The Office Humiliation – Diaper Cuckold

From my desk in the home office—now her “bull suite”—I stare at the monitor, live-streaming Rebecca’s afternoon delight with her boss, Derek. The room around me reeks of her perfume mixed with baby powder, a constant reminder of my demotion. What was once my sanctuary for work calls is now a shrine to her infidelity: framed photos of her swollen belly—Derek’s baby, not mine—plastered on the walls, her discarded lingerie draped over my chair, and in the corner, a changing station stocked with adult diapers, wipes, and lotions. The irony stings; I used to crunch numbers here as a mid-level accountant, but now my only “job” is watching her get what I can’t.

She’s bent over our marital bed in the next room, skirt hiked up around her waist, no panties—just the faint outline of last night’s diaper peeking from her waistband. She insisted on it for me this morning, her voice a sultry command as she pinned me to the mattress. “Real women get fucked, cucky,” she’d purred, snapping the tapes tight around my hips after “inspecting” my morning wood. It was pathetic, really—barely a twitch in her presence anymore, locked away in that pink plastic cage she calls my “clitty condo.” She deemed it unworthy, of course, and padded me up like the infant I am. Now, as Derek positions himself behind her, his massive frame dwarfing her pregnant curves, I feel the crinkle of my own diaper under my slacks. It’s a double-thick one today, the kind with extra absorbency for “messy boys,” she joked, taping it on with deliberate slowness, her fingers brushing my caged nub just enough to tease.

The live feed is crystal clear, courtesy of the high-def camera she mounted on the headboard. Derek’s hands grip her hips, rough and possessive, pulling her back onto him. He thrusts in with a guttural grunt that echoes through my headphones, making my stomach twist in a cocktail of envy and ecstasy. Rebecca moans his name—”Oh, Derek, yes!”—her voice breathy and desperate, nothing like the bored sighs she gave me in our vanilla days. Her pregnant belly bounces with each powerful stroke, six months along now, the skin stretched taut and glowing. That’s his doing, planted deep inside her during one of their “overtime sessions” while I waited at home, diapered and desperate. I shift in my chair, the diaper’s bulk forcing my thighs apart, and my fingers instinctively trace the tapes along my waist. The plastic rasps softly, a humiliating soundtrack to their symphony.

Why does this turn me on? I ask myself that every time, staring at my reflection in the darkened monitor—pale face flushed, eyes wide with masochistic hunger. Psychologically, it’s a black hole sucking me in. I’ve always been the provider, the steady guy, but Rebecca craves dominance, real alpha energy. Derek embodies it: tall, muscled, with a cock that stretches her in ways I never could. Me? I’m the beta, reduced to this—diapered, denied, aroused by my own emasculation. Freud would have a field day; it’s regression therapy gone pornographic. The first dribble escapes me then, warm and shameful, soaking into the diaper’s core. I bite my lip, not wanting to flood it yet, but the pressure builds as Rebecca arches her back, her massive breasts spilling from her unbuttoned blouse.

The chat pings relentlessly on the side of the screen—Rebecca’s girlfriends, a wicked coven of enablers who’ve known about this for months. “Loser diaper boy leaking already? 😂” types Sasha, her avatar a winking devil. “Bet his clitty’s crying in its cage! #CuckLife” chimes in Tina. Laughing emojis flood in, hearts around Derek’s name. Humiliation burns through me like fire, but my body betrays me—another spurt, the diaper swelling warmly against my skin. I imagine them watching me too, somehow, knowing I’m here rubbing the tapes like a fidgety toddler. Rebecca glances at the camera mid-thrust, her eyes locking onto mine through the lens. She blows a kiss, lipstick-smeared lips curling into a wicked smile. “Powder yourself later, sweetie—Derek’s filling me up good.”

God, that line. It hits like a gut punch. I nod frantically at the screen, whispering “Yes, ma’am” to no one. Derek picks up the pace, his balls slapping against her with wet smacks that make my caged cock strain futilely. She’s chanting now—”Harder, fuck me pregnant!”—her body quivering toward climax. I know the signs: the way her toes curl, her free hand clawing the sheets. When she cums, it’s explosive, a scream that rattles my speakers, her juices squirting back onto his thighs. He follows seconds later, roaring as he pumps her full, rope after thick rope. She milks him, grinding back, ensuring every drop stays inside. My diaper is soaked now, heavy and sagging, the scent of urine mixing with my sweat. Tears prick my eyes—not from sadness, exactly, but from the overwhelming rush of submission. This is my role: diapered voyeur, forever locked out of her bliss.

The feed doesn’t end there. Rebecca disengages with a sloppy pop, Derek’s cum oozing from her well-fucked pussy. She scoops some up on her fingers, licking them clean while staring right at me. “Mmm, your treat later, cucky. But first…” She grabs the camera, carrying it to the changing station in our bedroom—the one she bought just for me. Derek lounges on the bed, stroking himself lazily, chuckling. “Hurry up, slut. Round two after you handle your baby.”

She sets the camera on a tripod, angling it perfectly so I can see everything. “Come here if you want a close-up,” she calls to me through the house. My heart pounds. The office is just down the hall, but leaving means risking the wet diaper’s sag showing under my pants. Fuck it—I need this. I waddle out, the crinkle audible even over the party chatter from her friends’ chat. She sees me in the doorway, smirking. “Aww, look at you, all squishy. Strip.”

Trembling, I obey, pants pooling at my ankles to reveal the sodden diaper, yellowed at the front. Derek laughs outright. “Jesus, Rebecca, you really got him in those? Pathetic.” She nods proudly, patting the changing mat. “On your back, diaper boy.” I comply, the wet padding squelching under me. Her hands are gentle but firm, untaping the sides with practiced ease. Cool air hits my skin as she exposes me—the cage dangling limp, skin pruned from the moisture. “Such a messy puppy,” she murmurs, wiping me down with baby wipes, the cold freshness making me gasp.

Derek watches, amused, as she powders me liberally, the white cloud settling like snow on my groin. Her fingers dance over the cage, key dangling from her necklace—his gift, engraved with “Cucky’s Key.” “Beg for your fresh diapee,” she commands. “Please, Rebecca… powder me and tape me up. I need it.” My voice cracks, arousal throbbing painfully. She slides the new diaper under me—thick, white, with little blue stars—and pulls it up snug, taping it securely. The fresh bulk hugs me perfectly, already trapping a fresh dribble. She pats the front. “There. Now watch round two like a good boy.”

I retreat to the office, freshly padded, the monitor showing her mounting Derek reverse cowgirl. Her ass bounces hypnotically, his cock disappearing into her cum-slick hole. The chat explodes: “Fresh diaper zoom! 😂” I don’t care. Leaning back, I rock gently, letting the padding massage my cage. Hours pass like this—three rounds total, her body glistening with sweat and seed. Each orgasm for her is a dagger of denial for me, building that exquisite psychological torment: love twisted into lust for my own degradation.

By evening, the stream ends. Rebecca enters the office, glowing, belly prominent under her robe. She straddles my lap, the diaper crinkling loudly. “Did you like your show?” “Yes, goddess,” I breathe, inhaling her musky scent. She grinds against my padded crotch. “Tomorrow, Derek brings friends. You’ll be in a onesie for that.” My cocklet twitches in its prison. Yes. God, yes.

But let’s rewind, because this didn’t happen overnight. Our descent into diaper cuckoldry started subtly, a year ago. Rebecca and I had been married five years, vanilla sex fizzling into routine. She confessed her fantasies first—hotwife adventures, pregnancy risk. I was intrigued, even aroused, jerking off to the idea. Then Derek entered the picture: her charismatic boss, poaching her for “projects.” The first time she came home late, panties soaked with his precum, I tasted it eagerly. But she wanted more control. “You’re not man enough anymore,” she said one night, locking my first cage. The diapers came next—a “training tool” for my “premature leaks” during denial. At first, it was just nights, the padding a soft humiliation. But as her belly grew with his seed, it became 24/7. Psychologically, it’s rewired me. The crinkle is Pavlovian now—cue instant submission, erection straining against plastic.

Take this morning, for instance. I woke to her straddling my face, grinding her morning wetness on my tongue. “Clean me from last night,” she ordered. Derek had stayed over, fucking her raw while I slept in the nursery crib downstairs. Tasting his remnants, I hardened in my soggy overnight diaper. She noticed, laughed. “Inspection time.” Untaping me, she measured my caged nub—2.5 inches erect, laughable. “Unworthy. Diaper duty.” The ritual: wipes, powder, fresh padding. She even added a pacifier gag today, taping it in place until Derek arrived. “Can’t have you whimpering too loud.”

Now, post-stream, as she grinds on me, I feel the day’s leaks pooling again. “You’re flooding already,” she teases, feeling the warmth. “Derek says hi.” She dismounts, leading me to the changing station by my cage’s ring. Derek’s already gone, but his presence lingers in the rumpled sheets. She changes me efficiently, chatting about their plans: a weekend getaway, her in lingerie, me at home in the playpen with a baby monitor feed. As she tapes the new diaper—pink this time, extra crinkly—I leak pre-cum into it. “Horny diaper bitch,” she calls me fondly.

Nights like this end with her cuddling me, belly pressed to my padded crotch, whispering affirmations. “You’re perfect like this—my padded cuck, carrying Derek’s baby with me.” It’s warped love, but real. I stroke her hair, the diaper’s bulk a comforting weight. Tomorrow’s stream will be public—her girlfriends inviting more. The chat will roast me harder, maybe donations for “cucky diapers.” The thought terrifies and electrifies.

Weeks blur into this rhythm. Monday: Derek visits post-workout, sweaty and dominant, fucking her on the kitchen counter while I watch from the pantry, diapered in hiding. Tuesday: Office stream like today, chat growing to 50 viewers. Rebeccaa adds polls—”Should cucky wear a bonnet next?” Yes wins. Wednesday: Pregnancy check-up, Derek’s name on the ultrasound, me waiting outside in the car, messing my diaper from nerves. Thursday: Girls’ night stream, her taking two bulls while I babysit via cam, forced to drink from a bottle. Friday: Date night, her out glammed up, me locked in with tasks—changing myself on video, sending proof.

Each event peels back layers of my psyche. Envy evolves into worship; Derek’s virility highlights my inadequacy, making Rebecca’s glow divine. The diapers amplify it—adult sized, yet infantilizing, turning orgasms into warm rushes without touch. Ruined climaxes, she calls them, triggered by her commands: “Cum in your diapee, loser.” I do, sobbing with release.

One pivotal night, mid-second trimester, she blindfolded me in the office, streaming anonymously. “Guess who’s fucking me,” she taunted. Grunts, thrusts, her ecstasy—I leaked endlessly. Reveal: not just Derek, but his buddy from work. Double creampie, me powdering fresh after. The chat hit 100: “Diaper cuck gangbang viewer! Epic.”

Emotionally, cracks show. Post-change, alone, I cry—mourning the man I was, embracing the sissy I am. But Rebecca senses it, holds me. “This is us now. You love it.” I do. The humiliation is the high, the diaper the anchor.

Tonight, as she tucks me into the crib—rails up, paci in—I replay the stream. Her orgasms, my leaks, the chat’s barbs. Derek texts her goodnight; she shows me: “Tell diaper boy I own you both.” She does. I suckle the paci, drifting off padded and content.

This is my life: office turned voyeur den, desk my throne of thorns. Tomorrow, onesie day. Bring it on.