Hisham
A lonely office gator finds a mysterious package in his hotel room on Christmas morning. Who would send him a diapersuit to wear--and what is it doing to him?
Christmas morning on my own, rain splattering on the motel room window in the dark. The holiday doesn't mean as much when you don't have family or friends around; work had me in the city for the whole month, and my chief exposure to the holiday season was the string of lights some co-workers had strung in the office, sparkles of color reflecting off my monitor.
I did at least have the day off, for whatever that was worth. I'd come back to my motel room the night before, turned the heat all the way up, let my scales soak up the heat as though we weren't five degrees above a white Christmas, and just passed out; now, of course, it was too early to be up, so I lay there with my eyes shut, trying to sleep again until a thump-thump at the entrance to the room interrupted my rest.
I didn't get up. I knew it was too early for housekeeping, so it was probably just some guy who'd been out late partying and didn't realize he was at the wrong door. He'd figure it out in a minute when his key didn't let him in, and move on...
Thump. Rustle.
This time I could better locate the sound: the noise was coming from inside the room. I sat up and tried to look through the darkness. Have we got rats? The room was low-end, but I didn't think it was that bad.
I hit the light and found there was a box in front of the door that had not been there when I'd gone to bed. The door was still fastened shut with a latch that couldn't be opened--or resealed--from outside, yet somehow the package was there.
The box had no postmark, but had a card that bore my name: Hisham, handwritten in a dark red ink the same color as my scales. A coworker, then. I slid a claw under the packing tape and tore it open, revealing...white plastic?
I pulled out the contents of the box. It looked like a diaper--or at least, it looked like it was made of diaper stuff: it was far huger than any diaper ought to be. I laid it out on the bed and saw it was more like a suit--not, like, a business suit, but a full-body affair, like something an astronaut would wear, though there was no bubble helmet or anything of the sort. It was kind of like a morph suit, if you know what those are.
Why would anyone send me anything like this? Who comes up with this even as a joke? I thought of the folks at the office: none of them had a known prankster streak; most of them were older and...sedate, to say it kindly.
The diaper suit was like nothing in my experience, yet something about it appealed to me. It seemed like it was meant to be disposable, so it was was like being given a license to run wild. Not that there was a lot of running wild I wanted to do myself, but... well, it was a holiday, after all.
I picked up the suit and put it on, slipping in through the opening on its back.
I should've thought I looked silly wearing a full-body diaper.
At least, that's the thought I went into the suit with.
With it on, of course, I couldn't see anything at all: carefully, so as not to trip, I took a couple of steps to see how it moved, and it was exactly as soft as it had looked, letting off a constant rustle as the material crinkled. It smelled fresh: a little reminiscent of baby powder.
If anyone else had been around to look, I'm sure I would have said it was silly.
But as it was... I sat down on the bed.
I hugged myself, enjoying the pillowyness that the softness of the suit gave me.
And I said "Merry Christmas, Hisham," in a voice that was entirely not mine.
Let me tell you, there is nothing scarier than hearing a voice you don't recognize when you can't see a thing and you're sure you were alone in the room--even if that voice is bright and wishing you holiday cheer.
I tried to tear off the suit, but my hands were ineffective being mitted by diaper stuff and somehow I didn't want to go as far as clawing through it. Still, I couldn't pull it off, and when I reached behind me I couldn't find any trace of the part in the fabric I'd entered through.
"What do you want?" I said.
I'd meant it to sound rather less...generous than it came out. I tried again:
"What do you want? Who are you?"
...and still the voice wasn't mine. The words were mine, but someone else was talking through them. I was trying to demand, with some sternness, the intentions and identity of a stranger, but from the tone of that voice, they...wanted to know what kind of person I was and what kind of present I'd want for Christmas, with all the generosity of a mall Santa.
"I'm Hisham, and it looks like I want to be a diaper..." Why would I say anything like that? Yet the words came from my mouth; whoever was speaking was teasing me.
My feet were moving before I knew what was happening, and I was standing in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the wall.
Even though my face was behind half an inch of thick diaper padding, I could see I was in front of the mirror.
I shut my eyes, but the view did not change. The image of my reflection--a white full-body diaper with blue tapes that would not come untaped, covering the silhouette of a stout alligator--was visible as though it were being beamed directly into my mind.
I knew I was in front of the mirror, because the diaper suit had eyes.
It was using those eyes to watch itself. And I was along for the ride.
"Hisham is a nice name for an alligator," my mouth said. "All reptilian and hissy. Hish, hish. I think it'd be a great name for a diaper, too. You can just hear the crinkling in it, can't you? Hish, hish..."
I tried again to get out of the suit, but this time my hands wouldn't respond at all.
"I'm a diaper."
Somehow it was a reminder: Hisham's a diaper's name. Whatever's inside the diaper... well, that's not a matter worth speaking of. But surely the diaper could move.
I moved my hand--the diaper's hand, not the hand of what had been an alligator.
It was good to be Hisham. Being Hisham was a force working through me, the pleasure of the mere identity expressing itself in a kind of arousal, as though becoming myself were an act of sexual conquest.
"I'm horny," I said, reaching down to find a bulge at my crotch, solid and needy--there was still something of the gator inside after all.
I can take care of that.
I sprawled out on the bed and started stroking my padding over his cock. I was dry to start with, but as the material slid over his cockhead, my softness soon took care of that--a prodigious flow of pre dripped from him, and I soaked up its sweetness with a growing thirst.
He felt good inside me. It was a shame there wouldn't be anything left of him at all soon--already his mind was gone and he was humping my inner surface like an animal; it wouldn't be long before I wrung his final orgasm from him and his final load of piss, and forced him to dissolve away into more of the usual sort of waste one finds in a diaper.
A diaper's got to eat, after all.
I could tell my thoughts were leaking through to him, the motions inside me switching from passive enjoyment to active attempts at escape as his poor little lizard brain sensed the danger.
He wasn't going anywhere.
I worked his cock as he writhed, and in his bestial excitement it was easy to bring him to a climax that left him weak and unresisting as I soaked up his seed, enjoying a flavor as thick and rich as any holiday treat.
I kept stroking the padding covering his crotch, working the sogginess as I worked his mind, coaxing him to give me more, to fill me to my fullest.
"Gotta piss," we said. "Gotta flood our padding. Gotta let it all out."
He was powerless to disobey, and after a moment the torrent came.
It wasn't the hesitating piss attempt you might normally see from an adult overcoming his toilet training to use a diaper for the first time. It wasn't even one of those pisses that come from a pent-up desperation that are a relief in more ways than one.
It was the kind of piss you only get when a hungry diaper is sucking the life out of you.
I worked his cock, watching the stain of wetness spread over my crotch, up my belly and down my legs. I drank in the warm, sharp tang of piss as it spread through every literal fiber of me.
I drank him dry, separating the liquid from the solid, stinking waste that had once called itself Hisham.
And I lay back to digest.
As the hours passed, my body absorbed the remains of the old Hisham, the stains and damp spots fading away and leaving me clean and empty on the bed.
It was a lot harder to move around without a body inside me, but with the sun well in the sky now I knew it wouldn't be a good idea for housekeeping to find me here--not like this. I dragged myself over to the box that had started it all, and stuffed myself back in.
The box shook, its flaps sealing shut--alarmed, I wondered if someone else really had been there watching me all along.
I would've tried to get out, but again I encountered the now-familiar helplessness of being unable to move my body.
Awareness faded.
I woke again as my box was opened and a tubby gray cat lifted me out, looking me over with some confusion. "What the heck...?"
I knew, vaguely, that I shouldn't be hoping for him to succumb to the curiosity and put me on. And yet... I was starting to notice again that feeling spreading through my padding: A need. An urge to be filled. A hunger...