begging daddy for a spanking...
noise dept.

Janaina Medeiros
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
KIROKAZE
dirt enthusiast
No title available
Claire Keane
Mike Driver
will byers stan first human second

titsay
$LAYYYTER

JBB: An Artblog!

izzy's playlists!
taylor price
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
todays bird
Keni
wallacepolsom

No title available

seen from Belgium
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

seen from Bulgaria
seen from South Korea
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Netherlands
seen from Türkiye

seen from South Korea

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Peru
@lamborghiniguy
begging daddy for a spanking...
Reflections
Chad and Lori collapsed on the bed, panting heavily. The springs of the mattress squeaked, but not nearly as much as they just had moments prior.
“Did you cum?” Chad asked between breaths.
“Oh yea.” Lori smiled, “Twice.”
There was a time when he never would have asked that, when he never would have even cared whether she climaxed or not. Why would he concern himself with something like that? As long as he got to cum, what did it matter? Right?
Chad slid his arm under the arch of Lori’s neck and shoulder, bringing her in close, nuzzling his bearded chin against her back as they spooned. A thought came to his mind. “Do you think we’d still be married if it hadn’t been for last year?” he asked.
Lori interlaced her fingers into his giant hands, thinking. She thought about all the times she wanted to say things but couldn’t. The eight years she spent biting her tongue, biding her time, hoping he would change, hoping she would change, but never doing anything about it. Convincing herself that this was how marriage was supposed to feel. Lori was always the one who aimed to please. She hated confrontation, she dreaded the possibility of being the nagging, demanding sort of wife her mother was. Her father always told her it was the reason he left, she didn’t want the same to happen to Chad.
But Chad must have loved that about Lori. She wasn’t like other girls who had to be pampered, attended to their every need, and required constant reassurance. Chad could spend all day and all night drinking, and Lori wouldn’t say a word! She’d even pick up all his empty cans and clothes he’d strown out over the house. She’d do it with a smug look on her face, sure, but she never said anything. He got to do almost anything he wanted without repercussions. It was the perfect life.
But as the saying goes, “Happy wife, happy life”, and Lori was far from happy. Her friends were constantly telling her she needed to stick up for herself, to stop putting up with Chad’s antics, to stand her ground and speak up when she felt wronged.
“No,” Lori finally said, stroking the hair on his arms, “I don’t think we would have made it if it weren’t for last year.”
Chad smiled against her shoulder. “I don’t either.” He traced lazy circles along her spine with one calloused finger, watching the fine hairs lift beneath it. “I don’t even think regular therapy would’ve worked on me.”
Lori turned over so she could face him, wanting to see his expressions, “You don’t?”
“Not a chance.” Chad replied.
Lori breathed a sigh of relief. She studied him for a moment. The beard that had come in after his year of enforced smoothness suited him now, the softness of his expression did, too.
“Sometimes I thought I went too far,” she admitted. “When I think back to everything… all the things I actually did…”
Chad smiled, remembering. “You were vicious sometimes.”
“I had to be,” she said simply. “I had to show you who was boss, and I had to learn to actually be the boss of my own feelings.”
He nodded at that. There was no resentment left in his voice, just recognition.
Lori’s thoughts drifted back to the first day their marriage counsellor had introduced the idea. Regression Therapy, she’d called it, as if the phrase alone didn’t sound absurd enough.
“It’s an emerging behavioral model,” Dr. Gatlin had said once Lori was the only one left in the room. “Combined with a chastity component, it has been shown to produce remarkable results. The goal isn’t necessarily punishment, it’s correction. Instilling better habits, for both of you.
Lori had gone home with pamphlets, a set of laminated instructions, and the feeling of being completely and utterly lost. How could something so outlandish possibly work?. She never thought she’d be able to do all the things the program called for. It just…wasn’t her personality. And yet, in that hopeless stretch of their marriage, she had been willing to try anything.
“What were your thoughts?” Lori asked, “when I brought out the diaper for the first time?”
“I thought you were fucking crazy!” Chad smiled, poking her lightly on the nose with his sausage finger. “You and Dr. Gatlin. Remember? I called her a ‘quack’.”
Lori laughed aloud, the sound bright in the dim room. “You were fully dressed for your session, remember? The bonnet, the mittens, oh! And that shirt that didn’t cover a thing. And there you were, trying to whine and throw a little hissy fit.”
“I remember that,” Chad blushed a bit, “she didn’t say a word, just walked up and put the pacifier in my mouth. Then showed you how to spank me while I still had a diaper on.”
He rubbed the back of his thighs subconsciously as he recalled the events.
“I still feel like my spankings never really hurt you, though.” Lori said.
“Oh they hurt,” Chad replied, then shrugged, “Especially when you used the paddle or the hairbrush. But they hurt my pride more than anything.”
He remembered how often he got spanked in the early days. Dr. Gatlin made it a point to Lori that she needed to reprimand him every time she felt slighted by his behavior. Chad had no idea how many things he’d been doing that secretly bothered Lori. Leaving his socks on the floor, the shower curtain crumpled instead of stretched so it could air out and prevent mold and mildew, and overall just not paying attention to her wants and needs.
“It was so cute when you would try to be a big stwong man in front of your buddies,” she said, “any time you tried to talk sports or how much you lifted at the gym, all I had to do was come over, peek a finger into your waistband, and check your diaper to bring you right back down to Earth!”
Chad chuckled as he sat up a bit, cradling his head in his hand. “You loved humiliating me!” he said, playfully pinching her sides and making her giggle.
“I did! I sure did!” Lori said, “Remember the zoo? All those people thought it was the animals making that stinky smell. I had to make sure they knew who the real culprit was!”
“Oh god, that was such a bad day! My stomach was in fits the whole time we were there!”
“That’s because I slipped a little something into your bottle at the reptile exhibit…” Lori whispered conspiratorially, grinning.
“I knew it! I knew you did!!” Chad shouted with feigned flummox, he squeezed her into a hug, his muscular arms wrapped tightly around her. Then he sighed, “I hated that stupid cage though…”
“What? The cage for the monkeys?” Lori teased, knowing what he was actually referring to.
“No…you know what I mean.” Chad grimaced at the thought of it.
“Well of course you hated it, you were used to getting a blowjob a day from me, and sex whenever you wanted. So of course you weren’t happy with anything less than that!”
It had been their biggest point of contention throughout the process. Chad was constantly complaining about the way the cage chafed him, that his balls were swollen and blue, that he needed to cum in order to stay healthy. It was hard for Lori too, her inherent need to please was constantly telling her to go easy on him. That a little orgasm once a week wouldn’t hurt. But Dr. Gatlin insisted that she had to be strong. She needed to deprive him in order to elicit the response and change in behavior she wanted out of Chad.
Chad was so pouty at first. Then his pouting turned to grouchiness, and then full on temper tantrums. She specifically remembered him throwing a fit on the ABC padded floor. Tossing his rattles and blocks and bucking back and forth while his pissy diaper crinkled and flopped around. It took everything Lori had not to cave, to not unlock him right then and there, say sorry, and give him the best blowjob he’d ever received. But she had to stand strong, arms crossed, put on a brave, stern face, and tell him no. Then promptly spank him for his poor behavior. It took her a while, but eventually she learned that authority wasn’t cruelty.
They ended up going with a gold star system. She had a little calendar where every day she would decide whether he deserved a sticker or not. If he’d done everything she asked, ate his mushy breakfast in the highchair with minimal fuss, refrained from using foul language, and kept his diaper on the whole day until ‘Mommy’ decided it was time for changing, he would earn a star. But even the slightest hiccup, just the slightest bit of hesitation when she told him to do something, the slightest complaint about anything dealing with his new, diapered life, or even one use of the word ‘fuck’ or ‘ass’ would result in her withholding the star from that day.
“That first month, I don’t think you got a single gold star…” she recalled.
“Oh I definitely didn’t,” Chad said, shaking his head at his own stupidity, “I can’t believe what a–butthead–I was.”
Lori’s eyebrow had crooked when she sensed he was about to say the word ‘asshole’. Just because the therapy session was over, it didn’t mean he could go back to his old ways. He smiled sheepishly, knowing he almost got himself in trouble.
“God that first release though…” Chad sighed, “That was…something.”
It took 10 gold stars to get an orgasm, and it took almost 8 weeks for Chad to earn his first one.
“Now this is very important,” Dr. Gatlin had told her, “When you finally let him cum, you need to make sure he does it in the diaper.”
“I wish I would have recorded it,” Lori said, thinking back to him humping the floor. “The noises you were making were pretty…pathetic.”
Chad blushed a bit, smiling, “I’m pretty sure the neighbors could hear me moaning.”
“They certainly did, all 15 seconds of it,” Lori agreed, laughing wholeheartedly “That was also the most disgusting diaper of yours I’ve ever had to change.”
Chad raised his eyebrows, “Really?”
“Oh yea! Are you kidding me?” Lori scoffed, “There was cum everywhere! Annddd you had to piss and mess it before.”
Chad looked ashamed, so Lori placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I got used to it. Plus, it was worth it to see you make your humpies in your dumpies.”
Chad smiled again. “No sex for a whole year, I never thought I’d be able to do it.”
“Me neither.”
Sex wasn’t completely out of the question though. Just because Chad wasn’t allowed to attend to his needs didn’t mean Lori didn’t have needs of her own. Chad had to learn how to go down on her. He’d never done it before, never thought that it was necessary. So Lori had to coach him. She never thought she would be communicating about how she likes her clit licked and nibbled ever so softly, but she did. Over time, Chad had gotten quite good at it. Having to do it every time he asked for a diaper change sure gave him lots of practice.
That reminded her.
“You have something to attend to,” she said, pointing down between her legs. Chad’s load from earlier was now leaking out of her.
“Yes ma’am.” Chad said without hesitation, sliding down the bed, lifting her left leg and putting it on his shoulder, then doing the same with the other leg.
She loved the way his beard felt against her pussy. He wasn’t allowed to have facial hair while he was dressed like a baby, it didn’t really fit with the whole look. But now he had that nice stubble going as he lapped up his cum oozing out of her. She grabbed the back of his head and forced it harder into her. Smashing his nose against her pubis. Chad licked her slowly, confidently, and attentively. Kissing her sensually on her labia, running his tongue up and down, in and out. He brought her to two more bedrocking orgasms before coming back up for air.
“How was that? Was everything okay?” he asked genuinely.
She smiled and patted him softly on the head, admiring how far he’d come, and how hard she’d just cum. She reached over to the nightstand to grab her glass of water. It was sitting next to a beautiful bouquet of flowers. In their first 7 years of marriage, Chad had never bought her flowers. Now she had a wondrous display of Stargazer Lilies, and it wasn’t even a special occasion. It was just because.
After months of the gold star system, Chad figured out the best way to earn a gold star was not to simply do the things that were expected anymore. Lori was getting much more hesitant about handing out stars, she wanted to keep him locked and obedient after seeing how easy it was to control him that way. So Chad had to change tactics. He started surprising her more. Bringing home chocolates and other nicknacks to show he’d been thinking about her, that he cared about her, and wanted to see her happy. As a result, he noticed the gold stars started flowing in. Chad didn’t know why he’d neglected things like that for so long. The ‘humpy dumpies’ were nice, but seeing the smile on her face from receiving an act of love was even better. And it was just flowers! So simple!
He kissed her lips softly between smiles. “You’ve got some white stuff on our chin…” Lori laughed, using her finger to scoop Chad’s cum from his beard and bringing it to his lips. Smiling as she watched him suckle her finger.
“Remember how you used to feel about gay people? Or anyone LGTBQ?” Lori asked.
Chad grimaced again. “Don’t remind me.”
“You called my brother a fag.” Lori reminded him anyway.
Chad sat with his legs crossed, burying his face in his hands. “I was an idiot.” he sighed.
It had always bothered Lori the way Chad would turn her nose up any time they were around her brother Adam. Like Adam was less of a man or something just because he liked other men.
“I forget…who was the first guy you sucked off?” Lori asked.
“I don’t even remember his name…” Chad sighed, “It was about 2 weeks after you first started making me wear dresses. It was after I had that breakdown and kept calling myself a ‘man’ and not a baby. You…you proved me wrong real quick…”
“Nothing shatters the male ego like having to wear pink,” Lori recited. Dr. Gatlin’s words, not hers. “I remember now. We were at a Truck Stop. You were wearing a pretty little sundress. You kept adjusting your wig and tugging at your skirt hoping it would cover up your diaper. It didn’t. Hahaha! The way your voice changed into this pathetic little high pitched lisp every time you asked a man if you could suck their dick so your ‘Mommy would let you make humpies in your dumpies’. It was honestly fucking adorable.”
“He wasn’t adorable though,” Chad grumbled, remembering the guy that finally agreed to go back into a stall with him. “He wasn’t very nice, and his dick tasted like salt.”
“He called you a fag, too.” Lori recalled, “Right after he jizzed in your mouth.”
Chad turned his nose up, cringing at the irony. “I really should apologize to your brother…” he said.
Lori nodded, “Especially since you’ve probably sucked more dicks than he has at this point.”
Chad laughed, knowing it was probably true. “That reminds me, the dog got into our toybox…”
“Oh no! Did he tear anything up?”
“Just the strapon. It’s now…ribbed…for our pleasure.”
They laughed at the awful joke. “It wasn’t the big one, was it?”
“Na, just the purple one you used when you first started…training me.”
Lori thought back to all the times she came into the room wearing it. Seeing Chad’s face deflate as he saw what was in for him that day, knowing he couldn’t say no. Just like Lori couldn’t say no any time Chad wanted sex before. He had to just accept it, no matter how inopportune the time or how much he wasn’t in the mood.
“Nothing knocked you down a peg or two quite like me…pegging you.” she laughed, pinching his rosy cheek.
Chad laughed and smacked her hand away playfully, climbing on top of her and pinning her down for a long, passionate kiss to change the subject. Lori reciprocated the kiss, but she wasn’t done teasing him, she continued to talk about it even after their lips parted.
“You used to hate it up the ass. You’d whine and cry and beg and plead. You were such a BABY about it!!” she giggled, “Now though? I can’t remember the last time we’ve had sex without you asking for at least a few fingers back there…”
She reached behind him to emphasize her point, tapping the base of the plug still nestled between his buttcheeks.
“I hated everything at first.” Chad said, “The diapers, the dresses, the pegging, everything. I never thought something so crazy would have worked but…it did. It took me being treated like a baby girl to make me a better man.”
Lori couldn’t agree more, “I’ve been telling everyone I can about it. I have a Facebook group of over 5,000 women that are subscribing to Dr. Gatlin’s program.”
Chad thought about that for a bit. That’s 5,000 husbands waddling around in wet diapers, learning how to be better partners, all thanks to them.
“You know Sherie? The girl I go to zumba class with?” Lori asked, Chad nodded. Before, he couldn’t even tell Lori what her sister’s name was. Chad rarely listened to anything Lori said. Tuning her out to do more important things like watch the game or play on his phone. Several spankings and withholdings of stars turned that all around. Now, when she spoke, he was all ears.
“Her husband Brad is 3 months into the program.” Lori continued, “He’ll be sucking your dick next week by the way. It’ll be his first time, so don’t be surprised if there’s a little bit of teeth…”
Chad chuckled half-heartedly.
“What’s the matter?” Lori asked, sensing his change in tone. “Is that a problem?”
“No, it's fine. It’s just…” He thought about how to word it. “It’ll be weird…seeing someone in that situation. Someone that isn’t myself…”
Lori went to place her hand on his lap, but instead she felt something else. A large, throbbing, veiny, something else.
“Awwww!! You miss it don’t you?” Lori smiled. “You miss your diapers?”
Chad smirked slightly, but instantly tried to hide it.
“Tell me,” she hissed in his ear. Dr. Gatlin had always stressed that the ‘AB’s’ needed to vocalize their wants and desires.
“I…I miss my diapers…” he said, his voice containing the high-pitched hints of submission. The submission he’d tried to keep out of his voice for so long. Always trying so desperately to sound like a man. To be a man. Or at least be what society thought of as a prototypical man.
“Now tell me like a baby.”
Chad brought his legs instantly up into criss-cross-applesauce. He almost put his thumb up to his mouth out of habit, but stopped himself. Lori was amazed at how fast he could slip back into subspace.
“I…I miss my diapies, Mommy”, he said in the most high-pitched lisp she’d ever heard him do, even when he was deep within the throws of the program.
“You do?? Really?” she asked teasingly, “You miss babbling like a baby? Wearing bibs and bonnets? Going potty all over yourself like a helpless little loser?”
He nodded intensely, like he’d been bottling it up for a while, and it was all finally coming out.
“I miss making pee pees and poo poos and…cum cums in my diapy, Mommy”
It made sense. If the only place you were allowed to cum was in a pair of Pampers for a whole year, you would probably develop an affinity for it too. It had been two months since they completed the year-long program. Lori remembered how Chad still waddled the first few weeks, despite not having the bulkiness of a diaper between his legs anymore.
“I think you still have a few diapers left in the bag, why don’t you–”
But before Lori could even finish her sentence, Chad was clambering off the bed and digging through the old diaper bag.
“There’s only one left…” he said, sounding more than a little disappointed as he brought back the last Rearz princess diaper. He handed it to Lori and climbed back on the bed into the ‘changing’ position. Immediately putting his legs up in the air and his waist off the ground so Lori could easily slide it beneath him.
She couldn’t help but think about all the times she had to diaper him while he was tied up and gagged with a penis pacifier to keep him from kicking and screaming. Instead, this time his cock was bouncing happily as it twinged from being more erect than she ever remembered seeing it in all their years of marriage. His breathing was truncated and measured, the base of the plug pumping back and forth as his hole puckered in anticipation of his first diaper in months.
Chad had an admittedly large penis, it was part of the reason he was such a douchebag for so much of his life. Usually those that were well endowed thought of themselves as god’s gift to women, so they didn’t think they needed to pay attention to the wants and desires of their partners. Lori sent a telepathic ‘thank you’ to Dr. Gatlin for changing all of that as she pulled the diaper up his front and started taping it closed. Chad was so hard that the head of his cock was able to poke out the top of the diaper’s waistband. It wiggled back and forth, leaving strings of precum everywhere as Chad wallowed in the feeling of being padded again.
“How does that feel, baby?” she asked, pressing her hand down on the bulge of his diaper.
“It feels sooo good, Mommy!” he said in his lispy baby voice. All it took was a pink pair of princess pampers to reduce her 6’2’’, 220 lb., gorilla-sized husband into a bowl of mush.
“Here’s your rattle,” she said, taking out the small plastic toy, “make it ring so Mommy knows when to rub…”
Chad made grabby hands for the rattle, taking it with his left hand and using his right hand to instantly plop his thumb into his mouth. He started vigorously shaking the rattle.
Lori smiled as she used her hand to feel his cock throbbing even through the padding of his diaper. She squeezed it gently, tracing the outline with her thumb and forefinger. Running them up and down his length, stopping when she got to the head of his penis poking out.
It must have felt so good that he forgot to keep rattling. So she stopped. Watching his eyes peel open until he realized what the hold-up was, and resumed rattling again. Cooing and mewling softly to himself as she pressed her palm into the base of where his shaft would be. She forgot how cute he looked all diapered up and babbling like a baby. How good a fresh diaper smelled. She associated the crinkling sound with watching her husband transform into a better man.
She looked down at the head of his penis, purple and pulsing. It had been over a year since she’d put it in her mouth. She didn’t have to anymore. Even once he got out of his diapers and cage, he didn’t ask for it. Before, he would just snap his fingers and she would have to drop everything to drop to her knees.
She wanted to do it for him now. After how far he’d come, she wanted to reward him. She leaned down without losing the rhythm of her hand on his cushy cock. She licked where his frenulum is, the sensitive part. Giggling at how much he squirmed in ecstasy. She pressed firmly with her hand to raise the head up just enough off his tummy so she could slip it in her mouth.
Ew.
She immediately withdrew it when she tasted the warm, salty, bitterness of precum. She’d forgotten how bad it tasted. She always hated the taste of cum, but Chad would always make her swallow when she gave him a blowjob. It wasn’t until he got his first mouthful of warm, gooey jizz that he apologized for all those years. Her days of sucking cock as a means of anything other than foreplay were probably long gone.
“I’m sorry I was such a shitty husband,” he said as he rang his rattle. She would punish him for using bad words later. Right now she liked seeing him so vulnerable. Wriggling beneath her and confessing his sins. “I treated you so poorly, and you always stuck by me.” he said, breathing heavily.
She used the hand that wasn’t pressed on his padded cock to put a consoling hand on his tummy. “It’s okay, honey. You’re better now.” she said, then added, “we both are.”
He stayed silent for a while, not even cooing or moaning. She thought something might be wrong, until he finally said, “I…I want to keep wearing diapers, Mommy.”
“You do?” Lori asked, genuinely surprised this time.
He nodded stiffly. She wasn’t sure if he was being serious, or he was just caught up in the mood. She thought it might be the latter, so she played along. “Well then you’ll have to go get some more. Maybe the cute girl is still working behind the counter at the diaper supply store. You can tell her how you couldn’t resist being out of diapers anymore! Maybe she’ll change you into one again like she did last time!”
He flushed at that. Probably remembering how much he cried before being sent in to fetch more diaper supplies. The girl offered to change him as a form of customer service, she’d probably changed hundreds of pathetic, pampered husbands. But Chad felt like his change was unique and humiliating. It certainly was, they let Lori see the security video after he left. That girl had a way with words.
Lori pressed one hand between his legs with her palm to wriggle the plug around inside him. “Do you want to be a baby boy or a baby girl?”
“A baby girl” he said without hesitation, panting heavily. “I like feeling pwetty. I just didn’t like the panties, they not comfy…”
“Well it’s a good thing baby girls don’t wear panties then isn’t it? Just pink princess pampers like you are now!”
His breathing quickened, his legs started to tense.
“I’m gonna make a goo goo, Mommy” he said around the thumb in his mouth.
“I know you are, baby. And you’re going to do it right in your diaper where it belongs.”
He wasn’t, his dick was poking too far out for that, but Lori knew if she talked to him like that it would make the process happen faster. She remembered how timid and shy she used to be when she first started dominating him. So unsure of herself, so scared of what he’d think, or how silly she sounded. Now she didn’t care. In fact, she quite enjoyed it.
Chad groaned and writhed beneath her hands as the head of his cock swelled even more than Lori thought possible, then it erupted. Spewing hot, sticky goo all over his hairy chest and belly.
“Don’t move.” she said. Not that he was in danger of doing so. His eyes hadn’t even come back to the front of their sockets yet.
She reached into the bag and pulled out one of his old baby spoons.
“From now on, when you cum, it goes in your mouth.” she said, scooping up some of the snotty puddle with the spoon and bringing it to his lips. He grimaced at first, horniness having faded, but her stern look told him he’d best obey. He parted his lips so she could insert the spoonful. “Every time you cum, do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am.” he nodded obediently.
She scooped up another gooey mouthful, using her finger to help it on the spoon. “So were you serious about wearing diapers again?” she asked. A bit of it missed his mouth, so she pushed it back in with the spoon.
Chad shook his head, “No…not really. Not unless I’m bad…”
Lori scoffed. “Oh please, then you’ll just be bad so that I will put you in diapers!!”
He laughed and shrugged at that, knowing she was right.
“I tell you what,” she said as she brought up the last spoonful, “From now on, they’re only going to be used as a reward. If you’re a good boy or…gurl all week, I’ll let you wear your diapers.”
“And make dumpy humpies??” he asked, eyes wide.
“And make dumpy humpies.” she smiled, tossing the spoon back to the bag and laying down next to him so he cradled her in his muscular arms. She didn’t bother taking his diaper off. Now that his erection had subsided he wouldn’t be in danger of it poking out and leaking into the bed when he inevitably pissed in it. She had a feeling he was eager to feel a wet diaper again.
“I love you so much,” he said before she could.
“I love you, too.” she said, smiling up and kissing him.
“I’m so glad we did this.” he said.
“What? Made you cum in a pink diaper?” she teased.
He laughed. “You know what I mean. Dr. Gatlin, the diapers, the dresses…everything.”
“Me too.” she said, and she meant it. Even though it was hard at times–changing a grown man’s diaper every day isn’t exactly a vacation– it was worth it. Her husband was a better man, and she was a better woman.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” he said, adjusting his diaper so it covered him more thoroughly. “Happy wife…”
“Happy life.” she finished for him.
They giggled and kissed each other one last time before drifting off to sleep, both smiling softly and knowing that their marriage was in the best place it had ever been.
The End
I hate this cover, but I was getting too frustrated with fucking ai to mess with it any longer. Feel free to make a better one if you have more patience than I. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!
Under Her Roof
Chapter 1 - Mother Knows Best
Claire was crying again.
She had her back to me, standing at the edge of the bed, folding clothes into the red duffel. Her shoulders shook with each breath, but her hands moved on autopilot. Not frantic. Not angry. Just steady, like she was preparing for a funeral.
I leaned on the doorframe with my arms crossed, trying to look calm, though every muscle in me was tight. I had braced myself for screaming. For things thrown at my head. Instead, she was quiet…and that was worse.
“How long are you planning to drag this out?” I asked finally.
She didn’t answer.
I shifted my weight. “I told you I’m sorry.”
Nothing.
“I don’t know what else you want from me.”
She turned sharply then, like she had a thousand words trapped behind her teeth but wouldn’t release a single one. Her face was drawn, exhausted. Her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. No tears left, just the hollow remains.
“I made a mistake,” I said, pushing off the frame. “One mistake.”
Her shoulders twitched, but she kept folding. Socks. Undershirts. Neatly rolled.
““I was drunk,” I added. “And she meant nothing. I told you that.”
Claire’s yanked the zipper shut with a sharp tug. “You think that makes it better? All it means is you wasted us for nothing.”
She turned then, facing me squarely. Her face was wet and raw, but her voice had hardened into something steady, almost calm. “You keep saying you’re still the man I married. But the truth is… you never were. You never grew up, Ethan. For YEARS I've been picking up after you, cooking for you, cleaning your shit off the toilet bowl, waiting for you to finally take some semblance of responsibility, feeling like your fucking mother, and then you go and do this...”
I swallowed hard. “I’m still the man you married.”
Her head shook once, slow and deliberate. “That’s exactly the problem. You haven’t changed at all. I thought I could get you to grow up eventually, but instead you’ve been stuck as this… boy I have to take care of. Not a husband. Not a partner. Certainly not a man.” She drew in a shuddering breath, steadied it, and looked at me with eyes that no longer wavered.
“Which is why this has to happen.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and weighted.
I broke it, because I always did. “Is this you talking? Or is your mother.” I pressed on. “God knows she’s been in our marriage since day one. Might as well move back into her guest room, let her pour you a rosé, stroke your hair, and tell you how right she was about me.”
Claire stood, turning slowly to face me. Her cheeks wet, her eyes rimmed in red. But her voice was low and steady: “You really think this is about her?”
I smirked, though my stomach knotted. “It’s always about her.”
“Maybe she just saw through you,” she said, brittle but clear. “Long before I did.”
That landed. She gripped the duffel bag gruffly of the bed.
“So what—” I scoffed, “you’ll hide out there for a week, cry to Mommy about your mean husband?”
She slung the strap over her shoulder, stepping past me.
“The bag,” she said softly. “Isn’t for me.”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
Before she could answer, we both heard it: tires crunching on gravel. Headlights swept across the far wall, throwing long bars of light over the room. Claire’s eyes closed for a single breath.
My stomach dropped. “No…you didn’t.”
Claire said nothing. She didn’t need to.
I spun toward the hall, my heart thudding. “What is your mother doing here?”
Three sharp knocks hit the front door. Precise. Measured. Like everything she did.
Claire moved with mechanical resolve, down the hall, to the door. I followed a few steps but stopped when it swung open.
Kathy stepped inside. Slate-gray blouse, tailored slacks. Nails immaculate. Her chestnut hair swept back in immaculate, lacquered waves, framing her face with uptight perfection. Not a strand dared to fall loose. Her face was a mask of severity, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp with the kind of judgment that made my stomach knot. Even the way she held herself (Spine rigid, chin lifted, every movement measured) radiated discipline and control. Her heels clicked once on the tile, echoing like a gavel.
Then her gaze found Claire. In an instant, the frost melted. The lines in her brow softened, the edges of her mouth curved, and the stern figure transformed into something almost tender. She crossed the room swiftly, pulling Claire into a tight embrace, her hand cradling the back of her daughter’s head the way you soothe a little one after a nightmare.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured. “There, there! You’re doing the right thing. This is for the best.”
Claire sagged into her like she’d been holding her breath for years.
“I know this isn’t easy,” Kathy said, low and deliberate. “But it’s for the best. Everything is in place. Everything we talked about.”
Claire nodded faintly, still gripping her mother like she would fall without her.
“It’ll be okay,” Kathy assured her. “I’ve made sure of it.”
Claire exhaled, a broken release, and for the first time all night I saw the scared part of her peek through. Relief flickered at the edges of her grief.
My jaw clenched. My fists balled.
Then Kathy turned to me.
The warmth vanished. Her gaze swept over me slowly, cataloguing everything she’d always despised: my stubble, my slouch, my existence.
“Is that the bag?” Kathy asked, nodding toward the duffel.
Claire’s lips pressed into something that almost resembled a smile. Her voice was steadier now, edged with something darker. “It’s not much. Just the basics. You’ll have the rest waiting.”
Kathy’s eyes stayed on me, her voice smooth and certain. “Yes. His new wardrobe is already prepared.”
I blinked hard. “What?”
Kathy bent down, lifted the duffel with one hand, and straightened like it weighed nothing.
“You think you can just show up here and—” I started.
“Show up?” Her eyes cut to mine, cold. “No, dear. I was invited. You’re the one who’s no longer welcome here.”
My fists clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you’re her mother doesn’t mean you’re mine!”
She didn’t blink. Her voice came low, steady, final. “No. If you were my son, I’d have raised you better. Which is exactly what I’m going to do.”
The words landed harder than a slap.
I turned to Claire, desperate for mercy, for hesitation, for anything. But she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Wait…” My throat tightened. “What are you saying?”
Claire finally looked up, her voice quiet but unshakable. “You’re going to stay with her. For the foreseeable future.”
My mouth went dry. “What?”
“You can’t stay here,” she said. “Not after this.”
Kathy stepped closer, her tone flat as steel. “You don’t have options, Ethan. You burned those bridges already.”
My chest seized. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m beyond serious,” Kathy said. “Your behavior is out of control. You’ve shown you’re no man. So we’re going to start over.”
I stared at her, fury spiking, shame crawling up my throat. “You’ve always wanted this. You never thought I was good enough.”
“Because you weren’t,” she answered, ice in her tone. “And now you’re mine to fix.”
My voice rose too loud in the narrow entryway. “What does that even mean? Start over? Fix? I’m a person, not a—”
“A person who needs structure,” Kathy cut in, “A person who cannot be trusted to make adult choices without supervision.”
Behind me, Claire’s voice cracked. “If you behave, maybe…one day…you can come back.”
The word “behave” stuck in my chest. Like she was talking to a child, not her husband. When she finally looked at me, I saw something I didn’t want or expect to see: relief. She was steadier now that I was leaving.
Kathy set the duffel by her side, her gaze never leaving mine.
I looked between them, fury climbing my throat. Part of me wanted to stand my ground, to tell Kathy to get out, to remind Claire this was my house. For a moment I even thought about it.
But the silence stretched, and the truth pressed down on me. I had no money. No place to go. Not even Claire on my side anymore. If there was any chance of getting her back, it meant doing whatever my wife and my bitch of a mother-in-law said.
I opened my mouth, but Kathy’s hand came up, palm out, cutting me off.
“No,” she said. Firm. Final. “You’ve said enough.”
Claire’s tears kept running, but her expression told the truth: she wanted this.
Kathy pointed to the door. “Go,” she ordered. “Now.”
I hesitated, every part of me burning to resist. Then I forced myself forward. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew I had to. This was the price: staying with my monster mother-in-law…and whatever came with her. I didn’t know what that would be, only that I’d hate every second of it. If only I knew then how right I would be.
I turned for one last glance at Claire. Through the blur of her tears, her mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. The kind that said she was already picturing what waited for me under Kathy’s roof. Then she shut the door with a heavy slam, the sound echoing in my chest long after it was closed.
******
The night air hit me like a slap. Cold. Still. Final.
Kathy was already waiting beside the car. She opened the rear door without a word.
“I can sit up front,” I muttered.
She didn’t answer. Just raised her eyebrow.
I sighed and slid into the back seat. Before I could reach for the belt, Kathy leaned in.
“I can do it,” I said quickly, shrinking away from her hand.
She ignored me. Buckled it herself, clicking it in like I was a child who might squirm out of it.
She shut the door.
The interior smelled like leather and peppermint. Neat. Clean. The dash spotless, the air set a few degrees too cool. She got behind the wheel, eyes forward, and without a word, started the engine.
We pulled away from the house, the tires crackling against gravel, then humming softly as we hit pavement.
We drove in silence. Not just quiet, but controlled. Like even noise had to get permission. Finally, just as we passed the last streetlight before the highway, Kathy spoke.
"Things are going to be different now."
I stared out the window. The night was a blur of trees and blacktop. "Different how?"
She didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted the mirror slightly, checking on me like I was cargo.
"You’ve made a mess of things, Ethan," she said. "Claire needed help. So now I’m helping."
It was only about a 30 minute drive to her house, but it felt like hours. Kathy parked the car in the driveway and shut off the engine with smooth, practiced ease. No words. No glances. Just the subtle click of the ignition and the soft sigh of the vehicle settling.
Outside, the porch light spilled its dull glow over her pristine front walk. I sat there in silence, hands clenched in my lap, hoping she’d just go inside and forget I was here. Instead, the driver’s door opened. A moment later, the rear door swung open beside me.
Kathy stood there, composed as ever. Not impatient. Not angry. Just... resolute.
“Out,” she said.
I hesitated. She didn’t repeat herself. When I didn’t move fast enough, her hand reached in and unclipped my seatbelt. She gripped my wrist and yanked me out of the car with surprising strength. Firm. Direct.
I stumbled out, my feet hitting the concrete. The air felt too still, too cold. She didn’t remove her hand, just kept it there, palm flat between my shoulder blades, steering me up the path like she was leading someone into a holding cell.
No words. No glances. Just forward.
The front door opened without a sound. She held it for me with one hand, gesturing inside with the other.
“Shoes off.”
The words were even. Not hostile. Not warm. Just… absolute.
I kicked them off and stepped into the house. It smelled like lemon polish and something faintly floral. Clean. Staged. Like it had never been lived in, only maintained.
Kathy locked the door behind us with a quiet, final-sounding click.
“Come along,” she said, her tone deceptively gentle for the first time. “Let’s introduce you to your new living arrangements.”
I trailed her through the spotless hall, past the kitchen and a showroom-perfect living room. She didn’t explain anything. Didn’t say where I’d be sleeping. She just walked until she stopped at the very last door.
She gripped the handle, looking back at me like we were at some sort of junction between past and present, and her evil, sinister grin told me I would not like the future. “This…” she said, turning the handle, “is where you will be staying…”
When it opened, something shifted in my chest.
Cloud-pattern wallpaper. Soft, colorful foam tile flooring. Pastel curtains drawn tight over the window. A crib. A changing table. A low bookshelf with board books. A bunch of dolls, stuffed animals, plastic toys, rattles, and who knows what else bulging out of a toy bin. I knew Kathy used to run an at-home daycare. But that was years ago. She was retired. This couldn’t be—
“Wait…” I said, my voice dry, unsteady. “This…this is my room?”
She stepped calmly inside, flicking on a bunny-shaped nightlight like she was preparing a nursery for naptime.
“I closed the daycare when I retired,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “But some things were worth keeping. And I made a few upgrades. A little more your size. Just for you.”
I stepped back, but the hallway was narrow. Nowhere to retreat.
She turned to face me then, hands folded gently in front of her, her expression the picture of maternal poise.
“It’s important to have structure,” she said softly. “Routine. Boundaries.”
I stared at the crib that was both way too big for a toddler, and too small for a grown adult. The railing extended almost all the way to the ceiling, looking more like a prison cell than a place to sleep.
“This has to be a mistake,” I whispered.
Kathy gave the faintest smile. Not cruel, just…amused. “No, sweetheart,” she said, her tone gentle in a way that made my skin crawl. “The only mistake was my daughter marrying you. But I intend to correct that.”
She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as if approaching a skittish child.
“This room is yours now. Everything in it has a purpose. And everything that happens here,” she added, arm waving aloft like a showman, “is for your own good.”
My chest tightened. I scanned the room again, slower this time, like my brain needed proof that this was really happening. The mobile hanging above the crib twinkled softly, its pastel moons and stars spinning on some hidden motor. A faint lullaby melody drifted out with it. Gentle, repetitive, maddening.
The smell hit me next. Sweet and sterile. Powder, wipes, something vaguely floral beneath it all. A scent I hadn’t been around in years, but now it clung to everything in the room like wallpaper. Even the walls themselves felt off. Cartoon animals in soft colors. A banner above the dresser that read “Sweet Dreams” in looping letters. Every corner of the space whispered the same thing: This is not for you. Not the version of you that still thinks he’s a man.
This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t an empty threat. This was prepared. A room made ready. A room waiting.
Waiting for me.
A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t belong here. Not in this house, not in this room, not in this world she was walking me into.
“You burned your first chance, Ethan. Now it’s time for attempt number 2.” She smirked to herself at that, as if ‘the number 2’ thing was part of a joke I didn’t yet get. “You’ll sleep here. You’ll follow instructions. And maybe, one day, you’ll earn the right to be treated like a man again.”
I stared at her, my mouth dry. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t—”
“Pants off.”
“What?” I blinked.
She faced me fully now, arms crossed with infuriating calm. “Take. Off. Your. Pants. It’s time to get you changed.”
I blinked, thrown. “Wait… changed?”
She didn’t answer, just stared, like it wasn’t a question worth responding to.
My mouth opened, then closed. I looked down at my waistband, then back at her, waiting for her to step out, to turn around at least, but she didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Uh…can I get a little privacy?”
That faint smile again. Cool, composed, and deeply unbothered. “No, Ethan. You don’t get that anymore.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” she said, stepping forward with measured control, “everything you do from now on will be supervised. And I do mean everything. You proved you couldn’t be trusted on your own.”
I opened my mouth, closed it again. My skin prickled. There was no space here, no dignity left to reach for.
She held her ground. “Now take off your pants.”
I shook my head, trying to stand firm, but the squeaky padded foam reminded me of how bizarre this all was. “You wanna see my dick? Is that what this is??”
Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “I’ve seen plenty of penises before, Ethan.” She sighed, sounding tired, like this was one more tedious task in a long list of them. “And besides…Claire told me there certainly isn’t anything impressive about yours...”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. I stared at her, frozen, pulse hammering behind my ears.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice softening in that condescending, practiced way of hers. “Let’s not make this more drawn out than it needs to be. I suggest you get used to a little exposure. It’ll be happening often, i’m afraid. Kind of a…necessity.”
I stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight. My skin prickled with heat.
“Fine.” I finally said. “You want a show? I’ll give you a fucking show!”
I shoved my pants down hard, letting them pool around my ankles. My boxers followed in one quick, defiant motion. I stood tall, bare and unflinching, daring her to flinch.
She didn’t.
Instead, Kathy let out a single, amused snigger. Like I’d just confirmed something for her.
“That’s it?” she said. “That little guy’s supposed to scare me?”
My chest caved in on itself.
She took a step closer, folding her arms with slow, deliberate calm. She didn’t recoil. Didn’t flinch. Just observed me for a beat, that smirk never leaving her lips.
“I suppose it’s fitting,” she went on, her tone like silk drawn over sandpaper. “Something that small doesn’t belong in grown-up underwear anyway.”
She turned to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled something out. The sound alone made my stomach twist: the crinkle of thick plastic. She unfolded it slowly, like she wanted me to absorb every inch of it. The thing looked massive. Bulky. Ridiculous.
A diaper.
She held it by the waistband, letting it dangle, exaggerated in its absurd size.
“This,” she said plainly, “is what you’ll be wearing. Every day. Every night. Until you prove you’re worthy of anything else.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
She turned to the padded table beside the crib and gave it a single, deliberate tap with her palm.
“Hop up.”
Her voice wasn’t cruel. It was composed. Routine. Like she was already used to giving this kind of order. Like it wasn’t up for debate.
I’d never seen one so thick. So infantilizing. The white plastic gleamed under the overhead light, adorned with soft pastel shapes: stars, clouds, maybe a cartoon bunny. It wasn’t medical. It was decorative. Intentional. My brain stalled trying to process it. This wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t a warning.
This was real.
“You’re serious,” I croaked, voice catching in my throat.
Kathy tilted her head, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Of course.”
My mouth opened again, but nothing came out.
She stepped forward, holding the diaper like it was any other garment. Like it was underwear. Like this was just normal.
“Why?” I finally managed.
She smiled faintly.
“Because you’ve proven you can’t be trusted with the responsibilities of an adult. You betrayed my daughter. You made choices that hurt people who loved you. You burned through your privileges.”
I stared at her, my chest rising fast now. The walls felt too close. My skin too tight.
“And this is how you fix that?” I spat. “By putting me in—”
“In pampers,” she said, cutting me off, so that there was no misconception as to what it was. “Where you belong.”
I looked down at it again. The tapes, the sheer size of it. No hiding that thing under clothes. No mistaking what it meant.
“What the hell am I supposed to do in that?” I asked, my voice dropping to a low, strained whisper.
She didn’t blink.
“Exactly what babies do in theirs,” she said flatly, and as if she needed to clarify: “You’ll wet them. You’ll mess them. Without exception.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I staggered back a step like I’d been hit. How could she say something like that so casually?
“You’re out of your mind,” I breathed.
Her expression didn’t change.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Now get on the table.”
I didn’t move.
The diaper crinkled faintly in her hand. She didn’t speak, just leveled me with that calm, crushing stare.
“This is your life now, Ethan.” She finally said. “The sooner you accept that, the less miserable you’ll make it for yourself.”
My mouth opened, but this time it wasn’t a retort. It was rage.
“Fuck this,” I snapped. “Fuck you, and your creepy little nursery, and your sick power trip. I’m not pissing in a fucking diaper. I’m not sleeping in a goddamn crib. You’re insane if you think I’m playing along with this psychotic—”
She moved with lightning quickness, speed that seemed far too fast for a woman in her 50’s. Her fingers clamped like steel around my ear, twisting sharply.
“Agh—Jesus—!”
“ENOUGH!,” she hissed. Her face was suddenly inches from mine, teeth clenched, eyes blazing with a venom I’d never seen outside of my worst nightmares. Every syllable rattled out through those gritted teeth, hot breath hitting my cheek.
“You don’t curse at me. You don’t defy me. Not in my house. Not under my roof. Not in my care. Do you understand?”
She yanked me so hard I thought my ear would rip clean off, dragging me with her like I weighed nothing. My bare feet squeaked against the padded floor as I stumbled after her, off-balance and cursing, until she reached the corner.
A hard-backed chair sat neatly by the wall. Innocuous, unthreatening. Until she sat and yanked me down across her thighs.
“What the—get off me! Let go! Let GO!”
But she didn’t.
One strong arm pinned my back, her voice a low, scorching growl.
“You do NOT get to yell in my house!!”
Smack!
“You don’t get to curse at me.”
Smack!
“You don’t get to throw tantrums like a little boy who didn’t get his way—”
Smack! Smack!
Each swat cracked across my bare ass, fast and brutal, echoing off the walls. The sting lit my nerves on fire, shock cutting straight through my panic. I flailed, but never committed to breaking free, because fighting back meant escalating, meant hurting her, and that would make me a monster in Claire’s eyes. Even in my fury, I knew if I laid a finger on Kathy, Claire would never forgive me.
“This,” she said, punctuating every word with another strike, “is. what. happens. when. you. act. like. a. spoiled. little. BRAT!”
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
I thrashed, trying to push myself off, but she pinned my arm behind my back painfully, pressing it down with her forearm with surprising strength for a middle-aged woman. When my legs kicked and flailed, she threw her thigh over those too, holding me down. By the time my brain caught up, to what was happening my leverage gone. Strength didn’t matter if you were pinned awkwardly.
Smack!
“You think you’re too big for consequences?!” Smack! “You think you get to break my daughter’s heart and walk away untouched?”
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“You’re not a man, Ethan.” Smack! “Not anymore.” Smack! “And certainly not in my house. Under MY roof!!”
I wailed and whined. It wasn’t planned, it just came out of me in a pitiful, high, cracking sound that echoed like it belonged to someone else.
“Stop! Please! Just stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
She paused.
My chest heaved across her thighs as I fought for shaky, labored breaths. Heat searing through my thighs and asscheeks, every nerve ending throbbing.
Kathy’s voice came quiet, steady. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes,” I gasped, fighting back tears. “Yes!! I swear I have! I’ll be good. I’ll wear the stupid diaper! Please…”
But she wasn’t looking at me anymore.
Her eyes had shifted upward, just above the corner chair.
My gaze followed. And then I saw them.
A neat row of implements hung from a simple wooden rack: a silicone slapper, a leather strap, a thick-handled hairbrush, what looked like ping-pong paddle and, finally, a rather large wooden spoon.
I watched through tear stained eyes as she lifted it off the hook.
“Not yet you haven’t.”
“No—no, please!!” I begged pathetically, “you don’t have to—”
“Quiet!” she snapped. “You’ll speak when spoken to.”
She readjusted me on her thighs, her posture just as poised, just as calm. But the spoon tapped softly against her palm as if testing the weight.
“Every time you throw a tantrum, this is what happens. Every time you raise your voice, or act out, or forget your place, this is what you get!”
I shook my head wildly, tears welling up now. “I won’t…I promise! I won’t forget…”
Her hand yanked my arm back again, her legs wrapped over my thighs, as if she knew they would be needed.
“You will forget,” she said coldly. “But don’t worry. I have no problem reminding you. I’ve wanted to do this to you for a very long time!”
The first strike of the spoon was different.
It hissed.
It bit.
The sting went bone-deep.
“Ahhh! No!!! Kathy!! PLEASE!!”
THWACK!!! THWACK!!! THWACK!!!
“You are not in charge.” THWACK!!!
“You do not get choices.” THWACK!!!
“From now on, you earn privileges.” THWACK!!!
“You behave, you obey, or this is what you get.” THWACK!!!THWACK!!!THWACK!!!
I broke.
There was no dignity left in me, no rebellion, no bite. Just a wet, gasping, snot-dripping mess sobbing across her lap.
When she finally stopped, her breath was steady. Her pulse calm. Mine wasn’t.
She rested the spoon across my burning backside for a moment, her fingers tapping once on the smooth wood. Then she spoke, almost gently.
“And one more thing.”
I sniffled, not daring to look up.
“You don't call me Kathy anymore.”
Her hand slid under my chin, lifting my face just enough to meet her eyes.
“If you’re going to be in diapers, Ethan,” she said, voice silky and cruel, “then it's only fitting you call me something more appropriate, don’t you think?”
She let the moment hang, watching the shame bloom in my eyes.
“From now on,” she finished, “you will call me Gam-Gam.”
My stomach turned. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. She gave my cheek two light, patronizing taps.
“Say it.”
My lips parted. A tremble. A croak. “Y-y-yes…G–g-g-Gam-Gam…”
“Good boy.”
She eased the wood off my blistered cheeks and stood, tapping it once against her thigh like a period at the end of a sentence.
“Stand up.”
I stumbled to my feet, legs trembling, hands barely able to cover myself.
She hung the spoon back on its hook carefully, deliberately, like it was a tool in a well-organized workshop.
Then she turned, calm as ever, holding out her hand. “Come with me.”
My mouth opened, but I didn’t speak.
“Now.”
I gulped in fear. Terrified of my own Mother-in-Law. I took her worn, leathery hand and she pulled me forward.
As she led me toward the door, her voice was smooth again, almost casual. “We’re going to do something about that little mouth of yours,” she crooned. “And then Gam-Gam can put you in your puffy pampers where you belong.”
The words hit harder than the spoon, sinking into me like a verdict. My stomach lurched, but her grip only tightened, pulling me forward toward the bathroom.
To Be Continued
I just added Chapter 2 and 3 of this story on my subcribestar if you would like to read more. Consider joining, as it really helps me stay afloat and get more out to you guys! Thank you so much for your support!
More Real Bathbrush Discipline!
"Sir's bad habit got him in trouble again." from SpankingTube
I love a good spanking scene. You can even see that as soon as she detects a specific kind of “yelp” she immediately stops and starts the aftercare. Great vid.
Chapter 3 - Rise and Shine
Read: Chapter 1 HERE Chapter 2 HERE
I awoke groggy, disoriented. My head heavy and thick with sleep, foggy with the remnants of a dream. The strangest dream. That my own mother-in-law had stripped me down, taped me in a diaper, and locked me in a prison-like crib like an inmate. The images clung like cobwebs, absurd and humiliating, the kind of nightmare you laugh off once the morning light comes.
I lifted my arms to rub the sleep from my eyes, only to be yanked short. I pulled again as my vision tried to adjust, but there was a sound of taut leather and creaking of wood. My arms could barely move, I couldn’t feel my fingers, they were tucked inside of something fluffy and warm, I wriggled my legs, but those were stuck too.
My heart lurched. It wasn’t a dream.
My wrists were still tied to the crib rails. My ankles, too. The same soft pastel blue ceiling stared back at me, indifferent. The mobile still turned lazily overhead, its little moons and stars catching the faint glow of the morning light, whirring faintly as it spun.
And beneath me…
The thick, swollen bulk between my legs confirmed everything.
I didn’t want to look, but I did. I had to.
The diaper was bloated now. Yellowed. Heavy. My thighs were damp where it had pressed and spread. I could feel it against me. Clammy, sagging. The same way I’d felt it all night.
And just like that, the night came flooding back:
At first, I had tried to hold it. I told myself I would not piss myself. Could not piss myself. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
I fought the pressure. Bit down on the pacifier and breathed through my nose. I strained against the straps, tried to curl my legs or shift on my side. Anything to relieve the building ache in my bladder. I’d twisted and turned as much as the crib allowed, jaw clenched, thighs shaking.
It became unbearable, and then it got worse.
Minutes dragged into hours. Or maybe it just felt like hours. The pressure turned sharp. My body ached in ways I didn’t know it could. I couldn’t cry out, only moan, muffled behind the pacifier bulb in my mouth.
A man shouldn’t moan like that, anyway. Like a baby crying for his Mommy. Or in this case…Gam Gam.
I shook in the dark, whining, squirming, helpless, gagged and surrounded by crinkling plastic sheets and a dry, thirsty diaper.
And then, it happened: I broke.
My body just couldn’t take it anymore. All the strain of trying to hold back the unwavering pressure that wanted to escape. As embarrassing as it was, it actually felt good to finally relax. But then the warm rush spread beneath me. I gasped through the pacifier at the foreign feeling, trying to arch away, but it was everywhere. At first I worried it was going all over the bed and (oddly), I panicked. Worried it would land me in even more trouble with my mother-in-law. But instead, the diaper caught it all eagerly, swelling beneath me, its thick padding ballooning between my thighs. The relief of release I felt was quickly replaced with shame.
And it didn’t go away.
There was no toilet flush. No clean underwear. No chance to wipe the slate clean. It stayed. It sat. Soaked and pressing, thick and squishy. Every breath, every twitch of my legs, reminded me of what I had done. Of what I had become.
I tried to ignore it, to shift into sleep, but the sensation kept me awake. The sticky heat between my legs. The crinkle of the plastic. The faint scent of powder and urine rising like a mocking perfume.
Eventually, after a couple of hours of sitting in my own piss, I drifted off into something that resembled sleep.
And then it happened again.
The pressure returned. Not as sharp this time. Just persistent. I didn’t want to go through that whole painful fight again. So I just… let it happen. Wetting myself once more. The diaper swelled even larger against me, the soft hiss filling the nursery’s silence. At least it warmed a bit, no longer cold and clammy against my skin. It was easier. Too easy.
The first time had been a battle. This time was surrender. Some part of me had already accepted it, and that’s what I really hated, more than the wet diaper itself. I lay there, staring at the mobile above, disgust rising in my throat. Each drop that soaked into the padding felt like proof that I was losing something I might never get back.
I drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the night, caught somewhere between dreams and the soft hum of the mobile. Time didn’t move the way it used to, it just kind of blurred. Still, it was enough for me to forget where I was and wake up in a panic, remembering I was strapped to a bed and still stuck in this nightmare.
Then the sounds started from down the hall.
The clink of ceramic. The loud whistle of a kettle. A spoon tapping gently against the rim of a mug. She was up. My devil of an in-law. In the kitchen. Making tea.
And I was still here. Strapped down. Swaddled. Saturated. My wrists tugged slightly as I tried to shift. My fingers curled uselessly inside the stupid padded mittens.
I turned my head toward the nursery door. It was still closed, sealed tight against the rest of the world. I could almost imagine her just beyond it, humming to herself. Pouring hot water. Adding lemon or honey.
I wanted to cry out. To beg for her to come get me. To let me out. To change me.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I held the words back like I had tried to hold everything else. Because I was still trying, desperately trying, to cling to whatever shreds of adulthood I had left. I didn’t want to be a grown man crying for a diaper change. That wasn’t who I was. That couldn’t be who I was.
Even if it’s exactly what I’d become.
So I stayed quiet. My eyes burned, but I blinked the tears away. My jaw ached. My chest was tight. I waited. And waited. Patiently. Unmoving. Trapped in a swollen, piss-soaked diaper. Until, at last, I heard it: footsteps, approaching down the hall. Soft, deliberate, unhurried.
They were getting closer. Louder. Each one like a countdown in my chest. My heart pounded with a bit of fear and anticipation, and that’s when I realized…
The pacifier.
The ribbon was still clipped to my chest, but my mouth was empty.
It must’ve fallen out while I was sleeping. I froze. Her voice came back to me, clear and cold: “I better find it in your mouth come morning. Because if it’s not… you’ll get the soap again.”
The taste came back instantly. Sharp, bitter, coated in humiliation.
I started searching, turning my head and twisting as far as the straps would let me. The rubber bulb was right there, just beside my shoulder, dangling from its ribbon like it was teasing me. I reached for it with my mouth, stretching, wriggling, trying to maneuver my body as much as much as I could. My fingers clenched inside the mittens. My shoulders strained.
The footsteps were closer now. The floorboards creaked.
I craned my neck, reaching for the little plastic shield tucked beneath my armpit. Flopping my body to try to get it to bounce into a better position. Plastic sheets and pissy pamper crinkling as I writhed. It was inches away from my mouth. I lunged with my tongue. Missed. Ended up making it roll down my body. I flopped like a fish. Tried again. Desperation rising.
She was close now, footfalls thudding just outside the door.
Another inch. A small grunt escaped my throat. The rubber touched my lips. I snapped at it, jaw closing around the nipple, slurping it into my mouth just as the doorknob turned.
The door creaked open, casting a slice of light across the room.
And there I was. Wide-eyed. Heart still racing.
Kathy’s silhouette filled the doorway, her presence instantly tightening the air. She didn’t speak, just looked, head tilted, one eyebrow slightly raised as if checking whether I’d followed instructions.
The pacifier moved between my lips, a small, rhythmic motion I couldn’t stop. It made me look like I was trying to prove myself, like some obedient pet desperate for approval. Her gaze traveled over me slowly. Examining the ridiculous state of her son-in-law. Then her expression shifted, just a little. The corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk.
I could see it, the whole picture, the way she’d see it: a grown man, sprawled and splayed and on display in a crib, padded, strapped, and sucking quietly like he belonged there. The absurdity hit before the shame did.
“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” Kathy said in a singsong voice as she flicked on the nursery light. “Did we have a nice little sleep in our widdle crib?”
I didn’t answer. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not just because there was an over-sized bulb of a binky bulging in my mouth, but because I was too embarrassed at the state of myself to reply. Any attempt to do so would only further emphasize my current status anyway.
Kathy stepped closer to the crib, I trembled and shook with every squeak of the padded floor tiles. She stood over me, making me shiver in her shadow. In one hand, she held a steaming mug of tea. In the other, a baby bottle filled with warm, off-white liquid.
She looked well-rested. Peaceful, even. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, her expression placid as she calmly placed the bottle and tea on the night stand next to me and stood back up to tug the belt of her white robe a bit tighter around her waist.
“So…” she said with a sigh, looking me over once more, “did we manage to stay dry for the whole night? Or did somewon have an accident in their widdle pampurrs?”
I tried to press my legs together, to squirm and shift away, to hide my shame as her arm reached through the bars.
“Aww,” she murmured, a trace of amusement in her voice. “Is someone feeling shy? What are you trying to hide, little one?”
There was nowhere I could go. The restraints held me firm. The inevitable was upon me. She split my legs apart and told me to spread them so that my saturated diaper was in full view.
“Oh sweetheart…” she murmured with wicked amusement, “you sure did christen this thing didn’t you??” She gripped the padding, pressing it around my penis, making me feel the intense humiliation as her biting words continued. “Were you working overtime all night or what? I’ve never seen a diaper so soaked!”
My face burned hot. Sitting with myself all night was bad enough, having to hear about what a failure I was from her was even worse.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Kathy went on, even though that’s exactly how she wanted me to feel. She clicked the latch and dropped the bars of the crib so I was even more exposed. “This is just our new morning routine. I expect you’ll be waking up like this quite a bit from now on, so I suggest you get used to it. In fact, we’re going to be keeping track…”
She smiled. And then–oh God–she pulled out her phone!
“Claire asked for an update. Said she was curious how your first night went. Isn’t that sweet?”
My heart twisted. I shook my head, the binky bobbing with the movement. I tried to say no, to beg her not to, but it was just muffled panic behind rubber.
Kathy chuckled like I’d just squealed something adorable.
“Oh, don’t pout,” she said. “This is your fault, remember? Actions have consequences.”
She snapped a photo of the front of my swollen diaper, the shutter sound seeming to be louder than usual, and then turned the phone on me.
“I need you to tell Claire what happened,” she said, tapping my cheek with two fingers, “Come on now. Binky out.”
She reached down and plucked it from my lips. A soft pop, followed by a thin string of drool, which she wiped with her sleeve like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
“Now,” she said, shifting her tone instantly. Her voice dropped into something firmer. Parental. Final. “Tell me what you did in your diaper.”
I shook my head. “I’m not saying that. I’m not—”
Her eyes darkened.
That was all it took. That look. Not loud. Not violent. Just sharpened, like cold steel. Like a mother who’d told you once, and wasn’t about to say it again.
“Try again,” she said coolly. “Use your baby words.”
My chest rose. Fell. My throat felt raw.
“I… I peed.”
Her eyebrow arched.
“In your…”
“…in my diaper.”
She made a soft tsk with her tongue.
“Still not quite right.” Her voice was slower now, like she was helping someone learn to speak another language. “Say the whole thing.”
I froze. My hands flexed uselessly in the mittens. My legs itched beneath the swollen, clammy padding. There was nowhere to go.
“Say it,” she said. “Or I’ll get the soap.”
My lips trembled.
“I made pee-pee in my diapy…” I whispered.
Kathy beamed.
“There we go!!” she said brightly. “Now say it again.”
“I made pee-pee’s in my diapy!” I whimpered, louder this time.
“Could you not make it through even a single night without wetting yourself, little one?” She asked for the camera.
I sniffled, ashamed. “N-no, Gam Gam…I couldn’t…”
“Tell your Mommy Claire that you’re sorry. That you’re trying really hard to be a big boy…but you just can’t.”
I repeated the stupid sentence in babbly baby talk like she wanted. The words stinging with every syllable.
“Perfect,” she cooed, tapping the screen again to stop the recording. “I’ll send that right over. Maybe it’ll brighten her morning.”
She extended her arm out so she could see her screen better. Like someone her age would: elbow fully outstretched, squinting slightly, her finger curled and tapping the screen delicately with the flat pad of her pointer finger like she wasn’t sure how hard to press.
I shut my eyes.
I wanted the crib to collapse. To break. To swallow me whole. Instead…
Pat. Pat.
Two firm taps against my swollen padding, like she was congratulating me. Like it was some twisted reward.
“Let’s get that bottle in you,” she said brightly, reaching for it from the nightstand. “Then we’ll get my little bedwetter all nice and clean.”
She tilted it slowly, twisting the nipple once between her fingers before pressing it to my lips.
“Open wide for your baba.” she said, calm as a breeze.
I clenched my mouth shut.
She didn’t sigh. She didn’t raise her voice. She just reached out, gripped my chin with one hand, her thumb pressing into my cheek while her fingers dug in from the other side. My jaw trembled. Her grip didn’t loosen.
I jerked again, but the straps held me down, pinned and helpless in the crib. The mittens kept my fingers useless above my head. I could barely shift, much less resist. I tried to turn my head, but she followed, steady and unrelenting, guiding it in until my mouth gave way. The moment it slipped past my lips, I gagged.
“You’re going to drink this bottle,” she said, voice low and direct. “All of it, if you want that pissy diaper changed…”
Then she pressed the rubber nipple against my lips.
The first suckle hit like syrupy chalk. Sickly sweet, warm, and wrong. It coated my tongue with some chemical aftertaste, like a protein shake, but worse. Too sweet, too thick. Almost metallic.
I spat it back out reflexively, coughing as it dribbled down my chin.
She didn’t flinch.
She dabbed my chin with the edge of her sleeve, then shoved the bottle back into place, harder this time.
“You’re done fighting,” she said.
I gasped, trying to turn away again, tears stinging in the corners of my eyes.
“It’s disgusting,” I choked between gulps.
She stilled, looking down at me.
“Yucky,” she corrected, her voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “Big boys call it disgusting. You don’t get that word anymore.”
I wanted to scream. To curse. To beg.
Instead, I drank.
The bottle bobbed slightly as she adjusted her grip, holding it at the right angle, watching me swallow it down one warm, sticky mouthful at a time.
“This is part of your routine now,” she added smoothly. “It’ll help keep you regular, and give you what your little body needs. You’ll get one with every meal. No arguments. No pouting. And no milk left behind.”
She tilted the bottle higher.
I had no choice, I swallowed.
The formula filled my mouth again, nauseating and thick, dripping in the back of my throat, leaving a syrupy trail down my tongue. I gagged again but couldn’t spit it out, not this time. Her grip stayed firm.
“Drink,” she said, with slow, insistent patience.
I did. The worst part wasn’t the taste, it wasn’t even the straps or the helplessness. It was the way she looked at me, like I was nothing more than a stubborn brat that was finally giving in.
So I drank. Suckle by suckle, humiliated and burning, while Kathy just watched. God I hated her.
The smooth way she stood there like this was routine. The way she held the bottle steady with one hand, like she was feeding a goat, the slight upward twitch at the corner of her mouth when I gave a particularly desperate gulp. She was enjoying this. No, relishing it. Every moment of it felt orchestrated. Polished. Practiced.
And it made sense. She'd never liked me. Never hid it. For years she'd treated me like I wasn’t good enough for her daughter. Condescending glances, passive-aggressive remarks, that fake smile she’d wear whenever I walked into a room. But now?
Now I was literally beneath her. Now she had me trapped in some nightmarish nursery, strapped down in a soaking diaper, suckling from a warm bottle, too weak to fight back.
And she was savoring it.
I wanted to spit the bottle out and scream. I wanted to curse her, break the damn crib apart, and walk out of this hellhole with the last shreds of my pride. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the straps held me down. Because she held all the power. Because the only way I could ever get my wife and my life back was through her.
So I kept drinking. Sputtering, sulking, hating her with every fiber of my being… but still suckling, like a good little boy.
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her robe. With one hand still on the bottle in my mouth, she used the other to reach in and grab it, smiling as she tapped the screen. Her thumb moved lightly across the glass, then she turned the screen toward me.
Claire.
The message was lit up in big, bold text.
OMG stop. That’s HYSTERICAL. I cannot believe you already got him to say that. What did you do, Mom?? He sounds like an actual tottler!! This is working faster than I ever imagined!!!
You’re amazing. ❤️
Kathy didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I stared at the screen as it lowered again. My wife. My wife had sent that. The woman I married. The one I betrayed. The one I still wanted to win back.
And now, she was laughing at me. From the comfort of wherever she was, she was getting updates from her mother on how quickly I was unraveling. And she was thrilled.
I couldn’t even cry, the humiliation was too thick. It coated my skin like the formula coating my tongue.
Kathy looked back down at me, brushing her fingers lightly under my chin.
“Better keep drinking, little guy,” she said with a smug sweetness. “Looks like Mommy’s proud of how far you’ve come.”
The bottle gave a soft glug as the last of the formula slipped past my lips.
Kathy gave it a gentle tilt, checking that it was truly empty, then removed it with a wet pop. My jaw ached. My tongue felt thick and filmy. And my stomach…
God, my stomach felt bloated, like I’d swallowed warm glue. A sickly sweet heaviness settled deep inside me, nauseating and dull. I groaned softly, closing my eyes.
“Big full tummy,” Kathy cooed, setting the bottle aside and giving my chest a few light pats with her fingers. “Come on now, sweetheart. Let it out.”
I tried to resist, tried to turn my head, but she kept patting, rhythmic and insistent, like I was just a gassy little one after a feeding. And then, before I could stop it:
Buurp.
It was small, but loud enough. And mortifying.
“There we go,” she said, beaming like she’d taught a puppy a new trick. “Such a good baby!! All better now.”
I burned with shame. The formula sloshed in my belly. The straps held my arms down, still snug and unyielding.
Kathy leaned in closer, brushing my cheek once with the back of her hand, mockingly gentle.
“Now before I let you out,” she said, her voice dipping into something firmer, “I want to know if you’re going to behave.”
I swallowed thickly.
“Because I won’t have another tantrum like last night. I’ve got plenty of energy for another round with the paddle if you need it.” She let that hang in the air a second longer before softening just enough to raise an expectant brow. “Or… can Gam-Gam trust her little boy to be on his best behavior this morning?”
I didn’t speak, just nodded. Small, shaky.
She smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
One by one, she began undoing the crib straps. Each one peeled back with a gentle snap, her movements calm and precise. First the wrists, then the ankles, but not the mittens, those stayed on. But even once I was free, I didn’t move. Because now came the worst part. Kathy peeled the blanket back and gave my thigh a tap.
“Come on, then,” she said, her voice chipper. “Time for your diaper change.”
I flinched, actually flinched, as if the words had teeth.
The shame was coming again, fast and suffocating. I was a grown man in need of getting my pissy pamper changed by my mother-in-law.
She took me by the hand, not gently, not harshly, just…firmly. As if I didn’t get a say. And I didn’t. Each step toward the changing table felt heavier than the last. Heavier than the drooping diaper between my legs. My feet dragged, thick with shame. The crinkle between them didn’t help. It echoed in my ears with every movement, a reminder of what I’d done. What she’d put me in. What I’d used.
The table was worse up close. White wood, polished smooth, with thick padding on top. Drawers beneath, shelves to the side. I hadn’t noticed them the night before, not in my haze of exhaustion and disbelief.
But now I saw them.
Stacks of diapers. Dozens. All different kinds, colors, and adorned with different (yet, equally humiliating) cartoonish prints. A whole shelf dedicated to just those. She was ready for this. For me.
A fresh one waited, already out and waiting and ready to be used. The wipes, the cream, the powder, all lined up neatly, like surgical tools.
She patted the pad.
“Up.”
Her eyes met mine. No threat. No raised voice. Just that steady, maternal authority she’d perfected long before Claire was born.
“One…” she said softly.
My pulse kicked.
“Two…”
I climbed up before she reached three.
She didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. Just adjusted the pad beneath me with brisk efficiency, as though my obedience had been a foregone conclusion. The table creaked faintly beneath my weight. My legs trembled as I eased myself down onto the soft vinyl padding. The moment I was down, she guided my ankles apart, placing one firm hand on my thigh.
My breath caught. My eyes darted to the shelves again. So many diapers. So many planned for me.
“Let’s not make this harder than it has to be,” she said, her voice mild, almost kind. Then, with that same terrible composure, “This is the first of many, sweetheart.”
She undid the tapes of my diaper with practiced efficiency. Rip. Rip. Rip. Like she was unveiling something she’d seen a hundred times before. Not her son-in-law. Just another soggy diaper to deal with. The front peeled away, and cool air hit my damp skin.
“Such a soggy little boy,” she murmured. “You really soaked this one,” she said, like it was nothing. Like commenting on the weather. “Good thing we’ve got plenty to replace them with.”
I closed my eyes. She opened the diaper and folded it down. My heart stopped.
There it was. There I was. My penis lying bare and useless, soft and shrunken and shriveled from being wet the whole night.Kathy reached for the wipes, humming under her breath.
“I told you, this would be your normal,” she said. “You didn’t believe me then. You will now.”
I twitched when the first wipe touched me. Chilly. Wet. Unforgiving. It wasn’t just cold, it was invasive.
She didn’t even blink. Not when she ran it down my shaft, not when she lifted my balls, not when wiping my buttcrack with impersonal efficiency. She didn’t even smirk. And that only made it worse.
Her calm, practiced motions made it clear she’d done this before. Not to me, but to others. Young and old. People who actually needed it.
And now I was one of them. Not a man. Not a husband. Not a person with dignity.
Just something to be cleaned.
My fists curled weakly at my sides. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t move.
“See?” she said softly, almost gently. “This isn’t so bad. It’s just what happens now.”
She slid the soiled diaper out from under me and folded it with a sigh, like it was another chore on her list. Then came the cream. Cool, thick, and sticky as she spread it across my skin with her fingers.
“You’ll get changed like this every morning. Every night. And in between, depending on what you do. You don’t need to worry about that anymore. I’ll decide when you’re wet enough.”
She dusted the powder on next, the sickly-sweet scent filling the air.
I lay still. Humiliated. Half-naked. My cock and balls slathered in cream by a woman who used to insult my job, who once told Claire she could’ve done better. Now she was the one between my legs, and I couldn’t even stop her.
She lifted my hips with one hand, slid the fresh diaper under with the other, and patted it into place with a firmness that made me shudder.
The tapes came last. Sharp, loud rips. Like she was sealing something away. Sealing me away.
“All clean,” she said, giving the front of the diaper a light tap with her palm. “Much better. See what happens when we behave?”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to.
She guided me, still waddling and red-faced in my fresh diaper, toward the walk-in closet just off the changing area.
I expected linens. Towels. Maybe her robe hanging behind the door. But instead: rows.
Dozens of outfits, hung with meticulous care. Color-coded by type. Labeled bins beneath with matching accessories. Bloomers. Bibs. Socks. Mittens. Racks of onesies. Rompers. Booties. And worse.
Kathy hummed softly as she slid hangers across the rail, like a mother picking out school clothes.
She paused on one.
“Aha,” she said, plucking it down. “This one’s perfect for my soggy boy.”
The shortalls were a washed-out, powdery blue. Matte, soft denim that looked worn to the point of frailty. The straps were wide and a little crooked, stitched with uneven seams that gave them a homemade look, like something made for a costume rather than clothing. The legs ballooned just enough to look ridiculous, gathered with elastic that would puff out no matter how still I stood.
Across the back, two glitter-thread arrows met at the center seam, ending beneath curved, looping letters that read: Oopsie Zone.
My stomach dropped.
As she held them up, the secret of their design became obvious: a flap across the back fastened with neat brass snaps, ready to peel away at a moment’s notice. She gave it a little flick with her thumb, the metal clicking in the quiet room.
“Practical,” she said lightly, holding the outfit up against me. “And adorable.”
She laid it out with a matching pale-yellow T-shirt. Soft. Tight. The kind of cut that would ride up over my belly with every movement.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t dare. My face burned as she turned back to me.
“Arms up,” she said.
I didn’t move.
Her smile faded.
“Unless you'd rather wear something pink with ruffles and different pronouns?”
My arms shot to the ceiling.
She slid the shirt over my head herself, tugging it into place with that same efficient, practiced neatness she used on everything else. I winced as it settled over mem short in the hem, tight in the sleeves. The fabric hovered over my belly button and padding as if itt had been tailored to humiliate me.
Next came the shortalls. She made me step into them one foot at a time while she crouched in front of me. She tugged them up and over the thick diaper with a few practiced wiggles and tugs, then snapped the straps over my shoulders.
The padded weight beneath pressed out against the fabric like a badge of shame.
She adjusted one strap, ran her hands down the front to smooth it, then gave the crotch a light pat.
Kathy took a step back to admire her handiwork.“There,” she said brightly. “All dressed.”
I felt nauseous. Not just from the diaper. From everything. The exposure. The forced helplessness. My wife’s mother dressing me like a goddamn cartoon character while humming through her morning tea.
Then she reached for the dresser again. Something small and brightly colored sat there. Plastic, round, with a little propeller on top.
“Almost forgot the finishing touch,” she said.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. She settled the ridiculous cap on my head and gave the propeller a light spin with her fingertip. It twirled once, lazily, then stopped.
“Perfect,” she said, stepping back and lifting her phone.
I stared at the floor, refusing to look in the mirror, which didn’t matter, because she held up her phone anyway.
“Say cheese,” she said sweetly.
I flinched.
The shutter snapped.
“There we go,” she murmured, smiling at the screen. “Let’s let Mommy see how darling her little bedwetter looks.”
She tapped the screen, her arm extended like she was squinting into the sun, index finger stiff as it pecked the message. She murmured to herself as she typed, like she always did when composing texts.
Then she sent it. No way to undo it. No pause. No dignity left.I was dressed. Trapped. And now documented.
And this was just the start of the day, which she proceeded to lay out the schedule for:
“You’ll get three mushy meals a day in your highchair,” she went on, “three bottles, and–if you behave–a few little snackies.”
She turned to look at me, arms folded.
“You will not ask what’s in it. You will not whine about the taste. And if you use grown-up words to complain, you’ll be tasting something much worse.” She tapped her chin, almost playful.
“What’s our word for that again?”
My throat was dry. I didn’t want to say it. But I didn’t want the soap either.
“…Yucky,” I muttered.
Her expression barely flickered, but she gave a small approving nod. “Good boy,” she said, though the phrase was stripped of any praise. Just another box checked.
She moved to the colorful chart on the wall. My name scrawled across the top.
“Sunshines are for dry nights. Rainclouds for wet ones.” She looked over her shoulder. “If we need a new icon for messes, we’ll get one.” She glanced back at me, lips twitching faintly. “After last night, I probably should put two rainclouds.”
“Behavior is tracked separately,” she said briskly. “Obedience. Manners. Attitude. I’ll know if you’re trying, or if you’re sulking. You don’t have to like it here. But you will do what you’re told.”
Of course. This was Kathy.
It had always driven me crazy how rigid she was. Everything in its place. Everything scheduled, timed, sanitized. Claire had inherited all of it. The cleaning routines, the pre-packed weekend bags, the rotating chore charts. When we got married, our kitchen pantry was organized like a grocery store. That was Claire. That was Kathy’s legacy.
But this? This wasn’t just control. It was weaponized discipline.
“You’ll get three diaper checks. Morning, after lunch, and before bed,” she continued, closing the drawer softly. “You do not decide when you get changed. You’ll wait until I say so. If I suspect you’re holding it? Wel..l.” Her tone cooled. “We have ways of dealing with that.”
I didn’t dare ask what that meant.
“You get tummy time at least once a day. Playpen time. Quiet time. Nap time.” She slid the drawer fully closed with a crisp click. “And if you’re really lucky, a supervised trip outside. But only if you’ve earned it. Only if you’ve been good.”
She turned toward me, expression hardening.
“No furniture unless you’re invited. No standing without permission.”
Then, as if it were the most natural rule in the world:
“And you are not to touch yourself. Ever.” She looked between my legs with cold disdain, then back up at me with a viscous glare. “I will know.”
I blinked, stunned. “Wh-what??”
She stepped closer, voice ice-cold. “You heard me.”
The room felt suddenly tighter. Hotter.
It wasn’t just the words, it was who was saying them. My wife’s mother, staring me down like some overbearing matron, laying down rules for when I could or couldn’t even touch myself. Like I was some perverted little delinquent who needed his urges policed.
“I know the signs,” she added crisply. “A certain kind of rocking. A certain kind of whining. A certain smell.”
My face flushed with rage and shame all at once.
“If you try it, there will be consequences,” she said simply. “Severe ones.”
I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. There was no rebuttal, no dignity left to stand on. Her voice softened, but it didn’t get kinder.
“That part of you got you into this mess in the first place, and if you continue down that path, you will be in even more of a mess. Trust me.”
I stayed frozen.
She turned slowly.
“Understood?”
“…Y-yes, ma’am,” I said quietly.
Her eyebrows lifted.
I hesitated, then added, voice barely audible:
“…Yes, Gam-Gam.”
She smiled. Not warm. Not kind. Just satisfied.
Inside, I was cursing her. Cursing the smug tilt of her chin, the way she spoke to me like I was something to be trained. I wanted to tell her exactly what she could do with her rules, her chart, and her fake little smile. But I didn’t. Because I knew how it worked now. Every word, every look, every tiny rebellion would be charted, judged, and controlled.
And if I ever wanted my life back…
I’d have to earn it.
One wet diaper at a time.
To Be Continued
Chapter 5 of this story just went live on Subscribestar if you would like to check it out! Your support really means a lot to me. Thank you so much for reading :)
The Leaky List
The mall’s Christmas village glowed under soft amber lights long after closing hours, the gates locked tight for tonight’s private adults-only “Naughty List” event. The air was thick with cinnamon and pine, and the only people left in line were grown-ups in frills, leather, or footed pajamas.
Emily—formerly known as Emmett—stood there in the most humiliating outfit Miranda had chosen: a baby-pink satin dress with extravagantly puffed sleeves and a ruffled bodice that cinched tight at the waist before flaring into a short, frilly skirt. The glossy fabric shimmered under the lights, and the skirt was so brief it barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, offering no cover at all for the thick, white disposable diaper beneath. The padding bulged obviously, forcing her thighs apart into an awkward waddle.
Miranda had made it very clear in the car: four big bottles of juice, no bathroom, and a bright, cheerful reminder in that syrupy voice she used when she was being extra cruel:
“No potty until after you sit on Santa’s lap and read your list. Be a good little girl and hold it, okay? We don’t want another accident in public again, do we?”
Emily’s thighs kept scissoring together, knees knocking, hands pressed between her legs as she tried to dance in place without being obvious. The pressure was unbearable. Her bladder felt like it was about to explode.
The elf—a six-foot domme in a candy-cane corset—smirked and waved her forward. “Next! Come on up, princess!”
Santa waited on his throne, all jolly red velvet and snowy white beard, belly laughing as Emily toddled up the steps.
“Ho ho ho! Well, who do we have here?” he boomed, voice warm and cheerful. “Come sit on Santa’s lap, sweetheart, and tell me if you’ve been naughty or nice!”
Emily climbed up, the satin skirt fluffing everywhere, diaper crinkling like a crunched-up shopping bag. The second her padded bottom settled, his big gloved hands locked around her waist and pulled her snug against him. That was when she felt it: the thick, hard ridge of his cock pressing up under the velvet. Santa’s jolly smile never wavered, but his eyes went dark and sharp, like he was waiting for her to make the right moves.
“H-hi… Santa…” Emily squeaked in a quivering voice, trying to break the awkwardness.
He gave an exaggerated, delighted chuckle for the audience, bouncing her once so the diaper crinkled loudly.
“Oh! Such good manners!” His hand slid to her hips, pressing her harder against his erection. “Now tell Santa: have you been a naughty little girl this year?”
Emily glanced to his wife Miranda, who narrowed her eyes and nodded back at him. Emily swallowed, cheeks burning, and managed a tiny nod.
“Y-yes, Santa… vewy naughty…”
The crowd laughed softly. Santa’s eyes flashed.
“Ohhh, I know you have, sweetheart,” he said, loud enough for everyone, then lowered his voice again to that filthy growl. “But guess what? Santa’s been naughty too.”
He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear.
“Santa’s been having a jolly ‘ole time… with your wife.”
Emily’s whole body went rigid. A broken whimper escaped.
“Last night, while you were locked in your crib with your mittens pinned and your paci popped in, I had your wife spread wide on the big grown-up bed you’re never allowed in anymore. I fucked her so hard she screamed my name into the pillow that you used to drool on. She came over and over. Soaked the sheets way worse than your little bedwetting accidents ever did. Then she rolled over, looked me in the eye, and begged me to come here tonight so we could finish turning her pathetic little sissy husband into a crying, leaking mess together!”
Emily’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. The man currently holding her on his lap, the man whose thick cock she could feel throbbing under her diaper, had spent last night balls-deep in Miranda.
She tried to wriggle away, a panicked little squeak escaping her throat, but his arms tightened like steel bands.
“Nuh-uh. Stay right here and be a good little sissy girl,” Santa boomed cheerfully for the crowd, then leaned in so only she could hear the steel underneath. “You’re not going anywhere until you read every single wobbly word of that baby scribble your Mommy made you write with your wrong hand. Out loud. Let everyone hear exactly what a silly, diapered sissy wants for Christmas.”
He shoved the glittery pink paper into her hands and forced her arms up so the whole room could see the shaky, left-handed scrawl and the messy hearts doodled in the corners.
Emily swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and tried to save whatever tiny scrap of dignity she had left. She opened her mouth and forced out the deepest, most adult voice she could manage:
“D-dear S-s-s-santa, I’ve been a very naughty sissy this year and I—”
Santa cut her off with a loud, disapproving tut-tut-tut, wagging one gloved finger in her face like she was a toddler who just said a swear word.
“No no no, princess. That won’t do at all.” He gave her a hard bounce that made the thick diaper rub against her cage and her bladder scream. “We don’t use big-boy voices here. Try again, baby girl. High and lispy, just like Mommy taught you, or Santa will spank that bottom right here in front of everyone.”
Emily’s thighs clamped together, knees knocking. She could feel the pressure building so fast it made her eyes water. She tried one more time, whispering, “Please, I—”
Another sharp tut. Another cruel bounce. A warning spurt leaked out; she felt the warmth bloom against her skin.
“Last chance, sweetheart,” he sing-songed, loud enough for the front row to hear. “Talk like the dumb little baby you are, or I’ll make you stand up and show everyone how close you are to flooding that diaper.”
Tears spilled over. Emily gave up.
Her voice cracked into the high, quivering, lispy mess Miranda had drilled into her for weeks:
“D-deaw Santa…” she hiccup-sobbed. “I-I’ve b-been a vewy n-naughty sissy dis yeaw an’… an’ I want…”
Her legs scissored frantically, thighs rubbing together, trying anything to hold it back. Santa started the slow, deliberate bouncing again, each movement grinding the thick padding against her caged clitty and pressing on her aching bladder.
“Go on, potty-pants,” he cooed. “Tell Santa before you have a big accident.”
Another hot spurt escaped, longer this time. Emily squeaked, high and panicked, and the words tumbled out in a desperate, lisping rush:
“I w-w-want p-pwetty pastel dwesses dat shine when I move… a b-big sissy dowwy to cuddwe when Mommy wocks me in my cwib… a w-wocking diwdo paci so I stop tawking back…”
Her whole body was shaking now. She was openly potty-dancing on his lap, knees bouncing, bottom lip wobbling, tears dripping onto the paper.
Santa just laughed and bounced her harder.
Another spurt and, finally, the dam broke.
A loud, shameful hiss filled the air as Emily completely lost control, flooding the diaper in one long, helpless torrent. The padding swelled hot and heavy, sagging between her thighs, leaking warm trickles down her bare legs while the entire room heard every second of it.
Santa clapped like she had just done a cute trick.
“Aww, there it is!” he boomed, jolly as ever. “Baby couldn’t even finish one little sentence without making a great big pee-pee in her princess diaper! Who’s the most pathetic potty-pants in the whole mall? You are! Yes you are!”
He booped the tip of her runny nose with one white-gloved finger, then leaned in so his beard scratched her tear-soaked cheek.
“Keep reading, pissy girl,” he growled, low and lethal. “Every single baby word. And don’t you dare stop grinding.”
Emily was sobbing too hard to breathe properly, but the words still spilled out in a cracked, lisping wail:
“T-twaining bwas fow my puffy nipples… w-wumba panties to go ovah my diapurrs… an’ an even tiny-err cage pwease Santa… da kind dat pinches all day so I nevew fowget I’m nuffin but a…”
Santa’s free hand slipped under the frilled shirt and found her swollen little breasts. He trapped one aching, hormone-puffed nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted slowly, cruelly, with increasing pressure.
Emily shrieked a high, broken sound and her hips jerked forward on their own, mashing the sloppy padding harder against his thigh.
“Look at that,” he laughed to the crowd, twisting the other nipple now, rolling both until she was shaking. “Sissy’s titties are almost as leaky as her diaper!”
He switched to the other nipple, tugging and squeezing, sending sparks straight to her cage. The diaper was a hot, squelching mess; every grind rubbed the soaked padding over her trapped clitty in slick, relentless strokes.
Her voice dissolved into pathetic whimpers:
“P-pwease gif me a whole case of diapees wif baybee pwints… an’ wocking pwastic pants to keep me fwum getting out of dem… an’ an’ pwease Santa make me stay wike dis fowevew, a dumb wittle sissy who can’t even sit on your wap without wetting an’ makin’ stickies—”
The last word broke into a mortified wail because Emily felt it happen: her caged clitty spasmed hard, again and again, spurting useless ropes of cum into the already drenched diaper. The ruined orgasm rippled through her while she was still grinding, still being groped, still lisping her Christmas list like a broken doll.
Santa threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“Oh ho ho! Did someone just cream her pissy diaper on Santa’s lap? In front of everyone?” He gave her nipple one last vicious twist that made her sob. “What a dirty little dolly!”
He lifted a hand and beckoned with two fingers.
“Miranda! Come check your husband. I think she made a big sticky in her already-soaked diaper.”
Miranda sauntered over, phone up and recording, wicked smirk sharp as knives. Her smile was half amused, half disappointed, like she was looking at a puppy that had just piddled on the carpet again.
She stopped right in front of Emily, eyes flicking from the blotchy, tear-streaked face down to the sagging, yellowed bulge beneath the pink satin skirt.
“Again?” she sighed, shaking her head with mock sorrow. “You couldn’t even last five minutes on Santa’s lap without cumming your diaper like a desperate little sissy?”
Santa flipped the skirt of the satin dress up so that Miranda could slip two manicured fingers into the elastic of the diaper. Emily felt them push past the warm, swollen padding and slide right along her caged clitty.
Miranda’s eyebrows shot up. She let out a soft, pitying laugh.
“Oh honey… you really did it! All those sticky cummies floating in your pee-pee padding.” She swirled her fingers once more, just to make Emily whimper, then pulled them out glistening. “What a pathetic little mess.”
Only then, with the whole room watching, did Miranda grab the front of the diaper with both hands and yank the tapes open in one sharp RRRRIP!
The heavy, sodden padding flopped down between Emily’s spread thighs with a wet slap, exposing everything: the tiny pink cage still dripping, the yellowed inner lining streaked with thick white ropes.
Miranda left the ruined diaper open like a curtain so every phone in the room got a perfect shot.
“Look at that, everyone,” she announced, voice dripping with fond disappointment. “My big strong husband, reduced to a leaky, cum-stained sissy!”
She scooped up another glob of the mixed mess and smeared it slowly across Emily’s trembling lower lip.
“Say thank you to Santa, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Thank him for helping Mommy show the whole room exactly what a worthless little potty-pants you really are!”
Emily garbled out some broken babbles and garbles, face flushed crimson.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Miranda cooed, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness loud enough for the entire crowd to savor every word. “Let’s go home.”
She glanced down at the sodden, sagging padding still dangling from Emily’s hips, the swollen inner gel a deep, shameful yellow, streaked with thick ropes of ruined sissy cum, and her wicked smile sharpened into something almost fond.
“Oh no, baby girl. We’re not wasting a perfectly good diaper.”
Miranda seized the dripping front panel and yanked it back up between Emily’s trembling thighs with a loud, wet, squelching slap. The hot, sloshy mess pressed instantly against Emily’s caged clitty and tender skin, forcing a high, broken whimper from her throat as she squirmed helplessly.
Miranda smoothed the soaked padding into place with slow, deliberate pats, savoring every flinch. Then, accepting a roll of tape from one of the grinning elves, she sealed the same ruined diaper back around Emily’s waist.
“There we go!!” she purred, delivering a sharp, resounding smack to the bulging, discolored seat. The impact forced a fresh, hiccuping sob from Emily. “You made this big sticky mess all by yourself, so you get to marinate in it all the way home! Maybe next year my little potty-pants will learn to hold her pee-pee and cummies a tiny bit longer.”
Santa chuckled deeply and gave Emily’s freshly re-taped bottom one final playful bounce before lifting her down. The re-sealed diaper squished warmly with every tiny movement, the sticky heat clinging relentlessly to her skin like a second, shameful layer.
Miranda clipped the short, jingling leash to the delicate heart-shaped ring on Emily’s collar and gave it a gentle, commanding tug.
“Come on… let’s go home, potty-pants.”
She turned to the crowd with a dazzling, triumphant smile. “Santa’s going to make sure every single wish on that precious little list comes true this year.”
Then she leaned in close, lips brushing Emily’s tear-damp ear, voice dropping to a velvet whisper meant only for her humiliated sissy.
“Starting tonight, baby girl… when he comes over to tuck you into your crib, after he’s finished fucking Mommy senseless again!!”
"Awww! Don’t get all shy now!!" she cooed, hands on her knees leaning over him with a grin that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
He froze, legs spread on the rug, his cheeks burning almost as hot as the one beneath the frilly pink hem of his dress, he tried to cover his face, as if that would make him suddenly disappear from the whole ordeal.
“Go on, baby,” she said, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. “Push it out. Poop your pampers like a good wittle baybee!”
Her voice was syrupy sweet, but unmistakably loud.
Her friend was right there. Sitting on the edge of the couch, drink in hand, eyes wide with wicked amusement. She hadn’t said much since she arrived. She didn’t have to. The smirk on her face said everything.
“Go on,” his wife pressed again, now pinching his chin and tilting his face up. “I’ve seen you do it hundreds of times.”
He whimpered, trying to close his legs, but she forced them back apart and patted the front of his diaper with dull, squishy thuds.
“Don’t you dare. You fill that diaper like a good little sissy.”
Then louder, for the friend’s benefit: “Just because my friend is here you get all embawwassed??”
Her friend laughed behind her drink.
The sissy’s stomach churned again. Shame, pressure, and helpless obedience all swelling together. She leaned in close, whispering now:
“You're not getting up until it’s done. And she’s not leaving until you’ve shown her what a little mess you really are.”
He whimpered again, a soft, broken sound as the pressure in his gut built past denial.
She didn’t stop smiling. Didn’t stop watching.
“There it is,” she whispered. “Go ahead. Lift those little legs for me.”
Shaking, red-faced, eyes watering, he obeyed. Slowly. He leaned back and lifted both legs into the air, bent and trembling, diaper and panties crinkling loudly under his weight.
The room went quiet—until the unmistakable sound broke the air.
Pfffftt—blort.
A muffled mess filled the seat of his diaper, pushing back against the taut pink panties stretched over it. His body quaked from the effort, his face crumpling in defeat, a whimpered groan escaping him.
“Ohhh my god,” her friend said, nearly choking on laughter. “Did he just—”
“He did,” the wife beamed proudly. “Right in front of you.”
He let out a small sob.
“No, no,” she said, wagging a finger. “We talk when we make a stinky. Remember your lines, baby?”
He shook his head, eyes pleading.
She crouched next to him, watching his face twist in discomfort. The back of his diaper sagged—warm, heavy, unmistakably full. The faintest squish echoed as he shifted, cheeks burning.
She pressed her hand flat against the bulging seat and gave it a slow, deliberate mush.
He let out a strangled squeak, squirming on the floor.
“Oh, stop squirming,” she said sweetly. “You’ve already made the mess. Might as well own it.”
Then firmer: “Say it.”
He whimpered, swallowing down what little was left of his pride.
“W-wahh…” he squeaked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Louder.”
His voice cracked.
“Wahhh! Wahhhh!” he cried, lifting his legs helplessly into the air, diaper crinkling with each desperate little kick. “I—I made a messy! P-please… change me… it’s so yucky!”
She didn’t move.
Her friend was doubled over on the couch, wheezing through her laughter, eyes misty with amusement.
“This is the most humiliating thing I’ve ever seen,” she said between giggles. “He’s literally begging.”
The wife just smirked. “And it’s still not good enough.”
The sissy’s legs dropped with a thud, and he sniffled, defeated.
“You think you get a change just for saying the words?” she asked, leaning in close. “No, no. You’ve been naughty. You don’t just get a clean diaper. You have to earn it.”
She stood up, crossing her arms.
“Now cry like you mean it. I want full tantrum. Show her what a real pamper-pooper sounds like.”
He hesitated.
She tapped the front of his diaper. “Go on. Kick, wail, cry like a dumb wittle baybee whose mommy forgot his nap.”
He shook his head, eyes brimming with fresh tears.
Her friend laughed again. “Is this normal for him?”
“You should see him in the highchair,” the wife said with a wink.
The sissy let out another soft sob, curling his fists and starting to kick, legs flailing in the air as he gave in.
“WAAHHHH!” he bawled. “M-my diapee’s stinky! It’s gross! P-please change me, I’ll be good, I pwomise!”
He stomped his feet, legs fluttering, whole body jerking like a frustrated little one mid-meltdown.
Her friend clapped, delighted. “Oh my god. Okay. Okay—now he deserves the change. That was incredible.”
The wife turned, slow grin creeping across her face. “Would you like to help?”
There wasn’t even a pause.
“Absolutely.”
She stepped forward, already rolling up her sleeves. “What do I do?”
“You hold his legs,” the wife said, kneeling down again. “And try not to gag. He’s ripe.”
*****
“Okay, stinker,” she said, plopping down on her knees with a sigh, tying her hair up into a ponytail like she was about to get to work. “Time to get that poopy butt cleaned up.”
He whimpered and tried to roll over, hide, anything. But her friend was already kneeling beside him, giddy and wide-eyed like she was unwrapping a gift.
“Oh my god,” the friend said again, half in disbelief. “He really did it. It smells so bad!”
“Of course it does,” the wife said brightly, grabbing the diaper bag. “He’s a messy baby. That’s what they do.”
She quickly pulled out a fresh diaper, wipes, and powder with practiced precision. Everything was laid out on the floor like it was second nature—because by now, it was.
“Grab his legs for me?” she asked, calmly.
“Gladly,” her friend replied, crouching down beside her, already grinning.
But the wife held up a hand. “Not yet.”
She hooked two fingers under the waistband of his pink panties and slowly peeled them down over the swollen diaper, taking her time as the sissy whimpered and twisted in place.
“Aww, look at how tight they got,” she teased, tugging them past the bulge. “Like your little tush was trying to hide the mess. How cute.”
Once the panties were at his knees, she let them fall, bunched and useless. His diaper, free of what was holding it compressed, now sagged to the floor.
Then came the sound, familiar and fatal.
Rrrrip. Rrrrip.
She undid the diaper tapes and let the front fall forward. The warm, heavy stench rolled out instantly.
The wife let out a dramatic gasp, pressing the back of her hand to her cheek. “Ohhhh my god, baby! That is rank.”
The sissy covered his face, whining behind his palms.
Her friend coughed, laughing. “Jesus! I thought you were exaggerating!”
“Nope. That’s all him,” the wife said, grinning as she opened the mess fully. “Every squirm, every grunt, every little push. That’s what happens when you make pampers your potty.”
“Okay,” the friend said, shaking her head and crouching down again, “now I’m ready.”
She grabbed both ankles and lifted, not tentatively—confidently—until his bare bottom was hovering just above the ruined padding.
The sissy whimpered as his legs were spread apart, trembling in the air like he was awaiting judgment.
“Wow,” the friend muttered, giggling as she got a full view. “His little tush is completely ruined.”
The wife smirked, grabbing the first wipe and leaning in.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get him cleaned up,” she said, sliding the cold cloth slowly across his cheeks, folding it over and reaching deeper. “Even if he doesn’t deserve it.”
The sissy let out a high, muffled sob, body twitching with every humiliating stroke.
Her friend gave his raised legs a little jiggle, shaking them softly in the air like the joysticks of an airplane. “Aww, is someone a fussy little stinker?”
“Say thank you,” the wife ordered, running a wipe through his crack. He felt so exposed with his butthole splayed out on full display, getting wiped by his wife in front of her friend.
He choked on his own words. “Th-thank you for… for changing my messy diapee…”
“Louder,” they said in unison.
“Th-thank you for changing my messy diapee!”
The women laughed, the scent thick, the wipe pile growing.
“Poor baby,” her friend teased, still holding those trembling legs high. “He’s just a stinky little mess waiting to happen.”
“Don’t worry,” the wife said, tossing the final wipe aside and reaching for the powder. “It won’t be long until we’re back here again.”
He moaned behind his pacifier, face burning.
“Get the powder,” the wife said, rolling up the soiled diaper and setting it aside. “And open the new one.”
“Already on it,” her friend beamed, holding his legs high with one hand while shaking powder liberally over his slick, freshly wiped bottom.
The room smelled like lavender and filth.
She taped the fresh diaper up snug and firm, patting the front with a flat palm.
“All clean,” she said sweetly. “Until the next mess.”
Her friend let go of his legs, and they flopped down uselessly.
Then she clapped her hands once. “Nowww, what do we say after a stinky change, little one?”
He sniffled behind the pacifier, barely able to speak.
“Say. It.”
“Th-thank you… f-for changing my poopy…”
His wife smiled. “Say it properly.”
“Thank you for changing my poopy pampers…”
Both women laughed.
“Oh,” the friend said, wiping her hands. “We have to do this again.”
He cheated once. Just once. And somehow this is what his life became.
He was face-down on the soft blue sheets, his legs splayed wide, the thick padding between them still warm from earlier. The guest room was dim. Suffocating. His pacifier lay beside him, he’d spat it out during one of his pathetic, choked sobs.
He hated this.
But worse, worse than the crinkle, worse than the stuffed animals staring at him from the corners of the room, was the sound from the other side of the wall.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The headboard. Again.
The bed he used to share. The bed they bought together. The bed she now shared with him.
And not quietly.
She didn’t need to raise her voice. Not when the moans said it all. Not when the rhythm was so… mocking. Deliberate. Like they wanted him to hear it.
He buried his face in the pillow, the crinkling under his hips louder as he shifted, trying not to move, not to feel it.
But he did feel it.
The pressure. The heat. The padding. And before he knew what he was doing, he was grinding.
“No,” he whispered, his voice muffled in the sheets. “No, please…”
He hated himself. For what he did to his wife, for what he did to his diaper, for what he was doing now.
But his hips moved on their own. Pathetically. Shamefully. He clutched the blankets. The sobs returned, harder now. Each thrust of the headboard outside matched his own. The rhythm syncing in the worst, most humiliating way.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Oh yea, Brandon! Ohhh fuck YEAAA!!"
He had never heard her moan like that. Not when they were together. Not even close.
It sounded… real. Effortless. Hungry. Like she was being taken. Worshipped. Ruined in the best way. And loving every second of it.
“God, yes! Just like that! Yes! Fuck! YESSSS!!” Her voice was sharp now. High. Wrung out. Not for show.
He bit down into the pillow, shaking. Trying not to move. Not to feel. But his hips betrayed him again. A whimper slipped from his throat. He hated himself for it.
So he tried, desperately, to imagine her beneath him. That it was her body he was grinding against. That she was the one making those sounds because of him.
But the crinkle said otherwise.
Each thrust was met with that humiliating plasticky squish. That soft resistance of the soaked, swollen padding beneath him. Not skin. Not warmth. Just the same shameful, ridiculous diaper she taped him into hours earlier before telling him not to interrupt their evening.
He let out a noise--half whimper, half sob--as the pressure crested in him. His hips jerked again, once, twice, then a final trembling thrust. It wasn't powerful. It wasn’t satisfying. It was desperate. Twitchy. Weak. Pathetic.
His release came with a broken gasp, muffled into the sheets. An eruption of shame more than pleasure. No moan. No pleasure-cry. Just a dry-mouthed sob as his body betrayed him one last time, spurting into the soaked padding in a series of short, involuntary spasms.
It wasn’t even good. But it still happened.
He clutched the blanket like it might bury him. His breath caught, then broke. Sharp and wet, full of tears. His chest heaved as the realization sank in, deeper than it ever had before.
She was getting close.
She was being held. Tasted. Filled.
And he was leaking into his diaper on the guest bed.
Sticky. Spent. Worthless.
He collapsed, trembling. The clarity hit fast, cold and punishing. His legs shook, the damp crinkle against his skin a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. What he’d become.
And her moans continued to echo.
Real ones. The kind she’d never made with him.
The kind no amount of padding, pacifiers, or pathetic humping would ever earn back.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was still leaking into his diaper, and she was still getting even.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks @brattylittlesteff for the amazing picture!
Rubbin' the Nubbin'
The bed is already a wreck when the final stretch starts.
He’s got her folded in half, knees pinned beside her ears, hips pistoning so hard the headboard slams the wall with every thrust. The room is nothing but wet, filthy sounds: the loud, rhythmic slap of his heavy balls against her soaked ass, the squelch of her pussy taking every inch, the creak of springs threatening to snap.
She’s beyond words at first, just high, desperate, animal noises spilling out of her open mouth.
“F-FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, YES!! Wreck me! Wreck me, oh my goddd—”
He snarls, sweat dripping off his chest onto her tits. “That little diaper bitch ever give it to you like this??"
“Never! FUCK! Never! You’re so deep, I can’t, I can’t—”
Her back arches violently, nails clawing red lines down his back. He slams in to the hilt and grinds, thick cockhead pressing right against her cervix.
“Tell him,” he growls. “Tell your cuck whose pussy this is.”
“It’s yours!” she screams, voice cracking. “It’s yours, Daddy, it’s fucking yours! He never even—unngghh!!!”
Another brutal thrust. The slippery sound of her soaked pussy welcoming him hungrily.
“Look at him while I ruin you.”
Her glassy eyes find you in the chair. She's panting like a bitch in heat, tears streaking her mascara, mouth open in a desperate "O".
“I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum! Nnnghh i'm gonna so hard on your big fucking cock while he watches in his diapurrohhhh god! Oh god! Oh GODDD!!!”
He speeds up, relentless, skin slapping skin so fast it’s a blur.
“Do it. Cum all over the dick that owns you.”
She shatters.
Her whole body locks up, that silent scream women do when all their breath seems to vanish, then: thighs shaking uncontrollably, pussy clamping down and pulsing so hard he groans through clenched teeth. A raw, guttural roar tears out of her as the orgasm detonates, long, violent waves that leave her convulsing, squirting messily around his shaft, soaking his balls, the sheets, everything.
“Fuuuck, yes, yes, YES!”
He keeps pounding through it, drawing it out until she’s sobbing from overstimulation, every muscle in his thighs and abs clench, then he slams deep one last time and grunts. His balls draw up, you can actually see them contract, once, twice, three times in a row, slow and powerful as they pump a thick, hot load straight into her spasming cunt.
Their bodies are locked together, chests heaving against each other, slick skin sliding with every ragged gasp. You can see the pulse in his neck hammering, the way his back ripples with aftershocks, his ass still flexed tight from that final thrust. Her fingers are dug into his shoulders so hard her knuckles are white, nails leaving red crescents.
His heavy balls are still pressed flush against her, twitching with the last few lazy pumps, emptying the final drops deep inside. A thick rivulet of cum is already leaking out around his shaft, running down her ass crack and pooling beneath her on the ruined sheets.
They stay like that for seconds that stretch into eternity, him pinning her open, her pussy fluttering helplessly around him, both of them gasping, shaking, utterly spent.
Only when the trembling finally starts to ease does he let her legs slide down his sweat-slick back. She melts into the mattress with a broken little moan, thighs falling open, cum pouring out of her in a slow, obscene flood.
Then, and only then, does she turn her flushed, wrecked face toward you in the cuck chair, mascara smeared, lips swollen, voice raw and dripping with honeyed cruelty.
You nod frantically, cheeks burning hotter than ever, the pacifier bobbing against your chest where it’s clipped to the frilly collar of your dress.
The bull chuckles, low and smug, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. You don’t even remember his name anymore. He’s been coming around for a week or two, maybe three, but she always makes you call them “Daddy” anyway, so they all blur together and slip right out of your head.
She pats his broad, sweaty chest like he’s a prized pet, nails dragging lightly through the hair there, then locks her glittering eyes on you again.
“Of course you did,” she croons, voice syrupy and cruel, every syllable soaked in mock affection. “Look how puffy your diaper already is. All that watching made your little clitty leak, didn’t it?”
You whimper, eyes fixed on the floor, cheeks on fire.
“Spread those knees, princess. Wider. Let Daddy see exactly what a real man did to Mommy while you sat there in your crinkly padding.”
Your thighs tremble as you force them apart. The thick, swollen diaper resists for a second, then gives with a loud, wet crinkle, splaying your legs obscenely wide. The saturated front bulges outward, shiny plastic stretched tight, the tiny, pathetic outline of your tucked nubbin visibly twitching and dripping against the soaked padding.
She smiles like she’s admiring the saddest, sweetest piece of art in the world.
“Poor baby girl… sitting there in your soggy little diaper, dripping like a broken faucet while Daddy gave Mommy the fucking of her life.”
The bull snorts, stretching back against the pillows like a conquering king. She melts into him, letting his huge hand palm her breast possessively, thumb flicking her nipple while she keeps her gaze pinned on you.
“Go on, sweetheart,” she purrs. “Tell Mommy and Daddy, out loud, how soaking wet your diaper got from watching a real cock stretch me open and pump me full. I want to hear every embarrassing word.”
Your voice is tiny, cracked, barely audible over the wet crinkle of the diaper when you shift.
“My… my diaper got really wet, Mommy…”
You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the floor.
“While Daddy was… was fucking you so hard… my little clitty kept leaking the whole time. It’s all swollen and puffy now… warm and sticky inside…"
A humiliated whimper escapes.
You trail off into a shamed little whine, thighs trembling, the thick padding bulging obviously between them as proof.
“Aww!! It's so fwustwating watching Mommy and Daddy have gwown up time while you wriggle and watch in your widdle pampurrs huh?.”
She reaches down and gives the bull’s spent cock a playful little pat, then turns her full attention on you.
“Are you feeling left out? Poor little thing, sitting there all puffy and sticky while the real adults played.”
She cups her own breast idly, voice dropping into that syrupy, sing-song baby-talk that makes your stomach flip.
“Don’t worry, princess. We didn’t forget about you. Mommy and Daddy got to cum… now it’s baby gurl’s turn for her special diaper cummies.”
She leans forward, chin in her hands, eyes sparkling.
“Go on, sweetheart. Rub it. Right over that silly little bump. Show Daddy how widdle baby cucks get off! Go on! Put that hand on your soggy pampurr and wub wub wub.”
Your face is on fire, but the ache between your legs is worse. Your hand drops like it has a mind of its own, palm pressing the hot, swollen front of the diaper against your throbbing nub. The second you make contact there’s a loud, wet SQUELCH, so obscene it echoes off the walls.
“That’s it,” she coos, voice dripping with syrupy delight. “Nice widdle circles. Make it crinkle for us, baby girl. Let Daddy hear every sloppy sound.”
You start rubbing, slow, mortifying circles. The saturated padding sloshes under your hand, plastic crinkling, gel shifting, your tiny nub sliding helplessly in its own warm puddle.
The bull smirks, eyes half-lidded. “That all he’s got? Looks like he’s rubbing a damn clit.”
“You saw how small it was when I was changing his diaper,” she laughs, wrapping her fingers around the bull’s thickening cock and giving it a slow, possessive stroke just to drive the point home. “It’s just a stubby little nubby. But it’s our baby’s special clitty, isn’t it?”
She leans in, baby-talk thick and vicious. “Tell Daddy thank you for fucking Mommy so good.”
You whimper, rubbing faster, the diaper growing hotter and sloppier under your palm. “Th-thank you, Daddy…”
“Louder, princess,” she orders, grinding her ass back against the bull’s now fully hard cock. “And don’t you dare stop rubbing. I want that diaper absolutely creamy and ruined before he bends me over again. You don’t get to cum inside Mommy anymore; you get to squirt in your padding like the useless little girl you are.”
She tips her head back onto his shoulder, moaning softly as he pinches her nipple hard, eyes never leaving yours.
“Rub, baby. Rub rub rub. Louder. Faster. This is your sex life now.”
Your hand is already flying, the soaked front squishing and crinkling so loudly it fills the room, but she’s not done.
“Now put one hand on your bottom, baby. Right over your pretty little plug.” She taps the air like she’s patting an invisible diapered butt. “Pat it for us. Nice and loud.”
You obey instantly. Your free palm slaps the seat of your diaper with a heavy, wet THUMP. The plug shifts inside you, the one she stuffed up your ass before pulling the diaper up tight. "So you don't have any stinky accidents and ruin Mommy and Daddy's fun!"
The sudden pressure on the fat, thick rubber plug makes your eyes roll back and a pathetic squeak escape your throat.
“Keep going. Pat pat pat. Good girl.”
You keep rubbing the front in frantic circles while your other hand spanks the back of the diaper in rhythm: THUMP… squish… THUMP… squish… THUMP… squish…
Every slap drives the plug deeper, grinding it right against your prostate, forcing fresh pre-cum to spurt into the already-saturated padding. The diaper grows hotter, heavier, sloppier with every humiliating beat.
She watches with pure glee, baby-talk thick and vicious.
“Now bounce, baby. Up and down on that plug like it’s your favorite toy. Keep rubbing your clitty with the other hand, big slow circles. That’s it… bounce and rub, bounce and rub.”
You obey instantly, lifting and dropping your weight in the chair. The diaper crinkles and slaps against the seat, the plug driving deeper with every bounce, your trapped nub sliding helplessly through the warm, slippery gel. Up—THUD—down—SQUELCH—up—THUD—down—SQUELCH.
She tilts her head, mock-adoring. “Aww, wook at the widdle baby go! Say it for Mommy. Goo goo ga ga.”
Your cheeks are on fire, but the words tumble out in a broken, breathy lisp around the pacifier clipped to your frilly collar.
“Pwease, Mommy! Pwease wet me make goo goo’s! Baby so cwose!”
“No.” The single word cracks like a whip.
“Stop touching your diaper. Right. Now.”
Your hands snap away as if the plastic burned you. A broken, high-pitched keen tears out of your throat as the orgasm slams into a brick wall and throbs there, huge, agonizing, trapped inside the swollen padding. Your hips jerk helplessly in the air, chasing a touch that isn’t there, the plug grinding cruelly with every useless twitch.
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, voice sliding back into that syrupy baby-talk that somehow feels even worse after the bark.
“No goo goo’s yet, princess. We’re going to edge that widdle clitty until you’re a crying, leaking mess. Rub again, nice and slow… all the way up to the very brink… and stop. Show Daddy how obedient a plugged-up little diaper slut can be.”
You sob, but your trembling hand creeps back between your legs. Slow circles… the soaked padding squishes warmly, the plug nudges your prostate with every tiny shift… faster… faster… the heat coils, unbearable…
Right as your thighs start shaking and your breath turns into frantic baby whimpers, she snaps, “Hands off.”
You yank them away with a wail, hips bucking at nothing, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks.
Again. And again. And again.
Each time you get closer, each time you’re forced to stop, the diaper growing hotter and heavier with denied pre-cum, your voice cracking into higher and higher baby babble.
“Pwease, Mommy… pwease… baby gonna die if no goo goo’s…”
She just smiles, letting you suffer, letting the bull watch and smirk while your entire world narrows to the throbbing, aching, utterly ruined padding between your legs.
“Please Mommy! Please please please let baby make goo goo’s! I’ll be so good, I promise!”
She lets the silence stretch until your pathetic hiccupping is the only sound in the room.
Then she leans forward, voice suddenly ice-cold and clipped. No more baby-talk, just pure, calm cruelty.
“Listen carefully, little girl: You have one chance. Right now.
You collapse forward out of the chair, landing on your padded knees with a wet thud. The diaper sags heavily between your thighs as you start bouncing on the plug like a wind-up toy gone haywire, babbling in a high, sloppy, desperate wail:
“Goo goo ga ga! Pwease pwease pweeeeease Mommy! Baby so sowwy, baby so dumb an’ usewess! Tankoo tankoo tankoo Daddy fow fuckin’ Mommy so good! Baby watched evewy single thwust an’ it made baby’s widdle clitty thwob an’ leak an’ baby wanna cweam pampurrs so bad! Pwease wet baby make big messy goo goo’s! Baby pwomise be good foreva! Baby jus’ a dumb diapee girl! Goo goo ga ga ga gaaahhh!”
A thick string of drool spills from your open mouth, sliding down your chin and dripping onto the frilly dress as you bounce harder, diaper squelching, plug grinding, tears and snot mixing on your face.
“Guh-guh-ga ga! Goo goo’s pwease! Baby beg-beg-beg! Wanna cweam for Mommy an’ Daddy! Pwease pwease pweeeee—”
You dissolve into wet, incoherent baby noises, rocking and humping the air, utterly broken.
She turns her head lazily toward the bull, one eyebrow raised.
“Well? Did the little diaper princess earn her goo goo’s?”
The bull snorts, looking down at your drooling, bouncing, sobbing mess.
“I’d like to say no just to spite the pathetic fucker… but Jesus Christ, that was the most embarrassing shit I’ve ever seen in my life.”
She laughs, bright and cruel, and flicks a finger at you.
“Fine. Go ahead, baby. Bounce on that plug and make the biggest, messiest, most pathetic goo goo’s you’ve ever made in your diaper. You have ten seconds before I change my mind.”
She starts counting down, slow and merciless.
“Ten…”
You throw yourself into it like your life depends on it. Palm slamming the swollen, squelching front, hips bouncing so hard the chair creaks.
“Nine…”
The plug rams deep with every drop, thick head grinding your prostate, diaper slapping wetly against your thighs.
“Eight… seven…”
“Goo goo ga ga! Goo goo ga—”
“Six… five…”
Your squeal turns into a high, broken wail as the pressure snaps. Hot, thick ropes surge out of your clitty in violent pulses, flooding the already-soaked padding.
“Four…”
Another spurt, then another, each one making the diaper heavier, hotter, creamier. You can feel it spreading, coating everything, the plastic bulging obscenely.
“Three… two…”
You’re still coming, hips jerking helplessly, drool flying as you shriek “Goo goo ga ga gaaah!” through the endless waves.
“One…”
The last pathetic squirt oozes out just as she reaches zero. You collapse forward, forehead on the floor, diaper sagging low and ruined, a warm, sticky, utterly destroyed mess between your trembling thighs.
She laughs, bright and cruel.
“Good baby. Look at that pathetic little cream-pie you made in your pampers. All because you watched a real man fuck Mommy.”
You’re still huffing and puffing, chest heaving, face burning as the post-nut fog rolls in and the full weight of what you just did crashes over you. She just smiles wider, savoring every second of your shame.
“And speaking of cream pies…”
Her legs part slowly, revealing the glistening mess between them—his thick load already starting to ooze out in slow, sticky strands down her crack and into her ass.. She crooks a finger at you, beckoning with a lazy, commanding flick.
Her thighs fall open like theater curtains. Thick, pearly ropes of the bull’s load are already sliding out of her, dripping down her swollen lips, over her asshole She crooks one finger.
“You have cleanup duty, baby girl. Get that tongue in there and lick every last drop of Daddy’s cum out of Mommy like the good little cucky you are. Then, when Mommy’s all nice and sparkly clean, you’re gonna crawl over to Daddy, open that pretty mouth, and give him the sloppiest, most desperate sucky-sucky you can manage until he’s rock-hard and ready to fuck me again.”
You wear pampers. Therefore you can never have a normal sex life.
You must surrender to pampersexuality. you are a pampersexual now.
All of your sexual thoughts now revolve around or include nappies.
And if you ever dreamt of putting your dick in pussy then you need to realize it is already wrapped in the only warm thing it will ever go off in
Yep that’s right a thick padded diaper
There will never be pussy for you, only pampers.
Bambinos/Rearz/Little for Big/Tykables they all feel better than pussy.
Go ahead and engrain this thought in your mind.
Because pampers ARE pussy for you now.
Say it. Pampers feel better than pussy. Good. Go ahead and surrender to this idea. It’s irreversible
Image credit Chloe Smith Little Diapered Sunshine
Pampers feel better than pussy. All of my sexual thoughts revolve around nappies. I surrender to pampersexuality 🧷
ABDL Littles (Adult Baby/Diaper Lover Littles) wear diapers for a variety of personal, emotional, and psychological reasons. Here are the most common ones:
💞 1. Comfort and Security
Diapers can provide a strong sense of emotional safety and physical comfort, similar to how a blanket or stuffed animal might for a child.
The feeling of being "taken care of" can be very soothing, especially when entering a regressed headspace (a mental state where they feel younger or like a baby).
🧠 2. Regression and Roleplay
Many Littles use diapers as part of age regression or age play — pretending to be a much younger version of themselves.
Wearing a diaper helps them fully immerse in their Little role, which might include activities like bottle feeding, coloring, or crawling.
😌 3. Stress Relief
Regression and diaper use can be a way to escape adult responsibilities, like work, bills, or social pressure.
This can be a calming, healing coping mechanism, especially for people with anxiety, PTSD, or overwhelming stress.
🧷 4. Physical Sensation or Enjoyment
Some ABDLs enjoy the physical sensation of wearing a diaper — the bulkiness, the texture, or even the warmth.
This can sometimes be non-sexual, but for others, it can have a fetish or kink component (especially for those more DL than Little).
🧸 5. Connection with a Caregiver
For Littles in a CG/L (Caregiver/Little) dynamic, diapers may be part of their caregiver’s role — helping with diaper changes, affirming their Littleness, or building trust and bonding.
🛏️ 6. Incontinence or Medical Reasons
While this is less specific to ABDL, some adults with bladder or bowel issues wear diapers for practical reasons. In some cases, they may also identify with the ABDL community as a result.
Everyone’s reasons are unique — some Littles wear diapers all the time, others only when they’re regressing. And not all ABDLs are the same: some focus more on the baby/little side (AB), others more on just liking diapers (DL), or a mix of both.
If you’re curious about anything more specific (like routines, types of diapers, or caregiver dynamics), feel free to ask Mommyarabellablog.
Mommy is here to respond to all text and be there for all open and secret 😉 diaper babies/sissies 🍼.
Like, comment and reblog on Mommyarabella post 🍼 💦 🤱🧑🍼🔞
How does it feel to be back in diapers again?
It’s definitely a new feeling to get used to isn’t it?
Wearing a diaper feels so much more different than normal big boy underwear doesn’t it
And have had the chance to mess your diaper and make it wet yet?
No? Really? So your diaper is completely dry right now? I think I had better check
You don’t have to feel awkward or embarrassed about having diaper checks or about wetting or messing
This is your life now and you will soon get used to it. In fact so think you could do with some encouragement
So if you completely soak this diaper for me I will let you pick out the fresh one that I will put you in myself
How does that sound Sweetheart. And after maybe you can have a little suckle on my Mommy Milkers as a reward
I want you to embrace diapers and being my little sweet baby
Image credit Hubbies
Model Becky Lesabre
I am all yours nanny Becky
A new day with my sissy mommy need more sissy and abdl to change their diapers and take care of them that's mommy's only jobs feel free to text mommy mommy now
Mandy feeds little Stuart
Big babies need enormous terry nappies
My dream nappy change OMG
Ok honey you can have 15 more minutes on your game but you must tell Mommy if you need to go wee wee. Remember Mommy wants to start potty training today
Then I have this fresh Super Kings diaper and baby powder for you. What’s the KY Jelly for? Never you mind. You don’t need to worry about that if you are a good boy
Honey you are shuffling about in your seat. Did you just go wee wee without telling Mommy first?
Oh I think you have - come here and let me do a proper diaper check
Oh no sweetheart. Mommy told you not to wet without asking her. You are so naughty.
Well you know what that means. Naughty boys get punished
So yes I have your clean super kings here but I have something else for you. Yes you know what it is don’t you? You know what to do….
That’s a good boy bend over for Mommy so she can slide inside you. Oh don’t worry I have used lots of these KY jelly so I will just slip in smoothly
Yes Mommy did choose the big one. It’s a punishment after all. It’s to remind you who is in charge
And then afterwards I will put you in this nice thick Super King diaper. Now remember your manners. What do we say? That’s right. Thank you Mommy.
Image credit mommyandbabyD (a wonderful abdl couple)
Me and who? Would love to see more diaper and strap content on my feed
@pooinmypants xx