From Party Pooper to Diaper Pooper – Chapter Nine (Commission)

As always, I'm super grateful to our Gold-tier patron Bondagediaperlover93 for commissioning another installment in this series! Hope y'all enjoy!

***

Hmm? What's that knocking on my door? Don't tell me it's a parcel delivery again? I thought all stuff for those college kids finished delivering weeks ago! And besides… it's Sunday. What kind of super dedicated parcel service would be dropping stuff off today?

Well, whatever. I set aside my latest mystery novel and rise unwillingly from the sofa, padding through my little kitchen toward the door. It's mid-afternoon, and as I squint through the peephole, the fading autumn light illuminates… well, probably the last person on earth I'm expecting to see.

It's Bob, my cretin of a neighbor. The guy who, until just now, I thought was safely sequestered in the confines of those college kids' house across the way. And judging by his flabby naked chest and that towel he's clutching around his waist, he's definitely not supposed to be here.

Crap, what do I do? Pretend I'm not at home? But no, that's just silly. And as thoughts race with lightning speed through my brain, I realize that I have to let him in. He's on the loose, which means something went terribly wrong over there. He's probably going to cause real trouble for them if he blabs to anyone else. And, well, other folks wouldn't understand. They wouldn't know what a piece of work he is, and why he deserves every ounce of weird humiliation those kids have been dishing out to him…

So I open the door – and muster up my very best shocked expression.

"Bob? Are- are you okay? What's going on?" He's glaring back at me from those beady eyes, wheezing with evident indignation. "Lemme use your phone?!" he demands, and I pull back slightly as he presses forward through the doorway. "Those fucking kids! I- I gotta call the police-"

"Whoa, hang on! Bob, what's going on? Please, explain what's happened! You're upset, I can tell-" Weirdly enough, my experience consoling hysterical toddlers has given me a reflexive instinct for how to deescalate the situation. "Aww, Bob, you're all out of breath! Have a seat, please. Here, nice and easy. Just calm down a bit and let me know what's going on…"

Well, he may be pissed off. He may be scared and angry as hell. But he's also shaking and clearly worn out. And so, he sinks heavily down onto my sofa, the towel around his waist struggling to maintain its concealing grip.

"It's- they- they kidnapped me! They- they tied me up- they did all kinds of things- I- I just barely escaped-" Out it tumbles: his version of the events of the past few weeks, laced with wheezes and incoherent mutters and enough profanity to make a sailor blush. "They- they deserve to be shot, every last one of them! I- we gotta get the police- Send 'em all to fucking prison-"

You know, there was a time in my life – before my elementary education degree and all – that I thought I'd love being an actress. That dream might have sailed already, sure – but I'm realizing that life has just handed me a golden opportunity to act my heart out. And so… well, I throw every ounce of energy I have into it.

"Oh, god, that's- that's just awful!" I sympathize in a warm voice, and my soft pat of his shoulder reinforces my message. "I- I had no idea! I'm so glad you came here, Bob. You just rest there and let me help figure this out, okay?" He's nodding, and I breathe an inward sigh of relief. "Now, listen – you've been through a lot, and you're understandably upset. So what I want you to do is just catch your breath here for right now. I'm going to go make some tea, okay?"

Too much. "Oh, fuck your tea! I gotta- call the cops-" "We will, Bob," I interrupt politely, rising with a sympathetic smile. "We will! In fact, I'm going to call them for you right now, okay? But no harm in having some tea in the meantime…"

On goes the kettle. Out come two tea cups. And then… well, the toughest bit of all: picking up the phone and calling the "cops" – that is, a phone number that actually happens to belong to that nice young fellow Bob assaulted last month.

"Oh, um, hi! This is the police?" I half-turn to ensure that Bob can't overhear Michael's innocent questioning. Of course Michael is completely confused by what I'm saying, but I have to find some way to make him understand the situation. "Um, yes, everyone's okay! I, um, this is Christina Adams calling. I want to report a crime…"

Bob's eyes are staring eagerly over at me, and I flash a quick smile and thumbs-up. "Yes, yes!" I nod, as Michael's surprised stutters give way to understanding "uh-huhs". "See, it's about my neighbor, Bob Richardson? Well, it's hard to believe, but it seems that a bunch of neighborhood kids have  actually assaulted him! Yes, really! No, he's safe – he's over here at my house. Yeah, he just managed to escape them somehow, thank god. I'm really not sure how. But he's safe here with me. Yes… yes, we'll be here…"

And a minute later, it's done. "They said they're on their way!" I report to Bob, just as the steaming kettle begins to sing. "They have our address from my phone, of course. So all we need to do is rest here and wait." "Ugh, figures. How fucking long did they say it will be?" "It's hard to say," I offer cautiously, pouring the steaming liquid into the teacups. "But never mind that, Bob! You're safe here, right? You just sit back and rest, and they'll be here shortly…"

Oh, yes. They will be. Michael said so himself.

"So, umm…" I begin, having handed him the tea and settled into the chair across from him. I'm racking my brain for ways to keep him calm and stationary long enough for Michael and his friends to show up. "You look pretty cold there. Would you like a blanket? Or maybe some cookies?"

Of course he doesn't. But that doesn't keep him from grudgingly accepting the blanket I tuck around his shoulders, or from noisily chowing down on the cookies I fetch and set on the table beside him. While all the while he's muttering about those damn kids, and how the stupid police better do their fucking job for once…

"Hey." He stops suddenly, peering over at me with maybe the closest thing to shame I've seen in his eyes. "I, um. Those sick bastards put some kinda… thing on me. On my dick, of all things! I- I don't guess you, um… know how to get it off?"

Oh, god, really? "I, um…" My stalling for time actually fits nicely with the reaction any unsuspecting neighbor should have, and once again I congratulate myself on my stellar acting abilities. "I- wow! I had no idea… But I- I don't know. Is it, like, locked on or something? See, I'd just be afraid of hurting you…"

And so I politely decline, with the best and most disarmingly compassionate smile I can find. "Better wait until the police are here. I'm sure they'll know what to do!"

Sure they will, I mentally repeat. Sure they will.

***

"What the actual fuck?! It's Megan! Guys, come up here now! Oh, shit-"

Why is Jessica sounding so panicked? I haven't any idea, but there's only one way to find out. "Coming!" I yell, shoving my way past our luggage and heading up the stairs. Whoa. Kinda feeling the wine I got on the plane…

"Oh, it's you, Brian? Thank god! Here, look!" I'm trying, but it's kinda dark up here, and all I can see is Jessica kneeling somewhere ahead of me on the floor. "It's Megan! She- she's tied up-" My fumbling hand finds the light switch at last, and on it flashes: revealing, in a burst of shocking clarity, a sight that will remain seared into my brain for the rest of my life.

It's Megan, all right. Lying helpless on the floor. And not just with her hands and ankles wrapped in tape, but… okay, I'll say it. Stark naked. I mean, like, completely. Boobs and pussy and everything right there on display. And weirdest of all, one of Bob's taped-up, open diapers lying beside her.

Not that she seems to be aware of it. She's completely unconscious. And from the way Jessica's sniffing at the rag on the floor beside her, it seems like it's no ordinary sleep, either.

"Here, help me untie her! She's- she's been chloroformed- "Who by?" I ask stupidly, even as I glance past her at the manifestly empty crib. "Oh… oh shit. That guy's…" "I know, I know! Bob's gone!" Jessica exclaims crossly, even as she's tugging fruitlessly at the tough duct tape around Megan's wrists. "One thing at a time, okay? Here, you have a knife or something? Scissors?"

We get her untied soon enough. But even before Jessica has finished tucking a blanket around our unconscious babysitter's naked body and we get the chance to go down and raise the alarm, I catch the murmur of voices beneath us. And as it turns out, they're already a step ahead of us.

"It's Ms. Adams," Michael is saying as Jessica and I stumble down the ladder. "She says Bob's over at her place!"

The uproar that follows is predictable. "Fucking hell?!" "We gotta go over there pronto-" "No, it's true! Megan's-" "She was all tied up. Chloroformed-" "Holy shit! Gotta get that bastard before he causes more trouble!" "How the hell did he do it, anyway?"

And so not five minutes later, we're headed over en masse: some of us with chloroform rags, some with tape, others with rope, and all of us thoroughly on edge. This was probably the last thing any of us expected to find after coming back from vacation, and it's got us all a bit rattled.

"Finally!" Ms. Adams hisses upon opening the door and finding us all huddled close. "Make it quick, okay? He thinks you're the police-" And then, loudly for Bob's benefit. "Oh, thank god it's you, officer! Yes, right in here. So glad you could get over here so quickly-"

Oh, the look on Bob's face when he sees us rushing in to grab him is incredible. So much dismay… betrayal… anger… and yes, even undisguised terror.

But perhaps mercifully for him, it doesn't last more than a few minutes. Not with so many of us there, and with us having the element of surprise. Besides, we're young and strong and raring to take this guy down.

"Hey! No- fuck- Get away from me! No- you bitch-" He struggles. Flails. Kicks. But Cynthia is pinning her rag around his nose and mouth, and Sarah and Jessica each have an arm, and I've body-tackled his legs while Michael is already producing the tape. And not three minutes later, the guy has sagged back into unconsciousness, his heavy body growing limp and pliant as we wrap the rope and tape tighter and tighter around him.

"Whew." It's Michael who steps back at last and nods apologetically to Ms. Adams, who has been standing there watching the entire time, an expression of mild interest on her pretty face. "Thanks so much. We really owe you one! It's just… well, we never expected him to escape…"

Her musical laughter fills the room, and I shiver a bit as she flashes a sudden bright smile. "Oh, sweetie, don't go apologizing now! I'm just so happy I could help." She glances pointedly down at Bob's exposed dick – now visibly leaking urine from the snugly locked cage – and gives a wry chuckle. "Looks like you'd better get him back in his nursery soon, though! Poor guy really seems to be missing his diaper now, doesn't he?"

Maybe he is – or maybe it's just the effect of the chloroform. Not that it really matters, I guess. Because now that we're back, I have a feeling Jess and the others are going to keep him locked up and in diapers for the rest of the foreseeable future.

(To be continued!)