spark

Thank you, and that’s exactly the mindset I want to capture in this part of the story. As I’m writing it, I keep asking myself what this would actually feel like for Reggie. The swaddling is obviously humiliating and restrictive, but I think the loss of time would be the thing that truly breaks him down. Not knowing what hour it is, what day it is, or how long something has been going on would be terrifying in a quieter way. It turns the whole experience into a mental game where he’s constantly trying to anchor himself to something real. FTR, a lot of Reggie’s flaws—the mess, the lack of organization, the way he lets basic things slide when he’s overwhelmed—come directly from my most self-critical view of myself. I’m exaggerating them for the story, obviously, but emotionally that part is very real. Reggie isn’t meant to be helpless because he’s incapable; he’s someone whose weakest traits get exposed, magnified, and then weaponized against him. I haven’t experienced that exact kind of time-blindness as an adult, but I can relate to the feeling of being disoriented. When I was younger, I went on a trip where I didn’t really know where I was. People told me the names of towns, but without a map or any context, the names meant nothing. Even now, I can only vaguely deduce where I must have been. Later, on a trip to New York with my team handball club, I had the same kind of reaction. We flew into Newark and drove to Long Island, and I hated not being able to place myself. The next morning, when people were discussing directions, I interrupted just to ask, “Where are we right now?” I couldn’t stand not knowing. That’s the feeling I’m trying to channel with Reggie, except with time instead of place. He’s not just trapped physically; he’s cut off from the basic markers that help adults orient themselves. No clocks, no calendar, no schedule he controls. He has to build a timeline from meals, naps, bottles, TV shows, light through the window, and scraps of overheard information. That’s psychologically brutal. Part of why I used swaddling instead of spanking is that spanking is such a dominant trope in ABDL fiction. So many stories use it as the default breaking point: the antagonist beats the protagonist down until they beg, submit, or give in. I have a strong aversion to that trope, so I deliberately avoided it. But in doing that, I may have created something worse for Reggie. If Mom had only spanked him, there would still be something concrete for him to resist. Pain has a shape; it starts, escalates, and ends. What she does instead is psychological. She takes away time, privacy, routine, speech, and choice until giving in stops looking like surrender and starts looking like survival. Part of the reason for me including swaddling is my

That's the one

It took him more than 3 years, and by the end (we all know his history of going 6 to 8 months between updates), but by the end, he posted consistently every week and I hit it up the first chance I had. BTW- you had one of my favorites way back when (about 15 years ago). Similar themes to my Coming Home (adult passing for child).

I'm pretty selective with my stories, but I think that's because my tastes seem to align with a lot of writers'. I don't like slow burns, I don't like sissy stories, and I don't like excessive (or really any). I like stories where there is self-conflict, and despite my current story- I don't like dystopian regression stories. My favorite story is All My Mother's Rules- AB Delane (Yeah- Spanking and dystopia, but when done right- it's good). I like the Sakura Series by Kita Sparkles Amy Cummings stories And Max Harper's Kylie's Regression series.

I think the categories you have work, especially since it's based on your preferences. An example of consensual age regression that I'm thinking about is the Sakura Series that Kita Sparkles published on Kindle. The realistic/consenual/forced spectrum is can be complicated, but that's what I enjoy when it's done right.

I can't wait to see this. I'm not sure where you would put the consensual age regression stories. Maybe more realistic?

I agree, it's very dark at this stage. Especially this chapter. This chapter did a lot of the grunt work that i need to set up his life in the nursery. That is very depressing, because it's so controlling and hopeless. He literally can't save himself. Remember, this is a rescue story, but he can't free himself. The last few chapters are all about his rescue, and eventually regaining ownership of his life. Reggie isn't giving up to be happy; he's giving up to survive. If you remove the diapers and nursery aspect, this is like a hostage/kidnapping situation, and Reggie is using the same strategies that a lot those victims use. It can read a little bit like Stockholm Syndrome, but it's not. IMO- that makes his captivity more depressing. The next two chapters will advance the plot, but that doesn't get them away from their mother just yet. in fact, by the end of the next chapter, their mother will have a tighter grip on their lives (sorry about that). I think i'll get there in about 5 more chapters, and the themes will be less depressing after that.

Chapter 15: Reggie’s Birthday We landed in Sacramento at ten o’clock. It was one o’clock in the morning back in New York, but when I lived there, I didn’t consider that especially late. I usually played video games until two in the morning, even when I had to get up for work. Now, ten o’clock was two hours past my bedtime, and I had barely slept the entire trip. I was absolutely exhausted. When the baggage handler brought the stroller up, Mom unfolded it in the jet bridge and said, “Sit down, honey.” I didn’t protest. I just sat down. I was too tired to argue, but that wasn’t the only reason I gave in. I thought I had been good the entire trip, especially since we left the bank. The only time Mom snapped at me was when I pushed for the better pizza, but she didn’t stay mad for long. After that, I did everything she asked, and Mom was nice to me. We took the train to JFK, and then she let me watch basketball on the plane. Maybe that was the secret: if I kept this up, she would stop treating me this way. Instead, after she strapped me into the stroller, she plopped a pacifier in my mouth. “Here you go. Suck on your binky.” I was confused. I hadn’t whined. I hadn’t fussed. I did exactly what she wanted. But that didn’t seem to matter anymore. I tried to speak, but Mom shook her head. “No talking with your binky in.” I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I didn’t understand why I had to suck on my pacifier. Still, I managed a small, muffled, “Why, Mommy? Mom’s voice sharpened. “Because I told you to suck on your binky. No talking.” Mom saw my eyes filling with tears and softened her voice. “It’s been a big day, sweetheart. Mommy wants you to settle down. Just suck on your binky until we get home, and then Mommy will put you to bed.” By the time she got me into the nursery, I was too tired to think. We had been gone for thirty hours, and I had barely slept. I climbed onto the changing table without being told. It was just part of my routine now. Then she laid the blanket out. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired anymore; I was scared. I knew exactly what the blanket meant; she was going to swaddle me. I couldn’t breathe. I cried, “No! Mommy, please!” Mom’s voice softened into that calm, rocking rhythm. “Just relax, baby. Mommy’s here.” I managed to get out, “Why?” before she put the pacifier back in my mouth and pulled me close to her chest. She rocked back and forth, chanting softly until my breathing slowed. Then she whispered, “Mommy knows you were good. Baby had a big day. Just relax and let Mommy keep you safe.” Now I was even more confused. Swaddling was the ultimate punishment. She only used it when I was really bad, but I had been good. I had done everything right. So why was she wrapping me in a blanket so tightly that I couldn’t move? It took me a long time to understand that Mom never saw swaddling as punishment. To her, it was a reset. Whenever I got too excited, too curious, too comfortable, or too close to feeling like myself again, she used it to bring me back down. Afterward, I had to earn everything back one piece at a time. Whenever I was swaddled, my first instinct was to move. First my hands. Then my feet. Then anything. I wanted even the smallest bit of freedom, but the blanket was wrapped so tightly that I couldn’t make any progress. Whatever progress I made was always undone the next time Mom fed or changed me. She rewrapped the blanket just as tightly as she had at the beginning. I’m still not sure if there was something in my bottle, or I was worn out from being pinned down. Either way, when I was wrapped like that, I wasn’t even treated like a toddler anymore. I was basically an infant. While I was stuck in my crib, all I did was eat, sleep, pee, and poop. Once I understood I wasn’t getting out, I started counting things. There weren’t any clocks in the nursery, and after a while the hours stopped meaning anything. I counted what I could: mostly bottles and changes. This time, she gave me six bottles before she took me out of the crib, and I counted two more before she finally started feeding me in the highchair. That didn’t mean the swaddling was over. It only meant she was letting me out during the day. For the next few nights, she still wrapped me up before putting me back in the crib. Keeping track of time mattered more than anything else, because it was the one thing that anchored me and reminded me who I really was. I wasn’t a baby. I was an adult, and time matters to adults. Before little kids start school, they don’t have to understand time. They don’t need to know days, hours, or schedules, because their mommy controls all of that. In the nursery, Mom controlled time the same way she controlled everything else. She never told me what day it was or what time it was. There weren’t any clocks in the nursery, and all of our shows were recorded. There was a clock on the stove, but Mom made sure my highchair faced the opposite direction. When she realized I was peeking at it before she put me in the highchair, she turned it off. I used anything I could. I tracked night and day, the weather, the color of the light through the windows, the changing shape of the tree outside, and how many times the same recorded show played in a loop. Those things mattered because they belonged to the real world, and not just Mom’s routine. Bottles and changes helped me measure the small stretches of time inside the nursery, but light, weather, trees, football, and baseball helped me connect those stretches to something larger. They gave me a way to say not just how long something lasted, but where it belonged. I didn’t always know the day, or even the month, but I built a timeline in my head. I remembered the order of things: what happened before, and what happened after. Even when I couldn’t attach a date to something, I knew where it belonged. Every so often, something gave me a fixed point: the Super Bowl, my birthday, or The Masters. Once I had that anchor, I could place everything else around it. But it only worked when something changed. Without a change in the routine, I got lost. After New York, I didn’t see Charlotte again until the worst of it was over. Mom wasn’t swaddling me anymore, but I was still confined to the playpen, and I wasn’t allowed to talk. I had to keep a pacifier in my mouth unless I was eating. That probably happened on a Sunday, and since it was before the Super Bowl, February 1st makes the most sense. If I’m right, I was swaddled about four nights. When Charlotte saw me in the playpen, she crouched beside it and asked softly, “Are you okay?” Mom snapped, “Charlotte. Stop.” Charlotte froze. Mom’s voice lowered, but not by much. “I don’t want him getting worked up. That’s why he has the binky.” Charlotte looked defensive. “I just want to see how he’s doing.” Mom sighed. “He’s doing better. New York took a lot out of him, and I don’t want anyone upsetting him right now.” Charlotte read the warning and backed off. A few minutes later, she tried again. “Mom, I think Reggie might need a diaper change. Do you want me to take care of it?” I didn’t realize it at the time, but Charlotte wasn’t really worried about my diaper. She wanted to get me away from Mom, long enough to find out whether I was still really there. This time, Mom checked me herself, then waved Charlotte off. “Don’t worry about him, honey. I’ll take care of it. That’s my job.” After that, Charlotte stopped trying so openly. Mom made it clear she wasn’t letting me out of sight, not even for a diaper change. But the conflict didn’t end there. To my mom, Sunday dinner wasn’t just dinner; it was family time. I could tell Charlotte was tired of explaining why Kristy wasn’t there, but standing up to Mom was hard for her. Since Kristy wasn’t there for dinner, Mom kept pushing for another time to babysit, and Charlotte kept finding excuses why that wouldn’t work. Mom didn’t accept any of those excuses. She just kept asking for other times. By the time Mom put me to bed, they still hadn’t agreed on anything. I guess Mom finally wore Charlotte down, because a few days later she was watching Kristy. It was the only time Mom ever babysat Kristy and me together. I didn’t understand it then, but Kristy being potty trained made the visit awkward for both Mom and Charlotte. Mom wanted to put her back in diapers, but Charlotte wouldn’t let her. By that point, Kristy was using the potty all the time. She hadn’t had an accident in weeks, she was waking up dry from naps, and she had even stopped wearing diapers at night. By any normal standard, she was potty trained. That was normal for other families, but not ours. Mom never let any of us move past diapers that young. When I was five, Mom still had all three of us in diapers on family trips, and I don’t remember thinking that was strange. In our family, that’s just how things worked. Mom kept me in diapers a lot longer. For a while, school made Pull-ups the only practical option, but at home I mostly wore diapers until I was twelve. Accidents always became a major event. Mom noticed them, talked about them, and used them as proof that we still weren’t ready. Staying dry barely mattered. For my mom, Kristy being potty trained but still needing help was unfamiliar territory. Kristy was still a little kid, but not the kind Mom preferred. Mom liked little kids who couldn’t do anything for themselves. Kristy still needed help, but not the kind of help Mom liked. If she told Grandma she needed the potty, someone had to take her right then. Mom was used to diapers; she could change one when she was ready. By the time she let us out of diapers, we were old enough to wait, use the bathroom by ourselves, and manage most of it without her. Kristy needed help without being helpless, and I think that bothered Mom more than she wanted to admit. It was also strange for Kristy. She had barely seen me since the beginning of January, and at three years old, I don’t know how much she really remembered. She knew I was Uncle Reggie. She knew I was bigger than her. But now I was in diapers, sitting in the playpen, and being treated like a baby. I don’t think she knew what to do with that. She asked, “Why is Uncle Reggie wearing a diaper?” Mom answered as if the explanation was obvious. “Because he’s not potty trained, like you are.” I knew that voice. Mom wanted Kristy to feel proud, but she didn’t really believe it. To her, a few dry weeks didn’t prove Kristy was potty trained. It only meant she hadn’t failed yet. Kristy frowned. “But he’s not a baby.” Mom tilted her head. “Do big kids wear diapers?” “No.” “Then that means Reggie is a baby. He might be big, but he’s not a big kid like you.” Kristy beamed. Being called a big kid mattered to her more than understanding what it meant for me. After that, Kristy wanted to help Grandma with the big-kid chores. She handed Mom wipes, carried toys from one room to another, and tried to clean up. She was proud of herself every time Mom let her do something. But she was only three, and most of her help made more work. Mom had to redo almost everything, though she was careful not to say that out loud. The chores excited her for a while, but she lost interest in the way little kids do and drifted back to playing. We played make-believe, the same way Stacy and I used to. Kristy was the mommy, and I was the baby. In Kristy’s world, that made sense. Mommies worked from home, babies stayed nearby, and taking care of them was mostly another kind of game. She pretended to make phone calls, announced that she was working, and checked on me between imaginary meetings. The nursery was lonely, especially when Mom watched me. Being monitored was not the same as being noticed. With Kristy there, I didn’t feel alone. She handed me toys, told me what to do, scolded me in her tiny mommy voice, and laughed when I played along. I knew how strange it looked, and I hated myself for giving in. But I had a friend, and that mattered more than anything else. Whenever time slipped away, I tried to use sleep to measure it, but that always fell apart. Once that happened, I couldn’t get my bearings back until something broke the routine and gave me an anchor. Sports became the strongest anchor because it follows a calendar that I know. The NFL playoffs happen in January, and the Super Bowl is played on the second Sunday in February. The problem was that Mom controlled what I watched. Dad usually watched sports in his den, and Mom never let me go in there. That meant I couldn’t watch unless he watched in the living room. Other anchors were weaker, but I could still use them to put events in order. I was sure Charlotte had come over on a Sunday, because she always came over for Sunday dinner. I guessed it was the Sunday after we got back from New York, since I hadn’t seen her since our trip. I was already losing my bearings when Kristy came over. I didn’t think it was a Monday, but it didn’t feel like a full week had passed either. After that, everything stretched out. By the time the Super Bowl came around, I was so lost that I thought I missed it. That was devastating. I hadn’t missed a Super Bowl since I was eight years old. Then, on what felt like any other day, Mom followed her usual routine: after my nap, she set up my playpen in the living room and put me in it while she cooked in the kitchen. I still didn’t know what day it was. Then Dad turned on the game, and everything clicked into place. I didn’t missed the Super Bowl! I’m still not sure why he watched it there. Maybe he wanted to be sociable, since Charlotte was there. Maybe he didn’t want to watch the biggest game of the year alone. Or maybe, in his quiet way, he knew I wanted to see it and gave me the only kind of favor he knew how to give. Whatever the reason, it meant I could watch as long as I stayed in my playpen and didn’t make a fuss. By then, I knew how Mom’s rules worked. If I reacted too much, she wouldn’t just turn off the game or send me back to the playroom. She would take me back to the nursery and wrap me in a blanket so tightly that I couldn’t move. I made my face quiet, kept my body still, and didn’t give her anything to use. I pretended to play with one of my toys, even though I was really watching the game. I barely reacted. I didn’t cheer, didn’t complain, and didn’t let myself look interested. I sat there like a good little boy, trying as hard as I could to stay calm, and watched the Super Bowl from my playpen. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a good game. It was slow and frustrating, and the Seahawks won, which made it worse. Maya started a few days after the Super Bowl, but by then, I had already gotten lost in the routine. Mostly, I watched children’s shows in the playroom or played with blocks in the playpen while Mom cooked in the kitchen. Even after Maya started, Mom still worked from home. Since my mom was in the office, and we were usually in the playroom, Maya treated me like a child, just like my mom wanted. She guided me from activity to activity and praised me whenever I did what I was told. Even though my routine didn’t really change, I preferred Maya to Mom. She didn’t just leave me alone in the playroom. Most of the time, she was doing homework or scrolling on her phone, but at least she was there. She also spoke to me differently, though I didn’t understand how much that mattered until the first day we colored together. For once, I actually tried. I wanted the picture to look nice, even though I wasn’t good at coloring. When I finished, Maya beamed and said, “Oh, that’s a pretty picture.” I laughed before I could stop myself. “No, it’s not. I stink at this.” That was exactly the kind of answer Mom didn’t like. She never forced me to talk like a baby, not directly, but it was obvious what she preferred. When I sounded little, she was gentle. When I sounded older, especially if I corrected her or pushed back, she shut it down. Little by little, I learned to act more like a child because she was so much nicer when I did. Maya reacted differently. My answer surprised her. Mom told her I had regressed to the level of a three-year-old, but a three-year-old wouldn’t say that. Instead of scolding me, she treated it like something an older kid would say. She smiled, “Well, at least you tried. Coloring is harder than people think.” Maya usually took me to the little park inside the complex in the morning, right before lunch. It wasn’t a public park, exactly. It sat in the middle of our gated community, tucked into the landscaped greenbelt between the houses, with trimmed grass, shaded walking paths, a newer playground, and benches under carefully maintained trees. The park was private, and that was the point. Most days, it was empty. There weren’t many little kids in the neighborhood, and the ones who did live there were usually at school or daycare. Mom wanted me outside, but she didn’t want strangers to notice. Mom took me there a few times herself. I think she wanted it to become part of my routine, but work kept getting in the way. She said she was taking time off, but she still had meetings. Maya never took me out of the complex, but Mom took me out of the neighborhood twice. In both cases, she didn’t have a choice. She had to run some errands, and she didn’t have anyone to watch me. I liked the change, but I felt exposed. The first time was just a quick run to Target. I was strapped into the car seat, and Mom put me straight into the stroller once we got there. We didn’t stay long. She went directly to the aisle, grabbed what she needed, and paid at the self-checkout kiosk. No one said anything, but that didn’t mean they didn’t notice the big kid in the stroller. The second time was her monthly appointment at the beauty salon. Mom got her hair done every month, and she wasn’t about to miss it because of me. Since she didn’t have anyone else to watch me, she brought me along. I remember wondering why she didn’t just ask Charlotte, but Mom never trusted her enough to leave me with her. Before we got there, Mom warned. “Mommy’s getting her hair done. Be a good boy and stay quiet.” I asked, “How long will that take, Mommy?” It was a stupid question. I had no real sense of time, and Mom wasn’t about to give me anything to track it. She cut me off with a bribe and a threat. “That doesn’t matter. Just be good while Mommy gets her hair done. If you’re good, Mommy will give you a treat. If you’re bad, Mommy will have to punish you.” Obviously, good meant I wasn’t allowed to whine about anything. I was used to sitting in the stroller, so I didn’t complain about it. I remembered going to that salon when I was little, but this was a different hairdresser, and she didn’t recognize me. She saw me sitting in the stroller and asked, “Hi, Linda. Are you babysitting today? I don’t recognize this cutie.” Mom always knew how much to explain in any given situation. She supplied details only when they helped her. When they didn’t, she gave just enough of an answer to satisfy people’s curiosity without inviting more questions. Most of the time, people simply assumed I was a child that she was babysitting. This time, Mom replied, “Something like that. It’s kind of a long story, but this is Reggie.” The hairdresser looked at me with the soft, bright smile adults use for children. “Oh, well he’s definitely a cutie.” She waved her hand and in a sweet, high voice, said, “Hi Reggie, nice to meet you.” I noticed a slight pause as she sized up the stroller, and asked, “How old is he?” When someone noticed that I was too big for the stroller, Mom knew better than to explain too much. She always gave just enough of an answer to make people stop asking. She answered without really answering. “He has a birthday coming up, so he’s older than you think.” The hairdresser caught the hint and moved on. She just looked at me sweetly and said, “That’s nice. I bet you’re excited.” I think Maya started about a week before my birthday, but I’m not sure. A few days after she started, I didn’t see her for a while. It must have been Presidents Day weekend. Maya wasn’t there, Charlotte was away, and there weren’t any games that gave me a date. All I had to count were sleeps, and even that didn’t work because naps made everything blur together. I knew Maya was gone for about four nights, maybe six sleeps if I counted naps, but I couldn’t place the days until the next anchor came. The next anchor was my birthday, February 18. I hated birthdays. It was just another reminder that my body wasn’t going to change, no matter how old I was. If no one else brought it up, I let the day pass like any other. For my mom, birthdays were another kind of performance. She invited people over, cooked an elaborate meal, and made sure everyone saw how much she did for us. It wasn’t a kid’s birthday party. It was more like Thanksgiving: a meal with family, close friends, and their kids. There were never many guests, usually ten or twelve, but my parents knew important people, so it didn’t seem strange when the governor came. Most of the guests didn’t have kids our age, and that was fine with my mother. The kids weren’t the point. The meal was. Mom loved to cook, and people always went on about how wonderful everything was. Then they made a special point of telling us how lucky we were to have such a devoted mother. Mom had one special birthday rule. If we still slept in the nursery, we had to wear diapers the whole day, no matter how old we were. She said it was to avoid accidents during the party, but that wasn’t the real reason. We were getting older, and Mom wanted to keep us little. That rule rarely affected me, because I was already wearing diapers during the day. The only real difference for me was that I got to sit in a regular chair instead of the highchair. She didn’t want anyone outside the family knowing how things really worked. For Charlotte, it was a much bigger deal. She rarely wore diapers during the day, but Mom still made her wear one on her birthday. Even when she turned seventeen. I remember her sixteenth birthday clearly because I was nine and had just stopped wearing diapers during the day. It’s the only time I remember Charlotte wearing a diaper while I wasn’t. That memory stayed with me because I had an accident at the party, which proved the rule was never really about accidents. The next year, Mom made Charlotte wear one again. By then, I had just started at the virtual school, and Mom kept me in diapers full-time. For us, the birthday wasn’t our actual birthday. It was the day we celebrated it. That was usually the closest Saturday, since that was when everybody could attend. But February 18 still mattered. That morning, while I was eating breakfast, Mom told Maya, “Today is Reggie’s birthday. We’re having his little party on Saturday, if you’d like to come.” Maya brightened. “It is? That’s wonderful. How old is he?” Mom hesitated for half a second. “Twenty-five.” Maya looked surprised, then quickly nodded, as if she had only forgotten. “Right. Sorry. I keep forgetting he isn’t actually a kid.” Mom gave her a small smile. “That’s all right. It’s easier if you think of him that way. He’s been through a lot, and treating him like a little boy keeps him calm.” Then, still speaking to Maya, she added, “Saturday won’t be anything big. Just family, a neighbor who helps us sometimes, and you, if you’re free.” Maya nodded. “That sounds nice. Should I get him a gift?” Mom quickly answered. “No, we don’t do presents in this family. I don’t reward my kids just because it’s their birthday. If they need something, I provide it. If they want something, they have to earn it.” I didn’t expect anything. Birthdays in our house didn’t work that way. Saturday would be Mom’s meal, Mom’s rules, and a few people who already knew how things were. But on my actual birthday, Maya gave me an extra treat at lunch: an ice cream sandwich. It was a small thing, but no one had ever done something nice for me just because it was my birthday. On Saturday morning, Mom kept me in the playpen while she cooked the meal. I was close enough for her to watch me, but far enough away to stay out of the way. As usual, I had a nap after lunch, and when I woke up, it was time for my party. It wasn’t really a party. Everybody who was there knew about me, so Mom didn’t have to pretend, and I had to sit in my highchair. Dad and Charlotte were both there, Stacy was home from college, and Maya came on her day off. Kristy wasn’t, and that bothered Mom. She looked around and asked, “Where’s Kristy? I wanted the whole family.” Charlotte sounded tired of explaining. “Mom, Dennis has her on weekends.” Mom didn’t answer, but she wasn’t happy about it. Still, dinner went on. Maya being there mattered more than I understood at the time. Mom didn’t invite people into that part of our lives unless she thought she could control what they saw. Maya had already seen me in diapers and in the highchair, but the party let her see how everyone else went along with it. Mom made spaghetti. She was a good cook, so it tasted good, but eating it with my hands made a mess. Sauce got all over my face. When Maya noticed the mess, she sheepishly said, “I probably should have helped him.” Stacy smiled, “One of us could have.” Mom looked at both of them, still smiling. “He’s fine. It’s his birthday. Let him be messy.” Then she wiped sauce from my cheek with her thumb. “Besides, he looks cute.” I whined, “It’s hard. I need a fork.” Mom’s smile disappeared. “No. Babies don’t get forks. They’re dangerous.” That told me where the line was. Mom liked the mess when it made me look cute. The moment I asked for a fork, I wasn’t cute anymore. I was fussy. My night ended with cake and a few candles on top. Mom chuckled as she set it in front of me. “We can’t put twenty-five candles on there, but under the circumstances, this seems more appropriate.” Even Dad laughed at that. After cake, Mom announced that it was my bedtime. Before she took me upstairs, she made me give everyone a hug. Then she led me back to the nursery for the rest of the night.

@DiaperedDarkElf Congrats. I hope somebody who matters in the industry sees this because this is so good. I don't know how you did you that, but it doesn't matter. If you can do that, somebody should pay you a lot of money to do that. It doesn't mock what we/I am and it dosn't demean regression. You nailed it.

I used to do that, but I can't pee on demand anymore. I used to be one of those guys who could pee on demand and stop mid-stream. That command structure was firmly in place. My bladder was always locked and loaded, but wouldn't drop unless there was an order from central command. And when central command told it to cease, it would stop all action. Now, my bladder isn't always ready to go, and won't always wait for central command's orders. Most of the time, the sequence goes: we're ready, then go ahead, and my bladder replies, "Good, because we're already going." Since I don't go on demand, and I've usually emptied my bladder before I put my nighttime diaper on, I stay dry until that ready signal is given. That usually happens around 3 to 4, and central command's response is: don't bother me, just go.

That's what I figured, and you did a great job. You should be very proud of yourself. The story that I'm currently working on Coming Home coincided when Office 365 added Copilot to it's Suite. I'm using it a lot to get the exact feel that I want from chapter. I literally asked it: what works better in this situation: my pacifier, or the pacifier? It's creating something I very proud of, but it takes a lot of work to get it right. FTR- it's more work than it was when I didn't have the tool, but the product is stronger because I'm getting better feedback. What you did with this is amazing, and it's a really catchy tune. I don't usually like that type of music, but that has an earworm effect. A Meghan Trainor type of effect.

If the criticism is: this is aided by AI, so therefore fake, prepare to be disappointed with everything for the rest of your life. It's also a product of the mindset that everything AI is bad. AI is a tool, and to make the tool work properly, you have to know how to use it. AI is not plug-and-play technology, especially with creative projects. It takes a lot of time to get it just right. The nice part is AI doesn't get emotional. It won't get it's feelings hurt when you tell it that it's getting things bleeping wrong.

It's real, maybe done by AI, but it's definitely real. If it's AI, that's amazing AI.

I've thought about this, and I don't where I fall. I know I don't exactly where anybody else falls, since the reason I like diapers is feel little, but I don't want to be completely babyish.

that's really good.