroom. Vivian said, "Marcy hasn't been allowed in a bathroom since breakfast, have you, sweetheart?"

"No, Mistress."

"And you've been drinking all your water like a good sissy."

"Yes, Mistress."

"So you must be getting quite desperate."

I was. I'd been desperate for an hour. I'd been holding it so hard I was trembling, and they could all see it, and they were enjoying it enormously.

Vivian put her wine glass down. "Come stand in front of us, Marcy. Right there, in the middle of the rug, where everyone can see."

I walked to the middle of the rug. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. I stood there with my hands at my sides.

"Lift your skirt," she said. "Show my friends your diaper."

I lifted the pink skirt with both hands. The frilly plastic panties, the thick pink diaper bulging under them, all of it on display in my own living room in front of three fully dressed women. Rhea had both hands over her mouth. Colette leaned forward in her chair, very interested, the way she'd look at an antique she was thinking of buying.

"Now wet it," said Vivian. "Right there. And keep your skirt up, so they can watch."

"Mistress, please."

"Is that a red, Marcy?"

It wasn't. It was the furthest thing from a red there has ever been. "No, Mistress."

"Then wet your diaper for my friends."

I closed my eyes. I couldn't. I could. My whole body was shaking. And then it went, all at once, a hot hard rush I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried, and I heard myself whimper as it flooded the padding and spread down between my legs and up the front and soaked around the cage. The plastic panties held it all in. The diaper swelled and sagged, heavy and warm, and I stood there holding my skirt up while it happened, and opened my eyes, and they were all watching.

Rhea was laughing so hard she was crying. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Viv. Look at its face."

"Go and show Colette," said Vivian. "Let her check you."

I waddled across the rug to Colette's chair, with the wet diaper squishing between my thighs at every step, and stood in front of her with my skirt up. She reached out with one manicured hand and pressed her palm flat against the front of the plastic panties. She squeezed. The diaper squelched, loud in the quiet room.

"Soaked," she announced, to the room. Then she looked up at me with a little smile and said, "You disgusting, pathetic thing. And you're hard in there, aren't you? In that silly little cage. Hard from wetting yourself in front of us."

"Yes, Ma'am," I whispered. I couldn't lie. They could all see it.

"Bring it here, Vivian," Colette said. "I'd like to see the cage."

Vivian came and stood behind me and slid the plastic panties down to my knees with a long rustle. She untaped the diaper, one tape at a time, slowly, so they could hear every rip, and peeled the soggy front down. And there I was: shaved and wet and flushed, my cock straining pink and swollen inside its little steel cage, with three women looking at it. Rhea leaned in close to see. Colette tapped the cage with one fingernail, and the tiny click went through my whole body.

"That's all there is?" said Rhea, and I nearly sobbed.

"That's all a sissy needs," said Vivian. "Hands and knees, Marcy."

I got down on my hands and knees on the rug, right there in front of them, in my stockings and my blouse and my pink bow, with my wet diaper hanging open between my thighs. Vivian went out of the room and came back, and I heard Rhea gasp, and I turned my head enough to see why. Vivian had taken off her skirt. She was wearing her black harness, and the long thick black strap-on she uses when she wants me to really feel it.

She knelt behind me and poured lube between my cheeks and pressed one finger in, then two, working me open while her friends watched, and I moaned into the rug.

"Rhea," Vivian said, almost casually. "Didn't you tell me last month that nobody had gone down on you properly in a year?"

There was a pause. "I did say that," Rhea said, a little breathless.

"Well, Marcy's mouth is the only useful thing about her. Would you like to borrow it?"

Rhea stood up. She was laughing, a little, and her cheeks were pink, and she shimmied her jeans and her panties down and off and sat on the very edge of the sofa with her legs apart, right in front of my face. "Is this okay?" she asked, and she was asking me.

"Yes," I said, and I meant it more than I'd ever meant anything. "Please."

"Then get to work, sissy."

I put my mouth on her pussy as Vivian pushed the strap-on into me.

It was too much, the stretch and the fullness and the wet taste of Rhea on my tongue, and Colette's voice from the armchair saying, "Look at that, it's practically purring." Vivian fucked me slow at first and then harder, holding my hips, her harness slapping against my ass, the open diaper crinkling under me with every thrust. Every stroke pushed me forward into Rhea's pussy. I licked her clit and sucked it, desperate, and she grabbed my hair, bow and all, and ground against my face.

"Oh, God, Viv, it's actually good at this."

"I trained her," Vivian panted. "Harder, Marcy. Make her come."

I made her come. Rhea's thighs clamped around my ears, and she cried out, and she rode my face through it. And while she was still shuddering, Vivian angled the strap-on and drove it deep, right into the spot that turns my whole body to water, again and again, and I felt it building somewhere I couldn't reach, in my belly and in the cage. I wailed into Rhea's thigh. And then I came, without my cock ever being touched, pulsing helplessly inside the cage, leaking a long white string onto the soggy diaper beneath me while all three of them watched.

"Oh, she's leaking," Colette said, delighted. "Look, Rhea. All over her nappy."

When it was over, I was lying on the rug in my stockings with my face wet and my makeup ruined, and I couldn't have told you my own name. Vivian eased out of me, so slowly. She lay down beside me on the rug, harness and all, and pulled me into her arms and kissed my smeared mouth.

"You were so brave," she said, very quietly, just for me. "So good. I'm so proud of you."

She cleaned me up with warm cloths while Rhea fetched more wine and Colette, to my astonishment, folded the wet diaper up neatly and carried it to the trash like she did it every day. Vivian taped me into a fresh pink diaper and pulled the plastic panties up and smoothed my skirt down. Then she sat me in her lap on the sofa, in front of everyone, and I was too wrung out to be embarrassed anymore.

Colette finished her wine and set the glass down.

"Next month's book club is at my house," she said. "Bring her, Vivian." She looked at me and smiled her pearl-necklace smile. "And Marcy, darling? Don't bother bringing a change. I'll have plenty."