Dear Carl

Dear Carl,

I laughed so hard when you called yesterday from the bathroom. My naughty horny baby boy was having trouble getting into his plastic pants!
You couldn’t get your adult diaper off—the tabs were stuck or something.

You had a raging boner in your Huggies and couldn’t grab a little skin-on-skin contact. I heard the rhythmic crinkle-crinkle of the plastic as you furiously rubbed your cute little stiffie through the unsatisfying thickness.

Were you on the edge of a temper tantrum or was it an orgasm? It was hard to tell. This was the longest you had ever enjoyed an erection. I loved the rasp of your hot, silky voice when you whined, “Help me Mommy, I can’t…I can’t get them off.” You were nearly crying.

I wondered why you didn’t just go get scissors. So I finally said, “Go get scissors, silly boy.”

You whimpered, “I can’t leave the room, Mommy!”

I crooned, “My darling silly baby blue boy, I thought we talked about this.” I worried that you might be in another restaurant bathroom situation.

“No Mommy,” You whispered into the phone, “I’ve been a good boy.”
“Where are you?” I asked, happy you weren’t in public.

“I’m at home.” You whispered. I listened to the ache in your voice with pleasure. You moaned deep in the back of your throat, desperately hungry for release. “I’m home, Mommy…and so is my wife!” There was a note of panic there at the end—or was it arousal? Were you crouched alone in a darkened guest bathroom? You whispered, “She came home early and doesn’t know I’m here!”

I loved that part my dear Carl. It made my day. And truthfully, I was touching myself too. We know how it ends my strong little man. What I want to know is: what did you do with the shredded diaper?


Love, Momma Rose