I met him on Tumblr first. Scrolling through tags late at night, my dick in my hand, I kept landing on his posts: pictures of thick white diapers sagging between a muscular pair of thighs, captions like “boy doesn’t get to touch his cock until Daddy says,” and short videos of him crawling across a playroom floor with a pacifier strapped in his mouth. The account was called @diaperslave4u. I messaged him once, just a dumb “fuck that’s hot” comment, and he replied the same night.
“Prove you want it. Send a pic in a diaper. No face. No excuses.”
That was the start. Two weeks later I was on a plane to his city with nothing but a carry-on and the thickest adult diapers I could order online stuffed at the bottom. He picked me up at the airport in a black truck, didn’t even shake my hand. Just looked at me and said, “Strip in the bathroom. Put one on. Then come back out.”
I did it. Walked out of the stall in nothing but a bulging white diaper under my jeans. He made me lift my shirt right there by the sinks so he could check the tapes. “Good boy. Now you’re mine until I say otherwise.”
The first night he locked a thick leather collar around my neck and snapped a leash to it. I slept in a crib he’d built in the spare room, diapered, hands mittened, pacifier taped in. Every time I woke up needing to piss he made me use it. By morning the diaper was heavy and warm against my balls and he stood over the crib filming me while I squirmed.
“Tell the camera what you are.”
“I’m your gay diaper slave,” I mumbled around the pacifier.
“Louder.”
“I’m your fucking gay diaper slave, Sir.”
He changed me on a plastic mat on the floor, wiping me down slow and rough, then rubbing lotion into my cock until I was leaking and begging. He didn’t let me come. Instead he taped a new diaper on so tight the plastic crinkled with every breath, then pulled a pair of locking plastic pants over it.
“Those stay on until I decide you’ve earned a change. You leak in my house, you clean it with your tongue.”
Days blurred. He worked from home and kept me at his feet under the desk, my face pressed against his thigh while he typed. When he needed to piss he’d pull his cock out and aim it at the front of my diaper, soaking it further. Sometimes he made me suck him while the wet padding pressed against my own hard-on. The messier and more desperate I got, the harder he got.
One afternoon he invited another guy over from the same Tumblr circle. I was on the floor in just the locked plastic pants and collar when the new man walked in. They talked about me like I wasn’t there.
“New one’s got good bladder control but he’s still fighting the mindset,” my Sir said. “Needs more public humiliation.”
They put me in a onesie that barely covered the bulging diaper, snapped a pacifier gag in, and took me for a walk around the block at dusk. Every step made the wet padding squish. Cars drove by. I kept my eyes down, face burning, cock throbbing uselessly inside the soaked diaper.
Back home they laid me on the changing table and took turns edging me through the plastic pants. Every time I got close they stopped and made me thank them for keeping me denied. By the time Sir finally ripped the tapes open I was shaking so hard I could barely speak. He let the other guy fuck my mouth while he stroked me slow and mean, finally allowing me to come all over my own stomach. Then he scooped it up and pushed it into the fresh diaper he taped on me.
“Wear that load until morning. Remind you what a filthy little Tumblr slave you are.”
I stayed two more weeks. Every day the rules got stricter: no walking unless he allowed it, every meal in a high chair with a bib, mandatory photo updates posted to his account with captions he wrote himself. I stopped thinking about my old life. All that existed was the constant crinkle of plastic, the heavy warmth between my legs, and the sound of his voice telling me exactly what I was.
The night before my flight home he took the collar off, let me shower, and fucked me face-down on his bed without the diaper for the first time. It felt strange to be naked. When he came inside me he pushed a fresh diaper under my hips and taped it on over the mess, sealing it all in.
“Take that home with you. Post about it on your own Tumblr.
And when you’re ready to come back and stay for good, you know where to find me.”
I left wearing it under my jeans, still damp from everything he’d put in me. On the plane I kept shifting in the seat, feeling the bulk, already knowing I’d be messaging him the second I landed.
