WBDaddy

Heh. It's even worse than that. 8 kg = 17.6 lbs.

Frankly, these absorbency wars are a joke. The claim is based on 1K absorbency for every 10g of SAP in the weave. Problem is, the ratio of pulp to SAP matters way more than the amount of SAP. I learned this the hard way with my ill-fated diaper company. Most of these diapers don't have anywhere near enough pulp in them to make most of that SAP matter - your ratio should be at bare minimum 7:3 pulp to SAP, ideally more like 9:1. So for some chucklehead bragging about stuffing 80g of SAP in their diaper, that thing better be waddle-thick at 720g of pulp for it to have any chance of actually realizing 8000mL of absorbency under real-world conditions.

Ben Shapiro is garbage, but something something broken clock in this situation. There really isn't a valid reason to flaunt in public. That said, photos posted on Fetlife and tastefully created videos on Youtube aren't "flaunting in public". Doing your ABDL thing on IG/Tiktok to try and drum up OF membership is a bridge too far IMO.

Ironically, I set out for this to be maybe two chapters, really quick vignette. Didn't even have a working title until it was finished. There was a vigorous debate when I originally posted it on the other forum about whether or not I managed to stay out of "abuse" territory or at least if I'd gotten close enough to that line to blur it some.

It was 1988 - the laws were a lot different back then. Agree. Mom is abusive more generally though, with the corporal punishment and all that. Trad family nonsense.

So good to see this return with an update! And oh man, does Mom ever betray her fear of getting caught here. I remember this kind of reaction from my mother when I was a teenager. She tried to slap me in the face one afternoon after school, and I caught both the swinging hand and (pre-emptively) her off-hand and pinned her to the couch. She bit my arm, not enough to draw blood, but damn sure enough to leave an obvious bruise that persisted the next day. Which, of course, knowing that I had an IEP team meeting the next day, you bet your ass I wore a t-shirt, and she complained bitterly about it. Shockingly, the IEP team didn't think this rose to the level of physical abuse, so my gambit was in vain.

1) Something new... sorta. Not telling though. You can be surprised along with everyone else. 2) Thanks. It's been so difficult over the last 6 years to get anything accomplished with my writing, the day job just sucks all the mental energy out of me. Hopefully everyone will enjoy the thing that's coming enough to give me a little boost to finish it. Good news is, everyone will find out what happened whether I finish it or not.

5 Dinner winds up being a quiet affair; we go to a local Applebee’s, the kind of glorified junk food that kids her age love and I, being something of a food snob, hate, but it’s relaxing, and I don’t bring up her underwear or what’s happening in it until after we’re back in the car and on the way home. “Dad, really? I’ve been in this diaper since we went to Goodwill, of course it’s wet.” I wince. “Okay, yeah, that was a dumb question. You want to shower when we get home, or wait until ten?” “It’s okay, I’m not that wet.” I’m dumbfounded. I shouldn’t be, but I am. “Okay, help me out here, Melissa, seriously.” I’m trying to restrain myself, stay even, but I don’t get it. “You’re wet, but you totally don’t care if you get a change or not. Daddy doesn’t understand this. Not even a little bit.” “Well, you bought these diapers that hold like a gallon of pee, it’s kinda dumb to just waste them.” Now my jaw is on the floor as I try to maintain focus on the road. She’s right, the absorbency numbers on these things were crazy. But… “So you’re cool with just sitting in your own pee and poo until I come and change you? Doesn’t it feel gross?” “Oh my god, that poo was the most disgusting thing ever! But you were like, all over the place, locking the bathrooms, trying to treat me like a baby, I didn’t know what the hell!” Ugh, she’s got me, and I have to admit it. “Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t really think this thing all the way through, did I?” She doesn’t answer, so I continue. “I’m sorry, Pixie. I thought you’d be so upset about having to wear diapers all the time it’d get you motivated to start using the bathroom. I just didn’t know what else to do, I mean, this last school year sucked, you know? I was doing your laundry three times a week, and you fighting me all the time about wearing pull-ups got old!” “I’m sorry too, Daddy.” Her voice sounded so small, and the reticence was palpable. “I… want to tell you something, but I’m afraid you’ll get crazy again.” Oh boy. Do I want to hear this? “Alright, hang on,” I say, pulling into a convenience store parking lot. “Let’s not have Daddy get into an accident from the shock.” I laugh a little, trying not to tense the mood any more than it already is. “Tell me something, Pixie.” I turn to her. Her eyes are glistening just a bit, like there are tears, but she’s holding them back. “I…” she looks down. “I actually like them.” Yep. Parking lot was a good choice. My mind is blown. “You… like the diapers?” “I mean… Like you completely freaked out the first time you made me wear one, so I hated that, but like when you changed me that first time, it just put me in this place where like, I don’t know, like, Daddy was taking care of me and it felt so good and I felt like such a little girl and… I don’t know how to explain it…” It took me a minute to recover from that, but I tried to keep the conversation going, as confused as I was. “So, you liked feeling like a little girl? Is that what you want, for me to treat you like you’re two or three years old again?” “Well, like, not like you were threatening to, like, if you’re just gonna embarrass me and make a big deal and be all mad and stuff, and like take privileges away and stuff. But, like… when you called me Pixie and cuddled me in your lap, it was like the most amazing thing ever. You haven’t called me Pixie since I was like eight?” “Honey, I stopped calling you that because you got all weird about it. I didn’t want to embarrass you around your friends. And no matter how old you get, my lap is always here, you don’t have to pee on yourself to sit in it.” I’m starting to choke up a little myself. “But, like, I don’t know, I mean, the diapers are actually awesome when I’m gaming, because I can just grind through raids and stuff and not worry about it until I’m done. And then it felt so amazing when you changed my diaper, it was like I wish I had my old stuffed rabbit to snuggle and suck my thumb or something, and I don’t know why I felt that, but…” So much to process. So much to sort out. I have questions. I have to ask them. “So, why did you give me such a hard time about wearing the pull-ups when you got home? I bought them for that exact reason!” “Because it was always a big song and dance, you were like shaming me about it, and I felt bad, and I was like, ‘no, I don’t need those’, and… besides, it’s not the same as… like…” “Like when I put a diaper on you?” No judgment, just try to listen. “Yeah, like,” she’s really struggling, and I can’t blame her. I take her hand. “It’s okay, I just want to understand. You can tell me.” “Like, when you tell me to go put a pull-up on, I feel bad about it, because I’m still like twelve and shouldn’t be doing this stuff. But when you put a diaper on me, it’s like, I’m not in control anymore, and then I smell the powder, and I hear it crinkle, and when you’re not like yelling at me like a crazy person, it’s like, this feels good, I’m a little girl, and my daddy is taking care of me, and I like that.” My brow furrows as I try to figure things out. “Well, is this what you want, to stay in diapers all the time?” “No! I mean… I don’t know… I…” Tears streak down her cheeks. She’s wavering. I feel like I have to pin her down. I put my arm around her. “It sounds like you have some confusing feelings about all this. How about you try and tell Daddy about each one.” “Right now, it’s all so new, and these amazing feelings, and yeah, if you’re like chill about it, then I totally would want to spend the rest of the week in diapers like you said. Or at least a couple more days or something. But like, you say all the time, and I’m like imagining going to 7th grade and like, my life is already shit at school, this would just like bury me! I might as well kill myself or something if I went to school in a diaper!” “Okay, okay, calm down, Daddy’s not going to send you to school in a diaper. That’s two months away anyway, and we’ll cross whatever bridge is there when we come to it. I’m trying to figure out what you’re feeling and what you want, and see if I can figure out a realistic plan out of it going forward, okay?” “Okay.” Her voice is really small now, and I feel her grip my hand. “So you said something about wishing you had your old pet rabbit. We had to get rid of him years ago because he was filthy and flea-infested from all your adventures outside with him, but I could maybe find you one that looked like him, maybe scaled up a bit?” “I…” She’s unsure of herself, but she’s trying. “I might like that.” “Then let’s go shopping online tonight, see if we can find one. Now, as far as the diapers are concerned, I’m okay with following through this week and doing what I said I was going to do at the outset, which was take care of things for you. But I had just as much fun cleaning up that poo mess as you had making it, so how about I get rid of those dumb locks I put on the bathrooms, and maybe you take a potty break when that has to happen? And then come see me for a fresh diaper when you’re done?” “Okay. But what about after that?” “How about we figure out what comes after that when it happens? I’m definitely not going to keep you in diapers all summer, because then you’ll have no choice but to wear something at school, and neither one of us want that. But maybe we’ll figure something different out, okay? Maybe just Daddy gets a diaper on you for bed, or maybe just once in a while after school, or maybe just when Melissa’s feeling more like my little Pixie than her usual almost-teenage self? I have a feeling you’ll let me know, after five more days of this. What do you think?” She wraps herself around my arm and reaches across the seats as best as she can to hug me. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you!” “I love you too, Pixie. Let’s go home and get you changed.” I pull back out of the parking lot and back onto the road. I’m not quite sure I understand what’s going on with my daughter, but I love her, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel things similar to what she’s feeling about this whole thing I accidentally started. But I’m looking forward to exploring it, and understanding it, and hopefully in the end it brings us closer together, the way we always were. Daddy and Pixie against the world. No matter what kind of underwear she wanted to wear.

4 Once in the girls’ section, I immediately start flipping through the one dress rack, fixating on tags first, pulling anything from size 10 to 14 and anything L or XL. I’ll sort through them once I know what my options are, and hopefully I won’t have to resort to the skirts. Twenty feet down the aisle and I’m done pulling; time to survey the cart. Good lord, what a mess. One at a time I go through them. Oops, that one’s practically see-through all the way around. Back on the rack. A Halloween costume. Back on the rack. A bridesmaid dress, pink, with a huge pleated band across the middle and a cloth flower on one hip. Positively adorable, not really practical for being out in public. Screw it, she can wear it around the house if necessary. A maxi dress, pink, with polka dots. She’ll hate it, but it’ll be comfortable. A drop-waist, pale purple, with a huge mass of flowers and butterflies on the front in the shape of a heart. Again, comfortable, but she’s going to hate it. It’s getting worse, not better. I put back a mint-green ballet dress. Adorable, but unruly, impractical, and much too girly. Finally, something for going out; a simple slate blue tank dress, stretch waist, curtain hem with pom-pom fringes, nice and long. I find a dress I know she’d probably love, another maxi with a knit tank top and an open-leg skirt with a very adult, almost hippie sort of pattern print to it. The cut is a little slim, but it has a black slip under the skirt; that should not only hide her diaper but help keep it quiet too. I flip through a few more garishly colored tragedies, quietly pitying whoever was paraded around in them at some special event, musing over how happy they probably were when they officially “didn’t fit in it anymore”. I guess some parents don’t ever stop treating their girls like dolls. Shameful that there are clothing companies out there that actually cater to that kind of crowd. I hit the last one in the pile and am dismayed to find an aqua colored tulip-top, chiffon skirt, with a thin pink ribbon at the waist tied in a bow. Completely see-through again, but I’ve already got two choices for out in public. I check my count; six total. I’ll let her throw one or two out if she finds some viable options that I approve of. I look up, scanning the store. She’s over in the Misses section, no surprise. I decide to give her a few minutes, see if she keeps track of time. No surprise, she doesn’t. Heck with it. I push the cart up to the checkout line, glancing back to keep tabs on her whereabouts. If she doesn’t get here by the time I get to the register, I’ll just buy what I have and go get her, and she can live with my picks. I’m second in line by the time I see her look up, and her eyes bulge when she spots me. She comes running, several hangers across her arm. I’m surprised, really; the rustle of her underwear is well-masked by the sound of her skirt shifting around her even as she scampers up to the cart. She looks down and grimaces at what she sees, then holds up what she grabbed, her eyes pleading with me. I take the hangers and chuckle a bit. I shake my head at a strapless coral-colored maxi with a half-open back, tossing it to the side. She pouts. Second one is a much more loose tank dress, floor length with a crossback and stretch waist. I nod and toss it into the cart. I laugh as I hold the next one up. A skater dress, blue with a very mature-looking floral print on it. I hold it up against her frame. It barely reaches mid-thigh. “Okay, sure, why not?” I ask, chuckling. She’ll figure out the answer to that question fairly quick the first time she tries it on, but whatever. She can wear it around the house. Lastly, two pair of jeans, one sky blue in color, definitely skinny jeans, both junior size zero, both high-end labels. Other pair is acid-wash denim. I thought those went out in the 90’s. Either way, they’ll still be a little big on her, meaning they’ll work for next year at school. “You’re not wearing these until…” “I know, I know,” she says. “Please?” “That’s fine. Your turn, vote out the two you hate the most.” I already know what she’s tossing before she reaches in there. Out goes the bridesmaid dress, out goes the tulip chiffon. No surprise whatsoever. We get checked out and bagged up and back out to the car. I go ahead and let her open her own door and get herself buckled in. She seems in a much better mood now. I don’t bother checking her diaper; no need to ruin the change in demeanor. “What say we go home and change and then go out for dinner?” I ask. Just as I suspected, she’s enamored with the pieces she picked out. “Okay, cool,” she says. “I didn’t have much to work with in there, you know,” I say. “Did you like anything I picked?” “That one with the paisley bottom was pretty cool,” she says. “And I kinda like the blue one too.” “I figured you would. You should’ve seen some of the stuff I left on the rack.” “I can’t believe you tried to buy that stupid bridesmaid dress,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing!” “I knew I needed six or seven dresses to get you through the week, and I figured worst case you could wear it around the house on a day we weren’t going anywhere. So old Dad did okay?” “Yeah, I guess so. Thank you for letting me get those jeans, too.” “Hey, better than spending fifty bucks a pair on them in August. I guess Goodwill shopping isn’t so bad after all, huh?” “No, I was amazed that they even had stuff like that!” “People grow out of designer clothes just as often as they do cheap ones,” I chuckle. It feels nice, actually, chatting and joking with her the rest of the way home. Kinda like it was last summer, before this whole mess started. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know that tween girls eventually go through this whole bratty phase, but, maybe I had hopes that it wouldn’t happen to Melissa. That we were too good a team, Dad and Pixie against the world. Other parents had it happen because they got too busy with life to keep focus on their daughters. That wouldn’t happen to me, I was super-Dad, right? I was stay-at-home Dad who was always there for everything! But still yet, I found myself with a moody, brooding adolescent just like everyone else. I guess the upside is, little moments like this when we’re actually relaxed and jovial and enjoying each other’s company are that much more precious. And then they get awkward… “I don’t want to play dress-up, Dad!” “This isn’t playing dress-up, Melissa, we just need to figure out if they fit and which ones actually hide your diaper if we need to go out somewhere! What’s the problem?” “I think I can figure that out on my own, Dad!” “Yes, you can figure out that you like the ones you picked out and the others will go into your closet never to be seen again!” She groans. “Okay, fine, whatever.” “Now, I know you’re going to want to wear one of yours out tonight, so please start with the ones I picked,” I scold as I unzip the back of the “church dress”, which is sure to go to the darkest corner of her closet, never to be seen again. I already dragged my full-length mirror out into the family room so she could form her own opinion on how each dress looks on her, so I sit down in my leather chair and let her do her thing. She hums and haws as she strips the dress off, then stops and blushes a bit as she catches a glimpse of herself in the (thankfully still dry) diaper. I have to stifle a chuckle at her facial expressions. She turns and quickly grabs the purple one, pulling it on as fast as she can. So she’s going for the ones she dislikes first. As expected, it hides her bulge perfectly. And she looks age-appropriately cute in it. She looks in the mirror, then wiggles around a little; the rustle is decidedly muted, but still present. She turns to me, hands on her hips, head cocked to the side. “Can’t even tell,” I say. “Is it comfortable?” “Actually yeah,” she admits. “Flower is stupid, though.” “That’s fine, you don’t have to wear it out. Keep going.” Take what you can get, right? The polka-dot one comes next. Definitely looks more summery. I approve, she doesn’t. “Polka dots are for third graders,” she pouts. I pull up a picture of Katy Perry in a purple dress with white polka dots on my phone and show it to her. She rolls her eyes. We proceed. Next comes the slate blue one. She looks like she actually doesn’t hate it. Very loose-fitting, and the cinch-waist doesn’t draw undue attention. “You like?” I probe. “It’s okay.” “Just okay?” I chuckle. “I mean, it’s fine. Whatever.” My turn to roll my eyes. Next comes the one I knew she’d like. As soon as she gets it on, her face in the mirror confirms it. There’s even a little smile. And the slip absolutely silences her underwear. Outwardly, I’m stone-faced, but inside I’m breaking both arms patting myself on the back. “Well?” I ask. “Okay, okay, I really like this one. Thank you, Dad.” “I thought you would. And you’re welcome.” Now come her two picks. She starts with the crossback tank. Actually a very, very nice choice. It’s loose on her, but not “wearing my big sister’s clothes” big. One less outfit I’ll be buying in the fall. She clearly likes it, and turns to me hopefully. I motion for her to turn around, and she shows me the back. Lotta bare skin back there, but not slutty. It hides her padding well enough. “Looks good. Very mature,” I say. She turns back around and grins excitedly, then twirls back to the couch to grab the one she most wanted and, I suspect, will be most disappointed by. Truth be told, the daisy print looks stunning on her, even though the bust is cut for someone who actually has a chest, which she clearly doesn’t. I doubt even a training bra would help. It just kind of hangs loose up there. Worse, if she bent over, that diaper would be in full view for anyone to see. She looks in the mirror, then down at her chest, tugging at it with a frown. “That’s not the worst part,” I say. “Turn around.” She does, and looks back across her shoulder. “What?” she asks. “Bend over a little.” She starts to bend, and immediately jerks back up when a flash of white meets her eyes. She tugs at the hem in the back with a frustrated sigh. She turns back toward me, pouting a bit. “It’ll be fine around the house for now,” I say. “Besides, I could probably hear you coming from a block away in that.” “The crinkle was pretty loud, wasn’t it?” she says glumly. “Uh-huh. So which one would you like to wear out tonight?” “Actually I think the paisley one.” “You like that one the best?” “Well, no, but it looks the best on me, and it keeps my butt quiet.” I nod knowingly. “Very pragmatic. Go ahead and hang them all up, then get changed and figure out which shoes you’re going to wear with it so we can get going.” She swoops them all up in her arms and dashes back to her bedroom, rustling the whole way. I’ll bet good money she doesn’t hang anything up, certainly not the church dress. They’ll probably be in a pile on the floor when she comes back out. Oh well, I’ll chase after her about it when we get home, I suppose. I secretly hope she had as much fun as I did with our little game of “dress-up” once she got over herself.

3 After dinner, Melissa dutifully clears the table and starts washing the dishes, and I retreat to my office to work. It’s a relatively quiet evening, punctuated only by her occasional yelling at the TV, of which I’m only cursorily aware, what with my own headset on listening to doctors babble on in esoteric medical terms. The time passes surprisingly quickly, and it isn’t long until the clock reads ten o’clock. I finish the report I’m on, log off, and head for the family room. Of course, she’s still planted in her usual spot. I look up at the screen and frown; she’s doing the nightfall in Destiny, and from the looks of things based on the number of times I’ve watched her do this particular raid, she’s at least 40 minutes from finishing. I decide to just quietly sit back on the couch and wait, give her enough rope to hang herself, right? Her frustration level is rising as they close in on the boss; she’s barking orders and cursing like a sailor. Despite all the foul language and raging, the team succeeds, though it took even longer than even I estimated; her headset doesn’t come off until five minutes to 11. I frown at her as she turns around. “What?” she says innocently. “It’s not that late!” “What time did I tell you to be done?” I ask. “It’s not my fault! The people I usually do nightfall with weren’t on, and I didn’t know we were gonna get stuck with a bunch of fu… friggin’ blueberries! We wiped twice because this stupid kid wouldn’t stay in position!” “You should have checked the clock the last time you wiped, kiddo. You know how long this raid takes.” “Yeah…” she mutters. She gets up, and so do I. As we reach the bathroom door, I grab my key ring off my belt loop and unlock it. “Really, Dad, locking the door?” She rolls her eyes. I ignore her and open it, letting her pass first. Her diaper is swollen and sagging around her waist, and she rolls her eyes as she raises her shirt so I can pop the tapes. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “Go on and get your shower done. I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom,” I say as I wrap it up and toss it into the bathroom trash. Note to self, I definitely need to get a diaper pail, or something resembling one anyway. Wet diapers in every bin in the house isn’t going to cut it. She strips her shirt off and steps into the tub, pulling the curtain across and turning on the water. I lock the hallway door and exit via her bedroom door. Fresh diaper and the supplies are laid out on the bed, and I sit down to wait, eyeing my watch periodically. “You’re only supposed to be washing down there, Melissa!” I shout. “Don’t make a big production out of it!” “I’m not!” she yells back. Quarter after eleven, the water finally cuts off. Five more minutes before she surfaces from the bathroom, towel wrapped around her. Surprisingly, her hair is pretty dry. Makes me wonder what the heck she was doing in there all that time. “Assume the position,” I say, stifling my frustration. She silently lies down, unwraps the towel, and rolls over onto her belly. I concentrate hard on being gentle and thorough as I go through the motions, knowing she’s going to be in this diaper all night. “It’s nearly 11:30, Pixie,” I say softly as I massage a bit of lotion on her bottom, hips, and upper thighs before spreading the powder, to help it stick. “Tomorrow, if you’re in bed by 10:30, then we can try 10:30 again on Friday. If you’re in bed by eleven, then we’ll leave it at ten, and if you’re late again like tonight, then we’ll move it back to 9:30, understand?” “Mmmmhmmmm,” she mumbles sleepily. I tap her on the bottom, and she rolls over. Her eyes are barely open, and I wonder if anything I said registered. I do her front just as gently as the back, then cinch the diaper up between her legs and tape it up snug. “C’mon, Pixie, we need to get your 'jamas on,” I whisper, tugging her up into a wobbly sitting position with a rustle. Just like I used to when she was so much smaller, I find myself guiding her lazy arms into her nightshirt and pulling it over her head, and I can’t help but pull her into my lap and rock her for a bit. “I love you Pixie,” I whisper as I stroke her back softly. “Love you too Daddy,” she mumbles, her head against my chest. I soak in the moment for a little while, a rush of emotions flooding through me, then reluctantly lay her sleeping form down and cover her with the top sheet. With a sigh, I stand up and just watch her for another minute, so peaceful, her breathing slow and even. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe to the door and turn. She doesn’t stir. I step out, closing the door behind me, and the guilt hits me like a ton of bricks. What the hell am I even doing?! She’s nearly twelve, not two! This is totally inappropriate! I’ve let nostalgia cloud my judgment, and I have to fix this. Trying to just let her take care of it herself obviously didn’t work; she wouldn’t even wear the damned pull-ups I gave her, else it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe tomorrow I could teach her how to change herself, and just stay on top of her to make sure she’s doing it? I mean, school’s out; it’s not like she has anywhere to go. There’s nothing stopping me from just being vigilant about making sure she changes every couple of hours, right? As I doze off to sleep a little later, I feel a lot better about my new plan of action, and I wake up at half past six, early even for me, but refreshed, ready, and confident. With Melissa not likely to be awake anytime in the next several hours, I decide to get some work done after I fix a pot of coffee. I’m just taking a little break in the kitchen at around nine thirty when I hear the familiar heavy thud of Melissa’s half-asleep gait coming down the hall. She walks in, rustling loudly, and heads straight for the coffee pot despite a clearly yellow and sagging diaper between her legs. Curiosity and concern get the best of me, and I ask, “You didn’t wet the bed, did you?” She scowls at me and growls, “No, I didn’t wet the bed. You said I had to use my diaper, so I did.” “Alright, no need to get snippy, I was just asking,” I shot back. She sits down with her coffee and starts sipping. “Well don’t you want a clean one?” I ask, incredulous at her indifference toward it. “Whatever,” she mutters. Okay, she’s always grouchy in the morning, I remind myself. “Tell you what, I’ll be in my office whenever you get sick of sitting in pee,” I say, getting up from the table. She doesn’t respond. I go back to work. An hour goes by, and I’m stunned that she hasn’t come to ask for a change. Good grief, I can’t just let her sit in it all day. I come out of the office and sure enough, I can hear her barking at the damned TV again. I head into the family room and tap her on the shoulder. “In a minute, Dad!” she says, her eyes never moving from the screen. “No, now!” I holler. “I’m almost done!” she yells back. Disgusted, I reach over and turn the power off on the console. “NOW!” I shout. “Ohmygod, Dad! We were up four zip! What’s your problem?!” she snaps, ripping her headset off and throwing both headset and controller on the floor as she turns around. “My problem?! You’re the one sitting in your own piss! Do you want diaper rash or something?!” “Okay fine, so change me already! You didn’t even bring a damned diaper?!” “No, I didn’t!” I fire back. “Come on, you’re gonna learn to change your own damned diaper!” I grab her wrist and pull her to her feet. She tries to pull her arm away after she stands up, but I’m latched on tight as I march her down the hall. “I can’t believe you’re making a federal case out of this, Dad!” she complains as I pull her into her bedroom. I elect to ignore the comment as I turn her around in front of me. “Pull the tapes loose,” I say, trying to calm myself down a bit. She does so with a huff and a heavy thud on the carpet when it hits. “Wrap it up and throw it away.” She rolls her eyes and fidgets around, folding it up and tossing it in her trash bin. I grab the box of wipes and open it up in front of her. “Wipe.” “Okay, okay, I get it,” she mutters, grabbing one and rubbing between her legs without even looking, then tossing it in the general direction of the trash. I shake my head in disbelief. Maybe the next time she won’t be so hotheaded and she’ll do a better job. At this point, I just want to get it done. "Get a diaper out of your underwear drawer and spread it out on the bed. She huffs again but does as I ask, flopping the diaper out and opening up the sides. “Now lay down on it with the tape side at your waist.” “This is so ridiculous,” she grumbles as she flops down with a rustle. I hand her the can of powder. She splatters it around the front and even curls her legs up and hits her bottom a little. Before I get a chance to utter the next instruction, she pulls the front up between her legs and slaps the tapes down, doing a fairly decent job of replicating the pattern she’s seen me apply. She sits up and scowls at me. “Happy now?!” she spits. “Doesn’t that feel better than a soaking wet one?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. “Whatever.” “Okay, fine. Now you know how to change yourself, you can do so for the rest of the week.” She gets up and starts to brush past me, but I catch her. “What now?!” she snaps. “Put your dress on. I’m taking you clothes shopping today, remember?” “Ughhhhhh.” She storms to the closet and snatches her church dress off the hanger roughly, pulling it on and showing me her back. I zip it up for her. “So when are we leaving?” she grouches, turning to face me. “Well I’m definitely not taking you anywhere with that attitude. Go play your damned game for a while. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood after lunch.” “Whatever.” She blows past me, stomping off down the hall. Between her heavy footfalls and the rustle, it’s hard not to laugh. How many times did I hear that sound when she was two? I sigh and head back to the office. I get back to work; there’s a pretty good backlog of reports, and I find myself getting into a groove, so much so that I lose track of time. By the time I stop to check the clock, it’s half past three! Well, at least I’m done for the day. I wonder if she bothered taking a break to eat. Egad, I wonder if she even stopped to change herself! I rush out to the family room and into the unthinkable…

Believe me, I worked at it to find logical answers to natural questions.

2 The chicken is in the oven, surrounded by leeks and carrots and potatoes, seasoned beautifully with butter and rosemary and sage, but Melissa hasn’t moved from her spot on the floor in front of the TV. Sure, it only took me an hour or so to prepare it, but I’m still a little surprised she hasn’t attempted the bathroom yet. May as well try and get some work done in the interim; those reports aren’t going to transcribe themselves. I head to the spare bedroom, AKA my office, but I can’t shake the nagging thoughts. It’s been so hard on her, growing up without a mother. My beautiful wife died when Melissa was just a tiny thing, and I had to change my entire career path to prevent some minimum-wage daycare worker from raising her. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it; she did pretty well in school, though she constantly complained of boredom. What could I do? I was just as bored in public school when I was a kid. I just assumed it was a rite of passage; they treat you like you’re stupid until they figure out you’re smart, right? This year, though, she hit middle school. And it all started coming unglued. She didn’t do well socially, though she managed to keep her grades up. At home, she lived on that damned gaming system. Skryim, Destiny, Fallout, Call of Duty, she played all of it. I drew the line at Grand Theft Auto. Didn’t matter, though, she still camped out in front of that TV. At first, I thought maybe it was anxiety that caused her wetting problems. Maybe she was just too wound up after school. I took her to her pediatrician, and he said it might have something to do with puberty, though it was certainly strange that she was wetting during the day and not at night, but he referred her to the urologist anyway. I hated it, watching her suffer through all the horrible tests the urologist put her through, but I held on to the hope that there was something physical that could explain it. No such luck. He suggested a psychiatrist, but I wasn’t going to let some jerk put her on drugs that not even the people who invented them couldn’t say for sure what they did, just what they “thought” they did, and they damned sure didn’t know what kind of effects they had on kids who were still growing, still developing. So I put up with it. I bought her the bedwetting pants. And I did the best I could to make her wear them, despite her prideful rebellion. And I did laundry every day. Every. Single. Day. Because it was at least two or three times a day she’d be changing her pants, less on the weekends when I could lord over her and be sure she kept those damned pull-ups on. It was only the last couple months when I started putting the pieces together, though. Never an accident at school. Never when she went out with friends, never on sleepovers, never at parties, never when anyone else was around. She only ever peed her pants at home, when it was just she and I. At first I thought maybe it was an attention thing, that I wasn’t plugged in enough. So I shuffled some hours around and tried to be more involved, help her with homework, sit next to her when she was playing those stupid games, talk to her, at least when she wasn’t talking to her gaming friends on the headset. Nothing helped. One day, I even watched her sit there and pee on herself while she was in the middle of a raid. I shook her, shouted at her, begged her to realize what she was doing, and she had the nerve to get mad at me for making her team wipe! I decided that night that this wasn’t anything but laziness, and that was the night I went shopping online. I searched out diapers, but all the ones in her size looked just so clinical, so medical, so not at all the point I was trying to make to her. She wanted to be independent, to be grown-up, to have more freedom, but she wouldn’t even get up and go to the bathroom when she had to pee? No, I wanted proper baby diapers, to make her see herself the way she’d been acting all this time. How utterly silly this was, peeing her pants because she was too busy playing a stupid video game. By the time that box arrived at my door a few days later, I lost my nerve. When I clicked “order now”, I was all set to send her to school with a bag full of the damned things to drop off to the nurse so she could get her diaper changed when she needed, since she cared so little about going to the bathroom. But when I opened that box, I couldn’t do it. If one of the other kids found out, her life would be ruined. So I put them away, until now. Four days since school let out, and she’d gone through at least three pairs of jeans and panties every one of them, despite my insistence that she wear a pull-up every morning. Really, what else could I do? BEEP BEEP BEEP The tell-tale alarm on the digital meat thermometer snaps me out of my thoughts. Another 90 minutes gone. That made three hours since I put that diaper on her, and she hadn’t so much as made a peep. Here I am expecting a nuclear war over her suddenly deciding she wanted to go to the bathroom, and there’s been nothing. I head into the kitchen, peeking over the island into the family room when I get there. Her mouse-brown curly mop is still locked in on the TV, in the same spot as the last time I looked. I take the chicken out of the oven and shuffle it onto the serving plate I laid out to let it rest, and I begin to wonder; should I check? Does she need a change? Confusion sets in for a moment. I didn’t really think this part out when I decided to do this. Do I ask? Or just go over and look? Should I make a big deal of it? No, it’s been this long, she almost certainly needs a change, and I’ve got time while the bird rests anyway. I’m not going to make her sit in a wet diaper at the dinner table. I go back to her bedroom and fetch one along with the powder and cream and wipes, making a mental note to get some kind of bag to stash that stuff in while we’re out and about tomorrow. Once I reach the family room, I toss the stuff over onto the couch and walk up behind her, peering over her head to get a glimpse. Sure enough, her spindly legs are splayed out, and the diaper between them is swollen and yellowed. I tap her on the shoulder. “Hang on, Dad! We’re almost done here!” I look up at the screen; she’s right, there’s less than a minute to go in a PvP battle, and her team is leading by a fairly wide margin. I can wait. I arrange the supplies on the carpet and kneel down, watching the timer tick down. As soon as it ends, she pulls her headset off and turns toward me, “What’d you… Oh.” She takes on a mild blush when she sees what I laid out. Comicaly, she slides over on her bottom and lays out in front of me. I get started pulling the tapes loose, and I can’t help but comment. “See, now isn’t this better than having a big blowup because you peed your pants?” I playfully scold her. She rolls her eyes with a huff and stares off into space. As I clean her up, I notice the look on her face, and it’s a stunningly familiar one; if she had her thumb in her mouth, she’d be the very picture of herself ten years ago. Once she’s taped up into the fresh diaper, I take my time stuffing the wipes into the soiled one, wrapping it up into a ball and taping it down snug. She’s still under that spell, and I let her lay there for a minute, doing my best not to chuckle. Finally I gather the changing supplies and stand up. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes, Pixie. Mind setting the table for me right quick while I wash up?” Her head snaps back and she scrambles to a sit, loudly rustling the whole time. “Uh… sure Dad…” she stammers, crinkling her way to her feet as I toss the used diaper into the kitchen trash and head back down the hall, sneaking a little peek over my shoulder as she waddles into the kitchen and reaches up into the cabinet for plates, her shirt riding up and revealing her adorably puffy bottom in all its glory. As I unlock the bathroom door and go in to wash, it occurs to me that there had been no fight, not even when I changed her. She was completely demure, passive, almost accepting of it. And I hadn’t even told her the bathrooms were off limits except for bathing and teeth-brushing and, well, probably for bowel stuff as well. I definitely would prefer not to be cleaning up that sort of mess. I still feel conflicted somehow; even with my rational brain telling me that this is proof she’s okay with my solution, I still feel guilty over my emotional side celebrating the return of Daddy’s little Pixie. Like I’m just rationalizing it all. I promise myself that I won’t try to go any further with it, that I won’t do anything goofy like buy her a pacifier or something. I come back out as she’s pouring herself a glass of pop. “Beer, Dad?” she asks. “No, I’ve still got work yet to do. I’ll take Coke as well.” She pours mine, sets the two-liter down on the end of the island, and climbs onto her stool, rustling the whole time. She seems to have adapted somewhat to the bulk; her movements are much less clumsy, despite still being slightly bow-legged. Her big, brown, doe eyes lock with mine, and I’m a bit staggered by them. For a minute, it was like looking at her mother. So strange, to look into one pair of eyes and see her tweener self, the grown woman, and the baby all at once. “Um, yeah, so plate on table maybe?” she asks, breaking the little spell. “Oh… right.” I set the serving platter between us. She grabs the big spoon and starts piling veggies on her plate while I carve the bird, serving her a couple slices of breast meat and hacking off a leg quarter for myself. She’s never been much for meat, but I long ago decided that wasn’t a fight worth having, considering how hard it is for most parents to make the kids eat vegetables. She squirms in her seat a little as she starts digging in, and the subtle rustle put my mind on a different track. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for the bathroom,” I offer casually, hoping to probe her a bit without causing a confrontation. “Would you have let me go if I’d asked?” she replies, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “Well, no, I…” “Which is why I didn’t bother.” “Oh,” I fumble, unsure what to say. “I don’t like it, but what’s the point in fighting about it? You’d just make me wear them even longer, right?” “Well, that’s true.” Am I that transparent, that she can read me that easily? “Either way, I expect the Xbox to be off at 10:30 tonight.” “Aw come on, you’re not gonna do the early bedtime thing now too, are you?” she whined. “I’m not a….” “No, you’re not. But you need to take a shower before bed, and then I need to get your diaper on for bed, and both those things take time. So 10:30, or tomorrow it’ll be ten o’clock. We clear?” “We’re clear,” she grumbled, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork and stuffing it into her mouth as if to announce that she didn’t really want to talk anymore. And I was happy to oblige.

It was a number of years ago at a forum I used to mod. I posted the final chapter last year, as my goodbye to the forum members, because the admin went absolutely insane. It occurred to me that most of the DD crowd had never seen it, so I decided to cross-pollinate. Also, there's something cool about to happen and I figured this was a good opportunity to remind everyone that I do still exist beforehand.

This was an exercise for me in how close to realistic can I get and still have it be a viable diaper story. It's very, very character driven over action, which I think works pretty well in the short-story format. It's also a relative unicorn in that it's a father-daughter interaction instead of the typical mother-son/daughter presentation, and it's also a first-person from the perspective of the parent instead of the kid. Hope you enjoy! ----------------- “Do you think this is fun for me?!” I shout over the din of the rushing water, disgusted as I pick up her soiled jeans and panties off the bathroom floor. “No,” she groans. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice, and it grates my nerves. “Sorry, Dad,” she huffs. Not a stitch of sincerity in it. “All because you can’t be bothered to interrupt a goddamned VIDEO GAME to go to the damned bathroom! What is WRONG with you?!” “I said I’m sorry, okay?!” she barks back. “Get over it already!” That plucked my last nerve. I storm out of the bathroom and down to the basement, hurling the wet clothes into the washer when I arrive. I ordered the supplies for this online a few weeks ago, before school let out, but guilt prevented me from going forward with it. This was wrong, doing this to a 12-year-old girl, wasn’t it? Now it clearly was the only option. I’d tried buying her those bedwetting pants for older girls, but she only ever wore them if I checked up on her in the morning, and even then only after an extended screaming match. Half the time she’d ditch them later anyway. Of course, she never had “accidents” at school. Oh no, in fact the teachers complained she was constantly asking for a hall pass in the middle of class. If I hadn’t intimated to them all the toileting problems she had at home, they would have insisted she wait until between classes. This, though, this is the end. No more of any of that, not for a long time. It’s the beginning of summer break, and I’m not going to deal with mountains of laundry and cleaning up puddles everywhere for the next three months. I listen; the shower is still running. Good. I have time, but I have to move fast. For once I’m grateful she has such a penchant for marathon bathing sessions. By the time I hear the water cut off, the stage is set. Her underwear drawer has been properly reorganized; I’ll buy her new panties if and when she shows me that she’s ready to start using the damned bathroom on a consistent basis. Everything I need for this battle is sitting under the bed. I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom. This is going to be a fight to end all fights, but I’m ready. If I have to, I’ll take her over my knee, something I haven’t done in years, though I quietly wonder if that fact hasn’t contributed to where we are now. “Dad?! What the hell are you doing in here?!” she shrieks as she enters the room, clutching her towel. “Sit down,” I say calmly, patting the bed next to me. “Can’t we save ‘the talk’ for after I get dressed?!” she snaps. “I SAID SIT DOWN!” I command. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in a while, and she startles, just as I expected her to. She complies, but not without a huff. “I can’t believe you’re still pissed. What’s the big deal?” she grumbles. “I’m not still pissed about that. And it’s not going to be a big deal anymore. You’ve made it perfectly clear to me that you don’t want to be responsible for your toileting anymore. So I’m going to handle it for you.” “What does that even mean?!” she asks, her face a picture of confusion. “Lie down,” I reply flatly. “Wait, wha…” “LIE DOWN!” She complies hurriedly, and I reach for the towel. “Dad, what are you doing?!” she protests, clutching it tighter against her chest. “Let go of the towel, Melissa.” I glare at her fiercely, and she relaxes her grip. “What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice softer but just as confused. “Just what I said. Handling your toileting for you.” The towel is spread out beneath her, and she’s lying there, naked and blushing. I reach under the bed and grab my supplies. Her eyes lock on one in particular, and it crinkles softly as I drop it next to her. “DAD! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” she shrieks, retreating towards the head of the bed. “Get your butt back on that towel and don’t move.” I grab her ankle and lock on as she squirms. “I’m not wearing that! No fucking way!” She’s trying to pull away, but my deathlock is holding her fast. I grab the other ankle and pull her back down. I scowl at her darkly. “If that word comes out of your mouth again, you’re going to be a very unhappy little girl. Now lay still.” “Dad! Daddy! Come on! I’ll wear the pull-ups! Just not that! Please!” she pleads. She starts to squirm again. I quickly swat her on the thigh. Not hard, just enough to get her attention. “Ow!” she yelps. Her eyes are filling with tears. “This is ridiculous, Daddy! Please! I promise I won’t do it anymore! Just don’t make me wear that!” “Roll over,” I instruct, ignoring her begging. “NO!” she shouts back. “I’m not wearing diapers Daddy!” “Roll over, or I will do it for you, and then I’ll warm your little bottom up for you as well, Melissa,” I growl, deep and low. The tone that she knows means business. “Daddy, please,” she whimpers as she turns over onto her stomach. She’s crying now, and a pang of guilt shoots through me as I pick up the tube of rash cream and gently apply it to the insides of her little butt cheeks. “I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up,” I lied, picking up the baby powder and sprinkling it liberally all over her backside and the tops of her thighs. “This way, you’ll be able to sit there and play your little video games and not have to worry about going potty anymore.” “I’m not a little kid Dad!” she snaps back through her tears. “I don’t need stupid diapers!” Ignoring the protests, I unfold the diaper and spread it out next to her. It’s a noisy little thing, for sure, crinkling like a ball of grocery bags the whole time. Truth be told, I was rather surprised to discover that companies actually made larger-than-infant-sized diapers with cute prints like this, and I was downright tickled when I finally found one that produced a size small. Still yet, this thing was going to be huge on her. The better to keep her aware of it, I think to myself with a chuckle. “Roll over please,” I instruct. She does, and more rustling ensues. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take more bathroom breaks, I promise. Just don’t do this, please!” More cream and powder in the front, and it’s fairly obvious she’s panicking now. I draw the front up. It rides right up above her belly button, just to the bottom of her ribcage. “Daddy PLEASE!” she shouts. She tries to stick her hand in between the two side panels, and I give it a sharp swat. She yelps, but tries again. This time I give her a firm smack on the thigh. “Do it again and I’ll turn you back over and give you a real spanking,” I warn her. She whines an incoherent protest, but her hands return to her face. Recalling the video I watched on how to deal with four-tape diapers, I cinch the bottom tapes across and slightly down, then the top ones across and up. I run my fingers along the leg elastics; they’re snug, but not too tight. On her skinny frame, all the tapes comically overlap, obscuring the cute little pictures of baby animals printed all over them. “I HATE YOU!” her shriek through the pillow breaks the moment. “I HATE YOU DADDY!” She flops over onto her stomach, the diaper rustling loudly in reply. “I know you do, Pixie. I know,” I offer sympathetically as I rub her back. “Pixie” has been my pet name for her ever since she was able to walk; she’d always been long and gangly, and as soon as she had her feet, she flitted around the house and the yard like a little fairy, constantly on the run. “Don’t call me that!” she pouted from under the pillow. “I know, I know, Daddy’s a big meanie.” Thoughtlessly, I patted her bottom gently, and it responded with dull, hollow sounds along with the plastic rustling. “How long do I have to wear this stupid thing?” she grumped. “Well that’s entirely up to you, Pixie,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” “It means that, after you’ve had a chance to try out Daddy’s solution to your wetting problems, you’ll get to decide for yourself if you like this arrangement or if you’d rather handle them yourself like a responsible young woman.” “Well I don’t like it. I want to wear my pull-ups!” “Silly Pixie. You haven’t even given it a chance yet. In a week or so, we’ll talk about how you feel about this arrangement.” I’d never seen her flip over so fast. “A week?!” she shouts, sitting back up with a loud crinkle. “Or longer if you need.” “NO!” “That’s fine, a week should be long enough.” “I have to wear diapers for a whole week?! This is so unfair!” “Melissa, stop. This has been going on for nine months. I took you to the doctor, he sent you to the urologist, both of them said there was nothing wrong. It never happened at school, only here at home when you were lazing around playing your video games. I asked you to handle the problem yourself by wearing your pull-ups, and you refused unless I threatened to ground you, and even then you still took them off the first chance you got when my back was turned. And all the while Daddy was stuck washing two, three extra pairs of jeans and panties every day. So, now that school is out, Daddy’s going to handle the problem for a while, and a week from now you can decide if you like this arrangement better.” The picture in front of me is downright adorable. She’s sitting there in a lotus position, her tear-streaked face hanging low, staring at her feet while she picks at the fuzzballs on her socks, the huge, colorful diaper engulfing her middle. Twelve going on three; I can’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whimpers. “Sorry for what, Pixie?” I ask. “Sorry for being lazy and not wearing my pull-ups.” “Come here, Pixie.” She rustles over and straddles my lap, wrapping herself completely around me. I return her embrace, though I can’t help but pat her crinkly bottom with one hand. “I know you’re sorry, sweetie. And I know you’re not happy with this right now. But you also know why I had to do something, don’t you?” “Yes,” she whimpers into my shoulder. “And you know I still love you, right?” “Yes.” “Does my Pixie still hate me?” “No.” “Daddy’s glad to hear that. Now why don’t you go find a t-shirt to wear, and then you can go back to your Fallout or whatever you were playing, okay?” “And some jeans?” she asked. “You can sure as heck try to put jeans on over that, but I’ll bet you the next Destiny DLC that none of them will fit.” “So what am I supposed to do?” she whined. “It’s summer, you’re in the house, you don’t really need pants.” “But what if we go out?! I only have like…” “One dress, no skirts. Which is why you’re going to wear that dress tomorrow when we go down to Goodwill and get you some more.” “But I hate that dress!” She’s getting worked up again, and I have to stop it. “Would you rather go in a t-shirt and diaper?” “NO!” Her arms drop away and now she’s pouting up at me again. “I know you hate the church dress, but you’re the one who decided she was too ‘cool’ to wear skirts or dresses to school anymore and filled your closet and dresser with jeans and t-shirts. So tomorrow, after you have a chance to get used to our new arrangement, we’ll fix that problem, okay?” She’s still pouting, but she mutters, “Okay.” “Go find a t-shirt, Pixie.” She huffs as she slides off my lap with a crinkle and waddles over to her dresser. “Oh my god, this thing is huge!” she complains. “It’s like I got a big pillow between my legs!” “Why do you think I’m giving you the rest of the day to get used to it before we go out in public?” I ask, doing my best not to laugh. “Hmph!” she grumps, no doubt frustrated at my lack of sympathy. Several rustles later, and she’s sliding something I’m sure she used to wear as a nightshirt down her skinny arms and poking her head out of the top. It still doesn’t hide her puffy new underwear, despite all her tugging and hemming and hawing over it. She turns back to face me and sticks her tongue out, half a diaper poking out from under the shirt, before stalking out of the room, the crunching plastic announcing her departure and echoing the whole way down the hall. I finally let loose the laugh I’d been holding back the whole time. The more a little girl grows up, the more she’s still a little girl at times, and nothing could ever prove that point more perfectly than the spectacle I just witnessed. All that’s changed are the toys she plays with now. The TV in the living room quietly announces that she’s back to work shooting up hapless players from all over the globe, and her trash-talking confirms it. I have another job yet to do, and I may as well get it done now rather than wait until the issue actually arises. I get up and head back to my bedroom, removing a Lowe’s bag from my drawer. Three key lock doorknobs; one for my bathroom, one each for her door to the second bathroom and the hallway entrance. I couldn’t trust her to wear the damned bedwetting pants I bought for her, I’m certainly not going to give her a chance to try and take her diaper off to go to the bathroom now. With her headset on and engrossed in the game, there’s zero chance of her hearing me replacing the knobs. I get straight to work, quickly and quietly popping the screws, starting with the door in her room. Once the new knob is in place, I lock it from the inside and close the door firmly. Half an hour later, I’m finished. I peek into the living room; for all her consternation over her new underwear, it certainly hasn’t affected her fixation on the Xbox. Chuckling, I head over to the kitchen and get started on dinner. The work day is pretty well shot, but I’ll make up my production later on tonight, after the next big fight I’m quite certain is coming.

I thought the Stranger article was actually very sympathetic. The other one was basically just giving a summary of the Stranger article, though they definitely popped a highly unflattering photo to lead off. Anyone who does not respect consent should not be tolerated in the kink community. Ironically, this is a much bigger problem in general kink than it is in ABDL - abusers get away with shit a lot easier in general D/s space than they do in ABDL space because the rest of the community is more hypervigilant in ABDL space. In ABDL space, anyone who might besmirch the reputation of either CGs or Littles with any sort of pedophilia stain these days get shown the door rather rapidly.

I mean, what you just said encapsulated why he's doing what he's doing. "not looking at Clark as a person anymore" Stop for a minute and think about this. Think about how you'd respond if someone stripped your entire identity away from you, someone you once called "friend" and "colleague". Think about being forced to spend five days a week with that person after they did this to you, so there was no escaping, no healing of wounds, no chance to reconcile, just constant reminders, every day, that they did, in fact, take away everything that made you "you" and left you with an existence you hated. Now tell me how evil it was that Clark is lashing out at her any way he can under the circumstances. Wanting her to hurt as much as he does. Tell me that this isn't perfectly reasonable behavior, considering that these people destroyed his life and left him in what he considers to be a kind of hell.

Critical comments that have useful points in them can help you improve your writing. Just saying "this hasn't been going anywhere for the last 20 chapters" isn't useful feedback, especially when numerous other members of the audience have observed the story "going somewhere" for the last 20 chapters.

Best part was she was so mad, she called him Gibson.

It's going somewhere. Hell, this last chapter it just went somewhere big, you're just too busy being judgey to read. I mean, there's 30 more chapters already written. You could at least be specific about where you want this ship to sail, since you're not happy with the direction it's currently moving.

There's no shortage of stories around here that blow their wads in the first chapter if that's your preference. This isn't that kind of story.

Several? A decade, if memory serves.

Exactly. He's relatable because he's flawed just like the rest of us.

I highly recommend you watch two movies: "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" and "The Shawshank Redemption" Two examples of people desperately trying to manipulate their way out of a bad situation using anything and anyone available. One works. The other not so much.

You can't accept that he's going scorched earth here because he's bitter about having his entire life taken away from him? Wife, home, career, autonomy, all gone in a blink. I'd be bitter. Hell, I'd be a ball of fury. I'd be looking for every sharp object I could get my hands on. Send me to New Beginnings to have my mind wiped, fuck it, at least then I'll be gone and not have to feel this anymore.

I don't know that's a thing. Emily had plenty of opportunities to find and accept other work. She just didn't find a job.