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Hi everyone! I’m Shawn or Sissy Jessica a devoted sissy and adult baby exploring my ABDL journey. I love embracing my submissive, feminine side fully — from wearing pink, ruffled diapers to enjoying the complete sensory experience of waddling, crinkle, and squish. I’m fascinated by diaper training, stretching, and enema play, always aiming to push my limits while remaining safe. I adore the humiliation and submission aspects of ABDL, and I find dressing up in full baby outfits, boosters, and even scented diapers deeply satisfying. I’m here to connect with others who enjoy ABDL, sissy play, and intense diaper experiences, to share tips, stories, and maybe some encouragement for pushing my boundaries.

Warning As with my previous stories, this one contains several elements inherent to the pre-established 'Diaper Dimension.' These include, but are not limited to: Diapers and their usage for their intended purpose Non-consensual mental regression through various means (Including possible drugs, hypnosis, and/or surgery) References to surgery to achieve various nefarious goals Humiliation Female domination Babying of adults (perceived or otherwise) Experimentation on humans Kidnapping Coerced or manipulated actions through possible means of white lies, gas lighting, or incentives Mild language or use of explitives Depictions of death, illness, or handicaps Graphic imagery associated with any of these warnings Depictions of non-consent and other forced actions of a sexual or other type of encounter Emasculation and feminization through various means and to differnt ends Degredation of human anatomy and mental status This story has not been labeled as mature, due to a lack of specific references to anything overtly sexual, but this warning serves as a 'turn back' point for any readers who do not wish to read about the previous warnings. Lastly, this list is subject to change during the course of writing this story. While most of the plot is ironed out, more warnings may be added if needed. Hey everyone! Welcome back and I hope everyone had as good of a break as I did! Work was stressful as usual these days, but it’s always nice to get away for a little bit from trying to meet my own personal deadlines, especially after such a large project as my last few stories were with some requiring all the completely new world-building and whatnot. Now, though, it’s just as equally good to be back and writing stories again. Unlike my previous story, due to how the system works here, I needed to be very precise in calculating everything out before I wrote a single word down. That being said, some of these chapters have proven to be temperamental and don’t quite make the page count I thought they were going to or are entirely too long for a single one. So, right now, the total chapter count stands at 27, but this is subject to change. Some of the later chapters are mapped out precisely as they are and won’t change, but some of the chapters in the middle may need to be altered or fleshed out to give more growth to these characters here. Which I guess is all to say that if the final tally of chapters changes at all, I will let you all know. Now, as much joy as I’ve derived from this story so far, I need to mention two caveats. First, I have based this story on a CYOA I found years ago. I’ve looked for the creator for at least five years now, but no such luck. I have also modified it for the story a little, but the concept is still there. Also, I should point out that because of some of the themes here, it will be a little coarser and more mature. I will try to give out warnings before some of the more intense scenes, but be warned, this one is not all fluffy diapers and pink princesses. Next, as is typical these days, I will post the next poll at the start of the following chapter. Looking ahead, I already know that this concept will be a one-off story, so there will not be a sequel in its future. With that in mind, the next poll will contain one DD story and two others that are a little more on the supernatural/spooky side. Because of this, I might try to put out more than three chapters a week and I might take a shorter break, but I think the stories are interesting enough on their own and plus, they have never been shown in one of my polls before. So, be on the lookout for all that next. Also, looking ahead, I’m absolutely tasking myself with writing/editing at least three chapters a week. That being said, with 27 current chapters and at least three a week, this will definitively bump into about mid-October, which means that I will be pausing at least at one point for a multi-day vacation. Once again, I’m headed down to Florida, but this time, it will be for some Halloween-themed events, so you just never know what twisted or fantastical tales I might come back with for new story ideas, so take comfort in the delay with the prospect of at least other future stories from me. Last but not least and as usual, I hope everyone enjoys this first chapter of my next story! Chapter 1: Starting Off, 35-01 Blindfold. Gag. My hands are behind my back and tied with something… rope, I think. The truck I saw for a brief second before getting hustled up into it has a rusty axel that’s connected to a suspension that bounces heavily each time that we hit a pothole or some other ungodly bump in the road. The sound of cars, machinery… even people… all that vanished at least three hours ago now. In the back of the canvas-drawn over truck, I can feel the intense heat rise all around me as each hour passes and the day creeps on. Thinking back, though, despite my current circumstances, I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised that this is where I ended up… but really, I just wanted a job again. * * * The suited man opens the door for me and gestures inside. I look and blink a few times at the sparseness of what I’m seeing inside the hole that is the room he is gesturing to. “You’re kidding, right?” The older gentleman glares at me from his at least six inches above me. “No. You want the help… you go inside. No questions asked and you follow the instructions… or you’re out. No exceptions.” I wince a little and even turn around to view the door I just came from. I recite over in my head how to make a quit exit in case I need to. ‘Three lefts, down one floor, and through the main lobby and the security there and then out the front doors.’ There, it would be freedom and the life I had… rather than a barren room of unknown before me. But I also know what’s out there waiting for me beyond those front doors. The world sucks for people in my position, and my pride went out the window the first time another bill came in without the funds to fully back even one or two more of them. Simply put… I’m desperate. So, with a deep plunging breath, I go forward into the room. Once inside, with a sigh, I sit in the far metal chair with my back to a mirror… likely a two-way like an interrogation room. I feel the hair stand up on my neck and a growl inside my stomach… warning me to run, but these people have me cornered with the prospect of opportunity. So, even as the main door closes to this little barren room, I can really only just sit there and squash my horrid feelings deep down. Now alone with my thoughts and trying not to assume or think the worst-case scenario, I look around the room and try and check if this is some trick or a test of some kind. ‘No… no hidden messages on the walls… no pen or paper. Not even a whisper of something I should be listening for.’ It’s just me and the singular metallic desk and two hard metal chairs… both cold and unfeeling as they slightly glint off the single overhead light that slightly pendulums back and forth. Gratefully though, not to long after, the door then reopens, and another suited man comes in with a manilla folder. His expression is mostly neutral but his taught features and cropped haircut reek of ex-military and no nonsense. I could immediately feel a tightness in my stomach, one which I try to will away as I shift slightly in the chair. The man then closes the door and sits down calmly and without even a single word back to me before opening the folder out flat on the table. I immediately notice my photo on the upper right holding on by a single paperclip. “State your name for the record,” he commands, taking out a black-cased pen from the inside of his suit jacket. I swallow hard and wish more than anything that a glass of water would have been right there in front of me in that moment. “Jack… Thomas.” The man pauses and looks up at me with a hint of a hateful and annoyed glared in his eyes. “Your full name, Mr. Thomas.” I hesitate for a moment, hating my middle name… always have, but the man keeps staring at me. Maybe if the room was pastel blue and I hadn’t been frisked on my way in, I might have asked a simple ‘why,’ but my present circumstances tell me that any perceived ‘backtalk’ or questioning would be unwise. “Jack… Marie Thomas.” I can’t help but say my middle name with a slight distaste in my mouth. ‘Stupid family name…’ As typically happens, as I say it out loud, despite likely knowing it beforehand and just confirming my identity, even the stern man before me seems to find my middle name amusing… Ultimately though, he says nothing about it. He then uses his pen to go through several more verifications of my identity… social security, gender, age. All typical for someone trying to confirm I am who I say I am. Working for the government before, all that at least doesn’t faze me. But then comes the questions afterward. At first, they seem pretty normal for someone in my situation… like how long I have been unemployed, or, what my financial situation looks like, but then they start to veer towards the realm of being highly uncomfortable as why they would even need to be asked in the first place. Questions like, “Do you have heart troubles?” or “Do you have any family that miss you if you were absent?” are among the more particularly alarming. Finally, after he asks me if I’ve ‘had any surgeries,’ I can’t take it any longer. “Okay!” I shout, standing up and forcing my chair backward toward the likely two-way mirror. “No more questions! I’ve answered everything from my size to sexual preference to even if I have any allergies to medications or latex! What the hell does that have anything to do with finding a job?” The suited man glares at me and calmly stands up, towering over me. “Sit down, Mr. Thomas. These are all vital questions, I assure you… and we’re almost done.” His calm presence slightly infuriates me and only adds to my already-present anger. “Sit down? That’s all?” I smack the table. “Screw this, mister! I’m getting out of here right this second!” I march toward the door, but as my hand touches the doorknob, the man speaks up once more. “Mr. Thomas… Jack.” He calmly walks over to me and stands right up against my left side, staring down at me… not with rage or annoyance, but almost a calm passivity of a parent to a child. It more than halts my efforts in leaving right away. “You will find no locks on these doors or any others in this building toward the exit. You are free to go anytime you please...” Determined and still disturbed, my hand turns the knob. “Well, then. I’m getting the hell out of…” “But I encourage you to stay,” he says resolutely in a way that stops my hand cold… almost like he knows something I don’t. He then walks back over to the desk and retrieves my file before switching it to one of the pages on the left side. “It says here you’ve been out of a job for about a month now, which you also just confirmed for me. I’ll stop the questions, but… let’s talk about that for a second.” He pauses briefly. “Promise. Nothing more.” I hesitate to move back to the table, but I at least remove my hand from the doorknob and reface him. If nothing else, he seems happy about that. “Good. Now, come back to the table and sit down. Or stand… I just want to lay out your options here, Mr. Thomas.” I grumble and nearly leave on the spot, but there’s an odd quality about this man that makes me stay. I don’t know what it is, but that intangible quality eases me up a little. So, at least curious now, I walk back over to my chair… but I don’t sit down. “Very good, Mr. Thomas.” He calmly flips through several pages in my file. “So, again… you were laid off from your job about a month ago, correct?” “Correct,” I confirm, feeling a little deflated at admitting that. “I knew it was coming though. I’ve been working part-time for almost eight months now. Budget cuts and all…” The suited man nods. “Yes. The economy isn’t doing wonders at the moment and there have been several cuts to federal programs. Seems like your program was hit but you managed to linger on… at least until last month.” “Yes,” I admit, my ego deflating even more. “And from your earlier confirmation and from what it says from the application you filled out online that you’ve been looking for a job since then?” he asks before looking up at me. “But nothing since?” I shake my head. “Nothing serious. Small positions. Some part-time work I’m looking at in the meantime, but… I need something more. You can’t live in this area without something steady anymore.” “Yes…” The suited man’s eyes nearly seem to glow with opportunity, happiness, and another quality underneath that would amount to something nearly sinister. I focus on that last bit. “I see all that on your file here. Some college debts remaining… ouch on those, but a car payment… three years from paying off, and…” He looks back up at me and squints his eyes. “No savings?” I shake my head, and I feel I can’t sink any lower now in this room, sitting in the chair in a slump of built-up defeat before this mysterious figure… a deflated and defeated individual. “No… I have some savings, but… the form asked if I had less than $1000 in savings… which I do. So, yes, some saving, but not enough to check off the box indicating something higher.” “I see… so practically nothing and you’re living on fumes now as well…” He doesn’t wait for me to respond as my silence does plenty of talking alone. “So, you see, Mr. Thomas… when I ask you these questions… I know they may be intrusive, but honestly, this is for a government position and what amounts to an ultimate handout. With the economy and layoffs recently, I’m sure you can understand that we have many candidates in search of work or money these days.” He lets his points hang in the air for a moment, each one a painful reminder of my desperation and how close I am to failing completely. I wished I could say I had backups or a plan to bail me out, but that would be a lie. My parents are far away and broke themselves after sinking their money into some long-term investment. My brother is too busy with his wife and a new kid on the way… and we aren’t even that close. And friends? Well, I’m not exactly a social butterfly and the loss of my job hasn’t helped with that any in finding new ones. The suited man has me cornered and while the door is unlocked… it might as well be a safe door as far as I’m concerned for leaving through it now. Despite my apprehension, I know that this is one of the few chances I have to get out of the hole I’m digging myself further into every day. And terribly, the suited man knows it. His underlying smile, so subtle as to almost even be unseen, ripples along and emphasizes my desperation and his next question. “So… may I continue?” Submissive to his whims and with the knowledge that I have nowhere else to turn, I merely nod my head. He smiles, but this time his glee is obvious over my compliance with what he wants. “Excellent. Now,” he flips another page from the right side of my file, “do you have any fetishes… sexual deviancies? I really try not to judge… Purely for the record.” An hour later I’m back out on the street in Washington D.C. It’s been my home for years now, but lately it’s felt more like a self-contained prison. Each Brutalist building contrasts heavily with the Greek Revival ones, but each seems like a slap in my face now as I pass by them. ‘That’s where I used to work…’ is my constant theme these days, and each day that passes without a solid job, those words feel more distant. So, in an attempt to blur my lines of what is real and what is crushing, I head to the nearest bar I can remember. It’s a small little thing and usually a pretty quiet behind the Archives building… mostly a place for stuffy politicians or glassy eye curators. For me, though, I just order a beer and sigh as I look down into it and the bubbles fizzing up from the bottom. It’s a small distraction, but it still work its magic and let’s me forget for a second… “Pretty shit, huh?” the bartender asks out loud, catching me off guard. I look up with bleary eyes and squint back at him as he polishes off another glass with his dish towel. “Huh?” He gestures to the nearby small TV, almost looking at odds with the rest of the older style bar in the district. Still, unlike most others in the city, it displays the news instead of sports. Most newcomers request to change it, but that’s not what this place is about, and they’re always shot down. In this place, it’s all about governmental policy and change. So, when I look up at the TV and see yet another news report, it’s not surprising, but the headline opens my eyes more than I care to admit. “Government eases testing standards for new programs.” It could be worse, especially in the modern climate, but still… it makes me wonder. “Hard to believe. Maybe chickens won’t be tested as well or something. Saving a buck or two, I guess…” I shrug, not really knowing the answers and not being surprised by most anything on the news anymore. The bartender eyes a nearby chicken sandwich with more than a little unease but ultimately collects it and comes back. “Maybe, but… ready for another round tonight?” He gestures at the once full beer in my hands currently. I sigh and stare at my nearly empty glass. I want another, but ultimately, I shake my head. “No, would love to but…” I don’t finish my thoughts and simply pull out my only 20-dollar bill and hand it over. From the change I get back, I am sure to still leave a decent tip. I might be screwed these days, but I just can’t find it in myself to tip poorly. I walk back to my apartment rather than taking the metro. It saves me a little money, and the walking feels good… despite the fact that the weather is unseasonably warm for this time of year. It especially doesn’t help as I make my way up the flight of stairs and to my actual apartment. Little beads of sweat are already pouring from my forehead as my keys turn to my barebones living space. With my previous job, I was never here much before, so I never felt the need for more. Now though, especially as I immediately go back to job hunting and checking my email, it feels especially lonely. Tonight however, while I’m looking through my emails, I see what I’ve been looking for now for a month. The newest email in my inbox blinks and is all in bold. “Your application has been accepted.” It’s all I can do to keep myself from jumping up and down in joy after reading the header of the fresh and beautiful email message. “Yes! Finally!” I briefly stifle my joy and check out the job… just in case of spam. To my utter relief, it seems all legitimate. So, not wasting a second, I quickly reply back to set up an interview. My hand nearly shakes the whole time I’m writing the email back to them. I can feel the electricity of the potential in the moment. It feels like… freedom… opportunity. Once I hit send though, I allow the waves of euphoria to fully pour through me. I’m electric… thrilled… jubilant. I jump up and after even do a little dance before snapping my fingers. “This calls for a celebration!” So, once more, I grab my keys and head out my door to the nearest convenience store. It’s small and a little dingy around the back, but they have a great selection of chips and ice cream… perfect for a little late night snack celebration. I almost go for chocolate and cherry, but considering the heat and the occasion though, I grab my favorite flavor of chocolate and peanut butter. It feels so good to clutch that pint of cold deliciousness in my hand and I even whistle slightly as I checkout. “Man, I wish I could be that happy about something,” the store owner tells me. “Oh, it feels great,” I acknowledge. “Just got a job application back and I’m waiting to set up an interview. I can honestly say that it’s the best news I’ve had in a month.” The store owner’s eyes light up and he smiles wide. “Congratulations, sir! Best of luck to you on that,” he says, handing me the receipt with nearly a bounce in his words now. Most people know the horrible state of the economy and the huge numbers of joblessness. An interview was always great before, but these days… it’s an even bigger deal. I smile even wider and take my receipt. “Thank you! I really think things are just about to turn the corner for me…” I then exit the store and head back to my apartment. I’m humming along the darkened street… a few lights out from the lack of maintenance. Crime is up in the area, but my apartment isn’t far, and I almost have developed sixth sense about these things by now. But I’m happy. That wouldn’t be a problem normally, but I’m nearly in bliss. There’s something so alluring and free about the prospect of an interview for me. It’s a light at the end of the tunnel and a beacon of hope I can turn toward through the rough storms that is my life at the moment. It should all be grand. I’m even whistling a bit once again and focusing just on what is in front of me. I’m distracted. I don’t hear the crack of a twig on the sidewalk behind me like I normally would. I don’t pay attention to the rubber turning on the pavement off to the side or the deft footsteps on the alleyway down on my left. I’m oblivious to all other things other than my own happiness that yes, I’ve turned the corner in life. Yes, most absolutely, things will be different. Turns out… just not in the way that I wanted. The personnel that surround me are very quick. Professional, burly, and imposing masked figures. They bear no insignia, and I can’t make anything out of them except their maybe six inches to a foot in height and maybe 30 pounds of muscle over me at least. One gets me from behind and places their hand over my mouth with some kind of cloth. Two go for my arms quickly after and lock me into place. The fourth goes for my legs in a vice-like grip. I can’t move and I’m being hauled away… right down the darkened alleyway and into a van. I try to scream. I try to flail around… but it’s useless. I’m useless. I’m packed into the black van in seconds, and I hear the side sliding door crunch over on its tracks and then slam shut before the vehicle lurches away. I barely move with how I’m still being held. No voices around me. Just hand signals and quick and efficient meaty hands that go to work around me. I’m locked in and I can’t do anything about it. Darkness starts to envelop me. The van is dark and curtains black out most of the light, but quickly, I know with terrifying horror that this is something more. My limbs become heavy. The fight inside me begins to fade whether I wish for it or not. I want to kill these people… at least scratch or beat them senselessly and flee back into the night and up to the relative safety of my apartment. But those are the actionable desires of someone fully conscious. Simply put, that isn’t me anymore. A hand is still over my mouth. Though the edges of my world begin to blur, I still smell something chemical in front of me. ‘The white rag covering my mouth and nose must be laced with something.’ There’s no other rational explanation for how I’m feeling right now. It’s a terrible sinking feeling in my gut. But it doesn’t matter. The figure that was once holding my legs now comes over to me, and while the van is still mostly black, a flash of light streams in from the front and highlights the metallic cylinder precariously balanced in their hands. The needle at the tip almost seems to sparkle and drip with something magical and yet unwanted. I’m not a genius, but it doesn’t take one to realize what is about to happen. With my last efforts of strength, I thrash about. But again, I’m useless. Before, it was the locked position of the personnel holding and pinning me in place. Now, I feel their grip is still locked but now significantly loosened. If anything, my efforts against them come off as simply pathetic. So, whether I wish it or not, the person takes advantage of my uselessness and weakness and comes forward. Before I can even attempt to scream out, he quickly jabs the needle right into my arm. It burns heavily and I wince and try to scream in pain as it plunges deep. But again, I’m useless. I’m powerless to stop anything, and worse… the blackness, at first creeping, now surges forward around my vision like a crashing wave. Now, there is nothing more. I feel nothing. I am nothing. * * * The bumps that jostled me awake earlier are no less smooth now than they were previously from what had to be at least three hours ago. I have to pee something fierce but the truck I’m bound, gagged, and blindfolded in has shown no signs of stopping. Occasionally, I hear something on the radio or hushed whispers, but that’s about it. I could forgive anyone from thinking that it meant I didn’t know anything. True, I couldn’t hear or really touch anything, but my other senses were ever more focused. I had watched a documentary last year about a woman who fled her kidnapper and because she remembered the sound of a train going by not long before the car she was in stopped, the police were able to later apprehend her kidnapper. So, drawing at least a few parallels between our situations, as soon as I had come to my senses, I tried to figure out anything I could in this less-than-ideal situation. The road was rough and bumpy. As I noted before, it’s what jostled me awake after I had passed out in D.C., but that was another prominent thing. Also, yes, it was summer in D.C., and the old swamp area was particularly humid, but now… it is still hot around me, but more of a dry heat. I feel the sweat accumulate slightly around my body in the back of the truck… likely poorly ventilated and maybe even open to the outside in places. I’m not entirely sure about that, but the heat and lack of humidity tell me that I’m nowhere near to where I live. Potentially problematic, yes, but also telling. Loving to travel, I’ve been to most of the surrounding states near D.C., and what’s absolutely certain, nowhere right now is receiving dry heat as their weather forecast right now. It’s either something akin to the swamps of Satan or the near drownings of a wretched batch of storms in the areas… not this. So, I begin to check off in my mind where I could be. ‘Definitely west of the Appalachian Mountains… but no cold or extreme breezes of the Rockies… plus maybe too far. Back roads definitely… so not near a city. No traffic lights either, since we haven’t stopped once, so that kills a lot of places as well. Figure a straight drive since last night and the amount of heat… intense and not boiling but growing… means early or midday… but that also would only place me somewhere along just east of the Mississippi longitude from when I was kidnapped last night to now.’ I paused and winced. ‘No… that’s not right, so… crap. Was I out for a whole day already? My bladder… shit. I’m even further west. Maybe a full day then… Still a big area though. Doesn’t narrow it down too much, but it’s something.’ I hope I’m wrong in most of that in a way, since going to a barren area hardly ever spelled something good, but considering I was kidnapped already… my luck doesn’t seem that good. The truck bounces me about a few more times and my need to pee is near to the bursting point. I try thinking about almost anything else, but that’s proving an issue. Between my hunger, my bladder, and my confinement, I nearly feel bugs crawling over my skin in a near phantom itch to move… to run. Just… anything more than this. I try to speak, but the gag prevents anything but a muffled sound emitting instead of the pleas to let me go or at least let me move around that I truly intend. It does attract the attention of my kidnappers though… “Hey, you!” a gruff voice nearly growls at me. “Cut that out. We’re almost there, so just sit tight. We can’t hurt you, but we can make your last moments out here very miserable.” I feel a hand shove me slightly back. “So… what’s it going to be? Stay calm or are we going to have to get… creative?” I sense his threat is exactly that. There was no hesitation or even any signs of a bluff on his part. This man, whoever he is, seems to have both done this before and be pretty okay with it and whatever else was necessary in his role to subdue me. So, weighing my options, considering my current state of being trapped, mute, and blind… I settle down and don’t say a word. The man chuckles. “Good boy. Maybe there’s hope for you yet…” His words do nothing to help the already pent-up and dreading feeling I had since I had been taken. Still, despite his gruffness and threats to use possibly violence or torture or some other nasty thing against me, the man was at least telling the truth that we would soon arrive. The van quickly lurches to a stop. A few shuffling noises later, my blindfold is finally removed. I have to blink a few seconds as the light streams all around me from the windows in the front and the back. I find it strange that the van is so open like that now as compared to last night with the curtains on the windows, but the figures in front of my vision fully distract me from any further thoughts on the matter. Masked and geared to the hilt, they exude an ex-military vibe that I often saw in my previous job when dealing with mercenaries and security personnel we contracted out for our safety sometimes. Not saying a word, the lead man then points out the door that is soon opened. More light floods in and I look back to the man who gestured to the door for more answers. I’m not sure why he isn’t just using his words, but at this point, I remember the veiled threat before. Whatever this is, I absolutely don’t want to make it uncomfortable… or at least more so than it already is. The man simply waves his hand at me out the door. I take his meaning this time to exit the vehicle. I’m still gagged, and my hands are bound together tightly… uncomfortably at this point, but again, I don’t want to cause any more problems for myself. Simply put… between the dry heat, the backroads, lack of traffic lights, and the amount of time it took to get here and stop, I don’t like my chances of escape. Terrifyingly, my suspicions are confirmed when I exit the vehicle. Desert… or at least at best a barren wasteland of dried-up prairies stretches for what seems like miles in all directions. Hazy mountains flank to the west, and to the east… nothing. I think I see a shimmering glint of maybe a tower… a fence… something, but definitely not civilization. If anything, even those signs of something else seem to reinforce the barrenness of where I’m currently standing. Another masked and geared man comes up to me and holds up a tablet of sorts near my head before glaring right at me. “Confirm… Jack Maria Thomas,” he directs right as another man removes the gag from my mouth from behind. I smack my mouth together a few times in an effort to remove the nasty threads left on my tongue. I can already feel the dryness of a lack of water from all that time, but I also see the masked man’s eyes. Sharp, focused… full of duty, sternness, and no-nonsense. I saw the same in the other man and I know not to screw around, but I know I need to try. “Please… just let me go and…” “Confirm,” he presses again, this time with a small amount of anger behind his voice and one of his fingers seemingly itching toward the stock of the gun he’s carrying as well. I swallow hard at the scene, and I nod as fast as I can. “Yes… that’s me.” I take a breath. “But what…?” “Silence.” His voice isn’t annoyed, angry, or even shrill like I might has expected. Just more to the point and focused on the task he seemingly has to perform. To me, it seems we both have our roles to fill… ‘Definitely not the overall leader of this thing.’ The man taps a few more things on the tablet before him, before strangely looking dismayed. I almost question him, but with everything going on around me, my thoughts bounce from one subject to the next and his looks take a momentary backseat. My vision moves from the desert landscape to the horizon line, to the distant mountains, to the men with guns… and then even to what I am currently wearing. Before, back in D.C., I was still wearing the suit I had worn to the interview earlier in the day. I had removed the suit jacket once I got home, but the button-up shirt and pants were definitely still attached to me. Now, they’re gone and in their place is a faded green prison jumpsuit of sorts. I swallow hard at the implications… Finally looking up from his tablet, the man looks at me once more. “Okay… here’s your situation. In a moment, you’re going to a bunker of sorts. You will be there for one year, and at the end… you’ll get a substantial payout for your services.” I frown back at him in confusion, but I keep my mouth shut, my eyes still drifting to the rifle attached to his body. ‘Definitely not where I thought this was going…’ “I see you have questions,” the man notes, stepping closer to me, “but they will have to wait. We need to do two things right now. First, know there are only three ways out of this.” He holds up one finger. “First… quit. You do that and all the money reserved for you at the end will be forfeited, and you will receive no government assistance of any kind afterward.” He holds up a second finger. “Two… flee. You try to escape, and…” He pivots over and points to the shiny point at the distance I had seen earlier. “You see that?” I quickly nod. “Good. That’s a watch tower. They’re all around you,” he notes menacingly as he gestures in a circle around where we’re standing before he rests his hand on his large gun. “They have guns just like this one… or even much larger. You escape; they have the option to shoot you on sight. You survive; you go back and incur a penalty… a harsh one.” He glares at me. “I wouldn’t suggest that route.” I wince but note internally that there’s still one more option. “And third?” I ask hesitantly, the first two options seeming truly terrible and hoping beyond measure that somehow the third would be more reasonable. “Third…” He smirks down at me, his few inches of height over me seemingly a lot more in our current roles. “Well, third is that you finish the year here. It might seem like a burden and impossible in the days ahead, but considering the others, I would still recommend option three.” Again, I quickly nodded. Another person, feistier and more combative might have fought, but that wasn’t me. I was trying to use my head, and simply put, I saw my options and the remoteness of where I was. Fight, escape, and flee, but to where? Out here, even if I managed to avoid the towers with big guns, my survival out here wouldn’t be guaranteed in the slightest. So, as much as a little voice inside my head was telling me to, my instincts told me as plain as day that fighting back would be pointless… foolhardy at best. “Very good. Maybe there’s hope for you after all…” He smirks and turns back to his tablet before holding it back up to me. “Now then… in you go…” I blink back at the man and look around. “Go? Go where?” The man points nearby and while I have to squint my eyes to see it, only about thirty yards away is what amounts to a slit in the ground. Only about 20 feet long, I see the ground plunges inward and leads to a submerged door right under the surface of the soil above. All of it concrete… devoid of emotion… uninviting. I feel a cold splinter of fear enter my heart. “Wha… what’s down there?” I ask, a weakness and subsequent trembling sensation beginning to take over my limbs as the true measure of my situation begins to unfold before my eyes. “That…” the man noted smugly. “That… is your new home for the next year… or at least the entrance to it.” He pauses for a minute, but me still not budging, the man then scowls back at me and raises his rifle barrel to my chest. “Now… I said to move. Or are you going to be giving us a problem already?” I see his rifle. I see the desperation of my situation being stuck in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by towers that had ‘shoot on sight’ orders. It was horrible, but it was that or the unfeeling bunker-like entrance now before me. Underground and heavy duty… there now seemed to be a permanence to my situation that I hadn’t felt before. I didn’t want to go down there. That’s for sure. I had read and heard about these things before… down there meant torture or death or imprisonment. I would be lucky to ever see the sun again. But… the gun in the hands of a scowling and tough ex-military masked figure before me presents an unmistakable choice, death or compliance. Unlike the previous man in the van before, the one in front of me had made no such promises of not hurting me. Somehow, the van ride now felt like the preliminary phase of all this, but now that I was here, the stakes of it all… the reality and actual event seem to be at my feet now. I didn’t like it… but I knew my options… and their limits. So, I meekly raise my still-bound hands as best to surrender and walk over to the entrance… no fight… no protest… Again, despite him still aiming his gun center-point at my chest, he smiles and soon follows me over to the slit in the ground that is to be my ‘home’ for the next year. Stopping right before the steps to the door, I turn around and hold my bound wrists up. “Can I… well, can I at least be free before I go down?” I try to widen my eyes and seem as desperate as possible. I want to stay strong, but I felt there was a wide gap between entering the creepy bunker with my hands bound versus them free. So, I had to try at least. There’s a grumble and an annoyance from my masked captors, but the main leader nods his head to one of the other men behind me. This new masked man comes at me hard and quickly flicks out a long knife from one of his chest pockets. It shines underneath the desert sun; glinting and deadly. I wince and shut my eyes… painfully aware that I’ve likely lost the protection that was once promised to me before. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, with everything going on, I’m no longer taking anything for granted… not even my safety or my life. But the man only ambles over, roughly takes my wrists, and cuts the rope that was binding them together. I open my eyes and see my now free wrists. “Thank you…” I muster out. The man only grunts and turns away… leaving the leader to point his gun once more at me. “Alright… you’re free. Now, down you go.” Again, his actions are clear, and his gun speaks the volumes that he doesn’t. It says threat and deadly force is now authorized on my hide. It says this is serious business and whatever awaits me in the hole, in case I already knew what was happening, isn’t going to be much better… or at least to the point where they would need to threaten me with entering or face down death itself. I rationalize that most things are better than death and then place my foot on the first step going down. My knees wobble as I turn around full now and head down the stairs. The morning sun begins to arc overhead and fill the hole with light, showing off all the dust floating around in such a barren climate. I see the door ahead of me… it’s shine in stark contrast to the rusted stains on the concrete around it… almost like the place had recently been repurposed… like I was the first guest to come here in years and precautions to keep me in needed to be upgraded. Seeing all that, my hands tremble as they reach out to the large wheel to open the door before me now. But, just in case, I turn around and look one last time at the leader. “I…” I don’t get to finish my thought… my counter to all this, hoping to plead one more time to leave. Instead, the man points his gun at me, but this time… he also makes sure to place his eye along the top rail of the gun, aiming at me with deadly precision. His new actions are clear to me now. Get into this bunker-like structure underground now and be a smear against the door instead. With such an ultimatum, I snap back to the door. I reach out with both hands this time and turn the wheel. It creaks and moans in an awfully hellish way like I am about to enter the very bowels and devilry of the earth. My stomach drops more, and I feel a single bead of sweat perspire on my forehead as the wheel finally budges. It turns and turns some more… the door finally opening. Inside is just another set of stairs downward. Darkness enshrouds more than a few feet, and I hesitate, but my ears pick up the faintest clicking noise. With my last job and growing up with a few who took me to a shooting range, I knew that sound… it was a gun loading its ammo… the weapon aligning with the bullet. Next stop, my head… my body. I have no choice. I don’t even turn around this time to plead to be let go or question a thing. I simply walk forward to my fate, sheer blinding light behind me and nothing but cold concrete and darkness before me. I swallow hard and give myself over to be swallowed by the earth and whatever this place is. Fully in, the door slams behind me. To my relief a few lights flicker on ahead of me. The stairs don’t descend as far as I originally thought but the ominous cramped feeling of all this place gives me a terrible case of claustrophobia. I immediately want out, but a quick turn of my head only reveals a thoroughly shut door behind me… and no handle or even a wheel to let myself out even if I chose that option and forfeited the end prize. Now, whether I want it or not, I’m truly trapped. Suddenly, a speaker overhead crackles to life. The sound coming from it takes a second to synch and come in as more than static, but even in the old-fashioned clicks and echoes of a speaker system at least thirty years old now sounds like, the words are very clear. “Keep moving.” I don’t know why, but I merely nod my head in compliance. I can’t go back. The sealed door and lack of egress proves that at least ten times over in my head. I can only go forward, and now with the lights… it’s not just wandering around blindly in the dark. It’s a concession for sure as to how far I’ve fallen into this terrible plot seemingly against me, but again… I feel I have no choice, or at least not a real one... Wandering down the staircase, holding onto the rail the entire time, I eventually come to a landing zone of sorts before another door. The speaker in front of me this time crackles once more. “Scan your hand on the pad in front of you.” I look and that beyond the grungy metal fittings and the leaking concrete in places, there is a brand-new electronic system… right next to where there is a large pad. It blinks a few times and then stops. Looking around, I don’t see any traps, so, I sigh and place my hand on the pad as instructed. The pad hums and blinks a few times before turning green. “Excellent,” the voice behind the speaker says once more. “You may proceed inside.” A hiss follows and the large metallic door before me opens wide. “Step in,” the voice calls out overhead. Not wanting to stay any longer in the hallway than I need to, I step inside… only to wish I saw just about anything else. Inside is only what I could describe as a jail cell. A simple plastic-like faded green bed has been shoved against one wall. The most basic metallic and uninviting toilet and sink are against another. A barred door is at the other end and as if I didn’t remember for whatever reason, the other door behind me slams and hisses close. Curiously, as I turn back, I am only greeted by a flat wall with a single seem around the edges of where the door had opened up. It’s all cold, barren, and unfeeling… except the electronic device in the corner of the room. Compared to everything else, it seems out of place. Not much larger than an oversized notebook, it blinks to life, and a single plain computerized image of a person appears. “Come here,” the voice from before says without emotion, now sounding more like a computer recording than an actual human being. I step forward cautiously and for whatever reason, I wave at the thing. “Hello?” “Greetings… candidate 35-01.” Again, the voice grates and there’s almost a synthetic whine behind it as well. “Please confirm identity and place hand on screen where indicated.” Like before, I see the blinking panel just to the left of the computerized plain head staring back at me. I sigh and place my hand where instructed. “Jack Marie Thomas.” I was starting to get annoyed at having to say my name… particularly my middle name, so often. A ping goes off and the voice returns. “Welcome, 35-01… Mr. Thomas. You have been selected by the government from a contest of over a thousand candidates to participate in a year long study and observation, known to authorities as ‘Operation Hebe.’ During this time, you will be required to make certain selections in order to facilitate your life… benefits or consequences.” The screen then changes to a counter, but to my dismay it starts simply at 100 and then counts down to only 5. “These are your starting points. As you will see, think of these as a money system of sorts. The more you have, the more you can obtain. All candidates are assigned what you will find labeled as the ‘jail cell.’ You may opt out of this at any time but know that your points can never equal less than zero. Answer, ‘acknowledge’ that you understand this.” Seeing the numbers count down to only 5 quickly gives me an uneasy feeling in all this. I feel queasy… faint and dizzy too. I nearly fall over right then, but I place one hand against the wall at the last second and take a deep breath. “Acknowledge.” The words feel like poison over my tongue, but I don’t see many other ways out. “Recorded.” The screen then flickers briefly and then changes to a large screen with several labels on it. Even in my brief look before it flashes away, I see two labels… listed as ‘Makeup’ and ‘Owners.’ “What the fu…?” “Please, 35-01,” the electronic and mostly faceless voice interrupted. “Look through these first few categories that are mandatory. We will give you some time to choose as we know this may be a shock to your system, but your non-compliance will be met with punishment.” The screen flashes back to the selection options. ‘Makeup’ and ‘Owners’ appears, but so do others before the screen switches once again to one labeled at the top as ‘Medicine Effects at 6 Months.’ My eyes instantly widen in shock at the options… particularly with the flashing ‘Selection of One Mandatory’ sign near the top, highlighted all in red. “Hair growth? Incontinence? Penis shrinkage? IQ drop?” I yell out at the screen to where I once saw the lifeless computerized head of the only voice I had been hearing down here. “What the hell is this place?” I smack the bars next to the screen, but there is no response. It’s just me here… me alone with these horrid options. Me alone in a self-described ‘jail cell.’ Me alone after being kidnapped and now confirmed to be part of the government. I slump on the bed in realization of everything clicking together. “The government… the interview I did…” Me, the homeless, ex-government employee walked right into this trap. I wanted a job, and now… for the next year, I seemed to have one. My mind swirled, but it didn’t last long. “35-01. Please make your choice. You now have one hour to make your choices… or suffer the subsequent punishments,” it calls out, its electronics seeming fragile in this state as it droned on. I look over at the still-flashing screen and the selection I have to make. Considering the methods that were employed to get me here… the guns… the towers… the desert… even the bunker I was now in. It all leads me to the same conclusion… punishments mean business here and finding out what they were was ill-advisable to say the least. I sigh and stand up. “Fuck… this is going to be a very bad year…”

Chapter 1 Rejection hurt the most when it came in multitudes. Daniel Aster prided himself in his resiliency and independence. He didn’t care what any authority told him, he could bounce back from any criticism. If a critique held merit, he’d listen, and if it just broke him down without purpose, he’d ignore it. He knew he had power, and he knew that with the right training, he could control that power. He was a master warlock in the making. The first rejection slip that came on his doorstep, delivered by a curiously intelligent Peregrine Hawk, he ignored. There were over a dozen great Warlock schools across all eight continents. (Maybe Mundanes thought there were seven continents, but they hadn’t figured out indoor plumbing until the 19th century, so what did they know?) and plenty of smaller private institutions. It didn’t matter if one said no. The second slip, he laughed it off. ‘Fundamentally incapable of controlling power’ may have been a note in both papers, but what did that matter? He knew his control was a weak point, it just took one administrator to see that it could be improved, that it wasn’t hopeless. Besides, they saw his strengths, didn’t they? Good results on written exams, high levels of magical attunement–if it wasn’t for piss poor control, he’d have been a cinch. Eight rejection letters made his confidence waver. He now had a stack of forty. So many letters that they made his waste paper bin overflow, so many that animal control had been called to complain about the bird poop spattering cars in front of his home–bird messengers were traditional, but perhaps a bit inconvenient. When he got to be High Warlock, he’d see about getting official communication channels equipped with telephones and pagers. If he got to be High Warlock. You didn’t get elected to top positions without a prestigious degree to your name. For all his confidence, he admitted needed education, practice, and a good teacher. Nobody became a master on their own; even Merlin had learned from the fae. Only…that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t just need a teacher, he needed remedial classes, maybe a tutor–the kind of education he could only get with a lot of money or a top-tier school. He was like a toddler who’d never learned to walk while his bones were growing, and now required physical therapy to catch up; he knew he had the capacity but he couldn’t stand up to prove it. And with forty academies–public, private, long lasting institutions and barely-accredited night schools–all insisting he was unfit to be a warlock at all, Daniel had to admit that maybe they were right. Maybe. Lying on his bed, Daniel weighed his options. Give up, find a private tutor, bribe his way in–or keep digging for another school that he hadn’t already applied to. Maybe he could make an appeal to his upbringing–his dad had been Mundane, not a lick of magic in him. Only his mom had power, but naturally, she was a witch. Women’s magic worked off the same fundamentals as men’s, but the nuances were vastly different; Warlocks worked alone, with lightning responses and raw strength no witch could manage, witches pooled their magic into covens that operated more slowly but with more delicacy, more staying power. It was like the old saying–If you want to go fast, go alone, if you want to go far, go together. Warlocks were fast. Or…they were in theory. Daniel had learned the basics of magic early, but he wasn’t fast, and nothing his mom had taught him had built speed. The catch-22 made him reel–he needed a teacher to get the speed and precision of a true Warlock, but his current abilities were so low that no school would take him. While he pondered this, another hawk smacked into his window, flopping onto the wrought-iron fire escape outside his apartment. He winced, walking over to open it, while the bird gave him an annoyed look. “I keep my space tidy,” he said, rolling his eyes as he untied the letter from around its neck, allowing himself to feel a spark of hope. “Not my fault you can’t tell clean glass from open air.” The hawk gave a croaking little caw, giving him a side-eye that seemed to say, ‘I’m better than you.’ Even the birds were looking down on him today. Once the note was in his hands, the bird squawked, flapped its wings, and took off to the skies once more. “Okay,” Daniel said, turning over the letter in his hands. “Let’s see what we’ve got…Berrier University.” A distance-learning outfit, Berrier had been just about his last choice for application, but it was at least a choice. He didn’t need to attend for the full course–he could enroll for a semester, get enough proof that he could handle his shit, and take those grades to a real school. He just needed his foot in the door. Holding his breath, he slid the envelope open and withdrew the note inside, mumbling the words as he read it aloud. “Dear Mr. Aster, We regret to inform you–” Something was wrong with the note; after reading those first eight words, all the letters turned blurry and illegible. He knew what the note said by heart, anyways. ‘Your control isn’t good enough, you aren’t fast enough, you don’t have the potential to be a warlock–you’ve got good grades on paper, go find work as an enchanter or something, maybe get a job teaching.’ And the message between the lines: ‘You’ll never be a real magician, so take the crumbs you can get. You just don’t have what it takes.’ “Dammit,” Daniel snapped, crumpling the note in his hand and tossing it into his trash bin. It bounced off the rim and rolled away. Annoyed, he snapped his wand–a stubby little thing with an ergonomic grip–off his desk and sent a shower of sparks at the note. It flopped into the air, overcorrected, and soared past the bin again. He tried the spell again, and it this time flew straight up, no closer to being thrown away than if he’d left it to sit. On the third time, he spat out a word and flicked his wand and–instead of levitating the paper–set it on fire. Eyes widening a fraction, Daniel blurted, “Shit,” and ran over, stomping out the flame before it could spread. He stared down at the ashy pile. (Goddammit.) (God fucking dammit.) (Are they right about me?) Grimacing, he went to get a dustpan and clean up the mess. A cleaning spell would have been faster, but the last thing Daniel wanted to do was confirm the worst belief he held about himself. He did have the potential, though. Daniel knew his strengths, and he knew his flaws–he was impulsive, he acted too quickly, he could be too stubborn for his own good. But he had a well of power inside him, one he could feel deep down in his core, the kind of power that warlocks of legend could only dream of. Maybe he was a little cocky, too, but who ever heard of a passive warlock? “Screw them,” he said aloud. “I’m going to get into one of these schools, one way or another.” He wondered about cheating, but that wouldn’t help either. Even if he found a way to pretend to be able to do things he couldn’t, he’d be found out too quickly; he needed something that would get him trained, not just that would get him in the door. His control was that bad–and, being honest, he couldn’t blame it fully on being taught the basics by a witch. Many witches, his mother included, had better control than him even though that was miles away from their field of expertise. And… And… And that gave him an idea. Sitting down, he picked up the phone from his desk, punching in his mom’s number on the hard plastic buttons. It rang twice, and then– “Daniel!” she said, excitedly. “How are you, sweetie? Everything still going okay in Seattle? Have you found a job yet? A girlfriend?” “I told you, I’m just here until I get accepted into college,” he said, scratching his chin. “Why look for a job when I’m leaving in a few weeks?” He heard her click her tongue, a noise she made when she was thinking. “Right, right–it’s just, you never call, how am I supposed to know what’s going on in your life?” “I’m calling right now!” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I was just curious–do you have your old records from when you were studying at Alphebeta?” “I’m sure I’ve got them somewhere,” she said. “Why?” He didn’t detect a hint of suspicion in her tone. Perfect. “For filling out one of these applications–I think it might help. Could you send that over?” There was a way to get the education he needed. If witches had better focus than him, he’d just go learn from witches. His poor control wouldn’t stop him from getting enrolled, and he could fake the rest. Daniel just had one obstacle to overcome: Alphabeta–and, for that matter, any other witches’ school in the world–was an all girls school. Of course it was; ‘all witches’ and ‘all girls’ were practically synonyms. Still, he had a way around that, too. He’d just need his mom’s records, a little sleight of hand, and a dress.

"So I'll have a venti mocha latte with oat milk, a shot of strawberry flavor, and extra whip cream. Also, a tall black coffee with one cream," the blond haired boy said, smiling at the short, brown haired barista that stood behind the counter. "Oh, and my name's Alex, and she's Kacey." The Starbucks was almost empty that day. It was a grey day, cool for the summer, and few wanted to brave the inevitable rain. However, the weather that kept people out made it perfect for hot drinks, and that drew latte addicts in like flies. This particular one, in the center of a book store, combined two of their rainy day loves. "Ok, who gets the coffee and who gets the strawberry chocolate milk thing?" the barista asked. "Ummm... I..." Kacey came beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. "He gets the strawberry drink. I get the coffee." "Ok!" The barista said, and left to make the drinks. "Did you have to say that?" Alex asked the red haired girl who was clinging to his shoulder. "Yep! If your going to order something like that, the world will know." "Alex! Happy almost-birthday!" "What?" Alex said. It was Bill, a friend of his from work. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, and wore a long rain coat. He had come in while they were waiting. "I said happy almost-birthday!" Alex cocked his head to the left. "How did you know it was almost my brithday?" "Uhhh..." he said. His eyes darted to Kacey, then back at Alex. "Facebook." Alex looked suprised. "Huh. I thought I had removed that from Facebook. How weird. He turned back to the counter, unaware of Kacey glaring at Bill. "So how you doing anyway Alex? Funny to run into you here," Bill said. "Well you know I..." He was interrupted by the appearance of the barisa. "Alright I have a venti strawberry mocha made with oat milk and extra whip cream for Alex." She handed him the drink. Alex blushed. "Uhhh I think you mean a coffee. Dark coffee. NO cream or sugar." "No it was definitely a venti strawberry mocha made with oat milk and extra whip cream." Alex shook his head and looked at Bill. "No it was definitely a coffee. Your strongest kind." The barista leaned onto the counter top. "Alright. I tell you what. I'll go get you that coffee, the strongest kind we have, with no sugar or milk, but I get to see you drink it. Right here in front of us, no leaving to throw it out when your gone, no coming back in for your sugary drink." Alex stared at her considering his options. Kacey snickered beside him. "Just give me the #($@-ing strawberry mocha." ... Kacey was laughing out loud as the walked in through their front door. "OOOO LOOK AT ME I"M ALEX! I ONLY DRINK THE STRONGEST COFFEE SINCE I"M BIG AND STRONG!" she said, doing her best to imitate her voice. "Unless no one is watching then I only want my warm choccy milk." Their home was a small suburban townhouse. It was older then most but still strong, and they had repainted the walls of the main floor in deep blues and dark colors, then furnished it with wood and and simple couches. A door in front of them lead to their stair well, and on the top floor the colors began to get brighter and more vibrant, and the furniture shifted from classy to comfy. The ground floor was the 'mature' floor they showed to visitors, the top was more for them. Alex was hanging his head as he sipped his drink. "Yeah yeah yeah," he said. "So, how did he know it was my birthday soon? I don't remember mentioning it to anyone at work." Kacey paused. "Ummmm well you know how these things are. Someone hears something then they tell another then it passes to two more, and suddenly everyone knows. Its common knowledge. Everyone knows each others birthdays." "What is your uncles birthday?" She looked to the side, thinking. "November 31st?" "That's not real. There are only thirty days in November," Alex said, while going over the rhyme in his head and counting on his fingers. "December first then." "Ahh, that makes sense." He stripped off his coat, and began to take off his shoes. He was going along with it, but seemed unconvinced. "Anyway, its a big birhday for you. Afterall it is your thi.." "Twenty-seventh? You are right, that is a big one," he replied. She folded her arms. "Twenty-seventh? I could have sworn we had that a few years ago." "Well you were mistaken. I'm turning 27." He looked up at Kacey, who was standing still."What are you doing?" he asked. "Why aren't you getting undressed?" "I need to go," she said quickly, looking out the door. Alex stood up and looked out. "What for?" "Uhhh... Coffee." "We just got coffee." "I mean, copy. I need to make copies of something for work." "Oh." Alex put his hand on his chin. "Can't you just do that with our printer here?" "No. They need to be better. You know, professionally done. Glossy and all that." "Ok, should I come to help?" "NO! I mean, no, its for work. You stay here and, ummm... video games." She pointed up the stairs, toward their bedroom where they kept their gaming systems. Alex turned to where she was pointing. "You are actually telling me to go upstairs and play video games? Why?" "Why not?" she asked. "Don't you want to play video games?" Alex paused and thought. "Yeah I do." "Good! Then go!" She turned around to leave, then paused and turned back. "Oh wait! Remember to wear headphones! Bye! Love you!" That being said, she turned and ran out the door before Alex could ask anything more. Alex waved. "Love you too." He watched her run to the car, quickly open the door and get in, then drive away. "That was odd, I wonder why she was acting that way? Why specify headphones?" He thought for a second, then shrugged. "Ah well. Video game time!" He walked up the stair well to their bedroom. It was painted blue, and with cabinets and shelves built around a large king sized bed. There was a TV screwed into the wall in front of the bed with their gaming systems underneath it, but Alex ignored it for a moment. Instead, he walked to a single white door that lead to their closet and opened it. He pushed aside their hanging shirts and dresses until he found what he was looking for. A large, brown plastic box with a sealed green lid, which he unlocked and opened. "There we go," he said, staring at the packages of diapers inside. ... "Ok, quick. We only have a few minutes," Kacey said to the gathered crowed. She knew most of them, and most of the ones she didn't she had at least seen in Alex's photos or facebook pages. There was Bill from Alex's work, who they had run into earlier, then Tim from his university days, then Sarah who he knew through her, and more. It was all their friends, gathered for one reason. "So the plan is to enter the house as quietly as possible, holding the packages and balloons. I'll text him to come down, and we will shout "Surprise" as he does. He'll probably be playing video games with his headphones, so it should work." "You don't think he'll notice a crowd of people entering his home?" Bill asked. Kacey scoffed. "Please. Fuck no. When he's playing video games that guy wouldn't noticed a crowed of rhinoceroses entering his home." They all laughed and agreed. "Well we shouldn't have any problems then," Bill said. "Of course not," Kacey replied. "Unless..." A thought came to her head. He was home alone, just relaxing and having fun... her eyes went wide. Would he? She had only been gone a few minutes, but he did just get home, and its not like he was rare. She went through scenarios in her head, trying to think of a way she could avoid it without warning him. She got out her phone and texted him. "I'll be home soon! Want to go to the movies? I figure we can have 'fun' times tonight after, if you are down for that ;)" she sent him. Hopefully he'd see it, decide to stay in normal clothes for the movie, and be willing to put off any 'other' things until later. She told herself it would work, and prayed she was right.

Alternative Title: Uprooted: Evicted and Forced to Live on a Farm with my Giantess Cousin and Aunt A/N: This is chapter 1 of a series I'm working on as part of a commission. It's a little different than the stuff I usually write and it's a little on the heavier side. This story will deal with topics such as: Non-Consensual Regression, Incest, Lactation, Giantess Themes, Non-Consensual Drugging and Body Modification, Sissy Themes, Restraints, Gags, Forced Feeding, Futanari, Edging, Sex Toys, Orgasm Delay/Denial, and a bunch of other things that I will try to mention beforehand later down the line. Please heed these tags. The story is much further along than this, but the commissioner (who wishes to remain anonymous) requested to be updated far ahead of what is posted to DD. The alt. title was an idea from the commissioner as well! Uprooted: Chapter 1 (4,391 Words) Daniel wished he’d known he was getting fired before he walked into the building. Or, at the very least, a sign that his employment was coming to an end. There was something so humiliating about it all. That morning he had woken up in his shitty apartment, squeezed himself into his cubicle of a bathroom to get ready, and took the bus the entire way to work. He’d said hello to a handful of his co-workers on the way back to his station. He should have known something was wrong with the way they averted their eyes from him almost immediately. His station was a pillar of pride in his life. After years of searching for a job that would hire a 4ft tall man who needed a stepstool to reach most urinals in public bathrooms, he found one company that needed him. Not just needed him but wanted him as well. He’d interviewed for a production position and was feeling the red-hot embarrassment welling up in his chest as the interviewer tried to find a reason to reject him without mentioning his small stature. It didn’t get any easier to see after the twelfth job interview. But then the sorting technician quit. It was a job that required no previous work experience. He had a small station away from most of the factory with a conveyor belt in front of a chair. Material would pass by and he would sort them into three boxes according to their size. It was the easiest job imaginable. But it was tedious. The technician would sit there all day and sort material with no deviation. The only break from monotony was someone coming to collect the full boxes. It didn’t pay great (which was why the previous technician quit) but it was a job. And Daniel was running out of time before he would be kicked out of student housing. He was hired immediately and put to work. It was annoying at times, but he was always able to combat that annoyance with the awe that he had a job. A real one. He was paid in cash. Just enough to keep him in his previously mentioned shoe-box-sized apartment and fed twice a day. It was the independence he’d been searching for for years! So when he walked back to his station to see a giant brick of a machine in its place, he was rendered speechless. The production manager was there smiling at the machine as its hopper was filled with material. The machine whirled to life and started to fill several tubs with different materials faster than Daniel could ever have. And Daniel had to stand and listen to the manager’s faux regretful tone as he explained that his position was now obsolete. The man reached into his pocket, gave Daniel the meager remains of his weekly pay, and sent him on his way. The bus wouldn't run by for another hour which meant he was left to sit at the bus stop trying not to cry… He grabbed a newspaper from the front office and started to look at the hiring ads for something he could do, occasionally wiping harshly at his eyes. A week later, four interviews down, and nothing. Rent was due in less than a week and he only had half of it. Daniel looked at himself in the mirror of his tiny bathroom. There was only a half step between the sink and the toilet, when he sat on said toilet his leg touched the shower stall. The main room wasn’t much better. It was a studio set up with a curtain tacked to the ceiling to separate his bed from the “kitchen”. The kitchen had a single counter, a shallow sink, and a mini fridge. He had a tiny camping stove set up on the counter and a microwave left over from the previous tenant. It was…laughably bare. But he had pride in it all the same. All his furniture was bought and brought to the unit on his own, too proud to ask for help. To think that he’d lose it all so quickly…Over a stupid machine. Daniel couldn’t help but look at himself in the mirror and ponder how it all went so wrong. His shoulder-length blond hair was greasy and limp with the stress and neglect from his week of panic. An empty bucket served as his step-stool to even see the mirror and reach the faucet. He looked rough. Tired. Stretched thin. His phone ringing shocked him from his musings so harshly that he almost fell from the bucket. The only people who ever contacted him were employers or his aunt Gemma. Running out of the bathroom, it turned out to be the latter. She and his cousin Indie were his only family and he hadn’t seen them in years. Although they tried to call him every other week to keep in touch. They’d offered to host for holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving, but he always turned them down to work (and also because he didn’t have a car). But never did he ignore either of their calls. Sighing, he sat down on the cot that was his bed and answered the phone. “Hello?” He asked weakly. “Danny!” Aunt Gemma cheered happily. “I almost thought you wouldn’t pick up…” “Sorry,” He couldn’t help but apologize. “I was in the bathroom.” Aunt Gemma recovered quickly and started to ask him how things had been since they last spoke. Usually, he would give standard vague answers, trying hard to maintain his independence, but this time he couldn’t muster up the energy. “It’s been…rough…” He sighed once more. “Aww,” She cooed sympathetically. “How about we go out to lunch and you can tell me all about it. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you. I bet you’ve grown so much!” Daniel winced silently. He really couldn’t afford that. “Sorry, Aunt Gem, I don’t think I can-” “Nonsense,” She interrupted. “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Pick a place to meet and we’ll be there at noon tomorrow. My treat.” Reluctantly, Daniel chose a small diner around the corner of the block from his apartment. It was close enough that he wouldn’t look sweaty or out of breath when he walked. Aunt Gemma was audibly excited at his lack of resistance and hung up with a cheerful wish of a good night’s rest for him. Daniel went to bed that night and stared up at the stained ceiling. The conversation with Aunt Gemma and Indie would be awkward. He should have pretended everything was fine. At worst, she would offer to loan him some cash. And that was the last thing he wanted to do. Not only did he not want to be in anyone’s debt, but he also didn’t want to face the fact that he couldn’t take care of himself. He’d been doing so for years, but one mishap and suddenly he’s walking around with his hat in his hands begging for money? Not a chance. At best, she expresses more sympathy and pays for his meal. And then he’s left alone for another two weeks, at the end of which he would most certainly be homeless. Daniel didn’t get much sleep that night. And what sleep he did get was fitful and plagued by stress-fueled nightmares. The next morning he forced himself out of bed and into a warm shower to look somewhat presentable for lunch. He combed his hair, leaving it to dry in the air, and dressed in his least worn set of clothes. The pants had a hole rubbed nearly straight through on his knee, but the shirt was a little more presentable. It was a blue polo he wore to most of his interviews. Looking in the mirror again, he couldn’t help but think he looked like an elementary schooler on the way to picture day. At least he wouldn’t look like a bum when talking with Aunt Gemma and Indie. Walking downstairs, he saw the note the landlord constantly kept posted on the door to exit the building. RENT IS DUE ON THE 1ST AND LATE ON THE 3RD NO EXCEPTIONS. NO EXTENSIONS. He had four days…four days to figure out what he was going to do…Crap. _____ Daniel walked with his head down the entire way to the diner. The last time he’d seen either Aunt Gemma or Indie was almost a decade ago at a family function. Indie was about to start middle school while Daniel was nearly graduating high school. Embarrassingly, she was just as tall as he was. She ribbed him for it a handful of times, but he was able to impress her with his ‘high school’ knowledge enough to distract her. Indie, from what he remembered, took after her mother. The same thick wavy blonde hair, pretty green eyes, and lightly tanned skin from being outside all the time. The pair of them lived on a ranch ducked off in a rural neighborhood. It was a few acres of property nestled into a cropping of trees. They had livestock as well as a field where they would plant seasonal crops. Not only was Indie like her mother in looks but also in personality. There was something about working on that ranch that seemed to empower both women. They handled the workload between the pair of them with ease. Daniel wondered what Indie would look like now. Perhaps a little taller than him. But maybe she’d grown into the homely body her mother had. If he was lucky they’d still be the same height. He wondered if she still styled her hair into two braided pigtails on either shoulder. Aunt Gemma was the same, he thought with certainty. She was older so it wasn’t as if puberty would influence her body. Daniel thought back and remembered all the firm hugs she pulled him into and was sure he’d see the same woman upon his entrance into the diner. The bell above the door chimed with his entry and he looked around for a familiar face. It was busy given that it was lunchtime, but he was able to spot a pair of heads with familiar blonde hair seated off into as secluded a corner as possible in the diner. That was a blessing, he thought, as it would enable him to talk about his struggles better without the fear of someone overhearing. Before he could walk over to the pair, one of them seemed to spot his entrance. From the distance, he thought it might have been Indie. Wasting no time, Daniel walked over to the table. It was a booth on closer inspection. One of those horseshoe-shaped ones that meant someone on the end would have to get out if the person in the middle wanted to leave. Both of them stepped out of the booth to greet him and what he saw surprised him so badly that he had to take a step back. He was right to think that Indie had grown up to have her mother’s body. What he wasn’t prepared for was the size of…well…everything. Daniel’s government ID had him listed as 4ft 1in tall because the clerk had pity on him and didn’t make him step up to the measuring stick on the wall. Truthfully, without his shoes, he was more like 3ft 10in tall. But this wasn’t a discrepancy of inches. No. This was feet. He wasn’t sure exactly how tall they both were, but he knew he had to crane his neck back to look at their faces. Doing so though, his thoughts shifted to something rather inappropriate for his cousin and aunt. He couldn’t help it really. All those years on the farm had given them thick curves. Just one of Indie’s calves was thicker than his torso. The wide curve of their thighs dipped right above their hips until all he could see was their breasts. Gemma was dressed more modestly than Indie, he thought with a moment of solace. Indie was dressed in jeans that looked practically painted on. The waistband cinched at her waist with a studded belt. Daniel’s eyes were drawn to her bare stomach. She was wearing a crop top of some sort. The bottom of which was tucked under her large bust in a way that he was sure they’d pop out if she moved the wrong way. Especially as her nipples tented the front fabric. Each breast was larger than his head. And going by the beaded-up indents, each nipple was larger than his thumb. Aunt Gemma was much the same sight although she hid it behind a soft-looking cardigan. Finally, he was able to tear his eyes away from their chests and look at their faces. They both smiled excitedly, nearly falling over each other to hug him. Daniel just barely managed to restrain a verbal protest as he was swept up into Gemma’s arms. Daniel felt himself being smushed between two pairs of breasts to the sounds of squealed greetings. “Danny, baby!” Aunt Gemma cried, sticking him on her hip as if he were a squirming infant. He just barely managed to keep from gasping as he felt his balls being squished as if he were riding a saddle. “It’s been so long! Give me a hug!” In an awkward moment, Daniel realized he couldn’t wrap his arms around her neck with how big her chest was. But Indie’s breasts pressed against his back were urging him to make some kind of move. His arms moved to hold Aunt Gemma by her ribs and he leaned into her hold, unable to keep from resting his head right in her cleavage. He turned his head to the side to hopefully hide his blushing face. He swore he could feel a sheen of sweat develop on his skin. Both from anxiety and the heat of both well-endowed women pressing him between them. If they weren’t his family, he would have been practically drooling. “Good to see you, Auntie Gem,” He said, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. “You look…great!” “Danny-boy!” Indie chuckled from behind. “You’re still so short. What happened? Did you stop eating your veggies?” “Hey!” Daniel couldn’t help but protest. He knew he was small, but that wasn’t his fault. “I’m not that short.” The pair separated, although Aunt Gem still held him on her hip. She bounced him lightly on her hip, causing him to gasp at the sudden increase of friction. He was a man after all. His thighs clenched but were kept separated by Gemma’s thick thigh and her hand dropped down to hold his butt in support of his weight. “Could have fooled me,” Indie smirked with her arms crossed under her chest, pushing them up in a way that nearly had them spilling from the top of her crop top. “Shut up,” He groaned only to feel Gemma’s hand squeeze his bottom. “Indie’s telling the truth, Daniel,” She said in a sickly-sweet tone. “You aren’t an inch taller than I last saw you.” Daniel was saved from having to respond as the waitress came over with her notepad in hand. “I’m so sorry it took so long for me to get you you. We’re just so busy right now. Can I get you all started with something to drink?” Gemma smiled at the waitress and sat down on the booth. She shifted Daniel to sit on her lap as she scooted further in, her thighs taking up most of the seat. Indie followed her lead on the other side. “I’ll take a sweet tea, and a lemonade for the little guy here.” “Wha-” Daniel protested. “I was gonna get a soda-” “The last thing you need is a bunch of sugar!” Gemma laughed, sparking the two other girls to join in. “No, he’ll have the lemonade.” The waitress marked it down without even looking and Daniel for his input and turned to Indie. “And you?” “I’ll take a coke, please, and thank you,” She seemed all too pleased to be getting the drink she knew Daniel wanted. Daniel scowled at her with no effect. Instead, he shifted his weight to make it known he wanted to sit down on the booth seat between them rather than in Gemma’s lap. The movement was allowed, to his brief relief and he noticed the table reached far higher than he thought it would. He glared at it as well as if it would make it shrink down to his size. “Does he need a booster seat?” The waitress asked Gemma much to his dismay. “That would be great, thank you!” Gemma answered, earning a scoff from Daniel. “I don’t need a booster seat! I can sit fine on my own!” He protested. “My, my,” Gemma huffed, opening the menu dismissively. “You sure are fussier than I remember. You don’t seem that happy to see us at all.” And maybe it was her tone. Maybe it was the sudden shift in attention away from him. Either way, Daniel felt the heavy weight of guilt settles into his stomach. Maybe he was being a bit prickly. It had been nearly a decade since they were together like this and he’d been complaining since he walked in the door…That wasn’t right or fair. He chalked it up to the recent stress he was under and moved to apologize. It was a little awkward tucking his legs under himself long enough to boost himself up to an appropriate height, but when he was at eye level with Aunt Gemma’s shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her thick bicep and hugged it. “I’m sorry Aunt Gem, I really am glad to see you both.” “Aw, little nugget,” She cooed using the nickname she’d given to him as a child, and leaned in to pepper a few kisses on the crown of his head. “I forgive you. You said you were having a rough time over the phone. I suppose it’s only natural for you to be a little short-fused, yeah?” Daniel nodded in agreement, happy to see his apology was accepted so quickly. “Yeah, it’s…been rough.” He reiterated. The waitress came back with a booster seat tucked under one arm and a platter of drinks balanced in the other. The two ranch workers stepped in with Indie scooping Daniel up from behind. One arm wrapped around his waist and the other reached down to cup him between the legs. Daniel fought back the instinct to squirm and kick in the brief seconds that Gemma was setting the booster seat where he sat before and Indie was setting him down on it. Eyes now at an appropriate height on the table, Daniel couldn’t help but feel a bit less claustrophobic between the two larger women. “Alrighty,” The waitress smiled as he got situated. “Are we ready to order?” “Indie, are you ready?” Gemma asked. “Yeah, I’ll have the BLT with french fries and a side salad,” She said quickly without even looking at the menu. Daniel felt a little panicked as he hadn’t even looked at the menu once since he arrived. Picking up the folded plastic in front of him, he barely heard what Gemma ordered. “And for the little guy?” “I- Uh-” He stuttered, scanning the menu for something appealing. He’d eaten nothing but instant ramen and vending machine food for the past week. The choices were almost overwhelming. “Hey,” Indie’s voice came, suddenly so close that Daniel flinched. His head darted to the side to see her leaning over from her spot in the booth, a hand reached out to rest on his thigh as she looked over his menu. “How about the grilled cheese? It comes with french fries and tomato soup.” She whispered the words so close to his ear that goosebumps started to pepper up on his skin. “That’ll work,” He said immediately, dropping the menu and then scrambling to pick it up again and hand it to the waitress. “Thank you.” “I’ll get those orders put in and come and check on you guys in a bit,” She smiled, tucking hair behind her ear and walking off. “You think she’s pretty,” Indie teased in a sing-song voice. Her mouth was still next to his ear and her hand was on his thigh. Her fingers squeezed the skin there gently, and he knew if she didn’t stop he’d have another problem on his hands. “No, I don’t!” He denied it immediately. “I saw the way you looked at her. You thought she was cuuuute,” She laughed. “Do you think she’d want to go out on a date with a ‘little guy’?” “Shut up!” He demanded once more. “Daniel,” Gemma’s voice rang with a slightly condescending note. “We don’t tell people to shut up. That’s not nice. You should apologize to your cousin. You could have hurt her feelings! After all, she’s missed you for so long.” “But Indie was-” Gemma turned to look at him with a warm smile. “You were getting quite flustered talking to the waitress. It’s only natural for little boys to have crushes on pretty girls.” Daniel didn’t like how this lunch was playing out. But, if he pressed the issue, what was to stop the pair from leaving the diner? Without Gemma or Indie to talk to, he’d have nobody. And who’s to say his failure of this lunch wouldn’t lead to them completely cutting ties with him for good? Homeless and without any family to talk to? Daniel slumped back into the booster seat with his eyes on his lap. Indie still hadn’t removed her hand from his thigh and he found himself reaching for it. His small fingers twisted around two of her much larger ones and he forced his mouth to move. “I’m sorry Indie for being mean to you. I understand you were just joking.” “Telling the truth, more like,” Indie huffed, but returned the squeeze of his hand. “But it’s fine. No harm done, Munchkin.” Daniel had to bite his tongue to keep from protesting the new nickname. He was older than her, dammit. He was supposed to be the older cousin. The ‘cool’ one. The one she looked up to. And yet here he was sitting in a booster seat apologizing for standing up for himself. To add insult to injury, he saw Gemma messing with something on the table before a white plastic cup was slid in front of him. “Here, baby,” Gemma said. “Have some lemonade and tell Auntie Gemma what’s been bothering you lately.” It was only after he took a sip and replaced the cup on the table that he realized it was in a kid’s disposable cup. The diner’s mascot in a waitress outfit was painted on the side of it. It sat in stark difference between Indie and Gemma’s adult glasses. He gave a shuddering sigh and started to talk. He told them specifics about his job- or well- his ex-job. He told them about being replaced without warning by a robot. And how the job hunt had turned up nothing so far. “My rent is due in a few days and I don’t have nearly enough money to pay for it. Let alone food or my phone bill,” He finished up, digging a fist into one of his eyes that dared to start watering. He wasn’t going to cry in front of Indie or Gemma. He wasn’t. He’d cried enough. “I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.” “Oh, Sweetie!” Gemma said sadly as she pulled him into a side hug. Her arm was strong as it wrapped around his shoulder and he found himself pulled right into the side of her breast. He could feel the warmth of it through her clothes and there was an awkward moment where he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For lack of anything else, he rested them in his lap. “That’s so much for you to handle all by yourself.” “Yeah, you should have said something,” Indie piped in, plastering herself to his other side. He was once more squished between the two of them. “I didn’t want to worry you two,” Daniel defended weakly. “I can handle it by myself. I’ve done it this long. This was just…unexpected.” “We’re family, you should feel comfortable leaning on us for support when you need it,” Gemma lectured. “You should come to stay with us, Nugget. That way you don’t have to be so stressed out all the time.” “I can’t!” Daniel denied. “I’m almost 30 years old, I can-” “Cousin, if you could make it on your own, you wouldn’t be in this situation,” Indie’s words came gentle but harsh at the same time. In a way, she was right. “Besides, you’re still so young. You don’t look a day over three and a half.” It was both a dig at his height and reassurance, so Daniel didn’t immediately snap to defend himself. “I don’t want to impose on you two,” He tried a different tactic. “I don’t even have a car to move my stuff in!” “We have a truck, baby,” Gemma’s words came doused in patience. “You can load your stuff up and ride with us back to the ranch. We can clear out a room for you and everything.” “I don’t know…” “Think about it overnight and we’ll call you tomorrow,” Indie came in with a decent compromise. “Let us know your choice. But it’ll be good to have another set of hands on the ranch. It’s not as if you’ll be lacking anything to do out there.” She sent a wink his way as their waitress came by with a platter of food. Gemma and Indie’s food came on large ceramic plates, but Daniel was annoyed to see his sandwich and soup had arrived on plastic flatware with the same childish design. He was even given a plastic spork for his soup instead of a pack of metal silverware like Indie and Gemma. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you three.” Their waitress smiled. “You all enjoy your food!” Daniel sighed, reaching to grab a part of the grilled cheese expertly cut into triangle pieces. He had to admit…it was a good grilled cheese.

Harper crossed her legs and glanced around the therapy office with one eyebrow raised. “Is it just me, or does this place look like it belongs in a Montessori catalog?” Pastel blue walls. No desk, just a soft white rug, three beanbag chairs, and shelves stacked with plush animals, board books, and oversized blocks labeled Patience, Listening, and Soft Touch. Dylan shrugged, sinking into one of the beanbags. His knees spread instinctively, until Harper cleared her throat and shot him a look. “Don’t manspread in therapy,” she hissed. He closed his legs like a scolded child. The door opened, and in walked a woman with silky, graying curls, a high-neck cream blouse, and a clipboard in her hand. She smiled, warm but unreadable. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Dr. Cleo Harrow, clinical sexologist and developmental intimacy specialist, but since we’re going to be working closely, I prefer something simpler.” She sat delicately on the beanbag across from them. “You can call me Mommy.” Dylan blinked. Harper coughed. “I—I’m sorry, what?” Harper asked. “Mommy,” she said again, warmly. “All of my clients do. It helps set the tone for re-conditioning.” Harper narrowed her eyes. “We thought this was going to be… you know… adult relationship work. Fixing our sex life. Not—” “Harper,” Mommy Cleo said gently, “when was the last time you let someone touch you without bracing for disappointment?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned the page on her clipboard. “And both of you, when was the last time intimacy felt like something other than work, or worse… obligation?” Harper glanced at Dylan, while Dylan looked down as if the floor suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world. Mommy Cleo smiled, not cruelly, just knowingly. “Exactly. That’s why you’re here. So don’t question the means to the end you both claim to want.” She opened the cabinet behind her, soft fabric rustled. “Let’s begin the assessment.” Cleo began with soft questions, typical, even. “How long had they been together? How often were they intimate? What did they feel when they touched each other?” But the more they answered, the more the questions veered. “When you get overwhelmed, Harper, do you shut down or lash out?” “Dylan, would you say you require prompting to act on desire?” “If I gave you both coloring books and a timed task chart, would you find that comforting or condescending?” Ten minutes in, Harper was fidgeting. Dylan was blushing. “Based on your dynamic,” Mommy Cleo said at last, “I’m diagnosing a shared state of arrested erotic development.” “A…what now?” Harper said flatly. “You’ve both regressed emotionally, Harper yours is into avoidance, Dylan into appeasement. You’re functionally incompatible with adult intimacy.” She rose and opened a cabinet behind her. “Which means we don’t move forward with toys, talk therapy, or role reversal games.” She turned, holding up two folded onesies. “We move backwards.” The fabric was pastel. One was pink with “Crybaby 1” stitched across the chest. The other was lavender, ruffled at the shoulders, labeled “Crybaby 2.” “Absolutely not,” Harper said. “I don’t wear pink,” Dylan muttered. “You don’t wear pants either,” Cleo replied calmly. “Not until you’re evaluated for emotional readiness.” She pulled open another drawer and revealed two fluffy white diapers. Printed. Thick. One had little red hearts and pacifiers. The other had cartoon bows and the word sissy in script. Harper blinked, and Dylan swallowed. “You’re free to leave at any time,” Mommy Cleo said sweetly. “But if you stay, you’ll surrender adult privileges for the duration of your therapeutic contract.” “What does that mean?” Dylan asked. “It means no unsupervised bathroom access, no adult language, and no orgasms. Until you earn them.” She smiled as she noted lastly, “And we’ll be locking that away shortly.” Harper stood, arms crossed, staring down at the onesie labeled “Crybaby 1.” “It’s a metaphor, right?” she asked. “Like… symbolic?” Mommy Cleo was crouched beside Dylan, gently taping him into the cartoon-printed diaper with practiced precision. “No, sweetheart. It’s corrective. You’re not being punished, you’re being relieved of responsibility. Adult roles haven’t worked for either of you. So we’re giving your nervous systems what they’ve been craving: safety, containment, surrender.” Dylan whimpered softly as the final tape pressed into place. Mommy Cleo patted the front of his diaper with clinical detachment. “Still dry. Good girl.” Harper blinked. “Did you just—?” “Yes,” Cleo said. “From now on, Dylan will go by Delilah.” “I didn’t agree to that,” he muttered, pink rising in his face. “Exactly,” Cleo replied calmly. “That’s why you’re here.” Dylan shut up after that, he didn’t fight the name, there was really no fight in his to begin with, but something inside him folded. Not with fear, but with the sickening, silent click of inevitability of “Delilah”. It slid over his old name like paint over rotted wood, stripping not just his masculinity, but his history. The worst part? He began to crave seeing how far it would go. The nursery room was shockingly cozy. Two large adult-size cribs sat side by side. Between them, a padded changing bench and a pastel highchair built for two. The walls were lavender and cream, decorated with decals of clouds, moons, and a giant stenciled phrase: “Littles Thrive Under Love & Structure.” Harper hesitated at the threshold. “Is this a sex dungeon disguised as a daycare?” she muttered. “It’s a re-attachment space,” Cleo said, pulling a pair of matching rompers from a drawer. “You’ll be sharing a crib tonight, and every night, until I deem you emotionally differentiated enough to sleep apart.” “What does that even mean?” “It means,” Cleo said, gently pressing the pink romper into her arms, “you still flinch when he touches you, and he still apologizes before every sentence. You’re not partners. You’re co-dependent toddlers with adult resentment.” Delilah stood awkwardly by the changing table, blushing, fidgeting, the diaper crinkling loudly with every shift. Cleo looked at Harper. “Now, do you want to dress her, or shall I?” Harper stared at her boyfriend, no, her diapered… baby sister, and something flickered. Amusement? Power? Maybe even a flicker of curiosity. “I’ll… I’ll do it,” she said. The romper was pale pink with puffed sleeves and a little white heart on the chest that read “Mommy’s Softest Girl.” Harper slipped it over Delilah’s head with practiced ease. She zipped it in the back and pulled the tail of it snug over the thick diaper, patting her partner’s crinkled rear with a mock-smile. Delilah squirmed. “It’s tight…” “You’ll adjust,” Harper said. “Babies don’t complain. Right, Mommy?” Cleo beamed. “Excellent instinct.” Delilah stood awkwardly in her pink romper, head bowed, hands folded over her crinkly diaper, standing between them, his diaper thick, romper zipped, name tag swinging, Delilah felt like a mannequin for their shared undoing of him. Harper adjusted the puffed sleeve while Mommy Cleo smoothed the rump. Their eyes didn’t just see him, they studied him, admired the damage. Every flick of their gaze erased another piece of the man he used to be. Harper finally zipped her up, patted her padded rear, and even smirked, but the satisfaction had faded fast because now, Cleo was holding the other romper. Blue with a frilly pink collar. “Crybaby 1” stitched across the chest in looping baby script. “This one’s yours,” Mommy said, already unzipping the back. Harper didn’t move. “I can do it myself.” But Cleo was already circling behind her. “No, sweetheart, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You keep insisting on doing it all yourself, even when your body’s begging to be helped.” Harper opened her mouth to protest, but the zipper was already gliding down her back. The cool air hit her skin as then hands, gentle and practiced, slid the romper up her legs, over her hips, and snugly over her chest. Cleo adjusted the collar like she was prepping a preschooler for picture day. “There,” Mommy murmured. “Such a brave little girl, letting someone else take over.” Harper swallowed.The fabric was soft, infantile and too snug in the thighs. The collar tickled her neck. She had dressed Delilah without flinching, but now, standing still while Mommy dressed her in return… she felt her throat tighten. Cleo zipped her up slowly. “Regression isn’t weakness. It’s a return to the body, and your body, Harper, has been starved for surrender.” A name tag clicked onto her collar, “Crybaby 1: Harper,” Delilah peeked up at her, eyes wide, and for the first time in weeks, she saw her partner looking at her with something like awe. Once dressed, the two of them stood side by side, identical from the neck down, two padded, flustered, color-coded littles. Mommy clipped name tags onto their collars: “Crybaby 1: Harper” and “Crybaby 2: Delilah.” Then she sat on the changing bench and crossed her legs, clipboard in hand. “Now,” she said. “Before we proceed to feeding hour, we’re going to work on sensate reconditioning.” She looked at Harper. “You’ve internalized withdrawal as protection, from this point forward, I want you to replace it with dominance.” Harper blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” “You’re going to ride her.” Delilah’s eyes widened. “I—ride?” “In your diapers,” Cleo said, as if explaining a yoga pose. “Fully clothed, You’ll sit on her lap, face-to-face, and rock gently while maintaining eye contact. It’s called synchronized regulation. Originally developed for skin-to-skin contact in premature infants. In your case, we’re adapting it to reintroduce pleasure, presence, and a sense of power.” Delilah let out a shaky breath. Harper looked down at her padded hips. “But I—” “There’s no need for direct stimulation,” Cleo said calmly. “That’s not what this is about. It’s about presence layered over surrender, feeling closeness, and the quiet weight of your decision resting on him. He needs to feel that you’re here, that you’ve chosen to lead, and more than that, you need to believe it too.” The crib creaked as Harper climbed in. Delilah lay back, nervous, clutching a plush bunny Cleo had handed her “to fidget with.” Harper straddled him, sitting carefully, the crinkle of both diapers loud in the silence as their eyes met. Harper rolled her hips slowly. The friction was soft. The pressure between them thickened. Delilah whimpered, but didn’t look away. “Say something nice,” Cleo instructed. Harper exhaled. “You look… cute like this.” Delilah blushed. “You feel… safe.” Cleo wrote something on her clipboard and smiled,“We’re getting somewhere.” The nursery had gone quiet except for the soft mechanical hum of the bottle warmer and the rhythmic crinkle of movement on padded floors. Harper and Delilah were close, closer than they had in weeks. Except weeks ago they weren't dressed, collared, labeled “Crybaby 1” and “Crybaby 2.” Their onesies brushed at the seams, and Delilah’s padded hips pressed a little too eagerly against Harper’s. It wasn’t intentional, or maybe it was. Either way, the air between them felt charged. Harper narrowed her eyes. “You’re pushing it.” Delilah’s lips parted, as his eyes flicked down toward where their bodies had touched, just for a second too long and something gleamed in them, shame, need, a flicker of something far more vulnerable. “Still trying to make it about you, little one?” Mommy Cleo towered above both of them, seeing larger than life. Like a goddess was descending as her hand reached down to inspect Deliah. “I wasn’t—” Delilah murmured. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart,” she said, voice as soft as it was certain. “But you do need a gentle reminder of your role. This is about trust, about letting go, not just for you, but for both of you.” From a velvet-lined pouch, Cleo retrieved something small and blush-pink, glossy like a toy but serious in its intent. The chastity cage gleamed under the nursery lights. Delilah’s breath hitched as the front of his onesie and diaper were unfastened. Cleo worked with clinical ease, fitting the device into place, her fingers were practiced, patient. “There,” she murmured with a satisfied smile. “That’s better. Much more fitting for a delicate clitty like yours.” Harper flinched, not from shock, but from something deeper. Desire? Envy? She watched her boyfriend, now baby sister, lower her head, lips trembling. There was no resistance. Just a quiet inhale and a distant look in his eyes, like he was already fading into the role being shaped for him. Harper’s thighs pressed together, and there was something wrong about how much she liked how this look suited him, and yet, she didn’t just want to join in the power play, she wanted to feel it too. To lose and to win, to kneel beside Delilah one moment, then press her heel to the floor the next. Her chest tightened with longing and pride. Cleo stood tall, the nursery light catching the tiny pink key between her fingers. “This,” she said, “belongs to you now.” Harper’s breath caught. “Me?” “You’ve proven yourself. She—” Cleo’s eyes flicked to Delilah, curled up on the plush mat, cheeks still flushed, “needs someone steady. Someone who can model obedience and hold control in the same palm.” Cleo didn’t wait. She stepped close and slowly tucked the key down the front of Harper’s onesie, pressing it just below the navel. “You’ll keep it here,” she said, palm flat, her voice dipping low. “Right where it belongs, close and warm.” Harper’s knees weakened at the word. Delilah’s gaze followed every motion, wide-eyed, chin trembling. Cleo turned Harper gently by the shoulders, so she was facing her fully. “You want to show her how surrender looks?” Harper nodded. “Then you go first.” Mommy Cleo said as hands gentle but insistent, unbuttoned Harper’s onesie, exposing the pale skin of her belly and the soft bulge of her diaper. She pressed a kiss to Harper’s navel, right where the key rested, then trailed her lips lower, over the crinkly plastic. “Such a good girl,” Cleo murmured, her voice thick with affection. “My little leader.” Harper whimpered, her hips bucking slightly. Cleo slid a hand between Harper’s thighs, cupping the heat of her pussy through the diaper. She could feel how wet Harper was already. “You like this, don’t you?” Cleo teased. “Being my special girl?” Harper nodded frantically, her eyes wide and pleading. Cleo smiled and began to rub slow circles over Harper’s clit through the diaper. The friction was maddeningly soft, but it was enough to make Harper moan and writhe beneath her touch. Delilah watched from across the room, his heart pounding in her chest. He felt a strange mix of arousal and jealousy as he watched Cleo pleasure Harper. He wanted to be the one making those noises, wanted to feel Cleo’s hands on his own body. But he also knew that this was what he needed, so he watched like a good little baby sister as Cleo continued to tease Harper, whispering filthy things in her ear and praising her for being such a good girl. He watched as Harper came undone beneath Cleo’s touch, crying out as she reached climax. Afterward, Harper sat cross-legged, dazed but glowing, the key still nestled against her. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair clung to her forehead. “Well done, little leader,” Mommy Cleo whispered, tilting Delilah’s head. Harper hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Not power., not exactly. That would’ve been clean, tight and hot, like snapping a leash. This was slower, muddied, and each moment sank deeper into her skin, until she couldn’t tell if she was acting or becoming. “I’m the one in the blue onesie”, she kept thinking, while grinding. “I’m the one labeled Crybaby 1. I'm, first, I’m number one, my needs come first.” Across the nursery, Delilah was now curled up beside a plush unicorn on the padded mat, staring at the rotating mobile above with a far-off gaze. His thumb hovered near his mouth, not quite touching, almost though as Delilah felt different too, a tightening and pulling. Every tickle of ruffle, every pat on his thickly padded butt, every time Mommy or Harper called him, “good girl” after they climaxed in front of him, he felt humiliated but also just… littleness. One that left him pink and helpless and hot. “Feeding hour,” Mommy Cleo announced, her voice lilting like a pre-recorded daycare jingle. She patted a large adult-size highchair built for two. “Front and center, Crybabies.” Harper obeyed first, then Delilah. The seat was padded vinyl, sticky under their thighs. Their diapers crinkled in stereo as they shifted. Crinkle crinkle. Cleo locked the tray in place with a click. She set down two sippy cups, one with apple juice, the other with a thick, off-white shake, and two bowls of bright pink mush. Harper stared at the shake. “What’s in it?” “Lactose-heavy nutrition blend,” Cleo said sweetly. “With a natural bowel softener. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to ease the tension.” Harper looked at Delilah, and Delilah, again, looked down at his bowl like it was the most interesting thing in the world. A tiny gurgle from his tummy broke the silence. Grrooorrrgl. Mommy handed Harper a spoon and motioned toward Delilah’s bowl. “Remember your assignment: regulated dominance. Feed her, and keep her eyes on yours., and even when she starts to squirm, don’t stop.” Delilah whimpered. “I can feed myself…” “Too bad, sweetheart,” Cleo said. “Big girls don’t get to speak once they’ve been renamed.” Harper dipped the spoon, lifted it, and guided the warm pink goop toward her baby sister’s mouth. “Open up, princess.” Delilah hesitated, his blush reached his ears but he opened. The first bite went down slow, then the next, and the next, as his legs started to twitch under the tray, the diaper crinkling louder with each squirm. “Harper,” Cleo murmured, “press your thigh against hers.” She did and Delilah gasped. “I—I need to—” Pppfrrrrrrt. A soft fart slipped out, muffled by layers of padding. Cleo didn’t blink. “Good girl. Keep feeding.” Harper held the next spoonful steady. Delilah’s voice cracked. “Please, I think I’m—” Hssssssssssss. The sound of wetness filled the highchair as his bladder gave out. Harper’s eyes widened, and Delilah trembled under her wide-eyed gaze. “Oh my god,” Harper whispered. Delilah whimpered. “It’s warm…” Mommy’s voice was cool, clinical. “That’s your body learning it no longer belongs to you.” They sat in silence for a moment, but then it happened. Pppprrrbbbtttt. Squelch. Psssshhhh… Harper didn’t need a psychology degree to recognize what was happening. Delilah’s face crumpled, and he grabbed the sides of the chair. His whole body hunched forward, straining. The room filled with a pungent, unmistakable scent. Mommy Cleo didn’t flinch. “Let her finish. This is pushies time.” Harper whispered, “You’re really doing this?” Delilah’s voice was a cracked moan. “I couldn’t hold it…” He finished with one last humiliated grunt, and his diaper squished audibly beneath him. Harper couldn’t look away. Her stomach turned, and twisted with something darker, and the tiniest flicker of arousal, buried in dominance and disbelief. Cleo leaned in. “Now ask for a change.” Delilah sobbed. “Please…” “Louder.” “Please, Mommy, I made pushies… I need a change…” “Not yet,” Cleo said, standing. “You’ll stay in it until Harper earns her first wet star.” “W-what does that mean?” Harper asked, throat tight. “You’ll know,” Cleo said, walking out with her clipboard in hand. “The moment you’re ready to stop being his girlfriend… and start being my little baby girl.” The sound of the door clicking created a sense of finality to their situation as Cleo left the room. The silence after the door closed felt padded, too., like it soaked up all the air in the nursery. Delilah whimpered softly beside Harper, shifting in the muck of hia own diaper. Squish. Crinkle. Squish again. The scent lingered, heavy and warm, curling under Harper’s nose and into her thoughts. She’d seen it all happen, heard it, even, but her brain hadn’t caught up. Her thigh still pressed against Delilah’s, tacky with sweat and guilt and something else. Harper sat still. Her spoon trembled in her grip. She’d just made her baby sister mess himself, and had made him hold eye contact through the shame of it. She should feel horrified. She did. But also… “I’m the one in the blue onesie,” Harper thought again. “I’m Crybaby 1. I’m first.” Delilah was still panting, the flush on his face deepening as he rocked gently, the sounds beneath him now squelchy. Harper stared, then reached into her diaper until she found the key. The key was covered in the remains of the a different mess she’d made earlier, it was covered in her cum and warmth for the interaction. Her fingers closed around it slowly. Delilah noticed. “I…” he whimpered, voice cracking, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Harper stood, and she stepped out from the highchair, her diaper crinkling with every movement. She walked carefully, barefoot across the mat, and knelt in front of Delilah. “You made pushies,” Harper said flatly. Delilah’s lip trembled. “And you’re not getting changed until I earn a wet star,” Harper added, voice low. Delilah’s eyes welled up. “I didn’t mean to go…” “But you did.” She reached forward, brushing her palm along the front of Delilah’s onesie, over the lumpy, sagging bulge beneath. Delilah whimpered and flinched, but didn’t stop her. Harper breathed in, and the smell made her stomach twist again, but she didn’t stop either. “This is what Mommy meant,” she murmured. “You’re not mine anymore.” Delilah blinked. “What?” Harper held up the key. “She gave you away.” And then, softly, almost without meaning to, she added: “I’m the first. I go first. I’m the bestest one…” Her voice broke around the childish rhythm of the phrase, her body suddenly curling in, a shiver shaking through her as she hugged herself tightly and dropped backwards onto her padded rear. Crinkle. Thud. Delilah was now staring at her the way she had moments ago, but he didn’t say anything. From the hallway, there was the sound of approaching heels., Mommy Cleo returned holding a fresh stack of laminated star charts. “Perfect timing,” she said, eyes scanning their expressions, their posture, their stink, before declaring, “You’ve both done beautifully,” with a wide smile on her face. She walked over, lifted Harper’s chin, and smiled. “Now let’s get my little matching set all cleaned up,” she cooed, “You’ve got so many more stars to earn.”

Hello everyone, Love to get to know a few people who are also into nappies. Looking for freinds, anyone else active here?

Date Night (ABDL, Humiliation, Femdom) Mark lay on the soft changing mat in the living room, the cool air against his bare, hairless legs. His heart raced as Susan, his very attractive wife, unpinned his soft white cloth nappy the soaker pad saturated ,between his legs revealing the snug pink chastity cage locked around his smooth little cock. She hummed softly as she began wiping him clean. She wore a tight fitted black dress, revealing an obvious visible pantie line, her hair ,makeup and perfume carefully done. Mark noticed her effort but didn’t think much of it. It was a Friday evening, and sometimes they went out for dinner. Just as Susan lifted his ankles to finish wiping him, the doorbell rang. Mark froze. “Stay right there baby,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his belly as she got up and walked toward the door. Mark lay on the mat, naked from the waist down, the small pink plastic cage clearly visible between his legs. The front door opened, and he heard a woman's voice, warm and friendly. “Susan, you look incredible.” Mark’s breathing increased as he recognized the voice. Lisa, an old friend of wife’s from high school, stepped into the room. She was an open-minded sex therapist who gave lectures at the local girls college on sex education . She always had a relaxed and confident demeanour . Her long blonde hair slim figure and attractive looks made her popular with men as much as his wife did . Mark liked her for her easy-going attitude, though he was certain she had no idea about his more private interests. Lisa paused as her eyes landed on Mark, and a soft chuckle escaped her lips. “Well, well. Isn’t this adorable?” she teased, clearly amused by the sight before her. Mark’s face turned red. He hadn't known Lisa would be there tonight, but Susan must have invited her over. Lisa’s playful tone and easy confidence made it clear that she understood exactly what she was walking into. Mark remained silent, too stunned and embarrassed to speak he quickly covered his genitalia with his hands blushing bright red. Susan returned and knelt beside him whilst he remained laying on the carpet " awww don't be shy in front of Lisa, Lisa this is my sissy baby girl Melissa". Lisa raised an eyebrow and began to laugh hysterically "such a sweet name for a sissy. And you look dressed for something fun,” she said casually. “Who’s the lucky guy?” Susan smiled without looking up from her work. “Someone big. Clearly someone whose idea of good sex isn’t spurting through a tiny chastity cage into soggy nappies and wearing frilly baby clothes.” Lisa burst out laughing, and Susan joined in. Mark’s face burned hotter as he looked between them, confused by his wife's answer. It took him a moment to piece it together. “Lisa’s watching you tonight,” She said as she sprinkled baby powder over him and slid a fresh nappy under his bottom. “I have have a date.” “A date?” Mark blinked, his voice quiet. Susan pinned the thick terry nappy snugly into place. “Yes, remember? We talked about this. You said it was okay .....it makes you excited .” Mark nodded. But he hadn’t known it was tonight or if infact she was going to sleep with other men, Or that Lisa would be here. Susan produced a pair soft crinkly plastic pants from the nappy bag and drew them up his hairless legs. Next came a frilly pink pair of see-through nylon baby knickers covered in lace ruffles across the front and rear .The knickers were so sheer his plastic pants and nappy were visible. His wife tucked in his nappy under the elastic of his plastic pants .Lisa sat watching in amusement "oooohhh yesss such pretty frilly baby knickers he looks adorable Susan " His wife laughed yes my husband likes to dress up all pretty in his baby clothes it makes his tiny willie very hard .Next came his matching short frilly pink baby doll nightie she slipped it over his head the hem falling almost to the crotch of his knickers The pale pink colours and frills designed made him feel very girlie .He was very embarrassed under Lisa’s gaze as she could take er eyes of the sissy adult baby laying on the carpet. She had read about the fetish but his was her first hand experience of the fetish. “Aww, he looks so sweet,” Lisa said. “A proper little baby girl " Susan smiled and grabbed her purse, the key to Mark’s cage hanging around her neck she handed Lisa a spare in case he soiled himself and needed cleaning "There's food in the kitchen for him. You’ll find some pasta and sauce in a container by the fridge. And make sure he eats in the special chair. You’ll definitely know which one I mean when you see it.” “Got it,” Lisa said. “Be a good girl for Lisa,” his wife added as she kissed him on the cheek. Her long dark hair cascading over his face as he smelled her expensive perfume. He watched her as she turned ,staring at the visible pantie line. I bet she was wearing those very sexy string bikini silky nylon panties she had recently purchased from Victoria's secret . Then she was gone. Lisa leaned back. “Didn’t expect me, did you?” Mark shook his head. “Oh yes, I have to admit, I kind of like that,” she said with a smirk. “Susan finally gets to have some pleasure, and you get to dress up as her baby girl. It’s honestly kind of cute.” She gave the front of his frilly knickers a little squeeze. “So nice and thick I know you like your nappies and frilly panties. I bet your little peepee is pressing hard against the inside of that tiny cage right now. isn't ” Mark squirmed, his cock twitching helplessly in its plastic prison. Lisa chuckled. “Yes Susan told me all about your little fetish and your very small penis she said it turns you on when she tells you she can barely feel you inside her, you really like that, don’t you? You enjoy knowing you can never please a woman with a tiny baby sized penis , anything under four inches isn't great but three inches is considered a micro penis and Susan said yours is barely three inches ,It’s okay, baby girl . I know all about your little secret games you play with your wife , how you like to play with her sexy panties .How you confessed it would turn on it if she cheated on you with a much bigger man ,cuckolded you. Well its finally going to happen dear sissy Melissa there's no going back ” Soon, Lisa opened the kitchen door and gestured for Mark to follow. When she spotted the adult-sized highchair pushed up to the kitchen counter, she raised her brows. “Wow... you two really went all in,” she said, amused. The custom piece, clearly expensive and impossible to miss, had only arrived a few weeks ago. She unlatched the tray and helped Mark climb in, his thick diaper pressing down against the cold wooden seat. She buckled him in, locked the tray in place, and retrieved the pasta Susan had left for him. She spooned it slowly into his mouth while watching his face. “Open wide, Melissa...baby girl ” she teased. Mark blushed deeply. The position was humiliating. The tray sat snug against his chest, and the scent of baby powder mixed with the crinkles of his fresh night diaper made him feel completely exposed. Just as he swallowed another bite, a faint hissing sound escaped from beneath the table as a stream of warm pee flowed through his tiny chastity cage, soaking into the soft, terry absorbent padding. Lisa paused, tilting her head. “Did you just...?” Mark stayed quiet, looking down with a red face. She smiled to herself. “Good thing you’re wearing nappies, huh?” Her voice was soft, amused, maybe even a little intrigued. She continued feeding him slowly, clearly enjoying every moment. Mark could feel the warm wetness spreading through his diaper, swelling between his legs and creeping toward the back as he shifted uncomfortably. After dinner, Lisa wiped his face with a washcloth, then nodded toward the rug in front of the living room TV, where a few scattered Lego bricks lay. “Good to go, Melissa . Now sit and play.” Mark obediently waddled over, the thick diaper forcing his legs apart with every step. Sitting took a moment as he shifted awkwardly before finally settling down. As he moved, a baby-pink pacifier swung gently from the clip fastened to his sheer nightie Lisa noticed it, plucked it up, and popped it into his mouth with a firm little smile. “There. Much better.” She turned on the TV and sank into the couch, phone in hand. She scrolled through her feed, occasionally glancing up to watch him. Mark sat stiffly on the rug in front of the screen, cheeks warm with embarrassment as he began building with the Lego bricks. At one point, he thought he heard a soft camera click, but when he looked back, Lisa was just smiling at her phone. Then Lisa’s phone buzzed. She grinned and answered the video call. Susan appeared on screen, lying on a hotel bed, her cheeks flushed and her dark brown hair slightly tousled. “Hold the phone up,” she said to Lisa, her voice low and pleased. “I want him to see.” Lisa angled the phone toward the rug, where Mark sat in full view. With the thick diaper bulging beneath his frilly pink baby girl knickers and the pacifier bobbing between his lips, he looked every bit the overgrown baby girl Susan had promised. His eyes were wide, his face stiff, staring at the screen in stunned silence. A tall man stepped into view behind his wife, shirtless and clearly aroused. He glanced at the screen and let out a short laugh. “Well damn,” he said. “You weren’t kidding hes wearing little girls clothes” Susan smiled, glancing back at him " actually they are baby girls clothes my husband is wearing" before returning her gaze to the camera. “Yes he likes to be kept as my sweet little sissy baby.” The man kissed her neck, then pulled her onto her back. Susan kept her eyes on the screen as he removed his boxers ,his erection springing free its fully hard eight inches ,thick and veiny .He climbed on top of Susan she grabbed his thick oversized shaft with both hands and guided him to her pussy ,he entered her inch by inch , she began moaning softly as his enormous long thick shaft penetrated her aroused wet vagina.The view that sissy and Lisa got was like watching a live porn film ,the mans thrusting driving deeper and deeper ,Susan's' legs wrapped around his back as her body quivered and shook ,she climax quickly followed by another climax, her soft moans turned into loud sobs as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her body. Lisa ended the call a moment later, looking down at Mark with a smirk. “She’s definitely enjoying herself ...he's huge isn't he ? Mark froze, eyes wide. His mouth hung open, the pacifier nearly slipping out. His penis hurt because of his own painful rection caged up in its plastic confines. His wife looked so sexy she never made those noises when they had sex it reinforced his own adequateness . Lisa stayed on the couch, eyes on the TV and fingers scrolling her phone, tossing the occasional teasing remark about Mark’s soggy diaper. He’d soaked it a few times by now, and the swollen bulk squished with every shift he made. Lisa decided to change his nappy. She took him upstairs into his nursery .She laid him on a changing matt and quickly began to pulled his frilly knickers plastic pants down to his ankles she unpinned his nappy and pulled up his nightie out of way .Lisa unlocked his Chasity cage to give him a thorough clean. She smiled as she slid the cage away to reveal the smallest penis she had ever seen in all her 36 years. Mark's penis was less than an inch long flaccid. Lisa giggled "oh mark ,sorry mean Melissa that is so so tiny ,its pathetic you certainly belong in a nappy its so infantile looking ,like a babies penis. No wonder Susan needed a real man with a big thick cock" .Those words began having an effect on Mark and this didn't go unnoticed. Lisa teased him more " he certainly made your wife cum Susan told me she cant cum with you unless you give her oral sex ,she said you are so teeny tiny " Mark shamed by her words but clearly excited his wife shared their sex life and secrets with her friend had the desired effect. His penis sprang up rigid all 2.9 inches and not much thicker than Lisa's index finger. Lisa bust out laughing placing her hand to her mouth stifle her giggling. She took out her phone and took several photos of Mark in his aroused state. After washing him she pinned him into a fresh cloth nappy and drew the plastic pants and frilly knickers that were at his ankles back up around his waist. She settled his nightie and back in place and helping him to his feet placed him into his cot. Lisa left the cage off his tiny penis so he could play with himself later. After a few hours the front door opened and Susan stepped inside, glowing and breathless, her hair a little messy and her smile impossible to hide. Lisa stood, grinning. “Hey Girl. Your baby girl was very good today.” she said, leaning in to kiss her friend on the cheek .Wow he was something wasn't he ...by god he's huge your poor husband was stunned into silence when he saw you and your lover having sex .Hes in his cot ". "Oh gosh Lisa the sex was amazing" she said as they both climbed the stairs and entered the nursery. "He had stamina we did three times ,I'm very sore now .He went so deep inside me it hurt but the feeling of being filled was just amazing." "I'm so pleased for you Susan you deserve a decent sex life even if its not with your husband .I had to changer her nappy she wet herself so much and oh Susan I saw his tiny penis he was so hard when I changed him “ Both woman began laughing. "So are you meeting lover boy again ?" "Oh god yes we are going out again and I'm bringing him home to meet my baby girl ,he can't wait to see her " I think that's a great idea but make sure your lover always sees your husband dressed as a baby girl you need to have clear boundaries and roles if its to work ,who knows perhaps your lover will be a Daddy to your baby husband . As for sex with your husband I would suggest the occasional creaming him into his nappy if she behaves he will need some sexual relief" "And what if he doesn't behave doesn't want to accept it Lisa then what?! "Well that's where Daddy fits in ,he will be in the position of authority ,the Alpha male so he can punish your husband going forward if he causes you any nonsense" "You mean like physically ?" That's exactly what I mean ,your baby husband over your lovers lap, frilly knickers and nappy down to the ankles and spanked on her bottom until she submits and accepts." The two women looked down into the cot at the overgrown baby and laughed. Mark began to sob no please I don't want to be spanked by your lover Susan" Lisa saw right through his pathetic attempts of being against this idea "C'mon Marky we both know you want this ,you are turned on by another man fucking your wife and spanking you this is part of your psyche. I'm no stranger to this sort of thing I have come across similar in couples sessions." Susan agreed "we are going to make this arrangement work like it or not" She lifted up her dress and peeled down her silky white panties and placed them over he baby husbands head ,the panties were sodden with her and her lovers cum. Enjoy your little present, sissy baby”. The wetness and intoxicated smell of sex in the soft silky fabric made his penis fully hard once more. Lisa looked at her pathetic cuckold wearing baby girl clothes and his wife's cummy soiled panties over his head she sniggered and teased the poor baby took her a few more photos on her cell phone before leaving .Susan stood over the rails of his cot stroking his head. “Hey sweetheart how about you come with Me to the bedroom and show her how grateful you are?” Mark’s pulse quickened as she unlocked the side of his cot and followed her to the master bedroom the loud crinkle of his plastic pants accompanying each waddling step. A flush of anticipation coursed through him as a warm trickle of precum dripped into the already soaked absorbing material between his legs. His wife lay back on the bed, parting her thighs, her body flushed and already dripping with arousal from her earlier encounter. Mark knelt between them, knowing what to do. He was till wearing her panties on his head so Susan moved them slightly away from his mouth as his tongue gliding over her slick pussy, it was red and swollen and gaping with slow, hungry strokes he licked her wetness. The sharp scent enveloped him, and the lingering taste of another man's release coated his lips, unmistakable as he savoured their juices. Each deliberate lick deepened her moans, her pulsing heat urging him on. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, hips rocking until she shuddered in climax, holding him firmly against her. His dick throbbed, straining with unfulfilled desire, yet a quiet thrill filled him, revelling in the pleasure her lover had given her and the pleasure he was giving with his tongue. "Does my baby girl want another present?" She reached between his legs and withdrew his fully erect baby sized penis from the leg opening of his frilly knickers. She guided his miniscule member to the entrance of her soaking wet gaping pussy the tiny thin shaft slipped in with ease but this time her vagina felt different. She was much more looser than she had ever felt before .He began to moan softly into her ear as he pumped his baby dick in and out ,Susan had to hold him tight because he kept slipping out ,she grabbed the waistband of his knickers placed her legs over his shoulders and held him tightly ,he began to cry and sob ,the nose of his frilly knickers and plastic pants crinkling and rustling with each thrust. C'mon baby deeper deeper faster faster , awww poor baby Melissa your tiny little penis is no good for mommy especially now I have been spoilt by such a real man with his big thick eight inches of cock .Don't cry baby this will work out for the best ,we can move your cot in here so you can watch Mummy and Daddy fuck all night long wont that be nice for you eh? And if Lisa cant babysit your you I'm sure one of her pretty students will be able to .I think she is going to use our arrangement as a case study on sissy adult babies" Mark could take no more and his own orgasm jerked its load into his pretty wife as she stroked his head gently and whispered, “You’re such a sweet and understanding baby.” Mark curled against her, warm and content in soaked nappies the plastic pants keeping his frilly knickers dry, her praise sinking deep. In that moment, he felt a surge of acceptance, embracing his role as her cucked little baby girl with a strange, fulfilling pride. “Thank you, Mummy for showing me my place.” His eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into sleep, comforted by her presence and the sense of belonging beside her.

Part 1 I can’t say I was in a bright point of my life, literally or figuratively. The perpetual darkness of third shift work coupled with the lackluster performance in my freshman year of college and losing my girlfriend of two years only a month before had sent me down a spiral of depression that I wasn’t certain would have an achievable recovery. I thought when I graduated from high school that I’d had life all figured out. I would take the job working the night shift at the airport for a few years, then go on to become a hot-shot business man or advertising executive. The airport would provide me with free tuition to the university a few hours from my home town, and the degree would get me the rest of the way. I guess to tell you a little bit about myself... I’m Adam Stafford. I’m the youngest child of Dennis and Joanne Stafford, and brother to Megan. I grew up in a small community that kept me sheltered from just about everything not small-town or Jesus-y. My Dad is a pilot for United Airlines, my Mom an executive for the local hospital. They divorced my sophomore year of highschool in a very messy battle, and pretty much alienated everyone in the family from each other. We’ve all gone our own ways, really only communicating for weddings, funerals, birthdays, or normal holidays. Don’t feel bad, it really is better this way. I had a pretty good childhood, no major complaints. I was always outgoing as a kid, knowing that a sharp wit and self-deprecating humor would remove any ammo that any school bullies would seek to leverage. Not to be arrogant, but I was a cute kid. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness never really went anywhere. I never hit that magical growth spurt that would cause me to tower above my friends, dunk a ball, or set records of the track. I currently stand a slightly below average height of 5’6”. I also never seemed to experience the flood of testosterone that would sculpt my body like a Greek god either. I guess I just stayed cute and youthful when everyone else became handsome and matured. But, like I said, I was never really picked on, so I didn’t mind my height or looks. I was moderately popular by highschool, usually being known as the smart-ass class clown. I had no trouble maintaining a 4.0 grade point average while also cutting jokes constantly. My humor and confidence opened up doors for me. I was nominated to prom court my Junior year, and also started dating a beautiful girl named Sarah. She was a grade younger than I was and came from a well-respected family not far from mine. As my perverted uncle Nick would say “That girl comes from good stock.” She and I dated all through my senior year, never really had any fights, and my parents adored her and hers adored me. We were voted “Most Likely to Stay Together” by the yearbook committee and happily danced in the spotlight as homecoming king and queen... a real shocker since I didn’t play football. Sarah was heart-broken when I decided to move for school. She had known it was my intent, but I think she assumed I would change my mind because we were dating. I had considered staying a time or two, but with the still fresh divorce of my parents and my sister moving away to California for school, I knew I couldn’t stay in small-town America for much longer. After the initial shock wore off, we made the plan together that she would move in with me after she graduated and we would attend college together, live together, and live up to the expectations of the yearbook committee. My job, coupled with free tuition would allow us to get an apartment together and, down the road, we’d both graduate. We’d start a family, be rich and successful, and have a marriage so happy that our grandkids would tell their children about. It was that simple, and it all laid out perfectly. She and I did everything together while we dated. I loved it at the time, but later realized that the friends I had prior to us dating all seemed to have move on. I didn’t have any core friends anymore, she consumed my every waking moment. I don’t think she was trying to cause a falling out, I think she was just so in love with the thought of being in love that she couldn’t let go. Sarah and I were both each other’s first for just about everything. We awkwardly explored our raging teenage hormones not long after we started dating, both trying to build the courage to take things just a little bit further each opportunity we had. I can vividly remember the look on Sarah’s face when she touched my cock for the first time. It was over my shorts, but I could tell she tried to play it off like an accident as her hand slowly rubbed on my thigh. Of course having zero experience and a beautiful girl rub her hands on me caused some tenting to happen rather quickly. She noticed. It was the first touch that shot electricity through my body as we laid cuddled up on the chair in the den of her parents upscale country-chic home, a blanket covering our still-clothed bodies. She moved her hand away quickly at first contact. I could see her face from the corner of my eye, flushed with excitement, very lightly nibbling on her lower lip with nerves. After a few seconds, I felt her hand begin to creep back up. I heard her sigh audibly as she very carefully laid her hand on my now fully erect dick. I could see the faintest smile form on her face as she crossed the hurdle. Both of us were too afraid to do much else, but she did very gently rub for a moment before we heard the garage door open, signaling that our alone time was at an end. From that day on, we both pushed the envelope just a bit more. I took advantage of days she would wear skirts to school and use the ease of access to fondle her anytime we had some privacy. I’m happy to say that I was her first non-self-induced orgasm, right there under that same blanket on that same chair. I can remember hearing her try and stifle her moans, no doubt fearful of waking her parents directly above us in their bedroom. It nearly sent me over the edge as well when she sucked my fingers clean right after. One evening while her parents were out celebrating their anniversary, Sarah excused herself to the restroom in the middle of ‘The Goonies’ and emerged wearing only her baby blue thong and matching bra, her hair tied up with a white lace ribbon. She approached me, my jaw now slack from the beauty I was witnessing, and yanked the blanket from my lap. She settled in on her knees in front of me trying to appear confident and sexy, but I could see her trembling from nerves. I could tell how big of a step this was for her. She pulled my shorts and boxers down, nearly ripping them in the process, and stared wide-eyed at my dick. She never really looked closely at it while using her hands. She would usually play coy and keep watching TV while jerking me off. Now though, she was face to face. I can still see the shimmer from the chapstick on her lips as she very slowly moved her mouth over the head of my cock. She froze once it was in for what felt like an eternity. I could hear her breathing becoming rapid, and for the first time in front of me, I saw her hand move quickly into the waistband of her panties as she touched herself. As she began moving my dick in and out of her mouth, her hand motions became more rapid under the thin baby blue fabric. It wasn’t 3 minutes into the blowjob before Sarah had a massive orgasm, seemingly larger than the ones I could giver her with my own hands or tongue. She pulled her face away, a trail of saliva extending from the head of my cock to her lips and only said ‘fuck’. I believe it was at that very moment that Sarah realized that she had a passionate love for giving head. She attacked my dick after that, like there was nothing else in the world. She didn’t flench when I came, just swallowed and tried to keep going until I pushed her off due to the sensitivity. Things progressed from there. Sarah gave me head every chance she could, preferring to give orgasms rather than receive them. We finally had sex a few weeks after that, in the dark basement bedroom of a friends house. I was disappointed that she didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as I thought she would, opting after maybe 5 minutes to have me pull out and finish in her mouth. We didn’t have sex often, but when we would, it always ended in the same way. Everything in life was perfect, even after I moved… or so I thought. I went home many weekends and we seemed to pick up right where we left off. Everything was perfect. Until Sarah cheated on me, at least. I heard about it from a former classmate still living back home. He said he saw Sarah and some guy in a car together driving in town. He said it was a new looking BMW, a car that isn’t very common in our small town, so he took notice and tried to see who was driving. He didn’t recognize the guy driving, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her, he got a clear view from the windshield as they passed on the road. He said he turned around to see what was up and after about 5 minutes of following them, he said he saw Sarah sit up tall, then lean her body across the center console of the car. He said he didn’t see her again for about 10 minutes and that the guy started driving pretty erratic during that time, and kept rolling his head around. He followed at a distance and eventually saw her head rise again and they carried on. He followed them until they turned into a restaurant. He circled the block and watched them walk hand-in-hand into the building. He even said she was wearing a little yellow sun dress... I knew it well. She always looked amazing in it. I guess it goes without saying that I felt like I had been stabbed in the chest as I listened to his recanting of the story. I trusted the guy and knew he wouldn’t be saying these things to fuck with me. I quickly got off the phone with him and called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried again, again right to voicemail. Finally she sent me a text asking what was up. I didn’t know what else to do so I said “Jeremy saw you two together. I’m bummed you never offered to give me road head.” Of course this elicited a call back right away. I was heartbroken, but I did appreciate that she didn’t try and deny anything. She didn’t lie. She said she wasn’t happy anymore and wanted to move on. By this point, I knew what she meant. I had started working third shift already and had a rapid decline in happiness. I was always cranky, always tired. She was right and I hated myself for it. “You’re not you anymore, Adam. You’re sad all of the time... you sleep constantly. You don’t strike up conversations on the phone, and that’s all we have most of the time since we can’t be together.” She had told me as I stared blankly at the wall of my kitchen, tears now flooding my vision. “I’m sorry you found out like this, but I’m glad you found out.” “Yeah, pretty shitty way of you breaking it off though.” I countered. She agreed. That was the last time we spoke. After Sarah ended it, I sunk further into a depressive state. My life revolved solely around work, school, and Netflix in my basement studio apartment. Typically I would wake up around 10 in the morning and catch the campus shuttle to class. The classes were specifically scheduled for employees of the airport, allowing us to work nights and attend school without as much sleep depravation. After class I would usually eat some dinner in the campus cafeteria and do some homework, then report in for my shift. I didn’t mind my job. It was easy compared to the manual labor most people had to do to pay for their tuition. I drove a tug around pulling trailers of packages bound for different planes all night. All... night... long. I could usually start my shift with a conversation with the dock supervisor and not talk to another person for the rest of the night. I was known as ‘Tug 4301’ and drove the exact route from the south dock to the west ramp, spots 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9, then back to the south dock to reload and do it all again. We weren’t allowed to have music, cell phones, audio books, or anything else to help pass the time due to FAA regulations, so I had hours to see the same sights, and have the same thoughts and internal conversations. At around 3 in the morning, I would park my tug back behind the south dock and begin the walk back to the shuttle to campus. From the bus stop, it was a brief walk back to my apartment. By this time, the vast majority of the factory employees had already departed, meaning the bus ride was usually as isolated as the tug. Back in the basement abyss, the daylight blacked out by thick curtains and a “Please do not disturb, I work the graveyard shift!” sign that the previous occupant had left behind, I ended my day with some concoction of frozen meals and another episode of The Office. Occasionally, I would think about Sarah. How her hair seemed to shine as intensely as the sun. How she would nibble gently at my lower lip when she would kiss me. How she would deftly put her hair up in a ponytail and lick her lips before she would push me back towards the bed or chair... or floor and nearly attack my dick. These memories would cease thanks to my self delivered orgasm, and I hate to say it... sometimes I would cry. I would always feel ashamed. By 5am, I would be asleep, waiting for the alarm to signal that it was time to live another instance of Groundhog Day all over again. It was nearly six months into this routine that I decided it was time to get help. I knew I was depressed. I scheduled an appointment with a counselor at school on a Monday morning. I didn’t work Sunday nights, so Monday was usually my ‘live like a normal person’ day, but I knew I was going to keep going down darker and darker paths until there was no return. Fortunately by this time, the nagging memories of Sarah had faded to an occasional jolt of emotion that would strike unprovoked, but would subside after a quick orgasm. “Have you been eating alright, you look really thin...” the counselor said as I sat in the chair across from her. The question reeled in my thousand yard stare. “Umm... probably could eat better, to be honest. I don’t have much of an appetite, really.” I awkwardly responded. I had lost a significant amount of weight in the past few months. At my high school graduation, I was nearly 140lbs. At my last work physical a few days prior, I was down to 116lbs. Even at 5’6”, I was looking too thin for my frame. “Adam, this is pretty serious. I think you need to see a doctor... this may be more than you and I can handle alone. You’ve got me a bit worried.” she said with a concerned look. “Will you do that? Will you promise me that you’ll see one of our doctors?” “Yeah, I guess so. Yeah.” murmured back. “And I want you to promise me, Adam... I want you to promise me that you’ll look after yourself until then. And I want you to promise me that you’ll come back and see me after your appointment. I’m going to schedule it. Okay?” “Yeah, of course.” I said, realizing that she was genuinely worried that I would hurt myself. “I will, I promise.” She smiled at that, and attempted to give me a reassuring pat on my hand. “Maybe you should hang out with some friends until then. Maybe try and have fun... see a movie, bowl, laser tag... try and not be alone if you can help it.” she said as she escorted me to the end of the hallway of the student health center. I smiled as best I could. I hoped it to be warm, but the look on her face told me that she could see right through the facade. The walk back to my apartment seemed colder than usual. I looked around at the other people navigating their way thought the urban campus with their heads slung low to protect from the biting wind and wondered if I was alone in feeling like this, or if there were others near me right now that were struggling just as bad. Maybe if I tried, I would find others like me and we could pick each other up. If I tried... but I really didn’t feel like trying. They probably wouldn’t either. I arrived back to my apartment and sat in bed, turned on Netflix, and opened up my laptop. It wouldn’t hurt to look and see if anyone was out there. Maybe grab lunch with someone, maybe a movie. I decided to check around on some of the school forums and Facebook to see if any groups were meeting soon. I didn’t see any that really caught my interest. I eventually ended up Craigslist thinking maybe there were some groups posting on there. I browsed for a while, nothing piquing my interest. I was about to close out the page when I saw the ‘Personals’ section and decided to browse that avenue as well just for the heck of it. The ‘F for M’ section was pretty sparse, most of the women looking were significantly older, had children, or were blatantly looking for money in exchange for company. While I wasn’t seeing anything that interested me, I was finding some thrill in reading the posts. Some were witty, some funny. Some were so sexually charged that I considered responding for a split second, kids or age be damned. I navigated each section enthralled by how some people were able to put themselves out there so openly, so anonymously vulnerable. I envied their cavalier attitude and only wished I could put myself out there like they did. I kept going down the rabbit hole, page after page, profile after profile. Some of the specifics people were listing were repulsive, but many made me jealous that I didn’t have Sarah to try them with. I wasn’t really prepared for some of the detail I encountered in the ‘M for M’ section, to say the least. I had never really given much thought to gay sex, it was something that went undiscussed in sheltered small-town USA. I didn’t have any issue with gay people, but I honestly didn’t give it much more thought than that. But the level of detail described of the litany of posts from just today... I didn’t have to use my imagination much. I clicked through post after post, caught up in reading the carnal nature of the post, intrigued beyond belief by what I was reading. Most of the posts didn’t talk about love or relationships, they talked about gritty sex. They talked about gang bangs and blow-and-gos. Anonymous mouths for anonymous dicks. It was enthralling. “Loving but Firm Professional seeking Young, Inexperienced to Nurture and Teach” the title read as I scrolled down the list, measured now by minutes scrolling rather than pages. It was lost in the sea of others, but it stood out to me for some reason. I clicked the link and stared intently as the screen flickered from the main page to the posting. “Hi, thanks for reading. I’m a 38 year old legal professional looking for a young boy between 18 and 22 to teach about sexual desire. Ideal candidate is slim and naturally submissive to power, and completely inexperienced with men. I want a boy I can build from the ground up. Must have an open mind. Message me if you think this is you, you’ll know right away if it is.” Fuck. I don’t know what came over me at that moment, but my heart began to race, my hands became sweaty, and my lips dry. I read and reread the post multiple times, each time exciting me more. It was as if instinct required that I replied. I straightened myself up in bed and began to search my laptop for a face picture that was generic enough to be lost in a crowd. I didn’t want this guy recognize me right away, just in case. I found a full body picture from earlier in the fall at a Halloween party back home. I didn’t dress up, but I thought I looked decent, and the ball cap I was wearing at the time obstructed part of my face. “Hello. I’m not gay, so I’m not sure why I’m replying to be honest. I've never been with a guy. I'm 18, a freshman in college. Something about your post. It struck me. I don’t even know what else to write. You don't have to write back if you don't want or if I don't fit what you say you're looking for." Attachment: 1” My heart was frantically beating in my chest as I hit send from my spam collecting Yahoo Mail account. I had felt more alive in these few minutes than I can remember feeling since moving to the city. I stared at the inbox, nearly expecting an immediate rejection reply or an email from someone back home saying they were cat-fishing and happened to reel me in. I stared at the screen for at least five minutes, barely breathing before setting the laptop down and getting up to use the restroom and grab a drink. I nearly dove across the room when I heard the ‘Ding’ signifying a new email. “Save 15% or more on car insurance with Geico”. Damn it. What the hell was I doing. I’m not gay. I’ve literally never even thought about it until 10 minutes ago, and now I’m so worked up to get the attention of someone writing on a public forum. I closed the laptop and walked over to the chair to focus in on Season 4 of The Office... yet again. Sipping on the Diet Coke and watching Dwight be Dwight and Jim be Jim, the urge to check again struck me. It had been some time, surely enough for some sort of response. I retyped the password into the Yahoo Mail page and saw the familiar ’Inbox (1)’ notification staring me in the face. I clicked, and went weak as the page opened. There it was. “Re: Seeking” I took a deep breath and clicked on the email that loaded painfully slow. “Hello. Thanks for writing. I know you. Don’t worry, not you specifically (although hard to tell with the photo so far away). I know your type though. I'm willing to bet that you just happed to stumble upon my message without really going out and looking for it. I have a feeling this is so new to you that you've really got very little desire in actually meeting anyone. If you are serious about at least meeting up and discussing more, send me a better picture. -Steve” With a slight smirk on my face, and my heart back to racing, I opened Facebook to find a better picture to send. I selected one from a family vacation in Hawaii. I had shaggy, dirty blonde hair and was standing shirtless in front of a waterfall on the Napali Coast. I was bronzed by the sun, and a smile beaming on my face. A tinge of pain hit me as I looked at the picture, I was standing there with Sarah. Her beautiful face staring up at me, a smirk affixed to her full lips, and her gorgeous body clad in a small red bikini. I drew in a deep breath and downloaded the photo to my desktop and cropped Sarah’s face and body out of the picture until only myself and the waterfall remained. “As requested. -Adam Attachment: 1” Sent. I felt as if I were going to vomit at that point. If this were a rouse, I was surely busted. It was clearly me in the photo, no mistaking that. A screencap of the conversation with my picture plastered there was surely enough to ruin any chance I had at a happy life, if malice were intended. Ding. Inbox (1) “Re: re: re: Seeking” “You’re perfect, baby. Perfect in every way. You are exactly what I was hoping you would be. My name is Steve. I’ve been pretty clear with what I’m really looking for, so I hope that you’ll understand when I say that I’m not interested in games and flaking out on meetings, etc. If you really are interested, and if you really are willing, I want to meet you face to face. Send me your phone number if you want to keep going. Attachment: 1” I double clicked the attachment, fearful that what I had conjured up in my mind would be a far stray from reality. The painfully slow wi-fi struggled to open the picture, but when it did, I was stunned. He was so handsome. Large, for sure. Not fat at all, but he had to be at least 6’6” judging by the SUV that he towered over. He had a stern smile and an intense gaze at the camera... it felt as if he took the picture specifically for me. His hair, his suit... he was the personification of masculine. I struggled to figure out how only a few hours ago I was numb and seemingly entirely heterosexual, and now I was lusting over a man. A dominant man... and I wanted it to happen so bad. I did everything I could for the next few hours to distract myself from the email. I had to be at work tonight, so no phone, no email. I knew if I wanted to go through with this, I would need to decide well before then. He was very insistent that the only content in the reply be my phone number. What if I sent it and he called while I was working? What if he began texting me with times and locations and I was unable to reply? I knew I had to decide now. Being the decisive and confident guy I am, I flipped a coin. Okay... heads, I send my phone number. Tails... I don’t. Simple. Leave it up to fate. With a deep breath, I flipped the coin into the air. Heads. “I’m serious: 555-776-2323 -Adam”

Hello… I am new here and looking to hopefully find some like minded friends who love wearing diapers. I do like to play dress up with panties et al, but I really like a nice wet diaper and a friend. PM open always.

Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Chapter One The Job Jake crouched in the shadows of the sprawling estate, the weight of his duffel bag pulling slightly on his shoulder. He adjusted his gloves, the cool leather stretching snug over his knuckles, and scanned the mansion for signs of life. It was massive, the kind of house people dream about when they imagine making it big. Jake smirked. For him, it wasn’t about dreams. It was about opportunity. The place looked dead—no cars in the driveway, no lights on in the windows. Exactly as his research had suggested. He’d spent weeks watching this house, noting the schedules of anyone who came and went. No one was supposed to be home tonight. His breath fogged in the crisp night air as he moved to the side of the house. The lock on the basement window was a joke. A couple of minutes with a thin blade, and it popped open. He slid inside quietly, landing on carpeted floors. The faint scent of lavender hit him as he straightened, but he ignored it. Focus was everything now. Jake pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, the beam barely cutting through the darkness. His goal was simple: quick in, quick out. Jewelry, cash, maybe electronics if he had time. Nothing too bulky—stuff he could flip fast without raising eyebrows. The mansion was even more ridiculous on the inside. Everything was oversized, polished, and pristine. It screamed wealth, from the marble flooring to the ornate chandeliers. Jake’s chest tightened slightly as he moved through the rooms, his footsteps silent on the rugs. This kind of place was out of reach for guys like him—always had been. But tonight, a small piece of it would be his. The first haul was easy. A couple of expensive watches from the bedroom dresser, a sleek tablet, and a gold bracelet from a jewelry box on the vanity. Jake worked efficiently, his movements automatic. He didn’t stop to admire the decor or question how someone could afford all this. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out before anyone noticed anything was gone. Then he found that room. Jake paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Something about this one felt different. The rest of the house was all open spaces and luxury; this door was plain, almost out of place. It was locked, but the lock itself was basic—a cheap tumbler mechanism. Jake didn’t think twice. A quick twist with his pick, and the door clicked open. His flashlight beam swept across the room, and he froze. It wasn’t a storage room. It wasn’t an office. It was something... bizarre. The walls were painted pastel pink, and shelves lined with stuffed animals and other childish knick-knacks hugged the perimeter. But the furniture was what hit him the hardest—an oversized crib, a highchair clearly made for an adult, and a wardrobe partially open to reveal rows of frilly dresses that could only be described as costumes. “What the hell...” Jake muttered under his breath, taking a step inside. The smell here was different—sweet, powdery. Something about it turned his stomach. Curiosity outweighed caution. He walked further in, his gloved hand brushing over the smooth wood of the crib. He didn’t understand it. What kind of person owned a room like this? A joke? A kink thing? His brain scrambled for an explanation that made sense. Rich people were weird—he’d seen enough during his jobs—but this was on another level. Jake moved to the wardrobe, reaching for one of the dresses. He wasn’t sure why. Something about it felt unreal, like he needed to confirm it wasn’t some elaborate prank. The fabric was soft and frilly under his fingers, and he quickly dropped it back into place, disgust curling in his gut. A sound behind him made his blood run cold. The lights clicked on, and Jake spun around, his heart slamming into his ribs. Standing in the doorway was a woman. Tall, elegant, and composed, she had sharp features framed by dark, perfectly styled hair. She wore a sleek black dress that hugged her figure, and her heels clicked against the floor as she stepped inside. Jake’s instincts kicked in, and he dropped the flashlight, reaching for the knife in his pocket. Before he could pull it, the woman raised her hand. “Don’t bother,” she said, her voice smooth but commanding. “You’re not going to use that.” Jake hesitated. Her eyes pinned him in place. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t even look angry. She looked... amused. “Listen, lady, I don’t want any trouble. I’m leaving.” His voice sounded shaky to his own ears, and he hated it. He didn’t wait for her to respond. He moved toward the door, but she blocked his path. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere, Jake.” The sound of his name stopped him cold. His chest tightened as panic bubbled up. “How the hell do you know my name?” The woman smiled, and it sent a chill down his spine. “Oh, I know everything about you. Your name, your little ‘side hustle,’ even the last three houses you broke into. You’ve been sloppy.” Jake’s grip tightened on the knife. He could push past her. He could run. But something about the way she looked at him made him hesitate. “I could call the police,” she continued, tilting her head. “Show them the security footage of you breaking in. But that’s not nearly as interesting as what I have in mind.” Jake’s mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?” Her smile widened, and she stepped closer. “I’m offering you a choice, Jake. Prison... or me. Stay, and I’ll teach you some lessons you clearly never learned.” Her eyes flicked to the room around them, and Jake’s stomach turned. “Lessons in discipline. Obedience. Manners.” His mind raced. Prison would mean years behind bars—he’d never survive that. But staying here, with her, in this... nightmare of a house? Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something. And yet, all he could do was stand there, frozen, as her words echoed in his ears. “You’re going to thank me for this one day.” The last thing Jake felt was the door shutting behind him. Chapter Two Jake’s Nightmare Jake’s wrists burned where the zip ties dug into his skin. He sat slumped on the floor of the strange room, his back pressed against the oversized crib. The polished wooden bars felt cold and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his rising panic. His legs were stretched out in front of him, useless with his ankles bound the same way as his wrists. “What... what are you doing?” His voice came out shaky, more desperate than he wanted. Madame Evelyn didn’t respond immediately. She was at the wardrobe, methodically pulling out items and laying them on the changing table—a stack of diapers, bottles of powder, and frilly clothes he couldn’t even bring himself to look at directly. Her calm, deliberate movements made his skin crawl. It was like she had all the time in the world, and that scared him more than if she’d been angry or frantic. “Hey! I’m talking to you!” Jake twisted his arms against the restraints, wincing as the ties bit deeper. “This isn’t funny, lady. Let me go!” Evelyn finally turned to face him, holding something in her hands that made his stomach drop—a large, white diaper, absurdly oversized. She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his struggling. “You agreed to my terms, Jake. This is part of your rehabilitation.” His throat tightened. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening.” He kicked his bound legs, scooting away from her as much as he could, which wasn’t far. His shoulders banged against the crib bars. “You can’t—this is insane! You’re insane!” Evelyn didn’t flinch. “Insane, perhaps,” she said with a faint smile, “but effective.” She crouched in front of him, her dark eyes locking onto his. “You’re not in control here, Jake. That’s the point. The sooner you accept it, the easier this will be.” Jake’s breathing quickened. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest that it drowned out the rest of the room. “You can’t do this. I’ll—I’ll report you. You think you’re untouchable?” He tried to sound threatening, but his voice cracked. It wasn’t convincing, even to him. “You’ll report me?” Evelyn’s voice dripped with amusement. “And tell them what? That you broke into my home and now you’re upset about the consequences? Be my guest.” Jake opened his mouth but found no words. She was right. He had no leverage, no way out. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and he slumped back against the crib. She stood and crossed the room again, grabbing a pair of scissors from a nearby shelf. Jake’s stomach twisted as she approached. “What are you doing with those?” He tensed, instinctively trying to scoot away again, but she reached for his zip-tied wrists. “Relax,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not physically, anyway.” The plastic ties snapped under the blade, and his arms fell limply to his sides. He rubbed at the raw skin on his wrists, glaring up at her. His anger flared for a moment, but it fizzled as she gestured toward the changing table. “Up,” she commanded. Jake blinked. “What?” “Up. On the table. Now.” Her voice had an edge that left no room for argument. He shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m—” Evelyn didn’t wait for him to finish. In one swift motion, she grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet with surprising strength. Jake stumbled, caught off guard, and before he could regain his balance, she shoved him toward the table. “Get up, or I’ll make this worse for you,” she said, her tone ice-cold. “You’ll learn soon enough that defiance doesn’t get you anywhere.” Jake hesitated, his muscles locking as he glanced at the open door. Could he make a run for it? The thought vanished almost as quickly as it came. Even if he got past her, his legs were still tied. He wouldn’t make it five steps. Grinding his teeth, he climbed onto the table, the padded surface creaking under his weight. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to fight, to resist, but fear kept him rooted. Evelyn wasted no time. She secured his ankles to the table’s built-in straps, immobilizing him completely. Jake struggled instinctively, but the restraints held firm. “This isn’t happening,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. His fists clenched at his sides. “This isn’t real.” “Oh, it’s very real,” Evelyn said, her voice maddeningly calm. She pulled a fresh diaper from the stack and unfolded it with a practiced ease. Jake turned his head away, his cheeks burning with humiliation. He felt her grip his ankle and heard the sound of the Velcro straps tightening further. “Don’t you dare—” His protest was cut off by the cold air hitting his skin as she unceremoniously tugged his pants and boxers down. The fabric bunched around his restrained ankles, leaving him exposed. Jake’s face burned hotter. “Stop! What the hell is wrong with you?” Evelyn didn’t respond. She simply lifted his legs by the ankles with one hand—like he weighed nothing—and slid the diaper beneath him with the other. Jake squirmed, but it was useless. She had complete control. “You need to stop fighting, Jake,” she said as she sprinkled powder over him. The scent was cloyingly sweet, and he gagged slightly, turning his head further away. “It’ll only make this harder for you.” “This is sick,” he spat. His voice cracked with frustration, and he hated himself for how small he sounded. “You’re sick.” “Perhaps,” she said, pulling the diaper snugly between his legs and taping it into place. The sound of the adhesive tabs fastening made Jake’s stomach churn. “But I’m not the one who thought breaking into a stranger’s house was a good idea.” When she stepped back, Jake refused to look at her. He stared at the ceiling instead, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The diaper felt bulky and foreign against his skin, a constant, humiliating reminder of his helplessness. Evelyn walked to the side of the table and leaned down, her face close to his. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jake finally snapped, his voice rising. “You’re insane! You think you can just—” Her hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. Her eyes bore into his, calm but deadly serious. “I can, and I will,” she said softly. “You have no idea what’s in store for you, Jake. But you’ll learn.” When she let go, Jake stayed silent. For the first time, the reality of his situation began to sink in. He wasn’t just trapped in her house. He was trapped in her world. And there was no way out. Posted April 6, 2024 Hi guys! I finally got a Subscribestar. All of my stories are being uploaded there, plus a lot of new content, including in-progress content like Diapered Stepmother, The Regression Act, and Like Mother Like Daughter. Check out my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Melissa’s Re-Potty Training It was a beautiful day. Boys and girls were playing in the park, teenagers were hanging out at the mall, and twenty-one-year-old Melissa was stuck inside her nursery. If there was anything that made the whole baby treatment unbearable, it was how time seemed to slow down as the day grew older. She sighed. By now, her friends would be at the beach or with their boyfriends. But not Melissa. No. Babies have no boyfriends. Babies aren’t allowed out of their playpens when Mommy’s busy. And her stepmother was busy. She was busy with her real daughter. Three-year-old Amelia had already been potty trained and was allowed to do more things than Melissa. And she was twenty, almost twenty-one. An adult. But here she was, diapered and wearing a ridiculous baby girl dress. If her friends could see her now, would they laugh? Would they help her? Would they change her already-soaked diaper? It had been weeks since she was last allowed to wear big-girl panties. Weeks since she tasted the sweetness of freedom. Independence was now out of the question. She doubted she could make it without someone looking after her, changing her, bathing her, feeding her. Was this to be her life now? No longer an adult but a baby. Chapter 1 The Re-Potty Training Idea As Melissa entered the elegantly appointed dining room, her heart raced with apprehension. With each step, her unease grew heavier within her chest. The once familiar surroundings now felt suffocatingly foreign, as if she were a stranger in her own home. Her gaze drifted toward the large portrait hanging above the fireplace, where the stern visage of her stepmother, Helen, stared back, conveying nothing but disapproval. Melissa had always felt that Helen saw her as an inconvenience, a constant reminder that her husband had had a full life before her. And Helen was a jealous woman. She had always belittled Melissa, and now that Melissa's dad was gone, she was alone with no one on her side but her best friend, Dana. Sadly, Dana didn’t live with her, and she needed an ally. "There you are, Mel," said Helen as Melissa entered the room, "I've been waiting for you." Helen's presence filled the room with an air of menace, casting a shadow over Melissa as she took her seat. As they sat together at the polished wooden table, the silence grew heavy between them, broken only by the soft scraping of silverware on porcelain. Tea, as Helen called it, was a constant ritual at home. “How you been?” “All good.” “How’s job hunting treating you?” “There’s not much out there unless I want to work for KFC or something like that.” “I see. Anything else you’d like to share with me?” Melissa shook her head, thinking about one thing she didn’t want anyone to know. But her step-mother reached across the table and gently placed her hand upon Melissa's trembling fingers, her eyes cold and calculating. “I think it's about time we addressed your... little issue." Melissa didn't know what to say. She had been having the same problem for about a month. It started as something small, but it had spiraled out of control, and now she had no idea what to do. She had wet herself so many times so far that it was a miracle no one had found out. "What issue?" asked Melissa with a soft and doubtful demeanor. Maybe if she played dumb she could end this awkward conversation. "Look, if you want to pee yourself, that's okay," said Helen, "But you won't do it in my house. Not when I'm working so hard to potty train your sister." "Step-sister. And it's not your house. It's my dad's." "And according to his will, it's now mine." "And mine!" There was a short moment of silence. "Look," said Helen, grabbing Melissa's hand, "I want us to stop fighting all the time. Your father would've like that. What do you think?" Melissa nodded, hesitant, though. She wasn't fully convinced by Helen's intentions, and rightfully so. In the past, Helen had shown no kindness towards her. Helen leaned closer, her voice softening, "I don't want you to feel ashamed anymore. We can help you fix this." Melissa glanced down at her hands, gulping, "I don't know what to do." "Well, I was thinking. Amelia is going through potty training. She's still too small to understand much, right? So, why don't I potty train you alongside her?" Melissa almost choked on her own saliva. "What do you mean, potty training me? I'm an adult!" "I know. I know you are. But listen to me, it's easy. We just need to teach your body how to hold it until you go potty. That shouldn't be too hard. As you said, you are an adult, and I bet a couple of weeks should be enough. Because if you cannot control it, I'm afraid diapers will be the only way." Melissa's jaw dropped, "You're kidding, right? I'm not... there's no way I'm wearing diapers. I'm an adult, remember? And at twenty-one, I get my dad's money, and I'll be out of here." "True. But you aren't twenty-one yet. And you are here, ruining your clothes and my furniture and setting a terrible example for your sister." Melissa didn't really have an argument; she just knew she didn't wanna be back in diapers at twenty-one. “Step-sister,” she said, “What do you mean potty training me?" “I think that part is self-explanatory, right? We take you potty on a schedule until you stay dry in between potty trips. Then we decrease the frequency until you earn your big girl panties again. Eventually, your body will get used to it, and you'll go by yourself. How does that sound?" "How does that help me now? I mean, I will still," she paused, blushing and ashamed, "Wet myself until we get it under control." "We can do what I'm doing with Amelia," she said, smiling, "Protection under your clothes." "No! I told you, no diapers." "Pull-ups aren't diapers. They are protective underwear." "What's the difference?" "For starters, they don't use tabs. They are easy to hide under your clothes. They are less bulky and noisy. They are completely different and they are very helpful during potty training..” "I don't know," said Melissa, thinking about how awkward it would be to have that "protective underwear" around her crotch. And what if someone found out? She was already not popular with people her age. Her only friend, Dana, was a little odd herself. Maybe she wouldn't mind. But there was no way she would tell her about it. "I just want to help you," said Helen. "Besides, this could be an excellent way for us to connect—you know, have that mother-daughter experience we never had.” Melissa sighed, ”When do we start?" "What about right away?" Helen wasted no time. She grabbed Melissa by the wrist, softly leading her deeper into the house. Through halls and corridors and stairs until they were in a room painted soft pink. It was Amelia’s room, and she wasn’t there. “Amelia is playing outside," Helen replied, "In her sandbox.” “She won’t know?” “She will. But she won’t care. She’s only three.” Helen grabbed some white underwear with the design of some Disney princess on the front. It was small, but then again, Melissa was quite thin. Tall, yes, but thin. “Try this on,” said Helen, placing the pull-up in Melissa’s hand. It was defiantly thicker than regular underwear, and the deign was childish. But Helen was right, they didn’t look that much different from her panties. “A little privacy, please.” Helen left the room, leaving Melissa in the nursery. She carefully dropped her pants to notice her underwear was already damp. Sighing, knowing she actually needed the protection, she took her panties off and cleaned herself with some baby wipes she had close by. Finally, the moment of truth. She slid into the pull-ups, feeling the soft thickness of them against her smooth crotch. She didn’t dare to look at herself in the mirror. She rushed to get her pants on again, and when she was sure her protective underwear wasn’t visible, she left the room. Chapter 2 Potty Time While Helen prepared lunch, Melissa sat at the dining table, staring blankly into space. Each clink of the dishes sent a shiver down her spine, reminding her of what was around her crotch. The pull-up wasn't as uncomfortable as she thought it would be, but it was definitely not something she liked. She had kept it dry so far, though it had not even been an hour yet. Helen entered the room carrying a tray laden with fries, nuggets, and fresh salad. She smiled gently at Melissa, something the young woman wasn’t used to. Next to her was her younger stepsister, Amelia. At three, she looked like a mini version of Helen herself. It was obvious she was destined for popularity, unlike Melissa, and somehow, even if Amelia had always been nice to her, she always resented her. “Mel's potty training, too, Mommy?" asked Amelia as she grabbed a handful of fries. "That's right, hun." Melissa tried to smile back, but it seemed forced. Helen noticed her discomfort and quickly added, "Don't worry, sweetie. We'll take it slow, and I'll be there to help you every step of the way." Feeling slightly more reassured, Melissa nodded. "Thanks." As they all sat down to eat, Melissa couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Helen's behavior. Helen seemed to genuinely want to help her, but she wondered why. "It's time for the potty," Helen announced once everyone was finished with the meal. Helen gave them no time to argue as she grabbed both their wrist, pulling them towards the living room, where a plastic potty awaited. "Is that really necessary?" asked Melissa in shock. "It's just part of the process. Show me you can use the plastic potty, and you can move onto the toilet. It shouldn't be difficult. Should it?" Before Melissa could continue arguing, she was interrupted by her stepmother. "Who wants to go first?!" asked Helen again with a devilish smile. Amelia raised her hand. Within minutes, the younger of the three had done her business like a professional. "I'm a big girl!" said Amelia, smiling from ear to ear, "I'll be potty trained first!" Those words weighed heavily in Melissa's mind. The little brat was as competitive as her mother. It had been cute a few years ago, but now, she was just annoying. Melissa felt her rage growing stronger, fueled by the constant tease. But she fought back against it. After all, Helen was only trying to help. And Amelia needed the encouragement. "Yes, you are," said Helen, "But I think Melissa will surprise us too, right, Mel?" Melissa nodded. Despite her frustration, she decided to give it a try. If nothing else, she owed it to Helen since she helped her when nobody else did. Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself onto the seat of the tiny plastic potty. In contrast to Amelia's confident demeanor, Melissa felt vulnerable and exposed. However, knowing that she must prove her mettle, she closed her eyes and focused on relaxing her muscles. But nothing. A minute passed. And then another. She pushed harder. Nothing. She pushed again, and a loud fart echoed in the room. Melissa blushed as her stepmother and stepsister giggled. One more minute passed. Another. And nothing. "Alright," said Helen, "I don't think it's going to happen." "No, wait!" said Melissa, pushing harder now, "I can do this." "Honey, you're going to give yourself a stroke if you push that hard. It's okay. You didn't make it this time. Let's just try again later." "I made it to the potty, Mommy. I'm winning!" said Amelia, happy as just a kid could be. But as Melissa pulled her pull-up and pants back up, she couldn't help but feel pathetic and like a failure. She was an adult, and she couldn't even control her body enough to pee by herself. "You'll make it next time. It's okay. It's the first time you've tried. I'm sure you'll make it," said Helen, and for the first time since Melissa met her, she actually felt as if her stepmother cared about her. Perhaps this potty-training idea wasn't that bad after all. With her first time on the potty a failure, Melissa had nothing left to do but wait. She was to call for Helen's help if she felt the need to go, but the thought of having to ask for help to pee was too embarrassing to even consider. She was a big girl. She could make it to the toilet without any help. And so she waited. "Potty time," said Helen an hour later as Melissa worked on her resume. It wasn't looking that good, but she wasn't twenty-one yet, and she needed the money if she wanted to go out that summer with her friends. "One minute," said Melissa, staring at a blank page. Maybe tomorrow, she could try again. It's not as if she were in dire need of a job. If only being an adult weren't that difficult. She stood up and went straight to the living room, where Helen and Amelia were waiting beside the plastic potty. "Your sister's dry," said Helen, "What do we say?" "Congrats," said Melissa, pretending to care enough to form a smile. Helen approached Melissa with a gentle, almost motherly demeanor. "Now, let's check our big girl." "What are you...?!" Helen's finger found their way to the elastic band of Melissa's pull-up. The young adult blushed, trying to get away but failing. "My dear," said Helen, removing her fingers from Melissa's crotch, "You're wet. "What? No. I'm not!" Melissa rushed her hand to her padded crotch, only to notice it was bigger and warmer and obviously full of urine. It couldn't be. She didn't feel it. She was a big girl. She should be able to make it to the potty. Her eyes turned watery, and her knees began shaking. "I'm sorry," she said, fighting back the tears. Helen embraced her with no hesitation—a warm embrace—the sort of touch only a mother could provide during times of distress, and for a second, Melissa felt less of a failure. "It's okay, honey," Helen said, patting her back carefully, "That's what your pull-ups are for. You'll make it next time." It sounded familiar, like some of those truisms parents tell children to encourage them. As much as she despised admitting it, her stepmother's kind words did help. Perhaps Helen was right. She might very well make it next time. It was just one accident. She would make it to the potty next time. There was no way she would lose the race for potty training against her younger stepsister. But for the entire week, Amelia outperformed her. “I’m a big girl!” She would sing as she made it to the potty. Meanwhile, Melissa sat there, and nothing would come out. As if her body was actively working against her. Every day she would have to use three pull-ups or more while her younger step-sister was about to graduate to big girl panties. “Maybe we started you too early,” said Helen as she checked Melissa’s underwear. “It doesn’t seem you’re making any progress. If anything, it looks like you’re regressing.” Melissa blushed at her words. “We’ll keep trying tomorrow. But we might need a different approach if things keep going this way.” Melissa said nothing as she got ready for bed that night. Now alone in her room, her thoughts were flooded with the idea of failing her second potty-training. What would she say to Dana? She had been avoiding her best friend all week in hopes she could get her accidents under control. Melissa sighed, closing her eyes, hoping the next day would be better. However, when she woke up, she noticed something new as she moved in her bed. The padding between her legs was heavier and colder. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSR2VKVB or check my Subscribestar: https://subscribestar.adult/thelittlewriter/collections Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ

Dear Readers of E. Leet Weekly, I'm having some issues with my new husband, and I was hoping some of you may have had similar experiences and could share solutions. Overall, my husband and I have had two issues. One concerns his performance in our household, the other his lack there of in our bed. Both, together, point to a larger issue: my calm, logical, rational thinking vs his spoiled, immature, bratty emotional "thinking." About six months ago, I got married. It was a sort of marriage many of you are probably familiar with- one arranged based on wealth and status, rather then affection, or even having met before. He was the youngest child and only son of a new money family, and I am from a family with a dozen generations of titles and history, recently widowed from another arranged marriage to a husband with even more. For them, the marriage gave their family titles and social status they would never get otherwise. For me, it meant I had some company in my old age, and they had plenty of assets I had experience in growing. Together, it left us one of the richest and most powerful families around. That left just one, less relevant issue, to figure out- the husband itself. All I knew was his name, Toby, and that he was the youngest of his family. That should have been warning enough- what kind of name is "Toby?" Imagine my disappointment when I saw him on the wedding day. A 'man", if you could call him that, barely in his twenties. I could tell right away the sort. Immature, weak, with a soft, whimpering chin, likely dominated his entire life by the powerful older women around him, and still reliant on his parents unable to make his own decisions. I guessed, rightfully as I later confirmed, that he was still being spanked for misbehavior to that day, and in fact it took a good spanking to encourage him along the way. Still, I could make due. He couldn't make decisions on his own, but he didn't need to with me there, and if that meant he would go straight from over his mother's lap to my own, then at least he'd be used to the sensation. The problem, as is often the case, concerns the difference between expectation and reality. Apparently, this whimpering, silly little boy expected to be treated as the man of the house. I quickly showed him he wasn't even the "man" of our relationship. I still remember his face in his first lesson. It was a sight to behold... almost as much a sight as his red bottom! Once I took over all his accounts and wealth, I set about investing and purchasing as I saw fit. This did not sit well with Toby. Apparently, he thought this would be HIS job, despite my FAR greater experience and ability. After he realized I was making decisions without his input, he came in to discuss it with me. "Discuss" we did, if you could call his throwing a temper tantrum as I calmly explained that his input wasn't needed, his part was complete when he gave me his wealth and his sisters and mother got a name they could attend parties with, and he should obey me. I told him he could sign his name next to mine, even take credit in public, but it would be my choices. He continued whining as I rational explained this, until i decided that if rationality wasn't getting through his thick, adorable little head, I could try it through another path. I nodded along to his whining, then with one swift motion, grabbed his wrist, undid his pants, and pulled him over my lap. He was too shocked to respond at first, perhaps guessing it was some kind of sex game (more on THAT topic later), but when the first spank fell on his upturned bottom, the reality of the situation hit as hard as the spanking he was about to receive. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Many readers here will recognize the good, sure effect of a spanking for their misbehaved husbands. I really wonder what worked better for my husband's mentality. The pain, or the embarrassment of my having to punish him as if he was a child, with members of our staff watching on top of it! He probably thought he was above them, so having them see him get spanked, knowing if anything THEY were all respected workers above such treatment and merely laughed at his naked bottom, did wonders for his mentality. Oh, sure, he struggled. He whined, cried, called for the staff to help him, kicked, punched... all for naught. He may have thought that as a "man" he could overpower me, but a lifetime of privilege had left the narrow shouldered, thin armed boy with little muscle or knowledge of how to fight, while I had spent years exercising and practiced judo with the other women for self defence. A brief pause, an arm twisted behind his back, and I continued the spanking with new vigor. Soon, he was in tears and just begging me to stop. Once I decided he had enough, I waited for his apology, then sat him on my lap, pants still around his ankles. It was a fine sight for a "man," cuddling in my lap, knees practically in a fetal position, and huffing and sniveling into a handkerchief like a baby. (More on THAT later too) I then calmly explained the reality of his situation. He was a silly little boy with no valuable skills or experience, who was lucky to come from a rich family. The only benefit he could provide was what was now exposed between his legs, and the opportunity it provided to his parents to marry him off. They wanted social status, and had traded him, along with a hefty dowry, to me for that. Now, his part was done, and he could enjoy his rich, luxurious life as the real adults made decisions for him. All he had to do was be a good boy and let us make the decisions, and I'd let him continue his life while buying him all the toys and pretty clothes he wanted. If he fought too much, I had no issue "losing" him somewhere on the street, and everyone BUT him would still get what they wanted. Oh, sure, there was more whining, but it was hard for him to argue while squirming on his recently spanked bottom. This was the first time he challenged his situation, and ended quickly, but it would be far from the last. Though I couldn't yet ensure he always behaved, however, we now established a good way to correct his misbehavior. To me, it was more important to teach him that I could spank him when I saw fit, and would do so when needed, then to simply stop the one outburst. So, from then on, his spankings came regularly. Any fighting or backtalk, any sign of his bratty attitude, or just any time my rational explanations didn't land in his confused brain (which was often), I'd fix the issue by pulling him over my lap, pants down, for a long, hard, spanking. At first, he struggled and fought, which probably humiliated him even more he realized how easily I could overpower him. Then he moved to whining and begging, which really just made the situation all the more adorable for me. He tried ordering, then asking, the staff for help, which lead to them snickering and reinforced he had no power over them despite officially being the "man" of the house. (At this point they were already calling him "boy of the house" as a joke) He at one point threatened to out my behaviour to his family, and I invited him to do just that, go to his family and tell them his new wife could over power him and spank him at will. His blushing face said it all as he realized their reaction would probably be laughing and congratulating me for finding the right way to deal with their bratty younger brother. And really, what choice did he have? I explained each possible outcome. He could ask for help from others, and be laughed at. He could divorce, but then his submissiveness would be made public in court, and not only would he lose all his fortune to me, but his pride. Then what? He could run to his family, but would they take the sad little loser who had lost most of their money? They never respected him to begin with, and they got what they wanted from him-connection to old wealth. Or, he could exercise and try to fight back, but the staff were on my side, and unlike him my complaining about him would lead to people supporting me rather then laughing and an even more one-sided divorce. I had him by the balls, or whatever he had where they should have been. So, the spankings continued. I added some other punishments. For anyone wondering, "corner time"- having them stand facing the corner and unmoving for an hour or so- will work wonders on your husband when they throw particularly emotional tantrums. Embarrassing clothes (MUCH more on this later) help, as did early bedtimes. However, the spankings still reigned supreme as the authority in my husband's new life. The staff learned to recognize the signs, and would snicker at him as he sat squirming on his aching bottom, or laugh outright when they waled in on him, nose in the corner, with his pants around his ankle and bright red bottom on display for all to see. He, of course, threatened to tell people. I'm sure in his spoiled little brain that made sense in a way, and he envisioned some force coming to help him. I simply laughed, and told him to do it- tell everyone that he was upset because despite his being a grown man, his wife was spanking him daily for misbehaving like a naughty child. His face dropped, and I sent him to the corner. It only took a few weeks and perhaps a one or two dozen spankings for him to accept them and start crawling over my lap on command. If he argued, all i had to do was raise an eyebrow and point to my lap, and he sighed, then bend over obediently. What a good boy he was, for a short while. That is when I started pushing further. I think, in his mind, while he was clearly beneath me, he still saw himself as above the staff. This idea was soon squashed. The first time I sent a maid to collect him, he shouted and argued as bad as the first disagreement. I had noticed an error in the paperwork I had him fill out, and sent her to tell him to come to me for his spanking. I fixed this problem by going down myself. When he saw me with my arms folded, he stuttered and claimed he didn't believe the maid. I assured him she wouldn't lie, told him he had doubled his spanking and corner time by arguing, and ordered him over my lap. From then on, I almost exclusively used maids to order him in, reinforcing his new status. (This one is already written and the next parts should be up soon. I just need to edit to fit the rules of this page)

Hey guys! I'm editing my post because my first Youtube channel was deleted! Booooo! They have a lot of new (and ridiculous) rules I wasn't aware of. I don't think I did anything wrong, but they did so...... I started a NEW channel and a podcast! I'm an audiobook narrator in my real life, so I wanted to start working on ABDL related content too. I'll be using this thread to post stories in audio form, so you can just lay back and listen ?. I will be marking them as "age-restricted" in YouTube because of the content matter, but they are SFW. Well, minus the diapers part, so listen at your own discretion haha. For the record, these are all recorded in MY voice. NO AI or ROBOTS! lol Anyway, here is the first story I did: Bratty Gemma's Birthday, written by my friend Boober (who is here on daily di). Enjoy!

The day that chang everything Chapter 1 Ever since Alex was young, he felt a solid connection to diapers. This fascination has been with him for many years, from early childhood when he was jealous to see other children with diapers when he was in kindergarten. Alex never dared to purchase until he turned twelve years old, and that first purchase was a trip to the store to buy Pampers, and what a rush of humiliation and excitement it gave him. That feeling made an indescribable feeling, something he had never felt before. As Alex grew older, he went on his first visit to the pharmacy and purchased his first pack of honest adult diapers; the same rush came once again. The biggest rush and humiliation he experienced was when he returned to the pharmacy, and the pharmacist woman asked directly, “Did it fit?” He is 38 years old and has a steady job and a family but no nappy play. His wife knew about this fetish but was never interested in playing with it, but then everything turned around. This is his story. ———————— It was a typical day in the office, and after working for more than 12 years in the same company, he had perfected his job. His primary responsibilities involved overseeing and assigning tasks to two incredibly talented colleagues, Bea and Tim. However, a minor issue arose with Bea, as she consistently tended to have things go her way. Although this was generally acceptable due to her exceptional job performance, her approach seemed to indicate a possible attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) or a similar condition, as she worked at an impressively fast pace. Additionally, Bea was quite assertive and rarely admitted to being wrong. Despite several discussions aimed at resolving these issues, he didn't allow it to affect their working relationship significantly. One day, his longing for the nappy became overwhelming, consuming his thoughts with intensity. Sometimes, he felt the nappy between his legs, bringing out humiliating feelings. He got so caught up in the sense of what he was wearing that the danger of making mistakes became closer. It's easy to become careless in such moments, and that is what happened. Throughout the entire week, Alex consistently wore a good, neatly pressed nappy to work. He changed it twice a day, ensuring it did not remain noticeable. While engrossed in his routine tasks, he felt a sudden tap on the outside of his jeans, followed by a small pat. Startled, he widened his eyes and slowly turned around to see who it was. It was an utterly surprising moment when he saw Bea approaching. Her smile was wide, reaching from ear to ear, and her gaze felt like it could see right through Alex. She whispered, leaning close to his ear, sending shivers down his spine. With a broad smile, she beckoned, "Hello, my little friend. Join me in your office. We need to talk." They walked into the office with his body trembling. He couldn't help but wonder what he had done. She knew it, and he was at a loss for words. Should he explain that he needed to use them because of a handicap? As he entered, his anxiety grew, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the noise from his diaper was drowning out everything else. As he walked over to his desk to sit, she suddenly closed his office door, catching him off guard. Just as Alex was about to sit down, he heard the sharp snap of her fingers, sending a new shiver down his spine. Alex felt fear wash over him, not knowing what would happen next. He looked up at her, who was gently waving her index finger. As she approached, she stood so close that Alex could feel her gentle touch on his pants. Her striking, bright blue eyes locked with his inches away, creating an intense and intimate moment. Her long red hair and beautiful slim body didn't improve the situation; they made such a magical sense. He failed to assert himself by saying stop. After all, he held a position of authority over her. “Listen, Bea, what you think you've witnessed is a condition I am dealing with...” She abruptly interrupted him and placed a finger before Alex's lips. Her piercing, bright blue eyes seemed to see right through him. "Open those jeans of yours, and let me see," she said, her piercing eyes looking straight at him. Her words echoed with increasing intensity, her tone growing noticeably more taut with each repetition. Despite his innocence, her piercing gaze and tightly locked jaw filled me with an overwhelming dread. "Listen, you need to unzip those jeans for me. If you don't do it by the time I count to three, I'll start describing in vivid detail what you're wearing to everyone," Bea said in a suggestive tone. Alex slowly unbuttoned his pants and revealed what was underneath his jeans. It was easy to attribute wearing an average diaper to a medical condition, but standing there with a bright pink plastic panty was a different story altogether. Her smile continued to grow as she scrutinized him intently. She glanced downward and listened to the rustling sound of the plastic. It became clear as she saw my gaze. She knew she had him, and he couldn't do anything about it. "I have always enjoyed spending time with boys, playfully interacting with them and teasing them during my school days, especially sissy boys. I have been feeling quite unenthusiastic for a long time, and something sparked when I noticed your little diaper butt this week; it's incredibly satisfying to embrace my playful and mischievous nature once again," she expressed with a glint of excitement in her eyes. Alex was feeling incredibly nervous. What could she possibly want from him? Did she expect him to give her more work with higher pay? If word got out at work about his little secret, it would be devastating, and he might even have to resign. And what about his wife? "Bea, what is it you want?” “Don’t stress. I'm not asking for too much; I hope to inject more enjoyment into our workday. It could benefit both of us, but ultimately, you're the one who will be experiencing it. So, let's start with the most important task: wet your diaper for me, now.” she said, determined. Her expression was incredulous—could she be serious? The thought of complying was out of the question. But her look was so intense it sent trembles down Alex's backbone. He averted his gaze and focused on the task, trying to let it flow. It began small to get wet, then gradually came more loose before it came like a waterfall. His face grew even redder in humiliation. Gently, she placed her hand under his chin, lifting his head to meet her gaze. A wide smile adorned Alex’s face as our eyes met. "Good sissy, now we both know you don't use this in medical terms. You like this, don't you?" Bea said with a seductive smile. Now, keep that diaper on; don't change it. When you need a change, you will ask. See you later, diaper, sissy. Here he stood, nervous, terrified, and wet in his diaper. The more it swelled and thickened, he couldn't put aside the fact that he also was aroused.

Sitting on his mother-in-law’s lap, diapered and sucking on a pacifier, Steven couldn’t help but wonder how his life had come to this. Just months ago, he was Joan’s husband, struggling to find work but still a man in his own home. Now, he spent his days dressed as a baby, under the complete control of his mother-in-law, Margaret. Maybe if he had refused Joan’s idea, things would have turned out differently. Maybe he would have found a job and kept his dignity. Maybe Joan wouldn’t have reconnected with her ex—wouldn’t be dating him, sleeping with him, while Steven sat in a nursery, waiting to be fed and changed. But it was too late for maybes. Margaret pulled the pacifier from his mouth and offered her breast. Steven hesitated, but his body had already been trained to accept. He latched on and began to suck, slowly at first, then faster as the familiar routine took over. “That’s my good baby,” she said, her voice warm but firm. Steven shifted, uncomfortable, feeling his diaper grow warm as he nursed. He knew what was happening, but there was no point in fighting it. This was his life now. His mind drifted back to the beginning—to how it all started. Chapter 1 Mother-In-Law Steven sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as Joan drove toward her mother’s house. His hands were clenched in his lap, his stomach twisting with shame. He didn’t dare look at her. Not after everything. This was his fault. At least, that’s what Joan said. Losing his job was bad enough, but failing to find another for over a month? That sealed it. Bills kept piling up, and with Joan’s salary alone, they couldn’t afford to stay in their home. She had given him a choice—move in with her mother or be on his own. She wouldn’t wait around forever, and she wasn’t going to waste her life supporting a man who couldn’t pull his weight. If he refused, she would leave, and divorce would follow. Steven couldn’t risk that. Joan was everything to him. So he agreed. They packed up their things, said goodbye to the home they had built together, and now here they were, pulling into his mother-in-law’s driveway. Margaret’s house was as pristine as he remembered. Big, elegant, the kind of home that radiated wealth and success.The kind of success he had failed to provide for Joan. And there she was—Margaret herself, waiting on the porch. Even at fifty-five, she barely looked over forty. Her posture was perfect, her hair flawlessly styled, her presence commanding. At first glance, no one would ever guess she was a mother, let alone to twins. Margaret was always polished. Always in control. And she had never been shy about her opinions—especially about Steven. The moment Joan parked, Margaret stepped forward with a warm, welcoming smile—directed entirely at her daughter. “Joan, sweetheart,” she said, pulling her daughter into a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here. You must be exhausted from the drive.” Then her eyes flicked to Steven. The warmth dimmed slightly, her smile tightening at the edges. Not quite a sneer. But not far off. “And Steven,” she said smoothly. “I assume you’ll be staying as well.” Her tone was polite, but Steven felt the unspoken words hanging in the air. For now. Margaret’s home was just as immaculate inside as it was outside. Not a speck of dust in sight. Everything had a place, and everything stayed in it. She led them through the hall, guiding Joan toward a spacious guest bedroom—clearly set up with comfort in mind. Steven stepped forward instinctively, but before he could enter, Margaret turned to him with a raised brow. “You two can stay here,” Margaret said. “Millie is out of town this week. But she should be back next Monday.” Steven exhaled in relief. Millie was Joan’s mirror image—tall, blonde, gorgeous. But that’s where their similarities ended. Millie was the most obnoxious woman Steven had ever met. Lazy, entitled, living off Margaret’s money without a care in the world. “It’s going to be fun,” Margaret continued, a note of amusement in her voice. “Having my two babies back home again. And well… Steven too, I suppose.” Steven’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Joan dropped onto the bed, already making herself comfortable. “Thanks, Mom. You’re a lifesaver.” “Of course, sweetheart. You deserve to be comfortable.” Then she turned to Steven. “And you’ll be looking for work right away, I assume?” Steven straightened, eager to show effort. “Yes, absolutely. I’ve already put in some applications.” Margaret tilted her head slightly. “That’s good to hear. But until something comes through, you’ll need to contribute around the house.” “Oh, uh, sure. I guess I can do a few things—” Steven said. “That’s a good boy,” Margaret said with a grin and something darker behind her eyes. Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist. The first few days were physically exhausting and mentally draining. Steven was up early every morning, scrubbing floors, vacuuming, dusting, washing dishes. Whenever he had time to spare, he was forced to work on his resume. Meanwhile, Joan was already getting calls about possible jobs. “You can’t just leave me here alone with your mother,” Steven said when Joan told him about her interview. Joan frowned. “We need the money. The faster we both find jobs, the faster we can leave.” “But—“ “No buts,” she cut him off. “Now get back to your chores. You know Mom doesn’t like you lazing around.” Steven sighed. There was always more to do. No matter how much he cleaned, Margaret always found something else. And she always watched him. "A real man takes responsibility.” "You should be grateful to contribute, Steven.” "Is Joan the only one who ever cleaned up after you?” He wanted to argue. Wanted to snap back. But what could he say? He was a guest here. He had no leverage. So he kept his head down and did what he was told. On the fourth day, Margaret called him into the kitchen. “Steven, dear. Remember how you were complaining about doing the dishes?” Steven hesitated. He didn’t remember complaining—just saying his clothes were getting wet. “Well, I remember.” She said, holding something pink and frilly in her hands—an apron covered in Disney princesses. “That won’t be a problem anymore.” Steven blinked. “Uh… what’s that?” “Your apron,” Margaret said simply. “If you’re going to be doing housework, you should at least dress the part.” Steven stared. She couldn’t be serious. “…You expect me to wear that?” Margaret arched an eyebrow. “I expect you to show me some respect and thank me for getting you such a cute apron.” He looked toward Joan, expecting her to say something. To defend him. But Joan just sighed. “Steven, just wear it. Stop making things difficult.” Steven felt his face flush. “It’s ridiculous,” he muttered. Joan’s expression hardened, and she didn’t need to talk for Steven to know what she was thinking. Her words had been very clear. Either he obeyed her mother, or he could pack his things and find a place to live without her. Slowly, reluctantly, he took the apron and pulled it over his head. The fabric felt absurd, hanging over his clothes. Too soft. Too delicate. Too childish. ‘Thank you, Margaret,” he forced himself to say with a smile. Margaret beamed. “There’s a good boy,” she said, patting his cheek. Steven’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay quiet. This was just temporary. Just until he found a job. How could it get worse? Chapter 2 The Incident The week passed in a slow, suffocating haze. Every day blurred into the next—wake up early, clean the house from top to bottom, endure Margaret’s judgmental gaze, and try not to react when she made pointed remarks about what a real man should be doing with his life. Steven had started to adapt, as much as he hated to admit it. He had little choice. Joan was too busy applying for jobs to argue on his behalf, and Margaret had made it crystal clear that he was expected to earn his keep. The apron, as humiliating as it was, had become part of his routine. It wasn’t worth the fight. And just when he was starting to settle into the rhythm of things, Millie came home. The front door swung open with force, and a shrill, excited voice echoed through the house. “Mommy! I’m home!” Steven barely had time to process the words before heels clacked against the hardwood floors, and Millie swept into the kitchen like she owned the place. She had the same blonde hair and striking features as Joan, but where Joan exuded maturity and elegance, Millie was all about herself. Her designer handbag was tossed onto the counter without a second thought, and she flashed Margaret a perfectly manicured smile. You wouldn’t believe she was a woman in her mid-thirties. “Did you miss me?” she asked, leaning in to press a dramatic kiss to Margaret’s cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.” Margaret chuckled, smoothing her daughter’s hair fondly. “The house has been far too quiet without you.” Then her eyes landed on Steven. “…Oh my God.” Steven tensed as she burst into laughter. “Oh, this is too good.” Millie stepped closer, grinning ear to ear. “You’re wearing a princess apron?” Steven’s face flushed hot. He wanted to tear the damn thing off, but he knew Margaret wouldn’t allow it. “I mean, I always knew you were a bit of a sissy, but this?” She turned to Margaret, eyes twinkling. “You’re making him play housewife?” Margaret smiled sweetly. “Oh, he’s been very helpful. Haven’t you, Steven?” Steven’s jaw tightened. Millie giggled, reaching out to ruffle his hair like a child. “Aww, you’re adorable.” Steven jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” Millie smirked. “Relax, princess. I was just admiring Mommy’s little helper.” Steven wanted to disappear. And worst of all—Joan didn’t say a word. She just sat there, looking at her phone as Millie and Margaret mocked him. It was as if she didn’t care anymore and it had only been a week since they moved in. He feared his relationship with his wife would deteriorate at this rate. But he endured it because he felt they were right. If he couldn’t provide for Joan, what could he expect from her? The following weeks were pure hell. If Margaret was subtle in her condescension, Millie was the exact opposite. She took every opportunity to mock him—calling him princess, housewife, and even Margaret’s little sissy maid. She never missed a chance to pat his head, pinch his cheek, or smirk at his discomfort. Steven tried to tune her out. But then Joan got a job, and things got worse. “You’re working for him?” Steven’s voice came out strained, disbelieving. Joan barely looked up from her phone. “Yeah. It’s a great opportunity.” Steven’s chest tightened. “Joan, he’s your ex.” “And?” She gave him a bored glance. “It’s not a big deal, Steven.” Steven gritted his teeth. “It feels like a big deal.” She sighed, setting her phone down. “Steven, grow up. It’s a job. He owns the company, but I don’t even report to him directly.” Steven crossed his arms. “That doesn’t change anything.” Joan ran a hand through her hair, her frustration evident. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. You should be happy for me. This job pays well, and it means we can move out sooner.” The word stung. Like she was the only one trapped here. Steven swallowed hard. “That’s not the point.” Joan grabbed her purse, rolling her eyes. “Whatever, Steven. I don’t have time for your insecurities.” And then she was gone. Leaving him alone with Margaret and Millie eight hours a day, five days a week. Joan was home less and less. At first, Steven tried to ignore it, told himself it was temporary, necessary—she was just busy. It was good that she had a job, right? They needed the money. But something felt different. She started coming home later and later. At first, it was only an hour or two past dinner, but soon, Steven found himself eating alone at the table, pushing food around his plate while Margaret and Millie cast knowing glances at each other. She used to text him during the day—little things: How’s your job search? Miss you. Hope your day’s okay. Those messages stopped. Now, whenever her phone buzzed, she’d glance at it, smirk, and turn the screen away. And the worst part? She had started dressing differently. Joan was never the type to care about makeup or her hair when going to work, but now she left the house looking like she was going on a date. At breakfast, Steven watched as she smoothed out her skirt, adjusting the way it hugged her hips. Her perfume lingered in the air, something subtle and sweet—something she hadn’t worn in years. Steven swallowed, forcing a smile. “You’re really dressing up for this job, huh?” Joan didn’t look up from the mirror. “I just want to look professional.” Steven nodded slowly. “Right. Professional.” His stomach twisted. The days were long, filled with endless cleaning, cooking, and listening to Margaret’s passive-aggressive remarks about what a husband should be. Every evening, his body ached, his mind exhausted from constantly keeping up, keeping quiet, keeping small. So when the first accident happened, he blamed the coffee. It was late afternoon. His knees ached as he scrubbed the kitchen floor, Margaret standing over him, checking for invisible specks of dirt. The warm scent of lemon cleaner lingered in the air, and the cool tiles pressed against his palms. Suddenly, it happened. A strange warmth pooled between his legs. His body tensed. His breath hitched. For a moment, his mind refused to process it. But then, the slow, horrifying realization sank in. His hands trembled as he lurched to his feet, bolting toward the bathroom. Margaret’s voice followed him. “Steven?” He slammed the door shut, heart hammering. Frantically, he yanked down his pants, staring at the small but undeniable damp spot. It was nothing. Just an accident. Too much coffee. Stress. That’s all. Nothing to worry about. He cleaned himself up, forcing deep, steady breaths. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Millie was leaning against the counter, her lips curled into a smirk. Steven froze. “Something wrong?” she asked. Her eyes flicked to his pants. Steven forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Nothing.” “Mmm. If you say so.” She knew. Somehow, she knew, he could see it in her eyes. But it was a one-time thing. It wouldn’t happen again. The next day, it happened again. Then again. It was just a few drops. But it became more frequent. Nothing, however, would’ve prepared him for when it happened in his sleep. The first time Joan noticed, Steven woke to the sound of her sharp intake of breath. It was still the middle of the night. He didn’t register what had happened at first. The room was dimly lit, the hum of the ceiling fan the only sound—until Joan ripped the covers off him. “Oh my God, Steven.” The sheets beneath him were soaked. Steven’s breath caught in his throat. Panic rushed through him, cold and suffocating. His hands clenched into fists as he scrambled to sit up, but the damage was undeniable. “Are you kidding me?!” Joan asked in disgust. Steven opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind was blank. Horrified. “I—I’m sorry,” he finally stammered. “Steven, you’re a grown man. This is not acceptable!” The door creaked open, and Steven flinched as Margaret stepped inside, her sharp eyes immediately scanning the scene. It was his worst nightmare. His mother-in-law stood there with that disapproving gaze of hers. “Well,” she said smoothly, exhaling as if she had been waiting for this moment. “I think Stevie here is showing us who he truly is.” Speechless, Steven tried to argue. He tried to tell her to get out of his room. But it wasn’t his room. It was hers. It was her home and he was only a guest. “I suppose we’ll have to take some precautions,” Margaret said with a grin. “We can’t have you ruining the mattress.” She turned to Joan, her voice practical, almost casual. “I think it’s time he started wearing protection.” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hi guys, here's one of my latest stories. You can read it now on Amazon Kindle — Back to Basics: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DWJ38LPL You can also find Wife's New Boyfriend Is My New Daddy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSR2VKVB Claire's Regression: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS2S4FXW You can also read Daisy's Perfect Summer: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DLVJYHH5 Here's a link to The Diary of a Diapered Cuckold: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPFLGMNJ