Author’s note: this is the culmination of several months worth of research and storyboarding, I hope the end product is acceptable. Expect a different take on several diaper story tropes, such as piss poor grammar, lack of plot, and diaper changes lasting seven pages. This will consist of a short introduction, five long chapters, and a short epilogue each to be posted within one week of another.
Disclaimer: the following includes age play, anal sex, art showings, daily exercise, diapers, emotional abuse, finger painting, forced feminization, mental exercise, sex toys, shock collars, rape, and learning to play the piano. You have been warned.
Bad things happen in white vans. Everyone knows it.
That’s why every time a white van with tinted windows drove by, Taylor dove for the bushes. It wasn’t an irrational fear, it was a practicality. Boys with his looks were in rare supply, and rarer still were those who lived alone. This made him a perfect target and he knew it.
Statistics like “Did you know that every year about 200,000 male slaves are sold internationally each year?” and “About three fourths of all people kidnapped are used for sex” were rarely far from his lips.
For most people, it’s not something to be worried about. Then again, most people aren’t blond, long-haired, pretty-boys like Taylor. Most pretty boys didn’t walk around wearing a bishonen pride pin like our hero either, but I suppose it goes without saying.
Taylor was paranoid to the extreme about being kidnapped and sexually exploited, having read more than enough bad fiction on the internet, and having heard about kidnapping cases every night on the news. So, he carried pepper spray, stayed to his usual route, and always avoided white vans.
It should be no surprise that, in the end, his kidnappers drove a blue one.
Unlike on television, the van didn’t stop and swing open the side door to pick him up. The crew, seasoned veterans all, drove up quickly behind our young hero and threw open the passenger side door. When door and youth collided Taylor was knocked silly. Stars where still racing around his head as the crew bundled him up and tossed him in the van.
Of course there were witnesses, but it’s difficult to describe the license plate of a van without one, or the faces of people who wore masks. Blindfolding a struggling person is an exercise in futility, as is trying to gag someone who’d like nothing more than to bite off your finger. Instead, he was smacked around a little by people who knew better than to hit the face, and pinned to the van’s smelly carpet by someone who must’ve weighed a thousand pounds.
To add insult to injury, or maybe just to drown out protest, the driver turned up the radio.
It was rap. Taylor hated rap.