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Spanking
All About Spanking
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By Hannah YMS · Posted
I've followed your journey for almost that amount of time and I'm proud of your progress! You may never be truly incontinent in the medical sense of the term, but functionally, I think you're well on your way, especially since you're regularly sleep wetting now. I think for you and oznl, it's only a matter of time now. Sorry I can't say the same for me, I haven't made any real progress in years, so I go the stent route now. -
By superdiaperboy · Posted
Depending on where we are in public at the time mommy will sometimes change my nappy in the back of the car or in a disabled bathroom. I generally will get my nappy changed home before going out in public depending on fullness and content of the nappy to prevent a public change. -
Backstage, the ballet ensemble spilled into the wings like a shaken snow globe finally settling, yet refusing to fully calm. All that glittering energy—fear, adrenaline, hope—kept drifting down in slow, shimmering flakes, but every now and then it swirled back up again, caught in a sudden breath or a leftover tremble in someone's knees. The girls were flushed and glowing, cheeks pink from exertion and from something deeper they didn’t yet have words for. Their breaths came in stuttering bursts, the kind that tremble with relief but still hum with the echo of music, the memory of lights warming their skin. Rachel found Dylan first. She didn’t walk toward him—she launched, as if her body had known before her mind did that she needed to feel him solid under her arms. She collided with him in a hug so tight he let out a startled, breathy laugh that cracked in the middle. Rachel pressed her cheek against his shoulder, still warm from the lights, still carrying the faint scent of stage powder, and whispered, breathless and shaking, “You did it. You really, really did it.” Dylan laughed again, the sound unsteady but bright, like sunlight flickering over water. His cheeks were pink with heat and nerves and something close to disbelief. His eyes were still shiny from the applause he hadn’t entirely believed was for him. “You were perfect,” he murmured, the words spilling out before he could think. Rachel pulled back just far enough to see him—not the costume, not the dancer he had just been onstage, but him. The him who never believed he could do something like this. Her eyes shimmered, soft and wet and proud. “So were you.” Her voice cracked, and then she hugged him again, tighter, like she needed to anchor him in place so he wouldn’t float away under the weight of what had just happened. Near them, the other dancers clustered together in a loose, wobbly circle—arms draped around waists, fingers tangled with sleeves, cheeks pressed against shoulders. Their giggles burst out in uncontrollable little pops every time someone peeked out toward the audience and breathlessly reported that the standing ovation still hadn’t stopped. Their tutus bounced with every shift of excitement. Their tights rustled like whispers of wind. Even a few stagehands joined in, applauding with small, proud smiles as they passed. “Well done, ladies,” one murmured. “Nice lines out there.” One younger dancer—tiny, still new to the school, her bun slightly crooked—looked up at Dylan with wide, astonished eyes, as if she’d watched him grow wings mid-performance. She didn’t say a word, but her awe was so open, so guileless, that Dylan felt something hitch in his throat. Off to the side, Mrs. Dubois stood just offstage—arms folded, back straight, chin lifted. But it wasn’t her usual intimidating posture, the one that made girls pull their shoulders back or tuck their elbows in tighter. Her eyes were glassy, softened at the edges, like pride and vulnerability were sharing the same space inside her. When Dylan glanced her way, she gave him a single, precise nod. Nothing more. But somehow, it felt heavier than applause. Like a medal pinned where only he could feel it. Dana appeared next, slipping back into the wings after introducing the piano act. The golden spill of stage lights followed her like she carried her own halo. Her sequins caught the warmth and threw tiny reflections onto the walls. Her eyeliner was smudged just slightly—betraying tears she probably pretended she hadn’t cried. Dylan didn’t even think. He ran to her. She caught him with a surprised “oof!” before wrapping him up in a fierce hug, her hand splayed across his back like she was trying to hold all the trembling, overwhelmed pieces of him together. “You brat,” she laughed, wiping at her cheeks with a shaky hand, “I told you not to make me cry tonight.” He only hugged her tighter, burying his face against her shoulder. “Too late.” Another dancer dove into the hug, squealing, and then another, and then three more, until Dana was swallowed in a pile of warm arms, rustling tutus, and breathless, giddy laughter. “Okay—okay!” she wheezed, half-laughing, half-pleading. “I have to go back out there! Let me go before I melt into a puddle on the floor!” The girls, naturally, squeezed harder. Out in the audience, Beth sat frozen in her seat, stunned in a way that made the world feel soft around the edges. Her hands—once neatly folded in her lap—were now pressed to her mouth, fingertips trembling. “That was my son,” she whispered, barely forming the words, afraid that speaking too loud might shatter the fragile awe holding her together. Alyssa—breathless, glowing, a little teary herself—grabbed Beth’s arm, her voice tumbling out in excited bursts. “He looked like… like a superhero. Or a prince. Or both. Oh my gosh, Beth—did you see him? Did you see him?” Beth nodded, but her expression was soft, overwhelmed, almost fragile with the weight of what she’d just witnessed. “He looked… happy,” she said quietly, her voice catching. “I haven’t seen him look that sure of himself in a long time.” Parents in the nearby rows leaned closer now that the applause had finally softened. One mother asked, gently, “Was that your child up there? He was extraordinary.” Another added, “His presence—my goodness. He looked like he belonged on that stage.” Beth swallowed hard, her eyes shining. “He couldn’t dance like that before he came here.” She exhaled, shaking her head at the truth of it. “Not until these girls believed in him.” A warm chorus of murmured agreement swept through the parents around her. Someone handed Beth a tissue. Someone else brushed her arm in quiet sympathy. Another parent leaned in and said, with a smile that held real tenderness, “He’s going to remember tonight for the rest of his life. And so will we.” Backstage, the piano act roared to life. Tessa and Nora sat at twin baby grands, their fingers flying, wrists flicking, hair swishing each time they tossed a competitive glance at one another. Their music filled the hall—bright, mischievous, tumbling over itself like laughter that shook loose from the rafters. Audience members tapped their feet under velvet chairs. Soft chuckles rose when one pianist tried to outdo the other with increasingly outrageous flourishes, shoulders shaking with delighted disbelief. But backstage—behind the curtain, in the tucked-away corners where the lights dimmed into cozy shadows—a sweeter, quieter kind of music played. The soft rustle of tutus brushing together. The faint scent of warm stage lights, hairspray, and sweat drying on skin. Breathless congratulations whispered between friends. The unsteady, glowing joy of doing something impossibly hard—and doing it well. Miss Emma slipped in quietly, hands folded in front of her, her smile warm and wise and impossibly steady—like she’d been waiting for this moment longer than anyone else. Her gaze softened at the sight of Dylan wrapped in the circle of dancers—his shoulders finally loose, his face finally open, the anxious tension he always carried unwound just enough for light to seep in. It wasn’t over yet. The show still had acts left. There were still cues and steps and bows ahead. But in that moment—in that glow of shared triumph, in the soft laughter echoing against hallway walls lit faintly by piano music—it could’ve ended right there. And it would’ve been enough. From her seat near the center of the faculty row, Mrs. Sharp watched the ballet ensemble disappear into the wings—first a sweep of white, then a flicker of silver, then nothing but the soft shudder of the curtain settling in place again. The applause behind it was thunderous, reverberating through the floorboards, but somehow it felt distant to her, muted by the warm, swelling pressure building in her chest. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, the way she always kept them during performances, but tonight her knuckles were pale from how hard she’d been holding on. She exhaled slowly, letting her fingers loosen, tension slipping out one breath at a time like air leaving a long-held memory. “That went well,” Mrs. Langford murmured beside her. But her voice wasn’t crisp, or commanding, or threaded with administrative caution the way it usually was. It was quiet—reserved. Almost… humbled. The kind of tone she used only when something had caught her off guard in a way she hadn’t prepared a policy for. It made Mrs. Sharp turn her head just slightly, surprised. But she didn’t look away from the curtain. She couldn’t. Not yet. “Better than well,” she said softly, feeling the words before she chose them. “It was… remarkable.” The last word came out on a breath, as if she were still searching for something more precise, something big enough to hold what she felt. Langford gave a small nod, her jaw tightening then softening, like she was trying to swallow a feeling she didn’t entirely trust. Her eyes swept the room—families leaning forward with hearts still open, trustees discreetly dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs they pretended were for allergies, younger students buzzing in their seats with a cocktail of awe, impatience, and envy. Langford smoothed the front of her skirt with both hands, the gesture neat and practiced, but there was a tremor in it—a tiny admission of vulnerability she likely hadn’t meant to show. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she admitted quietly, voice nearly drowned out by the rustle of programs being set down. “But it hasn’t. Not once.” She blinked, brows drawing inward. “It feels strange.” “Maybe because it won’t,” Mrs. Sharp replied. She finally turned her head, her expression softening in a way she rarely allowed in public spaces. “You gave them a chance. And they rose to it. All of them.” She hesitated, then added with purpose, “Dylan included.” Langford’s exhale was slow, unsure. She didn’t answer right away. Instead her gaze drifted back toward the stage, where Tessa and Nora were deep into their opening number—four hands leaping across two gleaming pianos, hair swinging like metronomes in perfect counterpoint. These were the same girls who once struggled to keep straight faces during morning announcements, who whispered through assemblies, who doubted their own worth in ways they tried to mask with humor or bravado. And now they commanded the attention of an entire auditorium. “I didn’t expect to be proud,” Langford said finally. The confession came out softer than Mrs. Sharp had ever heard from her—fragile, like something spoken aloud for the first time. “Not like this. I thought my role was to maintain standards. Protect the school. Keep the ship steady.” Mrs. Sharp smiled faintly—just enough to curve the corner of her mouth. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “we do both.” She let the words linger between them, warm and patient, like a hand placed over an anxious heart. “Sometimes keeping the ship steady means letting it sail somewhere new.” Langford’s breath hitched—not dramatically, but enough for Mrs. Sharp to notice. Enough for her to understand that something inside the headmistress had shifted, even if only by a fraction. A soft rustle of fabric behind them announced Miss Dubois’ return. She slipped gracefully into her seat, posture still impossibly upright, as though her spine were a line drawn in ink. Her cheeks glowed with equal parts exertion and pride. She folded her hands in her lap—uncrossed, uncorrecting, utterly still—and kept her gaze pinned on the curtain. “I have never seen them dance like that,” Miss Dubois murmured, voice low but trembling with emotion. “Never with such… certainty.” “Or unity,” Mrs. Sharp added. “Or heart,” Mrs. Langford whispered. There were no words between the three women for a long moment after that. They simply breathed in the same warm air, watched the same glowing edges of stage lights flicker against the curtain, listened to the auditorium pulse with music and memory and the afterglow of something extraordinary. Because something had shifted tonight. Something subtle. Something deep. Something none of them could fully name yet. On that stage, their students had done more than perform. They had revealed themselves—pieces of their hearts, pieces of their courage, pieces of their growing selves that had been tucked away in quiet corners until tonight. They had stepped into something bigger: Confidence. Connection. Courage. Self-belief. And the faculty—whether they wanted to admit it aloud or not—had stepped forward with them. Changed, even if only by a breath. But changed all the same. And for once, none of them felt the urge to correct the moment, to tidy it, to explain it away. They simply let it be what it was: A soft turning point. A quiet, shimmering shift. A night they would all remember, long after the curtain closed. -
for me I would be nervous about the side vents in the distal end. That looks like it would scratch and irritate on movement. Great PSA @diapered 4 ever. i have never used a malecot. How firm are the wings? Even without a pusher the entrance to then prostate doesn’t collapse them? I dont use a pusher with any of my stents, I manipulate it from outside -
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