The elevator hums to the penthouse pinnacle. City lights glitter below like scattered diamonds. Our hostess, a shadowed heiress in Louboutins, greets us at the door. Her eyes strip me bare. Crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon fizz in manicured hands. The salon gleams: Italian leather armchairs, a crimson silk runner unfurling from the marble kitchen to the heart of the room. Mignardises from the finest patissier tempt on silver trays. She palms my ass as I haul cartons past. ‘Perfect canvas,’ she purrs.
I retreat to the kitchen nook. Portant loaded with prototypes: onesies in cashmere blends, diapers thick as down pillows. Sylvie and Valérie arrive, my waxing tormentors. Champagne breath warms my neck. ‘Strip,’ Sylvie commands. No slip this time. They hoist a deluxe diaper—ouate supreme, velcro whispers. Waddle inevitable. Onesie zips smooth over smooth skin. No hair anywhere. I feel exposed, electric.
The Privilege
Eight o’clock. Laughter swells. Fifteen women, ages blurred by Botox and Birkin bags. Jewels flash. I step onto the runner. Applause crashes. Cowboy gait from the bulk between thighs. My wife narrates: snaps at crotch, rear flap for access. She demonstrates. Fingers graze. Crowd leans in, sipping vintage.
Bodies follow. Velcro peels at groin. She yanks one off mid-stride—me in diaper alone. Chippendale cheers erupt. Tethers clip massive pacis—silicone giants silencing me. Strapped tight.
Changing tables gleam under Swarovski pendants. I mount one. Volunteer unfastens. Naked now. Button press: stirrups rise, legs splayed. Straps lock. Helpless in opulence.
Pacifiers swapped. Thermometers gleam. First: thick glass probe, lubed cold. Slides in. Clinical chill.
Second: bulbous end swells inside. Pulse quickens.
The Excess
Third: S-curve massager. Gel slicks my hole. Finger checks depth. Prostate hums. Thrusts build fire. No erection, just milk. Semen beads slow from soft cock. She peels diaper back. View for all. Lingettes wipe pristine.
Lotions flood. Ten hands roam. Fingers invade: scrotum lifted, shaft stroked slick, anus probed deep. Chaos of scents—jasmine, vanilla. Edges of violation.
Diapers tested. Each woman fits one. ‘Bigger than my husband’s,’ they coo. Touches linger: cock tucked firm, elastics tugged to balls. One pours water. Dries every fold with heated towels. ‘Leak-proof,’ she declares, thumb circling rim.
Game escalates. Thickest diaper. ‘Fill it real.’ Toasts circle. I strain amid stares. Success. Hands swarm: wipes cool on sack, cream massages pucker. Fresh again.
Stirrups release. Kitchen refuge. Clothes reclaim me. Orders pour in. Wife beams: record sales.
Car hums homeward. Penthouse secret sealed in leather seats. New party looms. Sylvie refreshes wax. Tongue-twist before bets. Or dive deeper.
