I lay him back on the changing mat, the plastic crinkling loudly under his weight. He’s already whining, his hips twitching with anticipation because he knows exactly where this is going. I don’t rush. I take my time unfastening the tabs, the sound of the adhesive ripping slow and deliberate, echoing in the quiet room. I lean over him, letting my breasts brush against his chest, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my robe.
“You’ve been such a messy boy,” I purr, my breath hot against his ear. “Do you have any idea how much work it’s going to take to get you clean?”
I peel the diaper away, exposing his plump, messy ass to the cool air. He gasps, his legs splaying wide in a position of total surrender. I don’t reach for the wipes immediately. Instead, I let my gaze linger, my tongue wetting my lips as I admire the disaster.
“Look at this,” I whisper, my voice dropping an octave. “Just a complete disaster. I think you need a very… thorough cleaning.”
I reach down, not with a wipe, but with my bare fingers. I slide a finger through the mess, swirling it slowly, watching his face contort in a delicious mix of shame and arousal. I bring my finger to my lips, tasting the salt and the musk, locking eyes with him the entire time. “Mmm, tastes like trouble,” I moan, letting him see exactly how much I enjoy his filth
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