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Cheese omelet, perhaps with ham or chicken and, of course, salad. -
By Lectulo Humidum · Posted
Haven't said this as a dare to someone else, but it is quite a strange experience when it works. If you exhale about 80% of your air and the hold your breath, then you will eventually feel a "drop" as your sphincter unclenches and you will start peeing yourself. You will have to hold a bit longer after it starts to become really uncomfortable to hold your breath, but it works! I found this from MyCall's Milovana tease: https://milovana.com/webteases/showtease.php?id=58190 -
By entity.rayo · Posted
Excerpt from my Regressed Realms SideQuesting AU on Infinite Worlds The Regressed Realms - You reach out and take the tentacle in your hand. It's warm — impossibly warm, like pressing your palm against sunlit silk — and it curls around your fingers with a gentle pressure that sends a shiver up your forearm. Oh, the Hushpuff says, and there's surprise in the thought, bright and genuine. You're not afraid. 'No,' you say aloud. Gribble is standing by the door, his amber eyes enormous, his bowler hat askew. 'I'm not.' The tentacle tightens fractionally around your hand, and another emerges from beneath the pearlescent shell — thicker, softer, with a velvety texture that makes your breath catch. It traces up your wrist, your forearm, the inside of your elbow, mapping you with careful attention. You're warm, it tells you. And you smell like — like someone who takes care of things. Like the stone at your throat. May I come closer? You nod. The Hushpuff shifts on the workbench, its bulk redistributing, padding rearranging itself — and then it's moving toward you, sliding off the bench with a soft crinkle, and you realize it's not just a diaper lying on a surface. It's unfolding itself, reshaping, its tentacles extending in greater numbers now — six, eight, a dozen slender pearlescent tendrils that reach for you with the deliberate patience of something that has waited fifteen years for this moment. 'Gribble,' you say, not looking away from the Hushpuff. 'Give us the room.' 'Right. Yes. Absolutely.' He's already backing toward the door. 'I'll just — I'll be upstairs. Far upstairs. With earplugs. And a strong drink.' The door closes. The lock clicks. The Hushpuff's tentacles find your waist, your hips, the curve of your thighs through your trousers. They move with startling precision — not groping, but exploring, learning the geography of you with the focused curiosity of a cartographer mapping unknown territory. Tell me what you want, it says. I can feel your pulse. It's quick. But I won't assume. 'I want you,' you say. 'All of you. However you want to give yourself.' The response is immediate — a pulse of warmth that spreads from every point of contact, and the Hushpuff's tentacles begin to work at your clothing with dexterous efficiency. Your jerkin loosens, your trousers unfasten, your work apron slides away. Each garment is removed with care, set aside on the workbench by tendrils that handle fabric like a lover handling something precious. When you're bare from the waist down, the Hushpuff shifts again — and this time it rises, wrapping itself around your hips with the unmistakable construction of its natural form. The thick padding presses against your skin, impossibly soft, conforming to every curve. The waistband settles snug and warm. The leg cuffs seal gently. You feel held — not confined, but embraced, the bulk between your legs substantial and grounding. There, it murmurs. That's where I belong. Can you feel it? You can. The warmth radiating through its padding, the gentle pressure against your cunt, the way it adjusts itself millimeter by millimeter until every surface is perfectly aligned. A tentacle slides between your thighs from beneath, pressing up through the soft padding with deliberate, sustained pressure against your clit. You gasp. Your knees buckle slightly. Easy, the Hushpuff says, and there's humor in it now — warm, playful. I've got you. Two more tentacles wrap around your thighs, spreading them gently apart. Another traces up your stomach, your ribs, circling your left breast with a slow spiral that makes your nipple harden against its velvety surface. The Milkwell Stone pulses at your throat, and you feel the Hushpuff respond to its frequency — a resonance, like two instruments tuning to the same note. The tentacle between your legs increases its pressure, rubbing in slow circles that send heat pooling through your pelvis. It's textured — ridged, slightly, with a friction that makes your hips rock forward involuntarily. Another tendril joins it, thinner, slicker, sliding along your slit with deliberate slowness until it finds your entrance and presses in — just the tip, just enough to make you whimper. You're wet, it observes, almost reverently. You're so wet already. Is this — am I doing this right? 'Yes,' you breathe. 'More.' It gives you more. The tentacle pushes deeper, filling you with a smooth, steady pressure that adjusts its girth as it goes — thickening when you clench around it, easing when you relax. A second tentacle joins the first at your clit, and together they work you with coordinated rhythm, one circling, one pressing, building sensation in layers that make your vision blur at the edges. The padding between your legs grows warmer. Damp, even — not from you, but from the Hushpuff itself, a slickness that coats its inner lining and makes every movement frictionless and obscene. You can hear yourself — wet sounds, the soft crinkle of its shell shifting as your hips move, your own breathing gone ragged and desperate. A tentacle wraps around your waist from behind, pulling you back against its bulk, and you feel the full depth of its padding pressed against your ass, your lower back, cradling you while its tendrils work inside you and against you simultaneously. It's overwhelming — the fullness, the pressure, the warmth, the way it holds you like something precious while fucking you with patient, relentless attention. Come for me, it says, and its voice in your mind is low and certain. I want to feel you. I want to know what you sound like when you stop holding back. You come with your back arched and your fingers gripping the edge of the workbench, the Hushpuff's tentacle buried deep inside you, its ridged surface pressing against your front wall in exactly the right place, its circling tendril relentless against your clit. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, your cunt clenching rhythmically around the tentacle inside you, and the Hushpuff makes a sound in your mind — a soft, satisfied hum — as it feels every contraction. It doesn't stop. It slows, eases, lets you ride the aftershocks with gentle movements, but it doesn't withdraw. The tentacle inside you shifts to a gentler angle. The one at your clit reduces to barely-there circles. The ones around your waist tighten into something closer to an embrace. That was beautiful, it tells you. You're beautiful. Can we stay like this for a while? You sag against the workbench, legs trembling, the Hushpuff wrapped around you like a second skin — warm, padded, alive, its heartbeat pulsing against your hip in time with your own slowing pulse. The Milkwell Stone glows softly at your throat. 'Yes,' you manage. 'We can stay like this.' You check in with everyone first — because you're still you, even with the Hushpuff's warmth pulsing against your hips and its quiet presence humming in the back of your mind like a second heartbeat. Dren has dinner handled. Thessaly and Corvin have their evening reading routine. Gribble is... Gribble is already avoiding eye contact and has barricaded himself in his room with a bottle of something amber and a stack of research notes. Helga catches your eye across the common room and gives you the briefest nod — acknowledgment, permission, a flicker of something warm before she turns back to her ledger. You lock the workshop door. You draw the curtains. You tell the Hushpuff what you want. Everything? it asks, and there's a tremor in the thought — excitement, disbelief, hunger held on a very short leash. 'Everything,' you say. 'For days. Don't let me think about anything else.' It obliges. The first night, it edges you for six hours. Tentacles work your cunt and your ass simultaneously — one thick, ridged tendril buried in your pussy while a slimmer, slicker one pushes into your asshole with patient, relentless pressure, stretching you open inch by inch until you're full in both holes, trembling, drooling onto the workbench. It brings you to the edge over and over, reading your body's signals through the bond, easing off every time your thighs begin to shake, every time your breathing hitches toward the precipice. You beg. You actually beg, words dissolving into syllables, your fingers scraping against wood. When it finally lets you come, you squirt — a hot gush that soaks through the Hushpuff's padding, and it groans in your mind like something tasting perfection for the first time. The padding absorbs everything instantly, self-cleaning, leaving you warm and dry and still full of tentacles that don't stop moving. Day two. The Hushpuff introduces you to its enema function — a specialized tentacle that slides into your ass with warm, soothing liquid, filling you until your belly swells slightly, then releasing in a rush that the padding catches and cleans without you ever having to move. The humiliation of it — the sheer vulnerability of voiding yourself while something holds you, cradles you, whispers praise into your thoughts — makes you come so hard your vision whites out. Day three. Double penetration again, but this time with you on your back, legs spread wide, two thick tentacles working in counterpoint while a third circles your clit and a fourth feeds you its tip to suck on. You piss yourself mid-orgasm — a long, hot release that you can't control and don't want to, the Hushpuff's padding drinking it greedily, its mental voice purring with satisfaction. You faint. Actually lose consciousness for thirty seconds, your body shutting down from overstimulation, and when you come back the Hushpuff is holding you upright, its tentacles still inside you, its warmth wrapped around you like a cocoon. Welcome back, it says softly. You were magnificent. By the morning of Day 108, you're sore in places you didn't know could be sore, your legs barely functional, your mind foggy and satisfied in a way that feels like sinking into a hot bath after a year of cold. The Hushpuff has learned your body more thoroughly than any lover you've ever had — every nerve cluster, every pressure point, every rhythm that makes you shake. You emerge from the workshop at noon on Day 108, blinking in the sunlight, wearing the Hushpuff beneath a fresh pair of trousers. Your legs are unsteady. Your smile is idiotic. Corvin looks up from the garden bed. 'You look like someone hit you with a happiness brick,' he observes. 'Long crafting session,' you manage. Thessaly, reading on the bench, glances up with knowing eyes and says nothing. Gribble, passing with a mug of tea, pointedly does not make eye contact. Helga finds you at the kitchen table an hour later, sliding a plate of bread and cheese in front of you with the practiced efficiency of someone who knows exactly what you need without being told. 'You look well-rested,' she says, and there's a dry edge to it that makes you certain she knows precisely how you spent the last three days. 'The sippy valve commission is finished. Gribble delivered it this morning while you were... occupied.' She sets a cup of tea beside the plate. Her black eyes meet yours — warm, amused, and entirely without judgment. 'Whenever you're ready,' she says quietly, 'I wouldn't mind another session. It's been a week since the last one and the nightmares are creeping back.' -
By PeterLupus · Posted
Please share more updates, @Superdry, as you can. Thanks! -
By little_madd · Posted
Becca decided to stay in the guest room and keep her promise to Maddison. Ana and Camilla went to check on the girls before going to bed. Maddison was the first one they saw—they didn’t even need to get close to notice her diaper was a mess. They were happy that she still accepted being treated like a baby and being pampered, and that she had even agreed to the suppository on her own. Next, they checked on Emilly and Alice; they were allowed to move around the house, but only while using their baby walkers—and they, too, were wearing diapers. Maddison woke up as the sun streamed through the window, and the smell from her diaper hit her. She thought, "I got a suppository, but it’s not so bad." Maddison wanted to leave the room, but suddenly, Becca walked in, accompanied by Ana and Camilla. They signaled for silence and asked in hushed tones, "Does my little one want her diaper changed?" Maddison nodded in agreement.
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