A Sissy Baby in a Strange World

Abdl/feminization reblogs mostly. The stories are my own. I also posted a few pics of my sissy self. I love to chat. Early 30s.

[lildaisydemure]

Potty training instructions for dumb babies 😘

[sissybabydaisy]

Your wife dropped you off here she signed a few pieces of paperwork and drove away. You were told you were going to have a little bit of sissy diaper fun. Your wife rarely plays into your sissy diaper kink so you were overjoyed when she told you that you'd get some sissy diaper time today. So excited that you didnt even notice the paper on the counter top that said you'd be spending 30 days or longer at a real sissy live in regression school. Your wife had paid for 30 days and an option to stay longer. You had even signed the paper yourself without even knowing it. The invoice has been paid and the day is here. Your wife got you dressed up super cute she strapped you into your little safty seat and away you go. Now once you arrived you were taken by to large females who must have been twin sisters and they were bigger than any man you'd even seen. They grabbed you and you knew you were not going anywhere. It didnt help that your wife drugged your baba with a sedative that makes your large muscles work at 40% strength. You cant walk, you cant stand for more than a few seconds, you cant do much of anything but breath and fuss. Your restrained in mittens and spiked booties. Then a nice straight jacket to help keep you warm and secure on your first day. It helps all new sissies adjust a bit better.

You are wheeled into a room with 2 amazing women holding a stash of diapers. They talk amongst themselves about you but do not directly speak to you. You are unable to speak as the twin women who restrained you locked a massive penis pacifier gag harness into your mouth. You cant speak and all you can do is concentrate on not gagging and puking as you've got a 7 inch cock locked tightly in your mouth. This will become your new normal. When your here your mouth is to be full and gagged at all times. This is what they call a small penis pacifier gag. How the hell bad could the large one be? You'll know soon enough. Your now diapered and all dressed up. Gagged and helpless. Your diaper is wet and you have to mess soooo badly but the massive plug inside your sissy bum wont allow that. So you'll have to sit and cramp like a real girl. Now its time to get you secured into your sissy cribby.its got several locking points and its very reinforced and well built. We have an Amish friend who supplies all of our wooden furniture. Now get inside and get comfy sissy girl its going to be a very very long time before you earn any time outside of your sissy crib.

The realization is starting to set in. Your hottest fantasy ever has come to life. The problem is when you fantasize about it then you cum then your free to go about your day and adult life. The problem with actually having to live it is just that. Once you cum and the kink wears off the cock gag doesn't come out and the dirty diaper doesn't just remove itself. Your really here now and your not in any form of control. You have zero rights and the contract you signed yourself is framed on the wall just to remind you that your here by your own will. Well inside you go I hope there are at least some baby toys inside to keep me from actually dying of boredom. Ugh I cannot believe I just had that thought. God I really am I sissy baby girl.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part III — The Puppet

The backstage corridor of the ship's theatre smells like dust and velvet and something electrical — the particular ozone tang of stage lights warming up.

You find Laurie behind the main curtain, in a dressing area that's more alcove than room.

Racks of costumes along one wall. Mirror with bulbs along another. A folding table covered in makeup and brushes and small jars.

Laurie is standing in front of the mirror in a pink bra and matching panties.

Pink — not the deep, sophisticated pink of something chosen for effect, but a soft, warm, cotton-candy pink that makes her look younger, softer, like she's getting ready for bed rather than for a stage.

She sees you in the mirror and smiles.

"Perfect timing, sweetheart."

You're still shaky from this morning. From what happened. From what you did. From what you said. I give you control of my penis. The words echo in your head like a bell that won't stop ringing.

She turns to face you. The pink bra is elegant — lace, padding, soft cups that hold her breasts like two gentle hands. The panties match. Low-cut. The fabric stretches across her hips and narrows between her thighs.

She catches you looking.

"Stop staring, sweetheart. You'll have plenty of time for that. Right now I need you focused."

She reaches behind her on the costume rack and pulls something off a hanger. Holds it out to you.

Black silk. Folded neatly. Small.

You take it. It unfolds in your hands.

Panties. Black silk panties. Men's wouldn't fit like this — wouldn't be cut like this, wouldn't be this soft, this smooth, this small.

"Your uniform," she says.

You look up. She's already pulling something else from the rack — a black corset, boned, with laces at the back. She drapes it over a chair.

Then reaches for a tuxedo jacket, cropped, fitted, clearly designed to be worn open over something — or over nothing.

"Wait," you say. "This is — you want me to wear —"

"Panties. A corset. And the jacket. Yes."

"On stage."

"On stage."

"In front of —"

"A thousand people, yes. The theatre seats one thousand and four, to be precise. Every seat sold."

Your stomach drops. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You look down at the panties in your hands. The silk is cool and impossibly smooth against your fingers.

"Laurie — I can't —"

"You can."

"People will see —"

"People will see a man in a costume. It happens every night, on every stage, in every theatre in the world."

"This isn't a costume, this is —"

"It is your costume." She steps closer. Her voice drops. "Sweetheart, do you remember what you agreed to?"

You do. You can't forget.

I'll do whatever you say. No questions. No hesitation.

"I — yes, but I didn't —"

"You didn't think I'd put you in panties?" She tilts her head. "What did you think I'd put you in? A tuxedo? A bow tie? You're my assistant, sweetheart. Every assistant I've ever had has worn the same uniform. Girls, all of them. And they wore panties and a corset because that's what the costume is."

"But I'm not a —"

"You're not a girl. I know. Panties don't make you a girl."

She takes the silk from your hands, holds it up, runs her thumb along the waistband. "Panties are just underwear. But they're the right underwear for your little guy."

Your face burns.

"Something small needs to be properly contained," she says, matter-of-factly, like she's explaining why you'd choose a particular size of box for a particular object.

"Briefs are too loose. Boxers are a disaster. But a nice pair of silk panties — they hold everything in place. They keep him snug. Comfortable. Contained."

She holds them out to you again.

"Put them on."

You don't move. Your hands won't reach for them. Your brain is running two programs simultaneously — one screaming don't and one whispering you already gave him to her, you already said yes, you already—

"Sweetheart." Her voice is gentle. Patient. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'll get —" You swallow. "I'll get hard. On stage. In front of everyone."

She smiles. Not surprised. Not amused. Just — knowing.

"Will you?"

"Yes. Obviously. If I'm up there in — in those — and you're doing your act and people are looking and I —"

"Sweetheart." She takes a step closer. Her hand finds your cheek. Cool palm against your burning skin. "Do you remember what I told you this morning?"

"You said — you said my penis is under new management."

"That's right. I said he belongs to me now. He won't get hard unless I say so. He won't cum unless I give the word."

"I thought you were being —" You search for the word. "Metaphorical."

"I'm a mentalist, sweetheart. I'm never metaphorical."

She steps back.

"Strip."

"What?"

"Take off your clothes. All of them. I'm going to show you something."

Your hands are shaking. You look at the door behind you. The corridor. The exit.

But your fingers are already at your buttons.

You undress. Shirt first. Then trousers. Then your boxers — the plain cotton ones you've worn your whole life, the ones that suddenly look absurd, childish, inadequate.

You step out of them and stand there, naked, in the backstage corridor of a theatre that seats a thousand and four people.

Laurie looks at you. Not at your face. Lower.

Your cock is soft. Limp. Hanging between your legs like something forgotten.

"Good," she says. "He's resting. That's good. Now stand still."

You stand still.

She circles you. Once. Twice. Her fingers trail across your shoulder, down your arm, along your hip. Feather-light. Clinical. Like she's inspecting a mannequin.

"A man's penis," she says, "is like a little puppet on a string."

She stops in front of you. Looks down at your cock.

"Most men think they control the string. They think they decide when he rises, when he rests, when he performs. But they don't. He does. Or rather — the woman who knows how does."

She steps closer. Her lips are near your ear. So close you can feel her breath.

"Shall I show you?"

You nod. You can't speak.

She leans in. Her mouth touches your ear. And she whispers — something.

You can't make out the words. They're too soft, too low, more vibration than sound.

But something travels through you — from your ear down your spine, through your stomach, into your groin.

And your cock twitches.

Then stirs.

Then rises.

Not slowly, not gradually, but like something has been called. Like a dog hearing a whistle. He lifts, thickens, fills with blood, and stands up — hard, straight, pointing at her.

"Ohh —" you gasp. "How did you —"

"Shh." She steps back. Looks at him. Your cock is fully erect, jutting from your body, the tip dark and swollen.

"I never get tired of watching a man's little guy dance for me," she says. Her voice is warm. Delighted. Like she's watching a puppy do a trick.

She leans in again. Whispers. Something different — longer, softer, a stream of syllables that don't quite form words.

Your cock throbs. Twitches. A bead of precum forms at the tip, stretches, falls.

"Nnnngh —" you whimper. Your hips buck forward involuntarily.

"See?" She's smiling. "He's very responsive. Very well-trained. Aren't you, little guy?"

She's talking to your cock. Directly. Like it's a separate creature. Like you're the appendix.

"He's twitching and leaking for me. So eager. So obedient." She runs a fingernail — just a fingernail — along the underside of your shaft. Your whole body shudders.

"Hhhnnn — please —"

"Please what?"

"Please — I don't know — please —"

She whispers again. Your cock pulses. Another bead of precum. Your knees are trembling.

And then the door opens.

Two girls. Young. Wearing the ship's service uniform — white polos, khaki shorts.

One is dark-haired, compact, curvy. The other is taller, thinner, with a blonde ponytail. They're carrying a tray with a bottle of sparkling water, a plate of fruit, some cheese.

They stop.

They see you.

You're standing there. Naked. Erect. Leaking. In front of two strangers.

"Maria, Meredith," Laurie says, as if nothing is happening. "Right on time. Just set it down on the table."

The dark-haired one — Maria — stares at your cock. Her mouth opens slightly.

"Oh my God," the blonde one — Meredith — says. Then, louder: "Oh my God."

"I — I can explain —" you start, but there's nothing to explain. You're naked with a hard-on in a backstage corridor. There's no version of this that makes sense.

"Don't be scared, sweetheart." Laurie's hand is on your back. Steadying. "Maria, Meredith — come here. I want to show you something."

They approach. Slowly. Like they're being pulled by a current.

"Is he —" Maria starts.

"Hard? Yes. But watch this."

Laurie leans into your ear. Whispers.

Your cock deflates. Not slowly — like a balloon. He drops, softens, shrinks, hangs limp between your legs in seconds.

"Oh my fuck," Meredith says. "It's so small. How did you —"

"I told you. A puppet on a string." Laurie looks at the two girls. "Want to see it again?"

They nod. Simultaneously. Like they've forgotten how to speak.

Laurie leans in. Her lips brush your ear. The whisper is longer this time — a phrase, a rhythm, something that feels like warm honey being poured into your skull.

Your cock responds. Rising. Filling. Standing up. Hard as iron.

"Hhnnngh —" you groan. You can't help it. The shame of it — naked, erect, two girls watching — is making him harder, not softer, and Laurie knows it.

"He's dancing for us," Laurie says to the girls. "Look at him twitch."

"He's so —" Maria tilts her head. "He's kind of cute."

"He is cute. He's my cute little assistant." Laurie kisses your cheek. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"

"Mmmngh — yes —"

"And look — he's leaking." Meredith points. "Is that —"

"Precum. That means he's very excited. Very desperate." Laurie wraps her hand around your cock — just for a moment, just a squeeze — and your hips buck.

"Aaahhh —"

"Shh, shh. Easy, little guy." She's talking to your cock again. "Easy. Down."

She whispers. And he goes down. Soft. Limp. Resting.

"Up." Whisper. Hard. Throbbing.

"Down." Whisper. Soft. Surrendered.

"Up." Whisper. Hard. Leaking.

The girls are laughing. Not cruelly — with delight. Like they're watching a magic trick. Which, in a way, they are.

"That's amazing," Maria says. "Can you do that to any guy?"

"Any man who gives me permission," Laurie says. She looks at you. "And this one gave me complete permission. Didn't you, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"Say it for our guests."

"I gave her control of my penis."

Meredith covers her mouth. Maria's eyes are wide.

"Good boy." Laurie pats your cheek. "Now — I think it's time to get dressed. All of us."

She hands you the black silk panties. You step into them. The fabric slides up your legs, settles against your skin, holds your cock — soft, resting — in a warm, snug embrace.

Then the corset. She wraps it around your torso, reaches behind you, pulls the laces. It tightens. Your ribs compress. Your posture straightens.

You feel held — contained — like you've been put into a shape that isn't yours but fits you anyway.

"Turn around," Laurie says.

You do. The two girls are watching.

"Do a little walk for us, sweetheart. Over to the mirror and back."

You walk. The silk shifts against your cock with each step. The corset holds you rigid. You feel exposed. Ridiculous. And something else — something you don't want to name.

"Very nice," Laurie says. "The jacket."

You put it on. The tuxedo jacket, cropped, open. It frames the corset. Makes it look almost — almost — intentional. Like fashion. Like a costume.

"He looks good," Maria says.

"He looks adorable," Laurie corrects. She turns to the girls. "Thank you for the delivery, ladies. I'll see you at the show."

They gather themselves. Meredith is still flushed. Maria keeps glancing at your crotch — the silk holding your cock, the faint outline visible.

They leave. The door closes.

Laurie looks at you. "Well. That was fun."

You can't speak. You're standing in panties and a corset and a tuxedo jacket, your cock soft and caged in silk, your face burning, your mind blank.

"Come on," she says. "Help me into my dress. The show starts in twenty minutes."

She turns her back to you. Reaches for the red sequined gown.

You move to help her. Your hands are steady now. Something has shifted. Something has settled.

You belong to her.

You both do.

This is the third in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part II — The Wardrobe

Cabin 712 is not a cabin.

It's a suite. Two rooms connected by an arched doorway, deep carpet the color of champagne, a king bed draped in cream linens, and a sitting area with a velvet chaise where the morning light pools like warm amber.

The porthole is a window, floor-to-ceiling, and beyond it the sea stretches endless, blue and indifferent.

You stand just inside the doorway, clutching the strap of your bag, trying not to gape.

"Close the door, sweetheart."

Her voice comes from the bedroom. You close the door. The lock clicks with a sound that feels final, though you don't know why.

"In here."

You follow the voice.

Laurie is standing in front of an open wardrobe. The wardrobe is the size of a small room — floor-to-ceiling, dark wood, filled with garments on padded hangers.

She's wearing a silk robe, deep burgundy, tied loosely at her waist. She looks like she just woke up, or like she's about to go to sleep, or like she exists in some timeless space where morning and evening don't apply.

She turns when you enter. Her eyes travel over you — the uniform you ironed three times this morning, the shoes you polished, the nervous way you're holding your bag.

"Good. You're early. I like that."

She gestures to the wardrobe.

"This is your primary responsibility for the next seven days. Do you know how many costume changes I have per show?"

You shake your head.

"Three. Sometimes four, depending on the act. Plus dinner with the Captain. Plus cocktails with guests. Plus whatever else I'm scheduled for."

She runs her hand along a row of hangers. "That's twelve to fifteen outfits per day. Each one needs to be pressed, steamed, organized, and accessible. Each one has specific undergarments that go with it. Each one has shoes, accessories, jewelry."

She turns to face you fully.

"I've never had a male assistant before. I'm told men are hopeless with this sort of thing. Are you hopeless?"

"No," you say. Then, more firmly: "No. I can learn."

"Good answer." She smiles. "Let's start with the foundations."

She opens a drawer. It's filled with underwear. Not the kind you've seen in department stores or catalogs. These are delicate, intricate, made of lace and silk and things that look like they cost more than your rent.

"Touch them," she says.

You hesitate.

"Go on. You need to know the difference between them by feel, not just by sight."

You reach into the drawer. Your fingers brush against something so soft it barely registers as texture. You lift it — a triangle of black lace, so small it disappears in your palm.

"That's a thong," she says. "Minimal coverage. Worn under anything fitted. No panty lines. Do you know why that matters?"

You shake your head.

"Because when I'm on stage, every line matters. Every seam. Every shadow. The audience doesn't know they're looking at a thong. They just know something is right about the way I look. That's what you're responsible for. The invisible things that make the visible things work."

She pulls out another piece. This one is higher cut on the leg, with a wider band at the waist.

"French high cut. Creates the illusion of longer legs. Worn under evening gowns. You'll need to know which gowns call for which cut."

She holds it out to you. You take it. The fabric is smooth, cool, expensive.

"Now this." She pulls out a third. No lace. No seams. A smooth, flesh-colored triangle with adhesive strips. "C-String. No straps, no bands. Worn under the most revealing gowns. One wrong move and it slips. You'll need to check it before every entrance."

You're holding three pieces of her underwear in your hands. Your face is burning. Your cock is stirring, despite every effort to control it.

She notices.

"You're blushing, sweetheart." Her voice is warm, amused. "That's fine. This is all new to you. You're going to learn a lot this week."

She closes the drawer and opens another.

"Bras. You need to know the difference between a balconette, a demi-cup, a full coverage, a bralette, a sports bra, a push-up, and a plunge. Each one creates a different silhouette. Each one goes with a different neckline. I'll test you on this later."

She pulls out a black lace bra, holds it up. "This is a plunge. Worn with deep V-necks. The cups are angled to push everything inward and upward. Creates cleavage."

She hands it to you. The lace is soft, delicate. You can smell her on it — a faint, clean scent, like soap and something warmer underneath.

"Put it back. Gently."

You do.

"Now the skirts and dresses." She moves to the main wardrobe, pulls out a garment bag. "This is my opening number. Red sequins. Fitted. Floor-length slit. The undergarments for this are a seamless thong and a strapless push-up bra. Remember that."

She unzips the bag. The dress catches the light, sparkles, breathes.

"It's beautiful," you say.

"It is. And you're going to help me into it."

Your heart stops.

"Now?"

"Now." She turns her back to you. "The robe first."

She reaches back, finds your hand, guides it to the tie at her waist.

"Untie me."

Your fingers fumble. The silk is smooth, the knot is loose, but your hands are shaking. You manage to pull it free. The robe parts. She shrugs it off her shoulders and it falls to the floor in a pool of burgundy.

She's wearing nothing underneath.

You see her back. The curve of her spine. The swell of her hips. The way her waist narrows and flares. She's naked, standing in front of you, and you're holding her robe, and your cock is painfully hard.

"Don't stare, sweetheart. You'll have plenty of time to look. Right now, I need the bra. The strapless push-up. From the drawer."

You turn. You find it. You bring it to her.

"Hold it open for me."

You do. She turns around. Her breasts are full, pale, with dark nipples that are soft, unaroused. She steps into the bra, and then she waits.

"Now hook it."

Your hands are at her back. The hooks are small, delicate. You've never done this before. You fumble, miss, try again.

"Breathe," she says. "Slow down. You're rushing."

You take a breath. Your fingers steady. You hook the bra on the next try.

"Good boy. Now the panties."

You find them. The seamless thong. You hold it out. She steps into it, one leg at a time, and pulls it up. The fabric disappears between her cheeks. You can see the shape of her ass, perfect, framed by the thin straps.

"Now the dress."

You unzip the garment bag fully. The dress is heavier than you expected. You lift it, hold it open. She steps into it, pulls it up over her hips. The sequins catch the light. The fabric molds to her body like it was made for her.

"Zip me."

The zipper is at the back. You pull it up. Her skin is warm beneath your fingers. The dress fits her like a second skin. She looks incredible.

She turns to face you. Her eyes drop to your crotch. The tent is obvious. Unmistakable.

"Already?" She smiles. "We've barely started."

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Don't be. It's charming." She steps closer. "You're very responsive, sweetheart. I like that about you."

She reaches out, touches your chest, trails her fingers down your stomach, stops just above your belt.

"Your little guy is eager again today. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," you manage.

"Did you play with yourself last night? Thinking about me?"

Your face burns. "Yes."

"Good. I told you to." She steps closer. Her body is inches from yours. You can smell her perfume, her skin, something warm and intimate.

She reaches behind her back. The zipper of her dress whispers down. The red sequins part, and she shrugs the dress off her shoulders. It falls to the carpet in a shimmering pool at her feet.

She steps out of it. Turns her back to you.

Now she's wearing only the thong — that thin black triangle, the delicate straps disappearing between her cheeks. Her bare back curves into the swell of her hips. She looks over her shoulder at you.

"I think we need to take a minute," she says. "To train your little guy. He's been running things long enough, hasn't he?"

You can only nod.

"Good. Then let's start."

She turns fully to face you. Her hand finds yours, guides it to her hip, rests it there against her warm skin.

Your fingers find the waistband of the thong.

"Go on and take it off, sweetheart."

You sink to your knees in front of her.

The fabric is warm against your knuckles. She shifts her weight, lifts one hip, then the other, and you slide it down her legs.

The scrap of lace and silk comes away in your hands. You hold it for a moment, stunned by how little it is, how intimate, how hers.

"Bring it to your face."

You do. You press the thong to your nose without thinking, without deciding.

Her scent is concentrated here — that same musk you caught earlier, but deeper, richer, distilled by hours of wear. You inhale. Your eyes flutter closed.

"That's right, sweetheart. Breathe me in. I want you to know my smell better than any other smell in the world."

You can't stop. Your lungs fill with her. The fabric is soft against your lips, your nose. You nuzzle it like it's her, like you're already pressed against her, like—

"Give it here."

You hand it back. She drops it on the chaise. Then she steps closer. Her thighs are inches from your face. The dark triangle of her pussy is bare, exposed, glistening faintly in the morning light.

"Now come here. Properly."

She parts her thighs. You lean forward. Your nose touches her. Warm. Soft. The scent hits you like a wave — stronger than the thong, more alive, more her. You inhale. Deep. Desperate.

"That's it. Nuzzle me, sweetie. Like my little puppy. Just… take it in."

You press your face into her. Your nose moves through her folds, finding the crease where her thigh meets her body, the soft heat of her opening.

You snuffle against her pussy like you're searching for something buried. Her scent fills your lungs, your head, your entire world.

Her hand rests on the back of your head. "Good boy. Just like that. Breathe me in."

You nuzzle deeper. Your lips brush her. Your tongue flicks out without permission, tasting her — salt and musk and something sweet underneath.

She doesn't stop you. She doesn't encourage. She just lets you explore, lets you need, lets you drown.

Minutes pass. You lose track. Your world has shrunk to the space between her thighs. Her scent. Her warmth. The soft sounds she makes — a sigh, a hum, a murmured "that's it, sweetheart."

"Now, I want you to show me your penis."

The words cut through the fog. You pull back, dazed. She looks down at you, patient, amused.

"Go on. Take it out. I want to see him."

You fumble with your belt. Your fly. Your cock springs free — hard, aching, leaking against your stomach. The tip is dark, swollen, desperate.

She looks at it. Her expression softens.

"Oh, sweetheart. Look at him. He's so eager. So hard for me."

She doesn't touch it. She just looks. And somehow that's worse — that's better — that's everything.

"He wants to cum, doesn't he?"

You nod. Can't speak.

"He wants to be inside something. He wants to feel warmth around him. He wants to push and thrust and bury himself somewhere soft and wet."

She crouches down, bringing her face level with yours. Her eyes are warm, knowing.

"But he can't go inside me, can he? We established that."

You shake your head.

"No. He can't. But he can still feel something. He can still be close."

She shifts, extending one leg. Her calf is smooth, bare, inches from your cock.

"Come here. Between my legs."

You shuffle forward on your knees. Your cock brushes her calf. You gasp.

"That's it. Position yourself."

You move until your cock is nestled between her calves, the soft skin pressing against you from both sides. She closes her legs slightly, trapping you there.

"Now hump, sweetheart. Hump my legs. Breathe in my smell. Let yourself go."

You start to move. Slow at first. Experimental. Your cock slides between her calves, the friction soft and maddening.

Her scent is still in your nose, still flooding your lungs. You press your face against her thigh as you move, inhaling her, tasting her skin.

"That's it. That's my good boy. Just hump my legs like the little puppy you are."

Your hips find a rhythm. Your cock slides back and forth between her calves, slick with your own leaking. It's not enough — it's never enough — but it's everything. Her skin. Her smell. Her voice.

"You're so hard, sweetheart. So desperate. Can you feel how much you need this?"

"Mmmnnngh — yes —"

"Can you feel how close you are? How your little guy is twitching, begging, ready to explode?"

"Y-yes — please —"

"Please what?"

"Please — I need — I can't —"

"Can't what?"

Her hand finds your hair. Strokes. Gentle. Soothing.

"Can't hold it — I'm gonna —"

"Are you ready to give him to me?"

You look up at her. Her eyes are steady, certain.

"Your penis. Are you ready to give him to me? Completely? No taking him back?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, please, take him, he's yours —"

"Say it clearly, sweetheart. Say 'I give you control of my penis.'"

"I give you control of my penis. I give him to you. He's yours."

She smiles. Warm. Triumphant.

"And I accept. I am now the manager of your penis. His pleasure is mine to give or withhold. His erections are mine to authorize or deny. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good boy. Now keep humping. Keep breathing me in. And listen to my voice."

You move. Faster. Desperate. Your cock slides between her calves, slick and hot and aching.

"I'm going to count to ten. And when I reach ten, you're going to cum. You're going to cum harder than you've ever cum. You're going to cum because I let you cum. Do you understand?"

"Yes — please —"

"One."

You thrust. Inhale her.

"Two."

Your cock throbs between her legs.

"Three."

Her hand in your hair. Gentle. Claiming.

"Four."

You're trembling. Every muscle tight.

"Five."

Her scent. Her voice. Her warmth.

"Six."

You're close. So close. Hovering.

"Seven."

A whimper escapes your throat.

"Eight."

Your hips are rocking. Uncontrollable.

"Nine."

Right on the edge. Waiting. Begging.

"Ten."

You cum.

It rips through you like a wave. Your whole body convulses. Your cock pulses between her calves, spraying hot against her skin, against the carpet, against your own stomach.

You moan into her thigh — a sound that's half sob, half prayer — and she holds your head, strokes your hair, murmurs "good boy, good boy, that's it, let it out."

You collapse. Your forehead rests against her shin. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your cum is cooling on her legs, on the carpet, on you.

She steps back. Looks down at the mess.

"Clean it up."

You look up at her.

"With your tongue."

You lower your head. You lick her calf. You taste yourself — salty, bitter. You lick the carpet where your cum has splattered. She watches, patient, still.

When you're done, she smiles.

"Good boy." She touches your cheek. "I hope you enjoyed that, sweetheart. Because that's the last erection you'll have without my permission."

You blink. "What?"

"Your penis is under new management." She says it gently, as if explaining something obvious. "He belongs to me now. He won't get hard unless I say so. He won't cum unless I allow it."

"But — how — I don't —"

"No cage. No lock. Nothing physical." She taps your forehead. "Just your mind. You gave him to me, and now he's mine. He'll only rise when I call him. He'll only squirt when I give the word."

You look down at your cock. It's soft. Limp. Satisfied. Useless.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." She bends down, kisses your forehead. "I'll take good care of him. You'll see."

She straightens and smiles down at you.

"That's enough for today. You're free until seven tonight. Dress rehearsal. Same place. Don't be late."

You stand on shaky legs. Your trousers are still undone. Your cock is soft, surrendered, hers.

You tuck yourself away. You zip your fly. You walk to the door.

"Sweetheart."

You turn.

She's standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her hair, not looking at you.

"Thank you for your service."

The words land like a benediction. Like a receipt. Like proof that something has been exchanged, something irrevocable.

"Yes," you say. "Thank you."

You leave.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And somewhere, deep in your chest, a part of you that you didn't know existed whispers:

He belongs to her now.

This is the second in a new series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part I — The Interview

The ballroom is a churning sea of uniforms and hope.

You stand near the entrance, clutching the letter that got you here, watching the department heads at their tables like judges at a talent show. The Purser. The Chief Steward. The Deck Bosun.

Each one has a line of candidates snaking before them, clutching résumés, smiling too brightly, desperate to be chosen.

And then there's the table at the far end.

It's draped in velvet. Deep purple. A single candlestick flickers at its center, incongruous in the fluorescent-lit ballroom. The sign reads:

MADAM LORIEN — SHIP'S MENTALIST — SEEKING PERSONAL ASSISTANT

You've never heard of her. But you've seen the line.

It's mostly women. Young women. Pretty women. They stand in a queue that stretches nearly to the buffet, their chatter a low, musical hum. You catch fragments as you drift closer.

"—she's amazing, I saw her last season, she made the Captain cry—"

"—I heard she can read your mind, like actually read it—"

"—she's so beautiful up close, it's almost intimidating—"

You should be in the Deck line with Bobby. That was the plan. Meet girls. Work on the lido deck. Get a tan. Maybe find a crew party where someone drunk enough doesn't notice your inexperience.

But your feet carry you toward the velvet table. Toward the line of women. Toward her.

You don't know why. You only know that something in you pulls.

The line moves slowly. Each interview takes five, ten minutes. The women ahead of you emerge looking dazed, or delighted, or both.

One girl walks past you with tears in her eyes, clutching a business card like a winning lottery ticket.

"She's incredible," she whispers to no one in particular. "She sees you."

You feel a hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, dumbass."

Bobby. His red hair is unmistakable in the crowd. "What the hell are you doing? Deck is that way. I already got us both in. The Bosun's a drunk. He didn't even check my references."

"I'm just… looking."

"Looking?" Bobby follows your gaze to the velvet table. "At the mind reader? Dude, that's for chicks. And like, theater kids. You're not gonna meet anyone in that line."

He's right. You know he's right.

But you don't move.

Bobby sighs. "Fine. I'll save you a spot. But if you end up as some magician's gopher instead of drinking free piña coladas with Swedish stewardesses, don't come crying to me."

He claps your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

You stay.

The woman ahead of you is blonde, tall, wearing a sundress that shows off her tan. She's been in the chair for seven minutes. You can see her laughing, leaning forward, touching Madam Lorien's hand.

Then the laughter stops. Her expression shifts. Something private passes between them.

She nods. Once. Twice. Stands up.

She's crying. But she's smiling too.

She walks past you, and you catch her murmur: "I didn't even know I wanted that."

Then it's your turn.

Madam Lorien looks up.

She is younger than you expected. Much younger. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the color of winter sea — gray-green, watching you with an attention that feels like weight.

She wears a simple black dress. No crystals. No turban. No props. Just a woman at a velvet-draped table, a single candle between you, and an expression of calm, curious interest.

"You're the only man in my line today."

Her voice is low. Warm. It carries a hint of amusement, but not mockery.

"I… yes. I mean, no. I mean—" You stop. Take a breath. "I'm not a woman. Obviously. You can see that."

"I can." She leans back, studying you. "What's your name?"

You tell her.

"You may call me Laurie," she says.

She doesn't look at a résumé. There's nothing on the table but the candle and her hands, which are still, palms down, fingers spread.

"Tell me why you're here."

"I need a job. I'm a student. Summer break. I thought—"

"No." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Not that. Tell me why you're here. In my line. With all these women."

You open your mouth. Close it.

The candle flickers. The women behind you shift impatiently. But her attention doesn't waver. She waits.

"I don't know," you admit.

"Yes, you do."

"I don't—"

"You're a virgin."

The words land like a slap. Your face goes hot. You glance around, but no one seems to have heard. The ambient noise of the ballroom swallows her voice.

"I'm sorry?" you manage.

"You're a virgin," she repeats, her tone unchanged. Calm. Certain.

"You've never been with a woman. You've never been inside one. You've barely touched one. And you came to my line because something in you knew I would see that. And you wanted to be seen."

Your heart is hammering. You should stand up. Walk away. Find Bobby. Laugh this off as a weird encounter with a creepy performer.

But you don't move.

"How do you—"

"I read people." She says it simply, as if explaining how she takes her coffee.

"Not minds. Not exactly. I read the things people are desperate to hide. The things they've never said aloud. The things they hope no one will notice."

She tilts her head. "You have a lot of those things, don't you?"

Your throat is dry.

"Your penis is small," she continues, her voice dropping lower, intimate. "Not abnormally. But smaller than average. You've measured it. You know the numbers. You've compared yourself to porn, to locker room talk, to the way other men carry themselves. And you've concluded that you're inadequate."

You can't breathe.

"You masturbate too quickly. You always have. Since you were in school. You'd lock yourself in the bathroom and try to last, but you never could. Two minutes. Sometimes one. You'd watch the porn and try to match the rhythm, but your penis just… went. Eager. Desperate. Like it couldn't wait to finish."

Her eyes hold yours. "Am I wrong?"

You shake your head. A tiny, helpless motion.

"I didn't think so." She smiles. It's not cruel. It's warm. Almost maternal.

"You're very readable, sweetheart. Your face is an open book. Your posture screams apology. You walk like you're trying to take up as little space as possible. And your penis is hard right now."

You look down. She's right. There's a tent in your uniform trousers. Obvious. Unmistakable.

"Your little guy is telling me everything I need to know."

Little guy. The phrase lands strangely. It's diminutive. Intimate. Like she's already named something that belongs to her.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Don't be." She leans forward. "I find it charming. Do you know how many men I've interviewed? How many of them sat in that chair and lied to me about who they are? You haven't lied once. You've just sat there, blushing, getting hard, letting me see every shameful thing you've ever hidden. That's rare. That's precious."

She reaches out and, very gently, touches your hand.

"I've never had a male assistant before."

"I—"

"I think I'd like one. I think you'd be perfect."

Your heart stops.

"Really?"

"Really." She withdraws her hand. "But I need to know: are you willing to do exactly what I say? No questions. No hesitation. No negotiating."

"I—yes. Of course."

"Of course," she repeats, amused. "You don't even know what I'll ask."

"I don't care."

"That's the right answer." She smiles. "You'll help me with my costume. You'll stand where I tell you. You'll speak when I tell you. You'll be at my beck and call for the entire voyage. Seven days. My schedule. My rules. My little assistant."

My little assistant.

"Yes," you say. "Yes, absolutely."

She studies you for a long moment. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small envelope. Cream-colored. Sealed with wax.

"Take this. Don't open it until you're alone."

You take it. Your fingers tremble.

"Report to my cabin tomorrow at nine AM. Cabin 712. Don't be late."

"I won't."

"You'll do wonderfully." She sits back, her attention already shifting to the next candidate. "Next, please."

You stand. Dazed. The envelope feels heavy in your hand. You walk away from the velvet table, through the crowd, past the lines of hopeful girls, past Bobby who's waving at you from the Deck table, past everything that was normal ten minutes ago.

You find your bunk. You lock the door. You sit on the narrow bed, the envelope in your lap, your heart pounding.

You open it.

The paper inside is cream-colored, matching the envelope. The handwriting is elegant, looping:

Welcome to my team, sweetheart.

I know you're going to touch yourself when you read this. I know you're already hard. That's fine. You have my permission.

But I want you to think about something while you do.

You've never been inside a woman. You've never known what it feels like to be wanted, truly wanted, by someone who sees all your inadequacies and finds them endearing.

You will never fuck me.

That's not what you're for.

You're for other things. Things I'll teach you. Things your little guy has been waiting his whole life to learn.

When you cum tonight — and you will, quickly, the way you always do — I want you to say my name.

Say it like a prayer.

Say it like you mean it.

— L

Your hands are shaking. Your cock is straining against your trousers. You read the note again. And again.

You will never fuck me.

The words should devastate you. They should make you crumple the note, throw it away, march to the Purser's office and demand a different assignment.

Instead, they make you harder.

You unbuckle your belt. You push your trousers down. Your cock springs free, already leaking, desperate.

You think about her eyes. Her voice. The way she said little guy like it was the most natural word in the world.

You think about never fucking her.

You think about what she'll teach you instead.

Your hand moves. Fast. Desperate. The way it always does.

"Laurie," you whisper.

And you cum.

Harder than you've cum in months. Maybe ever. Your whole body convulsing, your cock pulsing in your hand, your cum splattering across your stomach, your chest, the note.

You gasp. You shudder. You collapse back onto the bunk, breathing hard, the note still clutched in your trembling fingers.

Laurie.

You said her name.

And as you lie there catching your breath, the note still clutched in your trembling fingers, it hits you.

The envelope was sealed with wax. The handwriting was already dry. The words were already chosen.

She wrote this before you ever stood in her line. Before you ever saw the velvet table. Before you ever decided to abandon Bobby and follow some inexplicable pull toward a woman you'd never heard of.

She knew.

She knew you would be there. She knew you would be the only man in her line. She knew you would confess your virginity, your inadequacy, your desperate eagerness to be seen.

She knew you would take the job.

She knew you would jerk off to her note.

And you did. Exactly as she predicted. Like a subject in an experiment you didn't know you were part of.

The candle. The velvet. The way she spoke to you like she'd been reading your diary for years. None of it was improvised. It was scripted. A performance designed for an audience of one. An audience whose every response she had calculated in advance.

You should be terrified.

Instead, you're hard again.

You look at the note. At the elegant handwriting. At the words that sealed your fate before you ever knew there was a fate to seal.

You will never fuck me.

She knew that too. She knew it before you did. She knew it before you stood in her line, before you saw her face, before you understood why your feet carried you away from Bobby and toward the velvet table.

She knew.

And the most terrifying, thrilling, devastating part is:

She was right.

And some part of you — the part that got hard when she called your cock little guy, the part that agreed to be at her beck and call, the part that's already counting the hours until tomorrow morning — some part of you knows:

This is just the beginning.

This is the first in a new series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[destinedfordiapers]

Forever Young

“Alright, baby. Naptime.”

Just like the rest of our life, Mommy made the decision without your input.

The baby blocks scattered in front of you offered little stimulation—but it was still better than naptime.

Naps meant an hour of staring at the ceiling, wondering why you let yourself fall so far down the rabbit hole.

Mommy hovered over you, silently waiting for you to grab the blocks and put them away.

“I’m not even sleepy.”

Squatting down next to you, her hand slides under your chin, forcing you to meet her expectant gaze.

“Toys in the bin, honey.”

Her voice was sickly sweet, dripping with an innocence that betrayed the authority beneath it.

This wasn’t a negotiation.

A rare emotion bubbles within you: defiance.

“N-no!! Don’twanna nap!”

You wield it clumsily, like a technical skill you haven’t used in years.

Because you haven’t.

Turning away from Mommy, you see the room that you once believed was the culmination of every fantasy you ever had.

Now it mocks you as a monument to the monotony of your life as her baby.

Dreadful silence blankets the room. Every second weakening your resolve as you wonder what she will do. Mommy never tolerates disobedience.

Will she spank you? Will she tell Daddy?  Will you spend the next 20 minutes in the corner with a bar of soap in your mouth?

You take a deep, steadying breath. It doesn’t matter what the punishment is. You’re sick of being a baby.

“I…I won’t!”

Mommy sighs.

“Jason, look at me.”

Whatever reaction you expected, this was not it. She hasn’t used your name or addressed you like an adult in well over a year.

Maybe she understands!

You stare into your eyes, searching for some hope.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Her question seems genuine. Inviting. This is your chance to tell her everything.

That you’re tired of living life as her baby, without any say in what happens in your life. Tired of the mind numbing baby shows and Fischer Price toys that turn your brain to mush.

That you’re tired of everyone in your life dismissing you like you’re some silly toddler, unworthy of respect or dignity. Tired of early bedtimes, daily naps, and boring, unspiced food.

That you’re tired of wearing diapers and having them changed whenever and wherever she decides. Tired of Winnie the Pooh overalls with snaps at the crotch, Bluey diaper shirts, and pastel onesies.

That you’re tired of diapers being the only place you’re allowed to cum—if Mommy gives you permission. Tired of listening to your best friend fuck your wife while you sleep in a crib.

It’s not cute anymore. You want to be an adult again.

“I want my old life back. No more baby stuff. I’m an adult—time you remember that.”

Mommy laughs.

“Oh, honey…no.”

The simple denial, unburdened by any explanation, feels like a slap in the face.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no. Nothing will change for you.”

“Yes, it will! You can’t force me to be your baby!”

“You’re right.”

“So, you’ll stop treating me like a baby?”

“No.”

“Then…then I’ll leave!”

“The doors right there, baby.”

For a split second, you think about your freedom—until the reality hits.

Mommy smiles knowingly as you work through the situation.

You have no adult clothes. No cell phone. No money. No car. No driver’s license. Nothing but a stack of diapers and a closet full of onesies.

“Need help packing a bag?”

Her voice oozes with the same infantile cadence you hate. No different from how a parent would entertain a toddler threatening to run away.

“Mommy gave you everything you wanted, hun. You wanted ‘the real thing,’ remember? Not role-play, not a dynamic—no, you wanted authenticity.”

She pokes your diaper.

“Well, you got it! Why do you think I insisted that you give up your law license? Or close your bank accounts and credit cards? Let your driver’s license expire? Hmm?”

She tickles your tummy.

“See, being a baby isn’t just about poofy diapies, colorful pacifiers, and adorable onesies, kiddo. Nope! Real babyhood requires utter dependence on Mommy for your every need! Babies can’t survive without their mommies—and neither can you!”

The full weight of her words crashes down on you.

“You have no money, no job, no place to go. But, sure, if you want to leave, Mommy will put you in a fresh diaper and new onesie, pack you a diaper bag, and wish you luck.”

Her smile throws you off balance.

“I’ll…I’ll call m-my…my friends…”

More laughter.

“Sweetie, everyone knows you’re a baby. Who is going to volunteer to babysit you? You can’t pay rent, can’t help with groceries, and need someone to change your diapers. Nobody is letting you stay with them.”

“I don’t need diapers!”

“You’re incorrigible, kiddo. Your diaper is leaking, by the way. Did you know?”

“I…”

“Face it, sweetheart. There is no going back. Mommy made sure of that. You’re so far from adulthood that I claim you as a dependent on my taxes. Besides, what law firm is desperate enough to hire someone with a 3-year gap in employment? Your resume will be written in crayon…”

She giggles at the ridiculousness.

“Even if you did leave, you’re not leaving behind diapers. You understand you’re not potty trained, right? And, honey, do you remember your last stiffie?”

Her silence demands an answer.

“I-I-I-I…dunno…”

She pinches your cheek.

“Aww! That’s because I took them just like your potty training! Even if I played with it, begging you to get hard for Mommy…nothing would happen. No more stiffies…ever!”

Your heart sinks into your stomach.

“Last question, baby boy. What woman wants an unemployed, impotent man-child who isn’t even potty trained?”

You shrug, defeated.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t be sad! Mommy wants that, silly! Me! I worked hard to make all your dreams come true! And mine.”

“B-but you said you w-weren’t into being a…a mommy…”

“I wasn’t…at first. But now? Fuck it turned me on stripping you of every shred of masculinity and adulthood. Breaking you down into my helpless, docile plaything. You’re my itty bitty Play-Doh, waiting to be molded by my hands.”

“Th-that’s…y-you’re lying!”

“No, baby. You’re going to spend the rest of your life as my baby—all because it turns me on. You could never dream of doing that as my husband. Ugh, I’m dripping just thinking about it.”

She bites her lip, sensing your surrender.

“Now. Tell me you’re Mommy’s baby. My good boy…”

Your cheeks burn with humiliation of the truth.

“I…m’your…Mommy’s b-baby…and…and good b-boy.”

Mommy winces in pleasure.

“That’s right! Are you a big boy?”

“N-no, Mommy.”

“Mmmm,” she moans, “Tell Mommy why...”

“C-cause…I-I…’mnot potty trained a-and c-can’t g-get a…a…umm…”

“Say it, little one.”

“Getta…s-stiffie, Mommy.”

“Ahh! Will you ever, ever have sex again?”

You shudder in shame. “N-no, Mommy..”

“Mhm! You’re Mommy’s perpetually pampered, eternally mushy baby boy!”

You nod, defeated and broken.

“Now, naptime. Mommy needs to play with Daddy…”

You start grabbing your blocks.

“No. Crib. You can clean after.”

Mommy’s cheeks are flushed with anticipation as she hastily tucks you in.

“Be a good boy and listen to how happy your rightful place makes Mommy.”

You barely have time to register what the rest of your life was going to be before Mommy is screaming Daddy’s name. Your useless nub twitches but remains as steadfastly squishy as your diaper.

This is how you’ll spend the rest of your life.

Utterly and completely dependent on the woman who stole your adulthood, emasculated you, and relegated you to a lifetime of pampers.

A plaything in someone else’s fantasy you foolishly thought was yours.

[paddednappy]

Its been a quarter of an hour since you encouraged me to crawl between your open legs.

I was busy reconciling a clients annual financial position, you had a little time to kill.

You're in control. You're always in control. I'm on my knees, you've gripped my hair, clamped my face between your thighs and given me firm instruction throughout.

The sole focus - my tongue and your pussy.

You'd usually insist on more than the two orgasms you've already enjoyed but time's pressing and you need to get ready.

You take my hand in yours and lead me to the spare room. You lay me on the single bed, the one with the duvet cover adorned with cars and trains in primary colours. I understand I won't be sharing our double bed tonight.

Laying me down you gently undress me. Shoes first, then trousers and underwear. I'm erect and my pants are wet. I've been like that for the last fifteen minutes. I'm shy and embarrassed. With quiet reassurance you tell me its ok.

I lift my head to help you remove my jumper, then tshirt, then it's my my socks.

I'm naked.

You're still fully dressed, save for your knickers which you took off before you positioned my face between your legs.

I'm embarrassed.

You gently spread my legs, exposing me further. I resist. You push firmly but gently, asserting your reassuring control, then crawl between my open legs.

Reaching above me you pull the strap from under the pillow and attach it to my wrists. You want my hands out the way. It's just easier when I can't wriggle around.

I see compassion in the way you look at me, I'm searching for reassurance, validation even. You hold my gaze as you carefully grip my cock and lower yourself on to it. We are in the Lady Boy Position - woman on top between the man's legs. Its like the traditional missionary position but reversed. We always do it this way.

I moan with the initial penetration. You read my pleasure as pain and reassure me, gently shushing me, your hand on my heart.

I wrap my legs around your body as you start to rise and fall, my cock slipping in and out of you. You look at me, smiling, nodding your head in encouragement. You watch my enjoyment build and my worries slip away as I fall into the moment.

You know I won't last long, I never do. As you build the pace, you can see I'm getting close already.

Smiling, you at look me, holding my gaze. Then in a quiet voice you say,

"Tell me when you're gonna cum, baby."

You pick up the pace a little more as I start to shake my head, it's too soon, I want more but I already know it's too late. You nod your head in approval, silently encouraging me.

"I'm gonna cum!" I  blurt out, my back arching, my body tensing in anticipation.

"Cum inside me baby!"

The enthusiasm in your voice makes my heart swell with joy. I clamp my legs around you, holding on tightly as I approach my crescendo.

You hold my gaze intently, silently encouraging me. It's here, all too soon. My orgasm crashes over me and I helplessly pump my little load inside you.

As I release my breath, the intensity melting away, you tell me I'm a good boy. You reassure me. You stroke my face and smile at me compassionately. You're proud of me.

You stay between my splayed legs gently stroking my face, whispering sweet nothings and telling me what a clever boy I am.

I'm soft by the time you climb off me but your hand lingers, running down my body keeping reassuring contact as you step away.

Reaching into the bag next to the bed, you pull out the disposable nappy and slip it between my legs. With an efficient wipe and a puff of powder, you flap up the front, patting me and talking sweetly as you fasten both tapes. Its thick. I guessed it would be.

You turn me on my side, pushing my teddy under my arm and the dummy between my lips. There's a pause, then I feel the weight of a soft blanket envelope me.

Stroking my hair and shushing me gently you encourage me towards sleep. My eyes close and my mind wanders, my dummy bobs absently in my mouth. The last thing I hear is your quiet whisper,

"Sleep tight my baby boy. I'll be back later."

You go into another room and get changed. You're off out tonight to see your lover. You'll probably bring him home with you. He's tall handsome and accomplished in bed. I know where you're going, you've never held it from me. But I know where my place is.

At home, in my nappy.

.

[stinky-in-pinky]

Just Stare at the Bear

The waiting room of the Adult Baby Wellness Clinic smelled like a mixture of talcum powder, antiseptic and crayons. The walls were covered in bright pastel colors and cheerful cartoon animals. Walter sat cross-legged on the padded tile floor, legs bowed out from the bulky diaper between them. At thirty-two years old, he never felt more out of place. Even though there were other adults in his exact position scattered around the room. 

One chubby man sat in an oversized stroller, eyes glazed and staring into some far-off world, drool steadily dripping down his chin and onto a soaked bib.  His diaper smelled so strongly that it filled the whole waiting area. 

Another man was dressed like a sissy gurl in a frilly pink tutu and matching pink diaper, chewing furiously on a teething ring. “Alice! That’s yucky! You don’t know where that’s been!” the woman with him scolded, snatching the ring away. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick rubber dildo. “Here, if you want something in your mouth that bad, you can suck on this, but no teeth!”

Across from him, a man in a onesie was on all fours, shamelessly humping the tile with desperate little thrusts and grunts while his wife sat scrolling on her phone, barely paying attention.

Against the wall, a woman had her husband pulled into her lap, his face buried against her chest as she quietly breastfed him. He made soft suckling noises, completely lost in little space. 

Nearby, another man was throwing a full tantrum on the floor during a diaper change. His legs kicked wildly as his wife tried to wipe him. “Not here! Not here!! Everyone can see!” he wailed. She calmly popped a large pacifier into his mouth mid-scream, instantly quieting him down to muffled whimpers.

A few feet away, a woman in her mid-thirties looked her husband sternly in the eye. “No. You will not be using the potty. If you need to go poo-poo, you can do it right there in your diaper. That’s why you're wearing one.” The man whimpered and danced back and forth in place, but soon squatted down with a defeated look and began filling his diaper.

"Charlie! No! Put that down right now!" A woman snapped, she was gritting her teeth at a man holding a toy under his tutu. A vibrating buzzing noise coming from it as he pressed it against his pissy pamper. The loud buzzing filled the air as he bit his lip hard, hips twitching. His wife leaned forward in her chair, eyes narrowing. The woman leaned forward in her chair, and started counting firmly: 

“One…”

He hesitated, breathing faster, pressing the toy harder against the soggy padding.

“Two…”

His legs started to shake. A soft, needy whimper escaped him as he tried to chase the sensation.

“Three.”

In one swift motion she snatched the toy from his hands and smacked his wrists sharply.

"When I tell you 'no', that means no!" She scoled, pointing a finger in his face. "Did you cum your diaper?" She lifted his skirt, slipped a finger into the front waistband of his diaper, and peeked inside. With a heavy sigh she said, “You did… you little fucking loser...” She yanked him by the arm into an empty corner, forcing him roughly onto his knees with his nose against the wall. “Timeout for you, mister. Someone’s in BIG trouble when we get home!”

Walter quickly looked away and focused on the wooden activity toy in front of him: colorful blocks that slid along squiggly wires. He pushed a blue block back and forth with one finger, the soft clack-clack sounds helping him ignore the other AB's and the nervous flutter in his stomach. His wife Emily sat right beside him in a chair with her legs crossed, calmly flipping through a magazine filled with pictures of smiling padded adults in various stages of regression. She was circling rompers and onesies she wanted to buy him. Every so often she reached over and rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back.

"You're going to do great today, sweetie," she whispered softly. "Just like last time. Mommy's right here with you!"

Before Walter could respond, the door to the exam area opened and a bright, cheerful voice called out, "Walter? We're ready for you!"

A nurse in pink scrubs stood smiling in the doorway. Her name tag read Sarah. Walter stood up, feeling the heavy bulk of his diaper droop between his legs as he followed her down the hallway. Emily trailed behind, carrying the small diaper bag packed with spares, wipes, and a fresh bottle just in case.

“Ohhh, look at our big boy all ready for his special appointment!” Sarah chirped happily. “Such a brave little one coming in for his adult-baby check-up!”

They didn’t even make it all the way to the exam room before they stopped at the scale in the open hallway. Receptionists chatted away on phones and filed forms just a few feet away. 

“Alright, honey,” Sarah said in her bright sing-song voice. “First things first. Shoes and pants off for weigh-in, okay? We need to get your accurate weight in just your special padding.”

Walter’s cheeks burned as he kicked off his shoes. His fingers were so nervous and numb that he fumbled with the button on his shorts for a long moment. Emily watched in amusement. “Would you like some help, baby?” The nurse asked kindly. She didn't wait for an answer, just stepped in and easily unbuttoned his shorts, then pushed them down his legs, revealing the thick, crinkly adult diaper covered in cartoon animals that matched the decor on the walls. Walter flushed deeply, feeling horribly exposed in front of all the women in the office, but they hardly paid him any mind, as if it weren't anything they'd already seen dozens of times today alone.

“Go ahead and step on the scale for me, big guy!”

Walter stood there in nothing but his socks, t-shirt, and the obvious bulky diaper, feeling completely exposed as Sarah slid the weights along the balance beam and made a note on her clipboard. 

Down the hallway he could hear the faint sounds of grown men crying softly and pleading in desperate voices. One cracked with panic: “No… not that! Please!!” while a woman replied in sugary baby talk, “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Mommy and the doctor know what’s best for you.”

"206 pounds!" Sarah exclaimed, snapping Walter back to attention. "Somewon's putting on little baby-weight...but before you get off, I’m gonna need to check your diaper, okay?"

Sarah didn't hesitate. She reached right between Walter's legs and squeezed his crotch firmly with no regard for how it made him squirm. Her fingers pressed deeply into the soggy padding, feeling the warm, swollen front.

“Ohhh, goodness!” she exclaimed in an exaggerated baby voice. “Somewone’s verwy soggy down there!” She gave it another firm squeeze, then hefted the heavy, sodden padding with her palm, lifting it to check the weight before letting it plop back down heavily. She made another note on her clipboard. “I’d say that’s at least an extra two or three pounds you’re carrying around there! Someone’s been using it like a proper widdle baybee all morning!”

Walter's cheeks were burning the entire time that she moved him in front of the cartoon giraffe on the wall to check his height.

Finally, they headed into the privacy of the exam room.

“Well hello there, little one!” said another nurse already waiting inside. She wore black scrubs and her name tag read Mia. “Goodness! Someone’s bringing in quite the droopy diaper!” Mia giggled. “Can you be a good little climber and get on the table for us?”

It rustled loudly under his hands and knees as he clambered up. The paper and his pamper rustled and squished noisily with every movement as he plopped down on top, swinging his legs nervously. Walter whimpered softly and shifted on the padded surface, but the nurses just smiled and patted him reassuringly.

They slid the blood pressure cuff around his arm and took a reading while Sarah picked up a large baby bottle filled with a thick purplish liquid. “Time for your special medicine while we wait for the doctor, cutie. Can you open for me?”

Walter shook his head and let out a soft whine, pressing his lips together. Mia gently but firmly held his chin. "Awww, I know it's yucky, but it's gonna help you grow weak and dependent! That's what good baybees need, isn't it? Just relax and let the grown-ups take care of everything..."

They tipped the bottle to his mouth. Walter whimpered and whined the whole time as he was forced to suck down the bitter medicine overloaded with the awful grape flavor. His eyes watered from the awful taste and the humiliating way they held the bottle for him like he couldn’t do it himself. He made little protesting noises between swallows, but Sarah and Mia kept encouraging him in soft, sweet voices.

"That's it, sweetie… big suckles for us… you're doing so well… almost done…"

When the bottle was finally empty, Sarah patted his back firmly in steady rhythms. Walter let out a loud, embarrassing burp that echoed in the small room. Both nurses giggled and praised him.

"Good boy! Let's get all those bubbles out so your tummy feels nice and settled," Sarah said, rubbing slow circles over his belly. 

There was a tap at the door. In walked a beautiful, confident woman that was still in her late 30's. Dr. Reyes wore a white coat over blue scrubs and smiled warmly at Walter and then at Emily, who had settled quietly into the corner chair to watch the entire check-up.

"Hello, sweetheart. How's our favorite little patient doing today?" Dr. Reyes asked as she washed her hands at the sink. "Ready for your wellness visit?"

Walter nodded shyly, still tasting the nasty medicine on his tongue.

She started with the basics. "Okay, sweetie. Can you open wide and say 'ahhh' for me?"

Walter opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Dr. Reyes pressed the wooden tongue depressor down gently and peered inside with her light as Walter made a pathetic little babbly sound. She frowned just a little.

"Hmm… your throat's a little bruised." She observed, not sounding all that concerned. "That tends to happen after oral sex. Have you been being a nice cucky boi for your mommy lately?" She glanced over at Emily with a knowing little smile. 

Emily giggled softly from her chair and nodded. "Let's just say he sucks on more than just bottles and pacifiers at home."

The women all laughed.

Walter's face turned bright red.

She used her otoscope to check his ears. “Hmm, ears look good. Has he been listening, Mama?” 

Emily shrugged. “For the most part.” The doctor smiled. “Nothing a little spanking can’t fix.” All three women giggled and nodded.

Dr. Reyes continued smoothly. "Now let's check those reflexes." She tapped his knee with the small rubber hammer. His leg kicked, but it was slower and much softer than normal. She nodded approvingly. "Excellent. Your reflexes are nicely subdued. That means the special regression formula you've been on is working perfectly. Your body is learning to stay soft and small in little space."

She made a quick note on her chart. "Now tell me, honey. How many poopy diapers are you making in a day?"

Walter looked down at his lap, utterly embarrassed at having to discuss his bowel movements that he had to make all over himself. 'Uh...umm...Two… usually.

Dr. Reyes tilted her head with a gentle but firm expression. "Only two? We need you doing at least three from now on, sweetie." She made a note on her clipboard. "I'm gonna switch you to an even stronger fiber blend today. We want those diapers getting nice and full the natural way, without any holding back."

Walter hung his head. “Oh lovely…” Emily scoffed sarcastically, knowing she would be the one changing him. The nurses giggled. “Sorry Mama, it’s for his own good.” Emily nodded, accepting it.

Dr. Reyes put on her stethoscope and slid it under Walter’s shirt. “Deep breaths, baby.” After listening to his lungs and heart, she asked, “Can you lift your shirt for me, dear?”

Walter obeyed. The doctor gently pinched, squeezed, poked, and prodded at his chest. He winced when her fingers reached his nipples.

Dr. Reyes cooed. “Oh my! These nipples are quite sensitive now. And look! Your breasts are starting to develop nicely with the hormones in your formula. You’re on your way to being a baby girl soon, aren’t you? How precious that will be! A widdle sissy baybee gurl! Isn’t that exciting?”

Walter’s stomach twisted with fresh humiliation.

“Alright,” Dr. Reyes said, setting her clipboard aside. “We’re going to do some checks on your bottom now.”

Walter’s heart immediately started racing. His breathing picked up. The words “bottom checks” always meant the most embarrassing parts.

“Can you be a good boy for me and get on your hands and knees like you do when you crawl at home?” Dr. Reyes asked calmly.

Walter hesitated, panic beginning to set in. He slowly turned around on the crinkly paper and got onto all fours, his padded bottom pointing toward the doctor and nurses. The position left him feeling incredibly small and exposed. Emily watched quietly from her chair with a soft, supportive smile.

Mia stepped behind him and hooked her fingers into the back waistband of his soggy diaper. The tapes ripped open with loud velcro sounds.

Walter’s panic spiked. “W-wait…” he whimpered, voice trembling.

Sarah saw it right away. She quickly crossed the room, reached into a cabinet, and pulled out the large plush teddy bear with big button eyes and a stitched-on smile. She held it up and wiggled it gently in front of Walter’s face.

“Okay, sweetie,” Sarah said in her sweetest syrupy sing-song voice. “I know you’re scared, but just look at the bear. That’s all you have to do. Stare right at Mr. Bear and let the grown-ups take care of everything else. Can you do that for us?”

Walter locked his eyes onto the teddy bear’s friendly face, breathing shakily. The soft fabric and kind stitched smile gave him something safe to focus on while Mia tugged the padded rear of his diaper down and laid the whole wet thing flat beneath him like a changing mat. His small steel chastity cage dangled helplessly between his legs, already leaking from the overwhelming embarrassment.

“Ohhh, look how swollen those little testicles are!!” Mia cooed, cupping the purple plums gently from below and giving them a light squeeze. “Someone’s been getting all excited in his diapee, hasn’t he? Poor widdle baybee balls! So full and achy!”

Dr. Reyes stepped closer, holding up a small stainless-steel tray that caught the harsh overhead light. On it lay three menacing syringes beside their matching glass vials. Next to them sat a large bottle of thick, glistening lubricant, ready for what was coming.

“We’re going to give you a couple of special shots today, baby. They’re going to help keep you feeling extra small and fuzzy-headed."

Walter’s eyes widened at the sight of the needles. He always hated shots. He hated them even more after the effects of the ones from his last visits. His breathing turned into quick, anxious pants. “N-no… please…” he whimpered, starting to squirm on all fours, but both the nurses steadied him.

Dr. Reyes turned to the tray and picked up the first vial. Right in Walter’s line of sight, she pushed the needle in and slowly drew the pastel blue liquid into the syringe, tapping the barrel gently to clear the bubbles as a bead of cyan dribbled from the top. “This first one is your regressor shot." She explained. "It’s going to push you deeper into little space and make your silly adult thoughts go nice and quiet.”

Walter continued to panic. Sarah quickly popped a pacifier into his mouth to soothe him. Walter whimpered as Mia prepped an area on his thigh by swabbing a cold alcohol wipe across it. Dr. Reyes aimed the shot right for it.

Sarah immediately wiggled the teddy bear more insistently in front of his face. “Eyes on Mr. Bear, honey. Don’t look back. Just watch the nice teddy.”

Walter’s nose whistled softly around the pacifier as he breathed rapidly through it.

The needle pricked his skin. Walter yelped sharply around the binky and tensed hard, his body jerking while Sarah kept the bear dancing gently in front of him.

"Shhh!" she cooed, "You can do it! Just stare at the bear..."

The baby-blue liquid pushed into his muscle with a slow, burning pressure. Almost immediately a heavy, warm fog began washing over him. His thoughts started to soften and blur around the edges, like someone was gently turning down the volume on his adult brain. A dreamy, floaty feeling settled into his head, making everything feel slower and smaller. His arms and legs already felt a little less steady.

Once the first shot was finished, Dr. Reyes picked up the second vial. As she drew the bright pink fluid into the barrel, she continued in the same calm voice. “This second one is your hormone shot. It’s going to keep helping your little boobies grow and make your nipples even more sensitive, turning you into a proper widdle baybee gurl.”

Walter’s stomach twisted as he watched the pink liquid swirl. Dr. Reyes tapped the syringe and moved to his other thigh.

The needle slid in. Walter whined loudly, fresh tears pricking at his eyes as the burning medicine spread through his leg. The hormone shot felt warmer than the first, sinking deep into his muscle.

Finally, Dr. Reyes reached for the last vial. She drew the yellow liquid into the third syringe with slow, deliberate pulls, letting Walter see every bit of it fill the barrel. “And this third one is your muscle relaxant and potty signal reducer. It’s going to make your body nice and weak, and it will turn off those silly big-boy signals that tell you when you need to use the potty. From now on you’ll just go whenever your body wants to, right into your diaper like a real baby.”

Walter shook his head frantically. “Nooo… please…”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Sarah cooed, bouncing the bear playfully. “Almost done! Just keep staring at Mr. Bear. Look at his happy smile!”

Dr. Reyes swabbed the meat of his right bottom cheek with another cold wipe, making him flinch. “Here we go, baby. Big deep breath in…”

The third needle slid deep into his buttcheek. Walter cried out sharply and jerked forward, but the nurses held him firmly in place. The burning yellow liquid pushed inside him, flooding his body with a heavy, tingling warmth that made his muscles feel instantly loose and weak. His head grew fuzzier, like thick cotton was pressing behind his eyes, and a strange, helpless calm began to settle over him.

"All done!"

"Such a good boy!"

"You were so brave!!"

But it wasn't over. 

Walter’s head was so hazy he barely registered their words. The world felt slow and dreamy. Before he could catch his breath, he felt something skinny and cold press against his hole and slide deep into his rectum. He let out a soft, startled whimper.

“Such a good boy holding still while we take your tempie!” Mia said sweetly, her voice sounding far away and echoey.

The thermometer stayed inside him for what felt like a long, endless time. The nurses kept praising him in soft, syrupy voices, but Walter could only stare at Mr. Bear. The teddy bear’s stitched face seemed to morph and shift gently, the button eyes twinkling as a weird, floaty sense of euphoria washed over him. Everything felt warm, blurry, and strangely pleasant.

When the thermometer finally came out, Dr. Reyes was putting on fresh gloves and pulling out a bottle of lubricant. She smiled down at him kindly.

“Okay, Wally! Here comes the ‘fun’ part!" She said, "I’m going to perform a little procedure called 'milking the prostate'. It will help us get a good semen sample and make sure everything down there is responding properly to your regression meds.”

Walter could only stare blankly, his mind still too foggy and floaty from the shots to fully process her words. A bit of drool trailed down his chin.

She paused, studying his glazed expression for a moment, then smiled gently. “Aww, you’re too little to understand big words right now, aren’t you? It means I’m gonna have to put my fingers in your bum-bum, sweetie. Right up in your bottom so I can rub your special spot and help you make cum-cums.”

Mia gripped Walter’s butt cheeks and pulled them apart firmly, spreading him wide open so his poor little puckered hole was on full display, ready and waiting. That snapped Walter from his reverie. He whimpered loudly at the exposure, his face burning with shame.

“Just look at the bear,” Sarah reminded him again, holding Mr. Bear only inches from his face and bouncing it gently. “Stare at Mr. Bear while we help you make your special milky. Can you do that for us?”

Dr. Reyes applied a generous amount of cool lubricant to her gloved fingers and pressed one slick digit against his tight entrance. “Relax for me, baby. Big deep breaths. You’re being such a good boy.”

She pushed slowly inside with one finger. Walter gasped as it slid deeper, the intrusion feeling strangely amplified by the muscle relaxant still flooding his system. The single finger curled gently, exploring, until it brushed lightly over his prostate. He jolted hard, a helpless little moan slipping out.

“Ohhh, there it is!!” Dr. Reyes murmured approvingly. “Such a responsive little prostate already. You’re doing so good, baby. Just keep staring at the bear.”

She spent a long moment working him with just that one finger. Slow, gentle strokes and soft circles that made his locked cock twitch and leak clear sticky strings steadily onto the open diaper beneath him. The sensations were deep and intense, building a warm, insistent pressure that made his thighs tremble.

After a minute, she added a second finger, stretching him open a little more. Walter whimpered at the fuller feeling, his breathing coming in short, desperate pants. Dr. Reyes scissored her fingers gently at first, then curled both of them directly against his swollen prostate.

“Can you make milkies for us? Hmm?” she asked in that calm, professional voice while her fingers continued their relentless massage. “Can our sweet boy make some goo-goos? I can feel how full you are down here.”

Sarah bounced the bear playfully right in front of his nose. “Come on, sweetie. Be a good boy and push out all that yucky big-boy stuff. Mr. Bear wants to see you make your special milkies. That’s it… just stare at the nice teddy and let it allllll come out!”

Walter’s whole body trembled. The steady, firm rubbing against his prostate sent wave after wave of unwanted pleasure rolling through him. His caged nub pulsed and leaked more with every deliberate stroke. He tried desperately to stay focused on the teddy bear’s stitched smile, but the intense, building pressure made it harder and harder to think straight.

Dr. Reyes increased the pressure, rubbing faster and more deliberately now with both fingers. “There we go… feel that? Such a good little prostate. It’s getting so nice and swollen for us. You’re going to give us lots of milkies today, aren’t you?”

The sensations grew stronger and deeper. Each pass of her fingers sent sparks shooting up his spine. Walter’s hips started twitching involuntarily, soft, broken whimpers escaping him as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter inside.

With a broken, helpless cry, Walter finally started to cum. Thick, pulsing spurts of semen dribbled and shot from his tiny locked cock onto the soggy diaper liner. Dr. Reyes kept milking him through every wave, squeezing out every last drop while the nurses clapped and giggled.

“Oh my goodness, look at all that goo-goo!” Sarah squealed. “He’s making such a big mess for us!”

When the final weak spurt tapered off, leaving Walter panting and shaking, Dr. Reyes gently withdrew her fingers.

She glanced over at Emily with a curious smile. “Mama, how long has it been since he last came?”

Emily shrugged casually. “I honestly can’t remember. At least a few weeks? I don’t even know how long it’s been since he got to do it uncaged.”

The nurses both let out amused giggles at that.

Mia carefully lifted the wet, cummy diaper and slid it away from under him. “We’ll send this off for your full urine and semen sample,” she said brightly, holding up the messy padding.

Dr. Reyes leaned in and inspected the metal chastity cage still locked around his shrunken, spent nub. She tilted her head with a little hum. “Hmm… he seems to have quite a bit of space in there." She murmured, "Girls? I think it’s time for a smaller cage...”

Walter let out a pathetic whimper at her words. His head was still hazy, but he understood enough.

"Okay, Wally!" The nurses chimed, "Can you make flippies for us and get on your backy?"

The nurses helped him turn over onto his back on the crinkly paper. His legs felt like jelly from the shots and the intense milking.

“Emily, may we have the key to his cage?” Mia asked politely. Emily smiled as she removed the keychain from around her neck and handed it over without hesitation.

“We need to get a few measurements, okay?” Mia said sweetly as she unclasped the lock on the device. “Can you make it nice and big for us, baby? Try to get nice and hard so we can see how much room we really need...”

Walter’s poor little penis was completely shrunken and hiding, glistening with the sticky remnants of his milking. It looked so tiny and pathetic, barely more than a soft, slick little button tucked away between his legs.

Mia leaned in closer with a pitying smile and began gently rubbing the sensitive head with her fingertip, treating it like a delicate little clit. “Aww, look at the poor thing… all shy and hiding! It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll help you wake it up...”

She gently rubbed the sensitive, cum-slick head with her fingertip, treating it like a delicate little clit. Slow, teasing circles, barely any pressure at all. “Ohh, bless your heart! Come on out, little guy… don’t be embarrassed. The nice nurses just want to see how big you can get. You can do it for us, can’t you?”

The tiny nub twitched under her touch. Slowly, reluctantly, it began to poke out a little further, swelling just enough to peek out from its hiding spot.

"Awww!! There he is!" Sarah giggled, "Widdle guy was playing peek-a-boo!!"

Now that there was enough to 'grab'. Sarah wrapped two fingers gently around the short little shaft, holding it delicately while Mia continued rubbing the head. “Don’t worry, we’ve seen plenty of pee-pees just as itty-bitty as yours.”

She might have meant that to be consoling. It wasn't.

“Yeah… if you were bigger you wouldn’t be in diapers now, would you?” Mia added with a pitying little smile, still rubbing the glistening head like a tiny clit.

Sarah giggled softly, her voice full of fake encouragement. “Aww, such a determined little guy! Keep going, sweetie! Show us your biggest. Rub rub rub on that tiny little clit. You can do it.”

But even at its hardest, it remained tiny and cute. The nurses exchanged amused glances.

“Ohp! I guess that’s it…” Sarah laughed softly, giving the sensitive, straining head a little tap with her fingertip. 

They pulled out a small measuring tape and held it right up against his throbbing, twitching, desperate little nub, both nurses giggling as they took the measurement.

“Barely even two inches!” Mia announced with a delighted laugh. “Oh, this is definitely too much room for such a tiny little thing! But don't worry, wittle guy! It's still cute as a button!! We’ll go ahead and put you in the smallest cage we have. That way your widdle pee-pee won't have to worry about growing at all. It can say nice and tiny like always!”

Walter whimpered and whined loudly as they brought out the much smaller, tighter chastity cage. The flat metal device looked impossibly small. They worked together to cram his sensitive little nub inside. Sarah worked his deflated balls through the base while Mia pushed the head through the tight ring, squeezing and stuffing the soft flesh until it was forced into the tiny tube. The metalpinched and squeezed him mercilessly, trapping him even more tightly than before.

Walter squirmed and protested with soft, desperate cries. “It’s too tight… please…” he whined, tears of humiliation in his eyes.

“Aww, but it looks so perfect on you!!” Sarah cooed, clicking the lock shut with a final, decisive snap. “Now your little baybee penis has no room to grow at all. Isn’t that better? No more big-boy thoughts down there.”

Walter immediately started squirming harder, his hips twitching as he whined pitifully. “It’s too tight… please, it’s squeezing me…” Tears of humiliation welled in his eyes as he tried to reach down toward the cruelly small cage with shaky hands.

Sarah gently caught his wrists before he could touch it. “No touching, sweetie. It’s supposed to be tight.”

His adult dignity seemed to have evaporated ever since the shot.  Instead, he could barely put together any thoughts other than whines and fusses. He kept fussing, letting out soft, frustrated cries and kicking his legs weakly against the crinkly paper. “I don’t like it… it’s too small…”

Dr. Reyes leaned back and finished scribbling a few notes on her clipboard. “He seems a little cranky,” she observed with a knowing smile. “Probably backed up from all that formula. Nurses, will you give him two suppositories before you diaper him back up?” She paused after a few steps, then added, “Actually… better make it three.”

With that, Dr. Reyes gave Emily a warm smile. “Thank you for bringing him in today, Emily. You’re doing such a wonderful job with him. We’ll see you both back in a few weeks for his follow-up.” She gave Walter one last affectionate pat on the head before she slipped out of the exam room, leaving Walter alone with the two nurses and his wife.

“Aww, three special suppositories for our cranky little boy,” Mia sang sweetly. “That should help get those poopy diapers moving nice and regularly.”

Sarah picked up the large plush teddy bear and gently placed it into Walter’s arms. “Here, sweetie. You can hold onto Mr. Bear while we finish up. He’ll keep you company.”

Walter clutched the soft teddy tightly to his chest, his face half-buried in its fur as fresh whimpers escaped him. His thoughts felt thick and slow, like wading through warm syrup, and his arms and legs had grown strangely heavy and uncoordinated.

“Okay, Wally, time to get those legs up,” Mia said cheerfully. The nurses each took one of his ankles and lifted his legs high toward his chest, folding him neatly like a big baby getting changed. The position left him completely exposed again, the new smaller cage sitting snug and tiny between his legs.

Sarah lubed up the first suppository while Mia held his legs steady. “Alright, baby. Can you count for us? Here comes number one…”

Walter felt the cool, slippery tip press against his hole. “O-one…” he whimpered as Sarah pushed it slowly but firmly deep inside him. Even his voice sounded smaller and more babyish to his own ears.

“Good boy!” both nurses praised in unison.

Sarah quickly prepared the second one. “Number two coming up…” she said, spreading his cheeks with her fingers.

“Two…” Walter whined, his voice muffled against Mr. Bear as the second suppository slid in beside the first.

Mia was already unfolding a fresh, extra-thick diaper beneath him. “Last one, sweetie. Make it a big loud three for us.”

“Th-three…” he moaned pathetically as the third suppository was pushed deep into his bum-bum. The nurses cooed and giggled at how full his voice sounded on the final count.

“There we go! All three special helpers are in!” Sarah said brightly, giving his bottom a gentle pat once his legs were lowered. They powdered him generously, rubbing the sweet talcum into every crease, before taping the thick new diaper up nice and snug around his waist.

“All done with the diapee!” Mia announced with a happy clap. They slipped him into some plastic panties, just in case he had a blowout later.

Walter clutched Mr. Bear tightly the whole time, still whimpering softly as the suppositories began to warm and work inside him.

“There we go, all nice and snug!” Mia said, smoothing her hands over the onesie. “All done, baby! You were such a good patient today. You ready to go?”

Walter’s legs were completely wobbly from the medicine now working through his system. The nurses had to help him off the exam table, each one supporting an arm as they guided him slowly out of the room and back toward the front desk. His steps were short and unsteady, like a tottler just learning to walk.

The woman behind the reception desk looked up with a bright smile. “How did it go today?”

“Oh, he was an absolute angel!” Sarah announced proudly. “He took all his shots, made lots of milkies for us, and even handled three suppositories without too much fuss. Such a good boy!”

The receptionist clapped her hands. “Well done, sweetie!” She reached into a jar on the counter and pulled out a big cherry lollipop. “Here you go! A special treat for being so well behaved!”

Walter took the lollipop with shaky fingers and popped it into his mouth. The cherry flavor was strong, and almost immediately his tongue started to feel numb and tingly. He knew he’d be drooling all over himself by the time they got home.

Emily took his hand, thanking the nurses warmly before guiding him toward the exit. Walter’s legs felt like rubber. He leaned heavily on her as they walked out to the car, each step slow and wobbly. She helped him into the backseat and carefully strapped him into the oversized carseat, clicking the harness snugly over his shirt and bulky diaper.  He could already feel the three suppositories beginning to warm and work deep inside his tummy.

“You did so well today, baby,” Emily said softly, brushing a strand of hair away and kissing him lightly on the forehead.  “Mommy’s so proud of her little boy! I think someone deserves an extra big reward tonight! How about an extra Bluey episode and…the applesauce you love so much??”

Walter could only nod, his head heavy and fuzzy from the shots. It wasn't much of a reward at all.

He remembered when “rewards” used to mean something more. When she would press her vibrator against the front of his diaper and let him hump desperately until he made sticky messes inside the padding. Those days were slipping away fast, just like the rest of his old life. His job, his independence, his dignity...everything was fading into a soft, padded haze. Now the best he could hope for was extra cartoons and a jar of sweetened applesauce spoon-fed like a helpless baybee.

He stared down at Mr. Bear resting in his lap, the same friendly stitched smile that had helped him through the whole humiliating appointment. He sucked numbly on the cherry lollipop as drool began to drip down his chin. He was nothing more than a padded tottler now, completely dependent on the women around him. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

All he could do… was stare at the bear.

The End.

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[thebnwoblog]

The adventure on the exclusive resort continues.

Chapter 3

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[thebnwoblog]

This series is becoming popular. More to come! Please reblog and comment. I’d love to get ideas for how to evolve this little resort adventure

[boobarsmurf]

So why do you think you are pussy-free?

Is it the fact you are hopeless with women?

That every time you have a chance to talk to them you get shy and stutter and fluff your lines?

Or is it the diapers?

I mean even if you did get a woman's attention you'd eventually have to come out of the diaper closet wouldn’t you.

How would that make you feel? Having to admit your shameful little secret?

It's a mix of both, I suppose.

Your being pussyfree is a direct consequence of you just being your diaper-loving self, but you can't stop wearing them.

You won't stop wearing them.

They are in control of your sex life, you are not. And that’s why it’s pampers instead of pussy for you…

Image credit @coralgardendreamertaco-blog

[boobarsmurf]

No normal sex life for you. Just diaper loser life.

You are a diaper loser and you can never escape that fact.

If you want to feel the wetness of sex then that little thingy of yours can only feel it from in a soaked diaper.

Because diapers are your sex life.

No matter where you go people can see or smell or hear that you are in a diaper.

So you might as well stop trying to escape it and instead just lean into it. And if you are horny you had better just hump the floor in your diaper.

All you get is diaper life and the humiliation of diaper tasks.

And just look at how horny it all makes you!

This is how you know you are truly a diaper loser.

Just go with it, there's no escape anyways. Diaper loser forever. And I will be in your head laughing at you the entire time.

Image credit Princess Luxy Reid

[ialovemylittleclitty]

[quietlyhumiliated]

Surprise Visit

It hadn’t been her best moment, admittedly. She was the one who had badgered him for days to confess about what his “secret fantasy” was, and w.hen he finally had, her reaction was only to laugh and shaker her head. Saying “Are you serious?” probably didn’t help.

She hadn’t blamed him for not returning her calls or texts. She did like him, quite a bit actually, and the more time that had passed since her foolish reaction the more she regretted not at least giving it a try, for his sake. Which lead to her big idea.

A week had passed, and there was a knock on his apartment door. He opened the door, and there she was. He immediately blushed, still feeling ashamed of himself just by looking at her. Though only until he realized that she was blushing even more.

“M-Melissa…what are you wearing?”

Keep reading

[boobarsmurf]

Well @sissyanabelle this is what you wanted after all

So no I am not letting you off.

You begged me for this 24/7 baby life.

You loved the humiliation so much you asked me to date other men!

So don’t think I will stop just because you are crying

Now, lift those legs, we need to get you all cleaned up before my boyfriend gets here

And maybe because you have been a good little cucky I will let you hump your diaper and make stickies in your padding for me if you are quick.

Aww how is it to feel so helpless and desperate. Yes sweetie! Keep going, you're almost there!"

Wow finished already. Good boy. Just 30 seconds again?

How about Mommy changes your cummie Huggies and puts you in a clean thick diaper and your crib before her bull gets here. Enjoy filling that diaper while I am getting filled too!

[crinklyfantasies]

***DISCLAIMER*** The people depicted in the following caption / story are consenting adults over the age of 18. If you are not 18 or older, click away now.

Image credit - This is NOT my image. I’m not sure who the original model is.

Images will be removed on request.

“Hey, baby girl. What do you think of the panties your wife bought me?”

You averted her gaze, sullenly suckling your cock shaped pacifier. You felt so ashamed. Aside from the thick diapers, you were completely nude. Mommy said babies didn’t need more than that. 

“Oh, are you shy, sweetie? Jealous maybe?” She turned and bent, presenting her shapely rear. “Jealous your wifey keeps you in diapers while she fucks my tight little pussy?” 

It was true. You were jealous, so jealous you could feel it dripping into the sodden mess of your diaper. 

“Aw, don’t be so sad, hun. This is what you wanted, remember?” 

A hot rush of arousal rushed through you even as shame churned your guts. You had asked for this. You’d wanted the denial, the humiliation. You loved being dressed as Mommy’s little girl. You loved your thick diapers and how you were forced to use them for Mommy’s amusement. You loved watching helplessly with your hand down the front of your diapers while Mommy ravaged her best friend. You began to hump the floor.

 “Awww, that’s so cute!” She began to record on her phone. “Come on, baby. Look at the camera. Show your Mommy how desperate and pathetic her little girl is…” 

You shut your eyes tightly and continued to grind, imagining Mommy’s reaction when she got home. She would tell you how proud she was you’ve accepted your new life. She would change your diaper, and gently feed you at her breast before tucking you in. Then she would turn on the baby monitor, and let you listen to the moaning and slapping noises in her room. You whimpered softly into your pacifier as you came.

She patted your head. “Good baby slave. I’ll have to tell your Mommy you made cummies without permission though.” She cupped your chin, forcing you to look into her eyes. “She bought some new toys to play with. I think someone just volunteered to test them for us…”

[boobarsmurf]

That’s what the screen is for sweetie. That is what tonight is about

Training your body to let go the moment you drift into sleep. To wet without knowing.

To soak without resistance

To become a bedwetter

Starting now. Just relax listen to my voice and watch the pretty spirals.

Tonight is already decided

You know what to do.

You are going to wet the bed in your sleep

When your bladder fills you only have one option sweetie

Release. Like a good little bedwetter for me!

[coralgardendreamertaco-blog]