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Mommies and Daddies
For the grown-ups to discuss ABDL topics. No babies unless you're looking for a 'pankin!
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Thank you for the feedback @WBDaddy! I'll confess to being newer on this site and while I have read through many great stories, I haven't seen some of that discussion and could not find any "rules of engagement" related to this. So it is much appreciated to have the help moving forward. Though I will say I don't think it's fair to characterize me as upset or anything like that, my intent was just to share the reference pictures that had helped me in writing for a more complete picture. To avoid further frustrations I have taken them down, and apologize for any distractions related to them. Live and learn! Thanks again and happy reading moving forward :) -
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I have a feeling that this may be a.i. A.i. has certain restrictions on what it can say, and diapers on adult is one of them. Also the dialogue is not realistic, and quite poetic which a.i. tends to do. Does this need to move to the a.i. forum? I really dont mean to be mean or abrupt, but I just get the feeling that its not not written by a person. -
Alright, its Tuesday. And this is short for now, might get to more later, maybe there is a mistake or two. Its a busy life, fappers. CHAPTER 3 The staircase yawned before them like an obstacle course. Jason gripped the banister, his knuckles whitening as he navigated the first step—diapers shifting, plastic pulling at his inner thighs with each precarious descent. Behind him, Lisa's foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the landing. Jason's foot hit the kitchen tiles just as Lisa's palm connected with the seat of his diapers—a sharp, stinging smack that echoed off the cabinets. The plastic rustled obscenely with each impact, amplifying the childishness of the punishment. "Move it along," she chided, steering him toward the table with another light swat that made him wince. Jason's fingers twitched toward the fridge handle on instinct, but Lisa caught his wrist mid-reach. Her grip wasn't harsh—just unyielding—as she redirected him toward the chair with a knowing arch of her brow. "Uh-uh. Sit." The command brooked no argument, underscored by the crinkle of his diapers as he lowered himself onto the wooden seat. The plastic stretched tight against the surface, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet kitchen. Lisa bustled around the counter, her robe swishing with purposeful movements. The blender whirred to life as she dumped yogurt, bananas, and what looked like protein powder into it. Jason watched, stomach churning, as she poured the thick mixture into a blue plastic cup with a built-in straw—not unlike Tommy used for his drinks. "Here," she said, plunking it down in front of him. The straw bobbed tauntingly. "Nutritionally balanced. And before you complain—" She tapped the lid with one polished fingernail. "—no spills, since you're such a spilly-pants lately. You just make everything wet around here, don't you?" Jason's throat worked around a protest, but the first sip surprised him—sweet, creamy, not entirely unpleasant. Hyper focused on the embarrassment and sound of his diapers, he felt relief in sipping the delicious concoction. The straw made an audible slurping sound when he pulled too hard, drawing Lisa's attention immediately. Her lips quirked as she wiped her hands on a towel. "Slow down, sweetheart. It's not a race." The fridge door swung open with a decisive yank, Lisa humming as she surveyed the contents. Jason caught a glimpse of the soda shelf—his usual contraband—before she deliberately blocked his view with her body. Eggshells cracked one-handed against the skillet; bacon hissed as it hit the pan. The domesticity of the scene would've felt normal if not for the way his diapers shifted under the table every time he adjusted his weight, or how the too-small shirt rode up when he leaned forward to sip. Jason's fingers twitched toward his non-existent pocket—the phantom weight of his missing phone making his chest tighten. He could sprint upstairs, but felt compelled to stay put and observe Lisa's hips swaying as she expertly cooked the perfect scramble, his mouth watering. Fresh bread slices popped out of the toaster and he turned his body to view her in action, back and forth across the kitchen with timed precision, the diaper crinkled under him like some grotesque whoopee cushion as he shifted, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet kitchen and constantly distracting his thoughts. The butter knife scraped across the toasted sourdough with a crisp, rhythmic sound—back and forth, back and forth—until golden pools formed in the bread’s crevices. Lisa’s wrist flicked with practiced precision, swirling the butter into delicate spirals that melted instantly. Jason watched, mesmerized, as she layered crisp bacon atop the toast, the fat still sizzling as it hit the plate. The scent—smoky, salty, rich—flooded the kitchen, mingling with the faint sweetness of his protein shake still clinging to his lips. Jason shifted back in his chair, yet again, the doubled diapers crinkling softly beneath him. Oddly, the sound didn’t spike his anxiety like before. Instead, it blended into the domestic symphony—the clink of Lisa’s spatula against the skillet, the gurgle of the coffee maker, the hum of the fridge. His too-small shirt rode up as he leaned forward, the diaper waistband pressing snugly into his belly. A strange contentment settled over him, warm as the sunlight pooling on the table. He felt like he was breathing normally an calmly, only noticing now how stiff and rigid he was. The plate landed before Jason with a quiet *clink*, steam curling from the golden scramble piled atop crisp bacon and butter-soaked sourdough. Lisa's fingers—manicured, efficient—snatched up the knife and fork before he could react. The silverware flashed as she began dissecting his breakfast with surgical precision, cutting his restaurant-quality plated breakfast into neat squares like a kindergarten teacher portioning play-dough. Jason blinked. "What are you—" "Bite-sized pieces," Lisa murmured, not looking up as the fork tines pressed into a particularly fluffy section of egg. "Easier to manage." Her wrist flicked, quartering a strip of bacon with a crisp *snap*. The motion was as methodical as her cooking—almost rhythmic—as if she'd done this a thousand times before with perfect little squares. The ketchup bottle glistened in Lisa's grip, crimson and garish against the muted kitchen tones. Jason barely had time to register its presence before she squeezed—hard—sending an arterial spurt of red across his meticulously cubed eggs. The condiment pooled grotesquely, drowning golden scrambles in sugary acidity he'd never once requested. "Open." Lisa's command sliced through Jason's bewilderment as abruptly as the fork pierced his cubed bacon. The tines gleamed—one speared square hovering inches from his lips like some grotesque parody of parental care. Her manicured fingers cradled the utensil with deceptive delicacy, the polished nails catching the morning light as she waited. Jason's throat clicked. The fork didn't waver. A bead of ketchup slid from the bacon square, landing with a silent *plop* on the doubled diaper between his thighs. The plastic crinkled faintly under the impact, the sound absurdly loud in the stretched silence. Lisa looked down and wiped the ketchup off his diaper, a dollop on her finger now moving closer to his mouth. Lisa's fingertip pressed against Jason's lips before he could protest, the cold smear of ketchup catching on his teeth as she pushed inside. His tongue recoiled at the abrupt tang—too sweet, too acidic—but her nail tapped his bottom teeth in warning when he tried to turn away. "Almost got your shirt," she murmured, swiping the excess along his canine before withdrawing with a wet *pop*. Lisa thought quickly and snatched the napkin near his plate and unfolded it with a crisp snap, the paper edges grazing Jason's collarbones as Lisa draped it over his chest. Her thumbs tucked the corners into his shirt collar—the same motion Jason had watched Amanda use on Tommy last week when they came over for spaghetti night. "There," she said, smoothing the makeshift bib down his chest. "Now we won't stain your *precious* shirt. Jason's whine caught in his throat as the paper crinkled against his chest. "This is—" "Necessary?" Lisa plucked the fork from his plate, spearing another ketchup-drenched egg cube with surgical precision. "After last month's juice box incident on the couch? And the oatmeal fiasco steam cleaning the carpet? Overall being a Mr. Spillypants?" Her wrist flicked, presenting the bite like a lab specimen. "Open." The fork scraped against Jason's teeth as Lisa pushed another ketchup-smeared breakfast cube into his mouth—too fast, too much, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. "Good boy," she crooned, tapping his chin with the fork when he tried to turn his head. The napkin-bib rustled against his chest as he chewed frantically, the paper absorbing nothing because he hadn't even drooled. Lisa's smile didn't waver as she speared another piece of bacon, humming some nursery rhyme Jason half-recognized from childhood. Jason's felt embarrassed but tried to ignore the ketchup and enjoy his breakfast—he was very hungry—each bite satiating at least one problem he had. But he hated this. Hated the way Lisa's eyes glittered as she monitored every swallow, hated the crinkle of his diaper under the table amplifying each squirm, hated the feeling in pooling in his gut from the humiliation and anxiety. His fingers clawed at his thighs, the diaper's plastic whisper reminding him how thoroughly she'd won. He had to get out of this sooner than later. "Open wide for the choo-choo!" Lisa trilled, waving the fork in a slow arc like it was a toy train. The absurdity of it punched the air from Jason's lungs—he was eighteen, for Christ's sake, not some toddler in a high chair. But his lips parted anyway, obeying some ingrained reflex he couldn't name. The bacon hit his tongue with a slap of grease, Lisa making engine noises as she pushed the fork deeper than necessary. Jason's throat convulsed around the bite, tears pricking his eyes from the effort not to gag. He wanted to scream. Wanted to flip the table, rip off the diapers, storm out in some grand rebellion. But the weight of Lisa's expectant gaze pinned him to the chair more effectively than any restraint. What would he even say? The fork scraped across the plate with a final, decisive *scritch* as Lisa gathered the last bite. Jason's stomach churned at the sight, but he obediently parted his lips when she raised the fork. "Such a good boy," she murmured, pressing the bite past his teeth with a thumb that lingered just a second too long on his lower lip. The praise settled over him like a weighted blanket—smothering and warm all at once. Lisa whisked the plate away before Jason could protest, her robe swishing around her ankles as she turned toward the sink. The faucet hissed to life, drowning out the crinkle of his diaper as he continued to shift uncomfortably in the chair, the bulk of two diapers driving him crazy. Sunlight glinted off her wedding ring as she scrubbed—leftover yolk clinging stubbornly to the porcelain despite her vigorous strokes. Then the phone rang -
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