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Disclaimer: This story features BDSM, humiliation, graphic scat play, and diapers. No children are involved in the writing of this story, real or otherwise. This story features gay characters. Enjoy!


Mr. Jones sits a solid square of a man behind his desk. I sit in front of it, shaking. I'm on a chair almost as large as his, it dwarfs me. I watch his giant hands pull out sheets of paper one by one and smooth them across the table. He is talking but I can't hear him. There is a buzzing between my ears corresponding to the static in my mind. He found out. He knows. He knows I stole the money.


Mr. Jones says softly against my weeping,

-I like what you've done here. I like your work. You're a very talented individual. Although you did this I believe it was a moment of weak judgment, and doesn't reflect your true character. I would like to still keep you within the company.

I've buried my hands between my thighs, and look directly down at them, feeling the tears roll off my nose and into my lap. As his words begin to register I allow my eyes to creep up and meet his own. His expression is concerned, but serene. He has a proposition in mind. I listen intently.

-I'll allow you to work off what you stole from our client. In the meantime I'll fill in the missing cash with money from my own pocket. That means you'll be working for me. I will have you reassigned as my assistant so I can closely monitor you.

-Oh, tha-

I begin to say.

-There are, however, some extra precautions that I will have to take.

He interjects.

A pause.

-Such as..?

He reaches underneath his desk for something.

-Whenever you are not being monitored it will be a liability for the company, based upon your previous actions. Therefore, you are not allowed to leave this office.

-But...what about the bathroom?

I ask.


he says,

-there are two options. Option number one:

He pulls out a butt plug and places it on the desk.

-You will have this inserted into your rectum; it will prohibit defecation until it is taken out. You will also need a device that will make you unable to urinate. I am still procuring this. Then there is option number two...

He takes out an adult diaper, and lays it on the table beside the butt plug.

-You release your waste into this diaper as you work.

There is a silence as he regards the horrified look upon my face.

-I suggest option two, it is the gentlest approach. It will place less strain on your insides and be faster and thereby more frequent to clean up than option one.

I still had not found the will to speak, he continued,

-If you were to choose the butt plug, it would take longer to defecate, what with extricating and reapplying the plug, and I have no time for that. But option two involves a simple diaper change, meaning it will be faster and I would be able to change your diaper more often.

-Change my diaper?!!

I garbled, aghast at the notion.


he said,

-I cannot trust you Michael, when you're not working at your desk I need to be fully aware of what you are doing. Privacy is no longer a right for you; it is a privilege you must earn.

-You can't be serious!!!

-I suggest you evaluate your situation, Michael.

Mr. Jones says, narrowing his eyes at my cynicism.

-You should go to jail; your career should be ruined. But you are spared from this fate. Somewhere, there must be a means that hold you accountable for what you did. Here it is.

He looked at me for a reply, I said nothing.

-I want your decision in the next minute.


"I'll...I'll take the diaper."

-Good. Here is a contract I've written up, read it over and sign it to show that you agree with everything. Bring it to me in the morning.

I go home panicked. No one notices. No one can see that I'm a criminal. I should make a run for it. Get it my car and drive to Arizona. I smooth my tie, and catch my reflection in a window. Expressionless pristine businessman. I run my fingers through a head of slick blond hair, calculating my chances. But fuck - what do I know about being on the lam? I know the market; I know nothing about evading cops.

I imagine the news report: a shaky helicopter shot of police swarming around the shithole they find me in. Their guns targeting the windows and the door. Someone will yell for me through a loudspeaker. I emerge, disheveled and terrified. Beaten to the ground and forced into the back of a squad car.

My living room frames the New York City skyline between two linen drapes. I stand before it cupping a small glass goblet of bourbon. The contract Mr. Jones has given me is innocently perched on a stack of my usual paperwork. I glance through it: Diapers at all times. Must address his superior by "sir". Leaving the designated office during work hours is strictly prohibited unless permission is granted. No contact with coworkers or any personal other than Mr. Jones while working. Is not allowed to touch or modify the provided diaper in any way. Must tolerate waste until the next available diaper change. Must accommodate all recommendations and improvements to one's service. This is a disclosed agreement and will not be discussed with anyone other than Mr. Jones either in or outside the specified office of employment.

This can't be real. I finish my bourbon.

-Ah Michael, can I call you Mikey?

-Yes, sir.

-Good lad, are you ready for your first day of work?

-Yes I am, sir.

-Then come over here and stand by my desk.

I walk over to the edge of the desk. He asks me to take off my shoes, I oblige. He then tells me to take off my pants and lay them to the side. He regarded my boxers.

-Only tighty-whities outside the office from now on, boy.

-Yes, sir.

He patted my butt in approval, then pulled down my boxers and disposed of them in the trash. He motioned to his desk,

-Lie on your back.

I lay in the middle of his desk, half naked. He lifted up my legs and slid a diaper under my butt. I turned my head and looked at a photo of his family. A handsome wife, one son, one daughter, and a dog, perfect. I felt his large course hands cup my buttocks, smoothing baby powder over my skin. I studied his wife. Her blond hair. She looked as if she popped out of catalog. He gently patted my genitals. Her smile revealed a row of perfect white teeth, a trait not lost on the kids.

Mr. Jones secured the diaper and stood me up. I pulled my pants over the crinkly bulk and retied my shoes. He then led me to my desk.

-Remember Mikey, no moving from this desk unless specified.

-Yes sir.

My new desk is in what was an old storage closet. A small room inside Mr. Jones' sprawling office. It has been cleared of all clutter save for one desk and a chair. There is no window. I sit down in my miserable cell and address my work. Balancing accounts. Whoopee.

I look up and realize a camera lens is trained on me. I glare at its steady red dot for a minute then resume my work. Maybe prison was the better choice.

While I work I meditate upon the feel of my diaper. I was too nervous to notice it before. The humiliation is painful, but I have my composure locked in a vice grip. He will not see me break.

I roll from one ass-cheek to the other, gauging the consistency. The diaper crinkles in response. It feels like I'm wearing a cushion. I push my legs together; feeling the diaper's padding squish between my legs.

-Fucking shit.

I swear softly.

I have to pee. I have to pee. Ihavetopee.

I roll around in my diaper. No. No no no no no no no. Oh god, I'm beginning to sweat. A fine film coats my upper lip. I roll, squeezing my legs together as best I can. I need to get out.

I sit up, almost fainting due to a head rush. I haven't eaten anything all day. I jerk the doorknob to the right and poke my head out. He's hunched over papers, smoking a cigarette. Alone. Thank god.

-Mr. Jones,

I hiss to him (why am I hissing?),

-Mr. Jones.

He looks up. Spots me. Raises both eyebrows briefly.

-What do you want Mikey?

-Please sir,

I say skittering over to his desk,

-I need to pee.

He stares at me blankly.

-And? What's the matter?

-Please sir,

I start again,

-I don't want to go...Please let me go to the bathroom.

-Mikey, we discussed this. You would need a chaperone and I'm just too busy.

-Please sir,

I begin to beg,



Mr. Jones sighs,

-We made an agreement. You know full well what you entered into.

-Oh no sir.

I moan, elongating each vowel,

-Don't do this. I-I promise. Anything. But please-

At this point I've made it around the side of his desk and have a handful of his shirt in my balled fist. He regards me with irritation and stands up; I fall to my knees uttering "please" over and over. A mantra. A prayer. Please.

But prayers are lost on Mr. Jones. He pulls me up to my feet and tells me to stand in front of his desk. I do. He sits back down and resumes smoking.

-You just don't seem to understand Mikey.

He begins.

-You think you're somehow exempt from society's checks and balances. I'm here to tell you that you're not. You're lucky enough to get a second chance yet here you are howling over the lightest of restrictions.

-Yes sir.

-You will not leave that spot until you have wet that diaper.

-...Yes sir.

We wait. Five minutes pass. Then a dribble, then a grateful stream. I don't say anything, it's clear to both of us. I feel the surprising warmth wet my cock, my balls, soaking my taint. My face is screwed in a defiant grimace. He will not see me cry.

-Are you finished?

-Yes. Sir.

-Good, now march back to your office. I mean it! Lift those legs!

He brayed the order like a sergeant.

I march, face burnt from shame. The diaper makes a soppy squishing sound with each pronounced step. I hear him chuckle but refuse to turn my head to look at him. I sit back down in my chair, feeling a cool gush of piss run up the crack of my ass. My lip shakes for a moment, but I squeeze my face tight, refusing to let it slacken into open mouthed sobs.

I hate him. That bastard. I'll kill him, I will. I promise. How dare he! How-fucking-dare-he! It's his sick ass that should be locked up!

At five o'clock, Mr. Jones knocks my door. It's only a hollow formality, because he enters before I can reply.

-How are you doing, Mikey?

I regard him coldly.

-Fine sir.

He laughs.

-I bet you sure do hate me right now.

-Never sir.

Mr. Jones sighs, looking despondent.

-You may hate me, but I'm only doing this to spare you an even crueler fate.

I say nothing.

-It's time to leave so why don't you hop on the desk and let me change you.

Wordlessly I obey. I remove my pants and shoes, the abuse and degradation gutting my insides. Mr. Jones clicks my laptop shut and places it on the chair. I lie down in the cold spongy sopping diaper. Gently he peels it open and disposes of it. Then he runs a wet wipe over my privates and between my ass. I grunt: forcing myself to forgo the screams and punches I'm inclined to make. Then the soft smack of powder and, finally, the kind embrace of dry cloth underwear.

-I know this is hard, Mikey.

Mr. Jones says, watching me pull on my pants and shoes,

-But it really is for the best. I can't stand the thought of anything bad happening to you.

His eyes locked onto mine as he said these words. These gentle words spoken beneath his unwavering gaze frightens me. I gave him a succinct nod and leave for my apartment.

The next day I return to work. Mr. Jones is already there to meet me. He doesn't smile, but something about his movements makes him appear lighter, oddly cheerful. I say nothing and lay down on his desk. He removes my tighty whities, powders my butt and diapers me. I ignore how his hand lingers a few seconds too long between my legs. Pulling up my pants, I make for my desk.

Five hours pass without interruption until I feel that familiar urge stir within me. It coats me with dread. Please don't make me wet my diaper, I pray to anyone listening. Knowing better than to call Mr. Jones for help, I sit and fight the mounting need to urinate. I squirm, I dance from one butt cheek to the next. But it's coming and it won't heed my pride.


I give a tiny cry as a hot gush urine bursts between my pinched thighs.


It steady creeps down my buttcrack, forming a small pool that is absorbed by the diaper in the space of a few minutes. Now it feels like I've perched myself on a cold, wet sponge. I open the door and approach Mr. Jones.

-Mr. Jones, sir.


He replies from his desk, covered in documents. A phone headset is tacked to one of his ears.

-When do you think the... When do you think you could change me, sir?

The humiliation could easily kill me if I let it.


He looks up.

-Change you? Have you wet already?

If my face wasn't already red, it turns a few shades brighter. I nod,

-Yes, sir.

-Well then, go back to your desk. I can't change you for at least another hour and a half. I've got to prepare for an important meeting.

I say nothing, retreating to my prison. I waddle to my desk, the diaper's wet bulk sagging about my hips. I'm one hasty move away from having cold pee dribble down the leg of my pants or soak my lower back. I move carefully.

After slowly lowering myself to my seat, I stare at the screen before me. How could I possibly focus on my work while marinating in my own piss? How did I even get into this situation? My mind examines all the steps I took up to now. How did I get here? I never asked for this. Yes, I am a philanderer, but surely usurping business accounts doesn't justify such degradation.

Then, to my horror, I feel a warm poke between my cheeks.

-Oh no.

I groan, feeling the weight collect behind it. I squeeze my buttocks; squeeze my anus to a tight point.

-No, please, not now.

Another prayer to anyone listening. I race to the door and open it. Mr. Jones is gathering up some files, placing them inside a suitcase. I call to him from the doorframe.

-Mr. Jones!

-What is it, Michael?

He answers, not even looking up.

-I need to take a shit!

This irks him. He regards me with a slight hint of irritation.

-You know what to do.

I shake my head desperately.

-Oh please sir! Please don't make me do it!

Mr. Jones strides over to me and takes me firmly by the arm. He leads me to my chair and promptly sits me down. I gasp as cold pee hits my taint. He is retrieving something from the cabinet...a fresh pair of diapers? I actually hope that he is, only to feel my heart drop as I spy duct tape in his hands.

-Mikey, I'm becoming very alarmed by your conduct. You agreed to diapers and to diaper changes when I saw fit, you must fulfill your end of the deal.

-No, sir! Please!

I squeal, struggling pathetically as he binds my wrists to the chair.

-Now you're gonna stay there until I return, whereupon I will change your diaper.

-Mr. Jones!

I cry. He gave me a somber pat on the head.

-Nothing you can do about it now but let it all out, Mikey.

I shake my head, tears budding over my eyelashes. But already my cock releases a jet of fresh piss into my overtaxed diaper. I begin to wail as Mr. Jones walks to the door.


He tells me in a soft voice.

-I've got the web camera on you so I know you'll be safe. I'm also going to lock the door to your office until I get back. Don't try calling anyone, the place is soundproof.

I say nothing; groaning as a warm tip of feces is squeezed into my diaper.

Mr. Jones is at this time standing in an elevator. He has earphones on, and is gazing fixedly at his iPhone. On the screen is the boy's sweaty face, defecating against his will. The boy screws his face into a pained expression,


He moans as he pushes a hard turd into his diaper. Tears are freely streaming down his face; Mr. Jones' chest begins to heave.


The boy presses his chin to his neck, concentrating. Jones applauds himself for lacing Mikey's coffee with laxatives.



The boy's face is twisted in disgust and shame, his red cheeks slimy with tears and sweat. He softly sobs feeling the warm sloppy mess envelopes his buttocks and cock.

-Auuu huuu haauuugh...

Mr. Jones switches off the phone and searches his pockets for a cigarette.

It's five and I am still here. My face feels cracked and tight from crying. The smell emanating from this poorly contained hell about my waist grows increasingly worse. The cold wet mess between my legs runs down my legs into my socks. I suddenly hear the jingle of keys and a turn of the doorknob. Mr. Jones walks in, smiling. I glower, hating him with everything I have.

-Hey there, big guy.

He says approaching me. I say nothing.

-Had a pretty scary day today, huh? Nothing my big man can't handle.

He ruffles my hair before cutting me loose from my bonds. I pounce on him, wanting to beat him to death with my hands.

-Mikey! What the-


I scream beating my fists into him. He retreats momentarily, raising his arms. For a second I think I've overpowered him until he catches me in a bear hug. I grunt, curse and struggle in heated futility as he lifts me up and walks me to his desk, all the while pinning me to his chest.


He does. He sets me down but keeps my wrists tightly clasped in his fists.


I bellow, face red with fury.

-I will, if you promise to calm down.

His composure returns me to my senses. I cease and nod my cooperation. He lets go. I stand there, a grown man with a bottom smeared in shit. Crying all afternoon in wet soiled pants. I cover my ruddy face with my hands, hoping to either wake up or die.

I feel the weight of Mr. Jones' hand on my shoulder.

-I know you're in a very difficult position right now, Michael.

He said,

-Please understand that I don't want to hurt you, only help you. Hopefully in time, if you work hard, we can both put this whole thing behind us.

I don't believe him, but am nevertheless soothed by his lies. I let him lay me down, remove my socks and shoes, roll down my pants and unbuckle my bulging diaper. The stink invaded our nostrils, but Mr. Jones quickly cleared it away.

-Hmm, it would seem one diaper isn't enough.

He noted.

I feel his hand run through my buttcheeks with a wet wipe. I feel his thick fingertip dip into the mouth of my anus, swiveling around the inner rim. I close my eyes as he lifts up my penis to wipe the underside. And, finally, underwear.

He offers to take me home, seeing as I have a big wet stain running down the insides of my pants. I don't refuse the offer; stupefied from the day's events, terrified by my tormentor, I mutely nod yes.

We ride in the back of a Ford Explorer with tinted windows. I stare out at the passing world. Mr. Jones doesn't attempt any conversation. He drops me off outside my apartment, bids me a good night. I echo the sentiment and head upstairs.

Alone in the safety of my apartment I whip up a plan. Pack one suitcase. Throw on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a hat and sunglasses. Grab 500 dollars from the corner ATM. I briskly walk to the subway, toward Penn Station.

I buy a ticket. Antsy. I look around. All unsurprising people doing unsurprising things. No one looks faintly interested in me. I exhale.

The train comes. I'm standing on the platform waiting for it. I board and find a seat by the window. More people begin to enter and sit down.

-Excuse me?

I look up. A guy looks back at me with short black hair.

-Is this seat taken?

I shake my head no. He sits. A few minutes pass and then,

-So where you going, stranger?


-Ah, are you sure that's the right decision?

I snap my head toward him.

-What do you mean?

-Well, I hear it's not too pretty this time of year, that's all.

-Well, I'm not going for scenery.

-Whatever it is, I just hope it's worth what you're leaving behind.

I stare at him, trepidation building in my gut. He returns my stare, and dips his head to stress his sincerity,

-I really do.

A fine layer of sweat glazes my forehead. He wouldn't...would he? He wouldn't actually pay people to...

The honk of the train jars my frenzied thinking. I stand up.

-Actually, I think I'll miss this one.

I say, mouth dry.

-That's a good idea.

Agrees the stranger, adding

-Why don't you run along home now.

I do. I break into a sprint. Pushing, shoving passengers. I throttle hallways, subways, beating the sidewalk against my feet until I see the front door of my apartment. I ram the keys in and practically tear it of its hinges. I slam it behind me.


I scream against the wood, to an empty hallway.

-PLEASE! Leave me alone!

Tears hit the floor, my jeans. I curl into a ball and weep.

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