Weekend Frolics – Chapter Three

Why is that Charlotte girl so lucky?

Oh, not that I don't love my daddies. I really do – even when they're being mean to me, like right now. Like last night. But somehow, when I stare over there at the nice, smiling lady on the sunlit bench, and at Charlotte's long legs dangling down over her lap, and at how despite her adult size she's snuggled close and fervently suckling at that lady's boobies…

Well, I kinda wish I could be in her place: held close and being so openly babied.

And there's something else that's making me envious. See, it's clear that she's being kept in diapers, too – anyone can see that from the most casual glance at her puffy shortalls. But I sincerely doubt she's dealing with the kind of terrifying cramps I'm feeling right now. Cramps that are threatening to turn me from just a waddly adult baby boy into a very smelly, waddly adult baby boy.

Still, worry as I might, there's literally nothing I can do. After all, it was just last night that I had to gulp down an entire bag of what I now know had to have been laxative-laced formula. So today… I've just got to ride out its stomach-churning consequences.

Ugh. Feel so sick! See, somehow the fact that it wasn't castor oil is almost worse. I know all about castor oil. I've felt the greasy substance snake its way down my throat. I've experienced the gut-wrenching cramps and the way it unleashes absolute torrents from my lower end, hour after nauseating hour. I've been that trembling Little: kneeling there in my crib, loading my pants helplessly… not just once, but time after time. More and more full I've packed them, until the greasy hot trickles of my own smelly waste are oozing up along my back and dribbling out into my locking sleeper.

Nope, these cramps signal nothing like that. It's some kind of bulk laxative to blame, I think – and that means that while my need to go "doo-doo" (as Daddy Trent calls it) may be less urgent and less intense, it knows exactly how to fuck with my mind. For a minute or two I might be fine. I can trot about this otherwise empty playground, letting my Little mind revel in the act of play and my obsessive urge to fill my truck with its load of mulch-shaped logs. I can even forget, for a few blissful moments, the cramps that swell and subside within me with infuriating irregularity.

I can hold it after all, I tell myself proudly. See? It's no big deal. I'm still a big boy. I can watch that silly little baby Charlotte nursing at her mommy's boobies – and sure, I can maybe envy her a bit in secret. But at least I'm still big enough not to be a complete baby. At least I'm big enough to hold my poopie in, and play, and, and-

And then the next wave of cramps strikes, like the irresistible swell of a churning ocean wave. I clutch softly at my belly, biting on my pacifier, willing my poor, plug-weakened bum to remain clenched and under control for just a few minutes longer. I- I'm a big boy! At least, big enough not to make a stinky right here on the playground. Not in front of that girl. Not in front of the pretty lady. Not now- not yet-

It passes. I fumble for more mulch. I stare down at my toy truck in renewed determination, telling myself that it really wasn't so bad. And in the end, I repeat, it will all be okay. I'm sure it will. It has to be.

But another round hits. And the next. And every single one is slowly, devilishly, becoming ever stronger and more gut-wrenching. So by the time that I glance up and see the pretty lady tucking her naked breast back into her blouse, and the dreamy-eyed, wet-chinned Charlotte slipping down onto her knees and crawling unsteadily forward to play once more… well, I'm practically sweating.

"Aww, that's right! Come here, buddy! You want to show Charlotte your truck?" The nice lady is bending forward, a bright smile on her face, and I shift uncertainly in place. She beckons me forward and places her hand on Charlotte's tousled head. "Here, Charlotte, look! Dum-dum time is over, okay? It's playtime now! And, aww…look! I think this handsome little boy wants to share his toys with you!"

The Little blinks, staring over at me, then back up at her mommy, and then returning at me – almost as if she's just wakened up from a nap. "Whaaa?" she manages, but before I can do more than squat down to push my loaded truck her way… well, I find that my timing can't have been worse. Because the strongest wave of cramps yet hits me, and even as I begin to jerk upright in a frantic effort to maintain control, I can feel that I've already lost.

Ppphhhbbbtttt. A squeaky fart escapes, and I drop to my knees, awash in the mortifying sensation of a thick, hot mass forcing its way out of my bum and into my triple-thick diaper. Daddy Trent wrapped me up in them this morning, teasing me that at least this way I wouldn't forget that I'm stuck in diapers now. It's absurdly thick, of course – it's been making me waddle this entire time – but there's something worse. Their tight bulk around my bum is forcing every particle of my mess to mush outward, to compress and smear and travel forward and backward along between my quivering ass-cheeks… up my back… around my still-caged willy… Pppffffttt. Bbbllllrrrt.

"Aww, someone's got the toots, huh?" The nice lady is giggling, and Charlotte is staring – but I can't do anything but squat there frozen in place, grunting and biting wordlessly on my paci. I've messed many a diaper, true. But publicly filling my diaper like this? Here? In front of a playmate and her caregiver? It's- it's so…

Uuughhhh. So humiliating! And yet, it feels so good. So disgustingly, viscerally good to relieve all this pressure. So good… and yes, so strangely right…

"Someone's doing a lot more than tooting, I think! Well, better out than in, honey!" I flinch in place, face screwed up in the pained expression of an oversized toddler in the midst of loading his pants… but honestly, I can't stop. I've already begun. And really, I muse in a sudden, fierce stab of rebellion, I'm already messy. Might as well finish what my body so desperately wants to do, right?

"Boy go poo-poo?" Charlotte asks uncertainly, her wide eyes staring interestedly down at my bulging seat. "Ma-ma, he making poo-poo? He have assident?" "Oh, honey, definitely," the nice lady laughs, and the very sound of her sweetly condescending mockery sends my pulse thundering in my ears. "But he's just a baby like you, honey! And really, babies don't make accidents – not really. They're supposed to go in their diaper, honey! 'Cause babies like you two don't know any better, do you? You don't know anything about the potty…"

"No. No potty," Charlotte agrees, as I rise at last, trembling and red-faced, more aware than ever of the massive bulk of my own uncomfortably full diapers. "Baby go poo-poo in diaper. Get… change?" Oh, yes – a change! Right now all I want is to waddle away… hide from this girl and her mommy… shuffle up and beg Daddy Trent to change this heavy monstrosity so I don't have to be shown up like this…

"Well, that's up to his daddies to decide, baby! It's not our job to tell them what to do," the lady smiles, gesturing once more down at my abandoned truck. "So just be nice and play together for now, okay? And look, he's got his truck all loaded full – just like his diaper! Why don't you ask him if you may drive it, sweetie?"

"Poo-poo," Charlotte repeats softly, plopping her own padded bum down onto the rubber mulch and reaching out for the toy vehicle. "Baby go poo-poo. Poo-poo…" I shift in silent embarrassment,  first watching Charlotte's grasping hands taking charge of the truck, then staring up at the lady rising to her feet beside me. "Here, little one," she smiles, and I shiver, then shudder in wordless protest as her hands close on my shoulders and push me – gently yet irresistibly – down onto the mulch beside Charlotte. No- no-! Not that- Not onto my messy pants! No, please, no- Ugghhh…

"Be nice and play here for me," she orders with a lilting smile, and in her twinkling eyes I can see she knows exactly what she's just done. "I'm gonna go check with your daddies, okay? I bet it's about time for lunch – and besides, I bet they'll want to know how their sweet, smelly little baby's doing!"

Oh, I bet they will. But all I can do is shift uneasily on my filthy bum… and stare after her… and then turn once more to meet Charlotte's mild gaze. "Poo-poo," she repeats, pointing down to my bulging, smelly crotch, and I shiver and give a blushing nod.

"Poo-poo," I admit weakly, clutching self-consciously at my still-churning tummy. "Poo-poo."

To which my fellow Little responds with nothing more than a delighted giggle – as if I've just told her the best joke she's heard all day.

(To be concluded!)