[You know what you've done. 1 - 14]

I am not going to lie and say that I didn't enjoy this story, because I did enjoy it.

However, I find that I am more than a little bit disappointed by the ending. I was hoping for a better conclusion, and maybe an epilogue set some years in the future where Robbie, having finally come to grips with now needing to wear diapers finally admits to his parents what he did. Having it have been a huge misunderstanding, where his parents assumed he had done something truly heinous, where in point of fact it was some minor act of youthful exuberance which seemed like a much bigger deal that it actually was, especially seeing as Robbie is all of 12 years old at the time of the action. 

[Trains and diapers (Travel)]

1 minute ago, spark said:

I'm not sure about that.  As far as I know, the logistics of getting something out of the hold is difficult.

Fair enough, but it seems simple enough to give them a ring, and ask the question. Worst thing they say is "No", and you are right where you left off. 

[Trains and diapers (Travel)]

Could you not also just contact the rail service providers and make mention about how you need to have access to required medical supplies. I mean, it does in a way stretch the truth a bit, but the diapers are medical supplies, and you do need to access them...so I suppose that if it is a lie, it is at least a minor one. At that point, wouldn't the rail service providers be obliged to allow you to story your supplies at no cost in the baggage train, seeing as we in Canada also maintain a reasonable standard of accessibility for the disabled/ infirm.

[Birthday Cake - Collab with 34qucker]

Good to see Jackie back and still in the arrangement that she has grown so used to. Any chances of more regular updates regarding Jackie and company?

[Samantha's Lesson (re-post)]

Any chance of getting a re-re-post of this? Looks like it got reformatted and rather abruptly cut off.

[The Footie Life]

This reads like one of the really old school stories, where the Mum just goes totally off the deep end and winds up behaving with cruelty and disdain that would in a real world environment get them hauled over the coals by whatever local child protection agencies exist. 

[Sorsche, Grainne, and Cait Chapter 5]

9 minutes ago, Ishigreensa said:

The United States did too!  But the United States had rather offensive words for a lot more than just that.

They had mass graves, and hellish workhouses for unwed expectant mothers as well? 

[Sorsche, Grainne, and Cait Chapter 5]

Not a bad start by any means, however, if you are going to have the setting remain in Ireland for the time being may I suggest that you use more British-isms and shy away from American specific wording? As to the time period, even if you are aren't telling anyone the specific time period, my guess is that it would be in an around the late 1980's or early 1990's. Before those times Ireland had... a chequered (A suitably innocuous word) history, for dealing with unwed mothers, and bastard children.  

[Young Women'S College Chastity League (Chapter 5 reposted)]

I like your rewritten version much more than the original. This reads much smoother, and feels just a little bit more sinister in tone. Thanks much.

[Hillmerk Presents A Very Special ABDL Christmas (Completed 12.31.24)]

3 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Sitting at the dining table one evening, rough-hewn from two-hundred-year-old oaks Ben grew from organic, cruelty-free acorns

That was a very good addition, worth the wait. One small continuity error, as quoted above.

Unless Ben is some kind of Tom Bombadil-esque manner of being, in which case never mind. 

[Phantom of the Poopera]

10/10 Recommended you consult a medical professional. 

[Documents Across History on the Usage of Absorbent Undergarments Beyond Infancy]

Nice update, I like the very honest Q&A portion, very well written. I am very eager to see more in depth scenes from a society that has transitioned to being almost exclusively diapered for the entirety of the lives of their citizens. I do wonder how more remote or demanding jobs handle the aspect of diaper dependency. For instance how does the military function with so many untrained (pun intended) members?

[Reilly's Regression (Ch. 9 posted 11/23/24)]

Well that got kind of serious kind of fast. Not too sure how I feel about the whole "Regression as a science" aspect but time will tell I suppose. Thanks for the update. Take care and have a gooder! 

[Bad Seed (updated 5-24-25)]

Good to see this back again. It was nice to get a bit of closure on Cameron's thought processes, shame that he is still so mentally tortured. 

[The Girl Who Wanted to Wear Diapers (Ch. 46- 06/25/25)]

I feel like Maddy should explore exactly what effect the pills have. From little you mentioned it looks like they are some form of Anti-Diuretic Hormone booster(?). That in an of itself is a little bit of a concern, I mean the pills aren't new, they are from whenever Grace stopped bedwetting. Using old presumably prescription medication is a huge no-no. Who knows what effect they might have after some years left languishing on a medicine cabinet shelf? 

[You heard of the diaper in microwave...]

I keep a fresh supply of baby diapers in my urban trauma bag. Good for trauma and quick to apply.

[All My Mother's Rules (Ch. 70 & Epilogue - 2/13/24)]

On 1/10/2024 at 4:52 PM, MinnesotaWriter said:

Hard to feel the need to tell someone else when you're convinced that you are fully deserving of what is happening to you.

 

Echoing this statement. When there is abuse, and it has been piled on thicker and thicker over a period of time it becomes normal. It becomes expected. Talking to anyone with a duty to report is so incredibly difficult simply because the abuse is considered normal by the individual.

 

Man this story is bringing up some sort of feelings in me.  

[To Zero and Back [Updated with chapter 50]]

I wonder if her "private" daycare is some form of adult toddler care. Letting Patrick experience his regressed reality with others of his own physical age.

[Question about writing on a character's childhood]

Sounds okay by me. As long as there is a clear and obvious differentiation between the ages where the character is a minor and where the character is a consenting adult. 

[4-letter Scrabble]

Nude

[An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)]

Chapter 7

 

The doctor arrives, and he politely yet firmly asks my mum to leave. As involved as she is in my day-to-day care, she is no longer involved in the appointment itself. I am legally an adult after all. She does so with good grace. He looks not much different than he did when he relegated me to this pathetic half life that I live. He looks up at me give me a sad smile. As he does, he sits down at the desk. We go through the usual polite greetings. Well, he does, I don’t talk much.

 

“So… we have all of your imagery. I need to ask you some questions. Okay?”

 

I take my board and tap at the ‘Yes’.  

 

“Good. So, you have been receiving treatment for the last 4 years, right?”

 

I take my board and tap at the ‘Yes’. 

 

“Excellent, in the course of your treatment have there been any worsening symptoms or signs since we last saw you… 4 months ago?”

 

I take my board and tap at the ‘No’.

 

“So, you are still experiencing an increasing feeling of weakness and tiredness when you open the brace to bathe, despite the greater variety of strengthening exercises that you were prescribed?”

 

I take my board and tap at the ‘Yes’. 

 

“I was afraid of that. It does make sense, and is supported by the imagery, but I just wanted to confirm.” He looked directly at me as I was stood there. “There is no easy way for me to say this, so I am going to be blunt. It appears that over the years your body has come to rely totally on the support of the brace. In fact, if I am right, without the brace, you will be unable to even hold your head upright for any meaningful period of time. Your body is just too used to being supported. There is nothing we can do but treat the symptoms, addressing the cause is beyond us.”

 

My eyes got wide, and for the first time in a long time I felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what was to come. I feel my breath coming in short whistling pants through my nipple hole. This is not right. No, this is not how it is supposed to go. I wrote out in panicked writing ‘I want my mum’. I start stamping my feet and clapping my hands loudly. I am making the emergency sounds. Mum! Where are you?!

 

Mum returns in a hurry and seeing the stricken look on my face turns a furious eye on the doctor. “What is going on?” her voice cold. He explains, and by the end of it mum is hugging me and holding me in what few areas I can feel.

 

After reexplaining the situation, the doctor continued. “We feared that this would be the case. At least judging from what you have been self reporting at your examinations for the last year or two. In preparation for this eventuality, we have designed something rather custom. Something that will last you for a long time.” He turned his computer screen towards me, and it revealed what was to soon become my new home. My new, permanent home.

 

It was solid polished steel, not a bit of plastic. It covered my torso completely. From my collar bones, around my shoulders. From what I could see, the entire backpiece looked to be formed out of one single sheet. The steel for the occipital support did come very high up the back of the head. It was more a half helmet than a simple support. It also looked to be slightly angled. The resulting neck ring was very thick, and when taken in tandem with how high the occipital support went on my head it resulted in much of the back of me from the shoulders up completely hidden by metal. There were some holes throughout the pack piece, for air flow I imagine. But other than that, the back was solid. The front was better, in that there were rounded cut-out panels that were removed to allow for my breasts, as well as for my stomach. The cut out for my breasts featured two little half cups that would provide me support. They even dipped in the middle to allow for my nipples. Whomever designed this thing is very, very detail oriented. All in all, the main body of the brace looked to resemble uniform body glove made entirely of metal. Hiding my poor weakened body under a shell of safe steel. There was of course a chin pad. And what a chin pad! It was huge! It looked like it would wrap around the entirety of my lower jaw. Practically from one ear to the other, over the front of my neck and throat joining the cuirass at the level of my collarbones. Less a pad and more of a cup. Holding my lower jaw firmly in its embrace. Securing my head in the sadly necessary traction.

 

“As you can see there is a rather heavy-duty chin support. Unlike your previous chin pad this is shaped directly to your bone structure. So, we have taken to calling it the mandibular cradle. With that being said, I am afraid that the bite block that you have become accustomed to will need to remain as well. I am sorry.”

 

I huffed, and shrugged my shoulders. This day had started out with promise and hope. That’s all gone now. Nothing good can come of this day. I am just numbed to it all. At this point I don’t really have any fucks left to give. ‘Look upon my field of fucks and see that it is barren’. Yeah, I am there right now. The doctor continued.

 

“This brace has been designed for you to wear for the foreseeable future. I am very sorry to say, but barring any medical miracles, you will need this brace forever. With that being the case, we have made some custom designs that will hopefully reduce some of the limitations and restrictions that you will experience in your daily life regarding your personal care.”

 

I look at him with the light of hope in my eyes. That sounded really promising. If I was going to need a brace forever, at least it would be a brace that gave me as few limitations as possible.

 

He continued. “What we have come up with to be used in tandem with the mandibular cradle is a rather simple device that will give you far more freedom and functionality than you currently enjoy. I think you are going to like it.”

 

He gestured vaguely to the front of the brace,

 

“As you see here, the cradle is attached to the main chest support via these rods. This allows for it to articulate and slide. Undoing the corresponding latches will allow the cradle to be lowered, away from you. Thus, removing its immediate presence from your meal time. So, for meals, and up to half an hour after the meal, the cradle may be lowered and left so. In fact, it is encouraged that you do. Socialisation is important. As curtailed as yours has been, these last years. I am sad to say it will continue to be so because of the necessity of the block. We are at least trying to give you some opportunity to mingle. Now the bite block. I am sorry but it will essentially be exactly like your current model, there will be minor differences but it will be functionally identical. We experimented with other options. Less intrusive options but this was the least detrimental to oral development, according to all of our available modeling data.”

 

WHAT! I could remove the chin pad! WHAT! That means I would open my mouth fully! That means I was in charge of my bite block. The means I can eat what I want. This whole thing still sucks, but this is a pretty decent silver lining.

 

“With the cradle removed we will continue to ensure your cervical positioning by attaching a strap around your forehead. This band will properly secure your head in the correct position. I must stress, meals and a half hour afterwards at maximum. I realise that it is going to be tempting to leave it off longer, don’t. The risks aren’t worth it.”

 

That sounds awesome. I mean yeah, it fucking sucks that I am going to be stuck in a brace for the rest of my life, with a bite block to boot. But, in my heart of hearts I knew that something was wrong with me. With how hard it was for me to stand up and shower this last year I knew that something was up. But yeah, in general, it sounded good to me. I mean I was devastated about needing to wear a brace forever. At least it sounded like it would be a brace that would allow me some of the independence due to me as an adult. My mum chimed in at this point.

 

“What about her diapers? How is she going to change those?”

 

Yes, my diapers… The item that protects both me and the outside world from the results of my uncontrolled expulsions. At that point having been reminded about my diapers, I give a little side to side shimmy in my seat, and was rewarded by the slick feeling of my mess slipping along against me. Oh yeah, I was messy, I forgot. How am I going to change myself?

 

“Yes, well, to be honest with you both...”

 

I found I all of a sudden really didn’t like his tone.

 

“…we found no feasible way to facilitate her ability to service her own incontinence products. We looked, but with the restrictions that are needed to keep your spine as healthy as it is currently there is no way for you to manage it alone. Our advice is to continue with whatever management techniques that you have adopted over the years.”

 

And there it is, the other shoe. Shit. FUCK! NO! NO! FUCK! I stood there fuming. I wrote furiously on the board.

 

‘No. Try harder. There has to be some way. I am supposed to go to Uni next year. I want to change my own diapers! I am an adult. How am I ever going to get to grow up if I still need others to change me? Please, please find a way. Please.’

 

The doctor looked at me with sad eyes. “We have tried. I have tried. There is nothing we can do. With your particular hygiene and sanitation needs all we can do is write up a request for a permanent live in support aide. Helping you in your daily life when you are away at uni. I was thinking about your particular situation, and there is a new experimental program that has just been implemented. As you are going to need daily assistance for what appears to be the remainder of your life. This program exists to try to match people together who are at least in the same general age category. Allowing for some blurring of the professional lines, the main aim of the program is to foster a relationship of friendship and genuine caring between carer and charge. And thus, a more wholesome, and holistic experience for all involved. As unpleasant as the thought of needing lifelong assistance is at least NHS will take care of it.”

 

This… this was too much all at once. I got my mothers attention. I wrote: ‘I need to clear my head; I won’t go far but don’t follow me’. I lurched out of the office, and found a quiet corner I could cry in. A corner where I could come to terms that my life as a truly independent adult was never going to begin. After a while, I got myself together, and I retuned to the office. Grabbing my white board, I wrote: ‘Okay, I agree to the new brace, and to this pilot program. What do I need to do?’.

 

He looked at me and my mum. “Not a thing. The brace is ready to be installed on you now. I just need to contact my technicians, and the orthodontist. How does tomorrow morning sound, say 10 o’clock? As for the program? I have the forms here; you just need to take them home and fill them out. Bring them back tomorrow. I will file them, and within 3-4 weeks you will be matched with a suitable candidate drawn from the pool of applicants.”

 

Mum and I both agreed. Tomorrow was fine. We left the office, go back the car and drove off. Arriving at home the first task at hand was to change me. Something I had hoped to soon see the end of. I guess not. One fresh diaper later, we are both in the sitting room. I feel like a need to say something. I write: ‘Please remove my bite block. I have something to say.’ Mum is somewhat shocked. I so seldom speak with my mouth voice. The fact is, it is only my bite block that ever kept me from speaking. It was the only thing that actually enforced or rather enforces my silence. I got used to it. I eventually grew to appreciate it. To almost depend on it. It is a moot point. From the beginning it was all the block. Well, I suppose it WILL continue to keep me from speaking. Who needs past tense when apparently nothing is going to change? She, approaches me and grabs the sides of my block. She pulls, and with the usual noise of ‘slurp, slop, and plop’ my block is removed. I stretch my jaw as much as I am able. Giving a couple of tentative throat clears to warm myself up.  

 

I find my voice after several painful croaks. As loud as I am able, I say, “This fucking sucks.”

 

Mum looks at me and starts to giggle. Not that it is actually funny, but an almost hysterical giggle. I join in, and in a matter of seconds we are both bawling. Sniffling back the last of our tears mum takes her my hand in hers.

 

“Yeah… it really does sweetie. It really, really does. I am so, so sorry. Nothing that we can do but adjust our sails to the wind and carry-on. Come on, lets get you fed. I bet that you are hungry.” She walks to the dining room and I follow behind lurching along.

 

I am sat in my feeding chair staring at the wall. Yes, it is my birthday, but I am in no mood for anything special. Not today. No, I just want today to be over. If keeping with the routine makes it so faster, then by God I will stick with the routine. I feel like I need to address why I am trained to open and have my bite block removed for me at the sound of three taps. Trained to open and have my bite block replaced at the sound of five taps. Why I am akin to a trained seal.

 

Early on in the sentencing I was somewhat reluctant to give up any of what little bodily autonomy I retained. Being forbidden from touching my own bite block and being forbidden from feeding myself was more than a little bit of a problem for me to accept. Truthfully, I was violent in my protests. Violent to the point where I physically struck her in anger. She understood or at least could empathise with my extreme anger at the situation but; she was unwilling to put up with me being physically violent. In retrospect I regret being so recalcitrant in my acceptance of the new way. But a solution was required, so a solution was sought, and a solution was found.

 

I was subjected to intense hypnosis therapy. After a few sessions I accepted the need to find a solution. The hypnosis allowed me to maintain my internalized anger over the situation. Yet would still allow mum to feed me without concerns of violence. I am bound to follow the signals, three and five taps. Thus, over the course of several months, I was put through a program that implanted the now ingrained responses to the taps on my bowl for feeding times. I still hate it, but I can nothing about it. It’s funny but it is only after the hypno sessions that I really started to appreciate my bite block. To appreciate the fact that there is a definite start and stop time to the uncomfortable absence of my bite block. Grown to appreciate the feeling of my slippery, safe, acrylic smile.       

 

The tray is locked down in front of me. Ensuring that I stay put for the duration of the feeding. No matter how long that may take. Eventually the meal is placed in front of me. However, unlike usual, my block is not in. No taps, no signals. No trained response. I open and close my mouth when prompted, swallowing only on cue. Mum repeating the soothing mantra of ‘Open, close, and… swallow’. Supper today? Some kind of cream soup. I think mushroom? Yeah, lets go with that. It’s pretty good. Soon enough the feed is complete. I hear the 5 taps. Automatically I tilt, push, and open my mouth ready to receive the block. It comes, and I settle my tongue and teeth into their homes. I guess I am glad that I don’t hate the block, we’re gong to be together for a long time it would seem.

 

Eventually it is time for me to get ready for bed. We go through the regular motions, and soon enough I am in bed with a fresh diaper ready for sleep.

 

Sleep did not come easily to me. But come it eventually did.

[An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)]

2 hours ago, Babypants said:

This caught my attention as well.  It's almost like she views her daughter as a trained seal.  Something else that is really odd is having her continue to use an upstairs bedroom.  In the event of a fire, she would never be able to get out of the house before smoke or flame killed her.  People with this level of infirmity are always housed on the ground floor, and as someone who has been through it with two terminally ill wives, this typically means converting the living room into a makeshift bedroom.  And why is she eating baby food?  A food processor would deliver the same texture, better taste, and a more nutritious product.  

I have no legitimate justification. For the sake of what little plot there is just suspend disbelief, please.

[An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)]

1 hour ago, kerry said:

Is there a reason her mom couldn't just talk to her and tell her to do what needs to be done?

For the sake of just because lets go no. I have no legitimate justification. 

[4-letter Scrabble]

Flap

[An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)]

Chapter 6

 

Day: 1459, Morning.

I feel that I need to explain, normally when I make a mess it is a rather subdued, I would say even discrete affair. I mean I have zero voluntary control and minimal nervous sensation with regards to my rectal sphincter. I fart when I fart and I mess when I mess. I can’t tell that they are coming, and I can’t stop it when they arrive. Sometimes it is even a combination move of both a fart and a mess. Given that fact, when I mess it just sort of slides out of me, hits my diaper, and spreads throughout.

 

I don’t really notice the actual act of messing, there is no straining on my part, no feeling of fullness, no pushing. One minute I am clean, the next I am dirty. That’s it. Not that I normally notice immediately that I am in fact dirty. I can suspect it given the time of day. After or during meals generally. But I only really confirm for sure that I have made a mess when I sit down and feel it. Feel it mush, and mash against me, coating me in a fresh layer of putrescence. If the mess was looser than normal, I can sometimes tell if I feel it slip and slide against me. If firmer maybe I can feel the stickiness. If a normal mess no, I can’t really tell for certain. Plus, with the amount of cream that is applied down there a slippery feeling is no sure method of detection. I can tell you if I am dirty if I am able to catch a whiff of myself. But that is rare. I am anosmatic to my own odours; it has to be really foul for me to twig to the fact that I have messy diaper by smell.

 

The worst way for me to find out I am messy is if I am told. It is the most common way I find out, but it is my least preferred. It makes me feel even less in charge of myself. Like I can’t even be trusted to know that I need a fresh diaper. I mean I can’t be trusted to know; not really. Being reminded about it… that just plain sucks. Thankfully when I am told that I am messy, it is usually couched in rather diplomatic language. Phrasing like ‘Why don’t you go get freshened up?’ are common enough. Saves on some of the embarrassment. Either way when I realise that I have a dirty diaper I lurch away and get my mum or I corral a care aide to change me. It depends where I am at the time.

 

Having explained that little titbit of my diaper needs; my backside explodes in a cacophonous symphony of uncontrolled and very remarkable messing. That I mess noticed. It was out of the ordinary; it was loud. But it was not unexpected. I generally mess either during or immediately after every feed. Food goes in, diaper gets dirty. Much like an infant my bowels seem to be tied to my feeding times. If I were given the choice, I much prefer messing after the fact; after the feed. It doesn’t happen as often as I would like, but I prefer it. I mean I am already messy when I wake up in the morning, that is a guarantee. I don’t know when but like clockwork, I always mess during the night. I can ignore it. I mean, I get into my chair and after I have settled myself down onto and into the pile, I can tune out the sensation. I don’t like messing during the morning feed because it reminds me just how filthy my crotch is. Like I need another reminder of that? I think not. I am very well aware that I am well and truly coated down there. I am after all sitting in and on the evidence. I just do my best to put it out of my mind, to wilfully ignore it. The fact that I mess during the feed more often than after sucks. As for all other feeds? Just because I am used to the sensations of eating in a dirty diaper in the morning doesn’t mean that I enjoy it. Nor does it mean that I want to repeat the performance for my remaining two feedings throughout the day.

 

My wetting is similar to my messing. I have no control, and limited sensation of my bladder either. Pretty much any positional change results in my bladder unconsciously contracting. Sit down, wet. Stand up, wet. I can’t feel it contract, and I cannot feel my self wetting. I just know that it does. I know from the warming sensations that I experience. Most of the time I don’t even notice those. I am just so used to being wet all of the time. The best description with regards to my wetting I suppose it that I sort of seep urine at a reasonably constant pace, a steady drip, drip, drip. So, my diaper is never actually dry. I also periodically have what I have personally termed a ‘full flow’ accident where for whatever inane reason my bladder has chosen to retain some urine. Therefore, it has become actually fullish and it decides to void its entire contents all at once. Those moments generally happen at what feels to me to be the least convenient time. Like in the middle of a change. Or just after a shower. Or whenever I am freshly changed into a clean diaper. Times like that. But it is what it is. Moving on!

 

I finish my remarkably loud mess, and turn to look at mum. She gives me a look that I take to mean ‘Rose, if you are done, please get a move on’, I return it with my usual low huff of air through my nipple hole. ‘Yes mum’

 

My low huff. It was decided early on in my sentence that a low huff through my nipple hole followed by silence would be my admission of agreement. A general ‘Yes’ if you will. If I grunted in through my nose, it was my generalised ‘No’ sound. If I made a low huff immediately followed by a drool slurp, it meant ‘Hey, look over here’. A kind of catch all attention grabber sound. If I made that sound followed by raising my right eyebrow when I had made eye contact with the subject, it was a question that needed an answer now. If my left eyebrow rose, it was a question that I wanted to know, but it could wait a while. If I blew my lips in a raspberry, I was displeased by something. If I made a sort of purring hum sound through my nose it meant I was content and cozy. And finally, if I stamped both of my feet, and clapped my hands it was an emergency. We picked those particular sounds as the emergency ones because I am loathe to stamp my feet. It transfers the shocks up through my brace, and rattles my vision terribly. If I intentionally do something that causes me discomfort it is worth paying attention to. At least that was the theory. That being said, I do still have the board and marker. I just don’t really use them unless I need to make a protracted point. Or answer a question with more than a low huff or a snort. A ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, for those who aren’t paying attention. 

 

Now I am sure you are wondering, why I didn’t know any proper sign language. Well, it is because of bureaucracy, and all the joys therein. We applied, multiple times. But the fact that I CAN hear fully, and I am capable of coherent speech, meant that I was not sufficiently impaired. Thus, didn’t qualify subsidised aide. I would have learned it on my own, but the classes were located two towns over. The sheer logistics of making an outing with me, paired with the length of drive made that an unattractive option. By the time that was all decided we were getting along fine with the type and talk. Before that got taken away by the school. After that, we kind of shrugged our collective shoulders, and made due with the pigeon language that we developed. At this point mum is able to parse most of what I mean by context clues, physical gestures and asking me the right questions to either affirm or deny her statements, thus leading to the answer… eventually. It is not elegant, nor is it remotely dignified. But it works well enough.

 

Mum left the dining room, and I lurched along behind her, following her to the loo to get my teeth brushed. I arrive at the sink, and hear three taps of the brush on the edge of the porcelain. In an automatic response I tilt my head and open my mouth. I feel the block get removed, and I settle my chin back down into its usual confinement. Some minutes later the task is complete and I listen for five taps. Hearing them I once again, tilt and open ready to accept the comforting presence of the block once again. Feeling it fill my mouth. Feeling it complete me. Feeling protect me. I settle my teeth and tongue back into their habitual placements. 

 

Over the years I have developed more than a little bit of an oral fixation around my bite block. I tend to rub my pursed lips around the acrylic. I enjoy the smooth sensation. Honestly, I bet it looks weird, and I am glad that nobody has noticed me doing it. Or, if they did notice they just kept it to themselves. If I am being honest with myself, I don’t like NOT having it in. It feels more like my mouth when it is in than when it is not. Give me my nice pink acrylic block with a neat and tidy little hole in the middle. Much more me now. I can remember a time when I wouldn’t have said so. But like I said it is a fixation, there is no logic to it. Knowing that my smile is protected from the ravages of my brace. Keeping my smile safe for when I no longer need to wear the brace. We move on back to the bedroom, mum leading, me lurching and slurping along behind her.

 

This honestly is one of my favourite times of day. The very first diaper change. A change always feels good. But the first of the day is something special. It ALWAYS feels divine. Having the swollen, sodden, sticky, stinky mass removed from beneath me. Replaced with a dry, clean, and fresh diaper. A diaper that is still soft and dry from the manufacturer, not slippery and swollen from the end user. A very nice feeling indeed. I mean I have been in my night diaper for the last ten or so hours. Getting it changed simply feels good. I lever myself up onto the change table and I wait. I cannot lay down until I feel mum tap her hand three times on my shoulder.  The taps let me know that she is there to guide me into position safely.

 

I feel them; the three taps, and I slowly lower myself onto the tables surface. More than ready to once again, if only for a brief moment feel truly clean. I hear and feel the ‘ker-clunk’ of my girdle latches. The pieces get removed. Four loud rips later I am un-taped, and the front of my diaper is ready to be lowered. Lowered to reveal both to my mum and to me just how disgusting the inside of my diaper really has gotten over course of then night and breakfast.

 

As an aside, if you haven’t already gathered, I am pretty uninvolved with any aspect that relates to my daily care. Diaper changes included. I can’t help in any useful capacity, so why even get in the way trying?

 

One small compromise that mum has made regarding my involvement and witnessing of the change is the installation of a mirror above my change table. My desire was so strong, I actually used the dry erase board and marker that swing perpetually from my uprights to make my argument. A rare event between the two of us. It lets me at least SEE what she is doing, to know visually that I am in fact, clean. With the mirror giving me visual confirmation of my cleanliness. Any feelings of self-disgust that I had tapered off to levels that were more normal for other diapered teenagers who were able to change themselves. So, still very high levels of self-loathing and disgust for sure, but much lower than they were before the mirror.

 

Looking up at the mirror, I can see my diaper. It is heavily swollen. A mottled shade of off-yellow with hints of brown throughout. Gross. As the front of my diaper gets lowered, I feel a sticky clingy sensation, the result no doubt of my messes adhering my diaper to me. Yuck. Even after so many years, and so many morning changes it still feels gross. Seeing the front get lowered down in tandem with that feeling, I am visually assaulted by the fact that my diaper area is fully covered in a layer of slimly filth. There is not one iota of skin that remains clean. Every inch of my body that was hidden by my diaper, is slick, shiny, and brown. So, you know, the usual for the morning.

 

Mum got to work, at first seeming just to smear the mess. But with time, and a proper application of effort the mess that has apparently worked its way into my skin is gradually removed. Sometimes, most times, if she wipes long enough in the right spot, I feel tingly. Like right nOW, OH! Little electric shocks coursing all throughout my body. It feels SO GOOD. I love it. Not that she can tell what she is doing to me, and not that I can, or would, tell her. And like every other time before where I felt all those good shocky tingles during a diaper change, I can’t help but feel really, REALLY sad about it after they have faded. I feel SHAME after. Not that mum can tell, and not that I can tell her. I am sure you can figure out why I feel sad, and shamed. I am not going to spell it out for you. I mean it is my mother. That alone should be enough of a clue. The fact that I even mentioned it has me blushing 10000 shades of embarrassed. These days that takes a lot. I have given up a lot of dignity over the years. Become hardened to the usual embarrassments that make up my life. For me of all people to feel embarrassed should tell you something.

 

I hear the usual command words of “Lift up, and hold”. As I do, my soiled diaper is removed from under me. Holding this position, I see through the mirror a chux pad get placed beneath. At the command of “Lower” I ease myself down. Preparing myself for the five taps to initiate the logroll that will see my on my side facing the wall. I don’t mind this view of the wall. For one there are no pictures of me. And as soon as I am facing the wall it means that my backside will be as tended to as my front. In other words, cleaned. Many, many wipes later I was pronounced clean. I live for that announcement. Mum taps five times, and helps me roll back to the traditional position. Flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. As mum steps back to retrieve my day diaper from the shelf at the foot of my table, I finally get an uninterrupted view of myself. A brief moment where I can appreciate both a view of myself, and the novel sensation of air and dryness in an area that if I am being frank spends much more time wet and slimy than not.

 

Without my diaper, I think I look weird. I mean I know that that is wrong. But naked for me is just being in my diaper, and brace. Without the diaper I look odd. Incomplete I suppose. I can only imagine how odd I would look without my brace. No support? What can a girl do? Oh wait, I don’t have to imagine much longer. Odd or not I WILL soon be without the brace, and happier for it. But, even without that brace I will still have my diapers, they are a constant. They were with me before the brace, and they will remain with me after the brace. As much as I dislike needing diapers, I am almost glad that I am not losing everything I have become accustomed to. My diapers and me have been inexorably tied together since I was seven years old. They are a central part of my personal identity. Either way, I take the moment to appreciate myself.

 

I have no hair down there. Mum decided that me having hair there while needing diapers was a poor hygiene decision. So, she made her case, and I agreed with her. I got it permanently removed at fifteen. Just two months before I got put in the brace. This decision was made before the brace, you know when my opinion was still taken under advisement. Other than ‘the no hair down there’ business it is a perfectly uniform, perfectly symmetrical ‘flower’. Rather pretty looking if I may toot my own horn. Not that anyone other than myself, my mum, and a rotating bevy of care aides ever see it. Or ever will see it, knowing my luck. None but me to appreciate it. I guess it is something only for me, something private. Private, except for the fact that it is displayed to a variety of people a minimum of four times a day. To those people though, it is not my ‘flower’ it is just something to clean, protect from rashes, and quickly hide under a diaper. Quickly hide, being the operative words in that statement. Lest I spew forth foulness, bereft of protection. But to me, for those few brief glimpses a day I get at it, it is beautiful. That is all that matters in the end. My ‘flower’, my delicate, my lovely. Mine. A ‘flower’ that is perpetually locked away, except for very brief, and highly coveted moments of the day. My ‘flower’, a constant prisoner of a dark, damp, smelly, and slimy dungeon. I have joked with myself that my ‘flower’ is so pretty only because its generally covered in a layer of fresh fertilizer. Man made as opposed to the more traditional bovine.

 

I long ago resigned myself to the fact that needing diapers as profoundly as I do, I am never going to have anyone that could or would bring me to intentional pleasure. Who wants the women who is most likely going to shit, and has probably already pissed all over herself helplessly after and during a pleasuring? Going, once…twice… three times! No Sale! Next item to the block!

 

So, yeah sure, I get the tingles during a change, but it is not like they are trying to give them to me. It is pleasure of a sort. But it is accidental, my reaction simply one of reflex. Plus, the crippling shame when it is my mum causing the sensations puts a real damper on any enjoyment, I may have from it. Why don’t I explore myself I can hear you asking? Well… I have never been willing to put my hands in there. Who knows what I might encounter? With being unable to leave my bed on my own, my hands better stay clean. Were my hands to stray, and were I to encounter a messy situation, it is not like I can quickly hop out of bed and scuttle off to the loo to give them a wash. And calling for mum in the middle of night for that is not happening! Neither is laying in bed with hands covered in poo, waiting until morning. Hard pass. No, I have not experimented with THAT at all. In fact, I have remained rather chaste. The only bit of excitement that I have ever experienced is tied strictly to my diaper changes. It sucks. God, I am pathetic.

 

Mum comes back into view, my new diaper unfolded and ready for application. I don’t move. Not until the command. “Lift up,” I do “…and lower”. I do that too. Mum grabs the barrier cream and takes a liberal amount into her gloved hands. As she spreads it around my diaper area, I zone out. Sometimes, most times, during my changes, I daydream that someone other than my mum or an aide is doing this for me. Someone other than my mum or an aide is willing to touch me there. Being touched there without the hand being gloved. Being touched there without it being tied to a chore. I wonder what it is like? As mum finishes, I open my eyes. My vision both fading and sharpening as reality intrudes once again.

 

Greeting me is a zinc white crotch that is wholly different to the creamy white of my bare skin. My bare skin is a warmish white. Still ghastly pale as far as skin goes, even in the summer. I have red hair; you think I am tanning? Ha! Dream on. Plus, with the brace you think that I dare go about in public wearing anything short of a full outfit, nope! I hide from the burn ball with the best of them. Zinc white is a cold, clinical and flat white. Cold and clinical yes, but wholly appreciated. I mean I have been back in diapers for far, far longer than I was ever out of them, and I can count on my hands alone the times I had a serious diaper rash. That’s not a bad record. Minor rashes are kind of par for the course, and I am accustomed to them. I try to avoid them as much as I can. But given my reliance on diapers, and my inability to manage them myself; they are one of the expected drawbacks. There is something to be said for an ounce of prevention versus a pound of cure in this case. I feel my diaper get bunched up tightly into my crotch. The tapes are applied, not to tight, not too loose. Just right. With that I am securely sealed up. Safe for the next several hours. My girdle is reassembled around me and with an expected ‘ker-clunk’ the latches are made fast and I am once again held tightly in my shell.

 

Mum grabs my hands and sits me up, walking over to the wardrobe to pick out my clothes for the day. I sit there on my change table, awaiting the moment when I am allowed to cover myself, partially disguising both my diaper and my brace under what are typically considered ‘comfy’ clothes. ‘Comfy’, read unstylish and frumpy. But haute couture fashion was never really in the cards for me anyway. Brace or not, outfits like that aren’t created with my unique needs in mind. Trousers, cut with extra room in the seat to allow for diaper expansion, nope! So, I put up with ‘comfy’ clothes, in the Winter my outfits are trousers, and high-necked jumpers. In the summer they are trousers, and tee shirts. If it is really hot, I might get put in a pair of shorts. Pretty simple stuff. Easy to buy, and easy to launder. Having made her choice for me for the day, I hear the signal that permits me to approach my dressing bar. Three taps.

 

I am going to address my trousers at this point. All of my clothes are ‘comfy’. That does not mean cheap. All of the clothes that cover my lower half have been modified somewhat. Every pair of trousers has a highly elasticised waist to better grip my shell. All of them have had zippers installed running the length of the legs to facilitate ease of access for changes. No, despite their ease of care, my clothes are not cheap.

 

Now, what is a dressing bar? It is pretty simple; it is a bar mounted to the wall that I can hold onto. It is not a new invention; it was meant originally for women to hold while being secured into their stays or corsets. I use it for balance, for when I am stepping into the legs of my clothes. I can’t bend, so mum has to hold them open for me. Also, since I can’t see my feet, she guides me through. One foot at a time. I just hold onto the bar to keep from falling. It is a good system. While she is down there, she also puts socks onto my feet. And Velcros up my trainers. I wish I still got to wear laced shoes, but I can’t see my feet, and I can’t bend enough to tie a loose lace. Velcro is simple, it doesn’t come undone easily, and if it does, you’ll hear it.

 

I hear a belt get fastened around my unfeeling waist, signalling that we are done with my lower half. The upper half is easier, I simply bend my knees lowering myself somewhat. I feel mum securing my bra around me chest. Weaving the straps between my uprights, making sure that my breasts are supported. My bras are not stylish, no lacy frills or sexy designs for me. They are plain- jane fabric with an underwire for support. That it, that’s all. I do wish sometimes that I had some sexy undergarments. But how ridiculous would I look? A sexy, skimpy bra advertising my assets. Eyes, moving down my body only to encounter my thick diaper. Yep. Nope. No one is looking like that at me, I doubt that they ever will. I sigh internally, and as I do I raise my arms and wait for the shirt to get pulled over my head. Feeling the shirt settle on my shoulders I stand back up fully. I am almost dressed.

 

“What colour do we use this morning? Pink? Yellow? Green? Oh! An Argyle pattern, how nice. Yes, this one I think.”

 

Not that she was talking to me, or asking me what colour I wanted, she was just talking to herself as she flipped through the choices of bibs for me. I guess she settled on Argyle this morning, whatever. I don’t care. I lean forward, hands back on the bar as she fastens the bib around my uprights. It drapes itself down my chest, hiding much of my shirt in the process. I used to loath them, but much like my diaper the bib is eventually going to get used. And also, like my diaper when it is deemed time, changed. I am not involved. With that done, she makes her way out of my room. I follow behind lurching and slurping.

 

At this point I deviate away from following her, it is time for her to eat breakfast. As part of my rules, I am not to be in the dining room while she eats. So, I go and sit on the sofa, blindly groping for the remote control that I know is somewhere close to my right hand. Finding it, I turn on the telly, and mindlessly stare at the morning news. Some time later she touches my shoulder to let me know that she is done eating.

 

Now, normally at this point I would stand and she would walk in front of me to the street to wait for the bus. But, today is not a school day so there is no bus. So, instead of automatically standing and following behind her I make my ‘attention grabbing sound’ Seeing her face enter my field of view I raise my left eyebrow. I have a question. It is not a question that can’t wait. I have not yet slipped my white board over my head so the question will need to be divined by a series of affirmations or negations. So, knowing I have a question mum begins the process of narrowing down what I what to know. Eventually after many ‘huffs’ and ‘grunts’ she has settled on the question of what I am going to do today. With no school, and it not being a weekend I have nothing planned.

 

“Oh, that’s easy dear. You’re just going to have to come with me today.”

 

I give a huff and close my eyes. Great, tagging along with my mum as she does the shopping. Just what I wanted to do at nineteen. Yep, really making my day special. She continued blithely talking as I sat there.

 

“It is not like I can leave you here alone. I can’t trust you to be okay on your own, I can only imagine the trouble you would get yourself into; no, you need to come with me. For my peace of mind if nothing else.”

 

I am a little bit offended by that statement, just as I am every time, she says it. Or every time that she says something to that effect. I mean sure, I rely on her for everything. The fact remains I can be trusted, I have never done anything that could or has jeopardized her ability to place trust in me to be responsible. Not for lack of desire mind. I do want to throw a wild bacchanal of a party, but it is never going to happen. Still, it is not a matter of trust, but a matter of ability. I am unable of staying home alone not because I am untrustworthy, but because I am unable to manage my daily life. As unpleasant of a realization that was to make, I feel that the distinction needs to be made. If only to set the record straight.

 

She goes shopping and I go with her. Car rides are still boring. I really miss seeing the grounds. I still can’t see anything other than the upper portion of the windscreen, yippee. We go to several stores her leading, me lurching and slurping along behind her. Drawing stares all the while.

 

Eventually it is time for lunch, I am getting hungry, and it has been some time since I got changed, I am pretty sure I am due for a new diaper. Finding a café, mum and I enter. She makes a beeline for the accessible toilet, with me in tow. No secret what I am having done. With the large bag on mums shoulders, and my awkward lurching waddle anybody with half a brain can figure it out.

 

Suffice to day that when we go out, I draw attention to myself. Not that I try to mind you, and not that I enjoy it. But the noises I make while simply moving just seem to draw eyes to me. I slurp every other step, trying in vain to keep my bib clean. My diaper crinkling and crackling noisily from my rear, me periodically farting into it without notice. The rhythmic bumping of my board against my carapace. Or worse the sounds that I make to simply get my self attention. No, it is safe to say that I make unique noises. And because of the unique noises, I draw eyes. I am mostly used to the furtive glances and the attention at this point. Still really don’t like it, but used to it. Or rather resigned to it.

 

Pretty soon though, I will be able to stealthily go about my business in public. Just like everyone else. The anonymity, just being an unremarkable face in the crowd. Good God! I am looking forward to that almost as much at everything thing else.

 

Having finished giving me a change, mum and I sit down to order. Well mum sits down to order; I sit down and await my afternoon feed. Out in public? Unless previously agreed upon, it doesn’t matter it is still going to be baby food. Much to my eternal displeasure. But, like I said before, at feeding time I am hungry. Baby food or not, I want to eat. As mum orders I can hear one of the jars open. I hear three metallic taps. On reflex I tilt my head back and open my mouth to await the withdrawal of my block. It is done, and mechanically at the normal prompts of, “Open, close, and… swallow.” I proceed to accept my afternoon feeding. One spoonful at a time. Today it is a gross flavour. Ham, or maybe beef and gravy. I don’t know it’s gross. But I need to eat. Despite the unpalatable flavour I am used to it, so down the chute it goes.

 

The café has gone quiet around us. I ignore it. I hear some whispers. I ignore it. A laugh, quickly shushed. I ignore it. I ignore them all. It is hard. Eventually I close my eyes, to the world. I can feel the usual tears gathering. Tears that occur every time I receive a feed in public. I won’t let them see me cry! If I can’t see them, it makes everything easier. Finally! The feed is done. At the sound of five taps I tilt my head back and open my mouth eager to accept the replacement of my block. Eager to feel safe in my silence. Protected again by smooth, and silky acrylic. Mums meal arrives. It smells really good. I open my eyes to try and take a peek. Success! I can see it. I don’t know what it exactly is some kind of soup. I can eat soup! Why didn’t I get soup! Blowing the raspberry of discontent, I raise my right eyebrow.

 

‘Why the fuck didn’t I get soup too?’

 

“To be honest dear, I didn’t think that we would go out for luncheon at all. I thought that we would be done by now. I forget how having you with me adds time. Plus, I needed to get rid of that food. I know how much you hate that flavour, and they were the last. Also, it was already in the bag.”

 

That is a reason, not a good reason, but a reason not withstanding. And frankly, a reason as good as I am going to get. I accept it. I am not happy, but I accept it. Finishing her meal mum pays and we leave. Getting back in the car, and carrying on with the days shopping. The next destination Tesco’s. 

 

When we arrive at Tesco’s, I lurch my way to the trolly and take my position at the rear. She guides the trolly from the front, I just lurch along behind. Several cases of baby food for me.

 

At that I get her attention. I grab my board and write: ‘Why more baby food? I get the brace off tomorrow, I want roast.’

 

Mum sighs, and says “Rosie, you are going to need some time to adjust from eating such soft and easy to digest things. You never wondered why you always had such issues the day after your anniversary? Your body is unused to complex foods. This is just to help you wean yourself off. You are going to have to lean how to deal with primarily solid foods all over again. I am afraid sweetie that your immediate brace free future is still full of baby food. As much I am sure that you would love it to not be it is for your own good.”

 

I didn’t expect that. I was not looking forward to that at all. I had really hoped that I was free of the baby food. I guess not. Not totally. We continued.

 

Turnips for me, some tea for mum, some formula mixture for my bottles. Yeah… you read that right. My bottles are an even mixture of water, baby formula, and meal replacement drinks. I need the nutrients, and the calories. Eating two large jars of baby food twice a day, plus whatever for supper isn’t making it. I am skinny enough as it is. I would rather not be skeletal. I put up with it.

 

Some rather delightful looking lamb for mum later we are almost done the shop. As we stand in the checkout line mum leans over to me and whispers,

 

“We have one more stop, I’ll change you again when we get home. It’s not too bad but I can tell.”

 

Change me, again? I sigh internally. I just got changed at the café. I guess that it wasn’t a dirty diaper change, just a wet one. That is a bit of a surprise. A rare event, just a wet diaper change. I guess at some point during the walk around either this store or during the feed at the cafe I messed. It happens.

 

We get checked out, and walk back to the car. One more boring ride later I step out. Where are we? The building was familiar. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. I turn my body to look at mum. As I do I raise my right eyebrow. I have a question that needs answering now. ‘Where are we?’

 

Mum picks up my meaning in short order. “We are at the orthotists. They wanted us to come by a day early. To go over your X-rays and stuff I imagine. Come on.”

 

I really should have known that; it is just that we parked in a different spot and it made the building look different. Don’t judge me. I have like one perspective that I see the world; flat on with a tilt of like fifteen degrees upward. A different view of the same thing can really throw me. But still, we have been coming here every four months for checkups during the course of my sentencing, I really should have known. We made our way into the building and up the stairs to the office. Opening the door, the receptionist just tells us to go on back to exam room three. We do so. Mum takes a seat at the chair, and I stand there waiting to hear what the doctor has to say.