Torn

Chapter 1
As One

Chapter Description: Everybody has secrets. How far would you go to protect yours?

“Our next acknowledgement is a twofer,” said the beaming Vice President of Something-or-Other, one of the company’s seven. “Richard Nolan. Go ahead, Rick. On your feet.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a three-piece suit rose from his chair and stood on the stage a few paces behind and one to the left of VP Gerard Watkins. His eyes were green and intense and bespoke intelligence, wisdom, and wit. His hair, dark and wavy, contrasted nicely with his teeth, which were as white as the driven snow. Rick Nolan looked over two decades his junior, as though he had just graduated from college, and women loved him for it.

But in his eyes smoldered the brilliance of a man in control of his destiny.

Applause rippled throughout the crowd. “Don’t be shy, Rick,” prodded the man at the lectern. Rick’s smile broadened in response and he elevated his right hand in gratitude for the accolades. He had been raised to be modest, and he wore it well—but, like anyone else, whether or not they cared to admit it, he cherished the occasional public commendation.

“Richard didn’t only just celebrate the recent completion of his tenth year with the company,” continued Watkins, “but that tenth year was also his most successful. He brought in enough new business to this firm to rank him as the top earner in the mid-Atlantic region, and the fourth-highest globally.”

Another round of applause. Rick blushed a bit beneath the hot lighting of the conference room stage. In his head, he thanked his previous night’s self for preparing some remarks in advance. Not only were all of the company’s top national executives present – an echelon of which he had been increasingly campaigning to become a part – but his capable and fetching secretary, Marie Darling, ranked among the seated crowd as well, for reasons not entirely clear to him.

She must have known something ahead of time, he thought, and drove out here just for me. What a remarkable friend.

“Richard and I have known one another for some time. We both started out as recruiters. The competition between us was always fierce. Of course, we’re no longer competing, which is why the man of the hour here has so ably taken top honors.”

Rick gritted his teeth. Backhanded bastard.

“When I was reviewing his numbers,” said the VP, “it occurred to me that, if all our recruiters were privy to Richard’s methodology and advanced techniques, our whole company’s stock would soar.

“So, during last month’s company retreat, while everyone else was in Mauna Loa getting some sun, I swung by his branch and distracted Richard long enough to pop open his private laptop and do a little investigative work of my own. And what I found was… illuminating, to say the least.”

Rick’s smile vanished. His arm went limp and his hand slowly fell to his side. He glanced at Gerard Watkins in apprehension.

“For example—”—at this, the Vice President cleared his throat and donned his reading glasses, holding a tilted index card about two feet from his face—“—has anybody ever heard of a fetish called ‘age regression?’”

Silence in the audience. A cough.

Oh God, no. No, God. No.

Watkins chuckled. “It’s quite amusing, actually. Age regression is all about becoming younger instead of older. Growing down instead of up. Could be men, could be women. Some get off on the idea of doing this to someone else. Others get off on the idea of having it done to them. Sometimes they get young enough that all their pubes disappear, along with their ability to orgasm. Sometimes they regress so far they’re back to sucking their thumbs and shitting their pants.”

Icy laughter rippled through the audience. There were some murmurs of disbelief. A couple of the more conservative among them left the room in disgust.

Rick wanted to run. At first, he wanted to run towards Watkins, to knock him down and beat the fucking silence out of him. Then he wanted to run out of the room, out the building, across the street and to some distant planet

But Rick couldn’t run. He couldn’t move. He could just swivel his head between staring in horror and rage at the company executive and panning the audience, absorbing their looks of disbelief and derision.

“Yes, our little champion Richard here cums buckets toall of that twisted shit. Isn’t that right, Ricky-boy? Come to think about it, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if beneath those $2,000 suit pants of his was a thick, crinkly diaper right now. Worn in blissful secrecy so that he could get his sweaty pervert rocks off in front of the very company that subsidizes his sick pursuits.”

And Rick felt it. The unmistakable, one-of-a-kind sensation of space-age polymers disguised as fabrics spreading his thighs apart and binding his nuts in plastic. Somehow one of his most hidden vices had materialized around his privates as if conjured by Gerard’s caprice. Worse yet, the cool lick of air conditioning’s tongue against his bare abdomen and legs merely hinted at a fact that a downward glance confirmed in subsequence… Rick had quickly and efficiently stripped himself of his clothing, against his will and therefore, presumably, according to that of the executive.

The executive who wouldn’t shut up.

“Well, would you look at that, ladies and gentlemen?” Watkins grinned, gesturing pointedly at Nolan’s midsection. “I guess it’s like they say— a hardon never lies.”

Rick’s head, plump and purple, strove upwards, reaching above the waistband of the diaper and towards a pierced sky, attached to an erection that pulsed and throbbed with every minute motion against the tight confines of the infantile garment. It had begun to very visibly leak long, elastic strands of fluid, which slid down the plastic and proceeded to pool on the floor between the man’s bare feet.

Everybody pointed and laughed. Rick felt his lip tremble and sensed sour saline accumulating in the pockets of his lower eyelids. He didn’t start crying until he saw the face of his secretary – sweet, sympathetic Marie – twisted up in a fit of giggles.

The brilliance in his eyes was gone. He was all alone in his own endless moment of torment.

Alone, and silent; for all his screams, his screams of agonized humiliation, burst dead in his voice box and ran sludgelike down the walls of his esophagus to collect in a putrid effluvium.

Something warm and mudlike exploded into the seat of his diaper. Ricky sank to his knees in defeat, the heaviness behind him dragging him down. The sudden drama of the motion tickled his balls just right, and rich, burly strands of semen sprung like the columns of an ancient city long ago swallowed by ocean into the air to splatter wetly against his chin and streak the lone patch of chest hair at his sternum with rivulets of icing. Down he went, the sphincter of his anus and the slit of his cock opening and closing in alternating sequence, adding in turn but never at once to the humiliations piling into his diaper and dripping down from his chest, his chin, his screwed-up face—which was pried open in a soundless bawl that didn’t produce the shrieking cadence of a humiliated childhood until the laughter in the audience was cacophonous enough to compete.

“There’s your Employee of the Year, ladies and gentlemen,” grinned VP Watkins, gesturing to the pathetic mess of a man on the stage. He was curled up into the fetal position, sobbing and sucking his thumb, the stained seat of his loaded diaper turned to the crowd and leaving nothing to the imagination. “May every maestro be as forthright with his secrets.”

Some members of the crowd were rolling in the aisles. Others held on to one another for purchase as their diaphragms spasmed with rapture.

“Hahahahahahahahaha—”

—Richard Nolan snapped to consciousness in a soaking wet bed. Relieved to discover it was merely the perspiration of a persistent nightmare, Rick caught his breath and, with slightly more apprehension than was usual for him, turned the ignition on his workday.

to be continued--