A Sissy's Progress - Chapter Twelve

It's done at last!

Not that last chapter. Well, it was tough in its own way too, I guess. It's never fun trying to explain in graphic detail just what a fool you were. It's pretty depressing to write your own story of humiliation—to see all those exits where you could have turned off. Maybe if I'd resisted more, things would be different. Maybe if I hadn't been so fucking horny and just been content in my cage until Erica tired of it, I wouldn't be here right now. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Or maybe not. Who knows?

It's the bottle that's done at last. I'm trying not to think about how much I've just drank. My belly had gotten used to massive influxes of fluids these days, so I guess it wasn't as hard for me as it might be for you. Still, I do have that odd feeling now: bloated and burpy from all the apple juice, and yet strangely hungry for something that won't vanish from my stomach in an hour...

I still want my lunch. But of course, I have to wait until Mommy sees fit to let me out, to take my soggy ass to my high chair and begin feeding me.

And until then, I have to keep busy. So why don't I write just a little more?

***

Like I said, it was all against my better judgment. But you see, I'd been through the hell of months-long chastity. I couldn't take another day of blue balls—of that awful burning ache, of the mind-clouding need to touch yourself and grind and anything to relieve the tension. I simply couldn't do it anymore.

And so, the crinkling alternative was what I chose: first one day, and then another, and then another after that.

Oh, I varied it up sometimes. I might stay in the cage for two or three days, then request a day off from my wife. If it was a weekend, I was out of the cage and in a diaper anyway. And oddly enough, I had the feeling that this new modus vivendi was an overall improvement. Sure, diapers were still disgusting, and annoying, and stomach-churningly embarrassing if anyone ever found out. But for me, the ability to touch myself and find that sweet, sweet release was worth the occasional soggy butt, and even the risk of being noticed.

They say you can get used to anything, after all.

Erica's mood seemed to have improved, too. On the diaper days, she'd push me onto the bed and tape the thing around me, finishing things off with a wrap or two of clear packing tape around the tapes. "Can't have you slipping it off, you know," she'd tease, then grin and hand me my pants. "Now get those pants on and get that diapered ass to work, okay?" And I'd groan, and blush a bit, and obey. But then at work...

Oh, the lovely times I had there. It wasn't long until I discovered a weird little fact, too: a wet diaper actually felt a lot nicer to cum in than a dry one. As long as you could get your mind off the idea that you were grinding and cumming in your personal pee-soaked rag, then everything was fine. It was even warm, and soft, and wet... Just like Erica's pussy.

Or Julia's mouth.

No, I told myself sternly. No! I was in this whole mess precisely because of her. No thinking about Julie, ever again. Just about Erica, and her lovely body, and the way she looked down at me sometimes when she was helping me into this diaper. Think of her ample breasts, her beautiful ass, the way she used to spread her legs for me...

And then I'd come home, wet and a trifle sticky. And Erica would grin knowingly and wait for me as I showered, ready either to cage me or diaper me—just as I chose.

We were getting more inventive in bed, too, of course. Erica still insisted that she couldn't bear the thought of my cheating dick inside her, so PIV was strictly off-limits. But well, after that first evening she didn't seem to mind so terribly much that her husband was clad in only a giant diaper. It obviated the need for condoms or towels, for one thing. And since I was fast learning how a bit of plastic and cotton around my waist wasn't a bar to enjoying myself... Well, it wasn't long before the diapers became a staple of our make-out sessions.

I'm sure my readers would love a sexy little vignette of our new mode of "intercourse," wouldn't they? They probably want engaging dialogue—sexy lines—hip, hot, and sensual rejoinders. But I'm hungry, and soggy, and all I have are hazy sensory memories: memories of things to which I no longer have even the shadow of access...

I remember how Erica, standing easily there in the warm glow of our lamp-lit bedroom, would gesture back at me and sweetly tell me to undress her. I remember the way her blouse would open and slip from her shoulders, revealing the round beauties that were her breasts. I remember pulling down her jeans, loving her round curves and the feel of yielding, bare skin beneath my fingers.

How different it was from my own rear now, so padded and imprisoned.

And then too, I remember her low voice, ordering me to undress too. I was already going to, I remember thinking once. But the command didn't hurt anyway, right? I remember too her cool hands on my shoulders, propelling me backward onto our bed. Her touch felt heavenly as she stroked my crinkling crotch, massaging my stiffening member through the padding that kept me safely locked away from her. And inevitably I would moan and writhe, ready to cum once more despite myself...

That's when she'd stop.

After that, I would be hers indeed. "Pleasure me, baby," she'd whisper—and oh, I'd do my best, frantic to obey and to earn the right to my own pleasure. My fingers—first one, then a second, and sometimes more—learned to slip deep within her glistening pussy. I'd edge closer and breathlessly begin licking her lovely, taut nipples... and more often than not, I'd feel her hand on my head pressing my face lower and lower, guiding my mouth downward, there to open and begin suckling. Oh, how she would convulse in pleasure for me then...

When she was spent at last, four or five orgasms later—only then would I receive her full attention. "You're going to cum for me now," she'd whisper as her hands returned to stroke the straining front of my padding. "You're going to open those eyes and look up at me. Look me in the eye as you cum in your diaper, baby." And yes, I would. Every single time.

After nights like that, it was only inevitable that, tired out as we were, we didn't always have the energy to clean up much afterward. I distinctly remember several mornings in which I woke up, still wearing the same diaper I'd cum in the night before. It wasn't such a big deal, I kept telling myself as I stripped and showered myself clean. Erica didn't care. And it wasn't like I needed it or anything. Not like I'd used it for anything but pleasure.

Oh, if only that had remained the case.

I still don't know if it was the wine that one night, shortly before Thanksgiving. Or maybe it was the unusually vivid dream I had: a dream in which I was at work and desperately needed to pee. Of course I went to the bathroom, and of course I pulled down my boxers and sat down and experienced such sweet, sweet relief...

Now that was something to explain to Erica.

"Honey, it's okay," she consoled as we stripped our bed of its sheets, now sodden and smelly on my side.  "I guess you must've had a little too much to drink, huh?" I shrugged in embarrassment, already guessing what her next proposal would be. But to my surprise, I was mistaken—at least in part.

It wasn't a proposal. It was an order.

"You're definitely going to be staying in one of your diapers at night now," she calmly stated, scooping up the heap of sheets from the floor and heading for the door. "It's no big deal, you know. It's just going to make everything easier. You're already using them for our sexy times, after all."

I remember opening my mouth to protest, then shutting it again. For what could I even say? That I didn't need them? Last night I clearly had. That I didn't want them? Hell, I was already asking her to be in diapers several times a week. That it made me feel bad? The sheer number of times I'd already cum in them knocked that argument flat.

And so, flushing with well-earned shame, I remained silent.