Chapter 2
Leadership (and underwear) isn't for everyone.
Chapter Description: Authority doesn't crinkle, but his steps soon would
He squirmed across her lap, face flushed and damp with sweat, his bottom burning red beneath her hand. Each swat echoed in the quiet of the room, sharp and rhythmic, but it wasn’t the pain that made him tremble.
It was the need.
The awful, aching truth that he didn’t want it to stop.
She paused, resting her palm on the heat of his bare cheeks. He gasped at the contact, arching without meaning to. His cock throbbed against her thigh, leaking onto the fabric of her skirt, obscene and shameful.
“Aww,” she murmured, brushing his hair from his damp forehead. “Look at you. Such a messy little thing.”
He buried his face in his arm, panting. “Please—please, I…”
A final slap stilled him.
He was gasping by the time her hand rested, feeling the motion, the trembling reverberating through his cheek.
His thighs shook with every breath.
His ass radiated heat, welted and red, pulsing with the sting of her hand. He was still draped across her lap, his cock stiff and leaking against her stockinged thigh, his muscles limp with exhaustion. He wasn’t crying, not quite—but his eyes were wet, and his mouth trembled like he was holding something back.
She smoothed her hand over the welts she’d left, gentle now. Almost proud.
She kissed his cheek gently. “Good boys don’t need to understand,” she whispered. “They just need to obey.”
She stroked one hand down his spine, the other resting possessively on one his sore reddened cheeks.
He whimpered.
“Poor baby,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement. “All that fight… gone. All that pride… dripping on my skirt.”
He couldn’t answer. His mouth was dry, his eyes wet.
He squirmed slightly, not to escape—but to chase the touch.
She leaned down, brushing her lips against his ear.
“Tell me, sweet boy… do you want to be little for me?”
His breath hitched.
He didn’t answer right away.
Not because he didn’t know.
Because he did.
And it terrified him.
Still, he nodded.
Slowly. Shamefully. Needing it.
“There we go,” she cooed, already shifting beneath him.
“Tell me what you are,” she said, voice low and sweet.
He shook his head, chest heaving. “I don’t—please, I—”
Another sharp slap, right across the curve of his cheek. He yelped.
“Thats okay baby” she purred, “I'll show you.”
In one fluid motion, she guided him down onto his back—his muscles loose, too dazed from the rhythm of pain and praise to resist. She helped him lie back, body pliant and flushed, and before he could catch his breath.
The sheets were cool against his bare skin, especially where his ass burned raw. He hissed, twitching—but she only shushed him, her palm warm against his belly.
He lay there panting, his red bottom pressed into the cool sheets, thighs slightly parted from the burn. He didn’t notice her reach into the drawer. Didn’t notice the soft plastic until he heard the -
Crinkle.
The sound rung through the air, alien and infantile.
His eyes snapped open.
He blinked up at her, confused.
“W–wait,” he stammered. “What is that?”
His legs were already in her hands. Already lifted.
Already spread.
He gasped as the cool air brushed over his still-aching hole, the swollen welted flesh of his ass.
She had lifted his legs one hand, - he let her - and expertly sliding the thick, pre-folded diaper beneath his hips with effortless ease with the other. The plastic was cool against his raw skin.
“I didn’t—” he gasped.
She hushed him. “You said you wanted to be little.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She interrupted, tone gentle but final. “And little boys don’t get to decide what that means.”
“Wait, please—” he whimpered. “I didn’t say—”
“But your body did,” she She cooed, pulling the front up between his legs, the thick padding engulfing his cock, still twitching and leaking helplessly.
He moaned—helpless.
The padding swallowed him.
She fastened the first tape. Then the second. Snug and firm, cupping the front as she smoothed it into place. The pressure made him gasp.
By the time she sealed the last one, he was no longer red with just the heat of the spanking.
“See?” she said, voice syrupy. “You’re already hard.”
His face burned.
His thighs trembled.
And the diaper crinkled when he tried to close his legs.
He was diapered.
Wrapped.
Claimed.
And she was already smoothing her hands over the front, patting the bulk gently, like checking for warmth.
“There,” she said softly. “That’s much better.”
The thick padding spread his thighs slightly, forcing him into an infantile sprawl. It rustled when he moved. Hugged his heat. His erection pulsed against the softness, shame and arousal tangling.
He blinked up at the ceiling, too stunned to move.
The crinkle filled the silence when he finally shifted. The padding between his thighs was thick, foreign, infantile.
And yet his cock pulsed within.
The diaper crinkled with every breath.
He lay flat on the bed, arms stretched above his head, wrists cuffed in soft leather and clipped to the headboard. His ankles were bound, too—spaced just far enough apart to force the thick bulk of the diaper to spread him. It pressed up between his thighs like a cushion and a prison, warm and humiliating.
She hadn’t said much.
Just a quiet hum here. A murmured “good boy” there.
But her hands had never stopped moving.
She traced slow, soft circles across his belly with her fingertips—never rough, never hurried. Just constant. Gentle. Knowing. One hand wandered low, pressing lightly over the front of the diaper, just enough to make the swollen padding flex and shift against him.
He shivered. Moaned.
The heat building in his body wasn’t arousal anymore. Not fully. It was deeper than that. It was need, curling low in his belly, a warm pressure that built with each small motion. He tried to hold still. Tried to clench.
But her touch was relentless.
Teasing.
Coaxing.
“Sweet thing,” she whispered, eyes locked on his flushed face. “Still trying to pretend you’re in control?”
He whimpered, thighs twitching. “Please—don’t—”
But even he didn’t know what he was asking for anymore.
The diaper crinkled softly as she adjusted it, smoothing the front with practiced palms like she was tucking him in for a nap. He lay there, on his back, restrained with cuffs to the bed, still hard, his body trembling beneath her—caught somewhere between arousal and a creeping kind of panic he didn’t yet know how to name.
She fastened the last tape with a light pat and smiled, tracing the thick curve where his thigh met the padding.
“There,” she murmured. “Now you look the part.”
He swallowed, blinking rapidly. “You’re... really serious about this,” he said hoarsely.
“I’m always serious when I take care of someone,” she replied, brushing her fingers along his inner thigh—light, teasing. “You said you wanted to give up control, didn’t you?”
“I did. I do. I just—” He shifted, and the soft crinkle beneath him interrupted his thought. “I didn’t think you’d... actually put me in one.”
She raised an eyebrow, calm and unmoved. “Why not?”
He struggled for words, heart racing. “I thought it was... roleplay. Symbolic. I didn’t think—”
“That I’d strip you of every last shred of that ego you hide behind?” she said sweetly. “That I’d take what you offered and make it real?”
He flushed to his ears. His cock twitched again, aching, humiliated.
“I just—” He tried to shift again, then froze. That pressure had returned, sudden and sharp this time. Deep and impossible to ignore. His eyes widened.
“There it is,” she said, watching him closely. “It’s starting, isn’t it?”
He shook his head quickly, mouth parting. “No—I—I don’t think—”
“Shh,” she soothed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Don’t think. That’s over, remember? You’re not in charge anymore. You don’t get to decide what happens to your body. That’s mine now.”
He whimpered as the pressure built again—hot, twisting, insistent. His thighs tensed. The padding pressed back against him like a cradle he hadn’t asked for.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you’d do this.”
She smiled again—soft, indulgent.
“You didn’t have to know,” she said. “You just had to need it. And you certainly did.”
His eyes filled, confused and aroused and ashamed all at once. He tried to close his legs, to press his thighs together, to fight the growing urgency—but the restraints held him open, exposed.
He was sweating now. Desperate. Helpless.
And all she did was sit beside him, her palm stroking his padded crotch in slow, idle circles.
“There’s no safe word anymore, baby,” she murmured. “Only obedience. Only what I decide.”
His hips bucked slightly, involuntarily, against her hand.
“Now,” she said, lowering her lips to his ear, voice a purr, “when you can’t hold it anymore... you’re going to thank me. Do you understand?”
He whimpered.
But he nodded.
Because deep down, he needed this.
And now, there was no way back.
The heat in his gut had become a storm. Not a pulse of need now, but something deeper. He clenched instinctively, shaking his head against the pillow.
“No, no—fuck—” he gasped, hips bucking slightly. The thick diaper shifted with him, cradling the urgency he could no longer deny.
She hadn’t moved. Just sat beside him, legs crossed neatly, her phone in one hand as she idly scrolled. Her other hand rested on his thigh, absentmindedly stroking his skin. Gentle. Possessive. Casual.
“I—Red,” he cried suddenly. “Red. That’s my— That’s the—Red!”
Her head tilted, eyes twinkling.
“Oh?” she said sweetly. “Is something wrong?”
“I said the safe word,” he choked. “You—you’re pushing me too far—I can’t—”
She leaned in, her perfume curling around him like smoke.
“But I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’re lying there all on your own. I haven’t even touched you.”
“You—put something inside—”
“Just minutes ago,” she said with a smile. “And you agreed, remember? You wanted to be my good boy. You begged me for this.”
He twisted, trying to close his legs, trying to suppress the fire in his belly. It was all happening too fast. His body pulsed with the need to release, to relieve the unbearable fullness.
“I didn’t know what you’d do,” he groaned. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t have to think,” she murmured. “You asked me to take that burden away. And I did. I’m not touching you. I’m not making you do anything.”
She tapped her phone idly. “If something happens, it’s not because I forced it. It’s because your body knows who you are now.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“No, no, no—”
“Yes,” she said, voice light, gentle as velvet. “You’re a little boy now. And little boys don’t have control.”
He let out a broken sound, part sob, part moan. His thighs trembled, his core clenched with a final, desperate strength—but it was fading. His body wanted to obey. His dignity was fraying.
She leaned down, resting her chin lightly on the curve of his shoulder.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s okay to let go. That’s what diapers are for.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
But the storm was building. His body betrayed him with every second.
And she waited. Smiling. Saying nothing.
Because now, he wasn’t being punished.
He was simply being watched.
The silence wrapped around him like a vice.
His wrists strained against the cuffs tied to the bed, fingers clawing at the air. His legs trembled, not from restraint but effort—desperate, final effort.
He tried to breathe through it. To focus. To anchor his mind in something real—wood grain of the headboard, coolness of the sheets, the quiet hum of the city outside. Anything but the slow, molten pressure rising in him, the signal that his body had decided. The point of no return.
He grunted, teeth clenched. “I—I can’t—”
“You can try,” she said softly. “But it won’t change the ending.”
A bead of sweat rolled from his temple to the pillow. His eyes were wide, unseeing, his mouth trembling open.
He felt it happen.
He tensed.
And then—it happened.
It began as a tickle.
A soft warmth bloomed at the very base of him, low and unmistakable. He gasped. His body tried to resist—but the pressure had built too long, too quietly.
A trickle escaped.
Then another.
His core gave a final twitch, and then—it slipped. Control. Pride. Resistance.
The first wave was involuntary. Warm. Soft. He gasped like he’d been struck.
Then came the flood at the front. A helpless wave of heat spreading between his thighs. Hot. Humid. Indisputable.
The flood of heat rushed into the padding, soaking it instantly. The diaper expanded around him with a soft squish, growing heavy and wet as his bladder emptied completely. He cried out—not in pain, not even in protest. Just pure, breathless humiliation.
The sound was almost nothing—just the faintest hiss muffled by padding.
But to him, it was thunder.
He froze. His body collapsed into the restraints with the weight of what he’d done. Muscles limp. Mouth slack. Diaper sagging ever so slightly beneath him, heat blooming in shameful fullness.
The sound of his own wetness filled the space between them.
She didn’t stop him.
Didn’t flinch.
Just there, still watching, smiling.
“I knew you could do it,” she said gently.
He whimpered.
Her hand stayed right there, pressing gently, guiding the leak until it faded to a pulse… then a twitch… then nothing.
“No hiding now, baby.” Her fingers traced the front of the diaper, pressing ever so slightly. It squished. He flinched.
“There it is,” she whispered. “There’s my good boy.”
He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. His mind reeled. But beneath the shame, the humiliation, the helplessness... was something else.
A strange, terrifying peace.
He had no control left.
And somehow—it relieved him.
He lay in it.
Soaked.
Shaking.
Breathing hard through parted lips.
His cock, unbelievably, twitched again—still hard beneath the warm, sagging bulk of the diaper.
She leaned down and kissed his flushed cheek.
“Good boys make messes,” she whispered. “And yours is just getting started.”
He lay motionless, breathing in shallow gasps, wrists still bound above his head. The wet warmth wrapped around him like a secret he couldn’t take back. Every small shift made the diaper crinkle, press, and squish.
It was unbearable.
It was heaven.
“I want—” he tried, but the words caught. What did he want? To rewind time? To crawl out of his skin? Or to fall deeper into her shadow and let her decide who he was?
She didn’t untie him.
Instead, she leaned over and kissed his temple. Not mocking. Not even triumphant.
Just calm.
“You did so well,” she said softly. “And I think you know it.”
He turned his head, ashamed. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.” She brushed her fingers through his hair, petting gently. “And that means part of you is ready.”
His stomach turned. “Ready for what?”
“For this,” she said, gesturing to the soaked padding between his legs. “For letting go. For giving yourself up. For being cared for the way you never let anyone do.”
He bit his lip. Hard. “I’m not—this isn’t who I am.”
She smiled faintly. “No. But it is who you need to be.”
His eyes burned.
“But I’m a man,” he whispered. “I run a team. I'm upper floor management now. I wear five-thousand-dollar watches. I—”
“And look at you now,” she said gently, fingers tracing his flushed cheek. “Tied down. Wet. Helpless. Hard. And still aching for more.”
He sobbed once—silent and hollow. But he didn’t deny her.
She reached to the nightstand and retrieved a pacifier—sleek, pink, silicone—and held it above his lips.
“No.”
She didn’t push it in. Just let it hover. “You can say no,” she said. “But if you want to stop craving this… you’ll have to mean it.”
He stared at it. His mouth opened slightly—reflexively.
She waited. Poised.
And finally, trembling, humiliated, wanting—he let her place it gently between his lips.
It filled his mouth and silenced him. His jaw relaxed around it with awful, instant relief.
She kissed his forehead.
“Good boy.”
He hated how it made him feel.
But he didn’t spit it out.
The pacifier sat heavy on his tongue.
It filled his mouth with silence, stole his voice, muted every word that wanted to claw its way out—I’m still a man, I can still stop this, I don’t need—
But she didn’t look for excuses. She looked for compliance. And now, she had it.
“Ready for more” she asked softly, adjusting the straps at his ankles. Her touch was gentle now, almost tender.
He couldn’t answer.
Not properly.
Just a little muffled breath through his nose, a twitch of his hips. He hated himself for it—but he nodded.
She smiled.
“Good boy.”
He burned inside. That phrase again. She said it like a sentence, not a compliment.
She began unfastening the cuffs at his wrists, one by one, but he didn’t move. His arms dropped to the bed limply, palms still curled, fingers trembling from tension. The moment they were free… they stayed exactly where she left them.
He didn’t try to fight.
He didn’t even try to cover himself.
He flinched.
“I shouldn’t be like this,” he whispered past the rubber. “This isn’t me.”
She sat beside him again, calm as ever, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“No,” she said. “It’s the part of you that’s always tired. The part you bury. The one that wants to be held instead of holding everything up.”
She reached down and pressed her palm against the swollen front of his diaper. He gasped around the pacifier, squirming instinctively—his erection still barely faded, trapped beneath the heat and padding and his own shame.
“But he doesn’t need to be in charge anymore,” she continued. “He can stay right here. With me. With his paci. In his wet diaper.”
He let out a sound—half sob, half moan. His hands curled tighter into the sheets.
“I—I don’t want to want this.”
“I know,” she said.
And that was worse. Because she did know.
“You don’t need to talk anymore tonight.”
She didn’t bind his hands again.
She didn’t have to.
They stayed limp by his sides, unmoving, while she stood to dim the lights. The soft hush of her heels across the hardwood. The quiet click of her phone as she checked a message.
And then: silence.
He could hear himself breathing behind the pacifier. Could feel the weight of the soaked diaper hugging him, thick and unyielding. The ache in his muscles from restraint. The smell—faint but unmistakable—of himself.
He was still hard.
Still held.
Still hers.
And no part of him was fighting anymore.
He whimpered softly around the pacifier, eyes squeezed shut. His legs shifted over the blanket on the bed—instinctively searching for modesty, but the bulk of the soaked diaper between his thighs made that impossible. Every move made it squish. Every breath made him more aware of it.
“Shhh,” she whispered, still nearby. “You’re doing so well.”
His breath hitched again. He wanted to say no, to protest, to pull free from the weight pressing on his chest—but all he did was curl slightly onto his side, diaper crinkling with the motion.
Then—
Click.
A soft mechanical shutter.
A flash of light behind his eyelids.
His eyes flew open.
Click. Another. This one unmistakable. His head turned sharply—heart lurching.
She stood at the foot of the bed, poised and calm, holding her phone angled at him. The glow of the screen lit her perfectly composed face.
“Wha—” he started, pacifier falling slightly from his lips. “What are you doing?”
She gave a little smile, warm as silk. “Just capturing the moment, baby.”
His stomach dropped.
“You took a picture of me,” he said, voice raw. “Like this.”
She nodded, unbothered. “I like to keep reminders of how beautiful you look when you finally stop pretending.”
Panic scraped up his throat. “You can’t—I mean—what if someone sees—”
Her gaze softened. “Stop being such a baby then.”
He choked on air. “Don’t!”
But even as the horror bloomed behind his ribs, something low in his belly tingled—an awful, electric rush of humiliation and exposure that made his cock twitch visibly beneath the sodden padding.
He felt it.
And so did she.
Her eyes flicked to the bulge rising softly in the diaper, and she let out a delighted hum. “Oh, look at that,” she cooed. “My baby’s excited.”
His face burned.
“No—no, that’s not—” He turned his face into the pillow, ashamed. “That’s not me. That’s not what I want.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked quietly. “Because your body’s telling a different story.”
She placed the phone down on the nightstand and returned to sit beside him, stroking the back of his thigh, the gentle crinkle of the diaper folding softly with the motion.
“You don’t have to say it out loud,” she whispered. “You don’t even have to admit it to yourself.”
Her hand slid up, slow and deliberate, tracing the shape of him through the warm, wet bulk.
“But I already know,” she said. “And so do you.”
He sobbed—one broken, breathless sound—and didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t sure anymore if he wanted to.
The warmth of her palm stayed firm against the front of the diaper, stroking slowly—tender, teasing, as if she weren’t aware of the soaked state beneath her touch. But she was aware. She knew exactly how it felt under her fingers: swollen, slick, swollen again.
And she watched him the whole time. Closely. Adoringly.
He turned his face deeper into the pillow, trembling, legs slightly bent—knees brushing together but never quite able to close.
“You’re doing so well,” she cooed, fingers still moving. “You’re so good for me, baby.”
“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible around the pacifier.
Her hand didn’t stop. Just the faintest pressure through the padding, not enough to relieve him—never enough—but just enough to push him to the edge of it.
“You already wet for me,” she said, leaning close, her breath warm against his ear. “So why don’t you go ahead and finish for me, too?”
His whole body clenched. “No—I can’t—I shouldn’t—”
Her fingers circled again, gently kneading the squishy front, letting him feel just how helpless he’d become.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “That’s what your diaper is for. That’s what you’re for.”
And then—
Click.
Another photo.
This time with his face visible—flushed, red-eyed, pacifier between parted lips, expression wrecked. The diaper swollen and obscene beneath the blanket.
He let out a soft, strangled cry.
And then he let go.
It was helpless. A full-body jolt. His hips bucked weakly against the soft squish beneath him as his cock spasmed, spilling into the already wet diaper in thick, humiliating waves. There was no friction. No pleasure in the traditional sense. Just overwhelming release—raw and stripped and degrading and perfect.
She stroked his thigh through it, voice soft and delighted.
“Ohhh,” she cooed, “there’s a good boy. Making a big mess in his diaper for me. That’s it, sweetie. Just let it happen.”
He sobbed once, body shuddering.
“Couldn’t even help it, could you?” she whispered. “You needed this. You needed me.”
He nodded, face hidden, cheeks burning.
“Look at you,” she said, gently gesturing to reveal the soaked, now sticky diaper in full view. “So warm. So used.”
She reached for the phone again.
Click.
His whole body quaked at the sound. He couldn’t even speak anymore. Just breathe, just feel, just exist in the soft, crinkling aftermath of his own collapse.
Her fingers brushed his hair back again, lovingly.
“You're mine now,” she whispered, kissing his temple. “Every inch of you. Every need. Every mess.”
And he didn’t resist.
Because there was nothing left to resist with.
