Mommies and Daddies

Welcome! Also in the UK.  I'm married and my wife doesn't know (or if she does she's been discreet; in any event I don't want to have conversations about it). In principle secrets are bad, but in reality some discretion is needed.  My experience of deep desires is that they don't go away; they need to be met or assuaged in some way. And I feel like that about nappy wearing these days. I can go without, but the desire builds until I need to satisfy it.  I don't have any magic bullets. But hopefully you can find a way. Just one thought: pullups are easier than full nappies. Happy to discuss the practicalities, if you like?

Holy cow. Honestly once her mom started triggering her i thought Tess was going to end up going home in full baby mode.  I'm sure her mom lived having her baby back as much as Tess loved it too. However now I'm feeling like Tess really is split, the innocent fun Gabby was having with her is actually effecting tess in both good and bad ways. I really thought Tess was enjoying it deep down and now I see she is but the part of her that isn't feels pretty shameful that its happened. So now I do feel bad for Tess but also after this trip I can see Tess diving more into baby mode and diapers more often.

I'm in Cardiff! Up for a online munch or something sometime. 

Part 11 We still hadn’t heard anything from the police about the case, or even whether they were investigating it—everything had gone completely silent. While there hadn’t been much change in that respect, we remained desperate to uncover what had truly happened and why. Surely the drugged dummies were cause for major alarm. The lack of progress was frustrating, yet I was still having to deal with the ongoing effects in my head: strange sensations, difficulty controlling my bladder, and occasional messy accidents—all of which were making things so much worse. Despite that, over the next couple of days I met up with my mates and all we could talk about were the up and coming exam results and what we anticipated. At times the conversation and expectations were quite depressing, even if we were in the middle of a game of footie you could tell most of our minds were elsewhere. Gary and the guys who’d witnessed the ‘FruitiZucker Influenced’ madness a few days earlier had decided, thanks to some clever deflecting by Terry, that it was a wind-up of epic proportions and that my admission to wearing a nappy was just part of the piss-take they had been convinced it was. This made an encounter with all my school mates that much less of a confrontation because, even though I could feel the padding under my pants, thankfully, no one brought it up. Finally, the time had come - 8:00am and the school hall was already full of eager, scared, depressed, lively, joking faces all trying to suppress their worries. I’d never seen so many bottles of water being nervously sipped (so I wasn’t alone in needing something to alleviate my anxiety) as the teachers finally brought in the files which contained our grades. The place went strangely quiet when the first name was called to receive their envelope. Everyone waited to see Angelina Aaronson walk up to the desk as if she was about to get a life sentence, which perhaps she was, and receive her future-defining envelope. Another name was called in another area of the hall and the same thing happened but eventually the calm erupted into screams and tears of excitement, joy and upset, as each student opened their sealed results to see whether their years of work had paid off.   Those who were pretending to be casual and indifferent were actually full of nervous tension, it was etched on everyone’s face. That telling gulp of water, the nervous shiver of anticipation, the absolute fear that this was a crucial point in their lives was... “Benedict, John.” My observations were interrupted as I tentatively walked up to the desk where Mr Twistleton handed me a brown envelope. He nodded positively, which raised my hopes a bit but I have to admit not only did I tremble as I took it from his outstretched hand, I nervously peed into my tight-fitting nappy. Each nervy sip of water now making itself known down there. At the hall’s entrance I noticed Terry had just arrived so, as I didn’t want to be alone when I opened my envelope, I made my way over. I could feel the warmth spreading in the padding and was glad that I’d come prepared wearing a very compact and robust pair of blue plastic pants holding and hugging my groin in a tight grip. Terry nodded and smiled as I nudged him and took a deep breath. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing but I was sure as hell glad I was. “Bloody hell, this is scary” I said as I broke the seal and read my scores whilst at the same time showing them to my best mate. I needn’t have worried – my grades were high and I’d passed each subject with ease. I’d just got a congratulatory pat on the bum (he smiled when he did it) when Terry’s name was called and he wondered over to receive his daunting brown envelope. Meanwhile, I was jubilant. After all the pee-filled mornings and anxiety-laden thoughts, I needn’t have worried. All that I hoped for I got and strangely, another spurt of pee filled the front of my nappy. I wasn’t sure if this was the correct way to react but it felt pleasing... and relieving. # Although the noise had increased as the excitement or disappointment at receiving results had caused, my mind spiked (?) and the room was suddenly plunged into silence as for a few moments all around everyone was wearing nappies of some description. It was a weird ‘flash’ as my fellow students were happily going about their business with clearly visible padding, drinking from baby bottles or with dummies though no one was reacting any differently. It was as if this was an official school uniform and therefore completely standard. This was something new. I dreamt such a scenario at night but never had such a ‘vision’ in the daytime.  What could it mean? I was returned to reality as pressure on my shoulder from my mate Damian made his presence felt. “Now then fuckerrrr, how’ve you done?” He was waving his results in front of my face. He peered over my shoulder where mine could clearly be seen and gave them a quick squint before commenting loudly. “Fuckin’ hell Johnny, well done, but it does mean you can’t come to my house for at least a month.” I shrugged as I saw his grades. “Not bad!” “No, I thought they were pretty good but, hell, yours put mine to shame and if my parents find out they’ll think I haven’t tried... so you’re banned.” With that he punched my shoulder and disappeared into the hubbub. My brief incredible ‘vision’ was just that, all too brief, and everything was now disappointingly back to routine. How or why that had suddenly entered my head I had no idea but for that instant I felt incredibly joyous. It was like my good grades had made everything perfect but, nope, it was just an aberration, a blip of the mind. Oh well, now it was a return to school life as I noticed Terry standing looking a bit glum. I wandered over to him, “Any good?”   He looked at me and shook his head. “Mum’s gonna kill me.” I saw a slight tremble run through the piece of paper he was holding. “Yep, definitely gonna kill me”. I intended to express some sympathy, but the atmosphere in the hall was filled with people who were either thrilled or disappointed. The lively chatter and excitement, as friends—and even casual acquaintances—gathered to compare their grades, it had all become quite intense. I did the silliest of things; I shrugged and patted Terry’s bum... but alas, disappointingly he wasn’t wearing padding. For some reason I suddenly felt that I’d lost my playmate and all the happiness of receiving my fantastic grades just seconds earlier, just ebbed away and I felt isolated despite all that clamour and exhilaration. # Suddenly we were surrounded by friends who were keen to check our scores. Terry’s mates were hardly sympathetic, being more jock than academic, and laughed at his poor grades with pats on the back and predictions that he would do well “another time”. A few people had heard about my results and were equally keen to give me their opinion on what a “bloody teacher’s pet” I was and one even enquiring who I’d “sucked off” to get such good grades. They were joking but still some of their jocular barbs were hurtful, although I tried not to let that show. I wasn’t going to appear a wuss, despite wearing an increasingly soggy nappy. One of the teachers came up to congratulate me and all I could see behind his back were my ‘mates’ smiling, pulling faces and doing licking and sucking motions and mouthing the words “was it him?” After a few more minutes, the uncomfortable sensation of my nappy—now far too saturated to ignore—became impossible to put out of mind. Making a show of it, I glanced theatrically at my watch and announced to no one in particular that I needed to leave. By then, Terry was fully engrossed with his mates, his earlier glumness completely replaced by laughter and easy banter within the noisy throng. Around us, other students had finished comparing their results and were beginning to drift towards the exit of the hall. I slipped into their number, exchanging the occasional comment or receiving a congratulatory pat on the back from those who recognised me as I made my way out. The contrast between the clamorous excitement of the hall and the calm of the outside world was striking, and, after such an intense event, I found the relative solitude and quiet rather welcome. I was glowing at the validation of all my hard work and sleepless nights of study had paid off. I had tried very, very hard to get ahead with my diligent and exhausting revision. Thankfully, the grades were so much better than I expected and my thoughts turned to what was to be my next educational step. However, my immediate concern was the state of my nappy; it was reaching capacity, and I worried that even the sturdy cover might not be enough to prevent a mishap if I didn’t get home soon. Not a good look for an A+ student. With that urgency in mind, I hurried along, eager for the comfort and relief of a change. # During the excitement of getting my results I’d all but forgotten that later I had an appointment with my mum’s friend - the mysterious Laura. I knew she was a psychiatrist, because mum had wondered for a while if my wetting wasn’t psychosomatic or some such thing, but, as it wasn’t getting any better, wanted to have a professional opinion on its cause; she hadn’t thought much of Doctor Answah’s diagnostic skills. Mum reassured me that Doctor Mohammad was ‘a lovely woman’, ‘very helpful’ and ‘highly respected in her field’, so there was no reason to be nervous. She encouraged me to share anything that might be on my mind with her. Although I wasn’t sure if there was much left to say that Mum hadn’t already mentioned, I figured I’d just wait and see. In some ways, I was genuinely curious about her approach since I’d never experienced psychoanalysis before—or at least, I don’t think I have. As I opened the front door mum was waiting expectantly and greeted me with a hug. “How’s it gone sweetheart?” Her obvious interest clearly visible in her eager expression. “Pretty good,” and passed her the page with my grades. She hugged me even tighter (forcing another unintentional spurt of pee into my already sodden nappy) “This is fantastic darling,” she said reading my brilliant scores again. “Well done. Your father will be over the moon. We’re both so proud of you...”  The praise went on but I was desperate for her to let me go and change. “Mum,” I eventually freed myself from her loving squeeze. “I need to... you know... have a change. I’m soaked with all the excitement and everything.” “Of course love, sorry but we don’t often get chance to celebrate achievements... though I think we should with this...” “OK, that would be great but let me change first.” “Okay love, I’ll call your dad and let him know, see if he can get off a bit earlier and then we’ll all go out for a celebratory meal. I’ll book a restaurant for tonight... it’ll be fun.” As I rushed upstairs I shouted back not to forget my appointment with Doctor Mohammad. “No worries love... I have it all in hand.” # After the excitement and frenzy of the morning, the quiet of the psychiatrist’s waiting room was calming. Mum was next to me (I hadn’t known she would be coming with me although I should have guessed) as I wriggled a little uncomfortably wearing my fresh, though very thick nappy and slippery rubber pants. She wanted to make sure that if I had an accident whilst ‘on the couch’ then it would be taken care of, she was taking no chances. Mum wanted me to look my best so, as it was a pleasantly warm early afternoon, I decided on a pair of loose blue linen trousers and a loose white linen shirt that hung over my waistband hiding any obvious bulge. She made sure my hair was ‘just so’ and demanded I have a shave (which I barely need) and put on some of dad’s aftershave. By the time she’d got me ready, although I looked smart (and adult), I wasn’t feeling too comfy because over the past few weeks I was used to wearing a jumper or just a t-shirt with loose shorts over my nappies and that cozy comfort suited me best. However, sitting in the waiting room I found myself wriggling around to the low background music because my pants, nappy and plastic pants were conspiring to make a slight squeak as I moved. I didn’t realise I was doing it at first until mum told me to stop fidgeting but by then I was enjoying myself, lost in the silliness of just having childish fun making a noise. Needless to say the waiting room had others sitting around as there were a number of offices on this floor with various medical and psychological doctor’s names on the doors. A young boy, probably around six or seven, smiled at me and wiggled along with my movements. He wore shorts and a Spider-Man t-shirt—exactly the outfit I would have chosen if given the chance. His mother, much like mine, was elegantly dressed, although she was absorbed in a fashion magazine and had earbuds in, seemingly unbothered by her son’s interaction with me. Of course I doubted if he was wearing any padding but it was pleasing that he was having fun reflecting what I was doing. However, the receptionist called out a name and, after a short rearrangement of her dress and his hair, they both disappeared into another room further along the corridor but not before he waved at me. I felt a little bonding had taken place which I was really quite pleased about. Two minutes later, Doctor Mohammad came over to mum and me, greeted us warmly, and let us know our turn was next. She guided us down the corridor and as we passed the room the young lad had entered, I tried to catch snippets of conversation but couldn’t hear anything; nonetheless, I silently wished him all the best. # Her office was large but unassuming. I had expected a leather couch on which I would be asked to lie out but that didn’t exist as part of this psychiatrist’s upholstery... maybe that was only used for TV and movie shrinks? It was more laid out like our living room with a sofa and two comfy chairs and a small coffee table. There was a desk and a high-backed leather chair at one side where I suppose she worked from but, all-in-all, not too intimidating at first glance. Doctor Laura introduced herself and said that her and mum had talked quite a bit about my ‘problem’ and she was hoping, if that was okay by me, to help if she could. We weren’t under any time restriction as I was her last patient of the day and for me to relax. Despite beginning easily enough with questions about school, my results (congrats all round), social life, friends and ambitions, eventually came the main point - the origins of my problem – she asked THE question - “Could I pinpoint the moment it all started?” Now it was all official, that was the moment the well-being I’d experienced in the waiting room began slipping away and any insecurities and anxieties I thought I’d left at home descended like a cloak to engulf my mind. It was with this one simple enquiry that I suffered the first of many spurts of nervous pee into my ‘thankfully’ thick protection. It was like I was the thing I hoped I wasn’t – that little bed-wetting kid who couldn’t cope. This was ridiculous. I’d worn protective padding, disposables, plastic pants and all manner of other things, not only that but I’ve reviewed them without so much as a worry but now, at this moment, with a proper psychiatrist, my confidence deserted me. # Mum tried to fill in the silences when my brain and mouth just stopped engaging. When I did try to put things into words there were a lot of errs, umms, and stammering, which made me sound like a two year old and not the clever, super-graded sixteen year old I really was. “Look mum,” Doctor Laura looked to mum, “do you mind if just John and I chatted alone for a bit, just to see if I can loosen his tongue?” Although desperate to stay she knew when to retreat and said, “Of course Doctor,” and emphasised the word though I wasn’t sure if that was a hit at her or a reminder to me. Still she picked up her handbag and left saying she was just outside “if needed”. Once we were alone Laura came and sat nearer to me. “Johnny, John,” Her perfume was light but very nice, she looked businesslike and stunning all at the same time. She oozed well-being and nurture and I liked her but her eyes pierced mine and I couldn’t do anything but hold her gaze. Now alone, there was something about her look, her authority, her reassurance and an understanding that meant I could and indeed should tell her everything. “Look, your mother has told me about the reviews that you’ve enjoyed writing but that’s not where we need to start.” She patted my hand and saw that I flushed and then she asked quite amiably. “Are you wet now?” I almost started to hyperventilate but she kept patting my hand and told me to take a few deep breaths. She said that it didn’t matter if I was, she only wanted to make sure I was comfortable, No one was judging me and all would be well. “I know that certain things can embarrass a lad your age and I’m not trying to make you say anything you don’t think is relevant BUT,” and I could see she was talking to the sixteen year old me and not the dumbstruck toddler I seemed to have become. “Tell me about how it felt when you were returned to nappies after what, ten years or more?” # I sat there trying to get my thoughts in some semblance but the technique was evading me. Laura moved over to her desk and tapped a wooden object that began to slowly tick to a slow rhythm. “Just listen to the sound of the metronome and let its tempo relax and empty your head for the time being.” The gentle ticktock was, like the music in the waiting room, quite soft and soothing. “Let your heartrate slow... relax any tension in your muscles... close your eyes... drift along to the easy rhythm...” The sound was quite mesmerising, her voice a happy echo behind the gentle ticktock. I felt a warming glow and knew I’d just filled the front of my nappy, again, in the offices of a psychiatrist and it didn’t seem to matter - not to me, not to her, not to anyone. The unusual yet soothing sound had an immediate effect on both my mind and body, easing tension I hadn’t realised was there. As my eyes gradually closed, my thoughts grew quiet, and I felt a serene sense of weightlessness—almost as if I’d fallen asleep. With no sense of time passing, when she gently touched the back of my hand and started asking questions, I responded freely, without any anxiety. It was as though someone else was speaking through me. # Because of the way Susan had described her son I had made a summary assessment ahead of our meeting that he was probably a mummy’s boy with an infantile association. I wasn’t quite prepared for meeting John, who seemed an intelligent, nice, unassuming lad, and, what came tumbling out as he spoke unambiguously about his life since he’d been returned to wearing protection seemed unrestrained and honest. At the beginning he'd easily accepted that his mother’s advice to wear padding to bed had been a sensible idea and one, although unsure, saw it was something that would work immediately. He admitted to being embarrassed by, as he put it ‘a leaky willy’ but said he had no idea why it had started. I asked if he had any thoughts as to the possible reason and his reply was simply ‘anxiety’ but that could quite easily have been an answer he’d simply agreed was the case rather than the actual cause. Still, it was nice the way he spoke, his parents had obviously brought him up to be polite and respectful, which for a teenager, especially a sixteen year old, I’d found quite rare during my more recent interaction with clients of that age. He spoke about his mother getting him involved in doing reviews of the items a person called Avril had advised he should use. When I asked about this particular person he simply referred to her as “Mum’s friend”. Perhaps I needed Susan back in the room to fill in the blank areas because from what I could gather, she could be the catalyst for a lot of what was going on in John’s head. # Talking to Doctor Laura turned out to be just as easy as Mum had assured me. Although I was hesitant at first and found myself a bit tongue-tied, I soon realized I could speak openly without holding back. The slow, steady ticktock seemed to help clear my thoughts, making everything easier to express. I wouldn’t have been this open with any of my mates at school, but the conversation felt as natural as when Terry and I acted like little kids together. Even wearing a soaked nappy didn’t bother me; instead, the whole exchange felt friendly and relaxed. If this is what seeing a psychiatrist is like, then I’m all for it. I know that once I started I was able to reveal all sorts of stuff. Like my genuine enthusiasm for reviewing all the nappies and clothing I’d been sent and how much I’d enjoyed wearing it and feeling my comments were making a difference. I didn’t know how, where or why but Avril had said the company was excited by the reaction they were getting and I believed her, as did mum. After all, they had sent a batch of new disposables as a thank you for all the hits they were getting online. Doctor Laura kept returning to the same question, “When had this anxiety started and when was my first experience of wetting?” The thing is, when I tried to answer, erm, what I thought I knew, um, no... what I ended up admitting to was that my first wet pants were a long time before the ‘exam anxiety’ started but that I’d never told anyone. Except I was telling her. Several times, and I couldn’t tell her just how many, but from the age of around eleven, I’d had several ‘near misses’ and a couple of actual sodden undies or pyjamas. I’d felt guilty about a boy my age having such accidents and had managed (and I wasn’t sure how or why) to keep the incidents secret. I’d occasionally come home from school nursing sodden underpants but thanks to the dark material of my grey school trousers the stain was mostly hidden. I’d rush up to my bedroom, and if asked by Mum why the haste, I’d just lie and tell her I had some homework that I just needed to do. “Okay love,” she’d shout after me, “tea will be on the table at six” or some such thing. Each time I had an accident, I would quietly remove my wet underwear and take them to the bathroom to rinse out, making sure to do so discreetly so no one would notice. Afterwards, I'd return to my room and hang my damp trousers over the radiators to dry them out before anyone could discover what had happened. This routine allowed me to keep these occasional incidents hidden for quite a while, as nobody seemed to notice or question what I was doing. However, as the pressure of those recent upcoming exams intensified—with countless late nights spent revising—the frequency of these incidents increased. Eventually, the situation worsened to a point where I could no longer keep it a secret.  My parents were incredibly understanding—they never tried to make me feel small or poke fun at me for needing protection. In fact, we talked openly about my situation, and they decided that anxiety and teenage hormones were likely behind it. After a few mornings waking up wet, they gently suggested that using nappies might be a practical short-term fix. While I was initially resistant to the idea, I eventually saw the sense in it; after all, I much preferred that over waking up in a cold, wet bed. Mum wasted no time preparing everything, probably to prevent me from backing out. Surprisingly, once I had the nappy on and enjoyed a comfortable night's sleep (with only the nappy getting wet), I realised it was probably the right choice. I ended up sharing all of this—and much more—with Doctor Laura. So, when she asked about the pharmacy’s involvement, I had to admit that I supported the idea even more than I let on to mum. # It seemed completely natural to open up to her about how I’d quickly adapted to wearing nappies and, in fact, genuinely enjoyed the sensation they provided. When all the other items began to arrive, Mum’s cheerful acceptance of the situation made it even easier for me to embrace this new experience. I realised I could give myself permission to enjoy something that gave me such a buzz. Each new arrival made me feel wonderful, almost as if I had been given the chance to relive aspects of my childhood—with my parents’ encouragement. I admitted to Doctor Laura that, for the most part, the childish feelings were all in my head rather than acted out—at least until the FruitiZucker and my friendship with Terry encouraged me to do so. Nevertheless, there was a genuine thrill in the thickness of whatever nappy I wore, regardless of the design or material, pressing comfortably between my legs – a loving hug. When the company introduced the new ‘regression’ range, which included adorable plastic pants, I found them to be incredibly sweet, which in turn tipped another stimulus. That’s why I was so enthusiastic about wearing them openly around the house. Having official permission to do so, thanks to the reviews I was expected to write, made the whole experience even more enjoyable. She delved deeper into my relationship with Terry and discovered that I’d enjoyed our childish experiment on more levels than perhaps he had but, she said, she thought the drugged soothers were too much of an influence to make any real judgement. I wasn’t sure if I liked that term but she was a professional and she hadn’t said it in a mean or off- hand way so...? I’d been alone with Doctor Laura for well over an hour when she invited Mum to come and join us. I recognised that forced ‘smile’ she hadn’t liked not being involved in what had been said. However, she had given the Doctor as much privacy as she could and hoped that as a result she had discovered the reason I was wetting so regularly. # While there was an atmosphere of cordiality between Mum and her friend initially, the dynamic had shifted to one where Mum was interacting with someone possessing a degree of authority. The change in their relationship was perceptible, as the sense of equality from earlier had noticeably diminished. It became more and more apparent as Doctor Laura questioned Mum’s involvement with the pharmacist. During her ‘interrogation’, it became apparent that Mum's renowned ability to debate and defend her point of view seemed to wane. For perhaps the first time, she found herself needing to justify her enthusiasm for my involvement in the scheme. The atmosphere grew noticeably tense, yet Doctor Laura remained undeterred, continuing to ask direct and probing questions. As the conversation progressed, Mum’s discomfort increased; she was forced to reflect on the significance of her initial encounter with Avril and the choices that followed. As it turned out because the decision to put me in nappies (“a teen in a nappy would be so cute”) and the fact that it proved to be so brought out something in her that she hadn’t realised was there. She loved to see her loving teenaged son wearing protection and was encouraged to cling to that perception, even when she began to have doubts, by her very influential new friend. What the pharmacist said all made sense or so it seemed at the time. Perhaps Avril was merely endorsing what she thought her friend wanted to hear. For about another hour, Mum, Dr Laura, and I experienced a range of emotions. The Doctor’s questions toward Mum felt almost accusatory to me, making me uncomfortable—as if she was under attack—which left me annoyed by what seemed like a cross-examination. However, what I didn’t realise at the time was that Laura, as Mum’s friend, was simply acting professionally. She wasn’t accusing anyone; she was seeking information. Mum, grappling with guilt over uncritically accepting Avril’s justification for their actions, found confronting this truth especially difficult. Mum was apologising to me for her lack of judgement but all I could see was she presented me with an opportunity and one that I took. It was something I liked, not only liked but enthusiastically embraced. Surprisingly (although after what has happened perhaps not), I quite liked the idea that Mum thought I looked cute wearing a nappy. I liked that she encouraged me to persevere with my opinions and reviews. As the two adults talked, explored and generally painstakingly scrutinised the real reasons I wet, I realised that I didn’t actually mind wetting. Even when I was eleven and trying to hide it, it was a surprise to now realise that I actually had no worry about doing it, just someone finding out. However, once they did notice, and there were no nasty consequences, it all seemed to be acceptable. The inclusion of drugged dummies felt somewhat out of place compared to the other items I'd received, but we genuinely didn't know any better at the time. Mum insisted that she'd discussed them with Avril, who explained they were part of the company's overall plan to help people unwind and manage stress—particularly young adults facing a range of social and global anxieties. She even mentioned, quoting Avril, that both CEOs and students in Japan were reportedly using them openly to cope with anxiety. However, Mum had admitted to observing the results and how easily both me and a friend, she didn’t mention Terry by name (even though I had already done so) had suddenly let inhibitions go and settled into nappy-wetting kids who just wanted to have fun. It was this regression that had worried her and was the thing she was most perturbed about as, she kept saying, she should have seen it coming sooner. The psychiatrist continued to inquire, seeking additional details regarding this sense of ‘apprehension’. Although Mum felt uncomfortable expressing her true emotions, she recognised that transparency was necessary if we were to fully understand my difficulties. She acknowledged perceiving both Terry and I as appearing content, uninhibited, and carefree during play, unencumbered by social constraints. She observed our spontaneity, noting the absence of anxiety and briefly wishing such freedom were universally accessible. Nonetheless, this fleeting sense of exhilaration was offset by her conviction that an underlying issue persisted, attributing our heightened joy to the use of dummies. Mum had to acknowledge certain things. Why had she pushed for my involvement? Why had she so quickly agreed with Avril about my diagnosis and need for nappies? Why had she been so happy to see me wearing one? There was a sigh of relief as Mum finished her explanation, as if things were now beginning to slot into position. I think we all felt it. I certainly did. Because... Despite everything the doctor put us through, it was starting to have an impact. Feeling more as a teenager now and not a little kid, I began to reflect on my experiences more deeply and saw things with greater clarity. I realised I wasn’t a victim—though perhaps the FruitiZuckers made me one to some degree—but overall, I had a clear sense of what I wanted. In truth, it was more than a want—it was an essential part of who I was. This newfound self-awareness was truly amazing. I wasn’t sure if this was the way psychiatry was meant to work but it came as a bit of a shock that, after only a couple of hours she’d showed me exactly what I was. Yes I wet, but it didn’t bother me. “Mum, Mum, Mum,” I tried to interrupt as she looked a bit distressed at her complicity in all of this. “Don’t apologise...” I could see she was a surprised that I’d spoken up. With both adults watching, I felt unsure about what to confess, but since I'd begun, I had to continue. “Erm, well, hmmm, maybe,” I stammered, acutely aware that both of them were watching me intently. Their expectant gazes left me with little choice but to press on, however awkward it felt. My words came out haltingly, filled with uncertainty: “Could it be, that, urrmm, I like, hmmm, you know...?” The pauses were heavy, punctuating my struggle to articulate what I needed to say. Yet, despite the difficulty, I forced myself to carry on and, at last, managed to voice the revelation I’d been holding back. # tbc #

Another morning and another wet and messy diaper, this time a Vivo diaper that I wet multiple times during the night and then went poopies in my diaper in the kitchen getting coffee. So, sitting here sipping hot coffee with delightfully warm potty squishing in my diaper against my perineum. 🫠🤗😌 Not for everyone, I know, but this forum gives us an opportunity to share our messy diaper experiences with like minded ABDL's.