A Very Long, Messy Spanking From My Very Mean, Beautiful Mommy — Part 2 (Conclusion)

The following story contains adult content and is intended only for adult readers over the age of 18. Any characters depicted in adult situations are over the age of 18. This story is entirely fictional and has been written and shared for entertainment purposes only.

“Uh-oh,” My Mommy suddenly remarked to herself in the middle of my evening diaper change.

I had been obediently laying back on the changing pad on my bed, silently staring at the ceiling with my hands over my head, lifting and lowering my butt and legs as required, as I had been dutifully trained to do by then for my diaper change every night.

The diapers I was changed into and out of were both always clean, as I still used the toilet, and understood the diapers as mainly a humiliation regimen from my dominating Mommy, rather than something I would actually ever go to the bathroom in, for obvious reasons.

… or at least, that’s what the situation was up until that night. Because suddenly, my Mommy was indicating there was an issue during her usual ‘inspection’ of my used pamper.

“Young man, what is this?” my Mommy asked me in a mixture of alarm and disgust, suddenly holding open the inside of the diaper she’d just taken off my bottom for me to see.

“Huh?” I muttered, trying to play dumb. But I also immediately started blushing bright red, knowing exactly what she was talking about.

“Oh, baby,” my Mommy said. ”That looks like a big streak of poopoo in your diapee. Do you not know what poopoo looks like? Because if so, maybe you’re an even dumber baby than I thought, and I need to reduce your privileges even more—“

“No! I’m sorry,” I squeaked, interrupting her. “You’re right, Mommy, I think that’s poopoo,” I said, shamefaced and burning red.

“Well, do you want to tell Mommy how all this yucky poopoo ended up in your diaper? Do you want to tell Mommy why you went poopoo in your pants, like a dumb baby, instead of on the toilet, like a big boy?” she asked.

“Well…” I hesitated.

The truth was, I knew exactly how it got there.

We had gone to the park that day, because Mommy wanted to catch up with her friends, the other Moms all hanging out there, and I was no longer allowed to be ‘unsupervised’ since I had been reduced to the status of babyhood.

As an adult, it was humiliating to feel like I was being told to ‘go play’ with the other kids running around on the jungle gym, something I managed to do by mostly sitting on the swings by myself.

But what was even more humiliating was getting a sudden intense ‘call of nature’ about 30 minutes after we got there. (Mommy had made me lunch shortly before we left, and it was hard not to suspect that nondescript juice she served me included some sort of ‘regularity aid’, for lack of a better term. Like prune juice.)

After bashfully hustling across the busy playground to get to the park bathroom, just barely getting my diaper off and sitting down in time, and erupting with a very noisy, humiliating, and uncomfortable bowel movement… I realized there was no toilet paper.

My cheeks flushed hot red as I frantically looked up and down around the small, concrete outhouse, desperate for anything that might help. But there was nothing.

Finally, with bright red cheeks of humiliation and defeat, I realized there was nothing left to do but pull my diaper up over my un-wiped bottom… and hope for the best.

I partially realized I had made a terrible mistake when I got back to the playground and sat down… only to feel the sudden warm mush of my embarrassing hygiene failure mush under my diapered bottom. I desperately hoped I didn’t stink, and while I had no confirmation either way, I thought I sensed several kids sniffing the air in disgust as they passed me, filling me with a predictable sense of humiliation and dread.

And it was that evening, as my Mommy held my diaper up with the humiliating brown stain in it, that I felt the full humiliation of my terrible mistake.

“Well, young man?” my Mommy asked impatiently. “Do you have an explanation for this poopy mess you made in your diaper, or not?”

I was speechless. I suppose I could have tried to explain what happened that day in the park.

But I knew that would have just raised a whole litany of other questions.

Why didn’t I just wait to go number two until I got home? Why didn’t I check to make sure the stall had toilet paper before I sat down to go number two? Why didn’t I tell my Mommy what happened after I came out of the bathroom? Why didn’t I clean myself up first thing after we got home?

(Truthfully, that last question was a good one, and the best answer I could probably give was just that I had reached such a state of denial at that point about just what a humiliating, stinky, babyish thing I had done, that I genuinely stopped thinking about it the moment we left the park.)

Ultimately, I knew I had no good answers to any of those questions I knew my Mommy would ask.

So all I did was shrug, and mumble, “I dunno. I’m sorry, Mommy.”

My Mommy pursed her lips with consternation, but proceeded to roll up and throw away the poopy diaper, scrub my bottom clean with baby wipes, and change me into a fresh, clean, diaper for bed all the same.

Hopefully this one, I wouldn’t make a poopy mess in.

But as much as I had seemingly miraculously made it through that evening’s ‘failed pamper inspection’ without suffering any negative consequences for my highly embarrassing, unjustified, poopy mess (like a blistering spanking with the belt, which I had come to fear and expect from my Mommy at the slightest display of disobedience or disrespect), it was during every diaper change in the days and weeks following that embarrassing night, that I discovered the true consequences of my shameful ‘back of the diaper’ mess coming to bear.

Suddenly, it seemed like my Mommy’s ‘pamper inspections’ went into overdrive.

“Uh-oh, looks like there’s a little peepee in here,” she would say about the tiniest yellow mark, likely just a few minor drops I had dribbled after peeing into the toilet, like what happens with most men. “Was it just too hard for you to make it to the potty on time to go peepee like a big boy? Or were you too lazy to be a big boy, and decided Mommy would clean it up?”

I would be far too caught off guard by the leading questions that felt like a trap, and could only ever manage to mutter with blushing cheeks something like, “I dunno, I’m sawwy I made a yucky accident, Mommy.”

Or she would pull my diaper off, glance down, and loudly proclaim while pinching her nose, “Pee-ew, you left another naughty, brown, poopy mess in here for Mommy, you stinky boy!”

I would always be dumbfounded by the accusation. I hadn’t thought my bottom had been messy that day, let alone that I had inadvertently, unknowingly pooped myself!

But my Mommy would roll the allegedly dirty diapers up immediately and throw them away, too fast to see any evidence myself.

But I knew I would sound nothing short of mentally insane to ask her to show me the poopy mess she said I made. (Let alone potentially disrespectful enough to earn a painful spanking.)

Was she lying to me? Slowly manipulating me in order to pull me further into her web of diapered humiliation, shame, punishment and control?

Or… was I really just becoming rapidly more pathetic and babyish by the day, and truly had no idea?

“Jeez, stinker, I don’t even know why I bother letting you use the big boy potty at all at this point,” she would frequently comment after one of these supposed ‘accidents’ of mine. “It seems like you’d much rather just go poopoo and peepee in your diapees and have your Mommy clean it up. Like a naughty, dumb, stinky baby.”

The implicit threat of getting my potty privileges suddenly revoked was making me more and more nervous by the day, as the prospect of actually being forced to use my diaper like a baby sent chills of disgust and embarrassment down my spine.

But I told myself she was just bluffing. Just punishing me in her own way, with the humiliating, teasing threat, all just ways she was still getting back at me for failing to live up to the expectations she had of me for our relationship, in that time long ago, when she was still my girlfriend, not my Mommy.

Surely she wouldn’t want to actually change actual wet… or even messy… diapers…

Right??

* * *

The question of my ‘big boy potty privileges’ finally came to a head the day she happened to catch me in one of my most inopportune diapered moments yet…

It was a normal weekday afternoon. She got off her daily work call far sooner than usual, at least far sooner than I expected. She then happened to walk across the hall, into my bedroom (which had become more like a nursery already), to check on me, as I was supposed to be taking my afternoon nap…

Instead, she found me laying on top of the blankets on my bed, with my hand in my diaper.

Deep into my diaper.

The thing is, I wish I could say I was just adjusting myself. Or that I was scratching an itch I couldn’t satisfy through my diaper’s thick, crinkly padding. Or that I was just taking a peak, trying to make sure my diaper was as clean as I knew my Mommy wanted it to be.

But I wasn’t.

I was masturbating. Furiously.

I was furiously masturbating in my bulky, crinkly, humiliating diaper.

And even as I looked over in horror to see my Mommy standing in the doorway of my room, her jaw agape in outrage, fury, and disgust…

I still couldn’t stop stroking myself beneath my crinkly padding.

At that point, I hadn’t jerked off in weeks, maybe months, as the overpowering shame of being put back in diapers—not to mention my previous girlfriend losing all romantic interest in me—had left me far too sexually defeated and ashamed to even try touching myself. Not to mention, I was seemingly always under someone’s overbearing supervision nowadays.

But that afternoon, when I was supposed to be trying to nap, the overpowering shame of the soft, crinkly padding hugging my genitals suddenly made me horny in the most perverse, humiliating way. And as I began to stroke myself in my crinkly badge of babyish shame, I only grew more sexually possessed by my own pathetic, infantile state of bondage.

Finally, when I suddenly looked over at the powerful woman who put me in that diaper against my will that very morning, now standing there, staring down at me in sheer disgust, making me feel more pathetic and naughty than I could have ever imagined…

All I could do was groan her name, she who still looked just as beautiful as the day we first met, and who in fact, perversely only grew more beautiful, the more she punished, controlled, and diaper dominated me every day—

“Mommmyyyyyyy!”

I shrieked her name while I busted before her with weeks of my pent-up cum, exploding my hot, shameful, sticky wad, right into the front of my previously clean diaper.

And as I fell limp in post-orgasmic exhaustion, I knew from the look on her face, that failing my pamper-inspection due to a now sticky, soiled diapee, was going to be the least of my worries that day…

* * *

“You are a very, very naughty boy. Very, very naughty! Mommy is going to punish you again and again and again for being such a naughty, naughty boy in your naughty diapers!”

That was the refrain my Mommy seethed with over and over again, as she yanked me out of bed, forced me to stand with my hands behind my back, and slapped me hard on my naked bottom while she angrily wiped up all my sticky semen with baby wipes and a paper towel.

She continued saying it while she pinned me over her lap, and whipped my rear end with a belt until I screamed and cried louder and longer than I’d ever cried in my life. Spanking me long after my voice went hoarse from my non-stop apologizing and begging for mercy.

And finally, when she pulled up a new pair of terrifying, thick, locking plastic pants, and told me the new rules of the house.

“You naughty, filthy little stinker. I’ve been on the fence about letting you still use the toilet at all, given how often you wet and poop your diapers now like a baby, anyway, no matter how many times I ask you to try to make it to the potty like a big boy,” she scolded.

“But now that I know you’re addicted to sexual perversion and self-abuse, engaging in filthy, diapered fornication, like some sort of brain damaged invalid… and enacting extreme disrespect to your Mommy while you do it with that filthy, filthy, inappropriate, lustful gaze you gave me while you disgustingly messed yourself with your shameful, repulsive sticky mess… no, no more. You’re going back in diapers, permanently, from here on out. And those diapers will be taped on tight to keep you from touching your no-no area, and will not be coming off under any circumstances, unless I am the one taking them off, in order to change you, and inspect your diaper to make sure you haven’t been performing any other sickly acts of diapered perversion. Is all that clear?”

“… yes, Mommy,” I choked through my tears.

Then she put me up in my new crib, raised the locking bars with a prison-like clank, and locked me into my nursery for the night for my first night in locking plastic pants, designed to guarantee my diaper soon became very, very used, whether I wanted it to be or not.

That night, as I cried with regret at my filthy act of shameful masturbation, I was forced to wet my diaper. Really wet my diaper.

There was nothing like the hot spray of urine soaking around my balls. Drenching my cushy padding. Making me feel like I was shrinking into a stupid, stinky baby in real time.

And of course, as bad as that night was wetting myself for the first time, it was nothing compared to the unbearable humiliation and shame of being forced to poop myself for the first time just a couple days later, when a heaping spoonful of punishment castor oil (issued because I fussed about my baby-food breakfast of mashed carrots and peas that morning), caused me to explode in a heap of poopy diaper mud into the seat of my pamper while I sucked my thumb and whimpered like a pathetic baby.

… which was then followed, of course, by a long period of me shamefully waddling around the house, too utterly humiliated to possibly ask my Mommy for a diaper change, yet too abjectly miserable with my messy, stinky, diaper bum to do anything but reflect on just what a naughty, naughty stinky helpless little pathetic baby I had become.

Which I knew was exactly what my Mommy had wanted, whether she admitted that to me or not.

* * *

* * *

It’s now been weeks… months… who knows how long, since I’ve been allowed to use the potty.

This afternoon, she caught me sticking my dirty hand into my diaper again.

(Although this time, it really was just to rearrange myself! I swear, I was just trying to move my peepee and point it down, so I didn’t spray pee up out of my waistband when I emptied my full bladder. Sometimes, I suspected she left my peepee pointing up, and pinned my diaper tight, just so she would have an excuse to punish me—either because my diaper would leak from my peepee not pointing down, or because I would fall for the trap and reach into my diaper myself to adjust my wiener, an equally serious infraction.)

Now, I was over my Mommy’s lap, getting the belt-whipping of a lifetime, while I just happened to have a very large, painful bowel movement into the seat of my babyish padding.

Worse, my stomach was currently twisting into knots of painful, growing cramps up and down my entire midsection.

And worst of all, my Mommy was now demanding I give up one of the few precious shreds of dignity I had left, ever since descending into this infantile hell as her personal adult-baby diaper slave…

She wanted me to tell her the reason I was wearing diapers was because I needed them. Not because she was making me wear them as punishment.

And at this point, the tiniest pride I still had as technically still an adult, was just when I told myself… I wasn’t actually a pathetic baby who needed diapers.

I just had a mean Mommy…

Right??

Smack! She cracked another harsh blow against my beleaguered behind.

“Say it! Tell Mommy you need your diapers!” she demanded. “That you’ve always needed your diapers! Tell Mommy that you’re a dumb, diaper pooping baby, who never really knew how to even use the potty in the first place, and you never want anyone to ever ask you to try to use it again, because you’ll never, ever be enough of a big boy to know how!”

But despite all the mounting pain from my growling belly, my searing exposed bottom, between my mushy, itchy, poopy butt cheeks… I still managed to grit my teeth and stay quiet.

I still just had to hold on to that one thing. That one piece of minuscule dignity I still had left.

I flinched as she raised the belt up higher than ever—

I braced myself for yet another excruciating blow—

But suddenly… the belt fell limp to the floor, out of her hands. The blow didn’t come. I didn’t understand.

“Well, well,” she said, still keeping me firmly pinned over her lap in my poopy diaper. “Why is it you won’t say it, stupid baby? You don’t think it’s true? It’s okay if that’s how you really feel. You can tell Mommy.”

I gulped, dreading a trap. But I meekly nodded my head and answered anyway. “Yes, Mommy. I can make it to the big boy potty if you let me, I swear. You can stop forcing me to use my diapers. I promise, I’ll be such a good boy for you. I don’t need to wear diapers at all anymore, really, I don’t. I swear, I’ll never make inappropriate touchies on myself again if you let me wear big boy undies again.”

She burst with a cruel scoff. “Oh, you stupid, stupid child. You diaper wetting baby. You mentally handicapped pamper pooper. You don’t even know just what a stupid, stinky, diaper-needing baby you are. You don’t even remember right just how helpless you were before Mommy saved you by putting a roof over your head, cleaning up your poopy bum, and putting you back in diapers to keep you safe and dry from all your naughty accidents, not just your shameful sticky squirties.

“Even if I thought you didn’t need big, bulky protection over your tiny firehose to help keep your naughty, filthy paws away from where they don’t belong, that’s one of the least important reasons you need to be in diapers. Because the bottom line is, you would be helpless without me as your Mommy. In fact, you were helpless, before I stepped up to be your Mommy. Because… You. Are. Just. A. Stupid. Baby. In every. Single. Way,” she declared, patting the butt of my poopy diaper on each syllable for emphasis. “Always have been. Always will be. A stupid, stupid baby, who needs his Mommy to keep him in diapers to keep from making big messies in his crib, or his stroller, or on his Mommy’s lap.”

Still hanging over her knees, my backside blistering, the humiliating stench of my recent accident hitting my nostrils—my senses were totally beaten and overwhelmed, and my spirit was wilting.

Was that right? Was I misremembering our entire history together? Was I really much more of a helpless baby than I thought? To the point of genuinely needing diapers, like she said?

No, no, I tried to tell myself. She was lying to me. Manipulating me. Trying to humiliate me further by bringing me ever deeper down into her all consuming, infernal, maternal, dominating grasp…

“But I’ll tell you what,” she said, suddenly changing tone, to my surprise. “I have to admit, you have been a really good boy lately, for the most part, despite the minor hiccup this afternoon that caused you to land over my lap. If you really want to use the big boy potty again, instead of going potty in your diapers like a baby, you can at least try. I’m more than happy to let you do that, if it would make you happy.”

“What? Really?” I asked, instantly perking up, unable to believe what I was hearing.

“Sure, why not!” my Mommy said. “Right after we’re done with your spanking here, I’ll change you out of your poopy diaper, and you can finally go use the big boy potty till your heart’s content.”

I could hardly believe it. Suddenly, it was the best news I’d heard in a long time.

“In fact,” my Mommy continued. “I have to admit, I’m very impressed by what a good boy you are by trying to show Mommy what a big boy you can be. As a reward, I think it’s only fair that I won’t even use the belt for the rest of your spanking. I’ll just use the palm of my hand, and I’ll be real gentle. It’s the least I can do, given how hard you’re trying. How does that sound?”

“Okay—I mean yes—I mean—yes, Mommy, please and thank you!!” I stammered in disbelief.

My Mommy was suddenly being nicer to me than I could remember in a long, long time. She almost never took mercy on me when giving me a spanking.

Perhaps, I wondered to myself, she finally realized there was a limit to how cruel she could treat me while I remained under her control. Perhaps there finally was a light at the end of this infantile-hell tunnel, after all. And maybe all my emasculating, degrading, deeply humiliating obedience at her typically sinister-seeming whims had finally paid off.

I felt her gently place her open hand against the seat of my messy diaper, gently patting, feeling, and squeezing the small mushy lump that was there, sending a fresh chill of embarrassment up my spine.

“Just remember, little guy,” she suddenly leaned down and whispered in my ear. “You’ve already just done quite a stinky number on this pamper. If I catch you going potty in this diaper again before I finish with your spanking and change you out of it, there’s no way I’m ever letting you use the toilet… ever again.”

It took me a moment to process her words as she sat back up and resumed gently patting my diapered bum.

At first, what she said seemed more than reasonable. Even obvious. Of course I shouldn’t use my diaper if I’d finally just been granted access to the toilet again, right?

But then, to my horror, the demon in my gut suddenly came roaring back, reminding me of the quiet, yet severely mounting pressure…

Gggggggrrrrrrrllllllrggggggggooooooaaaaannnnn…

I writhed for a moment in sudden full-body cramps while over my Mommy’s lap, suddenly remembering the second wave of horror show still brewing in my guts…

Then I broke into a hot sweat, now putting two and two together, and realizing the full stakes of my situation.

I couldn’t see my Mommy’s face as she continued holding me down and rhythmically patting my behind. But I was almost sure she could have heard the awful noise in my gut. And I could almost feel a smirk come to her lips.

My stomach erupted with another agonizing growl, and with a sharp spasm, I suddenly had to clench my bottom shut to keep from succumbing to a sudden new wave of mess in my rear.

No! I told myself in a panic. I could do this! I could keep from messing myself for just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. Then I would finally be free from the non-stop, infantile degradation of these pointless, shameful, humiliating diapers—

My own inner-monologue was cut off by a seismic rumble up and down my torso. Without thinking, I suddenly found myself gripping my Mommy’s ankles for support again, while my whole body was rocked with fresh cramps.

And suddenly, all I could focus on was my Mommy’s hand. Gently planted right on the butt of my diaper. Gently squeezing, kneading, patting. Her fingers deviously massaging, prodding and cruelly teasing through the padding…

Directly over my rosebud…

Waiting.

“Aww, what’s wrong, honey-bun?” my Mommy said in a voice that sent chills down my spine. “Still having more tummy troubles? Even after you just did a big stinky poopoo on Mommy’s lap?”

“… please…” I gasped, fighting my roiling guts with every fiber of my being. “Please just let me go to the potty, Mommy. Please.”

“Oh, baby, I will! Just like I said. I just need to finish this gentle spanking first, that’s all. Just one more minute or two. You can hold your messies for just a single minute or two, can't you? Of course you can, you're a big boy, after all. Right? You are a big boy, who doesn’t go potty in his pants, right? Tell Mommy what you are,” she said in a painfully sneering tone.

"Mommy... Mommy..." I whimpered in agony, clenching my fists and curling my toes, my whole body feeling on fire. "I'm a... I'm a... I'm a..."

“Yes? What are you, hon? Tell Mommy what you really are. Who and what you really, really are,” she replied.

"I'm a... I'm a... I’M A STINKY BABY!" I finally helplessly belted out.

SPPPLLLLGGGGHHSHSHSHSHhhhhffttftfftftftftftftftftf...

My rear end exploded with a volcano of hot, messy poop into the seat of my diaper—right against my Mommy’s waiting hand firmly pressed up against my diapered butt.

I moaned and writhed as I felt myself pouring the most massive, stinkiest, nastiest poopy mess of my life into my already dirty diaper, filling it heavier, and heavier, and heavier, and heavier with my explosive, non-stop, running fountain of an agonizing BM…

And the whole time, I could feel my mommy’s firm hand squeezing, holding, pressing, and squishing the mess through the seat of my crinkly padding. Mushing and squishing the mess as it filled the back of my diaper up more and more and more.

Waves of shame fell over me as I realized what was happening, just how deeply I was humiliating myself, both by failing the simple task of making it to the bathroom, as well as subjecting my Mommy to the intimate sensation of my pathetic, helpless, stinky, babyish bowel movement, right into the seat of my already overflowing pamper.

Because the worst part was, it was in moments like these, that I looked up at her, and remembered just what an incredibly elegant, beautiful woman she was. More beautiful than ever, in fact. Which made my act of shameful poopy-diaper self-debasement in her hands all the more infinitely pathetic, humiliating, and unforgivable.

I grunted and moaned and huffed and wailed in her arms—noises that were equal parts physical reaction to the horrendous evacuation, as well as devastated, humiliated, despairing emotional ones.

Finally, after several rounds of gasping and heaving, the poopy mess seemed to come to an end.

My diaper was loaded to the very brim, sagging, stinking, and squishing as it dangled between my sweaty, trembling legs.

And my Mommy’s hand was still atop it all. Still mushing my shame through the seat of my diaper, forcing me to feel the intimate disgust of my warm mess being mushed against my genitals and into my butt crack. Still issuing my ‘spanking’, like nothing at all had just happened.

Finally, she spoke, right as she started dramatically sniffing the air.

“Oh, dear. What is that I smell? What is that? Is that… a stinky baby? A poopy, stinky baby who… went poopy in his pants?” she asked with cruel glee.

“Yes… Mommy,” I sniffled, limp, poopy, and utterly defeated.

“And what should a poopy, stinky, baby, who goes poopy in his pants… always be wearing?” she asked.

“Diapers,” I answered, tears falling down my cheeks.

“I guess we learned a pretty important lesson here today, didn’t we, my stupid little baby boy,” she said. “Now, do you know what this means?”

“Yes…” I sniffled. “It means I’m… a stupid baby. A stupid baby who needs his Mommy to keep him in diapers. Because I don’t know how to go potty on the toilet like a big boy. I only know how to go poopy in my pants. And Mommy should never let me try to use the big boy potty again,” I answered, breaking down into sobs as I accepted defeat, just wanting the worst of this ordeal to finally be over.

My Mommy laughed again. A sinister laugh.

“Oh, well, my poopy stinker, that’s all very true, and I’m glad we finally agree on that, once and for all,” she answered. “But no, what I was going to say about what this means is, since you couldn’t be a big boy after all like you promised… I have to switch back to the belt for the rest of your spanking!”

And with that, my Mommy suddenly held the belt back up, and cheerily resumed her brutal blistering of my already agonizing behind, while I sobbed and writhed against her vice-like grip, stinkier and more helpless than ever.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

But this time, as the belt landed again and again against my packed, filthy, humiliating, hot and stinky poopy pamper, despite my pouring tears and outward wails of squealing despair…

I couldn’t help but succumb to an indescribable sense of perverse relief. Even… pleasure. Much like the first moment I stroked myself to climax in my humiliating, crinkly diaper.

Why? I really didn’t know.

Perhaps it was just the relief of finally accepting that Mommy was right about me, after all. I really was just a stupid, diaper dependent, helpless little baby.

Perhaps it was just because as a braindead, poopy diaper baby, I was just too dumb to know any better.

Or perhaps it was because in that moment, as I felt my Mommy tightly pinning me down, painfully whipping me with a belt in my horrendously shameful, humiliating diaper, I realized she really was just a very mean Mommy. A very beautiful, very mean Mommy.

And as I suffered the pain, stench, and humiliation of her total domination of my being…

I knew this was just how she showed she truly cared for me, her helpless, worthless, pathetic little diaper pooping baby.

And I knew I was truly, truly loved.

THE END.