Million Diaper Baby: Chapter 3

Despair coursed through Matthew’s veins as he pulled into the gym’s parking lot on a sweltering Tuesday morning. Dark shadows descended upon the entrance despite the cloudless sky, invoking a foreboding aura. After suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of his childhood friend, it was time for him to begin his sentence. He cringed as he was forced to listen to his obnoxiously crinkly diaper while exiting his pick-up truck—doctor’s orders following his unfortunately messy TKO. As if spending a week as Amy’s slave wasn’t bad enough. 

A full week as Amy’s slave. The idea repeated itself in Matthew’s head over and over again, knotting his tummy since the moment the final bell was rung. In all likelihood, he was liable to spend the week doing her chores and acting as her footstool when requested, so nothing too extreme. However, that didn’t stop his mind from wandering in both disturbed and horny directions, causing the front of his diaper to twinge slightly as he entered the boxing gym. 

Contrasting the testosterone-fueled rowdiness that often permeated the gymnasium, the space was a ghost town at 8 AM on a weekday with only a handful of full-time fighters milling about. All of the practice rings were unoccupied, save for one. Sitting in the middle of the centermost boxing ring with a massive gym bag at her side was Amy. “Morning Matthew!” she hollered in a sing-songy tone, waving her arm high as if he hadn’t already spotted her. What few patrons existed in earshot couldn’t help but chuckle at the humorously loutish exchange. 

Of course, everyone knew. Matthew’s lips pursed as he began making a mental list of every person laughing at his situation. He’d have a lot of ass to kick once his hell week was over. Depressingly, it was far too soon to be contemplating revenge, not when his punishment was only getting started. Stepping into the ring with Amy for the second time in two days, he approached her silently, unable to think of anything witty to throw at her that wouldn’t instantly make his predicament worse. 

Amy’s smile radiated poison as she patted the canvas in front of her. “Sit,” she said, commanding him like one would a dog. 

“I take it we won’t be boxing today,” said Matthew, sighing heavily as he plopped himself down in front of Amy. His eyes were stricken with fear momentarily as his abrupt manner of sitting caused him to bounce atop the boxing mat. Regaining his balance, he spread his legs wide and leaned back into a reclined position, “So, what’s my first command?” 

SMACK! 

“OUCH!” Matthew shouted as the back of Amy’s hand collided with his inner thigh. His legs instantly curled inward to prevent a similar assault, “WHAT THE HELL, AMY?!” 

Paying no mind to Matthew’s squawking, Amy patted the top of Matthew’s head twice before her arm was unceremoniously shoved away. “There, and I better not see any more man-spreading from you for the rest of the week,” she said, snickering at Matthew’s precious reaction, “Also, go ahead and strike “hell” from your vocabulary, along with any other cuss words. I expect you to address me properly and with poise from now on. Do we have an understanding?” 

Matthew’s eyes had never felt the need to roll back harder but held back out of a desire to stave off any further scolding. It had taken no time at all for Amy’s newfound power to go straight to her head, much to his chagrin. “Sure, whatever. No H-E-double hockey sticks,” he said dismissively, watching with fervent curiosity as Amy turned to the bag at her side and began rummaging through it. He had shared a gym space with her long enough to know what her usual duffle bag looked like. The one she had now was far larger, adding to the mystery of what wicked plans she had tucked under her sleeve. He leaned forward, attempting to sneak a peek inside Amy’s sack of goodies. 

“Ah-ha! Here it is!” said Amy, retrieving a small pouch from the gym back and zipping it up before Matthew could gawk at all the fun things she had prepared for him. She wanted to savor the look on Matthew’s face with each and every reveal. Unsnapping the lone button holding the head of the pouch together, she opened it wide and allowed Matthew to observe the assortment of make-up products she had selected for him, “You don’t wanna know how long I spent at Zephora finding stuff for your exact skin tone.” 

Scurrying to his feet and backing away, Matthew’s annoyance over Amy’s enjoyment of his punishment turned to anger. “Nuh-uh! That is NOT happening! You can fuck right off!” he shouted, his back pressing into the ropes. If she was going to take things to that much of an extreme, then she could consider the bet forfeited. 

SNAG! 

Sharp, tugging pain radiated around Matthew’s ear while moving to exit the ring, He recoiled backward to quell the distressing sensation, tumbling to the ground in a heap as he tripped over his own feet. Cupping his sore ear with tears welling in his eyes, he looked up at Amy enraged. “You’re high on some serious shit if you think I’m gonna let you put a bunch of girly crap on me. The deal’s...off…” he said, his voice fading out as a pair of guys twice Matthew’s size stepped into the ring beside Amy. 

“Matti, I’m sure you know Roman and Barry. Say hi, boys,” Amy said, prompting the hulking behemoths at her side to mutter menacing hellos in Matthew’s direction. 

No doubt, Matthew knew exactly who these two were. He may have been the king of Welterweight but that was a weight class that required him to keep a semi-lean figure and manage his muscle gains. Meanwhile, Roman and Barry were both prominent Heavyweights, a weight class with no limit on muscle mass whatsoever. Gulping hard, he knew he barely stood a chance against one of these guys in a fair fight, let alone two. Resigning himself to the fact that Amy had covered every base to ensure their bet was fulfilled, he flopped back onto the springy floor with his arms sprawled out; another clean knock down, “Let’s just get this over it.” 

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POP! 

Positioned in front of Amy on his knees with his arms held behind his back, Matthew looked on in abject horror as his childhood friend slowly and methodically uncapped a small, handheld container of foundation. “I will literally lick your feet clean after every fight FOREVER if it gets me out of this,” he said, his bravado-filled voice tinged with anxiety. His heels strained the outer plastic of his diaper as several other boxers encircled the ring to catch the encore of last night’s title fight. 

“1. Ew. 2. Not a chance, cupcake. Now, make sure you’re paying attention. You’ll be doing this on your own for the rest of the week,” said Amy, patting the powder with a makeup sponge and bringing the powder-coated pad to Matthew’s face. Her vindictive smirk soon faded into a diligent smile as she applied foundation to his cheeks and chin. She may have been a prizefighting boxer but that didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge in flexing her feminine side from time to time. 

Forced to keep his mouth shut while Amy painted his jawline, Matthew’s knuckles crackled within his fists as he struggled to maintain his composure. The light cheering from many of the onlookers only made his frustration more palpable, turning his face bright red beneath the skin-smoothing makeup. He could feel his eyes moistening again underneath all the pressure. However, before he had the chance to steel his emotions, Amy swooped in to whisk away the steadily forming droplets. It was a tenderness that reduced the strain on Matthew’s heart momentarily. If only that moment could’ve lasted longer. 

“Oh, no, you don’t. You’d better tighten up those waterworks, Matti. There will be grave consequences if you ruin your makeup,” stated Amy starkly, dampening any goodwill her kind action may have inflicted. 

As if the audience’s jeering wasn’t bad enough, Amy’s announcement sent the entire gymnasium into a frenzy. Matthew Armstrong, Mr. 19-0, was on the verge of crying because of a makeover. It was a shocking sight to behold for anyone who had crossed paths with Matthew’s arrogant attitude. 

“I’m not crying! You’re j-just getting that shi…stuff close to my eyes,” yelled Matthew, halting himself narrowly before another curse word came out. Not a single person believed a word he was saying but that didn’t stop him from continuing his denial, “Maybe if you actually put makeup on yourself, you’d be better at-Mmmm!” His complaints were hushed as Amy moved to cover the skin around his mouth in the foundation. 

Taking advantage of Matthew’s return to silence, Amy quickly filled in every nook and cranny she could find in his complexion. Soon, his face was completely transformed from a brooding boxer into an airbrushed cover boy. He felt blessed that there were no mirrors close enough to get a good look at himself. Although, that didn’t stop his eyes from craning toward the full-length workout mirrors in the distance out of some sick desperation to prove he’d still look like a guy under whatever makeup Amy put on him. “That’s it, right?” he asked tentatively as Amy packed up the little container of foundation. 

“Pfft, not by a long shot. It’s called foundation for a reason, dummy,” mocked Amy, tapping the tip of Matthew’s nose with her pinky. Her greedy hands eagerly dove back into her makeup clutch, this time selecting a host of eye makeup products, including a stick of pitch-black eyeliner and a pad of soft pink eye shadow, “Shut your eyes for me, Matti. Don’t want this stuff getting too close, now do we?” 

Matthew obeyed and shuttered his eyelids. Suddenly, the bright world of boxing that his entire life revolved around was shrouded in darkness, permitting only the echoed voices of his fellow boxers and the feeling of wet brushes tickling his skin to comfort him. This dragged on for many minutes, though from his perspective, it may as well have been an eternity. Despite the uneasy feeling that the unknown left him with, he didn’t dare open his eyes even after she moved away from them to work on other parts of his face. He wanted to pretend the world around him didn’t exist. 

Tragically, the world where Amy was slathering cosmetics on him was far too real. “Hmmm, I think I might be satisfied now,” she said, clamping her makeup bag shut, “See? Goes much faster when you behave. You can open your eyes now.” 

“I-I’m good,” said Matthew, his ruby-red lips trembling as he tried and failed to put on a strong mask. Ironically, his embarrassment couldn’t have been more paramount as evidenced by the shimmering blush that no beauty product could ever hope to conceal. 

As an added twist of cruelty, Amy made sure to avoid using any blush on Matthew’s face. She wanted every shade of red he presented to be wholly genuine. “C’mon, coochy-coochy-coo, little Matti,” she said, nipping at the nap of his neck with her fingernails. 

Shaking his head furiously, it soon became impossible for Matthew to hold his eyes closed. All it took was the briefest of flickers for his reflection to imprint itself onto his brain. Held in the hands of one of Amy’s two goons was a compact mirror. Glimpsing into the small, round-looking glass, he felt every ounce of air within his lungs evacuate in the blink of an eye. Gone was the chiseled, prideful smolder of a boxer who’d taken decades of physical abuse in the ring. None of it felt real but when he moved, so did she. The gender dissonance he was undergoing was ego-shattering. “Th-that’s not…” he stuttered, unable to finish such an untrue sentence. 

“Oh, yes, this precious face is all yours. And that’s just the beginning,” said Amy, approaching awestruck Matthew from behind. In her hands was an adorable pink princess dress that looked fit for a two-year-old, yet was wide enough to support a torso as big as Matthew’s. Throwing her arms over his shoulders, she draped the dress overtop his chest, giving him a preview of the fun still to come, “I gotta say, Matti, pink is so your color. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

TO BE CONTINUED…