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Sissy Room
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Soomebaby's sleepy. Its not just Jacob. But I've got this thrown down. We gotta roll with the slowburn fap for now to see where things are headed... CHAPTER 29 The light came first. Not the yellow coin of the nightlight, not the gray static of 2 AM — real light, white and honest, pouring through curtains he'd never seen opened and laying warm stripes across the crib sheet. Jacob blinked into it. The mobile hung parked and motionless overhead, felt moon frozen mid-wink, lion grinning at nothing. The white noise machine was off. The house wasn't humming anymore. Silence had a texture too — thick and clean like a held breath — and it took him a moment to understand that under it, close, there was breathing that wasn't his. His eyes focused, and Lana was already leaning over the rail. Her hand was inside his onesie. He felt it before he fully registered it — her index and middle fingers tucked in through the stretchy fabric without the snaps unfastening, through the frilly leg guard gathering and inside the warm pocket of his diaper, fingers pressing and feeling in search of a moist warmth. She was testing, squishing the material between forefinger and her thumb that was outside of the diaper. Then her fingertips dipped lower, brushing underneath him — a sweep across his scrotum, checking the padding beneath — and he twitched against her wrist, hips jerking, a small muffled sound escaping the pacifier he hadn't known was already in his mouth. *Was it in all night? Did she — when did—* She was dressed. That was the wrong thing to notice first, but he noticed it first anyway — hair fixed and pinned, the robe gone, a revealing soft blue blouse tucked into jeans, small gold hoops in her ears. And she smelled different. He caught it across the rail, off the warmth of her wrist so close to his face: coffee. Dark, brewed, morning coffee — where last night had been lavender and cognac. She'd been up for hours. Of course she had. *The day's already been going. Hours of it. What time is it?* "There he is," Lana said, and her voice was bright as the light. She withdrew her hand from his diaper and gave the front padding two satisfied little pats. "And look at that — dry as a bone. Good boy! Mommy was a little worried, but look at you." She smiled down at him. "Somebody must've needed his sleep. We'll get you changed after breakfast, hm?" *Relief. I feel — that's relief.* His eyes were still trying to assemble a sentence — something, anything, an *I want* or a *why* or even just his own name as a claim — when her gaze dropped to the sheet beside his pillow. The pacifier had slipped and fallen out of his mouth — it lay on the printed cotton where his head had nearly rolled onto it. Her hand darted in before his sluggish arm could dream of rising, plucked it up, and popped it between his lips. It slipped in like butter and sat warm on his tongue. "There," she said. "Dry and ready for the day. Upsy-daisy." The rail dropped with its familiar cheerful *clack*, her hands slid under his arms — one warm palm supporting him unmistakably through the seat of the diaper — and Jacob was scooped out of the crib like a toddler, set on his feet on the soft, blue rug before he'd finished exhaling. He was nowhere near awake. The walk to the bathroom was the exposition; he just wasn't fast enough to read it. His legs were still sleep-heavy, wobble-kneed, and the floor kept arriving at his feet a half-second later than expected. Lana kept one hand on his shoulder, steering, patient with his shuffle. The room strobed past in his blinks. The nightlight by the door — a chunky plastic star, he could see now, in daylight — sat dark and innocent on the outlet. There'd never been a light like that before yesterday. Beyond it, the outlet itself wore a childish cover — a lion, a fat plastic cartoon snapped over the socket — and as his eyes drifted, every outlet along the wall had one, a different animal each, where plain white rectangles used to be. He counted four before his feet carried him past. *I didn’t notice — I was in this room all night— what else haven’t I —* Blink. In the corner, angled down at the crib with its single patient lens eye: a baby monitor camera. White. Plugged in. A little green light, steady and calm. *How long has that — did it watch me all night? I remember a red light at some point — was she watching when I—* Blink. On the little table by the door, a bottle warmer — boxy, cream-colored, the same brand Amanda had — with a soft little green standby light of its own. No bottles in it. Empty and waiting. And next to it, a stack of burp cloths, folded into a neat little tower, printed with ducks. The ducks were definitely one of the main themes. Everything in this room had been *chosen*. *No bottles in it. But there were bottles, last night, I drank — how many —* The thought wouldn't come. It sloshed up against something soft and sank again, milk-heavy, and Jacob sucked on his pacifier — *sck, sck* — and found the noise of his own suckling oddly steadying. His hand drifted out and trailed along the crib rail as they passed it, bar by bar, the way you drag fingers along a fence, and it didn't occur to him until the doorway that he'd been holding on. Lana's hand steered him out into the hall, the mobile's felt lion grinning behind him, parked and patient in the morning light. --- The bathroom was bright. That was the first crime. The second was the duck. A rubber duck sat on the edge of the tub — fat, cartoonish, orange beak — and a little suction-cupped net full of colorful bath toys hung dripping on the tile wall like it had hung there for years. There were no years. There were days. On the counter, where his things lived — his razor, his deodorant — lay a new arrangement. The woven basket with baby shampoo, body wash, and what appeared to be bubble bath, all surrounded by little scrubber towels. A toothbrush, but not his. This one was chunky and fat-gripped, thick as a toddler's fist, with a grinning cartoon frog molded right into the end of the handle, its little plastic eyes staring up at him. Beside it, a tube of kids' toothpaste, the label all rounded rainbow letters: *BUBBLEGUM BLAST!* His eyes swept the counter. Once. Twice. Sink edge. Cabinet shelf. Behind the faucet. His toothbrush was gone. His was not anywhere. *It's — no, it's — she didn't throw out my — I have my own toothbrush —* Then his eyes caught the mirror, and the mirror gave him the whole picture at once. The onesie. The one he was *wearing*. Pale blue, printed with small white stars, the fabric soft and fleecy across his shoulders — and down between his legs, the three little snaps at the crotch, fastened snug over the thick bulk of his diaper. He hadn't seen it go on. That was the thing — he'd been so far gone in the 2 AM honey-space that the onesie had simply *arrived* on him, and now, in the bright bathroom, in the full-length truth of the mirror, he was seeing it for the first time. The memory came back in fragments, washed in the yellow dim of the nightlight: being rolled gently side to side on the changing pad, pliant and boneless, the old diaper drawn away, the cool air, the powder dusting down. And then the fabric — this fabric, these stars — gathered in her hands and worked up his legs, and the *snk, snk, snk* of her fingers pressing each snap closed over the fresh padding, snug, snug, snug, while her thumb smoothed his cheek. *Arms up, sleepy boy. There we go. Good boy.* He'd lifted his arms. He remembered lifting his arms. *She dressed me. While I just — lay there and let her — I helped, I lifted my—* And under that memory, deeper, weighted: the bottles. The bottles before the diaper change. The nipple finding his lips in the dark, three bottles, the warm milk sliding down his throat and spreading through his chest like honey poured into water, filling him up like— His stomach betrayed him with a long low gurgle, audible in the small bright room. Lana laughed. "Somebody's hungry this morning! Okay, busy boy, priorities." The pacifier came out of his mouth with a *pop* — plucked away before he could object to its absence — and the frog brush was loaded with a fat bead of pink paste, bubblegum-smelling already from a foot away, sweetly chemical. "Open up, sweetheart. Ahhs?" He opened. He hated — absolutely hated, with a curling heat low in his gut — how fast he opened, how his jaw simply obeyed her, hinges swinging like a screen door. The frog went in. Lana brushed with brisk efficiency, little circles on his front teeth, humming, the bristles squeaking. "There's the fronts. Good. Now —" she pulled the brush out, flipped it in her hand, and held it out to him, handle first, her other hand cupping around his to close his fingers on the fat grip. "Now you do the last bit for your little teeth, all by yourself. Mommy will wait." He brushed. He didn't decide to brush; his hand just went, guided by hers wrapped around it, and he watched himself in the mirror doing it — a boy in a star-snap onesie and a thick morning diaper, frog-handled toothbrush working bubbles of pink foam between his lips. His cheeks went hot. Lana's phone chimed on the counter. She picked it up one-handed, still steadying his wrist with the other. "Keep going, baby, don't stop." He watched her face in the mirror while she read. Watched her eyebrows rise. Watched her thumb flick, flick, flick — typing back — and then a slow, wide grin spread across her mouth, and she pressed her lips together hard around a laugh that wanted out, a snort escaping through her nose. "Oh, Thursday?" she said, to the phone, delighted. "Oh, you are *terrible.*" *What. What's terrible. Who's — Thursday. It's Monday —* "Okay." Lana set the phone down, screen down, still grinning like a cat. "Good. Very good. That's — that's excellent news for somebody." She looked at Jacob in the mirror with a smile that made his stomach flip for reasons he couldn't inventory. "But that's a secret, isn't it. Aren't *you* the lucky one." Her hand closed over his again, took the brush, and reached past him for a small red cup — a sippy cup lid off — a squat little cup with two nubby handles, filled with water. She pressed it into his hands. "Rinse, sweetheart. Swish-swish, spit-spit like a good baby." *Like a good—* He swished. He spat. The instruction went from her mouth to his muscles without stopping anywhere in between, no customs, no inspection, water swirling and spit hitting the sink with a polite little *ptoo*, and the horror of it landed a half-second late, like thunder after lightning. "SUCH a good boy!" Lana cried, and clapped twice, actually clapped, and beamed at him like he'd cleared a bar he hadn't known was set. "Oh my goodness, what a big smart boy, brushing all his little teeth all by himself and rinsing like a champion!" *That's worse. That's — scold me, scream at me, that would be —* The pacifier went back in his mouth, her thumb pressing it home past his lips, and her hand closed around his wrist. "Alright. Breakfast time. Come on, sweetpea." --- The stairs went by under his feet, diaper crinkling at every step, one hand riding the rail and the other riding in hers, and the hallway strobed past like the nursery had. A basket under the hall table — willow, with a cloth liner — and it was stuffed, packed nearly to the brim, with the unmistakable printed and folded fresh diapers. Not a handful. Stuffed. Blink. In the kitchen doorway, peripheral, a wooden step stool — child-sized, hand-painted, letters on the top spelling something he didn't catch — pushed up against the cabinet by the sink. *When is that for. That's not for me, I don't need a — I'm tall enough to —* Blink. Through the opening to the family room: a gate corral. A big one — plastic panels, a joined pen the size of Amanda's, filling a whole corner of the room — and inside it, a toy chest, a rug, a small mountain of stuffed animals in various colors — a whale, a lamb, more behind them — a scatter of bright plastic things he couldn't resolve in the two seconds he had. And there, on the arm of the couch, sitting beyond the toys like contraband, or a hostage: the remote. The grown-up television remote, black and familiar, sitting *inside* the corral. Then Lana's hand drew him through the kitchen doorway and the family room was gone from him, unresolved, tension still taut as wire. --- The kitchen was full of morning. Sunlight, and the smell of it — butter in a pan, toast, bacon fat hanging in the air, coffee, *eggs* — and his hunger, on three bottles and nothing else, went feral so fast it frightened him, a rising howl in his stomach that made his knees feel loose. First his eyes went to the drying rack by the sink. Three bottles stood in it, nipples up, washed in the night, still faintly spotted with water. Three. Last night. His mind did the math and then did it again, hoping for a different answer. *Three last night. Plus the two at Amanda's yesterday, plus the mall — that's — in one day that's — five? Six?* His gaze slid right, toward the table, and the hunger curdled. A full plate sat steaming there — eggs scrambled yellow, buttered toast in triangles, bacon stacked, a fork and a knife laid out, a coffee mug beside it, the *adult* plate, the food, the food that smelled like every normal Saturday he no longer had — And beside it, in a neat little row, four jars. Baby food jars. Tiny glass, gleaming lids, pastel labels. Four. And a chair pulled out from the table where the adult breakfast was. A normal chair. And past that chair — at the table's end, set out from the others, in the full morning light — stood the high chair. It was white and cream, plastic, infantile, a tower of it, with the tray attached and the straps hanging open, buckles dangling, waiting. Sunlight glinted off the tray, and on the tray's surface, he could see them clearly now — molded into it, spaced evenly — rows of suction pads. Little rubber circles, like something was expected to be stuck down there and not come off. Jacob stood in the doorway in his onesie and his dry diaper, pacifier still working between his lips — *sck... sck* — slower now, mind empty of everything but the inventory, the plate, the jars, the chair, the tower, the straps, the tray, the pads. Lana's hand left his wrist. She crossed the kitchen, took the high chair's tray in both hands, and swung it open with one cheerful *click*, the straps swaying. She turned back to him, patted the seat twice — *pat, pat* — and smiled. "Time for breakfast, baby." -
By Alyeskabird · Posted
Kinda an old bird myself, so there are a lot of things I miss. Though to be fair, I missed out on a lot of the ab diapers, and, honestly, a lot of the actualy good diapers, do to size issues. A little on the wide side, and more so, I have thick legs. Stuff that should fit me easily does not fit at all cause of my legs. So there is a lot I have missed do to sizeing issues. Weirdly there are some diapers I remember from back when I really started to try and play, Kimbies, I would love something like that, in my size, with updated padding. Sadly they where one of the early disposables, so, honestly not very good for actual use, but they where lovely. There was a brand back then as well, dry comfort? I think it was, they where so thick it was allmost stupid, and they where originaly a full mat diaper, so the padding went all the way around, not just the front and back. Still, a lot of the diapers back then where like that. -
By Falcon McHaig · Posted
Mom would ask me if I was wet if I was wearing them during the day for some reason. But then she would have me go over to her and she would feel down my plastic pants and check. At night she would squeeze my plastic pants and feel my diapers or slid a couple of fingers thru the leg opening and feel for wetness. Most of my caretakers check the same way. One of my babysitters would also check my backside be feeling my plastic pants for lumps and looking down my diapers for BMs. I hated that as I didn't ever dirty myself often. -
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By DiaperedCherub · Posted
All I have are training pants from Rearz. They're ok.
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