You’re whimpering before she even tightens the first strap.
They’re soft, helpless little sounds, barely louder than a breath, the kind your throat makes when you’re trying so hard not to cry in front of someone. Your wife, Ellie, gives a knowing smirk, the corner of her mouth turning upward.
“Oh, honey,” she coos, brushing a stray lock from your forehead with feather-light fingers. “We haven’t even left the driveway yet and you’re already pouting??”
You open your mouth to protest, to plead, to put up at least some small fight, but Ellie doesn’t give you the chance. She simply lifts the big, adult-sized pacifier with its thick silicone bulb and presses it firmly to your lips. A final, tiny whimper escapes as she slides it in with one smooth, practiced motion. The bulb fills your mouth completely, and almost immediately you begin to suckle on reflex, cheeks burning hotter.
“There we go!!” she sing-songs, pinching your cheek lightly in that patronizing way that makes you squirm. “Already so much quieter. My helpless little lovebug!”
She gives the shield a little pat, as if sealing it in place, then turns her attention back to the harness. Her hands move efficiently. Clicking, pulling, tightening. Securing each strap across your chest, waist, and thighs until you’re locked snugly into the oversized stroller. She pushes the canopy back so that the sunlight glares in, the raised seat and padded restraints making everything about you obvious to anyone who glances over.
Adult strollers like yours aren’t unusual in Submissive City. Over the past year the place has quietly transformed: absolutely no children or minors allowed, only grown men learning (or being taught) to embrace their submissive roles. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier when it’s you sitting here with a tray of colorful rattles dangling “just in case your hands need something to do.” Ellie insisted it was soothing. You insisted it was humiliating. She won the argument, as she always does these days.
“Hold still for Mama,” she says, gathering your hair with gentle fingers. She tugs it into two high, bouncy pigtails, reties the wide satin bows with precise loops, then steps back to inspect her handiwork.
“Perfect!” she gushes, clasping her hands together. “You look absolutely adorable, baby! Mama’s little princess, ready for her big outing!”
The outfit she chose this morning leaves no room for doubt about your role today. You’re wrapped in a frilly baby-pink tutu romper: short, puffed sleeves trimmed with delicate white lace that tickles your neck and upper arms, and a bodice that cinches just enough to emphasize the dramatic flare of the built-in tulle tutu skirt. The skirt is layers upon layers of soft, scratchy netting that poofs out ridiculously, barely covering the bulging, crinkly diaper beneath. Every shift in the seat makes the lace itch and the tulle rustle, a constant reminder of how exposed and sissy you are. White ruffled ankle socks and shiny pink mary janes complete the look, the little straps buckled tight with tiny heart-shaped locks.
You whimper behind the pacifier, squirming as much as the thick five-point harness of the stroller allows.
Ellie laughs softly. “Awww! Yes, yes, I know you’re having big feelings about our little trip today, but you earned this stroller ride today, didn’t joo??” She pinches your pink cheeks again, “No more doing laps around the living room on your hands and knees like a silly little pony. Today you get fresh air, sunshine, and lots of admiring looks at my sweet widdle girl!!”
She gives the tutu a playful little fluff, making it bounce and crinkle against your diaper, then walks around to the ‘driver’s seat’ of the stroller. She releases the brake with an ominous click and grips the handle, engaging the little electric motor that allows her to slowly yet simply push you forward with ease. As you venture forward out of the garage and down the driveway, the bright world opens up ahead, sunlight glinting off of parked cars, birds chirping, the faint murmur of voices drifting from the street. The moment the wheels meet the sidewalk, your stomach knots tighter, anxiety twisting with every gentle roll.
The path stretches out, busier than you’d hoped. There’s people ahead. People you know. Past friends, neighbors, that one woman from the gym who always smiled at you back when things were different. Your breath comes shallow now, ragged. You tug at the harness straps, but they hold firm. The pacifier bobs frantically in your mouth as you suck on it for comfort, even though it only heightens the humiliation.
“Hush now, angel,” Ellie murmurs from behind, her voice a soothing melody with just a hint of teasing. “You’re fine. Just breathe for Mama. Remember, you’re not the only one in padding today. Look around…see?”
She’s right, of course. You can see the shadow of her arm stretch over the sidewalk as she points toward a man being pushed in a stroller just like yours across the street. His romper is even frillier, layers of lavender ruffles and lace cascading everywhere, pacifier bobbing rhythmically as he happily waves a jingling rattle at passersby. “He’s been in diapers longer than you, sweetheart…and look how content he is! Doesn’t he make the prettiest little girl?”
Your cheeks burn hotter, doubting you’ll ever find as much enjoyment as that weirdo.
One house over, right in the front yard, another man waves cheerfully from inside a large portable playpen set right on the neatly manicured lawn. He’s dressed in shortalls that do nothing to hide the thick padding bulging underneath, his legs kicking playfully as he clutches a stuffed bunny. His partner kneels nearby, weeding flower beds with relaxed focus, occasionally glancing over to check on him with an indulgent smile.
Further along, on the next corner, a woman stands chatting with a friend while her husband remains in timeout with his nose pressed against a sturdy oak tree. His shorts and diaper are pulled down to mid-thigh, the open, sagging padding clenched awkwardly between his knees, bright red bottom on full display for the entire street to see. The woman pauses her conversation to call out, “Twenty more minutes, loser! Let everyone see what happens to naughty boys!”
In Submissive City, scenes like these are simply part of the scenery.
But still… it’s you in the stroller now. You in the frilly tutu and pigtails. You trying desperately not to cry behind your pacifier as the world rolls by. Just because others are undergoing the same treatment doesn’t make it any less embarrassing for you.
You don’t notice Ellie slowing until you hear the soft scrape of paws on pavement. Then a low, subdued whine.
A woman approaches, leading her dog on a short, taut leash. Except it’s not a dog, it’s a full-grown man. He’s on all fours, dressed in full gear: a leather mask with floppy ears that hang limply, thick mitts encasing his hands, knee pads for crawling, and modified shorts that reveal a thick, crinkly diaper printed with paw prints. A rubber tail attached to a harness on the back of the diaper sways behind him
The owner is firm, her posture straight and commanding, like a trainer with a misbehaving dog. She tugs the leash sharply when he lags behind. “Heel!” she snaps, her voice crisp and no-nonsense.
The ‘pup’ scurries to catch up, whining softly.
Ellie stops the stroller with a smile. “Oh, what a cute little doggy you have there!” she says warmly to the woman.
The trainer nods curtly. “He’s learning. Slowly.” She turns to her puppy, who’s now sniffing cautiously at your stroller wheels. “Greet properly.”
The puppy looks up at you with eyes wide behind the mask, then lets out a tentative yip.
Ellie chuckles, patting him on the head. “Aww, isn’t he sweet?? Did you already go potty today, boy?”
The trainer crosses her arms. “Not yet, but he will. Right here.” She points to a patch of grass beside the sidewalk. “Go on. Lift your leg.”
The puppy hesitates, whining again, but a sharp tug on the leash makes him comply. He crawls to the grass, lifts one leg high against a small tree, and you hear the hiss as his diaper floods, the front darkening visibly with a spreading stain. Passersby glance over but keep walking. It’s just another day.
“Good,” the trainer says flatly. “Now drop your dump. Make it quick.”
The puppy’s tail droops as he scrunches down low, face flushing red behind the mask. A soft grunt escapes, and the seat of his diaper balloons outward with an audible squish, the smell wafting faintly in the breeze.
The trainer nods approvingly. “There. Now wag for them. Show how happy you are to be a good pup.”
The puppy hesitates, ears drooping, but a sharp tug on the leash makes him obey. He shakes his hips, slow and reluctant at first, then faster. The rubber tail swishes side to side, the harness keeping it secure over his thick, sagging diaper. Every shake squishes the heavy, messy load inside, the seat bulging more and swaying like a hefty, droopy, poopy pendulum.
Ellie claps lightly, genuinely amused. “Such a well-trained boy!”
The trainer gives a short nod. “He has his moments.”
She pulls a plain, bone-shaped dog treat from her pocket and holds it to his muzzle.
He opens his mouth obediently and crunches it slowly. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it, chewing unenthusiastically. The bland, gritty taste is clearly unpleasant, but he swallows anyway. Better than the kibble he probably gets at home.
She scratches behind one floppy ear once, then clips the leash back to his harness.
They move on. The puppy crawls away with a pronounced, messy waddle. The swollen diaper forcing his knees wider, tail swaying limply behind him.
Ellie pushes forward again, her voice teasing. “See, baby? Even puppies use their diapers out here! You’re in good company.”
A few blocks later, the real embarrassment hits.
“Oh. My. God. You guys! Look!!”
Three gorgeous girls in their twenties, faces a mixture of awe and glee, start heading his way.
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If you'd like to read the rest of this 7,000 word story, head on over to my Substar! I had a lot of fun writing this one!
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