Baby Talk

I've always pooped and peed in my underwear since I was a child. Potty training was very difficult for me, and I have to admit that I love pooping in my underwear. So yes, it all started that way before I decided to wear diapers as an adult for convenience. Pooping and peeing in my underwear is sublime; you feel the sensations more, but it's very messy. I wear Calvin Klein bikini bottoms. That way, my poop stays in place, unless, of course, I move around too much or sit down. I hate boxer shorts.

Ahh, ok then. It's good that Carry has her future in her own hands then, hopefully she can satisfy the councils disciplinary requirements at some point in the future, after a suitable period of childhood reflection...

I've always pooped and peed in my pants since I was a child. Potty training was very difficult for me, and I have to admit that I enjoy pooping in my pants. So yes, it all started that way before I decided to wear diapers as an adult for convenience. Pooping and peeing in your pants is wonderful; you feel the sensations more intensely, but it's very messy.

Chapter 11: Calibration  The morning of the interview, Sophie woke to the hum of the microprocessor and the wet pressure of a saturated diaper between her thighs.   She didn't remember falling asleep. The previous day had dissolved into a blur of scent-conditioning and piston-driven orgasms, her face buried in her owner's biological markers while the Series Eight-C device claimed every internal space she had left. At some point, the protocol had ended. At some point, she had been transferred from the gurney to a recovery bed, her wrists unbound, her ankles freed, the hood removed. She remembered none of it. Only the hum. The wetness. The permanent, gaping emptiness that had become her body's default state.   "Good morning, Fourteen." Patel's voice came from somewhere to the left, cheerful as always. "You have two hours until the interview. Let's get you cleaned up."   The interview.   Sophie's mind, still sluggish from twelve hours of unconsciousness and the residual haze of oxytocin and prolactin flooding her bloodstream, struggled to process the word. Interview. She was going to be interviewed. By investors. By potential patients. By people who wanted to understand what it felt like to be her.   What did it feel like?   The question floated through her awareness as Patel's gloved hands unsealed the wet diaper and lifted it away. The cool air touched her exposed flesh. Her anus, still gaping at three centimeters, registered the temperature change but made no attempt to close. Her urethra, still atonic from the Foley catheter's overnight drainage, leaked a thin trickle of urine onto the changing pad. The clitoral patch, transferred from the chastity shield to a new adhesive mount just above her pubic bone, hummed at Level Two—a background warmth that never fully disappeared.   What did it feel like to be her?   It felt like open. It felt like wet. It felt like the constant, gentle pressure of something missing—control, resistance, the person she used to be—replaced by the constant, gentle pressure of something present. Surrender. Gratitude. The microprocessor's patient, rhythmic monitoring of every involuntary function her body performed.   "Arms up," Patel said. "We're fitting the nursing bra first. Your breasts are engorged—the domperidone protocol is working ahead of schedule."   Sophie lifted her arms. The movement was automatic. Her body had learned to obey before her mind could form objections. The white cotton bra settled over her swollen breasts, the cups padded with absorbent material that was already damp from the overnight leakage. Her nipples, dark and enlarged, ached with a deep, throbbing pressure that radiated into her chest wall. Milk was coming. She could feel it building in the ductal tissue—a heaviness that would soon become a flow.   "The Hamburg representative wants the breast cups fitted before the interview," Lang's voice cut through the room. Sophie turned her head toward the sound. Lang stood at the instrument tray, her soapstone face as unreadable as ever, a tablet balanced on her palm. "The investors want to see the Series Eight-M in operation. They've requested a live demonstration of the letdown reflex. Even without milk, the sensors will show the physiological response."   "They'll want to see the diaper integration too," Patel added. "The scent-conditioning results. The anal dilation. They've been reviewing yesterday's data—the full-system orgasm triggered by the correlated inputs. The gray suit woman has questions about the feedback loop's long-term stability."   "Then she'll ask them." Lang set the tablet down with a precise click. "The interview format is simple. Fourteen will be displayed on the observation platform. The investors and prospective patients will be seated behind the glass. They'll ask questions through the intercom. Fourteen will answer verbally—no O-ring, no dildo. Her owner wants them to hear her voice clearly."   Sophie's throat tightened. The last time she'd spoken without obstruction was... she couldn't remember. The dildo had been a constant presence for so long that the absence of it felt like a phantom limb. "They want me to... talk?"   "They want you to describe your experience." Lang's gray eyes met Sophie's. "Your thoughts. Your feelings. The investors are considering funding the next phase of the program's expansion. The prospective patients are considering enrollment. They need to hear from a subject who has completed Phase Three and is transitioning into Phase Four. You are the most successful patient in the program's history. Your testimony matters."   Testimony. The word was strange. Legal. Almost religious. Sophie turned it over in her mind, testing its weight. She was going to testify. To bear witness to what she had become.   "Okay," she whispered. "I'll... I'll do my best."   "I know you will." Lang's expression, for a fraction of a second, softened. "Patel, finish the preparation. Full Series Eight integration. She needs to be wearing all three components for the demonstration."   The breast cups went on first. The heated silicone settled over Sophie's aching breasts, the sixteen sensors pressing against her areolae in concentric rings. The articulated arms held them in place, compensating for her seated position on the changing station, for the way her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. The machine hummed. The cups contracted in a gentle maintenance rhythm—Pattern One, no vibration overlay—and Sophie felt her nipples respond with a familiar, spreading warmth.   The conductive diaper came next. Series Eight, fresh from the package, the inner padding white and dry and waiting. Patel guided it between Sophie's thighs, sealed the adhesive tabs, checked the moisture indicator. The clitoral patch's lead wire connected to the diaper's sensor grid. The microprocessor chirped. Baseline established.   The throat plug was last. Lang held it up to the light—the same flexible silicone sleeve, the same pressure bladder and dorsal sensor array, the same flange designed to seat against the O-ring's padded collar. "No hood today. The throat plug will be anchored to a simple strap assembly. The investors need to see your face. Your expressions. They need to know there's still a person inside the vessel."   A strap assembly. A simple elastic band around the back of Sophie's skull, holding the plug's flange against her lips, keeping the silicone sleeve seated in her pharynx. It was less restrictive than the hood. Less isolating. But the plug was still there—still measuring every swallow, every micro-contraction, every involuntary response to the words she would speak.   "Open," Lang said.   Sophie opened her mouth. The plug slid home. The pressure bladder inflated with a soft, pneumatic sigh. The sensors activated. The data began to flow.   "Good." Lang stepped back. "Now let's move you to the observation ward."   ---   The observation ward was fuller than before.   Sophie could see them through the curved glass as the gurney rolled onto the platform. The gray suit woman was there, her sharp features composed into an expression of clinical interest. Beside her sat the gray-haired man, his hungry eyes already fixed on Sophie's exposed body. The Hamburg representative stood at the back of the seating area, her tablet glowing, her angular face tight with professional anticipation.   But there were new faces too. New observers, seated in the second row of tiered benches, their body language betraying varying degrees of tension and curiosity.   The tense young man. Sophie recognized him from the previous observation session—the one with the clenched jaw and the pale face and the wife who kept her hand on his arm. He was still tense. Still pale. But his eyes were different now. Less terrified. More... hungry. His wife sat beside him, her soft, nurturing build radiating warmth, her expression unreadable.   And in the front row, directly behind the glass, sat someone Sophie had never seen before.   Patient Two.   She was different from the last time Sophie had glimpsed her in Ward D. The silver threading through her dark hair was the same. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes were the same. But her posture had changed. She sat upright, alert, her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes—dark and calm and utterly serene—met Sophie's through the glass. A small smile curved her lips. The smile of someone who understood. Who had been where Sophie was. Who had become what Sophie was becoming.   Lang's voice, amplified by the collar microphone, cut through the observation ward's silence. "Patient Fourteen. Phase Four candidate. Two days remaining until discharge. She has completed urethral incontinence conditioning, permanent anal dilation at three centimeters, full bowel incontinence, scent-mediated arousal response, and Series Eight integrated system testing. She is fitted this morning with the Series Eight-V throat plug, Series Eight-M breast cups, and Series Eight conductive diaper. All sensor arrays are live."   The gurney locked into place. Sophie's restraints were adjusted—wrist cuffs at her sides, ankle cuffs spreading her thighs wide, a single chest strap across her solar plexus. The position exposed everything. The diaper's white padding. The breast cups' articulated arms. The throat plug's external flange, seated against her lips, the sensor wire trailing down her chin to connect with the microprocessor at the gurney's base.   "She is conscious, verbal, and unrestrained above the neck," Lang continued. "She will answer your questions directly. The intercom system is open. Please begin."   A pause. The observers conferred behind the glass. Then the gray suit woman leaned forward and pressed the intercom button.   "Patient Fourteen. Can you hear me clearly?"   Sophie's lips moved around the plug's flange. The sensors registered the vibration. The strap assembly held the plug in place as her jaw worked. Her voice, when it emerged, was slightly muffled but clear. "Yes. I can hear you."   "Good. I'd like to begin with a simple question. How do you feel?"   The words hung in the air. How did she feel? The question was so vast, so inadequate, so impossible to answer with the vocabulary she had left. The clitoral patch hummed at Level Three. The breast cups pulled in their gentle, milking rhythm. The diaper's sensor grid tracked the slow, continuous trickle of urine that was even now soaking into the padding.   Sophie swallowed. The throat plug registered the pressure spike. "I feel... open."   "Open?"   "Yes. Physically. My anus is permanently dilated. I can't close it. My urethra can't hold urine. I leak continuously. My cervix is being trained to stay open too—the copper dilator is still inside me, keeping the os spread. I'm... open. Everywhere. All the time."   The gray suit woman made a note on her tablet. "And emotionally? Psychologically? What does it feel like to be permanently open?"   Another pause. The breast cups cycled through a slightly stronger pull—Pattern Two, Sophie recognized, the three-second draw with the one-second hold. Her nipples throbbed. Her prolactin levels, already elevated, climbed another increment. The letdown reflex, primed by the domperidone, hovered just beneath the surface of her consciousness.   "It feels like... peace." Sophie's voice cracked on the word. "Like I've stopped fighting. When I first arrived here, I thought I was losing myself. I thought the conditioning was... erasing me. But it wasn't. It was just... emptying me. Making room. The person I was before was always trying to control things. Her bladder. Her bowels. Her body. Her future. And that control was... exhausting. It was a weight I didn't know I was carrying until it was gone."   "And now?"   "Now I don't carry anything. I'm carried. The microprocessor monitors me. The diaper catches me. The breast cups prepare me. My owner's scent triggers me. I don't have to decide anything. I don't have to control anything. I just... am. Open. Leaking. Waiting. And it's the most peaceful thing I've ever felt."   The gray-haired man leaned forward. His voice, when he pressed the intercom button, was thick with something Sophie recognized as hunger. "Do you miss it? The control you used to have?"   Sophie's clit pulsed at Level Four. The question was designed to test her. She understood that. The investors wanted to see if the conditioning held under pressure. If the surrender was genuine.   "No." The word came without hesitation. "I don't miss it. I don't even remember what it felt like. The control wasn't really control—it was just... the illusion of it. I was always going to end up here. My owner knew it. The nurses knew it. I was just the last one to understand."   "And now you understand?"   "Now I understand that I was never meant to be in control. My body was designed to be open. To be wet. To be fertile. To be used. The conditioning didn't change me—it just... removed the obstacles. The resistance. The false belief that I was supposed to be something other than what I am."   The tense young man stirred in his seat. His wife's hand tightened on his arm. He pressed the intercom button.   "What... what did it feel like? The moment you knew you couldn't hold it anymore? The moment the incontinence became real?"   Sophie's throat constricted around the plug. The sensors spiked. Her mind reached backward through the weeks of conditioning—the enema cycles, the electrical pulses, the dilation chair, the scent immersion—searching for the specific moment he was asking about. But there was no single moment. No sharp boundary between continent and incontinent. Just a gradual dissolve, like sugar in warm water, until one day she realized she was no longer solid.   "It wasn't a moment," she said. "It was... a series of surrenders. The first time I wet the diaper in the wheelchair, during the ward tour. I was still fighting then. I remember feeling ashamed. But the microprocessor rewarded me. The patch pulsed. And I learned that shame was the doorway to pleasure. That was the first surrender."   "And the others?"   "The enema cycle. That was the second surrender. Bowel control was harder to give up. The body resists it more. But when the release finally came—when I let go and the hollow plug channeled everything into the diaper—the orgasm was the most intense I'd ever experienced. After that, I wanted to let go. I craved the release. The shame became... inseparable from the pleasure."   The breast cups pulled harder. Sophie's letdown reflex, hovering at the threshold, tipped over. There was no milk yet—the lactation would take another few days—but the physiological response was the same. Her nipples contracted. Her ductal tissue swelled. The sensors tracked the blood perfusion spike, the temperature increase, the minute changes in tissue density that signaled the body's preparation for nursing.   "Her letdown reflex just activated," Patel murmured to Lang, her voice picked up by the collar microphone. "Oxytocin levels are rising. The breast cups are recording a full milk-ejection curve without milk."   The Hamburg representative made a sharp, satisfied sound. "The data is streaming cleanly. All three systems are correlated."   The gray suit woman pressed the intercom again. "You mentioned the orgasm during the enema cycle. How often do you orgasm now?"   Sophie's cheeks flushed. The clitoral patch, reading her increased heart rate and the shame response that accompanied it, pulsed at Level Five. "I... I don't count anymore. Yesterday, during the scent-conditioning protocol, the microprocessor recorded seventeen orgasms. But that was an intensive session. During baseline maintenance, I probably orgasm every... two or three hours. Sometimes more. The diaper's moisture sensors trigger the patch whenever I leak. I'm always leaking. So..." She trailed off, her face burning. "I'm always close. Always on the edge. The conditioning keeps me there."   "And is that pleasurable? Being always on the edge?"   The question was so absurd that Sophie almost laughed. Almost. The sound that emerged was something softer—a small, broken exhalation. "It's... beyond pleasure. It's a state of being. I don't remember what it felt like to not be aroused. The baseline stimulation is always there. The breast cups are always pulling. The diaper is always wet. The scent of my owner is always in my memory, waiting to trigger me. My body has been rewired to experience... constant, continuous pleasure. But it's not the kind of pleasure I used to know. It's not... sharp. Not urgent. It's just... the background radiation of my existence. An endless, gentle burn."   The tense young man's wife leaned forward. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and curious. "Do you still think of yourself as a person?"   The observation ward went quiet.   Sophie's heart—the actual muscle in her chest, still beating, still pumping the blood that carried hormones and arousal and the remnants of the person she used to be—stuttered. The question was the core of everything. The question she had been avoiding since the first day the hood went on and the white noise filled her ears and the voice in the darkness told her she was empty.   "I..." She faltered. The throat plug recorded the hesitation—the micro-contraction of her pharyngeal muscles, the slight increase in temperature, the swallow that followed. "I think of myself as... Fourteen. And also as Sophie. But those are just..."   She paused. The breast cups pulled. The diaper registered another trickle of urine. The clitoral patch hummed.   "Those are just what I'm called. What I am is... a vessel. A system. A feedback loop. My owner's property. The words don't matter very much. They're just... labels. The conditioning has given me something more real than a name. It's given me a function. I exist to be open. To be wet. To be fertile. To respond to my owner's scent with arousal. To produce data for the Hamburg manufacturer. To demonstrate to people like you what the program can achieve."   "And that's enough?" the wife asked. "Being a function?"   Sophie's lips curved around the plug's flange. The expression was almost a smile. "It's more than enough. It's... everything. When I was a person, I was always lacking something. Always wanting something I didn't have. Always afraid of losing what I had. Now I don't lack anything. I don't want anything except what my owner wants. I don't fear loss because I've already lost everything—and the loss was a gift. The emptiness is a gift. The openness is a gift."   Patient Two, still seated in the front row, nodded slowly.   The gray suit woman pressed the intercom. "One final question, Fourteen. If you could go back—before the program, before your owner, before the incontinence and the dilation and the conditioning—would you choose this? Knowing everything you know now. Every humiliation. Every loss of control. Every permanent change. Would you choose to become what you are?"   The question hung in the air. The microprocessor chirped. The breast cups cycled into a maintenance pattern. The diaper's moisture indicator, visible on the tablet screen the investors were watching, deepened from purple toward black.   Sophie didn't hesitate.   "Yes." Her voice was steady. Certain. Absolute. "I would choose this. I would choose this a thousand times. The humiliation is the price of the peace. The loss of control is the doorway to the pleasure. The permanent changes are just... the body becoming what it was always meant to be. My owner saw what I could become before I did. The program just... made me match his vision."   "And if someone watching this interview is considering the program? What would you say to them?"   The tense young man flinched. His wife's hand tightened.   Sophie's eyes found Patient Two's through the glass. The older woman's serene smile widened, just slightly. A sisterhood of the emptied. A communion of the permanently open.     "I would say: stop fighting. The fight is what makes it painful. Your body already knows how to surrender—it's been trying to teach you since you were born. The conditioning doesn't force you to become something you're not. It just... removes the illusion that you were ever in control in the first place. Let go. Let the program empty you. Let the microprocessor take over. Let your owner decide what you are. The peace on the other side is worth every moment of shame."   The gray suit woman sat back. The intercom clicked off. The room behind the glass was silent except for the soft murmur of the Hamburg representative's tablet and the distant hum of the ceiling track system.   Then the tense young man stood up.   His wife's hand fell away. His jaw, still clenched, worked silently for a moment before he spoke. His voice wasn't amplified—he was addressing Lang directly, his words barely audible through the curved glass—but Sophie could read his lips.   "I want to talk to someone about enrollment."   His wife smiled.   And Sophie, lying spread-eagle on the observation platform with her owner's scent still swimming in her memory and the breast cups pulling their gentle rhythm and the diaper's wetness indicator edging toward black, felt the clitoral patch rise to Level Six in a slow, approving wave.   The interview was over. Phase Four had begun. And somewhere beyond the observation ward, her owner was waiting to take her home. Chapter 12: A Bright Future The recovery room was quiet except for the hum of the microprocessor and the wet, rhythmic pulse of Sophie's diaper growing incrementally warmer against her thighs.   She had been dozing—not sleeping, not waking, just drifting in the gray space between—when the door opened. The sound was soft, the pneumatic hiss of the seal releasing, and then footsteps. Two sets. One she recognized: the efficient, rubber-soled stride of Nurse Patel. The other was slower. Deliberate. The measured tread of someone who had learned patience the hard way.   "Fourteen." Patel's voice, cheerful as always. "You have a visitor."   Sophie opened her eyes. The ceiling was the same white tile she'd stared at for weeks. The restraints were the same padded cuffs at her wrists and ankles. The breast cups were still pulling their gentle maintenance rhythm, the throat plug still humming with quiet data-gathering, the diaper still tracking every involuntary leak. But the figure standing beside Patel was new.   Patient Two.   She was shorter than Sophie remembered—or perhaps that was just the absence of the gurney, the way the older woman stood on her own two feet with a stillness that seemed to radiate outward from her center. Her dark hair, silver-threaded, was pulled back in a simple twist. Her face, lined at the corners of the eyes and mouth, held an expression of absolute serenity. She wore a gray dress, loose and shapeless, and her hands were folded in front of her. No restraints. No hood. No visible diaper. Just a woman, standing in a recovery room, looking at Sophie with the calm, evaluating gaze of someone who understood everything.   "Hello, Fourteen." Patient Two's voice was low and warm, roughened at the edges. "I'm Two. But you probably knew that."   Sophie's throat worked around the plug. The sensors registered the micro-contraction. "I... yes. I saw you. At the interview."   "You did." Two stepped closer. Her feet were bare, Sophie noticed. Pale and clean against the white tile. "Lang asked me to mentor you for your final two days. Your owner approved it. He thought you might benefit from talking to someone who's been through the full discharge process."   "Mentor?"   "Someone who can tell you what it's really like. What the brochures don't mention." Two's lips curved. The smile was small and private. "What the investors don't get to see."   Patel was already adjusting Sophie's gurney, raising the head section so Sophie could sit upright. The movement made the breast cups shift against her swollen tissue. The nipple electrodes—still adhered, still monitoring—sent a small spike of sensation through her chest wall. The diaper squelched. Sophie felt her face flush, but Two didn't blink.   "They told me you live as furniture," Sophie said. The words came out muffled around the plug's flange, but Two seemed to understand. "Your owner... uses you as a piece of furniture."   "Among other things." Two settled into the chair beside Sophie's gurney. The movement was fluid, unselfconscious. "My owner has a specific aesthetic. He likes still life. He likes to sit in his study and read while I kneel beside his chair. Sometimes I'm a footstool. Sometimes I'm a side table. He puts his drink on my back. His book on my thighs. I don't move. I don't speak. I just... am."   Sophie's clitoral patch hummed at Level Three. The words painted a picture she couldn't quite grasp—something beyond the conditioning, beyond the protocols, beyond the endless cycle of stimulation and release. "For how long?"   "Hours. Sometimes an entire evening. His friends come over and they sit in the living room and they talk about politics or sports or whatever it is people talk about, and I kneel beside the coffee table and hold a tray of drinks. They don't acknowledge me. I'm not a person to them. I'm part of the décor." Two's dark eyes met Sophie's. "And it's the most peaceful thing I've ever experienced."   "But don't you get... bored? Restless?"   "No." The word was absolute. "That's what the conditioning is for, Fourteen. It doesn't just make you incontinent. It doesn't just wire your clit to your bladder. It empties you of the need for stimulation. For entertainment. For anything that isn't service. When I kneel beside my owner's chair for six hours, I'm not waiting for something to happen. I'm not wishing I could move. I'm not thinking about anything except the weight of his hand on my head when he occasionally reaches down to touch me. That's enough. That's more than enough."   Sophie's throat tightened. The plug's pressure bladder expanded slightly—a maintenance pulse—and she swallowed around it. "I don't know if I can do that. The stillness. I've been... I've been in the suit, I've been in the hood, but that's different. That's external. That's the machine doing it to me. You're talking about... doing it yourself."   "You'll learn." Two leaned forward. "That's why I'm here. Lang wanted you to understand what happens after the discharge. The first week is the hardest. The first time your owner leaves you in position for an entire day. The first time you have to soil your diaper and sit in it because he hasn't given you permission to signal for a change. The first time your milk lets down and you're not hooked up to the pump and it just... leaks. Through your bra. Through your dress. And you can't wipe it away because your hands are behind your back and your owner is on a conference call and you're supposed to be invisible."   The clitoral patch hummed hotter. Level Four. Sophie's hips shifted against the gurney's padding. "That sounds..."   "Humiliating?" Two's smile widened. "It is. At first. And then it's not. Because the humiliation is the point, Fourteen. The humiliation is what the conditioning transforms. You remember the first time you wet yourself in the wheelchair? The shame? The way your face burned?"   "Yes."   "And then the patch pulsed and the shame became pleasure and you learned to associate one with the other."   "Yes."   "That's what the first week is like. Every moment of humiliation becomes a moment of pleasure. Every leak. Every change. Every command. Your owner will train you the way the institute trained you, except he won't use a microprocessor. He'll use his voice. His hands. His presence. And after a while—a few weeks, a month at most—you won't need the humiliation to feel the pleasure. You'll just need him. The smell of his study. The sound of his footsteps. The particular way he says your name."   Sophie's breasts ached. The letdown reflex, primed by the domperidone, hovered just beneath the surface. A single drop of something—not milk, not yet, but the thin, yellowish precursor—leaked from her left nipple and soaked into the nursing bra's padding. The breast cup's sensors registered it. The microprocessor chirped.   Patel, who had been monitoring the readouts from the corner, looked up. "Colostrum production has begun. The lactation protocol is ahead of schedule. She'll be producing mature milk within forty-eight hours."   "Good." Two's eyes didn't leave Sophie's face. "That's another thing they don't tell you in the brochures. The milking schedule. Your owner will put you on the pump three times a day. Morning, afternoon, evening. Fifteen minutes per breast. The Series Eight-M cups are designed for home use—they're smaller than the clinical version, quieter, but they do the same thing. The sensors track your output. The data goes to your owner's tablet. He'll know exactly how much you're producing, and if your supply dips, he'll adjust your diet. Your fluid intake. Your domperidone dosage."   "He controls my milk?"   "He controls everything." Two's voice was matter-of-fact. "That's the point. You don't decide when to eat. When to sleep. When to urinate. When to defecate. When to lactate. When to orgasm. Your body is a system that he manages. Your only job is to be open. To be available. To be grateful."   Sophie's throat worked. The plug's sensors spiked. "I am grateful."   "I know you are. You're one of the most successful patients in the program's history. Lang's exact words." Two's expression flickered—something that might have been amusement, or might have been something older, more complicated. "I was too. Eighteen months ago. I came in with a different name and a different body and a different idea of what my life was supposed to be. I left as Two. I left as furniture. And I've never regretted it."   "Never?"   "Never." Two's hand, warm and dry, settled on Sophie's wrist. The touch was light. Grounding. "There are moments, still. Moments when the old self flickers back to life. A memory. A dream. A fragment of who I used to be." Her thumb traced a small circle on Sophie's skin. "When I was discharged, my owner took me to his home. He showed me my corner—the spot beside his desk where I was supposed to kneel. He showed me the diaper pail in the bathroom. He showed me the breast pump in the nursery. And then he said, 'This is your life now. Do you understand?' And I said yes. And he said, 'Say thank you.' And I said thank you. And he said, 'That's the last time you'll speak without permission.'"   Sophie's breath caught. "You haven't spoken since?"   "I've spoken when he's told me to. When we have guests and he wants me to explain what I am. When the institute sends a follow-up team to check my conditioning. When someone like you needs to hear what it's like." She squeezed Sophie's wrist gently. "But in my daily life? No. I don't have anything to say. The silence is part of the peace. The words were part of the person I used to be. When my owner took away my speech, he took away the last thing that made me feel like an individual. And I was so relieved."   The clitoral patch hummed at Level Five. Sophie's hips rocked against the gurney, an involuntary movement that made the diaper squelch and the breast cups pull slightly harder against her aching tissue. "I don't know if I'm ready."   "You're ready. The conditioning has made you ready. Your body already knows how to be still. How to be silent. How to be open. Your mind just needs to catch up." Two released Sophie's wrist and sat back. "That's what these two days are for. I'm going to teach you what the institute can't teach you. What it means to be a vessel outside these walls."   Patel stepped forward. "Lang has authorized a supervised exercise. Two will demonstrate a standard position-holding drill while you observe. The drill is designed to simulate the physical endurance requirements of domestic service. You'll be expected to replicate the drill tomorrow."   Sophie's heart—that stubborn, still-beating muscle—accelerated. "What kind of drill?"   "Kneeling," Two said. "Hands behind the back. Head bowed. Diaper visible. For two hours. No movement. No speech. The microprocessor will monitor your muscle tension. If you tense, the patch will deliver a correction pulse. If you relax, the patch will reward you. By the end of the two hours, you'll understand what stillness feels like." She stood. The movement was fluid, graceful, entirely without self-consciousness. "Lang asked me to demonstrate first. So you can see what it looks like. What you'll look like. What you'll become."   Patel had already moved to the corner of the recovery room, where a simple padded mat had been placed on the tile floor. No restraints. No gurney. Just a rectangular cushion, gray and unadorned, waiting.   Two walked to the mat. She didn't hesitate. Didn't glance back at Sophie. Her bare feet made no sound on the tile. When she reached the mat, she lowered herself to her knees with a practiced economy of motion—no wobble, no adjustment, just the smooth descent of a body that had done this a thousand times. Her hands, still folded in front of her, moved behind her back. Her wrists crossed. Her head bowed. Her gray dress rode up slightly, exposing the backs of her thighs, the faint outline of a thick diaper beneath the fabric.   "I'm ready," she said. And then she was silent.   The room held its breath.   Sophie watched. The patch hummed at Level Three, a background warmth that kept her hovering on the edge of arousal. The breast cups pulled their gentle rhythm. The diapers—both hers and Two's, she realized, because of course Two was wearing one, of course she was wet, of course the moisture indicator was deepening toward purple beneath the gray dress—performed their silent, continuous function.   One minute passed. Two. Five.   Two didn't move.   Her breathing slowed. Her shoulders softened. Her head drooped fractionally lower. The stillness was not rigid—not the frozen tension of someone forcing themselves to hold a position. It was the stillness of water. Of something poured into a container and left to settle.   Ten minutes. The microprocessor chirped softly. Two's muscle tension, Sophie realized, had just dropped below some predetermined threshold. The silence in the room was absolute except for the hum of electronics and the distant, rhythmic pull of the breast pump.   "This is what a graduated patient looks like," Patel murmured from Sophie's side. "Complete neuromuscular relaxation. No resistance. No anticipation. She could hold that position for six hours without discomfort because her body has been conditioned to find stillness more restful than sleep."   Sophie's throat worked. "And I'm supposed to... do that?"   "Tomorrow. Today, you observe. Today, you ask questions." Patel's hand settled on Sophie's shoulder. "When she's finished, you'll have the opportunity to speak with her privately. Patient-to-patient. No staff. No microphones." Her voice dropped. "Lang doesn't know about that part. Two asked for it. She said there are things you need to hear that can't be said in front of the clinical team."   A chill—not fear, but something adjacent to it—rippled through Sophie's pelvis. The patch pulsed. Level Four. "What kind of things?"   "The truth." Patel's expression was unreadable. "The kind that doesn't go in the brochures."   Two continued kneeling. The minutes stacked up—twenty, thirty, forty-five—and Sophie watched. The older woman's stillness was hypnotic. It was impossible to look away from the bowed head, the crossed wrists, the visible outline of the diaper beneath the dress. She looked like a statue. Like a piece of furniture. Like something that had once been human and had become something else entirely.   The patch hummed. Sophie's bladder, still atonic, released another trickle of urine into the already-saturated padding. The moisture indicator deepened toward black. And somewhere in the hollow space behind her pubic bone, the one that had been carved out by weeks of denial and surrender, Sophie felt the first stirrings of something that might have been recognition.   This was her future. Kneeling. Silent. Diapered. Leaking. Open.   And she wanted it. More than she'd ever wanted anything.   When the two hours ended—Patel announced the time, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade—Two rose from the mat with the same fluid grace. Her face was unchanged. Serene. Empty. Peaceful. She walked to Sophie's gurney and sat in the chair, and when she spoke, her voice was slightly hoarse from the silence.   "Questions?"   Sophie's lips worked around the plug's flange. "How... how do you feel? Right now? After two hours of kneeling?"   "Sore," Two said. "My knees ache. My lower back is stiff. My diaper is wet and I need a change." Her smile flickered. "And I'm happier than I've ever been. Because the soreness means I served. The stiffness means I was still. The wetness means my body is doing what it was conditioned to do. Every physical sensation is a reminder that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."   "The soreness doesn't bother you?"   "It used to. During the first month after discharge. My owner would leave me kneeling for an hour, two hours, and my knees would scream and my back would burn and I'd think, 'I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this.'" Her voice caught. Just for a moment. "And then I'd remember that I didn't have a choice. That my body wasn't mine to decide about. That the discomfort was part of the service. And the patch would pulse—my owner has a remote, he can trigger it whenever he wants—and the pain would turn into something else. Something that bordered on pleasure. Something that made the kneeling feel like a privilege instead of a punishment."   "Does he still need to use the remote?"   "No. My body makes the association on its own now. Discomfort equals service. Service equals pleasure. I can't feel one without feeling the other." Two tilted her head, studying Sophie's face. "That's what the conditioning is, Fourteen. It's not about making you feel good all the time. It's about making every sensation—pleasure, pain, humiliation, exhaustion—fold back into the loop. It's about making you a closed system where everything leads to gratitude."   Patel cleared her throat. "I need to check on the Hamburg representative. She's running diagnostics on the Series Eight diaper's sensor array and wants the clinical readouts from last night's scent-conditioning session. Two, you have thirty minutes before Lang wants you back in the observation ward for the afternoon demonstration."   "I understand." Two waited until Patel's footsteps faded, until the door hissed shut, until the room was silent except for the hum of the microprocessor and the wet, rhythmic pulse of Sophie's diaper. Then she leaned forward. "Now I can tell you the rest."   Sophie's throat tightened. "The rest?"   "The things Lang doesn't want you to hear. The things they don't put in the brochures." Two's dark eyes were steady. "The first month after discharge is going to be the hardest thing you've ever done. Harder than the dilation chair. Harder than the enema cycle. Harder than the scent conditioning. Because for the first month, you're going to be alone."   "I'll be with my owner."   "You'll be with your owner physically. But mentally? Emotionally? You'll be alone. The institute won't be there. The nurses won't be there. The microprocessor will still monitor you—the Series Eight is designed for long-term home use—but the data won't go to Lang. It'll go to your owner. And he won't be clinical. He won't be detached. He'll be... proprietary. Intimate. He'll look at the readouts while you're kneeling beside his desk and he'll say, 'Your oxytocin levels are low today. Are you not grateful enough?' And you'll panic. Because you won't know how to be more grateful than you already are. And the panic will make your levels drop further. And then he'll take you to the nursery and put you on the pump and he'll say, 'Let's see if a few hours of milking can fix your attitude.'"   Sophie's clitoral patch hummed at Level Five. The words were terrifying. The words were arousing. She wasn't sure anymore where the boundary lay. "Has that... happened to you?"   "Many times. During the first year. I'd have days where the silence felt like a cage instead of a release. Days where I'd kneel beside my owner's chair and my mind would just... spin. Old memories. Old fears. Fragments of the person I used to be. And my owner would see it on the tablet. He'd see the stress hormones spiking. And he'd say, 'Two, you're fighting again.' And I'd want to scream that I wasn't fighting, that I couldn't help it, that the conditioning wasn't as permanent as they'd promised. But I couldn't scream. I couldn't speak. I could only kneel there while he went to the cabinet and took out the correction plug."   "Correction plug?"     "A smaller version of the anal dilator. Fits in the vaginal canal. Delivers a targeted correction pulse whenever stress hormones rise above a certain threshold." Two's voice was matter-of-fact. "He'd insert it and leave it there for the rest of the day. And every time I'd start to spiral, the plug would deliver a pulse. Not enough to orgasm. Just enough to remind me where I was. What I was. Who I belonged to. And by the end of the day, the stress hormones would be gone. The old memories would be gone. The fragments would be gone. I'd be empty again. Peaceful again. Furniture again."   The breast cups pulled harder. Pattern Two. Sophie's letdown reflex, hovering at the threshold, spilled over. Colostrum leaked from both nipples, soaking into the nursing bra's padding, triggering the sensors, streaming data to the microprocessor. The patch climbed to Level Six.   "You're afraid," Two observed. "Good. You should be. The fear means you understand what's coming. But the fear is also part of the conditioning, Fourteen. Your body is already transforming it into arousal. Into submission. Into gratitude." She reached out and took Sophie's hand. Her grip was warm and dry and steady. "You're going to be fine. Better than fine. You're going to be perfect. Because you've already surrendered everything you had to surrender. The hard part is over. All that's left is living it."   Sophie's lips moved around the plug's flange. "Thank you. For telling me. For... the truth."   "That's what a mentor does." Two released Sophie's hand and stood. "Tomorrow you'll do the kneeling drill. I'll be here. Watching. And when you complete it—when you hold position for two hours without moving, without speaking, without tensing—you'll understand what it means to be a vessel in a way that words can't convey." She smoothed her gray dress, adjusted her posture, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, she paused.   "One more thing," she said, not turning around. "Your owner. He's going to push you past what you think you can endure. That's his job. He's going to find the limits of your surrender and press on them until they break. And when they break, he's going to keep pressing. Because the point isn't to reach a limit. The point is to discover that there are no limits. That you can always be emptier. Always be more open. Always be more his."   She glanced back over her shoulder. Her dark eyes held Sophie's with an intensity that was almost unbearable.   "That's what the brochures don't tell you. The conditioning never stops. It just gets deeper. And one day—maybe six months from now, maybe a year—you'll look back at who you were today and realize you were still fighting. Still holding onto something. And you'll laugh. Or you'll cry. Or you'll do both, silently, while your owner's drink rests on your back and his friends talk about the weather and the patch hums at Level Three and your diaper grows warm against your thighs."   The door hissed open.   "Welcome to the rest of your life, Fourteen."   And then she was gone.   --------- Thanks for reading!

For me, it's very easy: standing up while I'm washing the dishes in the morning or brushing my teeth. I just relax my anal sphincter like a baby and let my poop slide into my diaper or underwear. It's the act of defecating itself that excites me the most, followed by a big pee. Since I'm very regular with my bowel movements, it's usually the same routine that happens in the morning when I'm wearing a diaper. I've always pooped in my underwear since I was a child, and for obvious reasons, I now wear diapers because it's more practical for cleaning up afterward. I've been doing this for so long that I don't even pay attention anymore if I've pooped or peed in my diaper. I just let nature take its course. I've always pooped and peed in my pants since I was a child. Potty training was very difficult for me, and I have to admit that I enjoy pooping in my pants. So yes, it all started that way before I decided to wear diapers as an adult for convenience. Pooping and peeing in your pants is wonderful; you feel the sensations more intensely, but it's very messy.