![[DD] Boards & Chat](https://www.dailydiapers.com/board/uploads/monthly_2021_11/DDweb-02.png.0c06f38ea7c6e581d61ce22dffdea106.png)
 |
Diaper References
Diaper/wetting references found in movies and on TV
1,050 topics in this forum
-
- 0 replies
- 12.6k views
-
- 8 replies
- 1.2k views
-
- 47 replies
- 5.9k views
-
- 1 reply
- 795 views
-
- 0 replies
- 664 views
-
- 4 replies
- 999 views
-
- 2 replies
- 870 views
-
- 4 replies
- 4.9k views
-
- 5 replies
- 2.3k views
-
- 5 replies
- 2.4k views
-
- 2 replies
- 1.9k views
-
- 0 replies
- 1.3k views
-
- 1 reply
- 2.5k views
-
- 0 replies
- 1.4k views
-
- 0 replies
- 1.4k views
-
- 1 reply
- 2k views
-
- 1 reply
- 1.9k views
-
- 0 replies
- 1.6k views
-
- 5 replies
- 6k views
-
- 2 replies
- 1.8k views
-
- 8 replies
- 4.2k views
-
- 0 replies
- 1.5k views
-
- 3 replies
- 3.4k views
-
- 1 reply
- 1.2k views
-
- 8 replies
- 3.6k views
.thumb.jpg.55a6df55da3613306d258f3d510e5655.jpg)
.thumb.JPEG.ceb8d969e2d6b9f5106550bae86932c5.JPEG)
-
Current Donation Goals
-
April BillsRaised $85 of $400 target
-
General FundRaised $10
-
-
-
Posts
-
I protested, as much as you can with a large pacifier tied to your mouth. It did its job well, stifling my sounds. I'd remove it but my wrists were tethered, tied to the straps of the bouncer I was in. Not that it mattered, thick padded mittens blocked use of my fingers, my thumbs; even if I could move my hands they wouldn't help, couldn't undo the buckle. Bouncers are for babies, which explained the pacifier. This was a very large one, designed for very large babies. Adult ones, like me. Not my choice; never that. Hence the mittens, to stop me releasing myself, escaping this torment. The wrist restraints were less usual. He'd said those were to keep me secure, stop me leaning over and falling out of the bouncer. Maybe strangling myself on its straps. He hadn't thought that through, my head was free, I could lean and use it to twist one of those strong flexible straps around my neck, enjoy its constraining embrace as a final escape. Not my thing. I'd survive this. Somehow. I hung there instead, feet barely touching the floor, arms up high, hands helpless. And protested in muted tones, shaking my head, glaring angrily at him. He laughed at that. Not cruel, just amused. By now his trousers were off, his underwear around his knees, his prick reaching towards me. I wasn't sure what he intended to do with it, the pacifier blocking one orifice, the others safely secured, hidden beneath several layers of soft damp cloth. It was damp because I'd lost control. I shouldn't be embarrassed by that. I was an adult baby, kept in diapers against my will, no way to remove them. No access to a toilet, so what else could I do. Yet it was humiliating anyway, especially when she strapped me to a table, carefully removed the soft plastic pants keeping those layers sealed beneath and commented on the state of them. It was always wet, often soaked; never a change before they were well used. But she wasn't here now, just him. And his pride and joy, getting ever closer to me. I recoiled, trying to avoid its touch but the bouncer held me in place, its straps holding my wrists out of his way. He'd touched me before, lifting me into this bouncer, fastening my wrists up above me. Had the chance to fondle my body, hadn't taken it. Unless you counted putting his hands on my hips, which I didn't. They'd had those layers of cloth between him and my skin, and all he'd been doing was pulling me gently down before releasing me, letting the elastic of the straps tug me up, the bouncer between my legs squeezing the dampness against me. That had made me damp too, in a different way. I shouldn't be embarrassed by that, I was an adult, another adult was intentionally giving me sensations where it mattered. I couldn't resist and I couldn't pretend it wasn't working. Yet it was humiliating anyway, especially when he saw the expression on my face, smiled in quiet satisfaction. Knowing that he knew he'd succeeded, that he'd given me pleasure from wet diapers. That he knew I was enjoying it, no matter my protests. Maybe that's why he was ignoring my protests now. He didn't speak, just reached into the cradle of the bouncer, pulled my dress clear. That didn't take long, a short infantile dress barely mid-thigh on a good day. Wearing diapers wasn't a good day, the extra bulk flaring the soft tulle underskirt which pushed out the skirt itself, the result easy exposure of the diapers beneath with the merest of movements. Or no movement at all, if a man's hands were lifting it clear. His were revealing my knitted tights. I should be flattered, they were custom made for me, knitting them one of her pleasures. Putting them on me another. They were comfortable enough, sized for me but based on a pattern for babies, no seams, plenty of stretch, designed to fit easily over a diaper. I wasn't flattered. It was yet another humiliation, clothing I needed because of the diapers, another confirmation I was a baby, adult or otherwise. I was an adult, and I had to keep reminding myself of that. He pulled the tights away from my waist easily enough, stretching them to reveal my plastic pants. Those were next, fresh air reaching parts of my body used to the warm confines within them, a cold sensation on my skin. Matched by the cold sensation in my mind, this intrusion now intimate, personal. Normally only she touched me there. He wasn't meant to, she'd been clear that I wouldn't need a change, would be fine until she returned. I wasn't sure I agreed, would welcome a change long before she would think it was due. Would welcome getting out the diapers completely, simple cotton knickers, the ability to walk without a waddle. I didn't welcome someone else interfering there. I didn't want him in my diapers.. in me. Somehow though I'd stopped protesting by then. When you're used to the torment of others being in control, no choice over basics like your clothes, your food.. your use of a toilet.. you grow used to accepting what's forced onto you. Now he was tugging my diaper clear. It was pinned tightly, snug against me, comfortable and secure. A wet diaper shouldn't be comfortable but this one was only damp, I could pretend I didn't welcome the wetness it would soon absorb. I was being kept in them, why shouldn't I be at ease with that, find the soft moisture pressing against me comfortable. A comfort. I stared into his face. He was looking down, concentrating. One hand holding my clothing clear, the other on himself. Pulling his tip up to my waist, dipping it slightly inside my diaper. It wasn't rape. Several inches away, and he wasn't that big. He wasn't even erect, his torso against mine, his hair against my waist. I couldn't see what he was doing, could only feel flesh against me. Until I felt something else, unexpected warmth, running down my skin, inside my diaper. I shook, tried to jump, pushed at him with my chest, asserted my complaints anew. It didn't help, one hand releasing my clothing, the elastic of my plastic pants trapping him in place against me, his hands reaching behind to hold me close as he emptied himself into my diaper. It grew wet, did its job, wicked the moisture away. The warmth had already reached below me, now I felt it spreading around the top of my thighs, rising up behind me. The cloth absorbed everything he offered then held it against me, the plastic pants allowing no options, my tights permitting no slack. Finally he stepped away, my clothes rearranging themselves, falling into place. No sign of what he'd done, just a wet diaper. I shouldn't be embarrassed by that, I caused plenty of them, it was just part of my life these days. Yet it was humiliating anyway, being an unwilling victim not lessening the shame. This wasn't just a wet diaper, this was an abuse, a physical display of power. That made it different, impossible to accept. Different to him too I guessed. He was already dressed, tucking himself away before fastening his fly, the final step of hiding what he'd done. I could tell her but she wouldn't believe me, he could deny it. When she got back she'd be amused, tease me for how wet I was, claim I was deflecting, trying to pretend I didn't need diapers. I didn't. I just used them, all the time, every day. No choice, that was the thing. He didn't either yet he'd just used one. Mine. He smirked at my distress, reached up and wiped the tears I hadn't held back, had silently had to let run down my face. He spoke for the first time since she left. I wish he hadn't. "Don't cry little one, we both know you like a nice wet diaper. That's not all, my body's telling me I'll have another toilet need soon. Wont that be cosy in your diaper." My look of horror was interrupted by one of shock, matched by his own. The door had crashed open and she stormed in. She was always in control but I'd never seen her angry, her firmness with me kind and gentle even as it was unrelenting. He didn't get that kindness. He got the taser, got several seconds twitching on the floor. Good job he'd just used a diaper, left him too empty to make a mess for her to clear up. By the time he'd recovered he was sucking on one of my pacifiers, strapped to him as tightly as he was strapped to my changing table. I knew he couldn't escape that; I'd tried many times. I wasn't trying to escape now, instead welcoming her embrace as she held me close, nustling my face into her neck, letting her stroke my hair, rub my back. I didn't resist as she released my wrists, unhooked the straps and lowered the bouncer to my ankles. I let her lead me free of it, and allowed her to refasten my wrists to the bedframe. Of course she'd restrain me. She seemed to know I needed a diaper change, and she always tied me down for those. Usually on the changing table but I was glad to stay away from that right now. She was efficient, my dress up around my waist, everything below that removed in seconds, cold air reminding me of what I'd had to endure. A trip to the sink and a wet flannel was wiping me, cleaning me, returning me to infantile purity. I said nothing, even behind the pacifier, and she was quiet too. Normally diaper changes were intimate, a soft patient exploration of my body, the gentle teasing given with a smile, sometimes a kiss on my tummy. This one was clinical, my clean body rapidly pinned into fresh bamboo gauze, a new pair of plastic panties dooming me to more hours of soggy torment. But this time it would be my body causing the wetness. That should be humiliating, a source of embarrassment, but now I welcomed it, took comfort that I was safe, was grateful that she'd saved me and was protecting me. As she released my wrists from the bed I caught her by surprise, wrapped my arms around her and this time it was me pulling her close, drawing her into a cuddle. She hugged me back, gave me a few moments then led me over to my rocker, an adult sized replica of a baby's chair. She strapped me in but left my wrists free, my arms able to move around for the first time in hours. I couldn't release myself anyway, my mittens preventing me removing the seat's buckles, so I just kicked my bare legs to make the chair rock and watched her. That left my diaper visible, the crotch strap too narrow to hide them, the dress not reaching far enough either. I shouldn't be embarrassed by that, she'd left me there, I couldn't really do anything about it. Yet it was humiliating anyway, we both knew she hadn't made me kick out my legs to rock the chair, knew I could use my mittened hands to push my dress down, could at least try to hide my diaper. I hadn't, had acted like a baby, seemingly uncaring about my lack of dignity. I blushed but still didn't try to cover myself, just squeezed my body against that crotch strap, the rocking chair giving it a rhythmic pressure against my diaper. Against me. He was watching. Awake now, unable to escape his bonds. Despite the show I was giving him his eyes followed her as she went to the bed. She picked up my tights, put them in the basket, picked up my used diaper. Instead of putting it in the pail to be washed she took it over to the changing table. Now she spoke for the first time since she'd left. "Why aren't you in your diaper? Come on, lets get you properly dressed," she said to him. He gasped and wriggled, tried to free himself again. She ignored that and went to her sewing table where she made so many of my clothes, took out her applique scissors. They didn't look dangerous, the rounded tip giving them an obscure almost comical look but he reacted badly anyway. That didn't slow her, confidently using them to cut his clothing off him. For the second time today I saw that transgressing part of him, this time hiding in fear. She hid that further, wrapping it in cold wet cloth. The diaper she'd taken off me, now on him. Only fitting, he was the one who'd wet it. My plastic pants went on him next, sealing his fate but she hadn't finished there, went to the wardrobe. I smiled for the first time in ages; turned out I did like him being in my diapers. She returned with a wraparound dress, one of her own. A more adult style than she'd allow me but probably the only thing she could make fit him. He moaned through his gag, but we both saw his diaper start to bulge. That had to wait; her phone was ringing. She draped the dress teasingly over him and went to answer it. "Yes? Yes, but there's been an issue. No. No, worse than that. Yes, I'm sure. I saw it on video. We'll need someone else tomorrow please - and there'll be two to look after. No, I understand, no rush, call back when you've found someone. Speak to you in a bit!" She looked over at him. "Yes. I saw everything you did. I was watching on my phone as I came into the house. I also heard what you said. Well, you're in your diaper now, little baby boy, so just go ahead when you're ready." More noises from him. I wondered if I'd sounded like that. I hadn't deserved what he did though, let alone what he was planning to do to me. So I had no sympathy for him, for what he was about to do to himself. She saw my smile of satisfaction, the pacifier inadequate to hide it, and came over to caress my face. I looked at her and let my eyes tell her how much I loved her. She didn't need telling, just kissed me on my nose and stood up, spoke loudly enough for us both to hear, glared at him to make her point very clear. "When the agency calls back, I'll make it clear. Tomorrow I want a babysitter, not a babyshitter." -
.thumb.png.e76412a12890a4f63d9fa4c4165cb1cc.png)
By DiaperboyEddie12 · Posted
@vvp39 When you get ready to buy ask @DailyDi for his affiliate link so he gets a commission. Even though books are pennies on the dollar. But every cent helps -
Hi people, Am based in the UK and wondering if there’s any sort of events whereby we DLs can meet up, socialise make friends etc. Anyone know of anything like this? Look forward to hearing from you :) -
By bj & the bear · Posted
They all are from kindergarten all the way up. I was never the popular one in school and was bullied/picked on as we called it back then. Your kid can be good as pie till they start school it seems . Get em around other little aholes and they eventually become one more offen than not . Unless you are a strong parent who carries a big spoon to put those tudes in check lol. -
-
-
