Welcome to the devipa literary universe. I write ABDL short stories that get a little spicy as a treat. My favorite stories hew close to real life, authentic and believable, and that's what I like to write.
In Progress, Active & Updating
Spellbound
[M/f. Idiot guy fumbles a diapered baddie. You probably don't believe me but this is not biographical. At least the second part.]
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
Daycare, Goodnites
[F/f. 'Big girl' goes back to daycare.]
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - End, Pt. 1 - End, Pt. 2
The Friend-sitter
[F/f. Little bit of wearing, little bit of feels.]
Part 1 (DA) - Part 2 (DA)
Forbidden Fruits
[F/f. Role-reversal, age gap, slowish burn.]
Part 1 - Part 2
Just Date Me?
[F/f. Relationships are hard and sometimes there's diapers.]
Part 1 (DA)
Completed, Probably
(unless somebody asks nicely for more then maybe i would accomodate i dunno)
The Playdate
[M/f x 2. A daddy-daddy-daughter-daughter double date.]
Oneshot
I Don't Need a Babysitter! But...
[F/f. Slow burn CG/L vibes into slow burn romance(?!).]
Oneshot
Her 'Little' Plan
[M/f, F/m. Role reversal. Early relationship romance.]
Oneshot
Daycare Demotion
[F/f. Slow regression with a little spice.]
Oneshot
The Road Trip
[F/m. Diapered road trip and whirlwind con weekend.]
Oneshot (DA)
Diapered in the Dorm
[F/m, M/f/m. Experimental for me. Humiliation, non-con, probably cringe.]
Oneshot (DA)
Technically Not Finished and People Keep Asking Me to Continue but I Kind of Don't Like Where It Is Right Now and It's Not Really What I Like to Write Anymore so My Motivation Is Low
The Nurserymaster's Apprentice
[F/f. My first work, a magic realism diaper machine story.]
Chapter 1 (DA) - There are 23 chapters on DA, not going to link them all here.
[ABDL. F/f. 'Big girl' goes back to daycare.]
End, Pt. 1 - Chapter 1
Emma stood in the kitchen for a moment, a strange, humming electricity under her skin, a mixture of lingering shame and a blossoming, desperate curiosity. Obediently, she turned toward the bathroom, her wet Goodnite squelching with every step. She knew what Olivia had in her car, but why?
The shower was a blur of steam and hot water. Emma hastily scrubbed the remnants of the afternoon from her skin, her mind looping back to the way Olivia had spoken to her. As she stepped out and patted herself dry, she felt an odd sense of anticipation to hear it again. Tugging on a fresh t-shirt, she didn't reach for her usual Goodnite, cotton panties, or a pair of lounge pants. She had a feeling she wouldn't need them. Instead, she walked back into the living room, completely bare from the waist down, her skin still damp and smelling of honey-scented soap.
The house was quiet, but a soft light spilled from the daycare's main playroom. Emma stepped inside and found Olivia waiting for her, standing in the center of the colorful rug. Olivia wasn't smiling; she had a focused, maternal expression that made Emma feel like she was barely three feet tall. Without a word, Olivia pointed toward the oversized changing table in the corner. It was a heavy-duty piece of equipment designed for the older toddlers, though it looked diminutive compared to Emma's adult frame.
"Up you go," Olivia commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Emma hesitated, her eyes darting from the colorful alphabet blocks on the rug to the vinyl-covered surface of the changing table. The table was sturdy, but it was designed for toddlers, and the thought of hoisting her adult frame onto it felt absurd. Yet, the authoritative glint in Olivia's eyes acted like a magnet, pulling her forward. With a soft blush creeping up her neck, Emma stepped forward and climbed onto the table, her skin sticking slightly to the cool, waterproof surface. She lay back, feeling exposed and small, her legs dangling off the edge as she looked up at the ceiling of the daycare.
As Olivia stepped closer, the crinkle of a plastic bag echoed through the quiet room. Emma noticed that the usual bins of baby wipes and disposable diapers had been pushed aside. In their place was a curated station dedicated entirely to her. There were oversized tubs of thick barrier cream and a stack of those heavy, crinkly adult diapers that Olivia had introduced her to on Friday night. These weren't the sleek, pull-on style of the Goodnites; these were the real deal, with thick padding and wide, adhesive tape tabs.
Olivia reached for the stack, the plastic rustling loudly in the stillness of the playroom. She didn't move with the tentative gentleness of a friend, but with the efficient, practiced rhythm of someone who had spent hours assisting toddlers in this very room. She unfolded a large, printed diaper, her eyes tracking the way Emma’s chest rose and fell with shallow, nervous breaths, before sliding it under her bottom.
"I can't believe you had all this in your car," Emma murmured, more to herself than to Olivia, lifting her hips slightly to help.
Olivia didn't respond with words, only a small, knowing smile as she reached for the tub of cream. She scooped out a generous dollop of the thick, white paste, her fingers warm as she applied it with slow, methodical strokes across Emma's skin.
"What even is that stuff?" Emma asked, her voice sounding tiny as she felt the thick, cooling sensation of the barrier cream spreading across her skin.
"Such a chatty baby girl tonight," Olivia murmured, her voice humming with a quiet authority that made Emma's heart race. She didn't explain the cream. Because she didn't have to. Once she seemed to have decided that Emma's skin was thoroughly protected, she dusted her with baby powder. The fine, white cloud drifted upward, filling the air with a nostalgic, powdery scent that seemed to trigger something deep in Emma's lizard brain. It smelled like safety. It smelled like a world where no one expected a resume or a five-year plan. As the powder settled, Olivia pulled the front of the diaper up between her legs, testing the alignment and the fit, before securing each of the four tapes one by one.
Emma let out a long, shaky sigh, her body sinking deeper into the vinyl.
Olivia wiped her hands on her jeans, admiring her handiwork for a long moment, her gaze distant, thoughts elsewhere. "You know, I think I prefer it when you have a little more fight in you. Not that I don't appreciate a well-behaved baby on the changing table."
Emma felt the thick, crinkly bulk of the diaper wrapped around her hips, a stark contrast to the streamlined fit of the Goodnites. This felt like an event, a commitment. The tape tabs were tight, creating a secure, cocooning sensation that made her feel anchored to the spot. She looked up at Olivia, her expression soft and searching. "What now?"
"Now, you keep that diaper on all night," Olivia replied matter-of-factly. "You've got enough cream and powder on to last until I change you before work tomorrow morning."
Emma’s eyes widened, and she instinctively tried to sit up, the thick padding of the diaper crinkling loudly under her. "No way!" she exclaimed, her voice regaining a flicker of its usual adult cadence. "All night? You can't just be leave me in a diaper for twelve hours straight!"
Olivia didn't look surprised. Instead, a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. "There she is."
"Be serious. I can't just stay in this until tomorrow. It's not practical, and it's… it's a lot." She tried to make her voice sound firm, but it came out as a soft, pleading whine.
"If you're good for your babysitter, I'll think about changing you before bed. How about that?" Olivia countered, her voice smooth and uncompromising. She reached out and gave the front of the diaper a playful, firm pat, the plastic crinkling loudly under her palm. "But for now, you're just a baby. And babies don't make the rules, they follow them."
Emma opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. The feeling of the thick padding, the lingering scent of the baby powder, and the way Olivia was looking at her with such effortless control made the protest feel irrelevant.
"I'll be good," Emma whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Olivia beamed, the authoritative mask softening into a look of genuine affection. She reached down, hooking her arms under Emma’s armpits and hoisting her off the changing table with a grunt of effort.
Emma’s legs felt heavy and clumsy, the bulk of the adult diaper forcing her to waddle as her feet hit the playroom rug. The plastic backing rustled with every micro-movement, a constant, crinkly reminder that this was her new reality for the next few hours.
"I went ahead and ordered the pizza, but it'll be a little while yet." Olivia announced, her voice humming with that same playful authority. "Let's get you set up with some toys." She didn't lead Emma by the hand; instead, she pointed toward a scattered pile of colorful plastic blocks and primary-colored rings. "Crawl over there, Em. Let's see you build me a tower."
Emma froze, her face heating up. "You want me to… on the floor?" she asked, her tone incredulous. The thought of descending to the level below a toddler felt like a final surrender of the few grown-up shreds she had left. But Olivia didn't budge, her arms crossed over her chest.
With a shaky exhale, Emma lowered herself. The diaper crinkled loudly, the thick padding bunching between her thighs as she settled onto her hands and knees. She felt ridiculous, an adult woman, diapered ass swaying in the air, but the look of expectation on Olivia's face acted like a command. And… she was following commands tonight, right? Maybe it would get easier? She could just… do what is asked of her.
Emma began to stack the blocks, her movements tentative at first, but eventually she found the fun.
"Now, the coloring books are all the way across the room," Olivia commanded, pointing toward the reading nook. "Crawl to them, baby girl."
"I'm not done!" she began to whine, but Olivia simply shook her head.
By the time she reached the crayons, the shame had dissolved into a strange, floating lightness. She leaned back on her heels, the thick diaper supporting her bottom like a soft cushion, and began to scribble a messy, purple sun on a piece of construction paper. She looked up at Olivia and realized she was smiling, a genuine, toothy grin.
"You're such a good girl, Em," Olivia murmured, her voice warm as she stepped closer to inspect the artwork. "Look at you, following all the rules. I bet you're thinking about how much better this is than a job interview, aren't you?"
"Ugh. Kinda," Emma admitted, her voice small as she switched crayons. "But let's not bring the j-word up tonight, please?"
Olivia chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet of the playroom. She reached down and scratched Emma behind the ear, a gesture that made Emma lean into the touch like a kitten. "Deal. No more talking about the scary adult world. Just you and me."
Olivia didn't let her linger over the coloring book for long. She stood up and took a few steps toward the center of the room, her expression shifting back into that focused, maternal command. "Alright, little one. Time to move. Follow me to the play kitchen."
Emma blinked, her gaze drifting from the purple sun to Olivia’s expectant face. The thick padding crinkled loudly as she shifted, the sound filling the quiet room. Olivia didn't reach out to help her; instead, she simply turned and began to walk slowly toward the plastic kitchen set, her pace measured so that Emma would have to struggle to keep up.
"Hurry up, slowpoke," Olivia teased, her voice humming with that same playful authority.
Emma let out a soft huff, her palms pressing into the colorful foam tiles of the playroom floor, the plastic backing of her diaper rubbing against her thighs in a way that made her feel delightfully ungainly.
The play kitchen was well-appointed with pots and pans and little plastic broccolis and wooden eggs. As she reached the toy oven, Emma looked up, her eyes searching Olivia's for the next instruction.
"You'll have to preheat it first," Olivia instructed, her voice dipping into a playful, maternal hum. She leaned over Emma, her presence enveloping and warm, as she pointed toward the plastic dial on the toy oven. Emma reached up and turned the knob, eliciting a few small plastic clicks.
Together, they began the elaborate process of baking a pretend cake. Olivia guided Emma's hands, showing her how to stir an invisible batter in a tiny plastic bowl and how to carefully pour the imaginary mixture into a toy pan. There was something meditative about the shared focus, a quiet intimacy that flourished in the absence of real-world expectations. Emma felt her shoulders drop, the tension of the past few months finally evaporating as she focused entirely on the imaginary flour and sugar.
"Now we just have to let it bake," Olivia whispered, her voice a soft, guiding presence. She helped Emma slide the pan into the toy oven, her arm brushing against Emma's shoulder, before asking Emma to set an imaginary timer. "Now, count down from ten, okay sweetie? Do you know how?"
Emma frowned. "Of course I know how," she muttered, though the edge of her voice was softer now, more compliant. She took a deep breath and began to count. "Ten… nine… eight…"
Olivia clapped her hands together as Emma hit one, "Ding! The cake is done!" she exclaimed, her voice bright and encouraging. She helped Emma pull the imaginary treat from the plastic oven, but not before sliding miniature oven mitts onto a couple of her fingers.
Just as Emma began to lean in to admire the invisible frosting, the sharp, sudden chime of the doorbell echoed through the house. The sound sliced through the quiet of the playroom like a siren. Emma gasped, her entire body jolting with a sudden, visceral surge of panic. The ghost of her normal self screamed in alarm, terrified that some unexpected adult guest might walk through the front door and find her playing pretend on the floor in a thick, crinkly diaper. Without thinking, she dove for cover, scrambled backward on her hands and knees, the plastic backing of her diaper rustling loudly as she lunged toward the shadow of the oversized changing table. She pressed her back against the wall, curling into a tight ball and pulling her knees up to her chest. She held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs, feeling utterly exposed and absurdly small.
The door opened, shut, and Olivia peeked her Pink hair around the table, now holding a pizza box. She didn't look concerned by Emma's sudden dive for cover; instead, her expression was one of mild amusement. "Who's hiding back there?" she asked, her voice echoing with a playful, sing-song quality. "Is there a little baby hiding in the shadows? A very crinkly little baby?"
Emma felt her face heat up, the adrenaline of the scare slowly fading into a warm, buzzing sensation. She looked up at Olivia, her eyes wide.
"It was the pizza guy, silly goose!" she chirped. "Let's eat! We can have your cake for dessert."
Emma slowly uncurled from her ball, crawled out from behind the table.
"You can stop crawling if you want," Olivia said, a triumphant grin creeping across her face.
Emma stood up, dumbly. She hadn't really meant to keep crawling… She just… Did.
Olivia didn't give her time to overthink it. She reached out and took Emma by the hand, guiding her out of the playroom. As they entered the kitchen, the smell of hot pepperoni and melted cheese filled the air, but Olivia didn't head for the table. Instead, she stopped in her tracks and turned to face Emma, her eyes dancing with a mischievous glint.
"Before we eat, we need to get you dressed for dinner," Olivia announced. She reached into the daycare supplies and pulled out a large, plastic-backed bib with a colorful cartoon animal on the front. Then, she pointed toward Emma's t-shirt. "Off this goes, Emmy! Take your shirt off so you can wear your bib. We can't have pizza sauce all over your clothes."
Emma froze, her eyes widening. The grown-up in her, though rapidly losing ground, gave one final, frantic gasp of protest. "No fucking way!" she exclaimed, her voice jumping an octave. The thought of being stripped down to just her thick, crinkly diaper while eating pizza felt like a leap too far. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a sudden, sharp need to shield herself.
Olivia didn't look impressed by the resistance. She stepped closer, her expression shifting into that firm, parental mask that Emma had found so intoxicatingly commanding. "Now, don't be difficult, Emmy. Pizza is messy. Do you want sauce dripping and ruining your shirt?" She paused, her gaze dropping to the Emma's diaper. A slow, teasing smile curved her lips. "And it's not like I haven't already seen a lot more than your little boobies."
The surface logic was sound, but that didn't stop the heat from blooming across Emma's cheeks.. She looked at the bib, then back at Olivia, seeing the expectation in the younger girl's eyes. Slowly, her fingers trembling slightly, Emma reached for the hem of her t-shirt. She pulled the fabric over her head, tossing the garment onto the nearby kitchen chair. She stood there, bare from the chest down to her ankles, feeling the cool air of the kitchen hit her skin.
"That was so easy!" she chirped, stepping forward to fasten the velcro tabs of the bib around Emma's neck. "Such a good listener. With only a bit of a potty mouth."
The plastic material felt stiff against her skin, the cartoon giraffe on the front staring blankly forward. She felt ridiculously exposed, her midriff bare and her hips swollen with padding. The small bib did nothing to cover her breasts, or her rapidly stiffening nipples, yet the way Olivia looked at her with such proud, maternal approval made the embarrassment start feel like a warm blanket. Kind of. It was still a lot.
Olivia guided her toward the kitchen table, her hand resting firmly on the small of Emma's back. The crinkle of the diaper was loud in the quiet room, a rhythmic, plastic rustle that punctuated every clumsy step Emma took. Instead of letting her climb into a chair normally, Olivia made a meal of helping her sit down into it. The thick bulk of the diaper made sitting down an exciting new process, the padding compressing beneath her with a soft, airy huff.
Olivia sat opposite her, the pizza box open between them. The steam from the pepperoni and melted cheese wafted upward, but Olivia didn't simply slide the box toward Emma. Instead, she reached for a plastic knife and began to carefully slice a single slice into tiny, bite-sized squares. Another complaint momentarily rose in Emma's throat, but as she looked at Olivia's focused expression, the words dissolved. Why hit the brakes now?
"Here comes the plane," Olivia sing-songed, lifting a small piece of crust and cheese toward Emma's lips.
Emma felt a fresh surge of heat climb from her chest to her temples. The absurdity of the situation was absolute, yet as she looked at the small piece of pizza, she felt a strange, magnetic pull. She didn't have to decide what to eat, how much to eat, or even how to hold the food. She only had to exist and be provided for. It didn't matter how it went in, and it didn't matter how it came out anymore for that matter. As if on cue, she dribbled into her diaper.
Several more airplanes landed in Emma's mouth, each bite of pizza tasting more and more delicious than any meal she had eaten in months. The act of simply being fed left her in a state of blissful, sensory focus. She leaned back in the chair, her body feeling heavy and warm, while the thick padding of her diaper swelled with the quiet, steady release of her bladder.
"I could go to bed right now," Emma announced after a second slice, her eyes closed and head lolling.
"It's like 6:30," Olivia replied with a smirk. "I know you're just a baby, but this is a little extreme."
"I'm just content. My stomach is full. My heart is full My diaper is getting full…"
Olivia chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. She reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Emma's forehead, her fingers lingering for a moment. "Your defenses really have just completely collapsed, haven't they?"
Emma leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut. "Tonight is my gift to you. Enjoy it. Because I'm back to high-powered career woman tomorrow."
Olivia’s smile didn't reach her eyes, though her expression remained soft. "Why can't it be both? Work hard, play hard?"
Emma let out a small, sleepy huff, the plastic of her diaper crinkling as she shifted in the wooden chair. "Because I don't want to do both. If I really gave in to what I want, I'd be enrolled in this daycare tomorrow as an infant. No… I'd hire you as my personal babysitter so I'd have you all to myself."
Olivia frowned. "I'm flattered, but… I want the whole Emma. Not just the baby side."
The honesty in Olivia's voice caught Emma off guard. She opened one eye, looking at the younger woman who had spent the last few hours dismantling every adult boundary she owned.
"I… don't think I want to have this conversation with my girls out," Emma murmured, looking down at her exposed breasts. "Can I have my shirt back?"
Olivia didn't move to get the shirt. Instead, she leaned in, her gaze softening as she studied Emma's face. "So you do understand there's a time and place to be big."
Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course I do. But 'big' Emma isn't me either. It's just some dumb character I put on to be gainfully employed. That's why it's so exhausting."
Olivia reached out and gently squeezed Emma's knee. "You don't have to kill one version of yourself to let the other live. That's the exhausting part."
"Well it has worked for me so far," Emma said.
"Has it?" Olivia asked. Quietly. As if she wanted the words back the moment they left.
"That's not fair," Emma said. "You only met me after the layoff and after the end of my relationship."
Olivia leaned back in her chair, the playful authority of the last few hours settling into something more grounded and contemplative. "I just want you to be happy with yourself, Em. I think you're lying to the both of us right now."
"What do you want me to do?" Emma asked, earnestly. She was just a woman in a wet diaper, sitting across from a twenty-two-year-old who seemed to see through and/or smash down every single wall she had ever built.
Olivia didn't answer immediately. She stood up and walked across the kitchen, her footsteps soft on the linoleum. "I don't know. Saturday morning sucked when you went into career mode and hit the eject button. But… tonight is kind of weird too."
Emma shifted in her chair. "Weird how?"
"I don't like that you called tonight a 'gift.' You're just… letting me do whatever I want," Olivia explained, her voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. She stopped just behind Emma's chair, resting her hands on the wooden backrest. "It's like you've switched off your brain entirely. I don't know if you like what we're doing. I don't know if you're just doing it out of obligation. Or like, some desire to punish yourself. I don't want a doll, Emma."
The tears falling down Emma's face caught her by surprise. She dabbed her eyes. When had she started crying? She was frustrated. "I'm just trying to make you happy!" she stammered.
Olivia sighed and stepped around the chair, kneeling so she was at eye level with Emma. The stark contrast was jarring; Olivia was now the one looking up, though her gaze remained steady and searching. "I'm happy. I'm over the moon. I love my life. I love my job. And I love what we have. Are you happy?"
Emma looked down at her lap, at the cartoony diaper. She thought about the crushing pressure of the last few months, the silence of a phone that wouldn't ring with job offers, the phantom feeling of a bed that used to be twice as wide and hold someone else. She thought about the absolute elation of finally getting that call back, the validation of the interview. Then she thought about Olivia, her radical acceptance of this strange, crinkly secret, and the slow, steady erosion of every last barrier she built between them.
"I'm getting there," she finally answered. "Even if this is the second time today I've cried in front of you." She felt something running out of her nose, sniffled.
The confession felt fragile, a small seed of truth planted in the middle of the kitchen's fluorescent glow. Emma looked at Olivia, seeing not just a caregiver or a friend, but the first person who had looked at her wreckage and decided it was worth keeping.
Olivia smiled, grasped Emma's hands. "All of this is all of you. Don't throw any of it away, dummy."
Fresh tears. "Ugh, okay, okay! Fine! I was being a dummy," Emma whispered, a small, genuine laugh bubbling up. "So what now?"
Olivia looked at her phone. "I still have you for about 2 hours, so now you're going to continue being my baby." She stood up and offered a hand to Emma, pulling her out of the chair with a gentle tug, dabbing her face with a napkin.
"Wait, wait, ugh, wait!" she stammered, dodging the napkin to get the words out. "You were just preaching about not killing one version of myself to let the other live, but now you're just flipping the switch back to baby mode? Where is the balance in that?"
Olivia grinned. "You also said tonight was a 'gift,' right? I'm taking full advantage."
"You said it weirded you out!" Emma countered, stomping her foot.
"I got over it."
"Can I at least have my shirt back?" Emma asked, regarding her bare chest as Olivia unsnapped the bib.
"Nope!" Olivia chirped, whisking Emma back into the playroom, out of arm's reach of her discarded t-shirt. Instead, Olivia guided her toward the well-worn corduroy couch sat beneath a dim lamp. With a swift motion, she grabbed a massive, plush fleece blanket from the armrest and draped it over Emma's shoulders, wrapping the fabric tightly around her, swaddling her until only her head peeked out from the soft, white wool, effectively cocooning her in a warm, fabric shell.
Emma let out a muffled sound of protest, but the warmth was immediate, comforting, and better than being naked. She felt like a giant burrito, her arms pinned to her sides. "Ugh, fine," she muttered.
"Just stay put, little one," Olivia commanded, giving the bundle of fleece a final, firm pat. "I'm going to get you your after dinner beverage."
Emma sank deeper into the cushions, the weight of the blanket pressing her down into the soft fabric of the couch. She felt immobile and secure, her restricted movements making her feel smaller than she actually was. From the quiet of the living room, the distant, rhythmic hum of the microwave began to drone from the kitchen. The sound sparked a memory of Friday night, a recollection of the warm, sweet liquid and the heavy lidded sleepiness that followed. She knew exactly what was happening in that kitchen-- Olivia was preparing another bottle of warm fairy milk.
The silence that followed the microwave's beep was brief. Emma heard the soft clink of a bottle being capped and the familiar padding of Olivia's footsteps returning to the room. As Olivia approached, the dim lamp cast long, amber shadows across the walls, adding to the hazy, timeless feeling of the evening.
Olivia didn't just sit beside her; she shifted Emma's cocooned body with practiced ease, guiding her to lie back across her lap. The position was inherently vulnerable, leaving Emma to look up at the ceiling while her head rested on Olivia's soft thighs.
Without a word, she produced the bottle. The silicone nipple brushed against Emma's lips, smelling faintly of vanilla and cinnamon. As Emma opened her mouth to accept it, the warm liquid flowed, thick and soothing. It was exactly like Friday night, a sensory anchor that dragged the rest of the world away. The tension Emma was holding in her face melted away, and her eyes began to drift shut, her breathing syncing with the rhythmic pull of the bottle.
Olivia's free hand gently combed through Emma's hair. The touch was tender, devoid of the strict authority from earlier, replaced by a quiet intimacy. Emma felt a wave of profound relaxation wash over her, starting at the crown of her head and sinking down through her shoulders. The cocoon of the fleece blanket held her tight, while the diaper firmly hugging her hips reminded her exactly where she belonged in this moment.
As the warm milk continued to flow from the bottle, Emma felt a soft pressure building in her abdomen. Without a second thought, she let go, feeling another warm rush of liquid bloom against her skin. She leaned into the feeling, focused on the dual sensations of intake and release. It was a strange, rhythmic cycle that made her feel completely untethered from the world.
"Hungry baby," Olivia cooed. She tilted the bottle slightly higher, ensuring the flow was steady as Emma drank. The rhythmic suction of the nipple became the only sound in the room, save for the occasional crinkle of the diaper beneath the fleece blanket.
Between gulps of the warm liquid, Emma tilted her head back, studying Olivia's face. She traced the soft line of Olivia's jaw and the way her eyes crinkled with a mixture of affection and possessiveness. It was a strange juxtaposition; Olivia was younger than her, yet in this space, she felt like an ancient, steady anchor. Emma wondered where the line was drawn between a friendship and whatever this had become. They weren't just friends, that was for sure. They were something new and unnamed, a bond forged in the wreckage of Emma's old life and the curious desires Olivia hadn't known she possessed until now.
It was a small wonder Olivia had jumped in so enthusiastically. How would her ex have reacted? What would Emma have even done if Olivia pushed her away after the pacifier accident? The thoughts were fleeting, drifting like smoke before they were replaced by the heavy, warm pressure of the milk in her belly. Emma exhaled a long, shaky breath, her body sinking deeper into Olivia's lap as the bottle finally neared the bottom.
"What's going on in that noggin?" Olivia asked. She must've noticed Emma staring.
Emma didn't answer right away. She just let out a little bubble of a sigh, the sound muffled by the silicone nipple as she sucked the last few drops of warm milk from the bottle. The warmth in her stomach was making her feel drowsy, a heavy sort of peace that made her limbs feel like lead. She felt the weight of her diaper, the growing thickness of it between her legs, under her bottom. "I appreciate you," she finally said.
Olivia's expression brightened, her thumb tracing the curve of Emma's cheekbone. "I appreciate you too, Em. Even if you are a stubborn little thing." She pulled the bottle away and set it on the side table with a quiet clink. She checked her phone again. "Your mom's not due back for another hour or so, but maybe we should go up to your room, just in case."
Emma tried to sit up, but the fleece wrap was a stubborn barrier. She let out a soft, frustrated grunt, wiggling her shoulders, before Olivia giggled, unwrapping her from her cocoon. "A real-live snuggle bug!" she exclaimed.
Olivia didn't let Emma walk up the stairs on her own. Instead, she guided her by the hand, the plastic of the diaper crinkling with every cautious step. By the time they reached the sanctuary of the second floor, Emma felt a deep sense of surrender. The room felt smaller and softer than usual, the childhood posters and old books acting as a silent backdrop to her current state. As soon as the door clicked shut, Olivia turned her around, her eyes scanning the heavy, sagging padding of Emma's diaper. "Impressive. It still looks dry," she remarked, "but I know I've seen your potty face a couple times tonight…"
Emma blushed, her gaze drifting toward the floor. "They're definitely different from Goodnites…"
Olivia chuckled, the sound echoing in the small bedroom. "Do you like them? I have 8 more, so I hope you do."
"At first I didn't. They're so… big. But…" Emma paused, feeling like she was about to admit something compromising.
Olivia smiled, just a bit, but kept silent.
"Earlier today I wet my Goodnite a couple times and it was already full… and I… really wished I was in something more absorbent." Emma whispered, the admission feeling like a heavy weight lifting from her chest.
"Oh, honey," Olivia cooed, sitting down on the bed. She reached up to Emma's diaper and slipped a finger inside. "Maybe you're just ready for pull-ups?"
Emma's breath hitched as she felt the intrusion into her diaper. She tried to maintain a shred of her dignity, but felt her cheeks burning. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?" Olivia asked, her voice dripping with an innocent curiosity that Emma knew was entirely fake.
"You make me so embarrassed, but like… in a way that I want to be embarrassed." The explanation wasn't coming easily. She didn't have words for these slippery feelings. "Like, I would die on the spot if it was anybody else, but because it's you, I--"
"Want to cream in your diapees?" Olivia finished the sentence.
Emma let out a small, strangled sound, half-laughing and half-gasping. She tried to pull away, but Olivia's finger was still inside of her diaper, and she held on tight. "Jesus, Liv," she finally whispered.
Olivia grinned, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of mischief and something deeper, something that felt almost like hunger. "So I'm right?"
Emma tried to look away, but Olivia's finger moved inside her diaper, brushed up against her, up and down, gently. The sensation was electric, a slow, deliberate exploration of the soft, sensitive edges of Emma's vulva, teasing the lips with a light, fluttering touch that sent a shiver straight up Emma's spine. She felt a sudden, sharp throb of desire that made her knees feel weak. It was an alien feeling, a visceral reaction that bypassed every logical thought in her head. The fact that Olivia was a woman, and not just any woman, but the friend she trusted most in the world, added a layer of complexity that made her head spin. It felt wrong, then it felt right, then it felt overwhelming.
"Liv?" she whispered.
The word was barely a sound, a breathy plea that hung in the air of the dim bedroom. Olivia didn't pull her hand away; instead, she used it to pull Emma down to the bed. There they were, laid out, forehead to forehead. Olivia was looking right into Emma's eyes, like she was trying to extract some kind of information.
"Too much?" Olivia whispered, her voice devoid of the teasing edge. "Tell me."
Emma couldn't find her voice. The air in the room felt thick, charged with a tension that made the simple act of breathing feel like a conscious effort. She shook her head 'no' with maybe too much eagerness.
Olivia smiled, a slow and knowing expression that reached her eyes. She didn't pull away. Instead, she slid her hand back down, her finger finding the edge of the leg guard. With a deliberate, slow motion, she began to play, tracing the soft skin of Emma's inner thigh and then circling back to press against the sensitive flesh. Olivia’s touch was light, almost teasing, as she explored the boundary between the diaper's edge and Emma's skin, her finger dipping in and out of the elastic gather.
Emma felt her breath hitch. The contrast between the bulky, absorbent padding and the precise, targeted warmth of Olivia's touch was dizzying. Every slide of Olivia's finger sent a jolt of electricity through her, making her toes curl against the bedsheets. She tried to maintain her composure, but the sensation was too focused, too intimate. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips, the sound vibrating in the small space between them.
The sound seemed to trigger something in Olivia. Her smile widened, becoming something more predatory yet tender. Without warning, Olivia withdrew her hand for a split second, only to plunge it firmly down the front of the diaper. The sudden movement displaced the thick, sodden padding, pushing the plastic crinkling against Emma's skin as Olivia's palm made full, direct contact with her heat.
Emma gasped, her hips arching instinctively. The feeling was overwhelming, the heavy bulk of the wet diaper wrapped around her while Olivia's hand sought her out with a confident, searching pressure. There was no more teasing at the edges. Olivia’s fingers found her, molding against the soft folds of her anatomy, the friction of the diaper's inner lining adding a strange, textured sensation to the intimacy. Emma felt a surge of raw, uncomplicated need, her adult inhibitions dissolving under the weight of the diaper and Olivia's touch.
"You're so sensitive," Olivia whispered, her voice a low hum that vibrated in Emma's chest. She didn't stop, her hand moving in a slow, rhythmic grind that matched the throb of Emma's pulse.
With a sudden, fluid movement, Olivia shifted her weight, sliding down until her face was inches from Emma's chest, capturing one of Emma's stiff nipples between her lips. Emma let out a sharp, high pitched gasp, her back arching off the mattress as she felt the wet, sliding pressure of Olivia's tongue.
The juxtaposition was dizzying. Below, the heavy, sodden weight of her diaper clung to her skin, a constant reminder of her regression, while above, Olivia was treating her body with a focused, adult intensity. It was as if Olivia were claiming both versions of her at once, the baby who needed care and the woman who craved touch. Emma's hands flew to Olivia's shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as she tried to steady herself in the storm of sensation.
Olivia’s tongue traced a slow, wet circle around the peak of Emma's breast, the wet heat of her mouth matching the state of her diaper. Emma’s breath came in short, jagged hitches, her mind spinning in a blur of sensory overload. She felt utterly exposed, pinned naked between the soft mattress and the demanding presence of the fully-clothed woman above her. The feeling of being cared for as a baby had shifted seamlessly into a desperate need to be wanted and consumed.
Olivia’s hand didn't waver, her fingers sliding deeper through the sodden padding to find the center of Emma's heat, every movement amplified by the heavy bulk of the diaper. Emma let out a low, guttural moan, her hips unconsciously thrusting upward, seeking more of the pressure that was driving every other thought from her mind.
The tension in Emma's body built like a coiled spring, her muscles tightening and beginning to ache as she neared the edge of a precipice. Olivia could feel the shift, the way Emma's breathing heightened and her fingers tightened in Olivia's shirt. Just as the wave of pleasure began to peak, Olivia leaned in and caught the tip of Emma's nipple between her teeth. It wasn't a hard bite, but a gentle, teasing nip, a sudden spark of sharp sensation that acted like a catalyst. The shock of the bite sent a jolt of electricity straight to Emma's core, triggering the final release.
Emma cried out, her body shuddering violently beneath Olivia. The climax crashed over her in waves, a powerful, visceral explosion that left her gasping for air and shaking with the effort of the release. As the intensity slowly ebbed, she felt the heavy, warm weight of her saturated diaper clinging to her, a physical anchor to the vulnerability of the moment. She collapsed back into the pillows, her eyes falling shut, spent. Olivia lingered for a moment, her lips brushing against Emma's skin in a series of soft, lingering kisses: forehead, cheek, neck, before she finally pulled away with a satisfied, knowing smile.
The room fell silent, save for the sound of Emma's ragged breathing and the distant, muffled noise of a car door closing in the driveway downstairs. The spell didn't break, but it shifted. Emma felt a sudden, sharp awareness of the state of her lower half. She looked up at Olivia, who was watching her with a gaze that was both protective and possessive.
"Your mommy's home," Olivia whispered with tender amusement. She reached down, the plastic of the diaper crinkling loudly under her touch as she smoothed the waistband. "Looks like I'm going home for the night."
Emma let out a small, plaintive moan. She had so many things to say, but not words with which to say them.
Olivia stood up, the bed creaking under her weight. "Remember, you keep that diaper on, okay? I'll come change you in the morning." She pulled the covers up around Emma and tucked them in with affection.
Emma barely heard her, barely registered her actions, her mind still swimming in the afterglow of the last few minutes. She felt heavy and warm, her body feeling like it had melted into the mattress. The saturated weight of the diaper was a comforting presence. She watched Olivia move toward the door, the younger woman's silhouette framed by the soft glow of the hallway light.
"Goodnight, little one," Olivia whispered, blowing a kiss toward the bed.
As the door clicked shut and the sound of the front door closing echoed from downstairs, Emma lay in the silence of her room. She could hear her mother's muffled voice from the first floor, greeting Olivia with a familiar, cheery cadence. Normally, the sound of her mother returning would trigger a reflex to pull on some clothes and pretend she had been productive, perhaps pretending to read a book or organize her dresser. Tonight, she didn't move. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, Emma reached down under the covers and patted the thick padding of her diaper. It was thick, swollen with her urine, and the feeling made her feel inexplicably cherished. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of baby powder, warm milk, and -- embarrassingly, good embarrassingly -- her pee, still clinging to her skin. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, or how she would reconcile this version of herself with the world outside her bedroom door, but as she drifted toward sleep, the only thing that mattered was the memory of Olivia's touch and the heavy, warm security wrapped around her hips. That would be enough.
[ABDL. F/f. 'Big girl' goes back to daycare.]
End, Pt. 2 - Chapter 1
Emma was ready. By Sunday evening, she had not just prepared for the interview, she had engineered a version of herself that was practically bulletproof. Her blazer was steamed to a crisp edge, her makeup was applied with surgical precision, and her notes were organized into a color coded system that would make a librarian weep with joy. She had spent the last forty eight hours in a state of hyper vigilance, her mind operating like a high performance engine that refused to idle. Every time her thoughts drifted toward the memory of crinkling absorbent underwear and the warm, hazy surrender of Olivia's bedroom, she shut it down with a mental slammed door. She was a professional. She was a strategist. She was not a girl who nursed a pacifier and woke up wet.
The silence from Olivia had been a relief at first. Emma had treated the weekend as a detox, purging every infantile impulse from her system. She felt leaner, sharper, and more capable than she had in months. As she sat at her desk, ready to go 15 minutes ahead of the call, she felt a surge of triumph. She had balanced the scale. She had let herself play a game of make believe for a night, but now the adult world was calling, and she was answering with a resounding, disciplined 'Yes!'
Yet, as the minutes ticked toward 9:30, a small, persistent ache began to bloom in her chest. She had sent Olivia a text on Sunday afternoon, a simple "I'm so nervous but ready!" and the message had remained on delivered for hours. The lack of a congratulatory text, or even a simple, "Good luck!" colored everything with a certain darkness. This was good for Emma. Important. And Olivia couldn't be happy for her?
She wondered if Olivia was actually mourning the loss of the baby she got to play with. The silence felt pointed, almost calculated, as if Olivia were holding her support hostage until Emma returned to a state of helplessness. It wounded her deeply. She had thought their friendship was evolving into something substantial, but the void of communication suggested that Olivia didn't value Emma the professional, or Emma the adult. She only valued the version of Emma that could be tucked in and diapered.
Downstairs, the daycare's activities were in full swing. It was breakfast time, and the first floor of the house echoed with the chaotic symphony of toddlers arguing over grapes and the thumps and thwacks of sippy cups knocking over and hitting the floor. Olivia was down there right now. Close, but far. It felt like such a cliche thing to feel, but as she glanced at her phone one last time, the screen remained stubbornly dark. No notification. No heart emoji. Nothing.
The Zoom invitation popped up on her monitor with a sharp, digital chime. Emma adjusted her webcam, checked her reflection. She looked like the woman who had managed millions of dollars of marketing dollars two years ago. Her posture was rigid, her expression neutral and composed. She felt the strength of her professionalism acting like a suit of armor, shielding her from the lingering vulnerability of Friday night. She was an adult. She was capable. She didn't need a pacifier or a pull-up diaper or Olivia to feel confident and in control.
The call connected, and Sam’s face filled the screen. The woman was wearing a bright orange headset and sipping from a giant mug that said "Chaos Coordinator." Her energy was infectious, a whirlwind of rapid fire questions and sharp laughter. For the first thirty minutes, Emma was on fire. She navigated the technical questions with ease, her voice steady and her arguments persuasive. She could see Sam nodding, the woman’s eyes narrowing in that way that meant she was genuinely listening, maybe even impressed. Emma felt the high of the professional arena, the thrill of being seen as an expert again.
But as the conversation shifted toward the specifics of the role, the tempo slowed. Sam leaned back, her expression softening from professional curiosity to something resembling pity. She stopped taking notes on her legal pad. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, the kind of silence that makes a person suddenly aware of the hum of their own computer fan.
"Here is the thing, Emma," Sam said, her voice losing that sharp, executive edge. "You're stunning for a young kid. Truly. And that email you sent? It was the kind of boldness that is rare in people at your level." She paused, swirling the liquid in her oversized mug. "But to be completely transparent, I don't actually have headcount for a new hire right now. My budget got frozen a few weeks back, and the finance folks are pretty stingy when it comes to the quarterly spend."
Emma felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, painful hiss. The armor she had spent the entire weekend forging didn't just crack, it shattered. The professional poise she had curated, the rigid posture, and the color coded notes suddenly felt like a costume that didn't fit. She stared at the screen, the bright orange of Sam's headset blurring as the realization hit her. She had spent forty eight hours suppressing every instinct and ignoring every desire for the sake of a job that didn't even exist.
"Oh," Emma whispered, the word sounding hollow in the quiet of her bedroom. "I see."
Sam leaned in, her expression genuine. "Look, don't let this be a blow to your ego. You are an absolute rockstar. I honestly just wanted to see if you were as kickass in person as you were in that email, and you absolutely are. Keep in touch, okay? The moment a budget opens up or a senior lead decides to move on, you're the first person I'm calling."
Emma offered a tight, rehearsed smile and thanked her, the words feeling like sandpaper in her throat. When the call finally disconnected, the silence that rushed back into the room was oppressive. She sat motionless for several minutes, staring at her own reflection in the dark monitor. The blazer, the meticulously applied eyeliner, the rigid posture; it all felt like a waste. She had scrubbed away the parts of herself that felt soft and safe in order to be a version of a woman that no one actually wanted to hire.
So… fuck it.
The thought arrived not as a decision, but as a sudden, liberating surrender. Emma leaned back in her ergonomic office chair, her gaze drifting to the ceiling. She thought about the rigid posture she had maintained for the last hour, the way she had sucked in her stomach and tightened her jaw to play the part of the perfect professional. She thought about the silence from Olivia, the coldness of the last forty eight hours, and the crushing weight of a budget freeze that had just rendered her meticulously steamed blazer meaningless. The adult world had promised her validation and status in exchange for her discipline, and in return, it had given her a polite rejection and a hollow chest.
She felt a familiar, insistent pressure in her bladder, one she had been ignoring since the call started. But as she sat there, staring at the blank screen, the urge intensified, and Emma simply stopped fighting it. She let her muscles slacken, the tension draining out of her core in one long, shivering exhale.
The warmth hit her instantly, a sudden, blooming heat that soaked through her expensive lace panties and seeped into the fabric of her tailored trousers. She watched the dark stain spread across her crotch, a slow, creeping dampness that felt more honest than any word she had spoken in weeks. It was a warm, heavy sensation, a physical manifestation of the failure she felt, but as the liquid pooled and cooled against her skin, the panic she expected never arrived. Instead, there was a profound sense of relief.
She leaned back, the wet fabric clinging to her thighs, and let out a jagged breath.
Emma found herself staring at the damp patch with a strange, detached fascination. She felt a sudden, urgent need to dismantle everything she had spent the weekend building. The discipline, the color coded notes, the rigid posture… she wanted to be small, stripped of all expectation, and utterly useless.
She stood up, the wet fabric of her trousers clinging to her skin with a cold, heavy weight. She didn't bother changing or rushing to the bathroom. Instead, she began to creep downstairs, her footsteps slow and deliberate on the stairs. The sounds of the daycare drifted up to meet her, the high pitched shrieks of children and the rhythmic thumping of building blocks. For the first time in weeks, the noise didn't feel like a nuisance; it felt like an invitation. She didn't care if her mother saw her, or if a parent noticed the dark stain spreading down her leg. She just wanted to be seen and handled, to be stripped of the burden of being a competent adult.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she navigated the hallway with a glazed expression, her eyes searching for the one person who had spent the last two days pretending she didn't exist. The playroom was a chaotic blur of colorful mats and scattered toys, but Olivia was standing near the toy bin, her pink hair tucked behind her ears as she helped a toddler with a puzzle. Olivia looked up, her gaze locking onto Emma's pale face, and then drifting slowly, inevitably, down to the saturated fabric of her trousers.
Before Emma could utter a word, Olivia was across the room, her movements swift and decisive. She stepped into Emma's space, shielding her from the view of Lys and the kids with her own body, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Oh my god, Em, are you okay?"
Emma didn't answer. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Olivia's shoulder, felt a sob catch in her throat. The scent of crayon wax and apple juice filled her nose.
"That's a no…" she murmured, her voice vibrating against Emma's temple. "C'mon, upstairs, okay?"
Olivia's arm wound around Emma's waist, the grip firm and guiding, steering her away from the prying eyes of the toddlers and toward the sanctuary of the stairs. Emma didn't fight the guidance, allowing herself to be led like a child who had wandered too far off.
Once the bedroom door clicked shut, the silence of the room felt heavy, contrasting the distant noise of the daycare. Olivia didn't ask about the interview. She guided her to the edge of the bed, helped Emma shed her blazer, and then knelt on the carpet to peel away the wet trousers. Emma stood there shivering, her legs shaking slightly, feeling the cool air hit the damp lace of her panties, before Olivia removed those too.
There was no judgment in Olivia's eyes, only a focused, quiet intensity. She fetched a pack of baby wipes from the closet to gently clean Emma's thighs and hips. Each swipe of the cloth was slow and deliberate, erasing the evidence of the day's failure and replacing it with a tenderness that made Emma's throat tighten.
Olivia's eyes flicked up to Emma's. "Um… you want panties?"
Emma shook her head slowly. She looked toward the closet, where the bulk of the Goodnites were tucked away. The desire to be completely stripped of responsibility was an ache in her chest. "No," she whispered, her voice small. "I don't want panties."
Olivia didn't smile or tease her. The playfulness that usually defined their interactions had vanished, replaced by a solemn, focused energy. She reached into the closet and pulled out a lavender Goodnite, the plastic crinkling softly in the quiet room. She stepped closer, her hands steady as she guided Emma to step into it, one foot at a time.
"I did really good," Emma finally said, not making eye contact.
Olivia paused, her fingers gripping the waistband of the absorbent garment to pull it snugly over Emma's hips. "That's good?" she offered.
"Yeah," Emma murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of a toddler throwing a tantrum downstairs. "The interview. I did really good."
Olivia paused, her hands resting on the waistband. She looked up at Emma, searching her eyes. The silence lingered for a moment before Olivia’s expression changed. "But?"
"They don't…" Emma sighed, the sound shuddering through her shoulders, "they don't 'need' me. That's what she said."
Olivia closed the remaining gap between them and wrapped her arms around Emma in a crushing, desperate embrace. It felt like she was trying to physically hold Emma together, that she was coming apart. It felt good. Emma collapsed into her, her head tucking naturally under Olivia's chin.
"You're needed," Olivia whispered, her voice vibrating through Emma's chest. "I need you."
The dam finally broke. Emma let out a ragged, shuddering sob that racked her entire body, her fingers gripping the fabric of Olivia's shirt. The tears came fast and hot, blurring her vision until the room became a smudge of pastel colors. She cried for the budget freeze, for the wasted hours of meticulous preparation, and for the crushing weight of the silence she had endured over the weekend. This pity and comfort was a lie, of course; Olivia had discarded her on Saturday. She felt a sudden, piercing wave of disappointment, not just in the company, but in herself for believing that a corporate title could fix the hollow space in her gut.
Between the sobs, a sharp sense of shame began to bleed into her grief. She felt stupid for getting her hopes up, for treating a Zoom call like a lifeline to her lost identity. She tried to pull away, her breath hitching as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was twenty six years old, a seasoned marketing professional who had handled high stakes campaigns, and here she was, sobbing in a diaper. She felt pathetic.
"Where were you?" she finally choked out, the words muffled against Olivia's shoulder. "You didn't even text me. You didn't say good luck."
Olivia pulled back just enough to look Emma in the eye, her expression pained. "I didn't know what to say, Em. When you just… stopped. The second you got that call on Saturday, it was like a switch flipped." Her voice trembled slightly. "It felt like our whole weekend was just a mistake to you, something you had to scrub away so you could be a 'real' adult again. It hurt." Olivia looked down. "And then… I felt really shitty for not being able to be excited for you. I kept typing these long texts that felt like lies. So I just didn't text. But that was fucked too, I dunno."
Emma let out a shaky breath, her fingers still curled into the fabric of Olivia's shirt. The admission of Olivia's own vulnerability softened the edges of her anger. She realized that while she had been fighting a war for her professional dignity, Olivia had been fighting a silent war against the feeling of being an inconvenient distraction in Emma's life. The silence hadn't been a calculated punishment; it had been a mirror of Emma's own withdrawal.
"Fuck," Emma sniffled, her nose running. She leaned her forehead against Olivia's, the Goodnite crinkling as she shifted her weight. "I just wanted to feel like I had something again. Like I wasn't just… a failure living in my mom's house."
Olivia chuckled. "How many times have we been over this? You make me want to shake all those dumb thoughts out of you."
Emma grinned gormlessly through her tears, let her weight slump further into Olivia. Olivia stepped back and guided Emma toward the bed, pushing her back until she was sprawled across the duvet.
The sudden lack of support made Emma feel light, her limbs heavy and useless in a way that felt indulgent. Olivia didn't stop there. She reached over to the bedside table and retrieved Emma's pacifier, placing it into her own mouth to clean it before pressing it against Emma's lips. Emma didn't hesitate. She opened her mouth and took it in, the familiar suction immediately silencing the remaining tremors in her chest.
"I'll bring you lunch," Olivia said, retreating to the door. "Which you deserve. Because you are worthy of receiving love. Idiot."
Emma didn't answer, her jaw working rhythmically on the silicone teat. She watched Olivia leave the room and close the door with a soft click, leaving her alone with the humming silence of the house: a strange, hollow peace. She felt the added bulk of the Goodnite between her legs, a physical reminder that she no longer had to hold herself together. She rolled onto her side, curled her knees up toward her chest, and wet.
The day passed busily by without Emma. She remained in bed, drifting between a light slumber and a hazy, sensory awareness. She felt the rhythmic pulse of the house around her, the muffled sounds of the daycare below acting as a distant white noise that only emphasized the stillness of her sanctuary. Each time she shifted, she released another trickle into get diaper, a cozy reminder that she had abdicated her responsibilities to the world. By the time the door creaked open and Olivia returned with a extra plate of today's lunch, Emma was tangled in the sheets, her eyes heavy and her expression vacant, the pacifier still firmly in place.
It must've been three or four in the afternoon when Emma's reverie was shattered by the soft creak of the bedroom door. She blinked, her vision swimming as she looked up from the duvet to see her mom standing in the doorway. A jolt of dread chilled Emma's veins as she reached up to her lips. Blessedly, the pacifier had slipped out of her mouth at some point during her dozing.
Lys didn't come all the way into the room. She leaned against the doorframe, her expression a mixture of soft pity and the kind of enduring patience that only a mother could possess. "Knock knock," she finally announced.
Emma checked to make sure she was covered before turning her head. "Hey ma," she said blearily.
Lys smiled. "Olivia told me about the interview. She said the timing didn't work out with the budget, and that you were feeling pretty crushed. I wanted to give you some space to just be sad, honey, but I figured you might not want to snooze your whole day away."
"You're right," Emma murmured, her voice sounding thick and unfamiliar to her own ears. "Thanks."
"Also, I've got Euchre tonight with the girls. I figure you probably don't want to come with?" Lys asked, her gaze drifting toward the bed.
"I think I'll pass," Emma replied.
"Thought you might say that. But I didn't want you left all alone tonight so I arranged Olivia to babysit." Lys gave a small, knowing smile. "I'll leave money for pizza."
Emma chuckled. "Not you calling her my babysitter," she said, the irony of being inadvertently clocked heating up her cheeks.
Lys beamed, blowing a kiss toward her daughter before disappearing down the hall.
And then Emma was alone again. The house lit up with voices as pickup time came and went, then gradually settled into a quiet hum as the last of the daycare parents departed, the afternoon light shifting into a deep, honeyed amber. Emma lay sprawled on her back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, hypnotic circles. The silence returned, but this time it didn't feel oppressive. It felt like a blank page.
She shifted her hips, feeling the heavy, sodden weight of her Goodnite clinging to her skin. After an afternoon of absent wetting whenever she felt like it, the padding was saturated, the absorbent core swollen and sagging. Emma grumbled to herself. She had to pee but was certain she would leak. But she also didn't want to get up out of bed and change.
The term babysitter echoed in her mind, bouncing around like a stray marble. It was a joke, a casual comment from her mother, yet it resonated with a strange, magnetic pull. Just what was it that she and Olivia were doing? Would it really be so bad? Being babysat?
For months, Emma had clung to the wreckage of her professional identity, treating every regression as a failure to be managed or a secret to be hidden. But as she lay there, staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, she wondered what would happen if she simply stopped managing. If she stopped trying to be the woman in the blazer and just let the current take her.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand. The house had grown quiet, the frantic energy of the daycare finally dissipated into the evening stillness. "I don't want to put on pants. Is the coast clear?"
The response from Olivia came almost instantly, accompanied by a series of playful emojis. "Lys just left for her game night, and the last kid was picked up ten minutes ago. We are officially off the clock."
Emma rolled out of bed, feeling strangely liberated as she left her room bottomless. The cool air of the hallway prickled her skin as she padded down the stairs, the plastic backing rustling with a soft, rhythmic sound. For the first time, the exposure wasn't a thrill, wasn't some kind of existential mismatch. She was just a girl in a very wet diaper, wandering her home without a care in the world.
As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she found Olivia leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone.
Olivia looked up, her eyes immediately dropping to the sagging, sodden bulk of Emma's Goodnite hanging low between Emma's thighs. Olivia’s eyebrows shot up, her expression a mix of genuine bemusement and a flicker of something more intense. "What's up, buttercup?"
"Ma told me you're babysitting me tonight," Emma murmured. She felt a strange, fluttering warmth in her chest, a vulnerability that felt more honest than any resume.
Olivia frowned. "I told her not to say the b-word."
"No, it's okay. I… wanna try that tonight." Emma's voice was small. She felt a flicker of the old shame, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the way Olivia was looking at her: a soft, hungry kind of affection.
"Who are you and where is Emma?" Olivia teased, though her voice remained tender. She set her phone on the granite counter, her eyes lingering on the sodden Goodnite before she pointed to it. "Oh, there she is."
"Pffft," Emma puffed, the sound half-stifled by a giggle. "I'm serious! This is a big step for me!"
"So what are you asking for, specifically?" Olivia asked, her voice dropping an octave.
"I want, you know, all of it…" Emma's courage had dried up instantly. Having to ask for it was…
Olivia didn't let her struggle. She stepped forward, her hand coming up to cup Emma's cheek, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw. But her eyes were narrow, scrutinizing. "All of it, huh? Whatever I want?"
Emma nodded, her eyes drifting shut as she leaned into the touch. She felt a sudden, violent need to be stripped of every remaining adult decision. She didn't want to choose her dinner, she didn't want to check her email, and she certainly didn't want to be the one in charge of her own sagging, wet diaper.
"Can we start with you changing me?" Emma whispered, her voice barely audible. The vulnerability of the request made her heart hammer against her ribs. "I have to go potty but I think this might leak."
The look on Olivia's face made Emma's knees feel weak. It wasn't the gentle, supportive gaze of a friend or the patient look of a caregiver; it was something more authoritative, a spark of command that Emma hadn't expected. Olivia didn't move toward the stairs or suggest a trip to the bathroom. Instead, she stepped closer, her hands on Emma's shoulders, holding her in place. "I don't think little girls in diapers know when they're about to leak, Em."
Emma blinked, her breath hitching. "I… I mean, I actually do."
Olivia didn't budge. She tightened her grip on Emma's shoulders. "Go potty," she instructed.
Emma blinked, her face flushing. "What?"
"I said go potty, Em. Right here. Right now. Don't think about anything else except filling up your diaper, okay?"
Emma felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. For a split second, the ghost of big girl Emma appeared, a protest rising in her throat. But this version of Emma, the one standing bottomless in a sagging Goodnite, didn't want dignity. She wanted to be told exactly what to do. She stopped pretending that she was reluctant, because the truth was that she really, really, really wanted to let go and piss all over the floor.
She let her eyes drift shut, focusing entirely on the heavy, swollen sensation between her legs. The pressure in her bladder was an insistent demand, and Olivia's command acted like a key turning in a lock. With a long, shivering exhale, Emma relaxed every muscle in her pelvic floor. The release was sudden and powerful, a hot torrent that slammed into the already saturated padding of the Goodnite.
For a few seconds, the absorbent core fought to hold the surge, but the diaper had reached its limit long ago. The hot pee surged through the leg gathers. Emma gasped, her toes curling against the cold tile as she felt the hot liquid break free, streaming in steady, uncontrolled rivulets down her thighs. The sound was a soft, rhythmic pattering as the overflow hit the kitchen floor, creating a spreading, golden pool around her bare feet.
Olivia was silent, at least at first, for a beat too long. She didn't offer a compliment or a comforting hug. Her mouth moved, forming a word, taking a short breath, stopping. Finally, she stepped back with a sharp, exaggerated gasp, her face twisting into a mask of mock disappointment. "Emma! Did you really just do that?" she exclaimed, her voice shifting into a tone of stern, authoritative disapproval. "You didn't even tell me you had to go potty! You just stood there and made a huge mess right on the floor!"
Emma froze, the hot liquid still dripping from her thighs onto the kitchen tiles. The shift in Olivia's energy was jarring. It was… pretend, right? She looked down at the golden pool spreading around her feet, her lower lip trembling. "You said--!" she whispered, though the protest felt weak even to her.
"Look at this mess. A big girl is supposed to tell her babysitter when she needs the bathroom, not just stand there and let it happen. Honestly, Em, I thought you were past this stage."
Olivia’s voice had completely shifted, losing its softness and replacing it with a firm, disciplined edge. She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked down at the puddle on the tile. The mock disappointment in her eyes was so convincing that Emma felt a genuine, dizzying rush of shame. She felt small and clumsy, standing in the middle of a mistake she didn't know how to fix.
"Just… stay right there," Olivia huffed, disappearing into the hallway, opening a distant closet door.
Emma stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the cooling puddle around her ankles feeling like a brand of failure. The sudden shift in Olivia's demeanor had worked like a spell, stripping away the last remnants of the marketing professional and leaving behind something raw and wide eyed. She hadn't felt this level of vulnerability since she was actually a child, and the sensation was intoxicatingly terrifying. She felt a genuine, instinctive urge to hide her face.
Olivia returned from the hallway with a bundle of towels, tossing one to Emma. With the others, she began to soak up the urine pooling around her feet and drying in streaks down her legs. She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the cleanup, which only amplified the feeling that Emma was being handled as a nuisance rather than an equal. The air in the kitchen grew thick with a sudden, heavy sense of order and expectation.
"I can't believe you just stood there," Olivia muttered, her voice tight with a practiced, parental sternness. She looked up, her gaze hard and unimpressed. "We talked about this, Em. Big girls use their words. They don't just make a mess on the kitchen floor because they're too lazy to say something. Do you have any idea how much work this is for me?"
Emma felt a hot flush creep up her neck, her chest tightening in a way that felt dizzyingly real. The feeling of being scolded by someone four years younger than her should have been absurd, but in the silence of the kitchen, it felt like the only truth that mattered. "I'm… sorry…"
Olivia didn't soften. She stood up, tossing the damp towels into a heap by the sink with a wet thud. She stepped close to Emma, her gaze dropping to the heavy, sodden Goodnite that was now sagging precariously low. "You're doing so good," she whispered into Emma's ear. "I liked that a lot."
The sudden shift back to tenderness was like a physical blow. "You were scary just now," Emma whispered, her voice trembling. She felt small and fragile, her identity reduced to the wet, heavy mass clinging to her hips.
"Then you had better be a good girl the rest of the night, huh?" Olivia murmured, her voice returning to that playful, commanding hum. "Now, you go shower off all that yucky pee-pee. I have to go to my car to get a couple things."
Emma perked up. "Things?"
Olivia gave Emma a quick, playful pat on the rear. She didn't wait for a response before slipping out the front door.
[con't - Tumblr has a character limit?! hah!]
[ABDL. F/f. CW: Running errands in diapers, domestic bliss.]
h/t: this post
The coffee machine hissed, sputtering its last drops into a ceramic mug as Jamie leaned against the counter, watching the steam curl upward. The morning sun slanted through the kitchen window, casting long rectangles of light across the linoleum floor. A single sock, abandoned near the fridge, caught her eye. Across the apartment, the shower turned off with a squeak of pipes, and Jamie exhaled, pressed her palms flat against the countertop, trying and failing to fight back a smile.
"You're dressed so grown-up for our big day!" Rowan announced, padding into the kitchen with damp hair. She reached for the coffee mug Jamie had set aside for her, taking a slow sip. Her eyes flicked over Jamie's fitted jeans, floral button down, and brown leather harness. "Mmmm... No."
Jamie's stomach dropped, fingers tightened around her own mug. "What do you mean, no?" The outfit had taken twenty minutes to pick. The harness was new! But Rowan's smirk was already shifting into that familiar, decisive expression, the one that meant negotiations were closed.
Rowan set her coffee down with deliberate softness, stepping closer until the scent of her shampoo, something coconut and warm, filled Jamie's space. "I'm very proud of you for picking out your outfit all by yourself." Her index fingers found Jamie's belt loops, and she pulled her in tight. "We just have so many stops today, baby."
Jamie's protest died halfway up her throat as Rowan's fingers slipped beneath her blouse, cool against her stomach. She knew where this was going, had known from the moment Rowan said no, but the reality still made her face burn. "I don't want to be little today. I can handle some errands," she murmured, convincing neither of them.
Rowan hummed, guiding her backward toward the bedroom with gentle pressure. "Can you? Last week at the hardware store, I almost had to sit you down on one of the display potties."
The memory was mortifying, Jamie's bladder betraying her halfway down aisle six, forcing them to abandon a cart full of supplies and change in the car. Rowan's voice softened as she nudged the door open with her hip. "And the diner before that. And the post office."
Jamie frowned.
"Baby, it's okay to need a little help!" Rowan cooed, pressing Jamie down onto the freshly made bed.
Of course, that wasn't the whole story. They both knew that. Most of Jamie's close calls were very carefully orchestrated by her girlfriend. ...Most of them. Jamie was starting to worry if her control might be slipping a little. But she wasn't about to admit that.
Rowan's fingers traced the waistband of Jamie's jeans before popping the button. "You're just so busy thinking about being a big girl," she drawled, peeling the denim down over Jamie's hips, "that you forget to listen to your body." The accusation was soft, laced with amusement and a hint of truth.
The bedroom smelled faintly of Rowan's lotion, the blinds still half-closed from the morning. Jamie couldn't help but fidget in place, bottomless, as Rowan pulled open the top drawer of their dresser. She knew what was coming, had heard it a thousand times, but it still sent a shiver down her spine when Rowan turned, her hands unfolding a thick, white diaper.
"I would just feel so much better knowing my baby was protected today," she purred, honey-sweet, smoothing out the padding on the bed before guiding Jamie onto it. "And do you wanna know a secret?" she asked, walking her pointer and middle fingers up Jamie's tummy.
"No," Jamie lied, crossing her arms over her chest, though her toes curled into the comforter as Rowan leaned down, her breath warm against Jamie's ear.
"I know that goes for both of us," she whispered, before kissing her forehead.
Jamie's breath hitched as Rowan unscrewed the jar of diaper rash cream, the thick, medicinal scent filling the air. The coolness of it made her squirm before Rowan's fingers even touched her, thighs pressing together instinctively. "Mommy," she whined, cheeks flushing when Rowan tutted and nudged her legs apart with one knee.
"Oh, now it's 'mommy'?" Rowan murmured, scooping a generous dollop onto her fingers. The first swipe between Jamie's thighs was deliberate, slow, the cream smearing in thick, glistening streaks. Jamie bit her lip, toes curling into the mattress as Rowan worked the cream into every crease and fold, her touch clinical but intimate all at once. The excess glistened on Jamie's skin, pearly white against flushed pink, and Rowan hummed approvingly before reaching for more.
"Mommy!" Jamie gasped. "That's too much!"
Rowan chuckled, swirling her fingers in another scoop of cream, its medicinal tang sharp in the morning air. "It's never too much for this leaky baby," she teased, smoothing the cool ointment along Jamie's inner thighs with deliberate strokes. The excess pooled in the creases where skin met skin, glistening under the dim bedroom light. Jamie squirmed, her hips lifting slightly off the diaper beneath her, only for Rowan to press her back down with a firm hand on her belly. "Stay put, sweetheart."
The diaper crinkled under Jamie’s weight as Rowan spread the last of the cream, ensuring every inch was slick and protected. Jamie covered her face with her arms, her ears burning as Rowan tsked and guided her wrists away. "None of that," she murmured, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s forehead. "Mommy needs to see your pretty face while she gets you all ready." Jamie whimpered but obeyed, her fingers twisting into the comforter as she was covered with a generous dusting of baby powder.
Rowan smoothed the diaper into place, sealed each tape. Jamie wiggled in place, helping her fit it snugly around her hips. Her skin felt so slick sealed inside the diaper. It was an icky feeling, a good-icky feeling, one she had long ago come to appreciate. Maybe even crave.
Leaning back to admire her handiwork, Rowan ran her palm over the front of the diaper with a satisfied hum. "There," she murmured, patting the plastic-lined bulge lightly. "Now my baby won't have to worry about a thing today."
Jamie squirmed, the thick padding shifting audibly as she tried, and failed, to press her thighs together. She glanced at her discarded jeans crumpled on the floor, then up at Rowan with pleading eyes. "Can I at least wear my jeans?"
Rowan shook her head, already rummaging through Jamie's dresser. "You and I both know those won't fit over that diaper booty." The drawer slid open with a muted thud, revealing neatly folded stacks of softer fabrics, things Jamie rarely wore unless Rowan insisted. Rowan pulled out a pair of pastel-blue cotton shorts, the kind with an elastic waistband that stretched generously, and shook them out with a satisfied flick of her wrists. "These," she announced, "and your yellow sweater. The big one with the bunnies."
Jamie groaned. "That's a little outfit! For inside!" The sweater was oversized, swallowing her frame in a way that made her feel impossibly small, the embroidered bunnies hopping along the hem only adding to the effect.
Rowan merely grinned, holding the shorts up to Jamie's hips with a critical eye before nodding. "Today it's for outside."
The elastic waistband slipped easily over the bulk of Jamie's diaper, the fit just loose enough to disguise the telltale rounding of her front and bottom, but only barely. Rowan tugged the sweater over Jamie's head next, fussing with the collar until it draped just right. "There," she said, smoothing a hand down Jamie's sleeves, patting the diaper through the fabric with a couple dull thuds before helping her to her feet. "You look cute and cozy. It's chic."
Jamie shifted her weight from foot to foot, twisting and posing, the padding shifting audibly between her thighs. "It's... obvious," she mumbled, glancing down at herself where the shorts clung slightly to the outline of the diaper.
Rowan tilted her head, her eyes traveling up, down, and lingering. "Only if someone’s staring at your butt, baby," she said, reaching out to adjust the hem of Jamie’s sweater so it draped lower over her hips. "And if they are, they've got good taste." She punctuated the statement with a playful swat to Jamie’s padded backside.
As Jamie shuffled toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the crinkle coming from her shorts was louder than she would have liked. The reflection staring back at her was undeniably soft, the oversized sweater swallowed her frame, the pastel shorts barely skimming the curve of her diapered hips. She turned slightly, cheeks heating at the faint outline visible through the thin cotton. "Ro," she whined, tugging at the sweater sleeves. "This is kind of... you know."
Rowan stepped behind her, resting her chin on Jamie's shoulder as she met her gaze in the mirror. "Kind of what?" Her hands slid down Jamie's arms, interlacing their fingers. "You're safe with me, baby. Always."
Jamie swallowed, her reflection looking smaller than she remembered, the oversized sweater swallowing her shoulders. "I just..." She hesitated, fingers twisting in the soft fabric. "I'm really scared it's obvious." The admission slipped out, quiet and shaky, her cheeks flushing hotter than before.
Rowan's arms tightened around her waist, pressing close enough that Jamie could feel the warmth of her breath against her ear. "Jame, Jame," she murmured, lips brushing Jamie's temple. "Do you think I would let anything happen to you?" Her voice was firm but tender, a promise woven into each word. "Look at me."
Jamie turned in her arms, fingers still tangled in the hem of her sweater. Rowan's expression was unshakable, her thumbs brushing the apples of Jamie's cheeks where they burned pink. "You're safe," she said, slow and deliberate. "Every inch of you is mine to protect. It's my job to make sure we're discreet. You just focus on filling up your diapers. And on how much I love you."
The words sank into Jamie like sunlight, warm and undeniable. She exhaled shakily, leaning forward until her forehead bumped Rowan's collarbone. "Okay," she whispered, fingers still twisted in her sweater, though her grip had loosened slightly. Rowan kissed the crown of her head, lingering just long enough for Jamie to breathe in the coconut scent of her shampoo again before stepping back.
"Now," Rowan said, plucking Jamie's discarded jeans from the floor and folding them neatly over her forearm. "We've got a lot to do today, and someone," she tapped Jamie's nose, "needs breakfast before we go." Jamie wrinkled her nose but didn't argue, padding after Rowan toward the kitchen, the diaper shifting softly between her thighs with each step.
The first errand of the day was the pharmacy, a ten-minute drive that Jamie spent fidgeting in the back seat. Rowan reached back without looking, her fingers finding Jamie's knee and squeezing gently.
"Mommy-- ugh, Ro," Jamie huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I wanted be big today. I wanna ride up front."
Rowan glanced at her through the rearview mirror, lips quirking. "You're right. And you're bring very brave today. If you're good at the pharmacy you can sit up front with me."
Jamie perked up, bouncing slightly in her seat, the diaper crinkling beneath her. "Promise?" The childish eagerness in her voice made Rowan chuckle, but Jamie straightened her posture, clearing her throat in a poor imitation of grown-up composure.
The pharmacy smelled like antiseptic and peppermint gum, the fluorescent lights too bright against the white-tiled floor. Jamie hovered near the magazines, pretending to flip through one while Rowan picked up her prescription. An elderly woman with a cane shuffled into line behind them, her floral perfume mingling with the sterile air. Jamie tucked her chin, willing herself invisible, but the woman caught her eye and smiled. "You must be a kindergarten teacher," she said, nodding toward the embroidered bunny on Jamie's sweater. "My granddaughter has a sweater just like this, adorable."
"Oh, uh, no, I just--" Jamie swallowed, tried to stand stock-still, acutely aware of the crinkle machine under her shorts. Rowan's amused glance from the counter didn't help. "I work in graphic design," she blurted, smoothing the sweater self-consciously. "Freelance."
"Of course, dear," the woman chuckled, adjusting her grip on her cane. "Creative types always have the best taste." She gestured vaguely toward the greeting card aisle. "Though I must say, I can never find a decent birthday card these days. All glitter and noise, no soul. Could you help me pick one out?"
Jamie hesitated, glancing at Rowan, still waiting at the counter, before nodding. "Sure." She followed the woman, keeping her steps measured to minimize the telltale crinkle. The card rack was a riot of neon colors and exaggerated fonts, but Jamie's eye caught on a simple navy-blue design tucked between two gaudier options. She plucked it out, turning it to show the woman. "Oh, gosh, I forgot to ask. Who is the card for?"
"My great-nephew," the woman said, accepting the card with a pleased hum. "He's turning twelve, and very serious about it." She chuckled, running a knotted finger over the embossed stars on the front. "This is perfect. Subtle, but still celebratory." She peered up at Jamie with sudden sharpness. "You have a good eye. Graphic design, you said?"
Jamie nodded. "Mostly logos and branding, but, " She hesitated, glancing toward Rowan, who was now watching with quiet amusement from the counter. "I actually did some work for a gift shop last year. I made a few greeting cards for them."
The woman's eyes lit up. "Did you?" She flipped the card Jamie had chosen over, examining the fine print on the back. "I suppose that explains why you picked this one so quickly. It has a designer's touch."
Jamie smiled despite herself, the compliment warming her cheeks. For a moment, she forgot about the snug padding beneath her shorts. She was big Jamie, career Jamie. She gestured to the card's minimalist design. "I like when things don't scream at you. The gold foil here is just enough to make it feel special without being..." she mentally rolled her eyes at herself before saying, "childish."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Exactly! You understand." She leaned closer conspiratorially. "Between us, I think half these cards look like they were designed by little children with too much glue." Her chuckle turned into a raspy cough.
Jamie instinctively reached out to steady her as she wobbled, fingers brushing the woman's thin wrist. "Are you okay?" The concern in her voice surprised even her, moments ago she'd been preoccupied with her own secret, but now she was scanning the woman's pale face with genuine worry.
The woman waved her off with a shaky laugh, patting Jamie's hand before letting go. "Oh, just a tickle in my throat, dear. At my age, everything creaks and coughs." She held up the card Jamie had chosen, smiling. "But thank you. Both for this and for checking on me."
"Well I hope your great-nephew loves it." Jamie hesitated, then offered her arm. "Can I walk you back to the register?" The words surprised her, grown-up words, the kind Rowan might say, but they felt right. The woman blinked, then linked her arm through Jamie’s with a grateful nod.
Rowan’s eyebrows lifted slightly as they approached, her prescription already bagged, her eyes alight with quiet amusement. After the old woman paid and they exchanged a few final pleasantries, Jamie felt an arm wrap around her waist as they walked back to the car.
"I didn't realize promising you little rewards would make you so well-behaved," Rowan chirped, pressing a kiss to Jamie's temple as she opened the passenger door for her. "As promised. One front seat for the big girl."
Jamie slid in, but not before Rowan’s fingers skimmed her bottom, a probing finger slipping inside the leg elastic with practiced ease. “Ro!” she hissed, looking around the empty parking lot, slapping Rowan’s wrist away as her face burned.
Rowan merely grinned, withdrawing her hand with an innocent hum. “Dry as a bone,” she mused, tapping Jamie’s nose. Her finger smelled like baby powder. “For now."
Jamie buckled herself in with exaggerated dignity, pointedly ignoring the crinkling beneath her as she settled into the seat. Rowan slid into the driver’s side, humming along to the radio as she pulled out of the parking lot. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until Jamie couldn’t take it anymore. “That was so embarrassing,” she muttered, picking at the hem of her sweater.
Rowan chuckled. "I'm not going to let you waddle around in a soaked diaper just because you're shy." She pressed a finger to her chin. "We've got the grocery store, the bank, and that new bookstore you wanted to check out. That's at least three or four hours without a good changing spot." She reached over, patting Jamie's thigh. "Would you rather risk a leak in front of everyone? Or let Mommy make sure you're safe?"
"That's not fair," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "You're making it sound like I can't even tell when I need to go potty."
Rowan glanced at her, lips twitching. "You're right. The part you have trouble with it making it there."
Jamie groaned, sinking lower in her seat. The next errand was the grocery store, a massive chain with bright fluorescent lights and bustling crowds. She did at least appreciate they were stopping here early. It was a lot of walking to do, which gets tougher and tougher as a diaper gets wetter and wetter.
Rowan grabbed a cart and headed for the produce section, tossing in their normal assortment of cukes, sweet peppers, avocados... Jamie trailed behind, her arms crossed, trying to ignore the growing pressure in her bladder. She scolded herself for thinking about it. She didn't have to go until she thought about going! It wasn’t urgent yet, but she could feel it, had to spend the extra brain power to consciously good it, had to keep her bladder tensed. She chewed her lip, debating whether to keep her diaper dry as long as possible or just give it up and pee. She could hold it. She should hold it. That’s what big girls did. And maybe Rowan would trust her to wear panties next big errand day. But the diaper was there, snug between her legs, thick and waiting, and Rowan had been very clear about expectations today.
A warm hand settled on the small of her back, startling her. “You’re thinking too loud,” Rowan murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled Jamie’s ear. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”
Jamie shook her head, cheeks heating. “Nothing. Just… thinking about cereal.”
Rowan’s fingers traced the waistband of Jamie’s shorts, dipping beneath to brush the plastic of her diaper. “Liar.” Her voice was sweet, but firm. "Stop holding it."
Jamie frowned. “I’m not, I can wait.”
Rowan hummed, steering the cart to the side of the aisle before stepping in front of Jamie, blocking her path. “No, you can’t.” She cupped Jamie’s hips, holding her in place. “Let go, baby.”
Jamie squirmed. “Not here, people will--”
“No one’s looking,” Rowan assured her, thumbs pressing into Jamie’s hipbones. “And if they are, they’ll just see me hugging my girlfriend while she picks out cereal.” She leaned in, lips brushing Jamie’s ear. “Now pee.”
The command sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine. The grocery store buzzed around them, chatter, carts rattling, the hum of freezers. She inhaled sharply, then out, as warmth spilled into the padding between her legs. The diaper absorbed it quickly, swelling between her thighs. She shuffled her feet a little, widening her stance, giving it more room to fill.
Rowan kissed her temple. “Good girl. The first of many."
Jamie's face burned, but she leaned into Rowan’s touch, relieved and mortified in equal measure. Rowan just smiled, nudging her toward the cart. “Now. Pick your cereal.”
As they wandered down the aisles, Jamie’s steps grew slower, more deliberate. The diaper shifted between her legs with every step, the thick padding gently insisting her thighs slightly apart. She’d never really noticed the sensation before. Normally, she’d just... exist in it. But today, with the grocery store buzzing around them and Rowan humming under her breath, Jamie couldn’t stop focusing on it.
"Um, Ro?" she asked, catching up to her girlfriend.
Rowan glanced at her, eyebrows lifting. “Mmm, sweet girl?"
"Am I walking funny?"
“A little.” Rowan reached over, pressing a palm to the front of Jamie’s shorts, right over the wet padding, her fingers pressed lightly into the swell.
Jamie batted her hand away. “Ro!" she hissed, glancing around the aisle. A middle-aged man pushing a cart full of canned goods passed by without sparing them a second glance.
Rowan simply guided her toward the freezer section. The cold air hit Jamie’s flushed cheeks as Rowan grabbed a tub of ice cream, holding it up for inspection. “Strawberry or mint chip?”
"Strawberry," she grumbled.
The checkout line stretched long, filled with shoppers clutching coupons and impatiently shifting their weight from foot to foot. Jamie stood close to Rowan, a little bored, but managing. At first, she didn't notice it happening, just a tiny trickle escaping her control. She clenched her bladder shut for s moment, then relented. A second wave followed, warmer, heavier, refreshing the low heat between her legs.
"Do you think 'breaking the seal' is just a drinking thing?" she asked Rowan.
"Already?" Rowan smirked, resting her chin on Jamie’s shoulder as they waited. "You peed your pants again?"
"Shhh!" Jamie elbowed Rowan lightly. "I was being discreet!"
Rowan chuckled, wrapping her arms around Jamie's waist from behind, her chin hooked over Jamie's shoulder. The diaper crinkled softly between them as she squeezed. "Discreetly soaking your diaper in the checkout line," she murmured, lips brushing Jamie's ear. "So big girl."
"You put me in this," Jamie muttered under her breath.
"You used it," Rowan countered. "My pants are still dry."
Jamie... did not have a comeback. She scowled at the conveyor belt instead, watching their groceries glide past the cashier’s scanner before glancing down at her shorts, at the slight bulge of absorbent undergarment that couldn't fully be disguised. Rowan wasn't wrong. Why did she need to go soften? Why couldn't she hold it? The line between pretend diaper dependence and the real thing was getting blurry, but... She turned her head, leaning back, and caught Rowan's lips in a kiss. Was that so bad?
The cashier cleared her throat pointedly, and Rowan pulled away with a grin, swiping her card while Jamie fumbled with the bags, her cheeks burning hotter than the heat radiating from between her legs. Outside, the afternoon sun had grown stronger, casting sharp shadows across the parking lot asphalt.
"What next, Ro?"
Rowan shut the trunk with a decisive click before answering, "Bank first." She reached out, opening Jamie's door. "Then bookstore. You still good?"
"I'm great," Jamie lied, dropping into her seat. Truthfully she was a little annoyed that Rowan still insisted on banking in person, but that was an argument to be litigated another time.
"Great to look at," Rowan replied, closing the door and giving her a wink.
Jamie pantomimed barfing.
The bank, for all its faults, was air conditioning heaven. Pristine, crisp air. Jamie lingered near the deposit slips, twisting a pen between her fingers while Rowan finalized some transfers at the counter.
"Do you guys offer online banking?" Jamie asked the teller, pointedly, as Rowan penned in a few numbers on a form.
The teller smiled, shook her head slightly. "Good afternoon, Jamie. Like I tell you every time, we do, and every service in the app is free."
Rowan nudged her right back, pressing the pen back into Jamie's hand with a smirk. "Sign here, baby."
"What am I signing?" she asked, taking the pen and starting to scribble her signature without waiting for a response.
Rowan looked disappointed. "Joint checking account, Jame, remember? Because we love each other and want to build a life together?"
Jamie looked up at the top of the form. "Oh, shit, right... Big girl stuff." She felt Rowan pinch the meat of her hip. "Oh-- oops, well-- nevermind-- here, I signed it!" She slid the form to the teller.
"Great, I'll be right back you two!" The teller grinned, disappearing into the back office with their paperwork.
Rowan bumped their shoulders together, her voice low. "Big girl stuff??" she repeated incredulously.
Jamie bit her lip. "I panicked."
"You panicked? We talked about this, like, last night. And have been talking about it for weeks." Rowan whispered, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. She leaned against the counter, studying Jamie's face. It was hard to tell if she was being scolded or not.
Jamie kicked her sneaker against the marble floor, suddenly very interested in the bank's promotional pamphlet about high-yield savings accounts. "I know, I just, " She gestured vaguely toward her diaper, "I feel like I have dual citizenship between big girl stuff and little girl stuff sometimes."
Rowan's expression softened. She reached over, brushing Jamie's bangs from her forehead. "You're my big little girl," she murmured, just as the teller returned with two sets of freshly-printed documents.
The air outside the bank was thick with humidity. Jamie missed the morning bank interior already. Rowan opened the door to the back seat. "I'm demoting you back to the backseat for signing a contract without reading it, and for calling it 'big girl stuff,'" she teased. "And because there's pee in your pants."
Jamie groaned but climbed in. "You're so mean," she whined, folding her arms.
Rowan laughed, tossing the bank paperwork onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. "Am I really mean?" She adjusted the rearview mirror to catch Jamie's pouting reflection.
Jamie shifted in her seat, the damp diaper pressing insistently against her skin as she crossed her arms tighter. "Putting me in diapers, making me sit in the back like a kid, " she grumbled, but there was no real heat in it.
Rowan turned the ignition, the car humming to life as she glanced back with a smirk. "Okay, I won't put you in diapers anymore. Message received."
Jamie's head snapped up. "Wait, no--"
"Come on and sit up front with me. Just two normal adult women," Rowan said, grinning as she patted the passenger seat. "Wearing panties that can't get peed in."
Jamie rolled her eyes. "Ro..."
Rowan tapped the passenger seat again, her smirk widening. "What?"
Jamie adjusted her position, the damp diaper crinkling beneath her. "You know what," she muttered.
Rowan chuckled, reversing out of the parking spot. "That's what I thought." The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and she reached back, her fingers brushing Jamie's knee.
As if on cue, Jamie's bladder made itself known again. She spread her legs just a bit, averted her eyes, and let go, a slow trickle at first, then a flood, warming the already soaked padding from front to back. Rowan glanced up at the rearview mirror, catching Jamie's glassy-eyed expression as she bit her lip. "Again?" she asked, voice lilting with amusement. Jamie nodded mutely, fingers clutching the seatbelt across her chest as the diaper swelled thicker beneath her shorts.
The bookstore smelled of old paper and new ink, the kind of comforting scent that usually made Jamie relax. Not today. She shuffled slightly behind Rowan, acutely aware of the squish between her thighs with every step. This diaper was hanging on for dear life.
A shelf labeled "Graphic Design & Typography" caught her eye, and she drifted toward it, running fingers along spines until she found one she recognized.
"See something you like?" Rowan's voice murmured close to her ear. Jamie felt a hand covertly exploring the leg holes of her shorts.
Jamie rolled her eyes, shifting away. "If you're going to grope me, at least buy me dinner." She pulled the design book from the shelf, flipping through pages of minimalist logos and clean typography layouts.
"If we're going to dinner then you definitely need a change first," Rowan whispered, fingers probing the sodden padding more insistently. Jamie smacked the book shut with a huff, cheeks flushing as telltale crinkling echoed in the quiet bookstore aisle.
"Get out of there!" Jamie hissed, trying to put space between them. She tugged down the hem of her sweater and wandered deeper into the store. The diaper shifted wetly with each step, the padding clinging to her skin in ways that were impossible to ignore. At first, the thickness had been comforting, snug like a secret hug. Now, it was just... heavy. Slippery. Like the next time she wet was going to be a problem. And she kind of had to go.
Rowan caught up at the biography section, handed her a streaming cup of tea. "Drink," she whispered, nudging it against Jamie’s wrist. "Hydration is important."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Jamie murmured, eyeing the steaming cup warily.
Rowan pressed it into her hands, fingers lingering just a second too long. "Not a request, Jame." Her thumb brushed Jamie's knuckles. "Drink."
Jamie took a reluctant sip, the floral bergamot hot on her tongue. She swallowed, the warmth settling low in her belly. Her diaper only felt heavier between her thighs, sagging slightly with each step as they wandered toward the classics section.
"Nuh-uh," Rowan murmured when Jamie tried to set the cup on a display table. Her fingers closed around Jamie's wrist. "Not until you finish that."
Jamie blinked. "Why not?"
Rowan's lips curved as she smoothed a hand over Jamie's lower back, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts to trace the diaper's plastic. She pressed closer, lips brushing Jamie's ear. "Finish your tea, baby."
So the cup remained in Jamie's hands as she took obediently took sip after sip. At some point she stopped looking at the books she picked up. They were props in the little play they were putting on. Between shelves of Austen and Dickens, both women seemed to have acknowledged that a point of no return had been passed.
"I can't," she breathed when Rowan guided her toward a secluded reading nook. "It'll leak..."
"That's the point," Rowan murmured, crowding her against a bookshelf, one hand sliding around to press firmly against Jamie's swollen crotch.
Jamie gasped as a fresh stream gushed between her thighs, the diaper absorbing what it could before surrendering. Heat trickled down her legs in slow, shameful rivulets. Her shorts darkened visibly.
Rowan pinched the wet fabric between two fingers as wetness seeped through the fabric onto her palm. She descended upon Jamie, kissed her hard, brushed fingers wet with pee across her cheek, swallowed her whimpering before pulling back. "Car. Now."
Jamie stumbled after her, the ruined diaper squelching with every step. Rowan's grip on her wrist was ironclad, her eyes dark with something hungry and triumphant. The store was small, but each patron they passed had to have seen the wet patches on her shorts. And the determined look on Rowan's face. What did they think of her? Some helpless failure of a woman and her frustrated caretaker?
The automatic doors slid open too slowly. Jamie hunched forward, trying to hide the dark stain spreading down her thighs. Rowan pulled her through the parking lot with long strides, keys already jingling in her free hand. When the car finally came into view, Jamie whimpered in relief.
Rowan retrieved a towel and some supplies from the trunk, opened the door and guided Jamie to lay down on top of it, cooing and whispering soft nothings. "You did so good," she whispered, hands already peeling Jamie's soaked shorts down her hips. The yellowed diaper sagged grotesquely, its tapes straining. Her wet hips glistened.
The car already smelled like baby powder and stale pee. It was a scent that she was fiercely embarrassed by when they first began playing, but was now... familiar. Comforting. Rowan's fingers traced the swollen curve of the diaper, pressed into the dampness with obvious delight. "See how much you needed this?" she murmured, her thumb circling Jamie's clit through the wet padding. Jamie whimpered, legs falling open instinctively as Rowan's fingers found the leg gathers, pushing past the swollen barrier to skim slick skin beneath.
"You're so wet," Rowan breathed, her voice thick with amusement and something darker. Jamie shivered, anticipation coiling low in her belly as Rowan's fingers pressed deeper, only to retreat suddenly, peeling back the diaper's front panel with clinical efficiency. The cold air hit Jamie's wet skin, making her gasp. She lifted her hips instinctively, expecting Rowan's mouth, her fingers, something, but instead, Rowan produced a package of wipes.
Jamie groaned, flopping back against the seat in frustration. "Ro!!"
"Shhh," Rowan crooned, wiping her down with exaggerated thoroughness. "Can't have my baby getting a rash." She dabbed between Jamie's thighs, her touch infuriatingly gentle, pausing just long enough to let Jamie squirm before continuing. The wipe was cool against her flushed skin, a stark contrast to the heat pooling between her legs. Jamie bit her lip, watching Rowan's face for any sign of yielding, but her girlfriend's expression was maddeningly neutral, focused entirely on the task of cleaning her up.
Just as Jamie opened her mouth to protest, Rowan's fingers brushed just there, a fleeting, accidental-seeming graze that made Jamie's hips jerk. Rowan smiled innocently. "Oops," she murmured, unfolding a fresh diaper with deliberate slowness.
"Wait wait wait," Jamie stammered, snapping back to reality, slamming her legs shut. "We're in public!"
Rowan sighed, rolling her eyes as she smoothed the fresh diaper beneath Jamie's hips, pried them apart, and dusted her with baby powder. "Oh now you're worried about public decency?" She snapped the tapes shut one by one, a question lingering in her eyes. "You didn't seem to mind when you thought Mommy was going to finger you in the parking lot."
Jamie's face burned hotter than the pavement outside, and she buried it in her hands. "Ro! That's... different."
"How?" Rowan challenged, pulling Jamie's damp shorts all the way off, over her shoes, tossing them into the front seat.
Jamie opened her mouth, then closed it. Rowan had her there. She'd been embarrassingly eager, hips lifting instinctively toward Rowan's touch. "It just is," she muttered weakly, picking at the hem of her sweater.
Rowan snorted, helping Jamie sit up before buckling her seatbelt with a decisive click.
"Wait, my shorts?" Jamie squeaked.
"Are soaked. You're not putting those back on." The engine roared to life as Jamie sank lower in her seat, mortification curling in her gut. Rowan glanced at her through the rearview mirror, lips quirking. "Oh stop," she added casually, shifting gears, "you wanted me to say that."
Jamie opened her mouth to protest, but the words died in her throat. Because Rowan was right. The shame had been part of it, the thrill of Rowan dragging her through the store, the backseat diaper change, now buckled in bottomless. From big career girl to some wayward toddler. She slumped against the window, the glass cool against her flushed cheek as Rowan hummed along to the radio, utterly unrepentant. The fresh diaper shifted between her thighs, a quiet promise that this wasn't over. Jamie closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Rowan always won these arguments. Mostly because she wasn't wrong.
"You did so well today," Rowan murmured after ten minutes of silence, glancing at Jamie in the rearview mirror. "Ran all our errands, didn't complain once about your diapers, well, not much, anyway." Her voice softened. "My good girl."
Jamie bristled, fingers tightening around the seatbelt. "I'm not--" she stopped, swallowed. "I'm an adult."
Rowan chuckled. "But you were a very good girl. Sometimes you aren't."
Jamie's cheeks burned, and she scowled out the window. She was a big enough girl to not take that bait.
The suburbs blurred past, trees smearing into green streaks. Silence settled over them, broken only by the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional crinkle when Jamie adjusted her legs as she drowsed, her head lolling against the seat. Half-asleep, she didn't realize she was wetting until it was done, a slow, effortless release, the padding drinking it in greedily. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment to find Rowan watching her in the mirror, her expression impossibly soft. Jamie closed her eyes. This had been a good day. It was only going to get better from here.
i think as much as i love the idea of being little and padded in public for daddy, i love the idea of being big and taped into a thick diaper anyway. we go out for a long busy day of errands and driving and daddy just doesn't want to worry about my overactive and weak bladder, so he tapes me into some thick padding and makes sure it's tight and the leak protectors are secure and lets me wear baggy jeans and a big shirt to hide the fact that im a grown up who's still diaper dependent.
[ABDL, mostly DL. Solo F. Masturbation in and not in diapers.]
The washing machine shuddered to a stop, leaving the apartment quiet. Calli liked to at least have a fan running. Some absent, miscellaneous white noise made the place feel more alive, less empty. In her bedroom, Calli stared at the pile of warm, unfolded laundry on her bed, her fingers absently tracing the edge of a thick, terrycloth towel.
She hadn't been able to focus all morning. It was a stupid idea, but it tightened up her chest. Like it might work. It wasn't the first time this week she'd caught herself lingering over household textiles, but today it was impossible to ignore. Her skin prickled with restless energy, her thoughts ceaselessly circling an idea she couldn't quite name.
In one quick, sudden motion, as if she could un-make-up her mind at any moment, Calli peeled off her shorts, tossing them onto the growing clothing pile. She sized up the towel, doing some rudimentary geometry, then folded the it lengthwise, pressed it firmly between her legs. The soft terrycloth was thick between her thighs and heavy around her hips in a way that made her breathe just a little faster. It felt right in precisely the way she thought it might.
She stood by the bed, the makeshift underwear held in place by one trembling hand. She wanted to check the mirror. Didn't. A memory surfaced, unbidden, of childhood bath times, her mother wrapping her in a towel just like this after evening baths. The recollection made her stomach flutter. She hadn't thought about that in years. There was another memory that she thought about so, so often. Like it was stuck in her mind. It was nighttime. The house was dark, but she was awake. Then, the dim light of the hallway filtered into her bedroom. She looked down, and she was on a potty chair. Between her legs the white plastic of a diaper covered in Sesame Street characters. And this... inextricable need she had to get that feeling back.
Slowly, experimentally, Calli tucked the ends of the towel around her hips, mimicking the motions she'd seen in old cartoons where the too-old characters were pinned into diapers as a joke. Whenever they'd come on, she watched just a little too closely, never entirely sure why.
The folds held for a moment before unraveling. Calli exhaled sharply through her nose and tried again. She folded it into a rectangle first, then a triangle, trying different tucking techniques until the fabric stayed put. Held tight against her with both hands, she took a tentative step forward, then another, the bulky layers of cloth shifting against her skin with each movement.
The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet as she padded to the fridge. She reached for a soda can but paused mid-motion, her free hand drifting down to press against the towel layers. A shiver ran up her spine when she applied slight pressure. She'd expected embarrassment, maybe even shame, but the dominant feeling was curiosity, as if she'd discovered a hidden room in her own house.
Back in the bedroom, she sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, letting her weight settle into the makeshift padding. The layers of cloth bunched pleasantly. But why was it pleasant? She rocked forward slightly, then back, testing the sensation. Her breath hitched when the textured fabric rubbed her a particular way. Calli froze, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. This wasn't supposed to feel good. Not like that. But the towel had created a delicious friction. Heat bloomed low in her stomach, unfamiliar yet insistent. Calli bit her lip and rocked again, slower this time, letting the layers of fabric drag against her sensitive skin. A quiet sound escaped her throat before she could stop it.
The room suddenly felt too warm. Her breath came quicker now, shallow little puffs that emptied her lungs at fast as she could fill them. She shouldn't. She absolutely shouldn't. But her body kept moving of its own accord, hips tilting just so to increase the pressure in the most maddening way.
Calli's fingers desperately clutched the loose fabric tight, the sensations building, each rock forward sending sparks up her spine, the thick folds wrapping her up, pressing against her in the right places. A drop of sweat traced down her temple and she realized she'd started holding her breath, felt a little dizzy, but the pleasure was spreading outward now, tightening her muscles in anticipation. She bunched the towel up against her clit, and, oh, there was no stopping it now, her hips stuttered forward, her thighs tensed, and she gasped sharply into the quiet room as warmth flooded through her, her entire body shuddering.
The aftershocks left her trembling, fingers still clutching the towel like she was afraid to let go. The guilt hit her immediately, but before she could spiral into self-recrimination, her traitorous body pulsed again, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. She shifted slightly, the damped cloth rough against her oversensitive skin, and she let out a shaky laugh, because, well. That had been unexpected. And kind of great. What the fuck?
The afternoon sun slanted across her bed, highlighting the pile of forgotten laundry and the dampened towel wrapped around her hips. She peeled it away carefully, grimacing at the wet patch. Calli rubbed the terrycloth between her fingers absently, her mind racing. The intensity of it unsettled her; how quickly her body had responded to something so simple, so childish. She tossed the towel into the hamper with more force than necessary, as if distance could erase the memory of that shuddering pleasure.
She paced the length of her apartment, bare feet padding against hardwood. The question looped in her head: why diapers? Not just any fabric, not just any texture, specifically diapers. The thought made her stomach flip. It wasn’t even sexual at first, just this gnawing curiosity that kept creeping into her daydreams. She’d catch herself staring at the baby aisle in supermarkets, idly hoping for some cosmic mistake that there'd be a pack in her size. Once, she’d even lingered too long in the incontinence section of a pharmacy. A salesperson asked if she needed assistance. The shame had burned her cheeks for hours afterward.
Three days passed. Three days of distraction, spilled coffee, forgotten deadlines, drifting thoughts. She tried substitutes: folded washcloths, layered underwear, even a makeshift pad of paper towels (which was, she quickly learned, a terrible idea). Nothing compared to that first moment with the towel. The way it had hugged her hips, the snug pressure of it, the thick, unruly bulk that made it awkward when she moved. It wasn’t just about sensation anymore. There was something deeper pulling at her, something she couldn’t name, a need that prickled under her skin like static.
Her laptop screen blurred as she stared at unfinished emails. The numbers on her spreadsheet tangled together. She rubbed her eyes and caught herself, again, pressing her thighs together with three pads stuffed into her panties. It felt stupid. Not enough. Never enough. The realization settled low in her stomach: she needed the real thing. Not makeshift. Not almost. Diapers. Proper, thick, plasticy diapers. The ones she dreamed about. Her breath hitched at the thought, fingers tightening around her mouse.
At lunch, she wandered into a pharmacy under the pretense of needing allergy meds. Her pulse hammered as she drifted toward the incontinence aisle. The packaging crinkled under her trembling fingers when she picked up a package of Depends. Her throat went dry. These were medical. For old people. Not for her. They'd attract attention. She shoved them back on the shelf, cheeks burning, and fled to the self-checkout with only antihistamines.
The next afternoon found her curled on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her knees. Her browser history would've horrified her yesterday: ABDL forums, diaper reviews, whispered confession threads about "the first time." The tabs multiplied faster than she could close them. A particularly vivid testimonial described thick plastic-backed diapers, the kind with cartoon prints meant for toddlers stretched over adult hips. Every testimonial, every confession seemed to pluck at some secret string inside her chest. But that last one...
"Fuck," she murmured.
Calli clicked another forum thread, someone’s detailed account of their first time wearing overnight. The description of the crinkle, the snug fit, the way it felt to wake up padded, it sent heat prickling down her spine. She exhaled sharply and snapped the laptop shut. Then, opened it.
She typed “adult diapers” into Amazon’s search bar before she could stop herself. The results loaded instantly, rows of plastic-wrapped packages, some medical-looking, others with childish designs that sent a jolt through her stomach. Her thumb hovered over the trackpad, pulse thrumming in her wrists.
"Fuck..." she hissed. She was excited. "There's just been... diapers here, the whole time?"
With one hand on the laptop ready to snap it shut once more, the other hand clicked the product page. Flipped through the image gallery. They were expensive, but... she paused to read and reread the text on the page. She looked at her watch.
"They can be here in four hours?" Calli whispered incredulously, staring at the delivery estimate as her cursor hovered the buy button. She glanced at her apartment door, as if expecting the package to materialize immediately. Four hours was nothing. Four hours was everything. Click. Click. Click. Purchased.
The confirmation page loaded. Her email dinged with a new message. Her stomach flipped violently. She slapped the laptop shut, tossed it onto the couch beside her, and pressed both palms flat against her flushed cheeks. "Oh my god." The words came out muffled through her fingers. "Oh my god, what did I just do?"
The wait was interminable. Calli's eyes darted between her watch, her work inbox, the computer clock, her calendar filled with angry red circles, and back again. Three hours, fifty eight minutes. This would fix her. Fix everything. All the lost focus, the spacing out, the looking at diaper stuff on company time. And then she could go back to being a productive worker who met her deadlines. Hopefully.
She pulled up her email again, as if staring at the confirmation page would make the delivery truck move faster. A notification popped up, her boss, asking about those numbers she was supposed to send. Calli bit her lip and pulled up the spreadsheet. She typed a reply, deleted it, typed another. She glanced at the clock. Three hours, forty two minutes. She had time to draft something coherent. Probably.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the numbers swam before her eyes. She tried to think about quarterly performance to budget, tapped out half a sentence, deleted it, then rubbed her temples. Each second stretched like taffy.
She stood abruptly and went to the linen closet, grabbing another terrycloth towel, the last clean one, and folded it methodically, tucking the edges just so. The extra thickness settled between her thighs as she padded back to her desk. Better. It was a half-measure, but it was something. Like chewing on a pencil when you needed a cigarette.
Calli opened her spreadsheet with renewed determination. Every correct formula earned a slow press of her thighs together, every completed column a slight rock forward in her chair. The friction built gradually, a quiet hum beneath her focus. She submitted the first batch of numbers to her boss with a shaky exhale, then rewarded herself with a firm grind against the towel's padding. She shot a guilty glance up at her laptop's integrated webcam, closing the privacy shutter before allowing a low moan to escape her lips.
The second report was easier. She worked in bursts, twenty minutes of frantic typing followed by thirty seconds of squirming pleasure, her thighs trembling as she edged herself without quite tipping over. The system worked alarmingly well; she'd never been so efficient. Was it good quality work? That was a problem for another day.
When she hit send on the final email, her whole body thrummed with pent-up energy. She leaned back in her chair, letting her hips roll in slow circles, the towel bunching deliciously against her.
The laptop pinged: delivery notification. Calli shot upright, peeled the dampened towel away with inexpert, trembling hands, the fabric sticking slightly to her skin. The scent of her arousal lingered faintly in the air as she tossed the towel into the hamper with a wet thump. She yanked on jeans, no underwear. The denim rubbed raw against oversensitive skin, but the discomfort barely registered. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she fumbled with her apartment keys twice before managing to lock the door behind her.
The elevator ride lasted seven eternities. Calli bounced on the balls of her feet, imagined the package waiting downstairs, a big cardboard box labeled "Adult Diapers" with her name on the shipping label. The elevator dinged and she nearly sprinted out.
The front desk looked like it always did. Greg was in his seat, on his phone. He looked up when he saw her, didn't bother to hide the device.
"Miss Calli," he said, nodding his head deferentially. "Something just arrived for you." There wasn't a hint of a smirk on his face as he retrieved it.
The cardboard box seemed innocent. Average size, sealed with packing tape. No obvious branding. Just a plain brown rectangle that could've contained anything. Her stomach clenched as Greg slid it toward her. The weight surprised her when she lifted it, heavier than she expected.
"Thanks," Calli managed, the word sticking in her dry throat. She clutched the box to her chest like a shield, spinning on her heel and heading back. Every second, she imagined Greg's eyes on her, imagined him having read the shipping label, covertly sliced through the tape to see what was inside before sealing it up, her shameful secret exposed. When the elevator doors slid shut, she finally exhaled.
The box felt heavier now, the weight shifting as she adjusted her grip. The cardboard smelled faintly of warehouse dust and ink. She pressed her ear against it, half-expecting to hear the crinkle of plastic packaging inside, but there was only silence. That was a dumb thought. What was happening to her?
The urge to tear into it right here was overwhelming, just one corner, just a peek, but she forced herself to wait.
Her apartment door clicked shut behind her, and Calli descended on the poor box like a hungry wolf. She clawed at the packing tape, fingers slipping twice before she gave up and grabbed scissors from the kitchen drawer. The tape punctured and split with a satisfying rip, revealing a baby blue package inside. Calli caught herself holding her breath.
The package was covered in teddy bears, clouds and little moons. Calli wanted to take in every cute little moment, appreciate every detail, but her lizard brain had already torn the package open, pulled out a single diaper, and held it up with both hands. It was enormous. Much larger than she'd imagined. Certainly this was too big?
Looking around for a few moments, a thought struck her: she hadn't planned any further than this. How should she put it on? Where? The bathroom felt... cold. On her bed? The couch? Eventually she just settled on the floor. Right here. Right now. She laid the diaper out flat, ran her hand along the inside pillowy. It was soft. She was already mentally comparing it to the towel in her head, how it would feel pressed against her body. She could feel her body calculating it too, reacting in anticipation, her breath growing shallow, her nipples tightening beneath her shirt.
Her jeans could not be peeled off any quicker, kicked onto the coffee table, before she laid down onto the open diaper, grabbing flaps and adjusting angles, tentatively pulling the front up between her legs before lifting her bottom to give it a little more slack. She caught herself breathing heavily, like putting on a diaper was the most strenuous activity in the world.
The tapes were trickier than she expected. She unstuck one, touched it to the plastic on the front of the diaper, but then it felt loose when she fastened the other. The plastic groaned as she unstuck the first one, pulling it tighter, refastening. It seemed to be holding, but now the second one wasn't even! With a huff she moved on to the lower tapes, pressing those down closer to her thighs. And... that was it. She was taped into a fucking diaper! After all this time. That anonymous feeling she used to have, that craving she was never really able to grasp. This was it. This is what her body and brain were trying to tell her.
Calli ran a hand across the plastic landing zone where she had stuck the tapes, then pushed it down between her legs. Squeezed the thick bulk between her legs. It was so different from the towel, or any number of the other placeholders. It was exactly how it felt in the dream... probably. She pressed her thighs together around her hand. Rolling onto her side, her other hand explored her bottom. Enjoyed the soft plastic. She gave herself a few small pats, then... a few hard spanks. The sound her hand made on her thickly padded butt was hollow. She barely felt it. What a sight she must've been! A nervous giggle bubbled up as she imagined how ridiculous she must look, a grown woman writhing around her living room floor, her hands slithering inquisitively over an adult diaper. But there was no way she was stopping anytime soon.
She rolled onto her back again, spread her legs slightly apart, then pushed them together. The diaper crinkled audibly against her inner thighs, bunched up, held a little bit of air. Again. Spread. Closed. Crinkle. The noise alone sent a flush creeping up her neck. It was... Loud. Obvious. Shameful for other people to hear in a way that made her stomach tighten with excitement. She rolled her hips experimentally, felt the padding shift and bunch in ways the towel never could. The inner lining rubbed deliciously against her skin with each movement, the plastic outer shell whispering promises with every crinkle.
Her fingers traced the waistband where it hugged her hips, then pressed deep into the thick padding at her crotch. Why this? Why did the bulky press of padding between her legs make her body respond like this? She flattened her palm against herself through the diaper, dragged it up, down, up. Harder. The thick material diffused the sensation against her skin just enough to be maddening. She rocked up into her own hand, felt the diaper shift and settle around her movements. The friction was different like this, created this faraway pleasure, muffled but insistent, like hearing music through a wall. Her hips jerked involuntarily, and she bit her lip to stifle a moan.
A rogue thought wheedled its way in: this is definitely not what diapers were for. They were for accidents, not pleasure. For piss, and for shit. She was some kind of deviant. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through her. Was that part of it? The shame? The childishness? Her thighs trembled as she spread them wider, the crinkle impossibly loud in the quiet apartment. She dragged a fingertip along the elastic leg guard before slipping it inside her diaper. The interior was humid: warm from her body heat, a little wet from her... eagerness.
She couldn't stop thinking about the toddler prints. Did she want to pretend to be a baby? The idea repulsed her... at first... and yet maybe she could be convinced.
It was definitely the thickness. Some part of it was, anyway. And the containment, the restraint. The way her hips had to spread slightly to accommodate it. The way she couldn't close her legs all the way. How tight and snug it clung to her around her waist and thighs.
She rubbed circles through the padding, slow at first, then faster as the heat built between her legs. The diaper absorbed most of the pressure, forcing her to grind harder to chase that edge. A frustrated whine escaped her throat. She wanted, needed, more. Calli hooked her thumbs under the waistband and lifted, just enough to slide her hand beneath the padding. The inner lining was so soft against the back of her hand, softer than the towel had ever been. Her fingers slipped effortlessly between her folds, already slick with anticipation. The contrast of textures, the smooth plastic exterior brushing her thighs while her fingers worked inside the cottony interior. How silly of her to have waited so long!
Calli arched into her own touch, her free hand clutching at the diaper's bulk as if anchoring herself. The crinkling sound intensified with each desperate roll of her hips, filling the apartment with rhythmic, shameless noise. She imagined someone hearing it through the walls, a neighbor cocking their head at the strange rustling. The thought made her pulse spike, her fingers pressing deeper. Why did humiliation twist so seamlessly into arousal? Why did the childish prints on the packaging make her stomach flutter?
Her thighs tensed against the tight leg gathers, the elastic digging slightly, deliciously, into her skin. There was something about the containment, the way the diaper held her snugly, that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. It wasn't just sensation, it was the idea of it. Of being... secured. Stuck and helpless in a way that wasn't scary but thrilling. Her breath hitched. Was that it? The surrender? The way she couldn't just kick it off like underwear? The tapes held firm no matter how she squirmed.
Calli's fingers worked faster beneath the padding, her other hand pressing down hard on the plastic exterior, trapping her own touch inside. The crinkling grew frantic with her movements. She imagined the diaper wasn't hers to remove. That someone had taped her into it with strict instructions, that she couldn't take it off until it was wet, and the thought made her toes curl. What if she had to wet herself? What if she had no choice, because a dry diaper was a wasted diaper?
Her breath came in shallow pants as she pictured herself squirming, desperate to pee but unable to take it off. The thick padding would soak it all up, swell between her thighs, that was its purpose, wasn't it? To be used. She pressed her thighs together, trapping her hand tighter inside the diaper, rubbing in quick, desperate circles. The pressure built low in her stomach, her body taut as a bowstring.
Calli whimpered, imagining the hot rush of release, the way the diaper would cling heavier between her legs, the scent of it, the shame, god, the shame, of walking around like that. Would it leak? Would people notice? Her fingers stuttered at the thought, hips jerking erratically against her own touch. The diaper crinkled wildly with each movement, the sound obscenely loud in her ears.
She pressed harder, imagining herself in public, trapped in a soaked diaper, forced to endure the squish with every step. Would she blush if someone noticed? Would they smell it? The fantasy coiled tighter in her gut, her breath coming in sharp little gasps. Her fingers moved faster, the plastic exterior muffling the wet sounds inside it but not the desperate crinkling, not the way her thighs trembled against the thick padding.
Then it hit her, not just arousal, but the real, urgent pressure in her bladder. Calli froze mid-stroke, fingers still buried inside herself. She had to pee. Actually, genuinely had to. The realization sent a fresh jolt through her, her thighs clamping down instinctively. She could stop. Get up, peel off the diaper, use the toilet like a normal person. But she didn't want to.
Calli pressed her thighs tighter together, her fingers still moving beneath the diaper's padding. The pressure in her bladder intensified with every heartbeat, an urgent throb that matched the rising pleasure coiling in her stomach. She rocked her hips faster, chasing both sensations now, the impending climax and the forbidden relief just beyond it. The diaper crinkled wildly beneath her, plastic whispering promises as she rubbed herself raw through the thick cottony lining.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her free hand clutching at the waistband of the diaper as if to anchor herself. The thought of wetting herself, actually letting go, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. What would it feel like? The warmth spreading through the padding, the way it would cling to her skin, the shameful squish with every movement afterward. Her fingers moved faster, her hips stuttering against her own touch. She was so close, so fucking close, and the need to pee was almost unbearable now, a sharp pressure low in her belly.
Calli bit her lip hard enough to leave marks, her thighs trembling as she teetered on the edge, cresting, her back arching off the floor before pleasure crashed over her, her entire body seizing as she came with a choked gasp. In that moment, the last thread of control snapped.
Her bladder emptied in a hot rush, the warmth spreading instantly between her fingers still pressed deep inside the diaper. The sensation was electric, wet heat flooding the padding. It swelled against her skin as the diaper grew heavy between her legs. The liquid warmth curled around her fingers to be wicked away by the soft inner lining. Her breath came in shuddering gulps as she slowly, experimentally, flexed her fingers, still buried in the soggy padding, feeling the way the wet material clung to her skin.
She lay there trembling for a long moment, feeling the last of her urine trickle between her legs. Slowly, Calli pulled her hand free. The scent was unmistakable, musky and intimate, filling the quiet apartment air... She’d done it. Actually done it. The realization hit her in waves, first the shame (what kind of person?), then the thrill (she’d do it again), then a bewildered curiosity (how long could she stay like this?). The diaper sagged noticeably, swollen with warmth between her thighs. She rolled onto her side and squeezed them shut, gasped at the squelch. The padding compressed, released the liquid back into her diaper like a sponge, mixed itself with her juices, and was soaked back up. It was weird. It was obscene. It was perfect.
Following another ask recently, I also wanted to comment that I love how real your stories feel. Your writing in Daycare, Goodnites specifically has been such a fun and interesting journey. Thank you for your posts and I hope you find future inspiration where you want it! 😊
Thanks for reading, and for the comment!
I originally didn't have much in store for Daycare, Goodnites. I'm very much like a 1-or-2-parts-then-move-on-to-the-next-idea kind of scatterbrain, but it got such a huge response that I decided to keep digging and see what was there.
I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to engage and comment, because it does make a difference to me, and it does mean that maybe I get to discover a silly idea I had ended up having a ton of extra juice worth squeezing.
hi! i just wanted to say that i love your stories and how deliciously written they are. i find myself really particularl when it comes to ab/dl writing, and your stories are so grounded and believable in your characterization, dialogue, and settings. i also love and appreciate the F/F stories in the online sea of ab/dl daddy content. much love and appreciation for what you create!<3
this is going to sound a little silly but this is precisely why I started writing abdl stories!
there are a lot of really incredible writers out there these days, but when i was growing up and exploring the fetish, I had a really hard time enjoying so many stories that were exaggerated and unrealistic.
the best fantasy for me is the one that's the closest to being able to actually happen, maybe a sprinkle of suspension of disbelief as a treat.
[F/f. ABDL. 'Big girl' goes back to daycare.]
End, Pt. 1
Something hot and squirmy twisted in Emma's stomach. A first flash of anger, frustration. The word 'no' was fully formed on her tongue, but she couldn't push it out. Olivia's eyes finally peeked up over the diaper she had been hiding behind, her brows knit with concern.
"That talk in the car earlier probably felt pretty bad, huh?" Emma finally said.
Olivia exhaled through her nose. "No. You were right to set boundaries."
"Even though you had already bought all this baby stuff?"
Olivia blinked, then let out a nervous laugh, turning the diaper over in her hands. The crinkling sound filled the silence between them.
"I'm a big girl, Liv."
"I understand, but--"
"I'm not a kid at the daycare," she continued, talking over her. "Not a baby to fawn over. I'm an adult who needs a job soon or I'm going to go fucking insane," Emma continued.
The diaper slowly lowered between them. "I get that," Olivia said.
"Please," Emma sighed, covering her face with her hands. "Don't let me like it too much."
It slipped out before Emma could stop it, barely louder than the crinkle of plastic between them. Peeking through her fingers, she watched the realization flicker across Olivia's face: part relief, part guilt, part something else entirely, crystallizing into the biggest smile she'd ever seen.
Olivia shook her head. "You can't just let yourself enjoy things, huh?"
Emma kicked weakly at the diaper package. "I agreed to the dumb diaper, what else do you want from me?"
A startled, ungainly laugh escaped Olivia's mouth. She fumbled around the changing supplies, overflowing with nervous energy, until she located Emma's pacifier, popped it in her own mouth to clean it, and then pressed it against Emma's lips with deliberate theatricality. "I'm hitting the mute button now."
Emma glared, but accepted the pacifier.
Olivia ripped the sides of the Goodnite, folded the soaked padding inward with practiced efficiency, but Emma barely had time to feel exposed before Olivia was pressing a wipe against her skin. Her touch was methodical: down the crease of one thigh, then the other, each pass of the wipe leaving cool trails that evaporated into tingling warmth.
The diaper was next, Olivia finally unfolding it with a reverence. It seemed to just get bigger and bigger as the crinkling sound it emitted filled the quiet room. Olivia pressed it up to Emma's hips, murmured, "Lift," tapping Emma's thigh, and Emma obeyed without thinking, her body arching slightly as Olivia positioned the diaper just so. "And... down..." she whispered, an expectant look in her eyes.
It was so soft. That was all Emma could think in the moment. She had covered her face with her arm, clenched her eyes shut. Tried to shut out how her younger friend was putting her back into diapers. And that's what she felt. Pillowy, cottony soft. Then, the sweet scent and cool dusting of powder, then fingers sifting through it in swirling patterns on her skin like a little zen garden. It was hypotonic. So soft. She nursed her pacifier, melted into the bed. She felt Olivia pull the front of the diaper up between her legs, press it against her tummy, and seal her in tight, one tape after one tape after one tape after one tape. Then a pat-pat. Then a soft sigh.
Olivia leaned back on her heels, admiring her work with a doofy grin. Emma checked her work as well. Her legs looked so small sticking out of the diaper's leg bands, little bits of powder still stuck to her inner thighs. Olivia bit her lip, her eyes darkening with something unreadable. She reached for the powder bottle again, sprinkled a final dusting across Emma's stomach just because she could. The scent of baby powder hung thick in the air between them.
Emma's toes curled against the changing mat. The pacifier bobbed in her mouth when she tried to speak. "Happy now?" The words came out garbled, muffled by rubber.
Olivia's grin was all teeth. She tossed the powder bottle aside, letting it roll off the bed with a hollow clatter. "Ecstatic. How's it feel?"
Emma's cheeks burned. Compared to her Goodnites the diaper was ridiculously thick, and big-- the waistband reached up to her navel, crawled up the small of her back. The pacifier bobbed again as she mumbled something unintelligible.
Olivia leaned in closer, her pink hair tickling Emma's collarbone. "What was that?" Her breath smelled faintly of wine and spearmint gum.
Emma turned her face into the pillow, pacifier bobbing furiously. The diaper bunched between her thighs with every tiny movement, the padding rustling, pressing against her in all the right places-- thick, snug, impossible to ignore. ...She loved it. She was so afraid this would be the case, that slipping into something so unabashedly infantile would ruin her forever for discreet, big-girl Goodnites. The way the plastic whispered against itself with every shift of her hips, the way the huge diaper swallowed her lower half up, it felt like surrender in the best possible way.
Olivia watched her squirm with undisguised delight. "That good, huh?" She pressed a palm flat against the diaper's scratchy landing zone. "I feel like I need to leave the room and let you two have some alone time. I know what you like to do in these."
The pacifier popped out of Emma's mouth indignantly as she clambered up onto her elbows. "I told you that in confidence!"
Olivia was already on her feet and halfway out the door. "You two be good. I'll be riiiight back."
Emma threw a pillow at her retreating form, shouting, "Oh yeah, Feety McFootjob over here!" before flopping back onto the mattress with a crinkle. She grabbed the pacifier from where it had fallen, pressed it back into her mouth, chewed the rubber nipple as her face burned and her stomach fluttered. Olivia's laughter echoed from the kitchenette area, that bubbly, unselfconscious sound Emma secretly wanted to bottle and inject straight into her veins.
Alone now, Emma's hands drifted down to explore the thick padding encircling her hips. She pressed her palms flat against the front panel, fingers splaying over the cartoonish animals, each one grinning up at her with stupid, innocent joy. Rolling onto her side, she wedged a hand between her thighs, squeezing the bulk bunching up there. She flipped onto her stomach next, ran her hands along her bottom. There was so much diaper back here. She raised a hand up, brought it down with a muffled smack, and felt nothing. It was kind of amazing.
The microwave beeped in the kitchen. Emma raised an eyebrow. What was she scheming out there?
Emma rolled back over onto her back as Olivia's footsteps padded closer, tried to look casual, crossed her arms over her chest like she wasn’t just moments ago squeezing her own padded backside. The door creaked open, and Olivia slipped back inside with something clutched behind her back, her grin conspiratorial.
"You look guilty," Olivia sing-songed, circling the bed like a shark.
"Whatever you have planned back there, the answer is no."
"Grumpy baby," Olivia frowned.
The familiar anger and frustration welled up in her belly, warmed her cheeks, but... Emma just sighed. "What is it?"
Olivia whipped the item from behind her back with a flourish, a bottle, warm from the microwave, its contents swirling with creamy white liquid. "Fairy milk! You'll like it. I found a recipe on the Internet."
Emma groaned. "Fine, give it," she demanded, complete with grabby hands.
"Um, actually..." Olivia broke eye contact for just a moment, pulling the bottle close to her chest. "M-me do?"
Emma froze mid-grabby hands as she processed Olivia's hesitant question, the way her fingers trembled around the bottle's ridges. All night, Olivia had been the one pushing boundaries, but this was different. Olivia was looking at her with something desperate in her eyes, hopeful and afraid all at once. Emma frowned, but it wasn't anger anymore, just confusion, curiosity. "Um, yeah, okay..." she said quietly. "Okay."
Olivia sucked in a breath, nodding fast, her pink hair bouncing. She perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and nudged Emma's chin with the bottle's nipple. Emma rolled her eyes but obediently opened her mouth, letting Olivia guide the tip between her lips. Warm vanilla milk with cinnamon met her tongue, sweet and comforting. She made a noise, didn't mean to, half surprise, half contentment, all embarrassing. Olivia's thumb stroked her cheekbone, her touch feather-light. "Good girl," she whispered.
It... was getting kind of old, bristling every time Olivia poked her with some little baby-ism. Right now, in this moment, diapered and bottle feeding, Olivia wasn't wrong-- Emma was being a damn good girl. She let the warmth travel down her throat, pool low in her belly, relished in it. Luxuriated in it.
The bottle emptied slowly, Olivia adjusting the angle with careful precision as she crawled into bed next to Emma, tugging her closer, maneuvering her until she was cradled in Olivia's lap, her padded bottom pressed flush against Olivia's thighs. "Shhh," she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns over the diaper's plastic backing, following the cartoon animals like a treasure map, each crinkle loud in the quiet room.
"You're ridiculous," Emma mumbled around the rubber nipple. "This is ridiculous," but her fingers curled into Olivia's sleep shirt anyway.
Olivia hummed, ignoring her protests as she tugged the comforter up around them. The bottle tilted higher, coaxing Emma to finish the last few sips, warm milk dribbling down her chin when she drank too fast. Olivia dabbed it away with her thumb, sucked the sweetness from her own skin absentmindedly while Emma squirmed in her lap, the diaper rustling with every shift of her hips.
"All done?" Olivia asked, shaking the empty bottle with a theatrical rattle before setting it aside. Emma nodded, her eyelids already heavy, the combination of warmth and fullness lulling her toward sleep. "Sleepy baby," Olivia cooed.
"Shhhhha-up," Emma drawled, could feel her leaden body being eased off Olivia's lap and onto her back. The pillow was fluffed beneath her head. Emma groaned softly, eyes fluttering shut. The lingering wine, warm milk, and soft diaper had turned her limbs to jelly. She barely noticed Olivia pulling the covers up higher, tucking them snugly around her shoulders. Her body was heavy, flowed flat against the mattress like pouring sand. Warm, warm, warmer still.
---
A jaunty MIDI ringtone dragged Emma back, not all at once, but in slow, unpleasant increments. The insistent rattling of her phone vibrating against the nightstand was sharp enough to make her wince. She groaned, rolling onto her side, only to freeze mid-motion at the unmistakable squish between her thighs. Her face burned instantly. What the hell? She hadn't... wet the bed, had she?
Olivia's side of the bed was cold, the sheets rumpled where she'd slept pressed against Emma's back all night. She heard a flush from the bathroom on the other side of the wall. "Show off," she muttered.
The phone kept buzzing. Emma fumbled for it, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen before answering with a gravelly, "Hello?"
"Emma! Hi! It's Sam from BrightPath." The woman's voice was syrup-sweet, the kind of cheerful that shouldn't exist before coffee. What time even was it? She looked around Olivia's messy room, soaked in slits of morning sun peering in past the drawn blackout curtains. The only clock she could find was currently being held up to her ear.
"BrightPath. Sam," she repeated back. "Hello." The name rang a bell, but her brain was still sloshing with sleep and the consequences of several sippies of wine. The diaper shifted beneath her as she sat up, thick and stiff with dampness. Why was it damp? It was a little clammy... so it wasn't recent, at least.
Olivia appeared in the doorway, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, hair wilder than usual. Emma gestured to her crotch with her free hand, mouthed, "What?" Olivia raised an eyebrow and pantomimed a shrug.
"I'm sorry for calling on a Saturday morning," the voice on the phone continued. "It's truly the only bit of time I have to myself."
Emma blinked, searching for a way to continue this conversation with a degree of normalcy. "No, no, it's, " Emma cleared her throat, willing her voice not to crack. "It's fine. I answered, didn't I?" A pause. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm calling you regarding the email you sent me yesterday afternoon." Sam chuckled. "The one cold email I wouldn't delete? In fact I have it pulled up on my screen right now. You were correct."
Leaping to her feet with a surge of adrenaline, Emma practically shouted into the phone. "Sam! BrightPath! It's great to be speaking with you." She paced the room, practically shedding nervous energy.
"Listen, Emma. I'll keep this short so you can get back to your weekend." Sam's voice shifted to something more measured, the professional warmth still present but muted. "Your email? Good shit. It's so important these days to just grab people by their shirt and shake them."
Emma gripped the phone tighter, her knees weak enough that she had to sit back down on the edge of the bed, just barely making it.
Olivia stopped brushing entirely, her brow furrowed.
"I was just not getting through to anybody. I thought--" Emma calculated for a moment, assessing her next words. "Fuck it, what do I have to lose if nobody's calling me back anyway?"
Sam laughed. "Emma, I like your attitude so much I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that you don't have any other competing offers."
Emma's breath caught. Shit. She wasn't on her A-game. Not even close. She was hungover, wearing an oversized baby diaper she had wet sometime during the night, and she was trying to go toe-to-toe with a big shot marketing professional?
"Look, let's talk first thing Monday," Sam continued, oblivious to Emma's internal panic, or blessedly forgiving of it. "I'll send you a Zoom invite, say, 9:30? Scare up a couple of other offers before then or I'll be paying you peanuts, got it?"
Emma swallowed hard, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. "Got it," she croaked. "Talk to you then. Have a great weekend." The call ended before she could embarrass herself further. She stared at the phone screen until it dimmed, her reflection warped in the black surface, wild-haired, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.
In the bathroom, Olivia spat into the sink with an exaggerated noise. "Well?" She reappeared in the doorway, toothpaste foam clinging to her chin. "Who the hell calls at 9 AM on a Saturday?"
Emma bounced on the bed, the soaked diaper rustling beneath her. "BrightPath Marketing! They want to interview me Monday!" The words tumbled out too fast, her excitement bubbling over. "Sam said my email was 'good shit', can you believe that?"
Olivia's smile flickered like her string lights, bright, then dimming too fast. She wiped the toothpaste from her mouth with exaggerated care. "That's... wow. Really wow." Her voice climbed an octave higher than usual, fingers twisting the hem of her sleep shirt. "Monday’s so soon though. You'll need..." she gestured vaguely.
Emma flopped backward onto the mattress, legs sticking straight up, crinkling loudly. The diaper sagged between her thighs, heavy and growing a little colder. Oh yeah. "Fuck. Did I wet the bed?" She shot look to Olivia. "Please tell me I didn't wet the bed. Because this was dry when I went to sleep."
Olivia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Not... exactly." She chewed her bottom lip. "You wet while you were falling asleep, so... call it a tie?"
"Oh god. I did. I actually pissed myself without knowing it." Emma groaned, pressing her palms against her eyes.
Olivia waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine! That's literally what your diapers are for."
Emma's stomach twisted, a familiar anger and frustration boiling in her belly. The reality of wetting herself while unconscious settled on her chest like a stone. "I need to go the fuck home and get ready for Monday."
Olivia tilted her head, the forced cheer in her voice cracking at the edges. "Oh come on, it's not that serious, Em. It's Saturday morning!" She scooped Emma's discarded sweatpants off the floor, shook them out. "Let me change you, cook you some breakfast, take you home around... lunch?"
Emma began to tear at the tapes of her diaper. The smell of baby powder was souring now, mixed with the scent of stale urine. "Liv, I'm twenty-six. I can't--" Her throat closed around the rest of what she wanted to say. "I can't wake up drooling around a pacifier and pissing myself before the most important meeting of my life!"
"Em, please... you're catastrophizing," Olivia said softly, kneeling beside the bed, reaching a hand halfway between them.
"Liv, I need to be home now." She grabbed Olivia's wrist without thinking. "Please."
Olivia's arm went slack in her grip. "I get it," she said, too quickly. She turned away to gather Emma's scattered clothes. "Can I... um... change you first?"
"Liv!" Emma shook her head, glowering, watched Olivia's back tense. She wanted to say no, wanted to yank the diaper off herself and sprint home, but something in the slump of Olivia's shoulders stopped her. "Y-yeah," she mumbled, settling back onto the mattress. "No, that would be... nice."
Olivia grimaced, then shook it off, handed Emma her overnight bag full of supplies. "Nevermind. I don't know what I'm doing," she muttered, digging her thumb into her palm. "Just, go get dressed. I'll make you some coffee."
Emma swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She reached for Olivia's wrist again, softer this time. "Hey," she murmured, tugging until Olivia met her gaze. "This is big. I need you to be happy for me."
Olivia blinked hard. She looked embarrassed. "I am happy. Hurry up and get dressed, okay?"
Emma watched her retreat into the kitchenette, listened to the clatter of mugs and plates being arranged and rearranged, placed on the counter. She heard Olivia exhale, followed by the clicking of the coffee machine’s buttons. Then silence, punctuated only by the slow drip of brewing coffee and the occasional shuffle of Olivia’s bare feet on the linoleum. Emma listened, but Olivia had always been chaotic in the kitchen, prone to knocking things over whether she was happy or annoyed.
Finally standing up from the bed, her loose diaper hit the floor with a dull thud. She rubbed at the angry red indentations left on her hips, grabbed the overnight bag, and pulled out a plain pair of gray cotton panties. "Dress for the job you want," she murmured to herself, guiding them up her legs.
just got back from Obsession. incredible horror movie. deeply unsettling.
Inde Navarrette put on a legendary performance. i am like...... in shambles at how good she was. that movie would've fallen apart with a lesser actress
just got back from watching backrooms. it was great. it's kind of like a movie that was made just for me. if nobody else digs it, i'm glad it was made. i have an uncoordinated fistful of thoughts and feelings and I can't stop thinking about it.
one of my most formative reading experiences was House of Leaves. I was in eighth grade. it ruined normally experiencing the written word for me forever.
i also don't think it's filmable. backrooms might be the closest thing i ever get. i think i'm okay with that.
anyway, if you're on the fence, or if you think there's no way a movie that had its genesis on youtube based upon a 4chan post can be viewed without a harsh veil of protective irony, give it a chance.
it's blair witch via david lynch. it is LOVINGLY set designed. it's a singular experience that's worth having.
daycare, goodnites part 9 status report:
i spent most of sunday playing BBMKR.
i don't really dig 'diaper dimension' stuff because i prefer realism and happy endings, and heavy diaper dimension stories are basically fantastical body horror. but BBMKR is just kind of innocuous and cozy.
anyway, i'm telling you this because instead of finishing dcgn 9 I spent today putting a ton of words toward a story about a girl who basically backrooms into a mystery daycare filled with regressed adults and staffed by nice giants
i have failed you and I am not sorry
[ABDL. F/f. 'Big girl' goes back to daycare.]
Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 9
With renewed vigor Emma spent all of Thursday immersed in job applications, LinkedIn stalking, and follow-ups, determined to prove, if only to herself, that she wasn't giving up on adulthood. In the gray morning light of a rainy Friday, she had even dug out her panties from the closet. Dress for the job you want, right?
She made sure to be awake before Olivia's morning visits, made a show of rejecting the sippy cup, even made sure to stretch tall, arms up, shirt lifting up her tummy, giving Olivia an unobstructed view of... nothing. Regular fucking panties. The kind you don't pee in because you're a professional adult who has her shit together. It felt good to be back.
"Look out," Olivia said, with the same interest she might regard a child holding up macaroni art. "Big girl today." She took a defiant swig of the apple juice in the sippy. "More for me."
"I'm a big girl every day," she murmured, not really intending to be heard.
Olivia tilted her head, twirling her pink hair around one finger. "You okay?"
Emma turned away sharply. "Just busy. Got a full day today." She clicked through tabs aggressively, as if to prove her point.
Olivia's fingers tapped against the sippy cup, her pink nails clinking against the plastic lid. "Cool," she said lightly, swallowing the rest of whatever she seemed to want to say. "Guess I'll see you later then."
Emma nodded, already clicking through another job posting without really reading it. The door shut softly behind Olivia, leaving her alone with the hum of her laptop fan and the faint scent of rain slipping through the cracked window.
The moment it seemed Olivia was out of ear shot, Emma bent down, pressed her head to the desk, lifted, dropped, bang. "What the fuck are you doing, Emma?"
It was another late lunch day. After what felt like hours of chasing a lead through a cached 'About Us' page using the internet archive, Emma had located who she at least presumed was the hiring manager for an agency gig, determined to break through the stonewall of impersonal HR screens. The name on the email address she dug up matched a blank LinkedIn profile for a Sam who claimed to work there. Was worth a shot?
"Dear Sir..." she typed out, speaking the words aloud, then, "or... Ma'am? Sam-mantha" She read through the blank profile, praying for a pronoun or a full name.
From there the email progress stalled. Emma stared at the blinking cursor, the words "Dear Sir" feeling increasingly inadequate. She deleted it, tried "Dear Hiring Manager," deleted that too. The cherry of top of the shit pie was the growing realization that she had to pee -- badly -- and had been ignoring it for some time. "Not now!" she grumbled at her own bladder, shifting in the chair. After a week in Goodnites it took her a few seconds to realize she had to clamp down on muscles she hadn't been actively engaging recently, and small spurt of urine escaped before she locked it down. The wet spot in her panties was small, almost negligible, but the sensation was starkly unfamiliar to how it felt in a Goodnite. She exhaled sharply through her nose and kept typing, determined to ignore it, but she couldn't shake the rogue thought once she'd had it. Why did it feel so good to wet herself in a Goodnite? Surely that was a design flaw? Because... Because she really wanted to put one on right now. Because... was she really thinking this? Because this full bladder was going to go to waste!
Emma physically shook the thought off and hastily typed something, anything into the document. Reading it back: "Greetings! My name is Emma. I recently applied for your--"
Another spurt of pee escaped into her panties. "Oh, shhhhhhittttt..!" she hissed, jumping to her feet. She extremely had to pee, had somehow distracted herself, and now it was a billion times more urgent. Emma crossed her legs tightly, bouncing on her toes, tried to make sure she was securely clenched enough to make to the walk down the hall before opening her bedroom door and peeking out. Seemed clear.
With stiff, slow steps, she made it just past the threshold when she felt a heavier spurt leak, dampening her panties further. Emma froze mid-step, horrified as the wet warmth spread, before she simply gave up the ghost, stopped holding it and started jogging to the bathroom, a hot flood soaking through her underwear and jeans in seconds.
When she finally made it to the toilet there was nothing left to release. It was all in her panties, her jeans, in a short, sloppy trail sloppy trail along the bathroom floor.
Emma sank onto the closed toilet lid, staring at her soaked jeans in disbelief. Undoing the button, her face burned as she peeled the wet denim away from her thighs, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her skin. The humiliation was sharp, immediate, and beneath it, something darker and hotter coiled in her stomach.
There was a knock at the door.
Of fucking course there was.
Emma's throat tightened as Olivia's voice floated through the door. "Em? You okay in there?" The doorknob jiggled slightly, tested but not turned. "Lys asked me to bring you lunch, but there's... 'water' on the floor out here."
Emma's fingers dug into the damp fabric of her jeans. Even through the door she could hear the air quotes around the word water as she spoke it.
"I'm fine," she called, voice cracking. "Just, dropped a glass."
There was silence behind the door, then, "Okay... Do you need help cleaning up the... spill?"
Emma stared at the puddles on the floor, her damp thighs sticking to the toilet seat. "It's fine. Just go."
Silence, then, "Can I bring you another... 'glass'?"
Emma squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling into fists against her thighs. The damp denim clung to her skin, cooling fast. "Yeah," she said, then louder, "Please." A pause. Then, softer, "Thank you."
Listening for Olivia's footsteps to retreat, Emma exhaled shakily, peeling the soaked panties away with trembling fingers. The tile was cold beneath her bare feet as she stepped out of the ruined clothes, wadding them into a damp ball. She dropped a clean towel on the floor and soaked up most of her mess with unsteady hands. She was glad it was Olivia. Glad it wasn't her mother. Glad, in some dark corner of her mind, that Olivia already knew everything.
The knock came again, soft, hesitant. "Em?" Olivia's voice was muffled through the door. "How about you jump in the shower? I've got your glass here and I'll come grab the one you have in there."
Emma swallowed hard, staring at her reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes. There wasn't any fight left in her today. "Yeah," she managed, turning the faucet on hot. "Okay."
Steam curled against the shower curtain as she stepped under the spray, the heat scalding away the shame clinging to her skin. She heard the bathroom door creak open, the rustle of Olivia gathering the damp towel, the wet jeans. Spraying something, wiping down the floor. Emma pressed her forehead against the tiles, water sluicing down her back. She wanted to apologize, but the muscles in her throat and chest had gone slack.
"You good?" Olivia's voice was muffled through the curtain.
Emma watched water spiral down the drain between her feet.
"I'll come back during nap time. We can talk. Or not talk. Cool?" Olivia's voice was soft, punctuated by the click of the bathroom door closing.
Emma let out a shuddering breath, before shutting off the water, wrapping herself in a fresh towel. Her discarded clothes were gone, no damp denim mocking her from the floor, no soggy panties left as evidence. Just a clean stack of clothes. Sweats, a t-shirt, and a Goodnite with her pacifier. What else would there be? She clearly didn't deserve panties right now.
Pulling the diaper up into place, Emma sighed. She pressed her palms against the padding, appreciating its thickness. She'd missed it, a little bit.
Back in her room, lunch was waiting, a club sandwich cut into 8 bite-size triangles. As she sat down at her desk, the laptop woke up, displayed the half-written email. Emma's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She should finish it. Should prove she could be a functional adult, current underwear and potty status notwithstanding. It's a working lunch. Real professionals have those all the time.
She took a bite. Chewed thoughtfully, staring at the words on the screen without reading them. "Applied for the role... last week... haven't yet heard back... excited about the opportunity..."
Emma popped another bite of sandwich into her mouth. It was always a little funny eating leftovers from daycare lunch. This sandwich was just turkey, American cheese, bacon, and mayo. No lettuce, no avocado, no mustard. And no crusts, of course. Kids didn't know what they were missing.
"Where... my skills align with the job description..." she typed. "Led... cross-functional teams... multimedia campaigns..." Her typing slowed. "Blah blah synergy... business words... boring myself... fuck."
She erased it all. Looked at the last piece of sandwich. It was just the good stuff. Meat, cheese, soft bread.
"I'm writing you the one cold email you won't delete today," she read out loud, fumbling the words around the rubber nipple. "You're hiring a digital marketing specialist, and I'm interviewing for it right now. You've opened this email. That's a 100% open rate. And you're about to click this link to my portfolio, and that's 100% CTR. Let's set aside some time to talk the role next week. Cheers, Emma."
The words on the screen would've terrified her a few weeks ago when the job hunt was new, but what more was there to lose at this point? Oh no, the company that was never going to call her back thinks she's unprofessional?
Emma hit send before she could second-guess it, then leaned back in her chair with a sigh. The pacifier bobbed gently between her lips as she stretched, the Goodnite crinkling faintly beneath her sweats. She warmed it with a trickle of pee as a little reward before slamming the laptop shut.
The door creaked open without a knock. Olivia stood there holding two juice boxes, her pink hair slightly frizzed from the daycare chaos downstairs. "Hey!" she said, with a extra dose of cheeriness. "Break time!" She tossed Emma a juice box, before settling in cross-legged on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.
Emma caught it reflexively, a little impressed with herself. "Kiddos down?" she asked, chewing absently on the pacifier nipple.
Olivia nodded, stabbing her straw into the juice box with practiced ease. "Out like little lights." She took a long sip, eyeing Emma, the laptop, the whole room. "Job hunt going well?"
Emma shrugged, spinning her unopened juice box between her palms before popping out her pacifier. "I think I've turned a corner. Did I turn the right way? That I don't know."
Olivia nodded. "And you? Doing okay?"
Emma stabbed her own juice box. "Yeah, I think so."
Olivia leaned back on her hands, watching Emma carefully. The juice box crinkled between her fingers as she gathered her thoughts. "So," she started, then hesitated, tapping the straw against her bottom lip. "About earlier..." She then rushed to clarify, "Not, not to make a thing! Just... are you okay?"
Emma's cheeks warmed instantly. She took a long sip from her juice box, too long, until the carton collapsed inward with a wet gasp. "Thanks for helping."
Olivia's knee bounced slightly against the mattress, her pink hair catching the afternoon light as she tilted her head. "You don't have to tell me anything," she said softly. "But I just, " Her fingers flexed around her juice box. "Was it...?"
"I just... goofed. I was holding it one second and not holding it the next." Emma's fingers twisted the empty juice box into a crumpled accordion. "No big deal."
Olivia's gaze dropped to Emma's lap, not lingering, just a flicker, before she nodded slowly. "Okay. But..." She wet her lips.
"I'm honestly more embarrassed you cleaned my pee," Emma interjected.
Olivia snorted. "Pee is, like, 90% of my job. You weren't even my first accident of the day."
Emma groaned, tossing the crumpled juice box at Olivia's head. "Stop lumping me in with the kids!"
Olivia caught it effortlessly, grinning. "Is that why you've been acting kind of weird?"
Emma frowned. "Acting weird?"
"Since Wednesday," Olivia said. "You kind of kicked me out of your room out of nowhere. And then this whole 'I'm a serious adult' performance..."
"Performance?" The word came out sharper than Emma intended.
"Oh, come on, you know I didn't mean it that way," Olivia sighed, scooting off the bed and crossing her arms. "I just..." She gestured vaguely at Emma's crinkling waistband. "You were finally letting yourself go, and then suddenly..." She mimed slamming a door shut.
Emma looked down at her hands, where the pacifier's rubber teat still glistened from her mouth. "Your diaper thing freaked me out, kinda," she finally admitted.
Olivia blinked. "Oh."
Emma twisted the pacifier between her fingers, watching the light catch its slick surface. "Not, not in a bad way," she amended quickly. "Just... It freaked me out a little bit that you were... planning? For me? Like, everything I've decided up until now was my idea, but you..."
Olivia chewed her bottom lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I didn't mean to make you feel--"
"I know. You told me you were excited. You already apologized. But like... It freaked me out a little that you even were excited."
Olivia, lost in thought, sank back onto the bed, her fingers tracing the stitching on Emma's comforter.
"Livvy!" Lys called from downstairs. "Naptime's over!"
Olivia looked up at Emma, then down at the floor, exhaled sharply through her nose, her shoulders sagging before she straightened abruptly. "I should--" she gestured vaguely toward the door, her expression conflicted. "You're still sleeping over tonight, right?"
Emma nodded before she could second-guess herself. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."
Olivia hesitated, her hands up in a ready position, unsure of what to do. "Okay. Good." She flashed a quick grin, but it didn't reach her eyes the way it usually did. "We'll talk more tonight." With that, she slipped out, leaving the door slightly ajar.
---
The display on her phone read 5:05. Emma stared down the clothing laid out on her bed in quiet contemplation. Sleep shorts, a camisole, a baggy tee, and then, in a separate corner, a fresh bag of Goodnites. A bottle of baby powder. Wipes. Lotion. Her pacifier. Her bottle. What did she want to bring for tonight?
"Bring! Everything!" Olivia had gleefully demanded at their last sleepover, but Emma hesitated now, reading the Goodnites package like she'd find the answer there.
Things were weird now. Bad weird.
But why? What was really so wrong with what Olivia was doing? Enthusiastically participating? How dare she? Emma spiked the diapers like a football. The problem wasn’t Olivia. Every time Emma let herself sink into this, the diapers, pacifiers, juice boxes, it felt like the first sunny day after a long shitty winter. But the second she let herself enjoy it? The guilt slithered in, the shame, whispering about how she was failing, regressing, wasting time, how she was huge fucking weirdo, and Olivia, four years younger, couldn't see her as a peer, just a project. Which was stupid! Olivia was just... there, offering to hold her hand while Emma figured it out. And Emma was fucking everything up!
"Fine. Bringing everything," she murmured to herself, stuffing her overnight bag with the shorts and the tee, then every last bit of baby paraphernalia she had bought or 'borrowed' from the closet over the past two weeks. The final item: the entire unopened bag of Goodnites. She hoped she wouldn't need all twelve, but... maybe she could leave a few at Olivia's?
Downstairs, the daycare was winding down, the last few parents trickling in to collect sticky-fingered toddlers. Emma hovered awkwardly near the stairs, watching Olivia sweep up crushed goldfish crackers while Lys wiped down tiny chairs. The fluorescent lights made Olivia's pink hair look almost neon, her usual bounce subdued but still present as she leaned into the broom like it was a dance partner.
"You packed?" Olivia asked without looking up, pushing a pile of crumbs toward the dustpan.
Emma shifted the overnight bag on her shoulder, the crinkle inside deafening in the sudden quiet of the emptying daycare. "Yeah. Maybe overpacked."
Olivia straightened, the broom handle tapping against her thigh. She eyed the bag, then Emma's face, her expression softening. "Good." She said it like she'd been holding her breath since their awkward conversation earlier.
The last parent left with a wave, toddler balanced on their hip. Lys locked the front door, turning back to them with a tired smile. "You girls heading out?"
Olivia nodded, already shrugging into her jacket. "Yeah, you wanna hang with us, too? Open invite."
Lys chuckled, shaking her head as she flicked off the overhead lights. "Pass. You two have fun." Her gaze lingered on Emma's overnight bag before she added lightly, "Be safe."
The car ride was thick with unspoken words. Olivia drummed her fingers against the steering wheel to a pop song Emma didn’t recognize, the radio filling the silence neither of them seemed willing to break. Streetlights flickered across Olivia’s face as she chewed her bottom lip, her usual chatter replaced by an unfamiliar quiet.
Emma stared out the window, watching the suburban streets blur into half-closed strip malls. "We should talk," she muttered, more to the glass than to Olivia.
Olivia's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening briefly before she exhaled. "Yeah." The car slowed at a red light, bathing them both in crimson glow. "I didn't mean to," she started, then shook her head. "Fuck. I don't even know what I didn't mean to do."
Emma picked at a loose thread on her seatbelt, the streetlight catching the silver in Olivia's earring when she turned her head. "You didn't do anything wrong," she admitted quietly. "I just panicked. It's like..." She gestured vaguely at her own chest. "Every time I start feeling safe doing this, my brain screams that I'm sabotaging myself."
"But you are safe," she said softly, flicking the turn signal. "With me. Even if it's just... this." She waved a hand between them.
"I guess I just feel like I don't deserve it," Emma admitted as Olivia pulled into a gas station parking lot, cutting the engine. "Every time you're nice to me I just get suspicious. I can't help it."
Olivia unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp click, twisting in her seat to face Emma properly. The neon lights from the convenience store painted stripes across her concerned expression. "That's fucked up," she said bluntly. "You know that's fucked up, right?"
Emma huffed a wet laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I'm moving past it." She gestured to the overnight bag at her feet. "See? Packed everything."
Olivia's fingers hovered near Emma's knee before she shifted the car into reverse with a quiet sigh. "You don't have to prove anything to me," she murmured. The neon sign above them flickered, casting shadows across her face. "I just... I like the idea of taking care of you? It makes sense to me."
Emma watched condensation slide down her window as Olivia pulled back onto the road. "It makes too much sense," she admitted. "That's what scares me. That this fits too well."
"So let it fit," she said, as if it were that simple.
Emma studied Olivia’s profile, the faint freckles across her nose, the way her pink hair curled slightly at the ends where it had escaped her ponytail. The car smelled like citrus hand sanitizer and the faint, artificial strawberry of Olivia’s lip balm. "Did the drive take this long last time?" she asked.
Olivia snorted, eyes still on the road. "No, I've been taking every wrong turn I can."
Emma blinked, then burst into laughter, the tension shattering like dropped glass. Olivia grinned, turning onto a residential street with exaggerated care. "Just wanted to hash everything out in the car. Once we step foot into the apartment, no more bad vibes, okay?"
The turquoise garage-turned-apartment glowed under mismatched string lights when they pulled up. Olivia fumbled with her keys theatrically, dropping them twice before unlocking the door with a flourish. "Pardon the mess." She kicked aside a pile of laundry with her foot. "I clean up so much at your house that I can't be bothered to clean mine."
Emma shrugged, stepping inside. "Fair enough." Olivia's apartment was a chaotic love letter to her personality, fairy lights tangled around curtain rods, polaroids pinned haphazardly to the fridge, and a pile of half-read paperbacks and daisy-chained DVDs teetering beside the couch.
"Make yourself at home," she said, gesturing vaguely at the space. Olivia kicked off her sneakers by the door, wiggling her socked toes against the hardwood.
Emma set her bag down carefully beside the couch, the crinkling contents suddenly feeling absurdly conspicuous. The apartment smelled like Olivia, something sweet and floral mixed with the faintest hint of Sharpie markers and microwave popcorn.
Olivia bounced onto the couch, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table with a long sigh. "Alright," she said, putting on the TV and unpausing whatever schlocky horror movie was playing. "You wet?"
"Excuse me?"
Olivia didn't even glance up from adjusting the volume. "Your diaper. Is it wet?" She said it like asking about the weather, fingers tapping the remote against her knee.
Emma's face burned. The dampness between her thighs suddenly felt ten times more obvious. "A little," she mumbled, shifting her weight.
"Change first, then snacks." She nodded toward the bathroom door down the hall. "Wipes are under the sink."
Emma clutched her overnight bag tighter, the plastic crinkling in protest. Olivia had already turned her attention back to the TV, kicking her heels against the coffee table as a zombie ate someone's face. The normality of it made Emma's pulse slow, just two friends having a sleepover. Nothing weird about that, right?
She hesitated at the bathroom door, glancing back at Olivia's sprawled form. "You're not... gonna help?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice small.
Olivia paused the movie, turning to study Emma with a curious tilt of her head. "Do you want me to?" There was no teasing in her tone, just quiet sincerity. The flickering TV light caught the silver hoops in her ears as she waited.
Emma feigned a casual laugh. The little angel and devil on her shoulders were shrieking. "No, no, I was just joking."
Olivia's fingers tapped against the remote control before she suddenly tossed it aside, leaping to her feet. "Well I wasn't," she said, closing the distance, eyes locked onto Emma's twitching fingers clutched around the overnight bag. Emma's breath hitched as Olivia reached... past her, to push the bathroom door fully open, revealing the cramped space lit by a single bulb, before she turned on her heel and started walking back to couch. "Nah, I was kidding too," she said. "I told you last time, I change too many damn diapers to also be in charge of yours."
Emma watched Olivia flop back onto the couch, her heart hammering in her chest. She felt... disappointed? Then she stuffed those feelings down.
In the bathroom, she stepped out of her sweatpants and peeled off the damp Goodnite. She grabbed the wipes from under the sink. It was a new pack. Olivia must've bought them just for her. The thought made her a little queasy.
Emma powdered herself thickly. This part was unnecessary, she just liked the way it smelled. She liked the way it felt. She liked the stray traces of white powder between her thighs. She liked pulling up the fresh Goodnite, pressing it snugly up against herself. She liked the crinkle as she adjusted her stance in the mirror. She liked how pink her cheeks were. Pulling her sweats back on and tying off the used diaper in a grocery bag, she felt good. Officially good-weird again.
She emerged from the bathroom to find Olivia already curled under a blanket, popcorn bowl balanced on her knees. "God, I was gonna ask if you fell in, but we both know that didn't happen."
Emma brandished her tied-off grocery bag. "Big talk for someone in diaper-nunchuk distance."
Olivia inhaled handful of popcorn. "Don't threaten me with a good time." She patted the couch cushion beside her. "Come on, the movie's getting to the part where the zombies start making out."
"What the fuck are we even watching?" Emma asked, dropping her diaper off in the trash before talking her spot on the couch.
"Mmm, love that baby powder smell," Olivia said, tilting the popcorn in her direction. "Probably the last time you're going to smell that good tonight, though..."
Emma rolled her eyes and grabbed a handful, fingers brushing Olivia's. The couch cushions sagged beneath them, pressing their thighs together.
On screen, two zombie paramedics gnawed on each other's faces with sloppy moans. Emma wrinkled her nose. "Are they kissing or eating each other's faces?"
"Yes," Olivia said, popping another handful of popcorn into her mouth. "It's like middle school all over again."
Emma thought to laugh, but as she sifted through some old, dusty memories, she was transported to a particular night during a particular dance. "No comment," she finally muttered.
"You gonna pee yourself during the scary parts?" Olivia asked without looking away from the screen.
"I'm going to pee myself during every part," she retorted.
Olivia grinned, tossing another handful of popcorn into her mouth. "Hell yeah."
Emma sank deeper into the couch, letting the absurdity of the moment wash over her, the crinkle of her diaper beneath sweatpants, the scent of baby powder clinging to her skin, Olivia's socked feet nudging against her thigh. None of it fit with the image she'd constructed of adulthood: spreadsheets, business casual, pretending to enjoy wine tastings. Yet here, bathed in the flickering glow of a B-movie, she felt more anchored than she had in months.
Olivia suddenly stiffened beside her, knocking the popcorn bowl sideways. "Shit, I didn't get you a drink." She scrambled off the couch, bare feet slapping against hardwood. "Water? Wine? Juice box?"
Emma blinked as Olivia vanished into the kitchenette, hearing cabinets bang open. "Fuck it, wine," Emma declared.
"Party," Olivia declared, returning with one stemless glass and a sippy cup.
"No you fucking did not," Emma said, staring at the sippy cup Olivia was extending toward her, its cartoon penguin grinning mockingly.
Olivia wiggled it enticingly. "I bought it just for you-uuu..."
Emma snatched the wine glass instead, taking a dramatic sip. "God this sucks, I hate wine." She laughed as Olivia clanked the sippy to the glass.
"Your loss." Olivia took a long slurp from the penguin spout, her eyelashes fluttering mockingly. "Mm, aged to perfection. I think the sippy cup decants it a little. Adds oxygen. Another?"
"Another," Emma agreed, finishing off her glass.
Olivia grabbed the wine glass, but returned with a second sippy cup full of wine, handing it to Emma before flopping dramatically onto the couch.
"How many of these do you have?" she asked.
Olivia grinned around her own sippy cup's spout. "They don't spill!"
Emma hesitated, then lifted the penguin cup to her lips with both hands and took a slurping sip through the little holes in the spot. "It is kind of better..."
Olivia's triumphant grin stretched wide as she snuggled closer under their shared blanket. The movie droned on, something about zombie strippers now. Emma shifted, her diaper rustling softly as she stretched her legs across Olivia's lap.
"You're squishing me," Olivia complained without heat, poking Emma's thigh.
Emma took another sip from the sippy cup, letting the wine warm her throat. "Good." She nudged Olivia's side with her foot. Her Goodnite was already growing damp, just a little, just enough to feel the padding swell against her skin, the soft trickle climbing up the back of her padding.
Olivia made a show of dramatically adjusting her legs beneath Emma's weight, tossing the blanket higher over them both. The zombie strippers were now engaged in what appeared to be a choreographed dance routine involving severed limbs.
Emma wiggled slightly, pressing her thighs together. The warmth spreading through her padding was impossible to ignore now: a slow, steady soak that made the material puff up between her legs. She took another sip from the sippy cup, watching Olivia's profile from the corner of her eye.
"You're doing it right now, aren't you?" Olivia murmured, not looking away from the screen where a zombie twirled a tasseled nipple.
"How can you tell?" Emma whispered, her cheeks flushing hotter than the wine in her belly. The diaper crinkled as she shifted again, the swollen padding pressing insistently against her thighs.
Olivia smirked, tapping her temple. "Superpower." She reached down without looking and pressed her palm briefly against Emma's padded crotch, confirming the dampness before withdrawing just as quickly. "The wine's going right through you."
Emma stiffened, her grip tightening around the sippy cup. "Look, you can't just--" she started, caught herself, heat crawling up her neck, but Olivia's casual touch had already sent an unexpected thrill through her, warring with indignation.
Without looking, Olivia ran her fingers through Emma's hair, attention fixed on the movie. "Shhhh, relaaaaax," she whispered, the way you might console a barky purse dog.
"You can't just tell me to relax. I specifically said--" but her protest dissolved when Olivia's fingers scratched lightly at her scalp, the sensation short-circuiting her irritation. The diaper between her thighs squished as she shifted, unmistakably soaked now, as Olivia carded her fingers through Emma's hair with the same effortless rhythm she used when rocking toddlers to sleep. Emma recognized every move but was powerless against each one. Onscreen, a zombie cheerleader's pom-poms caught fire.
Olivia's thumb traced the shell of Emma's ear, poked the center of her forehead. "What's the worst that happens if you just... stop?" Her fingers stilled. "Not forever. Just tonight."
Emma watched wine slosh inside her sippy cup, the liquid catching the TV's gory reds and greens. She didn't answer, just closed her eyes and leaned her head back into the couch cushion.
Olivia's fingers resumed their slow path through Emma's hair, nails dragging gently against her scalp. "There you go," she murmured, as if Emma were one of the daycare toddlers resisting naptime. The zombie movie's soundtrack swelled with dramatic strings, completely at odds with the quiet moment unfolding on the couch.
Emma exhaled, letting the wine and the warmth between her thighs and Olivia's touch melt her into a puddle. The Goodnite was warm, wet, swollen against her skin. Olivia's fingers kept moving through her hair, slow and rhythmic, and Emma sank deeper into the couch, her body heavy with contentment.
'I'm going to check you again, okay?" Olivia whispered. "Be good..." Her fingers traced the waistband of Emma's sweatpants, before shimmying them down little by little, seemed to be waiting for the inevitable protest from that never came. Emma wanted to protest, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily above them, fighting every urge to clamp her legs together and curl into a ball. But she did want to be good for Olivia, whose fingers were gentle as they pressed against the swollen padding between Emma's legs, testing the saturation, before sliding a single finger directly into the legband at her crotch.
"You're soaked," Olivia confirmed, withdrawing her hand with a soft crinkle. Emma expected teasing, expected Olivia to crow about her victory, but instead, Olivia just wiped her fingers on her own pajama pants and resumed stroking Emma's hair. "Want me to change you right here so you can watch the movie?"
Emma swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering against her throat. The wine buzzed in her veins, blurring the edges of her hesitation. It would feel so, so nice to just lay back and get clean again. Onscreen, zombies writhed in a grotesque pile, their moans muffled by the sudden ringing in Emma's ears. Olivia's fingers still carded through her hair, patient, waiting. Emma exhaled shakily and gave the tiniest nod, her cheeks burning.
Olivia's breath hitched, just once, before her face split into a grin so wide it dimpled her cheeks. She scrambled off the couch with uncharacteristic clumsiness, knees knocking against the coffee table, sending popcorn flying. "Okay, okay, okay..." she chanted under her breath, darting toward the bathroom. The string lights swayed in her wake.
Emma remained glued to the couch, lifted the sippy to her lippies and filled her mouth with the sweet wine, a little warm now. The damp diaper clung to her skin, heavy and warm, and with the small bit of alone time she had, she rubbed a few show circles into the soaked padding, felt the cotton squish under her fingertips, a jolt of something electric racing through her belly. She pulled her hand away quickly, cheeks burning, as Olivia's footsteps approached.
Olivia returned with an armful of supplies: wipes, powder, fresh Goodnite, and a nervous smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She began unfolding something brightly patterned and plasticy. "Okay, uh," she muttered, more to herself than Emma, "lift up." Emma arched her hips obediently, letting Olivia slide it beneath her. The plastic was cool against her thighs, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped in her soaked padding.
"What is this?" she asked.
Olivia spread Emma's legs slightly, tugged her sweatpants all the way off, discarding them on the nearby recliner. "Changing mat. Waterproof." Emma could feel Olivia's fingers trembling slightly as she began to rip the sides of the Goodnite.
"Why do you have that?" she asked.
Olivia paused mid-task, fingers hovering over the waistband of Emma's soaked Goodnite. "I was gonna surprise you with it. Well, I guess I am... Surprise?" She swallowed hard, her usual confidence fraying at the edges. "It's got penguins, like the cups..."
Emma blinked down at the waterproof mat beneath her, suddenly aware of the damp diaper in a different respect: Olivia was protecting the couch from her. Because her diaper was soaked. And she had leaked the other day! The late realization crashed over her like a slow wave. Olivia's hands fluttered nervously before settling back to work, peeling the sides of the Goodnite apart with practiced efficiency but leaving the front panel carefully in place.
Reaching for a baby wipe, she offered it to Emma. "You do? Or... me do?"
Emma instinctively reached for the wipe. Of course she'd do it herself. But her arm felt heavier than usual, her fingers thicker. The wine made everything soft and fuzzy around the edges, her thoughts, her limbs, the way Olivia's pink hair caught the lamplight. Part of her wanted to insist on doing it herself, prove she wasn't helpless. Another part, drunker and warmer, wanted to curl into Olivia's touch like a kitten in sunshine. "You," she mumbled, staring at her hand before letting it flop onto the couch cushion. "Please."
Olivia inhaled sharply, her pulse visibly fluttering at her throat. The wipe crinkled in her grip as she hesitated. "Okay," she whispered, as if afraid speaking louder would shatter the moment. "Okay. Me do."
Emma watched through half-lidded eyes as Olivia gently pressed the damp Goodnite's front panel flat against her stomach before peeling it downward. Cool air rushed over Emma's exposed skin. Olivia made a soft, involuntary sound in her throat, not disgust, but something tender, almost reverent, as she began wiping with careful, methodical strokes.
The baby wipe was colder than Emma expected, with a gentle scent of aloe. Olivia's touch was clinical at first, like she was handling fragile glassware, but gradually softened into something more intimate. Emma found herself holding her breath when the wipe traced her inner thighs. The sensation was absurdly vulnerable, like being unfolded. She squeezed her eyes shut, hyperaware of every pass of the wipe, the way Olivia's fingers occasionally brushed bare flesh, the quiet crinkle of the packaging as she reached for another.
Emma took another drag of her sippy as Olivia's fingers brushed her inner thigh, the wipe tracing dangerously close to territory that hadn't been touched by anyone but herself in several unfortunate months. Two weeks ago she would not have guessed this was how she'd break the streak. "Um," she interjected, feeling Olivia's hand stop. "Why penguins?"
Olivia exhaled a shaky laugh. "Promise you won't get mad."
Emma squinted up at her, suddenly sobering.
"Promise!" she repeated, holding up a fresh wipe, "Or I'll make this one extra cold."
Emma groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Just tell me."
Olivia lifted the wipe to her lips, blowing warm air across it in short bursts. Emma peeked through her fingers as Olivia repeated the gesture until it was no longer cold.
"Because," Olivia murmured, gently pressing the warmed wipe between Emma's thighs. Her fingers moved in slow circles, cleaning with meticulous care. "You kind of walk like one when you're really wet."
Emma's hands dropped from her face. "What?"
"All clean!" Olivia chirped, before displaying for Emma the bottle of baby powder. "Now it's time for a little baby seasoning..." she cooed, dusting Emma with a fine layer.
"We're not just passing over the fact that I look like a penguin to you," Emma scolded as Olivia opened up and fresh Goodnite and tugged it up her legs.
"Hips up," Olivia requested with a simple tap on the thigh.
Emma grumpily complied, lifting slightly, helping Olivia slide the Goodnite snugly into place, followed closely by her sweatpants.
"How was that?" Olivia asked, stepping back to admire her work.
Emma wiggled slightly, testing the snug fit of the fresh Goodnite. "Maybe a little silly. I probably should've just gotten up and did it myself, huh?"
"Nah," Olivia said, gathering up the wipes and used diaper. "You looked so comfy, like you were melting into the couch. Would've been a crime to make you move."
Emma rolled onto her side, allowing Olivia to retrieve the changing mat from beneath her. "I am feeling very comfy right now..." she murmured, hugging a throw pillow to her chest as she watched Olivia bundle the used supplies into a grocery bag, the wine buzzing pleasantly through her veins.
Olivia paused mid-knot, noticing Emma's drowsy blinking. "You're not falling asleep during the best part," she teased, gesturing to the screen where zombie cheerleaders now engaged in synchronized vomiting.
"I'm going to level with you. I don't like zombie movies, and I haven't been paying any attention," Emma admitted.
"What you're saying is," Olivia said with a smirk, "that you're much too little for this scary grown-up movie?"
"That is emphatically not what I am saying!" Emma protested.
Olivia tossed the tied-off diaper bag toward the trash can, missing spectacularly. "Uh-huh." She crawled back onto the couch, nudging Emma's legs aside to reclaim her spot. "Too scary for little Emmie?"
Emma's grip tightened around the sippy cup. "Don't call me that." The words came out sharper than intended, wine-fueled heat prickling up her neck.
Olivia blinked, her smirk faltering. "Whoa, okay. Sorry." She held up her hands in surrender, but something flickered behind her eyes, confusion, maybe hurt. The movie's gory soundtrack filled the sudden silence between them.
Emma stared at her wine-filled sippy cup, the penguin's grin suddenly mocking. The fresh Goodnite crinkled as she shifted, suddenly too aware of its presence. "No, I--" she exhaled sharply.
Olivia stayed unnaturally still, fingers curled around her own cup. "Bad joke."
Emma swallowed hard. "It's not, " She pressed her palms against her thighs, stared absently at the coffee table. Anything but eye contact. "I don't mind the other stuff. The diapers. The... care. But talking to me like that makes me feel like I'm five." She hesitated, watching zombie entrails splatter across the screen. "And not in a good way. I can't explain why."
Olivia's posture softened. She reached for Emma's hand, tracing the knuckles with her thumb. "Noted." The word carried unexpected weight, like she was filing it away somewhere important.
Emma let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The movie's glow painted Olivia's face in shifting blues and reds, highlighting the thoughtful pinch between her eyebrows.
Olivia's thumb kept moving in slow circles across Emma's knuckles. "Tell me what does feel good," she murmured quietly. So quietly Emma almost missed it. So quietly it felt like it had escaped.
Fighting the knee-jerk urge to pull back her hand, Emma instead studied their joined hands, Olivia's nails chipped pink; her own nails plain, short. "When you're just Olivia being Olivia. Not performing some babysitter version of yourself. You're not at work, you know? I'm not one of your kids."
Olivia blinked, then let out a breath through her nose, shoulders relaxing. "Right. Yeah." She squeezed Emma's fingers once before releasing them to grab the remote, pausing the zombie orgy unfolding onscreen. "But I do want to watch something you'd like. It doesn't have to be Bluey or anything."
Emma's ears burned. She fiddled with the penguin sippy's spout. "Bluey's actually... I've heard it's good?" she mumbled to her lap.
Olivia's entire face lit up like someone had plugged her in. "Oh my god." She clapped her hands together once, sharp and delighted. "You absolutely have to see the 'Sleepytime' episode. It's got the same rating on IMDB as Ozymandias from Breaking Bad!" She had rejoined Emma on the couch and was already pulling up Disney+ before Emma could protest any further.
But Emma was content to not protest further. It was kind of a relief Olivia was so resilient, could bounce back so quickly every time Emma fucked up the mood with her dumb hangups. It wasn't so long ago she was sitting on a couch watching TV just like this. Except it was Nick, and she was in a depressive spiral absolutely fucking up her life. Emma didn't even remember what she said, just the tone of it, that same nasty tone she just used with Olivia, and he just got up. Walked out of the room. Left her there like that.
"You're crying." Olivia's voice was soft, barely louder than the hum of the ceiling fan, but it cut through the fabric of whatever dark place Emma had sunken to just now.
Emma blinked, lifting a hand to her cheek. Her fingertips came away wet. "Oh," she said dumbly, staring at them. Her face felt hot. She was so frustrated with herself. Every blink just seemed to multiply the tears.
Olivia hesitated for only a second before scooting closer, pressing her forehead against Emma's temple. "Hey," she murmured, breath warm against Emma's skin, separating her from her sippy cup of wine. "Hey, it's okay. I think we need some water."
"I'm really drunk," Emma admitted, watching Olivia's pink hair blur through unshed tears. She hiccupped a laugh, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
Olivia grimaced, plucking the sippy cup from Emma's loose grip. "My bad." She disappeared into the kitchenette, returning with a tall glass of water and a damp washcloth. "Hydrate," she ordered, pressing the cool glass into Emma's hands, then dabbed gently at Emma's flushed cheeks and wet eyes with the cloth.
Emma gulped the water obediently, the chill shocking her system slightly back to coherence, but uneasily dodged the washcloth whenever it got too close.
Olivia laughed. "How am I supposed to not baby you when you act like this?" she teased, catching Emma's chin between her fingers to hold her still while swiping the damp cloth under her swollen eyes.
The coolness did feel nice. Emma leaned into the touch just slightly, her eyelids fluttering shut as Olivia wiped away the tear tracks.
"Better?" Olivia murmured, pulling back just enough to study Emma's face.
Emma nodded, rubbing her sleeve across her nose with an undignified sniffle. The hot tears and cold water had cleared some of the wine haze, leaving her tender and raw, with a dull sting of embarrassment. "Have you even been drinking too? Why am I the only messy one?"
Olivia tossed the washcloth toward the laundry basket, missing again, before picking up her half-full glass and downing it. "Caught up!" she announced. As if the television remote was a magic wand, she whisked it through the air, making a show off passing the play button, and the Bluey intro music filled the apartment, cheerful and bright. She bounced slightly with each note, humming along off-key. "Did you know the theme song alternates between 4/4 and 5/4?" she asked.
"You're a force of nature," Emma mumbled into her water glass as Olivia wiggled closer on the couch, draping a heavy blanket over them both.
"It's the pause before they introduce each family member. Do-do-do do-do... There!" she explained, gesturing at the screen.
Emma hid her smile in her glass. Olivia's enthusiasm was infectious, like watching a golden retriever explain particle physics. She let herself sink into the couch cushions, closed her eyes, and wet her fresh Goodnite. Just a little. Maybe a lot. The warm trickle climbed up the padding and down between her legs while Olivia narrated the episode's opening scene with the fervor of a film professor.
"Hey! Stop peeing your pants and listen to me!"
Emma startled at Olivia's sudden exclamation, cheeks flaming as she instinctively clamped her thighs together. "Stop doing that!" she hissed, knocking her knee against Olivia's thigh. "How do you know every time?"
"I told you, superpower." Olivia grinned, wiggling her fingers in front of Emma's face.
Emma groaned and buried her face in the blanket, sheepishly resuming her slow wetting now that Olivia had called her out. The padding grew steadily warmer between her legs, the faint crinkling drowned out by Bluey's cheerful soundtrack. Olivia's fingers found their way back into Emma's hair, scratching lightly at her scalp in that way that made her eyelids flutter. "You're really good at that," Emma mumbled against the blanket fabric.
"I have a lot of really specific superpowers," Olivia murmured, her fingers still working magic against Emma's scalp. Onscreen, Chilli read Bingo a bedtime story as Bandit dragged Bluey into bed. Despite her insistence she isn't tired, she fell asleep immediately.
"God, same," Emma murmured, almost purring.
"You sleepy?" Olivia whispered, her fingers slowing their strokes through Emma's hair. The episode played softly, casting flickering shadows across their legs beneath the blanket.
Emma hummed noncommittally, her Goodnite already dampening again, the warmth spreading lazily in sync with her slowing breaths. She blinked heavily at the screen as Bingo told Chilli she wants to do a 'big girl sleep' and wake up in her own bed.
"Does Emma want to do a big girl sleep tonight?" Olivia murmured, her fingers never stopping their slow path through Emma's hair. "I can make your bed out here."
Emma stiffened slightly. The answer was obvious, but having to ask for it was a little mortifying. Onscreen, Bingo nestled into her mother's arms, safe and warm. "We can just do it like last time," Emma answered diplomatically.
Olivia's fingers stilled. "Last time?" she echoed innocently, but Emma caught the playful lilt. "I can't remember, did you sleep in my bed last time?"
"You're doing this on purpose," Emma whined.
"It's a simple question. Do you want to do a big girl sleep, or..." Olivia trailed off, her fingers resuming their slow strokes through Emma's hair, deliberately avoiding finishing the sentence. The episode played on, Bingo's cosmic dream sequence unfolding in stellar visuals, but Emma barely registered it over the pounding in her ears. Olivia was making her say it.
Emma pressed her thighs together, squeezed the thick, wet padding. She could feel Olivia's expectant gaze burning into the side of her face, waiting. "Not a big girl sleep," she mumbled finally, barely audible over the cartoon soundtrack. The admission sent a hot flush crawling down her neck, equal parts mortification and relief.
"Uh huh, I see," Olivia said, writing fake notes down into a fake notepad. "The lady will have the little girl sleep this evening..."
Emma groaned into the blanket, kicking weakly at Olivia's shin. "Stop making it weird."
Olivia tossed her imaginary notepad aside with a grin. "Sorry darling, but it's already been weird."
Emma exhaled sharply through her nose, could feel her blush deepening, and tried to concentrate on the episode. It was a dazzling dance of dream and real life scenes stitching together a simple story about sleeping troubles as a child. Olivia settled back against the cushions, her fingers resuming their gentle strokes through Emma's hair, neither of them speaking as Bingo floated through planets and stars in her dream. The silence between them was comfortable now, the earlier tension dissolved into something softer, like sugar melting in warm tea.
By the time the credits rolled with its melancholic piano score, Emma's eyelids were heavy, her Goodnite swollen and warm between her thighs. She barely registered Olivia shifting beside her until she felt gentle pressure against her shoulder. "Come on, sleepyhead," she whispered.
Emma blinked up as Olivia hovered over her, backlit by the television's glow. A dumb grin slid across her lips. "But I'm not tired, Livvy," she whined.
Olivia snorted. "Uh-huh." She snatched the remote, pausing the next episode's intro mid-jingle. With exaggerated ceremony, she straightened her pajama top like a flight attendant preparing for takeoff. "Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking." She nudged Emma's thigh with her knee. "We'll be ascending shortly to Bed Level." Nudge. Nudge. "Please keep your diaper secured at all times."
Emma groaned but didn't move, her limbs leaden with wine and warmth. Olivia crouched beside the couch, pressing her forehead against Emma's shoulder. "Up-up-up!" she chanted like a gym coach, her voice muffled against fabric. When Emma merely giggled, Olivia huffed dramatically and hooked her hands under Emma's armpits, heaving with theatrical effort. "Christ, what do they feed you at that daycare? Bricks?"
"You feed me at daycare!" Emma shot back defensively. "Bricks are what's in your dumb head, dummy."
Olivia grinned wildly. "Okay grumpy girl. Let's get you in bed so you can sleep off the grumpies."
Emma groaned as Olivia manhandled her upright, her legs wobbling slightly from the wine, pushed slightly apart by the thick padding between them. Olivia steered her toward the bedroom with hands on her shoulders, still making exaggerated pilot announcements about turbulence and "preparing for diaper descent." The bedroom doorframe wobbled in Emma's vision as she leaned against it, watching Olivia pull back the covers with unnecessary flourish.
"You're ridiculous," Emma muttered, but her lips twitched against her will. The bed looked impossibly soft, the pillows plumped just right, and Olivia's string lights cast a warm glow over everything.
"Oh wait wait wait wait," Olivia interrupted just as Emma was about to crawl into bed. She scurried back out into the living room, returning with the changing pad and laying it down on the bed. "Okay, happy feet, you're up."
Emma groaned but complied, flopping into her back on top of the changing mat, starfish style. Olivia's grin was triumphant as she grabbed the supplies from earlier, the wipes, the powder, and set them beside Emma's hip with exaggerated care. "Alright, princess," she announced, fingers hooking into the waistband of Emma's sweatpants. "Let's get you all fresh for bed."
It sounded casual, but Olivia's fingers were trembling. She fumbled with the fabric a few times. But the final tug downwards was gentle but decisive, exposing Emma's swollen Goodnite to the cool bedroom air. All along the crotch and bottom the sweatpants were wet spots from everywhere she had leaked. Olivia sighed, shaking her head with exaggerated disappointment. "You drowned these, Em," she murmured, balling them up before tossing them toward the laundry hamper. Her voice was arch, tight.
Emma squirmed instinctively as Olivia spread her legs slightly, the changing mat crinkling beneath her bare thighs. A fresh wave of embarrassment prickled up her neck when Olivia's fingers hooked into the waistband of her fresh Goodnite, peeling the sides apart with slow deliberation. The cool air pebbled her skin beneath Olivia's assessing gaze. Then, nothing. Olivia exhaled shakily.
"What's wrong?" Emma asked, her head too heavy to lift from the bed.
"We talked about this already. Kind of. I know how you feel about it, but..." She shrugged. "Maybe this is for me. Or, maybe it's for both of us. But just... keep an open mind, okay?"
Emma didn't lift her head, just stared at the ceiling, watching the string lights blur. "Okay..."
Olivia exhaled sharply, like she'd been holding her breath. She disappeared under her bed for a moment, returned with a large plastic package decorated in pastel stripes and animals playing instruments. There was a cat, a panda, and a penguin. She paused for just a moment before sloppily tearing open the package. What she pulled out next was not the discreet Goodnites Emma had been wearing for weeks. What she pulled out was a diaper, full-on baby prints and tapes. Olivia's fingers trembled as she unfolded it. It looked gigantic. "You can say no," she murmured. "Please don't."
[M/f. ABDL. Idiot guy fumbles a diapered baddie... or does he?]
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
Tossing an empty can of beer into his wastebin, Nick flopped onto his bed, stared at the ceiling fan as it wobbled on its axis. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids until colors burst behind them--burgundy like Lucy’s sweater dress, black like her nail polish. Today had been… good. Actually good! He’d fixed most of his fuck-ups, between Lucy avoiding him and his failed paper, and Lucy hadn’t just tolerated his presence--she laughed, she smirked. In that dress. That dress that clung to her hips when she walked, that dipped low enough to show the hollow of her throat when she leaned over the table.
If he was a smarter man he would've dropped a sugar packet. Ducked under the table. By chance her legs would be spread open a little... he'd peek up the hem of her burgundy dress and see the thick white diaper. The plastic rustling softly as she shifts in her seat, crosses her legs self-consciously. Then, they are walking, she drops a ring she's been fiddling with, and bends over at the waist to pick it back up. The hem of her dress slowly creeps up the backs of her thighs until that same flash of white is gradually exposed. Maybe even on purpose? And what he wouldn't give to just reach a hand out and...
Nick's fingers were already working at his waistband before he'd fully processed the thought. He shouldn't. He definitely shouldn't. But Lucy's smirk burned behind his eyelids, the way her sweater dress had clung when she'd leaned forward to push that napkin at him, the sharp inhale she'd taken when he'd joked about her 'pampers.' He groaned, palming himself through his underwear.
What was Lucy doing right now? Nick wondered, fingers moving urgently beneath the waistband of his boxers. Was she still in that burgundy dress? Had she changed into something more comfortable--something loose and soft, maybe. He imagined her stepping into her apartment, the door clicking shut behind her, peeling off her thigh-high boots one by one. Would she sigh as she wiggled her toes free, roll her shoulders to relieve the tension of the day? Nick’s fantasy spiraled--Lucy’s fingers lifted the hem up and over her head. She’d be wearing something beneath it--something plain and practical, probably a simple black bra--but his mind supplied the image of a white, lacy number with slits, thick white diaper barely obscured by thin tights. Would she blush if she knew he was thinking about this? No, she'd be pissed. If she knew how much the contrast of her barbed, witchy exterior and the childish necessity of her protection turned him inside out? She'd probably beat the shit out of him. But that just made it better.
He imagined her tugging the tights down, inch by torturous inch--but she wouldn't rush, wouldn't be self-conscious. She'd move with the same deliberate precision she used when handling rare manuscripts. She'd press a palm against the padding, feeling how wet she inevitably would be. Not like she could help it.
Nick groaned, twisting his fingers tighter. His fantasy-Lucy would peel the tapes open, slide the damp padding down her thighs--but not before glancing at herself in the mirror, hips swaying slightly, like she was imagining an audience. His audience. Just him.
The ceiling fan wobbled faster as Nick squeezed his eyes shut--Lucy’s thighs parted slightly as she stepped out of the diaper, leaving it pooled around her ankles. The scent would be--no, he shouldn’t think about that. But he did. His hips jerked involuntarily. He could practically hear the soft crinkle as she reached for a fresh one, shaking it out with that same effortless competence she applied to everything. Except this time, she'd hand it to him, he'd guide her to lay down on the bed, her smirk never wavering as she lifts up her bottom...
Nick's fingers moved frantically, the friction almost too much as his fantasy spiraled-- Lucy lifting her hips off the bed, watching him with dark amusement as he fumbled with the fresh diaper.
"Pathetic," she'd say, but her voice would be breathless too.
His hips jerked off the mattress as he came with a choked gasp, stripes of white painting his stomach.
The silence afterward was deafening. Nick stared at the ceiling, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Disgust pooled in his gut--this is what got him off now? He rolled off the bed with a groan, wiping himself clean with a discarded t-shirt. The afterglow curdled into something sour--like licking a battery.
Nick scrubbed his hands over his face hard enough to see stars. The shame sat like a lead weight in his gut--not the performative kind he'd felt when caught mocking her, but something viscous and genuinely revolting. He'd jerked off to the idea of diapers. Not Lucy's sharp wit or the way her sweater dress hugged her hips, but the fucking medical equipment she had to wear. Was he gonna get hard watching someone adjust their hearing aides?
The shower water scalded Nick's back as he scrubbed at his skin with brutal efficiency, but the phantom stickiness lingered--less on his body than in his mind. He turned his face into the spray, letting the water pound against his closed eyelids until the image of Lucy's smirk blurred into abstraction. Toweling off with mechanical motions, he avoided the mirror entirely, tossing on a crumpled t-shirt and boxers before collapsing onto his bed again.
He woke with a jolt, sheets tangled around his waist, heart hammering against his ribs. The dorm room was dark except for the glow of his phone screen--4:37 AM, and a single unread message from a number he wasn't familiar with: You left your wallet at the café. Come get it before I sell your ID to a freshman.
Nick blinked at his phone screen, the blue light searing into his retinas. His fingers hovered over the keyboard--half-formed apologies and jokes dying before he could type them. He didn't know the number, but there was only one person who'd have his wallet. Who'd text like that.
His thumb hovered over the reply button, his pulse hammering against his sternum. Four fucking AM. He could practically hear Lucy's dry voice in the text--no greeting, no sign-off, just that same razor-edged nonchalance that made his stomach twist. He typed three responses and deleted them all before settling on: We go 50/50 on the profit.
Lucy's reply came less than thirty seconds later: Meet me at the 24-hour laundromat on 5th. Bring quarters.
Now? Nick's thumbs hesitated over the screen. He glanced at the dorm window--no sign of sunrise, but the small city that surrounded the school never truly went to sleep.
No response. Nick stared at his phone screen until it dimmed, then sighed and hauled himself out of bed. He pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie, shoving his hands into the pockets as he stepped into the hallway. The dorm’s elevator smelled like stale beer and regret--fitting, considering the way his stomach churned with both.
The laundromat’s fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, flickering over rows of empty machines. Nick spotted Lucy immediately--perched on a folding table in the far corner, legs swinging like she owned the place. She was dwarfed by a black hoodie covered in a pattern of anatomical drawings. Her dark hair was loose, falling around her shoulders in messy waves that looked softer than he expected.
Nick hesitated in the doorway, the laundromat's automatic door groaning shut behind him. Lucy didn't look up from her book--some thick hardcover with yellowed pages--but he saw her lips twitch as she turned a page with deliberate slowness. Just be cool, casual.
"My hero," he called out, immediately regretting the choice.
Lucy's face lit up for half a second--a flash of genuine brightness that made Nick's stomach flip--before she schooled her features back into practiced indifference. She snapped the book shut, the sound echoing in the empty laundromat. "Took you long enough," she said, but there was no bite to it.
Nick could've sworn he saw the ghost of that smile still clinging to the corners of her mouth.
The laundromat's humming fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Lucy's face as she swung her legs idly, her combat boots scuffing against the metal table leg. Nick watched the way her fingers tapped against the cover of her book--some old-looking text with peeling gold lettering--before she finally slid off the table with a quiet thud.
Nick watched Lucy's boots hit the linoleum with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the laundromat's mechanical hum. She dug into the pocket of her oversized hoodie and tossed his wallet at him without ceremony. It hit his chest with a slap.
He caught the wallet, the leather warm from Lucy's pocket. He flipped it open--everything intact, even the crumpled five tucked behind his student ID. "You didn't rob me," he observed, snapping it shut. "You're getting soft."
Lucy snorted, tucked some stray hair behind her ear, allowing an expectant silence to settle between them. "The only thing soft around here is your early-onset dad bod, bucko," she said, pressing an acrylic nail into his chest.
"Dad bod?" He clutched his chest dramatically.
"Oh, spare me," she muttered, but her lips twitched.
Nick's gaze flickered down to Lucy's waistline, hidden beneath the oversized hoodie. The joke burned on his tongue, but something in the way she tilted her head, like she already knew exactly what he was thinking, made him swallow it down.
Lucy rolled her eyes, leaning back against a row of dormant dryers. The metal rattled softly. "You're practically vibrating with whatever dumbass thought just infected your brain. Out with it."
"I mean... if we're talking baby soft..." he began, immediately regretting it as Lucy's entire posture shifted--shoulders squaring, chin tilting up. Nick swallowed hard, the joke dying halfway.
Lucy burst into laughter--sharp, startled, and unexpectedly loud in the humming silence of the laundromat. "You're afraid of a girl in diapers?" She wiped at the corner of her eye, her dark eyeliner smudging slightly. "That's rich."
Nick's ears burned. "I'm not--that's not--" He floundered, watching Lucy's shoulders shake with silent laughter. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers catching on his hoodie's frayed stitching. "You're too good at fucking with me."
The rattling dryers fell silent, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Lucy’s laughter faded into a smirk as she studied Nick’s burning ears. “You’re right,” she said, plucking at the strings of her hoodie. “I am good at fucking with you.”
"Just imagine," he said, "if you took all the effort you put into fucking with me... And used it to make it to the potty."
Lucy doubled over, clutched her abdomen as laughter wracked her frame--real, unguarded laughter that made her eyes crinkle at the corners and her nose scrunch in a way Nick had never seen before. The sound bounced off the laundromat's tiled walls, louder than the industrial dryers. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, smearing her eyeliner further. "Fuck you," she gasped between giggles, "fuck you for making me laugh at that."
Nick beamed as Lucy's laughter dissolved into breathless giggles, her shoulders shaking beneath the oversized hoodie. He'd never seen her like this--unguarded, almost giddy.
He wanted to be the reason she laughed like this every time.
Lucy's laughter trailed off into hiccuping breaths, her cheeks flushed pink under the laundromat's harsh lighting. Nick watched, transfixed, as she wiped her smudged eyeliner with her sleeve--the movement careless, uncalculated. For once, she wasn't measuring every reaction.
"So... Do you usually do your laundry at 4 in the morning?" Nick asked.
Lucy glanced at the empty machines lining the wall. "You gotta admit, it's nice and quiet. Every machine is open."
Nick nodded, finally taking a seat at the folding table. "Makes sense. Except the whole being-awake-at-4am thing."
"You were awake," Lucy shrugged, kicking her legs lightly against the table legs.
"I'm glad I was. Can't beat this company."
Lucy retched.
"Oh, come on," her chucked.
She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite to it. Nick noticed she didn't deny it.
The laundromat smelled like detergent and faint mildew, the rhythmic thumping of dryers providing a steady backdrop. Lucy swung her legs idly, the toe of her boot occasionally bumping against Nick’s shin--not hard enough to be purposeful, but not quite accidental either.
"So," Nick said, leaning back against the folding table, "why library sciences?"
Lucy peeled the label off her water bottle with deliberate precision. "Why business?" she countered.
"Just seemed... Responsible, I guess." Nick shrugged. "Not like I'm passionate about P&Ls or anything."
Lucy arched a brow. "And you think I'm passionate about Dewey Decimal?"
"Aren't you?"
"Fiercely," she grinned. "I'm actually getting my master's."
Nick blinked. "Wait, seriously? You're already a senior?"
"Mmhm," Lucy nodded, taking a sip from her water bottle. "Kind of a super senior, I'm already taking classes toward my next degree."
"Damn," Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look so young. Must be the diapers."
"Alright, bozo. You get one diaper joke a day, and it has to be funny."
"Was that not funny?" Nick leaned forward on the folding table, watching Lucy's nose wrinkle as she swallowed a sip of water. "I thought that was funny."
Lucy sighed, shaking her head. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood."
Nick grinned, nudging her boot with his sneaker. "I put you in a good mood, huh?"
"Don't push it," Lucy muttered, but she didn't pull her foot away.
They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant hum of a vending machine in the corner. Nick watched Lucy’s dryer spin through the circular window--dark fabrics tumbling in lazy circles like storm clouds caught in a slow-motion tornado.
The dryer finally buzzed, though Lucy seemed loathe to actually get up and unload it. And when she finally did, their feet no longer touched under the table, he missed the feeling. God, he was pathetic.
Nick watched Lucy wrestle a tangle of dark fabric from the dryer, her arms disappearing up to the elbows in the machine’s gaping mouth. A sock tumbled to the floor. She didn’t bend to pick it up--just kicked it toward him with the toe of her boot.
Obediently, he sighed and picked it up, tossed it in her laundry basket, watched it land silently atop a pile of folded black leggings. The dryer door groaned as she leaned deeper into the machine, the oversized hoodie riding up just enough to reveal the waistband of her leggings--and beneath them, the white waistband of her diaper.
"Thank you for this gift," he said, just loud enough for her to hear, as he folded up his hands and looked to the heavens.
Lucy froze mid-motion, half-buried in the dryer, before one hand snaked its way behind her back, felt for the exposed waistband of her diaper, then tugged the hoodie back down. Whatever she said next was a muffled echo from inside the dryer. It probably wasn't very nice.
She finally emerged from the dryer with a bundle of fabric clutched to her chest that she spilled out into the folding table in front of him. "No free shows. If you're gonna look, you're gonna fold."
Nick stared at the pile of laundry dumped unceremoniously in front of him--mostly black dresses, trousers, a few oversized sweaters, and one violently pink sock that clashed with everything. "This feels like entrapment," he said, picking up the sock between two fingers like it might bite.
Lucy smirked as Nick gingerly lifted a lacy black bra from the pile with two fingers, his ears flushing crimson. "No fun stuff," she said casually, snapping it from his grip before he could drop it. "Shirts and pants only."
Nick's fingers fumbled with the hem of a sweater, folding it in a messy approximation of the neat stacks she'd already made. He glanced at Lucy's hands moving deftly beside him, her fingers smoothing wrinkles from a black skirt with quick, precise movements, the same way she handled rare books in the archives. The dryer's warmth clung to the clothes, making the air between them thick with heat and the scent of lavender detergent. He tried to focus on folding, but his gaze kept drifting to the way her hoodie rode up whenever she reached for another garment.
Lucy snatched the sweater from Nick's hands with an exasperated sigh, refolding it in three quick motions before adding it to her growing pile. "You're hopeless," she muttered, but there was no real venom in it--just that same dry amusement that made his stomach do strange things.
"I'm sorry, I just fold my clothing... differently," Nick murmured, watching Lucy's nimble fingers correct his haphazard folding.
"I can tell," she said, nodding at his wrinkly tee. "Anyway, you can still make it up to me," Lucy said, swinging the full laundry basket on her hip, dropping it on his lap. "Carry this to my room for me."
Nick's fingers tightened around the laundry basket's plastic handles, the weight settling against his thighs. His throat went dry--was this an invitation? Or just Lucy being Lucy, making him haul her shit across campus at ass o'clock because she could? The conflicting possibilities tangled in his chest--hope and wariness knotting together beneath his ribs.
Lucy was already halfway to the door, her boots scuffing against the laundromat’s linoleum with that same infuriating, unhurried stride. She didn’t look back. Ugh, fine.
The laundromat’s automatic doors wheezed shut behind them. Nick adjusted his grip on the laundry basket, the plastic handles digging into his palms as he hurried to match Lucy’s languid pace. The predawn air was sharp with autumn, and Lucy’s breath curled in faint wisps as she led him down the empty sidewalk toward the graduate housing complex without looking back. It was a looming brick building with ivy crawling up its sides like veins. Lucy pulled a keycard from her pocket with practiced ease, the scanner beeping green under her touch. The door swung open with a pneumatic sigh.
The dorm hallway stretched before them, dimly lit and smelling faintly of burnt popcorn. Lucy's boots squeaked against the linoleum as she led Nick past rows of identical doors, no nameplates, just numbers, until finally stopping at a nondescript door halfway down the hall and slipping her key into the lock.
Lucy's dorm room smelled like lavender, old paper and bergamot, the scent hitting Nick like a physical force as he crossed the threshold. The space was small--barely wider than the twin bed shoved against the far wall--but every inch hummed with chaotic energy. Clearly thrifted bookshelves bowed under the weight of leather-bound tomes and dog-eared paperbacks stacked horizontally atop vertical rows. A single black curtain hung lopsided over the window, allowing thin stripes of predawn light to slice across a desk buried under teetering piles of notes and a mug of long-cold tea with a floating dust skin.
Nick's foot knocked against something solid as he stepped further in--a wooden box overflowing with dried herbs, colorful rocks, and what looked like small animal bones. The entire room looked like a witch’s apothecary had collided with a library dumpster.
The door clicked shut behind them with finality, and Nick realized he was holding his breath. Lucy flicked on a desk lamp--its stained-glass shade casting fractured emerald light across the stacks of books--before turning to pluck the laundry basket from his stiff arms. "You look like a lost puppy," she said, nudging a pile of folded sweaters aside with her hip to make space on the bed. "So, sit."
Nick sat on the edge of Lucy’s bed--carefully, like it might collapse under him--and watched her unpack the laundry basket with methodical precision. Her movements were efficient, almost ritualistic, as she tucked folded garments into drawers already overflowing with dark fabrics.
"You've been quiet," she remarked, pressing the last sweater into its drawer with a little effort.
Nick watched Lucy's fingers brush against the drawer's edge--a fleeting hesitation before she shut it with finality. The bed creaked slightly as she sat down beside him, close enough that he could smell the faint detergent clinging to her hoodie. "I'm just thinking," he admitted, picking at a loose thread on his sweatpants.
"Nervous?" she asked. The word hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Nick swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. Lucy's knee bumped against his--accidentally or not--and he felt the warmth of her through his sweatpants.
"Freaking out a little bit, yeah. If I'm being honest." Nick avoided her eyes, afraid of the withering gaze he might find.
"Me too," she said. He felt the weight of her head resting on his shoulder. Nick froze--every muscle locked in place, afraid that even breathing might shatter this impossible moment. Her hair smelled like lavender and something darker, the strands tickling his jawline. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head just enough to press his nose against her scalp, inhaling deeper. His hands flexed uselessly in his lap, unsure where to put them.
Nick exhaled a wavering breath through his nose, trying to quiet the hammering in his chest. Lucy’s warmth seeped into his side, her fingers brushed against his thigh--just a fleeting graze--as she adjusted her position, and the contact sent a jolt through him like he’d touched a live wire.
"You... like me, right?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Nick froze, his fingers twitching against his knees. The question hung between them, thick and heavy, like the scent of old books and bergamot that filled her room.
"Nick," she whispered, nudging him. "Be a big boy and say it."
"Yeah," he breathed, voice cracking. "Yeah, I like you."
Lucy nodded against his shoulder--once, firm--then slid off the bed. Nick's stomach dropped, watching her pad across the room to flick off the desk lamp, plunging them into near-darkness. Only thin slivers of predawn light sliced through the crooked curtains now. She turned back toward him, her silhouette blurred at the edges by the dim glow.
The mattress dipped as Lucy climbed back onto the bed, but this time she didn't sit beside him. Instead, she lifted the comforter and slid beneath it in one smooth motion, settling against the pillows with a sigh. Nick watched, frozen, as she lifted the edge of the blanket in silent invitation. "I've decided I like you too."
Nick's fingers trembled as he reached for the blanket--not quite believing this was happening, half-convinced he'd wake up any second in his own sweat-drenched sheets. The comforter was heavier than expected, thick and weighted, smelling faintly of something uniquely Lucy. He slid beneath it stiffly, afraid to move an inch.
His breath caught as Lucy shifted backward, her body slotting into his. The moment her diapered bottom pressed against his lap, every coherent thought evaporated, replaced by the sheer, impossible warmth of her. Actually feeling the padding, it was thinner than he'd imagined, softer too, molding against him in a way that made his pulse hammer in his throat. Lucy sighed, nestling deeper into the curve of his body, and he realized with dawning horror that he was already half-hard.
Nick inhaled sharply through his nose, willing his body to behave as Lucy settled against him with a sleepy sigh, wriggling backward, completely unselfconscious. His fingers hovered over her waistband, unsure where to land, before he snaked his hand through the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. He held his breath, waiting for her to recoil--but she only arched her back slightly, pressing the padding more firmly against his growing erection with a sleepy murmur. His stomach flipped. He wanted to say something, anything, but was afraid the first word from his mouth would shatter the moment like glass.
Lucy exhaled softly, her body going lax against Nick's chest. The silence between them stretched thin as morning light crept across the floorboards--neither moving, neither speaking, just the steady rise and fall of her back against his ribs. Nick shut his eyes, hyperaware of every point where their bodies connected: her head tucked under his chin, the press of her diapered hips against his thighs, the way her fingers had gone still atop his wrist where it lay draped over her waist. It was all far too much. It wasn't nearly enough.
i'm not going on that work trip after all, but I also tacitly promised I'd finish some stories tonight at the hotel, which now also feels like it's not going to happen.
tell me to go lie down and not finish a chapter of something for the people
edit: dear reader i posted spellbound 3
the bad news: i am being sent to florida for work on 1 week notice
the good news: i have spellbound pt. 3 and daycare goodnites pt. 8 about 80-90% written and I'm not going to have much else to do on monday night but finish them in the hotel room.
dcgn's new part has been particularly difficult for me to write. i think i've written and fully erased the big scene twice so far.
i want it to feel real and earned and not just happen because we're all rooting for it, and that's where i'm struggling. everything feels too easy and convenient.
I just found your blog, and I wanted to say that I’m obsessed with your Diapered in the Dorm story!
I know Rory ended up not enjoying his relationship with Roxy, but one diaper boy’s hell is another diaper boy’s heaven ig — I seriously can’t stop thinking about their relationship, and the way you wrote it. The mixture of emotions including frustration, lust, control, and humiliation that all seem to underpin a genuine affection and care mixed in there somewhere… 🤤. And I also loved their more vanilla outing to a dive bar; it really helped lay that foundation to make the relationship believable!
Anyway, I just wanted to say you did a fantastic job with this story! (And to maybe ask if u had written anything else similar…)
Thanks for reading! Diapered in the Dorm was one of my more experimental stories, was just trying out a different dynamic and different gender expression for a perspective character. Funnily enough, I think everything you liked about it was everything I was most self-conscious about. I always worry that long vanilla sections get boring for some readers.
Unfortunately that also means that I don't have anything else quite like it. But I'll keep that in mind for the future!
