A Very Long, Messy Spanking From My Very Mean, Beautiful Mommy — Part 1

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.

“Mommy, I have to go poopoo!”

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The blows of her sadistic belt rained down, blistering my behind with every strike. The puffy diaper around my waist did little to protect me.

“Say it again!” she demanded.

“Poopoo! I have to go poopoo!” I pleaded.

“Well too bad,” she scolded. “You’ve been such a naughty boy, a naughty, stinky, dumb baby, you can just make that naughty poopy in your diaper while I continue your spanking.”

Through my tears and snot, part of me wondered if this was all part of her plan. That she wanted me to mess myself over her lap while she brutally spanked me.

She loved to make me humiliate myself in front of her. Debase myself. Remind her that I was a stupid stinky baby who needed his mommy to punish him and keep him in line.

And I suspected that bottle that tasted funny after lunch might have secretly contained that peculiar, oh so sinister punishment substance. That favorite evil syrup of hers. Castor oil.

“Oooh, Mommy please, please don’t make me go potty in my pants right now…” I wailed.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The piercing blows of her belt forced me to cry out and clarified her indifference to my pleas.

“You will go potty in your diapers like the dumb baby you are!” my Mommy shouted. “Whether that’s in your crib, or in your high chair, or over Mommy’s knee! Got it?!”

Smack! Smack! Smack!

I just wanted it to stop. To get the chance to go run in the corner, squat down, and perform my shameful deed like usual. Knowing my Mommy and her older female friends (and any of the other cast of characters she seemed to enjoy parading through the house to witness my humiliating diapered toddler-ization, from neighbors, to plumbers, to woefully misled door-to-door salesmen) were all pointing and snickering behind my back at the naughty little diaper pooper, still squatting like a shy baby to poop his pants in the corner at my age…

Because at least that was behind my back.

But to be over her knees right now. Legs flailing. Tears and snot falling down my face. Her one arm pinning me to her warm thighs, while the other rained blow after blow of stinging pain against my flanks again and again and again…

To be in that position while I did the unthinkable deed… the indescribable humiliating ritual… the stinky diaper dumper…

I cried a little louder with helplessness, my pathetic shrieks resembling that of a genuine toddler.

“Please Mommy, I’ll be good, I promise!” I wailed.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Too late! You dirty boy! You should have known better than to stick those naughty paws of yours where they don’t belong. You stupid, stupid baby!” she scolded.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Naughty, naughty hands! Stupid, stupid baby! Stupid, stinky, diaper baby!” she continued to berate me, her words lining up with the rhythm of the belt like some sort of sadistic music.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

That’s when it happened. Despite the stinging, non-stop assault on my bottom—

Smack! Smack! Smack!

My whole body clenched up, and I felt myself suddenly directing all my energy to my midsection. To the aching, cramping bowels I had been desperately holding back.

My toes curled. I gripped my Mommy’s ankles with my pathetic little hands. The same naughty hands that got me put over her lap in the first placed when I reached into my diaper to touch my no-no area just some minutes ago…

And while the slapping blows of the belt continued raining hell upon my padded bottom, my whole being suddenly focused on the feeling of the diaper padding itself pressed up against my butt cheeks…

And I felt the expansion. The indescribably vulnerable, humiliating sensation of pooping my diaper. The deep clench and push of forcing out a hot, steamy, dirty mess into my bountifully puffy, babyish, padding.

“Ooooaaaaaaaghhhhaaoooohhhh…” I groaned as I felt my whole body work on passing the BM into my diaper.

The first painful, heavy wave of sloppy mush pushed my diaper back and smeared against my cheeks, dropping down, seating itself warm and naughty against my groin parts.

All while the relentless blows continued.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

I grunted and groaned, gasping for air as I felt my bowels recombobulate. I was always hit with a wave of fresh embarrassment after feeling a warm, mushy mess settle into the seat of my diaper.

But this one was particularly potent, as I felt my Mommy’s belt immediately start landing on my mess, mushing and smashing it into my bottom.

“What did you just do? What did you just do in your diaper, you naughty stinker?! Answer me!” my Mommy shouted.

“Poopy, Mommy!” I finally bellowed. “I did poopy!”

“You naughty, naughty baby! Going poopoo on Mommy’s lap? I’m strapping you over my knee for twice as long now, for being such a naughty, helpless, poopy stinky baby!” she shouted.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The blows became even more painful as she started belting me even harder, causing me to wail in a fresh wave of helpless sobs.

I could never win with Mommy. I could swear, just moments ago, she told me she wanted me to poop in my diaper while she was spanking me. Now, it seemed like I was getting punished twice as hard for doing just that.

And I knew that if I ever was dumb enough to point out the contradiction, she would tell me I was stupid. That I didn’t listen right. That Mommy knew best, and I didn’t know anything. She would make me feel like I was just a stupid, crazy, baby, who couldn’t follow the simplest directions.

And I knew that was all part of the point. It was all part of the game for her, to make me feel as helpless, stinky, dumb, and babyish before her. She loved to control me. Make me feel small. Dependent. Infantile.

And it worked. Especially now, as I cried even louder from the painful spanking, and suddenly braced myself for another wave of releasing my poopy mess—

“Unnngghghghgrhrhrhrhr…ooooohhhhh…” I wailed as I felt my butthole expand to the size of Texas to push out another massive wave of hard poop.

I was suddenly really paying the price for my naughty, babyish habit of holding my messies for as long as possible, out of the fear and embarrassment involved with doing them in the only place I was now allowed—in the seat of my diaper.

And now, I was suffering the painful, involuntary constipated evacuations into that very diaper, likely secretly induced by my Mommy, who admittedly knew I probably needed medicinal help to avoid becoming so constipated I needed a trip to the hospital. Even so, the act of pooping my diaper like a baby was still always unspeakably humiliating and shameful.

“Oooooh… Moooommmmyyyy…. big messy for naughty baby!” I involuntarily squealed, grabbing her ankles as I finished painfully pushing out the small boulder from my bowels through my expanding bum-hole.

My Mommy couldn’t help but burst into a short giggle, causing a momentary pause of the strap’s licks against my bottom. I think my words were truly shocking in just how pathetic they made me sound—even to the woman who changed my adult-sized poopy diapers!

“Big, stinky, naughty, baby! I can feel that big poopoo mess in here you just made!” my Mommy scolded, suddenly grabbing the fresh load through my extra-thick padding and squeezing it, causing me to flinch in disgust as I felt the mess immediately smear into my tender crevices.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Naughty, naughty, stupid, stinky baby!” she hissed as the blows continued with abandon.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The pain to my bottom returned, as my brain made space to sense the belt blistering the exposed skin of my rear end again.

But at the same time, I was gripped by a sudden new pain of almost comparable intensity—my whole tummy and insides roiling with a new wave of continued, even rapidly worsening, painful cramps.

With horror, I realized she must have put a lot more castor oil in my bottle than I’d ever had before.

“Tell Mommy you’re a stupid, stinky baby!” she demanded, pausing the blows with the belt as she kept it hovering over my bottom.

All I could manage was a long, tortured, mumbling grunt as I twisted in pain over her legs from my rumbling guts.

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! I shrieked from the sudden volley of furious strikes against my naked thighs.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you! Tell Mommy what you are! Nice and loud,” she commanded.

“I’m a… stupid… stinky… baby!” I managed to belt out between gasps of pain from the cramps in my tummy, combined with the stinging welts on my bottom.

“And tell Mommy why you go potty in your diapers instead of on the toilet,” she commanded.

“Because… I’m a stupid baby who doesn’t deserve to use the big boy potty,” I said, desperately trying to give her the answer that humiliated me to her satisfaction.

Smack! Another blow caused me to shriek.

“Try again!” she commanded. “Tell Mommy about how you’re such a dumb baby, you wouldn’t even know how to use the big boy potty if you tried. Tell Mommy about why she had to put you back in diapers in the first place, how you’re such a naughty, dumb, stinky, baby, you only know how to make potties in your pants. Tell Mommy that you need your diapers. You’ll always need your diapers. Because that’s the only place your dumb little baby brain knows where to go peepee or poopoo. And you never want Mommy to ever let you try to use the big boy potty again, because you’d only end up making a stinky mess in your pants, anyway. I want to hear you say it all, you naughty, naughty stinker!”

I gritted my teeth. This time, not only from my painfully roiling stomach, and the blistering welts on my bottom… but because I just couldn’t bring myself to say what she was demanding.

Despite my desperation to appease her, to say whatever humiliating, debasing thing she wanted, so I could finally escape the blistering pain of her belt landing on my poopy, diapered behind, I still couldn’t make myself give up that last bit of dignity…

The knowledge that I wasn’t wearing, wetting, and messing disposable diapers like a baby because I needed diapers.

It was all just because she was forcing me to wear them. As punishment. As a tool of my humiliation.

And her sadistic control.

* * *

It all started not that long ago. When she was still my girlfriend, if you can believe it.

Sure, she was still about a decade my senior, and she made about three times as much money as me. But we still split the cost of the apartment we lived in together, and had a relatively equitable relationship… for the most part.

But one day, I happened to lose my job. After several weeks of failing to secure any promising new job prospects (and admittedly becoming quite lazy when it came to housework… or even keeping up with my personal hygiene), my then-girlfriend informed me that she was so displeased with my failure to live up to the demands of adulthood, she no longer saw me as an equal romantic partner.

Instead, unless I wanted her to kick me out for not paying my portion of rent, which I was no longer able to do without a job, I was thenceforth to obey her rules. I was to view our relationship as no longer a romantic one, but instead as one between ward and guardian, where I was living under her roof. And fittingly, from then on, I was to refer to her as my ‘Mommy’… and obey, respect, and treat her as such.

I was mortified and outraged by the humiliating, infantilizing ultimatum, of course. But I was also helpless but to agree to it, unless I wanted to become homeless. Which I very much did not.

And I soon discovered that any bad attitude on my part regarding our new ‘living situation’, or lack of gratitude toward my new ‘Mommy’ for ‘putting a roof over my ungrateful head’, was met with the most swift, humiliating, and blistering spankings imaginable, right over my new Mommy’s knee—the first reveal of a truly sadistic streak in her, that I never once even glimpsed while we were still boyfriend and girlfriend.

At the time, I chalked up the terrifying ferocity of her spankings to the idea that she must have just had some real pent up frustration from work, combined with the stress of being the sole breadwinner in our home.

But what started with rules like a 9:30pm bedtime and a mandatory list of daily chores—both highly humiliating and infantilizing measures, but in many ways understandable, given her frustrations with my laziness—soon became something else altogether.

I’ll never forget the day. I had neglected to clean the kitchen and forgot to clean my room, and instead I spent the day seeing a movie and getting drinks with an old friend of mine. A friend I hadn’t seen since losing my job, and quite frankly, knew my new Mommy hardly approved of.

When I got home that night—only just barely after my 9:30pm bedtime, and just barely still tipsy, but with the smell of alcohol still on my breath—she absolutely lost it.

“You naughty, naughty little boy!” she seethed, causing me to cower as she confronted me at the door. “I give you so much, and ask of you so very little! Make your bed. Clean the kitchen. Wash your own dirty undies, for god’s sake. These are the responsibilities of a pre-teen boy, and you still can’t handle them!”

She started dragging me across the house by the ear as I yelped and pathetically followed. “Well, fine,” she huffed. “If you want to act like a baby, I’m going to treat you like one. You won’t have to worry about washing your dirty undies anymore, I’ll tell you that.”

I had no idea what she meant until she finished dragging me into my room. That’s when I finally laid eyes on it for the first time.

A diaper. A disposable adult diaper. It was bright white, plastic, puffy, and crinkly. And it was laying right in the middle of my bed, to my absolute horror.

“You’ll get your big boy undies back once you’ve shown me you’re ready to take care of them and behave like a big boy again. But until then, Mommy is going to be putting you in extra-thick, crinkly, bulky, babyish diapers every day and night, so that you’re constantly reminded of just what a pathetic baby you are, given your shameful pattern of unacceptable and infantile misbehavior.”

I felt sick to my stomach with humiliation and regret. And yet I also knew… there was no going back. She was in charge now, and unless I wanted to live on the streets, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the rules and punishments she decided I deserved.

* * *

That first night, I was so flabbergasted by the unexpected, embarrassing new undergarment demand, I hardly uttered a word of resistance as I quietly undressed, laid back naked on my bed, and suffered the novel, unique humiliation of being taped into a disposable diaper as an adult. By my new Mommy, no less.

Perhaps it was because it seemed so over the top, I assumed she would be allowing me to change back into my normal underwear the next day, after I did the laundry, of course.

But to my dismay, after I got all my clean underwear out of the dryer the next day, before I even got the chance to put them away, my Mommy came and confiscated every pair.

Worse, I soon discovered that every morning, after I got out of the shower, I was expected to lay back on my bed so my Mommy could change me into a fresh diaper.

And similarly, every night at bedtime (which had been moved up to a punishing 8pm for me), I was expected to lay back and have my diaper changed by my Mommy for bed.

And both rituals soon involved cool baby wipes scrubbing my most sensitive regions, a heavy dose of infantile-smelling baby powder, and perhaps most embarrassing of all… detailed ‘used pamper inspections’ from my Mommy, to look for any supposed potential ‘naughty potty-accidents’ from me while the diaper had been taped around my waist.

Because the thing was, even though my Mommy had started making me wear disposable diapers 24/7 instead of underwear, which was a deeply humiliating experience, no doubt, I was still freely allowed to use the toilet. Thank god.

I was merely just required to tape my diaper back up as well as my Mommy had taped it after I used the toilet, otherwise I would get a spanking if she discovered I had done a sloppy (or more loose and comfortable) re-tape job.

As utterly humiliated as I was to be walking around 24/7 in thick, crinkly diapers and smelling like baby powder now, I was still immensely grateful that I was still allowed to use the toilet. After all, the idea of actually using the diaper to pee—or shudder, go number two in—was both too revolting and unspeakably humiliating to even begin to imagine.

But it wasn’t long until the day that one of my Mommy’s ‘pamper inspections’ suddenly didn’t go as expected.

And as a result, my life living diapered under my new Mommy, quickly went from highly embarrassing… to downright mortifying.

TO BE CONTINUED

IN PART II