Fidel has finally been in a relationship for a while now. Yes! After spending time trying things with guys who lacked direction or commitment, he had met this fellow in a Madrid café—completely by chance—and they hit it off. The guy was just his type: elegant, cultured... handsome. Very. He moved easily in good social circles and was incredibly versatile: he fit like a glove with Lore—who was... a different breed—and with his family, who were more down-to-earth. However, in any relationship that actually works, flaws eventually come to light—and in this case, it was Fidel’s. For all his elegance and culture, Fidel also had a touch of arrogance; he rarely showed it around family and friends—disliking the idea of showing off more than necessary—but he let it show all too readily with the people he could flaunt it around: his boyfriend and his friends. Although warned more than once that this attitude needed work, Fidel had made little real effort to curb that particular trait of his. The last time he resorted to that haughty behaviour, however, he was in for an unexpected surprise... A lesson in humility.

Fidel, having enjoyed some coffee and a glass or 2 of wine with his boyfriend and their friends, had expressed himself rather… vehemently acting as though he knew far more about art than his boyfriend did. He had been overbearing. The topic itself didn't matter; the attitude, however, was all too familiar—and unpleasant. They were spending the night at the boyfriend’s place—a charming rental apartment near the city centre—and although the rest of their plans remained unchanged, his boyfriend told him that, come morning, he would need to learn how to be a bit kinder to others. His "punishment," however, began the night before, right after his shower. Instead of his usual silk (designer) boxers, he found an adult diaper waiting for him. A high-end one, he noted. Fidel had worn them a couple of times before—his boyfriend thought he looked "cute" in them, and he, well, was willing to explore other facets of his psyche. He didn't mind them, though he had never actually use them—nor did he intend to, at least for the time being. In fact, he didn't realize his discipline was already underway; he put it on without a second thought, hoping to please his boyfriend’s eyes, and was surprised when told he had to sleep in it. It was odd but given that he felt just a tad guilty about his earlier behaviour, he agreed. It was cold, so he was able to pull his adorable red pajama with contrasting trim right over it. The feel of it wasn't unpleasant, so he didn't give it much more thought. The next day, however, he certainly did. When the 2 young men got up and made coffee, his boyfriend wasted no time in seating him on a chair in the living room. He explained—calmly and assertively, yet clearly—that Fidel needed to get a handle on that "peacock" persona that emerged whenever they were out with friends and mentioned that he had already discussed the matter with Lorena... adding that what Fidel needed was a good punishment. Fidel listened in surprise, yet he knew 2 things: 1st, his behaviour certainly left room for improvement; and 2nd, Lorena wouldn't let it slide unless he agreed to face it. He realized the punishment involved the diaper and protested, as he didn't want to use it. His boyfriend insisted: he wouldn't have to use it if he fulfilled his end of the punishment. Fidel tried to negotiate, but a look at his boyfriend's group WhatsApp chat made it clear that his bad behaviour had been far from subtle. So, reluctantly, he agreed—though he wasn't quite sure what to expect.

Fidel, his coffee half-finished, leaned over the small living room table. Sunlight caught him at an angle through the large window. His guy pulled down his red pajama bottoms—and the diaper—just far enough to expose his backside to the air. A caress on the buttock, and they were ready to get started. -What exactly are we doing? - he asked, feeling uneasy. The answer was a brief; sketchy summary of a method Lorena used now and then with a guy she dominated—whenever he misbehaved... For a fee, of course. He called it "an exercise in reflection." Deep down, Fidel found it a bit amusing. Yet, being a smart guy, he figured the diaper was there for more reasons than he’d initially thought. He didn't protest... too much. -Just when I'm enjoying this Colombian coffee I love so much... You couldn't have picked a better time if you'd actually thought about it, right? - He asked. The answer was obvious; Fidel felt foolish for even saying it. He let out a brief moan: his lover's finger, generously coated in Vaseline, traced the rim of his anus and slid inside, leaving a good amount of lubricant on Fidel's responsive rear. It was a sensation he’d enjoyed many times before, and this instance was no exception, however brief it might be. -Look, honey... You know how I am... What can I do? It's just... MMH... I don't know, I get that it bothers you sometimes, but...- For a guy as articulate as Fidel, finding a way to defend himself was hard—partly because he lacked an argument, but also because, even as he thought, a (1st) glycerine suppository was sliding from his anus deep into his rectum—sticky and cold, yet unmistakably present. Fidel recognized the sensation simply because it reminded him of his childhood—back when his mother used to administer them whenever he’d held it in too long (he was a picky kid about public restrooms)—but not because his boyfriend had told him exactly what he was about to do. -Suppositories...? Is that what you were thinking? Oh, Ma…- He fell silent for a moment, savouring the feel of his boyfriend’s finger for a few extra seconds and reacting slightly to that familiar little itch—that stinging sensation he hadn't felt in years. -AH…-" He breathed out. Yes, he remembered clearly now. And he recalled, too, the slight embarrassment of having a family member administer them. It wasn't the first time he’d bared his ass to his boyfriend—far from it; they’d done much lewder things back there—but the disciplinary angle shifted the mood for Fidel; he felt a touch of bashfulness he hadn't experienced with his boyfriend in a couple of months. -I haven't had suppositories in years, baby... I’m actually a bit embarrassed by this, dude- he said, as if his boyfriend weren't delighted to hear it. Another thought struck Fidel—one he felt was crucial to share: he didn't know how effective they’d be. That unsettled him a little. -I don't know how long I can hold these in without using the bathroom, you know? - he said, reliving the bittersweet experience as a second suppository was inserted, ending with a gentle squeeze around his boyfriend's finger as it pushed the medicine inside—an instinctive move to ensure it stayed put in his rectum. -Couldn't you have just... I don't know... spanked me? Now I regret that coffee... It feels like a Judas gift... OH! - A light smack—just as he’d wanted. It wasn't hard, but it certainly got his attention. Immediately, his buttocks were spread apart, and Fidel groaned again. His ass was gradually being filled with suppositories, and he began to foresee a difficult stretch he hadn't expected so soon. The residual heat from the glycerine was intensifying, making him increasingly nervous... He no longer found it amusing that his lover was taking so long to insert them fully. -How many are you going to use? I’ve never had more than one before. That’s 3 already... Quite a lot, I’d say. You’ve got me regretting this already- He didn't sound truly regretful, just worried—especially as he noticed his body reacting positively to the expected effect of the little medicinal cones inside him. His boyfriend’s verbal response was simply, "One more," and sure enough, it was placed alongside the others, as deep inside his anus as possible. The diaper and pajama were put back in place, and Fidel was settled into the living room chair; he stared sternly into his boyfriend's eyes and felt a moment of intimidation... Yet, even then, he couldn't help but show a certain haughtiness. -Well, my little ass is full of suppositories now. Thanks. What next? I suppose I’m not supposed to... do anything... in the diaper- he said. He had his doubts—and rightly so—because, after all, there was a reason he was wearing the diaper. A blue pen and a clean sheet of paper were placed in front of him, and he looked at them with bewilderment; his boyfriend broke the paper’s virginity by writing the phrase “Summary: Why I might have acted insensitively” at the top. Oh, wow—so it really WAS an exercise in reflection. He was certain Lorena wouldn't have approached it that way, but his boyfriend was cut from a different cloth. He was told he could use the bathroom ONLY if he filled both sides of the sheet. -You can't be serious- he said, dumbfounded, but the reply was as sincere as it was obvious. Assuming the scenario actually played out... FUCK. Fidel hadn't even used the bathroom in front of his boyfriend yet! Well, once—a sudden, urgent need... but his boyfriend had been in the shower and couldn't see him. That didn't count—or at least, not fully. Would he have to do it in a diaper now? He wasn't sure, but he realized he had no choice but to play along with his boyfriend's proposal. Fidel responded with a look of unmistakable disapproval, yet he challenged his punisher: -Well... I'm a bit constipated, so aside from my ass itching...- His boyfriend told him that was actually better—it wouldn't make things any harder for him. It was a final display of arrogance—one that would backfire on him sooner rather than later, as he was about to discover. Fidel got to work, framing it as a challenge: he had a knack for writing—he was good at it. Fluid, expressive, fast. He started in, treating it like a defensive exercise to bolster his self-confidence in front of his boyfriend—or so he initially wrote... But sooner rather than later, reality proved him wrong: various internal stimuli were breaking his concentration—specifically, an unexpectedly intense burning sensation around his anus. ¡UGH¡ Powerful memories washed over him—above all, how much he loathed that burning feeling—which only made the sensation more bothersome and, consequently, made writing all the harder. His focus wasn't entirely on his hand or his work; instead, it was drawn away, deep within his own body. -It’s hard to write like this, you know... How am I supposed to concentrate when my ass itches so much? Huh? - he said. His boyfriend, keeping an eye on him from the next chair while reading the day's news on his tablet, replied with a touch of sarcasm, hurling back at him—like a boomerang—the very comment Fidel had made minutes earlier about "a bit of itching." Fidel took it in stride as best he could, immediately recognizing the hypocrisy of the remark—which irritated him slightly... and made him even more acutely aware of his ass reacting to the glycerine.

Time ticked by and his boyfriend’s coffee level dropped, while Fidel’s grew cold; the sheet of paper filled up much more slowly than he had imagined—and much more slowly than he would have liked. His mindset began to shift; he acknowledged that perhaps—as he already knew full well—he had been arrogant. Unfortunately, the state of his colon was changing too; it had moved past the initial stinging sensation and started sending far more unpleasant signals to its owner: an urgent need to use the toilet. Fidel’s right hand, clutching the pen, mirrored his overall state: tense, agitated, unsteady. He kept pausing every few words—not just to think about what to write, but to quell the mounting urge to relieve himself that the suppositories were triggering. He hadn't expected them to work so quickly, but then again, he hadn't recalled their true effect until they were back up his ass after all these decades—and he had 4 of them shoved in there. A touch of constipation? That was turning into a real problem. At least he didn't have to deal with his boyfriend drawing blood; the man simply stayed silent and kept watch. Fidel put down the pen, summoned his courage, and tried to project an air of maturity to mask the feeling of a helpless child standing before his man. -Okay, I’ve learned my lesson. I need to use the bathroom; can I go now, please? - His voice betrayed too much haste and lacked firmness; although his plea lacked the conviction needed to sway his boyfriend, Fidel didn't notice those nuances and, consequently, didn't expect a flat-out NO in response. It was a refusal so absolute that Fidel knew he shouldn't get up, even though, in theory, he was free to do so. In practice, he felt at his boyfriend’s mercy. Like, truly, a helpless infant—FUCK, man... I can’t, really... I know you felt bad yesterday, but... Oh... This is intense... AH...- A sharp cramp. The pressure in the boy’s anus was mounting by the second, and he didn't know what to say to convince him. Insisting was useless. And the time spent negotiating was time that could have been spent writing. But his mind was no longer there; his work remained unfinished, and the challenge now felt entirely like a punishment—an extremely effective one. -Seriously, babe... I’ve learned—so, so much... Please... I’m going to poop myself, really...- He was pleading now, but was met only with a gesture toward the sheet of paper. He still had part of one side and the entirety of the other left to do. Impossible. He didn't feel he had the strength to respond. The boy’s eyes began to glaze over as he envisioned a future, he saw no way to avoid. He put down the pen, trying to adjust his position in the chair, but instinctively adopted a posture that might make it “easier” to embrace his fate: he shifted his buttocks backward, easing the pressure the seat was exerting on his anus. He wiped away the first tear rolling down his cheek, adjusted his glasses, and tried once more to summon his strength. His anus was spasming, signalling a white flag; try as he might, he couldn't see a way to overcome the immense force his bowels were exerting on him. The suppositories had won the battle. Fidel put his hands on the table, glanced at his boyfriend for a moment, then turned his gaze toward the window. He didn't want to look directly at him as he lost his sense of control and regressed to childhood. A final sharp cramp was accompanied by a look of unmistakable reaction on the boy's face as he voluntarily let go. -It's slipping out... I'm pooping... MPH... - he said aloud, driven by his subconscious. Sure enough, a bubbling sound—audible to his boyfriend—emanated from Fidel’s diaper; he kept a stoic expression as his anus surrendered, opening wide to release the suppositories his boyfriend had forced inside him in a sort of triumphant march. Although he had braced for an explosion, the glycerine and all that backed-up waste left his body gently—albeit continuously and odorously—filling the diaper with the accumulation of 2 days without a bowel movement. A low, steady sound announced the process to his boyfriend, who had the decency not to look at him while he emptied his bowels right there. Indeed, the suppositories had won. A small fart marked the end of the brown parade in Fidel’s rear; he felt a mix of heat and revulsion on his buttocks, while his entire psyche was consumed by shame and regret. He looked back at his boyfriend—who wasn't looking at him judgmentally—and, swallowing hard, stated the obvious: -I... I couldn't hold it in... - He spoke, trying to salvage whatever shred of composure remained while sitting there, soiled like a baby. Yet, his composure didn't shatter; his boyfriend’s calm, expectant attitude kept him from feeling "judged" for what had just happened. Despite the situation, Fidel felt no resentment—only relief, along with a sense of humility. Deep down—even if he could have reasoned otherwise—he understood and accepted the reasons for sitting there after failing to hold back the laxatives. He was at peace with the message his boyfriend had conveyed so many times. When offered the chance to get cleaned up, he eagerly agreed; anything to be free of that embarrassment was welcome. First, however, he had to face the lesson—one he clearly understood: nothing cures an inflated ego quite like filling a diaper after a couple of effective suppositories. -Yes… I’ll behave better, I promise...- He meant it sincerely. He was certainly remorseful. Fidel endured the embarrassment of a first—though not last—experience with a process that, while unusual, soon ceased to feel strange... since he himself admitted it made him feel better. They had a genuine, reflective conversation—reading the brief notes Fidel had managed to write and filling in the rest—to resolve the issue in their relationship. After all, nothing reinforces a lesson in humility quite like a little (or a lot of) embarrassment.