When my master agreed to let me play in the local adult softball league, I remember being both surprised and very happy. It wasn’t often that master allowed me to pursue recreational activities that distracted from taking care of his needs and his house. I played baseball in high school, which was only about 8 years ago, so I knew that I would probably outperform many of the older men who generally played in the softball league.

 

Master had complete control over me. Part of him agreeing to take me in was that I had to give him everything that I owned and submit without limits. That’s why I was nervous about even asking for privileges like recreational softball.

 

I soon found out the reason for his enthusiasm for the sport. Baseball pants. He had a thing for them. He smiled really big when I first mentioned playing and told me that he only regretted not thinking about it himself. He said that he couldn’t wait to see me in a uniform.

 

Of course, the majority of players in adult leagues don’t wear the tight pants that younger boys generally wear. Master didn’t care about that though. Leaving me at home, in my cage, he shopped for the perfect pair of pants. I was still naked and caged when he showed them to me—crisp and white, just like I had worn in high school.

 

The only problem was that in high school, I wore long sliding shorts beneath them. They were the length of normal shorts, but tight. The white pants were a little see through, but the shorts covered the top half of my legs and didn’t have the “underwear” look. When master directed me to try on the pants that he purchased, I was only allowed to wear the underwear that he had provided for daily use—white briefs. Anyone who was looking could clearly see the lines of the briefs near the top of the pants. Few people seemed to notice at the first practice, but I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed because I knew that everyone could clearly see my underwear. Master remarked about how cute my ass looked in the pants and I blushed. I didn’t know whether to feel good about the complement or embarrassed about the exposure that led to the complement.

 

Halfway through the practices leading up to the first game, I was told that the white briefs had just been a warm up for me. That’s when my master began issuing new briefs, first ones with bright colors. A few practices later, the bright colored ones were replaced by patterened briefs with lightning bolts and superheros. The faint line that the whitey tighties had provided was replaced by a colorful, childlike brief that could be completely seen beneath the white pants. All of the other guys and their girlfriends or families could see exactly what underwear I was wearing as if I hadn’t been wearing pants at all.

 

The day of the first game, I realized that it could get more embarrassing, much more embarrassing. It was an early Saturday game, and I was still naked in my cage from the night before. My master’s vanilla boyfriend had already walked past me on his way out, looking down at me with an uncharacteristic look of pity. My master unlocked the cage and handed me a cock ring. I pulled my balls through the ring and waited. My master handed me my white baseball pants and walked into the kitchen.

 

I stood next to my cage for a moment. He hadn’t given me the normal briefs—he hadn’t given me underwear at all. Perhaps he had forgotten, I thought. Still, I knew better than to join him in the kitchen without the pants. I slipped them on and walked towards the bathroom mirror. The outline of my cock and balls was clearly visible. I turned and bent over slightly. As the pants tightened in the back, I could see the crack between my butt cheeks.

 

I jumped when my master walked up to me. I felt the cock ring begin vibrating. I turned back towards the mirror and could clearly see my erection beneath the tight pants.

 

“I’m going to love playing with this today,” my master teased.

 

“Please master,” I begged, “you can see my cock through these, please let me wear underwear.”

 

“You mean that tinny little penis that you have there,” my master said, pointing. He continued, “Barely…I thought that you didn’t like the briefs that you were wearing.”

 

“Please master,” I continued to plead, “please, I’ll never complain about the briefs again.”

 

My master promised and said that he would fix my problem, claiming that he would make sure that I was completely covered and that no one would see my cock. He left the room, only to return a few minutes later with his “solution” to my problem.

 

That was this morning. Now, as I stand at second base, playing the field with my teammates, I have learned my lesson about complaining about my master’s choices. My master had, indeed, come back to something that provided much more coverage—more coverage than even the briefs had provided, but I wished that I was nude beneath the pants. I looked nervously at the player behind me. Not only was I the only one in the field who was wearing baseball pants. I was pretty sure that I was the only guy who was wearing a diaper beneath them. As I moved towards each ball, I could feel the crinkle and padding of the thick diaper between my legs. Now, it was the sixth inning—the inning where my master said he would do a diaper check. I made myself pee as I walked off of the field and stepped to the side of the dugout. He discretely felt the warmth of the pee filled diaper and smacked my butt before sending me back to the game.

 

True to my word, I never complained about having to wear the briefs again.