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Diaper References
Diaper/wetting references found in movies and on TV
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We gathered in the cabin’s inviting living room, the scent of fresh pine mingling with the warmth of the crackling fireplace. Plush cushions welcomed us as we sank into them, laughter and chatter filling the air. My dad stood before us, his eyes gleaming with pride and joy. “Welcome to our new cabin,” he announced, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that made the moment feel monumental. “Both families came together to make this happen—a shared retreat, nestled deep in the woods, where the trees whisper and the lake shimmers just beyond the clearing.” I looked around, heart swelling. The driftwood furniture, the soft glow of lanterns, the way the light filtered through the tall windows—it all felt like a dream. “Wow,” I whispered. “This is amazing.” Betsy leaned against me, her eyes wide as she took it all in. “It’s like something out of a storybook,” she said. Our parents exchanged proud glances, their smiles saying everything. This wasn’t just a cabin—it was a promise. Of summers spent exploring, of winters curled up by the fire, of memories waiting to be made. Outside, the lake glimmered in the morning light. Inside, the air buzzed with possibility. We gathered in the cabin’s inviting living room, the scent of fresh pine mingling with the warmth of the crackling fireplace. Plush cushions welcomed us as we sank into them, laughter and chatter filling the air. My dad stood before us, his eyes gleaming with pride and joy. “Welcome to our new cabin,” he announced, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that made the moment feel monumental. “Both families came together to make this happen—a shared retreat, nestled deep in the woods, where the trees whisper and the lake shimmers just beyond the clearing.” I looked around, heart swelling. The driftwood furniture, the soft glow of lanterns, the way the light filtered through the tall windows—it all felt like a dream. “Wow,” I whispered. “This is amazing.” Betsy leaned against me, her eyes wide as she took it all in. “It’s like something out of a storybook,” she said. Our parents exchanged proud glances, their smiles saying everything. This wasn’t just a cabin—it was a promise. Of summers spent exploring, of winters curled up by the fire, of memories waiting to be made. Outside, the lake glimmered in the morning light, its surface catching the sun like scattered diamonds. Inside, the cabin buzzed with possibility. Then came the best news of all. Betsy’s dad stood tall, his face lit with pride. “You kids—and your moms—will be staying here for the entire summer,” he announced. He explained that he and my dad would come alternate weeks, coming and going due to work obligations. A wave of excitement swept through the room. Betsy’s eyes widened, and our moms burst into animated chatter, their voices weaving together in a cheerful hum as they imagined all the adventures ahead—hikes through the woods, lazy afternoons by the water, stories told under the stars. I drifted into a quiet daydream, picturing the tender rhythms of our nightly routines. Helping Betsy get ready for bed, her trust in me like a soft light in the dark. The thought of spending a whole summer together filled me with a joy so deep it almost ached. As the week unfolded, we all pitched in to make the cabin feel like home. We rearranged furniture, hung string lights on the porch, stocked the pantry with snacks and supplies. Every corner began to carry the scent of pine and the echo of laughter. One evening, while exploring the edge of the woods near the lake, we stumbled upon a hidden fire pit—half-buried in moss and ringed with smooth stones. No one had noticed it before. It felt like a secret waiting to be found. We cleared it out, gathered kindling, and that night, under a sky dusted with stars, we made s’mores and told stories, the fire crackling between us and the lake whispering nearby. It was only the beginning. As the week unfolded, we threw ourselves into a handful of cabin projects—painting the weathered exterior a warm cedar brown and breathing new life into the two spare bedrooms with fresh linens and splashes of color. It felt good to work together, to leave our mark on this place that was quickly becoming home. We even fixed up the outdoor shower. On Friday, just before our dads packed up to head back to the city, we all took the canoes out to soak up the sunshine. The lake sparkled like a sheet of glass, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and sunscreen. Betsy and I had barely paddled thirty feet when she stood up in the canoe—bold, grinning, and completely unsteady. “Watch this!” she declared. It was over in a heartbeat. The canoe rocked wildly, and then—splash! We tumbled into the water, surfacing with gasps and laughter, our hair plastered to our faces, clothes clinging to our skin. We bobbed in the lake, laughing so hard we could barely breathe. My dad paddled over, shaking his head with a smile, and helped us haul the canoe back to shore. After dumping out the water and wringing out our shirts, we climbed back in and set off again, undeterred. The day turned out perfect. We found a quiet spot along the shore for a picnic, spreading out a blanket and sharing sandwiches, fruit, and juice boxes. The sun warmed our backs, and the world felt wide open. The following week settled into a rhythm—slow mornings, long afternoons by the lake, and evenings filled with laughter echoing through the trees. With our dads back at work, it was just the four of us, and the cabin felt like our own little world. One afternoon, our moms decided we needed new swimsuits. The old ones were stretched thin from too many dips in the lake and sun-soaked adventures. So we piled into the car and headed into town. I found mine quickly—simple, comfortable, and exactly what I needed. But the others? They turned swimsuit shopping into an art form. Betsy and her mom sifted through racks, holding up bold prints and debating styles. My mom joined in, laughing as they tried to convince each other to go for something daring. It was the kind of afternoon that felt timeless—no rush, no rules, just the quiet joy of being together. While they browsed, I lingered nearby, half watching the racks and half listening in on their conversation. Betsy’s mom gestured toward a display of bold swimsuits and said with a mischievous grin, “With no houses nearby, maybe it’s time to be bold—try something daring, like a thong.” My mom glanced at the suit in her hand, then gave her a look that clearly said, Are you serious? She laughed. “That shows a little more of my bottom than I’m comfortable with.” Betsy’s mom held up a string bikini next. My mom hesitated, eyeing it skeptically. “Still a bit too much,” she murmured. “And what would the kids think?” Betsy’s mom waved off the concern with a chuckle. “Please. The kids have seen our bare bottoms before. I’m sure they won’t care.” My mom nodded, half amused. “True. I know Betsy still sees you naked from time to time. And mine’s seen me too—though it’s been over a year.” Their laughter blended with the soft hum of the store, easy and unfiltered. It was one of those moments where grown-up worries gave way to shared memories and the comfort of knowing each other well. Betsy and I locked eyes, stunned. We couldn’t believe what they were saying—our moms, casually debating thongs and string bikinis like it was no big deal. My mom glanced over, shrugged with a smile, and said, “Well, I guess we’re going with the string bikini.” And just like that, both she and Betsy’s mom picked out the ones they liked. Betsy’s mom even found a bright, playful bikini for her daughter. After they paid, we headed home, the car filled with laughter and shopping bags. Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the cabin glowed with the soft light of lanterns, Betsy caught us all off guard. After her mom reminded her to take a shower, she casually walked into our bedroom, undressed, and strolled to the bathroom without a hint of self-consciousness. It was so routine, so natural, that no one batted an eye. But then came the twist. To everyone’s utter disbelief, Betsy strutted back into the living room—still gloriously nude—armed with nothing but a bar of soap, a towel, and the confidence of someone who’d just won a staring contest with a squirrel. Without so much as a glance at the stunned audience, she marched toward the sliding glass door like it owed her money. Her mom blinked, clutching her drink like it might offer answers. “Betsy!” she gasped. “What on earth are you doing?” Betsy turned, beaming like she’d just discovered indoor plumbing. “The moon’s out,” she declared. “Perfect night for my first outdoor shower.” And with that, she vanished into the night, leaving behind the scent of lavender soap and a living room full of unanswered questions. There was a long pause. Then my mom chuckled, shaking her head. “Well… she’s not wrong.” The rest of us exchanged glances, half amused, half bewildered. It was one of those moments that would become legend—retold around future campfires with laughter and wide-eyed disbelief. -
By Kaylaindiapers · Posted
Kayla woke up wiping the sleep out of her eyes. Then she felt it the wetness it was so embarrassing. She didn’t want Annie to know she had a legit accident and wet herself. The look probably gave it away. “Wh- what time is it?” -
By BrownBobby · Posted
1. Does your bladder fill up and then suddenly release a large amount, or is there a constant dribble? What causes retention or releases? My bladder filling is a rarity these days. I have a small stricture from the procedure, but it's very manageable by cathing about once a month with a 24fr catheter. If I let it act up further, I start retaining urine - but even then, it's not "control" in the normal sense. Lean back, or stand up, or cough, or just relax the pelvic floor, and whatever is being held back by the stricture comes out. (Not that it's much - it looks like my bladder holds 150mL these days, from a guy who used to go all day at high school holding it...) The other 95% of the time? Dribble, dribble, dribble. Maybe a spurt when I get out of bed in the morning and sit up. As I type this, I...well, let's move on to the next question. 2. What's your sensation? Does your bladder ever feel full? Do you feel urine leaking out, or is it just your skin feeling wet or diaper filling? Are you aware "I'm peeing now"? As I type this, I can feel drips and dribbles running down my scrotum and down through my perineum. Just a constant little dribble. If I'm standing, I can go all day and find myself in a soaked diaper I was completely unaware I was wetting. If I have a full bladder these days, it's an anomaly. (Case in point - when I do find my stomach hurting these days rarely, I have to remember what a full bladder used to feel like, and figure out if it's that.) -
In the morning, Annie got up and walked over to Kayla’s room quietly. Kayla was asleep. However, the urine reek revealed what happened in the night, but Annie didn’t know if Kayla woke up and wet her diaper or if she wet in her sleep. “Good morning, time to get up,” she patted Kayla’s shoulder. -
By UsuallyDiapered · Posted
There is a lot of mindless drivel on TV over the Christmas season (well, most of the year actually - which is why I rarely watch television), and usually I'll fall into a pattern of watching it for a few days. However there are a few films I like to return to at Christmas (not necessarily every year). One I usually watch every year is Scrooge (the 1951), with Alastair Sim in the title role. Apart from the beautiful themes it conveys, I find the soundtrack by Richard Addinsell so evocative. I also love the Christmas classics Miracle on 34th Street and It's a Wonderful Life. If it happens to be on television, I will not pass up an opportunity to watch Mary Poppins - as a child, this film would be on several TV stations over the course of Christmas day; now it has been relegated to sometime during the Christmas season, in favour of films which have zero connection to Christmas (although I guess Mary Poppins isn't, strictly speaking, a Christmas movie either). (On the subject of Mary Poppins, happy birthday to Dick van Dyke, who turns 100 tomorrow.) So, basically all of my favourite films were produced decades before I graced the world with my presence...What can I say? I'm a conservative, a traditionalist, a sucker for nostalgia, and for plain and simple movies with beautiful messages!
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