You're an adult, a grown woman, but you don't want to be; we both know that. You want to be a little girl. You want all those silly big girl privileges taken away, even if you'd never admit it. Because admitting it would mean admitting you failed at adult life. Taking on responsibilities and meeting expectations was too much for you. You couldn't handle it. You never could. And yet, despite that, here you are, wishing you could go back and undo it all. But you can't. You're trapped.
It all started with some harmless fun. You saw it online: videos of girls wetting themselves, soaking their jeans and leggings. Sometimes even in public. You wanted to try it but knew you weren't brave enough to do it in front of anyone. You even tried to resist the urge at first, but it grew and grew, and before long, you were desperate to feel the wetness against your little "princess parts," as you'd taken to calling them.
So you put on an old pair of leggings and stood in the shower with your phone propped up and aimed at you. You were recording a video for a guy you'd met online. He'd encouraged you to give in to this strange desire of yours. He made you feel accepted, less alone, and incredibly desired. You wanted to please him. You'd do anything to please him, even if that meant giving in to your naughty fantasies of pissing yourself like a toddler failing at potty training.
The warmth trickled into your panties and spread out over your thighs, and within a second, you knew you were addicted. Your shower wettings grew increasingly more common until you worked up the nerve to piss yourself in bed like a "good girl," as your now boyfriend put it. "Boyfriend," the word felt so out of place, as you'd even taken to calling him Daddy, despite how naughty it felt. Each time you used the title, you felt like you were pleasing him and being his good little kiddo, but you were also pleasing something profound within yourself, a longing you never realized needed to be fulfilled.
After pissing your sheets every few days, you put a mattress protector on your bed like a responsible bedwetter. It pleased Daddy, and you liked pleasing him after all. But then, before long, without even meaning to, you started waking up with wet sheets. You hadn't meant to wet in your sleep; you just couldn't help it. And that made the accidents all the blushier. You knew Daddy wouldn't stand for it, but you had to tell him. He didn't like you keeping secrets, as you were too little to keep such thoughts to yourself. So reluctantly, you told him, with your cheeks burning red and a quiver in your voice.
Daddy wasn't angry. He was kind and sweet and spoke with a reassuring tone that eased the chaotic waves crashing against the edges of your mind. You sunk deeper into a babyish state, where all your thoughts seemed to disappear into oblivion. The only things there were you and Daddy, the only things that mattered.
When he told you he couldn't allow you to keep having accidents at night, your cheeks burned hot again, but you still offered a meek nod. Daddy knew best, after all. And he wouldn't steer you wrong. So, within the week, you were back in pull-ups at night. A few months prior, you didn't even know they made them for girls your age. But you still followed the pages of those girls online, the ones whose wetting videos stirred up your interest in the whole scene. And you saw them wearing cute designs that, deep down, you longed to try.
Daddy must have sensed this. After all, he read you so well. Together, you bought several designs, all uniquely humiliating in their own ways. Daddy would pick out a pull-up for you each night, and you'd wear it without complaint. And increasingly, you'd wake up in the mornings with wetness between your legs despite drifting off to sleep still dry the night before.
The further you sunk into your pathetic state of bedwetting, the more your bladder gave in. Before long, you weren't having any dry nights. And your wettings grew increasingly intense as if your bladder had entirely given up on holding it throughout the night. You'd wake up in soaked sheets with a leaky pull-up, and Daddy would comfort you and tell you it would all be alright and that you were still his good little girl.
He no longer treated you like anything resembling an adult. He treated you like a helpless little girl or like a pet to play with and tease. He'd change your pull-ups, pick out your undies and clothes, and help you dress each day, even though you'd swear you could do it yourself. He'd simply laugh and say, "Of course you can't, baby girl. That's what Dada's here for." He spoke in that loving tone you'd fallen for. Whenever he used it, you were powerless to fight against it.
One day, you came home from work after a long day only to find a pack of diapers sitting atop your freshly changed sheets. Not pull-ups, but diapers. They had babyish prints and were made for "little girls" your size. You'd seen other girls wearing them but swore you'd never sink that far. You promised yourself you wouldn't. You confronted Daddy with a stern pout and crossed arms, but he just smiled and called you adorable.
"No! I'm not adorable. I'm mad," you said with a humph and an even fuller pout.
Daddy rose from his office chair, walked over, and wrapped his arms around you. "It's alright, baby girl. You don't have to pretend anymore. Dada's here, he's got you, and he sees you. You aren't alone anymore, and I'll love you no matter what kind of protection you need."
You leaned into his embrace with tears welling in your eyes. You hid them in his chest and quietly sniffled into his form, feeling the weight of his acceptance envelop you like a warm blanket on a snowy winter's day.
From then on, you wore your diapers every night. Dada would change you into them each night when it was time to get ready for bed. Dada's changies were the highlight of your evenings. He treated you with gentle hands and soft-spoken care. And he managed the diaper tapes far better than you ever could. You'd fall asleep each night in his arms, feeling like the little girl you longed to be, with Dada there to always love and protect you.
Before long, you started wearing your diapers earlier in the evenings and even all day whenever you didn't have to work. Dada was always there to change you and kiss your forehead when you had doubts and regrets. But soon enough, the daytime accidents began. At first, they were contained only to your diapers. You didn't mind that so much, but there was a hint of fear somewhere beneath your feigned confidence. What if you started having accidents outside of diapers? Or at work, around people?
Your fears were well-founded. The first time you wet at the office, it was just enough to show on your pants, but you managed to scurry to the bathroom before anyone could notice. You texted your boss to tell her you were sick, then darted out of the office when no one was around to see your pathetic, childish state.
You sobbed all the way home. You had no one to blame but yourself. Even Dada, though he encouraged you, was simply giving you what you wanted, and you knew that. This was all the result of your decisions and stupid, misplaced desires. You had to do something to fix it.
You stopped wearing your diapers, both day and night. Dada asked you time and time again if you were sure, but you insisted. It had to be done, you thought. It was the only way to regain what little semblance of control you could still have. But the accidents didn't stop. You still woke up with wet sheets each and every night, and your daytime accidents grew increasingly common.
First, you wet yourself at the store while out shopping for groceries. You completely soaked your jeans, and it was impossible to hide it. You felt a deep sense of shame permeating your entire body as you walked through the aisles, knowing the wandering eyes of the other shoppers continued finding their way to you and your distinct wet spot.
The following few accidents were at home, on the furniture no less. Daddy refused to clean up after you. He insisted you at least wear pull-ups to stop staining the couches and carpets, but you declined. And so you were left to clean up your messes alone, only to know that you'd be doing it again soon enough. Daddy even said if you refused to wear diapers, he'd have to start putting plastic covers on the furniture, making you feel even more like an unhouse-trained puppy.
The breaking point was when you finally wet yourself again at work. You were giving a presentation in front of the whole board. You even wore a pull-up out of fear of this exact thing happening, though you never would have let Daddy know. But as you stood there giving your presentation, and the anxiety rushed through your veins as all eyes were on you, you felt yourself filling your padding. You felt your pee soak every inch and find its way into the leg gathers before overflowing into your favorite pair of work pants, just light enough to do nothing to hide your accident.
You heard gasps from the board behind you as you stared at the screen where your presentation still played. Your boss ran up to you and ushered you out of the room. There was nothing you could say to her. No explanation would suffice. She looked at you with such thorough disappointment, and when you finally went to speak, she interrupted you and told you to go home, that you'd embarrassed yourself and her enough for the day.
You made the walk of shame to your car, passing by the unmasked whispers and snickering from your co-workers. Word traveled fast in corporate offices, it seemed. They sounded like gossiping schoolgirls. You sat down in your luxury car and felt your pull-up squish beneath you, letting out more pee into your expensive seats. You sat there and cried for thirty minutes before mustering the courage and motivation to drive home.
When you arrived, Daddy was already sitting on the couch, now draped in plastic, waiting for you to return. "Your boss called," he said. You couldn't meet his eyes but felt his glare as it interrogated your entire body. "Enough is enough," he said. He stood up, and in one swift motion, he'd grabbed you, pulled your pants and pull-up down to around your knees, and bent you over his lap. The tears started before the stings began, for you knew precisely what was coming. And you'd earned it.
With each slap against your ass, you felt what little dignity you still had slipping away, further and further out of reach, to where you would never obtain it again. You sobbed like a child who knew she'd done wrong, and you could no longer claim to be anything more, no matter how much you wished to. When your spanking was finished and your cheeks burned red hot, Daddy lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bedroom.
As you entered the room, you saw a diaper on the bed beside a bottle of baby powder. It had been there, waiting for you, as if you could hear it beckoning for you to come closer. You no longer had the energy or the will to fight, so you merely cried into Daddy's shoulder until he laid you on the already-open diaper. He removed your wet pants and pull-up from around your knees and wiped your princess parts until you were all clean. He powdered you, and when he rubbed it into your skin, it felt like ecstasy pumping through you, numbing your empty brain even further.
After taping you into your diaper and ensuring the fit was snug, he looked down at you, with tears still dripping down your face. He said in a hushed but firm tone, "You will be wearing these from now on, little girl. I don't want to hear any complaints. If I have to spank you again, I will." And that was that. There was nothing to argue anymore. You had turned yourself into a full-fledged adult baby, and there was no longer anything you could do about it. The last flicker of a flame within you burned away to nothing but ashes in the wind, and you accepted your fate. As you looked up at Dada, you knew you'd be back in diapers for a long, long time.
