BabyAnna

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.

As I joined the queue in the cafe I found my eyes drawn to the bottom of the woman in front. It lacked her svelte curves, distended a little, her skirt hanging further from her legs than I’d expect. Was she.. wearing a diaper? As she glanced behind, saw my focus, she smiled. I caught her eye, smiled back, blushed. She winked and turned away. Even as I wondered how to react I noticed her reach behind, a scratching motion at her bottom, drawing her short skirt up enough to reveal her underwear. It wasn’t just padded, it was swelling before my eyes. She’d soiled herself in public, making sure I knew about it. I caught her arm, turned her to face me. I reached up and kissed her welcoming lips, our tongues teasingly probing for dominance. It was love at first shite.

This one did have a choking hazard. You can't win. So I don't play.

Being equally serious, academic analysis has found that content warnings cause unnecessary triggering and are counter-productive. Irrespective of that as an author I despise them for multiple reasons, including the blatant spoiler that would pre-emptively make the entire story pointless. See also Content Warning.

Husni looked up at the beaming face of her new Mommy and smiled back. "Cuddle!" she demanded, reaching out with her arms. Natalia couldn't resist and picked little Husni up, embracing her in a tight hug that kept going long after they'd entered the cafe. "You're just so adorable!" gushed Natalia, "I'm so lucky we found each other." Husni nestled her head against the Amazon's muscular arm but didn't reply, just enjoying the warmth and security she was feeling. They'd met literally that morning but their instant rapport, the ease with which they both adopted their new roles was entirely predictable. Indeed, the Little Portal Group were rapidly gaining a tremendous reputation entirely because of the AI algorithms that matched littles with prospective parents. It wasn't that Husni had any issues she was escaping. She just recognised the benefits and opportunities of a life of carefree abandon, someone else seeing to her every need, the chance to be loved and cherished and avoid the big decisions adult life forced upon her. Natalia would have also said she had no issues in her life, and perhaps even believed that. Indeed, had two of her friends not become mothers in the past few weeks her issues would all have been extremely mundane. Those friends gaining their first maternal experiences - one through adoption of a little, the other an actual pregnancy and childbirth - had however caused an irrevocable descent into broody desire, almost forcing Natalia into action. She'd signed up to with the Little Portal Group, wanting to take on a little that had chosen a life of dependency rather than kidnap or force a native little into a role they really didn't want, even if it was for their own good. A difficult ethical dilemna but Natalia had gone with her heart and her innate sense of fair play, and the result had been a match with Husni. The trip through the portal had been strange for Husni but not difficult, and she'd recovered quickly, marvelling at the size of the Amazons around her and how vulnerable she felt in their presence. Then Natalia had entered the room, been introduced and Husni had instantly relaxed, an instinctive perception that this was someone she could trust, be safe with. Even the inevitable first diaper had been easy. Natalia had practiced beforehand, made the experience swift and painless, treating it as a normal part of caring for, dressing and preparing Husni for the day. Husni in turn barely registered its role, the diaper not standing out against the other new clothes in which she was garbed. The matching onesie and pinafore dress were adorable and infantile, which her subconscious entirely accepted without complaint given her diminutative stature besides the Amazons around her. "She's just darling," one of them had said, with noises of agreement and appreciation from the rest of the group. "She certainly is," was Natalia's response, before thanking the Little Portal Group team and heading out into the city. "I know you want to see your new home," Natalia said to Husni as she pushed the stroller through the city, "but I haven't had breakfast yet so I thought we'd stop at a cafe on the way." Husni had smiled up at her new Mommy. These decisions were no longer hers to make and she relaxed into the freedom of just accepting what was happening around her while looking around with interest and amazement. All the cars were different, the people walking around so unbelievably large, some of them pushing a stroller just like the one she was sat in. Those contained people her size, some of them looking like pudgy child versions of the Amazons, others clearly already adult themselves but the same size, treated just like the children. Like herself. That reassured her, confirmed that she hadn't turned herself into a circus freak. Adult littles really were treated like toddlers here, kept in diapers, pushed around in strollers, dressed in cute clothes. The fascination with the world around her kept Husni distracted until they reached the cafe, and the first real chance for a cuddle. It was everything she'd anticipated, hoped for. It was everything Natalia had wanted, needed. The waitress broke the spell, drew them both back to the present. Natalia handled the questions and placed the orders, making it clear who in the relationship had control, was the decision maker. The waitress hadn't assumed anything different but Husni found it strange, not used to being a passive presence while the others around her discussed and made choices on her behalf. As though she were a child and they were adults. Husni realised that was exactly the relationship and looked up at Natalia. "I think I might love you," she said, surprised by the depth of emotion she was feeling. Natalia melted within at that, but tried to hide it from her new child. "I do love you," she said, then had to hide her own surprise that she hadn't lied, hadn't exaggerated. Somehow in just a couple of hours she'd bonded entirely with her adopted daughter, already felt that maternal need to always be there, always protect and support her child. That emotional connection survived through to food arriving. It didn't end then, the arrival of breakfast just forcing other considerations into focus. Hunger, for both of them, and the new experience of being fed; of feeding. That proved straightforward, a bottle full of warm milk easy for Natalia to offer, one arm cradling Husni and letting her use her own hands to hold it in place as she suckled. That freed Natalia's other arm, scrambled egg easy to scoop one-handed with a fork, toast eaten with fingers, offered and shared with Husni as she took a break from the bottle. The eye contact between them had to end eventually but it was a jarring interruption, loud exclamations and performance enthusiasm. Ursula had been Natalia's friend for many years and they regularly caught up for dinner or attended the same parties. Natalia hadn't yet broadcast her adoption though so Ursula had all the surprise and delight of a friend that wanted to show support and celebrate. "Is she yours?" she asked, "She's just adorable! What's her name? When did you get her? Oh, you're so.. oh!" Emotions overwhelmed Ursula, finally halting the continuous loud stream of enthusiasm. "Husni is my daughter," confirmed Natalia proudly, "She arrived just this morning - we haven't even been home yet, we popped in here for breakfast on the way back. What brings you here? I hadn't expected to meet anyone!" Ursula had explained the cafe's proximity to where she worked, the opportunity to enjoy a nice coffee while getting out of the office mid-morning, then returned the conversation to Husni. In the meantime Natalia busied herself putting Husni into the provided high-chair, using the straps to hold her in position, her inexperience as a mother making her take longer with the basic task while also going overboard with the restraints. She didn't want her new baby put at risk! Husni had found this all a shock. One moment being fed by her new Mommy, now she was being strapped into a chair, no physical contact, not part of the conversation even when she was the subject of it. "Mommy?" she said, the question inherent in her tone. "Hush baby," said Natalia, "Mommy's friend wants to know all about you. Sit there and be a good girl while I tell her how wonderful you are." Husni didn't appreciate this. "I can tell her," she said, "and we can still cuddle while you talk." "Oh, isn't she just adorable," said Ursula, "You're so lucky to have found one that wants to engage." Natalia nodded, understanding and appreciating the compliment. "You're right, I can't believe I found her," she said, "but she does need to learn that she can't be the centre of attention all the time." Natalia reached into her bag and pulled out a pacifier. For Amazon children it was a perfect size, which also made it ideal for adult littles, as Husni immediately discovered when Natalia pushed it into her mouth. She spat it out. "No!", she said firmly, perhaps a little loudly, "I'm not.." Ursula never learned what Husni was not, as Natalia used the open complaining mouth as an opportunity to put the pacifier back in. This time she twisted something on its front and Husni discovered that she could no longer spit it out, stop it quelling her complaints. "Be a good girl," admonished Natalia, "and we can talk later and I'll give you a big cuddle and then a nice warm bath for you to soak in." That did sound good but Husni hadn't yet adjusted to her new role in society. She did have feelings for Natalia, was already accepting her loss of decision making, but this felt a step too far, too soon. She reached up and tried to work out how to release the pacifier. Ursula laughed at that. "Oh, isn't she cute. Such a little rebel. You're going to have your hands full here." Natalia grinned at her friend. "You might be right," she accepted, "but gorgeous baby girls need to know how to behave." She reached over to Husni in the high-chair and gently but firmly took one of her arms, drawing it down to her legs and using a soft padded strap to hold it in place. The high-chair had been designed for littles, for keeping them secure not only from accidentally falling out but also from resisting the control their adopters legally imposed upon them. The second arm was swiftly secured, and Natalia contemplated fastening Husni's legs too. "I'll let her kick," she said to Ursula, "She'll get tired but the physical release might be what she needs." Ursula verbally gushed her admiration for Natalia's consideration, the two of them talking together and barely paying intention to Husni. It meant they missed Husni's chest convulsions as the pacifier triggered her gag reflex, induced vomitting. Husni kicked her legs in desperation, tried screaming for help, her arms tugging futilely against the unrelenting restraints. "Aww, look, she's having a tantrum." The Amazons finally noticed Husni's distress and reached across the table to each other, sharing a moment of adult unanimity. "She's still so cute when she's like this," admitted Natalia, "but I don't want to cause her distress. She just needs to learn that she can't be the centre of attention all the time." "You're so right," said Ursula, "You're going to make a marvellous Mommy. She's so lucky she has you." Natalia remembered that, forty minutes later, the paramedics telling her it was too late, all over, that her little had choked to death on her own vomit. Husni would never again be the centre of attention, had completely escaped the stresses of adult life, would forever be loved for who she was. Who she had been. Such a lucky little.

This story is complete. The lack of prologue, the absence of consequences? These are the spaces that allow imaginations to play. Why would I destroy such creativity?

Well, most readers never comment, I suspect only a subset of DD story forum users are interested in sexually explicit stories involving adults, and a very small minority of those will appreciate first person fellatio. So thank you for the kind words, and don't worry about the lack of comments. I'm not

Fellatio is a loving tender treat, a gift involving soft lips and a willing tongue, teasing, tormenting and eventually giving release to a lucky man. Getting face fucked was nothing like that. I don't know when my drink was spiked but I can guess who. I woke up when he splashed cold water on me, looked down, saw him using a small towel to dry my pubic mound. It was bare. I flinched, tried to bring my arms around to stop him touching me there. They hardly moved, pressure on my wrists, preventing me drawing them from behind my back. The movement drew his attention, made him look up, smile at me. "Ah, you're awake," he told me, as though I hadn't noticed. "Let me finish up here and we'll get you comfortable." I spoke too, in my mind. The actual sounds I made were grunts, conveying none of my words, not telling him to stop. Not asking him what he was doing or why. Not even asking why my mouth was full, and why trying to talk made my tongue sore. My tongue was sore. Another thing I hadn't noticed. The grunts might have turned to a pitiful whine. He looked at me curiously then his face cleared. "Ah, the piercing," he said. "I'll finish up and fetch you a pain killer." Piercing? What piercing? Wait, my tongue? He'd pierced my tongue? Why - and what with? Those thoughts were hidden from him, didn't distract him from what he was doing, kneeling between my widely spread legs. I hated that position, hated having him there, hated the vulnerability it made me feel. I was vulnerable too; he was fully dressed now but that wouldn't take long to change; I was just seconds away from being raped. He didn't rape me, not then. Arms under my thighs, lifting me, a hand swinging across and beneath me. He lowered my legs again, ignored my heels kicking futilely against his back. Reaching down he pulled something up around my hips, clothing of some form. Plastic covered? He was putting me in a diaper! I looked at him in confusion, my kicking paused while I tried to think through what was going on. Ok, it was clear what was going on, he was pulling the front of the diaper between my legs, using it to cover the mound he'd just shaved bare, hairless for the first time in many years. What wasn't clear was why. He spoke again, telling me why. "I," he said, pausing, emphasising himself, "control you. I control your actions, I control your whole life. You're in diapers to remind you that I control whether you even go to the toilet." He wasn't gloating, threatening, laughing, just calmly sharing how he viewed our situation. "I choose whether to change you when you're wet," he added, "I control your comfort." That didn't sound good. "Now, let's get you more comfortable," he said, and got up from between my legs. He left the room, giving me my first chance to take stock, look at where I was, how I was dressed. It was a normal living room, a couch, TV, various electronics and some shelves, books and a vase, some ornaments and a picture. I couldn't see the picture clearly from my position on the floor, turned my focus to myself. That proved quick. I was wearing a diaper and nothing else. Well, something around my wrists but I couldn't see that. I wriggled my fingers, tried to see if they could inform me but could reach whatever was there, stopping me moving my arms. I struggled to sit upright, the diaper making it strangely hard, stopping me closing my legs fully and adding a thick layer I had to overcome. He re-entered the room as I made it, walked over to me, crouched down beside me. "Good, you're sat up already. That'll help," he said. Help what? "I'm going to remove the gag," he told me, "so that you can take a pain killer. You can take the pill, wash it down with a glass of water, get a break from whatever discomfort your tongue is causing, or you can try and talk or scream or shout and get the gag straight back in. Is that clear?" I nodded. "Good. Are you going to be a good girl?" I hated him for that. Bad enough to force this situation onto me, now he wanted me to admit that doing what he wanted was 'good'. I didn't nod. "No pill then," he said, shaking his head at me. "Last chance. Are you going to be a good girl?" I blushed, closed my eyes and nodded my head. I wouldn't be helping myself by sitting here in pain but didn't want to see him enjoy his little win. His hand on my chin, holding my head steady. The sensation of something happening with my mouth, fingers brushing my lips, a tugging sensation. Cold air reaching my mouth. I closed my mouth. Swallowed the saliva that had been building up, almost gagged at the plastic taste of whatever he'd had in there. Then looked at him in shock, opened my mouth again. The gag went straight back in. He'd been ready, and my question became grunts. "Now now," he said, "You promised to be a good girl." I had, but that was before I'd tried to swallow, felt something on the top of my mouth, a stud in my tongue. I hadn't forgotten he'd pierced my tongue but feeling it was a shock nonetheless. Not least because of where I felt it. Tongue piercings are near the front of the tongue, seen teasingly when the mouth is open, a seductive promise possible by sticking your tongue out, revealing it past your teeth. I couldn't do that with this one. It was in too deep, must have been two inches along my tongue, maybe more. The confusion on my face seemed to amuse him. "Found the stud?" he asked. I nodded, wrinkled my brows in a puzzled frown at him. "It's not for show," he said, "It's for my pleasure." I thought about that, and didn't like where those thoughts took me. For him to get pleasure from that stud meant being that far into my mouth. Maybe further. I shivered. He grinned. "Let's try again," he said, pulling the gag from my mouth once more. I swallowed again but didn't try and speak, just enjoyed having my mouth closed. I opened it again as he put a pill to my lips, let him push it in. A glass held to my mouth, tilted, cool water filling my mouth. I swallowed it, the pill with it, then another mouthful. The glass was drawn away from my but I followed it, unexpected thirst needing to be satisfied. He laughed at that but brought the glass back, let me finish it. Moments later the gag was back in. I hadn't tried to speak but he didn't want to give me the chance. Instead he used my shoulders to lower me back to the floor and rolled me over onto my stomach. "That's a very cute look," he said, a firm slap on the padding covering my bottom making it clear which look he liked. It didn't hurt, physically, just the reminder of what I was wearing, what that meant. It made me think about that, made me realise my bladder was ready for release. Another thing I hadn't noticed. Not something I had time to worry about, instead trying to track what he was doing to me now. He'd reached under my shoulders, lifted my upper body off the floor and was now dragging me across the room. "There," he said, "Now, lets get you turned around." He picked up my ankles and pulled them with him as he walked around me, swivelling me on my bottom. My eyes widened as a wooden chair came into view, its seat around the height of my eyes. I looked up at him in confusion. He didn't notice, or didn't care. Maybe both. His focus was on fastening my ankles to the back legs of the chair, leaving my legs spread uncomfortably wide around its front legs. Getting the second ankle fastened made that worse, as he pulled me right up to the chair, its strange curved cut-out at the front now against my face, making me close my eyes. "Thought that might be a bit high," he said, walking around behing me. "Come on, up we go." He reached down as he said that, lifted me, and I felt him kicking something in under me. As he released me again I found it was a padded cushion that raised me higher, enough that my chin was now just above the height of the seat. I pulled my head back, looked at the chair now that I could see it better. It was a sturdy wooden chair, but with a curved cut-out in front and, I could now see, a hinged section that could swing around in front of it, leaving a hole a few inches wide in the seat at the front of the chair. I already knew the seat was the right height for someone sat on a cushion in front to rest their chin on it. Now I realised they wouldn't have a choice, if their head was placed at that height in the cut out at the centre, and the front of the chair swung into position, clipped into place. It was like a pillory, but holding the head upright rather than facing down. This would leave someone sat in that position facing the crotch of anybody sitting in it. He tugged me into position, fastened the curved wooden bar behind my neck, and sat there in front of me, his crotch brushing my nose. That was his next target, gripping it with one hand and pulling it painfully up. I opened my mouth to gasp with the pain and his other hand pushed something into it, prevented me closing it again. Obviously I tried struggling free. My ankles had a little flex, letting me change the angle of my knees, but I couldn't get them free, couldn't move away from the chair. With him sat in it I couldn't move the chair either, although with my neck in that wooden embrace I'd have had to go with it. My arms remained tied firmly behind my back, wrists together, stopping me even reaching the diaper I knew was wrapping my freshly shaved body. All I could do was watch in horror with a sense of inevitable doom as he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his flaccid penis. He reached down beside the chair and picked up another cushion, pushed it back behind him so he could comfortable sit right up against my distended jaw, allowing his penis to rest inside my unwillingly gaping mouth. I'd guessed we'd end up like this, after finding out about the piercing, but was confused anyway. He made no attempt to make me lick him, arouse him, just lifted his legs onto the table behind me, leaned back and turned on the tv. Actually sat there drinking beer, his cock in my drooling mouth, otherwise ignoring me. I tried talking to him, the thing holding my mouth open and the thing inside it preventing proper words. He didn't try and interpret them, didn't respond, just watched TV. Had another beer. That reminded me of the drink I'd had earlier, the coffee I'd had with breakfast. They'd finished with me, wanted back out, and I didn't think he'd gone to the effort of diapering me, tying me up and fastening me into this chair just to let me go to the toilet now. So yes, of course I did. I sought relief for my bladder, as that was the only thing I could control. Hot humiliation as hot liquid spread around my crotch and my bottom. Strange sensations as the padding wrapping those swelled. He must have noticed. "Have you wet yourself yet?" he asked. My blush was the only reply he needed. His response wasn't verbal, made itself known in my mouth not his, as he started to get erect. The drool had made my mouth very wet, now my tongue could taste him making it wetter, his body generating lubricant it didn't need. We sat there a while longer, the warmth down below cooling off, becoming a damp clammy feel. I wondered if he'd take it off if I asked, if he'd insist on replacing it with another diaper. At least that would be clean, dry. The football finished, he turned the TV off and turned his focus to me. "How's your diaper?" he asked, "Do you want a change?" My face must've been a picture. Disgust at having him in my mouth, distress at being in a wet diaper, desire to be taken out of it, horror at being changed into a clean one, humiliation at him knowing all those feelings and not wanting to show them. The semi erect penis in my mouth revealed I'd shown them, and its increased rigidity told me he liked that I had those feelings, liked being able to force me to experience such humiliation. I tried to pull back, avoid choking on what was now entirely filling my mouth, tried again to bite down on it. All that did was make the piercing rub him from underneath, make my lips gently brush against the base of his shaft. He liked that, started rocking back and forth. My neck trapped in that wooden embrace stopped me moving my head away, whatever he'd put between my teeth prevented me from stopping him, and that stud in my tongue, so far back in my tongue, did its insidious job, arousing him as he thrust repeatedly into me. I sat there helpless, a plaything for his entertainment, unable to respond or react even as he put his feet back on the floor, gave him better traction for his thrusts. Now his pubic mound was bouncing off my face each thrust, his hair scant protection from what felt like being hit in the mouth every second. If being hit in the mouth included several inches of penetration and a ball sack bouncing off your chin. As his orgasm approached fortunately the thrusts were shorter even as they were quicker. My drool kept him sliding easily between my lips and the painful bumps from his crotch had pretty much stopped now. The weird sensation of him rubbing against the piercing had not, was intensified, made me realise how effective it was - at both its jobs. It was there to arouse him, and it was doing just that, but that meant me being penetrated, humiliated, taking him deep into my mouth, and I was doing that, whether I wanted to or not. Maybe in other circumstances I'd have wanted to. Give him a blow job, but with me in control. I wasn't in control here, I was his fuck toy, and he was face fucking me now with increasing pace. In a blow job you can control when orgasm happens. I had no control here, knew it was imminent but not when, was breathing in at just the wrong moment. I choked, spluttered, my mouth suddenly full of a thick salty taste, and the drool dripping down my chin was suddenly joined by another liquid - and not just my tears which had finally come, at the moment he did. A couple more thrusts and he stopped, leaned back in the chair, his breathing calming as his penis softened. It was still in my mouth, occasional little pulses, more liquid that I didn't want on my tongue. I just sat there, staring at the pubic hair that had been my sole vista for over an hour now, hot with anger and frustration at my helplessness and feelings of humiliation. I didn't move; couldn't move, couldn't talk, my mouth still gaping and plugged. A minute later he finally spoke. "Ah, that's better," he said, "my bladder is bursting and I was never going to be able to go with an erection like that." I looked up in panic. Was he planning to..? No. He was getting up instead, his penis sliding from my mouth, leaving a trail of stickiness down my chin and on the seat of the chair before he stepped over me, dragging it up my face and across my hair. I shook with rage at this treatment, on top of everything else he'd done, but he ignored me, took the hateful device from my mouth and I could finally close it, swallow all that drool, everything else in there. While I was doing that he was unfastening my ankles, then released my neck from its restraint. I would've collapsed then, fallen backwards onto my bound arms, but he was stood there, held me up. Reached below my arms and pulled me upright, held me steady until I'd got me feet below me, remembered how they work, fought through the pain of blood flow returning to them and finally stood up without needing his help. He was taller than me, my head reaching only his shoulders. That made his next action easier, one arm wrapped around me, just below my shoulders, the other pulling the front of my cold sodden diaper out so he could flop his still wet penis over the top, dangling down from my belly button into the diaper. I knew what he was about to do before he did it but that didn't lessen the shame. As his hot urine soaked my skin, made my newly shaved area sting, caused the diaper to swell further I wept in raw distress. He'd pierced my tongue, pierced my mouth; now he was piercing my dignity. The emotion overwhelmed me and as I rested my head against his shoulder I finally allowed him his well earned victory, needing his strength to hold my collapsing body as ripple after soul searing ripple of violent orgasm flooded through me, even as he continued to flood my diaper. Later, while he was finally changing my soaking diaper, I looked up at him and asked shyly, "When's the next match?"

Thank you for devising your own brand, and it's always a delight when my stories inspire others, even if it's basically a rewrite of Supersoft Fluffies. I do though like that rather than Supersoft's faux "we're here to help the unfortunately incontinent" your brand takes a different approach. The full range of Supersoft products is detailed (in reverse chronological order) here: https://stories.annaumea.me.uk/wp/category/supersoft/

This story is complete and will not be continued.

Tonight's dinner consists of multiple courses, kicking off with a tomato stuffed tomato amuse-bouche, beetroot three ways as the appetiser followed by the fish course, a rich mackerel infused with a squid ink broth. The main event begins with an entree of beef and red cabbage teased with bacon, adorned by a rich red wine onion gravy, with a reprise of venison. Paying homage to French traditions the vegetables will follow as a separate course, with asparagus, brocolli and a green olive oil spinach sauce. Recognising diverse influences, the savoury course is an Asian influenced turmeric chicken with coriander rice that will inspire and impress. Diners will be invited to cleanse their palette on a brief course of blueberry muffins with stilton before launching into the dessert. Peach and mango jelly with a nectarine sorbet will be given time to settle before you're presented with caramel toffee bananas served on a firm Devon custard base. To finish white chocolate cheesecake with vanilla ice cream will fill any remaining gaps, leaving our lucky few enjoying a small tot of gold leaf vodka that will assure a sparkly end to their next rainbow expulsion.

The cultists filed silently in, faces shadowed by their hoods, the flickering candle providing light enough only to find and sit in a chair. The High Priestess stood up, her velvet gown sending shivers down the spine of the younger, more impressionable cult members. She glared around the dark room, then spoke in a commanding tone. "Do we have the Sacrificial Diaper?" One of the cultists waved something at her, the candle showing what could well be a diaper, one side glistening as the light caught it. The High Priestess nodded approvingly. "And the Spaghetti?" Another cultist stood up, a deep male voice confirming, "I have the Spaghetti." The High Priestess smiled. "Then we may begin." She turned and jumped up to sit on the table, lying back and reaching above her head. The cultists grasped her arms and gently drew her towards the centre of the table. Two of them lifted an ankle each, raising them high above her waist, her gown falling to her hips and revealing her nakedness beneath. Other cultists lifted her hips from the table and the diaper was placed below her then, as she was lowered onto it, brought between her legs and taped closed, snuggly sealing her in waterproofed padding. "What next?" she heard someone ask in a loud whisper, and hid her sigh. "Now we put the Spaghetti in her diaper, make her squish around a bit and it summons the Great Tentacled One," explained one of the other cultists. Carefully the High Priestess was pulled back to the end of the table, helped to her feet and held in a cruciform position. A cultist either side kept her hands out horizontally, another lifted her gown to her waist, revealing the diaper. This was pulled away from her belly button, leaving an opening at the top into which Spaghetti was poured by the one that had brought it. The gown was released, allowed to fall down over the diaper. The cultists holding the High Priestess' arms guided her onto her seat, and they watched with bated breath as she writhed and squirmed upon it. Even in the dim light of the candle there was obvious shock on the faces of the cultists as a loud and terrible noise filled the chamber. The High Priestess gasped, her hands flying towards her crotch and one of the cultists yelled out jubilantly. "The Tentacle Great One approaches! Hear his footsteps. Now we shall be judged!" The High Priestess stopped moving and glared at him. "No, you bloody fool," she said, "That was the Spaghetti." She stood up, noisily, and turned to face the cultist that had brought it, that had thrust it into her diaper. "You were supposed to cook it first!"

It's the third entry in the Decadence Trilogy.