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Sissy Room
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By DiaperedDarkElf · Posted
Sorry! I will eventually share more everyone. I have a few more I will do soon! -
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I'm not very good at this type of thing. But I've been using Venice AI for stories and it works great. Even with ABDL and sexual stuff. A lot of the AI models won't do that. -
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By Diapered Identity · Posted
Chapter 52: The Professional Solution He couldn't sleep. The voices downstairs had gone on for twenty minutes — low, steady, the murmur of two women talking over tea after the house had gone quiet. He couldn't make out the words from the loft, just the cadence: his mum's voice flat and short, Claire's longer, softer, circling around something. Every so often his mum's tone would rise — not shouting, not even sharp, just a slight tightening of the frequency — and then Claire would come in underneath it, smoothing, redirecting, and the murmur would settle again. Sophie's breathing had gone slow and even. The earphone had fallen out and lay on the pillow next to her face, a tiny tinny leak of whatever she'd been listening to still going. She was asleep, or close to it. Liam lay rigid under the duvet, the tape nappy pressing against his hips, the plastic sheet whispering each time his chest rose and fell. The zinc cream was warm and slick in the folds of his skin. His jaw ached from clenching. He needed to hear what they were saying. He sat up. The plastic sheet crinkled — a bright, sharp sound in the still loft — and he froze, one hand on the mattress, listening. Sophie didn't move. He swung his legs over the side and stood, the tape nappy shifting heavily between his thighs, the pajama bottoms catching on its bulk. He took a step. The floorboard groaned. He stopped. Waited. Nothing from Sophie. Nothing from downstairs — the voices kept going, undisturbed. He moved to the top of the stairs, placing each foot on the boards he'd learned were quiet — the one against the wall, the one near the railing. The tape nappy crinkled with every step, a soft plastic whisper that seemed deafening in the silence but was probably inaudible beyond the stairwell. Probably. He sat on the top step. The hall below was dark, but light spilled from the kitchen doorway in a yellow wedge across the floor. He could see the edge of the counter, the corner of the table, steam rising from a mug. The voices were clearer now — still low, still careful, but the words were beginning to separate from the murmur like figures emerging from fog. "—not working." His mum. Her voice was stripped of everything, but the raw sound of someone admitting defeat. "I can't do this alone and maintain any kind of normality. Today was a disaster. He fought me on every single check. Every one, Claire. As if I'm the enemy." "You're exhausted," Claire said. "And he's angry. Those two things aren't going to produce anything except more fighting." "James was fine with him all day. He went when James asked. No drama. But the moment I walk in—" "Because James isn't asking him to accept it. James is just... ticking boxes. You're the one who makes it real for him." A pause. The clink of a spoon against ceramic. "I think maybe… you need someone to take over the daily routine," Claire said. His mum said nothing. Liam could picture her — sitting at the kitchen table, both hands around her mug, staring at the surface of the tea. The shape she made when she had no plan. "We tried that," his mum said eventually. "With Sophie. Look how that ended." Liam's stomach dropped. His fingers gripped the edge of the step. "Sophie didn't know the situation," Claire said, and her voice had shifted — still warm, still Claire, but with a directional precision underneath it, like a torch beam narrowing. "She was checking his pupils for cocaine, not his pull-ups for pee. She was operating completely blind. Of course it failed." The words landed in the dark stairwell like stones dropped into water. Pull-ups for pee. Claire had said it — his name wasn't attached, but it was there, hanging in the kitchen light, a description of his life spoken aloud in a voice that was calm and practical and completely, devastatingly sure of itself. "The girl from the other night," Claire continued. "Millie. From the group that they hang out with." Liam stopped breathing. "She's a professional disability carer. She works with a disabled boy just a few years younger than Liam back home — Marcus, my friend Laura’s son. Incontinence, bathing, dressing, everything you're doing with Liam, she does every single day. And she's good at it. She's really, genuinely good." "But how can I trust—" "Because we tell her everything. Every excruciating detail if need be. We show her the supplies, the routine, the skin care. She comes in knowing exactly what she's dealing with. No surprises or secrets. No silly cocaine cover stories." Another pause. Longer this time. Liam could hear the wind outside, pressing against the cabin walls, and the creak of the stove cooling, and his own heartbeat in his ears. Millie. They were going to call Millie. They were going to tell HER — the girl he'd danced near at Stavkroa, the girl who'd called him bodyguard and smiled at him like he was a person, an actual person with a functioning body and a normal life — they were going to tell her that he wore diapers and wet the bed and couldn't wipe himself and needed someone to check his pull-ups for pee and… "...would she even say yes?" His mum's voice was quieter now. Something in it had shifted — the resistance was draining, replaced by something that sounded almost like hope, and that was worse. "I actually took the liberty of texting her earlier. She hasn’t gone to bed yet so I could call her, you know," Claire said. "Let me just ask." He heard the scrape of a chair. Footsteps. Then Claire's voice again, brighter: "I'll put it on speaker, so you can hear." Liam moved. He couldn't stay on the stairs — if either of them came into the hallway, they'd see him sitting there in his pajamas and tape nappy like a child who'd crawled out of bed. He went down three steps, crossed the hall in four silent, crinkly strides, and slipped into the sitting room. The door was open. The room was dark. The sofa was between him and the kitchen, and from here — standing behind the back of the sofa, one hand on the armrest, the tape nappy pressing against his thighs — he could hear everything. The phone rang twice. Three times. Then: "Hello? Claire?" Millie's voice. Bright, clear, with a faint buzz of noise behind it — bass, laughter, the clatter of glasses. A party. She was at a party. "Hi, Millie. Sorry to ring so late. Are you somewhere you can talk?" "Yeah, give me a sec—" "HEY, MILLIE! WANT A SHOT?" A male voice — loud, close to the phone, unmistakable even through the speaker distortion. Jake. Liam's chest constricted. Jake was right there. Jake, who thought Liam just had a bad leg, was standing next to Millie while Claire prepared to explain that the bodyguard wore nappies. "Shh!" Millie, muffled, away from the phone. "I'm on the phone! Go away!" The sound of movement — a door opening, the noise dropping, a gust of something that might have been wind. She'd gone outside. "Sorry. That was just the boys. I'm outside now. What's going on?" Claire cleared her throat. Liam could hear his mum breathing — or maybe that was him. "We've got a situation with Liam," Claire said. She spoke calmly, evenly, as though she were briefing a colleague. "And I wanted to ask whether you might be able to help." "Is he okay? Is it the leg they talked about?" "It's not his leg. It's — well, I'll be straight with you. Liam has gotten significant problems with… incontinence actually. Both at night and during the day." Silence on the line. The wind. The faint, muffled thump of bass from inside wherever Millie was. "Okay," Millie said. Her voice hadn't changed. No shock, no awkwardness, just the flat, professional register of someone hearing information. "That's — I'm sorry to hear that." Claire went on. Each sentence was a brick in a wall that Liam couldn't climb over, couldn't reach, couldn't stop. Millie stood outside a party in the cold and listened while Claire explained that Liam couldn't hold it, that he had accidents in his trousers, that his mum had put him in pull-ups — nappies — because he couldn't stay dry. That his skin was red and sore from the moisture. That he needed someone to take him to the toilet regularly, to check that he was dry, and to change him if he wasn't. That he'd lied about it. That it had all come out. That Sophie had been trying to supervise him without knowing what she was supervising. Every word was true. Every word was about him. And he stood in the dark with his hands on the back of the sofa and the tape nappy thick between his legs and listened to his life being described to a girl he'd met at a bar three days ago. "Right," Millie said when Claire had finished. "So you need someone to manage his daily routine. Toilet schedule, hygiene, changes when needed." "Yes." "That's basically what I do with Marcus. Body fluids don't bother me. It's just a body that needs looking after." A pause. "But he has to accept that I'm in charge and I think that that needs to be addressed quite a lot by you guys. If I say we go to the toilet, we go. If I say I need to check, I check. Regardless of who's with us. Otherwise it doesn't work, I have had a lot of struggles with young boys previously." "Absolutely," Claire said. There was a rustling, and then his mum's voice — she'd taken the phone, or leaned in. Closer to the speaker, louder, more precise. "Millie, it's Grace. Liam's mum." "Hi." "He doesn't have a choice." His mum's voice was steady, clear, without apology. "He does exactly what you say. If you say toilet, he goes. If you say it's time for a check, he stands there and lets you check. Regardless of where he is or who's around. He's lost the right to make decisions about himself and I will of course make sure that he knows the name of the game." Liam closed his eyes. His mum had said it — lost the right to make decisions about himself — and the words hung in the dark sitting room like a verdict that had already been passed, in a court he hadn't been invited to. "Understood," Millie said. "And I'll need to see the supplies — what you're using, the creams, the nappies, the pull-ups. So I know what I'm working with." "Of course." "One more thing," Millie said. Her voice softened slightly — not uncertainty, but care. "Is he okay with this? With me coming in? Because if he's going to fight me on it, it's going to be hard for both of us." Grace didn't hesitate. "He doesn't have a choice," she said again. "He'll do what you tell him, at least after the initial protests, but they won’t work." "Okay." A beat. Then, practical again: "I can come by in the morning. Seven o'clock? I guess I can start by checking the night diapers and getting him cleaned up, you know? That way I know the baseline — how wet he is, what state his skin's in, how much cream he needs. And then we go from there, also to make sure that you are there the first time for his comfort." "That sounds perfect," Claire said. "Brilliant. I accidentally packed a wrong bag before I got her, so brought some of my work supplies actually. I can bring my own wipes and barrier cream — the hospital-grade stuff, it's better for boys with sensitive skin. Should I—" "Whatever you need," his mum said. "Whatever you think is best." "Right. See you at seven. Tell him..." Millie paused. "Tell him I'll be gentle. I know it's not easy." "He'll manage," his mum said. "He doesn't have any other option." "Okay. Night." "Night. And thank you, Millie." "Of course. Night." The call ended. The silence rushed back in — not the murmur-silence of before but a heavier kind, the silence of something decided. Liam heard his mum exhale, a long, shuddering breath that sounded almost like relief. Claire said something low and warm. A chair scraped. Liam stood in the dark. His hands were shaking. His fingers had left damp marks on the wall. Millie was coming. Tomorrow morning, at seven, Millie was going to walk into this cabin and come up to the loft and pull back his duvet and find him lying in a soaking tape nappy, and she was going to open it and see everything — his shrivelled, cold, piss-soaked dick — and she was going to clean him and cream him and put a fresh pull-up on him, and Sophie was going to be lying two meters away when they would wake him up and take him away. And he couldn't stop it. His mum had given the order. Millie had accepted. The thing was already arranged, already real, already waiting for him at seven o'clock like a train that would arrive whether he stood on the platform or not. He heard footsteps in the kitchen. Coming towards the hall. He moved. Back across the sitting room, through the dark, the tape nappy crinkling softly, his bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. He reached the stairs and went up — quickly, recklessly, not caring about the noise — and was back under the duvet, eyes shut, chest heaving, by the time Grace appeared at the bottom of the stairwell. She came up. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the fourth step, the pause at the top. He kept his eyes closed. He breathed slowly, carefully, through his nose. The duvet rose and fell. The plastic sheet whispered. She stood there for a long time. He could feel her looking at him — the weight of her gaze in the dark, the way the air changed when someone watched you sleep. Then she turned and went back down. Each step was lighter than before. The kitchen light clicked off. The cabin settled into darkness. Liam opened his eyes. The ceiling was black. The wind moved against the window. Somewhere in the village, music was playing — faint, distant, the party that Millie had stepped outside of to take a phone call about a boy who couldn't keep himself dry. Seven o'clock. He lay very still, and the tape nappy pressed against him, warm and thick and waiting, and the hours stretched out ahead of him like something he had to cross on foot.
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