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Cloth Diapers & Panties
For the Cloth Diaper Lovers and their Panties of choice.
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Current Donation Goals
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November BillsRaised $400 of $400 target
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General FundRaised $10
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Just caught up, this story is fantastic! Keep up the good work! -
By latexdolli · Posted
This is a lovely and loving topic. For dolli, well, me, it would be more like this, kind of. She likes me. But She wants devotion. She is So pretty, so kind, and so so much. We kiss. Will You show devotion? Yes and yes. a lil test? Yes and yes. This chastity belt for a month of these loving diapers for a month then. Choose. Easy choice. diapers for a month. Then come the rules. You can only go to the bathroom every four hours. Otherwise its diaper time. Keep the diaper dry. Show dedication. Give me some loving obedience. And to help You think of me, loving Abby, here's a lil plug for the backside. No messes. And one more thing, She says, if You commit, You commit. You can be my boyfriend or my baby friend. Are you sure You wouldn't prefer the chastity belt for a month? i smile. i can do this. I can win Her heart. just need to cut down on beer a lil . Anyways,,,,dolli could continue. but dolli thoughts on this lovely topic. -
The studio exuded an anticipatory stillness upon their arrival—akin to the suspended quiet before a live performance. This was not the standard classroom atmosphere; it was charged with tension, gravity, and a silent reverence for what was to come. No prelude of music, no instructional voice reverberating off the mirrored walls—only the muted sounds of slippers brushing against the gleaming floor, the wood of the barre creaking under stretching palms, and the faint metronome of controlled breaths syncing with deliberate movements. Mrs. Dubois occupied the front of the room, but rather than her usual composed posture, she was pacing—measured, exacting. Her brows were drawn together, her mouth set in a tight line of deliberation. One arm hugged a clipboard to her side, the other tapped a pen against it with a rhythm that suggested both habit and purpose. Her heels struck the floor with distinct clicks, each one slicing through the ambient hush like punctuation. She was dressed differently this morning—not her trademark cardigan, but a fitted blazer, formal and structured. The message was clear: she was here not to instruct, but to evaluate. Rachel sensed the shift in energy first. The air felt more pressurized, the space denser with expectation. As she moved through her warm-up, every gesture was marked by precision. Her gaze remained fixed on Mrs. Dubois, not from fear, but with the awareness of a performer awaiting their cue. Dylan, mirroring Rachel’s routine, settled on the floor near the rear wall. His body ached in familiar places—the residue of a weekend filled with rehearsals and sleepless tension—but it felt earned. There was a quiet resolve in his muscles now, a sense of readiness he hadn’t quite trusted before. That is, until the atmosphere in the room shifted again. Whispers crept in. Eyes darted sideways. Conversations stalled. In ballet, silence was rarely neutral—it meant the stakes had changed. “What’s happening?” Tess murmured mid-split, one leg arched above her head with effortless grace. Her tone hinted at intrigue more than concern. “She looks like she’s about to command an army.” Rachel responded with a slight shrug, though her voice held something more serious. “She’s not teaching today. She’s coaching. It’s a different mindset.” Dylan furrowed his brow. “Different how?” Rachel’s voice dropped just enough to register the shift. “Teaching helps you understand. Coaching shapes what you already know. It’s about precision. Perfection.” That distinction hung in the air like a prologue to something larger. Even Dana, usually light-hearted and relaxed in the warm-up, paused to glance across the room. The collective posture of the dancers evolved—shoulders squared, backs straightened. This wasn’t casual anymore. And Mrs. Dubois was watching. She clapped once, not loudly, but it pierced through the room like a baton strike. “Ladies—” Her gaze swept across the studio until it landed on Dylan, steady and acknowledging. “And gentleman. This is not class. This is a professional rehearsal space today. You have your roles. You understand your choreography. I will not be pausing for inquiries or corrections. We are transitioning into the refinement phase. If you are unsure—consult your peer mentor.” All eyes shifted to Rachel. She responded with a subtle lift of her chin. Dylan felt his own shoulders rise, almost in reflex. Mrs. Dubois gestured to the sound controls. “Places. Begin.” The music eased into the room like a slow wave—piano overlaid with subtle strings—pulling the dancers into position like gravity. They moved not with hesitance, but with purpose. Each step landed like a claim. This was no longer a space for experimentation. This was execution. The movement transformed. Sharpened. Every line was intentional. They were not dancing for feedback; they were dancing to meet an internal standard—and to exceed it. Dylan adopted his starting stance beside Rachel and fell into the first phrase with deliberate focus. His technique was no longer theoretical. He rotated through turns with control, counted the lifts instinctively, held each line as if it was etched in muscle memory. When Rachel brushed past in a traveling step, she gave him a small nod—unspoken validation. It settled into him like a spark. Midway, he faltered slightly—a heel placement a half-beat too early. Minuscule. But to him, it echoed like thunder. He waited for correction, for the piercing note of critique. It didn’t come. Mrs. Dubois observed without commentary. From across the room, Dana caught his gaze. She smiled—wide, mischievous, reassuring—and offered a slow thumbs-up. The tension eased slightly. Time lost meaning in the flurry of movement and repetition. The music played without pause. Mrs. Dubois paced the perimeter, sometimes scribbling on her clipboard, sometimes murmuring to herself, but never interrupting. The only consistent sound beyond the music was breath—measured, collective, determined. As the final note faded, silence returned with theatrical weight. Bodies dropped—some dramatically sprawled, others curled inward, spent. No applause. Just exhaustion. Dylan leaned into the barre, chest rising and falling. Today, he didn’t feel like an outsider pretending to belong. He felt like a dancer. Mrs. Dubois’s voice cut through the post-performance hush. “Tomorrow we transfer to the theater. Your preparation here will either support your presence or expose your weaknesses. Either way, your work will show. Dismissed.” For a beat, no one moved. Then, slowly, the dancers began peeling away—unlacing shoes, gathering sweaters, murmuring in low tones. Rachel lingered, brushing sweat from her brow. She approached Dylan, eyes bright and intent. “You were strong today,” she said, her hand finding his shoulder in a gentle press. “You’re closer than you think.” This time, he didn’t downplay it. He let the compliment settle. Outside the studio, Monday marched on. Just another beginning to another week. But inside, something had shifted. They weren’t simply students anymore. They were evolving into performers. -
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By Snugglebear_69 · Posted
My Daddy and I have a private seamstress that we comission, she's awesome. I highly recommend it if you have one near you.
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