| Title:
| En Media Res
|
| Name:
| Messiah91
|
| Email:
| [email protected]
|
| Gender:
| Male
|
| Current Age:
| not given
|
| Posting Date:
| 08/31/08
|
| Story Contents:
|
| A- Post-toddler (4-8) | | R- Sisters, other girls |
| | B- Pre-teen (9-12) | | S- Babysitters |
| | C- Teen (13-17) | ● | T- Masturbation | ●
| | D- Adult (18+) | | U- Sexual situations |
| | E- Cloth diapers | ● | V- Gay |
| | F- Disposable diapers | | W- Erections |
| | G- Pee | ● | X- Bedwetting |
| | H- Poop | ● | Y- Accidents | ●
| | I- Exposed diapers | ● | Z- Punishment/Diaper Discipline |
| | J- Multiple diapers | | 1- Female Domination |
| | K- Baby paraphernalia | | 2- Enemas |
| | L- Mother | | 3- Restraints |
| | M- Father | ● | 4- Crying |
| | N- Aunt | | 5- Spanking |
| | O- Uncle | | 6- Humiliation |
| | P- Brothers (diapered) | | 7- Babying | ●
| | Q- Brothers (not diapered) | | 8- Regression | ●
|
|
| Summary:
|
A young man awakes confused to find himself in a dark room, alone, and diapered. What's
happening to him...and why?
|
The dazed jock looks around�his lips parted sensuously as his eyes try
and catch up with what his body his feeling. It�s dark, and he�s
surrounded on all sides; what is this place?
�Uhhn�nuh...�
Light seeps in, or out�regardless, he can begin to make out the
beginnings of where he ends, and everything else starts. It�s
a...a...crib. He�s shocked for a moment, but it�s a soft-core
revelation, his mind still too muddled to do much processing.
A noise on the ceiling up above: a fan, spinning in moderate motion,
stirring the air�as it moves across his body, he realizes he is cold.
The stud, his mind still stuffed full of mental cotton wool, operating
on low gear, gazes around, wondering how, if as he remembers it last�
when he still had clothes on�he still is as he was, how is he cold? He
was covered...is he no longer?
The young man�s eyes meet the skin below his neck. He isn�t covered.
Well, not much anyway. It all seems to be happening slowly, surreally,
to someone not him: someone not in their prime of vigorous life, in
peak condition, at the top of the social chain that is high school.
He�s a teenage god�this much he can muster from within the depths of
remembrance in his brain�and yet here he is, splayed about in a large
crib, in a dark room, chilled for some minutes now because he is
wearing nothing but an oversized diaper.
More and more, he was regaining his sight, and this is what he sees:
the rippled physique of a young white male�a firm tan lay nicely over
the ribbons of tight abdominal muscle�guided by a perfect happy trail
down towards his waist. Once, before, before this, that waist had been
traditionally the threshold of his underwear; his normal underwear. For
the first seventeen-and-a-half years of his life, the lean, handsome
teenager had worn stark white briefs on his person, and nothing else.
For one, he lived with his father, solely (his mother having perished
in his infancy, in some undisclosed disaster), and his father had grown
up much like his son would�and still showed it. The elder man was but
in his mid-30s, and his body was slow to age. He was ex-Navy, after the
regulatory stint of high school athletics and women and booze. And he
wore the products of the pantheon of Hanes and Fruit of the Loom and
Jockey religiously�he never spoke of when the ritual or affection had
begun, probably it was instilled in him in his time in the Academy by
barking drill-instructors, but ever since the younger boy could
remember, his father had always, always, always worn white briefs. And
each morning, as the father woke the son and prepared for the day, he
would walk around only in these briefs. The son learned quickly, ritual
setting in, permanent and eternal. He grew to be an athlete, popular
and well-liked. And as boxers swept the high school locker rooms,
seeing in the middle of all these baggy plaid fabrics the most
startling young athlete of them all�in white briefs, proudly stitched
in a gray waistband, �Hanes�? It was unthinkable, but so it was.
Mostly, for another, though, the studly teenager just wore what he wore
because he liked them, and that was enough.
Now though, he was without anything he would have chosen�he was alone,
in a strange place, in a diaper and a crib. Gripped with fear suddenly,
he opens his mouth to struggle through another thought.
�Uhhn�nuh...�
All he can do is gurgle. Frustrated, he tries to move his arms and
legs; they only flounder in response. Surely it would be a sight
indeed, for any true devotee of the school of People-Watching, to see
this young man, strapping and impossibly handsome, rocked by spasms of
frustration and confusion�his muscles and skin already covering over
with a fine sheen of sweat: his desire made manifest.
Darkness creeps in, his sight begins to slip. In another second�s
elapse, something springs from the back of his mind, begins to eat away
at him, from the inside-out...
Several things happen at once: his body jerks again, this time not of
his own accord; his mental faculties�already labored, seem to break
down entirely, the workers staffing the factories off on strike or
something; and then, this wide-eyed and drooling American stud is
seized by the need to use the bathroom...to use his diaper. He intakes
sharply, mustering whatever strength he imagines he possesses to stop
this vile act, but it is too late.
Warm urine pours from within the front of his diaper, and as it is a
thirsty garment, it drinks. Suddenly made fluffier, visually, by the
act, more and more piss pours from the young man, and more and more
does the diaper soak it up, growing bigger. In not thirty seconds time,
he is sprawled out now in a large, warm, squishy mess. And then he
poops. And as his waste enraptures his lower body, the culminating
effect of this new distress becomes too much. Darkness creeps in
further.
Gazing up at where the fan should have been�still, in all likelihood,
was�the jock, dazed and lost once more, regains a flash of sight. His
father enters his view, and gazes down at his son within his massive
crib...prison.
�You are perfect. Just perfect�the most wonderful, cute, sweet, and
adorable baby boy is what you are. Or,� his daddy laughs for a split-
instant, �will be.�
The boy�Andrew�cannot process through this new development. He no
longer possesses the ability. He is being reduced: his dad�s plans,
long and slow in their planning and execution, bearing ripe fruition.
As his son had returned from school the previous afternoon, he had had
the customary snack�from his father, as always. Except, now, it was
laced with a new intention. And as this cocktail of poison and change
slid down the young man�s throat, he grew sleepy, and before he could
yet connect anything of what was unraveling before and within him, the
hunk had slumped unconscious on the table.
And then his bladder let go, as the father�s drugs took effect. The ex-
naval officer slung his little boy over his shoulders, and carried him
back to his room...or rather, old room, since this new incarnation
featured only the barest hint of a similar layout. Now it had a crib
and all accompanying baby supplies, instead of the ol� television and
trophies and chair.
Laying him gently on the changing table, the man cooed at his on as he
stripped him of, first, his hoodie and shirt, and then his pants
(stained now by the boy�s urine). Finally, he grabs the elastic of the
briefs�previously white Jockeys, now yellowed�and strips it off in one
clean measure. In another, the boy is ensconced in an adult diaper,
save for this adult diaper is covered in babyish designs.
With a final loving embrace, he carries the boy to the crib, lays him
gently there within, and initiates the final step: an injection into
the hunk�s forearm, sealing his fate by psychotropic concoctions.
Now, all is at an end: within the brain of the seventeen year-old,
everything fades, tattered and lost to the whirlwind stirred up
suddenly inside�he sees it all, recognizes nothing, and then...gone.
His first touchdown in middle school as a linebacker; his first sleep-
over with his best friend, Josh; the first time, as a freshman on the
varsity football team, he stripped down to his tighty-whities in the
locker room before practice and, by sheer force of personality, was not
hazed for it; the first time he asked a girl out; his first girlfriend;
his first love; his first success in life, real and true; everything he
learned. Whoosh�gone.
His eyes alight on his father for another moment as they dim forever.
His lips part sensuously again as he finally realizes what it is his
body has known ever since he woke up: he�s in ecstasy, heaven. Nuzzling
down into the sopping wet cotton of the diaper, allowing the expansive
fabric-y comfort of the crib to enrapture him, and waving goodbye to
everything he was, he smiles...even as he still cannot understand what
has happened to him.
The diaper chafes against his cock and balls, rubbing slowly and
ecstatically against his body; he turns onto his stomach and begins to
masturbate against the mattress, slowly at first and then with greater
urgency until, with a climactic�almost primordial�heave, strings of
sticky cum shoot out into the mess around his middle, held together in
his diaper. Sighing, and unaware that he does so, he begins again to
dry hump himself into oblivion; the sensual is overtaking the mental in
the boy's mind�eradicating any hope of defense against the quick
erosion of his mature synapses.
He was a fine, upstanding young man�a hunk for any teenage girl, a
sensitive and smart upcoming adult for any admiring teacher or parent,
and a modest jock who still wore Fruit of the Loom briefs underneath
his uniform on Friday nights. He was, but he is no longer.
�You are perfect,� his dad says once more, smiling fully down at him.
To that statement, what can the permanently infantilized neo-baby boy
reply? There�s nothing to say: he is a product of his environment�a
blonde-haired, blue-eyed male with a pair of six-pack abs, great muscle
tone, and a killer smile who can do no more now than dimly writhe about
in his soiled, soft diaper.
His eyes absorb no light�he sees only barely�because there�s no light
in them. He giggles for no reason, and a bit of drool begins to drop
from his mouth. Now, as he drifts off, is the damage done: indeed is he
perfect. A perfect baby boy�ignorance is bliss indeed.
---
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