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Chapter One Lucas stirred in his sleep as the vague shapes and colours of the room began to form in front of him. His body felt weak and heavy, and his thoughts were cloudy. He mumbled to himself, trying to form words. Something heavy covered his body - warm and soft, he soon realised it was a blanket. He had guessed it must be a mattress underneath him - one of the most comfortable mattresses he had ever slept on. Despite his grogginess, he could tell he was uninjured, and seemed to be somewhere safe. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, a bit louder and more full-throated this time, signifying his waking. “Oh my… Lucas?” He heard a voice from above him. He turned to it, startled, and saw a face staring back. A woman, probably in her mid to late 30’s, whose concern shone through her eyes as they gazed down. Though his vision was quickly returning, Lucas couldn’t trust what he saw just yet. He was sure he had to be seeing things - looking up, this woman appeared to be large. Very large, in fact - the perspective didn’t make sense to him. In any case, he didn’t recognise her, or this place, and didn’t know how she would know his name. When he didn’t answer, the woman reached her hand out and gently caressed the side of his cheek with her finger. He jolted to full alertness - the feeling of her finger against his face felt incredibly real. But again, the finger was enormous - her hand would certainly have been big enough to cover his entire face. This woman seemed to be a giant, and he did not seem to be dreaming as was his first instinct. “Wh-what the…” he gasped as he shifted away from the hand, his body still difficult to move. He felt a stiffness in his muscles, beyond the usual fatigue he would have after waking up, and what’s more, he noted that whatever clothing he had on was somewhat restrictive. Its unusual material made it difficult to move with speed. He thought to check, but given the weight of the blanket on top of him, he couldn’t do much about it. He was more concerned with the woman, anyway, whose face was now showing signs of simultaneous surprise and relief, a warmth emanating from her expression. “Oh dear, it’s alright. You’re safe here, really. You’re safe…” “What’s… what’s happening? Am I dreaming?” His eyes were transfixed on the woman, her enormous height, and what she was wearing - an elegant maid’s uniform, with a white headdress and neatly fitted black button-up blouse. “You’re not dreaming, dear. Not now, anyway. My name is Miss Hazel, and you are safe with me. I promise. How are you feeling?” Her words seemed sincere, and her demeanour certainly backed that up. She had a calming presence, a warm tone and deep, brown eyes which invited Lucas to stare into them - not least because of their size. She brushed her brown hair from her face and smiled. “I’m… I feel weak… it’s hard to move.” She nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, the doctor said that would be the case. It should subside soon. Rest assured, you are healthy as can be, blessings.” “D-doctor? What doctor? I don’t… I don’t remember much…” Lucas began rubbing his head, tossing his messy blonde hair. “That will subside too. I can explain everything. Come…” Hazel then lowered something, a wooden frame at the side of the large bed, one which Lucas immediately wondered how he hadn’t noticed already. It was a set of pale wooden bars which lowered down, allowing Hazel to reach over to him more easily. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a cr- Whoosh! The blanket was pulled away from Lucas, and a cold sweep of air sent a shiver across his body. He was wearing a plain purple t-shirt, and his legs were exposed too. When the sudden shock of the chills passed, he looked down and took a few moments to process what he saw. Between his legs, in place of normal underwear, he saw a heavy, thick mass of plastic wrapped around his waist. Though mostly white, it bore a large printed design of some kind. Though he couldn’t get a good look at it, it was clearly some kind of pink cartoonish image. As his legs shuffled in the cold, the garment crinkled loudly with the sound of plastic ruffling. There was no doubt about either of his realisations - he was sleeping in a giant crib, and wearing a diaper. “Wait, what?! What is this?” He stared incredulously at the diaper, his arms not strong enough to tear it off, though he certainly wanted to. Instead of an answer, he was greeted by Hazel’s two large hands, which tucked under his arms and promptly lifted him high into the air with seemingly no effort. He was disoriented by the sudden movement, his head still a bit dizzy. “I know, I know. I’ll explain everything here, don’t you worry.” They began moving across the room, where Hazel sat into a rocking chair not far from the crib. She placed him sitting on her lap - as a giant, her lap was easily large enough for him to sit on without bending his legs and be comfortable. He looked to a side table and saw a cup of tea and a downturned book, halfway finished. It seemed Hazel had been sitting her for some time when he slept. “Now Lucas, we’ll just go through things slowly, okay?” “How do you know my name?” “We looked at your identification when we found you. I didn’t mean to unnerve you.” “Found me?” Hazel paused and her eyes wandered a bit, clearly in thought. She was searching for where to begin. “Lucas… do you remember ever hearing about the dimension of the Amazons?” With that word, things began falling into place for Lucas, though the realisation was horrifying and he tried not to think about it too much beyond answering her immediate question. “Y-yeah… though I never looked into it too much.” She nodded. “Lucas, there isn’t any easy way to tell you this, but you seem to have had a run-in with a portal - I believe the experts called it a ‘spontaneous spacial fissure’. They open randomly and close just as quick.” “Wait, yes - I remember… I remember seeing a flash of light… I was riding my bike home from work, and suddenly I couldn’t see anything, and my skin felt tingly, and then…” Hazel began rubbing Lucas’ back gently. “It’s alright, dear. That must have been so scary. But you’re safe now, I promise.” Lucas nodded. She seemed to be able to tell he was about to start panicking. He still was on the inside, but her kind words helped stave off the worst of it. The silence prompted her to continue. “Two days ago, we found you unconscious in the garden. We immediately recognised you as a Little - that’s what we Amazons call people from your dimension. We called specialists who gave you a medical check up. Like I said, you’re perfectly healthy, but you’ll feel some after effects of the portal for a few days. We took you in and I’ve been keeping an eye for when you wake up.” “So… why am I wearing… is this what I think it is?” He didn’t gesture, but she knew what he meant right away. “Yes, it was necessary to give you some… protection. You see, Lucas… there’s some difficult things I have to tell you. Portals, from what I understand, are random events - they open and close too sporadically to be predicted. What that means is that you can’t go back to your dimension. You must stay here.” The words fell on him like a ton of bricks. It’s difficult to process the feeling of losing your entire life all in one moment. He began racing through what it really meant - all the people he wouldn’t see again, the places, his job, his apartment - and even more concerning was the realisation that, at least from his perspective, he didn’t think he would actually be missed by anyone at home. “Lucas? Darling?” She shook him gently from his stupor. He looked up at her, eyes pleading for this to be some kind of dream. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Now, the way things work here… well, when Littles come to our world, it’s necessary for a number of reasons to take care of them the same way you would a baby. It’s all to do with the way your body adjusts to the new dimension, as well as the… stronger parental instincts of Amazons. I wish it wasn’t the case, but that diaper is for your own good.” “I can never go back…” “In fact, for your own protection, you’ve already been legally adopted. It’s so you can be properly cared for. It’s for your own good, honey.” Her words were dripping with warmth and clearly intended to comfort, though she knew there was no way to fully soften this news. “Adopted?!” He shuffled in her lap in a feeble attempt to escape it, quickly stopped by her grasp which turned from gentle to stifling. “You’re going to just… keep me?” “Well, not me, per se. Officially you’ve been adopted by their Highnesses.” “High… huh?” “Oh my, yes. How silly of me. Here.” With that, Hazel picked Lucas up from her lap and rose once more, walking across the room to the window, which she pointed Lucas towards so he may look out of it. What he saw was the sprawling field of an estate, encircled by high walls with flower gardens and a hedge maze dotting the lawn. Beyond the wall was a town with tall buildings. In the foreground, just outside the window he saw old stone walls and towers, pristinely carved and kept but clearly quite old. He was in a castle, and a large one at that. “Just there, outside the hedge maze, that’s where we found you two days ago. You arrived in a flash of light and we took you inside. As you were a new arrival, the protocol would have been to hand you over to the Adoption Services, but Queen Charlotte took a quick liking to you. She had been considering adopting for a while, so she thought of your arrival as a happy accident.” “This is insane… don’t I get a say in this? You can’t just adopt me and treat me like a baby without my permission!” She turned Lucas back around to face her, propping her up in her arm and looking at him with deep sympathy. “I’m sorry, Lucas… I know this is a lot to take in, and I wish it was different, but this is how things are here. And… er, well… there is one more unfortunate thing I have to tell you…” “Hazel? Who are you talking to?” Hazel and Lucas swung their heads to the doorway, through which a figure came walking into the room. She was a woman in her 40’s or 50’s, with long, elegant blonde hair and a beautiful ornate gown in light blue. She was dressed immaculately, and immediately in Lucas’ mind it seemed obvious that this was the ‘Queen Charlotte’ he’d heard of. As soon as she laid eyes on Lucas, they lit up with joy. “Oh heavens! You’re awake! Hazel, you didn’t call me?” “Oh, your highness, I was just, erm, explaining the situation…” Charlotte came over, her heels loud even against the carpeting of the room, with joy on her face and her hands outstretched. She quickly took Lucas from her and held him in front of her face, to get a good look at him. He was none too happy about being passed around so casually, and even though he wasn’t keen on anyone in this room right now, he did feel a bit unnerved being away from Hazel and her soothing nature. “Hello there my darling! It’s so wonderful to see you. How is my new baby girl feeling?” Lucas paused. Had he heard right? Was his mind still playing tricks on him? He spoke up to make sure. “Uh… I’m not….” Hazel interrupted and spoke with a grand tone, clearly rehearsed though with a touch of hesitance in her voice as she looked at Lucas. “Y-yes, your highness, allow me to present for the first time, in her official debut to the royal family of Avalir… Princess Lucille.” “W-what?!”

This is my first story posting on here. I would love to hear your comments on what you liked and future ideas! Let me know if you have any critiques or suggestions. I'm still figuring out the formatting here. Bradley's Diaper Punishment (Humiliation at Walmart) Chapter 1 Bradley’s heart pounded as he walked in the kitchen, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and casting a warm glow on the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of coffee and toast, but all he could focus on was the dampness between his legs and the way his diaper sagged uncomfortably under his pajama pants. Bradley was 18 years old and a senior in high school. He lived with his stepmother and stepsister. Bradley was a very short and scrawny teenager. Puberty has yet to come to Bradley, he had no hair other than the hair on his head. He was small down there, something he was very embarrassed about. His stepsister and stepmother were much taller and stronger than him. His stepmother, Michelle, stood there in her perfectly pressed summer dress, her arms crossed. Katie, his stepsister was in the same grade as him in school. Katie loved to tease Bradley. She loved to joke about letting his bedwetting secret slip to the whole school. There were already rumors floating around about his bedwetting chart. Katie was much more mature than he was. Bradley always seemed to show a strong lack of responsibility and obedience. The opposite of Katie. Katie leaned lazily against the counter, her long legs stretched out in her usual nighttime attire—cute high-cut panties that showed off her butt and a top that clung to her slender body. Bradley hated how she loved to flaunt her lack of need for diapers by showing off her mature panties. A constant reminder of his own humiliating need for diapers at night. She smirked at him, her eyes flicking down toward his waistline. “Good morning, Bradley,” Michelle said in that tone—the one that always made him feel like he was five years old. Her voice was sweet but laced with authority, the kind that brooked no argument. “Come here, let me check your diaper.” Bradley hesitated, his cheeks burning. God, why does she have to do this? Why can’t I just take it off in my bedroom and tell her? But he knew better than to do that. Ever since he’d lied about being dry, Michelle had insisted on checking his diaper every morning herself. No matter what she was in the middle of doing, where she was, or who was there. He had to find her and let her check him before he was allowed to remove his diaper. And in the kitchen, with Katie standing there, it felt even more humiliating. They were in the same grade and he was treated so much differently than her. Bradley’s stomach dropped. He hated this routine. His feet dragged as he approached her. Katie’s eyes followed him, a smirk playing on her lips. He could already hear the teasing remarks forming in her mind. He was lucky she hasn't gone around school telling everyone about his embarrassing secret. At least not that he knows of. Michelle knelt down, and sighed impatiently gesturing for him to turn around. He did, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Katie let out a little laugh, and he shot her a glare, but she just giggled. “Relax, Brad,” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you in diapers before.” Michelle ignored her and tugged at the waistband of Bradley’s pajama pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal the white diaper underneath. Bradley’s entire body tensed, his breath catching in his throat. Her fingers moved quickly, pressing against the diaper to check for wetness. When she found it, she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Wet again,”Michelle sighed heavily, pulling his pajama bottoms back up before straightening up and wiping her hands on a nearby dish towel. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Bradley. You’re 18 years old. This is ridiculous! Maybe I should just give up and start putting you to bed right after dinner in your diaper like the baby you are acting like” The threat made Bradley plead, “I’m trying,” he stammered, his voice strained. “I really am.” “Well, trying clearly isn’t enough,” Michelle replied, her tone hardening. “You’re 18 years old, Bradley. This is embarrassing for all of us.” Michelle marked the potty chart with a big red frowny face sticker on today's date. The chart was covered in red frowny faces for accidents. There were a few green happy faces scattered here and there, but they were rare. Too rare. Katie let out a quiet laugh, stepping closer, peering over Michelle’s shoulder at the chart. “Wow, Brad,” she said, her voice teasing. “Another frowny face for the bed-wetter. You’re really on a roll this week.” Bradleys face turned hot, “Shut up, Katie,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real force. He hated the stupid potty chart that had been hanging there for months now, a constant reminder of his failures. It was bad enough that Michelle recorded every accident, but knowing that anyone who walked into their kitchen could see it—would see it—was unbearable. He was sure one of Katies friends saw it and blabbed to someone at his school. How else would the rumors at school got started? Bradley’s eyes flicked to Katie, who was now openly smirking at him. He hated her. He hated the the way Katie always seemed to be standing there, watching, smirking, like she enjoyed seeing him humiliated. He hated the diapers, the checks, the way Michelle treated him like he was still a little child, like he was incapable of doing anything on his own. “Michelle,” he started, his voice trembling. “Can’t I just tell you, do you really have to check me every morning? I’m not a baby.” Michelle turned to him, her eyes narrowed, for a moment, he thought she might yell at him. But instead, she set the stickers down and put her hands on her hips. “Bradley, we’ve been over this before, you know the rules. No taking off your diaper until I’ve checked you. . You lied to me before, remember? I have to make sure you’re being honest.” He wanted to argue, to scream that he was an adult and didn’t need this kind of treatment, but the threat of a spanking hung over him like a dark cloud. Michelle didn’t tolerate backtalk, and she had no problem carrying through on her threats. Bradley had learned that the hard way. “Go change out of your soaked diaper, shower quickly, then put on your big boy underwear,” Michelle instructed, “We’re going grocery shopping soon.” Bradley’s heart sank. He hated grocery shopping with Michelle. It was just another opportunity for her to treat him like a child in public. He glanced at Katie, who was clearly interested in his plight. “Can’t I just stay home?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly. He hated how desperate he sounded, but the thought of spending hours in the store with Michelle was unbearable. Michelle’s gaze hardened. “No, you can’t stay home. I don’t trust you alone, and Katie has plans with her friend. You’re coming with me.” Katie walked over to the dishwasher, showing off her big girl underwear, as she bent low to load her plate. “Yeah, I’m meeting Ashley at the mall. We’re going to try on new dresses, then come back here and tan. Prom is just around the corner” she said, shooting Bradley a sly grin. “But don’t worry, baby brother. I’m sure you’ll have fun picking out cereal and diapers.” Bradley glared at her, his fists trembling at his sides. “I’m not a baby, I don't want to go,” he plead. Michelle placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm. “Bradley, do I need to remind you what happens when you argue?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous. Bradley swallowed hard, his defiance crumbling. “No, ma’am,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Good,” Michelle said, her tone softening slightly. “Now go take a shower and change into your big boy underwear ,” she ordered. “We need to leave soon and don’t forget to go potty before we leave I don't need you embarrassing me and having accident again.” Katie burst out laughing, her amusement clear. “Go potty,” she mimicked in a high-pitched voice, her laughter echoing in the kitchen. Bradley’s face burned. He hated when they brought that up and winced at the memory. He was so embarrassed when he’d had an accident during the day a month ago, right in the middle of the living room. Katie had teased him mercilessly for weeks afterward, and Michelle had made him wear pull ups during the day as a “precaution” until the whole package was gone. He didn’t think he’d ever live it down. Bradley glared at her, but there was nothing he could say. He turned left the kitchen, the weight of his humiliation pressing down on him. As he reached the stairs, he heard Katie call after him, her voice sing-song and cruel. “Don’t forget to rinse really well, baby boy! You wouldn’t want to smell of pee at the store!” Upstairs, Bradley slammed the bathroom door shut behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he tried to steady his breathing. The mirror across the room reflected his red-faced frustration, and he looked away, unable to meet his own gaze. Stripping off the wet diaper, he tossed it into the trash bin with more force than necessary before stepping into the shower. The water was lukewarm, doing little to soothe his anger. He scrubbed at his skin as if he could wash away the shame, the helplessness. But no matter how hard he tried, he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Not as long as Michelle insisted on treating him like this. Not as long as Katie kept mocking him. By the time he stepped out of the shower, his skin was red and raw, but he still didn’t feel clean. He didn’t want to go grocery shopping. But he didn’t have a choice. Michelle had made that clear. Dressing quickly, he pulled on a pair of his briefs. They were a little small on him and had cartoon characters all over them. They were very juvenile, but that's all Michelle would buy him, another thing Bradley hated. He put on his jeans, his hands trembling as he buttoned them, and grabbed a plain T-shirt, avoiding anything that might draw attention. As he put it on, the memory of Katie’s laughter echoed in his mind, fueling his resentment. Bradley shuffled downstairs, his heart heavy with dread. Michelle was already waiting by the door, her summer dress perfectly pressed, her hair brushed to a flawless shine, and her purse slung over one shoulder. As he approached, she gave him a stern look and reached into her bag, pulling out her hairbrush. Bradley froze mid-step, his eyes locked on the offending object. “Just a reminder,” Michelle said, her voice calm but edged with warning. “If you act up at the store, I will use this. Do you understand?” Bradley nodded quickly, his cheeks burning. “Yes, ma’am,” he groaned. Katie was at the top of the stairs behind him laughing at the threat, Michelle never spanked her. She leaned against the banister with a smirk. She was still in her bedtime outfit—nothing but a top and a pair of revealing panties—and she looked far too pleased with herself. "Don’t forget to go potty before you leave, Bradley," she called, her voice dripping with mock concern. "We wouldn’t want another accident, would we?" She said as she passed him, flaunting her panties. “I already went,” he lied quickly, desperate to avoid another humiliation. Katie leaned against the kitchen counter, grinning wickedly. “Sure you did, baby. Just like you ‘went’ last time, right before you peed your pants.” Bradley clenched his fists at his sides, but he didn’t say anything. Arguing with Katie only ever made things worse. Michelle raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Are you sure?” Her tone sounded like she was asking a toddler who was doing the potty dance. “I’m sure,” Bradley stammered, trying to get the embarrassing conversation over with. His cheeks were burning. Why did she have to ask him that? He wasn’t a child. Katie giggled, the sound grating on his nerves. “Mom, maybe you should just put him in one of his nighttime diapers before you go out. You know, just in case.” Michelle tilted her head considering it for a moment, “that's not a bad idea.” Bradley's jaw dropped, his eyes wide, he couldn't believe she was actually considering it. “No, he can wear his big boy underwear today. But Bradley,” she added, turning her full attention back to him, “if you have an accident at the store, you’ll be in big trouble. Do you understand?” “I’m not going to have an accident,” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I’m not a baby!” Katie snickered and Michelle’s eyes narrowed, she stepped closer, her presence looming. “Don’t talk back, young man. Now are you going to be a good boy for me on our shopping trip and not embarrass me?” Bradley’s face flushed crimson. He wanted to argue, to scream that he was eighteen, for God’s sake, but he knew better. Michelle didn’t tolerate defiance. Instead, he clenched his fists and nodded his head, his jaw tight. “Good,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Now, let’s go. And remember, Bradley, if you misbehave, I’ve got my hairbrush right here.” She patted her purse for emphasis, and Bradley’s stomach twisted.

Okay, this is really my first (and thus far, only planned, although I'm Not Saying It's Aliens, but... is rather similar in a way) foray into Diaper Dimension stories, so I'll try to do my best to adhere to the whole thing. Basically, though, I will warn you of this: there is a war in this particular part of the Dimension, and neither country involved has their hands clean. That's the moral of this story: war sucks, every country has their dirty laundry, and nobody's innocent. The focus on Littles is also pretty far away; I'm focusing more on one particular Little and her perspective on the whole thing, and while Littles will appear, I'm not planning on them being the focal parts of the story for story reasons. If any other characters are really focused on perspective-wise (possibly; I have an idea how the story ends, but everything else is a work in progress, and I apologize; bipolar disorder makes it hard to focus on...well, anything, and I wanted to get something done to help with the depression.), it'll likely be the Amazons and Middles who are a part of that war. I will mention that I am not a member of the armed forces and not a marine, so while I'm trying to research the absolute shit out of this, I cannot promise to be perfect. If there is a marine here who wants to correct me, feel absolutely free, and I will apply those corrections to this story whenever possible. Likewise, I cannot give a specific schedule of when Semper Fi gets updated; I have a very busy four weeks ahead, and my mental health is likewise unclear, and that's why I'm updating this at the moment and trying - key word is trying - to get my other stories done, I promise. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. But if you're not scared away by the numerous content warnings I've posted, read on: - Chapter One: Where is my Brother? - Corporal Clover Hope was so desperate to find her missing older brother that she had gone AWOL from the United States Marine Corps, all the way from Camp Lejeune to the last location he had been sighted: Nevada’s Death Valley. First Lieutenant (Marine Corps like her, semper fi!) Graywind Hope, tall and well-built at 6’4”, with his short black hair, his warm gray eyes the color of smoke on the breeze, his tawny skin denoting him (and her) as a member of the Navajo, his normal stoicism belied by the fact that he gave her all of the soft smiles he wouldn’t give anyone else, laughing at all of her bad jokes, and giving her all of the biggest hugs a big brother could ever give a little sister. He had gone missing a month ago, and whenever she brought it up with her superiors in the Marine Corps, they told her that they didn’t have answers, that she’d have to bring it up with the chain of command, who delayed her constantly, without remorse or empathy, every time she tried to go through normal channels. Clover was fucking sick of the chain of command, fucking sick of every noncommittal answer on normal channels. She wanted to see his smile again, hear his voice again, and nothing was worth more than that. She wanted her brother - her only family member with both of their parents dead - back, screw the military, and screw what everyone else thought. She was positioned just outside of the latest sighting, getting as much information as she could from the Nevada natives outside of Death Valley, close to another base that was very much like Area 51, but even more secretive in what they did. The United States military had been testing various things above her paygrade; that she knew, as she took a sip of water from one of her two two-quart-sized plastic flasks she had brought along for the ride. Clover had ditched her uniform a while back, going for a cowboy hat, a tank top, leather gloves, a pair of jeans, and muddy combat boots to go along with her huge backpack, all crudely painted black with a stolen paint can now in the vehicle she stole - being conscious of the environment was the reason she didn’t use spray cans - and stolen from different places; she wanted to spare what little cash she had for necessary things like food, water, and gas for her car. Said backpack was stuffed with her other water flask and an aluminum canteen cup, a case containing her Nintendo Switch OLED model with various games, charger, and a Power Bank for portable charging (to prevent her getting bored), a tactical flashlight (she had left her iPhone at the base so as to avoid being tracked, so she had stolen the flashlight), binoculars (military grade and yes, it was stolen), a bunch of canned and preserved food from a gas station (expensive and not particularly edible, but better than MREs, and she’d make do), a jacket and a beanie for the cold desert night (also stolen), a first aid kit (stolen again), and a military grade sleeping bag (to nobody’s surprise, stolen). Her M18 Modular Handgun System - a pistol based on the SIG Sauer used by the Marines - was holstered on her thigh with two extra magazines on her belt, along with a standard KA-BAR knife stored in a custom made (thanks to Graywind for her most recent birthday, her twenty-second two months ago) waterproof vegetable-tanned cowhide leather sheath, as she peered through the binoculars, her gray eyes cautious. The building had snipers posted on top, and she’d never be able get close to the place unless, maybe, when it turned to night - a massive problem since she was wanted by the Marines, local and federal police, and probably the fucking FBI and CIA at the rate she was going. Clover had dug herself a small hole into the rocky hill using her KA-BAR knife. It had been exhausting work, taking the whole of the day and sweat poured down her tawny skin and black ponytail, but she kept at it, even when bits of sand filled the hole, thinking of nothing more than her brother, safe, back with her, ready to face whatever consequences so she could see him again. When she finished, it was dinnertime: canned hash (basically salty beef and potatoes), canned corn, and canned black beans with a snack of trail mix and a quickly-browning banana. It was what she had been living on in the past three days that she had been AWOL, and she hated it…but it was still better than the military’s Meals Rejected by Everyone. She shuddered, remembering the first time she had tried the chili and macaroni MRE; she had nearly vomited the whole thing up, and it gave her severe constipation, taking for-fucking-ever to shit it out of her system. Good news is that prison food might be a bit better, Clover thought pessimistically as she chewed on the canned hash, drinking a bit more water to go along with it. Then a deep male voice, close, far too close, shouted, “Don’t fucking move!”, and she saw a bunch of red dots line up on her body, with three very tall, fully armored men pointing M27s at her. Bitter tears escaped her gray eyes. She was close, so fucking CLOSE to finding Graywind, and she had been denied it. “Who are you?” the speaker, a huge man in body armor that had to be at least 6’9”, demanded in a Southern drawl. “Specify the reason why you’re here!” She answered, like she had been drilled into countless times at boot camp, “Sir, Corporal Clover Hope, USMC, Service Number 8839754669, sir!” The speaker paused. “Where did you go to boot camp? What is your MOS? Where were you stationed? And what are the parts of the EGA, and what do they mean?” “Sir, MCRD San Diego, MOS is 0311, stationed at Camp Lejeune, and the parts of the EGA are Eagle, stands for United States, Globe, stands for global service, and Anchor, stands for our naval traditions, sir!” Clover saw the man smirk, could almost see the amusement in his eyes behind his sunglasses. “You expecting a Big Chicken Dinner for going AWOL?” he drawled. “To find my fucking brother, asshole!” she snapped. The man paused for a few moments. “...Semper fi,” he said. “Oorah,” she answered quietly. “Yeah, he was here,” he said, holding his hand up to signal his men to stand down. “Far above your paygrade.” “I don’t give a single shit, or I wouldn’t be here,” Clover growled. “Sir, we don’t have time for this,” the second marine said. “Just put her in the damned brig and be done with it.” “I wonder, though…” the big marine murmured, his finger scratching his blond beard. “Corporal, how much do you know of dimensional travel?” “Sir?” she asked, suddenly confused. “You’re talking aliens?” “Of a sort, yeah.” She got the feeling he wasn’t being entirely honest. “You’re about the right size for…yeah…if it were a Middle, it would be a different story, but you’re about 5’1”, should be enough for…” “Sir, what the fuck are you talking about?” Clover interrupted, completely confused about the reference to her height. Her boob size wasn’t much to brag about either, probably AA cup, maybe A at the absolute most, but she almost preferred it: the less staring and catcalls from the men, the better. “Take these.” The big marine handed her an earpiece (which, while she was confused about it, didn’t hesitate to put it in her left ear) and an odd gray device, circular in circumference and the size of her palm. “You’re going to want to get rid of your weapons - every weapon - and grab your backpack before you click the bottom button.” “I’m not relieving my weapons,” Clover said stubbornly, as she palmed the device. “Your funeral,” the big marine said with a shrug. “You come in with weapons, and the Amazons won’t be very fucking happy, but you asked for it; we’ve got plenty more where you come from.” She looked at the big marine like he was crazy. “Amazons? The fuck kind of aliens are those? Do they do deliveries and shit, too?” “Remind me to laugh at your shitty jokes if you ever get back,” the second marine growled, and she could almost hear his eyeroll. “Sir, you’re not seriously-” the third marine began before the big marine cut him off, saying, “Every Middle classification, including her brother, has disappeared without a trace, has immediately been cut off from radio contact. We’re not part of their world, so we can’t be Amazons. There’s only one classification left we haven’t tried, and we haven’t tried a woman yet.” “Littles!” the second marine spat. “She’d be useless to them!” “And she doesn’t know shit about this! Why not try someone else on base; hell, anyone else?!” the third marine snapped. “She has a personal stake in this. Motivation enough to risk a prison sentence.” The big marine sighed as Clover quickly devoured her meal, not even bothering to clear off the remnants of food from her face before she packed up her sleeping bag in her backpack. “Sometimes, that’s what the greatest of us lack: motivation and a reason worth fighting for.” Clover hefted her backpack over her shoulders and clicked the button on the bottom of the gray device, which lit up bright silver in the desert, whirling in her palm, burning as miniature tendrils attached themselves to her hand. She felt every fiber of her body react, her blood, sinew, and bones almost boiling like a bad morphine overdose. She wanted to scream, but it quickly died in her throat. The device emitted an ear-piercing shriek, and she may have as well before everything went black. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Welcome to Mommy Anna's Diapered Storybook! Some of you may know me from my website, diaperhypnosis.com My experience earlier this year 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 story won't be quite as long as my last 2 stories, and will have more sexual content (in addition to lots of diapers!) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The warm afternoon sunlight poured gently through the front window of Dana’s house, filtered through white lace curtains that danced with the subtle breeze from an open window. Dust motes twinkled in the beams of golden light like tiny fireflies, catching on the floral patterns of the throw pillows and the embroidered stitching on the plush loveseat cushions. The living room was cozy—elegant but motherly. The wallpaper was soft peach with faded white roses, and the carpet was thick and pastel cream. The furniture, a matching set of high-backed chairs and a low loveseat, was upholstered in a faded floral pattern and edged with piping. Several knitted throws were draped across the arms, and there were hand-framed cross-stitches on the walls with sayings like “Home is where Mommy is” and “Snuggle first, questions later.” But all of this faded into the background next to what dominated the center of the room: a truly massive playpen. It was custom-built, nearly taking up the center third of the space. The sides were a full five feet high—clearly built not to contain a toddler, but someone much larger. Made from white-painted wood slats and soft mesh, it had rounded corners capped with pastel bumpers and vinyl padding adorned with little cartoon animals. The gate had a double-latch system, and a safety sign above it read: “Mommy’s Little One at Play — Do Not Disturb.” Inside, there was a thick, pink quilted floor mat dotted with letters of the alphabet and big smiling animals. Cushioned bolsters lined the edges. The space was filled with oversized infant toys: giant plush building blocks, a set of plastic stacking rings the size of dinner plates, a rubbery xylophone with a soft mallet, teething beads, rattles, and more stuffed animals than a toy store display. And sitting in the middle of this wonderland, utterly absorbed, was Dana’s husband. Or rather, her baby girl. She was dressed head to toe in an exaggerated, frilly baby girl outfit. A bright pink satin baby dress with puffed sleeves and delicate lace edging flared out above a pair of bulging, obviously soaked diapers. The skirt had layers of ruffles, and when she moved—even slightly—it revealed flashes of her thick, triple-padded bottom, sealed tightly in white plastic panties printed with pastel bows and hearts. White tights stretched tightly over her legs, their fabric bulging around the thick padding, and ended in satin booties with soft soles and ribbons that tied in bows around her ankles. A matching bonnet framed her smooth, freshly shaved face. Her cheeks were red and flushed with excitement, her lips locked around a huge pacifier that bobbed rhythmically as she babbled and clutched a purple elephant plush to her chest. “She’s been at it all morning,” Dana said with quiet affection, glancing at the playpen as she smoothed her skirt. “Hasn’t gotten bored once. Just play, giggle, drool, and repeat.” Patricia, who sat across from her old friend with a cup of tea in her hand, could hardly take her eyes off the sight. “My God, Dana” she murmured. “That’s that’s really him?” Dana chuckled. “Her, darling. She’s not your boring old neighbor anymore. She’s Mommy’s little Angel now. All baby. All the time.” “I mean wow,” Patricia breathed, watching the baby girl crawl clumsily across the playmat, her thick diaper forcing her legs apart, making every motion a waddle or a crawl. “You weren’t exaggerating. This is” She searched for the word. Dana supplied it. “Liberation,” she said simply. The baby squealed with glee, having successfully smacked her hand down onto a rubbery, musical pad that responded with a tinny rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” She bounced in place, drool leaking from the corner of her mouth around the pacifier bulb. “She wants this?” Patricia asked, brows knitting. “More than anything,” Dana said. “She asked for it first, remember? And the more we gave into it, the more she slipped into it. At first it was just evenings. Then weekends. I think we both realized she was meant for this. The more I took control, the more I cared for her like my baby, the more she flourished. Now? Full time. No words, no thinking, no stress. Just babble, diapers, toys, Mommy.” “And you’re okay with it?” Patricia asked, studying her friend. “I mean, this is it’s so far beyond what I imagined.” Dana smiled and adjusted the strap of her bra subtly beneath her blouse. “I’m more than okay. I’m fulfilled. I get to love and nurture someone who needs me completely. And she gets to feel safe. Totally helpless. Totally adored.” The baby flopped onto her tummy, arms splayed wide, rattle clutched in one mittened hand. She babbled contentedly, pacifier bobbing in rhythm. Patricia tilted her head. “She doesn’t talk? At all?” Dana shook her head. “Only baby sounds now. She lost her last words about three months ago. She might try to say ‘Mama’ sometimes, or ‘ba-ba’ when she’s hungry. But that’s it. We’ve got her completely regressed.” “Can she stand?” Patricia asked, unable to look away as the baby tried—and failed—to pull herself up on the side of the playpen, only to giggle and fall back onto a pile of plush animals. “She can stand if I help her,” Dana said proudly. “But she usually crawls or scoots. We’ve encouraged helplessness. Weak motor skills. It keeps her safe.” Patricia blinked. “And the diapers?” “Fully dependent,” Dana said with a gentle nod. “She doesn’t know when she goes anymore. She just does. Pee-pee, messy—whatever her little tummy needs. And she gets changed when Mommy checks.” There was a long pause as Patricia processed. “And she doesn’t mind?” “She loves it,” Dana said, placing a hand over her chest. “Sweetheart, she lives for it. The crinkling. The warm wetness. The thick waddle. Being totally, utterly unable to control anything. She doesn’t even try anymore.” “She’s really gone that far,” Patricia whispered, in awe. “I wouldn’t say ‘gone,’” Dana replied gently. “I’d say she’s home.” The baby girl was now chewing on a giant pink ring toy, her eyes wide and unfocused, giggling as she rotated it in her clumsy hands. She hummed softly, lost in her own world. Dana shifted again in her seat, subtly pressing her forearm into her chest. Patricia noticed. “You keep fidgeting. You okay?” Dana winced slightly and nodded. “I’m fine. Just a little full. I haven’t nursed her since breakfast, and my breasts are ready.” Patricia blinked. “You mean you feed her? Like—” Dana smiled gently. “Yes. I nurse her myself. Every day. Several times a day.” “Does she does she get milk?” “She does,” Dana said softly. “My supply came in months ago. It was a long journey, but we stuck to it. And now she’s getting all her nutrition from Mommy.” Patricia sat back, eyes wide. “And she just drinks from you? Every time?” “As often as she needs,” Dana replied. “It keeps her calm. She falls asleep nursing sometimes. It's one of the few moments she’s still.” Dana shifted again. “Actually, if you don’t mind would it be alright if I fed her now? I’m starting to feel it might leak if I wait much longer.” Patricia hesitated, then slowly nodded. “If you’re okay with doing it in here.” Dana stood up and smiled. “Of course. She’s used to feeding wherever Mommy is.” She walked to the playpen and knelt at the gate, undoing the double latches with soft clicks. “Come to Mommy, sweetheart. Time for your milkies.” The baby squealed with joy, her pacifier falling to the side as she crawled quickly—if clumsily—out of the playpen. Her diaper sagged visibly, clearly soaked, but she moved with happy enthusiasm, giggling as she followed her Mommy. Dana sat on the couch and patted her lap. “Come on up, baby. Let Mommy hold you.” The baby-girl crawled up, turned, and laid her head in Dana’s lap, her bonnet lopsided, her mittened hands grasping the front of Dana’s blouse. With gentle motions, Dana unbuttoned her top and revealed a cream-colored nursing bra. She pulled down the cup on one side, exposing a heavy, swollen breast, the nipple already beading slightly with milk. Patricia’s mouth went slightly dry as she stared. Dana looked up. “Still okay?” Patricia nodded. “Yes. I’m I’m curious, honestly.” Dana guided her baby’s mouth to her breast. “Here you go, my little one. Drink up.” The baby latched eagerly, letting out a soft moan of pleasure as she suckled hungrily. Dana cradled her with practiced arms, her expression softening as she let out a sigh of relief. “Ohhh there we go,” she whispered. “Mommy’s little feeder. You were so hungry, weren’t you?” Patricia stared, fascinated. “She really knows what to do.” “She’s been nursing for months,” Dana said, stroking the baby’s hair. “It’s instinctual now. And it soothes her. It soothes me, too. I feel her relax with every swallow.” The baby suckled noisily, tiny hands fidgeting with the lace on Dana’s blouse as her eyes fluttered half-closed in dreamy bliss. “I didn’t understand before,” Patricia said slowly. “But now I think I’m starting to.” Dana looked down at her baby and smiled, full of maternal pride. “She’s not playing baby,” she said. “She IS a baby. My baby. And Mommy is here to take care of her. Forever.”

Well, this is a story I have recently started writing and finished a chapter of (and I promise, my other story chapters are coming soon!). Welcome to Ride of the Valkyries! It's a take on Norse Mythology that I've wanted to do for a bit, and as the tags say, it's also a genderbending, age regression story. Just as a warning, it's going to be quite...dark. The pasts of the characters...well, all of them have died and this is their version of the afterlife (although not everyone gets in that afterlife, obviously). Given that, character death is not only likely, but a certainty. As another warning, the main character (and one character in the start with the "f" slur) has...biased preconceptions, given his past, so expect him to make a lot of changes for glorious character development! I cannot think of various other things, but I'm ready to get into it, and I hope y'all are as well! About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Thank you in advance! And without further ado, here is the story: - Chapter One: Couldn't Cut It as a Poor Man Stealing (How You Remind Me, Nickelback) - I was dead, and I fucking knew it. No, not figuratively either; no, this was a really real death as I stared at my own corpse from outside my body. The shoulder length dirty-blond hair I had was matted and stained with my red, which had oozed into my glassy sea-green eyes. My heavily tattooed body was riddled with bullet holes, but my lifeless hand still grasped my pistol in a death grip as my killers laughed - fucking laughed - while shooting my corpse with their assault rifles. I figured I was going to hell after what I did in life. Not that I even believed in an afterlife, but I wasn’t bound for heaven, that was for damned sure. Maybe I was going to be destined to wander the earth forever? I supposed that wouldn’t be too bad. There weren’t too many people that I’d want to see again (the less said about my folks, the better, and my coworkers - or rather former coworkers - were busy shooting my corpse to pieces, still laughing.), but if I knew that they were safe…well, maybe that would be all right. Maybe I could be their guardian angel? Nah, I discarded that thought instantly; I was no angel. Hell, I didn’t even know if I was a devil. I didn’t know what I was anymore. They continued to use my body for target practice until Big Anton Antipov, the Russian Mafiya man, the enormous (all 6’9” of him) and heavily tattooed leader of my former coworkers, came in, looking as furious as I had ever seen him. Even though I was dead, he scared me, for he was a man who never got furious, even when he was killing people - something he did rather often to those who fucked up. People like me, in other words. “The product got away!” he roared at the group in his heavily accented English. “All of it! We have to pack, NOW!” “I thought you had it!” another Russian Mafiya member shouted. “I did! And then a bomb went off! In my office! Where everything that is important is!” “It’s fucking Dally’s fault!” one of the rare American men, Barron - whom I had once considered…well, not a friend because he was honestly a racist, sexist, homophobic, and otherwise wholly awful piece of shit, but a guy I could whose native language and culture I could at least understand - complained, using the nickname I loathed. “If that faggot hadn’t grown a conscience-” “It doesn’t matter! Dallas is fucking dead, apparently! Why weren’t you chasing the product instead of wasting your time shooting his corpse?!” “He just started shooting us dead! Said he-” “That’s enough of that. We don’t need to see any more, and there isn’t much time for you.” The voice echoed in the air, and time stopped; I could see Barron’s mouth paused mid speech as if done by a television remote. I felt my breath, not that I needed to breathe at this point, catch in my throat, as I turned around to see…a woman. A woman riding a dark gray horse…a horse with eight goddamned legs. She was Asian and looked fairly young (if I had to guess, around my age, twenty-eight), her black hair in a bun with a golden hair clip, fierce dark brown eyes and a frightening scowl on her face. She wore a plain brown duster and a black t-shirt with her enormous breasts and cleavage protruding through the fabric, blue jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots, overall looking like an Asian cowgirl (an extremely attractive Asian cowgirl), if not for two things. The first was the twin scabbards across her jeans, holding what were obviously twin swords...swords that were alight with flame that somehow didn’t scorch her clothes. The second were snow white angel-like wings coming from her back, with swan-like feathers fluttering and so in tune with the wind that it slowed the descent of both her and her strange horse. The wings were enormous, and they were beautiful. I looked at her in awe, but the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Your horse has eight legs,” before I clapped it shut with my hands, knowing how much of an idiot I sounded like. “Yes, sleipnirs tend to have eight legs,” the woman said in a patient tone, as if she was talking to a toddler. “Is there anything else you wish to point out before I task you with judgment, Dallas Gareth Brogdon, he of twenty-eight years, six months, and three days old, born in Cheyenne Regional Medical Center in Cheyenne, Wyoming?” I blinked, surprised that this woman knew all of that about me and my past. Of course, she was an angel, most likely, so if I had to guess, she had to know all of that. “Judgment? I don’t figure I’m going to Heaven…” “And by all rights, you haven’t earned Valhalla.” The woman’s voice was harsh, but fair, and I lowered my head, filled with inner guilt. “You’ve led a life of sin, even with your clear conscience and regrets. You never had the courage or moral fortitude to fight back or oppose the people you sinned with…until now. But you died bravely with a weapon in your hand in the defense of the lives of innocent others without any consideration of your own. The Vikingr Code is very clear on that. So, I’m giving you the opportunity for…a second chance.” “I don’t deserve one,” I said bluntly. “If you’re going to send me to hell, that’s that, and I know I deserve it. I’ve made my peace knowing that I’m not cut out for heaven.” “Valhalla,” the woman corrected, “and trust me, you don’t want Helheim. I could give it to you if you wish, but if I were you - and I’ve been mortal like you and in this very position at one point - I’d go for the second chance.” “Who are you?” I asked. “Are you an angel?” “Angels? You foolish mortal man with your foolish take on a deity. I am a valkyrie. Valkyrie Captain Sasithorn. My sleipnir’s name is Hreggský. The rank and my sleipnir’s name are all you need to know.” “Is your name, ‘Sa-si-tawn’, I mean, Asian or-” “Thai. Literally means ‘the Moon’, spelled ‘S-a-s-i-t-h-o-r-n’. I will not say it again, so make sure you do not make me. We don’t have much time anyway.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that if you don’t get on Hreggský immediately, you will either be sent to Helheim or come back as a draugr. You do not want either of those options as your fate.” “Draugr?” “Stupid infantile human, will you get on my sleipnir or not?!” The dark gray eight-legged horse whinnied and tossed its head as if even it was annoyed with me and agreeing with its rider. “Okay, fine!” I said, raising my hands. “I’m clearly outnumbered on this. Fine, if you two want me to face judgment sooo badly-” Sasithorn did not hesitate to pull me on the front of the horse as if she was much stronger than I was (and I was pretty big at 6’4”, 220 pounds; by all rights, the much smaller, slimmer woman wouldn’t be able to do that), and put me in the front of her, while strapping me to her body with a Velcro substance, as if putting a young child in a car seat. “I will hold on to you, since you obviously can’t do it yourself,” she chided, as her wings encircled me in a protective way, her arms holding the reins. Well, if she wanted to embarrass the absolute fuck out of me, she was doing a hell of a good job. “Now, á brott, Hreggský! We have a judgment awaiting!” - Okay, first of all, the Norse words: Sleipnir - the eight-legged horse born from Loki in the form of a mare, Odin's steed. (There's a plot reason why Sasithorn has a sleipnir. Yes, I said "a".). Hreggský - "Storm cloud" (hregg = storm; ský = cloud). Valhalla - the Hall of the Glorious Slain, basically, those who died fighting with a weapon in their hand. Helheim - the Hell of Norse mythology, basically, those who were either terrible people and/or cowards who died without a weapon on their being. Vikingr - to go "Viking" (yes, "Vikings" are not the right term for the warriors; Viking means "raiding", and those who were raiding were known as "Danes"). Valkyrie - a warrior spirit, namely a woman, who went on to the battlefield to collect the souls of the Glorious Slain for Valhalla. Draugr - a warrior revenant (intelligent zombie), oftentimes greedy and envious of the living, unable to ever have their souls rest. á brott - "Away" Hope y'all enjoyed~

Hello! Coming in just at the wire on this, but I hope everyone enjoys it. This story has elements of erotic horror, and my entry for the The 4th Kasarberang NON-CONtest! The name here is inspired by an old story by Tainted Sins, but is in no way related to that one. This story is pure age regression. Without Teeth By Operational Systems Chapter 1 The office was located on the edge of a gated residential subdivision and was built in the fashion of modern design principles, it looked like a mix of a one-part coffee house and one part McMansion. Two stories tall, it was layered in red brick and an abundance of tall windows. In a deceptive twist the building did not give a hint of being a dental office from the outside. If one could ignore the kitsch of oversized plastic molars and colorful posters with inspiring motivations in the kiddy waiting area, the lobby of Szekely Family Dentistry and Periodontics went out of its way to hide any evidence of its true purpose. Gerald stretched his arms and repositioned on the gray, blue sofa, casually dropping his barely read copy of Harper’s Bazaar on the coffee table on a pile of W and Tatler’s. His mouth still hurt. For two hours his teeth and gums had been probed by all manner of medieval instrument, pricked, bled, and finally suctioned as the poor dental assistant tried to bring his mouth to something resembling clean. Gerald carefully pawed his right cheek, feeling dull pain in gums and tooth. No matter how hard he brushed the day before, the dentist always found a way to make him feel inadequate. The moment floss touched his delicate tissue, his mouth would turn red like a cherry drink. Dr. Szekely barely looked at his mouth. Normally she would berate him as he felt her clawing fingers maneuver along what was undeniably his most degrading and disgusting part of his body, but today she was silent, thanking her assistant for the excellent work, and sending Gerald to the lobby to wait while his wife had a similar cleaning. At least she did not mention cavities, or gingivitis, or anything. Not even a recommendation to avoid food or drink for thirty minutes. That had worried him. His wife’s insurance was paying too much money to the doctor to just shrug and do nothing. He glanced at the phone again, it was fifteen past five. His wife always had perfect pearls, she should have been in and out in thirty minutes. The office had already closed, and the sun lingered both blinding and angrily in the western facing windows. The receptionist had already turned off the lobby televisions and sorted the array of toys and magazines in the kiddy area. His wife had been gone for close to an hour. Just as he was about to get up and explore the lobby the dental assistant returned, peeking just her head into the room. “Gerald?” He turned to the long-haired woman, confused why she would ask for him in that questioning manner when he was the only one in the lobby. “Come with me please.” He practically hopped up, almost giddy. Not that he wanted his wife to suffer, but he was starting to put it together. Little Ms. Perfect had a cavity. It was the only explanation. That is what was taking so long, and she now needed him to come get her. Maybe she had even taken some Novocain or Nitrous Oxide and needed him to help get to the car. He was going to hold this over her head forever, but first he would have to be the bigger man. He casually rubbed his fingers, getting the excitement out, before calming down and standing straight, walking tall to save his wife. The assistant led him past rooms with empty dental chairs. Deep into the interior of the office, farther than he had ever gone before, the two came to a closed door. She knocked, and then opened it, letting Gerald through before slinking off without a word. The interior had no signs of dental equipment. No reclining chairs, overhanging lights, sinks, or instruments of torture. On the far side of the room was a shaded window, which had framed degrees on both sides. Closer was a set of two heavy chairs with thin padded back and bottom, one was empty and the other had his wife. Across from her was Doctor Szekely behind a stripped down clean wooden desk. Outside of a small form factor microcomputer and monitor on the edge, the desk was empty of distraction. Melody’s golden hair and bright smile invited her husband to her adjacent seat, patting it as he entered. Gerald hypnotically walked to the chair, and slowly sat down, strong tension building in his arms as he waited. The two women eyed him like a snake on a rabbit. This was not about a cavity; he was not here to rescue his wife. This was an intervention. Melody began the assault, “Gerald, honey, sorry for making you wait, Valorie and I were just talking about the old days.” He tilted his head at his wife, he remembered her mentioning that back in college they had been in a sorority together. He turned from his wife to the dark-haired short woman, her thick glasses hiding her thin face, her short hair was kept up in waves of curls. Gerald felt the need to fill in, “Right, so um, are you ready to go, or?” The women stared through him, and he shrunk two inches in the chair. Valorie started first, “Gerald, I’m going to be honest with you. Since I started practice in this neighborhood, you have the worst teeth of anyone I have ever met.” This neighborhood referred to ‘Arborville Manors by the Lake,’ a gated subdivision where plots started at a quarter million dollars, and most houses were in the seven to eight figure range. Thirty years ago, it would have been plagued by McMansions, but the taste and aesthetics of the new rich had been refined in the new century. Now the houses were designer homes, with bleached sandstone-colored exteriors kept to sensible stubby standards, and with gorgeous mono-white insides. At a minimum one could find two oven kitchens with temperature-controlled glass encased wine pantries, and every bedroom attached to a full bathroom. It was the kind of rich that only focused on what mattered, just having the best of the normal stuff, rather than the gaudy or flashy. Gerald’s wife had some money both from family and by working remotely as a production manager in software development at a firm that was now half owned by Microsoft, but Gerald was the one who bought the house. They had met fifteen years ago, when he was working as an IT employee at a local firm that sold its business to various banks and small businesses in the Tulsa area. Back then he spent ten hours a day driving around town and fixing printers. One day after reading a convincing enough blogpost, he bought a hundred bitcoin at ninety-one cents apiece. Four years later he was day-trading novel crypto coins, and by eight years he never needed to work again. He spent a few hours each day staying on top of things, reading twitter, and playing the markets, but it wasn’t a real job anymore. Gerald understood the implication of what Doctor Szekely was getting at. She serviced a community of some of the richest people in Oklahoma, and out of all of them, he alone had failed. Rich people don’t have bad teeth. Yet here he was, nuovo-rich, unearned in his status, and still having the habits of the below middle-class childhood he had grown up with. Out of all the other rich people, he was the one who had gotten here basically by lottery – being an idiot and investing in invisible sham coins at their low point. His neighbors were surgeons, real estate investors, and presidents of banks. They owned oil fields, restaurants, even golf courses, and their wine cabinets were filled with thousand-dollar bottles. Gerald had converted his wine room into a server rack. Gerald carefully ran his tongue across sore gums, “I um… I heard there was a new bacteria treatment. Maybe I could try that.” Valorie gave a high-pitched chortle, “Ha, homeopathic whim-wham,” Her face turned serious, “Besides you’re well past that point.” “Past?” Gerald was concerned, he eyed his wife, and clenched his teeth hard, in his mind they became brittle, and he consciously let up the crushing. Melody reached over and touched his arm gently. “Unfortunately, you’re at a point I think the best move is to take them out,” his dentist coldly offered. Gerald rejected her solution, “Dentures? No. That’s not going to happen.” Everyone looked at him, giving him the floor, he struggled, “I think that’s a bit far. Can’t I just do better? Brush more? Anything. I don’t need dentures. I’m only thirty-seven.” The doctor gave a soft response, “I understand this is coming as a shock, but your mouth is at stage four, and those teeth are going to be a problem over the next year. We can take them out safely and you’ll be good as new.” Gerald turned and pleaded, “Please, Melody, I get this is your friend, but this is too fast. I think we should get a second opinion.” Melody’s smile took away his doubts, “Look I understand you’re upset, but it’ll be OK. Besides, you don’t have to get dentures. We were just discussing this new treatment.” No dentures? Gerald fell back in his chair, that would be a relief, but what was the alternative to dentures? Doctor Szekely rolled on her chair slightly and grabbed with her short arms the monitor on the edge of her desk, rotating it around for the couple to see, she then fiddled with a hidden mouse. The monitor switched from empty shiny blackness to a bright blue. She began her presentation, “Gerald, I’m going to be as blunt as I can. When’s the last time you saw a fat person in our neighborhood?” The man rotated his head up and thought of it. Everyone had a tall fence, but every morning there were still joggers, bikers, and so forth that ran around the streets or walked pets. Many were old, but none were unfit. It was a strange question and one he hadn’t thought of, he shrugged. “And do you know why?” The doctor lingered on the last word, then without letting him respond, moved to the answer, “Because there’s a shot that costs ten thousand dollars that half the people here are taking” With a click of her mouse, the screen on the desk changed to a power point picture, with an open mouth. “What if I were to tell you, there’s an Ozempic but for teeth.” Gerald looked past her thick glasses into her eyes, “I would say I don’t know what that means.” She clicked again, the screen shifted to a shot going into mouth, and pressing into a gumline, “With my new Dentvive Regrowth Therapy, it is possible to convince your mouth to grow new teeth and replace the old ones.” The scene on the monitor shifted, showing teeth beginning to grow and pop out of the gums. Gerald leaned forward, “This is impossible.” The doctor waived him off, “You did it a couple times before, you just don’t remember the first time. The equipment is still in there, the procedure just convinces your mouth it’s time to grow new teeth. This is also why we need to take your old teeth out, both to get access to the gumline, and to give the new teeth room to come in.” Melody leaned over to him, “Honey, if this works, it’s a billion-dollar idea. She just needs a bit of help in these early stages, just get some of the kinks out, and this is your chance to really fix yourself up.” Gerald’s shoulders fell, Doctor Szekely wasn’t showing this because she believed in the treatment to cure him, she was showing this to him because she wanted him as an investor. He was the first person who was both rich enough to afford the treatment and would understand how life-changing and important it would be. He looked back to his wife, and she was eager to get his approval to help her friend. Four eyes stuck on him, desperately needing him to agree. Gerald resigned himself. This is what it meant to live in the future, not flying cars, but 100 gig internet and biohacking the body. This was just science. He put his trust in it. “OK, let’s do it. What’s the next step, what do you need me to do?” “Well, we can start the surgery as soon as Friday morning if you’re up for it, but I need to program the booster-cells with your genetic tissue. I can collect that sample now if you’re ready.” Gerald started to roll up a sleave on his arm, “What like blood?” The doctor gave another chuckle, “Ha, no I need gametes,” she leaned over and started fiddling with a desk drawer below her. Melody leaned forward and whispered, “That’s your sperm, honey.” Gerald nodded, clenching his swollen teeth again, “Do you want me to get a magazine and go in the bathroom, or…” Melody talked down, “Oh honey, don’t be gross.” The doctor flopped a large cylinder on her desk. It was open on one end and closed with black machinery and cords on the bottom. The doctor smiled while waving over the strange device “We have more practical methods of extraction.” Goosebumps went up Gerald’s arms and his member tightened. He took a long breath before smiling. His teeth rattled. Melody gripped his arm with one hand, “I know going to the dentist is scary, but what if, I just hold onto you for this.” Her other arm reached over towards his belt and jeans. He softly released a groan, “I don’t,” this was going too fast, but before he could complain his jeans were being pulled down. His instrument started to probe his dark cloth boxers in excitement. There were two ladies here, and they wanted him to perform. “I, uh” “You can do it baby, just relax, let us handle everything,” Melody spoke as Doctor Szekley’s short figure came around her desk. Her small breasts were barely contained by her green scrubs, in contrast to Melody’s copious melons. The doctor twirled her strange cylinder like a hypnotist’s watch as she slowly walked towards him, and finally she kneeled before him. Her glasses picked up a strong blur of light from the ceiling, leaving him only to imagine what delight or disgust the woman was showing at presenting herself in such a debasing way. His wife carefully pulled down his boxers around his engorging member. He tried to keep his eyes directly onto her face, rather than on the procedure that was happening below. Melody was calm yet happy, as if this were an everyday occurrence, like checking the mail or cooking dinner. The warm plastic of around the rim of the cylinder pushed into his skin, contrasting with the cold glass surface that bumped into his penis from shaking small hands. A flick of a switch was soon followed by a familiar whir of suction. The same sound he had heard for nearly two hours straight while they cleaned his teeth. Jets of air pulled at his hair, scrotum, and phallus. “Just relax baby, let it out,” Melody scootched closer, letting her hand come down around the base of the cylinder, touching sensitive skin at the base of his member and bottom of his testicles. He was uncomfortable close. He forced himself over the edge. Every muscle contracted and relaxed in order from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. His hips pushed deep against the cylinder, causing markings where the cup pressed into his skin. “A little more,” the doctor said, white ooze coating what was once a clear container. It was starting to hurt, but it kept going, like he could not turn it off. His eyesight faded to blurs and blackness, while painful pulling continued. Whatever pleasure he had had was transitioning to terrible pain as it felt all the sperm in his balls were being sucked out. After an eternity or ten seconds, Doctor Szekley turned off the pump and lifted away the cylinder. Fishing out a cap from her pocket she closed the precious cargo off. The doctor held up the ugly coated tube before her patient, and with professional detachment spoke to them. “This should be good enough for now. If I need more, I’ll let you know.” Gerald kept quiet on the car ride home, dual pains of his mouth and groin came at every movement of his body. He eyed his wife suspiciously when she stopped the car, lingering at the exit to the dental office. “Now, since you’re getting brand new teeth, you know what that means right?” He mumbled something that sounded close to a response, he just wanted to get home and throw a blanket over his head. Her face tightened, serious and commanding, and the voice shifted lower, “Every day you’re going to be brushing and flossing. Every day and after every meal. We are not doing this procedure again, you hear me?” Chapter 2 There are some nightmares that are universal. Falling from a great height, giving a speech, and standing in front of class naked. Many of these are subject to ethnicity and cultural bias. But there is one that is universal, which all humans can have across time and space. It’s the dream where the teeth fall out. On the evening following his operation Gerald awoke to this nightmare. His tongue flicked across an empty void; his lips were propped up against nothing. His cheeks had plumped up after the operation and he could feel nothing in his face. It was a giant cotton ball. Drool accumulated on his chin. He tried to stand up, but he was locked in, his eyes wandered around an empty dark room. He was not in the master bedroom, he was in the guest room by the garage. “Melody.” He tried, only his mouth could not form sounds right, spewing out something closer to Memmoy. It was slurred too and came out more like a loud gurgle. There was no clock in the darkened room, but he suspected it was not too late. He tried again “Memmoy.” No sounds came from the house. Gerald rotated slightly against the pillows and immediately felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and shouted for Memmoy again, but all that came out was a groan. He could not get up or move without assistance. His heart rate started to rapidly increase and between his legs there was a small but growing concern. He took a large breath through his nose and tried one last time, “Melody!” He stopped and listened, feeling the pressure build. He crossed his legs, and slowly started shuffling them back and forth under the blanket. Today was already one of the worst of his life, but this would elevate it to the worst. “Memmoy! Memmoy!” Sweat built in his underpants. There was nothing to be done. He waited an eternity, but no one came. He tried again to slowly stand up, but his body shut down, dragging him back into the bed. Sweat formed on his forehead, and his eyes crushed shut. He was not going to do that. He felt it first as pleasure; hot release of his building tension, but his ears noticed the light sounds of liquid bouncing against cloth. Soon his member was soaked, he could feel the warm liquid falling along the insides of his thighs, creating an acidic warmth that would fade to stickiness. His nostrils picked up the rich odor of fresh urine as the last drops fell through his boxers into the mattress cover. His butt was covered in quickly cooling wetness. “Honey did you need something?” He tried, “I peed myself.” But what came out was more of an Uh Eeh Muh. Wetness was building over his overstuffed face. Within moments she was over him, her nose told her enough. “Oh baby, it’s OK, the doctor said this might happen. Here let me help you to the bath.” She pulled him up and the world was a blur of colors and shapes. His head was somewhere around his feet, but also hanging against her shoulder. “Up we go.” Gerald was unaware of anything other than quickly cooling clothing. His eyes were stuck shut and his head was full of cotton balls. He leaned hard against Melody, and she slowly held him up, bringing his legs to the floor and carefully carrying him on wobbling legs to the door. Gerald was barely aware of the shift in lights, but soon found himself in the guest bathroom. In a minute he was propped up against cool acrylic, as small hands were disrobing his limited clothing, including his soiled underpants. He focused his energies on staying propped against the wall. This was probably the first time this bath had ever been used since they moved into the house four years ago. Between the relaxing bubbles and vapors of warm almond and butter, Gerald found consciousness hard to maintain. He would linger on throbbing sensations along his cheeks and gums between smooth washing from his wife’s cloth. Either between the drugs or her delicate approach, he hardly felt as she moved soap along his sweaty and soiled skin. The motions of the water and her hands, or perhaps the gentle humming she was doing, was enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Not for long, he told himself, just a few seconds, or minutes. It was long enough for Melody to shave his adult hair below the face, and long enough for his hands to shrivel while the bath water turned cold. He awoke hearing the water start to glug into the drain but was unsure of what was happening. His wife’s hands gently guided him up, and upon command he stepped out of the shower. “OK time to get your new jammies on, and you can come join me to bed.” “Careful with my mouth.” He tried, mumbling more like aeul weh ma mouw. A gentle fluffing of a towel patted his shoulders, then stomach, and finally waist and legs, leaving him a shivering mess. He stared briefly at his thin exposed member but his eyes could not focus on the hairless monster. He kept them closed as his wife guided him to the toilet for a seat. Up came the soft front, and around his sides came tight plastic. Gerald heard the soft crinkle of tape on plastic and his balls tucked into new underwear that was fluffier than the toilet paper adjacent to his seat. The delightful garment was pulled tight along his waist and cupped over his equipment protectively. His hand came down just after Melody’s and felt the smooth plastic front. He glanced down to see the bright light green, the color of a shamrock shake. “What is this?” Melody did not know what he said, but answered him all the same, “Your medication is pretty strong baby, just a little bit of a safety net. No more accidents.” “I don’t need this.” Even he knew it was just a blur of unheard words. His eyes were getting heavy, he would have cried if it didn’t hurt his mouth too much. “Just for tonight OK, I promise.” She handed him a thin robe which draped over his shoulders. He did not bother to close or tie it, “I know it’s hard. I know this is the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but just a few weeks and you’ll be better than new. You’ll be perfect. Now, tell me, what’s the first thing you’re going to eat when you get your new teeth?” “Eayg” “Eggs?” She answered confused. “Eaayg” She still did not know what he said, but she came prepared with her own suggestion, “OH, that sounds exciting, but how about an ice cream sandwich?” “Eye eeam” “Hmm, maybe if you’re good we can try some Eye Eam tomorrow.” She smiled, her baby would be eating lots of ice cream, and sauce, and soups, and purées. He had told her to pick up something like what those pilots ate in the spy planes, with the straws and tubes. She had instead stocked the cabinets with jars of something more down to Earth. As far as Gerald was concerned, his stomach did not exist. He knew he should have been hungry; he had not eaten since the middle of last night, but all he wanted was to close his eyes and end the day. He hinted at this to Melody by closing his eyes and nodding his head. She helped him up, letting him lean against her shoulder as she guided him across the house. It was slow getting to the master bedroom, but once there he was easily guided to the bed and laid down on his side. The last thing he remembered was that bright green undergarment, poking out and rustling against the blanket as he fell into a deeper sleep. Chapter 3 The bed was warm and comfortable, and Gerald had been propped up against four pillows, elevating his head and chest. When his bladder woke him throughout the night, he hardly needed to move. He would not remember the specifics in the morning, but the first time, was a tired release, a surrender. He was rewarded with a soft trinkle of warm urine reflecting against absorbent padding, swelling the midsection around his crotch and falling down towards the plastic rear. He would repeat this a second and third time through the night, waking late in the morning to find the spot where his wife slept empty, and a thick plastic spreading his legs apart. Gerald reached down confused looking at the yellow stained green diaper that he had been dressed in, hands reaching down to smooth plastic landing zone, deformed and heavy, but surprisingly light in dampness. He wiggled briefly on the soft padding, before stretching himself to the edge of the bed. Blood seemed to fall quickly from his head and Gerald paused on the edge. To him it felt like two hours he sat there with his eyes closed, but it was not long before Melody came into the room and touched his shoulder. “Hey, I got you setup down in the family room by the television, and I made you some breakfast. Are you ready to try to eat something?” His stomach growled an answer. Gerald reached out his hand and was guided to the kitchen, each step an awkward waddle as the thick expanded padding below distorted his already dazed movement. He crumbled into a kitchen seat, barely registering an odd strap coming around the edges and holding him up. Melody gave him a short smile, brushed his hair aside and another kiss on the forehead before going to the fridge. Gerald wobbled back in forth on his protected bottom, eager for the first meal in over two days. It was white, sloshing in a clear glass container. Melody had even topped it with a yellow-tan rubber nipple. “What’s this?” Gerald hated milk, and this may have been the first time he had seen it this close in years. Soft air bubbles collected sporadically along the edge, and he watched the liquid cautiously like it was a poisoned cauldron. His question was muffled, but Melody understood it. “You promised we would start things off right with your new teeth, and this is starting things off right. You need this, it has everything to grow strong beautiful teeth.” “And the nipple?” An e Nilalah? He needed to point at it to get her understanding. She came in close, “I thought it would help with your gums. Honey, you’re still drooling,” bringing a napkin up to his swollen face. “Tonight, if your stomach is good we can try some food, but just liquids for now.” He nodded and slowly reached out and grasped the bottle. It shook in his hand, and he reached a second to stabilize it, dragging it across the table to before him. His fingers lifted the chilled surface to his face. It was cold, he assumed with his pain meds he would feel nothing, but the chill was delightful. He locked gums on the end and began to suck and pull, letting the silky liquid land on his tongue. It was heavenly, sugary, with the hint of melon, but thinner than he expected. As it poured into his stomach famished singles reached his brain and he felt compelled to keep pouring it into his mouth. Greedily he sucked, drinking, and it assuaged her. She placed two large pills the size of his thumb and encouraged him to swallow the chalky white circles between gulps. He watched Melody wander out of the room and return, bringing first her laptop, and then a large carrying bag. He expected her to explain herself, but she never did. After placing her bag down, she again left him alone in the kitchen. So preoccupied with the drink and her strange actions, he did not notice it until it started. Without pants on the pouring of liquid into his diaper roared in his ears. Gerald froze, trying to stop the stream, which briefly worked before he lost concentration, and his grip let go. He set the bottle down and briefly touched the warm outside of the now ugly green-yellow diaper, the liquid slowly absorbing into the cloth. It felt naughty, and the pleasure of embracing that naughtiness matched the joy from the bottle. He quickly returned to the glass and sucked on it until it was empty. Melody returned, giving an odd sniff, and then scruffed his hair. It was still messy from sleeping on it while wet, and she played with the stray clumps that refused to stay down. “Gerald, honey, I think we should get you changed and then you can see what I setup for you.” She pulled at his hand, leading him out of the kitchen to a wide spot in the living room previously reserved for yoga. A large blanket had been placed on the floor, its light soft blue a contrast to the dark wooden floors. To the side was a set of clothing for him, and a bag of supplies. She pointed, gently pushing him down on the shoulders, “Sit.” He followed, and his now overly large garments rustled loudly as he came down to the floor, the blanket barely softening the hard cold surface below it. She fell to her knees to join him, bringing her hands to his tapes, each pull a sharp contrast to an otherwise quiet room. Soon cold air was washing over his crotch, and she pulled the diaper out and wadded it into a ball to her side. She reached into her bag, before bringing a single wet tissue up for him to see, giving it a slight tug, and then going down to his exposed member. Her hands moved over hairless testicles and penis, cleaning up to his stomach and below his tush. He felt like a king, washed, fed, pampered, and loved. He started reaching over to the shirt she had left, but her hand came up. “Honey, we need to put a second diaper on.” “I don’t need a diaper.” He tried – I on nee a iah er. Close enough she could see it. “You promised just last night.” “I know, I know, but this is just in case, OK? You don’t have to use them. I noticed you leaked a bit at breakfast, that can be a side effect of the pain medicine you’re on.” He nodded defeated. Gerald was soon pampered, a fresh green wrapper as the basis of his outfit for the day. Gym shorts came up next, and a simple white t-shirt on top. She helped him put it over his swollen face and lifted him up, slowly guiding him to the family room, which was located down a set of stairs in the cool basement. There a couch had been setup with a pillow and blanket. She gave him strict instructions, “So, here’s the plan for the day. Sleep and television. That’s it. No work.” His work was not hard, but he could take time off. She had insisted on having him move everything into stable coins just before the surgery – just in case something happened, and he could not get back to it for a long time. He fell onto the couch as he got closer. “Now, I know we had planned for me to be here, but I need to head into work for a few hours.” He blinked confused, “What?” “I know, I know, my boss is coming in and I need to meet him, and we’re interviewing candidates for a new position. It won’t be more than a few hours.” She handed him the remote from the table, “Will you be OK here? I promise to come back soon.” “Phone?” (Oohne) “I’ll drop your phone off before I leave. Now you get some sleep in, those pills are going to do a number on you.” He nodded and closed his eyes, falling into a light sleep. He would awaken an hour later. Gerald turned slightly, drool having built up on his pillow and shirt. On the coffee table was a large one-and-a-half-foot tall ape – a joke gift she had picked up for him at the height of the NFT craze – with chubby strong arms, and dark gray to black fur. It was sitting on his phone. He pushed aside the toy and pulled at the phone, checking the time, and tried to connect to the internet. The phone struggled, before he looked up at the top right. A small symbol <! next to 5G indicated he had no internet in the family room basement. He flicked over to network settings and tried to connect to the wifi. The phone whirled for a bit, before letting him know it was unable to connect, he had an invalid password. “Melody!” He shouted, to no avail. Memmy (Mommy) wasn’t home. He put it back on the table and reached for the TV remote instead. The large sixty-inch television flicked silently to life. He maneuvered around the menu. He clicked on Netflix. Like a guard at the gate the television questioned him, “Who is watching?” Gerald, Melody, and Damien. Melody had watched her sister’s seven-year-old son, Damien, a few times last summer. He would spend hours in the family room, just watching television he could not get at home. Gerald clicked his own name, only to find a password lock. He did not watch Netflix often, and nothing came to mind. He tried a few simple combinations but after three tries he gave up. He found a similar password lock on Melody. Finally, he clicked on Damien. Melody had setup parental controls on the television in an attempt to keep Damien from accessing inappropriate content. The only shows available where cartoons and educational programs. Disappointed, he flicked out of Netflix and tried Amazon, only to find a similar set of locks. Disney and Hulu were also set on kiddie mode. For the first time in ten years, he flicked to basic cable. The cartoon was flat, but clearly made with the help of a computer. A brown striped tiger sporting a red jacket hopped into a car along with his mother. “Open your mouth and do a quiet roar,” the television told him, taunting him at a simple task even he could no longer do. Gerald flipped the channel but was blocked by a channel lock out. He flipped the other way and got the weather. Disappointed, he reached over to his phone and sent a message to his wife. After a minute she responded to his text message. “Oh, sorry honey, the password is in my book at home. I must have locked the TV when Daniel was here and forgot to unlock it. Can you still find something to watch? 😊 😊” With nothing better, he returned to his tiger show, falling asleep within minutes. Hours later he awoke to a rumbling pressure in his stomach, the show had switched to a young girl with sharp white skin, bunny ears, and red overalls. Painfully Gerald brought himself to a straight posture against his pillow, his shorts had bulged slightly in the front, and pulled padded cloth tightly into his butt. The action pulled at his bowels, which had just awoken for the first time in close to three days. “I need to poop” Gerald talked to himself, “You can do this. Get up. Get up.” He leaned over the couch and placed his hands to his side to push himself up, his goal was to walk to the basement bathroom on the other side of the room. Instead, there was a plorp sound from his abdomen. “No!” He wanted to cry. It felt like when he had gone to fart, but a poop had escaped as well. It lingered in the crack of his butt, stuck between the pad and his skin, unable to fall. He shifted angrily, plucking a hand at his back, before falling over back to his pillow. The accident felt like a mountain, and it slowly fell down before getting squished by his posterior. His mind amplified the smell, and wetness came to his face. “Melody!” He tried. Nothing. No response. “Mommy!” He tried again. Again, nothing. He stayed there for an eternity, being judged by the rabbit on the television and his ape, the soul witnesses to how he had messed himself like a pathetic baby. He slapped the monkey off the table and hid himself behind his pillow, eventually falling back to sleep. Melody tried to comfort him later as she changed him. “It’s just the size of a pea. It’s hardly something to get upset about.” Melody understood what to say, to bring him back down. She cleaned and replaced his diaper without a fuss and brought him back to the kitchen for dinner. Her meal was a chopped salad, filled with field greens, zucchini, squash, and mushroom. The avocado and vinaigrette tantalized his senses. For him she presented a purée. “Is this the pilot food? The one I asked you to get?” “Oh sorry, this is something local, I think you’ll like it though,” she said, taking a thin small spoon and mixing the orange color. Carefully she brought the spoon up his mouth, “Mmm.. Mmm.. Smells good, what’s my baby boy going to have?” Gerald’s mouth hurt to stretch but he tried his best. It was unexpectedly grainy, but he picked up the flavor immediately –room temperature sweet potato. There was a hint of squash as well. He wanted to spit it out, but Melody tilted the spoon back and it slimed down his throat. “Good job,” she said, returning to her own salad, and leaving the spoon in the thin bowl in front of him. Hunger forced his hand, and he reached out with shaking hands towards the spoon. With careful movement he slowly brought it up to his mouth. Slime and plastic bounced off his cheeks as he missed. Shaking hands tried again, this time reaching his lips. He sucked slightly on his dinner, before his lips and jaw lost control and dropped the spoon in a drooling mess. Orange and brown liquid smacked the table and splattered across his white shirt. Melody was fast grabbing the spoon before it rolled off the table, “Whoopsie. That’s OK, but it looks like we’ll need a bib in the future. How about I take over spoon duties for you.” Her hands wiped the spoon with a napkin and then restocked it. She brought it up to his mouth. Gerald shook his head. The aftertaste of squash and potato lingered in his mouth. This was too much for even him and he would rather starve than eat anymore of the goop. Melody would not take no for an answer. “Choo choo. Come on honey you can do it. Please, this is important. You need to get something in you, you’ve been on medicine for two days and your stomach can’t handle it. No more pea sized loads.” She shook the spoon before his face “Choo.” Gerald reluctantly opened again and quickly had his mouth stuffed. “Milk?” Gerald asked, hoping for anything to wash out the disgusting taste. “After dinner. If you finish it all, I have a surprise for you.” Melody hinted. When dinner was finished, she took her husband back to the master bedroom, sitting him down on his side, before moving over to hers. She undressed her shirt and bra and propped up a set of pillows, letting her sit vertically against the bed board. She signaled for him to come over and he rolled closer, confused. “I’ve been taking some pills Valorie gave me, can you tell?” She waved over her thin body, but Gerald saw nothing out of the ordinary and said nothing. “They’re getting me all bothered and excited, and I want to try this. This might be the only time I get to try this. Lay yourself on my lap.” She commanded. Her hands gently brought him down, and he stared up at her, his back laying against her thighs. With both arms, she reached around him, and slowly dragged him up. “What are we doing?” He tried. A ah ee oin? She heard. “Just, be careful, and do what feels natural, open wide.” He stared at fleshy fatty orbs as she slowly guided his heavy head to the right one, her left. He was without practice, but eager, and after a couple tries his toothless mouth latched down around the nipple. She winced as the pressure pulled at her fatty orbs, but soon began to draw out the nectar in a fashion more comfortable than when she had used a pump this morning for his breakfast. Gerald could smell the fatty silk. It was different from the morning brew, being room temperature but also fresh, but similar in thin suaveness that had a hint of fruity familiarity. Shivers of joy began to flow through him, as he pressed into the fatty breasts of a woman. He brought one arm up to stabilize himself around her back, and she in turn released her own right arm to massage his diaper. Dull throbbing came through his plastic protection, bringing him to an edge, his penis forced into the partially damp interior. Soon a long shiver ran through his body, and into her nursing breasts. Exhausted by the experience, Gerald’s body fell into a soft slumber, and she cradled her baby for several minutes before setting him gently down on his own side of the bed. Chapter 4 Doctor Szekely held the tablet close to her and smiled as she filtered through his x-rays. The three had retreated to Valorie’s office to review the progress in secret. It had been a week since the surgery, and in that time Gerald’s control below seemed to only worsen. He was grateful the thick diapers his wife has bought were not visible even under his dark shorts; though they were definitely audible when he wiggled in his discomfort on the padded bottoms. “Your new teeth are coming in just fine, here take a look,” She rotated the tablet over for Melody and Gerald to see. Melody pointed to the small bones, “oh they look like little baby teeth. How adorable.” Gerald winced at word baby. He had not been feeling very adult the past few days. “Have you noticed any pain yet? There are some devices I can recommend to help normalize your natural bight.” Valorie threw out casually. Melody answered, “I bought some already. He likes to leave the therapeutic mouth rings in the freezer, gets them all cold and he’ll suck on them for hours.” Gerald shrunk his posture at her mentioning his teething rings. He could use one now. He did not even want to go to the dentist today, he was missing his cartoons. Still he had a question that needed answer. He interrupted their conversation, “What about my incontinence. Why can’t I hold it in anymore.” Valorie tilted her head, not having understood a single word he had said. Melody stepped in to help, “He’s been having potty issues. We thought it was just the medication but he’s been off the pills a couple days now and it’s getting worse.” Behind heavy glasses Valorie seemed to drill into Gerald like he was a cavity to be filled. Gerald shuttered under the pressure and looked down at his slightly bulging shorts. Melody had just changed him before they had left, and his member scratched at the dry padding. Valorie began with a jocular scolding, “You should have told me this was happening!” “Really? Is it bad?” Melody began. “No this is amazing, wonderful. Exactly a sign the treatment is working as intended.” The dentist shook her tablet and brought up a painting tool and started to draw a rudimentary picture. “You see, we put the new stem cells in Gerald’s mouth here. And over time some of them will go into the stomach and digestive tract. Your cells are doing their job, making new baby cells as they go.” Gerald’s mind suddenly flashed with a nightmare image of teeth growing in parts of the body they shouldn’t, a shock image from the early days of the internet. “Am I going to grow teeth in my stomach?” She waved her hand, “Oh no, don’t be ridiculous. The cells got to your bladder and colon and just basically cleaned everything up. You’re getting a brand-new bladder! Isn’t that exciting?” Melody brought up her hands, “Oh that’s wonderful! This is great news.” Gerald shook his head, confused. He did not want a new colon, just new teeth. “What if the cells get into my heart, or my brain?” Melody reached over and pat his thigh comforting. “Don’t worry honey, It’ll be OK, Doctor Szekely is the best.” Gerald nodded, but his concerns were not alleviated. Melody turned to the dentist, “Maybe there’s something you can give him. Like a S – H – O – T.” Gerald turned to his wife, unsure why she thought spelling the word made it unknown to him. Valorie nodded, “Sure, that’s a good idea.” Her voice picked up and directed towards the room’s lone man, “Gerald, I’m going to go get something that will help you feel better, it should keep the cells from doing anything we don’t want them to do. Sound good? You’ll be all better in a few days.” She exited the room and returned with a needle like the kind used for numbing the mouth before a procedure. Melody helped roll up Gerald’s sleeve and hold him, as Valorie poked and dumped the substance into him. There was a brief bit of pain, followed by euphoric numbness. Their meeting concluded; Melody helped Gerald up from his bliss inducing stupor. Below his diaper and shorts had built up some sag but were dwarfed under the length of his oversized shirt. Melody made a note He barely noticed as the two gals led him out that his wife had surpassed him in height by close to two inches. Gerald had to wait near the oversized toothbrush flipping through a Highlights magazine, as Melody scheduled a follow up appointment. A strange signal came to his head as he stared at the colorful images. His eyes lingered on two identical ones, and he struggled to find the differences between the two. His mouth started to throb from a dull pain and he pressed a thumb on the gums to relieve it. Gerald did not even notice as he bent his legs slightly, kneeling closer to the magazine. The man on the left picture had a hat, and the dog on the right picture was pointing the other way, that was only two differences, but the picture insisted there were ten. He carefully moved a finger along the first image, trying to spot more, barely registering as his buttocks expanded pressing outward into a large gaseous mess. The relief caused his eyes to linger upwards before he dragged his attention back to the magazine. She had to pull it out of his hands as they left, he had only found three differences, but he was so close! He started to cry, just like he had the day before when she helped him cash out his digital assets to their shared bank account. A slight whap at his tush was enough to get him back on track. In the car he clung to his monkey angrily, bringing its soft black fur to his lips. The tickling fur offered little comfort to the slight throbbing pain. He would return to the dentist several more times over the coming weeks, but today would be the last time he would sit in the front seat of the car. He had already shrunk half a foot in the first week, and with each follow up shot, more of his body shrunk. By the fourth booster, little Gerald was barely two feet in height. The house quickly changed over the next month, toys littered every room, and Gerald was relegated these days to sleeping in the guest room, now a nursery. She leaned over the heavy white railing of the crib, the wooden bars a straight cage for her baby. Melody easily picked up the sleeping ball laying on his flat mattress, one thumb loosely at his lips. Where a month ago, a grown man had worn green elite briefs, Gerald was now in white parasols, his underpants adorned now with stoic black outlines of bunnies, cats and dogs. He stirred awake and smiled, mouthing the outline of her name without a sound. Melody brought the man over to a rocking chair, carefully undoing her shirt, and pulling down her bra below her engorged breasts. By now Gerald was well practiced and sucked greedily at her tit. There was a knock on the nursery room door, which did not stop the boy, but brought the attention of his new mother. Valorie did not linger at the door, “How’s our little Jerry doing,” she threw out to her partner as she walked across the room. She paused just above the rocking chair, before coming closer to Melody’s face. Gerald paused slightly in the sucking, his wandering eyes pausing on the sight of the two ladies kissing, but this new show of affection was not enough to quell his stomach and he returned to sucking from Melody’s breast. “He’s just the perfect little baby. I think …” her eyes jumped, and she pulled Gerald off her breast in a hurry. “Owe!” She practically yelled. “Are you alright?” Melody turned Gerald’s head, and his gaping milk-soaked mouth yawned widely up at his other mommy. There right on the top of the gum was a brand new piece of pearly stone. “No, the baby bit me!”

Well, here's a new story that shows the brutality of aliens if they ever met mankind. Here, we have I'm Not Saying It's Aliens, but..., a regression fic in a different way than I normally do things. The content is also quite different, and very mature. Firstly, this is set in an alternate Cold War era. There will be critiques about the respective governments of the United States and the Soviet Union, but they will be in passing, as this is not like Yet Another World War. This is a concept about alien abductions and how horrifying it could be to the abductees to be captured by creatures with more power than humanity will ever have. The aliens in question are quite sadistic, almost akin to Diaper Dimension, but not exactly, but they abduct and shrink humans down to the size of children to make them more "compliant". Humans are implied to be used as breeders for what amounts to puppy mills, lab rats for corporations testing new drugs and the like, and as often mistreated "pets". This includes teenagers being implied to be breeders, so please be aware of that before you delve in, and I promise to warn you when it happens. Humans are sold like Black slaves in the 1800s for the aliens, and there are lobotomy procedures, teeth-pulling, nerve-disabling, and genetic alterations, one in particular which happens to both of the main characters. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. So, if the concepts in this story affect you in any way, please take heed of the warnings and don't read. The last thing I want to do is traumatize readers. But I promise, no matter how bad it gets, like with all of my stories on this site, there is a happy ending, even if it's not expected. So, if you're still with me, read on: - Chapter One: Abduction - Warrant Officer Felicia Paniagua smirked as she confidently stepped near the entrance of the space shuttle, her astronaut suit on. Of course, the necessary diaper (it was called a “Maximum Absorbency Garment”, but in reality, it was only a very absorbent diaper) was…annoying, and she wasn’t used to it, but she’d live with it for the opportunity to go into space. If her mom could see her now… She let out a sigh, brushing a loose strand of her long dark brown bangs, expertly done in a ponytail in the back, away from her oak-brown eyes. Now wasn’t the time to think about her family, her mother, her many younger brothers, sisters, and cousins, especially not with…her on board. She sighed again as she saw the other woman walking towards the shuttle in the German space station, dressed similar to her. According to the file she had been given, the other woman was a Praporshchik - a warrant officer, in Soviet Union military terms, the same rank she was - by the name of Lagle Ehasalu, born in Tallinn, the Estonia part of the Soviet Union. Lagle had not spoken a word since they had met, her worried sky-blue eyes appraising Felicia nervously as if she wanted to see what her thoughts on her were. Her blonde hair was smartly tied in a bun, and she was surprisingly tall; if Felicia had to judge her height, she was about 5’10”, and the Hispanic woman had to crane her neck to look up with her own 5’2” height. At least we both have the same boob size; double C-cup, by the looks of it. Felicia offered a handshake to Lagle, who took it with a bit of surprise on her face. “Well, I figure since we’re going to be crewmates for this mission, we should get to know each other,” Felicia said. “Pleased to meet you, Lagle.” Lagle merely shook her head and spoke in a foreign language (Felicia didn’t know which one.), before shyly going into the shuttle. “Doesn’t speak English. Lovely.” Felicia sighed for a third time, wondering what this was all about. The higher-ups had been very vague and had stated that she wasn’t to tell anyone about this mission, that she had been selected out of a very large pool of candidates to “foster goodwill between hostile nations”, hence why they were doing this in a neutral site in Germany rather than the United States or the Soviet Union. Other than that? Nothing. But how could they “foster goodwill” if neither of them spoke the other’s language? All Felicia knew was English, Spanish, and a bit of German. This woman, Lagle, definitely didn’t speak English, and she was probably a shy wallflower, judging by her actions. They were totally different. How could anyone expect proper chemistry? Only thing we have in common is that we’re both young women pilots. At least there won’t be any fucking sexism here. Now that was annoying. The talking down to, the snooty comments and sexual harassment, the slurs and bigotry, she had heard it all and still graduated top of her class in 1977. Now it was three years later, and all of that still hadn’t faded, unless it was the people who knew her (only a few). I wonder if Lagle experienced the same. The Soviets did use women as fighters in World War 2 after all. Felicia stepped into the shuttle, not having to duck her head like Lagle did, as the door closed. It was a smaller shuttle, cheaper than the earlier Saturn rockets, and such a thing made her nervous. As a pilot, she could at least control her plane; with a space shuttle, so many things could and did go wrong. She was nervous about the whole thing, when she saw Lagle talking in her foreign language to her superiors at their home base, obviously as scared as Felicia was. “Warrant Officer Paniagua, this is Houston, are you green?” Felicia sighed, checking all of the gauges. She had prepared a little bit for it, and she was smart enough to know how this worked. Thus far, everything looked good. Fuel and engines? Check. Thermal protection system? Sound. Altitude and navigation? Solid. Landing gear? Yep, that was good, too. She tapped into the radio beacon and said confidently, “Green as spring grass across the board, Houston.” “We’re clear for takeoff,” Houston said, while the Soviets instructed Lagle in their own language. “Just relax, Warrant Officer Paniagua. It won’t take long.” Then an ominous gas entered the shuttle. It was hot pink, suffocating, and enveloped Felicia quicker than she could snap her helmet shut, and she saw Lagle panicking, trying to snap her own helmet shut. “Sorry, Warrant Officers,” Houston’s voice said regretfully. “You were chosen for this-” Chosen? It was the last thing she thought of before everything went black… Then she could hear two crackling voices in the blackness after a prick on her neck, although it felt like a fog was in her head, making it fuzzy, impossible to think, impossible to decipher the exact intent of the speakers. “Yelpka, we’ve got the package. Two young females of the lesser species.” “Young females, haha! Yorsha, how much do you think they’ll sell on the Lottery? About one-hundred thousand krysts?” “One-hundred thousand? Try one-hundred million krysts, Yelpka. They’re young, female for potential breeding, and they don’t have the behavior issues the other lesser breeds do.” “Ah, those types. Yorsha, they’re still lesser breeds. You just replace them if they’re broken; there’s plenty on this backwards planet.” “Yelpka, these are the ones we chose for the Lottery. These ones, we’ve made sure have no defects.” “Why don’t we just take more, Yorsha? This world’s filled with them.” “Yelpka, we made articles with this world, like we have with others. We are the dominants, they are the lesser, but our higher-ups have made deals for millennia with other worlds.” A third voice. “You two, are you done with the lesser species extraction for the Lottery?” “Yes, Commandant! Shrinking process will begin on your mark.” “...Mark!” Felicia felt an excruciating pain, like getting wisdom teeth pulled out with pliers without anesthesia, mixed with a spinal destruction, like she was being completely crushed into a much smaller shape, but no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t scream, such was the fog around her head. She felt her bladder and bowels empty into her Maximum Absorbency Garment. “Disgusting creatures. The smell…” “If it bothers you so much, Yelpka, put on your mask. We need to clean them.” “Why should we? Disgusting things can do it themselves…” “They are under sedation for the transportation to our home world. And…” A cruel chuckle. “It’s not like they’ll be able to do it after the Lottery winners are through with them.” “Heh. I hope they pull all of their teeth out. It’s always fun to hear these filthy creatures screaming in pain.” “Yelpka, nobody needs to hear that. Yorsha, clean them. Yelpka’s obviously useless aside from the shrinking process.” “Understood, Commandant.” Felicia felt her suit being taken off, along with her bra and undergarment, felt a pair of furry hands roughly clean her before another Maximum Absorbency Garment was put on her. She wanted to struggle, wanted to open her eyes, but everything was a blur as she was shoved on a cold metal surface, still unable to move or make a sound, no matter how much she tried. “Done with both. Can I go back to the bow? I want to see the home world.” “You can. Set a course for our home world. We’re done for now.” “What about getting other specimens?” “Yelpka, you cavlet, if we obtained other specimens, that means less room for these. Warp travel is always dangerous to specimens, and we want to make sure these survive. The Lottery demands it.” “...Understood, Commandant.” “Warp on my mark. …Mark!” Then lights painfully exploded in Felicia’s head, and she knew no more. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Well, I have a new idea (that had to be changed a bit from its unused original idea, but the characters in the story are pretty much similar in name, if not personality and pasts): Juventas' Wings. If you guessed that this was based on the Roman goddess of youth, Juventas, you'd be correct! There's going to be a lot of Greco-Roman lore in this story, even if it isn't revealed immediately. As a WARNING, though, there's a lot of mature content in this story, and this particular segmented chapter has the following: implied domestic violence and abuse, cheating, mental illness struggles, stated sexual assault (not delving into specifics), poverty, drug usage and withdrawals, law stuff for said drug usage, post-traumatic stress disorder, war scenes, anti-trans/gay slurs, misgendering, and deadnaming by bigoted minor chapter-only characters, mentioned maid/petplay fetishes, and a LOT of broken and dysfunctional families. Further chapters involve age regression, both physical and emotional, a remorseless serial killer, implied sexual assault, kidnapping, parental abuse, emotional and sexual manipulation, character death, and description of religion. Just be warned and as always, VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. And now for the beginning of the story: - Chapter One: Seven Lives - Fida Salah (nee Jazuri) didn’t even expect any mail to come to her, let alone an offer from others for her alone. All the thirty-five-year-old London-born-and-raised woman did was cook, clean, and do household chores, her mother, father, and older sibling having long since passed. Her husband, Botros Salah, was the only family she had left, and she knew that he cheated on her a lot with other women, her inability to have kids a…contentious point around him, amongst other contentious points. She wore a full red niqab that covered most of her body, her weary dark-brown eyes, a bit of her coffee skin around her eyes, and her delicate hands the only visible body parts, as she cooked dinner (batata harra, a vegetable dish that her husband always asked for, never seemed to get tired of, and forced her to eat. She was tired of eating it, couldn’t remember the last time she had been allowed a halal meat, but what her husband wanted, she did.) in preparation for her husband returning. The doorbell rang, and she all but jumped out of shock; Botros would’ve simply entered the house. Noting that the batata harra was completely finished, she walked over to the door, looking through the window, expecting to see her husband’s stern face…but instead seeing a very young (probably nineteen or so), yet tall Arabic woman wearing a hijab, accompanied by a young, almost effeminate-looking man with similar features, likely a male relative, as was custom. Fida was a bit confused. Were they friends of her husband? She opened the door, and the Arabic woman smiled. “Hello, you are Fida Salah, are you not?” the woman asked. “My husband should be here soon if you need to talk to him,” Fida said politely. “We’re not here for your husband,” the woman said, still smiling. “We’re here for you.” Fida froze, thinking of the day-old bruises over days-old bruises that reminded her what her husband was capable of. Nothing good could come from this. “I’m sorry, but-” “I understand you wish for us to leave, but I doubt that your husband wants to do spa treatments with you.” “Spa treatments?” Fida was completely confused now. “I’m sorry, but I have to cook and clean. My husband-” “Surely, he wouldn’t begrudge you a bit of time for yourself, right? Only a day of spa treatments, free halal meals like kabsa with lamb, chicken, and beef, relaxation around other women, all to make you feel like a brand-new you.” The housewife’s lips pursed. It was tempting, this offer, but she wasn’t allowed to leave the house without a male relative with her, and she didn’t have any other than her husband. “He can come with us to the spa, if you’re concerned about leaving without permission. We already talked to him.” “At his work? Is it all right if I call him…?” “Of course, dear.” Fida walked to the house phone (she was not allowed a cell phone) and dialed her husband’s cellphone number. One ring, two rings, three rings. “Yes, Fida?” Botros asked with boredom in his Arabic tongue. “It’s about that stupid fucking spa, isn’t it?” “Yes,” she whispered, also in Arabic. “Speak up, or you’ll regret it.” “Yes, it is about the spa,” she said, a little louder. “Of course. I’ve been asked as well. I asked Aisha to come over to cover your household chores, while you spend your day there. Then I expect you to come back.” “Yes, my love.” “I learned something from Aisha as well. She’s expecting my child.” Fida froze, her heart breaking. “That’s…wonderful, my love,” she said in what she hoped was a happy tone. “It is. I could still use you for household chores, but I’m planning on marrying her and having many more children together.” “Of…of course.” “Well…I expect you back at the time of my choosing.” “Yes, my love. Ila al-lika'a ya habibi.” Her husband - for now, she assumed - didn’t even say goodbye before he hung up, and she forced herself not to cry. She was going to be reduced to a mere servant, all because he found a younger woman who could bear his children. The woman and her male friend were still outside, but looked sympathetic. Fida then decided to take a chance. Fuck her cheating, abusive husband; he didn’t need to know. “I’ll go to your spa, and he won’t be invited.” - Maela Wheaton’s thoughts were in chaos as she drove her Uber cab in Birmingham, U.K., looking for people to pick up for a fare in her company’s Nissan Leaf. She took her meds this morning, she knew it! Olanzapine, clozapine, paliperidone palmitate, valproate, lithium, all sorts of anti-depressants, she took as many as she dared, but nothing worked for very long, and buying extra meds, plus groceries and gas put her deep in the red. She had a small flat that she shared with loud arsehole housemates, but she was barely making rent work. Her dark-brown eyes were trained on the road, as she gripped the steering wheel like a vise. She ignored her long black hair falling in her eyes as the extreme high of the mania made her do stupid things like cut off other cars with a honk of her horn, her paranoia justifying it by their slights, fuck them, fuck them all, they had no idea how hard life could be… Maela shuddered. Being a British Chinese girl, she had a miserable time in school, both primary and secondary, but she made it to college with good marks…until her schizoaffective disorder came into play. She ended up dropping out of college, her family disowning her, leaving her with nothing. But she worked her arse off to get this job, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to lose it. She drove to the city block where her clients, a Ms. Juve and a Mr. Mede (odd names, but they were legal) had asked for her car, and she saw them: a very young woman (probably four years younger than she was, and she was twenty-four) with Chinese features and a very effeminate young man who had similar features were waiting, seemingly unbothered by the hustle and bustle. Maela unlocked the door. “Where to?” she asked politely; they were her first customers of the day. “The ZLS London Zoo,” the woman said with cheer in her tone. “You’re Maela Wheaton, right?” Maela sighed. It would be a long drive, especially with her meds, but it would pay a decent amount as well. “Yeah, I’m your driver," she said as the couple closed the door. “Your fare will be €175-€215 for conversion, and you pay after the ride’s over.” “Is it all right if we talk to you on the way?” the woman, Juve, asked. “Erm…” “I’ll pay double if you allow us to talk to you, Maela,” Juve coaxed. “Fine." She drove away from the busy street, her eyes trained on the road. “What do you want to talk about?” “Well…we’re the owners of a nice little spa in London,” Mede said, his voice very stereotypically gay. “We’ve had all sorts of clientele, famous people, but we serve…others nowadays.” “That’s nice,” Maela said, her voice bored. “We were wondering if you could come to our spa when able,” Juve said. “Me?” Maela said with a laugh. “How much would it cost? I’m not exactly rich.” “The money you get from this drive should cover all of the costs and more,” the woman said with a kind smile. “It would be a full treatment, lots of pampering, massages, expert services, stuff like that.” Maela’s fragmented mind began to wander. Yeah, that did sound rather nice…but she was in the red, and she couldn’t exactly take a day off… “Just feel free to stop by whenever you’re free and willing. You seem like you could use it.” “Yeah, I…I have schizoaffective disorder, so I could use something to help, anything.” “I can’t imagine.” It was sympathy, which Maela hated…but unlike most who expressed such sentiments, it didn’t seem fake from Juve. Then a call echoed from her dashboard. “Hang on, it’s my supervisor. I have to take this.” She opened a line. “Hello?” “Hello,” an automated voice said. “Due to costs, we regret to inform you that after this ride, we will be forced to make cost-cutting layoffs. We wish you the best in your new endeavors.” Maela started to cry. She had been laid off? NOW?! This was a disaster. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Juve asked. “Just…I’m going to have to drop you two off; I’m no longer employed by the company. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but-” “Don’t worry about it, honey,” Juve said sympathetically. “Tell you what, here’s your payment.” She used a debit card and transferred…a very significant amount, to Maela’s utmost shock. €1,000? This is insane! I didn’t even do anything big! “Just consider the spa, honey,” Juve said, handing her a business card. “The money is yours to do as you wish with, but all I ask is that you consider using some of it for a day at the spa.” The two exited the car on a street, having not gone very far from Birmingham at all. Maela looked at the money, a decision to make. Tomorrow works. I’ll search for a job after I go there for a day. - Tawny Wheeler was working at a gentleman’s club in Manchester, U.K. Yeah, it was a stripper’s name to some, but the Black woman didn’t mind it as much; she loved the first name that her parents chose for her. Her flawless ebony skin gleamed in the lights, her lips filled, makeup expertly done. She had to look utterly stunning for her clients, both of whom were in a private room, as was custom. The woman’s hips swayed seductively, her heels clicking on the floor as she entered the room with the clients: a woman and an effeminate looking young man, both of them Black and beautiful to her, both of them with pretty long locks, looking a year or two younger than she was, in their early twenties. She danced on the pole in front of them. It was an opening act, the start to a lap dance, and maybe something more, if they so wanted and were willing to pay her on the side for it. Tawny was bi as hell, had no issues with men or women paying for sexual favors from her on the side, so long as they weren’t…her. The woman who raped me. Just because I was an exotic dancer, she brought me to her home, and… She had tried to report the woman to the police, but they weren’t very sympathetic to her plight, said it was her fault. Just because that woman was rich, powerful, and obsessed…she could - and did - stalk Tawny everywhere she went, hiring private investigators to see where she went, demanding to see her at her job, even stalking her to her house in Moss Side, one of, if not the, worst areas in Manchester, where she would do anything to get out of… Then again, would her family be proud of her and what she did? They had either passed a while ago or moved out of the U.K. to other countries. Would her father look down on her for being an exotic dancer? Would her mom call her a whore for what she did to survive another day? And her sisters had left for American jobs a while ago, both of them far smarter and gifted than she was. Tawny tried to drive the thoughts out of her mind, tried to keep tears from pricking at her brown eyes; she was performing, not focusing on herself, but the woman seemed to notice her turmoil. “Are you okay, dear?” the Black woman asked. Tawny flipped her bleached-blonde braided hair in annoyance. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied, her voice not inviting conversation. “Well…you seem like you could use a bit of a break. You know we own a nice spa, right?” Tawny seemed to perk up as she continued dancing. A spa? An actual honest-to-God spa? She could use some R&R, but her job…and the payment… “Don’t worry about it. The money we'll give you for this session will more than pay for a day at the spa. A treatment tailored to you, dear.” The woman’s eyes were quite warm and inviting, and Tawny was more than just a little tempted. “Sure,” she said. “What’s the earliest you can have me?” “Tomorrow, easily.” Tawny pondered it and made her decision. “I’m in. But first, that lap dance I promised you two…” - Former Petty Officer (honorably discharged from the Royal Navy) Sable Stokes was at the Royal British Legion in London, looking for help and not getting what she wanted. She wanted to take things to keep her up, to stop the nightmares of the Somalian pirates that invaded her small ship, seeing her mates all die to protect her, brutally killing the pirates, all of their faces - her friends and foes alike - in her nightmares every night. Why did everyone refuse that? Why did they want her to sleep? Why did they want her to feel all of that pain? “Look, Petty Officer Stokes, we’ll recommend you to our therapist, but we can’t prescribe you amphetamines; it’s illegal.” “I don’t want to sleep,” Sable said desperately, the nails on her olive-skinned hands digging into the handles of the wooden chair she sat in, her brown hair falling over her face. She hated that she had even joined the Royal Navy eight years ago on a promise and a prayer. If she hadn’t, she would’ve had a normal life… “Petty Officer Stokes, you have to sleep some time.” The secretary was seemingly sympathetic, but she didn’t want sympathy; she wanted the nightmares to go away. “The doctor will discuss things shortly. Do you have a next of ki-” “I don’t!” Sable screamed, the tenuous string holding her temper snapping. “My family’s from Ireland, and they hate me! My husband is dead from brain cancer! My mates died on the HMS Ladon! I - have - NOTHING!” “Security, please-” "There's no need for security; she's merely distraught," a new male voice said. A gentle hand on Sable's shoulder guided her away from the panicking secretary as she started sobbing. “There we go, get it all out, that’s a good girl,” the male doctor whispered in her ear as Sable relaxed in the soft, yet firm grip. “Who are…” “Doctor Alex Juves,” the male doctor said kindly. “Sable, if you could follow me to my office?” Sable reluctantly followed, feeling glad that the man hadn’t called her by her rank. She was not proud of being part of the Royal Navy, even with the friends she made. She had spent years on ships, not knowing her husband was secretly dying, wanting to be strong for her sake. Her mates on the Ladon, all dead. Every one of them in her head at night. No, she wanted nothing to do with Royal Navy services…but she didn’t have a choice, being unemployed and living disability check to check. The office was full of baby, toddler, and children’s pictures, an equal amount of boys and girls from the look of things. Sable tried not to sob; this is what she and her husband wanted: children of their own. Now he was lost to her for good; Sebastian Stokes was in Heaven without a doubt, while she was certainly headed down below. The male doctor looked oddly youthful, much younger than she was (she estimated him to be twenty-one years old, while she was seven years older), athletic, with trimmed brown hair and no facial hair, and calm green eyes. “Honey…” the doctor began, and Sable relaxed a bit at the paternal tone, “I think a spa trip would be for the best. It’s owned by a woman whom I trust with my life, and I think a day of relaxation would be for the best.” “A spa trip?” Sable snorted. “What do you take me for, a girly-girl?” “It’s not just for girly-girls. I’m just thinking of a day of relaxation, and that can be for anyone, even the biggest tomboy.” She sighed. “How much does it cost?” she asked. “For military discounts such as yours? Nothing at all.” “Nothing’s free-” “I know. All I’m saying is that the military discount is valid for this spa. A day of relaxation, freedom, and free of worry. Is that something you’d want?” “But the nightmares-” “And you have the choice of sleeping or not sleeping, Sable. Nothing will be done that you don’t want. I’m just recommending it for relaxation, and I’ve scheduled tomorrow as your day. Sound good?” Sable bit her lip. It seemed as though it had been decided for her…but hey, it was just a fucking spa! What was the worst that could happen? “Fine.” - Russet Royal had just been fired, arrested, and was awaiting her sentence for failing a drug test and getting caught with glass (crystal meth), lamenting her life choices as she sat in the London slammer cell. The skinny transwoman sulked, curled up in a corner, knowing that she had been placed with two men, one of whom was leering at her with ill intent. She merely glared at them with her icy-blue eyes, her red hair falling in wavy strands over her pale, freckled face, daring them to try something. “Hey, little bitch,” a man sneered. “You got a man? I can give you what your pussy wants…” “Dude, that thing’s a tranny,” another man said, rolling his eyes. “Unless you’re a poof?” “I’m not a fuckin’ poof! Fuck, how was I supposed to know? I’m not fuckin’ tranny ass!” Russet ignored the slurs, tried to ignore the depression, exhaustion, and aching all over her body and head: all signs of her amphetamine withdrawal. She was homeless and on the streets, the only job she was able to get was a barista job that she used to buy the next high. And now she was fired and looking at a serious prison sentence. Then a banging on the cell. “Paulson Pritchard?” Russet ignored her deadname, both first and last, her parents being so horribly bigoted that she long since discarded it when she had been kicked out. “Paulson Pritchard!” It had to be a withdrawal hallucination at this point; nothing would surprise her. “PAULSON PRITCHARD, GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE UP OR I’LL MAKE YOU!” “It’s Russet Royal, arsehole!” she snapped back in her Cockney accent. “Call me by me right name, an’ I won’t fuck ya up!” “Your barrister is here. Your choice if you want to go to him pepper sprayed or not.” Russet sighed in annoyance, getting up with her wrists long since handcuffed behind her back, as the guard roughly dragged her out of the cell, the pain from his grip causing her to grimace. He led her to a small room with a table and chairs, one of them holding a surprisingly young man in it (two years older than her age, she guessed, and she was eighteen), athletic, tall. The guard stood to the side until the young man, his brown hair long over his cleanshaven face, waved him off before saying, “I want her handcuffs off. Now.” Russet stared into space, a bit confused. Did the man say… “He’s a dangerous drug-addled prisoner. I won’t risk your safety.” “I want the handcuffs off of this young lady. She’s trans, if you somehow didn’t know. How dare you put her in a cell with two older men?” The tone wasn’t truly accusatory, but it caused the guard to fume before he unlocked Russet’s cuffs, as she tried to rub feeling into her wrists. “And now I want you out of the room whilst I discuss the magistrate’s judgement.” “You’re serious? This is a criminal-” “First time offender with no history of violent crimes and mitigating factors. Out.” The guard looked like he was going to explode with anger, but he left, thank God. Russet sighed in relief. “Fanks, Mr. Um…” “Call me Nick Juves.” The barrister’s bright blue eyes were kind. “I talked to the magistrate about a private sentence if you plead guilty: time served but with probation and house arrest at a place of our choosing.” Russet sighed again. “And if I don’t?” she asked in an irritable, yet dead tone. “Russet, you’re looking at seven years if you plead not guilty. Evidence is there and everything. You will be convicted, and I don’t want that for you. You have so much to give and deserve to receive help. I remember seeing you at your barista job in London. You were so kind to everyone, and asked everyone how they were doing, including me.” She stared at the barrister in shock. “I don’t-” “Remember it? No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s why I took your case. The magistrate knows the place where you’d be at house arrest. Technically, it’s more of an upscale spa owned by a woman I dearly care about. Rest, relaxation, spending your free time there. All he asks is that you don’t leave.” Russet immediately brightened up. This actually sounded like it could be fun. “It’s…it’s a deal,” she said, her tone happy for once as she shook his hand. - Joan and Hazel MacTaggart were twins that had been separated for quite some time. Joan worked in Liverpool as a grocery store checkout operator by day and a waitress at night, Hazel worked as a morning waitress and a night shift petrol station attendant in Rotherham, both of them separated from birth in spite of Grandma Mac’s protests, not even being told of each other by their petty family members after the messy divorce. It was truly a messy situation, with each of their so-called “families” disowning them after they insisted on seeing each other, and for…reasons neither had admitted to each other…yet. Not that it mattered to them; they merely took the maiden name of their maternal grandmother - the only person who accepted both of them for the women they were - without hesitation, and even though she passed a year after they met at twenty, they always made sure to make their days together count, just like she always said. When they found each other after all that time, they were overjoyed, but they were unable to visit each other due to their full job schedule. Until today. They were in London, both of them dressed to the nines, both of them with their long light blonde hair in shag-style haircuts, both of them were heavily tattooed (and with both of them wearing spiked chokers, they were definitely punk-culture oriented), their green eyes each showing love for their twin as they had coffee and chatted at a small cafe that catered to fetish cultures (something both of them hadn’t yet admitted to each other, but wanted to, waiting for the other to make a move first). The only difference between them was their clothing, even though they both wore all black: Joan was wearing a blouse, a knee-length pleated skirt, and heels, while Hazel wore a long-sleeved shirt, a knee-length skirt, leggings, and flats. “God, it’s bigger than I thought it would be, Joan,” Hazel murmured. “I don’t know what to do.” “Me neither, Hazel,” Joan said, sipping on her coffee. “There’s just so much to see…” “Why not our spa?” a feminine voice said. Joan and Hazel turned their heads to the side, as they saw a woman who looked about a year younger than they were, also wearing a spiked collar with her brown hair and beautiful in a full latex suit, as well as an effeminate blond boy in a frilly maid costume wearing a dog collar with spikes, the woman holding his leash as he was lying on the ground. “Where did you two come from?” Hazel asked. “I didn’t see you earlier…” “OH, we just sat down,” the woman said cheerfully, pulling the lead. “I’m Juve, and this is my little pet maid, Mede.” “I’m Joan, and my younger twin is Hazel,” Joan said with a smirk. Ever since she found out she was the older twin from her grandmother, she always lorded it over her sister. “Dammit, Joan, it was ten minutes. Ten minutes.” Juve merely smiled. “I’m pretty sure that you both could have fun at our spa. We cater to fetishes of all types as well as doing relaxing procedures. Oh, and the food is amazing.” “Is it in London?” Joan asked. “Yep! Here’s my card, one for each of you.” Both twins took the card. “Juventas’ Winged Oasis, huh?” Hazel said. “You said it caters to fetishes?” “That it does,” Juve said with a smirk. “You have a poison?” Neither twin seemed eager to share, looking embarrassed all of a sudden. “Aww, it’s okay, we’re friendly here. I have my own fetish, Mede here is a maid and petplay addict, can’t get enough of it.” “Mistress,” Mede whined. “Heel, girl.” The order was a bit stern, and Mede lay at Juve’s feet in a shockingly docile manner. “Feel free to say as much or as little as you want.” “Do you cater to adult baby fetishes?” Joan asked, before blushing and covering her mouth. “Sis, you too?” Joan turned in shock to see Hazel blushing. “Wait, Hazel, you also-” “Well, that solves a lot of problems.” Juve looked genuinely happy, and not in a mean way. “We can easily do that at our spa. No need to bring anything other than stuffies and favorite dummies.” Both twins looked sad, and Juve seemed to look sad as well. “You don’t have any stuffies or dummies?” “No,” Joan said. “I have to survive. It’s hard enough to buy nappies.” “Yeah, adult nappies are the only thing I’ve allowed myself,” Hazel admitted. “Tell you what, we can find you a stuffie each and provide the dummies, the bottles, actual adult baby nappies, everything a happy baby girl needs.” “How much will it cost?” Hazel asked in trepidation. “Tell you what: first time’s on me. It’ll cost more for extra ‘sessions’.” The woman almost seemed to transform into a dominatrix in front of their eyes. “Sound good?” Joan and Hazel looked at each other incredulously, unbelieving of their luck, before saying simultaneously, “You bet!” - Apologies in advance for the long, fragmented chapter: it would've been too short to post each person's response, and I want to move into this story as quickly as I could. Anyway, here are the translations of some of the foreign words: Halal = Islamic limits to what one is religiously allowed to eat. Kabsa = an Arabic rice dish that has a meat (usually lamb or chicken, but can include beef, fish, goat, even camel) with vegetables and a mixture of spices. Batata harri = a Lebanese dish with potatoes, vegetables, and spices. "Ila al-lika'a ya habibi." = "Until we meet again, my love." (Directed towards a man.) Hope y'all enjoyed this very long chapter - and for you Brits out there, let me know how I did~ I swear to holy fate, I researched as much as I could, but if I made mistakes, please let me know.

Well, came up with a new story on the fly. Welcome to Method Acting, a brand-new AR story. Yes, there's a lot of tags, but I figure it needed them. It's sort-of based on the Me-Too movement, given the subject matter, particularly young female actresses going up against a rich and powerful man. Obviously, all characters here are not based on anyone in real life; just the situation. As for the content, the tags do not include what the MC actress thinks happened to her fellow actresses: sexual assault; while what he did to the MC is a sexual crime and while there are implied threats, he did not assault the others in terms of forcing himself onto others. This story will not include sex crimes against children or grooming; he's not in it for that. He's a disgusting excuse for a person, don't get me wrong, though; just not...that. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. But if you're still with me, feel free to read on: - Chapter One: Cynthia's Interview - Cynthia Nachtnebel was seriously pissed off, as she sat in the media room in the El Cid Theater, waiting for the exact time for security to open the door so that the media could come in, her long fingers steepled over the conference table, close to the microphone. Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old up-and-coming actress, and yes, she knew that such a profession entailed a certain lack of anonymity. Yes, she was used to creeps by now - directors, actors, media, fans, all types - and she knew how to deal with them without trashing her budding career. Yes, she knew of the salacious rumor mill about whom she was dating, where she was dating them, and why she hadn’t sealed the deal. She didn’t care about any of that as much; she almost expected it, being a fairly tall (last time she had gotten measured, she was 5’9”; never ask a lady her weight), athletic (to the point of doing her own stunts) and beautiful (long and curly platinum-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and a body that most women would kill for) woman. Wasn’t her fault she hit the genetic lottery, after all, and people could get jealous of that. She knew that from middle school on. But there was absolutely no excuse for what this…motherfucking sleazeball did! What that fucker, A-Bomb or whatever his name was, did was despicable, degrading, and didn’t just cross the line; he leapt well over it. Cynthia had no issues raising hell against him, no matter how filthy rich and obscenely powerful he was - and he was absolutely loaded with both, especially for a paparazzi. Her fellow actresses and actors, the directors of her films, her agent, all of them had advised her against meeting him head on. But someone had to make a stand, right? If it wasn’t her, some other poor girl would have to do it - and Cynthia Nachtnebel was not the type to let someone else get hurt while she stood on the sidelines. The media were outside, waiting for her to start with bated breath: she had made it quite public on social media that she had a big announcement before she would take any questions. Some assumed she was pregnant. Cynthia was far from ace/aro (pan would be a more fitting description), but she was always careful with birth control and the like; she would wait for the kids until later on in her career. Her actress mother, Nikole, with Cynthia being an only child, wanted grandkids. Her mother would have to wait for that. Others thought it was to promote one of her movies. Cynthia never had regrets for any of the movies she played a role in, getting her start at seventeen in a horror film (which she played so well as a method actress - even though her character ended up dying at the end - that directors immediately lined up to get their piece), rising through the ranks and movies for eight (would’ve been nine, if not for…the incident) years, going from romance, to comedy, to action, and everything in between, never being afraid to dive deep into a character study. Even if the movies bombed, people still raved about her acting and how respectful she was to the character and the film. Still more thought it would be a minor thing that she thought was major news, making a mountain out of a molehill. Cynthia had no idea why some would think that of her, even after everything she did in her career, but she supposed there were skeptics for everything. She was always respectful to her fans, making sure to stay long hours for autographs, and respond to all of the social media posts and letters she received personally. She got along famously with the stuntmen and stuntwomen; her German-born father, Hans-Jurgen was one, and it’s what got her interested in doing her own stunts. She got along well with everyone involved in the film industry, from the cameramen, the costume designers, the makeup artists, and everyone, even to the most menial janitors, but the stuntpeople were whom she was closest to from childhood on. She always treated her peers with respect, even with other actresses, always trying to take the peaceful route, and ended up making a lot of lifelong friends with actors, actresses, agents, and many others…including two that she wanted to talk about today. Even the media, for the most part, she was cordial with, even when her anxiety caused her to have panic attacks around the scrums at first. The media was still a little scary for her, but most of them were accepting, she thought. None of those theories were close to the truth of the matter. Cynthia breathed. In, out. In, out. She was never comfortable with the attention; she just wanted to play roles, disappear into them, forget who she was for a moment in time. But she accepted that things were never going to go the way they did again. Not after what he did, and not after what she was going to do. The last nine months, from January on, were hell on earth. The disappearances of fellow actress and close friend Bethany Grassman and her agent, Nancy Leighton in the December before were bad enough…but then…it happened. The photos. The porn sites. The Photoshopping. The words of “slut”, “whore”, “cunt”, and many more uncreative variations wherever she saw her picture. The death and rape threats - including THE BIG ONE from HIM. The loss of respect and the shattering of her safety. The immense anxiety and numerous panic attacks. Checking voluntarily into a private psych facility from early February to late March (even though she never talked to a counselor about what had happened), and the stalking of her there by HIM. Disappearing out of Hollywood to the small town in Germany she was born in, becoming a recluse for four more months, and being forced to cancel her movies for the entirety of the year- something she had never foreseen herself ever doing - in tears, just so she could get away from it all. And worst of all, forcing herself off the computer for those nine months, just so that she didn’t start hysterically sobbing all over again from the horrible speculation, nasty comments, and all of the threats. Cynthia was going to show A-Bomb just a bit of that hell: by exposing his fucking ass for the world to see. And oh boy, did she have a fuckload of evidence to expose him. She’d go to court and everything if she had to. She’d get him locked away for the rest of his sad, miserable life. And even if her friends were… Tears poured from her eyes, and she wiped them away before a steely look came over her face. This was not the time to cry; she had done all the crying she had to do. This was the time where she had to be strong. Cynthia nodded to the security guards to open the door for the media storm, aware of the flashing cameras, aware of the shouts, but she was perfectly, shockingly calm. She knew that she had to do this. Nobody else needed to get hurt by A-Bomb. She tapped the microphone to make sure it was working, holding up her hand for silence before she began after taking a deep, long breath. “I’m aware that all of you have questions, that everyone has questions, and I promise that I will answer all of them in turn,” she began, making sure her slight German accent wasn’t breaking into her voice, “and I know it has been a very long time since I’ve publicly spoken. I’ve been asked not to speak out by directors, by the stuntpeople I know, by my agent, by fellow actors and actresses, by…well, everyone I’ve talked to. They’re afraid of what might happen to me if I do. But if not me, who? And what would it cost them, in turn? “I speak, of course, on the conduct of one man in particular: Adrian Naposki. You may know him as the famous paparazzi ‘A-Bomb’.” Cynthia’s fingers clenched the papers in her hands. “You have known me for a very long time. For the longest time, you have known that I have promoted myself as family oriented, even with my anxiety and panic attacks. I do not pose for nude pictures of my breasts while asleep in my bed. I do not pose for pictures spreadeagled so that my vagina is showing. And I don’t send said pictures to porn sites so that impotent whack jobs can jerk off on them and call me a slut or a whore. “For the longest time, you have seen that I do not partake in drinking or illicit substances; fellow actors, actresses, stuntpeople, directors, everyone who knows me knows that I do not partake in anything of the sort. I have never once tasted alcohol after what I saw it did to my grandfather and learning how he beat my dad when he was drunk. I have never been interested in marijuana, much less heroin and crack-cocaine. “Then where, you ask, did all of those pictures come from? Where did all of those drugs come from? Mr. Naposki, of course. I have video records of Mr. Naposki’s visits to marijuana parlors, liquor stores, even street corners where he made numerous purchases. I had to pull a lot of strings and spend most of my earnings to get the evidence necessary, but I got it. But more importantly, I have my house cameras…where he trespassed at night, took numerous pictures of me naked, and placed the illicit substances in my home.” She placed a large file of the papers on the desk. “You are free to read them at your leisure: because I’ve already sent it to every newspaper, every news website, even the tabloids - and the police. Especially the police. “I also have the digitally recorded kidnapping, rape, and death threat - and the implication that he did the same to Bethany Grassman and Nancy Leighton, two of my closest friends - of Mr. Naposki here.” Cynthia bit her trembling lip, brought out a tape recorder, and pressed play on the microphone, the New Jersey accented words of the paparazzi coming clearly out of the speaker. “Lissen, sweetheart, I’m gonna give yew a one-time offer: yew go public with what I say or do, I will screw with yew and what little remains of your pride. I will screw with yew so hard that your screaming and crying will echo in my house, like with Bethy and Nani. An’ if I ever get bored of yew, well, I might just make yew have an accident an’ have fun with that. Got it, sweetheart? I’ll be seein’ yew. Bye for now, cutiepie! Love your tits and pussy!” The room was so silent that one of the reporter’s phones dropped on the carpet with a thunderous crash…and nobody said anything of it, the horror in their eyes clear at what was a rich and famous media personality essentially admitting that he had raped and murdered two women - and was apparently more than willing to do it again. Cynthia’s eyes were dripping with tears as she paused the tape recorder. “That day, realizing that Bethany and Nancy were raped and murdered, was the worst day of my life,” she continued, trying to keep her voice from shaking, trying to breathe as she brushed her tears away. “I went to the police. For whatever fucking reason, they said they couldn’t help. My friends, two of the kindest women I knew, were murdered, and they couldn’t help me because this…monster was too rich and powerful for them to deal with. I was terrified of him, especially after I learned that he stalked me and took pictures of me when I was in psych. I left for Germany. I couldn’t handle the constant torment. “It took me too long…but I realized that Mr. Naposki would just hurt someone else if not me. So, I went higher than the police, pulled as many strings as I could. You can talk to CIA Agent Francis Fortier if you need more information; he’ll be more than willing to answer any questions you have. “I will not be cowed. I will not stay silent any longer. Mr. Naposki raped and murdered two of my friends and possibly many others that we don’t know of yet. He threatened to rape and murder me. And if this ends with me disappearing or dying, I’ll be glad to sacrifice my life so that he goes down for good. I will not leave it to another woman to suffer from him in order to for him to be put down like the rabid animal he is. “I have absolutely no problems with the media; you have embraced me even with all of my shortcomings, all of my flaws, all of my moments of weakness, and I love you for it. I have no hatred for the paparazzi as a whole; it is something that comes with being an actress, being well-known, and they have to make a living as well in this business, too. It is just this one monster, Mr. Naposki, that has gone way too far. “And to my fans who have been waiting for my name to be on a movie for almost a year, to the directors I’ve had to turn down offers from, including sequels to movies I’ve made, to my agent who has been in the dark with this, only knowing that I have a problem with Mr. Naposki, to the many people I’ve grown to know and love in the film industry, I am truly sorry that I have nothing to say except for what I’ve just said. This is something I had to get out, so that Mr. Adrian ‘A-Bomb’ Naposki cannot hide, cannot run, and most importantly, never harms anyone ever again. “With that, you may ask any questions you wish.” - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Summary: After going through a traumatic childhood, Willa needs help. She's unknowingly admitted to Little Beginnings where she's going to have the chance to have the childhood she should've had (whether she wants to or not). ooOoo Chapter 1: “W-Willa…Willa Carolan,” the young girl stuttered. Her chocolate brown eyes focused on the black and white tiled floor as the receptionist typed upon the keyboard. She was the only one in the waiting room which she supposed made her feel a little better. She did not do well with interaction. The thought of even coming to therapy terrified her as she had never been before. She clenched her clammy hands into fists and counted backwards in her mind, trying to calm the beating of her heart. Suck it up. She thought. Plenty of people go to therapy. There was nothing to be worried about. That’s what she tried to tell herself. But she wasn’t so sure. She could barely talk to another person without stuttering or wanting to puke. How could she manage an hour long session? The whole point of therapy was to talk and she couldn’t even do that. “You can just take a seat in the chair right over there.” the woman smiled at Willa, finally having stopped typing. “Dr. Tischner will be out shortly.” Slightly nodding her head in thanks, she quickly scattered to the furthest corner in the small room away from the woman. With her knees pressed against her chest, she rested her head on them, taking in deep and rapid shallow breaths, ignoring the stack of magazines on the tiny table beside her. Willa didn’t know why she even agreed to come to this. She had managed to avoid it for the past ten years, silently suffering, never going out unless absolutely necessary. She was only twenty years old, had no friends, no job, and anxiety that riddled her mind and body. Adrian, her older brother was the one who supported her but she had a feeling he wanted her out of his home. His crazy ex- girlfriend of three years had just left and was still traumatized by... by everything. Willa thought his message was pretty clear when he scheduled the appointment himself and drove her, escorting her as far as the front door then leaving. She was pissed, rightfully so, that he would just abandon her like that. They were best friends. They had been for all of their lives. Even though her brother was five years older, they understood each other like no one else. She could count on him for everything. She didn’t have to hide away. They were exactly the same in everything from their caramel skin, eyes, round face and thick curly black hair. People would confuse them for twins because of how much they looked alike. So, yes, it hurt when he just dumped her at the building. He didn’t even say when he would be back and the unknown was what scared her the most. “Willa Carolan?” a new voice echoed throughout the room. Shooting her head up, a blonde haired woman dressed in a pink cashmere sweater and light jeans stood at the door with a clipboard. She looked to be about forty years old. Some lines were visible on her milky white skin but from afar she didn’t look to be over twenty five. On trembling legs, Willa walked across the room, ducking her head at the woman’s kind smile and followed her through the brown door into a small room. Sitting down on the lumpy grey couch, she examined everything around her. The walls were painted a mustard yellow and there was one small window which was the only light in the room. In front of her was a coffee table and a chair on the other side. An icy glass of water and a bowl of mints was situated in front of her. Her hand twitched, wanting to take a sip to cool her parched throat but she held off. Willa didn’t want to get too comfortable. She didn’t want to let her guard down. “It’s small, I know.” Willa jumped, turning to stare at the woman. The door shut and suddenly the two of them were alone. She sat down across from Willa with the clipboard and pen in her hand. Her blue eyes gleamed in curiosity. “I’m Dr. Tischner,” she said, her voice was low. Without realizing it, Willa slowly found herself relaxing at the woman’s soft tone. it was almost maternal, something she hadn't heard in many years. “You must be Willa. I believe it was your brother that set up the appointment, yeah?” Willa nodded her head. She kept her mouth shut, still inclined not to speak. Her foot tapped against the black carpet. Her eyes darted every which way, determined not to look at the doctor. “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk. We can just answer, yes or no questions.” she waved her hand. “Everyone reacts differently to therapy so there is no one way to feel or act. It’s normal to be nervous or afraid. I like to go at the patient's pace. If you’re uncomfortable with any of my questions we can just move on. Does that seem fair?” Her eyebrows furrowed together, taking in what she said. Willa was not one to bare her soul to people, especially strangers. It was a relief to hear her say that because she didn’t know if she would ever be ready to share what happened. Willa nodded her head once again. It did seem fair. Looking down at her clipboard, she began to speak. “I just want to clarify a few things, first. Your report says that you are twenty years old; full name is Willa Jean Carolan; and that you were born November 12, 2000? ” The young girl gave a nod. “Great! Now that that’s out of the way I thought we could get to know each other a little.” she exclaimed. “My name is Marina Tischner and I’ve been a therapist for about ten years now. I love working with children and young adults such as yourself. I take a really laid back approach when counseling. I don’t push my patients into anything they are uncomfortable sharing and will not reveal to anyone what is said in this room unless it endangers the lives of others or yourself. Do you understand?” Willa tugged at a curl that had fallen loose from her ponytail. She bit her lip, humming a yes and hugged the pillow in her arms that sat beside her. Dr. Tischner continued to question her about different stuff in her life such as her favorite color, food, animal, etc, and by the end Will found herself slightly smiling, not as tense as she had been when she first arrived. There was something about the woman that gave off a maternal presence. Something she hadn’t felt since the death of her parents. Dr. Tischner cared about her. It wasn’t fake. She gulped, holding back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. Willa bit her bottom lip, drawing blood but sucked it away. “I’d like to talk about you parents.” she casually brought up, stopping Willa in her tracks. Her heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. It was the one thing she refused to ever talk about. A single tear fell from her eye. “You witnessed your parents murder.” Dr. Tischner's voice was just above a whisper. “That’s when the anxiety and PTSD started, isn’t it?” Her chest rose up and down. She didn’t have the words to scream at her to stop the questions. Her shoulders shook as she continued to speak. Willa couldn’t breathe, she was gonna pass out. “You were only ten years old. I couldn’t imagine what that could do to a child.” she sadly shook her head. “You didn’t see your brother until you were at the hospital. That’s why he isn’t as affected as you are. Does that ring true?” The sound of a gunshot echoed in her mind. Her mother’s dead body fell to the ground. A pool of blood surrounded her. Willa’s father was already dead, having been murdered first. The intruders thought no one was home. That’s what they claimed in court. They never meant to kill anyone, they were just gonna rob her house. It didn’t make it any better because her mother and father were dead. She hid upstairs at the top of the staircase, terrified to make a move, afraid they’d hear her. It was two o’clock in the morning. Her brother was sleeping over at a friend's house. That was the day her life changed forever. “Take a sip of water.” Dr. Tischner calmly nodded toward the glass on the table. “We’ll stop the questioning.” She didn’t have to tell her twice. Holding the glass with shaking hands, she tilted it to her lips, gulping it down, barely noticing the change in taste. Willa finished it within a few seconds and collapsed back against the couch, suddenly overcome with fatigue. “We’ll stop for now. Why don’t you take a little nap… we’ve still got ten minutes left.” Dr. Tischner encouraged. Willa didn’t have to be told twice. A haze had clouded over her mind and suddenly she found it harder to stay awake. The only thing she could hear was the doctor’s voice calmly lulling her to sleep. ooOoo This couldn’t be real. Willa naively thought. The last thing she remembered was being at Dr. Tischner’s, her brother leaving her, recounting parents' death, and having a panic attack. She didn’t remember anything after that. A part of her desperately wished for this to be a dream but she knew it wasn’t. It was too real. Warm tears blinded her already blurred vision as her chest rose up and down, desperate to escape the entrapment she had been placed in. Willa wanted to be home in her own bedroom, laying in her queen sized bed. She wanted to be with her brother. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She wanted to be away from here. Away from this woman who was holding her as if she weighed nothing. . She couldn’t move her arms or legs. Her entire body was constricted in a tight swaddle by the light pink blanket. It had taken a moment for her to realize that as she slowly awoke, hearing the soft sound of the woman’s voice. That was ten minutes ago. Willa should've been freaking out more than she was. She should’ve been crying and screaming and having a panic attack. But the only sign of her panic were the fat tears that rolled down her cheeks, as she stared up at the woman who cradled her against her bare skin. The only thing she could focus on was her green eyes, unable to see anything else. If she tried to look more than six feet away it all became a big blur. “You’re alright, baby.” the woman cooed as she wiped away the tears. She spoke down to her as if she were an actual infant, unable to understand basic speech.That pissed Willa off more than anything. But she had no way to show it except for the glare in her eyes. “Mommy’s got you,” she spoke in a high pitched voice. “You’re safe with mommy now. You don’t have to worry about those big bad thoughts in your head. Just suck your paci.” she tapped the large object that was stuffed in her mouth. Willa was forced to suck on it, unable to spit it out due to the strap that went around her head. Pitiful whimpers rose from the back of her throat and the woman condescendingly cooed, rocking them both in the rocking chair. They were in the infant ward. The room was light pink and smelled of baby powder. Ten large adult sized newborn incubators filled the room and changing tables ran along the walls. There was also a rocking chair in each corner of the room. Everything was adult sized. Tapping her bottom, Willa’s eyes widened in horror as she felt a cushiony bulk on her bottom half. The woman’s smile widened, showing off her shiny white teeth. “Does baby Willa have to use her diapee?” She began to wiggle as hard as she could, trying to escape but she was too weak. Now she was sobbeduncontrollably as the weight of the woman’s words sank in. She was swaddled like a newborn, sucking on a pacifier, and in a diaper that she was expected to use. Her vision had been blurred. Her muscles were weak. She was as helpless as an infant. Willa was an infant. The woman stood up, pacing as she rocked her back and forth, supporting her head like you’d do a real baby. She wore no shirt and Willa’s cheek was pressed right up against her large left breast. Willa was only faintly aware of the woman’s hand, pressing on her stomach. The more she wiggled the looser her bladder became until suddenly a warm stream flooded her diaper. The thick padding expanded and she screamed and screamed through the pacifier, glaring at the woman in hate for forcing her to piss herself. It was warm and wet, sloshing around her bottom before being absorbed. She desperately wanted it off. She was twenty years old. She hadn’t used a diaper since she was two years old. “I’m so proud of you!” the crazy woman praised her. “You used your diapee like a good little baby-- you’re my good little girl!” She gave her a wet kiss on the forhead and placed her on the changing table, ignoring the screams. A moment later, another woman walked into the room through the sliding doors. Both had curly brown hair that fell right above their shoulders and fair skin. She crooned, brushing her hair out of the girl's out of her face. “I think she’s one of the cutest infants we’ve had yet.” the woman tickled under her chin, causing Willa to try to wriggle away. “She’s also a very smelly baby! I think it’s time for a diapee change!” The second woman held her down as her mommy undid the swaddle revealing he naked body and sagging thick diaper. She continued to sniffle, out of energy to fight. A strap was tightened over her waist and chest while the second woman held down her shoulders. Moving quickly, the straps were undone and the diaper removed. Grabbing baby wipes, she wipes down everywhere, running her finger over her now bare pubic bone. Willa’s eyes realized at the realization only for the woman to giggle. “Babies like you don’t need grown up hair. Infants are bare.” she covered her in baby powder, not wanting to cause a rash and retapped an even thicker diaper making her unable to close her thighs. Undoing the straps, Willa wanted to plead not to be swaddled again but it’s what her mommy did. She wrapped it around her body even tighter than before and supporting her neck, held her against her body. “I’ll go get a bottle.” said the other woman. “Little babies like her shouldn’t be up for so long. Little Willa needs to go nighty- night.”

Well, I know I have some other works that I need to really get done, but this little idea popped into my head last night, and it wouldn't go away until I wrote a chapter for it. So, here's The Infant's Guide to Reaching Purgatory~ Some things to note before we get started: Firstly, the content warnings are very real. Pay attention to the tags before you jump in and read. If it's not for you, you are absolutely not obligated to read, and that's perfectly okay. Secondly, this is not meant as a religion-bashing story, and I will not make it one. I am not religious in the slightest myself (and some of the things that the characters say do not reflect my beliefs), but I respect all creeds. It's just that this story is set in hell, for the very most part. No, it's not a Hellaverse fic: just a babyfur story that happens to be set in a different sort of hell. Finally, it is a very short prologue, and I apologize for not being able to get back into the swing of things in my other stories. I just needed to write something down and post it. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Now, without further delay, let's get into this story: - Prologue - “What do you MEAN, ‘I’m going to Hell’?!” The female red wolf had all but screamed those words, lashing her tail to-and-fro, nude as the day she was born (to her utmost dismay as she continued to cover herself with her paws and tail as best as she could; the angels said that earthly clothes couldn’t be taken to the afterlife), standing on the clouds that made up the surface of whatever judgment chambers there were in Heaven. Fuck, even the walls and ceiling were covered in clouds. She was utterly incensed. How dare these fucking self-righteous hypocrites say she was damned?! What did they know about her life?! What did they know about her?! The swan-winged figure looked at her coldly. Gender and species were impossible to identify with the angel’s robes, the heavenly halo shining upon its masked face. “Violet Valencia Bailey,” the voice intoned, neither male nor female. “Please don’t make this as drawn out as it could be. You’ve been judged by your actions and sins, and-” “I WANNA KNOW WHY!” Violet snarled furiously. “Please don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. You know why. Your last actions literally spelled it out.” “Unless you think suicide is a sin all of a sudden?” the red wolf huffed, wishing she had something, anything, really, to cover her body. Even a towel would be nice… “I’d say brutally murdering your husband in cold blood gets-” “YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID TO ME, IF YOU’RE SO FUCKING ALL POWERFUL-” “Please do not interrupt me, and please do not curse. His actions were detestable. Yours are inexcusable, and you don’t even have the good grace to admit it.” “Bullshit! I did what any sane woman would’ve done to a fucking bastard like him!” “Please stop curs-” “Make me!” “Don’t - interrupt me - again.” “Make me! You’re not my parents!” “And thank the Lord Almighty I’m not. You’re acting like a petulant child.” “Fuck off, chickenwing! If you’re going to send me down to Hell anyway, when I don’t deserve it, you’re goddamned right I’m gonna chew your ass out!” The masked figure sighed and pulled out an odd circular object that Violet assumed was a phone of some kind (and it sucked that she couldn’t bring her phone with her to the afterlife. Seriously, the afterlife could go screw itself, at this point.). “We have a Code Sunshine, repeat, Code Sunshine,” the figure said in a bored tone. The red wolf was suddenly confused. “Sunshine?” she asked. “It means you’re getting what you’ve rightfully earned,” the angelic figure said, and Violet could practically hear the smug smile on their face that she knew they were hiding behind their mask. “It’s been a while since this code was used. You might want to give us some entertainment.” “Entertainment? The fuck are you talking about?! You sick fucks like to watch animals get tortured, don’t you?!” “You’ll see what happens. I bet you last a week before you’re begging for Lucifer’s deepest, darkest pits. Or three days before she has you right where she wants you.” “Huh?” Violet felt herself sinking through the clouds, and she howled in distress - she hated heights, hated them, hated them, hated them - before her entire body slipped through, and she began to freefall through the air, her spirit plummeting to earth as she continued screaming in terror, flailing for any purchase where there was none, her soul dropping like a stone. She saw the ground fly up to meet her, and she held her paws out to protect her face, awaiting the crash. Only she didn’t crash; the second Violet’s spirit hit the ground, she began to sink through the inky black, like she was going into water in the night. Her arms and legs were forced up to her chin, tail curled around her waist, as if she was a fetus again, her body compacting from the pressure. “OH?” a masculine voice rang out, sounding very amused. “So, you managed to anger an Archangel enough for them to request a Code Sunshine. Can I have your name?” “Who the fuck are you?” Violet snapped, her voice sounding oddly tiny for a fully-grown she-wolf. “Are you some demon who’s gonna try to torture me, asshole?” “Well, I can certainly see why they requested it.” The voice was still amused. “Let me see…what is your crime…oh, right here, they texted it to me. Heaven can be so kind in those cases…” “Who the fuck are you?!” the red wolf repeated furiously. “Ahem, Violet Valencia Bailey the red wolf, you brutally murdered your husband, Dirk Arnold Stauss the Tapanuli orangutan, with a shotgun…multiple shots before he was finally killed-” “Shut up!” Violet snarled, baring her fangs, wishing for the millionth time that she wasn’t naked. The demon continued as if she had never spoken, “-then committed suicide after the murder-” “SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Violet screamed into the inky blackness, her voice as loud and forceful as a puppy’s. "-aborted his potential children without his knowledge in the past, refusing them a life when you had other options-" "GOD DAMN YOU, GO SUCK YOUR FUCKING DICK!" “And you had arguments with him as well,” the voice finished with a thunderous ending in his tone, far more powerful than hers. “Do you deny any of this?” The red wolf was shaking, her fur bristling with rage. “Does anyone realize why I did this?! Do you even fucking CARE, you unfair piece of shit?!" “Fairness in Hell? Do not make me scoff. He is damned as well; there is your 'fairness'. The difference between this man and you is that he did not act childishly when confronted with his wrongdoings. He freely admitted his sins, boasted that he was proud of them, despite knowing very well they were wrong; he is facing his eternal punishment as we speak. Deep down, I think you do know you were not in the right either. What is the saying, ‘two wrongs do not make a right?’” “Shut up! You don’t know shit about me!” The voice sighed. “I cannot continue this conversation with someone so immature. I will leave you to the Grand Duchess, Astaroth. May this be the last time we meet.” “What?” Violet felt a burning charge go through her soul, trillions upon trillions of times both hotter and colder than she had ever felt in her twenty-five years of life on earth, unable to even scream out her pain in response - and after the charge lanced through every part of her that remained, her conscious thoughts slipped into darkness. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Long long long time reader, first time posting my stuff. I have very short stories of little scenes here and there. Here is my newest one. The formatting won’t be the best. ———————— Captives Two woman and a man sat restrained to their chairs. Each with a gag in their mouth, muffled screams can be heard echoing in the tiny room in which they were captive. White walls all around, it was a boring room. 2 doors on either side of the captives adorned the walls. The one they were dragged into, and a mysterious door. Soft bells could be heard if you listened closely. Twisting and turning, each captive struggled to get free, muffled cries crafted a cacophony of struggle. Suddenly, the door that was not used before opened. The sounds stopped as the click clack of heels pierced the silence. A giantess of a woman stepped through the door and the captives froze. Never before had they seen such an entrancing figure. A tight black dress hugged her curvy body, her breasts voluptuous and firm, she walked in a way that let you know: she was in charge. The silence was broken by a maternal, yet teasing voice: “Hellooooooo little ones!” She smiles a devious smile. The captives were not ammused by the sing songy voice of their captor. “Looks like you have explored the wrong facility. We caught you on camera about a mile before you got to our gates” The blood rushed out of their faces. They didn‘t expect anything here. Rumors spoke of an old abandoned building in the forest that played soft lullaby music. They say those that go in never come out…. but they all assumed it was a childrens tale… until now. Each chair was on wheels, so one by one they were wheeled into the next room. The struggling stopped, replaced by fear of what would happen next. The next room looked like a preschool classroom. Rectangular with waist high shelves of coloring books, toys and stuffed animals. Along the back right half of the wall, there was a rectangular window with a door to the right of it. Above the door was a sign: INITIATION In the window was a table with a screen above it As if she felt the mood change to confusion, the Mistress explained: “This will be out first stop. Initiation. You see, this is a special facility. Meant to take you back to a simpler time.” She chuckles as she scans the three captives Blonde had heard enough. She didn’t want to be part of any sort of cult. She struggled harder against her restraints. “But i won’t bore you with the details. You..” she turns her full attention to Blonde as the struggle gets more intense. The other two started to struggle a little more. “Look like you are VERY excited to get started. Why don’t we start with you” Blonde shook her head in fear. She pushed against her restraints to no avail as she was wheeled into the initiation room. The door slammed shut, leaving the other two waiting. The room blonde found herself in looked much like a medical examining room, complete with the table. Before she could examine anything else her restraints let loose. She immediately tried to book it for the door, but was swiftly picked up by the armpits. “Ah ah ahhhh.. you can’t go that way little one! I know you miss your friends but you’ll see them soon enough.” The Mistress carried blonde over to the table and effortlessly retrained her to the table. Her clothes were fully removed. Naked and gagged, she was helpless to do anything. The Mistress then did something Blonde didn’t expect: She removed the gag. “YOU BITCH LET ME GO” she screamed The Mistress just ignored her and started to press some buttons on a panel. The screen lit up. “Please watch the entirety of the video while I prepare you” “Prepare me for what?!” The blonde screamed. The screen started to change colors, grabbing the attention of Blonde. The mistress said something but she couldn’t quite hear her. The colors changed from blue to green and to pink. Blonde couldn’t take her eyes away. Suddenly she felt her butt being lifted up. Something soft cushioned it as it came back down. It felt nice. Blondes thoughts were hazy. She tried to remember how she got here, but it was all dark and gray. Suddenly, her head started to hurt. She screamed in agony as her mind became a bright white light. She felt wetness coming from her crotch…:was she peeing herself? The wetness seemed to be contained around her crotch. Warmth. Her screamed echo’d as the colors changed faster, her eyes wide open. Pain, agony, fear. “AHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PLEAASSSSEEEE STOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAHHHHAAA……” The screaming stopped as something entered her mouth. “There there little one” the Mistress coo’d. “Go ahead and suck on your pacifier” The feeling was almost instant. Her brain went from white to shiny colors. Her screams died down into wails. That of a baby. [[pretty…. Colors…. Playtime!!]] Blonde started to giggle as her mind emptied. Everything started to empty. She squirmed and giggled as her diaper filled with the excrements of her old life. “Such a good girl!” The mistress adored. She patted the front of blondes diaper and removed the restraints. Blonde stayed there, giggling and babbling “AH! AH AH AH AH!” She babbled on, as the mistress gathered changing supplies. ———- The door to the initiation room slammed shut and the window suddenly became a mirror. Screams could be heard from the room shortly after but the two remaining captives couldn’t tell what they were about. A soft lullaby played over the speakers. The remaining two sat there, pacified by the music, unable to move or think. The door opens. The Mistress walks out, holding blonde against her bussoms. Walking toward the other side of the room, the mistress places Blonde on the ground with a soft thump and a crinkle. The two captives see Blonde, drooling with a paci, and fear runs down their spine. A muffled cry “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER” and slamming of feet. Blonde, naked except a diaper and a pacifier, rolled back onto her back and started playing with her feet. Tears streamed down Browns face. Her best friend. Her sister… transformed into a dumb drooling baby. “YOUR TURN!” The mistress exclaims from behind her. Her chair is jolted forward towards the room. She screams behind her gag, shaking her head. “No no no noooooooooo!!!!” On the table, easily restrained like the other, Brown finds herself ungagged. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? I’m NOT A BABY!!” Mistress chuckles to herself as she presses a few buttons. The screen jumps to life and Browns attention is immediately drawn. “Please….” She whispers, drowsily… “I DON’T …” She screams in pain. Her brain goes white. The diaper is slipped under her with ease as a stream of urine spurts out. Browns struggles ease as the diaper is pulled between her legs and taped. “Noooooo…..” Brown started to whine. “Nooo die-peeeeeee” she started to wail as she kicked her legs. The mistress pulls out another pacifier and shoves it in browns mouth. [[huh?]] Was her last adult thought. Her brain starts to see the flashing colors in front of the screen. She started to calm down. “Gah gah gaaaahahhhhhhhhhh hehehehehe” Brown was lost. Her bowels and bladder emptied into her diaper, as well as her adulthood. “Such a good girl” the mistress said, grabbing the changing supplies —————- The door to the initiation room opened to giggles as Brown was carried out! “SEE! “ the mistress exclaimed with a chuckle,” that wasn’t so bad was it?” She plops Brown next to Blonde, who moved over to the dolls and was now brushing one. Brown crawls over and grabs her own doll. Silver was in shock. His two best friends sat before him, naked and in diapers, acting like nothing in the world was wrong. He had to escape…. He saw the mistress catch his eye and he growled. “Uh ohhhh” the mistress chuckled taking her gaze a little lower. Looks like someone had an accident. Confused, Silver looked down. His pants were soaked. [[wait… what… when did i?]] “Looks like SOMEONE really enjoyed his lullaby.” He blushed and started to whimper. Who was this lady? She walks over to him and kneels down to his level. “I have something special for you little one” she said, not breaking eye contact.” She undid his restraints. [[RUN]] his brain thought Only his body didn’t cooperate. The gag was then removed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bite… but he couldn’t. No matter how hard he told his body to do something, it wouldn’t. “Good boy.” She said as she grabbed his hand. “What are you doing to meee” Silver asked, childishly. “You see, that lullaby you heard has some special properties” she started to explain as she placed a mat on the ground. She the knelt down and started undoing his belt. Silver whines but couldn’t do much else” “Noo stoooop” “Now now young man. You had an accident! We have to get you in proper attire if you are gonna be doing THAT!” She yanked down his pants and underwear in one fell swoop, emphasizing the word at the end of her sentence. His arms wanted to cover his crotch, but he found his hand instinctively move toward his face. His thumb found it’s way into his mouth. “I’m nottah bah bae” he mumbled behind his thumb. The mistress had him step out of his pants. A cold wipe was applied around his crotch and buttocks. “If you aren’t a baby…” the mistress lectured as she cleaned the man off “ then why didn’t you use the big boy potty when you were supposed to?” He knew the answer [[because you had me tied up you bitch]] he thought But his mouth just said “i dunnoooo” “That’s what i thought” the mistress said, pushing on his chest. Silver fell onto his back with a thud. His legs immediately sprawling out. He tried to get up, he fought with ever ounce of his being. But nothing happened. “So we are just gonna have to put you back in diapers!” Mistress exlaimed, causing the two regressed women to giggle. They crawled and mad their way to Silver, plopping down next to him. His face was flush with red heat as his entire legs were hoisted into the air, a thick baby blue diaper was slid under silver. His legs came down and kicked only slightly. “The mistress grabbed a white container and started to sprinkle powder on Silvers crotch.” It was around this point he started to hear the lullaby again, but he wasn’t sure id it was in his head or the speakers. Rubbing his crotch, silver let out a slight giggle. “Hehe that tickles, mommy!” He heard himself say, involuntarily. [[MOMMY? No… i gotta fight…]] The diaper was brought up between his legs and taped tightly into place. Silver was back in diapers. “Now, i have a special treat for you little one” she leaned silver up. He swayed groggily on his padded butt, his thumb falling from his mouth. Drool started to form at the corners. [[AHH COME ON MOVE GOD DAMIT]] he thought “Now, i know you appear to be all cute and obedient on the outside.” She said as she tugged on the front if her dress, pulling out one of her massive boobs. “But i know on the inside….”she taps his forehead “..:You need some adjusting” His mouth hicced a little as he saw her boob come out. [[Come on come on…. Get up GET UP]] He felt the drool fall down his chin, his eyes affixed on her breast. It was getting closer, although he wasn’t sure if he was being guided or moving on his own. He found himself cradled in her lap. “Now go ahead and take some of mommies milk” she said as she thrust her nipple into the drooly mouth. [[Nooooo… please no… not this…. ]] he thought as the pieces fell in place. She was gonna breastfeed him. involuntarily, silver latched. Milk immediately filled his mouth. His first thought was [[oh?]] It was tasty. He swallowed and it was like something in him grew. [[ oh man it’s so much… what’s happening to me?]] His thoughts started to fade. His memories were going grey. His stomach was filling with milk. [[…. No… i have to… ]]] he immediately thought about punching the woman in the face. For the first time in a while his arm moved on hismown accord, but stopped short when his hand grabbed the boob. [[ what was i doing?]] *Suck* *suck* *swallow* [[ i wanna go home.]] *suck* *suck* *swallow* [[oh god… i have to… NO!!!!!]] . The sound of his diaper being filled erupted in the room. He greedily started sucking more [[MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY KOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY]] Silver started to coo. His mind lost. All three adults now sat in the playroom, slowly filled up with the Mistresses milk, sending them into eternal regression. Never to be seen again.

A couple is on a walk at night and gets mugged the man futility tries to fight back but is utterly humbled as squealing and squirming his pants are ripped down as he’s dragged over the man’s knee and worn out in front of his giggling and slightly turned on gf Anyone wanna rp this with me :)?

Chapter 1: Bad Management The full moon cast its silvery glow over the city, illuminating the darkened streets and casting an air of mystique over the strip clubs that lined them. It was a night like any other at "Little Miracles Gentlemen's Club," but for Maya, it was about to become one she would never forget. As she prepared for her shift, Maya couldn't help but feel a sense of restlessness, a feeling that had been building inside her all week. It all started a few weeks back. She started noticing that some of the other girls were getting more tips than her. They all had one thing in common. Their boobs were at least two cup sizes bigger than hers. Their bras would get all padded up but with dollar bills instead of tissue paper. Frustrated, Maya started looking into some options outside of surgery that might help. She knew Halloween was coming up soon, and there's no better time of the year for something magical to happen, especially after hearing about a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event happening where the Earth was going to have two moons for the month of October. If magic was real, then this had to be the time to try it. Maya took some time researching different spell books and manuscripts in her free time in between classes at the local university. Everything she found seemed foolish and like it wouldn't work, but there was one spell. One ritual that came up more than any other. She hated the idea of doing it, but it was worth a shot; what was the worst that could happen? Feel like an idiot for a few days, and end up exactly where she is, with modest B sized breasts. Reluctantly, Maya collected everything she needed and proceeded to recite the incantation each day before she had to go to her shift, hoping that by the time she got there, her boobs would be big enough to steal the show for the night. She had only managed to try the spell for two days, with nothing to show for it. She hoped tonight would be different. It was her third try; the moon was full, and that second moon was clearly visible in the night sky. The only problem was that she was running late. She had fallen asleep while studying for her next test and hadn’t realized how much time had passed. In a frantic panic, Maya ran to her bathroom and quickly threw off her shirt. She wanted to examine her breasts to see if there had been any change, but she had no time. “Shit! How did I let this happen?” She ripped off her bra, grabbed the large jar on her counter, and proceeded to smother her boobs in the slimy substance. “This is so gross.” She grimaced. Even using this stuff the last two days didn't help prepare her for it today. Keeping it at room temperature made her skin want to crawl as the coolness touched her sensitive areas. Regardless of her feelings, she had no time to waste. Maya grabbed her cheap throwaway bra and threw on a baggy sweatshirt. Just because she worked at a strip club didn’t mean she was going to wear a party dress to work—anything to get less attention from potential creeps on her way to, or from work. She ran down her shared apartment stairs to get in her beat-up car. Even though it was old, it was reliable. "Please let it work tonight. I really need this. Tuition is due next week." Maya sped down the street roads, keeping her eyes on a close lookout for any cops. The last thing she needed was a speeding ticket or some sort of traffic violation. Even though she had a nice ass, that wasn't about to do her any good if she got pulled over. If she at least had a nice rack, she might be able to get away with a warning, but not in her current state. She was in a sweatshirt and had stuff all over them. At best, they might let her off out of pity. Luckily, she was able to get to the club without issues. Maya was grateful she managed to make it here without further delay and was only two minutes late for clocking in. She grabbed her purse, and was about to beline it into the club, when she saw herself in the rearview mirror. She still had to cast the spell if the enlargement was going to work. "Fuck!" She was already late, but not casting the spell would have meant she smothered her boobs for no reason. Begrudgingly, she pulled out her phone and went to the notes app, where she had the spell written out. She took a deep breath, hoping this would work, and began reading it out loud. If she were lucky, maybe they would grow in the middle of the show and get the boys all worked up. "By moonlight's gentle glow, I call upon the power of the goddess. Milk of the Moon, flow into my breasts, Attracting nourishment and growth with every kiss. Honey of Attraction, sweeten my form, Drawing love and beauty to my heart's core. Essence of Goddess, infuse me with your might, Breast Nourishment Powder, make me a beautiful sight." Maya looked at herself in the rearview mirror again and smiled at herself. "Here goes nothing." Even through all the stress of being late, she knew she was going to give the boys the best show that night. At the bare least, she would get any newbies drilling over her ass. She got out of her car, and ran over to the door. "Hey, Frank." She greeted the bouncer. "You're late. I was beginning to worry." the tall man stood at the door, opening it for her to enter. "Sorry about that; fell asleep studying." Maya had always appreciated Frank. He was intimidating, but to her and the rest of the girls, he was like a giant teddy bear. "You got this kid. But I can't keep covering for you. You can tell Dameon that you got caught by a creeper and needed a hand." Frank had been covering for Maya for the last few weeks. He knew Maya was struggling with finals coming up and that the final payment would be required soon. Anyone would. But he couldn't fault the girl. She was trying to do something with her future, and this job was just a means to an end. "Thanks." Maya blushed, rushing into the club. She liked Frank like a big brother, but any time he called her "kid" or "kiddo" it made her feel like she was his little sister. She knew she was an adult, and could manage on her own, but with the stress of everything, she really had doubts some days. Finally, in the back room, Maya wasted no time clocking in, throwing off her clothes, and getting ready. She noticed on the schedule next to the punch-in clock that her name was on the board. She had a lap dance scheduled in the next ten minutes. She couldn't believe Dameon would allow one to get put on the schedule within fifteen minutes of her shift starting. It almost felt like he wanted her to lose a regular. "You know that stuff isn't going to work, right? Why are you still bothering with it, it looks, and smells disgusting." Sunny retorted, looking at Maya's smothered breasts. "Nice to see you too, Sunny." Maya knew she was only poking fun, even if it was a little hurtful. Sunny's breasts were easily a D, which meant Maya stood no chance of getting extra tips tonight. Not if Sunny's breasts were going out before her, and having a lap dance first thing meant her fate was sealed. Maya removed her old bra, tossing it in the trash, knowing that if it didn't work tonight, it wasn't going to work. She reached over for the pack of baby wipes the dancers shared for cleaning up in between shows, wiping away the ointment she laid on her breasts before leaving. She then found the costume she usually wore for lap dances and dawned it. A red lacy pushup bra, anything to help make her breasts more perky, and a red matching thong. She hoped that Marcus brought plenty of spare cash tonight. Stepping behind the curtain to enter the private rooms, Maya was stunned by what she saw. It wasn't Marcus—no, it was a woman. She wore a full-length dress colored in dark gray and lifeless hues. "I take it you are Maya. The slut who's been stealing my husband." The woman angrily pointed her finger in an accusative manner. Maya stood stunned. She wasn't expecting tonight to go like this. "Well! What do you have to say for yourself? Do you know you are ruining families?" Even though the woman was angry, Maya couldn't feel too intimidated by her; she was easily six to eight inches shorter than her. "Listen, lady, I don't even know who you are." "I'm Marcus's wife. I bet you didn't even know he was married, did you?" "Plenty of guys that come in here are married." Maya couldn't help herself by crossing her arms over her breasts. She couldn't believe this woman had the nerve to yell at her like this. Practically naked, in just her underwear, with nothing to cover herself. The whole thing made her feel small, even if she knew she was physically bigger. "So you admit it, you know you are ruining marriages." The woman leaned back on her heels. It was clear to see that this woman thought she was in the right. "I never said that." "Why don't you get a real job? All you are doing is taking advantage of these men and their families." "Listen, I'm just trying to get through school." Maya knew that doing this kind of work was frowned upon by many and that it made her an easy target. If she had a better way to make what she was here while still accommodating her class schedule, she would have looked at doing that instead. But there was no way. This was her only option. "So you beg these men for money? You can't take care of yourself like a big girl, so you come crawling to other wives' husbands for money instead." "What are you talking about? These men pay us for a show. That's exactly what we give them." Maya always hated it when people assumed things about her or judged her in her line of work. It's not like she was a hooker or a drug dealer. She never had sex with any of them, and if they even tried to touch her, they got kicked out and were banned. Frank was always good about that. "No. You crawl and beg like a baby. Someone who can't care for themselves." The woman pulled out a stack of papers from her purse, which she had brought. "You're the reason he keeps coming here. Seven times in 30 days!" "Lady, I didn't give your husband a lap dance seven times this month. It's not me." Maya could hear the showroom floor starting to get a little rowdy. She knew she wasn't up yet, but it was clear that someone else was running behind, at least based on the chatter that started. "Oh yeah, let's see." She folded over the sheet of paper with a list of transactions on it. "September 25th, Little Miracles," she ran her finger across the paper. "September 30th, Little Miracles." Maya could hear more clearly now what was happening out in the showroom. The boys were chanting. "Little Miracles!" They were either getting really impatient, or someone else was about to get the bulk of the tips tonight. "Now we are here again on October 1st, Little Miracles." "I didn't see him yesterday! I haven't even seen him today; instead, I'm in here with you." Maya was annoyed. She couldn't believe Dameon let this happen. Maya stormed out of the private room. She was going to give Dameon a piece of her mind. She wasn't about to stand there and continue to get nagged at by this judgmental woman. But as she stepped out of the room, she saw that everyone was silent. No one was moving; it was like they were all frozen. Even the bartender looked stunned. Unsure what was happening, Maya started looking around the room until she saw it. A purple swirling light was on the stage. "What the fuck is that" Maya felt her mouth drop open. She had never seen anything like that before. The closest thing was from some of the spell books she looked through. She thought the whole magic thing was a fake. Her boobs never got any bigger, yet, here it is. Magic. She stared in awe as a witch hat slowly started to arise from out of the purple swirl.

Okay, I know I'm coming up with all sorts of ideas lately, so I'm gonna go for this writing spree as I have it. Welcome to Curses!, a babyfur story where six prospective college-aged animals applying for a daycare job are physically and emotionally (but not mentally, per my usual) age-regressed~ Not exactly original, but I hope to put some new spins on it~ Of course, there's going to be a few mature themes that are dealt with in the content warning tags, so if you know you'll be affected in any way, you can stop reading at any point, and I will make sure to warn you guys when those things come up. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. And now, without further ado, the story: - Chapter One: Six Girls, One Job - Vanessa Cruickshank was bored and ready for the tour to begin for the daycare job she and her bestie, Shannon, applying for along with four other competitors. The giant anteater was dressed casually for the Bay Brooklet Development and Learning Daycare Center in Charlotte, North Carolina, wearing a black tank top with a skull in the middle, ripped blue jeans, and scuffed sneakers, her long bushy tail swishing with annoyance, as she waited outside in the chilly early October Saturday morning with the five other young women in her group. Needless to say, most of them didn’t get along with each other. “Watch where you’re swishing your tail!” the shortest among them, an Arctic hare, snapped. She was dressed to the nines: a white blouse, knee-length black skirt, black leggings, and five-inch heels (that somehow fit her large feet). “Hey, I don’t control where my tail goes!” Vanessa clapped back. “L-Leave her alone!” a mountain zebra spat at the anteater in a deeper voice that denoted her as trans. She wore a shin-length sky-blue dress (that didn’t work with her figure) and flats. “Funny, I thought she didn’t need a sidekick,” Shannon O’Brettle quipped harshly, the margay brushing her black miniskirt, her green sports tank top baring her midriff and combat boots somehow even more casual than Vanessa’s clothes. “At least I don’t dress like a slut to the job interview,” the hare sneered. “At least I rock my looks, Miss A Cup,” Shannon retorted, as the zebra looked down at her hooves shyly, the hare’s tiny paws patting the woman’s legs (as far as she could reach) gently as she glared at the margay. “And the job specifically insisted to wear your favorite clothes to the interview.” “C’mon, can’t we just have fun here?” a maned wolf asked in annoyance. She wore black jean shorts and crocs as well as a black T-shirt depicting a keyboard with the words “Don’t play me!” emblazoned on it. “There are three openings for pairs. We don’t have to argue.” “Just ignore them,” the final girl, an African wild dog, growled, trying to keep her ankle-length golden skirt and loose silver silk top from fluttering in the heavy gale, as she shuffled on her sandals. “Just because there’s six openings doesn’t mean they’ll get the job.” The job, Vanessa thought. Every one of them was desperate to get this job; it seemed like a dream for her, taking care of babies for six figures a month (she was not used to kids, only having an older brother and no younger siblings or cousins, but Shannon was, and she did everything with the margay), almost too good to be true. But she and Shannon were college seniors (and from the look of the others, they were as well), and they needed the money. Then the door opened, and a female northern flying squirrel wearing casual clothing (a red t-shirt without a logo, gray sweats, and tennis shoes) exited the daycare. She looked to be only a little older than they were. “Hi, I’m so glad you all could come!” she said in a perky tone. “I’m Connie Zanovelli, and I’m the head sitter of Bay Brooklet Development and Learning Daycare.” Vanessa was the first to shake paws, noting that Connie was even smaller than the Arctic hare. “Nice to meet you,” the anteater said politely. “Vanessa Cruickshank.” Shannon was next. “Shannon O’Brettle,” the margay said confidently. The hare followed. “Victoria Box,” she said in a cool tone. “Wait, Box?” Shannon asked. “As in the rich female couple?” The hare’s face flushed. “Yeah, what of it?” she muttered. “Why are you interviewing for this job, then?” the margay asked curiously, her tone surprisingly concerned. “Your moms cut you off or something?”” “Because some of us want to take care of kids.” The maned wolf shook paws next. “Tempest Pitcairn. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Zanovelli.” The African wild dog continued with the paw-shaking. “Shiloh Nash. Good to meet you, ma’am.” The mountain zebra sighed shyly, shuffling her hooves, seeing as she was last. “I-I’m Hester Dampier. I-It’s good to m-meet you, Ms. Zanovelli, ma’am.” “It’s wonderful to meet you all as well, but please, call me ‘Connie’; ‘Ms. Zanovelli’ and ‘ma’am’ sound so stuffy.” Connie’s smile was friendly. “Technically, the Pilkvists wanted to hire extra help. I’m assuming there’s going to be a lot of kids, given the hires.” “How long have you been here?” Vanessa asked. “About a month. They just opened the daycare to the public, so…” Connie looked almost contemplative. “Well, I’m glad that you all are here for the job interview.” Vanessa looked at Shannon, the margay’s face matching her confusion. Only a month open? That was…a bit unusual. “My bosses wanted to hire extra help for whatever reason,” the flying squirrel said. “So…shall we go in? It’s a bit too cold to stand outside.” “Of course,” Victoria said, barging her way in with Hester, her apparent friend, following nervously. Shiloh and Tempest followed next, leaving Vanessa staring at Shannon. “You sure about this, Ness?” the tree cat asked. “It’s a little…” “Weird? Sketchy?” the giant anteater finished. “Yeah, but if it pays six figures a month for this alone, I’m willing.” “Thanks for coming with me, Ness. I know kids aren’t exactly your thing…” “Any time, Shanny. Let’s go in.” The two lifelong friends went into the daycare and looked around. The walls had a light pink hue and were decorated with infantile posters, the floor was covered entirely with soft fuzzy carpet, and the ceiling lights were warm yet not intrusive, but other than that, it was sadly empty of anything, like the items were going to be moved in at a later date. Even the other four applicants weren’t there, only Connie was outside of an office door that they hadn’t noticed before. “They want you going in separately,” the flying squirrel said to them. “Good luck with the interview!” “Where is the next one?” an older female voice asked in a raspy tone. “Who wants to go?” Connie asked. “You do it first; I know I’ll do well enough,” Vanessa said with a smirk. “Fine. I’ll see you as an employee,” Shannon said with a smirk of her own as the margay walked to the door, opened it, and entered the room. Vanessa waited and waited, tapping her foot, before she felt her phone buzzing to display a text message. The anteater was annoyed; she had purposely kept her phone on vibrate and told her folks not to call her during the interview. She looked at the message, no, a lot of messages, one after another. Threatening, wheedling, threatening again, demanding her to answer, threatening yet again, faux loving shit, and, to nobody’s surprise, threatening once more. In short? Another message from…him. Her stupid fucking ex, Ryan. She had blocked all of his phone numbers, but he always got a different phone to call her with. It was annoying and more than slightly scary. The anteater blocked this one as well; she had no time to deal with this shit. She noticed the time. Almost noon. What was taking so long? Connie was on the phone with someone as well, as she said, “Raffy, I know you wanted to pick me up for that fancy lunch, but I’ve got a slate of interviews at my job, and my bosses are very nitpicky about that.” A pause. “Sure, 1:30 PM works; they never stated anything otherwise…” Then the door opened, and Vanessa got nervous - because Shannon, nor any of the other four, for that matter, had not exited the room. “If we can see the final young lady?” a different raspy female voice asked. “Okay, looks like you’re up, Vanessa!” Connie said in a perky tone. “Good luck!” The anteater sighed, ready to go in and try to nail the interview in spite of her trepidation, not having a clue of what was to come. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

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.

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! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ethan hadn’t planned on going out that night, but the quiet buzz of the bar called to him like a lullaby. It wasn’t loud or crowded—just warm lighting, soft jazz, and the faint scent of vanilla in the air. That’s where he saw her. She was older, confident, with a soothing smile and eyes that seemed to see past his words and into the ache beneath. Her name was Jenn. They talked for hours. She listened more than she spoke, asking questions that made him feel small—but in a safe way, not judged. When she gently took his hand and whispered, “Would you like to come home with me, sweetheart?” he didn’t hesitate. Her apartment was cozy. Dim lighting, plush rugs, and a subtle scent of lavender. They kissed, slowly at first. Her hands caressed him not with hunger, but with ownership. She guided him to the couch, and when her blouse slipped down to reveal her soft, full breasts, he felt himself drawn—not by lust, but by a quiet craving he didn’t understand. He kissed her there, gently. Her nipple brushed his lips. Then, unexpectedly, there was a taste. Warm, sweet, comforting. He pulled back in surprise. “You’re lactating?” She smiled, cupping the back of his head. “Yes, baby. And I think you need it.” He wanted to argue, to deny it, but she pressed him close. The moment he began suckling, something shifted inside him. The world dimmed. Her heartbeat filled his ears. Her milk flooded his senses with a warmth that softened his thoughts. His limbs felt heavier. Time blurred. Confusion danced through his mind. This isn’t right. I’m a grown man. But the milk was too comforting, too full of something he couldn’t name—something that made it hard to think, and even harder to care. Jenn rocked him, humming softly as he nursed, one hand stroking his hair. “That’s it, little one. Drink deep. Let go.” His thoughts unraveled. Words became fuzzy. Memories slipped away like leaves down a stream. He tried to pull back, to protest, but all that came out was a whimper. Jenn pulled him into her lap once more, her voice low and soothing. “You’re doing so well, my sweet little baby.” He blinked up at her, struggling to speak. He wanted to ask what was happening to him, why his legs felt weak, why his arms seemed shorter, pudgier. She kissed his forehead. “Shhh. No more thinking. Babies don’t need to think.” Before he could protest, she lifted him effortlessly. It shouldn’t have been possible—but in her arms, he felt weightless, like a toddler being carried to bed after a long day. He tried to speak again, but only a soft babble escaped. She carried him down the hall, into a room he hadn’t noticed before. When she opened the door, his heart thudded in his chest—because he knew, without a doubt, that it was a nursery. Not just any nursery. A baby girl’s nursery. The walls were painted a soft blush pink, adorned with hand-painted clouds and pastel rainbows. A white wooden crib stood against the far wall, draped with a sheer canopy and stuffed with plush animals. A matching changing table stood nearby, fully stocked with diapers, powders, bottles, and wipes arranged neatly in little woven baskets. A pink diaper pail sat in the corner. The room smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender. There were framed pictures on the wall: whimsical drawings of baby animals in dresses, a pastel alphabet with illustrations, a scripted sign that read “Mommy’s Precious Princess.” “No…” he whispered, or tried to. He kicked feebly, but Jenn just cradled him closer. “Shhh,” she said firmly. “You’re fussy. That’s okay. You’ll learn.” She set him down on the changing table and, with practiced ease, secured a soft, padded strap across his belly. He squirmed, but it was no use. His limbs weren’t strong anymore. He looked down at his chubby hands, now barely larger than a toddler’s, and panic swelled in his chest. Then came the humiliation. She untaped a pink, frilly diaper from a drawer. “First things first, my little girl needs her bottom cleaned and padded. Can’t have you making messes on the floor.” He whimpered, trying to twist away, but she just chuckled. “Still squirmy. Tsk. We’ll work on that.” She gently removed what was left of his grown-up clothes, leaving him naked on the padded table. He flushed crimson, every inch of him burning with shame. Then came the cool wipe across his bottom, the thick layer of lotion, the puff of sweet-scented powder. She took her time, humming as she worked, speaking to him as if he truly were an infant. “And now, baby girl, Mommy just needs to check your temperature to make sure you’re feeling okay…” He let out a pathetic squeak as she reached for a thermometer, coated it in lubricant, and—gently but firmly—slid it into place. His face flushed deeper than he thought possible. He looked away, cheeks burning. “Such a shy baby,” she cooed. “But Mommy knows what’s best.” Once she was satisfied, she pulled the thick, ruffled pink diaper up between his legs and taped it snugly around his waist. It crinkled loudly. The thickness forced his legs apart. She added a pair of lace-trimmed plastic panties over top, then dressed him in a white onesie with pink hearts and the words “Mommy’s Baby Girl” in glittery letters across the chest. He wanted to scream, to demand that this wasn’t right—but the words wouldn’t come. Only a soft whine and a fluttering of his lip. He hated how natural it felt to suckle his thumb when she gently placed it there. Jenn lifted him into her arms and cradled him against her chest again. “There we go. All nice and padded. Mommy’s sweet baby girl.” He cried softly—humiliated, confused, and helpless—as she rocked him and kissed his forehead. The next few days became a blur of babyhood. Sweet, surreal, and all-encompassing. Soft lights, lullabies, and babyish routines. His world shrank. Jenn cared for him tenderly. Every morning, she changed his diaper, cooing softly about how wet her little girl had gotten overnight. She kept him in a rotating wardrobe of dresses, onesies, rompers, and frilly socks—all in pinks, pastels, and florals. She brushed his fine hair and even clipped little bows in it. Diaper changes were frequent and thorough, done on a padded table with soft wipes, powder, and cooing affection. Each time she fastened the tapes on his thick, crinkly diapers, she’d kiss his tummy and murmur, “There we go, my precious baby girl.” She breastfed him several times a day, holding him in her lap and humming lullabies while he nursed. He found himself melting into the comfort, his body relaxing with each rhythmic suckle. It was humiliating, yes—but also strangely comforting, deeply calming. It quieted the storm in his mind and lulled him into a dreamy haze. Meal time meant being strapped into a high chair, where she spoon-fed mushy, pastel-colored baby food, spooned carefully into his mouth as he sat strapped into a pink high chair decorated with cartoon animals. When he got fussy or refused a bite, Jenn would gently scold him. “Uh-uh, little one,” she’d say, tapping his nose with the spoon. “No tantrums at the table.” And once, when he kicked over his bowl in protest, she sighed, picked him up, and carried him over her lap. “You need to learn, baby girl,” she murmured, pulling down his diaper and delivering a firm but loving spanking—just enough to make his bottom sting, just enough to make him cry softly into her shoulder afterward as she cuddled him close. She dressed him in a rotating wardrobe of baby girl outfits—lacey dresses, onesies with puffed sleeves, frilly socks, and pastel bonnets. Every morning was a new ensemble, and every one was chosen with a smile and a kiss on his forehead. “You’re my perfect little princess,” she’d say as she brushed his fine hair and pinned on bows. The playpen became his realm during the day. Surrounded by plush toys and soft blankets, he found himself napping, giggling, and playing with rattles without even realizing how far he’d surrendered. Nights were spent in a crib with high wooden bars, a mobile spinning above him while Jenn tucked him in, her lullabies soothing him into sleep. Then came the public outings. She took him to the park in a large stroller, his dress bouncing with every push, pacifier bobbing in his mouth. People cooed at him, assuming he was just a very adorable baby girl. Jenn would smile proudly and say, “She’s my little angel.” Ethan blushed so deeply he thought he might melt. He blushed furiously, unable to do anything but kick his legs and hide his face. At a boutique baby store, Jenn proudly showed off her “daughter” to the staff, letting them fawn over him. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole when they picked out new bonnets and booties “just perfect for such a precious little princess.” At the grocery store, she placed him in the shopping cart’s seat, his legs dangling helplessly in thick diapers under a ruffled dress. She pushed him through the baby aisle, selecting more supplies while chatting to him like any loving mommy would. The most surreal moment came when Jenn’s friends first visited. Three women arrived, all of them older women with amused, indulgent smiles. They complimented Jenn on her “parenting” and took turns bouncing him on their knees, patting his thickly diapered bottom, and pinching his cheeks. Cooing and fussing over “the baby.” They took turns holding him, feeding him, changing him. Even commenting on how cute he looked in his pink footed pajamas. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a real sweetheart,” one said, bouncing him on her knee. “She needed this,” Jenn replied warmly. “She’s much happier this way.” And Ethan, no, baby Ellie, as Jenn now called him, could only gurgle and nuzzle into her shoulder, too deep in his new world to do anything else. He hated how small he felt—but even more, how safe. Somewhere deep down, part of him had stopped fighting. Each night ended in her arms, suckling at her breast until sleep claimed him, safe and warm and very, very small. The days melted together like cotton candy on the tongue—sweet, sticky, and impossible to separate. Morning light always came gently in Jenn’s home. Soft curtains let the sun filter through in a golden haze, warming the nursery that now belonged to baby Ellie. She’d wake up in her crib to the sound of gentle humming, a melody that seemed to float through the house and wrap around her like a blanket. By the time she opened her eyes, Mommy Jenn was already there, reaching in with open arms. “There’s my sleepy girl,” she cooed, lifting Ellie from the crib with practiced ease. “Did baby have sweet dreams?” Ellie’s diaper was always the first concern—damp and warm after the night, sagging slightly between her thighs. Jenn would carry her to the changing table, humming softly while she stripped off Ellie’s footed pajamas and unfastened the tapes of her diaper with that same knowing smile. “Mmm, someone made a soggy little mess, didn’t she? Such a helpless baby girl,” she whispered lovingly as she cleaned Ellie with warm wipes, powdered her carefully, and taped her into a fresh, puffy pink diaper. “All clean and crinkly again. Just how Mommy likes her.” After a fresh change, the real magic began—dressing up. The wardrobe Jenn had prepared seemed endless. Lacy rompers, pastel dresses with ruffled sleeves, oversized bows, heart-patterned tights, soft mary janes. Each outfit was chosen to make Ellie look and feel every inch the dainty baby girl she now was. And Jenn dressed her with the care of a seamstress and the affection of a mother. Breakfast followed in the high chair. Today’s menu: banana oatmeal with a splash of breastmilk, spoon-fed lovingly one bite at a time. “Open wide for Mommy,” Jenn would sing, guiding the spoon toward Ellie’s lips. When Ellie pouted or squirmed, Jenn gently patted her thigh and gave her a firm look. “Babies don’t fuss at breakfast, little one. Do you need Mommy to remind you how we behave?” It only took one sharp smack on her thigh to remind Ellie what happened when she acted out. Jenn didn’t need to raise her voice. A light spanking—five or six firm swats over her diaper—or a stern time-out in the playpen was always enough to bring her back to submission, her head resting on Jenn’s shoulder as she sobbed softly into the fabric of her dress. Despite the occasional discipline, Ellie had never felt more cherished. Breastfeeding sessions were becoming more frequent now. Jenn insisted they were essential for bonding—and Ellie had stopped resisting. She would curl up against her Mommy’s breast, mouth latching instinctively, suckling while Jenn stroked her hair and whispered lullabies or dreamy affirmations. “You’re my baby girl. You belong right here,” she whispered. “You don’t need to worry about anything. Mommy knows what’s best.” And the more Ellie nursed, the more she believed it. Outings became part of their routine. One day, Jenn dressed Ellie in a pink and white sailor dress with puffed sleeves and a matching bonnet. Her diaper bulged beneath white tights, and her shoes made the faintest tap-tap sound as she was carried to the stroller. They walked to the park, where Jenn laid out a pastel picnic blanket and fed Ellie mashed pears from a jar while other mothers watched from afar, smiling at the adorable “baby girl.” Some even came over to chat. “She’s just precious,” one woman said, peeking into the stroller. “What’s her name?” “Ellie,” Jenn beamed proudly. “She’s my special girl.” Another woman leaned closer. “She looks so peaceful. You must be a wonderful mommy.” Jenn chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Ellie’s forehead. “She needs a firm hand now and then, but yes... being her mommy is the best thing I’ve ever done.” After the park, they stopped by a boutique baby store. Ellie was carried in, resting on Jenn’s hip with her diaper crinkling audibly with every bounce. The shop assistant cooed immediately. “Oh, what a darling little angel! Looking for something special today?” “Yes,” Jenn smiled. “Some new dresses and a pacifier clip for my little one here. She likes to toss hers when she’s fussy.” Ellie blushed, burying her face in Jenn’s shoulder. By the time they got home, Ellie was exhausted. Jenn bathed her in a warm bubble bath, gently washing her hair and skin, talking to her the entire time. “Babies need their rest,” she said, wrapping her in a hooded towel covered in bunnies. “Especially fussy girls who need Mommy to keep them in line.” That night, after one final change into a nighttime diaper and footie pajamas with clouds and hearts, Jenn rocked her baby girl in a plush glider, whispering softly: “Mommy’s so proud of you. You’re doing so well, my precious Ellie. You don’t have to be anything else anymore. Just be my baby. My sweet, obedient, diapered little girl.” And Ellie, nestled in her arms with a pacifier in her mouth and a full tummy, drifted off—no longer fighting, no longer questioning. By the end of the first week, something had changed in him. The humiliation hadn’t lessened. He still blushed every time she called him her “pretty princess” or praised him for making “big girl wettings” in his diaper. But the resistance inside him had softened. What once felt like punishment now felt like care. Structure. Safety. She always knew what he needed before he did. When he got fussy, she held him. When he whined, she hushed him with a warm bottle or the gentle tug of her nipple. And in those quiet moments in the nursery bathed in afternoon sunlight, while resting in her arms, dressed in soft flannel footie pajamas, he began to feel something strange and frightening: peace. One night, after she’d bathed him, powdered him, and dressed him in a frilly nightgown, she sat in the nursery rocker, cradling him against her chest. He stared up at her with wide, glassy eyes. “Wuv you, Mommy,” he mumbled before he could stop himself. Her smile was radiant. She kissed his forehead, stroked his hair. “Oh, my sweet baby girl… Mommy loves you, too.” He suckled her in silence, tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t know why he cried—only that he needed her, in a way deeper than he’d ever needed anyone. By the end of the second week, Ellie no longer remembered what it felt like to wear grown-up clothes, or even think grown-up thoughts. Each morning began the same: soft lullabies, a soggy diaper, and Mommy’s loving arms lifting her into a new day. And yet, every morning felt more special than the last, as though Jenn was carefully painting Ellie’s new life stroke by gentle stroke. They had fallen into a rhythm, a beautiful little world of their own. Mommy began introducing daily rituals to help Ellie stay “in the right little headspace.” After breakfast and a morning change, they had “mirror time.” Jenn would sit Ellie down on a plush pink rug in front of a tall mirror. She’d prop her up, brush her hair slowly, and talk to her in a sweet, soothing tone. “Look at that baby girl,” she’d whisper, gently guiding Ellie to look into her own reflection. “See those rosy cheeks? That pouty little mouth? That thick, puffy diaper between your legs? That’s who you are now, sweetie.” Ellie blushed every time—but she didn’t look away. Jenn would tie her hair into pigtails or soft curls with pastel bows and praise her for being such a pretty girl. Then came crib time journaling, a strange but soothing activity. Jenn would hand Ellie a soft, padded baby book and a chunky crayon. Though Ellie’s coordination had regressed—her handwriting more like scribbles than letters—Jenn insisted it was important. “Just draw what you feel, baby,” she said, tucking Ellie into the crib with her plush bear. “Show Mommy what’s in that sweet little mind.” Most pages ended up with hearts, clouds, or crude stick figures of Jenn holding Ellie’s hand. But Jenn cherished every one, taping them to the nursery walls like masterpieces. The next visit from Jenn’s friends felt less like an introduction and more like a family reunion. Ellie was no longer shy. They arrived in a flurry of perfume, giggles, and rustling shopping bags. “My goodness, look at her now!” cooed Vanessa, the tall brunette who’d changed Ellie’s diaper during the last visit. “She’s really blossomed.” “She’s fully baby now,” Jenn smiled proudly, bouncing Ellie on her lap. “Barely fusses when she wets, loves being spoon-fed, and she’s completely pacified by nursing.” “She’s lucky,” another friend, Ivy, said with a mischievous grin. “Not all littles surrender that easily.” “Oh, she had her moments,” Jenn chuckled, pinching Ellie’s cheek. “But Mommy knows how to handle them, don’t you, sweetheart?” Ellie blushed and nodded, mouth full of mashed peaches. That afternoon, the women took turns caring for her. Ivy changed her diaper while humming a lullaby. Vanessa fed her from a bottle while cradling her in a rocking chair. And when Ellie began to get overstimulated, whimpering and kicking, Jenn pulled her aside for a firm correction. She sat on the nursery glider, pulled Ellie over her lap, and unfastened her diaper. “I think someone’s forgetting who’s in charge,” she murmured, giving her baby girl a quick, warm spanking, just enough to bring the tears. Then, with the same tenderness, she cuddled Ellie to her chest, patting her diapered bottom softly while her friends watched approvingly. Jenn began taking Ellie on more frequent public outings—little excursions designed to build trust and reinforce babyish behavior. The grocery store became a favorite. Ellie was always strapped into the cart’s baby seat, pink frilly dress billowing out, thick diaper peeking under the hem. Jenn would narrate everything to her, treating her like any doting mother would. “Should we get the applesauce with cinnamon, sweetheart?” she’d ask, holding up two jars. “Or the one with pears?” Ellie’s only answer was a gurgle and a giggle behind her pacifier. At the park, Jenn laid a fluffy pink blanket in the grass and let Ellie sit and play with a rattle while she chatted with other moms. More than once, other women commented on how “natural” Jenn looked with her little one. One even asked if she’d consider babysitting. “Oh, I’m not a babysitter,” Jenn said with a secret smile. “She’s mine. Forever.” At night, things grew more intimate. Jenn introduced lullaby nursing, where she would hold Ellie skin-to-skin and feed her while rocking slowly in the nursery’s glider. A pacifier was clipped to Ellie’s romper for after-feeding comfort, and soft classical music played while stars rotated lazily on the ceiling. “You’re not just pretending anymore,” Jenn whispered one night, her hand stroking Ellie’s cheek. “You are my baby girl. You don’t even remember what it felt like to be anything else, do you?” Ellie’s eyes fluttered. She couldn’t speak—not in words. But her thumb found her mouth, and she suckled sleepily as Jenn laid her in the crib and kissed her goodnight. That night, she dreamed of only one thing: her Mommy, rocking her forever, in a nursery that never faded. But the peace didn’t last. Something old stirred inside him. One morning, while Jenn was folding laundry in the other room, he stood up in the playpen—wobbling on unsteady, diaper-thickened legs—and looked at the door. The old voice in his mind whispered: You’re not a baby. You’re not her doll. This isn’t who you are. Driven by a desperate need to reclaim some piece of his manhood, he shuffled to the door, managed to open it, and made it halfway down the hallway before she found him. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Her voice was sharp—not angry, but full of authority. He froze. “Wanna go,” he stammered, but it came out lispy and high-pitched, like a toddler’s whine. “Not Baby.” She walked calmly toward him, knelt down, and looked him straight in the eyes. “No,” she said gently, “you’re my baby. And Mommy’s baby doesn’t run away.” Before he could speak again, she took his hand and led him back to the nursery. He whimpered and tried to pull away—but she was calm, practiced. Once inside, she sat on the rocking chair and pulled him across her lap. “Mommy didn’t want to have to do this,” she said softly, lifting the back of his ruffled diaper, “but little girls who run away get consequences.” The spanking was firm but controlled—each swat echoing in the nursery, sending hot shame surging through him. He cried, not just from the sting, but from the crushing humiliation of it all. When she finished, she kissed his tear-streaked face, held him tight, and whispered, “Shh. It’s okay now. You’re still my baby. You just forgot for a moment.” And in her arms, sniffling into her nightgown, he realized: she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t cruel. She had corrected him. Something in him cracked. From that day forward, the resistance never came back. In fact, he began to lean into the role—slowly at first, then with growing hunger. He fussed until she picked him up. He tugged at her blouse when he was hungry. He giggled when she praised him for filling his diaper like a “good girl.” He even began babbling in baby talk, making her coo and kiss his cheeks with pride. Each new outfit she dressed him in—whether it was a pastel romper, a bonnet and mittens, or a dress with layers of lace and puffed sleeves—brought a twinge of embarrassment… but also a thrill. A warm, helpless flutter in his belly. And when she took him out again—this time to a Mommy & Me playgroup at the park, surrounded by other women and their infants—he didn’t resist being shown off. He clung to her, pacifier bobbing, resting his head against her chest while the other Mommies cooed and whispered. “He’s such a precious little girl,” one said. “She really is perfect,” another smiled. “How long have you had her?” “Oh, just about a week,” Jenn said. “But I think she’s going to be mine forever.” His heart swelled. In her arms, he was forever. Time lost its edges. He stopped thinking in days. Instead, his world became measured by diaper changes, naps, feedings, and the ebb and flow of Mommy’s presence. Sometimes there was sun through the nursery curtains, sometimes the soft hum of lullabies, sometimes the crinkle of his diaper as he crawled from one plush toy to another. But thinking? That became harder. Words slipped away. At first, he could still remember them—his name, maybe, or how to form a sentence. But they floated in and out like dreams upon waking. He’d try to speak, and only babble would come. “Ba-ba. muh. waah.” He flushed with shame at first, but Jenn only smiled warmly, kissed his forehead, and cooed, “That’s okay, baby girl. You don’t need big words anymore. Just let Mommy do the thinking.” And he did. He used to stand—wobble a bit, hold onto the edge of the crib—but even that faded. Now, his world was experienced on all fours. Crawling felt right. When he tried to stand, his knees buckled. He stopped trying. Every movement became slower, more instinctive. He’d crawl across the nursery floor, distracted mid-journey by the jingling of a rattle or the soft texture of a stuffed bunny. He’d flop onto his padded bottom with a happy babble, the thick crinkle of his diaper wrapping him in sound and safety. His pacifier was always close. He no longer just used it—he needed it. Without it, he fussed and drooled and rubbed his eyes until Jenn gently popped it back in. The rhythmic sucking calmed his mind like a blanket of fog. He forgot what he had been trying to do. He didn’t care. He was safe. He was hers. What little remained of his adult thoughts came in soft fragments. A fleeting memory of jeans. A name whispered in a dream. A vague embarrassment when Mommy’s friends changed his diaper together and giggled at how "full" he was. But even those moments passed like clouds. His emotions became simpler, rawer. Hunger made him cry. Fullness made him sleepy. Love came as the warmth of her arms. Shame as the cold tickle of a messy diaper. Excitement as the jingle of the toy keys she’d dangle over his crib. He lived moment to moment, need to need. And in that space, something beautiful bloomed. When she cradled him to her chest, he no longer felt like a grown man humiliated—he felt like her baby. When she bounced him gently on her knee and praised him for a “big baby burpy,” he gurgled and giggled, proud of himself. He’d cling to her blouse, cheek pressed to her breast, sighing with contentment as he nursed. There was no fear. No decisions. No loneliness. Just Mommy. The weeks passed like petals falling gently from a blossom. Each day, Ellie’s world grew smaller, softer, and sweeter—until all she knew was Mommy’s voice, warm bottles, powder-scented diapers, and the slow rhythm of being rocked to sleep. Her old life had faded into something distant and unreal, like a dream half-remembered. What remained was pure comfort, pure surrender. And then one morning, Jenn leaned over the crib with a twinkle in her eye and whispered, “Guess what, baby girl? Today is your first birthday.” Ellie blinked up at her with wide, innocent eyes, hugging her stuffed lamb. Jenn giggled. “Yes, sweetheart. One whole year of being Mommy’s baby. We’re going to have such a special day.” The morning of her baby girl’s birthday was soft and golden, sunlight slipping through the frilly curtains of the nursery. Jenn entered quietly, humming as she crossed to the crib. Inside, he was already stirring—diapered, pacified, arms splayed, with one thumb curled into his fist. “Good morning, birthday baby,” she whispered. He blinked up at her, then babbled around his pacifier. “Mmm-mmm” She pulled back the covers, scooped him up with practiced ease, and cradled him against her hip. “Today’s your big day, sweet girl. Mommy’s going to spoil you so much.” The day began with a special bath. Lavender-scented bubbles and a soft pink sponge. Jenn washed her baby girl gently, cooing and humming, then wrapped her in a warm hooded towel shaped like a bunny. Back in the nursery, Jenn laid Ellie on the changing table and powdered her thoroughly. Today’s diaper was extra thick—decorated with cupcakes and little hearts—and taped on snugly. After nursing and a diaper change with extra powder and lotion “just to feel pretty,” she dressed him in something special: a white satin dress puffed with layers of pink tulle, complete with heart-shaped buttons, puff sleeves, and a matching bonnet. Ribbons laced through the back. The final touch was a diaper cover. Lace-trimmed, frilly, and utterly girlish. Jenn held her up to the mirror. “There she is—my birthday baby,” she said proudly. “The prettiest little girl in the whole world.” He didn’t fight it. He cooed as she clipped a pacifier to his dress with a string of pink beads and kissed his forehead. The living room had been transformed: pink and lavender streamers, balloons with “1st Birthday Princess” printed in sparkly letters, and a cake shaped like a stuffed unicorn. Her friends arrived one by one, cooing as they entered, bearing presents wrapped in pastel paper—booties, onesies, plushies, rattles, bibs that read “Mommy’s Little Angel.” A high chair sat at the head of the table, decked in ruffles and ribbons, with a matching party hat waiting for the guest of honor. Jenn’s friends began arriving one by one, each bringing a gift wrapped in nursery print paper—rattles, dresses, plushies, bottles, and pacifiers. They all took turns greeting Ellie with high-pitched squeals and exaggerated coos. “Oh my goodness, look at her!” “She’s gotten so big—but still such a baby!” “Is she crawling yet in those thick diapies?” “Oh my goodness, she’s just perfect,” one woman said, kneeling to squish his diaper and tickle his feet. “You’ve done so well, Jenn.” “I know,” Jenn said proudly, lifting him up so everyone could see his flushed, drooling smile. “She’s exactly who she’s meant to be.” They played baby party games—“Pass the Pacifier,” “Guess the Diaper Cream,” and even a photo session where Jenn laid him across a pink blanket surrounded by rose petals and glitter letters spelling ONE. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t walk—just clapped, giggled, and kicked while all eyes adored him. Ellie sat in her high chair, hands resting on the tray, cheeks flushed beneath the party hat. Jenn served her a slice of cake—but instead of letting her use utensils, she encouraged her to use her hands, giggling as Ellie smeared frosting on her face. “Messy girl!” Jenn laughed, wiping her face with a soft bib. “That’s what first birthdays are for.” After cake, came the presents—each one unwrapped for her by Jenn as Ellie bounced on her lap. There were plushies shaped like kittens, musical toys, embroidered onesies that said Mommy’s Angel, and even a custom pacifier with her name etched in glittery letters. “You’re spoiled, baby girl,” Jenn whispered, kissing her forehead. That night, after the guests had gone, Jenn sat in the rocker with her baby in her arms, nursing her quietly in the golden twilight. The soft music box tinkling nearby. He was dressed in a footed sleeper, his thumb resting lazily in his mouth. His eyes were half-closed, hazy with milk and birthday sugar, body slack and sleepy in her arms. “Today wasn’t just your birthday,” she whispered. “It was your rebirth. From now on, there’s no in-between. No little traces of the big you left. Just my baby girl, through and through.” Ellie’s eyes blinked slowly as she suckled. She didn’t feel fear—only peace. Deep, complete peace. After feeding, Jenn placed her in a new crib—larger, sturdier, and with her name carved into the footboard. “You’ll be in this crib for a long time, my love,” she said, tucking her in with a new plushie shaped like a butterfly. “Mommy will always be right here.” The world outside changed with seasons. But inside Jenn’s home, time moved differently. For Ellie, every day began the same way: soft lullabies drifting through the nursery, the scent of warm milk, and Mommy’s hands lifting her from a crib she no longer ever left on her own. Two years had passed since that first magical transformation, and not once had Ellie dressed herself, used a toilet, or spoken a full sentence without permission. She was no longer “learning” to be a baby girl. She was one. By now, Ellie had her own rhythm—a perfectly structured day designed by Jenn, who had left behind her old career to become a full-time Mommy. She had proudly transformed her life just as she’d transformed her baby girl’s. Mornings began with songs, snuggles, and diaper changes. Ellie had become fully used to wetting without thinking, trusting that Mommy would take care of it. Her body no longer hesitated—it simply obeyed. “I think someone’s soaked,” Jenn would murmur lovingly, checking the squishy front of Ellie’s nighttime diaper. “Let’s get that princess bottom nice and clean.” After changing, it was time for playroom hours. A space filled with oversized stuffed animals, sensory toys, soft pastel mats, and even a big ball pit just for Ellie and her “nursery siblings”. Other littles who came over for daytime care. Sometimes Jenn would dress her in adorable rompers with embroidered animals or frilly dresses with matching bloomers. Other times, nothing but a t-shirt and a diaper that crinkled with every crawl. Ellie had long since lost her adult motor skills. Her handwriting was now illegible, her walk awkward and unbalanced without Mommy’s hand. She babbled more than spoke, relying on gestures, giggles, and simple baby words. And Jenn? She praised every sound. “That’s right, baby. Tell Mommy all about it. You’re so clever with your little babbles.” Over the months, a tight-knit community of caregivers and littles blossomed around them. Ellie wasn’t alone—far from it. There were regular nursery playdates, often hosted in Jenn’s backyard, complete with splash pads, plushies, and picnic blankets. Her closest friend was Daisy, a curly-haired baby girl with a mischievous grin and a tendency to throw her bottle when fussy. Their Mommies often coordinated outfits: matching bonnets, twin dresses, and monogrammed bibs. They would babble together in the playpen, pass pacifiers back and forth, or cuddle side by side during nap time. Once, Daisy swatted Ellie with a plush bunny. Both girls were promptly put over their Mommies’ laps and given firm, diapered spankings before being laid down with pacifiers and tears. Afterward, Jenn whispered, “Even the best girls need reminders, sweetheart. And Mommy will always give them.” Ellie never tested her again. What had once been taboo was now routine. Jenn took Ellie everywhere—dressed in full baby attire. Some days it was the farmer’s market, where Ellie sat in the stroller with a sippy cup and a floppy sunhat. Other days it was baby yoga classes, where Mommies gently moved their littles through soft stretches. Even skeptical strangers had come to accept the sight of the sweet, diapered girl clinging to her Mommy’s neck. Jenn never flinched from stares—she beamed with pride. “This is my baby,” she’d say to anyone who asked. “She’s exactly where she belongs.” And Ellie would beam right back behind her pacifier, not with shame, but with joy. Because she knew it was true. By the time the sun sank behind the trees, Ellie was back in her nursery. Bathed, powdered, changed, and dressed in one of her many bedtime onesies. Some had rainbows. Others had unicorns. A few were custom-made with messages like Mommy’s Baby Girl Forever or Too Little to Say No. Jenn would nurse her, then rock her slowly in the glider while reading picture books or telling stories of enchanted lands full of other babies and their loving caretakers. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Jenn whispered one night, brushing a curl from Ellie’s forehead. “And I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” Ellie couldn’t reply—not in words. But her hand reached up, grasping Jenn’s finger. And that was enough. Because even though the world outside kept spinning—inside their perfect little nursery, one truth would never change: Ellie was, is, and always would be Mommy’s baby girl. Jenn had given her something priceless: a new life, one where she was safe, cherished, and truly herself. She stroked his hair, watching him—not just with affection, but with awe. “You’re mine,” she whispered. “You were always meant to be mine.” He wasn’t a man in regression. He was a baby girl in truth. No trace of ego. No need for permission. Just soft babbles, clumsy crawling, wide trusting eyes, and the utter dependency Jenn had craved in her deepest fantasies. And she had created it. Patiently, gently, with love. She sometimes imagined what he’d say if he could form real words again. Would he thank her? Would he weep with gratitude? But even those thoughts felt unnecessary. She didn’t need to hear it. She could feel it in the way he nestled against her when afraid. In how his breathing slowed when she nursed him. In the limp surrender of his body after a bath, wrapped in a towel with “Mommy’s Baby Girl” stitched across the hood. He needed her. And that need made her heart swell with a possessive, maternal pride. He wasn’t a burden. He wasn’t a project. He was her baby girl. Her dream made real.

Jack adjusted his collar and smoothed out the front of his dress shirt for the third time that morning. The tie still felt oversized—Amazon-manufactured, like everything else in the building—but it wasn’t worth complaining. You learned early, as a Little, to pick your battles carefully in a world that wasn’t built for you. The doors of Halcyon & Crane Sales Solutions whooshed open with a soft puff of climate-controlled air. Gleaming floors. Holographic welcome signage. High heels tapping like judgment down glass corridors. Jack’s loafers squeaked faintly, barely audible against the thunder of Amazon shoes overhead. It was a firm run almost entirely by Amazons. And the fact that a 20-year-old native-born Little like him had landed a job here was… rare. Maybe even miraculous. He was proud of it—terrified, too. As he passed the reception area, Ms. Bellamy, the Amazon secretary, gave him a saccharine smile. “Good morning, little Jack. Tummy feeling okay today?” Jack stiffened slightly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” She always asked that. In the same tone someone might use to check if a preschooler had remembered to use the potty. He kept walking. Kept his eyes forward. He had to prove himself. Every day. Every hour. The sales floor was buzzing with chatter, tablets, and presentation files. Amazon executives towered over their desks, making confident calls and reviewing data on floor-to-ceiling touchscreens. Jack’s workstation was, predictably, much smaller—tucked into a nook near the supply cabinet, custom-made for a Little. But his numbers were good. Better than good, in fact. That’s what brought the attention. Ms. Halden. Senior Accounts Director. Eight foot six, maybe more. Graceful but imposing, with dark auburn hair tied into a firm bun and eyes that could silence a room with a glance. She didn’t raise her voice—she didn’t need to. She was the type of Amazon who could make even other Amazons straighten up. She also had a reputation. Her office had a plastic potty in the corner. Some said it was there as a joke. Some said she used it for “noncompliant Littles.” Others claimed she’d already “adopted” two staffers from other departments—both of whom had vanished into domestic regression with full Amazon legal custody. Jack told himself it was just office gossip. But that still didn’t stop his heart from jumping when her voice echoed behind him. “Jack. My office. Now.” He turned, swallowing. “Yes, Ms. Halden.” He climbed up onto her chair-sized step-stool just outside the doorway and entered, quietly. Her office smelled of lavender and leather. It was pristine. Minimalist. Polished chrome and black furniture, the firm’s awards gleaming in a locked glass case. And in the far corner, like a stain in his peripheral vision: the plastic potty chair. Bright pink. Unlabeled. But unmistakable. Jack tried not to look at it. Ms. Halden gestured to a booster seat placed in front of her desk. “Up.” He hesitated. “Uh… may I sit in the normal—?” Her eyes didn’t even flicker. Just one perfectly arched brow. He climbed up into the booster. “Good boy.” Jack’s face flushed, but he didn’t argue. She tapped her desk. A glowing spreadsheet appeared between them. “Your sales reports are excellent,” she said. “Clients love you. You listen. You respond quickly. You never push. You ask questions.” Jack blinked, unsure where this was going. “I’d like to groom you for handling tier-2 accounts,” she said smoothly. “But that means more oversight. More structure. More… maturity.” Jack sat up straighter. “Yes, ma’am. I’m ready for more responsibility.” “Oh, no no,” she smiled. “Not that kind of maturity.” He froze. She tapped again. A smaller window popped open: a photo. A grainy shot of Jack in the break room two days ago, spilling coffee as his legs were dangling from the Littles’ bench. Another tap: a second photo. Jack, exiting the Little’s bathroom. Clearly mid-waddle. His belt loose. A faint bulge from beneath his slacks. He inhaled sharply. She folded her hands. “I’ve been watching you, Jack. You’re very determined to be a successful employee here. That’s good. But your goal is not… sustainable.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ms. Halden stood. She crossed the room slowly, her heels soft against the padded carpet. Towering. Measured. “I can offer you structure,” she declared. “Routine. Security. You’d never need to worry about mistakes. Or grown-up things. I can make sure of that.” She reached into a drawer and placed a folded diaper on the desk. Thick. White. Printed with soft pastel stars. Jack stared at it, blood pounding in his ears. “I—I’m not a baby,” he said quietly. “I’m free. I have my ID, my Littles’ Work Certification—” Ms. Halden smiled. “I know. That’s one of the reasons why I haven’t taken you yet.” She leaned down, whispering just beside his ear. “But you’re already halfway mine, Jack. You just don’t know it yet.”

Chapter 1: The Unexpected Turn Greg and Sam had been married for five years, and their love for each other only seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. Their relationship was built on mutual respect, trust, and a deep emotional connection. They had always been adventurous in the bedroom, exploring each other's desires and fantasies. But lately, Greg had been feeling a growing urge to surrender to Sam's dominance, He couldn't quite explain it, but the thought of being controlled and guided by his wife sent shivers down his spine. Sam had noticed this on a few occasions in the bedroom and realized the excitement it brought for her. She wanted to push this dynamic further, the thought of it bringing intense arousal. One night as they made love, Greg found himself trying to nudge Sam's head down, hinting that he wanted her to give him oral pleasure. But Sam had other plans. She gently kissed him, her lips brushing against his, and then pushed him down, her hands firm but gentle on his shoulders. Greg felt a surge of excitement as he realized she was taking charge. He complied, his body responding to her touch as he sank down onto the bed. Sam stood on her knees, towering over Greg as he positioned himself on all fours. The room was dimly lit, with only a soft glow emanating from the bedside lamp. The air was thick with anticipation, and Greg could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Sam's eyes locked onto his, a spark of mischief dancing in their depths. Without a word, Sam directed Greg's head to her breasts. She cupped them in her hands, offering them to him like a gift. Greg's lips closed around her nipple, and he began to suckle, feeling a sense of comfort and security wash over him. Sam's hands guided his head, her fingers tangled in his hair as she held him in place. The sensation was intoxicating, and Greg felt himself becoming lost in the moment. As they lingered there, Sam's hands began to roam, her fingers tracing the curve of Greg's spine. She pushed him down, her touch gentle but insistent, until his face was inches from her vagina. Greg's heart skipped a beat as he realized what she wanted. He felt a thrill of excitement mixed with a hint of trepidation, but his desire for her overrode any doubts. Sam's eyes never left his as she began to thrust against him, her hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. Greg's tongue danced across her skin, tasting the sweetness of her arousal. He was lost in the sensation, his senses overwhelmed by the scent and feel of her. Time seemed to slow down, and all that existed was the two of them, lost in this intimate dance. As they moved together, Sam's voice whispered in his ear, "Stick your fingers inside me, Greg. Taste me." Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and he complied, his fingers sliding into her warmth. The sensation was electrifying, and he felt himself becoming even more aroused. But Sam wasn't done yet. She took his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, and guided his thumb into her. Greg felt a jolt of surprise, but before he could react, Sam locked eyes with him and pushed his thumb into his mouth. The sensation was shocking, yet strangely erotic. Greg's mind reeled as he sucked his own thumb, the taste of Sam's arousal mingling with his own. As Greg's thumb slid into his mouth, he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation, one that made him feel vulnerable and exposed. But despite his initial hesitation, he couldn't deny the thrill of excitement that coursed through his veins. He was turned on, and he knew it. Sam seemed to sense his conflicted emotions, and she smiled to herself as she kept his thumb in place. She gently laid him down on his back, her hands guiding him onto the softness of the bed. Greg felt himself sinking into the mattress, his body relaxed and open to her touch. As he lay there, Sam straddled his face, her thighs spreading wide as she positioned herself above him. She began to gyrate, her hips moving in a slow, sensual circle as she rubbed herself against the back of his hand while he sucked his thumb. He mound forcing it into his mouth while he tasted her juice. The sensation was intoxicating, and Greg felt himself becoming lost in the rhythm of her movements. Sam's eyes never left his, her gaze burning with a fierce intensity as she watched him. She could see the excitement in his eyes, the way his pupils dilated as he gazed up at her. She knew he was turned on, and she was determined to take him to the edge. As she moved above him, Sam reached down and wrapped her fingers around Greg's cock. She stroked him gently, her touch sending shivers down his spine. "Come for me, baby," she whispered, her voice throaty with desire. "Let go and come for me." Greg felt himself building towards a climax, his body tensing as he strained towards release. And then, in a burst of sensation, he exploded, his semen spilling out onto his stomach as he cried out in pleasure. Sam smiled, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she watched him come. She leaned forward, her body pressing down onto his as she wrapped her arms around him. Greg felt himself being pulled into a warm, comforting embrace, and he let himself relax into her touch. As they lay there, Greg realized that he was still sucking his thumb, the digit still lodged in his mouth. He felt a surge of embarrassment, and he quickly pulled it out, his face flushing with heat. Sam noticed his reaction, and she giggled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're so cute when you're embarrassed," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. Greg felt himself blush even deeper, but he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. He knew he was in this now, and he was excited to see where it would lead. As they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, Greg couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. He felt more vulnerable, more open, and more connected to Sam than he had in a long time. And as he looked up at her, he knew that he was ready to explore this new dynamic, to see where it would take them and what secrets they would uncover along the way. Chapter 2: A Night of Reckoning As the days went by, Greg and Sam had repeated the scenario that had started with his thumb a few times, but they had also fallen back into their routine. It was as if they had dipped their toes into a new world, but then retreated back to the comfort of their familiar dynamic. However, the memory of that first night lingered, and Greg couldn't shake off the feeling that something had shifted between them. One night, as they lay in bed after a lovely dinner and a bottle of wine, Greg found himself spooning with Sam, his head resting on her chest. She was looking down at him, her eyes gazing at his peaceful expression. The room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of the moon casting a silver light on their skin. As they lay there, Greg started to nudge his head into Sam's breasts, his lips brushing against her shirt. She smiled to herself, recognizing the subtle cue. She began to tease him, moving her breasts slightly, just out of reach, and then pulling him in closer. The game was on, and Greg's eyes fluttered closed as he savored the sensation. Sam's hands gently pulled her shirt down, exposing her breasts to Greg's eager lips. He latched onto one, sucking gently, and Sam felt a surge of pleasure. She transferred him to the other breast, and as he sucked, she felt his hand moving, his fingers brushing against her skin. She guided his hand down, her fingers intertwining with his, until they reached her vagina. Greg's fingers slid inside her, and Sam felt a wave of excitement. She was already wet, and his touch sent shivers down her spine. As he fingered her, she began to move her hips, her body responding to his touch. The sensation built, and soon she was coming, her body trembling with pleasure. As she came down from her climax, Sam realized that Greg was hard, his erection pressing against her leg. She smiled to herself, feeling a sense of dominance wash over her. She was in control, and he was responding to her every move. With a gentle touch, Sam took Greg's thumb and ran it through her juices, the sticky liquid coating his skin. She then slowly nudged his hand near her breasts, her eyes locked onto his. Greg pretended not to notice, but Sam knew he was aware of her intent. She kept nudging his hand, her touch insistent, until he finally looked up at her with sad eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension between them palpable. Sam's heart swelled with emotion, and she felt a deep connection to Greg. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his, and kissed his forehead. With a gentle but firm touch, she pushed his thumb into his mouth. Greg's eyes widened, and he started sucking, his lips closing around his thumb. Sam whispered into his ear, "Good boy...such a good boy." Her words sent shivers down his spine, and he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. As he sucked his thumb, Sam reached down and touched his cock through his boxer shorts. The touch was electrifying, and Greg felt himself coming, his semen spilling out into his pants. The sensation was intense, and he was taken aback by the sudden release. Sam was surprised, too, as it had never happened before. Greg's reaction was immediate, his face flushing with embarrassment as he looked up at her. He pulled his thumb out of his mouth, his eyes downcast. Sam's voice was soothing and mocking at the same time, "Oopsie, so excited you had a little accident! What a good boy you are for me, but someone might need a little protection next time, don't worry, I'll take care of you baby." Greg didn't quite understand what she meant, but he felt a sense of reassurance wash over him. As they lay there, Greg's eyelids began to droop, his body relaxing into sleep. As he fell asleep. Sam slid his hand that was on the pillow back towards his mouth, and in his sleepiness he accepted it, his thumb slipping back into his lips. He fell asleep, his body trusting and vulnerable. Sam looked at him, her heart full of love and affection. She realized how much she loved this new dynamic, this sense of dominance and control. She thought about how she would need to buy some items for him, to help him feel more comfortable and secure in his new role. As she gazed at Greg, she knew that their relationship was about to take a dramatic turn, one that would bring them even closer together. Chapter 3: Morning After Greg woke up to an empty bed, his thumb still lodged in his mouth. As he slowly came to, the events of the previous night flooded back to him. He quickly removed his thumb, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relaxation. He had slept better than he remembered, but the memory of his actions made his face flush with heat. As he sat up, he noticed the dampness between his legs and the slight cold wetness on the bed underneath his crotch, from his "accident" the night before. His embarrassment deepened, and he couldn't help but think about Sam's statement from the night before - "someone might need a little protection next time." He wondered why she had said that, especially since they hadn't used condoms since before they were married. Greg quickly got out of bed and headed to the shower, trying to wash away the lingering feelings of embarrassment. As he stood under the warm water, he couldn't shake off the thought of Sam's words and the way she had looked at him. He felt like he was losing himself in this new dynamic, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for it. After his shower, Greg made his way to the kitchen, where he found Sam already preparing breakfast. The aroma of freshly cooked pancakes and bacon filled the air, and his stomach growled in anticipation. As he entered the kitchen, Sam turned around with a bright smile, holding up a plate of Mickey Mouse pancakes with chocolate chips. "Good morning, sleepyhead!" she chimed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I made your favorite breakfast." Greg's eyes widened as he took in the spread before him. "Wow, you didn't have to go to all that trouble," he said, trying to hide his embarrassment. Sam chuckled and handed him a glass of milk. "I know what my baby likes," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "And I want to make him happy." Greg's face flushed as he took the glass, noticing that Sam had made herself a more adult breakfast - scrambled eggs, bacon, yogurt, and fruit. "You're not having pancakes?" he asked, trying to deflect attention from himself. Sam smiled and sat down across from him. "No, I think I'll stick to something a bit more... substantial," she said, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Besides, I know what my baby really likes, and it's not just pancakes." He could tell she was insinuating about the night before. As they ate, Sam couldn't help but tease Greg about his sleepiness. "You were so cute when you were sleeping," she cooed, her voice dripping with affection. "I loved watching you. And I have to say, I was a bit surprised by your... little accident." Greg's face turned bright red as he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. "Shh, Sam, please," he whispered, trying to change the subject. But Sam just laughed and reached out to run her thumb across the table over his lips. "It's okay, baby," she said. "It's nice to see you relaxing in new ways." Greg stared at her quizzically wondering why she was doing this? He could see the joy in her eyes. Sam looked at him and mocked putting her thumb in her mouth with fake sucking noise from her pursed lips, and a pouty face, and batted her eyes. Then laughed and winked at him. "You're learning to let go baby, and that's all that matters." Greg felt like he was going to die from embarrassment. He tried to change the subject again, but in his embarrassed haste, he accidentally knocked over his glass of milk, spilling it all over his lap. Sam rushed over to clean up the mess, laughing and reassuring him that it was okay. "Accidents keep happening, don't they?" she said with a wink. "Maybe you're not ready for a big boy cup yet." Greg's face was on fire as he sat there, his pants stained with milk. He felt like a child, and Sam's words only made him feel more embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sam," he muttered, trying to apologize. But Sam just smiled and patted his hand. "Don't worry, baby," she said. "I'll figure it out. I'll help you get back into dry pants." Her phrasing made him blush for some reason. As they finished their breakfast, Greg couldn't help but think about how different Sam had been treating him lately. She was more playful, more affectionate, and more... dominant. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this new dynamic, but a part of him was excited to see where it would lead. As they finished their meal, Sam leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face. She was thinking about how to push her plan to the next level, how to help Greg surrender to his desires and become the submissive partner she knew he could be. And as she looked at him, she smiled to herself, knowing that she had already made significant progress. The question was, how far would he be willing to go? Chapter 4: Surrender A few days had passed since Sam had received the mysterious packages, and Greg had no idea what was in store for him. That night, as they sat on the couch watching the fire, Sam was wearing a luxurious silk bathrobe, while Greg was dressed in a pair of childish pajamas that seemed to foreshadow the events that were about to unfold. They had shared a couple of glasses of wine, and the conversation had slowed down, with Greg eventually laying his head down on Sam's lap. As the warmth of the fire and the comfort of Sam's lap washed over him, Greg felt his eyelids growing heavy. But Sam had other plans. She slowly began to work his hand towards his mouth, her fingers gently guiding his. Greg resisted at first, knowing what she was trying to do, but Sam was insistent. She rubbed his crotch through his pajamas, the touch waking him up with arousal. "Come on, baby," she whispered, her voice trying to stay calm but loaded with desire. "Just relax. It's okay." Greg tried to hold strong, but a part of him wanted to give in. He was torn between his desire to surrender and his fear of what this meant for their relationship. As he looked up at Sam, he saw the determination in her eyes, and he knew he was no match for her. Tears began to form in his eyes as he felt himself weakening. Sam's fingers were like a gentle vice, guiding his hand towards his mouth. He shook his head, trying to resist, but Sam just nodded hers, her eyes locked onto his. "It's okay, baby," she cooed. "Everything will be alright. Just trust me." With a sob, Greg gave in, his thumb slipping into his mouth. Instantly, he felt a wave of relaxation wash over him, as if he had finally surrendered to a desire he had been fighting for so long. Sam's hands stroked his hair, her voice whispering words of encouragement. "You're so good, baby," she whispered. "I'm so proud of you." As Greg sucked his thumb, Sam maneuvered his head into her crotch, her silk bathrobe parting to reveal her nakedness. Greg's eyes widened as he realized she wasn't wearing any panties, and his face burned with embarrassment. Sam's pushed off the couch so he was kneeling in front of her on the floor, her hands guided his head, pushing him into her extremely wet crotch, her pussy pressing against the back of his hand. For minutes, Greg sucked his thumb, his body frozen in a mix of shame and desire. Sam's hands stroked his hair, her voice whispering words of encouragement. "Do you want to taste it, good boy?" she asked, her voice husky with desire. Greg looked up at her, his eyes sad and tear-filled. He nodded, his face burning with embarrassment. Sam's fingers guided his thumb into her vagina, pulling it out and letting him suck again. She repeated this process several times, each time pushing Greg further into his submission. Finally, she let him eat her out, his mouth sucking away at her pussy as she came in a huge orgasm. Greg's face was buried in her crotch, she returned his thumb to his mouth as, as he felt her body shudder with pleasure. When she was done, Sam leaned back, her chest heaving with exertion. "Are you ready for yours, baby?" she asked, her voice seemed to gain new excitement. Greg looked up at her, his eyes still sad, but he nodded. Sam smiled, her eyes glinting with amusement. Sam sounding like a child on Christmas morning said, "I bought something for you! I've noticed how you've been deciding to relax, I think this will help you." She pulled out a large white pacifier, an exact replica of a babies binky but bigger, from her pocket, and Greg's eyes widened in shock. "No, Sam, please," he whispered, trying to reject it. But Sam just shook her head and made an "Ssh" sign over her mouth. He looked in awe as she moved the binky down between her legs and pressed the pacifier into her pussy coating it with her juices. She quickly forced it in Greg's mouth. He tried to resist with his lips, but she persisted and cooed, "Be my good boy for me baby. Make me happy seeing you relax." Greg didn't know what to do and finally accepted it with a pouty look. He immediately started sucking the same as his thumb he was now used to. his face red and mind reeling with embarrassment and shame, the familiar taste of her juices calmed him. Sam led him to the bedroom, stripping him down as they went. "My baby seems more excited than ever," she cooed, her eyes glinting with amusement. Greg was ready for intercourse, but instead, Sam went to the closet and pulled out a pair of childish underpants with designs on them. He couldn't believe there was more to this. When had she bought these things? How long had she been planning this? Greg's embarrassment had never been higher, and he felt like he was going to cry looking at the garmet. "I don't want any accidents, baby," Sam said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "You need to wear these to protect yourself." "No sam, this is too much" he tried to say from behind the pacifier, weakly attempting to stand. She pushed him back down, readjusting the pacifier and said. "Please baby, you need this, just enjoy yourself." He could tell from her voice how much she wanted him to follow through... he laid back consenting. She couldn't believe it, her heart raced with the realization that he would allow this. Greg's face burned with shame as Sam pulled the underwear up, the fabric feeling different, more padded than normal underwear. He had a new shock realizing that these were like the potty training underwear kids wear, designed for people who can't make it to a toilet. His cheeks turned a darker shade of red. Sam rubbed his crotch, her fingers sending shivers down his spine. "You're such a good boy," she cooed. "I'm so proud of you." It only took seconds for Greg to come in his pants, the sensation of the underwear and Sam's touch sending him over the edge. Sam praised him, her voice whispering words of encouragement as she laid with him, holding him close. Greg feeling extremely tired now, moved to pull out the pacifier. Sam brushed his hand away and spooned with him, she moved her hand up to the binky gently holding it in place. Greg glanced at her realizing he wanted him to keep it in. He was too tired to think through her intentions or put up any fight and his eyelids drooped. As Greg fell asleep, the pacifier still in his mouth, rhythmically sucking, Sam thought about how amazing this felt. She had never felt so in control, so dominant. And as she looked at Greg, she knew that she could go further, push him even deeper into his submission. The question was, how far would he be willing to go?

Chapter 1 Abby stumbled through the dense woods, following a faint trail that led her to a dilapidated house. Its wooden shutters hung loosely on rusted hinges, its roof sagging and covered in green moss. She hesitantly stepped closer, her eyes scanning the peeling paint and broken windows. Despite its appearance, the house seemed to call out to her, a glimmer of hope in the dark forest. “God what am I doing out here I know this is on the far end of the property, but I have no idea why it’s even here, it wasn’t even listed on the land plot, and I can’t find any record of this place.” Abby thought out loud. Abby's heart raced as she approached the weathered porch, its boards creaking beneath her feet. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching her, its gaze piercing through the shadows of the surrounding trees. Her small frame shivered, not from the cool forest air, but from a sense of unease that crept along her spine. She reached for the tarnished doorknob, her hand trembling. As her fingers brushed against the cold metal, a whisper seemed to float on the breeze, incomprehensible yet somehow familiar. Abby froze, straining her ears to catch the sound again, but only silence greeted her. "This is ridiculous," she muttered, trying to steady her nerves. "It's just an old house. There's nothing to be afraid of." But as she turned the knob, a soft click echoing through the stillness The door swung open with a haunting creak, revealing a musty interior shrouded in shadows. Abby hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by her entrance, and the floorboards groaned beneath her feet. She moved cautiously through the front room, her gaze sweeping over faded wallpaper and tattered furniture. An ornate mirror hung crookedly on one wall, its silver surface tarnished and clouded with age. Abby caught a glimpse of her reflection, her thin face pale and eyes wide with apprehension. As she explored further, she discovered a narrow staircase leading to the upper floor. Each step seemed to whisper secrets as she ascended, her hand trailing along the weathered banister. The upper landing stretched before her. She comes to the top and notices a bright pink door on one side of the room, she slowly walks over to it her Curiosity overwhelming her. Abby approached the bright pink door, its vibrant hue a stark contrast to the rest of the house's muted decay. Her hand hovered over the tarnished brass knob, hesitating for a moment before grasping it firmly. With a deep breath, she turned the handle and pushed the door open, wincing at the loud creak that echoed through the empty hallway. As the door swung wide, Abby's eyes widened in surprise. Before her lay a nursery, frozen in time like a faded photograph. Soft, muted light filtered through a dusty window, casting long shadows across the room. The walls, once a cheerful yellow, were now peeling and stained with age. Faded circus animals danced along a tattered border, their painted smiles eerie in the dim light. In the corner stood a white wooden crib, its paint chipped and flaking and falling off to the other side an old toy chest seemingly filled with toys and the like. She looks around but can’t find anything she would want in here, so she slowly backs out of the room and leaves the door behind her letting the room be lost to time forever. “Ok enough of that this is already creepy enough I don’t wanna be in here any long time to gtfo.” She hurries as fast as she can down the stairs and to the main room, she does one more look around before she heads out the front door closing it behind her. She stops quickly and looks around, everything around her looks different and flat. She remembers there being woods everywhere but now it’s all flat land, she quickly turns around to grab the doorknob and the door and house are gone, she’s all alone in the middle of nowhere and has no idea where she is at. Abby's heart pounded in her chest as she spun around, her eyes desperately scanning the barren landscape. Where once stood a dense forest now stretched an endless expanse of featureless, sunbaked earth. The sudden transformation of her surroundings sent her mind reeling, unable to process the impossible change. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she stumbled forward, her legs weak and unsteady. The air felt thick and oppressive, pressing down on her like a physical weight. The sky above her, once a patchwork of leaves and branches, now loomed vast and empty, a pale, sickly yellow that seemed to pulse and writhe. Panic clawed at her throat as she tried to call out for help, but her voice emerged as little more than a strangled whimper. The silence that enveloped her was absolute, broken only by the sound of her heart. As Abby's initial panic began to subside, her racing thoughts slowly coalesced into a singular, urgent realization: she needed to find shelter. The oppressive heat of the barren landscape beat down upon her, and she could feel her skin beginning to prickle with the first signs of sunburn. With no landmarks to guide her, she made an arbitrary decision to head east, hoping that direction might lead her to salvation. She set off across the desolate plain, her feet sinking slightly into the parched earth with each step. The horizon shimmered in the distance, a mirage-like wavering that made it impossible to discern where the land ended, and the sky began. As she walked, Abby noticed strange plants and trees after a while, and she saw birds bigger than she could ever believe. “What the hell is going on? Why are the birds so freaking huge?!?! And holy shit! Is that a squirrel it’s massive.” Abby ventured deeper into the bizarre landscape; her senses overwhelmed by the strange sights surrounding her. The trees towered impossibly high, their trunks as wide as houses and their leaves the size of cars. Vines as thick as her arm snaked across the forest floor, their tendrils reaching out as if trying to grasp her ankles. As she pushed through the dense undergrowth, a rustling sound caught her attention. She froze, her eyes widening as a rabbit the size of a medium sized dog hopped into view. Its long ears twitched, each one nearly as tall as Abby herself. The creature's nose quivered as it sniffed the air, its whiskers swaying like thick ropes. Abby held her breath, afraid to move. The giant rabbit's eyes, each as big as her fist, locked onto her for a moment before it bounded away. Abby breathed a sigh of relief and kept on walking her journey long and hard before she finally found a small cave underneath a large tree that she could stop and rest in. She looked down at herself, happy she had worn sweatpants and a shirt with a hoodie over it, thinking it was one of the smartest ideas she had ever had now. She pulled her knees close to her and pulled the hoodie over them to try and keep as warm as possible knowing it was getting dark and would soon cool off, she just hoped she could survive the night at this point As night fell, the alien forest came alive with a symphony of unfamiliar sounds. Eerie whistles and low, rumbling calls echoed through the darkness, punctuated by the occasional rustle of massive leaves. Abby huddled deeper into her makeshift shelter, her body trembling from a mixture of cold and fear. Eventually, exhaustion overcame her anxiety, and she drifted into a fitful sleep. When dawn broke, shafts of golden light filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. Abby stirred, her eyes fluttering open to a world transformed by the morning sun. She attempted to stretch but winced as pain shot through her body. Every muscle ached, a testament to her arduous journey the day before and her uncomfortable sleeping position. Despite the discomfort, a wave of relief washed over her. She had survived the night and was alive. Abby slowly rose to her feet, her joints creaking in protest. She stepped out of the cave, blinking in the dazzling morning light. The forest around her seemed even more vibrant and otherworldly in the golden glow of dawn. Massive flowers, their petals as large as dinner plates, unfurled to greet the sun. Dew droplets the size of marbles clung to blades of grass that towered over her head. Determined to find water, Abby set off through the undergrowth. She pushed aside ferns with leaves broader than her entire body, their delicate fronds tickling her face as she passed. The air was thick with the heady scent of unknown blossoms and rich, loamy earth. As she walked, Abby noticed strange, iridescent insects flitting between the enormous plants. Their wings shimmered with colors she had never seen before in her life. After walking for hours Abby could hear water in the distance and grew excited, she started running at full speed, reaching a small stream she got down on her knees and started drinking the water by the handful. “Well, that’s water solved but I’m starving and need to find something to eat soon or I’m going to have more than one problem.” Abby took off her clothes and got in the water for a small swim and to pee, knowing it would just go downstream she knew that she had to head that way after she was done. Refreshed by her swim, Abby reluctantly climbed out of the cool stream. She wrung out her long hair and slipped back into her clothes, grateful for their familiar comfort in this strange world. As she laced up her shoes, she took a moment to marvel at the scene around her. The stream gurgled merrily over rocks the size of cars, creating miniature waterfalls that sparkled in the dappled sunlight. Dragonflies as large as small birds darted above the water's surface, their gossamer wings refracting the light into prismatic rainbows. With a deep breath, Abby began her journey downstream. The riverbank was a riot of color and texture. Moss as soft as velvet carpeted the ground, interspersed with mushrooms that stood taller than she did. Their caps were mottled with swirling patterns that seemed to shift and change as she stepped. Abby set off downstream, her steps more purposeful now that she had a direction to follow. As she walked, the landscape gradually shifted. The dense, jungle-like foliage gave way to more open terrain, with rolling hills covered in grass that shimmered like spun silver in the breeze. Massive flowers dotted the landscape, their petals a riot of colors she had never seen before - deep purples that seemed to glow from within, blues so vivid they hurt her eyes, and reds that pulsed like living flame. Strange creatures scurried through the grass, some resembling oversized rodents with iridescent fur, others more like insects with too many legs and eyes that glowed like tiny stars. In the sky, creatures that looked like a cross between birds and bats soared on leathery wings, their necks twisting as they called to each other in haunting, musical tones calls echoing across the vast expanse. As Abby crested a particularly steep hill, her breath caught in her throat. There, on the distant horizon, rose a sight that defied belief. A colossal city sprawled across the landscape, its spires and towers reaching impossibly high into the sky. The structures seemed to be made of a material that shimmered and shifted like liquid metal, their surfaces reflecting the light in dazzling arrays of color. Massive bridges spanned between the towering edifices, their graceful arches adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to move and dance as she watched. At the heart of the city stood a central tower that dwarfed all others, its peak disappearing into the clouds above. Pulsing beams of light in every hue imaginable shot from its apex, creating a mesmerizing lightshow that painted the sky. Abby was shocked, she knew at heart she was no longer on Earth anymore, she just had no idea where she was.

Hello again, and welcome to the final episode in Mike’s inevitable slide into babyhood. This one follows on from the events outlined in At Miss Katie’s House and Later at Miss Katie’s House. I did go back and make some edits to both of those stories so that they fit with what transpired as I wrote this one. I think this story is my longest yet, which seems like a fitting tribute to Mike and everything he’s been through with the women in his life. I originally wrote this one in past tense, but then decided present fit better with the ending. Fair warning - you might still find a few discrepancies which I’ll get around to fixing later. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! As always, all characters are 18+. Mike and Katie Together I haven’t been back on the couch long, when Katie returns to the living room, looking clean and fresh-faced, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She looks magnificent actually. Motherhood suits her in all the best ways. She leans over me with a soft smile. “You did so good waiting quietly for me, sweetie! What a good boy! Shall we check your diaper and then have a snack?” I’m immediately reminded of how good Katie always smells. Sort of like a warm kitchen on a sunny Saturday morning. That’s not quite right, but it’s a pretty close approximation of the sense of familiar comfort it brings whenever I’m close to her. She’s always so gentle and soft, too… I shake my head a little. There’s no time for these little trips down memory lane. Most of them lead straight to babyland anyway. Right now, I’ve got to focus on staying with it, here, in the present, in my adult mind. And I can’t do that without Katie‘s help: “Katie wait! Hold up a second…I’m Mike…It’s me! I’m back. I mean - the real me - this Mike - the Mike from before! I’m back.” I’m not sure that makes any sense, but it’s obvious at least that my diction and tone has gotten through to her. She freezes for a moment in shock, and then pulls me into a giant hug, peppering my head with kisses, smothering me in her warmth. A torrent of questions follows: When did I snap back? How long has it been? Am I feeling OK? What else can I remember?… I do my best to answer her questions with the limited information I have on hand. Unfortunately, I learned a long time ago that toddler Mike doesn’t take great notes, which is also why I have important questions of my own. Chief among them: WHEN is now? And for how long have I been a functional toddler? It doesn’t take long before the most pressing questions are asked and answered, and we find ourselves in a pause, both appraising the other. Her eyes flit to the bulge in my crotch, and I’m suddenly reminded of the soggy diaper around my waist. “I guess I should probably get out of this thing before too much longer” I say, while starting for the bathroom I passed earlier. Katie’s hand shoots out and stops me: “Mike, hold on a second. Um…I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. You’ve been in diapers 24/7 for almost 6 months now. You’ve almost certainly lost some control. How about we leave it on for a little while - just until we have a better sense of where you’re at in terms of potty…toilet training? Could you do that for me?” I notice she’s slipped briefly back into her ‘preschool teacher’ tone, but I choose to ignore it. Old habits die hard, after all. But I can’t just go along with this either. My mental state is fragile right now. What if staying in a diaper pushes me back over the edge? “Katie I’m fine. I’m back. I’m not gonna piss myself. I promise! Please don’t make me wear it!” I’m doing my best to sound confident, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that says maybe shouldn’t be so sure. My bladder feels oddly disconnected from my body. Like I’m not quite certain what’s going on with it. I guess I’m just not used to checking in with those nerves and muscles anymore. Of course, I also should’ve known that Katie had heard those lines probably 1000 times before at work, and she was ready for them. “Well, then maybe you can show me. Do you need to go potty right now? Sorry - I mean - do you need the toilet, Mike?” “No….I don’t think so,” I reply. I’m immediately aware of my mistake. A smile tugs at Katie’s lips as she once again deploys her ‘I’m in charge’ voice: “Well if you’re not sure, then let’s wait to take it off until you are. I promise I won’t think any less of you until then. In the meantime, why don’t you sit back down and we can figure out what to do next?” She pats the couch cushion beside her invitingly, and for some reason, I comply. I guess I could’ve asked to at least change into a dry diaper, but I don’t really have a playbook for this situation (and in truth - it just didn’t occur to me). We sit sideways facing one another - her on the end, me on the middle cushion, our knees touching. I’m not quite sure where to go from here, and so I’m very happy when she takes the lead in the conversation. It’s just so nice being this close to her again. Katie starts with more questions about what I remember from the last six months. I answer as best I can. Her expression is sympathetic and caring, and I find myself going into detail about feelings and emotions that I would normally keep to myself. I guess it’s not surprising that I feel comfortable sharing intimate details with a woman who has both ridden me bareback and wiped my bottom. She deftly steers the conversation away from our brief affair (wait - how did we get on that topic?) and towards this weekend and what might have triggered this latest awakening: “I have to tell you I was pretty surprised at how much you seemed to have regressed since I last saw you. I mean, I knew you had slipped based on what I heard from Miss Rachel at Sunny Hills (she says you are adorable by the way), but when Sandra dropped you off, I almost didn’t recognize you! If I had to guess, based on your speech and behavior, I’d say you had regressed to no more than two years old. You were a toddler in every way - except size of course!” I blush at this statement - thinking of how I must’ve appeared to her in that vulnerable state. How had I let myself go that far? Her expression softens as she senses my discomfort. She reaches forward and puts her hand reassuringly on my thigh. ”Oh Mike you don’t need to feel embarrassed about that! You couldn’t help it, could you?” She looks at me expectantly, until I shake my head ‘No’. “No - you couldn’t - any more than Cassie can. Do you remember meeting her last night? Helping me get her ready for bed? Well she’s asleep now, but you can meet her properly later. She’s much younger than you, just a tiny baby but…” I cut her off. I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t know how much time I might have left. I’ve already been lost in conversation with her for what…an hour? If I don’t speak my piece now, I might never get another chance. “Katie, hold up a second please. I need you to know some things. And I don’t know how much longer I have, so please just listen: I don’t like this. I never wanted this. At least not like this. I mean, I know I signed on the dotted line for the regression therapy, but Sandra never told me she was going to take it this far. And I didn’t think it could go this far. I thought I’d just feel like a teenager again or something, and that maybe it would help my depression. Plus, it was a great reason to quit my horrible job. “If I had known I’d be drooling down my shirt and pissing and shitting myself in front of people like you, I’d have never signed on to it. I want it to stop. I need to be ME again! “And that’s why I need you to know how I really feel. Because you can help me even when i’m no longer able to. Talk to Sandra! Go to the center and tell them I want to stop if she won’t listen. There’s got to be some kind of clause for if I change my mind, right? They can’t just take me against my will can they? “Please, Katie - I don’t have anyone else I can trust. The truth is, I’m scared. It’s so hard feeling like I’m losing control of who I am, or of what I am, and I just want someone to help me and there’s no one except you, and I’m so confused and alone and it’s all become such a big mess that sometimes I just feel like…” It was Katie’s turn to cut me off now. She pulled me into her for a hug, holding my head to her chest and shushing me gently: “Oh Mike, sweetheart, don’t get so upset. Everything‘s gonna be OK I promise. No matter what happens, I’ll always care about you and I’ll always be here for you. You don’t need to worry about that. You’re safe here. We can get through this together!” This wasn’t the response I was expecting or looking for. Had she listened to anything I just said? “Katie - I’m telling you I’m worried that I’ll never come back to my adult self! And I’m asking you to step in if that happens. Geez! This is like life or death in that way! Can’t you see that?! Are you actually listening to anything I’m saying? “Everyone’s acting like it’s no big deal that grown-ass adults like me are turning into drooling imbeciles - and I know I effectively signed my life away voluntarily - but the fine print turns out to be a real bitch! I want to get OFF this crazy train, and I’m begging you to help me do it!” Katie recoils a little bit at my tone. She stares at me for a moment with an expression I don’t quite like, before composing herself for a reply. The preschool teacher tone is back now in a major way: “Mike, please use your quiet time voice. Cassie is still sleeping. I know that you are upset and scared, but it’s not appropriate for you to take your frustrations out on me. In fact, you’re behaving rather childishly about this situation, which probably isn’t a great idea in your condition, is it?” Again, she waits for me to shake my head ‘no’ before continuing. “I’ll give you a pass this time because you’re not used to processing adult emotions. And I do understand that this is scary for you, sweetheart. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in your position…except, well, actually I can, because I care for children your “age” all day long. In fact, when I think about it, my experience caring for you and watching your transition makes me more sympathetic in some ways than others might be. We’ve been through a lot together. You’re not alone in this. And I’m still gonna be here for you no matter what. That’s what I meant, and I’m sorry if it didn’t come across that way. “I’d love to be able to tell you that this time might be different. Or that I can fix it. But I’m not an expert in this, and I don’t really know if that’s how it works. I’m pretty sure that Sandra has full custody of you now. I don’t think there’s much I can do in terms of making decisions for you or communicating your wishes to the Regression Center, except if I go through her. “Anyway, from what I understand, the best thing you can do is to learn to recognize triggers and to develop strategies to overcome them so that you don’t zone out whenever you encounter them. It does seem like you are clearer headed now compared to other times you’ve been back, so maybe we could work on that trigger resistance together - if you think you’re up to it? When I don’t answer right away, she starts up again, this time using the soft and gentle tone from before. “Mike, I need to ask you something. You don’t have to give me an answer, but I think it’s important to ask, so here goes: I’m not sure what you just said to me is entirely true. Specifically, I’m wondering if maybe there’s a part of you that likes to be treated like a baby? Again, it’s OK if you don’t want to answer. I’m just trying to figure out how to help you here. “It’s just that, I’ve noticed some things over the time I’ve known you. For instance ,how you act around women you are attracted to. You seem to crave the motherly or nurturing side of their attention. And that has only become more apparent to me as you have regressed. “Or like just a little while ago, the way you were looking at me when I was feeding Cassie. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous. Am I getting close to the actual truth here?” I was aware I was blushing bright red again. I hadn’t expected this line of questioning. The truth was, the subby side of me did crave the sorts of gentle nurturing praise or even scolding that came with babyish behavior. And I was definitely attracted to women with strong nurturing instincts. But I had never admitted that to anyone - until now. I found myself nodding ever so slightly. “Mmhmmm. I thought so. Can you tell me more about what that means? Do you maybe like wearing diapers?” I squirmed involuntarily at this question, even as it sent a delicious electric shiver up my spine and seemingly straight into my brain. “I think I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” she said good-naturedly. I felt the need to speak up here - I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of diaper freak: “I don’t like them all the time - that’s part of what I meant by “not like this” in reference to my situation. But there’s just something so comforting about being taken care of in that way. I don’t know why I like it…I just…it’s just…” “OK.” She says, saving me from my awkward stammer. “I think I actually do know why. But I have another question for you first: do you like diapers more for how they feel, or for what they represent?” I’m contemplating the answer to this, (or rather contemplating how to bring myself to give the correct answer) when she offers to answer for me: “Do you know what I think? I think you like wearing diapers because of what they represent. They really are the ultimate symbol of babyhood aren’t they? Of freedom from even the most basic responsibility. After all, big boys don’t wear diapers do they? No. Because big boys don’t go pee pee or poo poo in their pants do they? Only babies do that - and thats why their mommies and babysitters put them in soft, fluffy diapers, isn’t it?” I nod my head in response to this last statement (maybe a little too enthusiastically), but Katie doesn’t mind. In fact, she chuckles good naturedly and brushes my cheek with her hand. “I thought so. I think you like that feeling of being cared for and loved in that way. With no judgement. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. Absolutely nothing. “And I think maybe there’s also something there about other mommies or caregivers knowing you’re in diapers and treating you accordingly. Is that right, Mike? Like maybe it’s a little bit embarrassing, but kind of in a good way? Hmmm? To be treated the same as all the other kiddos in diapers? To have decisions made for you about your needs and level of competence based purely on the site of a pastel liner peeking out from the back of your pants, or the telltale square-ish bum shape of a freshly changed diaper? It’s always been a great look on you, sweetheart! Katie accentuates this last point with a gentle laugh, which seems to echo in my head, but not in an unpleasant way. I’m blushing intensely now, even though I’m managing to maintain eye contact. I feel myself twitch a little bit inside my diaper. Katie has managed to hit the nail on the head in terms of my most secret and deeply hidden reasons for signing on to the regression program. “Mike there’s nothing wrong with feeling thiat way. I could tell when I first met you that you just wanted to be mothered. I found it kind of attractive actually. And I know the other workers at Sunny Hills feel the same way. Early education tends to attract that soft, nurturing personality. I guess thats’s your type huh?” “I gotta say though, I never understood why you were with Sandra in that respect. She just doesn’t seem the type. I mean, you guys haven’t had kids yet and you’ve been together what…10 years? She doesn’t seem like she’d be very nice about your potty accidents either. Like does she spank you when you wet your pants? Did she make you stand in the corner in your dirty undies?” Her hand absentmindedly brushes her breast as she says this, which sends another electric shiver up my spine. It leaves a faint ringing in my ears. Katie doesn’t wait for an answer to these last questions. Instead, she turns now to the beginning of our relationship and what attracted me to her in the first place, connecting the dots to my recently confessed desires and what transpired between us: “I dont think Sandra was ever capable of giving you what you really needed in terms of your desires to be dominated and cared for in such gentle and fundamentally intimate ways. But I picked up on it almost immediately - even if I didn’t quite know all of the gory details” (she leans forward and softly pets the front of my diaper to emphasize this point). The ringing in my ears grows louder. “I used to love sending you subtle cues, like teasing you about spilling your drink, or calling you a good boy, or even little mothering gestures like fixing your collar without asking for permission. I knew you loved it too. It was so exhilarating having that much control over an older guy! You were always so shy and flustered around me. Like a little boy caught peaking at something he shouldn’t be. “In fact, nothing really changed once you started the regression program did it? Except you were less able to hide your feelings and needs. You would always get so squirmy whenever I checked your pants! I think you liked it. And that’s OK, because we just talked about what those things represent didn’t we? “Of course, I’m also aware that eventually you didn’t really have a choice in the matter. But at first, I think you sort of helped propel yourself along through this process - creating your own triggers as it were. Deliberately engaging in babyish behaviors so that I would take notice and treat you accordingly. It was like you were still flirting with me - just in your own unique and special ways. Does that make sense?” I nod my head again. This does make so much sense! It’s like I’m having a private conversation with my ego. Katie seems to be one step ahead of my deepest desires and secrets. Things I’m not even ready to admit to myself. “Well now I have something to confess to you. My desire to nurture you, and even to gently humiliate you, didn’t go away when you started the regression treatment - even if the motives and feelings behind them changed. “In fact, I have to admit that sometimes I’d find ways to put you in situations where I could treat you like a baby, or push you into positions of greater dependency on me. There were more than a few times - in the early days especially - when you were showing very obvious signs of needing the toilet, and I just didn’t remind you or take you, because I wanted an opportunity to get to lay you down and tug your pants off again. “Sorry, I guess it’s my turn to sound weird! I know it’s very different circumstances, but something about changing you just lights me up me on an emotional level. It’s not sexual at all - it’s more about my own desire as a woman to be loved and needed. I think it was the way your eyes would go all soft and gooey as you looked up at me from that position of complete trust and vulnerability - it melted my heart. Every girl wants to be looked at that way. That feeling is way better than anything we could ever do in the bedroom. In fact, it’s what I’ve always craved from you. I never quite got there with adult Mike.” Now it was her turn to have flushed cheeks. She brushed the side of her breast again absentmindedly. “Anyway, I don’t think we should talk anything more about that. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly surprised when I saw you silhouetted in the doorway, looking longingly at me as I nursed Cassie. “Were you maybe imagining that I was doing that for you? Hmmm? it’s OK. You can tell me.” I nod again. The ringing in my ears growing even louder. My diaper feels tighter. I’m suddenly aware that she’s been lightly caressing my upper thigh with her right hand. “That’s kind of taboo for a big boy, you know,” she says with another little laugh. But then again, you never could keep your eyes off my tits could you?” I can’t help shaking my head “no” in reply, which prompts yet another soft laugh from Katie. “It’s OK, baby, you can look. Do you like how much bigger they’ve gotten? I know I do!” She strokes her left breast more deliberately now with her free hand. Meanwhile, her right hand has found its way to the front of my diaper. I’m finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything other than the site of her nipples poking through her thin tee shirt. It feels like there are fireworks going off in my head now. “I’m sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but my milk is off-limits for you. It’s only for little babies. And you’re definitely a big boy, right?” She gently cups my chin as she asks this, raising my head and forcing me to look away from her breasts. Her gaze feels more serious than playful now. It’s almost like she’s assessing me. And as weird and contradictory as it sounds, in that moment, I was strongly tempted to tell her that she was mistaken. That I actually was a baby. That I was qualified to take her breast. To nurse from her. To risk everything for a chance to give myself over to her in that way. Katie wasn’t letting up either. “Are you curious about what my milk tastes like sweetie? Do you wonder what it would feel like to climb into my arms in your jammies and soggy diaper and have me guide you to my nipple?” I don’t reply, but there’s another involuntary twitch in my diaper that I’m sure she can feel, even through the soggy padding. “Mmmmhmmm. I thought so. But those don’t sound like things a big boy would wonder about, do they? “No they don’t. A big boy would be wondering whether I’m about to take his diaper off and straddle him right here on the couch. In fact, most big boys would have jumped on top of me already, given the obvious cues I’m sending. I’m literally stroking your dick right now, darling, and you’re just sitting there with a dopey look on your face. If you were a big boy, you’d be about to have another big, sticky accident in your soggy pants. “But you don’t work that way, do you? You don’t want those things. Or at least not as much as you want other things. Things that I’m still willing to give you…as long as you ask in the right ways..” In all honesty I wasn’t sure what I wanted at that point, or what I was even into. It felt like forever since I’d done anything sexual with a woman. But it also felt impossible to find the line between my babyish needs and my adult desires. Katie stepped on the gas now: “I have an idea. Maybe if I show them to you, it will help you decide. “Or…we could think of this like a trigger test: If you can resist my boobies without your brain turning back into baby mush, then maybe you’ll be able to resist other triggers? What do you think, sweetie? Should I pull up my top and show you my boobies? Is it worth the risk?” I was wild with lust and desire at this notion. I nodded an enthusiastic “yes” with almost no hesitation, licking my lips in anticipation. Katie smiles at me seductively, and then slowly raises her T-shirt until both of her breasts drop out below. They are absolutely magnificent. She is a mother goddess. She reaches up and gives the left one a gentle squeeze, and a single drop of milk appears, glistening and rolling down the end of the nipple. I sit there gaping - absolutely mesmerized - for I don’t know how long. I feel paralyzed with awe and reverence. But also still very much in my adult mind. I have passed the test! I smile up at her and say, (perhaps a little too loudly), “I’m still a big boy Katie!” “I can see that” she says in a syrupy tone, while beginning to caress her breasts more deliberately. “Such a clever boy! You passed that one with flying colors didn’t you? “I think you might be ready for another, harder test! What do you think? Would you like to try, baby?” Again, I nod my head “yes” enthusiastically. OK - such a brave boy! Get ready! Here we go: Do you need to go potty yet?” Such an easy question, at least under normal circumstances, but right now I’m still unsure. There is a vague sense of discomfort from somewhere below my belly button, but I couldn’t tell you if it was just my dick still trying to make room in the confines of the diaper, or the actual need to go. I tell her a bit sheepishly that I still don’t know, which prompts another gentle laugh. “Awwww sweetie, that’s OK. That doesn’t mean you failed the test. After all, you’ve been spending a lot of time lately not worrying about the answer to that question. And now that you’re in Miss Rachel‘s classroom, it’s probably even more difficult. None of your peers are setting a good example for you to follow in the potty department anymore are they, baby? “Anyways - the good news for you (my good little boy), is that I know a way you can find out and still pass! Do you want to try it with me? “Good! It’s sooo simple even a baby can do it! All you have to do is give a little push! Can you do that for me? Do you remember what that feels like?” I realize that l’ve already begun pushing before she’s finished her last question. My face is now red for different reasons, but still, nothing happens. Not even a trickle. An overwhelming sense of disappointment washes over me. Have I failed? “Silly goose’” exclaims Katie, “you’ve got to get in the right position first before you start pushing, otherwise it’s not gonna work! Go ahead and stand up for me, sweetie. There’s a good boy. Now, I’ll hold onto your hands and you can try again. Go on! Push for me, baby!” Without thinking more about it, I let her take my hands. Katie smiles at me encouragingly as I push harder and deeper than before, bending my legs just a little bit this time. She’s right - this is a much better position for this kind of activity! I feel a rippling sensation from my abdomen, followed by a pleasant shiver up my spine, and then I’m full on pooping in my pants. There’s no trying to hold it back. This isn’t an ‘accident.’ I’m just having my usual morning bowel movement while standing next to the couch in Katie’s living room. I push again, this time for longer, and I’m rewarded with a delightful warm fullness around my bottom. Another pleasant shiver snakes up my spine, prompting a little wiggle from my behind and a generous gush of urine from my front. And then, just like that, the deed is done. The whole episode lasted maybe 10 seconds, although it seemed much longer. I’m left feeling dazed and more than a little unsure about the outcome or its meaning. Is this a pass or a fail? I take a moment to check in with myself. Yes - I’m still here. Still me. But is pooping my pants really proof of anything positive in that respect? The idea seemed to make perfect sense just a minute ago - but now I’m not so sure. I realize that Katie has kept hold of my hands this whole time. Her breasts are also still hanging free under her bunched up shirt, which threatens to distract me from my self-assessment. Without asking permission, she spins me around and pulls back the waistband of my diaper to peek inside: “Oh, sweetie,” she whispers in my ear, “You made a big poopy in your diaper! I think we found the answer to the question about whether or not you had to go potty, didn’t we?” She reaches down and gives my bottom a firm squish for emphasis, her bare breasts pressing into my back. “How do you feel sweetheart? Can you still recite your ABCs?” she asks playfully. “I guess it’s a good thing I made you keep that diaper on, huh? Miss Katie is so clever sometimes!” This last question wasn’t quite fair, but I chose to let it go. Her nonchalant attitude is putting me more at ease about the whole situation. And on balance, it does seem like a good thing that messing my pants hasn’t triggered the expected zone out to babyland. I turn back around to face her, acutely aware of the mess shifting with my movements. “Well…I guess this means…I…passed? Maybe this means I’m trigger proof?” I’m doing my best to mirror her ‘pooping in your pants in front of me is no big deal’ vibe. Katie studies me briefly before replying. At first her expression is a confusing mixture of amusement and appraisal - it’s a little bit disconcerting given the delicate position she’s just helped put me in. Aren’t we on the same team here? We’re still working together, right? I’m relieved to see her face soften a little as she begins to lay out our next move. “Not quite, sweetie, I think we should do one more test just to be sure. Why don’t you sit back down and we can talk about what it might be?” I lower myself gingerly onto the seat next to her, which prompts another good-natured chuckle from Katie. The syrupy tone is back. “Come closer, sweetheart. You’re doing so good! Let me cuddle you for a second. Your poopy bottom doesn’t bother me, I promise! “Now, where were we? Oh that’s right! A final trigger test. Do you know what it is? I think you might. We were just talking about about it a few minutes ago…” Her arm is around my shoulder, and there’s a gentle but insistent pressure pulling me towards her chest. I can see that both nipples are dripping now. What’s the term for that again? ‘Let down?’ “That’s right. I think you already know the answer, my sweet little boy. I want you to try nursing from my boobies. If you can resist going back to baby land while doing that, then you’re almost definitely trigger proof!” She reaches up and slowly pulls her top completely off, now offering me a completely unobstructed view of her breasts. Her bare shoulders accentuate the soft curves of her womanhood. Another electric shock courses from my perineum to the top of my scalp. The ringing in my ears has grown deafening. Given what I’ve just been though, this seems like both a wonderful and a terrible idea. Hadn’t she just told me that only a baby was allowed to do this? That only a baby would want this? And yet the urge to comply was so irresistible. I was literally drooling down my top looking at her breasts. “Come on, pumpkin,” she coos in her most syrupy and seductive voice. “Come have some lovely warm booby milk, and then I’ll change your stinky pants. And it can be an extra special diaper change if you’re still a big boy when we finish. Won’t that be nice?” I am powerless to resist. Without further hesitation, I turn and lay myself across her lap, my head facing her chest, my mouth already straining greedily upwards. She gently guides her nipple into my mouth with one hand and then cradles the back of my head, holding me to her, pressing me into her, suffocating me in her warmth and femininity. She moans as I performed a tentative first suck. Encouraged by her response, I give a longer, deeper suck, and this time hot milk rolls over my tongue. It’s heaven. My eyes roll back. Fireworks go off in my head. I’m barely able to follow along as Katie whispers softly to me: “Such a good baby. Mikey doesn’t want to be a big boy, does he? No. He wants to be a little baby drinking from my boobies in a dirty diaper. I’ve known that all along, darling. This is what’s best for you. This is what everyone wants for you now. She smiles down at me. I smile dopily back around the nipple, milk spilling from the corner of my mouth. I feel my bladder letting go, my diaper warming against her hip as I continue to suck. I giggle and close my eyes, watching the fireworks behind them. There was something I needed to do - something I needed to try to maintain, but it doesn’t seem important right now. I’m feeling so comfy and safe and warm. Completely blissed out. Katie has started humming the same, simple melody I heard her performing earlier. The song has no words, but it’s still so profoundly meaningful in terms of what it tells me about warmth, and care, and safety, and love. I sigh deeply around her nipple. “Pancakes!,” I think. “She smells like pancakes!” And then I am gone.

To explain first and foremost, this isn't my world; you can thank the creative and talented @Panther Cub for this idea that we (and by we, I mean mostly him) hashed out recently, and this story is me trying to combine two RP elements that he came up with. He could probably make a story that best fits both; it was his awesome idea after all, but the crux of it is this: a world where a deity (unknown as of yet) gifts children caregiver powers over certain adults in their lives for amusement, with real-world Avatars (this one being an immortal Greco-Roman woman who has all of the signs of recent birth) delegating powers to children for their patron deity's amusement and sometimes interfering directly when indirect means won't work. The immortal mother "reenergizes" her powers via the emotions gathered at places called "Bright New Beginnings": abandoned daycares all across the English-speaking world with the ghosts of caretakers that lure in young people to regress. This combines them both, and I will apologize to Panther in advance if it's not quite right. As this is babyfur, if you don't feel like reading, you don't have to. This is a lot softer than most of my other works as well, so feel free to read or not read based on that. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Anyway, let's get to the story, shall we? - Chapter One - It was a typical weekday spring morning in the suburbs of Newaardvark, New Jersey, a heavy rain pouring from the sky, as the animals stayed inside for the most part. There was only one exception: a young woman who sat on a bench under a bus stop station, unmoving, her eyes closed as if in thought. To describe her depended on the creature in question, for she took the shape of whomever was staring at her, a beautiful eighteen-year-old female of the beholder's specie in a long, sleeveless white dress, almost Greco-Roman in design, her breasts enormous, lactating, and protruding through her nursing bra like twin towers. Her shoes were white stilettos that covered her feet entirely, covered in mysterious symbols. She shouldered a plain, yet large diaper bag as easily as one would carry a blanket. Overall, she looked like a recent teen mom dressed for a Greek reenactment party. She was on the hunt, not even needing to look as she sensed her targets: a young bird couple in their late twenties and their adopted daughters below the age of ten. She preferred to use children as conduits through her strength, mostly playing through their mischief, willingness to be troublemakers towards authority, or, in too many sad cases, victims of abuse or neglect. Not these children: they were well-behaved young girls, treated with the utmost kindness and love by both hard working parents. She would have to work directly. Iuvenis Mater did not know if that was one of her favorite things to do, but it would make the game with her patron deity more…interesting. That was what their deity cared about, in the end: the Hunt to turn normal adults into little babies, albeit temporarily, for amusement. And there was definitely cause for amusement when it came to both of the parents. Erik Hellstrom was a handsome golden pheasant, twenty-eight, a skilled engineer who worked from home to support his daughters. Oh, she’d have fun with him, especially with his hidden…issues when it came to family. And then there was Gaiana Hellstrom, his wife. Twenty-seven, quite a stunningly beautiful blue-and-yellow macaw, working long shifts as a firefighter, but embarrassed by her past when she was a child. Another extremely fun target that she could work with. Their adopted daughters were the key in the door: Gaiana was planning on having a celebration party at the fire station alongside her peers with Erik joining her, and the girls needed a babysitter. Well, more than just the girls would need a babysitter after today. It had been a simple matter, even with the oddities of the modern age. This “Internet”, in particular, had been a long time spent learning for Iuvenis, but now that she knew, she was capable when it came to the worldwide Web. Quite frankly, it might’ve been even easier searching for targets via the Internet than it was in the olden days. A simple matter of the other typical babysitters gaining new things to do or new places to go all of a sudden, a bit of reality warping to make her seem like she was the only other babysitter available in the area, things like that were simple, including two typical babysitters who seemed…interesting in their own right. The Hunt, on the other paw? Not as much. Her patron deity needed to be entertained, not just for these temporary three days, but for a lifetime, to make it amusing to watch. One never knew how a Hunt would end, merely how it began - and the Avatar of her deity would make sure that they had plenty of amusement with this one. And so this Hunt began as she got up from the bus station and walked over to their house. - Erik preened himself in the mirror, looking at his appearance. The people at the fire station didn’t really care for appearance, true, but he always tried to dress to impress, like his uncle taught him: a full-sleeved white polo shirt, black slacks, black dress shoes, his father’s silver watch on his left wing, his mother’s handkerchief in the dress pocket of his shirt, a polished pair of glasses perched on his beak. He fluttered over to his wife, dressed extremely casually with a simple white T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, and her own horn-rimmed glasses on her beak, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. “Hey, honey,” Erik crooned in a pleasant song, as he gently wrapped his wings around her. “Hey, baby,” Gaiana whispered back with a grin, returning the kiss. “The girls prepared for their babysitter?” “I’ve let them know that there’s a new babysitter,” the pheasant said, his feathers fluffed up in pride. “They’ve taken it surprisingly well. It’s a shame that the Boggs sisters are going through college applications; they were the best of babysitters…” “Well, that’s life, honey; we all grow up,” the female macaw answered. “We grow old, not necessarily up.” “And both are technically true.” “Two different words.” “Ah, semantics.” The two birds kissed again, their love for one another showing through the slight teasing, before they fluttered down the stairs, looking for their girls, who were likely playing Aliemon Orange and Purple on their GameMales, judging by the sounds of the arguing. The games were two of the most kid-friendly ones they could buy for them with the limited money they made on Christmas. “OH, come on, Tali; you know that the mind type beats everything! Play as something else!” “It’s not my fault that Avadakazam is cute as heck, as well as powerful!” “It’s not! It’s literally a green orc with a big head and huge beard, and you had to trade with me to get it!” “Excuse me, Avadakazam is my favorite Aliemon, and I will brook no argu-” “Goostoise is the cutest!” “Avadakazam!” “Goostoise!” “Avadakazam!” “Goostoise!” “Girls, girls, both Avadakazam and Goostoise are equally cute,” Erik said, defusing the argument by hugging the two young girl birds, a brown pelican and a scaled quail. “Whatever, Goostoise is still cuter,” the younger quail, Zita, grumbled. “Avadakazam,” the brown pelican, Talita - known to all as “Tali” - said with a smirk, to which Zita responded with her tongue sticking out. Gaiana gave them both a stern look, but it belied the smile on her face. “Are you two going to behave for the new babysitter?” “Yes, Mom!” the two girls chorused. “You’ll do your homework and everything?” Erik asked gently; he didn’t have it in him to be stern. “Of course, Dad!” they chorused again. The doorbell rang, and Erik got it while Gaiana talked to the girls further, seeing an eighteen-year-old golden pheasant in a long, sleeveless white dress smiling at him, a diaper bag hefted over her shoulders. Her breasts were enormous, and demanded attention, but the analytical pheasant merely noted them as being slightly larger for what seemed like a teenage mom; he took his marriage vows very seriously, more seriously than a lot of men. “Hello, Mr. Hellstrom,” she said politely, holding out a feathered wing for him to shake. “Good morning, Miss, um…what’s your name again, ma’am?” he asked, shaking her wing. She smiled mischievously. “I’m Miss Ivi Mater. You can call me ‘Mater’, though, little Eri.” “Huh…okay…Ivi…” The pheasant felt himself grow smaller in her presence, a wet spot quickly growing around his slacks, as he began to unconsciously drool. “Oh, dear, looks like we’ll need to go to this earlier than I expected,” Ivi said cheerfully, getting out a white fluffy…thing from her bag. The word was escaping Erik’s quickly diminishing vocabulary, but it seemed oddly…familiar in a way. He felt his shirt, his shoes, his drenched boxers and slacks being taken off him by the girl, and even though his mind was inwardly screaming for his wife to intervene, he continued to lay on the floor in a docile manner. And then he saw her go through her bag, sprinkling powder over his nether parts, raising his bottom, and slipping the thing under him, taping up both sides, threading his tail feathers through the back, with the odd teenager moving him as if he had been much smaller than her. The pheasant’s mind was still there, and a part of him was telling himself that something was very, very wrong, but he couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be. Then his wife’s voice echoed. “Oh, Eri? Where did my baby Eri go?” “Here, my dear!” he sang, only for dread to grow when his wife’s frame entered the scene. “Oh, Eri, you little stinkypants, you know you’re not allowed to sneak out of your playpen,” Gaiana said, nuzzling the pheasant, acting like he was much smaller than her. He froze. He was a lot bigger than his wife. For her to think he towered over him meant… No, this can’t be right. Think logically, Erik, these things don’t happen in real life. “You’ve already got a fresh diaper on him! You came prepared for my little baby boy!” Gaiana cooed, handing him back to the pheasant woman, the… “He is certainly going to grow up to be handsome, will he not?” Ivi said with a knowing smile, and he began to fuss. “Oh, he misses his Mommy already.” The female pheasant came close, allowing Gaiana to cuddle with him. “It’s going to be okay, Eri. Mommy’s just got to go for a short bit.” He froze. Those words. A short bit. That was what his parents had said. That’s when- He began to bawl, thinking of the worst night of his life. No, no, no, no, no! Please, God, please, don’t let her leave! Not now! I need her, I need Mommy! Then he saw his daughters, rubbing his feathered head, and singing nursery rhymes to him to calm him down, and he realized the horrible truth. Everyone thinks I’m a baby! My daughters think I’m their baby brother! Oh, God, why?! Erik desperately tried to convince his wife that she was still his wife. He tried to speak to his daughters, tried to get out any code he could. They just cooed at him, as if he was an infant. “Oh, he’s trying to talk!” Zita said excitedly. “Say ‘Sissy’!” “Oh, honey, it might be a bit early for that,” Gaiana said to the disappointed quail. “He’ll be old enough for talkies and flighties soon, but he’s still too young for that at the moment.” Erik then saw the watch - his father’s watch wrapped in his mother's handkerchief - in the older female pheasant’s wing, and he attempted to grab at it with his feathers. “No, you’re a little too young for that; we don’t want you putting this in your mouth and swallowing,” the female pheasant cooed, putting the watch and handkerchief out of his reach and into the diaper bag as he whimpered. “Here! I have something better for you!” She brought out a light gold pacifier, teasing him with the tip, until he instinctively grabbed at it with his feathers and began to suckle on it, his inner adult feeling horrified dread at how easily it soothed his terrified thoughts, but the baby that dominated the main part of his brain reacting as if it was as natural as breathing. “Good job, Eri!” Gaiana cooed at the confused bird. “Now I really do have to go, but I’ll be back before you know it!” All the pheasant could do was suck on his pacifier, feeling a trickle of liquid warmth flow through the front of his (surprisingly comfy) diaper, his mind feeling horror that his body didn’t feel, before his wife - the last bastion of hope of stopping this intruder from potentially hurting his daughters - left out the door, entered the car, and drove away. - Hope you enjoyed~

Looking to do a fnaf diaper RP need a cg/dom who is ok with spanking and breastfeeding