Bruno enjoyed the gentle humming of his whirring PC.
The brown bear hunched over his desk, his broad frame filling the creaky chair. His fur, a deep chestnut flecked with silver at the tips, shimmered under the soft light of a single lamp, casting shadows that danced across walls lined with faded posters of old arcade games. The room was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the world’s weight fell away, and Bruno could lose himself in the pixelated chaos of Starstrike, a retro shooter that flickered on his monitor. Beneath his loose cargo pants, hidden from the world, crinkled the soft bulk of a diaper, its padded embrace a secret he guarded with equal parts shame and strange comfort.
Bruno’s claws clicked against the keyboard, his deep voice rumbling through the headset as he bantered with the faceless crowd on his livestream.
“Alright, chat, who’s gonna carry me to the next level? Y’all just watchin’ me die here!”
His laugh was warm, a low growl that rolled like distant thunder, and the chat lit up with emojis and quips. BigBearBruno (“BBB”) had a small but loyal following, folks drawn to his easy charm and the way his massive paws danced over the controls with surprising grace. He leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight, and read a new message aloud. “Yo, ClawMaster69 with the sub! Thanks, buddy! Says here, ‘What kinda underwear you rockin’, Bruno?'”
His heart stuttered, a flush creeping beneath his fur. The diaper’s soft crinkle seemed deafening in that moment, though he knew the mic wouldn’t catch it. He forced a chuckle, thick and hearty, leaning closer to the webcam so eyes glinted with knowing of a little, smelly secret. “Underwear? Man, I’m free as a bear in the woods! Let’s keep it PG, yeah?” The chat erupted in laughter, and he exhaled, hoping the dodge would steer them back to the game. But the question lingered, a spark in the dry grass of his nerves.
He reached for his soda, a half-empty bottle of cherry fizz, and in his haste to keep the stream rolling, his paw knocked it clean off the desk. “Aw, hell,” he muttered, the bottle clattering to the floor, spraying sticky foam across the hardwood. Instinct took over, and he bent down, his bulk shifting as he stretched to grab it. The webcam, angled just so, caught the motion—his pants slid low, and there, peeking above the waistband, was the unmistakable white elastic of his diaper, its white trim gleaming like a guilty secret. He froze, soda in paw, the realization hitting like a freight train. The chat had seen it.
They’d all seen it.
He straightened up, face burning, and tried to dive back into Starstrike, blasting enemy ships with a ferocity that betrayed his panic. But the chat was alive now, a wildfire of teasing. “Big baby dropped his baby bottle!” one user typed, followed by a string of bottle emojis. “Does Bruno need a change?” another quipped, and the words landed like a paw on his chest, stealing his breath. His fur bristled, but beneath the embarrassment, something else stirred — a low, heat that coiled in his gut, stirring with sexual intrigue. He tried to laugh it off, his voice cracking. “Y’all are wild tonight, huh? Let’s focus on the game, c’mon.”
But the chat was relentless, a pack of wolves circling their prey. Subscriptions rolled in, each one accompanied by a message that pushed the teasing into something thicker, heavier. “Check that diaper for us, baby,” one read. “Tell us how it feels, Bruno. Wet yet?” The words dripped with lust, and Bruno’s paws trembled on the keyboard. He was cornered, exposed, and yet the attention set his pulse racing. His diaper, snug and warm, felt suddenly tighter, the padding pressing against him in a wonderfully tight way.
He swallowed, his throat dry, and leaned toward the mic, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Y’all really wanna know, huh?” The chat exploded, egging him on. He shifted in his seat, the crinkle loud in his ears, and let the words spill out, slow and deliberate. “Alright. Fine, chat. It’s soft. Real snug, y’know? Kinda damp from sittin’ so long, but it’s holdin’ up.” His face burned, but the confession sent a shiver through him, arousal blooming like a bruise. The chat roared, subscriptions piling up, and Bruno’s laugh was shaky now. “You pervs,” he growled, but there was no venom in it — only the thrill of being seen.
The screen flickered as Starstrike loaded the next level, a brief lull in the chaos that gave Bruno a moment to catch his breath. His den, once a fortress of solitude, now pulsed with the electric hum of exposure. The chat’s relentless energy crackled through the monitor, their words a mix of support and raw, unfiltered lust that wrapped around him like a too-tight embrace. His secret, that soft, crinkling truth he’d buried beneath layers of fur and bravado, was no longer his alone. The diaper, heavy now with the weight of his confession, became a strange badge of liberation. Bruno leaned back, his massive frame dwarfing the chair, and ran a paw over his face, the coarse fur damp with sweat. His streaming career, he knew, would never be the same. He was dreading everything, but the exhilaration was undeniably invigorating.
The chat was a living thing, its messages scrolling faster than he could read. “You’re so brave, Bruno!” one user typed, followed by a heart emoji. But others were bolder, their words dripping with heat. “How’s that diaper holdin’ up, stinky?” “Bet it feels nice, huh?” The questions piled up, each one a spark that set his nerves alight. He shifted in his seat, the crinkle loud in the quiet, and felt a sudden, urgent pressure in his gut. His paw drifted to his stomach, pressing against the taut fur as a low rumble betrayed his need. The chat caught the way his eyes widened, the slight grimace that flickered across his muzzle. They pounced.
“Oh, Bruno’s gotta go!” someone typed, followed by a string of laughing emojis. “Fill that diaper, bear! Let’s see it!” The encouragement was unanimous, a chorus of horny delight that drowned out the game’s loading music. Bruno’s heart pounded, his breath shallow. He wanted to laugh it off, to steer the stream back to Starstrike, but the pressure was insistent, and the chat’s hunger was a siren call. His body, traitor that it was, seemed to agree with them. He stood abruptly, his massive paws gripping the armrests of his chair, the wood creaking under his strength. With a slight squat, his thick legs trembling, he gave in. A low, forced grunt escaped him as he noisily filled his diaper, the mess warm and heavy, making the padding droop and stain darkly at the back.
The chat erupted, a frenzy of caps-locked cheers and explicit demands. “SIT IN IT, BRUNO!” one user typed, and the suggestion spread like wildfire. “Yeah, squish that mess, big baby!” His face burned, but the heat in his gut was stronger, urging him on. He hesitated, then lowered himself back into the chair, the diaper’s contents shifting with a soft, wet sound that made his fur bristle. The sensation was overwhelming — humiliating, yet undeniably intimate, a secret shared with hundreds of strangers. He gripped the desk, his claws leaving faint scratches in the wood, and tried to steady his voice. “Y’all are gonna be the death of me, you know that, chat?” he growled, but the words were thick with relentless need.
A notification pinged, sharp and sudden. “User GrizzlyLad420 has gifted a Hitachi Magic Wand!” The chat exploded again, and Bruno’s eyes widened, recognizing the implication. His laugh was nervous, almost a bark. “No way, chat. I ain’t gettin’ myself off on stream. Don’t play me like that!” But the teasing was merciless, the words slicing through his defenses. “Show us that messy diaper, stinky bear!” “Bet you love sitting in it!” The degradation hit like a wave, each insult — stinky, filthy, big baby — stoking the fire in his loins. His resolve crumbled, and with a shaky breath, he stood again, hooking his claws into the waistband of his cargo pants. Slowly, deliberately, he slid them down, turning so the webcam caught the full view of his diaper — sagging, stained, the once-white padding now marred with his bear-grade mess. The chat roared, users flooding in, their numbers climbing as word spread.
“Look at that stinky bear!” one typed. “He’s lovin’ every second of this.” Bruno’s face was a furnace, but his body betrayed him, the diaper’s bulk pressing against him in ways that made his knees weak. He reached for a Hitachi wand — he kept one nearby, a private indulgence he’d never admitted to — and flicked it on. The low buzz filled the room, a counterpoint to his heavy breathing. He pressed it to his diapered crotch, the vibrations pulsing through the padding, sending jolts of pleasure that made his muzzle drop open. His free paw gripped the desk, his tail twitching as he leaned into the sensation, the chat’s horny delight egging him on. “Go on, Bruno! Make a sticky mess of yourself!” The room spun, the boundaries between shame and ecstasy blurring, and as the wand hummed against him, he surrendered to the moment, a bear laid bare in all his raw, messy truth.
The Hitachi wand buzzed like a swarm of bees against Bruno’s diapered crotch, the vibrations sinking deep into the sodden padding, each pulse drawing a low, shuddering moan from his muzzle. His den was a furnace, the air thick with the scent of sweat and the musky tang of his filled diaper, its sagging bulk a heavy, filthy anchor that tethered him to the moment. His chestnut fur glistened, matted with perspiration, as he leaned into the desk, one paw gripping the edge while the other pressed the wand harder against his bulge. The webcam captured it all—his heaving chest, the desperate glint in his golden eyes, the way his tail twitched with every jolt of pleasure. The chat was a roaring tide, their messages flooding the screen with a mix of filth and adoration.
“💦💦 Look at that stinky bear go!” one user typed, followed by a string of poop emojis. “I’m so hard watching you, Bruno!” another confessed, the words raw and unfiltered. Some went further, their admissions spilling out like a dam burst. “Pissed my jeans just watching you fill that diaper!” “Messed my briefs ’cause of you!” The confessions hit Bruno like a gut punch, each one fanning the flames in his loins. He imagined them — faceless strangers hunched over keyboards, their pants darkening with wet patches, their chairs creaking as they squirmed in their own messes, all because of him. The thought made his head spin. “Sit on my face, Bruno,” one user begged. “Use my muzzle like a toilet seat.” He pressed the wand harder, the buzz drowning out the world.
His smartphone pinged, a relentless chime cutting through the haze. Notifications from chat users flooded in — photos and videos, grainy but unmistakable. A wolf in a tight diaper, the padding visibly swollen. A fox squatting over a chair, smirking as he filled his own. Text messages followed, teasing and reverent. “Look at me, Bruno, I’m just like you!” one read, attached to a clip of a raccoon rubbing himself through a stained diaper. Bruno’s eyes widened, his pulse hammering. They weren’t just watching — they were joining him, dedicating their own filthy acts to the bear who’d bared it all. The realization settled over him like a heavy cloak: this was his destiny now, to wear diapers not just in secret but as a beacon for others, a king of crinkling excess. His followers’ devotion, their willingness to soil themselves for him, was a crown he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t refuse.
The wand’s relentless hum pushed him to the edge, his body trembling as he ground against it. With a hard roar, he came, the release flooding his diaper in hot, sticky spurts that mingled with the mess already there. He sagged against the desk, panting, and let the wand fall silent. Slowly, deliberately, he rubbed his paw over the front of his diaper, spreading the slimy warmth through the padding, savoring the filthy chaos he’d created. The chat cheered, their emojis a riot of hearts and explosions, but Bruno’s mind was elsewhere, caught in the afterglow of his surrender.
Clarity hit like a cold wind. Panic flared, and he scrambled to refocus, claws fumbling over the keyboard as Starstrike blinked back to life. “Alright, chat, let’s… um… let’s get back to the game,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He blasted through enemy ships, his movements mechanical, but the chat wouldn’t let him escape. “Time for a change, stinky bear!” “Bet that diaper’s a swamp now!” The teasing was relentless, but as the minutes ticked by, something shifted. The weight of his diaper, the stickiness against his fur felt right. This was who he was now, BigBearBruno, the bear who’d turned shame into a spectacle. The subscriptions, the gifts, the Hitachi wand — they were proof of his power, a currency of desire he hadn’t known he could wield.
An idea sparked, bright and dangerous. With all the support pouring in, he could lean into this, monetize it. An account on a niche app, one where he could post videos of himself in diapers—wearing them, using them, basking in their bulk—would rake in cash from fans this devoted. He pictured it: late nights filming, his den lit by soft lights, his fur gleaming as he teased the camera, crinkling with every move. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through him, but also a question that lingered as Starstrike droned on. How far would he go? How much of himself would he bare to the world, and what would it cost? Bruno’s claws paused over the keys, his eyes drifting to the webcam, and in its unblinking gaze, he saw not just a lens but a mirror, reflecting the bear he was becoming.
If you like this story, subscribe for Digital Access, for premium, more detailed stories starting at $9.95/mo. Want to see more free stories like these? Share this story and tag me @crinklecattales.com on Bluesky!