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Character list: Kayla (17) – a spoiled teenager. She is 5’4 120, has spiral permed blond hair, she’s hot and she knows it. Kayla is in her gang with Rachel and Debbie. They bully the other kids, and the teachers often report them. Fred (42) Kayla’s father - a busy company manager. He is the CEO of a biological research and development institute. Two years ago, he got divorced when his wife left him. Since then, he’s been raising Kayla alone. Kayla insisted on staying with him. She had much more freedom while her father was at work. Annie (32) – Fred’s girlfriend. She moved to him and Kayla shortly ago and noticed Kayla’s behavior and decided to teach her a lesson. Annie is a PE teacher and trainer, physically strong and muscular 6’1, 190, blonde hair and blue eyes. ------------ “Fred! Kayla definitely needs a lesson, read the letter from the headmaster,” Annie was sitting in the living room and reading the letter. Dear Mr. Woods, The behavior of your daughter Kayla is inacceptable. Her last mischief has crossed all lines. She and her schoolmates Rachel and Debbie forced a younger girl to dress like a baby and go to the class. The girl’s parents require an instant reaction. We consider expelling all three sinners unless proper corrective measures will be taken. Sincerely yours Samuel Raid, headmaster Fred took the letter and read it repeatedly. He realized he didn’t have time to tend to Kayla. “Annie, I’m sorry I’ve been busy all the time,” he sighed deeply. “If you don’t mind it, I have an idea,” Annie grinned; while reading the letter, she got that idea. They waited for Kayla until she arrived home. They guessed she was outside with Rachel and Debbie.

Charlotte finds herself on her second lap of life, being reborn as Charlotte Marie Ashcroft. Having experienced decades of regression from her past life, Charlotte is weary of the magic that the running shoes possesses. When Charlotte receives the running shoes as a gift for her first birthday, all her doubts, fears, and concerns return to her when she confronts the shoes that nearly made her disappear. But old habits die hard, as Charlotte strangely finds herself drawn to the shoes once again. The shoes work their charm on her as they did in her past life, pushing Charlotte into another dilemma. Can Charlotte trust the strange magic from the running shoes? How do the shoes work? Has Charlotte sealed her fate once again? This story is a sequel to “The Running Shoes”, a story inspired from Olympiczero's "The Ballet Slippers". I strongly recommend that you check out his story as it is an amazing read, and the inspiration behind this entire story. His entire story can be found here in the link below: Having written “The Running Shoes”, I felt like there were some unanswered questions from the previous story. This “Second Lap” if you will, would address everything the last story didn’t cover, and it should tie up some loose ends on the mystery that is behind the mysterious running shoes. But be aware. Charlotte’s second lap is going to be a lot faster (shorter), so there will be a lot fewer chapters in this story. Consider this an abridged sequel with the pacing being a lot faster than the previous story. If you haven’t read “The Running Shoes”, I encourage you to read that story first. You can find that story here: But I recommend that you read the stories in the following order for the best experience and out of respect for the author who inspired me to write these two stories: - Olympic Zero’s “The Ballet Slippers” - The Running Shoes - The Running Shoes – Second Lap This story is the official second part to The Running Shoes and is to be treated as a tribute, and my own unique spin on the original classic. Fans of “The Ballet Slippers” should be familiar with the theme and how this story serves as a spiritual continuation of the original classic. Enjoy the story! So yes. I am finally working on the sequel. As for updates, they will will be done as I find time to do them. I am very busy so I'll try to keep this story updated when I can. Enjoy everyone! Prologue - Second Lap Charlotte Marie Ashcroft woke up in an incubator in the NICU at Kaiser Permanente Santa Rosa Medical Center in Santa Rosa, California. Despite it being only two days since Charlotte was born, the newborn Charlotte felt a strong feeling a Déjà vu inside of her. While everything felt very new to her, there was a lingering familiarity at the same time. It was like Charlotte had experienced life before. A past life that she had a full memory of. Much of this was weighed down by her drowsiness as a newborn. Her long naps afforded her very little moments of consciousness while the nurses tended to her around the clock. As sleepy as Charlotte was, there was a strangeness that she felt that she just couldn’t let go. Decades from a past life that she was just beginning to ponder. A strong and powerful thought entered Charlotte’s mind. A thought that she had no memory of despite having the same thought a couple of days ago. ‘They listened. They gave me another chance. Another chance at life. They…It was…it was…’ Charlotte’s tired mind tried to process the rest of her train of thought. ‘It…it was…it was…the shoes.’ The shoes. The very thought of them made the newborn Charlotte smile again. The running shoes. The very tools that Charlotte thought that were working against her were actually listening to her the whole time. Here Charlotte was, just two days old, being stabilized in the NICU due to her being born one month premature. The incubator and the other machines were doing a wonderful job in keeping Charlotte alive and healthy. As the days passed, Charlotte received regular feedings from the nurses, which was usually followed by changing her diapers. Charlotte’s temperature was continually measured and she still needed an incubator due to her low birth weight unable to regulate her body temperature. Due to one frightening episode of apnea and three different episodes of bradycardia, Charlotte still needed a ventilator for the first couple weeks of her life. Charlotte, as drowsy as she was, slowly pieced together all the scattered fragments of her past life. As strange as it was, Charlotte felt like this past life was her very own, making her current life a continuation of her original life. Charlotte could feel her fingers reflexively close around nurses that laid their fingers on her palms. As they did this, another fond thought entered Charlotte’s mind: her name. ‘I….Who am I? I am….my name is….Charlotte…Warren…’ But that wasn’t right. While Charlotte was very close, the fragmented memories from her mother’s wedding were still jumbled together in her mind. A few days later, Charlotte heard a noise which startled her. At the same time, this loosened something inside of Charlotte. ‘My name….I am…Charlotte Ashcroft. I have….a big sister….Lauren Ashcroft….My mother’s name….Darcy Ashcroft….My father’s name….Michael Ashcroft….’ All this was enough for Charlotte to immediately fall asleep. One thing that Charlotte immediately noticed was how strange and different her dreams were. Despite being only a newborn, Charlotte had numerous dreams where she was already an adult. Charlotte could only guess that these dreams were only various memories from her past life. Charlotte snapped awake to suddenly forget just how small she actually was. The Charlotte that she saw in her dreams was a Charlotte that had already ran the first lap. Being a newborn again, Charlotte reasoned that this was her second lap. Her return to consciousness was swiftly met with an overwhelming feeling of fatigue and a sensory overload that overwhelmed her to the point of tears. “WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” A NICU nurse immediately attended to Charlotte. She checked her breathing and temperature and made sure that Charlotte was adequately fed. After the nurse changed Charlotte’s diaper, she fed her. Another thing that Charlotte didn’t realize was that her mother visited her every day. Darcy often visited Charlotte, but it was usually during the long spans of time that Charlotte slept. Darcy often held Charlotte under the supervision of the NICU staff before giving her new baby girl back to them for her continued care. During one moment that Charlotte woke up, she was almost two weeks old, and she could feel herself swaddled by loving arms. A gentle hum filled her ears, which sounded like a lullaby. It sounded…familiar. Like she had heard this voice before. It was…Charlotte knew it was her. Mother. Mom. Mommy. Mama. Charlotte would’ve uttered ‘mama’, but realized that her vocal cords couldn’t process speech yet. So she cooed instead when she felt the warmth of her mother cradling her. She was cradled in her mother’s arms and she felt safe. Two weeks passed. Darcy was getting into a white limousine with Lauren. A look of eagerness came over Darcy’s face as she found her favorite spot in the back seat of the limo: the right most seat facing the window. Darcy sat in the tan leather seat and buckled herself in. Lauren, not caring what seat she took, buckled herself in the middle seat next to Darcy and smiled. “So are you finally taking Charlotte home, mommy?” Darcy shrugged her shoulders. At this point, she was used to her adult daughter calling her mommy, as it has been more than a year since the wedding. Lauren was indeed her daughter now. Legally, yes. But for Darcy it was much more than that. Darcy then thought of her daughter’s question. Is Charlotte coming home today? This, Darcy knew was a matter that she didn’t have any control over. It was all up to the doctors and nurses at the NICU to decide when Charlotte was ready to come home. And at this point in time, it has been 23 days since Charlotte was born now. “I don’t know,” Darcy finally said. “It’s up to the doctors. Charlotte needs to be healthy enough to breathe on her own. Don’t you remember her birth weight? It was only 2 pounds and 9 ounces!” Lauren gave her mother an understanding nod. Lauren knew that this was normal for a baby that was born one month premature. In nine more days, Charlotte would be coming up to her actual due date of December 10th. “I know, mommy. I just want to see my baby sister at home where she belongs. I mean, won’t it be great to put her in that new nursery?” Darcy smiled at the mention of the nursery. This was a fun project that both her and Lauren both worked on. It gave them both time to bond beautifully as new mother and new daughter. Even though it has been a year since Darcy married Michael, having Lauren as her daughter was still new, and working on Charlotte’s nursery together was the best idea ever. They both shared laughter, stories, and burdens as they both worked on the important room that Charlotte would be staying in. What Lauren liked the most was that she actually had the time to work on the nursery with her mother. Even since Charlotte was born, Lauren took a sabbatical from her modeling to help Darcy with taking care of Charlotte. All the details that they put into the nursery were all personal and done with love and care. Lauren smiled as she glanced at the sun glistening into the window of the limo as it coasted down the long driveway leading to the gate of the Ashcroft Estate. She glanced at her mother and smiled. “I can’t wait for Charlotte to come home.” “Me too.” Darcy told her. “I’m so happy that I was able to have a child. It really felt like God was giving me another chance at being a mother, considering the miscarriage that happened more than 31 years ago…” “He gave you two more chances,” Lauren said, pointing to herself. “You lost your husband and a baby, and I lost my mother to breast cancer. I am happy that you are my mother now. I am also happy about how understanding IMG Models was in letting me take a sabbatical.” Darcy nodded. “IMG Models was also generous with my maternity leave. When they found out that I had a preemie, they told me to take as much time as I need.” The minutes seemed to fly on by as the two continued to share their stories, their lives, and their tears with each other. Darcy now knew that Lauren was the daughter that she never had. A daughter that God just gave to her freely, along with Charlotte. It felt much less like a legally binding agreement and more like Lauren being like her own flesh and blood. Her daughter just as much as Charlotte was. A friendly honk of the horn snapped them both out of their reverie. Both women swiftly ended their discussion and glanced up at the driver. The rear glass divider separating the passengers from the driver rolled down and he pointed out the window. “We are here,” the limo driver announced in a pleasant tone. “The NICU at Kaiser Permanente Santa Rosa Medical Center.” Lauren smiled. “Thank you, Jenkins. I will call you on my cell phone when we are getting ready to leave.” “Very good,” Jenkins said with a jovial smile. “You two wonderful ladies have a great time in visiting your new member of the family.” Lauren kindly pointed to Jenkins. “And you have a fun time too, Jenkins! Don’t exclude yourself from the fun. The Ashcroft family includes you as well. No worker is excluded. So have fun!” Jenkins respectfully tipped his hat and nodded. “I will have fun, Miss and Mrs. Ashcroft!” The two entered the NICU and the staff permitted Lauren to enter without any hesitation. Darcy was already approaching the respirator that Charlotte was laying in when her mind began to catch up to the present. All she heard was that “Charlotte needed a little more time”. “Charlotte was breathing, but not long enough on her own”. She also heard that Charlotte’s sleep apnea was improving, and there were now zero cases of bradycardia. Darcy was about to pick up Charlotte when a voice stopped her. “May I, mommy?” Lauren said with a pleading face. Darcy gave Lauren a warm smile. “Only if it’s okay with the nurses.” The nurse, who called herself Breanna, nodded. “She can. At this point, we are just taking safety measures to ensure that Charlotte is ready to come home. With only one case of sleep apnea last week, Charlotte is getting very close to being able to breathe on her own. We monitored her yesterday and she was able to breathe for two whole hours on her own!” Lauren’s smile grew as she heard of the good report from Nurse Breanna. She grinned as she held her new baby sister in her arms. Charlotte was fast asleep, making small and gentle breaths. “My cute wittle baby daughter!” Lauren cooed. Then an explosion. FLUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!! Lauren sniffed the air and laughed. “Whoopsie! It looks like my baby sister needs a changie poo!” Darcy nodded and grabbed Charlotte. “Let me. I’ve been changing her diapers since they first admitted her here. Don’t worry, Laurie. You’ll have plenty more diapers to change when she’s at home.” Lauren nodded, secretly relieved that she didn’t have to change Charlotte’s messy diaper. She handed her baby sister to Darcy, who laid her right on a table that the NICU used for diaper changes. Darcy began changing Charlotte’s diaper, encouraging Lauren to watch everything that she was doing. “Pay attention,” Darcy said with a smirk. “You will be doing a few of these when she comes home.” Darcy unsnapped the buttons on Charlotte’s plain white onesie and peeled open the tapes of Charlotte’s diaper. She smiled as she heard her daughter gasp when she saw what was inside. A big wet gooey mess covered the inside of the diaper and Charlotte’s diaper area. “I can’t believe how small that diaper is!” Lauren said with a gasp. Darcy laughed. “Yeah. That’s a P1. Charlotte is just about ready for size N, which is newborn.” As Darcy wiped Charlotte clean, she could see Charlotte’s eyes begin to squint open. She saw her baby daughter’s mouth open up with a widening smile. “Yeah!” Darcy said with a smile. “Mommy’s changing your stinky diapy! And look! Your big sister is here too!” All Charlotte did was smile and coo at the sound of Darcy’s voice. Minutes later, Darcy had a diaper all powdered and began to delicately fold it between Charlotte’s tiny legs. Charlotte’s eyes flickered as she just stared at the two large women that were next to her. While Charlotte knew that the first one was her mother, she didn’t know who the other one was. Who is that? Who is that other lady? While Charlotte was supposed to know, her memories were too repressed to even know who she was. All she had was a blank slate. A new body with a new mind. A mind and brain that was just beginning to boot up. A mind that would take at least 2 to 3 years to begin to develop. Charlotte drifted off, sleeping what she felt like was a few minutes. But when Charlotte woke up, she was in her respirator again. Her mother and that strange woman that accompanied her were gone. In reality, Charlotte slept for a few hours. The NICU nurses continued caring for Charlotte, changing her diaper, feeding her, and putting her in her ventilator as needed. A couple of days later, Charlotte was showing remarkable improvement. After breathing for two hours without a ventilator, this turned into three. Three hours turned into four. And then five. Six hours. Seven hours. Eight hours of breathing without a ventilator. The NICU nurses then carefully watched Charlotte around the clock as she slept for the first full night without a ventilator. Darcy was impressed when she visited Charlotte that day. With Charlotte’s health improving, Darcy now wanted to get answers from the doctors. When can Charlotte finally go home? That same day, Darcy got her answer. One week. One week later, Charlotte squinted her eyes open. While everything inside of her felt brand new, there was at the same time a part of Charlotte that couldn’t help but notice that something felt familiar. It was like she had lived this life before. But how? How could I have lived this life? This awareness dissolved into the drowsy and perpetually sleeping newborn self that Charlotte was. A self that felt almost overwhelmed by the brand-new world that awaited her. Everything was new. Sounds. Sights. Smells. And Déjà vu. This feeling lay dormant inside of the newborn Charlotte like a sleeping volcano. A volcano waiting for the opportune time to erupt. But something else erupted instead. “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” All the NICU nurses agreed. The doctors agreed. Even Darcy agreed. This was Charlotte’s day. After 32 days of hospitalization since her birth, it was finally time for Charlotte Marie Ashcroft to leave Kaiser Permanente Santa Rosa Medical Center. It was finally time to go home.

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

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

Hi everyone, I am pretty new to writing abdl fiction, so please be nice but constructive. Feedback is appreciated. Premise: 22-year-old Anderson Keller is Hollywood's bad boy, but an incident has turned his career upside down. Enjoy! Chapter 1: Anderson paced in the living room of his Hollywood apartment as all the entertainment news sites and shows were airing his dirty deed in front of the whole world. “This is Evening Tea with Josh Tea. Tonight's top story Hollywood Bad Boy Anderson Keller shows us he is just a stinky boy.” The entertainment host announced before letting out a chuckle. “Let's roll the clip,” the entertainment host instructed. The screen cut to a video of Anderson. There was Anderson in tight light wash skinny jeans and a tight heather grey t-shirt. Filmed by strangers this morning in a popular WEHO coffee shop. After coming back in from a wrong order. “Are you guys stupid, I said oat milk, you fucking excuse of a person,” Anderson biliterated the poor barista who looked on the verge of tears. “I do not look this good every morning if I consume fucking dairy.” Anderson continued slamming the iced latte down on the pick-up counter making a mess. “Now clean this up and get me your manager. You are so fired.” Anderson continued. Tears started to stream from the barista's face as she ran to the back to get her manager. Some customers booed at Anderson while some started to get their cameras to film the incident. “Oh, shut up!” Anderson growled. A man in his early thirties with green highlights came out the back to meet with Anderson at the counter. “I am so sorry we got your order wrong mister, what can we do to make it right? A remake?” The manager offered. “I want the girl who poisoned me fired. I want your ass to make me a new sugar free vanilla latte with oat milk and I want a refund,” Anderson fumed. Soon enough Anderson's stomach gurgled like it was fighting a war. Anderson grabbed his stomach and groaned. “Hey, are you alright,” the manager asked. “Where are your bathrooms?” Anderson replied with a question. “On the other side of the store,” The manager pointed to a door on the far side of the coffee shop. Anderson with stomach in hand attempted to rush to the bathroom but became unsteady. He grabbed a chair to hold himself up. He was almost there. “UGH,” Anderson groaned as his stomach was losing a battle. He fell to his knees as his stomach cramps were only getting worse. One sip of a latte with dairy was the victor. As everyone filmed and watched Anderson mess his jeans. Anderson with tears in his eyes rushed out of the store cursing slurs to everyone in the store. Anderson continued to pace in his living room, as he was expecting his manager to come knocking any moment now. The whole world saw him shit himself. His bad boy image ruined like those jeans peaking in his master bathroom's trash can. Anderson in some clean grey sweats and an old band tee decided to change the channel and hope there was one that wasn’t covering this morning's incident. “Crybaby of the week goes Anderson Keller,” a young woman wearing a skimpy business suit announced. Anderson changed the channel once more. “Let’s talk about Anderson Keller, is his career ruined like his pants?” A man in a cardigan asked a panelist of entertainment specialists. “Let’s face it, not even my 3-year tantrums that bad when they go poop in their big kid undies. And they make it to the bathroom 90% of the time” One of the entertainment specialists commented. “Looks like Anderson is going to need a lifeline and some pull-ups,” Another specialist said laughing. Anderson decided just to shut off the tv. Letting himself fall onto the couch. He deeply sighed, rubbing his temples, getting his brown curly hair out of his face. DING DONG! The doorbell announced. Anderson slowly got up from the couch reluctantly going to answer the door knowing it was his manager, and ex-boyfriend. Anderson slowly opened the door to see a man in his mid-fifties with salt and pepper hair and a well-trimmed beard. Lucas Mills, stood in the hallway Anderson's former boyfriend, and now business manager. He carried a leather briefcase. “Well, are you gonna let me in,” Lucas asked. Anderson let Lucas in walking to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Lucas followed. Before getting a glass Lucas rustled Anderson's perfect brown hair. A long silence erupted as both men were standing in front of each other at the kitchen island. Anderson filled the glass with filtered water from his fridge. “First order of business how are you holding up buddy,” Lucas asked, breaking the silence. “How do you think I am doing,” Anderson replied with a hint of anger. “The whole world saw me embarrass myself. My life is over, my career is over, “Anderson blurted. “Hey bud, we don’t self-deprecate. Not while I’m here,” Lucas replied as trying to console a child. Anderson faced palmed and groaned in frustration. “2nd order of business, Marvel pulled out. This morning incident confirmed you weren’t the right person to represent the brand in their next featured project. The edgy tv show about vampires also does not want you to return. They are gonna kill off your character. And well, you lost a handful of brand deals. I know. I know it looks grim right now.” Lucas explained. Anderson sighed. Putting his hands on his face again. “Hey bud, look at me, I want to see those lovely eyes.,” Lucas said, reaching out, touching Anderson's arm. Anderson removed his hands from his face. Staring at Lucas. “There are those ocean eyes,” Lucas announced. Anderson wanted to just disappear. “3rd order of business. Things aren’t that bad. We spin this. You were acting out because you have bowel issues. You were never an arrogant brat. Some good pr, we turn you into a boy next door who was hurt and embarrassed. We get you on some late-night talk shows. Fuck it, we get you on daytime ones too.” Lucas explained. “You want to spin this into I’m an adult in their early twenties who can’t hold their shit,” Anderson growled. “It’s not that bud, plenty of people….” Lucas stared before getting cut off by Anderson. “If you call me bud again. I’m gonna crash out. You will be out of this apartment needing stitches. Get to the point already,” Anderson angrily snarled. “Well, there is a brand willing to work with you. It’s a little unorthodox, but if you let me run the pr. It can be great. If the boy next door image works, you can play heroes not villains. There is also a reality competition series interested in you. Oh, and a movie part. Not a superhero one but a romcom.” Lucas continued. “What’s the brand willing to work with me?” Anderson asked on the verge of losing his patience. Lucas gulped knowingly that Anderson would not like the deal offered. “Kozi Kare….an adult diaper brand….” Lucas nervously stated. Expecting the worst coming from Anderson. “You got to be kidding me. I am not an unpotty-trained child.” Anderson angrily snarled. He grabbed the closest thing near him which was the glass of water he got when Lucas first came to the kitchen and threw it against the wall shattering. “You said you are not a child and yet you throw a tantrum breaking glass in the kitchen. I have been very empathic and patient with you Anderson. You have options. Clean up the mess you did and clear your head. I will be back first thing in the morning and expect an answer,” Lucas said at his limit. Lucas grabbed his leather briefcase and stormed out of Anderson's apartment. Leaving Anderson, to clean up the mess he created. Sweeping up shards of broken glass and pieces of his dignity. Before heading to bed, he looked at himself in the mirror. Was he prepared to change his image to save his career or was he ready to leave Hollywood behind? Become a has been who’s acting career plummeted due to a short temper and an accident. Both were terrible choices. He did not want to make either. Anderson took a deep breath and sent a text to Lucas falling into the only comfort he had left his bed.

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

After ten years, I'm so pleased to introduce the DailyDiapers forum to Sophie & Pudding's 50th story!! Butterflies is - in my opinion - one of the best things we have ever written. We have been working on it for about a year and I'm just so happy I finally get to show people. ;__; Butterflies is a story about love and how transformative it can be to have people care about you. It's a tale about growing up and growing down and how both of those things can be possible at the same time. It's a realistic narrative about life and daily problems and overcoming obstacles you never thought you would have to deal with. And of course, it's a story about diapers and cute adults wearing them. ^_~ Butterflies has exactly 100 chapters (an homage to the first ABDL story I ever read!). The complete story is available on our Patreon in PDF and ePUB format. If you don't like waiting for chapters, please consider supporting us at: www.patreon.com/sophieandpudding Thank you all for the past ten years! We wouldn't be where we are as writers without you guys as our audience. ❤️ Also, special thanks to @mahleedl for commissioning this piece and inspiring the concept! ~Sophie ----------------------------- Butterflies By Sophie & Pudding ----------------------------- Chapter One "Fuck off." I put up my middle finger and stuck out my tongue - some sort of half-step between maturity and childishness. That sentence just outright summed me up. But Eliot was getting on my nerves today. Always asking stupid questions... "I don't want a boyfriend. Who wants a boyfriend anyway? They just talk shit behind your back and sleep around, right?" Speaking as someone who had never had one. "If it matters so much to you, why don't you go get a boyfriend, hm?" "I'm not really boyfriend-boyfriend material, Ky-Spy." I flipped my bangs up out of my eyes with a sharp and cynical exhale, a little puff of breath, and shrugged with my palms faced upward - I'd always been a pretty animated example of a young man my age. Also, it infuriated Kylie when I was aloof, but that was my way of being a conscientious objector to our sometimes-childish bickering. She also hated it when I rhymed her name with things, too. All a side effect of growing up together. "I just think you should try it out, maybe have someone you can kick around some, you know?" "I cannot believe we are having this conversation..." How many times did I have to spell it out? I don't date! Well... not the way Eliot thought about dating, anyway. "Why are you on my case about this, huh? I don't pester you for being single, do I?" "You do not," I conceded, glibly, before continuing with an almost-too-sharp, "you're too busy pestering me for spending a thousand credits a week on nice clothes when 'one good pair of jeans is all you really need', right?" Eyeing up a reply, I burst into a little immature giggle and clasped my hands together. "Oh don't be mad, come on now! I was just winding you up. You make a single pair of jeans look... great, really!" She wasn't poor, neither of us were, she just had hobbies of the more mechanical nature. Clothes were function to Kylie, not fashion. "It's a miracle you afford rent," I said flatly and got up from the table. We had been sitting in the mall food court for the better part of an hour. Thankfully, malls were back in fashion. It's wonderful what universal income can do for the economy. "Come on - I want to check out a new game." "I don't know how you spend your income on something you never actually get to own." Kylie shot me a look that told me she was about done with the razzing back and forth, and I tipped my head in unspoken understanding, following along behind her. "Tell me about this game, what's it about? Is it one of those ones where the Big Burly Man Shoot Gun, or one where the Big Burly Man Throw Ball?" Games were not my forte. "It's an RPG. You can kind of like... I dunno. Make a character. Be someone else. That kind of thing." "I like who you are," I said under my breath. Kylie turned to me with a goofy smile. "No worries; I'm not going anywhere." "That girl at the game store that hit on you, did you ever call her?" Ky had argued that it wasn't flirting, but I knew better - as far as romantic entanglements went, I knew more than most boys my age. "She's probably working today, do you wanna hit the store outside the mall?" "No thank you," I said flatly. I kept looking forward to prevent Eliot from seeing my blush. I insisted time and again that I didn't like girls, but... well, as the years went on I was less and less sure of that. I almost felt like I was hanging onto my heterosexuality just to spite people. A shitty way to live, I guess. But I repeated my trademark line: "I don't date." "Of course you don't." I didn't either, but for me the statement was more of a 'I'm so bad at this OTL' kind of sentiment. We both had our own hang-ups, it, but together we could probably conquer the world if we could go an entire day without sassing each other. "I wanna know more about this game!" I tried to explain to him all the nuances that came with reputation systems, but he definitely wasn't following along. I had tried to play games with him in the past, but Eliot had the attention span of a may fly when it came to technology. But he could look at t-shirts for two hours. I swear... We were just outside the game store when something caught my eye. At the end of the hallway, a woman was standing there, leaning against the wall. Tall. Taller than me, and I wasn't really short either. Her hair was reddish and cut short. But most importantly: I knew this woman. I knew her and I really didn't want her to be here... "Hey, uh... you go inside. I'll catch up..." "Hi, El, you go into the store that we're here for me to go to, and I'll stand out here and maybe go look at clothes." I said out loud, looking at her with a dopey smile, like she hadn't realized the surrealness of what she'd suggested. But her eyes read serious, so I did what she said after a tense moment, and found myself immersed in the kinda dank smelling decade-old carpet and wall-to-wall shelving décor of the game store. Oh look, a T-Shirt rack… When I approached her, she took a few steps away, off to the side and away from the crowds. I followed after her, until we were as along as two people could get in the middle of a shopping mall. "What are you doing here?!" "You weren't answering your phone," she said quietly, almost nervously. "I'm fine, Marnie. I... I just need some time to myself, okay?" I crossed my arms over my chest and looked down at my feet. When had things become so complicated...? "Time to yourself with a boy?" Marnie tilted her head almost accusatorially, but gave no reason to believe her question didn't expect an answer, either. She wasn't quite an insecure girl, so much as she was an often paranoid one. She didn't like being blindsided. I balled my hands at my sides and looked up at Marnie with irritation. "I don't date!" I swear, one of these days someone is going to actually listen to me when I say that! "And if I did, it's none of your business. You're just..." "...just what?" I looked at the floor and shook my head. The thought that came to my mind was mean-spirited. So I took a deep breath and changed direction. "I'm... I'm glad you're worried about me. It's sweet. But I'll call you when I need you, okay?" "It's funny how if I took you on your word at that, I never seem to hear from you again, isn't it?" Marnie meant well, she really truly did, but just like some art was defined by its imperfections, so too was Marnie by hers. "I'll wait, but not forever." "Whatever..." I turned on my heel and went back to the game store, with a whole lot on my mind. Marnie... why was she doing this? I just wanted to keep everything the way it was. Separate. Simple. But no... "Hey, sorry about that," I told Eliot, returning to the game store. "Just had to take care of something..." "I found T-Shirts. Or I thought they were T-Shirts, and then I touched them, and realized they were just coarse pads for scrubbing pots and pans with, in the shape of T-Shirts, which is a shame cause there was this one that looked pretty cool with a fat little yellow rat on it, but I could not wear something like that." Nor should anybody; clothing that cheaply made ought to be a war crime! "Yeah... sure." "Not even a single snide remark? You sure you're okay?" Eliot put his hand to my forehead to check for a fever and I brushed him away. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Um. I'm not really feeling the whole games thing. Maybe we could take off?" I wanted to go home. "You know, it doesn't take an android to figure out that something happened, so maybe..." It was always best to let Ky know that I wasn't going to cross her boundaries when she was wound up like this. Hmm.. "I'm not going to like push the issue or anything, but I'm here you know?" I sighed and nodded my head. "Yeah, thanks..." Eliot could be pretty cool sometimes. I guess that's why we stayed friends after all these years. Maybe I should have told him the truth. I could have told him everything, right? But I didn't think I'd survive the emotional talk. Emotions really weren't my thing... "Come on, I'll buy us some ice cream. I know you already spent all your credits." "If I spent credits on ice cream, I'd have to spend more credits on clothes, cause mine wouldn't fit." Graciously, I'd accept the free ice-cream though, despite my diminutive frame. Honestly, no amount of food in the world would alter my waifish frame - was waifish a word you could use to describe a boy? Sure, why not - but I didn't generally like to take chances. I liked being small. So we got ice cream. He talked about something - fashion or shoes or whatever - and I nodded my head. I wasn't listening though. I had a lot on my mind, and I wasn't looking forward to this discussion. Maybe I should just talk to Eliot. And make things even weirder? Pass.

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

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

Hey everyone daddy Eric here. I just wanted to let everyone know who lives in or around the Atlanta area that starting tomorrow that Diaper Depot will be carrying abena adult diapers in store, Also next week they will also be carrying Abuniverse diapers aswell. She will be getting in Little paws and space diapers. I tried my hardest to get this started and now it is becoming a reality. I hope everyone can be as happy as I am. Diaper depot is located at: Diaper Depot ?Clothing StoreAddress: 5231 Memorial Dr, Stone Mountain, GA 30083Phone: (404) 297-4900

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

It's been quite a while since I've written anything, and that's because I've been very busy, both with work and with this. Classified: A New Life, and Classified: Stellar Remnants were my proofs-of-concept for the idea that became this universe, so there will be a lot of familiar elements. However, after refining my worldbuilding, I've ended up with a lot more than I originally planned for, although it still takes place in an alternate/parallel universe. The worldbuilding document is almost 300 pages long, and includes everything from a creation myth and a religion with various sects and interpretations, to an explanation of medicines, disorders, law, and technology. The scope has expanded considerably, so there is a lot of room to play in the sandbox if anyone happens to be interested. I left many things deliberately ambiguous in the original works, both because I wanted to allow for creative freedom, and because I personally hadn't refined my ideas enough to avoid contradicting myself by accident. This is something I hope to be able to publish at some point in the future, but I must say that if you're looking for sexual elements, this probably isn't for you as I don't particularly enjoy writing about that sort of thing. Chrysalis in particular has changed a lot, and I hope you all enjoy the new changes. Things will be explained as we go along organically to the best of my ability. This is a rough draft, and I haven't finished writing it yet, but I'm reasonably far along. I hope you enjoy the story! EMRD (Energy Management/Regulation Disorder): Excessive worry and physiological anxiety responses; can also refer to metabolic energy regulation issues (context-dependent) Smartband: The universal communication and monitoring device worn by most people. It can be modified specifically for Littles ____________________________________ Maya Weston paws blindly at her left wrist, successfully silencing her alarm on the third try. She lets out a heavy sigh and forces herself out of bed, blearily scrolling on her Smartband to check the timetables for the autobus. The soft blue text displays: On-Time. Thank Esvyra for small mercies. Maya thinks, pulling on a well-loved sweater and her least-worn pair of jeans. It’s not business-casual, but it’s all she’s got. She heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth and does her best to make herself look presentable and professional. She thumbs on her aging holoscreen for background noise. Stat, her Smartband’s onboard AI recites the weather forecast. Maya is unsurprised at the varying forecast, given Southgate’s proximity to the mountains. Her thick brown hair is uncooperative as it usually is in the morning and she opts for a ponytail rather than taking the time to brush it out. Her next stop is the fridge, where finds a lone nutribar and the rest of last night’s vegetable wrap. Maya takes the nutribar and puts the wrap into her bag to have for lunch at work, planning to stop on the way home for some cheap noodles or some—ugh—a mystery wrap from the vendor if she’s desperate enough. This isn’t the life she would have imagined for herself, but after growing up as a Lightbearer...even this, even though it’s less-than-perfect, is better than living like that. For once, she’s grateful that she doesn’t have a smart-fridge—a smart anything really, other than her band—because at least then it can’t nag her to spend Coin she doesn’t have on food she can’t afford. She wolfs down the nutribar and washes down her EMRD medication with a swig of water before brushing her teeth and heading for the door. Maya checks her account as she locks up, seeing the notification on her Smartband tick over from Rent Due: 3 days remaining to Rent Due: 2 days remaining and, as if by some cruel irony, there’s still no paycheck. Her internship at BioHealth is the best job she’s ever had—or it would be, if they’d bothered to actually pay her like her contract had stated. At first, she’d thought that maybe it was just a clerical error, but her repeated attempts to reach HR to find out what’s been going on have been stymied. She’d tried submitting tickets, escalating those tickets, and even trying to schedule a meeting with HR in-person, but she hasn’t had any luck so far. She sighs and heads for the stairs, hoping no one creepy is at the autobus stop this morning. She barely notices the broken cleaning drone anymore as she passes by, it’s been at the end of the hallway, covered in dust and lilting in its charging cradle since she moved in. The security system doesn’t work, the building is falling apart, and in this neighborhood, expecting the police to do anything is a chanceroller at best. At the very least, her job at least gets her out of her tiny apartment. Anticipatory anxiety ties her stomach in an uncomfortable knot as she waits in the chilly morning air, the deserted autobus terminal lit only by the glow of the arrival and departure displays and a lone sodium streetlight. A discarded paper cup from some fast-food place tumbles along the sidewalk, fetching up against the overflowing and graffiti’d trash can. Maya breathes a sigh of relief the autobus rolls to a gentle stop in front of her, kneeling with a hiss of compressed air and emitting a pleasant: “Welcome aboard, please watch your step. Thank you for choosing Breezeway autobus services. Most anywhere, we’ll get you there.” Maya smiles softly, the little jingle they play has always been catchy. She holds her ID up to the reader and selects her destination, the fare automatically being deducted from her account’s already-meager funds. The air on the autobus is pleasant and refreshing, it smells faintly of leather and some kind of citrus-scented cleaning agent. It’s a nice change from the stale air that permeates the hallways of her apartment building. The buildings outside the window get progressively nicer as the autobus heads closer to downtown, the beating heart of Southgate’s financial and industrial districts. Bars and anti-theft mesh melt away into pristine glass windows, graffiti-free brick facades, and clean sidewalks. Clean, energy-efficient streetlamps light the autobus’ path, a welcome shift from the dull glow of the sodium lights in Northview. The BioHealth headquarters stands tall among the surrounding buildings, its polished glass exterior reflecting the early morning sun in a scintillating shade of vermillion. The fountain out front is intricate and impressive, with a beautiful urn sculpture in the center, depticting Esvyra tending Her garden. It’s something Maya has always found soothing and she’s glad the campus looks quiet this morning as the autobus pulls into the terminal across the street from the building. Maya exits the autobus, checking her Smartband for the time and she is pleased to see that she’s arrived twenty minutes early. Hopefully that will give her enough time to sort out the payroll issue before she’s due to start her shift in the Research and Development lab. BioHealth makes a variety of products for all Classifications, mostly medical supplies although Maya’s current project is a prototype from a client looking to start a line of premium diapers and clothes for Littles. Maya herself has always had very specific preferences about texture for her clothing, so it’s nice to be able to channel that into something meaningful. The lobby of BioHealth is enormous and refined, with an enormous wall fountain along the entire right side of the lobby. The golden plating behind the flowing water is inlaid with a beautifully intricate vine design, and the water circulates into planters that hold gorgeous red roses. The massive windows above the entrance are designed to let in natural light, making the lobby a beautiful and inviting place to be. Blinking, Maya turns her focus to the left side of the lobby, where the HR office is located. It’s dark right now, as they don’t normally come in until 09:00, but she heads over to the terminal anyway to check the status of her ticket about her pay. She swipes her badge to log in to the interface and frowns. Access denied. User credentials expired. Please contact your system administrator for reset. Maya swipes her badge again, her heart pounding. What did I do? I’ve never been late or reprimanded, or anything. Did they...did they fire me without notice? I didn’t do anything wrong...Her stomach churns, her Smartband feels like it weighs a ton as the memory of the notice from this morning plays again in her mind. Rent Due: 2 days remaining. Access Denied. User credentials expired. Please contact your system administrator for reset. Oh no...Maya takes a shaky breath, trying to both calm her racing heart and also not throw up on the nice lobby floor. “S-Simon? Are you there?” Maya says quietly, pressing the “help” button in the corner to summon the AI that handles HR requests when HR isn’t available. “Good morning, miss Weston. How may I help you?” The AI responds in a friendly voice, as a holographic display fades in behind the reception desk to display the AI’s avatar. “I’m locked out. Have—” Maya swallows hard, barely able to think the words, let alone to say them aloud. “have I been, um, terminated?” “Negative. Your credentials are expired, but your employment status is active with no pending disciplinary actions or performance reviews.” Simon replies helpfully. Maya braces herself against the reception desk to avoid collapsing when her knees threaten to give out from sheer relief. “Oh, good!” she gushes. “Um, can you fix my logins so I can see what tasks I have for the day? And has there been any response to my payroll request?” “Negative. I do not have access to those systems. My capabilities are limited to scheduling appointments and drafting emails or submitting tickets. My apologies. And I’m sorry to inform you that there has not been any response to your request.” Simon answers, helpful as always. “Is...Is Director Saphrin available? It’s really urgent.” Maya wonders, feeling a bit lightheaded at approaching Director Saphrin about, well, anything, but especially something that should technically be fixable without her help is more than a little daunting. But being homeless is considerably scarier... “She has a meeting that should be over shortly, but I’ve given you a temporary visitor’s pass so you may use the elevator to attempt to speak with her.” “Thank you, Simon.” Maya replies gratefully. “You’re most welcome. Goodbye for now!” Simon responds, and the avatar fades away as the AI...well...goes to do whatever it is that AIs do in their free time. Maya smooths her shirt and jeans as she steps into the elevator and presses the button for the executive suites. She forces herself to take deep breaths as her Smartband vibrates: elevated heart rate; elevated blood pressure “Thanks, Stat,” Maya grumbles. The elevator doors open to a reception area that seems almost...homey. The floor is carpeted by a plush material, and there’s a fish tank set into a smaller version of the vine fountain from downstairs in front of her. To her right is a desk, where a man in an immaculate suit with slicked back hair. A short black beard, dark skin, and a shaved head. His brown eyes are warm, but intense. “Good morning, Maya, what brings you up today?” he asks pleasantly. Maya blinks. “You know my name?” The man smiles. “Of course, Director Saphrin speaks very highly of your work. I’m Nick Farrel, but you can call me Nick.” “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Farrel,” Maya says with a strained kind of cheerfulness. “Um, to answer your question, I, uh, I’m locked out of the system. Simon says he can’t perform a reset, and HR doesn’t get in until 9...and there’s an issue with payroll that hasn’t been resolved in three weeks, and rent is due in two days and—” Maya stops herself, taking a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m rambling.” Nick’s eyebrows draw together. “Three weeks? Have you not been paid at all in that time?” Maya shakes her head. “No, Mr. Farrel. I tried submitting tickets and setting appointments, but I haven’t gotten any responses...I was planning to check that this morning, but I can’t login to the system.” she explains. “I’m sure the Director will be more than happy to help you out. It sounds like several people are neglecting their duties. She should be wrapping up shortly, but I’ve sent her a message to let her know you’re waiting out here.” Nick gestures to a nearby sofa next to an oko machine. “We’ve got roasted oko and sweet oko if that’s more to your taste. It even makes whips and combiccinos.” Maya settles onto the couch to wait—it’s comfier than her bed—and folds her hands patiently in her lap. She makes herself a small cup of sweet oko, as the roasted kind has always been far too bitter for her taste. It’s rich and indulgent, and it fills her with a pleasant warmth as it settles in her stomach. No sooner has she finished her drink and disposed of the used cup than Director Saphrin’s door slides open. Director Saphrin is dressed in a deep blue pantsuit with a crisply-ironed white shirt beneath it and tasteful black shoes. She’s not one to wear much jewelry as far as Maya can tell from the few times she’s seen the woman around the building, and today is no different. Her jet black hair is pinned up in a tasteful bun, and the only jewelry she wears is her Smartband and a pair of diamond stud earrings. Her perfume drifts over, a gentle mix of mint and vanilla. “Good morning, Nick.” She says softly before turning her attention to Maya, her brown eyes attentive. “Good morning, Maya. Nick said you needed my help with something, would you like to step into my office for a bit so we can talk?” her voice is firm, but calm, with a softness that Maya has never known it to have. “Yes ma’am.” Maya answers, standing. “Thank you for the oko,” she says to Nick, who simply smiles. “Sure thing.” The Director’s office is luxurious, but not opulent, with a few live plants and a small wall fountain opposite the corner where the windows meet, overlooking the city. It’s tasteful but not gaudy, and the desk and chairs look comfortable, but not obscenely expensive. Still, the genuine hearthwood desk probably costs more per ounce than Maya makes in a month, she reflects... “Have a seat,” The Director says, settling easily into her own chair across the desk from Maya and waving away the holo-display. “What can I do for you?” “I, um, I’ve been locked out of the system, ma’am. I asked Simon for help downstairs, but he said he doesn’t have the ability to reset my credentials. He also said that I haven’t been flagged for any discipline or reviews.” “That’s...very strange. There’s no reason the system should have locked you out of anything, especially with no flags. That would have had to have been done manually. And please, when it’s just us, call me Meekah. Being called ‘ma’am’ makes me feel old.” Meekah says, smiling gently. “I can fix that right now, but I’ll be having a word with HR about this. Is there anything else you need?” “Well, I don’t mean to be a bother or anything, but I’ve tried talking to HR and I think they’re avoiding me...all the tickets I’ve submitted or appointments I’ve tried to make just get marked ‘resolved’ or canceled. My internship was supposed to be a paid position, but...I haven’t actually been paid at all yet. It’s been three weeks since I’ve started, and rent is due in two days and I know I’m not dressed appropriately for work but I promise I’ll—” “Maya.” Meekah says, her voice calm but firm. “Take a breath.” She waits patiently. Maya does, breathing out slowly and evenly, and then does it again. “Good. I’m really not concerned about your attire right now. Your clothes are clean and presentable and that’s good enough for the moment. What I am concerned about is the fact that you haven’t been paid. That’s absolutely inexcusable and there’s no reason whatsoever for that to have happened. I will be having a meeting with HR as soon as they arrive and you will have your back-pay before you leave to go home today.” Meekah taps a few things on her display and there’s a low hum, a click, and then Meekah is handing Maya a black and gold card. “Thank you so much for your help ma’am. I was so worried...” Maya gushes, feeling genuine relief for the first time that she can recall in recent memory. “What’s this?” Meekah smiles gently. “You don’t have to thank me, Maya. You’re entitled to your pay, that’s literally in the the contract you and my company signed, and I’m sorry that hasn’t been honored. There’s 5,000 Coin on that chip, separate from your pay from HR. Please consider it a bonus for all this inconvenience and use it for anything you need.” 5,000 Coin?! It’s more money than Maya has every seen in one place before, and Meekah’s just...handed it to her like it’s nothing. “This is too much! I can’t t take all of this...” Maya’s eyes well with tears; she’s completely overwhelmed by Meekah’s generosity. “You can. As a matter of fact, I insist that you do.” Meekah pauses to hand Maya a tissue. Maya blots at her face. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. No one has ever done anything like this for me before.” “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Maya. You were put in a terrible position as a direct result of my employees incompetence, at best and deliberate malice at worst. No one should have to deal with being treated that way. Please, just let me help, to put my own mind at ease if not for yourself. You’re an incredible employee, Maya. You’re an asset to the company, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re not appreciated or valued. It’s been a privilege to be able to watch you develop, and I hope you’ll be able to look past this incident and continue working for us. I’d like to offer you a formal position as a Product Design Specialist. This situation should have never happened in the first place.” “I...I accept.” Maya says, barely able to speak past the lump in her throat. “Thank you, ma’am.” Maya says, her cheeks warming. “It’s alright, mistakes happen.” “It’s not alright, Maya. I’m impressed by your willingness to forgive, but personally I’m not willing to let something like this slide for any of my employees, least of all someone who does some of the best work at this company. And I promise I’ll make it right for you.” Meekah says earnestly. Maya doesn’t know what to say, so she just nods. “Thank you...so much.” she says finally. “I’ve reset your credentials, you’ll have to make a new password, but you shouldn’t have any more issues and I’ve locked your files so any changes to status will have to be approved by me first. You don’t need to worry about that ever happening again. And you’ll get an official offer letter to sign in your employee portal later, your new position comes with a substantial raise and profit sharing as well. In the meantime,” Meekah checks her Smartband. “I have a meeting to schedule with HR, and I believe you have some things to do as well. You can message me on the portal whenever you need something, but for now, I need to get this meeting set up.” Maya nods. “Of course, I understand. And thank you...for everything.” She says as she turns to leave, feeling something dangerously like hope building in her chest. Maybe for once, things will turn out okay. *** Or not. Maya’s absorbed in her work—Jenkins is a wizard with blends, but not proportions and the mix of synthetic to natural fabric is way too...wrong. It’s scratchy, but in a sticks-to-your-fingers-and-is-really-uncomfortable sort of way, not scratchy like rough, or even necessarily itchy either. She frowns and highlights the areas that need adjusting. There needs to be more room in the butt area, if the wearer has a thick diaper on or is wearing lots of layers, it’ll be stiff and too squeezy...Maya makes a face, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the idea of that sensation, even though she doesn’t wear diapers, clothes that are too tight feel kind of...suffocating. The straps of the overalls are also slightly too short, which would also make it the wrong kind of snug—comfy clothes should feel like being hugged, not squeezed so tightly you can’t breathe....And the elastic bands in the built-in diaper cover shouldn’t be that close together, it’ll be pinchy on the wearers thighs in an area that’s already really sensitive...Maybe we could just scrap that entirely? No need to make the Caregiver’s job any harder for changes, and it’s already got the mag-snaps, so everything’s discreet without the elastic... Maya frowns thoughtfully, making more annotations and manipulating the holographic model, and recommending a blend of extra-spun fleece and down for the inside. She pauses to go back and edit her notes to be more professional-sounding before sending them back to Jenkins for review. Personally, she doesn’t understand what’s wrong with using ‘pinchy’ or ‘squeezy’ to describe something, since that’s how it actually feels, but after more than one of the other design specialists have commented that her notes ‘sounded like something their kid sister would say’, maybe it’s better to jazz it up a bit. Why sounding like that is bad when it’s just notes, Maya can’t fathom, but being made fun of is kind of miserable if she’s being honest. Maya’s just finished her notes when her tablet chimes loudly, causing her to flinch. Thorns! I really need to change the alert tone... Maya thinks, before picking up the tablet and reading her messages. It’s Meekah, requesting her to come to the conference room for a meeting. She swallows hard, gathering her courage, and heads for the elevator. Maya’s heart drops into her stomach as she approaches the door to the conference room, Meekah sounds really upset... “Do not lecture me on procedure, Janit. Who do you think wrote the policy in the first place?” Meekah’s voice has a cold, venomous edge to it and it makes Maya hesitate before she pushes open the door. Meekah looks at her, eyes softening for a moment as she uses them to indicate Maya should sit next to her. Maya does, already feeling tense and nauseous. She can’t even bring herself to make eye contact with Janit, but she can feel the anger rolling off the woman in waves. The woman is dressed professionally, with too-much lipstick and her nails painted an awful, garish shade of red. Her earrings are too big and the wrong color to complement her fake tan, and her green eyes are cold as Maya inevitably looks at her. Maya sits down, trembling. “Thank you for joining us, Maya.” Meekah says. “I meant no offense. I was simply stating that when people don’t follow the proper procedure, it makes it very difficult to accomplish necessary tasks. Perhaps she just forgot?” “Excuse me? I had IT pull the logs Janit, don’t you dare—” And that’s all Maya hears of Meekah’s sentence before the ringing in her ears drowns the rest of it out. Maya is five years old again, tears dripping off her chin as the side of her face flares with pain, stinging and smarting from the slap she’s just received. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Maya!” Her mother shouts. Another slap. Maya whimpers. “And stop your crying! You just want me to feel bad for you so you can get out of trouble. Keep it up, and I’ll give you something to cry about! You know Esvyra wouldn’t like you getting involved in such selfish things. And now you’ve made her sad, and the other Lightbearer kids in your class saw too! Do you want the congregation to think you’re ‘corrupting association’? What about your father? Do you want him to have to stop being a Tender because you can’t be a good girl?” “No...” Maya says pitifully. “And you had an accident on top of it all! In first grade and still peeing your pants, unbelievable!” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” Maya says honestly. “I don’t want to hear it.” Her mother replies. “Go take a bath and change your clothes. We’re having dinner soon. And you’d better pray and tell the Gods you’re sorry or they won’t want to be your friends anymore because you hurt their feelings by being bad. I love you, but you need to think about how things look to other people, and what the Gods want you to do.” “Okay...I love you too...” Maya turns heads to the stairs, looking back only once. I didn’t even want the cake that much...she thinks...I just didn’t want to be left out. I don’t like being made fun of ‘cause I’m different... “Hurry up please, Maya. I want us to all eat together.” Maya flinches, instinctively expecting another slap, even though her mother is across the room. “And don’t flinch like that. I’m not going to hurt you.” her mother says, like she’s being silly at a bad time. “Sorry. I’m going.” Maya says, and begins climbing the stairs, feeling confused, alone, and ashamed. “—unacceptable. I will not have my employees victimized by your lack of attention to your responsibilities, be it through negligence, incompetence, or malice. Let me be absolutely crystal clear, Janit. IT and myself will be reviewing all employee records from the last six months to ensure accuracy of payroll and benefits. Your access to employee files has been revoked, except for what you need to do your job. Until the audit is complete, all changes to payroll and employee credentials go through me, and me alone. If it is discovered that you or anyone else under your supervision purposefully altered credentials or withheld pay, this entire department will be restructured, and responsible parties will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” Maya blinks, hoping her spacing out hasn’t been too obvious and trying to discreetly scrub at her eyes, her face damp. Meekah’s foot gently nudges against hers, grounding Maya in the present. “I understand.” Janit says, tight-lipped, glaring at Maya. “I shouldn’t have to remind someone in your position of this, but I expect that Maya will receive an appropriately contrite, sincere, and professional apology. And I’ll need your admin chip until the investigation is concluded.” Meekah says, and the grim set of her jaw is equal parts unyielding and predatory, like a lion cornering a wounded animal. Maya looks at the table, losing herself in the swirling patterns of the wood grains and wishing to be literally anywhere else. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’m sure it was just a mistake—” she says, almost automatically, not looking up at either of the women in the room. “I understand that, Maya, and I appreciate you trying to be a team player and give the benefit of the doubt. I however, am not convinced this wasn’t done deliberately, so the investigation will proceed as planned. You come to work and do your job to the best of your ability every day, and it is only fair to hold others to the same standard. A mistake has been made that could easily have been avoided, and it’s important that we make sure that no one else has been dealing with similar issues. We all come to work to get paid, so I need to make sure that’s happening as it should.” Meekah says, her voice firm, but without the venomous edge. When she speaks again, it’s back. “Janit. Your chip.” Janit all but slams the small card on the table. She looks at Maya in a way that reminds Maya of her mother when she says: “My sincerest apologies for any inconvenience you may have been caused. It won’t happen again, Maya.” You don’t sound sorry...Maya thinks, feeling almost like she’s just been told to jump off a cliff instead of apologized to. She feels cold and looks back at Meekah, and then at the table. Meekah’s brows draw together, but she doesn’t comment on it other than to say: “That will be all. Nick will be in touch with next steps. You’re dismissed.” Janit stalks out of the room, staring Maya down the whole way, her green eyes cold and piercing. “Are you okay?” Meekah asks, once the door slides closed again. Maya’s eyes well with tears again. She feels drained and too hot and this is all her fault and— “Maya, honey—” “Don’t!” Maya says, in a voice that sounds like someone else’s, bitter and angry and sharp. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so upset. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to be nice to me.” Maya says, more to the table than to Meekah. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Maya. Nothing, do you understand me? None of this is your fault, and I’m not upset with you at all. This was clearly very difficult for you and you did very well. You should be proud of yourself.” Meekah’s voice reminds Maya of herself when she’s trying not to cry. “Kind of? I don’t know. I don’t feel very good.” Maya admits, finally looking at Meekah, seeing a gaze that’s just a bit too shiny for just a moment before Meekah’s normal expression is back. “It’s okay to not know. Do you want to go home for the day? With pay, of course. I can tell this was a lot for you.” “I...I don’t want to go home...” Maya says, because that would mean being alone with her thoughts. “Okay. Why don’t you take a few minutes for yourself, okay? And if you change your mind about going home later it’s not a problem, just let me know. You did a good job, Maya. Really. I have to get to my next meeting, but you know how to reach me if you need anything.” Meekah says gently, lingering for a moment before leaving Maya alone with her thoughts. Maya collects herself for a few minutes, getting up only when she’s sure she isn’t going to be sick all over the super-expensive-looking carpet. She almost runs straight into Sydney on her way back to the lab, only half paying attention to where she’s going. “Oh, hey...Maya?” her friend's voice is full of concern, and she’s taking Maya by the shoulders and and guiding her into a side hallway. “Sweetie? What’s wrong? You look awful! What happened?” “I’m okay...I’m fine...I’m okay...” Maya replies, her cheeks wet before she can even really register that she’s crying, tears dripping off her chin in big, fat drops. She wants to throw up, her entire body shaking with the force of her sobs. Warm arms wrap around her, a gentle hand rubs her back while another gently presses her head into Sydney’s chest. “Oh, sweetheart...it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” Sydney’s voice is thick with emotion. Maya clings to Sydney, trembling, afraid of falling apart without her. Sydney is warm and safe and she smells like spice and clean laundry. “Shh...” Sydney whispers, swaying them gently. Maya can’t remember the last time anyone hugged her like this. She can’t remember the last time she was hugged at all.

The Regression Protocol: How to Pacify Your Professor Formerly The Littlest Professor By Lionsheart Disclaimer: This story features consensual adult ABDL roleplay. All characters are 18+, no minors and all dynamics are negotiated between adults. Chapter 1: The Literary Dictator Claire Grimmer walked through the aisles of the Thorne Hall's tiered rows, delivering her graded and red marked papers, as if it were a new art form. She could hear a mix of groans, whispers, sniffles and sighs as she delivered each essay to its respective student. “Jasmine Patel, impeccable work on your analysis. It’s rare to see a thesis so well thought out.” Professor Grimmer praised the student who was only a few years younger than Claire. Surprisingly enough to most students on the campus, Professor Grimmer had been one of the youngest professors hired in recent years, yet, debatably, the strictest. Claire excelled in her baccalaureate work and had gotten early entry into a PhD program that led to her graduating at 23. Her job came by on luck and timing alone when one of the existing Advanced Writing & Rhetorical Analysis professors suddenly passed away at Westridge University. During that time, she had been substitute teaching and tutoring, awaiting for a permanent spot to open up and apply for to start her real teaching career and pay off her debt. Unfortunately for her, the professor she had the most admiration and utmost respect for during her own studies at Westridge had been the professor she'd have to replace. When Professor Walsh had passed, her heart had seemingly cracked and she'd cried for days, remembering their conversations and discussions that made her feel like she had been seen and was capable of bigger things in her life. It was something that her parents never could do and the reason why she enjoyed her professors company, even if it was only a professional relationship. They'd met for coffee to discuss contemporary rhetoric theory and, during her studies, she'd basically had her own standing seat in his office during his office hours. All this to say, he'd been a close mentor and then colleague after she graduated. They even got to the point of sending professor memes and funny rhetorical quotes they saw to each other when Claire had been hired on to tutor and substitute teach. His position opened up mid semester when Claire was working with him at the campus as a tutor for his class. It was the luck of time and place that she was able to get into such a prestigious role at a well-known college so quickly after graduating. Claire didn't take her role lightly, as the meaning of her job was now carrying on a legacy of someone who taught her everything she knew. From the moment she began her first lecture, she knew she had big shoes to fill, in which she did and had made a name for herself in the few years she had already taught. Given, that name may have had curse words and profanity following it, but her colleagues praised her work through her PhD work and published papers. She won several awards during academia and had a known reputation among the professors for her excellence even prior to being hired into the university’s faculty. At the age of 26, she now walked her hall with an uptight confidence and prowl that no student near her age truly understood, which was okay for Claire since that's how she always had been: simply misunderstood. She'd heard the names people called her and comments about how she'd just graduated and it made 'no sense' why it didn't seem like she had a sympathetic bone in her body. From giving her infamous berating lectures to students who questioned her to her notorious red marked papers, she had built her reputation in record breaking time of 3 years as one of the toughest professors in the English department. That was a title she held gladly, knowing it was only following in Professor Walsh's footsteps of pushing students to their own excellence in academia. Professor Grimmer’s heels clicked the stairs as she walked up, passing out her last exam, “Kevin Marshall." Claire passed back a paper heavily marked with red. "Your thesis was unclear and you failed to provide adequate textual support for your claims. This reads more like a book report than critical analysis." The ginger headed student’s face flushed red as he rested his forehead on his hands in stress of the C- grade. She walked back to her podium, lecturing on like she did after every essay delivery day like a nail in the coffin for her students, "As I mentioned last week, these analytical essays fell significantly short of senior level expectations." Her voice carried through the room without needing to rise above a measured tone. The century old walls of Thorne Hall seemed to amplify her words, bouncing them back at the students with authority. "The most common issues I encountered," she continued, returning to the front of the class, "were imprecise language, failure to engage critically with the text and arguments that lacked sufficient evidence." She pulled out three anonymous excerpts she'd prepared, projecting them onto the whiteboard. "For example, this sentence: 'The author really shows how society is bad.' This tells us nothing specific about the text or the argument being made and is vague." A few students shifted uncomfortably, recognizing their own words dissected before their peers. Claire paced slowly, her shoes marking a steady rhythm against the floor, "Your analysis should demonstrate precision, clarity, and original thinking. These are not arbitrary requirements but are the foundations of effective communication in any profession you might pursue." As she spoke, Claire noticed movement in her peripheral vision, Kade Prescott slouching further in his seat in the back row, his athletic frame somehow managing to look both relaxed and defiant at the same time. His dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and the smirk playing at his lips set her teeth on edge. From day 1 of this semester, he was, admittedly, a problem child in her class and always having an argument on her grading of his papers, although he never bothered to visit during her office hours to learn how to improve his writing skills. "Mr. Prescott." She held the last paper she deliberately didn’t deliver between two fingers as if it might contaminate her, "Would you care to explain how an AI generated essay meets the requirements of this assignment?" The classroom fell silent as Kade's smirk faltered, then returned with double the intensity. His green eyes flickering almost in mockery that set Claire’s irritation to a new level. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, "I'm not sure what you mean, Professor Grimmer." His voice carried a practiced innocence that made her eye twitch in annoyance. "Then allow me to clarify." Claire walked toward him, feeling almost the 32 pairs of eyes following her movement. "This essay contains tell-tale markers of AI generation with inconsistent arguments, quotations without real references and unnatural vocabularly in certain parts. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Heat climbed up her neck, not from embarrassment but from the controlled anger she refused to fully show. Kade held her gaze, challenge flickering in his eyes, "With all due respect, Professor, not everyone can meet your impossible standards without some... assistance." His tone suggested he found nothing important in her lecture nor statement, "Some of us have real world priorities beyond comma splices and thesis statements." The tension in the room shifted, students glancing between them like they were watching a tennis match. Claire felt a boost of confidence when several students frowned at Kade's response, as if they were surprised he'd even use AI, yet alone admit to it. Some genuine and others she could tell were probably just trying to remain on her good side for favorable grading outcomes. Little did they know, Claire would always grade without bias, no matter how many office hours or compliments they could give her. "Your 'real world priorities' won't exempt you from the consequences of academic dishonesty, Mr. Prescott. See me after class." She placed his unmarked paper on her desk and turned away for a drink of water to the side of her before he could respond, refusing to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her irritation. Claire resumed her critique, her voice never betraying the quickened beat of her heart from the confrontation and Mr. Prescott's audacity to openly argue her in front of her class, "As we move toward your midterm research papers, remember that clear writing reflects clear thinking. I expect significant improvement from many of you." Her eyes slowly glanced around the circular tiered seating of the hall, eyes flicking to Kade’s darkened ones before she went back to her lecture. The room filed out after her lecture slowly, until one student at the top of the tiered rows in the corner got up. Claire ignored the stare of her student approaching and the way he was much larger, taller than her by the time he appeared at her podium as she was exiting out of her PowerPoint and logging out. Claire squared her shoulders and raised her chin, grateful for the extra three inches her heels provided as he approached. Even so, Kade still towered over her, his broad shoulders filling out his university sweatshirt in a way that made the classroom suddenly feel smaller. She ignored the thought, recognizing that she would not allow herself to be intimidated by anyone, let alone, an arrogant student in her class. “Mr. Prescott.” She drawled in acknowledgement, moss green eyes flicking up as his eyes stared down to his paper in her hand as she passed it to him, “You’re lucky I felt merciful enough to give this a chance to be rewritten and didn’t send this to the dean for cheating." She said, almost regretting her decision to let this slip. She shouldn't have, yet she did because that's what Professor Walsh would have done... give a failing student a chance to redeem themselves, as he always said. Claire continued as he opened them, eyes scanning her highlights, "I highlighted all the AI phrasing and unsupported references.” She nodded to the papers as he flipped through the pages and pausing by her words. Kade's green eyes narrowed, "It's a tool, Professor. I wrote most of the paper and the AI just helped me organize my thoughts and polish the language." "A tool that won't help you develop critical thinking skills or your own analytical voice." Claire kept her tone measured, professional, though her heart rate had quickened slightly. She refused to be intimidated by his proximity or the intensity of his gaze as she crossed her arms and held firm in her position, "In the real world, employers won't be impressed by your ability to prompt a chatbot." "The real world?" Kade scoffed, running a hand through his dark hair. "In the real world, efficiency matters. Nobody cares how you get results as long as you deliver them." The audacity of his statement made her blood simmer beneath her composed exterior. Claire straightened a stack of papers, deliberately taking her time before responding, “Perhaps in your future business ventures, Mr. Prescott, but in my classroom, the journey matters as much as the destination." She met his stare directly now, "If I see evidence of AI use in your work again, you'll need to consider summer classes to fulfill your writing requirement for graduation." Something dangerous flashed across Kade's expression. His shoulders tensed, jaw clenching as he fell silent. The classroom air grew thick with tension, punctuated only by the distant sound of students in the hallway outside. Claire should have felt only professional annoyance with his attitude, but an unwelcome heat crept up her neck as she observed him. Kade Prescott was undeniably handsome. He was tall with almost perfectly disheveled dark hair that suggested he'd just rolled out of bed, yet somehow made it look intentional. His green eyes held a sharpness that betrayed his intelligence, despite his failing grade in her course she could imagine he still was adept in other areas. All things considered, he did have a strong grade point average before he took her class. "Summer classes?" He finally broke the silence, his voice lower now, "You'd really derail my graduation over this?" She blinked, eyes narrowing at his insinuation that it was suddenly her fault he was failed a class because of his own AI usage. Arrogance at it's finest, she thought to herself. "I don't set the graduation requirements, Mr. Prescott. The university does." Claire tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, annoyed at herself for noticing how his tone made a part of her think thoughts she shouldn’t in professional setting, "And yes, academic integrity matters enough to 'derail' things when necessary." His prolonged silence made her increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t with fear but with an inappropriate awareness of him as a man rather than just a difficult student. The way he studied her face made her wonder what he was searching for. Weakness? A hint that she might bend her academic standards? "You know," he said finally, his tone shifted to something almost intimate that made her pulse jump, "most professors would be impressed that I found a way to work smarter, not harder." Did he think he could persuade her with his charm instead? She blinked in annoyance of this student's audacity yet again. Claire swallowed, fighting the urge to step back from the podium, "Well, I'm not most professors." "No," Kade agreed, his eyes traveling over her face thoughtfully, "You're definitely not." The way he spoke softly and not in a defensive way now hung in the air between them. Claire clutched the podium tighter, using it as a shield between them. The intellectual frustration she felt toward him twisted with something else, an irritating awareness that under different circumstances, she might have found his confidence attractive rather than aggravating. "Is there anything else, Mr. Prescott? I have another class to prepare for." She didn't, but the lie gave her an escape route she’d gladly take. Kade blinked in annoyance, coldly pulling back and walking away, "I'll rewrite the paper." he said, the words clipped, "Thanks, Professor." He turned and strode toward the door, shoulders back and head high. Claire hated that her eyes followed him, tracking the confident swagger in his step. Claire blinked in annoyance at the confrontation and the ‘thanks’ that was not a thank you at all but an insult wrapped in an arrogant undertone. She hated even more the conflicted feelings swirling in her stomach, professional irritation tangled with an appreciation for his defiant confidence. When the door closed behind him, Claire released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She pressed her palms flat against the podium, steadying herself before gathering her items and leaving. Later that night Claire drove home after a long day of grading her second class’s essays and an office hours visit from Kevin who had been struggling in her Advanced Writing course. Claire didn’t know why but the conversation with Kade and the classrooms responses to her lectures made her more exhausted than usual. When she got home, she decided to let go of the work stress as soon as humanely possible and unwind into her self-care routine, which involved a glass of wine, a diaper and her online ABDL and CGL community forum of people with similar interests as her. After getting into her diaper and onesie, she drank a few sips from her glass and logged into the website while she rested onto her couch. She blushed and grinned in excitement behind her pacifier, seeing DaddyDom24 online and already had sent her a message: Hey little baby writer, I see you’re online. What are you up to tonight? She felt her heart skip, seeing his words and how his phrases and words always elicited a warmth and tingling of humiliation within her that not many people possessed. Sure, she had dated on Fetlife and other online communities with other daddies; however, all the relationships prior lacked the intellectual stimulation she required. She found that the power dynamics and the words that could make her heart skip a beat was the true humiliation high she was attracted too. Claire hadn’t came across it until DaddyDom24 and they met through their stories. She came across him initially reading a story called The Control Protocol written by DaddyDom24. That’s where they began almost 4 months ago, when LittleScribbler, Claire’s online persona, began commenting on his stories. It was a story about a man regressing his hardworking wife through psychological games, daily checks and rules. In the story, his wife had been the breadwinner and held the keys in their house, so to speak. She was going through a series of challenges and high workload that caused her stress that bled into their love life. Then, the husband gave her an ultimatum: either stay in the relationship and follow his ‘control protocol’ to give up certain responsibilities to cope and become a better wife or they would divorce, no other options left. She agreed, hesitantly, and the story deliciously picked up in psychological role play and sweet but slow regression of the female lead character that bled into her workdays and life. As well known as DaddyDom24 was in the online community, so was LittleScribbler and she became known for her slow burn DDLG romance stories. After a few weeks of her commenting on his posts, he began commenting on her stories and they developed an online friendship publicly. Slowly, that migrated into private messaging and eventually roleplay where he’d ask her questions about her taking care of herself with water check-ins or self-care like in his story The Control Protocol. Then, he transcended into a more stricter and direct role play of asking her to drink only from her sippy cup afterwork and send a picture of proof. After that, it escalated further into asking her to wear her diapers on the weekends and to send him pictures to prove she was properly padded. Claire blinked back to his message, eyeing his thirst trap profile icon of his toned abs on display and holding a belt in front of him casually like a threat for a spanking. She bit her lip, typing: Drinking wine after a long week at work and working on a new story. How about you? She saw his typing bubble as she felt flushed from her neck up, having an idea what he’d say next but awaiting the response. Is that so? It better be from your sippy cup or else I may just make you do something as a punishment for not following my rules we set out. Her eyebrows raised, surprised of the frisky and more dominant tone he was taking on that night which was unlike him. He usually was on the side of caring and kind, yet today she could already tell he was coming in hotter than usual. Yes, he was dominant and his stories showed a darker, more shadow-daddy side to him but he’d not enforced any punishments… yet at least. She blinked when his next message came through: Send me a picture in the next 30 seconds, I want proof, little girl. Claire mischievously giggled, taking a picture by laptop screenshot from her chin down to her exposed diaper and wine glass in hand, sending it quickly in his required time frame. She didn’t type anything, knowing she was in trouble already. Her heart rate sped up as she awaited his response, his typing bubble appearing and disappearing a few times before a response came through: Hm. That’s not what babies should drink from, you’re going to make a mess and that’s unacceptable. She felt her fingers tingle, awaiting whatever punishment he thought would be appropriate for her misbehavior. Since you disobeyed me tonight, how about you drink two full glasses of water before bed while you’re on chat with me and no diaper change until 3PM tomorrow. I want a picture before you take it off to make sure you didn’t make any accidents overnight. Is that understood? Claire blushed deeper red, feeling embarrassed of him knowing she’d wet tonight and sleep in it. Usually she didn’t sleep in a wet diaper and stay in it that long. She was used to changing herself in the morning if she slept overnight and didn’t like the idea of a cold diaper in the morning. Luckily, she hadn’t had any plans for tomorrow and could afford a good portion of her day in her diaper. Claire and DaddyDom24 kept chatting the rest of the night about story ideas whilst he asked for updates on her water intake every now and then. That night, Claire had slowly calmed down from her day of responsibilities, being able to feel like she offloaded it with her online Daddy. The power, strictness and strength she had to carry was no more and she could relax into a peaceful state. She was simply happy to feel taken care of between her high workload of the week, even if it was all virtually. ________________________________ Hey everyone! After a hiatus, I'm back with a new story that I have 17 chapters written now for that I decided to start posting. I've been between writing a story like this for some time in a 'professor's pet' premise but with a twist and roles... reversed perhaps. Let me know your thoughts, theories and comments, I can't wait to hear what you all think of this story as it progresses! 😊

Hi everyone! This is my first story I've ever written on this platform. Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope you enjoy it. Part Three coming soon! Connor's Unfortunate Lesson: Part One After years of Connor Jackson running his family ragged – driving them to the brink of insanity with his rude, disrespectful, and sometimes criminal behavior – his stepmother has finally decided she’s had enough. The last straw had been when he’d been caught breaking into parked cars in the middle of the night in an effort to score some quick cash. Michelle, who had been in his life for the better part of the last ten years, was both infuriated and devastated when she received that fateful call from the police. Instead of rushing down to the station to bail him out once again, she opted to leave him there for the remainder of the weekend while she finished putting her plan into action. When the following Monday arrived, the first thing she did was set up a meeting with her stepson’s school. Of course, their first inclination was to expel Connor for violating their code of ethics for the umpteenth time. However, she was eventually able to convince the board to allow her to unenroll him so that she could homeschool him herself. It had been a small victory, but at least this way she figured he might still have a chance to earn his GED and attend a good university. One day. At first, Connor had been thrilled with the latest development. He was convinced he’d gotten off scott-free. That is, until they arrived back at the house. After having spent the last several nights in jail, all he’d wanted to do was hole-up in his room and get some much needed sleep. Because as far as he was convinced, all he’d done was earn himself an early summer vacation that promised to be filled with girls, weed, and however much booze he could get his hands on. After his latest brush with the law, he was pretty sure that he’d just cemented his status as the resident “big man on campus”. Although fairly short for his age, he often found himself toeing the edge of being a bully. When he spoke, people listened. And if they knew what was best for them, they did as they were told. Otherwise he made sure they knew there would be consequences. He’d once dumped a kid in a garbage can after he refused to pony up his lunch money on Pizza Day. One could even argue that Connor was proud of his reputation. His male classmates respected him. Possibly envied him. And as for the girls, well, he had yet to meet one who didn’t want him. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the word “no” – from anybody. Including his parents. Especially his parents. Even when his father had been alive, the man had been known for giving in to his spoiled son’s every whim. Although there were times when Michelle had warned him that he might be going too far, her protests had often fallen on deaf ears. Connor’s father was adamant that he was just trying to give his son the type of childhood he’d never had. Unfortunately for all of them, his attempts had only resulted in him raising a child who believed he didn’t have to play by the same rules as everyone else. But those days were over. After his last arrest, his stepmother knew it was time to put her foot down. Big changes were coming to the Jackson household. A fact Connor realized the moment he walked through his front door. Instead of being allowed to make a beeline for his bedroom, he’d found himself being hauled off to the living room for a special kind of punishment. The kind that involved a long overdue trip over his stepmother’s knee where she proceeded to blister his ass with a sturdy, wooden hair brush. It had been the first time he’d been spanked since childhood. And it was even worse than he could’ve ever imagined. The shame and humiliation had been overwhelming – and he hadn’t been alone for it either. His two stepsisters, Daphne and Delilah, had been in there to witness the entire spectacle. They’d heard every pained gasp and cry, had watched as he flailed and thrashed helplessly while their mother busied herself expertly reddening every inch of his bare bottom until he could no longer contain his sobs. But the girls harbored no sympathy for him. Instead they’d simply laughed, pleased to see their troublesome brother reduced to such an infantile state. In their minds, this was what he deserved after having spent the last few years enduring his would-be reign of terror. When the spanking finally ended, it was then that Michelle dropped what had felt akin to that of a verbal atomic bomb. In that very moment, right there in the living room, his stepmother declared that, moving forward, Connor’s life was about to change drastically. In order to save him, he would be made to start over. Take things back to the basics. And, hopefully, unlearn every single delinquent behavior that, up until now, had kept him off the straight and narrow. Until then, he’d lose all perks and privileges that came with being an adult. No friends. No phones. No electronics. A strict bedtime. And, what’s more, the bathroom was officially off limits. Chest still heaving, a shocked Connor had opened his mouth to protest, only to clam up when one of his sisters was ordered to bring out the urine stained sheets he’d hastily crumpled and shoved under his bed several nights ago. While it wasn’t the first time he had accidentally soiled himself in his sleep, he thought he’d actually been hiding pretty well. He had no idea that his family was well aware of his little secret. They’d just been waiting for the right time to confront him. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?” Michelle mused, her nose crinkling as she’s hit with the stale whiff of the young man’s shame. “I mean, honestly. Just be grateful that your father isn’t here to witness what a disappointment his pride and joy has become.” “You’re insane!” He’d hissed, his face red as he began to rub his still smarting backside. “Dad would never let you treat me like this. My inheritance is supposed to come through virtually any day now, and when it does, I’m throwing you, and your girls out on your asses the first chance I get!” Connor’s sniffles had only grown more pronounced when his threat was rewarded with a resounding combination of snorts and laughter from the three remaining members of his family – which was confusing. Because in his mind there had been nothing funny about any of this. “I’m sorry, Connor. And girls, stop. This is serious.” Even so, Michelle had continued to giggle long after the bulk of her laughter subsided. “Because what your brother doesn’t understand is that, while yes he was promised an inheritance, he’s also going to have a hard time collecting it if he isn’t deemed competent to do so.” Tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder, she’d given her daughters a knowing look. “As your guardian, I have a final say as to whether or not you’re ready to receive access to the trust funds you father left behind – which is true for all three of you.” “But I’m–!” “Yes, you may have just turned eighteen, young man.” His stepmother scoffed before rising to her feet. “But that doesn’t mean you’re ready. You have no plans for the future. No desire to go to college or find a trade school. In fact, the only thing you’re able to boast about is your growing rap sheet.” She adjusts her blouse, subtly highlighting her shapely figure. “Whereas your sisters are set to attend the best university in the state on full scholarship, starting this fall.” “I don’t need school, Michelle. I’ve got money. A lot of money.” Connor had snarled before attempting to snatch the sheets out of his sister’s grasp. He failed, of course. “Now, give me my shit and I’ll let you keep the Range Rover my Dad bought you. And when I sell the house, I might even cut you a piece of the profits. Assuming I can bring myself to forget about the way you’ve all treated me just now.” And that’s when Michelle began to move. “Let’s face it, Connor.” He’d stepped back as she slowly invaded his space, effectively towering over him, making him feel smaller than he’d liked to admit. “You’re nothing but a little boy who thinks he’s doing a good job of pretending to be a grown-up.” Cupping his chin, she’d then forced him to meet her stern, blue-eyed gaze. “We – your father and I – failed you the first time around. Which is why I feel like I’m partly to blame for what you’ve become. But I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately, and even had a chance to consult with a leading therapist who specializes in helping troubled young men find their way back on the straight and narrow. His best-selling novel, Rebirth: The Road Back to Babyhood, was quite the page-turner.” Feeling like the walls were closing in on him, Connor could only summon a weak cry as the weight of his circumstances became overwhelming. “You can’t do this…I…” And that’s when a fresh wave of tears had begun to fall. “I’ll call the police. I…I…” He’d trailed off upon noticing Michelle’s smug grin. “Oh, Connie.” She’d eventually released his chin in order to mockingly ruffle his chocolate brown locks. “It’s already been done. This summer, your sisters and I are going to help give you the do-over you so desperately need. We’re going to break that stubborn little spirit so you can grow up to be the kind of upstanding young man who wants to make his family proud.” Leaning down, she’d pressed a chaste kiss along his furrowed brow. He honestly couldn’t believe that these were his only options. Either refuse and be thrown out on the street, penniless and without a place to call home. Or stay and allow himself to be subjected to whatever twisted plans his stepmother had in store for him. “Please…” He’d tried once more, now feeling more helpless than he’d ever had in his life. “I can–I can change.” God, he’d hated how his voice shook with every word he spoke. “Oh, we know you can, baby boy. And you will.” His stepmother assured him as she’d reached for his hand, dragging him down the hall in the direction of one of the house’s many guestrooms. “Like it or not, your new life starts today. Now, come on girls!” She’d called out as her grip tightened, forcing Conner to scramble to keep up with her long stride. “It’s time to show your baby brother his brand new room!” END Connor's Unfortunate Lesson: Part Two - (Takes place three months after the events in Part One) At eighteen-years-old, Connor was desperate to keep his neighbors and the surrounding community from finding out about his shameful little secret. You see, while most of his classmates were finishing up the school year and preparing to start college in the fall, he’d been busy with something else. And it had everything to do with the diaper he was currently hiding underneath his gray sweatpants. For the last few months, the toilet had been off limits to him. All thanks to the bad behaviour that had landed him in jail around that same time. Well, that and the fact that he still had a tendency to wet the bed at night. Unfortunately for him, being denied access to the bathroom like any other self-sufficient adult had severely affected his ability to control his bladder. If he was awake, he usually had a 50/50 chance that his body might alert him that he needed to pee. Or mess. From there, he only had a matter of minutes before he was forced to do his business wherever he stood. Or squatted for that matter. And if he was asleep, then all bets were off. Having anticipated this development, his stepmother now mandated that he be kept in diapers full-time. Connor would have to earn the right to use the potty like a big boy again, whenever Michelle believed he was ready. Wait. Not Michelle. Mommy. Of course, what was even more embarrassing was that he wasn’t even allowed to change his own diaper. Depending on how his behavior had been that week, he might not even be allowed to ask for one. If he’d gotten himself in trouble, he would often have to wait until his Mommy or one of his sisters decided to check to see if he’d soiled himself. It was utterly humiliating. These days, Connor was no longer allowed the privilege of modesty. Michelle bathed him every night and typically changed his dirty diapers throughout the day. And when she was too busy, or couldn’t be bothered to deal with him, the demeaning task fell to one of his twin sisters: Daphne or Delilah. If he were being honest, he regretted having mistreated both girls over the years. Because now they took every opportunity they could to inflict their revenge. While they were of no relation to him, they were the spitting image of their beautiful mother. And what made it even worse is that they were only older than him by a handful of months. Sometimes Daphne wasn’t so bad. While he wouldn’t exactly say she was nice, he could usually deal with the way she teased and babied him. But Delilah…she could be downright cruel. There were times she went out of her way to humiliate him, and she often wouldn’t stop until he was reduced to tears. Thankfully, no one from the outside world seemed to be aware of Connor’s new predicament. Something for which the young man was grateful. But deep down, there was a part of him that knew this wouldn’t last forever. Eventually the other shoe would have to drop. Which could hopefully mean freedom from his infantile prison and access to the trust fund he was owed. Or a lifetime of embarrassment if anyone in town ever discovered his new, baby-powder scented secret. And thanks to the calculated efforts of his Mommy, it was quickly looking like the young man’s life was swiftly careening towards the latter. Whether he had a say in it or not. __________ A Few Days Later... “Michelle…” Connor whines softly as he anxiously shifts from foot to foot. “Please don’t make me do this.” Heaving a weary sigh, his stepmother brushes past him to check on the quiche she had baking away in the oven. “For the last time, Conrad, I’m not making you do anything you haven’t already been doing for the last few months. And you know that’s not my name.” Realizing her dish still needed a few more minutes, she closes the door before turning to face the young man currently occupying her kitchen. “Who am I to you?” “Mommy. I–I’m sorry, Mommy.” He quickly amends, hoping to avoid wracking up any additional punishments. His bottom still ached from the spanking he’d received earlier that morning. “That’s better. Now, we’re having company over and that’s final. And you will be on your best behavior while they’re here, or there will be consequences. Is that understood?” She arches one perfect blonde brow for emphasis. “But can I…can I…” He stammers, wishing he could simply get the words out. “Can you…what?” An impatient Michelle crosses her arms over her ample bosom. “Spit it out or stop wasting my time.” “Can’t I please at least put on my underwear? Real underwear? I won’t have an accident, I swear!” Unfortunately, Connor was pretty sure he’d known the answer before he’d even summoned up the courage to ask the question. But when he’d found out the identity of the visitors she’d invited, it was worth a try. “Oh, Connie…” Her derisive snort seems to echo throughout the fairly large room. “Always so convinced you’re ready to be a big boy when you’re not.” “But I don’t want them to see me in a–” He cuts off mid-sentence as he feels his cheeks heat. “I don’t want them to know that I have to wear…this.” He finishes, apprehensively tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Well, why not?” Michelle glides over the fridge to take stock of treats she’d prepared for the afternoon’s festivities. “It’s for your protection, after all. Do you remember what happened the last time you went without your…protection?” The mocking lilt in her voice has him feeling about two feet tall. “Yes.” He mumbles, his gaze dropping to his socked feet. “And?” “I fell asleep and had an accident on the couch.” “Hmm.” Closing the door, she moves to take a seat at the kitchen table. Resting her chin on her palm, she makes it clear that he now has her full attention. “And what did Mommy do? What did she have to do when you had your little accident?” “You…you spanked me. With my paddle.” Connor swallows hard, his bruised bottom throbbing at the memory. “And then you put me in triple diapers for the rest of the week.” “And tell me – why did I do that, Connor?” His fists clench uselessly at his sides. “Be–because I took off my diaper.” The sound of Michelle’s tinkling laughter is enough to set his teeth on edge. “And is that something you’re allowed to do? Are you allowed to take your diaper off? Ever?” “No, Mommy.” “That’s right.” His stepmother then leans across the table to grab her cellphone – a right he’d been denied for months. Unless he managed to catch a bit of the evening news on television, he had no idea about what was going on in the world. “Frankly, I’m surprised you even had the gall to ask after the way I had to blister that naughty butt of yours for cursing at your sister.” Connor doesn’t bother to hide his grimace. He’d gotten a spanking this morning because of a stunt Delilah had pulled. How he hated her and her stupid ribbons. “Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so worried, little Connie?” Her feigned interest has her continuing to stare down at her phone. “I thought you’d be excited to have some company after all this time. You used to love Mr. and Mrs. Peters. Now out of options, the diapered young man visibly deflates. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to find out about his ongoing punishment. His reputation would be ruined. And he was pretty sure that he’d never be able to land another date for the rest of his life. “May I please be allowed to stay in my room?” “Absolutely not.” Pursing her perfectly painted lips, she sets down her device before beckoning him forward. Once he’s standing in front of her, Michelle lowers his pants to check the padding of his diaper. “You’re not that wet.” She gives his crotch an affectionate squeeze before turning him around to make sure he wasn’t hiding any other surprises. “And thank goodness you’re not poopy.” Pulling his sweats back up, she briefly goes quiet. A few moments pass before she finally speaks again. “Tell you what…” She pulls him closer, until he’s now perched on her knee. “Since you’re so worried about them finding out your secret, how about we change your diaper right before they get here? And then we’ll put you in your favorite onesie – the one with the easy snaps.” “Really?” He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but at the same time…he really was desperate. “And then we’ll put you back in your sweatpants, that way the Peters won’t notice a thing. After all, your diapers only swell up when they’re used, right?” “R–right…” “Now listen closely,” She boops his nose before continuing. “Because this is your one chance to show Mommy you just might have what it takes to start earning back all those big boy privileges you’ve been missing out on lately. When you feel like you need to go potty you come and tell me or your sisters right away. One of us will take you to the bathroom and help you with your diaper so no one has to find out. Deal?” Connor eagerly nods his head as relief blooms in his chest. “Thank you, Mommy. I won’t let you down – I promise!” Scrambling off his stepmother’s lap, he wanders off towards the living room to make sure it’s devoid of anything that could give away his secret. “You had better not, baby boy.” Michelle responds, as a cruel smile ghosts its way across her lips. “Even though something tells me that you already did…” ____ Four Hours Later... After what seemed like hours, the chime of the doorbell finally signals the arrival of their long awaited guests. Connor had been on pins and needles all morning, wishing that he could get the entire spectacle over with and move on with his day. He checks in the mirror one last time, silently reassuring himself that his so far still-dry diaper wasn’t readily visible beneath his gray sweatpants. As promised, his stepmother had dressed him in his least conspicuous onesie – the one with the easy snaps. Now, all he had to do was be polite and control his bladder long enough for someone to take him to the bathroom. It was pretty simple when he thought about it. “Connor!” Michelle bellows from down the hall. “Come say hello to our guests!” Resigning himself to his fate, he forces himself to make the trek from his room to the sitting area. Surely exchanging pleasantries with their neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Peters, wouldn’t be too painful. Hell, they might even forget he was there after the first few minutes. Rounding the corner, his well-rehearsed greeting swiftly dies on his lips. Because standing in the living room was the last person he could possibly want to see. It was his classmate Mallory, the nerdy girl who always volunteered to do his homework, accompanied by her mother. “As you can see, Connie.” His Mommy grins at him while handing off their jackets to his sister, Daphne. “There appears to have been a slight change of plans. Mr. Peters couldn’t make it, so Mallory agreed to tag along instead. Isn’t that nice?” Conner remains too stunned and nervous to speak as he watches Michelle eagerly direct their company to the delicious spread she’s laid out for lunch. Alarm bells were sounding in his head, demanding that he run and hide immediately. “Young man, you’re being rude.” His Mother scolds, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. “And you know I don’t tolerate rudeness in this household.” The unspoken threat in her voice hangs heavily between them. And that’s when it clicks that if he was going to survive the afternoon unscathed, he’d have to be very, very careful. All it would take is him breaking just one of her overbearingly meticulous rules for his secret to be exposed. “I–I’m so sorry.” Now that he’s got his feet moving again, he summons the wherewithal to shake their hands. First Mallory’s, and then her Mother’s. “I was surprised to see you, is all. Your daughter is the first person I’ve seen from school in quite awhile.” Instead of immediately responding, the older woman eyes him warily. “I heard you were arrested. Again. Makes sense that school finally had enough of you.” “Mom!” Mallory hisses, clearly embarrassed by her Mother’s unsolicited rebuke. “It’s okay…” Michelle assures them both before pouring Mrs. Peters a healthy glass of chilled Chardonnay. “While it’s true that dear Connie had yet another run-in with the law, after meeting with the school board, they were gracious enough to allow me to withdraw him instead of following through with their proposed expulsion. My baby boy got lucky.” She reaches over to affectionately ruffle his brown locks. “I can only assume you’ve taken up homeschooling him?” Mrs. Peters sniffs primly before taking a sip of her wine. “Assuming he’s willing to follow instructions.” “Oh, I can assure you that he’s been receiving quite the re-education.” She passes Connor a large bottle of water before instructing him to drink. “Remember, the doctor told you that you need to stay hydrated. You’ll need to finish that before you’re allowed a snack.” Connor feels his stomach drop as he accepts the offering. Because while he was thirsty, he knew that if he did as he was told he’d need to use the potty in no time. But that was okay, he told himself. Because his Mommy had promised to take him to the bathroom as soon as he asked. With that in mind, he finally allows himself to relax, if only just a little. While the two adults chatted idly, he listens to Mallory catch-him-up on the happenings he’d missed at school. From the football team’s record breaking season, to who was crowned this year’s prom king and queen, no topic off limits. Talking with her makes him feel good. Normal. Especially when it had been ages since he’d interacted with anyone outside of his mother and sisters. They were nearly an hour into the visit when he felt his bladder begin to show signs of protest. While he had yet to finish the entire bottle, he was close. But his body didn’t care. He knew he needed the bathroom. Now. “Um, excuse me? M-mom?” He mutters, trying to be as polite as possible with his interruption. Clearly annoyed by the prospect of being unable to finish her thougth, she turns to her stepson in a huff. “The adults are speaking, young man.” “I know, but…” Conner lowers his voice several octaves. “I need to go…to…” He trails off, assuming she’d catch the hint. However, he should’ve known that he wasn’t destined to be that lucky. “Go? Go where?” “The bathroom.” He mouths, while attempting to obscure his face from view. “Right now.” “Well, Mrs. Peters and I are in the middle of a conversation. You’re just going to have to wait like any other big boy your age.” With that, she effectively dismisses him, leaving him alone to panic. “Connor…is everything okay?” A confused Mallory asks. “Everything is fine.” He grunts, willing himself to take a deep breath as the pressure continues to grow. “Mom, please!” “For the last time, Connor!” She snaps, snatching his nearly empty water bottle and slamming it on the coffee table. How dare you keep interrupting me like this? I don’t have time to take you to the bathroom right now, so you’re either going to have to wait or go find one of your sisters. Am I being clear enough for you?” “Yes, ma’am.” He grumbles before anxiously rising from the couch, leaving his Mother’s dumbfounded guests behind in favor of tracking down one of his sisters before it was too late. Of course, that quest soon proves to be a colossal waste of time. Because while he manages to catch Delilah on her way out the door, she refuses to be of any help. She even takes it upon herself to loudly announce to anyone that was in earshot that she didn’t have the energy to deal with “pissy little diaper boys” today. Reeling from shame and praying that Mallory and her mother hadn’t overheard her rude declaration, he’d then gone about looking for Daphne. Which was how he’d ultimately found himself back in the living room. Following the sound of her voice, Connor and his now screaming bladder had scarcely set foot on the freshly steamed carpet before he realized just how dire his ordeal had become. “What’s up with all the yelling, Connie?” His sister mocks, adjusting her high ponytail. “You’re so needy all the time, it’s honestly starting to become a little embarrassing.” “Please.” He begs, feeling himself beginning to sweat as he continues to clench his thighs together. “I have to…I need…oh no…” Clutching the wall, he utters a pained groan as he feels the first hot stream of piss escape into his diaper. “Uh oh.” His sister coos, making light of his shame. Meanwhile, his unexpecting audience watches in stunned silence as the eighteen-year-old man slowly loses his battle with control. His knees buckle as he continues to soak his diaper with urine, forcing it to expand massively beneath the fabric of his sweat pants. “Jesus Christ!” Comes Mrs. Peters’ shocked gasp. “Did he just…wet himself? Look at that spot on his pants!” Sure enough, he had leaked. He didn’t have to check because he could already feel it. Michelle feigns surprise, covering her mouth with her hand in an attempt to convey her embarrassment. “Oh my goodness!” She cries before shifting her attention to their guests. “Janet. Mallory. I’m so sorry you had to see that. I’m afraid my little boy isn’t fully toilet trained yet.” “I can see that.” Mrs. Peters replies, her face aghast. “My…what a mess.” “I’m afraid raising him lately has been quite the challenge.” Michelle opines, reaching over to grasp her supportive hand. “It’s been hard, keeping Connie’s little secret like this. But it’s also necessary – the diapers, I mean. The poor boy has lost all control.” Their gaze strays towards a betrayed Connor, watching as he sinks to the ground. His body is wracked with heartbroken sobs. “I told you I had to potty!” He wails, falling on his back and kicking his feet. “Mommy, I told you!” “Does he always throw tantrums like this?” The older woman asks, her lip curling in disgust as she witnesses the young man behave worse than a toddler. “Sometimes.” His stepmother confesses with a sigh. “I thought we’d gotten a handle on it. But today’s been a big one for Connie. I imagine he’s a little overstimulated, but you can be sure it will be addressed before I put him down for bed tonight. Once she feels as though he’s suffered enough, Michelle finally gives Daphne the order to take him back to his bedroom for a much needed diaper change. Unfortunately, it does little to soothe the man’s severely wounded ego. But when his sister picks him up and sets him on his feet, he doesn’t protest. Lips trembling, a soggy and defeated Connor dutifully follows her to his bedroom – otherwise known as his nursery. Decorated in a symphony of pinks and purples, it had everything one might need to care for a precious little baby. Like him. “Aww, c’mon Connie. Don’t cry.” His sister coos once she reaches his adult-sized changing table, clearly not in the mood to deal with his theatrics. “You should’ve known this was gonna happen. You haven’t been able to stay dry on your own for months.” “But I told Mommy I had to go potty.” The young man pouts. “I told her and she didn’t listen. Instead she made me go ask Deliliah.” “That’s because Mommy was busy talking to the grown-ups. Any other boy your age would’ve been able to hold it much longer than you did back there. All you did was prove what the rest of us already knew – that you’re just not ready to be an adult. Now hop up. I’ve got shit I need to do.” “No.” Comes his defiant grunt. “I can change myself.” “No, you can’t. You know the rules.” One strong hand shoots out, taking a hold of his wrist and dragging him closer. “Now, I’m going to give you one last change to climb up here before I decide to do something to really embarrass you in front of Mrs. Peters and Mallory. Is that what you want?” As upset as he was, Connor is also keenly aware that his sister isn’t joking. Diaper changes were already a humiliating affair – both his sisters and stepmother made sure of that. What with all the constant teasing and taunting as they took their time wiping him clean of whatever mess he’d made in that moment. And to make matters worse, sometimes his little soldier tended to have a mind of its own, often creating the illusion that he was enjoying his mistreatment. Still holding back tears, he finally allows Daphne to help him onto the table. Once seated, she makes quick work of removing his sweats before beginning to undo the snaps of his now damp onesie. “Woah, baby boy.” She chuckles when she finally gets a good look at his thoroughly soaked diaper, taking a moment to pat his padded crotch. “Looks like somebody did a big wee-wee, huh?” Connor feels his face go scarlett as he forces himself to look away. He couldn’t believe this was his reality right now, especially when they had company just down the hall. And to make matters worse, his sister had left his door wide open, leaving him and his soiled diaper in plain view of whoever might be walking by. “Let’s get you into a dry diaper.” Daphne murmurs, her voice containing a hint of both sweetness and mockery. “Then you’ll be all better. Well, until Mommy decides if she’s going to spank your little bum bum for throwing such a big tantrum.” She doesn’t bother trying to mask her giggle as she shoves his favorite pink pacifier between his frowning lips. Then she goes to remove his onesie, lifting it over his head before moving on to his diapered-prison. Now completely naked, he can’t help the shiver that courses through him as the cool air makes contact with his bare skin. But he knows better than to try to hide or cover himself. According to Michelle, babies didn’t concern themselves with trivial things like modesty. “And there’s Mr. PeePee.” She takes a moment to study his tiny member, which is something she did fairly often. “Still tiny I see.” She muses as she reaches for a wipe. “But I like this little purple ribbon he’s wearing. It makes him look extra cute!” The young man can’t help but flush when he feels his penis twitch of its own accord, as if enjoying the praise. “Did Mommy do that for you? Or was it Delilah?” He struggles not to jump when the cold wipe finally makes contact with his heated flesh, starting with his thighs before slowly and meticulously making its way toward his hairless balls, sitting on prominent display like two plump little peaches. “Delilah.” He whimpers through his binky, willing himself to remain flaccid as he’s forced to remember how she’d taken her time dressing up his little member with the help of one of her many colorful ribbons. In an unusual act of defiance, he’d actually balked when she’d initially tried to put it on him this morning. Then he’d made the mistake of telling her to “go fuck herself”, which in turn had sent her off to find Michelle while he was mid-change. Both women had returned moments later, with his sister sporting a knowing smirk and his Mommy wielding his new wooden paddle. “Mmm…” Daphne’s ministrations then move to his increasingly sensitive member. Pausing to grab a fresh wipe, she begins gliding it up and down his unimpressive cock. Squeezing his eyes shut, Connor is just about to beg her to go faster when he’s interrupted by the sound of someone new entering the room. “I–I’m sorry.” The quiet voice squeaks. “I guess I must’ve gotten lost on the way to the bathroom.” It was Mallory. She was here. Now. In his bedroom. Watching him while he lay on his back, naked and exposed, with his legs in the air while he finished getting his diaper changed. Oh God, this couldn’t be happening. “It’s no problem – little Connie and I are almost done.” His sister chirps. “Aren’t we, baby boy?” Connor refuses to answer, preferring to let the silence stretch between them as shame and embarrassment seep out of every pore of his scrawny body. Meanwhile, Daphne continues to absentmindedly stroke him while engaging with their new guest. “Sooo…” Mallory drags out the word as she takes a tentative step closer, allowing herself a better look at her former classmate’s predicament. “Is this why you left school, Connor? I mean, everyone was talking about how your Mom kept them from kicking you out by homeschooling you, or whatever. But I’m pretty sure nobody would believe this…” “It’s a long story.” Daphne interjects on his behalf, before expertly gripping his ankles and lifting his bottom in the air, showing off the remnants of his morning discipline. “But suffice to say that this is his new life now. In fact, it has been for months.” She gently lowers him back onto the table, making a point to splay his quivering thighs even wider than what was really necessary. “Now that his secret’s out, he can focus on what’s really important. And that’s becoming a better, more humble, version of himself.” Her long fingers go to tickle the soft skin of his belly. “Isn’t that right?” “I…should probably leave you guys to it.” “Oh, it’s okay – seriously.” His sister responds dismissively as he sucks harder on his pacifier. “Privacy is a thing of the past for this guy.” She reaches down to grab a tube of cream and gives it a hearty squeeze, using her hand to thickly coat his butt, balls, and dick with the stinky paste. “Sorry about the smell, Mal. But the last time this baby ended up with a rash he was super fussy.” “I’ll bet.” Mallory murmurs, more to herself than anyone else, as she continues to process everything she’s seeing and hearing. “So does he use his diapers all the time?” And now that they were talking about him as if he wasn’t there, Connor wanted nothing more than for a sinkhole to open up in the floor of his nursery and swallow him whole. “All day, every day.” Daphne confirms. “I’m afraid the potty is off limits to Connie until he can be trusted not to have an accident or make a mess. He never was very good at aiming.” Her tone takes a conspiratorial turn. “Or at wiping his own butt for that matter. I’m sure you can only imagine the constant state of his underwear.” “So he…uses them too? Often?” “He does. These days it seems like he’s constantly wet. But sometimes he has a little trouble going number two.” She shrugs, wiping her hands on a nearby towel. Funny enough, she and Connor were both aware that she was dragging out this whole diaper change business. But there was nothing he could do about it. “But Mom keeps a special stash of suppositories on hand which always seem to work wonders on his stubborn tummy.” Nodding in understanding, Mallory allows herself to take a few more tentative steps into the nursery. She makes note of the crib and playpen, as well as the various blocks and toys that littered the floor. Later she would be forced to admit to her diary that she had found the entire scene to be utterly fascinating. “Are you the only one who—who changes him?” “Eh, my sister and I take turns. And my Mom helps out a lot too.” Hands dry, she reaches for the baby powder, liberally applying it to his crotch and bottom. “She does most of it, actually. Mom is usually the one to feed him and bathe him and stuff. And baby Connie here is thankful for that, otherwise he gets his bottom spanked. Like he did this morning.” At long last, Daphne finally grabs a diaper and places it under him. Meanwhile, Connor continues helplessly nursing his binky, all the while willing his unruly member to stand down. But it was almost like the closer his former classmate got, the more the stupid thing insisted on waving to get her attention. All three and half inches of it. “And does that always happen?” Mallory asks, her eyes focused on his cock. “Is it normal for him to be so…excited? Sorry for all the questions, but this is all new to me. I guess I’m just trying to make sense of it all.” As if finally noticing the young man’s discomfort, she tries to offer him what she hopes comes off as a supportive smile. “Sometimes.” Daphne concedes with a shrug, barely concealing her smirk when she sees a bead of precum leak from the tip of his swollen member. Instead she gives the other girl a playful nudge with her shoulder. “It doesn’t happen as much as it used to. He’s probably trying to show off since you’re here.” She lifts the front of his diaper before proceeding to securely fasten the tapes. “Not very impressive, I know. But it comes with the territory. If it ever gets to be too much, we call in Mom for back-up and she takes care of it.” Satisfied with her answer, Mallory ventures over to Connor’s crib. She runs her fingers along the bars as she observes the various stuffed animals strewn across the mattress. Next she makes her way to what appears to be an adult-sized rocking horse, her eyes going wide when she realizes that the man on the table most likely really did play with all of these toys. Toys that were intended for babies. “Can I ask who else knows about this?” She asks as she finds her way over to his chest of drawers. There’s no malice behind her questions, no cunning. Just genuine curiosity. Throwing caution to the wind, she takes her time opening each one, and is surprised when she finds a treasure trove of onesies, plastic pants, footy pajamas, bibs, and more. Jesus Christ. If anyone else at school found out about this, Mallory was pretty confident that Connor would never be able to live this down. “You’re the first. Well, you and your Mom, I suppose.” Spinning on her heel, Mallory watches as Daphne lifts her former classmate off the table before helping him into a new shirt. But she doesn’t allow him any pants. Perhaps because she believed there to be no point. His secret was out. At least where she was concerned. “Go on and play, baby boy.” A smiling Daphne shoos him away, continuing to ignore his pathetic little sniffles. “Big sis needs to finish talking to your friend, Mallory.” Left with no other option, Conner ambles away. This time choosing to hide in the confines of his adorable little playhouse. “If no one else knows, then why are you telling me? Aren’t you the least bit concerned that I might go out and tell everyone about what I saw here today? Connor would be…a joke.” Just as Daphne is prepared to respond, someone else manages to beat her to the punch. Her eyes dart to the door as her Mother and Mrs. Peters make their way into the nursery. “I’m afraid little Connor was already a joke long before he found his way back into diapers.” Michelle interjects cooly. “Breaking the law, causing mischief, being rude and disrespectful to the female members of this household…none of that makes you a real man. So, I’ve decided to give him another chance to grow up. The right way.” She saunters over to the entrance of the colorful playhouse, before yanking open the door. Reaching inside she all but drags a squealing Connor out by his ear. “We’re going to keep him like this until we’re sure he’s learned some discipline. As well as some respect for the women both inside and outside of this house. No self-respecting girl in this town or the next is going to give this naughty baby the time of day once they learn they might end up having to change his poopy diapers.” Of course, the subject of the discussion remains quiet as he continues to nervously suckle his pacifier. Mallory can’t help but wince as she witnesses the interaction. Because even though he had the reputation as being a bit of a self-serving prick, he’d never given her a hard time. Probably because she was on the nerdy side and always agreed to help him with his science homework. He would never see her as a potential love interest – a fact she had resigned herself to a long time ago. In his eyes, she was just the help. Eventually, she hears her own mother clear her throat. “This sure is a lot to take in, Michelle. And are you sure he was part of that group of vandals who tee-peed my house last halloween?” Mrs. Peters looks down her nose at the embarrassed young man. “It took us days to clean that up. And the eggs you miscreants threw ruined the finish on my husband’s car.” “I’m afraid so.” Michelle admits, her lips morphing into a delicate frown. “However, I can assure you that that kind of delinquent behavior is a thing of the past. But while we have you both here…” She plucks the binky from Connor’s mouth. “What do you have to say to these two lovely ladies? Speak!” At first, Connor struggles to answer. And he finds it almost impossible to meet their expectant gaze. That is until he hears his stepmother ask Daphne to go fetch the hair brush. “I’–m sorry, Mrs. Peters. A–and I’m sorry to you too, Mallory. For the mess.” While he knows it’s bad form to rush an overdue apology of this nature, his competing need for self-preservation has him stumbling over his words in an effort to finish before his sister returns. “F–for the toilet paper, and the eggs. That was wrong of me, and I’m so grateful that my Mommy is teaching me how to be a better, more upstanding citizen.” He tacks on the last part, hoping that it might earn him some brownie points. Both Mother and daughter exchange cursory looks as they mull over his apology. “Well, young man…” Mrs. Peters begins after a moment. “That was very, very naughty of you. Had I known you were behind it, I would’ve marched to your door and demanded you clean it up the very next day.” Awash with shame, Connor bows his head and simply prays for the moment to be over. All of this was too much for him to handle. If anything, he’s grateful when he’s once again allowed to have his binky. “But I am glad that your Mother finally has you on the right track.” She turns her attention back to Michelle. “And as for your earlier question, I suppose I’ll have to talk it over with Mallory, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Plus, I’m pretty sure she could use the extra cash, what with summer just on the horizon.” At that particular moment, Daphne barrels her way back into the room, her manicured hands holding the dreaded hair brush. “By the looks of it, I’m guessing you won’t be needing this?” She smirks when she notices Connor’s tear-stained cheeks. “Not until after our guests leave.” Taking the brush, his stepmother makes a show of resting it on his changing table. “But what you can do is say hello to little Connie’s new babysitter.” Clapping her hands in excitement, she takes the liberty of wrapping her arms around the girl and bringing her in for a hug. “She said yes?” His sister squeals, obviously pleased with this new development. “Not yet.” Michelle releases a stunned Mallory before taking a step back to give her a little more breathing room. “But I can tell she’s thinking about it. And perhaps I should add that the pay is negotiable.” The chatter continues, swirling around Connor with such a force that would’ve easily knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t already been sitting on the floor. He just couldn’t believe that in the span of one day – in no more than a handful of hours – he’d lost what little control he’d had left over his life. And now that Mallory and her Mom knew, he was certain that it was only a matter of time before the rest of the world found out. Overwhelmed by the ferocity of his emotions, he releases a despondent wail as he begins to rapidly fill his diaper. The quiet hiss of urine causes the ladies in the room to suddenly go silent as they watch his padded crotch expand in real-time. But try as he might, he can’t stop the nervous flow. “I said it before and I’ll say it again.” Mrs. Peter’s words come on the heels of a surprised chuckle. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it.” Taking Michelle’s hand in her own, she offers a sympathetic squeeze. “Of course you have our discretion. Not that this young man deserves it – but this is obviously a very delicate matter.” Unfortunately, for a still-weeping Connor, his stepmother doesn’t appear to be moved by the other woman’s promise of privacy. “Oh, we don’t mind if people find out. That’s part of the reason we invited you.” She hauls him up to his feet before making a show of checking the back of his diaper for the disaster she was almost positive was on its way. A nervous wee-wee was nearly always followed-up by a nervous poo-poo. Another humiliating fact she had no problem sharing with the group. “Since I know Daphne just changed you, we’ll wait until you finish making stinkies before we even bother with getting you into a fresh diaper.” Looking back at his friend and her mother, she goes on to continue her earlier conversation. “Little Connie is going to need a babysitter this summer. My girls and I each have our own lives and pursuits, so we decided to enlist some help. They say it takes a village after all. Therefore, it’s only inevitable that others in the community are bound to find out.” She then proceeds to usher everyone out of the nursery in favor of returning to the living room, all the while keeping a solid grip on her stepson’s slim wrist. Patting his swollen bottom, she directs him a fresh set of blocks she had previously set in the corner. “We’ll know when he does his business.” Michelle prattles on as she and the other three women have a seat on the couch. “He usually gets on all fours, squats and grunts – it’s a whole production, really. But back to my proposal…” Mallory immediately perks up, her brilliant green eyes swimming with interest. “How soon would you need me to start?” “Ideally, as soon as possible.” His stepmother picks up her once forgotten glass of wine before taking a slow sip. “I’m well aware that these are a…” She casts another withering glance in Connor’s direction. “...shall we say, unique, set of circumstances. But what’s needed is needed. While school’s in session, I’ll need you a minimum two days a week, four hours a night. As well as every other Saturday, for six hours a night.” “That’s doable.” She adds a small slice of quiche onto her empty plate. “And the rate?” “I’m thinking $25 on weekdays and $35 on weekends. Of course…there’s always the possibility for more. I have no doubt that you’ll make a great fit.” Mallory takes a bite of her food, chewing slowly as she mulls over the offer. No matter how odd, there was no denying the fact the money was too good to ignore. At this rate, if she accepted, she’d have no problem saving up for college in the fall. Nodding to herself, she places the plate on the table before extending her hand to her brand new employer. “Alright, Michelle.” She beams, feeling grateful that she had agreed to accompany her mother this morning. “I’d say you’ve got yourself a deal.” END (PART THREE COMING SOON) Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!

This story follows a 13 year old boy from England, who’s life is about to head in a totally unexpected direction. Tommy’s Trials Chapter One - Calm before the Storm Tommy was like any other 13 year old boy in England. He went to school, played video games, loved football, and had few cares in life. The boy lived a very normal life, but all that was about to change. “Wake up Tommy, it’s time for school!” shouted Mum Groggily, the lad rubbed his eyes and threw off his covers. He pulled off his grey Pokémon pajamas, allowing them to pool on the floor, with Pikachu’s yellow figure smiling back at him. Tommy loved Pokémon, even if the other kids thought it was too babyish now. He grabbed his grey school shorts, white shirt, clip on tie, black blazer, and prepared to put on his regular ensemble. It was the first day back at Riverside High School, and the summer break was over. The boy had so much fun, and now was the return the monotony of secondary school. “I made you boys some toast” said mum, as Tommy walked into the kitchen. “Thanks mummy!” squealed Tommy’s little brother Riley. The 7 year old boy was always full of energy, despite the fact it was 8am. The boys ate breakfast and prepared to leave, their emotions greatly contrasting each other. “Let’s go Riley, we’re gonna be late” exclaimed Tommy, grabbing his little brother’s hand. So they set off, with their first stop being Riverside Primary for Riley. Tommy was a good big brother & walked his annoying sibling to school every day. They arrived at Riley’s school, just a five minute walk away from Tommy’s. The boys hugged and said goodbye, but not before the supervising teacher stumbled upon them. She was new, the boys had never seen her before. “Okay boys, come on, school starts soon, get yourselves inside” said Miss Lisa, ushering them inside the great gates. Tommy instantly realised what was happening. The uniforms were similar and his secondary school blazer was in his bag, the teacher had mistaken him for a primary school kid. Tommy was small for his age, often mistaken for much younger than he was. The two brothers were similar in size, and many adults believed them to be twins at first glance. “I don’t go to this school” Tommy glumly replied, “I’m in high school”. “Oh I’m so sorry, I thought you were another one of our boys” apologised Miss Lisa. “Apology not accepted” thought Tommy, he was sick of being mistaken for a little kid, wondering when he would finally have a growth spurt. So Riley marched in excitedly, and Tommy left for Riverside High. His eyes set on the familiar ancient blue gates, a lighthouse guiding the way for ships of tired sailors in the dark morning. He mentally prepared himself for the first day of school, unknowing of the crashing waves which were about to sink his life into a totally different direction.

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

“Ossccaarrrr,” Mommy's gentle voice called out from the driver seat of the car, but Oscar didn't hear her. His mind was too occupied, too focused on the variety of stimuli sources at his disposal as his mouth remained eagerly fixated on his favorite binky. His hands gently caressed the soft, plush fur of his oversized Teddy who he held gently in his arms as he watched some Youtube on the iPad that hung from the seat in front of him. His oversized, adult car seat provided ample comfort, holding his nearly empty sippy cup in one of its cupholders, as well as a scattered variety fidget toys at his disposal in its various remaining pockets. The heavily tinted windows, and addition of a screen to block out the sun, gave him all the peace of mind he needed to ensure that no one could see in, ultimately creating one of his favorite spots to indulge in himself. “Oscar, sweetie,” Her voice called out again, this time nearly catching his attention as he gently pushed his Teddy into the soft cotton padding of his training pants continuously. “Oscar, baby!” She finally called out, much louder as he reached up to pause his video. “‘es Mommy?” He asked from behind his pacifier, further pushing his Teddy against his privates before refocusing his attention on grabbing his sippy cup. “We're almost home baby, can you help Mommy by getting your pants on?” He let the pacifier fall from his mouth and into his lap, lifting the remaining contents of the sippy cup to his mouth as he nodded, using his free hand to reach for the sweat pants he'd tossed to the side. Long car rides had become a norm for them, of which Oscar almost always removed his pants. Oftentimes he’d even remove his shirt as he enjoyed the feeling of being free, keeping just his training pants on as he'd let himself unwind. Their small town certainly had the essentials, but Mommy often liked to go on bigger shopping trips, or spend time in the suburbs that offered much more exciting things to do. But Oscar never minded. “Thank you, sweetie,” She said in her baby voice, watching him from the rear view as he placed the pacifier back in his mouth before starting to pull his feet through the leg holes of his sweatpants. “Mommy was thinking of inviting Mr. Addison over tonight too,” She asked, a slight tinge of hesitation in her voice as she turned down the main street into their neighborhood. “Is that okay?” Oscar nodded, having already expected as much as he’d been spending more and more time with him and Mommy. Mr. Addison had lived just down the street and divorced several years back. He'd hit it off with Mommy not long after and embraced their unique lifestyle, a plus for Mommy that helped to immensely balance out the give and take aspect of their relationship which Oscar had admittedly taken advantage of early on. “I was thinking he might even spend the weekend?” She asked hopefully, looking back at Oscar through the rear view as he non discretely started to rub against his Teddy again. “Okay, Mommy,” He said, pulling his iPad off the back of the seat as he tried to help gather a few of his things as she pulled into the driveway. “You got everything?” Mommy asked, turning back in the seat to look at him. “Uhh- no, heh,” He said, struggling to get everything into his arms having yet to even unbuckle himself. “Here,” She said, holding out her purse as she held it open. “Dump your toys and stuff in here,” Oscar did as he was told, putting his smaller items in her purse leaving him with just his Teddy and iPad as he undid the buckle. “Take those inside, but then come help Mommy with the groceries,” She said, hitting the button to open his door. Oscar scrambled out of his seat, lugging his oversized Teddy with him as he quickly made his way inside the house to drop them off, quickly followed by Mommy and her radiant smile. “Teddy will be just fine on his own for a few minutes,” She teased as Oscar hesitantly set him down. He smiled, giving a light jog back towards the car as he scooped up as any bags on his arms as he could carry before stumbling back to the house. “Wow,” Mommy cooed. “Such a strong boy for Mommy!” He smiled, beaming with pride as he set the bags on the counter, completely caught off guard as Mr. Addison entered through the door behind them. “Guess whos here!” He called out. “Ah! Hey Hun!” She said, running to his side to greet him with a big kiss. “Hi, Daddy,” Oscar said with a smile of his own, a name he'd only started calling Mr. Addison in the past few weeks. “Did you have a fun trip?” He asked in a childish voice, coming over to give Oscar a big hug. Oscar nodded, embracing the hug as Mr. Addison gave him a tight squeeze before Oscar let go and quickling returned to his Teddy’s side. “I gotta poddy,” Oscar said, a little red in the face as he retrieved his binky. “Yea? Do you want to use the big boy potty?” Mr. Addison asked in a coddling voice, reaching for Oscar's hand as he held his Teddy in the other. Oscar shook his head. “Alright, buddy. You wait right here,” Mr. Addison said, giving a playful head shake to Mommy as Oscar twirled back and forth. “What do you want for dinner, sweetie?” Mommy asked from the kitchen, putting the last of the bags away as she opened the freezer. “Mommy and Daddy are gonna catch a movie tonight, so it's going to be an early bedtime for you,” “Wha’!” Oscar pouted, looking towards his Mommy. “I know, sweetie. That's why you get to have whatever you want for dinner,” She said. A smile slipped through Oscar's face, knowing he'd always ask for his usual but still liked that she’d ask anyways. “Alright, buddy,” Mr. Addison said, returning with a training potty that he set in the middle of the room. “But no Teddy during potty time,” He said, holding out his hand. “Bu’,” Oscar started to protest. “Nuh uh, you know the rules,” Mr Addison quickly shot back, still holding out his hand. “What are they?” “No ‘oys on da poddy,” Oscar responded quietly, reluctantly giving up his Teddy before pulling his pants down and off as he tossed them to the side before doing the same with his shirt. “Except for that cute little binky,” Daddy said, giving his nose a playful wiggle as he smiled. “Also, what is it with his hate for clothes?” Mr. Addison asked teasingly. “Do you want your usual, baby?” Mommy asked, already pulling the dino nuggets out of the freezer before reaching for a box of Mac and cheese. “Yes, pwease!” Oscar shouted, dropping his training pants as he sat on his toilet, his nicely groomed privates on display for both Mommy and Daddy. “Mr. Teddy will be right here when you're done,” Mr. Addison said, gently resting his Teddy on one of the bar stools facing Oscar. “Dank you, Daddy,” Oscar said, his bladder releasing into the training toilet as the audible stream echoed through the room. “Shouldn't you feed him something a little healthier?” Mr. Addison teased, wrapping his arms around Mommy from behind as she arranged the dino nuggets on a baking tray. “Well the day you want to tell him he has to eat his vegetables and go to bed early is the day we can start that,” She said, turning around as they started to kiss. Oscar watched from across the room as Mr. Addison quickly made a romantic moment out of thin air, something he'd always struggled to do. Though something he was good at was ruining it as he let a loud fart loose, echoing in his potty as the squelching sound of his primary business flooded the room as he made his poopies in the potty. “Still happy he calls you Daddy?” Mommy asked with a smirk, watching him realize the source of the sound. “Trade you potty duty for bedtime duty,” He smirked, knowing his odds were slim. “Not a chance,” She said, bopping him on the nose before turning to slide the nuggets into the oven. “There's some wipes in my purse,” “Alright, bud. Ready to wipe?” Mr. Addison asked, opening up the pack of baby wipes as he held them out for Oscar to reach. Oscar grabbed one, running the cool wipe across his butt before dropping it into the potty. “Oh no, get in there, Mr,” Mommy called from across the room. “Last time you left the wiping to him he had a big old skid mark on his undies,” “The boys gotta learn,” He teased. “Then show him how,” Mommy retorted. He reluctantly grabbed another wipe, tracing it down Oscar's crack, giving a good few circles around Oscar's laxed hole as he playfully teased him before a second pass. Mr. Addison had certainly entered their lives for Mommy, but had taken an unexpected interest in Oscar after a few months of the relationship. Though Oscar was certainly his second choice, usually only paying special attention to him when Mommy wasn't in the mood or was on her period. “Danks, Daddy,” Oscar said cutely, willing to make Mr. Addison's simple fantasies of oral come true, though they had pushed thei relationship a little further in recent months. He quickly got up, pulling his dino training pants back up as he ran to his Teddy, grabbing him off the bar stool before running towards the stairs. “Dinners in 15!” Mommy called out as his butt disappeared up the stairs. She shook her head, always in disbelief with how much energy he managed to retain throughout the day as she looked at Mr. Addison with a smile. “What time’s our reservation?” “6:30,” Mr. Addison said, returning to her side as he kissed her on the neck. “Wow, we're really giving him an early bedtime,” Mommy chuckled, embracing his further advancing kisses as he worked his way down her neck. “Good thing I'm not on the bedtime routine,” Mr. Addison teased as the oven's timer went off. “Speaking of your duties,” She joked, turning around to give him a peck on the lips before gesturing towards the potty. Oscar remained upstairs, a space that had been almost entirely transformed into his. The two bedrooms upstairs exited into a den or sorts, which had been stocked with a TV and various game consoles on top of a large media cabinet that housed his bins of toys. Two large bean bags sat propped on the floor next to his Lego table where a massive city project grew bigger by the month. His bedroom resembled that of a toddlers, the light blue walls decorated with a series of clouds and rolling hills. His twin sized bed had rails on all sides, not tall enough to trap any actual adult but tall enough to help sell the illusion as piles of stuffed animals and loose toy cars covered the ground. Colorful art prints of cute animals covered the walls with the occasional drawing or two of his that Mommy insisted on hanging on his walls as a way to further embarrass him. A small shelf in the corner contained a loose stack of diapers, of which he'd been able to avoid for months now. The second room on the other hand was still mostly just storage, the junk room in the house where things without a place wound up as Oscar tried to dream up the perfect use for the space. “Oscar!” Mommy called up the stairs as he sat in one of the beanbags, his attention fully focused on his game he'd been watching videos on the whole car ride home, his pacifier very much in place as his Teddy provided a place to rest his hands. “Oscar! Dinner!” Mr. Addison shouted, catching Oscars attention as he paused his game, picking up his Teddy as he ran back down the stairs. “I'll take that,” Mr. Addison said, quickly taking the loosely held Teddy as Oscar jumped up into his seat. “Uhuh- hold on buddy,” Mommy said, pulling the plastic plate with small dividers to separate his nuggets, Mac and cheese and BBQ dipping sauce. “Where's your shirt?” “Uh- I don't know,” He said, pulling his pacifier out as he set it on the counter giving a half hearted attempt to look around. She sighed, smiling as she opened one of the drawers to pull out one of his baby bibs. “I don't need that!” He protested. “Yes, you do,” She insisted, circling the island to secure it around his neck. “We're not gonna have time for a bath tonight so I can't have you making yourself all sticky!” He pouted, leaning over the counter to grab his plate as he pulled it closer. “What do you want to drink, sweetie?” Mommy asked, grabbing a sippy cup from the cabinet as she opened the fridge. “Milkies, pwease,” He said, diving one of his nuggets into the BBQ sauce as he devoured it. “What movie are you guys seeing?” “I’m not sure,” Mommy said. “Daddy said it's a surprise,” Mr. Addison gave her a playful wink, holding Oscar’s Teddy over the counter, playfully rubbing his crotch against it from behind to signal his plans for Mommy. “Oh stop it,” She said flustered, sliding the sippy cup of milk to Oscar who shared a smile, knowing that his plans were very much the same for his Teddy. He scarfed down his food as they made their way in and out of the master bedroom in their attempt to get ready. “All done!” Oscar announced, getting up to grab his Teddy. “Good job, sweetie,” Mommy said. “Can you brush your teeth for Mommy?” “I haven't finished my milk,” He said, gesturing towards the still mostly full sippy cup. “That's fine, sweetie. You can take it upstairs with you,” She said. “Come brush your teeth in Mommys bathroom,” Oscar scuttled after her, passing Mr. Addison who was busy tying his tie, his nicely fit suit catching Oscar’s attention as he passed. “Think you can handle it from here?” Mommy asked as Oscar reached for his toothbrush on the counter. “Mhmm,” He said proudly, opening the drawer to pull out his childish toothpaste as he squeezed a generous amount onto the head of the brush. He quickly brushed, listening to Mommy and Daddy’s slight giggles in the room as he waited for the built in timer on his electric toothbrush to turn off, signaling he’d done enough. “Almost done, bud?” Mr. Addison asked, suddenly appearing in his full suit as Oscar found himself in slight awe. “Uhh-” He let out, feeling as though the timer should have been up as he clicked the brush off himself, spitting into the sink as he turned the water on. “Uh huh,” Mr. Addison smirked, ruffling his hair as Oscar leaned over the sink to wash his mouth out. “I’ll let that slide this time,” He chuckled. “Are you ready for bed then?” Oscar nodded, wiping his mouth as he looked back at Mr. Addison, feeling a sense of emotion that usually only Mommy had triggered. He’d never been explicitly gay or bi in any way, though he’d realized he wasn’t straight early on, just never bothered to put a label on exactly what it was. “Right,” Mommy said, stepping into the bathroom as Oscar stared dumbfoundingly at Daddy. “Just got to put this one-” She stopped, looking at Daddy who couldn’t help but puff out his chest as she smiled. “This one to bed,” She continued, her smile growing as she reached for Oscar’s hand. Oscar complied, following after Mommy as he turned to look back at Daddy as they darted around the corner, quickly making their way up to his bedroom. She pulled the covers over him, tightly tucking him in though she knew he’d quickly throw the sheets all about. “I love you, sweetie,” She said softly, leaning in to give him a kiss on the forehead. “I love you,” Oscar said clutching his Teddy tightly. She smiled, getting up as she dimmed the lights to his room, exposing the glowing stars on the ceiling as she gently closed the door. Oscar tossed about, loosening the covers as he reached for his iPad on the nightstand, propping it against a pillow as he opened up Youtube and settled in. The time passed quickly, eventually striking 8pm as his iPad went black, returning to the lockscreen as the parental controls set in indicating his usual bedtime. He tossed the iPad to the side, its durable case taking the brunt of it as it tumbled to the floor, though not his intent. Admittedly, he enjoyed nights with an early bedtime more and more as they were Mommy and Daddy's way of turning a blind eye, letting him play with himself and explore his own interests further without any repercussions. He rolled over, readjusting his Teddy as he began to rub his pee pee with his free hand, running small circles from the outside his soft cotton training pants, quickly replacing it with that of his Teddy’s. He slipped the soft, plush arm deeper inside his panties as he rubbed his stiffening member knowing that he'd be fast asleep in a pair of crusty training pants in no time. Did you enjoy the story? Consider supporting my work over on SubscribeStar! Or be sure to let me know what you thought by interacting with the post!

Warning As with my previous stories, this one contains several elements inherent to the pre-established 'Diaper Dimension.' These include, but are not limited to: Diapers and their usage for their intended purpose Non-consensual mental regression through various means (Including possible drugs, hypnosis, and/or surgery) References to surgery to achieve various nefarious goals Humiliation Supernatural elements Witchcraft and spirtualism Female domination Babying of adults (perceived or otherwise) Mild language or use of explitives Depictions of death (or the beyond), illness, or handicaps Graphic imagery associated with any of these warnings Depictions of non-consent and other forced actions of a sexual or other type of encounters This story has not been labeled as mature, due to a lack of specific references to anything overtly sexual, but this warning serves as a 'turn back' point for any readers who do not wish to read about the previous warnings. Lastly, this list is subject to change during the course of writing this story. While most of the plot is ironed out, more warnings may be added if needed. Hey everyone! Welcome back. I know it’s only been a short time away, but I’m definitely excited for this story. I just fleshed out a lot more of it yesterday and today and I think I can weave a lot of fun into this one… which I guess is kind of the point with this story. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my last one and I’m glad I wrote it… but there was a lot of dark in there. Fun to write about sometimes, but it wears on the soul just a smidge after a while. Currently, the chapter count for this story stands at 16, so it’s also going to be a shorter one for sure as compared to my last few. I might flesh a few of them out, but with the way I designed it, it definitely won’t be the almost 30 that my last story was. Speaking of the future, as usual, the poll will be going up next chapter. Also, I’m going to still try and stick with my three chapters a week. This week will be a little off with another one like posted both Sunday and Monday (for a total of four). So, with that in mind, this story might only go until the end of November or the beginning of December. Some things are potentially on the horizon for me and could severely pinch my time though. If that happens, I’ll let you know, but this story should absolutely be completed before the end of the year. Thinking beyond that, I’ll talk more about that later when I know a few more details about my own life but expect there definitely to be a gap between this story and my next one. Last but not least and as usual, I hope everyone enjoys this first chapter of my next story! Chapter 1: A Flickering and A Warmth The lights flicker all around. The air gets chilly and I pull up my fleece jacket to keep warm, my hands needing to stay still as I look into the dark hole before me. “Babe. Come on!” Frankie, my fiancé, pleads with me. “I’m freezing here! It’s March in Philly. I really shouldn’t be seeing my breath in my own house at this point. We live in the historic district sure, but… I don’t need that in my life at this point.” “Yeah, yeah… I hear you.” I switch on my flashlight to look inside the nook of the electrical panel, highlighting several spooky cobwebs in the process. “I think there’s some old and faulty wiring back here. Probably messing with the heating and the lights.” The lights above me flicker incessantly and I need to shake my flashlight periodically to keep it lit so I can actually see what I’m doing as I search for the problem and dust away the cobwebs. “You know… the whole historical thing you just had to have? Kind of a downside to it as well…” Frankie glares at me but then smiles in her typical scheming way that makes me go a little weak at the knees still. “Well… when we bought this place together, I thought I had a big strong handyman to fix all my needs. Guess I was wrong, huh? Shame too…” She pouts jokingly. I roll my eyes. “That’s not going to work on me… today,” I admit, knowing full-well how often her gorgeous and doe-like eyes have brought me low and turned me around on practically anything she wanted within reason. There’s a reason our bedroom has accent pillows… and that idea wasn’t from me. “No?” she questions slyly, slinking up to me while biting her lip. I feel myself giving way a little bit in light of her advance towards me. I know her scheme, but I also know that if she really wants, I’m just about powerless to stop her. “No…” I can already hear the little trepidation and breakdown of my former willpower in my voice. From her smile, Frankie hears it too. “Well… maybe you need some…” Her hands deftly trace over my body. “Incentive?” I nearly let out a little yelp as her graceful fingers send a shiver up my spine… definitely not helped by the colder temperatures inside. I shake my head though. “Yes… incentive.” I try to focus ahead, but Frankie doesn’t let up her little touches. “Frankie… I… I…” I think of spiders… zombies… pink bunnies… anything to keep me focused and off my fiancés increasing closeness and light but prominent touch over my body. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” she asks playfully, her knowing smile showing me just how much she knows this is affecting me and just how much she loves that. “Can’t concentrate?” I shake my head, trying desperately to focus on fixing the wiring. Finally, though, I find the problem. “Ah! Here it is!” I break free of Frankie and rush over to turn the power completely off. Everything goes dark and I hear a little creak from upstairs. “Babe!” Frankie calls out. “Warn me before you do that next time. You know how I am with this place in the dark!” I roll my eyes out of her sight, but she knows my feelings on why. “For the last time, Frankie… there’s no one else in this house. It just… creaks and groans is all. No boogeyman… no demons… no ghosts,” I note confidently coming back over to her to fix the wiring issue I found. She glares at me. “It’s a historical house, Liam,” she says, using my first name… never a good sign with her. “There are other things out there… more than from what we can see.” I shine the light and reach in with the circuit checker to ensure the power is actually off. “Right…” Frankie scoffs. “Well, fine. Be that way. But… you know Brandon and Carmen both agree with me as well,” she points out. “Both of them said they felt something in this place the last time they were here. And you heard the stories and…” I yank out the frayed wire with a grunt, cutting her off and sigh as I reach into my toolbox and pluck out another wire and the tools to reattach the circuit. “Okay… well, yeah. But Carmen thinks her vacuum cleaner is haunted and Brandon…” “Your college ‘brother from another mother?’ That one?” she questions, her annoyance over my disbelief and the fact that I always used to introduce him that way to her very clear now. I smirk and nod. “That’s right. But you know him…” I go in and reattach the wire, twisting the bits around and completing the circuit before backing out. “Ever since you and I introduced him to Carmen. Well… you know…” She doesn’t respond and I can’t tell if Frankie is playing dumb or she really doesn’t see it. Knowing her though, she’s probably just waiting for me to say it. So, I sigh. “He’s got a thing for her, babe.” Her knowing smile confirms my suspicions. “And that’s fine. He just… his opinion tends to agree with whatever she thinks.” Frankie’s smile fades and she sighs as well. “Yeah… I’ve seen that too. I just…” She shakes her head. “Never mind… just, are you going to give us power today… or do I need to start biking a turbine or something to turn on the TV instead?” I smile at her sarcasm and go back over to the electrical panel. “Alright… here we go!” I wince and flick on the main power switch. Humming to life, the house switches back on… this time without a flicker and an almost instant wave of heat from the vents. “Ah…” Frankie smiles like she does whenever she comes home and plops on the couch with a good book. “That’s more like it…” She luxuriates in the warmth for another moment and admires the flowers on the table she arranged for work before turning back towards me. “Thank you, sweetie. That’s much better. But…” She doesn’t have to say anymore, and I look at my watch. “Yeah… yep! Gotta change now to make our dinner reservation.” I nearly turn away to head upstairs to change but pause and then turn back towards Frankie. “Right?” I ask to confirm my guess. She chuckles a little at that before nodding her head. “That’s right. Can’t have you running around in that ratty old flannel to the best new pub in town!” She pauses for a second. “Oh! And while you’re up there, can you move the box of your old stuff from when you were a kid into the guest bedroom. You really need to sort that stuff out before it starts collecting dust!” I smile and nod with her request before heading up the stairs to change and now move the box. Before I’m completely out of view though, I turn back to look at my fiancé still at the bottom. “You know… it’s tough stuff from back then. Basically, my whole childhood. And it could be worth a mint someday, so…!” Looking back down the stairs that maybe she will budge on me getting rid of something, I just see an unamused Frankie with her hands on her hips and a skeptical look plastered all over her face. “Right… right. I got it. I’ll move it now and I promise to look through it tomorrow.” She says something else, this time with an amused smile, but this time it’s almost under her breath and by the time I see it, I’m more focused on getting ready. Knowing Frankie, finishing the task and then getting to the restaurant on time is more important than an acknowledgement of whatever she just said. Still, fifteen minutes later, I’m shaved, dressed, and I’ve made sure my hair is all nice and styled. Frankie appreciates those little details, and considering that tonight we’re going to be discussing wedding plans at dinner as well… I know she’s going to want to focus on them… rather than a potential missed spot when I was shaving. “Ready?” I ask, getting to the bottom step and seeing Frankie waiting by the door. She turns toward me and smiles wide. “Oh…” She gets a little flustered when I actually put effort into my appearance. She has her tricks and I have mine. “Yes! Yes. I…” She takes a breath and grabs the keys quickly. “Come on!” She barely turns back to see if I’m following her. ‘Oh, classic Frankie. Move onto the next thing to avoid the embarrassment of the now…’ I smirk and make sure to lock the door. Before I do though, I groan a little as I see another little flicker of the overhead light in the main hallway. I then also smell something sweet and oddly familiar, but something I can’t place either. ‘I wonder if Frankie’s using a new floral spray or something?’ For now, I decide not to ask Frankie it or tell her about the still fluctuating power… Ten minutes later, we’re heading out of the historical part of the city and the radio switches to a commercial I hadn’t heard before. “Scared? Intrigued? Just wanting to know more about the underground scene or what lurks beyond the covers and into the dark? Join us tonight to discuss this very matter. Releasing her book, ‘Understanding Your Kink,’ join Dr. Lauren Hutchinson and I tonight as we dive headfirst into...” I click the radio off and shake my head, being sure to pay attention to the street signs ahead for where we’re going. I then shift in my seat for a moment, trying to find the right spot to sit for the drive. “Geesh… almost feels weird to be driving, you know?” Frankie nods. “Yeah. Ever since we moved into the heart of the city, I can barely remember the last time I drove anywhere. Can walk to work and the grocery store…” “And Brandon and Carmen live so close…” I point out as well. “Seat kind of feels lumpy now.” I shift around uncomfortably as we cross the bridge to get on the main road up to where we need to go. “Probably just your imagination…” Frankie muses. “But babe… pay attention. You know this road can get a little tricky at these speeds at night.” I nod back and focus through my distance glasses for the exit I need to take. Most of the time I-76 is pretty choked with traffic, but tonight with the sun already set and a fog setting in, I think most people are avoiding it. “Pretty grim out here,” I note, keeping my eyes on the increasingly blurry road ahead. “Just pay attention and we’ll get there soon. It’s not too much farther north after the zoo,” she notes, her brain likely already calculating the exact moment we need to exit over to make our reservation on time. “But maybe turn on your high beams or something. I can barely see the road ahead or who’s in front of us…” I nod and look down for a second to flick them on. I find the switch, having to reach my hand under the wheel a little and then look up... Right at a swerving car. “Babe look out!” Frankie screams, quickly trying to shield her face from whatever might happen next as she peaks through her fingers in utter terror. Seeing the car at the last minute, I try to swerve as well to avoid the now out of control vehicle in front of us… but his speed and ours are too much. Horrifically, I can tell that it’s too late. We’re both going too fast on the curve of the road to avoid each other. He spins right into the front of my car… spinning us away and right into a nearby traffic sign, right side first. Glass shatters and metal bends and snaps. I feel the weight of the world shove against my side and the pain as my right arm slams into the middle console between the seats. Airbags deploy right on impact and quickly deflate as smoke and the fog settle around us and twist around my broken vehicle. The world bleary already, I look around with squinted eyes to survey the damage. I know I’m not supposed to after an accident, and it even hurts a little… but I turn to my right to see the one thing that really matters to me. “Frankie?” No answer except the faint sound of a little dripping. “Frankie!” I shout, a little more panic in my voice now… but still no answer… no movement. * * * The phone rings once… a second time… and even a third. I ignore it each time, laying out on my couch, the curtains drawn close and the house quiet except for the creak of the frame as the wind rattles it from the outside… the Fall season definitely approaching. The machine in the other room beeps. “Hey bro… it’s me, but I guess you probably already know that…” Brandon says with a sigh from his phone. “Listen… I know being roommates in college and all, a lot of the times that means being each other’s wingman or helping hide the booze our freshman year or celebrating a new job or whatever… but we’ve been through a lot together. Being my ‘brother from another mother’ and all… well, it also means that we’re here for each other in the tough times as well. Frankie… well, I know how much she means to you still. So, uh… yeah. Just give me a call, okay? Stay tough, bro.” The machine clicks off. I roll over on the couch and momentarily wince over my still sore wrist. I came away from the crash with a pin in my wrist still, and Frankie… I shake my head trying desperately to clear those thoughts. ‘No need to start crying again, Liam…’ I sigh and pick up the picture frame with the photo of Frankie in it I took almost a year ago now at a local Fall festival. She was so happy that day… we were so happy. Now… The phone rings once… a second time… and a third yet again. I still ignore it and let it go to the machine. ‘Come on, Brandon… Take the hint. You’re a friend… the best one I have, but… I just want to be left alone…’ I sigh and await the oncoming message trying to get me to leave the house once again… only it’s not from Brandon this time. The machine beeps. “Liam… pick up the phone. Pick up the phone.” There’s a heavy sigh at the other end of the line, and I can already hear the disappointment in Carmen’s voice. “I feel that you’re there and listening to me, Liam, but… please call me back no matter what. Just… whenever you get this and hear me out… please call me. It’s been six months since the funeral. I know you miss her so badly, but I miss her too. Our little flower shop… it just doesn’t feel the same without her by my side anymore…” I know full-well that they were very close before I came into the picture. She’s my friend as well, but she was always closer to Frankie like I was closer to Brandon than she was. I still thanked Carmen for the lasagnas she gave me after the funeral, but… since then, I just kind of want to forget everything… “Please call me, Liam. I… I miss you. I miss her! Just… please call me back. I’m worried about you. Brandon’s worried about you. We don’t even have to do anything fun if you don’t want to. Just see each other to talk, okay?” I hear her desperation, and I do feel a little bad for her. In one stupid accident on the road, she lost her business partner and closest friend… but I just can’t bring myself to move from my spot and answer her. “Alright, Liam. I understand. Just call me back when you can. Please…” The machine clicks off. I look deep into the photo of Frankie. She was so happy that day. I almost gave the photo to her parents when they came around to pick up some of her stuff. I gave them almost everything else I had of hers. It just didn’t feel right to keep it all. They were family… they were her parents. Now though, I just have the frame and a few of the things that I gave her and that her parents insisted on me keeping. Barely a whisper of memory now in this empty house… “Frankie…” I paw at the front of the photo and feel the tears come once again. I’m tired of tears, and I swear I would have run out by now… but my sadness just never seems to end whenever I think about her too much in one stretch. Lately though, that just feels like it’s all the time. But for Frankie, I keep pushing on. I still do my job. I still feed myself. Frankie would want that for me at least… but everything else? I just can’t find it in myself to celebrate. The last time I tried… really tried I mean… Fourth of July. Brandon and Carmen were supportive that night, but I just couldn’t move on without thinking of Frankie. How she loved the bar we all went to. How her hand felt in mine when we watched the fireworks the year before. Or the smell of hotdogs… something she always gagged at before guzzling down two in a second. All her little quirks and things that made her who she was… who I still love, even the boom and sparkle of the fireworks overhead couldn’t distract me enough from that… I sigh at those little odd and yet wonderful memories and look back at her photo. “I miss you Frankie… if only I could see you… one last time… I… I could really use someone to talk to like you. Someone with an open mind and who won’t judge me and…” Suddenly, what feels like an electric shock runs through my body. My hair stands up on my neck, and I almost get the sensation like I’m being lifted off the couch for a second before I feel an incredible warmth envelops me. Not hot like a sunny day at the beach, but like the rays of sunlight that filter through your window on a Sunday afternoon or a snuggly blanket. I can’t help but smile and lower the picture frame still in my hand for a second. ‘Oh… maybe it’s a sign from the universe or…’ Raising my head, right in front of me is a translucent blue figure… and there’s just no other word for it: a ghost. “Holy…!” I bolt up and clutch the picture in front of me like a shield against an evil monster. ‘But it can’t be a ghost, right? Ghosts aren’t real… are they?’ I chatter at the floating figure seemingly staring back at me. I should be running for the hills or the police… but I stay stuck to my seat, trying to breathe normally in the presence of this figure. I half expect it to turn into some rotting corpse or to shout ‘Boo!’. Instead of any of that or turning into some ghoul or trying to scream and frighten me away though, the pale and see-through figure only hovers before me for a moment like a leaf on the wind. Oddly, once my mind calms down enough for rational though, beyond my initial shock, I realize now that I only feel peace. I should be terrified of this thing… this spirit now hovering in front of me. It shouldn’t exist and if it should, then I should be running for my life or to call the ghostbusters or for an exorcist on the spot without any delay… but I don’t do any of that. The figure, mostly just an outline and rough shapes of a body, then reaches out towards me. As I look down, I see the spectral hand come close to the picture I’m clutching. “Wait… is there something you want from me? Maybe a message from Frankie… or maybe you’re Frankie herself?” I ask, almost as a joke, referring to the photo in the frame. To my surprise, the spectral figure bobs along… almost as if nodding. Intrigued about this sudden turn, everything in my head that I previously thought… all my denial and skepticism, suddenly seems so foolish in the midst of this literal proof of life beyond death. As I look ahead at the ghostly presence, the doubt I once had of the beyond quickly vanishes in a flash. ‘If I’m to believe in ghosts… then… could this… I mean, could this really be Frankie? They nodded when I said her name. So… is it…? Could it really be my Frankie?’ The thought feels like a fool’s hope… but I haven’t had a scrap of any kind of hope since I last saw Frankie in the car that one fateful night, and even this little bit right now is enough to drive butterflies into my belly in a feeling I needed lately. So, shakily, and admittedly hoping beyond measure, I stand up and reach out to the figure. “F… Frankie… is that you?” Just as I’m about to make contact with the entity who just seemingly nodded at the picture of my dead fiancé, they vanish. “No!” I try to reach out, as if I could cling tight to them and hold them close once again forever… but they’re gone completely before I can even twirl a figure around any part of their being. Seconds later, the warm feeling I had vanishes as well. “Frankie…” My fool’s hope sits sourly in my stomach for a moment. The potential of seeing and holding my fiancé again… just to see my Frankie again, just feels like too much… But I then I realize one critical thing and I nearly jump at the notion. “Holy shit! They vanished, but… ghosts! Ghosts exist! Frankie was here! Right here! I… I…” I feel lightheaded from the mere possibilities of what I just witnessed. A ghost! I just saw a real life ghost! ‘This could change everything about what we know and who we are and what lies beyond and…!’ My mind reels with the possibilities of the single but hugely impactful moment I was just apart of. I nearly hop up and down and do a little dance at the very notion. But as I look around my room at the heaps of junk and dust and liquor bottles piled in the sink, I realize a critical fact: if I’m going to be telling anyone about this, I might not be the most reliable resource at the moment. Doubt begins to snake around my mind wickedly. It’s a negative quality that Frankie always tried to help me with. In this case though, it only makes me more cautious at telling anyone… at least until I clean my place up a little bit and confirm that what I saw wasn’t just some figment of my imagination. And so, in a single moment of clarity, my eyes dash to my phone to exercise that caution. Running over, I pick it up and think of the first person to get over here and check if I’ve lost my marbles or not. “Carmen? Yes, yes. Listen… can you come over?” “Liam? Is that you? I…” She pauses. “You know I can come over but… does it really need to be now? Today?” I look back at the spot where I just saw the spectral form of Frankie… or at least I hope I did and then over to the clock, fully realizing the lateness of my call. A little more doubt fills me up, but remembering back to what I just witnessed, I steel my guts and stick to my request from my friend. “Yes, Carmen… today.” Two hours later, I hear the knock at my door that my heart has been beating for since I last laid down my phone and invited Brandon over as well, the group skeptic seemingly a good choice to evaluate what happened to me. Gathering my strength, shaving, cleaning, and just zoning myself in, everything is ready. As I open the door, I just hope I don’t make a complete fool of myself. “Hey you two!” I greet my two friends cheerily. “Hey… bud,” Brandon says nervously as he enters the house first, quickly looking around as if I’m about to prank or murder him on the spot. “Hey… Liam,” Carmen says, looking just as concerned as Brandon still is. “I was kind of surprised to get your message.” She steps in but in typical Carmen fashion, nearly snaps back to me as I close the door. “Pleasantly surprised that is! I just…” She pauses and looks around the house as well… almost like a parent visiting their kid and making sure that everything is okay. “Well… you weren’t answering either of our messages and… well, we were… are kind of worried about you…” I wince a little at the worry I know I caused them. “Yeah… sorry about that. I just… well, you know…” “Yeah, man,” Brandon says quickly wrapping his arm around me. “We do. Which is why we want to take you out drinking tonight. Our treat, okay? Get out of this place and maybe clear your hea…” “Okay, okay. I accept!” I say exasperatedly. A drink actually does sound pretty nice, especially after what I just saw today… but I need to show my friends about it first. I need to make sure that my brain isn’t going completely nuts or whatever. Either way… a drink would be good if I was, or if I really did see what I saw… a drink is definitely going to be needed. “We can absolutely do that,” I confirm before taking a breath, “but I need you all to see something first. Or not!” I wince and shrink back a little, guiding them into the family room where I saw the ghost of Frankie before. “I… well…” I hate how badly I’m stumbling at my words, but I know I just need to push through my nerves and just get it out there. “I think I saw Frankie’s ghost!” There’s dead silence for a moment as both my friends just stare at me with a mixed look of confusion and concern. I sigh. “Yeah, yeah… look, I know how it sounds…” Carmen winces and seems to be trying to go for a diplomatic approach to her words. “I mean… what do you… mean by that? To be honest, Liam, it kind of sounds like you’re…” “Like you’re nuts!” Brandon finishes for her, much to her angry glare afterward. “I’m sorry to say that and I know losing Frankie hit hard. She was a real keeper, man, but… she died, Liam. And…” “And there’s things we don’t understand out there in the world…” Carmen pops back in, “But this… this is…” “I get it, okay?” I admit with a sigh. “Just… I saw something earlier today, so will you two just indulge me this once?” I still see both of their concerns. It’s nice to know I have them in my corner and to see their concern for me… but I need to be sure about this and for them to have a little patience. “Okay, fine… if nothing happens after five minutes, take me for a drink and get me to forget this ever happened, okay? We’ll simply chalk it up to stress or something. Sound good?” Both nod and I take my place on the couch right where I was, before I begin to murmur out a single word. “Frankie… Frankie…” Five minutes later and we’re still nowhere. I thought I felt warmth about three minutes ago now, but it seems like it might have just been a faint breeze filtering in from the vents after Carmen moved to sit down as well. “Dang it!” I slap my lap and hop up. “Liam…” I hear Carmen’s concern, but I just focus on the spot where I saw Frankie’s ghost. “That’s five minutes, man…” Brandon notes somberly, almost as if he was really hoping for my sake that Frankie’s ghost would have shown up. “I just… I don’t understand!” I sigh and it takes everything in me not to spit on the ground or punch a pillow or just yell in pure frustration. “I was sitting right here!” I plop back down on the couch. “And I took her picture frame, and I was holding it and wishing she would be back here.” I try to move the picture frame up, down, left, right… but still nothing. “Liam…” Carmen steps a little closer, her eyes full of worry about me. “Maybe you just wanted to see something. I mean, I’m the first in for this type of thing, but… maybe you just need some sleep… Wouldn’t be such a bad idea, right?” “Yeah, man,” Brandon agrees. “Maybe you just head to bed. We can drink together another night. Tonight…” I shake my head. “No, no! I just… one more minute, please!” I look back down at the object in my hands. “I was holding this frame and then… poof! She was here!” I clutch the frame closely and shut my eyes about as tight as they can go. “Come on Frankie. Come on!” I bite down and focus on the floor before squeezing my eyes, starting to rock back and forth with her picture clutched against my chest. “Please… please… I need you… I need you…” Suddenly, I feel the warmth I felt earlier surrounding me once more. It fills me up to my fingertips, a longing and a comfort I haven’t felt since Frankie last hugged me or when I last saw her ghost. It’s pleasant in a way that I didn’t realize how much I missed it, and I sigh in contentment now that I feel it again. I don’t even need to look up to see what’s transpiring. “What the…?” Brandon stumbles back and clutches the couch at the reappeared spectral figure in front of us now. “Aye!” Carmen plummets to her knees and begins praying. “San Miguel Arcángel, defiéndenos en la lucha. Sé nuestro amparo contra la perversidad y acechanzas del demonio. Reprímale, Dios…” “I told you!” I get up and reach out to the pale blue form in front of me. This time though, the figures’ hands are able to touch mine like one would stick their fingers through a sunbeam. The feeling of warmth intensifies all around, and I feel like electricity is passing through me. “It’s her! It’s got to be her!” “It… it can’t be!” Brandon, the usual skeptic of the group, except when Carmen’s involved with an opinion that is, seems to be struggling just to stay upright in the ghost’s presence. I slap him on the shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s her! It’s Frankie!” By now, Carmen has finished her prayer, and while she looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over as she stands up warily, she still seems mostly overjoyed to see the ghost. Only a second later though, she lights up. “Oh! It is! It is her! Look!” Her finger points to the figures’ head. “It has her hair. Her nose!” Sure enough, as I look closer at the spectral form, I begin to see all kinds of details I hadn’t before. The image beyond the blue sheen of the mist surrounding it is still hard to fully make out, but beyond all that, there’s a face. There’s hair and clothing. I strain to see more and I step forward. But the figure fades… almost as if a huge weight was just placed on her back. In seconds, she’s gone. “Frankie!” I shout out, once again trying to hold her hand to keep her in the room with us… but it’s no use. Moments later, even the warm feeling is gone yet again. “Dang it! That’s the second time today! Why won’t she just stay?” “But… but… it can’t be!” Brandon stumbles out. “But it is!” Carmen counters. “It was her. I…” She turns to me, her face full of wonder and regret. “I’m so sorry I doubted you, Liam. That… that was her! A ghost! I can’t believe it!” “Yeah… I mean… holy shit, dude!” Brandon says, his usual demeanor seeming to come back a little more now. “I mean… that was her. Had to be! Ghostbusters, poltergeist, voodoo, hocus pocus, haunted mansion level stuff right here! And… damn it!” He looks around for a second. “No camera!” I smile at his usual antics but then I turn to Carmen, the one who normally believes whole-heartedly in this kind of thing. “Frankie always said you believed in this stuff. I’m… I’m kind of out of my depth right now. I mean… what just happened?” Carmen winces. “Well… I actually don’t know. Belief is one thing, but this? This is proof that we all saw. This… this doesn’t just happen every day, Liam. I mean… I wouldn’t have a clue where to begin… at least properly.” “So, we’re screwed and just limited to these short little interactions forever then?” I ask, my hope seemingly deflating a little on the spot. To my relief though, Carmen shakes her head, her braided black and blonde streaked ponytail flipping about behind her. “I don’t think so. Remember, I said ‘properly.’ Spirits, from what I’ve ever read about at least, are energy or something like it. I’m not an expert or anything, but I think it takes an effort for them to stay here… at least without a conduit.” “Conduit?” Brandon asks, a little skeptical but definitely intrigued as well. “Yes,” Carmen confirms. “We need a medium or psychic… someone like that. They channel the energy, and you see the ghost… feel their presence more intently through them. In a way, they almost act like a telephone or a lightning road. Again… just from what I’ve only read about before.” I catch on to what she’s trying to imply… or at least I think I do. “Wait… you’re talking about a séance, aren’t you?” Carmen smiles and nods. “That’s right! That’s one of them, and…” She pauses and hesitates for a moment. “Uh, I guess if we’re putting all our cards on the table… I tried to do one for Frankie already.” “Wait… you did?” Brandon asks, sympathy and shock laced deeply in his voice. Carmen sighs. “I did. Spring hit and I saw all the flowers… reminded me too much of Frankie. I was desperate and sad and…” She shakes her head again. “So, I reached out to someone I heard about mainly from one of my friends way deeper into this sort of thing. She actually came into the shop a few times before, but Frankie always dealt with her orders…” “And…?” I press, hoping there’s more to the story. “And we couldn’t make contact,” she notes with a sigh as she then fishes in her purse for something. “She gave the session to me for free. Said Frankie might have moved on, or that I just didn’t have the connection required to make contact. Since it came to nothing, I didn’t want to bring it up… well, until now, that is.” Pulling a single white rectangular object from her purse, she looks at me intently before sighing once more. “Now… well, I guess you have that connection I seemed to be missing though…” I look at the card in her hand skeptically for a second. “I don’t know… Maybe I’m just…” “Hey man… maybe take a leap of faith here,” Brandon shockingly suggests, breaking me from my own self-criticism. “You’re always about the proof of things. And well, I don’t think you’re going to get more on your own ever than whatever we just saw here.” Carmen nods. “And… well, not to be selfish, but… do this for me as well… do it for Frankie.” Not even blinking then she then hands over the card she plucked from her purse. “Please just try, for us, okay?” I nod, realizing that this situation isn’t just about me anymore and take the card from Carmen. “Okay… for you… for Frankie…” The next day, I look back at the card and then up at the sign on the old brick building in front of me. Not even that far away from where I live, ‘Madame Gwendolyn’s Shop of Curiosities’ stands out only slightly on the lively block of Philadelphia. I think Frankie came over here once to get an anniversary gift for me, and if I remember correctly from back then, it was definitely a nice night… but personally, I don’t come down here that often. Brandon and Carmen both wanted to come with me today, but I told them that I needed to do this first step myself. I felt compelled to venture this solo today… I needed to see all this for myself… maybe to check if I was nuts or that we all are. The typical skeptic and the believer are good to have by my side most days… but not in this one case. I needed this lady, real psychic or medium or whatever or not, to just see me. But as I look ahead, to my surprise, the shop seems nice enough. There’s some odd symbols I don’t recognize, and a sign that mentions ‘FCC and MC Welcome Inside,’ which seems a little strange to me… but I just push on inside, a little bell ringing as I do so. Almost immediately, before any other object displayed around the store catches my eye, I see a tall, dark-haired, and admittedly beautiful woman behind the counter. As soon as I step inside fully, she smiles at me and waves. “Evening, darling. What can I do for you?”

So, I'm AB and enjoy wearing. And sometimes, I'll decide to wear all day. And I do enjoy wetting it. But sometimes, like when busy with other things (watching tv, playing video game, etc...) and I need to go, I'll actually go to the bathroom, pull down my diaper and use the potty. I'm often thinking something along the lines of "I don't want to ruin it yet, I want to keep wearing." And after I'm finished, I tug things back into place and get back to what I was doing. Eventually at some point I'll wet, and after that... "well it's wet already... may as well use it again..." Sort of like, "... don't waste it... make it last all day" Which I know is weird, because after all, "I'm just a baby and NEED dipees..." Maybe just not in the right head space?? Anyone else find themselves torn between two worlds like this? TBH, it's not the money, I'm able to buy mail-order diapers as much as I need, it's wouldn't bankrupt me. And yet, 'wasting' one when not 'playing baby'.... I know, weird right? Thoughts? Comment? Similar experiences?

This is a long story that develops the characters over time. I will post the first chapter now, and add to it as time passes. Comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated. Chapter 1: The Beginning or the End Carolyn was forty-one, tall, auburn-haired, and still turning heads at the country club. Ten years of marriage to David had not dulled her beauty, but it had dulled everything else. David—forty-four, senior partner at a downtown law firm, broad-shouldered once upon a time—had let the courtroom stress and the after-work bourbon settle around his middle. His once-confident baritone now carried a slight wheeze after two drinks, and in bed he lasted less than two minutes on a good night. Carolyn had stopped counting the nights she lay awake beside him, thighs clenched in frustration, pretending to sleep so he wouldn’t paw at her again. She loved the house, the cars, the vacations, the platinum card with no limit. Divorce would mean losing all of it, and worse—gossip, loneliness, starting over. Affairs were out of the question; David still had friends in every judge’s chamber in the county. She needed a solution that kept the money and destroyed the problem at the same time. That solution arrived in the shape of her oldest friend, Linda. Linda was a clinical hypnotherapist with a discreet practice on the north side of the city. She was petite, dark-haired, always dressed in flowing black, and possessed a calm, almost amused authority that made people obey before they realized they had decided to. On Saturday they sat on Carolyn’s sun-drenched patio Linda with nice glass of wine and Carolyn with tall glasses of peach iced tea—Carolyn never touched alcohol—Carolyn poured out her misery. “I’m dying inside, Linda. I need real sex, and I need to not feel guilty about it. But I can’t leave him and I can’t cheat without destroying everything.” Linda listened, swirling her glass, then smiled like someone unveiling a gift. “There’s another way,” she said. “I’ve seen it work. We take away the man he thinks he is. We make him small. Dependent. Grateful. We put him back in diapers, turn his tiny premature ejaculations into something he can only feel when he’s padded and helpless. And once he’s hooked on that helplessness, he will give you permission—out loud—to take a real man. He’ll beg for it eventually. I’ve read the case studies. Carolyn’s pulse hammered. “You’re serious.” “Completely. I’ll handle the hypnosis. You just play the loving, heartbroken wife who’s trying to help with his ‘little problem.’ He’ll never suspect.” They shook hands like business partners. Three nights later Linda arrived for what David thought was a casual dinner. He liked Linda—she flattered him, kept his bourbon coming, and laughed at his war stories. By ten he was loose, laughing a bit too loud, and bragging about a case he’d just won. Carolyn watched Linda’s fingers move—a subtle circle on the stem of her glass, a soft hum under the music. David’s eyelids sagged. His head nodded. “David,” Linda said gently, “look at my pendant.” The silver chain appeared between her fingers as if by magic. David’s gaze locked on it. Thirty seconds later his chin rested on his chest, breathing slow and deep. Carolyn’s heart hammered as Linda leaned close to her husband’s ear. “David, every night when you’re asleep and you feel the need to urinate, you will simply relax and let it flow. You will not wake up. You will not remember this instruction. You will feel safe and warm as you wet the bed. And whenever you hear me say the words ‘lawyer’s rest,’ you will return to this deep, obedient state instantly. Do you understand?” A low “Yes” rumbled from David’s throat. “Good boy.” Linda snapped her fingers. David blinked, straightened, and reached for his bourbon as if nothing had happened. That night, at 3:17 a.m., David stirred. His bladder pressed full and heavy. Normally he would swing his legs over the side of the bed, pad to the bathroom, stand tall, aim. Instead, still half-dreaming, he relaxed. A hot flood spread beneath him, soaking his cotton pajama bottoms, pooling under his hips. He sighed, rolled over into the wetness, and slept again. At six-thirty the alarm buzzed. David woke to the clammy reek of urine. He sat bolt upright, heart racing. “No. No, no, no—” He ripped the sheets off, balled them in a panic, and stuffed them into the washing machine on hot before Carolyn stirred. He showered twice, scrubbing himself raw, and swore it was a one-time fluke—too much bourbon, stress, anything. The next night it happened again. Same warm surrender, same shameful dawn discovery. He was shaking when he hid the second set of sheets. On the morning of the third day Carolyn “discovered” the wet sheets. She touched his arm with theatrical tenderness. “Honey… the bed was wet again. It’s okay. It happens. We’ll figure it out together.” David’s face burned crimson. “It’s not—I don’t know what’s—” “Shh. I love you. We’ll get through it.” That evening Linda returned. Dessert had barely been served when she leaned across the table and murmured, “Lawyer’s rest.” David’s eyes glazed. Fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Linda’s voice was velvet. “Tomorrow morning, when you wake up wet again, you will feel overwhelming relief at the thought of wearing diapers. You will tell Carolyn—your own idea—that the adult thing to do, the responsible thing, is to wear protection until this passes. You will feel proud for suggesting it. You will not remember I told you this.” Snap. David finished his cheesecake, oblivious. The next morning, voice trembling, David said exactly what he’d been told to say. Carolyn let tears well—perfect, sympathetic tears. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s so mature of you. Of course we’ll get what you need.” By noon they were in a bland medical supply store that smelled of plastic and antiseptic. David’s ears flamed as the clerk—heavy-set, bored—rang up a case of thick, white adult diapers with blue leak guards and tiny teddy-bear prints along the landing zone. “Overnight maximum absorbency,” the clerk said cheerfully. “These’ll hold anything.” Back home, Carolyn unwrapped the first diaper with ceremonial care. David stood in their bedroom in just his socks, hands awkwardly covering his groin. “Lie back, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Let me take care of you.” The diaper crinkled obscenely as she slid it under him, dusted him with powder that smelled like babyhood and surrender, and taped it snug. His tiny penis twitched against the padding, already half-hard from pure humiliation. “There,” she whispered, patting the front. “My big strong lawyer, safe and dry.” That night they went to bed. David lay rigid, listening to the loud rustle every time he moved. At some point he drifted off. When he woke at dawn, the sheets were pristine. The diaper was not. Heavy, sagging, warm, it clung to him like a second skin. He reached down with a trembling hand and felt the sodden weight. A strange, liquid shame coursed through him—followed by a pulse of something darker, something almost like relief. In the bathroom mirror he caught a glimpse of himself: forty-four years old, successful, rich, powerful—and standing soaked in a teddy-bear diaper. Behind him, Carolyn leaned in the doorway, smiling softly. “Good morning, baby,” she said. “See? Problem solved.” And somewhere deep in David’s mind, a tiny voice whispered that this was only the beginning.

Okay, I know I should be working on many other stories...but I love Helluva Boss, and after someone already did a Loona de-aging fanfic (that sadly had very few canon things there, but it was still a very good story despite that), I had to get on mine, since Loona's my favorite. For those paying attention to Helluva Boss, a fair warning: this story occurs a bit after Loona gets her Hellbies shot, so some of the other things that have happened aren't going to happen in this story. I've taken a few liberties with some of the Sins that haven't appeared and Loona's past as well (as we don't know exactly what happened), so take that into account as well. Anyway, as a warning, this is Hell, so there's going to be a lot of complicated content warnings for this story that I urge you to take heed of in the tags. I promise to warn you when they come, but I do want to warn you ahead of time. Anyway, on with the show! - Chapter One: Expectations. - Octavia was tired of hearing her parents fighting, especially when it involved her. Stolas and Stella - her father and mother - were screeching at each other like homicidal demonic barn owls (don’t ask her how she knew that; some things weren’t meant for living human minds), barely paying attention to her, and yet…custody. Fucking custody. Over her. Just…why? It wasn’t fair. Yes, Loona had said that families were complicated, but this right after she had run away the last time… The owl-like Goetia heiress froze. Loona. The hellhound was definitely a bit rough around the edges, definitely sarcastic and rude, but she could talk to her, maybe? The last time, when she was lost on Earth, looking for a meteor shower she had waited years to see, it had been Loona who found her…and unlocked a side of her she thought was missing. Octavia felt like - in Loona - she had a sister, an elder sister she could confide in, someone braver than she was, someone whom she could…look up to, maybe? Her fucking emotions were getting the best of her, maybe, but hell with it. Lucifer, what if I’m being…no, time to be brave, Via, show Father and Mother what a mistake they’re making. She was going to go to I.M.P., maybe read from the Grimoire, maybe find a way to placate her parents, somehow, maybe talk to Loona, see what she thought. She had no idea Loona was already having a bad day. - Loona was pissed at Moxxie. Fucking fatass (he wasn’t really fat, she admitted to herself, but she needed another reason to hate the smug little prick.) imp was beyond late to work along with Millie, his wife. Bad enough she had five fucking years worth of her yearly Hellbies shot (She hated shots. Shots in the pound usually meant…euthanization for the hellhounds who aged out…like she had nearly been before Blitzo - known to all as “Blitz”; the “o” was silent - had adopted her. Blitz had lied to her twice, by the way: it was not “one little prick”, and her ass was still sore from it, so he lied about not feeling it as well. Thank Lucifer the cone was off, at least.) a week ago, but now he was pacing the halls, trying to figure out where they were. “Goddammit, if you could be any later, Moxxie, I’d need a fucking stopwatch to fucking time you…” Blitz muttered. If his voice didn’t clearly show his annoyance, the tic of him scratching the white and black, curved horns on his bald head certainly did. Loona knew that if the imp paced any more, he was going to wear out the floorboards - and they had survived a fire from hellectric eels (don’t ask), so she personally knew how tough they were to destroy and/or wear out. She flicked her bluish-gray hair fur to one side, her red eyes firmly focused on her most prized possession: her H-Phone 666 LX, a gift to her from Blitz for her twenty-first birthday a year ago. Then Moxxie and Millie broke down the door - quite literally. “You know that’s coming out of your paycheck, fatass,” Loona said, not even looking up from her phone as it played VoxTube videos. No response. She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Moxxie to not defend himself from her taunts. “Okay, why are you two fucking hours late?” Blitz demanded. “We were supposed to be using the Grimoire for our target, and-“ “Sorry, Sir, but…” Moxxie twirled a strand of his white hair nervously (not that Loona was paying any attention or cared what Moxxie thought; it was clearly phone time). “We’re expecting!” Millie finished excitedly in her Wrathian drawl, her yellow eyes gleaming as Moxxie brushed her glistening black hair. “What, like a prize for being late?” Loona snarked, not even looking up from her phone. “No, silly: a baby!” Millie giggled. Blitz’s eyes went as wide as full moons, as he looked at them, doing a double-take at them. “Wha-WHAT?!” he stammered. “So, you were-“ “Well, I took the test, showed red, then went to the doctor who confirmed it!” the female imp gushed with excitement, as Moxxie wrapped his small, gentle arms protectively around his wife’s stomach. “Oh, that’s, uh, congrats!” the head of Immediate Murder Professionals (hence the name “I.M.P.”) said, his eyes gaining a semblance of…warmth? An unfamiliar emotion was growing in the pit of Loona’s stomach. She didn’t know what to call it, but she didn’t like it one bit. “So, Sir, we all have a lot of back pay from our jobs, so…” Moxxie began. “First kid’s always worth a break,” Blitz said with a jovial laugh. “Loony-Toony might have to join us later on while Millie handles the Grimoire, but-“ Loona barely heard the excited imp talking because she recognized a different, yet all-too familiar emotion bubbling up to the surface: anger. The hellhound had a nice job as the secretary of I.M.P. Yeah, going out in the human world for occasional work was fun and all, but her job was simple: open a portal to the human world, listen for when the three imps needed to get back, reopen a portal back. She had a routine. She had time to go on her phone, go to the latest Sinstagram pics and VoxTube videos, get a cup of coffee, and wait by herself, with no one’s problems but her own bugging her. And now this…this was threatening the entirety of that safe routine. And she was realizing the unfamiliar emotion was very familiar, after all: envy. A fucking imp baby with Millie replacing her job, and judging by Blitz’s expression, replace his affection for her. That’s all she was, when it came down to it: replaceable. Even after she told Blitz that she’d be there with him, she was still replaceable. The next words tumbled out of her mouth before she could take them back. “How do you know that they’re telling the truth? I mean, are you sure Moxxie can even have kids?” Loona immediately realized she had said something wrong with the immensely hurt look in Millie’s eyes, a pulsing vein throbbing dangerously in Moxxie’s temple as he drew his pistol, pointed it at her and shouted furiously, “YOU TAKE THAT BACK, YOU BITCH!” But the worst was Blitz looking…disappointed, as he said, “Now, Loony, you need to apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” “How about he apologizes for calling me the b-slur?” Loona snarled at Blitz without even thinking, her rising anger taking over. “LOONA, you will apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” Blitz’s voice was surprisingly stern, even a bit angry - a tone that, to her knowledge, he had almost never taken with her. “Oh, so you can replace me with the little brat, huh, Blitz, be a real dad as you stalk them in their private lives like you usually do? Well, guess what, Blitz: you aren’t a fucking real dad! You aren’t their kid’s dad, and you aren’t my fucking dad either!” She felt a vile concoction of satisfaction and guilt course through her as Blitz looked as if she had hit him. It almost would’ve felt better to her if he had hit her back, if he said anything at all. Even Moxxie was stunned into lowering his gun. “I-is this a bad time?” a new voice asked. Octavia Goetia had made her appearance, all four of them looking at her in simultaneous shock, the same look the demoness had on her face. Loona took the Grimoire from the safe, and Blitz didn’t even protest, the hurt look in his eyes saying all that needed to be said. “C’mon, Via, we’re crashing at my place,” Loona said darkly, as she held the Goetia heiress’s clawed hand to the demoness’s shock, leaving the job, the silent absence of a protest echoing in her heart. - Hope y'all enjoyed~ I don't know if I'll have a regular schedule for uploading; I never do, but I'll do my best every week, I think.

If you've been reading this story, we have a fancy new 'part one' and the story will continue from the end of that to a first chapter of part two. If you haven't been reading this story, welcome, please enjoy a story that I'm very happy with and feel a deep attachment to the characters in. It is my sincerest hope that I can maintain this story to be enjoyable and interesting for however long it goes but if I can't, let me know if I start to dip in quality. Chaotic Infantile By: The Unknown Author Part One Family Chapter One A Night With The Girls “Why do we have to play this dumb game?!” Petra whined. The other girls seated around the dining room table nodded and voiced their agreements all at once, prompting me to raise my hand beside my head and bring my index finger to my lips, bringing instant quiet to the dining room and a satisfied smile to my lips. “Because I had to move my game night with my friends to stay here and babysit you lot.” I told Petra as I opened the box in front of me. Petra scoffed and brushed her black hair out of her face, her earlier play session knocking her pigtails askew. “We’re not actually babies, Zack.” she sneered. “You probably stayed so you could see a bunch of cute girls in diapers.” she added, getting blushes and giggles from the other girls. She was my wife first and my baby girl second, but the more I saw her dressed down in her infantile regalia, the harder it became to not inject the Daddy side of my personality into our every day life. When we’d met she was straightforward about her little side, laying all her cards out on the table before we’d even had a first date, and it was that bold fearlessness that drew me to her, but then she showed me how submissive she could be and that juxtaposition drove me absolutely wild. In all fairness, she wasn’t entirely wrong, I didn’t need to stay home and watch them, they were all grown women, but these same grown women had managed to stain several pieces of furniture with grape jelly from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and somehow lose a dirty diaper that we didn’t find until three days later, turns out it had “magically” wound up behind the dryer, so needless to say I’d been very insistent with “adult” supervision on this gathering. “First of all, you know the rules about what to call me when you’re little.” I warned, eyeing her as I unpacked the box. She blushed and picked her pacifier up from where it dangled from the front of her pastel purple onesie and put it into her mouth. “Sowwy, Daddy.” she said through the thick bulb of her pacifier, scowling at her friends as they giggled at her being chastised in front of them. “Secondly, as much as I love my friends and my weekly game night, I think I actually do prefer watching you girls, but why shouldn’t I get the best of both worlds?” I asked, looking at the other three girls seated around the table, smiling warmly at them. Ducky, Petra’s oldest and dearest friend smiled back at me. Her name was Deandra, but she’d gotten the nickname “Ducky” years before I’d met Petra when they were feeding ducks at the park and Deandra had thrown a piece of bread too short to go in the water and gone to retrieve it from the grass when a great big goose had flapped it’s wings at her and scared her so bad she farted, making a sound like a duck quacking. Ducky was the same age as Petra and they’d known each other since birth, more or less, they lived two doors down from each other all through school and had gotten an apartment together after graduation, they’d experimented with a more romantic relationship for a time, but ultimately settled on being “Sisters from different misters”. “Unka Zack, what’s dis game about?” Ducky asked, slipping effortlessly into her little girl voice, something I would never get used to hearing coming from a grown woman, no matter how cute it sounded. Ducky was adorable in every conceivable way, her features tiny to match her slight frame, her Asian and African American heritage blessing her with flawless skin the color of caramel with almond eyes that sparkled green of all colors. Petra had established early on that Ducky was her “hall pass”, the one person she could sleep with that wouldn’t result in any negative reaction from me, and in return for my acceptance of this arrangement, Ducky offered herself to me with the same agreement she and Petra had, and we’d all agreed that that was acceptable, though I’d yet to cash that offer in, I wasn’t opposed to doing so in the slightest. I shook my head. “Not just yet, Ducky, I need to get everything set up before I explain the rules.” I told her calmly, watching over the top of my glasses as she picked up her bottle from the table and began to suck down the strong alcoholic concoction within. Illiana, the oldest of the group by a year or two shifted on her seat, her diaper crinkling beneath her tutu as she leaned forward and reached out for one of the dice on the table. I lightly smacked the top of her hand and wagged my finger in the air in front of me to admonish her further. “Not yet, sweetie.” I told her. She’d yanked her hand back as if she’d touched something burning hot and held it against her chest as she looked at me with her big, pitiful looking blue eyes, her bottom lip protruding in a childish pout. Petra and Illiana had met at the gym a few years ago and had hit it off in the sauna, somehow getting on the subject of kinks and lo and behold, another baby joined the party. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Petra had some kind of innate ability to seduce women into being adult babies given how many of her friends had show up at our house over the years with distinct bulges beneath their pants, any doubt to the nature of such a bulge being removed a short time later when they were brought to me for a diaper change alongside Petra herself. “Is it a hard game?” Rochelle asked. I’d met Rochelle exactly two hours earlier when she’d shown up at the front door, diaper bag slung over her shoulder, doubled up pink, princess adorned diapers straining against the fabric of her sunny yellow onesie. She was smaller and younger than both Ducky and Petra, so much so that I’d whispered my concern about the legality of her presence to Petra just after she’d arrived. Her dark skin made the brightness of her onesie pop as she sat at the end of the table, on a makeshift booster seat I’d had to rig up for her using a few books from my office/study, her lovely hair done up into twin puffs on either side of the top of her head. I smirked. “It’s probably much too hard for babies like yourselves, but we’ll make it work.” I told her. With the box empty and my Dungeon Master screen set up in front of me I looked out at the girls around the table, at least one of them was wet, the hint of ammonia beneath the mixing scents of baby powder and the booze in their bottle giving me pause. “Before we begin, does anyone need a change?” I asked. Ducky’s hand went up first, a proud smile plastered on her face, then Illiana’s, much lower and more sheepish, Petra shook her head and continued sucking her pacifier while Rochelle chewed her bottom lip nervously. “Not yet.” she said softly. Ducky, who was seated next to the girl giggled. “I fink she’s twyin’ to go poopy, Unka Zack!” she declared. I cleared my throat to keep my own laugh from escaping. “Rochelle, is that true?” I asked. Rochelle avoided looking at me and shrugged her shoulders as she looked down at the table. Standing up, I made my way over to her and knelt down beside her chair. “It’s okay if you are.” I told her. “Believe me, every one of these girls has given me a stinky diaper to change.” I said reassuringly. “Right, girls?” I asked the group. Ducky nodded. “I fink Petwa holds her poopies for a whole month just to make the biggest, stinkiest poopy she can!” she said, giggling wildly at her own statement. Petra crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at Ducky. “Shut up, Ducky, everyone knows you poop the most!” she spat, her pacifier falling from her mouth. “Petra!” I said, my Daddy voice cutting through Ducky’s giggles like a knife through butter. “You know better than to tell people to shut up, apologize to Ducky.” I commanded. “But Daddy, she-” she started to whine. I stood up and looked at her for a moment. “Sorry, Ducky.” she said quietly. “What are you sorry for?” I asked. She sighed. “I’m sorry I told you to shut up, Ducky.” she corrected herself. “Good girl.” I praised. “Now, Ducky, you apologize for saying something mean to Petra.” I told Ducky. Ducky nodded obediently. “I’m sorry I told a fib about you, Petra.” she said, keeping her little voice but dropping the baby talk. Illiana tugged at my shirt. “Mister Klein?” she asked softly. I turned and looked down at her. “Zack, Illiana, please call me Zack.” I told her. She’d been coming over to our house regularly for over a year now and still insisted on being formal when she addressed me, it was endearing, but it made me feel like she wasn’t at ease which made me feel like I shouldn’t be at ease. “Zack,” she corrected, as though this was new information she’d just learned, “I think I might also need to do a number two.” she admitted. I nodded. “Okay, pregame time!” I said with a clap of my hands. “Everyone in the living room!” I declared, watching as each girl slid from her chair and crinkled her way to the living room, Ducky and Rochelle opting to crawl while Petra and Illiana toddled ahead of them. With all four of them gathered on the rug in the center of the living room I took a seat on the couch in front of them and leaned back with my arms stretched across the top of the couch. “The rules are simple, the first one of you to make a poopie gets an advantage in the other game while the last one to make a poopie gets a disadvantage.” I explained. Illiana raised her hand politely, waiting for me to approve her question before she asked it. “What will the advantage and disadvantage be?” she asked. I shook my head. “That’s a surprise.” I told her. “Now, everyone get into whatever position you need to.” I said, watching Petra get down on all fours, Ducky get up into a squat from her crawling position, Illiana bending her knees slightly, and Rochelle laying flat on her back with her feet in her hands looking every bit the infant she was playing. “GO!” I called out. The room filled with the sound of tiny grunts and strains that gradually built into muffled toots from each girl at one point or another until Ducky leapt up from her squatted position a short time later. “I winned, Unka Zack!” she cheered. I sat forward on the couch and pulled her to me with my hands on her hips, turning her around so I could pull back the top of her diaper and peek inside. “Ducky is the winner!” I declared, giving the lump in her seat a gentle congratulatory pat. Rochelle was the next to present herself for inspection and the next to assure she wasn’t going to lose the game, getting the same pat on the butt that Ducky had, producing a nervous giggle from the girl as she went to stand near Ducky. Illiana sighed loudly and walked bowlegged to me, cementing Petra as the loser once I’d finished my inspection and patted Illiana’s bottom toward the winner’s circle. “I’m sorry, baby, but you lose.” I told Petra as I stood up and walked over to her. She was starting to cry, she tended to do that when she lost games, especially when she lost games she was playing when she was little. “It’s not fair, Daddy!” she whined. I sighed and knelt down, scooping her up from the floor and hugging her tightly. “You had the same opportunity that everyone else had, sweetie.” I told her. She pouted and buried her face into my chest. “Maybe we need to put you to bed?” I asked rhetorically, knowing she’d snap out of her fake sorrow at the mere mention of being put to bed. She jerked back and shook her head. “No, please, Daddy!” she pleaded. I kissed the tip of her nose and patted her bottom softly. “Okay, no bed, but I do expect you to be ready for a change by the time I finish with these other little stinkers.” I told her. She nodded eagerly. “I will, Daddy!” she agreed, her body tensing up in my arms as she resumed her attempts to fill her diaper. ********** Nearly forty-five minutes later we were all back at the table, each girl had a fresh diaper and was dressed in her pajamas. Illiana was wearing a two piece sleep set made of soft cloth, the shirt and pants colored a soft pink and adorned all over with little images of sweets and ice creams. Rochelle was in a yellow footed sleeper that perfectly matched the onesie she’d arrived in, tucked away in her diaper bag for safe keeping. Ducky’s choice of pajamas was also one piece but had a hood that, when pulled on top of her head made her look like a panda bear, while Petra wore her fancy princess pajamas that looked like someone had mixed an elegant princess dress with a baby’s sleeper, it had ruffles and frills and was a lovely blue color that made her eyes sparkle. All of the girls were nursing their bottles of mixed drinks, some stronger than others for obvious reasons, but all were well on their way to various degrees of buzzed or outright drunk. “As the winner, Ducky gets an advantage in our game, and that advantage is that she’s the leader of the party.” I explained as I slid a premade character sheet down the table to the panda bear, watching her beam proudly as she picked it up and began reading it. “As the leader, she has an ability that forces each of your characters to consult her before making a choice and should she tell you no, you’ll be unable to do that thing.” I continued. “Like a Mommy?” Rochelle asked softly. I smiled and nodded. “That’s right, Rochelle, just like a Mommy!” I praised her warmly. “Can I tell everyone what to do?!” Ducky asked excitedly. I stifled a chuckle. “I suppose you could,” I said, putting emphasis on the last word, “but what if they don’t like being told what to do and leave the party?” I asked. She thought for a moment, her lips pressing down on her slightly protruding tongue, “I’d spank them if they tried to leave!” she declared. “I guess we’ll have to see how that goes for you.” I told her. “Now, because you didn’t win, Petra, your disadvantage is that you will be playing as the Bard, and your instrument of choice is the washboard.” I told her, sliding a character sheet in front of her. Petra looked down at the paper and then up at me. “Daddy, no!” she whined. I nodded. “I’m afraid so, baby.” I told her. She pouted and sullenly nursed her bottle. “What’s a Bard?” Rochelle asked. “It’s a person that plays music that helps the group,” I told her, “they sing songs that can make everyone stronger or make enemies weaker, things like that.” I explained. “But a washboard sounds so bad!” Petra whined. I nodded. “That’s why it’s a disadvantage, sweetie.” I told her, reaching over to gently stroke her hair. I slid the remaining character sheets to Illiana and Rochelle. “How about you all introduce yourselves to the rest of the party and we can begin?” I offered, looking to Illiana to begin. She picked up her character sheet. “I am Esta Reyqirelle, an Elven Ranger from a small forest village looking for adventure as well as treasure to aid my village’s struggling economy.” she read. “Umm, I have a panther familiar named Calla and she’s been my loyal companion since I rescued her as a cub from poachers.” she added. I nodded and looked to Rochelle who sat up on her perch of books. “I am Shilky, a Gnome Rogue!” she proudly proclaimed. “I grew up in a traveling circus and honed my thieving skills on the patrons that came to our shows, I’ve grown bored of the small jobs and am looking for a great challenge to test my abilities.” she concluded. Ducky didn’t even wait for me to look to her, but launched right into reading her own character sheet. “I am Naydri, a Half-Orc Barbarian!” she bellowed. “I rule my party with an iron fist and command respect and obedience from all that serve under me! I’m a veteran of countless battles and I seek to prove that no living being can match my awesome power!” she read excitedly, giggling cutely once she’d finished. Petra continued pouting as I looked to her. “It’s your turn, baby.” I urged. She shook her head. “I don’t wanna play if I hafta be a stinky, stupid Bard!” she whined. I sighed. “I guess we should put you to bed after all.” I said, moving to stand up. She sighed heavily and grabbed her character sheet. “I am Rosamund Day, a Human Bard.” she read in a monotone voice. “With my trusty washboard, I perform songs that are meant to aid my companions but the intricacies and complexities of the washboard sometimes fail to produce the desired effects.” she continued. “I seek to hone my skills on the field of battle and in the most dire of situations to become the greatest, if not most unconventional, Bard of all time.” she finished, tossing her character sheet onto the table with a petulant grumble. I patted the top of her head softly. “Try and get that attitude under control before we start or you’ll be playing from the corner with a red bottom, baby.” I warned lovingly. I cleared my throat. “I am your Dungeon Master, ladies!” I bellowed majestically. “I make the game and the rules and will guide you on your quest, testing you with traps and monsters, enemies and friends and we will see if you have what it takes to discover what lies “Below The Raven Queen's Garden” I said, throwing a dramatic cackle in for good measure. “How do we play?” Rochelle asked. “It’s like make believe, you pretend to be your character and interact with people and things within the world and I guide you and move the story forward until you win,” I explained. “Or die.” I added ominously. Everyone nodded their understanding and I began to read. “The carriage jostled and bumped along the dirt path carved out in the dense forest, four strangers and a panther seated within, having only recently disclosed their names and intentions to the rest of the group, they sit in silence as they travel to their destination.” “Bard, play me a song to pass the time!” Ducky commanded, a silly grin on her face as she looked at the still pouting Petra. Petra glared at her. “How do I play a song?” she asked me. “Just like you would in the real world.” I told her. She sighed. “I pick up my spoons and run them over the surface of my washboard to play a song for Ducky.” she said. “Naydri!” Ducky forcefully corrected. Petra scowled. “I play a song for Naydri.” she corrected. “Does the song have words?” I asked. Petra rolled her eyes and began to make up words to her song. “Four friends in a carriage, bouncing up and down,” she said, a smirk coming to her face, “if we check Naydri’s underpants, we’ll probably find them brown.” she finished, suppressing a mischievous giggle. Ducky pounded the table with her fist making each of the girls jump in their seats. “You dare to mock the mighty Naydri, Bard?!” she howled. “I do.” Petra told her, sticking her tongue out at Ducky. Ducky growled. “I’ll see your hind end tanned by my hand before this carriage ride is done!” she threatened. “The carriage suddenly jerks wildly to the right, careening off the path and coming to an abrupt stop as the sounds of gruff voices can be heard approaching from somewhere up the road.” I said. Rochelle fidgeted nervously in her seat. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.” she said quietly. “Fear not, Gnome, Naydri will keep your tiny body safe with her mighty sword!” Ducky declared. “Outside, the sounds of many feet and voices can be heard, their words indecipherable, but the menace and ill intent are all too clear.” I told them. Illiana sat forward. “I pull out my bow and kick the door of the carriage open, slipping out with Calla following close behind as I move to put the carriage between myself and our attackers.” she said. “With a cautious glance around the side of the carriage, Esta spies half a dozen Kobold, small, reptilian like creatures approaching with spears and bows and daggers at the ready.” I explained. “I barge out of the carriage and rush the stupid little creatures, roaring threats loudly to frighten them away.” Ducky explained. I smirked. “Roll the twenty sided dice, please, Ducky.” I said. She picked up the dice and rolled it, producing a five that she shared with the table. “Kobold’s don’t speak your language, so you get an automatic minus five to the check.” I explain. “The Kobold’s stare at you and then attack, saying things to one another that you can’t understand.” I told her. Ducky gritted her teeth. “I would like to murder them.” she said grimly. Rochelle cleared her throat. “I sneak out the small door in the roof of the carriage and climb down between the horses and into the trees to get around behind the Kobold’s.” she said. Petra giggled. “I scoot to the end of the carriage and play my washboard to drive them away with the awful sound.” she said. The battle commenced, Naydri slaughtered two of the more well armed Kobold’s while Shilky came up behind one of the archers and dispatched him with her daggers. Esta and Calla handled one archer and an enraged Kobold holding his ears to block the sounds from Rosamund’s washboard respectively while a single Kobold ran off into the forest at the sight of his comrades deaths. “We did it!” Rochelle cheered happily. I nodded. “With the threat dispatched, our heroes find themselves with some distance between their broken down carriage and their previous destination, but a gap in the trees shows the spires of a great castle off in the distance.” I told them. “We should check out the castle.” Illiana said. Ducky nodded. “I agree, we shouldn’t be out in the woods after dark, that Kobold could return to silence our terrible Bard for good.” she said. “Though I’m sure he’d run once he smelled the mess she made in her trousers.” she teased. “I did not!” Petra yelled, causing the other girls to giggle. Rochelle set her now empty bottle down. “It’s okay, Rosamund, I was scared too.” she said reassuringly. Petra glowered at her. “I’m going to learn a song that makes you all poop your pants and then we’ll see who’s laughing.” she threatened. “With the sun slowly sinking in the sky, you all begin your journey to the castle, the trek providing ample time to continue getting to know one another and work on being a more cooperative and kinder team.” I said, looking at Ducky specifically. “I’m hungry!” Petra whined. The other girls nodded in agreement. “Alright, we’ll take a break and get some food in those tummies and then we’ll see what mysteries the castle holds.” I said as I stood up and went to the kitchen to make a few of the frozen pizzas we’d bought for the night. A shuffling and crinkling caught my attention, finding Ducky standing in the doorway. “Are you mad at me for teasing Petra, Unka Zack?” she asked. I shook my head as I turned the oven on to preheat. “No, but if you keep pushing her she’s going to end up getting herself in trouble and having to go to bed.” I explained. “You don’t want her to be punished on your girl’s night, right?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, but I want her to play the game right.” she said. I went to her and picked her up, supporting her bottom with my thick forearms as she wrapped her legs around me and hugged me. “Sweetie, there’s no right or wrong way to play this game.” I told her. “It’s a make believe adventure and you all can play however you want to, but Petra would probably play better if you didn’t tease her so much.” I explained. She nodded and leaned back to look at me. “I’ll be nicer to her.” she told me. I hugged her and patted her back softly. “Good girl.” I told her before setting her down. “Why don’t you go see who needs more party juice, okay?” I asked. As I watched her scurry out of the kitchen I smiled, happy that I’d smoothed over the building tension that would’ve ended with a tantrum and at least one spanking and early bedtime, and curious as to what these girls were going to do when they saw the things I had in store for them. To Be Continued…

So, I have been wearing depends for years, and I have to admit that wearing them makes me feel amazing!! I personally lovE!! to wet the first diaper as full as it can get, and then I poke a hole in the middle and pull my cock through. Then I poke little slits in the diaper so when I pee it goes around evenly. Then I put on another depends (XL) mens over the first one, with my cock through the hole I made, and strap that one on tight. Always tight so when I play with it it's smooth and easy to rub and stuff. I love to fill the second diaper full also, I think the thicker the better. I love a fuLL wet diaper. Yumm! So f'n perfect. Then I do the same thing after it's full and poke and slide my dick through the hole and Then I try to pee some so It gets wet inside to start. Then I like to sit in them all day or all night filling it to the max. Three wet, wet wet diapers is the best. More feeling, bigger, my cock feels so big and the softness of the diaper is great. Then after I have had my time alone, I like to poke my cock through the third diaper, keeping the diaper hole tight around my dick so it cuts the circulation off a little bit, and I watch some porn, or try to find a lady or someone who likes to wear them also, or just walk around outside so people can see my huge diaper on me. I hope to find a woman who like to wear them also So we can play with each other, basically that's why I'm on the site. Hope your out there. Phone talk works, webcam works, etc.. meeting would be the best fingers crossed, that would be awesome. Finally, when I'm done showing off, I lay down, throw the porn on and poke it through the last hole and masturbate. WHAT an AWESOME feeling!!!!!! I cum sooo hard and soo much!!! Great experience!! Anyways, hope to talk to people about other ways to use diapers etc.... I'm 33, tall, shaved head, blue eyes. Looking for some great females to share some experiences with!! Anyone have any suggestions on this, or hjave advice for me. Let me know!! Ciao!!!!

Little Bee: Chapter 1 Note: this story takes place in the world of “Classified: A New Life” as written by Brutal_Ink. I hope that I can do justice to their wonderfully creative work and compelling world setting. Credit as well to @destinedfordiaperstories on Tumblr for expanding the world with their phenomenal story “Sammy’s Little Problem” Classification Day. If there were two words that struck more dread into the heart of an 18 year old, nobody had spoken them yet. Classification Day, also known as the last day of Senior Year, was the day that every high school senior would find out what their future would look like. The graduating class received their test results today, and would be classified as Caregivers, Littles, or Neutrals based on a wide variety of testing of genetic markers, enzymes in the blood, and various other measurements, profiling, and characteristics, both biological and mental. The CGL Gene that was discovered after the evolutionary shift in humanity that had become known as the Great Mutation usually began to manifest after the age of 18, so the school year was scheduled to end shortly before graduating students would begin to see the changes their genetics would make to their bodies and minds, which is why test results were given out towards the end of the last day of school. Caregivers developed powerful instincts to care for those in need, as well as higher physical strength to aid them in this task. Caregivers often, but not always, adopted Littles and made sure they were happy and safe. Those that did not adopt always pursued careers that cared for and protected others. Littles were the opposite, they found themselves regressing to an earlier stage of childhood and losing varying degrees of muscle mass, motor skills, emotional regulatory abilities, and toileting skills as most found themselves effectively incontinent and irrevocably requiring diapers at all times. Level 1 Littles regressed the most, and were essentially infants. Level 2 Littles retained the vast majority of their motor skills and other faculties, their largest sectors of regression being a complete loss of potty training and significant reduction of their ability to keep their emotions under control. Tantrums were common among Level 2 Littles, and they all needed diapers as well. Level 3 Littles regressed the least, retaining much of their emotional control as well as their potty training in many cases. While some still needed diapers, many level 3 Littles needed only Pull Ups for the occasional accident, as well as nighttime, with some even being able to wear normal underwear. Neutrals saw no changes, and were essentially the same as Humans before the Great Mutation, accounting for slightly more than half of the total population. Jamie Holbrook stood in the school’s Common area, feeling a bit of trepidation. She was quite attractive, many would say cute. Petite, slender, and a Ginger, Jamie stood only 5 feet, 2 inches (157 cm) tall and weighed around 108 pounds (49 kg) if she were soaking wet and had a brick in her pocket. Jamie’s alabaster skin was dotted with freckles, and she wore her red hair in twin braids. Behind her oval-rimmed glasses, her green eyes were focused on the pristine white envelope she held. She was about to see what the future held when a piercing shriek resonated through the Commons. Apparently, Chelsea Taylor, known as the Queen of Mean, had received her results. Chelsea was one of those kids that had everything handed to them, and didn’t know what honest work even was. Chelsea’s family was wealthy, and she herself was stunningly beautiful. Tall and blonde, she knew how gorgeous she was, which was probably the root of her long list of character defects. She was an entitled, spoiled brat that thought she was better than everyone else and frequently asked if they knew who she was or who her father was and had tormented Jamie’s small circle of friends from as early as First Grade. Like Jamie, Chelsea came from a long line of Neutrals, so the results of her being a Neutral as well were all but guaranteed. Furious, she stomped up to the lab technicians that had been charged with distributing the test results. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? There is NO WAY this is right! Do you not even know how to run a blood test?” she demanded to a woman wearing a lab coat, her black hair in a tight bun. “I’m sorry, Miss…” “Taylor! CHELSEA TAYLOR! Do you know who I am?” This kind of scene was all too common on Classification Day. When someone couldn’t accept what their test results were, the responses were usually grief or extreme anger. One could teach a college level course on the Five Stages of Grief simply by observing students on Classification Day. Clearly, Chelsea was still in the first stage: Denial. The lab tech had seen this exact scene play out time and time again, a scene Jamie was watching. “No, Miss Taylor, I don’t know who you are. What seems to be the problem?” the tech asked, knowing perfectly well what the problem was. Right on cue, Chelsea moves into the second stage: Anger. “It’s these bullshit results! Level 1 Little? With all the Neutrals in my family? How could you get something so simple this wrong?” she shouted. Blinded by her anger, the Queen of Mean had no idea she had just spilled the most delicious tea that this class of Seniors had ever heard as she continued her tirade. Chelsea was one of those unpopular popular girls that was firmly entrenched in the top 5% of the social hierarchy, with the other 95% hating her due to her entitled attitude and Godzilla-sized superiority complex. Jamie noted that Chelsea had moved into the third stage: Bargaining. She was making good progress. If she had applied herself this much to her studies, the academic world would be losing quite the scholar with her soon transitioning into a Level 1 Little. “There…there has to be some mistake, right? This isn’t supposed to happen, maybe….maybe you could run the tests again?” The lab technician sighed heavily. This part was never easy. “Miss Taylor, I understand that these results are upsetting, it’s only natural. However, I can assure you that, as difficult as this is to hear, they are accurate. Our testing is exhaustive, the results triple-checked for accuracy. However….” the tech writes down a number on a sticky note and gives it to the fallen princess. “If you call this number you can request further review. For now, I suggest you report to the Nurse’s office, as you will need to be properly diapered before you leave here, you will begin to see changes very soon, so you had best be prepared. Good day.” Jamie couldn't believe what she had just witnessed. Where was this lab tech all her life to smack Chelsea down when she was….well, being Chelsea? The now-deposed Queen of Mean lowered her head for probably the first time in her life and shuffled by Jamie and a few other onlookers, having moved on to the fourth stage: Depression. All of them wore expressions of sympathy and pity. Chelsea was a bitch, sure, but nobody deserved this. Her life was essentially over, she would spend the rest of her days as a gurgling infant. The only upside being that she would more than likely no longer remember what she had lost as she endlessly emptied jars of baby food and filled her diapers. She glared at Jamie and hissed “I suppose you think that’s funny?” Before Jamie could respond with something even remotely decent, that any normal human with a shred of compassion or empathy would say, her best friend in the world, Leon, showed that he had woken up today and chosen violence. Leon Black was as nice a guy as you’d ever meet. A loyal and protective friend with long blonde hair and blue eyes, he was always trying to get Jamie to laugh. However, he had a tongue that could cut like a surgeon’s scalpel, and he wielded it with similar precision. He wasn’t one of the popular kids, which is why he and Jamie were friends. That said, nobody messed with him for fear of getting flayed to the bone by his lightning wit. By Sophomore year, he had turned so many of his classmates who had tested him into laughingstocks, the kids that liked to pick on others had decided it was best to just leave him alone. Leon was a wordsmith, and he did not hesitate to serve a plate of gourmet roast to people that clearly had it coming. The boy had simply never met a bear he didn’t want to poke with a sharp stick. Luckily, Leon could also fight, so his fists could cash the checks his mouth wrote. “Come on now, Chelsea, it’s not that bad! I mean, you’ve had people waiting on you hand and foot your whole life, what’s even gonna change,” Leon paused to take a sip of his soda, “besides your diapers, that is?” he said, the brazen teenager clearly getting payback for all these years of Chelsea making their lives tough. Chelsea couldn’t believe it, that this smartass…..NOBODY….would dare speak to HER like that. She opened her mouth to respond, but thought twice and instead launched a slap at Leon’s face. Unfortunately for Chelsea, Leon’s reflexes were almost as quick as his wit, and he swayed back out of range, the Queen of Mean’s attack completely missing him. “Hey! We don’t hit!” Leon shouted in the same tone a parent would use to admonish an unruly child. “Don’t worry Chelsea, no doubt Gucci makes some really cute onesies and frilly diaper covers. You’ll be just as fashionable as ever, I’m sure!” Rather than continue her fruitless battle against an unconquerable foe, Chelsea concedes defeat, but not before making one last attempt to save some of her soon-to-be nonexistent dignity, once her days became focused on bottles, burping, baths, and blowouts. “If someone like ME is Level 1,” she spat, “Then there is no way that a smart-mouthed, evolutionary dead end like you could possibly be anything else but Level 1 as well.” She then turned on her heel and stormed off towards the Nurse’s Office, where further humiliation in the form of a thick, fluffy diaper awaited her. “Aight, cool, see you at daycare!” Leon called after the departing Chelsea, who paused for a second, then continued on, having clearly entered into the final stage of grief: Acceptance. Jamie, who had been holding her laughter, immediately started in on Leon. She began playfully swatting at her razor-tongued best friend as she laughingly scolded him as she so often found herself doing. “You asshole….you unbelievable asshole,” she said, her voice a loud whisper mixed with laughter. “Chelsea’s as awful as they come, but not even she deserved that! What if YOU end up Level 1?” After parrying the last of Jamie’s assault, Leon grins and laughs before speaking. “Bitch please, I could be classed a Level -100, and revert to a sperm cell they have to inject back into my old man’s nutsack, and that would have still been worth it. If I’m a Level 1, I would meet my fate proudly, for I have at long last slain the Queen of Mean, and now I am awaited in Valhalla. I shall ride eternal, shiny and chrome.” Leon says while posing dramatically with his easy, warm laugh, referencing the film Mad Max: Fury Road. “WITNESS ME!” This is why Jamie loved Leon’s rogueish charm. He treated her as the little sister he never had, even though they were the same age. He always knew how to make her laugh. “You…are SUCH a prick.” Jamie retorted, letting some of her own laughter free of the pit she was forced to banish it to. “Don’t you know Little Abuse is illegal? Forget prison, you’re going to HELL, and I’m going with you for saying this, but that was awesome, Leon.” She couldn’t explain why, but she felt nervous today. At the start of the day, she wasn’t worried about her results. She came from a line of Neutrals even longer than Chelsea, but with what happened to her, a small seed of fear had crept into her heart. “You got your results?” she asked her friend. “Right here,” Leon said, holding up his white envelope. Leon’s family had a pretty good variety of Littles, Neutrals, and Caregivers, so there was a very real chance that he would end up in daycare with Chelsea. For all his cavalier attitude and jovial nature, Jamie knew her friend better than anyone. He was terrified, his joking and boasting a cover. Leon was no fool, he knew what was at stake here. He took a deep breath, and tore the envelope open. With shaking hands, he unfolded the sheet of paper. Leon read the document, his eyebrows raised, then furrowed. Jamie respected Leon’s privacy enough to refrain from trying to peek at the sheet he was reading, but the confusion he felt was unmistakable. “Dude….what the….what the hell?” he asked rhetorically. “Leon, what does it say, man? I know it doesn’t take that long to read one word and maybe a number,” Jamie said. In response, Leon flipped the paper around so Jamie could read it. Written plainly on the sheet was Leon’s Classification: BLACK, LEON JAMES: CAREGIVER. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Jamie said, surprised but not that much. “I don’t get it,” Leon said, more confused than anything else. “I’m a soulless monster, not a Caregiver.” Jamie rolled her eyes and sighed, her frustration with her clueless friend peaking. “Dude, have you just not been paying attention for like, your ENTIRE life? Looking back, you’ve had Caregiver signs the whole time I’ve known you.” Jamie said. Leon’s confusion has not yet been pierced. “That’s crazy, what do you mean?” “Well, think about it, you’ve been looking out for me for as long as I’ve known you. When we were kids, and your mom would take us to the pool, who kept on me to keep applying sunscreen so my little Ginger ass wouldn’t get cooked? It was you, Leon. That time in 3rd grade when I forgot my lunch, you shared yours with me. When I stayed over at your house, and that big storm knocked out the power, and I was freaking out because I’m scared of the dark, who was there for me? You, stupid. When I broke my arm Freshman year, you carried my books. Who picks me up every morning for school because I don’t have a driver’s license? You.” “That’s because you’re my best friend, Jamie. You know I love you and I got your back, right?” Leon retorted. “It’s more than that man, you take care of EVERYONE. Yes, you’re an asshole with a smart mouth that I am REALLY surprised hasn’t gotten you killed at this point, but that’s just a front. I KNOW you, we can’t hide from each other. When it REALLY counts, when it REALLY matters, you come through 10 times out of 10. You’re a freakin’ rock, dude,” Jamie explains. Leon nods as he recalls all the moments Jamie reminded him of and realizes that she is right. “Yeah…you’re right, you’re SO right. I’ve always just wanted to help, I guess now I know why.” “Duh.” is all Jamie says. She hands her envelope to Leon. “Here, open that and tell me I’m a Neutral.” Leon takes the envelope and chuckles, “Yeah, right,” he says while opening Jamie’s envelope. After opening the sheet of paper containing the biggest non-spoiler in the history of Classification Day, Leon’s eyes widen for just a moment, then he gets a devilish grin on his face. “You want your results? Come get ‘em!” he says as he takes off down the hallway, away from the Commons. What Jamie doesn’t see are the tears in Leon’s eyes as she takes off after him, shouting “HEY! NO FAIR!” Leon leads Jamie to an empty part of the school hallways, not far from where their former lockers now stand empty, and comes to a stop. Jamie catches up, grinning, and punches him on the arm. “Dick,” she says with a laugh. She takes a moment to catch her breath, and notices that Leon isn’t laughing, he ALWAYS laughs his fool head off when teasing her like this. The seed of fear in Jamie’s heart has now taken root. “Hey man, what’s your problem, what’s….Leon…what’s going on?” she asks, worried. Jamie has known Leon long enough to where she knows when he is and is not messing with her, and the rogueish trickster’s demeanor is completely serious. He takes Jamie’s hand into his and looks into her green eyes. “Jamie, I brought you here because I didn’t want you to find out in the Commons and act up like Chelsea. You’re a Little,” he says, his heart breaking for the cute redheaded girl that has been his best friend from the time they met. They had never even considered dating, because they were too much like brother and sister and didn’t want to make it weird. “I’m sorry.” “What? That’s stupid, I’m gonna get you for screwing with me like this, and I’m ESPECIALLY gonna fuck you up for making me run, and…” Leon cuts Jamie off by simply shoving the piece of paper with her Classification into her hands so she can see for herself. There it was, in plain black and white, unmistakable and final: HOLBROOK, JAMIE LYNN: LEVEL 2/ LEVEL 3 HYBRID LITTLE What little color Jamie naturally possesses in her face vanishes, her features as pale as moonlight. She wasn’t going to shout and curse like Chelsea, but it still didn’t seem real. Her family had been “Oops, All Neutrals” for so long she had begun to question if she even HAD a CGL Gene. With all the subtlety of a haymaker to the face, Jamie now knows that she does, and she knows her CGL Gene’s plans for her future. As the inevitable tears begin to fall, Leon wraps his arms around the petite redhead. Standing at an even 6 feet tall, 10 inches taller than Jamie, he engulfs her in his arms and holds her head close to his chest. At this moment, Leon realizes that he truly is a Caregiver. His heart is torn to shreds for his friend, as he tries to remember lessons and protocol that he only half paid attention to in class. “It’s ok, Jamie, it’s ok, I’m here.” Leon didn’t know much about this whole Hybrid business, but what he DID know was that every Little was sent home in either a diaper or a Pull Up. Accidents were quite common, especially with the anxiety and heightened emotions the Classification of Little tended to cause. Leon knew that the Nurse’s Office was their next destination, before Jamie had an accident herself. Jamie had begun to panic, her breathing becoming shallow and ragged as tears continued to stream down her face. Her voice is meek and timid as she looks up to her friend that could continue to take his first steps into adulthood, while she would never get the chance. Instead, Jamie would be returning to the days of having her diaper changed and early bedtimes. “Leon…what am I gonna do? My dad…he….he HATES L-Littles. He’s a meanie, always…saying such awful things, and…and, there are no Caregivers in my f-f-family to…to take care of m-me. I don’t wanna wear a diaper….” Jamie says between her sobs, her last statement close to whining. Leon can’t explain it, but he KNOWS what to do. His instincts guide him, and he tightens his embrace on Jamie and softly reassures her while stroking the back of her head. “Shhhhhh…..it’s okay, I’ve got you, sweetie. Just listen to my heartbeat, ok? Maybe this Hybrid stuff means you won’t need diapers or something. There’s some Level 3 in your Classification too, you know? We can ask the School Nurse when we see her. Let’s catch our breath, and go there now, think you can do that for me?” he asks, his voice a gentle caress. It becomes clear to Leon from Jamie’s recent use of “no fair” and “meanie” that she is already showing signs of the early stages of her transition, and what she asks him next galvanizes his assessment. “Why?” she asks him timidly. “You know why, Jamie,” he responds. “She’s gonna want to DIAPER me, I don’t need it, I’m not a baby,” she says indignantly. “I know, but they won’t let you leave without protection. I know you don’t need it, but we have to see the nurse. Let’s see if we can get by with a Pull Up, ok?” Leon says to try and placate his friend. “No. I don’t want to. I don’t…” she begins before Leon cuts her off. “Jamie,” he says firmly, “this isn’t something you can refuse. Look, if you fight and try to delay, you’ll only be proving that you DO need to be in a diaper. However, if you play along and don’t fuss, I’ll bet you the Nurse will think a Pull Up is all you’ll need. Come on, honey, work with me here and let’s split the difference, ok?” Jamie hated this so much. She hated how scared and alone she felt, she hated that she had to impose on Leon like this, and most of all, she hated that he was right. She sniffled one last time as she somehow managed to bring her tears under control, and nodded in agreement. “You….you won’t tell anyone what I’m wearing, will you?” Jamie asks sadly. Taking Jamie by the hand and gently leading the stunned, unsteady girl towards the Nurse’s Office, Leon shakes his head. “Come on now, you have to know that I’d never do that to you. We’ve kept each other’s secrets for years, why would I stop now?” “It’s not gonna be a secret for long…” Jamie says, feeling a pout coming on. Leon nods. “Well, when you're right, you're right I suppose. We can deal with that later. For now, it IS still a secret from everyone except you, me, and pretty soon the nurse, so let’s take advantage of the distraction Chelsea so generously provided to make a clean getaway.” Jamie nods as the two friends approach the Nurse’s Office. Mercifully, it is nearly deserted, as all the other Littles have reported in and gone home. Jamie realizes that Leon’s little prank of running off with her Classification results wasn’t just to lure her away so she could hear the news privately. He did it to give the crowd of new Littles needing diapered time to thin out at the Nurse’s Office, so that Jamie could face this trial free of prying eyes and have just a few precious extra moments to prepare herself. Such a shame, she thought, that he wouldn’t be eligible to adopt a Little for several years. He was taking to the role wonderfully, even at this early stage. Still holding Jamie by the hand, who by now has assumed the timid demeanor of a child in trouble, Leon opens the door and gently guides her in. The school nurse, seated at her desk and tapping away at her computer, no doubt updating the student medical files with their new Classifications, looks up at the newcomers. “Well, I thought all the new Littles had already all been seen,” she says in a friendly manner as she gets up and approaches Leon and Jamie. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this over with as soon as possible. Can I please see your Classifications so I know what to get you?” Leon goes first, showing his Classification papers. “Uh, I’m just here to help. You know, support my best friend through a tough time?” he says. The nurse smiles warmly at the kindhearted (but acid-tongued) young man just beginning his journey. “I can already see that you’re going to be a wonderful Caregiver, Mr. Black. If you choose to adopt a Little when you’re able, it’s the most wonderful thing. It isn’t always easy, but it is very rewarding,” she says while Leon nods and subtly steps back while nudging Jamie forward. Figuring out that she’ll need to diaper Jamie, based on the crestfallen teenager’s silence and very noticeable desire to hide, she feels a great swell of pity for the cute redheaded girl. The nurse loved caring for Littles, but seeing them on Classification Day, when they had just had their entire lives upended and their futures rewritten, stolen, some would say, was the absolute worst part of the job. It killed Caregivers like herself to see these kids at this moment, when they needed a hug the most but were still too proud or angry to accept it. “Thank you, Mr. Black, I’ll take it from here. If you could wait outside and close the door, I’ll have your friend ready to go in no time at all. Isn’t that right, Ms…..” Jamie stood silently before realizing that was her cue to speak. “Oh...um…H-Holbrook. J-Jamie Holbrook” she says as she raises her arm to hand over her Classification paperwork. Jamie breaks down in tears and confesses “I’m a Little….” The Nurse’s Caregiver skills and instincts are so finely tuned she has Jamie wrapped in a hug before she can finish her statement, hoping to head off a major breakdown. Jamie does not resist, instead returning the Nurse’s gesture. “Hey, hey, it’s ok, sweetheart, it’s ok. I know everything seems so hard right now, and you may not believe me, but it does get better. It really does, I promise you.” The Nurse takes a look at the shaking, sobbing teenager’s paperwork while still holding on to her. She raises an eyebrow at the unusual Classification results. “A Hybrid? I’m sure that’s very confusing, but it’s not unheard of. Now, let’s get you all set, I imagine you’d like to get home and get some rest, hmm? It’s been a pretty big day after all, but it’s almost over. All the buses will have left by the time we’re done here, so do you have a way to get home safely?” the Nurse asks as she disengages the embrace and takes a step back to size up Jamie. She measures the new Little visually to see what size and style of diaper is right for her. Managing to bring her sobbing under control, Jamie answers the Nurse’s question. “Uh…yeah. M-my friend, Leon, he’s who I came in with. He…he picks me up for school and takes me home. He’s…he’s really good to me. I uh, I don’t have a driver’s license.” The Nurse steps over to a cabinet and opens it. Predictably, it is filled with various kinds of diapers in various sizes. She continues the conversation as she starts extracting various supplies. “Well, that’s for the best. All Littles have their driver’s licenses rescinded when they register as Littles, so that’s one less thing for you to worry about. Okay sweetheart, I need you to get your shoes and pants off, then hop up here so we can get this done” she says, patting the examination table and holding a plain white diaper that Jamie did not doubt would fit her perfectly. “FUCK! This is it!” Jamie thinks to herself as her fight or flight response chooses flight. She backs away from the table, stammering. “W-w-w-wait…just….just a minute…..” she squeaks out. They always did this, every one, every time. As soon as that diaper comes into play, the desperation kicks in. The Nurse sighs, her heart aching for this scared young girl. Still, she didn’t have time for this. “Jamie, honey, I know that this is really upsetting, but I also know that you know that this is going to happen, one way or another. Think of your friend, Leon. Do you really want to have an accident in his car while he’s taking you home, after he’s been so good to you and helped you get through today?” Jamie, threatened with the diaper, jumps at the Pull Up. “I know…it’s just….I’m not ready. I know everyone says that, but….can…can I have a Pull Up instead?” Jamie asks. “Jamie, your Classification is as a Level 2 and 3 Hybrid. We don’t know which aspects are going to be at what levels. It’s too early to say what kind of protection you’ll need, if any. I just want to play it safe, and start at the top. If it’s more than you need, you can step down to something lighter, and there won’t be any messes to clean up. Work with me here, sweetie. These are actually really soft and comfortable once you get used to them. I have to get SOMETHING on your bottom before you can go” the Nurse reasons, trying to lower Jamie’s anxiety before she suffers an embarrassing accident. “I know….I know, you’re right. It’s…just…can’t we go in the opposite direction? Start at the bottom with what goes on my bottom, and I can go up if I need it? I’ll clean up any messes, honest,” she pleads. The Nurse finds what Jamie says next absolutely soul crushing. “Please…please let me pretend I’m still a big girl for a little while longer…” The Nurse’s Caregiver instincts take over, seeing a way for Jamie to salvage at least some dignity from the situation while still getting the adequate protection the redheaded Little requires. “Ok Jamie, we’ll do things your way,” she says, seeing Jamie’s expression brighten just a little bit by the Nurse letting her have her way. “Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to give you a Pull Up, and I want you to put it on. While you’re doing that, I’m going to put a little starter kit together for you. I’ll give you a few diapers, some Pull Ups, wipes, and powder. This will give you a better idea of what you’ll need when you go to the Little supply store. You can wear what you want, but promise me that if those Pull Ups aren’t enough, you’ll change into a diaper. Tonight, when you go to bed, I want you to strongly consider a diaper. Most Littles need more protection during the night, so please just work with me here, ok honey?” Jamie nods eagerly, ready to comply if it will keep her out of diapers for even a few more hours. She hops up on the examination table, and begins to untie her shoes. As she kicks off her sneakers, the Nurse wordlessly glides by and places an unfolded Pull Up on the table, remaining close in the event her aid is required. Jamie stands, and unbuttons her pants before sliding them down her legs, leaving her in just her t-shirt, socks, and panties. Jamie picks up the clean white Pull Up and examines it, but can’t quite figure out which side goes in the back. She looks to the Nurse, her expression asking for help. “It’s like this, this mark here on the waistband goes in the back, and the longer parts of the stretchy sides are also meant to go in the back, see?” She says before continuing her lesson on basic Pull Up features. “The seams on the side are tear-away, so it’s easy to take off once it gets wet.” She runs her hands up through the leg holes, and stretches the absorbent underpants out while kneeling down. “Now, take off your panties, and step in, please” Still preferring this to an outright diapering, Jamie slips her underwear down her legs and steps into the Pull Up. The Nurse slides it up her legs, and pulls it up tight against Jamie’s petite frame. She then shows the Ginger Little how to run her fingers along the leak guards to make sure those are sitting properly. Jamie is mortified, but complies nonetheless, knowing what the alternative is. “There we are, all snug and protected, as all Littles should be,” the Nurse says with a smile as Jamie bashfully examines her new underwear and moves to get accustomed to the feel. “Feels like…like a really big pad,” Jamie says, wincing. “Still, it’s not so bad. You were right, it does feel really soft.” “See? I told you it would be ok.” the Nurse says as Jamie pulls her jeans back on over the Pull Up and buttons her pants. She then picks her shoes up and finds a chair, and quickly slips them back on before tying the laces. As she is busy with her shoes, the Nurse comes over with a box. “4 Pull Ups and 4 diapers in your size, powder, and wipes. You will need to get to a Little supply store and get some diapers either tomorrow or the next day. I know this seems like a lot, but it can run out really fast if your potty control slips too far, and the Pull Ups aren’t enough. So once you have a general idea of what you need, get to the store, ok honey?” the Nurse tells a furiously blushing Jamie as she hands the box over. As Jamie turns to finally leave, the Nurse has one last thing for the new Little: a red lollipop. “Here, take this as a reward for not fussing too much, I promise it will make you feel better. You can even have it right now,” guessing from Jamie’s shy behavior that she will be the kind of Little that likes to be given permission. Jamie takes the lollipop and thanks the Nurse for her help. She’s still embarrassed to have been essentially diapered by the gentle Caregiver, but knows that in the back of her mind, in the places she rarely has the bravery to go, she’s right. She unwraps her reward and begins to suck on the sweet red candy, and in spite of herself, must admit that it is both very tasty and is already beginning to calm her frayed nerves as she moves to exit the office and rejoin Leon. What she does not know is that the candy is actually laced with a mild anti-anxiety medication meant to calm new Littles on this, the first day of their new lives, and make them better able to handle the difficult conversations and harsh truths that are to come.

Introduction Jamie McDougle, heir to his father’s billion-dollar empire, wasted two years of college by partying and skipping class. Rather than going to class, he funded massive parties on his father’s yacht. He took it out to international waters to avoid legal complications. Pacific Coast University was ready to expel him, but then his father intervened. With a gift of over a million dollars, plus a promise of a much larger gift after Jamie passes the bar, he was let back into school. But only on the condition that he joins a special program for students who aren’t ready for college. It’s called Behavior, Regression and Academic Training, or BRAT. The premise is: if you act like a child, we’ll treat you like one.