[stinky-in-pinky]

Chapter 7 - Bridge Jumper

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Links to earlier chapters:

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6

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Riiippp!

Rippp!!

“You see? Much cleaner already.”

Rippp!

Rippp!

The sound wasn’t the familiar crinkle of tapes on a diaper this time. It was harsher, meaner: hot wax cooling against my skin, cloth strips pressed flat, then torn away in one merciless yank. Each rip left a burning stripe of smoothness across my thigh, the hair coming with it in ugly black clumps that she dropped unceremoniously into a little stainless-steel bowl.

Another ladle of wax, thick and honey-gold, painted higher this time, right up to the crease where leg meets groin. She smoothed the strip down with the heel of her hand, slow, deliberate, like she was sealing an envelope she never intended to let me open again.

Rippp!

I jerked so hard the changing table creaked.

“Stay still, Ethan, or we start the whole leg over.”

I couldn’t answer. The oversized pacifier filled my mouth completely, the shield pressed tight against my nose and chin. I hadn’t even noticed I’d started nursing it again. The bulb filled my mouth completely, the little ring bouncing with every frantic suck.Weeks of conditioning had turned sucking on it into pure reflex. When the pain or shame hit, my mouth went to work on the bulb without thinking.

Kathy worked inward, strip by strip, the warm spatula spreading the next layer of wax with practiced care. She had already finished my left leg with long, smooth strokes from ankle to hip. Now she was closing in on the last stubborn patch at the top of my inner right thigh. The pink chastity cage, my "clitty jail" as she had begun calling it, sat snug between my legs.

My face burned hotter than the wax. She noticed, of course. She always noticed.

“Almost there, sweetheart. Just the delicate parts left.”

She set the spatula down and reached for a fresh pair of gloves, snapping them on with a crisp pop. Then she folded my knees all the way back to my chest, the way she did every morning for a diaper change, my legs stayed spread and my bottom lifted slightly off the mat. The position left me completely vulnerable, everything on display under the bright nursery lights.

I whimpered around the paci. A thin string of drool slipped past the shield and ran down my cheek.

Kathy dipped the small spatula into the warmer again. This time the wax felt hotter, almost scalding. She held my thigh steady with one hand and painted it carefully along the seam of my left ball. Every single hair glued itself flat against the sensitive skin.

“Deep breath, baby.”

I shook my head frantically, eyes wide with fear. My balls tightened on their own, trying to hide from what was coming. Every muscle in my body tensed, but there was nowhere to go. The table creaked as I squirmed, legs trembling in the cuffs.

Kathy waited one heartbeat. Two.

Then she ripped the strip away in one clean, merciless yank.

Riiippp!

White-hot fire exploded through my scrotum. My entire body jerked hard against the restraints. A muffled scream tore out around the pacifier, high and broken. Tears flooded my eyes instantly as the burning pain radiated outward. The skin pulled painfully tight, now completely bare and throbbing.

I gasped and whimpered, hips twitching uselessly in the air.

“Shhh, shhh,” Kathy murmured, almost tenderly. “One more side, sweetheart. Be a good boy and stay still for Gam-Gam.”

She dipped the spatula again. The wax looked even hotter this time. I whimpered louder, shaking my head as much as the pacifier and restraints allowed, but she simply gripped my other thigh and began painting the right ball with the same slow, careful strokes.

The heat made me hiss and squirm harder. My toes curled tight inside the mittens. Fresh drool spilled down my chin as panic rose in my chest.

She pressed the second strip down, rubbed it twice, and paused.

“Deep breath.”

I couldn’t. My chest heaved with tiny, terrified sobs.

Riiippp!

Another blaze of white fire ripped across my right ball. I howled into the pacifier, back arching violently off the table. The pain was sharper here, deeper, leaving the skin shiny, tight, and completely smooth. Cool air stung the freshly denuded flesh like needles.

Kathy set the strip aside and ran one gloved finger slowly around both balls, inspecting her work with quiet satisfaction.

My balls were now baby-bare, tight, shiny, and throbbing. The skin pulled so taut I could feel the cool air of the room moving across every inch like a thousand tiny needles.

But she wasn’t finished.

She gripped my hips and tilted them even higher, rolling me slightly so my bottom lifted clear of the mat. Cool air kissed my hole.

“This part is very important,” she murmured, almost tenderly. “Messy boys get messy cracks. We can’t have that under my roof, can we?”

A fresh, narrower spatula. The wax felt scalding here. She painted a perfect little circle around my anus, coating every stray hair, then drew a thin line upward along my taint. She pressed the first strip dead center, smoothed it with two gloved fingers, and let it set for three long, silent seconds.

I was shaking. Actually shaking. My toes curled inside the soft mittens she’d locked on my hands last night after I’d tried (and failed) to touch myself through the diaper.

Rippp!

I howled into the paci. The sound came out as a high, broken wail that would have embarrassed me if I still had any dignity left.

Two more strips, vertical, then angled, until she was satisfied. She set the spatula aside and ran one gloved finger all the way around the freshly waxed skin, inspecting her work with clinical pride.

“There we go! Not a single hair left to hide anything from Gam-Gam.” She gave the cage a patronizing little flick; the bell jingled brightly. “Look how smooth and pink you are! Just like a proper little boy should be! Much easier to keep the little baybee clean now,” she said, working her fingers between my bare buttcheeks. “No more big-man fuzz poking through your diapies! No more nasty hairs getting stuck in the mess. And when you inevitably poop your diapers again, you’ll see how convenient it is to wipe your little bootycrack.”

She peeled off the gloves, tossed them, and reached for the baby oil. Cool, slick drops landed on my bare skin. She rubbed it in everywhere. Slow, thorough circles over my swollen balls, down my taint, deep into my crack and over my butthole, until every inch gleamed under the lights. Then came the powder. She shook the big bottle over me like she was dusting a cake, a thick white cloud rising and settling into every crease. The sweet, unmistakable smell filled the nursery completely.

She reached for the jar on the shelf…the one with the glycerin suppositories. My eyes widened. I tried to shake my head, but the restraints and the paci turned it into nothing more than a pathetic wiggle.

Kathy smiled sweetly and popped the lid.

“One more little thing before we get you all dressed and ready for company…”

She held up the first slippery bullet between two fingers, letting me see it.

“These should get things moving along nicely by the time the ladies arrive. You’ve been doing so well on your own lately, but we can’t have you disappointing an audience, can we?”

*********

I crawled next to her down the hall, like an obediently trained puppy. The hardwood floor still hurt my knees, but I had at least gotten slightly used to the dull pain by now. The thick diaper crinkled between my legs. The undersized onesie keeping it tight against my skin. The lace edges of the ridiculous bonnet around my head slightly obscuring my view. 

The thoughts still spun in my head as to what she could mean by company. Was Claire coming over?? Was I finally going to get to see her again? To plead with her to take me back? To show her how much I’ve changed. Maybe she’d missed me. Maybe she’d heard how obedientI’d become and decided I’d suffered enough. Maybe she’d walk in, see the bonnet and the diaper and the cage, and finally take pity. 

But another thought crossed my mind: Kathy had specifically said ladies. 

Plural. 

Was Claire bringing friends to laugh at my humiliation? College girlfriends? Coworkers? Women that used to come to our barbecues and give me hugs and compliments on my cooking and figure? The image of their laughter, their phones raised, their giggles and cackles at my shame. It made bile rise even as the first faint warmth from the suppositories spread low in my belly.

When we turned the corner into the living room though, something new was occupying the space next to the playpen. It looked like some sort of miniature crane, despite its size taking up a large amount of living room.

“Say hello to your new jumper!” Kathy beamed. 

I stared at the odd contraption, frozen on all fours.

“Towards the end, Charles had trouble getting in and out of bed,” she explained, voice almost fond. “It helped with his mobility, his physical therapy, strengthening what little he had left in his legs. So I figured… why not do the same for a little diaper man who can’t stand on his own two feet?”

She patted the frame. “Up.”

I knew better than to hesitate, even though I was intimidated. I rose awkwardly, the diaper forcing my stance wide, and stood trembling while she worked.

She popped the crotch snaps on the onesie open so it peeled back and hung around my waist like an apron, leaving the massive, bulging diaper fully exposed. Then she buckled me in methodically. Wide waist belt first, cinched snug. Hip straps next, cradling under my padded bottom and framing the obscene swell front and back. Chest strap, underarm straps, finally the crotch strap that ran between my legs and clipped securely, pressing the diaper even tighter against me. Every buckle clicked with finality.

She stepped back to admire her work, and then to the remote on the side table and pressed UP.

The motor hummed.The harness tightened, pressing against my diaper and cock cage, lifting me smoothly until only the balls of my feet brushed the carpet. I swayed gently, suspended, the diaper crinkling with every tiny oscillation.

“One last thing,” she said, brandishing the little booties from the side table.

They looked innocent enough: soft suede in pale blue to match the onesie. I almost relaxed. How much worse could footwear be when I was already bonneted, mittened, and diapered to bursting?

Then she turned them over.

Inside, the insoles bristled with dozens of short, blunt metal spikes. Not sharp enough to pierce skin, but more than enough to punish any real weight.

I cringed. She noticed, smiled thinly, and knelt to cinch them on tight. The moment any pressure hit the soles, the points dug in. I yelped and jerked my feet up instantly. The harness caught all my weight, the spring above creaked softly. I hung there, toes curled tight, bouncing lightly in place.

“Perfect,” she said, stepping back to admire. “You’ll bounce nicely for the ladies. And those little spikes will keep you doing proper baybee bounces! No cheating by standing like a big boy.”

The doorbell rang.

She stuffed the largest rubber pacifier in my mouth and tapped it to tell me that it will stay in place. “You are to be seen and not heard.” She muttered, clenching my cheeks firmly to let me know she meant business.

My stomach twisted hard. The first low cramp rippled through me, warm and insistent, promising worse to come.

Kathy smoothed the front of her blouse, turned toward the door, and glanced back at me once.

“Smile for our guests, Ethan. They’ve been so looking forward to meeting you!”

********

Three women stepped in with a wave of perfume and quiet excitement. all late-fifties, all still what one would call a “smoke-show”. No doubt they were still turning heads at the country club.

Flowery dresses, pearl earrings, hair perfectly set in soft waves or elegant bobs. They carried themselves with that effortless, expensive poise: tanned, toned, manicured, laughing lightly as though they’d just come from brunch with their heads still spinning from mimosas.

“Oh, Katherine! The house looks lovely!”

“Something smells divine!”

“Is that the famous lemon bars I smel—”

They paused in the doorway of the living room, eyes locking onto me in perfect unison.

All I could do was dangling there, waxed bare, diaper bulging, bonnet ribbons swaying, pacifier bobbing with every shallow, terrified breath.

“Oh my word!” the first one breathed, stopping dead in the doorway.“Ohhh, Kathy, you weren’t kidding!”

She stepped forward first, hands clasped in front of her. “Bless his little heart!!” she cooed, reaching up to pinch my cheek roughly between thumb and forefinger. “Look at those rosy cheeks. And the bonnet! Kathy, where did you even find one that big?”

The other two followed, crowding into a little semi-circle around me. The springs creaked again as I instinctively tried to shrink away.

The second woman folded her arms and studied me like a problem to be solved.

“Wel…,” she said flatly, “it’s certainly thorough.” Her nose turned upward like I was a town oddity hung up on display. She stepped right up and gave the front of the diaper a firm, testing squeeze, like she was checking the pressure on a bike tire. The padding compressed with a soggy squish. To my horror, I realized I was already wet. She noticed it too.

“Already soaked through,” she tutted, raising an eyebrow and stepping back with her nose still upturned, as if I were some sickly circus animal. “Has he been learning his lesson? Shaping up?”

“He’s getting there,” Kathy replied calmly from the doorway, arms crossed. “One dirty diaper at a time.”

“Hmmm…” The third woman tilted her head, voice thoughtful. “I ought to do the same to my ungrateful son-in-law. Thirty-eight and still can’t hold down a job.”

The first woman (still squeezing my chin and cheeks) clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Poor thing! Harold’s been in diapers since the stroke. I’ve never seen him so down on himself. He hates every second of it. Really strips them of their pride, you know?”

“Paul’s neuropathy is so bad he barely feels anything below the knees,” the short-haired one added. “Still, he’d rather wet the bed than let me put him in something this… juvenile.”

“I can’t even imagine Raymond in one of these,” the third chimed in, eyes sparkling with dark amusement. “He’d have died of shame. But oh, wouldn’t it have been glorious? Every time he came home late, I’d tape him up and make him crawl for his supper. Oh what a gas that would have been!”

They weren’t being cruel. That was the worst part. They were genuinely, politely fascinated, the way women discuss a daring new recipe or an especially clever gardening trick.

One of them edged a little closer still, her voice dropping instinctively into something softer, almost tender. “Does he fuss?” she asked Kathy, though her eyes never left me. “Or is he always this… sweet?”

“He’s learned to be,” Kathy answered simply, giving me a quick, cold glare. “He knows what happens if he doesn’t.”

Just the thought of one of Kathy’s seemingly never-ending list of creative punishments made me clench my legs hard. The diaper crinkled sharply,  the jumper springs squeaking in protest.

“He doesn’t seem to mind it too much, though!” One of them admired, patting the thickly padded seat of my diaper with an open palm. The impact sent a humiliating ripple through the soggy bulk. I whimpered around the pacifier despite myself.

“You know,” the short-haired one added brightly, “I saw something just like this on the news. Grown men who have a fetish for wearing diapers. Whole communities! They have parties and everything. People get off on anything these days, I tell you!”

Kathy’s lips curved into the faintest, knowing smile. “Oh, we have methods of keeping that in check as well… don’t we, Ethan?”

The three women turned to her in unison, eyebrows raised.

“What does that mean?” they asked, delighted curiosity in their voice.

Kathy waved a dismissive hand, already herding them toward the card table. “Oh, you’ll probably find out later. Come, come, we’ll deal in. He’s fine right where he is.”

They drifted toward the chairs, still glancing back over their shoulders with fond, approving little smiles. The first cards hit the felt with soft taps. Laughter rose in a light, musical, and utterly unbothered sort of way.

Every so often one of them would peek over, murmur something approving (“Look how quiet he’s being!” “Such a good boy now”), and return to the game.

I stayed exactly where they’d left me: strung up in the center of the living room, gently bouncing on the creaking spring with every terrified breath, the wet diaper sagging heavier by the minute, four pairs of eyes occasionally drifting back to their new favorite conversation piece.

Sometimes chatter flowed like I wasn’t even there, making me feel like nothing more than an infantilized decoration.

“Richard’s physical therapist says another six months and he might walk without the cane.”

“Paul still insists on real underwear during the day. Stubborn man.”

Soft laughter. Cards shuffled. The delicate clink of iced-tea glasses.

I tried to stay perfectly still. Every tiny shift made the harness creak and the already-wet diaper crinkle loud enough for the whole room to hear. They didn’t seem to care or mind, but I sure did. The heavy, swollen padding sagged warmly between my thighs with every gentle bounce of the spring.

My stomach gurgled again, louder this time, wet and ominous. The suppositories Kathy had forced into me were working exactly as intended.

I tried to clench. Tried to bargain with my own body.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.

I clenched every muscle I could, sweat prickling across my freshly waxed thighs and belly. The bouncer kept me rocking gently, pressing the padding against me in slow, rhythmic squeezes.

Another cramp hit. Harder. I whimpered behind the pacifier, a small, pathetic sound lost beneath the women’s chatter. No one looked up.

Forty-three minutes later (I know, because I counted every single tick on the grandfather clock), the pressure became a fist.

I fought. God, I fought. Sweat rained down my smooth body now. The harness held me open, cradled, helpless. Each tiny bounce pressed the harness tighter against my gut.

Then it started.

A deep, uncontrollable push. My body betrayed me in slow, humiliating waves. First a soft crackle, then a warm, mushy rush that spread heavily into the seat of the diaper. I couldn’t stop it. Another cramp rolled through me and more came, filling the back of the diaper with a heavy, squelching load. The mess ballooned outward, pressing warm and soft against my skin as the bouncer continued its gentle, merciless rocking. Each sway squished it deeper, smearing it across my cheeks and up toward my lower back. 

Bea wrinkled her nose first. She paused mid-deal.

“Oh my,” she said lightly. “I believe someone’s had an accident.”

Linda sniffed, using her cards to cover her nose. “Oof! Yea…I think someone needs a change.”

The short-haired one (Marjorie, I’d overheard) sniffed once, then nodded. “Definitely. Quite ripe.”

“Poor dear.”

Kathy didn’t even glance in my direction. She studied her cards for a long moment, then played the ace of spades with a soft, deliberate tap.

“He can wait,” she said flatly, voice bored. “We’re in the middle of a hand.”

The women exchanged glances, noticing Kathy’s resolve, then played along with a ripple of polite agreement.

“Absolutely. Let him stew a bit.”

“Good discipline.”

“Builds character.”

“They learn faster when they have to sit in it.”

And that was it. No further discussion. The women simply returned to their game as if nothing had happened.

I dangled there in my own filth, tears sliding silently down my burning cheeks beneath the bonnet. Every gentle bounce of the harness ground the warm, mushy mess deeper, smearing it across my skin, working it into every fold, pressing the heavy, soiled diaper tighter against me. The spiked booties kept me from finding any relief. Whenever I tried to stretch my legs or push down even an inch, the sharp little points bit into my soles, forcing me back into the relentless rocking.

Squelch… creak… squelch… creak…

Still, Kathy ignored me completely.

I stewed. I rocked. I wept silently. The harness pressed it all in deeper with every slow, mocking bounce.

Thirty more agonizing minutes crawled by.

By the time Kathy finally set her cards down and rose, the mess had cooled into a heavy, clinging sludge. My skin crawled. Every tiny movement made the diaper sag and shift with a sickening, squelching weight between my legs. I was shaking, tears streaming, utterly broken by the casual indifference of four elegant women who had simply decided my humiliation could wait until it was convenient for them. They were still calmly discussing whether Botox or fillers were better at fifty-nine.

Kathy crossed the room at last, heels clicking with unhurried precision. She stopped a few feet away, tilted her head and inhaled slowly, deliberately, as if noticing the smell for the very first time.

“Oh dear,” she said, voice smooth and mildly surprised. “It seems someone’s made quite the poopy diaper!”

She beckoned the other three women with a casual wave. They all rose together and approached, surrounding me in a semi-circle of flowery dresses and perfume.

Bea leaned in first, eyes soft with condescending sweetness. “Uh oh!! Did somewon have a widdle accident??”

Linda cooed, “Did you make a big stinky in your diapy for us?”

Marjorie smiled gently. “Such a full one, too. Look how it’s sagging!”

They all looked at me expectantly. I could only nod miserably, tears spilling faster, a humiliated whine escaping around the pacifier.

“Awww, listen to that little whimper!!” Bea cooed, reaching up to pat my bonneted head. “Poor baby!!”

Kathy gave the heavily loaded seat of my diaper a single, dismissive pat, squishing the mess deliberately. “Well, ladies,” she said casually, “I think it’s time to change the little dumper jumper’s diaper. Would any of you like to lend a hand changing him?”

The three women exchanged delighted little glances, clearly intrigued by the offer.

“Oh, I’d be happy to!” Bea said at once, “It takes me right back to when my boys were little.”

“Same here,” Linda said with a fond chuckle. “Though none of mine ever filled one quite like this.”

Marjorie smiled. “Count me in. Four of us should make it quick and easy.”

Kathy unbuckled the harness with efficient movements. The moment the straps released, my legs trembled. The massively swollen, sagging diaper pulled downward like a waterlogged sandbag, the cooled, heavy mess shifting and squelching loudly with even the slightest motion. The women guided me gently down onto the soft living-room rug, laying me on my back right in the center of the floor as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

They knelt around me in a loose semi-circle, their flowery dresses pooling elegantly on the carpet while the thick, earthy smell rose from my ruined diaper.

“Alright ladies,” Kathy said, grabbing the changing basket. “Let’s get this sorted.”

Bea and Linda each took one of my ankles, lifting my legs together and holding them high with gentle but firm hands. Marjorie slid a thick changing pad beneath my bottom to protect the rug. Kathy untaped the overloaded diaper and let the front fall open. The warm, heavy stench rolled upward fully.

“Oh my,” Bea murmured, keeping my legs steady. “That’s quite a heavy one, isn’t it?”

Linda nodded, “Oof! And stinky too!”

“I don’t know how you do it by choice, Kathy,” Marjorie said, clamping her nose as she handed over a thick stack of wipes. “With Harold it’s just… what has to be done. Medical necessity. But choosing this? That’s some real dedication.”

Kathy gave a small shrug, as if there was no other answer. “This is the best teacher I’ve found. When a man betrays his wife and refuses to grow up, nothing drives the lesson home quite like forcing him to wear his own toilet. Making him wear and sit in his own messes is the most honest way I’ve found to teach him what consequences and humility actually feel like.”

One of them tilted her head with polite curiosity. “Oh…and what’s this clever little device here?”

Kathy glanced down and gave a small, satisfied smile. “That’s his chastity cage. Keeps him from getting any inappropriate ideas while he’s learning his place. The inner spikes give him a reminder if he tries to get excited.”

Linda let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “How inventive. What will you think of next, Kathy?”

Bea smiled down at me while continuing to hold my legs. “Look at him lying there so patiently while we clean him up. Such a good baby.”

The women worked together seamlessly. Wiping, lifting, powdering, and finally sliding a fresh, thick diaper underneath me. Bea and Linda kept my legs raised while Kathy taped the new diaper snug and secure, the bulky padding forcing my thighs apart once more.

“There we are!!” Bea said sweetly, giving the front a gentle pat. “All fresh and clean again. Doesn’t that feel so much better, sweetheart?”

Linda cooed, “Nice and puffy. Just the way a widdle baybee should be!”

Kathy snapped the onesie back into place over the pristine, crinkly diaper and helped me sit up. The fresh padding felt impossibly thick between my legs.

She looked at me directly, voice calm and expectant. “What do we say when Gam-Gam and her friends take care of your poopy diaper?”

I swallowed hard, cheeks burning. Around the pacifier I managed a lisping, broken whimper: “F-ffank… you… Gam-Gam… an’ fwiends… fow changing my poopy diapy…”

The women let out a collective, warm “Awww!!!”

Bea brushed a stray tear from my cheek with her thumb. “You’re very welcome, baby. You were such a good boy for us.”

Kathy gave the front of my freshly padded crotch one final, possessive pat. “Back in the jumper with you. We still have cards to finish.”

They guided me up and buckled me once more into the bouncer harness. The clean diaper crinkled loudly with every movement, the spring gently rocking me again as if nothing had happened.

The women returned to their seats around the card table, smiling and chatting lightly as the cards began shuffling again.

“Whose deal is it?”

“Mine, I believe.”

The game resumed. The cards shuffled. Laughter rose.

And just like that, I became part of the furniture once more. I dangled there slowly in the bouncer, freshly powdered and utterly forgotten… until the next accident.

To Be Continued

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[stinky-in-pinky]

Cry-Baby

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are consenting adults over the age of 21. The terms “baby,” and similar language are used strictly in the context of consensual adult age regression, ABDL roleplay, and power-exchange fantasy between ADULTS. This story is fictional and does not represent or involve minors in any way.

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Hey widdle guy!” Mommy cooed as she stepped into the nursery, her voice sugary sweet and dripping with mockery. “How’s your diapy?”

I tugged hard at the soft restraints holding my wrists and ankles to the crib mattress, but they didn’t budge. The heavy, warm mush pressed insistently against my skin, a constant, squelching reminder with every tiny shift I made. The plastic pants over the thick diaper crinkled loudly at the slightest movement, sealing in the unmistakable, shameful scent of my accident. It was humiliating. Degrading. I felt my face burning before I even opened my mouth. I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. What would I even say, anyhow?

Luckily, Mommy didn’t wait for me.

“No need, sweetie. I can smell you from the other room.” She wrinkled her nose playfully as she leaned over the crib rail. “Does baby want his diapy changed?”

I whimpered and nodded frantically, desperate for relief.

Mommy giggled, the sound light and cruel. “Aww, that’s so cute! But I don’t think that’s how babies ask for things anymore…”

She rested her arms on the rail, looking down at me with that calm, all-knowing smile that always made my stomach twist. “I think someone’s gotten a little too big for their britches lately. Started getting a little demanding, even while sitting in a diaper. ‘I’m hungry.’ ‘I need a diaper change.’ ‘I want this.’ ‘I want that.’ Almost like you still think you have any say in anything. Like you get any adult autonomy at all.”

My face felt hot. It wasn’t like I was trying to run the show. She had completely subjugated me at every turn, treating me like a baby. It wasn’t that I was defying her, I was just communicating as much as I was allowed to. But the way she said it made even that small attempt at expression sound like a crime. Like I was being uppity just for having basic needs. She was twisting it, using it as another excuse to push me down even further. Drop me another peg. Another step toward total regression.

“So, we’re going to have a new rule...” she continued, her voice dropping into that soft, condescending tone that always turned my insides to mush. “I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that you are no longer a man. You’re just a pathetic little baby that poops his pampers. So if you want something—anything at all—you’re going to earn it like the widdle baybee you are. No more words. No more whining like an adult pretending he still has dignity. Oh no...”

She leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with amusement. “If you want that diaper changed, if you want to be let out of this crib after naptime, if you’re hungee and that little tummy is rumbling for num nums: you have to cry like a fucking baby."

She proceeded to demonstrate with exaggerated flair, puckering her lips and letting out a loud, mocking wail that echoed around the nursery. “Wahhh wahhh wahhh! Boo-hoo-hoo! The works."

My cheeks flushed even hotter. The idea of doing that myself made me want to sink into the mattress and disappear.

“I’m talking full-on, ridiculous, over-the-top baby crying. Kicking those little legs. Wriggling right there in your messy diaper, making it crinkle and squish so I can hear exactly how full it is. And there better be real tears streaming down your face, or you can forget it. If it’s not the most pathetic display I’ve ever seen, then you can stay right there in your poopy diaper for all I care. I’m sure once that rash starts kicking in, you’ll learn to shed those tears properly.”

I stared up at her, heart pounding. The weight between my legs was growing unbearable, the warm mush pressing and shifting against my skin with every tiny movement.

Mommy reached through the bars and gently patted the front of my diaper. Her hand pressing and squeezing just enough to make it squelch audibly. "Oooh, yea...that’s a big one! Feels like you really let go during your nap, didn’t you? Good babies don’t hold back, but good babies also know how to ask for help. So let’s practice...shall we?”

She straightened up, folding her arms expectantly. “Go on. Show Mommy how badly you want out of that crib and into a nice clean diapee!! Go on. Cry for me. Let's hear it.”

For a moment, a stubborn adult fragment deep inside me resisted. This was ridiculous. Humiliating. But the discomfort in my loaded diaper won out. I took a shaky breath and let out a weak, high-pitched whimper. “Wah…wahhh…”

Mommy’s eyebrow arched. “That’s it? That’s the best you got? Pathetic. I said cry like a baby, not some half-hearted adult sniffle. Kick your legs. Wriggle. Whine. Make that diaper sing for me.”

The humiliation burned through every inch of me. I felt utterly ridiculous as I lifted my legs in the confined space and started kicking them up and down in short, frantic bursts limited by the tight ankle restraints. The thick padding crinkled loudly with every motion, the plastic outer layer rustling against the crib sheet. The mess shifted and spread, warm and sticky, coating me further. I wriggled my hips from side to side like a tottler in full tantrum, feeling the squish intensify, the scent rising stronger around me. My hands, trapped in thick mittens, clenched and twisted helplessly against the straps above me. The frilly bonnet around my head slipped and slid with every frantic toss of my head from side to side as I forced out the fake wailing.

“Wahhh! Wahhh!! Wahhh!!!” My voice cracked as I forced the wails higher, louder, more ridiculous. I sounded absurd. Completely pathetic. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes from the sheer embarrassment of what I was doing.

Mommy watched with a satisfied smirk. “Better. But I don’t see real tears yet. Come on, baby. Think about how trapped you are. How that poopy diaper is going to stay on until you break down like the helpless little thing you’ve become. 'Wahhh wahhh wahhh' let it alllll out!”

The full weight of my fall crashed over me in that moment. My entire adult life—every shred of independence, pride, and manhood I once had—had been completely stripped away until I was nothing more than this: a 27 year-old lying in his own warm filth, forced to kick and bawl pathetically in a crinkling diaper just to beg for the most basic care. Every trace of manhood I once clung to had been methodically erased until nothing remained but this sniveling, stinking broken deadbeat that she now controlled completely. The humiliation, the loss, the sheer depth of my regression...it all hit me at once. My face crumpled.

“Waaaahhh! Waaaahhh wahhh wahhh!!!!” The cries tore out of me, loud and unrestrained. I kicked harder, legs flailing against the air, yanking the straps, the crib bars rattling slightly. My whole body wriggled desperately, the diaper crinkling and squelching in a constant, humiliating symphony. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, dripping onto the padded crib mattress. I felt so ridiculous. A grown man reduced to this, bawling and kicking in a filthy diaper just to earn a change.

Mommy cooed softly. “There we go!!! That’s my good baby! Look at those big crocodile tears. Hear how that messy diapee is crinkling away? So full and soggy!! Poor thing....”

She didn’t move to open the crib yet. She just stood there, watching me continue the performance, drawing it out. I kept wailing, chest heaving with each exaggerated sob, legs pumping like a tottler in full meltdown mode. The longer it went on, the more ridiculous I felt, like every last shred of adulthood was being stripped away with every “wahhh” and every crinkle.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of blubbering and kicking, Mommy unlatched the crib side. It lowered with a soft click.

“Ohhh, what is it, sweetie?” she cooed suddenly, snapping into that syrupy, motherly voice as if she’d just discovered an upset little one. “What’s the matturr, huh? Ohh, my poor widdle baby…is that big, yucky diaper you filled up making you so fussy? Is that it? Aww, did you make a big stinky mess and now you’re all uncomfortable? Ohhh you poor thinggg...”

She reached in, unbuckled my straps, and scooped me up under the arms like I weighed nothing. My legs dangled uselessly, the heavy diaper swaying pendulously between them as she carried me to the changing table.

She bounced me gently in her arms, her tone dripping with condescending faux concern. “There, there… Mommy’s got you now..."

She laid me down on the cool plastic mat, the crinkle of fresh changing paper loud beneath me.

“You earned that one, sweetie. But barely. Next time I want even more drama. I want you screaming the house down before I even think about helping.”

With practiced efficiency, she peeled open the tapes of my soiled diaper. The cool air hit my messy skin, making me whimper anew. She wiped me thoroughly, the cool baby wipes a stark contrast to the warm filth, her commentary never stopping.

“Aww, someone made a big stinky present for Mommy!!” she teased in a singsong voice. “Did you fill your pampers like a good little loser boy? Yes you did, didn’t you?!? Lots of warm loads in here...”

As she wiped the front, she casually dragged the cool wipe across my swollen, aching balls and the flat metal cage locked tightly around my denied cock. The cage was leaking its own frustrated tears. Sticky droplets of precum that had been building for days. She barely seemed to notice them, wiping the whole area with the same indifferent efficiency she used on the rest of the mess, as if my desperate, leaking frustration was no different from the rest of my babyish accident.

“Ohhh, and look at this silly little cage dripping again!" she cooed playfully. "Aww!! Are your tiny blue balls crying too?? How adorable. But Mommy doesn’t care about those leaky tears at all, does she?? Noo...Only the big, loud, baby wah-wahs get Mommy's attention!!”

Powder dusted my skin, the talc scent enveloping me. A fresh, thick diaper was slid underneath, thicker than the last, with extra padding that promised even louder crinkles. She fastened it snugly, taping it tight around my waist and legs, then gave the front a firm pat that made it rustle loudly.

“All clean! For now...” She helped me sit up, then carried me to the rocking chair in the corner. From a nearby warmer, she retrieved a large bottle filled with warm milk. “Is my widdle baybee hungee?”

I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but after the long nap and the humiliating cry-show, my stomach was letting out loud, embarrassing growls. The hunger gnawed at me, making me feel even more pathetic and infantile.

I nodded eagerly, eyes fixed on the bottle. She brought it close to my lips, but the second I leaned forward to latch on, she pulled the nipple just out of reach.

“Cry for it.”

I hesitated, a flicker of reluctance and lingering shame holding me back. I didn’t want to do this ridiculous display again so soon. It felt degrading, like a dog having to perform tricks for treats. But she was clearly adamant that this was how things worked now. With a defeated little whimper, I finally gave in. I kicked my freshly padded legs, the new diaper crinkling crisply with each motion. “Wahhh wahhh wahhh!” Tears came easier this time, the humiliation fresh and raw. My body wriggled in her lap, the thick padding compressing and expanding. I felt utterly absurd, kicking and bawling like this while she rocked me calmly, but I couldn’t stop. I was in the throws of it now.

Mommy smiled indulgently, finally bringing the bottle to my lips. I suckled greedily, the warm formula filling my mouth as she rocked me gently. “Good boy. See how easy it is when you just give in? No more pretending to be a big boy. Every need, every comfort...it all comes with a price. Those baby tears.”

As I nursed, her free hand idly rubbed my back, occasionally drifting down to pat my diapered bottom. Her voice stayed soft but relentless, painting my future in calm, inevitable strokes.

“Imagine it, baby. Days from now, weeks from now, you’ll be doing this automatically. The second any urge hits...whether you’re wet, messy, tired, hungry, or just lonely in your crib...you’ll drop whatever little scrap of dignity you have left. You’ll kick those legs, toss your head in that silly bonnet, and wail like the helpless little thing you are. You’ll cry for diaper changes. Cry to be let out of your crib. Cry for a bottle when your tummy rumbles. Cry when you want out of your highchair. Cry when you need a cuddle. Cry when that little cage gets too tight and achy. Cry just because you’re bored and want Mommy’s attention...”

She rocked me slowly, her tone almost soothing.

“No more words, baby. No more ‘Mommy I have poo poos.’ No more ‘peas please, no prunes.’ No more tottler words at all. Just babbles. That’s all you get from now on.” Her tone stayed light and playful as she listed everything I had lost. “You don’t get to cum anymore. You don’t get to use the potty anymore. You don’t even get to properly talk anymore. All of that is gone. You're nothing but a widdle cry-baby now.”

She leaned down and kissed the top of my bonneted head.

“And if you don’t give me the full ridiculous performance every single time? Well…Mommy will give you something to cry about! I’ll spank that bottom bright red until you’re sobbing. I’ll soap that naughty mouth until you’re bubbling and blubbering. I’ll leave you sitting in that messy diaper for hours until your skin is burning and screaming louder than you ever could! Squirming won’t help. Whining won’t help. Only real, big, desperate baybee cries will make Mommy come running.”

She set the empty bottle aside and lifted me to her shoulder for a burp, patting firmly. A small bubble escaped, and I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper.

She carried me out of the nursery and into the living room, lowering me into the large wooden playpen. The padded playmat was surrounded by all the trappings of my new life: colorful stacking blocks, a pile of soft crinkly books, a bouncy activity center, and several oversized stuffed animals watching me silently. She placed a colorful rattle in my mittened hand.

“I’ll be right over here if you need anything, baby,” she said, settling onto the couch with a book. “And what do you do if you need Mommy?”

“I c-cry—” the words had already started leaving my mouth before I could stop them. I barely caught myself in time, cutting off mid-syllable. For a split second I had almost communicated like a normal person again. Mommy’s eyebrow shot up instantly, a flash of warning in her eyes. I realized with a jolt just how much trouble I’d be in if I’d slipped up and used real words this early.

Instead, I kicked my legs weakly, shook the rattle clumsily with my mittened hand, and forced out the required sounds.

“Wahhh…wahhh wahhh!”

Mommy smiled, clearly pleased. She stood up, popped a pacifier between my lips, and gave my cheek a playful pinch.

“Good boy! You’re getting the hang of it…but you’ll have to do a lot better than that. Otherwise, those poopy diapers stay on until you learn.”

She gave the rattle a little shake for emphasis, then walked back to the couch, leaving me surrounded by my infantile world.

The rules were clear now. My needs weren’t rights anymore.

They were performances.

And Mommy was a very attentive audience.

[stinky-in-pinky]

CHAPTER 3 - Learning the Ropes

Link to Chapter 1

Link to Chapter 2

Another day. She said to herself. Another day in hell.

She pushed through the heavy double doors into the Nursery Wing. Day three. Only four hundred and eighty-four hours left on the clock, and the ankle monitor already felt like it had fused to her skin. She kept her eyes forward, sneakers squeaking against the polished linoleum.

The hallway was the same bizarre mash-up of hospital, nursery, and prison it had been yesterday. Pastel walls. Smiling elephants with frozen googly eyes. Soft block lettering on every sign. But underneath the cutesy paint job the sounds never changed: muffled coos and bath-water splashing from Block B, a high-pitched whine of protest from somewhere in the Sissy Ward accompanied by rhythmic clapping and unh-unh-unhhh, as well as sloppy sounding gluck-gluck-glucks. In the Nursery Ward, wet babbling and desperate little gulps drifted from D-3 like someone was being force-fed again. A rhythmic crinkle-and-sob combo came from D-5, another messy change in progress, probably. Someone was getting spanked in D-6 judging by the loud cracks and cries, followed by “Now get in the corner! Knees to the ground, nose to the wall!” A grown man crying with blubbering hiccups echoing through the door. 

The whole corridor smelled like the usual cocktail of talc, antiseptic, and warm urine trying to hide behind lavender air freshener.

She stopped outside Nursery D-7. The wall-mounted charting station glowed softly. She tapped the screen and it flickered to life with the early-morning report.

Participant: Corey Lassiter – Level Two

Assigned Primary Sitter: Danielle Monroe

Overnight / Early-Morning Summary (Morning Attendant Log):

Inmate had overnight leak. Diaper changed at 07:18. Sheets changed at 07:26am.

12 oz Stage 2 formula bottle administered at 07:47 (fully consumed).

Morning regression supplement administered (fiber, muscle relaxant, incontinence booster). No adverse reactions.

35 minutes of supervised screentime in common area. 1 episode of Barney, 2 Cocomelon songs. Subject stayed on playmat. Clapped to songs where appropriate. 

Art activity: Finger painting. Subject drew a Giraffe. Work showed too much control and detail. Needs further regression.

Scheduled nap at 11:15 observed and logged.

Compliance rating: High. No incidents.

Danielle read the chart over again. The Morning Attendants had already done their usual sweep. They were just rotating relief staff, there to handle the bare minimum when the primary sitters weren’t on duty. They woke the inmates, cleaned up their overnight messes, shoved a bottle in them, parked them in front of cartoons for a while, then put them back down for the scheduled nap. Apparently they weren’t considered “Sitters”, that was her lovely job. Danielle was the ‘Primary Caregiver’, the one who got all the ‘fun’ parts of taking care of a grown man in diapers. She was the one who had to do most of the feedings, changings, disciplining, and ‘relationship building’ as the training manuals had called it. Turning him into whatever the Matriarchal Court decided a “rehabilitated” adult was supposed to look like.

She pressed her badge to the scanner. The light blinked green. Her ankle monitor chirped in perfect, mocking sync.

The door slid open.

She stepped inside and froze.

The room was still in sleep mode, lights dimmed to a soft golden haze, lullaby playing low and tinny from the ceiling speaker. The crib dominated the far wall, bars tall and reinforced, looking more like a little prison cell than anything.  It only happened for a few seconds. A faint, rhythmic rustling. Plastic crinkling. Weight shifting against the padded mattress. Quick, guilty little movements like someone not taking a nap, but instead trying to finish something before they got caught. The blanket twitched. A shoulder jerked once, hard.

Then everything went perfectly still.

Danielle narrowed her eyes. The bars were high enough that she couldn’t see his face, but she could see the edge of the yellow giraffe plush clutched in one fist and the way the blanket had bunched up around his hips.

“Corey?” she said, voice flat.

A beat of heavy silence. Then he sat up too fast, knees snapping to his chest, pacifier still lodged between his lips. His short hair was disheveled, either from sleep or something…else. His cheeks were already flushed a deep, guilty pink. He blinked at her with wide eyes, trying way too hard to look innocent.

“G-good morning, Ms. Danielle,” he mumbled around the shield of the pacifier, voice small and shaky.

“What were you doing?”

“N-nothing, Ms. Danielle!” he squeaked.

“Drop the ‘Ms.’” She said for what felt like the 100th time, “Just Danielle.” 

She couldn’t help but feel like a mother walking in on her son doing something she would…rather not think about. So she didn’t. Or, at least, tried not to.

She crossed the room and dropped the crib rail with a metallic clack. The sound made him flinch.

“Out,” she ordered.

He rose unsteadily, bare legs trembling, the thick diaper forcing that familiar waddle. The front of his onesie looked slightly swollen. Danielle’s gaze flicked downward automatically.

“You wet?” she asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.

Corey’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I… I think so. A little.”

“From a whopping 30-minute nap?” Danielle said dryly.

Corey flushed darker. Danielle sighed. “Alright let’s–”

The charting station gave a soft, cheerful ping. A calm synthetic voice followed.

“Level Two protocol reminder: Inmates may not self-report hygiene status. Primary Sitter must perform visual and tactile confirmation before any determination is logged.”

Danielle glanced up at one of the many cameras adorning the ceiling, their little red lights staring down like unblinking eyes.

She exhaled through her nose. Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. She thought. They had to make this as infantilizing and degrading as possible. 

For both of them.

“Stay still.” she ordered. “Do not make this weird.”

He bit his lip and nodded.

She crouched low enough to hook two fingers into the crotch of his onesie and popped the little buttons one by one. The fabric sprang open with a soft snap-snap-snap, exposing the thick white padding underneath. It looked more disheveled than usual, like he’d been shifting and squirming quite a bit in the crib.

Then came the awkward part.

She reached in and pressed her palm flat against the front of the diaper, groping the warm, crinkly padding while Corey knelt there awkwardly, his stuffed giraffe dangling by its arm as he winced. Her fingers had to press and squeeze to feel how saturated it was. Inevitably, she could feel his little nub inside. It was…stiffer than normal, pressing back against her touch. She told herself it was just morning wood. Nothing more. Still, the whole thing felt far too intimate for two adults who barely knew each other.

His diaper was damp, but not quite heavy. She examined the blue wetness indicator line running down the front. The faint scent of urine rose with the movement. There was a little scale of numbers running along the sides of the line, like a little thermometer, but it measured something else. Wetness level 1 through 10. The blue line had only climbed to a 3. 

She knew the rule by now: He needed at least a 7 to be changed, a 5 if he was messy.

“Three,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You can wait.”

She didn’t bother resnapping his onesie. She simply let the fabric hang open, leaving the swollen, slightly yellow-tinged diaper on full display. There was no point in hiding it. Not here.

Corey’s cheeks burned darker. He didn’t argue. He never did. He simply knelt there, hands fidgeting at his sides, the pacifier still bobbing between his lips.

Danielle straightened, wiping her fingers on her scrubs. She hefted a heavy sigh and glanced over at the charting station. “So… what do we have planned for today?” Danielle muttered, stepping over to the tablet on the wall. She tapped the screen. “A feeding? Already?” she read, eyebrows raised.

She turned to Corey. “Are you even hungry?” she asked, hoping for a ‘no’.

Corey shook his head. “Not really.”

She sighed in relief. “I think you can wait,” Danielle muttered, turning away.

The speaker in the corner of the room buzzed sharply.

Bzzt!

Be advised that all Littles are on a strict schedule and regiment. All feedings and activities will take place as specified.

Danielle groaned and rubbed her temple. “Whelp. You heard it.” She said, “Up. Highchair. Now.”

Corey pushed himself up with a soft, defeated crinkle and waddled over, the damp diaper swaying between his thighs. Danielle fumbled with the highchair tray, grunting and scoffing as the latch stuck twice before she finally managed to click it free and swing it open. She pushed him into the seat, pressing down firmly on his shoulders until his padded bottom settled with a squelching squish. The tray clicked down and locked with a snap.

“Okay…” She sighed, trying to steady herself. “Well, I guess I’ll get your bottle read—”

Bzzzt!

Solid foods are to be administered by spoon at this time.

Danielle rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Okay, fine. Mush it is.” She stomped over to the kitchenette, muttering the entire way. “What a fucking joke...” She yanked open cabinet after cabinet, slamming them shut when she didn’t find what she needed. Finally she located the shelf stacked with mason jars of pureed food in varying shades of unappealing beige, purple, green, and orange. She snatched one of the large jars and headed back toward the highchair.

Bzzzt!

“Two jars of Stage 2 puree required.”

Her face flushed crimson in frustration at being micromanaged. She stomped back to the cabinet, grabbed a second jar, and slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled. She was halfway back when she realized she needed a bowl and a spoon. “Ughhh!!” she growled, rummaging through the drawers until she found a small plastic bowl with a suction cup base and a large baby spoon. She slammed the bowl down on the counter, popped both jars open, recoiled at the awful smell, and dumped the thick greenish orange slop into it. One jar at a time.

Bzzzt!

Attendant needs to ensure that all product is emptied from container.

“Agghh!” She snatched the spoon and angrily dredged the inside of each jar, scraping out every last stubborn smear until the containers were practically spotless.

Bzzt!

A scoop of Pixie Powder required.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Danielle was so livid, she didn’t even bother measuring properly. She just grabbed the container labeled Pixie Dust – For Regression and Pansification, scooped out a rough lump, and dumped it into the bowl, stirring with angry, violent circles. The mixture turned into a lumpy, glistening paste.

“Is that good??” she called mockingly toward the ceiling cameras. “Did I do it the right fucking way this time??”

She lifted the bowl from the counter, but the suction cup base caught for a second, then popped free. The sudden motion sent a thick splatter of mush flying upward…directly into her face.

Danielle froze. Greenish-orange puree dripped from her cheek, her forehead, even the tip of her nose. 

For a split second the room was silent. Then she screamed in pure rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” She snatched a burp cloth and furiously wiped her face, the cloth coming away smeared and sticky. Her scrubs now had fresh stains across the front. She was irate, breathing hard through her nose, eyes blazing. Storming back to the highchair with what remained of the bowl.

She gripped the oversized baby spoon, scooped a massive, heaping dollop of the slop, and raised it toward Corey’s mouth.

Bzzzt!

Bib required for feeding.

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking KIDDING me!” she roared, snatching the bright yellow bib from the hook and fastening it around Corey’s neck with a sharp, vicious tug. The strap dug into his skin.

Corey groaned softly, staring at the greenish glop on the spoon.

“Oh don’t start,” Danielle snapped. “You know neither one of us get a say. Now open up!”

Reluctantly, Corey’s mouth quivered open. She shoved the first heaping spoonful inside. He recoiled, gagging as the grainy texture hit his tongue. She was already loading the next spoonful before he could even swallow.

“Mmph. It’s cold.” he whimpered.

“Too bad,” she said, shoving it in his mouth, already scooping the next bite. “I’m sure if I try to warm it up the fucking buzzer will go off again.”

“I don’t like cold mush…”

“Well, I don’t like grown men pooping themselves once or twice a day,” she shot back. “Yet here we are...”

She kept going, spoon after spoon. At first she tried to stay methodical, but her patience frayed with every wet, reluctant swallow. Corey’s cheeks bulged. Greenish-orange dribble began to escape the corners of his mouth and run down his chin in thick streaks, soaking into the bib.

The feeding sped up.

She loaded the spoon heavier and moved faster, forcing the mush in before he could fully swallow the last bite. More dribble ran down his chin. She growled and scraped the runaway slop up with the spoon, shoving it right back between his lips.

“Ughh, you’re making a fucking mess,” she snarled. “Disgusting. Just hurry up and swallow it. Let’s get this over with.”

He continued to whine and groan, doing his best to keep up. His stomach bloated, his diaper crinkling as he shifted in discomfort.

She shook her head at his pitiful whimpering, “I swear, sometimes it feels like I’m the one being punished more than you…”

Corey whimpered around the spoon, eyes watering.

“I’m the one that has to change your shitty diapers. I’m the one that has to watch you make a mess of yourself with this fucking slop. And I’M the one that has to wait on you hand and fucking foot all goddamned day!”

She still felt sticky and gross, the mush from earlier congealing on her skin. She gripped the burp rag again and wiped her face and chest with rough, angry strokes.

“You really think it’s as good as it sounds?’ Corey said now that he had a bit of a reprieve from the feeding. Danielle paused, crooking an eyebrow. 

“YOU get to go home at the end of the day.” He continued, “You get a full-sized bed. Not one that’s half your size and crunches and crinkles every time you so much as exhale.”

It was the first time he’d spoken to her in anything other than the small little petrified voice he always had. She stared in disbelief, but he wasn’t done.

“You get to stare at your phone, laugh at funny videos, you get to know what’s going on in the world. The only screen time I get is thirty minutes a day of obnoxious juvenile shows.”

She stood there, wondering where all this sudden animosity was coming from.

“I don’t even remember what it’s like to chew anymore. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve actually chewed anything other than a freaking teething ring! You get to have REAL food. Pizza. Sandwiches. Tacos. STEAK. Do you know how much I'd kill for a flipping steak?? But instead, all I get is this nasty, grainy, runny slop…”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Then he sighed heavily, dropping his tone, slumping his shoulders.

“You get to use a toilet.” He said softly, blushing despite himself. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? How degrading it is to crap all over yourself? To have to sit in your own shame and wait to be changed? To be scolded for doing something you have literally no choice but to do? Do you really think YOU are the only one being punished here? Would you like to switch places?? Because I would gladly do so.”

The spoon hovered in the air. Green mush dripped from it onto the tray in slow, wet plops. For the first time that morning, Danielle didn’t have an immediate sharp comeback. The words landed heavier than she expected. She stared at him. Really looked. His glassy eyes, cheeks flushed, the bib already ruined with streaks of mush. 

Something twisted in her chest. Not guilt exactly. Just the uncomfortable weight of a truth she didn’t want to carry.

“Just eat,” she snapped, voice tight. “You’re not allowed to talk about it. You’re not allowed to do anything without me doing it for you. That’s the whole fucking point.”

She kept going, but a little softer this time. Not as fast, not quite as relentless as before. She waited for him to choke each bite down before bringing the next one to his lips. An awkward silence settled over the room.

“You know, I—”

The door scanner beeped. The lock released with a pneumatic sigh.

In strutted a woman who carried herself like she owned the entire Nursery Ward. Tall, confident, with a sharp smile and the kind of effortless authority that came from too many years in these pastel hells, despite looking like she was merely in her early 20’s. 

“Awww, am I interrupting someone’s num-num time?” Her voice dripped with mock sweetness. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed under her voluptuous breasts, gum snapping loudly between her teeth as her sharp eyes swept over the messy high chair scene.

Corey tensed instantly, his shoulders hunched tight, and he audibly gulped, the nervous sound cutting through the quiet nursery. A deeper flush crawled up his neck as he stared down at the tray, thighs pressing together with a faint crinkle of his thick diaper.

Danielle straightened, spoon still in hand, a streak of cold mush smeared across her scrubs. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Jenna,” the woman said, gum smacking as she sauntering closer. “I used to be Corey’s Sitter before they reassigned me to the Sissy Ward. Couldn’t resist popping in when I heard the new girl was on shift.” She gave Corey’s hair a quick, patronizing ruffle, making him flinch and duck his head lower. “You know, before the Matriarchy took full control and started putting about a third of the men into diapers, there were actually some who had a fetish for this kind of thing. Can you believe that? Weird little secret pervs who got off on the idea of being babied and helpless.”

Jenna’s eyes lingered on Corey for a moment, her smile turning knowing. “For most of them, it’s a genuine punishment. I’ve seen men’s psyches absolutely shatter from it all: the constant dependency, the humiliation, the loss of every last scrap of control. They break so beautifully. But some of them?  Some of them like it. Or maybe they loved it all along. The regression. The diapers.The total surrender.”

Danielle felt a flicker of unease twist in her stomach. She set the spoon down harder than necessary. “What’s your point?”

Jenna shrugged, snapping her gum again. “Just catching you up, newbie. That’s all. You’ve been with him a few days now. Have you caught him humping yet? Some of the quiet ones start grinding against their diapers when they think no one’s looking. Pathetic, right? Like they can’t help chasing that little bit of friction even while they cry about how much they hate it.”

Danielle’s gaze flicked to Corey, she couldn’t help but think of earlier when she first came in. The sounds she heard. Or thought she heard. The rustling in the crib. The way Corey had frozen.

Jenna smirked, clearly enjoying the shift in Danielle’s expression. “If you want, I can show you how to lock him up in a nice, tight little chastity device. There’s also a few tricks I can show—”

“He’s my assignment,” Danielle said tightly, surprised to find that she had taken a step forward, forming a little barrier between Jenna and Corey. Her voice came out sharper than she intended, defensive. “And he’s not some fetish case. He’s just…doing his time. Like I am.”

Jenna chuckled, low and amused. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that. But watch him close, Monroe. You’ll see it eventually.” She blew a bubble, let it pop loudly, and turned toward the door with a wink. “Good luck with your little project. Call me if the humping starts getting out of hand.”

The door hissed shut behind her, leaving the nursery thick with a heavy silence. Corey sat trembling in the high chair, mush still streaked across his chin and bib, his breathing shallow and uneven. Danielle stared down at him, her earlier frustration now tangled with something else. An almost possessive pull. 

Neither of them spoke. There was a long, awkward silence. Neither of them really knowing where to go from there. 

“I… I don’t like it,” Corey finally said, voice small and awkward. “The diapering and stuff. It’s… it’s not like that.”

Danielle didn’t reply right away. She wasn’t sure she cared, that she even wanted to know. It didn’t change anything. Instead, she simply loaded another spoonful of cold mush and brought it to his lips.

“You two have quite the history, huh?” she asked after he swallowed.

Corey shrugged weakly, eyes fixed on the tray. “She was with me from Level One into Two. She seemed to have a weird fixation on me. Always belittling me and going out of her way to punish and scold me. Even if I did nothing wrong.” he shivered, as if remembering some particularly painful memories. “She was…very mean to me. For no real reason.”

Danielle studied his flushed, miserable face, the doubt from Jenna’s words still gnawing quietly at the back of her mind. “Do you feel like I treat you the same way?”

He shrugged again, even smaller this time, staring down at the tray. “Sometimes…”

That made her feel a little guilty. Not that she should. Just because he was in diapers didn’t mean she always had to coddle him. He was a big boy, he should be able to handle it. 

She scraped the last of the cold mush into his mouth, wiped his chin roughly with the bib, and unbuckled the tray. Leaning down, she checked beneath it, poking lightly at the front of his diaper. The blue wetness indicator had only crept up to a five. 

A quick glance at the wall chart confirmed the next item: Supervised Playtime – 120 minutes

Danielle sighed and mopped up the rest of the mess on his face and onesie before unclasping the tray completely. “Alright. Playtime, I guess.”

As she got the oversized plastic blocks and soft toys ready on the padded mat, another sharp buzzer sounded from the speaker.

“Protocol reminder: Mittens required during all unstructured play.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hands.”

Corey held out his arms without protest. She slid the bulky, padded mittens over his hands one by one, clasping them snugly at the wrists. The annoying little bells jingling the whole time. 

Bzzt!

“Pacifier needs to be in at all times other than feedings.”

She snatched the oversized binky from the highchair tray. It was still drooly and glistening from earlier use. She stuffed it into his mouth.

Once his play area on the floor was set up properly (which they made sure to remind her every step of the way) she dropped into the plastic chair by the wall and crossed her arms.

The playtime was exactly as boring as it sounded.

Corey sat cross-legged on the mat, open onesie hanging loose around his hips, the damp diaper on full display. He had to use both bulky mittened palms just to pick up one oversized block, the little bells jingling pathetically with every clumsy attempt. He fumbled it constantly, dropping it several times before awkwardly wriggling it back into place. The tower grew slowly, lopsided and pathetic. Every few seconds he glanced up at her, seeking the tiniest nod of approval that Danielle only gave with mocking sarcasm.

The lullabies droned overhead. The only other sounds were the soft clack of plastic, the occasional faint crinkle of his diaper, and the constant, stupid jingling of the bells on his mittens.

Minutes dragged by like hours.

Danielle stared at the wall, jaw tight. This was her life now: watching a grown man in a pissy diaper try to stack blocks like it mattered. She lasted another full minute before the boredom clawed at her.

“Fuck it,” she muttered. She stood, walked over, and lowered herself to the mat beside him with a heavy sigh.

At least sitting on the floor and stacking blocks herself made the time feel slightly less endless.

After a stretch of silent, mundane “playing,” the speakers gave a soft ping. The synthetic voice returned, bright and cheerful:

“Regression protocol reminder: Inmates and Sitters must demonstrate age-appropriate vocalization during supervised play. Cooing and babbling required for compliance.”

Corey didn’t even hesitate. He let out a soft, awkward “goo… goo-ga… ba-ba…” around his pacifier, the sounds wet and lisping.

Danielle, however, wasn’t as enthused. They wanted her to coo and babytalk too. She couldn’t believe how low she was sinking. But the threat of more added hours kept her compliant.

She raised the pitch of her voice as best she could. “Awww! Look at the w-widdle cutie…” It sounded ridiculous coming out of her mouth. She was twenty-eight, on probation, babysitting a grown man in diapers… and now forced to babytalk him for someone’s sick amusement.

“Does Corwey wanna pway wiff blockies?”

Corey nodded quickly, adding another quiet “goo-goo ba ba…” while clumsily pushing a block toward the tower with both mittens.

Danielle picked up a red block and set it down next to his, trying to commit to the degrading act. “Ooooh, that’s a big tower! Look at you, little guy! You gonna build Jeffy a widdle house?”

She gestured at the yellow giraffe still clutched tightly in the crook of his arm. He gave a small, shy nod and let out another soft “guh-guh…bppptt…”

The longer it went on, the easier the babytalk came…even if she hated every second of it. At least she wasn’t the one fumbling blocks like a real tottler, mittens making every movement slow and clumsy, drool shining on his chin while his damp diaper crinkled beneath him.

“Yayyy!! Good job!” She ‘cheered,’ clapping her hands. “Dat’s a house you built! Look at jooo!!”

They continued the ridiculous charade for several more minutes. Danielle was just reaching for another block when Corey suddenly froze, his breath catching sharply in his throat for a long second. His mittened hands hovered awkwardly over the tower. Then, just as quickly, he resumed playing, though noticeably slower and more distracted.

Danielle’s eyes narrowed. She glanced between his spread legs. The front of his diaper was turning a deeper yellow, the padding visibly swelling and sagging heavier between his thighs as a fresh, warm wetness spread through it. A faint, muffled hiss could be heard from between his thighs, the heavy padding sagging lower with every second as it soaked up his piss.

The blue indicator line rose even higher. She was actually relieved to see it had passed the minimum 7 line. Almost to a 9. She never thought she would be happy to change a diaper. Anything to end this soul-crushing playtime where time stood still.

“Corey… did you go pee-pee?” she asked, the baby-talk still clinging to her voice.

Corey clutched Jeffy the giraffe tighter against his chest, as if the stuffed animal could somehow shield him from the fresh wave of embarrassment. His cheeks burned crimson, eyes fixed downward.

“Come on,” Danielle said, pushing herself up from the mat. “Let’s get your diaper changed.”

She laid out the changing mat on the padded floor with a resigned sigh, then retrieved the supply caddy. Gloves first. She snapped them on with sharp, clinical precision. Corey crawled over obediently, his soggy diaper hanging low and heavy between his legs.

Danielle untaped the diaper with quick, efficient pulls. Riiip. Riiip. Riiip. Riiip. The warm scent of fresh urine wafted up immediately. She folded the front down and froze.

He was hard. 

Not just a little stiff, fully erect, though the word felt almost generous. His cock was tiny. A pathetic, twitching two inches at most, dark pink and pointing straight up. It was the smallest penis Danielle had ever seen in her life…and she’d seen her fair share.

His cock pointed straight out, flushed and throbbing despite its pathetic size, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. Danielle stared for a moment, she’d ridden cocks of every shape and size back in her slutty phase. But this? This was laughably small. Almost cute in how inadequate it was. She’d changed several of his diapers already, but she’d been more focused on the disgusting messes than anything else. Now that she’d grown somewhat accustomed to it, his little thingy had her attention.

Corey’s face was a mask of pure shame, his eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip trembling around the pacifier. He knew she was looking. He knew exactly how ridiculous he looked.

Danielle narrowed her eyes, suspicion flaring. Jenna’s words echoed in her head. Some of them like it, you know.

She chose to ignore it for now. “Hold still,” she muttered, grabbing a handful of wipes. She started cleaning around his hips and thighs, avoiding the erection as best she could. The wet warmth of the used diaper clung to her gloved fingers. She wiped methodically, lifting his legs to clean the cracks and crevices.

A sharp buzzer cut through the room.

“Protocol reminder: All genital areas must be thoroughly cleaned during changes. Failure to comply will result in demerits.”

Danielle stared at the ceiling for a second, jaw clenched. Of course. The fucking freaks wanted her to touch it.

She looked back down at Corey. Their eyes met for a moment , his wide with humiliated dread, hers cold and reluctant. His tiny cock gave another helpless twitch under her gaze, another bead of pre-cum sliding down the short shaft.

Danielle exhaled through her nose.“Fine,” she said flatly, her voice laced with clear irritation. She paused for a moment, staring down at his pathetic, twitching erection with open disgust. “Do not move. Don’t make this any weirder than it already is.”

She took a fresh wipe and dragged the cool cloth slowly over his balls, cleaning the wrinkled skin with careful strokes. Corey whimpered softly, his thighs trembling as he fought to stay motionless under her touch.

Then she gave his tiny cock the first quick swipe, running the wipe downward from his pelvis and over his bits. The little shaft immediately sprang back up, harder and more desperate than before, bobbing in the air.

The second swipe had the same effect, but this time it didn’t settle. Instead, it started twitching violently on its own, pulsing in the cool air.

“Wait wait wait,” Corey gasped desperately, even though her hand had already pulled away. His voice cracked with panic.

But it was too late. His tiny cock convulsed hard, jerking upward in sharp, violent spasms. Thick ropes of cum spewed from the tip. One, two, three pitiful spurts shot pathetically across his own belly, landing in weak, sticky splatters. Another dribbled uselessly down the side of his shaft as his whole body shuddered and bucked on the changing mat with each pathetic pulse, mittened hands clutching Jeffy desperately as the orgasm rippled through him.

Danielle yanked her hand back, staring in appalled disbelief. “What the fuck, Corey?”

Corey looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him alive. Tears welled up instantly in his eyes as the last weak dribbles leaked from his softening little dick. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice thick with shame. “I couldn’t help it. I tried so hard to hold it back, I really did.”

“You came just from two swipes?” she exclaimed. “That’s genuinely pathetic.”

Corey turned his face away, sobbing quietly. “I know… I’m sorry. It just… it happens so easily now. They don’t let us touch ourselves here. Not ever. The mittens, the restraints, the constant supervision… it’s been weeks since I’ve been able to… you know. So when someone actually touches me, even just to clean…”

“Stop,” she cut him off coldly. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to hear about your sad and frustrated little masturbation habits. Or…lack thereof. It’s not my problem.”

But the ‘problem’ was splayed out before her, covered in its own sticky mess.

“I can’t help it.” Corey continued to sob. “It’s just…you’re so pretty.”

That caught her off guard. Danielle hated that she felt a little flicker from the flattery, twisting in her chest despite herself. She hated that it affected her. Even in a pathetic sort of way. Not that he had a chance of anything happening. But the fact that this cum-covered man in a soggy diaper could make her feel anything other than contempt was…unnerving.

She said nothing, but her movements became slightly gentler.

The cum was slimy and stubborn. She used a fresh wipe to smear the messy load across his belly, gathering it up in slow, deliberate strokes. It took longer than she expected to clean the sticky residue completely. She was careful not to touch his penis again, half afraid the pathetic little thing might start spewing again at the slightest contact.

Finally satisfied, she slid a fresh diaper under his hips. The thick, clean padding felt almost merciful after the mess. She powdered him generously, then taped it snugly into place. The new diaper crinkled loudly as she adjusted it.

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully. She fed him two more bottles without complaint, changed another heavy, wet diaper. (Thankfully, no messes today). She supervised tummy time, making sure he didn’t get too…wiggly. Managed his snacks, and bathed him without incident. It was nearing the end of her shift, and she just got him into his jammies. By the final hour of her shift, she realized she hadn’t heard that damn buzzer in quite a while.

“Up,” she said quietly. “Bed time.”

She helped him to the crib, lowering the rail and guiding him inside. Without even thinking, she gave his nighttime diaper a final tug, ensuring it was snug. She refastened the tapes for a better, tighter fit. She didn’t want him leaking overnight, then she buttoned back up the onesie between his legs. 

“Okay…pacifier is in…” she muttered to herself, “blankie…” she tucked it around him, “Jeffy…” she didn’t need to check that. The damn thing never left his hands. She also slid little wool booties over his feet in case he got cold. The blankie was too small to cover much of anything. She went to raise the rail, “Oh! Mobile…” she clicked it on, the little moons and stars rotated overhead, chiming out a lullaby. 

Corey watched her quietly inside the crib, then murmured softly around the pacifier. “You’re getting the hang of it…”

Danielle froze for a second, fingers still on the rail. She had gone through the entire bedtime routine on autopilot. None of those fucking buzzers, no micromanaging from Big Sister, no cursing under her breath. 

She hated how natural it was starting to feel.

“Shut up and sleep,” she said, but the usual sharpness was missing.

Corey gave a tiny, defeated nod and closed his eyes, clutching Jeffy tighter against his chest as the colorful mobile turned slowly overhead.

After raising the rail and locking the latch on the first try, she stood there for a long moment, looking down at the regressed man in the oversized crib. The doubt, the obligation, the strange new pull of possession, it all swirled inside her in a confusing knot she didn’t want to examine too closely.

She lingered by the crib a second longer, fingers tightening on the rail, before she finally turned away without another word.

The lullaby drifted softly overhead as Corey’s breathing slowly evened out, leaving Danielle alone with her thoughts and the lingering feelings of something far more complicated.

To Be Continued

I don't know if people like this story, but I do, so who cares :P I'm gonna keep writing it. As always, if you'd like to get ahead, my Subscribestar is where it's at. You can read every story I've ever written there for the low, low price of $6. What a steal! As always, thanks for reading and for your support!

[stinky-in-pinky]

hi! not sure if you take requests, but would you be interested in writing about being trained to cry like a baby for changes, getting up from naps, bottles, etc?

I’ve definitely played with this concept a lot. I’m not sure if any have made it past the “draft” stage and gotten published though. It’s a great idea!

[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.

Consider supporting me at Subscribestar.com/wittlesissybaby It helps more than you know.

[stinky-in-pinky]

Post more please!!

I’m tryingggg but I’m busyyyy and writing is hardddd 😩😩😩

[stinky-in-pinky]

You had a story called Top and Bottom but I can't find it on tumblr anymore? I don't remember a ton except one of the characters was named Mark (maybe Matt or something similar). Can I ask what happened to it?

I took it down.

I'm getting more and more wary of using other people's photos. It often leads to more trouble than it's worth. I don't want to get reported and DMCA'd and possibly lose another account, so I'm having to lean more towards AI generated images--which I also know pisses people off.

There's just no winning :)

[stinky-in-pinky]

Hi there! Love your work. A while back, I asked about a Babysitter story that you had to remove because the owner of the picture did not want the story associated to their picture.

Were you ever able to re-upload that story? I think about it often and would love to reread it. :)

I think I know the one you're talking about? Unfortunately there have been a few babysitter stories that the owners weren't happy with that I took down. If it's the one i'm thinking of, I just haven't found a decent picture (with permission) that worked with it--but I also haven't tried too hard to look for one.

It was a rather simple picture of a Little on his back on the floor (no face shown) with his onesie popped open showing his diaper. But it was really well done and really sweet. It was a shame I offended them with the caption.

I have the story backed up somewhere, I'll see if a similar image pops up somewhere that I can use.

[stinky-in-pinky]

Chapter 6 - The Devil Inside

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5

I’d learned the rhythms of it now. The morning check. The bottle. Sometimes warm, sometimes cold, depending on her mood. The cleaning. Chores if I was allowed out of the playpen, “playtime” if I wasn’t. And always, always the diaper.

The weight of it. The bulkiness of it.  The constant crinkling every time I moved. The clammy padding, slick with sweat and, eventually, pee. The little puffs of powder that escaped whenever I sat down or squirmed too hard. And, worst of all, the smell. There was no escaping it once I’d had no choice but to mess myself. It clung to me, heavy and rancid, filling the air until I could hardly breathe without being reminded of what I was sitting in: my own filth.  Eye-watering, gag-worthy, unavoidable. No matter how I shifted or squirmed, or even tried to stay still, the stench was always there, curling into my nose, assaulting my nostrils. A constant, choking reminder of how far I’d fallen, of how my life had changed, and how little control I had left.

And as if the smell weren’t degrading enough, Kathy had made it clear from the start that nothing else was going to touch my skin but powder, cream, and whatever waste my body had to make that day. She—my own freaking mother-in-law—was the one to wipe me down, her hands clinical and unflinching as if I were nothing but another dirty chore. Pants were a privilege I no longer needed. “Potties” were a privilege I no longer had. 

Kathy made sure to remind me of that often, her voice syrupy and mocking as she patted the front of my swollen padding and told me to “be a good boy and let it happen.” There was no dignity left in holding it, no control to cling to. Only the slow, humiliating inevitability of surrendering to the thick plastic between my legs.

Even when I was allowed out of my crib or playpen, it wasn’t freedom: it was housework. Scrubbing floors, polishing tables, wiping mirrors, all in the thick bulk that rode high and obvious under whatever romper or onesie or humiliating outfit she buttoned me into. And with the chores came with rules. Her rules. A streak left on the glass, a crumb missed under the table, a towel folded unevenly, throw pillow angled wrong, a teaspoon left in the wrong slot, a chair pulled half an inch off center…any of them earned me a trip over her knee.

And even spotless work didn’t mean safety. She believed in what she called “maintenance spankings,” for days when I hadn’t done anything “wrong” but still, in her words, needed “a reminder of my place.” No more than a day or two ever passed without me being dragged over her lap for an appointment with her hand, her hairbrush, her paddle, or her leather strap.

The reminders didn’t stop until she decided they did. If I clenched my jaw and stayed silent, the swats came faster, harder, until she got what she wanted: tears, yelps, and the humiliating little noises I couldn’t hold back. I’d come to dread that tipping point, when her hand stilled just long enough for me to think it was over… and then started again, sharper, determined to wring me out completely. For an older woman, she sure had a hell of a swing, and the stamina to keep at it until every ounce of resistance in me was gone.

A few weeks of that routine was already wearing me down. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper, somewhere I didn’t want to examine too closely. I caught myself counting the hours until the next change, not for the relief of dryness, but for… other reasons. And that was the worst part.

I hated the constant handling. Her tugging the front waistband of my diaper  open to check me, the way she’d pat the padding, squeeze it, with no regard for the bulge of my balls inside. The way she casually wrapped the wipe around my wiener, sliding it back and forth clinically. Not with a purpose. Just a duty.  I hated to admit it, but all of it was doing something to me. I hated how it felt afterward, a lingering tingling in my cock and an ongoing stiffness from my fucking Mother-in-law wiping down my dick during a diaper change.

And when I was alone, the urge to… do something about it was starting to gnaw at me.

That morning had been like most. The check, the inevitable comment about the raincloud on my chart from the night before. Then came the high chair, straps buckled snugly around me while she spooned out another bowl of the same bland oatmeal I always got. No flavor, no texture, nothing to bite into. I didn’t have to chew anymore…hadn’t for a while. Just open, swallow, and accept whatever she decided went in. Afterward, she led me to the miniature walls of the playpen in the living room, switched on Cocomelon, and pressed a bottle into my mittened hands with a curt, “Stay where I can see you.” 

So I sat there, crinkling and sulking, watching the morning news dissolve into brightly colored cartoons while she moved into the den. For a while, it was just the canned laughter and sing-song voices filling the room. Then another sound cut through, her voice carrying easily down the hall.

“Yes, first thing this morning. He was soaked through the liner again!  I told you, we may need to double-diaper at night,” Kathy  said, her voice drifting casually from the kitchen. “Claire, he had the most pathetic look on his face! Like he didn’t even understand why he was wet again. Bless his heart!”

My stomach twisted. She was on the phone. With Claire. Talking about me.

And not in whispers. Not in code. Just flat, loud honesty. Like my nighttime accidents were as normal as the weather.

I stared at the floor, the back of my neck burning. My legs itching from the elastic cuffs of the romper she’d stuffed me into after the morning change. I could still feel the bloated bulk between my thighs, still hear the words she’d whispered in my ear when she wiped me clean: “Some little boys just leak in their sleep, sweetheart. That’s why you need diapers. That’s why you need me!”

Now she was sharing it. With my wife.

“Oh yes! He’s pooping his pampers quite regularly now. Had two yesterday alone.” Kathy’s voice carried easily from the other room, smug and cheerful, like she was bragging about a tottler’s milestones instead of her grown son-in-law’s humiliations.

I froze in place. My ears burned. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just sat there in the playpen, listening, humiliated, diapered, sucking on a ridiculous pacifier as whatever pride I had left was vanishing one dirty diaper and phone call at a time.

She chuckled, a low, delighted sound that made my stomach twist. “Mm-hm. Big ones! All on his own, no help needed. I think he’s finally getting used to it.”

I swallowed hard, the crinkle of my diaper deafening as I shifted my weight. 

“He still gets a bit loose from all the mushy baby food,” she went on, breezily, as if she didn’t know I was just a few feet away and hearing every word. “A couple scoops of fiber in his bottles, and everything thickened right up, and he has become quite regular at packing his pampers!!”

My knees nearly buckled. I wanted to disappear.

“Oh, you should see him!” she said, and I could practically hear her smiling. “He makes the funniest little faces when he’s going. Tries so hard to pretend he isn’t. But it’s obvious.”

I covered my face with both hands, muffling the groan that escaped.

“His face turns red, he lets out these adorable little grunts, mouth drops open a little… and then it’s over. And that’s when the shame really hits him. You can see it wash across his face. He’s mortified, like he can’t believe what he just did. I don’t change him right away, of course. I make him sit in it for a while, let that embarrassment sink in. It’s good for him to feel it, to stew in the reality of what he’s become.”

I missed when I could have a little privacy to poop. To sit on a toilet instead of squatting in the living room and pushing out a present in front of my mother-in-law’s grinning gaze.

And I missed other things too: release. Relief. I hadn’t had an orgasm in over three weeks. Not since she took away my bathroom privileges. Not since the mittens. Not since the bedtime straps kept me flat on my back, wrists and ankles immobilized, unable to hump anything but air.

Even if I tried, the nursery cam recorded every squirm.

I dreamed about it. Woke up grinding upward into the air in soaked padding, panting into my pacifier, desperate and leaking…but not cumming. I thought about sneaking one during tummy time the other day, but Kathy’s eyes were watching me like a hawk, like she suspected that’s what I would try to do: hump my Huggies right there in front of her. 

I couldn’t shake it. For days, I was so pent-up, so constantly on edge, it felt like something inside me was humming.  I was trapped in my own skin. And I was so god damn horny all the time it felt like I was vibrating inside it. I don’t care how fucked up and bizarre this whole situation is: men have needs. Once the thought enters your head, it sinks in like a hook. You can’t just shake it. You try, you distract yourself, but it loops back. Especially when all you have to distract yourself are blocks and a rattle to jerk the same way you used to jerk your wiener.

Everything I did was monitored, locked away, mittened, restricted.  There was no privacy. Not a second that really belonged to me. Kathy was always watching my every move. 

Except for now. 

She was in the other room, chatting away with my wife about my bowel movements. I would be able to hear her footfalls when she was coming back. Maybe I could sneak in a touch. Just a little, just to take the edge off...

My dick was already throbbing inside of my damp diaper. It felt like it was constantly doing that at this point. My hands were useless, trapped in the warm, fluffy shell of the mittens, but I could still press them into the front of my pamper. Just a bit. Just to see how it felt. 

So I did…

Even that tiny friction sent a shock through my cock. The desperation had been building for days, weeks, and it took almost nothing to stoke it back to life. Weeks of crawling, wetting, whining. Weeks of baby talk and bibs and bottles and bouncing for her amusement. Weeks of cold wipes on my cock, lotion being slowly rubbed into it, and then sprinkled with the soft snow of powder. All with no release. A part of me was revolted that it was my mother-in-law doing the fondling, but the other part was too desperate to care.

I waited. Listened. No footsteps. Just chatting and cackling. 

“I swear, I’ve changed more dirty diapers in the last week than I did when you were a baby, Claire.”

I tried to shake that shame off, and rubbed a little more. Just a tad. I thought in my head. But don’t get carried away. You don’t want to work yourself up too much, and you *certainly* don’t want to get caught. 

But I couldn’t help it. I needed it. Just a little relief. Just enough to keep from losing my fucking mind.

I couldn’t stop. I was starving for it.

My thighs tensed. I rubbed harder, shifting my weight forward until the front of the diaper compressed tight against the head of my aching, throbbing cock. The dull pressure of the padding rubbing back wasn’t much stimulation at all, but it was enough to make my breath catch. It didn’t take much. Not anymore.

“Just consider yourself lucky,” Kathy’s voice continued from the kitchen. “You don’t have to deal with all the squirming and the wiping and the powder and the… well, you know.” She chuckled softly. “Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t want to be the one changing these diapers. Some days I have to open a window.”

I inhaled sharply. The thought hit before I could stop it:

Claire.

Changing me.

Her soft hands. Her voice, unsure. Her face—God…her face—seeing me like this. Lifting my legs. Wiping me clean. Diapering me.

I let out a muffled sound behind my pacifier. A whimper. And my hips rolled without thinking.

Why am I thinking about my wife changing my diaper?? Shouldn’t I be thinking more about having sex with her? Or even sex with someone else?

But it was like my brain was being rewired. The only form of “intimacy” I had nowadays was getting cold wipes rubbed across my genitals…by my fucking Mother-in-Law. 

I cringed, but still the thoughts of Claire being the one fondling me rushed back, and inside my diaper was a very desperate “itch” that needed scratching. 

Don’t. I thought. Kathy could come in at any moment. 

But I couldn’t keep my mittened hand from running up and down the front of my diaper, rubbing. Just enough to feel the pressure. Just enough to remember. The padding was damp, of course. My diapers didn’t stay dry for long anymore. But the wetness actually made the stimulation a little better. Though I wished it was at least still warm and hadn’t gone so cold and clammy. 

“I know you said you still love him,” Kathy went on. “But this isn’t what a young woman like you should be dealing with. He’s not a husband anymore, honey. He’s just… well, he’s something else now.”

She’s still talking. You’ll hear her footsteps. You’ve got time.

I pressed harder. The padding was thick, muffling everything, but there was still a pulse there, a throbbing, aching need. 

No. This is pathetic. *You’re* pathetic. Rubbing a wet fucking diaper and getting your rocks off. 

But the more I tried to stop, the more I pictured Claire’s face: disgusted, confused, hovering over me as I lay back in my crinkly shame, unable to hide a thing. The more I moved, the less I cared about the risk. It was almost worth it, that stolen sliver of control, the knowledge that for a few seconds, it was my choice. My thighs trembled. My breathing grew shallow. 

What was that? I froze, heart racing. Was that her coming in?

My eyes darted to the hallway. I tuned my ears into every frequency I could. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No shadow. Just another soft laugh from the kitchen. Her voice, syrupy sweet. “Oh, he hates when I tell you these things. But I told him: you’re his wife, and wives deserve to know what their babies get up to.”

If she knew what I was up to now, she would be blistering my backside so bad I won’t be able to sit for a week.

Despite the thought, I couldn’t help but start rubbing again. I was pot-committed. I bit down on my pacifier to stifle my moans. My breathing came harder, faster. My nose whistling. I shifted again, trying to get more friction through the thick padding. Every movement made the plastic crinkle louder, and with each one, the heat in my cheeks matched the heat in my crotch. If I could just get proper contact, I would’ve finished minutes ago. But the clumsy, dulled friction only made it worse. Dragging it out, teasing without satisfying, turning urgency into agony.

The soft rubbing wasn’t enough. Not even close.

I shoved aside the blocks and rattling plastic toys littering my playmat with one clumsy swipe and shifted to my stomach. The position made it easier. More friction, more pressure. I started to hump. Slowly at first. Testing. My body shivered with the contact. The padding was soggy, embarrassingly damp and clammy, but that almost didn’t matter. It still gave me something to push into. Some resistance. Some illusion of control. The rubber mat squeaked beneath my crinkling diaper as I rutted against the floor. 

She’s going to hear. She’s going to hear and come in and—

“I hand him a bottle after he’s already sitting in a mess.” Her voice rang out. “He drinks without a word, like he knows it’s the price for a clean diaper.”

The coast was clear. For now.

I stayed still, straining to listen for footsteps. One creak of the floorboards, one sigh too close, and I’d be done for. But there was nothing, just her voice drifting from the kitchen.

I told myself to stop. To wait. To be smart.

But my hips moved anyway.

“He’s such a handful sometimes, but we’re making real progress. He knows the price he’ll pay if he misbehaves.”

Stop. You have to stop.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The pressure inside me was a tidal wave now, crashing against my willpower. My hips kept thrusting. I humped the mat with growing urgency, eyes squeezed shut, unable to think about anything but that edge just out of reach.

Almost. Just a little more. Please.

I was close. So close. Just a moment. She wouldn’t check. She was still on the phone. I just needed—

“Ethan.”

Her voice cut through the house like a whip crack.

I froze. My stomach dropped.

My eyes flew open. Kathy was standing in the doorway, phone still in hand, looking straight at me. 

I was caught. 

She’d seen everything.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart thudded so hard it hurt.

For a few seconds, she didn’t say a word. Just watched. Then, smoothly, she turned her head toward the phone and said with a small laugh:

“Guess who I just caught doing humpies on the playmat?” she said, voice razor-sharp. “Your big, strong husband.”

I scrambled to pull my hips back, to sit up, to pretend I hadn’t—but it was too late. Her expression didn’t waver.

“Oh yes,” she went on coolly, lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “On all fours. Grinding away like a filthy little mutt. I told you he was getting desperate.”

Even through the phone I could hear Claire’s cackling laughter.

But Kathy didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Kathy said, "I need to let you go, darling. Your little hubby’s earned himself a lesson he won’t forget."

She hung up without waiting for a reply.

The silence was unbearable. Kathy’s eyes, once casual and amused while chatting with Claire, had gone flat. Cold. Dissecting. Her jaw was tight, her mouth curled not in a frown, but in something far worse: disgust. She didn’t look angry. She looked disappointed, like she’d stepped in something foul. Like she couldn’t believe the thing in front of her was a grown man, much less her daughter’s husband.

She stepped forward, slow and calm, and unlatched the playpen gate. The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot in the silence.

I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn’t make my mouth move.

“Up.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh, but there was no room for argument.

I swallowed and my legs wobbled as I sat up. I couldn’t meet her eyes. Not with what I’d just been doing. Not with the damp front of my diaper tented the way it was.

I was humiliated.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’d wanted relief, not… this. Not to be exposed like some panting animal, caught red-handed—hard—in a pissy diaper.

She crouched beside me, her mouth set in a line of pure disapproval. Then she reached out and gripped the front of my diaper.

She’d done it before. Countless times, really. Morning checks. Afternoon checks. Mechanical, dismissive, routine.

But this wasn't that.

This was slower. Firmer. Purposeful.

My whole body clenched, frozen in place, cheeks blazing as her fingers pinched against the front of my padding. She could feel it. The tension. The unmistakable throb of what I was, what I’d been doing. My still hard and throbbing cock betraying me inside the squishy padding.

Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured, not even looking at me. “Soaked through and stiff as a board…”

I wanted to disappear.

“You’ve never had an ounce of self-control, have you?” she asked, voice low and sharp. “That’s what landed you in this mess in the first place. Couldn’t keep it in your pants. Couldn’t think past your own urges. Couldn’t think with anything but this sad little thing right here.” She gave it another squeeze, this time crueler. “And now look at you! you’re humping the diaper you were put in because you couldn’t act like a man. Like a filthy little pervert”

I turned crimson. My pacifier bobbed uselessly with each quick breath. She peeled back the leg of my romper and inspected the inside of the diaper. I felt the cool air sneak in, then her fingers at the edge. Searching. Checking.

“Sticky?” she murmured, almost to herself.

I held my breath.

“No,” she said at last. “Not yet…but leaking. Looks like I caught you just in time.”

She let the elastic snap back against my thigh, making me flinch, then wiped her hand on a burp cloth like I was something filthy she couldn’t stand to touch. 

“You really thought you could hump yourself off in a diaper like this and not get caught?” she asked, tilting her head. “In my house?”

My head shook before I even knew I was doing it. “No. Please. I wasn’t….I didn’t mean—”

She cut me off with a look. Just a raised brow and a slight tilt of her head, like she was done entertaining excuses. But to my surprise, she reached down and began unfastening the locks on each mitten. The clasps popped open, one by one, and she slid the padded restraints off my hands. My fingers flexed involuntarily, the air hitting my damp palms for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Get your hands on the rail of the playpen,” she said, voice low and cold. “Now! Since you can’t be trusted to keep them to yourself...”

My heart dropped. My limbs moved on their own. I turned and shuffled forward on wobbly knees, gripping the bars with my mittened hands, staring down at the soft mat like it might swallow me.

I swallowed hard. She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. I could hear her footsteps retreating. Then…silence.

A long, unbearable silence.

Every second stretched. I stayed frozen, gripping the rail like a prisoner awaiting punishment. I didn’t dare turn around. Was she calling Claire back? Getting the paddle from the cabinet? The suppositories? The bar of soap? Or worse… was she going to make me explain myself on video again?

God, what was she going to do?

My heart pounded. My diaper clung wetly to my hips. A drop of sweat rolled down my neck. My legs were still weak from the humping and the shameful, helpless little thrusts that had led me here. And now?

Now I was going to pay for it.

The sound of her heels returned. Slow. Intentional.

I stiffened.

She stepped back into the playpen, her shadow falling over me on the mat. In her hand she held a small white pharmacy tube. She lifted it deliberately so I could see it clearly: plain label, tiny black letters, no picture. She gave it a single slow shake, letting the faint slosh inside carry through the silence.

“Since you’re so desperate to touch yourself,” she murmured, “we’re going to make sure it’s… memorable.”

I whimpered in fear.

She said nothing as she crouched in front of me, all business. Her presence alone amplified the knot of dread twisting in my gut. A deep, sinking certainty that whatever came next would strip away another layer of my crumbling dignity.

Rip. Rip.

The tapes of my diaper came undone one by one, the front flap flopped open with a wet, heavy sigh, exposing my still stiff, still leaking cock.

I couldn’t look at her. My face burned. The cold air on my skin made it worse somehow.

Kathy just stared. Her lips tightened. Her eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

“So this is what gets you going now,” she said, voice low. “Not your wife. Not a warm bed. Just sitting in your own piss, grinding like a mongrel.”

I swallowed hard. My pacifier bobbed with each shallow breath. I wanted to pull the diaper back up. To cover myself. To disappear. She didn’t reach for a wipe. Didn’t clean me. Instead, she just stood and picked up the tube, shook it once, then popped the cap.

“Palms up.”

My head snapped up.

She didn’t repeat it.

Hands trembling, I turned them over, presenting them like a little one awaiting punishment.

She squeezed a generous dollop of the cream into each palm. It was cool, thick, tingling faintly. The scent was chemical and clinical.

“Go on,” she said, stepping back just enough to watch, arms folded. Her voice was clipped, full of contempt. “Finish the job.”

My head jerked up. “What?”

“You heard me.” Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You were so eager a minute ago...”

She sat back on her heels, folding her hands in her lap like she had all the time in the world.

“Let’s see what happens when you get exactly what you want.”

I stayed frozen, heart pounding in my chest. My knees pressed into the mat, the open diaper splayed beneath me like a mocking canvas. I could feel my shame laid bare. Wet, sticky, exposed. Her eyes never moved.

“Rub,” she said. “Now.”

Every nerve screamed at me to refuse, to beg, to run. But the ache between my legs throbbed, raw and insistent, my cock straining against the air like it didn’t know—or didn’t care—how fucking disgraceful this was. My face burned hotter than ever. Still, slowly, I reached down. My fingers wrapped around my shaft, the slick ointment coating my throbbing length, and almost instantly, the humiliation multiplied. I was doing it. Jerking off right in front of her, my piss-soaked diaper splayed open beneath me.

“That’s it,” she laughed. “Show me how badly you needed it. Stroke that pathetic little dick for Gam-Gam.”

I looked away. I couldn’t stand the sight of her watching me like that, like I was something pathetic in a zoo exhibit, pumping my fist over my leaking cock in an enclosure. But even as I tried to focus on the rhythm, building that desperate friction, I felt it: the first spark of something wrong.

A tingle. Cool. Then… colder.

I frowned, slowing my strokes.

“No stopping,” she snapped. “Keep going. Faster.”

The coolness turned sharp. It crept up my shaft like frostbite, numbing and needling all at once, making my balls tighten in confusion.

Then, without warning, the sensation flipped.

It burned.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot.

Scalding.

I gasped, my hand faltering mid-pump.

“I… it hurts.”

“Good,” she said coolly. “That’s the devil leaving your body.”

The burn deepened. It wasn’t just the skin, it was under it, inside it, like fire chasing through my nerves, scorching every inch of my swollen cock.

“Every filthy sin and thought you’ve had since you married my daughter, that’s what’s burning,” she went on. “You should be grateful.”

My hips twitched involuntarily, trying to escape the growing fire beneath my palm. I whimpered. “Please…”

She tilted her head. “Keep rubbing. You wanted this, remember? Milk that tiny prick until it screams.”

I tried. God, I tried. My hand moved in shaky circles, spreading the fire, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. The pain was unbearable, like sandpaper grinding against my sensitive head, but my cock stayed rock-hard, betraying me. My thighs trembled. My stomach clenched.

“It hurts…please!! It hurts soo much—”

“And yet you’re still hard,” she said with withering disgust. “Is that not the saddest thing you’ve ever felt? That worthless nub throbbing even as it burns?”

“I can’t,” I sobbed.

“Yes, you can. Because you’re going to finish. And you’re going to do it in front of me.” Her voice dropped lower, darker. “Eyes up.”

I forced my tear-stained gaze to meet hers. Unflinching. Merciless. Arms crossed. Like she was watching an animal be broken.

The burn kept spreading, like something alive was eating its way through me, turning my shaft into a pulsing rod of agony. My breath caught in short, sharp gasps. I kept rubbing, because it hurt more to stop. Because my body didn’t know what else to do, my fist slick with the ointment and my own pre-cum.

Tears blurred everything. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t beg anymore. I just wanted it to be over.

“Look at you,” she muttered. “Reduced to this. A grown man, furiously stroking his burning cock over a piss-soaked diaper, crying in front of his mother-in-law.”

I hiccupped a sob. My legs kicked slightly against the floor.

“Go on,” she whispered. “Show me how pathetic you really are. Let me see every last drop of dignity burn right out of you, as you hump your hand like the desperate little heathen you are!”

I didn’t want to. God, I did not want to. But my body had stopped caring what I wanted.

Each motion dragged fire across my skin. The ointment—whatever was in it—had sunk deeper now, soaked into every raw nerve ending, turning what should have been pleasure into something indistinguishable from pain. But it ached, too. A deep, gnawing pulse beneath the burn, urging me forward like a cruel joke, my balls churning with unwanted need.

My hips moved on their own, bucking into my fist. My hand was trembling so badly I could barely keep a rhythm, but I pumped harder, faster, the slick sounds filling the air.

“Please—” I whispered.

She didn’t reply. She just watched. Cold, unmoved, stone-faced. A witness and a warden all at once.

The pain twisted. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Each jerk was a battle. I wasn’t even sure if I was still chasing pleasure, or just trying to finish so it would end, my cock weeping pre-cum that only spread the burn further. My thighs trembled violently. My mouth was open around the pacifier, sucking frantically, desperate for something to ground me as my free hand clawed at the mat.

“You’re close,” Kathy said, voice almost amused. “Aren’t you? I can see it: your little balls drawing up, that pathetic shaft twitching.”

I whimpered.

“Of course you are,” she said. “All that burning, and you still can’t help yourself. You’re going to squirt for me, aren’t you?”

I nodded, helpless, sobbing.

“Go on, then. Make a mess. You’ve made so many already, what’s one more? Shoot your load right into that filthy diaper.”

The ache was building now, cruelly sharp, blinding. My knees splayed out further on the mat. I squeezed my eyes shut—

“No,” she barked. “Eyes up.”

I looked at her. Through the tears. Through the humiliation. Through the fire.

“Cum.” she ordered.

And I did.

It wasn’t relief. Not even close. It was a violent, spasming release. White-hot, overwhelming, agonizing. My whole body convulsed, one long, shuddering pulse that made my spine arch and a strangled cry choke in my throat. Rope after rope of cum erupted from my tortured cock, splattering onto the open diaper below, mixing with the piss and ointment in a sticky, shameful puddle. There was no pleasure in it. Just… release. Just the forced, broken end of a need that had poisoned me from the inside out, leaving me drained and raw.

I collapsed onto my elbows, gasping, whimpering.

Kathy didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.

“Pathetic,” she said softly. “Just another mess in a diaper.”

She stood slowly, and I heard the crinkle of the plastic beneath me, the squish of the soaked padding under my thighs. I was leaking down my legs now. Shame and sweat and cum and stickiness.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, towering above me, arms crossed. Then, finally:

“Pick it up.”

I blinked up at her. “What?”

“The diaper,” Kathy said, gesturing to the soggy, opened garment on the floor, my cum splattered across the piss-soaked padding like a filthy confession. “You made the mess. You can carry it.”

My hands trembled as I reached down and lifted the diaper by its thick waistband. It sagged with the weight of leaked piss and my sticky load, cold now, humiliatingly clammy against my fingers. My cheeks burned. My stomach churned.

“Into the nursery,” she said, opening the gate with a click.

Each step was a death sentence. I could feel the diaper drooping, threatening to spill, my fingertips growing damp where I held it. The scent clung to me. My scent. Pungent urine mixed with the musky tang of cum. It was unbearable. I couldn’t stop staring at it as I carried it toward the nursery, at the pale, pearly ropes of semen that shimmered in its crinkled core, pooling in the absorbent gel. My own fluids. Cold now. Glistening. A physical record of my failure. Of my desperation.

“Put it on the crib.”

I laid the diaper flat across the mattress like she asked, trying not to look. But I did. I couldn’t help it. The thick inner layer was warped from the weight, the saturation uneven, with a soft depression right where I had humped into it. It looked obscene. Stained with shame.

“Now lie down. Right on top of it.”

I turned, mouth open to plead, but one look from her shut me up.

I climbed into the crib, the wet padding squelching under me as I lowered myself. It hugged my bare ass, cold, sticky. It crinkled as I lay down on my back. She pulled the straps across my chest, thighs, wrists, and ankles. Each one fastened tight with the rip of Velcro. Each one sealing me to the mattress. Her motions were smooth, practiced. She’d done this many times.

She didn’t speak again until I was fully restrained. Then, she knelt beside the crib and reached into the basket at her side. She didn’t pull out wipes. She didn’t pull out powder. She pulled out metal, so bright and shiny it gleamed in the light.

My blood ran cold.

“No—no, please—”

“You’ve made your choices,Ethan” she said, not unkindly. “Now you get to live with them.”

The chastity cage was small. Stainless steel. Flat, narrow, and impossibly confining, designed to crush any hint of an erection into submission.

My whole body tensed.

“No,” I whispered, throat dry. “Please—please, no.”

She said nothing. Her hand moved with clinical precision. She grasped my spent, shrinking length and worked the ring on first, lifting and guiding, fitting my balls through the cold steel with a firm tug that made me yelp. I whimpered.

“Not even trying to get hard now?” she asked dryly. “That’s new.”

She slipped the ring behind my scrotum with practiced ease. It was snug, pinching the skin just enough to remind me who was in control. Then came the cage itself, cold metal pressing down, enclosing my flaccid cock inch by inch, tighter than I imagined possible. My breath caught as she guided it into place, forcing my shaft to curl inward, trapped and useless in its new prison.

A tiny click, and the lock was sealed.  

“There,” she said, brushing her hands off and giving the cage a little tap that sent a jolt through my cock. “All tucked in. No more humping. No more accidents. Your pathetic little dick is under my control now.”

I could barely breathe. Everything felt so tight and restrictive, and no matter which way I twisted and squirmed, there was no escaping the discomfort. 

“Honestly,” she added, her voice low, disgust curling at the edge of it, “I don’t even know why I waited this long.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look at her. I could only feel: the cold of the metal squeezing my shaft, the throb of denial, the sticky dampness beneath me where my cum soaked into the diaper.

She adjusted the straps around my thighs again, then reached down and gave the cage a subtle tug, just enough to make me gasp as it pulled on my trapped balls.

“Not going anywhere,” she said, voice cool.

With a tight breath, she stepped back from the crib, brushing off her hands like she’d just finished some messy kitchen chore.

“That cage is going to stay on,” she said, glancing down at it, “until you learn what to do with yourself. Or, more accurately, what not to do with that worthless prick.”

She turned for the door, but paused.

“I need a little something from the pantry,” she said casually, like she was grabbing jam for toast. “Just lie still.”

As if I had a choice.

She was gone for less than a minute.

When she returned, her heels clicked deliberately across the nursery floor. I craned my neck to see, then immediately wished I hadn’t.

A small glass bottle dangled from her fingers. The color inside was a vicious red, almost glowing beneath the light. The cap was hand-labeled in a feminine scrawl: "Helena’s Hellfire."

Kathy sat down on the edge of the crib with a sigh, unscrewed the top, and tilted it toward me just enough for the scent to hit.

My eyes watered instantly. Sharp vinegar stabbed straight up my nose, followed by a raw, acrid burn that made my sinuses scream. It was practically pure fire in a bottle, like breathing in hot peppers and battery acid mixed together. No sweetness. No mercy. Just immediate, punishing heat that clawed at the back of my throat and made my whole face clench.

“My mother’s recipe,” she said, twirling the bottle between her fingers. “People say it’s the hottest in town.”

Then she tilted her head and grinned with a calm, cruel smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“I made this batch even stronger.”

I whimpered and strained against the straps. “Please…I’m sorry! I’ll behave, I swear I’ll—”

“Shh.” She reached for the small pacifier still in my mouth and unbuckled it with quick fingers. I gasped, tried to speak again, but she was already holding the new one up.

Thicker. Wider. The bulb was harder rubber, larger, shaped to fill every inch of my mouth and stay there. A padded strap dangled from the back.

“You’re going to need this, sweetheart,” she said softly. “It’s going to get loud.”

My eyes widened. “No! Kathy! Please! Wait!!! I’ll be good! I promise!!”

She pressed the thick bulb against my lips. I shook my head frantically, twisted side to side as far as the straps allowed, begged through clenched teeth. “Please—don’t—please—”

She pushed the gag in firmly, forcing my jaw open wide. The rubber filled my mouth completely, pressing my tongue flat, stretching my lips around the base. She buckled the strap behind my head, tightening it just enough that I couldn’t spit it out or close properly. Drool started pooling immediately.

I tried to scream. It came out as a thick, muffled “Mmmph!”. Wet and desperate.

She patted my cheek once. “There! Now we can begin.”

She dipped her fingers into the bottle. Just the tips, coating them in the viscous red liquid.

“This isn’t about punishment, sweetheart.”

The first touch landed at the base of the cage, her slick fingers pressing the oil into the exposed skin around my trapped balls.

“It’s about cleansing.”

It felt like she poured gasoline on an open flame. Pain exploded instantly—searing, vicious, like a blowtorch held to the most sensitive skin. I bucked hard against the straps, a strangled scream ripping out around the thick gag. My hips jerked upward, back arching, wrists yanking violently at the Velcro. My balls clenched in agony, drawing tight as the fire burrowed deep and spread outward in hot, throbbing waves.

“The devil doesn’t leave quietly,” she murmured, voice distant, almost reverent. “He screams his way out. Remember that.”

She rubbed slowly, methodically, working the oil into the thin skin at the root, then sliding her fingertip through the narrow slits of the cage to coat the underside of my squeezed shaft. Each deliberate stroke drove the burn deeper, stinging turned to scorching, then to a relentless, clawing heat that pulsed with my heartbeat. My cock throbbed uselessly against the steel, every twitch amplifying the agony until it felt like my entire groin was being slowly roasted alive.

I thrashed, muffled howls shaking my chest, head whipping side to side. Tears spilled immediately. Drool leaked from the corners of my stretched mouth. My thighs quivered uncontrollably, muscles locking and releasing as the fire sank into every nerve.

“Your little dicklette burning for its sins.”

Another dab. She pressed her finger through the bars, smearing the oil directly onto the sensitive head where it pressed desperately against the steel end, then traced a cruel line along the slit at the tip, working it into the tiny opening.

The fresh contact sent a white-hot spike lancing through me. I jerked violently, a high, broken keen muffled behind the gag. My hips rolled in frantic circles, thighs slamming together then apart, heels drumming the mattress. The burn sharpened to something blinding, nerves screaming, my whole shaft pulsing like it was being held over live coals. Tears streamed freely. Snot bubbled around the pacifier. Every muffled wail shook my body.

Every nerve protested louder. My cock twitched helplessly against the metal, each futile pulse feeding the inferno. I gasped wetly through the gag, body trembling, hips twitching with every heartbeat as the pain gnawed deeper.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you, Ethan,” she said, dabbing one final stripe along the underside of the cage, “But this is for your own good…”

I writhed harder, muffled cries turning frantic and raw, hips bucking against the straps, shoulders straining, head whipping side to side. Drool poured. My whole body shook with the effort to escape the gnawing, searing hell between my legs.

The bottle was still more than half full.

She looked down at it, then at me, eyes sweeping over my contorted face, the muffled whimpers, the helpless twitching of my caged groin.

Then she smiled. Cold. Final.

“But maybe a dab isn’t enough for a boy like you.”

My eyes widened. “Mmmph—no—plmmph—Kmmphy—dmmn’t—!”

She tilted the bottle.

A thick stream of red poured out, splashing over the cage, running through the bars to soak the head and shaft inside, drenching my balls and trickling down the crack of my ass before pooling in the diaper beneath me.

The pain detonated. Instant. Absolute. Lava flooding every inch of trapped flesh. I screamed, full-throated, shattering behind the gag, body convulsing violently. Hips jackknifed upward, back arching until only shoulders and heels touched the mattress. Legs thrashed, heels hammering the rails. Head whipped side to side, slamming the headboard. Drool sprayed. Tears streamed. Every muscle seized and released in wild spasms. I bucked again and again, mindless, shrieking, consumed by white-hot agony.

“Oh, hush now,” she said, unruffled, setting the bottle aside. “You made this mess. I’m just sealing it up.”

She pulled the clammy diaper up slowly, letting the soaked padding mash the burning oil right against my caged cock and balls, pressing the fire deeper with every inch.

I howled louder, body still bucking and writhing, the fresh pressure turning agony as she taped the flaming diaper around me, each tape locked firmly in place, trapping every drop of fire and shame inside the torturous cocoon.

She smoothed the front with both hands, patting twice, pressing the heat even deeper into my trapped, thrashing flesh.

“There,” she said softly. “All sealed up. Every drop locked in where it belongs. Your naughty bits are going to simmer nicely in there.”

My screams turned raw, wet, endless behind the thick gag. Hips bucked instinctively, legs kicked, arms yanked at the straps. The soaked, stinging padding ground the oil deeper with every desperate twitch, making my asshole burn alongside my caged cock in unrelenting waves.

She did not flinch. She did not speak. She simply stood, gave one final pat to the top of the diaper, pressing the inferno harder, and clicked on the mobile. A soft lullaby began to play, whimsical and bright, completely at odds with the shrieking hell between my legs.

The lights dimmed to low amber. Kathy stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” she said quietly. “You’ve earned it.”

She flicked the lock shut behind her.

And I was left there, strapped down, gagged, thrashing in the hell I had made. Only the mobile spun above me, and the slow, unrelenting burn between my legs scorched my trapped cock and balls, reminding me I was in fucking hell.

To Be Continued

Oof! This one was a doozy huh? Maybe I went a little overboard on how harsh it was. (Disclaimer: Do NOT ever put Icy-Hot on your genitals irl...it will not end well.) I wish I could say things start to turn out better for Ethan but...I'd be lying. If you'd like to read Chapter 8 and 9, head over to my Subscribestar! All the cool Littles are doing it!

Click Here to Read Chapter 7 for free!

Click Here to Read Chapter 8 and 9!

[stinky-in-pinky]

Someone Needs a Nap

Layla sat cross-legged on the thick, colorful playmat in the living room, the late-morning sunlight filtering through the blinds and casting soft stripes across the alphabet blocks scattered around you. The mat crinkled faintly every time you shifted your weight. She jingled a bright, colorful rattle inches from your face, her voice light and singsong. “Shakey-shakey, widdle baybee! Show me how you jingle and jiggle!”

You stared at the rattle, jaw tight around your pacifier, refusing to reach for it. The heavy, loaded mess in the seat of your diaper had been there for well over an hour now. It had started warm during your earlier ‘play’, but it had now cooled into a thick, sticky weight that squished and clung with every small movement. You knew the smell had to be noticeable, no way she couldn’t smell it, but the rule was ironclad: Littles don’t ask for changes. They wait. You huffed through your nose instead, cheeks puffed out in quiet protest.

Layla set the rattle down, trying something else, picking up the stacking ring toy, holding up a bright blue ring. “What color is this one, sweetie? Can you tell Mommy? Bwoo? Say it with me! Bwoooo!”

You tried your best not to roll your eyes, taking the ring and slipping it over the yellow rod. No response. Your pacifier bobbed as you suckled, trying to ignore the way the mush shifted when you leaned forward.

“Awww!” Mommy tilted her head, eyes wide with exaggerated concern. “What’s da matturr, widdle one?” She leaned in closer, her nose wrinkling just for a second before she smoothed it away with a bright smile. The smell was definitely there, you could tell by the brief pause, but she breezed right past it. “Somewon is awffwee fussy today! Is my little guy having a tough morning? Huh??”

You huffed again, louder this time, crossing your arms over your chest. The diaper sagged heavily between your thighs, the tapes straining.

“Is widdle baybee thirsty? Is that why he’s so gwumpy?” She reached for the sippy cup you’d knocked over earlier. The bright red liquid sloshed inside. Cranberry juice. She knew you hated the tart, metallic taste of fucking Cranberry juice.

You didn’t even think. Your hand shot out and swatted the cup hard. It flew across the mat, juice splashing in a sticky arc over the blocks and onto the edge of the playmat.

Layla’s expression changed instantly. The sweet, playful Mommy voice vanished completely.

"That's it." She said, her voice low and sharp. "I've had it! You've been acting like a little brat all morning."

She started counting off on her fingers, her tone growing colder with every point.

“You were fussy and impossible in your highchair, spitting out your food, wriggling and whining and making a mess like a spoiled little shit. Then you spent the rest of the morning crying and complaining about your cock cage like a pathetic, entitled man-baby. 'iT's sO uNfAiR'!! iT's tOo tiGht!! i cAn'T tAkE iT aNyMoRe!!' Wahh wahh wahh!." She mocked in a high-pitched, whiny voice.. "You kept spitting your pacifier out the second I turned away. You’ve been talking back to me all day, and not even using your baby-babble either!" Her voice carried a mix of disbelief and genuine offense, "You’ve already had two time-outs and a spanking today, and now you’re ignoring me during playtime and knocking things over like a defiant little terror.”

Layla let the heavy silence hang in the air for a moment, crossing her arms while she leered at me.

“I think someone needs a nap.”

Before you could react, her fingers clamped around your wrist with a vice-like grip. She stood, yanking you up with her.The sudden upward pull made the heavily loaded diaper droop and sag dramatically between your legs. The full, sticky weight pulled downward, peeling slightly away from your skin before settling even heavier and messier than before.

You waddled beside her down the hallway, cheeks burning, the thick padding forcing your thighs apart. Fine, you thought, clinging to a small flicker of relief despite how vicious and cold she was being. At least I’ll finally get out of this fucking diaper. She’ll change me, tuck me in, and I can reset.

The nursery door flew open. The familiar scent of baby powder and lavender oils greeted you. On pure habit, you immediately waddled toward the changing table, already reaching up to climb onto the padded surface, eager for relief.

But Layla’s grip stayed firm around your wrist, stopping you mid-step. “Uh… what do you think you’re doing?”

You froze, mumbling around the pacifier, confused. “I… d-diapy ch-change?”

She let out a short, disbelieving scoff and folded her arms across her chest. The cool, unimpressed look in her eyes made your stomach twist. “What makes you think you deserve one of those? You act like a total shithead all day, and you actually expect me to change your poopy diaper??”

The words landed like a slap. You shifted on your feet, the mess squishing again. “I.. I was just uncomfortable… it’s yucky an-and—”

“Just because you have a dirty diaper does NOT mean you get to act like a spoiled little brat.” Her voice stayed calm, almost bored, but there was steel underneath. She didn’t move toward the wipes or powder. She just stood there, arms crossed, watching you quiver in front of the changing table you weren’t allowed to climb on.

You blinked rapidly, feeling your eyes begin to water. The last traces of defiance drained out of you in an instant. “B-but… it’s really messy…”

“Too fucking bad,” Layla said flatly, her voice ice-cold and completely detached. “You made that stinky present, and now you get to cuddle with it for all of naptime.”

She stepped past you to the crib, flipped the latch with a practiced flick, and slid the wooden railing down with a heavy clack. The plastic-covered mattress gleamed under the soft nursery light. She patted it twice like a judge with a gavel. “Up.”

Your face burned hot. Your body felt small and shaky. Your voice dropped to a meek whisper. “M-mommy… please? I’ll be good…”

“Too late for that, baby.” She gripped your wrist again, firmer this time, and tugged you over to the edge of the crib. The messy diaper flopped and swayed with every reluctant step, the cooled load shifting heavily against your skin.

You were already slipping deep into submissive headspace. Your cheeks flushed deeper, eyes turning glassy. “I’m sorry, Mommy… I didn’t mean to be bad…”

“I know you’re sorry,” she replied, sounding completely unmoved. “But sorry doesn’t earn you a clean diaper.”

It was sinking in now, really sinking in. She was serious. No change. No wipes. Just… this.

“Go on.” She nodded toward the mattress and delivered a firm, encouraging swat to the seat of your bulging diaper, making the mush spread wider, pressing it intimately against you.

Your chin quivered as you climbed up. The second your bottom settled onto the crib mattress, the loaded diaper squished loudly against the plastic sheet. You cringed hard, a tiny embarrassed squeak escaping around your pacifier as the warm, sticky mess redistributed, coating more of your skin.

Tears welled up instantly, spilling over. “I’m s-s-sorry Mommy! I’m so s-so sorry! Please change me! PLEASE!”

The words came out muffled and pathetic through the pacifier, but desperation made you keep going, as if that might somehow fix it.

Mommy didn’t react with sympathy. She reached into the corners of the crib for the restraints she hadn’t used in weeks. The soft leather cuffs dangled from short chains anchored to the frame. You didn’t fight as she took your wrists and buckled them snugly. Left, then right. Then your ankles. The chains gave you only a few inches of movement. You could wiggle, but you couldn’t reach down to touch or adjust the front of your diaper. The realization made fresh tears roll down your cheeks.

You spat the pacifier out, letting it drop onto your chest. Switching to the babytalk she usually loved, you pleaded, “I’ll be a good boy! I’ll dwink all my juice! I’ll stack all da bwocks! I’ll pway patty cakes! Pweez, Mommy! PWEEEZ!!”

She picked up the discarded pacifier and set it aside. Instead, she opened the drawer below the crib and pulled out the oversized one. The thick, bulbous silicone one with the locking strap. Your eyes widened.

“I’m sorry sweetie,” she said, but her expression held no real remorse. Just that cool, distant authority. “But this is the bed you made for yourself, so now you have to lay in it.”

She pushed the oversized pacifier against your lips. You opened automatically, but the thick bulb forced your jaw wide, stretching your mouth full. The silicone filled you completely, pressing down on your tongue. She buckled the strap behind your head, tight enough to keep it secure. The familiar pacifier was gone, this one turned every sound into a muffled, helpless noise.

“Nap time, little one.” She planted one cool kiss on your sweaty forehead, then pulled the miniature blanket up over your body, tucking the edges neatly. The stupid teddy bear was shoved gently under your armpit. “Maybe three hours in a full diaper will reset you a bit.”

Your eyes widened in panic. A desperate, high-pitched whine escaped around the thick pacifier as the reality crashed down on you. You immediately started struggling, yanking hard against the wrist and ankle restraints. The chains rattled loudly as you twisted and pulled, bucking your hips and kicking your legs as much as the short tethers would allow.

“Mmmph! Mmmphhh!” you cried desperately, the oversized pacifier turning your pleas into pathetic, muffled noises. Tears poured down your face as you thrashed. "MMMPH!!! MMPPPPHHHH!!"

Every frantic movement made the heavy, sticky mess in your diaper shift and squish obscenely. The cooled load smeared further across your skin, pressing into every crease, the mush spreading warmer and more disgustingly with each tug and wiggle. The more you fought, the worse it got, but you couldn’t stop. Panic had taken over.

Layla simply watched you with that same cold, detached expression, completely unmoved by your breakdown.

You kept struggling, sobbing around the giant pacifier, chains clattering, the messy diaper loudly squelching with every desperate motion. The humiliation burned through you, but the fear of three long hours trapped like this was stronger.

Mommy reached for the crib railing and lifted it with a solid, final click, locking it into place. The bars rose smoothly, sliding up between you and the rest of the nursery. From the other side she looked down at you: wrists and ankles restrained, thick messy diaper prominently on display beneath the blanket, face streaked with tears and flushed with humiliated submission.

“Mommy will be back to check on you later,” she said calmly. Then, with the faintest smirk, she added, “Maybe…”

She flicked on the overhead mobile. The colorful animals began to spin slowly, playing their soft, mocking lullaby, twinkling notes that felt far too cheerful for your situation.

“Sleep tight,” she whispered. She reached through the bars one last time, pressing her palm firmly against the front of your diaper and giving it a slow, deliberate squish. The mess shifted everywhere, warm and clinging. “Don’t let the diaper rash bite.”

[stinky-in-pinky]

The long-awaited sequel! I’m so happy these two came back, and I’m even happier there was nuance to both of their struggles. I hope we get to see them tackle more of their demons together in part three ❤️

I’m so glad you liked it! I’m not great at building backstories or handling character development, but this story is my biggest attempt to do so. In its really rough form, it’s about 16 parts. But already those are getting blended and shuffled and expanded. I’m happy with where the story eventually ends up, it’s just getting the in between stuff fleshed out and flowing better that I’m trying to iron out.

If you’re eager to read part 3, you can always check out my subscribestar. Either way, I always appreciate good feedback. It keeps the wind in the proverbial sails. Sorry for the long wait, my big boi job has been insane, but things should calm down soon and I can get back to writing more. Stay tuned!

Cheers 🍻

[stinky-in-pinky]

Pamper Probation: Chapter 2 - A Messy Start

Link to Chapter 1

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Regression Adjustment Pathways Initiative Sitter: Danielle Monroe Assigned Participant: Corey (Level Two) Hours Remaining: 492

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Danielle pressed her badge to the scanner outside Nursery D. The light blinked green, and so did the one on her ankle monitor. The latch on the door clicked.

She let out a hefty sigh. Day two. Only day two.

The door creaked open, and the scent hit her immediately. Faint antiseptic layered beneath synthetic lavendar. Like the room had been Febreezed to death. Muffled classical music played overhead.

She stepped inside. The lights were dimmed to “waking” mode. Corey lay in the crib, curled around that stupid stuffed giraffe with a tiny blanket bunched at his knees. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. A pacifier was still bobbing in his mouth. Did he really sleep with that in the whole night? Why not just spit it out when no one was around?

Danielle hesitated, not really knowing what to do first. There were instructions about this sort of thing, right? Morning protocol...crib release...tone of voice.

“Uh…good morning,” she said, louder than intended.

He stirred. The plastic mattress crinkled noisily when he shifted, the sound crackly and artificial. A sharp breath whistling through the shield of the pacifier as his eyes blinked open, then landed on her.

“Oh,” he said, voice dry and groggy, letting the pacifier fall as if embarrassed. “Uh…hi...”

“You were out cold,” she said, not bothering to soften her tone. The crib, even though it was larger than any crib she’d ever seen, still wasn’t long enough to allow him to extend his legs fully. His little blankie was more like a decorative towel than a comforter, and the lullabies pumping softly through the speakers would drive her insane. “Are you really able to sleep in here?”

He gave a tired shrug. “You kind of get used to it..”

She moved to the side of the crib, found the latch, and fumbled with it until the rail finally dropped down. She let her gaze drift between his legs. She couldn’t help it, there was constantly a very white, fluffy elephant in the room. The front of his diaper was visibly swollen, puffy with a faint yellow tint, but not sagging like the night before. Definitely wet though.

Corey followed her eyes and winced. “I didn’t leak,” he offered quickly, as if that salvaged something. “It’s not bad.”

“Oh, well then,” Danielle said dryly. “Let me run and get you a medal for being such a big boy!”

He started to pull the blanket back up, and that’s when she noticed how he moved. Hasty. Defensive. Suddenly trying to cover more than just his dignity.

Danielle narrowed her eyes.

“Ohhh,” she drawled. “Did someone get a visit from the stiffy fairy this morning?”

Corey flushed instantly. “I….I didn’t…” He yanked the blanket over his lap.”It’s not what it looks like! I wasn’t trying to–”

“Save it,” she snapped. “I’m sure it’s totally normal, right? Just your body doing its thing?”

He pulled the blanket up tighter, almost to his chest.

“Well, I’m not changing you while you’re like that,” she snapped. “So…figure it out.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, whimpering softly.

“You heard me,” she said. “Get it under control, or you can sit in it till lunch.”

She stepped back, shaking her head in disgust.

No one had warned her about this. There was nothing in the orientation about how to handle erections in oversized diapers. Nothing about how some of the Littles, like this one, might actually enjoy it. Might want to be here. Surely that could never be the case though. No grown man would actually want this type of treatment. He was being punished for his sins just like her and every other subject in this fucked up place.

She didn’t know if she was supposed to log it or flag his little erection, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to touch it.

Still fuming, she crossed to the charting station, eyes scanning the screen, but not really absorbing anything.

Behind her, the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the ventilation system and the occasional crinkle of plastic as Corey shifted in the crib. Hopefully deflating. Literally.

She rubbed her temple. What now? She’d made her little power move, but that had only bought her a minute or two, and now she was just... standing there.

What was she supposed to do next?

She glanced back at the screen. Her badge login was still active. The checklist blinked at her, clinical and uncaring:

LEVEL TWO MALE – ID: #0231-7C

FEEDING REQUIRED: 7:30 AM

SUPPLEMENT TYPE: 12oz Formula, Bottle Format (Warm)

LAST CHANGE: 9:05PM (Previous Day)

HYGIENE STATUS: Acceptable

Right. The bottle. She could at least do that.

The nursery had a small kitchenette tucked against the far wall: a mini-fridge, a shallow sink, a drying rack, and a stack of pastel burp cloths that looked like they’d never been used for anything innocent. Everything smelled faintly of powder and antiseptic.

Danielle yanked open the fridge. A neat row of sealed bottles stared back at her, each stamped Mother Maiden’s Milking Farm – Stage 2 Nutritional Supplement. The liquid inside was thick, off-white, faintly pearlescent. It looked like melted vanilla ice cream that had been left out too long. Her stomach lurched.

She grabbed one, slammed the fridge door shut, then stared at the warmer unit for a moment like it might bite her. It had buttons, that was about all she could say. No guide. No instruction sheet. Just a little panel with blinking lights. Danielle could barely boil an egg, and the most culinary thing she’d ever managed was instant ramen. She was way out of her comfort zone with literally everything in this godforsaken place. She shoved the bottle into the slot and hit the first button she saw. Then another. The machine chirped. Lights turned orange. Something started humming.

Okay…good. Progress?

Behind her: she heard plastic pampers crinkling. “Uh…Ms. Danielle?”

She turned her head halfway, already bristling. “What now?”

Corey shifted in the crib. “I…I think I might need to…uh…go.”

Danielle narrowed her eyes. “Go where?”

His face flushed crimson, his eyes darted back and forth to anywhere but hers, he gestured helplessly to himself. “You know…” he murmured, voice small and ashamed, “number two...”

Her stomach dropped straight through the foam-tiled floor. “No,” she said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“You hold it.”

“I’m trying b-but—”

“Try harder.” she snapped. “Is it really that hard to not poop all over yourself? Are you that fucking pathetic??”

“I…I'm just saying I feel it coming on—”

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“Too bad.” She continued, ignoring the beeping coming from the warmer. “I am not changing a messy diaper on my fucking shift, Corey. So you better clench. Pray. Do whatever you have to do, but you are not shitting yourself while I’m in this room.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“You hear me?” she hissed, leaning in closer. “You shit yourself right now and I swear I’ll leave you in it until tomorrow morning. I’ll strap you down and let you stew in your own mess. Is that what you want?”

Corey whimpered, thighs clamped tight, face burning with shame.

The beeping turned into one long, angry shriek.

BEEEEEEEEP!

Danielle finally spun around, snatched the bottle out of the scalding slot, and yelped as the boiling-hot plastic seared her palm.

“OW! Fuck!!”

She dropped the bottle. It hit the counter, rolled, and thudded against the floor with a slosh. Drips of milk spattering the floor. She scrambled to scoop it up, shaking her hand and swearing under her breath. Her skin already stung. She gripped the hot plastic carefully and flicked a few drops onto her wrist like she’d seen people in movies do.

They sizzled. Literally sizzled.

Corey watched from the crib, wide-eyed. “You...you could run it under water. That’s what the others usually do.”

Danielle’s head snapped toward him. “I know,” she hissed. “I know what I’m doing.” But the truth was: she absolutely didn’t.

He shrank back, eyes darting down. She turned sharply to the little mini kitchen, yanked the faucet handle, and shoved the bottle under the cold stream. Water splashed over her wrist as she rotated the bottle, teeth clenching so hard it hurt.

“This is so stupid,” she muttered. “I should be at work, doing real work. Not prepping bottles for oversized babies”

The formula inside sloshed, thick and off-white, stubbornly clinging to the sides of the bottle like it enjoyed being a problem. Behind her, Corey didn’t say a word. It was a small reprieve that he didn’t laugh at her befuddlement. She might have found it amusing if she were in his shoes. God she was so glad she wasn’t in his shoes. 

She kept rinsing until the bottle didn’t feel like molten plastic in her hands. Flicked some water off, tested another drop on her wrist. Still warm. No longer lethal. She dried it roughly with a paper towel, placed a finger over the rubber nipple, shook it, and exhaled hard through her nose.

She turned to face him. Bottle in hand. And absolutely no patience left.

“Let’s go,” she said, voice clipped. “Feeding time.”

He pushed himself upright on the floor slowly, leaning back against the legs of his crib.

She crouched on one knee and held out the bottle. “Open.”

He hesitated.

“What? Do you need me to wrap it up with a little fucking bow first?”

“No,” he said quietly, and opened his mouth. The nipple slid between his lips with a soft squeak. She tilted it. He began to suck. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Barely more than a flutter against the nipple. She could hear it. Thin, pathetic pulls of air and formula.

Danielle scowled. “Can you hold this yourself?”

He blinked up at her, eyes wide. “I…I’m not allowed to.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“They said we’re not supposed to. It’s part of the ‘dependency metric’.”

She almost laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

“So let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You’re not even allowed to hold your own bottle?”

He shook his head.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cylinder. The rubber teat was slick with spit. Formula was dribbling down his chin and soaking into the front of his shirt. Her knees were sore from crouching. Her arm ached from keeping the angle just right.

“I have to do everything around here and you just fucking take it,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond.

“You’re fucking useless. Can’t hold a bottle. Can’t hold your bladder. Probably can’t even hold your own head up unless I do it for you, can you, wittle baby?”

Another sip. Another squirm.

She glared at him. “You plan on finishing this before dinner?”

He paused to speak, which only annoyed her more.

“It just…” he started, already wincing, “it tastes so bad. Like… like chalky cereal milk, but spoiled.”

Danielle rolled her eyes. “What a tragedy.”

He took another sip, slower than before.

“I’m serious,” he whined. “It makes my stomach hurt. And I already have to go…”

She snapped.

“Oh my god, Corey, we’ve covered this. You’re not messing that diaper. Not today. Not while I’m the one stuck here with you.”

“I—I’m trying to hold it,” he said quickly. “I really am—”

“Then try harder,” she bit out. “Clench whatever you need to clench and drink.”

He whimpered around the nipple.

“I do not want to clean up your whiny little accident,” she said, voice rising. “I don’t care if your tummy hurts. I don’t care if the formula tastes like trash. I am not your mommy. I am not your therapist. I am not here to coddle you while you dribble warm goo down your chin.”

He flinched. Took another sip. Still slow. Still dragging it out like it might buy him sympathy.

She leaned in, voice cold. “Do you think if you drink slow enough, I’ll get bored and let you stop?”

He didn’t respond.

“That I’ll say, ‘Oh poor thing, you don’t like it, do you? Better skip breakfast today, wouldn’t want to upset your tum-tum.’”

His cheeks went red. The bottle sagged slightly.

Danielle pushed it back up. “You’ll finish every drop. I don’t care if you spit up, as long as you finish what you and I both have to do and we can move on. Got it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

She stared at him, hovering. Watching each miserable swallow. She remembered scoffing at the judge when the sentence came down: 500 hours, community service, no big deal. She’d had no idea. No clue that “direct care assistance” meant standing here, ankle monitor ticking, babysitting a grown man in a soaked diaper. And she still had six hours left on her shift.

His face twisted. He sucked again. Still slow, still mewling with every pull. More dribble. This time it slid off his chin and splashed onto the front of his romper in a pale, wet streak.

Danielle rolled her eyes.

“You’re getting it everywhere.” She pressed the bottle harder against his lips, tilting it steeper so the thick formula surged in a relentless stream. “Do you need a bib, baby boy?”

He shook his head, cheeks flushed.

“Then drink like you mean it.”

He obeyed with a thick, desperate swallow, then another soft whimper vibrated around the nipple. His fingers tightened on the plush giraffe in his lap, knuckles white, as if the stuffed toy could somehow shield him from the shame flooding his body.

“I really have to go,” he mumbled around the rubber teat, voice muffled and pleading.

Danielle’s expression didn’t flicker. “I really don’t care. You’re not going. Not on my shift.”

He looked like he might cry. Another stream of formula rolled down his cheek and onto the front of his shirt. Danielle watched it soak in, unmoved.

“I said drink.” She adjusted the angle again, making sure the flow didn’t slow. “Every. Last. Drop.”

His belly gave another low, ominous gurgle. His thighs clamped tighter, the padding crinkling sharply with the effort. He was nearing the end of the bottle now, but every gulp looked painful. His lips clung to the nipple, cheeks hollowing with each miserable suck. His eyes were watering. He groaned softly with each swallow, the sound vibrating up his throat.

Danielle leaned in, fingers still clamped around the bottle. “Awww!! What is it?” she snapped. “Is your tummy too full?”

He winced, nodding faintly as he sucked.

His stomach was visibly bulging now, round beneath the edge of his romper. His knees shifted. Another whimper slipped out.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he mumbled weakly, breaking suction.

She yanked the bottle away, letting the last few warm drops slosh inside.

“You’re not puking,” she said flatly. “You’re fine. Just full. That’s what happens when you suck down 16 ounces like a big baybee.”

He groaned again, holding his belly.

She sighed. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Come here.”

She grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him forward, not gently, he was limp and sluggish, breathing shallow. She patted his back once. Hard. A second time. On the third pat, he let out a loud, involuntary burp.

Immediately, Corey went still.

Then he tipped forward slowly, almost reflexively, onto his hands and knees, the giraffe dropping from his grip. His back arched slightly, legs quivering under the pressure.

Danielle froze. She watched his body tense, watched his breath catch.

And then she knew. “No. No!! Don’t you dare.”

A soft, panicked moan escaped his throat.

“I swear to god, Corey!” she barked, stepping back instinctively, “Don’t you fucking do it!!.”

“I’m s-sorry,” he gasped, trembling. “I c-can’t…it hurts…” He let out a sharp, helpless groan, his arms quaking under his weight.

Danielle turned in a circle, panicked. “Okay, okay fine. I’ll…I’ll take you to a restroom. Just…hold it.”

“I can’t!!” he whined. “Please!”

“You have to hold it,” she snapped. “Just for one more minute. One. I’ll get you somewhere…I’ll..”

Her eyes darted around the room. Walls. Soft tiles. A high chair. A fridge. The charting station. The crib.

But no toilet. No side corridor. No attached bathroom. No signage. No nothing. It hit her like a slap to the face: there is no restroom, there is no stopping this.

“Please don’t be mad!” He whimpered, “please don’t be mad…”

“You have to hold it!” she shouted. “We’ll find one, just…just…”

They’d put her in this room with him. They’d sealed her in here with him, handed her a checklist and a diapered man, and expected her to handle everything inside these four pastel walls.

 “Oh my god.” she breathed.

Corey whined, still hunched forward on trembling knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!!”

His hands clutched the floor. His hips jerked once, and then came the sound. Low. Long. Shuddering. Wet. His whole body jolted as nature overtook him. Muscles clenched, a moan caught in his throat.

She couldn’t look away.

His head dropped between his arms. His face was red with shame. His breath hitched as the mess spread slowly beneath him, the seat of his diaper swelling, rounding, sagging. She watched, horrified, as his diaper ballooned in slow, visible waves beneath him. It was happening right in front of her. Slow, obvious and inevitable.

She hadn’t even realized she was backing up until she hit the fridge behind her. He collapsed fully to the mat, burying his face in his arms, sobbing now. Loud and broken.

“I’m sorry!!” he cried, “I tried! Please! I didn’t mean to…”

Danielle stared down at him, heart pounding, fury and nausea and disbelief swirling in her gut. She blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You disgusting little—”

He sobbed, hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, voice high and shaky. “I…I couldn’t stop it…”

Danielle’s stomach turned. Her fingers clamped over her nose, but not before the stench punched her in the face. Her arms folded tighter across her chest. The bottle trembled in her hand. The stench was rising, wafting up and inescapably punching her in the face. She stepped back again, clamping her fingers over her nose.

“No.” she said.

Corey hiccuped. “W-what?”

She stared down at him, cold and flat. “I’m not changing that.”

His head lifted slightly, tear-streaked and red.

Danielle turned and walked to the far side of the room. Set the bottle down so hard that some of the thick milk shot out of the nipple. “Not happening,” she muttered. “You can sit in it all damn day for all I care.”

A soft chime rang from the speaker above the charting station. Then a calm, synthetic voice came over the speaker above the charting station:

“Level Two Sitter Monroe, a hygiene alert has been registered and not resolved. A five-hour penalty will be added to your sentence if the participant is not confirmed to be cleaned and changed within protocol window.”

Danielle blinked up at the speaker. “No,” she said again. Louder to whoever was watching or listening. “He did it on purpose. I told him not to.” She turned in place, pacing now, hands clenched at her sides.

Corey whimpered behind her. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

Another chime. This time louder.

“Danielle Monroe, you have just added 5 hours to your probation sentence. Confirm and comply, or additional penalties will be assessed.”

Her jaw tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut. They weren’t bluffing. She stood there, frozen in place, rage and helplessness twisting inside her. Then slowly, furiously, she crossed the room.

She crouched next to Corey.

“Look at me,” she said. Her voice was sharp and quiet.

He didn’t.

She grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up just enough to expose the back of his diaper. The sight made her stomach lurch: a heavy, sagging bulge, the white plastic stretched taut and discolored in ugly brown streaks. The stench hit harder up close—thick, earthy, sour.

Begrudgingly, she pinched the back waistband with two fingers and peeled it open just enough to confirm.

The mess had spread everywhere: soft, sticky brown smeared across his cheeks, clinging to the creases, pooled in the seat of the padding. The smell punched her in the face.

She let the waistband snap back and jerked her head away.

“Confirmation,” she spat toward the ceiling.

Silence. Then a soft chime.

She stood, stalked to the charting station, swiped her badge, and jabbed the screen until the alert cleared.

CHANGE REQUIRED: YES

SEVERITY: HIGH

A final tone sounded. Danielle didn’t move for a long beat. This was happening. Whether she liked it or not. Then she turned, walked to the changing table, and yanked open the supply drawer.

Gloves. Two pairs. She snapped them on with vicious precision, layering the second over the first. No masks. Of course there were no masks. They wanted her to smell every second of this.

The gloves snapped tight around her wrists. She put another pair on over, just to be safe. She looked for disposable masks she could put on to at least block out some of the smell. There were none. They wanted her to smell every second of this. 

“Get up,” she said flatly.

Corey didn’t respond. She stormed back over, yanked the giraffe from his arms, and flung it across the room.

“I said: get up! On the table. Now.”

Still sniffling, he dragged himself upright, his diaper sagging behind him with every movement. The plastic crinkled wetly. Loud. Shameful. She didn’t help him onto the table. She let him struggle. Let him wince and squish and hoist himself up with trembling arms. He laid back. Stared at the ceiling. Eyes red. Face pale. Danielle grabbed his ankles and yanked them apart.

The smell hit her again. Thicker now, rising from the crushed mess inside.

She gagged. Actually gagged. “Fucking hell,” she muttered, stumbling half a step back, one hand to her face.

Corey whimpered. “I’m sorry…”

“Oh, don’t,” she snapped, regaining her balance. “You don’t get to say sorry right now.”

With utmost reluctance, she took a deep breath, then peeled back the tapes. Each rip feeling like a death toll. Rippp. Riippp. Riipppp. Rip. 

The diaper peeled open with a squelch. Her gag reflex flared again. The mess had spread everywhere. Thick, soft, brown sludge coating his skin, smeared into every crease, clinging to his balls and the base of his cock. The padding was ruined, lumpy and sagging.

She stared, eyes burning, horrified and furious. “This is your life now?” she spat. “This is what you’ve become?”

Corey didn’t speak. His eyes were shut tight. The tears were fresh again.

She grabbed the first wipe and pressed it to his skin. It slid. She dragged it downward, the texture thick, slippery, warm.

She’d changed diapers before. Her little brother, years ago. Back when her mom made her help. She used to gag then, too. Thought she had the weakest stomach in the world. But that? That was nothing. This was something else entirely. The heat, the size, the shame radiating off him. The pathetic way he whimpered when she wiped too hard. She wasn’t helping a baby. She was scrubbing down a grown man who'd just soiled himself and cried about it.

She gagged again and threw the wipe straight into the messy flap below. Grabbed another.

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed, wiping harder now. “You think anyone’s going to feel sorry for you after this?”

He shook his head, barely.

“I told you not to mess yourself,” she snapped, voice breaking as she scraped the next wipe under his balls. “I warned you. I was clear.”

“I—I didn’t want—”

“Oh, shut up!”

She wiped again. The mess kept coming. Kept moving. She pressed the wipe into a fold of skin and felt it give. She reeled back. Another wipe. Another breath through the mouth.

“Big grown man, huh?” she said, forcing a bitter laugh. “Big boy with a stiffy in the morning and a diaper full of shit by breakfast.”

He let out a sound, half sob, half plea.

She didn’t stop.

Wipe after wipe, she scrubbed him down. Her movements were rough, detached. As if faster meant less real. But nothing could dull the awful combination of texture, smell, heat. Her stomach turned. Her forehead was damp.

Finally, finally, it was mostly gone.

She reached for the rash cream with trembling fingers, smeared it cold and thick across the cleaned skin, and pulled a fresh diaper under him like she was throwing a tarp over a disaster site. The tapes sealed with four final, loud rips.

Done.

She ripped the gloves off and threw them into the bin with a violent snap of her wrist. She didn’t say anything. Corey curled to one side, facing the wall, shivering despite the warm room.

Danielle stood there, breath ragged. The music still played overhead, cheerful and slow. Her throat was dry. Her hands were shaking. But it was done. Her first. And she knew it wouldn't be her last.

******

Danielle stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands harder than necessary. The hot water scalded, but she didn’t stop until she’d almost taken the skin off, the last of the smell gone, and her breathing had finally started to slow.

She turned.

Corey had climbed off the changing table and onto the floor, curled on his side. Diaper clean. Face red and blotchy. He was still crying, but softer now. Not the loud, shame-soaked sobs from before. Just little hitching breaths and the occasional whimper, like he didn’t know how to stop. His thumb hovered near his lips more than once, but he never quite gave in.

Across the room, near the base of the fridge, she spotted the little stuffed giraffe. She’d chucked it when her frustrations had reached its peak. Now, looking at it, she felt a pang of guilt. Not for the toy, but for how she treated the man it belonged to.

Danielle bent down, picked it up, brushed it off, then crossed back to Corey’s mat. She knelt beside him and set the stuffed animal gently against his chest.

He blinked at it. Then at her.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand reached out, slow and cautious, and he pulled the thing in close, arms curling around it like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He held it tighter. Pressed his cheek against the giraffe’s soft head like it meant something.

Danielle sat back, watching him quietly. She didn’t know why a grown man would cling to a stuffed animal like that. Didn’t know why it seemed to calm him in a way nothing else had. But she didn’t question it, either. He looked… safe. Or maybe just safer. For the first time all day, he looked like he might stop shaking. He stroked one of its little ears absently.

“What’s his name?” she asked before she realized she was talking. “The giraffe?”

He looked up at her with a faint hint of embarrassment. Then spoke in the smallest voice. “Jeffy.”

Danielle gave a small exhale, almost a laugh, but not quite. She looked away. “Of course it is.” There was no sarcasm in it. No mocking edge. Just…her awkward way of trying to ease the tension.

He gave Jeffy a little squeeze. “I know it’s weird,” Corey said softly, his normal voice returning. “But… he’s the only solace I have in this…place.”

Danielle glanced at him. The way he said it, like he wasn’t even asking to be understood. Just stating a quiet truth. She didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did he.

Finally, her voice came, low and rough. “I might’ve been a little hard on you...”

Corey gave a small shrug, still staring at Jeffy’s stitched smile.

“I mean, you’re still disgusting,” she added with a half grin. “But maybe…not on purpose.”

That got a tiny huff of air. Almost a laugh.

Danielle leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. “You want to tell me why you’re here? How you got yourself in this place?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just squeezed the giraffe tighter.

“Because I told my supervisor to fuck off,” he muttered.

Danielle looked over at him, eyebrow raised with genuine surprise. “You? I find that hard to believe.”

“I know how it sounds.”

She gave a small scoff. “You’ve been crying since I’ve been here. You give a weak little whimper over every little thing. You haven’t protested or raised your voice to me even once, and you expect me to believe you just blurted that out?”

He took a breath. “Yeah. I mean, not in so little words. I just…lost it. Like a pipe bomb under too much pressure. All of my frustration and anger came out.”

Danielle turned to face him more directly.

“I was tired,” he continued. “Burned out. Work stress. And… the end of a relationship. She—” he hesitated “—said I had too many needs. That it felt like she was doing all the emotional labor. Said I was… too dependent. Too soft.”

He gave a faint, bitter smile.

“She didn’t like the things I was into in bed. Said it made her uncomfortable. Like I wanted things from her she couldn’t give. Called it pathetic.”

Danielle frowned slightly. “What were you into?”

He shrugged. Looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

The pause was too long.

He let out a breath. “It was right after the second wave of reforms. Men were being held to a new standard. Finally. And honestly? Yeah. It needed to happen…” Corey said. ““I get it. There were…are…a lot of shitty men out there. Things needed to change. Honestly, some of it probably should’ve happened decades ago. I’m not against that.”

Danielle glanced over, surprised. He wasn’t defensive. Just… tired.

“There were a lot of guys out there making things worse for everyone. Angry all the time. Entitled. Like the world owed them something for just existing. I wasn’t blind to it. I’d seen it. Worked with it. Hell, I probably laughed along with it sometimes.”

His fingers tightened a little around the stuffed giraffe.

“I told myself I wasn’t like that. That I was one of the good ones. But…” He looked down. “I let my anger get the best of me, and I acted out.”

Danielle blinked. “That got you sent here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. They flagged it as ‘gendered aggression’. Said it showed signs of toxic masculinity, lack of emotional regulation. Said I needed regression and behavioral unlearning.”

He paused. Then added, almost to himself, “I don’t even blame them.”

Danielle furrowed her brow slightly.

“I mean it,” Corey said. “I crossed a line. Even if it was just once. I let myself become part of the problem, even if only for a second. That’s on me.” He gave a faint shrug. “I don’t think I’m dangerous. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do something wrong.”

Danielle didn’t respond right away. She wasn’t sure what to say. For once, he wasn’t whining. He wasn’t deflecting. He was just…owning it.

She sat back on her heels, watching him. The quiet between them stretched. Not awkward, just…palpable.

Finally, she said, “You’re not the only one who ended up here for something stupid.”

Corey looked up, wiping under one eye. “Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “My boyfriend was abusive. Controlling. Loud. You know the type.”

He didn’t answer, just listened.

“I didn’t report him,” she went on. “Not when I should have. Not even when it got physical. I kept making excuses. Told myself it would get better.”

A bitter smile flickered across her lips.

“Then one night, I keyed his car. Smashed a few windows. It felt good, for about ten seconds. Then the cops showed up.”

She shrugged. “They gave me probation. Two hundred hours of community service for the vandalism… and another three hundred for failure to report improper male behavior.”

Corey blinked. “You got more time for not turning him in?”

Danielle nodded. “Welcome to the Matriarchy.”

He didn’t laugh. Neither did she.

“I don’t regret keying his car,” she added. “I regret not saying something sooner. Maybe if I had, someone else wouldn’t have had to.”

Corey was quiet again. Then, softly: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she muttered. “I made my choices.” She looked away, then back at him. “And now I’m here. In pastel hell. Changing diapers and getting spit-up on.”

Corey shifted slightly, still holding Jeffy close. “Could be worse.”

Danielle raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “I mean… not by much. But still.”

That pulled the faintest exhale from her nose. Half-sigh, half-scoff.

She stood, brushing off her knees and stretching her arms overhead.

“You gonna make it through the rest of my shift without crapping yourself again?”

He gave her a ghost of a smile. “I’ll try.”

“Try harder,” Danielle said, reaching for the charting tablet. “I’m not getting another hour tacked on because of your squishy ass.” She barked, but her voice had softened, just slightly.

******

The time crept toward the end of her shift. Danielle checked the tablet, nap protocol began promptly at 3:00. She hated how official everything sounded. Like it was a job title instead of a punishment.

“Alright,” she said, rubbing at one temple. “Crib time.”

Corey didn’t argue. He stood slowly, Jeffy tucked under one arm. At the side of the crib, he hesitated. “Protocol says I need my pacifier for naps.”

Danielle glanced toward the floor. The pacifier was there, just under the changing table where it must’ve rolled earlier. She crouched, picked it up with two fingers, and picked the lint off of it.

He looked at her, but didn’t seem to mind, it had probably been in worse places. “And… I’d really like to keep Jeffy. If that’s okay.”

Danielle didn’t answer right away. There was no mention of stuffed animals in the chart. No directive. No rule. Just a quiet, pathetic man clinging to the only soft thing in a room full of plastic and powder.

She rolled her eyes, then shrugged. “Fine.”

Corey gave a small nod of thanks and climbed into the crib, curling onto his side. He stuck the pacifier in without a word and pulled the giraffe tight to his chest.

Danielle slid the tall side rail up until it locked with a sharp click. He looked smaller now. More fragile inside the unrelenting bars of his giant crib. She lingered longer than she meant to. This wasn’t what she’d expected. Not any of it.

She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the faint amber glow of the wall sconce. “Sleep tight,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t cry, either.

She heard a click as the door for the room unlocked. She stepped out. The door hissed shut behind her, the light on her ankle monitor blinked and beeped. 

Danielle rubbed her eyes. Another shift down. She walked over to the terminal to scan her badge. 484 hours to go, she thought. 

She started to log out, then paused. No. That wasn’t right. She’d gotten five extra hours tacked on for refusing to change him.

489.

Her lips tightened into a thin line, cursing herself.

Maybe next time… she’d just do it.

To Be Continued

Chapter 3 to this story just went live on my SubStar! So go join if you would like to read it!

[stinky-in-pinky]

Look at Him Go

I was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, lazily scrolling through my phone while cheerful songs drifted from the television in the background. The living room was bright with afternoon sunlight pouring through the big windows, warm and peaceful.

A faint rustling caught my ear. I glanced up at the trees outside, their leaves dancing gently in the breeze. Probably just the wind. I thought, and went back to scrolling through my phone.

Another rustle. A little closer this time.

I looked over at the corner where our golden retriever was curled up in his bed, snoring softly, one paw twitching in a dream. Not him.

The sound came again. Soft, rhythmic, unmistakable now that I was really listening. It was accompanied by the quiet crinkle of plastic. I finally lowered my phone and looked down at the floor.

There he was, my husband, lying on his tummy on the thick play mat, wearing nothing but his puffy diaper, and a cute little t-shirt too small to cover it. His pacifier bobbed between his lips as he...bobbed. Secret little wriggles, hips shifting in tiny, guilty movements he clearly hoped I wouldn’t notice.

“Honey?” I said softly.

He jumped a little, eyes wide, freezing like a deer in headlights, cheeks already flushing pink behind the shield have the pacifier. Then he quickly looked down at the mat like he could hide from me.

“You sure are doing a lot of wriggling over there, sweetheart...”

He didn’t say a word. Just suckled his paci, obviously scrambling for some excuse.

I leaned forward, tucking my hair behind my ears so I could see him better. “Are you… trying to make humpies?”

His blush deepened instantly, spreading all the way to his ears. He couldn’t meet my eyes. As if by avoiding my gaze he could make this whole situation go away.

“Awww! It’s okay, hunny!! No need to be embarwassed! You’re not in trouble!”

He peeked up at me then, eyes wide with surprise behind the pacifier still working anxiously in his mouth. His chin was already a little shiny with drool.

I smiled warmly. “It’s okay. Honest! You put up such a fuss about your diapers for so long! Mommy’s happy that you’re coming to accept them and… enjoy them.” I sat back on the couch once more. “So go on… have your fun!”

He hesitated, searching my face, clearly unsure if this was some kind of test. But after a long moment of nothing else being said, his hips began to move again. Slowly at first, testing the waters. Then gradually picking up pace with growing need.

I pretended to go back to my phone, thumb scrolling through videos I wasn’t really seeing, wanting to give him the illusion of a little privacy while he “did his business.” But my eyes kept drifting back to him. I couldn’t help it.

There he was: a grown man, my husband, someone who used to stand in boardrooms and run high-stakes projects, now reduced to this on our living room floor. Humping his own thick diaper like a desperate, clumsy little pup who couldn’t help himself. It was so ridiculous. So pitiful. And yet...it filled me with the deepest, warmest sense of satisfaction I’d ever felt in our marriage.

He used to fight this so hard when we first started the restructuring. When the diapers went from the occasional “punishment” to an everyday reality.

He would throw full tantrums. Tears, yelling, begging, swearing that he hated them. That he could never, ever enjoy them. He’d safeword out of scenes, withdraw for days, insist it was “too much,” “too humiliating,” “not who he was.” I had to be firm and consistent, even when it was difficult. It was a long, painful, arduous process.

And now look at him.

His hips ground into the floor in short, awkward little ruts at first, the thick padding between his legs forcing them apart and making every movement clumsy and limited. The diaper was already plump and swollen from his morning wetting, the front puffy and slightly yellowed, the tapes stretched tight around his waist. I could tell his poor little penis wasn’t angled quite right inside the pamper. He kept shifting, frustrated, his hands twitching as if fighting the urge to reach down and adjust himself. But he knew the rule: no touching. Ever.

The crinkling was loud and constant, almost comical, each thrust producing a wet-sounding crinkle beneath the cartoon’s distant singing.

Every now and then he’d turn his head just enough to glance back at me, checking if the coast was clear, like a naughty little tottler trying to sneak something forbidden. Each time he saw me “absorbed” in my phone, he’d look away again and resume those pitiful little movements. I could see the shame burning in his face: the way his ears stayed red, the way he kept his eyes fixed on the mat as if staring hard enough might make him invisible. And yet it wasn’t enough to stop him. That only made it sweeter.

Part of me wondered if I should have changed his diaper first. The padding was heavily yellowed and plump, making an almost fat lump flat on the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, the extra warmth and squish seemed to excite him more. His movements grew bolder, hips pressing down harder against the mat, grinding the bulky, cushiony front against his sensitive parts. His whole body looked so helpless like this. Legs slightly kicked out, feet sliding on the mat, back arched just a little in that pathetic attempt to get more friction. A successful, intelligent man reduced to rutting against his own soaked diaper. The sight made my heart flutter with affection and something deeper, something possessive. This was the proof. All those months of pushing him, of holding the line when he cried and protested, had led to this exact moment. He wasn’t enduring the diapers anymore. He was using them. Willingly. Right in front of me.

He didn’t make eye contact with me. He didn’t look my way at all after those quick checks. As if staring off into the distance would make him look more non-chalant, despite him straining his little face. Faint, humiliated whimpers and grunts slipped out every few thrusts—soft, breathy sounds he probably thought were quiet. I wondered if he even knew how loud he was being, even while trying so hard to stay inconspicuous. Drool was dripping steadily now from the corner of his mouth onto the mat, forming a small shiny puddle beneath his chin. I made a quiet mental note to myself: we’d definitely need bibs or burp cloths during tummy time from now on if this was going to become a regular thing. The pacifier shield bobbed wildly as he sucked harder, trying to soothe himself while his body chased that building pleasure.

His movements grew a little more frantic, hips jerking in pitiful, uncoordinated bursts. The thick diaper squished audibly with every desperate hump, the swollen padding compressing and shifting between his spread thighs. His legs gave tiny, helpless kicks, toes curling inside his socks. He looked so ridiculous. So completely lost in the act that it made my chest tighten with love. This was what I had wanted all along. Not just control, but this deep, total acceptance. He had fought it with everything he had, and now here he was, grinding away like he couldn’t stop even if the world was watching.

His pace quickened. If he was trying to be quiet, he was failing miserably. His whole body began to tremble. His nose whistled with each quick breath. The grunts turned into longer, needier whimpers. Then, he tensed. Hard. Back arching, legs straightening, hands clutching at the edge of the blankie as he came in his diaper with a long, muffled whine around the pacifier. His hips gave a few final, twitching thrusts before he collapsed flat against the mat, breathing hard, clearly overwhelmed.

I let the moment stretch for several seconds, letting him have his little humpie high. Then I asked as sweet as possible, keeping my tone light and non-judgmental:

“All done?”

He gave the tiniest, most ashamed little nod, face still hidden. I could practically feel the post-nut clarity crashing over him. The sticky warmth spreading inside the already wet padding, the sudden wave of humiliation at what he’d just done while I sat there watching. I didn't say anything else. I didn't need to. He probably had enough internal dialogue going on already.

I thought again about changing his diaper. It was visibly swollen and discolored now, sagging heavily between his legs. But I pushed the thought aside. No. I wanted him to sit in that diaper. To really feel it. Every warm, sticky reminder of what he’d done in his pamper. So I simply went back to scrolling on my phone and let the quiet settle over the room. Giving him time. Letting it all soak in.

The cartoon kept singing cheerfully in the background, bright and innocent. A few peaceful minutes drifted by. The only sounds were the occasional soft, squishy crinkles as he shifted restlessly on the mat, the heavy, used diaper compressing and rustling beneath his weight. Then, quietly at first, I heard the rustling start again.

Wait... Again??

My thumb froze on the phone screen for a second as genuine surprise washed over me. Already? After barely a few minutes? After that intense first orgasm and all the shame that should have followed? I hadn’t expected this. Not this quickly. A warm rush of shock, delight, and deep satisfaction bloomed in my chest.

Look at him go!

My sweet, stubborn husband, the man who used to fight every single diaper with tears and tantrums, was already going back for sloppy seconds in his own messy, cum-soaked pamper like he couldn’t help himself.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to embarrass him further. I mean, it was embarrassing: a grown man desperately humping his own wet, sticky diaper right there on the living room floor. But this… this was so good for him. Learning to enjoy what his body craved without fighting it anymore.

His hips were moving once more. Slower this time, almost exploratory, like he was savoring the slick, sticky mess he’d already made inside. The used diaper made everything sloppier, the crinkles wetter and more obscene. He ground down harder, rolling in deeper circles, clearly chasing that second release with renewed, almost frantic need. Those faint little grunts and whimpers returned, even softer this time, as if he were trying harder to stay quiet. Every so often he’d sneak another glance back at me, checking if I was still “not watching,” before turning away and resuming his pitiful humping. The shame was written all over him, but it clearly wasn’t enough to stop the desperate little ruts.

His movements grew more intense. Hips rolling in deeper circles, then quick little thrusts that made the heavy pamper squish between his legs. The front was visibly swollen, the padding compressed from his efforts. I wondered how it felt for him. That warm, cushiony embrace hugging his sensitive skin, the evidence of his first orgasm helping slick the way for his second.

I watched openly from the couch, warmth blooming low in my belly at the sight. There had been so many nights early on when I’d felt genuinely guilty enforcing this. The sound of his choked sobs while I spanked him over my knee, the way his voice would crack as he begged me not to make him use his diaper. There were evenings I’d had to turn the baby monitor off completely because I couldn’t bear to listen to him crying himself to sleep in the crib, tugging on his little restraints, trapped in a heavily soiled diaper with no way to escape the mess. I’d told myself it was necessary. That he needed to break. That the only way he’d ever truly accept this was if I held the line even when it hurt to do so.

And now here he was. All that resistance had melted into this eager, desperate acceptance. It was everything I’d worked for.

His second orgasm came even faster than the first. Usually the second was more stubborn. But apparently he was getting better at it. His breathing turned into quick pants. His body twitched harder. Then he tensed again, a long muffled whine escaping around the pacifier as he came in his already sticky diaper, hips jerking through the aftershocks before he went limp once more.

I waited until his breathing had mostly calmed, then spoke casually without looking up from my phone, voice still as sweet as could be. “Would you like a bottle, baby?” I asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof, "Perhaps you worked up a thirst?"

He shook his head quickly, flushing in embarrassment. Surely he didn't think he was being discreet?

I smiled softly to myself and let it go. I really did need to change him at this point. The front of his diaper was visibly damp and defiled now, sagging heavily between his legs from the two loads he’d pumped into it.

But then I glanced at the clock on the wall. 1:37. He usually had his afternoon poop right around 2:00. No sense in changing him just so he could dirty up a fresh one soon after. He could wait a little longer.

I stayed right where I was on the couch, scrolling.

Not long after, I heard his tell-tale grunts. Not the humpy kind of grunts. The other kind. When he was handling his...other type of business.

Unnh…unh…eh…unh…

Oh? I thought. He's a little early today...

I kept my eyes glued to my phone, pretending to be completely absorbed, watching everything from the corner of my vision so he could keep that tiny illusion of privacy and dignity. Even if it was only pretend.

Even on his tummy, I could see the subtle changes in his posture: the way his back tensed, his shoulders drew up slightly, the slow, concentrated push of his padded hips against the mat.

The back of his diaper began to crinkle and slowly balloon outward as he filled it. The seat expanded gradually, sagging heavily downward, the thick padding stretching and bulging under the weight. It was a thorough one. The warm, earthy smell drifted up toward the couch a few moments later, unmistakable and strong. I pretended not to notice, keeping my face perfectly neutral, thumb still scrolling at the same lazy pace.

He used to fight pooping his diapers with everything he had. Full-on meltdowns that could last an hour. Screaming, kicking, refusing, bargaining, tears streaming down his face. He could barely manage it even when I made him drop into a squat like a little tot, face bright red with humiliation and effort. So much time and energy spent resisting the most basic, babyish act. And now here he was, doing it face-down on his tummy on the play mat without a single word of protest, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The restructuring had worked so completely it almost took my breath away.

But oof… it was a stinky one. The smell was thick enough to make my nose wrinkle for a second before I schooled my expression again. Still, I didn’t comment. I didn’t even acknowledge it.

When he finally finished, he stayed very still for a long moment, clearly processing the heavy, warm mess now packed against him. Then he turned his head just enough to glance back at me, eyes wide and hopeful, clearly desperate and grossed out, silently begging for a change. The shame was written all over his flushed face—the way his pacifier worked anxiously between his lips, the way his hands clenched and unclenched against the mat. He looked so small. So pitiful. A grown man sitting in his own heavy, stinky diaper, hoping Mommy would take pity on him.

But I kept my eyes on my phone, calm and unbothered, as if nothing at all was happening. He knew better than to ask. He knew the rules by now.

Besides, I wanted to conduct a little experiment.

I wanted to see what would happen if I left him like this for a while, trapped in that heavy, warm, messy diaper on his tummy, no relief in sight, the evidence of everything he’d done today squishing and shifting with even the smallest movement. So I stayed quiet, scrolling, my heart beating a little faster with quiet anticipation and satisfaction. All those early struggles, all the guilt I’d sometimes felt enforcing his new reality… it had led to this. Total surrender.

Sure enough, after a few quiet minutes of nothing but the soft sounds of the cartoon and the occasional creak of the play mat, I heard the faint, rhythmic rustling start again…

[lildaisydemure]

Cornertime

The uncensored version -- and the ten minute video this clip comes from -- can be found here

[stinky-in-pinky]

How much time do you spend writing abdl/sissy stories? Like how many hours a month is spent on writing?

Oof. Probably more than it appears based on how little content I’ve put out lately.

Conservatively? Probably 40 hrs a month.

It obviously depends on a variety of factors. I have a pretty mentally demanding and time-consuming day job. So by the time I get home I’m usually drained and need to decompress.

When I do have the time and energy, I’m not always horny or in the mood. So that puts a damper on things.

But despite all that, there are few days where I don’t do some sort of writing. Even if it’s just scribbling out a few ideas or lines of dialogue I’d like to incorporate at some point.

Actual writing sessions can last anywhere from 1-4 hrs in a day depending on how much of a groove I’m in. For whatever reason, Mondays and Tuesdays tend to be my horniest days and are where I get a bunch of my writing done.

Some weeks are different than others. I swear I have man-periods. About one week a month I feel like I’m ovulating and insatiable, whereas another week I don’t want anything to do with anything.

I don’t look at a lot of porn in the traditional sense. My “porn” and…gratification…comes from getting in the headspace and writing out scenarios and stories.

The reason you don’t often see a lot of them is because I am GREAT at writing drafts and starting stories, but I am utterly awful at proofreading and finishing them. Please don’t look at my drafts folder…😅

In addition to tumblr, I also have my Subscribers to take care of, custom captions to do (which I am currently behind on) and searching/generating pictures to go along with the stories. It’s a…very time-consuming hobby.

I also have an awful habit of rambling and over-writing. As evidenced by my long-ass answer to your simple question. So…

Sorry for writing you a book.

TFL;DFR: 40 hrs/month. I write for about 40hrs/month.

[stinky-in-pinky]

"Okay, so remember, once we have them in their diaper, it's really important that we praise them. They're going to be very averse to their new lifestyle at first, but they have to get used to it.

So we want them to associate their diaper with good things, at least in the beginning. Tell them they're a good boy, that they look super cute in their wittle diapurrs. Pinch their cheeks, boop their nose, and talk to them in your little singsong voice. Guys aren’t used to getting compliments and affection as much, so if they receive that sort of praise and physical touch while they’re in a diaper, they’ll warm up to the idea a lot faster than you think.

Now, once we’ve got them pampered and praised, I like to put a pacifier in their mouth. I find it really helps them regress a few years, makes them more docile, and it keeps them quiet other than their adorable little whimpers. It’s hard for them to do much arguing or fussing when they’re suckling a binky!

After they’ve been praised and regressed a bit, it’s time to *really* get them enjoying their diapers. That means: we’re going to make them cum.

I know, I know, this whole thing is supposed to be a ‘punishment’, but trust me, the ends will justify the means. If it makes you feel any better, the only time they will get to cum from now on will be when they’re in a diaper. That means no sex, and constant supervision to prevent masturbation. You control their orgasms, just like you control where they go potty.

So when we make them cum in their diaper, we never want to reach into the actual diaper. That kind of defeats the purpose. We want them to feel the padding, hear the crinkles, all while changing the way they traditionally garner sexual stimulation.

So what I like to do is place my palm right here on the outside of the diaper, right between their legs, and feel around for their winky. Those of you that have hubbies with little nubbies may have a harder time finding it, but honestly, even if you’re not directly on it, that’s okay. You’ll find they’ll aim their hips the right way for you.

Once you’re on it, you’re just going to do a simple kneading motion back and forth just like this. Long, slow movements at first. Don’t start too fast. You want them to really take in the feelings and sensations. You’ll even see them get a little desperate for more, and it’s up to you if you want to speed up and go a bit harder, keep that same pace, or just take your hand away and watch them wiggle and whimper.

But the most important thing is that this entire stimulation process is never silent. In addition to the crinkling, you want to continue praising them. Really dial up the baybee talk here. You should be reminding them what a good little boi (or gurl!) they are. Remind them what they’re wearing. Obviously they know they are in a diaper, but you need to vocalize it.

‘Wook how cute the wittle baybee is in his diapee!’

‘Hubby wooks so adorwable in his Huggies!”

Things like that.

If they have an erection—which I’m sure they will from all the rubbing—point that out to them: ‘oh my goodness! I didn’t think these pampers could make your pee pee so pointy!’ or ‘somewon sure is getting hard in their Huggies!!’

If they have messes, praise them for that as well. Nothing like getting complimented for pissing or pooping in a pamper. Again, we’re just trying to emphasize the state at which they’re in.

Another way to do that is to have them tell you. Make them vocalize these things:

“Tell me what you’re wearing little boi!”

“Why is it so plump? Did you do something in there? Tell me what you did.”

“Is that something a big boi would do??”

Make them use their little baybee voice, make them lisp, make them make it high-pitched, and make them do all of it with that pacifier still in their mouth!

If they do it properly, reward them with rubbies, if they’re stubborn or not performing up to your standards, pull your hand away. You’ll have them babbling like a baybee in no time!

I know some Mommies that will only do the rubbies while their hubby is jiggling a rattle. If the rattling stops, so do they. Feel free to be creative, as long as they’re being patronized while they’re pampered, you’re doing the right thing!

Alright, so after a few minutes—or maybe even a few seconds—they’re going to be ready to cum. Make sure you emphasize that they have to tell you when they’re close, and they have to do it in baybee talk. I like to have them tell me they have to make a ‘goo goo’. But you can use whatever term you want.

At this point we’re gonna do what’s called a ‘ruined’ orgasm. For those that don’t know, that’s where you get them right up to the edge when they’re babbling and rattling and goo goo ga ga’ing, wait until you see them first start to spasm—then lift your hand away. If you do it right, they’ll be past the point of no return, and all their little stickies will leak out, but they’ll only have a fraction of a pleasurable orgasm.

This is important, because it puts them in this sort of limbo. Where they’re a little satisfied but also still a bit horny and desperate. Don’t be surprised if they whine and cry about it either—you know how men can be. But that’s when you tell them one of your most important lines:

‘Maybe next time!’

That will leave them literally cumming back for more. They’ll be desperate for their next diaper, their next rubbie, or the next stage of their training.

But another important step here is to make them sit in their shame. Keep them in their sticky diaper for a bit, at least an hour or two. Let them feel the warmth of their little load that they made—all while they were in a diaper. And the only way they get to make a load like that again is…in a diaper. We really want to drive this point home. They are not going to cum without the constant sound of crinkling coming with it. They don’t get the love, touch, and affection while they’re in silly boxers and big boy clothes. The only way they get pleasure is when they’re in their pampers.

Wives never believe me, but i promise you, eventually, they’ll actually beg you to put them in a diaper, just so you can make them cum again.

But what we’re not going to tell them is that we’re eventually going to wean them off. They’re not going to get to cum every time they put on a diaper. For the first dozen times or so, yes, they get an orgasm (even a full one) every single time. But then it becomes “well only if your diaper is wet”, which makes them feel good about wetting, cause then they get a rubbie reward. But then they’ll grow used to that as well, so we have to constantly find ways to push their limits.

Wait until you see their face when they push their first poop into their pamper. They’re sooo embarrassed, but they’re willing to do it, all because you said you would give them a goo goo if they make a poo poo. But of course, what you don’t tell them, is that they’re gonna have to cum while they’re still inside their messy diaper. Don’t worry girls, if you get too disgusted, just make them turn over and turn their rubbies into humpies!!

Ohh I just love helping wives turn their useless/ungrateful husbands into helpless and desperate diaper dumpers! I know some that have their husbands wearing huggies 24/7, and sometimes even in dresses too! Even the most homophobic, chauvinistic pig can be turned into a pamper packer, all it takes is a little TLC.

Men are so easy, you can literally control their whole life, as long as you control when and where their balls get emptied. Which reminds me: next week, our workshop is going to talk about a little thing called a ‘chastity device’!!

[stinky-in-pinky]

Genuinely loved Seen And Not Smelled. I know there’s a higher demand for meaner stories, but the soft and sweet ones get me the most. Especially when it starts mean and then goes into what I like to call “narrative aftercare”.

You know, out of all the half-baked, meandering, repetitive and uneven crap I’ve churned out, Seen and Not Smelled is one of the few stories that I can genuinely say I’m proud of.

Before even sitting down to write it, I had a clear beginning, middle, and end in mind. Usually when that happens, things change a lot along the way, and when it’s finished (if it gets finished) it rarely comes out the way I wanted it to.

I spent weeks on that damn story. Making tweaks and rewrites until I could get her tone-switch to work correctly, and establish their dynamic the right way. It would have been far easier for me to just write her as this cruel, sadistic domme that wanted to see her subby suffer the shame and humiliation of that scene, and for her friends to join in on the teasing and ridicule while he has to hump his diaper in front of them. I just feel like I’ve already wrote that story thousands of times by now. That’s my bread and butter. It’s wayyy harder for me to do “gentle domme” dynamics, but I thought I pulled it off.

So imagine my surprise when I post it and it……doesn’t do that well 😅

Meanwhile, Quickest Surrender—which I had no plan for at all and spat out in just a few days—got double the notes in half the time 😂 The same drivel I churn out ad nauseam.

I probably dug my own grave with that one. When 90% of your stories lean towards the mean/sadistic side, you can’t be surprised when that same percentage doesn’t respond as well to the softer stuff.

Should I just write what I want and not care about how many notes the stupid thing gets? Yea, PROBABLY, anon. But sometimes I just wanna see the numbies go up after putting all that work in, man😭😭😭

Without fail though, almost every single time I write a gentle domme story, someone is kind enough to reach out and say they enjoyed it. That’s incredibly validating. So to the vocal minority that likes the softer stuff: I see you and I appreciate the fuck out of you.

Thanks anon, you made my day.

P.S. I’m shamelessly stealing the “narrative aftercare” concept you just coined. I love that.