Executive Disfunction

Chapter 4
Flushing his career

Chapter Description: The final line was crossed with a cramp and a blush, and the uncertainty of whether he’d ever find himself at the other side again.

She glanced at her watch with perfect poise, the subtle click of the metal band loud in the hush of the room.

A small, amused hum vibrated in her throat.

Then his stomach gurgled—soft, almost imperceptible—but it made her grin. Wide. Sharp. Pleased.

The kind of smile you wear when something long-planned is about to unfold.

She tossed the slick dildo casually onto the nightstand—discarded, used, unneeded now. He flinched at the noise. 

She placed one perfectly manicured hand on his lower abdomen. Light. Flat. Possessive.

He flinched beneath it.

Still gasping. Still raw. Still trembling from the denied climax that had nearly torn him in two.

Her voice purred.

“Showtime.”

His eyes widened—blinking through sweat and confusion.

He tried to ask what she meant, but the words caught in his throat, thick and dry behind the pacifier he hadn’t realized he was still sucking.

Then—something moved.

Deep inside him. A tremor, like a bubble rolling upward. His belly fluttered beneath her palm.

“Wh—what is—” he gasped, voice hoarse.

She smiled wider, eyes glinting. “Hush now, baby. Just let it happen.”

Her other hand reached down—neatly, calmly—and pulled the back of the diaper into place again, pressing the padded seat gently against his bare skin. The tapes stayed intact. The crinkle sealed him in.

He shuddered - his backside clenching, trying to fill the void the dildo left behind.

“No,” he whispered, panic blooming behind his eyes. “No, what did you—what is this—?”

She leaned closer, her palm rubbing small circles into his lower stomach. “That little warmth you’re feeling?” she cooed. “That deep, twisty pressure?”

Another gurgle rippled through his abdomen. His muscles clenched in instinct—automatically, too late. A deep cramp surged through his core, and his hips jerked violently against the mattress.

“Oh god—oh my god—”

His voice cracked into a whine. The pressure was building. Fast. It wasn’t just fullness—it was inevitability.

She kissed the side of his head, soothing. Her fingers moved lovingly over his belly, coaxing.

“You were such a good boy for me tonight,” she whispered. “And now… your body’s just going to show us how little control you have left.”

He shook his head. “Please—please no—I didn’t know—”

But she was already tucking the blanket around him again, sealing the bulk of the diaper beneath its weight.

“You don’t need to know anymore,” she said. “You just need to feel it.”

A sharp pulse spasmed through him. His legs kicked slightly, frantic, useless against the restraints still half-clipped at the ankles.

She settled beside him, quiet and watchful, fingers now laced with his.

“You’ll be my baby for real now,” she said softly, almost tender.

“And when it happens…”

She smiled again.

“I’ll be right here.”

He gritted his teeth—what was left of him still trying to resist. Muscles clenched, every breath ragged as the pressure inside his gut twisted tighter.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

His thighs, slick with sweat, flexed against the restraints. He pulled at the restraints lightly—not enough to escape, just enough to test. To prove to himself he still had options.

He didn’t.

Her hand stayed warm and steady on his belly, rubbing slowly in those same gentle circles. Not pushing, not punishing—just guiding. As if she were lulling him toward something natural. Inevitable.

“You can hold it, baby,” she murmured. “If you think you still can.”

He sobbed around the pacifier.

Another cramp rolled through him—deeper this time. Hot. Full. A spasm of his inner muscles made his knees twitch outward as his breath caught.

“No—” he whispered, muffled and broken. “Please—I’m not—I can’t—don’t make me—”

She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “I’m not making you do anything, sweetie. Your body’s already made its choice.”

He clenched again, eyes wide. A tiny shift—barely a ripple—but he felt it.

A tight gurgle. A twist. Then—

Pfft.

A faint sound, wet and pitiful, like air escaping a sealed valve.

Then a squelch. Subtle, but real.

He froze.

There was a thin squirt of something hot—slick—leaking just beneath his tailbone. The first tremor of the wall giving out. It pooled quickly into the padded seat beneath him, and without the space to fall back—it spread forward, warmth seeping toward his cock.

“No,” he moaned, panic rising. “No no no—oh my god—”

The diaper discoloured faintly beneath him. The change was barely visible under the thick plastic sheen, but she saw it.

She smelled it.

And she beamed.

“There it is,” she cooed. “That’s my messy baby.”

He cried out, high and helpless.

Then the second wave hit.

This time, his body pushed.

A thick, unrelenting cramp wrenched through him. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even slow it.

Another burst—hot, soft, filling the already damp padding in a sudden wave. The back of the diaper swelled against him, squishing down, trapping the mess against his skin.

He sobbed.

It didn’t stop.

Another ripple came, and then another—each pulse adding to the fullness, the wet heat crawling up between his cheeks and underneath his balls. The diaper bulged now, heavy, sagging slightly even as it stayed tight around his hips.

And still—she held him.

“Let it all out,” she whispered. “Be good for me.”

He turned his face into the pillow, tears soaking into the fabric.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“I did,” she said softly. “And I knew you’d need it.”

His cock throbbed, still painfully hard despite the humiliation. Or because of it.

He’d crossed a line now. No going back.

Not after this.

And somehow—beneath the horror—there was relief.

Because now, there was nothing left to hold onto.

Just her hand on his stomach.

Just her voice in his ear.

Just the thick, warm mess between his thighs…

And the comfort of being exactly what she said he was.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

His breathing came in shallow gasps, chest stuttering, skin glazed with sweat. The sheets clung to his back; the plastic crinkled with every faint tremor of his spent body. The diaper beneath him was hot, full, unthinkable—mess smeared up the curve of his ass, slick between his cheeks, pushing forward to coat the underside of his cock, which still pulsed faintly beneath the thick front padding.

It was everything he’d never imagined. Everything he swore he wasn’t.

And his body had loved it.

A final wave rolled through his gut—shame, horror, unbearable sensation—and his hips bucked once, a sudden spasm.

Then—release.

He didn’t stroke. Didn’t even mean to.

But it came anyway.

A twitch.

A jolt.

His cock throbbed violently against the warm soaked padding, and he gasped. Cum spilt into the mess already smeared across the front of the diaper, joining the heat and wetness that wrapped him like a cocoon. His moan caught in his throat—half-panic, half-ecstasy—and turned into a sob.

The pleasure was sharp. Shattering. A climax born not of control, but the absolute loss of it.

He shivered. Cried. His thighs fell open wider, the filth beneath him spreading farther now, sticky and thick.

And through it all, she stayed beside him.

Quiet.

Watching.

Her fingers brushed his cheek, damp with tears.

“There’s my boy,” she whispered.

He turned his head slightly—barely able to lift it—and stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. The pacifier lolled from the edge of his mouth, his lips too weak to hold it now.

She smiled.

And then, gently—lovingly—she leaned down.

Her lips pressed to the front of the diaper, right over the now-warm, squelching bulge of mess and cum.

A soft kiss. A final seal.

His body jerked in response, a helpless sound escaping him—a humiliated cry, half-protest, half-need.

She looked up at him, serene.

“You gave me everything,” she said. “And now it’s mine.”

He blinked, dazed. Gasping.

Spent.

Soiled.

Hers.

The silence felt too loud.

He lay flat, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls, each inhale tugging at muscles that felt wrung out, boneless. His fingers twitched against the sheet, but he made no effort to wipe his face, no attempt to reach for modesty. There was nothing left to reach for.

The diaper clung to him—swollen and sagging, soaked through with layers of humiliation. The mess was everywhere now. He could feel it: hot and thick along the curve of his spine, sticky against his thighs, seeping toward the crease where belly met hip. Even the front had begun to collapse inward, warmth curling under the base of his softened cock, mixing his release with everything else he never imagined he’d touch.

He could smell it now. Not harsh, not sharp—just warm. Muffled. Dense.

It surrounded him.

He blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. His own body felt distant. Like something he’d stepped out of—but couldn’t quite detach from. It was still there. Every crinkle. Every squish when he shifted. Every slow pulse of muscle echoed the memory of what had just happened.

His mess.

His arousal.

His own need.

And now... it wasn’t even shocking. It just was.

He flexed a thigh slightly—reflex, maybe. A soft squelch responded, and his breath caught. Shame. Deep. Physical. Visceral. His skin flushed all over again, and the tears he’d thought had dried returned, slow and hot down the sides of his face.

How did he get here?

A man with power. A name. A schedule and a staff and clients who watched every step he took.

Now lying here—sweating, gasping, trembling—in a used diaper, freshly cummed, cheeks smeared in his own tears, his body still trying to understand what it had done.

What he had allowed.

Or worse… what he had wanted.

He shuddered. Not from cold. From the weight of it.

The weight of her kiss still lingering on the diaper’s front.

The way she looked at him—not with pity, not with cruelty, but with certainty. Like this wasn’t a mistake. Like this had been inevitable all along.

He swallowed hard.

The mess squished under him again.

And he knew—deep down, where thought gave way to feeling—that no part of him could pretend this hadn’t happened.

No part of him wanted to undo it.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

He barely heard her move.

Just the soft click of her heels on the floor, the shifting weight of her body as she came to sit beside him again. The bed dipped gently beneath her. He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

He was too full of it—all of it. The mess, the shame, the throb of overstimulated nerves and the hollow ache where control used to live.

Her fingers slid through his damp hair, brushing it back from his temple like he was fragile. Breakable.

He wasn’t a man, not now. He was something smaller. Flushed and exposed and ruined.

Her voice came quiet. Laced with amusement.

“I wonder,” she mused, stroking behind his ear, “if you’ll ever be able to cum again without this.”

His breath hitched. Just slightly.

“This smell,” she continued, tone soft and teasing. “This heat. This… squish.”

She traced a single nail across the swollen front of the diaper, just enough pressure to make him twitch. The mess pressed gently into his skin with the motion.

“Do you think your cock even remembers what it feels like to be clean?” she whispered, leaning down close to his cheek.

His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But the words wouldn’t come.

She smiled—he could feel it. Could hear it in her voice.

“Do you think you’ll ever cum into anything but a filthy, soaked diaper again?”

He let out a faint, strangled sound. Not quite denial. Not quite assent.

Just… shaken.

But somewhere, low in the dark folds of his thoughts—past the shame, the shock, the trembling aftermath of what he’d done—another voice stirred. Quieter.

And it asked the same thing.

What if she’s right?

What if the one before this one was his last clean release?

What if this was who he is now?

And what if… he needed it?

Even now, limp and humiliated, his cock gave a single, confused throb against the warm, sticky padding.

She saw it.

She cooed.

“There’s my answer.”

He shook his head weakly. Not to disagree.

Just to keep from falling completely.

She rose with a soft hum, the bed lifting slightly as her weight left it. Her heels clicked softly on the hardwood floor again—sharp, cheerful sounds that felt blasphemous in the thick stillness of his shame.

He didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t ask what she was doing.

But he already knew.

He heard the soft rustle of fabric, the faint buzz as her phone woke. A subtle brightness blinked through his closed eyelids—her screen lighting up.

And then—

Click.

The shutter sound was soft. Crisp. So normal.

His chest caved with the sound.

Another click.

And another.

She walked slowly around the bed, framing him from above, from the side. No rush. No doubt. Her voice carried on a breeze of delight.

“Oh, you look perfect,” she said softly. “Completely used. Just like I wanted.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

His hands curled slightly into the sheets, fingers trembling.

His body was soaked—slick with sweat and the remnants of release. Beneath him, the loaded diaper squelched faintly with each breath, the mess warm and ever-present, clinging to every crevice.

Click.

“God, this one’s beautiful,” she said, voice bright, giddy. “You can see it in your face. That empty little haze. All the fight’s gone out.”

He sobbed.

Not loudly. Not even freshly. It was an old sob. A dry, hollow sound like something folding in on itself. No words. No strength.

Just grief.

Grief for what he’d been.

For what he could never be again.

Click.

She crouched near his head, phone poised, hair falling slightly out of place for the first time tonight.

“And this one,” she whispered, “is going to be my favourite.”

He didn’t turn away.

Didn’t flinch.

He just lay there.

Tears tracking silently down his cheeks.

Soaked.

Soiled.

Photographed.

Owned.

He didn’t even resist when her hands touched him again.

There was no strength left in him. Only sweat-slicked limbs, trembling fingers, and the sagging heat of the soiled diaper clinging to every inch of his lower half. His head lolled to the side, mouth parted slightly, the pacifier barely hanging on between his lips. Each breath shivered through him.

She didn’t bark commands. She didn’t force.

She posed.

One hand slid beneath his shoulder, guiding his arm forward, limp and folded like a doll’s. The other tilted his chin slightly toward the light spilling from the bedside lamp. She pressed his thighs together just enough to crease the bulging, discoloured padding, the sticky contents pushing up beneath him with a soft squelch.

He flinched faintly.

“Shhh,” she cooed, voice soft and delighted. “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me.”

Click.

She circled again.

Lifted one knee slightly.

Reclined his upper body more against a folded pillow, eyes still dazed and wet with tears.

The diaper was on full display now—soaked, smeared, the plastic swollen and faintly stained, clinging to the curve of his cock and the sagging weight beneath him. There was nothing subtle left in it.

She leaned over, brushing damp strands of hair from his face with mock affection.

“She’s going to love this one,” she said softly.

His eyes blinked open slowly. Dazed. Sticky with tears.

His mind stalled.

She?

The thought didn’t form fully at first. It just echoed.

She?

Not I will love this one.

Not you’ll love looking back on this someday.

She.

The word sat like ice behind his ribs.

He tried to ask, but his mouth was dry. His voice—lost to the exhaustion and the trembling mess of his body. He shifted slightly, enough for the diaper to crinkle under him, a wet warmth squishing against his groin as the contents shifted again.

He winced.

Click.

She snapped another photo, kneeling now, angling it just right.

“I think we’ll send her this one first,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

And again—

That word.

Her.

The questions built slowly, behind the haze.

Who was she?

Who was going to see?

What had he agreed to?

His lips trembled, but all that came out was a weak whimper. It didn’t matter.

She already knew what he wanted.

Even when he didn’t.

And the shutter clicked again.

She leaned in close again, hand gently cupping the front of his used diaper, pressing it into his spent, twitching cock. The heat squelched, damp and heavy, against his skin.

Then—her tone changed.

It dropped an octave.

Sweeter. Menacing.

“Alright, baby,” she said, lips brushing his ear. “Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for close-ups.”

His breath caught.

And all he could do—

Was whimper.