Just for Lois Lane @justforloislane - Tumblr Blog

The Choice

The plastic crinkles softly as you shift on the couch, your pull-up and your wet shirt clinging to your skin after another sticky accident. The wetness indicator is a dark, mocking blue, and the fabric is sticky between your legs… again. You can still feel the remnants of your last "cummies," the way your hips had bucked helplessly into the padding, the way the pull-up had failed to contain you. The sticky, embarrassing aftermath had been impossible to hide, and Mommy had seen. Of course she had.

Now, she sits beside you, her expression a mix of exasperation and something softer, something that makes your stomach twist. She’s holding two things: a sleek, black penis cage, its cold metal glinting in the lamplight, and a thick, baby-blue diaper, like an invitation. Your throat goes dry.

“You’re at a crossroads, baby,” Mommy says, her voice gentle but firm. “You can’t keep going like this. Pull-ups weren’t made for this kind of use.” She taps the cage against her palm, the sound sharp. “Option one: You stay in pull-ups, but you wear this. No more humping, no more stickies. Your little penis stays locked away, and you’ll learn to behave.” She lets the words sink in, her fingers tracing the edge of the cage. “No more sticky surprises, no more ruined t-shirts. But…” She tilts her head, her tone shifting to something almost teasing. “No more cummies either. Not like you’ve been having, anyway.”

Your face burns. You know what she means. The way you’d grind into the padding, the way your body would tremble as you chased that forbidden pleasure, the way the pull-up would give way under the pressure. The cage looks so final.

wrist. The padding is thick, the kind that would swallow your hips whole, the kind that would hold everything, pee, messes, cummies, without a single leak. “Option two: You switch to diapers. Full time. No cage, no restrictions. Your cute penis stays free… but it stays in the diaper.” Her lips quirk. “You can hump all you want, baby. You can make as many messes as your little heart desires. And I promise you, these won’t leak.” She gives the diaper a little shake, the crinkle loud in the quiet room. “But you’ll look like what you are. A baby. A good, thick, diapered baby. A good, thick, diapered baby who will never sit on the potty again.”

The thought sends a shiver down your spine. The diaper is so obvious. So undeniable. Everyone would know. But then again… the cage is worse, isn’t it? The idea of being locked away, of never feeling that release again, makes your chest tighten.

Mommy watches you, her eyes knowing. “So. What’s it going to be, baby?” She holds out both options, one in each hand. “Do you want to be restrained… or do you want to be free?”

Your fingers twitch toward the diaper. The cage is a prison. But the diaper… the diaper is a promise. A promise of warmth, of safety, of never having to hide what you are. Of being able to give in, completely.

You swallow hard. “I… I want to be free, Mommy.”

Her smile is slow, satisfied. “Good boy.” She sets the cage aside and brings the diaper closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, let’s get you diapered.”

What would you choose?

pull-ups + cage

diaper + unlimited cummies

own choice (please comment below)

Voting ended onJun 27

ameliemommy

The Realization

The moment the tapes seal around your waist, the world shifts. The diaper isn’t just there, it’s everywhere. Thick, plush, suffocating in the best and worst way. The padding swallows your hips, your thighs, even the curve of your bottom, pressing against you like a second skin. You wiggle experimentally, and the crinkle is loud, a defiant announcement to the room: You are a diaper boy now.

Mommy watches, her lips curled in that knowing, infuriating smile. “Go on, baby,” she coos, patting your diapered bottom. “Try it out.”

You hesitate, but the urge is already there, humming under your skin. You’ve spent so long chasing that forbidden pleasure, grinding into the thin fabric of your pull-ups, chasing the friction, the pressure, the release. So you do it now. You shift your weight, pressing your hips down into the padding, searching for that familiar spark.

But there’s… nothing.

Just softness. Endless, suffocating softness. The diaper is so thick, so soft, that your penis might as well be buried in a cloud. You try again, bucking your hips harder, but it’s like trying to light a fire with wet wood. The padding muffles everything, your movements, your sensations, even the sound of your own body. The only thing you feel is the crinkle, the rustle, the embarrassing noise of your own futile efforts.

A whimper escapes your lips. You try to reach inside, but Mommy’s hand shoots out, swatting your fingers away. “Uh-uh, baby,” she chides. “No touching. You wanted to be free, remember? Free to hump all you want.”

You do. God, you do. But the diaper doesn’t care. It just… absorbs. Every thrust, every desperate grind, is met with the same maddening softness. No friction. No edge. Just the slow, creeping realization that you’re not in control here. The diaper is.

You try rolling onto your stomach, pressing your hips into the couch cushions, but the diaper just gives, swallowing your movements. You arch your back, trying to create some kind of pressure, some kind of anything, but it’s like humping a cloud. A very thick, very unforgiving cloud.

Mommy’s fingers trail down your spine, her touch light, teasing. “Having trouble, baby?” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement. She presses her palm against your diapered bottom, pushing you down into the padding. “Maybe you need a little help?”

You groan, your face burning. You want her to help. You want her to fix this. But even her touch, usually so electric, is dulled by the layers of padding. Her fingers dig into the thick material, massaging, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. The diaper is a fortress, and your pleasure is locked outside its walls.

You try one last thing. You spread your legs wider, rocking your hips in slow, deliberate circles, but the diaper just crinkles in response, mocking you. The more you move, the more it swallows you, the padding shifting to envelop every part of you, leaving no room for escape. No room for anything.

And that’s when it hits you.

This is chastity.

Not the cold, hard metal of the cage, but something softer. Something worse. Because this isn’t just about being denied, it’s about being erased. The diaper doesn’t just stop you from finishing. It stops you from feeling. From existing as anything but a baby, a little one, a creature of warmth and softness and helplessness.

Mommy’s hand stills on your back. “Starting to see the truth, baby?” she whispers, her breath warm against your ear. “You wanted to be free. But freedom has a price.” She pats your diaper, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “And this is yours.”

You whimper, your body trembling. The diaper is a prison of its own making, one you chose. And the worst part? You’d choose it again. Because even as the frustration burns inside you, even as the need coils tighter and tighter with no release in sight, there’s a part of you that loves this. That loves the way the diaper holds you, the way it owns you.

Mommy leans down, her lips brushing your ear. “That’s my good boy,” she murmurs. “Now, why don’t you just… relax?”

And you do. Because what else can you do? The diaper has won.

moo-moos

prettyprettypaci3

Diaper humiliation.

I know, I know. You're picturing a big, dramatic scene where I pull down your pants, spank you into submission, tape you into a thick diaper and lock it into place.

You know what's so much more delicious to me? Diaper humiliation as routine. As lifestyle. As background noise.

You come home from work and swap out your house keys for a big pacifier, which you clip to your collar. You pull out your phone as you walk to the living room, casually removing your pants and underwear with your other hand. You lie down on the floor and spread your bare legs in the air, assuming the expected position as you submissively wait for your nightly diaper. Your legs dangle there stupidly as you suckle and scroll.

I let you dawdle like that for a minute or two before coming to oil and powder your bottom. You tell me about your day, drooling a bit through your paci, and I tell you about mine. I fold up the diaper nice and tight against your waiting bum and seal it.

No scene. No roleplay. No taunting or threats. Peeing in diapers and sucking pacifiers are just your everyday home life, as much as Netflix and takeout would be for a normal couple.

Because every once in a while, when you're not expecting it — as you're waddling to the kitchen in your soggy pampers or feeling a rope of drool ooze onto your dinner bib — it hits you like a ton of bricks: What a silly diapered dummy you are! When did being drooly, padded, and humiliated become so natural to you? So unremarkable? Your face will get hot, you'll feel squirmy in your tummy, and it will be so delicious, because it came out of nowhere.

Make it routine.

littlespace-astronaut

And once it's made routine for you, you will sometimes forget that it's *not supposed to be*.

You'll lay down in the living room for a diaper after a long day of work, not realizing that Mama's friend's car was in the driveway when you got home and they walk into the living room while you're just lying there, oblivious. Mama's got you halfway changed into your diaper before it registers that her friend *hasn't seen you like this before* and is acting like this is totally normal.

You'll walk up to Mama while she's on the phone and after telling her something you'll realize that your paci was still in and the person on the line heard you lisping adorably around it and you'll have to pray Mama can come up with some excuse for what they just heard.

Your adult friends will come over and you'll be scrambling at the last minute to make sure you didn't leave any baby toys stuck in the couch cushions or a bottle in the drying rack ... again.

"Baby" will eventually become your everyday state and you'll have to work to remember what real adults talk about with each other. You haven't *forgotten*, you just haven't thought about it in a while so the memories are a bit *fuzzy*. Harder to recall. Buried in your memory under an ever growing pile of stuffies, bottles, and diapers.

Slowly slipping further and further into this "new normalcy" and each time you come up for air, finding it a bit harder to find the surface and shift back to your grown-up mindset. And when you do, how beautifully red your face will get as it dawns on you just how long you had stayed under that time.

ameliemommy

Weekend at Mommy’s

The steering wheel is slick under your palms, the late afternoon sun glinting off the windshield as you pull into the driveway. The house is exactly as it looked in the photos cozy, welcoming, with a swing set in the backyard and a pastel-colored door that seems to whisper, This is where you’re supposed to be. But your stomach is a knot of nerves. You’ve talked to her for months, shared your fears, your desires, the way your little side aches to be let out, to be seen. And now, here you are. David, 28, a man who pays bills and attends meetings and pretends he doesn’t spend his evenings curled up with a stuffed animal, is about to walk into a world where none of that matters.

You kill the engine and sit for a moment, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping you from bolting. What if it’s not what you thought? What if she laughs? What if you’re not little enough? The doubts swirl, but beneath them, there’s a flicker of something warmer, something that feels like coming home. You take a deep breath, grab your bag from the passenger seat, and step out.

The door opens before you can knock.

She stands there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that makes your knees weak. She’s even prettier in person, soft curves, a knowing glint in her eyes, and a voice that wraps around you like a blanket. “Took you long enough, baby boy,” she teases, arms crossed. “I was starting to think you’d chickened out.”

You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how tall you are, how big you feel in your jeans and t-shirt. “N-no, Mommy. Just… traffic.”

She laughs, low and warm, and steps forward to take your bag. “Uh-huh. Traffic made your hands shake?” She nods at your white-knuckled grip on the strap. “Or is it just the thought of what’s waiting for you inside?”

Your face burns. You want to argue, to play it cool, but the way she’s looking at you, like she already knows every secret you’ve ever had, makes the words die in your throat.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she reaches out and takes your hand, her fingers small and warm against yours. “Come on, David. Let’s get you settled.”

The contact sends a jolt through you. It’s so simple, so natural, like she’s done this a hundred times before. And maybe she has. But not with you. Not like this.

The house smells like vanilla and something faintly powdery, like baby lotion. The walls are decorated with framed photos of other littles, some you recognize from her stories, others you don’t. A stuffed elephant sits on a tiny chair in the hallway, watching you with button eyes as Mommy leads you past the living room, down a short corridor, and stops in front of a closed door.

“Here we are,” she says, pushing it open with a flourish.

Your breath catches.

The nursery is more than the photos. The crib in the corner is white, with a mobile of spinning stars above it. A changing table stands against one wall, stocked with wipes and creams and a stack of diapers so thick it makes your pulse race. There’s a playpen, a rocking horse, a shelf overflowing with stuffed animals and board books. And the colors, soft blues and yellows, the kind of pastels that make you feel small just looking at them.

You step inside, your sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, and suddenly the room feels both enormous and suffocating. This is real. This is happening.

Mommy watches you, amused. “Like it?”

You nod, but your voice betrays you. “It’s… a lot.”

She chuckles, stepping closer. “Good. It’s supposed to be a lot.” Her hand lifts, and before you can react, she’s booping your nose. “You’re a big boy out there, David. But in here?” She gestures around. “You’re a little boy. And Mommy takes good care of little boys.”

The words settle over you like a weight, but not an unwelcome one. It’s the kind of pressure that makes your chest tighten, your thoughts fuzzy. You want to argue, to remind her that you’re a grown man, but the way she’s looking at you, like she’s already stripped away every layer of adulthood, makes it hard to remember why that even matters.

“Now,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get you out of those icky big boy clothes, hmm?”

Your stomach flutters. You’ve talked about this, of course. Boundaries, expectations, the way she likes her littles to look. But talking about it and doing it are two very different things.

She doesn’t wait for you to move. Instead, she starts unbuttoning your shirt herself, her fingers deft as she peels it off your shoulders. You stand there, frozen, as the fabric pools at your feet. Then her hands are at your belt, popping the button on your jeans, tugging the zipper down.

“Lift your feet,” she instructs, and like a good boy, you obey, stepping out of your pants as she pulls them away. You’re left in just your boxers and a t-shirt, feeling absurdly exposed.

Mommy hums, tilting her head as she eyes you up and down. “Much better.” Then she reaches for the hem of your shirt. “Arms up.”

You raise them, and she pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in nothing but your boxers. The air is cool against your skin, but the heat in her gaze more than makes up for it.

“Cute,” she murmurs, and you know she’s not talking about your face.

Your boxers come next, and for a second, you hesitate. This is the point of no return. But Mommy doesn’t give you time to overthink it. She hooks her fingers in the waistband and tugs, letting them fall to the floor. You step out of them, bare and vulnerable and hers.

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just smiles, soft and proud, like she’s unwrapping a gift.

“Now,” she says, turning to a dresser and pulling out a thick, white diaper. The crinkle of the plastic is loud in the quiet room. “Let’s get you into something more appropriate.”

You watch, mesmerized, as she unfolds it, the padding so thick it looks like it could swallow you whole. She pats the changing table. “Up you go, baby boy.”

The surface is cool against your bare skin as you lie back, your heart hammering. Mommy moves efficiently, lifting your hips to slide the diaper beneath you, then pulling it up between your legs. The tape is tight as she secures it, the snugness a constant reminder of what you’ve agreed to.

“There,” she says, smoothing the front with a satisfied pat. “All nice and cozy.”

You wiggle your toes, feeling the bulk between your legs. It’s… a lot. More than you expected. But it’s also right. Like a piece of you that’s been missing has finally clicked into place.

She grins, patting your diaper. “And no pants.” She waggles a finger as you open your mouth to protest. “I want to see that cute nappy bum, remember? Besides,” she adds, tapping the front of your diaper, “it’s easier to check on you this way.”

The thought of her checking on you sends another wave of heat to your face.

Next comes the shirt, a soft, short-sleeved Sesame Street tee, the fabric soft and cozy. She pulls it over your head, adjusting the collar with a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”

You look down at yourself. The shirt is snug, the diaper hug your hips, a constant, crinkly presence. You feel… small. Not in stature, but in mind. The worries, the doubts, they’re still there, but they’re quieter now, muffled by the warmth of her attention.

Mommy seems to sense your thoughts. She cups your face in her hands, forcing you to meet her eyes. “Nervous, baby boy?”

You nod, because what else is there to do?

She smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “Good. You should be. This is a big step.” Then her expression softens. “But you’re safe here, David. I promise. No one’s going to judge you. No one’s going to laugh. You can just… be.”

She takes your hand again, leading you toward the crib. The bars are tall, the mattress plush, and for a second, your breath hitches. Locked in. The thought is both terrifying and thrilling.

“You can nap if you want,” she says, patting the sheet. “Or we can play. Or we can just sit and talk. Whatever you need.”

You glance at the crib, then back at her. “What if I… what if I don’t like it?”

Mommy chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Then we’ll figure it out. But I have a feeling,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, “that you’re going to love it.”

And as she helps you climb into the crib, as the mattress dips beneath your weight, as the familiar crinkle of your diaper fills the silence, you realize something:

She’s probably right.

ameliemommy

The Reintroduction

The stroller’s wheels squeak softly as Mommy pushes you through the front door, the sound of laughter and chatter spilling out from the living room. You can feel the weight of the thick diaper between your legs, the plastic backing crinkling with every slight movement. The shortalls do little to hide the obvious bulge, the fabric stretched taut over the padding. You wiggle your toes, the socks on your feet feeling absurdly small, like they belong to a child rather than a grown man. But that’s what you are now, aren’t you? Mommy’s little boy, strapped into a stroller, about to be paraded in front of people who once knew you as an equal.

You grip the tray of the stroller, your fingers tracing the edge of the plastic as Mommy steers you into the room. The conversations falter for a moment, then die entirely. You can almost hear the confusion in the silence. A few of your former coworkers glance over, their expressions shifting from polite smiles to outright bewilderment. One of them, Mark, from accounting, does a double take, his beer bottle pausing halfway to his lips.

“Uh…” he starts, then stops, as if his brain can’t quite process what he’s seeing.

Mommy doesn’t miss a beat. She stops the stroller in the middle of the room, her hand resting on the back as she beams down at you. “Look who I brought!” she announces, her voice dripping with that infuriating, affectionate pride. “Say hi to everyone, sweetheart.”

You squirm, your face burning. You want to shrink into the stroller, to disappear entirely, but there’s nowhere to hide. The diaper is impossible to ignore, the bulk of it pressing against the seat, the tapes digging slightly into your hips. You can feel the warmth spreading through the padding, you’d peed a little on the way over, nerves getting the better of you, and the wetness indicators are probably already an embarrassing blue.

“Hi,” you mumble, your voice small, your eyes fixed on your lap.

Mark, your old coworker, is the first to break the silence. He tilts his head, squinting at the obvious bulge beneath your shortalls. “Dude… is he wearing a diaper?”

Mommy doesn’t hesitate. “Of course he is.”

Sarah, from HR, steps closer, her eyes flicking between Mommy and the unmistakable outline of the diaper. “No way. Seriously?”

Mommy nods, her fingers already working at the snaps of your shortalls. “Seriously.”

Jake from marketing crosses his arms, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement. “But does he, like… use it?”

Mommy’s grin widens as she unfastens the last snap and tugs the shortalls down your legs in one smooth motion. The fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your t-shirt and the thick, crinkling diaper. The room falls silent again as the full sight of you is revealed, the bulky padding, the plastic backing, the way the diaper forces your legs apart.

And then they see it.

The wetness.

The deep blue stripe on the front of the diaper is impossible to miss, the plastic glistening slightly where the moisture has spread. Sarah’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. He peed in it.”

Mommy chuckles, bending down to pull the shortalls free and set them aside. “Told you he uses them.”

Mark lets out a disbelieving laugh, crouching down to get a better look. His fingers hover just above the diaper, as if he’s afraid to touch it. “That’s… that’s wild.”

Jake shakes his head, his grin spreading. “So he just sits there, in a wet diaper, like it’s normal?”

Mommy ruffles your hair, her touch affectionate. “It is normal. For him, anyway.” She taps the front of your diaper, the squish loud in the quiet room. “See? Nice and wet. Just like a good little boy should be.”

The room erupts into laughter, the initial shock giving way to teasing. Sarah reaches out, her fingers brushing against the plastic backing. The crinkle is deafening. “Damn. That’s thick. And wet.”

You squirm, your face burning, but you don’t protest. What’s the point? The evidence is right there, plain for everyone to see. The diaper is heavy between your legs, the wetness a constant, embarrassing reminder of your regression. But beneath the humiliation, there’s something else, something warm, something comforting. This is who you are now. Mommy’s little boy, diapered and cared for, and if that means being the center of attention for a while, so be it.

The teasing continues for what feels like an eternity. They ask if you can walk (you can, but Mommy prefers to keep you in the stroller for “safety”). They ask if you want to be like this (the answer is complicated). They ask if Mommy changes you (yes, and you hate how much you love it).

Eventually, though, the novelty wears off. The adults drift back to their conversations, work, politics, the latest sports game, leaving you and Mommy on the periphery. Mommy bends down, her face softening as she looks at you. “You doing okay, baby?”

You nod, but your throat feels tight.

She smiles, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Good boy. “Now go play.”

Play. The word makes your stomach twist, but you obey, shuffling toward the corner of the room where a few toys have been left out, a stuffed bear, a stack of blocks, a coloring book. You can feel the eyes on you as you move, the occasional snicker, the whispered comments. But you ignore them, because Mommy told you to play, and good boys listen to Mommy.

You sink down onto the floor, the diaper crinkling loudly beneath you. The blocks are in front of you, but you don’t reach for them. Instead, you sit there, your hands resting on your knees, the thickness of the diaper a constant, comforting presence.

Across the room, the party continues. Laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of adult conversation. And you? You’re just… there. A curiosity. A joke. A little boy in a diaper, left to his own devices while the grown-ups talk about grown-up things.

It’s humiliating.

It’s perfect.

Because for all the teasing, for all the stares, you know one thing for certain: you’re hers. And as long as Mommy’s happy, as long as she’s proud of her good little boy, you can endure anything.

mommyandbabyshark-deactivated20

Mommy said good baby’s make big messes in their diapers for their mommy’s to change.

Video 1

pampersboysworld

🤭

justforloislane

This presses all the right buttons

Yes I would

She is so mean

Me won't tell you no

Just as Sweet

His diaper and pacifier silently awaited him atop the coffee table. Normally, they would be hiding away in a box behind my dresses, but tonight was different. Tonight, I was going to spoil him.

He had been such a good boy, after all; he was following his rules: completing his chore chart, cleaning, cooking, and even doing the dishes. So after he got home from work, I would whisk him away to a weekend of forced diapers, snuggles, and love from Mommy. Nothing less than he deserved.

I didn’t have to wait long; the keys jingled in the lock as I heard him arrive. I sauntered to the door with a tilted smirk. Of course, I was going to enjoy this too.

My mommy momentum was momentarily interrupted by the sight of my precious boy holding a bouquet of roses and a box of all my favorite snacks.

My eyebrows bounced in surprise: “What’s all this, baby?”

“Just a little surprise,” he flashed that goofy, crooked smirk that I love. “I just felt like getting you a little something to show you how much I appreciate you.”

“Ahhwwww baby,” My cheekbones hurt from how big I was smiling, “I got a little something for you too…”

I brandished my own devious smirk as I held his adorably infantile diaper in one hand and his equally childish pacifier in the other.

“I was kinda thinking I would spoil you tonight,” he blushed, “give you a nice, long massage and draw a bath with a bath bomb for you…”

“Hmmm,” I purred at the thought of being spoiled, “Mommy says we’re doing both.”

“But–”

“Or I could put you in time out?” I raised a playful eyebrow, almost daring him to cross me when I was in Mommy-mode.

“Both is good,” he held his hands up defensively.

“Good. Why don’t you draw Mommy’s bath while I get your diaper change all set up?”

“Okay Mommy,” he nodded enthusiastically before dashing off into the bathroom. What a cutie.

I wandered into our closet where I took out a footie onesie that sported a little green tail to look like a dragon. I heard the bath run and eventually stop before my boyfriend appeared in the door way.

“C’mere baby,” I waved him over.

“Let’s get these silly big boy clothes off you,” I pulled his shirt off and dragged his pants to his ankles, widening the leg holes enough for him to step out.

I gently guided him onto the open diaper on our bed, awaiting his babyish bottom. I powdered him and taped up the diaper before dressing him in the onesie.

“Now honey,” I found a slightly sterner voice, “Mommy needs to keep an eye on you, so that you don’t get into trouble. You can play with your tablet in the bathroom, while Mommy takes her bath, okay?”

“Okay Mommy,” he licked his lips, obviously not too upset by this.

I caught him gazing up at my wet, naked body from his spot on the floor quite often, but he was otherwise enraptured in his little tablet games. What a baby!

After I had gotten sufficiently dry, I found myself face down on the same mattress I had diapered him on mere moments ago. I felt his warm, soggy crotch straddle my hips. Of course the little potty pants was wet already; I would have to see about diapering him full time.

Whatever musings –regardless of how entertaining– faded away as his lotioned hands pressed into my back, rubbing up and down my length.

“MMmmmm,” I moaned as gentle music began to play.

I really would have to spoil him…

After a divine –almost orgasmic– massage, I led him by the hand to the TV room. I asked him if he wanted to watch Adventure Time, a mostly age-appropriate show that both of us enjoyed. Unsurprisingly, he accepted with enthusiasm.

“Baby,” I sat down in the recliner, “there’s one more thing I want you to do for me before we watch the show.”

“What is it?”

“Humiliate yourself for mommy.”

I stuck my leg out, signaling to him exactly what I expected.

He bit his lip in recognition before planting his squishy, diapered crotch onto my foot.

“Atta boy,” My hand found its way to my pussy as he started to grind.

“m-Mommy~” his moans rang out, signaling that the baby was already close. Yep, I was definitely putting him in diapers full time after this.

“Go ahead baby,” I offered encouragingly, “Spurt for Mommy!”

“Goo goo –GAH GaH,” he mewled out, climaxing with the words I taught him.

“Good boy. Now let’s watch some Adventure Time.”

As he watched on the floor, I drank in the sight of my emasculated little boy watching his cartoons. I fingered myself to a quiet, yet satisfying orgasm. My body twitched with barely restrained pleasure as I finally released a pent up, laborious breath.

“Mommy?” He held me in his dreamy eyes.

“Yes, baby?”

“Whether it’s you taking care of me or me taking care of you, every moment spent with you is just as sweet.”

“Ahhww Baby,” I gushed as I slid down to the floor to wrap him in a hug. “Mommy loves you, sweetie.”

“I love you too Mommy.”

Then, I tickled him.

————————————————————————

As always, all characters depicted are 18+

Image credit to me, and —for the record— I think Shakespeare is a bit of a pretentious bastard

bbcharlotte

pampersboy678

bigbigbabyabdl

I love diaper checks. I can be in smol more or be the adultiest adult with a diaper under my clothes, but when my Big checks my diaper or asks me about my diaper, I go completely Little in that moment.

mommysbiggestchild-deactivated2

Just a little help for CG who might want it

hockeynhandcuffss-deactivated20

Let me gush on why I think diapers are the ultimate tool for control.

It's a status symbol: this is the easiest to explain. You look at a little and know immediately they are not on the same level of you. This padded excuse for underwear shows that the person wearing it is not to be treated as an adult and is to be treated like they do not have the ability to work a toilet let alone handle any responsibilities.

It's a physical barrier: a diaper literally puts a barrier between the little's genitalia and anything that they might want, such as pleasure, the dignity to use the toilet, hell even the ability to clean themselves properly. Just some plastic and fluff keep can be so restrictive.

"functional" clothing: not only does a diaper look and feel like a tool for control but also act the part. It's a container for one of the most humbling liquids on the planet. It also has a hidden purpose of being able to be written on. Even the most basic of diapers can be a powerful tool when used to contain the piss of someone who claims to be an adult

Dependence: there is almost no other kink tool that can be used quite like a diaper to make your little depend on you. It literally has to be acknowledged every 4 to 12 hours. It also often has to be checked, talked about, and changed. If you truly want to make someone dependent on you, make it so they have to come to you to be changed. They will feel your presence with every step they take.

mommysbiggestchild-deactivated2

Just a little help for CG who might want it

hockeynhandcuffss-deactivated20

Let me gush on why I think diapers are the ultimate tool for control.

diapydemon

Zach’s New Life, Chapter 1: The Proposition

CW: ABDL, MDLB, Threesome dynamic, light cucking

Despite being able to sleep in, my body’s internal clock woke me up at eight. I really did try to sleep in, so that I would have some sort of silver lining to loosing my job. I groaned as I lazily bounced myself off my air mattress. My hardwood apartment floor was mostly barren besides the air mattress, an old TV that I took from my parents, and two envelopes that sat at the feet of my door. One red, one white. The red one was anticipated but still disappointing, but the white one was elusively intriguing. I opened the red envelope and found exactly what I expected to find:

Mr. Zach Slider,

We regret to inform you that your monthly rent payment is now late. This marks the third consecutive month you have missed rent. As per Desperado Apartment management policy, you will be evicted. Please be ready to move out within the next ten business days.

Regards, management

I ripped the letter in two in a fit of frustration. The paper shreds floated to the floor where the white envelope sat. I glanced down towards it and was shocked out of my frustration. The first line of the return address held a familiar name: Claire Elise. The same Claire Elise that used to be my girlfriend. The same Claire Elise that discovered that she was, in fact, gay two years into our relationship. We were friendly, but didn’t exactly do a great job keeping in touch besides a few birthday texts and other miscellaneous minor exchanges. All the more reason why this correspondence was strange.

I tentatively scooped the envelope up, and carefully opened it; there were two paper notes inside. One was a thick blue card with large, machine-printed bubble letters that read, “It’s Birthday Time, and You’re invited! 🥳🎉”

The second piece of paper was a piece of stationary paper swimming with beautiful handwritten cursive, Claire’s beautiful handwritten cursive:

Dear Zach,

I hope you’re doing well, but I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve fallen on some hard times. With that in mind, my girlfriend and I have a very special proposition for you that I think you’ll find interesting. I’d love to see you at my birthday party, so that we can catch up and discuss! Between loosing your job and getting kicked out of your parents’ house, I’m sure cash is tight, so we’ll reimburse you for the road trip to our house. I hope to see you soon!

Love, Claire.

That note was strange for a couple of reasons: firstly, I knew her girlfriend. Her name was Lucy, and I was actually the one who introduced them in an ironic twist of fate’s knife. Second, Lucy and Claire must be doing well for themselves if they were offering to pay my way; I knew they made good money from their respective professions and investments, but still. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or grateful. Finally, Claire signed the letter “Love”. She hadn’t used that word in regards to me in at least a year and a half. Also, why was Claire being so vague about this proposition? A part of me wanted to ignore the letter, but I knew I couldn’t; I had already opened my phone to text Claire to let her know that I’d be there.

She responded almost immediately: “Awesome! No need to bring a gift btw”

The party was in a day, so I packed my TV and my deflated air mattress into my car, prepared to live out of my car for a few days. The road trip was only three hours, but the gas money was greatly appreciated. With some good music and some even better vibes, I found myself on Claire and Lacy’s doorstep in no time.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves before I knocked. I knocked timidly. At first, I thought no one heard me, so I was about to knock again. Before I could, I heard Claire’s voice, “coming!”

The door swung open. Claire stood before me, wearing a gorgeous blue sparkling dress that complimented her dark brunette hair. Her crystal blue eyes regarded me with surprise at first. For a split second, I began to sweat with anxiety. Was that note somehow a mistake? Was I not supposed to be here? Before I could continue contemplating, Claire regained some semblance of composure, “Zach!” She pulled me into a hug, “I’m so glad you came! And you’re early.”

I could feel Claire’s full bodied curves, curves that I used to routinely explore in the dead of night. I cautiously returned her embrace, “yea sorry about that, but there wasn’t a time on my invitation.”

“Oh, sorry about that sweetie, I must’ve—“

“Who is it, honey?” Before she could finish, Lucy sauntered down the stairs to interrupt.

Before Claire could respond, Lucy answered her own question: “Oh it’s the little guy who couldn’t cum unless we told him how much of a good boy he was.”

I blushed. Organizing that threesome might’ve been one of the top 11 worst decisions of my life.

“I’m just kidding, Zach,” Lucy and Claire giggled together, “How are you doing, buddy?”

“Good,” I lied on instinct, “…or actually not great. I just got evicted from my place, so I’m hyped to forget about that and party the night away tonight!”

“Oh that sucks,” Lucy replied, casually flicking her fiery red locks out of her freckled face. Her emerald eyes anxiously darted to Claire and then back to me.

“Yea,” Claire agreed, “that actually reminds me of that proposition I mentioned in my note. Do you want to come sit at the kitchen table, so we can talk about it?”

“Sure,” I replied cautiously.

The kitchen was ornate in a homely kind of way; the light wood of the cabinets was polished and the marble countertops shimmered in the natural light that flowed through the windows.

“So,” Claire started, “do you have a plan now that you’ve been evicted and have lost your job?”

I looked to the table. Of course this was the first thing they wanted to talk about. Who were they, my parents?

“Not yet,” I admitted.

Lucy nodded, “then I think our proposition might interest you.”

“Totally,” Claire agreed, “the proposition involves you living with us as a sort of… roommate. And you’d get to live here rent free!”

I blinked. Why would they want me to live here rent free, “what’s the catch?”

Lucy chuckled, “what a clever boy you are.”

“Just keep an open mind,” Claire said, “and we’ll show you to your room and explain.”

I followed the pair of women up the stairs. We stopped at a room near the end of the hallway. Claire removed a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

The room was a nursery, except it was massive. There was a massive white, wooden crib in the corner, a huge changing table in the opposite corner, and a large circular rug in the middle of the room that was decorated with trains, dinosaurs, and the ABCs. Stacks and stacks of adult diapers with childish prints sat under the changing table.

“Wha—“

“Ah ah,” Claire shushed me, “Let us explain before you say anything.”

I silently nodded.

“Good boy,” Claire continued, “Zach we know you’re kinky, and you know we’re kinky. Think of this like that: a fun little kink for all of us to enjoy. Plus, it’s a free place to stay and everything would be taken care of for you!”

“It’s a steal of a deal,” Lucy agreed.

“But… why?” Is all I could muster.

“Well,” Claire’s eyes sunk to the floor, “Lucy and I have been exploring some different things, and we came to the decision that this is what we want.”

“We want a little to care for and call our own, but neither of us felt quite right slipping into that role,” Lucy shrugged.

“But then we thought of the cutest submissive boy we both already know…”

“...Me?” I raised my eyebrows. It was true I tended to lean more to the submissive side, but this was definitely something new to me.

“We’re your friends,” Lucy added, “we want to help you out while helping ourselves at the same time, you know?”

“You work so hard just to get by,” Claire agreed, “and you’re such a sweet guy. Maybe it would be nice to let someone else take care of you for a change?”

“Maybe,” I muttered, trying my best to keep an open mind. Part of me wanted to take offense but a separate part of me was touched by their display of care and concern, albeit strange in nature.

“So what will it be Zach,” Claire smiled up at me, “will you be our baby?”

Read Chapter 2 here

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This is an old story originally featured on my old blog, Diapy Dragon, but I would like to continue/reboot it, so I’m posting it here.

As always, all a characters depicted are 18+