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I still remember the exact moment I stopped being Dave and became nothing but a ridiculed, leaking sissy baby girl in front of the man who was about to claim my wife. Carolyn had spent the entire day preparing the house, and me. She laid out the outfit on the bed like a wedding dress from hell: the thickest Rearz princess diaper money could buy (already unfolded and sprinkled liberally with baby powder so the scent would announce me before I even walked into a room). Over that came gleaming, crinkly plastic panties trimmed with four rows of cascading white lace. Then the dress: a blinding bubblegum-pink satin confection with a massive built-in petticoat that forced the skirt to flare out obscenely, the hem barely reaching the tops of my thighs. Puffy cap sleeves, a white lace bib collar embroidered with the word “BABY” in glittering rhinestones, and a back zipper she made me beg her to pull while she recorded it on her phone. She finished the look with knee-high white socks that had three rows of ruffled lace, patent pink Mary Janes with tiny silver bells that jingled with every waddling step, and an enormous satin hair bow the size of a dinner plate. Finally she clipped an oversized pink pacifier to the front of the dress with a ribbon that read “SISSY DAISY” in glittery letters. My face was already streaked with humiliated tears when she forced me to drink two full baby bottles of water laced with diuretic, then taped the swollen, already-damp diaper extra tight so there was no chance I’d stay dry for long. At 7:15 the doorbell rang. Carolyn made me open it myself. I toddled to the front door on trembling legs, the bells on my shoes announcing my approach like a leper’s bell. I opened it to find Mark leaning against the frame, arms crossed, smirking down at me. “Well, fuck me,” he laughed, loud enough for the neighbors across the street to hear. “You really are just a pathetic little diapered fairy, aren’t you?” Carolyn appeared behind me in a skin-tight red dress that left nothing to the imagination. She kissed Mark deeply right there on the doorstep, her tongue visible, while I stood frozen in my frills. “Tell him, Daisy,” she ordered, pinching the back of my neck. “Tell Mark exactly what you begged me for on your knees last week.” My voice cracked like a little girl’s. “I—I begged Mommy Carolyn to replace me with a real man while I watch in my wet diapers and sissy baby dress. I begged to be forced to fluff you and clean you both and have everyone find out what a pathetic excuse for a husband I am.” Mark reached down and flipped the front of my tiny dress up, exposing the bulging, already-yellowed diaper for the entire street to see. He gave the sodden padding a loud, wet smack that echoed. “Jesus, it’s already pissed itself,” he announced, laughing. “Come on, baby girl, show me where Mommy keeps the toys.” They marched me into the living room. Carolyn had set up ring lights and three different phones on tripods, all recording in 4K. A large pink playpen sat in the center of the room with a sign on it: “Daisy’s Time-Out Corner.” Mark sat on the couch and spread his legs. Carolyn pushed me to my knees between them, my dress riding up so my plastic panties and soaked diaper were on full display to the cameras. “Time to get Mark ready for your wife, sissy. Show him how grateful you are.” I sobbed openly as I took him into my mouth, the bells on my shoes jingling with every bob of my head. Carolyn narrated the entire thing for the recording. “Look at my little Daisy, everyone. This is what she begged for, remember that. She wrote me pages and pages about wanting to be a cocksucking, diaper-wetting baby while a real man breeds her wife.” Mark grabbed my bow and used it like a handle, forcing himself deeper until I gagged and drooled rivers down my chin onto the lace bib. When he was rock hard and slick, he pulled out and slapped my tear-streaked face with his cock. “Thank me, baby girl.” “Thank you for letting a pathetic diaper baby taste a real man’s cock, Sir,” I whimpered. Carolyn stripped naked and lay back on the couch, legs over Mark’s shoulders. She made me hold her hand like a supportive girlfriend while he entered her in one brutal thrust. She moaned louder than I’d ever heard in fifteen years of marriage. I was positioned on all fours right next to them, face inches from where he was stretching her, forced to watch every stroke while my soaked diaper squished beneath me. Every few minutes Carolyn would reach down and squeeze the front of my diaper, laughing. “Feel how full baby is getting? She always leaks when she watches real sex.” When Mark finally came, he pulled out and shot the last few ropes across my face and open mouth while Carolyn filmed a close-up. Then came cleanup. I lapped her clean while she stroked my hair and cooed, “Good little cuckold baby. This is your new job.” Afterward, the real humiliation began. Carolyn made me kneel in the playpen holding a large white board that read in my own handwriting: “My name is Daisy. I am a diapered sissy baby who begged my wife Carolyn to cuckold me with a real man because my tiny clitty can’t satisfy her. I sucked his superior cock and watched him breed her. I am wearing a soaked diaper and baby dress because this is all I’m good for. Please laugh at me and share these photos so everyone knows the truth.” Mark took hundreds of photos from every degrading angle: face covered in cum and tears, dress flipped up, diaper sagging to my knees, pacifier in mouth, the sign clearly visible. One particularly soul-destroying shot had me on my back in the playpen, legs in the air like a real toddler getting changed, while both of them pointed and laughed. By 11 p.m. the posts were live. Carolyn created a new public Instagram, Twitter, and FetLife account all titled @RealDaisyExposed. The first post, already pinned, was a ten-photo carousel with full captions: “Many of you have asked why I stepped out on my husband Dave. Here’s your answer. Meet Daisy (she/her). She begged for every second of this. Please share widely so nobody ever thinks I’m the bad guy, I’m just giving my little girl exactly what she needs. Diaper checks in the comments encouraged.” Within an hour the photos were everywhere: my coworkers’ group chat, our neighborhood Facebook group, my sister’s family thread, even emailed directly to my boss with the subject line “HR might want to see this.” Comments poured in by the thousands: • “Holy shit that’s actually Dave??” • “Look at the size of that diaper LMAO” • “Tag your friends who need to see this” • “Permanent baby girl now, no going back” Carolyn curled up with Mark on the couch, scrolling through the notifications while I sat locked in the playpen, soaked, sticky, bells jingling every time I sobbed. She looked over at me and smiled, sweet as poison. “You begged for forever, Daisy. Congratulations. As of tonight, Dave is legally dead. From now on, every single person who ever knew you will only ever know the ridiculous, cocksucking, diaper-wetting little girl in the viral photos.” She blew me a kiss. “Sleep tight, baby. Tomorrow we’re going to the mall for your first public outing in the stroller. The whole internet wants to meet you in person.” And as another thousand shares rolled in, the bells on my Mary Janes jingling with every terrified shiver, I finally understood: Daisy wasn’t just exposed. Daisy was eternal.

I've been wearing nappies and baby clothes for as long as I can remember. My mother used to put me back into nappies when I was a child as a punishment, and that continued well into my teens.