2011

Good Lord, I didn't realize! It took about 7 years, but still, evidently, I can blather on.  Which I will do now, with some random diaper thoughts. First, I navigated having a moderately wet BeDry Night on under my jeans, and found myself in the midst of an impromptu family reunion at a friend's place. I'd slept in that BDN.... On a sidenote, maybe I should adopt @oznl's naming convention, rather than always having to type BeDry Night or BeDry (not the night one and not the EliteCare one), etc. Although I had intended to adopt that practice in reference to the recurring cast of characters referenced herein, instead of calling everyone "my buddy" or "my buddy's wife" or "my buddy and his wife who know", etc, but I just had to go back three pages, in order to find what I'd named them, and if I can't remember, then how can I possibly expect you to remember? So it would go with diaper names - I'd have to pin a glossary to the top of the page, I guess. I have about 15 models in various stages of use.  But back to my story. I woke up moderately wet, but for a BDN, there was a lot of runway left, and I was expecting to spend a weekend day, preparing for a work trip around the house, IE, it didn't matter what I looked like. Were it not so cold outside, and thus, "fresh" inside, I might have done it in just a diaper, and a sweater - getting diapers from the basement stock, emptying the diaper can, emptying the other garbage cans, ferrying laundry around, digging out a suitcase, etc. However, Dave needed help returning a vast quantity of building materials that had been incorrectly delivered. Knowing that Dave has no illusions about what's going on under my jeans, and also knowing that I'd be wearing a winter jacket throughout the process anyway, I thought, okay, I'll just wear this big diaper, which really hasn't become too bulky, anyway. Of course, after the work was done, I was invited inside for a coffee... and then my buddy's teenaged kids joined us in the living room, and then one of their friends came to the door, and then, while that was happening, one of our mutual friends showed up, to see Anne's new SUV. So, we all paraded outside, to look at the vehicle - not brand new, but new to her, and only a couple of years old, a sober-looking Swedish product that should be very safe and dutiful, while also expensive to fix.  Back inside we went, and around the second cup of coffee, I started thinking, "Man, if I'd known I'd be hanging out with all these people, inside, jacket off, I probably would have worn a lighter diaper...". But what was done, was done. Dave & Anne don't care, and I don't think my appearance registers with the young ones, and my other buddy, not in the know, or so I thought, has the observation skills of a typical middle-aged male, IE, terrible - I have to be told what's changed about my friends' wives and kids, when they dye their hair or cut it, or get glasses, or braces removed, etc.  But then, in the midst of talking about some of the indecipherable controls on the Volvo, I remarked that "That guy from Star Trek got killed by his SUV because the shifter was badly designed...". Other buddy, whom we will now call Roger, said, "Yeah, like if you flipped that switch on the back of the steering wheel that we couldn't figure out, and then the steering wheel exploded..." To which, I was just about to add, "The airbag deployment switch! Someone is losing their job over that...", when he finished, "And the airbag was full of diapers."  Where the hell had that come from? It threw me momentarily off of my game, I have to say. I can see that the big puffy white airbags, covered in cornstarch, usually, to keep them from sticking and deploying in weird shapes that might decapitate, rather than save you, could, I suppose, be somewhat likened to diapers, although really, they're more like violent balloons. Diapers don't really explode like that, even under the worst of use conditions.  I avoided looking at Dave and Anne, chuckled at Roger's strange verbiage, and the conversation changed course, but I couldn't help but wonder why the D-word had been thrown into the middle of a conversation, in which it didn't really fit. Was it a nudge-wink? To me? To Dave & Anne? Or pure coincidence?  Onto other related topics... My wife was talking to my daughter about packing up some of her summer clothes, to create room in her closet, and in the midst of that conversation, my diapers got a new name. "Ask Dad if he has any empty boxes from his special underwear... they'd be perfect." My special underwear. Sounds ominous.  And, lastly, I'm wondering out loud to all of you, if I should ask my wife to get me some special underwear, for Christmas. She keeps asking me what I want, not what I need, and most of what I want, I generally have, or if I haven't gotten it already, I consider it too expensive and/or frivolous to go out and buy. Other than Scotch... and diapers.  I do want the new Lil' Monsters, even though I've sworn off of buying $5-per-unit printed diapers. But I was a fan of the discontinued version, even though they weren't the greatest diapers, even for a midrange product. I was very used to them, so, like, say, an old Porsche 911, I knew how to drive them without getting hurt. SO... I would like to try the new ones, even though I don't believe for one fevered second that they hold 11,000 ml of anything, including air. And even though I don't need a 30-pack of big, scented, printed diapers - I have lots of capacious diapers, including printed ones, in stock. But it is Black Friday, still, even though today is Saturday, and Rearz does have a sale on, albeit, a not-very compelling one, at about 10% off disposables (but 80% off, say, a matching bib, which I have no use for). I'm meeting her shortly, to help her unload Christmas shopping from her car. Do I broach the topic? 

The stage was still glowing from the applause when Dana stepped out again, her heels clicking with that familiar rhythm she wore like a second heartbeat. Her sequins caught the lights in soft, blinking shivers—little fireflies dancing across her shoulders. But something in her posture had shifted. There was a looseness there, a gentler curve to her spine, as if the performance before hers had reached inside her chest and rearranged something tender and private, something she hadn’t realized she’d been guarding. The audience felt the change before they understood it. A hush rolled through the room—soft at first, then settling into a warm, collective stillness. Not the stiff, polite quiet that came with formal programs. A chosen quiet. A leaning-in quiet. Dana paused at center stage, letting the lights settle over her like a soft shawl. Her chest rose, fell, rose again. For two whole breaths, all she did was exist there, suspended, like she was trying to swallow the moment whole. Then she let out a tiny, incredulous laugh—the kind that bubbles up when awe gets ahead of your sense of control. “Okay,” she managed, pressing a palm to her sternum as if her heartbeat had gotten too big for her ribs. “Wow.” The chuckles that followed weren’t loud; they were warm, like hands pressed gently against the edges of the moment to keep it from spilling over. “I told myself I wasn’t gonna cry tonight,” Dana continued, lifting her chin even as her fingers fluttered uselessly near her eyelashes, “but then that happened.” Her voice wobbled. She didn’t hide it. She never did. She stepped closer to the mic, letting herself be fully seen—sequins shimmering softly, shoulders curved with honesty instead of posture. Her eyes glowed, reflecting the stage lights like she’d borrowed pieces of the spotlight and tucked them behind her lashes. “Some of these dancers…” she began, and she let the pause linger long enough to fill the space, “…they came in small.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together until they nearly touched. “Shy. Nervous. So unsure of their own bodies it made me nervous to watch them.” The audience laughed again, fondly—because they knew exactly the kind of nervous she meant. “They walked into this school afraid to be seen. Afraid of grace. Afraid of themselves.” Her breath trembled, and she let it. “And now? Now they’re not just dancers. They’re artists. Real ones. The kind who open something in you just by breathing in time with the music.” Her gaze drifted toward the dancers gathered offstage—silhouettes in the wings, some still catching their breath, others frozen in place by the weight of her words. She didn’t need to list names. Every girl felt the recognition land. “And some of them?” Her voice softened into something that felt almost like a secret shared under blankets at midnight. “Some have had to take a few extra steps on this journey.” The warmth in her tone deepened, like a teacup being filled slowly to the brim. “And I’ve had the honor—the genuine honor—of walking beside them.” A tiny, watery laugh shook loose. “Sometimes dragging. Sometimes holding their hand. Sometimes bribing them with snacks. You never know what’s gonna work with teenagers.” A ripple of laughter warmed the room. Then her eyes found Rachel—directly, deliberately. Rachel stood there blinking too fast, her breath catching like someone squeezing her lungs from the inside. “Rachel,” Dana said, and her voice cracked open like a soft shell, “you’ve always been magic. Every line you draw with your body is a story the rest of us are lucky to witness.” Rachel’s shoulders lifted with a trembling inhale. “And someone else out there—” Dana’s gaze shifted only an inch, just enough to find Dylan in the wings, “—has surprised me in the best way possible.” She didn’t speak his name. She didn’t need to. The deep red blooming across his cheeks said he felt every word. A tear slipped down Dana’s cheek, carving a shimmering path along her smile. She brushed it away, but the audience had already seen. Instead of looking exposed, she seemed grounded by it—lighter, steadier, like letting it fall had untied something tight inside her. “These six weeks,” she went on, her voice now steadying with something strong and earnest, “have been more than a class. We’ve grown up together. Stretched, bent, stumbled, gotten back up—look at me, quoting warm-up instructions like I invented them.” The crowd laughed again—gentle, familiar, wrapped in the shared understanding that they were watching a teacher who loved what she did. “And watching them dance just now…” Dana pressed her palm to her heart again, slower this time, as if matching her pulse to the memory of the performance, “…it felt like a culmination. And somehow? Also like a beginning.” The room went still—not tense, but open. The kind of quiet that invites something new to take root. Then Dana lifted her head, and a spark of mischief flickered back into her smile. Playful. Bright. The part of her students adored. “But now,” she declared, stepping back with a flourish that sent her sequins flashing, “we’re gonna turn the tempo just a bit.” The audience chuckled, leaning forward. “Our next performers are here to wake up your hips and your heart,” she teased, widening her grin. “A jazz duo with fingers faster than my patience on a Monday morning.” A burst of laughter. A soft cheer. A few playful whistles. “Please welcome,” Dana announced, sweeping an arm toward the wings with genuine flourish, “the dueling pianos of Tessa and Nora!” The lights shifted to a warm amber glow, the stage humming with anticipation as the crowd erupted again. Dana bowed—dramatic, charming, still visibly teary—and slipped into the wings, her sequins catching the light one last time. They shimmered even after she disappeared, as if the stage itself wasn’t quite ready to let her go.

(There is no “Dave” anymore. There is only Daisy, and this is what every single day looks like now.) 6:00 a.m. – Wake-up and the Morning Flood Carolyn’s alarm goes off. She rolls over, kisses Mark (who now sleeps in the master bed every night), then pads barefoot to the oversized adult nursery that used to be the home office. Daisy sleeps in a locked adult crib with pink bars and a drop-down side. She is always wearing: A Rearz princess diaper swollen from an entire night of wetting (the overnight booster is soaked solid); A frilly snap-crotch onesie in pastel pink with “Mommy’s Leaky Girl” embroidered across the chest; Mittened hands so she can’t remove her pacifier or touch her useless chastity cage. A baby monitor camera pointed directly at the crib that live-streams 24/7 to a private Discord for select friends and followers (currently 1,847 members). Carolyn lowers the crib side, checks the diaper with two fingers, and laughs. “Someone made a big soggy for Mommy again. Good baby.” No change yet. Daisy is made to suck down a full 32-oz bottle of warm milk laced with laxative and diuretic while still lying on her back, legs in the air like a real toddler. The morning wetting always happens halfway through the bottle; the camera catches every shudder and fresh flood. 7:00 a.m. – Public Diaper Change on the Breakfast Table Carolyn holds Daisy's hand and leads her to the kitchen, lays her on a changing mat in the middle of the dining table, and live-streams the change to the Discord. Mark usually watches while drinking coffee. The soaked overnight diaper is untaped slowly for maximum humiliation. Carolyn narrates: “Look how yellow and puffy Daisy’s princess diaper is, everyone! She used every drop.” Wipes, powder clouds, rash cream rubbed in slowly around the tiny pink chastity cage while Daisy whimpers. A fresh, even thicker daytime diaper is slid under (always the most childish print available) and taped extra snug. Today it’s Little Princess with glittery crowns and the words “Daddy’s Girl” across the landing zone. Plastic panties with six rows of lace follow, then a new dress (never the same twice in a week, but always pink, always absurdly short, always chosen by Discord poll the night before). 8:00 a.m. – The Walk of Shame Mark drives Carolyn to work. Daisy rides in an adult-sized car seat in the back, dressed for the day, pacifier clipped to her dress, diaper peeking out. They stop at the same Starbucks drive-through every morning. Carolyn rolls the window down and orders while the barista inevitably stares at the grown “baby” sucking her pacifier in the back seat. “Say good morning, Daisy.” Daisy has to pull the pacifier out and lisp, “Gwood mowning, I’m a diapered baby girl,” loud enough for the headset to hear. Half the staff now know her by name. 9:00 a.m. – Work-From-Home Nursery Cam Daisy is locked in the playpen in front of a desk with a ring light and webcam. A sign above reads “Daisy’s Office – Diapered & Denied.” She “works” as Carolyn’s remote content assistant: Editing and captioning last night’s photos and videos Responding to comments on @RealDaisyExposed (always in baby-talk) Thanking every new follower personally with a voice message: “Tank you fow wooking at my soggy diapees!” The chastity cage stays on. Any attempt to hump the playpen corner earns an immediate punishment post. 12:00 p.m. – Lunch and Messy Time High-chair at the table. Strapped in, bib that say's “Cuckold Cleanup Baby.” Lunch is always pureed in a blender and spoon-fed. Today: lasagna turned into orange mush. Halfway through, the morning laxative kicks in. Daisy’s face goes red as she helplessly fills the back of her diaper while Carolyn and Mark eat real food and film it. No change until every follower on the Discord has had time to watch the live “messy accident” clip (usually an hour). 2:00 p.m. – Public Outing Every single day there is one. Never the same place twice in a row: Monday: Mall - stroller walk, diaper checks by strangers encouraged Tuesday: Park  -picnic where Daisy sits on a blanket in just a diaper and frilly top while people take photos Wednesday: Grocery shopping with a leash clipped to her dress Thursday: Visit to Carolyn’s office (Daisy crawls under desks while coworkers laugh) Friday: Outdoor café where Daisy has to ask the waiter for a bottle refill in her little-girl voice 6:00 p.m. – Mark Comes Home Daisy must greet him at the door on her knees, dress flipped up, diaper on display. She recites the daily mantra: “I’m Daisy, a silly wittle diaper girl who begged to be replaced by a real man. Thank you for fucking my wife better than I ever could, Sir.” Then she unzips him with her teeth and services him while Carolyn sets the table for dinner. 8:00 p.m. – Bedroom Show Daisy is locked into an oversized high-chair in the corner of the master bedroom with a perfect view of the bed. She watches Mark take Carolyn (sometimes for hours) while sucking on a bottle. If she finishes the bottle too early, another is produced. The goal is always at least one more accidental wetting during the show. 10:00 p.m. – Cleanup and Bedtime Posting After Mark finishes inside Carolyn, Daisy is released from the chair to crawl over and clean them both with her tongue. Photos are taken. Final post of the day goes live on all platforms: a collage of the day’s best humiliations with the caption: “Another perfect day for Daisy! Wet: 6 times. Messy: 2 times. Real orgasms Mommy had: 4. Baby orgasms: 0 (as usual). See you tomorrow, world!” 11:00 p.m. – Crib Lock-In Fresh night diaper (always the thickest possible), a sleep sack that pins her arms, pacifier taped in for the night, and the crib side raised and locked. The camera stays on. The Discord never sleeps. And then tomorrow, it starts all over again. Exactly the same. Every day. Forever. Because Dave begged for permanent. And Carolyn made sure the entire world delivered it.  

Debt.   A lot of debt.   😑

I still remember the exact moment I stopped being Dave and became nothing but a ridiculed, leaking sissy baby girl in front of the man who was about to claim my wife. Carolyn had spent the entire day preparing the house, and me. She laid out the outfit on the bed like a wedding dress from hell: the thickest Rearz princess diaper money could buy (already unfolded and sprinkled liberally with baby powder so the scent would announce me before I even walked into a room).  Over that came gleaming, crinkly plastic panties trimmed with four rows of cascading white lace. Then the dress: a blinding bubblegum-pink satin confection with a massive built-in petticoat that forced the skirt to flare out obscenely, the hem barely reaching the tops of my thighs. Puffy cap sleeves, a white lace bib collar embroidered with the word “BABY” in glittering rhinestones, and a back zipper she made me beg her to pull while she recorded it on her phone. She finished the look with knee-high white socks that had three rows of ruffled lace, patent pink Mary Janes with tiny silver bells that jingled with every waddling step, and an enormous satin hair bow the size of a dinner plate. Finally she clipped an oversized pink pacifier to the front of the dress with a ribbon that read “SISSY DAISY” in glittery letters. My face was already streaked with humiliated tears when she forced me to drink two full baby bottles of water laced with diuretic, then taped the swollen, already-damp diaper extra tight so there was no chance I’d stay dry for long. At 7:15 the doorbell rang. Carolyn made me open it myself. I toddled to the front door on trembling legs, the bells on my shoes announcing my approach like a leper’s bell. I opened it to find Mark leaning against the frame, arms crossed, smirking down at me. “Well, fuck me,” he laughed, loud enough for the neighbors across the street to hear. “You really are just a pathetic little diapered fairy, aren’t you?” Carolyn appeared behind me in a skin-tight red dress that left nothing to the imagination. She kissed Mark deeply right there on the doorstep, her tongue visible, while I stood frozen in my frills. “Tell him, Daisy,” she ordered, pinching the back of my neck. “Tell Mark exactly what you begged me for on your knees last week.” My voice cracked like a little girl’s. “I—I begged Mommy Carolyn to replace me with a real man while I watch in my wet diapers and sissy baby dress. I begged to be forced to fluff you and clean you both and have everyone find out what a pathetic excuse for a husband I am.” Mark reached down and flipped the front of my tiny dress up, exposing the bulging, already-yellowed diaper for the entire street to see. He gave the sodden padding a loud, wet smack that echoed. “Jesus, it’s already pissed itself,” he announced, laughing. “Come on, baby girl, show me where Mommy keeps the toys.” They marched me into the living room. Carolyn had set up ring lights and three different phones on tripods, all recording in 4K. A large pink playpen sat in the center of the room with a sign on it: “Daisy’s Time-Out Corner.” Mark sat on the couch and spread his legs. Carolyn pushed me to my knees between them, my dress riding up so my plastic panties and soaked diaper were on full display to the cameras. “Time to get Mark ready for your wife, sissy. Show him how grateful you are.” I sobbed openly as I took him into my mouth, the bells on my shoes jingling with every bob of my head. Carolyn narrated the entire thing for the recording. “Look at my little Daisy, everyone. This is what she begged for, remember that. She wrote me pages and pages about wanting to be a cocksucking, diaper-wetting baby while a real man breeds her wife.” Mark grabbed my bow and used it like a handle, forcing himself deeper until I gagged and drooled rivers down my chin onto the lace bib. When he was rock hard and slick, he pulled out and slapped my tear-streaked face with his cock. “Thank me, baby girl.” “Thank you for letting a pathetic diaper baby taste a real man’s cock, Sir,” I whimpered. Carolyn stripped naked and lay back on the couch, legs over Mark’s shoulders. She made me hold her hand like a supportive girlfriend while he entered her in one brutal thrust. She moaned louder than I’d ever heard in fifteen years of marriage. I was positioned on all fours right next to them, face inches from where he was stretching her, forced to watch every stroke while my soaked diaper squished beneath me. Every few minutes Carolyn would reach down and squeeze the front of my diaper, laughing. “Feel how full baby is getting? She always leaks when she watches real sex.” When Mark finally came, he pulled out and shot the last few ropes across my face and open mouth while Carolyn filmed a close-up. Then came cleanup. I lapped her clean while she stroked my hair and cooed, “Good little cuckold baby. This is your new job.” Afterward, the real humiliation began. Carolyn made me kneel in the playpen holding a large white board that read in my own handwriting: “My name is Daisy. I am a diapered sissy baby who begged my wife Carolyn to cuckold me with a real man because my tiny clitty can’t satisfy her. I sucked his superior cock and watched him breed her. I am wearing a soaked diaper and baby dress because this is all I’m good for. Please laugh at me and share these photos so everyone knows the truth.” Mark took hundreds of photos from every degrading angle: face covered in cum and tears, dress flipped up, diaper sagging to my knees, pacifier in mouth, the sign clearly visible. One particularly soul-destroying shot had me on my back in the playpen, legs in the air like a real toddler getting changed, while both of them pointed and laughed. By 11 p.m. the posts were live. Carolyn created a new public Instagram, Twitter, and FetLife account all titled @RealDaisyExposed. The first post, already pinned, was a ten-photo carousel with full captions: “Many of you have asked why I stepped out on my husband Dave. Here’s your answer. Meet Daisy (she/her). She begged for every second of this. Please share widely so nobody ever thinks I’m the bad guy, I’m just giving my little girl exactly what she needs. Diaper checks in the comments encouraged.” Within an hour the photos were everywhere: my coworkers’ group chat, our neighborhood Facebook group, my sister’s family thread, even emailed directly to my boss with the subject line “HR might want to see this.” Comments poured in by the thousands: •    “Holy shit that’s actually Dave??” •    “Look at the size of that diaper LMAO” •    “Tag your friends who need to see this” •    “Permanent baby girl now, no going back” Carolyn curled up with Mark on the couch, scrolling through the notifications while I sat locked in the playpen, soaked, sticky, bells jingling every time I sobbed. She looked over at me and smiled, sweet as poison. “You begged for forever, Daisy. Congratulations. As of tonight, Dave is legally dead. From now on, every single person who ever knew you will only ever know the ridiculous, cocksucking, diaper-wetting little girl in the viral photos.” She blew me a kiss. “Sleep tight, baby. Tomorrow we’re going to the mall for your first public outing in the stroller. The whole internet wants to meet you in person.” And as another thousand shares rolled in, the bells on my Mary Janes jingling with every terrified shiver, I finally understood: Daisy wasn’t just exposed. Daisy was eternal.