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Baby Talk
Let your baby side show.
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By Turbo_Flutter · Posted
Yes, I've tried both the Baby Parade and Tykables Animooz. Both are cloth backed and the real only difference is wicking speed and soft feel. The Tykables have the slight edge on them. If you want an amazing cloth backed diaper IMO, try Lil Comforts Teddy Bums. They're hands down the softest diaper I've ever worn and wick incredibly fast. Have a great day and stay soggy! 😊 -
By BottomBoiCorey · Posted
Chapter 3: The Leak The walk from the fourth-floor men's room to the main conference room on the third floor took Ryan through a gauntlet of his own making. The paper towels he'd frantically wadded and pressed against the stain in his trousers were a pathetic, damp buffer. They'd soaked up the worst of the wetness, leaving a darker, rougher patch of fabric over his groin, but they did nothing for the smell—that sharp, ammoniac tang that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He'd washed his hands three times, scrubbing at his fingers until they were pink, but the scent was in his nostrils, in the fibers of his shirt. It was the smell of panic. Of failure. He kept his suit jacket buttoned, clutching his tablet to his chest like a shield. The summer sun blazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the financial district, casting long, accusing shadows across the carpet. The office air conditioning fought a losing battle against the heat, creating pockets of stale, recycled chill. He could feel the damp paper towels shifting against his thigh with every step, a constant, humiliating reminder. The main conference room door was a slab of polished mahogany, imposing and silent. He could hear the low murmur of voices from within. He paused, his hand on the cool metal handle. His heart was a frantic bird trapped in his ribs. He took a breath that did nothing to steady him, and pushed the door open. The room was vast, dominated by a twenty-foot-long table of dark, gleaming wood. The summer light flooded in from the west-facing windows, painting everything in a harsh, golden glare. The air was cooler here, thick with the smell of coffee, expensive cologne, and the faint, acrid scent of dry-erase markers. Around the table sat ten people. Ryan's eyes scanned them quickly, seeking safe harbor and finding none. At the head of the table sat Joseph Caldwell. He was older, probably mid-sixties, with a full head of carefully groomed silver hair and a face that had been carved by decades of boardroom decisions. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been grown on his frame, a crisp white shirt, a tie of subdued navy silk. His hands were folded on the table in front of him, large and steady, the knuckles pronounced. His eyes, a pale, watery blue, tracked Ryan's entrance with detached interest. To Caldwell's right was Mark Greyson. President of Greyson & Rourke. Ryan's boss. Mark was in his late fifties, with the perpetually tan, slightly puffy look of a man who played a lot of golf and drank a lot of scotch. His own suit was expensive but cut to hide a softening middle. His smile, as Ryan entered, was wide and professional, but it didn't reach his eyes, which were the color of old nickels. The rest of the seats were filled with a mix of senior analysts from Greyson & Rourke and a few junior members of Caldwell's team. Ryan recognized faces, names. They all turned to look at him as he entered. And then there was Darnell. He was seated halfway down the table, slightly apart from the others. He'd changed his posture since the bathroom; he sat back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of the empty seat beside him. His dark navy shirt was still rolled to his elbows, the serpent tattoo a coiled, living thing on his forearm. He was looking directly at Ryan, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. His eyes dropped, just for an instant, to Ryan's groin, then back up to his face. The message was clear. I see you. I see the leak. Ryan's face burned. He mumbled an apology for his lateness and slid into the first empty chair he could find, which happened to be directly across from Darnell. He placed his tablet on the table, his hands trembling slightly. "Ryan, good, you're here," Mark Greyson said, his voice a smooth baritone meant to project calm authority. "We were just about to begin the deep dive on the Q3 financial strategy for the Caldwell Organization's Pacific Rim portfolio. Joseph was expressing some... concerns about our risk modeling." Joseph Caldwell nodded slowly. "Your preliminary reports show a certain... optimism, Ryan. I prefer my optimism tempered with a heavy dose of reality." His voice was dry, devoid of warmth. It was the voice of a man who bought and sold realities for a living. Ryan swallowed, his throat tight. "Of course. The models are built on historical volatility indices and—" "Historical indices are rearview mirrors," Darnell's voice cut in, smooth and calm. He hadn't raised his hand. He just spoke, and the room listened. "Useful, but they don't show you the pothole you're about to hit." All eyes shifted to Darnell. Mark Greyson's smile became more genuine. "Darnell's point. He's been looking at some on-the-ground logistics data. Container ship turnaround times at Busan, labor disputes in Melbourne. Nasty stuff." Ryan felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. Darnell had done more than just glance at the data. He'd prepared. While Ryan had been frozen at a urinal, Darnell had been building a case against him. "If I may," Darnell said, standing up. He moved to the large screen at the end of the room with the easy confidence of a man who owned the space. He tapped the control panel, and a new set of charts replaced the Greyson & Rourke logo. They were raw, ugly things—spreadsheets of port fees, graphs of union membership trends, photographs of stacked shipping containers. "The historical model says a two-week delay is a 95th percentile event," Darnell began, his pointer tracing a line on the graph. "Reality, looking at the last six months of port authority reports and the new draft of the International Longshoremen's contract, says a two-week delay is the new baseline. A month is your 95th percentile." He spoke for ten minutes. He didn't use jargon. He used the language of things that broke, of men who worked with their hands, of money that got stuck. He painted a picture of a supply chain that was knotted and fraying, and he did it with a casual, almost bored authority that made Ryan's carefully constructed PowerPoint slides look like children's crayon drawings. Ryan sat through it, his body rigid. He could feel the damp paper towels, now warm from his body heat, pressing against him. He could smell himself. He watched as Joseph Caldwell leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on Darnell, nodding slowly. He watched as Mark Greyson beamed, the proud mentor. And he watched Darnell. The man's physical presence was overwhelming. His shoulders filled his shirt. His hands, as he gestured, were large and capable. He moved with a lazy, panther-like grace that spoke of power held in reserve. Once, while making a point about bottlenecking, he glanced at Ryan. "The problem with most models," Darnell said, his eyes locking with Ryan's across the table, "is they assume all the pipes are the same size. That a little leak here or there doesn't matter. But you get a small pipe trying to carry too much volume..." He let the sentence hang, his gaze dropping meaningfully to the table in front of Ryan, then back up. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "The whole system backs up. Everything gets... wet." A few people at the table chuckled politely, not quite getting the joke. Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to sink through the floor. Darnell had just referenced the bathroom. Had just called him a small pipe. In front of his boss. In front of the client. Joseph Caldwell's watery eyes flicked from Darnell to Ryan, a flicker of something—curiosity, disdain—passing through them. "A vivid analogy," Caldwell said dryly. "So, your revised recommendation, Mr. Jackson?" "You need a bigger pipe," Darnell said simply, turning back to the screen. "A more aggressive hedging strategy. It'll cost you a few basis points upfront, but it keeps you dry when the storm hits." The meeting shifted. It was no longer Ryan's presentation. It was Darnell's consultation. Ryan was asked a few perfunctory questions, which he answered in a thin, reedy voice. He tried to reclaim some ground, to point out the cost of over-hedging, but his arguments sounded weak, defensive. He was the guy arguing for the small pipe. When the meeting finally ended ninety minutes later, Ryan felt hollowed out. The paper towels in his pants were a sodden, cold mess. He stood up slowly, his movements stiff. Mark Greyson clapped Darnell on the shoulder as they all filed out. "Outstanding work, Darnell. Really first-rate. Ryan," he said, turning, his expression cooling, "let's make sure we're integrating this perspective. I want revised models on my desk by end of day Thursday." "Yes, sir," Ryan mumbled. He waited until everyone had left before gathering his things. He was the last one in the room. The summer sun was lower now, casting long, dramatic shadows across the empty table. He stood there for a moment, in the silence, looking at the spot where Darnell had stood. He could almost see the ghost of the man's confidence hanging in the air. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of muted humiliation. He avoided the men's room, his bladder screaming by four PM. He worked at his desk with his jacket on, buttoned, sweating in the air conditioning. He caught glimpses of Darnell moving through the cubicles, talking easily with other analysts, a king among courtiers. No one mentioned the meeting to Ryan. It was as if his role in it had already been erased. At six o'clock, he drove home through the sluggish summer traffic, the air in his car thick and hot. The smell of his own dried urine seemed to have permeated the upholstery. He pulled into the driveway of their split-level home. The unfinished kitchen was a dark silhouette against the side of the house. He sat in the car for a long minute, staring at it. A bigger pipe. He walked inside. The central air was on, a blessed chill. The smell of garlic, lemon, and searing meat hit him immediately. Kimberly was in the kitchen. Not their broken, gutted kitchen, but the makeshift one they'd set up in the dining area—a hot plate, a microwave, a small fridge. She was wearing a bright pink athleisure top and tight black leggings, her blonde hair pulled back in its severe ponytail. She was stirring something in a sauté pan, her movements brisk and efficient. "Hey," she said, without looking up. "You're late. Traffic?" "Yeah," he said, dropping his briefcase by the door. He kept his jacket on. "Dinner's almost ready. Chicken piccata. I made a orzo salad and roasted asparagus." Her voice was cheerful, focused on the task. It was the voice she used when she was determined to have a Nice Normal Evening. He walked to the makeshift counter, watching her. She was beautiful in the low evening light filtering through the blinds. The line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. A familiar, desperate ache started in his gut—a need to connect, to prove something, to bury the day's shame in the warmth of her body. She finished plating the food—chicken cutlets swimming in a lemon-caper sauce, the orzo salad studded with feta and sun-dried tomatoes, the asparagus neatly aligned. She brought the plates to the small, folding table they'd been using for meals. They ate mostly in silence. She talked about her day—a difficult parent, a successful science lesson. He nodded, making vague sounds of agreement. The food was good, but he tasted nothing. All he could think about was Darnell's smirk. A small pipe. After dinner, she cleared the plates. He stayed at the table, watching her wash up at a plastic basin in the sink. The muscles in her back moved under her tight top. A drop of water traced a path down the nape of her neck. She turned, drying her hands on a towel. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time all evening. Her eyes, a clear, cool blue, scanned his face. "You're quiet. Bad day?" The concern in her voice, so rare, so precious, broke something open in him. A flood of need, hot and urgent. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the tile floor. He crossed the space between them in two strides. "Ryan—" He didn't let her finish. He kissed her, hard, his hands coming up to cup her face. It was a clumsy, desperate kiss, all teeth and panic. She stiffened for a second, surprised, then softened. Her hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. "I need you," he whispered, the words raw. She searched his eyes. He saw a flicker of pity there, and something else—a weary resignation. But she nodded. "Okay." He took her hand and led her from the makeshift kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs to their bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the fading summer twilight. The bed was neatly made, a duvet cover in some neutral, soothing color. He turned to her, his hands fumbling with the hem of her pink top. He pulled it over her head. She wore a simple, white cotton bra. He unhooked it clumsily, his fingers trembling. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, the nipples already pebbled in the cool air of the room. He bent his head, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking greedily. She made a small sound, a sigh that wasn't quite pleasure. His own need was a frantic, pounding thing. He pushed her leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't think he could last that long. He was already painfully hard, straining against the damp, stained fabric of his trousers. He pushed her back onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp. He yanked his own trousers and briefs down just far enough to free his cock. It was small, soft-looking in the dim light. He was already leaking a bead of clear pre-cum. He positioned himself between her legs. She was dry. He didn't seem to notice. He pushed inside. The sensation was overwhelming. The tight, hot clasp of her, after the day's endless tension. It was too much. He thrust twice, three times, a ragged, frantic rhythm. "Ryan, wait—" she started, her voice tight. But it was too late. The pressure built in his balls, a sudden, uncontrollable surge. With a choked gasp, he came. It was a pathetic, dribbling orgasm, over in seconds. He spasmed inside her, then collapsed onto her, his weight heavy and sudden. He lay there, panting, his face buried in the pillow beside her head. The smell of her shampoo, of sex, of his own shame filled his nostrils. She was utterly still beneath him. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice flat, empty. "Are you done?" He rolled off her, his softening cock slipping out, already shriveling. He stared up at the ceiling, his breath coming in ragged hitches. The wet spot on his trousers felt cold against his thighs. She got up without a word. He heard the soft pad of her feet on the carpet, the click of the bathroom door closing. The sound of the shower running. He lay there in the gathering dark, the image of Darnell's confident smile burned into his eyelids. A bigger pipe. Kimberly's silent, disappointed exit was just another leak he couldn't fix. The damp patch on his trousers was now just one of many. -
It is cutting off the muscle that closes the urethra so you cannot hold pee anymore (voluntarily). There is also an inner sphincter/bladder neck so I am not completely sure what the outcome will be... -
“No, I don’t mean baby talk,” Annie laughed shortly, “don’t fight diapers, your room and the bottles. It will be enough for me. If I don’t hear any complaint for a week, you can have your life back. Of course, no more mischief at school.” Annie wasn’t sure if Kayla could get rid of diapers; she might need them for wetting probably. As Kayla went downstairs, everything was ready, a bag of food, camping tools and a small bag with spare diapers.
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