TheLittleWriter

Hi there! I'm looking for friends in the community. If you're into movies (Especially collecting physical media), traveling, reading (History, politics, economy), cooking, investing, or just being silly, then we will get along well. Bonus points if you play Pokémon TCG Pocket, you've heard of movies like The Way Way Back, The Iron Claw, or Brooklyn, and if you like Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and dogs. Also, if you live in San Antonio, as I'm planning a trip there this January 😇

Hi there! I'm looking for friends in the community. If you're into movies (Especially collecting physical media), traveling, reading (History, politics, economy), cooking, investing, or just being silly, then we will get along well. Bonus points if you play Pokémon TCG Pocket, you've heard of movies like The Way Way Back, The Iron Claw, or Brooklyn, and if you like Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and dogs. Also, if you live in San Antonio, as I'm planning a trip there this January 😇

If anyone is interested, the story is also up on Spotify: If it's a success, I might try with more—maybe a cuckold story or Rebecca's Second Babyhood 😇

Hi guys! Here's the first chapter for a new diapered cuckold story: Junior — The Adoption of a Diapered Cuck. The story is fully finished on my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections or you can buy it on Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H6CHBTTD Junior — The Adoption of a Diapered Cuck George was a normal man—a normal man with a secret—he craves to be diapered, regressed, and cuckolded. One day, he decides to tell his wife about it. And his life will never be the same after that. But just how much can his life be changed before he regrets his decision? Chapter One George lay on his back in the wooden crib, the side rail up and locked. The thick overnight diaper sagged heavily between his thighs, warm and swollen with the mess he had made earlier in the evening. Every small shift sent the soft, mushy load squishing against his skin and spreading further. The front of the padding was also wet, the warmth clinging to him in a way that felt oddly comforting, which only made the whole thing more shameful. He sucked steadily on his thumb, the wet sounds filling the quiet nursery as he stared at the bars above him. Sarah had left hours ago. She was out with Connor again. George knew exactly where they were and what they were probably doing by now. The thought made his stomach tighten, even if the heavy diaper between his legs reminded him of his place, it was still hard to imagine his wife with another man. He had asked for this. He had begged for it. And now he was here, messy and wet, waiting for Mommy to come home. And as he imagined them together, George’s mind drifted back to the night it had all started, several months earlier. They had been lying in bed after a quiet dinner. After he told her his deepest fantasy. She was quiet, speechless. After all, what can a woman do when the man of her life confesses something so shameful? He wanted to be regressed. He wanted to wear diapers. He wanted her to take control. Sarah had been quiet for a long time. Then she rolled onto her side, looked at him with those beautiful eyes, eyes he knew so well, and asked if he was sure. He had nodded, unable to meet her eyes. She had kissed him softly and told him she would try. The first time she diapered him was that weekend. Sarah had bought a pack of thick, plain white ones and laid one out on their bed. George had stood there naked while she powdered him and taped the padding snugly around his hips. When she had patted the front and told him he looked like her good little boy, something awakened. He wet himself that night, and Sarah changed him—treated him like a naughty baby boy, like who he really was. And that was fine and good… at first. But after a month or so, it had begun to feel small—not enough. So he asked Sarah if she could force him to wear diapers to work. To tease him. Humiliate him. And even though she wasn’t sure about it, and even though she had made a face of disgust, she accepted. After all, she loved him. So she sent him to work next Monday with a thick diaper under his pants. He wasn’t allowed to change himself, nor was he allowed to ask for a change. Poor George leaked right before his shift ended. And by the time he reached home, he had made a mess so big it could be smelled feet from him. He had to sneak out of the office so no one would find out. When he got home, Sarah received him with a look of pity and disgust and ordered him to take a shower so she could get him ready for the night. And so he did, and so she did. They decided he needed thicker diapers, especially when leaving the house for long hours. Sarah was patient, though behind her eyes, George could see her growing distant. Maybe he had made a mistake, and he shouldn’t have asked for it. But then he felt the thick padding between his legs and how wet it was, and he didn’t care anymore. He wanted it. He craved it. And so for a month, he was kept in diapers full-time, and in that time, they did not have sexual intimacy a single time. That’s when the idea for cuckolding came about. It had been his idea. His fantasy. And he simply mentioned it one night. Sarah wasn’t happy, so he didn’t bring it up again. A few weeks passed, and during a very messy diaper change, she asked if he was serious about the whole cuckolding idea. George almost got a very messy erection right as she mentioned it. “I was… I am serious,” he said, too excited to hide it. She said nothing else and didn’t bring it up again for another week. “I like Connor,” she said. Connor was the vice president of the company George worked for. And he was quite younger than they were and quite handsome. Successful, smart, witty, funny; he was everything a woman like Sarah deserved—a real man. “My boss?” “Can you ask him if he would like to go out with me sometime?” George almost choked. “You want to go out with Connor?” “Is there a problem with that?” George blushed and shook his head, not wanting to shame her or anything that could make her change her mind. Even if he was now forced to ask a man to go out with his wife. To make it worse, this man was his own boss. The day George had to approach Connor had been worse than any work diaper day. He had worn his thickest diaper under his suit, the one that sagged noticeably when wet. He had waited until late afternoon, when most people had left, and knocked on Connor’s office door. Connor had looked up from his desk. George had closed the door behind him, heart hammering so hard he thought Connor must hear it. He had stood there in his padded state and explained that his wife, Sarah, was interested in going out sometime. “You want me to go out with your wife?” he asked. George nodded, blushing a thousand shades of red. “You okay with that?” George nodded again. He had to explain he was actually encouraging it. Of course, he didn’t mention his wet diaper or the fact he was actually cumming in his already wet padding at that very moment. “You’re an oddball. But I’ve seen your wife; I always wondered what she saw in you. Fair enough, I’ll do it.” The first date had been arranged for a Friday night that week. Sarah had spent the afternoon getting ready, her long dark hair falling in soft waves, her elegant black dress hugging the full curves of her breasts and hips. George had been put into a fresh, thick diaper and nothing else except a soft t-shirt. The doorbell rang. “Get the door for me,” she said. “But I’m not wearing anything.” “Don’t be silly, you’re wearing your diapers. Besides, Connor needs to know what he is getting himself into,” she said. “Unless you want me to cancel…” He didn’t want that. So, defeated, George was forced to waddle to the front door and open it. Connor stood there in a fitted button-down and dark jeans, looking every inch the younger, stronger man who was about to take his wife out. “What the fuck…” he muttered almost to himself the moment he saw George padded. George just blushed there, wetting himself in front of his younger, more handsome boss. “Now this is something one doesn’t see every day.” Sarah came downstairs that moment to find the ridiculous scene unfolding on her porch. Connor’s eyes had flicked down to George’s diapered state, then back up to his face. He had not laughed. “See you around, George,” Connor said in that calm, deep voice. “I promise to take care of your wife tonight.” The humiliation had burned through George so intensely he had almost cum again right there in the doorway. Sarah had kissed George on the cheek, told him to be good, and then she had left with Connor. George had stood in the open doorway for a moment, watching them walk to Connor’s car, before closing the door and returning to the nursery. He had climbed into bed that night, sucking his thumb, the image of Sarah on Connor’s arm replaying in his mind until he finally drifted off. Now, months later, things had gone much further. George wore diapers every day. He had rules and routines. Connor came over more often. And tonight, Sarah was out with him again, probably already in his bed or wherever they had gone after dinner. George shifted in the crib she had bought for him, the one he was forced to sleep in now, the mess in his diaper squishing warmly with the movement. He had pushed it out earlier without thinking, the way he sometimes did now when his mind wandered. The padding sagged heavily, the warmth spreading up his back a little. He sucked harder on his thumb, looking for some comfort. He wondered if Sarah would bring Connor home with her tonight. She had mentioned the possibility as she checked his diaper one last time and told him to be a good boy and wait in his crib. The thought of Connor seeing him like this again, messy and wet and small, sent a confusing mix of dread and heat through George’s body. He was already far past the point of pretending he did not want it. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway reached him through the open nursery window. George’s thumb stilled in his mouth. He listened, heart beating faster, as the engine cut off and two car doors closed. Footsteps approached the front door. He heard the key in the lock, then Sarah’s soft laugh and the deeper murmur of Connor’s voice. They were both home. George lay very still in the crib, the heavy, messy diaper between his legs reminding him this was his decision. He had asked, begged for it. He kept his thumb in his mouth and waited for the footsteps to come down the hall toward the nursery. ................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... The story is fully finished on my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections or you can buy it on Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BSDP5SGL

Melissa's Re-Potty Training Hi guys! I'm adding audiobooks to my Subscribestar. The first one is already out: Melissa's Re-Potty Training. Did it using ElevenLabs, a bit tedious, but overall, decent quality for how much it costs. Gotta check if there's a market for this before delving into other stories. Let me know if you'd like more of it. Here's a preview attached. My_Audiobook_Prologue.mp3

I miss them too. Physical media in general is so much better!

The Padded Playground — Issue II Hi guys! Since Subscribestar doesn't allow me to post images as captions, I decided to publish a monthly magazine featuring short stories, images, short articles, and more. It's downloadable. Issue One is already out, and Issue II will bring a small sequel to Rebecca's Second Babyhood, Carmen's story from daycare owner to a baby, and more! Check it out: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections/13702

Hi guys! Evelyn's Regression was my very first story. Well, actually, it was Mom & I, but I kinda forgot the password and email for that account. The concept of the story, however, is very similar—an immature mother being regressed by a much more responsible daughter. Evelyn's Regression was a more complex take on that concept. And now this version expands on what came before and takes it to another level, setting up a sequel that will come soon. Or you can buy it on Kindle: Anyway, hope you enjoy it. For the complete story, check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections or you can buy it on Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BSDP5SGL Evelyn's Regression The baby monitor crackled on Hailee’s desk, carrying the sound of sobs from the nursery she had set down the hall. She paused mid-scroll on her laptop, knowing too well what she needed to do. With a sigh, she rose from her chair. The moment she pushed open the door, she understood why the sobs—the smell was something she could never get used to, that combination of a messy diaper and baby powder was particularly intense. Inside the room, in an oversized crib, sat her mother. Evelyn—once an immature and disrespectful woman—looked small and miserable, knees drawn up beneath a frilly pastel onesie that strained across her fuller figure. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy with tears, and she shifted uncomfortably on the soaked, sagging padding beneath her. Hailee’s gaze lingered on the subtle bulge at the seat of the onesie. She knew her mother could still speak perfectly well, could still ask for what she needed. But that wasn’t how things worked anymore. Babies didn’t ask for it—they could only cry for their mommies and daddies. “Poor thing,” Hailee murmured to herself. “Looks like someone needs a change.” Evelyn’s eyes met hers—pleading, ashamed—and then dropped away. The sobs quieted to a soft, hiccuping whimper. Hailee reached for the latch on the crib rail. It was time to be the grown-up in the house. Though, to be fair, she had been the only grown-up in the house for a long time—even before she decided to regress her own mother to a pathetic baby girl. Chapter One Hailee’s Decision Evelyn and Hailee had always been opposites in every way that mattered. At thirty-nine, Evelyn was a tad chubby compared to her daughter. Five-foot-seven, with nice curves, a soft face, and long hair that fell almost to her waist. She wasn’t by any means ugly, and she knew that by the fact that boys would gaze at her whenever she walked into a room. But every year the attention she received menguated—which had led to feelings of insecurity she had not shared with anyone. More likely, that’s what prompted her need for a glass of wine or two or three every night. It was a mystery for Hailee how her mother had managed to keep her job as an English literature professor at the local college, though she suspected it had something to do with the Principal and the way he looked at Evelyn. Her mother was a wreck, and there was no sugarcoating it. Hailee, on the other hand, was probably the most put-together nineteen-year-old. Ever since she was a young girl, she had disliked the way her mother carried herself—the drunken nights passed out on the couch, the mood swings whenever a guy wouldn’t call back, the oversexualised nature of her conversations with friends. So she bowed to be different. She worked remotely for a small startup that paid better than any entry-level job out there. She had plans, ambition, investments, and savings. Things her mother knew nothing about. It wasn’t just the mentality; Hailee was also much taller than her mother. Strong shoulders, long sculpted legs, and abs that showed even through her loose tanks. She could’ve easily opened an OnlyFans account and become rich, but she preferred to use her mind rather than her body. To the outside world, they were a perfectly normal mother and daughter. Behind closed doors, though, things were different. Hailee hated it whenever her mother threw a fit in public—teenage tantrums were not something she expected from the person who was supposed to be the responsible one. But anything that drew stares seemed to be what her mother wanted. Whenever Evelyn pushed her buttons, Hailee waited until they were home, then tried to talk to her. Calmly. Reasonably. Evelyn did not enjoy calmly or reasonably. Who, exactly, was the adult in the house? That was the question Hailee had asked herself over and over since she was five. Since her father died and left her alone with Evelyn. But things were about to change in the house. It all began three months ago, right after Hailee’s nineteenth birthday. That morning, Hailee woke before dawn, ready to start her day—as always. A protein shake later with her earbuds in and her gym bag packed, she left the house. Three hours every morning. That’s what it took to keep that body, and what it took to keep from going mad in the house. Two hours after Hailee had left for the gym, Evelyn finally woke up. Confused at first, she couldn’t remember how she got back to her bed. Must have been Hailee…she thought…before closing her eyes again. But as she moved to find a more comfortable position, she felt it. It was cold around her crotch, soaked, a tad itchy. She didn’t need to look down. She knew what it was. Once again, for the third time that week, she had wet the bed. This has been going on and off for a few months now, and the doctor believed it was just a combination of stress and a lot of alcohol. But without alcohol, how could she deal with her stress? Evelyn lay in her soaked bed for a long moment, wishing the mattress would simply swallow her—she was not even forty, and she was having continence issues. Luckily, Hailee had not found out about it. She could already imagine what her ‘perfect’ daughter would say about it. But for now, it didn’t matter. She had work and couldn’t be late—not anymore. With a shaky breath, she pushed herself up. The sodden pajamas stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She peeled them off in the en-suite bathroom, balling them up and shoving them deep into the hamper. A quick glance in the mirror: flushed cheeks, puffy eyes. She looked every day of her almost-forty years this morning—maybe she should listen to the doctor and cut it with the alcohol. The shower was helping a little, but right when she was about to wash her hair, she realized she had run out of shampoo. She had meant to buy more last week, but she forgot. Without thinking, she wrapped a towel around herself and rushed down the hall to Hailee’s bathroom. The girl wouldn’t be back yet; she wouldn’t mind. She grabbed the bottle of shampoo in the shower—Hailee’s fancy salon brand—and hurried back, heart pounding. Hailee hated it when her mother grabbed her things without permission, and Evelyn knew that quite well. “I’ll bring it back later. She doesn’t need to know,” she muttered to herself as she finished showering. But she forgot. She left for work without even cracking a window open to air out the smell of ammonia in her bedroom. She did strip the sheets, but didn’t put them in for a wash. She’d deal with it later—or that’s what she told herself as she started the engine of her car. Not a few minutes later, Hailee returned home. Her shirt was soaked with her sweat, and she was in desperate need of a shower. But the moment she entered her bathroom, she noticed something was missing—again. She sighed. Naked and still sweating, she walked to her mother’s room, knowing she was probably rushing to get to class on time. If only she could wake up earlier. If only she could remember to do the most basic things in the house… Hailee opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and froze. The smell hit her as soon as she walked in—Hailee had been around babies multiple times, often babysitting neighbors’ kids to get some cash when she was a teenager. The blinds were half-open, sheets stripped, mattress darkened in a wide, unmistakable stain that hadn’t quite dried yet. Her mother—her irresponsible, dramatic, always-late mother—had wet the bed. And she didn’t even try to clean up after herself. Hailee knew Evelyn was not someone to be trusted, but it appeared she wasn’t even mature enough to make it to the potty. It didn’t take long for Hailee to find her mother’s soaked pajamas, the sheets she had left under the bed, and prove that this had not been a one-off. How could she respect an adult woman who didn’t behave like one? There was nothing about Evelyn that warranted the title of mother. Hailee felt disgusted, angry, but there was something else there…pity? After Dad’s death, Evelyn had not been able to cope with life. Maybe she was never ready to be a mother…or an adult. Then it hit her. No one gave Evelyn any structure or guidance—she was probably in desperate need of care. Her mother might be almost forty, but she wasn’t ready to be an adult. She had proved it over and over again—always being late, always making a fool of herself, always acting like a toddler in need of consequences. Hailee was determined to help her mother before it was too late. And she knew exactly what to do with her. Evelyn wouldn’t like it. She would fight back and complain, but Hailee knew she could take it. She knew she needed to be strong for her mother—to become the head of the house. As for Evelyn, well, she needed to learn…all over again. Chapter Two Another Accident Evelyn sat at her desk in the faculty office, staring at the stack of ungraded essays without really seeing them. She shifted in her chair, thinking about her morning. Three times this week. Three times she'd woken up soaked like some helpless child. She pressed her thighs together under the desk, telling herself it was just stress. Or the wine. Or turning forty soon. Anything but the truth that scared her most: she was losing control of her own body. Her phone buzzed—a text from Brenda: Don't forget Vegas bitch! Planning over lunch? Need details on that hot student of yours. Evelyn forced a smile—she was dreading this Vegas trip. What if she woke up wet in the same room she would share with her best friend? She could tell her and be honest about her problem, but Brenda never felt like a friend to whom she could tell things…she was more of an escape. Someone who would talk about getting wasted every weekend, and wouldn’t judge Evelyn for drinking so much, or lusting over her young and handsome student. She had considered a therapist, but hadn’t really tried it yet. She looked at her phone again; she had a lecture in twenty minutes: Introduction to the Beat Generation. It was her favorite topic to teach—her heroes. Not a single one of them lived by society’s expectations, just like her. She knew she was smart, independent, and strong. Though, since her bedwetting started, she felt less like a woman and more like a little girl who couldn’t stop wetting her bed. As if on cue, she felt pressure building in her lower abdomen. She had already been to the bathroom three times that morning and had been avoiding water and coffee for weeks. Why was she so desperate to pee all the time? Resigned, she went to the loo once more. After her fourth visit to the bathroom in a span of three hours, she found herself in a classroom, waiting for her students. Class was about to begin when they started walking in one by one. Every year, she was getting fewer and fewer people interested in what she had to say. Less than twenty this semester, a few of them already half-asleep as they sat. "Okay, everyone," she said, keeping her voice steady. “Today, we're talking about the spontaneity in On the Road. Kerouac didn’t believe in editing. It was all about writing what was in his heart and mind at the moment…" The class went on. She even showed a copy of the book she had—it had belonged to Bukowski himself, a spiritual member of the Beat Generation. But as she talked about why it was one of her most prized possessions, she felt a familiar pressure building up again. Not now, she told herself, I literally just went to the bathroom. She paced a little to keep her mind off the growing ache. Thighs pressed tight. She stopped behind the podium, gripping the edges. A warm trickle escaped—just a drop, but she felt it soak into her panties. Her heart raced. She clenched harder, forcing a smile as she pointed to the screen. "See here? Sal Paradise hits the road because he's restless. No plan. Just goes…” A student asked a question. She answered on autopilot, shifting her weight. The pressure kept building. She could feel her muscles tiring. Ten more minutes—she could hold it. The class dragged. By the time she wrapped up—"Read chapters three and four for Wednesday"—most students were packing up. But Michael stayed. He was twenty-one, with dark, messy hair, and built like he spent most of his free time at the gym—not something she had expected from someone interested in English literature. He approached her desk with that charming grin of his that made her knees weak. “That was a good lecture, Professor," he said, leaning on the edge of her desk—close enough, so she could smell his cologne. "Never been much of a fan of Kerouac or Ginsberg. Their style and politics were always so…self-indulgent. But without them, we wouldn’t have gotten Bukowski.” “Self-indulgent?” she asked with a scoff. “They were quite brave for their time.” Michael chuckled. “Well, wouldn’t mind debating that over a cup of coffee one of these days.” Evelyn's face heated. She crossed her legs under the desk, clenching desperately. Talking to him always got her worked up—horny, if she was honest. And right now, that made everything worse. Another small leak warmed her crotch. She bit her lip. "Yeah, that’d be nice," she managed. "You let me know when you’re free.” "I’m free right now. What about you?” Her bladder spasmed. A bigger spurt this time—she felt it spread, soaking the cotton between her legs. Warm, then cooling fast. She gripped the desk harder. "I—uh—maybe on the weekend." Her voice cracked a little. She stood up too fast, gathering papers. "Sorry, Michael, I have to run. There’s something I must do…" He looked a bit surprised but nodded. "Sure. See you around.” She practically bolted for the door, thighs squeezed together with every step. The way to the faculty restroom felt endless—two doors down still. She finally made it, pushed inside, locked the nearest stall, and yanked down her slacks and panties. She sat down and let go. What was left exploded in a waterfall that kept going for almost a minute, and when it was over, she finally looked down at her wet panties. The crotch was dark and felt cold. She'd leaked more than she had thought. Not a full-on accident, but enough to leave a damp patch if anyone looked closely. She grabbed toilet paper and tried to dry herself. Her hands shook. Forty years old—a professor—hiding in a bathroom stall, wiping piss from her underwear like a kid who didn’t make it to the potty on their first day at kindergarten. She felt tears forming in her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She dried as best she could, pulled everything back up, and flushed. The wet fabric chafed as she walked to the parking lot. Cold now, sticky. Brenda was waiting by her car, as usual, smoking a cigarette. "There you are!" Brenda called, grinning. Fifty years old, chubby—though one could tell she had been quite pretty when she was younger. A bit blotchy due to all the partying and drinking. ”Hottest prof on campus. After me, of course. How was class? Was Michael there?” Evelyn forced a laugh, leaning against her car to cover her accident. “It was fine. He's...yeah, hot. We talked about Kerouac. He might not be…you know…my type.” "Kerouac, huh? Bet you'd like to go on the road with him." She stepped closer, voice dropping to that trashy talk of hers. "Vegas is booked. Your birthday weekend, bitch. We're getting wasted, dancing, and—fingers crossed—laid. Multiple times. With multiple young men!” Evelyn felt another twinge in her bladder. Again? She had just wet herself, and she needed to go again. This couldn’t be happening. "Sounds perfect," Evelyn forced herself to say, shifting her weight. "Hailee doesn't know yet. Have to tell her tonight.” "Bring her if you want. Men like the whole mother-daughter thing… I’ve been trying to convince Sabrina about it. But she’s a party pooper. She would suck all the fun out of it.” Evelyn glared at her—she knew Sabrina, and the girl would never do anything as trashy as going to Vegas and picking up men with her mother. “…Though, thinking about it. Hailee’s also too serious for Vegas. I guess it’s just you and me, bitch…” Then, playful as always, Brenda reached out and smacked Evelyn's ass—hard enough to sting. The jolt was too much. Evelyn gasped as a hot gush flooded her panties. Not a leak this time—a real spurt, soaking through the fabric she'd just dried. Warm liquid trickled down her inner thigh before she clamped down. Brenda froze, hand still on Evelyn’s butt. "Whoa, you okay? It felt... wet.” Evelyn's face burned—she had stopped the flow, but if it weren’t ‘cause her pants were black, Brenda wouldn’t notice it quite easily. "What? No, just—sweaty. It’s been quite hot lately.” Brenda looked at her as if suspecting Evelyn was lying, but said nothing about it. Not to her, at least. "Sure. Text me later. Love you, bitch.” "Yeah, love you." Evelyn slid into her car fast, slamming the door. She started the engine, hands shaking. Twenty minutes to get home. She had wet herself, but if she could make it home, she’d finish her business in the toilet and take a nice, long, hot shower. Yeah, that was the plan; she wasn't some toddler who couldn't make it to the potty. The first few minutes were okay. She gripped the wheel, focusing on the road, clenching every muscle down there. But at the first red light, a sharp wave hit. She squirmed in her seat, rocking her hips a little, one hand pressing between her legs without thinking. "Come on, hold it," she whispered to herself. A hot spurt escaped anyway, warming her crotch before soaking in. More leaks followed at every bump, the seat growing squishy and warm under her ass. She moaned out loud, tears starting in her eyes. "Please, not again... I'm a grown woman…" Then it happened. A big spasm—she felt her muscles give way. The first real flood came hot and fast, gushing into her panties with no control. "Oh God, no!" she cried, voice breaking into a sob. Warm pee poured out of her, soaking everything—panties, slacks, running down her thighs into her shoes. She tried to clench, but it was useless; another wave followed, then another, like her body had decided potty time was now and she didn't get a say. Evelyn pulled over a block from home, crying. Her clothes cling to her, shoes squishing. Thirty-nine years old, a professor—and she'd completely wet herself like a toddler. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here you can find my latest stories. Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections You can also buy them on Kindle or get them for free through Kindle Unlimited: Camille's Diapered Stepmother: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7S44THM Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Hi guys! Recently, I started re-editing old stories to find out which ones deserve a sequel. Melissa's re-potty training is one of those stories. The second part of this story sees Melissa seeking revenge against her stepmother. And she's not alone. Alongside her best friend, Melissa manages to diaper her tyrant of a stepmother. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections This story is already completed! The Sequel is already completed too: Melissa's Repotty Training (Subscribestar) and Melissa's RePotty Training (Kindle) Melissa’s Re-Potty Training It was a beautiful day. Boys and girls were playing in the park, teenagers were hanging out at the mall, and twenty-year-old Melissa was stuck inside her nursery. If there was anything that made the whole baby treatment unbearable, it was how time seemed to slow down as the day grew older. She sighed. By now, her friends would be at the beach or with their boyfriends. But not Melissa. No. Babies have no boyfriends. Babies aren’t allowed out of their playpens when Mommy’s busy. And her stepmother was busy. She was busy with her real daughter. Three-year-old Amelia had already been potty-trained and was allowed to do more big-girl things than Melissa. And she was twenty, almost twenty-one. An adult. But here she was, diapered and wearing a ridiculous baby girl dress. If her friends could see her now, would they laugh? Would they help her? Would they change her already-soaked diaper? It had been weeks since she was last allowed to wear big-girl panties. Weeks since she tasted the sweetness of freedom. Independence was now out of the question. She doubted she could make it without someone looking after her, changing her, bathing her, feeding her. Was this to be her life now? No longer an adult but a baby. Chapter One The Re-Potty Training Idea Melissa entered the elegantly appointed dining room; her heart racing. With each step, her unease grew stronger. The once familiar space now felt suffocating, as if she were a stranger in her own home. Her gaze drifted toward the large portrait hanging above the fireplace, where the stern look of her stepmother, Helen, stared back, conveying nothing but disapproval. Melissa had always felt that Helen saw her as an inconvenience, a constant reminder that her husband had had a full life before her. And Helen was a jealous woman—sexy for her age, but difficult. She had always belittled Melissa, and now that Melissa's dad was gone, she was alone with no one on her side but her best friend, Dana. Sadly, Dana didn’t live with her, and she needed an ally. Now more than ever. "There you are, Mel," said Helen as Melissa entered the room, "I've been waiting for you." Helen's presence filled the room with menace, casting a shadow over Melissa as she took her seat. As they sat together at the table, the silence grew awkward, broken only by the soft scraping of silverware on porcelain. Tea time, as Helen called it, was a constant ritual at home. “How you been?” “All good.” “How’s job hunting treating you?” “There’s not much out there unless I want to work for KFC or something like that.” “I see,” Helen paused just enough. “Anything else you’d like to share with me?” Melissa shook her head, thinking about one thing she didn’t want anyone to know. But her step-mother reached across the table and gently placed her hand upon Melissa's trembling fingers. “I think it's about time we addressed your... little issue." Melissa didn't know what to say. “What issue?” Asked Melissa, knowing what she meant. She had been having the same problem for about a month. It started as something small, but it had spiraled out of control, and now she had no idea what to do. She had wet her bed and herself so many times so far that it was a miracle no one had found out. Maybe if she played dumb, she could end this awkward conversation. "Look, if you want to pee yourself, that's okay," said Helen with a smirk edging at her mouth. "But you won't do it in my house. Not when I'm working so hard to potty train your sister." “Step-sister,” Melissa clarified. “And it's not your house. It's my dad's." "And according to his will, it's now mine." "And mine!" There was a short moment of silence. "Look," said Helen, grabbing Melissa's hand. "I want us to stop fighting all the time. Your father would've liked that. He loved us both. Don’t you think?" Melissa hesitated, but nodded eventually. She wasn't fully convinced by Helen's intentions, and rightfully so. In the past, Helen had shown no kindness towards her. In fact, while her father was still alive, Helen had tried to send her to boarding school somewhere in another country. Her father wouldn’t have that, though. She missed him. "I don't want you to feel ashamed about it,” Helen continued. “I can help you fix this." “How…” "Well, I was thinking,” Helen said with a big grin. “Amelia is going through potty training right now. She's still too small to understand much, right? So, why don't I potty train you alongside her?" Melissa almost choked on her own saliva. "What do you mean by potty training me? I'm an adult!" "I know. I know you are. But listen to me, it's easy. We just need to teach your body how to hold it until you go potty. That shouldn't be too hard. As you said, you are an adult, and I bet a couple of weeks should be enough. Because if you cannot control it, I'm afraid diapers are the only solution we have left.” Melissa's jaw dropped. ”You're kidding, right? I'm not... there's no way I'm wearing diapers. I'm an adult, remember? And at twenty-one, I get my dad's money, and I'll be out of here." "True. But you aren't twenty-one yet. And you are here, ruining your clothes and my furniture and setting a terrible example for your sister." Melissa didn't really want to argue; she just knew she didn't wanna be back in diapers at twenty-one. “Step-sister,” she said, “What would I have to do?" “I think that part is self-explanatory, right?” Helen asked as if it were truly obvious. “I’ll take you potty every thirty minutes at first. That should keep you dry. Then we decrease the frequency until you earn your big girl panties again. Eventually, your body will get used to it, and you'll go potty by yourself. How does that sound?" "How does that help me now? I mean, I will still," she paused, blushing and ashamed. "Wet myself until we get it under control." "We can do what I'm doing with Amelia," she said, smiling. "Protection under your clothes." "No! I told you, no diapers." "Pull-ups aren't diapers. They are protective underwear." "What's the difference?" "For starters, they don't use tabs. They are easy to hide under your clothes. They are less bulky and noisy. They are completely different, and they are very helpful during potty training.” "I don't know," said Melissa, thinking about how awkward it would be to have that "protective underwear" around her crotch. And what if someone found out? She was already not popular with people her age. Her only friend, Dana, was a little odd herself. Maybe she wouldn't mind. But there was no way she would tell her about it. "I just want to help you," said Helen, “Besides, this could be an excellent way for us to connect. You know, have that mother-daughter experience we never had.” Melissa sighed. She had never seen Helen as interested in her well-being before. Maybe she wanted that connection. Maybe she had changed. “Okay,” she said. “When do we start?" “What about right away?" Helen wasted no time. She grabbed Melissa by the wrist, softly leading her deeper into the house. Through halls and corridors and stairs until they were in a room painted soft pink. It was Amelia’s room, and she wasn’t there. “Amelia’s playing outside. In her sandbox.” “She won’t know?” “She will. But she won’t care. She’s only three.” Helen grabbed some white underwear with a Disney princess design on the front. It was small, but, then again, Melissa was quite thin. Tall, yes, but thin. “Try this on,” said Helen, handing the pull-up to Melissa. It was definitely thicker than regular underwear, and the design was childish. But Helen was right, they didn’t look that much different from her panties. “A little privacy, please.” Helen smiled and stepped out. Melissa stood alone in the nursery. The whole situation felt surreal. Had she actually agreed to this? Chapter Two Potty Time Melissa carefully dropped her pants in the quiet nursery, her cheeks burning when she saw the faint damp spot on her regular underwear. She peeled them off, balled them up, and hid them at the bottom of the laundry basket before turning to the pull-up Helen had left on the changing table. The Disney princess design looked absurdly childish against her long, thin legs, yet the padding felt surprisingly soft when she stepped into it. She tugged the pull-up into place, expecting bulk and noise, but it settled gently around her hips with only a faint crinkle. The material was thicker than panties, cradling her in a way that felt both protective and infantilizing at once. Although she felt a nagging curiosity, she decided not to look at herself in the mirror. Her self-confidence didn’t need that. She yanked her jeans back on quickly, checked that nothing showed, and hurried out of the room before she could change her mind. At the lunch table, she sat stiffly, every shift in the chair reminding her of the secret layer beneath her clothes. Sitting next to her was Melissa’s younger stepsister, Amelia. At only three, she looked like a mini version of Helen herself. It was obvious she was destined for popularity, unlike Melissa, and, even when Amelia had always been nice to her, Melissa resented her. “How is you?” Asked Amelia. Melissa ignored her. That’s when Helen walked into the dining room with plates full of nuggets and fries. She smiled at Melissa with something that could resemble gentleness—it freaked her out. Helen had never been gentle with her before. “Nuggets and fries for my two girls,” Helen announced. “You girls need all the strength you can get to nail potty training.” Melissa blushed. “Mel’s potty training too, Mommy?” Amelia asked through a mouthful, eyes wide and curious. "That's right, hun." “I bet I can potty train faster!” Amelisa shouted. Melissa tried to smile at her, but it seemed forced. She had hoped not to be publicly humiliated like that. Maybe that was Helen’s plan. How foolish of her to trust her stepmother after everything. Helen must have noticed her discomfort. "Don't worry, sweetie,” she added quickly. In this family, we help each other, and I'll be there for you every step of the way." Feeling slightly more reassured, Melissa nodded. “Thanks.” As they ate, Melissa couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Helen's behavior. Helen seemed to genuinely want to help her, but she wondered why. “Potty time," Helen announced after dinner. Helen gave them no time to argue as she grabbed both their wrist, pulling them towards the living room, where a plastic potty awaited. "Is that really necessary?" asked Melissa in shock. "It's just part of the process. Show me you can use the plastic potty, and you can move onto the toilet. It shouldn't be difficult. Should it?" Before Melissa could protest, she was interrupted by her stepmother. "Who wants to go first?!" Helen asked with a smile that felt too forced. Amelia raised her hand. Of course, Melissa was asked to turn back to give her stepsister some privacy. Within minutes, Amelia was done. "I'm a big girl!" said Amelia, smiling from ear to ear. The little brat was as competitive as her mother. It had been cute a few years ago, but now, she was just annoying. There was no way Melissa was gonna lose the potty training race to a three-year-old. But the fact that she was being potty trained alongside a toddler was humiliating. “Your turn, Melissa,” Helen said next as Amelia exited the living room. “Are you ready?” Melissa nodded. She took a step forward, but stopped when she noticed Helen just standing there. “Can I have some privacy?” “I’m afraid that’s not how it works,” Helen answered. “But don’t worry, sweetie. It will be as if I weren’t here.” Taking a deep breath, Melissa pulled down her pants and protective underwear. She lowered herself onto the seat of the tiny plastic potty. Doing her best not to look at her stepmother, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body. But nothing happened. Then a minute passed. And then another. Nothing. She pushed harder. Nothing. Silence. Melissa pushed again, and a loud fart echoed in the room. She blushed as her stepmother giggled. Another minute passed, and nothing. One more push. Nothing. "Alright," said Helen, "I don't think it's going to happen.” "No, wait!" said Melissa, pushing harder now, "I can do this.” "Honey, you're going to give yourself a stroke if you push that hard. It's okay. You didn't make it this time. Let's just try again later." Melissa could feel the tone of disappointment in Helen’s voice. But that was nothing compared to how disappointed she was with herself. "I made it to the potty, Mommy. I'm winning!" Exclaimed Amelia, ecstatic as Helen placed a sticker in her potty chart. “No stickers for you, Mel,” said Helen, gazing at her. Melissa couldn't help but feel pathetic, like a failure. She was an adult, and she couldn't even control her body enough to pee. Not even a trinkle. "You'll make it next time. It's okay. It's the first time you've tried. I'm sure you'll make it," said Helen, and for the first time since Melissa met her, she actually felt as if her stepmother cared about her. Perhaps this potty-training idea wasn't that bad after all. With her first time on the potty a failure, Melissa had nothing left to do but wait. She was to call for Helen's help if she felt the need to go, but the thought of having to ask for help to pee was too embarrassing. She was a big girl. She should make it to the toilet without any help. And so she waited. For Melissa, there was nothing like locking herself in her room to play a video game while she FacTimed her best friend, Dana. But Dana was now working and didn’t have that much time anymore. So she decided to work on her resume—it wasn’t really going well, the whole ‘looking-for-a-job’ thing. But she needed the money, at least until she turned twenty-one. An hour later, the stepmother knocked at her door. “Time to try again, sweetie.” "One minute," said Melissa, staring at her lacking resume. Maybe tomorrow, she could try again. It's not as if she were in dire need to get a job. If only being an adult weren't that difficult. She stood up and went straight to the living room, where Helen and Amelia were waiting beside the plastic potty. "Your sister's got her second sticker of the day," said Helen, "What do we say?” "Congrats," said Melissa, pretending to care enough to form a smile. Helen approached Melissa with a gentle, almost motherly demeanor. ”Now, let's check our big girl.” "What are you...?!" Helen's finger found their way to the elastic band of Melissa's pull-up. The young adult blushed, trying to get away but failing. "My dear," said Helen, removing her fingers from Melissa's crotch, "You're wet.” "What? No. I'm not!” Melissa rushed her hand to her padded crotch only to notice it was bigger and warmer and obviously damp. It couldn't be. She didn't feel it. She was a big girl. She should be able to make it to the potty. Her eyes turned watery, and her knees began shaking. "I'm sorry," she said, fighting back the tears. Helen embraced her with no hesitation—a warm hug that broke Melissa’s defenses. It was the sort of touch only a mother could provide during times of distress, and for a second, Melissa felt less of a failure. "It's okay, honey," Helen said, patting her back carefully, "That's what your pull-ups are for. You'll make it next time.” It sounded familiar—like some of those truisms parents tell children to encourage them. As much as she despised admitting it, her stepmother's kind words did help. Perhaps Helen was right. She might very well make it next time. It was just one accident. She would make it to the potty next time. There was no way she would lose the race for potty training against her stepsister. “Sit on the potty, sweetie,” Helen said, holding her hand. “Just to make sure you don’t have more in you.” Melissa obeyed, though she wished she could be anywhere else but there. Her bare butt touched the plastic of the potty, and she did her best to relax—a few trinkles of pee escaped her. “I’m doing it!” “That’s good, sweetie,” Helen said. “But I’m afraid no sticker for you just yet. You’ve wet your protective underwear.” Melissa knew Helen was right, but at least she had managed to use the potty once. She was going to make it. She was going to be potty-trained and get her father’s money when she turned twenty-one. And she was going to move to a nice place in the city and just live life. Nothing was going to stop her. Chapter Three A Week Full of Incidents Melissa woke up that morning. She stretched and yawned before noticing something. Her bed was completely dry. She had not wet the bed the night before! She rushed off her bed to tell Helen… That’s when she noticed. Her pull-ups were completely soaked, but they were still quite warm. Either she had wet recently, or multiple times—the latter seemed more probable as her pull-ups were sagging too low. She sighed. “Could this day get any worse?” After a shower, she put on another pair of protective underwear. This time, however, curiosity got the best of her. She turned to face the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wearing nothing but the pull-up. The thickness spread her stance a little, the childish princess print made it look childish, but it wasn’t as ridiculous as she had feared. If anything, the soft bulk made her look… quite cute. She blushed at the thought, snatched her clothes from the counter, and dressed in a rush, as if someone might catch her admiring her own reflection. Downstairs, Helen was flipping pancakes while Amelia colored at the kitchen table. Melissa hesitated in the doorway, then cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she said, suddenly conscious of what was between her legs. “Morning!” Amelia said without taking her eyes off the coloring book. “Good morning, Mel,” said Helen with that motherly smile that was so new in her face. “Dry night?” Melissa blushed deeply. And then shook her head. “Don’t worry about that,” said Helen. “That’s what the pull-ups are for.” “My bed was dry this morning, Mommy!” Amelia exclaimed with that childish pride of hers. “Correct!” Helen said. “That’s why we are getting pancakes.” Melissa sat at the table. The meal was quite comforting after the disappointment of having wet herself in her sleep again. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that her three-year-old stepsister was succeeding at potty training while she kept failing. “Potty time,” Helen announced after breakfast. Melissa followed them to the living room, where the plastic potties were waiting. Once again, Amelia got another sticker for her potty chart. “Go wait in your room so I can get you ready for the day,” Helen commanded the three-year-old. Amelia was gone in a second. “Your turn,” Helen said with that smile again. Melissa stepped closer, and Helen’s fingers slipped gently under the waistband of her jeans for the routine inspection. The smile softened into quiet sympathy. “Oh, honey, you’re absolutely drenched already.” “What?!” Melissa exclaimed, completely confused. She took a step back and pulled down her pants. Helen was right; she was soaked already. It hadn’t even been an hour since she took a shower. This couldn’t be happening. Not only did she wet the bed, but she was wetting herself more often. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Helen said, grabbing her hand. “Why don’t you go to your room and get a new pair of pull-ups. We’ll try again later. Okay?” Melissa nodded, fighting back tears. She rushed back to her room, yanked off her pants, and removed the soaked protective underwear. She cleaned herself carefully before slipping into another pair. The rest of the day followed the familiar rhythm of scheduled potty breaks and sticker charts. Melissa managed to stay dry through one entire potty sit—a small victory that earned her a quick hug from Helen. By dinner, though, she had needed two changes, each accident arriving without warning while she was reading or scrolling on her phone. “It takes time,” said Helen later that night. “Tomorrow it will be easier. Now go get a fresh pair of pull-ups and try to rest.” Helen was right, Melissa thought that night in her bed. She will nail the day after. And the day after that. She was going to stop wetting herself and stop worrying about embarrassing herself in front of others—hopefully Dana would be up to hang out one of these days, though. That’s what she needed—just some grown-up time with her best friend. But the next few days were a disappointment for the twenty-year-old girl. Amelia was dry almost every morning. And the little brat couldn’t stop talking about it during breakfast. While Melissa was forced to sit and listen, knowing well that if it hadn’t been for her protective underwear, she would’ve woken up in a wet bed again. Not only that, but Amelia seemed to be progressing fast—at least a lot faster than Melissa herself. By the end of the second week of mutual potty training, Amelia had earned her big girl panties during the day. “I’m a big girl!” “Aren’t you going to congratulate your sister?” Asked Helen. Melissa blushed. “Congratulations.” “Thanks,” Amelia said with an honest smile. “You will be a big girl too. Just stop wetting yourself!” Melissa had to control herself not to say something that would get her in trouble. But the part that hurt the most was that Amelia was right. She was not making any progress. If anything, it seemed she was losing control. Her accidents grew more frequent. She would sit on the little plastic potty and try her best, only to feel nothing—then minutes later, Helen would check on her and find her pull-ups soaked. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Helen would say every time. But Melissa could see that her stepmother was growing tired of her lack of progress. She couldn’t blame Helen. Melissa should’ve made it to big girl panties before Amelia, or at least, be on her way to get there. But her potty chart had barely any stickers. Amelia’s was so full that Helen had to make a bigger one just for her. The morning after Amelia was promoted to big girl panties, Melissa woke up with a big yawn. She stretched and moved, and her hand felt something that made her heart stop. She jumped off the bed. Her pull-up sagged so heavily it almost gave up and fell to the ground, but she managed to keep it in place with one hand. Her pajamas were soaked, and so were the sheets and mattress. “No. No. This can’t be happening,” Melissa muttered as fresh tears began running down her cheeks. There was a knock at the door. “Melissa?” Helen asked. “Everything okay?” Melissa’s heart was beating so fast—she didn’t notice she had begun to wet herself again. notuntil it started leaking down her legs and pooling around her feet. “Melissa?” But Melissa was now sobbing harder. The door opened. And Helen walked in to find her stepdaughter crying—her bottoms were soaked, her pull-up was sagging between her crotch, and a pool of urine around her feet. “Mel…” she said with honest concern. “What happened?” Melissa looked back, helpless. How could she explain this? Waiting for Helen’s reaction, she stood there, sobbing. But her stepmother said nothing. “It's okay,” Helen said, pity behind her voice. “It’s just an accident. Nothing to worry about.” But Melissa couldn’t stop crying. She wanted to tell Helen it wasn’t her fault. She wanted to tell her that she would do better. Her throat felt impossibly constricted. No words would come out. Sobbing like a toddler who had failed to make it to the potty, Melissa broke down. "Don't cry, sweetie,” said Helen, rushing to her stepdaughter. "I'm sorry.” "It's okay. It's okay. We'll fix this. Okay?" For a second, Melissa felt better. But the warmth around her crotch and legs turned cold quite fast, and the uncomfortable feeling against her damp skin reminded her of her failure. "Go take a shower. I’ll clean in here.” Melissa obeyed. Not because she felt ready to clean herself and face the consequences of her accident, but because she couldn't bear the disappointment in Helen’s eyes. They had never seen eye to eye, and feeling so vulnerable with someone she didn't trust was impossible to cope with. When she closed the door to her bathroom, she got naked and got into the shower. She sat there to cry—warm water washing her tears away. When she walked out of the bathroom, she found Helen in her room. New sheets on her bed, windows open, cleaned floor—no trace of her earlier accident. It had all been cleaned for her. “Come sit here, sweetie,” said Helen. Melissa, still wearing only a towel, sat next to her stepmother. “I think we need to have another talk.” “What do you wanna talk about?” Asked Melissa, blushing at the fact that she already knew the answer. “It was my fault, Mel,” said Helen with that motherly tone that unsettled Melissa. “Pull-ups might be okay during the day, but there's no way they can hold an entire night of wetting.” Melissa blushed. ”It was an accident. It won't happen again.” "But that's not true. Is it?" "What do you mean?” "It's been almost a month since we started this potty training journey together. And it seems you're not putting much effort into it." Melissa tried to protest, but Helen continued. ”Look. I don't want to be the bad guy. I truly don't, but we need to take this with the severity it deserves.” "What do you mean?” "Until you can prove you won't wet the bed. You're wearing diapers every night.” Melissa’s jaw dropped. Chapter Four The First Diaper “What?!” Melissa asked in disbelief. “No! I'm not wearing diapers. That's for babies!" Helen considered her for a moment, as if she were the only adult in the room. “Adult diapers are for adults,” she finally said. “Adults just like you who have problems making it to the potty.” Potty? Diapers? Why was Helen talking as if she were a kid who couldn’t understand the severity of the situation? No. She needed to put her foot down. It was her life. She wasn’t going to let her stepmother degrade her any further. “I’m not doing it!” She said, stomping her feet on the ground and frowning, trying to be dominant and menacing, but ended up looking like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "Look. We can't have you ruining the mattress anymore. And I bet it's a horrible feeling waking up in a soaked bed. Diapers won't cure you from your bedwetting. But they are the responsible choice. At least until you manage to stay dry during the night. And you don't have to wear them during the day. Just your pull-ups," said Helen, holding Melissa's wrist with the touch only a caring mother would, "What if we make a deal?” "Another one?” "An update to the old one.” Melissa didn't say anything, allowing Helen to continue. "If you make it a week in a row without any incidents—potty incidents—you can go back to pull-ups.” "An entire week?" Helen chuckled. ”It shouldn't be that hard for someone your age. Should it?” "And if I don't make it?” "Then it's diapers. At least while you're living here, it might be your house, too, but you can't be ruining sheets and mattresses all the time. When you get your money, you can move out. You can do whatever you want with it. But until that day comes, you live under my rules.” Melissa knew, deep down, Helen was right. Waking up in a puddle of her own urine wasn't the best way to start her day. She also didn't want her room to stink the way it did that morning. And her clothes and sheets were gonna get ruined if she did nothing, but diapers seemed like an overreaction. She had tried drinking less water and avoiding caffeine. She's tried waking up every few hours, but that only made her grumpy the next day. "Melissa, I need an answer." Melissa considered her for a few seconds. "I'll try." “Good,” Helen said with a smile. “We’ll start tonight. Now, let's get some breakfast, and we can continue with your potty training. Amelia is excited about it. She thinks she can master potty training before you.” Melissa didn’t know what to say. “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Helen said as she prepared to leave the room. “While we are potty training you, it’d be better if you don’t go out without my permission. All our hard work would be for nothing if you just wet yourself without even trying to use the potty.” Melissa sighed. “Sure…” she said, looking down and hoping things were different this time. But things couldn’t have gone any worse. Five times she was taken to the potty, and she couldn't manage more than a few drops. She did, however, soak her pull-ups five times that day. Amelia, on the other hand, was nailing it every single time, and knowing her little step-sister was winning the potty training race was taking a toll on Melissa's self-confidence. To make matters worse, after dinner, she found Helen waiting for her in her room. She was sitting there with a big, fluffy diaper spread over the bed and a bottle of baby powder in her hand. "It's time, Mel," she said, pointing at the diaper, waiting for her stepdaughter to take the first step. Melissa hesitated, biting her lip. With trembling hands, she reached for the diaper and unfolded it. But before she could start the humiliating task. Helen stopped her. "Do you know how to put a diaper on?” Melissa shook her head. "If you don't do it right, it won't matter if you're wearing one. It will leak." "What are you...?" Melissa was taken aback by Helen's hand pushing her over the bed, removing her pants and pull-ups in a matter of seconds before the young woman could react. Tears welled up in Melissa's eyes as her stepmother spread baby powder all over her most private parts, yet she remained silent, submitting to Helen's authority—hoping this treatment would stop soon. She wondered if Dana would still want to be friends if she knew Melissa wore diapers to sleep and pull-ups during the day. When Helen was done, she held Melissa against her ample bosom, comforting her with her gentle touch until her stepdaughter stopped sobbing. "It's okay. You don't have to wear them forever. I'm sure you'll be out of them in no time," said Helen, smiling gently, "Now. It's time to rest. You don't have to worry about wetting your bed anymore." Helen turned off the light and closed the door before leaving the room, leaving Melissa alone. It was done. She was wearing a diaper. And the feeling of its thickness wasn't as disgusting as she had hoped. It forced her legs apart, but besides that, it kinda felt like a pillow in between her legs. It was soft and warm as it hugged her crotch. Helen sat in an armchair in her room, thinking about Melissa’s rapid regression. Her stepdaughter would inherit most of Helen’s late husband’s fortune, except the house. That meant Helen would have to work again, and Helen couldn’t have that. No. If Melissa didn’t move, if she couldn’t, then Helen would keep all of the money and the house. So what if she had to change a couple of diapers a day? It was worth the effort.

Hi guys, If you want to read this full story and more ABDL content, check out my Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Adopted by a Family, Diapered Senpai, and Heather's New Baby. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Too Good to Be True (Regressed & Diapered by the Landlady) Hi guys, This is a gender-bender version of the classic Room & Board. It's basically a similar setting and situation, although the escalation differs a lot by the end. Hope you like it. Chapter One — Room & Board It had seemed too good to be true. The rent was affordable, the house was within walking distance from campus, and the room itself was clean and already furnished. Anne knew there had to be a catch—there always was—but after a month of rejections and price-gouged listings on the student housing app, she was willing to overlook a few quirks. The only real downside? It was just a room in someone’s house. Not an apartment, not a basement unit. Just a bedroom in a two-story home owned by a woman named Mrs. Owens, who must’ve been in her fifties, though she didn’t look a day past forty-five. There was something slightly off about her from the beginning, though. Nothing Anne could point to exactly—she was polite, well-spoken, and even a little charming in a Midwest-motherly kind of way—but the way she talked to Anne bordered on condescending. Near the end of their first meeting, Mrs. Owens had glanced up from the lease and asked, completely deadpan, “You don’t wet the bed, do you?” “Excuse me?” Asked Anne, taken aback. “Bedwetting,” she repeated, as though it were any other line-item concern. “Some of my past tenants have had... issues. And I don’t rent to anyone with that problem. It’s non-negotiable.” Anne had stammered a firm “No,” trying not to let the weirdness of the question rattle her. Mrs. Owens had nodded and pointed out the clause in the lease as if she expected Anne to change her answer. But Anne had never had a problem like that in her life. Weird clause aside, the room was a steal—and in this town, that meant something. The university had over-enrolled, dorms were packed, and off-campus housing was fiercely competitive. So she signed the lease, thanked Mrs. Owens for her hospitality, and tried to convince herself that it would be a perfectly normal arrangement. At first, it was. The house was quiet. Mrs. Owens kept to herself most of the time. Anne had class in the mornings, study sessions in the library in the evenings, and nights to herself. Meals weren’t included, but the kitchen was fully stocked and Anne was welcome to use it. She agreed to help with a few weekly chores in exchange for a rent discount. The plastic mattress protector was a little odd, but she shrugged it off. Probably one of the bedwetting tenants had to use it before. Anne agreed to leave it on the bed for the first month just in case, but she knew she wouldn't need it. That assumption, however, didn’t hold up for long. Two weeks in, after a night of hard partying and too many Jell-O shots, Anne woke up groggy, head pounding, and mouth dry. Her sheets were tangled around her legs. Her pillow felt like sandpaper. She squinted against the morning light bleeding through the curtains and rolled over—only to stop dead. The sheets were damp. Her stomach dropped. She threw back the covers and stared in horror at the large, unmistakable stain beneath her. The scent confirmed it: she’d wet the bed. “Oh my god,” she whispered, pressing a palm against her forehead. Her memories of the night before were fuzzy. She remembered dancing, laughing, beer pong with a few friends she had made, and then…then stumbling home past midnight and crashing face-first onto the mattress without even brushing her teeth. But this? She had been drunk before, and she had never had a problem like this. She peeled herself out of bed, frantically pulling the sheet loose and bundling it up, trying to minimize the damage. Maybe the mattress protector had held. Maybe— The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her freeze. “Anne?” Mrs. Owens’s voice was muffled but close. “Are you decent?” Before she could respond, the door creaked open. Anne stood there, stunned, still holding the balled-up sheet in her arms like a guilty kid caught red-handed. Mrs. Owens took one look at her, then at the bundle, and then at the bed. “I thought you said you didn’t wet the bed.” Anne flushed. “I don’t. I mean—I didn’t. It was just last night, I drank too much, and I guess I—” Mrs. Owens walked over briskly and peeled back the remaining bedding to inspect the plastic cover underneath. “At least this held,” she muttered, running a hand across the surface. Then she turned to Anne. “Do you know how expensive a mattress is?” “I’m really sorry,” Anne mumbled. She felt queasy, embarrassed, and still mildly hungover. “Well, that explains the headache and the mess. You’re not the first freshman who partied too hard and woke up to a puddle. But I warned you. It’s in the lease.” Anne’s stomach clenched. “Please—I’ll clean everything, I swear. It won’t happen again.” “That’s what they all say.” Anne looked up, panic rising. Mrs. Owens gave her a long, assessing look. Then, with a slight sigh, her tone softened—just a little. “I’ll give you a choice.” “I’ll do anything…” “You can pack your things and be out today. I’ll give you a neutral reference, but I won’t lie if someone asks why you left the house. And I’m guessing it’ll be hard to find anything mid-semester without a good reference.” Anne’s throat tightened. “Or,” Mrs. Owens said, “You can stay. But if you do, we’re doing things my way.” Anne didn’t like the sound of that. “What do I have to do?” “The way I handled it with my girls when they were young. When accidents occurred, they wore protection. Just at night. It was simple. Effective. And the bed stayed dry.” Anne stared at her. “You mean…” Her voice faltered. “You want me to wear diapers?” “Just while you sleep. No one else has to know. But if you want to stay in this house, I need to know the bed is protected. This isn’t negotiable.” Anne’s cheeks burned. She hated how logical the woman made it sound. She hated that she didn’t have a better solution. But it was clear she was in the wrong. “And how long would I have to…?” “Every night for a week. If you keep them dry, then we can transition back to big girl panties,” she paused. “But one single accident and it will be diapers until the lease is up or you decide to leave.” She turned to leave. “Come see me when you’re ready for bed tonight. We’ll get you set up.” Anne stood frozen, her arms still wrapped around the damp sheet. Her mind whirled. Diapers. She hadn’t worn one since she was a toddler. But what choice did she have? Most of the day, she’d managed to push the whole thing to the back of her mind. After throwing the sheets in the washer and scrubbing the mattress cover twice over, Anne had gone out for coffee, caught up on notes in the library, and even met a classmate for an early dinner. She had been so caught up in her responsibilities and social life that she completely forgot about Mrs. Owens. But the woman had not forgotten about her. That night, Mrs. Owens crept into her room like a ninja. “Almost forgot our arrangement, didn’t you?” she said, with a smile on her face. “Come on now. Let’s get you ready for the night.” Anne followed Mrs. Owens down the hall in awkward silence, heart thudding as they reached the linen closet at the end. The older woman opened it without a word and pulled out a folded white rectangle from the top shelf—a disposable diaper, thick and crinkly. Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it. It looked absurd in her hands. Too big for a child. Mrs. Owens turned and handed it to her without ceremony. “There’s powder and wipes in the upstairs bathroom,” she said. “I suggest you use both.” Anne nodded, face burning. She took the diaper as if it were radioactive and scurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. For a few seconds, she just stood there, staring at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her—twenty years old, honor student, newly independent—and now, apparently, about to put herself in a diaper because she’d wet the bed once. One drunken accident, and suddenly she was being treated like a child. She set the diaper on the counter and began to undress. Once she was naked, she opened the diaper. The padding felt soft and thick. There were tapes—two on each side—but she couldn’t figure out the angle until she lay back on the bath mat and awkwardly pulled the front panel up between her legs. The tapes barely stuck at first, and she had to redo them twice. Eventually, she managed to get it right. Standing up, she looked in the mirror again. The thick bulk between her legs was impossible to ignore. She felt ridiculous. Infantile. But it was only one week. There was no way she would wet the bed again. She padded back into the hallway, arms crossed over her chest. Mrs. Owens was already waiting in her nightgown, holding something else in her hand. “What’s that?” Anne asked hesitantly. Mrs. Owens lifted the item. “Plastic pants. Just for added protection. Sit down and I’ll help you with them.” Anne opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t find the words. She sat on the edge of the couch as the older woman gently guided her feet through the leg holes and pulled the waterproof layer up over her diaper. “There we go. All set.” Anne stared straight ahead, her cheeks burning. She could feel the elastic gripping her thighs, the snug press of padding under her sweatpants. Mrs. Owens gave her a satisfied nod. “Sleep well, dear. You’ve got nothing to worry about now.” Anne didn’t respond. She just nodded mutely and shuffled back to her room, the soft crinkle of plastic trailing behind her with every step. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy Part II: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F1DFN2B9 or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Camille's Diapered Stepmother: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7S44THM Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections A Bedwetter on Camp Lena had always thought of herself as mature for her age. Not in a try-hard way—she wasn’t the type to flaunt it. But in small, steady ways. She didn’t flake on plans. She showed up on time. She kept her room clean even when no one asked her to. It was just how she was. Reliable. Grounded. That’s part of why she was so excited when Camp Havenbrook accepted her as a junior counselor. It felt like recognition. Like someone had finally said, Yes, you’re ready. You’re not a kid anymore. She could almost pretend she wasn’t nervous when she stepped off the shuttle that morning, duffel bag digging into her shoulder, the scent of pine trees and lakewater heavy in the summer air. Somewhere nearby, a group of returning campers were already shrieking with laughter. A few staff members in matching polos waved half-hearted greetings. The wooden cabins, still as crooked as they’d been years ago when she was a camper, lined the clearing like slouching old friends. Lena exhaled and squared her shoulders. “Lena Hargrove?” The voice was firm—not loud, but the kind that made people listen. Lena turned. The woman approaching her was dressed in starched khakis, a tucked-in polo, and hiking boots that somehow looked cleaner than any pair Lena had ever owned. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, and no smile. Her clipboard was clutched like a weapon. “Yes,” Lena said. “That’s me.” “I’m Miss Temple,” the woman replied. “Camp Director.” Lena nodded quickly. “It’s great to meet you. I’m really excited—” “We run a tight ship here,” Miss Temple interrupted. “This is a place for learning responsibility, not coddling bad habits.” “Oh, totally—” “There’s no room for sloppiness. No room for excuses. That includes personal hygiene, punctuality." "I agree," Lena said. "Have you read the handbook that was given to you?" asked Miss Temple. Lena nodded. "Any questions?" "Just the one. About nighttime accidents.” “Right,” Miss Temple repeated. “We house girls of all ages, from five-year-olds to sixteen-year-olds. They are not babies or toddlers, so wet beds are not tolerated here. At any age. When that happens, there are consequences.” "Diapers?" Lena asked, remembering what she read in the handbook. "Correct. Among other things," Miss Temple said. “I understand,” she said quietly. “Cabin 3C,” Miss Temple continued. “You’ll be overseeing girls ages twelve to fourteen. Your responsibilities include curfew enforcement, activity guidance, and behavior monitoring. Report to the lodge at 1600 for staff orientation.” Without waiting for a response, Miss Temple turned on her heel and walked off. Lena just stood there for a second, her grip tightening on her bag. She was eighteen. She was an adult now. She could handle this. By the time camp was over, she would have enough money to buy herself a second-hand car. That's all she needed to finally leave home and start her adult life. Still, she couldn’t help but think: Since when does a camp director talk about bedwetting like it’s a criminal offense? Cabin 3C was tucked at the edge of the woods, close enough to hear the lake lapping at the shore. It looked smaller than she remembered it, but maybe that was just perspective. She used to sleep in these bunks. Now she was here to supervise. Now she was here to be in charge of other girls, not much younger than herself. She took a deep breath and walked in. It was chaos inside. Suitcases exploded across the wooden floorboards. Someone was blasting music from a hidden speaker. Two girls were arguing over top bunk rights. The air smelled like bug spray and peach lip gloss. “Everyone!” Lena called out, trying to find her counselor voice. “Let’s quiet down, okay? I’m Lena. I’ll be your counselor this summer.” A few turned to look at her. One girl waved lazily. Another kept typing on her phone until a friend elbowed her. Then there was Madison. Lena recognized her right away. It was a bratty, popular girl who went to the same church Lena's parents visited every Sunday. The arched eyebrows, the glossy hair, the attitude that filled a room before she even spoke. She looked even older than Lena herself, with curves that belonged to a woman's body. “You’re the counselor?” Madison asked, arms folded. Lena smiled, ignoring the tone. “That’s right.” Madison tilted her head. “Do we know each other? "I don't think so," Lena lied. "You don’t look much older than us," Madison pressed. "It doesn't matter," Lena said. "I'm the one in charge." "Are you?" Madison glared at Lena with defiance. That somehow made Lena feel out of place. The rest of the day passed in a blur. There were name games, unpacking rules, a hike to the flagpole. Lena tried to lead with a balance of friendliness and firmness, but it was clear who the queen bee of the cabin was. Madison had her clique—Jordan and Kylie—and they followed her lead. Madison didn’t outright disobey. She just watched Lena as if she were amusing—a challenge. That night, after lights-out, Lena lay in her bottom bunk staring at the wooden slats above her. The air was sticky. A mosquito buzzed somewhere near her ear. From the other side of the cabin, someone whispered a joke, followed by a stifled giggle. Lena sighed and rolled over. She wanted to prove herself. To show she could handle a leadership role. That she wasn’t just another girl pretending to be grown up. That’s why she didn't say anything when she found the toothpaste smeared inside her sneakers the next morning. She just cleaned them and moved on. When someone swapped her bug spray for Silly String? She didn’t tattle. Just laughed it off. But her patience was starting to thin by the third prank—mild laxatives added to her breakfast smoothie, if she had to guess. Luckily, she made it to the bathroom. Still, she refused to lose her cool. That’s what they wanted, right? For her to snap. To prove she wasn’t fit for the job. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. That night, she sat on her bunk and sipped her water carefully. The girls were already settling in. Someone asked if they could keep a nightlight on—Lena said yes. Another asked for an extra blanket. Madison just stared at her from her bed, an unreadable expression on her face. Lena gave her a polite nod, then turned to get ready for bed. What she didn’t notice—what she couldn’t know—was that her water bottle had been swapped. The liquid inside wasn’t water. Not entirely. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy Part II: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F1DFN2B9 or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Camille's Diapered Stepmother: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7S44THM Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections This story is already completed! Chapter Three Claire’s Public Accident Claire woke up feeling worse than she had the night before. Her sleep had been restless, her dreams punctuated by flashes of her recent accidents and Linda’s words. “If you don’t do something to manage it, someone else is going to find out." Sitting up, she rubbed her temples and let out a slow breath. The idea of people knowing—Samantha knowing—made her stomach churn. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. The day passed in a haze of meetings and emails, and by the time Claire checked her calendar, she realized she had forgotten about the dinner she had agreed to earlier in the week. David, a senior colleague from another department, had invited her out to discuss a potential project collaboration. She considered canceling but stopped herself. No. This is perfect. It was her chance to prove to herself that she could handle this—without anyone’s help, without… those things. She paired a sleek navy dress with her favorite heels and styled her hair into a flawless wave. Her reflection in the mirror was dazzling, commanding. She looked every bit the confident, powerful executive she knew she was, and she needed that boost in morale. When Linda returned from running errands and saw Claire dressed to the nines, she paused in the entryway. “Are you going out?” “Yes,” Claire said, grabbing her clutch from the counter. Linda frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Claire bristled. “I’ll be fine, Linda. Stop worrying.” There was a long pause. Linda opened her mouth as if to say more, but thought better of it. “Alright. Have a good evening, Ms. Reynolds." Claire walked out without another word. The restaurant was quiet, upscale, and perfectly chosen for the casual business dinner. Soft lighting glinted off polished glassware, and the low hum of conversation provided just enough background noise to keep things comfortable. David was waiting when Claire arrived, standing to greet her with a warm smile that instantly softened the tension in her shoulders. David was handsome in a classic, effortless way: his dark hair was neatly combed, and his suit was tailored to perfection. His easy demeanor was a stark contrast to the corporate sharks Claire usually encountered. He exuded charm without arrogance and confidence without pretense. “Claire,” he said warmly, pulling out her chair as she approached the table. “I’m so glad you could make it. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.” She offered him a small smile, lowering herself into the chair. “I don’t forget important meetings,” she said smoothly, her professional tone masking the nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. The first thirty minutes passed smoothly. Claire played her role with practiced precision, listening attentively to David’s ideas and offering her own insights where appropriate. She found herself laughing at his jokes—genuinely laughing, not the polite chuckle she reserved for most colleagues. He had an ease about him that made it hard not to relax, even as her mind ticked through all the work waiting for her tomorrow. For a moment, she even let herself enjoy it. She couldn’t help but notice the way David’s eyes lit up when he spoke, or how his laugh seemed genuine rather than rehearsed. He wasn’t just a colleague; he was magnetic. This is fine, she told herself, relaxing into the rhythm of the conversation. I’ve got this. Then it hit. The pressure in her bladder came on quickly, startling her mid-sentence. She stiffened, her grip tightening around her wine glass. Her stomach dropped as the sensation intensified, sharp and insistent. No. Not now. Please, not now. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, cutting David off mid-sentence. Her voice wavered slightly, but she forced a tight smile. “I’ll be right back.” She tried to take a step toward the restroom, but it was already too late. The soft, unmistakable sound of liquid dripping onto the floor made her stomach churn. Her breath hitched as she felt another, deeper pressure building in her abdomen. Her body was betraying her again, and this time, it was worse. Oh my God. Oh my God. Not this. Please, not this. Her control slipped completely. It was mushy and uncomfortable. The sensation of warmth in her underwear left no room for doubt. For the first time since she was potty trained by her mother, Claire had messed herself. The worst part? Everyone could see it. It had not happened in her home or in the office, but in the most public way possible. David’s brow furrowed, his eyes flicking down briefly before darting back to her face. “Claire? Are you okay?” She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Her face burned with humiliation as she clutched her clutch tightly against her front, trying in vain to cover herself. “I—I have to go,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Wait, let me—” But she was already backing away, moving as quickly as she could without drawing more attention. Her heels clicked against the tile, and she prayed no one noticed the faint smell beginning to linger. The eyes of nearby diners seemed to follow her as she rushed through the restaurant, though she couldn't tell whether they were truly looking or it was her imagination. Her thoughts were a chaotic mess, cycling between shame, panic, and disbelief. How could this happen? The question screamed in her mind, looping endlessly. By the time Claire reached her car, her hands were trembling so badly that it took three tries to unlock the door. She climbed inside and slammed the door shut, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The damp, sticky fabric of her dress clung to her skin, reminding her of what she had done with every step she took. She couldn’t escape it. Her stomach churned as tears welled in her eyes. She had always prided herself on control—of her work, her image, her life. And now? She couldn’t even control her own body. What’s wrong with me? She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel as the tears spilled over. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, the weight of her failure crushing her. After a few minutes, she forced herself to sit up, wiping her face with trembling hands. She couldn’t stay here. She needed to get home, to shower, to... do something. She started the car, her mind still spinning, and pulled out of the parking lot. Claire’s focus was fractured as she drove, her thoughts looping endlessly around the events of the evening. She replayed every humiliating moment in excruciating detail: David’s face, the sensation of losing control, the whispers she imagined in the restaurant. She didn’t see the stop sign until it was too late. The blaring horn of another car jolted her back to reality. She slammed on the brakes, her heart pounding as the other car skidded to a stop inches from her front bumper. The flash of blue and red lights in her rearview mirror sent a shiver down her spine. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she pulled over to the side of the road. Her heart pounded, and her stomach churned with dread. The officer approached, her tall frame and neatly tucked blond hair giving her an air of confidence that made Claire feel even smaller. She couldn’t have been more than 28—young, strikingly attractive, and composed. Claire rolled down the window, her hands trembling. “Good evening,” the officer said, her tone calm but firm. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” “I—I missed the stop sign,” Claire admitted, her voice shaky. The officer nodded slightly but paused as the faint smell of Claire’s accident reached her. She leaned in closer, her expression shifting. “Have you been drinking tonight?” the officer asked, her tone growing sharper. “No! I haven’t had anything,” Claire said quickly, panic creeping into her voice. The officer frowned. “Step out of the car, ma’am.” Claire hesitated, clutching her purse tightly against her front to shield her stained dress. “Please put the purse down,” the officer instructed firmly. Claire’s hands tightened on the strap, but the officer’s expression left no room for argument. Reluctantly, she set the purse on the hood of the car, exposing the full extent of the damage to her dress. The officer’s eyes flicked downward, her professional demeanor faltering for just a moment before she recovered. “What happened?” the officer asked. Claire’s cheeks burned. “It was an accident,” she muttered. The officer sighed and straightened. “We’ll run a quick field sobriety test if you pass it. You can go home with a warning and a fine. If you don’t, we’ll discuss that further if necessary.” Claire’s stomach dropped. “I told you, I haven’t been drinking.” “Then this won’t take long,” the officer replied. Claire bit her lip but nodded. “Start by walking in a straight line,” the officer instructed, gesturing to a section of pavement. Claire stepped forward hesitantly. Each movement felt exaggerated and awkward, the sticky sensation of her soiled clothes making it impossible to focus. “Good. Now turn and walk back toward me,” the officer said. Claire stumbled slightly as she turned, tears stinging her eyes. “Ma’am,” the officer said, her voice softening, “are you sure you haven’t had anything to drink tonight?” “I swear, I haven’t,” Claire said, her voice breaking. The officer sighed, her tone shifting to something gentler. “Alright. Let’s take a minute.” Claire wiped her face, her hands trembling. “What’s your name?” the officer asked, her voice calm. “Claire,” she whispered. “Okay, Claire,” the officer said, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “I know you’re upset, but sometimes these things happen. It’s not the end of the world.” The words stung. Claire looked away, her humiliation deepening. The officer stood and walked to her patrol car, returning with a small, well-worn teddy bear. She held it out to Claire, her voice soft. “I usually keep this for kids who need a little extra comfort, but I think it might help you right now.” Claire hesitated, her pride warring with her exhaustion. After a moment, she took the teddy bear, clutching it tightly. “Let’s get you to the station and figure this out,” the officer said gently. Claire climbed into the back of the patrol car, holding the teddy bear against her chest. She didn’t say a word during the drive, her mind numb. The officer glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “We’ll get you cleaned up at the station,” she said. “Everything will be okay.” Claire stared out the window, her tears falling silently. For the first time, she felt truly powerless. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSR2VKVB or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections This story is a reinterpretation of an old story I read once that I couldn't find again. I think it was named Tara's Perfect Summer. I liked the setting, but wasn't a fan of how it ended, so I took the setting and wrote a different story with a completely different ending (The mother ends up in diapers, perhaps?) Anyway, this story is fully completed on my Subscribestar. Chapter One Mrs. Johnson’s Offer Daisy looked out her bedroom window. It was a beautiful summer Friday morning, and the kids next door were playing outside. They seemed not to have a care in the world, just focused on having fun. At nineteen, Daisy wishes she didn’t have to worry about school or finding a job. Things weren’t easy for someone her age, and the pressure was truly pushing her down. That’s why, as she watched the kids play, she wondered what it would be like to be so carefree, even if it meant having no say in her life. She had babysat for those kids many times. Mia was only two, and Caitlyn was about to turn four. Mia was not potty trained yet, and Caitlyn was having a hard time moving from pull-ups to big girl panties. The day before, Daisy had promised the girls’ mother, Mrs. Johnson, that she would help her with her daughters’ potty training. And so she got ready and left her room. “Where are you going?” Daisy’s mother, Charlotte, a severe woman with severe eyes, asked. “Just next door, I promised Mrs. Johnson that I would help her with the girls today.” “One of these days, you’re going to have to think of a better job than babysitting.” Daisy just smiled thinly at her mother and left her house. “Daisy!” both girls shouted in unison as she reached Mrs. Johnson’s house. They were playing in the yard with the many toys her mother had bought them. Mrs. Johnson was rich, and not just I-have-a-well-paid-job rich. Mr. Johnson had left his wife a fortune in property investments and market shares. The house was a testament to that wealth. “Hi girls!” said Daisy with a gentle smile on her face. “Come play with us!” “She will,” Mrs. Johnson said, appearing behind Daisy. But first, can you get the girls changed, sweetheart?” Mrs. Johnson was just ten years older than Daisy, but she didn’t look the part. Elegant and slender, the woman was everything Daisy wished she could be. “Sure will,” answered Daisy, “Come on, girls, you heard your mother.” Caitlyn was dry, so she was allowed to stay, but Mia’s diaper was full. So Daisy carried her up the stairs and into the nursery. It was a pastel kingdom full of toys and stuffed animals. “All right, kiddo. Let’s get you clean.” Sucking on her own thumb, Mia didn’t even notice what was happening as Daisy changed her wet diaper and put her on a new one. “You know, you are so lucky,” said Daisy as she dressed Mia. You don’t have to worry about boys, cars, careers, or jobs. Nothing. I wish I could go back to being your age sometimes. It would make things so much easier.” Daisy saw one of Mia’s extra pacifiers and, without even thinking twice, she reached for it. Although confused by her own thoughts, she placed the pacifier in her mouth and began sucking. It was oddly soothing. “You know,” said the voice of Mrs. Johnson, and Daisy’s heart stopped, “It looks good on you.” “Mrs. Johnson! What? Why? It’s not what it looks like.” “It’s okay. I actually overheard you just then.” Daisy blushed. “Sweetie,” said Mrs. Johnson to her daughter, “Let’s get you back outside with your sister, okay?” Mia nodded enthusiastically. “Wait for me here, Daisy.” After dropping Mia back with Caitlyn, Mrs. Johnson came back to the nursery. Daisy had not moved, and she was still embarrassed about what had happened. “Do you really want to go back and be a baby?” “I don’t…” she paused. If she were honest with herself, she kind of wished that could happen. “Yes.” “Diapers, bottles, cribs, and all?” “I mean, that’s what it means to be a baby, right?” Mrs. Johnson smiled, but not in a taunting way. It was a motherly smile that felt real and caring. “You know, the girls are leaving in a few hours. They will spend the weekend with my parents. Why don’t you come stay here and be my baby while they are out?” Daisy gulped, “You mean it?” Mrs. Johnson nodded, “I will treat you just like a baby. Diapers, feeding, and more. It will be fun.” “I don’t know…” Mrs. Johnson held her hand, “I insist.” “But what about my mom?” “You leave her to me.” Daisy nodded with butterflies in her stomach at the thought of finally being babied. “Mrs. Johnson…” “Please, call me Mommy this weekend.” Daisy blushed again, “Mommy, I was curious, what age will you be treating me like?” “Well, do you think you’ll be big enough to be treated like Caitlyn?” Daisy blushed and shook her head. “What if I treat you like Mia? You’d be two for the weekend.” Daisy blushed again and shook her head. Mrs. Johnson smiled, “Would you like to be a one-year-old baby this weekend? No talking. No walking. You’d depend on me for everything.” Daisy was so red that she could’ve passed for a Marvel villain, but nodded. “Very well then. Come back here at five and I will have everything ready.” Daisy nodded and left for her home, thinking all the way about Mrs. Johnson’s offer and how perfect her weekend would be. Chapter Two Mrs. Johnson’s Rules As the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, Daisy couldn't shake the mix of excitement and nerves bubbling inside her. She had spent the day trying to distract herself, but her mind kept drifting back to Mrs. Johnson’s offer. Could she really spend the weekend as a baby? The idea seemed absurd, especially for someone her age. Daisy should be looking for internships and job opportunities. According to society, she should already be looking to make a career for herself. Yet, the idea of spending the weekend as someone else’s baby felt right and comforting. “Mrs. Johnson called,” said her mother, Carmen, when Daisy made her way to the front door. “Yeah?” “You’ll be babysitting for the weekend, right?” Daisy nodded. “You know, I hope you can find a proper job for someone your age after that. Those girls won’t need a babysitter forever. And then what will you do?” “I don’t know.” “Well, use this weekend away to think about it,” said her mother with the harshest of tones. She didn’t say anything else, and Daisy left her home. At precisely five o'clock, Daisy stood at Mrs. Johnson’s front door. She couldn’t stop smiling. She couldn’t fight the excitement. It was going to be a perfect weekend! Mrs. Johnson greeted her with a warm smile. "Right on time, Daisy. Come in." Daisy stepped inside, feeling the butterflies in her stomach intensify. The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the usual sounds of Mia and Caitlyn playing chaotically. In fact, the house felt different that day. It felt warmer and more welcoming than Daisy’s own home. Mrs. Johnson led her to the living room, where a playpen and various baby items were already set up. "The girls have already left with my parents," Mrs. Johnson said, her voice gentle. "Are you ready to start?" Daisy nodded, her heart racing. "Yes, I think so." “Good. Just remember, babies don’t talk, so as soon as we begin, you won’t talk unless I allow it. Okay?” Daisy nodded. “I’ll get you ready and then we’ll go through the rules for this weekend.” Mrs. Johnson took her hand and led her upstairs to the nursery. The walk there felt longer than usual. Even if Daisy had been in that room many times before, the moment Mrs. Johnson opened it, she felt a surge of adrenaline as her heart started beating faster and faster. “It’s okay,” said Mrs. Johnson, pulling something from her pocket. “Why don’t you put this in your mouth? It will help with the nerves.” Daisy opened her mouth to receive a brand-new pacifier big enough for her. Mrs. Johnson then opened a drawer and pulled out a thick adult-sized diaper. "Lie down on the changing table, sweetie." With trembling hands, Daisy did as she was told. Mrs. Johnson worked efficiently, removing Daisy's clothes and placing the diaper under her. The sensation of the diaper being taped snugly around her waist was strange but not unpleasant. It was softer and more comfortable than she had expected. "There we go," Mrs. Johnson said, helping her off the table. "How does that feel?" Daisy blushed, looking down at herself. "It's... different. But I think I like it,” said Daisy, blushing. “Now for the final touch,” said Mrs. Johnson. She dressed Daisy in a soft pink t-shirt that had a teddy bear design on the front. “You look so cute.” The shirt barely covered the top of Daisy’s diaper, making her feel exposed and vulnerable. And yet she knew that babies had no shame, and no one would see her but Mrs. Johnson—her new Mommy. “Now, we have to set some rules. But that’s only to make it easier for you to settle into your new role. The first one you already know…no talking. You chose to be a one-year-old, and you will be one this weekend.” Daisy nodded, still sucking on her pacifier. “Good. The other rule is that you’re not allowed to use the bathroom. That’s what your diapers are for…don’t worry, I’ve dealt with many stinky presents before, so that won’t be a problem. Understood?” A bit shocked at the rule, Daisy took her time nodding this time. But she still agreed. “Good. There’s one more thing, and you can say no to this one,” Mrs. Johnson said, “Mia being away for the weekend doesn’t mean my breasts stop producing milk. So, if you accept, this weekend you will be breastfed just like a one-year-old would." Daisy’s jaw dropped. She wanted to have the full experience, but…she didn’t know if the breast milk part was her thing. After all, even if she didn’t have a boyfriend, she always thought of herself as straight. Sucking on another woman’s breast wasn’t that straight… “You can say no to that one, but that means I would have to leave you alone while I pump.” “I don’t know,” said Daisy through her pacifier, and she was surprised by her own words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to break the rules.” “That’s okay. Look, think about it. Okay?” Daisy nodded. Even though a part of her wanted to reject the offer, another one, perhaps a smaller one, couldn’t find any reason not to accept it… “Now, let me show you something,” said Mrs. Johnson with a gentle smile and a mothering tone. She helped Daisy off the changing table and led her to a mirror. Looking back at Daisy, she was not the nineteen-year-old who had left her mother’s home not an hour earlier. No. Instead, looking back at her was a cute baby girl, albeit bigger than a baby. Still, she couldn’t get over how cute she looked with her onesie and the thick padding between her legs. "Do you like what you see?" Daisy nodded with her pacifier still in her mouth and a warm feeling spreading through her beating heart. The weekend was already turning out better than she had expected, and it had only begun. That's when she made the decision. "I want to be breastfed," she said with such confidence. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSR2VKVB or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections February 10 The only people who know about the diapers are Laura and Matthew. It’s a small circle, but I have a feeling that won’t last forever. Living in diapers full-time means I must be extra careful about what I wear outside. Every outfit is a calculated decision to avoid anyone noticing the bulk or the crinkle. So far, I’ve managed to keep it under wraps, but the idea of being found out always lingers in my mind. Matthew’s over several evenings a week now, and things between him and Laura are definitely heating up. They’re more physical and affectionate in front of me, which is hard to watch sometimes. Matthew’s also becoming more assertive—bossy, even. He insists that I wear baby clothes whenever he’s here, no exceptions. It’s not enough to just be in diapers; he wants the full look. The other day, he casually mentioned that I should expect to spend more time outside in baby clothes as the weather warms up. I laughed nervously, but he didn’t seem to be joking. The thought of being seen like that terrifies me, but with Matthew, I’m starting to realize that what he says usually becomes reality. So far, none of my friends know about any of this. But with everything escalating the way it has, I wouldn’t be surprised if that changes sooner rather than later. February 15 Last night was one of the most humiliating experiences I’ve had since all of this started. At 6:00, Laura told me to go put on one of my baby dresses—a pink one with matching ruffled panties to wear over my diaper and plastic diaper cover. I didn’t argue. By now, I know better. Once I was dressed, I joined her in the living room. At 6:30, Matthew arrived. He didn’t even knock, just let himself in like it was his house. The three of us sat on the couch watching TV. It felt a little awkward but manageable. For about half an hour, things were calm, if you can call this situation “calm.” Then Laura told me to go to the fridge and grab my bottle. I hesitated. The thought of walking around in front of Matthew, with my short dress showing off my ruffled panties, was too much. I started to complain—probably more than I should have. That’s when Matthew stepped in. He told me to stand up, and before I could process what was happening, he grabbed my ruffled panties and yanked them down to my ankles, exposing my diapered bottom. I froze. Completely shocked. And then, just like that, he pulled me over his knee. He started spanking me—right there, in front of Laura. The diaper and plastic cover softened the blows, so it didn’t hurt much, but the sound of it echoed in the room, and the humiliation was unbearable. I couldn’t bring myself to move or say anything. I just let it happen. When he was done, he told me to stand up and leave the panties around my ankles. I stood there, facing the TV, feeling ridiculous and exposed. After what felt like forever, he told me to pull them back up and sit down. Laura didn’t say a word. She just went to the kitchen, got my bottle, and fed it to me while I sat there, blushing and wishing I could disappear. They put me to bed shortly after. Nothing more was said about the spanking, and Laura didn’t seem bothered by Matthew taking it upon himself to discipline me. The whole thing was so surreal. I still don’t know what to make of it. February 20 Laura told me yesterday that Matthew would be joining us for dinner. As usual, this wasn’t just a casual meal—I was “strongly encouraged” to change into a cute baby outfit around 5:30. Honestly, I was surprised she didn’t tell me to get ready for bed instead. She kept me out of the kitchen, so I had no idea what she was cooking. Matthew arrived shortly after six, greeting Laura with affection like they were a couple. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing them like that—it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. As I turned away to watch TV, trying to ignore the romantic energy in the room, Matthew laughed and said, “Oh, I think we’re embarrassing the baby.” Laura just smiled and told him to grab a beer. Nobody bothered offering me anything, of course. Matthew hung around in the kitchen, chatting with Laura while I sat there feeling invisible. When dinner was ready, Matthew took the head of the table while I was tucked into the backside, up against the wall. Laura tied a bib around my neck and laid a dish towel over my lap. I should’ve known then that this wasn’t going to be a normal meal. Dinner was spaghetti, salad, and—for me—a cup of applesauce. When I looked for a fork, I realized there wasn’t one. Laura casually informed me, “Forks are too dangerous for babies. Let me know if you need me to feed you.” I tried eating spaghetti with just a spoon, and it was a disaster. The first bite slid right off and splattered on the bib, and by the time I finished, I was a complete mess. Laura and Matthew found it hilarious. After dinner, Laura cleaned me up like a toddler and then told me to sit on the floor and play with my toys. I positioned myself so my back was to them, partly to block their view of me fumbling with the baby toys and partly so I didn’t have to watch them kiss. Their laughter and whispered conversations filled the room while I tried to focus on stacking blocks. At 7:30, Matthew said, “I have an idea.” I braced myself, assuming it was bedtime. But instead, he suggested, “How about some ice cream?” My stomach perked up immediately—I was still hungry after my pitiful dinner portion—but then Laura mentioned we were out. I thought that would be the end of it, but Matthew said, “Let’s go for a drive and get some at Dairy Queen.” I prayed he meant just the two of them, but Laura grabbed my coat without hesitation. This was it—my first time out in public dressed as “Baby Sofia.” At least the coat covered me from my neck to my waist. I climbed into the backseat, relieved Matthew didn’t have a car seat back there, and stayed as quiet as possible during the drive. When we got to the window, Matthew ordered two cones for them and a baby cone for me. The girl at the window looked puzzled, and I nearly died of embarrassment when Matthew handed me the tiny cone, saying, “Here you go, kiddo.” He and Laura both laughed as I stared out the window, avoiding eye contact with the cashier. By the time we got back home, I was exhausted—mentally and emotionally. Laura changed my diaper while Matthew watched, but thankfully, he didn’t offer to take over this time. As soon as I was tucked into bed, I stopped caring about what they were doing. I was just glad the night was over. February 28 This past weekend, Laura and I finally had a long talk—one of those “big picture” conversations that we’ve been avoiding for a while. We spent hours discussing everything: Baby Sofia, Matthew, our feelings, and where we’re headed as a couple (or whatever we are now). It wasn’t easy. Some things hurt to hear, and we uncovered a few misunderstandings along the way, but in the end, I think we both walked away with a clearer understanding of each other’s hopes and expectations. But just when I thought we’d covered everything, Laura dropped a bombshell. We were discussing spring plans, and she casually suggested I consider returning to Las Vegas for a week in April. I was surprised—Vegas hadn’t even been on my radar this year—so I asked her why she wanted me to go. That’s when she confessed: she and Matthew have been talking about using that week to stay together while I’m gone. Apparently, they’ve been planning this for a while. Not only that, but they’ve even floated the idea of taking their own vacation—maybe somewhere like Las Vegas. When I asked what that would even look like, Laura said we could all fly there together, sitting next to each other on the plane like one big happy group. Then, once we landed, they would head off on their own while I spent the week doing my own thing. I didn’t even know how to respond. I just sat there, stunned. The idea of sitting on a plane with them, knowing I’m just a placeholder while they go off to play “real couple” in Vegas, is almost too much to process. I mean, what am I supposed to do—wish them a good time and go wander the Strip alone? Laura acted like this was all perfectly reasonable, like this is just how things work now. I don’t know. Maybe it is. But hearing it out loud made it feel so *real*. I’m not sure how I feel about this—jealous, left out, maybe even a little relieved to have the house to myself for a week. Or maybe it’s all of the above. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSR2VKVB or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Chapter two is coming out tomorrow! Subscribestar has a limit of ten posts per day, so I used most of mine uploading my previous content. Didn't know about the rule lol