Baby Talk

I could totally see if Amber and Marcus were hanging him getting her phone and at minimum changing Paul's name in her phone or maybe Changing his social media if Paul had ever been logged on her phone to just screw with him . 

The doorbell chimed just as she lifted him from the playpen, his legs dangling uselessly. The diaper sagged between his thighs, thicker than before—padded for the party, she’d said, taping him into it with extra absorbency. A ribbon now cinched his waist, the bow absurdly large against the ruffled bloomers. Mama’s fingers dug into his side as she carried him toward the foyer, his cheek pressed to her shoulder. Through the lace curtain of the bonnet, he saw them: Marv from payroll, holding a wrapped gift shaped suspiciously like a highchair; Darla from the diner, her nametag still pinned to her uniform; a cluster of women in pastel dresses cooing over a onesie stretched across a hanger like a trophy pelt. "Surprise!" they chorused as Mama swung the door wide. Confetti rained down—pink and blue, sticking to his oiled skin. Jim’s breath hitched. Behind the crowd, the living room had been transformed: streamers in the shape of rattles, a banner proclaiming *CONGRATS MAMA!*, and there, center stage—a new playpen - twice the size of theirs, its bars wound with ribbon. Marv was the first to step forward, his work shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "Knew you had it in you, Henderson," he chuckled, ruffling Jim’s bonnet. The scent of Scotch and cheap cologne clung to his fingers. Darla smirked, nudging a gift toward the overflowing table. "Told you booth six was soundproof." The women surged then, their hands everywhere—patting his diapered bottom, pinching his cheeks, one even slipping a pacifier between his lips before he could protest. It tasted like vanilla and something medicinal. Mama’s grip tightened possessively as they ushered him toward the playpen, its mat already scattered with teething rings. "Time for baby’s debut," she whispered, lowering back him inside. The bars clicked shut. Across the room, the changing table stood ready, its straps dangling. Jim’s throat worked around the pacifier. The cake, when they wheeled it out, was shaped like a bottle. The first flash of a camera blinded him. Mama’s laugh, rich and triumphant, rose above the chatter: "Who wants a turn feeding the guest of honor?" Hands shot up. Jim squeezed his eyes shut. The pacifier bobbed. Somewhere, a cork popped. The party swirled on. Everywhere Jim looked, pastel balloons bobbed against the ceiling—pink, blue, mint green—their ribbons trailing like umbilical cords. The gift table groaned under the weight of wrapped packages, their shapes unmistakable: the rectangular bulk of diaper genies, the cylindrical curve of baby wipe dispensers, one suspiciously tall box that could only be a stroller. Mama’s friends—women with immaculate manicures and knowing smiles—clustered around the punch bowl, their laughter sharp as they stirred the spiked lemonade with striped straws. Jim swayed in the playpen, his sailor suit growing damp under the armpits. The bonnet’s elastic dug into his chin. Across the room, Marv from payroll was demonstrating the ‘proper technique’ for burping a grown man, using a giggling Darla as his dummy. Mama watched, lips pursed around the rim of her martini glass, her free hand absently tightening on Jim’s shoulder. “Look at them,” she murmured, nails biting through the ruffled fabric. “So eager to help with you baby.” The changing table stood sentinel by the window, its vinyl pad gleaming under the afternoon sun. Someone had draped it with a banner: *CONGRATS ON YOUR NEW ARRIVAL!* Jim’s gut clenched. He knew what came next—had seen the itinerary Mama left on the fridge, circled in red: 3:30 PM - Group Diaper Change (Bring Your Own Wipes!). The clock above the mantel ticked louder, each second a hammerfall. Darla broke away from Marv’s clutches, smoothing her diner apron as she approached. Her nametag glittered mockingly: Ask Me About Our Specials! She held out a gift bag stuffed with tissue paper. “For the little sailor,” she cooed, shaking it. The crinkling sound was unmistakable—plastic pants, the thick kind. Jim’s toes curled inside his Mary Janes. Mama accepted the bag with a gracious nod. “So thoughtful.” Her grip on Jim’s wrist tightened as Darla leaned in, lips brushing his forehead in a parody of a kiss. The scent of coffee and bacon grease clung to her uniform. “Isn’t Auntie Darla sweet?” Mama prompted, fingers digging into his pulse point. Jim’s “thank you” emerged around the pacifier, garbled and wet. Darla’s grin widened. She produced a camera from her apron pocket. “Say ‘ahh!’” The flashbulb popped. Jim blinked against the afterimage, the room dissolving into white spots. When his vision cleared, Mama was holding up a onesie—tiny, embroidered with Property of Mama’s Friends—and the women were clapping. Mama’s smile glinted. “Who’s ready for cake?” The women cheered, their heels clicking toward the dessert table where the bottle-shaped cake stood, its nipple frosted to a perfect sheen. Jim’s stomach twisted as Mama plucked him from the playpen, her grip firm under his padded bottom. The room swayed—too many perfumes, too much laughter—as she carried him past the gift table, where Marv was already loosening the straps on the changing table with a wink. “Head up, baby,” Mama murmured, adjusting his bonnet before depositing him in a highchair draped with bunting. The tray locked with a snick, trapping his wrists against the laminated I’M THE GUEST OF HONOR! print. Darla materialized with a party hat, its elastic snapping under his chin. “Look at him,” she crooned, snapping a photo as Mama positioned the cake just out of Jim’s reach. The frosting gleamed under the chandelier, the candle flickering in the shape of a ‘1’. “Make a wish,” someone called. The women leaned in, their shadows swallowing him whole. Mama’s hand closed over his, guiding the knife—tiny, plastic, useless—toward the cake. The blade sank into fondant with a squelch. Jim’s throat closed. Around them, glasses clinked. The camera flashed again. “Now feed him!” Marv bellowed, earning a chorus of giggles. Mama’s fingers pinched a glob of frosting, swiping it across Jim’s lips before he could turn away. The sweetness cloyed, sticking to his teeth. Another flash. More laughter. The highchair creaked as she buckled the bib tighter. “Open wide,” Mama instructed, holding up a spoonful of cake. The women held their breath. Jim’s jaw ached. The spoon hovered. The first bite was too big. Jim choked, frosting dripping down his chin. Mama dabbed it with a napkin—Oopsie! printed in cheerful script—then tucked it into his collar. “There’s my messy boy,” she sighed, toasting the room with her martini. The women sighed back, their hands already reaching for their own spoons. Jim stared at the next bite looming toward him. The candle’s smoke curled upward, spelling out his new name in the air: Baby J. The highchair straps held firm. The party swelled, warm and bright and inescapable. Mama’s spoon clinked against his teeth. “Again,” she murmured. Jim opened his mouth. The spoon scraped against his teeth, depositing another glob of frosting—too sweet, too thick—onto his tongue. Before he could swallow, another spoonful smeared across his cheekbone, the crumbs sticking to his freshly oiled skin. “Ohhh,” cooed a woman in a floral dress, her manicured fingers already reaching with a napkin. “Let Auntie clean you up.” The fabric rasped over his face, dragging icing into his pores. Marv’s laugh boomed from somewhere near the diaper cake centerpiece. “Never woulda guessed ol’ Henderson wanted this,” he chuckled, nudging Darla with his elbow. “Remember how he’d bitch about overtime? Bet he’s clocked in permanently now.” The punch bowl sloshed as the women tittered, their cocktail rings clinking against glass. Mama’s palm cupped the back of Jim’s head, angling him toward the next spoon—this one wielded by a redhead whose name tag read Certified Babysitter. The bite landed half in his mouth, half down the front of his sailor suit. “I’d love to take him for weekends,” she purred, licking frosting off the spoon with a pointed glance at Mama. “My playroom’s fully stocked.” Darla snapped another photo, the flash bleaching Jim’s vision momentarily. “I’ll handle his potty training,” she announced, producing a rubber duck from her apron pocket. “Diner’s slow on Tuesdays.” The women oohed as she squeezed it, the toy squeaking mockingly. The highchair tray vibrated with each new spoon’s impact—vanilla, strawberry, chocolate—layering his face like a grotesque mask. Someone dabbed at his chin with a Baby’s First Mess bib. Another adjusted his bonnet’s bow with sticky fingers.  “Such a natural,” murmured the redhead, her thumb swiping icing off his nose before popping it between her lips. Jim’s stomach churned. The sailor suit’s collar chafed where frosting had seeped under the starch.  Mama’s fingers tightened in his hair. “See how good he takes it?” she crooned to the room. The women sighed in unison. Marv raised his glass in salute, sloshing bourbon onto the carpet. The next spoon hovered. Jim’s tongue was numb. “Again,” Mama whispered. The room held its breath. Jim opened his mouth. Just a fraction too late—the spoon scraped his bottom lip, leaving a cold smear of frosting. His tongue felt swollen, coated in sugar. Around him, the laughter dimmed to a hush. The spoon wavered in Mama’s grip. He blinked, and the tears came before he could stop them—hot, humiliating, streaking through the cake smeared on his cheeks. “Well,” Mama said, tilting his chin up with the spoon. Her voice carried over the silent party. “I’ve never seen a grown man cry.” Darla snorted into her champagne. “That’s because he’s not one,” she said, leaning in to dab at his face with a Baby’s First Tears bib. The fabric rasped against his face. “Just an overgrown infant. Look at him—can’t even take his cake like a big boy.” The women tittered. Someone—the redhead—reached out to pat his head, her rings catching in his hair. “Honestly,” she mused, “I’m surprised he lasted in the adult world as long as he did.” Her thumb swiped under his eye, collecting a tear. She held it up to the light, grinning. “Salty. Just like a real baby’s.” Mama’s sigh was theatrical. She snapped her fingers, and the room’s attention snapped with it. “All that fuss over a little party,” she chided, thumbing the strap of his bib. “But I suppose we’ll have to adjust his schedule. More naps. Earlier bedtimes.” Her fingers traced the rim of the abandoned cake plate. “Fewer… privileges.” Jim hiccuped. The sound was embarrassingly wet, muffled by the pacifier someone had slipped back into his mouth. The women sighed in unison—poor thing, overwhelmed by his own shower—as Mama lifted him from the highchair, his legs dangling. The sailor suit was ruined, frosting crusting the ruffles. “Shhh,” Mama murmured, bouncing him lightly. His diaper rustled with every movement. “Let’s get you changed.” The changing table waited, its straps loose and inviting. Jim buried his face in her shoulder. The party cheered. Hands shot up—manicured nails gleaming, cocktail rings clinking—as Mama scanned the crowd. "Who wants to help with baby’s first official change?" The women jostled for position, silk blouses rustling, perfume thickening the air. Darla won by sheer aggression, hip-checking the redhead into the diaper cake. Jim’s back hit the vinyl pad before he could protest. The changing table straps were colder than he remembered, the buckle’s click louder. Darla loomed over him, her diner nametag glinting Ask Me About Today’s Special! as she peeled back his ruined sailor suit. The diaper tapes tore like gunshots. "Ooooh, someone’s ripe," crooned a woman.  Someone else fanned herself with a World’s Best Aunt mug. Mama supervised from the head of the table, drink in hand, as Darla went to work—wipes scented aggressively of lavender, powder puff dusting his thighs in theatrical clouds. The women sighed appreciatively. A phone camera flashed. Then came the new diaper: thick, pink, emblazoned with Mama’s Little Party Favor in looping script. Darla folded it under him with the precision of a nurse, tapping each tape shut like she was sealing an envelope. The crinkle echoed. Jim clenched his fists. The mittens prevented anything more. "All done!" Darla announced, patting the front of the diaper with a plap. The women applauded. Someone handed her a commemorative onesie—Spoiled Rotten bedazzled across the chest—and the process began anew: arms threaded through ruffled sleeves, snaps fastened crotch-to-neck. Mama sipped her drink. "Beautiful," she pronounced. The women agreed. Jim stared at the ceiling, counting balloon strings. The redhead stepped forward with a ribboned bonnet. "My turn," she purred, tying it under his chin with a flourish. The women sighed. Jim closed his eyes. Jim’s fingers curled instinctively around the bottle Mama pressed into his hands—his grip small and perfect, thumbs tucked under like he’d been doing it forever. The women gasped. "Look at those reflexes!" cooed the redhead, leaning in to film the moment with her phone. The bottle’s nipple bobbed as Jim sucked, his eyelids fluttering at the warm formula. A drop escaped the corner of his mouth. Mama caught it with her thumb, swiping it back between his lips with practiced ease. “He takes it better than my six-month-old," murmured a woman in a linen shirt—Janice from HR, freshly returned from maternity leave. She stepped forward, her blouse still faintly damp at the chest. The room hushed as she cupped Jim’s chin, tilting his face toward the light. "See how his tongue presses up? Textbook latch." Her thumb brushed his lower lip, testing. Jim whimpered around the nipple, his cheeks hollowing with each pull. Janice’s smile was clinical. "Solid foods are too advanced. This one’s strictly liquid-fed." She unfastened the top button of her blouse with one hand, the other still cradling Jim’s head. "I can train him. Got the milk to prove it." The women tittered. Mama’s grip tightened on Jim’s shoulder—possessive, but considering. Janice’s fingers worked another button. "Twelve weeks’ supply in the freezer," she continued, nodding toward the kitchen. "Thaw it, warm it to body temp—he’ll never know the difference." Her gaze dropped to Jim’s diapered lap. "But if Mama wants him authentic..." A pause. The party held its breath. Mama’s nails dug into Jim’s collarbone. Then—decision. She lifted the bottle from his lips, the sudden absence drawing a needy whimper. "Show us," she said, nudging him toward Janice. The transfer was seamless—Janice’s arms scooping under his knees and shoulders, settling him against her chest with the expertise of a NICU nurse. Jim’s head lolled, boneless. Someone sighed. Janice’s final button gave way. The room leaned in. Jim’s lips parted— —then latched. Janice’s gasp was half-laugh, half-triumph. "Natural," she breathed, fingers carding through his hair. Mama watched, drink forgotten. Jim’s fingers kneaded air until they found purchase on Janice’s blouse, clutching like a lifeline. The women applauded softly, their rings muffled against palms. In the corner, Marv adjusted his pants. The clock ticked toward naptime. Jim lay sprawled across Janice’s lap, his lips still working absently at her emptied breast. The women had formed a semicircle around them, their shadows merging into one amorphous blob on the nursery wallpaper. Someone—Darla, probably—had turned down the lights, casting the room in a milky twilight that made Jim’s eyelids feel heavier. "See how he …" Janice murmured, brushing her nipple against Jim’s slack mouth. His head lolled toward it instinctively, lips pursing in a sleepy suckle reflex. She chuckled, withdrawing just enough to make him whimper. "Classic hunger cue. Textbook." Her fingers traced the curve of his ear, then down to the pulse point in his throat. "Bet his digestive tract’s regressed too. Probably can’t even process solids anymore." Mama’s pen scratched against a notepad—New Schedule: Liquid Diet Only. The redhead leaned over her shoulder, nodding approval. Jim’s stomach gurgled audibly. Janice pressed a palm to his bloated abdomen, her brow furrowing in mock concern. "Ohhh, tummy ache?" She lifted him upright, patting his back with rhythmic precision until a bubble of formula-scented air escaped his lips. The women sighed in unison. Darla brandished a dropper filled with something syrupy and pink. "Gripe water," she announced, prying Jim’s mouth open with practiced fingers. The liquid hit his tongue—cloyingly sweet, vaguely medicinal—and he swallowed reflexively. His face screwed up in distaste, but Janice’s hand cradled his skull, guiding him back to her chest. "Shhh," she crooned, rocking side to side. The motion jostled the milk-heavy weight of her breasts beneath the unbuttoned blouse. "Mama’s got you." Jim’s fingers flexed against her sleeve, his grip weakening as the gripe water took effect. His eyelids fluttered—once, twice—then stayed shut. The women exhaled as one. "Natural," Mama murmured, snapping a photo with her phone. Jim’s breath evened out. Darla’s fingers tightened around her champagne flute as Marv shifted uncomfortably near the diaper cake, his suit jacket pulled forward in a way that wasn’t subtle. She sidled up, her diner-trained reflexes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when Janice adjusted Jim’s limp form against her chest. "Need milk?" Darla murmured, nodding toward the kitchen where the blender sat crusted with Jim’s breakfast sludge. Marv’s face darkened. "Fuck no," he growled, but his eyes darted back to the nursery chair where Janice’s blouse gaped. Darla’s smile widened. She patted his arm—Sure, hon—before weaving through the crowd to Mama, who was flipping through Jim’s care schedule. "Think we missed a few candidates," Darla whispered, jerking her chin toward Marv. Mama’s gaze followed, landing on the way Marv’s knuckles whitened around his bourbon glass every time Janice’s nursing bra strap slipped. A slow smile spread across Mama’s face. She snapped the schedule shut. "Boys don’t know what’s good for them," Mama sighed, plucking a pacifier clip from the gift table. The ribbon trailed like a leash as she strolled toward Marv. He backed into the diaper cake, sending a tower of Pampers swaying. "Unless," Mama continued, tapping the pacifier against his tie, "someone shows them." Marv’s throat worked. Behind them, Janice hummed a lullaby, Jim’s snores harmonizing. Darla reached for her phone. The camera flashed—Marv flinching, Mama smiling, the pacifier dangling between them like a promise. Or a threat. Mama’s fingers brushed Marv’s wrist. "Thirsty?" she asked sweetly. Marv didn’t answer.  He didn’t need to.

If you seek bowel incontinence I think you need to get used to the diaper rash. Thats certainly one reason I don't often use my diaper for poops. If its really bad, you might have a secondary fungal infection. If I get bad a combo of barrier cream and antifungal helps a lot.

It has been exactly 12 hours since posting ...  And we miss only 1 like ... Thank you everyone for liking this story and feeding our banana hating toddler likes to keep this going at this incredible pace ...  Thought i would like a new chapter as promised and by that even more feed the chase for the 1st in every category this forum can provide, i would much more prefer to not go on any hiatus (especially if we have at least a small reprieve from cliffhangers). So i hope these fast likes inspired our favourite evil toddler to write more and that we will get more chapters ... though not enough to be stressed ... But if Sofia starts slacking we can finally get before her ... we are only 26 pages of comments behind the chapter count .... 😤🤣

I fold down the middle and fluff them up a bit before I'm due for a change. I like the bulk, especially in the winter when I can hide a bulky absorbent diaper under a long sweater or tunic. Jeans help compress and muffle a crinkly bulky diaper. jeggings or leggings, not so much. but leggins pair beautifully with a sweater-dress or oversized sweater that conceals the bulk. Otherwise the tight leggings woudl totally show off my bulky diapers lol.