You wanted more pushies??
Not today Justin

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@jazzgui
You wanted more pushies??
Please praise me lots for showing you my pretty little tits? ✨
Reblog and you may get a cute cunny pic 🙈
Maybe I’m not ready for big girl panties yet?💩🎀
What do you think? 💭
~ Original content! Please don’t steal! 🤍
Too shy to look at you but little do I know it shows off how incredibly full my diaper is 🙈
So you wanna be Daddy?
But would you actually:
– still want me when I get quiet and weird and overthink every text?
– remind me to eat and gently stop me when I try to use food to cope?
– hold me when I cry over nothing and everything at the same time?
– understand that my attitude sometimes is just anxiety in a louder outfit?
– tell me 47 times in one night that you’re not mad, you still love me, and no, you’re not going anywhere?
– love me when I’m clingy, chatty, shut down, overstimulated, or all of the above in one hour?
– be patient when my brain makes me ask, “Are you sure you love me?” again and again?
– let me nap on your chest while you play with my hair and tell me the world is okay?
– be strong enough to lead, but soft enough to let me fall apart in your arms sometimes?
So you want to be Little?
But would you actually?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Go to therapy?
- Realize that as it is perfectly normal to expect support and patience from your partner when dealing with mental illness, it is not appropriate for you to expect a Daddy to fix or just deal with your issues?
Quick, routine, clinical stickies.
It's just another 'need' the grownups take care of for you...
Pressing the buzzy wand on the front of your Pampers just before a change
massaging your prostate or g-spot after bath time.
Rubbing your Huggies after slipping your PJs on.
It's just like burping you, just something that needs to be done to stop you from fussing too much.
It's done without excitement or fanfare, or any input from you. It usually is over in a few seconds.
It is just part of the background noise of your new baby life.
Unpotty-Training: The Locked Door
The lock clicked the moment the door closed behind her.
That soft metallic snick so quiet, so automatic, so final, was the only sound she ever heard from the door. No keys. No creaking hinges. No turning knobs. Just the cold, casual certainty that she was sealed in, one more day.
The room greeted her with its pastel pink walls and oversized nursery décor, mockingly sweet like frosting on a bitter cake. Everything had been designed for someone her size but not her age. The crib was huge, with tall bars and soft bedding in cheerful yellows and lavenders. She could climb in and out on her own, but only just. And she did—every single night.
There was a small sink in the corner, mounted low and round with a pink plastic toothbrush that had her name, Cora, stuck in bright foam letters on the handle. Just Cora. No last name. No memory of one. No memory of arriving here.
Each morning, the little fridge hummed softly by the wall, full again. Its contents were always the same: toddler meals in squeezable pouches, diced fruits in syrupy cups, soft sandwiches in crustless halves, juice in sippy cups with animal faces. Comfort food. toddler food. Nothing she could cook. Nothing she could use to feel big.
And beneath the changing table—ugh, her changing table—was the stack. A fat, neat row of thick, crinkly diapers, their pastel prints bright and infantile. She didn’t count them anymore. She knew better. Somehow, there were always enough.
The air smelled faintly of powder and lavender detergent. The floor was soft, covered in thick foam mats with ABC patterns. There were bins with toys: a shape sorter, big plastic keys, a bead maze. A few board books stacked by the corner near the fluffy bunny she’d stupidly named Lulu.
“Don’t say it,” Cora muttered aloud as she passed the bunny, its felt ears folded over like it was eavesdropping. “Don’t say it.”
But she did glance at it. Then, blushing, stooped to straighten Lulu’s ribbon.
Her padded steps crinkled softly as she crossed to the fridge. She opened it slowly, already knowing what she’d find. Three meals. A few sippies. Neatly arranged. No notes. No clues. Just like always.
It had been… how long now?
She didn’t know. Time passed differently here. No clocks. No windows. Just that warm ambient light that dimmed each evening and brightened in the morning. She’d tried carving tally marks once, on the crib rail but by morning, they were gone. Scrubbed clean. Someone, or something, was watching.
She settled onto the floor with a sigh, pulling out a grape-juice sippy cup. She hated how it made her feel, holding it with both hands, sucking gently, like it was perfectly normal.
As she sipped, her legs spread slightly without her noticing, the padding between them thicker now squishy, warm.
She stilled.
Her free hand moved automatically, pressing against the diaper’s front. It gave slightly under her fingers. Soft. Damp. Not soaked yet, but definitely wet. She groaned.
“No, no, no…”
This was the second time today.
At night? Sure. That she’d accepted. Every morning now, she woke up in a soggy diaper, the damp warmth and bloated bulk no longer even surprising. She still hated it, but it was routine. Predictable. Almost passive.
But now, she was having daytime accidents.
That was new. That was terrifying.
She tried to remember the moment it happened but there was nothing. She hadn’t felt the urge. Hadn’t realized anything was happening. Her body had just… let go. Without asking. Without warning.
She set down the sippy and stared at the door. Her breath came quicker.
“Who are you?” she whispered again. “What do you want from me?”
Silence.
The fridge buzzed quietly. The foam mat creaked under her shifting weight.
She stood up slowly, waddling slightly from the bulk of her diaper. It was usable. It wasn’t leaking. Not even close. She didn’t need to change. Not yet.
She could put it off. Pretend everything was fine. That this wasn’t happening. That she wasn’t losing control.
Her eyes drifted to the mirror above the sink just tall enough to show her face, chest, and the slight peek of the diaper beneath her pastel shirt. The cartoon animals stared back at her. So cheerful. So oblivious.
“I don’t need to change,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “It can hold more.”
But the fact that she had to tell herself that…
She glanced at the changing table. The wipes were still in their container. The stack of fresh diapers sat untouched beneath, lined up like soft white reminders of how far she’d fallen. They were always just there. No one left them out for her. No caretaking hands. No gentle instructions. Just the expectation that she’d handle it.
That she’d know when to.
She crossed the room instead, sitting heavily onto the padded mat. It squelched slightly beneath her. She winced.
“I didn’t even feel it,” she murmured.
That, more than anything, was what scared her.
She remembered her first few days here desperate to hold it. Legs clenched tight, eyes screwed shut, curled in the corner with a burning bladder. She would fight it for hours. And if she lost… well, she knew she’d lost. She’d sobbed. Screamed. Slammed her fists against the mat in humiliation.
But now… she just leaked.
And the worst part?
Part of her didn’t mind.
The warmth. The lack of effort. The way the diaper hugged her hips, kept it contained, made it easier to just let go and move on.
She hugged her knees, chin resting between them. The diaper rustled under her, and the sound echoed in the still room.
“This isn’t me…” she whispered. “This isn’t who I am…”
But the voice was small. Unsure.
She stood slowly and looked at the changing table again.
Just change, Cora. Be clean. Be dry. Pretend this never happened.
But she didn’t move.
Because she didn’t need to change. Not yet.
Instead, she waddled to the shelf and pulled down a board book: “Colors with Cookie the Cat.”
She settled back on the mat, the squish between her legs oddly comforting now, the plush bunny within arm’s reach.
Each page was simple. Red is for apples. Blue is for the sky. Yellow is for bananas.
Her hand crept up without thinking, pressing the front of her diaper again. Still warm. Still damp. Still wearable.
The book was way to easy. But it was there. Something to focus on.
And the quiet stretched. Peaceful. Gentle. A routine she didn’t ask for but had accepted, even embraced in moments like this.
Until it happened again.
A sudden heat. A slow spreading warmth. Her breath caught and she froze.
No warning. No urge. Just another accident.
Her eyes widened in horror.
“…I didn’t know I had to go,” she whispered.
She was wetting. Fully. Sitting cross-legged, awake, and soaking her diaper like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“No no no no—”
But it was done. And her diaper swelled under her, sagging slightly at the crotch.
She dropped the book. Scrambled to her feet. The squelch was louder now. The smell barely there, but real. Tangy. Embarrassing.
This one… this one needed changing.
Her cheeks burned. Her heart pounded.
She waddled to the changing table, hands shaking. She didn’t cry. Not this time. She just felt… numb.
She reached under, pulled a clean diaper from the stack, then the wipes. No fanfare. No reward. No judgment. Just… her. Handling it.
She climbed up and lay back. The lights above were soft. Warm. Nonjudgmental.
She opened the tapes. Peeled back the shell. Wiped. Powdered. Folded. Taped.
She did it all silently.
And when she slid down from the table, clean and dry again, she saw it.
The screen on the wall flickered on.
“Unpotty-Training Progress: 65%”
Her breath caught. Her hands curled at her sides.
“Fifty-five,” she whispered. “I’m… more than halfway.”
The screen flickered again.
Then went dark.
She turned slowly and looked at the crib. Her crib.
The sheets were turned down, already waiting.
And in the silence of the room, the only sound was the soft rustle of her clean diaper as she walked toward it.
The Nose knows
The steady tap of keys fills your office, soft light from your desk lamp casting a warm glow on your keyboard. The house is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional squeak of the living room floorboards down the hall. You pause, roll your shoulders, and stretch your neck.
It's been a productive morning: emails sorted, project timeline finalized, and your second cup of coffee cooling slowly beside you. You glance toward the baby monitor perched beside your monitor. Not a camera, just audio. You believe in giving your little girl some freedom… but with boundaries. And one of those boundaries is knowing when Daddy needs quiet time—and when she needs supervision.
She’s been playing in the living room for the past hour, and aside from a few soft squeals and giggles, she’s been calm. A good sign. You smile softly to yourself, picturing her there: sprawled on the plush nursery rug, her favorite stuffies scattered around, maybe her stacking rings beside her.
She’d insisted on wearing her blue denim shortalls this morning, the ones with the pink heart buttons and the silly cartoon bear on the front pocket. Underneath, she had on a pale pink t-shirt with ruffled sleeves. The moment you finished dressing her, she tugged at the hem of the shorts and asked if her “diapee was pokin’ out.” You’d ruffled her pigtails and told her it was supposed to poke out a little.
"That’s how Daddy knows what to check," you teased, tapping the seat of her padded bottom until she giggled.
Now you lean back in your chair, trying to recall how long it’s been since you last changed her. Right before her second bottle… so maybe… three hours?
Then it hits you.
It drifts in slowly. Faint at first. Almost nothing. Just a subtle shift in the air.
You inhale lightly again, lips pressing into a knowing smirk.
It’s that smell. Warm. Slightly earthy. And unmistakable.
The scent filters in like a whisper at first, clinging just under the neutral scent of your office. But you know it. It’s a scent that clings to nursery rugs, to onesies left in the hamper too long, to the back of a diaper pail when you open it just a second too slowly.
You sigh, stand up slowly, and give your back a stretch. The air swirls a little as you move—confirming what your nose already suspected.
“She didn’t even call for me,” you murmur.
You leave the office, walking down the hallway. The scent grows stronger with each step still not overpowering, just present enough to trigger that Daddy switch in your head.
She’s in the living room, just as you expected.
And oh, the picture she makes.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the toy bin, completely absorbed in whatever tiny drama she’s invented between her stuffies and her dolls. The late morning light pours through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the rug. Her pigtails bob gently as she tilts her head, murmuring something to her plush bunny.
You pause at the doorway, arms folded across your chest. Your lips twitch into a subtle, amused smile.
The denim shortalls ride a little high on her hips. One strap is twisted, the cartoon bear now staring sideways from her chest. Her bare feet are splayed out lazily on the carpet, and the pink ruffled sleeves of her t-shirt puff with each motion. And most of all...
In that stinky little cloud hovering softly in the air.
It’s not offensive—not to you, at least. It’s just… real. Warm. Lived-in. Familiar in the most primal, parental way. It’s not the air-freshener gloss of a nursery commercial—it’s the scent of a little girl who's fully regressed. A little girl who doesn’t ask for potty breaks, because she doesn’t take them. A little girl who uses her diapers—without thinking twice.
You take a step closer.
Still, she doesn’t look up.
She’s too busy pretending that her unicorn plushie is getting married to a rubber duck.
“…an’ then you say ‘I do,’ an’ then you get kisses on the nose,” she mumbles matter-of-factly to the toys, unaware of your approach.
You crouch down beside her, resting a hand gently on her back.
“Hey there, stinker.”
She glances up at you, bright-eyed, grinning wide.
“Hi Daddy!”
There’s zero hesitation in her tone. No guilt. No shyness. Just sunshine. She squirms a little in place, the thick crinkle muffled by her shortalls as her weight shifts from one thigh to the other. Her bottom presses deeper into the rug for a second, and you hear the faintest squelk of padded compression beneath her.
You arch an eyebrow.
“Ohhh… I think Daddy’s nose knows something...”
She blinks.
Then she shrugs casually, her hand reaching down to pat one of the toys absently.
“Mmhmm,” she chirps.
“Mmhmm what?” you ask, voice low, teasing.
She gives you a beatific smile, one finger tapping her lip in mock thought. Then, as if stating the weather, she replies:
“I’m poopy.”
Just like that.
Clear as crystal. No shame. No giggle. No whisper. Just a simple truth from a girl who clearly doesn’t even consider what’s sitting in her pants to be out of the ordinary.
Your heart gives a warm little tug.
Not long ago, she would’ve whined for you the moment she felt a cramp. She might’ve pouted, clung to your leg, begged to be changed right after. There would’ve been fuss. Sniffles. Maybe even a blush.
But now?
Now she just goes when she needs to. Right in her diaper. Right in the middle of playtime. And then? She keeps right on playing.
That, right there, is progress. That’s regression done right.
You gently ruffle her pigtails.
“Poopy, huh?” you say, nose scrunching with exaggerated Daddy-drama. “That would explain why it smells like a little stinky-pants in here.”
She giggles.
“It’s not pants, Daddy! It’s my diapee.”
“Well, your diapee is doing some very hard work today,” you tease, giving her back a soft rub. “I bet it’s extra full by now.”
She shrugs again.
“Yup.”
And then she reaches for her stackable donuts, completely unbothered by the status of her diaper. No request for a change. No pause in her play.
You can’t help but smirk.
You sit beside her quietly for a moment, watching her organize plastic toys by color. The air still carries that unmistakable stinky warmth, but there’s no rush. She’s not upset. She’s not uncomfortable. And more than anything, you want to let her be little a bit longer.
So you let her play.
Five more minutes.
Ten, maybe.
Just long enough to enjoy the view of a happy little girl sitting in her messy diaper without a care in the world.
And when you finally do scoop her up?
She’ll giggle, squirm, and probably pretend she forgot she was stinky again.
But you’ll remember this moment.
Because she didn’t call for you.
Because she didn’t try to hold it.
Because she knew her diaper would catch it—and that Daddy would be there, when she needed him.
Got to love restrictions
Diaper Chart : How to keep your little obedient and motivated
Daddy tips - 2
Hi everyone,
Since it looks like you enjoyed the quick "Diapeefy" year in review I made for my little crinkle butt, I thought I’d also share with you the template of the diaper chart I have been using in 2024 (and will be using in 2025) to keep track of all of that.
Perhaps this can inspire other Daddies/CG.
The goal is simple : Get 35 points to get a "Magic Stickies Card" for the following week. If 35 points have not been reached, no stickies for at least a week, until the next diaper chart is completed. Points cannot be carried over from one week to another. It automatically resets to 0 on Monday morning.
How to get points :
Gives 2 points :
Messy Diaper
Gives 1 point :
Soggy Diaper
Baby food dinner (baby food breakfast is everyday and therefore does not count as a bonus)
Playing for more than an hour in playpen
Gives 0 point (just helps keeping track of it)
Cage locked
Sticky Diaper
Diaper outside
Negative points :
Forgot bib (if baby eats by himself) = -4 points
If all baba have not been drank (morning, afternoon and evening) = -3 points per non-completed day
Any other naughty act can have an impact on the final number of points. Trying to remove diapers without permission is -10 points but it has only happened twice, so no need for it to show in the chart.
TEMPLATE
EXAMPLE OF A COMPLETED WEEK
Come join me for messy Monday! I’m just innocently playing in my cute ruffle onesie form @onesiesdownunder, when I realise I’ve had a big accident 🙈
Full video out now!
I sniff the air as I walk into the nursery. The room, which typically smells faintly of used diapers, smells worse than usual.
Three little ones, dressed in matching onesies, only distinguished by color, sit in the middle of the floor, building a city out of wooden blocks.
"Good morning, little ones! How is my little pod of sweet peas doing this morning?"
The three infantilized adults all turn to me and smile, giggling at the praise. Paci's bob in mouths as they coo and babble in glee at the sight of their Papa.
"What adorable little cuties," I say smiling, "But, it smells like one of you left Papa a big, stinky present in their pants."
As I expected, they all three shift uncomfortably in their seats at those words, blushes blossoming across cheeks. Months of being treated as permanent toddlers has effectively taken away their own abilities to notice the state of their diapers.
"Alright, sweet peas, assume the position."
Like actors a well rehearsed play, my three little ones burst into motion. They crawl to the oversized crib before grabbing the lowered railing to pull themselves up. It only takes moments before I am facing three adorable, padded little butts, presented for my careful inspection.
I walk up behind each blushing baby and give their rear ends thorough, revealing squeezes.
"Well, I guess I was wrong!" I announce to my adorable little audience.
Three little cuties let out a collective sigh of relief.
"It wasn't just one of you making Papa a present! It was all three!"
Three bodies tense in front of me all at once. I give the nearest mushy little tushy a playful smack.
"You better hurry over to the changing tables, little ones," I sing off, "Last one there smells like a rotten egg... well, at least for a little bit longer than the other two."
I can't help but grin as my three overgrown tots drop to their hands and knees and crawl at full speed to the changing table. Life is so good.
I couldn't help but grin as my two littles sat on the floor, perching on their favorite stuffie mounts, facing each other with equally determined looks on their faces.
The competition was designed to be embarrassing, but they didn't care. They'd both long ago gotten past the shame of the nursery. In fact, it was the their love of being embarrassed that got them their in the first place.
No, the only thing they were focused on was the reward. Whoever won Papa's little race got to spend the week sleeping in his bed. The loser, on the other hand, had nothing to look forward to other than a week of lonely nights in their crib.
"Ready! On your mark! Go!" I announced, causing the room to suddenly be filled with the distinctive and not totally unfamiliar sound of plastic rubbing against plushies.
"Mmmm..." Moaned out my little girl as she leaned back on one arm, rubbed her nipples over with her onesie with her free hand, and ground her padded princess parts hard into her oversized stuffed unicorn.
My little prince was taking a different tack.
"Ggghhhh," he moaned as he perched on his stuffed dog, scrunching his face up and balling his fists as he pushed a huge mess into the seat of his diaper.
"Ew," my princess cried out, concentration broken temporarily as the smell of her 'brother's' mess filled the room, "Papa, he's cheating!"
I smiled back, looking at my little boy with delight and a hint of pride in my eyes.
"Sugar bug, he's not cheating. The only rule was that you had to use your stuffies to make uh-ohs. Papa never said you couldn't make a stinky if you thought that would help!"
My little princess frowned, then suddenly realized how much ground she had lost. Furiously, she refocused, shoving her thumb in her mouth and rocking her hips aggressively into her trusty stuffed stead.
"Mmm, Papa, Papa! Mm' gonna make uh-ohs!" my little prince cried out as his body started to shudder in pleasure.
"Looks like bubba's in the lead!" I called out.
"Not for... Mmm... Aaahhhh... Long!" My little darling spat out as her own body began to quiver with happy little tremors.
In moments, the nursery was filled with a chorus of moans and screams, signalling the end of the race for both participants.
I dropped to a knee and pulled both of my little ones into my arms. I gave them each a deep, passionate kiss.
"Papa, who one?" my little boy asked, blushing as he came to terms with the fact that his diaper was full of two kinds of mess.
I pulled back and looked into both of my littles' big hungry eyes.
"I'm calling it a tie," I declared, "It'll be a slumber party in Papa's room all week!"
Both tiny tykes tackled me with a hug, overwhelmed with joy.
They were so excited, I almost felt bad lying to them about the true winner of their silly little race, but, in the end, the truth only mattered to me.
No matter the outcome of their contest, there was only ever going to be one true winner: Papa. Because no matter what I got to enjoy the company of my two incredible littles.
making a very loud mess in my pamps🙈
(n showing you the inside)
“Mom I think Sarah pooped her pants again. It smells like a dirty diaper in here…”
“Shut up Zoey, NO I DID NOT!”
“Really Sarah? AGAIN? Come in here, I have something I want to talk with you about”
“When I asked you to stay with us for the summer, the plan was for you to help me take care of the girls because I’ve been so busy at work. But because of your recent incontinence, it’s really only added more on my plate. I talked with your mom last night, and starting tomorrow I’m gonna have you spend weekdays at the daycare with Nora…”
“What are you talking about?”
“I talked with the owner today and she said she would be happy to have you there”
“WHAT! I am not going to spend my days in a daycare surrounded by toddlers! I’m 19!”
“Im sure this is embarrassing for you, but I just can’t trust you to stay on top of your diaper changes throughout the day anymore…Zoey said that you sat in a dirty diaper for THREE HOURS yesterday even after Zoey told you that you had an accident multiple times! Not to mention the handful of times I’ve witnessed Nora tell you that you pooped your pants. She’s FOUR YEARS OLD!”
“How is staying at a daycare gonna make it any better?! Ms Taylor already has enough diapers to look after…”
“Well actually, Ms Taylor only accepts kids who are potty trained…so the only diaper she would be checking would be yours…”
Walking in [warning, bad pun]
You push open the door, the familiar creak barely registering over the surprise of seeing your roommate caught in such an unexpected state. There she is, only in a soft pink diaper, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade as her eyes widen in shock. You were supposed to be away for two more days, and her embarrassment fills the room like thick perfume.
"Oh! I, uh... I thought you were coming back on Thursday," she stammers, her hands awkwardly trying to cover up, though there isn’t much to hide that the pink diaper hasn’t already revealed.
You can't help but feel a stir of excitement at the sight, her vulnerability so openly displayed, but you keep your tone playful to keep the mood light. "Looks like I've caught my naughty roommate red-handed. Or should I say, pink-diapered?" you tease, stepping closer, your smile broadening.
Her face heats up even more, if possible, and she bites her lip, a mix of mortified and something else—perhaps a dash of excitement? "It's not what it looks like," she tries to defend, her voice a whisper of defiance.
You chuckle, walking over to sit beside her on the sofa, your expression softening. "It looks exactly like someone loves her comfy diaper time a bit too much to check her phone," you say, nudging her playfully with your shoulder.
She sighs, a playful pout forming as she finally meets your gaze. "Maybe I do," she admits, her voice small. "Well, since I'm back early, how about we make the most of these next two days?" you suggest, your tone teasing yet gentle. "You seem to love being so coddled and cozy in your diaper—how about you be my baby for the next two days? I think it suits you."
Her eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and nervousness, but she nods, a shy smile creeping across her face.
I need a part 2 to this and maybe a couple more @regressionschool 🫣💕
Ask and you shall receive :P Chapter Two: Soft Steps and Crinkly Secrets
You step away from the couch, trying to hide the eager grin tugging at your lips as you head into your bedroom. The soft thump of your roommate’s diapered bottom shifting on the couch follows you, echoing in your ears as your fingers brush against the drawer’s edge. You open it slowly, revealing a neatly arranged set of padded mittens and matching booties—soft, pastel pink, and perfectly coordinated with her current blushing state.
You return with them in hand, the gentle crinkle of your own steps punctuating the silence as her eyes go wide again when she sees what you’re holding.
“Mittens?” she squeaks, backing up a little against the couch cushions. “And… are those booties?”
“They sure are,” you hum sweetly, kneeling down in front of her. “Only the coziest for my little baby girl.”
She squirms, but doesn’t protest as you gently slide her trembling hands into the mittens, fastening them snugly around her wrists. You can feel her breath hitch as the soft padding wraps her fingers up tight, rendering them clumsy and useless. Her toes curl as the booties come next—puffy and just as pink, you strap them on carefully, locking them with a quiet click around her ankles.
She tests them almost immediately, trying to stand—only to yelp and fall back onto her padded backside with a surprised crumpf. Her eyes snap to yours in confusion.
“You put something in these!” she gasps, lifting one foot just enough to feel the subtle nudge of something uncomfortable pressing from inside.
You just grin, arms folding as you admire the view. “Little girls don’t walk, sweetpea,” you remind her gently, nodding toward the floor. “Babies crawl. And look at that cute diaper wiggle when you try.”
Her blush returns in full force, but this time it’s accompanied by a tiny, frustrated whimper as she awkwardly shifts onto her hands and knees. The mittens make her clumsy, the booties force her weight forward, and every move sends her thickly-padded bum swaying adorably behind her.
“Good girl,” you purr, watching her crawl toward the living room. “Such a sweet little crawler…”
She disappears into the hallway, her crinkly padding announcing every movement as you return to your room for more “baby supplies.” You grab a pastel pacifier on a matching ribbon and a soft bundle of plush toys—rattles, blocks, and one extra fluffy stuffed lamb.
When you step into the living room, your roommate is there on the carpet, her knees spread just slightly, her diaper squished beneath her. You can't help but pause, soaking in the sight—her back to you, diapered rear up, wiggling ever so slightly as she shifts uncertainly.
You walk over and gently ease the pacifier between her lips, the ribbon clipped to her mittens so she can’t spit it out easily. Then, with a theatrical little plop, you drop the toys in front of her.
“There you go, baby girl,” you say in a sing-song tone, brushing her hair out of her face. “Play nice while I grab more goodies, okay?”
You start to turn, already planning what you’ll bring back next—maybe the bib? Or the bottle? Maybe even the blankie—but then, a tiny voice breaks through the silence.
“Mmmhh… whuh… why do you have all this stuff?”
Your pulse jumps at the question, but you mask it with a slow, teasing smile, turning just enough to see her wide, paci-filled eyes watching you with nervous curiosity. Her diaper crinkles as she shifts slightly, clearly waiting for an answer.
“Someone’s quick,” you chuckle, stepping closer to boop her nose gently. “But little babies don’t need to worry their mushy little brains about grown-up things.”
You tousle her hair playfully, and she pouts around the pacifier, her mittens swiping half-heartedly at your hand. You just smirk. “You just sit here, play with your toys, and try not to drool on the carpet, okay?”
With that, you head back toward your room, giving her one last glance before disappearing.
Her diaper squishes as she scoots around, the thick padding making even the smallest motion exaggerated and noisy. Every rustle and crinkle fuels that warm, mischievous thrill in your chest as you gather the next set of supplies: a bib embroidered with “Messy Girl”, a foldable highchair, and of course, the baby bottle—pink, decorated with cartoon bunnies.
You take your time returning, curious how she’s doing left to her own clumsy devices. When you step back into the living room, the sight that greets you is pure perfection.
There she is, still on the carpet where you left her, kneeling in that adorably helpless way with her legs slightly parted and her weight sunk into her thick, well-padded bottom. The pink diaper is visibly puffier now—creased, a little more saggy, with a telltale yellow stain forming underneath the cartoon prints.
She’s focused on the plush toys, or at least trying to be. With her hands stuck in those oversized mittens, she can’t really grab anything—so she’s just patting at the stuffed lamb, fumbling to stack two soft blocks that wobble and fall over every time she gets close. Her face is scrunched up in frustration, brows furrowed like a pout is brewing.
And the pacifier? Still snug between her lips, her soft breaths fogging the plastic as she unconsciously suckles, the ribbon holding it securely clipped to her mittened wrist. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, you notice.
You lean against the doorway, watching her for a few moments in silence. She’s lost in it—embarrassed, probably, but also so deeply settled into the role you nudged her toward. The rhythm of the paci, the natural wiggle of her diapered bum as she shifts, the way her thighs squeeze together like she’s not even sure how much she’s already gone...
You walk over slowly and kneel beside her again.
“Having fun?” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
She looks up at you with wide eyes, her mouth still gently working at the pacifier. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
You giggle softly. “Good girl.”
After a few more playful teases—compliments about how cute her squishy bum looks, and gentle reminders that mittens and booties aren’t optional—you finally pat her diaper softly and stand.
“Time for lunch, little one,” you say brightly. “Crawl with me, come on.”
She hesitates, her gaze flicking toward the hallway like she knows she should be more nervous. But then she obeys, shuffling forward on all fours, diaper swaying rhythmically behind her as you lead her into the kitchen.
And there it is. Waiting.
A highchair.
Not a joke. Not pretend. Not a childish stool or small seat. A real highchair, slightly larger, custom fit—just right for an oversized baby girl like her.
She freezes when she sees it.
You smirk.
“Aww, what’s the matter?” you coo. “This isn’t news to you, right? You’ve already got the diaper, the toys, the paci... Did you really think I wouldn’t have a highchair too?”
She doesn’t answer as you gently lift her—mittens still useless, booties making her dangle helplessly—and lower her into the seat. The harness clicks into place around her chest and waist, snug but cozy. You strap her in securely, buckling the tray in with a final clack.
Her eyes are wide again, and for a moment you can see the question still burning there. You know exactly what she’s thinking.
And this time, you answer.
“In case you were wondering...” you say, leaning in close so your voice is soft and syrupy, condescending in that warm, knowing way that makes her toes curl, “You’re really bad at hiding how much of a baby you are.”
You tap the pacifier gently with one finger.
“But me?” you continue, brushing imaginary lint from her bib as you secure it behind her neck, “I’m very good at hiding that I’m a caregiver. Until now.”
You stand back, hands on your hips, and take in the picture before you.
Pink diaper. Clumsy mittens. Paci gently bobbing. Trapped in a highchair, looking absolutely, undeniably little.
She wriggles faintly. And you smile.
“Now... let’s get baby’s bottle ready.”
She wriggles in the highchair, her diaper audibly crinkling beneath her as her mittened hands rest awkwardly on the tray. Her legs kick softly, booties bumping against the footrest with dull thumps. You can tell it’s all hitting her now—really hitting her.
The mittens. The pacifier. The pink, soggy diaper she’s been crawling around in. And now—strapped into a highchair, staring at you as you hum to yourself like this is all completely ordinary.
Her eyes flit from the bib tucked snugly under her chin to the toys abandoned behind her in the living room, then to the tray in front of her where you begin setting things down—first the bowl of baby food, the label still peeled back to reveal Banana Oatmeal Mash, then the bottle, full and faintly warm, the liquid inside tinted ever-so-slightly pink.
She doesn’t notice. Not yet. And you’re not about to tell her.
The soft clink of the spoon tapping the bowl makes her flinch. You meet her gaze with a patient smile.
“Aww, baby girl looks a little overwhelmed,” you coo, tilting your head sympathetically. “Is all this a bit much for your fuzzy wittle brain?”
She blinks. Her paci bobs slightly as she suckles, whether out of habit or comfort, you can’t say. But her cheeks are burning now, her whole body language curling in on itself with embarrassment and confusion.
“You said yes, remember?” you remind her sweetly, bringing the bottle to her lips. “And good girls don’t back out once they’ve said yes. That’s how we build trust, baby.”
You gently tug the pacifier free with a soft pop, and before she can respond, the bottle’s nipple is already nudging her lips. She hesitates—just for a moment—but then, slowly, drinks.
That first taste makes her blink. It’s milk... mostly. Sweetened, soft. But there's something else mixed in—subtle, almost floral, barely there. You see her brow furrow in quiet confusion, but she doesn’t stop suckling.
You stroke her hair, soothing. “That’s a good girl. Drink up nice and slow. It’ll help you settle down... help you stop worrying about all those big thoughts swirling around that mushy little head.”
She whimpers faintly through the bottle, but doesn’t resist. With every pull, her breaths deepen, her shoulders soften. Whatever you added is starting to do its work—calming her nerves, dimming that last flicker of resistance, slowing her down to baby speed.
You let her finish half the bottle before you ease it away.
“Time for some yummy nummies,” you sing, scooping a generous spoonful of the banana mush. “Say ‘ahhh,’ baby girl.”
She tries to mumble something—probably a protest—but the spoon’s already in her mouth. She flinches, surprised at the texture, but swallows with a grimace.
“You don’t have to like it,” you tease, wiping her chin with the corner of her bib. “You just have to open your mouth like a good girl.”
Another spoonful. Then another. Each one slower, softer, timed with the gentle bounce of your voice and the lulling warmth of the bottle that’s still halfway full. Her eyes have that glazed, uncertain look—the kind of dazed that comes from sensory overload, from being stripped of control, padded, fed, and cooed at like a helpless toddler.
And she is helpless now. Mittened, bootied, strapped in, soggy and compliant.
“There we go,” you murmur, wiping her mouth again as she sniffles quietly. “Look at my little girl now. So full. So quiet. Just the way she’s meant to be.”
You lift the bottle again, watching her eyes flutter as the nipple returns to her lips. She barely hesitates this time. Her body is getting slower. Softer. Heavier.
And you just smile, brushing her cheek as you let her drink.
You stroke her hair, brushing it back from her face. “Good girl,” you whisper again, letting the bottle tip just enough to let her take the last few swallows before easing it from her lips. A soft whimper slips out as she blinks up at you, confused and comforted all at once.
Then you straighten, smoothing the front of your shirt like you're about to start a lecture… and in a way, you are.
“Now that your tummy’s full,” you begin gently, “I think it’s time we go over a few little rules for your special baby time.”
She frowns softly, her mittened hands fidgeting on the tray. The pacifier bounces slightly between her lips again—she’s already gotten used to it being there, like a habit forming faster than she realizes.
“First,” you say, holding up one finger, “no walking. Crawling only. That’s what your booties are for, remember? Littles like you are way too precious to go stomping around.”
She squirms at that, her legs rubbing together with an audible crinkle.
“Second, no big girl words unless I ask you something. If your paci’s in, that’s your signal to be quiet and suck, not talk. Babies don’t need grown-up words.”
Her cheeks puff slightly in protest, but she says nothing. Another soft suck on the paci. She's already starting to obey, even if she doesn't realize how naturally it’s coming.
“And third,” you say, voice soft but firm now, “no asking for the potty.”
That gets her attention.
Her brows lift, eyes suddenly sharper beneath the haze. She mumbles something behind the pacifier, but you gently pull it free with two fingers. “What was that, sweetpea?”
“I-I mean… what if I need to… like… y’know…” she trails off, glancing down at the tray, the bib, the mittens, then at the soft, puffy diaper bulging quietly beneath her.
“No what-ifs,” you say, tapping her nose. “Babies like you don’t need the potty. Not for anything.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait, even for—?”
You press a finger to her lips and gently push the pacifier back in.
“Hush, hush,” you coo. “Don’t worry that mushy little head. It won’t be long before you won’t be able to hold it anyway…”
You lean in close, brushing your knuckles along the curve of her cheek as her expression twists with nervous confusion.
“It’s already working,” you murmur sweetly. “So just relax, baby girl. There’s no big decisions left for you to make. Just let go.”
She squirms again, clearly overwhelmed, her mittened hands bumping uselessly against the tray as the pacifier bobs in and out of her lips.
You step back, letting her sit in it all—figuratively and otherwise—watching the realization settle in behind those flushed cheeks and fluttery eyes.
And the best part?
She still hasn’t even asked what was in the bottle.
To be continued…
"Good... Girls... Make... Stinky... Diapers!"
You grunt out as you squat and clench your fists in concentration, bearing down with all your might.
That phrase has become your mantra the last few weeks.
The more time you spent with Papa, the more determined you were to become his perfect little padded pet. And you were so close to your goal!
You were constantly waddling around in a soggy diaper, letting yourself dribble away into your thirst padding.
Papa never caught you without a thumb or paci in your mouth, something that caused you to have the most adorable lisp.
You were obsessed with your little stuffed bear and blankie, carrying them everywhere for comfort. You even started throwing the cutest, most childish tantrums it you couldn't find them.
But, loading your pampers with brown stinky mush had become your Everest. No matter how hard you tried, a mental block kept you from taking that one last embarrassing leap towards babyhood.
But, today, today was different!
"Good... Girls... Make... Stinky... Diapers!"
You say again between grunts, a trumpeting fart punctuating your mantra.
A broad, silly smile crosses your face as you suddenly feel the movement and relief you'd been waiting for. With a sickening squelch, you feel your diaper grow heavy as a large load of mush finally works it's way out of your backside and into your pants.
You cry out in victory as you straighten and throw your arms in the arm. You immediately waddle to Papa's office to show off your achievement, your mess swinging between your legs like a sack of mashed potatoes.
"Papa, good girls make stinkies!" You announce at the door, spinning around and shaking your brown-stained posterior.
Papa stands up, smiles, and walks towards you.
He takes your cheek in one hand, tilting your head up for a kiss, and your diapered butt in the other, pressing your mess into your firmly.
"Yes, they do, my good little girl," Papa says as his lips separate from yours, "And good girls also get buzzies! Now, sit here. Papa will be right back with Mrs. Wand so we can really celebrate."
You immediately plop your butt onto the ground, reveling in your mess. You bounce in your seat as you wait, squishing your mess around.
It's ok. You can't help it!
You're just so excited to finally be Papa's good girl!