🕑 Added 2025-11-07 21:47:43 +0000 UTC
Premium Story #10: The Party-Pooper: Afterparty
(An Epilogue to ‘Premium Story #5: The Party-Pooper’)
(Content Tags: Surrealism, Cosmic horror, Alternate fates, Diapers, Messing, Farting, Public humiliation, Altered perception of intelligence, Weight gain, Status loss, Messy food play, Slob behavior, Feelings of pointlessness, decent amount of solo sexual content toward the end, cuckoldry)
One by one, I'd watched as the other realities would dim, like the final curtains were finally being drawn on three separate plays. Had they reached their conclusions? Had my own play reached a conclusion?
The smart, fun-loving me would wave the last of his friends and family goodbye; he'd thank them for a lovely evening, and for their thoughtful gifts. Coworkers would playfully joke, and plans to go out the next weekend would be asked about. The same coworkers who had never taken the same interest in getting to know me, when I'd been in a normal reality. I'd be forced to watch as the adoring partner, who I no longer had, gave that version of me a passionate kiss.
"Happy birthday, baby." She'd lovingly whisper in his ear.
Much different than the 'happy birthday, baby' that the other three versions had gotten, all of which had instead been maternal and cloying.
The younger version of me, the cool one, would be begging to let the party keep going with a sleepover. That was something I'd never shown any interest in as a child, since I'd been a wet blanket even then; I hadn't been the game-playing, giggling boy with a full roster of playmates to invite to my birthday party. It'd mostly been family, and the small handful of lukewarm friends that I'd accumulated, and I'd always made the party a hassle with my meticulous need for order.
The other youthful face, the drool-soaked and cake-smeared one that represented the past of the existence that I now personified, was reaching his bedtime. He was yawning and babbling, his diaper the same sort of birthday disaster that my own was, since our actions had been almost completely mirrored. There were other drooly boys there, from the classroom he likely got stuck in, but most of the partygoers were family members and friends of family; the normal kids there had mocked him behind his back the whole time, not that he was aware of it.
And then there was me. People were starting to leave; they chatted with my parents, with their pity greatly softened after this having been the norm for decades. They didn't feel bad about the state I was in, because to them, I'd never been any other way; as far as they were aware, I'd always been a slobbering retard that shit his pants at every possible opportunity. An oversized two year old, who would never mentally grow beyond that.
No tourists from the alternative timelines had stayed crossed over. They'd all returned to the timeline they belonged in, at least at some point during the party, so nobody saw me as the mangled mishap of misfortune. How should I have felt about that?
Was it better to be only seen as a baby who had never outgrown the crib? Or as a once brilliant professional who had become twisted by terrible circumstances? It was more humiliating to be seen as transformed, sure, but it was also a small scrap of a past that I wanted to cling to. I felt seen by those who had crossed over temporarily; it was the only proof left that things hadn't always been this way.
My giant diaper was a war-zone of massive casualties. Between all the muck, and the cake, and my own drool, it was a total disaster zone. It was swollen and sagging, it was sticky and smelly, and the myriad textures of gooey mush were impossible to stop feeling on every inch of skin. The borderline between chocolate and filth was impossible to delineate, and frankly, I felt it a miracle that I hadn't had some sort of blowout during the party.
My own brain had grown terribly numb during my poopy performance for everyone. I had been just as much of a horrified spectator as everyone else. It was an utterly unpleasant experience, for my body to be running on autopilot, without a single input from within my real consciousness. Had I been running on the instinct that this malformed mind was geared for? Or was I merely an unexpected guest who was possessing this body from its true owner, and that owner had shown up for cake? Or maybe I was simply becoming as mentally transformed as I was physically?
No option was a good one. They all ran off the same putrid premise that this was my new normal in some fashion. It mattered little what the mechanics of this happened to be, because regardless, my predicament had no obvious eject button to press.
The other three window panes of alternate existence would fog over and fade, only leaving me on the ground in a pile of my own droppings. A part of me was glad to see them go, since two of them were mocking how pathetic my new reality was, but another part of me was terrified to watch them slip away. The deranged diorama had given me the small comfort of knowing that there was something abstract occurring.
Seeing the universe split like that, it at least offered evidence that this was a cosmic event of surreal horror. Now that they were fading, all that remained in the aftermath was one bleak tableau of a grotesque life, and I felt as though proof of it being a falsehood would lapse into the night. If I spent long enough here, would I at some point forget that it wasn't real? Would I come to accept that this was how things had always been, and that my previous life was just a dream?
The mind had a way of contorting itself to make sense of the surroundings it was forced to live around; my sanity would inevitably slip, and one day I'd wake up to imagine that there had never been another version of me to be envious of. That terrified me more than anything, the prospect of eventual acceptance, and the abandonment of self-respect that bound my resolve to a person who I couldn't prove ever existed.
My glassy eyes would lazily follow the last remnants of the party. A few people lingered to help clean up the backyard, since I obviously wouldn't be of any assistance to my poor parents. Nobody paid any mind to the chubby, chocolate-splattered dunce on the messy play mat; if I wasn't in the middle of creating a mortifying scene, then my presence was relegated to the same sorry status as lawn furniture.
I'd been stewing in my own bubbling muck for nearly two hours, and in that time, my slackened sphincter had gladly spewed forth further bursts of the sludge, as if to keep my bottom from cooling off. Disgust would take far more mental energy than I considered to be possible, so I sat there with a blank look on my face, with my fingers lazily spreading around the chocolate clumps that'd slid off the smooth plastic of the diaper.
My bladder was no better, spurting trickles and streams into the thirsty padding without any manner of warning. The stained crotch would darken with a different color than the cake, and the absorbent polymers would sop everything up within moments of release, until the diaper became a swollen mass of squishy heat.
I'd eventually be approached, before the last of my guests had left, but I wouldn't be going inside just yet. A hand would gently push against my chest, until I relented onto my back with a repulsive squelch, and then the heavy-duty tapes, which had been seriously straining to keep fastened, would be ripped away.
Should I have been happy to be changed? After so long in my own filth? Yes, but also no. Getting changed this publicly, even if most of the guests were now gone, was just another layer of humiliation, especially when the cloyingly sweet commentary gave so much praise for my act of befouling myself. Avoiding rash, which by the itchiness of my bottom had been approaching, was good, but...
This body, maybe this brain, enjoyed sitting in shit. It was inexplicable, and it was downright disgusting, but that was the honest truth. The earthy ripeness tickled my nose like a basket of fresh baked bread, and the tactile experience was like having my loins wrapped in a nurturing cocoon of heated mud; every texture was a fascination, which was why I'd been periodically scooting my ass back and forth on the mat, so I could paradoxically feel the slickness and the grit of a pile well made.
So, unable to help myself, I would find myself fussing and squirming, in a desperate bid to avoid what I knew I needed most. It was fortunate for my changer that my energy had been sapped by sugar and fatigue, meaning my defiance was completely without any teeth.
My consolation prize, or perhaps more fittingly, a final present that was wrapped up tight, would be the balled up sack of turds that'd been ripped from my backside. It was placed on my tummy, its warmth immediately singeing my skin lovingly, and I watched as my hands greedily wandered to it.
It was like the rattling of keys, really. I could plainly see that, while trapped inside this miserable waste of flesh. My fussing was obnoxious, so the balled-up diaper was given to me like a toy to distract, so that the rest of the change could continue unhindered.
The diaper was heavy, so much obviously than when it'd been on me, and it looked so much bigger too, even while compressed into this shape. My hands squeezed the sides, fingers digging into the pliable plastic with reckless abandon, and the squishing imprint brought me amusement.
"Pooopie..." My drooly lips sounded off, flexing the very limited vocabulary that they were capable of producing.
"Yes, honey. Your diapee was very poopy." The woman cooed absently, only paying the barest mind to my inane prattling. I wasn't the only one on autopilot here.
Big puffs of powder were raining down on my tidied up crotch and rear, but that delicate fragrance didn't keep my interest. This body, though simple of mind, craved the complex bouquet that was planted between my cake-stained palms. Unthinking, I would lift the burdensome payload up and press it against my nose; with the same snuffling as a pig hunting for truffles, I would huff the dirty fumes like it was the precious oxygen that I'd been deprived of while drowning.
And drowning, that was what it would feel like. That malodorous mess, ensconced in several inches of cotton and plastic, was pushing my mind down below the waves, as to sink me to the depths of oblivion.
Such a tantalizing delight, such a forbidden fruit so innocently plucked. My sense of self could have died right there in the backyard, forever to be consigned to the burial mound that was this retarded shell, but a hand would reach down to pull me from the darkness.
The trophy that my nose was glued to, the proof of my conquest over the glorified porta-potty that I'd worn around my waist all afternoon, it would be taken from me. With the fumes fading away, pulling back their seductive wiles, my mind would gasp for air.
"Come on, let's get you some din-din, and then it'll be time for a bath! Say goodbye to your guests."
A line of saliva ran down my chin, "Buuuh-byyee.."
Dinner came in an oversized highchair, and in a glaringly poor decision, the bowl in front of me was full of spaghettios. I was a big man, so if I had to guess, then I'd say it was three or four cans worth. There was no spoon afforded to me for this preschool banquet; the only utensil I needed was the one will lightly stained by the chocolate of my birthday cake.
So I had to scoop handfuls of the messy pasta from the bowl and shovel them into my maw, while a good portion of it dripped onto my bib, tummy, and the front of the fresh diaper I was wearing. My palate would have normally been much too refined for this slop, but now it tasted like an Italian dish from a five star restaurant, and I couldn't stuff my gob fast enough.
Halfway through the meal, which was served with a large baby bottle of milk, I'd feel a fart sputtering hard against the flat surface of the seat I was on. It reverberated loudly, but my parents didn't bat an eye; they were in their own conversation, practically ignoring my slovenly behavior. A large pressure built up in my rectum, and I began to squirm my fat ass around with the crinkling and rustling of a raccoon trapped in a plastic grocery sack.
My body was pushing on instinct, that much I had no choice over, but I was in an excruciatingly poor position for it. My flabby frame was tightly stuffed in this highchair, the tray digging against my belly, and while the knobby tip of a turd was greeting the plush valley of my Pampers, it wasn't able to come in for a nice chat. The pushing continued, grunts a language of strain and sweat a byproduct of resolve, but the log was far too solid to squeeze out, at least while my thickly padded bottom was flat on this wooden seat.
My hands planted forcefully on top of the highchair's tray, making the bottle of milk topple, and I began to lift myself as much as I could. Even an inch could become a mile here, if I could just give the turd some space to escape.
The straining had grown quite intense, and I felt my face was hot and damp; the spaghettios that had been in my mouth, were now escaping upon the seeping drool, as if they were kids on a slip-and-slide. Another blustering blast of gas throttled my diaper, and the force was strong enough to push the rock-solid steamer along another quarter of an inch.
Just a little more lift from the chair...Just a tiny bit more...
