My own story of diaper discipline happened when I was sixteen years old. As many teenagers have done, I tried to assert myself as an adult at home. I didn’t like doing chores, homework or being told when to go to bed. My mom was getting frustrated with me, because I was failing almost all of classes and the school threatened to put my mother on probation if I missed too many days of school.
We argued a lot, but one day I said some really messed up things to my her and she slapped me. I got angry, stormed out of the house and the police brought me home two days later after I got busted shoplifting. That was my first taste of adulthood, when I realized life wasn’t as easy as I had thought.
Barely two weeks later, we had another altercation and I stormed out once again. This time I got picked up for trespassing when I snuck into an abandoned gas station to sleep. They brought me home at first, but Mom told them to go ahead and take me to juvenile detention, because she couldn’t control me.
Detention was far worse than I imagined. For the most part it was like a big dorm, with kids running around and playing games, going to classes and watching TV. The two biggest differences; strict rules and delinquent kids. The first night I was there, I got jumped in my bed by three boys that just wanted me to know they were in charge. My first three days there, I got beat up twice and I was scared to even sleep.
On the third day, Mom came to visit me and I begged her to take me home. She told me she couldn’t handle my bullshit and I had to stay there, but I promised to follow the rules and swore to be the best son ever if she got me out of there. At first, she was reticent, but then I told her what happened to me. Even then, she told me she had to think about it and would let me know when she came back in two days.
As she left, she complained to security about me getting beaten up under their watch and made a big scene. Unfortunately for me, that was scene as being rat, which earned me another ass-kicking worse than the first two.
When Mom came back two days later, I had a black eye and a busted lip. She was clearly upset about what had happened, but she still wasn’t letting me out without more promises from me. I still remember what she said…
“If I let you come home, things are going to be a lot different. There will be changes you’re not going to like. If you don’t follow my rules and do as you’re told, you’ll come right back here.”
I told her I understood, but she continued.
“Things are going back to the way they were when you were younger. You break the rules, I use my belt on your ass. You sass me, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Understand?”
I didn’t think it really mattered, because I intended to be on my best behavior. I agreed and promised to do whatever she said if she got me out of there that day. The boys that were beating me up had told me they were going to break my arm that evening and I didn’t want to find out if they were serious. Her final statement, however, was the only one that gave me pause.
“You’ve been officially expelled from school, which means I have to homeschool you or they will prosecute me. To teach you a lesson about maturity, I pulled out your old bedwetting diapers and you’ll be wearing those until you show me that you’ve done some growing up. Still want to come home?”
The idea of wearing diapers was appalling, but having my arm broken and getting beaten up every day was terrifying. Between humiliation and pain, I wasn’t sure which was worse. In the end, however, I knew that I could legitimately end up dead in detention. She had a weird smile when I agreed to her terms.
I guess I should interrupt here to explain about the diapers. Up until I was 13, I was a chronic bedwetter. I had outgrown Pull-ups by the time I was 9, so Mom bought cloth diapers and plastic pants from a medical supply store. They worked okay at first, but the diapers were thin and I usually woke up with a soaked diaper and a puddle of pee in my plastic pants that would leak onto the bed around the elastic leg bands.
Being an decent seamstress, she bought material and sewed up a pile of cloth diapers that had a big foam insert running down the middle. She also put wide elastic in the waist to keep them snug, even when wet. They were really bulky and barely fit under the plastic pants, but Mom was happy that they didn’t leak. When I stopped waking up wet at 13, she boxed them up and put them away in the attic. Now, it seems, they were making a return.
An hour later, she was checking me out of detention. They put a house arrest monitor on my wrist and gave my mother a box that hooked up to our internet. It wasn’t a typical house arrest monitor though. Mom could control when I was allowed to be out of the house and give me time limits on activity outside the house. The counselor warned me that if I went anywhere without my mother’s permission, the police would track me down and drag me right back to detention.
When we got home, Mom followed me to my room, grabbing her leather strap on the way. She told me to take off my pants, then bend over and put my hands on the bed. I begged her not to spank me, but she insisted that I had earned it and she wasn’t giving me anymore breaks.
I hadn’t been spanked in a few years, but I remember how much it hurt. I was trembling as I pulled down my pants and assumed the position. When she reached over and yanked down my underwear, I started crying out of sheer embarrassment.
As soon as she started spanking me, my crying turned to bawling. It hurt even more than I remembered and I knew she was spanking me harder than she ever had before. She kept it up for several minutes and my ass felt like it was on fire. My hands reflexively reached back to block the blows a few times, but she just warned me to put them back on the bed or she was going to start over. She must’ve given me a hundred strokes before she stopped.
Afterwards, she told me to stand in the corner and wait for her to come back. As I shuffled across the room, she made me leave my pants and underwear behind. I desperately tried to rub away the pain in my bottom during the twenty minutes she was gone.
When she returned, she was carrying the box of diapers. She pulled out one of the thick pieces of cloth and laid it out on my bed. She also grabbed the big bottle of baby powder she kept in the bathroom.
“All right. Come out of the corner and lay down.” I still remember her words as I struggled to come to terms with her putting me in a diaper at 16 years old. Part of me wanted to scream at her and run away again, but the thought of going back to detention put a stop to those thoughts. So, covering my privates with my hands, I walked over and lay on the thick diaper.
Mom moved my hands away and told me it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. She dusted my entire crotch with baby powder, using far more than I think was necessary, then pulled the diaper up and tugged the ends together for pinning. The bulky padding pushed my thighs apart and I had flashbacks to my nights in diapers, trying to get find a comfortable sleeping position with the massive diaper interfering.
The plastic pants were pulled up over the diaper next and Mom commented that they were a little tight and she would have to order bigger sizes. The elastic dug into my thighs and waist a bit, but not enough to cut off my circulation.
After that, she laid out the rules.
“No toilet privileges. If you want to act like a baby, you’ll be treated like one. I’ll change your diapers when I decide and not before. If you mess, you can come tell me, but otherwise you just deal with it.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that she was going to make me use the diapers. I had just assumed it was a punishment to wear them, so she could embarrass me. And I hadn’t messed in a diaper since I was a toddler.
“No pants in the house. I need to be able to see when you need changed. When we go out, you will get your pants back, but you better be on your best behavior or I’ll take them away no matter where we are.”
The idea of leaving the house, even with pants on, was appalling. The diaper was so thick, no pair of pants was going to hide it. As much as I wanted to argue about her rules, I just quietly listened and hoped it all turned out to be a joke.
“You will complete all of your chores, every day, or I’ll take the belt to your ass as many times as it takes. If you argue about your chores, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Every weekend, you will wash all of your dirty diapers yourself. Understand?”
I nodded, still hoping for any sort of reprieve.
“Good. Your new school books will be here in a couple days. Since you were expelled, I have to teach you from the homeschooling program and you’ll have to pass all the tests. I expect you to study and ace those tests. If you fail those, I will get in trouble, and you won’t like me very much if that happens.”
I just lay there, in my ridiculous diaper and t-shirt, looking up at her as she explained my new routine.
“Now, I’m going to make dinner. I want you to clean your room spotless. Take your underwear out of your drawer and fold up all your diapers and plastic pants in there. Then bring me your underwear.”
As she was about to leave the room, I started to speak, but was afraid of how she would respond. She told me to just say what I had to say.
“How long do I have to wear these?” I just wanted to feel like there was a finish line. Something to look forward to, when my shame would end.
“Until you show me you can act your age. That means when you take responsibility for your actions and accept that you deserve to be punished. Could be a month or could be as long as you live under my roof. We will just have to see.”
I promised myself right there that I would try my best to prove to her I could be trusted again.
It was hard at first. When I was younger, I only had to wear the diapers to bed, so I didn’t really have any experience with waddling around the house. The bulkiest part of the diaper was the foam, so it wasn’t difficult to get my legs together, but there was still a bit of a waddle.
Mom would change me a couple times a day when I was wet, but would usually change me much quicker when I messed. There were times when she refused to change my dirty diaper until I finished a specific chore or completed a certain chapter of my homework. It was incredibly distracting, sitting at the table in a shitty diaper while I tried to concentrate on math.
After every messy diaper, I had to rinse out the diaper in the toilet and get as much of the poo off as I could. It was gross, but she just told me it was my own mess, so I had to deal with it. Every Saturday, I had to wash a load of soiled diapers and then take them out to the backyard and hang them on the clothesline. Mom insisted they were too thick to dry in the dryer. Luckily, the backyard had a tall fence and was fairly private. Of course, the next door neighbors knew all about my diapers, but they were old and didn’t seem to care.
I didn’t leave the house at all for the first few weeks, but then Mom insisted I was becoming a hermit and made me to go to dinner and grocery shopping with her. She put me in one of the thinner diapers, but it was still quite bulky and the outline could be seen under the baggy sweatpants I wore. She didn’t seem to care about public exposure, so I had to just suck it up and do as she told me.
I got spanked about twice a month; usually for not finishing my chores on time or flunking a quiz. I spent more time in the corner with a bar of soap in my mouth than I care to admit, as I had a problem with cursing that I couldn’t seem to cure. I had grown so accustomed to using the f-word, it just came naturally.
My mom had friends over fairly often, which was embarrassing at first, but I got used to it. She let me hide in my room if they brought kids with them, which I was thankful for. Of course, those guidelines led to one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.
Her friend Theresa was coming over to help make meals that my mom cooked for elderly and disabled people in our neighborhood. Theresa had seen me in diapers many times, so Mom made me lay on the floor in the living room and finish the two assignments I was behind on. When Theresa showed up, though, she had her 18 year old daughter Lisa with her.
I had gone to school with Lisa for years, even though she was two years old than me. We had never really been friends, but we were acquainted. When she saw me lying there in the bulky diaper, she had to cover her mouth to hide her laugh. I turned bright red and ran to my room to hide.
A few minutes later, Mom came in and told me to get back in the living room and finish my homework. I reminded her that she promised me other kids wouldn’t see me like that, but she said Lisa was 18 now, which made her an adult. I didn’t have any choice and had to return to the living room and do my work.
For the next couple hours, Lisa stood in the kitchen in just the right spot to be able to see me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her staring on multiple occasions. I was sure she was going to tell everyone about my diapers, but in the end it didn’t really matter. I had no friends, and didn’t go to school, so there was nobody to tease me.
I’m sure at this point, you think I’m going to go on about how she became my babysitter or we hooked up or something equally ridiculous. Well, sorry to disappoint. There was definitely some more awkwardness with her though.
Before that day, she had only been at our house once about two years earlier. After that day, she started volunteering to help my mom with her meals program every week. It’s possible she was just being philanthropic, but she seemed to always position herself where she could see me, no matter where I was. On days I was in my room or otherwise out of sight, she seemed to spend less time helping out.
She may have just been overly curious or perhaps she was intrigued by my punishment. The only indication that it was more than just curiosity was when she asked my mom why she didn’t use disposables. Neither my mom, nor I, even realized they sold adult sized disposable diapers and it drastically changed things for me.
I remember Lisa getting on Mom’s laptop and showing her the different adult diapers online. Part of me was suspicious of why she knew so much about them, but I guess it could just be something she looked up because of her experience seeing me in the thick cloth diapers. Mom ordered a case of the Abena M4s and thanked Lisa for the advice.
When the diapers showed up, Mom was a little too happy about them. She thought it was the greatest thing in the world. I was still kept in the bulky cloth diapers at home – mostly because part of my punishment was the embarrassment they caused and the need to wash and hang them outside for the world to see. However, the thinner disposable diapers allowed her to take me out of the house a lot more. They could be hidden fairly easily under regular clothes, without compromising on the rules.
After that, Mom and I grew a lot closer and after a year in diapers, she told me she was thinking about ending my diaper punishment. She said I had grown a lot over the last year, but she thought the diapers were responsible for that. By then, I had actually grown quite used to them and was surprised to find myself regretting that it was coming to an end. It was a hard thing to deal with, because it was still very embarrassing, but it was also incredibly comforting.
My diaper punishment was over, but after three days I missed them too much and told my mom. She was actually really happy about it and we decided that instead of diaper punishment, we would call it diaper discipline. I was no longer being punished for my misdeeds. The diapers were to prevent me from falling into those habits again.
The same rules applied, which I would have preferred to change. The mouth soaping was the worst and the spankings were just painful, but Mom insisted she would have enforced those rules regardless anyway. Mom kept me in diapers for the next four years, until I finished my Associate Degree and then moved across the state to attend University.
For those that are wondering, Lisa continued to volunteer with my mom the entire time and stopped when I moved away. We discussed her motivations several times, wondering if she was turned on by my diapers or if it was straight up morbid curiosity. Did she like the idea of guys in diapers? Or did she wish it was her in the diaper? We never deemed it appropriate to ask and she never volunteered the information, so it’s still unanswered.