Who Wears the Pants?

"Aww, yeah! Look at him go!"

Roger was tipsy with testosterone and abuzz with beer. Around him in the darkened living room were lounging his work buddies: Matt, Damien, and Jose, each of them laughing and joking as the gleaming, half-naked forms of the WWE wrestlers flashed across the big screen TV. Shouts and gruff guffaws as the violent spectacle unfolded swirled through the room, and he could practically feel his masculinity flexing its muscles under the influence.

Yes, sir, that was him. Just a strong, macho guy with his strong, macho friends. Chilling and drinking beers like real men should.

"Monica just hates this stuff, you know," Damien chortled as a particularly violent exchange left the crowd in an uproar. "Says it's, like, stupid or whatever." "Oh, yeah?" Jose sniggered. "That's the kind o' shit you get when you is a married guy, ya know! Tries to keep ya whipped and tied to her apron strings, know what I'm saying?"

He elbowed his friend and took another hefty swig of beer – and of course Roger had to follow suit. "Yeah, tell me about it!" he enthused, perhaps a trifle loudly. After all, Bethany – his own wife of four years – was in the other room with Monica. Probably gossiping about the latest makeup palette or something…

At which Matt cast a quizzical glance his way from behind his own beer. "Talking from experience, huh, Roger?" he chuckled, with a sidelong nod of his head toward the dining room. "Bethany not a fan of WWE, either?" "Definitely not," Roger responded instantly, even as his conscience began to whisper that maybe he shouldn't be such an ass. "But that's her problem, you know? I'm the one who wears the pants in this house, after all! If she's gonna be such a whiny baby about it, why, that's her problem-"

"Oh, is it?"

The cool voice from directly behind him caught him completely off guard, and he almost choked on his beer. "Wha- what the heck?" He flashed a half-swaggering, half-apologetic glance at his wife, whose eyes were cold and stern behind her glasses. "Beth, babe, you- you startled me-"

"Oh, don't worry. And don't bother trying to pretend, either. I heard everything." She was pursing her lips now – never a good sign – and before he quite knew it, Roger's collar was clenched fast in her hand. "You're coming with me… babe," she ordered, and as the other three guys shot glances of surprise and tipsy amusement at one another, Roger was escorted grimly from the room.

From the room, and down the hall. To the bedroom. Where, with a slam of the door, Bethany made sure that they were completely alone.

"What the actual hell, Roger," she began, and even as he tried to meet her piercing gaze with manly bravado, his cheeks were already visibly reddening with guilt. "Hey, babe, I- it's not a big deal! I was just talking big-" "Too big for your britches, young man," she snapped, throwing open the closet and rummaging through the contents seemingly in search of something. "You've gone way over the line tonight, Roger. And honestly, I think it's only fair that I put you right back in your place – a lovely, cute, adorable little place that we both know you love."

His eyes widened in horror as he saw the objects in her hand. "Wha- no, no! No, please, hon, you wouldn't! Not- not with company-" "Shut up and take down those stupid pants and boxers before I rip them off you!" she ordered – and Roger, cowed and beaten by her thunderous appearance, complied. "On the floor, now," came next, and again he complied, shivering in chilled anxiety as his bare buttocks came in contact with the carpet. "Now hold still – or you and your balls will wish to god you hadn't."

Open went the crinkling monstrosity in her capable hands: a MegaMax, thick and pristine white and more than capable of handling an entire twelve hours of indiscretions. Under the cringing Roger's ass it slid, and tight around his waist it went before he could do more than moan out a few little terrified protests.

"There! Now that's much more appropriate for you," Bethany exclaimed, straightening up and gazing down with narrowed eyes as Roger wriggled and squirmed, amid a flurry of crinkles, to his feet. "You really wanted those stupid guys to think you were as cool and 'manly' as them, huh? Bet they'll have quite another opinion of you when they meet the real you: the whiny, subby little diaper boy I get to tease every night…"

"Okay, march! Go back and play with your friends," she ordered – and the playful swat she dealt his now thickly-padded rear elicited a horrified whimper from his lips. "No-! No, but- but, my pants-" "Mine now," Bethany smirked, and tossed them gaily into the clothes hamper. "And actually… if you're going to be such a whiny baby about it…"

Into his half-open mouth she rammed the giant, baby-blue pacifier she'd pulled from the hidden stash. And laughed outright at the terrified gaze her now-muted husband gave her.

"Oh, but you have no choice now!" she giggled, as out through the now-open bedroom door she thrust him. "You're going to head out there and let them see exactly what happens when you cross your lovely wife." He whimpered. He dragged his feet. He shuddered and sought desperately for any possible way out. But there was none. She knew his secret. She had the upper hand, and she'd be more than happy to call for help – and explain it all – to anyone the moment he tried to resist…

So out he trudged. Like a gladiator condemned to die before the lions.

"What the actual fuck?" "Dude, really?" "No way – that's not really-" "Fuck yeah, it is! Dude, what gives? What's with the baby getup?" "Guess she's got you tied to her apron strings after all, huh?"

"There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding," Bethany announced, pushing her mute and shrinking husband forward into the den. "I heard that he claimed to be the one who wears the pants in this household. I'm simply correcting the record – by showing you how my dear Roger looks when y'all are not around. I don't suppose any of you need an explanation of what he's wearing, do you?"

Damien, half-incredulous, bent down to jab gingerly with his beer bottle at the thick bulk of the padding between Roger's legs. "Holy frick, it really is a diaper, isn't it? He- he doesn't… surely-" "What, use them?" Bethany's tone was laced with laughter. "Oh, honey, does he! He's my oversized supersoaker anytime I want him to be. Pisses himself until he's practically begging for a change."

"Pweeve- mmooo-" Roger meeped out his inarticulate protests, but between the uproarious laughter of his erstwhile buddies and the din of the TV, no one was listening. "Actually, I've got a lovely idea," Bethany smiled, catching the gaze of each of the men in turn. "You all like betting, don't you? Isn't that one of those strong, manly sorts of things to do?"

A murmur of "yeah" and "course!" met her, and she smiled once more – now more dangerously than ever. "What I suggest is that each of you place bets on my sweet wittle Roger here," and dealt his backside another hefty thwack. "Place bets on how long it's going to take until he ends up pissing himself and flooding that diaper of his. He's already had quite a few beers, so it won't be long now – promise."

Oh, the way the visible shock on their faces gave way to smiles of amusement! "Wha- like, really?" "Really," she affirmed, and stepped back once more in the direction of the dining room. "Now, listen. I'm gonna be in here with Monica. And believe me, I'll be discussing all the lovely ways I've learned to keep my little Roger in line. So, Damien…" and here she flashed him a bright, thin-lipped smile. "I suggest that you be particularly nice to your wife after tonight. Something tells me she might just get some ideas on how to… correct you if you don't."

And with a final giggle, she stepped out – leaving Roger, staring petrified with shame at the ground. Already his bladder was aching. Already his coworkers were snorting and sniggering and preparing to ask him horrifyingly embarrassing questions. And yes… already they were beginning to place bets… proposing to give him another beer or two more… arguing over how a half an hour was maybe even too long…

The worst of it all? Deep down, the sordid, submissive, humiliation-loving Roger within was reveling in every second. And he already sensed that when that time finally came – when his bladder would spasm, and the initial trickle would grow to a flood, and the hiss of his own urine and the jeering laughter of his coworkers would resound in his ears…

Well, yes – he'd be certainly be mortified. But deep within his warming, expanding pampers, he'd also be growing hard with helpless arousal.

Because honestly, maybe wearing the pants in this house was overrated.