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  1. Wrote this for OmoPurrr, the artist behind several of my recent captions! ... The rustle of wrapping paper was loud enough, it almost cut through the crinkle of Nat’s diaper. That made her feel a little better–As long as they didn’t hear, Daddy’s friends wouldn’t be able to tell that her skirt hid not panties, but the bottom of her baby blue onesie and a thick, bulging diaper. The stale pee smell from her several accidents was mild enough to be hidden by the smoke from her recently-blown-out birthday candles, but no amount of smoke would hide her soon-to-be-blown-out diaper’s seat. Suspicion danced in Nat’s head. She suspected that Daddy had pulled a mean trick, done something to her to undermine her potty training. Hiding laxatives in her birthday cake, maybe? But…he’d let her pick out which slice she wanted, so maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she really was just struggling. Regardless, though, the gurgling in her tummy wasn’t about to let up. She could have asked to be excused and gone up to her bedroom, where she’d at least be able to go poopy in private. She’d be leaving her own birthday party, though, and if she did, she’d also be leaving her birthday presents behind. So, she unwrapped–she wanted to get all her presents open before she went upstairs. Kneeling on the floor, she held package after package in her lap, ripping the pretty paper free to reveal the gifts within. Daddy’s friends had all gotten her nice things–a new dress, a book, a video game she was excited to play. But Daddy’s gift, the largest package sitting on the coffee table, came last. Nat scooched closer to the table to take it. It was big big, large enough that she could just barely have laid on top of it if she curled up into a ball. Maybe it was some kind of IKEA furniture, or a whole wardrobe of new clothes? Her stomach gurgled loudly enough for Daddy to hear, but he only smiled knowingly and nodded for Nat to open the gift. Removing the bow from on top, she ripped open the paper, but that only revealed a thoroughly taped cardboard box. Pulling all the paper free, she ran her hands along the side, finding a weak point in the tape. A gentle tug didn’t rip the cardboard open, though, so she shifted her position, getting to her feet and squatting down for leverage– Brrgpgbttt– Her eyes widened, but Nat had no time to reverse her mistake. She’d moved into the pose her body understood as, ‘Potty position’, and her already gurgling bowels gave in to impulse. Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked to Daddy, trying to find the words to ask for rescue. All his friends were there, all watching, and she was frozen. “What is it, baby?” Daddy asked. (I need a potty,) she thought, desperation and humiliation jumbling her vocabulary into soup. (I need privacy, I need–I’m going–) “P-poopy!” Her hands clapped over her mouth, but she’d blurted out too much already, and below her skirt, she continued to blort out a tidal wave. The seat of her diaper swelled, and little sounds were enough to signal to the room what was happening beneath her skirt, even if she hadn’t just announced it. At least Daddy’s friends were good natured. Nobody laughed, nobody pointed at her and called her a smelly, helpless baby, they just smirked and continued talking about whatever grown up things were going on in their lives. Daddy kept his gaze on her, though, until her body finished bottoming out her diaper, sagging the seat of her padding so severely that it strained the buttons on her onesie. She whimpered, and the wrinkled noses of the nearby grown ups…Daddy’s friends, I’m a grown up too…told her they could smell her accident just as clearly as she could. “I…” she started. “Finish opening your present, baby girl,” Daddy suggested. Looking down, Nat pulled on the cardboard again, finally ripping up the tape, but the momentum sent her back, and she fell, going from squatting to sitting with a loud, squelchy squish. Her blush rose to a crimson peak as she felt her accident spread out beneath her, muck smushing beneath her weight, and a hint of pleasure crept up beneath all the humiliation. There was a reason she asked Daddy to keep her in diapers, after all. They felt good. And, sitting up to inspect her prize, she saw why the box was so big: It was full to the brim of fresh, puffy pink bunny diapers. She couldn’t count them all up quickly, but there were enough to fill up her wardrobe and still have diapers to spare–enough to keep her permanently pampered for a month or more–and if Daddy was stingy with changes, it’d likely end up being more. Speaking of changes, she needed one. “Thank you, Daddy,” she said, looking at him, ignoring the patronizing smirks of his friends. “Let me get a picture,” Daddy replied, raising his phone. “Hold up your present so the camera can see?” Nat obeyed, lifting one of her diapers from the box, holding it up. It’s not like she could pretend anymore, the whole room had just watched her make pushies without even a hint of control. “Say, ‘Poopy’,” Daddy instructed, coaxing her to smile. “P-poopy,” Nat stammered, blush ratcheting up another step when she heard the camera click. “Um–can I put one on now, please, Daddy?” Daddy tilted his head. “I know you’re excited to play with your new presents,” he mused, “But I did tell you I wouldn’t have time to change you until the party was over, right?” “But…” Nat gave him her best adorable, helpless eyes. “Please, daddy? Please may I have one of my new diapers?” He smiled, and Nat had a moment of uncertainty, realizing there was more amusement behind that smile than there should have been. What was Daddy planning? “Alright,” Daddy said, pushing to his feet. “Lay down.” “Right here?” she squeaked, looking around the room. Sure, Daddy’s friends were barely giving her more than an occasional smirk–to them, this was purely an excuse to catch up with other adults, Nat’s situation was just a bit of background noise–but for them to see her get a dirty diaper change? “But–” “Do you want your new diaper or not?” Daddy asked. Helpless, knowing it would be worse if she refused after begging, Nat nodded and laid back on the floor, between her pile of presents and her huge box of brand new diapers. Daddy knelt and took the new bunny diaper from her hands. Nat realized then that he didn’t have any of his changing supplies, but he’d already started–flipping up her skirt, undoing the her onesie so that her abused diaper flopped out, no longer restrained by struggling snaps. Instead of going to untape her old diaper, though, Daddy just slid the fresh one beneath her, squaring it under the smelly, saggy one she already had on. “But–” Nat began again. “Mhmm,” Daddy said. “That’s right, your butt is getting a fresh diaper, just like you asked. You understood you weren’t getting a change, but since you wanted to play in a new diaper so badly, I decided this compromise would be okay.” Nat had no capability to get any redder, but she squirmed as he used the edge of his thumbnail to rip a few tears down the front of her diaper, all the way down to the seat, so future accidents wouldn’t simply leak out the side. Folding her fresh birthday diaper up, he pressed it into her, snug and tight, so that all the contents of her dirty diaper squelched into her. Wriggling and kicking her legs in pleasure and protest, Nat fussed until he was done taping the new diaper on, sealing her in double layers, a state she knew she’d be in until she’d fully soaked both of them. He pulled on the onesie, stretching the elastic to make the buttons reach each other, and as he snapped them in place, each one pulled her diaper against her, squelching the soggy parts out to the side. The onesie no longer did anything to held her dignity, it only emphasized and enhanced the obvious, stinky, bulging diapers beneath, and it held everything so tight against her that she couldn’t help but notice the squelch every time she moved. Then his hands moved to her skirt. “I don’t want you leaking on this,” he said, pulling it down and away. Nat was too embarrassed to argue, even as her last bit of dignity was taken from her. Everyone could already smell her diapers, and her them crinkle and squish, so why did it matter if they could see the bulge and the sag as well? “Come here,” Daddy instructed, pulling her to her feet. Leading her by the hand, he walked back to the couch, sat, and patted his hand on his leg, just over his knee. “Here?” Nat asked, eyes widening. “You don’t want a birthday bouncy ride?” Daddy asked. She glanced to her sides–Daddy’s friends really didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t see her as a peer, a fellow adult, someone for whom this treatment would be humiliating. They saw her as she was–a pamper packing little baby, whose antics need only be enjoyed with a smile. So she crawled onto Daddy’s leg, sitting the weight of her packed pampers right onto his knee. Pushing up with his foot, Daddy started the movement. Bounce. She felt the results of her accident squish into her. Padding, dry and wet, squishy and crinkly, all grinding up into her. Bounce. A little faster. A little more emphasis on the mass of the poopy mess she’d poured into her pampers. Bounce. She rocked her hips back, adding her own momentum to the ride. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. She opened her mouth, thinking she might moan, but Daddy moved her hand for her, guiding her thumb into her mouth. Automatically, she began to suck, saturating her finger with drool while she rocked in time with her bouncy ride. Bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce Nat loved this. She loved the feel of her diapers, how they slid and squelched against her, how they smelled, how they confirmed her status. She loved that she could do this, that nobody expected anything more of her, that Daddy had made her into a pamper packing little baby so thoroughly that she had nothing to hide. She loved the ride, she loved the sensations it shot through her, she loved her Daddy. Pleasure and burning need built in her, the kind of deep enjoyment she only got from a full diaper and her Daddy’s attention. Bounce bounce bounce boun– She gasped, and after less than a minute of her ride, threw her arms around Daddy and squeezed him in a tight hug. He kept his leg moving, bouncing her up and down, so she could enjoy her ride. Pleasure coursed through her as she added more fluids to the padding, pulses of bliss squirting out in a rush. She heard one of the grown ups make a comment about her, something praising how cute she was when she was tuckered out, but Nat had eyes only for her Daddy and tuned everything else out. He looked down at her, returning the hug, stroking her hair as the end of her orgasm trailed off. “Happy birthday, Nat.” ... If you like my writing and want to throw a couple dollars my way to help me continue to create, I'd be very grateful! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  2. This was written as part of a collaboration with another prolific producer of extremely kinky shit, @Sissy Becky! Sissy Becky used to run an ABDL website way back on the day. Now they write “Adult Baby Research Institute” a long form serial about a ABDL BSDM sex asylum where everything is turned up to 11. Catch their work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sissybecky And, they also wrote 'Part One' to this story! If you want the full context and backstory of what's going on here, I highly recommend you go read the very huffy, blushy prequel to this piece of writing! Baby's Date, the first half of the story by Sissy Becky, can be found here: https://www.legitfic.com/o/836-babys-date---collab-with-peculiar-changeling ... Baby's Date “So… who are they?” you ask Mommy, while she lathers up your hair with tear-free shampoo. Since promising that you’d get your very own ‘Grown-up date’, she’s been uncharacteristically coy about any details. All you know is to expect a blind date, and that everything has been prepared for you. You’ve got concerns. It could be someone else from the kinky community–a friend or at least an acquaintance with similar interests. Or, heck, it could be someone you’ve never so much as met, a real grown-up with no idea what your bedroom looks like. You might get some clues as you get prepared, though–you haven’t even been told what you’ll be wearing. You’re excited, anyways. The anticipation–the possibility of actually getting some proper grown up fun–is enough to put up with the dog and pony show Mommy and Daddy are putting you through. “Arms up,” Mommy instructs, ignoring your question completely. You lift, and she scrubs under your armpits with a soapy washcloth. “Can’t have you all smelly before we even get you dressed, can we?” (Is that a clue?) You wonder. (Or is she just teasing about the state of my diaper last night?) You could just safeword and ask, but what’d be the fun in that? You didn’t want to be told plainly, you wanted to guess it. It had to be someone she knew well, didn’t it? After you’re washed, rinsed, and helped out of the bath, she pats you down with a towel, then pats your bottom with her hand. “Go see daddy, he’s in your nursery.” Squeaky clean and naked from tip to toe, you’ve got no choice but to toddle out of the bathroom, arms crossed over your chest, hurrying to get to your nursery and get some clothes on. The transition from tub to air always makes you think you’re going to freeze, conjuring image of a ‘you popsicle’, and without any clothing to help warm you up you’re shivering in moments. Daddy is waiting next to your changing table when you get to your room, and your heart sinks, just a little. That isn’t a guarantee that you won’t be going out with a real grown up, but it does mean they’ll find out if you want to have any naughty fun. More likely, it’ll be one of your kinky acquaintances or friends, taking you on a pity date. “Bottoms up,” Daddy instructs, patting on your changing table. A bright pink Bunny Hopp diaper is already laid out, for you to lay upon. You obey–what else can you do? If you refuse, you don’t get your date. Taking Daddy’s hands, you crawl up onto the table and get on your back, diaper laid below your hips. Instead of the expected sensations, though–powder and cream and then ruffly padding pulled over you–Daddy surprises you with something else. Watching, you can only squirm anxiously as he bends to the shelf below the table. He unscrews a plastic lid, comes out with a small object, and stands again, holding a little bullet of glycerin. “But–” you start to say. “Do you want to go on your date gagged?” he asks in reply. You shake your head. “Then the only ‘butts’ tonight should be the one in your diapers.” You swallow, but lift your bottom a little to give Daddy free access to you. He pushes the glycerin suppository deep inside, so deep that you whimper, then pulls his finger free and cleans it off with a baby wipe. Only then do you get the cold, soothing cream, and the thin dusting of scented powder, and finally the diaper being folded over your waist. Your anticipation of the night recalibrates. If you’re going to be in a smelly diaper–and you will be, you’ve never once managed to hold it for more than thirty minutes after a suppository came into play–it can’t possibly be a vanilla person. It has to be one of your friends, and one who doesn’t mind poopy diapers. The options shrink, and you realize you’re most likely in for a night of teasing at the hands of one of Mommy or Daddy’s dommy friends. “Stay there,” Daddy says, bending over at the edge of the changing table. “Now, when grown ups go on dates, they try to dress up in sexy clothes for each other. You want that too, right?” You nod. “Uh-huh.” “Of course you do. You’re just like a little grown up,” he assures you, and you hear a lid open. You know what’s over there on that end of the table, and what that lid sound was. In confirmation, the smell of old diapers assaults your senses a moment later, and you screw up your face, reaching to cover your nose. He comes out with an overnight diaper–your diaper, the one you’d been put to bed in, the one that the prunes and castor oil had already done a number on. It’s heavy and sagging in his hands, smelly from the mess you pushed into it. “Bottoms up.” You almost–almost–say the dreaded ‘B’ word, ‘but’. Before you do, you catch yourself and just say, “That’s not sexy!” “You thought it was, though, didn’t you?” he asks. “Last month, while you watched Mommy and I without our permission, you had a stinky diaper just like this one and you were about ready to burst in it! If you didn’t think it was sexy, why were you doing that?” You’ve got no argument, no defense, no excuse for why you were rubbing yourself so desperately the night before. Sheepishly, it’s all you can do to raise your hips, to allow him to slide the mucky old diaper beneath your current, fresh padding. The sides of it are cold, and you shiver as he folds it over, using the restickable hook-and-loop tapes to seal the clammy, putrid diaper onto you. “How’s that feel?” he asks, pulling you into a sitting position. Your weight sinks, and you hesitate. It’s a lot of bulk, and you can smell it plain as day, but it’s different from normal. “Weird,” you admit. “It’s clean and dirty at the same time.” He chuckles. “Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem for you for much longer. Up!” Responsively, you hop to your feet, and he bends again, picking up the prepared outfit he’d stowed beneath the table. First comes a pair of fabric training pants–they’re almost as bulky as a diaper, and though not as absorbent, it’s not like he perforated your inner diaper anyways. It’s clearly not to prevent leaks, just to add even more poof to your already heavy, bulky baby bottom. You step into them, and when he pulls the puffy training pants up, the bulk makes you feel like you can barely close your thighs, let alone walk. After this, comes the onesie. The onesie, the one Daddy likes to parade you around in, decorated with cartoon strawberries and stitched with a bib that reads, clearly, ‘Crybaby’ in big swoopy letters. He pulls it over your head and has to stretch the elastic fabric almost to its limits to button the snaps around your very impressive padding. But he’s not quite done. As the final pièce de résistance, a pair of frilly pink plastic pants, with rhumba ruffles on the seat, are tugged up your legs. They seal snugly around your diaper, completing the ensemble, and one thing is certain: You’re not even leaving the house tonight. Your ‘date’ is going to be coming to you. You’re not getting a real grown-up date at all, you’re going to be treated to dinner and humiliation. That’s not what you were promised, and you start to tear up, highlighting the truth of your ‘crybaby’ bib. “There you go,” Daddy says, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, preserving your moment of deep humiliation and frustration forever with a little camera ‘click’. “Now, just one more thing…” You don’t even know what he could add to the outfit. Maybe a bonnet? Or a bib? But instead, he steps forward and reaches down, rubbing his hand against the front of your diaper, eliciting a desperate moan from between your lips. In a whisper, he asks, “This is what you really wanted, right? Do you really think you’re big enough for a grown up date, or would you rather admit you’re nothing but a bitty baby and have fun in your play clothes?” It’s unclear where he produced the vibrator from, but you hear it kick to life in the same second you feel it pulse through your layers of padding, transmuting your words into juvenile mumbles. You cover your mouth with your hands to stifle your whimpers, legs locking up as you ride the pleasure. But you don’t say, ‘Yes’, you don’t admit anything, and after riling you up just enough to get you horny and purge your head of any coherent thoughts, Daddy kills the vibrator. “There. Grown ups need to get in the mood before their dates sometimes. You’re all ready now!” You swallow, and your belly grumbles. “Are you gonna tell me who it is yet?” He shakes his head, taking your hand. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough. You wait here, and I’ll come get you when she arrives, okay?” She! That’s a clue! You almost don’t notice that he’s steered you into the corner of the room and pushed your nose against the wall, quietly asserting your time-out without even needing to say those words, because your brain is reeling with the implications. That cuts down the options by more than half, and the list of possible friends who could be coming by rolls through your mind. Some are meaner than others—you’re expecting mean, someone who will tease you and mock you to put the idea of ‘grown up dates’ out of your head, even as you still quietly hope that it might be someone who will treat you gently, someone who will take you as you are and pretend—no, not pretend, but see the truth—that you’ve still got a bit of ‘grown up’ in you. You swallow. Maybe you’ll at least be able to come say hi before the suppository does its work and you fill your diaper—though, the reek wafting off your old diaper, the one sandwiched between your new one and your training pants, will likely dash any hope of dignity before it can even be formed. Still, you’re going to try, if for no other reason than that Mommy and Daddy will point out your inability to hold it if you lose control while your nose is in the corner. It’s not long before you hear footsteps—the light flappy thwip-thwip of Mommy’s flip-flops—and feel a hand on your shoulder. “Your date is here, sweetie.” There’s a slight giggle, and she adds, “Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll say anything about the smell.” You turn pink as you get out of the corner. Mommy offers you her hand, and you take it, waddling awkward after her—you can’t tell if she’s moving faster than normal to make you struggle in your triple-layered, heavy padding, or if the difficulty you’re having is just from the sheer bulk and tight fabric pulling it against you. Either way, you’re led downstairs, towards your dining room, excitedly anticipating who will be… Oh. Oh. Sitting at the dining room table, which has been lit with candles while mood music sets the tone, is your favorite stuffy. Peaches, a thirty inch plush fox that’s shaped roughly like a big pillow, with a permanent cutesy smile printed on her fabric face. Your stomach drops, and the suppository takes advantage, overpowering your bowels and forcing warm, semisolid mush into the seat of your previously clean diaper. Mommy giggles. “Don’t be shy, baby, go introduce yourself–once you’re done going potty, at least.” A grunt escaped your throat and your face screws up, tears showing. This isn’t fair. It’s not what you wanted, or what you promised! You were supposed to go on a grown up date, you weren’t supposed to muck your diapers in front of one of your stuffies and be teased for it. Mommy nudges you forward, and you waddle up, sitting in the chair across from Peaches. Your weight sinks into your newly-deposited mess, and you squirm, reminded that you weren’t given any satisfaction during Daddy’s teasing earlier. At least you weren’t put into a high chair. “Say hi,” Mommy prompts. You blush. “Mommy, I can do this myself!” She makes a ‘tsk’ noise in her throat. “You thought it was okay to watch Daddy and I during our grown up fun, I think it’s only fair that we get to be here for yours.” You squirm, but tamp down before you can say the ‘B’ word. Squirming, you look at Peaches. “Um…” “It’s polite to tell your date about yourself,” Mommy instructs. “Why don’t you tell her how many stinky diapers you’ve made this month?” “Um…” You flush, trying to mentally consider–over the whole month? While you were being teased and punished and made to be as flustered as possible? One a day seems reasonable, so you guess, “Thirty?” “It’s not nice to lie,” Mommy chides. “Be specific–tell her about all of them.” Pinkness spreads up your face, until you’re certain your blush has reached past your eyebrows. “Um–well–uh–last night, I went in bed, ‘cuz mommy and daddy gave me castor oil…and the night before, I just couldn’t hold it, cuz they hadn’t let me use the potty at all and I didn’t want to go in my daytime diaper, and…ugh, they gave me a suppository the day before while I was in time out, so…” You feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into your seat as you have to regale Peaches with each stinky accident–and, worse, as you go back further and further, you start to feel certain you’ve forgotten some. You’ve been so helpless to use the potty this past month that you can’t even remember all the accidents–the times you’ve been allowed to use a toilet are far, far more noteworthy. Finally, though, you get to the beginning of the month, to the accident you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. “Um–and, a month ago, I…I was sitting in my special chair, in Mommy and Daddy’s room, and–” The humiliating confession is cut off by Daddy’s entrance, carrying a little clipboard. The ‘Waiter’, it seemed, for the ‘Date’. “Welcome to our restaurant, may I take your order?” he says, smirking and wrinkling his nose at you. Rather than ask what you want, though, he turns to face Peaches. “Excellent choice, ma’am. And what will your date be having?” Your eyes widen. You–Peaches is even ordering for you. You won’t even be allowed to pick what you eat! “Oh, your date needs a high chair? Of course,” Daddy says, nodding. “I’ll be right back with that, and your drinks.” He walks away, leaving you to sniffle and wipe at your face while Mommy captures more photographs of your predicament—you weren’t even getting the one dignity you thought, the grown up chair. When Daddy returns a moment later, he’s dragging your high chair with one hand and carrying two cups in the other—one, an icy glass of cola which he sets in front of Peaches, the other, a plastic sippy cup decorated with teddy bears, and the fluid inside is a chalky white. He sets the high chair next to your chair—it’s your chair, you don’t need to move, it’s not fair! Expectantly, he waits. When you refuse to budge, he reaches down, grabs you by the ear, and tows you up, forcing you into the high chair. Unlike grown-up chairs, the seat is a little rounded, conforming to your thickly padded bottom, squelching everything more tightly against you. The tray is locked down over your lap, and your sippy cup is placed in front of you. “Daddy…” you whimper. “I’m just making sure you and your date are comfortable,” he promises. Mommy laughs at your confounded, defeated expression, and snaps another photo. Daddy takes food orders—again, listening exclusively to Peaches and ignoring what you want—and then leaves the room. “So, um…” you start to say, to Peaches. You don’t know why you’re talking to her, but it just seems like the thing to do. Nervously, you pick up your sippy cup and take a sip—it’s formula, with a chalky aftertaste. You stick out your tongue. “Gross!” Off to the side, Mommy giggles. Fumbling for words, you squirm, but that only makes you more aware of the mucky state of your diaper, and the after-cramps that are still sending wracks of discomfort down your belly–possibly a coincidence, possibly as a result of whatever chalky medicine Mommy and Daddy put in your bottle. Instead of words, you only let loose a little grunt, your bowels squelching a bit more ick into your padding. “Dinner,” Daddy declares, sashaying into the room, “is served.” Two bowls are set out in front of you both. Peaches gets a slice of rich, savory meatloaf, with perfect, fluffy mashed potatoes, butter dribbling down the sides. In front of you, a bowl full of white slop with a spoon poking out. You eye the contents suspiciously, sniff, and–yogurt. It’s plain yogurt, and your nose wrinkles at the sour odor instantly. Gross, gross, gross. “N-no, I want what Peaches has,” you protest. “No alterations or substitutions,” Daddy insists, tilting his head as though listening to your stuffy. “Oh, your date needs a little assistance? Of course.” Bending slightly, he picks up the spoon, lifting it towards your mouth. You seal your lips and turn your head, pouting, but he gives you The Look. If you continue to fuss and refuse to eat, you know you’ll regret it. There are much, much worse things he could be forcing down your throat, and you both know it. You open your mouth. Sour, slimy yogurt fills your cheeks, a little brushing on your lips, assaulting you with the sharp, unpleasant taste. You swallow, desperate to get the slime off your tongue, but before you have any relief, a new spoonful is waiting. Unable to do anything except accept the sludge as it’s spooned into your mouth, your eyes lock on Peaches. On her ‘dinner’, the plate of tantalizing grown-up food only a few feet away. The smell makes your stomach growl, but the only satisfaction you’re going to get is from not having to swallow any more yogurt. The bowl is deeper than you thought, and Daddy’s piled-high, sloppy spoonfuls don’t seem to deplete it as fast as they should. You can feel the slimy yogurt on your lips, wet and clammy, and know there’s a little that’s dribbled onto the stitched-on bib of your onesie. The bib that reads ‘Crybaby’. The one you’re about to prove true yet again as you fuss and debate closing your lips to any more of the goopy dinner. But, just as your belly feels a little too full and you’re ready to scream, the bowl runs dry. Daddy scrapes out one final spoonful, taking his time to get as much as possible, and plops it between your lips. You swallow, gag, and it’s done. Finally. Quietly, Daddy says over to Mommy, “Do you think our little one’s earned grown up time?” You sit up straight, suddenly the model of obedience. You don’t even wipe off the last bit of yogurt on your lip–you just want a yes, even if that ‘grown up time’ is with Peaches. Mommy takes a long pause before answering, drawing out her, “Hmmmm…” You can’t help yourself. Looking over your shoulder, eyes huge, you give your most helpless pleading look. “Please?” She smiles and nods. “Alright, I suppose.” Excitement completely drowns out all the discomfort–yes, yes, yes! Beaming, you start to try and get up, only remembering a second later that you’re still strapped into the high chair and can’t actually move under your own power. “I’ll go get her ready,” Mommy says, reaching over to pick up Peaches while Daddy wipes your face down, doing an unnecessarily thorough job. “Do I–” you stammer. “Do I really get to? You’re not going to stop me or tell me ‘no’ right as I’m almost done?” Daddy notices the slight anxiety in your voice. It’s barely there, but it’s there—the uncertainty is almost to the point of not being fun anymore. Reassuringly, he pops the latches on your high chair. “You might not like how it happens,” he hedges, “But you’ll get to make a sticky diaper if you’re obedient.” That’s good enough for you, you practically jump out of the highchair into giving Daddy a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank–urp—” You’re interrupted by a heavy pat on your back, drawing out a belch you hadn’t expected. Face turning pink, you drop right back into the situation, reminded of what you’re wearing, the bulk and weight and squelch between your legs, and the thing you’ve gotten so excited for—a few seconds of humping a plushie in your ruined diapers. You look down, and Daddy pulls you by the hand towards the stairs. “Let’s go up, ok?” What are you going to do, argue? You follow, hand outstretched in front of you as he takes the lead. You want what he’s offering, you want it so badly that any humiliation is worth being suffered. Waddling forward in double-thick ruined diapers and puffy training pants, eating anything they feed you, throwing out your dignity for their entertainment. Or…if you’re being honest with yourself, the humiliation isn’t being suffered at all. It’s almost as indulgent as the sex you’re hoping to get in a moment. Mommy’s already in your nursery, leaning over the side of the crib, and you spot what she’s done instantly—Peaches has been adorned with a strap-on, just like the one Mommy had worn a month ago, an intimidating dildo extending from the midpoint of her plush body. She rests on your crib, the side bars held open so you’ve got access to her. “Be a good date,” Mommy encourages. “Show her a good time—don’t just worry about yourself.” “O-okay,” you say, looking at her, then up at Daddy. “Um–can I have a little privacy?” Mommy giggles, as though you just asked for a pony and a magic wand. “Of course not, silly—you thought it was okay to watch us during our grown up time, right? So that means we should get to watch you, too.” Oh. Oh. Oh. That’s what Daddy meant by, ‘You might not like how it happens.’ “But…” You say, forgetting the rule for a moment. No, ‘Buts’. “Oh, you’re worried we won’t enjoy the show enough, aren’t you?” Mommy asks, reaching for her pocket. “It’s okay—I’ll make sure we can enjoy it, again and again.” She produces her phone, directing the camera lens right at you. You flush, but you know you’re getting off light–for using the B word, you could have had your pleasure denied completely. Still, you cover your face with your hands, mortified. “Aww, baby’s all shy now,” Daddy says. “It’s alright–go show Peaches you know what grown-up sex looks like… even if you can’t do it yourself.” You drop to your knees. Walking just doesn’t feel appropriate right now. On all fours, you shuffle across the room, your layered, poopy diapers swaying between your thighs, barely held in place by your straining onesie. Reaching to the side of the crib in front of Peaches, you feel another cramp. Maybe from all the yogurt causing a glitch in your system, maybe another aftershock from the suppository, but you have no will to fight it. Sticking your bottom a little higher, you push, and– Pop! The onesie’s snaps, though they fought admirably, pop open–first just one, then the rest in a rush. Too much bulk, too much straining mass and poof, your onesie just can’t contain it all, and your mushy diapers and padding all flop out between your legs. “Awwww,” Mommy coos above you, crouching slightly so your bulging bottom is right in the video’s frame. “You had to go so bad, didn’t you? Well—that’s why you wear baby diapers and Peaches gets to wear grown up clothes.” “It’s a good thing Peaches doesn’t mind the smell,” Daddy adds. “I can’t imagine a real grown up having sex like that–— so nice of her to put up with your poopy bottom.” You look down and burying your face in the fabric of your mattress, hiding your blush. “Thank her,” Daddy says, in a tone that’s not-quite warning. You look up, staring at Peaches’ smiling face, at the looming dildo strapped onto her. “Thank you for putting up with my poopy bottom, Peaches.” Mommy laughs, and your head feels so devoid of maturity that her laughter has plenty of room to echo in your thoughts. “Now show her how grateful you are.” Scooting up, obedient, your lips find the edge of the dildo. Gently at first, pulling it all into your mouth until you feel the tip at the back of your throat. You go a little faster, then, pulling your mouth back, swallowing, running your tongue along it. “It’s like the baby wants to act like a real grown up,” Daddy says. “Do you think we should let that happen?” You can tell Mommy’s shaking her head from how it sounds, but your eyes are closed, focused on the rapture of your task. “No, I think the baby prefers poopy diapers to real grown up time, can’t you hear all the moans?” And that’s true–you’re moaning into the dildo, caught up in the feel of it in your mouth, the submission, the desire to give Peaches pleasure when all you can feel is mucky diaper squelch around your baby parts. Daddy snickers. “At least the baby isn’t being shy anymore.” “I think the baby made all the snaps pop on purpose–to show off what an impressive little mess that diaper is!” Mommy agrees. You take Peaches’ cock into your mouth, again and again, feeling it thrust—or, rather, feeling your head thrust—onto it in a desperate rhythm. There’s no real indicator of when she’s done, but you know. You can tell, when you’ve done enough, when you’ve given your stuffie the ‘pleasure’ she deserves, as she rolls back onto the crib bed, flopping plushily. Exhausted, mouth a little sore, you flop back and look her in the eyes—not Mommy, or Daddy—but Peaches herself. “May I please make stickies?” “The baby is so polite like this!” Mommy says, almost shocked, moving her phone to capture your face, your ever-so-kind request. “Maybe grown-up pretend time should only happen with Peaches,” Daddy agrees. “Call it a monthly date night.” You’re vaguely aware of the threat, there—that you’ll only be allowed to make stickies once a month, and never like a grown up—but you don’t care. You just want to hear… “Well, I think I heard her say, yes,” Mommy confirms, speaking for Peaches. That’s all you need to hear–clambering up onto Peaches, so the front of your thickly layered diapers presses against her cock, you start to hump, moaning in desperate ecstasy. “So, so precious–” Mommy starts. You last all of a second. That’s all it takes—one moment of thrusting, and then bliss. A part of you is disappointed—you wanted to make this last longer. You wanted to savor it, to really enjoy your brief chance at grown up fun time. But when Mommy realizes by the sound of your gasps, she laughs and you feel so helpless that your pleasure skyrockets. Overwhelmed, exhausted, you collapse onto the crib next to Peaches, holding her in one arm. “Awwww,” Daddy says. “The baby’s all tuckered out.” “Should we let the two lovebirds rest?” Mommy asks, lowering her phone, ending the recording. Daddy thinks for a moment, then reaches down through the bars of your crib and squishes the front of your diaper. Still in the phase of post-coital sensitivity, you spasm and your leg kicks, eyes going huge. Snickering, Daddy says, “Sure. Baby, you nap with your girlfriend—we’re going to go have some adult time, some real grown up sex.” Quietly, as she shuts the side of the crib and seals you in, Mommy adds, “If Peaches says it’s okay, you can show her your pretend sex again—just don’t leave the crib.” You smile, and nod, and pull your stuffie closer. A minute later, you hear the baby monitor come to life. Mommy and Daddy’s sounds carry through, their moans and flirting—they’re having real grown up sex in the next room. The kind you’d been denied. Smiling, you roll onto all fours, getting on top of Peaches again, mimicking Mommy and Daddy’s actions with your own smelly, squelchy emulation. Maybe it wasn’t real sex, and maybe Peaches wasn’t a real girlfriend, but you didn’t care. This was just where you wanted to be. ... If you like my writing and want to support it, please consider sending a couple bucks my way over on Patreon! It helps me immensely, allowing me to create stories like the one you just read, and you get perks like early access and exclusive content too! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  3. It was a very dark Sunday evening and fetacular was writing a diaper story. This particular story involved fetacular being kept in diapers since youth. He was sent to the abdl hospital where his life on camera would begin. Arriving at the hospital the nurses talked at the entrance, nurse1 “oooh this one’s gunna bring in the ratings”, nurse2“ who do you think has to change his diaper”, nurse1 “you do”, nurse 2 “so do you”, nurse3 “what smells”, nurse1”omg it’s vennessa she pooped herself” nurse2”you better go change her nobody likes a poopy diaper” nurse 1 “yeah except her” the nurses giggled and gagged a little and went to work. Nurse 2 “hello feta, I here you failed potty training some years ago and have been in diapers ever since” Feta said “yeah but I can do things on my own” nurse2 “like what feta”? “like going out to the movies and stuff” nurse2 “well you know, your 21 now, and it’s legal for you to go to bars and stuff, buuuut the problem is bars don’t like it when people who failed toilet training go in there with there dirty diapers and stink up there bars”. Feta “well I won’t go to bars then” Nurse 2 “yeah, we tried that in the 1990’s, we can’t keep our eye's on all of you”, 1 feta say's “no, please (sob) I don’t want to spend my life in here”! Page2 2feta says “how long do I have to stay here” page 3 Page 2 1 feta say's “no, please (sob) I don’t want to spend my life in here”! Page2 Nurse1“ you don’t have to spend your whole life in here,” “only as long as it takes to potty train you” Nurse 2 got back from cleaning up vennessa, he even stuck his index finger in and stretched her until it snapped, the look on her face was priceless to him. He told her the command (foooootsy) and she put her feet on nurse1s left hand while he fapped open the diaper With his riight, then rolled vennessa back slid the nursery diaper under her, then let her feet go.. her feet naturally spread and nurse 1 taped her in tightly, the diaper was thick, and went up past her pelvic bone up just past her belly button. Vennessa said, “but I don’t want to wear diapers today”, nurse1 said “yes but vennessa you play with yourself when your not in diapers” nurse 3 “and this isn’t a place for fun, sugar baby” 1feta says “how long will it take to potty train me?” go to page 4 2feta says “can I wear a thinner diaper nurse,” go to page 8 Page3 feta say’s “how long do I have to stay here?” nurse1 said, “well, that depends on how well you behave, and of course how long it takes to potty train you.” Feta “the only reason I’m in diapers is because my mom kept me in them, I’ve told her for the past 14 years I was capable of toilet training “ah ah ah” nurse1 tapped her foot with an xyz agitated leg spread,” when she realized she had fetas attention she grabbed him by the lips and squeezed them together to emulate the words “potty training” Nurse2“now say it with me,” “potty training”, “that’s better,” she said playfully. Feta “sobbed” Nurse1 entered the room and said, “why don’t we get that wet diaper off of you?” feta said “yes please”. Nurse1 pulled down fetas pants, making a smiley face at him??? next she untapped the tapes, fapping it open she then put a dry cleansing lotion on him to wipe away the urine and powder finally just in time, nurse3 showed up with a very thick plastic diaper, as she walked by fetas glare she show boated the powder and diaper to him. “feta” said nurse3; “yes” said feta, nurse3 “put your feet on my hand”, feta did so. “upsy daisy” said the nurse and she rolled feta back and slipped a diaper under him. She let go of his feet and his legs spread naturally, then she lifted it between his legs and taped him tightly in. Nurse3 walked in and said “oooo,” as she padded the diaper and said “nice and thick so you can’t Master are,” Page 4 2feta says “how long will it take to potty train me?” “well, let’s start by changing that diaper”, it was 8pm and feta's diaper was changed, he was then put to bed. He woke up with a soaking wet diaper and morning wood, nurse1 went in with a bottle and changed him at 5am next he was led into the public area to watch some TV, baby tv. Around 8am he was changed again with powder by nurse 1 The nurses went into see him at 7am they started a questionable chant “do you want a breaky or do you want to go, do you want a breaky or do you want to go, do you want a breaky or do you want to go..” Finally in a tempertantrum feta said, I want to go! The nurses started chanting “pee, pee,pee,pee,pee,pee!” feta said “no!” The nurses starting chanting again “do you want a breaky, or do you want to go, do you want a breaky or do you want to go, do you want a breaky or do you want to go” the nurses ear pieces; spy gadget type stuff, “the ratings are climbing, if he says breaky make him choose which one of you and your pay cheques will be 6 figures this month and your contracts are up, of course you can always re-sign” Feta said “fine give me breakfast!” the three nurses, nurse1, nurse2, and nurse3 dropped there tips on Camara, and they chanted “boob, boob, boob, boob” feta reached out to touch one, but nurse2 said “you can only touch it with your mouth”, feta opened his mouth and lurched forward,” the respiridone g iven to the nurses prior to this moment caused them all to lactate, as soon as feta’s mouth wrapped around nurse2 she squirt right down the back of feta’s neck. Fetas head flew backwards and her boob squirted him in the face again, feta choked and reflux gagged, saying “what the fuck was that”, nurse1 said “oh we have a potty mouth, don’t we little baby”, nurse 3 said “from now on, you have to keep a binki, in your mouth,” nurse 2 said “otherwise we'll make you wear the thick diapers, the ones that make you waddle like a bwaby”, further she stated “now, drink this nipple until it’s empty, or else you'll go to the play pen until bed time.” “no!” said feta, nurse2 said “drink from my boob or we'll give you shock therapy 1Feta says “No!” Page 5 2feta says “okay.” page6 3feta says “I want her nipples.” Pointing at nurse3 page 7 Page 5 feta yelled “no”! To nurse2, she called out “Jensa” to nurse3 who came into the room with a d volt battery and jumper cables, she zapped feta and he said “ouch, fuck! Holy shit!!” jensa zapped him again holding the jumper cables down he was shocked so bad he Peed himself, nurse3 said, in a matter of fact tone “and now, you get thick diapers just like vennessa” nurse1 and nurse2 held him down while nurse3 diapered and powdered him. She was quick and efficient. Page6 feta say’s “okay,” and takes suck of nurse2 he drank for about 20 minutes a boob as he drank he was quickly flooded by the milk and it came out into his diaper. Nurse1 stuck her hand down into his package and felt it was wet, “now it’s time for a thick diaper,” the nurses changed him and put the binki in his mouth, “now you keep that binki in your mouth until tomorrow morning or we'll put you in the play pen.” Feta nodded. Page7 feta say’s “I want her nipples.” Pointing at nurse3. Nurse 3 said okay but let’s lie down on the couch. Feta sucked and sucked and sucked and sucked and sucked until nurse3 was empty and then filled with milk, milk polyuria set in and he Peed himself, nurse2 poked his diaper and said “he’s wet!” nurse3 said to nurse2, why don’t we let him sleep here while we put on a show for the camera's. They started touching and petting and spreading nurse3 went down nurse2 raised a gay brow, they both got soaked and put there cloths and robes back on, all the while feta had one eye open. Nurse2 said “oh feta you naughty boy, did you watch,” nurse3 “good luck masturbating in that diaper. “its time you took a nap,” said nurse3 “but I’m wet” said feta. Well it’s a big diaper it’ll hold!” Page 8 Feta say’s “can I wear a thinner diaper nurse?” Nurse 3 said “nope, because you will play with yourself and the only action your going to get in here is breast milk boobs,” nurse1 “let’s get you something to eat!” Nurse 2 brought a heaping bowl of egg noodles and peanut butter feta said “where’s the fork?” nurse1 pulled a spork from behind her back, she said “sit down!” feta say. “here comes the boobies” feta swallowed deeply. She sprinkled some all over his face and said “lets get a camera,!” 1Nurse 2 checks fetas diaper go to page 9 2nurse3 checks fetas diaper go to page 10
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