Also kinda can’t stop thinking about being coerced into being cucked with infantile reminders that “sharing is caring” and that I “need to give daddy’s friend a turn” 🥺
Sharing Is Caring
You don’t like her.
Daddy’s “special friend.”
She’s everything you used to be. Confident. Sexy. In control. The kind of woman who wears lace lingerie and makes men weak in the knees just by existing.
She’s everything you’re not anymore.
And right now, she’s sitting on your couch. In your Daddy’s lap. Wearing your favorite lipstick. The one you used to wear when you still pretended to be a grown-up.
You’re not a grown-up anymore.
You're sitting on your crinkly, padded bottom on the floor. Legs spread wide by the bulk of your princess Pampers. Hair in pigtails. Thumb in your mouth. The cartoon on the TV isn’t even enough to distract you from what’s happening just a few feet away.
Daddy's hand is on her thigh. That’s your Daddy. Yours.
But when you open your mouth to whine, the words come out too babyish to be taken seriously. “D-daddy…M-miss you…”
He barely glances at you. Just pats your puffy diaper. “I know, baby girl. But sharing is caring, remember?”
Your face burns.
You hate that phrase.
Because every time Daddy says it, it means you’re about to lose something. A stuffie. A toy. A moment of his time. And now?
Now it means losing him.
“C'mon, Calli,” he coos, glancing over his shoulder at you like you’re some fussy toddler, “Don’t be a grumpypants. Daddy's special friend needs a turn too.”
You pout harder, trying to cross your arms but your mittens make it impossible. You squirm, the soggy bulk between your thighs making your crinkles louder than your protest.
You want to scream. You want to beg. You want to rip the paci out of your mouth and tell her to get the hell out of your house.
But then… your tummy gurgles.
Loudly.
Your eyes widen as the cramps tighten like a belt around your belly. Oh no. Not now. Not in front of her.
You try to shift, to sit on your knees, to fight it. But the pressure only builds. The oatmeal and prune puree Daddy spoon-fed you earlier churns like a storm cloud.
You don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
But you can’t stop it.
Your thumb slips out of your mouth as a quiet grunt escapes you.
Crinkle. Squish. Pop.
Your cheeks flush red-hot as you fill your diaper, helpless to stop the warm, mushy weight from ballooning into the seat. You curl forward, whimpering, the smell already betraying you.
Daddy turns his head just slightly. Smiling.
“Awww, Calli,” he chuckles in that sing-song voice he uses when you’re especially pathetic. “Did my little princess make her pushies?”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Not with her looking at you.
She giggles. “Did she seriously just poop herself because you stopped giving her attention?”
Your eyes sting. Your diaper squelches as you shift.
“Be nice,” Daddy says with a grin. “She’s just a baby. That’s what babies do.”
He walks over, crouching down beside you, pressing his palm into your swollen diaper. “Still warm. Just happened, huh, Stinkybritches?”
You hiccup a sob. “D-daddy…please…”
He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. His voice softens but not with mercy.
“You’re doing a good job, baby girl. Being a big sharer. Daddy’s so proud of you.”
You sniffle, clinging to him, burying your face in his shirt as if you could melt into him and hide forever. But you can't. You’re not the girl on his lap anymore. You're the one in the corner, in the crinkly princess Pampers, with a warm, messy seat and a tummy full of shame.
“You stay right here,” Daddy murmurs sweetly, guiding you down onto your padded backside with a squish. “Daddy’s going to give his special friend a turn in bed now, okay? And if you're a good girl and don't fuss... maybe you'll get extra cuddles during your changie.”
He kisses your forehead.
You nod.
Because that’s all you can do now.
You're not the woman who gets Daddy's cock.
You’re the little who gets the floor and the full seat of her Pampers.
Because sharing is caring, Calli.
And Daddy says you’re such a good little sharer.
