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CHAPTER ONE The door opened exactly twelve minutes later than it should have. Ava Sinclair breezed in with sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara, phone in hand, and a pink designer weekender bag that cost more than the chair she refused to sit in. Her heels clicked defiantly across the polished floor, and stopped in front of the desk like she expected someone to applaud. Her ponytail was too perfect. Her lip gloss too pink. Her perfume too expensive. Everything about her screamed: I don’t belong here. I’m doing you a favor by showing up. “Hi,” she said, chipper and two clicks past condescending. “Ava Sinclair. Traffic was actual hell. And my lashes were being weird. Are we doing paperwork or a tour or…?” Ms. Langley did not stand. She did not glance at the time. She did not smile. Her eyes dropped to the crop top spelling PRINCESS in rhinestones across Ava’s chest. Then to the mini skirt. The heels. The full beat of makeup like she was about to film a reality TV confessional. “Remove your shoes,” she said, without expression. “Place your phone in the basket.” Ava blinked, caught off guard by the lack of welcome—or tone, or interest, or... anything. The woman behind the desk didn’t even sound annoyed. Just done. Like Ava was step sixteen on a checklist she’d already memorized. “Excuse me?” Ava gave a half-laugh. “These are Stuart Weitzman. I’m not walking barefoot in a... medical office or whatever this is. Is this a medical thing? Because the vibe is super weird.” Ms. Langley finally looked up. Her eyes were pale and cold, not cruel—but deeply unimpressed. Her makeup was flawless. Her blouse was black silk. There was not a single wrinkle on her body or her face or her presence. “Ava Sinclair,” she said, as if confirming it aloud. “Twenty-two. Lapsed socialite. Financially insolvent. Legally untrustworthy. Behaviorally unchecked.” Ava’s mouth parted. “I’m sorry—what?” “This is not a punishment, Miss Sinclair,” Ms. Langley said, as though reading from a script she’d already delivered twenty-seven times. “It is an adjustment. A necessary one.” Ava’s eyebrows flew up. She assumed this was going to be a slap on the wrist. Maybe a boring lecture and some trust-fund paperwork. Ms. Langley didn’t react. “As stipulated in your grandfather’s will—and outlined in the documents you signed, though I suspect you skimmed them at best—you have entered into what we call a Conditional Behavioral Adjustment Program.” Ava snorted. “That sounds made up.” “I assure you that it is not.” Ms. Langley stood. She was taller than Ava expected. It wasn’t a big movement. But it shifted the air. “You are not a ward of the state. You are not under arrest. But for the duration of this process…” Ms. Langley met her eyes. “You are no longer in control.” The room felt colder. “The conditional power of attorney you signed places me in charge of both your finances and your personal decision-making,” Langley continued, voice calm and still. “Your inheritance—and access to your current accounts—has been placed into a managed trust. You will not receive a cent, nor will you be permitted to make independent purchases, travel unsupervised, or engage in adult privileges until I deem you appropriately reformed.” “You can’t be serious—” “You may, of course, choose to terminate the arrangement at any time,” Langley added, stepping slowly around the desk. “However, doing so will result in the forfeiture of your inheritance. The trust will pass to the secondary heir, as outlined by the estate.” Ava’s mouth opened. Closed. Her cheeks were starting to flush, her voice tightening. “That’s not—my dad said this was just a formality.” “I suspect your father often tells you what you want to hear. That will not be the case here, Miss Sinclair.” Silence. Ms. Langley gestured once, a small motion of her hand. “Shoes. Phone. Basket.” Ava just stood there, her pulse throbbing in her ears. She wasn’t used to this—this sense of losing. It felt wrong. Off-script. “I’m not doing this,” she whispered. “I’m not.” Langley nodded, slowly. “Then you are welcome to leave. But you will do so with no money. No accounts. No trust. You will be escorted back to your apartment—assuming it is still yours—and the opportunity will not be offered again.” Silence. Ava looked at the door. Then the basket. Ms. Langley gave her exactly three seconds. “If you are choosing to stay, refusal will be interpreted as noncompliance and met with physical correction.” “What the fuck? You can’t—” Ms. Langley stepped forward. Ava instinctively backed up. “This is not a threat,” she said quietly. “It is a clarification. You are entitled to your dignity, Ms. Sinclair. But you are no longer entitled to your defiance.” Ava’s jaw clenched. Then—slowly, furiously—she reached down and unbuckled one glittering shoe. Then the second. Each heel echoed like a coffin nail when it hit the floor. She straightened, red-faced, and dropped her phone into the waiting basket. Ms. Langley gave a small nod. There was something like a smile—tight, professional—at the corner of her mouth. “Good girl,” she said. Ava rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Ms. Langley didn’t move right away. She let her eyes travel—once—from Ava’s rhinestone crop top to her inch-long acrylics to the clingy pink skirt that looked like it had been spray-painted on. Ava was barefoot now, red-faced, and clutching the remnants of her posture like armor. And then, with a small flick of her fingers—dismissive, precise—she gestured toward her. “We will begin by discarding the lie.” Ava blinked. “Excuse me?” Langley waved her hand again, not quite pointing. Dismissive. Surgical. Her tone was soft and professional. Completely devoid of interest. “The remnants of your previous life are no longer relevant. They were decorative. Performative. And, ultimately, destructive.” Ava’s mouth fell open. What is this crazy bitch talking about? “That costume. That… branding. The makeup. The glitter. The princess performance. The clothes you bought with other people’s money. The shoes you wore to remind yourself you were above this.” Ms. Langley’s voice never rose. It didn’t need to. “All of it.” Ava turned to speak. Ms. Langley cut her off, dismissively.  “Those trappings are what brought you here, Miss Sinclair,” Langley continued, voice like glass. “They are symbols of your entitlement. Your dysfunction. Your detachment from consequence.” She stepped closer. Measured. Quiet. “They have no place where you’re going.” Ava shook her head, forcing a stilted laugh, but there was a tremor in her voice now. “Okay, no. I took off my shoes. I dropped my phone. That’s enough. You don’t get to tell me to strip.” Langley didn’t blink. “On the contrary. That’s exactly what I’m here to do.” Ava crossed her arms tightly. “This is insane. I’m not—you can’t just make me—” “You will undress,” she continued, “or I will call for assistance and have you undressed.” A pause. Surgical. “The outcome is the same. What changes is the dignity with which you arrive at it.” Ava’s arms locked around herself. “This is ridiculous.” Langley nodded once. Almost kindly. “This is your last moment of adult agency, Miss Sinclair,” Langley said, almost gently. “Choose wisely how you use it.” And just like that, the room went quiet again. No yelling. No alarms. Just the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the weight of inevitability pressing down on Ava’s chest. She stood frozen. Her hands clenched into fists. Her lip trembled—but she bit down hard before it could curl. Because Langley was still watching her. Like a scientist with a test subject. Like someone who already knew exactly what would happen next. Ava didn’t move. Her arms were locked across her chest. Her chin tilted up in defiance, but her voice was shaking. “I said no.” Ms. Langley didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her. She made a small mark on the corner of her tablet, then pressed a silent buzzer beneath the desk. The door opened exactly eight seconds later. Two assistants entered—both women, both in white uniforms. They didn’t speak. They didn’t introduce themselves. They simply stepped into place. Ava turned to look at them. “Wait. Hold on—wait. I said I’ll do it myself.” Langley still didn’t look up. “You were given a choice,” she said, coolly. “You declined it.” The assistants moved. Ava shrieked as they grabbed her arms, dragging her forward, her heels skidding across the polished floor. The tablet on Langley’s desk didn’t so much as tilt. “Let go of me! This is fucking illegal! I’ll sue you—I swear to God—” Her body slammed against the edge of the desk. One assistant held her shoulders. The other gripped her hips. Ms. Langley turned a page in her file. “Subject refused directive. Escalated to corrective phase. Level one response. Ten strikes.” Ava twisted wildly, her skirt riding up as she kicked and cursed. “I’ll scream! I’ll call the police! You’re assaulting me—!” The first strike landed. SMACK. Ava howled. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t theatrical. It was sharp and loud, echoing through the office like a hand clapping on marble. Ms. Langley did not look up. SMACK. Ava’s fists beat against the desk. Her words dissolved into gasping, furious noise. SMACK. Her legs flailed. Her skirt rucked higher. Ms. Langley uncapped her pen and made a notation. SMACK. Ava tried to lift herself, but the assistants held her steady. One hand at her shoulder. One at her lower back. Langley adjusted the alignment of her tablet. SMACK. “Stop it—please—just stop—!” SMACK. Ms. Langley tilted her head slightly. “Subject vocalized distress at strike six. Continue.” SMACK. Ava’s voice cracked between the next strikes. SMACK. Her skirt was bunched around her waist now. Her thighs were blotchy and trembling. SMACK. She stomped her foot, but it did little good to improve her circumstance.  SMACK. And then it was done. One of the assistants stepped back. The other released her slowly, as though letting go of a tantruming child mid-surrender. Ava shoved herself upright from the desk, her breath coming in hard, ragged bursts. The nurses stayed close, each with a firm but gentle hold on her arms. One of the nurses steadied her elbow, but Ava yanked it back. Her skirt was twisted. Her hair—once sleek—was starting to unravel in strands around her face. She turned on Langley, eyes blazing, and stared. Seethed. Her hands were shaking. Her attitude wasn’t. “Fuck,” she spat. “You.” Her voice cracked in the middle, but the venom was there. Langley didn’t look up. She made a small note in Ava’s file, turned a page. “Do you hear me? I said,” Ava hissed, voice sharper now, “fuck. You.” No reaction. No acknowledgment. That made it worse. Ava’s eyes stung with hot, sudden tears—not from pain, not yet—but from the brutal, soul-crushing indifference. “Are you even listening to me?” she snapped. Ms. Langley finally looked up and met her eyes. Not with surprise. Not even disappointment. Just stillness. Stillness and precision. Her eyes met Ava’s. Held her. Measured her. Then, without speaking, she turned her gaze to the nurse on the right and gave a single, silent nod. It was almost lazy. Ava didn’t understand. Not at first. She only understood when both nurses stepped forward and took her arms. Ava’s eyes went wide. “No—no, wait—!” And without another word, Ava was bent back over the desk. Her palms hit the cold surface. Her legs kicked. This time, they didn’t hold back. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. “No!” she screamed. “I didn’t mean it—I get it now! Stop it! I said I’m sorry!” The strikes came faster—harder. Each more efficient than the last. Ava screamed. It was louder this time. A full-throated, desperate sound that bounced off the sterile walls and rang back in her ears. Her skirt offered no protection. The fabric had bunched up again, baring the backs of her thighs. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. She screamed. A real scream now, high and raw and animal. “Stop! Please! You can’t just keep doing this!” Ava wailed. She kicked. Twisted. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the desk’s smooth surface. SMACK. SMACK. Then silence again. Ava shoved herself upright from the desk with more effort than she meant to show, her limbs shaky, her balance unsteady. Her breath came in short, angry gasps—sharp little exhales she couldn’t quite control. Her cheeks were red. Her thighs were redder. Her skirt was twisted up, caught on one hip, the waistband tugged half-down her backside from the force of the assistants’ grip. Her hair—once sleek and high—was already unraveling at the edges.  Ava stood in front of Ms. Langley like a doll that had lost its stuffing. She didn’t make eye contact. Not until the woman looked up. Then she had no choice. They locked eyes. Ava didn’t try to run. Didn’t speak. Her body was trembling, her chest hitching with each breath. Her hair was half out of its ponytail, stuck to her damp cheeks. Her mascara had smudged. Her skirt was twisted around her hips, one strap of her top hanging off her shoulder like it had given up, too. She looked like she’d been undone. Her lips trembled—but not from pain now. From calculation. She took a shaky breath and lifted her chin, trying—desperately—to hold on to something. Pride. Defiance. Control. Her voice came broken, but still threaded with hope. “I can pay you.” Ava said, too fast. “If that’s what this is. I’ll give you a cut—ten percent. Twenty. Half, even. I’ll say whatever you want. I’m not a bad person. Just.. stop this, okay?” Ms. Langley didn’t interrupt. She let Ava finish her entire little speech. Every last desperate, pathetic syllable. She let the silence hang at the end. Then, slowly, she turned her head. Met the nurse’s eyes. And nodded. Ava didn’t scream this time. She whimpered. “No—please. No, I was—I was trying—” But the nurses had her arms again. There was no hesitation. No debate. Just procedure. Ava was bent forward across the desk for the third time. This time, she didn’t fight as hard. But the cries started before the first strike landed. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! This time, Ava didn’t curse. She sobbed. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! By the seventh, she wasn’t fighting anymore. By the tenth, she was barely standing. Ava didn’t collapse, but she might have if the nurses weren’t still holding her. They steadied her between them—one hand beneath each elbow—like she was sleepwalking, or drunk, or made of something softer now. Her head hung forward. Her eyes were open but unfocused, blurred with tears, her lashes wet and clumped. Her top had slipped low enough to expose the upper curve of her bra. Her skirt was barely clinging to her hips, twisted like a towel wrung out at the waist. Her legs were trembling. Her mouth, too. She looked nothing like the girl who had walked in twelve minutes late, trailing perfume and entitlement behind her like a veil. Langley did not speak. She set her pen down, closed the file, then folded her hands on the desk and looked up. She watched her for a moment. Watched the way her knees threatened to buckle. Watched the way she clutched at the hem of her twisted skirt like she didn’t know what else to hold onto. They stared at each other. Langley didn't look angry. Or pleased. Just still. Then she spoke. Soft. Crisp. Unhurried. “Are you ready to behave, Ava?” The name hit harder than anything else. It was the first time Langley had used it like that. Not Ms. Sinclair. Not subject. Not you. Just Ava. Personal. Possessive. Small. Ava blinked and she nodded. Just barely. Her voice came out so soft she almost didn’t hear it herself. “Yes.” “You will undress now.” Ms. Langley’s words were not cruel. Not loud. Just final. Ava’s lips parted like she might protest—but nothing came out. She looked at Langley, then down at her own body—at the tangled mess of her crop top, the exposed strap of her bra, the glitter still clinging to her arms in smears and flakes. She hesitated, but Langley didn’t move. She didn’t explain. Didn’t repeat herself. Ava didn’t move right away. Not at first.  Her hands hovered near her sides, fingertips twitching like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there—her phone, her purse, her reflection, her reality. Something to anchor her. But there was nothing. Just the soft creak of the room settling and the sound of her own breath catching. Her fingers twitched near the hem of her skirt, like her brain hadn’t quite caught up with what was happening. Or maybe it had—and this was the pause before the final drop. The moment before the roller coaster plummets and all you can do is scream. Ms. Langley didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. The weight of that gaze was already on her, silent and exacting, like a judgment that didn’t need to be spoken to be enforced. Ava drew in a sharp breath. Then—slowly—her hands crept toward the hem of her top, slow and reluctant. She gripped the fabric—tight, pink, rhinestoned—and gave it a single tug upward. It caught on her chest. Snagged on her ponytail. She yanked harder than she meant to, and the crop top came free with a whisper of fabric and glitter and shame. Ava stood there in her bra. Bright pink. Lacy. Obnoxious. It had cost well over a hundred dollars and she wore it like armor. She reached behind her and unhooked it and watched it fall to the floor like it didn’t matter at all. Her nipples stiffened immediately in the cold air. She folded her arms reflexively—then caught herself, forced them back to her sides. She wasn’t going to cower. Ms. Langley didn’t say a word. Didn’t gesture. Didn’t flinch. So Ava didn’t cover. Not because she was brave. But because she didn’t want to give Langley the satisfaction of watching her flinch. Her fingers moved to the zipper at her side. She tugged it down slowly. It stuck halfway, catching on a loose thread. Her breath hitched. She tugged again. Harder. It gave. The skirt slid down her hips in a slow, slinking fall. It hit the floor without a sound. Now she stood in her underwear. Ava stared at the floor. The carpet was expensive. Probably hand-woven. Cream colored. Too clean to belong in a place like this. Her cheeks were burning. She wasn’t fighting anymore. But she wasn’t giving in, either. Not fully. Not yet. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her thong. And then they stopped. She hesitated. Not dramatic. Not defiant. Just… human. It was the only piece left. The last strip of anything that still belonged to her. Her style. Her identity. Her power. A tiny, glitter-trimmed nothing that suddenly felt like the heaviest thing she’d ever worn. She didn’t look up. But she felt it. The silence stretched. Cold. Surgical. Ms. Langley hadn’t moved. But something shifted. A breath. A blink. A judgment. And then, with a subtle arch of one perfectly sculpted brow, Langley lifted her gaze. That was all it took. Ava bit down hard on her lip, but her fingers moved. She pulled the thong down slowly, past her hips, her thighs, her knees. It clung for a second before giving way. She gave a small kick and stepped out of it without looking. The air hit her skin.  She was naked now. Fully. Utterly. Nothing left to hide behind. No more glitter. No more lashes. No more brand names. Just goosebumps and silence and the knowledge that this—this awful, bare version of herself—was what Ms. Langley had been waiting for all along. Ms. Langley didn’t leer. Didn’t gloat. She simply made a note on her tablet. “Clothing surrendered voluntarily. Correction effective.” Her voice was calm. Like she was logging inventory. She looked up. “Very good, Ava.” The use of her first name again made her stomach flip. Ava stood still, her arms awkwardly crossed over her bare chest. She wasn’t covering herself as much as clinging. Her chin was tilted, but the flush spreading down her neck betrayed her. Ms. Langley didn’t acknowledge the nudity. Didn’t react to the awkwardness. She only looked up once the silence had ripened. “Tell me, Ava… do I bear a passing resemblance to your mother?” The words landed so casually, so precisely, that Ava wasn’t sure she heard right. Or maybe she just didn’t understand. It didn’t sound like an insult, but it didn’t sound neutral either. She lifted her chin. “What?” Langley didn’t repeat herself. Her gaze didn’t falter. She looked at Ava like she was inspecting her for smudges. Ava’s brows drew together, confused and raw. “No?” Ms. Langley offered the thinnest of smiles. Not kind. Not amused. Just… efficient. “Pity. Maybe you have me confused with someone else then.” Ava’s jaw tensed. “With who?” Langley blinked—once. “One of your maids.” There was no cruelty in her voice. Just the low, dry cadence of someone correcting a child’s math homework. Ava’s mouth opened, but there were no words. The nurse standing at her side made a sound—half gasp, half laugh—and immediately looked down. Ava turned sharply toward her. “What the hell is going on?” Langley didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. She simply returned her attention to the file in front of her, flipped a page, and tapped something into her tablet with one lacquered fingernail. Then—gently, almost absentmindedly—she spoke again. “Pick up your clothing and place it on the desk, Ava.” Ava didn’t move. Langley didn’t raise her voice. “Now.” Ava bent down, her hands slow and stiff, scooping up the tangled pile of pink and glitter and lace. It looked stupid now. Like dress-up. Like denial. She turned toward the desk, still holding the mess against her chest. Langley didn’t look up. “Fold it properly. Do not crumple it like a teenager late for school.” Her cheeks burned, arms tightening around the pile. “I—I was going to—” Ava's lip curled. She hesitated, still shielding her body, but the command was too specific—too sharp—to ignore. She stepped forward, her cheeks flaming, and began to lay the items out on the edge of the desk. One by one. The top, limp and glittering. The skirt. The bra, curled in her palm like it might fight back. The thong—tossed down like it didn’t matter. Her arms moved stiffly, each motion humiliatingly slow under Langley’s gaze. When it was done, she stepped back. Silent. Small. Ms. Langley didn’t say good girl this time. Her eyes flicked downward, briefly, as though confirming what she already knew. “It seems that you cannot be trusted to take care of yourself.” She made one more notation in Ava’s chart. “But that is, of course, why you are here.” Her voice was quieter now. Not softer. Just more precise. And with that, Ms. Langley stood. Silent. Tall. Impeccable. Ava straightened, every muscle tight and trembling beneath the shift. She stood there—completely naked, arms awkward at her sides, hair beginning to fray, makeup streaked from tears she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge—and tried to hear the words coming from the older woman’s mouth, but it was like her hearing had tunnel vision. The words just didn’t make sense so Ava didn’t move. Not because she didn’t hear. Not because she didn’t understand. But because there was something about standing there—naked, exposed, her clothes neatly folded on the desk like they belonged to someone else—that made the next step feel… impossible. And yet, the silence stretched. Ms. Langley didn’t rush her. She simply looked up again, one brow raised with the patience of a woman who had all day—and absolutely no interest in wasting it on a tantrum. “Your hands, Ava,” she said quietly. “Behind your back.” That was it. Six words. Simple. Still. Sharp enough to puncture skin. Ava’s mouth opened like she might argue, but the protest died on her tongue. There was no room for it. Not here. Not with the folded remains of her identity on the desk behind her and Langley watching her like she was data. Slowly—so slowly she could feel the heat of her own humiliation rising in waves—Ava obeyed. Her arms moved behind her and her fingers laced. She tried not to hunch. Not to flinch. Not to feel how naked she was. “Good,” Langley said. Not with praise. Just confirmation. “Much better.” Ava swallowed. Ms. Langley stood and walked around the desk with the kind of calm that made Ava’s breath catch. No clipboard. No folder. Just presence. She circled once. Not fast. Not theatrical. Just enough that Ava felt it. The gaze. The assessment. The way her posture was being recorded like a scan. “Hunching, crossed limbs, performative modesty.” Langley said, more to herself than anyone. “All symptoms of emotional dissonance. All correctable.” Ava flinched. The word correctable did something to her spine. Langley stopped just behind her now. “You feel raw,” she said, her voice low and utterly detached. “Exposed. Good.” Ava’s hands tightened behind her back as Ms. Langley circled her slowly, arms folded behind her own back. Not with hunger. Not with pity. But with that same detached curiosity she might’ve shown an antique vase with a hairline crack. Ava stood motionless, nude but for the blush burning beneath her skin. Her breathing was shallow. Her fists clenched behind her back like she still thought that counted for dignity. “We offer a number of programs,” Ms. Langley said smoothly. “Each carefully designed to match a subject’s disposition. Some require gentle redirection. Others—more intensive correction. But we have never failed to find the appropriate fit.” Her eyes drifted over Ava again, clinical and unimpressed. “Every attitude. Every temperament. Every degree of resistance.” Ms. Langley paused, and tilted her head. “Hmm,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Yes. I believe I know exactly where you’ll thrive.” She didn’t explain. She didn’t ask. She just made a note on her tablet. “We’ll begin placement immediately.” —------------------------------ What program is the best fit for Ava? 👧 Preschool Program Still a “big girl”—just not trusted with adult choices. Pull-ups instead of diapers. Supervised chores and play. Potty training. Corrected constantly for tone, sass, and attitude. Cornertime, writing lines, embarrassing outfits, public punishments, and just enough freedom to feel what she’s losing.   👶 Toddler Program Too stubborn to behave. Too little to lead. Diapered full-time. Pacifier clipped on to her adorable outfits. Limited speech. Spoon-fed, scolded, and always supervised. Ava walks, but hand-holding is mandatory. Supervised playdates with other regressives. She’ll never be taken seriously again.   🍼 Infant Program You had your chance. Now you don’t have to think at all. Stripped of all independence. Crawling only. Limited speech. Treated as a helpless baby. Just diapers, bottles, and cribs. Cooed at, burped, and displayed. Treated like a doll. Her adult life is over—and she knows it.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------- 🗳️ AND NOW...YOU DECIDE.    Drop Ava's new program in the comments or vote in the poll. The next chapter drops this week.    VOTE HERE: SubStar | Ream | Amazon

WELCOME to PART FOUR of A NEW INTIMACY I'll have the audio of these first few parts posted on my YouTube channel soon. For more about me and to out my "Pampered Fairy Tales" audio series, please visit diaperhypnosis.com So let's continue with Samantha and Mark as they explore A New Intimacy! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PART FOUR It began with small things. Samantha had always been thoughtful and strategic. She knew that Mark’s regression at home was deeply fulfilling—but the outside world still held its pressures and expectations. So she started gently, weaving small threads of their dynamic into their public life. One Saturday morning, as they prepared for errands, Samantha laid out Mark’s clothes for the day. A simple outfit: jeans with a loose elastic waistband, a soft pastel hoodie, and a discreet but thick diaper underneath. “I picked something comfy,” she said as he stood there, waiting for her approval. “And something Mommy can check easily.” Mark blushed but didn’t object. The idea of her choosing what he wore—even outside—sparked a thrill deep inside. He knew the diaper was visible if you looked closely. He knew the bulge was there. But the way Samantha smiled at him, adjusting his collar and kissing his cheek—it made him want to be brave. They went to a nearby boutique and then a grocery store, Samantha pushing the cart while Mark walked beside her, pacifier clipped inside his hoodie pocket just in case. She gave him little instructions as they went: “Hold my hand.” “Stay beside Mommy.” “Be patient.” When he got flustered in a crowded aisle, she leaned in and whispered, “If you’re good, you can cuddle with your stuffie in the car.” His face lit up. “Okay, Mommy.” They made one last stop—a baby store. Mark's heart jumped. “Just a few things,” Samantha said with a knowing smile. “You’re running low on wipes and your special oatmeal shampoo.” Inside, they wandered past aisles of bibs, bottles, and plush toys. Mark’s face burned with shame, nerves, and… something else. Pride? Safety? Then she leaned down and said, “If you’re good, you get to pick out a toy.” He froze. Her voice was calm but firm. He was the little one here. And Mommy had spoken. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, Mommy.” She let him pick a soft elephant rattle. He clutched it to his chest the whole ride home. Their emotional bond grew deeper with every week. As their routine solidified, Samantha introduced rituals—small ceremonies that reminded both of them of their bond, their roles, and their intentions. Every Sunday night, before bedtime, Mark knelt at her feet. She would brush his hair, diaper him slowly, lovingly, and have him recite his devotion. “I trust Mommy.” “I obey Mommy.” “Mommy knows what I need.” “I feel safe in her care.” Each line brought tears to his eyes the first time. And then peace. She kept a tiny silver locket around her neck. Inside was a picture of Mark—cuddled in her lap, fast asleep in her arms. “You’re always with me,” she told him. “Even when we’re apart, I’m your Mommy.” And Mark began leaving little notes in her purse: “Thank you for keeping me safe.” “I’ll be good today for you.” “I love being yours.” These words weren’t just part of their dynamic. They were healing. For both of them. As Mark’s identity shifted, so did the emotional weight of their relationship. He no longer looked at his needs as “kinks” or “phases.” He saw them as a deep need to let go, to belong, to be seen and loved without having to perform. And Samantha, once a tightly wound career woman, discovered her power wasn’t just in control—it was in care. “I used to think being strong meant pushing people away,” she told him one night, as he lay on her chest. “But you… you’ve taught me that strength can also mean holding someone close. Protecting. Loving without condition.” Mark nodded sleepily. “You make me feel like I can stop pretending. Like I can just be yours.” “You are mine,” she whispered. “Every soft, sweet, beautiful part of you.” Soon, there were more public routines: Mark carried a discreet diaper bag backpack when they went out, and only Samantha could open it. He had a small teether keychain he was allowed to hold in public if he needed comfort. He called her “Mommy” under his breath when they were in line, just quiet enough that only she could hear. Each step was a lesson in surrender. In trust. In choosing each other again and again. And it changed everything between them. Mark no longer counted hours or measured days. His life was split between two places: the world outside, and the world inside Samantha’s arms. And when he was with her, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to be in charge. He just had to be hers. It started with a dinner invitation. One of Samantha’s old friends from college was coming into town. Her name was Caroline—sharp, poised, and charming in that effortless way. Samantha liked her. Trusted her. And more importantly… she sensed that Caroline was open-minded. “Are you nervous?” Samantha asked Mark gently as she buttoned his shirt that evening. He nodded. “A little, Mommy.” “Don’t worry,” she said, fixing his collar. “You’ll be wearing big-boy clothes tonight. But we’re still staying in our rules, understand?” Mark nodded again. “No interrupting. No speaking unless asked. And no fussing if Mommy talks about you like the little sweetheart you are.” He blushed. But he whispered, “Yes, Mommy.” At dinner, Samantha spoke easily with Caroline, sipping wine, asking about her travels. Mark stayed quiet, obediently refilling their drinks when asked, keeping his hands folded. Eventually Caroline smiled and tilted her head. “You’re awfully well-behaved these days, Mark.” Samantha ran her hand over his thigh. “He’s been learning a lot about obedience lately.” Mark’s face colored, but he didn’t look away. Caroline raised an eyebrow, then gave a knowing nod. “I always thought you had that energy,” she said to Samantha with a smirk. “Mommy energy?” Samantha replied, sipping her wine. “Let’s just say I’ve leaned into it.” They laughed. Mark sat in quiet warmth and pride. That night, back home, Samantha rewarded him with warm milk, a long cuddle in her lap, and a new pacifier that matched his pajamas. “You were very good tonight,” she murmured, rubbing his back. “And Mommy’s so proud of how much you trust her.” The emotional structure of their life deepened with rituals—daily acts of devotion that reminded Mark of his place, and gave Samantha new ways to express her loving authority. Each morning before work, Mark would kneel in the nursery and recite his Pledge to Mommy: “I give my words and will to you. I trust your hands to guide me. I give you my body, to keep safe. I give you my mind, to quiet. I give you my love, to cherish. I give you my obedience, to deserve your care.” It grounded him. And her. On Sundays, they had ritual inspection time. Samantha would dress him in nothing but a diaper and bib, sit him on the changing pad, and gently go over his body—checking skin, nails, any little marks or changes. “Mommy has to make sure her baby is perfect,” she would say. Sometimes it was tender and quiet. Other times, it was followed by firm correction if he had broken a rule. Discipline was never cruel—just clear. She might take away his favorite toy for the day. Or have him write lines: “Mommy’s rules keep me safe.” Over and over, in his coloring book, with crayons. Each act of obedience brought more closeness. More peace. Samantha slowly introduced more public pieces of their private world—never flashy, but unmistakably intentional. When shopping together, Mark had to carry the diaper bag. It was styled like a trendy backpack, but inside was powder, wipes, bottles—and his spare pacifier. On walks, he wore mittens with a gentle tether to her wrist. “Just for fun,” she would say if asked. But it was more than that. At a farmer’s market, she let him pick out apples—but only after asking, “What does my good boy say?” He blushed, but whispered, “Please, Mommy…” She always smiled. And rewarded him with a soft pat on the bottom. Their friends noticed—some more than others. But no one dared question the quiet authority with which Samantha handled everything: conversation, finances, plans—and her husband’s affections. To the outside world, she was a confident, commanding wife. To Mark, she was everything. One rainy Saturday, Mark had an accident in the middle of playtime—his potty training had faded even more over time. He burst into tears, overwhelmed. Samantha came immediately, kneeling down to hold him. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. Mommy’s here.” “But I… I…” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to…” She gently placed the pacifier in his mouth and held him tight. “You don’t have to mean anything anymore, baby. You just have to be. Let Mommy do the rest.” He clung to her, trembling, until he calmed. Then she diapered him, dressed him in his softest onesie, and rocked him in the nursery chair until he fell asleep. That night, she lay beside him in the crib, cradling him in her arms. “I know you thought you had to be strong,” she whispered in the dark. “All those years—always holding everything together.” He didn’t answer, just snuggled closer. “But now you have me,” she continued. “To hold it for you. Always.” Mark’s tears came quietly. And for the first time in years, they weren’t out of fear or stress… but out of gratitude. “I love you, Mommy,” he mumbled. She kissed his forehead. “And I love my baby.”

Mostly at night, but there is something delightfully "little" about a diapered afternoon nap in a fresh cool bed.

I ended up napping in the car just long enough to get to the first stop we had to make as i then i started to stir awake in my five point harness carseat as i didn't really know when i was put in the car or where we were as you could see me from the rearview mirror that i was waking up.