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@CptKirk: No apology needed concerning your delay in response. Making a (sub) forum hidden to just logged in users with at least a minimum access level is part of this, and I assume most web forum software packages.  Totally hidden forums would require some way to let folks know they need to request specific access.  Something the site administrators (not necessarily moderators, not technical admins) would need to deal with, like handing new user registration handling.

My tykables waddlers diaper extremely messy I'm on the verge of leaking. I fell asleep on the couch Mommy came in to say it was time for bed. I'm so tired I could crawl into bed now. Mommy is ready to go with her blue disposable gloves and a disposable mask as I'm very stinky. So better go so I can climb up onto the changing table so Mommy can change baby so he can go to bed.

Moonshine  

Part 35: Back with the Little Ones   Bedwetting is a massive blow to one’s self-esteem. Because of that, it often goes hand-in-hand with other behavioral issues. When you’re also dyslexic, like Tom, it doesn’t exactly help stabilize your sense of self-worth. Here, Tom is experiencing exactly what I went through for years.   There I was again, back in Dr. Löffler’s office, sitting next to my mother and staring intensely at my sneakers. She flipped through a magazine in silence, sighing every now and then, and placed a reassuring hand on my thigh. Every time she did, I pulled my leg away slightly. I was beyond embarrassed.   The waiting room around me was packed, yet there was an almost eerie silence. No one spoke loudly. The children—all of elementary school age, between six and ten—sat much more relaxed next to their parents. Some whispered with their mothers and fathers. They all seemed to have been in dyslexia training for a while. For me, it was the first time.   When the wooden door to the large group room finally opened, Lea—the young assistant with the perpetual, forced smile—gestured for us children to come in. At thirteen, I was the oldest and tallest among the fifteen elementary schoolers, and I shuffled in last, acting with forced nonchalance. I sat down at a table with three other, much younger boys. In front of me on the low plastic table, the materials for today’s session were already laid out.   The sixty minutes began, and the room filled with the busy clatter of colored pencils and the rustle of paper. On the tables were the typical tools for promoting visual and acoustic perception. First, I had to work on a worksheet for visual discrimination: an endless row of nearly identical symbols where I had to pick out the tiny differences—mirrored "b"s and "d"s lined up in long columns, or rows of "p"s and "q"s that required intense concentration just to keep from losing my place.   Next came spatial orientation exercises. Using a red pencil, I had to trace arrows pointing in every direction to train visual seriality. For the younger children, there were colorful wooden blocks they had to arrange in specific patterns to work on hand-eye coordination in a playful way. Instead, I was given a card with a "word pyramid." I had to keep my gaze fixed on a dot in the center and try to capture the letters to the left and right simultaneously—an exhausting exercise to expand my visual span. I felt like I was in kindergarten. Lea, the assistant, clearly saw us as "high-needs" toddlers rather than students. As a high schooler, I was simply shoved into that same category from now on. I wonder if that girl who supposedly has to wear diaper pants too—the one Dr. Löffler mentioned last time—is here in this class? I thought. I looked around. Who could it be? Are there even other kids here who wet the bed? I just hoped Dr. Löffler wouldn't want to talk to me today. I couldn't bear the thought of having to show her the "Bunny Book" with all the "wet diaper" stickers.   While we were hunched over our papers with varying degrees of focus, tracing lines from left to right, there was a constant, subtle coming and going in the background. Completely casually and without making a scene, the white door to the inner practice would open every few minutes. One of the two psychologists—usually Dr. Löffler herself or her colleague—would silently poke her head in, catch a specific child’s eye, tap them gently on the shoulder, or beckon them with a quiet gesture. The child would then stand up without a word, drop their pencil, and disappear behind the door for a private session, while the rest of us barely looked up and continued marking syllable divisions with colored felt-tip pens. I felt like I had been held back all the way to first grade—as a consequence of my bedwetting. That was how I felt among all those little kids. I hope no one at school finds out I’m sitting here. Or that someone recognizes me, the thought kept racing through my mind.   I wasn't called at first. My hope that they might have forgotten me grew with every minute the hand on the wall clock jumped forward. But the relief was deceptive. After nearly an hour, the plastic stools clattered. "Alright, my dears! Everyone into a circle, chop-chop!" Lea called out with that shrill, tireless cheerfulness usually found only in camp counselors for toddlers. She directed the shuffling of chairs until the circle was formed. I squeezed myself in, my long legs uncomfortably bent, while at the very bottom of my gym bag lay the hated Bunny Book that I had almost "forgotten." "Dr. Löffler will definitely want to see that today, please pack it." With those words, my mother had handed me the childish little book—the evidence of how often I’d had a wet diaper the past week.   "Before we head out," Lea beamed, spreading her arms wide, "let's do our little weekly goal round! Everyone say briefly what they’ve planned for next week. And after that—listen closely!—everyone who has a Bunny Book, please take it out now. I’ll collect them so the Doctor can put her stamp in them!" Lea’s voice sounded even sweeter now, almost ceremonial. "And those with Bunny Books, please don't leave right away! The Doctor wants to have a very quick personal chat with some of you before you get them back." Most of the children looked somewhat amused. They seemed to know what was behind it and weren't affected themselves. Lea knew the reaction. That’s why she added, a bit more sternly: "It’s something very, very wonderful to have a Bunny Book! You are our special children, and the Doctor is extra interested in you and wants to help you a little bit!"   A strange, heavy silence suddenly filled the room. Everyone at the table knew exactly what the Bunny Book really meant. It was the unwritten, embarrassing badge of the bedwetters—a side effect that was handled quietly here. Those who didn't have one exhaled softly and grinned stealthily. Shame hung like a dark, damp fog over us owners of the little booklets; they were well-known to the other children by now. And soon, I would be officially inducted as a new "special child."   The round of resolutions began. Lea held a clipboard ready. "Max, you start! What is your goal for next week?" Lea asked with exaggerated fervor. Max, eight years old, stared at his sneakers. "Uh... I want to try not to trip over my words so much when I'm reading." Lea beamed at him as if he had just reinvented the wheel. "Did you hear that?! Max is going to try really hard to be faster at reading! That is a wonderful goal, Max, a giant step for our little champion!" Max sank deeper into his chair. Next was Sophie.   "And you, Sophie? What are we doing over the next seven days?" Lea turned to a nine-year-old girl. Sophie muttered quietly: "Spelling the 'ie' words correctly." "Exactly! Sophie wants to defeat those tricky 'ie' words! Don't you all think that’s great? A big thumbs up to you, Sophie, we’ll all be watching to make sure you succeed!" Lea cheered, clapping her hands twice. A third little boy was next. He nervously kneaded the sleeve of his sweater. "I want to do my homework without Mommy getting mad." Lea nodded vigorously, hand over her heart, and cooed: "Oh, that is so important! A harmonious afternoon at home! You can do it, we all believe in you, big guy!"   Finally, it was my turn. I felt the blood throbbing in my temples. "And our Thomas? What is your big goal?" Lea asked in that same kindergarten tone that was completely out of place for a thirteen-year-old. I cleared my throat; my voice sounded deeper than the others. "Fewer mistakes on my dictation." "Oh, wonderful!" Lea cried out theatrically to the group. "Thomas is showing us how the big boys do it! Totally focused on spelling. A real role model for the younger ones!" I just wanted to sink into the floor. "And now I need the five booklets. You know who I mean."   Next to me, a nine-year-old girl hesitantly raised her hand. Then two younger boys, eight and nine years old, followed suit. And finally, with a movement that physically pained me, I raised my hand too. I didn’t hold it high; I just slid it up a few inches, fingers curled, hoping no one would notice. The few older girls who had been glancing at me shyly and admiringly during the hour now looked away or twisted their mouths into a restrained, mocking grin. I felt completely exposed, like an outed giant baby in front of all these nine- and ten-year-olds. For the smaller children next to me, the shame was there too, but for them, it was somehow forgivable. I, on the other hand, stood out like a pathetic failure.   A quiet murmur went through the rows of the "non-affected." "The new guy is a bedwetter..." A few muffled giggles. I felt the naked, gleeful schadenfreude of the elementary schoolers who should have been looking up to me, but were now smirking at me. A girl at the edge of the group covered her mouth with her hand and stared at me with a mix of disgust and malicious fascination. Big Thomas. Who just had to hand in a Bunny Book where he had to document every morning whether everything stayed dry—even my sister can do that, and she’s just starting kindergarten. I felt so incredibly pathetic.   Lea looked at her list and checked off a few names. But then she paused. Her gaze scanned the circle and stopped at one spot. You could see Lea’s sudden guilty conscience; a deep, betraying flush crept up her neck. She had overlooked someone: an eleven-year-old girl sitting in the back corner of the circle, arms tightly crossed over her chest, her face chalk-white and staring rigidly ahead.   Lea stepped toward the girl. Her voice instantly lost its shrill, celebratory tone and became a low, almost ashamed whisper full of false tenderness. "You, Lena-Marie... sweetie... you have your Bunny Book in your backpack too, don't you?" Lea purred, crouching down in front of the eleven-year-old. "You belong to our very special children, too... And you know, there might be a little treat waiting for you in Dr. Löffler’s office later... we want to get the little book stamped along with the others, right?"   Lena-Marie didn't lift her head. A single tear ran slowly down her cheek, glistening in the neon light of the room. I looked away. I stared at my own knees, unable to bear the sight of this shared, naked shame any longer. "Alright, Thomas, now you, let’s have your little book too, thank you so much, Thomas," Lea’s voice chirped through the ringing in my ears. She approached me with an outstretched hand to claim the booklet. The giggling in the room didn't stop. Every inch of my body trembled with shame as I slowly, under the gleeful eyes of everyone, reached into my bag.   After the remaining eleven children had rushed out of the room in relief, the heavy wooden door closed with a dull click. Left behind was a small, miserable troop in a group room that now felt far too large. I sat there, staring intensely at my sneakers again. I was trapped. Because I was the oldest, Lea had put me at the end of the list. I had to sit here and be scrutinized by the remaining children while the minutes passed like slow-motion.   Next to me sat the nine-year-old girl, the two eight- and nine-year-old boys, and finally the eleven-year-old Lena-Marie, who had only produced her book after Lea’s insistent prompting. All five of us were like stone. We formed the secret society of those who had to document a result in a booklet every morning: either a green sticker for a dry bed or a yellow sticker if the bed had gotten wet. Or, in my case, a white or a yellow diaper-pant sticker. Depending on whether the prescribed diaper pants stayed dry through the night or had become wet.   The white door to the practice opened for the first time. The second assistant, Frau Binder, came out and beckoned the eight-year-old boy. When the door closed behind them, a heavy, awkward silence spread through the room. Lea couldn't stand the silence for more than five seconds. She immediately took a step closer to me, leaning down with a motherly, cooing voice and whispered: "Thomas, honey? You really don't need to be afraid of the big talk today, okay? The Doctor is just going to look at your pretty pictures. We all want to see lots and lots of white cards in your little book next week, and the yellow ones will just disappear all on their own! It’s not bad at all, big guy!"   I swallowed hard and stared rigidly at the linoleum. White and yellow cards. We knew exactly what that meant: the wet, yellow diaper-pant stickers. I felt so incredibly pathetic, like the biggest and most incompetent of the babies in this room. "Yes, Thomas, don't look so sad!" Frau Binder chimed in, returning from the hallway and seeing Lea fussing over me. She stepped to the other side of my table. "I heard that you’re being such a good boy about wearing your 'night-night pants' now!" she said praisingly as she sat down next to me. It was quiet, but the other children were watching intently now and had surely caught a word or two. "Sometimes children just need a little longer and an extra soft 'protection nest' in bed so everything stays nice and clean. There’s nothing to be ashamed of! Look, the others have the 'problem' and a little book too!"   Frau Binder now turned to the nine-year-old boy, who was still in the circle, listening intently. "You’re going to try really hard for next week too, so we can stick in more of the white pants, right, Lukas? We all want a big 'good job' from the Doctor!" Little Lukas nodded timidly, his face buried deep in his sweater collar. I realized that he and the others were just as ashamed, but the spotlight was on me anyway because I looked so incredibly out of place among them.   I remembered my mother’s words in the waiting room: "I’ll pick you up later. You have a talk with Dr. Löffler after the exercises. I want you to answer all her questions exactly and hide nothing. Afterward, I’ll speak with her briefly to decide what we’re going to do with you moving forward."   It took almost ten minutes before the door opened again and Lukas was finally called. The children apparently left the office through the door leading directly to the waiting room. I probably wouldn't see them again until next Monday. As soon as the door was shut, the two women on the team took over my "care" again. They practically competed to see who could offer a double dose of pity.   "You know, Thomas," Lea chirped, sitting on the empty plastic stool right next to me so that her knees almost touched mine. "We are all super, super proud of you! It’s definitely not easy for a big boy like you to remember the little pants every night. But it’s like a little magic cloak for the night, you understand? It watches over you while your little body sleeps." "Yes, and you really have to report everything honestly to the Doctor later," Frau Binder added immediately from the side, feeling I still looked too depressed. "You have to tell her exactly whether the pants were already very light some mornings or still very heavy, okay? There are no secrets between you. And Lena-Marie is going to try that for her next week too, right, sweetie?"   Eleven-year-old Lena-Marie stared at me fixedly. In her eyes was a bitter understanding, but I also felt a certain relief from her—relief that my case was obviously going to be discussed much more intensely and extensively than her own. Every coded word from the assistants about "light and heavy pants" was like a spotlight aimed at our shared shame, and I was the one standing out the most.   When Lena-Marie was finally called as the second-to-last and disappeared into the consulting room with slumped shoulders, I was alone in the room with the two women. "Alright, big guy," Lea said, standing up and clapping her hands softly as if announcing a game. "Now you’re our most important lead actor today! The Doctor is taking extra time for you because you’re already so big." Shortly after, the door opened again and Dr. Löffler gave a signal. "Alright, Thomas, it’s your turn. Head on in to see the Doctor. She’s waiting for you and has surely already read and stamped your Bunny Book that I brought her."   I felt a tear of pure rage and humiliation trying to well up in my eyes and blinked it away hastily. I pressed my lips together so tightly they formed a thin line, grabbed my bag, and walked through the door to Dr. Löffler.   The wood of the massive desk shimmered in the pale light of the floor lamp. Right there in front of me on the polished surface it lay, small and merciless: my Bunny Book. On the cover, a cheerfully drawn rabbit stood in front of his bed; below it, the title was emblazoned in loopy cursive: "Bunny Won't Need Diapers Much Longer." I am thirteen years old. Seeing that booklet lying there was indescribably degrading.   Dr. Löffler ran her fingertip over the edge of the book, opened it, and slowly flipped through the pages. She tilted her head slightly, and when she spoke, her voice was suddenly very soft, drawn-out, and full of gentle, pitying care. She spoke to me as if I were a three-year-old toddler confessing to a mishap. "Now, Thomas, look," she began very quietly, pointing to the pages. "I’ve looked at your Bunny Book very carefully. And I see so, so many yellow diaper pants that you’ve pasted in there. Oh dear, staying dry hasn't worked out well at all yet, has it? There are almost no white pants to be seen. And look here, on this day you even wrote 'wet' because the little bed was completely flooded before Mommy could even call you to be changed."   The shame shot into my face like boiling water. I pressed my lips together so hard it hurt, stared at my knotted fingers, and couldn't get a single word out. My throat felt like it was tied in a knot. "Tell me, how are you feeling now with your diaper pants?" she continued with almost angelic patience, as if trying to soothe a frightened preschooler. "Do the little pants pinch anywhere when you’re lying in your little bed? Or is it nice and cozy and soft for you at night? You don't have to be ashamed at all here with me, my dear. See, you’re just a little bit younger in your tummy, and that’s why it doesn't quite work right at night yet."   I didn't answer. I couldn't. I shrank into my chair, wanting nothing more than to become invisible. Dr. Löffler leaned further forward and fixed me with a gaze that left me completely exposed. "Thomas, tell me... don't you actually feel much more like a little baby when you have to come to your Mommy all wet in the morning? When you stand there and she has to undress you and clean you up first? And think of all the laundry hanging outside on the line in the garden afterward, so every neighbor can see that the little bed didn't stay dry again? Isn't that a very sad feeling for you?"   Every single word struck deep at my dignity. A burst of anger, the kind that would have come out at home with Mom, didn't even cross my mind—I was far too broken for that. I just felt deeply ashamed, defenseless, and infinitely small. A lone tear broke free and dripped onto my pants. I just shook my head very slightly, gaze fixed downward, unable to look her in the eye.   "Look, Thomas," she continued unmoved in her gentle but relentless tone. "During the day, your head is just completely overwhelmed with all the letters and the reading. It exhausts you so much that your body is as tired in the evening as a very small child’s. When you fall asleep then, you sleep so deeply and soundly that your bladder has no chance of waking you up in time. You simply don't notice at all when it happens. You sleep like a baby."   She flipped another page. "And that’s exactly why we have to look very closely now at how your nights are going at the moment. Mommy puts the diaper pants on you in the evening before bed so your little bed is protected. Then you fall asleep safe and secure. Your Mommy doesn't have to check in the middle of the night if your bed is still dry. And she doesn't have to wake you up when you’re wet to go to the bathroom and change your sheets. When you wake up in the morning now, the diaper is heavy and wet, but your bed stays dry thanks to the plastic backing. It’s a total relief for your nervous system so you can get proper rest. Don't you understand that?"   I decided not to answer. "We need to write down now when you pee into your little diaper pants. Then we’ll find out why you prefer to behave like a baby on those nights instead of like a big boy." She smiled in a pleasant, caring way. I decided to keep saying nothing. "Should we bring your mother in and discuss everything together? Should she explain it to you?"   I turned bright red. "I... I’m sorry," I finally stammered in a high-pitched, tiny voice. I felt so incredibly submissive and miserable. "Please... don't call Mom in. I... I’ll do whatever you say." I made myself as small as possible on the wooden chair, hunched my shoulders, and didn't dare look up. I just stared, cowering, at the stupid, happy rabbit on the cover of the Bunny Book. I had lost completely.   "I’m glad we understand each other," she said flatly, picking up her fountain pen and making a note. "Then let’s go through the log day by day. Tell me about Tuesday night..."

I see two main reasons for the low number of comments: 1) There are many subgenres of ABDL literature, so many people won’t read a story if it falls outside their area of interest, and they don’t comment on what they haven’t read. I usually select stories based on their tags and skip stories that the author hasn’t tagged. 2) There’s a tendency for negative comments to be frowned upon. It’s said that pointing out flaws and mistakes in a new author’s story scares them away. But how can they improve if you don’t tell them what they need to work on?