justforfun

A recent event... I was flying to the East coast on a red eye, so as is normal for me I wore a good diaper (Megamax) and a onesie under jeans and an un-tucked button-down shirt, had a gin and tonic or two, and passed out for the 5 hour flight. As also is normal for me, I woke up quite wet as we were landing. The humbling part came during the layover. I had a fairly tight connection, I needed to pee, I had a pretty well-used diaper on... and it must have been National Spicy Burrito night the night before, because all of the men's restrooms I passed had lines for the stalls. So, not only was I going to not have a some-what isolated place to change, I was going to have wait, and then have an audience of people staring at my stall, wondering what I was doing and probably catching glimpses through the huge gaps in the doors. And, of course, the bathrooms all seemed silent, with only an occasional "whoosh" to mask any sounds, so the Megamax tape sounds would, I imagined, remove any doubt was to what was happening. I might as well have just stood out in the open. Between the need to pee, and the reality of likely falling asleep and wetting again on the next flight, I was trying to convince myself that I was just going to have to bite the bullet and deal with the public nature of changing a wet diaper with an audience. I am in no way an exhibitionist, and I have no 'exposure kink' or anything of the sort that might have made it at least a little exciting for some folks. I was not looking forward to it, but I didn't have a choice. Some sort of benevolent entity smiled on me, through, and I was trying to gather my courage to enter the last bathroom before my gate, with 5 minutes before boarding began, a man exited the family bathroom. I quickly stepped in, and heaved a sigh of relief. A minute later the wet diaper was in the bin, a clean one was taped on, and I was back together and ready to board.

I may well be one of the accounts you're talking about. I saw your post a month ago now and I didn't respond at the time because it set off a little navel-gazing, because, of course, you're right. I will fully admit that my reactions are contradictory, confused, and inconsistent. But, I've distilled it down a little, and maybe my thoughts will be somewhat relevant to the thread, so... 1) I have a thing for diapers. That's been true since I was a young child, at least since before my 5-year-younger brother was out of diapers. (That's not a surprise, being here...) 2) After some events in the very early 2000's, I decided that I 'needed' to have a reason to wear diapers. While, based on the events, I didn't want to have (or even pretend to have...) actual 24/7 incontinence, the idea of being a bedwetter worked nicely, and so I spent a year+ focused on becoming one, using every trick known, fantasized, rumored, or guessed at. I think that this stage may be familiar to many in this sub-forum. It took time, but it worked. 3) About five years later I met my wife. Being a bedwetter started to be a drag, and I decided I should stop. But, see (1)... and Onzl's comment: I often wonder if their conscious position is at odds with their subconscious one. Uh-huh... it didn't work, and to some degree that fact that I had no success probably served to reinforce my 'need' as justification. 4) Another few years, and a child arrived, diapers were everywhere and it wasn't a big deal, and then... seemingly suddenly... it was just my diapers again, and I had a child that was increasingly curious, we were traveling more... and so I made a concerted effort to get dry. At least consciously, I was doing everything I could to break the bedwetting, but by now it had been more than 10 years... and... again... see (1). I often wonder if their conscious position is at odds... Keep in mind, for me it was never about the bedwetting as a specific thing. It has always been about 'justifying' the wearing of diapers. When I wake up wet, my first though is not, "Hey, I wet in my sleep!", it is, "Wow, it's a good thing I'm wearing a diaper!" Therefore, I may 'want' the bedwetting to go away as a thing because it is inconvenient, annoying, and doesn't fit with where I am in my life... but that can conflict with (1). I think this is important to figure out if you want to know where things are going in the future. I may have happened to have a better understanding going into it why I wanted to wet the bed... and I think my reasons are different than others here, so my experiences with remorse and guilt are likely also different than others here. Ok, this became a much more about-me threadjack than I intended. Sorry.

I trained myself back to bedwetting about 25 years ago, and my general experience supports this. At some point, my subconscious became convinced that if I needed to pee when I am asleep, it's okay to just do that. It's not so much that I will pee just because I'm asleep, but rather if I do need to pee and I'm asleep, I will. To that end, things that increase my need to pee in general... be it alcohol or stress... will make it more likely that I'll wake up wet. Things that decrease my general need to pee, including dehydration, but also just a general lack of stress, mean it's less likely. For me, I think the thoughtlessness and permission are now always there, but unless the need (opportunity) is there nothing will happen. Being on a stressful work trip and going to bed in a strange hotel room after drinking a bunch of beers is a 99.999% chance of waking up wet. Sleeping at home, with a cool rain outside, after having worked in the yard under the hot sun all day... well, I could _almost_ risk going without a diaper. (Not that my wife would be okay with that risk.) But it's all a matter of probability, even after more than two decades... From what you said there, I think there is still a journey for you... which (I guiltily admit) is good for me, because I very much enjoy reading your writing. I wonder how things will change for you as the cooler weather kicks in and you're more hydrated on average...

I want to start by saying that I really really appreciate your posts and comments over the course of this story. I truly hope you enjoyed it! I want to say, though, that I wanted to write a story where the main character was _not_ infantalized or other wise turned into a baby. While I wanted to explore that he investigated the idea, he figures out that is not what he wants. He does not lose agency, and he does not become a child. Greg and Emily explore some things, but in the end he's a happy, healthy, well-adjusted adult. Who happens to be most comfortable wearing diapers. As a DL myself, I wanted a story where the protagonist finds himself, and comes out stronger, even though he is wearing a diaper, as an equal in the relationship. He has a healthy family life, a healthy public life, and is [mostly] free of guilt. He has a life that represents _all_ aspects of himself. Emily is also happier, and she has control, but it's a granted control... if Greg wanted to change his own diaper in the last chapter, she would have let him. He chooses, with agency and consideration, to continue accepting her care for him, and she chooses, with agency and consideration, to continue providing that care, after 25 years. This works for both of them. Thanks so much! I'm so honored you commented. Hitchhikers is one of my favorite books, obviously. It has shaped much of my mindset over the years... much like many of the songs mentioned in the story....

Chapter 42: So Long and Thanks For All the Fish The blacktop was miserably hot in the August sun as I helped Virginia, our eldest granddaughter, unload the last of her boxes from the car. Twenty-five years. A quarter of a century since we'd moved Abby into her dorm room, the day that had unknowingly set the course for the rest of our lives. Now, here we were, the cycle repeating itself. I looked at Virginia, her face flushed with excitement and a hint of apprehension, and saw a reflection of Abby, of myself even, at that age. A knot of something complex – nostalgia, regret, and a surprising tenderness – tightened in my chest. Had I done right by them? By Emily? By myself? "Grandpa, be careful with that one!" Virginia called out as I hefted a particularly heavy box. "It's got all my books in it." I chuckled, remembering a similar scene from years ago. "Don't worry, kiddo. I may be older, but I'm not completely decrepit yet." Emily appeared at my side, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. "Speak for yourself, old man," she teased, giving me a playful nudge. "Some of us are aging like fine wine." As we made our way towards the dorm, I couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. The excited chatter of freshmen, the worried looks of parents, the smell of new beginnings mixed with a hint of anxiety and industrial cleaner - it was all so familiar. "You know," I said to Emily as we waited for the elevator, "I'm glad we sprung for the movers this time. My back is thanking me for not having to lug a damn loft up three flights of stairs again." Emily laughed, the sound as warm and comforting as it had been all those years ago. "Oh, come on, Greg. Don't tell me you don't miss the thrill of nearly toppling backwards down the stairs while our daughter yelled geometry instructions at us." Virginia looked between us, her eyes wide. "Wait, you guys actually carried Mom's loft up the stairs yourselves? That's insane!" I grinned, ruffling her hair. "Welcome to college, kiddo. Where your grandparents' war stories become your entertainment." As we entered Virginia's room, I was struck by how little dorm rooms had changed. The same institutional white walls, the same cramped space that somehow had to house two people's lives for the next year. But there was also something timeless about it, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with memories. Emily, ever the practical one, was already directing traffic. "Alright, let's get you settled in. Virginia, why don't you start unpacking your clothes while your grandfather and I sort out the bedding?" As Virginia busied herself with her suitcase, Emily reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a familiar white square. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized it - a waterproof mattress cover, just like the one we'd given Abby all those years ago. Emily's voice was low as she handed it to Virginia. "Here, put this on first. You can just say it's because of bedbugs or something if anyone asks." Virginia paused as her sheet cheeks flushed slightly, but she took the cover with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Grandma," she whispered, slipping it onto the mattress before quickly covering it with her fitted sheet. As I watched this exchange, I was transported back to that day with Abby. The silent understanding between mother and daughter, the mix of embarrassment and relief on Abby's face - it was all there again, reflected in Virginia's eyes. Later, as we helped Virginia arrange her desk and hang posters, Abby appeared in the doorway. "Hey, everything okay in here?" she asked, her eyes scanning the room with a mix of nostalgia and concern. "We're just about done," Emily replied, smoothing out a wrinkle in Virginia's comforter. "Ready for dinner?" Abby nodded, then hesitated. "Actually, why don't Virginia and I go first and grab us a table? Give you two a moment to freshen up." I felt the familiar warmth spread across my cheeks, the blood rushing, making the roots of my carefully dyed hair prickle with sweat, as I realized what Abby was suggesting. It wasn't really embarrassment, not anymore. Just awareness. As Abby and Virginia left the room, Emily turned to me. "Well, Mr. Thompson," she said softly, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, "shall we?" I nodded, moving, not to Virginia's bed but to the lone chair. I needed a second to get my head straight. I realized as I sat that a warmth was growing in my diaper, a natural occurrence for years now that barely registered until the squishy bulk of the disposable was made more obvious by the seat of the chair. She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "Babe, the bed..." she began, her voice questioning. I shook my head. "Just need a sec," I said, and sat. The chair was uncomfortable, but my thoughts swirled. She understood without another word passing between us, giving a quick nod. She stood beside me as I sat for a minute, hand-in-hand. I found myself marveling at the journey, the sheer absurdity of it all. Twenty-five years. Thousands of diaper changes. Tens of thousands? Here we were. Full circle. After a minute, I nodded at Emily, and stood. Emily's hands, as she stood, moved to my jeans. It was now such a natural movement for both of us. I closed my eyes, letting the familiar sensations wash over me – the cool touch of her fingers on the snap of my jeans, the whisper of the zipper being pulled down, the soft rustle of the plastic pants Emily had put over the disposable at the hotel this morning. "You know," I said softly, my voice thick with emotion, "I never could have imagined this is where we'd end up." Emily paused, her hands stilling on my hips. Her voice was warm. "Do you regret it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question raw, vulnerable. A question that had, perhaps, haunted her, too, all these years. I thought about it, truly thought about it. About how it had started with shame, guilt, and lies. About the comfort, the care, the unexpected intimacy we had found. About the life we'd built, a life undeniably ours, unconventional, yes, but... real. "Honestly?" I started, pausing. I reached for her hand and held it tight. The question was not something I thought I'd get asked. "There were many times I asked what if, wished it had never happened. But," I emphasized, reaching up to cup her cheek, needing her to see, to feel the truth in my words, "I love you, and no, I have no regrets. Every moment with you, the kids, family... Every. Single. Moment. Worth it. All of it." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "And besides... I suspect if things had been different, we would have been different, and I do like us." She moved, starting to tear up, it seemed, and came to give me a hug. My head was nestled on her chest, and I felt the familiar warmth of her breasts against my cheeks through her bra and shirt, her slightly musky smell calming me. I held her for a moment, and smiled. Emily leaned into my touch, her eyes shimmering, unshed tears reflecting the light. "I love you, Greg Thompson," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "Diapers and all." She smiled, a genuine, beautiful smile that reached her eyes. I answered by tilting my head up and our lips met for a brief, familiar kiss. "So," I prompted. "Shall we?" She smiled and stepped back to pull the plastic pants down. As my diaper was exposed, and her warm hands started removing the tapes, I continued, taking charge just a little. "You know," I said, my voice a bit steadier now, "This is one of the disposables. I could probably manage this myself, in the bathroom." The statement was a truth, but also... a question. An offering. Emily paused, her hands stilling on the tapes. She looked down at the diaper, then up at me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She gave a short nod. "You could...," she said, her voice even. "But..." she added, almost to herself, "...it’s been a long time since you asked.” The silence stretched, a beat, two, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. I could finish this myself. Walk to the bathroom, clean up, dispose of the diaper, regain that small measure of... autonomy. I met her gaze, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching my lips. "But..." I said, my voice a low murmur, a hint of teasing now entering my tone, "...where’s the fun in that?" Emily’s answering smile was slow, a gradual dawning of understanding, of shared complicity. A warmth, deeper than the flush on my cheeks, spread through me. This wasn't about diapers; it was about trust. About vulnerability. About choosing to let go, to let her care for me, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. "Alright, then," she said, her voice husky, a playful glint returning to her eyes. Her hands resumed their task, discarding the wet diaper, the familiar routine a comforting ritual, her face once again expressing gentle, caring confidence, concern, and control. She quickly and efficiently taped the dry diaper on as I stood there, my knees bent slightly outwards to allow her to snug the leak guards up into position, our combined practice obvious, before pulling the plastic pants back up. "There," she said, patting my hip with a touch as I quickly adjusted and fastened my clothes, "Good as new. That should last through dinner." This wasn't the life I had envisioned for myself all those years ago. It was better. Richer. Filled with more love and understanding than I ever could have imagined. As we sat down to dinner, surrounded by three generations of our family, I couldn't help but think, "So long, conventional life. And thanks for all the fish." This story, "Empty Nest", is copyright 2024 by me, justforfun. It may not be reproduced anywhere else without my explicit consent.

Ok, fixed all the punctuation cut-and-paste problems in the last chapter. Sorry about that. Last chapter incoming when I finish likewise cleaning it up. This time before posting.

Ah crap, that's what happens when you paste from google docs, with it's "smart quotes", into the form here without pasting as dumb text and are in a hurry. Oops. (Edit: it's the '...' In this case. I had sorted the '"' out, but not '...') Sigh. I'm on my phone now but will fix it when I get to my computer. That's for pointing it out

As someone very involved in things... it's not going to take an AGI to get to the point where humans are not economically viable in a very wide range of places. An LLM doesn't have to be able to write compelling diaper porn to be able to replace the person taking your order at a fast food place, answering your tech support call, or handling 99% of tasks at the DMV. In my opinion, it's going to happen, the question is what we do about it. As with the OP asking how we want to handle this in stories on this forum, society as a whole needs to figure out what to do with a large number of folks that currently stamp forms or ask dumb questions until they direct you to second level tech support. Saying "No to AI!" is not a viable answer, in the same way that "No to automobiles!" didn't keep cars back. It will be adopted, because it lowers costs for people who aren't incentivized to pay people more for what a machine could do for less. And to be clear, the money in AI is not how well it works for you (as a consumer), it's how quickly it can replace minimum wage workers... which it's pretty darn close to doing... so... what now? Okay, enough of that tangent. I would support labeling Oznl's "AI-Generated: Content where any of theme, plot, setting, characters, point of view and style has been substantially generated by machine." I'm not sure that "AI-Augmented" will have a strong enough line in the sand to know when it is appropriate, or not, particularly as tools evolve?

Oh, I have many, many weaknesses as an author. Like I said, I used to be able to spell engineer, now I is one. I do seek to improve but with limited ability to solicit widespread feedback on... this kind of content... it's hard to improve without automated tools providing suggestions. It's very rare to get lucky and manage to get the time of someone who is interested in reading the kinds of things I write, willing to provide feedback, and has feedback worth listening to! But again, I'm an amateur. I don't get paid for this. I don't try to get paid for this. I do want to improve because I try to take pride in everything I do, but that doesn't mean I have the time or energy to invest in everything I do... so tools, from speel check to grammerly to AI are all varying degrees of crutch while I limp along. I like the general idea. I think that there could also be inspiration drawn from common expectations around photo contests. Picking one in particular that I favor, I asked Gemini to take the rules from that photo contest and modify them for a story contest. (removed because of atrocious formatting)

Well, to be fair, it's unlikely that I'd mess up a diaper related detail. But when a secondary character has a blond roommate in one chapter, and then suddenly her black hair is somehow mentioned 40 pages later, it's not really the point of the story, or likely to be something I'd even remember I said.

This is a great discussion. I have been struggling both professionally and personally with what the role of AI can be, vs. should be, on a lot of fronts. For the record, I am on the hardware compute side of things, optimizing silicon that is often used to both train and use models, so I have a (very) low level understanding of how these things work... I'm curious what people think. When I'm writing a story, I have it all planned out in my mind. I'll develop and outline the story arc, and then start filing out certain chapters that I'm particularly interested in, gradually building out key character development points, key dialog, scenes, and finally getting to the point where I have a fully written story, where there are parts that are polished and I love, and parts that I... uh... don't love, mostly because they are the boring (but important) bridge sections, or for whatever reason don't tickle my creative side enough to really polish them. I started working with someone who showed me how to take that, which is probably 33% great, 33% acceptable, and 33% "improvement needed", and use AI to take some of the 33% "improvement needed" sections and feed that into various AI engines, and taking the ideas and suggestions of the AI as to how to improve those sections. What I end up writing is rarely exactly what any of the models said for anything more than a line of dialog, but it helps me understand how I might improve the section. Various models provide various takes on what might work, and I take all that as input when I figure out how I want to re-write a section. Almost always it comes out way better for a given section that I would have written... I do not generally take AI text exactly, but I admit I am definitely influenced by it. As others noted above, many models have a "style" of writing that is pretty recognizable, and like writing after I've been reading Terry Pratchett, I can feel my style being influenced. It's not that I'm taking the AI's inputs word-for-word; instead, it's just guiding me in a direction. My own writing gets more flowery, more wordy, more descriptive, even though I'm not cut-and-pasting. One of the biggest things I use AI for is to hand it a new chapter, and ask it to check for thematic, characters, and narrative. I have a horrible memory, and the AI is great at pointing out that Fred said he hates cloth diapers in chapter 15, and he loves cloth diaper in this new chapter 50. I see this as an advanced use case of "you spelled thier wrong"... So... yeah, this. I engineer, not writer. I don't get paid for writing. I write because I like to... I'm also an amateur photographer, playing around because I love creating what to me are beautiful images. The question of how much change to the image captured through the lens is still a "photo", versus "art", is an ongoing question in that domain. If I take a great picture of a sunset, and hit the 'enhance' button, is it still a photograph that I took, or one the AI "fixed" to the point that it's not "art" anymore? Do I have to tell everyone that looks at the beautiful sunset that I hit the 'enhance' button, or only those that ask? Can I still enter it it photo contests? What if it adjusts more than just colors and levels? What if it removes bad pixels? What if it removes a spec of lens dust? What if it removes the power pole that was in the way? My point is... art is what is created that evokes an emotional response in people. Tools have been used to create art for forever, from violins, to spell check, to 'Enhance' buttons, to Adobe Photoshop editing suites. IMHO, AI is another of those tools, where, like synthesizers in music, people will originally say that "It's Not Art!", but eventually the artists will learn to master and control the dynamic expression and output to express new emotions and ideas that weren't there before, and it will be accepted as part of "Art" in it's own right, but people will judge it on it's own merits. In the meantime, I would hope that writers would voluntarily label works that are "generated by AI" as such on their own initiative, but also not restrict authors from using the tools available to them to express their creative abilities when it is their emotional, creative, and inspiration that is driving the art. In My Humble Opinion. And, for the record, AI didn't touch a single word of this, although it _really_ wants me to correct "thier" above, but I refuse. I get the point, but putting a camera in anyone's pocket and allowing everyone to upload to Getty images destroyed the professional photographers. Uber/Lyft vs Taxis. Amazon vs... well... everyone. Buggy whips. Think of people with the last name Cooper, Miller, Smith, or Weaver. My point isn't that we shouldn't be careful and thoughtful. But just saying "No We Can't Let That Happen!!!!!1!!!" will just ensure that that wrong thing happens. This discussion is good because it seems like we're looking at how to use new tools responsibly, I hope! I really hate it when the board merges answers without asking me. Just saying.

Chapter 41: The Kids Are Alright Chapter 41: The Kids Are Alright The late May sun streamed through the windows as Emily and I bustled around the house, preparing for Abby's return from college. I couldn't help but fidget with the waistband of my jeans, acutely aware of the bulk beneath them, hopefully hidden by the onesie snapped between my legs. Emily had pinned me into a thinner daytime diaper and put me in silent PUL pants, but despite Emily's assurances, I felt like it was obvious. "Greg, relax," Emily said, catching my hand as I adjusted my shirt for the hundredth time. "Abby knows about your situation. She's not going to judge you." I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "I know, I just... it's different, her seeing it in person." My voice sounded strained, even to my own ears. Emily's response was cut short by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. My heart raced as we made our way to the front door. The young woman who stepped out of the car was almost unrecognizable. Abby stood tall, radiating a newfound confidence. Her hair was cut in a stylish bob, and she wore a smart blazer over a casual t-shirt. She looks so& grown up, I thought, a pang of something that felt like both pride and loss hitting me. "Mom! Dad!" she called out, striding towards us. Before I could overthink my greeting, Abby enveloped us both in a tight hug. I tensed, certain she could feel the padding beneath my clothes, but she didn't flinch, didn't react. Maybe Emily's right. Maybe it's not that noticeable. "I've missed you guys so much," she said, pulling back with a bright smile. But as she looked at me, her smile faltered slightly, a flicker of... uncertainty? crossing her face. As we helped Abby unload her car, I couldn't help but marvel at the change in her. She moved with a grace and assurance I'd never seen before, effortlessly lifting heavy boxes. Once inside, Emily busied herself making tea, leaving Abby and me alone in the living room for a moment. Abby sat down on the couch, kicking off her shoes with a sigh. She looked around the room, a small, almost wistful smile on her face. "So," she said, turning to me, her gaze a little hesitant, "how are you really doing, Dad?" I paused, caught off guard. This wasn't the usual small talk. "I'm... adjusting," I said, choosing my words carefully. "It's different. But manageable." I hoped my voice sounded more convincing than I felt. Abby nodded slowly, her eyes searching mine. She fiddled with the strap of her watch, a nervous gesture I recognized from her childhood. "Mom told me a little... about the medication, and... everything." She paused, a slight blush rising on her cheeks. "It sounds... challenging." I managed a weak smile. "It has its moments. But your mom's been amazing. Taking care of everything." Too much information? I wondered, instantly regretting the last part. Abby looked down at her hands, then back up at me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Yeah," she said softly. "She is." A beat of silence. "I know you did the same for me, when I was little." She looked up, a small, brave smile on her face. "I still remember the star charts, and how you pretended not to notice when I snuck a pull-up on after a bad night. It... well, it helped. More than you know." Hearing Abby acknowledge our shared history, her understanding of my current situation, sent a wave of relief through me. It was a connection, a silent acknowledgment of a shared vulnerability. It also made the knot of guilt in my stomach twist tighter. Later, the conversation turned to organizing. "You know," Abby said, as she surveyed the boxes of my diaper supplies we had moved to the basement, "this could really use some better storage. All these boxes are taking up a lot of space." She glanced at the corner, where Emily had neatly stacked the boxes. "And Mom mentioned wanting more shelves in your bedroom." "I took a woodworking class this semester," she continued, a spark of enthusiasm in her eyes. "Maybe I could build some shelves for you guys? It would be a good way to... you know... give back a little. And practice my new skills." Emily and I exchanged a surprised look. "That's... that's really thoughtful of you, Abby," Emily said. I added, "Sure, why not?" Abby shrugged, a confident smile on her face. "It'll be fun. And it'll help organize things. Plus," she added with a wink, "I get to boss you two around for a change." The next day, Abby took charge of the shelving project. She measured, planned, and directed us with a competence that both impressed and slightly intimidated me. "Okay, Dad, hand me that level," she said, pointing with the pencil tucked behind her ear. As I handed her the tool, our fingers brushed, and I felt that pang of... something. Pride, yes, but also a strange sense of role reversal. Here was my daughter, taking care of us. I needed to pee, and didn't resist, wetting my diaper. It had become so natural. "Alright, let's start organizing," Abby said, turning to the boxes of supplies. "Where do you want the disposables, Dad?" I felt my cheeks burn. "Uh, maybe on the lower shelf? I can change those myself," I added, immediately wishing I hadn't. The words sounded pathetic, even to my own ears. Like a child boasting about a small, permitted freedom. Abby next picked up a stack of cloth diapers, the mix of white cloth and childish prints fresh and clean as she arranged them on the shelf. She looked at the for a moment, taking the top diaper and opening it up with a thoughtful expression. She didn't say anything for a moment. Then, she looked up at me, a curious expression on her face. "Dad," she began, her voice hesitant, "The cloth diapers... how are they? To wear?" I felt my face flush even hotter. This was not a conversation I'd expected to have with my daughter. "It's... different," I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral. "More... substantial. Than the disposables." Abby nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. "Mom said they're better for the environment. And cheaper, in the long run." She paused, then looked directly at me, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. "Do they... do they feel okay? I mean, are they comfortable? I remember those awful plastic pants Mom used to make me wear over mine. They were so noisy." The question, so unexpected, so... personal, caught me off guard. I realized she wasn't just making conversation. She was genuinely curious. And maybe, seeking reassurance? I hesitated. How to answer that? How to explain the complex mix of comfort, shame, and... something else... that these diapers had come to represent? "They're... surprisingly comfortable," I finally admitted. "A little bulky, at first. But you get used to it." I paused, then added, a little awkwardly, "They they feel kind of... secure, actually." She paused, picking up the combination key from the dresser and twirled it on her fingers. "I guess it's different when you can't just change whenever you want, huh?" She gave me a small smirk with a glance at the romper I wore under my sweatpants, secured over my diapers. She looked at the boxes, almost wistfully. "I've been thinking... maybe I should try them. The pull-ups... they work, mostly. But sometimes... sometimes I worry about leaks. At night." My heart clenched. This was it. The opening. The chance to... to connect, to share, to... confess? But the words caught in my throat. "They... they might help," I managed, my voice strained. "They they hold a lot more." I hated myself for not being able to say more. "Can you... put them on yourself?" It was an honest question from her, but it exposed my vulnerability. "Well. Um. Your mom, uh, handles it." I gave a goofy grin to disarm the moment, and while I appreciated her opening up, it was uncomfortable. Abby smiled, a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Dad. Maybe... maybe I'll ask Mom about them." She turned back to the boxes, her voice lighter now. "Okay, so cloth diapers on the top shelves, right? And what about these?" She held up a box of plastic pants, her expression curious but also a little... apprehensive. The conversation moved on, shifting back to the mundane task of organizing supplies. But the moment lingered, a fragile bridge built between father and daughter, a shared understanding that transcended words. As we finished setting up the shelves, Abby turned to Emily, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Well, Mom, looks like you're all set for diaper duty now." I felt my face flush, expecting a barb, or at least a look of annoyance, but Emily just laughed, a genuine, warm laugh. "Speaking of which," she said, turning to me with a raised eyebrow. "I think someone needs a change before we settle in for movie night." I didn't protest. I didn't even feel the usual surge of embarrassment. I simply nodded, accepting her care, her touch, as a part of our new normal. "Okay," I said softly. "Lead the way." As I followed Emily to the bedroom, leaving Abby to start choosing a movie, Abby called after us. "Hey, Mom?" Emily turned back, "Yeah, sweetie?" Abby hesitated, glancing at the shelves and then at me. "Those cloth diapers they look, um, complicated. But... do they actually, like, work better? Than, you know, disposables?" She shifted her weight, avoiding direct eye contact. "I've been thinking... maybe I should try being more, um, environmentally conscious. And those pull-ups I've been using... they're expensive. And sometimes they leak." Emily paused, giving me a quick, almost imperceptible look before turning back to Abby. She didn't jump in immediately. She let the silence hang for a moment, letting Abby own the question. "They do work differently," Emily said carefully. "They take some getting used to. But yes, they can be more absorbent, especially for heavier nights." She didn't push, didn't offer directly. Abby nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Maybe... maybe I could try them? Just to... try them out? See if they're... better?" She looked from Emily to me, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. "No! Not Dad's, obviously. I mean, ew." She gave a slight smile. "But maybe you could show me how they work?" I cleared my throat, feeling a mix of emotions relief, a strange sort of pride, and a renewed pang of guilt. "We... we have plenty," I said, my voice a little rough. "And... and different kinds. We could show you." Emily smiled, a warm, genuine smile. "Of course, sweetie. We can show you everything. And we can get you your own. Different prints, if you want. Or just plain white. Whatever you're comfortable with." She paused, her hand resting lightly on Abby's arm. "No pressure, okay? Just... if you want to try." The next morning, I woke early, the house still and quiet. The events of the previous day hung heavy in the air, a mix of relief and lingering awkwardness. Emily was snoring on her side of the bed, and I needed coffee. As I padded downstairs in my pajamas, acutely aware of the sodden bulk of my thick nighttime diaper, I found Abby already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. She was wearing soft pajama pants and a t-shirt, and I noticed the unmistakable, though subtle, bulge of a pull-up beneath. My heart clenched. Here we were, father and daughter, both starting our day in diapers. The image should have been comical, absurd even, but it was just sad. And strangely... connecting. "Morning, Dad," she said, her voice a little hesitant, her gaze flicking, almost imperceptibly, to my own diapered state before returning to meet my eyes. There was no judgment in her expression, no mockery. Just a quiet understanding. "Morning, sweetie," I replied, my voice rough with sleep and a lingering sense of... what? Shame? Resignation? I wasn't sure. I busied myself with pouring a cup of coffee, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken words. Abby took a sip of her coffee, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from the mug. "So," she began, her voice casual, a little too casual, "rough night?" She didn't look at me, but I knew what she was asking. I sighed, leaning against the counter. "I, uh, well, I guess I'm used to it now." The confession, so matter-of-fact, so normal, hung in the air between us. Abby nodded, still not looking at me. "Me too," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. Then, she finally lifted her gaze, meeting mine. And in her eyes, I saw not pity, not disgust, but... empathy. A shared understanding that transcended words. A beat of silence. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Guess were both a little leaky, huh?" I managed a weak chuckle, the sound a little strained. "Guess so." Abby took another sip of her coffee, then set the mug down on the counter with a decisive click. "Well, she said," her voice brighter now, a hint of her usual confidence returning, "I'm gonna go... take care of things. Shower, get ready for the day. You know." She gestured vaguely downwards, a subtle acknowledgment of our shared predicament. I nodded, understanding. Yeah. Me too." She paused, looking directly at me, and then back at my diaper, a thoughtful look on her face. Abbys lips twitched, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Right. Well. I'll, uh, let Mom know you're up. And... need a change." Her voice was light, casual, almost teasing, but there was a kindness there, a gentle understanding that made my chest ache. It wasn't mean-spirited, not at all. It was acceptance. Complete, unquestioning acceptance. And that, somehow, was almost worse. "Thanks," I mumbled, my cheeks burning. The casualness of her comment, the way she so easily, so matter-of-factly, acknowledged my... dependence. It was a relief. She gave me a quick, almost shy smile, then turned and headed upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the weight of my wet diaper, of my... situation... pressing down on me. As I stood there, I saw myself in the shiny chrome toaster. A tired looking, middle aged guy in bulging pajamas. I saw Emily in the hall, looking like she was coming from the laundry. "Everything okay?" I asked, trying to sound casual. Emily paused, her expression thoughtful. "Yeah," she said slowly. "Just talking to Abby. She... she seems to be handling things well." She paused again, her eyes searching mine. "And you?" "I..." I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. "I'm okay," I finally managed, the word a fragile truth. Emily nodded, a small smile touching her lips. "Good. Because, well, we need to figure out a few things. About... the long term. About... how we're going to manage. All of us." Her gaze drifted, almost imperceptibly, to my midsection, to the damp bulge beneath my pajamas. It wasn't a look of judgment, or even of concern. It was... something else. Something practical. Almost matter-of-fact. "Come on," she said, taking my hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "Let's get you cleaned up. And then... we'll talk." I followed her, not to Abby's room, but to our own, a subtle but significant shift. The changing pad was already laid out on our bed, a silent acknowledgment of the permanence of this new reality. As Emily helped me out of the wet diaper and pajamas, her touch was efficient, but also, gentle. There was no playful teasing, no suggestive comments. Just... care. "You know," she said, her voice soft, as she fastened the clean diaper, a thick, cloth one this time, "it's interesting that Abby asked about the cloth diapers. Seems like she's really being mature about her options." I nodded. "Yes, she's really growing up." Emily nodded, her eyes meeting mine. "Yeah." She paused, her fingers lingering on the plastic pants, smoothing them over the diaper. "It's good to see her... accepting things. Finding her own way." The implication hung in the air, unspoken but clear. Abby was finding her way. And maybe, just maybe, I was, too. "And you, Greg?" Emily asked, her voice a gentle prod. "How are you feeling? Really?" I looked at her, really looked at her, at the woman who had loved me, cared for me, diapered me, through all of this. And for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope. Not a denial of the reality, but an acceptance of it. A willingness to see where it led. "I... I don't know," I admitted, the words honest, raw. "But... I'm willing to find out." Emily smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. "That's all I ask," she said softly. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Now, let's get you dressed. And then... we'll face the day. Together." That night, as Emily helped me into my nighttime diaper, I found myself reflecting on the day's events. "Can you believe how grown-up Abby is?" I mused, lifting my hips as Emily slid the thick cloth beneath me. Emily nodded, her hands working deftly to pin the diaper in place. "It's amazing. And you know what? I'm proud of you too, Greg." I raised an eyebrow. "Me? What for?" She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "For being vulnerable. For showing Abby that it's okay to need help sometimes. That's its own kind of strength." She turned to the closet and pulled out a light blue sleeper. In the dim light, I could just make out the open zipper on the back. My heart skipped a beat. She held it up, one eyebrow raised in silent question. A smile touched my lips, a mix of anticipation and acceptance. Emily's smile widened, and she held the suit out for me. I stepped into it, the soft fleece sliding against my skin. It felt strangely... comforting. As she reached behind me to zip it up, I watched her face, her expression a mixture of tenderness and playful mischief. When she reached the top the zipper gave it's now familiar quiet click as it was secured in place. I was encased, safe and snug, the familiar weight settling between my legs. I felt a shiver of anticipation run through me. The air in the room seemed to crackle with an unspoken energy. As we settled into bed, the familiar weight of the diaper between my legs and the snug embrace of the sleeper around me, I realized that our family dynamics had shifted in ways I never could have predicted. Emily's arms pulled me into a cuddle, securing me against her body, my face nestled into her breasts, a hand pulling my diapered middle in close. I relaxed into her body, finding a comfort I no longer questioned, a peace I no longer fought. I had found strength in vulnerability, not in spite of it. And Emily... Emily had been our rock through it all, her love, her care, the unwavering constant in a world that had turned upside down. Family, I realized, wasn't about fixed roles or expectations. It was about growing together, supporting each other through changes and challenges. And as I drifted off to sleep, Emily's warmth beside me and the knowledge of Abby sleeping soundly down the hall, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the unconventional but beautiful life we'd built together. This story, "Empty Nest", is copyright 2024 by me, justforfun. It may not be reproduced anywhere else without my explicit consent.

A few short wrap-up chapters to go... Chapter 40: Stranger in a Strange Land The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across our bedroom. I stirred awake, the familiar bulk between my legs a constant reminder of our new reality. Emily was already up, her side of the bed cool to the touch. I could hear her humming softly downstairs, the gentle clink of coffee mugs a comforting soundtrack to our morning routine. "Morning, honey," Emily greeted me as I entered the kitchen. She was already dressed for the day, looking fresh and vibrant. Her eyes sparkled as she took in my disheveled appearance and wet diaper, a fond smile playing on her lips. "Sleep well?" I nodded, accepting the mug of coffee she offered. "Like a baby," I quipped, then winced at my own unintentional pun. Emily laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Well, I suppose that's fitting, isn't it?" She stepped closer, her hand resting on my hip, fingers tracing the edge of the diaper through the romper, still secured from last night. "How are we doing this morning? Need a change?" It was hard to miss the bare space on the refrigerator where the bedwetting tracking sheet had hung for the past eight months. Emily had removed it yesterday, declaring with a mix of pride and finality, "We don't need this anymore, Greg. It's just our life now." The absence of that chart felt strangely liberating. No more tallying wet nights, no more pretending that we were working towards some mythical "dry" goal. This was simply who I was now, and the acceptance of that fact had brought an unexpected peace. "Yeah, I'm pretty wet," I admitted, no longer feeling the need to hide or make excuses. "But coffee first?" Emily nodded, leaning in to place a soft kiss on my cheek. "You should practice changing your own diaper. I'll get everything ready while you enjoy your coffee." I nodded, a mix of anticipation and nervousness fluttering in my stomach. We'd agreed that I needed to learn how to change my own disposable diapers for when we were out of the house. The cloth diapers were still strictly Emily's domain, but this was a step towards a bit more independence. Emily led me to the living room, where she had laid out a changing mat on the floor. "Okay, let's start with the basics. First, you'll want to make sure you have everything you need within reach. Oh, I I guess we need to let you out first, right?" We both smiled as she quickly dialed a combination that I still didn't know and clicked the little magnetic key, freeing the zipper of the romper. I watched as she arranged the supplies - a fresh disposable diaper, wipes, powder, and a disposal bag. Her movements were efficient, practiced, as she stripped off my cloth diaper to make room for the disposable, setting it on the changing pad. It struck me how naturally she had taken to this role of caregiver. "Now, the key is to stay standing," Emily explained. "It's trickier than lying down, but it'll be much easier when you're in a public restroom." She guided me through the process of cleaning myself and positioning the new diaper between my legs. I fumbled a bit with the tapes on the new diaper, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "It's okay," Emily reassured me, her voice soft. "It takes practice. You'll get the hang of it." As we finished up, I found myself chuckling. "You know, Em, I never thought I'd be taking diaper-changing lessons at my age." Emily laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Life's full of surprises, isn't it? Just wait until you have to do this in a tiny airplane bathroom." We both burst into laughter at the mental image, the absurdity of our situation hitting us anew. It felt good to laugh about it, to find humor in what could otherwise be a source of embarrassment or shame. "Karen suggested these flannel-lined plastic pants over the disposable," Karen said with a smile as she handed me some milky-white pants with an internal lining. "They'll give you a little more protection from leaks. I pulled the pants up my legs, the thinner disposable feeling like almost nothing compared to the nighttime cloth diaper I was changing out of. Emily adjusted things a little, checking to make sure everything was in place, and then gave me a questioning look. I paused only briefly before zipping the romper back together between my legs, the soft click an indication that I was once again back in Emily's care. Emily smiled and gave me a kiss before disappearing with the wet night diaper as I went to pour us another round of coffee. Later that afternoon, Emily called me into the bedroom. On the bed lay a pile of my old underwear - boxers and briefs I hadn't worn in months. "I thought it was time," Emily said, her voice gentle but firm. "These don't really have a place in your life anymore, do they?" I stared at the pile, a lump forming in my throat. It was true - I hadn't worn regular underwear since... well, it had been awhile now. But seeing them there, ready to be discarded, made it all so final. "No," I agreed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I guess they don't." Emily squeezed my hand. "It's okay to feel emotional about this, Greg. It's a big change. But it's also a new beginning." Together, we gathered up the underwear and carried it out to the trash. As the lid closed with a soft thud, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. No more pretending, no more hiding. This was who I was now. "I have something else for you," Emily said, leading me back inside. She pulled out a few shopping bags from the closet. "I thought you might need some new clothes to fit more comfortably over your diapers." As I looked through the clothes - pants with a bit more room in the seat, shirts slightly longer to cover any telltale bulges - I felt a rush of gratitude for Emily's thoughtfulness. Throughout the day, I noticed a shift in Emily's demeanor. Her touches lingered a bit longer, her gaze held mine with a new intensity. As we settled onto the couch that evening, her fingers traced the outline of my diaper, sending shivers down my spine. I found myself relaxing in a way I hadn't in months. The constant tension of maintaining my deception had melted away, replaced by a deep sense of acceptance and love. Emily sensed the change. She shifted, pulling me close, until my head rested in her lap, a questioning look in her eyes. It was a familiar position, one that had once been fraught with anxiety and guilt. I thought back to that night, months ago, when I'd first experienced this closeness, this intimacy, while wearing a flimsy pull-up. I had been so... uncertain. Unhappy. My cheek pressed against her thigh, the soft fabric of her jeans a familiar comfort. But this time, there was no pretense, no hidden agenda. I wasn't seeking a fleeting moment of comfort to mask my deception. I was simply… present. With her. Emily's fingers began to stroke my hair, a soothing, rhythmic motion that lulled me deeper into a state of relaxation. And then, I felt it. The subtle, almost imperceptible pressure of her breast against my face. The soft cotton of her shirt was a thin barrier, and I could feel the warmth of her skin radiating through. My breath caught in my throat. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. But this time, it wasn't panic, it wasn't shame. It was… anticipation. A yearning that was no longer shadowed by guilt. I closed my eyes, the darkness amplifying the sensations. The faint, floral scent of her lotion, a scent I now associated with safety and care, filled my senses. The steady beat of her heart, a comforting rhythm against my ear. And then, the subtle, undeniable hardening of her nipple against my lips. It was an invitation. Not a playful tease, not a test, but a genuine, heartfelt offering. A recognition of my need, of our need, for this connection, this intimacy that transcended words, that defied logic. My lips parted, almost involuntarily. I hesitated, a ghost of the old doubt flickering within me. But then, I remembered Emily's words, her unwavering acceptance, her love. And I leaned in, pressing my lips to the soft fabric, feeling the firm swell of her breast beneath. I nuzzled closer, my hand instinctively rising to cup her breast, the soft cotton a whisper against my palm. A sigh escaped my lips, a sound of pure contentment. Trust. About a love that had found its expression in the most unexpected of ways. I felt her breath hitch, a small tremor running through her body. Her hand, which had been stroking my hair, now rested on the back of my head, her fingers weaving through the strands, a gentle pressure that firmly guided me closer. I suckled, softly at first, then with growing confidence. The taste of her, faintly sweet, faintly salty, was a familiar comfort. My other hand found the hem of her shirt, tugging it upwards, seeking the warmth of her bare skin. Emily responded, lifting her shirt, freeing her breast, and there I found her nipple, now bare, exposed. A silent offering. Her cotton shirt still softly covered my face and ear, the fabric a cocoon, trapping her smell, focusing my senses, my attention on her. The tension that had been my constant companion for months, the weight of my deception, seemed to melt away, replaced by a profound sense of peace. This was about emotional release. About shedding the last vestiges of shame and embracing the vulnerability of this moment, of this love. As I continued to suckle, I felt Emily's heartbeat quicken, mirroring my own. Her hand tightened on my head, her fingers digging into my scalp, a pressure that was both grounding and exhilarating, reassuring that this was not about me or her, it was about us. About the unspoken language we'd developed, the unique way we'd found to express our love, our need, our connection. The warmth spread, not just through my body, but through my very being. A return to a place of pure, unconditional love and acceptance. A place where I, and my needs, were not just tolerated, but embraced. After a long while, I pulled back slightly, my lips lingering on the soft, slightly damp skin of her nipple for a moment before releasing it. I looked up at her, my eyes meeting hers in the dim light. Her gaze was soft, loving, a hint of vulnerability shining through, reflecting my own. "Thank you," I whispered, the words inadequate to express the depth of my gratitude, but heartfelt nonetheless. Emily smiled, her hand gently stroking my cheek, her touch feather-light. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice husky with emotion. "For trusting me. For letting me… be here for you. Like this." I leaned into her touch, my eyes closing, feeling a profound sense of… belonging. I was home. Not in a place, but in a feeling. A feeling of complete acceptance, of unconditional love, of a bond forged in the crucible of our shared, unconventional journey. Emily moved us back to reality. "Let's get you out of that," she said, her hands already unlocking the zipper between my legs, stripping the plastic pants, then to the diaper pins. With each layer removed, I felt a little lighter, a little freer, a little closer to her, the anticipation building. Soon, our bodies joined, a familiar dance of love and desire that transcended any specific act, any specific need. It was simply… us. This story, "Empty Nest", is copyright 2024 by me, justforfun. It may not be reproduced anywhere else without my explicit consent.

Thanks again for the feedback! Chapter 39: Freewill The familiar crinkle of plastic sheets greeted me as I settled into Abby's bed, the sensation both foreign and nostalgic. It had been eight months since I'd last slept without the comforting bulk of a diaper between my legs. The cool cotton of my pajama pants felt strange against my skin, a stark reminder of the test that lay ahead. Emily stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway light. "Are you sure about this, Greg?" Her voice carried a mix of concern and something else I couldn't quite place. I nodded, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "Yeah, I'm sure. It's time we figure this out once and for all." She crossed the room, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Alright, then. Sweet dreams, honey. And remember, no matter what happens, I love you." As she closed the door behind her, I couldn't shake the feeling that this test was about more than just my bladder control. It felt like a crossroads, a moment that would define our future together. The first night passed uneventfully. My bladder woke me for an early morning bathroom trip, thankfully, so when I woke again to sunlight streaming through Abby's curtains, the sheets beneath me were warm and dry. A small thrill of triumph ran through me as I made my way to the bathroom. Throughout that first day, I found myself hyper-aware of the thin cotton underwear I wore. It felt oddly exposing, as if I was walking around naked. Several times, I caught myself reaching down to check for wetness, a habit ingrained over months of diaper wear. Emily watched me with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Everything okay?" she asked as I fidgeted during dinner. "Yeah, just... getting used to it again," I replied, offering a sheepish smile. The second night, I woke in the pitch darkness, the silence of the house pressing in on me. My bladder was full, uncomfortably so, but it was more than that. It was the idea of the bed, the dry sheets, the test I'd so confidently accepted. It all felt… precarious. A tightrope walk over a chasm of my own making. I lay there, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on Abby's nightstand, each tick a tiny hammer blow against my resolve. Just let go, a voice whispered in the darkness. It would be so easy. No more struggle, no more pretending. Just… surrender. Emily would understand. She'd care for me. She always did. I squeezed my eyes shut, the image of Emily's face, her gentle smile, her understanding eyes, flashing in my mind. The memory of her touch, her care, the way she'd diapered me, changed me, loved me… it was a siren song, pulling me towards the edge. I shifted, the cotton of my pajama pants feeling rough and unfamiliar against my skin. My hand, almost involuntarily, brushed against my groin. Empty. Vulnerable. The absence of the diaper, usually a source of relief, now felt like a… lack. A missing piece. I could almost feel the warmth spreading, the imagined sensation of release, of surrender. It would be so simple. Just… relax. Let go. And then… it would all be decided. No more choices. No more pretending. Just… her. Taking care of me. But another voice, fainter but insistent, fought back. This isn't you, Greg. This isn't what you want. You can do this. You can be strong. You can be… normal. The internal battle raged, a silent war waged in the darkness. I tossed and turned, the sheets twisting around my legs, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil. I tried to focus on other things, on work, on Abby, on anything but the growing pressure in my bladder, the insistent whisper of temptation. With a sigh, I pushed myself out of bed and made my way to the bathroom, the cold tile a shock against my bare feet. As I crawled back under the covers, a fragile sense of peace settled over me, a brief respite from the internal turmoil. Tomorrow, I thought, a deceptive calm washing over me. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to think clearly. To decide, logically and consciously, what I truly want. The universe, it seemed, had other plans. "I woke with a jolt, a gasp ripping through my lungs, the cold, clammy reality of wet sheets plastering against my skin. My eyes flew open, heart hammering against my ribs in panicked disbelief. No. It couldn't be. Not after all this. Not now. But the evidence was undeniable. The sheets were soaked, clinging to my skin in a way I hadn't experienced for months. "Emily?" I called out, my voice cracking. Then, louder, more panicked, "Em!" She appeared in the doorway moments later, taking in the scene – the rumpled, damp sheets, Greg’s slumped posture, the unmistakable scent of urine – with a single, raised eyebrow. A picture of serene composure. "Oh, Greg," she said softly, her voice laced with a gentle amusement, and a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of satisfaction, that sent a fresh wave of unease through me. "That's a shame." "I don't understand," I stammered, my voice cracking. My hands twisted in the damp fabric of my pajamas. "I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I was dry when I went back to sleep." Emily nodded, her expression unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of sympathy. "Sometimes these things… they just happen, I suppose. Maybe… maybe they're even meant to be." The words, seemingly innocent, hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Was this a test? One I'd unknowingly failed? My blood ran cold. Was it fate? Or… something else? Something… her? "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Then we'll need to get you properly protected for the day." I balked at that. "But Em, it was just one accident. I don't need-" She cut me off with a look that brooked no argument, her eyes hardening, the softness vanishing, replaced by a steely resolve. "Greg," she said, her voice leaving no room for protest, "we had a deal. You had an accident. You agreed that there would be no arguments about being put back in diapers." I watched as Emily gathered the diapering supplies, the reality of my situation beginning to sink in. This was it. No more choices, no more pretending. Diapers were my future now. Whether I'd consciously chosen it or not. Emily approached with a thick cloth diaper and plastic pants, her movements no longer just efficient, but deliberate, almost… ritualistic. She looked at the wet bed, a slight frown creasing her brow. “I’m going to need to take care of this.” She gestured toward the floor. “Why don’t we do this there?” The floor. Cold, hard, unforgiving. A subtle power play, a reminder of my… submission. Was this punishment? Or just practicality? I couldn't tell. And that uncertainty, that inability to decipher her motivations, was the most unsettling part of all. "Lift up," she instructed, her voice low, a command disguised as a request. Her fingers moved quickly, efficiently, unfolding the thick cloth diaper. The faint scent of baby powder, a scent I now associated with… everything, rose in a small cloud. She positioned the diaper beneath me, the cool cotton a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the wet pajamas. As she pulled the fabric between my legs, the bulk felt… immense, a tangible representation of my surrender. Her fingers lingered for a moment, smoothing the fabric, adjusting the fit, her touch both clinical and… possessive. I couldn't help but notice the determined set of her jaw, the almost triumphant glint in her eye. She enjoys this. The control. The thought, unwelcome but undeniable, sparked a flicker of rebellion. I shifted slightly, a subtle resistance. Emily's hand, still resting on the fastened diaper, tightened for a fraction of a second, a silent warning. I stilled. No. Anything but that dream. "There we go," she murmured, patting the front of the diaper, her touch lingering a moment too long, sending a shiver of something sharp and unsettling through me. "All nice and snug. Ready for a onesie?" She reached for one of the snap-crotch onesies, the ones that still offered a semblance of… choice. Of escape. And that's what terrified me. The choice. "Actually, Em…" I began, the words catching in my throat. My gaze dropped to the neatly folded stack of onesies, a silent battleground of choices. A lump of something – shame? Relief? – formed in my chest. I swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "Could you… could you grab the, uh, the romper?" Emily paused, her hand hovering over the stack of onesies, her eyebrows slightly raised. "The romper?" she echoed, a question in her voice, not a judgment, but a subtle invitation to reconsider. I nodded, unable to meet her gaze. My cheeks burned, but I pushed on, forcing myself to articulate the tangled mess of my motivations. "The… the one with the zipper," I clarified, my voice barely a whisper. There, I'd said it. "The… more secure one." The words felt heavy, loaded with unspoken meaning. My fingers brushed against the smooth, cool metal of the absent zipper pull, a phantom sensation of the surrender I was choosing. A beat of silence. Emily didn't move, didn't speak. The unspoken question hung in the air: Why? "I… I think it would be… better," I stammered, trying to justify the choice, to myself as much as to her. "For me. To… to not have to… worry. About… making a mess. About… disappointing you." The lie felt flimsy, even to my own ears, but it was the closest I could get to the truth. The truth was, I was tired. Tired of fighting, of pretending, of… choosing. The romper, with its locked zipper, offered… an escape. A surrender. Emily still hesitated, her gaze searching mine, probing for something beyond the surface of my words. "Are you sure, Greg?" she asked, her voice soft, laced with a genuine concern that made my chest ache. "The onesies… they give you more… freedom." Freedom. The word hung in the air, a cruel irony. Was that what I wanted? Or was I seeking the opposite? "No," I said, my voice firmer now, the decision made, the die cast, even if the reasons remained murky, even to myself. "The romper. It… it takes the choice away, doesn't it? The… temptation. To… you know." To pretend I’m someone I’m not. To fight a battle I’ve already lost. To deny the comfort, the need, that had become so undeniable. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of my admission. I braced myself for her reaction, for judgment, for… something. Anything. Then, a slow smile spread across her face, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes, chasing away the shadows. “Of course, honey,” she said, her voice soft, understanding, a hint of something I couldn’t quite place, maybe… relief?, in her tone. She turned to the closet, her movements deliberate, almost… reverent. She selected the familiar gray romper, the one we’d used before, the one that had become a symbol of… well, of everything. “You’re sure?” she asked, her voice gentle, but her eyes searching mine, probing, seeking confirmation. I nodded, more firmly this time. “Yeah,” I said, my voice stronger now, the decision made, the die cast. “It… it takes the choice away, doesn’t it? The… temptation. To… you know.” To pretend I’m someone I’m not. To fight a battle I’ve already lost. To deny the comfort, the need, that had become so undeniable. Emily’s smile deepened, a hint of something else, something knowing, entering her eyes. “It does,” she agreed, her voice a low murmur. She stepped closer, holding the romper open, her touch light but firm as she guided me into it. As she zipped me in, the soft click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet of the room, a finality that both terrified and… liberated me. My shoulders, which I hadn't realized were tense, relaxed. A breath I hadn't known I was holding escaped. This wasn’t a defeat. It was a surrender. And, surprisingly, it felt… good. Right. "There," she murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork, her voice laced with a satisfaction that made my breath catch in my throat. "All secure. How does that feel?" "Better," I admitted, the word a whispered confession. "It feels… better." Emily reached out, her hand resting on my chest, her fingers tracing the line of the locked zipper. "I know it does," she said softly, her eyes meeting mine. "And Greg?" Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, a secret shared between us, a promise of something more. "It's okay to need this. It's okay to… let go. I'm here. We're in this together." And as I stood there, encased in the familiar embrace of the diaper and the romper, I realized she was right. This wasn't about weakness; it was about strength. The strength to admit what I needed, the strength to accept her care, the strength to embrace this unconventional path we were walking together. I leaned into her touch, my eyes closing, the tension draining from my body, replaced by a profound sense of… belonging. "Em?" I asked, my voice still a bit shaky. "Hmm?" "I know you were… joking… before. About the… the… extra… well… protection." Her hand stilled on my chest. "Yes?" Her voice was soft, neutral, giving nothing away. I took a deep breath. "I think… I think maybe… you should choose. Sometimes. What I wear. When… when I'm feeling… unsure. Or… or when you think I need… a reminder." The words were a struggle, a confession of my own weakness, but also an offer, a handing over of control, a trust placed in her hands. A slow smile spread across her face, a smile that held both tenderness and a spark of something else, something… powerful. "I understand, Greg," she said, her voice low and intimate. "And I accept. I'll take care of you. Always." I shifted, feeling the bulk of the diaper between my legs, the snug embrace of the romper. "Em," I began, my voice hesitant, "about what you said earlier... about things being predetermined..." She met my gaze, her expression inscrutable. "Yes?" "Did you... I mean, is there any chance that..." I trailed off, unable to voice my suspicion. Emily's smile was enigmatic, a Mona Lisa curve that revealed nothing, and everything. "Some things are meant to be, Greg," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, but with an undercurrent of steel that chilled me to the bone. "Sometimes," she continued, her eyes never leaving mine, a knowing glint sparking in their depths, "the universe just… gives someone a little push. In the right direction." As she turned to leave the bathroom, I stood there, my mind reeling. Had Emily somehow engineered this outcome? And if she had, did it really matter? The result was the same - a future I both feared and longed for, now irrevocably mine. I waddled after her, the plastic pants over the diaper crinkling with each step, a constant reminder of my new reality. Whatever had led us here - fate, Emily's machinations, or my own subconscious desires - there was no going back now. This was our life, for better or for worse, and I was surprised to find that the thought filled me with more excitement than dread. As Emily’s hand rested possessively on my back, guiding me downstairs towards breakfast, towards our new life, the crinkle of the plastic pants were a muffled counterpoint to the frantic beating of my heart. I wondered, with a shiver that was equal parts fear and exhilaration, if I had just been utterly defeated, or if I had, finally and irrevocably, won. This story, "Empty Nest", is copyright 2024 by me, justforfun. It may not be reproduced anywhere else without my explicit consent. I'm very glad you're enjoying it! I didn't want to say anything until I posted that next chapter. In my mind, it was important for Greg to ask for it, rather than having it imposed on him. It's a statement of consent, and acceptance, rather than the road of potential abuse that Emily "forcing" it on him would have implied. Think about it: if Emily just slapped him in a locking onesie, that's… well, that's crossing a line. It would have felt abusive, or at the very least, really coercive. And that's not what this story is about. This story is all about exploring a really unusual relationship, where the power dynamics are… let's say unique. But even within that, consent is everything. Greg's got a lot of conflicting feelings. He's embarrassed, he's guilty, but he also needs, and wants, this level of care, this level of… letting go. So, by having him request the romper, it shows he's still making a choice, even if it's a choice to give up some control. He's participating in this, not just being swept along. It keeps things in that morally gray area, where it's complicated, but it's still his choice. He still has agency. It also makes Emily's role more complex. She's guiding him, sure, and she definitely enjoys being in charge, but she's not forcing him. She's responding to a need he's expressing, even if that need is… unusual. It keeps her in the "caregiver" zone, even if it's a very unconventional kind of caregiving. It makes their dynamic more about a consensual, if unusual, exchange. Of course, Greg's been wrestling with this the whole story. Having him finally say, "Okay, I need this," is a huge moment for his character. It shows how far he's come in accepting this part of himself (and of their relationship). Basically, I wanted to explore this without it becoming a story about abuse. It's about a weird, complex, but ultimately consensual relationship where two people are finding comfort and connection in a way that works for them. The request was the key to keeping it that way. Uhg, How do I post sequentially without merging the requests? Oh well.

Obviously we're closing in on the end here. Only a few chapters left! Hope everyone is enjoying it. Chapter 38: True Colors The soft clink of wine glasses, usually a comforting sound, felt like a death knell in the sudden quiet of the living room. The afternoon sun, filtering through the sheer curtains, cast long shadows across the floor, making the familiar space feel alien, charged. I shifted on the couch, the diaper beneath my jeans a constant, almost mocking reminder of the chasm between us. On the mantelpiece, a photo caught my eye – me and Abby, years ago, at a father-daughter dance. Her smile was bright, carefree, and my own mirrored hers, a genuine, unburdened joy I hadn't felt in… months? Years? The image was a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of what I'd lost, of what I'd created. "Em," I began, my voice barely a whisper, the carefully rehearsed words suddenly feeling flimsy, inadequate. My hand, resting on the cushion between us, trembled slightly. I couldn't look at her. "There's… something I need to tell you." She looked up from her wine. "Oh?" she said, her voice light, a hint of playful amusement dancing in her eyes over the concern she showed on her face. "Is this a confession? Because if it involves last evening's activities, I have to say, I have no complaints." She brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead, her fingers lingering for a moment near my neck, a memory of her body yesterday evening sending an unexpected shiver down my spine, despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my gut. I swallowed hard, my carefully prepared speech catching in my throat. The casual intimacy of her touch, the knowing glint in her eyes, unnerved me. "It's... it's about the diapers," I stammered, trying to regain my composure. "I... I haven't been entirely..." "Happy?" she supplied, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "With the cloth ones? I know, they take some getting used to. But they're so much better for the environment, and we've saved so much money." Her gaze lingered on the bulge in the front of my onesie. "And that onesie really does help make sure they stay right where they are needed." Heat flooded my cheeks. Was she deliberately toying with me? "No, it's not the cloth ones," I blurted out, my carefully constructed facade beginning to crack. "It's... it's the whole... thing. I haven't been entirely... honest about... needing them." Emily tilted her head, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "Needing them? But Greg, honey, I've seen the... evidence. Night after night. Felt it, even." She paused, her lips curving into a sly smile as her hand rested on the bulge of the diaper. I imagined I could feel the warmth of her hand through the thick wet cloth. "Though, to be fair, sometimes it is a little hard to tell what's what. If you get my meaning?" Confusion warred with the rising panic in my chest. Was she deliberately misunderstanding me? Or was this... something else entirely? "No, that's not what I mean," I insisted, my voice rising slightly in frustration. "I mean... I haven't been completely honest about... how it all... started." "Oh, the origin story! Let me guess - it all began with a radioactive bedwetting spider? Or was it a secret government experiment gone wrong? You know, Greg, it's funny. You were so adamant about those flimsy drugstore briefs at first. So concerned about... discretion. But you've taken to these thick cloth diapers like a duck to water." A wave of dizziness washed over me. Each seemingly innocent comment, each playful jab, chipped away at my carefully constructed defenses. She knew. She *had* to know. "Em," I pressed, my voice tight with desperation, my hand trembling as I reached for hers across the table. "The night... in Abby's room... that first time. It wasn't an accident. I... I wanted to wet the bed. I… I planned it." I forced the words out, each syllable a painful admission. Emily's smile didn't falter, but her eyes… they flickered. A flicker of… what? Surprise? Relief? Or… something else entirely? A knowing glint that sent a shiver down my spine. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. "And?" she prompted, her voice soft, deceptively gentle. The single word, so simple, so loaded, hung in the air between us. And. It wasn't a denial. It wasn't an accusation. It was… an invitation? A dare? "And… and every night after that," I continued, my voice barely a whisper, the dam finally breaking, the words tumbling out in a rush. "The leaks… the accidents… They were all… deliberate. I… I did it. On purpose. All of it." Emily’s smile didn't falter. "Well, of course you did, honey," she said, her voice infuriatingly calm, almost soothing, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. My carefully rehearsed confession shriveled. "You *knew*?" The word was a choked gasp, a flash of raw anger quickly swallowed. My heart hammered against my ribs. "But... every night after that..." I stammered, my voice cracking, "...the leaks... the accidents... They were all... I did it..." "Greg," she interrupted, her voice soft but firm, "we've talked about this. The medication. The stress. These things happen. It's not your fault." She paused, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. "Besides," she added, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes, "didn't you tell me yourself long ago that those drugstore diapers were... not enough?" The room tilted, the carefully constructed dam of my deception springing leaks, threatening to burst. Her words were a series of carefully placed jabs, each one weakening my defenses, exposing the raw, vulnerable truth beneath. A bird chirped outside, breaking the silence. She knew. She had to know. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. "The suitcase." The word unlocked a forgotten memory, a dusty image of that old, forgotten luggage tucked away in the basement's shadows. The diapers inside, remnants of my college explorations, a secret I'd thought long buried... My blood ran cold. She knew. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. "In the basement... You found it. You knew about... *everything*. Didn't you?" She nodded, a single, slow movement. "In the basement. The one with the… supplies. From your college days." The room tilted. My carefully constructed world, the fragile web of lies and half-truths, crumbled around me. She knew. All this time… she knew. "Em...I..." "It was an accident that I found it… but… it explained a lot." She gave a tight smile. She paused, her expression turning serious. "But honestly? It's... complicated, Greg," she said, her gaze holding mine. "This whole situation... it's shaken things up. Made me question things. About us. About myself. I've enjoyed seeing you... unravel. Watching you wrestle with your... inhibitions. Your vulnerabilities. It's... a side of you I haven't seen before. A side I find... intriguing." Her fingers, still resting on the bulge of my diaper, tightened almost imperceptibly. A subtle pressure, a silent acknowledgment of the… unconventional… nature of our intimacy. A warmth, not entirely unwelcome, spread through me. I couldn't deny it. Despite the guilt and the deception, these past months had been some of the most intimate of our marriage. I stared at her, the room spinning. My carefully constructed reality, the lies I’d told myself, shattered into a million pieces. "You… you knew?" The words were a choked whisper, a mix of disbelief, anger, and a strange, unwelcome flicker of… relief? "All this time?" My voice was a choked whisper, disbelief warring with a rising tide of anger. "The doctor's appointments, the diapers, the… the concern? It was all… a game?" A bitter laugh, devoid of any humor, escaped my lips. "You let me… you let me believe I was sick? You let me…" I couldn't finish the sentence, the betrayal too raw, too overwhelming. I pushed myself up from the chair, the sudden movement sending a sharp pain through my lower back. "Why, Emily? Why didn't you just say something?" My voice was rising, cracking with a mixture of hurt and betrayal. "Did you… did you enjoy watching me… like this?" "Initially," she said slowly, thoughtfully, her gaze drifting towards the window, as if searching for the right words, "I went along with it because… I didn't know what else to do. I saw how much… comfort… it seemed to bring you. And yes," she admitted, a faint blush rising on her cheeks, "a part of me was… curious. Intrigued. You were different, Greg. More… open. Vulnerable. And that vulnerability… it drew me in." She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. "You'd always been so… self-sufficient. Seeing you like this… it made me feel… needed. In a way I hadn't realized I missed. I told myself it was temporary, a phase. That you'd eventually… tell me the truth. But then…" She looked back at me, her eyes searching mine. "But then I saw how much you needed it. The comfort, the care, the… release. And I realized… maybe this wasn't just a game for you. Or for me." I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. "You are wetting in your sleep. And even you have to admit, the daytime urgency is real, isn't it?" I paused, considering her words. My nighttime diaper was wet, but now I was unsure how much of that was lack of choice. But it was also true that lately, I'd found myself genuinely struggling to hold it during the day. Was it psychosomatic? A result of months of "training" my bladder to release more frequently? Or had there been some truth to the medication's side effects after all? I stared at her, the weight of my exposed secret settling heavily in the silence. The chirping of the bird outside the window felt jarringly loud. "I... I don't know what to say," I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper. "Then don't," Emily said softly, her hand still resting on his. "I need to know what's real, Greg. And I think... you do too. Let's... try something. A... test, of sorts. To see what you truly need." "A test?" I echoed, my mouth suddenly dry. Emily nodded, a glint of determination in her eyes. "Three days without diapers. If you can make it through without any accidents, we'll know that you're capable of managing without them. But if you can't..." She paused, letting the implications hang in the air between us. Three days. The words echoed in his mind. Three days without the crutch, without the comfort, without the… escape. A cold knot of fear tightened in my stomach. But beneath it, a flicker. A dangerous, unwelcome spark of… what? Excitement? The chance to prove… something? To myself? To her? "And if I manage to pass? To not wet?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. Emily's lips curved into a small smile. "Then I'll acknowledge that while we both get something out of this, it's just make-believe. We can dial back the diapers to be an occasional thing, just for fun, for us." I sat back, considering her proposal. Part of me was confident I could make it through three days, and nights, dry. After all, wasn't this all just an act I'd been putting on? But another part of me, a part I was almost afraid to acknowledge, wasn't so sure. I sat back, the wine glass suddenly feeling heavy in my hand. Three days. Three nights. Without the diapers, without the crutch, without the… comfort. A surge of panic, cold and immediate, tightened my chest. Could I even do it? Had I become so dependent, so reliant on Emily’s care, that I’d lost the ability to… to be normal? “And if… if I fail?” I asked, the words forced, a tremor in my voice. “What then?” "Then we'll know, Greg. Really know. That this isn't just a game, a… phase. That these diapers are a part of you, a part of us. And we'll embrace it. Fully. No more pretending. No more hiding. Just… us. This." She gestured, a subtle movement that encompasses the diaper, the onesie, the entire dynamic. "But if you can make it… If you can prove you don't need this… then… then we go back. To… normal. Or as close to normal as we can get." “And Abby?” I pressed, the thought of my daughter a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. “She’ll be home for the summer soon. She… she already knows something.” Emily reached across the table, her hand covering mine. “We’ll figure it out, Greg. Together. We always do.” Her voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of steel beneath the reassurance. “But first,” she added, her gaze locking with mine, “we need to know the truth. About you. About us.” A beat. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, with the weight of the decision hanging heavy between us. “Alright,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control. “Alright, let’s do it. Let’s see what happens.” But even as the words left my lips, I knew. This wasn’t just a test of my bladder. It was a test of… everything. Emily's smile widened, and she clinked her glass against mine. "To the next three days," she said, her eyes sparkling with a mix of challenge and affection. As I echoed her toast, a fragile hope, mixed with a dark, unsettling certainty, warred within me. Could I really do this? Or was I already… resigned? Emily must have sensed my inner turmoil, because she reached out and cupped my cheek gently. "Greg, no matter what happens, I want you to know that I love you. This doesn't change who you are to me." Her words washed over me, soothing some of the anxiety that had been building. I leaned into her touch, grateful for her unwavering support. "I love you too, Em," I murmured. "Thank you for... for everything." As we sat there, sipping our wine and discussing the details of our bet, I realized that regardless of the outcome, our relationship had been fundamentally changed. The intimacy, the trust, the vulnerability we'd shared over these past months - that was real, regardless of how it had started. This story, "Empty Nest", is copyright 2024 by me, justforfun. It may not be reproduced anywhere else without my explicit consent.