Bobby the Birthday Baby

Morning. Light filtering through the filmy shades above my bed. A pattern of bright and dark cast across my pillow by the sturdy crib bars around me. The plastic gleam of my fallen pacifier, peeking out from the disheveled blankets…

And of course, the urgent pressure in my bladder. Which, even as I blink and rub the sleep from my eyes, dissolves into a fresh flood of warmth rippling out through my already soiled diaper.

None of this is remotely unusual. On the contrary, it's perfectly ordinary. Every day begins this way now for me: that is to say, for little Bobby, until recently a respectable career man. No more stumbling into the bathroom for a piss and a shower and a shave; no more downing a cup of coffee and a bagel before heading to work. No, of course not.

Mommy has seen to that. She's the one who has adopted me and rescued me from my independent adult life: offering me a future as her plaything, promising me that she would teach me the sordid delights of being completely and utterly dominated by a beautiful woman…

"Good morning, baby! How's my birthday boy doing today?"

Her voice interrupts my reverie, and I gaze up into her entrancing brown eyes… her merry smile… her alluring bosom. "I- uhm-" I fumble sleepily for words, even as she beams and tugs back the covers to reveal my babyish onesie and clearly bulging diaper. "I'm fine…" Wait, birthday? Oh, yes. I'd almost forgotten that today was that special day. Let's see: this was 2023, which meant that I was now going to be, hmm…

"Aww, you're getting so big! Three whole years old now!" She's giggling openly, her fingers prodding at the night-swollen bulk between my splayed legs. "Though you're clearly no closer to big boy pants than before, are you? Come on, let's get you a fresh diaper, baby – and then you can get your special birthday spanks on your dry bum! You know, three little spanks – one for every year…"

God, not that stupid birthday spanking thing! "But- but I'm not turning three," I mumble, clumsily scrambling to my stockinged feet and stepping through the open bars in my low-slung crib. "I'm actually thirty-six, you know. I'm a grown adult-"

"Oh, really?" She's snorting, pushing me down onto the mat that serves as both my play mat and changing table. "Baby, we both know you're nowhere near that old! You're still my precious little baby: my brand-new three-year-old Bobby, who still needs his paci and his pampers to make it through every single night. Just my silly, sweet little baby boy, who hasn't even learned to count yet…" Now she's got my diaper open – and, since my poor exposed privates are on display and completely at her mercy, I wait to venture a reply until she's tugging the fresh, cartoon-covered diaper down once more around me.

"But no, really. I'm really 36," I remind her over the tearing sound of the refastenable velcro tapes and the tightening sensation of the fresh diaper being secured around my waist. "Thirty-six years old. An adult-" "Bobby, now you're just being silly," she scolds, tugging my onesie off and leaving me sitting there like an infant in nothing but my diaper. "You mean thirty-six months, of course. And listen here: if you keep on being naughty and talking back to me, you're going to get in trouble, young man!"

Why does her dismissive air peeve me so much right now? Maybe it's because I woke on the proverbial wrong side of the bed – or in my case, crib. Maybe I'm just having a burst of wistful regret – even fear – that I've left behind my adult life for good. Or maybe I'm just becoming an out-and-out brat. But whatever the reason, I'm determined to maintain my point, whatever it might cost.

"No, but I am!" I insist, reaching up and peevishly allowing her to tug the toddler-esque shirt over my head. "I'm thirty-six years old, and I really am an adult! You're just treating me like a baby, okay? Quit trying to pretend I'm wron- Ouch!"

It's the stinging swat to my bare thigh that makes me break off. "Enough!" she commands, and as she tugs me to my feet and marches me by the hand to the chair across the room, I'm simultaneously too stunned and subdued to speak. "Bobby, I warned you: no talking back to me. But if you really think you're turning thirty-six years old today, then you know what that means?" She settles down onto the chair and pats her knees commandingly. "It means you need thirty-six birthday spanks. Now."

"No-ooo," I protest, starting to draw back in alarm – but of course she's already got me and is forcing me down over her knees. "Oh, yes," she replies grimly, and the first thud of her hand on my padded rear makes me wince – more at the impact than the pain. "You're a great big boy of thirty-six, hmm? Then you're going to have to prove it by taking thirty-six spanks!"

And then… even as I brace myself for the second, I hear a note of amusement in her voice. "Although, you're way too protected for this. Here – this will be better…"

Oh, no- no- But before I can even react, she's reached down and untaped my brand-new diaper, and the cool breeze hits my skin a mere second before her open palm cracks down on it. Thack! The pain registers almost immediately, and I wince and jerk back – but of course there's nothing I can do to avoid the third. Crack! God, that fucking hurts-

But I'm thirty-six. I swear I am. And come hell or high water, I'm not giving in on that point.

Crack. Thack. Crack. On she presses. The seventh and eight blows fall next, and I am already writhing in mortification and steadily rising pain. She knows far too well how to spank a guy – a fact I've already learned the hard way. She knows exactly where my ass is most sensitive – how to vary the placement of her strikes – the way that the pain radiates outward and turns other areas even more sensitive than before. And so, by the ninth and tenth, I can practically feel my entire ass reddening and glowing with pain before her.

But we're not even one-third of the way done.

Thrack. Why are tears stinging my eyes? Why are my legs kicking out reflexively, spasming at every blow? Crack. No, no – I'm not crying. I've not fallen that low. I'm a man. I can take it. I'm thirty- oww- fucking- uuuuhhnnnn- six year old. I can- I-

I've lost count.

The tears are falling now. I can't see. I'm gulping, trying to bite through the pain – but I can't escape. Every spank is followed by another, even more painful one. I can't- I can't-

And now I can hear myself babbling, as if from some remote distance. This poor, pathetic little boy is blubbering, begging his mommy to stop, promising that he'll be good. He's desperate, pleading, crying out for mercy…

And wonder of wonders, he gets it.

The blows cease. An amused, condescending woman's voice purrs in my ear. "Oh, sweetie, you're finally learning your lesson, hmm? Now you agree with Mommy?" Yes, yes, I do, I do! Anything- hic- anything- "You agree that you're really not thirty-six years old?" No, no, of course- I'm not, I'm not, I'm not…

"Aww, such a poor little baby!" She's gloating now, massaging my stinging, aching ass with her strong hand. "You finally admit what you've known all along. You're really not a big boy at all. You're nothing but a silly little baby. My silly little baby. A silly, whiny little baby who could only handle eighteen little spanks…"

And then, she laughs softly. "Oh, dear – now I get it! You just mixed up your months and years, didn't you? Because, baby – thirty-six months is the same as three years! Which means… hmm…"

I gulp, feeling my stomach knot at the sound of her musical laughter. "Oh, sweetie – I guess that must mean you're even more of a baby than I thought! Because if we're supposed to be counting your age in months, and if you're only a big enough boy to handle eighteen spanks, well…"

"Hmm. I guess from now on you're only a sweet little eighteen-month old baby, huh?"