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By Little BabyDoll Christine · Posted
I could convert to the new one where persons worship low prices in discount stores: I-Dollar Tree -
Definately. I'm just worried that the villains might try to eliminate her in some way. -
By Mommy Anna · Posted
WELCOME to PART THREE of A NEW INTIMACY Sorry for the delay in posting this part! 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 THREE It happened so gradually, Mark could hardly say when the shift began. Maybe it was after he started wearing onesies every evening. Or maybe it was the routine of nursing in Samantha’s arms, the warmth of her voice, the security of the padded softness between his legs — that ritual that ended each day with a whisper of praise and a kiss on the forehead. What he knew for sure was this: when he came home, the outside world vanished. He didn’t have to decide, or lead, or question. He simply was. And Samantha took care of the rest. His speech at home started to soften. Not by intention — just naturally. When he talked to Samantha, his voice lost its edge, the grown-up words felt unnecessary. He answered in simple terms, gentle tones. Sometimes he’d add a little lilt, a playful sound. “Yes, Mommy.” “Okay.” “Mmmhm.” It was like his mind was unwinding, shedding layers of stress and adulthood. Samantha noticed, of course. She encouraged it. She gave him a pacifier — soft blue silicone, with a rubbery mouth shield. The first time he tried it, he was sheepish. But the relief of it. The stillness it brought. The way his jaw softened and his mind went quiet. Before long, he didn’t want to take it out. Not during TV time. Not while coloring in his soft picture books. Not when snuggling on the couch with his head in her lap. Samantha filled their evenings with soothing cartoons and gentle activities. She gradually rotated out the adult shows, slipping in more playful, colorful options. At first it was nostalgic stuff — old Saturday morning cartoons. Then slower-paced shows, with animals that talked, soothing narration, calming background music. He didn’t even notice the change. He just knew he felt better. Calmer. Grounded. The toys changed, too. They began as puzzles, soft stuffed animals. Then blocks. A rattle. A teething ring — which Samantha playfully handed to him one night, and which he found himself chewing as he watched TV, completely unaware of how far he’d sunk into her care. He was always good when he played with his toys. Quiet, focused, grounded. And Mommy always noticed. “You’re such a good boy when you play gently,” she’d whisper, brushing his hair. “You make Mommy so proud.” Those words warmed something deep inside him. Made him ache — not from embarrassment, but from how deeply he needed her praise now. He wanted to be good. For her. Always. One Friday evening, Mark came home from work — briefcase in hand, coat on — and stopped cold in the doorway. The living room was completely transformed. A giant, soft-sided playpen filled the center of the space. Cushioned matting, padded walls, a scatter of plush toys and baby-safe activities inside. Surrounding it were new baby gates across doorways, cabinet locks on the drawers, even corner guards on the furniture. Samantha greeted him with a warm smile. “Welcome home, baby.” He was speechless. “I thought,” she said gently, brushing his shoulder and slipping the briefcase from his hand, “it was time your home matched the way you’ve been feeling.” He looked around again, heart pounding — not in fear, but in awe. “You… did all this for me?” “Of course I did,” she said, guiding him gently toward the nursery. “You deserve a space where you feel safe. Where you can just be. No pressure. No pretending.” The dining room now had a custom high-backed chair — like a high chair, but scaled up for him. A wide tray, soft padding, safety straps. And the nursery… His breath caught in his throat. There was a crib. Large, white-painted wood, with tall slats and a soft mobile overhead. The bedding was pastel and plush. A full-sized changing table sat nearby, with shelves filled with wipes, creams, and folded outfits. A basket held his pacifiers and bottles. There were storage bins for his toys, shelves of soft books. Mark stepped inside slowly, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. It was too much. Too perfect. Too him. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. Samantha came behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. “Baby,” she said, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “You deserve all of this. And more. You’ve been so brave. So trusting. And Mommy is so, so proud of you.” That night, she helped him into his softest onesie — the yellow one with clouds and moons — and laid him gently in the crib. He looked up at her, pacifier in his mouth, thumb curled around his favorite stuffed puppy. “You’re really going to tuck me in here?” he mumbled sleepily. She smiled, pulling the blanket up to his chest. “Every night, if you want me to.” He nodded, his eyes already fluttering shut. She stroked his hair. “You don’t have to try anymore, baby. Just rest. Mommy will take care of everything.” And for the first time in a long, long while… he believed her. He drifted off to sleep in the crib she made for him. Full of trust. Full of love. Safe, and small, and seen. The next morning, Mark woke up to the soft chime of his mobile above the crib. It spun slowly, its little clouds and stars turning in gentle circles, casting dancing shadows on the nursery wall. He yawned, stretched his arms under the warm blanket, and blinked against the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. His pacifier was still between his lips, his hand still curled around his stuffed puppy. He wasn’t embarrassed anymore. He didn’t question why he was there. This was just home now. This was how things were. Samantha entered with a soft knock and a warm smile. “Good morning, baby.” Mark grinned sleepily behind his pacifier and reached his arms out to her. She came to the crib and lowered the rail with practiced ease, lifting him into a hug, cradling him against her chest. He melted into it, sighing with contentment. She whispered into his ear: “Did you sleep well in your big-boy crib?” “Mhm,” he mumbled. “I like it…” “I’m glad,” she said, giving him a kiss on the temple. “Because from now on, that’s where Mommy’s baby sleeps every night.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t want to. Over the following weeks, Samantha introduced more structure. A printed daily schedule was taped to the nursery wall. Mark now had: Set diapering times Bottle and cuddle breaks Afternoon quiet time Evening bath and storytime And always, bedtime at 8 PM sharp. Each moment of his day was carefully designed to help him feel calm, safe, and adored—but also firmly controlled. “Mommy knows best,” she would remind him, with a kiss and a squeeze of his padded bottom. She kept a soft journal where she tracked his moods, his behavior, and his little accomplishments. She praised him when he behaved—when he used his words sweetly, when he accepted redirection, when he played quietly on the rug. When he fussed or hesitated, she’d take his hand, look him in the eye, and say, “Do you need Mommy to remind you who’s in charge?” And the answer was always yes. One Friday evening, as he knelt at her feet in his playpen, stacking oversized blocks and sucking his pacifier, she called to him gently. “Baby? Come here.” He waddled over in his soft fleece romper, crinkling slightly as he moved. He knelt before her, eyes wide. “I want to try something new,” she said, lifting a folded piece of paper from her lap. It had gold star stickers across the top and thick letters across the middle: “Markie’s Reward Chart” “For good boys,” she said softly, brushing his hair aside. “Every time you follow your rules, every time you use your words nicely, every time you show Mommy how little you want to be… you earn a star.” “And if I get a lot of stars?” he asked, heart fluttering. “Then Mommy lets you pick a treat. A new toy. Or maybe…” She leaned in close. “A special privilege. Like nursing twice that night.” His cheeks flushed. “I wanna earn lots of stars, Mommy.” “I know you do, sweetheart.” Over time, Mark’s internal world changed. The longer he lived in the world Samantha created for him, the less he wanted to think or act like an adult. He began calling her “Mommy” instinctively. He stopped watching the news and asked her to pick his shows. His work stress didn’t follow him home anymore — because “home” was a nursery where he was cherished, where expectations were soft, firm, and always lovingly enforced. And most importantly… he wanted to be good. For her. One Sunday evening, as she changed him into his softest bedtime diaper and zipped him into his cloud-print pajamas, he reached up, touching her hand softly. “Mommy?” “Yes, sweetheart?” “Do you… like having me like this?” Samantha paused, then knelt beside the crib, cupping his cheek. “Oh, baby. I love it. I’ve never felt more needed. More trusted. More adored.” “I do adore you,” he whispered. “I know you do. And Mommy adores you, too. That’s why I take care of everything. That’s why I give you rules. Because you belong to me now.” He closed his eyes, tears of gratitude brimming. She lifted him into the crib and tucked him in. Then she leaned over, pacifier in hand, and gently pressed it between his lips. “There’s my good boy.” And so their rhythm deepened. Samantha, the guiding hand, nurturing and in control. Mark, the devoted little one, finding peace in her structure, meaning in her approval, joy in his surrender. There was no more need to pretend. No more need to juggle roles or resist desires. At home, in their perfect, private world, everything made sense. Because Mommy knew best. And her baby boy was exactly where he belonged. -
By Crinklz Kat · Posted
Yeah .... they've been out of blue since the start of the year. But I just got some STR8UP (NRU) Blue on the way (expected delivery tomorrow). I was never that thrilled with the Trest blue anyway --- seems to have a bit of a slate gray tint to it. Never seen the NRU before though, but could end up being the same thing. I really do like the blue on the Rearz Lunar Cubs. I'll be able to take a picture comparing them side by side before the end of the weekend. -
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As far as I understand it, Amanda is the most decorated professor at the university whose name alone can make a fortune. Just imagine if she were to make a side-swipe in the media against Emerson and no one would go to the university anymore I think she has an incredible amount of influence because it seems like 90% of all the software at this school is programmed by her (the 10% is the one that goes against the Littles). Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
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