Trading Post

Gwen had seen him on the monitor, but decided to let him stew for a moment while she finished getting breakfast ready. Sausage and avocado toast for her... and baby cereal for him, plenty of fiber. She did, eventually, make her way to the nursery and unlocked the door. Immediately meeting him a frown. She was dressed even more alluringly, in a navy blue satin robe just loose enough around her impressive figure. "Little boys aren't supposed to get out until Mommy comes and gets them. It's a good thing your crib is being delivered today. Now, looks like the baby needs changing. Using your diapee like a good little baby."

“Freedom from debt. A return to a simpler time. Because anxiety shouldn’t be your full-time job.” — Official RRA Campaign Slogan, 2041   “It’s not even that embarrassing anymore. Everyone knows someone who signed up. It’s like community college but pink and degrading.” — Podcast clip: “Mornings with Mika & Jaye”   “Regression is not punishment. It is potential, properly packaged.” — Vera Langdon, Imperium Symposium Keynote, 2043 CHAPTER ONE She used to watch this part with drink in hand. Fingers curled around the crystal stem, eyes glittering with judgment, amusement, perhaps even mild arousal at the rows of regressives lined up like exotic desserts behind the glass. Some shaking. Some pouting. All on glorious display for her viewing pleasure.  She would sip. She would smirk. She would score. Watching rows of fresh regressives lined up like luxury confections was one of her favorite pastimes. The smooth perfection of their soft restraints. The helpless flailing of bodies beneath those infantile pink onesies. The quiet drama of humiliation playing out behind soundproof glass. It was erotic. It was refined. It was… amusing. They weren’t people. Not anymore. Not after how far they had fallen. Not after how poorly they managed their own lives. Not after society had deemed them fit for rehabilitation. Vera would cross her legs and perch herself on the velvet chaise overlooking the Pod Room, a slow smile curling on her lips as she watched women squirm in their pods for her like toys on display. A slow parade of ruined women, their shame compressed into soft pink plastic and satin trim. It had long been one of her favorite little indulgences. Far better than art auctions or runway debuts. She used to call it shopping. Back then, Vera wore silk robes and whispered critiques behind manicured fingers. She circled and judged them like a sommelier at a private tasting. Too docile, and they would be dull by week two. Too bratty, and you would be sending them back for reprocessing. But the ones who resisted—subtly, beautifully—those were the ones worth the exorbitant price tag. She loved watching the fight bleed out of them, slow and delicious. Yes, that was the sweet spot.  One in particular, a redhead in her late thirties, still breathtaking with high cheekbones and a neck like royalty, had become a personal favorite. The woman had clenched her jaw and refused to give them a single whimper as her bottom was wiped. She somehow maintained her poise as a very public orgasm was pulled from her trembling body. Well, as much poise as one could manage under the circumstances. Vera had nearly applauded. It wasn’t the spectacle that thrilled her. It was the slow degradation. The way dignity came off in layers, peeled back like silk gloves. There was something exquisitely delightful in the slow deterioration of the proud woman’s will—watching her unravel inch by inch until she was indistinguishable from the rest. Yes, diapers and regression were the great equalizers.  And now... Vera was in a pod of her own. No longer watching, but being watched. The sweet irony did not amuse her. Vera knew every stage, every camera angle. She knew which lights would flatter her skin and which angles they would crop for the auction highlights. She had written the goddamn handbook. But none of that knowledge helped. If anything, it made everything worse. Strapped down and dressed in a standard-issue onesie, the same nauseating shade of infantile pink she used to eviscerate at garden parties. The kind of pink that tried too hard to be cute. That begged to be forgiven. The same saccharine hue she’d once dismissed with a smirk. It had been funny then. It wasn’t now. Her reflection stared back from the curve of the glass—still beautiful, still composed. Her makeup long gone, dark hair pulled into childishly perfect pigtails. Just a blank, doll-faced version of herself, stripped, standardized and displayed for their viewing pleasure.  Still beautiful. But not herself. They had polished her like an antique and prepped her for resale. Vera was flawless. Fucking flawless. But it didn’t matter. She’d known men—and women—who paid a premium for the older ones, which was why it terrified her now. But she refused to let them see her tremble.  Because people were watching her. They were taking notes and comparing just like she had done so many times to the other regressives. Just like she used to do. Clinical. Detached. Calculating. Scoring her movements. Her body. Her shame. The vibrator inside her continued its mocking song, kept just low enough to be maddening but not enough to tip her over. The wetness between her legs wasn’t desire—it was betrayal, her body reacting when she hadn’t given it permission. And Vera hated it. The camera above her hummed quietly, trained on her like a silent judge. Her pod was immaculate, minimalist—luxury stripped bare. The blue-white lighting made her skin look almost flawless, and she knew from experience that the exclusive auction feed was likely cycling through angles: profile, overhead, reaction close-ups. Highlight clips. God, the highlight clips. They were grading her. The Elite. They were laughing and watching for the slightest tremble in her thighs, the tiniest microexpressions of shame beneath her cultivated composure. The inevitable tremble in her lips when the plug hummed back to life.  Now, Vera could almost see how they would score her. Modest for her age. Graceful, but stiff. Physically maintained—prideful in appearance. Little emotional leakage so far, but watch those eyes, they’d say. See how she flinches when the straps are tightened? Look at the way she still tries to maintain her dignity, even when her body betrays her. They would study her the way she had studied them. She hated how much sense it made. But the lights weren’t soothing when they were on you. The pod wasn’t calming—it was suffocating, a velvet-lined chokehold on everything Vera used to be.  And there was no velvet chaise here. No crystal stem in her fingers. Just the vinyl squeak of her shame and the soft mechanical buzz of her gilded submission. Vera Langdon had hosted Imperium banquets. Spoken at moral symposiums. Donated to every tier of regressive research. And here she was, spread open, and exposed for all to see.  Her wrists were strapped to the pod railings. Her ankles cuffed into butterfly-shaped restraints, forcing her legs wide in enforced display. The pink onesie stretched tight across her breasts, every rise of her chest another reminder of how exposed she truly was. Her diaper had already been changed twice. The second time, they left her exposed for six full minutes while the nurse calmly filled out her clipboard. The air had felt colder than it should have. The silence louder. And still the camera didn’t blink. Vera didn’t cry. But every time her breath caught or her thighs twitched when the plug vibrated, she knew it would be clipped. Labeled. Shared. Rated. She had done it to others. She expected no less now. Dozens of elegant notebooks lined her shelves—scored pages cataloging past regressives she’d evaluated for modesty, obedience, arousal, emotional deterioration. She never graded on looks alone—though of course, that mattered. She graded on poise. Reaction. Character. Cold Starts she called them. Women who arrived frigid and icy but melted slowly, gorgeously were her absolute favorite. She loved the illusion of earning their collapse. Now, she was melting. And there was no illusion. She hated it. Vera clenched her jaw. Her thighs, slick with betrayal, had lost their rhythm. Her lips parted. Her hips arched, instinctively, when the vibrations surged again. Someone marked the timestamp. The nurse didn’t flinch as she clicked her pen and notated Vera’s shame. She came with a gasp. It was soft, restrained, silent. As it always was. She didn’t sob. She didn’t scream. Just a hitch in her breath as the first tear came without permission. Uninvited. Unforgivable. And it was captured, categorized, and fed to the hungry wolves in silk.  Vera stared at her own reflection and tried to keep her face neutral. Tried to hide the tears. Hide the cracks. She would give them nothing. She stole a glance at the nurse by her side.  Did they not know who she was? She was Vera Fucking Langdon. Board donor. Estate Adopter. Imperium Circle. She had given speeches about regressive morality. She had purchased girls like this. And now… she was one. Vera never tried to claim a mistake. She had earned this. She had fallen. But what broke her wasn’t the punishment—it was the equality of it. She wasn’t like them. She still believed that. But her pod looked no different than the one beside her.  The onesie wasn’t tight so much as tailored—cut high along the hips, contoured to curve inward at the crotch like it was designed to showcase the bulge. Every movement dragged the fabric upward, forcing the thick diaper to rise with it, exaggerated and obscene. It didn’t just fit her. It posed her. Legs nudged open by plush resistance. Posture pulled toward parody. It was clothing designed not to cover, but to display—crafted with precision to infantilize and expose. And she wore the same infantile pink as the rest of them. Pink. Vera was forty-eight years old for god’s sake. She wasn’t naïve, defiant, or doe-eyed. She had worked tirelessly in her nearly five decades to become a member of the Elite, hosting events in palaces, dining with dignitaries, and yet now Vera was dressed the same as the twenty-year-old influencer with fake eyelashes and a wet diaper laying in the pod beside her. Only the price tag would separate them. But the shame? That was perfectly uniform. Every time she caught her reflection—cheeks flushed from overstimulation, a string of drool escaping her lips as the vibrator surged to life again—she repeated her mantra in silence: You are Vera Langdon. You are not like them. But it was harder now. So much harder. Because every hour in this pod peeled that belief back another layer. And Vera wasn’t sure what lay underneath. She wasn’t here by accident. She wasn’t here for redemption. She was here because the system she helped build never had loyalty. Only appetite. She used to laugh at the childishly humiliating outfits—onesies with frilly cuffs, bibs that said “Messy Girl.” But now she saw the truth. It was never about cuteness. It was about control. It was about turning power into performance. Aesthetic erasure. Infantilization as punishment. Vera tried not to think about what came next. Tried not to imagine the rooms behind the glass. But it came anyway. Diaper changes. Bottle feedings. Public punishments. Being led by the hand with a leash clipped to the front of her childish romper. She wondered who would bid on her. A rival, perhaps. Or an ambitious couple looking to add a “mature” piece for their collection. Maybe someone young and sadistic, eager to prove they could tame a woman like Vera Langdon. They would take her home and strip her down. Assign her a silly name like Princess or Miss Muffin. Feed her from a spoon. Spank her for her sass. Put her in the corner like a naughty little girl who had forgotten her place. The humiliation was cumulative. Not one moment, but all of them, stitched together like a quilt of disgrace. She tried to breathe slow. Keep her chin lifted. But when the plug activated again—just enough to curl her toes and arch her spine—she couldn’t summon the strength to pretend anymore. The camera caught it and the nurse smiled and clicked her pen.  And Vera Langdon—once the judge, the buyer, the strategist—lay trembling in her pod like every other needy little girl she used to mock. They wouldn’t just take her power. They’d take her personhood. Her pride. Her name. Her edge. And she knew this was only the beginning. Humiliation here wasn’t episodic. It was architectural. Layered. Intentional. A full-body erasure stitched in satin. And Vera—Vera Langdon—had helped draft the fucking blueprint. ------------------------------------------- Welcome to The Diaper Deal. A dystopian program where shame is structured, obedience is aesthetic, and adult failure becomes public performance. Crushed by debt? Overwhelmed by life? You can sign it all away—your name, your rights, your body—and start over as a fully dependent regressive. The Regressive Reformation Authority (RRA) offers desperate citizens a humane solution: surrender your autonomy, sign away your rights, and begin again under supervised Guardianship. It’s debt relief in diapers. Therapy with a pacifier. Once enrolled, Regressives are stripped of all adult privileges. Clothing, privacy, speech—even toilet use—are revoked. Pacifiers replace protest. Diapers replace autonomy. Behavior is modified through routine, reward, and ritualized shame. It's not jail. It's not freedom. It’s something far worse. From elite auction pods to pastel nurseries, The Diaper Deal is a dark, immersive universe of humiliation, control, and psychological surrender where power is stripped one diaper change at a time. Don't want to wait? You can read the rest of Vera's story (and the next four books in The Diaper Deal series) HERE or click below to join us on Ream or SubscribeStar to read ALL of my books. It's also where I post new chapters as I write them and discuss all of the characters and plot twists and crazy theories as we go.  Ream | SubStar | Amazon | Free Monthly Story  

Her parents certainly wouldn't approve of her taking medicine unsupervised, but it isn't something they would be extremely unhappy with, either. Not a doctor either, though I've done enough research to think that I've got a decently accurate list and progression of symptoms to where I intend Maddy to end up. Regardless of what medications she is taking, dehydration and not discussing her symptoms with her parents are going to be bigger factors in exacerbating her illness. That would be an embarrassing way for her to get caught, but she is going to have a harder time keeping all her symptoms hidden as they progress. Glad to be continuing the story. And yes, things are not going to be going well for Maddy in the next chapter. Thanks!

James woke up in what appeared to be a nursey. He hoped it was all a bad nightmare as his diaper crinkled and worse of all it was wet.   “What the hell!” He cried as he got up It was a tight fit.   “I’d rip this damn thing off but I have no clothes!” He said to himself frustrated. He looked around and saw it the baby monitor.   “Hey I’m awake let me out.” He noticed the door was locked.        

I did have plans to introduce two brothers in Dr Paige's program, but not these two specifically. They were just background characters but I can see them coming back at a point if the story goes that way. In the original story, one of the women in Kelly's friends group mentioned having her sons in the program, so I want to explore that and the sibling dynamic of it. Thank you! You flatter me! And noted. Will definitely try and have them get some interesting clothing options for George, now that he's sliding towards the program. I adore the fictional brands/patterns in Shifting Sands. Rest assured that Mighty Diggers, Little Lambs and Fishy Friends will be making a return eventually, alongside some other diaper ideas of my own. Thanks! And if its becoming a Shifting Sands story, I'm doing something right!