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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.

Not sure how well this idea will work. I just started it as a break from (very) long stories. Should only be 5-6 chapters, I think (Edit: looks like it might be a bit longer than that, but not too long). Opinions very much welcome. Goodbye “We’re only a phone call away. Or a text. Any kind of problems, just give us a call.” “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be fine.” “He means it, you know. You never have to be ‘fine’, you don’t have to put up with anything. Give us a call, any time, and your dad will be right over there to pick you up.” “Yes, Mum. I know.” “It’s not too late to change your mind if you’re scared, you know. You don’t have to do this, most of those people on the Internet never come out of their bedrooms anyway.” “Yes, Mum,” Imogen answered, her patience already beginning to wear thin. “But I volunteered to help. With the backstage stuff for the broadcast.” “But y–” “And I’m not scared, I’m excited. I’ve been looking forward to this for months.” “But what if you have trouble with all those bags? Will you be able to find the hotel? Will you–” “I’m twenty-two Dad, not twelve. And Professor Kent is going to meet me at the station to make sure I get there okay.” “You should show your father more respect, Imogen. And are you sure you can trust this man? How do you know he’s a real professor? It could be anyone, when you talk to him on the Internet. How do you know he won’t try to…” “Mum,” Imogen said, as firmly as she dared. “We’ve been over this before. There will be more than a hundred people from OGC at the conference, it’s not like I’m rushing off to meet with someone I barely know. I’ve been talking to him for months, and he’s never shown any interest in anything beyond how to solve sudoku puzzles. And how to set them. I’m just one of his students, and I’ll be there with all the others.” “We talked to that Jessie girl,” her dad added. “She was excited about this class too, and she sounded pretty grounded. You know, for someone on the spectrum.” “Dad,” Imogen growled, just a little exasperated. “It’s great that you finally caught up with the current terminology, but you still use it like an insult. Jessie is a friend, more than anything. We’re going to look after each other. And I’m going to be helping to look after the younger members. You don’t have to worry about me, I promise.” “But you’re meeting this guy, how do you know–” “Mum, please! I’m not ‘meeting’ anyone. I’m going to a conference for members of an online community I’ve put hundreds of hours into, and that’s introduced me to an intellectually stimulating hobby. I’m going to see a lot of people there, but it’s an organised event. You know that, you’ve called up enough of the organisers, trying to micro-manage every little detail that I could have sorted out when I got there.” “A normal person could have sorted it out.” The tone said so much more than her words could. “But you need–” “And I’m not normal, mum? Huh?” “You’re special, Immy. And we love you very much, but other people might not understand. You should show a little more–” “Yes, thank you, mum. But I can do it myself, if you just give me a chance. And–” She paused, holding up a finger when she saw her mum preparing to speak again. “And it’s time for my train now. I’m organised, I’m grown up, and I’ve had all this planned for months. So if you really want to help me, you wouldn’t be trying to make me late now.” Imogen turned, picked up her bags, and walked briskly towards the ticket barriers that would quickly separate her from her parents. They kept talking once she left, of course, probably telling her that she needed their help, but she was done listening. She needed them to know that she could do this by herself. And more than anything, she needed not to miss this train. She put one bag down while she scanned her ticket in front of the sensor, and the little gate opened to let her onto the platform. Then she grabbed the bag as quickly as she could, and hurried forward. Her parents were still behind her, but thankfully there was a member of staff standing right there. The slogan on his tabard and the leaflets in his hand said that he was just trying to convince people about the financial benefits of a season ticket, but for all their stubbornness Imogen’s parents weren’t likely to try barging through the barriers after her right next to a man in uniform. “I’ll read it on the train,” she said, accepting one of the leaflets. She could see, once she was inside the station, that it was already waiting at the platform, so she could just gesture vaguely and run towards it. Rail company employees would never try to “and another thing” someone running for a train. Twenty minutes later, she had managed to stow most of her bags in a luggage rack at the end of the carriage, and the last one just about fitted under her seat. She breathed a long sigh of relief, and glanced out of the window as the station, and the town, slowly started to slide past. Her parents were probably running along the edge of the parking lot, waving to her through the fence, but she couldn’t see them from here. For the first time in a long while, Imogen felt free. She sat there, thinking about the trip ahead. She was going to a sudoku convention, that was simple enough. And they were trying to make a sudoku-themed gameshow, like the kind of thing that might have been on daytime TV in the ‘90s, as part of the proceedings. She was nervous about that, and hoped it would succeed. And of course a more standard speed-solving competition, which she thought a streaming service had already picked up the rights to, and which was helping to fund this big meet-up. It was all exciting, but there were no unknowns there, so it was something she could easily deal with. She was going to meet people she only knew as names on a screen, and that would be more complex. Not because she was afraid of any of those people; nobody could be truly malevolent with a heart so packed full with mathematics. But her own lack of knowledge scared her a little. There were probably only a dozen people on there who had pictures on their profiles or their own video channels where she had seen their faces. She would be very surprised if someone she mentally pigeonholed as an elderly academic turned out to be thirteen, or something, but she was well aware it was a surprise she deserved. As much as she wanted to think of these people as her friends, she only knew them by their puzzles, their records, and the other hobbies that came up in conversation. Young or old, male or female, for most of her friends she was just guessing. And as much as she didn’t think those things were really important, she was sure that she would find herself doing a double-take at least once during the weekend, because one of her closest friends was very different from the person she imagined. Professor Kent, Dan, was one of the people she was sure she didn’t have to worry about. Idle rumours about him having less-than-wholesome interests didn’t scare her. She trusted him absolutely and without question. Her first messages to him had probably been something to cringe over; a suggestion that they would one day become good friends because screen names like Imogenation and Dangineer suggested a similar way of looking at the world. But over the last couple of years she had started to pay more and more attention to his posts, and to the tutorials and tips he shared. He was a genius, there was no doubt about that. Half the community seemed to idolise him for setting skills that left mere mortals in the dust, especially when it came to his favourite quirk, symmetrical puzzles. And he hadn’t ignored her after that first awkward message. Over time they had talked so much, shared so many stories, and sympathised with each other’s problems. They really had become friends, so her prediction had been right after all. They were like the best of friends, even though they had never met face to face. Even though she only knew what he looked like because she had looked up some of his videos. He was an eccentric genius in the sudoku world, constructing weird puzzles with constraints that nobody else would think of, but in the real world he was a statistical anthropology lecturer at a well-respected university. And unlike the videos he posted about puzzle setting techniques, the recordings of his lectures shared on the university website showed his actual face, and drawings on an actual chalkboard rather than the vector graphics he preferred to use to convey his point. The best of friends. And she was sure that was all he wanted. Almost certain, anyway. He would never try to cross that line. He would never try to leverage authority, or trust, into an unearned intimacy in the way Imogen’s mother insisted any man would. But it was too easy to visualise how it might go if he did, and those images frequently cropped up when Imogen let her imagination wander. It had built up slowly, a feeling that never surprised her because it was never something new; but had been a big shock when she realised how long she had felt this way. It wasn’t anything lewd or tawdry, she had just started to notice that she felt happy whenever he came online. She eagerly anticipated his every word. She was delighted when he said her name, and his opinion mattered more to her than anyone else’s. And when some malicious rival on the forums had tried to spread rumours about him, accusing him of being into all kinds of dirty, kinky things under a different name, she had been among the first to defend his reputation. That was the problem. Bullies and rivals, people with fake names, they’d said that he shouldn’t be allowed to mentor minors on a respectable sudoku server because he was into awful, depraved things like ABDL, EMC, and MDLG. She hadn’t known what those letters even stood for, but had felt the need to defend Dan anyway. He was her friend, he couldn’t be into such objectionable practices. Or if he was then he kept it confined to a tiny corner of his life, where the people he talked to here would never even know about it. Why did it matter if a teacher was kinky, gay, or whatever; it wasn’t relevant unless he mentioned it in his tutorials, or tried to bring students into his kink, which nobody even claimed. Still, after too many arguments with people who didn’t need any evidence to justify hate, she had started to wonder what those acronyms actually meant. She had expected to find some brutal leather and latex fantasy that would disturb her so much, she would instantly be certain it wasn’t Dan’s cup of tea. But instead, she had spent a weekend reading about this alternate lifestyle, how people felt about it, and what it meant to them. It had taken a weekend to fully understand why it was such a big deal for so many people, but in just ten minutes she had known that she would never be able to look away. Now she could only hope. She could only dream that Dan was a real Daddy, and that he would understand if she tried to communicate to him what she wanted more than anything else. Her heart was racing now, just from thinking about what lay ahead. She was going to be on this train for an hour longer, and she still wouldn’t be close to meeting Dan, so she needed to calm down. And there was one thing that she knew would help with that. She glanced up and down the carriage, still mostly empty. There wouldn’t be many passengers beside her until they passed Springfield, at the earliest. She wondered if she should be feeling guilty about even considering this on a train, but she told herself that nobody would even know. After a long moment of indecision, she lifted out her ticket again and set it on the tray table in front of her, with her phone placed on one corner to hold it in place. That way, nobody would need to wake her just to check that she had actually paid for this journey. Another deep breath, and Imogen told herself that there was nothing wrong with this. She just needed to relax. She put her earbuds in, and returned the case to her pocket. She tapped at her phone, went into the media player and scrolled down until she found a file named ‘Lady Larsen — Perfect Toddler Trigger’. Just thinking about that recording excited her so much, but it was paradoxically perfect for helping her to relax on a long journey. She pressed play, locked her screen, and made sure that her phone was placed so it would hold her ticket still. And then she heard the chimes, and a voice telling her to relax as Lady Larsen counted down. Imogen’s eyes closed without thinking, sinking into the soft embrace of well-warn train seats, and before the count reached three her mind was already gone.

The child was just like any normal 9 year old child, he was in 4th grade in which she loved to read and is very good at long division. He/she likes school and seeing her friends but likes the weekends at home too where she doesn't usually have homework. His/her favorite color is pastel green. He/she loves watching Netflix and has a secret love for watching tv show for very little children even if they are "baby shows". He/she's currently working on reading an old book his mommy gave her called "harry potter" but still gets caught up on some big words. He/She also has a bit of an entitlement issue with being seen as a big boy since he's only about as big as the first and second graders and only just stopped sucking his thumb at night a few weeks ago. (Our RP starts as the little boy is doing his homework in the living room with train playing on the TV, the door bell rings his mommy answers the door to see the babysitter she had called for the night. This babysitter was different though and has promised to get her little boy to relax and enjoy being a "little" kid more.... I will play the adult characters.

Usually with commissions I don't start posting them here until the story is completed but the person I am writing for requested I post what I have written so far so I shall do so This is a re-write of an old story. The original story is here: http://thesissysnursery.blogspot.co.uk/2008/07/my-brother-ritchie-chapter-1-problem.html?m=1 Unfortunately I am not sure the author of the original, if anyone knows then let me know and I will edit it in here. This is a commission and if you are interested in a commission then feel free to send me a message. --- Subliminal Baby By Elfy “But mum, everyone is going on this trip.” Steven whined. He stomped his foot on the floor like a child much younger than himself, at 18-years-old he was a little too old to be having a tantrum but he couldn’t help himself. He was sick and tired of being told no when his older brother, Ritchie, was always told yes. “Steven, a skiing trip sounds very dangerous. I don’t think it would be a good idea for you.” Karen, Steven and Ritchie’s mother was sitting with her children at the dinner table. The three of them had just finished eating and Steven was telling her how much he wanted to go on this school trip, it had been the same every evening for the last week. “Mum, I’m not a baby!” Steven said throwing up his arms in frustration, “All my friends are going. I’m the only one who hasn’t handed in the permission slip.” “If you aren’t a baby then maybe you should stop acting like one.” Karen shot back. Ritchie, who had otherwise been sitting quietly, let out a bark of a laugh. He knew that his mum was overprotective of Steven and he found his little brother’s frustrations very amusing to watch. Ritchie was everything that Steven wasn’t. Steven was small and unassuming, Ritchie was bigger and had much more sporting ability which made him very popular around town. Steven, on the other hand, was much more at home alone in his room working on his computer. “Shut up, Ritchie!” Steven yelled across the table. “Steven! Don’t shout at your brother.” Karen said warningly. “Tell him not to laugh at me then.” Steven said banging his hands against the table and causing the cutlery to rattle. “If you are going to keep having a tantrum like a baby, I’ll give you a spanking just like one.” Karen warned. Steven was dumbfounded at the injustice. Ritchie was trying to keep a straight face but his shoulders moving up and down betrayed how funny he found the situation. When Steven saw this he felt his anger rising again. When Karen looked away for a moment, Ritchie mouth the word “baby” at Steven. Steven lost control of his emotions, he reached back and went to swing at his older brother but as he tried to bring his arm forward he felt someone grab him tightly. Caught off-balance he was pulled around the table and into the lap of his mother. To Steven’s shock and horror, his mother easily held him in place with one hand whilst with the other she started spanking hard. Ritchie stared across the table wide-eyed and open mouthed as his younger brother was spanked at the dinner table, he could barely contain the laughter that he felt bubbling up inside. Steven willed himself not to cry as his mother rained down blow after blow on her son. He was in shock as much as anything else, the spanking wasn’t too hard and it didn’t hurt a lot but the surprise of suddenly finding himself in this position stopped him from trying to stop what was happening before it was too late and his mother had gained a firm grip of him. “You do not hit your brother!” Karen said through gritted teeth, each word was punctuated by another smack. She didn’t seem to see the irony in punishing her son with spanking as a way to tell him not to hit others. Through eyes clouded with tears, Steven caught the eyes of his brother and could see the amusement in his face at the predicament Steven found himself in. Steven balled his hands into fists as he fought to keep himself from crying openly. The spanking wasn’t particularly painful but it was very embarrassing, especially when he was trying to argue that he wasn’t a baby. Just as Steven felt his composure slipping the spanking ended and he gingerly picked himself up. Without a word he turned and headed away from the kitchen, he was upset and filled with anger at the injustice of being punished when his brother got away completely free. He didn’t want to stay in the dining room with his family because he was sure he would do or say something to get him in even more trouble. He stomped straight out of the room and to the stairs. Halfway up he paused when he heard a sound from the kitchen. He heard his brother laughing. He had half a mind to run back down stairs and go for him again but he just about controlled his emotions and instead would look for a subtler way for revenge. With tears in his eyes he and a face red from the humiliation of the scene in the dining room Steven stamped up to his room and slammed the door closed. Steven’s room was dominated by the large computer against the far wall. Steven had always been very interested in technology and was very well versed in both software and hardware, he spent most of his time fiddling with his computer in one way or another and was known at school as being rather nerdy. To the sides of the computer were shelves full of books and magazines, most of them technology related but also some fiction books as well. Steven walked over to his bed and gingerly sat down. His stinging rear end caused him to wince slightly as he reached to his bedside table and grabbed a can of coke which he opened and drank from. Steven was generally quite healthy but his one vice was coke, he couldn’t resist the sugary drinks. Placing the half-empty can back down he picked up the computing magazine that he had been reading before going down for dinner and he started reading again. It provided a good distraction from all the problems he was dealing with and he felt himself slowly relaxing as he read about various graphics cards and processors. As Steven read through the magazine he came across an unusual advert on the back cover. It was an advert for something called “Covert Subliminal Software.” Steven read the page with interest, he assumed it was a scam but something about the advert kept attracting his attention. He started to form an idea in his head, about using the software on his brother, what better way for revenge than making a message that forced Ritchie to do something embarrassing? Only a little thing though, he wasn’t cruel, he just wanted to teach Ritchie a lesson. Steven was broken from his ponderings by a knock on the door. He walked over and swung the door open to reveal Ritchie, he stood several inches taller than Steven and had a very self-satisfied smirk on his face. “What do you want?” Steven asked coldly. “I was just wondering if you needed tucking in tonight? Maybe have someone feed you a bottle?” Ritchie said in a mocking voice, he could barely stop himself from cracking up. “Get lost!” Steven growled through gritted teeth as he slammed the door. “Don’t throw a tantrum, baby!” Ritchie called through the door before laughing to himself on the way to his bedroom. “We’ll see who is a baby…” Steven whispered to himself. He walked over to his computer, went online and visited the website for “Covert Subliminal Software.” After hesitating for just a second he clicked “buy now” and was told the software was on its way. Steven smiled evilly to himself as he came up with the perfect plan for revenge, as soon as the package arrived he would show his family who the baby was. For a few days afterwards nothing of note happened. Steven kept mostly to himself as usual and made sure to wake up early enough to be the first to check the post every single day in the hope of seeing his package. Time did not diminish his want for revenge, if anything his need to get back at his brother only increased as his brother kept making thinly veiled comments, Steven simply kept his cool and waited. It was five days later when Steven looked through the mail as it was pushed through the letterbox and found the package he had been waiting for. It was instantly recognisable and Steven was glad to have got to the package first otherwise awkward questions may have come his way, the picture on the box showing a person in a chair and someone swinging a watch in front of them certainly would have caught the eye of Steven’s family. Steven had done a lot of research on the power of suggestion in the last few days. He knew the stereotypical picture of someone swinging a pocket watch and saying “you are feeling sleepy” was not how this stuff worked. Steven rushed back to his room with his parcel and ripped it open as soon as the door closed. Taking a drink of his cola he quickly read the pages of the instruction booklet and found that setting up these secret messages would actually be surprisingly simple. The instruction manual said to keep the messages short and easy to understand, shorter phrases resonate in the brain much easier and would be planted a lot quicker. Steven was still quite sceptical of the whole idea of subliminal messaging but the software was surprisingly cheap and it was worth the risk of investment because if it did work it would be the best revenge he could possibly get. Steven waited, he did some brief setup of the software on his own computer, it was surprisingly easy to set up and Steven suspected that even if he knew nothing about computers that he would be able to get it to work. He waited for his brother to leave, he waited for an opportunity to sneak into Ritchie’s room and set up the software. He was very impatient, he had a new toy to play with and having to wait before he could use it was almost intolerable. Finally, a few hours later, Steven saw Ritchie walk past his door with his coat on and a bag slung over his shoulders. As Ritchie walked past he saw Steven watching him and Ritchie paused briefly to give his younger brother the middle finger. “Going out?” Steven asked. He ignored the rude gesture and hurried over to the doorway as his brother walked away. “Unlike you, I have a social life, so yes I am.” Ritchie replied. Steven just nodded but as soon as Ritchie turned his back, Steven let out a devilish smile and ran back into his room to grab the USB stick that contained the subliminal software. Listening out for the sound of the front door closing he hopped from one foot to the other almost unable to contain his excitement. As soon as Steven heard the door close he practically ran to his older brother’s bedroom and straight over to his computer. Ritchie’s computer was not as powerful as Steven’s but it was just good enough to run Ritchie’s favourite online game, a first person shooter that he spent a lot of his free time on. Steven quickly logged in to the machine, he had guessed Ritchie’s password quite easily months ago, rather predictably it was his girlfriend’s name Linda. Steven logged in and immediately booted up the new software. He looked through the menus and adjusted a few things to his specifications. He clicked on the box that said “Message:” and after a moment of thinking Steven typed in “You are very thirsty for cola.” Steven chose an innocuous message at first, he wanted to test the software with something that wouldn’t cause any damage if it went wrong. Steven knew his more athletic brother never drank sugary drinks, but it was well known that Steven loved them. It would be a good test of the program’s power. He pressed enter and moved the software into the correct folder so that when Ritchie played his game that message would be flashed at him at quick intervals. It would be so fast that Ritchie wouldn’t notice it, but it would leave an imprint in his brain. Steven quickly turned the computer off, took his USB stick and retreated back to his bedroom. Now it was a case of waiting, he had to wait for Ritchie to come home and play his game. Steven, knowing it would be a while before that happened, loaded up his own game and began playing. Steven paused only to drink from his large cola supply as he passed the hours. He was impatient and hopped from one game to another, nothing could sustain his interest for long. Eventually he heard the front door open and close before hearing loud footsteps coming up the stairs, past Steven’s bedroom and to Ritchie’s own bedroom. Steven felt so excited, he was nervous as well as he sat in his room waiting to see what was going to happen. He wanted to run to Ritchie’s room and watch, to see if it was working, but he knew he had to act as normally as possible. If Steven started hanging around Ritchie’s room, then Ritchie would realise something was up. It was a full two hours, just when Steven was preparing to give up on the software working when there was a sudden knock on his bedroom door. Steven’s heart skipped a beat as he walked over to the door. “Yes?” Steven said as he opened the door to his brother. Ritchie had strangely wide eyes and he was salivating quite a bit. “Yo, this is a bit weird but do you still have that big stash of cola in here?” Ritchie asked. He was not acting like he normally did, there definitely seemed to be something weird going on. Steven was secretly elated. This was incredible! An act that was totally out of character for his big brother, an act that can only possibly have come from the suggestion of Steven’s subliminal software. “Yeah.” Steven said as he fought to keep his internal smile from showing. “Could I have some?” Ritchie asked. He smiled slightly but Steven got the impression that if he said no Ritchie would push his way in and take a drink anyway, he had a look in his eyes that suggested nothing would keep him away from the drink. Steven leaned over to where his bottles of cola were and picked up one of the smaller ones. He handed it to Ritchie who quickly unscrewed the lid and started drinking deeply from the bottle. Steven was shocked as he watched his brother, who didn’t like sugary drinks, drink the whole bottle in one go. When Ritchie was done he lowered the bottle from his mouth and let out an incredibly loud belch. Ritchie looked strangely content, a little trickle of cola had spilled out the side of his mouth but otherwise he looked normal and happy. Steven was quite unnerved by what he saw. “Boys! Dinner time.” Mother shouted from downstairs. It broke the awkward silence that was developing. Steven took the initiative and handed another bottle of cola to his brother before they headed downstairs. Dinner was quiet that evening. Steven spent a lot of his time watching Ritchie who took multiple liberal gulps of the cola. He had become like a fiend for the stuff, it was as if he couldn’t get enough. “Cola? That’s not like you.” Karen said to her older son. “I’m just really thirsty for it.” Ritchie said as he took another drink. That night Steven took a little while to get to sleep, he was thinking about what to do next. The subliminal software clearly worked, Ritchie had taken yet another bottle of cola with him to bed. There was no answer as to why that was happening other than Ritchie was successfully being manipulated. Steven decided that tomorrow he would change the message. The next day he would put his actual plan into action. It was time for revenge on his older brother, not to mention he didn’t want Ritchie drinking all of his cola!

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.

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.

Good Girl Your cheeks are pink as the blood rushes to your face. Hiding behind a wall, you peek your head around the corner every few seconds. Daddy sits at the kitchen table sorting through a large stack of papers with a cross look on his face while Mommy starts the weekly weekend deep clean of the apartment. You watch as she bends down and collects the scattered toys from within the six foot walled playpen in the living room. Unable to help yourself, your thumb wiggles into your mouth and a soft whimper escapes your lips when she takes your beloved teddy and begins to walk away. Crying pitifully, you know that it is just a stupid bear. You are a thirty year old woman with an unhealthy obsession but you can’t temper the flames of anxiety in your tummy. You know that you have to say something, but that’s just what they want and you will not give in that easily… especially not for a stupid ratty stuffed animal. At least that’s what you tell yourself as you wait and wait and wait and - “Can I help you with something, baby?” Daddy’s low and gravelly voice shatters the loudness in your mind. You flinch, visibly startled and step out from behind the door knowing you've been busted. Daddy hasn’t looked up from his papers yet somehow knew you were there. He beckons you forward with the wave of his hand. “Come,” is all he says and you have no choice but to obey. He knows you better than you know yourself. Mommy stands across the room at the washer and dryer, tossing dirty clothes into the machine and you anxiously watch for your teddy. That action distracts you from the hand creeping towards you. The hand that cups the heavy bulk of padding between your thighs that emits an audible squelch. It distracts you from the hand that turns you around so your back is towards Daddy. Only when the waistband of the diaper snaps back against your skin do you jump in confusion. Looking up at Daddy, he makes a chiding sound with his lips. “Someone made Daddy a present.” What? You frown. P-present? “C’mon,” he stands, taking you by the hand but you refuse to move. “Do you want to stay in your dirty diaper all day?” He asks when your feet remain planted to the ground. The words echo in your mind like a stab to the heart. Dirty diaper. Dirty. Diaper. Diaper… A strangled cry escapes your lips and you immediately look down to find your lower half is bare, besides the thick white bulk taped around your waist that balloons out to your knees. Hazy memories flicker in your brain of you and Daddy. Crying and screaming and ulti-ult - matums? You said no diapers. Daddy said it was the only way to stay together. That you had hurt his feelings. You remember the tears after that and promises to do better and be a good girl. You remember Mommy showing up and kissing daddy like you used to kiss him. You remember the fiery anger in your tummy as he held onto her, gazing at her with stars in his eyes and pushing you aside. You remember when this was your apartment and Daddy’s. It was tiny but perfect for the both of you. The kitchen and living room were just one big room with a tiny hall leading to the front door. There were two rooms - what was once yours and Daddy’s, and the office. Sine then the office had been turned into a nursery for you and you could only watch as Mommy laid in the very bed that used to be yours, snuggling up against the man that was your boyfriend. Daddy said diapers were the only way. Punishment for kissing another man and not him. If you wanted to stay together this was the price to pay and you’d agreed because you loved him despite your mistake. Except he never explained why Mommy was here. Why she had taken your place. But that is besides the point. The more you think the more it hurts and Daddy said good girls wear diapers. Good girls listen to Mommy. Good girls don’t question their Daddy’s. And that is enough to keep you from fretting over the fact that you can’t remember the last six months, and why you wore a diaper, and why you referred to Mommy as mommy; and why weren’t fighting to get your boyfriend back and why you accepted this treatment like it was normal… “Ughhh,” you groan and blink heavily against the fog that has encroached the front of your head. Daddy stands before you with his hands on his hips, staring at you with a knowing look. Whatever you were just thinking about has gone from your mind and to your shock you’ve now switched positions. Your knees are bent and you're squatting low to the ground. There’s a hint of a smell, something foul, and that is when you feel the warm brown lump at your back end. It smushed against your bottom, slowly creeping up your back. How could this be? How could you not feel yourself begin to poop - “Baby make a doozy?” Mommy comes and coos, petting back the dark bouncing curls from your eyes. She bends you over like a ragdoll, the same as Daddy and laughs. “Looks like the miralax is working.” Miralax?. Mira… Mir- “It also seems somebody is having a slow day today.” Your head is so high in the clouds that you don’t even acknowledge the insult spat right in your face. Blinking slowly, heavily, Mommy has laid a mat out on the ground. Daddy gets a crinkling package. Thick white squares, your stomach grumbles… “Teddy,” you whimper, suddenly remembering the whole reason you even came out of your room. Teddy is gonna get lonely. Teddy needs a hug. Teddy needs you. You need Teddy. Teddy was your friend. Always tucked into your arm when you waddled like a penguin as Daddy and Mommy went about their day doing grown up stuff like counting the bills and cleaning the house and you were the little girl you’d promised to be. So you and Daddy could stay together. So you could prove your loyalty to Daddy… But now you had somehow ended up on your back. Mommy kneels between your open legs. You watch as she piles her blonde hair atop her head. Daddy always had a thing for blondes… and that wasn’t you. A shiver goes down your spine at the sudden coldness to your nether regions. A stained brown padding is balled up to the side. You're naked from the waist down. Mommy pulls another wipe from the crinkling package and automatically you lift your hips giving her better access. The action is ingrained into your mind. It’s as if you do this everyday. Another wipe. And then another. And another… Too soon you are sitting up again. A massively white diaper separates your thighs so far apart that you couldn’t even close them if you tried. And you don’t. Daddy says only naughty girls disobeyed like that and you are a good girl. You have to be a good girl to get Daddy back. But as you sit trapped within the walls of the playpen and the tv flickers on, you can’t even comprehend the irony of the whole situation. Mommy and Daddy snuggled up on the couch and their lips locked together. Hands on the face that you used to touch, breathing in his musky scent that you loved. All the while, it now belongs to another woman and you sit here in a diaper with your teddy and a grainy bottle of formula in front of the television. Soggy Froggy ribbits to life and you can not help but watch, wide-eyed. The bright flashing colors rope you in as Soggy Froggy begins to sing: “Soggy Froggy likes to hop! Soggy Froggy likes to jump! Do you know what else Soggy Froggy likes? Good girls! Good girls don’t cry and good girls don’t fight and good girls' diapers are never dry. Can you tell Soggy Froggy… are you a good girl?” You don’t know how long the show continues to play but by the constant warmth of your diaper, sky changing from night to day, and the summer months turning to a frigid cold, it doesn’t really matter. You’re Daddy’s little girl… whether you wanted to be or not. ooOoo A/N: Here’s just a little one shot for you all! I’m writing my other story, ‘A Twisted Road to Redemption’ if you would like to check that out but for now, enjoy!!

The child was just like any normal 9 year old child, he was in 4th grade in which she loved to read and is very good at long division. He likes school and seeing her friends but likes the weekends at home too where she doesn't usually have homework. His/her favorite color is pastel green. He/she loves watching Netflix and has a secret love for watching tv show for very little children even if they are "baby shows". He/she's currently working on reading an old book his mommy gave her called "harry potter" but still gets caught up on some big words. He/She also has a bit of an entitlement issue with being seen as a big boy since he's only about as big as the first and second graders and only just stopped sucking his thumb at night a few weeks ago. (Our RP starts as the little boy is doing his homework in the living room with train playing on the TV, the door bell rings his mommy answers the door to see the babysitter she had called for the night. This babysitter was different though and has promised to get her little boy to relax and enjoy being a "little" kid more.... I will play the adult characters.

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

Hypnotic Nights - Book 3: Covenant (Ethan’s Story) Years later, Sarah is a successful hypnotherapist who, disillusioned by two divorces and a series of failed relationships, uses her skills for a new purpose: revenge. She targets arrogant, controlling men, using subtle suggestions to inflict a new, "invisible vulnerability" upon them. Chapter 1: The Architect of Regression The city glittered below Sarah’s apartment like a circuit board of cold, distant lights. Up here, in her tastefully minimalist space, the silence was a presence. It was the silence of a vacuum, where the echoes of failed conversations and broken promises had long since faded away. The sleek furniture, the degrees on the wall, the entire facade of her successful hypnotherapy practice—it all felt like a meticulously curated exhibit of a life that had never truly existed. She was a ghost in her own museum. The young, curious student who’d discovered a terrifying power in her dorm room was gone. So too was the woman who’d briefly believed she could use that power to heal. The years had sanded her down to a hard, bitter core. Two divorces—first from Charles, with his condescending charm, then from David, with his passive-aggressive neglect—had been the main events. A desolate parade of lesser men, who’d taken what they wanted and offered nothing but fleeting validation, had filled the intervals. They had all sought to control some part of her: her time, her attention, her energy. And in the end, they had all left her with the same hollowed-out feeling of being used. Her gaze fell upon a closed notebook, buried under more professional texts. She didn’t need to open it to see the words inside. Her mind’s eye could still trace the frantic, excited handwriting detailing her first real success: Andrew. Her university boyfriend, her willing subject. She remembered his utter, trusting surrender, the awe on his face the first morning he woke up changed. Then came Brian, years later, a man who’d actively sought out the very transformation she’d inflicted on Andrew, using the tools she’d commercialized. A faint pang, the ghost of an old remorse, tried to surface. She quashed it effortlessly. That feeling belonged to a softer woman. Now, she felt something else entirely: a cold, simmering sense of vindication. They were her true successes. Andrew and Brian. Not the clients she’d “cured” of phobias or quit-smoking urges. Those men had been changed. Permanently. They carried a mark from her every single night, a quiet, humiliating testament to her power. They, unlike the husbands who had forgotten her, would never truly be free of her. A new thought, dark and seductive, unfolded in her mind. It was absurd. It was monstrous. It was irresistible. What if her “practice” didn’t have to be about healing? What if it could be about… balancing the scales? The city was full of men like Charles and David—arrogant, self-satisfied, entitled. They presented their worst traits as strengths. What if she could give them a real vulnerability? A private, nightly humiliation they could never explain? A lesson etched not on their minds, but on their sheets. It wouldn’t be revenge on the specific men who’d hurt her. That was a fool’s errand. This would be purer. It would be revenge on the archetype. A thin, cold smile touched her lips for the first time in months. The emptiness within her didn’t feel so hollow anymore. It felt like a clean, dark workspace. She was no longer a therapist. She was an architect. And she was ready to build again. Chapter 2: The Artisan of Insecurity Sarah began her new work not as a therapist, but as an artisan. Her medium was the subconscious, her tools were trust and suggestion, and her product was a beautifully crafted, invisible vulnerability. She hunted with a predator’s patience, seeking specific prey: the arrogant executive who held a wine list like a scepter, the self-obsessed artist who held court on his own genius, the controlling financier who spoke in directives. Archetypes of the men who had seen her as a supporting character in their own stories. Luring them was effortless. In a discreet café or her neutrally decorated apartment, she presented herself as a specialist in “high-performance relaxation” and “subconscious optimization.” She spoke their language of ROI and peak efficiency. “Your mind is your greatest asset,” she’d say, her voice an instrument of calibrated warmth. “But even the most powerful systems require defragmentation. I help you achieve a state of pure, restorative reset.” They were sold. They were always sold. The sessions began with standard protocols. But as they sank into a trance, Sarah, the artisan, went to work. She didn’t just whisper about “letting go.” She tailored the poison to the prey. To the arrogant man, she suggested that true strength lay in the confidence to relinquish control, that only the truly powerful could afford to be vulnerable. She framed surrender not as a loss, but as the ultimate display of unshakeable security. To the controlling man, she offered the fantasy of a world where nothing required his effort, where he could finally stand down from the exhausting vigil of constant command. She wove intricate metaphors about systems powering down, about shedding the heavy armor of adulthood, about returning to a time before the weight of the world was theirs to carry. She linked the physical sensation of warmth and heaviness to this blissful, effortless state. She never mentioned a specific outcome; she only painted the feeling of absolute, carefree release. The men awoke feeling profoundly rested, addicted to a peace they hadn’t known they were missing. They reported better focus, less stress. They praised her genius, utterly unaware that they were now craving a feeling that was, by its very nature, incompatible with adult control. They felt a growing longing for the sanctuary of her sessions, for the permission to shed their carefully constructed selves. Sarah would listen to their grateful reports, her face a mask of professional satisfaction. Inside, a cold, intricate clockwork of triumph turned. She wasn’t just relaxing them; she was reprogramming them. She was making them happier, more relaxed, even as she planted the seeds of a deep, paradoxical need. The irony was exquisite. She watched the faint lines of tension around their eyes smooth away, and she felt not warmth, but the quiet thrill of a master craftswoman observing a perfect weld hold. The suggestion wasn’t just sown. It was grafted directly onto the core of their identities. She was giving them exactly what they thought they wanted, and in doing so, she was creating a dependency on a feeling that could only lead one place. The first step was complete. The foundation for their undoing was laid, and they had thanked her for it. Chapter 3: The Harvest The first fruits of her labour appeared not with a bang, but with a quiet, desperate phone call. “Sarah? It’s Mark. Something… something strange is happening.” His voice, usually an instrument of confidence, was frayed with a confusion that bordered on panic. “I woke up last night—I mean, really woke up—and the bed was… it was soaked. I haven’t done that since I was a child. What the hell is going on?” Sarah held the phone, saying nothing, letting the silence amplify his anxiety. She could picture him in his sleek, expensive apartment, standing in a ruined $3000 suit, his world of absolute control fracturing at the seams. She offered soft, professional platitudes. “Stress can manifest in astonishing ways, Mark. The body holds onto tension and releases it in its own time. It’s likely a one-time somatic release.” She knew it wasn’t. Other calls followed. From the others. The stories were the same: confusion, shame, frantic doctor visits that found no physical cause. They sought answers from her, their relaxation guru, their only anchor in this sudden humiliation. She listened to their bewildered reports, a curator admiring her own exhibition of chaos. She watched the pattern unfold from a distance. The initial shock gave way to frustration, then to a desperate, weary acceptance. The “accidents” weren’t isolated. They became routine. A new, humiliating line item in the nightly routine of powerful men. The very control they wielded by day was stolen from them each night by their own bodies. The irony was so perfect it was beautiful. Her work was done. There was no need for a dramatic exit. She simply became less available. Her responses grew shorter, then ceased altogether. She changed her number. She vanished from their lives as smoothly as she had entered them. She left behind no explanation, no closure. Only the memory. And the wetness. Alone in her apartment, Sarah would sip her wine and gaze out at the glittering city. She didn’t imagine them crying or raging. She imagined the quiet moments: the frantic pre-dawn laundry, the feel of stiff, dried sheets, the furtive purchase of protective undergarments for a business trip, the constant, low-grade anxiety of the evening ahead. They carried her with them every night, a secret shame they could never voice. They were her living monuments. Her masterpieces. A cold satisfaction settled in her bones, as constant as the city’s hum. She had taken the very thing they prized most—their inviolable control—and revealed it as a fiction. She had proven that even the strongest fortress could be undermined from within. But as the weeks turned into months, a quiet truth seeped in, as cold and unwelcome as the dampness she inflicted. The satisfaction was there, yes, but it was a closed loop. It filled no void. The emptiness Charles and David had left was still there. The darkness she planted in others did not displace her own; it merely echoed within it. The wine tasted of ash. She had won. She had taken her revenge on the archetype. Yet, she remained alone in her tasteful cage, the architect of ruins, forever listening for an echo that would never answer back. The victory was complete, and it was utterly, profoundly hollow. Chapter 4: An Unexpected Anomaly The bar was her habitat. A dimly lit terrarium where she could observe the species Homo arrogans in its natural state, displaying its plumage of self-importance. Sarah sat, a ghost at the feast, swirling the dregs of a pinot noir that tasted like vinegar and regret. This was her post-hunt ritual. A quiet celebration of victories no one else would ever know. Then the ecosystem shifted. A man approached. Not with the strut of a predator or the calculated lean of a negotiator. He moved with an unassuming ease that immediately marked him as an anomaly. He was perhaps a few years younger, with the kind of eyes that hadn’t yet learned to be cynical and a smile that seemed to be a genuine reflex, not a social tool. Every one of Sarah’s finely tuned alarms should have been screaming. This was not her prey. He lacked the essential ingredients: the entitlement, the narcissistic gleam, the fragile ego begging to be punctured. Yet, the silence of her internal radar was, in itself, a new and intriguing signal. An outlier, her analytical mind noted. A deviation from the pattern. How does it function? He introduced himself as Ethan. When he mentioned he managed the city’s well-known medical supply store, Sarah didn’t just hear a profession. Her mind, ever-connecting dots, immediately flicked through a catalog of her own “masterpieces”—the men now likely browsing the very aisles he managed. The coincidence was too perfect, too ironic to be random. Was it? Their conversation was… disarming. He asked about her work with a sincerity that felt alien. He listened in a way that made her feel heard, not just decoded. For brief, dangerous moments, she almost forgot to perform, to be the charming therapist. She felt a flicker of something she barely recognized: the simple pleasure of a normal interaction. It was this very ease that convinced her it was a performance. No one was this genuine. Her distrust, honed by years of disappointment, coiled tightly beneath her polite smile. He was a masterful player, then. Better than the others. He had crafted a persona of disarming kindness, a far more sophisticated lure than bravado. He wasn’t hiding flaws; he was hiding his true, controlling nature behind a flawless facade. The curiosity was narcotic. What was his endgame? What did this man, who presented as so open, truly want to take? The hunter in her, momentarily bored, was now utterly captivated. The most dangerous prey was always the kind that didn’t look like prey at all. She studied him over the rim of her glass, not just looking for cracks, but trying to discern the blueprint of the trap he was so expertly laying. For the first time in a long time, Sarah wasn’t the only one in the room playing a part. And for the first time, she wasn’t entirely sure she was the one in control. Chapter 5: The Revelation The comfortable haze of the evening evaporated in an instant. The air in the bar didn’t just feel thick; it felt electrically charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. Ethan’s warm demeanor had shifted. The openness in his eyes was still there, but it was now layered with an unnerving, focused intensity. “Sarah,” he began, his voice shedding its easygoing cadence for a tone of disarming seriousness. “This has been... remarkable. I feel like I can talk to you about anything.” He paused, letting the compliment hang in the air, a prelude to a coming storm. “Which is why I need to be completely honest. I sought you out tonight for a specific reason.” Every muscle in Sarah’s body went rigid. The pleasant facade she’d almost let herself believe in shattered. Her wine glass felt suddenly heavy and dangerous in her hand. Her therapist’s mask—polite, attentive, neutral—slipped into place, but behind it, her mind was a silent scream of calculation and panic. “I know what you do,” Ethan said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that cut through the jazz. His gaze wasn’t accusatory; it was knowing. Intimately knowing. Sarah’s blood ran cold. No one knows. No one can know. “I know about Andrew. Your first.” He said the name not as an accusation, but a statement of fact. “And I know about Brian. The one who came to you seeking what you gave Andrew.” He leaned forward slightly, his expression one of pure, unvarnished fascination. “And I know about the others. The recent ones. Mark. Nathan. Owen.” The names were bullets. Each one struck a silent, devastating hit. Her composure was a statue of ice, threatening to crack. “They’re my best customers now,” he continued, a look of genuine, professional gratitude on his face. “Extremely loyal. A predictable, recurring revenue stream.” He gave a small, pragmatic shrug. “Frankly, from a business perspective, your work is a boon. And from what I’ve gleaned? They had it coming. That’s not a judgment,” he added, holding up a placating hand. “Just an observation of karma’s strange mechanics.” Sarah could only stare, her mind reeling, trying to find the angle, the threat, the blackmail. This had to be a trap. Ethan’s intensity deepened. He moved his water glass aside and folded his hands on the table, his kind eyes locking onto hers with terrifying sincerity. “But that’s not why I’m here. Their stories… their outcomes… they’re not a warning for me, Sarah. They’re a blueprint.” He took a breath, and delivered the line that shattered her understanding of everything. “I want you to do it to me. I want what they have. I want to be a bedwetter.” The world tilted. The revenge she had cultivated, the bitter satisfaction she sipped like fine wine—it was now being presented back to her not as a condemnation, but as a request. Her weapon was being asked for by her next target. The control she cherished was being handed to her so freely it felt like losing it entirely. Her carefully constructed world didn’t just waver; it flipped on its axis, and she was left falling through the void. Chapter 6: The Calculus of Acceptance Ethan watched the storm of calculations behind Sarah’s eyes—the fear, the paranoia, the desperate search for his angle. He didn’t retreat. He simply… softened. The intensity in his gaze melted into a profound, weary honesty. “Please,” he said, his voice low and steady, not with threat, but with a vulnerability that was its own kind of strength. “Don’t misunderstand my intent. I’m not here to expose you. I’m here to hire you. You possess a skill I require.” He leaned back, the story unfolding not as a plea, but as a confidential briefing. “My entire life,” he began, “I’ve managed a… need. A compulsion for the security, the profound comfort of diapers. It’s the feeling of weightlessness, of being unburdened. It’s the most direct antidote to stress I’ve ever known.” He spoke of it not with shame, but with the analytical precision of someone who has spent a lifetime studying his own psyche. “For twenty years, I buried it. My wife… she found the concept repulsive. A ‘regression,’ she called it. A ‘sickness.’ So I locked that part of myself away. I became a ghost in my own life, performing the role of a normal husband, a normal father.” The memory tightened the skin around his eyes. “I was successful. I was miserable. It was like living with a constant, low-grade phantom pain for a part of me that was… absent.” He took a sip of water, the gesture grounding his confession. “After the divorce, I unpacked that part of myself again. The relief was… astronomical. But it’s not enough anymore.” His eyes locked onto hers, blazing with a new intensity. “The conscious choice is the problem. The procurement, the secrecy, the constant mental calculation—should I or shouldn’t I? It’s just another form of stress. Another performance.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper filled with terrifying want. “I don’t want to choose to wear them, Sarah. I want to need to wear them. I want the choice taken away from me. I want my body’s truth to finally, irrevocably, match my mind’s. I want the excuse. I want the normalcy of necessity.” Sarah listened, her mind instinctively comparing his case to Brian’s. Brian had sought her out to achieve a state he’d fantasized about. He wanted to experience surrender. But Ethan… Ethan was already there. He wasn’t seeking an experience; he was seeking a final, surgical resolution to a lifelong conflict. Brian wanted to visit a country; Ethan wanted to burn his passport and become a permanent citizen. The depth of his desire was absolute. It wasn’t a fantasy; it was an identity, waiting for its final, physical validation. This wasn’t about creating a vulnerability; it was about resolving a profound psychological dissonance. Her bitter quest for revenge suddenly seemed petty, childish next of this man’s raw, logical yearning for wholeness. The coldness within her didn’t just melt; it was vaporized by the sheer heat of his authenticity. She saw not a target, but a perfect, fascinating client. A man offering her the one thing she truly craved: a worthy challenge that appealed to her genius, not her bitterness. “I…” The word caught in her throat. Her voice, when it came, was stripped of its professional veneer, softer than she’d intended. “I understand.” And for the first time, she truly did. “I can help you, Ethan,” she said, the conviction in her voice surprising even her. It wasn’t the offer of a vengeful goddess, but of a master craftswoman presented with the most intriguing commission of her life. Her motivation was no longer revenge. It was the pure, unadulterated potential to engineer a soul’s perfect peace. Chapter 7: The Foundation They met in her office the next day. The air was different. The space, once a hunting blind, was now a laboratory. The dynamic had irrevocably shifted from hunter-and-prey to specialist-and-client—or perhaps, architect-and-patron. Sarah opened a fresh notebook. This intake was different. Her questions were not designed to find a weakness to exploit, but to map the boundaries of the reality they were about to construct together. “Describe the precise physical sensation of security you feel,” she began, her pen poised. “Is it weight? Warmth? Pressure? I need the specific details.” “When you think of ‘control’ now, what is the specific anxiety attached to it? Is it the burden of decision-making? The performance of competence?” “Walk me through the practical ramifications. If this is successful, how will you manage a business trip to Tokyo? A potential new romantic partner? You must have a plan for these things. This is not a fantasy; it is a life change.” “What you are asking for is not behavior modification. It is identity alteration. It is the rewiring of your most fundamental autonomy. Do you fully understand the gravity of that?” Ethan didn’t just answer; he expounded. He had clearly spent a lifetime constructing the blueprint for this moment. His responses were thoughtful, precise, and utterly resolved. He had contingency plans, practical solutions, and a serene acceptance of the social risks. Sarah found herself not just respecting him, but deeply impressed. For the first time in years, she was using her skills not to break, but to build. The irony was so profound it was exhilarating. The sessions began. They were intense, collaborative immersions. Ethan was a virtuoso subject—his intelligence, motivation, and pre-existing self-awareness allowing him to achieve depths of trance that made their work frighteningly efficient. Sarah employed every advanced technique she knew. She didn’t just use verbal suggestions; she employed somatic anchoring, tying the feeling of peace to the physical sensation of a deep, relaxing warmth spreading through his lower abdomen. She crafted intricate visualizations of locks opening, of heavy armor clattering to the floor, of finally setting down a burden he’d carried for decades. Her voice was a steady, sure guide. “We are not creating a weakness, Ethan,” she murmured in that hypnotic cadence that could bend reality. “We are unlocking your body’s deepest, wisest instinct. We are aligning your physical truth with your psychological truth. The need to release control is not a failure; it is your body’s highest form of trust in itself. This is not a loss of function. It is a homecoming of function.” She wove his own words—“weightlessness,” “unburdened,” “necessity”—into the fabric of the trance, anchoring the profound psychological release to the inevitable physical one. It took a fraction of the time it had with her other subjects. His subconscious wasn’t a fortress to be besieged; it was a willing co-conspirator, waiting for its orders. The first time it happened, her phone chimed with a text. It was not filled with panic or questions. It was not a cry for help. It was a simple, profound statement of fact. Ethan: “It worked. Thank you.” Four words. And in them, Sarah read the entire story. The warmth. The dampness. The absence of panic. The presence of peace. He had awoken into his new life not with shock, but with gratitude. The experiment was a success. The foundation was poured. And it was rock solid. Chapter 8: The New Partnership Ethan’s transformation was an unqualified success. The relief that settled over him was a palpable thing, a permanent exhale after a lifetime of held breath. The exhausting internal debate—should I, shouldn’t I?—was simply gone. His life was no longer about the choice, but about the graceful management of a simple, factual need. The quiet that replaced the conflict was not an absence, but a presence: a deep, unwavering peace. His gratitude towards Sarah was profound and uncomplicated. Their relationship effortlessly evolved from therapist-client into a deep, unique friendship built on a foundation of immense trust and a shared, profound secret. Over coffee, he would speak with easy openness about the mundane realities of his new life—the discreet travel bag, the liberating simplicity of his nightly routine. He was her living, breathing success story—a testament not to corruption, but to liberation. One day, as they sat in a sunlit café, he leaned forward, his expression turning from friendly to strategically earnest. “You have a skill set unlike anyone else on earth, Sarah,” he began, his voice low. “And I have a clientele no other therapist understands. We’ve proven it works. There are others out there like me. Not many, but they exist. People who feel this truth in their bones but are trapped by shame, with no path to make it real.” He laid out his proposition: a discreet, referral-only consultancy. She would be the architect, using her rigorous intake process to find the rare, genuine individuals for whom this was the answer. She would perform the delicate work of psychological realignment. He would be the engineer, handling all practical support—product sourcing, discreet shipping, coaching on integration into their personal and professional lives. Sarah looked at him, this man who had seen the monster in her and, instead of running, had asked for its help. He had seen her power not as a curse or a weapon, but as a tool for profound change. He had offered her a path out of the bitter isolation of her revenge, a way to use her genius for genuine good. It was a purpose. It was redemption, offered not through penance, but through partnership. A real, genuine smile—one that felt unfamiliar on her face—spread to her eyes for the first time in years. It was the smile of the curious student she’d once been, presented with the most fascinating thesis imaginable. “Ethan,” she said, her voice filled with a conviction she thought she’d lost forever. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.” The city glittered beyond the café window, no longer a circuit board of cold, distant lights, but a map of hidden potential. Her past—the failed marriages, the bitter revenge—didn’t disappear. But it was no longer a cage. It was the foundation for something new. She had spent years learning how to break minds. Now, she would use that knowledge to finally, truly, mend them. And she wouldn’t be doing it alone.

Hypnotic Nights - Book 2: Foundation (Andrew’s Story) Sarah, as a student, is trying to find a way to hypnotize her logical and anxious boyfriend, Andrew, a computer science major. After multiple failed attempts with traditional methods, she realizes she can bypass his rigid conscious mind by using his unconditional trust in her as a tool. She begins to subtly condition him to "let go" and find peace through surrender, rationalizing that she is helping him with his stress. Chapter 1: The Initial Struggle The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window of Sarah’s small student apartment. Surrounded by towering stacks of textbooks on cognitive psychology and psychoanalysis, she felt a restless energy. She was new to this, her knowledge coming solely from academic theory. Her boyfriend, Andrew, a good-natured computer science major, was her willing subject, but he was also her biggest challenge. Andrew’s mind was a fortress of logic and data; his anxieties and focus on his work made him nearly impossible to hypnotize. Their first experiments were a frustrating failure. Sarah would try classic inductions, lulling him into a state of relaxation with a swinging pocket watch or the steady cadence of her voice, but Andrew would simply shift restlessly, his eyes blinking open to ask, “Did anything happen? I just feel like I’m sitting here.” For Andrew, it was a game that wasn’t working. For Sarah, it was a profound failure. She began to feel a bitter resentment toward his unyielding conscious mind. She wasn’t just failing her experiment; she was failing him, and that felt infinitely worse. One evening, tired of trying the same textbook methods, she set aside her notes and approached him with a new, desperate tactic. She pulled him close, holding his hand, and spoke to him in a low, gentle voice, no longer as a hypnotist, but as a concerned girlfriend. She spoke about his struggles with stress and sleep, and how she wanted to help him. “Just for a moment,” she whispered, “I need you to stop being a programmer. I need you to trust me completely. Give me all of your worries. Just for a little while, just let your brain, and everything in it, become mine. You don’t have to be strong right now.” It wasn’t a formal induction; it was a plea for him to relinquish control. In that moment of genuine vulnerability, Andrew’s mind, that logical fortress, finally yielded. He sighed and his body went slack, sinking deep into the couch. The tension melted from his jaw. Sarah’s breath hitched. She had found the key. Her pen, poised over her notebook, trembled. This wasn’t a textbook method. It was a raw, unfiltered plea that accidentally gave her what she wanted: complete and total trust. She felt a shiver, a mix of triumph and fear, run down her spine. This is what real power feels like. “That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a clinical whisper masking her excitement. “Just trust me. Let me hold all of the control for you.” He was safe, and her success was a terrifying monument to his unconditional surrender. Chapter 2: The Gentle Conditioning The following weeks became a period of intense, secretive research. Sarah dove into obscure texts and forum posts, including a paper titled “The Primal Comfort Response,” learning about the psychology of regression, conditioning, and the deep-seated human desire for surrender. Her focus shifted from simple party tricks to a deliberate, systematic campaign. She began to rationalize her obsession, telling herself that she was, in fact, helping him overcome his stress and find a new kind of peace. Her sessions with Andrew became more frequent and more focused. She never explicitly mentioned the specific behavior she was aiming for. Instead, she masterfully built a labyrinth of positive associations around the concept of letting go. Now that she had his full trust, her suggestions were all-powerful. “Andrew, I want you to go back,” she would whisper as he lay in a deep trance. “Not to a specific memory, but to a specific feeling. A feeling of absolute safety, of complete and utter carefreeness. A time when you had no responsibilities, no worries.” Andrew’s face would smooth into a placid, childlike expression as he sank deeper. She wove intricate visualizations: of being wrapped in a warm, soft blanket that absorbed all worry; of floating in a warm sea where nothing was required of him; of returning to a time when his needs were met without him even having to ask. She linked the physical sensation of warmth with emotional security, and both with the act of surrender. She carefully avoided any direct command, but in painting the ultimate picture of peace, she found herself describing a state where the body could release everything, all tension, all worry, in a warm, effortless wave. Andrew, ever trusting, embraced it. He reported the best sleep of his life, a newfound ability to handle stress, and a general sense of well-being. “Whatever you’re doing, Sarah, keep doing it,” he’d say with a grateful smile that made her chest tighten with a strange mix of affection and guilt. She shoved the feeling down. She was helping him. That was what mattered. His openness, his positive feedback, only fueled her obsession. She was no longer just a student; she was an architect, building a new reality inside the mind of the man she loved. From Andrew’s perspective, he was simply working with Sarah to become a more relaxed, less-stressed version of himself. He trusted her completely and his body’s responses to her suggestions felt like a natural, welcome part of this process. Chapter 3: The Unforeseen Result Sarah knew the foundation was laid. The desire for ultimate release was a constant, humming note in Andrew’s subconscious. The positive associations were so deeply engraved that the idea of losing control was no longer a fear, but a promised reward. She had planned to give him a final, direct suggestion that would lead to her desired result, but an unexpected breakthrough happened first. She chose a Friday night. The apartment was clean, quiet, lit only by a few candles. The mood was intentionally serene. When Andrew was at his deepest, most vulnerable point in the trance, she revisited her earliest, most powerful suggestion. “Just remember what it feels like to completely, utterly, and safely let go,” she whispered. “Your body knows how to find this peace. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to wake up. You can just… surrender.” She repeated the core suggestion in different phrasings for nearly twenty minutes, anchoring each one with a gentle press on his wrist. A part of her, the ethical student, screamed that this was a line that should never be crossed. Her hand trembled as she wrote the final suggestion in her notebook, but the larger part, the ambitious scientist, the power-hungry architect, drowned it out. She had to see if it would work. The next morning, Sarah awoke before Andrew, feeling a mix of anticipation and dread. She saw that his side of the bed was dark with an undeniable, profound dampness. Her breath caught in her throat. She had done this. This was not the expected result; this was an accident. Her experiment had spiraled beyond her control. A moment later, Andrew stirred. He stretched, a relaxed smile on his face, and then felt the unfamiliar warmth. His eyes snapped open, a look of pure confusion on his face. He sat bolt upright, and for a split second, Sarah saw the programmer’s mind trying to process the data, the logical fortress trying to make sense of the illogical. “Sarah, what... what happened?” he asked, his voice filled with bewilderment. “I don’t know,” she said, the lie tasting like ash on her tongue even as her voice conveyed a concern that was all too real. This was a side effect she hadn’t intended, a consequence of her broad and powerful suggestions. But the confusion on Andrew’s face lasted only a moment. The deep-seated suggestion of trust and peace was now a more powerful command than his conscious mind. He felt his mind, usually so rigid and logical, immediately begin to rationalize the event. It’s a side effect of the deep relaxation, he thought, a dawning sense of wonder replacing his confusion. My body just let go completely. It’s a good thing. It proves the hypnosis worked. He looked at her, not with embarrassment, but with awe. “Sarah… I… I did it,” he stammered, his voice filled with a strange new appreciation. “I actually let go. It felt just like you said. I didn’t even wake up.” Sarah stared at him, her concern battling with a cold, thrilling sense of her own power that coiled in her stomach like a snake. He had no shame, no fear. He was completely unfazed. She had created this, this new reality, in her attempt to help him sleep better. She had done the impossible, but in doing so, she had crossed a line. And Andrew, in his absolute trust, was already on the other side. Chapter 4: The Unpredictable Side Effect For the next few weeks, a strange pattern emerged. On nights when Andrew was not hypnotized, he would wake up completely dry. The logical Andrew would even go to bed hoping for a repeat of the “unforeseen result,” but his body would not oblige. But every time Sarah, ever the curious scientist, would conduct a session, the result was the same. The next morning, he would wake up to the familiar, profound dampness. The bedwetting, she realized, was a direct and irreversible post-hypnotic suggestion triggered by the hypnotic state itself. Andrew was still unfazed. He saw it as a trade-off. “My mind feels clearer than it has in years,” he’d say, a smile on his face as he helped her strip the bedsheets. “If a little mess is the price for sleep like this, it’s worth it.” His total lack of shame was bewildering to Sarah. To him, the wet sheets were not a sign of a problem, but of the session’s success, a physical manifestation of the deep relaxation and surrender he craved. One morning, as they were laughing and wrestling a sodden comforter into the washing machine, Sarah blurted out, “This is getting ridiculous. Maybe you should just... wear a diaper. You know, just in case.” The suggestion was meant as a joke, a lighthearted jab at the absurd situation. But Andrew, ever logical, paused. He considered the idea for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. It’s a pragmatic solution to a minor side effect, he reasoned. Why add more stress to my life by dealing with this? The point is to be carefree. He saw the solution not with embarrassment, but with the clear-eyed practicality of a programmer. “You’re right,” he said, nodding. “That’s a much more efficient solution. We’ll save a ton of time and water.” That afternoon, he went to the pharmacy and returned with a large, discreetly wrapped package of nighttime diapers. The following night, before the next session, Andrew took a deep breath. He unwrapped the package, his hands moving with the methodical precision of a programmer studying a new piece of hardware. He successfully wrapped the briefs around his midsection, but the easy confidence he had felt yesterday evaporated. He felt a deep flush spread across his cheeks and a sudden knot of humiliation tighten in his stomach. He felt a moment of pure, adult shame, a hot, sharp stab of reality that screamed this was wrong, not normal, a regression he should be hiding, not embracing. The plastic rustle of the diaper was a humiliating soundtrack to his doubt. Sarah, seeing the pallor of his face and the hesitation in his hands, moved to reassure him. “It was just a suggestion, Andrew. We don’t have to do this. We can stop.” But Andrew, who had already committed to the logic of the solution, clenched his jaw. The conflict between his ingrained shame and his programmed desire for “efficiency” was a war on his face. “No,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, a decision made not from comfort, but from stubbornness. “It’s fine. Let’s just... do the session.” “Your body finds a beautiful, efficient peace when it surrenders,” she whispered, co-opting his own word. “It’s optimized itself to release all stress, perfectly, completely. And a practical mind uses practical tools. This is just a tool, Andrew. A brilliantly efficient tool that protects your sleep, your peace, and our bed. There is no error in using the perfect tool for a job. There is only logic. And there is no shame in logic.” She wasn’t just erasing shame; she was recasting it as a intellectual virtue. She wove the suggestion seamlessly into the hypnotic state, addressing the very humiliation she saw in his face just hours before. She was not just giving him permission to wet the bed; she was giving him permission to be okay with it. When he woke up the next morning, the bed was dry. He was happy, and his shame from the night before had seemingly vanished. He mentioned how much the session helped. That’s when he registered the still slightly warm padding around his groin. He was still a programmer. He was a man who wanted a solution to a problem, and this solution worked. The sensation of the diaper, not a source of embarrassment anymore, but a sign of success, proof of the profound relaxation Sarah’s hypnosis had brought him. Sarah watched him, a cold sense of triumph mixing with a dread that coiled tight in her chest. The taste of ash was back in her mouth. She was terrified not of losing him, but of her own capacity to control him, and the horrifying thrill she got from it. The line between partner and subject hadn’t just blurred; it had been erased, and she was the one who had drawn the new border. He was her creation, her masterpiece, and her living prison. She held the key, but the lock was on the inside of his mind, and she knew she could never, ever close the door again. He was so completely unbothered, so trusting of her. He had taken her casual joke and processed it as a valid, even smart, solution to a non-existent problem. The wetting was her creation, a side effect she couldn’t control, and now the diapers were his. She tried to refine her hypnosis, to focus on pure relaxation and nothing else, but each time she led him back to that state of deep surrender, his body would repeat its learned response. Her experiment, meant to be about relaxation, had spiraled into something else entirely, something she couldn’t stop. She had wanted to prove she could change a mind. She had never imagined she could build a cage for one, with her suggestions as the bars and his trust as the lock. She realized that from now on, every time she hypnotized him, he would need to be wearing a diaper. Chapter 5: The Unshakable Habit One morning, some days later, Sarah awoke before Andrew. A bone-deep weariness had settled in her from weeks of watching him, of wrestling with her conscience. She had stopped the formal hypnotic sessions, hoping the effect would fade. But she’d noticed a new, worrying pattern. On the few nights Andrew hadn’t worn a diaper, his sleep had been fitful, anxious. He’d toss and turn, his body tense, as if fighting the deep relaxation it had come to crave. He’d wake up tired and irritable, complaining of a restless night. The diapers, it seemed, were no longer just a tool for cleanup; they had become a psychological trigger for surrender. Without them, his mind and body didn’t know how to fully let go. She shifted in bed, and her hand brushed against Andrew’s pajama pants. They were cold and damp. Her heart seized, then dropped into her stomach like a stone. A chilling premonition, cold and sharp, lanced through her. She carefully moved the comforter. There, next to her, was Andrew, still deep in a peaceful sleep. The dark stain spreading from the absorbent briefs he now wore every night was undeniable. They were completely saturated. A wave of panic washed over her. She hadn’t hypnotized him. This was a direct, autonomous consequence of her work. And in that cold, horrifying moment, a sentence from “The Primal Comfort Response” she had once underlined and dismissed as mere academic theory, flashed in her mind with the clarity of a verdict: “The most successful suggestions are not commands, but permissions. A mind given permission to regress will often find its own path, creating its own rituals and requirements for safety.” She had given Andrew permission to “let go,” and his mind had not only found a path but had built a fortress around it, with the diaper as its gatekeeper. In the mornings that followed, she observed him closely. He was completely unfazed. He’d wake up, his eyes bright and rested, and simply go about his calm, methodical routine of changing. To him, the wet diapers were not a problem but the price of admission for the deep, restorative sleep he now couldn’t achieve without them. He’d often comment on how well he was sleeping, a genuine smile on his face. The experiment was over. She had proven her hypothesis, but at a cost far greater than she could have imagined. He was her creation, now functioning entirely independently. He continued to buy diapers, pack them for trips, and manage his life around this new, permanent need—not just as a solution, but as a necessity. Sarah’s heart sank. This wasn’t a temporary post-hypnotic suggestion triggered by her voice. It was a permanent change. The more she tried to rationalize it, the more she realized the truth: she hadn’t just changed his mind; she had changed his very biology. The neural pathways she had so masterfully rerouted had settled into a new, permanent state. Andrew’s body had relearned a primal function and now required its new ritual to achieve peace. A flicker of guilt tried to ignite within her, but it was instantly smothered by the cold, thrilling oxygen of her own capability. The horror was real, but the power—the undeniable, terrifying proof of her power—was addictive. She had unlocked a door, and she knew she could never close it again.

Hypnotic Nights - Book 1: Acceptance (Brian’s Story) Brian, a high-strung financial analyst, spends two years unsuccessfully attempting to achieve a state of complete surrender by using hypnosis MP3s. After a disappointing lack of progress, he schedules a one-on-one session with the hypnotherapist, Sarah, who successfully helps him overcome his mental blocks. Chapter 1: The Digital Siren’s Call For two years, the gentle, modulated cadence of Sarah’s voice had been the last thing Brian Walker heard each night. It was his secret ritual, a digital lullaby that promised an escape from the relentless pressure of his life as a financial analyst. The hypnosis MP3s, discovered on a forum dedicated to alternative stress relief, had become his most guarded secret. It started with “Beginner’s Deep Relaxation.” Lying in his sleek but impersonal apartment, Brian would put on his noise-canceling headphones, and Sarah’s voice would guide him down an imaginary staircase, each step taking him further from the dizzying spreadsheets and demanding clients. The feeling of sinking, of his limbs growing heavy and his mind finally going quiet, was a drug. He was chasing that feeling, but he wanted to go further. His goal, however, was specific and deeply personal. Buried in the forum posts was a thread about age regression and the profound peace of ultimate surrender. He’d read testimonials from people who had used her custom sessions to achieve a state of infantile bliss, free from the crushing weight of adult responsibility. His biggest goal, the personal suggestion he’d paid extra for, was to become a bedwetter again. To him, it represented the ultimate form of letting go, a physical manifestation of trust and surrender. Night after night, he followed the routine: the headphones, the soft rustle of the premium diaper he’d discreetly ordered online, and Sarah’s soothing words. “You are safe, you are cherished, and your body knows how to let go completely. You will sleep deeply and wake refreshed, having released all tension in the safest way possible.” He felt the tingles, the deep relaxation, the fleeting moments of pure peace. But every morning was the same. He’d wake, the hopeful anticipation curdling into familiar disappointment as he found the diaper frustratingly, persistently dry. That same morning, a careless error on a spreadsheet went unnoticed until a high-stakes meeting, leading to a searing reprimand from his boss. The two-year investment of time and hope began to feel like a monument to his own inadequacy. Was he broken? Was his conscious mind, the part that worried about bills and deadlines, simply too strong? Chapter 2: The Leap of Faith into the Unknown The email from Sarah’s assistant was a lifeline. “After reviewing your progress logs,” it read, “Sarah believes a live, one-on-one session could be the key to overcoming your subconscious barriers.” Brian’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The real thing. A week later, he found himself in the waiting room of a serene, minimalist office in a quiet professional building. The air smelled faintly of lavender. When Sarah called him in, she was nothing like the disembodied voice in his headphones. She was sharp, professional in her crisp blouse, but her eyes held a knowing warmth. The room contained only a plush, reclining chair and a small desk. Nervously, Brian confessed he’d worn a diaper to the session. Sarah simply nodded, her expression neutral and accepting. “It’s part of your process,” she said calmly. “It helps solidify the mindset.” The pre-session conversation was more probing than any therapist’s questionnaire. She asked about his childhood, his relationship with control, the specific fantasies tied to his goal. “It’s important we understand the root,” she said, her voice calm and professional. “I had a subject years ago whose desire was rooted in a similar need for safety. Understanding that is key to crafting the right suggestion.” Brian found himself revealing insecurities he hadn’t even articulated to himself, sharing a memory of a childhood report card with a single ‘B’ that had felt like a monumental failure. Then the session began. Without headphones, her voice was a tangible force in the room. She didn’t use a pre-written script. She tailored the induction on the fly, mirroring his breathing, picking up on his subtle cues. “I can see you’re holding tension in your jaw, Brian. Just let it soften. That’s it. Now, imagine that warmth spreading down your neck, across your shoulders…” Her suggestions were no longer generic; they were laser-focused, addressing the very blocks he’d described. She spoke directly to the part of him that was afraid to fail, offering permission. She spoke to the part that craved comfort, offering unconditional safety. Brian felt himself falling deeper than ever before. It wasn’t just relaxation; it was a dissolution of the walls he’d built around himself. For the first time, he felt truly, completely helpless in the most wonderful way. His mind, the same mind that meticulously built spreadsheets and worried about deadlines, was now a quiet room, and the sensation was utterly liberating. He was putty in her skilled hands. Chapter 3: The Dawn of a New Reality Waking up was like resurfacing from a warm, deep ocean. He felt groggy but profoundly refreshed. Sarah was sitting at her desk, sipping tea. “How do you feel?” she asked. “Amazing. Different,” Brian replied, his voice husky. The self-consciousness was gone. He felt a strange, quiet confidence. That night, back in his own bed, he put on his headphones with a new sense of purpose. The familiar MP3 began to play, but the experience was transformed. Where before he had to try to relax, now he simply sank. Sarah’s recorded words landed with new weight and meaning, as if the live session had unlocked a higher level of comprehension in his subconscious. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The morning sun filtered through his blinds. Brian stirred, stretching languidly. The ritual of checking was so ingrained he did it without thought, his hand moving automatically to his hip. He expected the dry, crinkling feel of unused padding. Instead, his fingers met a soft, swollen heaviness. A profound, warm dampness. His eyes flew open. He froze for a second, then pressed his hand down again, confirming the reality. A jolt, pure and electric, shot through him. It was followed not by panic, but by an overwhelming wave of euphoric disbelief. A laugh, half-sob, escaped his lips. It worked. It actually worked. He lay there for a long time, just feeling the evidence of his success. The frustration of two years evaporated in that single, validating moment. This wasn’t just a damp spot; it was a triumph. A certificate of surrender, signed and sealed by his own subconscious. Chapter 4: The Unshakable Habit The success was not a fluke. It happened again two nights later, then three nights in a row. Within two weeks, Brian was waking up wet more often than not. The MP3s were now a powerful anchor, reinforcing the new reality. A month into his new life, a question began to nag at him. Was this permanent, or was it contingent on the nightly audio cue? Was he truly changed, or was he just a puppet whose strings were pulled by a recording? He had to know. One evening, he placed the headphones on his nightstand instead of on his head. The silence in his room felt loud, un-nerving. He felt a twinge of anxiety, a fear that he was breaking the magic spell. But he pushed it down, focusing on the suggestions he now knew by heart. You are safe. You can let go. He fell asleep feeling strangely vulnerable. The next morning, he awoke and for a fleeting second, felt nothing but the dry familiarness of his pajamas. His heart sank. So it was the MP3s after all. The old feeling of failure began to creep back in. He swung his legs out of bed, and as he stood, the familiar, now-cherished sensation greeted him. The distinct, weighted sag of a well-used diaper. He hadn’t even noticed it in his sleepy state. Astonishment washed over him, followed by a deep, resonant triumph. This was real. The change was internalized, a part of his fundamental operating system. Sarah’s work had not just created a conditioned response; it had rewritten a core part of his identity. He was a bedwetter. It was no longer a goal, but a simple, undeniable fact of his life. The power of that truth was immense. Chapter 5: Love and the Unraveling A year passed. Brian had settled into his new normalcy. The diapers were a non-negotiable part of his nightly routine, his secret comfort. He used the MP3s occasionally, not out of need, but as a pleasant reinforcement, like visiting a favorite place. Then he met Chloe. Their connection was instant and easy. She was a kindergarten teacher with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes and a kindness that disarmed him completely. For the first time since his transformation, Brian felt a desire that outweighed his secret. He wanted nights with her, mornings with her. He wanted a normal life with this woman. The closer they became, the more his anxiety grew. How could he explain this? The shame he’d vanquished came roaring back with a vengeance. The desire to be dry, to be “normal” for her, became an obsessive thought. He started sleeping in his boxers, hoping against hope that his conscious will could override the change. A month before she was set to stay over for the first time, he stopped the MP3s completely. Every night, he would lie in bed, repeating a new mantra: “I am in control. I will wake up dry. This is my choice.” He poured all his conscious will into reversing the deep subconscious programming. His body betrayed him. Spectacularly. The first night, he only leaked, but the second night, he awoke in a cold, drenched bed. It was as if his subconscious, feeling threatened, doubled down. He wasn’t just wet most mornings; he was flooded. The more he fought it, the more powerful the response became. The very suggestion Sarah had made so potent—that this was safe, natural, and uncontrollable—was now a prison of his own design. Panic set in. He had wanted this so badly, and now that he needed it to stop, he was utterly powerless. He was more dependent on diapers than ever, and he had never felt more trapped. Chapter 6: The Point of No Return Desperate, he called Sarah’s office. He spilled the entire story, his voice tight with panic. He pleaded for a “stop-hypnosis” MP3, a reversal of the original file. Her response was gentle but devastatingly firm. “Brian,” she said, her tone carrying a weight of experience, “the suggestion in your custom file was designed to be exceptionally resilient. We needed it to be powerful enough to overcome your long-standing resistance. The patterns we create are meant to be permanent; it’s what makes them effective. I learned that with my very first case. It’s not a simple on/off switch.” She explained that the behavior was now likely a combination of deep subconscious conditioning and a physical adaptation. “Your body has likely relearned its infantile bladder patterns. It’s not just in your mind anymore; it’s in the muscle memory of your body. A simple counter-suggestion, after all this time, would be like trying to stop a river with a pebble.” The news felt like a physical blow. He had gotten exactly what he asked for: a complete and total relinquishing of control. The irony was cruel and absolute. The solution was now the problem. He thanked her numbly and hung up, the weight of his permanent secret crushing down on him. How could he possibly build a future with Chloe with this as his foundation? Chapter 7: The Confession The night arrived. Chloe stood in his apartment, smiling, holding her overnight bag. Brian felt like he was going to be sick. Every minute that passed felt like a step closer to a cliff. Finally, as they got ready for bed, he knew he couldn’t go through with it. “Chloe,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He sat on the edge of the bed, unable to look at her. “There’s something I have to tell you before we... before you stay over. It’s a... medical thing.” She sat beside him, her expression instantly shifting to concern. “Are you okay? What is it?” He took a shuddering breath. “I... I have a severe sleep disorder. It means I have to wear... protection at night. Diapers.” The word hung in the air, ugly and humiliating. He braced for recoil, for disgust, for the end. He felt her hand, soft and warm, on his cheek, guiding his face to look at her. Her eyes were searching his, but they held no revulsion. Instead, he saw confusion melting into dawning understanding, and then, astonishingly, tenderness. “Brian,” she said softly. “I know.” He stared, utterly bewildered. “You... what?” “I was looking for an extra blanket in your closet last week,” she admitted, a faint blush on her own cheeks. “I saw the package. I… had a suspicion. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, to be honest.” She squeezed his hand. “I just waited for you to tell me when you felt safe enough.” The relief was so violent it left him trembling. The monstrous secret he’d built up in his head was, to her, just a fact. A quirk. “It doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you,” she whispered, pulling him into a hug. In her arms, the last remnants of his shame began to dissolve. He was seen, and he was accepted. Chapter 8: A Deeper Intimacy Chloe’s acceptance was a watershed moment. What was once a source of isolating shame became a strange new thread in the fabric of their intimacy. She never made him feel awkward. Sometimes, he’d walk into the bedroom, and there, neatly laid out on the bed, were his nighttime supplies. The simple gesture hit him with a force that surprised him, melting a final layer of his shame. They even developed a lighthearted shorthand for it, calling it “putting on his nighttime armor.” But the practical reality remained. Brian still wanted to change it. Spurred by her support, he began seeing a therapist, Dr. Evans, who specialized in psychosomatic disorders. They dug deep, uncovering how his desire for regression was tied to childhood pressures to be perfect and in control. The hypnosis had simply given a voice to a long-buried part of him that screamed for release. Dr. Evans used therapeutic techniques and supportive hypnosis to address the underlying anxiety, but the bedwetting itself proved stubborn. “The neural pathway is a well-paved highway now, Brian,” Dr. Evans explained. “We can build new roads, but that old one won’t just disappear. The goal may need to be acceptance, not necessarily eradication.” It was a hard pill to swallow. But with Chloe’s unwavering support, the goal began to shift. He wasn’t fighting a flaw anymore; he was managing a part of himself. The therapy wasn’t a failure; it gave him the tools to shed the associated shame and understand the why. He was no longer a victim of hypnosis; he was a man with a unique, but manageable, condition. Chapter 9: A New Definition of Strength Another year flowed by. Brian and Chloe’s relationship deepened into a solid, loving partnership. The diapers were a fact of life, a minor logistical detail in their shared world. He had accepted that this was likely permanent, and in that acceptance, he found a profound peace. He was stronger now, not because he had overcome his body, but because he had made peace with it. They got married in a small, joyful ceremony. As he looked at Chloe, radiant in her simple white dress, he knew his secret wasn’t a shadow between them; it was just a part of the man she loved, and that love had transformed it from a curse into a simple truth. Chapter 10: Partners in Every Sense The happy news of Chloe’s pregnancy brought a new set of challenges. As her body changed, so did her bladder control. The pressure from the baby, the hormones—it all led to frequent trips to the bathroom and the occasional sneeze-related accident. She started wearing liners, then thicker pads, grumbling good-naturedly about the indignities of pregnancy. One evening, as they got ready for bed—Brian in his diaper, Chloe adjusting her protective pad—they caught each other’s eye in the mirror. A slow grin spread across both their faces. “Looks like we’re a matching set now,” Brian said, his voice laced with irony and affection. Chloe laughed, that wind-chime sound he loved. “I guess we are. Team Leaky Bladder.” The next day, they went to the pharmacy together. Brian picked up his usual brand. Then, they perused the aisle together, and for the first time, he didn’t feel a flicker of shame. He was an expert consultant. They picked out a pack of daytime absorbent pants for Chloe, and on a whim, another pack for Brian, for those days when his own control felt a little less reliable. It wasn’t a defeat. It was practicality. It was solidarity. It was their normal. Standing in that aisle, holding their packages, they were simply two people in love, facing life’s quirks together, perfectly in sync. Brian had once sought to escape the pressures of adulthood through a form of surrender, but he had found his true strength not in control, but in the vulnerable, unapologetic act of being loved for exactly who he was.

This is the first story I’ve ever written on here after living my life as a major lurker. I’ve got a series in mind set in the classified universe but wanted to put out this little excerpt from a one off story universe idea I have. Here goes… —- Shaunna was your fairly typical 25 year old woman. She worked in a law firm as a paralegal, living for her weekend trips with the girls and longer vacations with her partner, Mike. As with Shaunna, Mike was a fairly typical guy with the exception that he’d inherited a substantial family wealth which he refused to dig into in anyway, unless it was an exceptional circumstance. Together, they made a fairly typical couple. Everyone thought they were typical. Their friends, their colleagues, family members and neighbours. In two years time, they’d surely settle down into a nice typically charted out existence. The trouble being, Shaunna hated it. She never really felt satisfied and it was something she struggled to put her finger on as to why. It didn’t stop her complaining to Mike that she felt unfulfilled, that there was something missing for her and in her life. Mike really tried his best. He surprised her with date nights, experimented with role-play only to find the sexy fireman outfit he donned extinguished any hope of sex on the evening it made an appearance. Frustrated, it seemed like things were headed for the skids. Until one day...Mike spotted an advert when scrolling social media. WHAT DO WOMEN WANT? UNLOCK THE SECRETS TO YOUR WOMAN TODAY. FREE, JUST CLICK HERE. He scoffed as he scrolled past, who falls for this kind of stuff? he thought. But something nagged at him. He scrolled back up, paused and hovered. He hesitated for a second and wincing, expecting a virus he clicked the link and prayed the impending computer virus wasn’t too bad. -- “Welcome, Good Sir!” A voice boomed out of his speakers. A face appearing on the screen. Shit, thought Mike. No way was this happening. How would he explain this. “Fear not, for I am no virus…yes, really. Yes, I am reading your mind.” “How, what?! Stop it!” Mike found himself captivated by the figure on his screen but unable to describe him, he looked more intensely. “Yes, continue to look my way. Stay with me for thirty seconds and I shall unlock the ways of knowing what your woman wants before even she does. Yes, that does sound impossible, but believe me, it is entirely possible.” Mike tried to pull his attention away but couldn’t, he resisted for a few seconds more before suddenly the screen went blank, his mind following suit. Suddenly struck by an urge, he pulled out his phone. He texted Shaunna. Get home tonight for around six. A surprise will be waiting for you. You’ll never believe how much you want this. Mike grinned to himself as somehow a fully formed idea came to his mind. Grabbing his wallet, he headed for the door. He had some shopping to do. — Oh god, what now thought Shaunna. She’d had a hard enough time with her mental health and being unable to know what was missing for her. She appreciated Mike, she’d tell him as much. “Thanks, babe, I just don’t find firemen sexy, you’re sexy as you are.” She’d say, not believing a word of it. Somehow though, there was a gentle stirring inside Shaunna. Maybe, maybe something is different this time. She couldn’t explain it but she was already beginning to feel different. She took her hand, placing it between her legs over her work skirt and tights, gripping at herself. “Shaunna, where is that report I asked you for?!” Yelled her boss, Dan, from across the room, ripping her right out of her fantasy. “Coming!” She yelled as she tried to put her excitement to the back of her mind. As she stood up, she barely noticed a small trickle of piss emptying away from her bladder into her panties. — Mike strolled through the specialty shop. He looked the shelves up and down, a determination across his face stopping even the most eager salesperson approaching. This was a man who knew what he wanted. Yes, some of this. Some of these. One of those, a couple of those things. Mike filled a cart with goods. Shaunna was going to love this. He didn’t even stop to pause for a moment as to whether he would. His cock straining at his trousers told him that somewhere, something was working. He made his way to the counter, grinning as the wide eyed salesperson eyed up his purchases, the bell from a collar around her neck dinging as she scanned his items and bagged them. “You’re making a girl very jealous, this is serious sugar daddy level purchasing.” She said. “It is.” Mike said, firmly. Smiling, the salesperson nodded and scanned through the rest of his purchases and handing over the bag. “I hope the lucky girl and you have a great time.” “Oh, we will” Mike said, winking at her as he left the store. -- Shaunna fumbled with her car keys as she tried to remove them from the car as she sat in the drive outside their house. She had a funny feeling in her stomach that gave her a sense of urgency. It also made her horny as hell, as it felt like she was holding back on something. Nerves began to hit her as well. What exactly did Mike have planned? She approached the door, all fingers and thumbs only to find Mike at the entranceway opening it for her. “Come on in, Princess” he said. Shaunna blushed, princess, that felt just right, but how, why, how did Mike know that would hit the spot when she never? She tried not to question it as he closed the door behind her. “Welcome home, Princess.” Mike said. A feeling at the pit of his stomach told him to stop, but somehow, a force stronger than that sent him straight to the next part of his plan. “Sit down, let me take your shoes off!” he said to Shaunna. She balked at the idea for a moment, before something clicked in her mind. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. Without questioning it a second longer, she sat on the stairs at the doorway, almost docile as Mike removed her shoes. As he did, he slipped her tights down her legs. “It’s too warm for tights in the house, isn’t it Princess?” Shaunna found herself nodding before realising she’d just been stripped down without even pausing. Suddenly self conscious she thought about standing up, but Mike getting there before her put his hands on her hips holding her in place. “We’re not finished here, Princess. Are we?” She shook her head. “No, Daddy.” Her stomach did a somersault, where did that come from?! She felt immediately embarrassed and tried to hid her face behind her hands, realising that Mike had a hold of her arms, stopping her doing so. How did he know what she was going to do before she did, she thought. She scanned his face, curious as to his response. He had taken it in his stride, a grin across his face. Did he like being called Daddy, in fact did Shaunna like calling him Daddy. It seemed like it she thought to herself, wandering away into a daydream. Suddenly, her world came crashing down as Mike’s hands wandered up her thighs, which she willingly opened awaiting his eager touch only to be met with the dampness of wet panties. It felt different from being turned on, it was cold and suddenly she found herself crinkling her nose, smelling. Had she pissed herself. In any case, Mike didn’t seem to care, he stroked her pussy through her wet panties as she pushed herself forward on the stair, willing his fingers to touch her clit as he passed his fingers over her wet panties. “Steady, princess. Seems like someone has finally realised what they want, isn’t that right?!” Shaunna snaps to her senses for a split second, turning red at her own behaviour. Does she want this? Why were her panties wet? What was happening? Just then, her phone rings. WORK. She doesn’t stop when Mike takes her phone away from her, answering it on loudspeaker. “Shaunna, it’s Dan. Erh, how do I put this? Did you piss your desk and floor?” Shaunna is rooted to the spot as a smiling Mike offers her the phone to reply, very much still on loudspeaker. How will she get out of this, she thinks. “Shaunna?” With no response forthcoming, Mike answers, taking the phone off loudspeaker so Shaunna can’t hear the rest of the conversation. “Hi Dan, it’s Mike. I know, she has to have come down with something. She’s usually such a big girl and makes the bathroom.” He grins wildly at Shaunna, who has unconsciously taken to sliding herself back and forth on the stair, forcing her wet panties to press against her pulsing pussy. Shaunna glares at him, trying to stop herself from rubbing against the carpet. “I’m joking haha! Yes, I think perhaps she’s ill. A week should do it. Brilliant. See you at the barbecue.” Mike smiled at Shaunna, desperately humping the stair, helpless to stop as he made her arrangements for her. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he questioned if somehow Shaunna was re-wired as well as him because he had never seen her so furiously horny before. Shaunna attempted to stop, how dare Mike speak to Dan on her behalf. What did he mean, pissed at her desk. The cold panties, surely not, she thought. She’d have noticed, right? “I’m a big girl!” Squeaked Shaunna before she realised she’d even thought it. Oh no, she thought. Where did that come from? “Yes, baby. That’s right. You’re a big kid now, right?!” Something clicked for Shaunna, somewhere deep inside her as she felt something unlock. She began humping harder, a feeling of content coming over her, broken by Mike who lifted her up. She snuggled into his chest, legs against his arm which she felt press against her wet panties. Far from being embarrassed, she pressed against his arm, feeling his bicep push against her pussy as he carried her like an infant. Her eyes widened as she walked into the the living room, spotting a playpen and just outside it, a changing mat. Some senses came back to her as she thought her desire. “Mike, no. What’s going on, this is weird!” Mike just held on to her. “It is a little Princess, but it’s what you want, isn’t it.” He said more as a statement than a question. She thought about turning around and questioning it but before she knew it, she was laying on the cold plastic of the changing mat as Mike used a pair of scissors to expertly snip off her wet panties. “You’ll not be needing these again.” He said matter of factly discarding them into a small plastic bag. He did the same with her skirt, which she belatedly noticed had a massive damp stain across the bottom and her blouse, which too sported a wet spot.” How had she done this without noticing. Shaunna began to panic, but as she spiralled, Mike slipped a hand into his pocket, revealing a pacifier which she unwittingly took and began to suck as she searched her mind for any memory of the day. Mike smiled as he looked at her, his cock straining as he wiped her down, softly pulling a pull-up from a packet next to the play-pen. Across the crotch, a blue piece of writing spelled out Northshore. Mike recognised it as a wetness indicator but didn’t know where that particular piece of knowledge came from. He slipped the pull up over Shaunna’s damp crotch, carefully pressing his fingers against the padding as she absent-mindedly pushed at his fingers, the suckling sound of the pacifier intensifying as she stared into air. Shaunna wracked her mind, searching desperately still for any recollection of pissing herself. Of what she did that day. Of any kind of hesitation for the treatment she was facing. Nothing. She smiled as Mike pulled a small t-shirt that hovered at her midriff over her head, pausing to put her hair into two simple bunches. Mike kissed her forehead, as she leaned in keen to kiss him, she felt the soft plastic of a pacifier mouthguard push against her lips. Where did that come from?! Mike laughed as Shaunna’s eye’s widened, his cock almost bursting with pressure as the pacifier guard connected with his lips. What a silly girl he thought. “Dawdy. Pwease. Whap’s happuning?!” Shaunna said through the pacifier. Mike laughed. “I’m giving you everything you ever wanted. By the end of the week, you’re going to be exactly who you want to be and we’re going to be in the best place we ever could. Isn’t that right?!” Shaunna instinctively nodded, somehow she felt seen. There was something missing right now though she thought. As she tried to think about what it was, Mike began to undo his belt. “Are you ready for a treat, Princess?” Mike said. Shaunna nodded eagerly, trying to pull at Mike’s jeans. “Not yet, what’s your catchphrase, little one?!” Shaunna stopped. Catchphrase, but she didn’t have a catchphrase. She was a big girl, not a cartoon. But suddenly, a thought clicked into place as Mike revealed his cock, her pussy pulsing against her pull-up which suddenly became warm & squishy, the north shore blue writing fading a little. Whatever Shaunna was holding back on as she'd parked up her car had disappeared. “Ahm a big kid now!” She shouted through the pacifier. Mike’s eyes rolled back in his head as he removed her pacifier, swapping it for his cock which she eagerly took on instead. — More to come. Feedback welcome.

Trigger Warnings: Non-con (mind control, violence against women) Sexual content Swearing Religious contexts *This story is MAGICAL REALISM and is not made to make any sense so it's not going to be like real life* ooOoo Synopsis: Stumbling down the wrong way, Lenora discovers the dangers of walking alone at night. She is transported to a place beyond her wildest imaginations but it's not all rainbows and butterflies when she realizes that something more sinister is at play. ooOoo Part 1: The Awakening Chapter 1 It was still dark as Lenora stumbled her way down the street. Heels in one hand, purse in the other with messy bedhead, Lenora was on cloud 9. She had just had the best sex of her life. That was enough to distract her from the fact that she would be dying from a dreadful hangover in just a few hours. It was her best friend Henley's thirtieth birthday and you only turn thirty once. It was either go all out or nothing. And they for sure went over and beyond. Lenora wasn’t a big drinker anymore like she’d been in her heyday when she was young, dumb and the life of the party. Those days were past her but tonight, just for one night, all she had wanted was to relive her college years. To feel pretty again. To have fun. And so she did. If only Lenora knew that she would meet the finest man in existence that would make her question everything about herself. He was perfect in every way but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to stay the night. She couldn’t look him in the eyes in the morning and explain all the reasons why she'd just made the most terrible mistake in her entire life. She refused to let him be the rebound because she had just gotten out of a long and strenuous relationship. So Lenora fled, like she usually did, hoping he wouldn’t be hurt too badly. You hotel? I come home rn. Her fingers stumbled over the letters, drunkenly texting into the group chat knowing they were all probably dead asleep. They’d left the bar at three, heading their separate directions. Lenora had been adamantly against going with Jake - or was it Jack? She wasn’t quite sure. But her girlfriends made quite the point - what was your thirties for if you didn’t live a little? And they were right. Lenora had turned into a recluse since the breakup and she was tired of being all sad and mopey. But a one night stand was not the answer. It never was. Glancing at her phone again, she’d forgotten the directions were up. The supposed fifteen minute walk had turned into a twenty because somewhere along the way she’d missed a turn. “Fuck.” Lenora grumbled. Why hadn’t she just ordered a taxi? The street was empty, stores closed and a silence you could not find in the city settled over her body. Lenora Kilpatrick was a city girl through and through. Born and bred in the Bronx to an Irish Catholic family, she’d never even heard of a cicada before coming to Savannah, Georgia, and didn’t believe until now that southern hospitality was actually a thing. But that was beside the point. In the city, you were never alone. There was the bodega open twenty-four seven, the homeless man that slept on the corner and Fluffy - the fat local cat that would follow you for miles. He always hissed for food as if he hadn’t just been fed a few minutes prior. However, Savannah was not the city. It was as far away as you could get and Lenora tried not to let herself get paranoid, but she couldn't help but repeatedly turn her head over her shoulder. It was too silent, eerily so. At the next street, turn left. “Left?” her brows furrowed as it rerouted. Stopping at where it directed, she found nothing but a dark dingy alley. She muttered, “this is where I get murdered and my body is never found.” Shut it! Her mind hissed. Lenora rolled her eyes. This was the time where she probably should have just given up and called an Uber because if she were sober, the red flags would be screaming in her face and she would have seen the man hidden in the shadows. OoOoo “Ditsy blondes make the cutest diaper girls.” Her head whipped up, phone nearly slipping from her hand at the sound of a voice. She swore to God it whispered in her ear but looking around, there was no one there. A slight breeze ruffled her hair sending a chill down her spine. She told herself that it was probably nothing. It was just the wind and her overactive imagination from watching one too many true crime documentaries. Having taken in her surroundings once more, she deduces that it was truly nothing but that. She rubbed her eyes, attempting to clear the fuzz from her mind. The directions are saying to still continue forward, but there is nowhere to go - “Somebody has been a naughty girl.” Lenora gasped, nearly jumping out of her skin as the voice returned. There was a warmth on her skin, as if someone was breathing down the back of her neck. Yet she was alone. The map on her phone continues to speak and still twenty minutes remain despite the five that she had walked. Either her phone was broken (which was highly unlikely as she’d just bought it) or she’d misread the time (Lenora knew she hadn’t). Looking back to where she had come from and the darkness ahead, she made the first reasonable decision that night. But a giggling voice stopped her in her tracks. “Hehehehe!” It was a girl. Seemingly young, but there was something off about it. She spun around. No one. “Look to your left! It sang and her body complied. “To your right!" Right? She’s getting dizzy now. “Turn around.” “What -” Lenora could not find her voice. A hand clamped down on her shoulder and long, sharp nails dug into her skin. Lenora yanked herself away with such ferocity that she nearly fell down. The scream that had built in her throat was stifled in pure horror as a girl - no - woman stood before her. Smiling with her teeth bared, her head tilted to the side. There was a dark gleam in her eyes and she smirked. “Boo! Did I scare you?” In all actuality, it was less than sixty seconds that Lenora remained frozen. She attempted to rationalize the sight before her: tutu, pink ribbons, high pitched giggles and… a diaper. Something was wrong, dreadfully so. Her mouth opens and closes, eyes wide, but couldn’t force the word from her lips. Everything screamed at her run. To hide and get far far away. And so she did - well - tried. “Where are you going?” the woman whined. “Why won’t you play with me?” Her bare feet slapped against the concrete ground, stomach churning with nausea as she pumped her legs as hard as they could go. It was as if she was flying through the air and barely noted as she stumbled over broken glass. She was immune to the stinging pain on the bottom of her feet and blood that poured from the open wound. Lenora’s only focus was to get out of the alley and away from this crazy diapered woman. Her chest heaved up and down, only serving as a reminder of how unfit she had gotten in the last several years. As the exit onto the main street neared, Lenora willed herself to not give up now. She was almost there. Just a few more steps. Three, two, one… Lenora raced around the corner with her phone in her hand, prepared to call for help when - “Your back!” A yelp escaped her lips when the diapered woman appeared before her once again. She smiled ear to ear. “No-” Lenora gasped, looking every which way only to discover that she was back where they just were. The alley. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” the woman chirped. Tied up into two pigtails at the top of her head, her golden blonde hair bounced animatedly. “I - we - how -” Lenora stammered. She anxiously tugged on the ends of her own thick sandy blonde curls as she felt a cold dread wash over. This didn’t make sense. This couldn’t be real. How could she end up back in the same place when she ran away? The diapered woman frowned. “Whatcha doin’?” What am I doing? Lenora barked a slightly crazed laugh and wondered whether she had truly gone insane. “Wha-what am I doing? Me?” tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head.“No! We are not doing this! Wake up!” she slapped herself in the face. “Wake the fuck up, Lenora!” This had to be some crazy fucked up dream. It was the only possible solution. But as her hand continuously connected with her skin and the diapered woman remained, nothing changed. She couldn’t wake up. “You can’t leave.” the diapered woman simply said. Lenora hissed, throwing her hands up in the air. “And why not? “Because no one ever leaves the Alley.” “I can do whatever I want!” she snapped. “This is my dream! I control what happens and I want to go home!” The diapered woman only shrugged. “Okay… then leave. You know where the exit is.” The mockery was so obvious that it only infuriated her more. “Good. Watch me.” “Alrighty! I’ll see you soon!” Lenora didn’t bother to wait around to question what she meant. She stalked back in the direction she came, only a few feet away. Lenora was done with this bullshit and she was most definitely done with boys. But as Lenora turned the corner, the sudden twist of her ankle sent her tumbling forward. She just managed to stick her hand out, stopping herself before she could hit the ground. The young woman caught her balance but the contents of her purse spilt out everywhere. Rolling away, Lenora quickly scurried to collect them all and she was almost done when, she hesitates. Beside her hand is a splatter of fresh blood and broken glass. It's like what she stepped on. No. It was what she stepped on... She knew right away. Sitting up quickly, that’s when Lenora realized that she was not alone. Her back was turned toward the Alley, facing the main street and that was when her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. “Do you believe me now?” Oh how could she forget that voice... wispy yet domineering and utterly terrifying. Lenora forced herself to turn around. The diapered woman stood in a similar spot just a few feet away and hummed a familiar tune. “Do you believe me now?” Her legs trembled like a newborn fawn which nearly brought her to the ground. The blood drained from her face and left her already pale skin a ghostly complexion. The diapered woman waddled the short distance, unable to make her thighs touch. An unmistakable squelch emitted and even through the dark Lenora could see the yellow-stained padding. “What have you done to me?” her voice was just below a whisper. The diapered woman sighed, almost annoyed and quickly moved to stand before her, nose to nose. Her hot minty breath wafted over her face. “You were called. The Alley only summons the most destitute and fallen women. No respectable lady would find herself alone outside at these hours of the night… especially dressed like that.” Her voice dripped in disdain as she eyed her tiny red slip and her shoeless feet in disgust. Perhaps, in her early twenties when Lenora was no more than one hundred fifteen pounds, she could have gotten away with this outfit. But her womanly features had developed quite noticeably and her old clothes no longer fit her figure the way they once did. However, that didn’t mean she should crawl up in a hole and die! “Your slut shaming me? Unbelievable.” Lenora scoffed as she shook with rage. “Take a look at yourself! What grown adult wears a fucking diaper!?” Lenora was not a violent person and usually preferred to take the high road but could barely stop herself from putting her hands on the woman’s body. “The Alley prioritizes repentance. Repent for your wrongdoings and you may be forgiven.” “And how do I do that?” she scoffed. “First you accept.” “Accept what?” “The Diapering.” Lenora was not sure she heard that correctly. She demanded that she repeat it again. The lady explained. “The Diapering is a right of passage if you want to join the sisterhood.” Sisterhood? Lenora thought they were the only ones here but could not help but follow the diapered woman’s gaze upward. There are windows she had not noticed - windows she was sure had not been there before - and a flash of movement from inside caught her eye. The diapered woman giggled. “That’s just Nini. She’s a curious little thing.” “Nini?” She nodded. “You can meet Nini and the others soon. They all want to meet you. We have been watching you.” As Lenora stared into her stormy blue eyes, bordering grey, there was nothing behind them. They were soulless, empty, devoid of any emotion. “I want to go home.” Lenora’s voice broke and could feel the onslaught of tears forming. She had quickly sobered up and a pounding ache threatened to split her head in two. “Please… just let me go home.” “I’m afraid I have no control over that,” The diapered woman pouted. “The moment you stepped into the Alley, you relinquished all power of control” “But - “ “Poor, sweet, Lenora,” she cut her off. “You don’t want to end up like the others, do you?” That sounded like a threat. “No, I don’t but - ” Lenora paused. Staring wide eyed at the diapered woman, she realized what she just said. “You know my name. I never told you my name.” “I know everyone’s name. Does that scare you?” Yes. A cold sweat drenched her body. Lenora began to back up until she no longer could her and her body hit the wall. For every step back was another step forward for the diapered woman. Lenora was powerless and then her arms suddenly shot out. Grabbing at her hips, it only took one swift movement for the clothes to be yanked clean off of her body. The fight or flight mode had made an apparent decision. Lenora could only slide to the ground, attempting to cover up her most intimate parts. The diapered woman cackled, hands over mouth as her laughter took an hysterical edge. “Such a silly girl…” she drawled, making a disappointing sound with her mouth. “No undies or bra - not that you need them anymore. Still, there comes a point where silliness is just naughtiness. My name is Keeper Mercy and I am Keeper of the Alley. My job is to ensure that you all remain good girls. Do you want to be a good girl... or a bad girl?” Forced to respond, Lenora could not stop the tremble in her voice, knowing there was only one correct response. “G-g-good girl.” “Fantastic!” Keeper Mercy exclaimed in a bizarre contrast to the tone she exuded moments ago. “I am so happy you have decided to stay with us.” ooOoo Author's Note: Hello all! This is a short story I wrote a while ago. It's got about seven chapters already completely written and edited so I will try to upload one to two chapters weekly! I love hearing your thoughts so please feel free to REVIEW! It inspires me to keep writing and push stories out quicker ! Also, as you probably have seen, I placed trigger warnings at the very top. Those will be the only ones for the whole story so take notice and decide now if this story is for you. In the meantime stay tuned and happy reading!

Chapter 1: The Show That Changed Everything Terry had always humored Genevieve’s curiosity. So when she found a flyer for an adults-only hypnosis show and asked if they could go, he agreed with a shrug. “Sure, babe. Could be fun.” He didn’t expect what followed to flip their entire world. The theatre was dim, cozy, filled with couples and clusters of friends sipping wine. There was a buzz in the air—like everyone knew they were about to see something forbidden. The stage was set simply: one couch, one chair, and a single overhead spotlight. When the hypnotist walked out, a tall, silver-haired man with eyes like polished stone, the crowd hushed. “Tonight,” he said, his voice rich and slow, “we play with the mind. But more than that—we play with who you think you are.” Volunteers were called. At first, it was silly—people clucking, dancing, barking. But then it shifted. Terry and Genevieve watched as the hypnotist selected a tall, shy man near the back. He looked out of place—gangly, nervous, like he hadn’t meant to volunteer but got pressured by friends. The hypnotist guided him gently on stage and spoke in low tones. The man’s eyes fluttered. “Drop for me,” the hypnotist said. “That’s it. Let go.” Within moments, the tall man was kneeling. “You feel small now,” the hypnotist whispered into the mic, “so small you can’t think unless Daddy tells you what to think. You want to feel useful to Daddy. Don’t you?” The crowd murmured, caught between shock and arousal. The man nodded. “Good boy. Now crawl to your waiting Daddy. Show the room how eager you are.” From the edge of the stage, another man stepped out of the shadows—broad-shouldered, in a tailored vest, waiting patiently with a smirk. He radiated confidence, his eyes fixed on the hypnotized boy with hunger and control. As the submissive crawled to him, Daddy’s expression deepened into something almost reverent—he was watching someone surrender utterly for him, and he relished every second. “Present your mouth,” the hypnotist commanded. The boy moved between Daddy’s legs, hands settling gently on his thighs, eyes wide and adoring. He leaned forward, lips parting, and began to suck with slow, reverent eagerness. It wasn’t clumsy—it was worshipful. Daddy’s arousal was obvious—not just physical, but psychological. He exhaled slowly, his chest rising as he leaned back slightly, letting his hand rest possessively in the boy’s hair. His smile was content, yet hungry. Each motion of the boy’s lips and tongue coaxed out more than just sensation—it fed his dominance. He watched the boy with half-lidded eyes, taking in the sight: the flushed cheeks, the glistening lips, the soft gagging sounds that only made it sweeter. The pleasure wasn’t just from the act—it was from the power. The absolute control. The boy’s eagerness was intoxicating. “You see him?” the hypnotist purred to the audience. “That’s devotion. That’s a good little cocksucker giving Daddy everything he has.” The submissive moaned around him, trembling, hips subtly grinding against the floor. He was in deep—obedience and humiliation turning into raw pleasure. He never once broke contact. Daddy stroked his cheek with pride. “Look how much he needs this,” the hypnotist continued. “And look how much Daddy enjoys being worshipped.” Daddy’s other hand gripped the armrest, knuckles white, pleasure mounting as the boy increased his pace—sloppier now, more desperate. His legs tensed, hips lifting subtly into the boy’s face. His breathing deepened, each moan a confirmation of just how close he was. Then came the moment: a slow intake of breath, a growl of satisfaction, and the boy burying deep, holding himself still as if offering himself completely. Daddy’s eyes fluttered shut. He held the boy close for a moment, savoring the aftermath, fingers gently stroking through his hair. It wasn’t just release—it was fulfillment. Power and pleasure, perfectly intertwined. The boy’s body shook with his own climax, silent and overwhelmed, his cheeks still wet. He didn’t stop until Daddy exhaled and leaned back with a whisper of approval. When the hypnotist clapped his hands, the trance lifted. The boy blinked up, dazed, resting against Daddy’s leg like he’d just woken from the most vivid dream. The room erupted in applause. Terry blinked. “Holy shit,” he whispered. Genevieve didn’t answer. Her hand had drifted to Terry’s thigh, fingers squeezing slightly. That night, as they walked home, she was quiet. But her eyes sparkled. “Did that turn you on?” she finally asked. Terry hesitated. “I mean... it was intense. Hot, yeah. But more weird than anything.” Genevieve grinned. “I think I’d like to try learning it.” He laughed. “To get me to bark like a dog?” “No,” she said softly, voice husky. “To make you beg like him.” Terry didn’t sleep much that night. Neither did Genevieve. But for very different reasons. That was the night everything began. Let me know if you want more!?!?!?

Welcome to Mommy Anna's Diapered Storybook! Some of you may know me from my website, diaperhypnosis.com My recent experience of having my store on Etsy closed because of their discrimination against our community (they are closing down all ABDL hypnosis audio there) has been one more reminder to me of how important it is for us to stay together as a community. I've decided to publish full-length diaper and regression stories, for free, as a special way of giving back to our community. I'm also recording these stories and posting them (full-length) on my YouTube channel, so you can hear me read them there. Mommy Emma from diaperhypnosis.com will also be recording some of these stories for YouTube. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these stories and keep being the wonderful you that you are! This is the first part of a 7-part story, with a total length of nearly 13,000 words. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- REJUVENATE - PART ONE For weeks now, Emily felt like she was being followed. No matter where she turned — the flashing billboards on the highway, the online ads that seemed eerily personalized, the perfectly polished commercials on TV — it was always there: Rejuvenate. A whisper. A promise. "Bring back your youth. Feel alive again. Rejuvenate." It wasn’t just another spa; it was something more. They promised not just pampering, but a full return to the feeling of being young, vibrant, unstoppable. Through the cutting-edge use of Virtual Reality and spa techniques, they claimed they could help you "reclaim your youth, inside and out." Emily had laughed it off at first. She wasn't old — only thirty-two — but the days of feeling like she owned the world were distant echoes. Life was full of early mornings, tight schedules, and the slow exhaustion that crept in before she even realized it. Still, she dismissed it. Too good to be true. There had to be a catch. But the ads were persistent, and late at night, when she scrolled through her phone in bed, a tiny, traitorous part of her whispered: What if it’s real? Finally, on a quiet, rainy Thursday afternoon, Emily caved. She dialed the number from the ad, fully expecting a hard sell or an outrageous price tag. Instead, a soft, warm voice answered, professional and inviting. "Thank you for calling Rejuvenate. How can we make your dreams come true today?" Emily awkwardly asked about the cost. The woman’s reply stunned her: "It’s free — a special trial for select participants. You were chosen." Emily was silent for a long moment, heart hammering in her chest. Free? That seemed impossible. But the woman’s tone was calm, unhurried, almost hypnotic in its certainty. Maybe... maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at least try. A few days later, curiosity gnawing at her, she scheduled her appointment. When Emily arrived, she was struck immediately by the atmosphere. The Rejuvenate spa was set away from the bustle of the city, nestled in a grove of whispering trees. The building itself was sleek and modern but somehow welcoming, bathed in warm, golden light. Inside, the air smelled of lavender, eucalyptus, and some softer, sweeter scent she couldn’t quite place — something that tugged at her memories. Piano music played gently in the background. A woman in a soft gray uniform welcomed her with a serene smile and led her to a beautifully appointed lounge. "Before we begin," the woman said, offering Emily a tablet, "please tell us: What is it you most wish to recapture about your youth?" Without thinking, Emily blurted: "I want to feel like a princess again." The woman nodded as if she heard those words every day, and Emily was handed a sleek stylus to sign a brief, glowing contract on the tablet. Something about "experiential immersion," "temporary rejuvenation," and "full consent to immersive experience." Emily barely read it. She signed and set the tablet aside. When she pressed for more details, the woman just smiled and said, "The less you know, the better the experience." The next day, she returned to begin her "weekend of rejuvenation." They led her to a spa room that was straight out of a dream — dim lighting, plush reclining chair, soft instrumental music. A robe and slippers waited for her, cloud-soft against her skin. She changed and was given a small, steaming cup of tea. The tea tasted of honey and flowers and something else, something almost effervescent. Within minutes, Emily’s body felt deliciously heavy, her muscles loose and warm. A technician entered silently, fitted a light VR headset over her eyes, and murmured, "Relax. Let yourself drift." Her VR headset began showing her calm, serene scenes. A beach at sunset. A green meadow at midday. Puffy clouds in a blue sky. A gentle forest with a stream. Soft sounds filled her ears: the hush of ocean waves, the whisper of a breeze through tall grass, a babbling brook. Emily’s body grew heavy, her mind light. The world shifted. Emily opened her eyes and found herself standing in a brightly lit hallway. Her breath caught in her throat. The blue lockers. The towering trophy case. The handmade posters for Friday night's football game. It was her high school. She looked down at herself and gasped again. Tight, low-rise jeans that hugged lean, toned legs. A snug, pale pink tank top that highlighted her slim arms and narrow waist. The body she’d had at seventeen — not a trace of the softness that had crept into her thirties. Her hair was glossy, full, falling in effortless waves past her shoulders. Her skin glowed without a hint of the faint lines she sometimes fretted over in the mirror. "Emily!" She turned. A girl with curly blonde hair — her old best friend, Anna — was running toward her, grinning from ear to ear. "You coming to the quad? Everyone’s waiting for you!" Emily smiled and followed, an easy bounce in her step. As she moved through the hallway, heads turned. Boys fumbled books and stared openly. Girls whispered and giggled in admiration. Teachers smiled indulgently. It wasn’t arrogance she felt — it was lightness. I belong here, her heart sang. I am loved here. The day unfolded like a perfect memory. She held court at the courtyard’s stone tables, lounging in the golden afternoon sun with her circle of admiring friends. Boys brought her sodas from the vending machine without her asking. Girls begged for her advice on what to wear to the dance. At lunch, she breezed through the cafeteria like royalty. When she sat down, the best seats were suddenly next to her. The football captain — tall, sun-kissed, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye — leaned in close, his voice a low murmur: "You coming to the party at Jake’s tonight? Won’t be a real party without you." She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, feeling a surge of pure, sparkling confidence. In Chemistry class, she passed notes with Anna, doodling little crowns and hearts in the margins of their papers. Even the teacher looked the other way when she whispered and giggled. Between classes, boys brushed against her "accidentally," offering sheepish, eager smiles. Girls asked about her lip gloss, her hair, her secret to looking so perfect. Everywhere she went, Emily was at the center of it all. Admired. Envied. Cherished. By late afternoon, she was sprawled in the grass by the track field, bare feet in the soft, sun-warmed blades. A boy strummed a guitar nearby, singing softly. The sky was impossibly blue. Time stretched out before her like a glittering river, endless and full of promise. She was invincible. And then— The light shifted. The colors dulled. Emily blinked — and realized she was back in the spa room. The headset was gently being lifted from her face. She gasped, almost in protest, but the technician smiled warmly. "You did wonderfully," she said softly. Emily sat up slowly, her head still swimming with golden memories. Her arms, her legs — they looked the same, but felt firmer, tighter. She touched her cheek. It almost felt Smooth. Warm. Vibrant. The attendant offered her a small glass of cool water. "You’ll want to have a little something to eat," she said kindly. "You’ll need your energy for the next phase." Emily stood — and for the first time in years, she felt weightless. Alive. The echoes of that perfect day still thrummed through her, bright and golden. And deep inside, she knew: This was only the beginning. Emily couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks actually ached from how wide her grin had been since the headset came off. She practically floated into the little lounge area beside the spa room, still wearing the oversized robe. The attendant, a woman named Clarissa, handed her a small tray with a light meal — fresh fruit, delicate tea sandwiches, and a sparkling water that fizzed and popped against the rim of the glass. Emily picked at the food, too excited to really eat, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I can’t believe how real it was! I mean — it was real. It wasn’t just some video game or silly memory trick. I felt everything — the warmth of the sun, the grass under my feet, the smell of the cafeteria pizza! Even the way my friends used to laugh..." She trailed off, breathless. Clarissa smiled warmly, as if she heard this reaction a dozen times a day. "It’s always wonderful the first time," she said, her voice gentle and sure. "But trust me, Emily — it only gets better. You're doing beautifully." Emily leaned forward, almost bouncing in her seat. "What happens next?" she asked eagerly. "Can we start the next session now?" Clarissa chuckled softly. "Of course. Once you've had a little something to eat. You’ll need your strength. Each session... goes a little deeper." Emily shivered, but it wasn’t from fear. It was anticipation — electric and sweet. Deeper. She had no idea what that meant, but she wanted it. She wanted to fall even farther into those perfect, golden days. She finished her meal quickly, barely tasting it, and Clarissa guided her gently back to the reclining chair. The room smelled even sweeter now, like warm vanilla and sugar cookies, and the soft instrumental music hummed at the edge of her awareness. Clarissa slipped the VR headset over Emily’s eyes again, tucking a soft blanket around her shoulders. "Just relax, sweetheart," she said, her voice a soft purr. "Let’s go back to somewhere even more special." The world shifted once more. At first, it was the same as before: slow, calming scenes — ocean waves, wind through golden fields. The sounds of soft chimes and distant laughter floated into her ears, and Emily’s body grew loose, her mind buttery-soft. Then, like a sudden skip in a record— She was standing in a backyard. Sunlight streamed down, warm and golden. The scent of freshly cut grass filled her nose. Colorful streamers fluttered from the fences. Brightly wrapped presents sat stacked on a picnic table. Emily blinked in astonishment. She knew this place. It was her childhood home — the little brick house with the white shutters and the swing set out back. And she knew this day. It was her eleventh birthday party. The backyard buzzed with excitement as the party kicked into full swing. Colorful balloons bobbed on strings tied to the fence posts. A long folding table was covered in a bright pink tablecloth, laden with bowls of chips, a tray of cupcakes frosted like little flowers, and pitchers of pink lemonade. Her parents were there too, smiling from the porch steps, snapping pictures with a bulky old camera. Her mom, wearing a pink blouse and pearl earrings, flitted around the tables, refilling cups of lemonade and adjusting the bright streamer decorations. Every so often, she’d sweep by to brush Emily’s hair back into place or straighten the ribbon on her dress with a gentle, loving touch. She looked down and gasped — she was wearing a fancy party dress: pale blue with tiny white lace flowers stitched across the bodice, and a satin ribbon tied in a bow at the back. White ruffled socks peeked out over shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Emily beamed as her friends crowded around her, each one giggling and fidgeting with the frills of their fancy party clothes. Her best friend, Katie, wore a sunshine-yellow dress with big white buttons down the front, her blonde hair tied up in two bouncing pigtails. "Your dress is so pretty, Em!" Katie squealed, twirling in place. Emily curtsied dramatically, feeling the satin bow at her back flutter. She loved being the center of attention, and today, she truly felt like the princess of her very own fairy tale. Her dad, wearing jeans and a "King of the Grill" apron, waved from the patio, flipping burgers on the smoky barbecue. "Smile, birthday girl!" he called out, lifting the chunky family camcorder to his eye. Emily struck a playful pose, hands on her hips and a huge, gap-toothed grin stretched across her face. The other kids piled in around her, laughing and making silly faces for the camera. "Time for games!" someone shouted. Emily was swept into a whirlwind of classic party games: Pin the Tail on the Donkey came first. The poster was taped to the fence, and her dad made a show of spinning each child around exactly three times while they laughed and staggered toward the picture, trying to stick a fuzzy pink tail in the right place. Emily went last. Katie tightened the blindfold over her eyes, whispering, "Good luck!" before giving her a little spin. The world tilted and spun, but Emily giggled and shuffled forward carefully, arms outstretched. She stuck the tail proudly — and when she pulled the blindfold off, she gasped. She had pinned it almost perfectly on the donkey’s backside! The crowd erupted into cheers. Her mom gave her an extra hug, whispering, "That’s my smart girl." Next was Musical Chairs. Her dad set up a circle of chairs — one fewer than there were kids — and cued up a cassette tape full of silly pop songs and goofy sound effects. The music started, and the kids marched around, some hopping, some dancing. Emily bopped along, feeling giddy. She kept a sharp eye on the nearest chair, muscles tense. The music stopped suddenly with a loud "HONK!" noise from the tape. Everyone dove for a seat. Emily landed perfectly, skirts poofing around her, just barely edging out a boy named Jeremy who pouted dramatically when he was left standing. Round after round, the game got more competitive. The group whittled down until it was just Emily and Katie circling a single chair. The music swelled... and stopped! Both girls dove at once, but Emily’s faster reflexes won out. She plopped into the chair, Katie collapsing into giggles on the grass. "Champion!" her dad announced with a dramatic bow. Emily stood, flushed with triumph, and gave an exaggerated princess wave to her “subjects.” Then came the Treasure Hunt. Before the party, her parents had hidden little clues all around the backyard, each written in rhyming riddles. The first clue was taped under the picnic table: "Look where you swing and fly through the air, a clue is hiding under there!" The kids dashed off toward the swing set, shrieking with excitement. Emily spotted the next clue first — a bright pink envelope taped under the wooden seat. Each clue led them deeper into the yard: under the hose reel, behind the barbecue, inside the hollow of the big oak tree. Finally, the last clue pointed to the sandbox. Emily dug eagerly with her small hands and uncovered a glittering prize — a stuffed white unicorn with a pink mane and a golden horn. She hugged it tightly to her chest, victorious. "It’s yours, birthday girl," her mom said with a wink. When the treasure hunt ended, everyone gathered around the long table again. The pink tablecloth was a little wrinkled now from all the activity, and the balloons tied to the fence bobbed merrily in the afternoon breeze. Every detail was perfect — even the little scraped patch of grass under the oak tree where the swing used to drag. At the height of the party, Her dad brought out the cake — a towering pink-and-white confection decorated with little candy flowers, and eleven thin candles flickering on top. Everyone burst into a loud, joyful rendition of Happy Birthday — the boys singing off-key on purpose, the girls giggling between verses. Emily closed her eyes tight, scrunching her nose, and made a secret wish: "I hope I can stay this happy forever." She blew out all eleven candles in one breath, to a round of applause. Slices of the sweet, buttery cake were handed out, and everyone’s fingers and mouths soon smeared with sticky pink frosting. Everyone gathered around her, singing loudly and off-key. Emily squeezed her eyes shut and made a wish, blowing out the candles in one big puff. Cheers erupted. Finally, it was present time. She perched on a special chair in front of everyone, a plastic tiara her mom had given her tilted slightly on her head. The first gift was a Polly Pocket set — a tiny little pink shell that opened to reveal a miniature dream world. Emily gasped and hugged it to her chest, already imagining the hours she would spend playing. Next came a velvet art kit, full of black felt posters and neon markers. "Now you can color like a real artist!" Katie said, clapping. Then came the grand finale — a brand-new pink bicycle, its shiny handlebars draped with sparkling tassels. She squealed, jumping up and down. Her dad wheeled it forward with a mock-serious expression, handing it to her as if presenting a royal decree. She threw her arms around him in a giant hug, overcome with joy. Her mom dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from the sidelines, smiling proudly. Every single gift was exactly as she remembered. Every giggle, every flash of the camera, every sticky finger from too much frosting — it all unfolded in perfect, sparkling detail. Her heart swelled, so full it almost hurt. The afternoon stretched golden and sweet around her, every moment drenched in happiness. Everything was exactly — exactly — as it had been. And even now, part of her whispered: Maybe even better. Emily never wanted it to end. This wasn’t just a memory. It was real — real enough to touch, to taste, to live inside of. And then— The light began to soften, like the setting sun at the end of a perfect summer day. Emily heard a gentle voice calling her name, threading into her consciousness like a dream: "Emily... Emily, sweetheart, time to wake up now." The headset was lifted from her face, and Clarissa's smiling face came into view — but something was different. Her voice was higher, sweeter, pitched in the musical tone one might use with a young child. "Did you have a fun time at your party, princess?" Clarissa cooed. Emily smiled sleepily, her limbs slow and relaxed, a warm bubble of happiness still cradling her. "It was... perfect," she mumbled, her voice feeling smaller somehow. She shifted in the chair, stretching. It felt like the chair seemed bigger than before. Or maybe... she was smaller. But that thought floated lazily at the edge of her mind, too soft and dreamy to grab onto. Clarissa gently tucked the blanket tighter around her and smoothed a hand down her hair. "You were such a good girl," she murmured. "Ready for your next adventure soon?" Emily nodded sleepily, nuzzling deeper into the blanket, a tiny smile playing on her lips. She was ready. More ready than she’d ever been.

A Good Psychologist Hello all… it’s been a bit since my last story…but I decided to write another one, I was going for something short but it seemed to run a little longer than expected… I have been working on it for a while, and though it’s not exactly any kind of a new idea, it’s what I like so. I tried to write it in first person and found that to be harder than expected, I really found the past or present tense to get a little confused, but I’m pretty sure there won’t be any publishers fighting over this. I don’t mean to insult anyone’s profession, nor did I do any research or really know anything about psychologists. So to be clear this is a fictional story, that twists the discrimination of “forced” for my own mental health.(I don’t think it’s extremely healthy to fantasize about being forced into regression, but sometimes you like what you like, and try to accept that) Also I do not mean to offend anyone by categorizing groups or particular desires, again just a fake story. I hope that some of you enjoy it, and I do enjoy your comments, unless they’re mean. I don’t mind constructive criticism, but there’s nothing helpful about mean. And!! I think it’s kinda a happy ending. Chapter 1 Hello my name is Jon, actually it’s Jonathan but most everyone just calls me Jon. How to start such a strange story I guess at the beginning… I graduated top of my class with a doctorate in psychology in my early 20s and soon after got married to my best friend and beautiful wife, Maureen. After working for a private practice for a couple years I decided to start my own practice. The first couple years were not easy, and I had to work hard to accumulate patients, and keep money flowing, being on my own was not easy. However I was driven, and very interested in helping people. I soon started writing a book, and through research, and my passion. I found an editor, and got the book published. It turned out to be a huge success in the psychological world. Now in my mid 30s my clients became the “cream of the crop” as they say, and I became highly regarded, and sot after. My patients soon became all upper class people, and with that their highest priority was privacy and quality care, which I was able to provide with my small practice and excellence in the field and attention to detail. I would use many tactics to help my clients and finding the right approach for each client was not easy. I found the most effective approach was to reach my patients was true empathy, and whether my patient was a board house wife to a rich husband or a drug addicted rock star, my main goal was to be able to connect with them at their level and work together to find ways to make our lives better. Even though most of my patients were very first world problems that normal people might find insignificant they were very real problems to my clients. My wife educated with a financial degree soon became my partner in business as well, with book sales and high end patients, we quickly realized I did not need to handle it alone, and we would be the perfect team. Her position initially dealt with scheduling, billing, and supplies, but she slowly developed into helping comfort the patients, and setting up situations for my patients and I to overcome. That may sound deceptive and sometimes it was, but I assure you it was always in my patients best interests and I feel like by the end of the therapy I truly I had a new friend. I always felt like Maureen, and I had a perfect relationship, we shared interests, helped each other, and communicated well. Our sex life wasn’t overly complicated but I always felt like we connected and shared satisfaction. Even though we discussed it, so far we haven’t had any kids. I wasn’t against the idea of being a father and really wasn’t precautious but it just never happened. I always just assumed if it was supposed to happen it would, and I felt like Maureen felt the same. So our lives together seemed as perfect as it could be. We ran a successful business from our house, financially comfortable, we had friends, vacationed regularly, and generally enjoyed our lives, all before our 40s. With all that being said, my passion was my work, I wanted to find more answers, I wanted to be able to share and help those that needed it. So I started my second book. The first book as I earlier mentioned was edited and published by a company and this company was also eager for me to get a another book in the the works, “strike while the irons hot” as they say. But with the new technology of AI, and looking at the publishing fees, profits, and retail costs, I decided that I could not only make more money, but sell the book cheaper online if I did it myself. So last Christmas Maureen and I went to our local Apple Store, and went crazy we not only got new laptops equipped with the latest AI software but also got new phones, watches, and earbuds. This was a huge upgrade, and because we were getting on the same network we were able to have all the devices connected to each other wirelessly and to back it up further there was the cloud. We really got into the whole system, I named my phone Sandy and had her have an English accent, mostly because I thought it was cute. Maureen’s phone was Henry and she had him sound a little thuggish which was also funny. Soon we found ourselves having another couple around the house to talk with regularly, most mornings I would wake up and I simply had to say “Sandy, how did I sleep? What’s the weather going to look like today? What is my earliest appointment” she was always quick to respond and soon it was like having new family members, that were always there listening and quick to respond with accurate information. Now here I am most days either seeing patients or quietly working in my office, earbuds in, thumping across my keyboard of my laptop writing my new book, complete with quick access to Sandy for spelling and punctuation corrections and easy access to the World Wide Web for any earlier studies published. Also being able to compare my clients and experience. It was an extremely productive way to write a book. Another thing that Sandy was able to help with was my health, I am not completely sure how it works but through my watch she established my systems normals, she put out on a daily basis my sleep efficiency, stress levels, mood, heart rate, and system functions. She would also encouraged diet and exercise routines, it was quite remarkable. However I didn’t take her advice usually, but over a few weeks her small suggestions seemed to help. One of her biggest concerns regarding my health was my sleep quality and time, which she would regularly encourage me to go to bed earlier and remind me of high sugar or caffeinated foods and beverages that would interfere. It was kinda like having a mother at times. I found it kinda fun to reply with a snide remark and in some cases straight up rude. She would say something like “Jon it is now 9 o’clock, I suggest you should consider preparing for bed and please refrain from sugar or coffee” And I would reply “ Fuck off sandy” or “who do you think you are.. my mother” or “Sandy I will do exactly what I want so screw you” And she would simply reply “Jon I am simply suggesting things to help you feel better” But over a few weeks I found myself going to bed a little earlier, so I guess the system worked. However I have never been a great sleeper so my sleep report didn’t get significantly better. My wife Maureen on the other hand had her own health report and Henry would similarly report his findings and suggestions to her, but it seems his findings were significantly different than mine, she apparently slept too much, and his suggestion were that she needed to bring her heart rate up more often and her metabolism would follow. Now I don’t think my wife is fat or anything but she’s definitely full figured, and not that size ever mattered in our relationship but she’s a good bit bigger overall than I am, not that I am particularly small either. I am pretty average, close to 5’7” and something like almost 150 lbs. and she’s like just over 6’ and I’d guess 200ish pounds, not that I ever asked or would I. So her conversations with Henry in the evenings while she snuggled into the couch dozing off, would go something like this. “Maureen it is only 7 pm maybe have a cup of coffee it’s too early for bed” And her response was something like this “Henry I will go to sleep whenever I want to so stick it” But just like me over a few weeks she stayed up a little later. And just like me it wasn’t completely effective because she tended to sleep in a little longer. Now one time Henry tried to wake her up a little early but apparently if you make it completely clear that you don’t want to hear a suggestion the AI system will not suggest. So that was that. So here’s where things get a little bit weird. My wife received the call from the well to do family near by. I couldn’t help but over hear her side of the conversation, by this point my wife became very smooth and comfortable with almost any conversation with any of my patients. So it caught me off guard when I heard her stutter her words uncomfortably in response. The conversation went somewhat like this “Hello this is A path psychology how may I help?” In Maureen’s sweet and comforting tone. “Yes this is Jon’s office” “Well unfortunately his schedule is fairly full this week but..” “Well, Yes Mrs Crull I have heard of your family” “Uh… so is this an emergency?” Then I overheard a very strong voice from the phone repeat the question. My wife held the phone a little further from her ear and calmly responded “Can you please describe the nature of your emergency?” And again I heard the strong female voice say “My fucking pansy son won’t quit wearing diapers” Now with this, my wife seemed to be a bit stuck for words but eventually repeated “Diapers?” Which now I was standing next to her as I heard Mrs Crull reply “Yes Fucking DIAPERS” My wife looked confused as ever and continued to respond calmly “Diapers…well I don’t understand what the emergency is” Which was quickly answered by Mrs Crull even more harshly replied “He’s fucking 25 years old” At this point I gestured to take the call by putting my hand out, which my Maureen just raised her eyebrows with a smile and handed me the phone. I quickly replied “Yes Hello Mrs Crull this is Jon how may I help?” Mrs Crull seemed to calm down a tad upon hearing my voice and gave me a quick harsh reply “Yes Jon, my son needs to be seen today, I will make it worth your while, and you need to make this happen” I really didn’t need to spend any more time speaking with this delightful woman so, understanding the influence of the particular family and a reasonable amount of curiosity with a slight mix of greed, I simply replied “3 o’clock “ Which was quickly returned with the sound of a phone disconnecting. I looked at my wife and raised a eyebrow back at her with a quick smile “This should be interesting “ That afternoon in between a few other patients, I had Sandy google adults that wear diapers, even though I have heard of this type of behavior, I wasn’t very familiar with the condition, I just hoped I would find a slightly better understanding. Unfortunately the sites that I found seemed mostly like porn sights, and found really no dependable sources for in-depth information. So with that I decided I would simply wing it, and derive a plan after the first meeting. My wife and I eagerly awaited by the window for our new customer, and at 10 til 3 a Mercedes-Benz Maybach pulled into the driveway, and a bottled blonde woman erupted effortlessly from the driver’s side back seat barely before the car came to a complete stop. She quickly rounded the car in I’m guessing 4” high heels and opened the passenger side rear door and without hesitation or even a struggle pulled a large young man from his seat. I overheard my wife as she directed the man up the sidewalk quietly say “well you don’t see that every day” The man held a blank expression as I correctly assumed his mother directed him from behind by his shoulder. The situation seemed to stick with me for a moment there was a couple of things that caught my attention First he didn’t necessarily look upset, either he was used to being pushed around or he wanted it. Second even though Mrs Crull looked to be in decent shape she could not have actually forced her son to move from the car let alone up the sidewalk. He was a fairly large man. Third he was clearly wearing a diaper. The childish T-shirt he wore was riding up his stomach clearly showing his white waistband of a disposable diaper as his mother pushed at his shoulder and the sweat pants though baggy were clearly sagging off his waist, and puffed out around his hips. Which he made no attempts to hide. I made my way towards the front door as I expected to hear a knock, surprised by the door being pushed open and the young man pushed inside. I quickly regained my composure as Mrs Crull stopped and letting go of her son who stumbled forward a step. I held my hand out as I introduced myself “Hello I’m Jon and this is my wife Maureen and we…” Mrs Crull without even looking at my held up hand interrupted. “This is my sorry excuse for a son, he seems to think he wants to be a toddler or something … I might have fucked him up but you need to fix this shit, I will be back to collect his sorry ass in a hour… and I had better see some progress” She was turning back out of the still open door with no attempt to close it behind her as she finished talking. I was surprised to hear her take any responsibility, for “ fucking him up” but as smoothly as possible I simply turned and looked up at the man standing in front of me, and calmly said. “Like I was saying I am Jon and this is my wife Maureen and this is my home as well as my practice A path psychology” The man blinked firmly and focused his eyes on me with a stoned look on his face simply and clearly replying. “I’m Mike” He made no attempt to shake my still held out hand. I gave him a light pat on his upper bicep and still in a calm and relaxed tone said. “Ok well hi Mike… why don’t we go into my office and get a bit more comfortable.” He tilted his head slightly at least acknowledging I had said something and I turned towards my office a few feet away, I heard a soft crinkle noise behind me, as I held the door open and he toddled by me, I gave my wife a glance again with raised eyebrows as she returned the same look and she shut the front door as I shut my office door. The first meeting went as I expected, if I had any. As I sat into my large office chair and grabbed a legal pad I looked to direct Mike, but as I turned in his direction he had already found his way and with a soft crinkle sank onto the couch. His familiarity with the situation made me think this is not his first therapy session. I went through the typical questions, “Mike how old are you?” He quietly replied “26”….“Do you have any drugs or foreign substances in your system?” “Do you want to harm yourself or anyone else?” “Do you feel like you are in danger or is there anything that might cause you physical harm?” “Do have any physical disabilities or ailments?” “Do you have a job or profession?” “Are you married or have significant other?” “Do you have any children?” In which he continued to answer quietly “no” to each question. He sat comfortably with an occasional shift into the couch, without any look of concern. Mike looked a little messy in a childish T-shirt and sweat pants but I wouldn’t say he looked dirty, he had obviously taken a shower and shaved recently his hair was short, and was just shuffled into place. In fact I would say he was a handsome fellow, probably about 6’2 or so, maybe a little chubby but not fat. So I finally asked about the elephant in the room. So your mom says you wear diapers? Still calm and comfortable he replied “Yep” So I obviously was only going to get one word answers, so instead of pushing to get him to open up about the subject I decided to just go with questions that were easy one word answers, with the little information I got from a limited amount of research I came up with the obvious questions first. “Are you incontinent?” “No” “Do you like wearing diapers?” Yup “Is it a sexually exciting “ “Sometimes” “Do you wear them all the time?” “Yes” “How long have you worn diapers “ “A while” “Do you use the diapers?” “Yes” “Do you think you are a small child?” Mike responded with a slight frown as he answered “No” The next obvious question especially given the slight frown was, “would you like to be a small child?” I again caught an uncomfortable look, but again a short answer “Complicated” with a short sigh. I couldn’t help by try to get a little more out of him, so I had to ask. “Would you like to elaborate?” He answered quickly with again a blank expression “Nope” Which was no surprise to me. Well believe it or not I actually felt like I got somewhere with my interrogation, and decided that was enough. I needed to derive some kind of plan before any pushback could occur, since I still had like 45 minutes left I figured I could just talk for a bit expecting no answers. “So… I guess I’m in a bit of a pickle here. First of all since there is no clear signs of any actual emergency, and second I really don’t see any actual danger or even a problem really, with your choice of underwear, I don’t think I will satisfy your mother’s requirements for improvement. But I think I can deal with that. However I can understand to some degree her discomfort in your choice of underwear, and I don’t think you should make it any of her business. To be completely honest, I really don’t know much about what is called Infantilism. Which seems to be the condition you display. So my first plan is to try to gather as much information as possible on the topic, as to best support you.” I paused for a few moments as he blankly looked back at me. “Once again I particularly don’t care about your bathroom habits or your choice of underwear but, I also feel that your life can become more comfortable if you were to at least consider to conceal your underwear, especially around your mother, and my job is to help make your life better.” I thought about it a few seconds and looked at Mike, who maintained his nonchalant appearance. I felt like it was good advice. However I also realized it was not any solution. I sat quietly for a long minute or so. I really didn’t expect Mike to respond, but at this point I really had nothing else to say. So that’s exactly what I said. “At this point I really don’t have anything to say, if you want to talk or elaborate in any way I am here to listen. We still have about a half hour left so just make your self comfortable, if you should need a bathroom feel free to use the restroom in the entryway.” I gave him a small smile with that. For the next 1/2 hour we sat quietly. I thought about how exactly to help this situation, and even though I didn’t think it was a dangerous situation in anyway, or there was any harm in wearing diapers. I couldn’t help but think a healthy functioning adult would not want to wear diapers. My first thought was why, and I decided that the only way to find out was to try it myself. Soon enough as I pondered, the large sedan pulled back into my driveway I sighed slightly as I turned up to look at Mike now with his eyes closed, saying calmly. “You’re mother is back Mike” I remained seated and watched Mike slowly open his eyes stand up and wobble slowly towards the door, as he got to my entry way he stopped pulled his sweat pants up over the waist band of his diaper and tightened the draw string then pulled his T-shirt down. I thought well that’s a start. I simply said “thanks Mike” My front door was again pushed open and Mrs. Crull commanded my attention as her heals clacked against my hard wood floor. She wasn’t even completely through the front door before saying “At least I can’t see his pissy diaper” as she looked at her son. She continued to walk towards me and past her son with effortless motion as I started to say “Hello Mrs. Crull can I have” but I was interrupted as she grumbled “Go wait in the car” which was obviously directed towards Mike. She stopped in the center of my office and dug briefly into her purse. I couldn’t help but study her as it became quiet for a bit. The best word to describe her was perfect. Her blond hair wrapped perfectly around her head, down just past her shoulders. Her make up was blended perfectly without even the slightest blemish, while outlining each feature perfectly. Her pale pink business suit formed around her body perfectly, leaving just the top of her cleavage exposed, highlighted perfectly by a very expensive looking necklace. Every part of her was manicured or manufactured precisely for her today. I really couldn’t say how old she was, somewhere between 40 and 60 I’d guess. I however wouldn’t use the word attractive. I couldn’t help but think, it must be tough to maintain. I barely started a sentence as I was again interrupted. “You are highly recommended, which comes with high expectations, which will be difficult to achieve. Today is Monday, and I expect for you to see my son again on Thursday at 3 pm and every Thursday at 3 until further notice. I will not be accompanying him. Here is a check for 100,000 dollars, with this I expect to see real results in the next 10 weeks. You do understand who I am. I expect complete anonymity, if I so much as hear my name and yours in the same sentence, or you don’t live up to expectations, let’s just say you’re life will become much less comfortable.” She placed the check on my desk as I stood there dumbly with my mouth still open. Without any hesitation her heals clacked against my hardwood floors as she walked directly out of my house. I collected myself briefly and picked up her check, and looked at the 5 zeros following the 1, realizing the check was as real as the threat. I turned to see my wife with a very surprised look on her face, say “what are you going to do?” My answer was quick “going to the store” as I handed her the check and headed for the front door which was still open. She hesitated slightly then asked “for what?” And I responded “Diapers” as I shut the front door behind me. Chapter 2 A half hour later I hustled up the stairs to my bedroom, with a package of adult diapers under my arm. I quickly kicked off my pants, and underwear as I ripped open the package, flopping onto my bed, and sliding a diaper out of the pack. I could hear Maureen calling ”Jon? Are you here?” As she made her way up the stairs. I flipped the flimsy plastic material this way, and that as I unfolded the thin padded garment in front of me. Finally I slid the diaper underneath me, and struggled to see what exactly to stretch around me. I looked up as my wife stood in the doorway, with a smirk on her face. “Jon relax… it’s not running away!” She said with a chuckle. I fell back in frustration to the bed, as Maureen pushed my knees apart, that hung over the edge. She pulled at the diaper, saying “lift your bum… Jon I know this is important but you need to calm down… you have 10 weeks and I’m sure you’ll work this out” while she spoke, she calmly nudged my butt back to rest on the diaper, before finishing her sentence she folded it over my groin, and I could hear the tapes as she wrapped it around me, and finished the process with a light pat on my penis. I knew she was right, but I wasn’t feeling too patient. I stood next to the bed, and stretched about a bit trying to figure out how to make it fit. I looked down at the garment, trying to understand why anyone would want to wear such a silly thing. It wasn’t comfortable, and crinkled loudly as I moved. I looked at myself in the mirror, it looked medical, and sloppy with a blue line running down the center, and extra plastic hanging off the edges, nothing about it even seemed childish. My wife looked at me still with a light smile saying “what do ya think?” The first response I could come up with was “I don’t think I am going to understand this, I can’t see why anyone would want to wear one of these” her face kinda fell, as she asked “well what are you going to do?” I shrugged in responded “keep wearing them” she rolled her eyes, and turned to leave as she replied “ok sounds like a good plan” with a good bit of sarcasm in her tone. Then on her way down the stairs she continued to say “Why don’t you put some pants on and come down to dinner” I sat down in my normal spot at the kitchen table, as she set my dinner in front of me, and noticed her iPad, and cell phone across the table. My wife taking a more serious tone continued our conversation. “So Jon… I couldn’t help but overhear the delightful Mrs. Crull’s…. Threat? And since this particular situation will most likely impact both of our…lifestyles significantly, and it does seem to have, well let’s just say it appears you may need a little help. I decided to do a little research on this… subject on my own.” Typical I don’t get my wife to involved with therapy techniques, or any kind of diagnosis of my patients. I don’t want to degrade her in anyway, but I am a highly educated psychologist, not to mention quite accomplished, and she is really good at accounting, and business. However she is correct in that this could potentially effect both of our lives drastically. So in this case I have no option but to listen to her “research”, and replied “what ya got?” She started flipping through her iPad as she spoke. “Well I don’t know what our Mikey had to say today, but it seems he is into something they call ABDL, which stands for adult baby diaper lovers. Now it seems there are several sites on the internet that people like him join. Where they actively engage in a multitude of things…like sharing stories, and reviewing products, or whatever. There definitely seems to be quite a few people interested in this, like this site has almost 60,000 members. There doesn’t seem to be any typical age, or sex, looking through a few profiles there’s girls and boys of all ages. It also, looks like there is two different… uh kinks? kinda I mean they’re obviously related, but some are like just into the diaper thing, so they’re DLs, and they don’t seem to be into the baby thing, and others are, like more into, I guess you might say regression, making them ABs. So do you think our Mikey is a AB or a DL?” I was in the middle of chewing my food, and carefully paused a bit. A couple things that jumped in my head bothered me. First I didn’t really like referring to my patient as, “our Mikey” I don’t know why but it just bothered me. Next I didn’t think basing my psychological research on some kinda fetish website was a good idea, we needed actual psychological research done by actual professionals, but there was no way I could tell my wife, that her information seemed irrelevant, not that she would let me anyway. So I thought for another second and answered, as I swallowed my food. “Well given his childish t-shirt, and his answer to the question I asked him. Do you want to be a child? And I quote “complicated” I’d say he’s more AB.” My wife seemed to be processing that information for a few seconds, while again scanning, and flipping through her iPad. “Well I guess we can go with that… but there seems to be a slight divide in this group as well. Some seem to find the uh… situation? As uh well sexy… while others seem to just find it… comforting? Or maybe relieving, and a few of those seem to think it’s… I guess you might say inappropriate to find it sexy. So do you think Mike finds it sexy?” She smiled a touch as she finished her question. My response was pretty quick having no reason to delay. “Well I know it’s not much to go on, because I only got one word answers out of him, but I did actually ask him exactly that, and his response was ‘sometimes’ so there’s that” She stopped looking at her iPad and even had a pleasant look of accomplishment while she summarized. “Well given that, I’d say our Mikey seems to be a adult baby that finds it sexy” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at her, thinking very scientific diagnosis, but I didn’t think it would help much to reply. I finished my dinner quietly, then felt the familiar pressure of having to pee. I stood up, and causualy made my way towards the bathroom, when it dawned on me I was wearing a diaper. I turned towards my wife as she cleaned up the dishes, and , said “I have to pee” She gave me a quick so-what look but stopped, and replied “oh…ya…uh well, so what are you going to do?” I knew that the situation was inevitable, but I really didn’t have a plan, besides I had to try to figure out why, or what was so attractive about wearing a diaper. So this is definitely part of that. I gave her a questioning look, and said. “I guess I will use this thing.” I stood there awkwardly trying to figure out what was the best position for this, and slowly spread my legs slightly looking down at my pants. I tried to release the building pressure, but nothing happened. My wife watched with a curious smile, as I tried, eventually saying “well?” My response was immediate. “I just can’t do it!” “What do you mean, you can’t do it?” “I don’t know…it just won’t go” She laughed a bit, and replied “well maybe you don’t have to go” “I sure feel like I have to… it just won’t come out” “Maybe it’s a head thing… go stand by the toilet, and try there” I gave her a exasperated look, and walked up to my bathroom, lifted the seat, and unbuttoned my pants, then felt the unfamiliar plastic where my penis usually is. Finally with a light grunt I felt a stream flow. I turned to see my wife standing at the door now with a wide smile spread across her face. “What’s so fucking funny?” I grumbled. As I felt the warm liquid fill around my groin. She only shook her head and chucked in response. I tilted my head back, and sighed as I heard the weird hissing noise, as pee sprayed against the inside of the diaper. I could feel a puddle forming in between my legs. Then suddenly I felt liquid escaping around the inside of my thigh. I panicked, and tried to stop my flow, but I couldn’t, then I felt pee rolling down my other thigh as I struggled to grab or prevent the diaper from leaking, calling out “it’s leaking!! The stupid thing is leaking!!” My wife laughed out loud as I pulled my pants below my knees seeing the yellow liquid flow down the inside of my legs, and darkening my pants, as I continued to pee. Finally I clinched shut as pee soaked into my socks. My wife laughing, and saying “Oh calm down Jon… it’s just a little pee… we’ll have this cleaned up in no time” I grunted in response as I stepped onto each pant leg, and pull my legs out, then repeated the process with my socks. “The stupid thing leaked.. what the fuck… why would... this is so stupid!” Saying as I released the tabs on the diaper letting it fall with a thunk. I finished undressing, and climbed in the shower as my wife picked up the mess, and asked, “what are you going to do now?” I thought for a moment as I turned on the shower… what was I going to do? The check for 100,000 dollars shot in my head, and the very real threat that came with all that money, I had no choice. I had to figure this out. I had to find a way to connect with Mike, we we’re going to solve this together. I harshly replied “What am I going to do? I’m going to keep wearing them.” My wife again replied with a sarcastic response, “Ya great plan… keep wearing them” The next couple days dragged by. I continued to wear the diapers and gradually was able to wet them without standing in front of the toilet, but it wasn’t easy. I had to try to release my pee, then had to really focus, and not to pee too much. I reduced my fluid intake, and tried to pee as soon as I felt any pressure. So occasionally when I got that right, and I didn’t leak, it felt like I was sitting in a puddle. There wasn’t anything even a little pleasant about wearing a wet diaper. On top of that I searched for any real research on paraphilic infantilism, which is the condition Mike displayed. However there was very minimal research documented, and any studies concluded that it was caused by various underlying issues with no evidence of any cure. So I was going to have to figure this out completely on my own. If this didn’t seem bad enough. I had my wife who seemed to find the situation amusing. Chapter 3 So as Thursday afternoon rolled around, my plan was to show Mike, I was willing to wear a diaper, and see where that went. Not a great plan. I sat in my office feeling slightly anxious as a newer Audi pulled in my driveway. Mike slowly, and carefully slid from the drivers seat, pulled a back pack over his shoulder, and walked awkwardly up the sidewalk with his legs spread out as far as possible. I rolled my eyes as I thought, this couldn’t be good. What could possibly be wrong now. He shoved through the front door, and waddled towards me with a look of discomfort. I quickly said “Hi Mike how’s it” but he interrupted me “Can I use your bathroom?” I pointed to the restroom still in the foyer, and he stumbled by, and shut the door. Then the smell hit me, and it became obvious what the problem was. I shut the front door, giving it a couple waves in hopes to clear the air, and returned to sit, and wait in my office. About 10 minutes later Mike finally appeared. He walked directly out onto the front porch, and left a small, heavy looking trash bag outside, and shut the front door, then he much more smoothly walked into my office, and sat on the couch, without saying a word. I noticed he now had no expression of discomfort, or really any discernible emotion at all. So I started the appointment. “Hello Mike how’s things going?” Which he only shrugged in response. “Well so I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to wear diapers so, I tried it myself, in fact I’ve been wearing them all week” I finally got some reaction from him, and he looked at me as if I poked him with a pin. “You’re wearing one now?” I stood up, and pulled my pants down a bit exposing the diaper, as I replied “Yup” “You’ve been wearing those diapers all week?” Mike quickly asked with a questioning expression Again I said “Yup” “And you have been using those diapers?.. for anything at all?” I couldn’t help but feel a bit concerned, and stuttered a bit “well ya… ya I’ve been uh…wetting them” He paused in thought, and his expression changed again to more of a mischievous look asking. “So you’re telling me that you’ve been wearing THOSE diapers all week, and you have been peeing in them?” My concerns continued to grow, thinking where is this going, but I slowly nodded, and said “Yes” A smile grew across his face like he was a attorney, and just won the big case, and asked “and how’s that been going for you?” I could tell he was definitely up to something, and knew I had to answer completely honestly. “Well to be honest.. horribly, first they’re hot, and itchy generally uncomfortable as hell, then I can’t get use to wetting them at all, sometimes I have to go stand in front of the toilet before I can even go. Then I can’t pee too much because they leak right away, then if I am able to wet them, without leaks they feel like I’m sitting in a warm puddle until it gets cold which is worse. I can’t understand why anyone would want to wear them.” Mike seemed thoroughly entertained by my review, as he replied he started digging into his backpack. “I can’t believe you’re wearing a diaper! That’s so funny…I’ve never had a therapist or whatever do that, and you’re totally right about those cheap ass store brand diapers, they totally suck. I don’t even know why they make those (He held out his hand with what looked like a thick stack of diapers) here try these.. there’s only three of them there, but they last a lot longer and they’re so much more comfy” I was so excited to be connecting with him, I would have taken a handful of used diapers, my plan was working we we’re going to be best friends in no time. I leaned forward to accept his gift, and replied. “Are you sure you don’t need them?” “Nope you’re good. I got cases of them, I’m going 24/7 so it’s best not to run low, but they might be a bit big on you, if you want you can get a smaller size online at medical supply stores, and if you try you can even get them the next day” I took the stack of diapers, and could instantly feel they were much better quality, like thick, and sturdy but the outer cover was soft, I couldn’t believe there were only three diapers, the same size stack would probably be 10 of the ones I was wearing. “Ok thanks I’ll check it out” I paused for a second, and wanted to keep the conversation going so I needed something more to discuss, and asked. “24/7 what’s that mean?” “Oh 24/7? That means wearing a diaper 24 hour a day 7 days a week…everything in a diaper” “Geez that’s quite a commitment, I don’t think I could do that.” “Ya it’s tough… this time I’m going on almost 2 months, but I can’t say that a few times I didn’t think that regular underwear would be easier, but this is the longest I’ve made it yet.” My mind cheered with enthusiasm, not only were we really connecting. but I could see a real possibility that he would get back into underwear soon. I had to keep my cool though I couldn’t push too hard, but I needed more information. “I have a hard time just being able to pee in the diaper, it would be real hard to do this for two months” He was eager to share his experience and quickly answered. “Well confidence in your diaper goes a long way, just drink lots of water, and it gets easier over time. I can pretty much pee whenever ….but also I use hypnotic recordings, I just listen to one as I go to sleep. I am not certain they work, or maybe I haven’t found the right one, but you can find tons of them for free online” My mind just hoped to the next question I had to keep him talking, and he seems really interested in helping me. “Hypnotic recordings? How would that help?” “I think the key is to actually need your diaper, so you have to wear diapers, it’s supposed to do that, but I don’t think I have had a actual accident yet.” I looked at him in shock realizing he was trying to become completely incontinent. The next sentence just feel from my mouth. “Why would you want that?” I regretted it as soon as I said it, and it wasn’t just the question. It was my facial expression of disgust, my ridiculing tone of voice. I totally fucked up. I could see his face drop, his realization that he was talking to a psychologist, then he said the word that I hated to hear. “Whatever” I tried to apologize but I new it was over. We sat quietly for the rest of the appointment, and about 10 til 4 he slowly picked himself off my couch, and slowly walked towards the door. I had to say something before he left, but the best I could come up with was “Mike I’m really sorry… I didn’t mean to offend you” Mike slowly turned back, and gave me a sad look “I know Doc… maybe I’m just a little sensitive… I’ll see you next week” I just nodded in response. As Mike backed out of the driveway. I just sat there in thought, I had to fix this, how could I be so stupid, I had to find a way to reconnect, at least I think he’s giving me another shot.

The child was just like any normal 9 year old child, he was in 4th grade in which she loved to read and is very good at long division. He likes school and seeing her friends but likes the weekends at home too where she doesn't usually have homework. His/her favorite color is pastel green. He/she loves watching Netflix and has a secret love for watching tv show for very little children even if they are "baby shows". He/she's currently working on reading an old book his mommy gave her called "harry potter" but still gets caught up on some big words. He/She also has a bit of an entitlement issue with being seen as a big boy since he's only about as big as the first and second graders and only just stopped sucking his thumb at night a few weeks ago. (Our RP starts as the little boy is doing his homework in the living room with train playing on the TV, the door bell rings his mommy answers the door to see the babysitter she had called for the night. This babysitter was different though and has promised to get her little boy to relax and enjoy being a "little" kid more.... I will play the adult characters.

***This story is an alternative time-line to ours about the post covid pandemic era. *** -Prelude Setup- "The year is 2022, the last 2 and a half years Covid 19 has reaped havoc on society, but now with things opening back up and every day taking more and more steps forward from quarantine and masks more questions arise. The one on our table today is schooling. Now the switch to E-learning was not fast nor easy, many kids didn't learn what the needed too, or the way they needed too. We have many kids who regressed in not only their studies but in maturity, social face to face, and in unfortunately many cases out of the house habits. We currently have statistics of grades k thru 12 on the screen behind me. As you can see these are the most common issues students are having. In k thru 6, most students have regressed in mathematics, reading and writing. They also have a steep up tick in bathroom accidents and other social behaviors such as thumb sucking, whining, and "wanting mommy". We believe these are all related. Also with grades 5 thru 12 we are seeing issues with confidence, low test scores, unpreparedness, and social awkwardness." The sharped dressed woman at the front of the meeting room stood tall as she took off her glasses looking at the screen behind her. "I, Dr. Jasmine Hartwell propose this... (she lays out 13 tests on the table in front of her labeled pre-k all the way thru 12 grade) These are placement tests. Every student in this district will take these tests and their scores will tell us where they are at academically, in addition each student will be sent a packet at home to be filled out by their guardian to get the full scope of how both mature and socially stable each child is. This school district along with 4 others have been chosen across the US to participate in this to see if a wide roll out is what this country needs. Now there are limits to placements from these results current 16, 17 and 18 year old may not place below 8th grade if then need to we will have a special class set for them. 12 and up may not be placed below K under 12 is fair game. Now on the flip side of this NO student will be moving up due to test scores. This is to see if they need help or not. And in addition we will have multiple staff members here to help in transition down graders will need, either maybe a councilor or a trained specialist to help them calm down and fit in better with their new grade and age range. If there is any questions email them to me. And please keep you emotions at the door during these tests this is the best for us and them. Thank you tests will start tomorrow." Dr. Hartwell says closing her book putting her glasses away and walks out of the meeting leaving all the teachers, principles and faculty in a gasp. The next day as soon as it hit 10am every student across Willow's Green School District was sat down for the test about the same time all the parents were also filling out their packet about their sons and daughters being as honest as they can. By 4pm that same day most families were back home discussing the day, some over dinner, some in a quiet room, some scared, some over confident. But all had the weekend to think, enjoy, and prepare for what Monday brings with the test results. All weekend long teachers and government appointed educational professionals would be grading and judging test and packets a like. By Monday the kids were back in school in their usual classes. The district of a little over 8 hundred kids was ready and waiting for how crazy the day was about to become. Busses were outside the high school, middle school, and elementary waiting to bring the kids who were labeled as down graders where they needed to go. Parents all got text messages at the same time as the schools were giving out the results to the kids. In total two thirds of the kids were being down graded! The senior and junior classes didn't see much loss, sophomore and freshman classes had almost half drown graded at least one grade. The middle school was hit the worst over half of the current middle school was being down graded to elementary. While half the elementary was being down graded, 65 kids across k thru 5 were send back to pre k (most of the kindergarteners) and only a few preschoolers fell out of pre k. The busses gathered the kids some in hysterics, some angry, and a few in just shock. This story will follow 3 family's effected by this government test in Willow's Green school district. I'm sorry this intro was so long, but I've been wanting to write this story for a while and I have a lot of thoughts. I might also post this on writing.com as an interactive depending on feed back. Stop by seen for chapter 1! Thank you!

Author's Note: This story is generally inspired by Altered States and You Know What They Do To Girls Like Us in Brighter Days by Chels in Ribbons. While there are notable differences, I used much of it as inspiration, and credit can never hurt. Initially, this was called Growing Pains, but after outlining a new structure, I found that enough had changed to merit a new direction, making it easier than clumsily editing the existing work. There & Back Again Part 1. Growing Pains Prologue, vignettes of a changing world. The leader of the JNP party(Jefferson National Party), Thomas Hillbrook, took the stage to a cheering crowd. Thomas for his part did look presidential, with light brown slightly greying hair, and a warm infectious smile “Thank you, thank you! Despite everything, despite them trying to steal this election, you fought like hell. You voted for it, and we’re here!” he looked over the adoring crowd, his inauguration would surely be bigger but the throngs of people cheering for him was still the larger then he could’ve ever hoped for “We did the impossible; we took a third party to the White House. You took me to the White House, and I promise you there will be changes around here. Results are still coming in, but it seems we took a lot of the House too!” Cheers erupted from the crowd. “I promise you that under my administration, we will return to better times. We will purge Marxism and postmodernism.” Madison Hawkins shut off the TV in disgust. It was a disgustingly gorgeous day in November. For the rest of the month, and most of October it had been rainier than she had ever seen it and t However, a warm patch had come in a few days ago, bringing temperatures in the 50s with clear skies. The beautiful weather felt like a mockery to her; her country had just elected a man who didn’t believe she should be able to vote until she was 30. The sky was blue, and the birds that hadn’t flown south for the winter were out in full force. At least she was in New York, where she felt relatively safe. 1 year before. “Whoa, you got a haircut?” Madison said, sitting up from the couch, genuinely surprised. . In the nearly 3 years she’d known him, Lucas Rowland had never had his hair less than shoulder length. Now he sported his auburn hair in a short, utilitarian cut. Tall and Lean he had gotten Lasik a few months ago, The Nerd look he had carefully cultivated for many years was slipping away, Lucas frowned, looking slightly put out. “The guys and I were talking... I think it’s time to take things more seriously.” He gestured at his head. “And, well, that kind of hair doesn’t exactly say that, does it? “The guys?” Madison raised an eyebrow. “Since when are your lab coworkers ‘the guys’? Isn’t the lab mostly women anyway?” At this, Lucas looked truly uncomfortable for the first time. “ “Was. Mostly women, I mean. We had to move. Or let go of most of the women. Our lab can only operate with some federal grants, and a lot of the women were just out of grad school, so they weren’t 28 yet.” Madison stared at him. “Wait, what? You had to let them go? I thought that I only applied to management positions. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” “Because... What was I supposed to say? They changed it to cover ‘advanced’ positions as well, and as fuzzy as that language is, it definitely covers researchers. Look, Madison, I don’t like it either, but my lab doesn’t exactly draw in millions from private equity or whatever. It was either move the female employees under 28 into other positions or shut down.” “Wait, you’re saying they’re doing secretarial work? Like what, getting coffee for you, Like it’s the 1950s?” She groaned, the sick feeling in her stomach deepening. “This is unreal, Lucas. How can you even...” She trailed off, unable to find the right words. “Well, a lot of them are planning to move overseas. And he said quickly, I wrote glowing letters of recommendation for all of them, even the ones who were not great at their jobs. I think a lot of foreign universities are receptive to what’s happening here and are hiring them. But the ones who stayed... yeah, they’re doing secretarial work that they’re very overqualified for.” He sighed, sitting down on the couch. Madison looked at him in disbelief, her jaw clenched. “And what, you're just okay with that? With all of this?” “No of course not, if our research, doesn’t get funded 25 people including those highly overqualified women doing demeaning work will be without a job, and that doesn’t help anyone” “for people to just accept it this is exactly what they want, Lucas, to ‘go along’ so they don’t lose funding or their jobs. And now... look at you, god I barely recognize you, you used to have fire, you slept in trees so they wouldn’t get cut down, what changed?” she nearly begged him, he had so much conviction back when they first met, and that’s what made her fall in love with him, but now he was bowed, defeated. I’m sorry Maddison I can’t get rid of 25 people's jobs, I just can’t” his arms crossed defensively. “Fuck” she said standing pacing back and forth “I know your right,” Madison said. 1 1/2 Years Before “3 2... 1... and we’re live! Welcome to the John Flint Show! We have a very special episode for you this week. Not that all my guests aren’t wonderful, but this week we’re joined by someone very special: the President of the United States, Thomas Hillbrook. Hello, sir, it’s an honour.” “No, no, the pleasure is all mine.” John gestured around the hotel room they were in. “We’re not in the studio today because of scheduling conflicts, but I tested the audio, and it should be fine.” The two men sat in a large, spacious hotel room’s living area, both wearing tight suit jackets, button-ups, and jeans. “With your recent ban on women under the age of 28 from working full-time and holding ‘advanced’ jobs, what’s your next step?” ” Well you know John the next few steps are cultural if girlfriend or wife are out of line, it's really simple you wouldn't let your teenage daughter flip you off at the dinner table, and you shouldn't let your wife do the same if she's going to act like a child. You gotta treat her like one if you're a bad girl. You’re getting a vigorous spanking right now. And no, it’s not going to hurt me more than it hurts you.” “ah… well uh” John spoke clearly taken aback but the monologue, “ what about on the policy side of things” It was hard to make John blush, he had done NASCAR commentary for years before starting his podcast, and people saying stuff off color was basically the job. And yet even John was taken aback by the man's remarks. I’ve been talking about raising the age of majority to 28 as well with my advisors, marriage used to be about handing off the wife from, the father to the husband, I think having, more years where they can just focus, on being either girls or trying to get, married would only be beneficial” -the podcast meandered on that course until rapping up in the following days, John released a statement on his Instagram, stating that the views expressed were not reflective of the show, but then on the very next episode claimed that Hillbrook was simply using “poetic language” 1 years before “God damn it! Fuck, I can’t even apply till I’m 28. They want my real ID for the application.” In less than a year, she had lost everything. Her bank account was in her parent's name, and if she ever actually got married to Lucas, it’d be in his. She wanted to scream. Hell, if the government found out she was living with Lucas, he’d be sent to jail and she'd be sent to an etiquette school, of course, the alternative wasn’t much better marriage class they’d have to take had away from shifting people not nearly as much as the etiquette schools but enough —she was 26. All legal barriers were gone by then; the measure raising the age of majority to 28 had passed within less than a week, and within days, job application sites took you to a verification site where you had to post your ID. Her logins for her doctor and banks had changed; she was basically property for the next two years. “Fuck,” she said again. Lucas was sitting on the couch. “Don’t swear,” he said, with the resolute look of someone who knew there was going to be a fight, but there was no helping it. “Maddy, you need to break that habit so you don’t do it out in public.” Madison whirled around. “Fuck them! I don’t care.” “Maddy, you know if someone reports you, you could get sent to one of those etiquette schools, and no one wants that. You always make me the goddamn bad guy. I’m trying to keep us safe. As soon as you turn 28, you can leave the country again, and we’re out of here, but until then…” He said, shifting back and looking uncomfortable. “When in Rome.” She stared at him. “When in Rome? What, you want me to be a submissive little girl you can take care of? Is that what you want? Turn on the TV. Look at the commercials. They’re making all the little stuff bigger. Why do you think that is? Do you think that’s a natural rise in popularity? The skirts, the pajamas— the socks, the panties they’re infantilizing us. I heard in Alabama you have to have an ID to buy a goddamn pantsuit. First the spankings, now the clothes—who knows what’s next? You want to ‘when in Rome’ that?” She said forcefully. Hours Later. Madison was curled up in a chair, making her way through A Crown of Swords. At any other point in her life, she would have skipped that particular book, but not having a job left her with time to kill, she guessed. Her genuinely hoped-for well-meaning boyfriend approached her. “Look, I’m sorry. I want to drop it, but this is a legitimate concern. I’ve heard horror stories about etiquette schools. Those people came back... changed. I don’t want to lose you, Maddy. Let’s just do this: a swear jar. If in the next six months, you don’t fill it up, I’ll pay you what it would have taken to fill it up, plus a punishment. And if you fill it up, I get the money and get to punish you. It’s almost like fantasy football.” she sighed "Fine deal" 1/2 a year before. Lucas, sat up in bed, his smartwatch buzzing to wake him. Sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing sleep from his eyes he stared at his girlfriend, he had accidentally pulled down the sheets when he had gotten out of bed, and he was met by the sight of her sleeping body so peaceful, she was wound up so much these days, it was nice seeing her relaxed even if it was only in sleep. She was wearing a black lacy bra, and girlish panties with stars on them, the only ones she could buy now, Lucas felt a guilty pang, he found the panties far more appealing than the bra, but that conversion could never happen it couldn’t have happened before and certainly not now. He got out of bed and walked down the hall towards the bathroom. A few years ago, the walls were filled with pictures of them and their friends hiking, whitewater rafting, and going to Ren fairs. Stupid stuff, really, but they’d been happy. Now all evidence that Madison lived here was in a box they’d shipped to one of his former colleagues in Spain. After the shower he started to get dressed, a few years ago he would've had to google how to Tie a tie now his hands did it automatically. He was no longer the lead researcher quietly that had been taken from him, he hadn’t been outspoken politically for years but it still cast a long shadow. He headed to the kitchen where Madison was up making coffee for him, “you don't have to do that you know” he said, she had recently started doing more than her fair share of the chores, without ever acknowledging it. “I know,” she said quietly, pulling the coffee filter off of the Chemex. She sighed, “ I need to be useful in some way and if that means, making your coffee well… I guess this is the way I can do it. Anyway I’m not sure if they even want a housewife anymore,” she said laughing bitterly, “They want a woman to be submissive and infantilized, I have a lot of time to watch Tv while you're at work, I’ve heard what the party line is, it’s changing, before losing my rights was like an incentive to get married, now they’re even IDing married woman for the “mature” clothes it’s weird psychosexual bullshit”. Lucas again felt a twinge, that psychosexual bullshit was something he was all too familiar with, trying to keep his face composed, “If you want to help around the house more that’s fine, I just don’t want you to lose yourself, I feel like this is how it starts. Also, you just swore” Madison rolled her eyes “Really Lucas, fine” Madison wasn’t making her own money but her parents and Lucas gave her allowance, and from that was the money taken, she pulled out her wallet from the shelf, and dug out a one and walked over to the corner where “the swear jar” was, Lucas noticed something, a small flicker of nerves at the corner of her face, he stood up and noticed something the jar, was nearly bursting with bills, madison had made very little effort in the past to crucial her swearing at all, “God damn it, Maddy, why do you keep swearing?” He gestured to the overflowing jar. “You know this isn’t just about putting money in a jar! You could get in real trouble for this! You’re playing housewife—which I never asked for—and now this?” Madison looked at him, her eyes flashing with frustration. “I’m not doing it on purpose, Lucas. It’s just…” “Just what? It’s dangerous, especially with everything going on. You could attract attention! And now you’re acting like this is a joke!” She stood still, the tension palpable between them. Lucas reached out, pressing down on the stack of cash crammed into the jar. “I trusted you’d be careful. But this? You’re crossing a line.” He upended the jar, spilling more than $200 in singles across the table. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered, “Well, I guess if the strip clubs ever open back up, at least I’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ money ”. He frowned, “I have to go to work, but I don't think this conversation is over.” (Start of new stuff) Lucas flicked on the radio, as he pulled his car out from the parking garage, into the bright Rochester day, a local news broadcast, fuzzed to life. The weather report reported mid-70s a low chance of rain for the rest of the week, it was followed by some sports talk, that talked about Jeffery Long's last session as a professional football player talking about the legacy of the game and so on, it was all white noise to Lucas as he drove, more focused on, how exactly they would avoid detection for the next few years if they were to get married, the marriage classes, did tend to affect the personalities of both parties, but a few of his coworkers had gone through it and they were still the basically same people different sure but still the same.. But still, if they went poking around in either Madison or his head who knows what they'd be fine. ? Just then, he noticed the audio had shifted, the faint jingle of an ad beginning to play drew his attention, and a feminine voice started talking, “They grow up so fast, don’t they one minute they’re just your little girl The next, they’re getting married, if you want to extend their time at home try Tinklex, the only over the counter diuretic, that is proven to increase day and nighttime accidents. Not like a man is going to take your girl away if she can’t keep her panties dry”. Lucas felt his heart begin to race if only the AD knew how wrong that was, thinking of Madison, he imagined her crossing her legs, she was clearly desperate to use the bathroom. He would ask her if she needed to use the potty, and she would refuse, " I don't hafta", and he'd ask if she was sure... he cut off the lecherous thought with ferocity shoving it into a dark corner of his brain, shame, and desire spiraling in his mind, years ago he had started to accept his feelings, a fetish that he couldn't get rid of but now he couldn't he stared into the void and it looked back. The rest of the drive passed in silence as he tried to shake off the shameful thoughts. A financial report came on next, noting a massive rise in stocks for incontinence products which again sent Lucas flush with shameful furtive desire Finally, Lucas pulled into the parking lot. Calming down he locked his car and shoved that part of him down, he wished he could talk to Madison about his fantasies but he didn't know how to explain to her when it didn't hit super close to the themes of the authoritarian takeover over much less now. Entering the building, Lucas swiped his keycard at the door, and strolled down into his cramped office Lucas was tidy but even so the office was filled with paperwork and books scattered about. he began the day, as he was checking emails when Graham, Lucas’s boss knocked, and then let himself in. Graham had Lucas's old job and was as far as Lucas could tell as committed to the new regime as anyone could be. “Good morning buddy of pal,” Graham said with a shit-eating grin, "I have great news, you’re getting promoted”. Lucas frowned, waiting for the other shoe to drop.“You’re being transferred to Washington as a chemist,” Graham said. Lucas stared at him. “You know I’m not a chemist.” “Nonsense! Didn’t you get a B.S. in chemistry from The College of William and Mary? That was you, right?” “Yeah, but that was just my undergrad. I haven’t worked in chemistry in years.” “Perfect!” Graham continued, ignoring Lucas’s hesitation. “Oh, and you can bring Madison along. You should be getting married soon anyway—we’ve allowed this, uh, ‘torrid affair’ to go on long enough.” Lucas tried to plaster a look of confusion onto his face ”Madison, who's that?" Graham gave a mock sigh. “Fuck off Lucas don't try that shit with me, believe it or not, I’m not a sociopathic Machiavellian. Just a regular Machiavellian,” he smirked. “But you know full well that if you don’t get married, you’ll end up in prison, and Madison…” He let the threat hang. “She’ll end up as a ‘doll.’ I’m doing you a favour here. Go to Washington, they'll test some new experimental therapies on you guys, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.” Lucas felt his pulse quicken, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Right. Thanks…for the favour.” Graham grinned wider. “Good talk. I’ll send you the paperwork by the end of the day. Just remember—this offer is the best you’re going to get.” “Wait, why us? Why are we being targeted specifically?” “Oh come now, liberal academics we have a record of personality tests you took in college you know, you people,” he said lip curling “Never know when to heel,if we can get people like to bend then the biggest critics of well this, can learn to stop worrying so much as it were, that would be great, consider yourself lucky. With that, he turned and left, leaving Lucas alone with the grim realization of what his so-called promotion really meant. Numbly he went through the rest of the Day, stopping only to text Madison that something big had happened, he’d pick up take out and she should get herself ready. By ten he realized that there was no longer any point in doing work, and he started to wrap loose ends. His lack of responsibilities being as they were he barely had anything to do and by 11, he had the paperwork to start his new life on his desk, Graham once again, a picture of cheerful mailance as he dropped it off. Not bothering to finish the work day, Lucas left early, and drove around the city for hours, in numb certainty that his life was about to change for the worse. Eventually, it was time to go home. He grabbed some Mexican food and made his way home. When he arrived, he found Madison sitting at the kitchen table. The swear jar was still upended, its contents scattered across the surface. A flash of irritation surged through him, reminding him just how little Madison seemed to care about keeping herself safe. He stifled that impulse. Beginning to talk he quickly surmised how the day had gone, when he was finished, Madison breathed out “fuck that really sucks” and once again the flash of irritation surged through him. “Maddy we have to be so careful, we are walking a tightrope. Once you get your passport back we can leave, we have two years- we can do this, we can survive this.” “Fuck you Lucas, l I barely leave the house, I am being careful”. Madison, stood hands shaking. Lucas stood up as well“You are not being careful enough, I’m sorry”, he caught himself, trying not to get angry, she didn’t get it, they just needed to be careful for a few more years, and they could be free, sacrifice just a little more, and they had a chance to get out of this. Madison brimming with righteousness once again told Lucas to go fuck himself did he not understand that she did every bit of her life she gave over to be careful, her postdoc had been revoked, and she stayed in the house all day, how could he not understand that, he latched on to one little thing she refused to change, and focused on that like a needle. Lucas strode over to her and picked her up, “I still have my punishment, you owe me from that swear jar” he bent her over and roughly began to spank her. Emphasizing each word with a swat, “this” “is” “what” “they’ll” “have” “me” “do” “to” “you”, *smack *smack *smack, he began to cry, and let her go “I’m so sorry I just don’t know what to do” he said hyperventilating “I don’t know what to do.” She recoiled from him for the first time seeing something ugly inside of him. “The same ugliness she saw in herself, she saw fear, and she resolved herself, they would get through this, she would protect him, they would get through this. Chapter one. Present day. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Washington DC. Our nation's capital The local time is 4:30 pm, and the temperature is hovering around 40 Fahrenheit, we should be ready to disembark in about 45 minutes. Thank you for flying as always Spirit Airlines, Madison and Lucas sat next to each other staring out of the window. Madison looked down at her wedding ring, it wasn’t even a wedding, they had met up at the courthouse and her parents had driven from Boston, and the whole thing was over in an hour, it wasn’t how she had imagined getting married, but Lucas, being the one, did somehow soften the blow. Their relationship had settled down quite a bit since the night Lucas had brought the news. They were less tense around each other but Madison trusted him less, something she regretted especially now that they were married. They landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. The rest of the trip to their new apartment passed in a blur. When they finally arrived a surprisingly nice brownstone awaited them, none of their things had arrived nor was the power or water turned on. So they sat on the floor of their new kitchen and had a picnic, with some of the things they picked up from the store. Madison, spread peanut butter on her sandwich, feeling a slight pang in her bladder, she quietly “Lucas, when will the water be turned on?” “uh, sometime tomorrow I think, Lucas said slightly offhandly. Madison grimaced, “Oh ok”. “Oh why, do you need to use the bathroom” Lucas tried to seem as causal as he could he wasn’t entirely sure if he was able. The Nod that followed, sent Lucas’ thoughts racing, “well we don’t have a car, and it’s a bit late to call an uber, I guess there's probs a gas station or something around here.” he said guiltily hoping she would said she could wait till morning. And then the magical words happened and the excitement crescendo. “Yeah, I’ll just wait till morning. As night fell at Rowland's house, Madison carefully sipped a bottle of water, as she and Lucas settled into the quiet of the empty house. The plane ride had been exhausting, leaving her dehydrated and a little light-headed, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go to the bathroom before they landed—nerves, perhaps, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Lucas. She glanced at him as they walked, He looked around with a scrutinizing gaze, assessing each corner of the house like he was already mentally mapping it out. As they reached their bedroom, everything first appeared normal sleek new hardwood, a window facing into their small backyard, and a spacious master bathroom. As she walked into the bathroom she noticed something with a Dawning sense of dread: a large adult-sized changing table connected completely with padding and restraints it was mounted to the wall. Underneath a row of large plain white diapers and a note. Hands shaking she reached out and picked up a note she read, “Enjoy the housewarming gift, Lucas, your girlfriend will be needing it soon”-Graham Merchant. Madison's bladder decided to twinge once again this time she winced as a tiny drop of pee came squirting out making her panties ever so slightly damp.

The neon sign outside the restaurant flickered cheerfully, its bright colors casting a warm glow over the parking lot. The words "Pads N' Paws" were written in playful, cartoonish letters, accompanied by a grinning tiger wearing a chef’s hat and holding a bottle. Inside, the restaurant was a chaotic symphony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional squeal of delight. The walls were adorned with murals of jungle animals, and the tables were shaped like tree stumps. Waitstaff in kitschy overalls adorned with animal-themed pins and buttons bustled about, carrying trays of food and drinks. It was the perfect place for families—and for the three couples who had just arrived. Emily, the oldest of the three women at 31, was a vivacious and energetic presence, her auburn hair tied into two messy pigtails that bounced with every step. She wore a bright yellow sundress covered in smiling sunflowers, the hem just barely brushing the tops of her thick, crinkly diaper. Her white sandals with Velcro straps completed the outfit, and her green eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the colorful surroundings. Sophie, 29, was more reserved, her straight black hair cut into a neat bob that framed her round face. She wore a soft lavender onesie with a cartoon duck embroidered on the chest, the snaps at the bottom revealing the bulky diaper beneath. Her tiny feet were bare, as she loved the feeling of grass—or in this case, the restaurant’s carpet—beneath her toes. Lily, the youngest at 28, was a cherubic figure with curly blonde hair that bounced as she moved. She wore a white onesie with a rainbow print and matching ruffled diaper cover, her pacifier clipped to the front of her outfit. Her blue eyes were wide with curiosity as she clung to David’s arm, her chubby cheeks puffing out as she sucked on her pacifier. As the group stepped inside, they were greeted by a bubbly hostess wearing a zebra-striped bowtie and a name tag that read "Hi, I'm Jenny!" She beamed at the three couples, her eyes immediately drawn to the regressed women. “Well, hello there! Welcome to Pads N’ Paws!” she said, her voice warm and welcoming. “And who do we have here today? Are these your little ones?” She crouched down slightly to address Emily, Sophie, and Lily, who were clinging to their husbands’ hands. Before the men could respond, a waitress named Becky—a cheerful young woman with a name tag shaped like a monkey—bounced over to join the hostess. “Oh my goodness, aren’t you three just the cutest!” Becky cooed, her voice high-pitched and playful. She knelt down to their level, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Hi there, sweeties! What are your names? How old are you?” Emily, the most outgoing of the three, grinned and held up three fingers. “I’m Emily! I’m dis many!” she announced proudly, her words slightly lisped. Sophie, clutching James’s hand, shyly held up two fingers. “Two,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Lily, still sucking on her pacifier, simply babbled and held up one tiny hand, her fingers splayed. Becky laughed, her voice light and melodic. “Oh, you’re all such big girls! I love it!” she said, reaching out to gently pat each of them on the head. “You’re going to have so much fun here!” While Becky prattled on with the girls, the hostess gathered a stack of menus and led the group to their table. “Right this way, everyone! We’ve got the perfect spot for you—right by the play area so your little ones can have fun while you relax.” The men exchanged amused glances as they followed the hostess, their wives in tow. Emily was already bouncing with excitement, Sophie was quietly observing her surroundings, and Lily was content in David’s arms, her pacifier bobbing as she chewed on it. The restaurant buzzed around them, a lively, joyful place where the regressed women could be themselves—carefree, happy, and utterly adored. Emily, the most vocal of the three, pointed at everything with wide-eyed wonder. “Look, Daddy! A monkey!” she exclaimed, tugging on Mark’s sleeve. Sophie clapped her hands and giggled at the sight of a life-sized animatronic elephant waving its trunk near the entrance. Lily, content in David’s arms, sucked on her pacifier and stared at the colorful surroundings with quiet fascination. The restaurant was a sensory overload in the best way possible. The air was filled with the mingling scents of fried food, syrup, and the faint tang of cleaning products. Beneath it all, there was the unmistakable aroma of diapers—some fresh, some less so. The sounds of the restaurant were a cacophony of joy: the clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, and the occasional squeal or giggle from the play area. The play gym was a hive of activity, filled with adult women in various states of regression, all dressed in colorful, childlike outfits. Some wore onesies with cartoon characters, others in frilly dresses or overalls, all paired with thick, crinkly diapers that peeked out from beneath their clothing. At one table, a woman in a pink tutu and a matching diaper cover was being fed by her husband, her face smeared with spaghetti sauce. At another, a group of women in pastel-colored onesies were playing a game of peek-a-boo, their laughter ringing out like bells. In the play area, a woman in a dinosaur-themed outfit was sliding down a slide, her diaper audibly crinkling as she landed in the ball pit. The men couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It was a place where their wives could be themselves, free from the pressures and expectations of their former lives. The group was seated at a large table near the play area, a sprawling jungle gym filled with slides, ball pits, and climbing structures. The girls were given booster seats, and the waitress—a cheerful young woman named Becky with a name tag shaped like a monkey—handed them crayons and coloring pages featuring zoo animals. Emily immediately began scribbling with gusto, her crayon moving in wild, enthusiastic strokes across the page. Sophie, more meticulous, carefully selected a purple crayon and started coloring a giraffe, her tongue poking out in concentration. Lily, still too young to color, contentedly chewed on a teething toy, her pacifier clipped to her onesie and dangling within easy reach. Dinner was a messy affair, as it always was when the girls were involved. The waitress brought out their meals: chicken tenders, mac and cheese, and apple slices for Emily and Sophie, and a plate of soft bread and mashed bananas for Lily. The men settled into their roles as caregivers, helping their wives navigate the meal with varying degrees of assistance. Emily, the most independent of the three, dug into her food with her hands, her face lighting up with delight as she picked up a chicken tender and took a big bite. Ketchup smeared across her cheeks as she chewed, and a glob of mac and cheese clung to her chin. Mark watched her with an amused smile, occasionally reaching over to wipe her face with a napkin. “Slow down, sweetie,” he said gently. “You’ve got more on your face than in your mouth.” Emily giggled, her mouth full. “It’s yummy, Daddy!” she said, her words slightly muffled by the food. She held up a piece of chicken tender, offering it to Mark. “You want some?” Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “No thanks, sweetie. That’s all yours.” Sophie, meanwhile, was being fed by James with the care and patience of a seasoned caregiver. He cut her chicken tenders into small, bite-sized pieces and speared them with a fork, holding each piece up to her mouth. “Open up, sweetie,” he said, his voice soft and encouraging. Sophie obediently opened her mouth, her big brown eyes fixed on James as she chewed. Occasionally, she would giggle, causing a bit of food to spill out of her mouth. James would catch it with the fork, his movements practiced and precise. Lily, the most regressed of the three, was being fed by David. He held a spoonful of mashed bananas up to her mouth, making airplane noises as he did so. “Here comes the airplane!” he said, his voice playful. Lily cooed, her mouth opening wide as the spoon approached. She took the bite, her chubby cheeks puffing out as she chewed. David wiped her mouth with a napkin, his touch gentle. “Good girl,” he said, smiling down at her. Suddenly, Lily let out a loud burp, the sound echoing across the table. The men burst out laughing, and even Sophie giggled, her hands covering her mouth. “Someone’s full!” James said, grinning. As the meal progressed, Becky stopped by to check on the group. “How’s everything over here?” she asked, her voice bright and cheerful. She glanced at the girls, her eyes softening. “Oh my goodness, they are just the cutest!” Sophie looked up from her coloring book, her eyes lighting up when she saw the woman. “Hi!” she said, her voice lispy and sweet. She held up her coloring page, showing off the half-finished giraffe. “Pwetty!” Becky crouched down to Sophie’s level, her smile warm. “Wow, that’s such a beautiful giraffe! You’re doing such a good job,” she said, her tone encouraging. Sophie beamed, clearly delighted by the attention. She reached out and grabbed Becky’s hand, holding it tightly. “Fank you,” she said, her words soft and sincere. Becky laughed, gently patting Sophie’s hand. “You’re welcome, sweetie. You keep up the good work, okay?” She stood up, giving the men a friendly smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.” As Becky walked away, James watched her go, his eyes lingering on her retreating figure. The other men noticed and exchanged knowing glances. “You should ask her out,” Mark said, his tone teasing. James chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, she’s cute, but… I don’t know. I think she’d look even better in a diaper. She’d make a great sister for Sophie.” The men burst out laughing, their voices carrying across the restaurant. Even Sophie giggled, though she didn’t fully understand what was so funny. As the meal wound down, Emily turned to Mark with a hopeful expression. “Daddy, can I go play?” she asked, pointing at the play gym. Her face was still smeared with ketchup and mac and cheese, and her hands were sticky from the apple slices. Mark glanced at the other men, who nodded in agreement. “Alright, sweetie,” he said, “but stay where we can see you, okay?” Emily squealed with delight, hopping down from her seat and running off to join the other toddler-minded women in the play area. Mark watched her go, a fond smile on his face. “She’s got so much energy,” he said, shaking his head. The men settled back into their seats as they kept an eye on their wives. The restaurant buzzed around them, a lively, chaotic symphony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional squeal of delight. With the girls occupied, they started into comfortable conversation, their chairs pulled close around the table. The restaurant buzzed around them. James gently stroked sophies hair, a wistful smile on his face. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but life is so much better now. Sophie used to be such an ice queen. CFA, high-powered job, always criticizing me for every little thing. I couldn’t even load the dishwasher without her telling me I was doing it wrong.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember that time she yelled at me for folding the towels ‘incorrectly’? Like, who even has an opinion on towel folding?” Mark laughed, nodding in agreement. “Oh, I remember. Emily was the same way. She used to work in marketing, and she’d bring that stress home with her every night. Always on her laptop, always checking emails. If I tried to get her to relax, she’d snap at me. ‘Mark, I don’t have time for this right now,’ she’d say. Now look at her—she’s over there playing in the ball pit, laughing like a kid. It’s like a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders.” David smiled, watching Lily play with her teething toy. “Lily was always sweet, but she was so anxious all the time. She used to worry about everything—work, money, the future. I’d come home, and she’d be pacing the living room, fretting over some spreadsheet or another. Now she’s just… carefree. It’s amazing how much better they all are like this.” James raised his glass, and the others followed suit. “To simpler times,” he said, his voice warm with gratitude. The men clinked their glasses together, their hearts full. As the men talked, Sophie let out a soft grunt, followed by a faint fart. She continued coloring, oblivious to the mess she had made. James leaned over and sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. “Yep, that’s definitely a stinky one,” he said, earning a giggle from Sophie. “No stinky!” Sophie protested, her words lispy and half-formed. She shook her head vigorously, her black bob bouncing. “Sophie no stinky!” Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” James grinned, leaning back in his chair and gently stroking sophie’s back. “Worth it. You should’ve seen her at her worst. She used to come home from work and start listing all the things I’d done wrong that week. It was a never ending assault. I’d take poopy diapers any day.” Lily let out a soft coo, her pacifier falling out of her mouth and onto the table. David picked it up, wiping it off with a napkin before gently placing it back in her mouth. “There you go, sweetie,” he said, his voice tender. “And to think,” he laughed, “ she was such a germaphobe before.” Mark sighed, “honestly, I used to dread coming home most nights. Emily would be in one of her moods, and I’d just know I was in for a night of passive-aggressive comments and silent treatments. Now? I actually look forward to it. She’s so happy, so carefree. It’s like I’ve got my best friend back.” James nodded, his expression softening. “I know what you mean. Sophie is like a completely different person now. Well, not really different, but just the happiest version of herself all the time.” David smiled, watching Lily chew on her teething toy. “It’s amazing how much better they all are like this.” Sophie, still engrossed in her coloring book, suddenly let out a loud squeal, pointing at a passing waitress who was carrying a tray of desserts. “Cake! Cake!” she exclaimed, bouncing in her seat. Her words were slurred and enthusiastic, her little hands clapping together. “Pwease, Daddy! Cake!” James chuckled, shaking his head. “Not right now, sweetie. Maybe later, okay?” Sophie pouted, her lower lip trembling. “But… but I wan’ cake!” she whined, her voice rising in pitch. “Pwease!” Mark laughed, leaning over to ruffle Sophie’s hair. “Someone’s got a sweet tooth.” James grinned, nodding. “She used to be so strict about her diet. No sugar, no carbs, no fun. Now? She’s all about the cake.” David leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You know, I used to feel guilty about this whole thing. Like, was it wrong to want her to be like this? But now… I don’t know. Seeing her so happy, so carefree… it just feels right.” Mark nodded, his expression serious. “I know what you mean. I used to worry. But now? I don’t care. This is what’s best for her. For all of them.” James raised his glass again, his voice warm with gratitude. “To our girls. We love them.” The men clinked their glasses together, their hearts full. For all the challenges, the diaper changes, the messes, and the tantrums, they wouldn’t trade this life for anything. Their toast was interrupted by a loud commotion near the entrance. A woman in a sharp pantsuit was arguing with her husband, her voice rising above the din of the restaurant. “What is this place? Where have you brought me? This is disgusting! What’s wrong with all these women?” she screamed, trying to pull away from her husband’s grip. The waitstaff quickly moved to block the exit, and the woman began flailing and shouting. Mark and David exchanged a glance before standing up. “James, can you watch the girls?” Mark asked. James nodded, and the two men made their way to the front. The woman, now in a full-blown panic, was struggling against her husband and the waitstaff. Mark stepped in, grabbing her free arm to steady her, while David pulled out his phone. On the screen was a series of hypnotic swirls, designed to calm and mesmerize. Before the woman could look away, her eyes locked onto the screen, and her movements slowed. Within moments, she was calm and catatonic, her body slumping as the trance took hold. Back at the table, James was entertaining Sophie and Lily. “Someone’s a stinky buns,” he teased Sophie, who giggled and shook her head. “No, Daddy! Me no stinky!” she protested, though the smell said otherwise. Mark and David returned, accompanied by the yelling woman’s husband, Ron, and his now mentally regressed wife, Diana. She was in a hastily taped-on diaper, her pantsuit partially unbuttoned and her hair disheveled from the struggle. Her blank stare and drooling mouth made it clear that she was still entranced. The men sat down, and David began explaining to Ron how to care for his new “baby girl.” “You have to be firm,” David said. “Women can’t be trusted to make decisions. It’s not a negotiation—it’s what’s best for them.” Ron looked unsure. “I don’t know if I can be that firm. Diana always ran the house.” James chimed in, “Sophie was the same way. It takes some adjusting, but you’ll both be happier once you settle into your proper roles.” As the men talked, Diana began to stir, her movements slow and deliberate as she emerged from her trance-like state. Her fingers, clumsy and uncoordinated, wandered up to her mouth, and she began to suck on them absentmindedly. Drool pooled in the corners of her lips, trickling down her chin and onto her chest. Her other hand tugged at the fabric of her dress shirt, the material clearly irritating her sensitive skin. She let out a soft whine, her brow furrowing as she fussed with the buttons. David, noticed and pointed it out to Ron. “Looks like she'd prefer to be a little jaybird,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact but kind. “Some of them just don’t like the feel of clothes once they’ve regressed. It’s perfectly natural.” Ron hesitated, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He glanced around the restaurant, acutely aware of the other patrons and the public setting. “I don’t know…” he began, his voice uncertain. “Isn’t it… I mean, shouldn’t she…?” Mark chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ron, trust us. She’s not thinking about it the way you are. She’s just a baby now. She doesn’t care who sees her. All she knows is that her clothes are itchy, and she wants them off.” Ron took a deep breath, steeling himself as he turned back to Diana. She was still tugging at her shirt, her whines growing louder and more insistent. “Okay, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “Let’s get you out of these itchy clothes, huh?” He reached for the buttons of her dress shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly as he worked to undo them one by one. Diana cooed softly, her drool-smeared face breaking into a smile as she felt the fabric loosen. “Daddy…” she murmured, her voice lispy and childlike. “Daddy help…” “That’s right, baby girl,” Ron said, his voice growing steadier as he focused on the task at hand. “Daddy’s helping you. Almost done.” As he peeled the shirt off her shoulders, Diana let out a giggle, the sound light and musical. She wriggled in her seat, her movements playful and unrestrained. Ron couldn’t help but smile at her reaction, his initial embarrassment fading as he saw how happy she was. “You like that, huh?” he said, his tone warm and affectionate. “Feels better already, doesn’t it?” Diana nodded enthusiastically, her hands flapping in excitement. Ron chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re the funny one, baby girl,” he said, his voice teasing. “Look at you, wiggling around like a little worm.” With her clothes removed, Diana sat back in her chair, her body now clad only in a thick, crinkly diaper. Her perky breasts were exposed to the world, but she showed no hint of shame or self-consciousness. Instead, she stretched her arms above her head, her face lighting up with delight as she felt the fresh air on her skin. “Ooooh,” she cooed, her voice soft and dreamy. She ran her hands over her arms and chest, her touch exploratory and curious. The sensation of the air against her bare skin seemed to fascinate her, and she let out a contented sigh, her body relaxing completely. “Tank you, Daddy,” she said quietly, her words lisped but heartfelt. She gave him a drooly smile, her eyes shining with gratitude and affection. Ron felt a lump form in his throat as he looked at her, his heart swelling with a mix of emotions—love, protectiveness, and a strange, almost overwhelming sense of pride. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so utterly unburdened by the complexities of adult life. In this moment, she was free, and he was the one who had given her that freedom. The other men watched the interaction with quiet approval, their expressions warm and understanding. “See?” Mark said, his voice gentle. “She’s happy. That’s all that matters.” Ron nodded, his eyes still fixed on Diana. She was now playing with her fingers, her attention shifting to the way they moved and wiggled. Her drool dripped onto her chest, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She was lost in her own little world, a world where nothing mattered except the simple pleasures of the moment. Ron reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. “You’re my good girl,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I think this is going to be great for us,” he said to the other men. James returned with Sophie, freshly changed and giggling. “It’s great,” he told Ron, “but the diaper changes? I could do without those.” The men laughed, and Diana, not understanding but wanting to be included, laughed along. As she laughed a warmth spread around her groin as she unknowingly wet her diaper. Epilogue: James sat back in his weathered deck chair, the warm afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the wooden planks. A cold beer rested in his hand, condensation dripping down the bottle as he took a slow sip. His eyes wandered to the play rug spread out in front of him, where two women—his wife, Sophie, and Becky, the former waitress—sat side by side, engrossed in their own little worlds. Sophie lay one her stomach, her pacifier bobbing gently in her mouth as she chewed on it absentmindedly. Her black hair was tucked neatly under a frilly white bonnet. Her thick diaper and her frilly socks the only clothing she wore. Her hands fumbled with a set of colorful stacking rings, her movements clumsy but determined. Every so often, she would let out a soft giggle, her brown eyes lighting up with delight as she managed to place a ring on the stack. Beside her, Becky was equally absorbed in her own activity. She sat with her legs splayed out wide, her bare skin glistening in the sunlight, as she clutched a stuffed elephant to her chest. The elephant’s ear was firmly in her mouth, and a steady stream of drool ran down her chin, pooling on the toy before dripping onto her chest. Her blonde curls spilled out from under her own bonnet, and her diaper, already swollen and sagging, crinkled softly as she shifted her weight. She cooed softly to herself, her blue eyes wide with wonder as she stared at the toy in her hands. The two women didn’t interact much, their mental ages making it difficult for them to engage in cooperative play. Instead, they existed side by side, each lost in their own little world of simple pleasures. A butterfly fluttered past, its wings catching the sunlight, and both women turned their heads to watch it, their eyes wide with fascination. Sophie let out a muffled squeal around her pacifier, while Becky reached out a hand as if to catch the delicate creature, her fingers closing on empty air. James watched them with a fond smile, his heart swelling with affection. He set his beer down on the armrest of the chair and stood, stretching briefly before walking over to the play rug. He crouched down beside Sophie first, gently patting her diaper to check if it needed changing. It was dry, and he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice warm and approving. Sophie looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with happiness, and let out a happy hum around her pacifier. Next, he turned to Becky, his fingers brushing against the front of her diaper. It was warm and heavy, soaked through from hours of use. “Looks like someone’s due for a change soon,” he said, his tone teasing but gentle. Becky looked up at him, her drool-smeared face breaking into a wide, toothy grin. She babbled something unintelligible, her words slurred and lispy, before going back to chewing on the elephant’s ear. James chuckled, running a hand through her curls. “Not too soon, though,” he added quietly, more to himself than to her. “I know how much you love the warmth against your skin.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. Becky cooed in response, her eyes fluttering closed as she basked in the affection. Satisfied that his girls were content, James straightened up and returned to his chair, picking up his beer as he sat down. He took another sip, his gaze drifting back to the two women on the rug. They were both so carefree, so utterly unburdened by the complexities of adult life. There was no shame in their nudity, no self-consciousness about their diapers or their drooling or their babbling. They were simply… happy. The butterfly returned, flitting past the deck once more, and both women turned to watch it again, their faces lighting up with joy. James smiled, leaning back in his chair as he took another sip of his beer. This was his life now—a life filled with messes and laughter, with diapers and drool, with love and care. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Always Read the Fine Print Chapter 1 The first feeling you experienced as you gained consciousness was the throbbing pain deep in your asshole. You jolted upright, or at least as far as you could before the restraints snapped taut and you struggled feebly, briefly, until you collapsed exhausted back against the mattress. You try and scream for help, but the only sound escaping is a muffled mumble and drool. You try and use your tongue to push the object out of your mouth, but it doesn’t move. It is then that you recognize there is some sort of gag strapped around your head. You swirl your tongue around the invader further and… IT’S A COCK! There’s A COCK GAG IN YOUR MOUTH! “Why am I so tired and weak?” you think to yourself. You try and take stock of what is going on, but your vision never seems to adjust to the darkness of the room. You move your head from side to side as much as you can against the restraints to try and gain any information about where you are or what is going on and that is when you feel the slight pressure of some sort of device… some sort of googles over your eyes. You stop… you relax completely… slow deep breaths… You need to assess. Try and figure out what happened and what is going on. “What do I know so far?” You try and think back to your earliest memory before you woke up like this. Thinking back, you became groggy, and your head began to hurt. It felt like someone had used an eggbeater on your brain. You slowly tried to raise your right arm. In less than an inch your arm was halted by some sort of restraint both at your wrist and your upper arm. You could at least feel some sort of fabric shirt covering your chest, so you were not naked to your knowledge. You tried to straighten out your hand to feel around you, but you couldn’t. It was like your hand was completely enclosed in something forcing your hand into a fist. You evaluated your left arm, and it was the same situation. “What is going on?” You started feeling panic creep into your mind. Tamping it down you slowly continued testing… you wiggled your toes. Your feet were definitely encased in something just like your hands. You tried to raise your right leg. Just like your arms… some sort of restraints existed around your ankles and thighs and the same situation existed with your left leg. You tried lifting your hips and closing your thighs. Some sort of band secured your waist to the mattress or surface you were lying on… but there was a new sensation… (aside from the pain in your asshole and you weren’t ready to dwell on that thought yet) There was a thickness… Like your groin was wrapped in something… and it felt slightly damp… too much for sweat… your aching head finally clicked… “I’m wearing a fucking diaper” your brain screamed as you simultaneously screamed into the gag in your mouth. You quickly put an end to that as your brain erupted in a cascade of throbs that mimicked the power of a jackhammer. Before you could question anything further, an explosion of light went off before your eyes adding another pin in the metaphorical voodoo doll that is your brain. Whatever the device is covering your eyes, it has the ability to project things before your eyes, like some sort of VR headset. From out of nowhere a voice breaks the silence and at the same time the words spoken appear before your eyes. “Good morning, Baby”

Part 1: Riley was a powerful businesswoman, a force to be reckoned with. As the lead litigator for a major multinational corporation, she had clawed her way to the top through sheer determination, intelligence, and an unrelenting drive to win. Recently, she had stumbled upon evidence of illegal activities within the company—activities that could bring the entire empire crashing down if exposed. Rather than reporting it, Riley saw an opportunity. She blackmailed the CEO, Tom Kaplan. In the end she received an enormous compensation package, a significant minority stake in the company, and a promotion to the position of general counsel. In return, she had agreed to scrub all evidence of the company’s misdeeds, burying the illegal activities under layers of obfuscating legal paperwork and jargon. To the outside world, everything was now squeaky clean—untraceable, untouchable. But Riley was no fool. She had kept one piece of leverage for herself: a flash drive containing the original, unaltered evidence. No one knew about it—no one but her. It was her insurance policy, her ultimate trump card. If she ever found herself in hot water with the government, the company, or anyone else, this little chip would be her salvation. Now, Riley was en route to Switzerland to secure the flash drive in a safety deposit box, ensuring its protection. She had reached out to an old friend from grad school, Tiffany, who had risen to a prominent position at a secretive Swiss bank. Tiffany was as cutthroat as she was brilliant, with a beauty that turned heads wherever she went. Enormous breasts, long blonde hair, a sculpted athletic figure with a tight waist, visible abs, and an ass that could stop traffic—Tiffany was the kind of woman who made men drool and women seethe with envy. Riley, though beautiful in her own right, had a more slender, petite frame. She knew that, in the eyes of most, Tiffany was the prize. And Riley hated her for it. But Tiffany was also someone Riley could trust—for the right price. Riley boarded the plane early, settling into her first-class seat. She had purchased the seat beside her for full privacy, ensuring no one would disturb her. As the rest of the passengers filed in, she barely glanced their way. A bunch of rabble, she thought dismissively. Good thing she didn’t have to mingle with them. She pressed the call button, summoning the flight attendant with a sharp, impatient gesture. When the woman arrived, Riley snapped, “Champagne. Now.” The flight attendant returned moments later with a glass, which Riley accepted with a barely concealed sneer. She took a small sip and immediately scowled. “This is room temperature,” she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. “Do you expect me to toast my success with warm champagne?” The flight attendant stammered an apology, explaining that the fridge was set as cold as it could go. Riley dismissed her with a wave of her hand and a few more cutting remarks. She leaned back in her seat, sipping the subpar champagne despite her disgust. Beneath her, she thought. All of it. But she had no other choice. As she drank, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion began to creep over her. It wasn’t the kind of tiredness that came with sleep—it was a deep, bodily fatigue that seemed to seep into her very bones. Panic surged through her as she realized something was wrong. The plane was mid-takeoff, the roar of the engines drowning out any chance of her cries for help being heard. She reached up to press the call button, but her coordination was failing. Her arm felt heavy, unresponsive. She tried again, but her fingers fumbled, unable to find the button. Finally, her arm fell limp at her side. She slumped back into her seat, her body immobile. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, swallowing her whole. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was the faint glow of the cabin lights, blurring into nothingness. When Riley came to, her mind was foggy, her thoughts sluggish. She blinked, trying to clear the haze, and immediately realized something was terribly wrong. She tried to move, but her arms and legs were restrained—strapped to the armrests and seat with padded cuffs. She tried to scream, but her mouth was stuffed with something rubbery and unyielding. A pacifier, she realized with a jolt of horror. Cold air brushed against her skin, and she glanced down, her eyes widening in disbelief. The sharp black pantsuit she had boarded the plane in was gone. In its place was a garish pink onesie, covered in Hello Kitty imagery. The shirt portion clung tightly to her tors and left her toned thighs exposed. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Between her legs, she felt something thick and bulky, pushing out the fabric of the onesie. Her stomach churned as the realization hit her: she was wearing a diaper. Riley’s breath came in short, panicked gasps around the pacifier. She thrashed her head from side to side, trying to dislodge it, but it was firmly fixed in her mouth. The muffled sounds of her protests filled the cabin, but no one came to her aid. Then, the flight attendant appeared. She stepped into view with a calm, almost clinical detachment. Without a word, she reached for the pacifier and pulled it free. Riley gasped, drawing in a deep breath, ready to unleash a torrent of curses and demands. But before she could speak, the flight attendant raised a small spray bottle and spritzed a fine mist into Riley’s mouth. The effect was immediate. Riley’s mouth went numb, her tongue heavy and unresponsive. She tried to form words, but all that came out was a garbled, drooling mess. Her lips hung slack, her jaw loose and uncoordinated. The flight attendant didn’t stop there. She grabbed Riley’s forehead with surprising force, shoving her head back against the headrest. In one fluid motion, she lowered a padded metal band over Riley’s forehead, securing it tightly in place. Riley’s head was now immobilized, her field of vision fixed straight ahead. The flight attendant then reinserted the pacifier into Riley’s mouth, reattaching a strap that looped around the back of her head, ensuring it couldn’t be spat out. The flight attendant stepped away, leaving Riley to gurgle and mewl helplessly through her pacifier. Her muffled protests were drowned out by the hum of the plane’s engines, her body trembling with a mixture of rage and humiliation. Just as she began to thrash against her restraints, the screen in front of her flickered to life. Tom Kaplan’s smug face filled the frame, his lips curling into a smirk as he greeted her. “Hello, Riley,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable. Quite the outfit, by the way. Very… youthful.” Riley’s eyes burned with fury, her body shaking as she glared at him. Tom leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Congratulations on your new promotions, by the way. The board and I were so impressed with your… initiative. Really, we were. But when you left yourself with the option to double-cross us again? Well, that was just a bridge too far.” Riley’s heart pounded in her chest as the reality of her situation sank in. “You’re probably wondering how we found out,” Tom continued, his tone light and conversational. “Well, let’s just say you can’t trust anyone these days. Tiffany sends her regards, by the way. She was more than happy to sell you out for the right price.” Riley’s vision blurred with tears of rage and betrayal. Her mind raced, but there was no escape, no way out. She was trapped—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Tom’s grin widened. “Don’t worry, Riley. We’re not going to hurt you. In fact, we’re giving you an early retirement. Consider it a reward for all your hard work.” Riley’s eyes widened in disbelief. Early retirement? What was he talking about? Tom continued, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “You see, Riley, we decided not to leave any loose ends this time. Tiffany was actually on this same plane last night, coming back from Switzerland to pick up her check and celebrate the successful transaction. Turns out she also using it for her return leg.” At that moment, the flight attendant wheeled out an enormous pram from the forward cabin. It was far larger than anything a child would use, its front covered with a thick blanket. From inside, Riley could hear soft mewling and cooing sounds. “Sounds like someone’s waking up from her nap,” Tom said with a chuckle. The flight attendant pulled back the blanket, revealing Tiffany. Riley’s breath caught in her throat. Tiffany lay in the pram, her wide, glazed-over eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. There was no trace of the sharp, cunning woman Riley had known. Embroidered on the side of the pram was the demeaning nickname: Tiffy. Tiffany was stark naked except for an enormous, adult-sized diaper. It was unlike anything Riley had ever seen. This was no pair of depends. It was obscenely thick and covered in childish patterns from the show Bluey. A wetness indicator ran down the middle of the diaper, its color beginning to change from yellow to blue at the bottom, indicating that it had already seen some use. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. A comically large pink bow sat planted in the front of her hair.

Hello everyone! I’m Kenneth, a Certified Hypnotherapist, and I help run A Little Hypnosis LLC alongside my husband. my Daddy, and I’m his baby boy. Together, we specialize in ABDL and general kink hypnotherapy, offering everything from emotional regulation to little space support, incontinence hypnosis, and beyond. We’re both proud members of this amazing community, and we love what we do—helping people feel, be, and become their best. So I wanted to offer up this opportunity for you all to ask some of the questions many of you have rolling around in the backs of your minds. Whether hypnosis focused or maybe even some personal questions, is completely up to you.

Disclaimer: I’m posting a little outtake and sneak peak of what my next story is going to be after ‘A Little’s Life’! The story won’t be in the ‘You’ pov but this was just a fun little idea I had where you can place yourself in the main character’s shoes! I may end up putting this in the actual story later on but I’m still deciding on that. However, enjoy in the meantime and tell me what you think! OoOoo Your incontinent now. The sensation is there when you need to go but the desire to hold it in is no longer present. You release your bodily fluids into a thick oversized article of clothing around your lower half for the pleasure of another and absolutely love it because that’s what she loves. Your Mommy. She loves when you wet yourself and even more when you mess. There’s a thrill of excitement and the maternal pleasure mixed with a scheming sparkle behind her cloudy blue eyes that makes every cold and soggy moment worth it. “Tickle me surprised, that can’t be… y /n?” a voice called out in the distance directed at you but can’t look away from the screen because Mommy said good girls and boys watch Soggy Froggy and Soggy Froggy won’t let you go until your diapers are as soggy as each other’s which is never a problem. “Oh, y/n doesn’t answer to that silly name anymore.” Mommy laughed with a wave of her hand. “It’s good to see you out and about!” “I see you have finally broken the unbroken.” “It’s just the power of the Revamp.” The person sounds impressed and you can’t help but feel pride. It had taken a lot of work to undo all of the damage caused by your own selfish wants and desires. You had been a spoiled brat, demanding more and more unrealistic expectations like the rights to make your own decisions and have a mind of your own. Hah! As if! You were just above five feet tall and that hardly constituted an adult plus the fact you were nearly thirty eight years old with a full time job? Someone had been pulling the piss out of you, fueling your delusions for so many years. It was a relief when Mommy finally stepped in and if not for the the Revamp, you never would have seen the beauty and joy of being re-diapered, having all control taken away and being reminded of what a dumb, immature baby you are with a pea sized brain made for nothing but an Amazon’s pleasure. And you couldn’t forget Soggy Froggy. A high pitched giggle escapes past your lips as Soggy Froggy ribbets out the song: Soggy Froggy likes to hop. Soggy Froggy likes to jump. Soggy Froggy likes to laugh and Soggy Froggy likes to dance! Do you know what else Soggy Froggy likes to do? Soggy Froggy likes to poop, just like you! Can you make a boom boom like Soggy Froggy? How soggy are you? Oh you were very soggy and that wasn’t the only thing. Your diaper was already bursting at the seams, ready to spill over but that didn’t matter. Mommy loved a good blow out and the messier the better, especially in public. It was the blush of your skin and startled look in your glazed over eyes that got her going every time. It is at those moments you recall the fleeting memory of the dignity you used to possess, how far you had fallen, which just added to the debasement that she made sure you wouldn’t forget. But it was something that you deserved and the Revamp was a reminder of that in the form of a grumbling tummy and expanding diaper every day. “Oh, y/n doesn’t respond to that name. Hasn’t in months now!” Yes, that’s right. No more y/n. Only y/n. “Hehehe!” You giggle and giggle and at Soggy Froggys request, allow your grumbly tummy to do what it is yearning for. There’s an audible crinkle as your diaper swells with warm piss, ballooning out nearly to your knees and it’s good you were in a stroller because you wouldn’t be able to walk otherwise (not that you needed to much these days). A pungent odor of stale urine stuck to the inside of your thighs and a freshly made warm bowel movement creeped up your backside in an uncomfortable, disgusting feeling. As the screen goes black suddenly, the episode is done and the iPad has disappeared from your hands tucked away in the underbelly of the contraption. “What a darling girl you have,” the woman cooed with her pearly white teeth bared in a way that reminded you more of the monsters hiding beneath your crib than a friendly smile. “It seems someone has finally learned the pleasure of diapers.” “Yes, well life is better when all you have to do is eat and play and sleep all day.” “And not even wipe your own ass.” “Precisely!” The two laugh, reminiscent of the whines of hyenas closing in on their prey. “Y/n was such a bitch back then. You don’t know how badly I wanted to stick an enema up their ass and watch them squirm and beg.” Hissed the mysterious Amazon. The eleven foot tall woman glowered down at you with sudden hateful eyes and you do not know what you have done wrong but it must have been bad because you was very naughty back then, very immature talking back to these Amazons who obviously were way more smarter and mature. Shooting a worried look to Mommy, she is not paying attention and you shift uncomfortably in the soiled smelly diaper as the harness harshly pressed against the sodden padding. You desperately want a change but know it is incredibly selfish to wish that because Mommy worked so hard, just like every Amazon, and it wasn’t fair to demand so much from a person. You want to scream against the inequality but a firm pat to your succulent crotch emits a loud squelch and the awful thoughts leave your mind. It reminds you of why you are in diapers in the first place and why you should be grateful for Mommy’s sadistic love and care. Just a dimwitted Little, your wants and needs don’t even come second or third or fourth to the much superior beings. That’s why you had a binky to reflect, keep quiet and remember why you are in this position in the first place. To remind you that you deserved every overflowing diaper, uncomfortable restraint and punishing hand because you failed at being grown up and had to be set back in your place. If a collar was a slave’s symbol of ownership and submission then a diaper was yours and Mommy held the chain. “Y/n has at least two bowel movements a day, sometimes even three and wets every hour or so! We can’t have them forgetting their place, can we?” The question is phrased toward you and shaking your head in response, you are unable to speak due to the ballooned pacifier between your lips and Mommy smiles down at you. Good baby. You read the praise in her eyes. Obedient. Silent. Wet and messy. That’s all you need to be to fulfill your purpose in life no matter how degrading and it wasn’t for my own comfort but for the Amazons' will. That’s what the Revamp taught every infected Little, the disease seeping into the nooks and crannies of your brain and stripping away any semblance of humanity you had left. Left in place were simpering, helpless beings finally having seen the light. The Revamp didn’t change who you are. Instead it forced you to admit who you’ve really have really been all along and embrace your natural self that society forced you to suppress. It was six months ago in a leak across the nation the Revamp occurred. In a technologically dominated society that could not function without the ample and quick use of the shiny and inventive gadgets, the dimension was in a panic. The solution to the dire problem was a revamp which meant the reworking of the entire systems and as they were powered back on twenty four hours later, Littles began to drop like flies. Infected from a mass hypnotization across the city by the Revamp, it brought out every Little’s inner submissiveness and utmost childish side. Finally you were able to see reason and to give yourselves over to what the Amazons’ had been campaigning for years: Dominance. The Littles are on the bottom diapered and swaddled in an Amazon’s care, being the weakest members of society and Amazons are on top because it was only the way it could be. The larger you were the more space you would inevitably take up but the Amazons had been pushed away and shoved in a corner for however many years all in the name of faux equality. But the Revamp had quickly fixed that, restoring the natural order to society where everyone has a definitive place and everyone is happy. You didn’t know until the Revamp that’s what you needed. A true Little doesn’t understand the feeling of freedom until on your backside with a nozzle up your bottom with your stomach being pumped full of warm soapy water by an Amazonian goddess. Relishing in the pain and discomfort, you accept the lack of responsibility, the lack of choice, and finally have a chance to let go of all the worries pent up inside which made you fully appreciate and value what a minuscule person you had become, even less than that. You have allowed the true rulers and natural leaders of this world to shine and rightly so and that was your doing - giving joy to another even if it meant giving up your own. It was the ultimate sacrifice. It is your final attempt at a selfless act to correct the selfishness you’d thrived in for however many years but your actions can never be forgotten. You can only move forward and do your part to contribute to the natural order of society by being less than you actually are, making yourself smaller in order to make the Amazon species bigger. You will accept your diapered life and permanent stench of baby powder and constant stink of your own mess while crawling on your hands and knees or awkwardly waddling always a step behind the much more intelligent beings. By sacrificing your own small and unimportant space, it allows for another taller and better person to take over. And that was the greatest pleasure of all time - well maybe second - that is after the worshiping and suckling of the Amazon’s milk filled tits and large domineering hands holding you down as you writhed in discomfort and humiliation. There was no greater shame than standing naked in front of an Amazon your age or younger as they bend you over and drag you around like a rag doll, thwacking your jiggling bottom and locking up your hairless neither regions that remind you that every semblance of adulthood, privacy, and dignity was just a foolish tale. That is when you're reminded of the evil, corrupted person you used to be when a tingle of excitement dances in a place that it should not be and only Mommy can decide when and if you will be satisfied because she is an adult. She is an Amazon. She is your everything, she is your world and the center of your universe. Without her, you would have been stuck in a monotonous nine to five job wasting your life away in this faux victim mentality while actively oppressing the true oppressed that are Amazons - your Mommy - the people who only want to care for you even after all the trauma your kind has caused, such selfish dwarfs you are. It’s so distressing you begin to cry until the warm familiar comfort of the soft and fluffy diaper is slipped between your legs and you're floating on a cloud in your mind and below. If it was not for her kind heart and generosity you would have been left waddling blind in the dark, leading a life only half - lived with dry undies and warm pillows but the Revamp made you see reason and Mommy saving you was just the cherry on top. “Aren’t you going to change them? They could get a diaper rash.” The stranger pointes down at you not out of concern but thinly veiled glee. You have forgotten your filthy state, sans clothing besides the completely brown and yellow stained padding that once was white and your bodily fluids have now crusted to your baby soft skin. “Oh, don’t worry about Y/N.” Mommy ruffles your hair. “Diaper rashes are a good reminder to help these troublesome Littles to remember their place. As you know if you give them an inch they will take a mile.” As Mommy spoke you could only giggle and squeal from behind your pacifier, suckling harshly to distract yourself from the stinging tears because somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, a tiny voice screamed: This isn’t you! This isn’t right! You’re an adult! You have rights! They’ve brainwashed you! You want to listen to the voice but the Revamp is strict and its teachings are so firm in place that it keeps you captive in chokehold. Your eyes glaze over as another mushy warmth slides outside from inside you into your abused diaper and you know it’s the Revamp’s helping hand, a gentle nudge to remind you how far you have fallen.