BabyAnna

The apartment hummed, a low, constant thrum from the server farm in the building’s core, a sound that used to be a comfort, a whisper of the digital ocean outside. Now, for Lena, it felt like the pulse of her own humiliation. Forty years. She’d navigated corporate skirmishes, outmaneuvred algorithmic shifts, and yet, here she was, in Maya’s guest room, wrestling with the unfamiliar bulk of an adult brief. The incident, a blur of harsh light and the chilling crack of bone, was a distant echo. The immediate, brutal reality was the change. Permanent. The doctor's voice, carefully modulated, had delivered the verdict with the sterile efficiency of a perfectly executed code. Maya, bless her, had been a rock. Her apartment, usually a minimalist sanctuary of chrome and glass, had softened, almost imperceptibly, in Lena’s presence. A stack of fresh, fluffy towels by the bedside. A low-glow lamp replacing the harsh overheads. And the discreetly placed packages, their contents never discussed, always within reach. Day one had been a fog of disbelief. Lena had tried to ignore it, to will it away like a glitch in a neural net. The first warm gush had been a cold shock, a visceral betrayal. She’d fled to the bathroom, scrubbing herself with a ferocity that bordered on self-punishment. Maya had found her there, wrapped in a towel, trembling. Not a word had been exchanged, just a hand on her shoulder, firm and comforting, guiding her back to the pristine sheets she’d soiled. Now, on day three, the physical discomfort was a dull ache, but the mental torment was a live wire. Each rustle of the protective garment, each subtle shift of fabric against her skin, was a declaration of defeat. She, Lena, who once commanded virtual armies and shaped data streams, was now tethered to a physical reality that felt utterly alien. She sat on the edge of the bed, a fresh brief in her hands. The material felt impossibly thick, a cotton-poly blend designed for absorption, for containment. It was a prison for her own errant biology. Her fingers traced the elasticized leg openings, the adhesive tabs. A sigh escaped her, thin and reedy. Maya’s voice, a calm counterpoint to the storm in Lena’s head, drifted from the living room. “Lena? I’m making that synth-soup you like. Figured you could use something warm.” Lena swallowed, the dryness in her throat a testament to her anxiety. “Thanks, Maya. Be out in a minute.” She pulled on the brief, the soft rustle of the material loud in the quiet room. It was like putting on a foreign skin, one that simultaneously protected and suffocated. The fit was snug, too snug, a constant reminder of her altered state. She tugged at the waistband, trying to find a comfortable position, a way to make it disappear. It wouldn’t. Emerging from the guest room, she found Maya in the kitchen, her back to Lena, stirring something in a gleaming pot. The scent of savoury broth filled the air, grounding and familiar. Maya’s movements were fluid, precise, like a dancer or a coder navigating a complex interface. Lena watched the subtle flex of muscle beneath the fabric of Maya’s worn t-shirt as she stirred. A familiar warmth, distinct from the internal flush of shame, stirred within Lena. It was quickly suppressed, filed away under ‘unprocessed data.’ “Smells good,” Lena managed, her voice a little rough. Maya turned, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. Her eyes, usually cool and analytical, held a depth of concern that Lena found both comforting and, oddly, disarming. “It’s a simple recipe, but effective. Come, sit.” Lena sank onto a stool at the kitchen island, the synthetic leather cool beneath her thighs. The soup, presented in a sleek ceramic bowl, was exactly what she needed. The warmth spread through her, a small, welcome comfort. “How are you feeling?” Maya asked, her voice low, conversational, as if asking about the weather. Lena stirred her spoon through the broth, watching the tiny flecks of nutrient concentrate swirl. “Like I’m running a program with a critical memory leak.” The attempt at humoir felt brittle, but it was all she had. Maya’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “It’s a new OS, Lena. Takes time to patch the bugs.” She didn't press, didn't offer platitudes. Just quiet presence. It was exactly what Lena needed. Later, as the city lights began to prickle through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the apartment, Lena found herself staring at the fresh pack of briefs on the bedside table. Each one was a small, white monument to her new reality. The torment wasn’t just the physical sensation, but the absolute, crushing weight of it all. The loss of autonomy, the constant vigilance, the fear of exposure. It was a relentless loop playing in her mind, a data stream of dread. Maya, sitting on the opposite side of the room, was engrossed in a datapad, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the screen. Her focus was absolute, her posture relaxed yet alert. Lena watched her, a knot of something complex tightening in her chest. Gratitude, yes. But also something else, a quiet longing for a different kind of closeness, a connection that transcended the current predicament. The apartment hummed. The city breathed. And Lena, wrapped in her new reality, knew that the path ahead was long and arduous. But in the quiet presence of her friend, a fragile seed of resilience began to stir, a faint signal in the overwhelming noise of her despair. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was a space filled with unspoken understanding, shared burdens, and a nascent, unacknowledged current that pulsed just beneath the surface. For now, it was enough.

"I'm a man", thought Brett, "If I want to wear make-up then I can and nobody can stop me." He planned ahead, badly. Foundation, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara and eye shadow. But the lipstick was bright red, not a good look with his skin tones. Even that was nothing compared to the eye shadow, a Prussian blue which without blending and skill wouldn't match anybody's skin. The Fourth of July was approaching and Brett decided to celebrate in style. His fraternity was having a barbecue, fireworks, two of the local sororities in attendance. Just the right time to prove he had the balls to dress his own way, show that society couldn't constrain him. His efforts with the foundation were patchy but passable, although he found himself washing it out of his moustache with a toothbrush. After that the lipstick, his lack of experience creating a smeared mess. He washed that off, ended up washing his whole face, starting again. The foundation still wasn't great but the lipstick was better this time. Not to the standard he saw on girls but he'd forgotten lip liner and anyway, he could wear it his way. He'd bluff this one out, admit he might need some practice. The eyeliner proved more of an issue. Not just poking himself in the eye, getting neat lines was proving impossible. Soft cotton pads dabbed in water removed the evidence, and Brett decided to skip straight to the mascara. That turned out to be tricky too, streaks of black on his eyelids but his lashes filled out, looked feminine by the time he finished. Just the eyeshadow to go and Brett went crude, just covering his eyelids with it, stopping at the top of his eye sockets. It was bright and very blue, making the lack of symmetry obvious to everybody that saw it. Strangely though Brett didn't notice, or perhaps didn't care. Brett wasn't a crossdresser, didn't want to transition, hadn't bought any female clothing. He just wanted to wear make-up and was happy with his look so got dressed in matching clothes, a loose blue t-shirt and short red sports shorts. It was too warm for socks and so he slipped on some open toe sports sandals and headed out. As he entered the yard he saw people noticing him. They were raising eyebrows, then looking away and smiling or laughing. Some of them didn't look away first. "Uh, hi Brett," said one of the Sorority girls, "I thought you were already in the frat?" "I am," said Brett, frowning in surprise. "Oh!", she replied, "So that's not a pledge hazing thing?" Brett glared at her. "Shut up you stupid cow," he said aggressively, "I choose what I wear. It's Independence Day and I'm showing my independence." That was a bad move. Sororities move together, speak together. Act together. Brett was immediately surrounded, angry girls staring him down and talking over each other. "Hon, those just aren't your colours," was the nicest of their comments, in amongst putdowns and criticisms. "You look stupid, little boy." "You put that on with a shovel?" "My two year old sister is better at make-up." "He does look like a small girl trying on her big sister's paint, yeah." The barrage of scorn and ridicule deflated Brett's ego. His hurt expression just spurred the girls on. "Aww, is little baby going to cry?" "Careful, your mascara will run!" "It's ok sweetie, we'll wash you clean and make sure you get a nice clean diddie for bed." The noise and gathering had drawn attention from the fraternity boys. One of them guffawed at that last comment but challenged it. "Hey, Brett's no baby. He's.. she's just looking to experience being a girl." Another frat member followed up. "That true Brett? You want to be a girl?" Brett shook his head. "No, I'm just here to celebrate July 4th with y'all. Back off, don't make me get mad." Another male voice spoke up, "July 4th? But you're only wearing red and blue. Where's your white Brett?" This time a female voice responded. "Oh, we can sort that. Little baby girl needs a nice thick white diaper, and we can replace those nasty shorts with a nice red cheerleader skirt. Won't you just love that baby Brett." "What the fuck are you on?" retorted Brett, "No, I don't want your twisted games." "Good man," said one of his frat buddies, "I mean, good girl. See ladies, what Brett wants is what you all want. An admiring circle of men around him while she's on her knees, all of them hot for her, ready to give her a proper facial. Then her face'll be red, white and blue. What do you think Brett, you gonna be the star of our party today?" Brett backed off in disgust. He'd been in that circle of men more than once, had no desire to be the object of their lust. "No. Seriously guys, what's wrong with you?" "With us? Nothing," said one of the men, "Right ladies?" The girls all agreed. "So what's it going to be Brett? Diaper or facial?" "Neither!" exclaimed Brett, "None. Screw you all, I'm going home." As he tried to force his way through the circle of girls he felt hands on his arms, an arm around his waist, several men holding him back then, as he fell in his struggles, holding him down. "Looks like Brett couldn't decide," said a gleeful voice, "I guess we just need to make him - sorry, her - red white and blue on her face and in her clothing. Ladies, go get that diaper and a nice skirt, that thick padding forcing his knees apart with the skirt teasing us all will make sure it's a bukake session to remember." As a Sorority member ran to her car to fetch the needed items another one called out. "Bring the rope too, baby Brett here will need preventing from undressing herself." The speaker turned to Brett and added, "Once the boys have finished with you you're ours, for the whole weekend. Little dependent Brett, we're going to have fun with you. Oh, don't cry, we'll clean your face. In the morning, when we change your diaper."

Complete. The whole story started with the fantasy of being helpless while my ankles were dragged apart and was written and posted 31 minutes later.

The padded leather cuffs around my ankles were easy to ignore. A snug but not tight fit the soft pressure had become a background sensation, like wearing socks for the first time in a week. I'd noticed them but only for a short while. I noticed them again now. The ropes were soft too, gentle against my skin but they didn't lack strength, more than I could resist as they relentlessly tugged the metal loops on my ankle cuffs, pulling my ankles inexorably apart. Obviously I tried. Legs straining to keep themselves together, and even as that was proving futile I was trying to sit up, lean forward to remove the cuffs. I couldn't. The cuffs were locked on, I lacked anything that could cut them off, had no chance of slipping my feet out of them. Not that I even got close enough to try, the strap across my chest arresting my motion scant inches from the bed. I'd have had the cuffs off long ago had that been possible, my reaction now was instinctive, protective. Pointless. It wasn't clear whether the chest strap was locked in place. I couldn't see where it was secured, near my armpits at the side of the bed. Maybe below. Also out of sight was where the waist strap was secured. Perhaps it wasn't, just a simple fastening out of my reach. Everything was out of my reach. Even if I'd been able to sit up, the ankle cuffs hadn't been locked in place, I had no real options anyway. Thick padded mittens kept my hands in a loose ball, no way to grip anything, my thumbs out of use. Those weren't just locked on, more padded leather around my wrists, they were attached to the rails lining each side of the bed. Even with no restraints I couldn't easily have got out of bed, those rails keeping me in place like the bars on an infant's crib. The only thing that had any freedom was my head. I could move it freely, look in any direction, gaze in frustration at my useless hands. I couldn't even slide up or down the bed, straps from the band above my breasts going over my shoulders, attached to the head of the bed. Worse was a strap from the restraint at my waist, running down between my legs. I really didn't know where that led, just that it stopped me sliding down. Almost. It let me slide far enough to feel the wetness between my legs. Secured like this the toilet was clearly not an option; a diaper needed in case I couldn't hold on until released. I hadn't, and now I could feel the results, thick padding swelling between my thighs. Which meant the ropes on my ankles gave me a twisted hope. If they weren't going to release me, hopefully this was the prelude to a change, easing access to someone who could remove the soiled diaper, wipe me clean, leave me comfortable again. Comfortable in context. The ropes stopped tightening, although by now my ankles were near the edge of the bed. My knees no longer touched and someone at the foot of the bed would be able to see my diaper with ease. See its soiled state. She stood there and looked at it, and smiled. "I thought so," she said, "You were wriggling in that 'I just wet myself' way. Very cute but I couldn't leave you like that." She paused, caught my eye, smiled at me, then turned away. She looked back as she left the room. "So I've made it easier for you, less pressure on your diaper. It'll be good for a few more hours yet."

I should do more stories. DD makes it too easy to be lazy though, relying on readers' familiarity with the setting makes me feel bad.

Observe as the dastardly provocateur creeps up behind our innocent victim, intent on a wedgie. A quick yank, a harumph of triumph.. cut off mid flow by the sounds of a soggy squidge. Worse, our virtuous victim, instead of screeching in violated fright, shudders sensuously, seeming to welcome the wet wrench of her infantile underwear. Of course this sordid act must nonetheless be punished. Behold how the provocateur is himself provoked into replicating the sorry state of his padded prey, his own legs spread by a surfeit of soon to be sodden waddle inducing wadding. Wedgies are not in his future, no. Pity the poor provocateur, for he will henceforth suffer the shame of squidgies.

"Show me you're an adult then," she said. Typical Amazon, always trying to test me. "Show me you can use a toilet." I sighed, shook my head slightly. "I don't need to go," I told her. "You want to spend your life in diapers?" she asked, "You can still show me the process." A quick shrug, this wasn't an argument I could win, and I went to the potty. I wouldn't fit on an Amazon toilet anyway and the potty was the right height. Lifting my skirt clear I sat on it, hummed to myself for a minute before a loud sound filled the room, echoing from within the bowl. "I thought you didn't need to go," she said smirking. "I didn't," I told her, "it was just wind." To prove this I stood up, showed her that the bowl was empty. However I knew the drill, reached for some toilet paper. A quick wipe between my legs and I showed her how clean it was before discarding it in the potty. She could handle that. Even though nothing had happened I didn't skip washing my hands. Water, soap, water, repeat, final rinse and a towel to dry them. "There, happy now?" She smiled, a cruel evil smile. "You didn't flush." "It's a potty! It's not plumbed in," I said, "There's no cistern." That evil smile became a grin which made it no friendlier. "Excuses excuses," she said, delight apparent in her voice. She lunged at me. I ran. Of course I ran. Everybody runs. "You're not getting away from me this time," she said as she chased. Her legs were as long as my height, her stride far vaster than I could manage, she closed the distance with ease. That extra height came with extra weight though. High speed, high weight.. high momentum. I twisted, turned and kept running, this time in another direction. She couldn't turn that fast, lost ground again, had to look and see where I'd gone. Not far. I wasn't even sprinting, couldn't outrun her if I tried. Trickery and patience were my only options if I wanted to avoid her. "You little ragamuffin!" she exclaimed, turning to come after me again. Enjoying the simple victory I giggled, knowing I'd been able to annoy her. I kept running though and as she closed I ducked out of her grasp, stopped and turned. Accelerating into a full sprint I went straight between her legs and headed for the door. Getting out of that would annoy her even more. She swivelled at her hips, her long arms reaching out. She didn't grab me but did catch my skirt, its hem flairing out as I ran. My pace tugged it free but it was too late, that little tug enough to trip me. As I sprawled on the floor, thick carpet cushioning my fall, she giggled herself. "Just wind?" she asked, "Really?" I looked behind me, realised the elastic effect of my skirt springing free from her grip had left the loose folds on my back, gathered at my waist, revealing what was below. The diaper was discoloured, earlier wetting now joined by the smelly lumps I'd added while sat on the potty. Before I could think of an explanation she scooped me up, put me on her hip, squishing the messy diaper against me. "Eww", I grumbled. That got me a pat on the bottom, more squishing, a gentle smile. "It's your own fault," she told me, "You're meant to take your diaper off to use the potty." As I blushed I gave her an angelic smile. "But I know how much you like changing me," I said, "How could I deny you that?" She gave me an indulgent smile as she carried me through to the changing table. "I do," she admitted, "Nearly as much as you like needing it." Another blush and this time I stayed quiet. Even an Amazon can be right.

Once upon a time, in the whimsical land of Sweetopia, there lived a cute little kitten named Whiskers. Whiskers had soft, fluffy fur the color of freshly spun cotton candy and big, sparkling blue eyes that twinkled like the stars. All the creatures of Sweetopia adored Whiskers, but none more so than Gary the Gummy Bear, a jolly little fellow with a heart as sweet as his flavor. One sunny afternoon, Whiskers was frolicking in the meadows, chasing butterflies and rolling in the daisies. As she stopped to catch her breath, she noticed Gary bouncing around, his gelatinous body shimmering in the sunlight with every hop he took. "Hi, Gary!" called Whiskers, her voice as cheerful as the day. "Hello, Whiskers! Want to play?" Gary asked, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Yes, what should we do?" Whiskers tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. Gary thought for a moment before proposing, "How about a nap adventure? Let’s find a cozy spot to nap, but first, I have a special surprise for you!" Intrigued, Whiskers followed Gary to a shady grove filled with giant candyflowers. There, Gary pulled out a tiny pack of colorful, soft diapers that he magically created from gummy goodness. "These are specially made for kittens who need extra coziness for their naps!" he said with a cheerful grin. Whiskers giggled, her little tail flicking with delight. "Oh, that sounds fun! But are they really necessary?" Gary nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely! They will keep you snug while you dream of chasing butterflies!" With a playful smile, Gary carefully helped Whiskers into one of the diapers. It was snug but comfortable, and the pastel colors matched her fur perfectly. Whiskers couldn't help but feel like the cutest kitten in all of Sweetopia. After getting all cozy, they snuggled into a soft bed of cottony flowers. The sun filtered through the leaves, wrapping them in warmth as they dozed off. Whiskers dreamed of adventurous escapades, hopping through fields of candy and cuddling with the fluffy clouds. However, after a peaceful nap, Whiskers gradually stirred awake. A warm breeze wafted through the grove, but something felt a little off. As she stretched, she realized she needed a change! Her little tummy grumbled in agreement. "Um, Gary?" she chirped, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I think I need some help!" Gary, who had just awoken from his own sweet dreams, looked over with concern. "Oh no! Did the diaper not hold up during the nap?" Whiskers nodded sheepishly, her ears flattening against her head. "It seems I had a little accident." With a quick bounce, Gary was up and at her side. "Don't worry, Whiskers! I’ve got this!" he assured her, his gummy fingers ready for the task. Carefully and gently, he helped her out of the colorful diaper and into a fresh one, all while telling fun stories to keep Whiskers smiling. Once the change was complete, they both burst into giggles. Whiskers felt so much better and thanked Gary for being such a great friend. "You really are the best gummy bear ever!" she exclaimed. With Whiskers all cozy again, the two friends decided to continue their playful day, hopping through the fields, spreading giggles, and sharing sweet adventures, knowing they could always count on each other for fun and a little extra help when needed. And so, the adorable kitten and the jolly gummy bear lived happily ever after in their candy-coated world, creating memories that would last a lifetime.

So what am I wearing? I have to admit, it's rather embarrassing. Let me see if I can take you through this, outside in. I'm lucky today. I'm not wearing a bonnet. Instead my hair, cut short and curled in a tight perm, dyed a natural looking ginger, is entirely visible. It's almost a relief, the previous pigtails with satin pink bows was humiliating in its childishness, yet those have gone because they just weren't sufficiently infantile. Instead I have what adults would describe as a fascinator. It's a big artificial flower, yellow petals around a golden centre, entirely out of proportion for my head. But that's the point. Big flower, little girl. My face is devoid of make-up. From their logic this makes sense; babies don't wear make-up. Strange that their logic doesn't extend to surgery. I can't escape my puffed out cheeks, unusually round eyes, a pudgy cuteness I thought I'd left long behind yet have had returned to me by their command. Not that all of it is visible, my missing teeth hidden from sight by the protective panel of a large pacifier which also kept from view my lips and its own intrusion into my mouth. That is evident through my unavoidable suckling, my mouth reacting instinctively to its invader, inappropriately seeking comfort. That makes me want to scream but I can't. Not the effective nature of the gag forced onto me. Instead the bitter twisted truth that it's working, giving me comfort against my own desires. I need that comfort. The corduroy pinafore dress is stylish in its own way, a mid-thigh a-line version could be sexy and attractive. Mine is a-line but not mid-thigh, the flair not accentuating adult curves but exposing what's worn beneath. I can't stay modest in this and yet what I'm wearing beneath it makes modesty irrelevant. Nobody can see anything anyway. Not that this helps. An adult version of my dress wouldn't have the ruffled hem, especially wouldn't have the ruffles on the straps over my shoulders. It definitely wouldn't have those straps fastened with invisible locks. Nobody could see those, couldn't tell I was trapped in this costume, wouldn't know I was imprisoned and unable to escape. But if they could they'd probably approve, appreciate the subtle control over me, admire my subjugation and forced acceptance of this childish attire. Breaking my promise to go outside-in, let me skip ahead a little. A pinafore on a grown woman is a choice of modesty, mature breasts forcing the front panel out, the layers below the only differentiator between demure sensuality and brazen sexuality. I'd lost that option, a forced double-masectomy giving me the flat chest of a man. Or a baby. It meant the onesie I wore wasn't feminine in nature. It didn't soften womanly curves, it hid a gender neutral shape, my female identity lost in androgyneity. Babies' gender is defined by their clothing, not physical characteristics. My clothing was appropriate for a girl, my matching body parts merely a hidden confirmation. The onesie was functional, its design suited for easy care of a baby rather than showing off its wearer. Plain white, to avoid clashing with the dark purple pinafore, its primary features were the poppers. They held together the seams at the shoulders, easy to undo, allowing removal without pulling the whole garment over the wearer's head. Shamefully this was a feature I welcomed. Too often those poppers or their functionally equivalent alternatives on other onesies ('envelope' shoulders) had saved me, the lower part of what I was wearing something I wanted nowhere near my face. The shame wasn't in the clothing, it was what my body had done to it, against my will. There were more poppers at the bottom of the onesie, these ones between my legs. Ideally these were undone to dress or undress me, and today they were hidden entirely from view. That was because of my tights. Sleek nylon slimming my legs and making them look longer was for a long time a chosen part of how I dressed, but not what I was wearing now. Knitted tights were warm and functional, and with a cartoon motif knitted into the bottom were humiliatingly infantile. My pinafore was no help, rarely covering my bottom and its supposedly cute display. Never when someone lifted it from behind to show off my tights, let others take delight in my belittlement. That degrading view was broad and visible, the motif on the tights not distorted by the curve of my hips. It was instead presented on a platform from below, provided by the extremely thick clothing I wore beneath. Thick flexible plastic over layers of bamboo gauze or a thin waterproof layer over superabsorbent polymers held in place by cotton fluff, invariably I was always trapped in a thirsty layer of protection. Today it felt like several layers of cloth, held in place by old school pins. I wasn't sure what kept moisture from soiling my clothing, my interest in such matters diminished by countless changes, all options leading to personal discomfort soon after being changed. Which raises of course the question of why I would tolerate this. Why would I submit to such a debasement, the discomfort of soiling myself, the risk of contaminating my clothing, the mockery of those around me. The last thing I wore gave me no choice, the mittens taunting me by not even being locked in place. Indeed, the locks on my pinafore were themselves a vicious tease. I couldn't use my hands, could curl and tense my fingers and thumbs as much as I wished; I couldn't use them to grip anything, remove the mittens restricting their use, apply them to my other clothes or the straps holding me into the seat I was trapped in. That seat came with restraints, holding me in place, forcing me to accept the gentle rocking motion whenever anybody pulled it down and released it. At least my tights were hidden while I was sat here, even if it meant I had to sit in whatever I'd done to that soft padding beneath them. I found relief in that, my choices taken away, no guilt in succumbing to what was inevitable. Which was perhaps the point. I didn't need the mittens, the locks, the restraints. They all took away agency, gave me mental release from my situation, made me a victim and not the instigator of my pathetic state. Which meant I could enjoy it, take secret pleasure in the blushes caused by the taunts, welcome the gentle cleansing of my own abasement. My clothing doesn't dictate my situation or behaviour. It excuses it, gives me freedom to embrace it. Means I can welcome the person approaching, not take offence at their gentle derision, appreciate that they're going to undo those straps, pull down my tights, remove the soiled padding and make me clean and comfortable once more. I think I'll reach out with my helpless hands, invite a cuddle, maybe get a gentle kiss on my nose. They'll change me. Why would I change anything?

She frowned at him as he came into the room. "I think I smell something," he said. "Someone did a poo in my diaper," she said unhappily. He raised his eyebrows. "Someone?" "Yes." She look slightly shocked that this had happened, perhaps a little upset. "Who might have done that?" he asked. "It couldn't be the person wearing it could it?" "Nuh-uh," she said, "I'm 20 years old, why would I do that?" He smiled indulgently at her, took her hand and led her gently from the room. "It doesn't matter," he said, "Lets get you out of it anyway." The walk to the changing room was quiet, just the crinkle and squelch of a well used diaper, her face silent with bewilderment, his professionally neutral, hiding his inner thoughts. A few minutes later she wandered into the common room, smelling clean and fresh, pristine padding obvious in her walk. The orderly watched from the doorway, turned to his shift partner. "She's so cute when she waddles like that," he said, "But even more when the diaper's full." His colleague grinned back. "Well, give her a couple of hours to avoid suspicion," he suggested, "Then it's your turn." The orderly sighed happily. "I do love the ones with short term memory loss."

Big welcome hugs Gummybear, and story readers here are in for a treat!

This was only meant to be a three sentence story to start with, no plans to write anything more.

I opened the door, and stood there. He looked me up and down, and grinned. Clearly he liked my short skirt, a Japanese school type design, or perhaps it was my t-shirt, the low scooped neck revealing just a little cleavage. Maybe it was the picture on it, a happy looking girl dressed very similarly but with a diaper peeking out from her skirt, or possibly the writing below that. "Daddy's Girl." "Cute," he said, his grin widening. "No," I said, "This is cute." I lifted the hem of my skirt, showed him the thick disposable diaper I was wearing underneath. His eyebrows raised, and his smile broadened. "Kinky." "No," I said, "This is kinky." I held my skirt clear of the diaper and let him see it start to discolour as I relieved the pressure on my bladder. I didn't need to force it, and he watched in rapt fascination as visible dampness rose up the inside of the waterproof covering for over half a minute. "That's just perverted," he said, wonder in his voice. "No," I said, "This is perverted." I swivelled around, letting my skirt drop down to my thighs, hiding the wetness in my diaper. Instead I lifted it at the back, and let him watch as it started to swell from within. I twisted my shoulders, turned my head to watch him watching me. His face was a picture, but he didn't move, didn't stop watching. "That's disgusting," he said. "No," I said, "This is disgusting." I dropped the hem of my skirt and instead pulled at its waistband. My fingers hooked in behind that, and into the back of my diaper. I pulled them both away from my skin. The smell was immediately obvious; I was glad he couldn't see my reaction to it, and didn't doubt his was at least as bad. The groan I heard from him certainly suggested that. "That's just abusive," he told me. "No," I said, "This is abusive." I nodded to the three men that had walked up behind him while I was distracting him. They grabbed him from behind, two of them pinning him to the ground while the third cut off his clothing, the knife scaring him into submission. They quickly dressed him again, larger versions of my skirt and top, the picture and words on his still showing Daddy's Girl. When one of them used a hand to push his penis down between his legs as they brought the front of a thick diaper up and over it, he finally spoke again. More of a scream. "This is rape!" "No," I said, in amazement that he hadn't already learned. I winked at the men holding him down, and closed my door. As the screaming suddenly became muffled I waddled away from the door. All I'd wanted was an apology, and now I needed a change instead. As I got everything ready I thought to prepare a second clean diaper too. He'd be needing that, afterwards, and many more. Until I got my apology at least, but maybe the guys would like their new toy, want to keep him. He might even like it. I did, even when I had to be patient. I sat down and wriggled in my soiled diaper, waited for them to finish, to come and change me.

I'm sorry, your reply has confused me. There's no coercion here, no pay to play and I'd class this as fiction rather than fantasy. Also no consent, which does help make it dark, but you should see what I do to the first person narrator in some of my other works. This is nothing.

He sneered at me, and his voice carried contempt too. "Really?" he asked, "Accusing men of manspreading is so 2015." I retained control, didn't roll my eyes. Didn't raise my voice. Didn't step up and kick him right between those wide spread thighs. "Interesting that you use that term," is all I said, "I didn't. I just asked you not to sit opposite me with your knees wider than a desperate whore's." I hadn't said that to him originally either, but he took it well. "Well why not," he said, "I'm open for business too." "So why wave your crotch at me?" I asked. "I'm hardly going to step between your thighs and stick something inside you. You'll need a man for that." He actually brought his legs closer together at that, but only so he could lean forward, speak to me from closer across the aisle. "I'm sat down, lady, I figured you'd want a wide stable platform as you wrapped your legs around me." What could I say to that? "You'd like that would you?" He smirked, cocksure in so many ways, nodded at me and leaned back again, his knees moving further apart as he did. "Sure, you look.. experienced. We could have some fun together." I was flattered, but not enough. I played it shy though, allowed myself to blush, lower my gaze a little, look up at him through my eyelashes. "This is my stop," I said, standing up. I wriggled my hips a little as I got off the train, and it did the trick. He followed, subtly at first then with long strides catching up with me. I held out an arm and he took it in his, a right proper gentleman. He tried small talk with me on the short walk back home. I shushed him, no need to get to know each other. As we entered my house I showed him into the lounge, invited him to take a seat, walked into the kitchen. Moments later I joined him, handed him an open bottle of beer, expensive lager. My glass of wine went on the table, a cup mat that I made sure he saw me use. He got the hint, put his beer on one too. Good boy, but too late now. "Enjoy that beer while I change into something more comfortable," I told him. Corny old lines still work, especially that one, in that situation. That was always a promise. I was back quickly, my drab leggings and tunic top gone, a tasteful camisole top showing my bra, a short skirt fluffed out by petticoats flashing the top of the hold-ups I'd quickly pulled on. I'd skipped the heels, they would've come straight off again anyway. I struck a pose in the doorway. He took his bottle from his mouth, looked up, smiled, let his eyes take it all in. I wasn't in my prime any more but he wasn't complaining, patted the seat beside him. "Well hello sexy, why don't you come and sit here." Corny old lines still work, but not that one. I walked towards him but sat opposite, a reprise of our roles on the train. This time as I sat down I spread my knees, a little at first, widening as he watched. He wasn't watching them, or my thighs, but where those met, hidden behind the fluffy skirt that was long enough to drape down between them. I coughed gently, and he looked up, didn't even have the grace to acknowledge his inappropriate focus. Maybe he felt it appropriate. "I couldn't help it," I said, "couldn't keep my thighs together either." He grinned at that, put his beer on the table - on a cup mat, I was glad to see - and stood up. I grinned as he fell back down, his legs giving way beneath him. If he'd been a girl he'd have known better than to drink a beer someone else opened, that he hadn't been in control of. The joy of date rape drugs is that nobody can remember what happened. He wouldn't remember coming to my house, or me stripping him naked. I didn't have trousers in his size and his no longer fit, no over the thick diaper I'd put him in. That was what I'd changed into, why I couldn't close my thighs, and why he couldn't now close his. I couldn't send him out like that though so he got one of my old skirts, just as fluffed out by petticoats as my own, but instead of hold-ups I put him in a pair of dainty lace topped nylon socks. Annoyingly his legs looked great in those, the skirt too short to hide them. Good job I'd shaved them, and that wasn't all I'd shaved. He wouldn't want nasty hair making cleaning himself harder. He'd need to clean himself too. I told him to speak up if he didn't want the enema but he said nothing. Unconscious people tend to be quiet, but I did ask. Unconscious people don't fight an enema either, even one as large as his. Getting him back to the train was a challenge, a friend helping out, trying not to giggle the whole time. "Drunk," we explained to the only person that queried us, disgust in our voice. They didn't challenge that, a man in a short skirt and dainty socks with bright red lipstick could be easily believed to lack personal control. I'd done his lips too. He'd surely want to look his best on the train. We left him sat there, the diaper forcing his thighs apart, the skirt carefully arranged to not drape between them, his thick diaper clearly on show. Left him there, his t-shirt hiding the words written on him with a sharpie. Left him there, his head pushed back, resting on top of the seat back, his mouth open, drool escaping past those bright red lips. Left him there, to wake up, discover how we'd left him. Discover what the enema had done to him. Discover what the other passengers had done to him. Discover those words he'd be wearing for a few days. "You wanted to spread your legs. Now you have no choice. Next time we'll make it permanent." I added his photograph to my collection. One day I'd get a repeat customer; I was looking forward to that.