Sissy Room

Normal ordinary stuff. In a few hours I will take a shower, put on a ABDL diaper, and go to the dentist, then go shopping, then after it's dinner at my moms.  And after that I go home and put on something too watch. 

I would like to try one. I have tried changing while sitting on the toilet and it rarely get a proper fit.  Standing is even worse.  So I usually just stop somewhere and lay a towel on the ground. 

Chapter 9: Team pampers The living room cradled you in the glow of a future imagined from the past—smooth curves, soft colors, and a quiet hum that settled somewhere deeper than your ears. The walls, pale mint with a gloss like polished candy, swept upward into a ceiling that curved as if the room had grown into shape rather than been built. Light pooled from orbs nestled in the corners—amber halos that kissed the chrome trim lining every edge, making the metal gleam like morning dew. A crescent-shaped sofa hugged the center of the room, teal upholstery tight and pristine, the cushions holding just the faintest impression of the last person to sit there—Eleanor, maybe, smoothing her skirt as she watched Calum and Daan play. The coffee table in front of it stood on spindly brass legs, thin as stilts but sure, its glass surface catching the warm glow and scattering it in sharp lines across the carpet below. The floor gave with every step, like walking on clouds, though there was something beneath it—something faint, a presence more felt than heard, noticing each movement. Circular rugs splashed across the peach carpet, patterned with atomic bursts and geometric shapes, as though stars had been dropped and left where they fell. By the window, the glass stretched wide and slanted, offering a view of the garden—too green, too neat, the edges blurred like a backdrop painted for someone else’s life. Mitros drifted past it, polished brass limbs moving with clockwork grace, his fingers trailing lightly over the sideboard—already spotless. His hum blended into the room’s, another note in the same careful composition. The air carried lavender, but not quite—something sharper threaded through it, like the memory of flowers bottled and refined until it became the idea of comfort more than comfort itself. Everything here felt exact. Sleek. Cheerful. Still. The carpet stretched between the couch and the low play table, but to them, it was a city—the busiest in the world. Towers of plastic blocks crowded the streets, books leaned into ramps and overpasses. Calum crouched at the edge of it all, knees bouncing lightly, fingers tight on the handlebars of his red hoverbike. His t-shirt hung loose over his bare arms, but below, the snug elastic bulk of his Snugglz diaper peeked out, patterned and thick, crinkling softly as he shifted his weight. Beside him, Daan gripped his blue bike just as firm, his own shirt riding up slightly as he squirmed against the damp swell between his legs, the swollen Snugglz pressing warm and heavy into him. His hand twitched down—just for a second—adjusting, before curling back around the handlebars. “This city’s too busy!” Calum shouted, tilting his bike hard to the side. “Move! Gotta get boxes! Vrrrooom!” His lips buzzed as he leaned in, knees bouncing, eyes fixed on the streets only he could see. “I’m faster!” Daan called back, scooting forward, his hand tugging at the back of his diaper where it sagged low and warm. He leaned over his bike, legs spread wide for balance, the crinkle under him mixing with the soft thud of knees on carpet. “You can’t beat me!” “Nuh-uh!” Calum jerked his bike sideways, blocking the lane. “You gonna crash!” “No, you!” Daan pushed harder, knees pumping, his diaper pressing damp against him with every scoot. “Tunnel first!” The crash hit—plastic snapping loud as their bikes collided. Daan’s bike flipped, one of its little wings popping off and spinning under the couch. “You breaked it!” Daan gasped, dropping his bike and crawling fast toward the dark space. His diaper shifted heavy between his legs, squishing as he wriggled forward. “Did not! You hit me!” Calum clutched his bike like it was innocent, his face hot. “You went wrong way!” “You didn’t move!” Daan snapped, twisting to glare back, breath fast and face red. “Bad driver!” Calum huffed, letting his bike tip onto its side. “You’re a baby,” he muttered, but his voice had already dropped, the words more habit than heat. He scooted beside Daan, their shoulders brushing as he peeked under the couch. “Dad can fix it… he’s good at fixing.” Daan sniffed, wiping his nose quick with his sleeve. “Kay… but you help.” His voice was small, but his hand was already stretching under, fingers reaching into the shadows. “Kay,” Calum said, his frown easing into a lopsided grin. He nudged Daan’s arm. “But I win next time.” Daan wriggled forward, diaper rustling, fingers brushing plastic. He shifted again, grunting softly as the bulk pressed up between his thighs. Calum leaned in closer, eyes squinting into the dark, his knee knocking against Daan’s. The boys scrambled off the carpet, their squishy diapers making them waddle as they hurried over to the couch. Their dad was stretched out, legs long, an open book balanced on his knee. His glowing eyes flicked up as they stumbled to a halt. One eyebrow lifted—just a little smirk pulling at his mouth—as he took in their breathless arrival. Daan held up the broken hoverbike, both hands gripping it like it might break again. His cheeks flushed pink. “It’s broken!” he blurted. “Calum crashed me—he blocked the tunnel!” Calum gasped, his jaw dropping wide. “Did not! You went wrong way—that’s why you hit me!” Their dad marked his page with a finger, closing the book slowly—the kind of slow that made their legs fidget and toes curl into the carpet. “The tunnel, huh?” he said, voice low, a little laugh tucked in the edges. “That sounds serious. You boys drivin’ too fast?” Daan shook his head fast. “No! I was winning! And Calum—he—” He gripped the hoverbike tighter, fingers pale against the plastic. “He cheated!” The last part came in a rush, his eyes flicking to Calum. “Did not!” Calum shot back, his fists clenched. “He passed where he’s not ‘posed to, and then—CRASH!” He clapped his hands loud, grinning at the smack. Their dad leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He tilted the toy slowly in his hands, turning it over like it mattered more than anything in the world. “Looks like a bad crash. Driver okay?” He raised his brow at Daan. Daan’s lip stuck out. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “But my bike’s not.” “Well…” Their dad turned the bike over again, testing the loose wing slot. “Good thing we’ve got a repair crew.” Daan blinked. “Me?” Calum shifted up onto his knees, leaning hard into his dad’s side. “I get the wing!” he blurted, already half sliding off the couch. Dad’s eyes twinkled. “Alright. Calum’s wing retrieval, and Daan—you help line it up. I’ll handle the tricky stuff. That work?” Daan crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “But he’s gotta go under. I’m not.” “Fine! I’ll do it!” Calum grinned, scrambling toward the floor. “You hold it good when I get it!” Their dad leaned back, the bike balanced on his knee. “That’s how real racers do it. Teamwork.” The boys glanced at each other—suspicious, but ready. “Okay,” they said together, voices not quite in sync. Calum was already halfway under the couch, knees wriggling, diaper crinkling with each push. Daan stood close, hands tight on the bike, watching his dad’s fingers test the broken edge. Their dad’s faint smirk softened into a warm smile, his eyes glinting as he waved them closer. “Come on, then,” he said, setting the broken hoverbike gently on the carpet. “Let’s see if we can get this racer back in action.” He reached under the couch with ease, pulling out the fallen wing piece like it was nothing. “Got it,” he said, holding it up. His hand flicked toward the toolbox in the corner. Calum and Daan waddled over, crinkles blending with their steps in the quiet. Daan was first, tugging the lid open with both hands. The tools inside gleamed, neat and perfect. “Whoa…” he breathed, eyes wide. “You got all the tools, Dad.” Their dad chuckled, lowering himself cross-legged onto the carpet. He set the hoverbike between them. “Alright, Calum. Small screwdriver. Red handle.” Calum’s face brightened. He dug in fast, fingers clinking over cool metal. “Red handle, red handle…” He pushed aside wrenches, pinching his finger once, before yanking the screwdriver up like treasure. “Got it!” “Good teamwork,” their dad said, taking it. “See how easy that was when you listen?” Daan hovered close, fingers curling on his knees. “What ‘bout me?” “Hold this.” Their dad nodded to the wing. Daan knelt with a soft thump, gripping the edge too tight. It wobbled as he shifted forward, diaper pressing warm beneath him. “Easy… gotta keep it still,” Dad murmured. Daan bit his lip. “It’s boring,” he muttered after a minute. “Holding’s not fun.” “Sometimes teamwork’s like that,” Dad said, screwdriver turning slow. “Some days you race. Some days you keep the car on the track.” Daan wrinkled his nose. “Calum got the fun part.” “I finded the screwdriver!” Calum shot back, arms crossed. “Oh yeah? Least I didn’t—” “Boys,” their dad said, voice low—just that one word. They both froze. He didn’t look up. “You know what doesn’t fix hoverbikes?” The boys glanced at each other, uncertain. “What?” they mumbled. “Pointing fingers.” Their dad leaned back, setting the screwdriver aside. “It’s not who’s wrong. It’s how we fix it. Together.” They shifted, eyes down. “Okay…” came the mumbled answer, almost together. Calum scratched his head. “But… Daan’s still bad at driving.” “Still faster than you,” Daan whispered. “You’d never keep up without chea—” The bickering melted into soft giggles, their heads dipping together, arms nudging. Their dad smiled quietly as he lifted the repaired wing piece, twisting it into place. The click was small but satisfying. He sat back with a little pat on the bike’s side. “Done.” The boys leaned in, faces close, inspecting his work. Their dad raised an eyebrow. “Now… who’s ready to race again?” “Me!” Calum’s hand shot up. “Me too!” Daan bumped him. Their dad grinned. “Okay. But… no blaming each other when you crash.” The boys laughed, hands already reaching for their bikes. The soft click of heels broke the quiet—steady, measured, precise. Eleanor appeared in the doorway, pastel bouffant shimmering under the warm overhead glow, each curl held in flawless place. Her glowing eyes swept the room—assessing, noting—the boys huddled over their hoverbike, diapers sagging, carpet littered with tools and toy debris. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said, her voice melodic but leaving no room for debate. With a subtle gesture, the automaton in the corner whirred to life, beginning its meal preparations. She lingered, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Calum. Daan.” Both boys stilled—just for a breath—the way children do when caught. Their eyes flicked to her, then to each other. Her gaze dropped to their swollen diapers, the scuffed prints, the damp weight pulling low between their legs. “What exactly happened here?” Her tone was calm but knowing. “Crawling somewhere sticky again? Or... testing boundaries?” Calum gripped the handlebars tighter. “We were just playing,” he mumbled. “Racing!” Daan added, quick and high. Eleanor stepped forward, eyes tracing over their dusty knees, flushed cheeks, the unmistakable state of their Snugglz. Her nose crinkled—just slightly. “Playing,” she echoed. “Wreaking havoc, more like. Bath. Both of you.” “But, Mum—” “No ‘but Mum.’” Her finger lifted, silencing him. “We can’t have two little boys at the dinner table looking like they’ve tumbled through a mudslide, can we?” Daan’s mouth opened, but Richard’s chuckle cut through. He had set his book aside, eyes twinkling. “Not a mudslide,” he said, scratching his chin. “Looks more like a high-speed pileup. Big one.” Eleanor’s lips twitched—barely. Then, composure returned. “Children always find a way.” Daan broke first, laughter spilling out. “Race you to the tub!” “No fair—you started!” Calum chased after him, diapers crinkling, feet pounding in uneven steps as their giggles trailed down the hall. Richard leaned back, arms crossed. “You’d think they hadn’t just come out of the last pitstop.” Eleanor smoothed her apron, eyes resting on the hallway’s vanishing chaos. Her smile was serene. Knowing. “One mess fades,” she murmured. “Another waits... always.” Calum slouched lower into the warm water, arms locked tight over his chest. The tub was too full, bubbles clinging sticky to his skin, and Daan was splashing like a maniac. “Stop it!” he snapped as water hit his face. “You’re getting me all wet!” Daan laughed, kicking harder. “You’re in the bath, dummy! You’re supposed to be wet!” “It’s not funny!” Calum scrubbed his face with a soggy hand. “Stay on your side!” “Not a chance!” Daan scooped up a handful of bubbles and flung them toward him. “I’m makin’ a soap volcano!” “That’s not even real, stupid!” But Daan puffed out his cheeks like a pufferfish, bubbling spit into the water, and Calum cracked—his laugh breaking through before he could stop it. He splashed back hard. “You’re the worst.” “I’m the best,” Daan shot back, giggling as he dodged the splash. “You just don’t like losin’.” “Yeah, right,” Calum muttered, but his grin wouldn’t stay down. “Enough, boys.” Eleanor’s voice slipped through their giggles. Her hand touched Calum’s chin, fingers cool, steady. “Hold still. I need to rinse you.” Calum huffed but let her tilt his head back. Warm water trickled over his scalp and neck, sending a shiver down his back. He shut his eyes, shoulders tense. Daan stood nearby, water streaming off him. “I’m done!” he said proudly, arms out as Eleanor wrapped a towel around him, snug and warm. “You complained the most,” Daan added with a smirk as she tucked the edges in. “You always do.” “Do not!” Calum’s cheeks burned, but Eleanor’s gaze steadied him. She lifted him next, towel wrapping tight around his damp body, the weight of it making him squirm. His feet hit the tile, but her hands stayed firm as she dried his hair with gentle swipes. “Enough,” she said softly, nudging them toward the hallway. “Both of you.” Calum waddled after Daan, the damp towel pressing against his legs, the faint crinkle loud in the quiet. The air was cooler outside the bathroom, making his skin prickle. “I won the bath race,” Daan called back, his towel dragging behind him like a cape. “You cheated!” Calum pushed him, playful this time. Daan stumbled, laughing. “Boys,” Eleanor said, steady as ever. “Save it for later. Time for bed.” Eleanor caught Calum’s hesitation before he even reached the changing table. His feet dragged, towel slipping from his shoulders, but his gaze was fixed—drawn, despite himself—to the waiting stack of fresh Snugglz diapers. The soft cloth, printed with pastel animals and cheerful stars, seemed to glow under the nursery’s warm light. The sight alone tugged his lips into a pout he hadn’t meant to make. Daan, as always, needed no such prompting. He plodded forward with barely a glance, towel trailing behind him like a cape. “Go on, darling,” Eleanor said, her voice gentle but with that familiar push beneath it. The one that left no room for debate. Daan sighed, but he let her guide him onto the padded surface. His damp hair spiked in wild tufts as he shifted, eyes flicking down to the open diaper she unfolded. The soft bulk of the fabric rested between them—thick, familiar, its colorful prints crinkled from earlier folds. “These ones are too big,” he grumbled, his voice small but stubborn. He squirmed, but his arms reached—without thinking—for her neck as she lifted his legs. “They’re made to keep you comfortable all night,” Eleanor replied, her hands steady, practiced. She tucked the fabric up between his legs, smoothing it over his hips. The snaps closed, one after another—pop, pop, pop—the snug fit pressing his knees apart slightly. The soft glow of the runes shimmered to life along the waistband, blending with the prints of smiling stars and dancing bears. Daan frowned at the glowing symbols, but he didn’t speak. He only wiggled his toes as she zipped him into his powder-blue sleeper, the snug fit holding the thick padding firmly in place. He would crawl frog-legged later—she knew—but he needed this. The weight. The warmth. The security. Calum lingered near the crib, arms crossed tight over his chest. His cheeks were flushed, his gaze darting between Daan and the diapers stacked neatly beside him. “It’s too thick!” he snapped, louder than he meant. His foot thudded against the floor, not quite a stomp—more like he was trying to anchor himself. “You can’t even walk right in those! Why… why do we have to wear them all the time?” Eleanor turned with that same unshaken smile, though her eyes sharpened—just a little. “Come here.” He hesitated. He always did. But he came. He let her lift him—easily, like he weighed nothing—and lower him onto the table. The towel slipped away, leaving him bare, vulnerable. He shivered, though the nursery was warm. The Snugglz beneath him was soft, the cloth slightly cool against his skin. She folded it with the same practiced efficiency, pulling the thick fabric up between his legs. He felt it spreading him open, forcing his knees wider. His chest tightened. She smoothed the wings over his hips and began fastening the snaps—pop, pop, pop—each one quiet, final. The runes along the waistband lit up, faint and steady—merging with the pastel moons and stars scattered across the cloth. Calum’s jaw tensed. He wriggled, but not to get away—more like he was trying to resist the feeling of being sealed in again. She zipped him into his sleeper next, the pastel fabric stretching gently over the bulk beneath. His voice came smaller this time, almost fragile. “Do you… like this?” he whispered. Daan, sprawled nearby in his usual frog-legged pose, peeked up. His eyes flicked from Calum to Eleanor, his voice echoing softer: “Yeah… do you?” Eleanor’s hands paused. Just for a second. Her thumb rested against a wrinkle on Calum’s chest. She smoothed it away slowly, as if resetting the fabric—or resetting herself. Her smile didn’t break. “Let’s go,” she said, her tone as light as ever. She lifted Calum from the table. His feet touched the ground with a muted thud, the bulk of his diaper forcing his legs into a small waddle. Her hand smoothed his damp hair, then rested lightly on his back as she guided him forward. Her other hand gestured to Daan, who crawled ahead without question. Their movements merged—the soft crinkle of Snugglz cloth, the padded rustle of their sleepers, the faint hum of the nursery systems—steady, patient, like breath. Behind them, the glow of the changing table held steady, the faint shimmer of the runes lingering—always gentle, always present. The door slid shut with a quiet hiss. The kitchen hummed with the soft clatter of dishes as their dad swept them up, one by one. Daan squealed, halfway into a giggle as he was lifted under the arms, his legs kicking out, the thick bulk of his Snugglz pressing against his sleeper with every playful twist. “I’m not ready!” he yelped, though the grin stretched wide across his face said otherwise. Calum, on the other hand, wriggled harder as his dad hoisted him, the soft but heavy diaper pressing up between his legs, making every squirm feel slower, heavier. “Put me down!” he snapped, his face hot. He shot a glare across the table as his dad plopped him into the high-backed chair. The straps clicked snug around his waist—tight, holding him still. His scowl deepened. It always felt the same—like he couldn’t be trusted to just sit. Like he had to be held down. Daan was already seated, looking far too smug as his legs swung freely under the tray. “Bibs on,” their dad said firmly. The cloth slid over Daan’s head, gentle but certain, the knot cinched neatly at the back of his neck. He beamed up at his dad, unfazed. Calum crossed his arms tight across his chest, but his dad barely blinked, hands moving with quiet confidence. The bib slipped over Calum’s head, soft fabric settling against his chest. The strings tightened behind his neck with a faint crinkle—an almost delicate sound, but it pressed down on him like all the rest. Another piece. Another thing decided for him. His arms dropped. He slouched into his seat, accepting it. “Good,” their dad muttered, turning toward the plates. Steam rose in gentle wisps as he set their bowls down. The faint spices of Eleanor’s cooking mixed with something sweeter—fruit, maybe. Calum leaned forward, his stomach rumbling, but immediately pulled back, catching himself. Daan didn’t bother with restraint. He dug in, spoon clinking loudly against the bowl as he shovelled in his first bites. The clinking of spoons filled the room—steady, rhythmic. Daan’s legs swung beneath the tray, brushing the chair with soft thuds. Calum picked at the edges of his plate, pushing food around with exaggerated care, but his hunger gnawed at him. His jaw tightened. He didn’t want to give in first. His stomach growled again—louder this time. His hand twitched. The first mouthful was hesitant, but the warmth spread over his tongue, and his shoulders dropped before he could stop it. He hated that it felt good. He hated that it always did. “I’m tired,” Daan whined suddenly. His spoon clattered against his plate, missing his mouth. His bib sagged forward, crumbs stuck to the fabric. His legs stopped swinging, the thick diaper holding him open beneath his sleeper pressing warm into the seat. “You’re not tired!” Calum snapped, sharper than he meant to. His spoon froze mid-scoop, but his dad’s gentle tap on the edge of his plate made him move again. “Eat first,” their dad said lightly—calm, but final. No room for argument. Calum grumbled but kept going. Daan slouched deeper, eyelids drooping as he poked lazily at the last streaks of sauce. The scraping and clinking slowed—then stopped. The hum of the automaton took over, moving soundlessly to gather their plates. It swept them away with smooth, efficient grace—part of the house’s breath, part of the rhythm. Clearing the evidence. Their dad leaned back in his chair, watching them both—eyes warm, but steady. Always steady. “Good job, racers,” he said, his grin small but knowing. “Maybe next time, you’ll make it to dessert before the pit crew kicks in.” Calum smirked, the knot in his chest easing without him realizing. His spoon clinked softly against his empty plate. He glanced at Daan, whose head now rested against the tray, his bib askew, cheeks flushed. “Guess you are tired,” Calum muttered, his voice softer now. Daan didn’t argue. His eyes stayed half-lidded, his legs still, the gentle press of his Snugglz and sleeper holding him in place. As the hum of the automaton clearing dishes filled the room, their dad stood and stretched, the soft clatter of plates echoing in the now-quiet kitchen. “Alright, boys,” he said, placing his hands on his hips and glancing at the sleepy pair slouched at the table. “Time to head upstairs. Let’s get you ready for bed.” Daan mumbled something incoherent, his cheek squished against the edge of his bib as he half-dozed in his chair. Calum, though visibly tired, leaned back with a faint smirk. “Told you he was tired,” he muttered under his breath, nudging Daan’s dangling foot with his own. Their dad chuckled softly. “Guess that means you’re not, huh? Better prove it by getting to the nursery before your brother.” Daan sat bolt upright, his eyes suddenly wide. He wiggled free from the straps, the padded bulk of his diaper pressing against his sleeper as he squirmed down. “I’m gonna win!” he declared, though his limbs were still sluggish. “Not fair!” Calum twisted as their dad leaned over to unbuckle him. “He started first!” “Better hurry, then,” his dad said with a knowing grin, setting him on the ground. “Go!” The boys waddled off, feet padding unevenly on the floor, giggles bubbling over the faint crinkle of their diapers. Their dad followed at his own pace, pausing as Eleanor stepped into the kitchen, her apron still in hand. “A little late for races, don’t you think?” she asked, though her tone was mild, her smile gently knowing. “Better to tire them out now than later,” he said with a shrug. “They’re all yours.” Eleanor’s gaze followed the noise down the hall. “I’ll get them settled.” Her steps were measured, but quickened slightly as she entered the nursery. Calum was half over the crib railing, his padded bottom wriggling as he tried to pull his leg in. Daan sat victorious on his mattress, bouncing lightly with a crinkle beneath him. “I won!” he beamed. “Told you!” “You cheated,” Calum huffed, finally flopping onto the mattress, limbs sprawled. “Boys.” Eleanor’s voice was soft but sure. They stilled, the tension of their race dissolving into the warmth of her presence. The soft glow of the runes along their cribs pulsed faintly—like a gentle breath—wrapping the room in calm. Eleanor smoothed Daan’s hair, drawing the blanket up snugly over his chest, tucking the edges tight around the thick swell beneath his sleeper. “Good night, my darling.” Calum watched her as she came to him. Her fingers adjusted his blanket, pressing it over the familiar bulk at his waist. Her touch was gentle. Soothing. Inevitable. “Good night, Calum.” Her humming wove through the room, blending into the faint hum of the nursery’s systems. Calum shifted, his diaper crinkling softly under the covers. He let his eyes close. Daan was already breathing deeply. Calum blinked drowsily, eyes growing heavier as sleep crept over him. His thoughts drifted—loose, unguarded—toward the edges of something familiar. The hoverbike. He saw it—red and sleek, the plastic wings smudged with paint, resting in his dad’s hands. The toy. He remembered it there, just today, being fixed. But the image shifted, blurred, and the hum in his chest deepened, low and steady, vibrating through his ribs like it had come from somewhere else. His fingers curled around handlebars—real ones. Not plastic. Cool metal, rough where the grip had worn smooth from use. He leaned forward, his knuckles white, the engine rumbling beneath him. Wind brushed his face, biting and sharp, the narrow streets of New Amsterdam stretching ahead—fast, gray, alive. His legs hugged the seat tightly; his body knew this. He belonged here. He was moving. He was free. His hand twitched under the blanket, seeking the throttle, the weight of speed pressing against his chest. But his fingers found only soft cotton. The blanket was tucked snug around him. His legs didn’t grip anything—they lay slightly apart, pressed out by the familiar bulk of his Snugglz. He shifted, and the thick cloth diaper hugged him back, warm and full beneath his sleeper. The faint crinkle answered his movement—soft, gentle, unmoving. The engine hum dissolved, fading into the nursery’s low, constant breath. The wind, the speed—it was gone. Had he ever been there at all? The bike. The alleys. The city. Or had it always been this—this crib, this padding, this warmth wrapped around him? Had he dreamed everything else? His chest tightened, but his body knew what his mind struggled to accept. His limbs softened, muscles releasing into the mattress as the thick padding pressed up, firm and familiar, cradling him into place. The blanket held him down with gentle weight, and he let it. The tension eased from his legs as they spread naturally around the bulk, the warmth soaking into his skin. His breathing slowed, chest rising and falling with the steady hum of the nursery. Across the room, Daan shifted in his crib, letting out a small, contented murmur before sinking deeper into sleep. Calum listened to his brother’s breathing, steady and safe, as his fingers finally stilled. The ghost of handlebars faded from his palm. The hum remained, wrapping around him like the diaper’s soft embrace—holding him, keeping him. His body surrendered. Sleep took him. The hum carried on.

FTR, you *almost* came across as sympathetic with this post.  Almost. Except I *guarantee* your post did not have the effect you think it did. In fact, from what I can tell, it had rather the opposite, driving the discussion further down the path you didn't want to, to the point of a mod having to be involved. If that was your intent, I'd recommend a small ounce of self-reflection on whether or not your choice in words and tactics might be more effective.  (Also notice how my own wording here is rather less muted - and for a reason. Respectful discussion, even that I might disagree with, is matched with respect. It's only disrespect or attacks that are usually met with less...respectful defenses.) Do you know what post *did* cause the tone to shift? @Jacobs opening up about *why* he felt the way he did, providing what he was comfortable with, and showing that there was WAY more to this than the usual moral policing that such a post comes to.  Even in your post, you can't help but go back to it at the end - apparently we're down to just 'a lot' of people being crazy for this instead of 'everyone,' which I guess is, strictly speaking, improvement. I would point out how a significant amount of people would consider *anyone* crazy for wanting to pursue incontinence in *any* form, but I'd rather focus on the positives here. Do you know what causes positive conversation to happen? Being respectful about beliefs, honest about why you feel them, and assume the person on the other side of the argument has a reason to believe what they will. Notice how that recent aggressive post now sticks out like sore thumb - because now, it's coming in hot after the temperature has dropped. Starting a discussion with "you/we all are crazy and/or evil for wanting this, it's a form of self-harm, and anyone who encourages it in any capacity whatsoever is simply encouraging self-harm" is a sure-fire way to turn that temperature, way, way, WAY up. Suggesting that a permanent life choice needs to be made with the same care and attention as anyone would any other permanent life choice, including making sure that they'll still want it after the action is done?  That turns it way down. I will also point out that, as it turns out, my first speculation was rather on the nose as to what was driving the conversation the way it was to begin with - and it's also why, I will state for the gods-knows-how-many-eth time, that *any* permanent action like this should be taken when you've tried everything else first. If it works, it's cheaper. It's a good way to get an idea of what the "after" will look like. It lets you decide where along the way you'd like to stop if there's a place you want to. And it makes sure there isn't another thing going on, mentally or sexually, that might be distorting what you think you want. Unless @Jacobs wants to continue this thread, I hope it does end here - it's clear they prefer their privacy around this, has drawn attention they perhaps didn't want to, and have gotten their greater point across.  And I hope that lessons were learned for future discussions of points like this one - and that, gods forfend, maybe some day we won't have to have a special rule on this forum to keep from having people feel like they have to speak "truth to power" in any way, when they're usually just making the flames taller by doing so - something I myself am not always innocent of.

My stomach grumbled as she carried me down, my eyes locked on the delicious breakfast foods on her plate... but felt a pang of profound disappointed as she set me in the high chair and slide the disgusting looking much and baby bottle towards me. "You.... you can't be serious..." i started, the anger clearly evident in my tone, "I-I'm a grown man! I can't survive on this.... crap!"  I push the bowl  and bottle away, just to the edge of the edge of the tray, not quite hard enough to send in crashing to the floor, but the bottle turned on it's side, spinning in a half circle on the small table.  "Just.... give me some of that!" I demanded, pointing to her plate filled with her incredible looking food!