A place to satiate your deepest, darkest desires...if you're willing to pay the price.
30s.
The stories you read here are fantasy. Do not confuse them with reality.
Reduced to a caricature of your former self, stripped of all pretenses, enjoying this burlesque parody of gratification.
Look at you.
Writhing and screaming like a banshee, possessed and consumed by the incessant pursuit of pleasure.
You used to be a strong, proud woman. Charismatic, confident, and composed. If only you could see what you would become.
Would you have believed me if I told you how willing you were to debase yourself for the sake of pleasure?
How eagerly you would abandon your dignity and poise if it meant another orgasm?
That you’d end up here, on my lap, thrashing and thrusting into a leaking diaper in a ludicrous imitation of sex?
I bet you never expected to be Daddy’s silly little diaper girl.
Not that it matters anymore. We’re both enjoying this. Even if it’s for entirely different reasons.
Do I need to bother explaining yours? There is nothing complex about your single-minded pursuit of pleasure.
You enjoy it because your princess parts feel good.
I almost envy your slavish, vapid devotion to it.
You don’t care that I’m fully clothed. That you’re in a drenched diaper with silly, infantile prints. That your moans are muffled by your binky. That every movement creates a ridiculous crinkle symphony.
That this is a mockery of sex.
All you care about is the delicious friction of your diaper and needy mound. Those brief moments of ecstasy when you can almost feel me under all that pee-soaked padding.
Only I can enjoy this for what it is.
The delicious juxtaposition of past and present. Of who you were and who you became.
This is the fruit of my labor.
Your liberation from shame and embarrassment. Your pride and arrogance were a mask that hid the real you.
Every thrust, moan, and squeal is you thanking me for your newfound freedom as my horny, mindless diaper girl.
The poor girl built her life on a faulty premise: that knowledge is power.
Her belief influenced every choice, every decision she ever made. It was the reason she succeeded in every academic endeavor.
It was why in college she skipped parties to study in the library. Why she graduated at the top of her law school class. Why the partners of a prestigious firm were considering making her the youngest partner in firm history.
Yet, for all her knowledge and success, none of it prevented her from ending up on my living room floor in a soggy diaper, begging Daddy to watch hump her elephant stuffy.
And before you tell me I ruined her life and ended her career, you need to understand that I never did anything but give her what she wanted.
What she begged for every step of the way.
I pulled the wool from her eyes and revealed the truth: pleasure is power.
For someone as tightly wound and anxious as her—incessantly stressing over deadlines, hearings, and trials—making time for silly things like orgasms was never a priority.
You have no idea how hard I worked to help her relax enough to finally orgasm. I mean, I spent so much time going down on her, I could barely chew my food for two weeks straight. My jaw still clicks every once in a while.
But then it happened.
That first orgasm changed everything—hard work pays off. The way she shook and shuddered, the way her legs squeezed my head so tight I almost passed out, it was magical.
Her first lesson in the power of pleasure.
No matter how stressed she was over a hearing, how anxious she was about a deadline, she could, for a few blissful moments, lose herself in the sweet release of a powerful orgasm.
My tongue became her stress reliever.
I will admit she wasn’t entirely wrong that knowledge is power. The knowledge I unlocked over the next few months proved indispensable.
Her body was my teacher; I was its diligent student, soaking in every lesson. I learned every pattern, pressure, and pulse that her body craved. I knew her body better than my own.
In a matter of weeks, she went from being unable to cum to coming home to fuck away the memories of her boss yelling at her, her inbox of angry emails, and the impending deadlines.
Pleasure became her escape. And I was more than happy to be her accomplice.
With every orgasm, she fell deeper down the rabbit hole, blissfully ignorant to the consequences of her dependence on those moments of ecstasy.
And me.
I no longer gave her those precious orgasms on demand. No, those only came when the dishes were clean, our clothes washed and folded, and the house was clean.
None of this was ever explicitly discussed, of course.
But that’s the point of Pavlovian training—I simply rewarded the behaviors I wanted to encourage with orgasms and ignored the behaviors I wanted to discourage.
Any time she left work early, chose a brain-rotting reality show over the news, or made a simple mistake on her Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, she was rewarded with my head between her legs.
Work was never rewarded. The days she worked late at the office, left for work early, or even complained about her boss or deadlines never ended with an orgasm.
There were no rules, no expectations, no punishments. I never made any demands or criticized her choices.
I simply rewarded her when she deserved it.
And soon enough, the house was always clean, my drawers were filled with freshly laundered, folded clothes, and she spent more time at home with me than ever before.
But that was far from the only benefit. Her entire demeanor changed as she shed the weight of years of internalized anxiety and work stress.
For the first time in her life, work wasn’t her top priority. Suddenly, staying up all night to meet a deadline for some demanding client no longer appealed to her. Not when it was so rewarding to leave work early.
Even as her work performance plummeted and her bosses were rethinking their plans to offer her a partnership, she continued to choose pleasure over promotions.
She was so eager to please that most days started with her under the covers, showing me just how much she appreciated everything I did for her.
In her mind, the more pleasure she gave, the more she would receive. A notion I did little to dispute.
It was proof that the pursuit of pleasure dominated every facet of her life.
That was when I knew it was time. Sex became increasingly more sporadic and infrequent. She could no longer rely on the same behaviors being rewarded so easily.
Nor could she assume our time together would always end with an orgasm. As often as not, it ended with her on the brink of an orgasm. Or only after being edged and teased until she begged and pleaded for the sweet release of an orgasm.
I almost felt bad watching her desperately struggle to figure out the secret behaviors to unlock the orgasms. But it was all part of the process.
A clean house and shorter workdays weren’t going to cut it anymore. I needed more.
After a week without a single orgasm, she reached new levels of desperation. Her calm, confident façade collapsed into an adorably whiny, needy, sex-crazed shell of her former self.
Her normally sharp intellect crumbled under the weight of her denial-fogged haze. She struggled with even the simplest tasks. Her attention span wouldn’t have impressed a goldfish.
The hardest part was figuring out how to reward her whiny, vapid behavior without resorting to the usual rewards. Obviously, orgasms were out of the question—denying them is what caused the behavior in the first place.
The solution was elegantly simple: praise.
Praise lit up the pleasure center of the brain. A quick, fleeting hit to be sure, but enough to encourage her to be as dumb and whiny as possible.
I lathered her in praise whenever she replaced her post-graduate level vocabulary with simple, unrefined words. Or when she misplaced her keys. And especially when she acted particularly whiny and helpless.
So, she never questioned why the house was suddenly full of coloring books, crayons, and dolls. Not when bringing me a finished drawing or quiet playtime with her Barbies earned her heaps of delicious praise.
Her long, tedious month of denial ended in spectacular fashion when she came home from work with tears pouring down her cheeks. She was so ashamed, she could barely look me in the eye when she told me she was fired.
She expected disappointment; she received more praise than ever before. And, of course, the best orgasm of her life.
Things moved quickly after she was fired. With me working from home—and her not working at all—there were significantly more opportunities to reinforce and encourage her behaviors.
Especially because the ghost of the last orgasm haunted her; she was willing to do anything for the next one.
I didn’t make her wait long.
A few days later, she found the package of Beddybyes diapers I left in our room for no particular reason other than my own curiosity.
And because they are ridiculously adorable.
I’ll never forget how nervous she was when she crinkled into my office. Her beet-red cheeks almost distracted me from the comically inept way she taped her diaper on.
I never loved her more than that moment. And I rewarded her courage beyond wildest dreams.
The diaper wasn’t the only surprise. What good would a diaper be without a Hibachi Wand? They go together like peas and carrots.
I spent the next few hours heaping praise on her over the buzzing and crinkling of the wand on her diaper. By the time she fell asleep, she had set a personal record for the number of orgasms in a day.
Based on how soggy her diaper is right now, I’m sure you can guess I wasn’t content with her just wearing diapers, even though I never told her to wet or mess them.
All I did was lower the rewards for simply wearing them—she did the rest.
I wish you could have seen the way her face scrunched in concentration just to tinkle her diaper in the beginning. It was a whole thing. You might have thought she was solving complex math problems in her head.
But no, she was just trying to pee—hoping for another round with Senor Buzzy.
And let me tell you, she loved Senor Buzzy. He was so persuasive, I think I owe him a thank-you note.
The way she went feral when she was tucked into my lap, gazing lovingly at me, while Senor Buzzy vibrated on her soggy diaper is the cutest thing I have ever seen.
It didn’t even take a month for her to go from occasionally wearing and tinkling her diapers when she was horny to lustily humping Senor Buzzy while I tossed all her panties in the trash.
That was the point of no return.
From then on, it was all downhill. Once she accepted she belonged in diapers, she didn’t even try to hold onto whatever intelligence and independence she had left.
It was Daddy’s job to make sure her diaper was clean, her tummy was filled, and the bills were paid. Though by then she had been so conditioned to be my vapid, needy baby, I don’t think she could have handled adulthood anymore.
I don’t even think she realizes that we haven’t had sex—or that I haven’t gone down on her—since her first poopy diaper. Pleasure isn’t a static concept.
Which brings us to today.
Look how excited she is to play with her stuffy. Listen to her moans. Nothing matters to her but the warm, soggy diaper rubbing against her princess parts.
The anxious, success driven woman she used to be is long gone. She lost her job, her autonomy, her continence, and every facet of adulthood.
Every plan she had for her life abandoned for the sake of the next orgasm.
All the knowledge she worked so hard to get is as useless as her old panties rotting in some landfill.
And she has never been happier in her life.
Doesn’t that silly little squeal prove it? She doesn’t even care that her silly, infantile display has an audience. It’s the sound of someone in love with her pampers and their life. Exactly where they belong.
That’s the power of pleasure—if only she could still understand the lesson.
Wet suckles drift from your lips as warm, spiced milk trickles into your mouth.
An idyllic scene if there ever was one, with Daddy’s arm supporting your head, your body resting across his lap, as he hold's his babygirl’s nighttime baba.
Precious few things rival the intimate, nurturing serenity of being wrapped in Daddy’s warm embrace and meeting his reassuring, loving gaze.
When the world and its problems melt away, leaving only the innocence and adoration of Daddy and his little.
But the thoughts bubbling in your mind betray the innocence of a woman in a onesie and diaper, suckling peacefully on a baba.
Your eyes convey what your body craves. There was a time when your “let’s take this to the bedroom” look never failed—but that was years ago.
Back when you had a guest room, not a nursery. When your drawers were filled with sexy lace panties, not thick, thirsty diapers.
When Daddy was your husband.
If Daddy recognized the look, he didn’t show it. His warm, tender smile remained stubbornly steadfast.
Just as you were about to give up and resign yourself to your bottle of milk, Daddy guides your hands to your bottle for you to hold.
His hand drifts down your body, tracing your curves until it rests on your diaper.
The corners of Daddy’s mouth twist with the suggestion of mischief in response to your shiver of anticipation.
It didn’t matter that Daddy’s hand merely rested motionless on your diaper. Just the pressure of his hand, so tantalizingly close to your princess parts, was enough to fog your brain with jolts of electric pleasure.
Your suckling loses its rhythm as you imagined the pleasure Daddy’s hand could provide.
By the time his hand reached for your onesie snaps, even your breathing became scattered and disorganized.
Your soft, gasping moan reflects the truth and triumph of the years of denial as his hand slid into your diaper.
His fingers slowly, meticulously danced on the edges of your princess parts, teasing and taunting with the promise of more. You moan involuntarily whenever his fingers seem determined to find your throbbing button, only to retreat at the last second.
You squealed the moment his finger delicately brushed your throbbing lips, glistening with your eagerness.
But just as suddenly as it started, Daddy’s hand pulls away, leaving you whimpering and deflated with another unfulfilled disappointment. He reached over and grabbed your buzzy wand.
Doing your best to hide your disappointment, you flash Daddy your sappiest puppy dog eyes. With any luck, Daddy will use his fingers. Or better yet, your old vibrator.
Anything but the same magic wand on top of your diaper.
It’s been so long since anyone played with your princess parts without a soggy diaper in between.
So very long.
You deflate like a popped balloon when Daddy lifted you off his lap—until you noticed the devious grin etched on his face. He guides your hand to his belt.
“These things don’t unbuckle themselves, you know.”
He didn’t need to tell you twice.
You practically ripped his belt off, as if Daddy might change his mind if you waste any time.
“Baby, have you already forgot how to be a big girl? Why are my pants still on? Or maybe you prefer the wand to Daddy now, is that it?’
“Wha-?! Daddy no! I want you, please!” you bluster in terror at the possibility of losing the moment with Daddy.
Your knees nearly buckle when you see proof of Daddy’s excitement for the first time in two years.
Without taking your eyes off Daddy, you toss his pants and greedily lunge at him, determined to show him how grateful you are.
Completely forgetting about the swollen diaper between your legs.
Daddy laughs at your clumsy, squishy thrusts against him.
“Did you forget you’re a diaper girl, silly?”
Embarrassed and consumed by lusty desire, you reach for your diaper tabs. Daddy’s hand stops you.
“No, your diaper stays on, babygirl.”
“Bu-but…”
Daddy reaches down and pushes your diaper to the side.
“You need to remember who you are.”
He pulls you towards him, your body trembling in anticipation. The culmination of countless nights imagining this very moment.
Every millisecond feels like an eternity as you lower yourself down to Daddy, needing him inside of you.
A booming, animalistic scream interrupts the silence the moment Daddy’s head splits your eager lips.
Nothing could have prepared you for the sheer, mind-shattering ecstasy rippling through your body.
As Daddy slid himself deeper and deeper inside you, you lost yourself to your feral, carnal hunger, writhing and screaming in an uncontrollable, untamed frenzy.
After two long years without Daddy, it almost hurt to have him inside you, though for some reason that only made you hungrier for more.
Every sensation, every wince, every moan was proof of Daddy’s presence.
By the time you slid all the way down, with every inch of Daddy inside you, there was no more delaying the inevitable. You lost all sense of being and identity. Time and space.
The unbearable, erotic tension accumulated from years of deferred orgasms suddenly explodes out of you in a rush of pure, orgasmic bliss. Waves of warm, tingly energy ripple through your body.
Your world is intense—unfathomable—pleasure.
There is only you and Daddy, bonded by bliss. Though the ecstasy is already starting to recede.
Once you catch your breath, your eyes meet Daddy’s, pride etched in his eyes. You wiggle around, still feeling him inside of you.
“D-did you ma-make cummies too, Daddy?”
He giggles at the question. “No, babygirl, I didn’t even know we started. Most women don’t cum in 5 seconds—I don’t know whether I should be proud or disappointed.”
“O-oh…w-well, I ummm…s-sorry…”
“Don’t be, babygirl. You’re still gonna show me how thankful you are to have Daddy inside of you! So go on, show me!”
“Okay, Daddy!”
You slide up Daddy, immediately overwhelmed by the intense overstimulation of the post-orgasm bliss. A whimper accidentally escapes your lips—the opposite of what you wanted.
As overstimulated as you were, you knew this was for Daddy. It wasn’t his fault you made cummies so fast!
Gritting your teeth, you gyrated your hips the way you used to—it was like riding a bike. As your confidence grew, you began to enjoy the dull pain from your overstimulation.
You were so wet there was almost no friction, making it even easier to bounce on Daddy.
And then Daddy moans—the greatest gift he could ever give you.
Faster and faster you gyrate, intoxicated by the growing tension in Daddy’s body, seeing the indelible signs of an orgasm building in Daddy’s eyes.
A tremor ripples through Daddy’s body—you know he was close. But so were you. Your pain is pleasure. His pleasure is your pleasure.
Everything was pleasure.
Finally, Daddy’s hands wrap you in a deep embrace, pulling you deeper into him, grunting in undeniable ecstasy.
The moment his hands pulled you in and you felt the warmth of his seed deep inside you, you screamed with your second, even stronger, orgasm.
For a moment there was only the sounds of two lovers climaxing with each other. Groans, moans, and the satisfied breathing of post-orgasm bliss.
After a few seconds, or maybe even days, Daddy’s hands brushed the hair out of your face, smiling contentedly.
“You were amazing, babygirl.”
“Th-thank you, Daddy!”
Daddy winces as you stand up. You fight back a laugh at his dramatic face, knowing you did far more than that for him.
But it didn’t matter.
His hand slid back into your diaper, a sly smile on his face.
“Looks like my babygirl is leaking, huh? Does Daddy’s diaper girl need a new diaper?”
Had your cheeks not already been flushed with two orgasms, they would’ve been beet red.
“Dadddyyyyyy!”
“What? You’re a leaky girl! And it’s Daddy’s job to get his dirty babygirl clean and ready for nini.”
You were so lost in the moment with Daddy, you forgot you were still his silly diaper girl. The diaper drooping between your legs feeling as silly as ever.
Intense, uncompromising pleasure overwhelmed your resistance, coaxing you into the sweet bliss of surrender.
All you had to do was close your eyes and succumb to its power.
It would be so easy…
A loud moan snaps you back to reality, from the brink of annihilation.
The sobering truth of your situation dulls the unyielding ecstasy beckoning you to capitulate. You cannot give in.
But the egg your husband slid into your diaper continues to vibrate, steadfast in its indulgent call to rapture.
Mittened hands render your fingers useless and ineffective, unable to manipulate the straps of your harness. Unable to rip the tabs of your diaper to get inside.
Unable to stop the egg from dragging you into the abyss.
Your attempts to escape accomplish nothing but bouncing you merrily in your bouncer, your toes briefly touching the ground. Your overworked, messy diaper squelches whenever you’re thrust upward.
Bouncing. Bouncing. Bouncing.
The bouncer offers a perfect vantage point of your husband’s naked body. You can see every bead of sweat, every perfectly chiseled muscle firing as he passionately thrusts into your best friend.
Her face contorts in carnal pleasure in response to his thrusts. Deep, red gashes cover his arms and back where her fingers clung to him, pulling him deeper into her.
The divine apotheosis of the masculine and feminine—a startling antithesis to the woman bouncing in a diaper.
Watching.
Unable to escape, you close your eyes and cover your ears with your mittened hands, lest you lose yourself to the animalistic dance.
It takes every ounce of strength to keep your eyes closed. The buzzing egg and your own lust whispers in your ear, encouraging your surrender.
Eroding your willpower.
In another world, this moment would be the culmination of your fantasies. With you dangling from a bouncer in this comically full diaper while your husband took your best friend right in front of you.
But the price of surrender is more than you can bear.
Twenty minutes ago, as your husband strapped you into your bouncer, at the peak of your lusty anticipation, your best friend walked over with a smirk that sent jolts of electric pleasure through you.
“I want you to enjoy this, honey. We’ve worked so hard on this. Tonight’s the night. Aren’t you excited?”
You nodded enthusiastically, thinking it was all part of the act. Of the tease.
She laughed derisively, patting your diaper. “That’s right, baby. This is what you’ve always wanted. All you need to do is make diapie cummies like a good girl and you’ll be ours forever.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“The hypnosis, silly! We’ve played it for you every night for three months while you slept! And now it’s finally time to put it to work!”
Hypnosis always got you hot and bothered. But it was all fantasy. It wasn’t actually real.
So you played along. “Oh, yeah! Turn me into your plaything, ma’am!”
“Told you she’d be into it, babe! Tell me, princess…have you had any dreams about a diaper girl that looks just so similar to you begging you to come play with her?”
Your heart skipped a beat…how did she know?
“I thought so! You want to join her, don’t you? She’s so free, not a care in the world. Telling you all about how wonderful it is to surrender to your desires. To let go.”
“H-how…”
“She’s ready, babe. Told you it worked!”
“What worked?!?”
She booped your nose. “Don’t you worry, darling. Just make some biiig cummies in your bouncer while we play, okay?”
“Wh-what will hap-happen if I do?”
“Nothing you don’t want already—deep down in that head of yours! Just cum for us and you can kiss your potty training bye bye for good! You’ll have your diapers for everything!”
She paused for dramatic effect.
“And I mean everything! You’ll never be able to make cummies without your thick, soggy padding ever again, no matter how hard you try! And the best part? You’ll be our dutiful, obedient little diaper slave without a care in the world! And it will all be real, baby!”
Before you could say anything, your husband pushed a button and the egg roared to life, forcing you to moan in pleasure.
“Remember, baby. All you need to do is surrender.”
With every passing second, intense waves of pressure swells in your princess parts, peaking and receding, matching the intensity of the guttural moans coming from your husband and best friend.
Begging you to surrender.
No…you can’t…you won’t be their diapered plaything.
Her sudden screams of ecstasy, building inevitably to climax, mixes with your husband’s deep, powerful grunts.
You open your eyes, needing to watch it happen. Needing to see the moment your husband fills her with his seed.
Panic and terror overwhelm you as the pleasure becomes unbearable—uncontrollable—and you desperately try to stop the inevitable.
Through your haze you hear that familiar, ethereal voice. “Cummies! Cummies! Good girls make cummies!”
No no no no no no…you can’t make cummies!
“Hehehe! Let go and we can playyyyy!”
Someone screams in utter ecstasy.
Screaming with the same orgasmic bliss ripping through your body.
Screaming with your voice.
Every atom in your body radiates with heavenly bliss. It’s Intoxicating.
Liberating.
As the waves of orgasmic pleasure fade away, you greedily thrust your princess parts into the egg, bouncing wildly to up the pressure.
You’re so lost chasing the next orgasm, you don’t notice the two naked people walking towards you.
“Told you it would work! Look at her go!”
“Holy shit…is she drooling?”
It’s only when Mommy wipes the drool from your chin that you notice you’re not alone.
“Mommy!!!” you squeal happily, bouncing wildly, “I made cummiesssss!”
“You sure did, baby!”
Your thumb works its way to your mouth and your eyes light up when you see him.
“Daddyyyyyy! M-more cummies, please?” you beg thrusting ridiculously at the egg.
Not a single thought runs through your mind—all you want is to show Mommy and Daddy how good you are at cummies.
“Want to take our new toy for a test drive, babe?”
