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Stripped Down to Little by Ergo This is a soft, sissy ABDL story with 2,700 words. This is a work of fiction based on personal experiences, depicting consensual activities between adults. Afternoon rain tapped on the window of our apartment as my girlfriend and I laid on the couch. My dissertation loomed in the back of my mind as I glazed through fodder on YouTube. I had been scrolling for over a minute when my girlfriend spoke up, "Let's play strip blackjack." I stopped scrolling and laughed. I asked, "That's the one where we bet our clothes, yeah? The loser for each round removes some clothing?" "You got it," she said. Her grin held a spark of mischief that made my heart skip a beat. It was a great idea. I had gotten sick of scrolling on YouTube. Plus, these games were a fun way to warm up for the evening. "Sure! I'll grab the cards." We went into our bedroom and flattened our comforter into a makeshift playing field. "We'll alternate the dealer. I'll go first," I said. My girlfriend nodded and I shuffled the cards. Our rounds were quick and decisive. We both knew what we were doing, but the cards were not in my favor that afternoon. Despite alternating as the dealer, I lost hand after hand. My glasses went first, then my socks, my shirt, and my pants. I had only my underwear left to my name. My girlfriend, on the other hand, had merely lost socks. "I think someone is begging to get naked in front of me," she teased. I exhaled through my nose. Even with only my underwear on display, at least I was still taller than her. I said, "You've seen the cards I've been getting tonight. You're getting lucky, as usual." "Can't be luck if it happens usually," she retorted in a sing-song tune, "Now let's work on those undies. Hit or stand? Your dignity is up for grabs." I had 19 and her up card was a 4. It was a favorable position for me. I wasn't counting cards, but I guessed a hit was too risky. I chose to play it safe and stayed. Five seconds later, she had hit 21. "Easy! Undies off now," she commanded. Despite dating for two years, I was still quite shy showing my bits in front of her. She noticed I was taking my time. She began snapping her fingers, "Come on, slide them off. Quickly now." As I pulled the waistband down to my ankles, a blush crept up my neck. With my underwear now off, I covered my lower bits with my hands. "Now what?" "Well you could start by standing up straight," my girlfriend chastised, but then I watched her smile widen into a predatory curve. "What if we kept playing but we added clothes?" I chuckled. We were both kinky freaks. She had stripped me first, so, by rights, I was to be the sub for the day. However, her suggestion meant that the game wasn’t over. I still had a chance to put her back in her place. I told her, "I’ve got a lovely thought for what to make you wear. What are you going to make me wear?" "You'll find out." I sighed. She was coy when she was dominant, but I enjoyed putting up resistance. Covering my lower bits, I turned on my game face and returned to the makeshift playing field on our bed. Despite my attempt to censor myself, I was getting excited and my girlfriend noticed. "Did you just leak on our bed again?" She was still smiling as she teased, "I think you know what's coming next." "Game's not over yet," I reminded her, "You'll enjoy being put in your Pampers by your nude daddy." The beauty of a switch-switch relationship was the mind games. Either of us could sub and either of us could dom. The cards would decide what would happen next. I was dealer this time, so I had the advantage. I was going to play optimally this round and minimize risk. Stand on a 17, hit otherwise. I dealt her hand and my jaw dropped. Bullshit! It was her third 21 since we had started playing. "Uh oh," she mused, "at least we'll be taking care of that leak shortly." Flustered, I revealed my hand. It was 17. I couldn't surrender. I took a deep breath, praying to any god of fortune that would hear me out: let me win this game. I hit again. "Bust-ed!" my girlfriend celebrated, "I'll go pick out your diaper. Pull out the changing mat from under the bed and wait for me." She disappeared around the corner. I begrudgingly pulled out the changing mat and mocked her under my breath, "Can't be luck if it happens usually." I heard her fluffing the diaper as she rounded the corner. "I got you a Bunny Hopps because you're my little bunny!" She gleefully approached me, "You know the drill." I did know the drill. She began with a cool, soothing cream, massaging it into my skin until I shivered. "Can you apply some to the butt?" I asked hopefully. "So needy and pouty!" She tsk'ed me. "I don't want to get rash there! I have to sit in this, remember?" The scent of baby powder filled the air as she powdered the inside of my diaper. She ordered me to bridge, and I heard the crinkle of plastic as she slid the diaper under me. I lowered into the billowy embrace of the fluffy diaper. A dusting of baby powder settled on my skin as she directly powdered me. She worked her hand around my diaper area, spreading the powder and coating my skin. She then secured the bottom tapes, and I felt the soft, yielding fabric apply a slight pressure to my thighs. With the hooks looped, I started to reach to grab the waist of the diaper and help pull it up, but she batted my hands and shook her head, "Nuh uh! Keep your hands above your head, silly diaper baby." I resigned my hands above my head as she flushed and secured the top tapes. My eyes nearly rolled out of my head at the adorable ABU bunny print that unashamedly pranced on the front of my diaper. She stood me up for a last inspection. I could easily stand three inches taller than her, but my legs instinctively went wide to accommodate the diaper's bulk. She massaged the front of my diaper to help fluff it in its final position. A whiff of baby powder caught me by surprise and I smiled; I was beginning to lose our battle of wills. "All done! You look so cute now." She kissed me on my cheek and returned to the other side of the bed. She had secured a major victory, but the war was not over. I had to snap out of it. I had daddy'ed her while wearing a diaper before and I was prepared to do it again. She dealt the next hand, and I took a win. "Remove thy shift," I said in my best impression of the devil I could muster. As good as any when uttered by a naked boy in a pink bunny diaper. Then I won again. And again. She was sockless, shirtless, pantsless, braless, and down to her thin Haynes underwear. How embarrassed would she be when I spanked her bare bottom while in a diaper myself? As she tossed her bra to the laundry basket, I commented, "How the turns have tabled." "The game's not over yet." She channeled the voice of her favorite Yu-Gi-Oh antagonist as she quoted, "Play your pathetic cards." "My deck has no pathetic cards," I bantered back. Turns out my next few hands were nothing but pathetic cards. Each loss was another nail in my dignity, and with each nail came another article of clothing from the closet. She rounded the corner and presented the first garment with a slow, deliberate flourish; a dress that defied all logic and decency. It was constructed entirely of layered pink satin and was puffed at the shoulders like a cotton meringue. The bodice was cinched impossibly tight with a heart-shaped belt studded with faux pearls. The skirt was a swirling vortex of fabric: multiple tiers of shimmering pink tulle, each layer edged with a ridiculously wide, ruffled trim. The skirt barely reached downwards from its empire waist. I shivered as I knew the skirt would do nothing to conceal my diaper. The dress was a confection of pink excess--a visual assault on masculinity itself, designed solely to embarrass me. "You’ll need help," she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement, as she reached for me. I instinctively braced myself. Her hands were cool and firm as she began to pull the bodice over my head, the stiff satin scraping against my skin. It was a strangely intimate act: a violation of boundaries performed with playful intent. She tugged gently at the fabric, guiding it, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then came the skirt--the chaotic cascade of tulle that threatened to engulf me entirely. I fidgeted as she wrestled with the layers, pulling and smoothing, her movements precise and controlled. "Don’t fight it," she instructed, her voice firm but not unkind. As she fastened the heart-shaped belt with a deliberate click, I felt a surge of shame... a visceral awareness of my vulnerability. She paused, holding the skirt up to assess the effect. The diminutive length was palpable. I reddened at the stark outline of my diaper which was clearly displayed under the layers of pink fabric. The next loss gave me my pink booties, which were wrapped with a small chain and padlock around the ankles. Two bells also adorned the ankles, which were sure to announce my arrival even when the crinkle of my diaper was too soft. Despite how absurdly pink they were, I welcomed the warmth the booties brought to my feet. The chain applied a distinct pressure around my ankles--a deliberate tightening that bordered on painful. The chain wasn’t just about security. It was about dominance. A physical manifestation of her power. Matching pink mittens were next. I knew they were the same as the booties with a small chain, padlock, and bells. Once secured, they were very difficult to remove. "I can't play cards with those mittens on," I argued. She ignored me and shackled the mittens, clicking the lock into place. As she secured the mittens, a strange numbness began to spread through my hands. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a severance. I tried to flex my fingers, to grasp at the padded fabric, but they wouldn’t respond. They were trapped, encased in a rigid shell of pink fluff. My hands were locked in place, unresponsive, and denied by her command. She dealt my cards face down. I stared at them knowing this was futile. I uselessly pawed at the card through my mitten. I couldn't grasp the card to flip it over. She looked me over carefully, "You know, I'm not sure a baby girl like you should be playing Blackjack in the first place. You should be playing with your dollies. This game is far too mature for you." I leered back at her, "This isn't fair! We play in rounds of five, and I've only lost four times since losing my clothes." I had a good point, but she snapped back, "Are you going to be a brat tonight? I can get your paddle and teach you a lesson if I need to." I went silent. She had a better point. She was growing more confident with every moment. "You can't even hold your cards up. You're dressed in a diaper and pretty frock like a sissy baby, so you better start acting like one." She paused for a moment, as if to catch her breath. I had no words; everything she had said was true. She continued, "I'm going to finish dressing you. Wait here." I crossed my arms and huffed in my diaper, short skirt, and matching mittens and booties. I felt like I was shrinking by the minute. She returned with the final accoutrements, starting with a wide-brimmed, heart-adorned, frilly, pink bonnet. Arms still crossed, I pouted as she laced the ribbon under my chin, pulling it taut so that the silk embraced and caressed my cheeks. "Your hair is too short," she criticized, reading my pouting face, "If you would just grow your hair out I wouldn’t need to lace you in your bonnet." Then she fitted my collar, adorned with lacy frills of pink and white satin. The collar, too, had bells that settled wistfully along its length. She pulled the collar tightly and the satin squeezed down on my neck. Two fingers of space was the rule but nothing interesting ever came from following the rules. My outfit was complete. My nearly nude girlfriend smiled as she studied me, admiring her handiwork, then proclaimed, "I know why you're so grumpy. You're hungee, aren't you?" She was now baby talking me. I was doomed. I toddled behind her clumsily, battling both the bulk of my diaper and the swirling vortex of tulle that sprouted from my skirt. She led me into our kitchen where she sat me on a bar stool, with my skirt poofing outwards beyond the edges of the stool. She retrieved my princess pink baby bottle from the fridge. She tilted my head back and lifted the bottle up, pressing the nipple into my mouth. Her breasts still exposed, I closed my eyes and imagined myself sucking on her nipple, and the almond milk began to trickle into my mouth. "Good baby," she cooed. My body began to surrender to instinct. Elevated on the bar stool, a reflexive flutter rippled through my legs, like a baby duck’s kick against still water. When I opened my eyes, my girlfriend gazed down at me, her expression softened with maternal affection. A wave of warmth and trust washed over me as she cared for me. The rhythmic sucking on the bottle triggered an instinctive need: a sudden urge to release myself. Without thought, I did so, a warm dampness spreading through my diaper--and a smile bloomed on my face. Then, something shifted within me, a veil parting to reveal... something both familiar and utterly new. All day long, I’d clung tightly to the steering wheel of my soul, fiercely piloting myself; but her gentle touch whispered that it was safe to relinquish control. Slowly, I released my grip. It was an oblivion unlike any I’d known before. Rent, debts, car troubles, postdoc applications, unread emails, unanswered calls, the looming dissertation--they dissolved into a distant haze. Like motes of cosmic dust dancing across a sky of polished onyx, they drifted away. And I floated with them. A dream unfolded: the firmness of wooden crib bars grasped by mittens, the playful click of plastic keys, the comforting scent of baby powder mingling with neat stacks of fluffy diapers, the gentle crinkle of plastic against my skin, and a mobile spinning above me, humming a rosy tune. A monsoon of pastels wrapped around me, then I was swathed in soft, pink satin. My phantom of delight held me sweetly in her arms. As the last drop of milk vanished, I opened my mouth to tell my mommy, "I love you," but she silenced me with a gentle hush. Reaching for a pacifier, she placed it between my lips. I welcomed its comfort with glee. "Come, my little princess. I'm going to snuggle you on the bed." She gathers my mitten-clad hand and guides me down from the stool. Then, leading the way back to our bedroom, she looms above me: a benevolent giant shielding me from uncertainty. I waddle behind her, a tiny echo of her grace, my booties padding softly on the floor. I find comfort in the warmth of my soiled nappy, and I suck on my paci as the bells on my collar jingle happy.

When we drive I wear diapers pretty much the whole time.  I can't take enough when we fly so I only take a few for special occasions and usually buy some pull ups when we get there.

This was a nicely detailed chapter and I really liked the reveal that Ayeka is still in a diaper.

Civilian 

Chapter 30 : Morning had fully broken by the time Daddy and Papa carried the last bags down the dock. The boat rocked gently against its moorings, sunlight glinting off the water in soft shards of gold. Most of Ryder’s things were already aboard, his little cabin nursery stocked and ready, but now came the final pieces—clothes, food bundles, navigation tools.   “Almost there,” Papa said, setting the last pack into the cabin. “Just us left.”   Daddy nodded and turned back toward the house. “I’ll get our captain.”   Ryder was waiting in the doorway where Daddy had left him, swaying slightly in his stance, clutching a small plush block. His diaper sagged comfortably under his shorts, and his eyes brightened the moment he saw Daddy return.   “Boat?” Ryder asked.   “Boat,” Daddy smiled.   He scooped Ryder up, settling him on his hip as they walked down the dock together. The smell of salt and wood surrounded them, gulls calling overhead. Ryder watched everything with wide curiosity.   Once aboard, Daddy set him down on the sun-warmed deck. “You can play right here while Papa and I get ready to go, okay?”   Ryder toddled a few steps, hands brushing the rail, then plopped onto his diapered bottom with a soft thump. He patted the deck, fascinated.   Behind him, Papa had disappeared into the cabin storage, rummaging through a long wooden chest they hadn’t opened in years.   “Where did I put—” Papa muttered, shifting rolled charts and instruments.   Then he stopped.   “Daddy,” he called, voice hushed with awe. “Come here.”   Daddy glanced at Ryder—still happily patting the deck—then stepped inside.   Papa stood holding a scroll case wrapped in aged leather. He loosened the ties slowly, almost reverently, and unfurled the parchment across the table.   The map spread wide, edges gilded, inks rich and luminous. Islands and currents curled in elegant lines, symbols etched in gold leaf. At the far edge of the sea, a single ornate X shimmered.   Daddy let out a breath. “That’s… the real one.”   Papa nodded. “Not the child’s copy he found before. This is the true chart.”   They both stared.   Daddy traced the route lightly with a finger. “X marks the spot.”   On deck, Ryder had begun to shift, his play pausing. His face scrunched with concentration, body going still for a moment. Then came the unmistakable soft warmth spreading into his diaper.   He blinked, unsure, then let out a small whine. “Dada…”   Daddy heard immediately and turned. “Be right back.”   He stepped out and lifted Ryder, who clung to him with sudden discomfort.   “What’s wrong, baby?” Daddy murmured, already knowing.   Ryder squirmed, cheeks pink. “Uh-oh…”   Daddy chuckled softly. “Yeah. Uh-oh.”   The diaper was heavy and warm against his arm. “Let’s get you changed.”   Inside the cabin nursery, the space was snug but lovingly arranged—changing table bolted secure, shelves lined with supplies, blankets tucked neatly in baskets. The boat rocked gently as Daddy laid Ryder down.   “It’s okay,” Daddy soothed as Ryder fussed. “Just a messy diaper. We’ll fix it.”   The tapes peeled open; wipes cleaned him warm and careful. Ryder whimpered once, then relaxed as the fresh diaper slid under him, thick and soft. Daddy fastened it snug, patting the padding.   “All clean,” he said. “Nice and comfy again.”   Ryder’s lower lip still trembled faintly, so Daddy reached for a pacifier and slipped it gently into his mouth. Ryder latched at once, sighing around it. Then Daddy placed Teddy into his arms.   “There you go,” Daddy whispered.   Ryder curled around the stuffed dog, cheek pressing into its fur, calm returning almost instantly.   Daddy lifted him again and carried him back on deck.   Papa had secured the map at the navigation table, eyes bright with purpose. The sea beyond lay open and waiting.   “We’re ready,” Papa said softly.   Daddy nodded. “Let’s put him in the playpen so we can cast off.”   They set Ryder into the padded deck playpen, mesh sides secured. He sat with Teddy and his pacifier, diaper crinkling as he shifted, watching his fathers move about with ropes and sails.   Papa loosened the mooring lines. Daddy checked the fuel gauge and stores one last time. Wind filled the canvas with a low, steady pull.   The boat eased away from the dock.   Ryder blinked at the widening water, unsure but quiet, thumb brushing Teddy’s ear. The world moved around him, vast and glittering.   Papa joined Daddy at the helm, the map unfurled beside them, its golden X catching sunlight.   “To the Fountain,” Papa said.   Daddy slipped an arm around his waist. “For her.”   “And for him,” Papa added, glancing back at the playpen.   Ryder looked up at that moment and saw them both. His eyes lit, pacifier bobbing as he smiled.   “Dada… Papa…”   They smiled back.   The boat turned toward the open sea, carrying them all—promise, price, and love—toward the place where magic waited.