The phone had buzzed three times that afternoon. Three messages, three invitations, three chances to be normal. But she’d swiped them all away with a smirk. Of course she wasn’t going. What kind of woman would trade a night out for the chance to rot in a soggy diaper like a overgrown toddler?
The first invite had been from her old college friends: Drinks at 9, club after. She could already picture them glossy lips, tight dresses, the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were wanted. But she? She’d rather be home, her thighs already damp from the first few sips of water, her diaper crinkling like a trash bag every time she shifted.
The second had been from her coworker, the one who always smelled like perfume and ambition. Exclusive rooftop party, dress to impress. As if she could impress anyone. The only thing she was impressive at was soaking through a diaper in record time.
And the third? The third had been the worst. Her cousin, the one who still looked at her with pity, like she was a project that had gone horribly wrong. Family thing, just a few people. But she wasn’t family. She was a disgrace. A grown woman who’d rather spend her Friday night stuffed with a vibrator and a mouthful of water than face the world like an adult.
So here she was. Alone. Pathetic. A joke of a person.
The diaper was already thick between her legs, the plastic backing cool against her skin as she pulled it up, taping it snug. She could feel the bulk of it, the way it made her waddle like a duck when she walked to the kitchen for another glass of water. Chug, chug, chug. Her bladder ached almost immediately, the pressure building like a taunt. She could’ve been dancing right now. She could’ve been laughing. She could’ve been wanted.
But no. She was here. A little filthy piggy who’d chosen this.
The vibrator was next. She didn’t even hesitate as she pressed it inside, the silicone slick with lube, the base snug against her entrance. The moment she turned it on, the buzz sent a jolt through her, her hips jerking up off the couch. Pathetic. She was already dripping, the diaper swelling with every little leak, the crinkle growing wetter, louder, more humiliating with every passing second.
She spread her legs wider, her fingers digging into the soaked padding, feeling the way it squelched under her touch. The vibrator thrummed against her walls, and she bit her lip, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Real women were out there, living their lives, being seen. And here she was, a useless little mess, her diaper sagging with the weight of her own shame.
“Look at you,” she muttered to herself, her voice thick with self-loathing. “A grown woman, and you’d rather sit in your own piss like a baby than put on a dress and act like a person.”
She drank more. The water sloshed in her stomach, the pressure in her bladder turning from a dull ache to a desperate need. The diaper was a swamp now, the wetness seeping into every crevice, the plastic clinging to her skin. She could smell it, the musky, warm scent of her own pee. The vibrator kept up its cruel rhythm, and she rocked against it, her hips rolling in tiny, needy circles, her breath hitching every time she got so close...
Only to pull back.
Because she didn’t deserve to come.
She was a disgrace. A waste. A little piggy who’d chosen this over everything.
The red and blue lights flashed in Cami’s rearview mirror, a jarring contrast to the late afternoon sun. She groaned, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Of all the damn days. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she never did, but that didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not since the world had decided that women like her, women who still tried to be adults, were the odd ones out.
She pulled over, the car rolling to a stop with a quiet hum. Before she could even reach for her license, the officer was already at her window, his silhouette looming in the glass. She rolled it down, forcing a polite smile.
“Afternoon, officer,” she said, voice steady despite the irritation bubbling beneath.
The officer didn’t return the smile. His eyes flicked over her, her white t-shirt, the way her legs were pressed against the leather seat, the faint outline of her pull-ups beneath her skirt. His expression shifted, just slightly, into something amused. Condescending.
“License and registration, miss,” he said, but his tone was already dripping with that infuriating, knowing edge.
Cami exhaled sharply through her nose. She reached for her glove compartment, but before she could open it, the officer’s hand shot out, stopping her. “Hold on there. Let’s make sure you’re properly taken care of first.”
Her stomach twisted. She hated this. Hated the way the world had turned, hated the way men like him looked at her now, like she was some kind of curiosity, a relic from a time that no longer existed. Most women her age had long since given up driving, given up thinking, content to let their daddies or the state handle everything for them. But not Cami. She still had her license. Still had her pride.
“Officer, I’m fine,” she snapped, but her voice wavered just a little. She could feel his gaze lingering on her legs, on the way her skirt rode up just enough to hint at the thick fabric beneath.
“Mmm. That’s not for you to decide, is it?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into that mocking, daddy-like tone that made her skin crawl. “Lift your skirt. Let’s see for ourselves.”
Her face burned. She wanted to refuse, wanted to scream that this was ridiculous, that she was a grown woman, damn it. But the law was the law. And the law said that any woman could be inspected at any time, for her own safety, of course.
With a sharp, resentful motion, she hiked up her skirt, exposing the snug pull-ups hugging her hips. They were dry. Of course they were. She wasn’t some helpless little girl who couldn’t control her bladder.
The officer let out a low chuckle. “Well, well. Look at you. Still potty trained, huh?” His fingers twitched, and before she could protest, his hand was on her thigh, sliding upward. She stiffened, but his grip was firm, his touch deliberate as he pressed his palm against the front of her pull-ups, checking for wetness.
“Officer...!” she hissed, but he just smirked.
“Relax. Just doing my job.” His fingers curled slightly, the fabric crinkling under his grip. “Though I do wonder…” His voice was a purr now, the kind that made her stomach clench. “How long do you think you can keep this up? Driving around, pretending you’re still in charge?”
She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her throat. She wanted to slap his hand away, to tell him to go to hell. But the truth was, she was outnumbered. Outmatched. The world had moved on without her.
Then, without warning, he pulled something from his belt, a small, sleek canister. Before she could react, he held the nozzle towards her face and sprayed.
The fine mist hit Cami’s face like a cool, invisible hand. She blinked, her vision swimming for a moment as the scent, sweet, almost cloying, filled her nose. Her thoughts, sharp and defiant just seconds ago, began to blur at the edges, like a radio tuning out of a station. The officer’s voice, once grating, now sounded… nice. Warm.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, his tone shifting into something softer, more daddy-like. “Just let it work, sweetheart.”
Cami’s lips parted, but the words she wanted to say, the protests, the anger, wouldn’t come. Instead, a slow, heavy warmth spread through her, pooling low in her belly. She shifted in her seat, her thighs pressing together as a strange, tingling pressure built between her legs. She whimpered, her fingers twisting in the hem of her skirt.
The officer chuckled, watching her with amusement. “There we go. That’s my good little driver.”
And then, oh. A rush of warmth flooded her, sudden and undeniable. Her pull-ups darkened instantly, the fabric swelling against her as she wet herself without a single thought to stop it. The sensation was delicious, warm, comforting, like sinking into a bath. She let out a soft, embarrassed giggle, her face flushing as she realized what she’d done. But the shame was distant, muffled, like it belonged to someone else.
“Uh-oh,” the officer teased, his grin widening. “Looks like someone needed that change after all.” He reached for her seatbelt, clicking it open with a sharp snick. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”
Cami didn’t resist as he helped her out of the car. The world felt soft around the edges, her movements slow and unsteady. The officer, Daddy, a little voice in her head corrected, wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her. She leaned into him, her giggles bubbling up as she took small, wobbly steps toward his patrol car.
“D-Daddy?” she slurred, the word tasting strange and right on her tongue.
“That’s me, baby girl,” he said, opening the back door. He guided her inside, then reached for the seatbelt, buckling her in with practiced ease. The leather seat was cool against her damp pull-ups, but she barely noticed. All she could focus on was the way Daddy was looking at her, like she was something precious. Something his.
“W-where we goin’?” she asked, her voice small and sing-song.
Daddy shut the door and leaned in through the open window, his voice gentle. “Home, sweetheart. To your new nursery. I’ve got a nice, thick diaper waiting for you there. And maybe a bottle, if you’re a good girl.”
Cami’s giggles filled the car, high and breathless. She kicked her feet, the wet crinkle of her pull-ups loud in the quiet. The old Cami, the one who’d been angry, defiant was gone. All that was left was this: a sweet little girl.
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The first time that I hear the name Chad referenced is on the first time I meet Angela’s friends, and it comes in the form of an off-hand compliment–or, perhaps, put-down, depending on your perspective. Angela’s friend Lacy says: “Oh, this guy is much more mature than Chad.” Maybe, if the comment had just elicited a few little chuckles and grins before the conversation got back on track again, I wouldn’t have thought about it much. But the response to this remark really surprised me. Angela and her friends laughed loudly together–with them cackling while tears formed in their eyes. I watched as Bethany mimicked sucking her thumb, while Sarah curled up her fists and pretended to rub them under her eyes like a bawling toddler.
Context clues suggested that Chad was an ex-boyfriend of Angela’s–someone that Angela had eluded to in vague stories before, though I had never had a name for. The way the girls carried on about this, while a little amusing to watch, was still curious to me. Why all the allusions to baby-ish behavior? The ‘mature’ comment, too, seemed specifically damning.
Later, after Angela and I had left the company of her friends for the evening, I decided to just come out and ask: “So, what’s the joke about this Chad guy you used to date? He acted like a baby or something?”
Angela, in that frank-but-mysterious nature she often had, simply said: “He didn’t act like a baby. He was a baby. Probably still is.”
I suppose I could’ve–should’ve–asked more questions, but I thought it best to just let it go. Seeing Angela be so dismissive of a past flame only bolstered my own self-esteem and that was all I needed. I was the man that she wanted to be with now. And in making their little jokes tonight, Angela’s friends signaled that I was better than whoever Chad was.
For a while, this was the end of the story, as it concerned me.
Months later, with our relationship flourishing, Angela suggested that we move in together, an idea that I put my stamp of approval on. The lease on my own apartment was winding down, and Angela had an entire duplex unit all to herself. It just made sense.
Shortly after moving day, and as I began the arduous process of unpacking all the boxes I had delivered to my new home, I found myself in the master bedroom and filling my new closet with my clothes. In the midst of this, I dropped a belt on the floor, which caused me to explore the deep corner of the closet I might not have paid much mind to otherwise. It was here that I found…a pacifier. I didn’t think of it much at first–while Angela doesn’t have any children of her own, the history of this house precedes her, and I assumed it was a relic from a different owner.
I showed it to Angela, thinking it would be something we could laugh about. “Take a look at what I found in the closet,” I joked. “You trying to tell me something?”
But Angela’s reaction surprised me. She quickly snatched it out of my hand, muttering under her breath and rolling her eyes. She seemed to find no humor in it, and I watched as she shoved it into her pocket and marched away.
It was only later that I reflected on that first night out with Angela’s friends, when they all sat around and mocked Chad for, apparently, being a ‘big baby.’ It’s not like I honestly believed that this pacifier belonged to Chad, though I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. I imagined a scenario where Angela had bought the pacifier for him as a sort-of joke–a mean commentary about how he had been acting. I still wanted to know more about that relationship–about who Chad had been and what he had done to earn his place as the ‘babyish’ punching bag. Maybe just for my own sake–did the man make critical mistakes that I could learn to avoid myself? But Angela seemed unwilling to reopen that closed book, and I respected that right of hers.
===
It would be quite a while before I thought about Chad again; months, in fact. But he popped into my head the day after Angela and I had hosted our first cookout together.
It was late spring then, and this wasn’t just our first social gathering at the house since we moved in with each other, but the first official merging of her social circle with my own. It was, by most metrics, a slam dunk. Our friends got along well, the food was great, and everyone was quick to point out how adorable the two of us were as both hosts and as a couple. Everything seemed to be looking up that night–especially through the haze of having worked my way, with my friends’ help, through most of the keg I had bought for the event.
That next morning, I was awakened by Angela’s panicked shaking of my shoulder. She was saying something to me about ‘wet,’ but it didn’t make any sense to me.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” I mumbled.
“The bed!” she exclaimed. “It’s soaking wet!”
It was at this that I sat up and felt around me. Sure enough, the mattress and the bed sheets were damp and soggy. “Did a pipe burst?” I asked. “Did something spill?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I…I think it was you.”
“Me? Well I didn’t spill anything, so…” But it was then that I realized what she meant. Sure enough, when I looked down at the bed, I could see the damp, yellow-tinged, stain seemed centralized around my side of the bed and not hers. As if further evidence was needed, I checked my boxers, finding them just as drenched as the bed.
It appeared that I had wet the bed. As best as I could recall, I had never done anything like that in my life, even when I was a young boy. I almost refused to believe that I was responsible for this, despite the overwhelming evidence. I tried explaining this to Angela, but it was clear that she had already made up her mind about this.
“You did drink a lot last night,” she said.
This was true, but it also wasn’t the first time in my life I had a lot of beer in a single night, and I had certainly never pissed the bed before.
I had limited options. To continue to insist that I wasn’t responsible for the wet bed seemed unhelpful, as I didn’t have a better answer for what actually occurred. The better solution seemed to be to just apologize, take care of cleaning the bed, and focus on proving to Angela in the future that it wasn’t going to happen again.
She seemed to accept this, though not before making a little comment as she walked out of the bedroom: “Keep that up, and you’re going to have to wear some protection to bed.”
Protection. Diapers, I assumed. And the thought of diapers reminded me of the found pacifier, which reminded me of the comments about Chad being a ‘big baby.’
Call it instinct, or just plain paranoia, but something wasn’t sitting right with me. I held onto that feeling, becoming guarded and observant over the next few days. I drank less alcohol–less liquids in general, really–especially at night. In the mornings, I listened to her make snide comments about how I ‘managed to keep the bed dry again,’ as if I had a long history of bedwetting.
It finally happened again almost a week later, I woke to the feeling of a warm dampness all around me on my side of the bed. While I was thankful I had been the one to catch it this time, it didn’t take long for Angela to wake too, observing for herself what had happened.
“I can’t believe you did it again,” she said, shaking her head with disappointment. “We’re going to have to do something about this.”
I knew what she meant, of course–that little threat about diapers from the other day. But I wasn’t so sure that was the end-all-be-all solution here. “I think I should go to the doctor first. See if there’s a real problem that needs to be taken care of.”
“A doctor? What’s he going to tell you? Something about it being stress related, I bet.”
Her dismissive attitude about my going to the doctor fueled my paranoia more. Something seemed up. But who could I talk to about this?
Chad. I decided that I needed to talk to Chad.
===
I worried that it wouldn’t be easy to find Chad, given that he had a common enough first name and I didn’t know his last name. But I had some ideas. One day, while I had the house to myself, I dove through file folders of old bills and documents that Angela kept at the desk in her home office, finally retrieving a cable bill addressed to a Chad Sussman at this address. Bingo.
With a little sleuthing on social media, I was able to locate a Chad Sussman who still lived in this city. With a little trepidation, I sent him a short message: “If you’re willing, I’d like to talk to you about your previous relationship with Angela Walker.” In all honesty, I was expecting him to either not respond at all, or for him to tell me to fuck off.
But, only two hours later, I received a response back from him. “Having seen the pictures on your profile, it looks like you two are dating now. I’d say that we should probably talk–but I’m worried that it’s already too late.”
Not entirely scared off by his cryptic warning, I agreed to meet Chad. I suggested a bar or a diner–somewhere public–for our interaction, but he insisted I come to his apartment instead. It didn’t seem like an especially good idea to comply with this request, but maybe I was just feeling desperate to get this conversation over with.
The moment I walked through the door in Chad’s apartment, I was overwhelmed with scents that were foreign to my nose. Baby powder, perhaps, but something else too. Something musty and stale.
It was an inoffensive apartment, the space minimally utilized and barely anything as far as decor went. It reminded me of my first apartment after college–a space for eating and sleeping, with little care given for it feeling like ‘home.’ Likewise, Chad himself seemed harmlessly average, with his regular-cut jeans and baggy sports-team hoodie. He seemed a little frumpier than the pictures on his social media profile suggested. I suspected he hadn’t been in his prime for a while–knowing Angela, there was no way she would’ve dated someone who looked as he did now.
He offered me a drink, which I declined, though this didn’t stop him from grabbing a beer for himself, despite it only being the early afternoon. We made small talk for a bit, trading notes on our jobs and what schools we went to. We both knew that’s not what I was there to talk about, but I waited for him to change the subject when he’s ready.
Then, he finally is, saying apropos of nothing: “So, I suppose you’re wetting the bed now?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You’ve wet the bed a few times. Angela might’ve even bought you some diapers, huh? Has she made you wear one to bed yet?”
I was tempted to ask how he knew that, but I was sure I already knew the answer. “Is that what happened to you?”
“Sure did,” he said, nodding. “And believe it or not, that’s just the start of it.”
I was almost scared to ask: “What comes next?”
“More ‘accidents,’” he said, letting out a laugh. “And then there’ll be more diapers. Diapers during the day. DIapers when you go to work. Diapers around your friends and family. Soon enough, you’re wearing diapers all the time. The bathroom’s locked so you can’t even use a toilet if you wanted to. But it’s already too late by that time–she’s already got you convinced that this is the way it should be. She tells you that you belong in diapers at all times.”
I chose to believe him, as ridiculous as it all sounded. Sure, I could’ve said that the story was simply too ludicrous to be made up, but more than that, I think it was that his story only confirmed my own paranoia. There was a part of me that had already predicted–before even speaking to Chad–that this was where things would be going between Angela and I.
“Okay,” I said. “But…how? How is she doing this?”
He sighed. “I used to think that, in the beginning, she just dumped a glass of her own piss over my lap while I slept. But that doesn’t explain what happens later–when I start pissing myself in broad daylight while I’m wearing a diaper. Don’t get it twisted, okay? Eventually? The accidents are real. You really will need diapers. I…don’t know how she did it. Drugs in our drinks and food? Hypnosis? Fucking…magic? I don’t know. Whatever she does, I’ll tell you this much, it works.”
I hadn’t yet processed this answer, and I’m ready to ask the next obvious question: “Why is she doing this?”
“Well…that I know,” he said, nodding his head.
“Okay?”
“She wants a baby. And I don’t mean the little ones that come out of her belly, alright? She likes turning men into her little baby playthings.”
Of all the things that Chad said–and there’s a near-infinite number of questions I want to ask based on the things he just told me–the one that jumps out first is the use of ‘men.’ “Were there men before you?”
“Yes,” he said, quickly and confidently. “I don’t have names for you, and I don’t know how many there were. But in the bedroom closet–the one that’s probably yours now–on the inside corner where the door is…”
“I found a pacifier there,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” Chad said, laughing. “That was mine. I left that there for you. Or…for someone, I guess. Whoever was next. I guess I hoped that by the time you found it, you’d have already been indoctrinated into Angela’s world of diapers. Did you see the, uh…markings on the wall in that corner?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Check, next time you can. There’s a note from me. And a note from someone who came before me–the note that made me realize I wasn’t the first of her babies.”
A few beats passed without either of us saying anything. My head was swimming with information–a blur of facts, assumptions, and half-answered questions that didn’t all connect like I wanted them to.
“You’ve got two choices, pal,” he said finally. “Either get out, or embrace it. Be her baby–just as she wants you to be–or find a new girlfriend. Because you’re never getting back the relationship you thought you had with her.”
“Is that what happened to you?” I asked. “You bailed?”
“Nah,” he said, cheeks blushing. “What happened to me is even worse: She got bored with me.
My eyes widened, begging him to tell me more with me needing to ask.
He sighed. “I stuck around for all the wrong reasons. Once you’re living with her, and once she’s making you dependent on her diapers, you get it in your head that there’s no other option. You’re afraid to go out. You’re afraid to work. You just let yourself get trapped in her little baby fantasy. But…that’s not good enough for her. She wants you to be there because you want to be her little baby. She doesn’t want a ‘prisoner,’ you see what I’m saying?”
“I guess.”
“She kicked me out because I wasn’t ‘committed’ enough. Fucked me up for a while. No place to live. No job at that point. And…the diapers.”
“You…still wear diapers now?” I asked, deciding–until I have more time to think through things more–to just accept everything he’s saying is the truth. “All this time later?”
He looked me in the eyes when he answered. “I do.”
“Because you have to? Or because you want to?”
He laughed. “I…I don’t know anymore.”
This was the worst case scenario for my visiting Chad–leaving with more new questions than answers. I could’ve stood there all day, firing questions at him, but I think I only had one more I truly needed to ask: “Do you have any regrets about how you handled things with her?”
“Just one,” he said. “I wish I had allowed myself to be the baby she wanted.”
===
I, of course, didn’t mention my trip to Chad’s when I spoke to Angela later. I acted like everything was normal–or as ‘normal’ as things could be in our home. But what I did do was to go up to my closet in the bedroom and check the inside wall in the corner by the door. Sure enough, I found the messages that Chad alluded to.
The top-most, from Chad, gave a date and then: “She keeps me in diapers. I’m her baby, for now.”
Then, below that, is another message in a different color ink. This also has a date, from a few years prior–close to the date that Angela first bought this duplex, I believe. It reads: “Mommy’s little baby was here.” It’s signed “M,” though I have no idea, or context, for who that might be.
With my own pen in hand, I made a note above Chad’s. “Looks like I’m the newest baby.” I added the date and my name. Maybe nobody would ever see this. Or, maybe, a few months, or a year, from now there’d be someone new using this closet, and they’d be adding their own note to this collection.
I was on the fence about what I wanted to do. The most sensible answer was to pack my bags and get out of the house before things escalated further. And considering how a few large boxes from something called Pretty Paddings Inc. had just shown up at the door, things were going to get worse before they got better.
And yet…I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. I couldn’t say why that was. Maybe I needed to see Angela’s strange world for myself first–just to confirm that the story Chad told me was true, and that I wasn’t running away from something that he exaggerated.
===
That night, as we readied ourselves for bed, Angela put her hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “Darling…do you think you could do something for me tonight?”
I swallowed nervously, having a good idea what this might be about. “What’s that, love?”
“In light of the recent accidents you’ve been having, I took it upon myself to buy something for you.”
“Protection?” I asked, remembering the word she had previously used for it.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right.”
“But when you say ‘protection,’ we both know you mean…”
She put a finger on my lips to silence me. “It doesn’t matter what anyone calls them, dear. What’s more important is that we keep the bed dry. And these will allow for that to happen. Would you please wear one tonight? For me?”
It could have been that I was too polite to tell her no, or maybe I just wanted to prove to her that I could keep it dry and this whole stunt was pointless. Though a small part of me wondered if it was something else entirely. Chad had voiced fear that Angela had manipulated him by mysterious means, and I wondered if, in this moment, the same was happening to me.
“Of course,” I said.
“I appreciate that,” she said.
This is all that’s said about that until after I’ve brushed my teeth and have returned to the bedroom, finding Angela waiting for me with something in her hands. A folded, bright white, adult diaper. It’s bigger and thicker than I would’ve imagined such a thing being. Unnecessarily so, even.
“Is…that for me?” I asked.
“It is,” she said. “But I worry that it might be the sort of thing that’s hard for you to put on yourself.”
I swallowed. “And so…”
“Why don’t I help you with it,” she said. “If you just lie down on the bed, I can put this on you.”
I feigned ignorance and said: “Oh, you know your way around one of these, huh?”
She giggled, playfully shrugging. “I just think it’d be easier this way.”
Was I playing along? Or was she somehow making me lie down on the bed for her? I wasn’t sure, despite the fact that I was lowering myself onto my back while I watched her unfold the diaper. With each crease that was undone, the thing doubled in size, and by the time it was completely unfurled, it seemed entirely too big. Comically large.
As she gripped the waistband of my joggers and boxers, pulling them down my legs, I wanted to tell her that I had seen commercials for ‘incontinence briefs’ intended for older adults, and that I knew those to be slimmer, more discreet things. The diaper she had now seemed like overkill. But I kept my mouth shut and let her do whatever it was she thought was necessary.
“Spread your legs for me,” she said. “Lift your bottom.” My cheeks grew red and warm as she went about sliding the garment under me and pulling the front of it through my legs. Was I just imagining things, or had her tone gotten more condescending as she completed this process?
I let it happen.
“There,” she finally said, a satisfied look on her face. “I think that’s going to do just fine.”
“If you say so,” I said, already rolling into my spot on the bed and pulling my sheets over me.
Just before falling asleep, I thought about what Chad had told me–that I’d have to decide if I was going to leave her, or if I was going to embrace the diapers.
===
In the morning, much to my surprise and disappointment, the diaper was wet. Angela was aware of this before I was, and went about poking and prodding my soaked padding like she was running tests on it.
“See?” she said. “I told you this was a good call.”
Too confused to offer a rebuttal, I simply nodded and left it at that. Shortly after, I took it off, took a shower, and then got dressed for work. I spent most of my workday thinking about it, trying to wrap my head around how this was happening to me–how Angela was making this happen.
That night, bolstered by the diaper’s performance the night before, Angela sent me to bed diapered once more. And, again, I woke up the next morning in a wet diaper.
It went on like this for a week or so, with us falling into a routine where Angela would diaper me at night and check it in the morning. There were a few nights I woke up dry, but the pride I felt then would quickly be squashed the next morning when I’d wake with drenched padding wrapped around me.
And then, on a Sunday afternoon while I did some work in the back yard, I felt a warm trickle running down my inner thighs, dampening my jeans. I foolishly thought, for a moment, that I had left a hose running for somewhere that was spraying my pants. But even before I looked down at myself, I had a good feeling what had actually happened–an accident. During the day. Just as Chad had warned me of.
What concerned me most about this particular accident was that it was the proof I think I needed that it was me wetting myself and not just an elaborate hoax being administered by Angela. As Chad had said himself–there was a fear that she was acting as the ‘pee fairy,’ pouring her own urine over my pants or into my diaper while I slept. This was irrefutable confirmation that these accidents were genuine, as was, perhaps, the need for diapers.
Angela either saw this happen from inside the house, or she just so happened to spot me as I stood out in the yard inspecting my pants. “Come here,” she said. “Hurry.”
Inside, she inspected my pants for herself and tutted while shaking her head. “I was afraid of this. Maybe you need to be wearing diapers more often than just at night.”
“M-maybe I need to actually talk to a doctor first,” I floated again–half-heartedly, I’ll admit, as I already had figured she was going to talk me out of this.
“What for? You don’t want to be on medications do you?” she asked. “The side effects of those are often worse than the actual problem you’re taking them for. This isn’t that big of a deal. All you have to do is wear your diapers more often.”
“Diapers?” I asked. “We’re calling them diapers now and not ‘protection’?”
“Does it offend you when I call them that?” she asked.
I said it did not, and from that point on, we both referred to them as diapers.
She insisted on being the one to change me as often as she could. There were times, in those first few weeks, when I’d be left to my own devices and I’d have to take off my own sopping wet diaper–but in those instances, I didn’t bother putting a new one back on, opting instead for my more ‘adult’ underwear.
But then came an afternoon where, after I ditched a heavily sodden diaper and slipped into my boxers, I ended up having another accident in my pants as well as a sizable puddle on the floor. Sure enough, this was right around the time when Angela came home from running whatever errands had taken her out of the house in the first place.
I see that afternoon, now, as the one where things really began to change. I saw a new side of her that day, and our roles seemed to change considerably in just an instant. Furious at me for pissing my pants rather than just wearing another diaper, she pulled me over her knees and proceeded to spank me through my wet boxers like I was just a naughty child. I could’ve fought her off or run away or just outright refused to let this happen, and yet I offered no resistance. There was even a part of me that felt like this was the punishment I deserved.
The rules changed from that point on. I was to be in diapers at all times. She would be the only person who could change me, and when a diaper was wet, I would be changed into only a new diaper. To stress to me how serious she was, I watched as she emptied my underwear into a trash bag, which she then took out to the curb and deposited into our bin.
“From now on, it’s only diapers,” she said.
===
It wasn’t long after this that I noticed the bathroom door was locked shut–a new doorknob had been installed that required a key for entry. While I may have been exclusively using my diapers to pee by this point, I was still emptying my bowels into the toilet–even if it felt like the time between when I realized I had to go, and I when it became urgent that I rushed to the bathroom, was getting smaller with every passing day.
I hopelessly turned at the nob, whining as I felt the ache in my abdomen. Unsure of what else I could do, I ran to Angela instead and attempted to beg her for access.
“Please,” I said, “you have to let me in the bathroom. You need to let me use the toilet. I need to…”
“I think it would be better if you stopped using the toilet altogether,” she said to me.
“What? But…”
“I think the diapers are working well for you, and I see no reason why you can’t just do all of your dirty little business in them. I don’t see it as a problem, personally, and I’m the one who has to change you.”
I prepared to mount a counterargument, but my body gave out before that could happen. My dwindling control over my bowels expired and–right there in front of Angela–I dropped to a pathetic squatting position and proceeded to fill the back of my diaper with a messy load so heavy that I could feel the padding droop down behind me.
Beyond just looking amused–possibly delighted–by what I had just done, Angela seemed relatively unfazed by this. Matter-of-factly, like she had already expected this to happen, she helped me stand straight up and took me by the hand to the bedroom where I was once again made to lie down on the bed.
It’s strange, in a way, because this should’ve been the most humiliating moment of my entire life–having my girlfriend methodically wiping my filthy bottom clean like I was a toddler–and yet there was something kind of…soothing about the whole experience. Yes, she made me feel small and fragile, but it was a feeling that I found myself enjoying. I felt cared for. Loved. And I saw the happiness that it brought her–the smile on her face and the gentle laugh she made while shaking baby powder over me after sliding a fresh diaper under me.
This, I thought, was the point where Chad had lost his way. He let these things happen to him, but he didn’t embrace them. He didn’t become the baby. If anything, he was just a lifeless doll.
And so I wondered, as Angela tucked my manhood into the new diaper that she was wrapping around me and taping shut, if I could be the baby that she wanted me to be.
Taking a stab at it, I said: “Thank you, Mommy.”
My reward was her rubbing the front of my diaper, slowly and sensually. For a moment, I wanted to tell her to stop–almost certain that I was breaking some sort of rule, if not one of hers than perhaps one of my own. But she didn’t relent, and continued to caress the bulge in the padding as she stared down at me–her eyes meeting mine as she grinned. She nodded her head, assuring me that this was good and fine. I nodded my head back, acknowledging that I trusted her and that I, too, thought this was good.
Her pace, never getting any faster or more intense, was maddening for a while. With just a little more pressure, I thought, she could have me cumming in a heartbeat. Instead, she methodically, almost mechanically, massaged the diaper and kept a consistent pace. Before long, though, I found my inpatient madness slowly transforming into an accepted rhythm. My pelvis shifted with her hand. She rubbed my diaper and I thrust that bulge deeper and deeper into her hand. Slowly. The tension building and building. The tension building to the point where I felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding.
“M-Mommy…”
“Go on,” she cooed. “Make a sticky mess for Mommy.”
I did exactly that, and I felt as if it was the equivalent of signing on the dotted line. I was her baby now, she was my Mommy, and this was the way that things were going to be from now on.
I quickly learned that it’s a full-time commitment being a baby. I tried to keep working under these new conditions, but when I was pulled into HR’s office and told that there had been complaints about my ‘strongly-scented’ undergarments, I knew it was time to let it go. Mommy, to her credit, never made decisions like this for me–she always let me find my own path forward. And she seemed rather happy with that path too.
Mommy was dressing me now, putting me in colorful onesies and cute shortalls. I rarely noticed, save for the times I walked–or crawled–past a mirror and found the baby looking back at me unrecognizable.
It’s at about this time that I stumble into the living room one night to find that Mommy’s friends are here–Lacy, Bethany, and Sara. The same women who first clued me in to Chad’s fate. For the first time in a long time, I felt extremely self-conscious about who it was I had become, even with Mommy’s urging that it was alright and that her friends just wanted to meet her new baby.
“I didn’t think you were doing the whole ‘baby thing’ again,” said Sara.
Mommy sighed and shrugged. “He was a good man, I’ll give him that. But at the end of the day…I just think I like boys a little more when they’re like this.”
“How could you not?” Bethany said, reaching for my face and playfully pinching at my cheek. “Look how cute and smooshy he is!”
“The perfect little baby,” Lacy proclaimed.
The night was a whirlwind of new experiences, as the women took turns having me sit in their laps as they fed me bottles and spoonfuls of baby food. It seemed like every few minutes, someone wanted to check my diaper–and they’d frequently find it a little wetter than the last time they checked. I barely even thought about the use of my diaper anymore. And again, just as Chad had said himself, it was getting harder and harder to tell if it was because I liked using my diapers now, or if that’s just how my body operated.
The evening culminated with the girls excitedly watching my exposed diaper as I straddled Mommy, my arms wrapped around her neck. Slowly but surely, a stinky gift was being delivered into it, and they all wanted to see the padding bulge, expand, and ultimately droop from the weight. They waved hands in front of their faces and cracked jokes about how there was no chance a baby like me would ever be toilet trained again. Minutes later, I found myself on my back on the floor, everyone circled around me as Mommy both changed my diaper and rewarded my good behavior with a vibrator pressed against my erection until I spurted all over my belly–much to the audience's delight.
“I suppose this means you’re single again?” Lacy asked Mommy.
With a playful smirk aimed at me, Mommy only said: “I’m concentrating on my baby for now. But you never know what the future holds.”
===
These days, I live a good, but paranoid life. I love Mommy and I love the life she’s given me. I don’t think I’d trade it for the world.
But it feels like a game, too. One that I can only win by keeping Mommy happy. One day, and it may not even be because of anything I did, Mommy might wake up and decide she’s ready for a change. And then what? I’m out on my diapered ass like Chad once was, and then she’ll be on to the next man.
I see no signs of that happening anytime soon, but the threat of this keeps me on my toes. In everything I do, the ultimate goal is to make Mommy happy, and I’d like to think I do a very good job of that.
Once in a while, I think about the pacifier I found in the closet, and the notes written on the wall. It’s my hope that nobody will ever have to read the note I left.
But…in the event that someone does? I think I’d want them to know that they weren’t the first, and they may not even be the last. Mommy’s next big baby could be just around the corner.
***
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A virus that causes women to manifest babyish behaviours, or even mentally regress entirely, is sweeping the world. Naomi's symptoms are very mild, but that doesn't stop her losing her status as an adult in the eyes of society.
***
“This is ridiculous!” Naomi whined. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”
“You tested positive, sweetheart,” her boyfriend said, patiently. “And your potty issues aren’t nothing. How many pairs of undies did you ruin before you agreed to start wearing your training pants?”
Naomi felt her cheeks burning. “They’re not training pants, Isaac!” she insisted, stomping her foot, suddenly very aware of the thickness of the protective underwear between her legs. “They’re just… just…”
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “They’re your just-in-case pants, aren’t they? But my point is you’ve got to stop pretending that your life isn’t going to change because of this. You’ve got Baby Fever, my love.”
“But there haven’t been any mental changes!” Naomi practically shrieked. “The only thing that’s changed is that my bladder control is weaker! So why do I have to have my driving licence revoked? Why do I have to lose my job? Why do you have to be named my legal guardian? It doesn’t make any sense!”
“It’s for your own safety, Naomi,” said Isaac. “You don’t know that there won’t be any mental changes. Your little pee-pants problem could just be the start.”
“If there were going to be worse symptoms, they would’ve happened by now!” Naomi insisted, cringing at his choice of words. “I’ve been looking into it online. There are loads of women like me! We barely show any symptoms at all, and yet we’re subjected to all the same rules as a bunch of overgrown toddlers!”
“We don’t know enough about how the virus works, baby,” Isaac said, calmly. “For all we know, you could go months without any more symptoms, only to develop severe ones all at once. What if it happened while you were driving? What if you suddenly found yourself with the mind of a little girl while you were out alone in the city somewhere? Just think what might happen! Anyone could take advantage of you, sweetheart!”
“But there have been hardly any cases where a women develops more severe symptoms after three weeks!” Naomi protested.
“But there have still been some,” said Isaac. “Do you know what would happen if you ended up mentally regressed, and I’d allowed you to just wander about like you didn’t have the virus? The government would label me an irresponsible caregiver, and I’m not going to risk that. I’m not going to risk you being taken away from me and dumped in foster care. Is that what you want, Naomi? Do you want to end up in foster care?”
Naomi was blushing furiously. After a moment, she looked down at the floor and shook her head.
“Then be a good girl and do as Daddy says.”
Naomi tensed. “You’re not my Daddy,” she mumbled, still looking at her shoes.
“I am now, baby,” Isaac said firmly, “and I’m going to take care of you properly.” He took her by the hand and started leading her out of the living room.
“Where are we going?” Naomi asked, meekly.
“I ordered some new clothes for you,” said Isaac, “and they arrived today. They’re in the bedroom.”
“New clothes?” Naomi repeated, confused. Then she realised what he must mean. “No!” she squealed, trying to dig her heels into the carpet. “Please, Isaac! Please just let me just wear my normal clothes!”
“Don’t be silly, sweetie,” he said, pulling her along effortlessly. “The official guidelines state that you have to be recognisable as a virus victim. That way people will know something’s wrong if you’re by yourself. You’ve been walking around in adult clothes for far too long already, little missy.”
“But I don’t want to dress like one of them!” Naomi whined, thinking of the virus victims she sometimes saw in public, grown women dressed up in ridiculous rompers and overalls and frilly dresses. Mostly they had gormless, happy expressions on their faces, victims of the full mental regression, but others, who had merely manifested babylike behaviours that rendered them helpless and dependent, blushed with embarrassment as they toddled along in their ludicrous outfits. The idea that she should have to dress like that too, when all that was wrong with her was a little trouble holding her pee, was utterly absurd. “People will think I’m fully regressed!” Naomi complained desperately. “Isn’t it better that they know I still have my adult mind?!”
“It’s better to be safe,” said Isaac. “Plus the guidelines say it’s a good way of signalling to everyone that you’re out of your contagious phase. That will give people a lot of peace of mind if you do something babyish in front of them.”
They entered the bedroom, and Naomi saw that there were several large cardboard boxes sitting on the bed. They looked perfectly innocent, but the thought of what was inside them made her chest tighten. “Please, Isaac…” she tried again, but her boyfriend paid her no mind.
He got to work opening the boxes, and Naomi thought she might faint at the sight of the clothes he began to pull out. The fact that it was exactly what she’d expected, and feared, was no comfort to her. Childish tops and leggings, a soft pink tutu, a snug-looking pramsuit, a sparkly leotard with Disney princesses on the front, a sky blue onesie with a pattern of yellow ducks; Isaac unpacked them all and folded them neatly on the bed, ready to fill her drawers. He glanced up at her. “Start getting undressed, baby,” he said, as he folded a set of purple pyjamas covered in prancing unicorns. “I want to get you into your new clothes right away.”
Naomi opened her mouth to protest, but Isaac shot her a warning look and she closed it again. Cheeks flushed, she started to strip, removing her loose, V-neck shirt and letting it drop to the floor. She slipped off her shoes, and her jeans went next, falling to her ankles and leaving her standing in nothing but her bra and her thick pull-ups. She looked down at the clothes at her feet, wondering when she’d get to wear them again. The possibility that the answer might be never hit her suddenly like a blow to the stomach. Feeling faintly dizzy, she examined her absorbent underwear, and with a fresh rush of embarrassment, she noticed they looked a little discoloured. She squeezed her legs together experimentally. There a slight squish. When had that happened?
“Did you have an accident, baby?” Isaac asked.
Naomi froze when she realised he’d been watching her. Her face felt as red as a tomato. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at him, so she just nodded her head, still looking at the floor.
“Do you need changing?” he asked.
“No,” she mumbled. “It’s not much.”
“Alright, darling,” Isaac said, gently. “For now we’ll just get you dressed, okay? Arms up!”
“I know how to dress myself,” Naomi said, petulantly, raising her head to glare at her boyfriend. But she lifted up her arms all the same, allowing him to pull a long-sleeved pink top down over her head. At first she thought it wasn’t that different from the shirt she’d just removed, except for the colour, but then she spotted the writing on the front. Daddy’s Girl. “Seriously, Isaac?”
“It looks cute on you,” her boyfriend said, planting a quick kiss on her pouty red lips. Naomi felt butterflies fluttering in her tummy despite herself. Cute, as in adorable, she reminded herself. Cute, as in not sexy. She imagined trying to seduce him in any of her new clothes, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was bad enough trying to be sexy in padded underwear, let alone a romper with a pattern of rattles, baby blocks, and diaper pins.
A pair of thick white tights came next, and Isaac knelt down in front of her, allowing her to stabilise herself with her hands on his shoulders while she stepped into them. “Left foot first, that’s it. Then the right. Good girl!” He pulled them up her legs and over her bulky protective pants, but despite the tights’ thickness, they didn’t quite conceal what Naomi wore around her bottom.
Isaac stood after that, picking two pink ribbons from a pack on the bed, and started running his fingers through her luscious black hair. Naomi knew what he was planning at once. “No!” she squealed, stepping back. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping my hair down! It’s fine!”
“The government guidelines say that pigtails and pink ribbons are the best and easiest way a virus victim can be identified, Naomi,” said Isaac, firmly. “This way everyone will know you’re a Baby Fever girl.”
Naomi clenched her fists. She wanted to scream and shout, but she knew that if she did, Isaac would just say she was throwing a tantrum and suggest it was evidence of her developing virus symptoms. She took a deep breath. “Fine,” she said, through gritted teeth.
“Good girl!” Isaac said, and he started tying her dark hair into a pair of high pigtails that dangled down to tickle her cheeks. “Perfect,” he announced, once he was finished. “Come see what you look like, baby.”
Naomi wasn’t at all keen to see her reflection, but Isaac dragged her over to the full-length mirror and stood her in front of it. “Oh my God…” she whispered when she saw herself. She looked like a giant three-year-old, complete with training pants bulging out from under her tights. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I look like a joke!”
“Don’t say that, sweetheart,” Isaac cooed, bending down to kiss her cheek. “You look adorable! You’ll be the cutest girl in your class!”
“In my… in my what?”
“Your class, baby. At your daycare.”
Naomi stared, horror struck, at her boyfriend’s face in the mirror. “At my what?!”
There were footsteps, and Rosie looked up from tying her shoes to see her little sister standing above her, hands clasped behind her back, with a wide, faux-innocent smile on her face.
“What do you want, Vi?” Rosie asked, half exasperated, half suspicious. She could see Violet’s four best friends lounging in the kitchen at the other end of the corridor, smirking at her and giggling behind their hands. Rosie rolled her eyes. Violet and her friends were only two years younger than her, but they acted like such children.
“Where you are going?” Violet asked sweetly.
“Out,” said Rosie. “Over to a friend’s house.”
“Whose house?”
“Penelope’s. Why do you care?”
“I’m your sister, Rosie,” said Violet, pretending to look hurt. “I’m just looking out for you! I want to know you’re not getting into trouble.”
Rosie scowled, finished tying her shoes, and straightened up. “I’m not the one who’s always getting into trouble, Vi. In case you’d forgotten, I’m the older sister, and in terms of maturity I’m about a decade ahead. If anyone needs looking out for, it’s you. But that’s not my job. Aren’t you pleased, anyway? With Mum, Dad, and me gone, you’ll have the house to yourself.”
Violet pouted. “I was hoping you’d come and play with us,” she said, putting on a tone of mock disappointment. “We’re going out into the garden. It’s a beautiful day…”
“Yeah, thanks but no thanks,” said Rosie, turning to leave.
“Wait, just one more thing!” said Violet.
Rosie sighed and turned back around. “Yes, Vi?”
“Why are you wearing all those clothes?” her sister asked, smiling.
“What?” Rosie looked down at herself. She was only wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts. Not overdressed at all, but hardly so underdressed that it would make sense for Violet to be sarcastic about it. And what did she care about wearing revealing clothing anyway?
“What the hell are you talking about, Violet?” Rosie asked. She was starting to get seriously annoyed with her sister wasting her time. Thank God she’d be leaving home and going to college soon. “Of course I’m wearing panties,” she said impatiently. “What else would I wear?”
Violet giggled. “Nothing at all, of course! I didn’t mean to offend you, big sis. I just thought you might want to go bare bummed today.”
Rosie suddenly felt dizzy. “I… Wha…” Her sister’s words seemed to reverberate inside her head. Why did that phrase sound so familiar? “Bare… bummed?” she repeated.
“That’s right!” said Vi. “You know, with nothing over your tushy.” Her smile widened. “Botty out.”
An image appeared in Rosie’s mind of herself marching outside in her tank top, her shoes, and nothing in between, with her nude bottom jiggling and her privates on display. “That’s… That’s…” That’s crazy. That’s insane. “That’s silly!” she blurted. She was blushing hotly. Only babies wandered around with their tushies out! “I’m not gonna go bare… bare bummed.” Again, the words felt strange in her head, like they were bouncing around inside her skull. She became suddenly aware of the way her underwear had ridden up uncomfortably between her cheeks, and how her shorts were chafing against her bare skin.
“No?” said her sister, cocking her head. “How about bare boobied then?” she grinned, cupping her own breasts in her hands and jostling them.
Rosie let out a soft groan as another wave of dizziness passed over her. What was going on? She could see herself clearly in her mind, standing with her hands on her hips and her perky breasts out, grinning stupidly, and for a moment she thought how wonderful it would be to take off her top and throw away her bra (maybe even all her bras). She blushed even more fiercely. She was a grown woman! She couldn’t stand about topless like a little girl on the beach, no more than she could go bare bottomed like a naughty toddler who’d decided to strip off her nappy and run around in the buff. But she was conscious now of the tightness of her bra, the way her skin almost seemed to itch beneath it, hot and sweaty. “Noooo…” she whined, shaking her head. “Not gonna… Not gonna do that…”
“Are you sure?” her sister cooed. “Sure you don’t want to take off your panties? Sure you don’t want to get those big boobies out of that nasty bra? Are you sure it’s not nakie time for little Rosie?”
“Ugghhhh…” Rosie moaned in displeasure as Violet’s words echoed in her mind once again, and she pictured herself running around the house totally nude, and then out into the garden, giggling and hopping about playfully with all her assets on display. She felt a rush of fear and embarrassment at how real it seemed. This wasn’t right! She looked into her sister’s face and saw the malicious glitter in her eyes. Violet was doing something to her. She didn’t know how, but her little sister was messing with her head!
“Come on, Rosie,” Violet teased. “Don’t fight it. Big sissy knows what you want! Do I need to say it again?”
“Not… Not big sissy,” Rosie mumbled. Her words felt awkward and wrong, like she couldn’t get them out right. “You the liddle sissy!”
Violet shook her head, still smiling, and keeping her eyes fixed on her older sister like a predator. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Rosie,” she said. “I don’t think it’s possible to be much littler than you! You’re just a silly little baby who likes to run round naked.”
“Nu… Nu-uh!” Rosie whined. “I don’t!”
“Oh yes you do, sweetie,” said Violet. “And you’re about to show it. Because like I said, it’s nakie time for little Rosie.”
This time when the words resounded inside her head, it felt as if they were washing everything else away, leaving behind only a pleasant tingling. Brainwashing, Rosie had time to think, before her thoughts disappeared. I’m being brainwashed. But then there were only happy tingles left, and a smile tugged at the young woman’s lips.
***
Violet grinned at her older sister as she watched the slightly vacant look enter her eyes. It had worked! Weeks and weeks of hypnotic conditioning had finally paid off! Her friends crowded round eagerly, giggling at the sight of Rosie’s vapid expression.
Rosie looked down at herself, and her smile slipped. A pout appeared on her face. “Wan’ off,” she cried, fidgeting with her clothes, and Violet was thrilled to see that tears were actually appearing in her cold, snarky, older sister’s eyes.
“Awww,” one of her friends crooned. Violet knew Rosie’s mind was too regressed to pick up on her mocking tone. “Are those big girl clothes all icky, sweetie? Don’t you like them?”
Rosie was trying to take off her shorts, but her hands were desperate and clumsy. She started to cry.
“Here, let me help, baby sis,” Violet said, and she brushed Rosie’s hands aside and tugged her shorts down her legs in one swift movement. Rosie helped by kicking them off happily. “That’s a good girl!” Violet laughed. “Panties next, sweetie. I know you don’t want them on either, and in any case they’re not nearly absorbent enough!” She slid Rosie’s underwear off and tossed them aside, and another of her friends reached out and patted Rosie’s bare bottom, making her squeal delightedly at the attention.
Violet removed Rosie’s shoes, then moved on to her sister’s top half while her friends fussed and cooed over the oversized toddler. “Arms up!” she ordered, and Rosie did as she was told. Violet pulled her tank top off and reached round to unclasp her bra, letting it drop to the floor to reveal her large tits. Violet had always been a little jealous of her sister’s figure, but now she just smirked at the sight of Rosie’s big boobs wobbling stupidly on her chest. “What a good girl you’re being!” she cooed in her most syrupy sweet voice, and Rosie started bouncing on the balls of her feet in pleasure, both at the praise and at the wonderful feeling of her nakedness.
Violet took her sister’s hand and led her back through the house into the kitchen, with her friends bringing up the rear, laughing at the sight of Rosie’s jiggling derriere. “Now Rosie,” she said seriously, coming to a halt in the middle of the kitchen. Violet let go of her sister’s hand and took something white and crinkly out of a carboard box on the table. She unfolded the thick adult nappy and held it out for her sister to see. “You have to put your nappy on now, okay?”
“No!” Rosie shrieked, her face screwed up with anger. “No naffy!” She stomped her foot on the ground furiously. “WANNA BARE BUM-BUM!”
Violet’s friends cackled with laughter, but Violet just stood there patiently, trying her best not to join in. “Well okay, sweetie,” she said gently, “but that means you have to stay outside, okay? I don’t want to clean up any puddles on the carpet.”
“Kay,” Rosie agreed.
“And if you need to do a poo, come and tell big sissy. We’ll put your nappy on so you can poop in it, then we’ll change you straight away so you can go back to being a nakie girl. Does that sound good?”
“Uh-hu!” Rosie chirped.
“Good girl!” Violet laughed, while her friends howled with mirth or made noises of disgust. “Now let’s go outside!” She left Rosie’s nappy on the table and took her sister’s hand again, leading her out through the back doors of the kitchen and into the back garden, a wide green lawn rimmed with flower beds. The sprinklers were on, sending arcs of water over the grass, and there were large fences all around – though they were sufficiently far out in the countryside that they wouldn’t have to worry about what the neighbours might think about a grown woman strutting nude into the garden. The sky was bright blue and cloudless, and it was hot enough even for Rosie in her birthday suit.
A table and some chairs sat just outside the door, under the shade of an umbrella, where Violet’s friends settled themselves with glasses of white wine, but Violet led her sister further out onto the grass and gave her a pat on her bottom. “Off you go and play, Rosie!” she said, with an evil grin her infantilised sister couldn’t see. “It’s lovely and sunny out, isn’t it? Mum and Dad are only gone for a week, but that’s plenty of time to get rid of all those silly tan lines!”
Rosie giggled and ran over to jump and play in the sprinklers, getting nice and cool in the water. Violet took a seat with her friends and sipped on her glass of wine, smirking as she watched her older sister prance about in the streams, showing off her ass and making her boobs slosh about all over the place.
“This is perfect,” Violet purred, as Rosie bent over, mooning them with her bum and chortling at them between her legs.
“She looks so stupid!” said one of her friends gleefully.
“I think she’s adorable!” cooed another.
“She’s both,” said Violet with satisfaction. “She’s my cute, dumb, little big sister, and I much prefer her this way.”
“Are you going to keep her like this?”
“Only for a week or so,” said Violet. “After that, our parents get home and it might be a little hard to explain.” The girls tittered. “I don’t think I’ll let her go totally back to normal though,” Violet went on, smiling darkly. “I might keep one or two things the way they are right now.”
“Like what?”
Violet was about to answer when she laughed suddenly and pointed at her sister. Her friends looked over and burst into laughter too when they saw what Rosie was doing. She was standing in the middle of the garden with her thumb in her mouth, peeing onto the grass between her feet.
“That’s what I want to keep,” said Violet, with relish. “She’ll get her adult mind back and have no memory of this, but her toilet training is going to stay gone.”
“So she’ll actually need diapers?”
“Yep.”
“Ewww!”
“I’m also going to keep her desire to get naked. It won’t be active all the time, but sometimes she’ll just be struck by this overwhelming urge to strip off her clothes and run around with her bottom out – at least while she’s in the house, anyway. As fun as it would be to watch my goody-goody sister go streaking in the mall, I’d rather not get the police involved.”
“When you say she’ll have this urge to strip off, that includes her diaper, right? Won’t she make a mess?”
“Oh yes,” Violet laughed. “Our parents aren’t going to be very happy with her! Rosie’s always been the ‘well-behaved’ daughter in their eyes, but I think that might change once she starts ripping her nappies off and peeing on the carpets. And of course, going to college will be a total write-off. I’ll be the one going off to university in a couple of years, but I think Rosie will be better off right here with Mummy and Daddy to keep an eye on her.”
Before she they could say any more, they were interrupted by Rosie, who rushed over to them with her hands clasped tightly over her bare bum. “Big sissy!” she wailed desperately. “I GOTTA GO POO-POO!”
Her friends erupted into gales of laughter yet again, and Violet got to her feet, grinning broadly, to fetch her sister’s nappy.
“Oh my god, you wished for WHAT?” your roommate said.
A few months back, you’d found this nice apartment, but couldn’t afford the rent by yourself. This girl, a friend of a friend who needed a new place to live as she’d just broken up, happened to be available. This very nice looking girl went to live with you and so, as you tend to do around pretty girls, you developed a crush. You two had been flirty for some time, but it had never escalated. Sleeping with your roommate couldn’t go well, could it?
On the morning of Christmas Eve, both of you were in your rooms. She was still sleeping as far you knew. So were you until the door rang unexpectedly. You were not waiting for anyone, but as it was Christmas Eve, you figured it might’ve been a family member or a family member of someone else living in the building. You let them in.
You heard steps in the hallway, steps up the stairs. Multiple people, you thought. Oh well, must be someone visiting. You looked through the peephole and saw three men in colored robes with presents in their arms. They knocked on your door. You opened.
“Humm, we’re sorry, is this apartment 4?” said the man in the green robe.
“Yes.” you answered, they were not here for you, were they?
“Is this building 3825?” The man in the green robe seemed as confused you were.
“Yes, it is.” you said back.
The three men talked amongst themselves in a language you did not understand.
“Is there a baby here?” The man in the blue robe asked.
You said no, there wasn’t.
“This is building 3825?” The man in the blue robe asked.
You nodded yes.
“We’re very sorry, we will check the address.” The man in the green robe said.
The man in the red robe pulled out his phone from a pocket and talked in that same language you did not understand. His tone seemed inquisitive.
“Ahhhh” he said. Then, he hung up and talked to the other two.
“Ahhh” the other two said.
“We’re very sorry, it’s building 3835, very sorry.” the man in the green robe said. “I don’t understand how we got confused. I was sure it was here, there was such a strong force. Anyway, sorry to bother you. Have a very merry Christmas!” The men were ready to turn around.
“A force?”
“Uh, yeah.” the man in the green robe half-turned, willing to be polite. “A force of attraction, you’re not into ABDL, are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s okay, have a great day. Merry Christmas.” Already, they were ready to go down the stairs, but something in you screamed that this was a very special moment.
“I am.” you said.
They all turned around. “You are?” said the man in the green robe. They all looked at each other. “Do you want us to come in?”
You stepped aside to let them in. “Please.” And closed the door behind them.
“Are you a little, a switch, a caregiver?” the man in the green robe asked.
“A caregiver.” you said.
“Hm, well we can’t be of much help you see. We can fulfill wishes if they’re connected with ABDL, but generally we do it for littles. Some want to be incontinent, things like that.”
“Could you make a little for me?”
“Not out of thin air!” the man in the green robe said laughing, “but if you have a partner, we can help things along.”
“I don’t have a partner, but…” you bit your lip thinking of her. “My roommate is in the other room. I like her a lot, could…?”
“We can’t make you two fall in love if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Could you make her a little?”
“We could, do you want to be more specific with your wishes?”
“I want her to want to be a little and to want a daddy. I want her to crave diapers, and I want her to become incontinent.” you said in a rushed hushed tone, feeling silly, but also feeling yourself getting aroused.
The man in the green robe giggled. “Oh my. A little pervert, aren’t you? Does she know this, what’s about to happen to her? Does she consent?”
You felt ashamed, but shook your head.
“It’s ok, we don’t mind. That’s part of our own fun. Last year, we went to a couple’s. They were switches, but the relationship wasn’t going great. She didn’t want him to dom at all and she wanted to be a mommy all the time. Not only that, but she wanted her husband to be very, very infantile. She also preferred to have a baby girl than a baby boy. And she wanted a family, she wanted a strong man to take care of her and the baby. You can see where I’m going with this. The husband got turned into a dumb bimbo of a diaper girl, completely unable to take care of herself, and suddenly the wife’s work crush got interested in ABDL and they started dating. Of course, neither knew what happened until it was done. So now they’re a nice little family of three. I’d say her wish was a lot more creative than yours. You don’t want your little girlfriend to be stupid, do you?”
“No, no, keep her the same. Just, that she wants to be a little and likes diapers. I want her to be aroused by it like I am. No, more so.”
“And incontinent. Simple, but classic. Well-chosen. Anyway, we should get going. The lady should wake up in diapers and she’ll love what you did to her. Merry Christmas!”
And with that, they went out the front door.
By the time you closed the front door, you were fully aroused, breathing heavily, your hand shaking on the door knob. Then, you heard the footsteps from behind you.
“Who was that and why the fuck am I in a diaper?”
It took a while to explain everything. You were honest, very honest. The diaper that magically appeared around her waist made it easy for her to accept it as truth. You tried to tell her as sweetly as possible by telling her that you did this because you had feelings for her and were overcome by arousal and that you found her to be incredibly pretty.
“Look, normally I’d be flattered, I’m…well I was attracted to you.” she said. “But look what the fuck you turned me into. What am I going to do?”
Silence, a watery sound could be heard like a faucet running. Then, a moan coming from her, she broke in tears.
“I can feel it, I can feel it, why can’t I stop it? Fuck, it’s so good. Fuck, I like it.” she muttered between sobs.
You came closer, ready to hug her.
“Don’t you fucking come near me! Look at me, I’m a fucking d- I’m a fucking diaper girl! A fucking loser who likes pissing herself! How am I ever going to have a boyfriend now?”
“You can have me, we can be together. I can change your diapers, give you baths, feed you…” you tried to come to her again. This time, you extended your hand to caress her face.
“That’s not what I want! That’s not what I want!” she said crying. She let out a loud fart. She grunted. While your left hand was wiping the tears from her face, you had put your right hand on her butt to feel the seat of her diaper expanding. You smushed it to squeeze her butt. You brought your left hand to the front of her diaper and after a single rub, she screamed in pleasure.
“Aaaaaaaah!”
You did it again, and she screamed again.
She was sobbing uncontrollably. “I came! I came twice! How? I don’t want this!”
“Shhh, just let it feel good.” you said.
“I don’t want to fucking cum when I poop my pants!”.
“It’s okay. I don’t think you’re less beautiful, I don’t find you less attractive. If anything, I’m even more attracted to you.” you rubbed her diaper again, which made her shriek again. Her legs had become wobbly by now.
“Why does it feel so good? Nothing I’ve ever done has ever felt so good.” she was back to sobbing.
“I know, right? It could be like this all the time now.” you rubbed her diaper again. She screamed and fell into your chest.
Caroline had to pee. She squirmed a little in Mrs Jackson’s lap, pressing her thighs together as far as her thick diaper would allow. It wasn’t far. She tried to focus on the inane soap opera that was playing on the old-fashioned TV set, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold it forever. Sooner or later, she was going to wet her pants. The thought filled her with disgust.
Mrs Jackson smacked her thigh. “Stop wiggling, Betsy,” she said. “Incontinent girls don’t do the potty dance. When they need to pee, they just go. They can’t hold it.” Caroline let out an inarticulate whine of protest, but Mrs Jackson just smacked her again. “Don’t forget we’ve got the barbecue party to go to soon. If you make tinkle now, I can change you before we go. You don’t want to spend the whole party walking around with pee-pee pants, do you?”
Caroline gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to go to the stupid barbecue party at all. She had no interest in ‘making friends’ with any of these people. It was bad enough that Mrs Jackson had insisted she sit in her lap. Come get some sugar, baby, she’d said. We’re all huggers round here. Sit in Momma’s lap, that’s a good girl. Caroline hadn’t even put anything on over her diaper yet. The massive, babyish thing crinkled with every movement, and she wouldn’t have been able to forget about it even if Mrs Jackson hadn’t been constantly prodding and patting it. Don’t you just look sweet as honey?
“Do you need a red bottom, Betsy?” Mrs Jackson asked warningly.
Doing her best not to burst into tears again, Caroline shook her head and started trying to focus on relaxing her bladder. Wetting herself would be disgusting, but better to get it over with now so she wouldn’t have to walk around stinking of piss later. For a moment her potty training got in the way, screaming at her that she wasn’t sitting on a toilet, but over the last couple of hours of mindless soaps she’d grown increasingly desperate to go, and now the dam broke. Oh God, she thought, as warmth blossomed beneath her crotch. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Hot pee-pee flooded her diaper. The thick, thirsty padding whisked it away, but not so fast that Caroline couldn’t feel it sloshing about in her pants. “Ewww!” she whined, as the wetness spread beneath her bottom, and the smell of urine reached her nose. “It’s so gross!”
Mrs Jackson smiled as she cupped the front of Caroline’s diaper and felt the heavy warmth. “It certainly is,” she said. “A grown woman still wetting her diapers. Yuck!”
Caroline’s cheeks flushed even more than they had been already. “But… but…” she stammered indignantly. I couldn’t help it, she almost said. Except she could, of course. But Betsy couldn’t! It wasn’t fair to talk to her like that!
“Oh don’t get so fussy!” said Mrs Jackson, playfully, bouncing her on her lap and making her wrinkle her nose in revulsion as her pissy pants squished against her tushy. “You’re a twenty-four-year-old in a wet diaper, Betsy. You’re not above a little teasing, a few points and laughs.”
Caroline was furious. Was this how they treated people with disabilities here?! But then, she was pretty sure she’d laugh if she saw someone her age wearing a giant diaper. Certainly if one of her friends became incontinent, there was no way she’d keep associating with her. It would be so disgusting…
“Now come along Betsy-wetsy,” Mrs Jackson teased, patting her soggy bottom and scooting her off her lap. “We’d better get you changed before we head out.”
Betsy-wetsy?! Caroline got to her feet and groaned as her diaper drooped heavily with the weight of all her wee-wee.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Caroline barely had time to look up before Mrs Jackson had strode over and flung it open. “Jordan!” she said happily. “Come in!”
Caroline’s mouth dropped open in horror as Mrs Jackson helped the old man from next door up into the trailer. She looked around frantically for anything to cover herself with, but there was no time. She put her hands between her legs in a totally vain attempt to conceal her soggy, sagging diaper. “M… Momma!” she squealed, looking furiously as Mrs Jackson.
“No need to be shy, Betsy,” the woman said dismissively. “Jordan knows all about your potty pants problems already.”
The old man grinned at her again, and his eyes crinkled with amusement as they flitted down to her Pampered crotch. “Nice to meet you, Betsy,” he said. “I was quite surprised to see you show up at your Momma’s without one of them there diapers on your cute little tushy, but I could hear what happened afterwards.” He chuckled. “First day back with Momma and you already got yourself into trouble, didya?”
“With the way she’s been behaving, it’s only a matter of time until she finds herself over my knee,” said Mrs Jackson, and the two of them laughed.
“Anyway Eileen,” said Jordan, “I only came to let you know they’ve already got everything set up down on the field. If you don’t hurry, they’ll be out o’ hot dogs!”
Mrs Jackson checked her watch. “Oh Lord, is that the time already?!” She turned to Caroline. “We’d better get going, Betsy!” Mrs Jackson took her by the hand and tried to lead her out the door.
Caroline dug her heels in. “But… wait!” she spluttered, blushing and glancing at the old man. “What about my… my… I need to change first, remember?! And I need to find something to put over them!” The denim short shorts she’d came in had no chance of being tugged over the enormous bulk of her new baby pants.
“I’m sorry, sugar,” Mrs Jackson said sympathetically, slinging a thick pink diaper bag over her shoulder, “but we don’t have enough time to change you right now! I don’t want to miss the food, and that diaper will hold for now. It’s not even messy yet. As for something to go over them, you don’t need to worry about that. It’s plenty warm out, and you can think of it as an appropriate punishment for turning up without a diaper on earlier.”
Caroline could see Jordan smirking out of the corner of her eye. “No!” she shouted. “I’m not going out there in-”
Mrs Jackson delivered a hard swat to her bottom. Even through her thick padding, Caroline winced at the blow. “Ow! Stop! I don’t… Owie!” Mrs Jackson smacked her again, aiming for her soft upper thighs, where the tiniest bit of her bare bottom was exposed. Caroline jumped forward, only to feel another spank land on her ass.
“Get that cutie-patootie moving, young lady!” Mrs Jackson instructed, continuing to smack Caroline’s reddening heinie and forcing her to toddle bow-legged out of the trailer, following after Jordan, squealing indignantly all the while and trying to block the woman’s blows with her hand. “You’ve had a bad attitude about your diapees ever since you arrived, Betsy!” said Mrs Jackson, as she forced the younger woman down the step and out onto the grass. “Come to think of it, making you keep your diapers out is probably for the best. That way everyone will know what you’re wearing, and they’ll be able to report back to me if they ever see you running around in panties again.”
“No!” Caroline wailed, tears of shame and fear filling her eyes yet again. “You can’t!” But all that earned her was another spank to her bum cheeks.
Old man Jordan just chuckled merrily, as if he were amused by the sight of a misbehaving child being disciplined by her mother, and not an adult woman getting a sore bottom for the crime of not wanting to waddle outside with nothing but a soaking wet diaper below the waist. Caroline wanted to glower at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up into his laughing eyes. Instead she looked meekly down at her feet, her eyes wet and her lower lip trembling.
“There we go!” said Mrs Jackson, once Caroline had stropped struggling. “That’s better. We don’t want any grumpy little girls at the barbecue, do we?” She kept hold of her hand and started leading her around the trailer and down along the grassy path, heading towards the other end of the trailer park, and the field beyond from which the sounds of shouts and laughter were issuing.
It was hard to walk properly with the thick, saturated padding pressing her thighs apart, but Caroline had no choice but to stomp along beside Mrs Jackson, with the old man on her other side, and her droopy diaper wobbling between her legs.
A young woman gets kidnapped while travelling abroad. Her new 'Daddy' plans to turn her into his perfect baby girl, but Jennifer has no intention of spending the rest of her life as some lunatic’s overgrown toddler.
***
Italy was beautiful. Jennifer’s parents had been so critical of her decision to go solo backpacking in Europe, but they didn’t understand. She was nearly twenty now, and she needed her independence. As much as they might try to deny it, she wasn’t their little girl anymore. She could take care of herself! And looking out at the scenery before her, Jennifer knew she wouldn’t have missed this for anything. Getting drunk in bars was great, and Italian food was to die for, but sometimes it was nice to just hike up to a cliff, away from the beaches heaving with tourists, and have some time alone. She leant against a sturdy railing with a hand under her chin, gazing out at the sea serenely. She didn’t notice the man walking up behind her, until he forced the cloth over her mouth.
She started thrashing and struggling at once, but in her panic she took in a breath, and immediately the overpowering chloroform smell filled her nostrils and sent a rush of dizziness to her head. Her vision began to blur, and a horrible fear gripped her. Her parents had been right. She was going to be used and dumped in a ditch. She was going to get trussed up and sold as a sex slave. She was going to be a statistic, a missing person’s report, a cautionary tale for young women travelling alone.
“It’s okay, little one,” said a deep, gentle voice. Jennifer could feel herself losing consciousness. “I’ve got you. Sleepy time now. That’s a good girl.” She slumped against the strong, unfamiliar back that was pressed up against her, and her vision faded to black.
She was vaguely aware of motion, a comforting sensation, like she was dozing in the back seat of the car during a long trip at night. Like she was a baby being rocked in her mother’s arms. Sometimes it felt like she was dreaming, at other times like she half-awake, but confused, so confused. Where was she? What was she doing? She couldn’t tell how much time was passing. Three hours? Three days? Three weeks? Then, as though she was waking up from the longest nap of her life, Jennifer became vaguely aware that she was lying on something very soft. There was light behind her closed eyelids. She shifted sleepily, and something crinkled.
Her eyes snapped open at once, as though someone had dumped cold water over her head. Memories flooded back to her. She tried to sit up, but her arms were secured at the wrists with straps that connected her to the bed, and her hands were covered with puffy mittens that locked away both her fingers and her thumbs. She looked about desperately and saw that she was lying in some kind of enormous crib, just like a baby’s. There was even a mobile dangling above her head. In fact, the whole room was decorated like an oversized nursery. Pale morning light from a high window illuminated the pink walls, the stuffed animals sitting on every shelf, the playpen, and the large, well-stocked changing table. There was even a rocking chair in the corner.
Her jaw ached, and Jennifer suddenly realised that she’d been gagged. Something plastic was in her mouth, and her chin was wet with drool. She struggled hard against her restraints, but stopped when she felt a sharp twinge in her bladder. That was when she noticed what she was wearing. Above the waist, she was totally nude, and her bare breasts wobbled as she fought against the straps tying her to the bars of the crib. But below the waist, she wore a thick, white, disposable diaper. Its thickness pushed her thighs apart, and it rustled with every movement.
Jennifer felt tears stinging her eyes. She’d been kidnapped by some kind of crazy person! Her first thought was a lunatic old woman, some mad lady who’d lost her little daughter and wanted a replacement. But no, that wasn’t right. She’d been taken by a man. A strong man. Stronger than her at any rate. There’d be no overpowering him. Her best chance to get away was now, before he came to check on her. But her heart sank when she noticed a light shining from a box affixed to the top of her crib. A baby monitor.
There were footsteps in the hallway outside, and Jennifer stared at the door, wide-eyed in panic. He’d heard! A moment later, a man entered the room. He was tall and dark-haired, lean but well-built, older than Jennifer by at least a decade, but handsome nonetheless. He smiled when he saw her, and Jennifer felt a pleasant tingle in her tummy that she hated herself for.
“Hi, sweetie!” he cooed. “Look who’s up! Did you have a good sleep?”
Jennifer let out a fearful moan as he approached her crib and looked down at her over the bars, but he only reached down and undid the strap of her gag. A large pink pacifier popped out of her mouth.
“Please let me go!” she cried at once. “Please! I promise I won’t turn you in!”
He chuckled at that. “I think you’re telling a fib, little one. I think you’d go straight to the police if I let you out and sent you off with a pat on your bottom.” He brushed her hair lightly. “Besides, I’m not going to let go, little missy. You’re far too pretty to be running around on your own!” Jennifer felt another fluttering in her stomach. Get a grip, she told herself. This was no time to be feeling like a lovesick princess. This was no prince charming; this was the monster who’d locked her up in the tower. “Don’t you know how dangerous that it?” the man continued, looking down at her with a mixture of sternness and worry. “I’ve been watching you for a while, going to bars and restaurants all by yourself without any regard for your safety. If I hadn’t taken you, I’m sure some creep would have dragged you into an alleyway and done who-knows-what with you by now! This is for your own good, Jen-Jen.”
Jennifer flushed. She hadn’t been called Jen-Jen since she’d been three years old. The kidnapper had no doubt looked through her bag and found her ID. “You’re crazy!” she said. “And don’t call me that!”
“Don’t call you Jen-Jen?” the man asked, cocking his head and grinning. “But why not? It’s the perfect name for a cute baby girl like you.”
“I’m not a baby!” Jennifer yelled. “You’re out of your mind! I’m a grown fucking woman and you can’t do this to me!”
“Jen-Jen,” the man said warningly, his smile fading so suddenly it made a chill run down Jennifer’s spine. “If you keep saying naughty words, I’m going to put your paci right back between your lips. I may even wash your mouth out with soap before I do it.”
Jennifer whimpered involuntarily. “Please let me go!” she begged again. “At least let me out of this stupid crib! I… I have to pee!” That was true; her bladder was beginning to ache.
The man smiled again. “That’s what your nappy’s for, silly girl! If you need to go pee-pee, just go in your Pampers. The potty is a thing of the past for you now.”
“No!” Jennifer shrieked in disgust.
“Oh? Do you think that’s out of the question? Let me tell you something, sweetie,” the man said, tickling her under the chin. “By the time you’re fully settled in, I’ll have trained you to behave just like a toddler! And that includes using your pants as a potty. You’ll be toddling up to me with your nappy sagging down to your knees, telling me you went wee-wee with a great big grin on your face.”
“That’s not going to happen!” Jennifer yelled.
“Awww, does Daddy have a grumpy baby on his hands?” the man crooned. “A grumpy baby who thinks she’s too big for nappies. But I know what can help… Have you ever met the tickle monster?” His hands leapt to her sides at once, tickling her bare skin and making her shriek with laughter while she squirmed and pulled against her restraints as hard as she could, sending her breasts jiggling about madly on her chest.
You’re not my Daddy, she tried to say. But all she could do was giggle and gasp as he tickled her mercilessly. I’m an adult woman, she wanted to say. I’m not a baby. But the tickling was too much for her bladder, and Jennifer could only sob in between her squeals as a warm rush of pee flooded the thick padding between her legs. “Nooo!” she wailed, as her nappy got soggier and soggier, hating the stupid grin the tickling had forced onto her face, and the way it made her cries sound silly and playful. “No! No! No!” she laughed.
At last his tickling stopped, and his hand probed the now sodden diaper around her crotch. He wore a satisfied smile on his face.
“You can’t do this!” Jennifer cried. She was panting hard and her face was streaked with tears, but she was still fighting desperately against her cuffs. “I have a job! A boyfriend! I have a whole life!”
“Silly baby,” the man chuckled. “You don’t need to have a job. It’s all playtime for you now! And you don’t need a boyfriend either, missy. What you need is a Daddy. Someone to feed you and bathe you and change your stinky diapers. This is your life now, sweetheart.” He reached down and stroked her cheek softly with the back of his fingers. “Back to babyhood for little Jen-Jen! But I can tell you’re still feeling a bit fussy, so I think I’ll let you nap for another hour before letting you up.”
“HELP!” Jennifer shouted, as loudly as she could. “HELP, PLEASE! HEL-” The man cut her off, forcing the pacifier gag back into her mouth and, with a parting kiss on her forehead, and a warm smile, he turned around and left the nursery, leaving Jennifer to struggle in her crib in her soaking wet nappy, and scream behind her pacifier.
I had to admit–I’d initially spent time with her largely to keep an eye on Louis, and to play the role of service top. Esmay had little experience with a partner who cared about her needs, let alone safe words, and I felt a responsibility to ensure that my stunt with her partner wouldn’t lead to more unhealthy patterns developing.
However, though I didn’t push for things to go past what she wanted, my heart still jumped whenever she directed a booty call my way. I didn’t even care about the sex all that much–the preceding dates were becoming highlights of my week. She was wicked smart and had a whip-crack sense of humor–clever and quick, in all the ways that could make me smile.
And, in fairness, I enjoyed watching Louis squirm. Knowing how much he’d been taking advantage of his position before, how much he’d been taking advantage of Esmay. My punishment wasn’t justice, it wasn’t fair, but a little malicious part of me enjoyed watching him squirm when I walked past with his wife, while he had to give me puppy-dog eyes and whimper to change his diaper.
He’d occasionally made a show of joining me and Esmay when we had nights out, but that ended after one too many public poopy accidents, after I’d made a show of checking his dirty bottom in the bar, after he’d been left sulking in the car because Esmay and I wouldn’t call it a night early after his humiliation.
Now, he stayed at home, sulking, sending me desperate texts when he needed diaper changes–texts that I routinely ignored. Call me malicious, I just loved to come back to his home, pinch my nose to comment on how badly he’d ruined his diapers, and then whisk Esmay off to make her scream in pleasure without letting him change.
Still, one sultry, sweaty night, after our roll in the bed, Louis banished to stink up the living room while she got her pleasure and I got my satisfaction, she finally brought it up.
“Can I ask you about Louis?” she asked, laying on the bed next to me.
I knew the question, but I dodged anyway. Perhaps because I felt a bit of guilt at overdoing it, or perhaps just for the sake of the game. “What about him?”
“I looked at your profile on Fet more,” Esmay said. She was naked, with only a thin sheet tangled around her legs, letting the air cool her skin. “You are big into hypnotism play–mind control. Consensually taking someone’s control away. Did Louis ask you to do that?”
There were a couple ways I could answer. I chose simple honesty that deflected my guilt. “No, he didn’t.”
“But you hypnotized him anyways,” Esmay said. “Didn’t you?”
No getting around it. I rolled onto my side, looking at her. “Yes, I did.”
She looked at me. “Because you thought he was a creep.”
“He was a creep,” I said. “I saw how he talked about you. How he regarded the kink community.”
“Mmm,” she said, thinking about it. “But he didn’t ask for it.”
“He didn’t,” I confirmed. Guilt twisted in my chest–consent was the bedrock of our community, and no matter how much I enjoyed it, what I’d done to Louis violated that. Even if I hadn’t done anything to him directly, it still counted in my head.
“So you can hypnotize someone who doesn’t want it,” Esmay said.
I saw where her thoughts were going. “I can, but…” I started. “I shouldn’t.”
She looked at me. “You shouldn’t. But do you want to?”
Swallowing, I glanced away, thinking of how much I enjoyed watching Louis wriggle in his diapers. “I…shouldn’t want to.”
“Because,” she continued. “I can think of a lot more fun things to do to him. I’d like to do more things to him. Could you show me how to do that?”
Esmay wanted it, and Esmay didn’t accuse me of doing wrong by doing what I’d done to Louis. Further, I knew how cunning she could be–I wanted to see what she’d make of him. “Sure,” I agreed.
…
It was slow going, at first–Esmay was a quick study, but we were working with an unwilling practice dummy. Most hypnotists learned on a participant eager to have their thoughts stolen. For Esmay to learn from Louis, I first had to get into his head again, compelling him to sit perfectly still on command, to watch her.
So, Louis would sit on the floor, legs spread, diaper on display, while Esmay swayed my watch back and forth. At first, her commands were simple–making him sit down or stand up on command. Pavlovian reactions, little more.
But then, she started making it fun.
She undid a bit of my work, allowing Louis to get hard, but not to cum. Then, she made it so he’d have to sit at the end of the bed, rubbing himself through his diapers whenever Esmay and I fucked in his bed.
Hearing him whimper was pleasure untold.
I’d taken his potty training, but she did one worse. Forcing him to evacuate his bowels whenever it was most inconvenient, most humiliating, making him unaware of how soggy he was until someone pointed it out. With my permission, she took over when he could ask for diaper changes. If I was malicious in making him wait, she was downright cruel.
My little Esmay was quite the sadist, it seemed. She liked it when he was at his lowest, and I helped her facilitate that at every turn.
Slowly, more things started to change. His Fet profile was no longer ‘SirDominant7’, Louis was now, ‘DiaperCuck14’. I still cringed at the unoriginality, but at least the unoriginality was pathetic, and came with new profile photos, showing off his degradation.
I started noticing other changes, too. Louis became her live-in servant. At home, he did her chores. When I came over, if he wasn’t left humiliated and helpless for me to gawk at, he was sweeping or doing dishes or tidying. As often as not, he was doing those things in a drooping, exposed diaper, despite the open windows.
Maybe she’d gone too far–this had gone from humiliation to full control–but she was Esmay, and I really, really didn’t like Louis. Watching how he was dropped a peg with every visit was thrilling, as Esmay found lower and lower places to push him each time, digging deep to drop the pegs.
She showed him off to her friends, even when I wasn’t there. She brought a few other men over, which was fine by me–we were never monogamous with one another, and the more who could laugh at Louis’s pathetic pamper packing, the better.
There was one line I wouldn’t cross. One night, she tried to bring him into our bed, to make him suck my cock–I said no. Esmay was disappointed. She protested. But I held fast to the one rule I’d kept–I wouldn’t use him for sex.
Three months after I told her the truth, and almost four since I’d first met her, I came to her home and found Louis grinding in his diaper in the living room floor, suckling his thumb with one hand, rubbing on an erection through tented, sodden padding with the other. Changing supplies sat right next to him, a fresh diaper and powder, but for Louis, they may as well have been an eternity away. I smirked down at him.
“There you are,” Esmay said, walking in with a smile. “Good–I wanted to show you something.”
“How long has he been like this?” I asked, nodding to Louis.
“A few hours,” She smiled wickedly. “I wanted his brain to be helpless mush before my next session–I have something wonderful planned.”
“What is it?” I asked.
I should have known.
Stupid.
Stupid.
“A surprise,” she replied. “Just watch.”
She sat next to Louis, and I sat next to her, and she began the induction. She started from scratch–not necessary, for someone as scrambled as Louis, but if she wanted to do things right I could understand the discipline.
And then she snapped her fingers.
Said “Drop”.
And I dropped.
By the time I realized my mind had fuzzed, it was too late. I’d been listening to her words. I’d seen her watch–my watch–dangling in the corner of my eyes. Maybe I’d looked at it. Maybe I’d stared.
But I’d fallen into her hands.
Esmay looked at me, giggling. I just sat there, unable to move, only able to watch and listen as she crawled onto me, pushed me down to the floor, pinning my immobile body down with her hands and staring me in the face.
“You,” she said, “Aren’t going to tell a soul about this, my little one. Because I realized–what’s the fun in having just one plaything when I could have two? No more saying ‘No’, no more telling me what I can’t do with my toys, just two little stinkers who have to do whatever I tell them.”
(No. She wouldn’t–) but I knew she would. I’d seen how far she could go with Louis.
“You’re going to forget everything you know about hypnosis,” she said, sliding her hands down to my jeans, unzipping them, pulling them away. “That control is mine now. You just need to know how to obey instructions.”
My boxers came next, so I was naked, and Esmay continued her monologue. “You’re going to be just…like…Louis. You’ll sit when I tell you. You’ll stay. You’ll beg. No big boy squirties for you, just a tiny, hard cock grinding into your diapers. You’ll potty when I tell you, and you won’t even notice until someone else points out how bad you smell.”
She picked up a diaper–one that I’d assumed had been for Louis–and slid it beneath my hips.
“You’ll do whatever I say,” she said. “You’ll be all mine, really. You won’t be able to change your own diapers at all–you’ll have to beg and whimper and ask me to let you have fresh diapers, and then I’ll make Louis change you. But don’t worry, you’ll be allowed to return the favor.”
Giggling, she folded the diaper around my limp cock, rubbing the front of the padding. I twitched, involuntarily–the contact did it for me, even as my heart pounded in horror.
She taped the diaper onto me, pulled away, and smiled. “I think that’s enough for now. I can always go back into your head and change whatever else I need, of course. When I snap my fingers, you’ll do your best to make your diaper match Louis’s, and feel all your little ‘big boy’ thoughts of resistance melt away.
She snapped.
I obeyed.
Pulling my legs up to my chest, I grunted, squeezed, and felt the seat of my diaper swell, the plastic back crinkling as solid, smelly mush ballooned my padding. My bladder released, almost as an afterthought, and I turned the yellow indicator strip blue all along the front, completely unable to resist.
Esmay giggled, pointing at Louis, then at me. “Now…you two, kiss.”
We were hers to command. Getting to my knees, I shuffled forward, putting my lips on his. We were both repulsed, hating each other as much as two people reasonably could, but our bodies did as they had to. My lips against his, my dick getting hard inside my diaper.
“Good, good.” She snickered. “Grind on each other, too–rub each other, try to get desperate.”
His body slipped close to mine, arms wrapped around each other, rubbing the tents of our sodden diapers together. Already I wanted to explode from the need to release, and my body simply refused–it wouldn’t let me, even as I felt on the edge of orgasm.
“Good.” She got to her feet, laughing down at us, sneering, pinching her nose. “Okay, you two stink, so I’m going to get out of here–I’ve got a date with a real man. You stay like this, and when I get back, maybe–maybe–I’ll let you watch what it’s like to have sex. God knows that’s as close as either of you are ever going to get.”
…
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Bio Age: 20
Mental Age: 9
Potty Training Status: Limited nighttime potty training (pull-ups at night, full control during the day)
Observations:
Odette fidgeted nervously as the Resident Advisor (RA) gently guided her toward the bed, her fingers twisting the hem of her oversized nightshirt. "Do I really have to wear this?" she whined, eyeing the pull-up in the RA’s hand. "I’m not a baby! I don’t need these!" The RA simply smiled and replied, "It’s just for tonight, Odette. Sometimes accidents happen, and it’s better to be safe." Odette pouted but reluctantly lifted one foot, then the other, as the pull-up was secured around her waist. The crinkly sound made her cheeks flush.
Her hair had been styled into two tight pigtails earlier, a look she found "so embarrassing." She kept reaching up to tug at the ribbons, only to have the RA gently swat her hand away. "Leave them be, sweetheart. They’re cute," the RA said, ruffling Odette’s hair playfully. Odette crossed her arms and muttered, "I look like a little kid," but the protest lacked her usual conviction.
As the RA tucked her into bed, Odette shifted uncomfortably, the pull-up feeling foreign and bulky beneath her pajamas. "I don’t like this," she admitted quietly, her voice smaller than usual. "What if someone finds out?" The RA just patted her shoulder reassuringly. "No one will know unless you tell them. Now get some sleep."
Closing:
Odette’s regression is progressing as expected. While she retains full control during the day, her acceptance of nighttime pull-ups marks a significant shift in her mindset. The embarrassment and resistance she displays are natural, but her compliance suggests she is adapting to her new routine. Future reports will monitor her comfort level with the pull-ups and any further regression in her behavior, particularly during nighttime hours. The experiment remains on track.
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that was the statement, the catalyst, the mantra that was said almost every day...
so many different answers from just one setup...
wandering back...back into that huge closet full of small things... small outfits... small onesies, small bibs, small bonnets.
Its always the little things...
back you wandered, past all the clothing, past each soft printed piece of fabric, past every drawer, every hanger... back to the mirror
The mirror always reflected... reflected who you were, who you wanted to be, who you were becoming, who you were meant to be...
maybe you had wandered back with all your big girl clothes on... button up shirt, dark professional jeans or khakis... hair tied tightly back in a bun, as not to not get in your face and distract from your work... ugh... work.
you were ready for a change...
the further back you wandered, the more the clothes would change, changing from jeans and jackets to flirty skirts and soft sweaters, all the way back to button up onesies, oversized princess t shirts, and long soft socks...
and of course, all the way back were the super babyish things. bonnets, pacifiers, and of course diapers. thick crinkly plastic backed diapers. of course they were in the back. I mean, it surely was a secret that you had them, right?
surely it was a secret that you wore them... needed them... emotionally, physically. needed them to feel safe. secure. padded. protected. pampered.
maybe you had wandered back, toddling around, with a teddy in your hand, and your kitty at your side, a big pretty bow at the top of your head. otherwise naked except for your thick diaper hugging your hips while you waddled past the vast array of outfits.
maybe you should put something on. playing dressup is fun after all, and there are so many outfits to try. lots of cute prints and graphics. teddy bears and ponies and dinosaurs. skirts and PJs. so many things to choose from.
maybe you could stay in the closet for a while, right? after all, that big scary adult world wouldn't miss you for a while right? surely it would understand that you had wandered back into the magic closet again. back... far back. so far back that it wouldnt make sense if you just left without trying anything on...
"mirror mirror on the wall... who's the babiest baby of them all?"
you just had to ask... had to take a picture too... just to be sure... to be sure that this overgrown toddler. this big baby, was surely you. a big puffy two taped diaper around your waist. and a big pink princess bow. helping to keep your slightly messy hair a bit more presentable.
that photo was you... the pictures dont lie... the mirror doesnt lie... this is you... who you are... inside and out.
just cute as a button...
so surely if you had waddled or toddled, or crawled out on all fours, diaper rustling and crinkling with each little step or movement. a soft cotton onesie holding your diaper up. keeping it from drooping down.
surely everyone would understand, even praise you... and if not... there was always the closet... always the mirror to go back to. all of the outfits. the ability to become someone else... someone better... someone wetter...
I’m a little diaper girl in law school, and I’m trying to come up with a fun/naughty game or challenge for next semester that will motivate me to study more. Any ideas?
Awww! I love the juxtaposition of a serious, academic woman and the silly, crinkly diaper girl hiding underneath that facade. Do you think they’d take you seriously if they knew you were tinkling into your diaper during the Palsgraf vs. Long Island Railroad Co. lecture?
I wonder if the judges in your cases will say “you may waddle to the bench.” Or coo at you when you make your clever arguments. Or give you brief recesses so someone can change your diapie!
And then after alllll that work to graduate and be a lawyer, you’ll end up just like this silly diapered lawyer!
I’ll tell you what, I don’t let anonymous strangers ask me to do so much work. But I also don’t want you to announce to everyone here that you’re in law school.
So, I’d be happy give you some naughty rules to make your legally diapered dreams come true, but only if you message me to ask.
We never had "the talk". She didn't need to sit me down and confess her naughty fantasy to me and talk me into trying it. All she needed to do was give me that little initial nudge and then reward me for following the steps she offered me to take.
She started it as a joke. I had always been a bit of a "dribbler" - not in a pee my pants-manner, I've just always had a very steady flow of precum the second I got horny. Don't get me wrong: This was never a problem! There's no such thing as too much lubrication when it comes to sex, at least in my opinion.
She was the first one to bring it up, and boy was that an orgasm. I hadn't been active for a while, and when she pulled my underpants down, she let out a bright laugh: "Wow, if I didn't know better I'd say you're done already! Your undies are soaked mister!"
As I mentioned, this was never something that I was selfconcious about. Under regular circumstances, I would have been at this point of course. However, what followed to that sentence was the weirdest dirty talk I had ever experienced up until then.
"You know what should happen to little boys who can't keep their pants dry?"
At this point, I didn't know where this was going. "They - they get punished?" I stammered.
Again, she chuckled. Which typically wouldn't have been something that I wanted a woman to do when I was lying there with my dick pointed straight as a die up in the air, but her sudden confidence turned me on more than that compassionate laugh.
"No dummy! We're not in the 1970s anymore. Today, little boys -" she explained while starting to go to town on me, "just have to wear some cute protective undies if they have little accidents. And if I look at the state of your boxers, you might have to be put into some pullups as well!"
Stop. Don't judge me. Yes, a normal guy would have stopped her right there and asked her what went through her head to make her believe THAT was good dirty talk. But you don't know what she was doing to me while saying that. I don't know, but overnight, it seems like she had turned into an absolute sex monster. No guy, especially not after a bit of abstinence, would have pushed that woman from him. Even though it was weird, the orgasm I had while she whispered "you're just a little dribbling pullup boy" into my ear surpassed every single one I've had before that day.
And afterwards? I had just shrugged it off as some weird but hot intermezzo in our otherwise standard and somewhat dull sex life. That's why my story doesn't end here.
One or two weeks later, she pushed me down and climbed on top of me again. This time however, she immediately pulled out a blue little rectangle. I'd learn that that was called a "Drynite" later on, but in the heat of the moment, I only really realized that she had exchanged my boxers for pullups when she pulled the bedwetting pants over my hips.
Yes, at that point I dared to stammer some butchered variation of "What are you doing?", but my attempt of a protest was shushed away and dare I say, countered with some valid points.
"Men don't need foreplay" my ass, seriously. Have you ever been seduced for an eternity? Until all it takes to bring you over the edge is like, two strokes in her? Anyways, what followed to that pullup was another highlight of my sex life. It was the first time that I had been devoured. And when she finally pulled that pullup to the side and made me explode in her, it had definitely absorbed quite a bit of my fluids.
She ripped that thing off of me and put it into the trash while I was still panting. Nonetheless, I asked another time: "What was that?"
She shrugged it off, pulled her cupped hand from between her legs and showed me the gooey sperm that was dribbling out of her. "I don't know" my girlfriend shrugged, "but it seems like you liked it"
Yes yes yes. I know. The counterargument isn't as strong in retrospective as it seemed to be when I was standing in the bathroom butt-naked. But it was a one-time occurence. For like a month, everything went back to normal. I'd initiate sex like I always would, she'd give in or not, missionary, bit of cuddling afterwards. Same procedure as every time. But you know, he who has tasted flight will walk the earth with his eyes turned skyward.
So when she pulled out one of the blue rectangles again, I bit my lip in anticipation, and she noticed that. Once again, I was seduced until I was nothing but a bibbering mess. When she finally pulled the padded garment to the side and slid my member into her, it felt like heaven again. This time, I held out a little longer, but that only made it better. Only that in this instance, after I was done, she pulled the soaked padding over my shrinking little man and told me to wait until she came back from the bathroom. Still panting, I obliged, and when she came back, she managed to open another door in the corridor of my sex life.
You see, in real life, most guys cannot go for round two after their girlfriends took a quick piss and came back to the bedroom. But it turns out that an ordinary vibrator on slightly soggy bit of padding can get you around that.
At that point, I had picked up the pattern. And you cannot blame me for not backing out of this one. Go ahead and show me the guy who would throw away the magic button that turns his girlfriend into a raging sexmonster on demand, I'll wait! Even if that means letting her put you into a freakin' diaper and saying "I'm your good little dribbling boy", no one would pass on that.
So of course, at that point, she knew that she had the reigns in her hands. I wasn't gonna stop her. Soon, the pack of drynites went into my underwear drawer. Every morning when I pulled it open, I had the choice between underwear and something that "looks and feels like underwear" - if you trust that slogan. It only took two times of "back to normal" before I finally made a move. One late night after a long day at work, I snatched one from the drawer. It was kind of a brave bet, but when she joined me after she was done with the dishes, all it took for me to get my reward was one well planned bend down in my pyjamas to present the waistband of my undergarment. I was rewarded immediately. The realization that I, on my own, had put on that little skimpy pullup lit the same spark as before in her, and after she was done with me, I just crashed.
This night was the first night in a very long time that I'd sleep in a diaper.
Beginning in that night, I used my recently discovered magic trick more and more. No matter how far I pushed it, I was not able to find borders in my girlfriends flaring-up libido. It was the best thing that could happen to me. Soon enough, I put one on almost every day before going to bed. More and more often, I'd find myself waking up in the remains of round two. Once I realized that number three in the morning was on the table if I just slipped into one after my morning shower, I took another step down onto the slippery slope of whatever path my girlfriend had prepared for me. Soon enough, I found myself at work wearing a drynite. And when I went to check my phone in my break, I was greeted with a very enticing appetizer for what was to come when I got home.
The diaper isle had become a regular stop when getting groceries. I know, when you're eagerly throwing pack after pack in the shopping cart, you should realize that something is up. But hell, I had fun. And my girlfriend as well. Win win. Arguably, me wearing these 'special panties' more often did not lead to more sex at this point. More orgasms, yes. But I spewed most of them right into the drynites I was wearing. Another warning sign, but hell, orgasm is orgasm. And it wasn't like I was missing out on stuff due to my sex addiction. No, in fact, my girlfriend got better and better at effectively managing me.
Did I ever pee in them? No. No, I did not. Until one day, some handymen had to turn off the water in our apartment. It seemed so perfectly logical when she proposed for me to use it. And (you know how it goes) when she pulled out the magic wand to overcome hindrance of the sodden padding, I had a hunch that I could get more.
More and more and more. I was derailed at this point. Peeing my pants became normal. The first leak on our couch was quickly forgotten when she had me begging for real diapers while pressing the magic wand in the mushy pullup in my groin. With the thick night time diapers that were delivered the next week, pulling the diapers to the side was not an option anymore. Didn't matter to me. Once a day after coming home from work was enough; it wasn't like I was lasting long anyways. My PR was two minutes, and with every second she shaved off of my time, be it with sex or with the vibrator in my crotch, she rewarded me with even more orgasms. No diaper went into the trash without at least two loads in there.
But my girlfriend was not done with me. Again, she started to dial back the orgasms. Coasting along was not an option with the frequency that I had gotten used to, so I started to look for the next step. And asked her to stop buying pullups. The changing "rubbies" had become a very welcome variety in the monotone humming of the vibrator, therefore - you guessed it - I asked for daytime diapers.
Soon after, I realized my underpants weren't coming back from the wash. I didn't ask about it. I counted them, and thought about how long it would be until I'd wear my last pair. And started to wonder what I'd have to do next to keep my girlfriend riled up.
It’s been so long since Daddy let you have any big girl fun with him.
So very long.
Daddy stripped away every aspect of your adulthood, piece by piece, thrusting you into this infantile world of diapers, nap times, and Fisher-Price playsets.
Nothing but mind-numbing baby shows, toddler-level books, and never-ending nursery songs.
Everything but this.
He could take your potty-training, autonomy, and independence, but he could never take the one last piece of adulthood you have left.
Your desire.
After a year of permanent denial, of having your princess parts chronically ignored—except during diaper changes, Daddy would never let you get diaper rash on his watch—you almost wished he could take it.
The longer your diaper-clad chastity goes, the needier you become. Your mind is a hazy buzz of desperation. You can’t think straight.
All you want is to feel Daddy’s loving touch again. Even the thought of it send jolts of pleasure through your body. You’d do anything.
Anything.
You take a breath—and make your move.
“D-daddy…,” you whisper, suckling your binky with each pause and giving him your best puppy dog eyes, “I mith Daddy th-tho much…an..an…M all…w-wet…pwease, Daddy…”
Daddy smiles, pulling the waistband of your soggy diaper. “I can see that, kiddo! You’re Daddy’s little tinkle fountain!”
You wince, hating the infantile response to your adult request.
“N-not wi-wike da wet, Daddy…wike…mmm… da other wet.”
You can’t even ask like a big girl anymore.
But it doesn’t matter, this isn’t the time for pride. If being Daddy’s sweet princess will get you some big girl time, you’ll do it.
“Hmm,” Daddy ponders, sniffing the air, “Did you make a runny boom boom?” He prods at the seat of your diaper playfully.
Crinkles erupt as you squirm in embarrassment.
“Daddyyyyy! No poopieth! J-jus…I…well…”
“Well, what are you babbling about, sweet pea?” A sweet, innocent grin plastered on his face.
“I..I jus wa..wan Daddy l..like how m used tah get tah haves Daddy! M..miss him so much.”
Daddy boops your nose.
“Babygirl, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know that?”
You perk up. “W-weally, Daddy?”
Daddy’s hand rests ever so gently on your diaper. You shudder in anticipation.
“Of course you are, kiddo! But I don’t think you’re quite mature enough for that, yet. You’re far too sweet and innocent for such things!”
Your body deflates like a popped balloon.
“B-bu am big girl, Daddy, pwomith!”
“No, honey, you’re my silly babbly baby who has no need for such impure thoughts. Why else do you think Daddy only gives you binky kisses and plays with your hair?”
“D-don know, Daddy…”
“Well, baby, it has been a long time since you were a big girl hasn’t it? And you’ve been so well behaved without any fun with your princess parts. You must be sooo needy by now, huh?”
Your eyes light up. “Y-yeth, Daddy! T-tho tho needy for you! Good girl!”
“Yes, kiddo. A very good girl, giving up all your fun for your diapies! Just like a good baby should. I think you deserve a treat. What do you think?”
You’re practically bouncing with joy.
“Yeth pwease, Daddy!! Pwease pwease pwease!”
Daddy sits up, smiling ear to ear.
“Why don’t you come rub your soggy diaper on my leg, honey? Show me how thankful you are to make some cummies for Daddy!”
Daddy doesn’t have to tell you twice!
You’ve been so hopelessly denied for so long, even the prospect of humping your diaper on Daddy’s leg gets your diaper wet again.
“Good girl, just like that, babygirl. Make your crinkles for me. Prove how desperate you are to be a big girl.”
You straddle Daddy’s leg, positively vibrating in anticipation. Daddy grabs your waist, looking deep in your eyes.
“F-Fank you, Daddy,” you say before your hips start gyrating.
The effect is immediate.
You scream in pleasure—pleasure that’s been denied for so long. It feels better than anything you’ve ever felt in your life.
Nothing matters but the soggy mush squelching against your princess parts. You feel Daddy beneath it.
Daddy.
“D-dadddy!!!”
Twenty seconds after you start, a wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.
Pure bliss.
As the world slowly starts reformulating, you see Daddy smiling at you, eyes full of love.
“Awww, someone loves her diapies, don’t they, Princess? Daddy loved your crinkle symphony, too! You’re so adorable, little one!”
You try to catch your breath, a mix of embarrassment at your actions clash with the ecstasy of your orgasm.
“C’mon, babygirl. Let’s get you changed out of that icky diapie.”
Daddy won’t tell you, but it’s all going exactly according to plan. You’ll do anything—anything—for that again. Even if it means going further and further into your second babyhood.
As I open the door to my apartment, I'm greeted by the beautiful plants, ample daylight, and modern furniture that suits my mature tastes so well.
Little things give away the presence of my little 'guest' in the house though.
A large mesh-sided playpen full of stuffies, dolls, and blocks is shoved into a corner of the living room. An extra large highchair sits in the dining room, with a bottle still perched on the tray. Rather than a recliner in the living room, there is a large rocking chair. Also, sitting out on one side table is a hospital quality breast pump.
Looking at the breast pump causes me to rub my breasts.
They feel warm, hard to the touch, and tender. Just the act of touching them causes them to leak milk into my bra. It's definitely time to feed the baby!
I must have taken longer on my walk then I planned.
I quickly walk to the hallway in my apartment and open the second door on the right. I can't help but smile as the smell of the room hits me before I can even see it. The room has an overwhelming odor of lavender baby powder and bleach that almost covers up the underlying smell of ammonia and messy diapers. In essence, it smells like a daycare or nursery, exactly how I want it to.
As I open the door and look inside I'm greeted by a familiar sight. The room is a fully stocked nursery, but sized up to handle an adult baby. An extra large, fully stocked changing table sits along one wall next to a large diaper pail. Set into another wall is a closet with white doors which, I know, is filled with onesies, baby dresses, fleece pajamas, and other baby clothes sized up to fit my precious little one.
Next to the closet is a large toy chest. Beyond the standard baby toys, it also contained more adult toys I let my charge use for my own pleasure and entertainment. There is nothing more fun than watching a fully grown adult, wearing a poopy diaper and sucking on a pacifier, hump her favorite stuffy while pushing a vibrator into her crotch. The combination of arousal, submission, and humiliation is perfect.
Finally, placed against another wall of the room is a queen-sized crib with locking railings that reach 6' into the air. It's the perfect location to keep my precious little adult baby safe and contained while I am out.
I look to the crib and see exactly what I am expecting. Crouched on her knees is a five-foot tall woman wearing a pastel pink onesie with the phrase "Mommy's Little Pampers Packer" emblazoned across the front. Her small but noticeable breasts push against the soft fabric of her onesie. The onesie is also stretched almost to its limits around the woman's waist and bottom where the extra large, and, based on what I am smelling, extra messy, diaper is taped onto her. The small woman's blonde hair is cut short and styled into short pigtails high on her head. A pacifier is tucked snuggly between her lips. Above her pacifier, the woman glares at me angrily. She looks exactly like the petulant toddler I have strived to turn her into. I subconsciously reach up and rub my magic necklace between my thumb and forefinger in satisfaction.
The woman in front of me, Lidia, despite all appearances, is four years older than me. We grew up on the same street, and our mom's were best friends. Growing up, Lidia was the stereotypical perfect girl. She was beautiful, a straight 'A' student, a varsity soccer player, and the most popular kid at school. Basically, everything about her stood in stark distinction to the pants wetting adult toddler locked in the crib in front of me right now.
In contrast, growing up, I was always a little small and immature. My mom was a helicopter parent who didn't want me participating in anything where I could get hurt or into trouble. I wasn't allowed to play sports, go to sleepovers, or even have a boyfriend or girlfriend.
My mom also didn't trust me. She always saw me as a small child, all the way until I was 18. So, whenever she left town or had something to do at night, she'd call Lidia's mom and have the neighborhood's golden child come over and babysit me.
Having your mom hire a babysitter at 16 was bad enough, but Lidia was the worst. Lidia had a dark side that no one knew about or even believed when I told people about it.
I was a bedwetter growing up, and, as my babysitter, Lidia knew all about it. I eventually grew out of it at 13, but that didn't keep Lidia from blackmailing me with it. You see, when Lidia babysat me, she thought it was hilarious to treat me like her little baby doll. I had to comply, or Lidia threatened to reveal how long I was a bedwetter to my classmates. I was already a social outcast and knew that information would ruin me.
So, everytime my mom would hire Lidia, within minutes of her leaving I would find myself wearing nothing but a diaper and shirt, sucking on a pacifier, sitting on a baby blanket in my living room, and watching Cocomelon while Lidia laughed at me. I have horrible memories of spending entire weekends being forced to act like a toddler by perfect little Lidia. It was horrible.
As a result, when I realized the power I had, one of the first things I did was turn the tables on Lidia. I shrunk her down as I made myself bigger. I took away her independence, changing her reality so she lived with her parents again. I made her a bedwetter. I made it so her parents, like my mother so long ago, didn't trust her, and hired me to babysit her.
From there, just like she did to me, I've blackmailed her over time to becoming my personal adult toddler. Without changing her, I've changed reality such that Lidia was forced to choose to become my plaything--choosing to act like a toddler rather than being forced to--despite remembering everything that happened prior to me reshaping reality. Watching her devolve to my naughty little girl by choice, all while I know she remembers bullying me, has been the most satisfying part of using my new found powers.
Now, after months of Lidia agreeing to be my permanent baby doll, I can't help but smile as she glowers at me, locked in her crib, sitting in a poopy diaper.
"Oh, my little pamper packer is awake! It smells like you made Mommy a present? Did you make me a present, Lidia?" I say as I walk up to the crib, stick my hand between the bars and rub her cheek affectionately.
Lidia scrunches up her nose behind the pacifier and I can see her willing herself to act like a toddler to avoid any punishments.
"Yeth, Momma! Lidy makes poopies for Momma!" Lidia lisped out from behind her pacifier with a false sweetness to her tone.
"Good baby!" I say as I reach over to unlatch the side of the crib and begin lowering it. "With such a full diapy, I bet Lidia has an empty tummy. Let's get it all filled up with some of Mommy's num-nums."
I watch as Lidia grimaces at the idea of suckling at my test and carefully avoids putting her weight onto her poopy diaper. I know, from history, that she wants to ask me for a change before she eats. I also know that she knows she is not allowed to ask for a change.
"Yeth, Momma, Lidy 'ungry," Lidia tells me as I lift her from her crib and place her on my hip, making sure to mush as much if her mess into her butt as possible as I carry her out into the living room and sit in the couch.
"Good, baby, because Mommy needs you to empty me out!" I say as I sit down, laying Lidia on the couch with her head in my lap and pop her pacifier out of her mouth. I pull out my breasts, exposing my nipples that are now dripping with my creamy white milk.
Lidia looks at my massive, milky breasts with disgust. She then shuffles her body in discomfort, probably trying to get to where she can't feel the shit sitting in the back of her pants. But, as she is expected to, she opens her mouth like a hungry baby and waits for me to help her latch.
I smile in satisfaction at how well trained Lidia is now. Hundreds, if not thousands, of punishments, tears, and public humiliations have turned Lidia from the bully who loved to play mommy to my perfect bratty little girl.
I grab Lidia by the back of the head and pull her mouth up to my left breast. I moan in pleasure as she begins to suckle, relieving the pressure that's been building for hours. I run my hand through Lidia's hair lovingly.
"That's it, good girl," I moan out as Lidia continues to suckle.
The relief of pressure, the dominant feelings I am having, and the knowledge of how much Lidia hates this is incredibly arousing. Like almost every time I feed Lidia, I'm tempted to rub myself. I resist though, and settle for throwing my head back and closing my eyes, imagining what tortures I can work up for Lidia next.
While my eyes are closed, I feel Lidia's hand drift up to my breast and begin to press. I'm not concerned by this. She does this often to help fully empty me, and, frankly, the pressure feels good.
I keep my eyes closed and moan as she suckles me with her mouth and milks me with her hand. I didn't notice as her hand drifted to the magically ruby pendant on my necklace. I didn't feel her grip it firmly in her fist.
Before I realize what is happening, I did feel Lidia unlatch from my breast and hear her rapidly call out a wish.
A Person Who Missed Their Chance @lsubby - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
