Tale #151: A Reason to Sag:

Tale #151: A Reason to Sag: (Content Tags: Slice of life, punishment, diaper punishment, messing, humiliation) "That's the *style*, grandmama. That's what's *cool*." "Cool? It looks like you've got a dirty Pampers under your britches! You look just like your baby cousin after he makes in his Pamper and walks around with it in his pants." Wesley had always been butting heads with his grandmother about things like this; the middle schooler was a trend follower, and he was always desperate to come across as both cooler and 'harder' than he had any real claim to be. He wanted whatever haircut was trending, whatever overly expensive shoes were popular, and whichever phone would let other kids know that he knew what was up. Last year he had been all about bandanas, and the year before that, he had been all in on getting his ear pierced. He bounced between these trends without an iota of self-awareness or self-respect. His grandmother, a stern woman who had taken him and his siblings in after the early passing of their parents, wasn't hip to these fads and didn't take any stock in them. She saw a lot of what Wes was interested in as being 'hooligan stuff', and so she was often quick to shut him down. Most of it was harmless enough, so there were times that she would just let these things play out organically, with the knowledge that he'd stop on his own. This newest little fashion trend was not one of the ones that she was willing to simply let go on though. The boy had come home from school with his pants sagging so far down his hips that his boxers were showing, and she'd at first thought that he was having a wardrobe malfunction. Imagine her shock and dismay whenever he clarified that it was intentional! She tried to tell him that he looked ridiculous, that nobody needed to be looking at his underpants, and that the way his pants sagged made it look like he had a load weighing them down, but he was too stubborn to listen to her. He would rather walk around looking like an oversized toddler than to miss out on being stylish. The first time had been a demand to stop, and to pull up his pants; the second time she'd seen it, she'd tried to reason with him and get him to see how silly he looked; the third time, her patience had been wearing thin, and she'd replaced all of his boxers with more juvenile looking briefs, in the hope that it would embarrass him enough to not want to show them off, and the action had been capped with a warning about consequences that would come if he kept disobeying her. But now here he was, trying to play games and continuing to disregard her fairly reasonable expectations; he'd come in the door from school with his pants sagging low and his immature briefs halfway exposed, as if he was trying to test her patience. That was itself a dynamic that the two had since early elementary school; Wesley liked to play chicken and he always expected that he could get away with pushing the boundaries of what his grandmother would allow. The warnings he got were but a suggestion, and it wasn't until he got in real trouble that he started to finally listen. Which is where there conversation was now heading. Comparing his fashion choice to a toddler was no coincidence, as the woman had already expected that her grandson would probably not stop until she went nuclear over it. She'd went out and purchased exactly what she thought would do the job and had stowed them away in her closet. "I'm done telling you to stop sagging your britches, boy. We're past that. Now it's time to face the consequences of trying to look like a thug." The old woman frowned, taking the preteen by the wrist and forcibly marching him to her bedroom. Wesley was already wincing, but that was because he thought he was about to face corporal punishment. A hairbrush, slipper, or switch was usually what came as the final straw, and while he knew it would hurt, he wanted to act like he was too tough to care about getting swatted by the crone. A spanking wouldn't be what he faced today though, and in fact, it would funnily enough be something that he would end up vastly preferring to the alternative that his grandmother had cooked up. He kept expecting the spanking to come as she told him to strip his pants and sit on her bed, and he truly thought that she'd return from her closet with an implement to strike him with. She came back instead with a large white rectangle. He was completely lost on what it might be, until she started to unfurl it in front of him like a scroll. His youngest sibling had been pottytrained for a few years now, but he still remembered what the younger boy had wore, and he saw his cousins enough to see them still in usage now: It was a diaper. Not a baby diaper either, but one big enough for Wesley's own rump. It lacked the same infantile designs of what Pampers or Luvs might have, instead being a shiny white, but the composition of the garment was undeniable. He just stared at it, and then at her. He was at a loss for words, and even when words of angry indignation wanted to crawl out of his mouth, they instead died pathetically in his throat. More than outraged, he was shocked and confused; he wasn't sure what his grandmother was plotting, nor did he really expect that he'd end up having to wear it. This had to be a bluff, or a threat, or posturing, but there was no way-- "You want to sag your britches? Fine, but you're going to have a reason for it; just like a toddler." --She was nuts! She couldn't possibly expect him, a boy on the precipice of being thirteen, to walk around with a fucking diaper around his waist! She took notice of his silence and of his boggled expression, but instead of walking back her statement, like he expected her to, she instead just put the diaper on the bed next to him. "Legs up, baby. I need to slide it under your bottom." Her tone betrayed no part of this being an elaborate bluff. She wasn't joking or using hyperbole to make a point; this was the punishment that she was moving forward with. There was a strange irony to it, at least from Wesley's perspective, as the woman had always chided him about acting more maturely; the old woman droned on about his childish behavior and on the merits of becoming a young man, but here she was with the greatest symbol of youth! Her expression soured the longer he sat there without a word or without any movement; she gave him a slap on the side of the thigh to hurry him along: "Legs up, child! Do you want a warmed bottom to come with your new Pampers?" His pride was struggling to keep stalwart in the face of these new developments; Wesley wanted to stand up to his grandma, to tell her in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going to wear a fucking diaper, but the words wouldn't come. He was getting to be big, already closing in on those early teenage sizes, but none of that mattered if his mind wouldn't cooperate. His grandmother was still noticeably larger than him, and that was only looking at the physical side of things. In terms of how she appeared to him on an emotional level, he may as well still been in Kindergarten. She shrunk him with little effort, completely bypassing the hardened attitude that he put on around his peers. Wesley acquiesced and laid back, then he put his legs up in the air and turned his head to the side. Tears of shame were welling in his eyes, and he still hadn't managed to get so much as a single complaint or plea out; looking from the outside in, it would come across that he had completely accepted his fate. The woman didn't waste any time in getting the diaper underneath him, but she slowed down when she started to grab a few things from her bedside table. She made a dry remark about the skidmarks in his briefs, and how she'd only just recently purchased them, and then she unnecessarily hit his bottom with a handful of baby wipes. What would come next was less expected, and it would raise several uncomfortable questions about how far this punishment aimed to go. He suddenly felt something cold and gross feeling being lathered on his bottom. Wesley squirmed on the bed, "Eww! W-what's that?" He finally spoke up, his voice cracking. "Butt paste. It helps keep your bottom from getting a diaper rash. Same thing with this baby powder." She explained plainly as she squeezed a bottle of talcum and began to puff it all across his tushy and groin. Diaper rash? He was no babysitter, but he had been under the impression that diaper rash was only a risk whenever a baby was left in a dirty diaper for too long! With that thought in his head, he genuinely was questioning whether his assumption about the condition had been wrong. He could never imagine that she expected him to use the diapers too, so he began to instead wonder if diaper rash came from simply wearing a diaper, even if clean. He was so certain that she wouldn't make him use the diaper, that he didn't bother to ask about the need for all the rash protection. Wesley was firmly under the impression that this would be a brief punishment, solely here at home and exclusively for just today, to teach him his lesson or whatever. The woman taped the diaper closed and gave the front a condescending pat. "There, just like when you were a baby the first time. Only the Pampers are a lot bigger now." It felt strange to say the least. He'd worn a supportive cup for sports before, but that was a farcry from the awkward bulk he now felt at his crotch; as he sat up with a crinkle, he took note that the padding felt even more cumbersome underneath his buttcheeks, as if he was sitting on a small pillow. Wesley still wasn't totally sure what to say. The strange turn of events had thrown him so completely off his game, that he'd hardly known where to even start on defying this. He could sulk and act as if a spanking didn't impact him, or that being grounded was an ineffective tactic, but this was a nut that he was clueless about cracking. It was a fucking diaper. A diaper like a baby would wear, or a retard, or someone circling the drain in a retirement home, but not something that an otherwise normal seventh grader would have on. "Put your britches back on." The old woman commanded, starting to put the changing supplies back away. He frowned and obeyed, not having to be told twice to cover the shameful garment; in the privacy of his grandmother's room, he might not have any prying eyes, but he didn't even want to see the thing himself. As he slid the pants back up his legs, he was suddenly having a change of heart about the merits of wearing a belt. The thickness of the diaper was obviously greater than what his briefs had provided, but his pants were still too large and baggy to be kept in place by the added bulk. His grandmother, ever the frugal woman, had tended to always buy him clothes that he would grow into; he had no issue with it in the past, especially since he liked his clothes baggy and he would just use a belt, but now it was causing a real issue. It was the first time in a while that he'd actually *wanted* to wear a belt, so that his pants wouldn't be sagging off of his ass. "Don't go runnin' off to your room just yet. I need you to do some chores for me." The woman added as she started to usher him out of her room, his diaper rustling with each step. Chores after school were to be expected, even though Wesley often found ways to slack off with them; considering how pissed off his grandmother was today though, he'd be more inclined to take the list of tasks more seriously. It would behoove him to get on the woman's good side, which meant he couldn't halfass things. She led him to the kitchen, where she picked up a pen and a memo pad, which were most often used to leave notes or make grocery lists. After a few minutes, she'd written down a half-dozen different items and told him that she'd check in on him in a little bit. As he read the items on the list, he made a mental note of how the woman wasn't playing today. He had to do the dishes, peel potatoes for dinner, mow the lawn, clean the downstairs toilet, fold the laundry, and take the trash out! Some of those would only take a few minutes, but others would require a lot more effort. He also wasn't keen on the idea of mowing the yard with his diaper on, but as he turned to make a comment about it, he saw that she was gone. Wesley sighed and put the note in his pocket, so that he could more easily check things off as they got done. Since he was already in the kitchen, he decided to peel the potatoes first. He assumed that she planned to make mashed potatoes, and he had quite the appetite, so he made sure to peel a whole bunch. As he peeled the last of them, he was sure he heard movement upstairs, but he brushed it off as being one of his siblings. The dishes didn't take too terribly long afterward, and he pivoted to folding the laundry right after that. In about half an hour  he'd already knocked half of the list out! But now he was looking at mowing the lawn, and to do that, he would want to go put on a belt, unless he wanted to worry about the neighbors getting a peek at his oversized Pampers. Aside from that, he was also starting to feel some unpleasant pressure down below. He typically took a dump right after school, and today, that hadn't happened. So now, his double-order of sloppy joes was running amok in his bowels, and he needed to take a shit. Wesley was still under the impression that the diaper was for appearance only, and that he was still expected to use the toilet, so he figured that he would grab his belt and sidebar to take a dump afterwards. But once he reached the door to his room, he was greeted by the sight of his grandmother with a cardboard box. She looked down at him with a frown: "You can't already be done with all those chores I gave you." "No, but I need a belt, so I can go mow the lawn." The lady shook her head dismissively, "You wanted to show the whole world your underpants, remember? You don't need a belt. You can have them back when I'm convinced that you deserve the privilege." That answered what was in the box, or at least partially answered it. Wesley bit his lip but kept his cool. "...Okay, well, I'll go mow the lawn. I just gotta use the bathroom first." "You're wearing it. You wanted to act like a baby, and that's exactly what you're going to do. If I catch you using the bathroom, then I'm going to lock you in those Pampers. Once you're a good egg again, then we can talk about pottytraining." It was yet another massive shock to the system, and it only intensified as he further appreciated the implications of what she meant. She wanted him to piss and shit in his pants for an indefinite amount of time; the diaper was *not* just for show. A few meek arguments that weren't remotely entertained later, and he was standing in the front yard with the mower in front of him, with his hand cautiously tugging up at the waistband of his pants. His bowels were screaming by this point, and he felt lost on what to do. Every sluggish push of the mower was bringing his control to the brink, and the warm sun on his skin didn't make things any easier. He was sweating, groaning, and involuntarily cutting farts as he waddled across the yard, looking more like a toddler with a push toy. None of his neighbors had come to talk to him, but a few had passed by, and he'd felt immensely paranoid about his diaper being visible to them. It might look like briefs from a distance, based on color, but getting any closer, and the truth would be undeniable. After twenty grueling minutes, he was approaching the last quarter of the task at hand, but his poo predicament had skyrocketed to catastrophic levels. He almost thought he'd successfully pushed back the behemoth with his willpower, but it has only been the calm before the storm; as quickly as the pressure had faded, it came back with such a vengeance, that he was forced to stop and grip the mower tightly. Clenching his buttcheeks wasn't enough, not now. For the first time in many years, the boy was losing control of his bowels. His eyes shut, and the sound was drowned out by the mower, but he could feel every little bit of the load pushing past his buttcheeks and smearing against the back of his diaper. It was a lengthy log that crammed itself back there, but it came out quickly, only leaving him in his pooping posture for a few moments. Once it was over, he could feel the heft smoldering against him. He could feel his pants legitimately sagging for a reason other than crude fashion. It was just as his grandmother had said: Wesley looked like a toddler with a big poo in his Pampers, and in relative terms, that was exactly what he was.