Cute_Kitten

The only thing that breaks up the monotony of our days is when the new government permits journalists and filmmakers to tour their revolutionary new supermax, the crown jewel in their war on gangs. They proudly display their trophies- us gangsters they’ve captured, the defeated and diapered. The Warden gives the tours personally. He’s the only one brave enough to show his face. The only time we get news of the outside world is when the journalists talk to their cameramen and viewers, or when the Warden brags to the foreign journalists about how other nearby countries are emulating their revolutionary padded prison blueprint and tough crackdown on crime. The diapers are his favorite thing to point out. Before a tour begins, he often makes us take our shirts off to show off our gang tattoos. He has us line up at the front of our cells, our bulging, wet and messy baby diapers on full display. One of his favorite lines is “Our country is now the safest in the solar system. Children can safely play outside and go to school and our vendors can sell their goods in peace. Our streets are clean. Now the only thing these criminals dirty are their diapers.” He always laughs at his own lame joke. Today’s tour begins like any other. While the Warden escorts the journalists and film crew through intake- where they will be thoroughly searched as a matter of protocol to prevent smuggling in of any contraband- us prisoners are ordered by the Deputy Warden to take off our shirts and line up facing the cell front in just our soiled diapers, socks, and crocs. Only a few well-vetted journalists from across the globe and the space colonies get the privilege of being international propaganda. I know all this because I hear the journalists comment into their microphones how rigorous and thorough the screening process is. I sit on my bunk bed- my little space on the long metal slab bolted into the cement wall. From my reputation out on the streets and my tattoos that bear witness to my gang rank, I’ve earned the privilege of the bottom bunk. Another inmate and I stare wordlessly at each other, both our faces blank. Out on the streets, we would be rivals and kill each other on site. In here, all we can do is shut ourselves down, sit, stare, and helplessly fill our diapers. I have no affection for him, and he has none for me. But we do have mutual respect for each other as fellow victims of a ruthless regime. Suddenly the guards snap to attention as if sensing an incoming inspection. They’re always paying attention, the guards in front of the cells and the guards above the cells. Sometimes their stances may relax when their shift was almost over, but their eyes are always upon us. I’ve often wondered how they don’t get bored watching diapered jailbirds do nothing all day. How do they keep their minds from wandering and attention from wavering? Their eyes- those the only thing of their masked faces we can see- tell me. The guards fear and hate us in equal measure, and the flames of that hatred have yet to burn out. When it does, the guards will probably quit or transfer to a lower security prison and someone with a shiny new axe to grind will take their place. And here comes the Deputy Warden. Something is off. He’s sweating profusely and looks harried and nervous, not proud and excited like he usually is. He bellows orders, tone short and clipped and unsure. He keeps changing his mind on what inmates he wants up front. He points at one, shakes his head, then points at another. He bangs his baton on the iron bars when the inmates don’t crinkle fast enough for his liking. It would be so, so easy to grab that baton and bash him on the head. No one dares try. Maybe they’ve broken us more than we’d care to admit. The guards are statues, silent sentinels the Deputy Warden ignores as he prowls up and down both lines of cells. He gets near mine. With a resigned sigh, I stand up. My partially wet diaper with the teddy bear ballerinas on it crinkles then sags, the weight of a full, heavy bowel movement pulling it down. Due to my numerous tattoos, I’m usually selected to be up front. My face, head, back, and arms are covered in symbols of the respect and power I once carried. It’s my chest that draws the most interest. My entire abdomen from pelvic area to collar bones features a large hand in the devil horns pose. But the pointer and pinky fingers are the same length. Instead of human nails, these nails are sharp and pointed- claws instead of nails. A demon hand. It represents rebellion against societal norms and inner strength. The journalists are always fascinated by it and always ask the Warden what it means. The Warden loves to point my tattoo out then points out my diaper, especially if I’m visibly wet and messy. Once I helplessly crapped myself in full view of a camera. It was awful. My bruised pride remembers it so well, the first time I messed myself in front of journalists. The Warden and some nameless, faceless journalist stood on either side of my cell, just outside the damn yellow lines. Just one more step and I could’ve reached through the bars and choked both of them, a hand for each obnoxious throat. The journalist rambled on, spewing the propaganda lies he’d been fed, proclaiming how our forced diaper dependence was good and wholesome, how it supposedly shifted criminal thinking and it was a revolutionary new technique in the rehabilitation of hardened criminals. The Warden smugly nodded along. Like that fucker understood the foreign language the journalist spoke. I did. That language is my second tongue. I knew better than to reply or act like I understood, so I just stared dead-eyed and defiant at the hovering camera drone. Suddenly, no warning at all all, not even a tummy twinge, my butt trumpeted out a long, loud, and wet sounding fart. The microphone picked up every sound, every toot and squirt and squelch. The back of my thick diaper visibly ballooned out as I deposited my noisy, massive load. The cameraman operating the drone’s remote controls zoomed in on my defecation act. Then my diaper sagged with the weight of my shit. The Warden looked even more smug than usual. He explained in great detail the cutting edge technology behind our diapers. He even made me turn around so the camera had a better view of my visibly poopy diaper. This time, just like every time, I am chosen to be up front. I take my spot in front of the bars next to the other chosen sacrificial lambs while the rest of our numerous cellmates line up behind us. A few lucky ones get to stay in their bunks at the back of the cells because there is not enough room up front. We all pay attention because it’s the only thing to do in this gods-forsaken hellhole. Even a religious book would be a relief. The main door opens with a loud metallic echo. We hear the heavy stomps of the Warden’s boots before we see him. The Deputy Warden rushes to his side, stiff at attention. The guards all tense as if eager for a prison revolt or riot to put down. Three cameramen and their floating camera drones with multiple lenses to capture everything from every angle follow. Something is off with the Warden. His chest isn’t puffed out and he’s not strutting around like he usually does. He’s nervous instead of eager to show off. More guards in different uniforms come in. I stiffen at the sight. I know those uniforms. Everyone knows those uniforms. The personal bodyguards of the president. I barely repress a sneer. So the big dictator himself couldn’t resist a chance to gloat on intergalactic social media no doubt. I feel the tension in my fellow inmates, anger, pride, and defiance bubbling up. Unless the tyrant has come to personally announce the reinstatement of the death penalty, there is nothing more that man can do to us. He’s already taken away everything. I do not fear him. Hell, death would be an improvement, a release from the decades upon decades in this hell. Like we didn’t have enough guards already. It’s all a shitshow to impress the sheeple. My country’s elected dictator is followed by high ranking sycophants and toadies. His ministers and cabinet leaders, and decorated military leaders in crisp uniforms dripping with medals. The president is talking to the cameras, addressing the world and the space colonies. The Warden’s normal bluster is gone. He’s subdued, submissive to these men of higher rank and social status. My contempt for all of them only deepens. I don’t pay any attention. My eyes glaze over. I stare across the vast room to the opposite cell. It’s empty, awaiting the next load of victims condemned to diapers. The president is still yapping. I tune him out. No doubt his flapping gums are praising himself and his revolutionary new diaper rehabilitation program. He’s probably going to make some new announcement about it-maybe he’s building another prison or some big, powerful country has asked for help in implementing it. Whatever it is, his ego will not allow anyone else to make such a grand proclamation. What better place to announce any breaking news than the torture dungeon that started it all? While he blathers on, some of his entourage break off and look around at the various cells and the prized trophies on display. I keep my gaze straight ahead, my chin up in defiance and my shoulders squared in pride. My tattooed face is a hard mask, unreadable and intimidating. Despite the big baby diaper sagging with my piss and shit, I’m still a terrifying force to behold. We all are. In the past, I’ve made journalists cringe and stay far back from my cell with just my fierce demeanor. I will not give anyone here to gawk the satisfaction of engaging with them, of acknowledging they exist. I never do. Two of the flunkies manage to catch my attention. Hatred flares hot in my gut, rumbling like an impending bowel movement. How didn’t I notice those miserable bastards as soon as they walked in? I loathe those special operation soldiers more than I do any rival gangster. They wiped out the entire set of my gang. They’re the reason I’m in here. I also know a dirty little secret about those experimental freaks. I tried to tell it but no one would believe me. After the atrocities those two committed, they should be locked away in a cell with us. They deserved to be shaved and forever diapered like us. Instead those bastards are celebrated as heroes. It’s just more fascist propaganda. My gaze focuses on them, bitter revulsion smoldering. They don’t notice me. New medals shine on their uniforms. What makes those government lapdogs such monsters? Glad you asked. Nanites. Tiny robots so small you need a microscope to see them. They’re new, first used in medicine about the same time the moon colony was established. They manipulate organic tissue at the cellular level. I read an article in my smart watch about them once when a drug drop off was late. They’re mostly used in surgery to repair damaged tissue and organs. Cut out a tumor and the nanites will construct healthy tissue. It’s revolutionary and saving lives. Spinal cord injuries that would’ve left someone paralyzed a century ago are now nearly fully treatable with recovery just a matter of time. Some causes of blindness can be treatable. Nanites make the lame walk and the blind see, cancer cured. Friggin miracles. Like many new things, the use of nanites first started off only for the wealthy upper classes in rich, privileged countries then slowly trickled down and spread over the rest of the world to the poor and downtrodden and eventually became a new standard of healthcare. Emergency responders carry injectable vials of them. What happens when they’re used to manipulate and fuck with healthy cells? A top secret government and military experiment, that’s what. Super soldier freaks like Thing One and Thing Two walking down the rows of cells. Enhanced speed, endurance, and strength. And fucking night vision. I found that last one out too little, too late. I’ve heard whispered rumors there’s more of the fuckers, but I don’t really know. Then again, I brushed rumors of nanite experimentation off as conspiracy theories and fake news until I saw it with my own eyes. Many civilians say the tattoos turn gang members into monsters. I know the truth. I’m just a human dealt an unfair hand in life who did what he had to to do survive in a cold, hard, cruel world that wanted him to die. Thing One and Thing Two? They’re the real monsters. My gaze locks onto Thing One. He looks like any young man in his late teens or early twenties. Fit, muscled, a perfect soldier boy. His short cropped hair is dyed cherry red. To symbolize his desire to spill blood? His perfect white teeth flash in a radiant smile I remember so well. Even in the midst of a shootout deep in the jungle he smiled. He smiled as he killed my gang brothers. That red hair. Soldiers, government boot lickers, are not normally allowed such self-expression. I guess the monsters get special privileges for being good little guinea pigs. On his hip he carries a slip of a boy, a little waif around fourteen years of age. The boy is a soft, effeminate version of him with porcelain skin and hair dyed cherry red in imitation of his big brother. No denying their relationship. The boy’s head lay on his big brother’s shoulder. He is a delicate doll. He would’ve fetched a high price on the black market. Rich pedophiles would pay anything for such fine, tender flesh. It’s why I ordered my men to kidnap him in the first place. That was my crucial mistake. He is a pampered, spoiled brat born to wealth and power. I never should have taken him. But he was so beautiful, his flesh worth so much. I was blinded by greed and couldn’t resist. Rich or not, I’d have him spirited away so far and so fast his family would never see him again. I didn’t know at the time about his big brother. I never understood Thing One. How could someone born to such a posh, privileged life end up a military guinea pig? Did his father, a well known and decorated general, volunteer his eldest son to prove his loyalty to the new regime? Did Thing One volunteer willingly out of love and loyalty for his country, his people and stupid idealism? Did he martyr himself for the greater good? Fucking dumbass. The baby brother is quiet and still, clinging to his big brother and obviously terrified of all the diapered monsters in their cages. No double reliving painful memories. I hope the little shit got PTSD. It would serve him right. He sucks a petite thumb, drooling. A white terrycloth bib trimmed in red is tied around his neck to catch his drool. Only one of his big brown eyes moves around. The other is unfocused, vacant. Blind. He breathes through a tracheostomy hole and tube in his neck. A feeding tube is heavily taped to one cheek and goes up one nostril and down his throat. The boy’s pants balloon out in an unmistakable diaper bulge. A perfect circle scar of angry pink and white right between his eyes mars the perfection of his complexion. A memento of when I shot him point blank. He should’ve died. I thought he was dead.

You could get a possum plushy in memory of your little guest. Both my cats are currently outside (it's pouring down rain so they're just hanging out on the porch. They were supposed to be house cats only but they kept escaping + one relative always let them out so they're indoor-outdoor cats) and the house is quiet without them in it. So I can write in peace! 😆

He really was getting comfy in your house! Hopefully he finds some nice possum friends to hang out with, or he might come back! 🤣

I think that baby possum wants to be a pet cat. 😂 He's making himself right at home.

That depends on so many variables, especially you're parents' personalities and tendencies. When I was younger and exploring ABDL I kept a few diapers in an old book bag buried in my closet. Lots of good advice and ideas here already so the only thing I have to add is if you're living at home and in danger of your diapers being found, go with medical diapers over ABDL baby prints. I know they're adorable but an ABDL diaper will raise far more concerns and be far harder to explain than a plain white or solid color diaper.

My personal recommendation is do not do it. Far too dangerous a territory IMO. Many vanillas and even some in the kink community already have the general impression that ABDLs= pedophiles. Some assume that right off the bat. So having a search history of "kids in diapers" or a photo collection of kids in diapers on your hard drive isn't something that I'd want to risk explaining to the police or a jury. (who most likely would be made up of vanilla normies). Even if a potential charge got dismissed or you're found innocent in a court of law, there's still the court of public opinion and being outed to your local community, friends, family etc. For example- there's a transgender artist named Sophie Labelle who several years ago caught some heat within the trans and furry communities for their babyfur art/ diaper fetish and speaking on trans issues to transgender youth? I don't know the details, I just remember hearing about it. Fury as transgender cartoonist who claims to have fetish for nappy art is set to speak to children | Daily Mail Online Then there's the notorious case of a person who if you type their name, some sites will censor it. The name rhymes with Beeker. Just replace the B with a D. Even this site changes the name to [That Site]. Beeker is the Voldemort of the ABDL world for a good reason. His site was investigated by the FBI and I think he was arrested? Not sure on the details. I don't know if he ever was charged with any crimes or the charges were dropped, but I do know even to this day his name and site are an anathema to many an ABDL.

My normal go-to day diapers are plastic backed, crinkly, and bulky. (Northshore Megamax or Amazon Sunkiss Masterpiece in Pink) If anyone has ever seen or heard my diapers, they've never said anyting. I went a size up in pants to accomodate the diaper bulk. Wearing a onesie under your clothing can help prevent diaper sag and help muffle the crinkle a little. I'll wear a onesie under my clothes in the colder months. I wear long sweaters/ hoodies/ cardigans which all help hide thick diapers. In the hot summer months I wear cloth backed disposable diapers for more breathability and discretion though that does mean more frequent diaper changes. In the hot summer months, longer t-shirts or tank tops can help hide diaper bulges. I guess in general guys' fasion is more restrictive. For girls, loose flowy tops like tunics are great, so are skirts and dresses for hiding diapers. I've worn capri leggings with my diapers and a short dress/ long tank-tunic top. Guys could wear a baggy top like a baggy t-shirt to help hide their diapers? Tykables makes some jeans designed for diaper-wearing with extra room in the crotch specifically for diapers. And kilts! Guys can totally wear a diaper under a kilt! (or skirts, dresses etc. Some say clothes know no gender, so if wearing something more traditionally feminine appeals to someone no matter their gender/sex, I say if you wanna do it go for it!) Adult Baby Jeans | ABDL Clothing and Age Regressions Outfits – Tykables I've never tried Tykables jeans, so I can't speak from personal experience. But these might be what someone is looking for so my advice would be to read the reviews and ask around for peops who have bought them etc). Just putting the link here for convenience in case anyone is interested in them.

I've thought about trying the Wellness Briefs in the past but I've heard more bad reviews than good so I've never spent money on them.

I've had a thoroughly lazy Sunday after a super busy Saturday helping a friend out. I was gone all Saturday from 9a.m. until 11 p.m. so today I just chilled. I took the garbage out, and I"ll do the dishes. The most productive thing I've done today is change my diaper. 😆 I watched KPop Demon Hunter on Netflix and had Chinese for supper.

One might have a hard time convincing their doctor to administer it. But I wonder if a doctor who does incontinence surgeries- maybe someone like the hospital or doctor in Mexico featured in another thread on here for someone who travelled to Mexico for incontinence surgery?- maybe someone like that would be willing to give a patient who wanted temporary incontinence a nerve blocker shot? I'm not a doctor so I don't know and can't fathom how well it would work. I assume also there would be some possible risk of long-term side effects? Or the possibility of the continence not returning or muscle function not fully returning? (even if it is just a slim risk). But it is an intriguing idea!

That's a nice dream Daily Di! If there is no hell, then those who committed really evil crimes might be stuck for nearly eternity in a waiting room that's like the DMV. 🤣 I like the Ancient Egyptian mythology- the weighing of the heart against the feather of truth, and anyone whose heart is heavier than the feather gets their soul devoured by Ammit (monster was a mix of: crocodile head, lion front end and hippo back end xD) But that's mostly cuz I like monsters. 😂

This heat and humidity wave had me opening my last bag of Rearz Active Air briefs. Cloth backed diapers are more discrete which is great when it's so hot I'm in shorts and tank tops. They still retain heat but they breathe more than bulky plastic backed diapers. They also mean more frequent diaper changes (though I'm not always sure if there is more sweat or more pee in my diaper when it's changing time lol!) 🤣 I need to find an alternative to Rearz Active Air cloth backed diapers. I'm thinking of trying Northore. Though when it's hot and humid I tend to spend most of my time inside in the AC.

Modern fashion is a lot like modern art and I don't understand either one. I've heard internet conspiracy theories that modern art is just a money laundering scheme and Ii'd easily believe that lol! As a girl I like to look nice (and I like to keep my diapers concealed lol! So no yoga pants + super absorbent, bulky, plastic backed diapers unless I'm wearing a long, flowy tunic top to hide the diaper bulk lol!) but I've never been a super fashionable type girl who has to keep up with the latest trends. I go for comfort and practicality. Most of my clothes come from thrift stores or clearance racks or sales racks.

Very true, the weakness is in the guards but in this fictional world, the gangs in the outside are a huge mess and disarray. They're used to having the upper hand and running the show, but the new president has special task forces that are actively hunting gang members down and arresting them in a blitzkrieg move. So the gangs are scrambling on how to cope with that and trying to regroup, so they're not much of a threat at the moment, especially with most of their leaders locked up. The guards operate in shifts- the prison has housing just for the guards where they stay while they're on duty. Kind of like oil rig workers- so many days on, followed by so many days off. The way this supermax is set up, the humans are most vulnerable weak link and they would logically try to tackle that angle first. But I can also see the prison having strict vetting and screening of any employees, plus the numerous security camers. I definitely think everyone involved in the planning and adminstration of the prison would have thought of the potential for the gangs to try and infiltrate the guards, and would have security measures and safety measures in place to try and prevent it. Once the gangs on the outside have time to regroup, I can definitely see some cat and mouse games going on. Though given the harsh penalties this regime hands out to the gang members, it's definitely going to be a challenge for them. I haven't presented any of this information in the story because I don't think it's something the Warden would say in front of the inmates, even if he was giving a tour to journalists, and I don't think it's something the main character, as a prisoner, would know.

This is the last bit of set-up before we get to the really fun parts. Normally I feel this would be too much exposition for a story, but that was the whole focus of the start of the story- exploring the outer world and circumstances that led to the development of this particular prison, and exploring the prison routine itself from the eyes of a prisoner. I usually don't work in first person, but I chose to this time because it's the most immersive POV and it just felt right for this piece. My goal at the beginning was to give readers a sense of the overall wider world of the story, and of the narrower world inside the prison. I tried to also build a sense of the main character in bits and pieces, but there is more of that when we get into the upcoming scenes when more characters come into play. And I'm rambling so I'll shuddup now. 😆 So why don’t we abused prisoners just riot and take over like inmates at other prisons have done in the past? It’s not possible in this hellhole. Even with fifty of us in one huge cell, there is no advantage in numbers. First off, the cells are bare. The only furniture are the steel slabs bolted to the walls. Each inmate gets a small scratchy white blanket and a towel. That’s it. No TV. No phones. No books. Not even a religious tome. We talk in hushed whispers only when we’re certain the guards aren’t watching. Which they always are. Our days are spent in silence. Like we’re supposed to be penitent monks or something. We’re supposed to reflect and repent. They say that during religion class. Those bastards just want to slowly drive us insane. That’s their true plan. No clocks in here. No way to tell time by meticulous design. Lights are on 24/7. No windows. Numerous cameras monitor our every movement from every angle. So do armed guards outside our cells. Even caged and diapered, the guards fear us. Just the memory of our ferocious rule still terrorizes their psyches. All of the guards and medical staff -even the burly asshole doctor- wear face masks to conceal their identities. They’re terrified one of us notorious gangsters will identify them then find a way to pass the information to our boys on the outside and have them or their families killed in retaliation for the torment they subject us to. Before the tyrant of a president came to power, that’s what we used to do, part of how we controlled the old prison system. Gang leaders on the inside passed an order to kill a guard to the outside. In this prison, so far it’s proven impossible. Their fear is old and lingering, a scar of mental trauma. This prison uses signal jammers to block any and all contact with the outside world. The prison staff have special landlines to communicate with the outerworld. Prisoners do not get phone calls. No visits, either. Ever. No seeing your family and friends ever again. They say it’s a major safety risk; prisoners can use visitations and phone calls to smuggle out orders or smuggle in contraband. Once the prison beast has swallowed you, you’re as good as dead to the outside world. The Warden claims visits are a high security risk and that safety outweighs our human rights yet again. The only people we’re allowed to see are our lawyers over a heavily monitored video call while we’re shackled to a metal chair bolted into the cement floor while two armed guards stand over us. The only things our lawyers can tell our families are about our health- that we’re alive, we’re okay, and information about our trials. Families can not send us a message through our lawyer, nor can the lawyer deliver one from us. No outside news for us on the inside. There’s a danger that gang orders could be smuggled in code, and the Warden will not let that happen on his watch. The front of our cells are old fashioned iron bars we can reach through. There’s yellow lines painted on the concrete floor outside each cell that indicates how far guards need to stand back so we can’t grab them and steal their guns. Above us are more bars. Above those cage tops are cat walks with grille bottoms and armed guards looking down on us. If we try to grab the guards at the front of our cells, the ones above us will open fire with impunity. That’s not what keeps us so compliant. The threat of the guards is not what keeps two rival gangs housed together without automatically going for each others’ throats. It’s The Abyss. The Hole. Solitary confinement. Segregation. It’s a small room made entirely of concrete, with a concrete slab for a bed and a concrete water basin for drinking water. And a tiny fist sized hole way up top in the ceiling to let in daylight. But it’s so small and so far above you the light never reaches the bottom of the room. So as soon as that cell door slams shut behind you, you’re trapped in darkness and complete utter silence for fifteen days. It doesn’t sound like much of a threat until you experience it for yourself. Total isolation and sensory deprivation. It makes a man mad. Fearful. Compliant. It breaks him. It’s easier to just follow the rules. Fighting will only break you faster. The more you fight, the more time you spend in The Abyss. That along with all the surveillance is how they can house rival gangs together without any problems. No one dares to fight. Trips to the Abyss swiftly discourage you. A weak man could quickly lose his sense of self along with his sense of time. Night and day do not exist in this ever-fluorescent hell. The only changes are exercise, religion, diapers, new guard shifts, and meals. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all blend together. You don’t know which one you’re getting. They’re all the same. Rice, beans, and flatbread. Sometimes we get garlic noodles as a treat. No utensils. Too dangerous. We could use them as a weapon. No meat for the prisoners. It’s an unnecessary luxury and expense like milk and juice and fruit and vegetables. We get all our nutrition from powdered supplements of vitamins and protein added to our meals. When giving guided tours, the Warden loves to brag about it so much I can regurgitate his lines in my sleep. The guards get meat. Sometimes, when there is a shift change right after a meal, I can smell it on them. We all can. Some of us drool. They know it, too. They probably do it on purpose to taunt us and add to our pain and suffering like the sadistic bastards they are. Once a day, cell by cell, we’re shackled one at a time and taken out for exercise, religion, and diaper change time. No weight rooms or rec yards for us. Too risky, too dangerous. Can’t let the pants-pissing violent felons get their cuffed hands on anything. Always, in and out of our cells, we have two sets of armed guards ready to fire if we try anything on top of the regular guards with their batons they freely club us with. Anytime we’re out of our cells, we are shackled hands and feet. Not that we can move much with these bulky, bulging diapers bloated with our bodily waste. Once you’re inside this prison, your world shrinks to your cell and the area outside your cell. It is a rectangular, long and open aisle between the two rows of cells. Exercise, religion, and diaper changes occur in the aisle. Going to medical or talking to your lawyer are rare treats. In our crinkly, bloated diapers, socks and crocs, and clinking chains toddle and waddle out of our cells in groups of ten at a time to form five orderly rows while we’re surrounded by guards. If we jump one or two guards and take them, the others will pounce and fall on us like a ton of bricks. The consequences aren’t worth it. I’ve contemplated various scenarios for success daily. I’ve concocted a variety of escape and riot plans in my head. At this point, they’re more like wild fantasies than logistical plans. None hold a glimmer of success or hope. We’ve all thought the same things since arriving at this accursed fortress of despair. There are worse fates than death. The Abyss is one of them. After we line up, one of the numerous masked and unnamed guards stands in front of us. We sit on the cold cement in the middle of the aisle. We sing religious songs, a guard reads out of a holy book and we recite after him or listen as he lectures us about morality. For exercise, we use only our own body weight. Moving around shackled is hard and awkward. Moving around shackled and in a swollen, fully loaded and squelching diaper that forces your legs apart because it is so saturated and absorbent padding fully expanded is practically impossible. We look like bumbling, unsteady and overgrown tattooed toddlers as we bend to touch our toes and warm up. We jump, the chains preventing us from doing proper jumping jacks. All our movements are hampered. We exercise for half an hour then plonk our sweaty, squishy diapered bottoms on the cement. This often causes a lot of leaky diapers since by this time our padding is usually near full capacity. After exercise and forced indoctrination that will supposedly save our souls for the afterlife since we already ruined our earthly lives, it is finally time for a blessed diaper change. You don’t get those in the Abyss. Hell, sometimes they don’t even feed you. They get away with it by fudging the documentation and straight up lying and denying. Of course the problematic prisoner was properly fed on time and his diaper was changed on time. He’s just lost track of time and wants to cause more problems. Who is the Warden going to believe? Not that we get a chance to complain. Our lawyers are mostly public defenders who do the bare minimum required by law to help us and they make no secret of their relief we’re locked up and the streets are peaceful for the first time in half a century. Us prisoners have no one but each other and we’re all in the same dirty diaper of life. The highlight of our day is diaper change time. Even when you get used to randomly pissing yourself, feeling the padding swell around your dick or when you loudly fart then suddenly an avalanche of warm, mushy, smelly crap fills the back of your diaper and the weight of it makes the diaper sag- even when you’re used to all that, the feeling of a fresh, clean diaper is akin to heaven. The ever-present crinkles become white noise, background music automatically tuned out. While we sit and anticipate clean, fresh diapers, the guards bring out the robonannies. These things are at the cutting edge of technology along with our innovative diapers. They’re used in hospitals, nursing homes, and mental institutions in the space colonies and more progressive countries. They are silver discs the side of a dinner plate or frisbee. I don’t know how much they weigh, but the guards have no trouble carrying them. One by one, us prisoners in our filthy, sometimes leaking diapers are motioned to lay down on the cold, hard, unforgiving cement. No nice cushiony changing mats for our irredeemable ilk. One touch of a guard’s finger and the silver discs silent whir to life, morphing into a metal pole with silver arms and hand-like appendages. The first time I saw one, I was terrified. It’s like a cartoon morphed with a horror movie to create this mechanical diaper changing abomination. More officers wheel over a heavily guarded cart full of disgustingly cheerful, oversized baby diapers, special compostable garbage bags for our dirty diapers, and a huge tub of slimy neon pink goo. One of the metallic skeletal hands lifts my legs up by my ankle cuffs and chains. Obediently, I spread my hips. I keep my eyes open. Closing them is no escape from the humiliation of this ritual. It only shows weakness. They can never break or conquer a free man. They can only kill him. Or make him incontinent. But they will never kill my soul. Always, every diaper change, I always feel the eyes on me. Hundreds of eyes- both the masked guards and my fellow prisoners. Chained helplessly, emasculated, diapered, and dominated, they still fear us. I see it in their cruelty, in their cold eyes, how they cling to their guns and their hatred. Under all that is raw, primal fear. And from that I get my courage to face this torturous existence and live another day. Mechanical fingers rip open the tabs on my big baby diaper. The noise echoes in the vast room as everyone stares at me. I do not flinch even a tiny bit. The front of my diaper is lowered, revealing my piss and shit covered dick to all those watching eyes. I pointedly meet every gaze I can. No one looks away. No one really cares. We all do it to each other. The machine wipes away the shit plastered and smeared all over my hairless ass, swift and efficient. No emotions at all, which is a blessing in a way. I’m used to diaper changes; it’s my new normal. Once my forever hairless dick is clean, a new diaper is flapped open and slid underneath me. It’s white- always white- thick and bulky. This one has pink hearts and diapered ballerina teddy bears in pink tutus. I’ve been here so long that every single print has been slapped on my ass repeatedly. Even the girly pink prints don’t bother me. Nothing fazes me. I’ve adapted to living in this institutionalized hellhole. But they haven’t broken me. I just do what I need to survive. None of us will break in the face of this physical and psychological torture. Before the new diaper is fastened, a mechanical hand slathers pink goo all over my dick, balls, and ass. It’s another new invention, originally created for the astronauts and first inhabitants of the space colonies. It’s the ultimate diaper cream to prevent rashes and to protect the skin and keep it healthy during steady, prolonged diaper wear. It quickly entered mainstream use in hospitals and nursing homes. Once the entire cell of inmates are freshly diapered, one by one our cuffs are removed and we’re back in our cells then the next group of prisoners are taken out while the rest of us look on. Not like we have anything better to do. So there you have it. That’s how we spend our diaper pissing and diaper shitting days in an endless time loop. Only scheduled activities mark the passage of time. We can only whisper amongst ourselves, hoping the crinkles of our diapers prevent the guards above us and in front of us from hearing. They’re always watching. So are the cameras. Talking is a one way ticket to fifteen days in the Abyss. There are no goals of rehabilitation here, no matter what feel-good, sound-good propaganda claptrap the government spouts. It’s all smoke and mirrors, all lies and subterfuge to cover up the fact that this is all pure punishment and revenge from tyrants who hate the might and power us gangsters once had over them. It was power they could only dream of.

Good luck getting the diapers shipped to the hotel. It sounds tricky! Diapered vacations are the best vacations. But they also add another element to manage and add more logistics to the planning. But it's always worth it.

Super fun! If I'm ever up that way, I'd definitely stop and shop too! Back in the 00's and early 10's I used to buy diapers from a medical supply store but now I do all my shopping online. I've never been to a straight up ABDL store. It's awesome you got to go!

I do have a waterproof mattress cover. They make quiet ones now so they're not the traditional noisy crinkly plastic (but I do like the crinkly noises lol) If my night diaper leaks just a little then I will spot clean with a little bit of soap, water, and a sponge then let that air dry. If it's a bigger leak then I change and wash the sheets.

The damn diapers are just the beginning of our torment. This prison is just downright barbarically cruel in its design. It is the largest correctional institution on the planet, in this solar system. Everything about this prison is designed to physically and mentally break you. It is located in the middle of nowhere, in land specially cleared just for it. The prison itself is 57 acres with the surrounding 350 acres on every side cleared flat land so there is nowhere to hide. There is a five mile surrounding radius of cellular signal blockout. There is only one road; one way in, and one way out. There are multiple heavily armed and guarded stop and inspection points along that road. The prison can hold up to fifty-thousand inmates. The massive complex is surrounded by three high cement walls and electrified barbed wire with twenty watch towers and manned by guards all too happy and eager to shoot any escapees. Once inside, the prison complex is divided into eight sectors. Each is fully independent, including electricity etc. Each unit has its own backup generators. Escape is futile. The warden took great delight in pointing all of this out upon arrival. Once an inmate is dragged through the intake doors of this prison, he will never see the outside world again. Never again will he feel the warmth of the sun upon his face, hear the song of birds, smell the spring flowers. He’s a living dead man. This is not a prison. It is a tomb for the living. Cold cement and steel are all we’ll ever know for the rest of our lives. The intake process is brutal. You’re stripped naked and your cuffed hands and feet are bound together by a short chain that forces you to bend in half and shuffle-scoot hunched over. There are multiple scans, both human and machine. Oral and rectal probing are just the start. There are machines that see right inside of you. They claim it is to prevent contraband but we all know the truth. It is to establish dominance and control from the very moment you step off the prison bus that transfers you from holding jail to prison. You’re the government’s bitch now baby. Still chained and naked, it is off to medical. Here the real torture begins. We don’t even get the decency of sexy nurses to look at. Even convicts on death row get a last meal in other countries. There’s no sympathy here. Just hostility and hatred. The doctor and his nurses are all big hairy men with anger management issues. Fully nude, you’re shackled spread-eagle to a metal slab of an exam table. Get used to the feeling. Your new bed in a cell is just a metal slab too. No pillows or lumpy mattresses in this hell. For our own good and safety, of course. All you get is just a light sheet with a chip inside that will start chirping the moment you tie it into a knot. Your head and face are shaved. No beards or moustaches allowed in hell. They say it’s a health issue and the shaving prevents lice. But we know the truth. Any and all traces of individuality- including your heart and soul- are to be stamped out. All we have left of our former selves and old lives are our tattoos. All prisoners look the same with shaved heads and uniforms. This is the first of the psychological torture and conditioning. Rival gangs are housed together, which has never happened before. We’re too violent, too unpredictable. Rival gangs kill each other on site. No matter where. Not here. That was made clear from the moment we stepped off the prison bus. In here, we’re all the same. Monstrous trash. Dead men still living. They just have to kill your soul first. The rest of your body hair is shaved off, including your genitals. A weird smelling cream is then spread over your body from your chin on down. It burns. That’s the sensation of your hair follicles melting. You will never grow hair again. Just like a baby. The nurses do a thorough health assessment and any needed medications assigned. Then the shackles holding you to the exam table are tightened. More are added so you can not move or thrash at all. You’re belted down like a death row inmate on the execution gurney with multiple straps all over you. A burly nurse with a poker face grabs your dick roughly and jabs you with a numbing injection. He does the same thing to your ass. The motions are robotic. He’s done this hundreds, thousands of times to the point it is nothing to him. You’re just another brick in the wall, your torment and anguish just another ho-hum day at the office. Maybe the first few dozen prisoners he faces with sadistic glee but by now the fun has worn off. The doctor inserts a thin silicone looking rod into your penis, up your urethra and sphincter. Once in place, it unfurls into a soft stent that attaches to your sphincter walls and permanently holds the muscles open. Instantly you will never control your bladder again. The same thing is done to your ass. From now on, you will helplessly piss and shit yourself like an invalid or a baby. You will need diapers. They put you in diapers. Not medical diapers. That would give us a pretense of dignity, which is too much mercy for us so-called monsters. All we get are scaled up baby diapers. The diapers are white with a variety of horrendously juvenile and sometimes feminine prints. Baby blocks that spell out the words “Bad Baby”, “Princess Poops A lot”, or “Proud Pants Pooper”, etc. There's pastel rattles, balloons, clowns, teddy bears, ballerinas, unicorns. The teddy bears wear diapers too. These aren’t ordinary jumbo baby diapers. They have been specially engineered just for us, based off the new diaper designs for the space colonies. They’re thick. Incredibly thick and plastic backed. You can’t make the slightest movement without crinkling. The diapers make you waddle like an unsteady toddler they’re so thick. They’re biodegradable and turn human feces and urine into wonderful compost material for crops or to burn as fuel for energy. The smug bastard of a Warden loves to joke that the prison is so efficient even our waste doesn’t go to waste. These diapers swell enormously, quadrupling in size so you can barely toddle as you haul around all the shit and piss you helplessly dump into your ever-expanding diaper. You can not take them off yourself. The only way to get the damn diaper off is one of the robot nannies. The diaper tabs have special electronics that fuse to the landing zone. You could, theoretically, take your diaper off with scissors, a knife, or a prison-made shank but in the four years I've been here no one has managed to get hold of any implement to even try. You can’t even make a shank in this place. It is impossible to try due to the design and the way they run this place. I’ll get to that in a minute. So, the robonannies. Just as the name implies. Like the Moon and Mars colonies, it’s relatively new technology. These robot nannies are programmed to change diapers. They’re not yet capable of full-on caregiving. Diaper changes occur at designated times. Because of these ultra-absorbent diapers, we get changed once a day when we’re let out of our cells for exercise and religion classes. I’m getting ahead of myself again. So, after medical when you’re newly shaved and diaper-dependent, you’re taken in a line with the other new arrivals to your cell. One by one you are uncuffed and released into it. Your prison uniform is a white t-shirt, white ankle socks, a think scratchy white blanket, and white crocs. And your diaper. No dignity or shorts allowed. Your diaper is to be visible at all times, so everyone can see the state of it. How wet you are. How poopy you are. They can see when you piss and shit yourself. Not that they care. The humiliation stings your pride the worse the first few times. Eventually you won’t notice. You grow numb to it as your pride is cut away diaper by loaded, smelly diaper. It becomes your new normal and you’re numb to it all. It’s just one of the ways in which your mind adapts, a small step to becoming institutionalized just like the victims of the old mental asylums centuries ago used to be. I bet their abusive captors forced them to wear diapers, too. Why force us into incontinence? Numerous reasons which the government will deny. They say it is to help us learn humility, for rehabilitation, and sanitary reasons. Toilets- even just a cement hole in the ground- is a safety risk for such violent felons like us. It gives us access to our own feces, and being the aggressive animals we are, have been known to use as weapons, to throw at guards and each other. It is a biohazardous weapon and our diapers prevent access to it. Each cell in this prison houses fifty men. Yes, you read right. Fifty. 50. We’re just thrown together like chattel. This is to maximize space and further desensitize and institutionalize us by stripping us of our own innate sense of personal space. How do they make sure we behave in such conditions instead of just rioting and dog piling on them all at once? I’ll get to that in a bit. The diapers make such living conditions more sanitary, according to the Warden. He loves to point that out. We’re doing good for the environment and that helps us give back to the communities and country we damaged and teaches us the importance of thinking how our actions impact others instead of just being selfish and thinking only of ourselves. Toilets in such large cells are not sanitary and they are not safe. Toilets provide inmates with parts for weapons. It is a dangerous risk. Diapers we can not remove are much safer for the guards. The forced incontinence reinforces the fact that we are not in control of our lives at all. Big Daddy Government now says when we get clean diapers and no longer have to stew in our own bodily fluids. The real reason those sadistic bastards force us into incontinence and diapers is just because they can. The government hates us gangsters and wants revenge. We were the government. We ran the country and spat on their laws. We made our own laws. We were free and rich and they hate us for it so they humiliate us at any and every chance they get. What is more painful and demoralizing than stripping a man of his ability to relieve and control his most intimate bodily functions? It is the biggest indignation and violation of our human rights. It gives them ultimate control over us.

Those diapers are super adorable! The LFB Fantasy is one of my top favorite diapers. but the circus prints are soo cute and perfectly babyish!

That looks really good. I could imagine a Grown Up version of the drink with a lil splash of vodka.

I hear wearing a diaper on Friday the 13th wards off bad luck!

I like the print from what I've seen. It's nice to have more "grown up/ big kid" type prints to choose from in addition to the wide variety of baby prints already available. I haven't seen the diaper fully unfolded or what the front/ back looks like (maybe those pictures exist already and I just haven't seen 'em). I'll wait to hear more about them. 🙂 Cloth backed or plastic? How do they compare to the diapers already on the market? Performance, fit, absorbency, tapes, and cost. A lot of things to discover.