Hooky Days

Rrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrring! 

The phone rang, but I ignored it. We'd recently installed an answering machine - a godsend, in my opinion. Hooky Days were few and far between, and a phone call from a relative charged with making sure I was okay was a sure way to ruin the mood. 

Me and my friends called them Hooky Days. Sick days to the rest of the world, they were days that we'd play sick, faking fevers and seizures and whatever else we thought we could get away with. Most of the time we'd play sick simultaneously; planned in advance, we'd do whatever was needed to stay home, then spend the rest of the morning on the phone, on 3-way, sucking down microwave pizzas and watching daytime television shows together. 

"I wish one of us was old enough to drive," Mark, my best friend at the time, would say. "Then we could pick each other up and do something!"

I, however, was glad none of us had a license yet. Mark's mom came home from her part-time job at noon; our other friend, Chris, would have to go when his mother arrived home from school shortly afterward. Then, for the next four hours, this Chris would subtract a dozen years, add a diaper, and spend the rest of the day in his favorite frame of mind.

Hooky Days. 

Huggies Days.

One in the same. And I loved them.

This was before I had made my geriatric incontinence discovery. I didn't know about Depends. I hadn't heard of Attends. I knew about Hefty garbage bags, paper towels, toilet paper, and duct tape. Add these four ingredients and a ton of baby powder and a diaper was born - and, with it, a whole new Chris. 

Cwis.

Often the process would begin in the morning. The minute my parents left for work and the bus rumbled off with my brother towards school, I'd climb out of bed, do a last-minute "run-through" - checking the whole house for stragglers. I'd click the garage door opener for the left door and watch it slowly rise; Dad's gone! I'd lower it and then click the right door. Mom's gone too! (On days they car-pooled additional checking was necessary and, believe me, I checked every inch of the house, the yard, even the mailbox). Once the coast was clear, the materials came out. 

I remember being in the middle of my manufacturing as the phone would ring and that first call would come through. I'd be making adjustments and Mark would be ringing in. As eager as I was to flop my little naked ass down onto my newly-minted 'diaper', the idea of doing it while I was on the phone was too much for me. It was almost as though I felt like I'd be detected through the phone. So I'd stop with the finishing touches, pushing the diaper in between my mattress and box spring - can never be too safe if someone comes home for lunch! - and would spend hours on the phone, adult-like. It was torture!

The torture ended at lunch time, usually. My friends back to being sick, in bed for their mothers' benefits, and it would be just me. I had from noon until four, when family starting rolling in, and I was determined to make the most of it on every occasion. 

I had a routine. I would scamper to my Pamper, pulling it back out from underneath my mattress. I'd be naked in nanoseconds, and with the garbage bag diaper square on my mattress, I'd center my bottom, pile on the powder, pull it tight, and apply the duct tape. By the time I finished I had shiny black plastic form-fitted to my bum. Walking was difficult; I had twenty or more paper towels square between my legs, and just climbing off of my bed without falling onto the floor was a chore. Somehow I was almost always successful.

I'd spend the rest of the day on the floor. Whether I was crawling across a room or sliding up and down the stairs on my bottom, I was determined to spend the rest of the day on my tummy. Or my bummy.

I'd crawl into the kitchen, open the fridge, and find the closest thing to baby food. Sometimes it was baby food, left over from a visit from our cousins. Other times it was applesauce. Pudding cups. You get the idea.

I'd crawl to the counter, pull open a drawer, and root around until I found a spoon. It, my baby food, and me would make our way to the middle of the kitchen floor, and I'd feed myself. I'd always wish someone was there to feed me but, when you're toddlerizing yourself, you have to make due with what you have.

After my tummy was full I'd crawl across to the radio, flip the switch, and listen to Paul Harvey. I'm not sure what this had to do with my infantized personality; maybe Mr. Harvey made me feel like there was a grownup in the house. In any event, I'd listen to the rest of the story and, as soon as I'd heard it, the radio would go off and it was naptime.

I would sometimes crawl upstairs for my nap, especially when the cousin crib was in effect. Other times I'd crawl to the window, position my little diapered butt in the sunny spot, and just lay there. If you've never felt the sun beaming down directly on your plastic-clad bottom you're missing out; I highly recommend it. Your butt will thank you...

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! 

Without fail my peaceful nap would end with the interruption of the phone, a parent or other adult relative calling or, even less pleasant, a telemarketer. There was a time when I'd crawl across the room lickety-split, trying to grab the phone before the answering machine did, fearing my parents may call and, not being able to reach me, come home early. A thirty-minute call with an aunt wrecked my regressed mood and reduced my toddler time significantly; from that point forward Li'l Cwis would stay on the floor and listen to voices recording on the machine. If it was a parent, I'd pick up. 

Toward the end of my nap - usually about an hour - it was time to pee. If you're a seasoned diaper user you know the difference in absorbancy between Attends and Depend. Or Abena and Attends. Or Abena and CVS. You get the idea. 

The absorbancy of Hefty... it makes CVS look like a Sham-Wow. 

So, without fail, I'd soak that shit, and then leave a trail of wetness wherever I went. I'd have to be careful to stick to my route; I didn't want to leave dampness in spots I would forget to clean up. ("What's this yellow wet spot in the den, Chris?!")

As I urinated the paper towel would soak first, followed by the toilet paper, making the diaper fell heavy; as the diaper filled a puddle would form, allowing for some sloshing as I moved around. I'd try to position my diaper at various angles to maximize the effectiveness of the paper towel product but, without fail, I'd eventually feel the warmth and wetness trickling down my legs. Drip. Drip. Drip. Driiiiiiip.

Real diapers stay warm over time. Garbage bag diapers, though, quickly become cold and clammy. Still, I enjoyed the feeling of wearing a wet diaper, and would enjoy my last hour or two of toddler time soaking wet. I'd sit on the ground, my bottom pressed against it to retain the warm feeling for as long as possible; once it was gone I'd return to the sun spot, letting Mr. Sun work his magic. Re-heating a wet diaper? I wasn't above it. I'd grab a coloring book on my way back and spend my last hour creating art while the rays came through the sliding glass door and landed directly on my backside. Wheeeeee! Sometimes I'd be laying next to two feet of snow on the other side of the glass, but as long as the sun was on my ass...

Sometimes I'd rotate pacifiers and bottles into the mix, but most Hooky Days were minimalist: a diaper, a floor, and the house to myself. Nothing else needed. The fake baby food and Paul Harvey were just little bonuses. 

I'd always enjoy my li'l kid persona right up until ten minutes before Parental Return Time. It was a daring move, but I perfected it; I'd remove my diaper and dispose of it, rush around letting my formerly-soaked diaper area air dry as I 'cleaned up' any wet spots on the floor. A quick washclothing later and I, and the house, would be clean, if not dry. I'd finish with some sprays of air freshener and the house would be back to its original state. Almost. 

There were close calls. The time that the UPS driver parked on the road and walked up to the house. I hand't heard the truck, and looked up just in time to see him walking up to the door. I'm sure he saw me through the window - from the waist up, fortunately! I quickly slid my little wet bottom across the floor out of his view, listening while he knocked and rang the doorbell. Over and over. And over. He must have wondered why someone was laying on the floor, not answering the door. I felt sure he was going to break in! Maybe call 9-1-1? Instead he left the package and returned to his truck; I heard it rumble off, and ripped my diaper off fast as fck. I spent the rest of that day as a grownup, in fear of a return visit from the UPS driver, an ambulance driver, anyone. It later occurred to me that he probably sees all kinds of stuff. And how lucky I was that he hadn't seen the garbage bag diaper. If he had, he'd probably be writing about it in his Delivery Driver Blog today.

There were a few times, too, that the odor of wet diaper still hung in the air later that night, when my best cleanup efforts hadn't been good enough. Over time I became an expert-level scent replacement technician, learning the tricks to replace diaper smells with less offensive ones. Still, each time I felt would surely be my last as I watched family members sniff, whiff, and wonder. 

I've since grown up. 

Garbage bag diapers are a thing of the past, replaced with some of the best diapers money can buy, and all of the accessories to boot. I've got disposable diapers, cloth diapers, plastic pants, jammies, footed sleepers, and all of the toys. I even have a bib. I've diapered more than seventy people, a number which continues to grow as time goes on. 

None of my baby stuff is put to better use, though, then Hooky Days.

Even today I take an occasional Hooky Day. I wake up, call the job, take the day, and resolve to stay on the floor for as long as possible.

Mark and I haven't spoken in ten years. I lost touch of Chris in high school. There are no early-morning calls, no coordinated television watching, nothing else to mess up my Hooky Days now. Today I turn the phone to silent, and my diaper day begins way earlier than noon. And it goes way longer than 4 p.m., too; sometimes until the wee hours of the next morning. No relatives call to check up, and if they did the voicemail is there for them. 

The one thing that hasn't changed is the feeling I get knowing that I've slapped adulthood in the face, at least for the day. 

My responsibilities then included going to high school but I voluntarily vomited and told school "fck you!"; today the job is waiting and, in deciding to spend my day in a diaper, I've given it the finger. 

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! 

Eek! It sounds like Grownup Responsibility calling. 

Fuck it. If it's important it'll call back...

Exclusive! Baby Album: Baby Dusty

Exclusive: Baby Dusty!

Fresh from the baby album... Baby Dustin, an adorable collegebaby who visited Orlando in March 2009. 

Dustin was in town for an interview. He called me literally an hour before we chilled to let me know. I had to give his dope-ass little bottom a few swats with the paddle for not giving me some extra time, but once that was over with, plus a little corner time, it was time for some fun... and a bunch of cute pictures. 

Not sure if Dustin got the job, but if they were hiring purely on the basis of being adorable, I expect he'll be sticking around. 

Check out these cute baby pictures...

YouTube Tuesdays: Double The Fun?

YouTube Tuesdays: Video #10

Tuesday, March 3rd 2009

"Double The Fun?"

NOTE: My apologies for my long absence. Some of you who had gotten used to three posts a week have had to go three weeks without a post. A lot has been going on in my life, most of it good hehehe... but, as a result, I've had very little time for ABDL. Time to get back into the groove...

The Video...

Sometimes one diaper just isn't enough. Here are two videos featuring 'doubling', an aspect of our fetish for people who want their diapers as thick as possible. Cute abies in these, too...

Check it...

YouTube Tuesdays: Someone Skipped Potty Training...

YouTube Tuesdays: Video #9

Tuesday, February 10th 2009

"Looks Like Someone Skipped Potty Training..."

Perhaps before he tried to tackle subjects like Linguistics or Molecular Biology, Tim should have attended Using The Potty 101? 

What I wouldn't have given to be in his class, though.

If I was the professor, Tim would get an A+++!! Or a 4.7, whichever is higher.   ;p

Pampered Pals: Part II

Again, not Craig. Thanks, Cale!

We all have a non-ABDL friend we fantasize about Pampering.

(We all do, right? Right?!)

Well, I do.

I have tons.

A few of them know about diapers and tolerate them - but don't embrace them.

A few others don't know.

The rest have, at some point over the years, turned my fantasy into a reality. They've worn diapers for experimentation purposes, or just to make me happy...

Most of you don't know me in person. If you do know me, you know that I'm a nice guy.

Once you become my friend, we are friends for life. My friends know this, and most value our friendship.

An instructor in a G.E.D. class once approached me to tell me that I was the only person she'd ever seen who had had not one, but two, students write about them in the end-of-session essay. The topic? "Who is your hero, and why..."

My cell phone has long been the 'crisis hotline' for a number of my friends. I've gotten 2 a.m. calls from people sitting in the back of police cruisers - "Quick, before they see I still got my phone... pick me up!" - and 5 a.m. calls from people thinking about hooking a hose up to the exhaust. 

When my black boo was in the hospital I was the only person who visited her, and she's since shamed all of her African-American friends by bringing it up when I'm around. "My only visitor was the one white guy I know... what does that say about race relations?!" 

This past Christmas I sent out fifty Christmas cards. Five of them went to people in prison or jail. I've spent more time in jail visiting rooms, and courtrooms, than anyone else I know; when you're my friend it doesn't end when you do something stupid. 

Last month my little brother Jerrod, who's serving a few months in a shock probation prison camp - don't ask - wrote to tell me that, between his baby's mother, his fiance, and his Mom, the only person he felt like he could trust or talk to was me. He told me that, if it wasn't for his two daughters, he would have followed me to Florida. 

My friends, and family, know they can turn to me for anything. And often do. 

It's died down since I moved to FL, thankfully; it used to be exhausting. 

I'm way more selective with who I befriend now than I used to be - anyone AB who lives in Orlando will tell you that meeting me is like spotting Bigfoot. I guess that's mostly to keep the drama out of my life. 

But when I go back to New York my PDA is working OT to organize each day into segments. I have to fit at least twenty people in, lest someone be offended. Sometimes I'm stacking up people who don't even know each other at Denny's... and finding time to diaper? Please...

I have never directly come out and asked a friend to wear a diaper. 

I'm always afraid that doing so would put a strain - or, a strangeness - on the friendship. Yet I've had ten or more friends offer or, in one case, just Pamp up. 

When you can count on someone as much as most of my friends count on me, I guess wearing a Depend for them isn't as much of a sacrifice. 

I'll tell a few of the stories soon.

Yesterday you read about Craig.

Craig, one of my best friends, was one of the first to talk to me about diapers.

And, later, the first to pick up wet diapers with his bare hands. 

Eww...

In doing so he solidified our friendship - although, truthfully, it was pretty solid already.

When he wore for me it was... amazing.

The first time Craig wore, it was for curiosity's sake. 

We were sitting in my apartment, talking about all kinds of life's little issues.

We brought up sex. Craig is straight, mostly. I'm not. We discussed the pro's and con's of gayness and straightness, and the problems in gay and straight relationships.

Whenever this conversation comes up with people who know I'm into this fetish I always feel comfortable pointing out that, with a fetish like ABDL, sometimes relationships are made more difficult, and sometimes they are taken out of the equation altogether. 

(Most of you know what I mean; for those who don't, that's a whole 'nother blog, coming soon...)

This day I explained it to Craig. All the drama in the world can't get to you when you're in a disposable diaper, drinking from a baby bottle, sucking on a pacifier. No chick or dude needed... it's just you, a diaper, and your frame of mind.

"So what do you get out of wearing a diaper?" he wanted to know.

And I explained. In depth and great detail.

At the end...

"I guess I still don't get it."

And I gave him my usual line, not expecting it to go anywhere...

"You have to wear one to understand."

A week later I noticed that my stack of diapers had been made shorter by a few inches.

At first I racked my brain. Had I doubled up and forgotten? Had I sleptwalked and changed myself overnight? Had I... wow, wtf had happened to my diapers?

I gave up trying to figure it out. But the next day, when I returned home, I went straight for my closet. Sure enough, my stack of diapers had decreased by one.

An incontinent ghost?

Craig was living with me at the time, and it occurred to me that he, or friends who were visiting, might be pilfering my Pampers. 

I waited for him to go out, and then I went into his room.

I opened drawers, looked under beds, and checked through the closet. Finding nothing.

On my way out I looked down into the garbage, and there they were: three used disposable diapers. 

One was soaked with piss. The other two were dry, but obviously worn. 

Craig was wearing... diapers!!!

I was excited and irritated at the same time.

On the one hand, my best friend was experimenting with his inner toddler. Woot!

On the other, he'd done it three times, and hadn't even told me. Booo!

Wtf was he waiting for?

I stressed for a few hours, trying to decide whether to bring up the subject. I finally decided that I had to... this wasn't something I was going to be able to sit on... and I stressed some more, trying to figure out how.

When Craig got home he plopped down on the couch opposite my love seat. 

"Craig, let me ask you something..." I started.

He laughed. "I can tell you found them," he told me, intuitively. "I figured you would..."

I had to laugh. He must have been waiting for me to bring it up. 

Yay!

"So... do you understand?" I asked hesitantly, trying not to be pushy.

"Welllllll... they are relaxing, I guess," he replied. "But I don't think I get the same thing that you get from them."

Craig had never worn in front of me, but just the thought of him chillin' in disposables was enough to keep me going for a while. 

Our friendship, like any, had its ups and downs.

Sometimes we were tight as hell.

Other times we would argue.

One day, though, our friendship was put on suspend status. 

It was Valentine's Day. Craig had been having car problems. Before his Explorer broke down, though, he'd planned a romantic day with his girlfriend, Kerry. Their relationship was a fxcking mess, and it hinged on him making her happy every day they were together. So the idea of not being able to follow through on their plans for Valentine's Day was a Major Crisis.

He came to me and asked if he could borrow my car.

He was living at his mother's at the time. I suggested he borrow her car. He asked, and she called me twenty minutes later to scream and yell about things she had to do that day. 

"Just because I'm a single mother doesn't mean I don't need to do stuff on Valentine's Day!"

Ha, ha. It was back to me. 

"Maybe," I told him.

Which, to him, meant yes.

Valentine's Day morning arrived, and with it came a fierce snowstorm.

Yesssss! This bitch can't possibly blame Craig for not coming now, it's icy as fck on the highway! I'm freeeeeeee!

Craig called and asked what time he could pick up the car and, when I told him I wasn't letting it go out in an ice storm, he got pretty upset.

In the end, we compromised. If the roads cleared up he could borrow it until 8 p.m.

They weren't expected to, but they did. Around 6 p.m.

Around 3 p.m. Craig had walked to my apartment from his mother's, about fifteen blocks away, to wait. And to pray. He sat out on the balcony, in the snow, watching the horizon for a sign of clearing skies. Several times he announced that it was time. "The roads are clear, look!" and, as I stepped out on the balcony and looked down the twenty stories to the street, a car would spin out, or slam into another car, and I'd say "Not yet, bro. Not yet."

At six we could see stars, the roads were clear, and I couldn't really hold off any longer. I agreed, and he bargained for more time. "It'll take me thirty minutes just to get to her house, as slowly and carefully as I'll be driving," he goaded me. 

We settled on ten. Three hours to screw, or have a romantic dinner, or whatever he'd planned past the flowers he'd picked up at Wegmans. 

Ten o'clock came and went.

Eleven approached, and I began to worry.

I called his cell. Straight to voicemail.

At midnight I started thinking the worst. I called Kerry's cell, and it, too, went to voicemail.

An icy crash...

...stuck in a ditch...

...or worse?

I called Craig's mother at 1 a.m.

"Craig hasn't come back," I said, not wanting to worry her. "Have you heard -"

She interrupted me.

"Oh, he got here an hour ago. He's in bed," she said. "He left your keys on the table."

The idea that my friend, who I'd been kind enough to allow to use my car in the first place, had had the gall to drive it to his mother's and make me pick it up - revenge for making him spend half of his Valentine's Day at my apartment, I'm sure - wow. Just... wow.

I was furious.

I trudged through recently-cleared walks, freezing. Upon arriving at Craig's mother's I first examined my car for damage. There was none. I walked upstairs, got my keys from the table, and went to Craig's room. His door was locked, but Kerry was sitting in the bathroom, painting her toenails.

"Let Craig know he'd better buy a bus pass," I told her. She claimed that she'd begged him to return my car, and it was all I could do to keep from reaching down and smearing her fcking nail polish all over her feet. 

"Bus tokens," I repeated, and walked out. 

I avoided Craig's calls for four months. I was pissed. It wasn't just the fact that he'd disrespected me to get revenge; I'd really been worried about him. (And, my car). He could have at least called and told me he was going to be a dick. Instead, he let me think the worst.

Four months went by, and our friendship gradually began to restore itself. His Explorer was back on the road, and he spent a lot of time calling to see if I needed to borrow it - clearing feeling guilty. "Need to move anything bro? My truck is always available to you, you know..."

Just about the time I'd begun to forgive him for his car thievery the Explorer's transmission went. I offered to give him rides to get parts, but made it clear, up front, that there would be no Chris's Car Rental this time. He understood, and didn't ask.

"Yo, I had to take the bus to Kerry's today," he'd tell me, clearly trying to impress me with his self-control. "I wanted to call and ask you for a ride, but I didn't want to be a burden."

"Good idea," I'd say, and he'd grrrrr.

His repairs took on a sense of urgency in Week Two; he and Kerry had plans to go to a wedding, and they involved his Explorer, a tricked-out bass-thumping SUV from the 'hood. If it wasn't running by the wedding Kerry's extended family would recognize her for the white trash that she was; they had to have the Explorer. "We're going to make her cousins so jealous," he kept telling me.

A few days before the wedding it became clear that the cousins weren't going to be jealous. A part had been delivered and it was for the Mercury Mountaineer, not the Explorer. Similar, but not the same, and the part had to be re-ordered. There was no way the Hoodmobile would be running in time for the wedding. And nobody gets jealous when someone steps off of the bus.

I'd moved from the high-rise to a lakefront, parkside apartment by this point; bigger, not in the projects, and with a view that was different, but just as nice. Craig had started spending a lot of nights at my place, and we'd go out with friends for coffee a lot of nights, and just chill in general.

The fact that we were friends again must have confused him into thinking I'd forgiven him for Valentine's Day. That was the only explanation I could think of when, a few days before the wedding, he came out with it:

"Bro... can I borrow the Mustang? I prommmmmmise I'll bring it back this time."

"Hell no."

That was my first answer. And my second. And third, fourth, fifth. You get the idea.

"Come on...

...please...

...pleeeeeeease!...

...bro, I've matured since then!...

...I'd never do that to you now!"

I continued to stick by my guns. 

"Ask me a few more times and maybe you'll wear me down," I told him. 

Sarcastically.

But he took me seriously, and continued to ask. 

"Craig. You nagged me and nagged me until I let you take my car. I let you take it into a snow and ice storm. I don't even drive in that weather, and I let you. You didn't bring my car back. I had to trudge through five feet of snow to pick it up. And you didn't even call to let me know. I thought you were in a ditch... or dead!"

He apologized. Profusely.

"No... fucking... way," I told him.

"Alright," he said, "how 'bout this..."

Craig's proposal was a novel one.

He wanted to borrow the car. Yet he understood why I would hesitate to loan it to him again. Ever again.

He suggested a Punishment Day.

"You can pick the most horrible consequence you can imagine," he offered, "and I'll take it. I deserve it. And, after, if you don't feel like I accepted it, you can still say no to the car." 

"And if I say no you'll accept that?" I asked him.

"Probably not," he admitted. "But think of it this way: you'll get one whole day where I won't be asking for the car."

I'd never been put into a position where I would be punishing someone. 

It sounded... fun.

And, truthfully, I was still harboring resentment about February 14th. 

I agreed.

Two nights before the wedding Craig showed up to spend the night.

The next day was Punishment Day.

"You can start tonight," he told me, obviously trying to earn Pony Points to redeem at the end of the next day. 

I hadn't decided what I was going to do yet, and told him.

"It's going to involve diapers," I said. 

"I already knew that," he replied, like I was slow or something. "Everything you do involves diapers." 

He began listing suggestions.

Pushups. Situps. Wall sits. Facing the wall. Spanking.

When Craig said spanking, I got goosebumps. The idea of whacking his ass seemed awfully appealing. 

"You don't have to pick just one," he continued. "Do a few. Or do all of them. I really want to more than make up for what I did." 

For a second I envisioned Craig feeling guilty all these months, regretting fcking me over the night he ganked my car. Then he began describing how he planned to detail the Mustang, shine up the tires, and get it looking fressssh. 

"They're going to be jealous," he said. "Only it'll be your car instead of my truck. I hope!"

I informed Craig that I'd decided on paddling/pampering as his punishment. 

"Tomorrow you're a toddler all day," I told him. He didn't look particularly horrified, but definitely didn't look excited either. "Tonight, your ass is mine." 

"Strip down to your underpants," I ordered. He did, and looked pretty silly standing there. He'd seen me in diapers before, and frequently walked around the house in his boxers, but today, standing there in them waiting to be told what to do, he looked innocent - and scared.

"Corner," I ordered. He walked to the corner and leaned in it nonchalantly, looking at me. I motioned for him to turn around, and he did. 

Craig is one of my best friends, and he's also one of my hottest friends. He had, at this point, treated me to views of his ass a few times, changing in front of me knowing full well I would enjoy it. But sitting behind him as he chilled in the corner made me hard as fck. I got up and walked out of the room, ordering him to drop his drawers. I returned ten minutes later to find him standing in the corner, naked, with something tied around his waste.

"What the fuck is that?" I asked. He turned around, and I saw that he'd tied some sort of skater hat around his waste; the hat covered his cock. I laughed. 

"Untie it."

He groaned, but obeyed, and the hat fell to the ground.

"I didn't think you needed to see my dick," he told me. "I do have some pride, you know..."

"Sure," I said. I was in charge now. "Go get the paddle from the kitchen."

The paddle was a plastic cutting board with a handle. (Some of you who've been abysat by me know it well, hehe). It was in the kitchen, disguised as a useful cooking tool, but its actual purpose was to serve as a hotplate for warm dishes, and to warm hot asses. 

"A paddle?!" Craig asked, sounding surprised. "I said a spanking," he told me. "With your hand."

I reminded him who was deciding his punishment. He went, retrieved the paddle, and walked back in with it covering his joint. He returned to the corner, still holding the paddle with both hands in front of him. I enjoyed the view of his bottom for a few minutes, and them called him over to the bed.

At this point I'd never paddled anyone. I wasn't even sure how to do it. I ordered Craig to put his hands on the bed; he was tall and muscular and seemed kind of threatening, so I changed my command and told him to include his elbows, too. 

I placed a chair behind him and sat down. He looked remarkably uncomfortable, bent over, his ass in my face, his hands and elbows on the bed. 

Justice! I thought.

"Dude," he said, sounding nervous, "aren't you going to put the diaper on before you hit me with that thing?"

"Nope."

Craig was scared, and I was feeling good. Making me walk three miles hadn't scared him...

I decided to roll with it.

"Tell me why you're being punished in the first place," I told him. In truth his answer mattered less than the fact that I was inches away from my best friend's butt - one I'd fantasized about a lot, and had never dreamed I'd be spanking, or diapering. 

Craig went through the whole story, throwing in the word 'ashamed' a few times. I heard sorry, too, but truthfully, I was mesmerized. He may as well have said "I took your car and didn't give it up and I liked it, fucker!" for all of the attention I was paying to his explanation.

He stopped talking, and I stood up.

"How many?" I asked.

How hard will it be, he wanted to know.

"I'll do one and then we'll decide," I said. He nodded. I held the paddle back, and swung.

Whack!

Craig let out a yelp loud enough I was sure my neighbors were going to start dialing 9-1-1. 

He stood up, jumped up on the bed, and started rolling around. 

"OH MY GOD!" he said. "NOT SO HARD!" 

The penis that he'd tried so hard to hide under his skaterwear was flopping around now, in all its glory. He'd lost all humility with the first smack, and the only thing that seemed important now was cooling off his buttcheeks. 

"How many?" I asked.

"One!" he said.

I laughed. "Ten it is."

"NO!" he practically shouted. "Let's compromise! Two!"

"Eleven," I countered.

"Oh my GOD, bro... I think I'd seriously die. I don't think I could even go to the wedding. I won't be able to sit down. Seriously."

I looked at his bum. It was pretty red. But it didn't look that bad. 

"Seven, final," I said. "And if you let your elbows or palms leave that mattress that swat doesn't count."

Craig looked like he wanted to cry, but agreed. He resumed his position, and I took another swing.

WHOMP!

This time Craig jumped up onto the bed, careful to keep his arms on the mattress. He wagged his tail in the air, as if to cool it off with the breeze, and started moaning. 

"Brooooooo... I am soooooo sorrrrrrrrrry," he said. "I know you're angry with me..."

"Not as mad as your asscheeks must be," I told him. "They gotta pay the price for your brain's stupidity... that's hardly fair."

"Tell me about it!" he exclaimed. "Okay, let's get this over with..."

The third whack came, followed by the fourth. Each time Craig yelped and wiggled his butt with a quickness, trying to cool it off. He apologized repeatedly, but maintained his position. After five and six he'd stopped wiggling as much, and I imagined that his buttocks must have gone numb. He looked like he was going to cry and, for the first time, I felt vindicated. 

At some point during all of this my brother Chase stopped by. He, too, stayed with me a lot, and had his own key. He used it to let himself in, and I heard him rustling around in the kitchen. Craig heard it, too. "Who the fck is that?" he asked.

After yelp five or six Chase came to the door, knocked, and opened it. The sight of Craig hunkered over the mattress with a bright red ass made his jaw drop. 

"Heard of knocking?" I asked. 

"Wow, I wouldn't wanna be Craig right now," he replied. I looked at Craig and noticed that his face was now as red as his hiney. 

"Me either," I said.

"Me either," Craig chimed in.

Chase left, and it was time for the final blow. Number seven came and went. I made it count; it was harder than all of the others, and the noise of the plastic against his skin was louder, as was his yelp. 

"Please tell me that the first one counted," he pleaded. I saw that he was serious. 

"You didn't keep your hands on the mattress..." I said, teasing, and he interrupted me. 

"You hadn't even told me that rule yet!"

I continued, letting him know that I'd count it. 

"How do you feel?" I asked him. I expected to hear "guilty"... or "sorry"... or some sort of adjective that would make me feel better.

Instead, he let out another yelp.

"I feel like my ass is on fire, bro!"

I sent Craig to the corner. It was getting late, but I'd just reddened his ass, and wanted to enjoy it. I grabbed the spare mattress from under my bed and set it up. Craig usually slept in the guest room, but tonight was Punishment Night. Things would be different. Craig turned around to see what I was doing and I walked over and gave his left buttcheek a slap with my hand. He started to shake his ass, trying to prevent a second swat. "You promised seven!" he pleaded, and I had to laugh. Craig was in recovery mode...

I pulled a diaper off the pile, and grabbed baby wipes and powder. Craig had been in the corner for almost an hour when I announced that it was bedtime.

"Thank GOD!" he exclaimed, and I reminded him that the fun was only just beginning. 

"Come here," I ordered. He turned around and started to cross the room, and I snapped my fingers as a signal to stop. "Crawl here," I told him. "Toddler mode, bro."

His face turned redder and he complied, getting down on all fours and crawling to me, his junk swaying back and forth. He was adorable, and the sight of him naked, crawling to have his 120-degree butt wrapped in a diaper... so cute. I was... so hard.

I ordered him to lay down on the blanket, on his back. He did. 

"Feet up," I told him. He looked confused, so I grabbed his feet and lifted them up to his head. "Hold these," I told him, and he did, looking very much like a hot, naked pretzel.

I grabbed a baby wipe and began scrubbing. It was cold, and must have felt icy against the warmth that was his butt. He shivered. "That is freezing..."

"Your ass must be thanking me," I told him. It was, he said. 

I wiped every inch, digging into Craig's crack and spending a full thirty seconds on the tip of his penis. He was clearly embarassed, but actually got hard, and I started to laugh.

"It does what it wants," he told me. "I don't like diapers, I don't want you to think that..."

I slid a diaper under his bottom, and grabbed the powder. I began pouring it on him and, to increase the embarassment factor, must have used half the bottle. It just poured out and poured out until there was a mound on his cock, a mound in his crack, and some covering every centimeter of the diaper. I slowly and carefully pulled the diaper up over him, taping it snug. I'd been worried that the sheer amount of powder would make the tapes worthless, but my skills were ill, and all six tapes took.

"I've changed a baby's diaper," he told me. "I don't think you're supposed to use that much powder. You're the expert diaperer, you should know that." I could tell Craig thought he was giving me a valuable tip that would come in handy in the future. 

"Oh, I know," I reassured him. "I just thought it would be fun to watch you leave a trail of baby powder everywhere you go. And, if you think of sneaking out tonight, the overpowering odor of baby powder should make you easy to find." 

I flipped Craig over, and a baby powder cloud took to the air like a bomb had gone off inside his diaper. Powder filled the air, and I breathed in the smell that I love so much as Craig coughed and covered his face in the blanket. 

For good measure I reached down and patted his bottom. More powder particles. I laughed. 

"I could do this all night," I told him. 

I opened the windows, wanting to let enough light in so that I could enjoy the sight of Craig in his diaper at any point during the night, and then turned off the lights. I lay back, put my hand on Craig's bottom, and patted, smelling whiffs of powder with each pat. 

After about five minutes Craig had questions.

"Can I have a blanket to put over me?" he asked me.

No.

"What about a pillow, dude... this is uncomfortable, kinda."

Walking twelve blocks to get my car was uncomfortable, Craig.

And, the final observation...

"What if I have to pee?"

Two choices: pee, or flee. Don't get up out of that bed unless you plan on going home right after.

"I wissssssh I'd taken a piss when I got here."

We lay in the dark and I looked down at Craig, the light shining off the surface of his diaper. He started to talk and, between the delerium of being tired and having a bottom that must have still been sore, he started to babble.

Our friendship was worth a lot to him... he knew the day that I came and got my car keys that if shit ever went down he could still count on me... he was sorry for disrespecting me... thanks for being such a good friend...

We talked for hours, and were still talking until 2 a.m.; that's when the next proposal came.

"Let me have a few bottles of wine and you can paddle me again in the morning."

Craig was twenty, and would be twenty-one in three weeks. And I had a whole wine rack filled with all kinds of wines. I could easily spare a few bottles.

But he'd just went on for an hour about what a good friend I was. Paddling him for stealing my car was one thing; trading swats for bottles was something else. It was... wrong.

"You can wait three weeks," I said.

He sweetened the deal with offers to hold still, not complain, let me go for seven more... you get the idea.

"Tell you what," I offered. "If you still want to do it on June 15th, the deal is on." 

He grrrrr'd me again. "On June 15th I'll be able to buy my own!"

I laughed. 

"No more talking... nite." 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Pampered Pals: Part I

If you've read my blog for a while, or if you know me personally, you know that a large percentage of my friends have actually worn diapers.

Most of them at least once. Some over and over.

Some did it for curiosity's sake. They'd heard about my Huggies fetish, and they wanted to see what it was all about. 

Others did it because they figured I'd enjoy it, and they wanted to help me out. I've been surprised by a friend modeling a diaper more than once on my birthday. Seriously, it's a great present. And the mark of a good friend...

A few did it because they needed money. They knew I was willing to Pamper for pay, and they wanted to work their way into the rotation. "Why are you gonna pay some stranger off the Party Line when you can help me and I can help you?" Yep, I've heard that more than once.

One of my best friends, Craig, has done it for all of these reasons - and a few more.

(Not  Craig. Thanks, Cale, for the photos). 

Craig is actually a part of the story of how the rest of my friends found out about diapers. 

I was in college, and Craig and a few friends came to spend the weekend at the house I was renting at the time. It was on a lake, and we had a weekend of watersports planned - the clean, innocent kind, of course. 

At the time I was still in the closet, sexually and w/ re: to diapers, too. Very few people knew, and I hoped to keep it that way.

That weekend we spent a lot of time in and out of the lake. And a lot of time in and out of the cottage. Craig, Kevin, Jarrett, and Jerrod - and me - having a great time. 

At some point Jarrett, who had a habit of rifling through people's things and taking the best of their stuff for himself - decided to go exploring. So, while the rest of us spent time on the boat, Jarrett spent time inside the house, rifling through my stuff. 

And, my stash.

At some point, Jarrett found my hiding spot. I didn't realize his discovery for a day or two; he'd been kind of quiet, and I'd noticed him murmuring with his brother, although I hadn't paid a lot of attention at the time. 

A few hours afterward, Kevin asked if we could talk. 

He, Craig, and Jerrod each filed into the living room and sat down. And then, for a good minute or two, argued about who would go first. 

When I had nearly lost my patience and gotten up from the couch, Jerrod asked the question.

"Dude... what's with diapers?"

Picture it. You're sitting on a couch, in a room with your closest friends. And you're on the spot. They want to know... what's with the diapers?

"What do you mean?"

That was my response. It hadn't even occurred to me that they'd found my stash, and different things were going through my mind. How the fuck had they found out? Seen my ad online? Heard it from someone else? I had no idea, but I knew my stash was well-hidden. And I definitely hadn't left any diapers laying around.

I hadn't noticed that Jarrett wasn't in on the conversation. He was outside, or somewhere.

"Under your bed, in a box," Jerrod said. 

"Disposable diapers. Big ones," Craig said. 

"Are you like... a bedwetter?" Kevin said. "If you are, it's cool. You don't have to hide it from us."

At this moment of extreme embarassment, I was faced with a choice.

Some of you have been there, I know.

Make up a dumb story?

Or tell the truth.

"I have testicular cancer." 

That's what I could have said. It's what at least two other abies out there have told people upon their secret being discovered. I read about it on a forum once, and told myself, at the time, that I'd never resort to such an outlandish lie.

"They're for my grandmother, she just left them here when she was here last."

That might have worked, too. And it, too, has been used more than a few times, by other diaper fetishists. 

I could have told one of those whoppers. Or any number of others. 

On the other hand, I was being asked by some of the people I was closest to. I'd have to stick with today's story for the rest of my life. Was honesty, maybe, the best policy?

Instead, I answered a question with a question.

"What the FUCK were you doing under my bed?"

That's when I found out why Jarrett wasn't in the room. He was a little... ashamed. He'd been somewhere he shouldn've have been, and he found some things he shouldn't have found. And, like a kid with a secret, he'd whispered what he'd found to everyone. 

The other three, being more mature (and, probably, truer friends), wanted to stop the whispering and start the conversation. 

I'm not sure what they thought they'd find out. 

I was still formulating my answer when Kevin spoke up.

"Is it like... that Jerry Springer shit?"

I thought for a minute. Everyone had seen the diaper dude on Jerry. (The normal-seeming guy, at that time, not the freaks that have been on since). 

This could work...

"It's complicated," I said. It was all I could think of.

And Craig summed up their positions:

"When you're ready to tell us, we're ready to listen."

Craig came to live with me when I was a junior in college. He'd come and go a few times over the years, but the first time he occupied the second room in my high-rise. He was also in school, and we bonded and became very good friends.

I didn't realize how close we'd become until, in an extremely hectic midterm exam week I flipped out about not having enough time to get things done. The apartment was a mess, I couldn't find some of my study guides - I suspected Craig had tossed them out in his takeover of the second room - and I barely had time to study, let alone do anything else. 

I went to school, and didn't return until late that night. When I returned Craig was sleeping on the couch, the television on, and I remember walking across the room to turn it off, only to turn it back on and use the light to confirm what I realized I'd just seen: the living room, disorganized and disheveled when I'd left, was spotless.

I checked Craig's room, expecting to see all of the junk thrown into it - the 'quick fix' to calm me down. Instead, I saw it the most organized it had been since he moved in. A quick check of the bathroom revealed a shiny, spotless tub, toilet, and sink. He'd cleaned every inch. He had even organized the hall closet. It must have taken him all day.

I was impressed. 

I tried to wake him up to thank him, but he was out. A little shaking didn't do it, and I was tired, so I decided to turn in. 

I walked into my room and opened the door. A quick flip of the light and I saw something I'd never expected to see in a million years: my room, spotless also.

Craig had cleaned and organized every inch of the apartment, in response to my rant. And he'd even done my room. 

I lay down, happy as hell, and began to doze off. 

And then I had a thought that startled me so much I sat up straight in bed: wet diaper.

Wet diaper... wet diaper!!!

That morning I'd been short on time - sort of a theme for me that week. I'd peeled off a soaking wet diaper and hopped in the shower but, after getting dressed and realizing I was going to be late, I'd tossed the wet diaper onto a plastic Rubbermaid box and pushed it under my bed, intending to dispose of it when I returned.

Normally, this would be no problem. Tonight, it might have been.

Had Craig... cleaned... everywhere?

I leaned over the bed and reached underneath. There was the container.

Whew, right? 

Wrong. 

Gone was the wet diaper. 

And I realized that Craig had come face-to-face with a piss-soaked Pamper. And had taken it upon himself to pick it up. 

Embarassing? 

Oh, yea. 

You know you have a true friend when someone cleans up your wet diaper and doesn't complain. And, the next day, Craig had no complaints.

"Did you notice anthing different about the apartment?" he asked.

Yea. Thank you Craig... really.

"Did you notice anything different about your room?"

Yes, you cleaned every inch. Errrrr... thank you, Craig.

"You need to get a Diaper Genie."

Uhhh... I guess I do.

Since then I can safely say Craig is no stranger to diapers. He's worn them on at least a half dozen occasions, he's seen me in them dozens of times, and he's cleaned them up more than just this once. 

And he's still one of my best friends.

In fact, as I sat down and tried to figure out what to write tonight, he called and, as we talked - and I was reminded, again, what a great friend he is - it occured to me.

A year after the apartment cleanup Craig would offer to wear a diaper as punishment - along with some other stuff - in a ploy to be allowed to borrow my car to impress his girlfriend.

Two years later Craig would offer to spend a week in diapers as partial payment to purchase the same car.

He still has the car...

That story tomorrow...

And coming soon... the rest of my friends in diapers lol.