Trading Post

Posting now when wet. my younger Dom Asian Husband keeps me always wet. When i change out of my double Rearz trainers twice a day, i am required to wet immediately into the dry trainers. my Husband likes to have my crotch and especially my butt wet continuously, as a symbol of my submission to Him.

This morning, nude except for my disposable diaper, squatting in front of my younger Dom Asian Husband. Part of His dominance of me is that i have no privacy in my bodily functions.

I ware pants over the top which helps define crotch shape abd prevent crinkle. Also loose baggy clothes or an oversized top/hoodie/shirt etc which helps hide any bulges. Dont wait to long between changes to prevent any loose oders. 

It is a nice feeling so convenient. Knowing im clean yet still wet. I have had reactions to the sented wipes so I choose non sented. The baby powder fills in the gap and sticks well

The curtain stayed closed a moment longer than expected—long enough for the audience to shift forward in their seats, long enough for the air to thicken with that almost-sweet kind of anticipation that tasted like warmth and fear and hope all blended together. Backstage, Mrs. Dubois stood just inside the wing, her silhouette sharp and elegant against the dim glow of the cue lights. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Every inch of her posture held something fierce and careful—pride pressed into precision, concern hidden inside a stillness so controlled it bordered on reverent. The students behind her breathed in shallow, synchronized puffs, as if their lungs were sharing the same fragile rhythm. Their shoulders rose and fell like trembling waves. The house lights dimmed. Music stirred—soft at first, like an inhale before a confession. Someone in the third row gasped softly. And then, with a slow sweep that felt heavier than cloth should ever feel, the red velvet curtain finally parted. The audience inhaled as one—an audible, shimmering intake of breath that rippled through the room—as the dancers stepped into view. They looked almost weightless under the stage lights, arranged in a perfect spread formation. Soft whites. Slate grays. Hints of silver threading through hems and cuffs. Glittering edges where the costumes caught the glow, each movement sending tiny sparks of reflected light outward. But all of that blurred, softened, dissolved the moment their eyes found the center. Dylan. He didn’t just stand there. He arrived. Like someone stepping out of a winter-night storybook or a dream you only remember in fragments—snowlight, breath, a muted kind of magic. His costume—a sleek shimmer of mesh and structured lines—hugged him in a way that didn’t hide him but revealed something quieter, braver. Something he’d been burying all summer. He looked… radiant. Nervous. Open in a way that made hearts catch and hold. Alyssa’s breath hitched. She covered her mouth like she was afraid even a whisper might break the moment. Beside her, Beth went perfectly still, fingers curling around the seat in front of her, gripping so tightly her knuckles blanched white. Her son—her Dylan, her gentle, anxious, stubborn boy—stood under stage lights like he belonged there. No shrinking. No apologizing. Just standing in the center of something beautiful. “He’s—” Alyssa whispered, but her voice cracked and the rest of the sentence crumbled into silence. Beth didn’t answer. Her throat bobbed. Her eyes shone too brightly. Her breath caught high, held tight and trembling. And then the dancers moved. The swell of music lifted them into motion—bodies unfurling, lines sweeping across the stage in soft, shifting diagonal patterns. It looked like water given shape. Arms rising, feet gliding, skirts and sleeves trailing in delicate echoes. The choreography unfolded like a story told in overlapping breaths. It wasn’t flawless. A stumble here. A late turn there. But those moments—those tiny imperfections—only made it feel more human, more alive. Like watching a group exhale the same breath, sharing one heartbeat. Rachel moved like silk in moonlight—effortless, serene. She was the kind of dancer people normally described as ethereal, but tonight she didn’t overshadow. She framed. She guided. She made room. Because Dylan—awkward, earnest, determined Dylan—was the one the audience couldn’t look away from. He didn’t dance like the others. Not exact. Not polished. Not textbook. But there was a rawness to him that felt truer than technique. Every movement came from someplace deep and unguarded, like each gesture was tugged straight out of his chest. Every turn carried a flicker of something vulnerable, something reaching, something quietly brave. And somehow, all of that made him luminous. His costume shimmered when he turned, catching the light like ripples on glass. It outlined the shape of his determination—his shoulders squaring, his chin lifting, his arms extending with a courage he hadn’t known he possessed. His movements weren’t perfect, but they were honest—achingly, beautifully honest. Offstage, Mrs. Dubois allowed herself the tiniest nod. It was so small it barely existed, but it held entire sentences. There you are. I knew you were in there. Out in the crowd, murmurs began threading through the rows. Not judgment. Not curiosity. Wonder. A whispered, “Is that the boy?” drifted upward, but no one shushed it. Not because it was taboo, but because every eye was fixed on the same center point on the stage. Phones sat forgotten in laps and purses. For once, no one wanted a recording. They wanted the moment itself. As the final swell of music rose, the dancers swept into their closing formation—open-armed, radiant, all turning gently outward with Dylan anchoring the center like the hub of a bright wheel. The formation expanded around him like a breath released. And then—stillness. A long, suspended heartbeat of silence. Followed by applause so sudden and explosive it felt like the room itself stood up. The audience leapt to their feet as if pulled by a string, cheering with something between joy and disbelief, hands slamming together so loudly the sound trembled in the air. The dancers held their pose, chests heaving, shoulders trembling with adrenaline and relief. Rachel glanced at Dylan, her eyes shining with something proud and soft and almost sisterly. But Dylan didn’t see her. He was staring into the lights, eyes wet, trying—failing—not to cry, his breath shuddering in his chest like a secret finally too big and too tender to hold inside.