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"The Ball Boy on the Court" Challenge
Aussie Open Wetting 1

by Big Kid Now

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 23 Sep 2011

One of the ball boys wet himself in the middle of my tennis match at the Australian Open, delaying the fucking thing for forty minutes. Needless to say, I was bloody furious. I was already behind in the game as it was and that little brat's bullshit distraction only threw me off even further. After the game, I was so furious, I ran to the ball pit. The cheeky little bastard was there, still clad in his wet shorts, looking very much petrified. His handler had kept him there to wait for me. The little sod knew he'd incur my wrath.

“What the fuck was that?” I shouted, not bothering to mind my manners around a minor. “You're too old to piddle yourself like some infant. You cost me the fucking match with your impromptu wee session.”

“Imagine that, a boy his age,” the handler tut-tutted, wrinkling his nose while admonishing the lad. “A teenager having such a childish accent!”

“A teenager?” I shouted. I was flabbergasted.

“I'm 15, sir,” the petrified boy stuttered.

“He doesn't look a day over 12!” I said, referring to him as if he wasn't even in the room. And I was being generous with my estimate! 11 was probably more accurate. Hearing of his true age came as quite a shock to me.

“I'm still prepubescent, sir,” he confirmed quietly, looking down to the floor as those words of shame escaped from his lips. Such a mature admission coming from such an immature boy, I thought.

“I see,” I responded, considering the situation.

The handler then whispered something into my ear. The boy was unable to hear. “Very well,” I replied casually. The handler left the pit as I turned to stare at the soaked teenager who ruined the biggest tennis match of my career with his infantile incontinence.

“Take off your shoes,” I barked.

“Y-y-y-ess, s-s-sirr,” he stuttered, immediately complying, clenching his eyelids tight to stop himself from crying.

“Lower your pants!” I ordered.

“W-W-What?” He seemed genuinely surprised by my request.

“You're fucking wet,” I pointed out, clearly exasperated by this silly boy who couldn't grasp the obvious. “You need to get out of those soaked clothes.”

He looked down and then shyly lowered his short white pants, revealing a pair of tight white little boy briefs drenched in urine.

“Aren't you too old for those, lad?” I said, referring to his juvenile underpants. “No, on second thought, obviously not.”

He blushed furiously at my caustic remark, knowing it was well-earnt and the complete truth.

“Off with those too!” I commanded.


“But nothing,” I admonished. “You've already admitted you're still a prepubescent little boy, which means you've surely not got very much at all to see.”

At this cruel crack, tears dropped from his eyes. But he was more scared than shamed, and so he peeled off his sodden briefs. Unsurprisingly, his penis was puny and he was still completely hairless down there. As if the high pitch of his voice weren't enough of a hint, it was now confirmed that his bollocks hadn't dropped even a centimetre.

He tried to cover himself, but I had already seen what little there was to see. I shook my head in disgust. It was the Aussie Open and this wee-soaked sod whose balls hadn't even fucking dropped yet had caused me to drop the ball on the biggest opportunity of my professional life. I was annoyed now and quickly startled the little git by grabbing him and forcing him over my lap!

“What are you doing?” he whined.


And then I began spanking him on his bare bottom like the small errant child of 11 or 12 he appeared to be instead of the 15-year-old teenager he actually was. It wasn't long before he was screaming and begging for mercy like a little boy, reduced to a puddle of sobs and screams.

His baby smooth arse cheeks felt like silk against the palm of my hand and bounced like a tennis ball, only this time my hand was the racket.

The boy's handler returned to the pit while I was winding down the spanking and nodded his approval. Seeing the bag in the older gent's hand, I knew he was successful in achieving what he'd whispered into my ear about earlier.

After completing the spanking, I kept the boy in position as he cried his little naughty eyes out.

“Here you go,” the handler told me, handing me the bag. I dipped my hand inside and retrieved something. The prepubescent 15-year-old was none the wiser until he felt the not entirely unfamiliar sensation of his butt cheeks being parted by a chilly baby wipe.

“N-No,” he moaned. “What are you d-d-doing?”

“When little boys wee themselves, they need to be cleaned,” I explained to the physically and emotionally immature teenage boy. “I'm cleaning you.”

He quietly sobbed. He was so completely and utterly humiliated now.

Then I turned him around. Still cradled against my lap, his eyes met mine and his wide pupils conveyed tremendous shame as I began baby-wiping his underdeveloped crotch.

After I finished washing his privates, I carried him to a nearby bench in the pit and instructed him to remain lying down.

His eyes grew wide as I pulled out a bottle of baby cream from the bag.

“This will prevent a rash,” I explained. “You were in those wet pants for quite some time.”

I wasted no time in rubbing it into his little front bits and then raising his legs and smearing it all over his backside and even between the cheeks of his bottom.

Next came the bottle of baby powder, which I sprinkled vigorously across his exposed botty and genitals.

Despite the baby wipes, baby cream, and baby powder, he was genuinely shocked and horrified by what came next. I pulled out a nappy, or diaper as they say in America.

He tried to retreat, but I quickly shoved him back down, raised his legs, and smacked his reddened arse a few more times while he was in the diaper position. He was trapped and knew it, and with no other choice, he acquiesced to being nappied. After all the grief his toddler-like loss of control had caused, part of him knew he deserved what was now happening to him.

Clad in only a white tennis jersey, baby nappy, and short white socks, he felt himself being forcefully pulled by the hand. I dragged him off the bench, out of the pit, and into the open. My grip was tight like a vice, and all he could do was drag his feet as I pulled him toward the tennis court. The fans who had paid their good money for a ticket to the Aussie Open were about to get real value for their dollar. Every other ball boy, both now and well into the future, would remember this and heed its lesson.

Once we stepped onto the court, I held up the red-faced, teary-eyed, diapered lad and paraded him around like tennis's version of Baby New Year. Cameras flashed over and over, and the crowd went absolutely wild!

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