The pink onesie clings to your skin, the fabric soft but suffocating, a constant reminder of what you’ve become. You stand in front of the mirror, fingers tracing the zipper that runs from your neck down to your crotch, the only barrier between you and the person you used to be. The person who wore jeans and blouses, who had admirers and autonomy, who didn’t have to beg for the simplest dignities. Tonight, you’re determined to reclaim even a sliver of that.
Your hands tremble as you pull the zipper down, the sound sharp in the quiet of your nursery. The fabric parts, and you shrug the onesie off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps, but it feels good, right, to be exposed, to be naked in a way you’ve chosen. You straighten your back, lifting your chin, and look at yourself in the mirror. Your boobies, full and soft, are on display, the nipples already pebbling from the chill. You feel powerful, sexy, adult. This is how you’re supposed to be seen: not as a child, not as a little, but as a woman.
You hear the creak of the door behind you, but you don’t turn. You know it’s him. Daddy. The man who has systematically stripped away every shred of your independence, who has reduced you to a giggling, diapered mess. But not tonight. Tonight, you’re taking a stand.
“Look at me,” you say, your voice steady, commanding. You arch your back slightly, pushing your chest out, willing him to see you as something more than his little Pampers packer.
There’s a pause. You can feel his eyes on you, but not where you want them. Not on your boobies, not on the curve of your waist, not on the defiance in your stance. No, his gaze lingers lower, on the thick, white diaper between your legs, the diaper that’s already swollen with the evidence of your failure.
“Baby,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement, “you’re soaked.”
Your face flushes. “It can wait,” you snap, your voice cracking with frustration. “I’m not a toddler. I don’t need to be changed every five minutes.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, and you can feel the heat of his presence behind you. “Oh, but you are,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing against the soggy bulk of your diaper. The touch is possessive, humiliating. “You’re my little girl, and little girls don’t get to decide when they’re changed. They don’t get to strip off their jammies and demand to be seen as adults.” His hand slides up, cupping your breast, but the gesture isn’t sexual. It’s patronizing, like he’s humoring a child playing dress-up. “You’re cute when you try, though.”
Your hands clench into fists. “Stop it,” you growl, but your voice wavers. You can feel the wetness of your diaper pressing against your proncess parts, the warmth spreading, the undeniable proof of your regression. You’re not in control. You’re not the adult here. He is.
“You’re just embarrassed,” he coos, his fingers tracing the waistband of your diaper. “But you don’t have to be. Babys have accidents. It’s okay to need your daddy.”
“I don’t need you,” you spit, but the words sound hollow, childish. You stamp your foot, the movement only serving to make the diaper squish loudly between your legs.
Daddy’s smile is infuriatingly tender. “Oh, baby,” he says, shaking his head. “You need me more than ever.”
He scoops you up before you can protest, your bare skin pressing against his clothes, your boobies squished against his chest. You wriggle, but it’s useless. He carries you to the changing table, your legs kicking impotently in the air. The diaper is thick and heavy between your legs, a constant, humiliating presence.
“No!” you scream, your voice breaking. “I’m not a baby! I’m not!”
But your tantrum only makes him chuckle. He pins you down, his hands gentle but unyielding as he unfastens the tapes of your diaper. The cool air hits your wet skin, and you whimper, tears pricking at your eyes. You’re exposed in every way possible, your body, your failure, your desperation all laid bare.
“Shh,” he murmurs, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Daddy’s got you.”
And the worst part? He does. No matter how much you fight, no matter how much you strip off your onesie and demand to be seen as an adult, he’s always there to remind you of the truth: you’re his little girl, and he’s never letting you grow up.
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