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By spoonchicken · Posted
Buy your Milk Duds and Junior Mints at the store beforehand Most recent movie I saw in a cinema was “Shin Ultraman” in 2024 -
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Movies have lost their minds! $8.50 for a small coke, $11 for popcorn. Didn't buy either, can't afford that. So diaper is only slightly wet lol. -
What's happening? A fappening. Next chapter!! But now maybe not anythign new until early next week, but we'll see. Chapter 22 The fitting room's fluorescent hum filled the silence like a third person in the room, and Jacob stood there in his shortalls with his body committing treason in real time. He tried to think of something — anything — the fitting room lady's beaded glasses chain, the smell of carpet shampoo, his all-but-forgotten life on his computer — but his eyes had already betrayed him, tracking the satin as Lana shifted her weight from hip to hip, the blush-pink fabric catching the light and pouring liquid over the round swell of her cheeks. It had been days since he’d last let himself have any relief, and his body had apparently been keeping a ledger, and the ledger was now calling in its debt at the worst possible moment, swelling the front of his diaper thick and firm against the denim until the bulge he'd been mortified about for the last hour was replaced by a different bulge entirely — one with a much more incriminating origin story. *Stop. Stop it. She's going to see. She sees everything, she sees EVERYTHING—* Lana turned, checking the drawstring in the side mirror, and her eyes flicked across his reflection the way a fisherman glances at a bobber. Down. To the changed shape of the denim. Back up to his face, which had gone past tomato into something approaching eggplant. She said nothing. She did nothing. She simply resumed admiring herself, turning her hips, smoothing the satin down the backs of her thighs with both palms, letting the silence do her work for her — because the silence was worse. The silence meant she knew, and knew that he knew she knew, and was choosing to let him marinate in it. Jacob sucked his pacifier in fast, shallow pulls. *Mmh. Mmh-mh.* The bulb was the only thing keeping him from babbling an apology or a plea or both. "So," Lana said at last, conversational, addressing the mirror rather than him, "what does Mommy's big boy think? Do these fit good? Be honest." She gave a little half-turn, the satin whispering against itself. Jacob said nothing. His mouth had stopped producing language sometime around the moment her jeans hit the floor. He stood there, straps of his shortalls buckled over his polo shirt, pacifier bobbing, and produced a strangled little "*mmph*" that answered nothing. Lana laughed — a real one, warm and low, head tipping back — and closed the distance between them in two steps. Up close once again revealed her vanilla body spray and sandalwood scent and the faint sweet ghost of his own baby powder clinging to the air between them, and she leaned in until her mouth was beside his ear, until he could feel her breath on the rim of his ear where the pacifier shield brushed against her cheek. "Mommy knows you like it," she murmured, and her hand came down and delivered three firm, deliberate pats to the front of his shortalls — *pat. pat. pat* — each one landing directly on the swollen evidence, the padded denim muffling the contact into soft, damning *whump*s, her palm pressing the firmness flat against him for a half-second with each pat before releasing. Jacob's soul left his body through the top of his head. He made a noise around the pacifier like a kettle being stepped on — "*hnnnh—*" — and his knees actually dipped, a little stagger, and Lana caught his elbow with one hand and steadied him like it was the most natural choreography in the world. *Just a few days of nothing and three little pats nearly puts him on the floor,* Lana thought, biting down on her own grin. *Oh, sweetheart. You are in so much trouble and you don't even know what kind yet.* "Such a good boy, standing so still for Mommy," she said, her voice honey-thick, and then she was already turning away, untying the drawstring, stepping out of the satin bottoms with brisk efficiency, her bottom jiggling briefly from various angles as Jacob felt uncontrollable, long pleasurable twitch in his diaper, borderline feeling as if some precum had escaped. The fantasy dismantled as quickly as she'd assembled it. She shook her jeans out, stepped back into them, worked them up over her hips, zipped, buttoned, slipped her shoes on — the whole operation taking less than half a minute, the whole fever dream of the last few minutes packed away like a folding chair. Jacob stood in the wreckage of it, breathing through his nose, and felt the pressure redirect itself again. The warmth drained downward and backward, the urgent fullness in the front softening, settling, and beneath it his bladder raised its hand again — *excuse me, we were here first* — the held-back flood reasserting itself with a demanding throb. Behind it, lower, his bowels gave another slow, ominous gurgle that he felt roll through his lower belly like a storm system developing over the plains. His erection deflated into the padding, and the padding swallowed it, and the pee-urge came back with interest. *Great. Wonderful. Back to needing to use my diaper in a mall. In shortalls. In front of — I can’t believe I need to—* "Alright!" Lana clapped her hands once and scooped up the bear jammies and the other pair of shortalls off the hook, draping them over her forearm with her satin set. She unlocked the door, took Jacob's hand — not his belt loop this time, his actual hand, palm to palm, which somehow felt even more infantilizing — and said, "Time to go, sweetpea." Jacob froze, one foot over the threshold of room six, and looked down at himself. Denim shortalls. Bulging, padded crotch. Polo shirt underneath, the collar riding above the bib. And then he looked at her, and the pacifier dropped to the corner of his mouth as the words tumbled out in a whisper. "Aren't you — Lana, wait — aren't you going to change me? I mean — you know — I have to *go*, I've been — you said we'd—" Lana's smile widened by exactly one tooth. "This," she said, giving the bib of his shortalls a little tug, "is what you are wearing to Amanda's." The sentence entered Jacob's ears and took several full seconds to reach the part of his brain that processed meaning. Then it arrived, and his mouth fell open around the pacifier. "No. No no no — Mommy — I can't — people will *see* me, I'm wearing *shortalls*, I look like a giant *toddler*—" The whispers came out in a frantic hiss as she towed him down the corridor, past doors two and three and five, and behind door three someone was definitely holding back a laugh, a rhythmic snorting through the drywall like a teakettle refusing to whistle. "Uh-huh," Lana said pleasantly, unbothered, a woman carrying a shopping plan and four garments and zero doubts. "And?" "And — and —" Jacob's vocabulary collapsed. There was no "and." He knew there was no "and." He waddled — there was no other word for the gait, the thick padding forced it on him — out into the main aisle, and his bladder throbbed its objection, and he clamped down and followed her. "And Mommy isn’t taking that pacifier out since you can’t follow simple rules,” she asserted,”Now, lets go.” *This is my life now,* he thought, and the thought arrived without the usual fight attached to it, which scared him more than the shortalls did. *She's just going to walk me across the mall like this and there's literally nothing I can do about it. Because I'm not going to do anything about it. Because some part of me already—* He killed the thought with extreme prejudice and sucked the pacifier harder. They rounded the corner into the main aisle, and there she was — the fitting room attendant, beaded glasses chain, boredom fully evaporated now, standing at the mouth of the corridor where she had a clean, well-lit, unhurried view of Jacob's full front-and-back as he waddled past. Her eyes did the sweep. Down to the shortalls. To the denim-cradled bulge riding between his legs, the padded swell too big and too round and too *crinkle-muffled* to be anything but exactly what it was, shifting heavily with each waddle step. To his ankles. Back up to the pacifier, still seated in his mouth, blue shield bobbing with his stride. She giggled. Then she slapped a knuckle against her lips and turned it into a cough, and failed, and giggled again, and called after them in a strangled professional voice — "You two have a *wonderful* afternoon" — with the emphasis landing on *wonderful* like a piano dropped from a second-story window. *Sweet lord,* the attendant thought, fanning herself with a return tag. *Twenty-two years in retail and that is the most — poor kid. Lucky kid? God, I need to tell Renata about this.* Jacob's face achieved a shade of red previously known only to emergency vehicles. His free hand twitched toward his mouth to confirm the pacifier was still — yes, it was still in, he'd been walking through the entire fitting room corridor with it visibly bobbing in his mouth, and the attendant had seen everything, the shortalls and the bulge and the binky, the complete picture, and it was just one of many *giggles* of this horrid morning. Lana, for her part, sailed. She swung their joined hands a little as they walked, a jaunty, childlike swing that she initiated deliberately, making him complicit in it, and steered them toward the checkout aisles with the tote bag bumping her hip. "There," she said, warm and satisfied, nodding ahead. "Almost done, babybum. Then we get to go see Amanda." Jacob's stomach dropped through the polished mall tile. He'd forgotten about Amanda. Or rather, he'd been keeping Amanda in a small sealed container at the back of his mind, and Lana had just unscrewed the lid. "Checkout, this way," the sign read in cheerful teal, and they joined the short line at register four — Jacob positioned by Lana, deliberately, in the line's full view, shortalls and bulge and all — while the man in front of them paid for a stack of towels and kept glancing back with a frown that softened into dawning, horrified understanding at the third glance. Lana hummed. The line inched forward. Jacob stood there in his denim shortalls, pacifier in his mouth, bladder throbbing, bowels gurgling their slow warning, the fabric of the bear jammies soft against his forearm where it hung from Lana's stack, and felt the last architectural supports of his adulthood settle quietly out of alignment. *When did I stop fighting?* he thought, eyes on the register's glowing numbers. *I told her no in the family restroom. I told her no at the shortalls. And now I'm just... standing in line. In shortalls. Waiting for Mommy to buy my jammies.* The cashier — Kayla, the ponytailed clerk from the pajama aisle, of course it was Kayla, the universe having decided Jacob's humiliation quota for the day was not yet met — looked up from her scanner as they reached the counter, and her eyes went from Lana to Jacob to the shortalls to the unmistakable padded swell to the pacifier, and recognition bloomed across her face like a time-lapse flower. "OH," she said, and then caught herself, and turned it into "Oh! Hi again!" with a squeak. She began scanning the items with hands that were not quite steady — satin pajama set, bear jammies, the bigger pair of shortalls — and her eyes kept flicking back to the bulge in Jacob's denim like a tongue to a sore tooth. "Did you find — everything okay? The, um. The fit?" "Perfect fit," Lana said serenely, sliding her card. "He's wearing one pair out, please keep the other pair and scan this one." Kayla looked at Jacob's crotch with the studious intensity of someone confirming a hypothesis. "Uhh no problem,” she awkwardly leaned over and scanned the flailing tag attached to one of the shortall straps. “And — yeah, I can see that they fit." she managed, and then lost the war with her own face entirely, lips pressing white, shoulders trembling, a tiny hiccup of laughter escaping as she bagged the bear jammies with exaggerated tenderness, like she was handling an infant's belongings. *I'm going to think about this man for the rest of my life,* Kayla thought, snapping the receipt off the printer. *Rest. Of my. Life.* "Receipt in the bag?" Lana asked pleasantly. "Y-yeah, in the bag, and — have a good one," Kayla said, and as they turned to go, she added, unthinkingly, to Jacob, in the exact voice she used on the toddlers at her second job at the daycare — "Bye-bye, sweetheart." Jacob's pacifier nearly fell out of his mouth. Lana took the bags in one hand, Jacob's hand in the other, and strolled out into the mall's bright central corridor, past the fountain, toward the exit and the car and the drive to Amanda's house, swinging their joined hands the whole way. -
By non-verbal_autismboy · Posted
’m 42 going on whatever age you want me to go I have involuntary age regression and involuntary skill regression and burnout because of my autism level 2 - 3 diagnosis and I have other complex medical diagnosis and we can talk about if you want I’m from palm beach county of Florida I’m willing to move anywhere 2 hours from east coast Florida meaning Palm Beach County of Florida up north or down south not to the west please to get the supervision and structure and support and care I need 24/7 and I do wear baby clothes and diapers 24:7 and I use a lot of baby stuff as well 24/7 it regulates me to stay calm I don’t know why they say it’s me in my own world because of my autism I don’t care what people think I do use special needs equipments that is provided to me by insurance send me either or private message if you are in Florida I go by a care plan sign by a doctor
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