The soft pink walls of the nursery feel like they’re closing in as you wiggle against the straps holding you to the changing table. The plastic is cool beneath your back, the crinkle of your thick diaper echoing in the quiet room. You’re wet, again, and the dampness clings to your skin, a constant, embarrassing reminder. You can’t even protest, not with the pacifier plugged firmly between your lips, the silicone bulb pressing against your tongue. All you can do is whimper, your cheeks burning as you hear the light, mocking giggle from above.
There she stands, your tormentor, dressed in a white shirt, the cartoon cat on the front grinning just as mischievously as she is. Her hair is pulled up into two high pigtails, each tied with a teal bow that matches the ones on her head. She looks every bit the picture of playful innocence, except for the way her fingers tap against her chin as she studies you, her head tilted to the side. And, of course, the way her own diaper crinkles softly as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
“Aww, look at you,” she coos, her voice sing-song and sweet, but her eyes sparkling with mischief. “All strapped down like a good widdle baby. Can’t even move, can ya?” She reaches out, her fingers trailing down your chest before pressing lightly against the front of your diaper. You squirm, the wet padding squishing under her touch, and she giggles. “Ohhh, someone’s wet. You… uh…” She scrunches her nose, clearly trying to remember the word. “You are… in-con-tin-ent?” She stumbles over the syllables, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Ugh, that’s a stupid word.” She huffs, crossing her arms. “Daddy says it, but it’s too hard.”
She pouts for a second, then her face brightens. “I know! You’re just a pee-pee-pants!” She claps her hands together, delighted with herself. “Yeah! That’s way better.” She pokes your diaper again, and you let out a muffled noise, your face burning. “Pee-pee-pants, pee-pee-pants!” she chants, bouncing slightly on her toes. The crinkle of her diaper joins the sound, a reminder that she’s in one too, not because she needs it, but because she likes it. Or, well, because Daddy likes to see her in one. Mostly, she can hold it just fine. Mostly.
She notices your glare, or at least, your attempt at one, and grins, leaning in closer. “Uh-oh, someone’s grumpy. But you know what? You don’t get to be grumpy. Not when you’re all tied up like this.” She pokes your diaper again, and you let out another muffled noise. “Daddy says you have to stay in your nappies ‘cause you… uh…” She waves her hand dismissively. “You know. Pee-pee-pants stuff.” She giggles, clearly pleased with her solution.
Her fingers linger, pressing a little harder this time, and you feel the warmth of your blush spreading down your neck. It’s bad enough that you’re wet, but then, oh no, you feel that. The telltale twitch, the slight stiffening of something you really don’t want her to notice. But of course, she does. Her eyes widen, and her grin turns downright wicked.
“Ooooh!” she gasps, pressing her palm flat against your diaper, right where your tiny, traitorous erection is straining against the padding. “What’s this? Are you getting all hot in your diaper, pee-pee-pants?” She wiggles her eyebrows, her voice dripping with mock horror. “Daddy’s gonna be so mad if he finds out you’re being a naughty boy! Diapers are only for… you know.” She gestures vaguely at her own diaper, then at yours. “Pee-pee and other stuff. Not for… that.”
She pats your diaper a few times, each tap making you squirm more. “You’re such a baby. A wet baby. A hard baby!” She dissolves into laughter, clapping her hands over her mouth as if she’s just told the funniest joke in the world.
You tug at the straps, but they don’t budge. The pacifier bobs in your mouth as you try to form words, to protest, to beg her to stop, but all that comes out is a string of muffled noises. She leans in even closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Aww, are you trying to talk? But you can’t, can you? ‘Cause you’re just a widdle baby who can’t even hold his pee-pee.” She pulls back, her expression shifting to one of exaggerated sympathy. “Poor baby. All tied up, all wet, all… excited.” She giggles again, giving your diaper one last, deliberate squeeze before pulling her hand away.
She skips around the changing table, her onesie crinkling softly with every movement. “Daddy’s gonna change you soon, I bet. He’ll take care of his soggy baby.” She stops at the foot of the table, her hands resting on the railing as she looks down at you. “But until then… you just have to stay like this. All wet. All helpless.” She sticks her tongue out at you, her eyes twinkling. “And all mine to tease.”
