DNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR, ACTIVELY BIGOTED, PEDOPHILE/ZOOPHILE, ANYTHING LIKE THIS = INSTA BLOCK!!!
Ageless/Blank blogs will be blocked!
Last Updated: June 1 2026
okay, now intro stuff!
Hi! I'm Joel, my pronouns are he/they/it, I'm a bi male 🩷💜💙. I'm a 21 y/o AuDHD young adult in Vancouver Canada 🍁. If you can't tell by my username or posts, I'm into AB/DL and wear from time to time. I am a little more often than not, but will step up as a regressor/cg on occasion.
This is a primarily ab/dl blog, but I'll also post some nonspecific personal rants from time to time (gotta have some privacy😉) mixed in with the little stuff. Being AuDHD, I will get distracted and post some random thing about whatever I'm hyperfixating on at any given moment😁
My interests include gaming (video and board), watching tv (currently watching supernatural), reading fantasy, writing, film (making and watching), cars, and photography. Some of my fixations include minecraft, pokemon, Percy Jackson novels, and motorsports. I will happily rant to you about everything in the automotive industry if you let me and it will be a very educational discussion for you :D
I'm something of a kinkster myself, so here's a quick list of (some) kinks I'm into; ab/dl, sub/dom, hypnokink, 4gepl4y, bondage, cnc, positive affirmation.
If you care, my little age is like 0-4 probably? Knowing for sure is hard because how do you quantify the vibes? Vibe = smol lil guy. I need guidance, I need a parent. Just.. y'know, a lil guy
With that said,
Life exists outside of kink. DO NOT dm me to ask if I want to be your little or your slut or your daddy. If I do engage in kink with you privately I will absolutely get to know you beforehand!
I am a non-sexual regressee and an ab/dl. Let's not mix up or blur the lines of nonsexual vs. sexual, it's cringe and not ok. Being said, I may post when in littlespace at my own risk.
🌟 TAG DIRECTORY TIME: 🌟
"#joel's diapers" is the RARE occasion I post pics of me wearing diapers. (No I am not incont. No, I do not wear 24/7. stop asking)
"#joel's asks" are mostly whatever ends up in my inbox/asks.
"#joel's stories" I sometimes write short stories and will post them under this
"#joel's ramblings" have I mentioned that I'm ADHD? there's gonna be some rants posted under this one
"#me" is just me. most likely unfiltered, real shit :)
my dm's are open, but please do not sext/hornypost/romance unprovoked. I will probably block you if you do and if you're particularly weird, might post about it :o
If you want to find me elsewhere, or even just send me a gift, check out my Linktree
uhh, I think that's it? I love you all! Stay safe out there and remember to hab fun :)
ab/dl is thrilling, rape roleplay can be intimate and sweet when done responsibly, calling my fellow trans gf my sister is the sexiest thing ever, and people who cant distinguish from fantasy and try to kill these mindsets with puritanism are poison for the soul.
:3 also, ab/dl diaper brands are fuckin legendary, need me a way to wear these always. so totally sogchamp fr fr real
A girl who has been regressed. It was against her will, she doesn't want this, but it happened and she's given up fighting it. She's been reduced to this humiliated, sexless, helpless, broken thing, even her resistance, when she still had the will to resist, twisted into something silly and infantile. Screaming and begging became tantrums, attempts at independence became playing pretend, anger became grumpiness, and attempts at giving her new Mommy the silent treatment... weren't even noticed, because no one cared what a big baby said anyway.
Not by her caregiver, but by an occasional babysitter, someone on the periphery of her life, someone she could've been friends with if she hadn't been turned into... this.
This change isn't as bad as they usually are, she's only wet, thank fuck, and even though the babysitter is a few years older than her actual, if no longer official, age, the other girl has expressed sympathy for her situation and allowed briefs moments of rebellious maturity on the rare occasions the adult baby is left in her care. Her sympathy doesn't extend to defying Mommy's authority, but still, it's a welcome kindness.
New oversized diaper secured, the babysitter helps the adult baby to her feet. The reluctant child blushes and squirms and whines, self control degraded by months of this treatment, as a onesie is pulled over her head, her babysitter's hands brushing breasts, hips, inner thighs, and thickly padded crinkling crotch as the snaps are secured.
Then those same hands come back up, adjusting the collar and short sleeves of the infantile garment so it sits better, and then linger a moment too long on the girl's shoulders.
The regressed girl stares at her temporary caregiver in confusion. Does her babysitter want her to have a pacifier in? Or maybe a humiliating lisped thank you for the fresh diaper? Wait, is something wrong? Did she do something bad? Oh god, she's did something naughty without realizing again and now one of the last people who actually acknowledges how old she used to be, no, should be, is going to punish her, this can't be happeni-
And then, before either woman can quite process it or commit to moving, they are kissing.
i really love 'embarassment' in this space of play, but i'm not that interested in 'humiliation'. it's kind of a narrow distinction but i'll elaborate on this more later
i suppose it's as simple as the two being essentially similiar in how they are recieved, but one deriving from cruelty and the other from kindness (within the imagined play-space). humiliation in ageplay often derives from drawing a contrast between what the subject is or is doing (being or acting childlike) and what they ought to be or do (be mature or act in a manner befitting an adult). for me personally, i am more compelled when my childishness is treated as overt, self-evident, and even banal, and i prefer to be treated with the sort of overbearing, inconsiderate and autonomy-destroying 'kindness' one associates with childhood.
reminders that i am supposed to be adult are unwelcome; they break down the fiction, disrupt my capacity to engage. while in the space, let us agree that i am a child, i am incapable, i do require care and monitoring and guidance and discipline. that i might find this distressing, embarassing and difficult to accept has no bearing on the situation. blithe ignorance of how uncomfortable, shy or embarassed i am- because in their eyes this is all perfectly natural and normal- is a really wonderful dynamic. but if this actually is gross, nonsensical, unfitting to my being a grown woman, then the entire fictive dynamic no longer makes sense to me, and i'm left more annoyed than humiliated.
when i think more carefully, i think i do see room for me to enjoy intentionally cruel humiliation within the space, but it has to be exist within the framework of 'dealing with a child' and must not disrupt that fiction (note that none of this need align with how the dominant thinks children should actually be treated, obviously). it makes no sense to mock a child for dressing childishly; that's normal!
this goes hand-in-hand with a preference that every action the dominant takes be plausibly 'for my own good', have some child-rearing justification, even if it is overtly abusive, inappropriate or simply unbearably embarassing. i am after all only small; how could i possibly understand what's best for me? smother my protests and carry on smiling. it's what i need.
I have never felt like a “sexy” woman. I’m clumsy, my boobs are small, my curves are odd, and most of all, I feel like a little girl trying to pretend - I’ve just never felt super womanly, or like any kind of a vixen…
In my diapers, I generally feel “right” and honest as it matches & explains the ways I feel small in my heart & mind; physically, they fit me just right and accentuate all the right things. Most of all, I feel confident & happy in diapers… in a fun twist, it turns out, diapers make me feel incredibly sexy.
(Don’t tell the grown-ups I said this, but - I love my diapers and I’m never, ever, gonna stop wearing them. 🤭)
why is admitting that you’re using your diaper so hot????? like mid conversation dada notices i’ve tensed up and he just feels the front of my diap swell and says all teasingly oh baby, did you just use your diaper? are you still using it? that’s okay baby girl, let it all out.
The email had been sitting in your inbox for three days. "Urgent Call: Pampers Men Commercial Casting." You’d laughed when Sarah first showed it to you, tossing your phone onto the couch like it was a joke. "Yeah, right. Like I’d ever do that." But she’d just smirked, her fingers already tapping away on her laptop, pulling up the details. "Babe, it’s five grand for a day’s work. And you’d be perfect for it."
You’d rolled your eyes. "Perfect for a diaper commercial? Really?"
Sarah had just grinned. "You’re hot, you’re confident, and you’ve got that whole ‘all-American jock’ thing going on. They want someone who looks like he’s never worn a diaper. Irony sells, baby."
You’d scoffed, but the number had stuck in your head. Five thousand dollars. That was rent for two months. A new set of weights for your home gym. A weekend in Vegas with the guys. And all you had to do was… this.
Now, standing under the blinding studio lights, the reality of it hits you like a sack of bricks. The diaper is thicker than you expected. Not just a thin pad, but a full, crinkling monstrosity that swallows your ass whole. The tape is snug, the leg holes tight around your thighs, and every time you shift, the plastic rustles like a damn announcement: "Look at me. I’m wearing a diaper."
The set is designed to look like a cozy living room, plush couch, a coffee table with a half-empty mug, a TV playing some generic sitcom in the background. But the real focus is the oversized baby blanket spread out on the floor, right in the center of the shot. Your spot. Your throne.
Sarah sits in a director’s chair, her legs crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. She’s loving this. You can tell. She’s the one who pushed for you to take the job, who drove you here this morning, who whispered "You’re gonna do great, baby" as they led you to wardrobe. And now she’s watching you like this is the most entertaining thing she’s ever seen.
The director, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties named Linda, claps her hands. "Alright, Jake. Let’s get you in position. We’re going for ‘relaxed.’ Like you’re at home, just lounging in your diaper. Natural. Comfortable."
You force a laugh. "Yeah, because that’s exactly how I spend my Sundays."
Linda doesn’t even crack a smile. "Just follow the script. You’ll do fine."
The script. Right. The script that involves you sitting on a blanket, bouncing your knees, and pretending like this is normal. Like any red-blooded American guy would choose to spend his afternoon in a diaper, sipping juice from a sippy cup.
The camera starts rolling. The voiceover begins, smooth and reassuring: "Tired of accidents getting in the way of your life? Pampers for Men: because even the strongest guys need a little extra protection."
You’re supposed to react—laugh, look embarrassed, then embrace it. So you do. You force a grin, shifting your weight from foot to foot, letting the diaper crinkle loudly under your shorts. The sound echoes in the studio, and you can feel the crew’s eyes on you. A few of them are trying not to laugh. One guy in the back is outright smirking.
"Cut!" Linda calls. "Jake, you look like you’re about to bolt for the door. We need happy. We need confident."
Sarah stands up, walking over to you. She presses a hand to your chest, her fingers tracing the hem of your shirt. "Babe, you’re tensing up. Relax. It’s just a diaper." She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Besides, it’s not like you’re the only one."
You raise an eyebrow. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
She smirks. "Haven’t you noticed? The world’s changing. Guys are starting to… accept things." She gestures vaguely around the studio. "Hell, I bet half the women here have a boyfriend or a husband who wears at least pull-ups now. It’s trendy."
You scoff. "Trendy? Since when?"
"Since now," she says, poking your chest. "Since companies realized there’s a market for it. Since women realized they like taking care of their men. Since guys like you realized it’s easier to just… let go."
You open your mouth to argue, but Linda cuts in. "Jake, we’re rolling again. This time, commit."
The second take is worse.
This time, they want you to sit. Not just stand there, shifting uncomfortably, but plop your ass down on that ridiculous blanket, legs splayed, the diaper on full display. You hesitate, but the script says to do it, so you lower yourself down, the padding squishing beneath you. The crinkle is deafening. The crew laughs. Your face burns.
The voiceover continues, "Pampers for Men: because real strength is knowing when to let go."
And then… it happens.
A warmth spreads through the padding, slow and inevitable. You freeze. No. No, no, no. But it’s too late. The wetness indicators darken, the heat seeping into the gel core, the diaper swelling even more between your legs. The crew erupts into applause. Linda grins. "Perfect! That’s the shot!"
Sarah claps, her laughter ringing out. "Oh my god, Jake, you actually peed!" Her voice is a mix of delight and teasing, and you can feel your face turning red.
The camera stops rolling, but the damage is done. The diaper is heavy, sagging with the proof of your humiliation. And the worst part? No one seems shocked. No one’s horrified. If anything, they’re impressed.
Linda steps forward, adjusting your shirt. "That was exactly what we needed. Authentic. Relatable." She pats your shoulder. "You’re a natural, Jake."
Sarah crouches in front of you, her eyes sparkling. She presses a hand to your soaked diaper, her fingers tracing the swollen padding. "See? Not so bad, is it?" Her voice is soft, almost proud. "You look so cute like this. I bet you could get used to it."
You open your mouth to protest, but the words die in your throat. Because as you sit there, dripping, the weight of the diaper between your legs doesn’t feel wrong. It feels… right. The warmth, the security, the way Sarah’s looking at you like you’re hers… it’s intoxicating.
Lunch break. You’re still in the diaper, For continuity," Linda had said, sitting on a folding chair in the corner of the studio, a sandwich in one hand, a juice box in the other. The crew is scattered around, some eating, some scrolling on their phones. A few of them keep glancing your way, smirking.
Sarah plops down next to you, stealing a fry from your plate. "So. What do you think?"
You take a bite of your sandwich, chewing slowly. "I think I just made a fool of myself in front of a room full of strangers."
She laughs. "You loved it."
"I did not."
"Liar." She nudges your shoulder. "You felt it. The way it… fits." She gestures to your lap. "Admit it. It’s nice. Not having to worry about anything."
You want to argue, but the truth is, she’s not wrong. There’s something… freeing about it. No pressure. No expectations. Just the thick padding, the snug fit, the way it holds you.
A guy from the lighting team walks by, nodding at you. "Nice work, man. My brother wears ‘em. Says it’s the best decision he ever made."
You blink. "Your… brother?"
He shrugs. "Yeah. Started with pull-ups, then moved to full diapers. His girlfriend loves it. Says he’s way more relaxed now." He grins. "Plus, no more laundry stains, you know?"
You stare at him, your sandwich forgotten in your hand. "That’s… a thing?"
"Oh yeah," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "You’d be surprised how many guys are switching over. One at a time, you know? Like a… I dunno, a movement."
Sarah smirks. "Told you."
The afternoon drags on. More takes. More sitting. More crinkling. By the fifth hour, you’ve stopped caring about the crew’s laughter. You’ve stopped caring about the camera. You’ve even stopped caring about the fact that you’re soaking wet and have been for most of the day.
Because here’s the thing: It feels good.
Not just the diaper, the attention. The way Sarah keeps touching you, adjusting your shirt, whispering in your ear. The way Linda keeps praising you, telling you you’re nailing it. The way the crew has gone from smirking at you to… respecting you. Like you’re part of some exclusive club.
By the final take, you’re bouncing on the blanket, laughing as the voiceover plays for the hundredth time. "Pampers for Men: because even the strongest guys need a little extra protection." You’re not acting anymore. You’re living it.
And when Linda finally calls "That’s a wrap!" and the crew starts packing up, you don’t move. You just sit there, the wet diaper clinging to you, the blanket beneath you, the rightness of it all settling into your bones.
Sarah kneels in front of you, her hands on your knees. "So… what do you think? Ready to sign a permanent contract?"
You look down at yourself, the soaked padding, the way it clings to you, the way it shouldn’t feel so good.
Hey hey. Here's the first half of a new story I've shared with my subscribers on Ream this week. Wanna read the whole dang thing? I've got a link to my Ream page at the bottom of this story, wherein you can find all the details about subscriptions.
Cliff only ever leaves his apartment at night–not until it's completely dark outside. I assume it’s for his job, though I have no idea what kind of work he does. Only once or twice have I seen him come home again, as it was in the very early morning hours before daybreak, and I’m rarely up that early myself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cliff in the daylight before. My pet theory is, obviously, that Cliff is a vampire.
Jenny has this small dog with wiry black fur and that barks way too much. I honestly can’t figure out why Jenny has a dog at all, seeing as how she dislikes it so much. Three or four times a day, I can hear her yelling at the dog to shut up. Whenever she takes the dog outside to do its business, she seems annoyed by the whole process. She’ll complain aloud that the dog is taking too long to ‘go.’ In the summer, she’ll complain that “it’s too hot out here for this.” But then, in the winter–and while she isn’t wearing any sort of jacket or hat–she’ll complain that “it’s way too cold out here for this.” If someone else is also outside, she’ll at least make an effort to pick up, and dispose of, her dog’s business. But if she thinks nobody’s watching, she just leaves it in the grass and drags the dog back inside. She’s not really fooling anyone, though, because I think she’s the only resident with a dog that walks it in that general area.
Helen might have been born with a cellphone attached to the side of her face and a cigarette wedged between her fingers. I have never seen the woman without either in her hands. I imagine that she’s always telling someone a story. “You’ll never believe what so-and-so did last night…” Or, “You have got to hear this…” It’s sometimes amusing to think of how connected Helen seems to be in her social circle, considering how she only ever seems to be hovering around her apartment, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.
No, I don’t actually know Cliff, Jenny, or Helen. I’ve never talked to them, or any of the other folks I spot hanging around my apartment complex day after day. They’re just colorful background characters in my own boring life story.
On a recent phone call with my sister, she asked if I had made any friends since moving out to Palm Lake. I said: “Sort of,” but didn’t bother to elaborate that my perceived ‘friends’ were just my neighbors that I watched all day from the comfort of my balcony.
I lucked out, as far as the position of my apartment goes. I’m on the fourth floor–the highest for this building–with a balcony that looks over the complex’s swimming pool, the grassy courtyard, and the balconies of the building on the other side of the pool. It’s from here where I spend most of my days, watching everyone else live their lives.
I sometimes wonder if any of my neighbors have taken note of me in the same way I’ve taken note of them. “Oh, there’s Mr. Creepy again, sitting on his balcony and just staring down at everyone. The dude never works or goes out–he just sits up there on his cheap plastic chair, drinks beer, and watches.”
If that’s what they say, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I do spend a lot of time on that cheap plastic chair on my balcony. And I do drink a lot of beer–though I’m honestly trying to cut back a little since noticing that I’ve put on a few extra pounds. And they’d be right to assume that I don’t have a job, because, well, I don’t. Haven’t had one in a while, actually. A few years ago, I helped develop an online platform for inventory management–horribly boring stuff. Some big retail conglomerate liked it so much they bought it from my team and I, making us all stupidly wealthy overnight. The kicker there? I heard that just a few years later, that conglomerate doesn’t even use our platform anymore. Meanwhile, I’m still living a pretty comfortable life.
My other teammates, they went and leveled up their lifestyles. Big, fancy cars. Big, fancy mansions. Trips around the world. Nice clothes. Expensive watches. Et cetera. But I never really needed things like that before, and that didn’t change after my windfall. I’m still driving the same beater car I’ve had for the last ten years. I have a pretty uninteresting mid-tier apartment with a pool I share with a hundred other residents. The rest of my money just sits in various accounts and investments, slowly growing larger in the most uninteresting ways. I’m hoping that someday I’ll figure out what I want to do with it all.
That’s always kind of been my problem, I guess. I don’t have a lot of drive. “No gumption,” my father always said. I don’t think I’m ‘lazy,’ per se–it just doesn’t take much for me to feel comfortable. I probably would’ve been happy working a menial 9-to-5 office job my whole life, blending in with all the other forgotten white-collar masses who were destined to never get ahead.
But here I am, with more money than I know what to do with, no job, and little desire to do anything except sit on the balcony of my apartment and watch the rest of the world do its thing.
===
Okay, full disclosure–I’m a little creepy. I’m not trying to be, but I’m just a curious person by nature. I see something, or someone, that interests me, and I like to delve into it. I want to explore it–learn everything I can about it. That’s how I became a Star Wars trivia obsessive. It’s how I stumbled into programming, which would eventually lead to the development and sale of Hangers-11.
And it’s why I bought a pair of binoculars, so that I can occasionally get better glimpses into the lives of my neighbors.
I try to be subtle about when I use them–reserving them mostly for night when I can keep my lights off and not be noticed as I sit on the balcony. If I have any reputation at all around here, it’s that I spend too much time watching everyone else from up high. I probably don’t also need to be known as ‘the creep with the binoculars’ on top of that.
But you see a lot when nobody thinks you’re looking. Even with their blinds open and the curtains pulled aside, people often seem to feel safe and free in their own homes–like they can do whatever they want, as they’re free from judgment.
Vampire Cliff watches a lot of pornography in his third-story apartment. And, given that I have a pretty good angle on his TV with my binoculars in hand, I’ll say that he watches some pretty extreme stuff. Sometimes he likes watching girls getting smacked around. But then, sometimes, he likes watching the girls doing the smacking.
Granny Smith, an older woman who lives a few apartments over from Cliff on the other side of the swimming pool, cooks a lot of food. She’s always tending to something on the stove, or putting something into–or taking something out from–the oven. It’s always a lot of food, too. Big pots. Big sheet pans. And it’s weird because I never see anyone else in her home eating the food. Where does all this food go? It seems like too much for one elderly woman, but what do I know?
And then there’s Dolly, who lives on the fourth floor of the building on the other side of the courtyard. Much like everyone else in our complex, she seems to have little sense of privacy while she’s in her own home. There are never any blinds or curtains obstructing her view outside, nor my view into her home. She struts around confidently, likely thinking that nobody can see what she’s doing. Sure, her balcony looks across the property to other properties–but there’s enough distance that you’re not going to see much. Either she’s banking on that, or she likes the little thrill of being exposed, because she acts like she’s got all the privacy she could ever need.
I call her ‘Dolly.’ Short for ‘babydoll.’ Because, well, that’s how she dresses. That’s how she acts.
The first time my binoculars zoomed into her apartment, I had no idea what I was looking at. There she was–this beautiful 20-something year old woman with peachy skin, thick blondish hair that bounced with her every step, and her petite frame–waddling around in these underpants that just seemed way too big. Like, they were thick. Bulky.
The only thing that I could think of that would be that thick was…a diaper. And as ridiculous and impossible as that initially seemed, the longer I gazed at her prancing about in her thick undergarments, the more sure I was that this was exactly what I was seeing.
Dolly likes her diapers. It’s rare that I see her without them on. Sometimes she’s wearing more than just a diaper, but the diaper is always there. Sometimes she wears these cute little dresses that don’t cover up the bulky padding. Other times, she crams her diaper into a small, tight pair of shorts. Sometimes she wears one of those onesies–those little bodysuits that snap at the bottom. Sometimes she has a pacifier in her mouth. I’ve seen her drinking from a baby bottle a few times. Jars of baby food. On a few occasions, I’ve watched her sitting on the floor, cuddling with a large teddy bear.
She’s weird, no doubt about it, but it’s an endearing sort of weird. And I’m weird too, for that matter–watching everyone’s private lives with my binoculars.
I’ve done some looking around online, learning that there’s a sizable community for the ‘adult baby’ types. I’m not entirely surprised by this–maybe I’ve seen references to this before in my life, but always dismissed it because it didn’t seem pertinent to me. It would probably be an interesting rabbit hole to fall down, but I realize that I’m not interested in the community as a whole–it’s Dolly herself that fascinates me.
As best as I can tell, she lives by herself. She has a job she goes to during the day. On most evenings, when she gets home, she sheds all of her clothes and walks, nude, to wherever it is she keeps her ‘baby things,’ and proceeds to change into a diaper and whatever else she’s going to wear. She makes dinner like this. Talks on the phone like this. Reads a book or watches TV like this.
I don’t always know when she uses her diapers, but I know they get used. Sometimes, in the middle of doing something else, I’ll watch as she suddenly pauses–her hands feeling the front, or back, of her diaper for a few moments. I never see her get up and go to the bathroom. Sometimes, she lies down on her living room floor and proceeds to change out of one diaper and into another.
I was tempted, once, to dig through the trash in the complex’s dumpsters in the dead of night, curious what I might be able to learn about her from her refuse. I didn’t go through with this, of course, but it served as an indication of how desperate I’ve been to learn more about her.
===
Tonight, I’m sitting on the balcony, in the dark. I’d like to think I’m invisible up here, but I have no idea. As best as I can tell, nobody ever looks up here and watches me while I’m watching them.
I have a bottle of beer in one hand, and my binoculars in the other. Across the way, over in Dolly’s apartment, the lights are also off. She’s probably not home yet, and so I’m left daydreaming once more about what it is she does during the day. Using the binoculars, I peer into her dimly lit home, doing my usual scan for details that might fill in some of the blanks as to who Dolly really is. Alas, there isn’t anything to see tonight–at least not that I haven’t seen before.
It’s about 6:30 PM. This is around the time she gets home. I wonder if she gets off at work around 6:00, and then has about a half-hour commute.
Soon, it’s 6:45, and the lights are still off and there’s been no activity.
“Where are you, baby?” I ask aloud, though mostly to myself.
Suddenly, there’s a flash of light in her apartment–it’s the front door opening, letting in light from the hallway. The light is on in the living room and the door closes. She walks in the kitchen, turning the light on there too.
I increase the zoom on the binoculars. She’s wearing a salmon colored skirt over her tan stockings and a very soft looking white sweater. It’s a cute outfit, and one that compliments her fair skin color.
She stands in the center of the living room, her body perfectly framed within the rectangular sliding glass panels that would lead out to her balcony. It’s times like this when I feel like she has to know she has an audience. As she pulls her sweater up her body and over her head to remove it, it feels like a special performance just for me. The sweater is cast aside, out of view, and her pristine white bra is revealed. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this show before, it’s one I can’t ever get enough of.
She reaches behind herself, her fingers fumbling at her lower back as she unzips the skirt. Even though she can’t hear me, I softly say: “Do you need some help with that?” She ignores my question, shimmying her body out from the skirt and letting it drop to the ground. Next, the tan stockings are pulled down her legs. I’ve seen her do this before–she has a very slow and methodical approach to lowering the stockings just a little bit at a time. My theory is that they’re just fragile, and she does it like this to ensure she doesn’t cause a run or stretch in them.
There’s something about the daintyness of the stockings that I like–how the thin fabric is like a second layer of skin for those slender legs of hers. And with that layer removed, her pastel pink panties are revealed, like a secret and forbidden fruit.
Whereas the skirt is just left crumpled on the floor around her ankles, the removed stockings are tossed aside to wherever the sweater is. Her hands are behind her back again, unfastening her bra. With its tension released, she lets the straps slide down her arms until the bra lands on the floor in front of her. Her hands cup her breasts for a moment before she lets them fall to her sides again, like she’s giving me a turn to look for myself. And I do.
I’ve seen them plenty of times, though it's a view I never get sick of. Her tits are round little dollops–perfectly sized for a diaper-wearing baby like herself. She turns towards the window, giving me an even better view of them.
Sometimes, I swear, she knows I’m here watching her. This is all a show she puts on for me, and me alone.
Her panties are sliding down her legs now. Zooming in. Her hairless pussy practically glows in the warm lighting of her apartment. She squats down a little, just enough so that she can grab her panties and skirt off the floor. She walks to the side of the room, where my view is inhibited by the wall.
My eyes scan to the right, and I see the bathroom light turn on. There is, unfortunately, a curtain here, and I can’t see what’s going in there. Just as quickly as it’s turned on, though, it turns off. My eyes scan further to the right, to the windows of her bedroom. While she doesn’t have anything up over those windows, I still can’t see into that room very well–the angle just isn’t right. Still, I can see that she’s in there. I see the light turn on, and I watch her shadow bounce around the room as she does whatever it is she needs to. I suspect I know what she’s doing–it’s the same thing she always does when she comes home after work.
“That’s it,” I say. “Get your diaper. Like a good girl.”
She lingers in the bedroom for a while. All I can do is imagine what’s occurring right now.
This is usually about the time when I reflect on what I’m doing and start asking myself if I’m happy with my life.
Is this what I thought I’d be doing with my adulthood? No job, no friends, no life–just watching my diapered neighbor with a pair of binoculars?
I came to Palm Lake because I liked its proximity to everything else. Smack dab in the middle between two decently-sized cities, there’s never a shortage of things to do around here. In just an hour or three, I could be on a plane. I could be skiing. I could be hiking or swimming. I could catch a football game or some basketball. I could be seeing amazing performances at a theater or catching a great concert.
I don’t do any of those things.
I don’t have to do anything, and so, usually, I don’t.
No gumption. Right, Dad?
Being a creep–staring at my neighbors–that’s all I really do anymore.
In a way, I blame Dolly for my current lifestyle. If she was a little more boring, maybe I would’ve given up my voyeuristic tendencies by now. But no–she’s got to be this cutie patootie in a fucking diaper–getting me all wrapped up in her charming mystery.
“Fuck you, Dolly,” I whisper, praying that the wind doesn’t carry my words across the courtyard to her apartment.
Dolly reemerges in the living room a few minutes later. Tonight, she’s only wearing a diaper and nothing else. Personally, while I like the babyish clothes too, I think this is the best look for her. It’s strangely…pure.
She’s in the kitchen now, her diapered ass facing towards me as she prepares food on the counter and the stove. It’s not a cold night, but it’s gotten a bit cooler since the sun went down. I hope she’s comfortable in just a diaper.
There it is. The pause. She was dicing something with a knife, but abruptly set it down as she stepped back from the counter a little. Slight squat. Her hands are tucked between her thighs, feeling the front and bottom of the diaper.
“Whatcha doing, princess?” I ask.
No reply, of course, but maybe she doesn’t need to say anything. She moves her head just enough that I can see the relief in her expression. There’s this little shudder of pleasure that seems to move through her body as she briefly aims her face up to the ceiling. I swear, I can hear her making a little grunting noise, even if I know that it's impossible and my brain is just filling in the blanks.
When she’s finished with whatever she’s doing in her diaper, it’s like she just springs back into reality again. She’s back to chopping things on the counter. She’s checking the stove. She’s taking things out from the fridge. She’s getting a bowl from the cabinet. She’s doing it all with a big, content smile on her face–the kind of smile that says: “I accomplished something and I’m very proud of myself.”
Every time I see her hovering around her apartment in a thick diaper, I find myself a little more in love with both Dolly herself and her strange little diaper-kink. I’m spending more and more time fantasizing about what it might be like to be in her apartment. Does her diaper crinkle when she walks around? Does she make little giggling noises and speak in baby talk to herself? Does her diaper smell? If it does…what does it smell like? How far away from her can I be and still smell her diaper?
I’m not going to get answers to any of these questions, and that’s something I’ve had to make peace with. I mean, sure, I could go over to her apartment and just, like, talk to her. But how would that even go? “Uhm, yes, hello. So, I like to watch you from that building all the way over yonder with my binoculars. I see you wear diapers a lot. Care to talk about that with me?”
She’d probably mace my eyes before I even finished.
The way I see it, one of two things are going to eventually happen. Either I realize that this fascination with a complete stranger isn’t healthy for me and I retire my binoculars altogether, or I eventually get caught peeping on the wrong people and end up getting kicked out of this building.
I’d rather the first option, if I got to choose. But I’m not ready for that just yet. For now, I zoom in on her padded tush again, scrutinizing over whether or not I see a defined brownish lump in the back of her diapers.
This is also when I open the front of my pants, and grab my cock as I peer through the binoculars.
===
An opportunity presents itself, and my heart flutters wildly as I debate on whether or not I’m going to take advantage of it.
Tonight, through my binoculars, I see her in the kitchen, wearing a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. She’s wrangling a few bags of garbage in her hands, likely preparing herself for a trip down to her building’s dumpster.
My fingers drum on the railing of my balcony as I watch her. I bite my bottom lip.
“Do I dare?” I ask aloud, perhaps to some unseen deity who might be willing to offer me a sign.
If I really wanted to, I think, I could run downstairs myself. I could go outside, and jog over to the dumpster at her building. I might be able to get there just as she arrives to throw her garbage out.
And then what?
I haven’t worked that part out yet. Wow her with my charm? That might work if I had charm, though I’ve never really been the charismatic type.
Comment on her trash? “Wow, looks like you’re throwing away a lot of adult diapers, there.” Yeah, because she’d love that.
But I almost don’t even care what I’d say or do. I could go down there right now and see her face to face. Introduce myself. Make contact. Do something. Because something is more than the nothing I do up here on my balcony, beyond just watching her through binoculars.
Next thing I know, I’m running down the stairs of my building towards the first floor. I’d take the elevator, but it’s so freaking slow that, by the time I’ve made it to the bottom floor, she’d already have been outside, thrown her trash away, and then returned to her apartment. I’m trying not to think too much, because I think my plan would fall apart under the tiniest bit of scrutiny–what little plan that there is.
I’m going out there, where she is, and I’m making contact. Right now, that’s all I know.
I kick open the door on the first floor of the stairwell and jog out into the parking lot, making a beeline towards her building. The further I run, the further I realize her building is from mine. If my heart wasn’t pounding so hard this might be a more sobering moment–a wakeup call that I’m being a bit too creepy–but those thoughts dissipate from my head as quickly as they surface.
I see her building’s dumpsters ahead of me, but I don’t see her. Did I miss her? No, of course I didn’t miss her–I was running like a maniac. But she’s not rushing–she has all the time in the world. She’s just not here yet. I take advantage of this, propping myself up against a tree and allowing myself to catch my breath in the hopes that I’ve gotten hold of myself again by the time she arrives.
But this feels like a mistake. The second I stop moving, I start thinking. What am I going to say? How do I actually introduce myself to her? How do I get my foot in the door in a way that ensures we might be able to talk again in the future?
I have no idea.
I see a door on the side of her building open, and my breathing ceases for a moment as I watch to see who it is. The first thing to come through the door are two or three large trash bags, bulging from being overstuffed. I think: You should probably take your garbage out more often, but it seems wrong to be judgmental of the woman I’ve been watching like this.
It’s her. While the binoculars have given me incredible access into her life, she’s a sight to behold without the aid of lenses. A gentle breeze blows through her hair, and she almost seems to glow in the street lamps.
But my indecisiveness about what I might say has altered my plan. I’ve ducked for cover in a small grove of trees and shrubbery. I’m relatively sure that I’m concealed, though it’d probably look pretty bad if she glanced in this direction and noticed any part of me.
I watch as she brings her bags closer to the dumpster. They must be heavy, given the way she grunts and strains as maneuvers them. She places them all down, taking the first with both hands and heaving it as hard as she can up into the air, its arch taking it right into the open mouth of the dumpster. A little impressive, actually–the baby’s got some strength.
She handles the next bag the same as the first, grunting as she puts some power into launching it into the dumpster, where it lands with a splatting noise.
It’s the next bag where it looks like she’s struggling. It’s a heavier one, and she winds herself up a few times before abandoning her throw at the last moment–clearly second-guessing her strength. I’m so tempted to run out there and offer assistance, but I’m sure it’s not a good look for a stranger to emerge from the darkness of the trees right now.
“Fuck,” she mutters, winding back with the bag in both hands one more time as she prepares to throw it. This time, she does launch it, and while it's an impressive attempt, the bag is simply too heavy. It hits the rim of the dumpster instead of going into it, and the force of the impact causes the bag to explode.
She says the same thing I’m thinking: “Goddammit!”
The contents of the bag scatter all over the pavement.
“No!” she whines, followed by an exasperated: “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”
Even in the minimal light of the parking lot, I see the white bundles that have been spilled all over the pavement–somewhere between a softball and football in size–and I immediately know what I’m looking at. Diapers. All of the dirty diapers she was about to throw into the dumpster are now spread across the ground.
It’s at this moment, while her back is turned to me, that I emerge from the trees and approach where she’s standing. I don’t know why this seems like the time to do this, but it just feels right. I quickly walk towards her and her current dilemma, and without saying anything, I bend down and pick up one of the diapers in my hand, ready to toss it into the dumpster for her. Of course, before I do that, I take a moment to gently squeeze the sinful little parcel, admiring the squish of the padding and its heft.
It’s at this point she hears me, and she spins around. I hadn’t considered just how alarming this scene must be–a complete stranger, manhandling her filthy diapers.
I feel I need to say something before she does: “Oh, hey. I saw your, uh, garbage bag break, so I ran over here to help you.”
Her cheeks blush a deep crimson and she immediately shakes her head. “No.”
I guess I just assumed she’d be grateful for my arrival, and so her blunt refusal catches me off guard. “But…”
“Please just let me handle this, okay?” she asks. “I… I don’t want anyone else handling my garbage.”
It is a fair request and one that comes from a good place. She knows that some ‘random’ passerby shouldn’t be touching the garments she’s used in place of a toilet, and that it’s best she keeps anyone else away.
Me being me, though, I act naive. I throw the diaper in my hands into the dumpster before reaching for the next one. “Oh, it’s no trouble, miss. Things like this happen, you know? I’m happy to help you clean up.”
“Please, I think I’d much rather if…” She stops abruptly, her head craning to the left.
I hear it too–the sound of footsteps echoing across the parking lot. Someone else is approaching the dumpsters.
“Let’s be quick,” I say, plucking up two or three more diapers from the ground in quick succession and tossing them into the large metal tub.
I can tell that she’s torn about this interaction, but that she also knows I’m right. Her best chance to avoid further embarrassment is if we work together to clean up this mess as fast as we can. We both scramble around, grabbing all the diapers we can and heaving them up into the dumpster. I slide my phone out of my pocket and use the light on it to scan for other diapers, though it seems as if we have them all.
“There,” I say. “I think we got them.”
And just in time, as it’s at about this moment that an older woman walks into view, wordlessly walking past us and throwing her own garbage bag into the dumpster before trotting back in the direction she had come from.
“Thank you,” ‘Dolly’ says to me at last, her back turned towards me so I can’t see her face.
“Oh, it was no trouble at all.”
“I can explain…”
“Explain?” I ask. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
She laughs. “Oh please. You’re really going to pretend that you didn’t know what you were picking up on my behalf?”
“Well, uh…” I want to say something about how it doesn’t really matter what she had dropped, as I would’ve picked it up for her.
But before I can find the right phrasing, she continues: “You probably think I’m a freak, huh? Needing to carry a big bag of diapers to the dumpster?”
I play dumb: “I guess I just assumed you have a baby…”
She laughs again, this time louder than the first. “You don’t need to be polite. You saw how big those diapers were.”
“A grandparent, perhaps?” I ask.
She finally turns towards me, and while she is blushing brightly, I can see that she’s also smiling. Seeing her face this close for the first time, I’m noticing all the fine details that the binoculars have never revealed to me about her face. Those subtle dimples. Her long eyelashes. The perfect shape of her nose. I try to remain centered, but I’m worried that my own blushing cheeks might give me away.
“That was very nice of you,” she says. “That’s never happened to me before, and it could’ve been a lot worse.”
I shrug. “Oh, no big deal.”
“Do you live in this building?”
“Oh, I actually live, uhm…” My voice trails off, and I wonder if I should reveal which building I’m actually from. I decide to just do it. Pointing in the general direction of my building, I say: “Over there, actually. I was just out for a walk when I saw your little…accident.”
“Well that was pretty good timing,” she says. “I didn’t even see you until you just kinda materialized out of thin air.”
I’m not sure what I want to do next. It feels like the conversation is winding down, and this isn’t where I want it to end. But what do I say? Ask her to get a drink or some coffee with me? Maybe not now, but later? But then, well, this might be the most awkward time to ask someone out, and I’m sure she’d feel the same way too.
I start to speak, not really sure where I’m going with this thought yet: “So, uh, look…”
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” she asks.
I try not to look as surprised as I feel. “Oh, like, right now?”
“If you have somewhere else to be, maybe we can do it another time. I was just thinking–”
“Yes,” I say, too impatient to let her finish that thought. “That sounds great.”
“Come on,” she says, turning to walk back to her own building, waving a hand for me to follow her. “Follow me.”
We walk across the parking lot together and into the building. We make a little small talk along the way, and we make our introductions. Her name isn’t Dolly, of course, but Katie, though that name seems to suit her just as well as Dolly does. Her personality seems to match perfectly with what I had imagined, or hoped, for it to be like–kind, cheery, and the slightest bit bubbly. There are some things that you just can’t know when looking through a pair of binoculars, like what her girlish giggle sounds like, and I’m honored to have the chance to hear it.
Her apartment building is eerily familiar to my own, with similar aesthetics and layout. But the subtle differences go a long way to making this place feel like an alternate reality of mine–there are more fliers on the bulletin boards in the lobby, and the rugs are a different color. I follow her into the elevator and we take it up to the top floor. It is, of course, a slow ride, but being in a more confined space with her gives me the unexpected opportunity to smell her. It’s a subtle smell–one that I don’t even attribute to her initially–but when I realize what it is, I’m certain that she’s the source: the unmistakable powder-fresh scent of a baby or a nursery.
Moments later, I’m following her into her apartment, and she closes the door behind us. I’ve seen plenty of her apartment before, albeit from the perspective of my binoculars and from a distance away, and so while there’s a familiarity, it’s quite uncanny to see the place from within it, looking across it from the opposite side for once. Through the sliding glass door that leads to the canopy, I can see the lights of my own apartment, out beyond the darkness that separates our buildings.
Katie hustles to the kitchen, where she immediately starts to wash her hands, waving me towards her so that I can do the same.
“Look, I don’t normally do things like this,” she says. “Like, inviting men I don’t know into my place? But I guess I just felt like I needed the opportunity to explain what happened down there.”
“Explain?” I ask. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” I’m just being polite, though–I desperately want to hear her talk about her diapers.
“You picked up my dirty diapers for me,” she says, her face immediately turning beet-red at having said these words. “I guess I’m terrified that you would’ve walked away from here thinking I’m some sort of freak who has all these diapers and…”
“I didn’t think you were a freak,” I say, turning off the faucet and taking the hand towel from beside the sink to dry my hands. “Your garbage? Your life? That’s your business.”
She smiles at this, nodding her head. She looks relieved that I said this.
Honestly, though, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Maybe I’m saying the right things she needs to hear, but I’m certainly not practicing what I preach. The only reason I’m here right now is because I violated her privacy, repeatedly, by watching her from the balcony of my apartment. I almost wish I hadn’t ever done any of that now. Maybe, in a different world, a situation like what occurred at the dumpsters would have been more organic, and we could’ve made a more genuine connection.
“I appreciate you saying that,” she says. “I…I was going to attempt to explain the diapers to you, but…” Her voice trails off again.
“You don’t owe me any of your secrets,” I say, the knot in my stomach getting tighter. “You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to.”
She smiles at me, still blushing, though not quite as intensely as before. “It’s a nice night out, isn’t it? Do you want to sit out on my balcony?”
“That sounds lovely,” I say, nodding my head.
“Perfect. Why don’t you go have a seat out there and I’ll finish getting some coffee together.”
Stepping out onto her balcony, my eyes are fixed on the lights of my own apartment. It’s too far away to see them, but I know my binoculars are over there, sitting atop the small table next to the chair on my own balcony–right where I left them when I hoofed it down the stairs in an effort to meet Katie.
The guilt is consuming me. There’s nothing honest about my being here. This whole scene is a farce, orchestrated by a creep. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s a nice young woman who is just living her best life in her small slice of privacy. I don’t belong here, and I feel as if my presence is a blight on her sanctuary. I really should tell her the truth, but I worry that doing so won’t just ruin this little rapport we have now, but it’ll ruin her little adult baby lifestyle. She’ll feel less safe in her own home. The things that brought her comfort before might not work as well after.
It would probably be best if I just finish this coffee, politely excuse myself, and then go home and put an end to this.
Maybe I’ll even get rid of my binoculars tomorrow.
***
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Before she'd even left for her freshman year Marcie's mom Dina had started going on about how she wasn't going to have anyone to take care of, how she wanted someone who needed her.
Marcie had rolled her eyes. Dina had had her when she had been Marcie's age. Her mom never showed it but Marcie knew being a young, single mom hadn't been easy, a fact that she brought up whenever she'd had enough of her mom's fantasies. "Really mom, you want sleepless nights, spit up, tantrums, dirty diapers?" she'd ask. Every time she brought that up a smile and faraway look would cross Dina's face.
Her mom was single so Marcie wasn't worried about becoming a big sister. Shortly into her sophomore year her mom casually mentioned that she was taking in a young man, Miles. Apparently he was some second cousin twice removed or something. Marcie couldn't really care being so far away. He'd apparently hadn't had luck finding work after he graduated and had moved to the city and would be staying at their house while he got his footing.
Marcie didn't think anything of it. She'd occasionally get a brief update at the end of the phone call, "oh your cousin's been having such a hard time getting a job, poor thing." One time she called her mom to catch up but couldn't hear a word she was saying. "Sorry for the background noise hun, running some sheets. Poor Miles has had a tough time lately." Marcie had just moved on once the din of the laundry machine had gone down.
Finally, Marcie's school work was wrapping up for the year. She hadn't been home in a while but work or internships had failed to materialize that summer so she was heading back home to try and get work there.
She got dropped off at her house in the afternoon. She opened the door but no one greeted her. The house seemed normal for the most part but something felt strange, maybe it was just that it'd been so long since she'd been home, but there was a lingering energy that Marcie couldn't put her finger on. She left her bag in the foyer and called out for her mom. "Up here!" she heard her mom's voice coming from the guest room.
The guest room door was wide open. Marcie assumed the grown man in the diaper was Miles, her distant cousin. The shock of seeing a grown man using a pacifier and wearing the thickest diaper she'd ever seen was almost as great at seeing the smile on her mother's face. Marcie wondered if she looked as shocked as Miles. "Hello," she finally managed to say.
Dina stood up, lifting Miles's pj's over his bulging bottom as she did. "See Miles," she cooed into the man's ear "I told you your cousin wasn't going to make fun of you. Now you had a big day today, so we definitely need a nap. I'll come get you when it's time for din din, kay baby?" The young man nodded sharply then crawled into bed, snuggling his head into the pillow, his thickly diapered bottom rising above his back.
Dina quietly closed the door, put her finger to her lips, then beckoned Marcie down stairs, leading her to the dining room.
Sitting at the dining room table Dina explained how the past few months had affected poor Miles. What started as occasional bedwetting soon became a nightly habit that started to spill into the mornings, then afternoons, then evenings. "I've had to buy the poor boy new pants, the one he brought with were too smelly before I convinced the silly thing that he needed to wear diapers until we figured this out."
"So out of the blue this guy just started peeing himself?" Marcie had her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. "Hun, the poor boy has been beside himself. You don't think I'd have a hand in that?" Marcie didn't want to believe that, but she also wondered how much of her mom's help was aimed at stopping these accidents.
Dina continued, "no doctors have found anything wrong with him, physically. I've talked to a therapist who says that it's an issue of compounding reinforcement on self image. Miles feels like he's failed as an adult by not living on his own and not jumping in to a career. The stress of that likely started his bedwetting which further reinforced his image as immature which led to pantswetting, which led to diapers, which led to messy accidents-
"Mom he's shitting himsel-!" Marcie didn't mean to say it so loudly and cut herself off as her mom shushed her.
"One morning a month ago I came out of the bathroom to see Miles with a thoroughly overused pull up. He didn't know he was going back to diapers anyway. He'd leaked through too many pullups. Poor thing." Marcie saw the look of concern on her mom's face. It looked genuine enough, she thought, she probably isn't poisoning him or anything.
"So he's back in diaper now mom, for good?"
"I talked to his mother, and the therapist. Miles is now... having his self-image radically readjusted. We don't know where it will stop, but when it does we may be able to build him back from there." Dina stood up straight and looked Marcie straight in the eyes. "What we can do, will do though, is make sure Miles knows he is loved and supported throughout. Yes dear, I know how strange it is, but his mother and the therapist agreed, this is the best place for him now. They're both providing the support they can, but altering his life more, like moving him again, will only accelerate this process and make recovery more difficult. So he's here for the foreseeable future and I'll need your support."
Marcie's head spun. Coming home she was worried if she'd get a summer gig, now she was looking at being a big sister to a baby bigger than her. "Mom I-"
"Hun I'm not asking you to be his nanny. I don't know how much help he'll- I'm just asking for now at least, be kind."
Marcie gulped and nodded. "Yeah mom, of course."
Dinner that night was mostly silent. Miles shuffled downstairs after his nap. Marcie could here him crinkling even as she set the table. She tried her best to smile at him, then spent the rest of the meal staring at her plate. Her mom took the empty dishes to the kitchen when she heard the crinkles again, then the whimpering. She looked over to see Miles looking panicked as he fidgeted in his seat. He looked around the table frantically then shoved his thumb in his mouth, still fidgeting.
"Hey, uh Miles, do you want to um take your thumb out, or uh, where's your pacifier?" Marcie tried her best to sound sympathetic. She scanned the table too, seeing the pacifier right by his elbow. She picked it up and held it in front of him. "Here, use this." She felt ridiculous offering a pacifier to a guy in his 20's. Miles continued to fidget and whine behind his thumb that he was sucking faster and faster.
Marcie gently took the thumb out of his mouth and slid his pacifier in. Miles eyes went wide and dulled, his fidgeting slowed, and he started to pee his diaper. Marcie heard the hiss and stumbled back into her chair, watching the grown man let loose into his thirsty padding. He wasn't even done when Dina walked back in the room.
"Ah did Marcie help you find your paci Miles, isn't she sweet? Oh and I think I know where all that juice you had before your nap went too!"
Dina moved to stand Miles up and prodded the slightly sagging padding around his waist. Marcie took that as her chance to leave back to her room.
The rest of the week Marcie spent as much time as she could looking for work. She needed to find a job, not just for money but to have an excuse to be out of the house. Dina had said that Marcie would always have opportunities to earn money by helping with Miles. Marcie did eventually find a job, at a restaurant, working mid week lunch shifts.
She wasn't pleased that she managed to find such a meager money flow but at least she was earning something and by staying at home she was keeping her costs close to nothing, and by having a job she had an excuse to get out of the bizarre world her home was turning in to.
Every day she came home from work that world crept further into the house. Sippy cups and bottles started appearing in the dishwasher. She saw more and more toys strewn across the living room. A stack of diapers and changing supplies appeared in the corner next to the sofa one day. Marcie looked at them, thick, crinkly, some plain white and others adorned with cute patterns.
Miles was changing too, rapidly. After her third day at work she was setting the table for dinner when Miles came down as shy and bashful as her first day back. Marcie looked at him wondering where her mom had found a diaper to match his t-shirt before realizing what he was wearing.
"Doesn't Miles look adorable in his new onesie darling?" Dina said as she put an arm around him. "These help keep his diapers from sagging, we don't want them falling off him after all!" Marcie forced a smile, "Yeah Miles, uh, looking sharp." Marcie doubted she delivered the line with conviction but chose to take his increased pacifier sucking as a sign that she'd mollified the young man. His pacifier is on a ribbon! She thought, only to be further surprised when her mom snapped a silicon bib around his neck and put a plastic plate of finger food in front of him.
"Now Marcie, I know you have tomorrow off, in the morning I'm having a few things delivered for Miles's room, can you help us set it up?"
Marcie looked between them for a moment. "Uhm yeah, sure mom, happy to help." Her mom beamed and turned to Miles. "See baby! I told you she'd be a helper!"
The next morning after breakfast the three of them brought a half dozen boxes up to Miles's room. Marcie had avoided the space since her first day and was surprised at how much had changed. All the posters of cars and skateboarders had been taken down and toys ranging from legos to giant ring stacks were piled up in a corner by Miles's bed. She saw the shelf in the small closet was stacked practically to the ceiling with bags of adult diapers. How long does she expect this to go on, Marcie thought.
The three of them got to work opening the boxes with Dina directing where to put what. It was a familiar pattern to Marcie. Just like Ikea she thought and she slid another plank over a row of dowels. She stood back and realized what it was. "Mom are these, crib bars?"
She turned to the corner where her mom and Miles were working. "Yes dear, Miles has had a few spills at night lately, probably trying to get to the potty. I'm surprised you haven't heard. We don't want him getting any big boo boos and this will help keep him snug and safe!" Dina walked over to the assembled bars and motioned to Dina to lift with her. They carried the piece over to Mile's bed and set it on the frame, where Dina moved around clipping the base onto the frame. The two stood back. Marcie figured that if Miles stood the bars would be at his belly button. She turned back to Miles, who was looking at his new bed with what Marcie thought may be wonder, or confusion. Marcie pieced together what he and Dina had been working on too. It resembled a massage table with shelves built in. A changing table, Marcie realized.
"You two have been so helpful, Marcie why don't you and Miles play in the living room for a bit. I can put on some finishing touches up here." Dina looked at her daughter and nodded slowly as she spoke. Marcie sighed, she'd been avoiding Miles and she knew it, Miles probably did too. The man wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and it looked like he'd be like this for at least the rest of the summer. You don't buy a guy a changing table if potty training is in the cards.
"Oh look, race cars, these look like fun!" Marcie dumped the box of toy cars on the rug and sat on the living room sofa with her phone. She watched Miles get on his knees and crawl to the toys and start to play. She scrolled aimlessly for a minute before she heard the sound of playing stop and she looked to see Miles on his knees facing her. He had a blank look on his face. not the blank look he sometimes got when watching a cartoon or peeing. He looked like he might be presenting a project to a class, if he weren't wearing a t-shirt and a diaper, Marcie thought to herself.
"I-I sowwy," he began and cleared his throught. "I'm sorry- about all this, being here like this," he began to sniffle.
Marcie leaned forward, feeling sympathy for hadn't felt for the man a few years older than her. "It's ok Miles, this all must be, a lot like a lot for you."
Tears were brimming Miles's eyes. "I don't wanna be a big baby but it's better dan, is betta dun..." He looked at the ground around him for a moment before putting his thumb in his mouth. Marcie saw his face relax and his shoulders slacken.
"I dun wanna be a big diapie baby, bu being a baby is betta dan bein scawed." Marcie nodded, this was the most she'd heard Miles talk in the nearly two weeks she'd been home. Miles took his thumb out of his mouth, took in a big gulp of air and continued.
"Like before it was like I was falling, all da time, and now I'm like gliding? Or like dere's a big fluffy thing I know'll catch me, and your mommy... Your mommy's really nice and pretty and I know I'm safe and she's happy." Miles trailed off and put his thumb back in his mouth.
Marcie put her phone down, slid off the sofa, and looked at Miles. "Miles baby, it's ok, my mom is definitely happy. I'm glad she's able to help you. I'm glad we're here to help you." Miles nodded and smiled. "Wanna show me some of your cars?" Marcie asked.
She lost track of time playing with Miles. They barely spoke, mostly giggled, as they ran toy cars over and into thing on the living room rug.
Marcie went to the dining room to grab a car Miles had manage to slide under the table. When she turned around she saw Miles on his feet in a deep squat, with one hand on his stomach and a thumb in his mouth.
As Marcie slowly walked to him Mile's grunted and strained as he loaded the seat of his diaper. Marcie watched his diaper droop closer to the ground. She heard his diaper crinkle as it expanded. Without thinking she reached down and grabbed his hands. He took them and shakily pulled himself up, stopping briefly to push more mess into his bloated diaper.
Marcie stared mouth agape at the man in her living room pooping his diaper. She'd been dreading this, she'd tried to ignore the scents creeping over the house. The sweeter scents of baby powder and skin lotions were easy to ignore, but she'd refused to name the lingering scents of Miles's accidents that had been creeping out of his room and around the house. She knew that if Miles was really regressing that'd mean wet and messy diapers would be a daily fact of life. Now she was awash in the stench of Miles's soiled diaper. It hung in the air like a fog. As gross as I suspected it would, she thought. She stared and him, looking down at him as he stood there bowlegged, his face still red from straining, a bit of snot beneath his nose.
"P-po-poopy." Miles said as he stood up with his legs bowed.
Marcie laughed. Her laughter surprised Miles, and herself. Her first experience, one of many to come she realized, of looking at this man in his poopy diaper. "Yeah baby, definitely poopy, and stinky!" Seeing a frown start to form on his face Marcie continued. "Miles, it's ok. That's what your diapers are for, remember? You're in diapers so using them is what you're supposed to do." She said it flatly, as much for herself as for the young man in front of her.
The stood staring at each other silently for a moment before another stinky waft reached Marcie's nose. She waved a hand in front of her nose "Pee-yew Miles! Are all your diapers this stinky?"
That got a giggle out of him. I'm joking with a man about his poopy diaper, she thought. This stinks, it literally stinks so bad, but that's it? Marcie pondered, the diaper was here, yucky and smelly, but it's manageable, not a car crash level disaster she'd been making it out to be. It really was smelly though.
"Ok, let's get my mom to take care of this." Miles nodded and walked towards the stairs. Marcie looked at the back of his diaper, plastic stretched and drooping. Watching the slightly discolored seat sway with his waddling steps. They stood next to each other back in the doorway of Miles's bedroom, though bedroom didn't do the space justice, Marcie thought. This was a nursery. The room had changed so much she forgot for a moment how much Miles reeked.
The crib's sheets were light blue and adorned with ducks and sheep, the changing table had a plastic cover as well, similarly adorned with cartoon animals. Beneath the cover Dina had filled the shelves with diapers and changing supplies. A play carpet covered center of the room.
Dina stood proudly in the center of the nursery and her smile grew bigger when her nose started to twitch. "Miles, did you know I just finished putting your changing supplies away? Is that why I'm smelling a dirty diaper?" She embraced the young man and pulled back the back of his diaper. Marcie winced as the stench increased.
"Oh my! I'll say this is the right diaper to christen your new changing table! What do you say we get you out of this yucky thing?" Miles nodded his head against Dina's breasts. Marcie briefly caught her mother's eyes as she left the room making sure to close the door behind her.
That evening, after Miles had been tucked into his new crib, Marcie and Dina sat on the sofa with a bottle of wine. Dina, Marcie noted, was glowing.
"Thank you so much for your help today with Miles dear," Dina rested a hand on her daughter's arm. "Today could have been a tough one. I'm so proud of how you both handled it."
"And how are you handling it Mom? It seems like you're in it for the long haul." Marcie watched her mom's expression as a smile settled, left, then returned.
"Well the poor boy is likely to be like this for some time. We're supposed to wait for his regression to settle, then look for signs of growth again, similar to a toddler." Marcie noted Dina's frown as she said 'growth.' Dina perked up again. "But until that happens we'll keep Miles will be safe, happy, and clean. Speaking of which, let me know if you want to help with changing any diapers." Dina chuckled and Marci rolled her eyes.
Three days later Marcie changed her first diaper. She didn't have a shift that day so she was helping feed Miles his lunch while her mom picked up more groceries. She was spooning some fruit into Miles's open mouth, trying to tamp down on how adorable she thought he looked when she heard a familiar hissing. She was used to that sound but was startled by the sound of liquid on plastic, then the drip of liquid on the floor.
She looked down underneath the highchair tray and saw a staned onesie straining over a saturated diaper. Miles's accident had broken containment and his seat was filling, with his pee overflowing onto the floor. Miles had tears flowing down his cheeks and Marcie quickly pushed his paci between his lips. She didn't know when her mom would be back so Marcie removed the tray and avoiding the puddle hugged Miles's face to her chest. "Sshhh baby, I'm sorry you got a leaky diaper. Let's take care of that ok?"
Marcie stood the young man up, carefully stripped off his clothes leaving him in just a yellow, squishy, saggy diaper, and walked him closer to the changing supplies.
On a changing mat on the living room floor Marcie untaped Miles's bloated diaper. With her encounters with penises at this point, few had been flaccid. Marcie marveled at how smooth Miles's crotch was. The smell wasn't too bad she thought as she wiped him down. It's about as bad a typical port-o-potty she thought. As she finished wiping him Miles's penis started to twitch. She was quick with the powder and taping him up. Dina came home a minute later, assessed the scene, and instructed Marcie to feed Miles a bottle on the sofa while she cleaned up. Marcie felt a strange serenity looking down at Miles's closed eyes as he lay in her lap nursing his oversized baby bottle.
Two days later she changed her first messy diaper. Work had been rough. The kitchen was less competent than usual and the customers, the few that there were, were more miserable and miserly than ever before. Marcie felt her spirits lift when she was greeted home with a bear hug from Miles as soon as she walked in. She'd grown used to the smell of his shampoo and the ever lingering sweet scent of baby powder that clung to him. She breathed the smells in and felt the stress start to leave her. After a moment though she felt Miles stir, his head sliding down slightly against her collar bone. She was confused when it felt like Miles was bucking against her, then she heard the squelching sound of his diaper expand and the soiled smell wafted up to her.
She pulled back and looked at Miles with his goofy, mouth agape grin and wide eyes. Her nose wrinkled and she waived a hand in front of her nose. "Really couldn't wait to see me could you buddy?" Miles let out a small laugh and blushed. "Where's Dina?" Marcie asked calmly but the stench was getting stronger. "She's in da showa," Miles said as he stood up with a wide stance. Shit, Marcie thought, her mom took her time in the shower and she didn't want to have to endure the dirty diaper stench that long, or have Miles stay in a poopy diaper that long. "Ok buddy, let's get you changed." Marcie grabbed Miles's hand and took him to his nursery.
He's better behaved than an actual baby during a diaper change, there's that at least, Marcie thought to herself as Miles lay still holding his legs up on his changing table. That's about it though. Cleaning him up stunk, it smelled worse than a port-o-potty on the last day of a music festival. Still, she made progress, wipe after wipe, until Miles was cleaned, lotioned, powdered, and diapered again. Marcie held the offending diaper at arms length and dropped it in the diaper pail. She knew it wasn't even a particularly full one. From the way she'd seen his diapers sag and stain she put it on the lighter side of medium. Still, she was glad to have it gone. She turned to see Miles sitting up on the changing table wearing just a shirt and new clean diaper. He smiled behind his paci as it bobbed between his lips and he swung his legs back and forth. Marcie's first adult baby poopy diaper change had been gross, probably the grossest thing she'd ever done. It still wasn't the worst part of my day though, she thought.
The house changed after that. Marcie no longer tiptoed around the adult baby in her midst and Miles didn't seem to feel any more trepidation around Marcie either. He was always about now, no longer holed up in his room. Marcie would see him playing on his own or with her mom when she woke up and when she got home.
Her mom was overjoyed when she heard about Marcie's first dirty diaper change. Marcie didn't think Dina had been holding back but she certainly wasn't after that. Her joy shone bright as she nuzzled, cuddled, cood, and pampered her adult baby man. Marcie herself enjoyed playing with what she was growing to view more and more and her big baby brother. His happiness was infectious.
As she grew more comfortable she stopped treating Miles like he was going to break at any moment. Growing up an only child she found herself enjoying the chance to tease the man a few years older than herself.
"Mom, careful before you come in here, Miles just dropped an absolute bomb in his diaper."
"Miles, you need another diaper change, your not getting paid for this are you?"
"I know bigger boys make bigger boom boom but seriously dude what has my mom been feeding you?!"
Her comments usually got a giggle out of the adult baby, and if she saw his lip start to quiver a quick ruffle of his hair or peck on the cheek got him smiling again.
She still relegated more diaper changes to her mom but Marcie did handle more adult baby care. Dina, to her credit, never pushed for Marcie to babysit but with most of her friend's away Marcie didn't have much reason to go out and spend money on the weekends when she could stay in and earn it. So Marcie spent more time playing with Miles, feeding him, giving him his nightly baths, and reading him stories.
Miles was less reluctant to leave their house when Marcie and Dina could both go. So the three of them tried to make it out at least twice a week, Miles holding their hands in between them, to parks, the zoo, and the movies.
Occasionally Marcie would stop and think about how strange it all was, how it must look to the neighbors who'd caught glimpses of the adult baby boy living on their street, but those quickly faded away as everyday life demanded more attention.
The day Marcie left to go back to school Miles had been a wreck. She'd quit her job the week before and had spent her free time with him. She was so happy she'd got him to laugh when she read him a story before his afternoon nap. Her mom and her had agreed that it'd be best if she left when he was asleep. She'd lingered in the doorway of his nursery and watched his chest rise and fall as he slept softly in his crib.
Down in their doorway Marcie hugged Dina. Marcie knew Dina would do fine on her own with Miles. That was something that concerned her actually. Miles was a young adult, and cute as he was waddling around in diapers he probably would want to become an adult again, sooner rather than later. Marcie knew her mom loved Miles, probably as much as her mom loved her, and she knew how much joy her mom got from having someone need her.
"Mom before I go... with Miles... don't forget..." Don't forget he's a grown man and this is all really fucking weird. Don't forget that as much as you love changing diapers and spoon feeding him he needs to grow up as soon as he can. Dina thought all that, and also held the last image of him, sleeping and snuggling his teddy.
"Yes hun, what shouldn't I forget?" Dina said with a knowing smile.
"Don't forget to check the baby during naps more often. He's been going poo poo more and more often when he sleeps, and don't forget to send me pictures of him too. I want to show my friends at school what a cutie he is." Marcie gulped and grabbed her bags. "And don't forget to tell him that his big sister Marcie loves him and I'll be back sooner than he can shake a rattle."
They both wiped tears from their eyes. "Of course hun. I wont forget any of that. You have a good time at school, we'll be here when you get back."
