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Welcome to "Winter Break on Wet Alert" – A Ski Trip with No Emergency Brake A ski holiday in St. Anton with the family's best friends should be a dream come true. Especially when you are 17, finally allowed to drink wine with the adults, and the girl you've been in love with since kindergarten is sleeping in the loft right next to you. It is the recipe for the perfect "coming-of-age" romance. But for Liam, it is the recipe for a social nightmare. He is fighting a secret that doesn't fit into the cool after-ski lifestyle: A body that fails him, and a bladder that lives a life of its own at night. What starts as a practical challenge involving discreet night diapers hidden in a gym bag, quickly spirals into an avalanche of control, lies, and humiliating revelations as the facade begins to crack. This is more than a story about an accident, I try to make it a "slow-burn" psychological thriller about power, helplessness, and the desperate struggle to maintain one's dignity while slowly being wrapped in cotton wool – and plastic. Meet the Families: Liam (17): The protagonist of the story. He is a typical teenager attempting to navigate the awkwardness of a family vacation while trying to appear independent and cool. He often hides inside his hoodie or behind a beanie and is currently balancing the tension of sharing a cabin with Mathilde, whom he has known since childhood and has secretly had a crush on since he was twelve. Sophie (17): The childhood friend Liam has secretly been in love with since he was twelve. She has grown from a playmate into a stunning young woman with messy blonde hair, often seen wearing oversized wool sweaters that make her look effortlessly cool. She shares the open loft space with Liam, sleeping on the mattress just a few feet away. Grace: Liam’s mother. She runs the family—and the vacation packing—with efficiency and a calm, controlled voice that leaves very little room for discussion. She is organized, persistent, and keeps a sharp eye on the logistics of the trip to ensure everything goes according to plan. James: Liam’s father. He is a somewhat conflict-avoidant man who prefers focusing on the skiing conditions or staring into his coffee cup rather than dealing with tension. He generally steps back and leaves the hard decisions and organization to Hanne. Claire: Sophie’s mother. She is practical, cheerful, and deeply involved in the domestic side of the cabin life, often found stirring a pot of stew or knitting in the sofa corner with Hanne. She has a direct, practical manner and treats all the "kids" with equal familiarity. Rob: Sophie’s father and the loud, wine-loving patriarch of the host family. He dominates the room with boisterous laughter and "alpha" energy, often walking around in boxers and a t-shirt in the mornings. He treats Liam with a mix of loud camaraderie and fatherly teasing. The Format: The story is planned as a long serial of approximately 50-60 chapters. Although the plot only spans a single, intense week in Austria, we get up close and personal. Every chapter dives deep into the details, the dialogue, and the small, claustrophobic moments where the balance of power tips. Expect a pace that allows room for both the romantic tension and the creeping horror of losing control over your own life. Sit back, put on a dry diaper (just for safety's sake), and enjoy the ride down the black slope. Prologue is coming up... __________________________________ Prologue: War Council at the Dining Table The sound of a zip being pulled up cut through the silence in the living room like a tear in the fabric. It was a sharp, metallic sound signalling an end, but for Liam, it sounded like the beginning of the end. The large black Nike holdall stood open on the dining table. Surrounding it were piles of wool jumpers, ski socks, and thermal long johns in neat stacks. But it wasn’t the clothes that caught the eye. It was the package lying isolated next to the bag. A square, soft package in dark blue plastic with the words DryNites printed across the front and a picture of a cartoon skater boy who looked far too cool to represent the contents. "We have to be realistic, Liam," said Grace. Her voice was calm, controlled—the voice she used when presenting unpleasant facts that were not up for discussion. She stood at the end of the table with her arms crossed, her gaze resting heavily on the package. "We can’t take the waterproof sheet. It’s out of the question." Liam sat on the chair opposite. He rocked on the back legs, a nervous tic he couldn’t stop. He had his hoodie pulled up around his ears, as if he could hide inside the fabric. "Why not?" he asked, hating how whiny his voice sounded. "That’s what we use at home. It works fine. I put it under the sheet, no one sees it." "At home, you sleep in your owace, taking a step forward. She placed her hand on the blue package. "We’ve been through this for four months now. Four months where the bed has been wet four out of seven days on average. You know the doctor said your body must be 'overloaded' and that you sleep so deeply the signal doesn’t get through. That’s fine. It’s a physiological condition. But we can’t ignore the statistics." She paused, and her gaze softened but became more insistent. "What is the scenario if we don’t take anything? What happens if you fall asleep after a long day of skiing, exhausted, maybe after a glass of wine, and then you wake up at three in the morning and the mattress is soaked? Right next to Sophie? What do you do then? Do you wake her? Do you carry the mattress down through the living room? How do you explain the smell in that small space?" Liam closed his eyes. The image was so clear and terrifying it made him nauseous. He saw Sophie waking up from the heat or the smell. He saw her face. "I’ll wake up," he said stubbornly, but without conviction. "I’ll set an alarm on my phone. Every three hours." "And wake up the whole chalet?" James shook his head. "That won’t work, Liam. Rob wakes up if a mouse farts in the basement. If your alarm goes off three times a night, it’ll be a holiday in hell for everyone." "Therefore," said Grace, sliding the package of DryNites across the tabletop towards him. "This is the only solution. It’s discreet. They’re silent under pyjamas. And they guarantee that the mattress—and your dignity—survives if an accident happens." Liam looked at the package as if it were radioactive. "I can’t wear them, Mum," he whispered. "Not up there. She’s lying right next to me. Imagine if she sees them? They’re... they’re night pants for kids, it’s a fucking diaper!" "It’s protection for young men who have a temporary problem," Grace corrected. "And we’ve practised this. We pack them. Right at the bottom of the bag. You put it on under the duvet when the lights are out. Or in the bathroom, if you can sneak out there. I really want to help you, you know? It requires planning, I know that. But the alternative is Russian roulette with a full bladder." Liam felt a familiar anger bubbling in his stomach. Anger at his own body. It had started in the autumn. First just once after a party. Then again. And suddenly it had become a thing. A secret that required washing machines running at night and strange, clinical conversations with a doctor who just talked about "immature nervous systems" and "deep REM sleep". They had tried fluid restrictions after 6 PM. They had tried voiding schedules. Nothing helped once he was asleep. And now this defective body had to go on holiday with the girl he had been in love with since they were in kindergarten. "I’ll take them," he said quietly, grabbing the package. He squeezed it hard, making the plastic yield. "But I’ll only put them on if I feel it’s absolutely necessary. If I’ve had a lot to drink. Or if I’m really tired." Grace and James exchanged a look. One of those parental looks that communicate volumes of worry in a split second. "Liam," said Grace gently. "The deal is that you wear them every night. We can’t take the chance with someone else’s mattress." "I said I’ll take them!" Liam snapped, standing up so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. "I’m packing them. Right at the bottom. I’ll hide them in a towel so no one can see what they are. Is that not enough?" Grace hesitated. She assessed him. She could see the desperation in his eyes. She knew that if she pushed him any further now, he might refuse to go. "Fine," she said slowly. "You pack them. Well hidden. But then you promise me one thing: If you feel the slightest uncertainty... if you are in the slightest doubt... then you use them. for my sake. For your dad’s sake. We don’t want to be explaining to Rob and Claire why their chalet smells of pee." "I’ve got it under control," Liam lied. He took the package. He walked over to the bag. He lifted the stack of hoodies. He placed the blue package right at the bottom, into the corner. He found a dark towel and wrapped it tightly around it so it looked like a washbag or a pair of shoes. Then he put the wool jumpers on top. The salopettes. The thermal underwear. Layer upon layer of normality burying the shame. He zipped up the bag. The sound was final this time. "There," he said, lifting the bag. It was heavy. Heavier than it should be. "Now we’re ready." James cleared his throat and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "It’ll be a good trip, lad. You’ll see, the fresh air will do you good. Maybe the problem will disappear on its own up there." Liam nodded stiffly. He knew better. The problem wouldn’t disappear. It was packed at the bottom of his bag, and it would travel with him all the way to Austria, like a ticking time bomb under the seat. "I’m going to bed," he said. He walked out of the living room without looking back. Grace remained standing by the table, staring at the spot where the bag had stood. "Do you think he’ll wear them when we get there?" asked James quietly. "No," said Grace, turning off the light over the dining table. "Or well, I don’t know... He’s so proud. So I think I’ll have to check every morning while we’re there, and then we just have to hope he soon puts a cork in that night bladder." Chapter 1: The Winter Palace The car's tyres crunched heavily against the packed snow as they rolled the final stretch up the steep driveway. The engine was cut, and a sudden, deafening silence settled over the cabin. It was that particular, muffled tranquillity found only in the Austrian Alps, where the snow swallows every sound. Liam sat in the back seat, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the world was bathed in the blue-violet light of twilight. The chalet ahead of them wasn’t just a cabin; it was a massive two-storey log structure with large panoramic windows, where yellow light was already spilling out, landing in soft squares on the snow. The Thompson family had already arrived. Their black Audi was parked next to them, and smoke rose lazily from the chimney. "Here we are, chaps," said his dad, James, tapping the steering wheel with a gloved hand. "St. Anton. The adventure begins." Liam felt a lurch in his stomach. It was a mixture of expectant joy and that underlying, cold knot he had carried around the entire journey. He adjusted his beanie in the rear-view mirror, checked that the stubble on his chin looked right, and took a deep breath. You are here to ski. You are here to have a good time. You are 17 years old. Relax. He opened the car door, and the freezing mountain air hit him in the face like a wet towel. It smelled of pine needles and frost. He stepped out and stretched his legs while the cold nipped at his cheeks. "Liam, are you grabbing your own bag?" shouted his mum, Grace, from the boot. She was already organising the unpacking with the military efficiency she was known for. "And mind your back, it looks heavy." Liam walked round to the boot. His large, black Nike holdall was wedged in behind crates of food supplies. He gripped the handle and hoisted it out. It was heavy. Not just because of the ski boots and thick jumpers, but because of what lay right at the bottom, wrapped in an opaque bag and rolled tightly inside a towel. His secret cargo. His safety net. He swung the bag over his shoulder and straightened his back. As long as the bag was zipped shut, he was just Liam. The door to the chalet opened, and the sound of voices and laughter streamed out into the cold. "Is that the lost travellers?" Sophie stood in the doorway. Liam's heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he saw her. She had grown even more beautiful since the summer holidays. She was wearing a large, white wool jumper that made her look small and cosy, paired with tight black leggings. Her blonde hair was gathered in a messy bun, and she held a wine glass in her hand—probably just elderflower cordial, but the way she held it made it look elegant. "Hey Sophie," Liam said, flashing his best, crooked smile as he walked up the steps to the veranda. He tried to walk casually, even though the strap dug into his shoulder. "We just took the scenic route. You have to enjoy the view, right?" Sophie rolled her eyes but smiled broadly. "Classic James tactics. Come inside, it’s freezing." She stepped aside, and Liam walked into the warmth. The chalet smelled of woodsmoke and red wine sauce. The adults were already in full swing, hugging and exchanging stories about the drive in the hallway. It was chaos in a good way. Boots were kicked off, coats hung up. Liam and Sophie stood a little on the outskirts of the commotion. "So," Sophie said, sizing him up. Her gaze was direct, curious. "Are you ready to be left in the dust tomorrow? I’ve heard the pistes are absolutely perfect this year." "Left in the dust?" Liam laughed huskily. "You’ll be lucky if you see anything other than the spray from my skis when I fly past you." "We’ll see," she said, nudging his shoulder lightly. The touch burned through his jacket. "But seriously, it’s going to be brilliant. The oldies have taken the rooms on the ground floor, so we have the entire top floor to ourselves. Or, well, the loft." "The loft?" Liam repeated. "Yeah, come on. I’ll show you." She turned and started walking up the steep wooden staircase leading to the upper floor. Liam followed, bag still over his shoulder. He didn't dare put it down yet. Not until he knew where he was sleeping. Not until he had secured the territory. The loft had a low ceiling and was incredibly cosy. Sloping walls of light timber, a small round window in the gable looking out over the valley, and thick rugs on the floor. But what caught Liam's attention were the sleeping arrangements. There were two wide mattresses on the floor. They lay at opposite ends of the room, separated by a small communal area with a low sofa and a table, but there were no doors. No walls. It was one large room. "I’ve taken the one by the window," Sophie said, hopping onto one of the mattresses, which was already made up with a duvet and pillows. Her bag stood open next to it, with clothes strewn about a bit. "So you can have the den over there." She pointed towards the mattress at the opposite end, nestled under the lowest part of the sloping roof. It was a cosy nook, but it also felt... exposed. "Fine," said Liam. He walked over to his mattress and set the bag down. He did it carefully, terrified that something might clink or rattle, even though there were only soft parcels inside. "It looks... cosy." "Doesn't it?" Sophie leaned back on her elbows and looked at him. "No parents. No big sisters. Just us." Liam nodded and started taking off his jacket. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. The heat from the wood-burning stove downstairs was rising to the ceiling. "Are you planning on standing there sweating in full gear, or are you going to unpack?" she asked teasingly. Liam hesitated. He looked at his bag. The zip was closed. He knew exactly where the package was. At the bottom. Under three hoodies and his thermal long johns. If he opened the bag now, while she lay there watching, would she be able to see it? No, it was wrapped up. But just the thought of moving things around while she observed him made his stomach turn. On the other hand, it would seem odd if he didn't unpack. They were staying here for a week. "I’ll unpack later," he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Right now, I just need to sit down. The drive was long." "Fair enough." Sophie stood up and walked over to the small window. "Come and have a look. You can see the lights from the après-ski bars over there." Liam stood up and walked over to her. They stood side by side, looking out into the darkness where the floodlit pistes glowed like golden scars on the mountainside. He could smell her perfume—vanilla and something fresh. She stood close to him. So close that their arms almost touched. "It’s going to be a good week, Liam," she said softly, without looking at him. "Yeah," he replied, daring to relax his shoulders a tiny bit for the first time. "It really is." From downstairs came the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. His mother’s voice cut through. "Liam! Sophie! There’s hot chocolate and scones if you’re hungry!" Sophie sighed theatrically but smiled. "Duty calls. Shall we go down and be social before they think we’re up to no good?" Liam smiled back. For a moment, everything felt normal. He was just a guy on a ski holiday with a cute girl. The bag lay on the bed behind him, zipped and safe. "After you," he said. Chapter 2: Adults in the Snow The smell of slow-cooked stew had spread throughout the chalet, mingling with the dry heat from the wood-burning stove. It was a heavy, spiced scent of beef, red wine, and juniper berries that Sophie’s mum, Claire, had left simmering in a pot for most of the afternoon before they arrived. Liam sat at the end of the long plank table. He had been given the seat next to Sophie. On the other side sat his dad, James, who was already flushed in the cheeks after two glasses of Amarone and the heat from the fire. "Cheers to the chalet!" James exclaimed, raising his glass. "And cheers to getting the roof box on without scratching the paintwork this year!" A cheerful laugh went around the table. Liam grabbed his own glass. There was red wine in it. It was one of those unspoken transitions; on previous holidays, he and Sophie had been given Coke while the adults drank wine. This year, they had just been poured a glass without question. A silent rite of passage. He was one of them now. He clinked glasses with Sophie. The glass made a clear, singing sound. "Cheers," she said, smiling over the rim of her glass. Her eyes caught the light from the candles on the table. "Do you think you can handle it? Amarone is heavy fuel for tomorrow." "I run better on premium unleaded," Liam replied cheekily and took a sip. The wine was heavy, warm, and slightly astringent in his mouth. He didn't actually like red wine all that much, but he loved the feeling of sitting here, glass in hand, being part of this. He took another sip, a slightly larger one this time. In the back of his mind, right at the back of his lizard brain, a small red warning light blinked. Fluid. Alcohol. Bedtime. He knew the rules. He knew he should be drinking water, and preferably stop drinking altogether now; it was past eight o'clock. But he couldn't sit here sipping tap water while Sophie teased him and the adults told tall tales. It would be checking out. It would be being a child. "Liam, pass the potatoes, would you?" asked Grace. Liam shook the thoughts away and passed the dish. His mum sat opposite him. She ate calmly, listening to Claire’s story about a colleague who had had a breakdown from stress, nodding sympathetically. She seemed completely normal. Not like a guard, not like an "inspector". Just a mum on holiday. But then he caught her eye as she took the dish. It was fleeting. She looked at his wine glass, then at him, and then back at her plate. She said nothing. She didn't raise an eyebrow. But Liam heard it anyway. Is that wise, Liam? He felt an urge to put the glass down, but defiance flared up in him. He wouldn't be controlled by her gaze. He wouldn't be the patient at this table. He demonstratively took a large bite of the meat and smiled at Sophie. "So, Sophie," said Rob, Sophie’s dad, leaning back. "Have you told Liam about your big plan?" Sophie blushed slightly—a becoming colour on her pale cheeks. "Dad, stop it." "What plan?" asked Liam curiously. "She wants to do a season next year," Rob rumbled proudly. "Austria. The whole winter. She’s been saving up for two years." Liam looked at her with new respect. "Seriously? That’s... actually pretty cool." "It’s just an idea," she said quickly, but he could see the glint in her eyes. "I thought... well, if I don’t know what I want to do after sixth form anyway, I might as well ski and make some money doing it." "Sounds like the dream," said Liam. And he meant it. But at the same time, a cold, heavy realisation hit him right in the solar plexus. A whole season in Austria? Sleeping in dorms, sharing rooms with strangers, drinking beer every night, no privacy? For Sophie, it was a dream. For him, it would be a logistical hell. An impossibility. He suddenly felt like a fraud. He sat here looking like someone who could go with her. Someone who fit into that dream. But beneath the surface, and at the bottom of that Nike bag up in the loft, reality lay waiting. "You could come too," Sophie said suddenly, nudging him under the table with her knee. "You’re good enough on skis. We could be instructor buddies." Liam laughed, but the laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, definitely. That would be sick." "It just requires being able to get up early," Grace interjected. Her voice was mild, conversational. "And being able to fend for yourself. It’s hard work, you know. No 'room service' from Mum." It was an innocent comment to everyone else. A joke about teenagers who can't do laundry. But to Liam, it was a precise, surgical reminder. You can't fend for yourself. You need me. The mood shifted as the plates were cleared, and the board game Ludo was brought out. It was a tradition. Liam and Sophie against the dads. The mums preferred to sit on the sofa with a cup of tea (and more wine) and talk. The game was intense. Liam was good at the tactical side. He and Sophie had a natural rhythm; they understood each other without words, trading glances and blocking their fathers with delightful malice. "You’re evil, Liam!" shouted James as Liam knocked his piece home just before the finish line. "It’s called strategy, old man," Liam replied, giving Sophie a high-five. Her hand was warm and soft against his. It was nearing half-past eleven when the game finished (with a crushing victory for the youth). Fatigue began to set in within the chalet. The fire in the stove had burned down to embers. "Right, I give up," said Rob, stretching until his joints cracked. "I need to be fresh for the slopes. Night, kids. Night, darling." "Night," the group mumbled in chorus. There was that break-up atmosphere where people look for their phones and glasses need to go in the dishwasher. Liam stood up. The heat and the wine made him a little dizzy. Reality returned like a cold breath. Up in the loft, the bag still stood unopened. He hadn't set out his "safety net". He hadn't found a place to change. And Sophie was going up there. Right now. "I think I’ll head up too," said Sophie, rubbing her eyes. She looked sleepy and soft. "Are you brushing your teeth first, Liam, or shall I grab the bathroom?" Liam looked at his watch, then at the bathroom door, and then at his mum, who was busy blowing out the candles. If he let Sophie go to the bathroom first, he would be alone in the loft for maybe ten minutes. Ten minutes to open the bag, find the package, and... do what? Hide it under the pillow? Put it on? No, not up there. But if he took the bathroom first, he would have to take his things out there. What if she saw? "You just take it," he said quickly. "I just need to... I just need to find my charger in my bag first." "Cool. See you up there." She smiled, grabbed her washbag, and disappeared into the bathroom, humming. Liam was left standing in the living room. His mum blew out the last candle and turned to him. In the semi-darkness, her face was hard to read. "Liam," she said quietly. The others had gone into their rooms. They were alone. "You drank quite a lot at dinner." "It was two glasses, Mum. Relax." "And Coke," she added. "I’m just saying. You know what that means for the night. Have you got it under control? Do you want me to come up and help you get the 'bed ready' once Sophie is asleep?" The offer hung in the air. It was a lifebuoy, but it was made of lead. If he said yes, he accepted that she would creep around up there in the dark while he lay there like a child. If he said no, he was on his own with a bladder full of liquid and a bag full of secrets. "I’ll do it myself," he replied. "Okay, fair enough," said his mum, stroking his arm. "Sleep tight." Chapter 3: Under the Duvet Liam lay completely still. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but it didn't help much. The loft was a black box, broken only by the faint blue glow of the moon filtering through the small round window, tracing a square on the floor between the two mattresses. Three metres away lay Sophie. Her breathing had become heavy and regular. A faint, rhythmic sound that should have been soothing, but to Liam, it sounded like the countdown on a bomb. Every time she inhaled, he froze. Every time she exhaled, he relaxed a millimetre. He took a deep breath through his nose and gently lifted the duvet a fraction with his left hand to create a small tent. The air inside was warm and heavy with his own body heat. He grabbed the DryNites diaper that lay next to his pillow. The material felt foreign against his fingers. It was dry, papery, and thick. A sharp contrast to the soft cotton sheet. He squeezed it. It made a sound. Crr-rritch. The sound wave cut through the silence like a whip crack. Liam stiffened, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared over at Sophie’s mattress. She stirred. An arm slid out from under her duvet, and she mumbled something unintelligible before turning onto her side. Facing him. Liam held his breath until his lungs burned. She slept on. Okay. Slowly. Ultra-slowly. He pushed the diaper down along his body, under the duvet, until it reached his hips. Now came the hardest part. The logistics. He was wearing jeans. Tight, black jeans. And because the diaper was a pull-up—a pair of "pyjama pants"—he had to have everything off from the waist down to put them on. He couldn't just pull his trousers down to his ankles; he needed his feet free. He bent his legs up under him so his knees pointed towards the ceiling and lifted the duvet. He grabbed the waistband of his jeans. The button was easy enough. The zip was the problem. He gripped the small metal tab of the zip with two fingers and began to pull it down, millimetre by millimetre. Zzz... Pause. Zzz... Pause. It felt like it took an hour. When the zip was finally down, he started wiggling his hips from side to side to shimmy the trousers down over his backside. The friction between the denim and the mattress made a dragging, whispering sound. He got the trousers down to his knees. Then to his ankles. Now he lay tangled in a knot of duvet, jeans, and his own legs. He needed to get his feet out of the trouser legs. He kicked gently with his right foot. His heel caught on the hem. He kicked again, a little harder. His foot broke free and hit the guard rail with a dull thud. "Mmm...?" The sound came from Sophie. Liam froze in an absurd position: One foot in the air, the other still trapped in his trousers, half-naked under the duvet, bathed in sweat. "Liam?" Her voice was thick with sleep, husky. "Yeah?" he whispered back. His voice cracked. "Are you okay? You’re making noise..." "Sorry," he whispered quickly. "I... I just turned over. Hit my foot. Go back to sleep." There was silence for five seconds. Five eternities. "Okay... night..." she mumbled, pulling the duvet up around her ears again. Liam lay completely still for two minutes while sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He was so close to being exposed. If she turned on the light now... if she sat up to see what he was doing... He waited until her breathing became deep again. Then he finished the manoeuvre. He freed his left foot. He pushed the jeans all the way down to the foot of the bed with his toes. Then he pulled off his boxers. Now he lay naked under the duvet. Vulnerable. The warm air suddenly felt cold. He fumbled in the dark for the diaper. He found it. He opened it up, stuck his feet through the leg holes. And then he pulled up. The sensation was the worst part. The moment the soft, padded material slid up over his thighs and enclosed his groin. It was the feeling of defeat. It was the feeling of stepping out of the role of a 17-year-old guy and into the role of... something else. He pulled it all the way up over his hips. The elastic sides tightened around his waist. It sat high, much higher than his boxers. The thick, absorbent core pressed against his crotch and filled the space between his legs. It felt enormous. As if he had a cushion between his legs. He lay down again and stretched out his legs. Crinkle. Crunch. The sound came from him. From the diaper. Every time he moved his thighs against each other, the plastic outer layer made a faint, rustling sound. He lay stiff as a board. He was wearing the "armour" now. He was safe. If he wet himself in his sleep, the bed would remain dry. But the price was that he now lay next to the girl he was in love with, wearing a diaper. He rummaged around at the foot of the bed with his toes until he got hold of his boxers. He pulled them up over the diaper along with his pyjama bottoms and checked his phone before sliding it back under his pillow. He left the jeans in a pile at the bottom of the bed. He closed his eyes. Exhaustion was threatening to overpower him, but the awareness of the thick padding between his legs kept him awake. He was safe. But he wasn't free. He turned carefully onto his side, facing away from Sophie, and pulled the duvet all the way up over his ears to muffle the sound of crinkling plastic. Outside, the snow was still falling. Inside, Liam fell asleep to the sound of his own breathing and the feeling of being wrapped in secrets.

Paul's Trip to Hawaii I've had an idea for a story sort of like this for a long time. I've done versions of this as a role play a couple times, and finally decided to actually write it as a story. I have thorough notes, although I haven't written it to the end. There is an ending. I think it's satisfying. No characters will be harmed in this story. They will be embarrassed, but they will not be humiliated. The adults are all kind. Note (added Jul 31): I didn't have chapters initially. That makes it hard for me to refer to or think about divisions. I've decided to to go with "Saturday, Part 1" and so on, with the number resetting each day. Saturday, Part 1 Before Paul opened his eyes he knew something was wrong. It was cold. Or not just not, but wet. A specific kind of wetness. It always felt ice cold in that moment between sleep and waking. He kept his eyes closed, hoping he was wrong. He shifted his legs, just a tiny bit. He wasn't wrong. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. The room is still dark, the dull grey of an early Saturday morning. Outside his room, down the hall, he hears the shower. Mom is awake. He folds back the covers and looks. The goodnite had not done that good. He sees a dark patch spreading out from under him. His PJ pants are wet. And somehow, his shirt. That's the third time this week. The shower turns off. Paul reaches down and inspects the wet spot. It's not small. It spreads from under his hip almost to the edge of the mattress. He sighs. It's a long sigh, one he makes with his entire chest. It is not a contented sigh. His legs swing over the side of the bed and he stands up. The goodnite sags as he stands; he has to grab the waist band with his hands to keep it from sliding down. He peels off his pj pants and shirt. They're both wet, and he tosses them onto the wet spot. They can be washed with the sheets. He grabs the waist band of his Goodnite again. There are footsteps in the hall. Mom is walking past his door. He waits, hoping to avoid Mom. The bathroom is six steps away. He almost makes it, but Mom hears him. She's dressed and her hair is half brushed. She stops, looking at him, and takes him in. The goodnite he's holding up. The lack of pajamas. "Oh, bud," she says softly. Paul's face gets hot. He looks down. It's obvious what happened. Still holding the waist band, he moves his arms in front of him, trying to cover something. Mom doesn't say anything. She steps closer, puts her hand on his shoulder, and says "Bad one?" Paul nods. "Go hop in the shower. Goodnite goes in the trash can in the bathroom. I'll get the sheets." "Mom, I can..." "I got it, bud. Really. Hop in the shower and get warm." She squeezes his shoulder, then releases, and heads to his room. Paul shuffles his way to the bathroom and closes the door. He lets go of the goodnite, shifts his hips, and it slides down, landing with a plop. He steps out of it, and puts it in the trash can under the sink. The shower is warm as soon as he turns it on; Mom just got out. The hot water helps. It always does. He washes his hair, then his body. He stands there longer than he needs to. His mind wanders. Will there be a pool at the hotel in Hawaii, or just the beach? He thinks about nothing. He washes his hair again. When he can't delay any longer, he finally turns off the shower and grabs his towel. The bathroom is full of steam. He dries off, and then wraps the towel around his waist, tucking the corner in so it will stay. Then he remembers. The hallway. The wet goodnite. The wet bed. His face goes red. He cracks open the door, steam escaping. The hall is empty. Paul walks through the hall again and slips into his room. The bed is made. Fresh sheets, and the blanket pulled smooth and neatly made. Mom is sitting on the edge of it, her hands in her lap. Beside her is a plastic package. It looks kind of like the goodnites packaging. It's plastic, but mostly white, not blue. He notices the words "youth" and "briefs" on it, and that it looks vaguely medical. His stomach does a thing. He looks at Mom. Her face is calm, not the soft comfort from the hallway. She looks like she's ready to talk. "Hey, bud," she says. "Come sit down for a second." She pats the bed next to her, the side that doesn't have the package. Paul looks at the towel wrapped around his waist, tucked in at his hip. His hair drips a little. "Can I get dressed first?" Mom shakes her head, just a little. "Wait a sec, bud. Sit down first." He hesitates, then walks over, holding the towel around his waist, and sits down on the bed, right where she patted. Mom looks at him, but doesn't speak. She's carefully picking her words. "What is it?" Paul asks. Mom takes a small breath. "I want to talk about something. Something I've been thinking about for a while, especially with our trip coming up." She reaches over and rests her hand on top of the package. The package that does not contain goodnites. She doesn't pick it up yet, her hand just rests on it. "The goodnites aren't working, Paul. This is the third leak this week. Your body is producing more at night than they're built for. It's not your fault, but it's what's happening." Paul looks at his knees. "So I ordered these," she continued, patting the package. They're diapers. Real ones. They tape on the sides instead of pulling up. They hold more. They shouldn't leak." She pauses. "I want you to start wearing them at night." "D... d... diapers?" Paul finally manages to say, the word catching in his throat. His face goes hot again, hotter than in the bathroom, when he remembered. "Yeah, bud." Mom's voice is even. She's not making a big deal about it, but she's not making a small deal of it either. "Diapers." She picks up the package, setting it across her lap so he can see it better, but she doesn't push it towards him. "I know how that sounds," she says. "I really do. But listen - they're basically the same things as goodnites. Goodnites are diapers, sweetheart. They just call them something else so it feels different. These do the same thing, but better. They just go on differently." He's still staring at his knees. The towel feels very thin. "The difference matters," she says, "because the goodnites aren't working. You're waking up cold and wet and embarrassed. Three times this week. We're washing the sheets constantly. You aren't getting enough sleep. I want something that works better for you, without leaking. You deserve that." Mom slides a finger into the plastic and tears it open. She reaches in and pulls a diaper out. It's white. It's thicker than a goodnite, folded into thirds. The way she's holding it Paul can see the tapes - two per side. His face goes from hot to burning. He didn't think it was going to get worse than trying to say d... the word. But seeing it, unfolded in Mom's hands, is worse. His eyes start to water. Mom doesn't say anything for a second. She lets him have a moment. "Hey bud," she says, quietly. "Look up for a sec." Paul looks up. Mom holds the diaper out towards him, not pushing it, just offering. He takes it with one hand. As soon as he does, it unfolds and opens up across his lap, and oh. Oh. It's a diaper. The hourglass shape, narrower in the middle and wider at the ends, the same shape he's seen and friends' houses with younger siblings. The inside is soft and white. There are elastics along the length, and little ruffles. It's thick, much thicker than a goodnite. It's also big. Folded, it looked manageable. Open, across his lap, it looks like something that will fit him. His ears burn. Mom watches his face. "Yeah, bud," she says softly. "I know, it's a lot. It's a diaper." She doesn't reach for it back. She lets him hold it. Paul folds it in half. It doesn't fold cleanly. The padding isn't creased in the middle, the wings are messed up, and the tapes get in the way. He ends up with a lumpy, awkward bundle in his lap that looks bigger than the thing Mom pulled out of the package. It crinkles as he holds it. It's loud. His fingers notice that it feels different than the goodnite. It's smooth, plastic, and a little stiff. It's a diaper. There is no part of his brain that can pretend it's anything else. His face burns. He keeps his eyes on it, still in his hands, because looking at Mom is impossible. Mom is quiet beside him. She lets the silence be. After a moment, she reaches over, and puts her hand on his shoulders, resting there. "I know," she says, "I know, bud." She pauses, then adds, "Here, let's see if they fit." Mom takes the diaper out of his hands and sets it on top of the open package beside her. She pulls him into a hug, both arms wrapped around him. He goes stiff at first, but then relaxes and sinks into her embrace, because it's Mom. Her hand rubs slow circles on his back. "You're ok," she says quietly into his hair. "You're ok, bud." He doesn't realize what's happening at first. Her hand moves to his shoulder, and she's gently easing him backward. Her other hand supports his neck, and before his mind has caught up, he's laying flat on his bed with his head on his pillow. The towel is still tucked in at his hip. He blinks in confusion at the ceiling, then at her. "What?" he says, confused. Not alarmed yet, just genuinely not following. Mom is reaching for the diaper. She unfolds it across her lap. "What?" he says again, and this time it comes out higher, almost a squeak. Mom looks at him on the bed. Her eyes flick to the towel. "Lift up a sec, bud." Before he can ask why, her hand is at her hip, untucking the corner he tucked in earlier. She unwraps it, then pats his hip with her other hand. His hips go up, automatically. She unwraps the towel the rest of the way and slides it out from under him, folds it once, and places it at the foot of the bed. Paul's brain stalls. He's lying on his bed with no towel and no anything. His hands hover over himself, like they don't know what to do or where to go. Mom grabs his ankles, and she does something with them that sends his knees to his chest. With her other hand she slides the diaper under him. "Moooom." He makes a small startled sound. "Shh, shh, almost there, bud." The sounds come out of her mouth on autopilot, soft and rhythmic, sounds that are familiar but that she hasn't made in a long time. She doesn't register that she's making them. Her hands are busy. They know what to do. She smoothes out the diaper under him, then lowers his legs back onto the bed. "Almost done." Paul finally manages to speak. "What are you doing?" His knees snap together the second they hit the mattress. The front of the diaper is still flat against the bed, between his legs, or under them, not yet pulled up. His thighs press together like a reflex he isn't aware of. Mom laughs. It's sudden, and bursts out of her. A short, surprised, real laugh. Paul's stomach drops because for one awful second he thinks she's laughing at him, lying on his bed, being changed like a baby. His face crumbles. "No, no, no, bud." She's shaking her head, one hand pressed against her forehead. "Not at you, I promise. At me!" She's still laughing a little. It's softer now, and he can tell she's embarrassed. "I just - Paul - I haven't done this in, oh, I don't know how long and apparently my hands remember everything. I just folded you up like you were two. I didn't even think about it. I'm so sorry, I just..." she lets out a half breath/half laugh/half snort. "Muscle memory is weird." She drops her hand from her face and looks at him. Her cheeks are pink. "You haven't been that small in a long time," she says. "Sorry, bud. I was laughing at me. Not you." "Mooooom," Paul says, drawing it out, the way he does when she embarrasses him at school pickup. His cheeks are still red, but the worst of it has passed. The awful feeling that she was laughing at him is gone, leaving normal ten year old indignation. Mom grins at him, and there's something in her face that's apologetic and amused and fond and soft all at once. "I know, I know, I'm the worst." She's already reaching for the front of the diaper. "Knees apart, bud. We're almost done then you can yell at me all you want." Paul shakes his head. Just once, but a small, stubborn shake. His knees are still pressed together. It's not really a no. It's something smaller. A last little bit of resistance that needs to register, for the record, that he doesn't want this. Even if it's happening anyway. Even if he knows it's happening anyway. Mom's hand pauses. She looks at him. Her face goes soft. Not the laughing face from a minute ago, but the one from the hallway. "Hey," she says. "I know." She doesn't push his knees apart. She just waits, her hand resting lightly on his leg. "I know this is a lot," she says. "I know it's weird and you don't want to be doing this. But we're like eight seconds from done, and then we can see how this fits and then you can get dressed and have breakfast and pretend like none of this happened until tonight. Okay?" She waits a second. "Knees, bud." Paul doesn't say anything. His knees stay pressed together. Mom waits another second. Then she slides her hands between his knees, not forcing. just there. Warm and steady. Gentle, but not asking permission. She presses softly outward. His knees give. Not because she made them. Because he let her. They both know, even if neither says it. She works quickly. The front of the diaper comes up between his legs. Her hands know what to do, smoothing, adjusting, and fastening the tapes one at a time. The diaper is snug against his waist. She runs a finger through the leg gathers on each side, checking and adjusting them. Then she pats the top of his diaper, just below his belly button, signalling "all done," her hands on autopilot like they've been for the rest of the change. Paul feels something, and realizes that she's done this before too, with him. He blushes. "Okay," she says, sitting up. "All done." Paul's face is on fire. He stares at the ceiling because he can't look anywhere else. His brain is trying to catch up with what just happened and can't. She was so fast. She knew what to do, his ankles, the tapes, the leg gathers, the pat at the end. It couldn't have been more than a minute. He just got changed, like... He can't finish the thought, but the word lingers there, just out of reach. Like a baby. His stomach twists. But it's over. That's the next thing he notices. It's done, he's been changed, and he doesn't have to think about how it goes on. A small wave of relief washes over him before he can stop it. He blushes harder. He's relieved Mom changed his diaper. What is wrong with him? His knees come together. It's a reflex again, wanting to be less exposed. That's when he feels it. There is a thing between his legs that he can't ignore. It's soft and thick and present in a way that a goodnite never was. The goodnites feel like underwear and disappear under his pajamas. These won't. He looks down. The diaper is white and bulky and obviously a diaper. The tapes are neat and symmetrical. It puffs out between his legs. He's never been more aware of anything in his life. He reaches down. His hand hovers for a second, like he's not sure he's allowed to touch it, even though it's on him. He presses the front. It crinkles. Loud. Louder than he expected. He feels the give of the padding beneath his hand, dense and soft at the same time. He presses again, and it crinkles again. His fingers trace one of the tapes. He's not really thinking, he's just... observing. Taking inventory of the thing that's on him. What it feels like, and what it sounds like. When he looks up, Mom is watching him. Her face is quiet. She's not amused, or pitying him, she's just present. Letting him have a moment, and feel his diaper. Their eyes meet. His hand snaps back to his side like he was caught doing something he's not supposed to. His hand is back at his side, but the feel of the diaper stays with him for a moment longer. The softness under the plastic, the way it gave slightly when he pressed, and how it felt under his hand. It hadn't felt bad. It felt... soft. Kind of nice, actually, in a way that he didn't let his mind examine. His face gets hot all over again. For the third time. He was touching his diaper. Mom saw him touching his diaper. And touching his diaper was soft. Mom smiles. "It's ok, bud," she says. "You're allowed to look at it. It's on you, you can touch it. You can know what it feels like." She pauses for a moment. "And for what it's worth - It looks like a lot. It is a lot, especially the first time. But these should be comfortable. I read that they're softer than the pull-up kind. Thicker, but not papery like goodnites. Maybe more..." She shrugs, searching for a word. "Pillowy? I guess?" She shrugs, unable to find a better word. "Anyway, you don't have to like it. You just have to wear it. And if it turns out to be a little more comfortable than you were expecting, that's ok. Good, even." Paul blushes at all of it, but especially at "pillowy." He pushes himself off the bed. His fit hit the floor and the first thing he notices is how he walks. His legs aren't quite right where they normally are. He takes a couple steps towards the dresser, feeling the diaper with each one. There is a mirror in front of his closet door. He looks at it, for just a second. A ten year old boy stares back. His hair is damp, uncombed. His chest looks like his chest. His arms look like his arms. His face looks like his face. A bit red, but his face. But around his hips and waist is a thick white diaper. It's bulky. It's obviously a diaper. The tapes are visible, two per side, neat little rectangles holding it on. The waistband sits higher than a goodnite, almost at his belly button, and higher in the back. It puffs out in the front. He turns sideways and catches his profile. Then around, looking over his shoulder to see the back. He keeps looking at the diaper. He tries to look away, but his eyes are drawn back, like he can't decide what he thinks, and if he doesn't know if looking at it makes it better or worse. Behind him Mom is still sitting on his bed. She's observing him. Not watching him, but just present, letting him have his moment. Paul catches her eyes in the mirror. She smiles, soft, and a little tired, like it's Saturday morning and she isn't fully awake yet. "You look just like ..." She stops herself, but she's started the sentence and they both know how it will end. Paul watches her mouth close, her eyes open a little wider, and her cheeks go a little pink. "... just like you did when you were little. And handsome. You look just like a handsome young man. Who happens to be wearing a diaper." She winces. "I'm going to stop talking now," she says. A few seconds later, she asks "Pancakes?" The change of subject is abrupt, but welcome to both of them. "Yes," Paul says. "Yes. Please." He feels a small flicker of relief at the idea. At the change in topic, and at pancakes. He's hungry. There's maple syrup. It's a normal Saturday thing. Then he looks in the mirror. "Like this?" The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he's said. He means "wearing a diaper" or "can I take my diaper off first," but the words that leave his mouth are "like this," which sounds like he's asking Mom whether it's ok to eat breakfast wearing a diaper. And only a diaper. Mom's eyebrows go up. She laughs, not at him, but at the question, at the morning, at everything. She covers her mouth with her hand. "Sure, bud," she says, when she gets her composure back. "If that's what you want. Pancakes in a diaper. Bold choice. I support it." Paul feels his whole face burn up as he realizes what he just asked. But then, somehow, without noticing it, his brain has moved past "can I take it off" and now assumes the diaper is staying on, and the relevant question is what clothes he wears over it. Mom didn't tell him to leave the diaper on, but she didn't tell him to take it off either. She's still smiling, watching him work through what he said. "Or you could put some normal clothes on and come eat pancakes like every Saturday. But up to you, bud." She stands up. "I'm going to start on the batter," she says, patting his shoulder as she passes him on the way to the door. "You can decide what you wear." she says, raising her eyebrows and trying to suppress a smile, "or not. I meant what I said. It's a bold choice. But you can pull it off." "Moooom." "I'm just saying." She's already in the hallway, talking over her shoulder. "Take your time, bud. Pancakes in 15 minutes."

I’ve chosen to revisit the story Sally’s Growth because of its controversial ending. This time, I’m offering a new one. I’ve spent a long time thinking about the story I wrote—and why I wrote it. While the original ending was described by some as “Greek drama,” one of my deeper influences is actually Russian drama. It’s rooted in realism, psychology, social critique, and spiritual struggle. It asks hard questions: How should we live? What does suffering mean? Its characters don’t battle the gods; they wrestle with themselves, with their nation, and with their conscience. There’s a persistent search for beauty, love, and meaning—even in chaos. Redemption is never guaranteed, but it’s always pursued. That said, the ending was disappointing. I get it. It disappointed me too—mainly because it left too much unresolved. For instance, how would Sally now relate to Katrina, Clara, and Erika in her changed situation? Over time, I kept circling these questions, running “what if” scenarios in my mind. Eventually, they grew into something more solid—and that’s what I’m sharing now. Someone once commented that the ending of Sally’s Growth felt like a dream sequence. They wished Sally would wake up. I’m not going down that road. Instead, I’m picking up the story where it ended: Sally dies—but then she doesn’t. And from there, the story continues. (Spoiler: Nobody dies in this story) I’m posting Chapter 97 as a continuation under this new direction. New readers may want to check out Sally’s Growth in the Completed Stories archive before diving in. I suggest you read until Chapter 96, then begin here. Your comments mean a lot. I depend on them.

Chapter One: Starting Small Cassidy Marks had been practicing her runway walk since she was nine—usually in socks, sometimes in boots, once in a pair of heels two sizes too big that she borrowed from her cousin and promptly tripped in. She was sixteen now, tall enough to pass for older in the right lighting, and absolutely certain that her future was in front of a camera. What she didn’t have yet was a portfolio—or even a single paying job. She’d signed up for every local casting site her mom would allow and sent her headshots to anyone with an email address that sounded remotely professional. Most replies were silence. A few were rejections. One was from a guy in New Jersey asking if she’d be okay modeling in “jelly.” She didn’t reply. So when she got the call from EcoCare, she didn’t even read the full pitch before replying 'yes.' Everyone knew EcoCare. They were the eco-baby brand—the one all the “green” moms swore by. Their bamboo diapers and compostable wipes were sold in every major store, and their TV ads were full of glowing, natural-light nurseries and babies wrapped in soft beige cotton. Lately, though, the company had been hinting at something new: “EcoCare is growing up with you,” the teaser campaign said. No one was sure what that meant. Cassidy found out in a tiny office inside a clean, modern studio in the city. “It’s our new Youth line,” said the brand coordinator, a woman named Myra with perfectly straight bangs and a clipboard full of contracts. “EcoCare Bloom. Designed for older kids and teens who need daytime or overnight support—whether for medical reasons, sensory issues, or just peace of mind.” Cassidy blinked. “So… like diapers? For teens?” “We prefer protective underwear,” Myra said smoothly. “They’re thinner, breathable, biodegradable, and come in youthful prints. Totally discreet. Totally responsible. You’d be helping normalize eco-conscious personal care for young people.” Cassidy swallowed. This wasn’t exactly what she imagined for her first job. She had pictured makeup ads or maybe activewear. Something fun. Cute. Something that didn’t involve explaining to friends why she was standing next to a pastel package that said ‘12–18 yrs: SleepSecure Fit!’ Still, a job was a job—and EcoCare was huge. She’d be working with a real team. Professional stylists. A real camera crew. She’d be paid. And there was something exciting about being chosen for a new line. Like being the face of the future. Cassidy glanced at the contract. Then at the sample package on the table beside her. Then at her mom, who sat quietly beside her, giving no sign of judgment—just that steady, trusting look that said your call, kid. Cassidy took a breath and picked up the pen. “I’m in.” "Ahem," her mother interjected, "I'd really prefer if we took some time to read the contract over, plus you're under 18 so you can't really sign it anyway." They thanked the representatives and took the stack of papers home. Cassidy’s heart thumped as she clutched the neat stack of papers the EcoCare representative had given her. She’d thought it was just a matter of signing her name and starting her very first modeling gig, but her mother seemed to want to challenge her resolve. That evening, at the kitchen table, Cassidy slid the contract across the wood surface. “Mom, can we get this done,” she asked, fiddling with the edge of the folder. Jenna dried her hands on a dish towel and slid her glasses into place. “Alright, let’s take a look.” Cassidy bounced on her heels as her mom flipped through the pages, murmuring now and then. Then Jenna stopped, her brow knitting. She read the paragraph twice, then looked up at her daughter. “Cass,” she began carefully, “this isn’t just photo shoots and interviews. There’s a condition here that I think you need to understand.” Cassidy leaned over the table. “What do you mean?” Her mom pointed to the clause in bold: Transparency Requirement: All models must wear the product full-time for the campaign’s duration. This includes continuous wear and natural use, day and night, with no exceptions. Cassidy blinked, her smile faltering. “Wait—so… they mean actually…?” “Yes,” Jenna said gently. “They want you to really live with the product, not just pose in it. You’d have to wear it constantly and use it, as though it were your normal routine.” For a moment, Cassidy was quiet, the weight of the clause sinking in. Then her lips curved into a wobbly smile. “Well… I guess that’s what makes it real, right? If I want people to believe in it, I should too.” Her mom studied her, torn between pride and concern. “It’s a big commitment, Cassidy. I need to know you’re sure. Once I sign this, you’re bound by it for the whole campaign it could be for up to six months depending on the company's optional extension built in here.” Cassidy drew in a steadying breath. “I’m sure. This could be my chance, Mom. I’ll handle it.” Jenna hesitated, ok but you better mean you'll handle it because I potty trained you for a reason. Cassidy nodded, still not completely sure. She watched as her mother picked up the pen, her hand pausing for just a second before she signed her name. “Alright. But you come to me if it’s too much. No hiding, no pretending. Understood?” Cassidy leaned over and hugged her. “Understood.” Jenna could hardly believe the ‘adult’ decision her daughter had just made was to wear diapers again 24/7 for up to six months. As Jenna slid the signed contract back into the folder, she caught herself staring again at the clause. Cassidy might be ready now—but the reality would set in soon enough. Cassidy was in for the summer of her life. ----- Thanks for reading this is chapter one. I have yet to put the human touch on the rest of this AI assisted work but I'd appreciate your feedback.

I live in Knoxville and I've always wanted to be with a mommy or woman who was also abdl. Is there anyone interested in talking?

A/N: IMPORTANT TO NOTICE Hey all! I hope you're all doing well! Do not worry! I am still working on my other stories but had started this a while ago and felt like I should post it! Just a warning in the beginning that this story will contain a lot of non-con, sexual content and humiliation. If this makes you uncomfortable than I suggest you don't read it! I love seeing comments so I'd love to see everyone's comments! ooOoo Summary: When a young new independent journalist decides to write about something other than the typical run of the mill stories, she is introduced into a new life, just not in the way she expected. ooOoo Chapter 1: MommyslittleBiggurls.com 22 December 2021 Hello Friends! It sure has been a while! I hope you’re all doing well on this frosty morning. Here in Montana, we’re certainly going to have a white Christmas. Sugar and Cookie sure are excited to see Santa and have been extra careful to be good girls; always asking for the potty like good little girls, eating all of their veggies at dinner and making sure to drink all of their babas full of yummy milk! I’m sure you all are experiencing the same with your little ones at the moment, even the disobedient can’t ignore the happy cheer of Christmas. I really can’t believe it’s only been three months since we first adopted our newest little girl, Honey! Of course with new littles, it’s always an adventure and Sugar and Cookie are being the best big sisters they can be! It can be hard, especially around the holidays to deal with an un-regressed, naughty little so that brings me to the topic of today’s post: Punishments. If you're like me or are a new caregiver, it’s never easy training a new little and before they can be our sweet little babies, they will be literal demons! It is never fun but in order to nip that naughty behavior in the bum, punishment is required and it is not always as simple as quick spanking. Listed below, you will find three different punishments to try if you, like me, were at a loss. Punishments: Punishment 1: Corner time with a twist Depending on the severity of the naughty behavior, instruct your little one it's corner time for a certain amount of time. While many, if not all, will just find this incredibly boring and whine, there is a small twist. Listen carefully to these five steps: Take littles’ clothes away (that means no diapers/pullups/or undies as well!), Give a nice soapy cold enema to their bum-bum and insert a buttplug to ensure no dribbles Administer a firm spanking (I’ve found different objects such as a belt or hairbrush to be most effective!) Little will bend down or kneel in the corner with their bum-bum high in the air for everyone to see After a certain amount of time, if the little has not moved from their position, you will instruct the little to tell you what they did wrong and have them beg to release their bodily functions. If you are unsatisfied with their response, even more minutes will be added to corner time Punishment 2: Potty Time with Horsy Let’s get real, we’ve all struggled with littles refusing to go potty in their diapers or on the training toilet and it’s a pain to have to insert enemas and suppositories into screaming littles. That’s how I came up with horsy time. The rocking horse, while meant to be an object of amusement during playtime, can just as quickly be turned into an object of torture. What you need to do is listed below: The little will sit on the rocking horse in only their bottoms, whether that be a diaper or pull-up Place earphones on little and set to the wet diaper hypnosis Instruct the little to rock back and forth and do not stop no matter what and not to mess or wet themselves Plan a certain amount of time and come back when the time is up If the little is still rocking and is dry, they have earned the privilege to go potty. If not, horsy time is extended and the dirty diaper stays on another several hours The constant rhythmic motion combined with hypnosis at the same timing will put the littles right in the mood to have to relieve themselves. How they do it will no longer matter. The added pressure to keep a constant rocking in order to avoid further punishment will take a heavy toll on their mind as well and increase the need for positive behavior. Punishment 3: No Playtime with Teddy If you choose to allow your little to have any sexual release, this punishment can have a rewarding effect. As a human race, we are sexual beings but not everyone deserves or should have such an experience. Littles have gotten it into their minds that they should be allowed to have such experiences, but what do they know? They’re just littles. It is our job as caretakers to instruct and control their urges. If we leave them to their own devices, who knows what will happen? My little girls are allowed one play session a week with Mr. Teddy Bear to release all of their icky cummies by the hand of mommy and daddy. While Rosie and Cookie know being a good girl will lead to happy feelings, Honey is still learning. Orgasm and cum denial or “the tickles and ice cream dance” as we call it, are an excellent way to assert dominance and make them quickly realize who the real grownups are and who is in charge. Mittens or restraints are a must for untrained littles! You never know where their wandering hands will end up! Chastity belts are also a great device, especially if they get a little too excited during playtime and try humping (which is extremely discouraged!) IMPORTANT: It is important to enforce anything sexual is not allowed without the approval, observation, and act by grown-ups because you never know when littles might accidentally injure themselves! I hope you all enjoyed my little list and hopefully it helps you on your journey to having a regressed little! It may seem tough at times but we’ve all gone through it before (I currently am!) Stay tuned for next time and meanwhile, have a Merry Christmas! Love, Mommy Bree ooOoo The sound of the ding signaling the post had been successfully posted was a happy feeling to say the least. Unknown outside the world of ageplay, Bree Hawthorne was as famous as could be within the community. With over ten thousand followers and readers, people tuned in from all over the world to read about their simple little family. Being a blogger on top of a mommy had become her full time job and she didn’t regret a single second of it. She always knew she wanted to have a family and her love for blogging couldn’t have been a more perfect combination. There were so many who envied to fill the role of a Hawthorne little but only so few could actually meet the requirements. That’s why they had taken to unique means of obtaining their little girls. Kidnapping was a bit too harsh a term. They preferred adoption. Did the public need to know that? No. Would they ever find out? Probably not. Looking around outside the large glass windows, the only view for miles was farmland with snow capped mountains in the background. Bloomington, Montana was the perfect place to go to if one didn’t want to be found. They had the freedom to be who they were without any nosey neighbors disrupting their lives. Her husband, coming from old money, allowed them to own lavish homes around the country, buy the newest high-tech adult-baby equipment and pay off those they needed to stay quiet. Everything was as it should be. Everything would soon be perfect. They were our babydolls. Sugar, Cookie, Honey and- “Another post?” Jasper. At the sound of his deep voice, she spun around in the swivel chair. Face to face with her blonde, strong-jawed, blue eyed handsome husband. He was everything she dreamed of in a man. Strong, smart, caring, loyal. A great daddy to their three wonderful girls. What more could a person ask of a spouse? “Yes. I’ve finished just in time for… lunch!” she exclaimed, glancing at the time and shutting down the macbook. “Today’s post was about punishments and I gave the best examples of Honey. How is she doing this morning actually? The baby monitor on her end has been awfully quiet.” she asked, having been in the office the entire morning working. “Sleeping.” was his only response, scowling with his hand over his face. “Do I want to know what happened?” “No.” It was always a struggle to tame the girl and her rebellious behavior and silly dreams. Most often then not her bum was black and blue, littered with marks and bruises. How a five foot, one-hundred-twenty pound girl with not an ounce of body fat had managed to give them this much a fight, they did not know. While the little blonde fought they pushed back just as hard. She would break eventually. They all do. “Sugar and Cookie are in the playpen writing letters to Santa,” that made them crack a smile. “I can feed them while you handle, Honey? I may just take her over my knee again and that’s not what she needs at the moment.” Bree reached out, wrapping her arms around his neck as his face burrowed into her kinky black hair, placing a trail of kisses upon her chocolate colored skin. “So it’s my turn to play the bad mommy,” she mused. “Precisely.” her husband cracked a smile. “It feels so much longer than three months since we got her. Remember?” Oh, how could they forget…

The humiliation was a physical weight, a cold stone lodged in my chest. My name is Benjamin, and I am thirty years old. Yet here I sat, in the brightly colored chaos of the Little Sprouts Daycare, strapped into a wooden high chair that dwarfed my small frame. My legs, too short to reach the footrest, dangled uselessly. I was dressed only in a soft, billowing Pampers diaper—size 7, with a humiliating parade of Elmo and Cookie Monster grinning cheerfully across the front—and a pale yellow t-shirt that was several sizes too small. It barely skimmed the top of the diaper’s waistband, leaving the plastic backing and the cartoon characters completely exposed to the world. Around me, actual toddlers babbled and mashed food into their hair. I had just finished a bowl of applesauce, fed to me with a plastic spoon by Mrs. Abernathy. She stood over me now, a vision of strict, perfumed authority. Mrs. Abernathy was in her late sixties, always impeccably dressed in crisp, knee-length skirts, silk blouses, and low, sharp high heels that clicked like a metronome of doom. Her silver hair was coiled in a perfect bun, and a cloud of rosewater and lavender perfume followed her everywhere, a scent I’d come to associate with utter powerlessness. “All done, are we, Benjamin?” she cooed, her voice sweet as syrup but with a steely undertone. She unclipped the tray, and before I could protest, her strong hands were under my arms, lifting me from the chair. The diaper, absurdly large on my slight hips, crinkled loudly with the movement. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but the diaper felt… hollow. Soft, yes, but also strangely empty and loose around my legs, a constant, crinkling reminder of its purpose. “Now, you be a good boy and play quietly,” she instructed, carrying me across the room. My feet didn’t even brush the floor. She deposited me with a gentle plop onto a padded mat in the play corner, surrounded by oversized stuffed animals and foam blocks. A hot wave of shame washed over me. “Mrs. Abernathy, please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “This… this isn’t right. I’m not a baby. You have to stop this.” She looked down at me, a slow, mocking smile spreading across her lined but still-pretty face. She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that felt like needles on my skin. “We’ll see, Benjamin. We shall see. Tell you what,” she said, leaning down so her perfumed scent overwhelmed me. “If you can keep this nice, dry diaper dry for the next two hours, I might consider that you have a point.” Hope, fragile and desperate, flickered in my chest. “Really?” “Really,” she said. Then, in one swift motion, she produced a large, blue adult-sized pacifier. “But until then, you need to be quiet.” Before I could react, she pressed the silicone nipple against my lips and pushed it into my mouth. “And I dare you to spit it out,” she added, her eyes glinting. Terrified, I closed my lips around it, the familiar, infantilizing shape making my eyes sting. I nodded meekly. “Good boy.” She then patted my diapered bottom three times—THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.—each strike firm and deliberate, sending a jolt through me. Then, she hooked her fingers in the back of the diaper’s waistband, pulled it out a good foot, and let it snap back against my skin with a loud, resonant SNAP-CRINKLE! The sound echoed in the room. It was utterly deliberate, a performance of her control, a reminder to me and anyone who might be listening of exactly what I was wearing. She smiled, satisfied, and walked away, her heels clicking on the linoleum. For twenty minutes, I sat motionless, staring at a garishly painted wall, sucking reflexively on the pacifier. Fury, despair, and a deep, aching humiliation swirled inside me. I was a man. I had a job, an apartment, a life. And here I was. Then, a new, more urgent dread began to coil in my gut. My stomach gurgled, a low, ominous rumble. Oh, no. No.Pressure built, a dual urgency. I needed to pee, but worse, far worse, I needed to do number two. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I clenched every muscle I could. This couldn’t happen. If I went in the diaper, it would be the final proof for her. It would mean she was right. I was just a baby who needed diapers. I shifted uneasily on the mat, the bulky diaper rustling. The pressure intensified, becoming a sharp, insistent cramp. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a war against my own body. The discomfort was immense—a hot, painful balloon expanding in my lower abdomen. I rocked slightly, whimpering around the pacifier. I can’t. I won’t. But my body betrayed me. The need became an imperative, overwhelming my will. In a panic, I clumsily pushed myself up. The diaper between my legs forced my stance into a wide, ungainly waddle. I shuffled as fast as I could, the swish-crinkle of the plastic deafening to my ears, towards a dim corner partially hidden by a large, worn sofa. The moment I was behind it, I gave up. With a shudder of utter defeat, I let go. First, a warm flood of urine spread through the diaper’s padding. The relief was instantaneous and profound, followed immediately by a scorching wave of shame. I looked down. The yellow wetness indicator line on the front of the diaper vanished, turning a bright, undeniable blue in a flash. Tears welled in my eyes. Then, the second wave hit. I crouched down, bracing one hand against the wall. With a soft, squelching sound, I filled the back of the diaper. It sagged heavily, warming instantly, becoming a lumpy, weighty, and profoundly uncomfortable burden. The sticky, messy feeling was grotesque. I was utterly soiled. The door to the main room creaked open. I froze. “My, what is that smell?” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice cut through the air. There was a second, younger voice. “Ew, yeah. Someone had an accident.” I peeked, just barely. Mrs. Abernathy was with a new helper, a young woman named Chloe. She was beautiful, with her hair in a high ponytail, wearing tight black yoga pants and a simple tank top. They both stopped, sniffing the air knowingly. “Time for a diaper check, I think,” Mrs. Abernathy announced brightly. My heart hammered against my ribs. I pressed myself deeper into the corner, praying one of the actual toddlers would be the culprit. I heard them moving around, cooing, checking babies. “Dry over here!” Chloe called. Then, the clicking heels came closer, stopping right in front of the sofa. Mrs. Abernathy’s shadow fell over me. She slowly crouched down, her knees cracking, until her perfumed face was level with mine. Her eyes, sharp and amused, looked straight into my terrified ones. “There you are, little wanderer,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “Let’s check that diaper, shall we?” I shook my head violently, mumbling “Mm-mmm! N-no!” around the pacifier. Her smile didn’t falter. She reached out and grabbed my upper arm in a vise-like grip. “Now, Benjamin, babies don’t get to decide when they need checking. That’s for grown-ups to know.” With shocking ease, she hauled me out from behind the sofa. In one fluid motion, she hooked her hands under my armpits and lifted me, turning me so my back was to her front, my soiled diaper presented to the room. She held me out at arm’s length, my feet dangling. “Oh my,” she said, bringing her nose dangerously close to the back of my padded bottom. She took several loud, deliberate sniffs. “Sniff… sniff… Yes, indeed. Someone is very, very messy.” I squirmed in her grasp. “Pwease… put me down,” I begged, the pacifier garbling my words. “Put you down? But we need to get you cleaned up!” she said, her tone one of mock concern. She turned, still holding me aloft, to address Chloe. “Chloe, dear, come here. A learning opportunity!” Chloe approached, a slightly hesitant but curious look on her face. “What do I do?” “For a proper check,” Mrs. Abernathy instructed, finally sitting me back on my feet on the floor, “you can give the waistband a little pull in the back. See if our baby has made an oopsie.” Chloe bit her lip, then leaned down. Her fingers, cool and gentle, hooked into the back of my diaper. She pulled it out and away from my skin, peeking inside. Her nose wrinkled instantly, and she made a dramatic gagging face. “Whoa! Yeah, that’s… that’s definitely an oopsie. A big one.” She let the diaper snap back. “Looks like someone’s a stinky little guy.” The humiliation was complete, witnessed by this beautiful young woman. “I told you I wasn’t a baby!” I cried, tears now streaming down my face, the pacifier falling from my mouth to dangle on its clip. Mrs. Abernathy laughed, a rich, hearty sound. “You told me you were a big boy! And yet, here you are, with a diaper full of poop. Yeah, right, Benjamin. Yeah, right.” She bent and scooped me up again, this time cradling me against her hip like an infant, one strong arm firmly under my soggy, messy bottom. “To the changing table we go!” As she walked, she began to pat and rhythmically knead my diapered rear through my clothes. Squish. Pat. Squish. “Shh, shh, baby. We’ll get you all clean. Making a bigger mess? Tsk, tsk. Babies can’t help it, can they?” Over her shoulder, I saw Chloe following us, walking backwards and making playful peek-a-boo motions with her hands. “Aww, does the wittle baby need a fresh diapee? Does the stinky boy need his bum wiped?” she cooed, her voice a cruel parody of baby talk. “He certainly does,” Mrs. Abernathy chimed in, giving my bottom another firm, squelching pat. “Such a baby. All that protest, and he still fills his pants. Just like a newborn.” “I’m not! I had to go! You didn’t give me a choice!” I sobbed, my protests weak and pathetic against their united front. “Babies always have choices,” Mrs. Abernathy said sagely, pushing open the door to the nursery. “They can choose to use their diaper like a good boy, or they can choose to make a fuss and get their bottom spanked. You, my dear Benjamin, seem to have chosen both.” Chloe giggled. “A multi-talented baby!” The nursery was a symphony of soft pastels and gentle curves, designed to soothe and subdue. The walls were a pale mint green, adorned with decals of fluffy clouds and cheerful, cartoonish animals holding balloons. A plush, cream-colored rug covered most of the floor, muffling all sound. Dominating the room was the sturdy, white changing table, its sides padded with a waterproof vinyl liner patterned with tiny ducks. On the shelves beneath, stacks of diapers rose like monoliths of infantile necessity—crisp packages of Luvs with their purple butterflies, and the iconic swaddled baby of Pampers in sizes 3, 6, and the prominent size 7. The air was thick with a cloying, familiar perfume: the talcum sweetness of baby powder, the clean, sterile scent of unused diapers, and beneath it all, the lingering, pungent note of a soiled one, recently discarded. She lowered me onto the cold, waterproof changing mat with a practiced, impersonal ease. The second my back touched the crinkly surface, a fresh wave of furious humiliation crashed over me. I started crying loudly, not delicate tears but raw, frustrated sobs that tore from my throat. I kicked my legs in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, my heels banging up and down on the mat with dull thuds. “I’m not a baby! I don’t need this!” I wailed, trying one more time to pierce the absurdity of the situation with reason. They just shared a look over me, a smirk passing between them. Mrs. Abernathy tutted. “It’s not up for discussion, sweetie. You’re getting a fresh Pampers. We can’t stand that smell all day, and clearly, you can’t manage without one.” Her tone was final, sing-song, and utterly dismissive. As I tried to wriggle free, bucking my hips, the older girl nodded to Chloe. “Help me hold him still.” Chloe moved in, her hands firm and unyielding as she grasped my left wrist and pinned my arm straight up above my head, against the duck-patterned padding. Mrs. Abernathy then leaned over, her face filling my vision. She looked directly into my eyes, her gaze cool and detached. “This is your last chance to behave. Understood?” Before I could form a retort, her fingers pinched a sharp, stinging bite into the soft flesh of my upper arm. I gasped, the pain cutting through my angry tears. Defeated, utterly powerless, I let my body go limp and nodded a silent, miserable ‘yes.’ They proceeded with ruthless efficiency. She opened the soiled diaper slowly, deliberately. Rip. One tape. Rip. The other. The sound was deafening in the quiet room. Then, with one hand, she lifted my legs into the air as if I were nothing more than a doll, her grip effortless. With her other hand, she peeled the diaper open. “Oh my,” Chloe chimed in, her nose wrinkling. “See? A big boy who’s ready for underwear doesn’t do this,” Mrs. Abernathy stated matter-of-factly, using the front clean panel of the diaper to scoop away the worst of the mess. What followed was an eternity of exposure. She cleaned me with a pile of wipes, cold and wet, swiping with clinical thoroughness over every inch. Chloe, still holding my arm aloft, made exaggerated cooing sounds—“Aww, all clean now!”—and puckered her face into mock-sympathetic kisses. When she was finally done, Mrs. Abernathy balled the dirty diaper into a tight, compact package and handed it to Chloe. “Diaper trash, please.” Chloe scampered off to a small, scented trash can with a cartoon lion on the lid. My legs were lowered, but there was no reprieve. She grabbed a large, fluffy container of baby powder. With a dramatic flourish, she sprinkled it over me, clouds of fine, white talc billowing in the air and settling on my skin and the mat below. The smell was overpowering now—a pure, iconic baby smell of clean powder and freshness, a scent that marked me as incontrovertibly infantile. “Chloe, grab a diaper from the shelf,” the older one directed, her voice calm. Chloe, eager to help, looked up. “What size?” “Pampers Size 7. They fit him perfectly.” Chloe retrieved the thick, pillowy diaper. She took it and slowly, sadistically, unfolded it, smoothing it out on the table beside me. It was huge, shockingly white, and covered in a faint, cheerful print of baby blocks. The plastic backing made a distinct, crinkly rustle with every movement—a sound designed for humiliation. She took her time, letting the reality of the object sink in. I made a feeble attempt to sit up, a last gasp of rebellion. A firm hand pushed down on my chest, pinning me. “We’re. Not. Done. Yet,” Mrs. Abernathy said, each word a stone. She lifted my legs again, this time taking both my ankles in one strong hand. With her other, she slid the diaper beneath me. The material was unbelievably soft and cloud-like under my butt, a cruel parody of comfort. Then, she spread my legs wide apart, holding them at the ankles, leaving me utterly exposed and vulnerable. She brought the front of the diaper up, the crinkling noise loud in my ears, and began to fasten it. The diaper rose high on my waist, the top edge brushing just below my belly button. She taped it slowly. First the left side, pulling the tape across with a firm, unyielding tug that compressed the padding tightly against my hip. Then the right side, even tighter. The tapes met perfectly in the center of the front panel. The fit was constricting, prison-like, a bulky, inescapable wedge between my legs. “Okay, up you get,” she said, her voice falsely bright. She helped me roll and sit, then took my hands to pull me to a standing position on the changing mat. My balance was immediately wrecked. The bulky, swollen Pampers altered my center of gravity, forcing my legs apart into a clumsy, toddler-like stance. I wobbled, swayed, and with a soft whump, fell backward onto my padded bottom on the mat. The impact expelled a small cloud of baby powder from the leg gathers of the diaper, puffing into the air around me like a ghost of my shame. Heat flooded my face. “Upsy-daisy!” Chloe chirped, as if on cue, and hauled me upright again. Mrs. Abernathy wasn’t satisfied. She began a meticulous inspection, her fingers probing the leg elastics, pulling them out and letting them snap back against my skin. She adjusted the tapes, giving each one another viciously tight tug. I winced; I hadn’t thought it could get any tighter. Finally, she delivered five loud, stinging pats on the thick plastic back of the diaper. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. “All done,” she announced. Chloe leaned in, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I turned my head and caught sight of myself in the large mirror attached to the wall. The reflection was devastating. I looked exactly like a two-year-old, standing knock-kneed on the changing table, my face blotchy from crying, a pacifier dangling from my lips, wearing nothing but the massive, bulging Pampers that consumed my lower half. “Chloe, keep an eye on him,” Mrs. Abernathy said. She walked over to a dresser in the corner, opened a drawer, and pulled out a onesie. It was pale yellow, and I saw with dawning horror the line of plastic buttons running along the crotch—the telltale feature for easy diaper changes. She guided me back down onto the mat. Without a word, she began dressing me, guiding my arms into the soft sleeves. Then came the final ritual of humiliation. She started at the bottom, fastening the buttons up the crotch one by one. Snap. Snap. Snap. Each click was a lock. The onesie pulled the diaper snugly, tightly, against my body, holding the bulky mass firmly in place, eliminating any doubt about what was underneath. Finally, she lifted me and set me down on the floor. The plush rug felt strange under my bare feet. Chloe crouched to my level, her eyes level with mine. “Aww, don’t you look sweet!” she mocked, giving my padded bottom a couple of condescending pats before pinching both my cheeks. I stumbled toward the full-length mirror on the closet door. The onesie had a parade of cheerful teddy bears embroidered across the chest. It did nothing to hide the diaper. Instead, it framed it. The bulge was a pronounced, unmistakable oval under the yellow fabric. The leg cuffs of the Pampers peeked out from the onesie’s leg openings, a white frill of plastic and elastic. The sight was too much. A new, deeper wave of sobs erupted from me. I spat out the pacifier; it bounced against my chest and dangled from its clip. “I… I am not a baby!” I cried, but the words were mangled by my hitching breaths and tears, coming out as a wet, slurred toddler’s protest. “I ‘m not a baby!” I sounded like one. I was one. Chloe sighed, a performative sound of caregiving. “Oh, come here now.” She slid her hands under my armpits and lifted me with alarming ease, just as the older girl had. In one smooth motion, she settled me onto her hip, her arm a solid, unshakeable shelf under my thickly diapered crotch. She bounced me lightly, adjusting her grip. Then, she began to playfully toss me a few inches into the air and catch me. “Upsy!” she sang, heaving me up. My stomach lurched. “Daisy!” she finished, catching me and snugging me close, the crinkling diaper loud against her side, a final, crushing reminder of my absolute and complete infantilization.

Chapter 1: Coming home After graduating and starting my career, I found myself living in a tiny room in downtown Manhattan. At first, I had a steady job, working as a data analyst at a financial services company. Unfortunately, my company was bought out, and since they already had people doing the same thing, I was laid off. I suddenly was twenty-four, with no job, and no prospects for a new one. As it was, my job barely covered expenses, and it was impossible to live in New York without one. I either had to return home or hope for a break. Returning home was clearly the safest option, but it meant going back to my mom, and living under her rules. It had been six years since I left Sacramento, right after graduating from high school. I deliberately chose Dartmouth because it was as far away from Sacramento as possible. Because it was so remote, my mom couldn’t just drop by unexpectedly, which gave me the independence I’d always wanted. If I returned, she would be in control. I’d have to live by her rules, with her dictating what I could and couldn’t do. Despite what movies might suggest, my life in New York was far from glamorous. I rented a cramped room that had only the bare essentials: a bed, a small counter, and a television mounted high in the corner. The sole window was positioned so high on the wall that it barely let in any natural light or fresh air. That was the only place I could afford in Manhattan, and my mother insisted that I live there. As a result, I ended up in what was essentially a boarding house. Although it wasn’t much, there were a few comforts: meals were provided, and the landlord was always close by in case I needed help. While New York can be a wonderful city, my daily life was monotonous. I spent 10 to 12 hours working in a windowless cubicle, only to return to another windowless room for the rest of the day. Weekends were worse; I couldn’t afford to go out, so I stayed in my room. The routine was unbearable, and I needed a change. I decided to leave New York, hoping that returning home might be an improvement. Maybe my mom wouldn’t be so bad, now that she had a granddaughter. Hopefully, she’d let me live my own life and grant me some independence. I called home to let them know. My mom picked up the phone, which she always did. I only talked with my dad for greetings and simple updates; any serious discussion was always with my mom. With a little bit of trepidation, I explained, “Mom, my company was bought out, and they laid me off.” Her response was sympathetic, but I could tell she was relieved. “Oh, Reggie. That’s too bad. What are you going to do?” She sounded eager, and I confirmed her hopes: “I'm heading back home. There is nothing for me here. I'll look for a new job and leave you in peace. Ideally, it won't take more than one or two months.” “Oh honey, don’t worry about that. I’m glad that my baby is coming home, and you need some of your mommy’s love right now. You can stay here as long as you need.” Her words made me wince, but I knew better than to complain about it. Instead, I kept my response simple and direct. "I'll fly home Wednesday," “Honey, I can’t get to New York that quickly. You’ll have to wait until next week.” I protested, “Why do you need to fly to New York? I’m an adult. I don’t need my mom to fly with me.” She wouldn’t budge. “Honey, I can’t let you do that. It’s dangerous, and I don’t want you to get lost.” My mom still thought I was five years old, but that’s because my body thinks it’s eight. I was born with a growth-defect, so I only grew half as fast as everybody else, and then it stopped when I was sixteen. I’m only 4’5”; I weigh just 70 pounds, and I skipped through puberty. Biologically, I’m a Ken Doll, with no body hair, and skin as smooth as a baby. People see me as a child, even when they know my age. My mom was adamant, and I was determined to reclaim a sense of dignity. I wanted her to see that, despite my appearance, I wasn’t a helpless child. I was an adult, and fully capable of handling myself. I let out a frustrated sigh, and huffed. “Mom! I’ll be fine. I’m not going to get lost. It’s only one connection, and that’s in Denver. It’s in the same concourse, so I just have to walk down a few gates.” Using that tone with my mom was never a good idea. If I did that at home, I’d end up in the corner for twenty minutes, only to be forced to apologize when she let me out of timeout. However, I was 3,000 miles away, so she couldn’t put me in time out. She still didn’t let it slide. She scolded me, “Don’t use that tone with me! I’m sorry, but Denver is a big airport. It’s too big for somebody like you. And just how do you plan to get to the airport in the first place?” I responded, trying to keep my frustration in check, “I’m taking the PATH to Newark. It’s easy. Don’t worry about it.” But she was still uneasy. “I don’t like that, honey. It’s just too dangerous for somebody like you.” “I’ll be fine, mom!” I insisted, but my frustration was starting to show. That was never good, especially when dealing with my mom. She wasn’t having it. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, young man!” I knew better than to keep pushing. “I’m sorry.” It was always best to apologize to my mom. If I tried to argue, she would only dig her heels in more. My mom’s tone softened just a little after my apology. “That’s better. But what if you have an accident?” Somehow, my mom always managed to bring up the one thing that made me feel even worse. For reasons no one, not even the doctors, can fully explain, my bladder sometimes releases automatically when I’m under emotional stress or feel threatened. It is as if my body goes into fight-or-flight mode, and my bladder responds on its own. This meant that, in addition to looking like a child, I still peed my pants. Most days, I managed to keep it under control as long as I stayed calm. But when I got nervous, I took precautions and wore Pull-ups; not even the ones made for older kids, but the actual toddler Pull-ups. They were cheaper, and fit me better. I hated it when my mom brought it up, turning my not-so-secret shame into the center of our conversations. “Mom, I won’t have an accident!” I tried to mask my embarrassment with a touch of defiance, and it was hard not to let my frustration show. Mom snapped, “Do not use that tone with me! Don’t you remember what happened last time?” I sighed, and tried to calm myself. “Mom, that wasn’t my fault. There was a lot of turbulence, and I couldn’t leave my seat.” “Yes, but you stayed in the same clothes until you got home.” I let out an exasperated cry. “Mom! I’m not a baby. I’m twenty-four years old! Can you please stop treating me like I’m a kid?” Mom quickly retorted, “Listen here, Reginald.” She only used my proper name when she was really mad. Her voice was sharp and unwavering, leaving no room for argument. “For the last time, do not use that tone with me! I’ll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one.” She paused for emphasis, making sure her words landed. “You know full well that you are too small to travel alone. You may be an adult, but the world will never see you that way. Maybe, if you were more like Alex, and not so tiny, I could trust you to travel by yourself. But you’re not! I’m afraid that you’ll just have to wait until I can come to get you. I can help you pack up; make sure you don’t forget anything, and we can fly home together.” I protested, “Mom, I don’t have that much stuff. I’ll ship a box home, and the rest can go in my carry-on.” Despite my reassurance, Mom was unconvinced. She replied, “I’m afraid that I just don’t trust you with that. You always leave something behind. I’ll fly out next week, so just hang tight. I’ll have Daddy send you some money.” Her insistence made it clear she wasn’t going to budge, no matter how much I argued. I couldn’t help but respond with sarcasm. “Yes Mommy.” However, it was wasted. My mom thought I was being polite.

I was curious if anyone here has ever used a Foley catheter and a diaper together, with the catheter draining into the diaper. I tried this several weeks ago but after I cath'd and padded up, I started scouring the Internet for references to the practice and found that it's practiced for infants sometimes but it's highly discouraged for older children and adults due to the almost 100% chance of getting a UTI. After reading that, about 45 minutes after getting ready for bed, I immediately went to the bathroom and removed the Foley. I'm wondering if anyone here practices the Foley draining into a diaper and what if any problems have been experienced as a result. As many here may already be aware, urinary catheters, both intermittent and Foley are available from many sources in the USA (online), without a prescription (despite there being an "Rx only" requirement.

Hey guys! I am going to be alone in my house for a few week coming up. I love diapers (I wear them for fun). Since I have been a bad boy, I need to be punished. Does anyone have ideas for a diaper punishment? Not to sexual or public.

I have a few stories I wrote and they are not only about diapers, and they are sometimes very short. First story: Today I made bacon and eggs for my wife with a cup of coffee. When she got out of the bed, her behind was drooping and I felt it, soft and warm. When talking at the table she suddenly looked down. I asked, did you pee? And she, it was too much! I looked below the table. Yeah, some wetness going on! Urine rivuleting on the tiled floor. I got some household paper and mopped up floor and chair. I touched her wet panties and asked her, finished peeing? And she, yes, and then we continued talking. We planned a hike and my wife insisted on a fresh diaper, and we had a day out diapered. FIN

Next month, I’m getting a dental procedure needing full general anesthesia due to past trauma. I’ll be bringing my plushie Mackenzie (from Bluey) with me along with wearing my Bluey shirt to help with anxiety followed by a week of recovery in a diaper and onesie. I’ve never worn diapers across multiple days before (especially with me being out of it the first day). Any advice on how to self change and any suggestions on things to buy to enhance my little space? I’ll be gaming a lot while cuddling my Mackenzie plush and looking forward to being in little space for a whole week!

This is a rather unique reimagining of the classic Baby Bottleneck cartoon featuring our favorite trio of troublemakers from Ed, Edd and Eddy. I hope you enjoy the journey and the comic page that accompanies each installment of the story. --- The Kanker's Baby Bottleneck The dazed and confused blonde stared up at the metallic orange beak that was only a few feet away from her face. She was just barely beginning to regain her ability to focus her thoughts when the sudden and very strange sensation of weightlessness consumed her body! The sight of the robotic beak growing further and further away as the feeling of air flowing over her bare arms and legs caught her attention; she was falling! Nazz hit the ground with a rather loud “bam” that announced her landing to whoever was home. She looked around and spotted the backdoor of a house, but that was normal compared to what she was wearing which left her feeling all the more baffled and confused. It was hard to believe but the cheerleader from Peach Creek was dressed in a pink baby's bib and a rather thick cloth diaper that was held together by what could only be described looked as a comically large safety pin. Her new outfit wasn’t the only thing that caused her to question what was happening to her; she quickly became aware of the fact that she was lying in a wicker basket which thankfully had broken her fall. If all this wasn't weird enough for the blonde bombshell, the sight of the homeowner, appearing in the frame of the door, caused her to blink her eyes in confusion. “I didn't order a baby.” The woman said to herself, taken aback by the unexpected diapered blonde lying on her doorstep in a basket. “Uhhh, what just happened?” Nazz couldn't help but ask only to realize that there was a pacifier in her mouth once she started talking. "Mistakes have been made," Eddy, dressed in only the finest alabaster suit that money could buy, started his speech as he looked over at the three familiar faces who stood bored and disinterested in front of him. From what he could see the red headed Kanker seemed far too busy swirling her finger around in her ear, trying to pull wax from it, to pay the pint sized scammer any attention. Her younger sisters were just as equally as unenthusiased as herself; The blonde was whistling while her blue haired sister stood with her right arm hanging towards the floor while her left arm was planted firmly on her hip, looking bored out of her mind as Eddy prattled on. “Every delivery goes to the wrong mom so I'm paying you guys to fix my factory and make my money back.” The mere mention of money immediately pulled the trio of trouble makers from their distracted daydreaming and caused them to stand at attention. Each Kanker instantly brought their left hand up to their forehead, giving their new boss a salute as they acknowledged him in their own unique way. “Whatever you say, Casanova.” Lee grinned as she responded to the man of her dreams. Needless to say, she wasn't exactly sure what he wanted, but that wouldn't stop her from doing a good job so she could get his attention. “Sure thing, chief!” May quickly followed her big sister, eager to get paid even if she had no clue what she was supposed to do to earn her keep. ‘I'll just stand around and look busy until lunchtime.’ “No problem, boss!” Marie chimed in, happy to see that the penny pinching pipsqueak had finally shut his big mouth. 2 Hours Later May stood hunched over a lever, pulling it back every minute to send another brat down the conveyor belt only to release it and sigh. She had been working nonstop, manning the lever since that was the only job her older sisters had deemed fit for her to do by herself since it didn't require much brainpower. “I'm tired of taking care of all these brats. When's our lunch break?” Marie had been watching her baby sister from afar during much of the shift only to walk up on the blonde brat complaining to herself. It wasn't exactly unexpected since May had been whining since the start of their shift, but it was beginning to annoy Marie. Needless to say, the blue haired bully was starting to feel bored after inspecting the various stations along the industrialized conveyor belt. She had finished her job and decided to have some fun with her annoying little sister before lunch by making the youngest Kanker test out the machine. “I'm tired of hearing you yapping.” Marie declared with a devious grin as she hoisted her younger sister up by her armpits. “Maybe you should join the other babies!” To Be Continued... (at the links below) --- The Kanker sisters are hired by Eddy to fix his baby preparation and delivery system, but do they know anything about machinery? Find out in this fun and faithful reimagining of Looney Tunes' iconic "Baby Bottleneck" cartoon! (Links below) Follow me on Twitter or consider supporting the comic and my writing by joining my platforms. All for less than the price of a cup of coffee! Twitter: Free! https://x.com/DaymareAB Fanbox: $5 https://www.fanbox.cc/@daymare/posts/10540195 Substar: $5 https://subscribestar.adult/evisceratednite

hello :3 i'm kind of new to all this.... I've been dressing up and playing with diapers on my own for awhile but now I find I'm always thinking about wearing a diaper if I don't have one on. Looking to make friends, learn from other littles and maybe have some playdates.... also would love to meet Mommies and Daddies who I can learn from and potentially talk/play with. I have lots of experience in kink RP scenes, but in my actual play experience with others, ageplay and diaper stuff is new territory hehe Anyway merci! hope you have a really fun day ❤️ 🍼