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Alive is 13 years old and is going to spend the summer with her grandmother.

A Summer with Christina By Meeseeks88 This is a story of fiction and fantasy. Chapter 1 – A New Start At the age of twenty-one, I had finally moved out of my parent’s house and into my own place. It felt great that I could finally be independent and not have to live under the same roof as my Mum and Dad. Even better was the fact that Summer had finally arrived and I had two weeks off work. Everything was falling into place nicely. However, there was a particular reason as to why I was so excited to be finally living on my own. Most people probably wouldn’t understand but I’d had an obsession with nappies for as long as I can remember. I don’t really remember wearing them as a baby but when I was six-years-old, I had a little bed wetting issue. My parents decided the best thing was to keep me in nappies at bedtime. I remembered kicking and screaming about it at the time but as the nights went on, I began to embrace them and enjoyed the comfort and protection that they gave me. After a week or two, I stopped wetting the bed and have never worn a nappy since. As I grew older, I would always get a little excited seeing young mothers changing their babies or seeing a diaper commercial on the TV. Even someone mentioning nappies during a conversation was enough make me feel all giddy inside. The feeling never seemed to leave me. I had always dreamed of wearing nappies again but could never do it whilst living at home. But now that I had my independence, I was finally free to embrace my desire. I had been planning it for weeks and weeks. There was a pharmacy about a twenty-minute walk away from me. I had been there not so long ago with my mother to pick up a few toiletries for my new flat. However, as we had been going up and down the aisles…I saw them. Right at the end of the ‘Incontinence’ aisle was a large stack of adult nappies. I remember my heart racing with excitement at just the sight of them. I knew right then and there that one day I would return. As it turned out, that day was today. I had been waiting for this day for so long. I eagerly got dressed that morning and skipped breakfast. I grabbed my backpack that I used for my job and headed out of the door. The sky was grey and it looked as if it was going to rain. I had made the mistake of dressing for the summer and was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. That wasn’t going to stop me though and I set off. The thought of wearing a nappy had my mind racing. I was finally going to be reunited with that feeling of comfort and embrace that I had experienced all those years ago. Usually, it would take twenty minutes to reach the pharmacy but I’m fairly sure I did it in half that time due to the excitement. As my destination grew nearer and nearer, I felt my palms begin to sweat and my heart beginning to beat a little bit faster. I had finally arrived and was ready to fulfil my desire. I took a deep breath and walked inside. Chapter 2 – Christina The pharmacy wasn’t that busy but there were enough people around to help me blend in. I tried to act as natural as I could and began my journey to the ‘Incontinence’ aisle. As I got closer, it seemed to get busier and I started to wonder if I could actually go through with this. I quickly went down one of the aisles and pretended to browse the deodorant whilst I calmed my nerves. Eventually, the crowd of people seemed to disappear and I decided to take my chance. I walked a bit further down the pharmacy until once again…I saw them. A pack of medium adult nappies was staring me in the face. My heart began to race again as I was now just inches away from the thing that I had wanted more than anything. I took a quick look around to see if anybody was watching before picking up the pack and sticking it under my arm. I did my best to cover the large label that read ‘Adult Nappies’ on the front as I made my way through the pharmacy and over to the cashier. However, I saw a large queue of people standing in line, waiting to be served. Although I could feel myself trembling, I decided not to talk myself out of my purchase and quickly joined the queue. I stared at the floor and focused on my feet as they shuffled closer and closer to the cashier. After what felt like an eternity, I was finally served. I handed the adult nappies to a young gentleman who was serving. I could barely look him in the eye and pretty much threw my money at him. After paying for the nappies, I very quickly stuffed them into my backpack and made sure to zip it up as tight as I could. I had done it. I was officially the owner of some adult nappies. A big grin appeared on my face as I began to make my way towards the exit. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice call my name. ‘Hi Jake’, said the voice. I turned around to see Christina. She was my mother’s best friend and I had pretty much known her my entire life. I started to panic and could feel myself sweating. How long had she been here?’ I wondered, ‘Did she see what I had purchased?’ ‘Hi Christina’, I replied. ‘Fancy seeing you here’, she grinned. ‘Yeah’, I smiled, ‘I…er…just had to pick something up’. Technically, I wasn’t lying. ‘How is your Mum doing?’ she asked, ‘I’m hoping to pop in and see her this week’. My brain could barely take anything in. I was so focused on leaving the pharmacy that I could only answer in short sentences. ‘She’s fine’, I replied. Christina smiled, ‘well tell her I said ‘hi’. I’ll see you soon’. ‘Will do’, ‘I said and left the pharmacy as quickly as I could. Outside, it had started raining. With a twenty-minute walk ahead of me, I quickly began to make my way back home. I realised that a t-shirt and shorts may not have been the best thing to wear today. That didn’t matter though. My heart was still pounding with excitement as I felt the weight of the nappies in my backpack. I couldn’t wait to get home and try one on. As I continued walking quickly down the road, a car pulled up next to me. As the window rolled down, I saw Christina sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Hi Jake, I thought that was you’, she shouted out the window, ‘hop in and I’ll give you a ride home’. I quickly began to feel slightly nervous about what I was carrying in my backpack. ‘That’s ok’, I replied as calmly as I could, ‘I don’t mind walking’. ‘Don’t be silly’, she replied, ‘you’ll be soaking wet by the time you get home. You don’t even have a coat’. I quickly realised that I didn’t have much of a choice and so I reluctantly agreed. I got into the car and placed the backpack firmly between my knees. ‘Wow, it’s really starting to rain out there!’ she exclaimed. ‘It sure is’, I smiled, ‘thank you for giving me a ride home’. ‘It’s no problem. Your mother told me that you’d got yourself a new place all to yourself’, Christina said, ‘it’s just around the corner from my house’. ‘I hadn’t even realised’, I chuckled. ‘It’s nice to have some independence. I bet you feel like a big boy now’, she giggled. I smiled nervously. Ironically, with a pack of nappies currently in my backpack, I wasn’t exactly feeling like a ‘big boy’. Christina noticed the backpack between my knees. ‘What’s in the bag?’ she asked curiously. I quickly began to panic. ‘Oh, it’s…erm…I had a sore throat so…erm…I bought some medicine for it from the pharmacy’, I replied. I had never been a good liar and I had a feeling that Christina didn’t believe me. Regardless, she didn’t say anything and we carried on driving. After a few minutes, we were almost back at my flat. I could barely contain my excitement and knew that I would soon be wearing a nappy again for the first time. ‘Would you like to pop to my house for a quick coffee?’ asked Christina. ‘No thanks’, I quickly replied. ‘Oh, no problem’, said Christina sounding almost a little disappointed. I suddenly felt very guilty. I was aware that she lived on her own and she probably wouldn’t mind some company. After giving me a lift home, the least I could do was have a quick coffee with her. ‘Actually, a coffee sounds really nice’, I smiled. Christina smiled back at me as we drove around the corner and stopped outside her house. As we headed inside, I kept my backpack as close to my body as I could. I wanted nothing more than to rip the pack of nappies open and try one on but I knew it was going to be worth the wait. However, as Christina closed the front door behind us, I had no idea that my life was about to change. Chapter 3 – The Truth is Revealed As we walked into the living room, I was asked to take my shoes off. As I did, I noticed that on the coffee table was a children’s colouring book. Christina noticed the confusion on my face. ‘I babysit my niece sometimes’, she said, ‘she was here yesterday’. ‘Ah that explains it’, I replied chuckling, ‘I didn’t think you had any children’. Her smile quickly faded, ‘no I don’t’, she said with a hint of sadness in her voice. As she walked into the kitchen to make some coffee, I was worried that I had upset her somehow. I decided not to worry too much about it and made myself comfortable on the sofa. I put my backpack down on the floor. As I held it tightly between my feet, the urge to look at the pack of nappies became too great. I could barely contain my excitement anymore. ‘Just one little peek isn’t going to hurt’, I thought. I peered my head around the corner to make sure that Christina wasn’t close by. I leant down and slowly opened the zip. I was then greeted by the light blue package with ‘Adult Nappies’ written on the side. My heart began to beat a little faster as I placed my hand around the pack of nappies and gently squeezed it. I could feel the thick padding from the outside and was shaking with excitement knowing that I would be wearing one of them when I got home. Suddenly, Christina walked in with two cups of coffee. Panicking, I quickly zipped up my backpack. However, the backpack didn’t seem to be closing. I looked down and saw that the zip had got caught in the pack of nappies. I pulled harder but the backpack refused to close. ‘Everything alright?’ asked Christina as she saw me struggling with my backpack. ‘It’s fine’, I quickly replied as I desperately attempted to close it, ‘the zip has just got a bit stuck’. ‘Pass it here’, she smiled, ‘I’ll sort it’. ‘NO’, I shouted, taking Christina by surprise. ‘Calm down Jake’, she replied slightly shaken, ‘I was only offering to help’. ‘I’m sorry’, I said as I began frantically pulling on the pack of nappies to try and free the zip. ‘It’s ok’, replied Christina, ‘it looks as if you’ve got something caught on the…’ She suddenly stopped mid-sentence. I looked up at her to see her eyes staring down at the backpack. As I looked back down, the bright blue pack that read ‘Adult Nappies’ was now poking out of the top of the backpack for all to see. ‘Are those…nappies?’ Christina asked. ‘Um…I …erm’, I began to stammer. ‘Well, those aren’t going to help your sore throat’, she giggled before a puzzled look appeared on her face, ‘did you buy those at the pharmacy? Why did you buy nappies?’ I had no answer to give her. I suddenly felt my bottom lip begin to tremble and tears forming in my eyes. ‘Oh, it’s ok’, said Christina as she came over and put her arm around me. ‘Please don’t tell my Mum’, I said sobbing and now fearing that my secret was beginning to reveal itself. ‘Aw of course I won’t’, smiled Christina, ‘it’s nothing to be ashamed of. A friend of mine suffers from a weak bladder and wears protective underwear. I’m sure that if I told your parents, they would support you’. ‘No’, I quickly replied, I don’t have a weak bladder’. ‘Then…why did you buy a pack of adult nappies?’ Christina asked now feeling very confused. I took a deep breath and managed to get my emotions under control. I knew that there was nothing I could say now apart from the truth. ‘I…I just wanted to…try them’, I replied nervously. ‘Why on earth would you want to wear a nappy?’ exclaimed Christina. I shrugged my shoulders. ‘They just looked comfortable’, I said whilst feeling very embarrassed. Christina raised her eyebrow as she tried to understand what I was telling her. ‘So, you just want to go around wearing a nappy…like a baby?’ she asked dumbfounded. ‘I…I guess so’, I replied, ‘please don’t say anything to anyone’. Christina remained silent for a few seconds before pulling her arm away and looking at me. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone’, she replied. I sighed with relief. ‘I do have a question though’, said Christina. ‘What’s that?’ I questioned. ‘Do you actually know how to put a nappy on?’ she asked. I thought about it for a moment and realised that despite my desire to wear a nappy, I actually had no idea how to put one on. ‘I was just going to figure it out I guess’, I replied shrugging my shoulders. ‘If you don’t put it on properly then it will just fall off’, said Christina, ‘I don’t mind showing you how to do it’. My eyes widened. I suddenly felt very excited. Not only was I getting to wear a nappy again but Christina was offering to put it on me. ‘Would you like that?’ she asked as I sat there trying to control myself. I nodded nervously. She smiled and told me to wait on the sofa whilst she went into the other room. I wasn’t sure what she was doing until she returned with a padded mat and a bottle of powder. As she placed the mat on the floor, I realised that it was a changing mat. ‘It’s happening’, I thought to myself, ‘It’s finally happening!’

IAN AND VICKIE JOIN FORCES WITH A HARD BOILED PRIVATE EYE TO FOIL A GANG OF DESPERATE DIAPER THIEVES! SPATS BELMONDO Holidays are bad for business, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are the worst of them all. Especially here in the Twin Cities. It's not enough that the serial adulterers who are the mainstay of our business, cursed with the occasional twinge of conscience, opt to stay home with their families over the holidays. No, at this time of the year we also have to contend with blizzards and snowdrifts, which really ruin a wayward doctor's day, not to mention his nights. I ask you … how is the jerk supposed to interview the cream of the latest nursing school crop at a sleazy airport hotel down on the 494 Strip if the road's impassable? And even if by some miracle the highway department deigns to roll with the plows, where's he supposed to park? Leave the Volvo on a city street during a snow emergency, and you get towed. Put the BMW in the motel parking lot, and there's a fighting chance it'll still be there when the snow starts to melt sometime in March, or maybe April. Minnesota winters are not exactly predictable. No, there's no doubt about it: holidays are bad for business. Year after year, Twinkletoes and her trusty Olympus 35mm camera with its handy dandy collection of lenses and filters go their separate ways in mid-November, not to be reunited again until New Year's Eve, when things will finally start to get back to normal around here. Come early January, aggrieved wives will be storming through the door, eager to get the goods on their wayward spouses en route to a big payday in divorce court. Our paydays are somewhat more modest. Twinkletoes will cost you seventy five bucks an hour, plus expenses. Pat and I charge three hundred an hour, and we bill in six minute increments. Get the picture? Anyway, on the plus side the two of us have six weeks a year to catch up on our reading. Pat favors Playboy and Hustler. My taste runs to crossword puzzles. Anybody know a five letter Zulu word for an eland? Oh, and as for Julia? What can I say? The week before Thanksgiving is when she renews her acquaintance with the kitchen. It's an annual tradition. For six weeks, she cooks up a storm, and we all loosen our belts another notch (it's the Minnesota way). In any event, Twinkletoes is married to this really nice guy, so we'll overlook the fact that Herb Canon is a cop with more than twenty years on the force. Alas, it's impossible to overlook their winsome daughter, Priscilla. Pris is also a cop, of the campus variety, and she packs a mean right. A guy in a bar up nordeast recently called her Prissy, and she laid him out with one punch. No one paid much attention, this being a cop bar and all, and to his credit the guy got up, rubbed his jaw, apologized, and then offered to buy her a drink. She accepted graciously, and all was forgiven. He was lucky that Pris didn't break a cue stick over his skull. So here we were, Thanksgiving looming on the horizon, and nary a client in sight. Still, there were pluses, and the three of us did have reasons to be thankful. For one thing, we didn't have to worry about paying the rent because we owned the building. Our office was on the top floor-- all right, already … a second floor walk-up-- and there was a very good delicatessen down below. We shared Two with a guy selling insurance, and he had a dry cleaner's underfoot. We all did well because we were directly across the street from one of the largest hospitals in the state. Desperate nurses made periodic forays to the deli, the weekly pastrami on rye an antidote to what passed for food in the hospital cafeteria. The dry cleaners specialized in blood, vomit and assorted gore. The insurance guy did a booming business writing policies for the boats tied up along the St. Croix, including the houseboats that a small troop of physicians used for extracurricular activities all year round. And of course the soon to be ex-wives, most of them nurses past and present, were the mainstay of our own thriving concern. Julia got the goods with her trusty Olympus, and we nailed the cheaters to the proverbial courthouse wall. Over the years, from Stillwater to Prescott, many a houseboat title had changed hands thanks to our diligent efforts. In our experience, long suffering wives definitely had a thing for houseboats. To make a long story short, we were just marking time when the door opened and the Incredible Hulk filled our line of sight. It took the Hulk a few moments to figure out that he needed to do the sideways shuffle, or remain forever condemned to stand in the hallway. The sharpest stick in the bunch the Hulk definitely was not, and his jacket was at least two sizes too small. Still, the cannon that he was packing in a shoulder holster looked like a good fit for his hulk like hands. The second guy through the door was a celebrity, although not one whom we had had the honor of representing in court. In fairness, though, Spats Belmondo tended to favor extralegal solutions for his more pressing problems. You could buy a lot of lead for three hundred bucks an hour. “You want I should frisk them, Boss? Maybe look for a wire?” “Fuhgeddaboudit, Walley; deese guys ain't wearing no wires … not in their own office. Besides, dey didn't know we was comin'.” “Right on both counts, Spats … right on both counts. But what gives with the muscle?” I was nodding at the Hulk; a third fellow was now standing just inside the door. Short and wiry, wearing a fedora with the brow too low, he was sporting a mustache that looked like an oil slick. The black shirt and white tie were straight out of Hollywood. The guy couldn't pull off Bogart, but maybe he was going for Alan Ladd. “I mean, seriously. You've got a walleye on the payroll? Since when did the gorillas get shoved to the curb?” “Ha, ha; very funny, shamus. I like your sense of humor.” Spats settled into a chair on the opposite side of the desk and crossed his right leg. He studied the shine on his shoe, pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and flicked an imaginary piece of dust aside. “Julia's the shamus, Spats; I'm a mouthpiece, and my esteemed associate here is a legal eagle.” Pat had set the latest issue of Hustler aside, reluctantly joining the conversation. “It speaks,” Spats laughed. “For a moment dere, I thought yous was a potted plant!” The two bodyguards laughed politely. “Twinkletoes I get,” Spats continued, “but what's with Aardvark and Platypus? Those your real names?” “Andrew Jones and Pat Smith at your service,” I said. “Aardvark puts us first in the phone book, and I have absolutely no idea how Platypus came about. Pat, you remember?” “I was drunk at the time. I don't remember a damned thing.” “Smith and Jones? Jeez … yous was right to scratch 'em off the list. Smith and Wesson? Yeah, now that I could see.” The Hulk and his oily friend once again laughed politely. “To business,” Spats announced as he slapped his hands firmly on my desk. “I wanna hire da Twinkie to help me out with a lidda problem.” “Seventy-five dollars an hour, plus expenses, with a retainer of five hundred samolies, payable in advance and in cash.” I was not big on beating around the bush. Spats snapped his fingers, and the oil can stepped forward. He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to the mobster. Spats casually threw it on the desk. “Dere's a G in dere; if the Twinkster needs more, have her call this number ...” Spats slid a business card across the desk. “Lullaby Adult Diaper Service?” I stared at him blankly. “One of my more profitable enterprises,” Spats smirked. “We supply all dah nursing homes in the Cities, and we even got regular joes as customers. Why, we even got us a university guy, a regular war hero who got shot to pieces over there.” Spats nodded vaguely in the general direction of the Pacific coast. “Makes us look real classy.” “You mean Viet Nam?” “Yeah … maybe … hell, I don't know. We're fightin' so many wars in so many places … who can keep track?” “You have a point. And with whom at your diaper service are we supposed to speak?” “My niece, Harriet. Nicolo's little girl, only she's all grown up now. She fronts dah whole operation, and she runs a real tight ship.” “Ah,” I said, the truth dawning as I looked more closely at the card. “Miss Harriet Belmondo.” Fingering the card, I leaned forward, just a fellow conspirator trying to get an update. “So, what's the play, Spats? How can we help?” “Somebody's stealing my diapers,” Spats growled. . . . . “No, Ian, really … there's no need to apologize. Many of our individual customers suspend service for a week or two, especially during the holidays. If you're going out of town for a family gathering, you can't very well carry a diaper pail on the plane with you.” Sitting at an adjoining desk, Francine Sullivan could hear the young professor's voice through the phone, but she could not make out what he was saying. Still, it was easy enough to fill in the blanks. “No, no, there's no inconvenience. Your service is on Wednesday; giving us notice two days in advance is more than enough time. Can you call Monday next to confirm resumption of service?" More mumbling on the line. “That's a good idea. Give me a number next Monday, and I'll adjust your order. No sense in paying for three dozen if you will only need two. How's your car doing? Still down for the count?” Mumble, mumble. “It must be so hard for you, this being your first winter. And I got used to you driving out here on Wednesday afternoons to process your order in person. Do you realize that you are the only customer I've ever met? Everybody else is just a name, address and telephone number in the files.” Mumble. “No! I appreciate how embarrassing it was for you to leave two bags of dirty diapers sitting in the hallway all day long when you left for work, where your neighbors couldn't help but see them. And then there's our brightly colored delivery truck pulling into the parking lot of an adults only complex. None of this could have been easy for you, so I was happy to help.” Ian started to mumble yet again, but Harriet cut him off. “No, Ian, it's never been an inconvenience, and please, stop apologizing for the day you came in just as we were closing. It's not every day that a guy apologizes for something so trivial by taking a hungry gal out to dinner! And my offer still stands. I can drive down on Wednesday nights after you get home from work, and do the pick up and drop off in person. I would be barely going out of my way, so it would really be no trouble at all. So, will you at least think about it?” One last mumble. “You will? That's great! Enjoy Thanksgiving!” Harriet hung up the phone with a long sigh. “Not going out of your way?' Francine had a very knowing grin. “Harry, you live on Lake Minnetonka, and he's down in Bloomington, which, the last time I looked, is half way to Iowa! The two of you are barely in the same time zone!” “I know, I know, but what can I say? He told my uncle that the tagliatelle was to die for, and the gnocchi the best he's ever eaten. He praised the wine list, raved about the Valpolicella … and he did all this in Italian so polished that my uncle mistook him for an aristocrat from Milan or the lake district. He even tore up the bill-- and Rudy never comps anybody for anything! It was the best date I've ever had!” “Someone's got a crush … nah de nah de nah nah,” Francine teased. “But he's not Italian, he's not Catholic, and he not only wears diapers and pees in them … he poops in them! Sorry, Harry, but this guy is definitely a no-no. Your uncle would have a fit if he found out about your date, and you can count your lucky stars that Rudy chose to keep his lip zipped.” “I know, Francie; I know. But a girl's entitled to the odd fantasy, isn't she? And you don't know what it's like! Every, single Sunday after Mass, Ariana rubs it in … 'you're twenty-six and still no husband? My Francesca is your age, and she's expecting her third bambino any day now'. I am so sick of it!” “Shitty diapers,” Francine countered. She knew that Harriet needed to get out more, but being a Belmondo was a social curse as well as a financial blessing. No one wanted to date a notorious gangster's favorite niece-- at least, no one respectable. “True, and believe me … I've peeked into his dirty diapers. Yuk!!! But you forgot something. Ian's a professore! Uncle Vinnie would kill to have a professor in the family!” . . . . “I can't believe how easy it is to rip these people off,” Cindy crowed. “I mean … seriously? The driver drops off bags of clean diapers at the front door, picks up the used and walks off. He doesn't even bother to ring the bell. Who are these morons, anyway?” “The gift that keeps on giving,” Melanie laughed. “Just think. A week's worth of adult diapers for one of their customers is enough to keep one of our pigeons in diapers for a week as well, and the baby diapers make wonderful stuffers! The photographs should be enough to keep them in line, but if need be, we can always up the ante by threatening to send them to class with a dozen baby diapers stuffed inside their already bulging pants!” “And I can't wait to track them down in the laundromat,” she added as she checked the mirror, making sure that one of their sisters in a trailing car would be stopping to execute the snatch and grab. “I'll be there offering to help them fold their nice, clean diapees! God, how I love humiliating these jerks!” “A pigeon here and a pigeon there,” Cindy hummed, “means easy A's in physics, chemistry, astronomy, calculus … am I leaving anything out?” “Why stop there? Beg, borrow and steal the diapers … invest a little of our own cash in lovely, pink baby pants … seduce the brainiac with a blow job, promise him real sex if he just indulges a teensy, weensy innocent little fantasy, click, click-- don't worry, dear, the photos are just to remember you by-- and then blackmail the twerp for four years to do all of our coursework! Our house ends up with the highest GPA on sorority row, and we get to spend four homework free years partying like there's no tomorrow. The frat boys will love us, especially if we get our pigeons to do their homework as well.” “And our misbegotten parents will be so thrilled when we all graduate Phi Beta Kappa!” “The ultimate bang for their tuition bucks,” Melanie concluded, watching the diaper delivery truck round the corner and ease to a stop at the next house on its route. . . . . “Give me the skinny, Spats. We looking at a B&E at the laundry? Or did somebody hijack one of your delivery trucks?” “Nah, nuttin like dat. It looks like somebody's tailing the driver. He makes the pick up an drop, an takes off. Before yous can say 'Frank sent me', somebody runs up and puts the snatch on my diapers. I want da Twinkster to find the guilty party, and den get back to me.” “No police involvement?” Spats gave me a sour look. It was eloquence itself. “Dey even ripped off Fredo's load. Can yous believe it? My brudder … my poor brudder … some asswipe stole his diapers right offa da front porch!” “How's Freddy doing these days? Getting any better?” “Nah. Dey held his head under water too long.” “Toothpick Charlie,” Pat suddenly exclaimed. “That's who he reminds me of,” he went on, nodding at the walking oil slick. “Toothpick Charlie!” “Yeah,” I said, snapping my fingers, “the resemblance is astonishing! And you, Spats; did anyone ever tell you that you look just like George Raft?” “Who?” “Spats Colombo … you know … the Windy City hood that got bumped off by Little Bonaparte down in Florida at the annual Friends of Italian Opera convention.” “I don't know nuttin bout dat. And da convention was in Vegas, not Florida. We ain't been to Florida since the Commies took Havana. Dat bearded guy ain't no friend of Italian opera.” “So, when did Fredo lose his diapees, anyway?” Spats turned to look over his shoulder. “Last Monday.” Toothpick Charlie's voice was as lugubrious as his mustache. “There has to be a gang of diaper thieves out there, because they followed the driver from stop to stop, and stole everything that wasn't nailed down.” “Dis here's Pauly, my Consigliere. He keeps an eye on things for me.” “Any chance that a rival gang is trying to muscle in on your territory, maybe another diaper service?” “Geesh! Come on guys, act yours age. If we was dealin' with a competitor, I wouldn't need da Twinkster, now would I? Geesh!” “Point well taken, Spats … point well taken.” “Wally rode shotgun on Tuesday and Wednesday.” The oil slick nodded at his companion the Hulk. Now that Spats had taken off his muzzle, Charlie seemed determined to talk us to death. “We knocked on doors, and if somebody answered, we delivered the diapers and best wishes for the holidays. But every drop where there was nobody home? On both days, they all went missing. The hit to our inventory, both baby and adult, has been significant. If we don't get our diapers back, service will be interrupted, and we'll lose customers. Can't have that, gentlemen; the diaper business is very profitable.” “What about the university guy? Was he condemned to spend Thanksgiving peeing in his pants?” “Nah. He called Harriet on Monday. He was goin' outta town or somethin', so he got no service. Unless somebody broke into his pad, his stash is safe.” “Good to know. Well, here's what we're going to do. I'll phone Julia and get her ass in gear. She'll start tomorrow. What time's your first truck roll?” “Eight sharp.” The Toothpick was obviously in command of the details. “Okay. Best guess is that she'll want to tail your driver, and see if she can spot somebody else clinging to his fender. However, at some point she'll want to drop by the shop and have a chat with Harriet. You know the drill, Spats … always look for an unhappy employee, or one down on his luck. Nine times out of ten, these capers turn out to be inside jobs.” “Good thinkin', Aardvark. I'll get Harriet on the blower, and let her know what's up. She's a good kid, and she's takin' this personally. She wants her diapers back, period, end of story.” Spats climbed to his feet, tipped his fedora, and strolled out of the room with the same casual grace that he had displayed entering it. His spats were spotless. . . . . So there we were, Pat and I, alone once more, but with an envelope stuffed with hundred dollar bills sitting quietly atop my desk. I looked over at Pat, wondering if he was also thinking that having Spats Belmondo for a client was about the stupidest thing we had ever done. Pat shrugged, picked up his copy of Hustler, and resumed reading, or looking at photos of naked ladies, whatever it was that Pat actually did when he opened the covers of one of his dirty magazines. I didn't really want to know, and so far had managed to refrain from finding out. Instead, I picked up the phone and dialed the Canon residence. It was time to let Twinkletoes know that we had a client who was rich and appreciative of her expertise. It remained to be seen whether she would be less than enthusiastic about solving the case of the missing diapers on behalf of the shadiest mobster in the Twin Cities. . . . . “We need more diapers,” Cindy summed up. “We simply do not have the resources with which to blackmail the braniacs who can make all of our academic problems go away, for the simple reason that the list of our academic shortcomings is inexhaustible. If we don't want to lose our charter, we need more diapers.” Cindy was addressing the sorority's brain trust. Trailing the diaper service truck for the first three days of Thanksgiving week had netted them a huge pile of baby diapers, but precious few of the adult variety. In fact, they only had enough to entrap three pigeons, which would nicely cover physics, chemistry and calculus, but the rest of the curriculum was a gigantic black hole eager to swallow the sorority whole. “We could all spend more time hitting the books,” Joyce suggested helpfully. “You know … reduce our exposure.” “Oh, please,” Melanie snorted. Joyce was only in the house because she was a legacy, and she was only on the Council because her older sister had been on the Council. In Melanie's opinion, Joyce Wiggins was proof positive that something had gone terribly wrong with the whole fraternity system. “Does anybody else have any bright ideas?” Cindy shared Melanie's opinion of both the fraternity system in general and Joyce Wiggins in particular. “I have a suggestion,” Tippi started to say. “Who the fuck let that cat in here,” Janis screamed. “Everybody in the house knows that I'm allergic to cat hair. And who the fuck would name a cat 'Blofeld' in the first place? That's just plain sick!” “As I was saying.” Tippi tried again. “Blofeld is an oriental shorthair, and they don't shed,” Melanie sniffed. “So, calm down, already.” “And what's with you and psychopaths, anyway? I mean, really … you boo Batman, and cheer for the Joker. You don't get Smart, but you write fan letters to Siegfried. And you name your fucking cat after the creepiest guy ever to crawl across the silver screen. And who put you in charge of this meeting, anyway?" “Actually, Cindy's in charge.” “Would anyone like to hear my idea,” Tippi asked yet again. A tall, slender, hauntingly beautiful nineteen year old blonde from New Ulm, Tippi rarely spoke up. In fact, she worked hard to stay out of the limelight. Tippi's parents had not done their daughter any favors when they named her for New Ulm's most famous export. From elementary school to university, every boy who crossed her path had asked her the same, dreary question. “Tippi has the floor,” Cindy proclaimed, pounding the table with her gavel in a bold attempt to restore order. “Laying low today was a good idea because we have to assume that whoever owns the diaper service will now have someone shadowing his delivery truck. For the same reason, we should back off tomorrow as well. Rather than trailing the truck, we should send a team to hang out at three different addresses on his route-- addresses widely spaced. If we spot one car at all three locations, we'll know what's what. Then, we get back to work on Wednesday, but we only target one drop … the large, adults only apartment complex down in Bloomington that he hit late in the afternoon two weeks ago. There'll be at least a week's worth of used diapers waiting outside somebody's door, which I am going to steal before the driver gets there. We'll stuff some dirty, old rags into the bag so that it looks and feels the same, and once he's gone, I'll also grab the clean diapers. We get two weeks worth of adult diapers in one go, and give these creeps the middle finger in the process. Then we give our pigeons enough diapers for three or four days, forcing them to visit the laundromat twice a week … for double the humiliation. We'll end up with maybe nine guys doing our coursework, and the Great Diaper Heist of 1979 will be just another unsolved crime.” “Any other ideas,” Cindy asked as she scanned the room. “No? Then we'll vote on Tippi's proposal in accordance with house rules. All in favor so signify by touching the tip of your nose with your right hand; all opposed so signify by grabbing your left ear lobe with your left hand.” Cindy once again scanned the room. “The ayes have it, and the vote is unanimous. Tippi and I will take care of business tomorrow, and on Wednesday. The rest of you get to work drawing up a target list. Finals are just a couple of weeks away, and some of us have term papers. We need to trap our pigeons this weekend, and have them in diapers by Monday next at the latest!”

Rei Takagai was a small 15 year old who stopped growing at the age of 3 due a genetic condition she was born with giving her appearance of a toddler instead of an actual teenager. Rain was now pouring down heavily and the poor girl was now starting getting wet and was desperately trying to find shelter “There…” spotting to what looked like a rundown mansion

Long time lurker. This is the first story I have written. Writing isn’t my strength, and It takes me forever to write, re-read, and rewrite. I have already written 20 chapters. I hope everyone finds this story different but interesting. This is a slow burn, but it does get into the diapers and regression. It will take a few chapters to really get into it. I can see this going for at least another 20 chapters on top of the twenty chapters already written. Chapter 1: The New Intern Avery let out a deep sigh of relief as he read the email he had just received from the biomedical technology department. He was finally being recognized for his hard work and dedication. His complex calculations and programming to demonstrate the interactions between a relatively new drug and a person's DNA had proven correct and valuable, leading to him being hired over a month ago - despite the doubt and ridicule from his colleagues. He leaned back in his chair, feeling overwhelmed with emotions. On the one hand, he was elated that his efforts were beginning to be acknowledged, but on the other hand, he felt uncertain if this would lead to further respect or more challenges from those who never believed in him. A sense of pride mixed with apprehension began to stir within him, thoughts of the potential applications of this research tumbling through his mind. Ever since Avery Sage was a little boy, he has experienced problems with keeping his pants dry. Maybe it had something to do with the car accident that claimed the lives of his parents. Perhaps the foster homes he cycled through caused him stress, or maybe he would have always had this problem. All he knew for sure was that he needed to wear protection when out in public because when he got stressed, his bladder gave way. As a result, whenever he left the security of his home, he wore pull-ups, which made him feel like a little kid and dampened his confidence. His confidence wasn't helped because he was only five foot and one inch tall for a young man. These anxieties certainly didn’t help his mental health. He suffered from depression, anxiety, and insomnia. He regularly saw a psychiatrist and was on medication, but life could still be a struggle. He thought back to his first week of work. Avery graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics and Biochemistry at the age of 18. A year later, he was offered an internship while working on his master's in Biochemistry and Genetics. Avery stepped through the doors of DNA Pharmacia, feeling equal parts nervousness and excitement. He had been preparing for this moment his whole life – the chance to finally earn some respect and prove all those who had doubted him wrong. Flashbacks filled his mind of all the running between foster care families he had endured; it had made his self-confidence falter, but nonetheless provided the motivation for him to finish high school years early and break free from the wings of his current foster family. Now was the time to show what he was made of. As Avery sat in the HR office, he wore his dress clothes for his first day, which was saying much– a little too large for his slim, small frame – but still managing to make him feel small and helpless against the world around him. People seemed to look through him everywhere he went as if he were invisible, yet he couldn't shake off the nagging sensation that all eyes were upon him. His shoulders sagged under the weight of defeat that shrouded his self-confidence. His wavery, untamed hair was combed back the best it could be. “Ok, Avery.” Julian, the HR representative, said. “You're done. You're officially an employee of DNA Pharmacia.” “I won’t let you down. I promise.” Avery smiled as he stood up and reached across the desk to shake Julian’s hand. Julian's expression was warm and encouraging as he shook Avery's hand. Julian was a tall, distinguished man in his late thirties, wearing a navy blue suit and a striped tie. His brown eyes twinkle with kindness, and he has a slight, friendly smirk while speaking to Avery. His handshake was firm but slightly frail, making Avery feel nervous that he had no idea if he could uphold such a promise. Doesn't everyone think that on their first day at work? Avery thought to himself. Julian just smiled back at him from his kind face, like he could read Avery's mind. “Great, I am hoping for good things from you. Shall I show you to your new desk and department?” Julian returned the smile. “Yes, please,” Avery followed Julian out of the room. They took two flights up in the elevator to a department called “Chemical DNA Sequencing Department.” and walked side-by-side down the long corridors of the main building. They passed glass panels on every wall and Avery marveled at how modern this building was. He watched sensors scanning vials of chemicals and equipment, feeding data into computers across the room. It was clear no money had been spared in making DNA a cutting-edge company. Every window they passed made him want to stop and ask what was happening; it all looked so exciting, and he couldn’t wait to start. All this made him forget that he secretly wore a pull-up underneath his clothes as protection was needed. It was down one of these corridors that Avery met an older man. The man had a strong jawline and sharp features, aged but wise. His eyes were a deep blue, crinkling at the corners when he smiled. His gray hair was neatly trimmed, and his beard was flecked with silver. He wore a crisp white shirt with black trousers and polished black shoes. He towered over Avery with an air of authority, yet his demeanor was warm and friendly. Avery recognized him from some of the interviews he had gone through to land this job. “Welcome! You must be our marvelous new intern. I am Bryan Wells, and you'll report directly to me! At your desk we have a laptop and a corporate iPhone with the works waiting there for you. From your resume and job interviews, my colleagues have noticed your peculiar knack for math and biochemistry, so we have an exciting task ahead for you! On your desk is a folder that outlines our challenge: debug a computational logic program that looks at DNA to determine designer drugs for fighting cancer. It's a riddle waiting to be solved - think you can do it? Report back any bugs as soon as possible, and we'd be grateful!” Bryan said cheerfully as he led Avery to his desk. “Yes, sir,” Avery replied. He would have agreed to do whatever Bryan needed. He was eager to impress. Bryan continued to talk to Avery. It was a one-sided conversation. Avery was too in awe of everything he was seeing to really contribute much. For him, this place was like a dream—top-level research with some of the smartest people in the world where his work could actually help people. Avery looked around the room. A long row of cubicles ran down one wall with a dozen or so scientists already hard at work on their projects. Avery's desk was tucked into the corner by an emergency exit. The light blue walls were sparse, containing only a few motivational posters and pictures of animals from Earth. Bryan led him to his chair and showed him how he could adjust it to fit him since the chair was probably to tall for him. Avery blushed a little but said nothing about it. Bryan reviewed with him how to log in to the server and the IT policies on using company-issued equipment. Bryan also went over where the relevant programs were located; he would review the folder with all the notes on the development of this program. “If you need anything, come to find me over there,” Bryan pointed to his private office. “The other scientists and engineers should be coming around to introduce themselves to you today.” “Ok, sounds good… And thank you for this opportunity,” Avery said as Bryan returned to his office. On that first day, he met a few scientists and a few engineers. They all seemed friendly enough, even though Avery didn’t have much to say. He wanted to just focus on the task at hand. He felt he had something to prove. Avery had been dealt a tough hand; growing up in the foster care system meant that he was constantly met with obstacles and negative comments. He was told time and again what he couldn’t do, but instead of accepting those limitations as his fate, he used them as motivation. Everyone’s doubts about him only strengthened his desire to prove them all wrong. The rest of the day was slow. Avery needed help concentrating on the program he had been asked to look at. Quite frankly, it was dull, and after seeing all the other scientists and engineers doing much more exciting things, Avery was keen to do something that felt more meaningful. This need to do something drew him to the thick handbook about all the research involved with this program and more. He was fascinated with it. Avery brought the program to his apartment that night. He abstained from indulging in his usual nightly video game escapades. Instead, he spent hours poring over the computational intricacies of DNA's involvement in cancerous growths, absorbed in deciphering the energy states of cancer cells. The realization that this program was an amalgamation of these complex calculations completely captivated him, particularly as he examined how the drug had to be manipulated to match the energy state of the cancer cells so that it would interact effectively with them. It was nothing less than astounding. As he delved deeper into the notes, he discovered a vexing inconsistency in one of the mathematical formulas that disrupted the programming and prevented it from reaching a conclusion on what drug was needed for treatment. Avery closed the notebook for the night, satisfied he knew what he could start looking at and he was glad to be out of the pull-up for the day. As he lay in bed, his mind kept running through what he had read. His insomnia medication meant he wasn’t awake for long, but even in sleep, it felt like his brain was searching through everything he had learned the previous day. The morning came too quickly as his alarm went off. “Ugh, I hate mornings,” Avery muttered as he hit the snooze button repeatedly. The alarm kept ringing, and every time it did, Avery reached out a hand and hit the snooze button again. It was an almost instinctive reaction to the annoying noise. His brain wasn’t clicking into gear. All he knew was that he wanted more sleep. At one point, as the alarm went, Avery pawed at the snooze button yet again but only ended up knocking his phone off the bedside table. “Oh shit,” He said as he looked up at the clock. It was 7:30 a.m. He was supposed to be at work at 8:00 a.m. His alarm had been going on and off since 6:00 a.m. this morning. Avery quickly removed his boxers and slipped on new pull-ups, light gray tan dockers, and a maroon golf shirt. He quickly wet down his hair and combed it back, knowing it would still look like a mess when his hair dried. Avery quickly left to grab the bus to work at 7:30 a.m. and hopefully be at work at 8:00 am. It was a rush, and Avery didn’t feel particularly ready, but as he walked out of the front door into the early morning air. He didn’t know how anyone could be a “morning person” when he always felt… tired. That morning, when Avery got to work, the first thing he did was get a large cup of coffee. Afterward, he sat down at his desk and began to take a look at the code. The code wasn’t easy to follow. It didn’t follow too much of a logical path in his mind. Two hours later, John Taylor, the most Sr, Engineer on the project and project lead, stopped by his desk. John was a 45-year-old engineer with a commanding presence and an ego to match. He stood at an imposing 6'2" and had a burly build that spoke of years of physical labor. Despite his advancing age, his muscles were still firm, and his torso remained taut, reflecting an unwavering commitment to physical fitness. Avery thought John's walk exuded confidence, each step resonating with a deliberate thud. His posture was impeccable, with his chest puffed out and his chin held high. He had a square jaw and piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore through any obstacle in their way. This made Avery very anxious to be around him. He was very much the opposite of Avery, who was dressed in a pair of tan dockers and a collared maroon shirt That he had quickly thrown on minutes before leaving the house. If someone were to judge Avery. They would say he dressed not to cause a stir and just wanted to blend in. The differences between the timid Avery and John, who exuded machismo and confidence, couldn’t have been starker. John wore an expensive suit that hugged his broad shoulders and accentuated his chiseled physique, a testament to his attention to detail and his love of the finer things in life. “Impressive work on one of my projects, huh?” John scowled as he snatched the notebook off his desk. “I wouldn't waste your time with all the irrelevant data scribbled in here. It'll do nothing but distract you.” He flicked it to the other side of his desk like an afterthought. Avery noticed John's hazel eyes were framed by creases that spoke to years of meticulous research studies and calculations. “I tried to get a grip on it, but honestly, I stumbled over the complex calculations necessary for developing designer drugs. Despite that, I was still captivated by the work yesterday." Avery sighed, not convinced of his own abilities to do this kind of research but determine to make a difference still. “Well, just weed out the bugs and get the program working. My team and I will take care of the rest.” Johns said with a condescending smile. “If you do that, you will do good here, kid!” “It’s just….” Avery started. He wanted to prove his knowledge by suggesting a change to the handbook. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” John cut Avery off with ease. Avery felt a little put out by this overconfident man. He had been hired to be equal to all the other scientists, and yet John was acting like he was somebody hired to do data entry. He knew he could make the program run better and make the handbook better; he just needed John to listen to him. “I’m just thinking that if we…” Avery tried again. “If you have any suggestions, just write them down and slip them under my door,” John said as he started walking away without looking over his shoulder. The rest of the day went on without a hitch. A few people came by and tried to introduce themselves to him, but he kept the small talk to a minimum and just wanted to look over the program. Avery took a lot of notes that day. At the end of the day, he decided to retake the notebook home and leave the laptop at the office. He left the office at 4:30 p.m. to catch the bus at 5 p.m. If he missed the bus past 6 p.m., there wouldn't be another bus till morning. He was hungrier than normal because he skipped lunch all day to work on debugging the program. He stopped by a McDonald's and ordered a Big Mac. As he stood in line, he couldn't help but notice the Happy Meals on the counter, offering small Lego kits to children. It was a cruel marketing strategy to exploit parents and make them buy more Lego sets for their already spoiled kids. He knew this well, but it only reminded him of his own childhood, one filled with deprivation and lack of affection. He watched as the children played with their toys, ignoring the food in front of them - something he would have cherished as a child. But no, he was never allowed such frivolous things growing up; his foster parents made sure to remind him how unworthy he was of such luxuries. The memory brought back painful emotions that festered deep within him.

Welcome to Mommy Anna's Diapered Storybook! Some of you may know me from my website, diaperhypnosis.com I've decided to publish full-length diaper and regression stories, for free, as a special way of giving back to our community. I'm also recording most of these stories and posting them (full-length) on my YouTube channel, so you can hear me read them there. Mommy Emma from diaperhypnosis.com will also be recording some of these stories for YouTube. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these stories and keep being the wonderful you that you are! For those who read "The Registry", this is the tale of how Sophie ended up there. (It's shorter than the main story.) For those who didn't read "The Registry", what are you waiting for? Find it here ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter One: Sophie Before the Nursery Before the diapers. Before the pacifiers and cribs and ceremony. Before she was B-F5, before she was “Mommy’s forever baby”… Sophie Allen was a woman with plans. She was twenty-eight. Quietly accomplished. A researcher at a mid-sized university’s behavioral sciences department. A specialist in social deviance patterns and emerging digital subcultures. She was admired by colleagues, well-liked by students, and always — always — a little apart. She lived alone in a neatly kept apartment with pale curtains and plants she remembered to water. She drank tea instead of coffee. She preferred nights in over nights out. And though she had friends, she could never quite bring herself to need them. Because Sophie was always good. Always in control. Always composed. Except in the quiet moments. Late at night. With the screen turned low and the door locked. That was when she let the truth emerge. Not to anyone else. Just to herself. A truth that had followed her for years. She was fascinated — compelled — by helplessness. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. She wanted to be small. To be taken. Cared for. Controlled. And deep inside her browser history, buried in private bookmarks and encrypted folders, was a secret world. She didn’t just read about it. She studied it. Lurked on forums. Observed how ABDL communities expressed identity, ritual, shame, pride, surrender. She wasn’t disgusted. She was jealous. She had never worn a diaper herself. Not yet. But the packages were already bookmarked. And part of her was waiting. Waiting for permission. By day, she taught classes on identity and behavior. She could speak fluently on power exchange, compliance, and social reinforcement. But by night, she sat with her knees pulled to her chest, staring at chat threads titled: “When did you realize you weren’t meant to be a grown-up?” “First time wetting — totally regressed. I cried.” “She tucked me in and I knew I was done pretending.” She didn’t post. Not then. But she read. And read. And read. Until she found her. The user profile was simple: @MommyBella “Loving, experienced caregiver of lost little ones. I don’t train — I keep.” The posts were long. Soothing. Commanding. Deeply maternal. She didn’t offer sessions. She offered structure. A sense that this wasn’t a game or a kink or a weekend hobby. It was a home. And Sophie messaged her. Their first conversation was short. Polite. Sophie had rehearsed it a dozen times. Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve never done anything like this before… But MommyBella didn’t laugh. She replied: You’re not bothering me, sweetheart. Lost babies always find their way home eventually. Want to tell me what’s tugging at your tummy? Sophie stared at the screen. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry. Instead, she typed: I think I want to be small. But I’m scared. The reply came seconds later. That’s a very grown-up thing to admit, baby girl. Don’t worry. You won’t be grown-up for long. Backstory Chapter Two: The First Diaper It started with a message. Are you ready to try something for me tonight, sweetheart? Just between you and Mommy? Sophie’s breath caught when she read it. Her thumb hovered over the reply button. She was curled up in bed, the room lit only by her laptop and the pale glow of the hallway light. She wore a long T-shirt, bare-legged beneath the covers. Her heart thudded in her chest. She typed back: I think so. MommyBella responded instantly. Good girl. Then I want you to go to that cart you saved last week. The one with the pull-ups and wipes and powder. Complete the order. Right now. Sophie’s throat tightened. How did she know? But of course she knew. She always knew. Sophie opened the tab she hadn’t looked at in three days. The contents were still there: a plain pink adult pull-up sample pack, unscented wipes, baby powder in a plastic bottle with a cartoon elephant on the label. She hit “checkout.” Done. Mommy replied: I’m proud of you. You took your first step. Pause. Then another message: When they arrive, you won’t just try them. You’ll wear one the way I say. You’ll message me. And you’ll tell me everything you feel. Sophie shivered under the blanket. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. The package arrived three days later. Plain brown box. Unlabeled. Sophie carried it into her apartment like it was radioactive. She left it on the table for two hours before opening it. Her hands trembled. Inside: the soft elastic of the pull-ups, the baby-scented powder, the gentle wipes. The scent alone made her knees weak. That night, she messaged Mommy. They’re here. I know, baby. I can feel it. Tonight’s your night. Are you wearing anything now? Just my pajamas. Take them off. Sit on your bed. Let me walk you through it. Sophie followed each instruction like it was gospel. She peeled off her shirt and sat on the edge of her bed, legs bare, heart pounding. Good. Now take one of your diapers and hold it in your lap. Breathe. Let it rest against your skin. What do you feel? Like I’m not supposed to. Like I’m doing something shameful. But also… like I need this. So badly. Exactly. That’s what it means to be Mommy’s girl. Good baby. Tears pricked her eyes. Now I want you to lie back, baby. Sprinkle a little powder. Just enough to make your skin soft and silly. Then slide it up between your legs. I’ll wait. Sophie lay back. The powder clung to her skin. The scent enveloped her. Her hands shook as she pulled the diaper between her thighs. It wasn’t just padding. It was a promise. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t sexy. It was infantile. The girl in the mirror wore a diaper. The girl in the mirror couldn’t go back. I’m in it. How does it feel? Like I’m not allowed to be big anymore. That’s right. You're not. You’re Mommy’s baby now. I want you to sleep in it. What if I… If you wet it? Pause. Then I’ll be so proud of you, baby girl. She lay in bed for hours, unable to sleep. The diaper hugged her hips. Every movement reminded her of it. At 2:43 a.m., she felt the pressure build in her bladder. She whimpered. She reached for the waistband… And stopped. No. Not anymore. She let go. It was slow. Warm. Utterly humiliating. And utterly right. Her cheeks burned, but her heart slowed. She drifted off with tears on her cheeks and her thumb in her mouth. She never even removed it in the morning. She just stood in front of the mirror, soaked and soft, and whispered: “…Mommy?” Backstory Chapter Three: The First Visit to the Nursery The directions were handwritten. Neat, looping script on a floral notecard, tucked inside a pale pink envelope. The return address had no name — just a wax seal shaped like a pacifier. Sophie held it in her hands for a long time. The message inside had read: You’ve done so well, baby girl. It’s time. You’re ready to be seen. Touched. Tucked. Pack only what you’re told. And come to Mommy. She had packed lightly. One soft sweater. Leggings. A pink pacifier she now kept under her pillow. Two diapers from the pack Mommy had ordered for her. A bottle of baby powder. And no underwear. Mommy had been explicit. When you arrive, I’ll check you myself. The house sat at the end of a long driveway. Not a mansion. Not a cottage. Just… warm. White trim. Rose bushes. A front porch with a wooden swing. Sophie’s ride pulled away behind her as she stood on the walkway, clutching her bag. Her heart pounded. Her stomach twisted. She almost turned around. Then the door opened. And there she was. Mommy. Real. Soft gray dress. Bare feet. Hair in a braid. The same calm strength as her messages — but now wrapped in a body, a presence, a scent. “Sophie,” she said, smiling. “You made it.” Sophie didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Mommy stepped forward and opened her arms. Sophie stepped into them and collapsed. Mommy caught her — not like a friend, not like a lover. Like a caretaker catching a toddler who finally stopped pretending she was big enough to walk alone. “There, there,” Mommy whispered. “Mommy’s got you now.” The nursery was at the back of the house. Through a soft pink hallway, past framed pictures of anonymous Littles — some smiling, some suckling bottles, some locked into cribs. It smelled faintly of lavender, talc, and something sweetly medicinal. The door was white, with one word carved into it: BABY Inside was everything Sophie had fantasized… and more. A full-sized crib with white slats and pastel bedding. A dresser with stacks of diapers in graduated thickness. A rocking chair in the corner. An open closet of onesies, rompers, bibs, bonnets. The floor was padded. The windows had lace curtains. And the scent— It made her knees weak. Mommy turned to her gently. “Strip.” Sophie hesitated. “Right now, baby.” Sophie removed her sweater. Then her leggings. She stood in front of Mommy in nothing but a training diaper — already damp from the ride — and her socks. Mommy stepped forward and cupped her chin. “Let’s see what kind of girl you are underneath all that brave silence.” She pulled back the waistband. Felt the padding. Smiled. “Already wet. Just like I hoped.” Sophie trembled. Mommy walked her slowly to the changing table. Helped her up. Laid her flat. The crinkle of the padding, the softness of the mat — it was all real now. Mommy untaped the diaper and peeled it open. Sophie whimpered. “Shhh,” Mommy cooed. “This is what babies do. Mommy changes them.” She wiped Sophie slowly. Powdered her. Then lifted a fresh diaper from the drawer. Thicker. Printed. Babyish. Sophie stared. “Legs up,” Mommy said. Sophie obeyed. The diaper slid beneath her, was tugged snugly into place, then taped tight with four confident motions. Mommy pressed the front softly and smiled. “There we go. You’re not my guest anymore.” She leaned in. “You’re my baby.” Backstory Chapter Four: Growing into Babyhood — From Both Sides From Sophie’s side… The second visit came only a week after the first. The third came the day after that. By the end of the month, Sophie wasn’t packing overnight bags anymore. She had a drawer. Then a closet space. Then a spot in the crib. Each time, she stayed a little longer. Each time, she spoke a little less. It wasn’t planned. It simply happened. It was in the way Mommy said, “Use your diaper first, then I’ll feed you.” The way she wiped Sophie’s chin with her bib, even when she didn’t need it. The way she picked her clothes, picked her meals, picked her words for her. The first time Sophie tried to say no — over a new pacifier gag she wasn’t sure about — Mommy only smiled and whispered: “No more grown-up words, remember?” Sophie had gone quiet. And never quite remembered how to speak again. She still thought, for a while. Still wondered. How long could this last? Would Mommy get tired of her? Would she ever want to be big again? But those thoughts came slower now. And softer. And soon, not at all. From Mommy’s side… She knew it by the way Sophie clung to her after each bottle. By the way she melted during her diaper changes. By the way she no longer blinked when strangers called her “the baby.” Sophie had always needed this. Mommy had only uncovered it. But now she had to protect it. No more “playdates.” No more “weekend scenes.” No more illusion of independence. Mommy bought more diapers. Built a feeding schedule. Introduced nap charts, training records, compliance scores. Sophie never noticed. But Mommy tracked everything. How many bottles per day. How long Sophie could go without crawling. How often she reacted to her own messes. When she last asked a question — a real one. Weeks passed. And one day, Mommy realized: Sophie hadn’t initiated an adult word in twelve days. Not once. She was ready. Together… They developed rituals. Morning: pacifier check, diaper change, praise. Midday: stroller ride, bib refastening, soft affirmations whispered at bottle time. Night: a lullaby, a tight swaddle, the words: “Mommy loves you. No more thoughts now.” And Sophie? She gave up her keys. Her phone. Her last pair of panties. And one afternoon, without even realizing it, she began to cry when her pacifier slipped out — not from pain, not from shame, but from pure infantile need. Mommy held her gently and whispered: “That’s it, baby. No more pretending.” Sophie sobbed into her onesie. And suckled as the world finally, fully faded away. Backstory Chapter Five: Discovering the Registry It began with a story. Sophie had just finished her second bottle of the day — thickened formula, fed slowly while lying on the nursery mat, her head cradled in Mommy’s lap — when Mommy began to speak in that warm, floating tone that always made Sophie melt. “Did you know, baby,” she said, stroking Sophie’s hair, “that some Littles get to stay like this forever?” Sophie blinked slowly, her pacifier bobbing gently between her lips. Mommy continued. “Not just when they visit Mommy. Not just for weekends. But all the time. Changed, fed, adored. Every moment of every day. No worries. No choices. No grown-up expectations.” She leaned down and kissed Sophie’s forehead. “And do you know how that’s possible, sweetheart?” Sophie gave a soft hum. A question without words. Mommy smiled. “It’s called the Registry.” That night, Sophie lay in the crib — swaddled, pacified, mittens fastened — and the word spun like stars behind her eyelids. Registry. She couldn’t ask what it was. She couldn’t speak. But the next morning, while Mommy prepared her bath, Sophie stared at the alphabet blocks on the floor and began to spell it in her head. R-E-G-I-S-T-R-Y She didn’t ask. But she wondered. It wasn’t until the following week that Mommy brought it up again. They were sitting on the couch. Sophie sat on a booster cushion between Mommy’s legs, naked except for her diaper and bib. She was sucking on a juice pop while Mommy brushed her hair. “There’s a place,” Mommy said softly, “where babies like you go when they’ve surrendered everything. A system. A sanctuary. A government-approved framework for full-time dependency.” Sophie turned her head slightly. Mommy continued brushing. “They don’t expect you to potty train. They don’t ask you to speak. They diaper you. Feed you. Cradle you. They track your progress—not toward growing up, but toward regression.” She reached down and cupped Sophie’s cheek. “And once you’re registered, little one, you never have to worry again. Not about rent. Not about taxes. Not even about words.” Sophie whimpered through her pacifier. Not in fear. But in want. That night, after Sophie had been changed and tucked in, Mommy lingered by the crib. “There’s paperwork,” she said quietly. “Forms. Evaluations. Psychological intake. But you wouldn’t handle that. I would.” She reached down and pulled the blanket up to Sophie’s chin. “You’d just drool and nod and smile for the cameras.” Sophie suckled louder. Mommy kissed her forehead. “You’d become a number, baby. A class. A barcode. You’d be scanned and sorted and classified forever.” She smiled. “And I would be listed as your legal guardian.” Over the next few days, Sophie began to notice things. A new set of files on Mommy’s desk. A clipboard with categories like “compliance thresholds” and “dependency milestones.” Labels on her diapers: B-F3 / PUBLIC BABY / UNREGISTERED A soft blue bracelet with a blank QR patch. Mommy began to murmur new phrases during changes: “Such a soggy little 34912.” “Another regression point earned.” “Almost ready to be catalogued, aren’t we?” Sophie didn’t know what the numbers meant. But part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted them to mean something. To mean she wasn’t just pretending anymore. She was preparing. Then came the morning she soiled herself mid-bottle — loudly, messily — and didn’t even blink. Mommy smiled, wiped her chin, and said: “That’s it, baby. You’re ready for your pre-screen.” Sophie didn’t know what that meant. But she cooed. And Mommy marked the day on the calendar. With a gold sticker.

Just wondering if there were any other diaper lovers around the London, Ont area. Looking for platonic friendship (m or f) to have hangs out, or game with etc... Just want to get to know people who love diapers as much as I do!

Hey. I've been a long-time lurker on this forum but now I guess it's time to write here. I'll try to summarize it but it may be a bit long: I'm a 25 year old man, diagnosed neurodivergent and I have moderate anxiety that I can manage. I've been a life-long diaper lover, for as long as I can remember. I've been battling binges and purges for the last 10 years and I can't take it anymore, this has driven me insane and I'm done repeating the same scenarios of shame over and over again. My brain is very black and white and I like things being settled, I also noticed wearing diapers at night help me tremendously to sleep better, regulate my stress and just live a better life. That's why I decided to start wearing nightly from now on with no exception (as this has created purges in the past). I'm finally living alone (after years of flat-share), my family is far away and I can support myself. I'm sure of my decision, I'm supported by my sister who knows about my wearing and really encourages me to wear consistently because she's seen the toll it's taken on my mental health to deny myself of it (she is truly the best). I'm not sure how committed I'll be to "actively" untrain to bedwet but this is definitely the end goal, I want the need to get as physical as possible so that it doesn't go away. It's something I've considered for a long while and I'm absolutely fine with it. From stents I've done in the past (up to two months), I generally start wetting in my sleep without waking up after a few weeks. It always amazed me how fast I can slip (let's see now), I've never been a bedwetter but it seems that my body adapts quickly. While being absolutely sure this is the best decision, I'm a bit scared of what others may think of me if they discover it (maybe one friend if she comes visit, or my family (my parents are not chill) if I visit them...), if that will prevent me from having a relationship (I'm gay, single and I'd love to meet someone)... but right now I'm single, don't live with family and I don't want to include imaginary scenarios, outside people in a choice that really only is about me and which is not hurting anyone nor breaking any laws. That's why I wanted to have your experience, knowledge, tips on how to accept myself as a bedwetter now that this is my new "identity" / part of myself. I really want to be happy and try being gentle with myself instead of shaming this need, for once. If this interests anyone, I can update how the bedwetting thing is evolving. Let me know!

The Calibeen saga is a series of stories - Audrey & Staycee, Lottie, and Velvet - that follow the events of a correctional reformatory, intent on making the worst people into the best. In as little as a year, patients leave the institution with a 0% reoffender rate. But how do they do it? These stories can be read in any order. Audrey & Staycee Lottie Velvet is a prequel to Audrey & Staycee that explores the creation and refinement of the Calibeen institution. Of the three stories, Velvet is the most ABDL-focused. It takes a shotgun approach: hard and fast! Diapers, hypnosis, drugs. An expansive cast of characters, a hero, a villain! Velvet tells a straightforward narrative that is easy to follow and fun to read. Actually, this is sort of uncharted territory... Pudding and I have been working on Calibeen's final installment for years, and we don't even have a rough draft yet! I'm actually hoping posting the few chapters we have complete will motivate us to finish this series. Calibeen has been our white whale for almost seven years, and we are so eager to bring it to a close. Anyway... wish us luck! Complete PDF and ePub versions are up on Patreon! Please consider supporting us! ~Sophie ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Velvet by: Sophie & Pudding 1.) Her New Home "We have a new inmate today." I was in the small staff room adjacent to the security checkpoint, sipping on poorly made coffee with a sour look on my face. Everything about our budget here was in a pinch, but that was the nature of experimental deployments. Nobody wanted to invest too much into something without a proven track-record. Things would be different once Ayla graduated the program, which she certainly would in the coming weeks, perhaps the coming days. Dr. Janick nodded in recognition of the small-talk and eyed the coffee-machine skeptically, a sandwich in one of her hands. "Alexander Duke." "Mmhmm. The Round Table Committee is curious to see how the program takes with a more troubled case. Like killing people is the worst we've dealt with? Everybody wants to kill someone sometimes. So passé." "I did read in the report that the judge was on a 50/50 split between here and Pascatero. Kids a nutjob." "Well, he won't be when we're done with him. You know when he's gonna be here?" "He's outside the checkpoint at the moment, being processed. You're taking him, right?" "Yeah, I think so. By the time he's settled in, Ayla will be out, and we'll have a new intake again, so I'll have to make sure there're no setbacks." "I heard Marlow wanted him." "He would, but he's a hack. He just wants the recognition." "Last thing we need is another Annie." I was guarded when the woman walked in the door. I sat still on the table and kicked my feet. She had a lab coat and nice shoes. But the kind of nice that could be nicer. Hm. Her hair was up. A clipboard in her hands. Taller than me, but then again, who wasn't? The orderly at my side stayed put. Like I could do anything with these handcuffs on... "Alexander Duke." There was a plastic clipboard in my hand, made from a single sheet of pink perspex — wooden clipboards were not allowed in any correctional facilities — but I didn't need to read anything on the chart. Alexander Duke had murdered every member of the grand jury, the 12 people who had been party to his brother’s incarceration. That kind of thing made the news. "I am Doctor Clement, and I'll be overseeing your entry into the program here." "...what is this place?" A hospital? A mental ward, probably. I was mandated here: experimental recovery for the mentally ill. That was all I was told. It certainly looked like a hospital. The rest of my life being fed and watching TV? It wasn't so bad. But it wasn't the rest of my life. My time was mandated between one and two years. I'd killed twelve people, and I had two years maximum in a hospital. How I'd gotten so lucky, I'd never know. "This is your home for the duration of the program." Which answered nothing at all, but there was a certain rapport that had to be built up before he'd be allowed to expect useful answers. "I can see why the judge recommended you for treatment — slight of build, below-average testosterone levels, confident demeanor. I think you'll be an excellent candidate. You're going to be here for some time, so how about we break down this formality somewhat — you may call me Colette." "I'm Alex," I said quietly, looking down at my feet. I didn't meet her gaze. I didn't act like I knew what I was doing or why I was here. I felt scared. Well, I looked like I felt scared. I was very good at acting. I swallowed hard and shuffled on the table, feeling tears well up in my eyes. "You prefer Alexander, but that's really neither here nor there — you'll be given a new designation as part of your enrollment here." He'd shown no remorse during the trial, no fear or discomfort or anything that might indicate that he had access to the fuller breadth of human interaction. The court hadn't deemed him sociopathic, but I'd certainly be curious myself. "Welcome to Project Calibeen. You will be rehabilitated and reeducated through unconventional an experimental means in effort to isolate and correct your behaviors." That all came from the marketing material, it was overly verbose and pointless. It didn't matter. In a few seconds, he'd start crying anyway. I could tell. Tears fell down my cheeks. I shook my head and tried to wipe them away with my shoulders. I tried to hide it, or pretended to try to hide it. I could hardly talk right, and when I did, I sounded so pathetic... “I… I didn't even... I don't know what happened... I used to have these blank spots... just times I didn't remember things well, and then... s-sorry... sorry... n-nevermind..." I nodded my head sympathetically, and cupped my hands together on the table, giving the boy a few precious moments of believing that what he was doing would work, before my look faded to a smirk. "Pretty baby face like yours, Alexander — that routine must work quite a lot. Don't worry, I can wait." "Wh-what...?" I looked up at her with wet eyes, but she just smiled back at me. She saw through that? But it was perfect! I sighed a little and rubbed the water out of my eyes with my shoulders. Ugh. I guess this is what I get when I'm all over the news... "Fine. I know what I did. You got me." No point keeping up this charade... I'd have to settle on a new one. "Things go a lot more smoothly here when we can trust one another, Alexander. In the end, you'e going to trust us implicitly either way, and it will go more positively for you if we find that we can trust you, early on. More privileges, less rules. Now, would you like to start this over, and we'll avoid the charades?" He wasn't anything new. I was actually kind of let down. "...yeah, sure. Can I have these handcuffs off though?" She looked at me incredulously and I rolled my eyes. "You're like a foot taller than me, and you've got Godzilla over here." I nodded to the orderly. "You really think I'm stupid enough to try to attack you? If you do, then you're the stupid one." "Not at all, Alexander. You're not in handcuffs because anybody is afraid of you — you killed with planning and the more efficient ways possible. Which meant sneaking up on people. You're clearly not anything other than a tiny little coward, so nobody is afraid of you." The male ego was the first thing to show up to a fight, and the first to fall as a result. "You're cuffed to remind you that you're no longer in control." "Of course not." Her attitude bothered me. She was... unique. Hm... "Why would I want to be in control? I'm here for help, Doctor Colette." I could see it on her name plate on the desk. Nicolette Clement. Did she not like her full name? So many questions. "So what now? How do I get better?" There was no doubt in my mind that this wouldn't be the boy’s last face he showed to me. Compliant and penitent. Did he think we were new at this? I smiled at him anyway, nodding my head slowly. "I'm going to introduce you to your fellow inmates, and appoint you a bedroom. You'll be sharing it with..." Curiously, I wondered how admin had arranged things, and flipped a few pages on the clipboard. "Annie." "Lead the way," I said with a smile. And to my delight, she did just that. I slid off the examination table as she passed and wrapped my cuffed hands around her neck. With a kick at her heels, we both fell backward onto the floor, the chain of the handcuffs choking her throat. The orderly rushed to remove me, but I kept the girl's neck tight against my chest, strangling her. "I sure would hate to be without these handcuffs," I chimed with a smile. "I might feel in control!' There was a very simple strategy that we were all taught during training for working in this program, though I'd been taught it in countless former roles as well. I went limp. I didn't struggle. The less I struggled, the easier it would be for the orderly to deal with the boy. And he did, too. Not with violence. With a shot into his neck. And just as soon as the stars appeared for me, he blacked out. "Are you okay, Doctor?" "Fine. Four-point him in the white room," the spare room that we didn't use as a bedroom, but likely would as we expanded. "Have him diapered, and give him a fluids drip. We'll try this interview again in 24 hours." A reaction. That's what I wanted. She'd learn to accept me, or she'd get hurt. The truth of the matter. I didn't care that I was left in the room alone. I didn't care that I was fastened to the bed, that I could feel myself urinate into the diaper on my waist. I wasn't hungry, because of the IV. I was content. I got her to react. Was aggressive, angry, violent Alex the Alex she wanted to deal with for the next two years? I could do that. Or she'd change her mind. Accept an easier Alex to handle. And I'd use it against her. Psychology made life so easy.

Hi, this is a one-shot story, (potential to be extended), unrelated to my previous works. If you enjoy, please consider supporting me which will aid in future endeavours. I am a young carer for a family member and am struggling financially. Support at https://buymeacoffee.com/lmlmlm1111 to help me upload more regularly. Any requests for commission (or simply story ideas), shoot me a DM, I'd love to hear from you! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sam headed over to Liam's house, excited for his sleepover. His friend had just turned thirteen, the same as him, and it was the first time Sam's mum had allowed him to stay with a friend. His feet trudged over the frosted grass, crunching with every step. Thankfully, the boy was wrapped up warm and snug, as ensured by his mother. Enough so, that the cold did not intrude upon his comfort. Liam had warned him about the fact his Mum could be slightly... overbearing... However, Sam decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she was a single Mother, so who could blame her for caring so much about her kid? Sam arrived at the white plastic door, and gave a light knock, so as not to disturb the neighbours. He waited, and waited, and waited some more. Standing out there in the cold with his grey camo fleece, and dark waterproof jacket providing ample protection from the downpour. After a while, he heard a creaking, as the door swung open. "SAMMMM!!!!" screeched Liam, standing in the doorway, with a foreboding figure looming above. The little lad's face encapsulated excitement, which vastly juxtaposed the image behind him. Liam appeared ecstatic, whilst the facial features of the giant above told a story of anticipation, slight worry, accompanied by a somewhat (as he perceived it) menacing undertone. "Hello Sammy! It's so great to finally meet Liam's new friend!" said the creature, with what appeared to Sam as feigned excitement. He didn't like the childish tone she spoke in, making him feel patronised, as most adults do to children. Sam did not respond, yet the creature drove onwards. "I'm Liam's Mum... I'm so happy you're staying with us, I'll treat you like my own!" she said, smile adorning her caring face. "Th-thanks." responded Sam, unsure how to expand. He felt a pat on his back as Liam's mother ushered both the boys inside. He noticed the reassuring pat to Liam's backside, but tried to think nothing of it. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It wasn't yet dinner time, so the two boy's decided to play some fortnite beforehand, in effort to pass the time. It was Sam's first sleepover, therefore he didn't yet know what to expect. His own Mother had forbade him from staying over at friend's houses on multiple occasions before, but figured since both boy's were recently thirteen that an exception could be made. Sam thought she was being harsh and unfair, upon multiple denied requests, however his Mother's stance was made out of care, and care alone. She'd heard stories of sleepovers, and felt a lack of control as to her sons life. A life she had crafted and nurtured, one she wished would not go awry. As the kid's gamed, Sam noticed his friends movements. Increased shifting from side to side, he simply could not sit still. It was as if a wiggle bug had infected his very being (a phrase Sam learnt from his beloved uncle). Liam wiggled and wriggled, as if something was wrong with him. His mate failed to sit still throughout their gaming session, seemingly possessed. That was until he did. Liam suddenly ceased all movement, still as a statue. Sam was sure he heard a whirring noise, however he chose to dismiss it as the old playstation causing a racket. It was a PS4, handed down by Liam's big brother, so almost an ancient relic. Following that moment, Liam stopped his jerky movements, and continued as normal. Sam forgot the incident quicky, more engrossed by the task at hand, winning their first fortnite duos! The boy's played and played for what felt like hours. In reality, it was only about an hour. Before long, Liam's Mum called them down for dinner. Fish fingers and chips, a working class british staple, Accompanying the dinner was a bowl of peas. Yucky! As the kids sprinted towards the dinner table, Liam's mum halted her son in his tracks for some unknown reason. Liam immediately stood frozen in place, like a soldier in formation. Sam noticed a swift hand movement towards Liam's crotch, his mother giving a slight squeeze... Her gaze shot towards Sam, before swiftly returning to her own son. Concern, yet secrecy, shone through those welcoming eyes. Another pat to the bum came, directing Liam towards the bathroom, and leaving Sam confused. Liam's eyes welled up slightly, and he avoided eye contact with Sam, as if he had something to hide. What exactly was Liam's mum up to...? Within a matter of minutes, Liam returned to the dinner table. Closely in trail, his mother lagged behind. Clearly the two had been up to something, however Sam daren't question exactly what the situation was. He considered questioning just what the two had been up to, yet Liam's shameful eyes prevented his lips from uttering the words to inquire. Regardless, due to the secrecy, he figured whatever the situation, it had to be peculiar. As Liam sat, he heard a slight rustling sound, something somewhat familiar. But he chose to overlook it, sensing tension building within the walls. The three of them sat together, enjoying the dinner dutifully prepared by Liam's Mum. It was not extravagant, nor exciting, yet it served to satisfy the hunger of the two growing teens. Liam ate up his portion of peas, seemingly compelled to, whilst Sam left his lingering on the side of his plate. "Are you boy's finished yet?" asked Liam's Mum, whilst washing up her own plate. Liam glanced over at Sam's plate, empty save for the vegetables, then back at his Mother. "We're all done mummy!". Sam's peas had remained untouched throughout the entire meal. Had it been her own son, she would have forced him to eat some, but being someone else's child, she decided to leave the issue alone. Swiftly, Liam grabbed Sam by the hand and dragged him back upstairs, towards his own room. Sam might haves protested at the sudden use of force, however Liam was bigger and stronger than him, so he was left with little choice but to follow. "Perhaps I should have eaten my veggies.", thought Sam, whilst being forcefully directed towards Liam's solemn room. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The two friends sat upon Liam's single bed, eyes glazed, staring at the TV. Each movement, whether due to elation or embitterness (Fortnite is serious business), elicited a sharp crinkle of plastic. Sam questioned his mate as to the cause, but was assured it was just a protective sheet for dust and dirt which lived upon his bed. Sam was slightly bemused, never having experienced the same with his own bed, but put it down to his parents being dozy and careless compared to Liam's single Mother. "Just be ready for my mum sam." said Liam. "She can get a bit weird when guests are over". Sam nodded, paying no real notice and continuing to game. "HELLLL YEAAAAA!!" Sam screamed, unable to contain his sheer glee. "Shhhhh..." chastised Liam in immediate response. "My mum hates swears, don't be so loud Sam.". "hellll yeaaaaa..." Whispered Sam, in sarcastic response. He felt pity for Liam, realising how strict his Mum must be if "hell" was considered a swear. His own parents weren't really bothered by how he spoke, not that they paid all that much attention to him in the first place. Before long, they both heard the foreboding footsteps of Liam's Mum heading up the stairs. It was clear she was coming for them, as she had remained downstairs for most of the night, except for the few occasions she came to check on the boys. Now that it had gotten rather late, it seemed inevitable the call for bed was coming. The door was forced open. "Liam, Sam, it's time for bed!" "Yes Mum." Liam replied, obeying his Mother's orders. Sam however, had qualms. Yes, it was late. But this was a sleepover, his first in fact, surely the entire point was to stay up late! "It's too early to go to bed!" he complained, clearly already comfortable with Liam's Mum, comfortable enough to protest bedtime. Liam's Mum pondered for a moment. "Okay Sam, you don't have to go to bed." she responded with a blank look. Sam fist pumped the air, glad he had won. Audibly came naught, not seeking to disrupt the success. "BUT..." came Liam's Mum. Sam dreaded to think what would come next. "I'd at least like you to get ready for bed, just in case Sam.". Sam nodded. It was a reasonable request, and he began to get his pajamas ready. Due to the wintry weather, he'd brought an old onesie. It still fit, but barely. And it certainly was not something he wanted to pull on in front of Liam's Mum. Adorning the onesie were adorable motifs of Simba's face, along with text stating "I just can't wait to be king". The onesie was adorable. For a seven year old. Yet Sam was about to be thirteen. He was in the same boat as Liam, both yet to have their growth spurt. Sadly, these were the only weather suitable pajamas that still fit him. His Mum insisted he bring them, due to the conditions, but Sam was not expecting to show them off! "Awww, that onesie is so cute Sam!" cawed Liam's Mum, spotting it in his bag. "But can you help me out and wear a little something extra for me... please...". ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sam sat on the edge of the porcelain bath, an ancient remnant of the Victorian era, cringing at the white, crinkly undergarment which sat before him. It resurfaced feelings of inadequacy, shame, inferiority, and more, which plagued his young childhood. Now, the presentation of this pull-up diaper dredged up those uncomfortable emotions once more. Liam's Mum explained that Liam was still suffering with nocturnal enuresis, coupled with the occasional daytime accident. He supposed he should've realised earlier, there had been moments in school where Liam rapidly shifted from extreme discomfort to normal behaviour. Times when everyone when to the toilet, and Liam seemingly chose to hold it... Heck, take tonight's drama. Liam's Mum must have taken him away to change discreetly after their initial gaming session. "Please wear one, just for tonight!" begged Liam's Mum. "It would make Liam feel so much better if he knew his friend had the same night-time issues as him." she said. "Bu- but I don't!" Sam shouted, frustrated at the suggestion. "I know you don't Sam, I've had a long talk with your mum." She said softly, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "We both think it would be best if you wore a pull-up to bed whilst here, for Liam's sake.". Sam shook his head, bemused at his situation. He did like Liam, and wanted to help, yet felt somewhat compelled to do so. It was almost as if this choice was illusory, and in fact not a choice at all. The way Liam's Mother had portrayed the situation, was like pulling on the babyish pull-up was mandatory for his stay. A duty, which must be fulfilled. So, with reluctance, Sam pulled the crinkly white garment up his smooth slender legs, cringing at every rustle the disposable underwear made. It felt thick, unnatural, it was a foreign body invading his nervous system. Yet the diaper also felt comfortable around his waist. A soft cushion, which provided the reassurance of protection, just in case he had any accidents. Not that he would... Following that, the Simba onesie was pulled up, rising around his body. It successfully covered any trace of the babyish underwear he now adorned for his friends wellbeing. Sam exited the bathroom, cheeks slightly flushed at the though of what he was wearing. Before him was Liam, sporting a similar onesie, only donning stitch motifs as opposed to his little Simba's. Both boy's looked very cute in their bedtime wear, and both had visible diaper bulges poking through the fabric. Sam did not realise his own, but was immediately aware of Liam's nappy bulge. It was extremely obvious, especially as the topic of diapers was understandably on his mind. He thought that Liam's diaper clad figure looked extremely cute, paired with the precious onesie, although he'd never say that out loud. The thought was somewhat laced with irony, considering his own predicament. Liam glanced over at Sam, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For once, he knew he was not alone in this. With both boys prepared and ready for bed, Liam's Mum gave them both a slight pat on the bum. Liam was used to it, however Sam blushed a bright shade of crimson red, his new nappy being acknowledged only served to further feelings of embarrassment. At the same time, the bum tap felt almost comforting, he knew he was padded in a soft and secure frame, with nothing to truly worry about. Then came the pride in knowing this was all for Liam's sake, to make him feel better. Although, perhaps that was but a misleading comfort suggested by Liam's Mum... The reality was, she had a career in child care. She simply did not feel like taking the risk of wet sheets as was so common with young boys like Sam, even if he was night time trained, it was not worth the hassle of risking it. After all, new environments can trigger accidents. The boy's sat upon Liam's bed once more, watching YouTube to close out the night. They sat close to one another, offering comfort during the scarier videos. Their eyes grew wearier as minutes passed, as did their sense of shame. Both lads cuddled closer, ready to go to bed, seeking comfort in each others arms. They were both too sleepy and unaware to notice Liam's Mother re-enter the room and turn off the TV. She also switched off the lights, before turning on a subtle night light, so as to not completely drown the diaper-clad thirteen year olds in darkness. Sleep swept over their onesie covered bodies in fierce waves, it was growing more and more difficult to keep their eyes open. Already, their bodies failed to move as they both lay there in Liam's single bed. Liam's Mum tucked them in, and gave each boy a light peck on the forehead, as if both were her babies. Sam didn't mind, his sleepy head already in a state of bliss. He looked over at Liam, his eyes were already shut. His little snores were adorable, every breath emitting a unique sound. Liam's Mum looked down at Sam, in a tranquil yet lucid state. Noticing the kid was still awake, unlike her own son, she pushed something towards his mouth. Sam kept his lips sealed, resisting at first. Wearing a pull-up to help his mate feel better abut himself, to provide a confidence boost, was one thing. However sucking on a paci like a baby was a complete other thing. Not what had been agreed upon. Liam didn't even have one for Christ's sake! But, after time, he gladly accepted. In this state of calm, resistance was no use. Drowsiness numbed his body so much so, that logical decision was almost absent. Sam was susceptible to most any suggestion, and sucking on a pacifier was included in that. Sam drifted off, alongside his best friend. Pull-up around his waist, onesie covering his body, and pacifier in his mouth... This was all for Liam. To make him feel better about his problem, right? It felt like extreme overkill, but at least his friend would be satisfied. Two boys in bed by 8pm? It was a successful night by all accounts.

The beginning of this story talks about how I became a diaper lover. The second part of the story talks about how I met my wonderful wife. Part 1 Before I tell you how I met the woman who would become my wife—and yes, the one who proudly wears diapers—I want to share a glimpse into the world that shaped me, and how I came to find beauty and comfort in something most people wouldn’t expect. I grew up in a place that felt like it had been designed by a child’s imagination. Within half a mile of my house, there were two winding rivers that shimmered in the summer sun, twelve baseball fields that echoed with laughter and the crack of bats, four soccer fields, six basketball courts, seven tennis courts, and a sprawling park with a lake so wide it seemed to touch the sky. That lake was where I learned to swim—awkward strokes at first, then confident dives from the dock. In the summer, I’d float down one of the rivers two or three times a week, letting the current carry me past trees, rocks, and the occasional turtle sunning itself on a log. It was paradise. A place where imagination ran wild and every day felt like a new adventure. I spent more time outdoors than within four walls. By the time I was eight, I had the freedom to wander to the park alone, soaking in the quiet thrill of independence. At thirteen, I graduated to floating down the river solo—a rite of passage that came after my dad joined me for a cautious first run, making sure the currents hadn’t changed too much after winter’s thaw. It was in this world of play and freedom that I began to understand comfort—not just physical, but emotional. The feeling of being safe, accepted, and free to be myself. That sense of comfort would become a guiding thread in my life, even in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. When I turned thirteen, my uncle hired me to work at his custom homebuilding company. He only built four or five houses a year—not because demand was low, but because his reputation was so strong he could have easily built twenty. He simply believed that quality mattered more than quantity. His priority was making sure every client felt truly at home, with no lingering problems or regrets. That philosophy stuck with me: comfort isn’t just about the space we inhabit—it’s about the care we put into creating it. My job was to keep the worksite spotless—and I mean spotless. I spent my days picking up stray boards, sweeping sawdust, and clearing any debris left behind by the crew. If something was on the ground, it was my responsibility to make sure it wasn’t there for long. My uncle was meticulous about cleanliness. He believed a tidy site reflected a tidy mind—and that even the smallest details mattered when building someone’s dream home. While I was still in school, I would head to the job site right after class. My parents allowed me to work for one hour each day, as long as I kept my grades up. During summer break, I was able to work three days a week for six hours a day. They didn’t want me to miss out on enjoying my summer, so they made sure I still had time to relax and have fun. My uncle employed an architect who had his own dedicated trailer on the worksite. He was stationed there to quickly address any issues that might arise during construction, ensuring problems could be solved on the spot. Although his expertise wasn’t needed frequently, his presence provided peace of mind. When not troubleshooting on site, he spent most of his time drafting house plans for upcoming projects. I gradually became friends with him on the job site. Whenever I had downtime, I’d head over to his trailer and watch him sketch out designs for the new house. After about two months of me hanging around, he turned to me one day and asked, “Want to learn how to draw up house plans?” That simple question kicked off six months of hands-on learning. He patiently walked me through each step, pointing out what I got right and where I went off track. His guidance was steady, and I soaked up everything I could. Then one day, he looked at me and said, “It’s time. I want you to design a three-bedroom house.” I wanted so badly to prove to him that I could do the job—and do it right. For three months, I poured everything I had into the design, refining every detail until I finally felt ready to show it to him. He asked for a couple of days to review it. Three days later, we sat down together and went over the plans. He pointed out where I had made mistakes, but also acknowledged what I had done well. Then he handed the plans back to me and said, “Fix the errors and bring it back in two weeks.” I managed to correct most of the issues on my own, though I did have to ask him for guidance on a few tricky parts. When I brought the revised plans back to him, he looked them over carefully. After a moment, he said, “All the mistakes are fixed.” The next thing he asked me was what I planned to do with the house plans. I admitted I had no idea. That’s when he suggested I submit them to a magazine that publishes and sells architectural drawings—maybe they’d be interested in buying them. So I gave it a shot. About two months later, I got a response. They wanted to buy my design. I ended up making a decent amount of money from that first sale. After that, I started sending them a new plan every six weeks until I graduated high school. I saved every dollar I earned, and by the time I finished school, I had built up a solid little nest egg. Part 2 will be about my childhood.

Four-year-old Macy is a big girl who just about mastered the potty. The only thing standing in her way are the diapers that she still needs to wear every night. But when she has a huge accident during New Year’s Eve, this got her thinking about wearing diapers more often. Macy’s potty training begins to get flushed down the toilet as she begins to have accident after accident. With the return to diapers eminent for Macy, how does she handle the adjustment in going back to diapers? Will she try to get her big girl underwear back or give up potty training forever? Chapter 1: Use the Potty Hi! I don’t think that I have seen you before, but my name is Macy Robbins. I would like to share with you how I spent my childhood wearing diapers, and all of the things that I experienced when I was growing up. Now I know that when I was growing up, most kids my age did not wear diapers. They wore big boy underwear if they were a boy and big girl underwear if they were a girl. So, how did I end up wearing diapers? It’s a very crazy story, and a rather long one, but I promise you that it’s good. Pinky promise. I will start my story where it all started when I was two years old. Back then, I lived with my family. I lived with two older brothers. An eight-year-old brother named Jake and a four-year-old brother named Randy. I liked Jake better since he was always nice to me, and he played with me sometimes. Randy on the other hand was a meanie. He always took my toys when I wasn’t looking and blamed me whenever he got in trouble. Jake always stood up for me whenever Randy was in the room, but Randy always tried to argue with Jake. I didn’t like the arguments, so I usually tried to stay away from them when they argued. I lived in a nice house with my mommy and daddy in Cincinnati that was right next to a golf course. I never understood golf growing up as it was just a game that grown-ups play by hitting little white balls with metal sticks. We also lived near a nice park that mommy and daddy took us to all the time. Mommy used to sell houses to people before my older brother Jake was born. My daddy makes a lot of money as a brain doctor. Another word for it is surgeon. He basically helps a lot of people with owwies in their head get better. I like how daddy is able to help so many people and it makes me happy. So how did I start wearing diapers? Well at this point, I have been wearing them since I was born. But this whole thing called potty training changed everything. And just two days after my second birthday, my mommy got me a little chair called the potty. I was supposed to pee in that, instead of my diaper. Now why did she want me to do that? She told me that it was all part of me becoming a “big girl”. I can vividly remember my first day of potty training, thanks to a journal that I kept when I was nine years old. “Macy dear,” my mommy told me. “Now that you are two years old, you are going to be potty trained. Be a good girl and use the potty.” I can remember just sitting on the seat while I still had my diaper on and looking back at my mommy with a pouty face. “No!” I told her defiantly. But my mommy knew the best way to motivate me. She gave me a smile. “Macy, for every time that you use the potty, I will give you one M&M…But you have to use the potty and not your diaper, okay?” That did it. M&M’s were the best thing in the world for me, so I wasted no time in using the potty whenever I could. Now I didn’t successfully use the potty right away. It took almost a week before I successfully used the potty. Mommy then gave me my first M&M. It was a red one and it was good. The other motivator for me using the potty was that my mommy took away my diapers and had me wear pull ups instead. This made me feel uncomfortable if I peed in my pull up, so I wanted to use the potty more and more. After six months of using the potty, I finally had no accidents in the daytime. So, about a couple of weeks after New Year’s Day, my mommy gave me my very first big girl underwear. They came in two colors: Bubblegum pink and blackberry purple. I was so proud of being able to wear my big girl underwear. I definitely felt like a big girl. Plus, my mommy kept giving me an M&M every time that I used the potty. However, I still needed to wear diapers every night. Even though I could hold it during the day, I always peed my diaper in my sleep. While I remained accident free during the day, a year later, I was still regularly having nighttime accidents in my diaper. It was mostly pee but was occasionally poop on occasion. When I got frustrated, my mommy told me not to worry about it and that I would grow out of it when I got older. At around this time, my mommy’s belly was huge. A few days later, we were in the hospital. My mommy gave birth to a new baby. It was a girl, and she named her Phoebe. I was so excited. I was going to be a big sister! But all of that excitement wore off two weeks later, when I discovered that my mommy was paying less attention to me. My little sister cried all the time and my mommy always had to feed her, change her diaper, or put her down for a nap. I was beginning to miss the attention that my mommy was giving me, so I began to pee my underwear on purpose. This happened for a couple of weeks before my mommy decided to put me back in diapers again. But this was only for a month. One month later, my mommy had an appointment with my pediatrician. She recommended that I get potty trained again and to pay more attention to me as my regression was caused due to the jealousy that I had towards the attention that my baby sister was now getting. About two months later, I was potty trained again, as my mommy doubled the M&M’s every time that I went both pee and poop in the potty. The reward for just going pee was still one M&M. I enjoyed my M&M’s as I successfully began to use the potty again. But I still kept peeing my diapers every night. That was something that hasn’t gone away. Even after my fourth birthday, I still needed to wear diapers at night. And as I began preschool, I began to make a lot of friends. When I had my first sleepover in the fall, I discovered that most of my friends were fully potty trained. I only knew about two or three that still needed to wear diapers at night. But by Christmas time, two of those three friends were fully potty trained. Christie and Susie both got to wear underwear at night while Cassie still needed to wear diapers at night like me. Christmas was a fun time that I spent at my grandma’s in Indiana. I had a lot of cousins, including two of them that were twin girls that were way older than me. After Christmas, it was now New Year’s Eve. My mommy cleaned the area between my legs and picked out my outfit for me to dress myself. At this age, I could finally wear all of the fun underwear that most kids get to wear when they are at the potty-training age. But since I was so small at two, I had to wear tiny underwear that fit my petite size. I put on my Anna and Elsa Frozen underwear and my pink dress. This day was going to be great, but I don’t think that I can stay up until midnight. My older brother Jake was playing a video game while Randy just watched. My little sister Phoebe was in her bedroom, taking a nap in her crib. I was about to go to my room and play with my dollhouse that I got for Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 1: The castle nursery is a haven of soft pastels: plush cream carpet, a rocking horse carved from pale wood, and a changing table piled high with folded squares of pink fabric, each embroidered with a tiny, gilded tiara. The air is warm, smelling faintly of lavender and fresh powder. Princess Peach sits on the floor, her satin dress pooled around her, her shoulders slumped. She traces a pattern on the floorboards with a single, polished fingernail, her brows knitted together. The weight of her crown, even when not on her head, feels immense today. The council meetings, the diplomatic letters, the endless, gentle guidance required for her people- it presses down on her, a heavy, invisible hand. Mario kneels in front of her, his expression soft and knowing. He wears his usual red shirt and blue overalls, but his posture is relaxed, his arms open. "Hey, Peachie," he says, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Long day?" She looks up, her blue eyes wide and shimmering. A single tear wells at the corner, tracking a slow path down her cheek. She doesn't answer, just gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. He reaches out and brushes the tear away with his thumb. "It's okay, little sister. Your big brother's here now." He scoops her into his arms as if she weighs nothing, settling her on his lap. She immediately melts against him, burying her face in the familiar warmth of his overalls. The fabric smells of him, of sunshine and adventure and safety. "Do you need to be little for a while?" Her response is a muffled whimper against his chest, followed by a soft, "Mawio..." "That's my girl," he murmurs, rocking her gently. "That's my good girl. Let's get you out of these big girl clothes, huh?" He carries her to the changing table, laying her down on the padded mat. With practiced, gentle hands, he unzips her elaborate gown, carefully lifting her arms to slide it off. He folds it neatly and places it on a nearby chair, followed by her silky tights and royal slippers. Now she's just Peach, shivering slightly in her cotton slip, looking up at him with complete trust. Mario reaches for the stack of diapers. He pulls one free- a thick, soft puff of pink, the plastic shell smooth and cool. In the center, the embroidered tiara gleams a cheerful, bright gold. "Perfect for our little Princess," he says, holding it up for her to see. A small, genuine smile touches her lips. "Pwincess," she babbles, kicking her feet. "Exactly right," Mario agrees, unfolding the diaper with a soft crinkle. He lifts her legs by the ankles, sliding the thick padding under her bottom. The soft fluff encases her, a warm, secure cloud. He pulls the front panel up snugly between her legs, making sure the leak guards are positioned just right before fastening the tapes on either side. The diaper is on, a bulky, pink reminder that she has no responsibilities now. She is small and she is cared for. "There now," he says, patting the front of her diaper gently. "All cozy and safe in your special princess pants." The golden tiara on the front seems to wink in the soft light. "Doesn't that feel better?" Peach wriggles, a happy sigh escaping her. "Buhbuh," she says, her hands coming down to pat the thick padding around her hips. The bulk feels right, a comforting pressure against her skin. Mario laughs, a warm, genuine sound. "That's right. Buhbuh's here." He scoops her up again, the thick diaper rustling with the movement. "What should we play with today, little sis? Blocks? Or maybe read a story?" She points a small finger towards a colorful bin in the corner. "Bwocks!" "Blocks it is!" He carries her over to a large, circular play mat and sets her down in the center. The diaper provides a soft cushion for her bottom as she sits. He dumps the bin over, and a cascade of bright, oversized wooden blocks clatters onto the mat. Peach immediately grabs a blue one, holding it up for him to see. "Bwoo!" "Very blue!" Mario confirms, sitting cross legged opposite her. He picks up a red block. "Red!" They play for a while, a simple game of naming colors and stacking precarious towers. Peach's babble is a constant, happy stream of "buhbuh," "pwincess," and "up!" when she wants him to add another block to their creation. Her movements are clumsy, her focus entirely on the simple task in front of her. The crown, the kingdom, the worries- they're all gone. There is only Mario, the blocks, and the soft, secure feeling of her diaper. They play a few minutes more before Peach's attention wanders. She crawls away from the blocks on her hands and knees, her padded bottom wiggling in the air. She finds her favorite teddy bear, a plush brown one with a red bow tie, and hugs it tight, rocking back and forth on her bottom. Mario watches her, a fond smile on his face. "Having fun with Sir Teddington?" She looks up at him, her eyes shining. "Tedd-uh," she says, patting the bear's head. She then crawls back to him, climbing onto his lap and settling in, her head against his chest. The bulk of the diaper pushes her legs apart, making her sit securely against him. He wraps an arm around her, holding her close. "You're doing so good today, Peachie. So calm." He feels her relax completely in his arms, her breathing soft and even. He keeps rocking her, humming a simple tune. The nursery is peaceful, the only sounds the gentle hum of his voice, the rustle of plastic, and the soft babble of the little girl in his arms. This is their secret. This is their safe space. It's a little while later that Mario notices the small change. On the front of Peach's diaper, peeking out from where it presses against his overalls, the tiny golden tiara has begun to fade. It's no longer a brilliant, sparkling gold. It's slowly, surely, turning a soft, pale pink. He gently pats her back. "Hey, little one. Someone's getting a little pink down there, huh?" Peach wiggles, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She doesn't seem to mind, just snuggles deeper into the warmth of the wet padding. "Pee pee, buhbuh," she whispers, her speech slurry and sleepy. "I know, sis," Mario says softly. "It's okay. Big brother's got you." He continues to hold her and rock her for a few more minutes, letting her enjoy the warmth before the discomfort sets in. When her face starts to scrunch up just a little, he decides it's time. "Alright, little Princess. Let's get you changed into a fresh, dry diaper." He lifts her, carrying her back to the changing table. She lies placidly while he works, her eyes half closed. With gentle, efficient movements, he unfastens the tapes, the pink tiara now a vivid reminder of its use. He cleans her with warm, damp wipes, the scent of baby powder filling the air again. The wet diaper is bundled up and disposed of, and a fresh, dry, pink one is secured around her hips. The tiara on this one is a brilliant, shiny gold once more. "There we go," Mario says, patting the fresh diaper. "All clean and dry for my baby sister." He dresses her in a simple, soft pink onesie, the snaps at the crotch fastening easily over the bulk of her new diaper. Peach coos happily, kicking her feet. She looks completely content, her earlier stress a distant memory. After her diaper change, Mario's stomach rumbles. "Time for a snack, I think! What does my little Princess want to eat?" "Appy!" she says instantly, her face lighting up. "Appy sauce!" "Apple sauce it is," Mario chuckles. He gets her settled into a large, wooden high chair, strapping her in securely. The tray clicks into place in front of her. He returns a moment later with a small bowl of warm, smooth apple sauce and a soft tipped baby spoon. "Open wide for the airplane!" he says, scooting a spoonful towards her face. She opens her mouth obediently, her eyes focused on the spoon. The apple sauce is sweet and familiar. "Mmm," she hums, swallowing it down. "Mawio, more!" "You got it, Peachie." He feeds her another spoonful, and another, making airplane and train noises as he does. She giggles, her happy babbling mixing with the sounds of her eating. A little bit of sauce smears on her cheek, but Mario just wipes it away with a smile. By the end of the snack, her belly is full and she's starting to look sleepy again. He wipes her face and hands clean, then unstraps her from the high chair. He carries her over to the rocking chair by the window, sitting down with her cradled in his arms. He's not sure if she's fallen asleep or is just drowsy and content when he feels it. A sudden tension in her little body, her legs straightening out against him. Her head, which had been lolling sleepily against his shoulder, lifts. Her babbling, which had faded to happy murmurs, ceases entirely. He glances down. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her bottom lip pushed out in a slight pout. Her hands, which had been clutching his overalls, are now fisted, pressing firmly against her own tummy. A soft, low whine escapes her, a sound of pure discomfort. "What is it, little one?" Mario asks softly, his rocking slowing to a gentle sway. He rubs a soothing circle on her back, right between her shoulder blades. She squirms in his arms, a restless, wriggling movement that is different from her earlier happy wiggles. Her heels dig into the soft cushion of the rocking chair. Her thighs are pressed as tightly together as she can manage with the thick padding of the diaper. Her feet are crossed at the ankles, her little toes curling inward. The subtle tell tale signs of a little one trying desperately to hold something in. "Oh, I see," he says, his voice a gentle balm. "I see what's happening, Peachie. Does my little sister need to go potty?" Her face scrunches up, and she gives a frantic, desperate nod. Her eyes are wide and pleading, fixed on his face. "Mawio," she whispers, the word catching in her throat. "Pee pee. Pee pee coming." "I know," he says, his hand moving from her back to her hair, stroking the soft, golden strands. "It's okay. You're okay. Just try to relax, sis. Let it happen. That's what your diaper is for." But she can't. The regression has taken away her control, her understanding. The sensation is overwhelming and frightening to her small mind. She only knows the desperate pressure and the instinct to hold it, to wait. She lets out a frustrated cry, a sharp, unhappy sound. "No, no, no," she sobs, her face turning against his chest. "No pee pee!" "Hey, shhh, shhh, it's alright," Mario soothes, shifting her in his arms so he can look at her better. "It's not your fault, little Princess. You don't have to hold it for your big brother. Let go, Peachie. Let it all go. I'll clean you up, I promise. It's okay." He continues to murmur reassurances, rocking her gently, one hand rubbing her back, the other stroking her hair. He can feel the fine trembling in her limbs. He waits patiently, a steady, solid presence against her distress. The fight is a small one, but it's all she can focus on. Then, with a final, shuddering sob, her body goes limp. She gives up the fight. Mario feels a sudden, blooming warmth spread against him. A soft, relieved sigh escapes Peach's lips. Her body uncoils completely, all the tension draining away. She looks up at him, her eyes heavy lidded, a little bit dazed. "There you go," Mario says, kissing her forehead. "That's my good girl. See? All better now." He pats the front of her onesie, feeling the distinct squish of a thoroughly soaked diaper beneath the fabric. "Wow, someone was holding a lot of pee pee for their brubber!" A small, sleepy giggle escapes her. "Bwubber," she whispers, snuggling back into him, completely unbothered by the warm, wet padding she now sits in. The crisis is over. She is safe, and she is wet, and she is deeply, profoundly sleepy in her big brother's arms. The rocking chair continues its slow, steady creak, a gentle rhythm in the quiet room. The warmth spreading through her diaper is a familiar comfort, a final surrender of control that allows sleep to finally claim her. Her head is a heavy, trusting weight on Mario's shoulder. Her breathing evens out into the deep, soft rhythm of a baby asleep. Mario holds her for a long while, just listening to her breathe. He can feel the damp warmth through her onesie against his arm, a tangible sign of the peace he's just helped her find. He knows he should change her soon, to prevent any rash, but he lets her sleep. This fragile peace is precious. He'll let her have it for just a few more minutes. The afternoon sun begins to dip lower, casting long, golden rectangles across the nursery floor. The dust motes dance in the slanted light like tiny fairies. After about ten minutes, Mario decides he can't put it off any longer. A sleeping baby in a wet diaper is a recipe for a grumpy baby later. "Alright, little Princess," he murmurs against her hair. "Time to get you into a cozy, dry diaper for your nap." He shifts her weight, standing up from the rocking chair with a soft grunt. She stirs, letting out a small, discontented murmur, but doesn't wake. He carries her to the changing table for the second time that afternoon, her sleeping form a dead weight in his arms. He lays her down gently, her body limp with sleep. The tiara on her diaper is now a deep, dark pink, the plastic shell stretched tight with the sheer volume it contains. He works quietly and efficiently, unsnapping the crotch of her onesie. The scent of urine becomes more pronounced as he frees the diaper. He unfastens the tapes, one by one, and pulls the front of the diaper down. The inner lining is heavy and swollen, glistening in the soft light. He uses more wipes this time, making sure she's completely clean and dry before patting her skin with a light dusting of powder. The cool powder against her skin causes her to stir, her legs kicking out in her sleep. He just smiles, working around her sleepy movements. A third clean, pink diaper is secured around her waist, its golden tiara bright and new. He leaves her in just the diaper, deciding the extra clothes are unnecessary for a nap, and lifts her from the changing table and carries her to the large crib in the corner. He lowers her gently into the soft, padded mattress, tucking a light pink blanket around her small form. "Sleep well, my Peachie," he whispers, leaning over the crib railing. "Sleep well, little sister. I'll be right here when you wake up." He stands there for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall, the rhythmic proof of her peaceful slumber. Then, he turns and quietly leaves the nursery, closing the door almost all the way, leaving just a sliver of light to fall across the sleeping baby princess in her crib. The door to the nursery clicks shut, leaving the room in a cocoon of soft silence. Mario stands in the hallway for a moment, the scent of baby powder still clinging to his clothes. He can hear the faint, even breathing from within the crib, a sound more calming than any lullaby. His job, for now, is done. He has guided his princess back to a place of peace. He pads down the grand, echoing corridors of the castle, his usual buoyant walk replaced by a quiet tread. The castle feels different when he's in this caretaker role. The grand halls aren't just a setting for adventure; they're the shell that protects the most precious thing in the kingdom, and right now, that precious thing is a little girl in a pink diaper, dreaming in a crib. He heads to the kitchen, a cheerful, bustling place even in the afternoon. A few Toads are busy polishing silverware and preparing the evening meal. They nod to him respectfully. "Mr. Mario," one chirps, "Princess Peach is in her council meeting, I presume?" Mario offers a small, private smile. "She's resting. A very long council meeting," he adds, using their well known code for one of Peach's regression sessions. The Toads, who are more astute than anyone gives them credit for, simply nod and go back to their work. The secret is safe with them all. Mario gets himself a glass of water and leans against a counter, sipping it slowly. He thinks about the afternoon: the initial tension in her shoulders, the slow bloom of trust as he changed her, the simple joy of playing with blocks, and finally, the sweet, sleepy surrender, and he feels a deep, profound warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with adventure or heroism. This is a different kind of saving. He finishes his water and decides to check on the laundry. He finds the two used diapers he'd disposed of, wrapped tightly in their own plastic bag, waiting to be taken to the special laundry chute. The tiaras on both are a distinct shade of dark pink. He ties the bag up and drops it down the chute, listening to it clatter and slide down to the laundry room below. A small, domestic task that feels immensely important. He's about to head to the library to read for a while when he hears a soft cry from down the hall. It's not distressed, not yet. It's the sound of someone waking up alone, a little confused. He abandons the library and heads straight back to the nursery, peeking through the crack in the door. Peach is sitting up in her crib, her blonde hair a fluffy halo around her head. She's rubbing her eyes with her fists, her blanket pooled around her waist. She's wearing nothing but her thick, clean diaper. Her bottom lip is trembling slightly. She lets out another soft, whimpering cry. "Mawio?" she calls out, her voice small and lost. "Buhbuh?" Mario pushes the door open. "I'm right here, little sis," he says softly, crossing the room to the crib. "Your big brother's right here." Her face, which had been scrunched in confusion, breaks into a wide, tearful smile. "Bwubber!" she exclaims, her arms reaching for him. He leans over the railing, scooping her up and hoisting her onto his hip. She immediately burrows into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He bounces her gently, patting her back. "Did you have a good nap, Peachie?" She nods against his shoulder. "Appy," she mumbles. "I'm glad." He carries her over to the rocking chair, sitting down with her in his lap. She's still a little sleepy, her body soft and pliant against him. He holds her for a few minutes, just letting her reorient herself. After a bit, she starts to stir, her head lifting. She looks around the room, her gaze landing on the colorful play mat. "Bwocks," she says, her voice a little more awake now. "You want to play with the blocks again?" Mario asks. "Yeah! Bwocks!" she says, her enthusiasm returning. She starts to wiggle, trying to slide off his lap. "Alright, alright," he chuckles, setting her down on the playmat. She immediately crawls over to the wooden blocks, her padded bottom crinkling softly as she moves. Mario sits on the floor with her, leaning back against the leg of the rocking chair. He watches as she starts to build a new tower, her concentration absolute. She carefully stacks the blocks, her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. She's a meticulous little architect, and Mario is a captivated audience. Peach chatters away in her baby talk, narrating her building process with soft babbles and happy squeaks. Mario responds with encouraging words and gentle smiles. Then, her movements become a bit more frantic. She's trying to place a yellow block on top of a red one, but her hands are shaky. The tower wobbles precariously. She grunts with effort, her face turning red. But it's not just the tower that's making her strain. Mario notices it again. The subtle tensing of her body. The way her legs, which had been casually splayed, suddenly press together. Her babbling stops, replaced by a series of soft, grunting whimpers. She drops the yellow block, her hands flying to her tummy. "Uh oh," she whispers, her eyes wide with a familiar panic. "Uh oh, Mawio." "What is it, sweetie?" he asks, moving closer to her. "I... I..." she stammers, her face scrunching up. "Tummy owie." The words are small and scared. For a baby, this is a much bigger, more intimate thing. The feeling is different, more intense and demanding. She looks at him with utter terror, her body frozen in a sudden, rigid stillness. Mario's voice is a calm, steady anchor in the storm of her fear. "It's okay, Peachie. It's okay. Just like with the pee pee. You can let it go. Your big brother is right here. I'll take care of you." He reaches out and rubs her back in slow, soothing circles. "You don't have to be scared. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. You're just a baby. Babies make messes. It's what they do." His words seem to penetrate her panic. She looks at him, her bottom lip trembling. She's still holding on, her whole body rigid with the effort. "That's my girl," he says softly. "Just try to relax. Push a little bit if you have to. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He keeps rubbing her back, his touch a constant, reassuring presence. He can feel the fight in her, the struggle between her body's need and her mind's fear. He waits patiently, a silent, strong support system. Then, with a final, shuddering cry, her body pushes forward. Mario can feel the subtle shift in her padding, the way it swells and grows heavier. Her face, which had been scrunched in fear, relaxes into a look of pure relief. "There you go," he says, his voice filled with pride. "That's my brave little Princess. You did it. You were so brave." He scoops her up, the messy diaper warm and heavy against his arm. She's limp in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. She's not crying, just breathing heavily, her body exhausted from the effort. "Let's get you all cleaned up," he says, carrying her to the changing table. "And then we can play some more." Mario's hands are a blur of gentle efficiency. The messy diaper is whisked away, replaced by the warm, soft scent of wipes and powder. A few moments later, she's snug, clean, and sealed into a fresh, dry diaper, the golden tiara on its front gleaming like new. He pulls a soft, fuzzy sleeper over her, the pink fabric zipping up to her chin, the crotch snaps popping easily over the thick padding. "There we go," he whispers, kissing her nose. "All cozy for my best girl." He carries her not to the rocking chair, but to the large, open space on the carpet. He lies down on his back, propping his head up on a pillow. "I have a secret," he says in a conspiratorial whisper. Peach's eyes, which had been drooping, snap open. "Sekwet?" she asks, her curiosity piqued. "Yup. Your big brother is a..." He pauses for dramatic effect, then brings his hands up and wiggles his fingers. "...a tickle monster!" Her eyes go wide with a mixture of fear and delight. "No!" she shrieks, a grin already spreading across her face. "No monster!" "Raaargh!" Mario growls playfully, lunging for her. She squeals and tries to scramble away on her hands and knees, the thick diaper between her legs making her crawl wobbly and slow. He catches her easily, flipping her onto her back and gently attacking her tummy. His fingers dance over her fuzzy sleeper, finding the spots that make her giggle the most. She thrashes on the carpet, her laughter bubbling up like a fountain, uncontrollable and pure. "Stop! Stop, buhbuh!" she gasps, her words lost in peals of laughter. "The tickle monster never stops!" he declares, moving to her ribs, then to her feet, which he frees from the sleeper's booties. Her tiny toes curl as he tickles the sensitive arches of her feet. "Bwubber, pwease!" she begs, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with tears of joy. "Tummy owie!" "Alright, alright," he relents, collapsing back onto the pillow beside her. "The monster is tired. All out of tickles." She lies there panting for a moment, a huge, happy smile on her face. Then she rolls over, propping her chin on her hands and looking at him. "Mawio silly," she says, her voice soft and fond. "Only for you, Peachie," he says, reaching out to smooth her messy blonde hair. "Only for my little sister." She snuggles close, resting her head on his chest. The soft sleeper rustles. "Wuv you, brubber." Mario's heart swells. He wraps an arm around her, holding her tight. "I love you too, little Princess. More than all the stars in the sky." They lie there for a long while, just breathing together, the stress of the day a distant, forgotten thing. Chapter 2: The afternoon sun slants through the nursery window, painting stripes of warm gold across the plush carpet. Peach is fast asleep in her crib, a small, pink lump under a light blanket. She’s been down for her nap for over an hour, her breathing soft and even. Around her hips, the diaper is warm and heavy, the tiny golden tiara on its front having faded to a deep pink some time ago. She’s lost in dreamless baby sleep, a world away from crowns and treaties. A sudden, violent crash shatters the peace. The stained glass window of the nursery explodes inwards, a rain of colorful shards and stone dust. A spiky shelled figure lands with a heavy thud on the carpet, his impact making the floorboards groan. Bowser straightens up, a triumphant grin on his face. "Peach!" he bellows, his voice a deafening roar in the serene room. "You're coming with me!" Peach startles awake with a terrified shriek. Her eyes fly open, wide and confused. The world is loud, scary, and full of broken glass. She doesn't see the King of the Koopas; she just sees a big, loud monster. "AAAAH!" she wails, pulling the blanket up over her head. "Mawio! Mawio, monster!" Bowser blinks, nonplussed. This isn't the usual defiant speech he gets. He stomps closer to the crib, his brow furrowed. The wailing continues from under the blanket. He reaches down, hooks a massive claw under the covers, and pulls them back. He finds the Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom, but not as he's ever seen her. She's in a fuzzy pink sleeper, her face red and tear streaked, her bottom lip trembling. "Hey! Why are you crying? And why are you dressed like that?" he grumbles, reaching into the crib. He doesn't waste any more time. He simply scoops her up, sleeper and all, tucking her unceremoniously under one arm like a football. The sudden movement and the pressure on her full bladder make her cry even harder. "No! No! Pwease! Wet! All wet!" she sobs, her babbling lost to him. "Yeah, yeah, ," Bowser says dismissively, not understanding. "C'mon, we're going on a little trip." He turns and leaps back out the window, his Clown Car hovering just outside. The ascent is bumpy and terrifying, jostling Peach in his grip. She cries all the way back to his castle. He finally lands in the throne room of his fortress, a cavernous space of dark stone and burning lava pools. He drops Peach onto the hard, cold floor, and she lands with a soft poof, the padding of her diaper cushioning her fall. She immediately tries to scramble away on all fours, her movements clumsy and babyish. Bowser puts his hands on his hips, glaring down at her. "Alright, what is your deal, Peach? You're not screaming orders at me. You're not trying to escape. You're just...crawling around and crying. Are you sick?" Peach stops her crawling and looks up at him, her big blue eyes full of tears. She pushes herself into a sitting position, her legs splayed wide by the bulky diaper. "Up," she says, her voice a small, pathetic whimper. "Hold me. Pwease?" Bowser stares at her, utterly bewildered. "Hold you? What for? You're my prisoner!" Her face crumples, and a fresh wave of tears begins. "Wan' buhbuh," she sobs, hugging her knees to her chest. "Wan' Mawio." "Buhbuh? Mawio? What are you talking about?" Bowser grumbles, pacing back and forth. The constant sobbing is starting to grate on his nerves. "Oh, for crying out loud, fine!" He leans down and awkwardly picks her up, holding her out at arm's length as if she's something unpleasant. "There. You're 'up'. Now stop that racket!" Being held, even awkwardly, is a comfort. Peach immediately clings to him, her small hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair. She buries her face in the rough scales of his chest. "Tank, Bowsy," she mumbles into him. "Bowsy?!" Bowser recoils slightly. "Nobody calls me Bowsy!" He tries to set her down, but she just clings tighter, her body trembling. He sighs, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. This is not how kidnappings are supposed to go. He sits down heavily on his stone throne, the exhausted captive still clinging to him like a barnacle. "Okay, fine. But if you try any funny business..." She doesn't, she just snuggles closer, her crying finally subsiding into quiet hiccups. After a few minutes of tense silence, she starts to wiggle. Her brow furrows, and she lets out a soft, uncomfortable whimper. She shifts her weight, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the sodden, cold diaper squishes against her skin. It's no longer a comforting warmth, just a miserable, clammy bulk. "Ugh," she whines, patting the front of her sleeper. "Owie. Owie diapy." Bowser looks down. "What now? Did I sit on you?" He pokes her gently in the belly. She shakes her head, pushing at her padded bottom. "Wet," she says, her voice clear and insistent. "Bowsy, change pwease?" "Change? Change what? Your clothes?" Bowser is completely lost, until it occurs to him what looks so off about her sleeper, the way it sags right around…and then, there’s a certain smell to her that he’s been trying to ignore/ Along with her strange, infantile behaviors, Peach is wearing a diaper, and demanding he change it. Bowser can see no universe where trying that turns out well for him. "You're fine. Just...sit still." The discomfort grows. She tries to pull at the zipper of her sleeper. "Owie!" she says again, her frustration mounting. "All wet! Change!" He sets her down on the floor with a thump. "Go...play or something. Just leave me alone," he growls, turning away from her. Peach, undeterred, sees the vast throne room as a new playground. She crawls over to a pile of gold coins Mario had left behind during a previous visit. She picks one up, her eyes wide with delight. "Shiny!" she squeals, putting it in her mouth. "No!" Bowser roars, spinning around. He rushes over and snatches the coin from her. "Don't eat the money! That's the kingdom's budget!" Peach just giggles at the sudden attention, her earlier discomfort momentarily forgotten. She starts crawling again, this time towards a long, red banner hanging from the wall. She stands up, holding onto the fabric, and begins to bounce on her feet. "Boing, boing, boing!" she chants. Bowser watches, completely flummoxed. This is... exhausting. He just sits on his throne, rubbing his temples, as the baby princess explores his evil domain, a place of doom and lava, as if it's a soft playroom. Her attention is eventually caught by a pair of Chain Chomps sleeping in a corner. "Doggies!" she squeals, toddling towards them. "No, no, those are not doggies!" Bowser bellows, leaping from his throne and grabbing her just before she can pat one on the head. "Those bite!" He carries her back to the center of the room, his patience completely gone. "Alright, that's it. You stay here." But her discomfort returns with a vengeance. The soggy diaper is making her miserable, and her bladder is demanding her attention. She squirms, her hands pressed firmly against her crotch. "Bowsy," she whines, tugging on his leg. "Pee pee coming. Need potty." He just stares down at her. "So go! I'm not stopping you. I don't know why you're acting like this, I don't know why you're wearing a diaper, but just use it, I don't care." Her face crumples in confusion. She doesn't understand. She knows she's supposed to go in her diaper, but it's already so wet and uncomfortable. She starts to dance from foot to foot, her desperation growing. "No! Too wet! Too full!" "I am not touching that!" Bowser declares, taking a step back. "You got yourself into this mess, you get yourself out!" She can't hold it anymore. The pressure is too much. With a sob of pure misery, her body gives in. A sudden warmth spreads into the already saturated diaper, but it's too much. The padding, long past its capacity, can't hold another drop. A dark patch begins to spread across the front of her fuzzy pink sleeper. A small trickle escapes from a leg cuff, dripping onto the stone floor and forming a tiny puddle, as her overfull diaper leaks. Peach looks down at the dark wetness on her clothes and the puddle at her feet, her face a mask of horror and shame. She bursts into tears, loud and heartbroken. "Mess! I made mess! Bowsy, I'm sowwy!" she wails, her small body shaking with sobs. Bowser just stares. At the crying baby, at the puddle on the floor, at the ridiculous pink sleeper now soaked all the way through. He looks at the ceiling as if begging for divine intervention. This is a nightmare. "Oh, for the love of..." he grumbles, but something in her desperate, apologetic sobbing gets to him. With a frustrated sigh that sounds like a volcano about to erupt, he stomps over to her. He picks her up, holding her at arm's length to avoid the wet spots. "Stop crying! I'll...I'll do something!" He looks around desperately, then grabs a nearby banner. He lays it out on the floor and places her on it. "Okay, stay there." He then rummages through a chest, finally pulling out a rough, dry towel. There's absolutely no way he's taking her clothes off, so he does the next best thing. He wraps the towel around her waist, over the top of her soaked sleeper, like a makeshift skirt. "There! Now you're...less leaky." Peach looks down at the towel, then up at him. The crying stops, replaced by a hiccup. She reaches out a small hand and pats his massive arm. "Bowsy funny," she sniffles, a tiny giggle escaping her. Bowser just groans. But the crying has stopped. And now, she's looking at him with wide, curious eyes. She points a tiny finger at the spikes on his shell. "Shiny pokies." He sighs, sitting down on the floor, defeated. "Yeah, those are my spikes. Don't touch them." Peach doesn't listen. She crawls over and gently pokes one of the spikes on his back. "Boop," she says. He flinches, but doesn't pull away. "Hey!" She giggles and boops another one. "Boop, boop, boop!" It's a new game. He's a giant, spiky, boopable mountain, and she's a tiny explorer. Bowser finds himself letting it happen. He lets the little princess crawl all over him, booping his spikes, tugging on his hair, and giggling when he growls. He's exhausted, utterly confused, but a tiny part of him is...enjoying it? It's certainly less stressful than fighting Mario. He's actually sitting still, and she's not screaming anymore. It's a win, of a very, very weird kind. They're in the middle of a very serious game of "Boop the Spike" when a familiar heroic cry echoes through the throne room. Mario, having seen the shattered nursery window, burst in with fists raised and a furious scowl. But he stops dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping. The scene before him is not one of a damsel in distress. It's Bowser, the Koopa King, sitting on the floor of his own throne room looking utterly exhausted. And Princess Peach, in a soaking wet sleeper with a towel tied around her waist, is perched on Bowser's back, gleefully booping him on the head while babbling, "Bowsy sleepy! Bowsy pokie mountain!" Bowser looks up, a wave of relief washing over his face. "Mario! Thank the stars. Please, just take her. I don't know what's wrong with her, she's leaking, she won't stop calling me Bowsy, and she tried to pet a Chain Chomp!" The sight of her boyfriend, her hero, her big brother, is like a switch being flipped deep inside Peach's mind. The baby fog, the comforting regression, evaporates in an instant, replaced by the chilling, crystal clear horror of adulthood. The booping stops. Her eyes go wide. She looks at her hands, then at her own outfit- the pink sleeper, the dark wet patch, the ridiculous towel skirt. She looks at Bowser, who she was just playing with. She looks at Mario, who is staring at her with a mixture of concern and utter bewilderment. And then the embarrassment hits. A tidal wave of it, so powerful and absolute it makes her want to melt into the floor and become one with the lava pools. "M-Mario..." she stammers, her adult voice returning, though it's shaky and thin. She scrambles off Bowser's back, her movements clumsy with the bulky diaper. She's standing before her rescuer in the most humiliating state imaginable, a literal puddle of her own making still drying on the floor of her kidnapper's castle. Mario's expression softens instantly. He sees the panic and shame in her eyes, and all the confusion about the scene melts away, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct. He strides across the room, not even glancing at Bowser. He shrugs off his coat and gently wraps it around her, hiding the soaked sleeper and makeshift towel. "It's okay, Peachie," he says, his voice low and gentle, for her ears only. "I'm here now. It's okay." She bursts into tears again, but these are not the tears of a frustrated baby. They are the hot, mortified tears of a grown woman whose most secret, most vulnerable coping mechanism has just been exposed to her mortal enemy. Mario scoops her into his arms, holding her tight. He glares over her head at Bowser. "Bowser. You've got some nerve." Bowser throws his hands up in surrender, looking utterly drained. "I didn't do anything! I just wanted to kidnap her like normal! She's the one who's all... like that!" Mario just shakes his head, adjusting his hold on the trembling princess. "I'm taking her home. And you...you stay out of it." "Fine by me!" Bowser bellows, slumping back onto his throne. "But she needs a change! And a nap! She's been a menace!" ~X~ Back in the safety of her nursery, the chaos of Bowser's invasion already cleaned up by the Toads, Mario gently sets her down on the changing table. He removes the sodden sleeper and the towel, tossing them into a laundry basket. He works in silence, cleaning her up with gentle, efficient hands. The diaper change is a return to normalcy, a familiar ritual that slowly begins to soothe her frayed nerves. "It's all over now, Peachie," he says, his voice a soft murmur. "The mean, spiky monster is gone. You're safe with me. You're safe with your big brother." He applies a generous layer of soothing cream to her skin, which is red and irritated from being in a wet diaper for so long. He knows how uncomfortable it must be, and he takes extra care, making sure she's completely clean and dry. He then sprinkles on some powder, the soft scent filling the air, and secures a fresh, clean diaper around her waist. The new padding is soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the clammy, overused one she had been wearing. "There," he says, snapping the crotch of a clean, dry sleeper. "All cozy again. My poor little Princess. What a rough day you've had." He lifts her into his arms, and she immediately burrows into him, her body still trembling slightly. He carries her to the rocking chair, sitting down and holding her close. He begins to rock, the gentle motion a familiar comfort. He can feel the tension in her body, the lingering shame and embarrassment that is too big for her adult mind to process, let alone her little one. He knows he needs to help her find her way back to the safety of little space, where the world is simple and her worries are small. "It's okay, sweet girl," he says, his voice a low, steady hum against her ear. "All that scary stuff is over. You're home now. You're with me." He starts to sing, a soft, simple lullaby about stars and moonbeams. The melody is a familiar one, a tune he's sung to her a hundred times. He feels her body begin to relax, the tension slowly draining away. She snuggles closer, her breathing evening out. "That's my Peachie," he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair. "My sweet, brave little Princess. You were so, so brave. Your big brother is so proud of you." He continues to rock and sing, the words and the motion weaving a spell of calm around her. The memories of the day- the fear, the confusion, the embarrassment- begin to fade, replaced by the warm, secure feeling of being held and loved. She can feel the soft padding of her clean diaper, the gentle rocking of the chair, the steady beat of Mario's heart against her ear. All the right pieces are falling into place. After a few more minutes, he feels her stir. She lifts her head, her eyes no longer wide with panic, but soft and sleepy. "Bwubber?" she murmurs, her voice a small, sleepy whisper. "I'm right here, Peachie," he says, smiling down at her. "Hungy," she says, her little tummy rumbling. "Okay, let's get you a snack," he says, standing up and carrying her to the play mat. Mario sits her down, her padded bottom crinkling softly as she lands. He goes to the small fridge in the corner and pulls out a bottle of milk that he warms for her. He comes back and sits down on the floor with her, leaning against the leg of the rocking chair. He cradles her in his arms, holding the bottle to her lips. She drinks greedily, her eyes half closed in contentment. The warm milk fills her tummy, a soothing warmth that spreads through her body. She finishes the bottle quickly, her little body relaxing completely. He sets the empty bottle aside and just holds her for a moment, letting the food settle. "All full?" he asks. She nods, a milky burp escaping her lips. He pats her back gently, and she burps again, a big, satisfying one. She giggles, her whole body wiggling with delight. "Good girl," he says, smiling. "Now, what should we play with?" He gestures to the toys scattered around the play mat. "Blocks? Or maybe your dolls?" Peach's eyes scan the room, her gaze landing on the pile of wooden blocks. "Bwocks," she says, her voice a happy little chirp. "Blocks it is," he says, setting her down on the play mat. She immediately crawls over to the blocks, her movements still a little clumsy but full of purpose. She starts to build a tower, her concentration absolute. Mario sits with her, handing her blocks when she needs them, and offering words of encouragement. As they play, her mind drifts back to the day's events. But the fear and shame are gone, replaced by a strange, fuzzy memory of the big, spiky monster. She remembers being scared, but she also remembers being held. She remembers the funny, frustrated look on his face, the way he let her boop his spikes, the way he wrapped a towel around her when she leaked. A small smile plays on her lips. "Peachie thinking hard over there," Mario says, noticing her faraway look. "What's on your mind, sweetie?" She looks up at him, her blue eyes wide and clear. "Bowsy," she says, her voice a little dreamy."Big Buhbuh Bowsy." Mario's brow furrows slightly. "Big Brother Bowser?" She nods, her face serious. "Funny Bowsy. Pokie mountain." A slow smile spreads across Mario's face. He understands. In her own simple, baby way, she'd processed the confusing events of the day and found a way to make them okay. She'd turned her kidnapper into a playmate, a big, spiky, grumpy brother. It's a testament to her incredible resilience, her ability to find light in the darkest of places. "Yeah," he says, his voice soft. "He's a big, funny Buhbuh, isn't he? With all his shiny pokies." She giggles, the sound like tiny bells. "Like Bowsy," she says, her voice firm. "Okay," he says, ruffling her hair. "If you like him, then I guess he can't be all bad." He's relieved, honestly. He was worried the experience would traumatize her, but instead, she's found a way to make it a funny, weird memory. It makes him love her even more. They continue to play, the afternoon sun slowly dipping towards the horizon. They build a magnificent tower, a wobbly creation of wood and imagination that reaches all the way to Peach's waist when she stands. She claps her hands with delight, her face shining with pride. "Tall! Bwubber, tall!" "It's the tallest tower in the whole Mushroom Kingdom," Mario declares, playing along. "All thanks to my little architect." She beams at him, her love for him shining in her eyes. They play until the last rays of sun fade from the window, and the room is bathed in the soft, golden light of the lamp on the nightstand. He can see her eyelids starting to droop, her movements becoming slower and more deliberate. She's getting tired. "Alright, little one," he says, scooping her up. "Time for bed." She doesn't protest. She just snuggles into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He carries her to the crib, laying her down gently. He pulls the blanket up to her chin, tucking her in. He leans down and kisses her forehead. "Goodnight, my sweet Peachie," he whispers. "Sleep tight." "Nigh, nigh, Bwubber," she murmurs, her eyes already closed. "Love Bowsy." He smiles, a wave of warmth washing over him. "I know you do, sweetie. I know you do." He stays for a moment, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling with each even breath. She's safe, she's happy, and she's home. Everything is right in the world again. He quietly leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the little Princess to dream of pokie mountains and big, funny Buhbuhs. - If you're interested in my writing updates, please join my discord server! https://discord.gg/xUrPXDH (18+ ONLY) I stream here, and the chat is locked when there isn't a stream going on, so for the most part, it's only posts that are updates from me Or, follow me on twitter @ZappGuatiche/bsky @ZappOBrien!

Introduction The waiting room of the Riverside Fertility Clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and old magazines. Emily sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale, while Mark rested a steady arm around her shoulders. They had come expecting hope—perhaps a simple fix, a round of treatment, a timeline. Instead, the doctor’s quiet, measured words had landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. “I’m sorry,” Dr. Harlan had said, eyes soft behind wire-rimmed glasses. “The scarring from the childhood injury is too extensive. Natural conception isn’t possible, and even with intervention the chances are effectively zero.” Emily had nodded once, politely, as though someone had merely informed her that rain was expected later. Mark had asked the appropriate follow-up questions—his voice calm, practical, the way it always became in emergencies—but inside he felt the floor tilt. When they stood to leave, Emily’s legs carried her out of the office without a tremor, down the elevator, across the parking lot, and into the passenger seat of their sensible gray sedan. Only when Mark turned the key in the ignition did she finally speak. “I’m never going to be a mother,” she said, staring straight ahead at the windshield wipers that weren’t moving. Mark reached for her hand. “We’ll find another way. Adoption, surrogacy—whatever you want. We’ll figure it out together.” Emily turned to him then, and for a moment her eyes were bright with something fierce and brittle. “Together,” she repeated, as if tasting the word. Then she smiled—a small, careful smile that didn’t quite reach the rest of her face—and squeezed his fingers. “Thank you.” In the weeks that followed, Mark told himself the smile was progress. Emily went back to work at the library, kept the house tidy, cooked their favorite meals. She listened to his suggestions about counseling, nodded thoughtfully at articles on foster care, and even bookmarked a few adoption agencies. To anyone watching from the outside, they were a young couple bravely navigating disappointment. But in the quiet hours after Mark fell asleep, Emily lay awake staring at the ceiling, her mind circling the same unyielding truth: there would be no tiny fingers wrapped around hers, no first steps across the living-room floor, no sleepy midnight feedings. The future she had carried inside her since girlhood had been quietly, permanently erased. One night, deep into November, she found herself at the computer long after midnight. A search that began with “coping with infertility” led her down quieter, stranger paths. Forums filled with soft pastel icons. Stories of healing through pretend. Photographs of grown men in oversized cribs, eyes closed in something that looked disturbingly like peace. Emily read until the sky outside turned the color of weak tea. Then she closed the laptop, pressed her palms to her aching chest, and made a decision. If the world would not give her a child, she would find another way to become the mother she was meant to be. And Mark—kind, steady Mark, who had promised they would figure it out together—would help her. He just didn’t know it yet. Chapter 1: The Devastating Diagnosis The fluorescent lights in the Riverside Fertility Clinic hummed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the beige walls and the rows of outdated parenting magazines no one ever read. Emily Harper sat rigid in the molded plastic chair, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her wedding band pressed a pale ring into her finger. Beside her, Mark rested one arm along the back of her seat, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles on her shoulder. They had been married seven years—long enough to know each other’s silences—and today the silence between them felt heavier than any words. Dr. Harlan entered with a thin manila folder and a practiced expression of sympathy. He was kind, silver-haired, and spoke in the measured cadence of someone who had delivered this particular news far too often. “I’ve reviewed the latest tests,” he began, settling behind the desk. “The imaging confirms extensive scarring on both fallopian tubes and significant endometrial damage. The injury you sustained as a child—when you fell from that treehouse, I believe—has left irreversible effects.” Emily’s breath caught, a small, involuntary sound. Mark leaned forward, his free hand finding hers. “Is there any chance at all?” he asked. “IVF? Surgery?” Dr. Harlan shook his head gently. “The scarring is too severe. Even with aggressive intervention, the probability of successful implantation is effectively zero. I’m truly sorry.” The words landed like a quiet detonation. Emily heard them, understood them, and still felt them echo inside her chest as though someone else were being told. She managed a nod—polite, composed—while Mark asked the practical questions: timelines, second opinions, alternative paths. His voice was steady, the same tone he used when negotiating contracts at work or calming a panicked client. Emily watched his mouth move and marveled at how calm he appeared, how capable. Inside, she was already coming apart. In the parking lot, the late-autumn wind whipped dead leaves across the asphalt. Mark opened the passenger door for her, and Emily slid into the seat without a word. The engine turned over, the heater began to blow cool air, and only then did she speak. “I’m never going to be a mother.” The sentence hung between them, flat and irrevocable. Mark reached across the console and took her hand again. “We don’t know that yet,” he said softly. “There’s adoption, surrogacy—” “I wanted to carry a baby,” she interrupted, her voice cracking on the last word. “I wanted to feel it move inside me. I wanted the midnight feedings and the first steps and the scraped knees. I wanted all of it, Mark.” He pulled out of the lot and onto the main road, eyes fixed ahead. “I know,” he said. “I wanted it too. But we’ll find another way. Whatever you need, Em. We’ll figure it out together.” She turned to look at him then, and for the briefest moment something flickered behind her eyes—gratitude, yes, but also a raw, desperate hunger that Mark mistook for simple grief. Emily squeezed his hand and offered a small, tremulous smile. “Together,” she echoed. That night, after Mark had fallen asleep, Emily lay awake staring at the dark ceiling. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of old beams settling. Down the hall, the spare bedroom they had once painted a soft butter yellow—intending it for a nursery—sat empty, its door closed like a sealed tomb. She thought of the treehouse fall at age nine: the snap of branches, the breathless drop, the searing pain that had sent her to the hospital for weeks. No one had realized then how completely it would rewrite her future. She had recovered, run and played and grown into a woman who dreamed of lullabies and tiny socks. And now the dream was over. Silent tears slipped down her temples and into her hair. She pressed a fist to her mouth to muffle the sound, but the ache inside her chest expanded until it felt large enough to swallow the entire room. Somewhere in the dark, an idea began to form—fragile at first, then insistent. A way to fill the unbearable emptiness. A way to mother, even if the world insisted she could not. Emily dried her eyes, rolled onto her side, and watched Mark’s sleeping profile in the glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. He had promised anything. He had said together. She would hold him to that promise. And in the weeks to come, she would discover just how far love—and grief—could carry a person willing to blur every line between healing and obsession. Chapter 2: Cracks in the Facade The days after the clinic visit passed in a muted blur, as though someone had turned down the color on the world. Mark threw himself into research—adoption agencies, surrogacy costs, support groups—printing pages and leaving them neatly stacked on the kitchen counter like offerings. Emily nodded at each new discovery, murmured “thank you,” and let the papers sit untouched. At work, Mark’s colleagues noticed little. He arrived on time, finished reports, smiled during meetings. Inside, however, he carried a constant low hum of worry. He watched Emily for signs of collapse—tears, rage, withdrawal—but she gave him none. She rose each morning, showered, dressed in her usual cardigans and sensible skirts, and drove to the public library where she catalogued returns and helped children find picture books. She even baked banana bread one Sunday, filling the house with the comforting smell of browning sugar. Only Mark, who knew her better than anyone, saw the small fissures. The way her gaze sometimes drifted to mothers pushing strollers on the sidewalk and lingered too long. The way she folded the yellow nursery blanket they had bought on impulse two years earlier and placed it at the very back of the linen closet, out of sight. The way she no longer reached for him in bed at night, turning instead onto her side, her breathing slow and deliberate until sleep finally took her. Emily, for her part, felt the grief like a second heartbeat—constant, insistent, impossible to ignore. During quiet moments at the library circulation desk, she found herself staring at toddlers waddling between the stacks, their padded bottoms swaying under overalls or leggings. She noticed the easy confidence of young mothers who lifted those children onto hips without thinking, who kissed sticky cheeks and wiped runny noses with casual tenderness. Each observation was a fresh twist of the knife. At night, when Mark’s breathing evened out beside her, Emily lay awake and listened to the house settle. She thought of the empty yellow room down the hall. She thought of the word irreversible. And slowly, carefully, she began to search. It started innocently enough: articles on coping with infertility, forums for childless couples, blogs about living a full life without parenthood. But the internet is a labyrinth, and one click led to another. A thread about alternative healing. A private message board for women grieving motherhood. A locked subreddit whose title made her pause, then click anyway. There, in the glow of the screen at two in the morning, Emily discovered stories she had never imagined existed. Grown men in cribs. Pastel nurseries hidden behind ordinary suburban doors. Women who spoke of caregiving as salvation, of healing through pretend. Photographs—carefully cropped, always consensual in the telling—showed thick diapers printed with childish patterns, oversized pacifiers, bottles filled with milk. The language was soft, intimate, laced with words like comfort and surrender and little one. Emily read until her eyes burned. She told herself it was curiosity, nothing more. She told herself she was simply desperate for anything that might ease the ache. But deep inside, in a place she did not yet acknowledge, something stirred—an idea, fragile and dangerous, taking root. Mark noticed the late nights. He found her asleep at the computer one morning, the screen still open to a minimized browser window. When he gently woke her, she smiled up at him with tired eyes and said she’d been looking at adoption profiles. He kissed her forehead, relieved, and thought nothing more of it. During the day, Emily functioned perfectly. She helped a six-year-old boy find every book about dinosaurs in the children’s section. She recommended cozy mysteries to an elderly regular. She ate the lunch Mark had packed—turkey sandwich, apple slices, a handwritten note that read I love you always. She smiled at the note, folded it carefully, and slipped it into her pocket. But in quiet moments, her mind returned to the forums. To the women who described the peace they found in nurturing someone who needed them completely. To the photographs of grown men curled in laps, eyes closed, faces slack with trust. One evening, as Mark washed dishes after dinner, Emily stood at the kitchen window watching the neighbor’s porch light flicker on. The young couple next door had just brought home their newborn; she could see the soft glow of a night-light through their curtains. “Mark,” she said quietly, not turning around. He glanced over his shoulder, hands still in soapy water. “Yeah?” “Do you ever think about… what we’ll do with all the extra time?” Her voice was careful, almost casual. “No school plays, no soccer games, no college funds.” Mark dried his hands and came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “We’ll travel,” he said. “See places we’ve always talked about. Maybe get a dog. We’ll be okay, Em.” She leaned back against him, eyes fixed on the neighbor’s window. “I know,” she whispered. But in her mind, she was already imagining something else entirely. Something that would fill the yellow room. Something that would let her be the mother she was meant to be. And Mark—loyal, loving Mark—would help her. He just didn’t know how yet. Chapter 3: A Desperate Proposal December settled over the house like a heavy quilt. The neighbors strung Christmas lights along their eaves, and the young couple next door brought home a tiny, decorated tree that glowed softly in their front window each evening. Emily watched it from the kitchen while washing dishes, her hands moving automatically through the warm water. Inside her chest, the ache had grown sharper, more insistent, as though grief itself were a living thing pacing the corridors of her heart. Mark tried everything he could think of. He booked a weekend getaway to a bed-and-breakfast in the mountains, hoping crisp air and quiet trails might lift her spirits. He suggested they volunteer at the children’s hospital, reasoning that giving love to other babies might ease the loss of their own. He even printed adoption paperwork and left it on the nightstand with a hopeful note. Emily thanked him for each gesture, kissed his cheek, and carried on as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed. The late-night searches had become a ritual. After Mark fell asleep, Emily slipped downstairs in her robe and opened the laptop. What began as cautious curiosity hardened into something closer to hunger. She read stories of couples who had found solace in unusual ways. She studied photographs of nurseries built for adults—cribs wide enough for a grown man, changing tables sturdy and high. She learned new words: caregiver, little, regression, surrender. Each term lodged in her mind like a small, bright seed. She told herself it was research. She told herself she was simply looking for anything that might quiet the endless, circling pain. But in the privacy of those glowing hours, Emily began to imagine. She pictured Mark—broad-shouldered, capable Mark—curled against her, trusting and small. She pictured herself rocking him, feeding him, soothing him the way she would never soothe their own child. The fantasy brought a rush of warmth so intense it frightened her, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. Yet the image returned night after night, growing clearer, more detailed, until it felt less like fantasy and more like necessity. By mid-December, Emily had made her decision. It would be temporary. It would be private. It would heal her. And Mark, because he loved her, would understand. She chose a Tuesday evening for the conversation—ordinary enough that it wouldn’t feel staged, close enough to the weekend that they could begin gently. She cooked his favorite meal: roast chicken with rosemary potatoes, green beans almondine, the smells filling the house with familiar comfort. Mark came home tired from work, kissed her hello, and loosened his tie as he set the table. They ate in near silence at first, the clink of silverware loud against the quiet. Mark talked about a project deadline; Emily nodded in the right places. When the plates were cleared and they sat with cups of tea, she reached across the table and took his hand. “Mark,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “I need to ask you something. Something important.” He looked up, immediately alert to the tremor beneath her calm. “Anything. You know that.” Emily drew a slow breath. Tears welled quickly—she had practiced this moment in the mirror and knew they would come. “I can’t stop thinking about the baby we’ll never have. It’s eating me alive. I’ve been reading about ways people cope—different kinds of therapy, role-playing, things that let you grieve by… by experiencing what you’ve lost, even in pretend.” Mark’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, letting her continue. “I know it sounds strange,” she went on, a tear slipping down her cheek, “but I think… I think if we could pretend, just for a little while, that you were our baby—if I could take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to take care of a child—it might help me let go. Just temporarily. Just until the worst of it passes.” Mark stared at her, processing. The word baby hung oddly in the air between them. He waited for her to laugh, to say she was joking, but her eyes remained earnest, glistening with fresh tears. “Em,” he said carefully, “what exactly do you mean by… pretend?” She squeezed his hand. “Nothing extreme. Just at home. Maybe you wear… special clothes at night. Diapers, onesies—things like that. I’d feed you a bottle, rock you, take care of you. Only after work and on weekends. We’d set rules. We could stop anytime.” Mark’s mind raced. He had heard of role-playing in bedrooms, but this felt different—deeper, sadder. Yet the desperation in her voice was unmistakable. He thought of the nights he’d held her while she cried silently into her pillow. He thought of the yellow room gathering dust. He thought of his promise: whatever you need. He swallowed. “If you think it will help you heal… I’ll do it. For you.” Relief flooded Emily’s face, bright and sudden. She stood, came around the table, and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, pressing her wet cheek to his. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s only temporary. Just until I’m okay again.” Mark reached up and covered her hands with his. “We’ll set boundaries,” he said firmly. “Nights after work, weekends only. And if either of us wants to stop, we stop—no questions.” “Of course,” she agreed quickly, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll order some things tomorrow. Plain ones, medical ones—nothing too childish. We’ll keep it simple.” That night, as they lay in bed, Mark stared at the ceiling and wondered what he had just agreed to. It felt surreal, slightly embarrassing, but harmless enough if it eased her pain. Beside him, Emily curled against his side, her breathing deep and even for the first time in weeks. In the dark, she allowed herself a small, private smile. It would be temporary, she told herself. Just long enough. Chapter 4: First Steps into Fantasy The package arrived on a Thursday afternoon, discreet brown cardboard with no logos, no hints of what lay inside. Emily signed for it at the door, her pulse quickening as the delivery driver handed over the box. She carried it upstairs to the spare bedroom—the yellow one—and set it on the dresser that had once been intended for tiny folded clothes. With careful fingers, she sliced the tape and unfolded the flaps. Inside were two packs of plain white medical diapers, thick but unprinted, and three soft cotton onesies in neutral gray and pale blue. Nothing overtly childish—no cartoons, no bright colors—just functional, adult-sized items that could pass for medical necessity if anyone ever saw them. Emily had chosen them deliberately, telling herself it was for Mark’s comfort, for realism, for keeping things gentle. She ran her hand over the crinkly plastic of a diaper, feeling the padded bulk, and a shiver of something—anticipation, guilt, relief—passed through her. This was only pretend, she reminded herself. Only temporary. Mark came home at six-thirty, loosening his tie as he stepped through the door. The house smelled of simmering tomato sauce; Emily had made spaghetti, his favorite comfort food. He kissed her hello, asked about her day, and noticed the faint flush in her cheeks but attributed it to the stove’s heat. After dinner, they lingered at the table with cups of tea. Emily’s fingers toyed with the handle of her mug. “The things came today,” she said quietly. Mark nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the flutter of nerves in his stomach. “Okay. So… tonight?” “If you’re ready,” she answered. Her voice was soft, hopeful. “We can take it slow.” He reached across and covered her hand with his. “I’m ready.” Upstairs, Emily had laid everything out on their bed: one diaper unfolded, a plain gray onesie beside it, a bottle of baby powder, wipes, and a simple glass bottle filled with warm milk mixed with a mild adult nutritional formula she had ordered online. Nothing fancy—just whole milk with a scoop of vanilla-flavored supplement to make it richer, creamier. Mark stood in the doorway, feeling suddenly awkward in his work shirt and slacks. Emily turned to him, eyes bright. “You can undress in the bathroom if you want privacy,” she offered. He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. We’re in this together, right?” She smiled, grateful, and watched as he stripped down to his boxers. The room was warm; the radiator clanked softly. Mark’s skin prickled with self-consciousness as he stepped out of his underwear and stood naked in the lamplight. He was thirty-four, fit from weekend hikes, but in this moment he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. Emily patted the bed. “Lie down for me?” He did, stretching out on his back, arms at his sides. The mattress dipped as she sat beside him. She unfolded the diaper with a soft crinkle that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. Mark stared at the ceiling, feeling heat rise in his face as she lifted his legs gently, slid the padding beneath him, sprinkled powder with careful shakes, and brought the front up between his thighs. The tapes fastened with small, decisive rips. It felt thick. Bulky. Foreign. He shifted slightly and heard the unmistakable rustle of plastic. Emily smoothed the tapes, checking the fit, then helped him sit up and guided his arms through the onesie. The soft cotton stretched over his shoulders and snapped closed between his legs with a row of metal snaps. She adjusted the fabric so it lay flat over the diaper’s bulge, then sat back to look at him. Mark glanced down at himself—gray cotton, obvious padding beneath—and felt a rush of embarrassment so acute he almost laughed. Almost. “You look…” Emily searched for the right word. “Safe,” she finished, her voice catching. Mark met her eyes and saw the truth there: gratitude, wonder, a fragile kind of peace. Whatever this was doing to his pride, it was doing something far more important for her. He reached for her hand. “Come here,” he said. She crawled onto the bed and settled beside him, pulling him gently until his head rested against her chest. The bottle appeared in her hand—warm, the nipple soft latex. Mark hesitated only a second before opening his mouth and accepting it. The milk was sweet, creamy, comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. He suckled slowly, eyes closing, one hand resting on her waist. Emily cradled him, rocking slightly, her fingers stroking through his hair. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks—not from sadness this time, but from a sudden, overwhelming sense of fullness. For the first time since the clinic, the ache inside her quieted. She was holding someone who needed her completely. She was nurturing. She was, in this small, strange way, a mother. They stayed like that for nearly an hour. When the bottle was empty, Emily set it aside and simply held him, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing against her. Mark, warm and drowsy from the milk, felt the diaper’s bulk between his legs and the soft press of the onesie, and told himself it was bearable—more than bearable—if it gave her this peace. Eventually, she kissed his forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered. He looked up at her, cheeks faintly flushed. “We’ll keep it light, yeah? Just nights and weekends. Temporary.” “Temporary,” she agreed, smiling softly. But even as she said it, Emily felt the idea settle deeper inside her, warm and certain. This was only the beginning. Chapter 5: Weekend Baby Time Saturday morning arrived with pale winter sunlight filtering through the bedroom curtains. Mark woke slowly, aware first of the unfamiliar bulk between his legs and the soft press of cotton against his skin. For a disoriented second he thought he had dreamed the previous nights, but the faint crinkle when he shifted confirmed it was real. Emily lay beside him, already awake, watching him with a quiet, tender smile. “Good morning,” she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. Mark cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious in the gray onesie. “Morning.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “How did you sleep?” “Fine,” he said, which was mostly true. The diaper had felt strange at first, but the warmth of her body curled against his had lulled him into deeper sleep than he’d had in weeks. “You?” “Better than I have in months,” she answered honestly. They lingered in bed a little longer, talking softly about nothing important—the frost on the windows, the coffee she would make. Then Emily sat up, enthusiasm brightening her face. “It’s the weekend,” she said. “We can take our time.” Mark nodded, pushing down the flutter of nerves. He had agreed to this—nights and weekends only—and he meant to see it through. Emily’s happiness was worth a little discomfort. Downstairs, she prepared breakfast while Mark showered and changed into a fresh diaper and a clean blue onesie. The routine already felt less awkward than the first night, though the thickness between his thighs still forced a slight waddle that made his cheeks warm. When he appeared in the kitchen, Emily turned from the stove with a delighted smile. “There’s my sweet boy,” she said softly, opening her arms. Mark stepped into the embrace, letting her hold him. She smelled of vanilla and coffee, and for a moment he simply rested his head against her shoulder, allowing himself to be held. They ate pancakes at the table—Emily cutting his into small pieces without asking, and Mark discovering he didn’t mind. Afterward, she led him to the living room where she had arranged a nest of blankets and pillows on the rug in front of the fireplace. A stack of children’s books waited on the coffee table—simple stories with bright illustrations that she had borrowed from the library “for inspiration.” Mark hesitated, then lowered himself carefully onto the blankets, the diaper crinkling loudly. Emily settled beside him, pulling him gently until his head rested in her lap. She opened the first book—The Velveteen Rabbit—and began to read in a low, soothing voice. He listened, eyes half-closed, surprised by how relaxing it was. Her fingers combed slowly through his hair; the fire crackled softly. The story’s gentle melancholy about love and becoming real touched something in him he hadn’t expected. When she finished, she closed the book and simply held him, rocking slightly. Later, they played quiet games—stacking soft blocks she had found in the attic from her own childhood, rolling a large rubber ball back and forth. Emily praised every small accomplishment with warm enthusiasm, and Mark found himself smiling despite the absurdity of it all. The day unfolded slowly, unhurried. Lunch was grilled cheese cut into triangles, eaten on the rug with sippy cups of apple juice. Emily prepared another bottle for his afternoon nap, warming the enriched milk just as she had the night before. Mark lay on the blankets while she fed him, the nipple familiar now. The milk was sweet and filling; drowsiness crept in quickly. Emily stroked his cheek, humming a lullaby she half-remembered from her own mother. Within minutes, he was asleep. He woke an hour later to an odd, warm sensation. Disoriented, he shifted—and felt the unmistakable heaviness of a soaked diaper. Heat flooded his face. He had wet in his sleep without realizing it. The accident was small, but undeniable. Emily was reading nearby. She looked up immediately, reading his expression. “It’s okay,” she said gently, setting her book aside. “That’s what the diaper is for.” Mark sat up, mortified. “I didn’t even… I didn’t feel it happen.” She moved to him, cupping his cheek. “That’s normal when you’re relaxed. Come on, let’s get you changed.” She led him upstairs to their bedroom, where she had laid a towel over the comforter. Mark lay down without protest, staring at the ceiling while she unsnapped the onesie and peeled away the wet diaper. The air felt cool against his skin; the wipes were gentle, the powder lightly scented. Emily worked with calm efficiency, her touch tender and unhurried. When she taped the fresh diaper in place and fastened the snaps, she leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Better?” He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Thanks.” They returned downstairs, and Emily pulled him into another cuddle. “You have no idea how much this is helping me,” she murmured against his hair. “I feel… useful again. Needed.” Mark wrapped his arms around her, pushing down the twinge of unease. It was only temporary, he reminded himself. And she was happier than she had been in months. That was worth it. That evening, after Mark had fallen asleep in a fresh diaper and onesie, Emily slipped downstairs to the laptop once more. The forums welcomed her back with new posts, new ideas. She bookmarked pages about thicker diapers, about cribs that could be built discreetly, about formulas designed to encourage deeper regression. She told herself she was only gathering information—just in case. After all, it was still early days. And Mark was being so good for her. She closed the laptop, turned off the light, and went upstairs to watch him sleep, her heart full of a fierce, protective love she had never known before. Temporary, she thought again. But the word felt thinner now, less certain. Chapter 6: The Workplace Accident January arrived with a sharp, biting cold that turned the sidewalks into sheets of ice. Mark had kept to their agreed boundaries through the holidays—diapers and onesies only after work and on weekends, removed promptly Monday morning before he dressed for the office. The routine had settled into something almost manageable: a private ritual that brought Emily visible calm and cost him only a few hours of mild embarrassment each day. He told himself it was working; her smiles came more easily, her sleep seemed deeper. Temporary, he reminded himself whenever the crinkle of plastic felt too loud. On a Tuesday morning in the second week of January, the warehouse at Mark’s construction supply company was busier than usual. A large shipment of lumber had arrived overnight, and the crew hurried to unload it before the forecasted snow. Mark, in steel-toed boots and a heavy Carhartt jacket, helped guide a forklift carrying stacked pallets. The concrete floor was slick from melted snow tracked in on boots, and in a moment of distraction—thinking about whether Emily had remembered to order more of the plain onesies—he stepped onto a patch of ice hidden beneath sawdust. His foot slid out from under him. He twisted instinctively to catch his balance, but his ankle rolled with a sickening pop. Pain flared hot and immediate. By the time his coworkers reached him, he was sitting on the cold floor clutching his leg, face pale. An hour later, the urgent-care doctor confirmed a moderate sprain: swollen ligaments, no fracture, but strict orders to stay off it for at least two weeks. Crutches, ice, elevation, and a note excusing him from work. Mark texted Emily from the waiting room: Sprained ankle at work. Coming home early. All okay, just sore. Emily read the message twice, her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with worry. When Mark hobbled through the front door that afternoon, leaning heavily on the crutches, Emily was waiting with an ice pack and a look of practiced concern. She helped him to the couch, propped his foot on pillows, and fussed over him with kisses and gentle scolding for not being careful. “It’s not too bad,” he assured her, wincing as he shifted. “Two weeks off, then back to normal.” Emily smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “You’ll need rest. Lots of it. And help getting around.” He nodded, grateful for her care. “Yeah. I’ll mostly stay on the couch. Maybe work remotely a little if they need me.” She hesitated, then spoke softly. “Mark… while you’re home recovering, what if we kept the… special time going all day? It would be so much easier—no rushing to change before bed, no worrying about leaks at night when you’re uncomfortable. The diapers are already absorbent, and with you stuck on the couch or in bed, it would just be more comfortable. Practical, even.” Mark blinked, caught off guard. They had agreed on boundaries—nights and weekends only. But her eyes were pleading, and the pain in his ankle throbbed with every small movement. He didn’t want to argue, not when she looked so hopeful. “I guess… for the two weeks,” he said slowly. “Since I’m not going anywhere. It’ll make things easier on both of us.” Emily’s face lit with relief and something deeper—satisfaction. She kissed him warmly. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.” That evening, she helped him upstairs on the crutches, then settled him on the bed then helped him upstairs on the crutches, then settled him on the bed for a proper change into a fresh diaper and onesie. The routine felt familiar now, almost comforting in its predictability. But tonight she added something new. From the nightstand she produced a larger bottle—plastic this time, with a wider silicone nipple—and a canister of powder she had ordered days earlier. The label read “Adult Nutritional Meal Replacement—Vanilla Crème.” She had told Mark it was simply a protein shake to help him heal faster; she had not mentioned the added ingredients listed in fine print: natural bowel deodorizers, gentle digestive enzymes, and a mild laxative fiber blend designed to keep things “moving comfortably” for those with limited mobility. “I made this special for you,” she said, warming the bottle under hot water. “It’s got everything you need—calories, vitamins, even stuff to keep your tummy happy while you’re resting.” Mark, propped against pillows with his bandaged ankle elevated, accepted the bottle without suspicion. The formula was thicker than the plain milk, sweetly vanilla, and surprisingly filling. He drank steadily while Emily sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on his padded hip. The warmth spread through him, easing the ache in his ankle and the lingering tension from the day. Emily watched him with quiet intensity, noting how readily he accepted the nipple now, how his eyes grew heavy as the bottle emptied. When it was done, she set it aside and pulled him into her arms, cradling his head against her chest. “You’re being so good for me,” she murmured. “Rest now. Mommy’s here.” Mark drifted off without protest, the word Mommy slipping past his defenses in his half-asleep state. Emily stayed awake long after, listening to his breathing, feeling the solid weight of him against her. Two weeks, she thought. Two whole weeks of full-time care. It was only practical. Only temporary. And already, in the quiet of the bedroom, she was planning how to make the most of every single day. Chapter 7: Enforced Dependency Begins Mark woke to the soft glow of morning light and the immediate awareness of the thick diaper taped around his waist. His ankle throbbed dully beneath the ace bandage, but it was the padded bulk between his legs that dominated his thoughts. For the first time, he had slept in a diaper without the promise of removing it come morning. The onesie snaps pressed lightly against his skin, a constant reminder that today there would be no return to adult clothes, no commute, no hiding. Emily was already up. He could hear her moving quietly downstairs, the clink of dishes, the low hum of the kettle. The smell of coffee drifted up the stairs, ordinary and comforting. Mark lay still for a moment, listening to the faint crinkle when he shifted, and felt a wave of unease. Two weeks, he reminded himself. Just until the ankle heals. He reached for the crutches propped against the nightstand and maneuvered himself out of bed. The diaper forced an awkward waddle as he made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Emily appeared in the doorway, smiling softly. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, leaning against the frame. “How’s my boy feeling?” Mark managed a small smile around the toothbrush. “Ankle’s sore. Everything else is… weird.” She stepped closer, smoothing his hair. “You’ll get used to it. It’s just us here. No one else to worry about.” She kissed his temple. “Breakfast is ready when you are.” Downstairs, she had arranged the living-room couch into a nest of pillows so he could keep his foot elevated. A tray waited on the coffee table: scrambled eggs, toast cut into triangles, and a large bottle of the vanilla formula warmed to body temperature. Mark eyed the bottle. “Coffee too?” “Of course,” she said, producing a mug. “But the formula has protein and vitamins to help you heal faster. Doctor’s orders—well, almost.” She winked. He drank the coffee gratefully, then tackled the eggs while Emily sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on his padded thigh. The normalcy of the moment—the quiet domesticity—almost made the diaper feel incidental. Almost. By mid-morning, the pressure in his bladder began to build. Mark shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore it. Emily noticed immediately. “It’s okay to use the diaper,” she said gently. “That’s why it’s there. You’re not supposed to be hobbling to the bathroom on those crutches.” He flushed. “I can make it.” She stroked his arm. “But you don’t have to. Let me take care of you.” The encouragement in her voice—soft, loving—chipped away at his resistance. After another ten minutes of squirming, he closed his eyes and let go. The warmth spread slowly, the diaper swelling beneath him. He waited for shame to flood in, but instead he felt only a strange relief, followed by Emily’s quiet praise. “Good boy,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “See? Nothing bad happened.” Mark managed a sheepish smile. The sensation was humiliating, yes, but her approval soothed the sting. Lunch was chicken soup and crustless sandwiches, eaten on the couch with another bottle of formula. Emily had prepared it lovingly, blending in an extra scoop of the powder—and, unseen, a measured dose of a mild over-the-counter laxative she had purchased online. The label promised “gentle relief for occasional constipation,” perfect for someone with limited mobility. She told herself it was for his health; immobility could cause issues, after all. The afternoon passed slowly. They watched an old movie, Emily’s head on his shoulder, her hand idly patting the front of his diaper from time to time. Mark dozed off once, waking to find himself wet again. Emily changed him without comment, treating it as the most natural thing in the world. By late afternoon, a different pressure began to build—low in his abdomen, insistent. Mark recognized it and tensed. Messing was a line he had not intended to cross. Wetting was one thing; this was another entirely. He shifted on the couch, trying to hold it. Emily noticed the strain in his face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just… adjusting.” She studied him, then seemed to understand. “If you need to go, it’s okay. The diaper can handle it. I’ll clean you up.” Mark shook his head. “I’d rather not.” Her expression softened into something almost pleading. “But it would help me so much. Taking care of all your needs… it makes me feel like the mother I was supposed to be.” The words landed heavily. Mark looked away, guilt twisting in his gut. The pressure mounted; the laxative was doing its gentle work. He clenched, fought, shifted again—but his body, relaxed from days of limited movement and the warm formula, betrayed him. It happened suddenly and uncontrollably. The mess filled the back of his diaper, warm and undeniable. Mortification crashed over him in a hot wave. He froze, face burning, unable to meet her eyes. Emily moved immediately, calm and reassuring. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, baby. Accidents happen.” She helped him upstairs on the crutches, laid him on the bed, and began the cleanup with steady, loving hands—wipes, powder, a fresh diaper taped snugly into place. Throughout it all she spoke softly, telling him how proud she was that he had let go, how complete it made her feel to care for him this way. When it was done, she pulled him into her arms and held him tightly. “You have no idea what this means to me,” she whispered against his hair. “Changing you, feeding you, holding you—it’s healing something inside me I thought was broken forever.” Mark, still flushed with shame, felt tears prick his own eyes. He loved her too much to deny her this comfort, even if it cost him pieces of his dignity. “I’ll keep trying,” he said quietly. “For you.” Emily kissed him, gratitude and something deeper shining in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “My sweet boy.” That night, as she fed him another bottle and rocked him to sleep, Emily’s mind was already moving ahead. Two weeks was a gift. And gifts, she thought, should be used wisely. Chapter 8: Bottles and Bonding The second day of Mark’s recovery dawned quiet and gray, snow tapping softly against the windows. His ankle still ached when he put weight on it, but the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. What dominated his awareness now was the ever-present diaper—thicker than the medical ones he had worn to work, softer, more absorbent. Emily had changed him first thing that morning, humming as she powdered and taped, and dressed him in a fresh pale-blue onesie that snapped snugly over the padding. Breakfast was no longer eaten at the table. Emily carried a tray to the couch: oatmeal sweetened with honey, cut-up pieces of banana, and two large bottles of the vanilla formula. Mark eyed the bottles warily. “Two?” he asked. She smiled, settling beside him with the tray on her lap. “You’re healing. You need the calories and nutrients. And it’s easier than getting up for meals when you’re resting.” He couldn’t argue with the logic. The formula was filling, almost decadently rich, and the warmth of it sliding down his throat was undeniably soothing. He drank the first bottle while she fed him spoonfuls of oatmeal, her free hand resting lightly on his padded hip. The second bottle followed without protest; by the end he felt pleasantly full and drowsy. Emily gathered the dishes and returned with the TV remote. She chose a gentle nature documentary—slow pans over forests, soft narration about animal mothers and their young—and pulled Mark’s head into her lap. He lay there, ankle propped on pillows, watching sunlight reflect off snow through the window while her fingers traced idle patterns through his hair. Mid-morning brought the first wetting. It happened without warning, a sudden warm release that spread through the diaper as he watched a mother bear teach her cub to fish. He tensed, embarrassed, but Emily only patted his thigh. “Good boy,” she murmured. “Just let it happen.” The praise eased the sting, and he relaxed again. By lunchtime he was wet enough to sag noticeably. Emily changed him efficiently, cooing over him, powdering and taping with practiced tenderness. Lunch was more formula—this time three bottles—accompanied by mashed sweet potato fed from a spoon. Mark noticed how easily he accepted the nipple now, how naturally he suckled while she held the bottle. The formula was doing something to him. He felt it in the subtle looseness of his digestion, the way his stomach gurgled softly after each feeding. The canister had mentioned “gentle detox support,” and he supposed that explained the calm, almost floaty feeling that settled over him in the afternoons. His body felt lighter, cleaner somehow, and the constant warmth of the bottles left him relaxed in a way he hadn’t been in years. Emily noticed the changes too. Her eyes were brighter, her movements lighter. She laughed more easily—at the otters playing on screen, at Mark’s sleepy yawn after his third bottle. When he dozed off mid-afternoon, she watched him with quiet wonder, brushing her fingers over the soft cotton covering his diapered bottom. Caring for him—feeding, changing, holding—filled the hollow places inside her with something warm and solid. She felt needed in a way she had never been before. Late afternoon brought another accident—this one messier. The laxative fibers in the formula, combined with days of limited movement, produced a soft, uncontrollable release while Mark watched a documentary on penguins. He froze, mortified, as the warmth spread. Tears pricked his eyes. Emily was there instantly, gathering him close despite the smell. “Shh, it’s all right,” she whispered. “Mommy’s got you.” She carried him upstairs—crutches abandoned for the moment—and laid him on the changing mat she had spread over the bed. The cleanup was thorough, gentle, loving. She spoke softly the entire time, telling him how proud she was, how perfect he was, how this was exactly what she needed to feel whole again. When he was clean and freshly diapered, she pulled him into her arms and rocked him. Mark clung to her, shame and gratitude tangled together. “You’re helping me so much,” she said against his hair. “I feel… alive again. Like I have purpose.” He nodded into her shoulder, throat tight. The sacrifice felt worthwhile when he saw the light in her eyes, the softness in her smile. The odd relaxation from the formula helped too—everything felt distant, manageable. That evening, dinner was skipped in favor of more bottles—four this time, spaced throughout a quiet movie. Mark drank them all, belly rounding slightly under the onesie, body heavy with contentment. When bedtime came, Emily changed him once more, tucked him into bed with his ankle elevated, and curled around him protectively. In the dark, Mark noticed how easily he had accepted the day—bottles, changes, accidents, all of it. The formula left him deeply relaxed, almost floating, and the constant care from Emily felt… safe. Emily lay awake longer, listening to his breathing even out. The detox effects were working beautifully—his body adjusting, becoming accustomed. She had ordered a larger supply of the formula, along with a few other items she hadn’t yet mentioned. Two weeks, she thought, stroking his hair. Plenty of time to deepen the bond. Plenty of time to make this feel natural. After all, he was being such a good boy for her. Chapter 9: Resistance and Acceptance The first week of Mark’s recovery slipped by in a haze of bottles, changes, and quiet days on the couch. His ankle improved steadily—swelling down, pain reduced to a dull ache—but the rest of him adjusted in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The constant feedings of Emily’s special formula left him full and drowsy, his digestion soft and predictable. Wetting happened without thought now; he barely registered the warmth spreading before it was done. Messing, though, still carried a sharp edge of shame. Midway through the second week, on a quiet Thursday afternoon, the pressure built again while they watched an old sitcom rerun. Mark tensed, clenching against the inevitable. The laxative fibers Emily continued to mix into his bottles and soft meals worked gently but relentlessly, and his body—relaxed from immobility and the soothing routine—offered little resistance. He managed to hold it until Emily left the room to warm another bottle. When she returned, he was sitting stiffly, face flushed. “Em,” he said, voice low, “we need to talk.” She paused in the doorway, bottle in hand, reading his expression. Concern creased her brow as she crossed to him and sat close. “What is it, sweetheart?” He shifted, the diaper crinkling loudly. “The… messing. It’s happening too often. I don’t like it. It feels… wrong.” Emily’s eyes filled instantly with tears. She set the bottle aside and took both his hands in hers. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I know it’s hard for you. I know it’s embarrassing. But please try to understand—this is the part that helps me the most.” Mark frowned, confused. “What do you mean?” She looked down at their joined hands, tears slipping free. “When I clean you afterward… when I take care of every single need… it’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a real mother. The feeding, the cuddling—it’s wonderful—but the full care, the messes, the total dependency… that’s what heals the deepest part of me. The part that grieves never changing my own baby’s diaper, never soothing them after an accident.” Her voice broke. She pressed his hands to her cheek. “If we stop that part… if you hold back… it feels like I’m losing the only motherhood I’ll ever have.” Mark’s throat tightened. He had known this was helping her, but he hadn’t realized how completely. The sight of her tears—of genuine pain returning to her eyes—twisted something inside him. “I didn’t know it meant that much,” he said quietly. “It means everything,” she whispered. “Just until you’re better. Please.” He looked at her for a long moment, seeing the fragility beneath her calm caregiving. Guilt and love warred within him, but love won—as it always did. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll try not to fight it.” Relief flooded her face. She leaned in and kissed him softly, tears still wet on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she breathed. “You’re giving me more than you’ll ever know.” That evening, the pressure returned—stronger this time, inevitable. Mark didn’t clench. He closed his eyes and let it happen, face burning as the mess filled the seat of his diaper. When it was over, he sat very still, waiting. Emily was there in moments, as though she had sensed it. She didn’t scold or tease; she simply gathered him close. “There’s my brave boy,” she cooed, voice warm with pride. “Let Mommy take care of you.” The change was slow and thorough, her hands gentle, her words softer than ever. She began using baby talk without thinking—simple, lilting phrases that slipped out naturally. “Who’s Mommy’s good wittle boy? Yes, you are. All clean now, all fresh and comfy.” Mark’s cheeks flamed, but he didn’t protest. The warmth of her approval, the tenderness in her touch, dulled the humiliation. When she finished, she pulled him into her lap—awkward with his size but determined—and offered the bottle. He took it without hesitation, suckling steadily while she rocked him. The formula flowed warm and sweet, and the day’s tension ebbed away. More accidents followed over the next days—frequent, soft, uncontrollable. Each time, Emily responded with the same loving efficiency, the same gentle baby talk, the same deep cuddles afterward. Mark’s body learned quickly; resistance became pointless. The routine—accident, change, bottle, cuddle—wove itself into the fabric of his days. He noticed how relaxed he felt, how the constant care left him floating in a strange, soft space. The formula’s detox effects kept him calm, almost dreamy. He told himself it was temporary. Two weeks would end soon, his ankle would heal, and they would scale back. But watching Emily’s face—seeing the light in her eyes, the new softness in her smile, the way she hummed lullabies without thinking—made the sacrifice feel bearable. Worth it, even. She was healing. And for now, that was enough. Chapter 10: End of Recovery, New Normal The two weeks ended on a deceptively ordinary Friday. Mark woke to find his ankle almost pain-free; he could bear weight without crutches, flex it without wincing. The swelling had vanished, leaving only faint bruising. He stood in the bedroom, testing it gingerly, and felt a rush of relief. Normal life was waiting just outside the door—work clothes, adult underwear, the familiar rhythm of commuting and meetings. Emily watched from the bed, propped on one elbow, her expression carefully neutral. “Looks like you’re healed,” she said softly. “Yeah,” Mark answered, smiling. “Back to the real world on Monday.” He expected her to share his relief. Instead, her eyes filled with sudden tears. Mark’s heart sank. He crossed to the bed and sat beside her. “Em, what’s wrong?” She wiped her cheeks, voice trembling. “I know it’s selfish, but… these two weeks have been the happiest I’ve felt since the diagnosis. Taking care of you full-time, having you need me… it’s kept the worst of the grief away. I’m scared that when you go back—when everything returns to normal—it’ll all come rushing back.” Mark took her hand. “We can still do the role-play nights and weekends, like we originally planned.” She nodded, but the tears kept coming. “I know. It’s just… your accidents the last couple of weeks were so frequent. The doctor said stress and changes in routine can affect bladder control for a while after an injury. What if you have one at work? You’d be mortified. And I’d feel awful knowing I could have prevented it.” He shifted uncomfortably. The accidents had been frequent—too frequent—but he had chalked it up to the formula and immobility. Surely things would settle once he was active again. Emily seemed to read his doubt. “Just for a little while longer,” she pleaded. “Wear the thinner medical ones under your work clothes. No one will know. If nothing happens, we stop. But if you do have an accident… you’ll be protected. And I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.” Mark looked at her tear-streaked face and felt the familiar pull of love and guilt. He didn’t want to risk embarrassing leaks at work either—not really. And if it eased her mind during the day… “Okay,” he said quietly. “For a little while. Just in case.” Relief flooded her features. She hugged him tightly. “Thank you. You’re the best husband in the world.” That weekend, Emily prepared him carefully. She ordered a pack of discreet, thin adult incontinence briefs—medical-looking, quiet, designed to be worn under regular clothes. She showed him how to tape them securely, how slacks hid any outline. On Sunday night, she mixed one last scoop of the vanilla formula into his bedtime bottle, telling him it would help him sleep deeply before the big return to work. Monday morning arrived crisp and bright. Mark dressed in his usual button-down and khakis, the thin brief snug beneath. It felt strange—less bulky than the thick diapers, but still undeniably there. Emily kissed him goodbye at the door, pressing a travel mug into his hand. “Morning coffee,” she said with a smile. “Extra creamy, just how you like it.” He drank it on the commute, grateful for the warmth. The formula—now a familiar taste—blended seamlessly with the coffee. By the time he reached his desk, he felt calm, almost relaxed. The day unfolded normally at first: emails, meetings, catching up on two weeks of backlog. But midway through a conference call, the pressure began—subtle at first, then urgent. Mark shifted in his chair, trying to focus on the speakerphone. The formula’s effects, combined with weeks of conditioned response, were stronger than he expected. He clenched, held as long as he could, but the warmth came anyway—a slow, unstoppable release that soaked the brief beneath his khakis. No one in the meeting noticed; the padding held everything discreetly. But Mark felt it—the spreading wetness, the faint crinkle when he moved. Heat flooded his face. He muted his microphone and sat very still, heart pounding. When the call ended, he escaped to the restroom. The damage was contained—no leaks, no smell—but the reality hit him hard. He had wet himself at work. Like a child. He texted Emily from a stall: Had a small accident. You were right. Her reply came instantly: I’m so sorry, baby. But I’m glad you’re protected. Come home to me after work—I’ll take care of you. Mark stared at the message, a tangle of embarrassment and gratitude tightening his chest. He loved her for worrying, for preparing him. And beneath the anxiety, a small part of him felt… relieved. Safe. He returned to his desk, adjusted his posture to minimize crinkling, and finished the day. That evening, Emily greeted him at the door with open arms and a fresh, thicker diaper waiting upstairs. She changed him slowly, cooing reassurance, feeding him a bottle while he decompressed against her. “See?” she murmured, stroking his hair. “It’s just a little extra security. We’ll keep it up a bit longer—until you’re sure everything’s back to normal.” Mark nodded against her shoulder, the nipple of the bottle still in his mouth. Just a little longer, he told himself. For her sake. And the new normal settled over them, quiet and inevitable, like snow covering the ground. Chapter 11: Workplace Woes The first full week back at the office felt like walking a tightrope over a pit Mark could not see the bottom of. He had grown skilled at the morning routine: shower, thin medical brief taped snugly, loose-fit khakis that hid any slight bulge, an extra brief and wipes tucked into his laptop bag “just in case.” Emily kissed him goodbye each day with the same soft encouragement—You’ll be fine, baby. I’m proud of you—and handed him his travel mug of “special” coffee. The vanilla-creamy taste had become comforting, familiar. He drank it without question on the commute, unaware that every mug contained a careful measure of the formula that kept his system soft and his bladder responsive. At his desk, Mark threw himself into work to distract from the constant low-level awareness of the padding beneath his clothes. Meetings, emails, project timelines—anything to keep his mind off the slow, inevitable filling of the brief. Wetting happened three, sometimes four times a day now. The releases came with little warning: a sudden warmth spreading while he typed, or mid-conversation with a coworker. The thin briefs held it all discreetly—no leaks, no odor thanks to the deodorizers Emily chose—but the knowledge that he was sitting in a soaked diaper at his professional workstation gnawed at him. He developed small rituals to cope. Every hour or so he stood, stretched, and casually walked the long way to the printer or break room, feeling the swollen padding shift heavily between his legs. No one seemed to notice the faint rustle or the careful way he lowered himself back into his chair. Or if they did, they were too polite to comment. Messing was the line he still fought to hold. The formula’s gentle laxative effect made it a daily battle, but sheer willpower—and strategic bathroom breaks where he removed the brief just long enough—kept accidents at bay. Until Thursday. It happened during a late-afternoon budget review in the conference room. Mark sat at the long table with six colleagues and his boss, Tom Reynolds, discussing projected costs for the next quarter. The pressure had been building all morning; he had ignored it, focusing on the spreadsheets. But halfway through Tom’s questions about material overruns, Mark felt the familiar, unstoppable cramp. He clenched, shifted in his seat, tried to breathe steadily. The room was warm; someone had closed the blinds against the winter glare. Sweat pricked his forehead. He prayed for a break, a pause, anything—but the discussion rolled on. It slipped out in a soft, warm rush. Not dramatic, not loud, but unmistakable to him. The mess filled the seat of the brief, spreading with humiliating certainty. Mark kept his face neutral, nodding at Tom’s points as though nothing was wrong, but inside panic flared hot and sharp. When the meeting finally ended, he waited until the others filed out before standing—slowly, carefully—and gathering his notebook. The squish beneath him was mortifying. He walked stiffly to the farthest restroom, locked himself in the accessible stall, and stripped down with shaking hands. The cleanup was rushed and imperfect—wipes from his emergency kit, a fresh brief from the bag, khakis pulled up quickly. He washed his hands twice, checked for any trace of odor, and returned to his desk pale and quiet. That evening he told Emily everything, voice low with shame. She listened without judgment, pulling him into her lap on the couch despite his size. “My poor boy,” she murmured, rocking him. “You did so well holding it as long as you did.” He buried his face in her neck. “It was awful, Em.” “I know,” she soothed, fingers stroking his back. “But you were protected. No one knew. And now we know the thinner ones can handle it.” He nodded against her, exhausted. She changed him into a thick nighttime diaper, fed him a bottle, and held him until he slept. What Mark did not know was that earlier that afternoon—while he sat frozen in the conference room—Emily had made a phone call. She had dialed the main office line, asked for Tom Reynolds, and introduced herself calmly as Mark’s wife. Her voice trembled just enough to sound genuine. “I’m so sorry to bother you at work,” she began. “Mark didn’t want me to call, but I’m worried. The ankle sprain triggered a stress-related incontinence issue. The doctor says it’s temporary, but it’s been… difficult for him. He’s embarrassed, but he’s wearing protection. I just wanted you to understand if he seems distracted or needs extra breaks.” Tom Reynolds, a kind-hearted man in his fifties with grown children of his own, listened with growing sympathy. He had noticed Mark’s odd behavior lately—the stiff way he walked sometimes, the sudden restroom trips, the flushed cheeks during meetings. “Of course,” Tom assured her. “We’ll be accommodating. Whatever he needs—flexible hours, remote options if it helps. He’s a valuable part of the team. Tell him not to worry.” Emily thanked him profusely, tears in her voice that were not entirely feigned. When she hung up, she sat for a long moment staring at the phone. It was only to protect him, she told herself. Only to make things easier. And if it kept him closer to home—closer to her—where she could care for him properly… Well. That was just an unexpected benefit. For now. Chapter 12: Accommodations and Deception Friday afternoon brought an unexpected email from Tom Reynolds. Mark was at his desk, pretending to focus on a spreadsheet while discreetly shifting against the swollen brief beneath his khakis, when the notification chimed. The subject line read: Confidential – Accommodation Discussion. He opened it with a knot in his stomach. Mark, Your wife called earlier this week and explained the medical situation you’re dealing with. I want you to know we fully support you here. Stress-related incontinence is more common than people realize, and we’re happy to make whatever adjustments you need. Effective immediately, you’re approved for full-time remote work until you and your doctor feel it’s no longer necessary. No need to use PTO for the transition—consider this a formal accommodation. Take the pressure off yourself. Your work is excellent, and we want you healthy and focused. Let me know if there’s anything else HR or I can do. Best, Tom Mark stared at the screen, a confusing rush of emotions flooding him. Relief first—no more conference-room panics, no more praying the brief would hold during client calls. But beneath it, a prickling suspicion. Emily had called Tom? Without telling him? He forwarded the email to her with a simple question mark. Her reply came within minutes: Isn’t it wonderful? Tom called me back today to confirm. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until it was official. This will make everything so much easier, baby. You can heal properly now—no stress. Mark sat back in his chair, the damp padding shifting uncomfortably. Part of him was grateful; the office had become a minefield. But another part—the part that still clung to independence—felt a quiet alarm. Remote work meant more time at home. More time under Emily’s gentle, relentless care. He left early that day, citing a headache. On the drive home, he rehearsed questions—why she hadn’t mentioned the call, how much she had told Tom—but when he walked through the door and saw her waiting with shining eyes and open arms, the words dissolved. “You’re home!” she exclaimed, hugging him tightly. “Permanent remote. It’s perfect.” Mark hugged her back, voice muffled against her hair. “You talked to Tom without telling me?” She pulled away just enough to meet his eyes, expression soft and apologetic. “I was going to tell you, I promise. But I wanted it to be a done deal first—no disappointment if it didn’t work out. He was so understanding, Mark. He said you’ve seemed distracted lately and just wants what’s best for you.” Mark felt heat rise in his cheeks. Distracted. Odd behavior. The messing incident from earlier in the week flashed through his mind. “I’m relieved,” he admitted. “But… it feels a little like losing control.” Emily cupped his face. “You’re not losing anything. You’re gaining peace. And time with me.” She kissed him gently. “Let me take care of the rest.” That weekend, the transition began. With no commute and no coworkers to see, Emily gently suggested small changes “for comfort.” Adult underwear disappeared from his dresser drawers, replaced by stacks of thicker diapers—still plain white, but noticeably more absorbent than the office briefs. She encouraged onesies under his work shirts during the day. “It’ll keep everything secure,” she said, helping him into a soft gray one Monday morning before his first remote workday. “No tapes shifting while you’re sitting at the desk. And if you have an accident, it’ll hold better.” Mark stood in front of the mirror, shirt unbuttoned over the onesie, feeling the familiar bulk between his legs. He opened his mouth to protest, then saw her hopeful, almost pleading expression and closed it again. “Okay,” he said. “For now.” The onesie snapped closed with a soft row of clicks. Over it, a plain button-down and sweater vest looked perfectly professional from the waist up—perfect for video calls. Wetting became constant. Without the structure of office bathroom breaks, and with Emily refilling his bottle—now openly, no longer hidden in coffee—several times a day, accidents happened whenever his body decided. He accepted changes as routine now, barely blushing when she led him to the bedroom mid-afternoon to tape on a fresh diaper and resnap the onesie. Messing still embarrassed him, but even that grew harder to avoid. The formula’s effects were thorough; his body had learned new rhythms. Emily handled each incident with calm love, cleaning him, powdering him, cooing soft reassurances until the shame ebbed. Mark told himself it was temporary. Remote work would reduce stress, and soon his control would return. They could scale back. But as the days blurred into a soft routine of bottles, changes, and Emily’s constant, nurturing presence, suspicion faded beneath gratitude and exhaustion. He was home. He was safe. And Emily—radiant, purposeful Emily—was happier than she had been in years. For now, that was enough. Chapter 13: Thick Diapers and Helplessness The first full week of permanent remote work passed in a rhythm that felt deceptively normal from the waist up. Mark sat at the desk Emily had set up in the spare bedroom—once intended as a nursery—wearing a crisp button-down shirt and tie for video calls. His camera framed him neatly from the chest up: professional, focused, nodding at the right moments during team meetings. No one could see the onesie beneath the shirt, or the swollen diaper that sagged heavily between his legs by midday. Below the desk, the reality was very different. Emily had phased out the thin medical briefs entirely. In their place were thicker, crinkling diapers—plain white still, but noticeably more absorbent, with taller leak guards and a softer, quilted inner layer. She introduced them one morning while helping him dress for work. “These will hold more,” she explained, unfolding one with a loud rustle. “You’ve been so wet lately, and the thinner ones were getting close to leaking. This way you won’t have to worry all day.” Mark stood in his pajama bottoms, staring at the diaper in her hands. It was visibly bulkier than anything he’d worn to the office. “Em, those are… really thick. I can’t sit at the desk in those. They’ll spread my legs too far.” She looked up at him, eyes soft and pleading. “Just try them for one day. If they’re too much, we’ll go back. But you’ve had so many heavy wettings this week—I’m worried about rashes, about you being uncomfortable. Please, for me?” He hesitated, then sighed. Her concern was genuine; the constant wetness had left his skin sensitive despite frequent changes. And the truth was, he no longer had full control. The formula’s effects lingered. “Fine,” he said quietly. “One day.” The difference was immediate. The thicker padding forced his thighs apart, making him waddle slightly as he walked to the desk. Sitting was awkward—the bulk pushed him forward in the chair, and every shift produced a loud crinkle that made him freeze, terrified the microphone would pick it up during a call. He spent the morning hyper-aware of every movement, every warm release that swelled the diaper further. By lunch, it sagged heavily. Emily changed him with practiced tenderness, praising him for “holding everything so well.” She taped on a fresh thick diaper, then surprised him with something new. “I ordered these for playtime therapy,” she said brightly, holding up a pair of soft leather booties lined with fleece. The soles were dotted with small, blunt plastic spikes—enough to make walking painful and unsteady, but not harmful. “They’ll encourage you to crawl instead of putting weight on your legs when you’re resting. It’s good for relaxation, and it’ll be fun for our special time.” Mark stared at the booties. “Em, I don’t need—” “Please?” she interrupted softly, eyes glistening. “It would mean so much. Just around the house in the evenings and weekends. Crawling is soothing—it lowers stress, helps you let go. And I love taking care of you when you’re little like that.” He looked at her earnest face and felt the familiar pull. One more step. One more concession for her happiness. “Okay,” he said. “Evenings and weekends.” She beamed and knelt to fit the booties over his feet, lacing them snugly. The spikes pressed lightly against his soles when he tried to stand, an uncomfortable prickle that made balance difficult. On all fours, however, the pressure eased. That evening, after his last work call, Emily gently removed his shirt and tie, leaving him in just the onesie and thick diaper. She encouraged him to the living-room floor. “Try crawling to the kitchen for your bottle,” she said, holding it just out of reach with a playful smile. Mark lowered himself awkwardly, the diaper forcing his knees wide. The booties made standing impossible without pain, so he crawled—slow, waddling movements that emphasized the heavy padding between his legs. The crinkle was constant, loud in the quiet house. His face burned with humiliation as he made his way across the rug, onesie riding up slightly to expose the diaper’s waistband. Emily followed, cooing encouragement. “Look at my sweet boy go! So cute.” When he reached her, she scooped him up into her lap on the couch, offered the bottle, and rocked him while he drank. The position—helpless, cradled, dependent—stirred a confusing mix of shame and comfort. He wet again without noticing, the thick diaper swelling further. Later, as she changed him for bed, Emily kissed his forehead. “You were perfect today,” she whispered. “I’m so proud.” Mark lay still under her hands, the booties still on his feet, the thick diaper taped snugly. Humiliation lingered, sharp and hot, but beneath it was the undeniable warmth of her love. It was only temporary, he told himself. Just until things settled. And Emily, watching him drift toward sleep, felt her heart swell with quiet triumph. One more step taken. One more step closer. Chapter 14: Mittens and Chastity The weeks of full-time remote work blurred into a soft, predictable rhythm. Mark’s days revolved around the desk in the spare bedroom: video calls in the morning, emails and reports in the afternoon, all conducted from the chest up in neat shirts and ties. Below the camera’s view, the thick diapers and onesies had become standard. Crawling in the evenings with the spiked booties was now routine; he no longer fought the prickle that forced him onto hands and knees. Emily’s happiness was palpable. She hummed as she moved through the house, planned meals around the formula, and changed him with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Mark watched the light in her eyes and told himself the deepening immersion was worth it. She was healing. That was all that mattered. One quiet Tuesday evening, after a long day of virtual meetings, Emily led him to the bedroom for his usual change. The routine was familiar: thick diaper off, wipes, powder, fresh diaper taped snugly. But tonight she had something new laid out on the dresser. “Close your eyes for a surprise,” she said, voice playful. Mark obeyed, standing in just his diaper while she worked. He felt soft, padded fabric slide over his hands—thick mittens, fleece-lined with padded palms and short thumbs that rendered his fingers useless. Velcro straps tightened around his wrists, securing them firmly. “There,” she said, stepping back. “Open.” He looked down. The mittens were pale blue, matching his onesie, and ballooned around his hands like oversized paws. He flexed experimentally; he could make a loose fist, but grasping anything precise was impossible. “What are these for?” he asked, a note of unease creeping in. Emily’s smile was gentle. “Safety and comfort. Your hands get so fidgety when you’re working or watching TV—picking at the diaper tapes, rubbing your eyes too hard when you’re tired. These will keep you from accidentally undoing anything, and they’ll help you relax more deeply. Plus,” she added with a small laugh, “they’re adorable on you.” Mark lifted his padded hands, turning them awkwardly. Buttons, zippers, even holding a bottle properly—everything would require her help now. “Em, I still have to type for work.” “You can take them off during calls,” she assured him quickly. “But the rest of the time… let me take care of everything. It’ll be good for both of us.” He hesitated, resistance flickering. But her eyes were bright with hope, and the memory of her tears weeks ago still lingered. He nodded slowly. “Okay. We’ll try them.” She hugged him tightly, murmuring thanks into his hair. The mittens changed everything. Simple tasks—opening a water bottle, scrolling on his phone, even scratching an itch—became impossible without her. Emily fed him every meal now, holding the bottle or spooning soft foods into his mouth. She dressed and undressed him, wiped his face, adjusted his onesie snaps. Total reliance settled over him like a blanket, heavy and inescapable. The formula and its subtle additives continued their work. Messes came daily, sometimes twice, soft and uncontrollable. Mark barely registered the shame anymore; Emily’s loving cleanups and soft baby talk soothed it away. One evening, after a particularly messy accident and thorough change, Emily sat beside him on the bed, tracing gentle circles on his padded thigh. “I have one more little game,” she said softly. “Something to make our special time even closer.” From the nightstand drawer she produced a small, clear plastic device—a chastity cage, simple and beginner-sized, with a soft ring and short tube. Mark’s eyes widened. “Em…” “It’s just a game,” she reassured him quickly, voice warm. “A way to focus all your pleasure on me—on cuddles and closeness instead of… other things. It’ll heighten everything when we’re intimate. And it’ll keep you from any accidental touching down there that might cause irritation with all the wetness.” He stared at the device, a flush rising in his cheeks. Resistance flared—stronger this time—but her expression was so earnest, so full of love. “It’s small steps,” she coaxed. “We’ll start with the largest size. You can take it off anytime you say the word. But I think… I think it would make me feel even more needed. Like I’m in charge of every part of you.” Mark swallowed. The mittens already made him helpless; this would deepen it immeasurably. Yet seeing the joy in her face—the way her eyes sparkled at the thought of caring for him completely—chipped away at his resolve. He loved her. He had promised anything. “Okay,” he whispered. “We’ll try it.” Emily’s smile was radiant. She fitted the cage carefully, gently, locking it with a soft click and tucking the key on a chain around her neck. The plastic was cool and snug, a constant, undeniable presence. “There,” she murmured, pulling him into her arms. “My perfect boy. All mine.” Mark rested his mittened hands against her, the cage a strange, firm reminder between his legs. Resistance waned, washed away by the warmth of her embrace and the quiet happiness radiating from her. He was helpless now—truly, deeply helpless. And Emily, holding him close, felt her heart swell with a fierce, protective joy. Every step brought him closer. Every concession made him more perfectly hers. And she was only getting started. Chapter 15: Inducing Lactation Spring crept in slowly, bringing longer days and the faint scent of lilacs through open windows. Six months had passed since the devastating diagnosis—six months since Mark had first agreed to the temporary role-play that was supposed to help Emily grieve. The house had changed in subtle, irreversible ways: the spare bedroom now held a proper changing table, stacks of thick diapers lined the closet, and bottles waited on a small warming station in the kitchen. Emily’s happiness had deepened into something steady and radiant. She moved through her days with quiet purpose, caring for Mark with a devotion that bordered on reverence. And in the privacy of her late-night searches, she had found one more way to make the fantasy complete. It began with discreet online orders: domperidone tablets shipped from an overseas pharmacy, fenugreek capsules, blessed thistle, a hospital-grade breast pump hidden in the back of her closet. She read forums obsessively—women who had induced lactation without pregnancy, timelines, dosages, techniques. She told herself it was the final piece: real milk, real nursing, the closest she would ever come to the motherhood stolen from her. She started the regimen in secret. Pills with breakfast, herbal tea throughout the day, pumping sessions scheduled when Mark was deep in work calls. The changes were gradual: breasts fuller and tender, a faint tingling that grew into a persistent ache. She wore looser tops, blamed spring allergies for any mood shifts. Mark noticed, of course. How could he not? Emily had always been beautiful, but now there was a new softness to her curves, a gentle swell beneath her sweaters that drew his eyes. He asked once, carefully, if everything was okay. “Just putting on a little winter weight,” she said with a laugh, kissing his forehead. “Nothing to worry about.” He accepted it. There were so many changes to adjust to already; questioning her body felt like one bridge too far. The babying escalated naturally, almost imperceptibly. Adult food disappeared from his plate. Breakfast became bottles of thickened formula with mashed banana blended in. Lunch was pureed vegetables and oatmeal fed from a spoon while he sat in her lap. Dinner was more bottles, sometimes with soft fruits mashed into the mix. Snacks were nursing bottles of warm milk sipped during movie nights on the couch. Mark’s body adapted. The constant liquid diet and formula kept him full but soft, his digestion predictable and frequent. Messes came without warning now—daily, sometimes twice. He no longer fought them; the mittens made resistance futile anyway. Emily changed him with loving efficiency, cooing and cuddling afterward until the shame dissolved into quiet acceptance. Work suffered in small ways. Video calls found him distracted, staring at the bottle Emily sometimes held just off-camera to encourage him between tasks. Reports took longer; his mittened hands required her help to type anything complex. He missed deadlines by hours, not days, and attributed it to “adjusting to remote life.” His boss remained sympathetic, checking in occasionally with gentle emails about taking whatever time he needed. Emily read those emails over his shoulder and smiled. One evening in late April, after a particularly fussy day—three messy changes and constant wetting—Emily sat beside him on the couch, pumping discreetly under a nursing cover while he drank his bottle. The pump’s soft rhythm filled the quiet room. Mark, drowsy and compliant in his thick diaper and mittens, rested his head against her shoulder without questioning the new routine. Her breasts ached, heavy with the first hints of milk. A few precious drops had appeared that morning—clear at first, then faintly white. She had tasted one, tears springing to her eyes at the sweetness. Soon, she thought, stroking his hair. Soon he would nurse from her directly. Soon the bond would be unbreakable. Mark finished the bottle with a small sigh, eyes half-closed. The formula and constant care left him in a perpetual soft haze—relaxed, dependent, strangely content. He noticed Emily’s fuller figure, the way she sometimes winced when hugging him too tightly, but the questions never fully formed. She was happy. She was glowing. And that, more than anything, kept him quiet. Emily set the empty bottle aside and pulled him closer, guiding his mittened hand to rest against her chest. Beneath the fabric, her heart beat steady and strong. Just a little longer, she thought. Just until everything is perfect. Chapter 16: The Turning Point May arrived warm and fragrant, the backyard lilacs blooming in full purple glory. Nearly seven months had passed since Emily’s world had cracked open at the fertility clinic, and in that time the house had quietly, irrevocably transformed into something between a home and a nursery. The spare bedroom now held a sturdy adult-sized crib, a rocking chair, and shelves lined with diapers, onesies, and bottles. Mark’s work wardrobe had shrunk to a handful of button-down shirts for video calls; everything else was soft cotton and thick padding. Emily’s body had changed too. The hormones and pumping had done their work. Her breasts, once tender and heavy, now ached with real fullness. For weeks she had expressed small amounts into bottles—clear at first, then cloudy, then unmistakably white and sweet. She tasted it herself in secret, tears springing to her eyes at the miracle of it. She was producing milk. Real milk. The final, perfect piece. She waited for the right moment. It came on a quiet Saturday afternoon. Mark had finished his last work task early, a short weekly team check-in that required only a shirt and tie over his onesie. Afterward, Emily removed the shirt, leaving him in the pale-yellow onesie she had chosen that morning—thickly diapered beneath, mittens on his hands, booties on his feet. He crawled to the living room as usual, the routine now second nature. Emily waited on the couch with a nursing pillow across her lap and a light blanket draped over her shoulders. She wore a loose button-down shirt, the top few buttons undone. Her heart pounded with nervous excitement. “Come here, sweetheart,” she called softly. “Cuddle time.” Mark crawled to her, knees wide from the diaper’s bulk, and let her guide him up into her lap. He settled against her with a small sigh, head resting naturally in the crook of her arm. The position was familiar—countless bottles had been taken this way—but today felt different. Emily’s breathing was quicker, her body warm and slightly trembling. She shifted the blanket, unbuttoned her shirt further, and gently guided his head lower. Mark felt soft skin against his cheek, the faint scent of her lotion and something new—warm, sweet, almost milky. “Open for Mommy,” she whispered. Confused but trusting, he parted his lips. She guided him to her breast, and the moment his mouth closed around her nipple, warm milk flowed—sweet, rich, utterly real. Mark froze for a heartbeat, eyes widening. Then instinct took over. He latched properly and suckled, the milk coming in gentle, steady pulls. The taste was indescribable—comfort and love distilled into liquid warmth. It filled his mouth, slid down his throat, spread through his chest like sunlight. Emily exhaled a shaky breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. She cradled his head, fingers threading through his hair, and rocked him slowly. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Drink from Mommy. You’re safe. You’re loved.” Mark’s eyes fluttered closed. The intimacy overwhelmed him—the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his cheek, the sweet flow of milk that seemed to reach straight into the deepest parts of him. Weeks of formula had prepared his body for this; the real thing was infinitely better. A profound sense of safety washed over him, deeper than anything he had felt since childhood. He drank greedily, mittened hands resting against her side, diapered bottom heavy and warm in her lap. Without thinking, he wet—copiously, the thick padding swelling beneath him. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the milk and the woman giving it to him. Emily felt the warmth spread and smiled through her tears. She shifted him slightly to the other breast when the first slowed, and he latched again without hesitation. Her body responded, milk letting down in a rush that made her gasp softly. They stayed like that for nearly an hour—Mark nursing steadily, Emily rocking and stroking his hair, whispering soft endearments. When he finally drifted off, still latched, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Emily held him close and let her own tears fall freely. This was it. The turning point. Mark woke later in the crib, changed and dressed in a fresh diaper and onesie, but the craving was already there—deep, insistent, like hunger but warmer. When Emily came to get him for evening cuddle time, he crawled to her eagerly, eyes fixed on her chest. She smiled, understanding completely, and settled on the couch to nurse him again. From that day forward, breastfeeding became the center of their world. Bottles of formula were phased out almost entirely; Mark nursed multiple times a day, cradled in her arms or lying across her lap. The milk was abundant now, sweet and nourishing, and he sought it with quiet desperation. Diapers, mittens, booties, crawling—all of it began to feel not like concessions but like natural extensions of the safety he found at her breast. Wetting and messing happened constantly, without shame. The thick padding, the helpless reliance, the baby clothes—they became associated with love, with comfort, with the warm flow of milk that quieted every doubt. Mark still worked—remotely, distractedly—but the regression had solidified. He no longer questioned the depth of it. He craved her care, her milk, her control. Emily watched the change with quiet triumph and fierce love. Her baby boy was hers completely now. And the world outside their nursery felt farther away than ever. Chapter 17: Shrinking Cage and Crawling Life Summer heat settled over the house like a heavy blanket, the air thick with the hum of cicadas and the scent of cut grass from the neighbor’s yard. Eight months had passed since the clinic visit that changed everything. Mark’s world had shrunk to the walls of their home, to the soft crinkle of diapers and the warm comfort of Emily’s arms. The chastity cage had become a constant companion. It started large enough to be tolerable—a gentle reminder, Emily called it. But every few weeks she presented a smaller size, always with the same loving explanation: “It’ll help you focus on me, on us. Less distraction, more closeness.” Mark protested weakly each time, but her tears—or the threat of them—always won. The ring stayed the same; only the tube shortened, the bars closed in. By July the cage was small enough that erections were impossible, arousal a dull, frustrating ache that resolved only in her touch or the warmth of nursing. Dependency deepened; pleasure belonged entirely to her now. Walking had become a memory. The spiked booties were no longer just for evenings. Emily declared them permanent “for safety and therapy.” Standing without permission brought an uncomfortable prickle against his soles; crawling was painless, natural. She enforced the rule gently but firmly: “Babies crawl, sweetheart. It keeps you low and safe, close to Mommy.” Mark’s days were spent on all fours. From crib to changing table, from playpen in the living room to the desk for work calls—he crawled. The thick diapers forced his knees wide, the onesie riding up to expose padded hips with every movement. The mittens made balance tricky; he often paused to rest, forehead against the cool floor, breathing through the humiliation. Work calls were managed carefully. Emily dressed him in a neat shirt and tie from the waist up, hair combed, expression composed. Below the camera—out of view to his colleagues—he wore only the onesie, diaper, mittens, booties, and the tiny cage locked snugly in place. Emily sat just off-screen, sometimes holding a bottle for him to sip between responses, her presence a silent reminder of who truly controlled the meeting. Incontinence had worsened to completeness. Wetting happened constantly, without thought or warning. Messing came several times a day—soft, sudden, unstoppable. The formula had been tapered off months ago, but habits formed over half a year held firm. His body no longer asked permission. One humid afternoon in early August, Mark crawled from the living room toward the kitchen for his midday nursing. The diaper beneath his onesie sagged heavily, warm and full from multiple accidents. Halfway across the hallway, a familiar cramp gripped him. He paused, mittened hands on the floor, but there was no fighting it. The mess pushed out in a warm rush, filling the seat of his diaper with soft weight. He stayed there on hands and knees for a moment, face burning, breathing shallow. Shame flickered—faint now, almost habitual—but was quickly overtaken by resignation. Emily would clean him. Emily would hold him. Emily would make it okay. She appeared in the doorway as if summoned, eyes soft with understanding. “Oh, my poor baby,” she cooed, kneeling to stroke his back. “Come to Mommy.” He crawled the rest of the way, diaper squishing beneath him. She lifted him onto the changing table with practiced ease, unsnapped the onesie, and began the cleanup—wipes, powder, a fresh, even thicker diaper taped snugly. All the while she murmured praise and love, her voice a soothing balm. When he was clean, she carried him to the rocking chair in the nursery—the one she had ordered months ago—and unbuttoned her shirt. Her breasts, full and heavy with milk, waited. Mark latched eagerly, the tiny cage straining uselessly as milk flowed warm and sweet. He nursed long and deep, eyes closed, mittened hands resting against her. The frustration of the cage, the helplessness of crawling, the constant messes—all of it faded beneath the overwhelming comfort of her milk, her arms, her love. This was safety. This was home. Emily rocked him gently, fingers in his hair, feeling the weight of him against her—the weight of her baby boy, dependent and perfect. The cage would shrink again soon. The crawling would stay forever. And Mark, lost in the warm haze of nursing, no longer minded. He was exactly where he belonged. Chapter 18: Full-Time Baby Routine Autumn painted the trees outside in fiery reds and golds, but inside the house time seemed to have slowed to the gentle rhythm of a nursery clock. Nine months had passed since the clinic visit—six months since Mark’s world had fully narrowed to the soft, padded confines of babyhood. His days now followed a structure as predictable as a toddler’s: wake in the crib to Emily’s smiling face, morning nursing while she rocked him, a slow crawl to the changing table for a fresh diaper and onesie. Breakfast was nursing again, followed by playtime in the large pen she had built in the living room—soft mats, stuffed animals, colorful blocks he could only nudge clumsily with his mittened hands. Naps came twice a day: one mid-morning, one mid-afternoon, always in the crib with the rails raised and a pacifier clipped to his onesie. Emily tucked him in with a blanket, kissed his forehead, and dimmed the lights. He slept deeply, the constant warmth of diapers and the lingering taste of her milk pulling him under. Afternoons brought more play, sometimes gentle tummy time on a quilt while she read aloud from picture books. Nursing happened whenever he fussed—four, five, six times a day. He sought it now with quiet urgency, crawling to her and nuzzling against her chest until she lifted her shirt and guided him to her breast. The milk flowed sweet and abundant; he drank until drowsy, then drifted in her arms while she hummed lullabies. Evenings were for cuddling on the couch, nursing again before bed, a final change into an overnight diaper thick enough to handle anything. Emily carried him to the crib—his legs no longer attempted to walk—and tucked him in with his favorite stuffed bear. She stayed until his eyes closed, one hand resting on his padded hip through the bars. Emily had quit her library job three months earlier. Savings, careful investments, and Mark’s remaining income covered them comfortably. She told friends she wanted to focus on “supporting Mark through his health challenges.” No one pressed for details; her radiant happiness seemed explanation enough. Mark’s work had dwindled to nothing. Meetings became rare, then nonexistent. He missed deadlines, forgot tasks, stared blankly at emails while waiting for Emily to bring his next bottle. When his boss finally suggested a formal leave of absence, Emily took over the call. “It’s been a progressive condition,” she explained calmly, citing fabricated doctor’s notes she had carefully prepared—stress-induced neurological issues, chronic fatigue, loss of fine motor control. “He’s applied for disability. We’re hoping for approval soon.” The paperwork went through smoothly. Disability payments began in early fall, steady and sufficient. Mark signed where Emily guided his mittened hand, no longer questioning. He craved her milk constantly now. It was comfort, nourishment, love in its purest form. When she was busy, he fussed softly until she lifted him to nurse. The act grounded him, quieted every lingering whisper of the man he used to be. Incontinence was absolute. Wetting was background noise; messing came without warning, several times daily. He felt it happen, registered it dimly, and waited for her to notice. Shame had faded to a faint echo, replaced by trust. Emily would care for him. Emily always did. One crisp October afternoon, as leaves swirled past the window, Mark lay in his playpen stacking soft blocks with clumsy mittened nudges. Emily sat nearby, pumping the last of a session into a bottle for later. He looked up at her—his Mommy—and felt a wave of pure contentment. She met his gaze and smiled, eyes shining with tears she no longer bothered to hide. “My perfect baby boy,” she whispered. Mark babbled softly around the pacifier she had clipped to his onesie, crawling to the edge of the pen and reaching for her. She lifted him immediately, settling him against her chest. He latched eagerly, milk flowing warm and sweet. Outside, the adult world spun on—deadlines, traffic, ambition. Inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of nursing, the crinkle of diapers, the steady beat of her heart against his ear. Mark’s old life felt like a dream he no longer remembered. This was real. And in Emily’s arms, drinking deeply from the mother he had given her, he wanted nothing else. Chapter 19: Total Incontinence Achieved November’s chill crept through the cracks around the windows, but inside the house it was always warm—warm with central heating, warm with the scent of baby powder and Emily’s milk, warm with the quiet certainty of routine. Ten months had passed since the diagnosis. Mark’s body had completed its surrender. The change was gradual, then absolute. Wetting had been constant for months; now even the faintest awareness of a full bladder was gone. He simply released whenever the need arose—multiple times a day, sometimes every hour—without thought or warning. Messing followed the same path. The laxatives Emily had once carefully measured into his bottles were tapered away weeks ago, unnecessary now. His body had learned new habits too thoroughly to unlearn them. Soft, sudden messes came three, four, sometimes five times daily, warm and effortless. He felt them happen, registered the spreading weight in his diaper, and waited calmly for Emily to notice. There was no shame left—only trust. Emily watched the final barriers fall with quiet awe. She changed him lovingly each time, cooing praise, kissing his forehead, nursing him afterward until he drifted in her arms. The thicker diapers she used now held everything comfortably; leaks were rare. Rashes were prevented with diligent care and ointment. His skin stayed soft, his disposition content. Resistance to exposure had vanished too. Mark no longer flinched when the doorbell rang or tugged at his onesie to hide the obvious bulge. The diapers—printed now with subtle pastel patterns she had chosen—were simply part of him, like the mittens that kept his hands useless or the booties that enforced his crawling. One crisp Saturday in late November, Emily decided it was time. She invited Sarah—her closest friend from the library days, the only person who knew fragments of the truth—for afternoon tea. Sarah had always been discreet, kind, and curiously supportive when Emily mentioned “taking care of Mark full-time.” She arrived at two o’clock with a tin of homemade shortbread and a warm smile. Mark was in his playpen when the doorbell rang, stacking oversized foam blocks with clumsy mittened nudges. He looked up as Emily greeted Sarah at the door, voices drifting in from the hall. A flicker of old self-consciousness stirred—he was in a thick, printed diaper under a short yellow onesie that barely covered it, pacifier clipped to the collar, hair tousled from his morning nap—but the feeling passed quickly. Emily wanted this. Emily was happy. That was enough. Emily led Sarah into the living room. “And this,” she said proudly, gesturing to the pen, “is my baby boy.” Sarah’s eyes widened briefly, but she recovered with a soft smile. “Hello, Mark,” she said gently. Mark babbled around the pacifier—a soft, nonsensical sound—and waved a mittened hand. No attempt to hide, no flush of embarrassment. He crawled to the edge of the pen and reached up toward Emily. Emily lifted him out effortlessly, settling him on her hip. The diaper’s bulk was unmistakable beneath the onesie; the faint scent of powder and recent use hung in the air. Sarah took it in without judgment. “He’s beautiful,” she said sincerely. “You both look so happy.” Emily’s eyes shone. “We are.” They sat on the couch—Emily with Mark in her lap, Sarah beside them—and talked over tea and shortbread. Mark nursed quietly while the women chatted, latching and unlatching as he drifted in contentment. Halfway through, he wet heavily; the diaper swelled beneath him with a soft hiss only Emily noticed. A few minutes later, a mess followed—warm, effortless. He sighed around her breast and kept nursing. Emily felt it happen and smiled down at him, stroking his hair. Sarah watched with quiet understanding. “He’s completely relaxed with you.” “He trusts me completely,” Emily answered, voice thick with emotion. “I take care of everything.” When Sarah left an hour later, she hugged Emily tightly at the door. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” she whispered. “You’ve built something beautiful.” After the door closed, Emily carried Mark to the changing table. He lay placidly while she cleaned him, powdered him, taped on a fresh diaper. Then she nursed him again, rocking slowly. That same week, the disability approval letter arrived—official, generous, permanent. Combined with savings, it freed them financially. Mark signed the acknowledgment form with Emily guiding his mittened hand, no longer working at all. The last threads of his adult life had quietly dissolved. Total incontinence was simply fact now: wetting constant, messing frequent and uncontrolled. He felt the accidents happen, accepted them, and waited for her care. Exposure no longer mattered. He crawled openly in his diapers, nursed in her lap without hiding, babbled and cooed without self-consciousness. Emily held him that night in the rocking chair, milk flowing steady and warm. “My perfect baby,” she whispered, tears of joy on her cheeks. Mark nursed deeper, eyes closed, body heavy and safe in her arms. This was everything. Chapter 20: A New Life as Baby Boy December 31, 2025. Exactly one year had passed since the day Emily and Mark sat in Dr. Harlan’s office and heard the word irreversible. Outside, snow fell in thick, silent flakes, blanketing the neighborhood in hush. Inside, the house glowed with soft lamplight and the faint scent of warm milk and baby powder. Mark lay in his crib, eyes half-open, watching the mobile turn slowly overhead: pastel stars and moons that had once seemed childish and strange, now as familiar as breathing. He wore a thick overnight diaper printed with tiny rockets, the tapes snug beneath a sleeper printed with the same pattern. His mittened hands rested on his tummy; the small chastity cage—now permanently tiny—pressed gently against the padding. He felt the familiar heaviness of a fresh wetting from moments ago, but it no longer registered as anything but normal. Emily stood beside the crib in a soft robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her breasts, still full a year into lactation, ached gently with the need to nurse. She reached through the bars and stroked his cheek. “Happy New Year, my sweet boy,” she whispered. Mark turned toward her touch, making the small, eager sound he had learned she loved. She smiled—radiant, whole—and lowered the side rail. With practiced ease she lifted him, settling into the rocking chair with him cradled against her chest. He latched immediately, nursing with the deep, steady pulls that had become the center of his world. The milk was warm, sweet, endlessly comforting. It flowed freely; her body had adjusted perfectly to his demand. As he drank, his eyes fluttered closed, one mittened hand resting against her skin. Emily rocked slowly, tears of quiet joy slipping down her cheeks. The grief that had once threatened to swallow her whole was gone—healed, transformed into this fierce, protective love. She was a mother in every way that mattered. Her baby needed her completely, and she needed him just as much. Mark’s thoughts drifted in the warm haze of nursing. He remembered fragments of the man he had been: suits and ties, deadlines and commutes, the weight of adult decisions. They felt distant now, like a story about someone else. The descent had been slow—love-fueled, guilt-soothed, step by careful step—but he no longer questioned it. He had given her everything. And in return, she had given him peace. The shame that once burned so hot had cooled into acceptance, then into something deeper: pride in belonging to her, safety in surrender. Diapers were simply part of him now—thick, crinkling, constant. He wet and messed without control, without care. Exposure no longer embarrassed him. When Sarah visited again last month, he had crawled to her happily, sat in her lap for story time, and nursed openly while the women talked. The world saw what it saw; he only saw Mommy. Disability payments and savings kept them comfortable. The yellow room down the hall—the one once meant for a different baby—was now a fully equipped nursery: crib, changing table, rocking chair, shelves of supplies that would never run low. Emily shifted him to her other breast. He latched again, drinking deeply, feeling the cage press uselessly as arousal stirred and went nowhere. Pleasure belonged to her now; his body knew it. She stroked his hair, humming the lullaby she sang every night. In the quiet, her mind turned to the future. Sarah had mentioned a friend—another woman caring for her own “little one.” A playdate, perhaps. A chance to share, to connect, to let Mark experience the joy of others like him. The idea warmed her. There would be more chapters to their story. More love. More care. More surrender. Mark finished nursing with a small, satisfied sigh. Emily lifted him to her shoulder, patting gently until a soft burp escaped. Then she carried him to the changing table for his bedtime change—thick diaper, fresh onesie, pacifier clipped to the collar. She laid him in the crib, raised the rail, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Sleep tight, my perfect baby boy,” she whispered. “Mommy loves you more than anything.” Mark’s eyes met hers in the dim light. He babbled softly around the pacifier—a sound of pure contentment—and reached a mittened hand toward her. She took it, held it until his breathing deepened and his fingers relaxed. Outside, snow continued to fall, covering the world in quiet white. Inside, Emily turned off the lamp and stood for a long moment watching him sleep. One year. A lifetime. And the beginning of forever. The End… for now.

Welcome to Mommy Anna's Diapered Storybook! Some of you may know me from my website, diaperhypnosis.com I've decided to publish full-length diaper and regression stories, for free, as a special way of giving back to our community. I'm also recording most of these stories and posting them (full-length) on my YouTube channel, so you can hear me read them there. Mommy Emma from diaperhypnosis.com will also be recording some of these stories for YouTube. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these stories and keep being the wonderful you that you are! This new story introduces "The Registry", a government department where some adults willingly surrender their adulthood to become "registered". Want to know what that means? Well, read on! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter One: Wake-Up Protocol The nursery no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like ownership. Powder. Plastic. Faint ammonia from a soaked overnight diaper. All of it lingered in the air like the scent of decisions Sophie could no longer undo. The room was a perfect simulation of sweetness—pastel walls, lace curtains, plush toys stacked neatly along the shelves—but beneath the surface, everything was clinical. Functional. Inescapable. Soft rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a golden haze across the floorboards and over the crib. Sophie lay motionless inside it, her limbs curled in unconscious surrender, her thumb resting just shy of her mouth. The blanket twisted around her legs, her body humid with sleep and the sticky heaviness of a soaked diaper. She hadn’t stirred yet. Not fully. But the house was awake. Click. A single heel on hardwood. The sound cut through the silence like a countdown bell. Sophie twitched, her face scrunching with the first flickers of waking panic. Click. Click. Not fast. Not angry. Deliberate. Mommy was coming. The final click stopped directly outside the nursery door. Then, silence—just long enough to twist a knot in Sophie’s belly—before the doorknob turned with a slow, almost theatrical creak. And then, she entered. Mommy didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room. Her figure silhouetted in the light behind her, tall and composed, her black pencil skirt and pristine blouse immaculate as ever. Hair coiled in a severe bun. No jewelry. No softness. Just the woman Sophie feared and longed for in equal measure. She walked to the crib with measured grace, each heel landing like punctuation. Click. Click. Click. The air felt thinner with each step. Sophie’s eyes fluttered open. For a second, she forgot where she was—then the crinkle between her thighs reminded her. She felt the warmth of the soggy diaper cling to her skin, the press of swollen padding between her legs. She whimpered. Mommy looked down, her expression unreadable. “Up,” she said. One word. No room for delay. Sophie sat up slowly, clutching the bars. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, revealing her onesie with its faded pastel print of ducks and bottles. Her diaper sagged beneath it like a weight of guilt. Mommy unlatched the side rail with a metallic clank, lowering it with practiced authority. She didn’t reach to hug or greet Sophie. Instead, her hand went straight between Sophie’s legs, pressing the front of the diaper with two fingers. The squish was loud. Obvious. Shameful. Mommy raised an eyebrow. “Thorough.” Sophie bit her lip, cheeks burning. “You think this qualifies you as a baby?” Mommy asked, voice cool. “No. Not yet. That’s not for me to decide anymore.” She turned and walked toward the changing table. “Today, you’re not my secret. Today, the Registry decides what you are.” Sophie’s breath caught. She wanted to speak, to beg, but she stayed silent. The rules were already in effect. Mommy returned with a firm grip on Sophie’s wrist, guiding her out of the crib like a lamb to slaughter. She was lifted onto the padded changing table and laid flat without resistance. Her onesie was unbuttoned at the crotch and peeled back, exposing the saturated diaper underneath. No words. No mercy. The tapes came undone. The diaper peeled away with a sticky sound, revealing her damp skin to the morning air. Mommy didn’t flinch. She wiped Sophie down with practiced efficiency—clinical, not maternal—then folded the used diaper and dropped it into the pail. The next diaper was different. Thicker. Mommy didn’t say a word about it. She simply unfolded it with the flair of someone performing a ritual. The padding was dense, triple-layered, with a pastel registry pattern printed across the back—stars, letters, a barcode. The tapes weren’t adhesive. They clicked. As Mommy lifted Sophie’s ankles and slid the new diaper underneath her, Sophie realized what it meant. It was locking. The moment the final click echoed in the nursery, Sophie’s legs parted involuntarily. The thickness made closing them impossible. She didn’t try. Mommy dusted her lower belly with powder, then reached for the outfit. Hanging on the closet was the ensemble Sophie had seen the night before. She’d prayed it was a threat. A warning. It wasn’t. Ruffled pink romper with puffed sleeves. A heart-shaped bib that read “Registry Ready.” White ankle socks with lace trim. And, on the dresser, a matching bonnet. Mommy dressed her slowly, deliberately, her fingers tightening each bow and adjusting each frill with care. Not love. Care. She turned Sophie to face the full-length mirror near the dresser. Sophie stared at her reflection. The girl looking back wasn’t her. Not anymore. The massive diaper bowed out beneath the romper, so thick that her knees bent naturally. Her arms hung at her sides in silent resignation. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. Mommy approached with the pacifier—white, oversized, institutional. A clip-on strap dangled from it, the end already tagged with her registry number. “Open.” Sophie obeyed. The pacifier slid in with a soft click. The bulb filled her mouth, silencing her. Mommy fastened the strap to the bib. “There,” Mommy whispered, brushing a curl from Sophie’s forehead. “Now you look the part.” She reached for the final accessory. A leash. It wasn’t leather or rope. It was a soft satin ribbon, pink and thin, but the clip at the end was steel. It latched onto a ring sewn into the back of Sophie’s collar. Mommy gave it a test tug. Sophie stumbled forward one step. Perfect. Mommy opened the nursery door. Outside, the hallway glowed with warm light and the low hum of weekday morning. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, a delivery truck rumbled past. Sophie turned to look back at the room one last time—her sanctuary, her cell. It no longer mattered. That space, that crib, even the powder-sweet smell—none of it belonged to her. She belonged to the process now. Mommy tugged the leash gently. “Time to go.” And with her pacifier between her lips, her shoes squeaking, and her legs forced apart by the diaper’s bulk, Sophie took her first waddling steps toward the Registry. Her last day as a secret baby was over. The world was about to find out. Chapter Two: Transportation The leash tugged gently. Sophie waddled, her legs bowed by the thickness of her new diaper. Every step released a chorus of crinkles and squeaks—the frilly romper bouncing with every awkward shuffle. The pacifier bobbed gently between her lips as her cheeks burned. This wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t just dressed like a baby. She was being processed like one. Mommy didn’t look back. She led Sophie through the hallway with unshakable calm, her heels sharp against the hardwood. Sophie's breath came shallow as they passed the front room mirror. A glance was all it took to see her reflection—and recoil. The pink outfit. The bonnet. The bulging diaper. The clip-on pacifier. The leash. She looked like a parody of helplessness. But it was worse than that. She looked like she belonged that way. Down the front steps. Out into the bright suburban morning. The sun was already rising, its warmth brushing against Sophie’s exposed thighs and rustling the lace on her socks. Birds chirped. A lawn sprinkler clicked somewhere down the block. The world was just... normal. And that’s what made it unbearable. There were no guards. No fences. No dark alleys. This wasn’t a secret shame whispered in fantasy. This was reality. And today, reality would watch. Mommy opened the rear passenger door of the SUV, revealing the newly installed restraint system: a custom car seat designed for Littles over 80 pounds. High-backed. Over-padded. Full harness. This wasn’t for transportation. This was for secure delivery. Mommy didn’t ask Sophie to climb in. She placed her. Lifted under the arms. Swung sideways. Diaper first. The seat’s wide base pressed the padding outward, forcing Sophie’s knees up and apart. She squealed through her pacifier. Mommy ignored it. The harness came next. Lap belt first, then shoulder straps. The chest clip clicked into place with a heavy snick. Then came the crotch strap, pulled up tight between Sophie’s thighs and buckled into place. Each fastener was mechanical. Final. Finally, Mommy produced a baby bottle. Not a little one. A full liter, lukewarm, already dripping slightly from the rubber nipple. Inside was thickened formula—a milky blend of bland nutrition and quiet humiliation. The nipple was pressed to Sophie’s lips. “Drink.” Sophie hesitated. Mommy’s eyes narrowed. The leash, still attached, gave a warning tug. She obeyed. The nipple filled her mouth. The formula dripped onto her tongue—chalky, barely sweet, designed more for sustenance than pleasure. She had to suck hard to get it flowing. The rubber bulb pressed against her lips like a gag. Mommy closed the door. Sophie was alone now—strapped down, suckling, exposed. The engine started. They pulled out of the driveway, down the street, past hedges and recycling bins and people who had no idea what was going on behind the dark-tinted windows. A jogger passed on the sidewalk. A neighbor waved from their porch. Sophie pressed herself deeper into the car seat. She could still hear the bottle squelch every time she suckled. From the driver’s seat, Mommy’s voice floated back with cruel casualness. “Keep drinking. They’ll check your hydration level at intake. You don’t want to disappoint the Registry, do you?” Sophie closed her eyes. The bottle was still half full. Her jaw already ached. Mommy turned on the radio—classical music. Calm. Sterile. The perfect soundtrack to Sophie’s internal unraveling. Time passed slowly. Each bump in the road made her diaper squish. Each traffic stop made her skin crawl. Her mouth never stopped working. If she let go of the bottle, it would spill down her chest, and she knew what that would mean. She kept drinking. Eventually, Mommy turned off the main road and entered a large parking structure. The SUV climbed two levels and parked in a private, designated space: “DEPENDENT DROP-OFF — ZONE 3A.” Sophie opened her eyes. And stared. This wasn’t some kinky boutique or fantasy daycare. It was a government building. Five stories of red brick, steel-trimmed windows, and automated doors. A gold-and-blue sign stood out front, adorned with a soft emblem of a rattle and a barcode: Littles Registry Bureau Department of Classification, Regulation, and Dependence She wanted to scream. Her limbs pulled against the harness. The bottle fell from her lips, landing in her lap. She whimpered. Mommy opened the back door. “What a mess,” she said, retrieving the bottle. “You only drank two-thirds. That’ll have to do.” She reached for the buckles. One by one, they unlatched with cold finality. Chest clip. Shoulder straps. Crotch buckle. Each undone restraint made Sophie feel more exposed, not less. Then came the squeeze. Mommy pressed her palm firmly against the front of the diaper, checking it. Her hand stayed longer than necessary. “Damp,” she said. “That’ll score well.” Sophie was helped down from the seat, wobbling as she adjusted to gravity. The diaper’s bulk made normal walking impossible. Her legs bowed, her hips swayed. The squeaky shoes announced her arrival with every reluctant step. Mommy attached the leash to the ring on the back of Sophie’s collar. Then she smiled. “Come now, baby girl. Time to show the world what you really are.” The walk to the entrance took less than thirty seconds. It felt like hours. Other Mommies were arriving. Some carried their Littles in their arms. Others pushed them in modified strollers. Still more were leashed, like Sophie, waddling with blushing faces and downturned eyes. Every one of them was diapered. Every one of them wore something pink, blue, or yellow. No one looked surprised. This was normal here. Sophie reached the front steps. The glass doors whooshed open automatically. Air conditioning blasted across her thighs. Inside was a clean, silent lobby with tiled floors and white walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A receptionist sat behind a thick plexiglass window. “Name?” she asked, not looking up. Mommy stepped forward. “Sophie. Class B-2. Voluntary surrender for dependent classification. Registry packet prefiled.” The receptionist typed rapidly. “Weight?” “Eighty-six pounds.” “Daytime control?” “Absent.” “Hydration?” “Moderate. Bottle administered en route.” The receptionist’s eyes flicked up—only for a second. “Proceed to Station Three for strip-down and tagging.” Mommy tugged the leash. “Let’s go, baby.” The tile beneath Sophie’s feet was cold. The silence of the lobby was deafening. Her pacifier clip swung with each step. Her bib rustled. Her shoes squeaked. Her diaper crinkled. Everyone could hear her coming. And no one looked twice. Because she was exactly where she belonged. Chapter Three: Registration The door to Station Three slid open with a mechanical hiss. Sophie hesitated in the doorway, diaper rustling as she shifted her weight. Beyond the threshold, the world became colder. Brighter. The lobby’s sterile politeness ended here. Inside, everything was fluorescent, functional, and final. The room was rectangular, split into bays by waist-height partitions. Each one housed a different Little being processed. One lay on a table, kicking weakly as a nurse tagged her ankle. Another stood naked and trembling, her bottom marked with an inspection stamp. A third knelt in the corner, nose pressed to the wall, her bib dripping with drool as an attendant checked off boxes on a clipboard. This wasn’t a place of comfort. It was a place of measurement. “Next,” barked a voice. A uniformed staffer—female, tall, hair in a tight bun—stood waiting with a digital tablet. Her ID badge read Processing Technician - L. Raine. She wore gloves. She didn’t smile. Mommy walked Sophie forward by the leash. “Sophie. Class B-2,” she said. The technician tapped her screen. “Strip her.” Sophie’s stomach turned to ice. Mommy didn’t hesitate. She reached for Sophie’s bonnet first, untying it and tossing it into a labeled bin: “OUTFITTING—TO BE CATALOGUED.” Then the bib. Then the romper. Each item was removed with clinical efficiency, folded once, and handed over. Soon Sophie stood in just her diaper and shoes. The technician looked up. “Everything.” Sophie whimpered behind her pacifier. Mommy tugged her arm upward, unfastening the plastic panties and letting them fall to the floor. Then she unfastened each of the diaper’s four locking tabs. The thick padding peeled away with a sound that made Sophie want to disappear. The cold air hit her bare skin like a slap. “No covering,” the technician repeated. “Hands at sides. Legs shoulder-width.” Sophie obeyed. Her whole body burned with embarrassment. The tile was cold beneath her squeaky shoes. Her bare chest rose and fell with each shaky breath. Her thighs trembled. Click. Click. Click. Photos. The technician circled her slowly, snapping multiple angles: front, back, profile. No warning. No countdown. No poses. Her eyes never met Sophie’s. She didn’t see a person. She saw a subject. A barcode printer chirped behind the desk. The technician peeled the backing from a label and applied it to Sophie’s hipbone with one smooth motion. The adhesive was cold. The gesture was colder. “You are now property in flux,” she said, reciting the line like a prayer. “Not yet private. Not yet public. Status pending. Classification to be determined.” Sophie’s heart pounded. The technician handed Mommy a form. “Initial signature to confirm pre-surrender status.” Mommy signed it without reading. “Weight: 86.4 pounds. Control: none. Behavior: compliant. Visual inspection: moderate body tension. Shame response: elevated.” She tapped a few options on the tablet. “Recommended status: Class B-F3 — Fully Fitted, Public Baby.” Sophie’s knees buckled. The technician turned away and returned with a clear plastic bin. Inside were tools. Wipes. Gloves. Swabs. A set of measuring tapes. She donned a new pair of gloves and approached. “Arms up.” Sophie obeyed. Her wingspan was measured. So were her wrists. Ankles. Neck. Torso. Inner thigh. Everything was catalogued with cold detachment. “Turn.” She turned. The technician parted Sophie’s cheeks slightly, inspecting with a flashlight. Sophie gasped, humiliated. “Skin integrity intact. Diaper rash absent. No sign of self-removal attempts.” She tapped her tablet again. “Proceed to vitals.” A portable scanner was wheeled over. Sophie was made to stand on a platform as a robotic arm circled her slowly, capturing heat, hydration, bladder fullness, heart rate. “Pulse elevated. Bladder: partially filled. Oral hydration: moderate. Muscle resistance: minimal. Reflexes: submissive.” The technician looked to Mommy. “She’s ideal.” Mommy’s mouth curled into a satisfied smile. “I knew she was ready.” The technician reached for a collar—soft, pale pink, lined with silicone. It had a silver tag on the front, etched with Sophie’s barcode, registry number, and the words: DEPENDENT — B-F3 — MATERNAL CLAIMED. She fastened it around Sophie’s neck. Sophie flinched. The clasp clicked into place and locked. “There. Now we know who you belong to.” Sophie stood frozen. Naked except for her collar and her shoes. The pacifier swung slightly from the clip still fastened to her now-empty bib snap. “Remove the shoes.” She stepped out of them clumsily. Her bare feet slapped softly against the tile. The technician took them and placed them in the bin marked “TO BE FITTED.” Then she reached for a small container and pulled out something horrifyingly familiar: a government-issued diaper. Not like the ones from home. This one was thick—unrealistically thick—with pastel printing and reinforced leak guards. Tracking code printed across the back in pale purple. A tamper-proof waistband. Triple-adhesive tapes. Embossed with the Registry seal. “Step back. Lie down.” Sophie sank onto the padded changing mat. The tile squeaked beneath her as she moved. The diaper was slid beneath her bottom. Powder followed—heavy and scented. Then lotion. Then the diaper was drawn up tightly and sealed with a series of loud, irreversible clicks. “This is your designation diaper,” the technician said. “Registry Class B-F3. You will wear this model and size until your status changes. Do you understand?” Sophie nodded slowly, her eyes glassy. Mommy stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “They’ll see her in it, won’t they?” she asked. The technician nodded. “Visibility is required. This classification mandates public awareness.” She handed Mommy a small envelope marked PUBLIC FITTING – INSTRUCTIONS & OPTIONS. “She’s ready for outfitting.” The technician made a note on her tablet. “Proceed to Station Five.” Mommy reattached the leash to Sophie’s collar. The tug was gentler this time. Almost proud. Sophie’s diaper crinkled with every step. The cold from the floor gave way to heat rising in her face, behind her ears, between her legs. The door to the fitting chamber opened before them. And behind her, the scanner emitted a soft chime. Classification: Confirmed.

Vicky Williams had a worried expression on her face. She was sitting on the sofa worried that her 20 year old daughter wasn’t socialising enough and was working too hard on her college work. Vicky was a 37 year old brunette mum. “She really needs to get out and meet her friends and stop spending all her time doing her work” I head up to Ellie’s bedroom and knock on the door “Ellie?” Ellie is pouring over notes and mounds of books. Her heavy glasses are sitting on my nose. She hears her mum calling through the door. “Mum, not now. I need to study for the quiz next month. It's important." I say trying to zone you out but I know it's not that easy. Last month, you tried taking me out to go out and meet people for half an hour. I refused as I wanted to really study for college and I wanted to get great grades. I shook my head and got back down to studying. “Ok hun. I was just saying that I’m going to the shops and I’ll be there awhile'' Ellie doesn't hear anything and Vicky heads downstairs and grabs her purse. She gets in the car and drives to the local supermarket. As Vicky approaches the entrance, there are people handing out leaflets. One of them hands her one and she looks at it while going in. ‘All stressed out? Want to relax? Well take a relaxing day at our ‘feel young spa and health centre. You'll feel like a new you.’ Vicky smiles and thinks that Ellie would love that. She put it in her pocket and finished the shopping. 1hr later Vicky puts the bags in the car and drives home still thinking of the spa. She parks the car and puts the shopping away, head up to Ellie’s room. “Ellie, I saw this when I was shopping. Though you could do with it” she says, sliding it under the door. Ellie doesn't see it as she is in the zone. The clock chimes 11. Ellie looks at it and yawns. She wasn't finished with her studies but she was shattered. She got up from the chair and was about to flop onto her bed when she noticed the leaflet on the floor. It looks interesting and Ellie needs a break but she needs to finish this assignment. She puts it onto her bedside table and flops onto her bed and is out like a light. When Ellie woke up the next day, her body aches and her legs feel like lead weights. “God I'm aching, my body feels like I've been to the gym during the night.” She sits up in bed and looks over to her bedside table and takes the leaflet. “This looks really relaxing. I'll get mum to take me.” Ellie gets up and walks like a zombie downstairs. “Um, mum, can we go to the spa resort?” “Well, actually, I guessed you wanted to, so I decided to book us in today. I've signed us up for a few treatments too and I'm just waiting for you to have breakfast and then get dressed and we can go.” Vicky replied. Ellie nods and hurries up getting ready and 10 mins later both Vicky and Ellie are in the car driving downtown to the spa. 20 mins later, Vicky parks the car and both of them enter a big building. The building is an old huge mansion with the name ‘Feel Young Spa’ on the front. They go up to the front desk "Hello and Welcome to ‘Feel Young Spa’ the receptionist greets them. “Hello, we booked today. Our names are Vicky and Ellie.” The receptionist checks the computer. “Yes, right. That looks fine. If you don't mind following this gentleman here and he will take you to your first treatment.” We follow the man and are led into a tiled changing room with two white dressing gowns. “If you would like to take off your clothes and change into these dressing gowns and wait here, someone will be here for you shortly.” He leaves and we start undressing. We finished undressing and waited in the gowns. 5 minutes later, a woman entered the changing room. “Are you guys ready?" She asks and leads them into a room with two massage tables in the middle of it. “Ok, If you could lay down on your back and your waxing will begin soon.” She said, pointing to two tables. Vicky and Ellie lay down on the tables and wait patiently and 2 people walk through the door. “Right, who is Ellie?” Says one of them. She raises her hand. “Right you're mum signed you up for a full wax and relaxation package and Vicky you’ve got a waxing” says. “Can you put these towel round your waist?” We take the robes off and wrap them round our body. “To relax you further, please put on these headphones.” The lady places them on Ellie. On the headphones is peaceful, soothing music. Vicky looks over at Ellie and smiles that she is accepting this. Ellie winces a little bit every time that the wax strips are pulled off but the music keeps her relaxed. Ellie is so relaxed that she doesn't realise that the lady has finished waxing her and starting rubbing oil, herbs and chemicals into her body. Ellie smiles, enjoying it. What Ellie doesn't know is that Vicky has signed her up for the extreme mind stress reliever. This treatment uses hypnosis to mentally regress her mind to a much less stressful time and Vicky has chosen for her to become a 6 month old baby. Included in the package is treatments for Vicky. She will receive some drugs that will make her lactate and be able to carry her new baby. The lady taps Ellie on her shoulder and she opens her eyes and takes one side of the headphones off. “Yes?” Elle says. “Right I’ve put the oils on you so I’ll leave you to soak in them for 10 mins and I’ll be back. Lay back and I’ll check on you then”. The lady says as she starts to leave. She places the headphones back on and closes her eyes. She relaxes again, not bothering to look at Vicky who is talking to the lady. “When will her hypnosis take effect?” Vicky asks. “It will take effect once the clock hits midnight. Your changes will take effect once you get home” the lady says “also you ticked the home changes right?” She nods. “Right, when you get home, everything will be set up but don’t let her see till the next night.” I nod. The lady goes to Ellie and taps her on the shoulder again. “How do you feel? Do you feel relaxed and all nice?” She smiles and says “Oh yes. That felt brilliant. I needed that. I feel so relaxed and my skin feels so smooth and even down there feels nice. What’s next?” “Your next treatment is a mud bath, so get dressed in your gown and follow me” the lady said, opening the door. “Can I keep the headphones on while I enjoy the mud bath?” Ellie asks. “Sure, you wear them all day here” the lady replied. Ellie looked pleased. All three of them walk down the corridor and Ellie is still listening to the music. They all enter the room and there are mud baths full to the brim with mud. Vicky and Ellie slip off the gowns and enter the mud baths. The mud bath feels weird at first but it’s so relaxing. “I feel so relaxed mum. I’m glad we decided to come here.” Ellie says take your headphones off. “Well, I’m pleased to hear that cause you seemed so stressed with all that work. Now let’s soak still in the mud and enjoy the rest of our treatments” Vicky replied, closing her hers and disappearing under the mud. Ellie couldn't do that as the headphones would get dirty. About 30 mins later, the lady came back and told Vicky and Ellie that their session and treatment was over. Ellie took off the headphones and got into the showers and washed the mud off. “Mum you look great, your skin looks youthful.” Ellie says. “Thanks Ellie, you're not looking too bad either, looks like the oils and mud bath is doing your skin good” Vicky replies. A little milk trickles out from her breast but as she is showering, it gets washed away unnoticed. They dry themselves and head to the changing rooms. They head out past the receptionist. “Hope you had a great time. Please spread the word around that we are here” she says with a smile on her face. “Oh we had a lovely time, did we Ellie?” Vicky asks her daughter. “Oh yes, just what I needed. I’ll come again and spread the word.” Ellie says, smiling back. Vicky turns round and wink at the receptionist and she winks back. They head back to the car and arrive home a few minutes later. “I’ll get the wine and you switch on the tv and you choose the channel, Ellie” Vicky said heading into the kitchen. Ellie sits down on the sofa and switched onto an old episode of Friends. Vicky comes out of the kitchen bringing out 2 glasses of wine and hands one to Ellie. “We’ll just have the one glass and then bed ok?” “Ok mum” Ellie replies, raising the glass to her mouth. 20 mins later, the episode had finished, their wine was finished and both were tired. “Well, it’s bedtime. Let’s go, Ellie” Vicky says, getting up from the sofa. “Ok mum, I’m coming” Ellie says groggily. They head upstairs into each of our rooms. The moment Ellie disappears into her room and shuts the door, Vicky sneaks into the spare room to see what the spa people have done. She opens the door and Vicky's heart flutters. The room has been emptied of all the junk and replaced with the cutest baby furniture. It would be for a baby but it’s for Ellie instead so it’s bigger than normal. The room has been painted pink with cartoon animals painted over the walls. There is a white cot along one of the walls and above that is Ellie’s name in grey letters surrounded by a white cloud. In the corner is a nursing chair and a stool. The changing table is white like the cot and on it is a pink changing mat with white hearts. Underneath it, is stacks of diapers, wipes and baby powder. On the floor is a pink rug that covers the floor. Standing behind her is a pink wardrobe. Vicky opens the doors and her heart melts again. Inside are the cutest onesies and dresses hanging up or folded. There is a second compartment with bows, booties and assorted items. Vicky closes the wardrobe and takes in the nursery. “I can’t wait to show Ellie this,” I say to myself. She quietly heads out and closes and locks the door and walks to her room and with a smile on my face, she goes to bed. Meanwhile in Ellie's room, she is having a weird dream. She is 6 months old and everyone is cooing and cawing at her. Ellie tries to talk but just gurgles and drools. She sees her mum come into view. Vicky reaches down and tickles her tummy and Ellie giggles. A strange feeling is in her tummy for a brief moment and a grunt escapes her. Ellie feels a squishy feeling in her bottom and a warm wet feeling around her crotch. She starts crying. Ellie suddenly wakes up looking around and sighing that it was just a dream. She glances over at the clock on the wall and sees that it is 11:00. She closed her eyes again and fell back to sleep again without dreaming again. One hour later the hypnosis starts working. Ellie starts to feel a bit uneasy and turns in her sleep. Gradually her thumb works its way up to her mouth and her thumb enters her mouth and she starts suckling it and Ellie calms down and eases in her sleep. The alarm clock goes off and Ellie opens her eyes. She realises that her thumb is in her mouth and she pulls it out. “That was weird and so was the dream. Anyway, time for breakfast”. She walks downstairs and spots her mum sitting at the sofa drinking her tea. Ellie decided not to tell Vicky about the weird dream, putting it down to the stress of her work. “Thanks for the spa day yesterday mum. I really needed it.” Ellie told her mum. “I feel well relaxed and I can get down and continue my college work.” Vicky stopped drinking her tea. “No worries but I really hoped you would relax a bit longer and take a break from your work.” Her mum looked worried. “I can’t do that mummy.” Ellie looked shocked that she said that and like a kid. “I mean mum. I have an important assignment due in 2 days and it will help me pass.” Ellie said, still embarrassed that she talked like a kid. Vicky acted like she didn’t hear it and just nodded. “Do what you need to do hun. Just remember to take breaks”. Ellie nods and gets her breakfast ready. She pours the cereal in the bowl and pour milk into it and takes it to her bedroom. She puts it on her work table and starts up her laptop and Ellie starts her work. Ellie is busy working on her laptop when an ache from her bladder signals that it’s time for the toilet. Ellie runs to the toilet, pulls down her panties and sits on the loo just in time. She felt that if she waited a little longer, she would have wet her pants. After emptying her bladder, Ellie wipes herself and pulls up her panties and heads back to her room to continue her work. Ellie's tummy rumbles and she reaches over to the bowl of cereal and starts eating and finishes the whole bowl and drinks the cereal milk. She wipes her mouth and continues with her work. Elle had just finished a chapter of her work, when her bladder signals that it's full. “Not again, I don't need it again now”. Another ache and she runs to the toilet again just in time as her bladder muscles release her wee as soon as her bottom hits the seat. “That cereal must have gone through me. Well I don't need to go for a while now.” Ellie cleans herself up and heads back to her room to finish the 2nd part of her work. Ellie sits down on the chair but suddenly stands up as she feels a small damp spot on her panties. Shocked on how she could have a damp spot as she's been toilet trained for 18 years. Ellie quickly whips off her panties and opens her drawer to wear a new pair of panties. She pulls up the new pair and looks at the damp pair asking herself if she should go down to her mum and tell her. After a minute, Ellie decides against it and tells herself that it's just probably just the stress of starting her college work again. She goes downstairs and goes into the living room and switches on the tv to de-stress herself. The tv channel is being changed and stops onto a show called New girl which she loves. 20 mins into the show, Ellie starts to get bored, which is weird as she is usually captivated by it, and she tries to reach down for the remote, she realises that her hand is stuck to her mouth and that she's been sucking on her thumb without her realising. She pulls it out, embarrassed “Why do I keep doing that? I'm not a damn baby! Maybe it's just all this stress with work”. Ellie grabs the remote and starts changing the channel until something catches her eye. Flashes of programs appear on the tv: a cooking show, a nature show, a baby show, a dog behaviour show and a shopping show. Ellie goes to the dog behaviour show and watches it for a few minutes. They are training dogs to do various tricks. Vicky enters the living room and sits beside Ellie. “What on?” “I’m watching a doggie pwogramme….. dog programme.” Ellie looks embarrassed at her speech slur but Vicky pretends not to notice it. “Cute. You finished your work?” “I just need a break mum but it’s nearly done” Ellie replied not taking her eyes of the dog show. As she was answering, a dribble of drool fell from her lips and fell onto her top. Ellie shook her head and wiped the remaining drool from her lips and wiped her top but it still had a drool stain. Vicky looked at Ellie with a mixture of excitement and anticipation with how well it’s progressing. Suddenly Ellie runs upstairs and quickly sits on the toilet and feels her bladder empty but something feels wrong. She suddenly realises that she hasn’t pulled her panties down and is now sitting on the toilet in soaked underwear. Ellie starts crying with her head in her hands. The door opens up and Vicky sees her daughter crying. “What’s wrong?” Ellie looks up and sees her mum standing there. “I forgot to pull my knickers down to wee and also this is the 3rd time I needed the toilet today. I think something is wrong with me! I need to see the doctor.” Vicky walks up to her daughter. “Right I’ll book one for the morning but take a nap and I’m sure you’ll feel better.” Ellie nodded her head but realised that her thumb was in her mouth again and started crying and hugged her mum. Vicky was smiling inside that the hypnosis is progressing nicely. She led Ellie (with difficulty as she was still hugging her) to the bedroom. They both enter Ellie’s bedroom and Ellie started changing her wet knickers and cleaning her legs with wet wipes while Vicky looks at her phone. “Right, that’s the doctors appointment booked for tomorrow afternoon. Let’s get a good night's sleep. I’m sure it’s just stress.” Vicky says hugging her daughter as Ellie puts on clean knickers. Ellie puts on a pink top and lays down on bed and Vicky exits the room closing the door. As she closes the door, Vicky smiles that the hypnosis is working and soon she’ll have her little girl back again. In the bedroom, Ellie is drifting off to sleep and as her eyes close, her hand makes its way up the bed and her thumb enters her mouth, starts sucking on it and drifts into a peaceful sleep.

Training Yourself to Wet in Your Diaper I have noticed a recurring theme on this website about training yourself to wet in a diaper. I have read some of the strategies and some comments about the strategies which seem to suggest that they haven’t worked. I'd like to suggest a strategy that I believe will work. I'm not sure that it will work, but it replicates my experience in which I have become very nearly incontinent. I'm going to break this down into four sections. The first section contains the strategy that I propose. This is the how-to section. The second section contains my comments on why it should work or at least why I believe that my strategy will work and the drink-until-you-pee doesn’t work. This also contains my thoughts on why it’s so hard to develop the habit of wetting in a diaper in the first place. The third section contains some cautions. The fourth section is a bit of my personal history about becoming marginally incontinent, how it happened and where I am now. I suppose it’s sort of proof of concept, if I can use that term. The reason that I’ve divided this into four sections is so that you only have to read as much as you want to give this strategy try. So, for example, if you’re the impatient type and just want to give this a try, you really don't have to read further than the first section and you're on your way. If you're curious about why it's so hard to wet in a diaper, want a layman’s explanation, and want to have that in mind before you judge the strategy proposing, you can start at the second section. If you're worried about what might happen if you try the strategy and actually works (which is perfectly reasonable if not highly recommended), then you can start at the third section. Finally, if you’re a skeptic (which you should be) and need some explanation as to why this strategy might work, you can start at the fourth section. If you find that credible, then you can read on. Before you try what I’m proposing, please know that I’m not making any promises, nor am I making any claims about how quickly, or successfully you will learn to wet. If it does work, cool. If it doesn't work, please don't send me angry missives about bullsh*tting you, or criticize me—I’m just throwing this out there—for information only. Also, the risks are entirely your own. I’m not a doctor; I’m just another diaper lover who comes to this website to explore my love of diapers. This is for information only. I’m not recommending that you try this. The Strategy Obviously, you need to be diapered (but maybe not, I don’t judge) and feeling relaxed about wetting yourself if it happens. That means that you can’t be worried about your diaper leaking, or someone seeing and embarrassing you or being in any situation that gives you concern about wetting yourself. So, arrange your situation so that all you have to concern yourself with is naturally wetting yourself. You need to have a ‘full’ bladder or be in a circumstance where you are feeling the urge to pee. The objective is to be feeling the need to pee. You don’t have to be desperately struggling to hold your urine but you at least need sufficient urge to pee if you relax your bladder sphincter. Again, not a doctor, so if I get the anatomy a bit wrong, allow me some license. When you feel the urge to pee, find the position—whether you have to stand or sit or lie down—in which it is easiest for you to be relaxed to pee. When you feel the need to pee, even if it is only slight, relax and let your bladder start to void (that’s medicalese for let yourself pee)(or maybe it isn’t, what do I know). Now, here is the counter-intuitive step that I think will make all the difference. As soon as you start wetting—stop yourself. Hold back your pee. Yes, that’s right. Only pee a small amount. There are two reasons. First, you don’t want to flood your diaper and risk an accident which—no matter how hard are you trying not to worry—is a natural fear that you’ve acquired through potty-trained not to happen. Second, and more importantly, if you fully relieve yourself, you’ve got to drink litres (that’s gallons for our American viewers) of liquid again, AND you’ve got to wait until you feel the need to pee again. What we’re after is a repetition of wettings and a constant feeling of having to pee. You’re diaper won’t be flooded and you won’t need to change yet. And, you’ve still got a full bladder and hopefully in a few minutes, the urge to pee will return. Drink just enough to ‘top up’ your bladder. Wait for the next urge to pee and repeat. Keep going until you need to change your diaper or until you start to worry about leaks or anything that might distract you. Why It Should Work Most of us pee infrequently during the day so a full bladder and feeling the urge to pee is infrequent and unusual. When we feel the urge to pee we usually respond automatically (Hmm, I need to pee!) and we go the toilet. The clench reaction is autonomous (you don’t have to think about it) and that’s the reflex you’re trying to break That’s potty-training. The idea here is to get you used to having a full bladder and feeling the urge to pee—all the time. You’re desensitizing yourself to the cue so that over time, you’re less and less likely to notice it because it isn’t unusual any more. That is why I suggest that you only void a small amount, so there is only a short time before the urge to pee returns. Having to pee becomes the steady state that you’re in. You are always holding your bladder—not dance around the room desperately needing to go—consciously trying NOT to pee. At some point—and this will happen if you keep yourself distracted from the urge of having to pee—you will inadvertently relax and you will pee. Spontaneously. The natural reaction will be to clench but you will already have peed a little. That is what you want to have happen over and over and over. There is something else that is happening when you do this. Your bladder has a resting shape and volume. The urge to pee comes from a distended (stretched) bladder. When you void, the muscles pull to return the bladder to its empty size and volume. Holding your urine stretches the bladder and overtime it becomes stretched or conditioned to accept being stretched. When you relax to void, your bladder will not fully empty. This is a medical condition and basically isn’t good. That’s why you’re told that you should go to the toilet as soon as the urge to pee is felt. With an empty bladder your bladder sphincter can relax and does so naturally. If when it does, there is still urine in your bladder, you’re likely to wet yourself. What you are doing is allowing your body’s natural functioning to work for you to let you wet yourself. You will always—I believe sense that you’re about to wet yourself. There just won’t be the natural reaction to immediately hold, nor will it be difficult to relax It then becomes a matter of of just allowing yourself to wet in your diaper. Also, because the feeling will come sooner, you’ll pee a smaller amount and be less likely over time to tense up. You’re probably going to have to do this for some period of time. From personal experience, though, it’s definitely not going take more than a few months—if that. Once you’ve become accustomed to wetting in your diaper you can stop. You’ll have conditioned yourself to accept wetting into a diaper, or heaven forbid, your panties or underpants. Again, this is all speculative. I’m not suggesting you try this, I’m just sayin’… Some Cautions Realize that by training yourself to wet in a diaper, you’re undoing nature’s—and your mother’s—work. You are desensitizing your body to its natural control over your bladder. Over time there is the possibility of overflow incontinence1 because you are intentionally keeping your bladder in a distended state. Your bladder will no longer be able to fully empty. In the extreme—and this is where my experience comes in—it will become very hard NOT to wet your diaper. My Personal History For three years back in 1996, I was a sales representative and travelled extensively—three weeks each month—by car. I would finish a day at the office and drive from Buffalo to different cities in the Northeast. Most trips would take 6 to 8 hours, less if I went fast and didn’t stop until I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO. So, I didn’t. This went on for months and months. Over time, and I seem to recall that it was much less than a year, I found that even with stops to pee I was always feeling the need to pee. Not much longer after that, I was feeling the need to pee before I’d gone a few minutes down the highway, then before I’d even left the parking lot. Finally, driving late one night, well between any rest stops, I realized that I was wetting myself. Cloth seats, too. Not a pretty sight. There’s much more to the story which I’ve recounted elsewhere and spoken to members here, but suffice to say, I bought some diapers the next day—quite on impulse and with no small amount of embarrassment—and began wearing diapers during my drives. Soon, I was wearing diapers as often as possible and soon graduated to letting myself poop in them as well. I did go to a doctor when wetting myself became alarming (on the rational practical side, not on the pleasure side). I was tested and found to have overflow incontinence. The doctor hearing my story as to how this had happened was fiercely annoyed and said: “Stop it. The MOMENT you feel the need to pee, find a rest stop and go. If this goes on, you’ll be incontinent.” I sort of considered that allowing myself to wet in my diapers would be just the thing. It wasn’t. If I don’t wear a diaper during the day, I usually wear a sanitary pad—not unusual for a woman. My sense of having to pee has been slipping in the last while; I have already started to wet before I realize that I am and can stop it. I am not fully incontinent, I do have bladder control—it’s just that my timing can be off. Similarly, if I wear diapers to bed, I am very relaxed and secure. During the night the urge to pee barely wakes me and frequently, knowing I am diapered, I will just relax and wet my diaper. It has been rather alarming recently to wake in the morning in a wet diaper with no recollection that I needed to pee during the night. Either I didn’t wake enough to remember and intentionally allowed myself to wet, or—and to some degree this is worrying—I have made myself a bedwetter. The implication of this is that I’m now very leery of sleeping without a diaper and terrified to sleep over anywhere without diapers and plastic panties. 1. Overflow incontinence is a steady or frequent dribble of urine because the bladder doesn't empty completely. [It can lead to incontinence.] Incontinence is more common in people as they get older. (viz. https://www.google.ca/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=benign+urinary+retention&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&gfe_rd=cr&dcr=0&ei=JfVfWoDhJKKdXvG7nOgN)

Let me tell you an almost true story! Me and my wife had been married for years. Our kids were all grown. We still loved each other but sex had gone out the window when the kids were growing up. Life happened you know busy, busy, busy! Oh I still worked out went to the gym even in my 50's, people thought I looked late 30's early 40's. My wife has always looked youthful she was only 2 years younger but I often got accused of robbing the cradle more than a hundred times it seemed like. Well getting older and trying to lift weights with the young ones doesn't mix! I developed a hernia. I thought I had appendicitis. Same spot as my appendix. I got the surgery got the mesh implanted. About a year or so later I would get pain where the surgery was. That is sometimes normal, but when I felt the pain I would sometimes wet my bed! That was embassing, to say the least I'm 50 something years old bedwetting is for kids and teens not a grown ass man like me! My wife was wonderful, I expected her to berate me, yell at me, whatever. I don't know if I would of been as kind if the tables had been turned. Fast forward a couple of years. It was getting so that if I had a major pain I was wet, even just a minor twinge where I had the surgery I would wake up wet. I started buying Abriform L4 they are pretty expensive I was diapering myself every night just in case. There were nights that I hadn't wet and basically wasted a diaper. As there were nights I slept dry and pulling the white tabs off the blue ones still tore the diaper a bit. The biggest nag I got from my wife was the nights I was dry and basically wasted a very expensive diaper from not using it. On days I would wake up dry I wet it on purpose just to justify the use. I guess I'm old school as that still felt like a waste to me. Along the way I found out I liked being a bedwetter, it was kind of a turn on for me. I thought I was nuts, what grown man likes to wet his bed. I started researching adult bedwetting and holy crap, I found out I'm not the only weird one! I'm not nuts after all. I wanted to be wet every night but it wasn't happening. I had another surgery on my shoulder torn rotator cuff. They catheterized me I was watching the bag fill and I wasn't even realizing I was loosing urine. Light Bulb! As Gru says. Why don't I just get a catheter and wet inside my diapers I mean I don't have to use the collection bag. Easier said than done I ran into you got a prescription for that? No. I was looking on Wish.com low and behold catheters. I started waiting for the little window to pop up asking for a perscription. There wasn't any and they arrived. Unfortunately, they didn't come with a syringe to pump the bladder ball. Tryed using them without and they kept sliding out. Disapointment! I ordered a syringe. 6 weeks later it arrived. I had my catheter in me and it was staying. I diapered myself and went to bed. I awoke in a puddle my diapers couldn't handle everything my bladder sent their way that and my junk had moved and was in the wrong direction. I started thinking. You know but it's weird woman's panties would keep my pee pee down. I bought my first nylon woman's panties. It kept it pointed in the right direction all right but I still was soaking my bed as I was totally wet! I started buying diaper doublers, plastic pants anything I could think of to contain my urine. My diapers made me waddle I was so thickly diapered. I was happy I was waking up soaked every day without having to worry about wasting diapers. My wife usually watched our neighbors kids at night at their house. My neighbors work overnights. I could indulge and not have to worry about my wife thinking I'm weird. My neighbor got sick and we were together as my neighbor was home with the kids and my wife was home with me. I was usually cathed and diapered before her coming to bed. My wife was still supportive she knew that I had a bedwetting problem and as long as I cared for it. She never said a negative word to me. One night in in the process of cateterizing myself. She walks in with my catheter half in and half out. "Whoops!" "What are you doing she asked?" "Uhmmmm, I came clean told her about the past few months how I had been cathetered and I have been wetting my bed without any type of recollection." She asked me "Why?" "I told her it makes me feel naughty." She thought about it for a moment. "Could you make me feel naughty?" I think the smile on my face said it all. I let her start the catheter as I didn't know what hole it went into. The next thing is she is spraying urine. I got a diaper and contained most of her urine. I said "You haven't gone potty have you?" "No she said I was going to go pee in a few moments that's why I came in was to go. She said it felt weird but I loved it it was like no control at all like when I was little." She had the catheter in her. I diapered her thickly like I was! We cuddled in bed for the first time in months. I felt her move and she was feeling the inside of her diaper. "I'm soaked she said with a smile I feel naughty! Just like I used to feel when I was a little girl of 5 and wet my bed still." "You never told me you used to wet your bed?" I said! "I didn't, I thought I did, why do you think I never threw a fit about your bedwetting? I did until 7 years old. I missed it sometimes I like feeling babyish, not having control like this. Do you understand?" "Perfectly!" l said! We went into the bathroom and started. Getting out of our wet diapers and when I got to my panties. "Wow she said I love you! Can we get me some whitie tighties! I've always wanted some." She blushed. "Of course we can get you anything you want!" After we were scrubbed, all disposables disposed of, washables washing, she led me to our bed naked we spent the morning making love to each other. If I had to admit it, I believe it was one of our best sessions in all our years of marriage. It Was great. That day we got her whitie tighties she got me some cotton panties. She told me "They turn a golden yellow from your pee especially the crotches! At least they did when I was a kid!" I was not surprised that night when she came and wanted a catheter, she said "I already went pee! This time I got her ready and she got me ready. While she was doing me she said "I can already feel my pads inside my boys undies getting wet!" I knew what she meant! The next morning she was all smiles! "Daddy I'm wet she said!" I felt my manhood come to life. "I said me to mommy!" I saw her shiver she was turned on. She got on line most of the day, I didn't know what she was doing she spent over $300 dollars on things, was all she would say. About 3 weeks later all kinds of packages arrived. It was mostly onesies. Pacifiers, baby bottles with nipples the size I've never seen before. Other things she didn't want me to see. That night she got me naked after I went pee. Now I'm not the biggest guy down there. Porn stars will never have to worry about me putting them out of a job. After my catheters was in I felt a cold band around my testicles, then something went over my penis she had to smash it to get it to fit, I looked and I had a metal contraption over my penis. "What's this?" I asked as I saw the tip of my catheter poking out around hole in the end. "It's called a chastity cage!" She said! "What for I asked, I've been faithful to you." "I know, I know but I want to have you wear it!" "That's fine, I said but.." "But what?" "It's made of metal and I have to pass through a metal detector every morning to get to my office!" I work in the courts system I'm a keeper. "Oh Pooh!" She said I seen it was important to her. "How about nights and weekends, vacations." The smile returned to her face! "Just not daytimes at work." "Deal!" I said! She said "I got something for you, for me. She brought out an egg looking thing she put some lubricant on it and stuck it in her kitty. She handed me a little thing that looked like a car alarm but had a display. She turned it on and said move that side up! I did as I was told and she looked like she wanted to collapse! "You okay?" I asked! I hadn't made the connection that the higher I moved the dial up the more distressed she looked. I saw her leaking fluids they were running down her legs and dripping on the floor. That's when I realized the egg was a vibrator! I quickly turned down the volume, intensity and she began to breath again. "Sorry! I said I didn't realize what it was at first. "Quite alright she said I kind of enjoyed it! Again?" She asked? I was more than happy to oblige I didn't go as high as last time I saw her shudder and knew she was having an orgasm! I turned the tone down she looked more comfortable. She said "You're no fun!" This time I moved the dial up quickly she leapt 6 inches in the air! A moan escaped her mouth. Slowly I moved the dial down as she came off her tippy toes. I turned it off and she pulled the string out which brought the egg out as well. She smiled "I love it!" She said! "Me too!" I said! I was ready for sex but with the cage on me that was out of the question. She put my panties on and gave my cage a little pat. Now you got a clit like me and your wearing panties woman's panties! She got me dressed in my diapers and pads. She put new pink plastic panties on with pink ruffles and I heard a click they locked. I was locked inside my plastic panties. I dressed her and she had dark blue plastic panties that had light blue ruffles. Hers locked as well. Then the Onesies came out the pink one that I thought was hers was mine and the blue one was hers. I was given a pink baby bottle with milk. It had been a while but soon I was suckling like an old pro. After that she stuck a pink pacifier in my mouth and clipped the pink to strap you my pink onesie. Hers was blue. Next day when I awoke I said "Morning!" "Morning who?" She asked? I was confused. "Morning Mommy!" She said! "Okay Morning Mommy!" "How is my little sissy this morning?" Sissy? I thought then yep I'm pretty in pink. I thought "I'm good Mommy!" I said in one of my best little girl voices. She gave me a smile. "Is my little girl as wet as her mommy?" "Yes mommy I am!" Another smile. She led me to our bathtub in the outer hall she removed everything. She undid my cage and slowly pulled out my catheter. Then relocked it. She ran some bathwater and but some bubble bath in the tub it was very effeminate smelling. She got me in and began scrubbing me like she would a child. She said "I got to clean your clitty." She washed around my cage cleaning my testicles. She said your clitty is all clean she got me out and dried me off after rinsing the excess suds of. She had me undress her and called me daddy to let me know I was in that role now I cleaned up my little girl. I was dressed in pink womans undies again these were the softest I had felt. She used garters and slipped up pink nylons then a pink dress and a blonde wig with pigtails. She put her boys undies they were green and had the incredible hulk on them then a blue shirt that said play ball and had a baseball on it. Then Levis and a Indians baseball cap. Other than her hair she looked like a teen boy! "Today I'm the man. And your the girl got it?" "Yeah I got it!" We spent all day just playing different roles it was an eye opener just to see how the other half lived. That night my princess dress was removed as well as my cage and I got to be the man again. She became my wife again we made love well into the night.

The one thing Madelyn desires most in the world is to wear diapers again, and she is prepared to do anything to make that wish come true. As inexplicable as that desire is for a twelve-year-old girl, it is one she has obsessed over for the past three years. Ever since Madelyn tried on a pull-up that a distant cousin had used for bedwetting, the thought of what it would be like to forego her underwear for that padded, crinkling sensation between her legs has been a desire she has been unable to shake. Every other plan to get her hands on diapers or pull-ups has failed up to now. But this time it is going to be different. This time it is going to work. This time she isn’t going to back out at the last minute. The plan is simple. All Madelyn has to do is intentionally begin to wet the bed at night. Then, her parents will have no choice but to get her the diapers she so badly desires. What could possibly go wrong? Chapter 1: Daydreams in Class I will not chicken out this time. That was what I had told myself two days ago. That was also what I had told myself yesterday. Third time was the charm, right? It was easy to put a bold face to my latest harebrained scheme to acquire diapers from the safety of my daydreams. It was much harder when the time came to actually carry out the plan that had been brewing in the back of my mind for the past year – one I had finally decided to put into motion this week. Why would a 12-year-old girl want to wear diapers in the first place? I don’t know. All I know is that for the past three years, nothing I have done has been successful at getting this obsession out of my head. I certainly didn’t have any interest in being a baby. My younger brother, Jackson, is only six years old. I discovered where Mom kept all his old baby stuff long ago. I’ve tried his old pacifiers, bottles, and sippy cups. None of those items held any appeal for me. I can’t stand kids’ TV shows. I can’t color to save my life. And don’t get me started on dollhouses, barbies, and whatever other toys babies like to play with. In every aspect of my life other than this strange desire for diapers, I wanted to act my age. My latest plan all started a year ago with a magazine and a desire to procrastinate on my homework. There had to be some level of irony to the fact that this latest idea came about when I was seated on the porcelain throne. Mom had almost a dozen different magazines she subscribed to. Most of them found their way to the bathroom, which was also probably the only circumstance where I would have even considered reading them in the first place. I was already finished doing my business, but leaving the bathroom meant needing to continue a homework assignment I’d been slowly picking away at for the past hour. The only reason I even bothered to pick up a copy of the Reader’s Digest on that day about a year ago was for the few sections where it had funny jokes and stories. That, and I had left my smartphone in the bedroom. I really didn’t know how my parents managed when they were my age. I skimmed through the first section of jokes. Whoever had put together this edition of the magazine had totally mailed it in. There was a completely unoriginal one about redheads and souls that had me tempted to toss the magazine in the garbage. I mean, with how many magazines Mom had, would she even miss it? Redhead jokes get old really quick when you’ve had people telling you them your whole life. It has been forever since I’d been told one I hadn’t heard before. And even longer since I’ve been told one that was actually funny. Maybe I would have better luck with the second humor section toward the back of the magazine. I flipped through the pages casually when one of the advertisements caught my eye. I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. There it was. Right on the page. An exact replicate of the pull-up I had briefly stolen from a cousin two years ago. But there was more. That pull-up from two years ago had been the boys’ designs. This ad showed that there were ones for girls as well. And even though I’d had a pretty good growth spurt in the past two years, the product info indicated that I wasn’t even close to being too big to wear them. I didn’t tuck the magazine in the trash, but I did take it with me from the bathroom, burying it deep inside my box of miscellaneous things in my bedroom. I’ve looked at that page at least once a day for the past year. “Earth to Maddy. Earth to Maddy. We’re calling in.” My head jerked upright from the hard wooden desk in my math classroom to the sound of laughter. “Here!” I called back to our math teacher. “Well, thank you for joining us again, Maddy. Now,” he said, pointing to a cluster of numbers, letters, and symbols on the whiteboard, “that we’ve isolated ‘x’ on this side of the equation. Can you tell us what it is?” I had enough trouble paying attention in classes that I liked. For ones I hated? The temptation to daydream was hard to resist. And I hated math class. It was hard enough when we were dealing with regular numbers. I would be lucky to scrape by with a “B-” on my report card. But now, with the end of the school year in sight, my math teacher had ever-so-helpfully decided to give us a sneak peek of some of the things we got to look forward to learning next year in eighth grade. I sucked at long division. But it at least made sense conceptually. The numbers were real, even if doing the work to get the answer was tedious. But now there was this thing the teacher called Algebra, where we were supposed to be adding up letters as well as numbers, which was beyond my ability to comprehend. Every “x” and “y” on the whiteboard seemed designed to taunt me. May as well put a “D” or a “C” on the board, as that was about what I could expect on my report card next year if this was what was in store for me. I stared blankly at the whiteboard with the sinking feeling that even if I had been paying attention for the past five minutes, I wouldn’t be any closer to understanding what was going on. “Um,” I said, picking at my nails while I continued to stare ahead. I had to at least give some kind of guess. But my brain and my mouth sometimes aren’t exactly in sync with one another. “The spot.” “I’m sorry. What was that?” Mr. Thompson asked. “You know, the spot. Like, ‘x’ marks the spot.” The classroom was full of laughter again. This time with me rather than at me. I made eye contact with one of my friends, Angie, who turned to look back at me from the front row. We shared a smirk at the joke. Mr. Thompson sighed. “Everyone settled down, please.” He gave me a look that suggested he might be once again telling my parents about how I had apparently been disruptive in class. “Now, Maddy, if you had been paying attention as we worked through this problem, you would know that the answer was actually…” I didn’t even manage to pay attention long enough to get to the answer to what ‘x’ happened to be or what sorcery had been used to arrive at that conclusion. I fixed my eyes on a spot on the whiteboard, a method I had mastered to trick teachers into thinking I was actually paying attention to their nonsense when I’d rather be daydreaming. My thoughts slipped back toward my plans for this evening. The third time had to be the charm, right? It wasn’t really my fault the first two attempts at wetting the bed had failed. The first night, I had simply been too tired. We’d had an exhausting soccer game that evening that had gone on to overtime, and we’d been shorthanded, so I hadn’t spent almost any time on the bench. I had fully intended to stay up past midnight but had used the excuse of being tired to back out of it. Instead, I let myself drift off to sleep without wetting the bed. During the second night, I’d managed to stay up until 1 a.m., but I had found it impossible to make myself pee. I simply hadn’t had enough to drink. I had considered simply pouring water on my bed, but I was worried that might not be convincing enough should my parents make a closer examination of my bedding. I could have snuck off for a glass of water in the kitchen and stayed up another hour, but again, I chickened out and pushed the plan off to another night. But tonight was going to be different. I was going to be drinking as much water as I could tonight, and I would skip going to the toilet before going to bed. Plus, tonight was Friday, which meant it was pizza night, so as long as I picked out a caffeinated soda, I should be able to keep myself up late enough for this plan to work. I realized that I was likely going to have to keep this up for multiple nights. One random night of bedwetting — after having never wet the bed since I had been potty trained at the age of two — wouldn’t be enough to convince my parents to take action. But if I could have the courage to keep it up long enough, they would have no choice but to purchase the pull-ups shown on the magazine page for me. I would make sure to leave that old magazine out in a way that would get Mom to see the advertisement. It was a desperate move, but I couldn’t wait any longer for the pull-ups. I knew from other advertisements I’d seen that these pull-ups were sold in stores. Had there been a store close by that I could bike to, I might have considered going out and purchasing some for myself on a day when I had been left at home on my own. But that wasn’t an option for me. I still had over three years to go before I would be old enough to get my own driver’s license. I had already waited three years for this. I couldn’t possibly wait three more. “Maddy. Earth to Maddy. Hey!” There was the sound of hands clapping together a single time. More laughter. I blinked rapidly, adjusting my gaze over to Mr. Thompson, where he was standing at the front of the classroom with his palms still pressed together from making the noise he had used to so rudely interrupt my daydreams. “Maddy, please just take one of the homework sheets and pass the rest behind you.” I looked straight ahead, where Chloe was holding a stack of papers with her arm stretched out toward me. She rolled her eyes at me as I grabbed them from her. In a rare moment of self-control, I did not stick my tongue out at her. I took one of the homework sheets and passed the remaining one behind me to where one of my two best friends was sitting. The three of us had initially been seated next to each other. But Mr. Thompson decided a few weeks into the school year that doing so was too much of a distraction. Emma, who had been seated to my right, was switched to the seat behind me. Angie, who had been on my left, had worse luck. Not only was she moved to the front of the class, but she had to sit next to Ryan, who had the disgusting habit of picking his nose in public. But that was OK. We’d have the whole weekend together. Tonight was the beginning of the playoffs for our U13 soccer team. We’d had a moderately successful season, meaning we’d managed to somehow win more games than we lost over the past several months. It was disappointing that the spring soccer season was so close to coming to an end, but we had the opportunity to keep it going this weekend if we could manage to string a few victories together. The bell rang as the final class of the week came to an end. Mr. Thompson belted out more instructions about the homework as I slid the piece of paper, with all its archaic symbols and equations, into my backpack. I’d just ask Angie and Emma later to see if there was something I’d missed in his instructions. I joined my two friends in the hallway. We all lived in the same neighborhood, so we rushed off to catch the bus together. They chatted excitedly about the game tonight, but I walked alongside them in silence. My thoughts were somewhere entirely else. My mind settled on the image of the pull-up I had held in my hand three years ago. The few minutes where I had examined it thoroughly, my fingers tracing over its whole surface. How it had felt to wear it for a couple of minutes before I was forced to set it aside, not knowing the opportunity was one I wouldn’t get again for years. Should everything go as planned, I would be wearing a pull-up again in less than a week. But to accomplish that, I needed to wet the bed tonight – on purpose. <><><> Three years ago If there was a single moment that perhaps best defined the last three years of my life, it was that day three years ago when it all began. The day I first laid eyes on a simple object that would become an obsession I would never be able to shake off. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I knew, intellectually, that this was what people were supposed to do. But even the sight of my aged great-grandfather lying in the open casket hadn’t moved me to tears. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t sad, but it was a more abstract kind of sadness. That kind that has someone thinking heavy thoughts about what happens after death, not that kind that leaves someone bawling on their knees. I had no memories of the man lying in the casket. My parents said I had met my great-grandfather three times. But I had been too young to have any memories of those visits. My older sister, Grace, on the other hand, was devastated. It was her first funeral as well. She had memories of her great-grandfather. The man in the casket was not an abstract concept to her, but the ghost of someone who had played with her and held her in his arms. Jackson cried as well, but that was just because he was a baby. You could never exactly tell what it was that they were upset about most of the time. The three-year-old boy likely just needed a nap. But the funeral home wasn’t where that pivotal event in my life transpired; it was merely marked the event that gave cause for all my distant relations – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – to join together from where they were all scattered across the country. The reception after the funeral was where the fateful moment occurred. The adults ate, drank, and smoked while kids split into playing games with others of their age. There was a cohort of preschoolers huddled around a TV, watching stupid kids’ shows. On the other end of the spectrum was a collection of angsty teenagers Grace had abandoned me to hang out with. They weren’t particularly welcoming of youngsters, and my normally friendly sister had shooed me off after I attempted to tag along with her. Not that I cared that much. Other than my sister, teenagers made me a bit apprehensive. Besides, there were a half-dozen other kids my age to hang out with. My mom introduced me to two boys shortly after we arrived at the house for the reception. One of them, Alex, was eight. Though he made clear he would be nine in a few weeks, which would make him as old as me. His younger brother, Timothy, was seven. The boys were distant cousins from half-way across the country. There was some technical term Mom used for exactly what type of cousin they were to me — second cousins, twice removed. That didn’t mean anything to me. All that mattered was that they were my age and more than open to finding some way to play in order to pass the time while the adults did whatever adults did. We hit it off immediately. We did what kids that age normally do. We fell into the habit of playing simple games with each other as if we had been friends all of our lives. The two brothers were staying at the house where the reception was being hosted, so it was only fair that they gave me a tour of the massive building. We explored the expansive backyard, winding our way through the adults in the garden until we were shooed away. We played in the basement for a while, which had foosball and ping-pong tables before the teens decided that was where they wanted to be hanging out instead. But there was still plenty of house to explore. Alex and Timothy led me up a winding staircase to some rooms upstairs, where they had been sleeping while their family stayed with the relatives who were hosting the reception. That’s when I stumbled across a stunning revelation. One that would shape my life for the next three years. Haunt my dreams. Hound my thoughts. Practically drive me crazy as I was often left incapable of thinking of anything else. There was something out-of-place sitting in the corner of the room on top of a pile of discarded laundry. I tended to usually say the first thing that came to mind without regard to whether it was socially appropriate to do so. I wasn’t any better at that at the age of nine. I pointed at a blue undergarment in the corner that didn’t exactly look like a normal piece of underwear. It was not as though I didn’t have a good suspicion of what it was. But I wanted confirmation. “What is that?” Timothy walked casually over to the corner and picked it up. “Oh, that’s my pull-up.” I looked at the item in his hand. He was seven. That couldn’t possibly be his. I felt sure I was the subject of some kind of joke. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re too old to wear pull-ups.” “Older kids sometimes need to wear pull-ups,” he said, still holding the item in his hand. His defiance left me no less confused. I rolled my eyes. “I doubt that even fits you.” I hadn’t intended in any way to dare them to put the pull-up on. But that must be how that statement had come across. Alex snatched the pull-up out of his brother’s hand and tugged it on over his dress pants. “See,” he said. “It fits. We wear them ’cause we still wet the bed.” They were bedwetters. And they weren’t the least bit ashamed of it. That was at least a topic that I understood. I had no intention of teasing or bullying them. While neither my brother nor I were bedwetters, my older sister had wet the bed up until a year or so ago. Why hadn’t I put together a connection between pull-ups and bedwetting? Come to think of it. I wasn’t even sure if Grace had worn pull-ups during her bedwetting phase. She had her own room, which I was very much forbidden from going into, so if she had, there wasn’t any way I would have known about it. When I had first learned of my older sister’s predicament, my parents had sat down with me and calmly explained what bedwetting was and how I was to never shame or tease her about it. And given how privately they had handled her condition, and the fact that it hadn’t ever impacted my life at all, I truthfully hadn’t ever given her bedwetting much of a thought. Alex mistook my pensiveness while considering my sister’s bedwetting to mean that I was still confused about the topic. He launched into a long explanation with words like enuresis, explaining how bedwetting was just a medical condition that he and his brother would grow out of. “Do you wet the bed?” Timothy asked me. “No,” I replied. I came close to continuing my reply and accidentally outing my sister, but I would never do something that mean to her. Alex still had the pull-up around his waist, completely unconcerned with how silly it looked. The pull-up had a picture of Spiderman, my favorite superhero, on the front. I pointed that out, which led to another conversation about which Marvel superheroes we liked best. Timothy was big on Iron Man. But Alex insisted that Batman was better than any of them. My eyes kept glancing down at Alex’s waist. I found myself unable to look away from the pull-up for long. The sight of the pull-up around Alex’s waist raised another thought. That pull-up would fit me just as well. My distant cousin and I were both about the same size, after all. I didn’t question the desire to wear the pull-up. Once the impulse had taken hold of me, there was little else I could think of as I distractedly continued the conversation with my cousins. Our parents called us down for dinner. Alex ripped the pull-up off and tossed it back in the corner of the room before we retreated down the stairs. I was unable to concentrate during dinner. Alex and Timothy were across the table from me, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut about what I had just witnessed. I was filled to the brim with questions, most of which I would have to keep inside unless I were presented with another chance to have a private discussion with those two bedwetting cousins. But there was one question more important than any of them. One perhaps best answered on my own rather than by asking them. What did it feel like to wear a pull-up? While the adults were content to sit and chat around at the table long after their plates were clean, that wasn’t the case for us kids, and soon we were back to running around; Timothy, Alex, and I were joined by another four cousins. Big houses and hide and seek go hand in hand together. We agreed that hiding upstairs in the house was against the rules for the game of hide and seek. That meant that the upstairs room where the pull-ups were waiting for me was technically off-limits. But I didn’t care one bit about the game. Anyway, making the upstairs rooms off-limits had been my idea. An absolutely brilliant stroke of genius for a then nine-year-old girl. In one move, I’d ensured that no one would be up there when I went looking for the pull-up and that I would be safe from anyone following after me. I took quick glances in both directions as I stood at the base of the stairway. Perfect. There were no other kids in sight. I leaped up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time with each upward lunge until I was safely around the corner and out of sight. I encountered my first problem when I made it to the bedroom where Timothy and Alex had been sleeping. I had somehow assumed that the pull-up Alex had ripped off could be fixed. I seemed to recall that the pull-ups my brother had worn a year ago had Velcro sides. But that wasn’t the case with these bedwetting pull-ups for some reason. But there had to be additional pull-ups elsewhere. There couldn’t be any way that the boy’s parents would risk them peeing all over the bed while they were spending the night as guests. I didn’t have any luck in the first suitcase that I looked through, nor the second, but the third one was where I struck gold. There were more than a dozen pull-ups tucked into the side of the suitcase. Surely, they wouldn’t notice if one of them happened to go missing. I grabbed a pull-up and bundled the pull-up into a ball, tucking it into the waistband of my skirt. I was sure that was not nearly as discreet as I thought it was at the time. But, to my good fortune, I was able to make it to a nearby bathroom without being caught. The adults were busy downstairs, and my cousins, who were playing hide and seek, were doing a better job than I was at abiding by the rules. I locked the bathroom door behind me. I double and triple-checked to make sure the door was actually locked. I removed the pull-up from under my skirt and held it in my hands. I didn’t stop then to think through how bizarre the whole situation was at the time. I think I must have stood there looking at it for several minutes. Feeling how it crinkled beneath my touch, testing out the sides to see how far they could stretch, rubbing my fingers down the padded interior. I was completely and utterly fascinated by it. The desire was no more explainable than a moth being drawn to a flame, a kitten to catnip, or a raven to a shiny object. I cautiously slid my arms through the leg holes, stretching the pull-up out in front of me. Not only was it more than stretchy enough for me, but it could probably fit a kid twice as wide as I was. Now came the moment of truth. I removed my skirt and underwear. The pull-up had a side that was helpfully labeled as the back, so I knew which way to put it on. As I brought the pull-up into place around my waist, it was like sliding the final piece of a puzzle into place. I turned around so that I could look at my reflection in the mirror. I lifted up the front of my skirt so that the whole pull-up was in view. It practically came up all the way to my belly button. There was something about the way it hugged my sides, the way the soft padding pressed against my skin as I sat down on the toilet lid and the way it crinkled quietly as I paced across the bathroom that left me completely enamored. There was just one thing left to do. And I didn’t have much time before everyone noticed that I was missing. I lifted up the lid of the toilet seat and sat down while still wearing the pull-up. One of my deepest regrets was that I had went to go potty right before the game of hide and seek began, meaning there wasn’t anything waiting to come out of my bladder at the moment. I tried. I really did. I wanted to know. I had to know. What would it feel like to pee into a pull-up? It couldn’t be bad. Alex and Timothy hadn’t seemed to be put off at all by waking up in a wet pull-up every morning. But nothing happened. The timing was off. My bladder wouldn’t cooperate. And time was up. I needed to be out of the bathroom in a couple of minutes. I considered it a radical idea. What if I put my underwear and skirt over the top of the pull-up? I could continue to wear it until I actually needed to pee. I nearly did it. I really, truly, honestly nearly did it. But then I chickened out. The same way I would, time and time again for years afterward. It was too risky. A small trickle of shame was diluting my euphoria. I knew that despite how ecstatic I was at my discovery, the reality of anyone else discovering this secret — and the relentless shame and teasing that would follow — would be devastating. I wasn’t like Alex or Timothy. I didn’t have the veneer of bedwetting to hide behind as an excuse for wearing a pull-up. I slid the pull-up off of my legs. I intended to put it back in the suitcase. Then it would be like nothing had ever happened. That’s when I encountered a second problem. Apparently, I had gone potty in the pull-up after all. Not a lot, just the teensiest of tinkles. But it was enough to leave a tiny yellow patch the size of a quarter smack dab in the middle of the pull-up. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had even noticed it in the first place. That would have made for an awkward situation for Alex and Timothy had I put the pull-up back in the suitcase. I peered into the trash can. I was in luck. I could make out two pull-ups at the bottom of the small trash can. One had been turned inside out, the color of its interior leaving no doubt as to the truthfulness of Alex’s description of his and his brother’s bedwetting. I bunched up the pull-up and tossed it in the trash can. I didn’t think it was likely that anyone would be paying too much attention to notice the addition of one more pull-up in it. My curiosity sated, I returned to the game of hide and seek, pretending that I had been expertly moving in between hiding places to avoid being spotted. I didn’t think anymore about the pull-up until later that evening when we were lying in bed at the hotel. Jackson was little enough that he could sleep on a padded mat and sleeping bag on the floor while Grace and I shared a bed – an experience that hadn’t gone well the past couple of nights, as it had been interrupted by midnight accusation of blanket theft. If it had just been Grace and me in the room, if Mom, Dad, and Jackson hadn’t been around to overhear it, I might have worked up the courage to ask my older sister about her bedwetting. I wasn’t even sure if she knew that I knew about it. But I had to know. Had she worn the same pull-ups as Alex and Timothy? Was there perhaps a style that came in colors and designs for girls? But we weren’t alone, and those questions went unasked. The drive home wasn’t any easier. I didn’t touch my tablet, which had been my constant companion on the trip here. Instead, I stared out the window. But I wasn’t paying any attention to the passing cities and landscapes. Instead, my mind was replaying the events of the previous day, in particular, the few precious minutes when I had my hands on the pull-up. I was filled with a deep sense of longing and regret. Why had I thrown the pull-up in the trash? Why hadn’t I put it back on beneath my skirt? I would have had it with me now. I could have been wearing it now. Of course, I did know better. I would have had no issue wearing the pull-up out of the house, but once we had gotten to the hotel, there wouldn’t have been any realistic way for me to have kept it concealed. But the acknowledgment of that reality did nothing to lessen my longing for the pull-up. I had nothing but time as I began to scheme up all the different ways I could get my hands on another one, or better yet, an actual diaper. What would I have done if I had known the wait was to be measured in years rather than days, weeks, or months? --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com/

Background Character list: Andrej Doležal (54) – a small vineyard owner. He runs a small business for tourists and visitors, offering his wine in the wine cellar. Tasting the wine is the local habit, and many people try out too many samples before buying. Besides the standard offer, there are a few bottles of old wines on the shelves in the back room. Andrej even doesn’t remember who he got them from and when. The dusty bottles can hide secrets. Peter Bartoš (40) – a forest worker. He is a nice but very little educated man. He works every day from dawn to dusk and often spends the evening in the local inn even if he doesn’t drink too much. He uses talking with his neighbors there. Magda Bartošová (35) – Peter’s wife, a sweet and lovely woman but as little educated as her husband. She occasionally works on the local farm; she tends to cattle there. She loves children, but she could have only a single son. After labor, her womb was damaged. Milan Bartoš (16) – Peter’s and Magda’s son. He attends elementary school, but he is not too motivated to learn, seeing his parents. Anyway, he has learned a bit English. Otherwise, he is a nice boy. Marek Mlynár (58) – an elderly police officer, thinking more of his retirement than of his duties. Fortunately, he is not very busy, the village is quiet and peaceful. Despite his effort, he usually fails, but nobody minds it, the villagers shrug and sigh only. Scene: Horné Bukovany – a small village at the foot of small mountains. Vineyards spread up the hills, and the area is known for quality wine. However, there are old rumors about mysterious vine with magic properties, but nobody know if they are true and nobody has found that mysterious plant. Horné Bukovany doesn’t differ from other nearby villages. There is a single main street there, framed by houses. A small church is placed in the center of the village, along with the local inn, mayor office with a tiny one-man police station and a small elementary school; however, the older children above the 4th grade must travel to the nearby town Bozinok. Most villagers work at the local farm or sawmill. The work is hard and not well paid, but they don’t have many other options left. Gardens, chickens, and rabbits provide them with extra food. There are few vineyard owners there that offer wine to locals, visitors and occasional tourists that wander to the village by mistake.

Mary decides to use her diaper in public for the first time. After a lot of reflection i decide to go to the park and i am wearing a skirt and i go into the middle of the park and squat down in front f other people and start to use my diaper in public.

I really need a mommy or a friend that I can wear with maybe or maybe not change me and give me headpats and call me a good girl and make me feel loved and little :3

Hey all! This is my first ever Commissioned story, and it's brought to you by @PinkTheDinosaur Enjoy! /////////////////////// "What do you mean we only get one wish!?" The warrior Vellna demanded of the genie. "It was my understanding that one usually gets three wishes, do they not?" Said Ruppert the mage. The two adventurers had stumbled upon a cave guarded by goblins. After slaying a few, barely, and sneaking past a lot more, they found a room the goblins had been using to store their treasure. Of course, most of what goblins considered “treasure” would more accurately qualify as garbage to humans. But Rupport was able to use a Magical Sight spell to spot the one item of value amongst a mountain of junk–an enchanted lamp. “Hear me, mortals,” the genie began, ”There are many types of genies spanning across the grand cosmos. Some grant three wishes, others can grant unlimited wishes. I myself, am lower in rank among my brethren, and may only grant a single wish.” “So which one of us gets it?” Vellna asked. “Obviously I do, since I touched it first.” said Ruppert. “Nuh-uh! I touched it first!” “You most certainly did not!” “SILENCE!!!” commanded the genie. Vellna and Ruppert both obeyed and stood still as statues. “In my infinite wisdom, I have seen fit that the only fair course of action is this: Each of you tell me your desire, and I shall grant what you seek with a single spell.” The two humans looked at each other and then shrugged. “I guess that works,” said Vellna. “I desire power!” Ruppert blurted out. Vellna sighed and rolled her eyes, “Well THAT'S certainly not ambiguous at all!” The mage shrugged, “With more power, I can achieve anything I want. Your turn.” Vellna leaned on her battleaxe, pondering her wish. It took a good long while before she finally announced, “I have decided I wish for… A companion! Someone who is strong and capable in battle, but will also help take care of our needs outside of combat.” she got a dreamy look on her face, ”Someone who cares for us and will keep us safe, who enjoys doing the mundane tasks I find aggravating like cooking and laundry, and is completely loyal and devoted to our team!” It was Ruppert's turn to scoff, “So you want some kind of battle-butler?” The genie began to glow with powerful magic, rising even higher into the air with his lamp. “IT SHALL BE DONE!!!” He said before clapping his hands and disappearing flash of light, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke in his wake. They coughed to clear the smoke from their lunges. “Well? *cough* Do you feel more powerful?” Vellna asked. “... Not particularly?” Ruppert answered. “And where is this companion of yours-” His voice cut off as the smoke coalesced into a figure–a woman, tall and beautiful, garbed in a red dress and fine jewels. “WHO HAS SUMMONED ME FROM-” the strange woman's eyes fell upon the two adventurers. Vellna and Ruppert both stood frozen, too afraid to move or speak. The strange woman's face turned from a scowl to a smile of delight. “My! Aren't you two adorable!” Their jaws went slack as they looked at each other in confusion. Ruppert got his voice back first, “I'm sorry, what?” In a flash, the woman snatched up both Vellna and Ruppert and squeezed them in a suffocating bear hug. “You have got to be the CUTEST little adventurers I've seen in centuries!” the woman exclaimed in delight. All Vellna and Ruppert could do was struggle in her iron grasp, gasping for breath until she released them, and they both took a big gulp of air. “Who… Are… You?” Vellna managed to ask, catching her breath. The woman smiled down at the girl, “My true name is a closely guarded secret. You may call me Agnis. Now, where are your guardians?” “Guardians?” Ruppert asked, “I don't know what you mean.” Agnis got an alarmed look on her face, “You mean you are out here all alone in this cold, cold world?” “I mean… I guess?” Vellna answered. “It's just been the two of us for a while now.” Agnis gasped in shock, causing Vellna to flinch, “You poor little things! How could anyone be so cruel as to abandon you in the wilderness like this!?” Ruppert cocked his head, confused, “Nobody *abandoned* us out here-” “No! This is unacceptable.” Agnis said, cutting him off, “I will not leave defenseless hatchlings out here to die.” “Hatchlings?” Vellna asked, confused. Agnis pondered for a moment before snapping her fingers, “Babies! That is the word your people would use. From now on, you shall be my babies!” Ruppert scoffed, “We're not babies!” “Yeah! We're not babies!” Vellna echoed. Agnis chuckled, “You are both so cute! I will enjoy being your Mommy, little ones.” “Mommy!?!?” they both gasped simultaneously. She thought for a second again, “Yes, this is the right word I believe.” Vellna shook her head, “Look Agnis, I don't know who you think you are-” Agnis cut her off by putting a hand on the girl's armor, “Who dressed you this way? That can't possibly be comfortable, little one. And it's rusty even!” Vellna blinked, “I mean, it's not *supposed* to be comfortable… It's supposed to protect me against damage, and it's all I could afford…” Agnis tisked, “This will not do. No child of mine will be caught running around dressed like that! And where is your… What is the word…” Vellna and Ruppert looked at each other, unsure of what she could mean. “... Diaper! That is the word. Surely you cannot be without one?” Their eyes went wide, mouths agape in shock. “I think you might have the wrong word again, Agnis-” Ruppert began before getting cut off by the woman suddenly sweeping Vellna off her feet and depositing her gently onto the cave floor. “Hey!!!” Vellna cried out at being manhandled so effortlessly. “Now, let's see what Mommy has for you, sweetie,” said Agnis as she held one hand to the side. A sudden burst of flame materialized into a multi-colored satchel. Vellna was startled by the flames, but Ruppert was fascinated to find that their new companion could do magic. Agnis opened the satchel and dug inside before producing a single object: a white, fluffy diaper that was too big for a real baby but probably just the right size for… “W-wait! I don't need that!!!” Vellna shouted, trying to scoot away, only for Agnis to catch her by the ankle and pull her back. “Nonsense, no child of mine will go around making messes everywhere. It's unsanitary and quite rude.” Agnis said. “Ha! I guess it was the right word after all!” Ruppert laughed. “Now let's start by getting that rusty old thing off of you,” said Agnis before swiping a finger down the front of the chainmail. Instantly, the armor split in half as if cleaved by a great sword, leaving her upper body covered only by a bra. “What the-!?!?” Vellna exclaimed in shock. “Fascinating! How did you do that?” Ruppert asked. Agnis didn't bother answering him, keeping her focus on Vellna. She tugged at the girl's trousers off next, this time without the need for slicing. As soon as her legs were freed from the pants and Vellna was left in just her underwear, she started kicking at Agnis with all her might, “GET AWAY FROM ME!!!!!” The girl might as well have been kicking a brick wall for how much effect it had, but it did cause Agnis to scowl and grab Vellna's legs. “Naughty girl! If you're going to struggle, Mommy will have to punish you!” In a single swift motion, Agnis flipped Vellna over and pinned her down with one hand, raising the other hand high before bringing it crashing down on the girl's bottom. “OWW!” Vellna squealed. Agnis rained down spank after spank on the girl's bottom, causing Vellna to thrash around, “Oww! Stop! Cut it out! Ah! Ow! OW! Ruppert! Do something!!!” The mage shrugged, “Like what? Tackle her to the ground? I think I would have more luck trying to move a mountain. This is entirely your problem.” Vellna groaned in frustration. She tried to fight the pain, tried desperately to escape the grasp of this strange woman, but it was no use, and soon, the girl was reduced to a bawling, quivering mess. “Okay! Stop! Please! I'll… I'll wear the diaper! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!!!” Thankfully, Agnis ceased her assault on the girl's reddened cheeks. “Good. I hope you learned your lesson: Never fight back against Mommy.” she said before gently rolling the girl back over to her original position. Vellna winced as her butt made contact with the ground, but was well beyond any further protest, even as Agnis hooked a finger under the girl's panties, said, “You won't be needing these anymore,” and with a flick of her wrist, sliced them off of Vellna's body. Ruppert watched in silence, both fascinated at the capabilities of this strange woman and feeling a sort of sadistic glee at watching his partner get put in her place. Agnis lifted the girl's legs and slid the diaper underneath her butt. Vellna couldn't deny that she was a little glad for the soft padding replacing the hard cave floor. In a few more moments, the front was pulled up over the girl's privates and taped into place. “There we go,” Agnis said, helping Vellna to her feet before wrapping the girl in a hug. “Mommy doesn't like to punish you, sweetie. Are you going to behave for me moving forward?” Vellna sniffled, choking back a hiccuping sob, “Y-yeah…” The woman smiled, releasing her from the embrace. “Good girl.” she turned towards Ruppert, “Your turn, baby boy.” Ruppert's face went white as a ghost. “Now hold on… Let's not do anything too hasty…” “I wouldn't try to resist her if I were you,” Vellna said, rubbing her sore bottom. “It won't end well.” Begrudgingly, Ruppert inched his way towards Agnis. “Y-you're not gonna destroy my robe, are you? It's uhh, it's very comfy! I like it a lot! Don't know what I'd do without-aahhhhh!” He was suddenly cut off by Agnis sweeping him off of his feet. “No need to tear your robe, baby boy.” she lifted the skirt of his robes up and out of the way, revealing a pair of tighty not-so-whities. “These, however, have definitely got to go.” “Wow Ruppert, maybe you *do* need diapers?” His face contorted in embarrassment, “Hey! Those stains are merely the dirt and mud that comes with traveling out in the wilderness! They are perfectly normal stains!” Agnis didn't comment but simply slashed the undergarments away like before. Immediately, Ruppert's hands shot down to his privates, shielding them from Vellna. “Aren't you going to look away!?!?” he pleaded with his partner. “Why should I? You didn't look away when *I* was getting diapered. Besides,” she grinned maliciously, “It's not like you have much to hide down there anyway.” Agnis grabbed his wrists and lifted his hands away from his crotch, leaving him completely exposed. He tried desperately to bring his hands back down, but her grip was as unyielding as iron. She raised a questioning eyebrow down at him, “Are you going to be a good boy?” Immediately, he stopped trying to resist her. He opened his palms in surrender, turning his head away from Vellna. “Fine, just get it over with…” Ruppert's diapering may not have been as painful as Vellna's, but the shame alone was almost enough to cause tears to stream down his face anyway. It only took a few agonizingly humiliating moments for Agnis to tape the diaper onto Ruppert's hips and help him stand up, pulling the boy into a hug just as she had with Vellna. “There we go. That wasn't so bad, was it?” Ruppert was too humiliated even to bother responding. Vellna meanwhile, had retrieved her trousers and just managed to pull them up over the diaper, frowning as the waistband still peaked over the top of the pants, revealing her babyish undergarments to the world. Even if she had a top she could pull down over it, the bulge from the padding was still pronounced. There would be no hiding this diaper from anyone. Vellna looked over at Ruppert once his hug with Agnis had broken. The mage's robe his diaper–much to Vellna's annoyance. But his gait had a much more awkward waddle to it now. She looked down at herself, trying to close her legs and finding the task impossible, and realized she would probably be doing a fair bit of waddling herself. The warrior girl looked up at the woman in red–this mysterious Agnis who seemed to think of herself and Ruppert as babies for some reason–and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake with her wish. /////////////////////// Fun fact, Vellna is one of Pink's OCs whom I decided to use for this story. You can find her art here: https://www.deviantart.com/pinkthedinosaur/art/Vellna-Henton-801231990 If you have a story that you'd like to see me bring to life, you can find my Commission details below. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sKl8NUcpBs609wHqywGSDg-kJRxo219SKblZA5r1GEk/edit?usp=drivesdk

Welcome to Mommy Anna's Diapered Storybook! Some of you may know me from my website, diaperhypnosis.com My recent experience of having my store on Etsy closed because of their discrimination against our community (they are closing down all ABDL hypnosis audio there) has been one more reminder to me of how important it is for us to stay together as a community. I've decided to publish full-length diaper and regression stories, for free, as a special way of giving back to our community. I'm also recording these stories and posting them (full-length) on my YouTube channel, so you can hear me read them there. Mommy Emma from diaperhypnosis.com will also be recording some of these stories for YouTube. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these stories and keep being the wonderful you that you are! This multi-part story will end up about 15,000 words. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Samantha Hartley had always taken pride in being a woman of discipline. She built her life on structure—long days at the firm, power lunches with high-profile clients, and perfectly orchestrated evenings with Mark, her husband of eighteen years. Yet lately, something had begun to unravel in the quiet corners of her world. Not chaos—no, that would be easy to notice. It was a slow fade. A dullness creeping in where intimacy once bloomed. She loved Mark, of course. But the passion between them had thinned to a polite current. Predictable. Safe. Sterile. The longing didn’t come as a scream, but a whisper. Something primal. Not just sexual, but maternal. She wanted to be touched, yes—but more than that, she wanted to be needed. Cherished. She wanted to give—not in the transactional way she was used to, but through something sacred. The blog article she found one evening wasn’t something she would’ve ever shared with a colleague. The Intimacy of Adult Nursing Relationships—the title itself made her sit up. She read it, then reread it, heat rising in her chest. This wasn’t about babies. It wasn’t about kink, either—not exactly. It was about trust. About nourishment. About connection. And for women like her, it was about softness reclaiming space in a life hardened by power. She learned everything she could. Inducing lactation without pregnancy was possible. Time-consuming, yes. But possible. She needed a plan. The first thing she ordered was a breast pump—hospital-grade, quiet, efficient. It arrived at her office, tucked discreetly in a nondescript box. She unpacked it in her private office, her hands trembling slightly. It was real now. She also began taking supplements: fenugreek, blessed thistle, goat’s rue, and brewer’s yeast. She kept them in an elegant tea tin in her purse. A secret ritual. The first few days of pumping felt clinical. She sat in the firm’s lactation room, blouse open, watching the plastic flanges work rhythmically against her nipples. The suction pulled and tugged, awkward and mechanical. But she committed. Five times a day, twenty minutes per breast. She created a schedule and followed it like scripture. By the end of the first week, she started to notice tenderness. Her breasts ached faintly—swollen just enough to remind her that something was happening. She began to massage them gently in the evenings, imagining warm skin, a loving mouth, a needful tongue. At first, she imagined Mark. Later, she imagined herself cradling his head against her chest, rocking him, soothing him. Week three brought more obvious changes. Her breasts were noticeably fuller, her nipples darkened and sensitive to even the softest brush of fabric. She had to buy new bras—stretchy ones, no underwire. Her C-cup curves swelled into Ds. Then double-Ds. She noticed the glances in meetings. A junior associate stared openly one morning. Samantha smiled, amused. She didn’t mind. Let them look. They had no idea what these breasts were becoming. At home, she wore robes more often, opting for soft fabrics that brushed over her skin just so. She began sleeping without a bra, loving the weight of her full breasts against her chest. Sometimes she would wake in the early morning hours, nipples tingling, her body whispering: Soon. Soon, you’ll feed him. She kept it all from Mark. Not because she didn’t trust him—but because this was hers. A private power growing inside her. By week six, she began expressing small beads of milk. Just droplets, but enough to soak the tips of her cotton pads. When she saw them, she wept. Silently. A quiet, shaking joy. That weekend, Samantha made her move. She bathed first, using lavender oil in the water. Then she dressed in a pale pink robe, the silk hugging her curves. Her breasts looked glorious—full, heavy, maternal. She lit candles in the bedroom and turned off the television. When Mark entered, towel around his waist, she called to him softly. “Lie down, baby. Let me take care of you tonight.” He raised an eyebrow, but complied, settling into the pillows. She straddled him slowly, pressing her soft, warm weight into his lap. She kissed him, long and slow, and reached for his hands, guiding them up her sides. “I’ve been doing something... for us,” she whispered. “Something new. Something ancient.” He looked up at her, breath slowing. “I’ve induced lactation. My milk is coming in. And I want to feed you.” His eyes widened. A mix of shock and wonder. “You... want to nurse me?” She nodded. “Not just want to. Need to. I want you to drink from me, to need me, to let go and just be mine.” There was a long pause. Then he reached up, reverently, cupping her breast. She gasped—it was so sensitive, so ready. She guided his mouth to her nipple. He hesitated. Then suckled. Tentatively at first, like he wasn’t sure. But her hand at the back of his head steadied him. Encouraged him. “That’s it, baby,” she cooed, stroking his hair. “Good boy. Drink.” His lips created suction, and the faintest taste of sweet colostrum touched his tongue. He moaned—just a whisper—and pulled deeper. Her nipple tingled, then released. A slow leak of warmth into his mouth. He groaned again, this time deeper. A noise of gratitude. Of surrender. Samantha felt a flood of emotions—maternal pride, sensual power, overwhelming intimacy. She wrapped her arms around him, rocking him gently as he suckled. Her thighs clamped tighter around his waist. “Good baby,” she whispered. “Mommy’s so proud of you.” The word Mommy slipped from her lips before she even thought it through. And the way he shivered told her everything she needed to know. Mark’s hands gripped her hips. His eyes closed. He suckled harder, deeper, with devotion. She could feel him surrendering—not just physically, but emotionally. Letting go of control. Trusting her. Needing her. From that night on, they nursed every evening. Mark came to crave it—more than food, more than sex. When he arrived home from work, he would undress and kneel beside her chair, resting his head in her lap. “Please,” he would whisper, “let me nurse.” Sometimes, she would make him wait—just a little. She liked watching him squirm, liked how desperate he became for her milk. His body softened, his voice took on a different timbre. He stopped challenging her in small ways. He followed her lead. She could see the shift in him—more attentive, more obedient, eager to please her. When she asked him to do something—cook, clean, massage her feet—he did it immediately, sometimes with a hopeful glance toward her breasts, silently begging for his reward. And she gave it. When he earned it. “You want Mommy’s milk?” she’d say, arching a brow. “Yes,” he’d breathe. “Please.” She would let him suckle on the bed, stroking his hair, murmuring affirmations into his ear. “Good boy. Drink it all. Mommy needs you to be full.” She felt powerful—not in the way she did at the office, where power was hard and cold. This was soft and irresistible. A biological power. He depended on her. And the more he drank, the more her body gave. Her breasts now leaked when he wasn’t near. Her nipples ached for his mouth. It became a cycle of devotion. The more she gave, the more he worshipped her. And the more he worshipped, the more she gave. Sometimes, she held him after, breast damp and lips swollen, and whispered, “You’re mine now, aren’t you?” And he would nod, eyes wet. “I’ve never belonged to anyone more.” Samantha no longer missed the spark. She was the spark now. The center of their intimacy, their rhythm, their ritual. She gave milk. She gave softness. She gave control. And Mark? He gave everything else. And neither of them had ever been more fulfilled. Over the next week, Samantha had never felt this alive. Every evening, Mark came to her as though drawn by an invisible cord, the same one that now tied them together in a bond deeper than sex, deeper than words. The nursing was no longer just a ritual—it was a necessity, a sacred exchange. He craved her milk. Needed her body. And she delighted in his neediness. In his surrender. He had become more attentive, deferential, soft in his manner. The once self-assured man who used to interrupt her with suggestions or forget to take out the trash now waited for her cues. He folded the laundry without being asked. He texted her during the day just to check in. He stopped making jokes at her expense. When she told him she expected the dishwasher loaded her way, he apologized—sincerely—and redid it without a word. At first, it amused her. Then it thrilled her. Samantha began to shape their home life around her authority—not with cruelty, but with deliberate control. She crafted a schedule. A bedtime. A list of expectations. When Mark complied, she rewarded him with nursing. When he didn’t, she withheld it. “You don’t get Mommy’s milk until you earn it,” she’d say, brushing his cheek with mock sympathy. “Do better, sweetheart.” And he did. It was intoxicating. One quiet afternoon at the office, in between briefs and billing reviews, Samantha found herself browsing again. Her body still buzzed with energy from the morning’s pump session. Her breasts were fuller than ever, leaking now if she went too long without release. Her nipples stayed hard throughout the day, sensitive and swollen, a constant reminder of what she’d become—a source of nourishment and power. She was scrolling a forum on female-led relationships when a sidebar article caught her eye: “Wives Who Diaper Their Husbands: A New Level of Loving Control.” She blinked. Then clicked. The article opened with a soft, almost poetic tone—about caregiving, regression, and trust. About how some wives, especially in nurturing dominant roles, found deep emotional satisfaction in caring for their husbands in the most complete way possible. Diapers, it said, were not about humiliation—not necessarily. They were about surrender. About devotion. About returning a man to a state of complete dependency, where the wife ruled not only his heart and mind, but his body. As she read, Samantha’s breath caught. The author described the intimacy of diapering a man. Of wiping him, powdering him, pulling the thick padding up between his legs. Of nursing him afterward, freshly diapered and helpless in her arms. She spoke of the peace it brought. The power. Samantha’s thighs clenched involuntarily. Could I? she wondered. Would he…? The thought of Mark in a diaper—so obedient, so trusting, resting his head against her milk-filled breast while she rocked him—made her ache. It wasn’t just arousing. It was right. This was what she’d been building toward all along, wasn’t it? The nursing, the rituals, the structure. She had led him, slowly and lovingly, to a place where his submission felt natural. And now, she could go further. She could complete him. That night, as Mark knelt before her for his nightly nursing, she caressed his cheek and smiled warmly. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “how would you feel if I took even more care of you?” He paused, mouth still latched to her nipple, then looked up at her, dazed and milk-drunk. “More?” “Mmhmm,” she cooed. “You’ve been so good for Mommy. So devoted. I’ve been reading about ways I can make you feel even more safe. Even more... taken care of.” His eyes searched hers. There was a hint of hesitation, but also a flicker of excitement. “Like what?” “Well,” she said, brushing his hair aside, “what if you didn’t have to worry about grown-up things at all in the evenings? What if I decided when you go to bed, what you wear, even whether or not you use the bathroom?” He blinked, stunned. She kept going, her tone soft, loving, but firm. “What if Mommy put you in diapers at night? What if that became part of our special time, too? Just like nursing. Just you and me. My sweet baby boy.” Mark flushed—deep red. “Diapers?” he whispered. “You… really want that?” Samantha’s gaze was steady. “I do. It’s not about embarrassment. It’s about trust. Intimacy. Letting me take control in the most tender way possible. You already let me feed you. Why not let me decide when and how you’re cared for in every way?” He looked overwhelmed, but not resistant. Not really. “You don’t have to say yes right now,” she murmured. “But think about it. Imagine lying in my lap, freshly diapered, drinking my milk, with nothing to worry about. No decisions. No pressure. Just love.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Doesn’t that sound nice?” His answer came not in words, but in the way he suckled again—more urgently, more needfully. He melted into her, as if already imagining it. And she knew. He would agree. Sooner than later. Samantha ordered the supplies the next morning: soft cloth-backed diapers in his size, unscented wipes, soothing cream, and thick baby powder. She chose a plain white pacifier, too—just to see how it would look between his lips. The packages arrived at her office, as always. She unpacked them slowly, savoring the scent of the powder, the softness of the padding. She held one diaper up, imagining the sound it would make as she taped it snugly around Mark’s waist. She felt an almost maternal ache. Soon, she thought, tracing the edge of the diaper with her finger. Soon, my baby. This wasn’t just about domination. It was about transformation. Mark was becoming hers—not just her husband, not just her partner, but her dependent. Her darling. Her creation. And he was loving every step of it. So was she. And they were only just beginning.

CHAPTER 1 The morning air was warm and a bit humid. I glanced down at my watch—7:45. We were definitely going to be late. I leaned against the fence that bordered her front yard, shifting my weight as I waited. A second later, Ashley came rushing out of her front door. I could hear her mom yelling something from inside, but I couldn’t quite make it out. “I will, Mom! Now I’m going to be late!” she shouted back before the door slammed behind her. “Hey, Alex,” she said, jogging up to me. At only 5'6", she barely reached my chin. She wrapped me in a quick hug before falling into step beside me like nothing was wrong. “What was all that about?” I asked. She stopped walking. For a second, she didn’t say anything—just looked down at the sidewalk. “My parents are getting a divorce,” she said finally. “My dad’s moving across the country… and they’re putting me in a position where I have to choose who to live with.” I felt my stomach drop a little. “That’s… really rough.” I hesitated, then added, “If it counts for anything… I’d really hate to see you leave. Have you made a decision?” “Not yet,” she said quietly. “But I have to soon.” I nodded. “Well… I’ve got your back either way. Always.” She gave a small smile. “Thanks.” “Now come on,” I added, glancing at the school in the distance. “Let’s go be late together.” As usual, once we arrived at the front office, we were sent straight to detention until first period ended. The teacher had us write an essay about the importance of being on time—which I thought was ironic and kind of stupid—but it killed the time. Eventually, the bell rang, signaling the 10-minute passing period. “See you after lunch,” I said to Ashley as we split off. The halls were packed—typical high school chaos. Jocks, preps, band kids… everyone in their little groups. I never really fit into any of them. I had my small circle—five close friends—and that was enough. I slipped into English and took my seat. I hated this class. The teacher’s voice droned on and on, and before I even realized it, my eyes started getting heavy. Just for a second… I put my head down. The next thing I knew— The bell rang. I jolted awake, disoriented. Chairs scraped, students stood, conversations picked up. I blinked a few times, trying to catch up with reality. Then I moved. And froze. Something felt… wrong. Slowly, I looked down. A dark patch spread across my jeans. My heart dropped into my stomach. No… no, no, no… I had wet myself. Not completely, but enough that it was obvious. Panic set in immediately. I grabbed my backpack and held it in front of me, trying to cover it as I moved toward the door. “Alex, hun… come here.” I stopped. My teacher. Of course. I walked over slowly, trying to keep my bag positioned just right. She didn’t say anything at first—just gave me a look that told me she already knew. “Move the backpack,” she said gently. I hesitated… then did. There it was. Fully exposed. “What happened?” she asked, her tone more concerned than anything. “I… I fell asleep,” I muttered. “And… this happened.” She nodded. No judgment. Just understanding. “Well, you can’t walk around like that all day,” she said. “I’ll write you a pass—go see the nurse. She’ll get you something to change into.” I nodded quickly, took the pass, and left. Getting to the nurse felt like running a gauntlet. Every step, I was convinced someone would notice. Every glance felt like it lingered too long. But somehow… I made it. I slipped inside. “Oh, hello dear,” the nurse said warmly. “What can I help you with?” “I… I had an accident,” I said quietly, lowering my backpack. Her expression softened instantly. “Oh, honey… that’s okay. It happens.” She disappeared into a closet and came back with a pair of jeans… and something folded beneath them. She paused before handing them over. “Now,” she said, “there’s a school policy. If a student has an accident, they need to wear protection for the rest of the day.” “Protection?” I asked. She gently placed the bundle in my hands. I unfolded it. My face went hot. A diaper. A big one. “I—I don’t wear diapers,” I said quickly. She gave me a small, knowing look. “And yet… here we are.” I didn’t have a response to that. “This is just for today,” she added. “A precaution. And we’ll need to inform your parent.” I swallowed and nodded. “Do you need help putting it on?” she asked. “…yeah,” I admitted quietly. The process was… quick. Too quick. Before I could really process what was happening, I was standing there in clean jeans—with a diaper on underneath. She walked around me, checking. “You’re fine,” she said. “No one will notice.” I’ll notice, I thought. Lunch came next. Hamburger day. Normally, I’d be excited. I grabbed two burgers and a Dr Pepper and sat down—but I couldn’t focus on eating. I was hyper-aware of it. Every step. Every shift in my seat. The soft padding around my waist. And… weirdly… It wasn’t uncomfortable. That thought hit me out of nowhere, and I immediately felt my face heat up. Why does it feel… okay? I shoved the thought away and focused on my food. By history class, I found Ashley in the back. “Are you wearing different pants?” she asked immediately. “Yeah… uh… can we talk about it later?” I said quickly. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. “Alright…” A few minutes in, I felt it. I had to pee. Bad. I shifted in my seat, bouncing my leg slightly, trying to ignore it—but the soda was hitting hard. Ashley leaned over. “You okay?” “Yeah… just really need to go. This sub won’t let anyone leave.” “Well, you’ve got like three minutes,” she whispered. “You’ll survive.” I’m not so sure about that… The bell rang. I shot out of my seat and rushed to the nearest bathroom— Out of order. My stomach dropped instantly. I bent down, pretending to tie my shoe while I fought to hold it in. Somehow… I managed to regain control. Barely. Math class. Fifteen minutes. That’s all I had to make it. I could do fifteen minutes. But my bladder had other plans. The pressure built again—fast this time. Stronger. Urgent. I clenched, shifted, tried everything— And then— I lost it. Warmth spread instantly. I tensed, bracing for my jeans to darken— But they didn’t. I froze. Then slowly exhaled. The diaper. It was… actually working. I could feel it absorbing everything, holding it all in. No leaks. No mess. Just… contained. Relief washed over me—but it was mixed with something else. Something I didn’t want to think about. After school, I met Ashley outside. “Well?” she teased. “Did you make it?” I shrugged. “My pants are dry, aren’t they?” She smirked. “Fair enough… but seriously, what happened earlier?” “Someone spilled a drink on me,” I said casually. She studied me for a second… then nodded. “Makes sense.” When I got home, my mom was already waiting. “School called,” she said from the living room. “Do you want to explain what happened?” I hesitated. “I… fell asleep in English, and I sort of wet my pants.” “Did anyone see?” “No. Just my English teacher and the nurse.” She nodded. “That’s good, because that would have been embarrassing. She mentioned they put you in a diaper. Do you still have it on?” “Uh… yeah.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at me. Then she walked up before I could react and gave the back of my pants a quick pat. The soft pressure—and the faint sound that followed—said everything. She stepped back. “Is that diaper wet?” I didn’t respond. I just looked away. Instead, she reached down and unbuttoned my pants, letting them fall. There I was, 15 years old, standing in my living room in an obviously soaked diaper. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect this. Were you asleep for this too?” she asked. “The bathroom was out of order, and I didn’t have time to go across the school,” I said quietly. “I couldn’t hold it.” “Alex…” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Go upstairs, get cleaned up, and take a shower. I’m going to the store. We’ll talk about this during dinner.” She didn’t seem mad—just disappointed. That somehow felt worse. After my shower, I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring down at the carpet like it might give me answers. The house felt different. Quieter. Or maybe it was just me. I dragged a hand through my hair and let out a slow breath, replaying the day whether I wanted to or not. It came back in pieces at first—the classroom, the bell, people getting up around me. Then it hit all at once. That moment. The realization. The panic. “Great,” I muttered. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else—but my thoughts kept circling back. Not just to what happened… …but how it felt. That was the part I didn’t like thinking about. Because yeah, it had been embarrassing. Completely. But at the same time… “It could’ve been worse,” I admitted quietly. If anyone had noticed… if I’d had to walk around like that all day… if Ashley had seen— “Yeah,” I muttered. “Way worse.” I shifted on the bed, restless. Because as bad as today had been, something had stopped it from becoming a complete disaster. And that bothered me. Because it meant part of me felt… relieved. “I shouldn’t feel that way.” But the thought wouldn’t go away. Dinner wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. “We’re going to talk about what happened today,” my mom said. I nodded. “Yeah.” “For the next week, we’re going to put some structure in place.” I frowned. “What does that mean?” “It means you’re going to be proactive,” she said. “And… you’ll be wearing a diaper.” I didn’t argue. Not really. I just said, “Fine.” That night, everything felt heavier. As I got into bed, I stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow will be better. It had to be. There was a knock. “Alex, it’s time to put on a diaper,” she said, stepping in. I didn’t argue. I just laid back and let it happen. “Alright,” she said after. “Let’s hope you can keep that dry. Good night. I love you.” “Night.” Morning came quietly. For a second, everything felt normal. Then I shifted. And froze. “…no way.” I sat up, heart sinking. “Seriously…?” After everything. After telling myself it wouldn’t happen again. I let out a long breath. “Great start.” I swung my legs over the bed, the diaper sagging under my pajamas. No point sitting there. The day wasn’t going to wait for me.