My orgasm is worthless. It has no value. How does it provide any value to anyone around me?
It doesnât. My orgasms are purely selfish. Theyâre unproductive. Loving, controlling dominants put so much time, effort, and energy into denying me and rewiring my brain to focus entirely on them. An orgasm ruins that almost immediately. It forces them to restart.
I should always be focused on them. Please, remind me consistently that Iâm not a normal person. I should never be allowed to masturbate for fun or have sex for pleasure. The only pleasure that matters is yours. My orgasm actively works against that.
I donât deserve to cum. I deserve to edge, drip, turn my brain to mush, and be a useful toy for you. Next time I beg to cum, please remind me that Iâm being a selfish, greedy little whore. Please?
Reduced to a caricature of your former self, stripped of all pretenses, enjoying this burlesque parody of gratification.
Look at you.
Writhing and screaming like a banshee, possessed and consumed by the incessant pursuit of pleasure.
You used to be a strong, proud woman. Charismatic, confident, and composed. If only you could see what you would become.
Would you have believed me if I told you how willing you were to debase yourself for the sake of pleasure?
How eagerly you would abandon your dignity and poise if it meant another orgasm?
That youâd end up here, on my lap, thrashing and thrusting into a leaking diaper in a ludicrous imitation of sex?
I bet you never expected to be Daddyâs silly little diaper girl.
Not that it matters anymore. Weâre both enjoying this. Even if itâs for entirely different reasons.
Do I need to bother explaining yours? There is nothing complex about your single-minded pursuit of pleasure.
You enjoy it because your princess parts feel good.
I almost envy your slavish, vapid devotion to it.
You donât care that Iâm fully clothed. That youâre in a drenched diaper with silly, infantile prints. That your moans are muffled by your binky. That every movement creates a ridiculous crinkle symphony.
That this is a mockery of sex.
All you care about is the delicious friction of your diaper and needy mound. Those brief moments of ecstasy when you can almost feel me under all that pee-soaked padding.
Only I can enjoy this for what it is.
The delicious juxtaposition of past and present. Of who you were and who you became.
This is the fruit of my labor.
Your liberation from shame and embarrassment. Your pride and arrogance were a mask that hid the real you.
Every thrust, moan, and squeal is you thanking me for your newfound freedom as my horny, mindless diaper girl.
Mama had been making you tell her whenever you were going to use your diaper. At first it was humiliating, making you squat down and use your diapers in front of her while she coos praises to you. But the embarrassment left you weeks ago, it almost feels like a chore at this point. You never really understood why, but after she praises you for filling your diapers, you would hear it.
*Click*
Not too loud, but enough to be noticeable every time, coming from a little black button Mama wears around her wrist.
*Click*
The innocent sound started to work its way into your brain, now you expect to hear it any time you use your diapers.
*Click*
As you have many times before, you go to Mama to use your diapers. "Mama, I hafta-"
*Click*
In an instant your head is flooded with dopamine and your bladder lets go entirely despite your best efforts to make it stop. Mama lets out a satisfied hum as she watches the wetness indicator between your legs turn blue. All you can do is whimper as she showers you in more praise than ever~~
one version has natural diuretics and laxatives. you don't notice it at first but the time between releases gets shorter and shorter, until you're suddenly wetting and messing without even noticing, all within a matter of a few days...or maybe even hours...
another version has a mix of estrogen and hormone compounds. you notice that your breasts become tender, hips widening, weight gains in targeted areas, hypersensitivity in your 'baby bits'. its not long before your tits are leaking milk and you're begging your caregiver to breed you senselessly.
the next variation has a mix of aphrodisiacs. within minutes those baby bits are buzzing, throbbing at even the slightest sensations. maybe your caregiver is extra mean, locking you tightly into your crib so you cant get relief no matter how hard you wiggle or buck. or maybe they're mean in a different way, locking the biggest dildo they own in your piddle pants before forcing you into a baby bouncer with a vibrator pressed against those sensitive parts, by the time they're done with you you'll never want to cum again.
maybe there's one with a heavy duty kevlar material and perma-lock tapes, mixed with a careful combination of muscle relaxers, anti rash protection, and waste disposing nanites. not only will it loosen up those cute tight sphincters till you're piddling your pants all the time, it'll turn all those big muscles into wimpy noodles. you'll be so cute waddling and tripping over those feet like a toddler, and even cuter when you've finally atrophied to the point of needing to crawl everywhere. not to mention that silly little diaper is permanent now, no more touching tapes, playing with big kid parts, or using porcelain thrones for you ever again. all with the added bonus of waste disposal, so you never have to worry about sitting in those messes too long and getting ouchies.
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This story is fairly dark and this first chapter features public harassment and a character grappling with their lack of autonomy.
...
Jay knew it was coming before she even got down the metro stairs.Â
A trio of burnout modders, strung out on somethingâdigital or analog, it didnât matterâsaw her hopping down one stair at a time, making the difficult trek down stairs that came up to her waist. One nudged another and pointed, another whispered something, all three laughed. Shitheads like them tended to congregate down in the metro, beneath layers of concrete and metal where the net couldnât connect, where they could have something approaching privacy from the stream of data floating through the air.
If she could have avoided it entirely, she would have, but Jayâs legs were ten inches long, plastic, and that were built with crawling in mind more than walking. Foot travel simply wasnât an option, and she couldnât afford even a cheap scooter.
(Just leave me alone,) she prayed, pretending that she hadnât noticed the burnouts waiting in the underground, that their presence didnât bother her. Maybe they would decide to pick on one of the other people waiting on the maglev. Jay could see a bulky labor bot at the end of the platform, another artificial intelligence like her, albeit one with a body several times larger. She felt guilty even as she wished for harm to fall on the worker bot, but she wished it all the sameâif the modders picked on them, they wouldnât pick on her.Â
Despite her wishes, one of the modders took a step towards Jay. âYouâre one of those Messy Betsy dolls, right?â His voice sounded modulated, like he had an autotuner installed in his throat, and she could see that his eyes were both cybernetic and heavily dilated, apertures opened nearly all the way.
Jay almost kept silent, but if she ignored them, theyâd only antagonize her further. There was no way to win here. She sighed, but explained, âIâm a Jessy doll.âÂ
âHuh?âÂ
âA spinoff,â she explained, looking up at him. Everyone towered over her, except for a handful of other AIs in small bodies, and she was used to staring up in order to make eye contact. âBetsy came first, I came along the next holiday season.â She said this as a historical fact, but it felt like talking about a stranger. She couldnât remember much of her time as a doll, as property, the time when sheâd lacked legal rights as a person or even the ability to think of herself as a person.Â
The modder scratched his head, refocusing his questions. âOkay, butâŚyouâre one of the diaper shitting dolls.âÂ
And there it was. It didnât matter that she wore a dress that came down below her knees to hide her all-too-necessary diaper, it didnât matter that she had a backpack to hide the silhouette of the pull-string handle built into her back. Her face, her voice, her statureâit all announced to the world what she was.Â
She could have legal autonomy, she could have the same rights as any organic human, but she was still the Diaper Shitting Doll.Â
Laughing, stumbling over his words, a second burnout leaned around her friend. âIâll give you five credits if you do the thing.âÂ
Jay considered it, genuinely wondering if it would be worthwhile. Not for the creditsâthough she desperately wanted the moneyâbut just to get them to back down. If she gave in, submitted to their harassment, would they leave her alone, or would they escalate?Â
(No, Iâm not just going to give in.)Â
âNo,â she said. âIâm not interested.âÂ
The burnout got closer, legs whirring with servos as she approached. From her vantage point on the ground, Jay got a great view of the burnoutâs cybernetic legs, marked with the Applied Synergistics logo, the same logo stamped on the back of Jayâs neck above her charging port. The company had gone out of business after the AI Rights revolution, but their stamp on the world remained.Â
Modders were idiots. Anyone who willingly replaced their real human body with artificial parts deserved to be locked out of their limbs by software incompatibility. Junkie modders were worseâthey didnât just replace their bodies, they spent most of their time frying their brains as well.Â
âCome onnnn,â the burnout slurred. âIt smells like cupcakes, right? So whatâs the harm?â
Jay considered explaining. âTo you it will smell like cake batter, but Iâm hardwired so that itâll still smell foul to me. Besides, I donât have time to change, and I canât afford to waste my money on diapers.â She knew immediately that the explanation would only egg them on, encouraging the modders further.Â
(Whereâs the maglev? Itâs supposed to be here.)Â
âIâm just trying to get to a job interview.â In the hopes it might soothe their egos, she added, âPlease.âÂ
âYou hear that?â the burnout with the robot eyes and modulated voice asked. âThis Synthhead said please.âÂ
âPlease what?â the third asked. Theyâd been silent until then, and Jay couldnât see any obvious cybernetics on them, save for the port on their wrist. âShe didnât finish the request? Maybe she needs help using her words.âÂ
Quickly, Jay got a read on the third modder. Their posture, their tone, they thought of themselves as the smart one in the group, and it was probably true. All modders were idiots, but on that sliding scale, this one seemed to at least know what year it was.Â
The modder girl with the cybernetic legs smirked, understanding the implication. âIs that what you need, Messy Betsy? Someone to help you talk?â
âItâs Jessy,â Jay glowered. âIâm not evenââÂ
A metal leg pushed Jay. Not even a kick, just a nudge, but she had all the strength of a childâs doll and couldnât resist even the mild assault. She fell back and sprawled on the concrete floor.
Jay didnât run. There was no point, even with maximum effort she topped out at a two-mile-per-hour waddle. She shut her eyes and waited.Â
The first modder picked her up by the collar of her dress, and she felt her backpack as it was pulled away. She just went limp, accepting it. Maybe they would strip her, gawking at the smooth plastic where genitals should have gone, or maybe it would be enough to take her dress and laugh at her dolly diaper.Â
Sure enough, a set of hands flipped her dress up, and the three modders laughed, cackling like hyenas.Â
âNot such a Chatty Cathy, now?â the autotuned voice asked. âI bet I know whatâll make you talk.âÂ
Fingers crept up beneath her aftermarket dress, and she felt the grip close around the plastic ring built into her back. There was a moment of pressure, a slight tug that engaged with an automatic function built into her body, then she felt the string as it extended, pulled out to trigger her speech function.Â
For just a moment, Jay indulged in a fantasy of freedom. Maybe the string would break in a way that rendered it inert. Maybe sheâd be able to afford refurbishment services, to remove it completely, to remove her need for diapers, to give her an actual pussy so she wouldnât be an inert, smooth doll. Maybe sheâd just be able to take the maglev without some shitheads giving her a hard time for existing.
But not today.
The pullstring reached its maximum point of tension, thrumming in her body like the precipice before an orgasm, then released. The automatic functions in her body took over, and her voice piped up with a shrill, desperate volume.
âOH NO!â Jay whimpered. âIâm going potty!âÂ
With the announcement came a horribly familiar loss of control. Her legs, dangling in the air, trembled, and her bowels pushed, rapidly pouring their contents out into her diaper.
The dollâs designers had been maximalists. This was no small little oopsieâsolid mush packed into her diaper, inflating it, making it sag and bulge and staining her diaper a deep brown. The smell hit her especially hard, as sheâd been designed to react negatively, to cry and fuss whenever she needed a change; the stink made her nose wrinkle automatically and she tried to take shallow breaths.Â
âGross,â the autotune modder commented in modulated tones. âAndâwow, it does smell like cupcakes, doesnât it?âÂ
âI donât get it, who would want a doll like this?â cyber-legs added.Â
The smart one just said, âCome on, Messy Betsy. Say it again.â
They knew it was wrong, they were saying a different name just to make Jay mad, but she took the bait anyway. She couldnât make them put her down, she couldnât get away, but she opened her eyes and glared. âItâs Jessy.âÂ
The third modder tightened their grip around the pullstring, giving just enough resistance that Jay could feel the mechanism engage, like a feeling of deja vu, trying to remember something on the tip of her tongue, a not-quite sensation.Â
âCome on,â they repeated. âSay it, or Iâll make you say it.âÂ
Jay couldnât call the fuzz, law enforcement wouldnât help her. There were a couple bystanders at the stop, but none that were willing to help. And, Jay knew, if they pulled the drawstring again, her body would be emptied out. She only held enough for two pulls. The sensation of a full diaper was bad, the sensation of an empty stomach was worse.Â
She broke, she gave in. She knew the six pre-recorded lines by heart, she could have said anyone, but she picked the one she thought the modder wanted to hear. Sheâd seen the adverts, starring another doll with her face, her body, a unique copy of her mind.Â
Trembling, she asked, âWill you change my diaper, please?âÂ
The modder smirked. âThere, that wasnât so hard, was it?âÂ
Then, with a yank, they pulled the handle, string spooling out and then retracting once again.
Coincidence chose Jayâs next line, but it felt more like fate. No quavering, no desperation, just a shameless question that she declared with her whole chest. âWill you change my diaper, please?âÂ
Her bowels voided for a second time, simulated mess swelling until her diaper had stretched to its maximum capacity. It didnât leak or blow out, it was designed to contain precisely two accidents, though the padding swelled like a balloon and sagged almost down to her plastic knees.Â
A hand ripped her dress, tearing the fabric at the waist so that her heavily stained diaper would be visible. Her backpack came away next.
The modder holding her let go, and she fell to the ground with a heavy squelch, landing on the swollen seat of her diaper. Laughter rang in her ears, modders jostling each other to get in mocking quips.Â
âThink sheâs got anything in here?â the autotuned modder asked, rifling through her backpack. He produced both her spare diapers, her wipes, even the baggie of snacks, plasticky cookies made to mimic the Applied Synergistics-brand treats that had been sold on the doll aisle. She kept the baggie on hand to stave off accident-induced hunger pangs or just to reward herself when she needed to eat her feelings.Â
âJust Synthhead crap,â cyber-legs replied, pointing at the sealed baggie of snacks. âI bet sheâd suck dick for one of those cookies, though; theyâre supposed to be addictive for artificials.â
âHer mouthâs too small to suck dick,â the first said.
âAnd your dickâs too small to feel it, so youâre a perfect match.â
They all laughed, even the one whoâd been insulted, though he moved on from the topic and focused on the bag once again. âDamn, nothing worth anything in here.â He turned the pack inside out and tossed it onto the maglev tracks, along with Jayâs spare diapers. Someone of a normal adult size might have been able to climb down and retrieve everything, but Jay was barely two feet tall and her things may as well have been on the moon. The bag of cookie snacks he turned upside down, dumping it onto the dirty cement floor.Â
âLetâs get out of here.â The smart one pointed to the stairs. âItâs starting to stink down here.âÂ
Jay burned with anger and shame, along with a pedantic desire to correct the modder. It didnât stink, even if Jayâs nose told her it didâeveryone else would just smell cake batter. She had made the mistake of pointing that out to someone whoâd been harassing her. That was a mistake she only made one time; it had ended with her face shoved into the front of her diapers, demanding to know if she liked the smell.
This time, she kept her mouth shut and just remained curled up on the ground, breathing shallow breaths, waiting for the modders to wander away.Â
A minute or two passed before she felt safe sitting up. Mostly alone, in a torn dress, backpack gone. She still had her Ident card and keys in a compartment in her arm, hidden from any idle thieves, but her body was wracked with hunger pangs and the overpowering stink from her diaper made her feel queasy.
Crawling to the cookies on the ground, she picked one up, wiped off the dirt and crud as best she could, and popped it into her mouth. She didnât have to worry about getting sick, but eating food off the ground still turned her stomach.
Still, having something in her belly eased the ache, and she was able to collect herself.
There was no point going to her job interview now, but she would have to go anyway. If she didnât turn up, her profile on the net would be flagged, and her future prospects would grow even more dismal than they already were. Without a change of clothes, without even a fresh diaper, sheâd have to take the maglev across town, wait for hours in a dingy room, be called, and then sit through the interview, knowing that nobody in the city would hire a two foot doll that showed up for the interview in a freshly filled diaper.Â
As the maglev whooshed into the station, five minutes late, Jay picked herself up. She hated her body, from her voice to her diapers to her awful, horrible pull string, but it had one function that still gave her a bit of comfort. Squelching and crinkling her way onto the train, attracting smirks and gawking comments, Jay allowed herself to feel a tiny bit of gratitude that she had the ability to cry.Â
...
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Here's a fun sing along đś for all you diapered cuties who've gone baby brained đśđ§ . Enjoy the bright colors and comforting voice encouraging you to be a diaper dummy! đ¤¤đź
Oh how he'd always hated urinals. Gross, smelly, disgusting, floor covered in piss. Often standing next to other men who could see his tiny cock. Standing in line at ballgames, lined up like cattle just to piss in a revolting receptacle.
But now...now he'd give anything for the freedom to piss in a urinal. Now he was confined to diapers forever. Now all his piss went into his sissy diapers. And would for the rest of time. His daddy assured him of that. Now he would love to get up after a movie and go take a leak after drinking a 64-ounce soda, instead of releasing his pissy waste into his diaper in his seat. He'd give anything to be at a bar with buddies and excuse himself to go take a leak, instead of standing there, panicked, that they'd notice his bulging butt or hear the crinkle and call him out for being a diaper sissy faggot.
And so his daddy wanted him to go to a urinal and apologize for ever being mean to them and to also say goodbye to them for good. "Show Mr. Urinal your diapers so he understands why he'll never see you again, or your miserable cock," his daddy had instructed. So the sissy stood there in his Pampers, reciting his apology to a urinal in the mall, terrified someone could walk in at anytime.
"Mr. Urinal. I'm sorry I took you for granted all those years. You are one of the greatest inventions in the history of mankind and I should have appreciated your technological marvel more when I was younger. I will now be in Pampers for the rest of my life so this is the last time you will ever see me. Unless Daddy makes me lick you at some point if I'm naughty."
That was that. So simple. Now he could wave bye-bye to the urinals and get on with the business of being a diaper-pissing pansy for life.
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