THE BOSS
Here’s something I’ve learned since my wedding; an equal marriage doesn’t mean every single thing is 50/50. Is Crystal supposed to go out and make the same amount as me? How’s that going to work? The red-shirts at Target don’t earn seven-figure salaries, trust me. There’s really no point in my wife working, and I told her as much before we got married.
At the same time, I make all the money, and so I naturally take charge of how we spend it. Thing is, I’m no grinch. No expense spared when it came to decorating the new house, and the grocery budget lets my wife be creative in the kitchen. And Crystal can hardly complain about her allowance. I let her have whatever she wants, within reason. As long as it’s not a complete waste. I just need to know in advance—I mean, if I just let her go crazy with the credit cards, we’d be living in an Amazon Prime box!
Just kidding. Probably. It’s been nine months, we’re still newlyweds. But Crystal has her designer clothes, fancy make-up. She’s got a personal trainer, those spa treatments, her holistic medicine hocus pocus. I say ‘yes’ to all that stuff because it’s like a business investment, you know?
My hot wife. My blond bombshell, with those piercing blue eyes and knockout tits.
Hey, I wouldn’t use that kind of language myself. It’s the others I’m speaking for, my clients, my competition. I know what they’re saying in their head, and I know what they’re asking; How did a short, chubby guy like Matthew win a prize like Crystal?
How? Because I’m a brilliant businessman. Because I use my manners. And because I’m loaded. With all that, I get to be the boss. I’m in charge at work and at home.
“Mr. Carter?”
My secretary (who is definitely not hot, who is dumpy and middle-aged, because I like beautiful women but I’m not an idiot) calls through on the intercom. “Your wife is on the line.”
“Tell her I’m in a meeting.” I look around my empty corner office and I’m okay with the lie. I don’t like to be available all the time; people take you for granted. Besides, I know Crystal; this isn’t an emergency.
“Mrs. Carter is wondering how you liked your muffin.”
See?
“Donna, tell her, I liked it just fine.” I turn off the intercom with a click.
The muffin was good. Before we got married, Crystal used to let me eat whatever I wanted, but in the last few months, she’s been on a ‘home-cooking’ kick. Because sure, I could lose some weight.
“I want us to grow old together”, Crystal says, when I suggest stopping for fast food, when I ask where the Doritos are during Monday Night Football. “I picture us sitting in our rockers, on the porch after supper, I picture us getting ancient and healthy and happy.”
So okay, less chips, fewer cheeseburgers. I’m thirty years old and a multi-millionaire with a hot wife and mega house in the best neighborhood. I can afford to make the occasional compromise.
The only problem I have right now, this very second, is a cramping in my gut. I glance accusingly at the paper napkin with muffin crumbs. My wife is an excellent cook—and I’ve said to her, You trying to slim me down or fatten me up?—but that’s the only thing I’ve eaten this morning…and then I remember, I cheated, stopped at McDonald’s for an egg and sausage biscuit. Goddamn fast food, I’ve got to stop that. I take those gummy vitamin supplements that Crystal bought, but I seriously doubt it makes up for all that fat and sugar.
My stomach churns; there’s even a watery sound from my belly. I imagine telling Donna to cancel my ten o’ clock with Sales.
Ow. I need to run to the bathroom. Of course, I have to get past Donna to get there, and will she have a picture of her sticky-fingered, red-faced grandkids to show me? No doubt: she is devoted to them. She keeps a jar with suckers in them in case one of our clients wants to take one for their kids. I don’t think Donna truly understands our customer’s priorities.
The very best news I ever got, the decision-settler before I proposed, was when Crystal told me she didn’t want kids. Said she was happy just looking after me. And she does. In the kitchen, in the bedroom. God, she has the most amazing tits and ass! Her breasts especially; I could just bury my face in them, and the world disappears for a few sweet moments. And if you think that sounds wimpy, then try running a multi-million-dollar business for a few years; you’ll appreciate some creature comforts, trust me.
I stand up and then I cry out. I sit down again, knees clenched together. I’m sweating, and I know for a fact that I’m not going to make it to the bathroom. A hot roiling pain goes through me and I know the only relief I’m going to get is when I move my bowels.
But no one can know about it. This is not boss behavior. My board of directors are always sniffing around for weakness.
Although, something…a piece of something…like a memory from a mostly forgotten dream…pops into my head. Everybody has accidents.
Yeah. True enough. Everybody does have accidents. I’m sure about that. But I’m also sure that the boss messing his pants won’t send share prices through the roof.
“Mr. Carter?” Donna’s voice comes through the intercom. Did she hear my cry?
Nope. Not exactly. I think about how much money I have, and how I still can’t solve this immediate problem.
“Hang on,” I reply, and I know my voice is off, tight, and hoarse.
“Everything all right, Mr. Carter?”
Great.
“I just need…” I exhale heavily. “Donna, I’m fine, I just- “
It comes like a flood; it doesn’t matter how hard I clench. In two seconds, I’m sitting in a hot mess.
On one level, I can feel the physical relief. The cramping has gone. This must be how a baby feels when he poops in his diaper. Job done. High-five!
But when I sniff the air, I flinch. Anyone enters my office now, there will be no doubt in their mind. And how the hell do I get to the restroom now? It’s mine and mine alone, but I still have to get past Donna. I look down, push away from my desk, and my suit pants aren’t able to conceal what’s happened.
I wipe at my hot, sweaty face. “Donna?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Could you…could you step out for five minutes?”
She doesn’t reply immediately. Because it’s a weird request, because I sound desperate.
Finally: “Step out?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, I need, um…could you go to Starbucks for me?”
“Mr. Carter, I can make you coffee. We just got the Keurig. The K575 you asked for, remember?” She sounds indulgent, like she’s trying not to embarrass me for saying just the dumbest thing. God, is this how she talks to her grandkids?
I grit my teeth. “I don’t want the Keurig just like I don’t want one of your goddamn suckers. I’m the boss and I want…Starbucks. I want…the goddamn…Pumpkin Cream cold brew.” It’s the tone I use for my sales guys (they’re all men; I’m not sexist, just the way it’s turned out) when they’re behind the target and I want to fire them up.
“Of course, Mr. Carter. I’ll just be five minutes.”
“Take your time,” I say, softly this time. I know I’ve hurt her feelings. Hey, I’m no dummy; you should treat your secretary like solid gold. I’ll have to make it up to her; maybe a gift, or even better, I’ll listen to one of her stupid stories about her grandkids. I get to my feet, and I almost cry out as the awful, stinking mess escapes my underwear and falls down my pants legs.
I shuffle over to the windows of my corner office and then close the blinds. I make my way to the door, and there is diarrhea leaking onto my shoes. I am literally standing in a puddle of my own shit.
I sigh, touch the door handle.
“Mr. Carter?”
Jesus. I draw my hand back as if the handle were hot. Why is Donna still here? I clench my fists. “Look, Donna, I’m sorry I cursed.”
“I know, it’s not that.” It’s not. She doesn’t sound upset, just surprised. Positively pleased. “It’s your wife.”
“What is?”
“Mrs. Carter’s here, sir. She just arrived.”
“Oh, honey.”
I hiss at my wife. “Shut the door.”
She does as she’s told, and she looks me up and down. I do the same thing to her, I always do—to admire her, to take her in. She’s wearing blue jeans and a red sweater that doesn’t let me admire her cleavage, but hey, you can’t hide the shape or size of her great tits.
My wife makes a face. “Honey, what happened?”
I look down at my feet and whisper, feeling a mix of rage and humiliation. “What do you think?”
“Food poisoning?” She puts a cool hand to my warm forehead. “Hmm, you’re a little warm.” She looks behind her at the closed door. “You think coffee’s what you need right now?”
I blink in confusion and then shake my head impatiently. “No, I just wanted Donna…I didn’t want her to see me like this.”
Crystal taps her chin thoughtfully. “Well, I sure hope it wasn’t the breakfast muffin…”
I look over at the crumbs on my desk, and for a shameful split-second, I’m sure this is all a ruse, that Crystal has poisoned me. Which is an unkind, unnecessary thought. One, because she’s clearly nuts about me. Two, our prenup is watertight. If I die, if I end up at the bottom of a lake, she gets nothing.
“Well,” says Crystal, hands on her hips. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I nod. “I’ll go to the restroom.” I look at the canvas bag she’s brought with her. “Don’t suppose you happen to have a change of clothes for me in there?” I laugh. It’s a joke, of course. She’s a lot of things, my wife, but she’s not psychic. It’s probably a dress she’s taking back to the store. As far as I can tell, her day is spent thinking up new recipes for dinner, and shopping.
Crystal smiles and nods. “I reckon I do!” She pats the bag and says, “I’ve been searching for something for you to wear when you’re not at work, give you a break from those business clothes, and I think I’ve found just the thing. But first, let’s get you all clean. You must just feel just awful.” She makes a sad, sympathetic face and part of me just wants to say, Sure, go for it, I’ll lie on my back, stick my legs in the air, and you can wipe my ass. But I’m not about to ask my wife to do it. There’s nothing in the prenup about that.
I watch in surprise and then horror as Crystal goes to the door. “Hey!” I scurry back behind my desk. “What are you doing?”
Crystal just flutters a wave at me. “Wait there a second, honey.” I’m left alone for a few seconds, wondering where the hell my wife is going.
She reappears with a white packet of something in her hands. She grins. “I knew Donna would have some.” She closes the door and walks over to me. “See?” She pulls a disposable cloth from the packet. “See? Wet Wipes.”
I peer at the label. “Baby wipes, you mean.”
My wife shrugs. “Same difference. Okay, mister, drop those icky pants.”
I shake my head and reach for the wipes. “I can do it.”
Crystal looks at me, and it’s a funny look. “Come on, stinker,” she says, “before you get a rash.”
I can feel the blush warm my face. I’m not a stinker, of course. I just had an accident, I just had a-
I look down. What’s happening? My pants and underwear are around my ankles and Crystal is wiping me clean. First, my crotch, my penis limp and apologetic. It wants no part of this activity.
“What a mess,” says Crystal gently, and her expression isn’t disgusted or horrified. She just looks like she has a job to do.
I’m the one looking horrified. I whisper, “Babe, I’m so sorry.”
“Accidents happen,” she replies briskly, and I nod in agreement. Everybody has an accident sometimes. She takes the dirty wipes and drops them into the wastebasket. She wrinkles her nose and says softly, “What a little stinker.”
I’m not a stinker. Except I am. Because I made a mess. I had an accident. And everyone has an accident sometimes, right?
I look down. Somehow, I’m clean. I feel the air on my ass, I twist around, and I can see Crystal has cleaned me up, back and front, and now she’s finishing off with my legs.
I’m missing time. I’m drifting in and out. Because I’m a stinker. Because I don’t know any better. I feel a glimmer of reassurance. It’s okay. Accidents happen.
Dear God. Never mind the food poisoning; did my brain just blow a fuse?
And I remember one, tiny clause in the prenup, almost hidden in the mass of bad news for a murderous wife. It was Crystal’s idea; if I’m ‘mentally incapacitated’, she gets control of the estate.
In bed one night (and I know, bad time to make any decision) she said, “Honey, what if we’re in our seventies and you have a stroke? You really want to leave your decisions to a bunch of sharks?” And yeah, I had a mental picture of me, a drooling wreck, and the Board of Directors gunning for control of my company. No thanks.
Does my current condition count?
“Nearly there,” says Crystal, and her voice is as tender and soothing as the wipes. “No more lil stinker.”
I blink again and I’m all clean, Crystal is putting another wad of wipes into the trashcan.
She taps my left foot. “Socks.”
I lift up my foot and she pulls off my dirty shoes and socks, one by one. As if she’s getting ready to change an incompetent toddler. I look around, reassure myself that the blinds are drawn. But what about Donna? I can see her barging in here without asking, armed with my coffee? She sees me naked like this, she’ll drop the cup and run a mile. She’ll probably sue for damages.
And then I remember the canvas bag.
“Is that why you’re here, babe?”
She looks up at me, and then she gives my bare feet a little at and stands back up, and I’m reminded, like I am on most days, that my wife has a few inches on me. “What’s that, honey?”
“You never come to my work.” I point at the bag. “Did you come to show me my new clothes?”
She smiles. “I guess so!” She motions for me to hold up my arms, and then she pulls off my shirt, as if I couldn’t manage it myself. And maybe that’s fair enough. I do feel more than a little helpless right now. But accidents happen. It’s okay to be taken care off from time to time. Especially when you’re a lil stinker. I blink. I’m not a stinker. Crystal cleaned me, she wiped me all over.
My wife giggles. “Look at you, all nakie.” She smiles. “My sweet boy. All clean now, thank goodness.”
Despite my nakedness, despite how strange and embarrassing all this is, I manage to smile back. “Thanks to you.” I even laugh. “Wasn’t about to ask Donna to do all that.”
Crystal surprises me with a shrug. “She’s probably used to it, all those grandkids. She was showing me photos on her phone, three of them are still in diapers.”
I frown. “Right, but…” Well, it’s hardly the same.
Crystal uses a wipe to clean her hands, between her fingers, under her nails, and then she goes and fetches her bag. She briskly unzips the bag and reaches inside. She looks up at me and smiles. “Ready to try on your new outfit, honey?”
And I am. Until I see it.
Until I see what my wife has brought me to wear.
“What’s wrong?” Crystal asks.
I stare at the clothes she’s brought out of the bag. None of it makes sense. Unless what I read is true. Unless the words on the white shirt are reality.
“Those aren’t…” I shake my head. “I don’t have time for what…whatever this is.” And I imagine hidden cameras, some massive prank being pulled.
Crystal actually pouts. “You don’t like your new outfit?”
I wave my hands at the collection. “Of course I don’t! They’re for a baby!”
My wife frowns. She holds up the first item, hickory-striped overalls, which by themselves can be worn by a grown man (although he’d better be painting a fence or fixing a gutter) …but combined with the rest?
“Perfect fit, I reckon,” she says. She beams at me. “Let’s get you all dressed up so we can find out!”
I shake my head. I point at the white shirt which has snaps at the crotch. “That’s a…” I think of the pictures Donna’s shown me on her phone. I wave my hands again. How can my wife be missing the problem? I give an exasperated shrug. “It’s for babies!” And that’s before we talk about the chunky, white square of cloth that is surely an old-fashioned diaper.
Donna looks at the clothing, and her expression grows thoughtful. “Huh,” she says. She nods lightly. “I guess you’re right.” She holds up the shirt and a smile tugs at her lips. “Lil Stinker,” she reads. “And that’s you.” She nods encouragingly at me. “You’re my little stinker, Matthew. Remember?”
Funny, how Crystal talks. It makes me think, it does make me remember. It’s that word, ‘stinker’. And it’s her tone. All sweet and condescending, like she’s talking to a little boy.
My mouth is dry. “What are you doing?” The question is a croaky whisper.
“You now what I’m doing, silly.” My wife tilts her head at me. “You remember.”
I shake my head, refusing. But there’s something…a fragment of what came before, what came a hundred times, something I can open and see for myself if I want to. But I don’t! Do I?
I stand in front of my wife, naked, my hands useless at my sides. What’s happening? The longer this goes on, the less capable I feel.
“Silly lil stinker,” says Crystal, and her light, patronizing tone manages to both make me want to smile and make me want to turn and run, throw myself against the reinforced glass of my office windows.
“Silly lil stinker,” Crystal says again, and her hands are on my shoulders, her eyes locked on mine.
“Wuhhh….wah?” My mind feels greasy, slick, as she repeats her words. The third time, I don’t even hear them, just watch her lips, and the nightmarish, beautiful nickname sets itself up as truth in my brain. I close my eyes, I can barely stand, and maybe I’m not standing. Maybe I’m on the ground, legs in the air, for Mommy to change my diaper.
I open my eyes. I’m not lying down. Not anymore, at least. The cloth diaper is fastened around my waist by steel safety pins, and I want to laugh out loud, because even the pins are adult sized. My entire outfit, every piece, specially tailored to fit just right.
She’s been planning this for a long time.
I look down at my infantile underwear. So thick, if I walk, I will waddle. I will toddle. I have a sudden image of Donna, clapping her hands with delight, she will chase after me with her jar of suckers. And I know if she catches me, I’ll goggle at the multi-colored collection and point at the cherry flavored sucker. Wanna wed wun.
Reflexively, I back away from my wife.
Crystal giggles. “Where you goin’?” she asks, her playful tone chilling my heart as well as making me want to fall down onto my hands and knees, look up at her and giggle right back. Silly lil stinker.
Instead, I turn and head towards my desk. I do indeed waddle, toddle, and for a moment I’m sure my penis has been lost in the thickness of the diaper. Lost forever, ignored except for going pee-pee, a tiny, insignificant nothing.
This makes me angry, and my anger feels good, feels real. Feels grown-up. “This isn’t happening,” I whisper. And then, with force, “You’re not getting away with this.”
I expect Crystal to walk over and join me (part of me wants her to, she can pat my diapered butt, she can stroke my hair, and I will melt into her arms), but she stays near the door. “With what?” she asks, her tone still playful.
I look down. I won’t look at her. I won’t listen to her words.
“You’re trying to give me a breakdown or something. You’re like everyone else, after my money. You put something in my food.” I take a deep breath. “But whatever you put in that muffin; it’s going to wear off. And as soon as that happens, we’re through.”
I hear Crystal’s little squeak of surprise, and I can tell she’s surprised I’ve seen through her plan.
“Oh, honey,” she says, concern dripping from her tone. Her tone is like someone more hurt than shocked. “All I did with that muffin was make sure you’re regular. Now, maybe I added a little too much Senokot, but I only want what’s best for my special boy.”
I watch as her expression changes to something solicitous, almost pleading. “You know I only want what’s best for you, right?”
I frown. How can she say that? I’m dressed in a diaper! And yet…
“I don’t want to hurt you,” says Crystal sweetly. “Not my little wiggle butt.”
“Wuh…wah?”
This time, when I blink, I’m sure I’m going to fall over. Yes, I’ll be on my hands and knees. I’ll be crawling. And that makes perfect sense. Because Mommy’s little wiggle butt crawls. Mommy can see me crawling, she can see my bum-bum.
I put my hands down my desk. I lean on it for support. My desk. My business. My life. I just need to turn around and take charge.
“You’re doing something,” I whisper hoarsely, “but it won’t work. Whatever you did, and I’ll work it out, whatever you did, I’m going to get it flushed out, and then I’m flushing you out too.”
The words make me feel better. Sometimes I fire people. It’s a big company, it’s how it goes. And I never go into that meeting feeling good about it, but hey, there’s something about being top dog. When I’m dismissing someone, I can’t help but think, Hey buddy, should’ve worked harder, should’ve worked smarter, and then you’d be sitting where I’m sitting, instead of slinking out the door.
Yeah. I’m going to fire my wife.
“Come on, honey,” Crystal says. Her tone is firmer now. She doesn’t sound like someone who’s about to get canned. She sounds like someone who thinks she’s in charge. “You’re getting all flustered. Remember your special music, Matthew.”
How could I forget? That panpipe, floaty-flute and whispering junk she tells Alexa to play when we go to sleep. First few months I put up with it, lying on my back and drumming my fingers on the sheets while my beautiful, perfect wife zipped off to sleep and did her cute, fluttery little sleep noises. After a while, I started going to sleep just as quickly. Later, when I was away on business, I discovered that I couldn’t get to sleep without it! I ended up calling Crystal and she played the music—what she was now calling our ‘night-night song’—over the phone.
Truth is, I did sleep better. I woke up each morning, feeling rested, feeling peaceful. Sure made a change from how I used to wake, with that burst of anxiety and tension about the day ahead. But now, I wonder what the music was really about.
In the office, standing in a thick diaper, I blink and realize two things. One, Crystal is standing beside me. Two, she’s playing the music on her phone.
“There now,” she says, with a gentle but take-charge tone. “There’s my good boy. There’s my little wiggle butt.”
I manage to shake my head. Weakly, but it’s still there. “I’m not a- “
“Wiggle butt?” Crystal says the words so sweetly, so playfully, that I burst out laughing. I must have closed my eyes, because when I open them again, I’m wearing my special shirt and overalls.
“There,” says Crystal, and she pats my chunky rear. “Look at you, my smart boy! Are you all dressed up to ride your choo-choo train?” She kisses the top of my head and I just smile in response. Because I’m her smart boy. I’m all dressed up for my choo-choo. I think of Donna’s jar of colorful treats. I’m gonna get a sucker!
And then I think of something else. Something I’ve thought about so often since marrying Crystal. A funny little fantasy.
“What a lovely smile,” says Crystal. She takes my hands in her own and whispers, “Are you having your big boy dream, sweetie?”
I can hear the music, still playing, sending me off into a daze, and I nod my head. “Uh-huh.”
“Mmm,” says Crystal, “that must be feel so nice. Are you getting all excited?”
I don’t reply, but Crystal decides to find out for herself. She reaches between my legs and presses on my diapered crotch. “Oh yes,” she says, sounding as though she’s feeling the pleasure herself. “What a big boy dream.” She giggles sweetly. “Is it the one about the farm?”
I blush. I nod. Because it’s always that dream. I’m on a farm, and I’m not a CEO, I’m not rich, I’m just some guy working the fields or something. It’s a hot day and I’m so thirsty. I knock on the farmhouse door to see if I can get a glass of water. Crystal answers the door, and she must be the farmer’s daughter, she’s incredibly hot looking, and she…she looks like the Crystal I married, but she’s younger, and she’s got her hair in these cute braids, and…I can feel my erection growing. I push clumsily against Crystal’s hand and she laughs in a way that feels good and humiliating at the same time.
She pats my penis through the overalls and the diaper. She asks, “What am I wearing, sweetie?”
I whisper the answer. “You’re…you’re wearing cut-offs and this checkered shirt…”
“That’s called gingham,” says Crystal kindly, like a kindergarten teacher correcting one of her students. “Do you like my gingham shirt?”
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “It’s all tight. Makes your…your breasts look really big…”
Crystal laughs. “Bigger than they are right now?” She turns my head, pushes out her chest. Yeah, she’s got such amazing tits. They take my breath away. Maybe, they’re taking my mind away as well.
“Okay, farm boy, and then what happens?”
Like always, I lie. I tell her about rolling in the hay with the pretty farmgirl. Because am I really going to tell her the truth? That in the dream, my wife isn’t the farmer’s daughter anymore? That she’s the farmer’s wife, she’s a mommy.
No, I’m not going to tell her that, even as she pats and strokes the front of my diaper, even as she kisses my face and makes encouraging little moans.
“We’re all, like, covered in hay,” I lie. “I come really hard and…and you love it, and you’re crying out ’cause I’m so big.”
Crystal moans again, and I push against her hand. I’ll make a mess in my diaper, but I don’t care, I’m beyond caring about anything. The music, the dream, it’s happened so many times, I get that now, and I just need to let it go, so I can get my mind back.
“What a lovely dream,” Crystal says softly, and then she takes her hand away.
I whine in frustration, but Crystal just tuts at me and says, “I’m so glad you have such big boy dreams. Because if you’re just a little wiggle butt, I’ll have to keep you in your diaper.”
I shake my head desperately as this new nick-name echoes around my skull. “I’m not…I’m notta…” But my head is swimming again, my thoughts are being cast to the wind. I try to plant my feet firmly on the floor, so I don’t fall forward, so I don’t end up crawling like a stupid baby.
“It’s okay,” says Crystal. I watch as she puts her phone in the back pocket of her jeans, and it’s only now I realize that the music is over. So the dream is over as well, and we can get back to reality.
But what’s reality?
“It’s okay,” Crystal says again. She puts a finger under my chin, looks me in the eye. And she says out loud what she’s said a hundred, a thousand times in the dream. “I know just what thirsty babies need.”
My mouth falls open in surprise.
This is when I wake up. It’s when I always wake up.
But I’m not dreaming. This is real life, it’s my real future, and I watch as Crystal pulls off her sweater, revealing her magnificent breasts encased in a frilly, red gingham bra.
She’s the farmer’s wife. She’s the mommy.
I gaze at her chest. I only want one thing. I only want to drink. Because I’m a thirsty baby. I’m Mommy’s silly wiggle butt.
Crystal cups the back of my head with her hand, brings me so close to her chest that I can smell her sweetness.
“You want Mommy to take off her bra, honey?”
I don’t protest my wife’s new title. I don’t even blink. All I can do is stare at the red and white checkered pattern as it blurs in front of my eyes, and nod.
“Tell Mommy,” Crystal says, and she moves her hands to her back, ready to unfasten her bra, ready to release the best thing in my shrinking, simplifying world.
“I…I want…you take off…”
“Use your manners, wiggle butt.” And when Crystal reaches around to put my bottom, part of my mind gives way. I don’t worry about it. Such a feeling is just a relief. It makes what I’m supposed to say very simple.
I stare at the gingham bra. “Peez…wanna see yoh boobeez.”
Crystal giggles, but that’s okay. It’s all okay. I smile, I made a funny.
“Oh-kay,” says Crystal, drawing out the word. “If you insist.” Finally, she takes off her bra and I gape open-mouthed at her perfect breasts.
“Who’s in charge, wiggle butt?”
I swallow. “You. You are.”
Crystal gives her shoulders a shake, her chest wobbling wonderfully before my eyes.
I giggle at the motion. What a funny, lovely thing. I cold watch it forever.
“Who’s the boss?” she whispers.
“You are.” Yoo ahhh. I sound hypnotized. I sound brain washed.
No. I sound simple. I am a baby; I am starting from scratch.
Crystal pulls my head forward and I groan in ecstasy as I’m permitted to nuzzle her breasts. I could drown in them.
“What’s my name?”
I try my best with lazy, uncooperative lips and tongue. “Cuh-cuh-kisstal.”
“No, silly. What’s my name?”
Silly. So silly. I giggle. “Moh-mee!”
“Good boy.” She pats my butt affectionately. “Mommy’s in charge, isn’t she.”
I nod, and I gasp with delight as Crystal pushes my face between her tits.
I babble, “Moh-meez in chadge!”
“Good boy. Mommy’s the boss, isn’t she.”
“Muhhhh…muh-mee buth!”
“Mmm. Such a good wiggle butt. Such a good lil stinker.”
And then I drink. I guzzle greedily at Mommy’s boobies, because she has milk, another of her magic tricks. a thin but steady stream when I suck. I don’t come, I’m not hard, all of that is in the past. I just tinkle from my sleepy penis into my thick diaper, and as I drink, Mommy tells me how it’s going to be. How she’ll keep me dressed up, how she’ll keep me simple and sweet, and how I won’t have to worry about anything because Mommy’s the boss.
Mommy talks as I drink. “Remember how you said once, you said my breasts were too big? Remember that? When we’d just started dating?”
No way. That wasn’t me. I’d never say something like that. I keep on drinking.
“It wasn’t the only alteration you talked about. You wanted to change me; you wanted some perfect wife. Thing is, I’m already just the way I want to be. But I was happy to change you, Matthew. And it didn’t take much, honey. Just some special medicine, some special music, some special bedtime stories. And now you’re perfect, honey. Now, we can be happy together.”
Tummy full, I finally stop drinking, and Mommy tells me I made a mess, I got milkies on my chin and on my front.
That’s okay. Mommy will clean me up, she’ll take care of everything. She wipes my face and pats my head. And now she’s going to take me home. My diaper’s kinda soggy but Mommy says it’s okay, she’ll change me at home. Mommy’s got lots of toys for me to play with at home and I’m all excited about showing her how smart I am and playing with them.
Mommy packs her bag and then she looks me in the eye like she’s looking for something special. “All gone,” she says, nodding with satisfaction. “Just my happy baby now, aren’t you.”
I smile at her and put a finger in my mouth. It’s good to have things to suck on. Mommy looks at me and laughs. She tells me it’s time to visit with Grandma Donna, and that if I’m a good boy, she’ll give me a sucker!