2011

The frilly pink satin rustled as Bobbie shifted nervously on the examination table, his plastic pants crinkling under the clinical white light. Dr. Emma’s latex-gloved fingers hovered near the waistband of his ruffled baby knickers, while Lucy—his wife, his *mummy*—leaned against the wall, arms crossed, lips pursed in amused disdain. "Go on," Lucy sighed, nodding at Emma. "Show them how pathetic he really is." The delicate frilly pink satin baby knickers finally nappy came undone  then the plastic pants, revealing what the two young nursing students had been stifling giggles about: a shriveled, pink nub, barely an inch soft. One of them bit her lip, failing to hide her smirk. Lucy rolled her eyes. "See? Useless." Emma’s pen tapped against her clipboard. "You *do* realize," she said, voice smooth as the silk panties Lucy would later press over Bobbie’s tear-streaked face, "there are other ways to be satisfied." And that’s when Lucy smiled—the same smile she’d worn last night, coming home late, her white lace damp with another man’s scent.     Bobbie’s breath hitched as Lucy stepped forward, her heels clicking against the tile floor. She ran a manicured finger along his trembling thigh, her touch burning through the sheer fabric of his babydoll nightie. "Poor little thing," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "All worked up over *nothing*." The students exchanged glances, their cheeks flushing—whether from embarrassment or arousal, Bobbie couldn’t tell. Emma’s smile widened as she noted his pathetic erection, bobbing pathetically against his frilly waistband. "Ah," she murmured, "there it is. The cuckold’s paradox." Lucy laughed, leaning down to whisper in his ear, her words a hot, wet promise: "Wait till you see what Daddy’s *really* packing." His whimper was muffled by the crinkle of plastic pants as she tugged them back up, sealing him away—a sissy secret, wrapped in pink and shame. The pink frilly  of Bobbie's satin frilled dress fluttered as he squirmed on the examination table, his plastic pants crinkling loudly under the fluorescent lights. Emma’s latex-gloved fingers hooked into the waistband, peeling them down along with his damp nappy, exposing what Lucy had described—with a sigh—as "barely there." One of the young students muffled a giggle behind her clipboard. "Oh, *goodness*," Emma murmured, clinically detached, though her lips twitched. Lucy crossed her legs, her stiletto tapping impatiently. "He *tries*," she said, rolling her eyes, and the way she said it made Bobbie’s stomach flip—not with shame, but with something hotter, darker. Emma’s gaze flicked to Lucy’s thighs, then back to Bobbie’s pathetic twitch. "Have you considered," she said slowly, Doctor Emma nodded thoughtfully, then dropped the bomb: "Have you considered outsourcing?" The room froze—except for Bobby, who felt a traitorous twitch beneath his frills. That’s when Lucy smirked and pulled out her phone, flashing a text thread with a single word at the top: *Des*. And the time: *2:47 AM* The frilly pink satin crinkled under Bobby's trembling thighs on the examination table, his plastic pants squeaking against the paper-covered vinyl. Doctor Emma's latex-gloved fingers hovered while Lucy—leaning against the doorframe in her tailored pencil skirt—rolled her eyes and sighed. "Go on, show them," she said, tapping her stiletto. "Let's see if they laugh harder than I did." The two nursing students exchanged glances, one biting her lip as the diaper came undone. Then the gasp. The stifled giggle. And Bobby, staring at his own pathetic nub, barely visible against the white padding. Lucy said "Pathetic, isn't it? That’s what I wake up to." .   The diaper rustled as Bobby's thighs clenched involuntarily, his face flushing crimson under the clinical lighting. Des—short for Desmond, Lucy's ex from college, the one with the rugby player’s build and a reputation that made locker rooms nervous. Doctor Emma cleared her throat, snapping the nursing students out of their stunned silence. "What I meant," she said slowly, her gloved finger tracing the elastic of Bobby's diaper cover, "is professional assistance. A surrogate, if you will." Lucy exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, her smirk widening as she scrolled through photos on her phone—Desmond at the beach, Desmond in a towel, Desmond *not* needing frilly satin to hide anything. Bobby's twitch became undeniable, . One of the students muffled a cough into her sleeve. The other looked like she might need to sit down. "Well?" Lucy prompted, snapping her phone shut. "Should I call him?" Bobby's mouth opened—nothing came out but a weak wheeze. The damp spot grew on the tip of his penis . Doctor Emma, ever clinical, reached for a fresh diaper, her voice detached. "Physiological response suggests interest." Lucy laughed, sharp as her stiletto heel clicking against the tile. "Oh, he's *interested*," she purred, thumb hovering over Desmond's contact. The nursing student who'd been biting her lip suddenly blurted, "I—I have a cousin who does this professionally!" Silence. Then the other student, voice small: "...Is it weird that I kind of want to watch?" Bobby's face burned hotter than the clinic's fluorescent lights. Lucy's grin turned feral. "Text your cousin," she ordered, then turned to Emma. "Prep him." The doctor nodded, snapping her gloves tighter. And Bobby? He shut his eyes, frilly satin trembling, as the first tear rolled down. Not from shame. From relief.   The plastic crinkled louder as Bobby shifted—not from discomfort, but from the sudden, unwelcome heat pooling beneath the satin. Lucy exhaled a smoke ring toward the ceiling, her stiletto still tapping an impatient rhythm against the tile. "Des does house calls," she said, flicking ash into a tray labeled *Biohazard*. One nursing student coughed; the other stared openly at the damp spot darkening Bobby's diaper. Doctor Emma cleared her throat, snapping her gloves tighter. "We *do* have a specialist on retainer," she murmured, eyeing the text. "Discreet billing." Bobby's face burned hotter than the humiliation between his legs, but Lucy just smirked, tapping out a reply with her blood-red nail. *Send him*, she typed. Then, to the room: "Might as well get *someone's* money's worth." The nursing students didn't bother hiding their laughter this time   The screen burned brighter than Lucy's cigarette as Bobby's eyes darted between the timestamp and the name—Des, short for Desmond, his college roommate who'd always "accidentally" walked in on him showering. The nursing students leaned in, one smearing her lipstick against her teeth. Doctor Emma cleared her throat, adjusting her clipboard. "We have donors screened for *specific deficiencies*," she said, tapping her pen against Bobby's medical chart where *microphallus* was circled in red. Lucy exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Oh, he's screened alright." Bobby's plastic pants crackled as he squirmed, his face flushing hotter than the clinic's flickering fluorescent lights. Then Lucy's stiletto clicked against the tile as she turned to leave. "Pack your diaper bag, sweetheart. We've got a 3 PM with a *real* man." The door slammed. The nursing students erupted. And Bobby—still perched on pink satin—felt something warm trickle down his thigh.    The nursing students leaned in closer, one stifling a snort as Lucy flicked ash onto the sterile floor. Bobby's face burned hotter than the ember of her cigarette, his humiliation complete—until Doctor Emma's gloved finger tapped his thigh, clinical and detached. "See this?" she murmured, tracing the faint outline beneath the plastic. "Atrophy. Textbook." Lucy exhaled smoke through her nose. "Textbook *what*?" Emma didn't blink. "Compensation." The room tilted as Bobby realized the diaper wasn't just for show—it was evidence. Lucy's stiletto tapped an impatient rhythm. "So fix him." Emma's smile was scalpel-sharp. "Oh, we will." And with that, the door swung open to reveal Des, all biceps and knowing grin, holding a leather case that definitely didn't contain tongue depressors. Bobby's traitorous twitch became a shudder. Lucy crushed her cigarette underfoot. "Time for a second opinion." The phone screen glowed brighter than the fluorescent clinic lights, casting sharp shadows across Lucy’s smirk as she tapped the text thread—*Des: "You free tonight?"*—and scrolled down to her own reply, sent an hour after Bobby had fallen asleep in his onesie: *"Bring the good restraints."* A drop of sweat slid down Bobby’s temple, but his cock, humiliatingly, strained against the diaper’s elastic. Doctor Emma cleared her throat, snapping the tension like a rubber band. "Well," she said, peeling off her gloves with deliberate slowness, "I suppose that answers the compliance question." One nursing student coughed into her fist; the other stared openly at the damp spot blooming on Bobby’s padding. Lucy exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Guess we’re doing this the fun way." She pocketed her phone and yanked Bobby’s frilly cover back into place with a *snap* of elastic. "Say thank you, sweetheart." His lips moved soundlessly.   The diaper rustled as Bobby instinctively tried to cross his legs, his face burning hotter than Lucy's cigarette. Doctor Emma's clipboard clattered onto the counter—she was already scrolling through her contacts with clinical efficiency. "We have a few excellent candidates," she murmured, thumb hovering over a name labeled *T. Riggs - Specialized Care*. One nursing student coughed into her fist while the other stared at Bobby's lap with fascinated horror, her clipboard slipping to reveal hastily scribbled notes: *infantile presentation, possible hormonal imbalance, recommend humiliation therapy?* Lucy exhaled a slow plume of smoke directly at Bobby's twitching thighs. "Des does house calls," she purred, tapping her phone screen to reveal a photo—a thick, veined monstrosity curving proudly over a leather strap, the caption beneath reading *Prepped & ready*. Bobby's tiny gasp was drowned out by the sudden rip of velcro as Emma cheerfully announced, "Let's get you measured for restraints!"   The text bubbles below the name were worse—suggestive, explicit, dripping with the kind of raw hunger Lucy had never shown Bobby, not even in their early days. He recognized the slang, the abbreviations, the telltale ellipses that meant something filthy was coming next. His nub jerked again, trapped uselessly beneath the diaper's pressed folds, as Lucy exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Des does custom work," she murmured, scrolling down to reveal a photo—thick, veined, unmistakable—that made the nursing student on the left audibly whimper. Doctor Emma cleared her throat, snapping her gloves off with surgical precision. "I'll draft the paperwork," she said, while Bobby's face burned hotter than Lucy's cigarette ash hitting the floor. "Unless," Lucy added, thumb hovering over the keyboard, "you'd rather stay like this?" She flicked the crinkling waistband of his diaper cover with her manicured nail. Bobby's mouth opened—but the whimper that came out wasn't his. It was the other nurse, pressing her thighs together, staring at Lucy like she held the keys to heaven and hell.    

A magic carpet ride indeed!  bravo frosty! 😄

That was a great chapter. I wouldn’t have been able to move into the master bedroom. Probably would’ve just kept it as Greg and Charlie had.  I’m surprised they have Veronica locked out of Kelly’s bedroom. Is she afraid it would diaper her or something? 😂    Now she said she’s worn before and prefers someone else to be wearing them. But she never said that wearing did nothing for her 😏   I think you made a mistake. The first time Kelly babysat in the story, she breastfed him, didn’t she?

I'm getting stressed about my upcoming trip, which I think might be some of the impetus behind my diaper dreams, of late. Travel really doesn't phase, me, generally - I've traveled in diapers, I don't know, 40 times now? Overseas, I think, three times - two were vacations with family or friends, once for work. To the US - lots of times, on planes and in cars. And across Canada, again, in cars, on planes, a little bit of boat travel... never trains, though, beyond day trips into the city. Long distance rail travel in Canada paradoxically costs more than, and takes way, way longer, than flying or driving. For example, I can drive to Montreal in about 5.5 hours. The flight is an hour, but that's essentially misinformation, because it supposes that you can pull up in you car, next to your flight, put it in park, get your carryon bag out of the trunk, and board the plane, which will then land in the parking lot of your hotel in Montreal. The reality is, our local airport is huge, and while it has made some major improvements, it is still notorious for delays going through security, and/or customs. And, I may have to go though the nude-o-scanner (a term borrowed from the imitable @oznl), in what could either be, to the person looking at the output, an adult nappy, or, a garment comprised of packets of unidentified white powder. So, I tend to give myself a bit of extra time. I'll digress here, to note that on my last work trip to Europe and the UK, I elected to wear a pull-up, through security, and I had a real diaper in my laptop bag. I more or less breezed through - victory was mine, right? Except that instead of changing right away, I thought, "Might as well get some use out of this thing before I bin it...", so I went for a celebratory pint, and had a bit of a wee (I'd been holding it through security, on my theory that, on the off chance I end up having to have my underpants further reviewed, it would be easier on my soul, and also possibly less prone to absorbing scanner waves, if they were dry). Well, my stupid pull-up didn't like how I was seated astride a stool, or maybe it didn't like that it was a pull-up at all, so it leaked into my jeans.... and all of my clothing was, at that moment, transiting the underground railroad of baggage, in my checked bag. All I had with me were what I had on, and the diaper I'd packed for my seven hour flight. I had images of standing in a busy airport bathroom, in a diaper, drying my pants under the hand dryers, and could not stomach that level of public exposure, so instead, I tried to dry my jeans with wads of toilet paper, in a stall. Jeans I would be in for the next twelve hours, at least, arriving as I was, at 8 AM local time, with further in-country travel on the docket.  SO, since then, I've flown maybe four times, and I've always worn a "real" diaper through security, with varying results, but none disastrous. But back to my main point - the reality is that flying to Montreal takes about three to four hours. Taking the train there takes 6-7 hours, and costs as much as the gas would cost, to drive, but generally less than the flight. However, take that train any further east, and the math goes completely upside down; I can drive to Halifax in about 18-19 hours, I can fly there in 3 hours (plus a couple of hours in airports), or I can take a train there, in 24-30 hours, and the train will cost more than the flight.  I do want to do a longer train trip in diapers, though. I've never enjoyed bathrooms built into conveyances, with the possible exception of cruise ships, where at least you get your own. Which I suppose you also do, on $30,000 first class Emirates flights, but that is not how I currently live.  But I have digressed, and digressed. Back to the anxiety: I have to travel with my boss, first of all, whom I quite like, but she's a resolute carryon traveler, with disdain for people who check bags, and hold everyone up at the other end. Except that I am going on a work trip, and then, a golf trip with some buddies. I'll have to rent clubs - I'm not taking them, too difficult to manage - but I need at least a couple of shoe options, and more clothing than she does, I'll have to explain, and also, two weeks worth of diapers, and some terry-lined plastic pants that take up as much room as a pillow, I will not explain. At least the stacks of diapers will be examined in the basement of the airport, if they attract any official curiosity, not on the arc lamp-lit stainless tables of shame, in public view, with the people who packed water bottles, or imitation grenades.  But,  I will be going through security with my boss... and sometimes my underpants do attract attention. Some veteran travelers here, and online, have suggested that I actually just tell the TSA agent that I'm wearing a diaper, or, the more euphemistic "brief", or "I'm wearing a medical device...". Hopefully the person I report to ends up in another line, is all I am going to say. Although I guess they can't fire me for wearing diapers. But that is ice I'd rather not test the thickness of.  Then, assuming my work week goes fine, and I never get outed by the bags of diapers I'm disposing of, or outed at the airport, I will then be joining a guys' trip, already in progress. Will my one friend who knows I wear diapers (Dave, of Dave & Anne), arrange to room with me, or will someone else "get lucky" and get a room to themselves for a couple of days, until I arrive? Whom will that be? It is a point of interest, precisely because of the Guestpocalypse, previously written about: I will be drinking, will be staying up late, and will be highly advised to wear my gigantic, terry-lined plastic pants... except that I have nothing I could sleep in that would be large enough to enable me to operate, in a shared bedroom, and in a condo with a bunch of guys sharing bathrooms, and not have the magnitude of my ass commented on, or at least noted.  If I'm sharing a room with Dave, I figure that I can somehow engineer getting into the things, and some shorts, right before bed, and then waiting until he goes to the bathroom in the morning, before getting out of them, in our room, but, if I have to get out of bed and waddle over to plug my phone in, or get a drink in the middle of the night, or whatever, at least I've already tested the metal of his friendship and discretion, and found them worthy, were he to see me thusly clad. Anyone else? All bets are off.  So, I'll either come back from this trip, rested and even more confident, operating in the world as a diapered person, or, I'll come back, having indoctrinated my boss, and a posse of golf buddies, into my circle of trust. Or distrust.  On a lighter note, I emptied my nappy bin today, and noted that the Mega Inspire+, and the BeDry Night, have supplanted medium-duty equipment such as the original Lil' Monsters and Lil' Splash diapers, as my most common choices. So, I'm holding to my resolution to just wear what the situation calls for, and not be as tactical, with respect to trying to wear the minimum diaper that will survive a given task. 

Good afternoon all, I want to give my boyfriend a mouth soaping this evening. He’s been acting like a baby all day. Does anyone know if Johnson’s baby bar soap would be good for a first time mouth soaping or should I do ivory?