Diaperfag training: Day 5
The morning light filtered through the curtains as I woke up, the familiar dampness of my diaper clinging to my skin. My head felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish, as if the weight of the week ahead was already pressing down on me. Monday. Back to reality. Back to responsibility. But first, back to the mess I’d made. The stale stench of urine hung in the air, a sharp reminder of my night. My diaper was soaked , thick and sagging between my legs. I shifted slightly, feeling the wetness press against me. No time for this, I thought, glancing at the clock. 9:30 AM. My friend was coming at 10.
But I needed to mess. Desperately. The pressure in my gut was unbearable, a constant, gnawing reminder of my training. I could feel my heart racing, my mind spiraling as I thought about the options. I could just use the toilet, I thought, the idea flickering like a forbidden beacon in my brain. He’d never know. It’d be quicker, cleaner, more convenient. But then I remembered the conversation from the first day of my training. The one that sealed my fate.
I’d asked daddy if he would help encourage me to mess as and when I needed too. His response had been swift, unyielding. “Oh, you don’t have a choice. You are 100% forbidden from any potty. You will poop and pee in your diaper because you will always be lesser than me and all people.”
The memory of his words sent a shiver down my spine, a twisted mix of dread and arousal. I didn’t have a choice. That was the point. I stripped down to my soaked diaper, my hands trembling as I squatted like a toddler in the middle of the bedroom. The pressure in my gut intensified, and with a grunt, I pushed, feeling the mess fill my diaper. The sensation was both disgusting and exhilarating, a reminder of how far I’d fallen. I stood up, the weight of the mess sagging against me, and hurried to the shower.
By the time my friend arrived, I was dressed in a single pink Northshore diaper, a thick waddler stuffer bulging inside, and a black onesie to keep it all in place. My bum looked huge, the edges of the pink diaper peeking out, a stark contrast to the black fabric. God, what if he notices? I thought, my stomach churning with anxiety as I opened the door.
I led him inside. My heart pounded as we got to work, every movement reminding me of the diaper beneath my onesie. The smell of my mess lingered faintly in the air, and I prayed he wouldn’t notice. Act normal, just act normal. But the humiliation was a constant weight, a reminder that this was my life now.
When he left half an hour later, I collapsed onto the bed, my mind racing. There was so much to do—work, managing my business, training at the gym, preparing for the part-time job starting next week. The stress was overwhelming, and now, on top of it all, I had this. My training. My exposure. The thought made my stomach clench, and I reached for my phone, dreading what I might find.
I logged into the site, my heart sinking as I saw the video Daddy had posted on his page. It was the one from Friday—the one where I’d begged, nearly in tears, for him to keep me in diapers forever. I clicked play, my hands trembling as the video loaded. There I was, naked except for a pink and white bib, my tripple-thick diapers soaked with piss. Triple diapers, I thought, the absurdity of it hitting me. No incontinent person would wear this. This wasn’t about function—it was about humiliation. About looking as faggy and degenerate as possible. My pink ruffled socks and glossy black dolly shoes completed the look, but it was my face that killed me. The desperation, the pleading in my eyes as I stared dead into the camera. I looked pathetic. Broken.
I tried to focus on my work, but it was impossible. My stomach was in knots, my mind spiraling as the humiliation washed over me. This is the most degrading thing I’ve ever done, I thought, my face burning with shame. But even as the shame consumed me, the excitement built. To be seen like this, so pathetic, so exposed—it turned me on in a way I couldn’t explain. My clit throbbed, the warmth of my wet diaper only adding to the sensation. I found myself rubbing the outside of the diaper, moaning softly as the pleasure built. I’m stuck in diapers, I thought, my breath hitching. I’m being blackmailed. Fuck, this is such a rush.
The slightest touch was enough to push me over the edge, and I knew I had to stop. I couldn’t allow myself to cum, not now. Not without Daddy’s permission. The post-nut clarity would be too much, the shame overwhelming. So I reached for my chastity cage, less than an inch in length, pink, clit-shaped prison that would keep me under control. I slid it on, the snug fit desensitizing the sensation of my diaper enough to calm the storm raging inside me.
My anal stretching sessions started today. I started with the smallest plug (still large by other people’s standards), warming up my pussy before moving on to the larger one—the one the size of a beer can, thick as a small fist. I lubed it up and pushed it in, the initial pain making me grunt. I kept it in for the full 30 minutes, the discomfort growing with each passing moment. By the end, I was immobilized, legs spread, face down, ass up, grunting as I counted the seconds. What am I doing with my life? I thought, my mind wandering. All my peers are at work, being responsible, and here I am, taped in thick diapers with a giant plug in my pussy, my clit streaming pre-cum into my diapers.
I had ordered some locking mitts on Amazon, I decided I’d go and collect them in double diapers, layering them for extra thickness. I peeled off my wet, soiled one and tossed it on the floor, then taped myself into a fresh one not bothering to clean myself up. The fresh diaper felt strange against my skin, but I knew it wouldn’t stay clean for long. I pulled on a second diaper over the first, adjusting the tapes until they were snug. The bulk between my legs was unmistakable, even under my baggy sweatpants. No one would mistake me for a normal man now.
The exposure earlier lingered at the edges of my mind, surfacing in quiet moments, but I refused to let it rattle me. Processing it felt pointless. It had already happened. If anything, I started thinking about where facial recognition would be in five or ten years—how easily this kind of thing would be flagged and cataloged. No doubt, by then, I’d have been exposed more times than I could count.
But by the end of the day, I landed on a simple truth: fuck it. Who really cares? People get off on all kinds of things. If someone wants to judge me for mine, that’s their problem, not mine. I know who I am. My morals are in check, I help people. I care. I’m a role model, people want to be me and be around me. If this ever comes back to bite me, I’ll handle it.
Yeah, it’s degrading, but that’s the point. And I own that.
So, I’m not going to waste my energy worrying. The world keeps moving, and so do I. Another day done.
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