I never expected my boyfriend to turn me into his diaper boy, but once Mark decided I was done with the toilet for good, there was no going back.
It started innocent enough on a rainy Friday night. We were tangled in bed after a long week, his hand stroking me slow and steady while he whispered how hot it would be if I just let go for him. “No more holding it, baby,” he said, voice low and filthy. “I want you leaking whenever I say. Diapers only from now on.”
The first time he taped me up, I felt ridiculous and painfully turned on at the same time. Thick, crinkly white padding hugged my cock and balls, the tapes pulled snug around my waist. Mark made me drink two big glasses of water and sit on his lap while we watched a movie. Every time I shifted, the diaper rustled loud enough to make my face burn. Halfway through, the pressure built until I couldn’t stop it. A hot rush soaked the front, spreading warmth between my legs. Mark felt the change and grinned, palming the soggy bulk. “Good boy. That’s it. No more potty for you.”
He kept me in that wet diaper for hours. By the time he finally changed me, I was hard and aching, the inside slick with my own piss. Mark wiped me down slow, fingers brushing my hole, then slid a thick plug in and taped a fresh diaper over it. “You’re going to learn to use these like a proper baby,” he told me, kissing my neck. “No asking. No warning. Just let it happen.”
The next week was pure training. Mark woke me every morning with a bottle of warm milk and made me finish it before I could even stand. He’d check my diaper right there in bed, squeezing the front, sometimes pressing a palm against my bladder until I whimpered and flooded it again. “That’s my good gay baby,” he’d praise, voice thick with lust. At work I wore discreet pull-ups under my clothes, but the constant reminder that I wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom anymore made me leak constantly. I’d come home soaked, waddling, and Mark would greet me at the door with a fresh diaper already laid out.
He loved making me mess. One night after a big dinner he bent me over the couch, rubbing my lower belly in slow circles while he fingered my ass. “Push for me,” he ordered, voice rough. I tried to resist out of pure shame, but the pressure was too much. A heavy, warm load filled the seat of my diaper, spreading thick and soft. Mark moaned like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, grinding against the bulge from behind. He didn’t let me change for hours. Instead he made me sit on his lap, the mess squishing under me while he jerked me off through the padding until I came hard, sobbing his name.
We stopped calling it a fetish and started calling it my new normal. Mark bought cute printed diapers with little stars and trucks, the kind that made me feel small and owned. He’d change me on the living room floor, wiping me thoroughly, sometimes sliding his cock between my thighs and fucking the fresh diaper against my skin until he shot inside it. I learned to ask for changes in a babyish voice, to crawl when he told me to, to thank him every time he let me piss or shit like the helpless boy I was becoming.
The final step came on a quiet Sunday. Mark locked the bathroom door and handed me a thick overnight diaper. “From now on this is the only toilet you need,” he said, eyes dark with want. “I’m going to unpotty train you completely. No more control. Whenever you feel it, you go. In public, at dinner, in your sleep. I want you dependent on these.”
I lasted three days before the first public accident. We were at a friend’s barbecue and I felt the urge hit hard. Mark just smiled and kept talking while I stood there, warm wetness blooming down my leg in slow, unstoppable trickles. By the time we got home I was soaked to the knees and shaking with humiliation and arousal. He stripped me, cleaned me, and fucked me slow and deep while I wore nothing but the wet diaper around my ankles.
Now, months later, I barely remember what it felt like to hold it. I wake up wet most mornings, sometimes messy, and Mark rewards me with his mouth or his cock every single time. He calls me his perfect unpotty trained boy, and I thank him for every change, every bottle, every filthy, tender moment. The diapers don’t feel like a punishment anymore. They feel like home, like the only way I want to belong to him. And every time I let go without thinking, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
