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Cloth Diapers & Panties
For the Cloth Diaper Lovers and their Panties of choice.
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Posts
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By JamieJamie · Posted
yea, make several 2 inches long slits lengthwise and 2-3 per row on the plastic shell from front to back where the paddings are. Diaper up, and then put on another diaper over it without any slits (obviously- to prevent leaking). -
By Firefly 35 · Posted
But apparently you can install Windows 95 on smart TVs. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_2p59phjFLE -
By JamieJamie · Posted
yea. When I couldn't buy those premium ABDL diapers, I end up buying ATNs cuz its the closest to premium diaper available. And then I am just disappointed in the performance of ATNs. And then I get soooo happy once I get my hands on premium ABDL diapers. My most commonly purchased ABDL diaper are Sunkiss Masterpiece. -
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By BottomBoiCorey · Posted
Chapter 7: The Routine The wetness was familiar now. Ryan woke to it with a sinking resignation, the cold spreading against his hip, the smell already rising from the absorbent material. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with the inevitability of it. Again. Of course again. Beside him, Kimberly stirred. She rolled toward him, her eyes still heavy with sleep, then sharpened as they focused on his face. Her gaze dropped to his waist, to the slight bulk visible beneath the sheets, and something flickered across her features—not disgust, not anymore, but something closer to satisfaction. "Wet?" she asked, her voice soft, almost gentle. Ryan nodded, unable to speak. She threw back the covers and sat up, her movements unhurried now, routine. She reached to the nightstand where she'd started keeping the supplies—wipes, a small trash bag. She pulled back the sheet, revealing the white padding, slightly yellowed at the front, sagging with the weight of his accident. She touched the waistband, checking the fit, then ran her hand over the sheets beneath him. Dry. Her smile was small, almost maternal. "Good," she murmured. "The bed is dry. That's what matters." She helped him sit up, her hands efficient and impersonal as she pulled down his pajama pants. The wet garment peeled away from his skin, cold and clammy, revealing his small cock shriveled against his thigh. She didn't look at it. Her eyes stayed on his face, or on the task. "Go shower," she said, handing him the trash bag for the used GoodNite. "Get cleaned up. You smell like a nursery." Ryan took the bag, his face burning. He walked to the bathroom, the wet GoodNite in his hands, her words echoing. You smell like a nursery. As if he were a toddler, not a husband. As if his forty-two years meant nothing. He showered quickly, scrubbing away the smell of ammonia, the humiliation of the night. After, he toweled off and pulled on his tighty whities. The white cotton was thin, childish, but it was what he wore during the day. What he wore to work, to pretend to be a man. The GoodNites were for night only, for the bedwetting he couldn't control. The tighty whities were for day, for the pretense that he was still an adult. He dressed in his work clothes, avoiding the mirror. At the office, Darnell was everywhere. Not overtly dominant, not obviously insubordinate, but present in ways that slowly eroded Ryan's sense of authority. In the Monday morning meeting, Ryan had started to present the Caldwell projections, and Darnell had smoothly interjected with a correction that made Ryan stumble, lose his place, look incompetent in front of Mark Greyson and the others. Ryan told himself he was imagining it. Told himself Darnell was helpful, respectful, that the "boss" he kept using was genuine. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being managed, of being handled. He held onto this denial like a shield, refusing to see what was happening, refusing to accept that his authority was slipping away. Tuesday evening, he came home to find Kimberly on the couch, her phone in her hands, her cheeks flushed. She barely looked up as he entered. "How was your day?" he asked. "Fine," she said, not looking at him. "Dinner's in the fridge." She didn't mention who she'd been texting. Ryan stood in the entryway, watching her smile at the screen, feeling the distance between them. He was aware of his tighty whities beneath his work clothes, the childish underwear that no grown man should wear. That night, after they'd eaten, Kimberly set down her fork with a deliberate click. "Ryan. Come upstairs." He followed her, confused. In the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Take off your clothes," she said. "Kimberly, I—" "Now." He undressed slowly, his face burning, until he stood in only his tighty whities. She didn't look at the small bulge, the pathetic outline of his micropenis. She simply pointed to the floor, to the space between her feet. "Kneel." He knelt. She spread her legs, her yoga pants still on, and pulled them down slightly. She wasn't wearing underwear. She was wet, glistening, and the smell of her arousal hit him like a physical blow. "Eat me," she said, her voice commanding, distant. "And don't stop until I say." He leaned in, his tongue finding her. She was already close, already worked up, her hips bucking against his face. He licked and sucked, his jaw aching, his small cock straining uselessly against his tighty whities. She came quickly, her hand in his hair, pulling him hard against her, her orgasm sharp and sudden. She pushed him away immediately, her satisfaction complete. She pulled up her pants and stood, moving to the closet where she kept the GoodNites. Ryan remained on the floor, his face wet with her, his cock hard and aching in his childish underwear. "Stand up," she said, returning with a fresh GoodNite in her hands. "Kimberly, I can—" "Stand up, Ryan." He stood, his erection obvious in the tighty whities, pathetic and useless. She didn't look at it. She simply pulled down the white cotton, letting it fall to his ankles, and held open the GoodNite at his feet. "Step in," she said, her voice firm, impersonal. "Kimberly, please. I'm not... I don't need—" "Step in." He lifted one foot, then the other, his defiance crumbling even as he clung to it. She pulled the GoodNite up his legs, settling it around his hips, the padding thick and crinkling between his legs. She smoothed the waistband, her fingers brushing his skin, then pulled up his pajama pants over the white garment. "There," she said, her voice gentler now. "Now you can sleep. And if you have an accident, the bed will be dry." She climbed into bed and turned off the light. "Goodnight, Ryan." He stood frozen for a moment, the GoodNite snug against him, his erection painful and ignored. He wasn't allowed to touch himself. Wasn't offered release. He climbed into bed beside her, the padding crinkling softly, his humiliation complete. He woke at 3 AM, the familiar wetness spreading against his hip. The GoodNite contained it, absorbed it, kept the bed dry. He lay frozen, hating it, hating what he'd become. This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was meant to be. He was a man, a husband, a professional. Not this... this child in diapers. But he didn't take it off. Didn't reject it. He lay in his wet GoodNite, his denial crumbling even as he clung to it, and waited for morning. When Kimberly checked him, she smiled. "Good boy," she murmured. "The bed is dry. Go shower." He showered. He dressed in his tighty whities. He went to work, where Darnell waited with coffee and corrections and gentle dominance that Ryan refused to name. Thursday, the Amazon package arrived. Ryan signed for it, confused. When he emerged from showering, Kimberly was opening it. He saw the black silicone, the exaggerated shape, the BBC dildo. "What's that?" he asked, though he knew. "None of your business," she said, her voice firm, her eyes challenging. "Our sex life is... this is what I need. Since you can't..." He felt his face burn. "I can," he lied, the defiance rising in him even as it sounded hollow. "I can satisfy you. I just need—" "Ryan." She cut him off, her voice flat. "Stop. Just... stop." She carried the box upstairs. He stood in the kitchen, his tighty whities beneath his work clothes, his denial crumbling, his fists clenched with useless resistance. At work, Darnell was waiting. The presentation went badly. Ryan stumbled, and Darnell stepped in, and Mark Greyson praised Darnell's "initiative" while Ryan stood at the margins, clinging to the title of "boss" that meant less each day. He came home Friday to find Kimberly cooking, her phone propped against the coffee maker, her face glowing with that smile he couldn't earn. He watched her, his denial flaring, his refusal to accept what was happening burning in his chest. "Who are you talking to?" he demanded, the question sharper than he intended. She didn't look up. "A friend," she said, the same answer as always. "Set the table." He set the table. They ate in silence, her phone buzzing, her eyes drifting. After dinner, she disappeared upstairs. He followed, found her in bed, her phone in her hands, her face glowing. "Kimberly," he said, standing in the doorway, his voice harder than he felt. "We need to talk. About us. About what's happening." She looked up, impatient. "Ryan, I'm tired." "I don't care," he said, the defiance spilling out. "I don't care if you're tired. I'm your husband. This... this isn't working, but I'm still here, I'm still trying, I'm still—" "Trying what?" she cut in, her voice sharp. "Trying to stay dry? Trying to last more than thirty seconds? Trying to be a man?" The words hit him like blows. He felt his face burn, his throat close, but he held onto his anger, his refusal. "I am a man," he said, the words trembling but defiant. "I am. And I don't need... I don't need this... this thing you've decided I am." She softened slightly, pity creeping into her expression. "Ryan, go get ready for bed. We'll talk tomorrow." He went to the bathroom, his movements jerky with anger. He showered, scrubbed himself clean. He stood before the mirror, his small cock shriveled and pathetic, and he hated it, hated himself, hated what he'd become. But he knew what would happen if he didn't wear the GoodNite. He knew the wet sheets, the disgust, the shame worse than this. He pulled on the GoodNite anyway, the padding thick and crinkling, because he had no choice, because his body betrayed him, because he was what she said he was. He climbed into bed beside her, the white garment visible beneath his pajama pants, his defiance still burning, still refusing. She didn't look at him, her phone glowing in her hands. He lay awake, listening to her text, her soft laugh, her whispered "goodnight." He didn't know who she was talking to. He refused to know. He clung to his uncertainty like a shield, his denial like armor, even as the diaper crinkled softly with every breath, marking him as what he was becoming. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would fight. Tomorrow he would reclaim himself. But tomorrow Darnell would be there, and Kimberly would check his wetness, and the routine would continue, and his defiance would crumble a little more. He lay in his diaper, alone in the dark, and waited for morning.
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