Rainbow Diapers

Wonder if Jacob will get drunk when he starts nursing.  Surely Amanda knows that alcohol transfers directly to breast milk, the exact same level that is in the blood stream.  Is she planning this?

Looking forward to it!

... you knocked? I got knocked last week, but I needed to get knocked back into my sweet, sweet reality. Cretins of netherealms can't bother me... for more than 24-36 hours, anyways..... This chappy has a name - "Poolside" - because I love being poolside and cretins don't deserve the pleasures I enjoy - so HA, not bitter AT ALL. lol.  Just makin' fun of myself, folks. I'm writing a long chapter and figured I'd share a half-fappaccino with you until I finish editing the other half tonight or tomorrow. Its ridiculous how my editing needs editing before its edited again.  **BUTT**!!! This half-fap is over 3700 words!  So here's your 50% for now - how about that for customer service to apologize for the delay between fappy chappies!   Chapter 33 — Poolside The last fusilli had gone in with a cheer — "what a good boy, all done!" — and the tray came off and set at the foot of the highchair. The bib’s Velcro peeled away and was placed on the table, and the face-wiping happened with a warm cloth that smelled faintly of butter, and then Jacob was being unbuckled, click by click, and lifted, and carried — "Lana appeared in the doorway just in time — Amanda set him down, Lana took his hand, the packed changing bag over her shoulder, a folded mat under her arm — and the whole procession moved in one unbroken current toward the sliding door and out into the day. The day took him like water. The heat was a physical thing after the kitchen's fan-cooled air — it landed on his bare arms and legs and the exposed strip of his chest where the shortalls' bib gaped, and the light was everywhere at once, bouncing white off the pavers, off the pool's flat turquoise glitter, off the glass table on the patio where Lana, without ceremony, without a single glance toward the house or the stairs or any interior room at all, unfolded the changing mat across a lounge chaise. Outside. She was going to change him outside. "Here?" Amanda asked, delighted, one eyebrow up over the rim of her refilled glass — because her glass had come out with her, and the pitcher too, sweating rings onto the glass table. "It's gorgeous out," Lana said, simply, laying the mat's lamb-print flat and smoothing it. "And somebody's a little wet and a little rashy and Mommy thinks a dry diaper in this heat is probably a good idea." She pulled Jacob closer to her beside the chaise, one hand not leaving his arm, and began on the buttons at the crotch of his shortalls. Jacob stood on the hot pavement in broad daylight, within feet from a swimming pool, in a fenced backyard under a Monday sky, and had his shortalls unbuttoned and pulled up over his head — *lift your arms, sweetheart, there we go* — and the whole garment went into Amanda's outstretched hand like a coat at a restaurant door. The air moved over his bare chest and belly. The sun found his skin just as it had in Amanda’s backyard. He was outside in just a diaper, and the sky was the size of everything. Jacob’s eyes kept trying to look away from the cleavage and curves of Lana and Amanda. His eyes bouncing anxiously over the fence line, the second-story windows, the neighbor's roofline "Down you go." Lana guided him down onto the mat. The vinyl was warm from a minute of sun and smelled like pool-adjacent plastic and, faintly, the powder from the changes before. Above him the sky was enormous and blue and crossed once by a plane's white seam, and beyond the fence the maples stood in their early reds and golds like a crowd watching politely. Lana's fingers went to the tapes. *Rrrip. Rrrip.* The diaper came open, and the air found him there too — an actual breeze, October practicing, touching him where no breeze had touched him since this began — and both women leaned in at once, two faces over him like a pair of suns. "How's the rash?" Amanda set her glass down and bent closer, professional. "Oh — about the same," Lana said, and her voice had the student's pleased surprise in it. "It looks similar but at least it doesn’t seem worse." "Well, it’s a good idea to change him even though his big diapers can last awhile," Amanda said, with the authority of three years of Tommy-bottoms. "That cream is fine for now, honestly. The higher zinc stuff for tomorrow will finish it. But look at him today — he's definitely been fussy — but you've got this. That's good Mommying, Lana." "I’ve got a great teacher." Lana said it lightly, a flick, but the flush went up her neck the way it did, and Amanda received it with a slow, satisfied tilt of her head. *She didn't even hesitate. Dry bum, no fuss, right out in the open*  Amanda thought, watching her friend's hands move — the wipes already out, dry babyish diaper unfolded and placed under his open wet, the rhythm already established, an audience of one required and none of it breaking stride. A wipe plucked from the packed and cleaned his damp frontal area with it before discarding it into the soggy diaper below his bum, reaching for another. She lifted his legs up and started wiping his cracks and crevices, hummed to herself. The scene warmed Amanda’s heart and she took a big sip of her drink. She felt the warmth of that too. *A week ago, she was so nervous about my crazy idea. Look at her now. My student. Our baby. God, I'm so proud of both of them.* "You're both — mmf—" Jacob started, and it was interrupted through the pacifier — because Amanda, reading him like signage as they all did now, had already produced it from the bag's side pocket and slipped it between his lips — and it came out as nothing at all, a soggy syllable, an objection with no bones in it. "What's that, sweetie?" Amanda cooed, with enormous interest in nothing. "Is baby telling us something? No? Okay!" The baby talk washed over him from both sides now, the two registers braiding together — Lana's warm one and Amanda's theatrical one — “There's a good boy, hold still for Mommy, Auntie's just watching, ooh somebody's a little bit pink on his bum-bum isn't he, yes he is” — and the blush they were teasing to the surface arrived on schedule, his chest and face flooding hot under the sun, and neither of them let up an inch, because the blushing was the game and the game was the point. “Lift your bum, baby” Lana instructed, pulling the damp diaper from under him, folding it and placing him on the puffy dry padding. Then the cream. Lana squeezed the house salve onto her fingers — cool, white, smelling faintly of that pharmacy-cocoa blandness — and began to work it in. Slow, thorough, circular, the way the technique demanded. And Jacob's body — days of nothing, days of the strap's pressure and the padding's cradling and the curves and Amanda’s nipple riding his eyeline and nowhere for any of it to go — Jacob's body answered. He went hard. Fast, obvious, shamefully complete — a firmness rising under her glistening fingers with no consultation of him whatsoever, and both women saw it instantly because it was six inches from both their faces. The hands stopped. Not pulled back — just stopped. Jacob lay on a lounge chaise in the open air with two women bent over him and his own body betraying him in the most legible language there is, and the silence lasted one full second, two, an eternity of sun. They looked at each other. The look traveled over him like a wire, from Lana's eyes to Amanda's eyes and back, and something passed along it — a smile that didn't touch either mouth yet, both mouths holding neutral with visible effort — and then, without one word, without one raised eyebrow, without the smallest official acknowledgment that anything so adult had occurred, they simply returned to the diaper change. Lana's fingers finished the cream with the same brisk motherly circles as before, working around him, past him, treating him the way you'd treat a puppy at the park — a fact of anatomy, a non-event, just a baby getting changed — Jacob's ears burned all the way through the powder sift that followed and the fresh, crinkly diaper came up between his legs and was taped snug, but not too snug, with his member left as it were. One tape then the next three, and the non-acknowledgment was so much worse than acknowledgment. “Gotta be careful with him pointing up to the sky like that,” Amanda joked, “if he doesn’t settle back down into the padding quickly, Mommy’s going to have a leaky baby.” “I’m sure he’ll settle,” Lana responded while stretching out the leg guards, “I left the diaper a little looser to allow a bit more air through there, but we’ll keep him in just his diaper so it shouldn’t be anything Mommy and Auntie can’t handle.” Being laughed at and being *handled around* during his diaper change had been barely survivable. The only acknowledgement of his manhood being the worry of a leaky diaper was one of the more soul-crushing feelings he’d felt this whole ordeal and he felt deflated, mentally and now physically with the absorbent padding tickling his shrinking penis. "There," Lana said, patting the fresh front. "All clean, all creamed, all cozy. The good creams are for tomorrow, and until then we keep you dry and aired." "It's so nice out," Amanda said, folding the shortalls over her arm with an expression of administrative decision, "Definitely best to keep the little cutie in just his diaper. Like at my place." "Just like Auntie's," Lana agreed, standing. "Sun on his shoulders will do him good." The shortalls went into the bag. And that was the whole of his wardrobe for the afternoon: a diaper, in the backyard, in the sun. Jacob lay on the mat for a moment more, blinking at the plane-seam dissolving in the blue, and somewhere inside him a thought tried to form about the fact that his mind hadn't even reached for an objection — that the interior machinery had received *outside, in just a diaper* and processed it the way it processed everything now, smoothly, without heat, like a stream going around a stone. His mind was at the pace of the afternoon. His mind was idling in the sun. He went with it. He went with the flow of it the way water goes with a slope, and it did not occur to him to wonder where the slope drained until later, and later it would not occur to him then either. "Stay with him a second," Lana said, already moving, glass abandoned. "I'll grab the pen and some toys — it's light as anything, I can bring it over in one hand." She was gone through the slider, and Jacob was alone with Amanda on the pavement for the first time again, like yesterday. The pool glittered. The filter hummed. His padded hips stood stupidly in his own downward vision. Amanda lifted him into a seated position on the mat and walked over to the nearby table, turning around as he glimpsed at the purposeful sway of her bottom. He snapped out of his gaze and she was coming across the patio toward him, and something in her walk was different. Playful. Circling. "Soooo," she said, planting the chair down, stopping in front of him, hands on hips, flaunting her chest. "Auntie Mandy has a question for the baby." Jacob looked at the pool. "Do you *like* it?" Her voice dropped into the sing-song, the one with hooks in it, asking him the same thing she did the other day as she slowly sat down on the chair. "Do you like being treated like a baby? Wearing your diapee? Hmm? Because Auntie thinks somebody does. Auntie thinks somebody likes it *very* much." "I don't—" It came out around the pacifier, mangled, and he pushed the thing out with his tongue — actually ejected it, a small miracle of will, and it fell, bouncing off the front of his diaper and onto the vinyl mat in front of him. "I don't. I *don't.* I'm not a—" "Aww." Amanda crouched in closer, coming within inches of him, "Baby says he doesn't like it." "I don't." "Baby says he doesn't like his diapees and his ba-bas and his—" her fingers wiggled toward his ribs, and he saw them coming and clamped his arms down and laughed before she even made contact, the laugh arriving a half-second early like a coward, betraying everything — "—his tickles—" "I'm not—" giggle — "stop—" giggle — "I don't—" "Auntie Mandy thinks you *do,*" she sang, tickling in earnest now, one-handed, and Jacob folded, shrieking through giggles, leaping up off the outdoor chaise onto the hot stones, a grown man in a diaper laughing the completely unguarded laugh of a toddler being attacked by an auntie, and he was *still saying it* between the giggles — "I don't — I'm not — hnn — stop—" — the denial and the helplessness in the same breath, at the same pitch, in the same infantile register, and the protest drowned completely in its own delivery. "Uh-huh," Amanda said, standing up, straightening, satisfied, catching his chin with one finger. "Very convincing, sweetheart. Very serious face. Somebody tell me again how much he doesn't like it." "Somebody's very cute," said Lana's voice from the slider. She came out carrying the large-but-light playpen and a tote of toys, taking in the whole scene — Jacob breathless and giggling in only his diaper. Amanda saw her and quickly placed the pacifier back in Jacob’s mouth and walked towards her. Amanda met her grabbed the playpen with two hands — and Jacob noticed Lana’s smile. She just smiled the smile of a woman watching the exact thing she'd ordered arrive on schedule. The playpen went up at the shaded end of the patio, under the pergola's half-filter of light, mesh walls snapping tall, and Jacob was walked into it by the hand and deposited sitting onto its padded floor. The consolation prizes rained in after him: the squirting rubber duck first, obviously, landing with a fat *plap* in his lap; a plastic shovel and bucket set, primary-colored; a red and yellow rattle; a soft plush elephant; a set of stacking cups that nested with a series of hollow plastic *tonks* when he listlessly fit them together and took them apart again while the women's voices moved away from him toward the loungers. Then the ladies were ready to oil up. The scene at the loungers unfolded like a program Jacob had lost the remote to.   “I’ll do you, you do me?” Lana suggested and took out a bottle sunscreen oil from the tote bag that had also carried Jacob’s playpen toys. “I thought you’d never ask!” Amanda exclaimed as eager as could be. "Clothes off the menu, then," Lana said, and Amanda was already sitting forward on the chaise, reaching back, dragging the sundress's zipper down her spine slowly. The coral fabric came off over her head in one motion and landed folded — folded, actually folded, mid-air, caught by Lana's hand — on the patio table. Underneath: a black two-piece, the bottoms cut high, the top doing its work honestly. She lay face-down on the chaise with her arms folded under her chin like a woman settling into a massage appointment she'd been waiting weeks for. "Shoulders first," Lana said, kneeling into the chaise beside her, warming the oil between her palms with a slow rub. "We don’t want your back looking like baby rash-bottom over there." The first contact was both palms, flat, and Amanda made a sound — a low, unguarded "mmmm" into her folded arms — that Jacob heard from ten feet away through the pen mesh. Lana worked the oil in with her thumbs, slow, deep strokes up the trapezius and out along the shoulder blades, the skin gleaming where she'd been, her hands dark against Amanda's tan. The coconut smell thickened across the patio, layered itself over the chlorine and under it, faintly, the maple's woodsmoke. The straps came untied. Amanda reached back and flicked them loose without lifting her head, the top falling aside, and Lana didn't pause — her hands went up the spine, unhurried, proprietary, and the two of them talked the whole time in the low register, ordinary words sometimes loud enough for Jacob to hear: Tuesday, the rash, Tommy's preschool pickup at five, nothing that matched what the hands were doing, which was the whole trick of it. *Since I’ve met her — she’s just so — amazing* Amanda thought. "Other side," Lana said, interrupting Amanda’s daze and she turned over onto her back in one rolling motion. “The full treatment eh?” Amanda giggled. “Mommy and Auntie don’t do anything half way, do they?” Lana said loud, ensuring Jacob would hear as she turned back and smiled at him. Jacob’s eyes were elsewhere. Amanda’s top stayed where it was, on the chaise. The top didn't come with her. The untied straps had done their work; the little white cups stayed behind on the chaise cushion, upturned, still holding her shape, and Amanda settled onto her back with her arms going up to fold behind her head like a woman who hadn't noticed or had noticed completely. Her breasts settled with her — full and heavy and flattening only slightly to their sides, the kind of chest that sunscreen ads aspired to have, skin gleaming faintly tan and oil-slicked from the collarbones down, and at the center of each, her nipples stood dark and easy in the sun, thick, unhurried, utterly unhidden, areolas wide and brown-rose and slightly pebbled from being bare in the breeze. Jacob lay in the pen ten feet away with the pacifier going in his mouth and his eyes went there and stayed there, flatly, the way the sun stays on a wall. No covering. No snatched towel. No performance of noticing. Lana's hands went right past them — around, under, oiling the soft outer curve of one breast where it met her ribs, thumbs sweeping close enough that the flesh moved and settled, moved and settled, the nipples swaying a centimeter with each stroke and never once being touched, and that was the fact of it: this was just her body, out in the yard, while somebody rubbed oil on it. He sucked. The ache under his padding thickened into the bulk and vanished there. *I'm going to remember these until I die.* The pacifier clicked against his teeth, and Amanda exhaled into the sun with her eyes closed, chest rising, chest falling. Lana oiled her collarbones. Her sternum. Down the ribs with both hands, thumbs spreading flat over the soft dip of her stomach, and Amanda's eyes had gone half-lidded in the sun, watching her through her sunglasses' bottom edge, saying nothing, breathing slow. Lana did her fronts of shoulders, forearms, the tops of her feet, each ankle held briefly in one hand like a handshake. Then up her thighs, slowly. Lana stepped around the other side, a silhouette of her backside through the sundress swaying as she leaned in doing to Amanda’s thighs what Jacob could not see. Fifty shades of unhurried, thorough movements. “Mmm, that was so relaxing.” Amanda sighed with relief as she sat up from the chair. "Your turn." Lana's cover-up came off with less ceremony — over the head, tossed, revealing her full figure in the dark black one-piece underneath. She lay down where Amanda had been, the chaise still warm from her, and made a show of arranging her hair off her neck, and Amanda knelt into place with the oil bottle and did not warm it in her hands first — just tipped a cold line of it directly down Lana's spine, and Lana yelped and laughed and bucked an inch off the chaise, "Amanda!", and Amanda held her down between the shoulder blades with one flat palm, delighted with herself. Lana unhooked her suit's straps at the shoulders — the black one-piece rolling down to her waist, her back bare and honey-lit — and Amanda took the sunscreen bottle and worked it in, both hands, slow and professional at first. Then not professional. Then Lana, reaching back, delivered three unhurried pats to Amanda's plump backside — *pat, pat, pat* — and Jacob, ten feet away in a mesh box, watched Amanda glance over her shoulder. "Hey!” Amanda yelped. “That's my bum.” "Mm. Thought I missed a spot." Lana's grin was audible in the sentence's shape. “You usually only miss my bum when I’m not around.” Amanda joked very cheekily. The girls erupted with laughter. Amanda's hands didn't stop moving on her back. "When's the last time you got a massage, girl? Honestly. You're carrying the whole world up here." “Well, I’m definitely carrying around a planet-sized butt!” Lana poked fun at herself. “Oh Lana, I love your ass!” Amanda responded, giving her five rapid and playful spanks and they laughed and laughed. The thumbs dug in, and Lana made a sound into the chaise cushion — a long, low "*mmmmh*" of genuine primal pleasure — and Jacob's face went carefully, experimentally blank inside the pen, because his body was already answering the scene before his mind did. His hand drifted toward the front of the diaper and stopping mid-motion, on its own, without him deciding. He wished he could dig his thumbs into the front of his diaper but felt such shame, and fear. Amanda's hands finished at her waist, then traveled lower with the remaining oil, slicking over the curve of Lana's rear in slow admiring sweeps, and Lana laughed low and plunged her oiled hand right back at Amanda in retaliation, and the two of them dissolved against each other, laughing, glossy, glistening, and then Amanda leaned in and whispered something into Lana's ear below the hearing of anyone fenced anywhere, and whatever it was, it made Lana snort gin-laughter into the sunlight and slap the chaise. Jacob sat in the pen with a plastic shovel in one hand and an erection straining at his fresh diaper, surprised by precisely none of it and mortified by all of it. He had no idea what the flirtation *was* — whether it was a joke between two women, or something more — but he knew it was happening within feet of him and that he was furniture to it, an audience of one, and that his diapered body had opinions about it that would not be acknowledged by anyone, ever, in any official capacity. "Alright!" Lana announced, rehooking her suit, both of them shiny and loose. "Let's refresh our glasses!" And the geometry of the afternoon locked into place: the pitcher sweating on the glass table, the glasses refilled, the two women drifting to the pool's curved steps — and Jacob fenced on dry land with a duck and a shovel, strapped into nothing and unable to be anywhere, the adult world out of reach across ten feet of hot interlocked bricks and a whole chlorinated sea.

Thanks for your comment! Just so there are no confusion, I'm more of a middle than a little. I'd like to be treat as an eight year old. The difference with me and a real lie feedee, is I dont want to become immobile or too fat to breath, just enough to love myself as i always wanted to be. My ideal weight sits between 250 and 300 lbs, nothing extreme. That being said, I wanted to find a feedermom to take care of me and help me grow a little fatter as a middle, with an extra... just the idea of a dom mom wanting me to finish my plate or refill my plate is what i like. Having a mommy who wants her boy to be big and well fed. 😁

I'm a bisexual married cuckold, and I  wish my wife would tell her boyfriend about me being a sissy, and have a strong preference for wearing and wetting Diapers, rather than wearing "normal" underwear. Diapers ARE my normal underwear.  My wife's boyfriend would make for a good daddy. 😊