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  1. Alright, for reasons that I don't fully understand, some people who's opinions I greatly value think I should post this story here. For the record, I think this is a terrible goddamned idea but I love these people and I know they wouldn't lead me to my doom and banishment. Here's the deal, this story is very dark and deals with subject matter that is very sensitive to a lot of people BUT I've tried to include humor into it and the concept is very absurd even if the events included here are very serious. I'm WARNING you all now that this story may be too much for you if you're a fragile creature or if you care about the health and well being of fictional characters. I don't, clearly, I killed the shit out of a bunch of them in here, but I won't take it personally if you don't read this. I WILL take it personally if you read this and complain that it was too dark or that you weren't prepared for it to be exactly what I'm telling you right now that it is, it's dark and messed up. I'm proud of it and it's something I have an emotional connection to and I write for me so yeah. If you do read this I hope you enjoy it and if you don't I'm sorry, this isn't my normal thing but stuff like this will continue to happen so pick and choose what works of mine you read and steer well clear of anything claiming "darkness" if that's not your jam. I'm really nice, I promise, but I have serious big girl pants when it comes to my warnings. #srsface SMFH By: RambleLamb The door opened slowly and he saw her on the bed with a poop filled diaper on and his dick got hard and he fucked her right in the poop filled diaper. The end. "Jesus Christ." I muttered to myself, my head slowly shaking in confusion at the story I'd just read. What little amount of arousal I might have had vanished quickly, my sex becoming drier than a sandbox full of packing peanuts. I'd been looking for a story to rub one in to before bed, nothing special, just a quick and dirty romp to scratch the end of the day itch and relieve some pent up stress. I'd clicked on "Janey In Diapers Chapter Four" because the protagonist was named the same as me and I thought I could imagine myself in her position and conclude with enough time to change out of my soggy Pull-Up and into a nice thick real diaper. I also thought that if I skipped to a later chapter I wouldn't be bogged down with useless plot and characterization when all I wanted was to get off. Now though, I sat with my fingers inside my training panties feeling angry and desperately wanting to hurt the person that had not only wasted minutes of my life by creating this offensively terrible story. I tried my normal anger management techniques, counting to ten, picturing a calm blue ocean, rubbing my temples but nothing was working for me, I was just angry. A level of rage I'd never thought reachable for me had been met and exceeded just by reading this story and my need to cause harm to the author reached an agreement with my less rational side, causing me to get up from my bed and walk out to the living room. "Hey, Jane, I thought you were-" my roommate greeted in her sickeningly cheerful for the late hour of the day tone. "Are you wearing a diaper?!" she asked, her original greeting abandoned for a fit of laughter at my expense. I ignored her and went through the living room to the kitchen, pulling the biggest knife we owned from the butcher's block on the counter. She was rolling on the couch laughing, holding her sides, tears rolling down her cheeks, her breath coming out in wheezing bursts as I approached her. The knife slid across her throat with ease, spraying blood into my face, across the back of the couch, onto the television screen and onto the floor in front of the couch where it pooled as she slumped forward, her wheezing laughter now wet, bubbly gurgles. I watched her clutch her throat, staring up at me with confused and terrified eyes, the same eyes she'd bat at people to get them to do things for her, or to her as I myself had experienced. Too many Appletini's at the club one night led to her batting those eyes at it me in the Uber on the way home which led to us making out in the hallway outside the apartment which led to more eye batting and ended with me on my knees licking her holiest of holies and her cumming, squirting really, all over my face and passing out in my bed. She'd pissed herself that night, soaking me in the process and then batted her eyes the next morning and convincing me that I shouldn't be mad because she was so drunk the night before that something like that was bound to happen. The knife darted in and out of each of her baby blue's with ease, her cries of pain nothing but barely audible squelches as she rolled off the couch and onto the floor. I stepped over her, sluffing her blood soaked hand from my ankle with a small shift of my weight as I walked back into my room. Walking into the bathroom I turned on the light and dropped the knife into the sink, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Looking wasn't the right word though, admiring was more appropriate. I drank in the sight of my shoulder length blonde hair matted to my face with the after effects of her arterial spray. My purple My Little Pony shirt soaked in the same and the front of my Pull-Up smattered with crimson, the wetness within causing a quite beautiful watercolor effect. I smiled at myself, my teeth looking impossibly white against the dark blood on my face. I thought about her sliding across the floor on her belly blindly as the last bit of life left her body, trying desperately to get to her phone or to the front door or wherever her dying brain thought she should go for salvation. My hand was in my training panties before I even realized it, working to scratch the itch that terrible fucking story had robbed me of earlier. Just thinking about that story got my anger up again, a growl of pure rage rising up from deep within me as I grabbed the knife and slid it across my own throat. *********************************************************************** "Another murder/suicide rocks the country this morning." The newscaster said on the television in the other room. I turned my desk chair around to watch. "Twenty-Three year old Jane Riggs and her roommate Alana Chambers were found dead this morning by Chambers' sister who grew concerned when Alana had missed a lunch date. Jane Riggs is believed to have brutally murdered her roommate and then herself by fatal stabbing." the report stated. "This is the seventeenth murder/suicide this month and police and government agencies are baffled as to the cause." A video package began to roll of an interview with an FBI agent. "We're exploring the possibility that this is all connected to an underground fetish ring as all the perpetrators were found to either be wearing adult diapers or had fetish related pornographic literature on their computer or smart phone when the bodies were discovered." he explained before disappearing as the television was turned off. "Mom, I was watching that!" I yelled. My mother tossed the remote onto the couch. "Did you find a job today, Bradley?" she asked, completely ignoring my protests. I sighed. "No one is hiring." I told her, turning my chair back around. Her high heels clacked loudly across the wooden floor as she came over to the desk. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Did you actually look or have you spent all day writing your disgusting stories?" she asked with a sneer. I hated that she knew about my fetish, but unfortunately for me I live at home at thirty-two and that entitles me to zero personal space or respect to my private property. She'd been crying when I came home, my laptop on the dining room table open to my folder of stories I'd written. She'd asked me if I was gay for some reason, like I was writing these stories of women in diapers and being treated like babies because I wanted to be them rather than I wanted to be with them. We fought for over an hour and came to an agreement that she'd leave me alone and respect my privacy and I'd get a job as soon as possible and leave forever. "I told you, I don't do that anymore." I lied. She nodded, not even pretending to believe me. "Good, the government is looking for people that look at that kind of stuff and if you write it they'll think you had something to do with all those horrible things on the news." she told me, the concern on her face sincere. "Stop worrying, mom, everything is fine." I told her. She sighed and clacked away. "Apply to jobs even if they aren't hiring." she said. "Dinner's in the freezer and I'll be home late tonight." she called through the front door crack before she closed it behind her. Finally alone I opened my writing program and opened my newest work, "Claudia the Baby" and started typing. I'd based the bulk of my ideas for the story on a video I'd watched the night before, in it, the smoking hot star found herself bound in a crib too small for her, her white tight encased legs draped over top of the end of the crib, her high heels bouncing up and down rhythmically as she rubbed the front of her diaper, the one she wore under her tights. Even though I'd cum only a minute or so into the video I didn't click away immediately like I normally did. This girl was on display for me to capture in writing, to narrate her plight of having a diaper so full it was leaking that she had to masturbate her way out of. My stubby dick was in my hand as I wrote a few lines of description about her diaper leaking and staining her tights and her moaning loudly and I had to stop and grab my tissues as I spasmed and grunted into the wad of tissues and saved my progress so I could post it online to a story forum I'd joined. ************************************************************************ I actively hated having the name Claudia the second I read that Autistic asshole's story. My fingers moved across the keyboard in a blur of activity as I not so politely suggested to "Ddy4U" that he get bone cancer and die in a fire in a private message with the subject line of "Pwease Wet Bby Cummeez Ddy" that would ensure he read it. Why was it so hard for people to write actually good fap fiction? That was a question I had to ask with more and more frequency the older I got. I'd been reading stories about adults in diapers since we got AOL dial-up in our house and had learned what was good and what wasn't, becoming a pillar of the ABDL community as a whole and being well respected for my ability to tell people exactly what they were doing wrong when they obviously wrote a story one handed, as "Ddy4U" clearly had. Claudia, the unfortunate protagonist of this "story", if you can call two hundred and fifty words of describing a shit filled diaper that, found herself in a baby crib because reasons that weren't explained masturbating in a soiled diaper because reasons that weren't explained, and ended with her "cumming so hard the front of her diaper ripped and her tights filled with her poop and cum". I could literally shit into a bag and scream into it before throwing it at a wall and still tell a more compelling story than this fucking guy. My private message indicator alerted me that "Ddy4U" had responded, and I sighed loudly in exasperation. Usually these guys folded up shop at the first sign of an intelligent woman, that they probably thought was a dude, telling them they were awful at writing and should kindly fuck the fuck off, but this guy thought he'd be a badass and stand up to me, so I cracked my knuckles and opened the message. "Who the fuck do you think you are?! I can rite whatever i want you dike cunt! I hope you choke on a pussy" I couldn't even be mad when I read the hastily cobbled together message. For one thing, being told to choke on a pussy was easily one of the funniest goddamned things anyone had ever said as an insult to me. For another thing, he got my gender right even if his only actual contact with a vagina was when he slithered from his mother's twat, a fact I included in my thought provoking response. I didn't want to get into a pissing contest with him, mostly because I figured he was probably just emboldened by his parents not being home and he'd figured out the password to the parental controls on the internet or something but also because I didn't want to waste my time on him when actually talented writers needed to have my praise heaped upon them for a job well done. The girl in the bed across the room stirred and moaned quietly, causing me to stop typing and turn around in my desk chair. As my eyes adjusted to the dark of the room not having a computer screen glowing in front of them I saw her still sleeping, the pacifier she'd been sucking on having fallen from her mouth onto the carpet next to the bed. I got up with a slight rustle as my soaked diaper brushed against my thighs and walked over to her, retrieving the errant pacifier, popping it into my own mouth to clean it and replacing it in hers. I could smell urine, though whether I was the source or she was couldn't be established. I thought about "Ddy4U" and his bullshit story, the use of my name in such a crap narrative making me feel more angry than I'd ever felt. I cocked my head to look down at my sleeping baby girl and reached out to wrap my hands around her slender neck. She woke pretty quickly, faster than she normally woke, even when the smell of French Toast and bacon wafted to her from the kitchen, bringing her shuffling into the dining area rubbing her eyes, her already sagging diaper filling more as she released what remained of the liquid in her bladder into it, which wasn't much given how tiny she was and what a heavy wetter she was while sleeping. As I watched her eyes bug out and she started trying to pull my hands from around her neck, a futile effort with her cute little baby mittens on, I thought about all the times she'd ruined a piece of furniture or clothing with her little accidents. I remembered the time she told me she was fine at the movies only to force us to leave halfway through because her diaper had leaked and she was cold. My grip tightened and I felt her windpipe crumple in my hands, a sickening pop filling my ears as her thrashing diminished and a whistling wheeze rose through her open mouth, her body going slack beneath me. I didn't remember climbing on top of her, but in hindsight it had made it much easier than standing next to the bed and reaching over. I looked at her vacant stare, her eyes glassy in the dim glow of the computer and the small nightlight next to her side of the bed. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, saying something I'm sure was very motherly before I started punching her face with all my might. I thought of her squatting down like a toddler in the dressing room of a department store and filling her diaper despite the rule I'd established that she had to be given permission to do so and my fist smashed her mouth, cutting my hand on her teeth as several shattered, pieces falling down her throat and to the floor. I thought of her deciding to piss herself in front of several of our friends one night and throw an elaborate little tantrum to give her a giddy little thrill and my fist ruptured her eye, the viscous material within oozing down the side of her face onto the pillow. I thought of her grinding her wet diapered pussy on the lap of someone we'd both dated at different points in our lives while she made out with them under the guise of "too drunk to know better" and her skull cracked under my fists as I brought them down hard, my hands clasped together, my knuckles white from the strength of my squeezing. I thought of her toddling up to me with her homemade "Mommy's Day" card and crawling onto my lap while I read it, sucking her thumb as she lay against my chest, turning her head upward and kissing me on the cheek before replacing her thumb and shortly falling asleep in my arms and tears rolled down my cheeks. I thought of her blushing brightly when she told me about her little side, her little voice quavering as she fumbled with the button on her jeans to show me her diaper, explaining to me what being little meant to her and what having me as her Mommy would mean to her and I walked numbly out of the apartment. I thought of the time she'd gotten so sick she almost died, her fever getting so high that she had a seizure and was in a coma for two days. I remembered the chair I slept in next to her hospital bed, the feeling of being a bad Mommy as I watched nurses come in to change her diaper and I walked up the stairs to the roof. I thought of our wedding day, her being the fairytale princess I'd always told her she was to me and me being the most in love with her I'd ever been. I remembered our first dance as a married couple, the way the soft lights under the canopy hit the flecks of glitter in her hair and on her skin, the smell of her baby powder perfume intoxicating me as I held her to me and the world around us disappeared leaving just the two of us in a perfect moment I'd cherish forever and I walked off the edge of the roof. I thought of destroying the one thing that I found most perfect in this world as the street rushed toward me and then I stopped thinking. ************************************************************************ I read the thread about the death of "LexiQueen" and her wife "PitterPat" on the forum I wrote my stories for, feeling a surge of vindication that the bitch that had called me out for my writing ability probably lost her mind at my response to her and killed her wife and then herself. I laughed at everyone pretending what a 'devastating blow' to the community this tragedy was and that 'thoughts and prayers went out to their families' and more dismissive wanking motion bullcrap. One of the things I hated most about the ABDL community was how fucking weak and useless everyone was. They pretended to be so friendly and caring but they rally around a vicious bitch like "LexiQueen", praising her for brutally tearing down great works of art like mine and then whining like little bitches when she died, turning her into some kind of martyr for the community to hold a candlelight vigil for. I closed my browser and opened the next story I was working on, a story about a girl trapped in a robotic nursery, forced to endure humiliating punishments and degrading treatment at the hands of metallic arms. I was red faced and breathing heavy as I wrote about her having her head shaved bald to match her baby smooth pussy, my diaper containing my sticky accident when I got to the part about the enema she was given before being pinned into thick cloth diapers and put in a basinet too small for her, filling her diapers and throwing a tantrum as her mind snapped and she mentally became a baby forever. ************************************************************************ I shut off my computer and walked out into the hallway. The light crinkle beneath my footed pajamas broke the silence of the sleeping house as I moved down the hall to my parents bedroom and into the closet. The gun was in a shoebox on the top shelf, I remembered showing a boy from school where it was to try and impress him. He wasn't impressed though, he told me that his aunt had been killed in a driveby shooting and he hated guns, and fags. He told me that last part when I'd tried to kiss him as a way of apologizing, totally misreading the signals of the two of us being in a small closet together, our skin sticky from the Summer heat and riding our bikes to get to my house. I stood on the small stepladder and plucked the shoebox from the shelf, holding it to my chest as I descended, crinkling as I went. I remembered seeing him and his friends playing in the park later that week my heart racing as I watched him throwing water balloons with them, his white shirt clinging to his chest. I remember them seeing me watching them and talking among themselves before rushing over to beat the shit out of me. I took the gun out of the box and pushed the cylinder out so I could slide the bullets into place before pushing the cylinder back in and pulling back the hammer. I remembered the look on my father's face when I sobbingly confessed the reason why they'd beaten me up and the sound of my mother crying as he removed his belt and grabbed his bible, ready to go to war with the devil that had turned his only son into a "vile deviant". I shot my father in the head first, the headboard splattering with chunks of blood and brains, like a video game or a scary movie. I felt my diaper get warm when my mother woke up screaming but she stopped as soon as the next bullet went through her eye and she slumped over onto my father, her face a frozen scream that made no more sound. I remembered thinking how much better things would be if I weren't gay and didn't like wearing diapers and baby clothes, that maybe I could meet a girl like the ones in his stories and play with them and do things I still hadn't learned about it school but had seen in movies and on the internet. The gun was in my mouth, the muzzle sizzling as my tongue touched it and I remembered being happy once, with parents that loved me and then I pulled the trigger. ************************************************************************ Forty-seven confirmed murder/suicides all over the country. International agencies reporting similar cases. Death toll in the thousands from what police are calling "Diaper Rage". Protests in Washington in outrage for the lack of action to stop the seemingly endless string of horrific murders and suicides related to "Diaper Rage". Local dog saves toddler from drowning, film at eleven. ************************************************************************ They hadn't found me yet, so that was something, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they connected the dots. The news had said they pulled the hard drive's of all the people that had been victims of "Diaper Rage", whatever the fuck that was, and they'd already found out that bitch "LexiQueen" had talked to me the night of her death, but I had systems in place to protect myself, to remain hidden from their probes. Mom didn't understand why I was burning my laptop in the backyard fire pit, but I didn't care, I knew what I was doing. I'd stolen a hundred dollars from her purse while she slept and I was going to hit the bus station and head to the other end of the country, maybe to Hollywood to become a writer for Fox or E! or something. Find a place where my skills would be appreciated and I wouldn't be the target of a manhunt because some whiny babies couldn't read a story about a girl in a diaper without flipping out and killing themselves and others or something. Under cover of darkness that night I packed a bag full of things I needed to start a life somewhere else. I had a package of diapers, printouts of all my favorite pictures and stories of women in diapers, loads of candy and chips and cookies and of course, a map of all the Arby's across the country so I knew where I needed to stop on the way to my final destination. I slipped out the front door and into my new life, my new life it turned out was the butt of a S.W.A.T. team member's rifle. When I woke up I was shackled to a chair in a dimly lit room, a man sitting across the metal table in front of me and another behind him pacing and smoking. "Good morning, Bradley." the man seated in front of me said. He shook his head and took a sip of a paper cup of coffee. "Or should I call you "Ddy4U"?" he asked, reading my screen name off a piece of paper. "How did you find me?" I asked groggily, my heartbeat thumping in my head as the pain of my assault slowly diminished. The pacing man scoffed and approached the table. "Are you being serious right now?" he asked incredulously. I nodded slowly. "I filtered my IP address through a hundred different satellite networks and dummy nodes all over the world. What hacker did you get to track me down?" I asked. They exchanged looks of disbelief for a moment before pacing man turned back to me. "You had a link to your personal fucking Facebook page on your goddamned profile where you wrote your stories!" he bellowed. "Not only did you not do any of whatever the fuck you're babbling about, but you literally gave us your name and address willingly! What hacker did we get to track you down?! Bradley, my goddamned senile mother could have found you and she thinks Reagan is president still!" he screamed at me. Sitting man took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, inhaling deeply from it and exhaling sharply. "Brad, I thought this was going to be a career case for my partner and I." he began. "We thought we were dealing with some tech genius that had figured out a way to brainwash innocent people into becoming violent murderers just by reading a few lines of idiotic drivel." he told me. "My stories are my art!" I declared. The two men laughed at that. "Lemme see, 'her pussy was on fire as the piss soaked diaper rubbed against it and she came and shit her diaper and cried for her Daddy.' does not sound like art to me, Bradley." he said, reading an excerpt from "Baby Vacation", one of my best stories. "I wouldn't expect you to understand!" I spat. "Oh, I understand perfectly," pacing man said. "I understand that a thirty-two year old probable virgin was so terrible at writing porn stories for a fetish board that he actually caused people to lose their shit and kill their loved ones and themselves." he said. "I understand that the person we assumed to be the head of a massive digital terrorist cell turned out to be a borderline retarded asshole that can probably only write a fraction of a "story" before he cums in his diaper." he added. I shook my head. "Fuck you, my work is great and lots of people think so!" I screamed at him, struggling against my shackles. "Bradley, the only people that think your work is great are mouth breathing losers like yourself. It's not hard to impress folks that dwell in the bowels of their parents basement and sit around in shit filled diapers picking their acne while they read your dreck and jerk off." he said. "Face it, you're the worst author in a field of authors that objectify women because they have zero chance of actually having a girlfriend, guys that will probably die of a heart attack in the basement while they jerk off to your shitty stories." "When I get out of here I'm going to show you and all the other haters out there that-" The gunshot rang out in the room going through Bradley's forehead, killing him instantly. He slumped forward, his head slamming into the table, his brains sliding out like jelly from an overly full peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then he shit his diaper because that happens a lot when people die. "So, you good with the whole genius terrorist hacker angle?" pacing man asked the seated man as he holstered his gun. Seated man nodded. "Yeah, we'll blame the Russians or the Iranians or something, give the news outlets something to embarrass those assholes." he said as he stood up and they walked out of the room. "Can you believe that guy?" pacing man asked as they walked down the long corridor to the exit of the building. Seated man scoffed. "I can believe just about anything." he said as they left the building and headed for their car, the American flag waving proudly at the top of the flagpole behind them. The End
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