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Hello and happy new year to all. I was playing a bit with ChatGPT and let it write a story for me. It is completely written by the AI, with just a not so long prompt. But it got kind of big.
I thought some people might enjoy the story. It has minor AI related inconsistencies, but I think it's still a good read. So just have fun!


Edit: I let it write a kind of similar story, but still kind of different plot. I really don't know if anyone even cares for that stories, but I wanted another, so if anyone wants to read it, it's here. Since I don't want to take away the audience from real writers with real talents, I just added the second story here and didn't create a new topic.


Meredith's Control




Chapter One: A Curious Arrangement

Leon tugged at the sleeves of his oversized hoodie, standing on his tiptoes in front of the bathroom mirror, straining just to catch his reflection. His girlfriend, Meredith, was out in the living room, busily typing away at her laptop. She always had some major project at work: big team meetings, presentations for important clients, constant video conferences. Yet, she somehow always found time to keep a very close eye on him.

He tried to flatten his hair, which always seemed to puff up on top of his head in a boyish swirl. At just around four feet seven inches tall, Leon had a slender, childlike build despite being eighteen years old. When Meredith—who stood at a majestic six foot one—first noticed him at a local coffee shop a few months ago, he was enamored by her confidence, her sultry laugh, and her commanding presence. Their relationship moved quickly. Too quickly for some. But for Leon, nothing could compare to the sense of protection and enthrallment he felt around her.

In truth, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Meredith’s control over him stretched into the smallest corners of his day: from what he wore and how he styled his hair, to even how he used the bathroom. She managed every routine, every decision. While he sometimes complained, he also found himself secretly liking the structure. It made him feel cared for, oddly comforted. He felt guilty for resisting her, even when he found her rules embarrassing.

Leon could hear the rattle of keys in the living room as Meredith shut her laptop. It was probably time to go through the day’s itinerary—a list she insisted on reviewing with him every morning. Leon sighed. He was still wearing pajamas because she had specifically told him not to get dressed by himself that day. Apparently, she had something “special” lined up for him.

Slinking out of the bathroom, he walked into the living room, noticing how the top of his head barely reached the bottom of Meredith’s chest. She looked up at him, one eyebrow arched.

“You’re late,” she stated in a clipped tone, tapping the face of her silver watch.

“I was just—” he began, but her expression silenced him.

“I already told you: no excuses. Today is a busy day for me, and I can’t have you making us run behind. Now come here.” She patted the seat of the couch next to her.

Her voice carried such authority that he instantly felt a pang of guilt. He obeyed, sitting down. His tiny form sank into the cushion, emphasizing how small he was compared to her. Gently, she rested a large hand on his thigh, letting him know she wasn’t angry—just strict. Their eyes met, and there was a softness beneath her stern facade.

“I have to go to the office for some time, but I’ll be back before dinner,” she said. “In the meantime, you’ll stay here. I’ve laid out clothes for you in the bedroom. You’re not to leave the apartment until I get back. Is that clear?”

Leon nodded. “Yes, Meredith.”

He could feel an odd mix of relief and apprehension. She was going out, but his instructions were so rigid. It felt a little lonely, spending hours in the apartment by himself with such restrictions—especially since he needed permission for almost everything.

“Also…” She paused, studying his face. “Have you gone potty yet this morning?”

Leon’s cheeks flushed. That question was always mortifying, though he had grown somewhat used to it. Meredith demanded to know about every trip to the bathroom.

“Yes,” he mumbled, “right when I woke up.”

“Good.” She turned back to her phone, tapping at some notifications. “Remember: no more breaks until lunchtime. If you have to go, wait for me to come home. I don’t want to find out you disobeyed me.”

Her instructions were specific and strict. He’d been told only to use the bathroom at set times, always with her permission. Yesterday, he nearly had an accident holding it until she got back from a grocery run. As embarrassing as it felt to beg for the toilet, it was even more humiliating to lose control. But Meredith liked it that way—and, if he was honest, a small part of him thrilled at the notion of surrender.

“All right,” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Meredith patted his thigh one last time before she stood up, towering over him. She bent slightly, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Be good. Don’t get into trouble.”

Leon felt goosebumps on his arms. “I promise I’ll be good.”

She flashed him a knowing grin, then picked up her handbag and left, locking the door behind her with a decisive click.

Leon stared at the door for several moments. The apartment, though cozy, suddenly felt huge without her presence. His instructions were clear: get dressed in the clothes she chose, don’t leave the apartment, and most importantly—no bathroom breaks until lunch, when she planned to return.

He exhaled. This was his life now. Part of him wanted to rebel, to say that enough was enough. But part of him loved her so much that he convinced himself he needed this, needed her. And so, with a subdued swirl of excitement and anxiety, Leon walked to the bedroom to see what she had laid out for him.


Chapter Two: A Childish Wardrobe

When Leon opened the bedroom door, his cheeks immediately reddened. Spread across the bed was an outfit he would have never chosen for himself: a pair of powder-blue shortalls, complete with little silver snaps running down the sides, and a plain white t-shirt to go underneath. Next to it lay ankle socks with tiny cartoon puppies stitched into the cuffs. At the foot of the bed sat bright white Velcro sneakers—another childlike touch.

He inhaled a shaky breath. This was far from the most juvenile outfit Meredith had ever selected, but it still made him feel about ten years old rather than eighteen. Even if he wanted to choose something else, he knew he was not allowed. From the first week he moved in, Meredith had insisted on taking over all dressing responsibilities, often physically clothing him herself. This morning, however, she’d made an exception by laying out the outfit in advance—probably because she was in a hurry.

Leon glanced at the time on his phone: 8:42 AM. He had a while before lunch, and already he could feel an uncomfortable tightness in his bladder. He’d used the bathroom upon waking up, but the morning coffee he’d had earlier was catching up to him. He swallowed hard. Meredith had said no more potty visits until she came back at noon. He tried to ignore the discomfort, telling himself she’d only be gone a few hours.

With a resigned sigh, he plucked the T-shirt off the bed. He peeled off his pajama top, then slipped the T-shirt on. Finally, he lifted the shortalls and stepped into them, struggling to pull the straps over his shoulders until he heard the tiny snaps click. They fit snugly, cupping his narrow hips and accentuating how slender he was. The Velcro shoes went on last. He looked at himself in the standing mirror and cringed. The shortalls ended high on his thighs, making him look about as intimidating as a toddler.

He could feel his heart pounding as he went back into the living room, half-expecting someone to be standing there laughing at him. But of course, the apartment was empty. He sank down on the sofa, turning on the TV. Maybe he could distract himself with some cartoons or a movie. He was too nervous to watch the news or a serious program. Subconsciously, he gravitated toward more childish things—something that matched how Meredith dressed him.

He flicked through streaming channels until he found an old animated movie from his childhood. While it played, his mind kept drifting to the subtle pressure below his abdomen. It had been only a few weeks of abiding by her “no bathroom without permission” rule, but it was long enough that his body felt confused, uncertain when relief was actually allowed.

He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The anxiety made him want to push the feeling away, yet focusing on it seemed inevitable. Time ticked by painfully slowly: 9:00… 9:15… 9:30…

By 10:00, Leon was shifting in his seat, crossing his legs, and trying to stay calm. He was determined not to break the rules—he never wanted to face Meredith’s anger or disappointment. But if she didn’t come home in time…

He shook his head. She said noon. You can hold it until noon, he told himself. He’d done it before. He’d do it again.

Memories of the last time he disobeyed raced through his mind. About a week ago, she’d caught him sneaking off to the bathroom while she was out. He was wearing a childish onesie she had chosen, and the second she returned, he’d practically run past her toward the toilet. She noticed the onesie was unbuttoned. He’d undone it on his own. She was upset, not screaming or raging, but cold and disappointed. That, to him, was worse than any punishment.

So he’d do what she wanted: hold it.

By 11:15, he was practically shaking. He paced around the living room, turning the TV off because he couldn’t focus. The pressure was building painfully, and he wasn’t sure how long he could last. Finally, at 11:45, he heard the jangle of keys outside the door.

Meredith stepped in, the faint smell of crisp autumn air swirling around her. She closed the door, set her purse down, and immediately looked at him with curiosity. “Hello, sweetie. How was your morning?”

Leon let out a trembling breath. “It’s been okay. I… I’m glad you’re home.”

She slipped off her jacket, revealing a form-fitting blouse and a knee-length skirt. She looked immaculate, her tall silhouette making him feel ridiculously small. “Did you follow the rules?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Leon nodded vigorously. “Yes. I haven’t gone to the bathroom since you left, and—Meredith, please, can I—?”

She shrugged, setting her handbag on the counter. “Let me think about it.” A slow, playful grin slid across her face.

Leon felt heat rise to his cheeks. He crossed his legs again, pressing them together. “Please,” he repeated, bouncing slightly in place.

“Come with me to the bathroom,” she said quietly. He exhaled in relief and trailed behind her. The moment they reached the bathroom door, she turned around, blocking his entrance with an arm. “You waited, right?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Good boy.” She unfastened the shortall straps and helped him wriggle out of the garment, leaving him standing there in just his T-shirt, socks, and shoes. “All right, you may go.”

She gave him a light nudge inside, standing in the doorway as if monitoring him. Usually, she supervised his toilet visits to make sure he wasn’t disobeying any hidden rules. He quickly tried to focus, lifting the seat and finally letting go. Relief flooded him, but his cheeks were bright red knowing she was right there, watching. Yet this was their arrangement—something he had grown used to, in his own shy way.

When he finished, he couldn’t help but let out a quiet whimper of relief. Meredith smiled, nodding with approval. “You did well. I see no accidents,” she remarked, scanning the front of his T-shirt.

Leon’s heart still pounded with the aftershock of nearly losing control. “No,” he managed to say. “No accidents.”

“Good,” she repeated, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m proud of you for holding it in.”

His insides fluttered at the praise. He always craved her approval. Despite the embarrassment, the rules, the slight fear, there was a warm satisfaction that came from pleasing her.

“Come on,” she said, leading him out of the bathroom. “Time for lunch. Then we’ll talk about the rest of the day.”


Chapter Three: The Strict Afternoon

After lunch—sandwiches she prepared while he stood on a stool at the counter, helping slice tomatoes—Meredith announced she’d be working from home the remainder of the day. She had a stack of documents to handle. Leon hovered in the kitchen, uncertain what she expected of him next.

She noticed his anxious glance and beckoned him closer. “It’s going to be a long work session. I need to focus,” she said. “I’ll be in the study. You can watch TV or do something quiet in the living room. But no phone calls and no computer games without permission.”

Leon nodded, fiddling with the hem of his shortalls. “Okay,” he murmured. “Do I have to do anything… else?”

She tilted her head. “You mean chores?”

He shrugged. “Chores, or errands, or something.”

“I think you can handle cleaning your room,” she said. “I’ll inspect it later. And you are to ask me if you need to use the potty, understood?”

He swallowed. “Yes, Meredith.”

“All right. Off you go. And remember, I’ll be checking on you.”

With that, she swept away into the study, closing the door behind her. Leon glanced at the clock: 12:40 PM. The next scheduled bathroom break was usually around mid-afternoon—unless he asked for special permission, which she sometimes granted, sometimes didn’t.

He made his way to the bedroom to tidy up the bedclothes. After that, he dusted and vacuumed a little, determined to impress her by staying productive. As the minutes passed, he periodically glanced at the closed study door, tempted to peek his head in and see if she wanted coffee or something. But he dreaded disturbing her. She hated interruptions when she was concentrating.

Eventually, Leon returned to the living room and flopped onto the couch. The cartoon from earlier was still paused. He pressed play, letting the colorful images fill the screen. But he found it hard to relax. There was a growing sense of tension, deep down in his bladder again. Maybe that second glass of water at lunch was a bad idea.

He tried to focus on the cartoon’s cheerful scenes—singing characters, bright backdrops, comedic moments. Time crawled: 1:00… 1:15… 1:30… By 2:00, the pressure was noticeable. Leon bit his lip, glancing at the study door again. Should he ask? Meredith might see it as a sign of weakness or defiance if he kept interrupting her schedule. But the alternative was risking an accident.

He rummaged through the coffee table’s drawers to distract himself, coming across old board games and puzzle books. He found a half-completed crossword puzzle from weeks ago, the squares filled in by Meredith’s neat penmanship. He sighed, trying to pass the time, but the throbbing need in his abdomen kept gnawing at his thoughts.

Finally, at 2:15, he couldn’t take it anymore. He padded softly over to the study door, raising his fist to knock. He hesitated, heart pounding. She was probably on a call. But if he waited any longer, something worse could happen. Summoning courage, he gave a gentle knock.

“Who is it?” came her curt voice.

“It’s me,” Leon answered timidly. “I… um… I need to ask you something.”

“Come in.”

He eased the door open. Meredith sat behind a large wooden desk, papers scattered around a laptop. She looked up, removing her glasses. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said in a low whisper, “but I really need to use the restroom.”

Her lips formed a thin line. “Is it that urgent?”

Leon shifted on his feet, nodding. “Kind of. I’ve been trying to hold it for a while.”

Meredith let out a slow exhale, then glanced at the clock on her computer. “We were going to do that at three o’clock. But you are asking nicely…”

He clasped his hands in front of him, trying to stand as still as possible. “Please, Meredith?”

She pondered for a moment. “All right. But I’m going to watch, to make sure everything’s done properly. And no fussing.”

His eyes widened, but he quickly nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Standing up from her chair, she followed him to the bathroom. This time, she didn’t bother to unfasten his shortalls. Instead, she did it for him, as always—though with an air of slight annoyance. “Arms up,” she said, guiding the straps down.

Leon turned away from her, aiming to close the door, but she stepped inside too. She always came in with him, but this time the closeness felt more imposing. “Hurry up,” she commanded.

Leon’s face was practically on fire with embarrassment, but the need to relieve himself overcame his self-consciousness. He managed to get everything positioned and released. A soft gasp of relief escaped his lips.

Meredith observed him carefully. When he was done, she helped him secure his shortalls back into place, snapping the straps. Then she turned on the sink faucet and waited while he washed his hands under her watchful gaze.

“I won’t always let you do this,” she said softly. “I have rules for a reason. It’s important you learn how to follow them.”

Leon nodded, shoulders slumping. He felt like a child receiving a reprimand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just really couldn’t wait.”

She gently ruffled his hair. “Shh. It’s all right. Let’s get you back to your day.”

And just like that, she returned to her study, leaving him alone in the hallway with the odd, lingering mix of relief and lingering shame.


Chapter Four: Footed Sleeper Evenings

Late afternoon arrived without further incident. Leon busied himself around the apartment, occasionally hearing Meredith’s voice from the study. She sounded professional and confident, reminding him of just how impressive she was in her career—and, in turn, how small he felt next to her in every regard.

By the time 6:30 PM rolled around, Meredith emerged from the study, stretching her arms overhead. Her sharp gaze swept over the living room and kitchen. “Looks clean,” she commented, nodding at Leon. “Good job.”

He felt a small glow of pride at her words. “Thanks,” he said. “Did you finish everything?”

“Mostly,” she replied with a sigh. “I still have a bit more to do after dinner. How about you start setting the table while I check something in the bedroom?”

Leon hopped up to obey, walking to the kitchen cabinets to gather plates and cutlery. He arranged them neatly, making sure everything was symmetrical—knowing she appreciated order. He placed two glasses and a set of napkins in perfect alignment, then set out the salt and pepper. Satisfied, he stepped back to admire his work.

He glanced toward the bedroom, wondering what Meredith was up to. She was probably laying out his pajamas. That’s how every evening went: after dinner, she would dress him in some form of childlike sleepwear—often footed sleepers, sometimes with childish prints. If he was especially fidgety or whiny, she’d zip it in the back, removing his ability to unzip it himself. Some nights, she put on mittens, ensuring he couldn’t fiddle with the zipper.

Part of him squirmed at the thought, but another part thrummed with excitement. Despite the occasional embarrassment, he found a peculiar comfort in the ritual of being tucked into bed by her. He relished the warmth of her presence, the bubble of security she created around him.

She emerged a few minutes later, a sly smile on her face. “Dinner time,” she announced. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner consisted of grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and a small portion of rice. Leon ate quietly, occasionally meeting Meredith’s eyes. She asked him about his day, praising him for keeping busy without fussing too much. He felt an uptick of pride at her approval.

However, halfway through the meal, she cleared her throat. “I noticed something when I laid out your sleeper,” she began, fixing him with a steady look. “Some of your underwear had faint stains. Care to explain?”

Leon nearly choked on his chicken. He stared at her, face burning. “I… I—It’s just… from earlier,” he stammered. “I was holding it for so long, I guess maybe I leaked a little?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you had a little accident?”

He stared at his plate, nodding miserably. “Y-yes, but just a tiny bit, I swear.”

Meredith set her fork down. “Hmm. That’s unfortunate. After all the trust I gave you to wait until lunch, then again this afternoon. You said you managed, but apparently, you leaked enough to stain your underwear.”

Leon gulped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. It wasn’t a full accident. Just a little leak.”

“Regardless,” she said, her voice cool, “it shows you’re not fully in control.”

His eyes pricked with tears. “Please don’t be mad.”

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not angry, Leon. But I’m disappointed that you’re struggling with such a simple rule. If waiting is causing you accidents, perhaps we need a more secure solution.”

Her words sent a chill through him. “Wh-what do you mean?”

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Let’s finish dinner, and we’ll discuss it when we get you ready for bed.”

Leon nodded, his appetite diminishing. He forced the rest of his vegetables down in silence, mind spinning with worry and humiliation. He had a feeling he knew what she meant by a ‘more secure solution.’


Chapter Five: An Unexpected Development

After dinner, Meredith tasked Leon with loading the dishwasher. He did so mechanically, hands slightly shaking. He couldn’t stop thinking about her cryptic mention of a “secure solution.” Could she mean what he thought she did?

She disappeared back into the bedroom. By the time he finished in the kitchen, she called his name.

“Leon,” she said, standing in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed. “Come here.”

He approached hesitantly, heart hammering.

She guided him inside, where the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow across the bed. Laid out on the duvet was a footed sleeper, a soft pastel-green color with a subtle pattern of tiny stars. Its zipper ran up the front, but a small padlock mechanism was threaded through the zipper pull. Next to it on the bed was a folded, puffy item.

Leon’s stomach dropped. It was a diaper—a large, adult-sized diaper with cartoonish designs across the padding.

He stared, speechless. His mind reeled. Sure, Meredith had teased about diapers before, mostly in a half-joking manner when he slipped up or whined too much. But he never thought she’d actually follow through. They were both adults, after all. Even if she treated him as if he were younger, diapers still felt like an extreme step.

“I… I…” he started, but no words came out.

Meredith cocked her head, her tall frame radiating authority. “These are for nights when you can’t maintain control,” she said calmly. “You’ve proven that you sometimes have accidents while trying to follow the rules. I don’t want you ruining your underwear or the sheets.”

Leon’s face burned. “B-but… I—”

She held up a hand. “Shh. We’re trying this tonight. Hopefully, it will teach you to be more mindful of your potty breaks when they’re scheduled. If you truly have no accidents, maybe we won’t need these. But for now…” She motioned to the diaper. “Take off your clothes.”

He hesitated, a thick lump in his throat, but he knew better than to argue. He undid the shortalls and let them pool at his feet, then peeled off the T-shirt. Meredith patted the bed. “Lie down,” she instructed.

Trying not to cry from humiliation, Leon sank onto the mattress, his small frame dwarfed by the plush bed. Meredith picked up the diaper, opening it with a loud crinkle. She maneuvered it under him, adjusting it carefully, then folded it up between his legs. The padding was thick, soft, and unmistakably babyish. Velcro tapes fastened at the sides. She smoothed the tapes, making sure it was snug around his waist.

Leon swallowed hard, tears threatening to spill. The sensation of the diaper hugging his lower half was strange and overwhelming. The thick bulk between his legs forced them apart slightly.

Meredith leaned over him, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. “Don’t be upset,” she cooed. “It’s just for your protection, and for my peace of mind. You might even find it comforting.”

He shut his eyes, nodding wordlessly.

Next, she guided his feet into the footed sleeper, pulling it up his body. Once his arms were inside, she zipped it up, locking the zipper with a small padlock near the neck. There would be no unzipping this without her key.

Leon shivered, suddenly aware he was completely at her mercy. He could feel the diaper pressing against him, a constant reminder of his humiliation. Yet a small, secret part of him felt a twinge of guilty relief. Now he wouldn’t have to worry about leaking if he had to hold it too long…

Meredith helped him off the bed, turning him to face the dresser mirror. “Look at that,” she said softly. “It fits you well, doesn’t it?”

He caught a glimpse of himself: a short, slender young man clad in a pastel sleeper, locked, and obviously padded. It was juvenile, babyish, and undeniably humiliating. And yet, he felt a warmth coil in his chest, an odd sense of safety.

Meredith leaned down, placing a lingering kiss on top of his head. “All set. Now, it’s still early, so you can stay up with me in the living room if you want to watch TV. But I don’t want you messing with that diaper. Understood?”

Leon gulped. “Yes, Meredith,” he whispered.

With that, she took his hand, leading him out to the living room, where they sat on the couch together. She switched on a TV show, sliding an arm around his shoulders. He rested his cheek against her side, feeling the crinkle of the diaper whenever he shifted. Her warmth enveloped him. Embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t deny the closeness and the comfort he felt pressed against her.

They watched quietly for a while, the only sounds being occasional dialogue from the show and the subtle rustle of Leon’s diaper when he moved. Though she was being strict, Meredith also exuded a gentle tenderness. She smoothed her hand over his hair, letting him relax against her. He wondered if this was how children felt when nestled against a mother’s side—but no, that thought was too strange. He was an adult, even if everything about this arrangement suggested otherwise.

After an hour or so, she clicked off the TV. “You’re probably tired. Let’s get you in bed.”

Leon’s eyes fluttered. “Okay.”

She led him back to the bedroom, helping him climb under the covers. The diaper’s thickness made him waddle slightly, but she made no mention of it. Once he was tucked in, she leaned down to give him a soft kiss goodnight.

“Sleep well, little one,” she murmured, stroking his cheek.

Leon felt a pang in his chest. Despite the embarrassment, he sensed an overpowering love for her. She had so much control, but also so much care. He closed his eyes, nodding. “Goodnight, Meredith,” he whispered.

She switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The faint sound of her footsteps retreated, and the door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the soft rustle of his own humiliating bedtime attire. Yet despite everything, he drifted off feeling oddly comforted.


Chapter Six: A Morning of Conflicting Emotions

Leon awoke the next morning, squinting at the streams of daylight creeping in through the blinds. He tried to stretch, but the footed sleeper resisted his movement. The padlock at the collar was still firmly in place. Immediately, he became aware of the thick diaper around his waist. His heart pounded as he recalled last night’s humiliating bedtime routine.

He shifted, feeling a slight warmth in the diaper’s padding. Dread stabbed at his chest. Had he wet himself in his sleep? He pressed his thighs together, and sure enough, the diaper felt heavier and damp. A wave of shame washed over him. He couldn’t remember when it happened. He had dozed off so deeply he never even woke up to use the bathroom. A swirl of conflicting emotions rose inside him: embarrassment, confusion, and, strangely, relief. At least the bed was dry.

He heard footsteps approaching. In a moment, Meredith appeared, her tall frame filling the doorway. She smiled softly. “Good morning,” she greeted. “Sleep well?”

Leon stammered, unsure how to respond. “I—I guess so.”

Her gaze fell to his padded midsection. “Did you stay dry?” she asked, though the faint smirk suggested she already suspected the answer.

He glanced away, cheeks aflame. “No,” he muttered. “I… had an accident.”

Meredith strode over, unlocking the small padlock at his neckline with a tiny key. She slowly pulled the zipper down, revealing the sagging diaper. She pressed the padding gently, confirming it was indeed wet. Leon squirmed, face contorting with humiliation.

“Well,” she said at last, “this just proves my point. You need diapers for bedtime until further notice.”

Leon’s eyes stung with tears. He hated feeling so incompetent, but found himself nodding obediently. “Yes, Meredith.”

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

She helped him out of the sleeper, rolling it aside to wash later. Then, carefully, she removed the diaper. The cool morning air brushed his skin. She took a pack of wipes from a shelf in the closet—he hadn’t noticed them before—and began gently cleaning him. He winced at the profound vulnerability of it all, but she was methodical and calm, as though caring for a dependent child.

When she finished, she gave his hip a reassuring pat. “Now, go shower. I’ll find you some fresh clothes.”

Leon didn’t need any more prompting. He hurried to the bathroom, stepping into the warm shower spray. As he scrubbed away the night’s shame, he let out a trembling sigh. Part of him felt humiliated beyond words, but another part felt a surprising sense of freedom in not having to worry about whether he wet the bed or not—Meredith took care of everything.


Chapter Seven: Trying to Please Her

After the shower, Leon found another childish outfit waiting on the bed: a bright red T-shirt with a cartoon lion on the front, and a pair of elastic-waist shorts that threatened to show the outline of any padded undergarment if he wore them. However, Meredith had not placed a diaper beside them this time. It seemed he was expected to manage on his own during the day—at least for now.

He dressed quickly, then padded into the living room where Meredith was sipping coffee. She motioned for him to sit. “I’m going into the office again,” she announced. “I have some errands afterward, so I won’t be back until early evening. Think you can handle it?”

Leon nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes flickered toward his shorts. “No diapers right now, but you’re still required to ask permission for the potty, remember?”

A knot formed in his stomach. “B-but… you won’t be here,” he said. “How am I supposed to ask for permission?”

“You’ll text me first,” Meredith said, as if it were the most obvious solution. “Wait for my response. If I approve, you can use the bathroom. Understood?”

Leon swallowed hard. “Yes.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I mean it. If I find out you disobeyed, or if there’s any sign of accidents again, you’ll be wearing a diaper all day tomorrow as well. Clear?”

A flush crept over his face. “Clear,” he replied softly.

Meredith nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now, I have to go. You have your instructions.”

She kissed his forehead, grabbed her handbag, and left. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Leon alone with his swirling thoughts once more.

It was nearly 9 AM. He had to figure out how to keep himself occupied all day without leaving the apartment, and with the added stress of obtaining permission to use the bathroom via text message. He eyed the clock nervously. Typically, she gave him scheduled breaks: morning, midday, afternoon, evening. But now the dynamic was different—he had to ask every single time.

Leon sighed, trying to calm the flutter in his belly. “I can do this,” he whispered to himself, rummaging around the kitchen for a small breakfast. He settled on cereal, though he couldn’t help but measure how much milk and juice he poured, terrified of needing to go too soon.


Chapter Eight: Accidents, Consequences, and Confessions

By lunchtime, Leon’s nerves were already shot. He’d texted Meredith around 11, asking if he could go to the bathroom. She replied after ten agonizing minutes of waiting, finally granting permission. He managed to avoid an accident that time. But around 1 PM, as he sat quietly in the living room reading a book, he felt another urge.

He checked the time. Meredith had mentioned she’d be in an important meeting from 1 to 2 PM, so he hesitated. If she was in the meeting, she might not respond to texts promptly. Should he send her a message anyway and risk bothering her? Or should he hold it, hoping she’d be free soon?

Eventually, he sent her a short text: “Hi, Meredith. May I please use the bathroom?”

The minutes passed. No response. The minutes turned to a half-hour. Leon began to pace, sipping his water nervously, which only made things worse. By 1:40, he was practically dancing in place, pressing his thighs together. Still nothing. He sent another, more urgent text: “Please, Meredith. It’s an emergency.”

At 1:50, he still hadn’t heard from her. His bladder burned, and tears pricked his eyes. He wanted desperately to follow her rule, but he was about to burst. Could he risk it? Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he used the bathroom since it was an actual emergency.

But she had been so explicit. Disobeying meant guaranteed diapers the next day. Could he endure that shame again? He fidgeted, leaning against the wall, clenching every muscle he could. The world around him seemed to blur in a haze of desperation.

1:55… Leon couldn’t hold it. With a choked sob, he felt warmth flood his shorts. The liquid trickled down his legs, pooling on the floor. He froze, horrified. His cheeks burned with shame as he stood there in a puddle. He’d truly wet himself in the living room, at eighteen years old.

Trembling, he grabbed paper towels, trying to mop up the evidence of his accident. He peeled off his sodden shorts and underwear, tossing them into the washing machine, desperately hoping to hide the mess before Meredith returned. But he couldn’t deny what had happened. He had broken the rule—except he hadn’t, had he? He’d tried to get permission, but she never responded.

At 2:05, his phone buzzed. Meredith’s text appeared: “Yes, you can go now. Sorry for the delay.”

Leon nearly burst into tears. It was too late.


Chapter Nine: Love and Control

Meredith arrived home around 5 PM. Leon was perched anxiously on the couch in a fresh pair of shorts, heart hammering. The moment she entered, he felt tears pricking his eyes. He needed to confess before she discovered the evidence.

She set her purse down and fixed him with an expectant stare. “Well, did everything go smoothly?”

Leon stood, hands shaking. “I—I tried. I texted you. Twice,” he said. “You didn’t respond until it was too late.” His voice trembled with shame. “I had an accident.”

She pressed her lips together. “Where?”

“In the living room,” he muttered, glancing down. “I cleaned it up right away. I’m sorry.”

Meredith rubbed her temple. “Leon,” she began in a weary tone, “I gave you one simple rule. Did you try waiting or…?”

He shook his head. “I did wait. I tried to hold it until you responded. But then I—I couldn’t anymore.”

She sighed, stepping closer to him. He braced himself for anger, but instead, she pulled him into a loose embrace. He smelled the faint perfume in her hair. “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay. Accidents happen when you’re forced to wait like that.”

Leon buried his face against her, tears wetting her blouse. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

Meredith patted his back. “I know you tried. This arrangement might be too strict for your body to handle. Maybe I pushed you too far.”

He blinked, pulling back, confused. “You… you think so?”

She nodded, cupping his cheek. “Leon, I want to take care of you. I love you. But if these rules cause you distress and accidents, maybe we need to adjust them.”

Leon stared up at her, feeling both relief and a pang of disappointment. As restrictive as the rules were, a part of him craved her control. “I… I don’t want to disappoint you,” he whispered.

She kissed his forehead. “My sweet boy, you could never truly disappoint me if you’re honest with me. Let’s find a way that keeps you comfortable without accidents, all right?”

He nodded, eyes stinging. “Yes, Meredith.”

She smoothed down his hair. “That said, the diapers at night will continue. It’s clear you’re still having trouble staying dry. And maybe we’ll have you wear them during the day if you’re feeling uncertain. No more holding it to the point of accidents. Agreed?”

A complicated mix of dread and comfort flooded him. “Agreed,” he said softly.

That evening, after a light dinner and some shared relaxation time on the couch, Meredith once more led him to the bedroom. She had prepared another diaper and the familiar pastel-green sleeper, complete with the back-zip design. This time, he didn’t resist. He let her tape the diaper around his waist, welcoming the soft, bulky security. He noticed that she had sewn a small loop at the back of the sleeper’s collar, likely where she’d attach the padlock or a similar clasp. She pulled it up his body, sealing him in.

Leon sighed as she locked him into the sleeper. Oddly enough, he felt relief. There would be no more frantic dashes or accidents; if it happened, at least he was protected. He laid down on the bed, exhaling the tension of the day.

“Tomorrow, we can talk more about your potty schedule,” Meredith said, brushing a hand through his hair. “I still want you to ask permission, but we’ll give you a diaper if I’m away. That way, you won’t have to worry.”

Leon looked up at her, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She returned the smile, bending low to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. “I love you, little one.”

Tears threatened to surface again, but they were tears of gratitude this time. “I love you too,” he choked out.

Settling down under the covers, he listened to the calming sound of her breathing as she tucked him in. Despite the infantile attire, or perhaps because of it, a sense of safety blossomed in his chest. Meredith was demanding, controlling, and sometimes completely over the top—but she was also caring, nurturing, and, above all, his.


 

Chapter Ten: Renewed Determination

Despite the tension and embarrassment of Leon’s accident in Chapter Nine, the next morning dawned with a surprising sense of calm in the apartment. The living room was bathed in golden light as Leon padded out from the bedroom, diaper rustling softly beneath the pastel-green footed sleeper. He still wore the back-zip pajamas because Meredith—early to rise and already dressed in slacks and a blouse—wanted to supervise his morning routine.

“Good morning,” she greeted, looking up from her laptop on the couch. “Sleep okay?”

Leon nodded, cheeks flushing with the familiar bashfulness that came from being locked into his sleeper all night. “Yes,” he murmured, eyes drifting to the floor. “Thank you.”

Meredith patted the cushion beside her, beckoning him to sit. The couch dipped under her weight as she scooted closer, one arm resting comfortably over his shoulders. “Let’s see how you did,” she said, reaching for the small lock at his collar. Her tone was neither cruel nor mocking—it was simply matter-of-fact, the caring severity of someone who expected to find a wet diaper.

She withdrew the key from her pocket and unlocked the tab securing the zipper. The faint click sent a tremor of apprehension through Leon. Gently, she pulled the zipper down, revealing the thick, slightly damp diaper around his waist. A sigh escaped her lips—part relief, part acknowledgment.

“Not too bad,” she said. “Still wet, but not soaked.”

Leon rubbed his arms, noticing goosebumps from the morning chill. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

She shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize every time. We’ve talked about this. Diapers are here to help until you learn to manage. And if you can’t, well… that’s okay too. We’ll make sure you’re protected.”

A swirl of conflicting emotion swept through him. He both hated and secretly welcomed the security of her strict care. Even if it made him feel smaller, something about her unwavering control comforted him.

“All right,” Meredith said, gently pressing her warm palm against his upper back. “Let’s get you changed and dressed. We have errands today.”

Leon exhaled a soft sigh of resignation. There was never any real choice in the matter—only the understanding that, under her guidance, he would be taken care of.

She walked him to the bedroom, where a fresh diaper and a modest outfit lay waiting on the neatly made bed. This time, he noticed the diapers were in the open, lined up on a shelf—obviously a new normal.

“You’ll wear this for the day,” she said, tapping the folded padding. “I have a busy schedule, and I can’t always answer your texts immediately. So, no accidents in your shorts this time.”

Leon’s face burned with a mixture of shame and relief. “Yes, Meredith,” he murmured obediently.

She set about changing him, wiping him down before securing the tapes snug around his hips. With practiced ease, she helped him step into a pair of casual khaki shorts and a short-sleeve polo that—thankfully—didn’t look too childish. However, as soon as he stood up, the outline of the diaper was unmistakable beneath the fabric, giving him a slight waddle. He fidgeted, unsure how to hide it.

Meredith tilted his chin up with her finger. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “You’re under my protection. I won’t let anyone see more than necessary. Now, get your shoes on. We’re heading out soon.”

Leon swallowed hard, nodding. A renewed determination to trust her—and to obey her strict potty rules—settled in his chest. If wearing a diaper in public was the price to avoid accidents, he would accept it. After all, he loved her. And in his own private way, he loved this nurturing dominance she provided.


Chapter Eleven: An Outing of Discomfort

Meredith parked the car outside a bustling shopping center, sunlight glinting off the polished vehicles in the lot. Leon sat in the passenger seat, heart thumping. He hadn’t been outside in a diaper often—usually, Meredith arranged short, discreet errands or handled them alone.

Yet here they were, preparing for a full afternoon of shopping. He was diapered under his khaki shorts, his every movement producing a barely audible crinkle. Fear gnawed at him. What if someone heard? What if someone noticed the slight bulge?

Meredith unfastened her seatbelt, turning toward him. “Ready?”

Leon’s fingers twisted in his lap. “I—yes,” he said, voice trembling. “But—do I really have to wear this in public?”

A trace of amusement danced across Meredith’s features, but she tempered it with understanding. “Yes, Leon. You know the rules. You’ve had accidents, and I can’t keep leaving you alone in the apartment every time I need to run errands. This is safer.”

His cheeks burned a deep crimson. “I—I understand,” he managed.

She offered a small, reassuring smile before exiting the car. Reluctantly, Leon followed, stepping onto the asphalt. The sensation of the diaper’s padding made his walk slightly bow-legged. He glanced around nervously, certain everyone would see.

But the world carried on, no one giving him more than a passing glance. It was a busy weekend afternoon: couples strolling hand in hand, parents corralling rambunctious kids, elderly folks lugging grocery bags. No one seemed to notice the shy, diminutive eighteen-year-old waddling after his tall girlfriend.

Meredith led him through a few stores, picking up home essentials and groceries. She maintained a calm composure, instructing him softly if she wanted help grabbing an item. Occasionally, she’d slip her arm around his shoulders, guiding him through the crowd. Despite the unwavering sense of embarrassment, Leon felt a protective warmth emanating from her touch.

Midway through their errands, as they stopped at a store to browse kitchen utensils, Leon’s eyes widened. The dull pressure in his bladder reminded him of an awkward truth: if he needed to use the bathroom, he had to ask Meredith. And given their conversation, he suspected she might make him use the diaper instead—especially in a public restroom scenario where it might be less private.

Swallowing hard, he tugged lightly at her sleeve. “Meredith?” he whispered.

She was examining a set of ceramic bowls but turned at his soft plea. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I… I have to go,” he admitted, cheeks blazing. “Number one.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Hmm. Well, we could go to the bathroom. But then I’d have to help you remove everything.” Her tone was sympathetic yet firm. “It might be easier if you just let your diaper handle it. That’s what it’s for.”

Leon felt a knot twist in his stomach. Wet himself on purpose, in a public store? The thought horrified him. But she was right—unfastening and refastening a taped diaper in a public restroom stall seemed equally daunting.

“Let’s finish shopping,” she said in a low voice. “If it’s urgent, use your diaper. Then I’ll change you when we get home.”

Leon’s entire face felt aflame. But he couldn’t argue; she was in charge. He stayed close to her side, trying to will his bladder to remain calm. Yet within minutes, the urge intensified. Eventually, he yielded, letting go in subtle spurts, feeling warmth spread through the padding. His heart thumped—he was wetting himself in the middle of a store, next to his girlfriend. It was humiliating and strangely intimate.

By the time they checked out and returned to the car, the diaper clung heavily to his skin. Meredith noticed the slight sag, her expression shifting to one of tender concern. “You okay?” she asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, too humiliated to speak. As they climbed back into the car, he squirmed against the seat, the wet diaper pressing against him. Meredith placed a comforting hand on his thigh and squeezed. It was a reminder that she was proud of him for following the rules—odd though those rules might be.

They drove home in silence, tension coiling in his chest. Yet beneath it all, a flutter of relief swirled: he had obeyed her. He had done what she said, and there was a strange sense of accomplishment in that submission. Maybe he was just relieved to know she’d soon change him, freeing him from the clammy discomfort.

Leon stared out the window, cheeks still burning, as he braced himself for the next step: reporting his soggy diaper to Meredith like a dependent child. And, in a bittersweet twist, he realized that he no longer felt quite as anxious about it—because he trusted her.


Chapter Twelve: Adjusting and Accepting

When they arrived home, Meredith wasted no time ushering Leon to the bedroom. He felt her warm hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, guiding him inside. The memory of his wet diaper burned in his mind, a tangible reminder of how little control he was supposed to have.

“Let’s get you changed,” she said, her voice low and calm, almost comforting.

Leon perched on the edge of the bed, arms folded uncertainly. Meredith stepped into the closet, retrieving a pack of wipes and another diaper from the growing stash. The plastic packaging crinkled loudly as she pulled one out.

He lifted his hips obediently, allowing her to peel down his shorts. A wave of cool air brushed his thighs, intensifying the humiliating awareness of the heavy, sagging diaper around his waist. Her expression remained calm—patient, even—like a caretaker simply doing what had to be done.

“You did well,” she murmured as she undid the tapes. “I know it must have been scary.”

Leon swallowed, cheeks reddening. “It was,” he admitted softly. “I… I don’t like doing that in public. But… if it’s what you want—”

She set the soaked diaper aside, using a gentle wipe to clean him. “It’s not about what I want,” she corrected him, though her tone hinted otherwise. “It’s about what works for us. You’re prone to accidents. I don’t want you stressed or embarrassed about sneaking off to the bathroom. A diaper solves that.”

He nodded, though a twinge of confusion fluttered in his stomach. Part of him wondered if he was truly that helpless, or if her controlling nature had simply convinced him so. Yet her nurturing presence soothed away his doubts. Feeling the soft, fresh diaper taped securely around his waist brought a wave of both shame and relief.

Once she finished, she handed him a pair of comfortable sweatpants. “Wear these for the rest of the day,” she said, then paused, meeting his gaze. “Leon, if you need to use the bathroom and I’m around, I’ll help you remove everything. But if you’re alone, you should use your diaper, okay? No more accidents on the floor or in your underwear.”

A small nod was all he could manage. “Yes, Meredith.”

Her eyes seemed to soften. She leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. “You’re doing great. I’m proud of how cooperative you’ve been.”

That simple praise flooded him with an inexplicable warmth. He realized how deeply he craved her approval. Every small gesture of reassurance seemed to justify the surrender he felt, the childlike acceptance of her rules. It was disorienting, yet undeniably comforting.

The rest of the evening fell into a gentle rhythm. She guided him through a few household tasks—organizing drawers, vacuuming the living room—activities that he performed in his thick, padded undergarment, constantly aware of the faint crinkle with each step. Yet by nightfall, he realized he wasn’t quite as self-conscious as before. He could move freely, even forgetting at times that a diaper was taped around his waist.

And so, as bedtime approached, Meredith once again led him through the ritual: a final bathroom check under her supervision, then a fresh night diaper, followed by a whimsical footed sleeper zipped and locked at the back. She tucked him in, pressed a goodnight kiss to his forehead, and switched off the lamp.

In the darkness, Leon sighed. This new sense of routine—of wearing diapers day and night—didn’t feel quite as alien as it once had. He wondered if that was a good thing, or if it simply meant he was losing pieces of his adulthood. But his mind didn’t dwell on it long. Exhaustion took him, and he drifted off, lulled by the gentle rustle of his padded underwear and the knowledge that Meredith was proud of him.


Chapter Thirteen: Testing Boundaries

The days rolled by in a blur of routine: breakfast together, a diaper check, dressing in youthful clothes Meredith chose, occasional errands if she needed something, and always the unwavering rule of requesting permission—or using his diaper—whenever nature called. Leon found himself settling into the pattern with surprising ease.

But with familiarity came curiosity—and a streak of rebellion. One afternoon, Meredith stepped out to pick up a package from the building’s reception desk. She instructed Leon to remain in the apartment, as usual. Sinking onto the living room couch, Leon felt the snug pull of his diaper around his hips, reminding him of his constant lack of autonomy.

A stray thought nudged at him. What if he tried removing the diaper himself, just to see if he could? Perhaps he’d use the toilet without waiting for her. He was an adult—eighteen, yes, and short, but perfectly capable of managing the simplest bodily functions without a caretaker’s guidance. Right?

The idea bloomed into a daring impulse. Meredith wouldn’t be gone long. If he acted quickly, he could strip off the diaper, use the bathroom, and tape it back in place—she might never know, unless she checked the tapes closely. His heart pounded. Could he pull it off?

With trembling hands, he stood and slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door. He stared at himself in the dresser mirror—his small frame swaddled in a childlike T-shirt and an unmistakable diaper bulge. Taking a shaky breath, he peeled down his sweatpants to reveal the tapes. He’d never removed them on his own; Meredith always did it for him.

Nervous excitement thrummed in his veins. Slowly, he reached for one of the tapes, pulling it free with a soft ripping sound. He paused, listening for footsteps or voices in the hallway. Silence. Emboldened, he undid the second tape. A moment later, the diaper slid to the floor with a dull thud. For the first time in days, he felt the cool air against his bare skin.

But just as he turned to head for the bathroom, he heard the distinctive jingle of keys at the front door. Panic shot through him. He scrambled, trying to lift the diaper back into place, fumbling with the tapes. His hands shook so badly that he couldn’t align them properly.

“Leon?” Meredith’s voice, suddenly closer than he expected.

He froze, a terrible realization sinking in: she had the keys, and the apartment door was already open. He pictured her stepping inside, noticing the bedroom door closed. Any second now, she’d be here.

His eyes darted around for a place to hide. His heart hammered. The diaper was half-secured, one tape crooked, the other barely stuck to the front panel. Before he could fully fix it, the bedroom door opened.

Meredith stood in the threshold, eyebrows arched. Her gaze swept over him—pants around his ankles, the diaper precariously attached, guilt shining in his eyes. He swallowed, feeling a wave of mortification so intense it made him dizzy.

She took a measured step forward, an unreadable expression on her face. “Care to explain?” she asked softly, though her tone carried the weight of disappointment.

Leon’s eyes stung with imminent tears. “I—I just…” His voice wavered. “I wanted to use the toilet. By myself.”

Silence stretched. Then she shut the door behind her, crossing her arms. The tension in the room was palpable.

“You know the rules,” she said quietly. “If you need the toilet and I’m not here, you use your diaper or wait.”

He bit his lip, tears blurring his vision. “I—I’m sorry. I just… I wanted to prove I could do it on my own.”

Meredith’s gaze softened slightly, though her posture remained firm. “Get on the bed,” she said, nodding toward the mattress. “Lie down.”

He obeyed, shuffling awkwardly and sinking onto the comforter. She followed, kneeling beside him, methodically reattaching the diaper’s tapes. Though her movements were gentle, a current of disappointment tinged the air.

“I’m not punishing you because you need help,” she explained, voice subdued. “I’m upset because you broke trust. You tried to remove the diaper behind my back instead of talking to me.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just feel so… helpless sometimes.”

Meredith’s expression softened further. She cupped his cheek, brushing a tear away with her thumb. “I know it can be hard. But we made an agreement. I need you to respect it.”

He nodded miserably. “I will… I promise.”

She helped him stand, pulling his sweatpants up over the re-secured diaper. Then, with surprising tenderness, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing him against her tall frame. “You’ll be wearing thicker diapers for a while,” she murmured. “And I’ll check them more often. I have to be sure I can trust you.”

Leon’s chest clenched. The idea of bigger, more conspicuous padding made his stomach sink. Yet he deserved it, he supposed, for breaking the rules. “I understand,” he said hoarsely, arms sliding around her waist.

She held him quietly for a moment, letting the tension ebb. He felt her lips graze his temple, a soft, reassuring gesture. The conflict between frustration and comfort roiled inside him. Part of him wanted more independence; part of him felt relief that she refused to let him fend for himself.

Without further discussion, she led him back to the living room, returning to their daily routine. But now a new tension lingered—an unspoken reminder that she was always in control, and that if he tried to break free, the rules would only tighten.

And for reasons that baffled him, a small, conflicted part of Leon found a flicker of solace in that unwavering authority.


Chapter Fourteen: Closer Under Stricter Rules

The weeks following Leon’s failed act of independence were marked by intensified control. Meredith insisted on thicker diapers, even during short outings. His schedule became more rigid. Now, each morning after breakfast, she’d conduct a “diaper check” to ensure he was properly padded and that he hadn’t tampered with the tapes. Whenever she left him alone, she’d set timeframes for when he could text or call. Sometimes she’d even leave the bedroom door open so she could keep an eye on him from other parts of the apartment.

At first, Leon felt smothered—his guilt over lying to her was matched only by the frustration of feeling like a child. Yet something unexpected blossomed in the midst of these stricter measures: an undeniable closeness. Each small act of nurturing drew them nearer in an odd, secret way. When Meredith changed him out of a soggy diaper with gentle reassurance, he felt loved. When she praised him for complying with his schedule, he felt proud. Their bond, once overshadowed by fear and embarrassment, grew into a new kind of intimacy.

It happened late one evening, as she was zipping him into a fresh footed sleeper. He lay on the bed, arms folded, face flushed, while she carefully aligned the zipper. Once it was done, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—a kiss that, for the first time, felt more than protective. There was a hint of passion, an adult warmth. Leon’s heart fluttered.

She pulled away slowly. “I love taking care of you,” she whispered, her voice low and husky in the dim bedroom light. “Even if you test my patience sometimes.”

Leon swallowed, eyes shining. “I love you,” he breathed, the admission trembling with vulnerability. “I—I really do.”

She brushed a hand over his cheek, hooking a finger around the sleeper’s collar to ensure it was snug. “I know,” she replied, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “That’s why this works—because we trust each other, don’t we?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry about before… trying to remove the diaper on my own. I won’t do it again.”

Meredith’s smile softened. “I believe you,” she said, then locked the tiny clasp at the nape of his neck. The soft clink of metal felt final. “Now, get some rest.”

With that, she flicked off the overhead light, leaving only a bedside lamp. He burrowed under the covers while she settled beside him for a moment, stroking his hair as though soothing a restless child. The gentle caress lulled him into a half-doze, each breath in tandem with the quiet hiss of air conditioning.

He felt a surge of affection so strong it was almost painful. Yes, her rules could be stifling. Yes, he sometimes hated feeling dependent. But she was also his haven—his protector, who willingly took on this responsibility to keep him safe and stress-free. In that sense, the diapers, the childish clothes, and the locked sleepers were all expressions of her unwavering commitment.

Eventually, she stood to leave, switching off the lamp entirely. “Goodnight, little one,” she whispered, her voice floating through the darkness.

Leon closed his eyes, sinking into the pillow with a soft rustle of crinkling plastic. “Goodnight,” he managed, comforted by her presence even as she slipped away. And as he drifted into sleep, he wondered if this deepening closeness was worth the cost of his dwindling autonomy.


Chapter Fifteen: The Unshakable Bond

Morning light found Leon stirring early, roused by a nagging pressure in his bladder. He blinked sleep from his eyes, momentarily forgetting the confines of his locked footed sleeper. As he attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed, the thick padding between them reminded him precisely of his predicament. For a fleeting second, panic seized him—he needed to go, and there was no easy way out.

But then memory returned in a warm rush: Meredith. She would help him. He just had to call out.

“Meredith?” he croaked softly, clearing his throat. “Meredith!”

A moment later, the bedroom door opened, revealing her tall silhouette, hair in a loose ponytail. She flicked on the lamp, letting a soft glow illuminate her concerned face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Leon swallowed, cheeks warming. “I—uh, need the bathroom. Please.”

Her gaze flickered to the locked collar of his sleeper, then down to his diaper. “Let’s see…” she murmured. She retrieved the key from the dresser and came closer. “We’ll get you out. Hold on.”

He exhaled shakily as she unlocked the small metal clasp, unzipped him, and peeled open the footed pajamas. The crisp air prickled his skin. Within seconds, he was free—except for the diaper taped tightly around him.

“Stand up,” she directed, guiding him gently. He pressed his thighs together, bladder now pleading for release. She plucked at the diaper’s tapes, revealing his bare hips. “All set,” she announced.

Without waiting another second, Leon darted to the bathroom. This time, there was no condescending observation or requirement to text for permission—she was right there, consenting to let him go. Relief washed over him, both physically and emotionally.

When he finished, Meredith stood by the sink, watching calmly. Wordlessly, she handed him a fresh diaper, indicating he should rejoin her in the bedroom. Leon obeyed, though he felt a flicker of pride. She was letting him do part of it himself—at least carrying the diaper.

Back in the bedroom, he lay on the bed, anticipating her usual routine of taping him up. But she surprised him by placing the diaper in his hands. “Try,” she said softly.

His eyes widened. “You… you want me to do it?”

She nodded, an encouraging smile on her lips. “Yes. Go on, show me.”

Nervous but determined, Leon unfolded the diaper. He positioned it under himself, fumbling with the tapes. Twice, the adhesive caught on the wrong spot, creating crooked wings. Meredith watched patiently, offering occasional suggestions: “Bring it up a bit higher in front,” or “Tighten the left tape.”

After some clumsy effort, he managed a passable fit. It felt snug—but not quite as neat as when she did it. Still, a wave of satisfaction rippled through him. The partial freedom of dressing himself was exhilarating, even if the result was still a diaper.

Meredith patted the front. “Good job,” she praised. “Now, it’s not perfect, but it’ll hold for a while.”

He beamed, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The subtle acknowledgment that he could do something as basic as tape on his own diaper, under her supervision, felt like an important step. It was a small slice of autonomy within the realm of her control.

“We’ll see how you manage,” she continued, smoothing down his hair. “If you do well, maybe I’ll let you take more responsibility for your changes—under my guidance, of course.”

Leon nodded, heart fluttering. “Thank you,” he whispered earnestly.

In that moment, a new understanding passed between them. Their bond was unshakable now, grounded not just in her dominance but in a shared willingness to adapt. She’d grown stricter after he broke her trust, but she also recognized his desire for a smidge of independence. They didn’t need to be locked in an endless cycle of parent and child. They were lovers, partners—albeit in a very unconventional arrangement.

And so, as Meredith helped him into a pair of soft lounge pants, the corners of her mouth turned up in a gentle smile. “Let’s go have breakfast,” she said, lacing her fingers through his and giving him a tender squeeze.

Leon squeezed back, feeling the padded bulk beneath his pants but no longer drowning in shame. Yes, it was still embarrassing, and he still had rules and limitations, but he was beginning to realize that, at the core of it all, they truly cared for each other. Their relationship wasn’t defined by his size or her control, but by the intimacy and trust they cultivated day by day.

He followed her out to the kitchen, diaper rustling in time with his step. Love blossomed in his chest, soft and certain. They were forging a balance—one where she guided him with structure, and he offered devotion and openness in return.

For the first time since this odd journey began, Leon felt confident that despite the diapers, the childish clothes, and the potty rules, he and Meredith were heading toward something healthy and lasting: a bond that neither of them ever wanted to break.


Epilogue

A few months later, their small apartment felt more like a sanctuary than ever. The bedroom closet now housed a full set of neatly stacked diapers and childish outfits. A special drawer even contained footed sleepers with various colors and prints. Leon sometimes giggled at just how large their “babyish” collection had grown—and how routine it had become to wear them.

But if anyone asked how they lived, they would never fully understand the tapestry of love and control woven into their day-to-day. Leon was still small for his age, and Meredith still stood a majestic six foot one—always a striking figure next to him. Yet their dynamic had evolved into a fluid dance between caretaker and lover, discipline and compassion.

Most mornings, Leon took pride in taping on his own diaper under Meredith’s watchful eye, a sign of trust regained after his earlier missteps. He appreciated that small allowance of autonomy, even if the end result—padded underwear—remained the same. They had found a middle ground: Leon could participate in the process while still relying on Meredith’s guidance and final approval.

Their schedules remained structured: breakfast together, chores or errands, and occasional nights out when Meredith felt he could handle a discrete pull-up beneath carefully chosen clothes. She insisted on the same strict potty rules—permission required, or else using his diaper. Yet she was more flexible in granting him access to the toilet if he asked politely and the timing worked. She even allowed him the small triumph of undressing himself sometimes, though major clothing changes—especially diaper changes—were still primarily her domain.

And Leon discovered that, in this near-constant state of managed dependency, he found security. The embarrassment never fully disappeared—he still blushed whenever she patted his diaper to check for wetness in front of a mirror, or when she zipped him into a footed sleeper hours before bedtime. But he’d come to enjoy the closeness, the protective embrace of her authority.

Their love life thrived, too, in its own secret way. While the story behind their padded routines and potty rules was not something they shared with others, it forged a profound trust between them. She cradled him with a mix of parental warmth and adult desire, bridging the gap between caretaker and partner. He, in turn, found joy in pleasing her—accepting her rules, even appreciating them, for what they gave him in return.

On a crisp, clear morning, they stood together in the living room, the sun casting bright rectangles across the floor. Meredith had just finished checking his diaper—still dry—and was reminding him of his chores for the day. Leon stared up at her, feeling every inch the smaller man, yet entirely content.

“Remember,” she was saying in that measured tone, “if you need the potty, you call me or text me. If I don’t answer, you use the diaper. No accidents on the floor.”

“Yes, Meredith,” Leon responded readily. Then, unable to help himself, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his cheek against her torso. “Thank you,” he whispered, though he wasn’t quite sure for what—perhaps for everything.

She laughed softly, brushing a hand over his hair. “You’re welcome, little one. Now off you go.”

And so their life continued—a carefully balanced blend of loving dominance and welcomed submission, of soft crinkles and locked sleepers, of structure and devotion. In the end, their bond had become unbreakable: the tall, commanding woman and her tiny, adoring boyfriend, joined in a private world of mutual care and trust.

Though it defied outside understanding, for them, it was perfect. And in the comfort of that shared knowledge, they closed the door to the rest of the world, content to exist precisely as they were—together.


 

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On 1/1/2025 at 10:21 PM, parkintochter said:

Hello and happy new year to all. I was playing a bit with ChatGPT and let it write a story for me. It is completely written by the AI, with just a not so long prompt. But it got kind of big.
I thought some people might enjoy the story. It has minor AI related inconsistencies, but I think it's still a good read. So just have fun!


Edit: I let it write a kind of similar story, but still kind of different plot. I really don't know if anyone even cares for that stories, but I wanted another, so if anyone wants to read it, it's here. Since I don't want to take away the audience from real writers with real talents, I just added the second story here and didn't create a new topic.


 


My new bossy girlfriend



Chapter One:

I still remember the moment I stepped into the airport that morning, bag slung over my shoulder, heart hammering in my chest. My name is William, and although I turned nineteen just a few months back, a high school diploma freshly minted in my hand, I had never felt so childlike or nervous in my life. It wasn’t about the flight. It wasn’t about the feeling of leaving my family behind. It was about her—Veronica. She was waiting for me three hours of flight time away, in a place I had never visited before.

I met Veronica online six months ago in a chat room. At first, our conversations were innocent enough, just random jokes and daily life updates. But slowly, it became clear that Veronica had a certain authority about her, a way of using words that pulled me in and made me want to impress her. We started doing video calls eventually, though oddly enough, she never quite showed me a full view of herself. I knew she was older, and I knew she was probably taller than me, but she never detailed just how tall. For me, it hadn’t seemed that important. All I knew was that she was beautiful, with raven-black hair she’d sometimes show me glimpses of, sweeping over her shoulders. In some of our chats, she hinted that she liked to be in charge, that she could be bossy, maybe a bit controlling. She teased me and called me her “baby.” Strangely, I found it endearing. Maybe some part of me longed for that sense of structure and for someone to take over the decisions in my life. I was done with high school, didn’t really know what I wanted to do next, and had no job lined up. When she offered me a place to stay, rent-free, it felt like a golden ticket, or at least an interesting adventure.

Veronica made it pretty clear: if I was going to move in with her, I wouldn’t pay rent, and I wouldn’t even have to work. “You’ll do some chores and stuff,” she had said. “Nothing too strenuous. I just want you to be my good boy, and I’ll take care of you.” I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by ‘take care of you,’ but it sounded sweet. More than anything, it felt like she was giving me a safe, comfortable cushion to land on during this uncertain time. I was flattered that a gorgeous, successful 35-year-old woman would want me to be her live-in partner—or maybe something more. There was a part of me that recognized she was more than just a little bossy. Something in her tone suggested I might be giving up more freedom than I was used to, but for some reason, I found that thrilling.

But all that romantic, glowing feeling hit a tiny roadblock the day of my flight. I was standing in my bedroom at home, half-packed, when my phone buzzed. Veronica had sent me a text:

Rule #1 for your plane ride: NO potty breaks on the flight.
Show me you’re my good boy.”

I stared at the phone, reading it at least three times. For a nineteen-year-old, maybe that instruction shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I’m not especially tall—okay, I’m short, at four-foot-eight—but I’ve always considered myself an adult. Having someone give me a rule about ‘no potty breaks’… it was jarring. My immediate reaction was to push back, but she insisted. “If you’re serious about coming to live with me, you’ll show me you can follow my instructions,” she said over the phone. And in that moment, I just… agreed. I’m not even sure why, maybe because I was excited to see her, to make her proud, to show her I could be her “good boy.”

So, I left the house that morning without any plan to use the airplane lavatory, as bizarre as that sounded. And now, stepping into the airport, I felt it—a faint need to pee that I’d been ignoring since I’d left my house. “It’s just a three-hour flight,” I told myself. “I can hold it.” Even though three hours of sitting cramped in a plane seat might be uncomfortable, I was determined to follow her first command to the letter.

Waiting at the Gate

I made it through the usual luggage check and TSA lines more quickly than expected, and I found myself with about half an hour to kill before boarding. My foot tapped anxiously on the floor as I looked at a nearby restroom sign. My mind played over Veronica’s words: “No potty breaks on the plane.” She hadn’t said anything about before the plane. But she’d also said it in a way that strongly implied she meant “no potty breaks at all from the time you leave your house to the time you meet me.” I debated whether I was just reading too much into it. Then again, I was worried if I texted her to ask for permission, she might find that disobedient or that I was second-guessing her. So, I stayed put, ignoring my mild discomfort and the fluttery anxiety in my stomach.

When the announcement came for boarding, I got in line with a sense of dread and excitement. I was actually flying to meet someone I’d never met face to face. The line shuffled forward slowly. My right leg jiggled a little, responding to that building pressure in my bladder. Every so often, I glanced at the restroom sign, but I repeated in my head, “I’ll do what Veronica told me. I want her to be proud of me.”

On the Plane

I found my seat by the window, stowed my carry-on overhead, and tried to relax. The plane was fairly full, and I was stuck next to a middle-aged man who was either sleeping or ignoring me. It was a relief in a way—nobody was paying attention to how restless I was becoming. The flight took off on time, the rumble of the engines vibrating through my entire body.

Within an hour, the seatbelt sign dinged off, and I found myself crossing my legs tightly. My bladder’s discomfort was getting worse. Not excruciating, but definitely persistent. My eyes flicked to the aisle a couple of times. The restrooms were right there. Yet, I couldn’t help imagining how Veronica would react if I showed up at the airport, admitting I broke her rule. Would she be mad? Disappointed? The thought of letting her down made me feel guilty, so I stayed put.

Another hour passed. It was becoming more difficult. I found myself fidgeting, trying to distract myself with the in-flight magazine. The seatbelt sign came on unexpectedly due to a bit of turbulence, and that only locked me in place. It was during that turbulence that my mind began racing: “What if I can’t hold it?” I had never had an accident as an adult, and the idea of that happening on a plane was horrifying. But I squeezed my thighs together, forcing myself to endure, because of that promise I’d made.

Finally, the captain announced the initial descent. Relief coursed through me. “Just half an hour or so,” I told myself, “and then I can see Veronica. I can use the bathroom.” I still couldn’t fathom she might refuse to let me go as soon as I landed. It would have been cruel, right?

Arrival and First In-Person Meeting

When we landed, I scrambled off the plane as quickly as possible, weaving my way through the crowd. My heart raced with excitement, overshadowed only by my urgent need to use the restroom. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I kept scanning for any sign of Veronica. Would I even recognize her? She’d said she’d wait for me in a specific spot near the exit doors.

Then, I spotted her. I knew right away it was her—the raven-black hair was exactly as I remembered, even more striking in person. She wore a slim-fitting pair of jeans and a blouse that hugged her tall, lean figure. And wow, she was tall. She stood out in the crowd, easily towering over the majority of people there. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but her presence radiated confidence. I’m four-foot-eight, so I had anticipated she’d be bigger, but seeing her at six-foot-three was… humbling. Almost a foot and a half difference. I suddenly felt small, more so than usual.

When her eyes met mine, a brilliant smile spread across her lips. She waved me over. In that moment, the nerves inside me soared, and despite the anxious twinge in my bladder, I forgot everything else. I almost ran into her arms. We hugged, a slightly awkward hug because of our height difference, but it still felt comforting. She smelled faintly of vanilla perfume, sweet and inviting.

“William,” she said with a satisfied look, “it’s so good to finally meet you in person.”

She placed a hand on my back, guiding me out of the path of other travelers. I blushed, noticing she was basically ushering me around like someone who needed supervision. But there was something warm and safe about it.

We exchanged a bit of small talk, my words tumbling out in a flurry of excitement. Meanwhile, every second that passed reminded me that I desperately had to pee. Finally, the chance arose for me to mention it: I squirmed slightly, unable to hide my discomfort.

She tilted her head, her expression turning gently curious. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, voice low enough that passersby probably couldn’t hear. “Do you need to use the potty?”

I felt my cheeks heat up. It was embarrassing how she asked it, as if I were a little kid. But I also felt an odd sense of gratitude that she was acknowledging it. “Yeah,” I admitted, my voice quiet. “I really need to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you do what I told you on the plane?”

“Y-Yes,” I stammered. “I didn’t go at all.”

Her face lit up. “Good boy.” She cooed those words in the same teasing tone she had used in our chat sessions. “That makes me really happy. I’m proud of you for following my instructions.”

It caught me off guard how satisfying it felt to be praised by her. “Thank you,” I mumbled, a tiny smile sneaking onto my face. But relief still felt far away. “So can I go now?” I asked, glancing around for the nearest bathroom sign.

Veronica pursed her lips, considering. “Hmm,” she said. “We’re only about twenty minutes from my place if we drive. It’d be easier to get you settled at home. I’d like your first potty time in your new home to be special.”

I blinked, confused for a moment. Twenty minutes didn’t sound too bad, but I already felt the push in my bladder. “Are… are you sure?” I asked, my voice trembling with doubt. “I really have to—”

She cut me off with a sudden firm tone. “I said no, William. You can wait.” Then, her face softened slightly. “But I’ll make a compromise,” she added before I could protest more. “Let’s go into the ladies’ room for just a moment.”

I stared at her, baffled. The ladies’ room? She was already leading me by the wrist toward the hallway where the restrooms were located. My heart pounded. People were milling in and out. The sign for the men’s room was right there, but Veronica ignored it, guiding me straight to the women’s. I stuttered a protest, but she just whispered, “Shhh. Trust me. You’ll like this better.”

I followed her in, my head spinning. The restroom was relatively empty at that moment—only one or two stalls in use. Veronica found a large handicap-accessible stall at the end and slipped inside with me. Locking the door, she turned to me, arms crossed.

“Are you going to let me go?” I asked hesitantly, the desire to find a toilet nearly overwhelming.

She shook her head, an almost mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “No, baby,” she said in a soothing voice. “But I’m not heartless. I’m going to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself if you can’t hold it.”

My heart hammered. “What do you mean?”

She reached into her handbag—a large, stylish bag made of black leather—and rummaged around. My eyes widened as she pulled out something I recognized instantly: a folded disposable diaper, a large kid’s brand with colorful prints. My face went hot.

“Veronica!” I hissed, shock and fear swirling in my stomach. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” she murmured, “relax, baby. Just for the ride. If you can hold it until we get home, that’s great. If not, this will keep your clothes dry. I know you’ve had a long flight. I don’t want you to ruin my car seats if you have an accident.”

My mind was a frenzy of emotions. I wanted to protest, but fear gripped me—fear of disappointing her, fear of losing this new life she’d offered, and fear of actually wetting my pants in her car. Something about her calm, confident manner made me freeze. I swallowed hard.

“It’s just… I don’t… This wasn’t part of the plan,” I muttered, trembling.

Her eyes softened. “Trust me. I’ll take good care of you. Now, pants down.”

A wave of humiliation hit me. She didn’t even give me time to decide if I was truly okay with this. Her fingers curled under the waistband of my pants, tugging them down to my thighs. My breath caught in my throat as I stood there, pinned by her gaze, my underwear now exposed. And, with zero hesitation, she took out a small pair of scissors from her bag.

I panicked. “Wait—what are you—?”

She slipped the scissors up, snipped the elastic of my underwear at one side, then repeated on the other side. The material parted, leaving me exposed. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but she kept a calming hand on my hip.

“Shh,” she soothed. “I’m just making this quick and easy. I don’t want you to take off your shoes and pants completely. This way we can do it faster, and no one will see us from under the stall door.”

All I could do was stare, breathless, as she pulled the ruined underwear away. I felt absolutely vulnerable. My legs shook as she guided the folded diaper between them, tugging the back up snugly, then the front. Her practiced, efficient movements told me this wasn’t her first time putting someone in a diaper. The tapes stretched and adhered with a quiet but unmistakable sound. Once secure, she patted the front of it softly.

I looked down at myself: a bright, cartoon-printed Pampers Size 8, hugging me in a way that made me realize, humiliatingly, it fit almost perfectly. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I felt the thick bulk pushing my thighs apart slightly. Before I could say a word, Veronica pulled my pants back up over the diaper. It wasn’t super obvious, but if I lifted my arms overhead, the waistband would peek out from my pants. I could already tell the bulge was a bit noticeable. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

“All done,” she announced, folding my cut-up underwear into a plastic bag and tucking it away in her purse. She brushed her hands together, a satisfied smile on her lips. “There we go. Now if you absolutely can’t hold it, no harm done. But I still want you to try, okay?”

I nodded slowly, still overwhelmed. I was too mortified to even protest. The sensation of the padded diaper pressed against me was impossible to ignore. It was a bizarre combination of comforting and deeply humiliating.

The Drive to Her Place

Moments later, we stepped out of the stall. I was red-faced, terrified someone would notice, but the restroom was quiet, and nobody paid us any attention. Veronica led me out into the airport corridors. She had a confident stride, while I hunched slightly, tugging my shirt down to cover the top of my pants.

When we got to her car—a sleek, black SUV—my surprise only grew. She opened the back door. Instead of a regular seat, there was a booster seat waiting. A legit booster seat, sized probably for older children. My cheeks burned.

“Hop in,” she said, giving me a knowing smile. “Yes, I know it’s a booster seat. But you’re a little guy, and I want you at a safe height for the seatbelt. Plus,” she added with a wink, “I think it suits you.”

Swallowing my pride, I climbed in. The thick diaper made the whole thing feel even more surreal. Veronica buckled me in carefully, then shut the door. By the time she got in the driver’s seat, my heart was pounding so loud, I could hardly think.

“Relax, sweetheart,” she said, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “We’ll be home soon. If you have to go, just let it happen, okay?”

I didn’t even know how to respond. Instead, I stayed quiet, my fingers fidgeting with the seatbelt strap. The pressing need to pee was still there, but stronger now. The busy roads around the airport meant slow traffic. I tried to distract myself by looking out the window, but each minute made me squirm more in my seat.

“You doing okay back there?” Veronica asked in a gentle voice, after a few minutes of silence.

I nodded jerkily, though my stomach was in knots. “I… I can wait,” I whispered, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced myself to hold it. Part of me kept thinking: “If I wet this diaper, I’ll cross a line I can’t uncross.” And yet, Veronica seemed so calm, so unworried about the possibility.

We chatted a bit as we drove. She asked about my flight, how I’d slept last night, whether I was excited. We skirted around the diaper situation for a few minutes, which was almost a relief. Yet the conversation felt surreal, me responding with short, tense answers. She occasionally looked back, her eyes glimmering with amusement as I fought my internal battle.

Eventually, we pulled into a gated community and followed a winding path to a large house at the end of a cul-de-sac. It looked modern and well-kept, a two-story place with a neat lawn and a spacious driveway. I felt a wave of anticipation. This was to be my new home… at least for a while.

Veronica parked the car. “We’re here!” she announced cheerily. She got out, opened my door, and helped me unbuckle. I stood, and as soon as I straightened, I felt the diaper pressing snugly against me. She gave a playful swat to my butt as we walked to the front door—just enough to make me jump.

My body tensed. I was on the verge of losing control. Part of me wanted to dash inside to find the bathroom. Veronica rummaged in her purse, found her keys, and unlocked the door. Finally, I stepped into her home.

First Steps Inside

Inside was bright and airy, with a subtle scent of lavender. A large living room opened up to the left, with plush couches and a big TV mounted on the wall. To the right, a hallway led deeper into the house, presumably to bedrooms and other rooms. The floor was polished hardwood, shining in the midday sunlight filtering through the windows.

Veronica turned to me with a big smile, dropping her purse onto a small side table. “Welcome home, baby,” she said. “Let’s get you settled. First, we can—”

I cut her off, my voice tense. “Please, can I use the bathroom now? Please, Veronica?”

She studied me for a moment, maybe reading the desperation in my eyes. Then she nodded slowly. Relief flooded through me, but then she said, “But first, I’m taking off your pants. I want to see that diaper.”

I gulped. “But… can’t I just—?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her hands deftly undid the button and zipper on my jeans, tugging them down to my ankles. I made a small noise of protest, but I was too embarrassed and too urgent to fight. The diaper, pastel prints and all, came fully into view. She let out a quiet, “Aww,” eyeing the slight bulge in the front. Then, with an approving smile, she reached for the diaper tapes.

But she paused. The back of her hand brushed the front. “William,” she said softly. “Your diaper’s dry. That’s impressive. That means you really held it the whole ride?”

I nodded, almost shaking with the effort. “Yes,” I whispered.

She looked at me, her gaze flickering between pride and playful disappointment. “You’re such a good boy,” she whispered back. “Let me take this off so you can use the potty.”

That single sentence was all I needed to hear. My heart hammered as she carefully unfastened the tapes. The diaper peeled away from my skin. She folded it neatly, set it aside, and motioned me toward the hallway. “Bathroom is that way,” she said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder to guide me.

I scampered toward the bathroom, stepping out of my pooled jeans, leaving them behind in the living room. I hardly cared at that point. I needed relief more than anything. The bathroom was a spacious, modern-looking one, with a large mirror and a glass-enclosed shower. But my eyes immediately locked on the toilet. As I moved toward it, I realized with a sudden jolt that Veronica had followed me in.

“I’ll help you,” she said softly, as if reading my mind.

My mouth fell open. I tried to protest, but she gently guided me. “From now on, whenever you need the potty, you ask me, and I’ll help you undress. That’s one of our rules.”

Her hand was on my shoulder, firm yet comforting, an unspoken message that I shouldn’t argue. I felt my cheeks burning, but she stepped aside just enough for me to step over and sit on the toilet. The relief was immediate, the tension in my bladder finally releasing. The sound of the stream seemed to echo in the quiet bathroom, and my face burned with embarrassment. Veronica watched me with an intensity that I found both mortifying and oddly soothing.

Finally, I was done. She handed me a bit of toilet paper like I really was a small child who needed help. “There you go, baby,” she murmured. I took it reluctantly, dried off, and got up on shaky legs.

She held up my jeans. “Since you’ll be inside for a while, we’re going to get you into something more comfortable,” she said, ignoring my wide-eyed look. “No need for big boy pants just yet.”

I swallowed. “So… what do you mean?”

She motioned for me to follow her out of the bathroom. We passed the living room, walked down the hallway, and entered a bright bedroom with a large bed, an ornate dresser, and a walk-in closet. Along one wall, I noticed a small chest of drawers that looked brand new—likely for my clothes or something else she’d prepared.

There, laid out on the bed, I saw something else that made my heart race: a stack of pull-ups. Not the kind you’d buy for a two-year-old, but a brand that made bigger sizes, obviously sized to fit me. Next to them, folded neatly, were a couple pairs of childish pajamas—cartoon-themed, bright and colorful. I nearly stopped breathing. She picked up one of the pull-ups, turning to me.

“Before you freak out,” she said gently, “I just want to tell you that this is not a punishment. I know traveling can be stressful. I figured these would be less bulky than diapers, but still protective if you have a little accident.”

I was nearly speechless. I fidgeted, feeling the plush carpet under my bare feet. I had never in my life thought I’d be wearing a pull-up. “Veronica… do I really need…?”

She raised an eyebrow. “My house, my rules,” she said, a hint of her dominant side flaring. “Remember? No rent, no job, just be my good boy. And I expect you to follow the rules. That includes me dressing you, me undressing you, and me controlling your potty privileges.”

My stomach flipped at the word “privileges.” This was so real now, more than just playful chatting online. But then something in me yielded; the mix of attraction, curiosity, and maybe relief that someone was deciding things for me overcame the embarrassment. I found myself nodding slowly.

With a satisfied nod back, Veronica gestured for me to step close. She took the pull-up, knelt down, and held it open at my feet. My cheeks were on fire as I lifted one foot, then the other, into the leg holes. She slid it up around my hips. It was snug but not uncomfortably so, and far less bulky than the diaper had been. Still, the feeling of that thick, padded material was impossible to ignore.

She stood, running her hands gently around the waistband to adjust it. “There,” she said softly. “We’ll keep you in pull-ups during the day, diapers at night. If you prove you can handle it, maybe we’ll cut back on the diapers. Maybe.”

It was a lot to take in. She guided me to the dresser where she pulled out a simple T-shirt. It was plain white with some silly cartoon design on the front. “Arms up,” she instructed. I obeyed, letting her slip the shirt over my head and down my torso. It wasn’t even my shirt; it must have been something she picked out specially for me. The hem barely covered the top of my pull-up, leaving a small peek of the colorful waistband exposed when I raised my arms.

Veronica gave an approving nod. “You look perfect,” she said, beaming. I felt my cheeks flush, but there was also a strange sense of warmth that came from her attention.

House Tour

With that, Veronica took me by the hand. “Let’s do a quick tour,” she announced. “I want you to feel at home.”

She showed me each room, from the kitchen (which had granite countertops and sleek appliances) to the living room (where she pointed out exactly where I’d be sitting when we watched TV—on a cushion on the floor right beside her favorite spot on the couch). She showed me a small study she used for work, where she mentioned I wasn’t to go without her permission. Every time she explained another little rule, it became clear: this was her domain, and I was merely living in it under her supervision.

Finally, we ended up back in the bedroom she said was ours. It was large, with a king-size bed. She smirked at my astonished face. “Yes, we’ll share,” she said simply, not elaborating too much. My heart pounded at the thought.

Then she guided me to the closet. She opened the door, revealing an array of outfits: a few pairs of shortalls, overalls, footed pajamas with zippers in the back, and some T-shirts that looked like they came from the kids’ section. Mixed in were a couple of normal adult clothes, but they looked like they belonged to someone a bit bigger than me. Or perhaps she’d sized them up for me with the expectation of wearing thick diapers beneath. I felt a small shiver run down my spine as I realized just how premeditated all of this was.

She closed the closet. “So, those are your outfits, but you won’t be dressing yourself without me. That’s another rule. I pick what you wear each day.”

I nodded in mute acceptance. So many new rules. My head spun, but I also felt a strange sense of security. Maybe it was the relief of having no rent, no job, no major responsibilities. All I had to do was follow these odd, embarrassing rules and be a “good boy” for her.

By now, my mind was reeling with everything that had happened: the forced diaper in the airport, the humiliating booster seat, the entire premise of me wearing pull-ups, and the notion that I had to be undressed and dressed by her. Part of me wanted to run, but another part was enthralled by the closeness, the doting, and the gentle but firm way she steered my every move.

Settling In

Late afternoon sunlight poured through the windows. Veronica noticed me fidgeting and asked if I was hungry. I realized I was starving—I hadn’t eaten much on the plane.

“I could eat,” I admitted.

She gave a bright smile. “Great. I’ll make something. You sit at the table, and don’t you dare move until I come back.”

She bustled off to the kitchen. I ambled into the dining area, which was separated from the living room by a small divider. The dining table was large, but only one seat had a place setting. My seat, presumably. A folded napkin, utensils, and a glass of water waited.

Sitting down felt slightly awkward in the pull-up, the padding causing a faint rustling. I stared at the gleaming surface of the table, letting my mind wander. How had my life changed so drastically in just a few hours? The dominating, maternal presence of Veronica was something I’d never experienced before.

Before long, she returned with two plates—though I noticed her portion was bigger than mine, and she had a wine glass. She set a smaller plate in front of me: a simple dish of grilled chicken breast with rice and vegetables. I thanked her softly.

We ate mostly in silence. Occasionally, she’d ask me a question: Did I like the food? Was I comfortable? Should she get me something else to drink? It felt like she was simultaneously my caretaker and my captor in a sense. I still couldn’t fully wrap my mind around it. My appetite was decent, though, and I found myself enjoying the food.

At one point, she looked at me with that playful glimmer again. “What’s your pull-up status, baby? Still dry?”

I fumbled with my fork, nearly dropping it. “Yeah,” I said, feeling my face burn. I lifted my shirt enough to discreetly slip a finger under the waistband. It did feel dry.

Veronica nodded, a hint of pride coloring her expression. “Good. I’m happy you’re trying to make it to the potty.” Then she added a bit more firmly, “Just remember, you can’t go without asking me.”

I swallowed. This was going to be the new normal. “Y-Yes, Veronica,” I said.

“Mm, that’s my good boy.” She reached over and patted my head like I was a pet. Then she took a slow sip of her wine.

After dinner, she cleaned the plates quickly, telling me to remain seated. When she returned, she said, “Come on, let’s watch a bit of TV together. Then we’ll have bath time before bed.”

The phrase “bath time” echoed in my mind. Was she going to bathe me? I didn’t dare ask. I simply followed her to the living room, feeling the thick pull-up padding brush against my thighs with each step. She sat on the couch, patted the cushion on the floor in front of her. Wordlessly, I sank down, leaning against her legs.

We watched some random sitcom. It was hard to concentrate with so many swirling thoughts. Occasionally, she’d reach down, stroke my hair, or rub my shoulders, offering small physical comforts that made me feel safe and oddly content. My eyelids grew heavy; it’d been a long, emotional day.

Evening Routine Begins

The sun slipped below the horizon, and Veronica eventually switched off the TV. “Okay,” she said, voice gently assertive. “Bath time.”

She rose from the couch, motioning for me to follow. My pulse quickened. Was I really going to let her bathe me like a toddler? I reminded myself of my promise, my acceptance of her rules. In a haze, I let her guide me to the bathroom again.

She started running the water in the large tub, testing the temperature with her hand. Meanwhile, I stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do. Finally, she turned to me. “Pull-up off. Arms up,” she instructed, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I hesitated, but the look in her eyes told me not to argue. I reached for the pull-up’s sides, my fingers trembling slightly, but she gently batted my hands away. “Let me,” she said. She slipped her fingers under each tear-away seam and ripped them apart. The padded garment fell to the floor with a quiet plop.

I was left naked, vulnerable in front of her. She picked up the pull-up, frowned at it, then looked at me. “Dry,” she noted, “Good boy.” Her words made me shiver. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt proud to have pleased her.

Next, she took the T-shirt I was wearing and pulled it over my head. She folded it neatly, set it aside, and turned back to me. I resisted the urge to cover myself with my hands. My cheeks were hot, but she paid no mind—just gave me a once-over, a satisfied nod, and then gestured for me to get into the tub.

The warm water enveloped me, soothing my tense muscles. Veronica knelt by the tub, rolling up her sleeves. She poured some lavender-scented bubble bath in, swirling it around. Bubbles formed, giving me some semblance of modesty. But then her hands slipped in with a washcloth, running it gently over my shoulders and arms.

I tensed, though the sensation was gentle and, admittedly, pleasant. She hummed softly, her touches methodical yet comforting. She shampooed my hair, rinsing carefully. I closed my eyes, letting the water and her attention lull me into a strange calm. I felt simultaneously like a child being pampered and an adult in an intimate situation. The combination was dizzying.

After a thorough wash, she grabbed a big, fluffy towel and helped me out of the tub. She toweled me off meticulously. By that point, I was so sleepy and overwhelmed I just let her do it. She wrapped the towel around my waist, guided me to the bedroom.

I noticed on the bed was a footed sleeper, bright blue with some playful pattern, zipper in the back. My mouth went dry. She definitely wasn’t kidding about dressing me in juvenile clothes.

She removed the towel, leaving me naked once more. Then, to my surprise, she picked up another thick diaper—like the one she used at the airport. This time, it had a slightly different design, maybe a bigger size or a different brand, but it was still obviously a child-themed diaper. I opened my mouth to protest, but she laid a firm look on me.

“Nighttime means diapers,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I don’t want any accidents on my bed. If you need to go, I prefer you ask me, but if I’m asleep or I say no, then you’ll be in a diaper. Understood?”

My heart pounded. She was literally telling me I might not be allowed to use the toilet at night if she said no. But I couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement and fear in my chest. “Understood,” I whispered.

She had me lie down on the bed. With practiced ease, she slipped the open diaper under my hips, powdered me lightly, and pulled the front panel up snugly. The tapes sealed, encasing me in that thick, crinkly garment. I felt it push my thighs apart slightly.

Next came the sleeper. I stood up so she could guide my legs into it. The interior was soft, almost fuzzy. She slipped my arms into the sleeves, then zipped it up the back. I could hear a little click as she secured some small clasp at the top. I tried to reach around, but with the zipper in the back, I couldn’t even touch it.

“That’s so you don’t try to take it off on your own,” Veronica said, patting my back. “No undressing without my permission, remember?”

I nodded, swallowing. My reflection in the mirror was surreal: I looked like a small child, dwarfed by the tall woman beside me. She smiled and ruffled my hair.

“Bedtime soon,” she announced. “But first, let’s brush your teeth.”

It never ended, did it? She led me to the bathroom again, stood behind me as I brushed my teeth. When I finished, I turned to her, and a sudden worry formed in my mind.

“Veronica?” I asked tentatively.

“Yes, baby?”

“What if I, uh… need to go in the middle of the night?” My voice was small.

She gave me a gentle smile but also a certain firmness behind it. “Then you ask me, if I’m awake. If I’m asleep, you use your diaper. That’s part of the deal.” She brushed a fingertip across my cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything in the morning.”

I was almost speechless, but I managed to whisper, “Okay.” A weird mixture of relief, humiliation, and anticipation churned in my stomach.

She guided me back to the bed, pulling back the covers. I climbed in; the mattress felt large and soft beneath me. She sat on the edge, leaning over to tuck me in. The rustle of the diaper beneath the sleeper was inescapable. She bent down, pressed a light kiss to my forehead.

“Goodnight, baby,” she said, her voice warm and melodic. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I… I’m glad to be here too,” I murmured, closing my eyes.

And, incredibly, I meant it. Despite the bizarre, embarrassing circumstances, a strong undercurrent of safety tugged at me, pulling me deeper into this new reality. I drifted off with her gentle hand stroking my hair, my last waking thought a mix of curiosity and nervous excitement about how tomorrow would unfold.


End of Chapter one


I will publish one or two other chapters if it spits something out I like.


 

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Part 2

I woke up on my first morning in Veronica’s house feeling strangely cocooned and disoriented. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then I shifted, feeling the thick padding between my legs rustle, and everything came rushing back. The footed sleeper, the diaper, the new bed—Veronica’s bed—this was all real.

I blinked, taking in the sun-dappled room. Soft light filtered through the light-colored curtains. The space was unusually quiet; I couldn’t hear Veronica moving around. I tried to move, to sit up, but the sleeper’s snug fit made me awkward, and I felt self-conscious about the crinkling diaper beneath the fuzzy material. Finally, I managed to scoot toward the edge of the bed, pressing my feet down to the floor.

“Veronica?” I called softly, my voice a little raspy from sleep.

No response. My gaze flicked to the door, which was slightly ajar. Had she left me alone? My heart thumped—maybe she’d gone to work? But we’d only arrived yesterday afternoon, and she never mentioned a set schedule. Then I remembered how she’d said she wasn’t planning on letting me get a job. Perhaps she worked from home. I tried to recall if she’d told me her hours, but it was all fuzzy in my tired brain.

I shifted again, noticing a dull ache in my bladder. Immediately, anxiety unfurled in my stomach. Did I need to ask permission to use the bathroom now? Even if she wasn’t here, was I supposed to wait for her? My mind replayed her rules from last night: no potty breaks without her help. That had seemed surreal and sort of theoretical until this very moment.

I glanced down at the sleeper’s zipper, which was sealed at the back. There was no way I could get out of this on my own—Veronica had made sure of that. If she wasn’t around, then I quite literally could not remove my diaper to use the toilet. My stomach knotted as I realized what that meant. If she didn’t show up soon, I’d have to either hold it or—my cheeks burned—use the diaper.

“No way,” I muttered under my breath. I was nineteen; I wasn’t about to just… do that. Especially not on purpose. But the mild pressure in my bladder was a constant reminder that I might not have an option if I couldn’t find her. A wave of embarrassment hit me, more potent than I’d ever felt. Yet there was also a small, bewildering twinge of excitement at the idea that I was so dependent on her.

Cautiously, I slid off the bed and padded toward the door. Each step made the diaper crinkle, and I felt the soft footed ends of the sleeper on the hardwood. Peeking out into the hallway, I noticed it was empty, quiet. I ventured toward the living room. The house was big, and my memory of it was still incomplete.

“Veronica?” I called again.

No answer. I didn’t hear the shower running, or the low hum of conversation. Silence pressed down on me, amplifying my own anxious heartbeat. I took a few more timid steps. All the while, my bladder kept nudging me. The sense of powerlessness was… intense. I was caught between the urge to hold it as long as possible and the creeping realization that if Veronica wasn’t here, I might end up having an accident in my diaper like a toddler.

I rounded a corner into the kitchen and found a piece of paper taped to the fridge. It read:

“Good morning, baby! I had to step out for a quick errand. I’ll be back soon. Sit tight, or make yourself comfortable. Don’t try to take off your diaper. Be a good boy for me.
—Veronica.”

My heart sank and fluttered at the same time. This note confirmed she was gone, though I was relieved she hadn’t abandoned me. It also confirmed that I had no choice: the zipper in the back of my sleeper was out of reach, and she’d explicitly told me not to remove anything. I swallowed, eyes flicking from the note to the clock on the microwave. It was half-past eight. How long was “soon”?

I shuffled into the living room, feeling the subtle bulk of the diaper pressing against me with each step. My cheeks burned at the memory of how easily she’d put me into it last night—so calm, so matter-of-fact. And now I was stuck in it until she returned. I sat gingerly on the couch, sinking into the cushions. The plastic rustle of the diaper was embarrassingly loud in my own ears.

I tried to distract myself by flipping on the TV, keeping the volume low. The minutes dragged. My bladder felt heavier with each passing moment. I tried crossing my legs, shifting positions, anything to ease the discomfort. A quiet voice in my head whispered that I might not be able to hold on if she was gone for too long.

“This is so humiliating,” I thought, a swirl of frustration and bizarre excitement welling up in my chest. The hours I spent online with Veronica hadn’t prepared me for the real, tactile experience of being trapped in babyish garments and reliant on her.

Fifteen more minutes went by. I found myself wiggling in place, tapping my toes inside the footed part of the sleeper. Another wave of urgency rolled through me. I breathed slowly, trying to stay calm. I told myself she’d be back any second.

But time ticked on. No sign of her. My bladder felt like it was about to burst. I stared at the front door, silently begging it to open. The reality of my situation became crystal clear: if she didn’t arrive in the next few minutes, there was no chance I could hold it. And the sleeper—locked in place—left me no real alternative. My heart hammered as I realized I was on the verge of wetting a diaper like a toddler.

“Don’t do it,” I hissed, pressing my thighs together. But my body had other ideas. The pressure was unbearable. Another wave of desperation surged. Panicked, I tried to think of a solution. Could I tear the sleeper somehow, or find scissors? But Veronica’s note had been explicit about not removing anything. She’d be furious if I ruined the sleeper.

Despite my internal battle, the situation was unstoppable. My bladder gave a sharp jolt, and suddenly, I felt warm liquid flooding into the diaper’s padding. A gasp tore from my lips. I couldn’t help it—my body was taking over. Humiliation flared hot in my cheeks as I realized I was actually going in my diaper. The absorbent material quickly expanded around me, growing slightly heavier.

“No, no, no…” I muttered, tears stinging my eyes. It felt shameful, being nineteen and wetting myself in the living room of my girlfriend’s house. But a small part of me, one I barely wanted to acknowledge, felt a guilty relief—both physically and psychologically. The tension in my bladder vanished, replaced by the warmth seeping around my groin area.

When it was over, I slumped back into the couch, eyes burning. I kept telling myself, “It’s not your fault. She locked you in. She made the rule.” But embarrassment hollowed my stomach. I turned off the TV, no longer caring about the show. I just sat there, feeling the soggy diaper against my skin.

A few minutes later, the front door finally opened. I shot upright, heart pounding. My first instinct was to bolt from the couch, but a sense of dread weighted me down. Veronica stepped in, looking poised in a knee-length skirt and blouse. She carried a small shopping bag, setting it on a side table. When she saw me, a bright smile lit her face.

“Morning, baby,” she sang out, closing the door behind her. “You’re up already. Did you sleep well?”

I found my voice stuck in my throat. I nodded mechanically. She walked over, noticing my stiff posture, and placed a hand on my shoulder. Then, in a concerned tone, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

My cheeks flamed. I couldn’t even form the words. Her expression shifted from concerned to understanding in an instant. She gently brushed a strand of my hair aside, gazing at me kindly.

“Did you have an accident?” she asked softly.

I swallowed, nodding, tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I tried to hold it, but… you weren’t here, and…”

“Shhh,” she murmured, pulling me into a brief hug that pressed my head against her stomach. “That’s exactly why I put you in a diaper. I knew there could be times when you couldn’t hold it. It’s not your fault. Don’t cry, baby.”

Her gentle acceptance caught me off guard, and relief and shame warred inside me. A shaky breath rattled in my chest. She smoothed a hand over my hair once more.

“Let’s get you changed,” Veronica said, her tone matter-of-fact as she led me toward the bedroom.

I walked with her, the soggy diaper sagging a bit under the sleeper. The warm wetness felt deeply embarrassing, but part of me felt oddly comforted by her calmness. She didn’t scold me; she just took charge like she always did.

In the bedroom, she unzipped the back of my sleeper, peeled it off my shoulders, and helped me step out of it. I stood there in a thoroughly used diaper, the plastic sagging. Veronica untaped it without a hint of disgust. She whisked it away and wiped me down gently with a few wet wipes. The entire process was simultaneously humiliating and soothing. My cheeks burned, but I also felt oddly… cared for.

“Next time,” she said as she worked, “if you’re alone and you think you can’t hold it, don’t stress. That’s why you’re padded in the first place, baby. We’ll deal with it when I get back.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. The final wipe was cold against my skin. Then she reached over to the dresser, pulling out a fresh pull-up. My heart thudded. She slid it up my legs, snapping it gently around my waist. I exhaled, relieved that it wasn’t another thick diaper (even though the pull-up wasn’t exactly adult underwear either).

When she finished, she rested her hands on my hips. “There,” she said with a faint smile. “Now, how about some breakfast, hmm? I got us some groceries.”

“Okay,” I said softly, looking away as I tried to process everything that had just happened.

She found a simple T-shirt in the closet, a pale yellow one with a cartoonish logo on the front, and pulled it over my head. It fell just above the waistband of my pull-up, leaving no doubt as to what I was wearing beneath. I bit my lip, my cheeks still hot, but followed her to the kitchen anyway.


Morning Chores and Routine

Veronica set out a bowl of cereal for me, along with orange juice. She poured herself some coffee and nibbled on a piece of toast, standing at the counter. I sat at the small kitchen table, hyper-aware of the soft padding between my legs. Each small movement reminded me of my new reality.

The cereal tasted normal enough, but eating it in a pull-up with a big cartoon T-shirt felt surreal. Part of me was still reeling from how drastically my life had changed in less than a day. I must’ve seemed distant, because Veronica asked,

“You feeling okay? Not too homesick, are you?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m okay. Just… still getting used to all this.”

Her eyes softened. “I know it’s a big change,” she said. “But I promise I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to worry about anything except being my good boy, hmm?”

She leaned down and kissed the top of my head. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—gratitude, embarrassment, maybe a little spark of warmth. She resumed her coffee, then gave me a quick rundown of the day’s plan: I would help with a few light chores, mostly tidying up around the house. Then we might run an errand or two, and later we’d have dinner together. She didn’t mention a job, nor did she say anything about me going out alone. Clearly, she meant it when she said she wanted me under her watch.

After breakfast, she handed me a dishcloth and directed me to wipe down the kitchen counters and table while she did the dishes. It felt strange doing chores in just a pull-up and T-shirt, but I didn’t argue. The worst part was that every time I stretched up to get a spot on the counter, the waistband of my pull-up peeked out, the silly prints visible. I tried to ignore it.

When I finished, Veronica inspected my work, nodding approvingly. “Good job, baby,” she said. “Let’s do the living room next.”

She led me to the living room, asking me to dust the shelves and coffee table while she vacuumed. I got on my tiptoes, reaching the higher shelves as best I could. My short stature made it a bit tricky, but Veronica didn’t offer to help—she just watched, occasionally stepping in to guide me. A couple of times, she patted my bottom or gave me a playful tap, reminding me she was very aware of what I was wearing. I found myself flushing each time, but I also felt a small thrill. Maybe I liked the attention more than I wanted to admit.

By the time we finished tidying the living room, I noticed the mild stirrings of needing the bathroom again. My bladder felt halfway full. Anxiety prickled in the back of my mind: “I have to ask her permission, right?” And not just that—I needed to let her undress me, too, or at least pull the pull-up down. My cheeks warmed as I toyed with the dust cloth in my hands.

“Veronica,” I said quietly.

She turned off the vacuum, glancing at me. “Yes, baby?”

My face felt hot. “May I please use the potty?”

She smiled, switching the vacuum’s handle to the upright position. “Such a polite boy. Of course.” She set the vacuum aside, then beckoned me to follow her. “Come on,” she said, heading to the hallway bathroom.

Standing in front of the toilet, I felt my nerves heighten as she reached for the waistband of my pull-up. She guided it down, baring me from the waist down. Then she gestured to the toilet. “There you go, baby.” It was so matter-of-fact, and yet so humiliating. I lowered myself onto the seat, aware of her gaze on me. She didn’t step out; she stayed right there, crossing her arms lightly.

I tried to relax enough to start peeing, but her presence made me anxious. She seemed to sense my hesitation, because she murmured, “It’s okay. You can do it. Let me see you be a good boy, using the potty like a big boy.”

The patronizing encouragement made my cheeks burn, but it also somehow helped. I managed to let go, and the relief washed over me. She stood, watching the entire time, not turning away once. When I finished, she handed me a bit of toilet paper, nodding approvingly.

“Good job,” she praised as she helped me stand. She pulled the pull-up back up and gave the front a gentle pat, her palm lingering for a moment. “See? That’s not so hard, right?”

I swallowed, nodding. My entire body felt hot with embarrassment. But I also noticed a warm tingle in my chest—her praise was oddly uplifting. The swirl of conflicting emotions was getting familiar by now.


Heading Out for an Errand

Once we finished cleaning up the house, Veronica announced we needed to run a quick errand. “Nothing big,” she said. “We’re just going to grab a few more groceries I forgot earlier, and pick up something for dinner.”

I looked down at my attire—just a pull-up and a T-shirt. “Uh, am I… going like this?” I asked, dread coiling in my gut.

She laughed softly. “Of course not, baby. I’m not going to parade you around in public half-dressed. Let’s get you into something more appropriate.”

A wave of relief hit me. She led me to the bedroom and opened the closet. My eyes flicked over the row of clothes she’d set aside for me: shortalls, overalls, a couple of pairs of youthful pants, and some other clothes that looked normal enough until you realized they’d accommodate a thick diaper or pull-up. Veronica pulled out a pair of denim overalls with a cartoon patch on the chest pocket. They looked childish, but at least they’d cover me.

“Arms up,” she directed, tugging my T-shirt off. Then she carefully re-dressed me in a clean, light-blue T-shirt before helping me step into the overalls. The crotch had snaps—like children’s overalls—though I suspected they might be helpful if she wanted to change my pull-up without fully undressing me. The thought made me squirm.

She adjusted the straps, then stepped back to admire her work. “Perfect,” she said. She kneeled to smooth the denim over my hips. “Now, let’s double-check we can’t see your pull-up.”

My heart pounded. She ran a finger along the waistband area, ensuring the pull-up wasn’t peeking out. Satisfied, she stood and nodded. “Alright, into the car we go,” she announced, grabbing her purse.

The drive over to the store was surreal. I sat in the back, in the same booster seat as yesterday, strapped in while Veronica hummed along to the radio. She didn’t mention my wet accident from earlier; she just chatted casually about the weather and how nice it was to have someone else in the house.

We pulled into a medium-sized grocery store parking lot. My stomach fluttered with nerves as I wondered if people would notice how short I was next to Veronica—and how the overalls made me look younger. But she seemed entirely unconcerned, simply unbuckling me and taking my hand as we walked into the store.

Inside, the bright lights and bustling crowd made my heart race. Veronica kept a firm grip on my hand, leading me through the produce section first. She selected vegetables while I hovered by her side, too anxious to do anything else. Occasionally, she’d glance over and give me a small smile, as if to say, “You’re doing fine.”

But then, as we were passing an aisle with cereal and snacks, I felt a small twinge in my bladder again. Not urgent, but noticeable enough. I swallowed, debating whether to say something. Part of me didn’t want to broadcast my bathroom needs in a public space. Another part of me knew that if I waited too long, I might face another humiliating accident.

Finally, I mustered up the courage and tugged on her sleeve. She turned to me, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, baby?” she asked softly.

“I need to, um, go potty,” I whispered, my cheeks heating up.

She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment. “I see,” she said. “Let’s head over there, then.”

Relief washed over me as she led me down the main aisle. We soon found the store’s restrooms, set near the back. Veronica opened the door to the family restroom, ushering me inside. It was a single-occupant bathroom, which gave us privacy. She locked the door, turned to me, and helped me out of the overalls. When the top came down, she slipped her hands around my pull-up.

“Let’s see if you’re still dry,” she murmured, sliding a finger around the leg band. Heat rushed to my face. I was dry, but the casual way she checked me like a toddler was beyond embarrassing. “Good,” she said with a satisfied nod. “Pull it down. Go on.”

I obeyed, pulling the waistband down to my thighs. She stood aside, her arms folded, watching me closely as I used the toilet. Again, I felt that rush of conflicting embarrassment and comfort. She was treating me like a child, but she was also providing unwavering security and supervision.

When I finished, she handed me a tissue, waited for me to stand, then slid the pull-up back up. She snapped the overalls back into place, as if it were the most natural thing.

“That’s better,” she said, smiling, and we walked back out into the store.


Afternoon: Unpacking Groceries and Quiet Moments

After the grocery run, we returned home. I helped carry a few light bags from the car. Veronica insisted on taking anything heavier, which wasn’t difficult for her at her height and strength. Once inside, she guided me to the kitchen where we unpacked produce, meats, and a few household items. I tried to ignore the gentle rustle of my pull-up beneath the denim whenever I bent down.

At one point, Veronica held up a large pack of child-themed disposable diapers, the same brand she’d used at the airport but in a bigger size. I felt my face redden. She gave me a slight, knowing smile before tucking them away in a lower cabinet. Clearly, she intended to keep a steady supply.

When we finished, she took my hand. “Let’s sit on the couch for a bit,” she suggested. “You can rest while I do some work on my laptop.”

We settled in the living room again, me on the cushion near her feet. She placed her laptop on her lap and began typing. I tried to focus on a comic book she’d left on the coffee table, but my mind kept wandering to the new normal I was living. Every so often, she’d reach down, run her hand through my hair, or brush her fingertips across my cheek as if to check on me.

“Comfy?” she asked at one point, not taking her eyes off the screen.

I nodded, feeling a small spark of affection. “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“Of course,” she replied, glancing down at me with a gentle smile. “I like having you here. You fit right in, baby.”

“I… I hope so,” I murmured. There was a flicker of sincerity in my voice. Despite the embarrassing rules, there was a certain warmth I couldn’t deny—like I was truly being cared for.


Late Afternoon Incident

A little while later, after Veronica had finished whatever she was working on, she asked me to help with one final chore for the day: folding laundry in the bedroom. I followed her in, noticing a basket of clean clothes on the bed—her clothes, presumably, along with some of the new things she’d bought for me.

We chatted idly as we folded. I was stacking her T-shirts, which smelled of fresh detergent, while she handled more delicate items. At one point, she moved behind me, probably to grab something from the basket. She caught sight of the back of my overalls and paused.

“William,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Did you have an accident?”

My stomach twisted. “N-No!” I stammered, whirling around.

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “I see a little dark patch on the back of your overalls. Turn around.”

Confusion swirled in me; I hadn’t felt myself wet. Still, I turned obediently, my ears burning. She pressed her palm gently to my bottom, presumably checking for wetness. I felt the pressure through the denim, and I realized with growing horror that it did feel damp.

“It might just be water or something else,” I said in a shaky whisper.

She arched an eyebrow, unsnapping the side of the overalls enough to pull them down, revealing my pull-up. She touched the pull-up’s crotch, then gently pressed. I sucked in a breath, humiliation washing over me.

“It’s damp, baby,” she said, her voice laced with mild disappointment. “Are you sure you didn’t even notice?”

My cheeks burned. “I… I really didn’t notice,” I confessed, eyes dropping to the floor. My heart hammered. I didn’t remember letting go, but there it was—a small patch of wetness in the pull-up.

She sighed softly, hooking a finger into the pull-up’s waistband to check further. “It’s not completely soaked, but you definitely had a little accident.”

I felt tears prick my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling foolish. “I don’t know why…”

She gently turned me around, lifting my chin so I’d meet her gaze. “It’s okay,” she said, though her tone carried an undercurrent of firm resolve. “That’s why I keep you padded. Accidents happen.”

Without further ado, she pulled the overalls the rest of the way down and tore away the sides of the pull-up. I winced at the ripping sound, standing naked from the waist down in front of her again. She grabbed a few wet wipes from a small packet on the dresser and cleaned me up. The routine was becoming depressingly familiar.

“But it’s a reminder,” she continued in a measured voice, “that you need to be honest with me about your body. If you even think you might need the potty, you tell me. Understood?”

I nodded, cheeks blazing. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“Good boy.” She tossed the used pull-up into a small trash bin, wiping her hands. Then she rummaged in the dresser, pulling out another pull-up. This one had a slightly more vibrant design along the waistband. She knelt, guiding my feet in, pulling it up snugly. The slight pressure of the elastic settled around my hips again.

She leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, and stood. “Finish folding the laundry, sweetheart,” she instructed. “Then I’ll figure out what to make for dinner.”

I just nodded, feeling overwhelmed but oddly safe in her presence. She left the room, leaving me to gather my composure. I turned back to the laundry, exhaling shakily. As humiliating as it was to realize I’d wet myself without noticing, Veronica’s calm handling of it soothed me. Yes, her rules were strict, but there was no harsh punishment—just a gentle scolding and a reminder of her dominance.


Evening Plans

By the time the sun was starting to dip, my second day in Veronica’s house felt as though it had lasted weeks. So much had happened: I’d had a full-blown accident in the morning because I was trapped in a diaper, then a partial, sneaky accident in the afternoon. Both times, she’d changed me calmly and made me feel simultaneously ashamed and comforted.

After folding laundry, I drifted into the living room. Veronica was already there, standing by the window, speaking softly on her phone. She waved me over, letting me sit on the couch while she finished the call. I fiddled with a throw pillow, trying not to eavesdrop, but I caught fragments of her conversation—something about deliveries, schedules, possibly work-related.

When she hung up, she turned to me with a smile. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Work calls. I told them I’m busy with personal matters, but sometimes they still need me.”

I nodded politely, uncertain of how to respond. She strode over, her height towering above me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“How about we do something fun tonight?” she asked. “Order a pizza maybe, watch a movie?”

A wave of relief washed over me. That sounded… normal, almost. “That sounds great,” I said, letting a small smile tug at my lips.

“Excellent.” She paused, eyes flicking to my pull-up. “But first, let’s see if you need the potty before we settle in for the evening. Do you?”

I considered it, realizing I did feel a faint urge. “Yeah, I think so,” I admitted softly.

“Let’s go,” she said, offering me her hand.

Again, we performed the now-familiar routine: she took me to the bathroom, pulled down my pull-up, waited while I used the toilet. She praised me afterward, then pulled it back up and patted the front.

“Good boy,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m proud of you for telling me.”

My heart fluttered at her words. I felt a bit silly for enjoying her praise so much, but I couldn’t deny that it made me feel… protected, valued, and maybe even loved in her own, somewhat twisted way.


Quiet Night In

That evening, Veronica ordered a pizza—pepperoni and extra cheese, my favorite. We sat together in the living room, the big TV glowing in front of us. She let me curl up on the couch beside her this time instead of sitting on the floor. My pull-up crinkled faintly whenever I shifted, but the warmth of her body next to mine was comforting.

Halfway through the movie, she threw an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “You like it so far?” she asked, referring to the action-comedy we were watching.

I nodded, leaning into her side. “Yes,” I murmured. “I really do.” I wasn’t just talking about the movie. The closeness, the security—I found myself sinking into it.

Eventually, the credits rolled, and I realized how exhausted I was. The day had been emotionally intense from start to finish. Veronica noticed my drooping eyelids and chuckled softly.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, baby,” she said.

A weary sigh escaped me, but I didn’t resist. I recalled the nighttime routine from yesterday and felt a swirl of nervous anticipation. Another diaper, another footed sleeper, maybe. I followed her to the bathroom, letting her run a quick bath. I didn’t complain or protest as she stripped off my clothes—my T-shirt, my slightly used pull-up—and guided me into the warm water. She washed me gently, humming under her breath. The steam rose around me, lulling me into a calm haze.

When she finished, she wrapped me in a big towel and dried me off. My eyelids felt heavy, but my mind buzzed with the memory of the day’s embarrassing moments. Once in the bedroom, she laid me on the bed, opening up another thick diaper. I bit my lip, the smell of baby powder drifting up as she dusted my lower stomach and thighs. Again, she taped me in snugly, the plastic rustling.

This time, she produced a different sleeper—dark blue, with stars and moons on it, zipper running up the back. She guided my legs and arms in, then zipped me up, giving a gentle pat on the bottom.

“There,” she murmured. “All snug.”

I pressed my thighs together, feeling the thick diaper squish. It reminded me of my utter dependence on her—my inability to get out of it by myself. But after the day’s ups and downs, I was too tired to fight any of it.

She pulled back the blankets, ushering me to lie down. With a soft sigh, I nestled under the covers. Veronica tucked me in, then slid in beside me. Her presence was warm, comforting. She wrapped an arm around my smaller frame, and I found myself relaxing into her.

“We’ll see how tomorrow goes,” she said quietly, her breath tickling my hair. “You’ve been a very good boy overall. Keep it up, okay?”

I nodded, my body feeling both tense and oddly safe at the same time. “I will,” I whispered, letting my eyes close.

Somewhere in the background of my thoughts, I was aware that this was only my second night here. We had no official timeline. I had no job to return to, no rent to worry about, no bills to pay—just an endless horizon of her rules, her control, and my compliance. A flicker of anxiety mingled with anticipation. Despite the embarrassment and the strict potty regulations, something about this arrangement felt compelling, almost addictive.

I drifted off with my head on her shoulder, wondering what tomorrow would bring—and whether I’d keep learning to love it.

The End

I switched to another story, pretty similar than this one, but I have to edit a few mistakes first before I publish it.

  • Like 5
Posted
On 1/1/2025 at 3:21 PM, parkintochter said:

Despite the tension and embarrassment of Leon’s accident in Chapter Nine

First time I've ever encountered this kind of error in thousands of stories.  Shows that you need to proof read AI product. 

I read this first piece out of curiosity.   Can AI craft a story?   This one doesn't fit the mold because the characters have no back story, hence no development.  As it reads, it strikes me as the end of a story that has no beginning.  It would be interesting to see what the computer could do if you gave it a different set of directions.  You might try asking the program to create a back story for Meredith that would explain why she chose to partner with Leon.  Is she a lot older?  Has she had a string of failed relationships?

AI possesses neither imagination nor intuition, so a programmer has to make good its deficiencies.  

  • Like 1
Posted

Yeah, I should have edit it a bit. Ai does weird stuff some times.o

Not all stories have backstories for their characters. I think its okay that way. Of course it could create a back story and character development if the prompt gives it. You got to be careful with the prompt, sometimes when you want it to avoid stuff it mentions that it will avoid it in the text. 

 

I used chatpgt o1 for the stories. I think it did a good job, but of course it's no match for a good human writer

Posted

Had it a new story writing for me the last days (I probably want it to continue, but for some reasons, when you use o1 too much it gives you a cool down for about 5-6 days, so I guess I have to wait or pay for another account, I think I'm waiting). This is what I already got, I know it is kind of the same same but different story (it is basically the same prompt with a few minor changes) than that with Veronica, but I think it is better written, also it's longer
(about 40k words).

Here it is:


My new life with Violet

 

Part 1: The Airport Call

I remember the moment so clearly, it still makes my stomach quiver. My phone rang as I was waiting in front of the gate at the airport, one small carry-on bag at my feet. I recognized the caller ID instantly—Violet. Even the sight of her name on my screen had begun to fill me with that odd mixture of excitement and nervousness. After all, I was about to get on a plane to move in with her, a woman I had never met in person before, but had spent the last six months chatting with online. I was nineteen, freshly graduated from high school and uncertain about a lot of things in life—but sure enough to buy a one-way ticket to see her.

She was thirty-five, a little older than I’d initially expected when we first started talking. But I enjoyed how she handled our conversations: direct, confident, in control. That was part of her allure from the very first chat—there was something about how she gave advice, teased me, and sometimes even scolded me for silly jokes that made me… well, want to listen to her. Little had I known at the time how far that controlling streak of hers extended.

I picked up the phone, a tremor of excitement in my voice. “Hello?”

Her voice wrapped around me like a warm, silken ribbon—soothing yet firm. “William, baby,” she said. “Are you about to board?”

“Just waiting in line,” I answered. “Maybe ten more minutes until they start letting people on. Then about another ten or fifteen to actually get seated.”

She hummed, and I imagined that half-smile of hers that I had seen so many times on video calls. “You nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted, letting out a slight chuckle. “I’m excited too. I can’t believe I’m finally going to see you face to face. I—I’m still in shock that you’re actually letting me move in with you right out of high school.” It was true. Part of me was floored that everything was happening so quickly. She had insisted—practically demanded—that I come as soon as school ended, but I also couldn’t deny that I wanted to. School was over, I was free, with no job obligations. She told me I wouldn’t need one, anyway, that she’d take care of me. All I had to do was help around the house a bit, be “her good boy.”

She exhaled a short laugh, a superior and amused sound. “Yes, well, you won’t be regretting it. I’ll keep you in line, William, don’t you worry.”

A flurry of warmth and caution glowed in my chest. I swallowed. “Yes, I’m sure you will,” I said softly.

“Now, baby,” she continued, her tone shifting to something more serious. “There’s something you need to do for me before you even step on that plane, okay?”

I frowned at my phone. “Oh? Sure… what is it?”

“You’re not going to use the plane’s restroom. Understand?”

At first, I let out a small laugh, certain I’d misheard her. “Wait, what?”

Her voice was unwavering. “I’m quite serious. I want you to go to the bathroom before you board, do whatever you need to do, and then stay in your seat the entire flight. No potty breaks until you land, and I come to get you.”

I felt my cheeks heat up. I even glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “I… but… that’s a three-hour flight.”

“Precisely,” she said, calm as can be. “A very manageable time, especially if you potty right before.”

My face was burning. “Violet, that’s—are you sure? Why?”

I could hear the smirk in her voice. “Because, baby, I want to set the tone for how things are going to be. You’re going to follow my instructions, even if it’s inconvenient, or embarrassing, or whatever else. Because you promised me, you’d be a good boy for me. Right?”

My heart thumped in my chest. She was so direct, so confident. I exhaled. “Yes, I did promise.”

“Then you’ll do as I say. Go to the men’s room now, if you haven’t already, and then get on that plane. Keep your seatbelt fastened the whole time. You’re not to use that tiny, smelly airplane toilet.”

I hesitated. “I… okay. I will,” I finally conceded.

She let out a satisfied little laugh. “Good,” she said, her tone teasing. “And keep your pants dry, baby boy.”

My breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t sure what exactly she meant by that, but it sent a shiver of anticipation through me. The call ended soon after. I remembered standing there for a moment, my phone still in hand, feeling my heart quicken. That short exchange only strengthened my sense of both excitement and trepidation at what was to come. Was I really about to do this? I’d known Violet had a bossy side, but this was something else. Even so, I could feel a small thrill in my stomach. Something about that control she had… part of me wanted to resist. Another part wanted to yield completely.

I hurried into the men’s room, did what I had to do, took a moment to collect my thoughts, then found my seat on the plane without incident. The flight ahead felt both long and short—long because my nerves were wracking me about meeting Violet in person; short because each minute passing meant I was that much closer to stepping into her world.


Part 2: First Meeting

The flight itself was uneventful. Despite my nerves, and a faint pressure in my bladder about halfway through, I managed to obey her order and keep myself from using the restroom. I felt a bit silly at times, especially as the flight attendants walked by offering drinks. I waved them away, not wanting to add any more liquid to the situation. The real jolt in my gut came the moment the plane landed, and I realized I was mere minutes from seeing Violet for the first time. We’d had countless video chats, late-night calls, long text sessions, but never once had we been in the same place.

As soon as the plane emptied, I was one of the last to disembark. My legs felt slightly shaky as I walked into the airport’s arrivals area. And then, there she was.

Even if I hadn’t recognized her face from all the photos, I would have known from the sheer presence she exuded—and the height. I had known she was taller, but… I had not expected her to be that tall. Violet stood head and shoulders above nearly everyone else walking past. Her raven black hair framed her face, looking even more striking in person. She wore a fitted black top and jeans that emphasized the long lines of her legs. I barely came up to her chest.

For a moment, my breath caught. That swirling mixture of awe, intimidation, and happiness poured through me. She locked eyes on me, and her face lit with a wide smile that made her whole face glow. Within seconds, she strode over and enveloped me in a hug, her arms sliding around me so that my face was just about level with her collarbone. She smelled of a subtle floral perfume.

“William,” she said. “You’re finally here.” She pulled back to look me over, and I felt my cheeks grow warm as her gaze swept down from my messy brown hair to my short stature. “You’re even cuter in person,” she teased, lightly squeezing my arms.

I gave a shaky laugh, my eyes flicking up to meet her own. She was stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. “H-hi, Violet,” I managed, my voice soft. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Before I could say more, she kissed me on the cheek. It felt natural and easy, as if we were longtime sweethearts. My heart raced, and I felt the creeping reminder in my bladder that I needed to go soon. I was determined not to show it too obviously, but I couldn’t help shifting on my feet slightly.

She noticed. Her lips curved. “It looks like my little boy followed orders,” she said in a low voice, leaning down so only I could hear. My ears went hot. Right out in public, she was calling me that? I felt both surprised and, somehow, a pulse of excitement. “You’re squirming,” she added, a knowing tone in her voice. “Come on. Let’s head to the car. It’s about a twenty-minute drive to my house.”

I nodded, walking alongside her. “Violet… do you think maybe I could just… you know, use the restroom here real quick before—”

She shook her head with a decisive motion that left no room for argument. “No. You’ll wait until you get home.”

I blinked, a small pulse of dread tapping in my chest. I felt more than a little anxious about driving in a new city in an unfamiliar car with a bladder already protesting. “But—”

“Not another word,” she said calmly. “You’ll do fine. I’m proud of you for obeying me on the plane. Keep it up. No complaining, unless you’d prefer the alternative?”

Something about her tone gave me pause. “The… alternative?” I asked, brows knitted.

Violet said nothing, just gave me a wry smile and nodded her head, signaling me to follow. She was always a little cryptic like that, dropping hints and half-threats in a way that made me simultaneously uneasy and weirdly eager to discover what she meant.

So I followed her. She took my hand in hers, leading me across the terminal until we stopped in front of a sign that read “Women’s Restroom.”

“Violet?” I said, suddenly more confused than ever. “This is the—”

“I know what it is,” she said. “We’re going in here.”

“What? That’s not—”

She took me firmly by the wrist, enough to tell me she wouldn’t accept an argument. My heart fluttered. We stepped inside, and I was relieved to see that it was empty, though my face still burned bright red. The soft overhead lights hummed. The smell of soap and cleaning fluid lingered in the air.

We stopped in front of the first sink, and Violet set her purse on the countertop. Then, with swift efficiency, she pulled out a small pair of scissors, a folded square of pale, crinkly plastic, and a few other items that—at first glance—made my mind spin. I opened my mouth to speak, but she put a finger to my lips, silencing me.

“Shh,” she said. “It’s just for the drive home. You’ll thank me later.”

“Violet…” I started, eyes flicking toward the door in case someone else wandered in. “What is that?”

She winked, and without any further explanation, she reached for the waist of my pants. I was stunned at her boldness—this was a public space, after all, even if temporarily unoccupied. Her slender fingers deftly unbuttoned my pants, and before I could properly protest, she was tugging them partway down.

“Stop squirming,” she said in a hushed, matter-of-fact voice. “Unless you want me to take you into a stall and do it there. But honestly, I think it’s cleaner out here.”

I could feel the flush reaching my neck, but an odd, tingling excitement coursed through my body too. I bit my lip and tried to stand still. Then she slipped the scissors under the fabric of my underwear near the waistband. I realized with a jolt what she was about to do.

“W-wait!” I hissed, but a single, precise snip of the scissors cut through the elastic, rendering my underwear useless in one swift motion. “Violet!”

She looked at me with those dark, unwavering eyes. “We need to get this done quickly,” she said. “I’m not going to strip you naked in the middle of the airport if I can help it. Now hush.”

In my state of shock, I just nodded mutely. She cut the other side, and my underwear fell away, leaving me exposed. She paused for a second, likely noticing how flustered I was. Then, calmly, she reached into her purse, pulled out a large disposable diaper—yes, an actual, thick, crinkly diaper—and unfolded it. The brand name and playful designs made it look exactly like something for a toddler, except it was sized… for me. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would echo off the tiled walls.

“This… you can’t be serious!” My voice was a near whisper, but it came out as a squeak.

“Deadly serious,” she said, sliding the padding between my legs.

I obeyed and she nudged the diaper into place.. It felt both humiliating and bizarrely safe. She taped it up securely, running her fingers along the adhesive tapes. The garment hugged my waist snugly.

She tested the fit, patting the front of the padding and giving a small nod of approval. “There,” she said quietly. “It fits you perfectly, just like I thought. Don’t you worry, baby. This is just for the drive. If you have an accident, well, that’s what it’s for.”

I had so many questions swirling in my head: where did she get diapers my size? Why did she plan this from the start? Should I even be letting her do this? But standing there, my heart in my throat, I couldn’t form coherent words. She gently tugged my pants back up over the diaper, though the thick padding made the fabric bulge slightly. I felt the waistband of the diaper peek out at the back of my pants.

I watched as she picked up the shredded remains of my underwear, tossed them in the trash, and replaced the scissors in her purse. With a final glance at me, she gave a small nod. “Done. Now let’s hurry before someone comes in.”

I followed her out into the corridor in a daze. The crinkling noise of the diaper with each step made me hyper-aware of the new bulk around my waist. I was certain everyone passing by could see it, but realistically, it probably wasn’t that obvious—aside from a bit of a bulge and that top edge peeking out if I moved just right. My face stayed bright red all the same.


Part 3: The Car Ride

She led me to the parking lot, where a sleek car was waiting. My tension subsided a fraction once we were safely inside, away from prying eyes. I sank into the passenger seat, only for Violet to open the back door. I looked at her, confused.

“Not there, William,” she said gently. “Sit in the back.”

Heart pounding again, I stood up and moved to the back seat. My eyes fell on what looked like a large booster seat in the rear. It had a high back, bright color patterns, and harness straps. I stared at it in disbelief.

“You’re joking,” I said, my voice trembling. This was all happening so fast.

She gave me a firm look. “I told you that you’d be my good boy. This is part of it. The seat is to keep you safe—and I think it’s adorable. Besides,” she added with a small grin, “you might appreciate some extra cushioning for that diapered tush, hmm?”

That last remark sent prickles of heat through my whole body. But I didn’t want to argue anymore. I felt simultaneously overwhelmed and oddly compelled to follow her instructions. Part of me was outraged, thinking, I’m an adult, not a toddler! Another part was strangely comforted by how carefully she was orchestrating everything.

I climbed into the booster seat. She adjusted the harness, tightening it until I was snug. I sat there, my feet dangling a bit since the seat lifted me higher. The diaper pressed against me even more, and I squirmed. Violet shut the door, walked around, and slipped into the driver’s seat.

As we pulled out of the airport, she glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Uh…” I swallowed. “I feel… weird.”

She smiled that half-smile. “I know it’s a lot. But you’ll grow used to it.”

Gazing out the window, I tried to process it all. The new city skyline—tall buildings and busy streets—whizzed by, reminding me how far from home I was. When I shifted in my seat, the crinkling reached my ears, and I tried to press my legs together, only to feel the thick padding. My cheeks burned.

Eventually, the urgency in my bladder flared again. The flight plus the wait in the airport had done a number on me, and I was definitely approaching my limit. I squirmed, pressing my thighs together as best I could.

“Violet?” I managed to say, my voice tense. “I really need to use the bathroom. Can we stop somewhere?”

She spared me a quick glance in the mirror. “We’re almost home,” she said. “Just twenty minutes. You’ll be fine.”

I let out a weak groan. “I’m not sure I can last that long.”

She sighed softly, but not unkindly. “That’s why I put you in a diaper, sweetie. If you can’t hold it, it’s okay. That’s what it’s there for.”

My eyes went wide. “But—b-but I don’t want to wet—”

“William,” she cut me off, still sounding calm, “I’m driving. I’m not stopping. If you can’t hold it until we get home, then you’ll just have to use your diaper. End of story.”

A wave of humiliation and panic rolled over me. I tried to hold on, but every bump in the road made it worse. The city streets soon gave way to quieter roads with more trees, and I realized we really were close to whatever neighborhood she lived in. But each minute dragged.

I lasted maybe ten more minutes before I couldn’t take it. It happened all at once, a sudden wave of warmth as I lost the battle. My cheeks flared. I pressed my eyes shut, feeling the padding grow warm and damp around me. It seemed to last forever, but in reality, it was only a few seconds. By the end, I was left panting, my chest tight, tears threatening to rise in my eyes at the sheer embarrassment of the situation.

Violet’s voice broke the silence. “It happened, didn’t it?”

I nodded, barely able to look up. “Yes,” I whispered.

A quiet hum came from her. “Good boy. That’s why I put you in that diaper. You just relax. You’ll be fine.”

She didn’t taunt me, didn’t laugh at me. Oddly, her words, though they stung with the idea that she was praising me for… wetting myself, also soothed me a little. Maybe she truly had expected this.


Part 4: Arriving at Her Home

We soon turned onto a long driveway, flanked by tall, neatly trimmed hedges. My eyes widened at the sight of the house that appeared at the end—a two-story with pale-blue siding, spacious, with a small front porch. It had a well-kept front yard, too, with a smooth gravel path.

Violet parked in the garage. She stepped out, came around, and opened my door. I could barely look at her, I was so mortified. But she simply unbuckled the harness and helped me out of the booster seat. The diaper sagged between my legs a bit. Luckily, my pants still hid most of it, but it was undeniably heavy.

She took my small carry-on, then herded me inside. The interior was cozy—lots of warm colors, comfortable furniture, and large windows letting in sunlight. It smelled faintly of lavender.

“Welcome home,” Violet said, setting my bag aside. “Let me show you around.”

She showed me the living room, the kitchen (with a wide island counter, all sorts of modern appliances), and a study that looked like it could be her home office. Then we went upstairs, where she pointed to a door. “That’s my room,” she said. Next to it was another door that she opened with a flourish. “And this is yours.”

I peered inside. The walls were painted a soft gray. There was a bed, a dresser, a desk, and some shelves. It looked normal enough—except that the sheets and bedding had a bit of a childish theme: playful patterns of cartoon animals. It wasn’t super-obvious, but once I noticed, I couldn’t unsee it.

She turned to me, eyes drifting pointedly to my waist. “You’d probably like a change, hmm? Let’s get you out of that soggy diaper.”

I blushed, staring down at my shoes. “Yes, please…”

She nodded. “Let’s do it right here. Pants off.”

I froze. “You mean… in the bedroom?”

She laughed softly. “Of course. Unless you’d rather do it somewhere else?”

I could only shake my head, feeling a fresh wave of nerves. Doing it in the airport bathroom had been humiliating enough, but at least it was out of necessity. Now we were alone, and this was a more deliberate process. Slowly, my hands shaking, I unbuttoned my pants, not missing how she observed every single motion.

She held out a hand. “Let me help,” she said firmly. She knelt down and tugged my pants to my ankles, revealing the sagging, swollen diaper. A small hiss of a breath left her lips as she gave it a light pat. “Quite wet indeed,” she murmured, her expression oddly triumphant.

I didn’t know what to say. My heart hammered as she peeled back the tapes. The cold air hit me, making me shiver. She carefully pulled the wet diaper away, rolled it up, and sealed it with the tapes. I stood there, too humiliated to speak.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” she said softly, brushing her hand along my hip. “You followed orders, and that’s what matters. I’m proud of you.” There was a comfort in her voice, but also an underlying tone that reminded me she was still in charge.

Relief fluttered through me when she didn’t immediately replace the diaper. Instead, she stepped to the closet. “Now,” she continued, rummaging in a bag on a shelf, “let’s get you into something more suitable for the rest of the day.”

She produced a folded pull-up. My eyes widened at the sight. It was the same brand design, but thinner than the diaper—still childish, with cartoon stars on it. “What’s… that?” I asked, feeling like I already knew.

“This is what you’ll wear during the daytime. At night, you’ll wear something thicker, just in case. But for now, this will do,” she said. Then she gave me a look that expected obedience. “Step in.”

I swallowed, stepping one leg at a time into the pull-up. She pulled it up to my waist and adjusted it carefully. The pull-up was snug but not as bulky as the diaper had been. It felt strange to be wearing it at all—like I was straddling a line between normal underwear and babyish padding.

She then picked out a pair of lightweight shorts with an elastic waist, which she guided up my legs. They didn’t do much to hide the faint outline of the pull-up, but at least it was less obvious than a diaper bulge.

She rose to her full height—towering a foot and a half above me, it really sank in how she could physically dominate me if she wanted to. But her voice was gentle. “There you go,” she said. “Now let’s go back downstairs. We can chat a bit about how this is going to work, and I’ll make us some lunch.”

I nodded, feeling a bit like my mind was spinning in circles. I followed her downstairs. My stomach churned with hunger, nerves, and a strange excitement I couldn’t quite place.


Part 5: The Rules

We settled at the kitchen table, me in a chair that felt slightly too tall for my feet to rest comfortably on the floor, and her across from me looking poised and confident. She placed a plate of sandwiches in front of me, along with a glass of water. As we began to eat, she launched into an explanation of the “house rules,” as she called them.

“First,” she said, “you’ll be living here rent-free, which I know is a good deal for you. But in exchange, you’ll do some chores, keep the house tidy, and so on. We’ll work out the details as we go, but it won’t be anything too strenuous. I just expect you to listen and not complain.”

I nodded. “I remember you mentioned that. I’m grateful for it.”

She smiled. “Second, as you’ve probably noticed, I have certain standards about how you dress and handle yourself. You are absolutely not allowed to dress yourself without my supervision—no exceptions. That means every morning, you wait for me. I’ll pick out your clothes, help you put them on, and the same goes for bedtime or any outfit changes in between. Got it?”

I blinked, nibbling at my sandwich. “But… what if you’re busy or something?”

“I’ll make time,” she said simply. “If for some reason I’m not here, I have ways to ensure you won’t change clothes anyway.”

A small chill went through me. “Like what?”

She smiled but didn’t elaborate. “You’ll find out if the situation calls for it. Next rule: potty breaks. We touched on this already.”

My cheeks warmed again. “Yes?”

“You’re never to use the bathroom without my permission and my assistance,” she said. “You will tell me when you need to go, in a polite, respectful manner.” Her voice took on a teacher-like quality. “For example, you’ll say, ‘Violet, may I please use the potty?’ Understand?”

The explicitness of her instructions made me squirm. “That’s… humiliating.”

She nodded. “It can be, yes. But it ensures you’re always mindful of who’s in charge, and it also allows me to keep track of your needs. If I say no, then you wait. Or you use your pull-up.”

I swallowed hard. “And if… if you’re not home?”

She gave me a slight grin. “If I’m not home, you won’t have free access either. I’ll show you how that works soon enough. But let’s say you’ll be well-protected.”

My face felt hot. I thought about the flight, the airport bathroom, that humiliating diaper scenario. It dawned on me that those were just the tip of the iceberg. “And… and at night?” I asked timidly.

“At night, you’ll be in a diaper,” she said simply. “Because I might decide you can’t get up to use the potty at all. Or if you do, it’ll be with my permission only. If I say no, you have to hold it—unless you can’t.” She gave a small shrug. “Accidents happen.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. This was a lot more controlling than I’d anticipated, though part of me had guessed she had a strict side. I just hadn’t realized the extent. “Violet,” I said softly, “this is… intense.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. “I know. And I don’t expect you to be perfectly comfortable with it on day one. But let me remind you—you agreed you’d be my good boy. You like it when I’m in control. Don’t you?”

Her gaze pinned me. I felt compelled to nod. “I… yes,” I admitted. “I do, but—”

“Then trust me,” she interjected. “Yes, it’s humiliating at times. But you’ll learn to accept it. Maybe even appreciate it. I’ll take care of you, make sure you’re looked after. There will be privileges and fun if you follow the rules. If you try to resist or disobey, I can make it more difficult.” Her smile took on a mischievous hint. “Do you understand, baby?”

I felt my chest tighten at her use of that word. Baby. She’d used it so naturally, as if it were my name. Despite my anxiety, part of me felt a jolt of excitement at her tone. She was so confident, so sure of herself. “Yes… I understand,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said, sounding satisfied. “We’ll go slow. One day at a time.”


Part 6: Settling In

After lunch, she asked me to follow her to the laundry room, where she showed me how she liked clothes sorted, how to operate the washer and dryer according to her preferences. They weren’t complicated tasks, but she was precise about it— “I don’t want you messing up any of my nice clothes,” she said, arching an eyebrow at me. I found myself nodding attentively, anxious not to disappoint her.

The entire time, I felt the gentle rustle of the pull-up against me. Occasionally, I would catch her looking down at my waist, or patting my backside lightly as she passed me in the hallway. Each time, I’d flinch with embarrassment, but she didn’t linger on it—just a gentle reminder that she was aware of my new undergarment.

Eventually, she led me to the living room and settled onto the couch. She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit,” she said, and I obeyed. She draped her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “Tell me how you feel,” she said softly, “truly.”

I rested against her. The difference in our height was obvious; my head nestled against her shoulder instead of at the same level as hers. “I’m… a bit overwhelmed,” I confessed. “I expected you to be a little bossy, but this is more than I anticipated.”

She nodded. “I know,” she replied gently. “But you also like it, don’t you?” When I hesitated, she continued, “I can see it in your eyes. You enjoy having someone else take charge. Having no choices, in a way.”

I took a shaky breath. “There’s some part of me that’s… excited, yes. And another part that’s just plain scared.”

She brushed her fingers through my hair. “That’s natural. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you—unless you want me to,” she added playfully, making my face redden. “But I do expect obedience. For now, how about you take a little rest? Go sit at your desk upstairs, or lie on your bed, and just unwind. We’ll have dinner later, and then I’ll get you ready for bed. Sound good?”

I nodded, looking forward to a bit of solitude to process everything. She gave me a light pat on the butt again—prompting a new wave of embarrassment—then let me go.

Up in my room, I took stock of my surroundings. I opened the dresser drawers: the top drawer contained a neat row of pull-ups, while the bottom drawer had thicker diapers stacked along with plastic pants folded next to them. There were a few sets of childish pajamas, including a footed sleeper with cartoon animals on it, and a couple of normal T-shirts and shorts, though each had a distinctly youthful pattern or color. I realized that my own clothes—the ones I had brought with me—were nowhere to be found.

The closet had more surprises: overalls that looked like they’d fit me, a couple of onesie-like shirts that snapped at the crotch (the kind you’d see on a toddler, but scaled up). I shut the closet door, my heart racing. This is my new wardrobe, I thought. A wave of disbelief washed over me.

Sitting at my desk, I noticed the computer Violet had set up for me, presumably so I could browse online or entertain myself. That was some consolation, at least. I glanced around, noticing that aside from the childish bedding and the babyish underthings in the drawers, the room wasn’t all that outlandish. It was still a comfortable space with a warm color scheme, a window that looked out onto the backyard, letting in natural light. In that sense, it felt like a contradiction—a normal adult’s bedroom layered with these infantile elements.

I tried to gather my thoughts. I really liked Violet—at least, as much as one can like someone they’ve never physically met until now. I’d developed strong feelings for her during our months of online calls. Her sense of humor, her intelligence, her caring nature. Underneath the bossiness, I had seen a loving side. And now, I was seeing how she truly wanted me to fit into her life: as someone small, obedient, and reliant on her for everything.

Maybe, I thought, I should be honest with myself. Part of me did crave that. Why else would I have hopped on a plane, leaving my parents’ home behind with barely a goodbye? My parents thought I was just going for “job opportunities” in a different city. They had no idea of the actual arrangement. I winced at the thought of them ever finding out.

At the same time, the reality of wearing pull-ups, being denied the bathroom, and being placed in a booster seat felt so… extreme. I couldn’t stop blushing every time I thought of it.


Part 7: A Small Chore and An Accident

After maybe half an hour, Violet called me back downstairs. “Could you bring me the stack of towels from the laundry room, please, and fold them here in the living room?” she asked. “I want to watch you do it, to make sure you do it right.”

I nodded, heading to the laundry room. The hamper of fresh towels was easy to find. I brought them back, set them down on the coffee table, and began folding them. She observed for a while, then moved behind me, occasionally adjusting how I tucked the corners.

“You fold it once lengthwise, then again. That’s it,” she said. She pressed herself lightly against my back, guiding my hands. I could feel the soft pressure of her tall body behind mine, and my heart thumped faster.

Eventually, she let me do it on my own. “There you go. Good boy,” she said. I never thought those two words—good boy—would affect me so deeply, but they did. It was almost as though being praised by her made every embarrassing moment worth it.

I finished folding the last towel and stacked them up. “All done,” I said.

She nodded. “Excellent.” Then her eyes flicked down to my waist. “How’s your pull-up? Still dry?”

My face turned a little red, but I nodded. “Yes, I’m fine… for now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Don’t need to use the potty?”

I squirmed, just slightly, but truthfully, I felt a light pressure building. Yet I was hesitant to ask. Maybe it was pride, or maybe I was afraid of how she’d respond. “I can hold it,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smirked. “Suit yourself.” She took the folded towels in her arms, heading to the bathroom to store them in the linen closet. I followed behind her aimlessly, not wanting to just stand around. The main bathroom upstairs was fairly large. I saw the toilet, wondering if I might muster the courage to ask to use it.

Before I could decide, though, Violet locked the linen closet and turned around to me. She checked her watch. “We’ll have dinner in an hour. Think you can wait that long?”

I shrugged, forcing a little smile. “I think so.”

She crossed her arms, looking smug. “We’ll see.”

I decided to head back downstairs to watch some TV, hoping to distract myself. Violet settled in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The aroma of sautéing vegetables wafted through the house, making my stomach rumble. I was conscious of the faint urge in my bladder, but tried to ignore it.

Half an hour later, that urge grew stronger, and I shifted restlessly on the couch. Should I ask her now? Would she say yes or no? My mind replayed the instruction: You’ll say, “Violet, may I please use the potty?” It sounded so humiliating. Yet, I was on the verge of losing control.

Finally, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I stood up and went into the kitchen, clearing my throat. She was stirring a pot on the stove, humming softly to herself. When she saw me, she smiled. “Yes, honey?”

Here it was. I looked at my feet, cheeks burning. “V-Violet, may I please… use the potty?”

Her smirk was instant. “Aww, how polite. Yes, you may,” she said sweetly. Then, “But I’m busy with dinner. You’ll have to wait a bit.”

My face paled. “But how long is ‘a bit’?”

She shrugged, turning back to the pot. “A few minutes. I want to finish up what I’m doing here so the food doesn’t burn. Then I’ll take you. Run along now. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

I swallowed. “O-okay.”

Trying to calm the flutter in my stomach, I went back to the living room. Each minute felt like an hour. The pressure grew. She did that on purpose, I realized. She wants me to squirm. Sure enough, around five minutes later, I was jiggling my knee, feeling desperate.

At last, I heard her footsteps. “Okay, baby,” she said, entering the living room. “Let’s go.”

Relief washed over me. I stood up hastily, but the sudden movement made me stumble, and I felt a scalding warmth between my legs. My eyes widened in horror as I realized I was leaking into the pull-up. I clenched my muscles, stopping the flow, but the damage was done—I’d partially wet myself.

Violet noticed my expression immediately. “Oh dear,” she said, stepping forward. Her voice was partly teasing, partly chastising. She tugged the waistband of my shorts outward. “Mmm, looks like you’ve had a small accident.”

My cheeks burned. “I tried to hold it,” I mumbled. “But… you took too long.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that blaming me?” She didn’t sound angry, more amused.

I shook my head. “N-no, I’m not blaming you. I just—”

She waved it off. “Let’s see if there’s capacity left so you can finish in the potty.” Taking my hand, she led me to the downstairs half-bath. She locked the door behind us, turned to me, and slid my shorts down. The pull-up, indeed, had a noticeable damp spot in the front.

“Pull-ups are for big kids who sometimes have accidents,” she teased softly. Then she carefully slid the pull-up down my legs, leaving me naked from the waist down. The feeling of vulnerability was intense, but her voice was gentle. “Go ahead, sit on the potty,” she instructed, nodding toward the toilet.

I lowered myself onto the seat, trying to ignore the humiliation. She stayed there, arms crossed, watching. At first, I couldn’t go; the sheer embarrassment of her standing there, gazing down at me, made it difficult to relax. She placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Shh,” she said. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and finally, the rest of it came, splashing into the water. She praised me softly: “Good boy.” My face glowed with a mix of mortification and odd pride at her words.

When I finished, she tore off a bit of toilet paper, handed it to me, and I wiped myself under her watchful gaze. She then held out a fresh pull-up from the drawer under the sink—apparently, she had already stocked them there. I stepped into it, feeling the dryness against my skin as she pulled it up and adjusted it.

“All right,” she said, giving my bottom a quick pat through the pull-up. “Back into your shorts, then wash your hands.”

I complied as she stepped aside, letting me up to the sink. After I washed, we returned to the kitchen. The entire event left me feeling subdued, aware that these “accidents” might become a more frequent occurrence. Yet part of me felt… comforted by her thorough attention, and by how quickly she’d taken charge.

Part 8: Dinner and the Evening Routine

I felt oddly subdued and obedient after that small accident. My cheeks stayed warm, and a swirl of mixed emotions kept me somewhat quiet as I helped Violet set the dinner table. She’d prepared a simple but delicious meal—stir-fried vegetables, some baked chicken, and rice. The savory aromas filled the kitchen, and my stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten much all day except for that quick sandwich at lunch.

Violet, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease. She hummed softly, ladling the stir-fry onto plates. At one point, she reached over and gave my bottom a brief, playful pat, her fingers pressing lightly against the new pull-up beneath my shorts. The reminder of what I was wearing made me twitch with embarrassment. Yet I couldn’t ignore the small thrill that pulsed through me whenever she asserted control like that.

I set the plates on the table, eyeing the tall chair at one end. Violet had mentioned she might have certain “seating” arrangements for me, but so far, the only special seat had been the booster in the car. For dinner, however, the chairs looked normal—just a simple wooden set with cushioned seats. So I slipped into one quietly, trying not to make a big deal out of it.

She placed a glass of water in front of me, then sat down herself. Her presence still overwhelmed me in a way—her height, her confidence, her direct gaze that made me feel smaller than I already was. As we started eating, she asked me about my family, my friends back home, and how I was adjusting so far.

I had to laugh softly. “Adjusting is… well, it’s definitely a process. You’ve made some things… interesting,” I said, my cheeks coloring slightly at the massive understatement.

She gave a thoughtful nod. “I know it’s new for you. But I’m proud of how you’re doing on your first day, William.”

Her praise was like a gentle warmth behind my ribs. “Thank you,” I murmured.

She continued to question me about my plans— if I had any plans for work or further education. I remembered how we’d talked online about me possibly taking some classes or maybe finding part-time employment, but she’d brushed the idea off, insisting she could provide for me. Now, in person, she repeated that sentiment.

“I don’t really want you working,” she said calmly, taking a sip of water. “I’d prefer you to be at home, where I know you’re safe and behaving. You can take online classes if you really want to learn something— art, languages, whatever. But leaving the house for long periods? It’s not what I picture for you.”

Her words had a finality to them. It was like the matter was already decided. Normally, I might have bristled at such a statement. But the events of the day—her gentle but unyielding authority, the accidental wetting, the babyish garments—had me feeling strangely passive. Part of me thought, Why fight it? You came here for this. Another part of me wondered if it was healthy to let her take total control over my life. But I just nodded quietly, not wanting to stir conflict.

We kept chatting in a more relaxed manner after that—about the city, the neighborhood, her favorite restaurants and parks. She seemed genuinely excited to show me around someday. Eventually, we finished dinner, and she asked me to carry my plate to the sink. While I rinsed the dishes, she stood behind me, occasionally smoothing her hand over my back or up to my shoulder. It felt oddly intimate—almost domestic in a normal sense, except for the overshadowing presence of the pull-up and the knowledge that I had no real autonomy in the house.

When the sink was cleared and the leftovers put away, Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting late,” she observed, even though it wasn’t that late—maybe 8:00 PM. “I think you should head upstairs and take a shower. I’ll join you shortly to help you get dressed for bed.”

I almost protested—I usually showered by myself, and I definitely didn’t expect assistance. But given everything else, I realized it wasn’t open for debate. So I nodded. “Yes… sure.”

As I made my way upstairs, I could hear her tidying up in the kitchen behind me. My pulse thudded with anticipation. Showering is such a personal, private moment. Would she insist on helping me wash? Maybe she’d just supervise me? Honestly, I didn’t know how far her control went, and it set my nerves on edge.

In the bathroom attached to the hallway (not the master one in her bedroom), I flicked on the light. It was quite spacious—white tiles, a big mirror, a glass-enclosed shower stall in the corner, and a glossy white sink under the mirror. Everything looked impeccably clean. Checking behind me, I half-expected Violet to appear immediately, but she didn’t. So I carefully peeled down my shorts and pull-up, each movement reminding me that this was all new territory.

Once naked, I turned on the shower and stepped inside. The warm water pelted my skin, a comforting sensation that temporarily melted some of my anxieties. I shut my eyes, letting the water stream over me. It’s day one, I kept telling myself. One step at a time.

I had just started lathering some soap over my arms when I heard the bathroom door open. My eyes shot open, and I saw Violet entering, closing the door behind her. I felt my heart lurch. She was wearing a casual T-shirt and jeans, but the way she carried herself made her look as imposing as ever.

“Need help washing, baby?” she asked teasingly.

I swallowed hard. “I… I’m okay,” I stammered, face burning at the thought of her seeing me naked through the glass door. But she only nodded, stepped up closer, and peered at me through the semi-frosted glass.

“I’ll let you do the scrubbing,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just make sure you wash thoroughly everywhere. I’ll pick out your pajamas.” With that, she disappeared back into the hallway.

My heart thumped unevenly as I realized how precarious my privacy was now. Still, I tried to relax under the water, quickly shampooing my hair, scrubbing my body with soap. The pressure of trying not to keep her waiting spurred me on. Within a few minutes, I shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and stepped out, dripping onto the bathmat.

I was in the middle of drying off when she reappeared, a folded garment draped over one arm and a fresh diaper in her other hand. I immediately flushed. A diaper? She’d said I’d be wearing them at night, but seeing it in her hand drove it home. The thick, puffy padding seemed so much bigger than the pull-up. Its plastic surface crinkled as she set it down on the bathroom counter.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she instructed. Her tone was caring, but there was that underlying authority. I shuffled closer, towel around my waist, and she gently took it from me. “Let me finish drying you.”

I stood there, meekly letting her pat me down with the soft towel. It was an intimate process—she dried my arms, my torso, my legs. Then, with gentle thoroughness, she dried my more private areas. I tried to keep from squirming, cheeks flaming, but she was methodical, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“There we go,” she said, stepping back once I was fully dry. She set the damp towel aside. “Ready for your nighttime attire?”

I exhaled shakily. “Yes,” I whispered, though part of me still balked at the idea.

She gestured for me to sit on the toilet seat lid (closed, of course). I complied, feeling the coolness of the porcelain against my backside. Violet picked up the diaper and unfolded it with a distinct crinkle. My pulse raced. Even after the day’s events, this was still so surreal.

“Lift your hips,” she directed softly.

I did so, and she slid the diaper beneath me, aligning it under my bottom. The thickness of it felt even more pronounced than that first diaper in the airport. Once she had it positioned, she gently nudged my thighs apart, bringing the front up and smoothing the wings around my hips. The tapes fastened one by one with a crisp adhesive sound.

“All done,” she announced, giving the front of the diaper a pat. “Snug and secure.”

I stared down at it—white, with cartoonish prints along the waistband. The padding enveloped my crotch in a way that felt simultaneously comforting and humiliating. I ran a hand across it, the plastic outer layer cool to the touch.

Next, Violet held up the garment she’d brought in: a footed sleeper, made of soft fleece in a pale pastel color. The zipper ran up the back. She shook it out. “Stand up, sweetheart.”

I stood, and she guided my legs into the sleeper, then my arms into the sleeves. It was an odd sensation—like a child’s pajamas, but bigger, obviously sized for me. She tugged the zipper up from the lower back to the top, leaving me encased from neck to ankles, only my hands and head visible. The fuzzy fabric instantly made me feel warmer.

Finally, she reached around my back, took hold of a small zipper tab at the top, and slipped it under a little flap that snapped shut, preventing me from unzipping it myself. I felt my mouth go dry. So I can’t take it off without her help, I realized, heart pounding.

Violet smiled, stepping in front of me. “Comfy?”

I swallowed. “It’s… it’s warm,” I managed, which was true. My sense of dignity, however, was at an all-time low.

She chuckled. “Perfect. I’ll brush your hair for you, then we’ll head to your room.”

I nodded, allowing her to fuss with my damp hair, combing it gently to get out any tangles. The motions felt oddly soothing, like a caretaker doting on her child. I let my eyes drift shut for a moment, leaning into her gentle touch.

“All right,” she said after a minute, setting the brush aside. “That’s enough for now. Let’s get you to bed, baby.”

She gestured for me to follow, so I padded out of the bathroom, the soft soles of the footed sleeper muffling my steps. The thick diaper made my gait slightly waddle-like, something I was all too conscious of. Violet led me down the hall to my bedroom, flicked on the lamp, and patted the bed.

“Hop up,” she instructed, pulling back the covers.

I did, feeling the mattress sink under my weight. The bedding looked even more childish now in this context—cartoon characters on the duvet, matching pillowcases. The entire scene felt surreal: I was an adult man, albeit a short one, dressed in a footed sleeper and diaper, being tucked in by a woman a foot and a half taller than me.

She gently guided me to lie down, then pulled the covers up to my chest. “There,” she said softly, tucking them around me. She rested her palm on my padded crotch beneath the blankets, giving a little press as though to check the diaper’s dryness. I squirmed reflexively, my cheeks burning.

“Still dry, good,” she murmured. “Now, I want you to get some rest. It’s been a busy day, and tomorrow will be more of the same. If you need anything in the night, well… you’ll have to come get me. But I might say no,” she added, a playful glint in her eyes. “You remember our rules?”

I nodded, swallowing. “Yes. I have to ask permission to use the potty… and if you say no…” My words trailed off.

She smiled. “Then you use your diaper, if you can’t hold it. That’s right. But we’ll see if you make it through the night without any accidents. Some people can’t, especially after a stressful day.”

Her tone was light, but the implication made my stomach do a flip. She bent down, planting a soft kiss on my forehead. “Sweet dreams, baby,” she whispered, and then she turned off the lamp, leaving me in the gentle glow of a small nightlight near the door.

I heard her footsteps retreat, and the door clicked shut. For a long moment, I lay there in the dimness, acutely aware of every sensation: the plush confines of the sleeper, the thick padding around my waist, the faint scent of lavender from the bedding.

Exhaustion mingled with adrenaline. My thoughts spun in circles, replaying the day’s events: the airport call, the diapering in the women’s restroom, the booster seat in her car, the humiliating moments of nearly or fully wetting myself, the thoroughness of her “potty rules,” the pull-up, then the diaper, and finally being dressed in these childlike pajamas. It was all so much, so fast.

And yet, beneath the embarrassment and shock, there was a ripple of quiet satisfaction. She really does take care of me, I thought, recalling the warmth in her eyes as she praised me for being a good boy. Part of me felt safe. Another part felt uneasy that I was letting someone else have so much power over me. But I’d chosen this, hadn’t I?

Eventually, my weary body won out over the chaos in my mind, and I drifted off to a restless but profound sleep.


Part 9: First Morning Worries

Soft sunlight filtering through the curtains tugged me awake. At first, my eyes fluttered open in confusion—where was I? Then it all came back: Violet’s house, my new home, my plush bedding, the thick diaper snug around my waist.

I shifted under the covers, feeling the crinkle and bulk. My face warmed. How do I even get out of these pajamas? The zipper was in the back, locked away from my reach by that little tab. I realized I was effectively stuck until she came in to release me.

Speaking of which… I felt a dull pressure in my bladder. Normally, first thing in the morning, I’d head to the bathroom. But now, of course, I had to wait for Violet to come in, and I’d have to ask her. What if she says no? A nervous tingle flitted through my stomach. Am I expected to use my diaper?

I let out a quiet groan, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. The sleeper was warm, and though it was cozy, it made me feel overheated. The pressing need to relieve myself only magnified the discomfort. I tried to distract myself by looking around the room. In the morning light, the childish décor looked even more obvious: the big, colorful designs on the walls, the stuffed animals I hadn’t noticed last night perched on a shelf, the subtle lumps in the comforter.

I waited, minutes ticking by. The urge grew stronger. Finally, I heard footsteps in the hallway, then the door opened. Violet stepped in, looking as tall and confident as ever. She was dressed in a simple robe over her nightgown—her hair neatly tied back. The first thing she did was come over to my bedside and smile down at me.

“Good morning, baby,” she said, brushing her hand along my cheek. “How did you sleep?”

“I—I slept okay,” I answered honestly, my voice a bit raspy from sleep. “It’s just… I really need the bathroom. Could you unzip me, please?”

Violet hummed. “Aww, well, let’s check you first.” Without waiting for permission, she tugged down the covers, revealing the front of my footed sleeper. She pressed her hand against the crotch area, feeling the diaper beneath. “Still dry,” she observed, sounding pleased.

My cheeks flared, but I was too desperate to care much. “Yes, so could you—”

She tapped a finger on her lips, cutting me off. “And how do we ask properly, sweetheart?”

I swallowed. The humiliation still washed over me every time I had to recite the line she’d given me. “Violet, may I please use the potty?”

She gave me a sweet, if somewhat mischievous, smile. “Very good, baby. Yes, you may.” Before I could sigh in relief, she added, “But I have to freshen up first, so you’ll need to wait a few minutes.”

My eyes widened. “But—!”

She put a finger to my lips. “Not another word. You’ll be fine. This’ll teach you some patience.” With that, she leaned down, kissed my forehead, and walked out, leaving the door ajar.

I lay there, my bladder protesting. Of course she’s making me wait, I thought, exhaling sharply. I tried to cross my legs, but the thick diaper made that awkward. My knees brushed up against the padding, which only reminded me how close I was to an “accident” if she took too long.

Five minutes. Seven minutes. Come on… I stared at the ceiling, counting the patterns in the plaster, anything to distract myself. Finally— finally—I heard footsteps again.

Violet returned, looking calm and put-together, as though she’d taken those minutes to fix her hair and wash her face. She smiled down at me. “Ready?” she asked lightly, walking over to the bed.

“Yes,” I nearly gasped, relieved. “Please, hurry.”

She gave a playful chuckle, then carefully reached behind my neck, unsnapped the little tab covering the zipper. I felt the zipper slide down my back, letting in a bit of cool air. She helped me slip my arms free, then guided the rest down to my waist, exposing the diaper. I could see the pastel fleece bunched around my hips.

Finally, she tugged it off my legs completely, leaving the diaper taped securely around my waist but freeing me from the sleeper. I sat up, the diaper crinkling loudly. Violet put the sleeper aside, then patted the bed for me to stand.

I did, biting my lip. “Can I take it off now?” I asked, half-ready to rip the tapes open myself.

She shook her head, that teasing smile dancing on her lips. “No, let me do it. Hands at your sides.”

I complied, though my impatience was nearing critical. She unfastened the tapes methodically, one by one, letting the front of the diaper flop downward. Her gaze flicked to me, as though checking if I’d already gone. She seemed satisfied that I was still holding it. Then she balled up the diaper, taped it shut, and tossed it into a small hamper near the door.

“Go on,” she said, giving me a light nudge towards the hallway. “Let’s use the upstairs bathroom this time.”

I nearly sprinted to the bathroom. She followed at a calm pace. Once inside, she shut the door behind us and leaned against the counter, arms folded. My eyes darted to her, uncertain if she’d let me do this alone. But she just nodded at the toilet.

“Go ahead,” she said.

I wasted no time lowering myself onto the seat. Having her watch me was still embarrassing, but the relief of finally emptying my bladder was overwhelming. I let out a shaky sigh, my face going hot. She offered a soft smile, and when I finished, she handed me some toilet paper, exactly as if she were assisting a little kid. I wiped, stood, and flushed.

“Good boy,” she praised, turning the faucet on for me. “Wash your hands.”

I did, the warm water flowing over my fingers. Her presence behind me in the mirror was so striking—tall, confident, protective, and controlling all at once.

When I was done, she dried my hands with a towel and beckoned me out into the hallway. “Let’s get you dressed for the day.”


Part 10: Day Two Begins

Back in my room, Violet had already laid out clothes on the bed—another pull-up (no surprise there), a pair of shortalls that had a cartoon patch on the front pocket, and a simple T-shirt in a bright, kid-friendly color. My cheeks heated up as soon as I saw it.

“Those are… shortalls?” I asked, eyebrows rising. They looked like denim overalls but with short legs that ended mid-thigh. I’d never worn anything like them, certainly not since childhood.

She smirked. “Yes. Isn’t it cute?” Without waiting for my response, she patted the bed. “Lie down. Pull-up first.”

I obeyed, the routine from yesterday now strangely familiar. She snugged the pull-up around my hips and checked the fit, running a finger around the waistband. I instinctively lifted my hips, letting her adjust as needed. Then I stood, and she helped me into the T-shirt. It was bright yellow, and on the front was a small embroidered cartoon puppy—discreet, but definitely childlike.

Finally, she held open the shortalls for me to step into. The denim was softer than I expected, but as she pulled them up and fastened the straps at my shoulders, I couldn’t miss how childish it looked. The waistband rested around my stomach, just below my ribs, and the short legs left my thighs mostly bare. The seat of the garment felt a bit poofy thanks to the pull-up.

Violet beamed as she looked me over. “Adorable,” she cooed, running her hands over the straps to smooth them. “Now, let’s button these side panels…” She took extra care to button each side flap closed, giving me no easy way to unfasten them by myself.

“That’s… locked in, basically,” I said, glancing down, seeing that the side buttons were more secure than standard overall buttons. They had a clasp that snapped shut, not a simple slip button.

She gave a playful shrug. “I’m sure you can undo them if you really tried, but let’s just say I’d prefer you not to. You’ll need my help to get out of these shortalls, which includes diaper changes or potty breaks. Understand?”

I nodded slowly, heat still burning in my cheeks. “Yes…”

She patted my head. “Good boy. Now, let’s have breakfast, and then I’ll show you around the backyard. It’s nice out—maybe we’ll enjoy some sunshine.”

I followed her downstairs, the faint crinkle of the pull-up muffled by the denim. The shortalls felt strange: slightly snug around the crotch area and definitely not something I’d wear in public. Yet they made me feel… under her control, which, strangely enough, had become a sensation both embarrassing and oddly comforting.


Part 11: Breakfast and Backyard Tour

In the kitchen, Violet made us scrambled eggs and toast. She seated me on one of the regular chairs at the table—thankfully, not a high chair or booster seat (though I had a sinking feeling she might have such things stashed somewhere for later use). We ate calmly, chatting about little details—how I liked the new city so far, what we might do during the week, and so on.

Halfway through breakfast, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, then silenced it. “That’s the office,” she murmured. “I’ll call them back later. They’ll have to learn I’m not always available in the mornings.”

I remembered that she worked a fairly high-level job, which was how she afforded this spacious house. I also recalled she did quite a bit of her work from home. “So you really don’t have to go in much?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, finishing her coffee, “but mostly I can handle things remotely. Meetings, calls, that sort of thing. When I do go in, I might leave you here alone, or maybe I’ll take you with me if I feel like it. We’ll see.”

My face paled at the thought of going to her office dressed like this. “R-right,” I mumbled.

After breakfast, we cleared the dishes. She insisted on me washing up while she dried. It felt domestic, almost normal—except for my childish attire, the pull-up underneath, and the knowledge I couldn’t even unbutton these shortalls on my own without her help.

With the kitchen clean, she guided me to the sliding glass door that led out back. The yard was surprisingly large for a suburban area. A tall fence gave plenty of privacy, and there was a small patio with chairs, a table, and a few potted plants. Beyond that, a swath of lawn stretched out. A tree in one corner offered shade over a pair of comfortable-looking loungers.

“It’s beautiful,” I remarked, taking in the sight. The morning sun shone cheerily, and the grass looked thick and inviting.

She nodded proudly. “I put a lot of care into it. I like spending time out here when the weather’s nice.” She gestured for me to step onto the patio. “Come on.”

I followed her, feeling the warmth of the sun on my arms. Immediately, I was aware of how visible my outfit was in natural light—the shortalls with that silly patch on the pocket, the bright T-shirt. If the neighbors looked over the fence, they might see me. But hopefully the fence is tall enough, I thought, my heart racing at the idea of anyone else witnessing this.

Violet showed me the potted herbs she kept near the kitchen window, the small vegetable garden near the fence, and the set of lawn chairs under the tree. “You can read out here, relax, or even do some light exercise if you want,” she said.

I nodded, half-listening, half-aware of the gentle breeze brushing against my bare legs. My gaze flicked to the neighbor’s fence, wondering how close their windows were. The last thing I wanted was to catch someone peering over.

“Don’t worry,” Violet said, as if reading my thoughts. “The fence is plenty high, and the houses on either side are spaced far enough that no one will see unless they really try. And if they do,” she added with a smirk, “well, I guess they’ll see how adorable my little boy is.”

My cheeks flamed. I decided not to ask further questions about that possibility.

We spent some time just strolling around, her pointing out what she’d planted where, me nodding and commenting when appropriate. It felt almost normal—like a couple enjoying a quiet morning—until I caught sight of my reflection in the sliding glass door: a short, nineteen-year-old guy dwarfed by this tall, confident woman, dressed in clothes that made me look half my age.

At some point, Violet checked her watch. “I have to make a business call soon,” she said. “Let’s head back inside. I’ll set you up in the living room with something to do while I handle that.”

Back inside, she led me to the couch and handed me a coloring book and a box of crayons. My eyebrows shot up. “Really?” I asked, holding the coloring book. It was a children’s cartoon theme, bright and silly.

She sank down beside me. “Yes, really. You can watch TV if you want, but I think this will be more relaxing. Sometimes coloring can be soothing.” She took my hand and guided it to open the cover. “Pick a page. I expect at least one nicely colored picture while I’m on my call.”

I stared at her, uncertain if she was joking. But her expression told me she was serious. “O-okay,” I mumbled, feeling a surge of self-consciousness. I’m a grown man coloring in a kiddie book…

She patted my thigh lightly. “Good boy. I’ll be in my study. If you need the potty, remember to come ask me.” With that, she rose and headed down the hallway.


Part 12: A Coloring Interlude—and a Firm Reminder

I sat there, crayons and coloring book spread on the coffee table. Part of me scoffed at the idea, but another part was curious. Maybe it would be calming. This day had already been so emotionally intense—maybe focusing on mindless coloring would help.

So I flipped through the pages, found one with a cheerful cartoon scene—some kind of friendly dragon by a castle. I picked a green crayon and started shading. The smell of crayons brought back memories of kindergarten. The entire situation felt bizarre: I was literally regressing to a childlike activity, wearing childlike clothes, in a house where my every bathroom trip was controlled by someone else.

Yet as the minutes passed, the repetitive motion of coloring did relax me a bit. The rhythmic scratch of crayon on paper, the bright colors filling the outlines—it was easier than I expected to get lost in it. Every so often, I shifted on the couch, feeling the pull-up snug against me. I was still dry. I also felt a small sense of relief that I wasn’t wearing a full diaper right now.

At some point, I heard Violet’s voice drifting from down the hall—muffled words as she spoke on her phone. She sounded firm, in control. Of course, I thought with a wry smile. That was just who she was.

Nearly half an hour later, she came back into the living room, phone in hand. She ended her call and looked at me, arching an eyebrow. “How’s my little artist doing?”

I glanced up, flushing slightly. “Um… okay, I guess.” I lifted the page to show her the partially colored dragon.

She broke into a smile. “Oh, that’s lovely. Looks like you’re doing a thorough job.” She sat beside me, crossing her legs. Then her gaze drifted to my waist. “Pull-up still good?”

I nodded, feeling a flicker of embarrassment at her casual mention of it. “Y-yeah. Dry.”

She reached over, placing her palm over my crotch. Even through the denim, I felt the gentle pressure as she checked for any warmth or wetness. “Good,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “You see how easy it is if you just do as I say?”

I squirmed, unsure how to respond. She took the coloring book from me, flipped through a few pages, and nodded with approval. “This is good for you,” she remarked. “It’ll help you unwind and get used to the environment.”

I set the crayons down. I wanted to ask— when can I do something more adult? But I suspected the answer wouldn’t be what I hoped. Instead, I asked, “So… do you have more work calls today, or…?”

She shrugged. “A few, but I can space them out. I want to focus on getting you acclimated. If you keep being good, maybe this afternoon we’ll do something fun—a little drive around the neighborhood, pick up some groceries, maybe a treat.”

A swirl of excitement and dread mixed in my stomach. A drive around the neighborhood… wearing shortalls? “Will I be… wearing this?” I asked softly, tugging at the denim strap on my shoulder.

She gave me a knowing smile. “You’ll wear whatever I decide, baby.” Then, as if to lighten the mood, she reached for my coloring crayons. “But we can talk about that later. You hungry for a snack?”

I actually was feeling a bit peckish. So I nodded. “Sure.”

She guided me back into the kitchen and pulled some fruit from the fridge—grapes, sliced apples, and a bowl of yogurt. She arranged them neatly on a small plate. Then she poured me a glass of juice and set it down on the table.

“Eat up,” she said. “I’ll keep you on healthy snacks. Don’t want you getting fussy or low on energy.”

She sat across from me, sipping coffee and occasionally glancing at her phone. I ate quietly, the tension in my chest slowly easing from the embarrassment, settling into a sort of acceptance of my situation—at least for now.


Part 13: A Trip Out?

Once I’d finished my snack, Violet announced that we would indeed be going out for a short drive around the neighborhood. My cheeks warmed at the thought of being seen by strangers, but I also felt the cabin fever creeping in. I’d come all this way to live in this city—I should at least see what it’s like.

She stood, beckoning me to follow. “Let’s go get your shoes on. We’ll just do a quick errand—pick up some groceries. I need a few items, and it’ll be a nice test run to see how well you behave in public.”

I trailed behind her to the front door, where she knelt to retrieve a pair of sneakers that she’d apparently bought for me—small, simple, with Velcro straps instead of laces. I stared at them for a moment before lifting one foot for her to guide it in.

“These are… kid shoes,” I said quietly, noticing the colorful design along the side. It wasn’t overly childish, but definitely not something a typical nineteen-year-old would pick out.

She smirked, fastening the Velcro. “They fit you well, don’t they?”

I had no snappy comeback. I simply nodded, letting her put them on both my feet. Once done, she stood and grabbed her purse. “All right, let’s go.”

As we headed out, I felt a rush of cool air. The shortalls left my legs feeling very exposed. The fact that I was padded underneath made my senses hyperaware—every step caused a subtle crinkle. I swallowed hard, praying no one would notice. Then again, who would stare at my crotch? The mere question made me blush.

We got in the car—once again, she directed me to the back seat where the booster seat awaited. My cheeks flared with renewed embarrassment, but I said nothing as I climbed in. She buckled me in, the harness snug against my torso.

The drive was short. We cruised through a pleasant, well-manicured neighborhood: quiet streets, rows of pastel-colored houses, neat lawns. Violet pointed out the local park, the library, a few small shops. She seemed quite proud of the area. Meanwhile, I was torn between curiosity and anxiety that someone would see me strapped into a booster seat wearing shortalls.

Soon, we arrived at a small grocery store. Violet parked and turned to me. “Ready to come in?”

My eyes widened. “D-do I have to?” I blurted, the idea of walking around in public with these clothes making my heart pound.

She gave me a firm look. “Yes, I’m not leaving you in the car alone. Besides, no one’s going to pay that much attention to you. And if they do,” she paused, eyes glinting, “well, you’ll just have to deal with it. Now come on.”

I exhaled shakily as she unbuckled me from the booster seat. Stepping onto the pavement, I realized how small I must look next to her tall frame in a public setting. She took my hand as we entered the store. My cheeks blazed at the contact—everyone sees I am in a diaper. But in reality, most shoppers were busy with their own tasks.

She grabbed a basket and guided me through the aisles, picking up fresh produce, a loaf of bread, a carton of milk. Now and then, she asked if I wanted anything— “Do you want these cookies, baby? Or maybe fruit snacks?” I would just mumble a shy “yes” or “no,” aware of how her voice carried that affectionate lilt when she called me “baby.”

I glanced around, half expecting people to stop and stare. But aside from a few passing glances—likely just acknowledging the height difference or maybe noticing my youthful outfit—no one said anything. My pulse raced whenever we passed someone in the aisle, but each time, they simply moved on.

Part of me was oddly relieved: perhaps the world didn’t revolve around my humiliating attire. Another part of me was still mortified. The shortalls, the pull-up, her commanding presence, the hand-holding— and it’s only day two!

We checked out, the cashier gave me a friendly smile and said hi, but never commented on my outfit. Violet paid, then carried the bag out in one hand, holding my hand in the other. I felt my shoulders slump in a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment as we headed back to the car.

“See?” she said brightly once we were seated again, me in the booster. “No big deal.”

I managed a small nod, though my heart was still pounding. She buckled me in once more, started the car, and drove us home. That short excursion left me emotionally exhausted. I realized, though, that if I stayed here, this was my new normal— the small chores at home, the controlling bathroom rules, the childlike clothes, and even the possibility of going out in them.


Part 14: Lunchtime

Once home, Violet had me carry the grocery bag inside. It was light—just a few items. Still, it felt symbolic: she was in control, but I was expected to help in small ways. Afterward, she said we’d have a quick lunch. I offered to make sandwiches, wanting to feel somewhat useful, but she insisted I only help fetch things. “I’ll do the assembly, you just gather the ingredients,” she said with a firm nod.

So I obeyed, retrieving slices of cheese, lettuce, and condiments. She put everything together neatly, arranged the sandwiches on plates with some chips, and we sat down to eat at the table. Partway through my meal, I felt the urge to pee creeping in again— maybe it was the juice I’d had earlier, or just the inevitable cycle.

I looked over at Violet, hesitating. I hated how childish I sounded, but I knew the rule. She noticed my fidgeting. “Something to say, baby?” she asked casually, taking a bite of her sandwich.

My face burned. “Um… Violet, m-may I please use the potty?”

She swallowed, her eyes flicking up to me. “I haven’t finished my lunch,” she said slowly. “You can wait until I’m done.”

I shifted in my seat, the shortalls feeling even snugger than before. “But—I really need to—”

“I said wait,” she replied, not unkindly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. She took another bite, sipped her water, and continued eating at her own pace.

I clamped my legs together, desperate not to have an accident. My cheeks burned at the memory of that partial wetting the day before. She was taking her sweet time— nibbling on the sandwich, pausing to scroll on her phone. She’s doing this on purpose, I realized, swallowing hard.

By the time she finally finished, I was squirming, clenching all my muscles to stay dry. She calmly wiped her mouth with a napkin, folded it, then stood up. “All right, come along, baby.” She smiled sweetly, but I could see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

We headed upstairs toward the bathroom. She walked at a leisurely pace, and I had to fight the urge to run ahead of her. Once inside, she locked the door, then turned to me. “Let’s get these shortalls off. Stand still.”

She fiddled with the side buttons, then undid the straps, lowering the shortalls to my ankles. I kicked them off, leaving me in just the T-shirt and pull-up. The front of the pull-up was still dry—miraculously— but I felt as if I was a second away from leaking.

“All right,” she said, hooking her fingers around the pull-up’s waistband. “Let’s see if you can still make it.”

She tugged the pull-up down to my knees, exposing me. Then she guided me toward the toilet, motioning for me to sit. I barely did so in time. Relief flooded me as I released a steady stream, my face burning with the knowledge that she was watching, her arms folded, that faintly smug smile on her lips.

When it was over, she handed me the toilet paper again, and I did my business, flushing afterward. She praised me softly: “Good boy, you waited so nicely.” Then she pulled the pull-up back into place, adjusting it around my hips.

Before I could ask about the shortalls, she shook her head. “Actually, it’s warm in here. Let’s keep you in just your T-shirt and pull-up for now. Unless you’re self-conscious?” She gave a teasing lilt to her voice.

I gulped. “N-no, I guess it’s okay,” I said, though it felt humiliating to walk around with my padded underwear visible. But we were alone, the curtains downstairs were drawn, and I knew better than to argue. She picked up the shortalls and draped them over her arm.

We left the bathroom, and I felt the cool air of the hallway on my bare thighs. The pull-up, once again, made my steps feel slightly padded and crinkly. She placed the shortalls in the hamper for laundry. She didn’t let me wear them again? I realized with a flutter in my stomach. Perhaps she was moving on to something else soon.


Part 15: Afternoon Tasks and Another Surprise

The rest of the afternoon was filled with small chores and quiet moments: Violet had me help wipe down some surfaces in the living room, then set me back to coloring or watching some light TV while she dealt with work calls. My sense of embarrassment gradually ebbed, replaced by a sort of dull acceptance of the routine. In the back of my mind, I wondered how quickly I was adapting to this bizarre new lifestyle—where wearing a pull-up and needing permission to use the bathroom was just… normal.

Around mid-afternoon, Violet strolled in with a cheerful smile. “Time for a snack,” she announced. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

I hopped up from the couch, feeling the slight sag of the pull-up even though it was dry. The T-shirt I wore was a bit short, so the waistband peeked out whenever I moved. I tugged it down reflexively.

She prepared a small bowl of applesauce, along with some crackers and cheese, setting them on the table. Then she motioned for me to sit. As I lowered myself onto the chair, I noticed something on the tabletop: a large sippy cup, the type a toddler might use, complete with a plastic lid and spout. It was filled with juice.

My eyes flicked to hers in alarm. “V-Violet, what’s—?”

She tapped the cup lightly. “It’s for you. I don’t want you spilling again.”

I frowned, confusion knitting my brow. “But I’ve never spilled—”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t argue. This is easier.” Her voice carried that final tone. I’m not giving you a choice.

I sank deeper into my seat, my cheeks warming. Slowly, I lifted the sippy cup, noticing how it felt slightly oversized—still childlike, but big enough that I could manage a proper drink. When I sipped, I had to tip it back more than a regular cup. The novelty made my stomach twist with embarrassment, but I swallowed the sweet juice anyway.

She watched me with quiet amusement for a moment, then started nibbling on her own snack—a few crackers with cheese. “Good boy,” she praised. “See how easy it is? No spills.”

I forced a weak smile, setting the sippy cup down. “Yeah… sure.”

We finished our snack, and she told me to go relax. I decided to watch some cartoons on TV—partly because I was already feeling so infantilized, it seemed to fit. But also, I weirdly wanted something simple and lighthearted to ease my mind. Violet busied herself in the kitchen, occasionally glancing over at me.

Sometime later, as I was absorbed in the bright colors and silly characters on screen, I felt a familiar pressure in my bladder. It was faint at first. I thought, I can hold it for a while. But soon, it grew insistent enough that I didn’t want to risk an accident. With a sigh, I rose from the couch and found Violet reorganizing a cabinet.

“Um… Violet,” I said softly, “may I please use the potty?”

She turned to me with a smile. “Such a polite boy. Yes, you may.” She closed the cabinet. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to check your pull-up thoroughly.”

We headed to the upstairs bathroom, and I stood still while she carefully ran her hand around the pull-up’s waistband, checking the leg cuffs. “All dry,” she observed. “Good.” She slipped it down, motioning me toward the toilet.

But just as I was about to sit, she rested a hand on my shoulder. “Actually, wait,” she murmured, as if remembering something. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small plastic funnel-like device that I’d never seen before. My heart hammered with confusion.

“What’s that?” I asked, eyebrows knitting.

She gave me a devious little smile. “Just a little something to help you aim,” she teased. “Go ahead, stand in front of the potty.”

I complied hesitantly, stepping forward. She handed me the small funnel. “Tuck yourself inside it,” she said, “and use it like a stand-up funnel. That way, you won’t make any mess.”

I swallowed hard. “But… I can aim just fine without it,” I mumbled, though the truth was, I’d never used a funnel in my life.

She clicked her tongue. “Indulge me,” she said simply. “Besides, it’ll help me ensure you’re not dribbling on the seat.”

My cheeks flamed. With trembling hands, I did as she instructed. It was awkward and felt supremely embarrassing, especially with her standing right behind me, watching. But I managed to go, the urine trickling through the funnel into the toilet. This is so humiliating… and yet I followed through until I was done.

When I finished, Violet took the funnel, rinsed it in the sink, and patted me on the shoulder. “Good boy. Now let’s get that pull-up back in place.” I stood there, face glowing, while she slid the padding up my legs. She gave the front a gentle pat before letting me pull my T-shirt back down.

Leaving the bathroom, I was silent, my emotions churning. She was implementing more and more intrusive ways to control my every bodily function. Yet a strange part of me found the intensity… compelling. Why am I not resisting more? I wondered. Am I afraid to? Or do I secretly like it?


Part 16: Approaching Evening

As the afternoon wore on, I felt a mixture of anticipation and dread about the upcoming evening. If last night was any indicator, I’d be diapered again for bedtime, likely in another footed sleeper or something equally childish—maybe even earlier than typical bedtime. And if she decided to deny me potty privileges, I’d be stuck.

Still, the day passed peacefully enough. After a short lull in chores, Violet guided me through another small task—helping her dust some shelves, always under her watchful supervision. She corrected me whenever she felt I wasn’t being thorough. “Lift the items, dust underneath.” I ended up feeling somewhat proud when she praised me for a job well done.

Finally, around 5 PM, Violet clapped her hands softly. “Okay, time to start dinner. Go wash your hands properly, then come help me in the kitchen.”

I did so, heading to the bathroom. Should I ask to use the potty again? I considered it, but the urge was still minimal. Instead, I quickly washed my hands and returned to the kitchen. She was pulling ingredients out of the fridge—chicken, vegetables, some herbs, and a box of pasta. “We’ll make a pasta dish,” she announced. “You can rinse the veggies.”

So I got to work, the mundane routine almost comforting in its normality—aside from the fact I was in a T-shirt and a crinkly pull-up, with no pants. I tried not to think too hard about it, focusing instead on the sensation of the cool water running over my hands as I rinsed mushrooms and peppers.

Violet chopped the veggies with ease, her movements swift and precise. Every so often, she glanced at me with a small smile. “You look adorable,” she remarked at one point, making me blush. “You’re such a good helper.”

A short while later, the pasta was cooking, and the chicken sizzled in a pan. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air. I set the table, placing plates, silverware, and glasses of water. She didn’t bring out the sippy cup this time, to my relief, so perhaps that was just for snacks.

By the time everything was plated, my stomach growled in anticipation. We sat down, exchanging casual conversation about our day. It was remarkable how normal it felt to just sit and eat dinner—if someone walked in without context, they might think we were a typical couple. Except for the short T-shirt which doesn't help at all to cover my pull-up… and the fact that I couldn’t go to the bathroom without explicit permission.

Toward the end of the meal, Violet asked, “So, have you thought more about any online classes you might want to take? Remember, I said you can pursue that if you like.”

I shrugged, pondering. “I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “I guess I’m still adjusting to everything— new house, new city, and, um…” I trailed off, not wanting to elaborate on the pull-up wearing or potty rules part.

She nodded. “All right, no rush. Just keep it in mind. I’d like you to do something productive with your free time.” Then she fixed me with a pointed look. “But don’t expect me to let you out of your chores, no matter what else you do.”

I smiled weakly. “Of course.”

She reached over, placing her hand atop mine. “I’m glad you’re here, William,” she said in a softer tone. “I know this is a lot, but you’re managing well, and I’m… enjoying having you around.”

My chest fluttered. That small admission of affection from her felt good, cutting through the constant embarrassment. “I’m glad too,” I whispered, meaning it in that moment.


Part 17: Preparing for the Second Night

After dinner, Violet asked me to sit with her on the couch for a bit. The day was winding down, soft evening light spilling in through the windows. She turned on the TV, flipping through channels until she found some documentary about nature— sweeping shots of forests, oceans, and wildlife.

I sat close to her, trying to soak in the comfort of these calmer moments. She draped an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned against her, feeling the warmth of her body. Despite the unusual circumstances, it was… nice.

Eventually, she muted the TV. “All right, baby,” she said gently, “time for your bath and bedtime routine.”

I swallowed, glancing at the clock. It’s only 7:30 PM. But I knew better than to argue. I stood up obediently, and she took my hand, guiding me upstairs. My pulse quickened as we entered the bathroom. I expected another quick shower, like last night—but she started running a bath instead, the water streaming into the tub with a pleasant hiss.

While the tub filled, she undressed me—slipping off my T-shirt, sliding the pull-up down. She inspected it, seeing it was still dry, which earned me a small nod of approval. Then she motioned for me to climb into the tub. The warm water enveloped me, relaxing my muscles.

“This feels good,” I admitted, letting out a small sigh.

She smiled, kneeling beside the tub. “Yes, it’s nice to have a proper soak sometimes.” Then she poured some bubble bath solution into the water, and the surface erupted in fluffy white suds. The sweet scent of lavender filled the steam.

I was half-surprised when she picked up a washcloth and began gently soaping my shoulders. I’d thought she might let me handle it. But she didn’t ask—she simply started washing me as if I were a child who needed assistance. My cheeks flushed, but the sensation was oddly comforting, almost like a nurturing caretaker’s touch.

She scrubbed my arms, my chest, under my chin. When she moved lower, I squirmed, my face almost scarlet, but she continued without hesitation. It wasn’t overtly sexual— more like thorough caretaking. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a certain heat flare in my body.

“All done,” she announced after rinsing me off with a plastic cup of warm water, draining the suds away. She unplugged the tub, waiting patiently for the water level to drop. Then she stood, retrieved a large fluffy towel, and held it out. “Up you go.”

I got out, water dripping down my legs. She wrapped the towel around me and began patting me dry. That by-now-familiar sense of helplessness returned. She was so matter-of-fact about it, as if I truly couldn’t be trusted to dry myself. Yet her gentle thoroughness made my skin tingle.

When I was sufficiently dry, she took my hand and led me to the bedroom, the towel still around my waist. On the bed was another thick diaper— of course— along with a different kind of pajama. It looked like a two-piece set, but the top had a row of buttons along the bottom hem, and the pants seemed to have a wide seat.

She noticed my confused expression. “It’s a two-piece sleeper,” she explained, “but the top buttons to the bottoms so it doesn’t ride up, and you can’t remove it without unbuttoning from the back.”

I swallowed, heart hammering. “Oh…”

She laid me on the bed, unfolding the diaper with a crisp crinkle. “Hips up,” she said softly. I complied, letting her slide it beneath me. She applied a light dusting of powder—something new—making the air smell sweet and babyish. Then she brought the thick padding up, fastening the tapes one by one. The snug fit and cushion against my thighs felt all too familiar now.

Next came the pajamas: the pants slid up my legs easily, leaving room for the bulk of the diaper. Then she tugged on the top. It fit loosely around my torso, but once she fastened the snaps along the bottom— snapping it to the waistband of the pants— everything felt secure, no chance of the top riding up to expose my diaper. A final hidden button at the back locked the pieces together.

“There,” Violet said, running her hands along my shoulders. “All set.”

I looked down at myself, seeing the childish print on the fabric—some cutesy stars and moons. I noticed how the outline of the diaper was visible, especially around my waist. She’s determined to keep me looking like a toddler at bedtime, I thought, a swirl of embarrassment and reluctant acceptance in my chest.

She then guided me to the bathroom once more for teeth-brushing. At least I can brush my own teeth, I mused, though she stood behind me, watching in the mirror to ensure I did it properly. Once done, she led me back to the bedroom and tucked me in, much like the previous night.

I nestled under the covers, the diaper crinkling between my legs. She brushed a hand across my forehead, and I found myself leaning into her touch. “Sleep well, baby,” she murmured.

“Violet,” I said softly, “um… what if I wake up and need the potty again?”

Her gaze held that mischievous glint. She blinks.

My stomach tightened. “Right…” I whispered.

She bent down, gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, and switched off the lamp. “Good night.”

Then she slipped out of the room, leaving me in the soft glow of the nightlight again. I listened to the faint click of the door, the hush settling around me. My heart pounded, both from the continuing embarrassment of being diapered by someone else and from a tentative, reluctant acceptance that this was now my daily (and nightly) reality.

Curling up, I felt the thick padding pressed between my thighs. My thoughts were a tangled web of What have I gotten myself into? mixed with I kind of… like the way she cares for me. I tried to push them aside, focusing on the gentle hum of the house until, eventually, I drifted into a dream-riddled sleep.

Part 18: A New Morning, A New Accessory

I slept somewhat fitfully on my second night in Violet’s home. The thick diaper reminded me of its presence whenever I shifted. I had drifting dreams of walking through a grocery store in nothing but a giant onesie, people staring, and I kept tugging it down, but it never covered enough. Each time I rolled over in bed, the plastic crinkled in my ears, mingling with dream images until I half-woke, then dozed off again.

When dawn finally broke, I blinked groggily at the soft light filtering through my curtains. The bedroom was cool and quiet, just that faint hum from the A/C. I stretched under the covers—only to be reminded of the diaper’s plush bulk. A wry, sleepy thought tumbled through my head: This is my life now.

And then I felt a slight twinge in my bladder. After a moment’s hesitation, I carefully tested how full it was—I could likely wait, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable. A little worry wriggled inside me: What if Violet tells me “no” again? But it was morning, after all, and she’d let me go the previous day. Maybe I’d be lucky.

I was about to call out for her when the door opened. She stepped in, looking perfectly composed as always, wearing a deep-blue satin robe. Her raven-black hair was pinned loosely at the back of her head, a few strands framing her face.

“Good morning, baby,” she said softly, crossing to my bedside. “How did we sleep?”

I started to push myself upright. “O-okay, I guess. Um, Violet—”

She bent down, pressing a gentle hand on my shoulder to keep me from getting up completely. “Let’s see,” she murmured, drawing back the covers a bit. The childishly printed two-piece pajamas came into view, the diaper bulge obvious beneath them. She lightly patted my padded front. “Mmm, still dry,” she observed.

My cheeks warmed. I keep feeling like a toddler who’s done something praiseworthy just by staying dry. But the flicker of relief was real: at least I hadn’t had an accident.

“I… need to use the bathroom,” I said softly, mustering the courage to admit it. “May I please use the potty?”

She gave me an appraising look, then smiled. “Yes, you may.” She reached behind me, feeling for that hidden button at my back. A quick pop and the top half of my pajamas came loose from the pants, though the snap-line at the waist still kept everything snug. She eased the top off first, then unbuttoned the pants along the back so she could slide them down. The diaper was on full display now.

I squirmed a bit, anxious, as she tugged the tapes loose, carefully peeling the front away. She rolled it up, apparently satisfied it was still fresh. “Good boy,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. Then she guided me off the bed by the hand. “Let’s go.”

We walked the short distance to the upstairs bathroom—her leading, me following in just a T-shirt tossed over my shoulders for modesty. Despite the rush I felt, she insisted on controlling every step. In the bathroom, she gestured to the toilet. “Go ahead.”

I sat down, my face burning as she lingered, arms folded. The tension in my bladder finally released, and I exhaled shakily, hyper-conscious of her presence. After I finished, she passed me toilet paper, then watched me wipe. It was so routine now, yet every bit as embarrassing as the first time.

Flushing, I rose, only to notice she held something in her hand—something plastic, a pale pastel color. It had an unmistakable shape: a pacifier.

My stomach flipped. “What… what’s that for?”

She ran the pad of her thumb over the silicone nipple. “For you,” she said calmly, as if it were obvious. “I was thinking you might need something to help you relax at night, or during stressful times. I’ve noticed how restless you’ve been. This can be soothing.”

I stared, unable to form words for a moment. A pacifier? It was such a blatant symbol of infancy. Diapers were one thing (well, a big thing), but this was another leap. The idea of having a pacifier in my mouth, at nineteen, under her watchful gaze… my cheeks heated so much I thought I’d faint.

“Violet,” I mumbled, “that’s— that’s for babies.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’re my baby,” she said, stepping closer. “And I think it’ll do you good.”

Before I could protest, she held it up near my lips. I instinctively turned my head away, but she only chuckled. “Don’t be shy.” One hand cupped my chin, guiding my face gently but firmly back toward her. Then she pressed the soft nipple against my mouth.

My heart pounded. I felt a jolt of mingled embarrassment and… curiosity? The silicone felt smooth against my lips. She waited, calm and composed, until I parted them just enough for her to slip it in.

“There we go,” she cooed, her tone so patronizing it made me squirm. “Isn’t that nice?”

The pacifier’s shield covered my lips. I didn’t even know how to suck on it properly, but the gentle pressure did create an odd, soothing sensation in my mouth. I stood there, uncertain whether to spit it out. But she looked so pleased.

“Now,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze, “let’s get you properly dressed for the day, shall we?”


Part 19: Morning Dressing, Pacifier Included

She led me back to my bedroom, the pacifier still in my mouth. I tried to speak around it, finding my words muffled. “Vwolett,” I mumbled, cheeks burning. “Dis is so… embawasing.”

She turned, smiling at my mumbling lisp. “Aw, can’t talk properly with your paci in? I guess that’s part of the point.”

I almost spat it out right then, but something about the twinkle in her eye and the subtle comfort in my mouth made me hesitate. Do I secretly like this? The swirl of conflicting emotions was almost dizzying.

On the bed lay a fresh pull-up, a pair of short, jersey-knit pants—like sweat-shorts—and a childish T-shirt with a cartoon giraffe printed on the chest. She patted the mattress. “Lie down, sweetie.”

I perched on the edge, pacifier still bobbing involuntarily between my lips. The crinkle of plastic drew my attention as she unfolded the pull-up. Same brand, I noted gloomily, seeing the playful pattern around the waistband. She urged me to lift my hips, slipping the padding up into place. I let out a shaky breath at the familiar snugness.

Next, she helped me into the T-shirt, tugging it gently down my arms. It ended a bit above my waist, barely meeting the top of the pull-up. Then came the sweat-shorts, which were soft and comfortable… but not especially baggy. The faint outline of the padded underwear was still noticeable.

She stepped back, hands on her hips, and surveyed me with a critical eye. “There,” she declared. “You look adorable.” Then, with a purposeful motion, she reached up and eased the pacifier from my mouth. A thin line of my spit clung to it for a second, making me flush with self-consciousness.

She slipped it into a small plastic case she pulled from her pocket. “I’ll keep this close by,” she said, tapping it. “If I decide you need it, or you get fussy, we’ll pop it back in.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, swallowing the wave of embarrassment. “Yes… okay.”

“Now,” she continued brightly, as though it were the most normal conversation in the world, “time for breakfast. Then we have a few errands. And I’m thinking we might meet one of my friends for lunch. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

My stomach lurched. Meeting a friend? “Uh… in these clothes?” I asked, voice trembling.

She shrugged as though it were obvious. “Yes, of course. Why not?”

I wanted to scream because I’m wearing a pull-up, and a childish T-shirt, and you just had a pacifier in my mouth! But I couldn’t bring myself to argue. She seemed set on it, and part of me dreaded what would happen if I put up a fight—she’d likely double down. So I only nodded, heart pounding. “Sure,” I whispered.


Part 20: Breakfast Tensions

Downstairs, Violet whipped up scrambled eggs with spinach and a side of toast. I sat at the kitchen table, the faint crinkle of the pull-up an ever-present reminder that I was one question away from wearing something even more babyish. Meanwhile, the memory of the pacifier lingered, sending pink heat to my cheeks each time I imagined it.

She brought a mug of coffee for herself and, to my surprise, set a regular glass of orange juice in front of me—no sippy cup. I felt a flicker of relief. But when I lifted it to my lips, I noticed how closely she was watching. Probably making sure I don’t spill, I realized.

We ate in relative silence at first. At length, Violet looked at me. “Don’t look so anxious, baby. My friend, Clara, is very sweet. She’ll be happy to meet you.”

I froze, nearly dropping my fork. “You told her about… me?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

A mysterious smile curved on Violet’s lips. “Some things, yes. Clara knows I have a ‘special arrangement’ with a younger man. She doesn’t know every detail, but she’s aware I’m in charge.” She leaned forward, swirling her coffee in its mug. “She might tease you a bit, but she won’t judge harshly— not if you behave.”

My stomach twisted. The idea of someone else seeing me in such a dependent, childlike role… This is going to be humiliating. But I also felt a strange flicker of— was it excitement? The taboo of it, the vulnerability, the knowledge that I had no choice.

I swallowed, picking at my eggs. “Okay,” I said quietly.

Violet reached across the table and patted my hand. “That’s my good boy. Just remember our rules, be polite, and if you need the potty, you ask. No matter who’s around, you come to me.”

I nodded, my face burning at the reminder. “Yes, Violet.”

She cast me a satisfied look, then returned to her breakfast. Afterward, as I cleared the plates to the sink and rinsed them, I couldn’t quell the trembling in my hands. I’m meeting her friend… dressed like this… wearing a pull-up…


Part 21: A Quick Chore, A Quick Lesson

Before we left the house, Violet told me to vacuum the living room rug. “It’ll be quick,” she said. “Think of it as practice in keeping the house spick and span.”

So I fetched the vacuum. As I worked, Violet sat on the couch, occasionally leaning forward to point out a spot I missed. Each time she did, I felt a little surge of frustration—I can see that, I’m not blind—but I bit my tongue, recalling that she didn’t tolerate backtalk well.

At one point, I had to crouch down to get the vacuum cord from under the coffee table, and the movement caused the waistband of my pull-up to show above my shorts. Violet let out a small, amused hum. “Careful there, baby,” she teased. “Wouldn’t want your diaper to peek out for everyone to see.”

My cheeks blazed. I hurriedly stood, tugging my T-shirt down. “It’s not a diaper, it’s—” I began, then clamped my mouth shut. Her expression told me to watch my tone.

“All right, maybe not a full diaper,” she said gently, “but it’s close enough, isn’t it?”

I sank into silence, finishing the vacuuming under her watchful eye. When I was done, she turned off the TV, stood, and clapped her hands as though summoning a child. “Time to get going. And remember, if you need the potty at any time, you come find me.”

I managed a nod, my stomach twisting. Here we go.


Part 22: The Drive and the Pacifier’s Return

We stepped outside, the mid-morning sun bright overhead. Violet opened the back door of her car. The booster seat still sat there, a silent reminder of my new standing. Wordlessly, I climbed in, my face heating as she buckled me. Although I was nineteen, everything I did reinforced that I wasn’t treated like an adult.

As Violet walked around to the driver’s seat, I gazed at the suburban street. No neighbors were out, thankfully. The engine started, and we pulled away from the curb. I tried to quell the anxious flutter in my chest—what would Clara be like?

Violet glanced in the rearview mirror. “Relax, baby,” she said soothingly. “It’ll be fine.”

I tried to nod, swallowing hard. “Where are we meeting her?”

“A little café downtown,” she replied. “It’s cozy, not too crowded this time of day.”

A pang of relief moved through me: At least it’s not a fancy restaurant. But the relief was short-lived.

“Open that compartment beside you,” she instructed, pointing to a small compartment built into the interior of the car door.

Puzzled, I did so. Inside lay a pastel plastic case, the same one from earlier. My heart skipped— the pacifier.

She caught my eye in the mirror. “Take it out, please.”

My hand trembled as I lifted the small case. I popped it open, revealing the pacifier nestled inside. The pastel color and babyish design made my stomach churn. “Why… why do you need me to hold it?” I asked shakily.

She smiled calmly, turning down a street that led toward downtown. “Just so it’s handy if you get fussy. Or if I decide you need a little quiet time.”

I stared at it, swallowing. Part of me wanted to throw it out the window in defiance, but I knew better. I closed the case again, holding it in my lap. The plastic edges felt cool under my fingers. Is she really going to make me suck on it in front of her friend? I tried not to dwell on that horrifying possibility.


Part 23: Meeting Clara

We arrived at the café—a cute little place with a quaint façade and outdoor seating under umbrellas. It looked relaxed. Nonetheless, my pulse pounded in my ears when Violet unbuckled me from the booster seat. She took my hand as we walked to the entrance, my pull-up crinkling faintly with each step. Please let no one hear…

She led me inside. The ambient chatter of a few patrons, the gentle clink of dishes, and the aroma of coffee beans enveloped me. At a small table near the window, a woman stood to greet us. She was tall—not quite as tall as Violet, but still much taller than me, with cropped blonde hair and a warm smile.

“Hey, you,” Clara said to Violet, exchanging a quick, friendly hug. Then she turned to me, her gaze flicking up and down, noting my stature, my childish T-shirt. She didn’t visibly laugh or recoil—her eyes were more curious, a slight crinkle at the corners. “So this is William.”

Violet nodded, her hand still firmly on my shoulder. “Yes, this is my sweet boy.” She said it so casually. I felt my cheeks burn.

Clara extended a hand. “Hi, William. I’ve heard some about you. Nice to meet you in person.”

I managed a shaky smile, taking her hand. “H-hello,” I said softly, noting how small my hand looked in hers.

She smiled kindly. “Well, let’s sit. I went ahead and ordered some drinks, Violet. I guessed you’d want a latte. And I got an orange juice for you, William. Hope that’s okay.”

I nodded, still too nervous to form many words. We all sat— Violet next to me, Clara across. The chairs were normal, thank goodness, but I perched awkwardly, trying to ignore the thick padding under my shorts. I spotted the drinks on the table: a latte, a black coffee for Clara, and a tall glass of OJ for me.

Clara and Violet chatted easily at first—some work updates, neighborhood gossip, general friend stuff. I mostly sipped my orange juice in silence. Clara occasionally glanced my way, as if gauging how comfortable I was.

“So,” Clara said after a few minutes, her tone friendly, “how’re you liking our city so far, William? Must be a change from your hometown.”

I cleared my throat. “It’s nice. I’m still, um, getting used to it,” I admitted, picking my words carefully. “Only been here a couple of days.”

Clara nodded. “Yeah, it takes time. But you’ll settle in. You have a good guide.” She tilted her chin toward Violet, smiling.

Violet placed a hand on my knee. I tensed, but she just gave it a small pat. “He’s being such a good boy, learning the ropes,” she said pointedly. That phrase—good boy—in front of Clara made my stomach flip. “We’ve got our little rules and routines. Right, baby?”

I wanted to disappear. My mouth felt dry despite the OJ. “Y-yes, ma’am,” I mumbled.

Clara observed me with mild amusement, her eyebrow raised. “He does seem… obedient,” she remarked, looking at Violet. “You’ve trained him well.”

I nearly choked on my juice at the word trained, but Violet just gave a small, self-satisfied smile. “Indeed.”

They continued talking about random topics: the café’s decor, a new restaurant that had opened, etc. Occasionally, Clara would direct a question at me— “So, William, do you have any hobbies?” —and I’d answer as best I could, all the while painfully aware of the pull-up rustling whenever I shifted in my seat.

At some point, Violet glanced at me, noticing how tense I was. She reached into her purse—my eyes widened, heart racing. Is she going to pull out the pacifier? Instead, she just produced some small wipes and offered them to me. “You’ve got a little orange juice on your lip,” she said sweetly. “Wipe up, baby.”

I was sure my lip was clean, but I dabbed it anyway. Clara smiled behind her coffee cup, shaking her head in amused disbelief. If she found this dynamic strange, she didn’t say so outright—maybe she was just used to Violet’s controlling personality.


Part 24: Potty Tension in Public

We were halfway through the meeting—Clara had ordered a scone to share between them, offering me a bit, which I nibbled at politely—when I felt a pang in my bladder. Not now, I thought, dread flooding me. We’d been sitting there for a while, and I’d consumed quite a bit of orange juice. But I can’t just get up and go… I have to ask Violet.

My face burned at the realization. In front of Clara too?

I tried to hold it in, crossing my legs under the table. A few minutes passed, the conversation drifting around me, but I was too focused on the growing pressure in my abdomen. Eventually, I couldn’t ignore it. My eyes flicked to Violet, who was in the middle of telling Clara some anecdote about a coworker.

I waited for a lull. When Violet paused, I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice, praying Clara wouldn’t hear. “Violet?” I whispered. “May I… may I please use the potty?”

She gave me a brief sideways glance, a subtle smirk forming at the edge of her lips. “I’m sorry, dear, what was that?” she said, more loudly than I wanted.

I flushed deeper. She’s doing this on purpose. “May I p-please go to the bathroom?” I repeated, voice trembling.

Clara’s eyes flicked our way. I caught her curious expression, a slight arch of her brow, and I wanted to sink under the table.

Violet set down her cup. “Hmm,” she said, as though seriously considering. “I suppose so.” She stood, adjusting her tall frame, then looked at Clara. “We’ll be right back.”

Clara nodded, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. “Take your time.”

Violet placed a hand on my shoulder, guiding me to stand. We maneuvered past a few tables, the eyes of other patrons occasionally glancing our way. I felt every step, worried the faint crinkle of my pull-up might be audible. Surely not in a busy café, I told myself.

We entered the single-stall restroom—a decent-sized space with a locked door. I breathed a sigh of relief once it was just the two of us. “Thank you,” I murmured, cheeks still aflame.

Violet smirked. “Pants down,” she said, reaching for the waistband of my shorts.

I cringed at her wording— pants down— but I complied, letting her tug them below my hips, revealing the pull-up with its colorful designs. She slipped her fingers under the edges, checking for dryness. “All good,” she said softly. “Let’s get this off.”

She slid the pull-up down, then motioned for me to sit on the toilet. “Hurry up, baby, we can’t leave Clara waiting too long,” she teased, arms folded.

The pressure in my bladder all but forced me to go, so I quickly did my business. The whole time, I could feel the swirl of shame in my gut—adult men don’t usually get escorted to the bathroom by their girlfriends. They don’t have to ask permission. But here I was, living this new reality.

When I finished, she handed me a bit of toilet paper, watched me wipe, then pulled the pull-up back up and set my shorts in place. A fleeting pang of gratitude hit me that it was still dry—an accident here would have been next-level humiliation.

“That’s it,” she purred softly, giving me a little pat on the front of my shorts. “Now wash your hands.”

I did so, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. My face was bright red, and the tension in my shoulders was evident. Is this who I am now? The question rung hollow. For better or worse, I’d chosen to be here. Something about it was undeniably thrilling, even if it was drowned in embarrassment.


Part 25: The Pacifier’s Sudden Use

We headed back to the table. Clara glanced up, smiling politely. “Everything all right?”

Violet nodded, taking her seat. “Yes, just a quick little pit stop.” She gave my hand a squeeze as I settled. “I think we’ll be off soon—maybe pick up a few things before heading home.”

Clara tossed me a kind look. “Sounds good. It was nice meeting you, William.” Then, to Violet, “I’ll call you tomorrow about that other matter, all right?”

They wrapped up their conversation while I stared at my half-empty glass of orange juice, trying to calm my fluttering nerves. After a few more minutes, we stood to say our goodbyes. Clara gave me a quick hug, which startled me—I barely reached her chest. She ruffled my hair in a joking, affectionate way. “Be good for Violet,” she teased, winking.

I managed a faint smile. “Y-yes,” I said.

With that, we stepped out onto the sidewalk, the midday sun warmer now. We headed back to the car. My insides still felt shaky from the stress of that encounter. Violet opened the back door, let me climb onto the booster seat, and started to buckle me in. Then, without warning, she reached into the compartment, retrieved the pacifier, and pressed it to my lips.

I gave a small, muffled squeak. “Mmf—!”

She smoothly guided the nipple between my lips, snapping the harness across my chest so I couldn’t easily reach up to remove it without some difficulty. “Shh,” she said firmly. “You’re all worked up. This will help you calm down.”

I stared at her, eyes wide. She touched a fingertip to the front of the pacifier. “Don’t spit it out.” Her voice was light, but there was an underlying steel in it.

My cheeks were on fire. We were in a public parking space outside the café. Anyone walking by could see me sucking on a pacifier in a booster seat. But the more I struggled, the more attention we might draw. So I sat there, breath shallow, face burning, the plastic shield resting against my lips.

Violet shut the door, rounded the car, and got in the driver’s seat. She took a moment to start the engine, glancing at me in the mirror with a satisfied smirk. “That’s better,” she said softly as she pulled out of the lot.

I slumped in the booster seat, eyes fixed on the passing scenery, the pacifier bobbing gently in my mouth every time the car hit a bump. The sensation was surreal, humiliating, yet… I felt a curious wave of forced relaxation. With something in my mouth, I couldn’t voice my protests. And maybe, in a twisted way, that was easier than arguing. The faint, rhythmic sucking lulled me into a strange calm.


Part 26: Shopping Stop

After a short drive, Violet pulled into the parking lot of a little grocery store—different from the one we’d visited the previous day. She parked, turned off the engine, and turned to me. “Stay put,” she said, “I’ll come around.”

I was about to yank the pacifier out, but her sharp glance stopped me. Instead, I waited, face hot, feeling the harness snug across my chest. She opened the back door, unbuckled me, and in one motion plucked the pacifier from my mouth and slipped it into its case.

“There,” she murmured, patting my cheek. “Now, let’s do a quick run for some dinner ingredients.”

I swallowed the knot of embarrassment. “Yes, Violet.” My voice felt shaky.

Hand in hand, we entered the store. The overhead lights and the cool blast of air-conditioning greeted us. I scanned the aisles, praying I wouldn’t see anyone from the café. We collected a few items—fresh veggies, some seasoning, a pack of chicken thighs. She also picked up some personal items: shampoo, a scented lotion, and to my utter mortification, a pack of adult diapers with cutesy prints.

I froze when she placed it in the cart. “Violet,” I whispered urgently, “people can see that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And so what? We need them, don’t we?”

My mouth opened and closed wordlessly. She just kept walking, pushing the cart calmly. A couple of passersby gave a cursory glance at the items in the cart, but no one made a scene. Still, I felt my face burning.

The checkout line was short, but each second felt like an eternity. The cashier, an older woman, didn’t bat an eye at the diaper pack, scanning it with the same neutral expression as everything else. Violet slid her card, completed the purchase, and that was that. All that worry for nothing, I thought, yet my heart hammered the entire time.

Once outside and back at the car, Violet loaded the groceries into the trunk. Then she turned to me. “Open,” she said, holding the pacifier case.

I stiffened, glancing around nervously. The parking lot had people coming and going. “Please, Violet,” I whispered, “not here?”

She gave me a stern look, stepping closer so only I could hear. “Are you saying no?”

I felt that wave of dread again. “N-no,” I said, swallowing. I can’t risk defiance.

She opened the case, pressed the silicone nipple between my lips again. “We have a short drive,” she said, almost a croon. “You’ll be fine.”

Resigned, I climbed into the booster seat with the pacifier in my mouth. She buckled me in, a look of satisfaction on her face. I hated that part of me was already starting to go along with it without much fight. Maybe I was too overwhelmed to resist. Or maybe, somewhere deep, I craved that controlling comfort.


Part 27: Afternoon at Home—A Pacifier Rule

We got home without any further incidents. Violet carried the groceries; I followed behind, self-consciously pressing the pacifier to keep it from falling. Once inside, she pulled it from my lips, letting me take a shaky breath of relief.

“All right,” she said brightly, “let’s unpack these groceries, then we’ll figure out dinner plans.”

As we placed items in the fridge and cabinets, I couldn’t help but notice the new diaper pack sitting on the counter, the childish designs smiling up at me from the packaging. A swirl of dread—and a strange sense of acceptance—twirled in my belly. So that’s my nighttime supply, I guess.

Violet had me put away the fresh produce. She stored the chicken in the fridge. Then, as I was about to toss the empty grocery bags, she tapped my shoulder. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Let’s set some new rules regarding your pacifier.”

My cheeks prickled. “My… pacifier rules?” I asked, setting the bags aside.

She nodded, arms crossed. “Yes. I think it’s going to be a permanent item in your daily routine. So I want you to know when to expect it.” She tilted her head, regarding me. “First, if I say you’re fussy, or if you’re anxious, or whining, I’ll pop it in. No arguing. Understood?”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Yes, Violet.”

“Second, you’ll use it in the car from now on. It helps keep you calm, and I’d rather you not talk my ear off or complain about needing the restroom. If you need the potty, you can signal me in some other way,” she added, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

I nearly gaped. “So every car ride, I have to—?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. Problem?” Her tone warned me that I’d better not object.

I closed my mouth, feeling my face burn. “No,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said. “And third, at bedtime, you’ll keep it in unless you’re asleep. If I come check and it’s out of your mouth, I’ll assume you were fussing and put it back in.”

My heart thudded. She’s basically babying me in every possible way now. But I managed a nod. “All right.”

Violet patted my cheek softly, then gave me a small approving smile. “You’re doing so well,” she cooed. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

Despite the swirl of humiliation, a trickle of warmth spread in my chest at her praise. The conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm me: I should be outraged, but a part of me craved that affectionate affirmation.


Part 28: Afternoon Chores

With the groceries put away, Violet directed me to dust the downstairs bookshelves while she sorted through her laptop in the living room. I could hear her typing away, likely checking work emails or setting up a meeting. Meanwhile, I tried to lose myself in the repetitive act of dusting each shelf, each row of books, each photo frame.

But the peace didn’t last. Soon enough, I felt the need to pee again— the juice, plus the short timespan since I last went. I paused, uncertain if I should go interrupt her or finish the chore first. My bladder twinged, and I decided not to risk it. I set the duster down and padded over to where she sat.

She glanced up, noticing my shift in posture. “Yes?”

I swallowed, cheeks already warming. “Violet, may I please use the potty?”

A thoughtful look passed across her face. She eyed her laptop screen. “I’m in the middle of something. Give me a few minutes, okay? Then I’ll take you.”

I pressed my thighs together slightly. “But—”

She raised a finger. “No complaints, William.”

The use of my first name, rather than “baby,” signaled her seriousness. I felt frustration rise but forced it down. “Yes, Violet,” I whispered.

I returned to the shelves, dusting with tense motions. My bladder nagged, each minute ticking by painfully. I threw anxious glances at Violet, who remained engrossed in her screen. Five minutes, seven minutes… My toes curled in my socks, trying not to squirm too obviously.

Finally, she clicked something, closed her laptop, and stood. “Okay, let’s go,” she said as though no time had passed.

My relief was tangible. I followed her upstairs to the bathroom, trying not to hop from foot to foot. She motioned for me to stand still while she tugged down my shorts and the pull-up. It was blessedly still dry— though only just. She directed me onto the toilet.

The rush of relief was immediate and overwhelming. “Oh thank God,” I breathed, wincing at how loud that came out. Violet only chuckled softly. When I finished, she helped me wipe, then pulled the pull-up back in place, a gentle pat on the front.

“All done,” she said sweetly. “Good boy. See? You can hold it if you try.”

I mustered a small nod. Barely. My cheeks were still warm, but at least I’d avoided an accident. I recalled the humiliating partial accidents I’d had, and I silently vowed to keep them to a minimum—though I suspected Violet might prefer me having them.


Part 29: Early Evening and a Surprise Pacifier Check

The afternoon wound down quietly. Violet let me watch TV for a bit—some cartoons, ironically—while she finished her work in her office. I found myself lost in the colors and silly humor, part of me almost appreciating the carefree distraction. The day had been packed: from meeting Clara to public potty breaks to more pacifier rules.

Around 5:00 PM, Violet emerged. “We’ll do dinner soon,” she announced, “but first, let’s go upstairs. I want to check if your pull-up is still clean.”

I obediently turned off the TV and followed her. I guess I don’t get to say no, I thought with a resigned sigh. In my bedroom, she turned me to face her, gently tugging my shorts down to my knees. The pull-up’s designs were still vibrant and un-faded—a sign of dryness. She gave a small nod.

“Very good,” she praised. “All right, you can pull your shorts back up— for now.”

I felt a twist of anxiety at those last two words. ‘For now’? But I refrained from asking.

We went downstairs. Violet set about preparing dinner—roasted vegetables with rice and a savory sauce. She gave me small tasks again: chopping, stirring, fetching ingredients. The normalcy of it felt surreal against the backdrop of the day’s babying routines.

As the food cooked, Violet turned to me suddenly. “Pacifier,” she said, holding out her hand.

I blinked. “Huh?”

Her smile was sweet but commanding. “We’re home, you’ve been fidgety, and I want you calmer. Go get it from your room. Bring it to me.”

My stomach flipped. “But… I’m not fussing,” I said meekly.

Her eyebrows rose. “William.”

I swallowed, nodded, and hurried upstairs. The pacifier case rested on my nightstand. I picked it up, heart pounding. She’s literally making me fetch my own pacifier… Sucking in a breath, I headed back to the kitchen, where she stood with an expectant look.

She tapped the case. “Open it,” she directed.

Hands shaking, I opened it. The soft pastel pacifier glinted under the overhead light. She plucked it out, then gently pressed it to my lips. I parted them, feeling the silicone slide in, the shield resting on my mouth. My cheeks felt hot as she gazed at me with approval.

“There,” she said softly. “Keep it in while I finish dinner. No talking.”

I wanted to protest— I can talk just fine!— but the firm glint in her eyes silenced me. Instead, I gave a small nod, cheeks aflame. I have to stand here sucking a pacifier while she cooks. Despite the churn of humiliation, I also felt the odd, calming effect creeping in. The slow, rhythmic sucking of the pacifier forced me to focus on my breathing, letting tension ebb.


Part 30: Dinner with a Pacifier on Standby

When the meal was ready, Violet plated the food and guided me to the kitchen table. She removed the pacifier from my mouth before I sat, placing it beside my plate. “Just keep it handy,” she said. “If you get fussy or talk back, I’ll pop it in again.”

I swallowed, nodding. The meal smelled delicious—roasted peppers, onions, and zucchini, all in a savory sauce over rice. My mouth watered. We ate quietly at first. Occasionally, Violet reached over to gently wipe a stray bit of sauce from my lip, or remind me to take smaller bites. Part of me bristled— I’m not that messy!— but I held my tongue.

Eventually, we fell into small talk: the errands we’d run, the tasks for tomorrow. She asked if I wanted to explore any online classes. I gave a noncommittal shrug, saying I hadn’t decided. She nodded, not pressing the issue.

“You’re adjusting well,” she noted, giving me a level look. “I know it can’t be easy. But I see you trying.”

I felt a wave of emotion—her recognition meant a lot. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at the pacifier lying near my fork. “It’s… definitely new. But I’m… I’m trying to be good for you,” I admitted, voice trembling slightly.

Her eyes softened. “I appreciate that, baby.” Then she resumed eating. “After dinner, we’ll do a little laundry. Then it’ll be bath time.”

I opened my mouth to ask if I had to bathe so early—but the pacifier on the table reminded me to keep quiet. I simply nodded. “Okay,” I said softly.


Part 31: Laundry and a Close Call

When we finished dinner, Violet had me clear the dishes while she started the washing machine. After tidying the kitchen, I joined her in the laundry room, where she was sorting clothes. A small hamper of my newly worn pull-ups and pajamas sat at the side. I guess this is my new pile, I thought, face warming.

We loaded the machine together. She carefully showed me how to measure detergent— “No messing up my good clothes,” she teased. Then we moved to the dryer, which held the load she’d started earlier. She pulled out a warm pile of linens and handed them to me. “Fold these.”

Obediently, I sank onto the living-room floor, setting the pile down to fold each towel and sheet. The warmth and fresh scent of fabric softener was soothing— for a moment, it distracted me from my predicament. Violet crouched beside me, occasionally re-folding something I did incorrectly, but mostly letting me do it.

Then the dryer buzzer went off, making me jump slightly. Violet chuckled. “Sensitive?” she teased. She rose, walking toward the laundry room. As she did, her phone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket. “Let me take this,” she said over her shoulder, stepping out of sight.

I continued folding, but soon enough, the subtle urge in my bladder returned. I squirmed, glancing around. I have to ask for permission… but she’s on a phone call. My heart thumped. Should I interrupt her? Should I wait? My mind raced— if I intrude on her call, she might get annoyed. But waiting risked an accident.

Minutes ticked by. The pressure grew. Okay, I need to find her, I decided. Better than an accident. Setting the half-folded towel aside, I hurried to the laundry room doorway. She stood inside, phone to her ear, looking mildly irritated as she listened. Some work issue, probably.

I hesitated, not wanting to speak while she was on the call. She saw me and pointed sharply to the living room, as if telling me to wait. I swallowed, nodding, stepping back. My bladder protested. Come on, come on…

Another few minutes crawled by, me pacing in the living room. I pressed my thighs together, cursing the fact that I couldn’t just run to the bathroom. At last, I heard her hang up. She reappeared, eyebrows raised. “What is it, William?”

My cheeks burned, a wave of desperation making me blurt, “Violet, may I please use the potty? I really need to go!”

She sighed, glancing at her phone screen again. “All right,” she said, somewhat curt. “Let’s go, quickly. I have another call soon.”

Relief flooded me. She marched me upstairs at a brisk pace, into the bathroom, and immediately tugged my shorts and pull-up down in one motion. “Hurry up,” she said, her tone impatient, as though I were the one causing an inconvenience.

I plopped onto the toilet, exhaling in relief as I let go. The sound of it hitting the water was embarrassingly loud. Violet tapped her foot, arms folded, giving off the vibe that I was holding up her schedule. When I finished, she thrust toilet paper into my hand, guided me to wipe, then pulled the pull-up back in place.

“Done,” she announced. “Now, back downstairs. I need to finish that laundry, and then it’s bath time.”

I followed, cheeks still warm, but relieved I’d avoided a real accident. This is so strange, I thought, my heart hammering. I’m thankful just to be allowed to use the bathroom.


Part 32: Night Two with a Pacifier

Laundry done, Violet didn’t waste time. She took me upstairs, directing me to the bathroom for a bath—apparently, this was becoming a ritual. The tub filled with warm water, and she added bubble bath again, the lavender scent wafting around.

She stripped me of my T-shirt, pulled down the pull-up—still dry—and guided me into the water. As she had the previous night, she used a washcloth to thoroughly bathe me. I squirmed, half-embarrassed, half soothed by her gentle motions. The water lapped at my hips, steam curling in the overhead light.

At one point, she paused, setting the washcloth aside. She reached into her robe pocket, withdrawing the pacifier. Without a word, she slipped it into my mouth. My cheeks flared, but I didn’t resist. Sitting in a bubble bath, wearing nothing but a pacifier…

“There we go, baby,” she cooed. “Just relax.”

And so I lay back, letting her rinse the soap from my hair, the pacifier bobbing rhythmically with my breathing. The tension of the day melted into the warm water. A small part of my mind whispered that this was dangerously relaxing— I was getting used to it. Yet I couldn’t help the calm that settled over me.

After she drained the tub, she helped me out, towel-dried me, and led me to my bedroom. On the bed awaited a new diaper from that pack we’d bought, its pastel designs bright and playful, along with a footed sleeper in a soft cotton, pale blue, with little bears printed along the arms.

She patted the bed. I lay down, and she taped me into the diaper—a process now so practiced I barely had to think about it. The tapes snug at my hips, the padding thick beneath me. Powder dusted across my skin. Then she guided me into the sleeper, zipping it up the back. With a deft motion, she slipped the pacifier from my mouth just long enough to slip the high collar over my head, then put it right back in.

I sat there, looking up at her, heart pounding. “Mmf,” I tried to speak around it, then spat it out with difficulty. “Violet, I… I can’t talk with that in.”

She picked it up from where it fell onto my chest, pressing it back to my lips. “Precisely,” she whispered. “You don’t need to talk right now. Just let me finish.”

I blushed, opening my mouth to accept it again. She sealed the little snap over the zipper at the back, effectively trapping me in the sleeper. Once done, she stroked my cheek, gazing down at me in that mixture of tender and triumphant. “All set for bed,” she said softly. “My baby boy, all snug.”

She tucked me into the covers.

My stomach knotted, recalling how just last night I’d worried the same thing. She leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead. “Don’t stay up fretting,” she said. “I’ll be right next door. Good night, baby.”

“Good night,” I whispered, cheeks still hot. She slipped the pacifier back between my lips, turned off the lamp, and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

And so I lay there, swaddled in childish pajamas, thickly diapered, a pacifier in my mouth. My mind whirled with the day’s events— meeting Clara, enduring public potty breaks, enduring the pacifier in the car, the repeated checks on my pull-up. Now, again, I was caged in a diaper with no option to remove it.

Still, as I sucked softly on the pacifier, a wave of drowsiness rolled over me. My eyelids grew heavy. Maybe… maybe this is okay, I thought dimly. Maybe I can accept it. In that odd haze of humiliation and comfort, I drifted off.
 

Part 33: Morning Discoveries

Sunlight crept through the curtains, and I awoke still cocooned in my footed sleeper, the pacifier resting against my lips. The night had passed without incident, but my bladder now ached for release. As my mind rose from the fog of sleep, I felt the thick diaper snug between my legs—a silent reminder of Violet’s rules.

I spat the pacifier out gently, letting it dangle from its ribbon (she’d clipped one onto the collar of my sleeper at some point last night) and shifted under the blankets. No leaks, I thought with relief, pressing a hand to the front of the diaper.

Within minutes, Violet appeared at the door. Her presence never failed to make my pulse jump a little. She wore a loose robe, hair pulled into a neat ponytail, and she exuded confidence as always. Stepping to my bedside, she unfastened the snap over the sleeper’s zipper.

“Morning, baby,” she said, undoing the zip with efficient hands. “Did you stay dry?”

I nodded, my cheeks warming at the babyish question. “Yes,” I whispered. She looked pleased, tugging the sleeper down to expose the diaper. Her fingertips grazed it, checking for dampness, then she pulled the tapes open.

“Good,” she praised. “Let’s get you onto the potty, then we’ll see about breakfast.”

I followed her to the bathroom, the plush carpet soft beneath my feet. She motioned me to the toilet. We didn’t need to exchange any further words; I was used to the routine by now. I sat, she waited. Once done, she handed me toilet paper and let me flush. It was a relief to have that moment of normalcy—even though she was overseeing every step.

Back in the bedroom, she handed me a fresh pull-up and paused to watch as I slid it up my legs. Usually, she’d put it on me herself, but this time she allowed me the small task, perhaps seeing that I was more compliant. Then she selected my outfit: a simple pair of denim shorts, snap buttons at the hips, and a striped T-shirt. Childish enough to remind me I wasn’t in charge, but less blatantly babyish than the shortalls from before.

“Downstairs,” she said lightly. “We’ll eat and plan the day.”


Part 34: A Tense Breakfast

In the kitchen, she served toast, scrambled eggs, and fruit. I sat quietly, sipping from a regular cup (she seemed in a lenient mood). She, meanwhile, checked something on her phone, her eyebrows knitting.

“Everything all right?” I ventured, setting my juice down.

She gave a slight shrug. “Work is persistent,” she said. “I might have to take a call or two today. But otherwise, we’ll stick to our usual routine.”

I nodded, nibbling at my breakfast. We made small talk—about the weather, the neighbor’s noisy dog, random bits. A part of me was grateful for the normalcy, even if I sat there in a pull-up, thoroughly under her control.

We finished eating, and I helped clear the table. Then she set a small list of chores for me—vacuuming the upstairs hall, wiping down counters, and collecting the trash. It was the sort of domestic to-do list you’d give a teenager on summer break, though the difference was, I couldn’t leave or do anything else without her say-so.

While I worked, she retreated to her study, likely for those work calls. I heard her voice drifting down the hall occasionally, firm and businesslike, a slight contrast to the nurturing dominance she showed me. By late morning, I had finished the tasks she assigned. She briefly inspected my work, pointed out a spot or two I’d missed, then rewarded me with a small pat on the head. Oddly satisfying, I admitted inwardly, hating how I found comfort in her approval.


Part 35: Midday Calm

Around noon, the day had grown warm, so she suggested we enjoy some fresh air in the backyard. She opened the sliding door, the yard bright under the sun. I followed, feeling the short grass tickle my ankles as we walked. The fence provided privacy, so I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder.

We sat at the patio table for a while, sipping cool water and occasionally chatting. After a bit, she had me gather some overgrown clippings from the small herb garden, handing me a pair of scissors with a playful warning— “Don’t snip your fingers, baby.” I felt my face grow hot, but I did the task carefully.

Just as we were getting comfortable in the shade, Violet’s phone rang again. She glanced at the screen, exhaled in mild irritation, and stood. “Work. I’ll be inside taking this.”

She left me alone on the patio, phone pressed to her ear. I relaxed, leaning back in the chair, letting the sun warm my face. The gentle hush of distant traffic, the chirp of birds—it was almost peaceful. My thoughts drifted, replaying the last few days of humiliating and strangely comforting experiences.

That’s when I noticed the subtle nudge in my bladder. Usually, by now, I would ask for her assistance and wait to be escorted. But she was on a call. I should probably wait, I reasoned. The idea of interrupting again gave me jitters, especially after the mild scolding last time. So I tried to focus on the chirping birds, hoping she wouldn’t be too long.

Five minutes passed, maybe more. The urge grew stronger. I squirmed in my seat, pressing my legs together. Come on, Violet, I thought, glancing at the back door. Another minute, and I decided I’d better risk it. Standing, I walked to the sliding door, peering through the glass.

Inside, she paced the kitchen, phone still glued to her ear, her expression firm. She caught sight of me, and I mouthed a question— “Bathroom?” She held up a finger for me to wait, turning her attention back to whoever was on the line. Great, I thought, stepping back onto the patio in frustration.

A few more minutes trickled by. The pressure in my bladder was nearing an urgent level. I shifted from foot to foot, clinging to the hope that her call would end soon. Finally, she emerged, slipping the phone into her pocket. Relief coursed through me.

“Violet,” I said quickly, “I really need to—”

She cut me off with a swift gesture. “I see you dancing,” she said, eyes flicking to my waist. “But that call was important, and I’m not done. They’ll ring back shortly.” Her tone held an edge of annoyance—though whether directed at me or the situation, I wasn’t sure. “You can hold it a bit longer, can’t you?”

My face colored. “I… I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It’s kind of urgent.”

She pursed her lips, glancing at her phone. A moment of tension hung between us. Then, with a half-sigh, half-smirk, she said something that sent a jolt of shock through me: “All right, baby. Just go in your pants.”

I blinked. “Wh-what?”

Her expression didn’t waver. “You heard me. I don’t have time to fuss right now. I’ll clean you up after. Just go.”

A surge of panic and humiliation coiled in my stomach. “But I—no, I don’t want to—”

She stepped closer, resting her hand firmly on my shoulder. “You’ve done it in diapers plenty of times,” she said in a low voice. “You’re wearing a pull-up, it can handle one accident. If it leaks, I’ll deal with it.” Her gaze was calm, almost impatient. “I won’t say it again.”

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. Go in my pants? Deliberately? The mortification was overwhelming. Yet, there was a strange pull in her voice, that unyielding command. My heart thudded as I realized disobeying would lead to something far worse.

I lowered my gaze. “O-okay,” I whispered. I could hardly believe I was agreeing.

She took a step back, folding her arms. “Do it here,” she said. “I want to see.”

My breath caught. “Now?”

She gave a curt nod. “Now.”

My whole body trembled. The surge in my bladder was strong, but physically letting go on purpose felt so wrong. Violet watched me with a piercing, expectant stare. Get it over with, I thought, shutting my eyes. I took a shaky breath, and slowly, I released.

Heat flooded the front of my pull-up as I purposefully wet myself. A faint hiss reached my ears. My face burned so fiercely I thought I might faint. The padding swelled, sagging slightly. Part of me was mortified to do this in broad daylight on the patio, especially under her watchful eye. Another part felt a weird, guilty relief that the pressure was gone.

When I finished, I opened my eyes. Violet stood there, her face unreadable. Then she reached out, cupping the front of my shorts to feel the pull-up beneath. “All done?” she asked casually.

I managed a tiny nod, still trembling. “Y-yes.”

She patted it lightly—enough to remind me of its soaked state. “Good. Now go inside, stand in the corner by the laundry room, and wait for me. I’ll be in as soon as I finish my next call, and then we’ll get you changed.”

I blinked. “Corner? But—”

She arched an eyebrow. “We can do it out here if you’d prefer.”

My stomach flipped. I shook my head, scurrying inside. The wet padding pressed awkwardly against my skin, a constant, humiliating reminder. I can’t believe she made me do that. But I also couldn’t deny a twisted sense of… acceptance. This was the life I’d stepped into.


Part 36: Corner Time and a Change

So I stood there, facing the wall, arms at my sides, wearing soaked padding under my shorts. Occasionally, I heard Violet’s muffled conversation in the next room. The minutes stretched. A faint drip of sweat ran down my temple—it was stifling, both physically and emotionally.

Eventually, she ended the call. Her footsteps approached, stopping behind me. Without a word, she tapped my shoulder. I turned slowly, my eyes downcast.

“Let’s go,” she said, tipping her head toward the stairs.

I trudged behind her, each step accompanied by the slight sag of the pull-up. In my bedroom, she shut the door. With methodical calm, she unfastened my shorts, letting them drop to the floor. I couldn’t meet her gaze as the swollen pull-up came into full view.

She peeled the sides apart, and it dropped heavily between my legs. A wave of mortification surged through me, but she acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Grabbing a small packet of wipes, she started cleaning me up with brisk efficiency.

“I’m disappointed you fussed so much,” she murmured, “but at least you listened in the end. We’ll consider this a lesson in obedience.”

I bit my lip, nodding miserably. “I’m sorry,” I said in a tiny voice.

She softened slightly, brushing a wipe over my thighs. “All right,” she sighed. “I’m not mad. But next time I tell you to do something, you do it without fussing. Understood?”

I mumbled a yes, face burning.

Once I was clean, she tossed the used pull-up in a plastic bag and tied it off. Then she retrieved a fresh one from the dresser. I lifted each foot automatically, letting her slide it up into place. After patting the new padding snug around my waist, she handed me different shorts—these ones with an elastic waist and no snaps. Thicker, too, as if to better conceal the bulge.

She looked me in the eye as I pulled them on. “We won’t talk about this again,” she stated. “But I expect you to cooperate more readily next time.”

“Yes, Violet,” I whispered, feeling a mixture of shame and a strange sense of security.


Part 37: Quiet Afternoon and Lingering Unease

The rest of the afternoon passed in subdued calm. She didn’t bring up the incident, true to her word. I helped prepare a light lunch—sandwiches and fruit. She let me watch a bit of TV afterward, but kept me close. Periodically, I’d catch her eyes trailing to my waist, as though ensuring I remained dry. Each time, a reminder of that humiliating event flashed through my mind.

I couldn’t deny that part of me felt a twisted acceptance. She was in charge, and I was following along—no matter how bizarre the demands got. Meanwhile, the small gestures she made—patting my head, praising me for finishing chores—filled me with a conflicting warmth.

By late afternoon, she settled on the couch, beckoning me to sit beside her. I did, mindful of the faint rustle of the pull-up under my shorts. She draped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I rested my head against her side.

“You did well,” she murmured, stroking my hair, “even though today was tough.” Her voice held a gentler note than usual.

I swallowed, letting out a shaky breath. “I… I’m trying,” I admitted, blinking back a surge of emotion.

She pressed a small kiss to the top of my head. “I know. Keep it up, baby.”

We sat like that, the TV playing softly in the background, her fingers combing through my hair. Despite the humiliation I’d felt just hours before, I was oddly grateful for her closeness. I closed my eyes, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease.


Part 38: Approaching Evening

As the sun dipped lower, Violet shifted, reaching into her pocket. Out came my pacifier in its familiar case. She popped the lid open and pressed the silicone nipple gently against my lips. “Just to help you unwind,” she said quietly.

My cheeks warmed, but I allowed her to slip it in. The rhythmic sucking lulled me further, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy in the warm hush of the living room. The humiliations of the day were still fresh, but her presence—and even the pacifier—brought an odd sense of calm.

She let me doze for a bit, nestled against her side, until the soft darkness of early evening started to fill the room. Then, with a gentle tap on my shoulder, she roused me, guiding me upstairs to freshen up before dinner.

If there was one thing I’d learned so far, it was that each day under Violet’s roof brought new, sometimes shocking surprises. But I also knew that by this point, I’d begun to slip deeper into her world—a place where I no longer resisted every command, where accidents weren’t entirely accidental, and where a simple pacifier could soothe all the edges of my anxiety.

Despite the knots in my stomach, despite the flush of humiliation, a part of me welcomed her steady hand—and realized there was little I wouldn’t do for a soft pat on the head and the words, “Good boy.”

 



[Temporary end here, because it won't generate more until the 10th January.]

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  • parkintochter changed the title to Femdom stories (3 stories atm)
  • 3 weeks later...
Posted

Here are a more chapters. It almost has a plot in it, besides the usual tropes.

It still separates the story in parts. Sometimes very short parts. I don't know why tho, but I guess why not.
I did remove the titles of the parts, because they used to be very dull and bad. Have fun.


 

 



 

Part 39:

Dinner that night was calm—almost deceptively so, given all that had happened earlier in the day. Violet prepared a simple meal of grilled chicken and a side of roasted vegetables, and I set the table, my mind still heavy with the memory of having been told—no, ordered—to wet my pull-up in the backyard that afternoon. That humiliation lingered, making me feel docile, pliant.

She seemed to notice. Now and then, as she cooked, she brushed her hand across my shoulder or tilted my chin up to meet her gaze. I found it difficult to look her in the eyes—part of me felt ashamed, part of me longed for her approval. When we finally sat to eat, the soft clink of utensils was accompanied by quiet conversation. She didn’t mention the earlier incident; neither did I.

As we finished, the corners of her mouth turned up in a gentle smile. “Thank you for helping in the kitchen,” she said, a small note of warmth in her voice. “Go on, clear the dishes, then meet me in the living room. We’ll have a little chat about tomorrow.”

I did as asked—collected our plates, rinsed them in the sink, loaded the dishwasher. All the while, I felt that subtle awareness of the pull-up beneath my shorts. Since the afternoon’s forced accident, she’d changed me into a fresh one, and though it was currently dry, the thickness still reminded me who held power over me.

Once the kitchen was tidy, I found her settled on the couch, legs crossed elegantly beneath a soft throw blanket. She patted the cushion next to her, wordlessly inviting me to sit. I perched beside her, heartbeat fluttering with a blend of anticipation and lingering embarrassment.

“So,” she began, resting an arm along the back of the couch, “tomorrow morning, I might need to run a few errands in the city. I’m deciding if I should bring you along or have you stay here. Which would you prefer?”

That question caught me off guard. I considered it. Going out means dealing with stares, possibly another booster seat ride with a pacifier… But staying home means she’d lock me out of the bathroom. Or worse. I swallowed hard, uncertain which was worse. “Um… maybe I could stay here?” I ventured, voice quiet.

She nodded slowly, as though she’d expected that answer. “All right. But remember, if I leave you alone, there will be… precautions.”

A shiver ran down my spine. “Right,” I said in a small voice. I pictured locked closet doors, or maybe she’d dress me in something I couldn’t remove. Either way, she wasn’t going to give me free rein. “I understand.”

She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, then ruffled my hair in a surprisingly affectionate way. “Don’t look so worried, baby. I won’t make it unbearable.” A hint of a smirk curved her lips. “But you know I have to ensure you follow our rules.”

That last word made my stomach twist, but I nodded. “Yes, Violet.”

She gave a brief, satisfied hum, then flipped on the TV. “For now, let’s just relax a bit. You’ve had a day, after all.”

I sank back, my shoulders loosening. The flickering screen bathed us in soft colors as some travel documentary began. Occasionally, she made small comments about the places shown, and I responded with murmured agreement. Her presence radiated a calm confidence that both soothed and intimidated me. If I squinted, we might appear like any ordinary couple winding down for the evening—except for the thick pull-up under my shorts, the memory of that humiliating moment in the yard, and the knowledge that bedtime routines here were anything but standard.


Part 40:

After about half an hour, she glanced at her phone. “Time to start winding down,” she announced. I had a sudden flashback to last night’s diapering, pacifier usage, and footed sleeper. My cheeks heated, but I followed her upstairs nonetheless.

In the bathroom, she turned on the tap for a quick shower rather than a bath, testing the water temperature before stepping back. “Wash up,” she instructed, “and I’ll get your nighttime things ready.” Her gaze lingered on me a moment, perhaps ensuring I wasn’t about to argue. Then she slipped out.

I exhaled, shucking off my shirt and shorts, then the pull-up. Despite everything, it was a relief to be out of the padding, if only for a few minutes. Under the hot spray of the shower, I tried to let the tension melt away. A swirl of conflicting emotions chased each other in my head: embarrassment at being forced to wet myself, shameful comfort in being cared for, and a strange acceptance that this was my new life.

I emerged cleaner but still edgy. Drying off, I steeled myself for what might come next. Sure enough, as soon as I opened the bathroom door, Violet stood waiting with a diaper in her hand—this time, a different print from the new pack we’d bought. Its pastel designs seemed to shimmer mockingly in the hall light.

Without a word, she patted the bed. I lay down on the fresh sheets, and she began her practiced routine: dusting me with powder (the faint scent of lavender wafting up), then pulling the thick diaper snug between my legs. She sealed the tapes efficiently, checking the fit. My cheeks blazed.

Then she held up a footed sleeper—a soft, fleecy one, lighter material than the first night’s. “Lift your arms,” she instructed, her voice almost businesslike.

I complied. Before long, I was zipped into the sleeper, the back fastened tight so I couldn’t free myself. I could feel the diaper’s bulk pressing against me more prominently than before. She smoothed my hair aside, then offered the pacifier, which I opened my mouth to accept.

“You’ll keep that in until lights out,” she said. “Unless you need to talk. Understood?”

I gave a small nod, lips already wrapped around the silicone nipple. The swirl of humiliation mixed with a surprising sense of safety— a bizarre combination I was coming to know well.

She guided me under the covers, tucking me in like a child. After a moment’s pause, she let her fingertips trace my cheek gently. “Sleep well,” she murmured. “Tomorrow, if you’re good, I might ease up on the chores.”

Her words, though condescending, felt oddly kind, and I found myself relaxing, eyelids heavy. She turned off the overhead light, leaving a small nightlight glowing in the corner. Then she left. I was alone, the pacifier bobbing in my mouth, the diaper pressed snug, my ankles enclosed in fleece footies.

Despite the strangeness of it all, I felt exhaustion settle in. Today had been draining—physically, emotionally. And in that warm hush, with her faint footsteps echoing down the hall, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.


Part 41:

The next morning came with soft sunlight painting the walls. I stirred, blinking groggily, the sleeper warm around me. My first hazy thought was diaper check. I patted the front and felt it still dry. Relief flickered. Two nights in a row without an accident—maybe a small victory, though I wasn’t sure if Violet would see it that way or if she secretly hoped I’d fail.

Sure enough, she appeared moments later, entering with a quiet, confident stride. She came to my bedside, unfastened the small clip at the collar, and tugged the zipper down. A gentle hand pressed the front of my diaper. “Dry again,” she noted, arching an eyebrow. “Good.”

I almost expected a pat on the head. Instead, she simply opened the tapes, whisked the diaper away, and motioned for me to follow her to the bathroom. There, I used the toilet under her watchful eye, the routine now so familiar I hardly blushed—though there was still a hint of lingering shame.

Once done, she led me back to the bedroom. She hadn’t yet picked out my clothes, which was unusual. Instead, she turned to me with a pensive look. “So, I did say you could stay home today while I run errands,” she began, “but I’m weighing the pros and cons. If you stay, I’ll have to lock certain things. If you come with me, you’ll be in the booster seat, pacifier in the car, and I’ll decide what you wear. Either way, it’s my choice, but I’m curious if you’ve changed your mind.”

My mind whirled. Going out again was nerve-racking—public stares, potential embarrassment. But staying home locked in babyish attire wasn’t appealing either. Still, I quietly stuck to my original thought. “I’d rather stay,” I murmured.

She nodded, a faint smile quirking her lips. “All right. That makes things simpler for me.” She beckoned me toward the closet. “Let’s dress you, then I’ll show you what precautions I’m putting in place while I’m gone.”

I swallowed, bracing myself. She pulled out a plain T-shirt (thankfully not adorned with cartoon characters this time) and some elastic-waist shorts. They were made of a soft, cottony material—very comfortable, but definitely reminiscent of toddler lounge shorts.

She helped me step into a pull-up (always a given), then tugged the T-shirt over my head, and finally slid the shorts up. She checked the waistband, ensuring the pull-up sat snugly underneath. With a small nod of approval, she handed me socks and guided me downstairs.


Part 42:

I trailed her into the main bathroom. She slid open a drawer and pulled out a curious plastic device—a slender chain and padlock. My pulse quickened. What is she planning?

She uncoiled the chain, which had a small clasp at one end, and turned to me. “You won’t have free bathroom access while I’m gone,” she said, matter-of-fact. “So, I’m making sure you can’t just pull down your shorts.”

I stared. “You’re… locking my shorts on me?”

She only nodded. “Yes. If you need to go, you wait for me to get home. Or—” she paused with a slight shrug— “you make use of your pull-up.”

A wave of unease churned in my stomach. “But that could be hours,” I protested softly.

She lifted an eyebrow in warning. “Then I suggest you hold it as long as possible.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Reluctantly, I held still as she threaded the chain through the waistband of my shorts, looping it around to the back. A small padlock clicked shut, ensuring I couldn’t pull them down past a certain point. Even if I unfastened the drawstring, the chain would keep me from lowering them. My face burned at the realization.

She stepped back, surveying her handiwork. “There,” she said. “Not too tight, I hope?”

I shifted tentatively, feeling the tug of the chain. It wasn’t painful, just restrictive. “It’s okay,” I mumbled, though humiliation twisted my gut.

She looked momentarily satisfied. “I’ll also be locking the bathroom doors from the outside,” she continued. “Just so you’re not tempted to break in.”

I exhaled shakily, nodding. She really covers every angle.


Part 43:

Before leaving, Violet set me a small list of tasks: tidy the living room, fold any dry laundry, and water the potted herbs on the patio. She reminded me to keep the curtains drawn so neighbors couldn’t peek in easily—though I wasn’t sure if that was for my sake or hers.

She placed the pacifier case on the kitchen counter. “Just in case you get anxious,” she said, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. “I expect it to be on the counter when I return. Do not hide it or throw it away.”

I nodded, too subdued to argue. Then, after a final check of her phone and purse, she was gone, locking the front door behind her. I heard the car start in the driveway, and my heart sank. Truly alone. Except not free—my shorts were effectively locked on, the bathroom doors closed and presumably locked too.

I paced the living room for a moment, feeling the chain shift against my waist. An experimental tug confirmed I couldn’t pull the shorts below my hips. So I definitely can’t use the toilet, I thought, a fresh wave of dread curling my stomach.

Trying to distract myself, I started the chores. Vacuuming was simple enough, except each time I bent down, the chain pinched. Next, I folded a small batch of laundry—most of it was my childish attire, but also some of her clothes. The rhythmic motion of folding towels and shirts steadied my nerves, at least a little.


Part 44:

By late morning, I was mostly finished with my tasks. I’d tidied the living room, put away the laundry, and watered the herbs outside (glancing nervously around to ensure no one saw me fumble with the chain around my shorts). The sun beat down, and I’d gulped a glass or two of water. Now, back inside, I felt the first faint signals from my bladder.

I eyed the locked bathroom door, chewing my lip. No point, I reminded myself. Even if it wasn’t locked, I can’t lower my shorts. The thought spiked my anxiety. I drifted to the kitchen, noticing the pacifier case sitting on the counter. Almost as if it called to me.

A part of me scoffed— You won’t actually put that in your mouth on your own. But my nerves were spiking, and I remembered how the pacifier, humiliating as it was, could bring a weird sense of calm. She did say ‘if I get anxious.’

I glanced around, as if someone might see me. Then, hesitantly, I popped open the case, took out the pastel pacifier, and slid it between my lips. The silicone nipple pressed gently against my tongue. My cheeks heated at the sheer absurdity of doing this alone, yet the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction.

I sank onto the couch, still sucking quietly, trying to ignore the mild pressure in my bladder. The humiliating garment locked around my waist felt heavier with each passing minute. Should have asked her to let me use the toilet before she left, I berated myself. But too late now.

For a while, I managed to keep myself calm, focusing on the background noise of the TV. But eventually, that urgent pressure became more insistent. She might not be back for hours. I tried crossing my legs, shifting positions, but it offered only temporary relief.


Part 45:

By early afternoon, I was nearing my limit. My body’s demands were unmistakable, and Violet was nowhere in sight. I paced the living room, still wearing the pacifier, frustration building. This is exactly what she set up, I realized. She doesn’t want me to have any option but to wet the pull-up if I can’t hold it.

I hovered by the window, peeking out to see if her car might be pulling up. No sign of her. My bladder throbbed, and I let out a muffled whimper around the pacifier. I hated that she’d forced this situation—yet I’d consented to stay home, well aware of her methods.

Finally, the decision was made for me by sheer biological need. My muscles gave a warning spasm, and I panicked. I can’t hold it anymore. With a shaky breath, I let it happen. Warmth surged into the pull-up, the padding swelling and growing heavier between my legs. I suppressed a groan of embarrassment, eyes squeezed shut.

When it was over, I stood there, slightly bow-legged, feeling the sodden bulk pressing against my skin. My face burned. I just used my pants like a toddler.

Slowly, I took the pacifier from my mouth and set it on the coffee table, as though disgusted with myself. But there was no going back now. I’m stuck in this until she returns. The chain still encircled my shorts, and the bathroom door was firmly locked.


Part 46:

An hour. Maybe two. Time blurred as I hovered between the couch and pacing the floor. The wet pull-up was uncomfortable, sagging slightly. I tried to ignore it, occupying myself with quiet TV or reading a magazine. But my thoughts kept drifting to the humiliating state I was in.

Finally, footsteps approached the front door. My head snapped up, heart thudding. The lock turned, and Violet stepped inside, looking perfectly composed. A shopping bag dangled from her hand. She paused in the foyer, meeting my eyes. A subtle, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she took in my tense posture.

“Well, hello,” she said, setting the bag down. “Did you behave?” Her eyes flicked to the chain around my waist, verifying it was still intact.

I swallowed, face flaming. “I… I tried,” I said lamely.

Her gaze dropped to my shorts. “Hmm. Let’s see how you managed.” She crooked a finger, beckoning me closer. I obeyed, every step emphasizing the clammy sensation against my skin.

She unhooked the small padlock, loosened the chain from my waistband, then tugged my shorts down just enough to expose the top of the pull-up. A quick press told her all she needed to know—immediately, she felt the squishy front. Her soft exhale said it all.

“You’re wet,” she remarked, arching an eyebrow. “Couldn’t hold it, hmm?”

My cheeks burned. “I—I tried…” My voice felt so small.

She nodded, as though not surprised. “Well, at least you followed the instructions and used your pull-up.” She gave a pointed pat on the damp padding. “Come on. Let’s get you changed.”


Part 47:

She led me to the upstairs bathroom. The chain, of course, had prevented me from using it, so it was my first time inside since morning. She closed the door behind us, then peeled my shorts and the sodden pull-up off. I stood there, naked from the waist down, arms crossed over my chest in a feeble attempt at modesty.

Her expression was almost clinical as she grabbed some wipes. “Step on the bathmat,” she said, and I did so. She wiped me clean with brisk efficiency—her usual method, though something about it felt more intimate after so many hours alone in a wet garment. Then she gestured to the shower stall. “Go rinse off properly. I’ll wait here.”

Grateful for the chance to rid myself of the clammy feeling, I slipped into the stall and turned on the water. The warm spray was a relief, washing away the last physical traces of my accident. Yet the emotional embarrassment still clung. How easily she’s reduced me to this.

Finished, I turned off the water, stepping onto the mat. She held out a towel, and I let her dry me. It was an intimate moment—her gently patting my skin, me feeling the residual shame heat my cheeks.

Once I was sufficiently dried, she retrieved a fresh pull-up from under the sink. “Legs in,” she murmured. I complied. The padding slid up around my waist with a soft crinkle, a stark reminder of who was in control.

She gave a small approving smile, then reached into her pocket. Out came the pacifier. Without a word, she offered it. I hesitated, but a look in her eyes told me not to question it. I parted my lips, and she slipped it in.

“Good boy,” she said softly. “Let’s head downstairs. I’ll figure out dinner while you tell me how your chores went.”


Part 48:

In the kitchen, Violet unpacked her groceries. A few fresh vegetables, a pack of chicken breasts, some herbs and spices—clearly she had dinner in mind. She set them on the counter, then turned to me, arms folded.

“Did you finish everything I asked?” Her tone was calm, but with that undercurrent of expectation.

I nodded, the pacifier still in my mouth, which muffled my words. I spat it out gently, cheeks coloring. “Yes. I vacuumed, folded the laundry, and watered the herbs.”

She eyed me for a moment, then nodded. “Good. That’s one bright spot.” She glanced at the pacifier in my hand. “Keep it out for now—we can talk normally.”

A moment of relief flickered in me. I set the pacifier aside. She pulled a cutting board closer, beginning to chop carrots and peppers. As she did, she asked casual questions about the chores—any trouble with the vacuum, if I found everything I needed for laundry.

I answered in a subdued tone, still mindful of the humiliating afternoon. She gave no direct scolding for wetting the pull-up; it was as though she considered it a normal inevitability. Which, perhaps, was the most degrading part: it was entirely routine to her that I might have an accident if locked out of the bathroom.

Soon, she asked me to fetch spices, measure out rice, and wash lettuce for a small salad. The domestic routine almost lulled me into a sense of calm. We cooked side by side, the sizzling of the pan merging with our quiet conversation. Despite everything, these moments felt strangely comforting—like we were in sync, even if I was the subordinate half of the partnership.

By the time dinner was done—a simple stir-fry and fresh salad—the tension in the house had eased. She didn’t mention the chain or the locked bathrooms, nor did she gloat about my accident. We ate, discussing trivial things: a movie she’d watched last week, her plans for possible work travel, the next steps in organizing the house.

Midway through the meal, she fixed me with a pointed look. “Tomorrow, I want you to come along if I do errands,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Leaving you home alone means a lot of planning, and you end up upset. You can ride in your booster seat. Understood?”

I felt my cheeks warm. “Yes, Violet,” I whispered. Part of me was relieved to avoid another day locked at home. Another part dreaded what “riding along” might entail.

She nodded, satisfied. “We’ll handle it then.”


Part 49:

When dinner was done, I cleared the table, rinsing plates under warm water. Violet dried them, occasionally casting me a thoughtful glance. The tension from earlier had mostly dissipated, leaving an odd serenity between us.

Finally, she suggested we settle in the living room again. “You can watch something on TV or color,” she said, referencing the childish coloring books she’d provided. My cheeks flickered with heat at the memory of coloring like a toddler. “But I have some work emails to finish on my laptop. Keep me company, hmm?”

So I followed her to the couch, where she opened her laptop and began typing away. I sat at the far end, flicking through channels aimlessly. After a while, though, the day’s emotional drain caught up to me. I found myself yawning, blinking heavily.

Violet noticed, looking up from her screen. “You’re tired,” she observed, softening her tone. She shut the laptop. “It’s been a long day for you. Let’s go upstairs.”

My stomach fluttered with that familiar mix of worry and relief. Every bedtime meant diapers, sleepers, pacifiers—and total reliance on her. But it also meant rest, a chance to shut off the swirl in my head. I nodded wearily, following her up to my room.

We did the now-routine steps: she stripped me of my shorts and pull-up, helped me rinse quickly in the bathroom, then secured me in a fresh diaper. This one had pastel stars and moons—some whimsical design that made my heart twist with both embarrassment and a strange sense of acceptance. Over that, a two-piece pajama set with snaps at the waist. She fastened them carefully, making it impossible for me to remove them without help.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, she offered the pacifier again. I parted my lips automatically. It felt natural by now, though I still blushed at the infantile gesture. She guided me under the covers, tucking them around me neatly.

“Get some good sleep,” she murmured, brushing her hand over my hair. “Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

I nodded, eyes already heavy. She switched off the lamp, leaving the comforting glow of the nightlight. With a final pat on my shoulder, she left, the door clicking shut behind her. The hush of the house settled in, punctuated by the gentle crinkle of my diaper when I shifted.

In the darkness, the pacifier bobbing in my mouth, I couldn’t help but reflect on how quickly I’d adapted to all this—public embarrassment, forced accidents, locked-in clothing. Yet beneath the layers of shame, a quiet sense of belonging tugged at my chest. I’m safe here, under her care, I thought dimly as sleep crept in. A contradictory truth, but one I was beginning to accept.

Part 50:

A faint glow from the curtains drew me from restless sleep. As always, my first awareness was of the diaper secured around my waist—soft, crinkly, and inescapable. I blinked blearily, momentarily forgetting my surroundings. Then it came back in a rush: Violet’s house, my locked clothing, forced accidents, and the caretaker who both humiliated and protected me. My cheeks flushed with the memory of yesterday’s enforced wetting.

I sat up, hearing the diaper’s rustle beneath my pajamas. The snaps along the waistband, which connected the top and bottom pieces, reminded me that I couldn’t simply peel them off. I need her, I thought, swallowing a lump of mingled shame and acceptance.

Not long after, Violet entered, wearing a simple house robe and her hair tied back in a neat bun. Her eyes swept over me with that confident calm. “Morning,” she said softly. “Let’s see.” She undid the back snaps of my pajama top, then parted them from the bottoms so she could check the diaper. A press of her palm told her it was still dry.

“Good,” she remarked. “Two nights in a row. You’re on a roll.” Her tone was teasing, as if she found my dryness almost surprising.

I bit my lip, both relieved and faintly mortified at how she talked about it. Then she carefully unfastened the diaper, rolling it up. With a small nod, she gestured for me to follow her to the bathroom.

I took care of my usual morning business while she stood by, expression impassive, arms folded. Once done, she handed me a fresh pull-up. “Let’s dress you,” she said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a nineteen-year-old to be padded and under scrutiny.

I hesitated, remembering her mention of errands. “Um… where exactly are we going today?”

She gave a cryptic smile. “A few stops. Nothing major, but you’ll be with me from start to finish. No more staying behind. That means I’ll dress you appropriately.”

Which led us to my room, where she picked out clothes: an overall-style romper—short legs, broad straps, and bright turquoise fabric that felt distinctly childlike. My heart sank seeing it, but I knew better than to argue. She helped me into the pull-up, then tugged the romper up my legs, fastening the clips on the shoulders. The seat was a bit poofy, allowing room for the padding underneath, and the design had an obvious juvenile flair.

She then slipped socks on my feet and placed my sneakers on the floor. As I slid my feet into them, she knelt to fasten the Velcro straps. A little pat on my ankle signaled she was done.

I swallowed a tight knot of self-consciousness. Another day out in babyish attire. But I forced a nod.

“Good,” she said simply. “Now, let’s have breakfast. Then we’ll head out.”


Part 51:

The kitchen smelled of coffee and eggs. Violet stood by the stove, flipping scrambled eggs and humming an off-key tune. I sat at the table, fiddling with the hem of my romper, which only served to remind me how short it was. She brought over two plates of eggs and toast, setting one before me, the other at her seat.

As we ate, she offered a few details about the errands: “We’ll swing by the pharmacy, pick up a prescription, then I need to drop something at my office, and maybe we’ll do a quick grocery run.”

My pulse quickened. Pharmacy, office, grocery. That meant multiple chances for people to see me. “O-okay,” I said in a muted voice, carefully chewing my eggs.

She paused, eyeing me. “Worried?”

I mustered a shrug. “A little,” I admitted.

Her expression softened—just barely. “You’ll be fine,” she said. Then, in a tone that brooked no further debate: “Finish up, then we’ll leave.”

Within minutes, we’d cleared the dishes. I followed Violet to the car, the morning sun glinting off her sleek vehicle. She opened the back door, revealing the booster seat. Of course. Wordlessly, I climbed in, face warm with fresh embarrassment. She buckled me, making sure the harness was snug.

Just before she closed the door, she reached into the side pocket. My stomach clenched. The pacifier.

She held it up, arching an eyebrow. “Open up,” she said quietly.

I wanted to protest—did I really have to suck on this in broad daylight, before we even pulled out of the driveway? But the look in her eye discouraged any argument. I parted my lips, and she slipped it in, the silicone pressing against my tongue.

“There,” she murmured with a small, satisfied smile. “Now we can go.”


Part 52:

The drive took about ten minutes, the pacifier in my mouth muffling any attempt at conversation. Violet’s occasional glance in the rearview mirror kept me from spitting it out. Finally, we pulled into the parking lot of a modest pharmacy. She unbuckled me, removed the pacifier, and carefully placed it in its case.

“We don’t have much time,” she said, helping me out of the booster seat. “Just hold my hand, stay close, and behave.”

My cheeks heated at hold my hand, but I managed a small nod. At least I won’t have the pacifier in here, I thought with relief. We entered the pharmacy—a small, quiet space with wide aisles of medicines, toiletries, and a counter at the back.

Violet led me straight to the prescription area, where a bored-looking clerk greeted her. As Violet gave her name for pickup, I stood awkwardly, eyes flicking around. My short romper legs left little to the imagination, and I prayed no one looked too closely at my waist.

A small line formed behind us. A man in his fifties stepped up, then a young woman in scrubs. The sense of being surrounded gnawed at me. My heart hammered. Calm down, I told myself. Just stand still.

Suddenly, I heard a faint hiss of static from an overhead speaker. “We have a register opening up at the front,” came a tinny voice. The woman in scrubs behind us shifted, stepping past to the newly opened counter. In doing so, she brushed close to me—and her eyes flickered to my outfit. A slight wrinkle formed on her brow, as if she was trying to place what she was seeing. Then she hurried on, probably deciding it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

Still, my skin felt clammy. A swirl of embarrassment rose. Violet glanced at me, reading my tension. She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t fidget,” she whispered. “We’re almost done.”

Moments later, the clerk returned with a small bag, and Violet paid. Without incident, we left the store. My heart pounded, half-expecting someone to stop us, to question my attire—but nothing happened. The relief was almost dizzying.


Part 53:

“Next stop,” Violet announced, climbing back into the driver’s seat, “my office. I need to drop off some paperwork.” She didn’t bother with the pacifier this time—maybe because it was a short drive. I felt a small mercy in that.

We arrived at a business complex—glassy windows, a small parking structure. Violet parked, unbuckled me from the booster, and led me inside. The lobby was quiet, the floors gleaming under fluorescent lights. Modern, professional—a stark contrast to my childish romper.

A few employees bustled by. She nodded greetings. If they noticed my outfit and short stature, they didn’t openly react. I felt incredibly self-conscious, though, clinging to her hand as she pressed the elevator button.

“I just need to drop something at my desk,” she told me. “Should be quick.”

The elevator ride was mercifully empty, but as the doors slid open on the seventh floor, a tall man stepped inside—someone from her company, apparently. He wore a crisp suit and carried a small briefcase. He glanced at Violet, then at me, pausing as if uncertain how to greet us.

“Morning,” Violet said, sounding brisk.

The man’s gaze drifted to my outfit, but he kept his composure. “Morning,” he responded. Then, with a polite nod, “Is this… your nephew?”

I bit my lip, my cheeks burning. Violet gave a short laugh. “No, this is William. He’s with me for a bit. No further explanation needed.”

The man blinked, then shrugged politely. “Of course, sorry,” he said, stepping past us out of the elevator. Violet’s expression remained unreadable, but I caught a faint triumphant spark in her eyes—like she enjoyed people being confused.

We made our way to her office—an open layout with cubicles on one side, glass-windowed offices on the other. Thankfully, it was a weekend shift, so only a handful of people were present. She escorted me to a corner office with her name on a plaque. Inside, she set her purse on the desk, pulled out some folders, and began sorting.

I hovered near the doorway, heart thumping. A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit walked by, paused, and did a double-take seeing me. I pretended not to notice, turning my face away. Just keep your eyes on Violet.

At last, she finished. “There,” she said, slipping the folders into a locked drawer. “Let’s go.”

I exhaled relief as we headed back to the elevator. This time, we made it down uninterrupted. Thank goodness. Even so, the tension knotted in my shoulders hadn’t fully eased. We returned to the car, and I slumped in the booster seat, exhausted by the simplest errands.


Part 54:

Once we were on the road again, Violet glanced at her phone. “I have a text from Clara,” she said casually, referencing her friend whom I’d met at the café. My stomach lurched. “She wants to know if we can meet for lunch.”

I swallowed around a dry throat. “Lunch… with Clara?” I echoed, a swirl of anxiety forming. She already saw me in babyish clothes once. Now I’m in an even more childish romper.

Violet nodded, smiling faintly. “Yes. She’s free in about thirty minutes. That lines up well with our schedule.” A pause. “We’re going.”

I wanted to protest, but the look on her face dared me to try. I just sank into the booster seat, pulling my harness straps tight as if seeking security. “O-okay,” I whispered.

Her phone chirped again at a red light. She checked it, a small smirk crossing her lips. “She’s inviting another friend— someone from her gym, apparently.” Violet cast me a sidelong glance. “Hope you don’t mind. The more, the merrier.”

My stomach clenched painfully. Meeting one friend was bad enough. Now a stranger would also see me like this. “D-do I have to?” I asked softly, voice trembling with embarrassment.

She flicked her eyes back to the road as the light turned green. “Yes,” she said, finality in her tone. Then, with a hint of mischief, “It’ll be good for you.”

I felt a weight settle over my chest, a sense of dread mingling with resignation. No escape.


Part 55:

We arrived at a busy area downtown, where small restaurants lined the street. She found a parking spot in a shared lot. Once the engine was off, she turned in her seat to face me. My heart sank— I already knew what was coming.

She retrieved the pastel pacifier from its case. “This goes in until we reach the restaurant,” she said calmly.

I wilted. “Please, Violet—someone might see—”

Her expression hardened. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Open.”

My mouth felt dry. I parted my lips, and she slipped the pacifier in. Immediately, my cheeks burned with the familiar mix of shame and compliance. She unbuckled me, helped me out of the booster seat, and smoothed down my romper.

The parking lot was half-full, people bustling to and from shops. Each step I took felt precarious, the pacifier bobbing in my mouth. I clung to her hand, eyes scanning for any potential onlookers. Most people were busy with their own errands, but a few did glance our way, eyebrows lifting at the sight of a small figure in a childish outfit sucking a pacifier.

My chest tightened, and I tried to hide behind Violet’s tall frame. She moved briskly toward the restaurant’s entrance, her stride confident. Once we neared the door, she pulled the pacifier out and tucked it away. I nearly gasped in relief, though the mortification still burned.


Part 56:

Inside, I spotted Clara at a table by the window, waving us over. Beside her sat another woman—slim, athletic, with short-cropped hair and a friendly smile. That must be the gym friend, I thought, my pulse quickening.

Clara stood, greeting Violet with a quick hug. Then her eyes turned to me. “Hello again, William,” she said, a faintly teasing lilt. “Nice to see you out and about.”

I managed a tight smile, well aware of my romper’s short hem. “H-hello,” I stammered, flushing as I caught the other woman’s curious gaze.

Clara gestured. “This is Tabitha. Tabitha, this is Violet’s… friend, William.” Her pause was telling— as if unsure how to label me.

Tabitha offered a hand. “Nice to meet you. Clara’s told me a bit about you. Didn’t expect you to be so cute.” The tone was polite, but I sensed amusement lurking beneath.

I shook her hand timidly, feeling dwarfed by their presence. We all sat—Violet placed me on the inside of the booth, so I’d be somewhat trapped. She slid in beside me, with Clara and Tabitha opposite.

After ordering drinks—Clara and Tabitha opted for iced teas, Violet for a latte, and me for a lemonade— the conversation started. Clara and Violet exchanged casual updates on work and home life. Tabitha chimed in with anecdotes about gym workouts and some local climbing group she belonged to.

I mostly stayed quiet, trying not to draw attention. But Tabitha occasionally glanced at me, eyes flicking to my short romper. Finally, during a lull, she leaned forward. “So, William,” she said, a hint of curiosity in her voice, “Clara mentioned Violet’s taking care of you. Is that, like… a full-time thing?”

My cheeks flooded with heat. “Um… sort of,” I mumbled, not wanting to elaborate.

Violet stepped in smoothly. “He’s staying with me for now. I make sure his needs are met.” There was a subtle edge to her tone that hinted, Don’t push further.

Clara, noticing the tension, changed the subject to a local festival happening next month. Conversation flowed on. Our drinks arrived, then we placed our food orders— sandwiches for Clara and Tabitha, a salad for Violet, and a burger for me.


Part 57:

Mid-meal, as we picked at our plates, Violet’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. “Work,” she said under her breath, annoyance evident. “I have to take this.”

She slid out of the booth, telling me softly, “Stay put, baby,” and walked a short distance away to answer. I watched her, anxiety creeping up—She’s leaving me alone with Clara and Tabitha.

Clara turned her attention to me, leaning forward. “So, William, everything okay? You look tense.”

I forced a smile, but my mind raced. I have to keep up appearances. Don’t let on how humiliating this is. “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just… not used to going out so much.”

Tabitha gave me a sympathetic look. “I get it. Crowds can be overwhelming. But you have nothing to worry about. We’re friendly.”

Her tone was kind, but the dissonance of being an adult talked down to like a timid kid stung. I shifted in my seat, the pull-up beneath me suddenly feeling hot and constricting. Clara noticed the motion, her lips curving in that knowing, teasing way.

Then my phone beeped— a text from an old school friend, someone I hadn’t spoken to since I moved here. My stomach flipped. They want an update. They want to know how life is going. My finger hovered over the screen. I can’t possibly tell them the truth. The swirl of shame and the weight of living this double life ignited something raw in me.

I tried to breathe, to keep calm, but tears pricked my eyes out of nowhere. Clara and Tabitha exchanged alarmed looks. “William?” Clara prompted gently. “Hey, are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, every humiliation from the last weeks pressing in: the forced wettings, locked shorts, pacifiers, these new acquaintances seeing me in babyish attire. Now an innocent text from a friend back home. It was too much.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, choking on the words. My voice cracked. “I just… I need to—” I glanced around desperately for Violet, but she was still on the phone near the entrance. My eyes stung. I’m going to lose it right here.

Clara reached across the table, trying to place a comforting hand on mine. That small gesture undid me. Tears spilled over, and I found myself blubbering, “I’m sorry—I can’t—I just…”

Tabitha shifted awkwardly, rummaging in her purse for a tissue. Clara gave me a pitying look. “It’s okay. Shhh.”

That only made me more self-conscious. People at nearby tables were starting to glance. My chest heaved with mortification. I tried to stifle the sobs, but it felt impossible.


Part 58:

Suddenly, Violet was there, her call evidently ended. She slid back into the booth, quickly assessing the situation. Her gaze pinned me, tears streaking my face, frantic breaths hitching.

“What happened?” she asked, voice low and controlled.

Clara answered quietly, “He just got overwhelmed. We were talking, and then—”

Violet’s hand settled firmly on my shoulder. She turned to Clara and Tabitha. “Let me handle this,” she said, not unkindly, but with finality. “Excuse us a moment.”

She helped me stand, her arm braced around my shoulders. I trembled, tear tracks fresh on my cheeks. A few onlookers stared, a mixture of curiosity and concern. Violet ignored them, guiding me toward a quieter corner near the restrooms.

My chest still heaved, but her presence forced me to focus. She spun me to face her, hands gripping my upper arms. “Breathe,” she commanded. “In through your nose, out your mouth.”

I tried, though my breaths stuttered. She pressed a tissue to my face, dabbing at my tears. The commanding tone, combined with her calm expression, began to steady my breathing.

“Now, tell me,” she said softly. “What’s got you so upset?”

My voice quavered. “Everything. Clara, the errands, the phone call, my friend— I just can’t explain this to them.”

A flicker of understanding crossed her features. “You’re worried about how they see you, and how you can’t tell anyone about our arrangement.”

I nodded miserably, tears threatening again. She exhaled. Then, in a move that shocked me, she reached into her purse and took out the pacifier, pressing it gently to my lips—right there in the hallway.

“Suck,” she murmured, her tone leaving no room for protest.

I obeyed, feeling the silicone slide in. My cheeks burned, but the pacifier’s rhythmic bobbing forced me to breathe slower. The meltdown quell, replaced by a surreal sense of calm. She wiped another stray tear, her eyes never leaving mine.


Part 59:

After a minute, Violet stepped back, dropping the pacifier into her purse. “Better?” she asked.

I nodded, cheeks still flaming. “I—I’m okay now,” I whispered, my head bowed.

She brushed my hair aside. “Good. Let’s go back. You’ll apologize for the scene. Then we’ll finish lunch and head home. Understood?”

My gut churned at the idea of going back to that table. But I swallowed and mumbled, “Yes, Violet.”

She guided me back to the booth, where Clara and Tabitha sat with concerned expressions. Clara had apparently paid the bill in the meantime, our half-finished plates moved aside.

I slid into the seat, avoiding their eyes. Violet kept a hand on my shoulder as she spoke. “Sorry for the fuss. He’s been under some stress. I think it got to him.”

Clara offered me a kind smile, softly patting my forearm. “It’s all right. Are you okay now?”

I nodded, face hot. “I… I’m sorry,” I managed, voice trembling. Tabitha nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Violet, however, seemed eager to wrap things up. “We should go,” she said, gently nudging me out of the booth. “Clara, Tabitha, we’ll see you another time.”

Clara gave Violet a look that seemed both understanding and curious. She nodded. “Of course. Take care, William,” she said softly, no trace of mockery in her tone. Tabitha murmured a similar farewell.

I mumbled a goodbye, feeling drained. Then Violet led me toward the exit, her stride purposeful.


Part 60:

The bright afternoon sun outside felt jarring. People hustled by on the sidewalk, but Violet steered me straight to the parking lot. Once at the car, she opened the rear door. Instead of guiding me in, she paused, turning me to face her.

“Look at me,” she said softly. I lifted my gaze, feeling small and vulnerable. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between concern and frustration. “You had a meltdown in public. Do you understand the risk that posed?”

My voice came out small. “Yes…”

She exhaled. “I’m not angry you had feelings,” she clarified, “but if you lose control like that, it exposes what we’re doing. It draws attention I don’t want. You must remain composed, or talk to me before it escalates.”

Tears threatened again, but I nodded, determined not to break down. “I’m sorry. I just… it was too much.”

Her gaze softened fractionally. “I know. That’s why we need better communication. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, tell me before you spiral.”

“All right,” I whispered.

“Good.” She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then pointed to the booster seat. “In. Pacifier until we’re on the road.”

I climbed in, cheeks flushing anew. She handed me the pacifier—this time, I placed it between my lips on my own. She buckled me in, shut the door, and a moment later we were moving. The rhythmic, embarrassing suckling noise felt like a lullaby to my jangled nerves.


Part 61:

A few blocks from our house, Violet removed the pacifier, slipping it into its case. I stared out the window, subdued, drained. She glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

I nodded faintly. “Yes,” I said. A beat, then quietly: “Thank you.”

She didn’t answer, just gave a small, unreadable nod.

We pulled into the driveway, the engine humming to a stop. Violet turned to me, thinking for a moment before speaking. “When we get inside, you’ll change out of that romper. You can wear normal shorts and a T-shirt for the rest of the day.”

My eyes widened. “R-really?”

She nodded. “Yes. I think you need a break from the constant babyish attire. But…” A slight warning edge crept into her voice, “don’t assume I’m loosening the rules entirely. I just don’t want you having another meltdown.”

Relief washed through me. “I understand. Thank you,” I whispered.

With that, she helped me out of the booster seat, guiding me up the walk to the front door. My mind whirled: a real break from the childish outfits? It felt like a monumental shift—maybe a sign she understood my limits more than I realized. But a niggling worry remained: What new twist will come next?

Once inside, she locked the door behind us and steered me to my bedroom. The same place that had become the stage for countless diaperings and forced outfits now offered a glimpse of normalcy. True to her word, she retrieved a plain T-shirt and standard denim shorts from the closet—items I hadn’t seen in days.

I stood there as she unfastened the romper straps, letting the garment pool at my feet. A new pull-up replaced the slightly damp one I wore, then she guided the shorts up my legs. They felt so… ordinary. No locking mechanism, no childish patterns. I swallowed, almost dizzy with gratitude.

She smirked at my wide-eyed expression. “Better?”

“Y-yes,” I breathed, exhaling a shaky sigh. “Thank you, Violet.”

She ruffled my hair gently. “You’re welcome. Now come downstairs with me. We’ll talk about the rest of your day.”

My heart pounded as I followed her, uncertain what awaited. This felt like a turning point— a hint of normal clothing, an acknowledgment of my emotional strain. But experience told me that each reprieve came with its own set of hidden conditions. At least for now, I thought, I can breathe in these normal shorts, if only for a while…

Part 62:

That afternoon passed more peacefully than usual. Violet let me remain in my “normal” shorts and T-shirt, a small but significant departure from the constant babyish outfits. I was allowed to move around the house with minimal supervision—though she still insisted I ask before using the bathroom. The tension of the morning’s events lingered, yet a tenuous calm had settled between us.

Early evening crept in, golden light filtering through the windows. I was in the living room, idly leafing through a magazine, when Violet entered with her phone in hand, a faint smile on her face.

“Clara just texted,” she said. “She’s nearby and wants to drop by for a quick visit.”

My stomach flipped. The memory of our lunch meltdown was still fresh in my mind. “She… she wants to come here?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

Violet nodded. “Yes. She said she wants to check in on you—make sure you’re feeling better. I told her it’s fine.”

A swirl of emotions welled up. Part of me was grateful someone cared enough to pop in. Another part dreaded the inevitable conversation about our arrangement. After all, Clara was well aware of certain… details.

Still, I couldn’t exactly say no. I mustered a small nod. “Okay.”

Violet leaned down, brushing her hand over my shoulder in a reassuring way. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “She’s on our side.”


Part 63:

It was only ten minutes later when the doorbell chimed. Violet instructed me to stand by her side as she opened the door, so I made my way to the foyer. My heart pounded, recalling the last time I saw Clara—my tearful meltdown in the restaurant booth. I found myself tugging the hem of my T-shirt downward, as if to reassure myself it was normal clothing and not a romper.

Violet swung the door open. Clara stood there with a friendly smile, her dark-blonde hair loosely tied back and a light jacket over her shoulders. She held a small plastic bag from a nearby bakery.

“Hello, you two,” she greeted, stepping inside. Her gaze flicked to me, softening with concern. “William, how are you feeling?”

I swallowed, forcing a shy smile. “I’m… better,” I said quietly.

Clara gave a small nod, then turned to Violet. “I brought some pastries. Figured we could have a casual chat. Hope that’s all right?”

“Of course,” Violet replied, shutting the door. “Let’s sit in the kitchen.”

We made our way to the kitchen table. I pulled out a chair, not missing the fact that I still had to hop up a bit to get situated—my short stature reminding me how childlike I must appear. Clara placed the bag of pastries on the table, rummaging to pull out croissants and sweet rolls.

“Help yourselves,” she offered.

I thanked her softly, though my appetite was overshadowed by nerves. Violet poured us each a glass of water, then sat across from Clara, leaving me to sit between them at the small round table.


Part 64:

At first, we chatted about mundane things: the bakery’s new selection, the lovely weather, how Clara’s day had gone. But it was clear Clara had something on her mind. She cast a few curious glances in my direction, as if figuring out how to broach a delicate topic.

Eventually, after some small sips of water, she cleared her throat. “William,” she began softly, “I wanted to check in on you after what happened at lunch. I know you were overwhelmed, and I felt bad for not noticing sooner. How are you… holding up?”

I bit my lip. “I’m… okay, really,” I said, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. “Just… there’s been a lot of changes, and it all got to me.”

She nodded, looking genuinely empathetic. “I understand.” Then her gaze flickered to Violet, a knowing glint in her eye. “I also know you two have… a unique arrangement.”

Violet inclined her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yes, we do.”

Clara’s tone stayed gentle. “I’m curious about it. I mean, I’ve seen glimpses—like the outfit at the café, and the little meltdown. But I have to say, I find it… fascinating. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

My cheeks burned harder. There it was—our dynamic laid bare, albeit politely. But Clara’s eyes held no mockery. She truly seemed intrigued, even concerned.


Part 65:

“Can I ask how it works?” Clara continued, folding her hands on the table. “I mean, William, you’re an adult, obviously, but Violet treats you like… well, like a little one.” She gave a small, apologetic laugh. “No offense.”

I swallowed, glancing at Violet. She gave me a nod, as if to say Go ahead—answer if you like.

“It’s… complicated,” I began hesitantly. “We have certain rules. She, um, decides what I wear, and I… have to ask her permission for some things.” I didn’t want to go into excruciating detail about the diapers and forced accidents, but I sensed Clara already suspected.

Clara leaned in, curiosity sparking. “So, for instance, do you have to ask to use the bathroom? Is that what I saw at the restaurant?”

My heart rate spiked. She does know. “Yes,” I whispered, my face warming. “That’s… a big rule.”

Violet stepped in calmly. “He’s not allowed free access. He always needs to come to me. If I say yes, then I help him. If I say no… well.” She left the sentence hanging, a faint smile curling her lips.

Clara’s eyes widened, flicking to me. “What if she says no?” she asked, half-whispering, as though it was too private a question.

I sank lower in my seat, cheeks flaming. “Then… I either hold it or…” My voice faltered.

Clara gave a small, almost disbelieving giggle. “Or you… go in your pants?”

My cheeks burned. I managed a faint nod.

“That’s… incredible,” Clara said, clearly enthralled. Her voice was gentle, not mocking, but she let out another soft laugh. “I—I’m sorry, I just find it so… cute, in a strange way.”

Violet watched me with a careful gaze. I knew she was assessing if I was okay with this conversation. I forced a small, tight smile, feeling my heart pound. “I guess… it’s part of the arrangement,” I mumbled.

Clara’s laughter wasn’t mean-spirited; it held a genuine amazement. “I’ve never imagined an adult letting that happen,” she admitted. “But if it’s what you two agree on, I guess that’s all that matters.”


Part 66:

Clara reached for one of the pastries, though she hardly looked at it—her attention remained on us. “So, day to day, you’re basically doing chores, following instructions, wearing… special underwear?” Her cheeks colored slightly at the delicate phrase.

Violet nodded. “Pull-ups or diapers, depending on the time of day.” She said it so casually it made my stomach flip. “He’s surprisingly compliant… for the most part.”

A rush of heat flooded my face. I stared down at my hands. The memory of wetting myself on command, of wearing onesies, of being locked in clothes, all swirled in my mind.

Clara’s expression turned curious again. “And if you do have an accident, William… she changes you?”

I swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, she cleans me up, puts on a fresh one. It’s… all part of it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

Clara’s eyes sparkled with an odd delight. “That’s… I’m sorry if I keep saying it, but it’s just… so unusual.” She turned to Violet, tone admiring. “You must be very patient and very… controlling.”

Violet let out a low laugh. “I suppose so. I enjoy taking care of him and making sure he knows his place.” She shot me a sidelong look that made my cheeks flare again. “It’s our dynamic.”


Part 67:

Clara nibbled a corner of her croissant, contemplating. Then she turned her focus solely on me. “And you’re… okay with all of it, William? I mean, I know you got overwhelmed at lunch, but do you actually enjoy it sometimes?”

Her question was direct. It caught me off guard. Did I enjoy it? Even I was still grappling with that. I shifted in my seat, my words faltering. “I… it can be embarrassing,” I admitted. “And sometimes it’s really hard. But…” I hesitated, glancing at Violet, who watched intently. “I love Violet, and I… I like that she takes care of me. It’s weird, but there’s something comforting about it.”

Clara’s warm smile returned. “I understand. Love and trust go a long way.” She glanced at Violet, who offered a small, approving nod.

A pause settled over the table. The sun’s rays had dimmed slightly, drifting into late evening territory. Clara broke the silence, her voice softer now. “I’m glad you’re all right after earlier. And… well, I want you to know I think it’s sweet. Odd, yes, but sweet.” She gave a lighthearted giggle. “I might tease you about it, but you can always tell me if it’s too much.”

Relief stirred in my chest. “Thank you,” I said, barely managing a small smile.


Part 68:

We continued chatting in that warm hush. Clara asked a few more questions— Do you always wear them at night? What if you’re sick? Have you ever tried teaching him new chores in that state?—the typical curiosities that made my face burn but were posed without malice.

After a while, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with an almost playful grin. “You know,” she said, addressing Violet, “if you ever need a break, or want to go somewhere without William underfoot, I’d be happy to… babysit.”

That last word made me jolt, a mixture of alarm and disbelief. Violet, however, arched an eyebrow in interest. “Oh? Really?”

Clara nodded, looking quite serious. “Yes. I mean, if you trust me. I think it’s cute how you handle him, and I’d be curious to experience it myself—making sure he follows rules, checking if he needs the potty, maybe even dealing with… accidents,” she said with a mild laugh, glancing at me. “If you two are comfortable with that, of course.”

I stared at her, heart thumping. The idea of being “babysat” by Clara felt beyond humiliating… and yet a strange tingle of possibility fluttered in my stomach. Would Violet really consider letting someone else take charge of me?

Violet seemed to mull it over. She turned to me, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, baby, how would you feel about Clara watching you sometimes, if I’m out?”

Words caught in my throat. I looked at Clara’s expectant smile, then at Violet’s teasing expression. “I… I don’t know,” I stammered. “It’s… it’s embarrassing.”

Clara’s smile softened. “No pressure,” she assured. “I just wanted to offer. You’ve seen I’m not going to judge harshly. I actually think it’s adorable.” Her gaze flicked to Violet. “But I’d respect any rules you set, obviously.”

Violet nodded slowly, a hint of a pleased smile curling her lips. “I do appreciate the offer. Let me think on it.” She cast me an affectionate look. “You know I’m very particular about my little one’s care.”


Part 69:

A short while later, Clara decided to head home—“I won’t overstay my welcome,” she said with a grin. She gave me a gentle pat on the arm, leaning down to say goodbye. “Take care, William,” she said softly. “You know where to find me if you need a friend… or a babysitter,” she added with a mischievous wink.

My face flamed, but I mustered a shy smile. “T-thank you.”

She and Violet exchanged a few more pleasantries at the door, then Clara was gone, stepping out into the gentle glow of streetlights.

Once the door clicked shut, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “That was… intense.”

Violet turned to face me. “Yes, but you handled it well,” she said, a note of approval in her voice. “She’s genuinely curious, and we can trust her not to expose our arrangement.”

I nodded, still reeling from the idea that Clara found it “adorable” to see me possibly go in my pants. “She’s so… open about it,” I mumbled.

Violet smiled, brushing her hand lightly over my shoulder. “Some people find it shocking. She finds it fascinating. Count yourself lucky—it means less judgment, more acceptance.”

I had to concede that was true. I recalled how my meltdown at the restaurant might have gone had it been a different person. Clara’s gentle reaction had been a blessing, in a twisted sense.


Part 70:

We wandered back into the living room, the air still tinged with Clara’s lingering warmth. Violet sank onto the couch, gesturing for me to sit beside her. I did, feeling the cushion dip under my weight. She rested an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

“How do you feel about what Clara said—about babysitting?” she asked, her tone unreadable.

I shivered. “I’m… I mean, it’s already humiliating enough when it’s just you,” I admitted. “Letting someone else see everything—like changing me or telling me no for the potty…” My cheeks flared. “It’s scary.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. But it could be beneficial. It means I have someone I trust to keep you in line if I ever need to step away. And maybe it’ll teach you to behave for someone else, too.”

A flicker of anxiety shot through me. “You’d really do that? Let her… change me?”

Violet’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Only if she’s comfortable and you behave. Otherwise, I’m sure we can arrange for you to remain in your wet or messy state until I return.” Her eyes gleamed with that mischievous edge.

My stomach flipped. I knew she meant every word. But at the same time, I felt a bizarre relief— if we did do that, at least I wouldn’t be left alone, locked in the house with no one to help if an accident happened.

I sighed, sinking back against the couch. “I guess… if it makes things easier for you. I won’t fight it.” My voice trembled slightly.

Violet gave me a light pat on the thigh, a small sign of approval. “That’s my good boy,” she murmured. “We won’t rush into it. But it’s nice to have the option.”

Her hand lingered, a warm weight, reminding me of the complicated mix of humiliation and comfort that defined our relationship. My mind drifted to Clara’s giggling curiosity. She thinks it’s adorable…


Part 71:

The rest of the evening was calm. Violet let me wear the normal shorts and T-shirt until bedtime, a grace I appreciated. We ate a light dinner, did some minor tidying, and watched a short show on TV. Throughout it, my thoughts kept circling back to Clara’s visit: her gentle questions, her giggles at the idea of me having an “accident,” and her surprising offer to babysit.

Eventually, bedtime came around. Violet switched off the living-room lights and motioned me upstairs. My stomach knotted with the routine I knew so well: diaper, pajamas, pacifier. But after the day’s surprises, it almost felt like a relief to return to the surety of that pattern.

Sure enough, in my room, she had a thick diaper laid out on the bed and a soft, footed sleeper draped beside it. She patted the mattress, and I lay down, letting the tension drain from my body. She taped me in with practiced ease, the diaper’s padding thick and snug against my skin. A dusting of powder, the tapes sealed, and I was once more helpless.

Then came the sleeper. This one was cotton, decorated with little stars. She guided my arms and legs in, zipping it up the back. The final snap at the collar locked it in place. My cheeks warmed at how accustomed I’d grown to this.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, she placed the pacifier against my lips. I parted them automatically, accepting it. She gave a small nod of approval, then tucked me under the covers, fussing with the sheets until I was snug.

Kneeling beside me, she brushed her fingers through my hair. “You handled Clara’s visit so well,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

Her praise—gentle, affectionate—thrummed through my chest. I felt my eyes prickle, a surge of conflicting gratitude and embarrassment. “Thank you,” I mumbled around the pacifier.

She leaned in, kissing my forehead. “Sleep, baby. Tomorrow we’ll see how you feel about everything.”

I nodded, letting my eyes drift shut as she turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped me, the only light a faint glow from the nightlight. My thoughts swirled with images of Clara’s curious smile, the memory of my meltdown, the looming possibility that one day she might babysit me. Is that my future? The question mingled with the comforting hush of Violet’s household.

And strangely, as I suckled the pacifier, I felt a gentle calm settle in. Perhaps, with Clara’s acceptance, the circle of this bizarre lifestyle had expanded—and part of me was relieved not to hide it from everyone. The path ahead might be riddled with embarrassment and forced routines, but at least I wouldn’t walk it alone.

Part 72:

Sunlight peeked through the curtains, stirring me awake. The first thing I sensed was the familiar bulk between my legs—a thick diaper encased by my star-patterned footed sleeper. I stretched slightly under the covers, hearing the soft crinkle that had become my morning soundtrack.

I could still taste the faint rubbery aftertaste of the pacifier, though it had slipped from my mouth in the night, now resting near my cheek on the pillow. A quick glance around the dim bedroom reminded me there was no chance of removing the sleeper on my own: the zipper ran up the back, secured by a small snap at my collar. As usual, I’d have to wait for Violet’s help.

Right on cue, the door opened. Violet stepped in, her robe loosely tied around her waist, hair pulled back. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes held that customary glint of authority.

“Good morning, baby,” she said softly. “Sleep well?”

I nodded, cheeks warming as I pushed myself into a sitting position. The sleeper felt warm against my skin, hugging me from neck to ankles. Violet crossed the room and lowered herself onto the bed’s edge.

“Let’s check you,” she murmured, reaching to unfasten the snap at my collar. With practiced ease, she slid the zipper down just enough to expose the top of my diaper. Her fingers skimmed the waistband, pressing the padding to gauge its state. I squirmed, mildly embarrassed as always.

“All dry,” she observed, sounding almost surprised. “Again.”

Heat rose to my face. I muttered, “Y-yes,” somewhat relieved to have stayed dry.

Violet’s lips curved with a thoughtful smile. “You’re on a streak, aren’t you?” she teased. Then, without waiting, she zipped the sleeper back up, sealing me inside once more. I blinked, expecting the usual routine of being let out to use the toilet.

“Breakfast first,” she announced, snapping the collar closed. “Come on.”

A slight wave of confusion fluttered in my stomach. Was she not going to let me use the bathroom? Usually, she’d at least ask if I needed to go. “Violet,” I ventured, “shouldn’t I…?”

She rose, smoothing the blankets aside. “Not yet,” she said firmly, beckoning me to follow. “We’ll deal with that after we eat.”


Part 73:

I followed her downstairs, the fleece feet of the sleeper shuffling softly across the floors. The snug diaper pressed against me with every step, reminding me I was still padded. Usually, I felt relieved to be changed out of nightwear by now, but apparently Violet had other plans.

In the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the air. Violet moved about, preparing scrambled eggs and bacon. She motioned me to sit at the table. I lowered myself carefully onto a chair, the rustling diaper drawing my attention again.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Um, yes,” I said, half-distracted by the gentle pressure building in my bladder.

She poured me a glass of orange juice, setting it before me. I accepted it with a quiet “thank you,” sipping nervously. My thoughts snagged on the fact that I hadn’t been permitted a bathroom visit yet. I should probably ask, I told myself.

I cleared my throat. “Violet, m-may I—”

She turned with a knowing smile. “Eat first,” she repeated, cutting me off. “I’ll decide when you get to use the potty.”

My face grew hot, but I nodded, swallowing back any protest. She brought over plates of eggs and bacon, setting them down. Then she settled beside me, her posture calm, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

At first, we ate in near silence. The only sounds were the scrape of forks and the gentle hum of the fridge. But my bladder nudged again, reminding me it was morning and I hadn’t relieved myself yet. I shifted, pressing my thighs together slightly. Violet noticed, of course.

“How’s your breakfast?” she asked, her voice carrying that subtle, patronizing edge.

“Good,” I mumbled, forcing down a bite of eggs. “But… I really have to—”

She cut me off with a mild wave of her fork. “Finish your plate.”

Heat flared in my cheeks, and I lowered my gaze to my food. My heart thudded. She was making me wait—if she even planned on letting me go at all.


Part 74:

Halfway through my meal, I couldn’t ignore the urge anymore. I shifted on the chair, biting my lip. Violet’s eyes flicked to me, her brow arching. She set her fork down and leaned over, resting her chin on her hand.

“You really do have to go, don’t you?” she said softly, her tone laced with amusement.

I exhaled shakily. “Y-yes,” I admitted, cheeks burning. “I’ve been holding it since I woke up…”

She hummed, as if contemplating. Then she said the words that made my stomach twist: “Well, I think I’d like you to use your diaper instead.”

A wave of shock and embarrassment coursed through me. “Wh-what?” I sputtered, voice low.

She gave a small, playful shrug. “You’re all zipped up, and I don’t feel like undoing it yet. It’s easier if you just go in your diaper. Then I’ll deal with it after breakfast.” Her smile was sweet, almost patronizing.

My heart pounded. She wants me to wet myself right here at the table? My first instinct was to protest. “But… that’s— I don’t—”

She placed a hand lightly on my forearm, stopping my words. “Shh, it’s okay,” she cooed, leaning in. “You’ve used them plenty of times. Just relax. Let go. I want you to.”

A surge of mortification swept over me. I glanced at her, seeing the encouraging look in her eyes. She truly expected me to do it. Right now. At the breakfast table. My bladder was full, so it wouldn’t take much.

She gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Go on, baby. I promise it’ll be okay.”

My cheeks burned hotter than ever. Yet, the commanding softness in her voice was strangely persuasive. My body tensed. Then, with a shaky breath, I let my muscles relax. Warmth flooded the front of my diaper, the padding swelling beneath the sleeper. I trembled, clenching my eyes shut, feeling the humiliating rush as I deliberately wet myself.

Violet’s expression lit with a satisfied glow. “That’s it,” she murmured, watching me intently. “Good boy.”

My face felt on fire, but I couldn’t stop. When it was over, I bit my lip, the soggy diaper pressing uncomfortably against my skin. She offered a small laugh, not cruel, but filled with a certain delighted amusement. “All done?”

I nodded, my voice barely audible. “Y-yes,” I whispered, overwhelmed by embarrassment.

She leaned back in her chair, picking up her fork again. “Good,” she said lightly. “Finish your breakfast, then I’ll change you.” Her tone was so casual, as if it were the most natural morning routine.


Part 75:

I tried to focus on the eggs and bacon, but it felt surreal to continue eating while sitting in a soaked diaper. Violet, on the other hand, resumed her meal without a care, occasionally smiling at me or asking if I wanted more juice. Each time she spoke, I felt that squirming reminder of what I’d just done.

When at last I set my fork down, having forced the food down, Violet finished sipping her coffee. She patted her lips with a napkin, then turned her gaze to me, eyes bright with an idea.

“You know,” she began, “this little morning routine was quite nice. You stayed in your sleeper, I didn’t have to fuss with letting you go to the toilet first, and you did what I asked.” She folded her napkin neatly. “I think we’ll make this a habit.”

I stared at her, cheeks warming anew. “A… a habit?”

She nodded, the decision clear in her voice. “Yes. From now on, you’ll stay in your sleeper every morning until after breakfast. No potty until I say so.” She smirked, flicking her gaze down to my waist. “If you need to go, well… you’ll use your diaper. Understood?”

My chest felt tight, but I managed a tiny nod. “Yes, Violet,” I whispered, the words tinged with both humiliation and acceptance. I could already imagine the daily routine: me, forced to stay zipped up in the footed pajamas, expected to relieve myself in the diaper if nature called— all before I’d even had coffee.

She smiled, satisfied. “Good boy. Now let’s get you changed.” She stood, beckoning me to follow, and I rose, feeling the wet diaper sag a little beneath the sleeper’s fleece.

As we walked upstairs, my mind reeled at how quickly she’d sealed this new rule. Mornings just got a lot more embarrassing. But I couldn’t deny the strange sense of calm in submitting to her direct guidance—even if it meant wet diapers at the breakfast table.


Part 76:

In the bedroom, Violet carefully unzipped my sleeper, peeling it down to reveal the swollen diaper. She tutted lightly, pressing it. “You really did soak it, didn’t you?”

I squirmed, nodding wordlessly, my cheeks heated.

Still, her movements were gentle as she untaped the diaper, rolled it up, and used wipes to clean me. Her touch was brisk but thorough, accompanied by soft words of praise— “You did well,” or “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Each phrase sent little pangs of embarrassment flaring through me, but also a warm undercurrent of acceptance.

Once I was clean, she guided me onto a fresh pull-up for the day. Then she went to the closet to pick my outfit. I watched quietly, the new rule thudding in my mind: No potty in the morning, stay in the sleeper, use the diaper.

Finally, she handed me a plain T-shirt and comfortable shorts. As she helped dress me, she met my eyes. “This is our routine now,” she reiterated. “I don’t want any whining tomorrow. Agreed?”

I swallowed, my lips parting in a soft whisper. “Agreed, Violet.”

A satisfied nod. “Good. Now, let’s see what chores you can tackle today.”

With that, she ushered me downstairs, the morning sun streaming through the windows. Despite the flush of shame lingering in my chest, a part of me felt oddly settled— like a new piece of our bizarre puzzle had locked into place. And as the day stretched ahead, I found myself uncomfortably certain that my mornings would never be the same again.

Part 77:

After that decidedly eventful morning, the rest of the day unfurled with an unusual calm. Once Violet finished dressing me in a simple T-shirt and loose shorts, she guided me downstairs and let me settle on the couch while she tidied the kitchen.

The sun was soft through the windows, golden beams catching dust motes in the air. I leaned back, letting out a long, slow breath. My cheeks still held a bit of warmth from the memory of wetting my diaper at the breakfast table, but somehow, I felt oddly relaxed. Maybe it was the fact that Violet wasn’t looming over me with yet another strict command. Perhaps it was just the lull after so much recent drama.

Violet soon reappeared, a cup of tea in hand. She cast me an appraising look, as if ensuring I was okay, then sat at the other end of the couch. “I’ve got some work emails to address,” she said, tapping her phone. “But I won’t be too long. In the meantime, just… take it easy, all right?”

I blinked, surprised. That was hardly her typical directive. Usually, she had a list of chores, or tasks, or some new humiliating routine. Instead, she seemed content to let me breathe. “Y-yes, Violet,” I said quietly.

She gave a small nod, sipping her tea and scrolling through her phone. The hush of the house felt soothing. Beyond the open window, I could hear distant bird calls and the faint rustle of leaves in the yard. Occasionally, Violet would type out a quick message, then glance my way, offering a small, reassuring smile.


Part 78:

The morning slipped by in a hazy gentleness. Around noon, Violet rose, stretching gracefully. “Feel like a quick snack?” she asked me. “I can make something light— maybe sandwiches or a salad.”

I gave a bashful nod. “Sandwiches are fine,” I said. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but the normalcy of a midday meal sounded nice.

She beckoned me into the kitchen, where she began slicing tomatoes and cheese. I offered to help, fetching the bread and ham from the fridge. As we worked side by side, I noticed how calm her demeanor was— no stern demands, no hush-hush admonitions. It felt close to how a typical couple might behave, if you looked past the fact that I had to wear a pull-up and ask permission for bathroom use.

“Done,” Violet declared, assembling the sandwiches with a small flourish. She set two plates on the table, along with tall glasses of water. We sat, and for a while, we just ate quietly, the tension from earlier in the morning seemingly vanished.

At one point, I hesitated, then asked softly, “Do you need me to do any chores today? Laundry, vacuuming…?” It felt strange, but part of me didn’t want to be idle too long, lest she spring something unexpected on me.

She considered, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “You can water the garden if you like, but it’s not urgent,” she said. “Really, I’m content with letting you relax. Yesterday was intense, and you handled a lot this morning.” A playful twinkle lit her eyes, as if referencing the diaper situation. I blushed.

“All right,” I mumbled, finishing my sandwich.

She smiled, reaching across the table to give my wrist a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for asking, though. I do appreciate how you’ve been stepping up around the house.”

My cheeks warmed, not entirely from embarrassment this time. I felt… appreciated. It was a small, welcome validation.


Part 79:

After lunch, Violet placed the dishes in the sink and nudged me toward the patio door. “Go get some fresh air,” she suggested. “I’ll clean up here.”

Surprised but pleased, I stepped out onto the patio. The warmth of the afternoon sun kissed my arms, and the gentle breeze ruffled my hair. The yard beckoned—a peaceful oasis. The fence provided ample privacy, which was especially welcome given my usual attire. But today, in my regular shorts and T-shirt, I felt almost normal. No one would immediately guess my unusual circumstances unless they paid attention to the faint crinkle of the pull-up if I moved too sharply.

I wandered over to check the herb garden, which Violet had me water earlier in the week. The basil and rosemary looked healthy, their leaves a vibrant green. I plucked a stray weed or two, enjoying the mild tang of the earth on my hands.

After a while, I found myself sitting in one of the patio chairs, letting the sun warm my shoulders. My mind drifted over recent events: Clara’s visit, the meltdown at the restaurant, the new morning rule that forced me to wet my diaper before breakfast ended. Yet somehow, the day’s serenity lulled me into a gentle acceptance. At least for now, everything’s peaceful.


Part 80:

Mid-afternoon, Violet appeared at the patio door, waving for me to come in. She’d changed into a comfortable blouse and leggings, hair now in a loose ponytail. “I’m heading out for a quick errand,” she announced when I joined her in the living room. “Just some groceries. Will you be okay here for a bit?”

My stomach fluttered at the idea of her leaving me alone, but she quickly clarified: “Don’t worry, I won’t lock you into anything. I’ll only be an hour or so. Just… behave, and don’t forget to ask if you need the potty before I go,” she added pointedly.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m okay,” I said, though I felt a faint nudge in my bladder. “I can wait, I think.”

She shrugged lightly. “Suit yourself.” Then, stepping closer, she leaned in to give me a small kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”

And just like that, she was gone, the front door clicking shut behind her. I stood in the quiet hallway, a mixture of relief and mild unease. Usually, being left alone could mean restricted movement or locked doors, but she’d chosen not to do that today. Another sign of trust? Or was it just a slow day?

I wandered into the kitchen, noticing a short list on the counter. Fold laundry, empty trash, it read in Violet’s neat handwriting. Deciding to keep busy, I headed to the laundry room and found a load of towels in the dryer. Warm and soft, they felt comforting against my arms. I carried them to the living room floor and began folding.

As I worked, that subtle need in my bladder grew more insistent. I paused, considering—should I just hold it until Violet returned, or should I try to manage it myself? The rules were clear: I wasn’t to use the bathroom without her permission. But she wasn’t here.

My mind flashed back to times she’d locked me in special clothing or locked the bathrooms. Today, though, everything was wide open. She did say I could wait, I reasoned. I can hold it an hour.

So I shrugged and went back to folding towels, deciding to manage on my own until she got back.


Part 81:

With the laundry folded and neatly stacked, I decided to grab a small snack—some fruit from the fridge—and settle on the couch to watch a bit of TV. The house was quiet, the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the windows, casting long rectangles of light across the floor.

Flipping through channels, I landed on some nature documentary— sweeping shots of ocean life, soothing narration. It lulled me into a dozy contentment. I nibbled on apple slices, letting the calm wash over me. No urgent chores, no strict instructions, no immediate humiliations. This is… nice, I thought, almost forgetting the pull-up hugging my waist.

Still, my bladder continued to nag. I shifted, crossing my legs. She’ll be back soon, I told myself. Then I can ask. It felt surreal to be so reliant on her, but at least the day’s tempo was slow and comfortable.


Part 82:

Sure enough, about an hour later, I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The front door opened, revealing Violet with a couple of grocery bags in tow. I jumped up from the couch to help her, ignoring the twinge below my belly.

She smiled when she saw me. “Everything all right?” she asked, handing me a bag of produce.

I nodded, though my cheeks felt warm. “Yes, just folded the towels and watched some TV.” A slight pause. “And, um, can I… use the potty now?”

Her lips curved in a half-smile. “Sure. Go ahead.”

My shoulders sagged with relief. Without further delay, I scurried upstairs to the bathroom. The door was unlocked, no chain or anything. It felt refreshingly normal to slip in and handle my business, albeit with that slight, embarrassing memory: I’m supposed to ask first.

Once done, I flushed and returned downstairs, heart lighter. Violet was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. I joined her, placing items in the fridge where she indicated. The day’s gentle pace continued— no scolding, no fuss. A certain tenderness hung in the air, as though we both needed this respite from the intensity of prior days.


Part 83:

Early evening found us preparing a simple dinner: chicken stir-fry with fresh vegetables. I helped chop bell peppers and onions, while Violet handled the chicken, browning it in a pan. The comforting sizzle, the mingling aromas of garlic and sesame oil—it all made the kitchen feel homely and warm.

We ate at the table, chatting about minor topics. She asked if I wanted to explore any online courses, as we’d once discussed. I admitted I hadn’t quite made up my mind. She didn’t push; just nodded thoughtfully and said we could look into it when I was ready.

After dinner, we tidied up. Violet took a moment to check her phone. “No more work calls for today,” she said with a small smile. “Which means we can relax.”

She beckoned me into the living room, flipping on a gentle lamp instead of the overhead lights. The soft glow was cozy, and we settled side by side on the couch. She switched on a streaming service, choosing a lighthearted movie—something comedic and fun, nothing that required deep thought or stress.

I nestled against her, feeling that warm sense of closeness. Our dynamic might be unusual—strict bathroom rules, diapers in the morning, pacifiers in the car—but in this moment, we were just two people enjoying a quiet evening together. When she draped an arm around my shoulders, I let out a contented sigh, my eyelids growing heavy as the movie’s cheerful scenes danced across the screen.


Part 84:

Eventually, the movie ended. The house was bathed in the mellow darkness of late evening. Violet clicked off the TV, stretching. I yawned, rubbing at my eyes.

She glanced at me with a fond smile. “Bedtime, I think,” she announced softly. “You’ve had a long day. Tomorrow… we’ll see how you handle our new morning rule again.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

A slight jolt of embarrassment hit me, recalling how she’d forced me to wet my diaper before breakfast earlier. I swallowed, nodding. “Yes, Violet,” I murmured, resigned to the knowledge that tomorrow morning’s routine would involve no immediate potty trips, just a locked sleeper until she decided otherwise.

She rose, taking my hand to guide me upstairs. The familiar routine of being changed into a nighttime diaper and footed pajamas loomed, but after such a relaxed day, I felt strangely at peace with it. It’s just part of our life now, I reminded myself.

In my room, Violet wasted no time: diaper laid out on the bed, pastel prints at the ready. She stripped away my shorts and pull-up, then helped me onto the open padding. I lifted my hips automatically, letting her tape it securely. A dusting of powder, the crisp sound of tapes fastening… all of it was second nature by now.

Then she brought over the soft footed sleeper—different from the morning’s star pattern, this one featuring tiny clouds along the sleeves. I slipped my arms and legs in, feeling the cozy fabric envelope me. She zipped it up the back, snapping it closed with a gentle click of finality.


Part 85:

Once I was snuggly dressed for bed, Violet walked me to the bathroom for teeth brushing, overseeing every step but not intruding with her typical sternness. It was a quiet, almost maternal watchfulness.

When I finished, we returned to my bedroom. She tucked me under the covers, smoothing them around me. Her hand rested lightly on the front of my diaper, verifying it was still dry. I squirmed, flushing, but she only gave a satisfied nod.

Leaning down, she brushed a tender kiss on my forehead. “You were good today,” she said softly. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

My chest fluttered with warmth. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I… I liked today, just… being normal.”

Her smile held a hint of understanding. “I know. We needed a calm day. But remember,” she added teasingly, “tomorrow morning, that new rule still applies. No potty until we’re done with breakfast.”

I shivered at the reminder, though I tried to hide it. “I remember.”

“Good.” She flicked off the overhead light, leaving the gentle glow of a nightlight. “Sleep well, baby,” she whispered.

As she left the room, quietly shutting the door, I sank into the pillow, the soft crinkle of the diaper cushioning every breath. Despite the sure knowledge of another embarrassing morning, I felt a certain gratitude for the day’s respite. One calm day in the midst of our strange routine, I reflected, eyelids drooping. I’ll take it.

Drifting off, I let the hush of the house lull me, the memory of a peaceful afternoon and evening settling into my mind. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and humiliations, but for now— for this one night— I allowed myself to rest in the gentle comfort of Violet’s unconventional care.

 

 

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I decided to finish the story with part 100, so I can focus on a new one. I didn't want to wear it out too much. So her is the last part of this one
 

Part 86:

The quiet routine of the morning lulled me into a sense of normalcy. I’d woken in my usual zip-up sleeper—thickly padded underneath—eaten breakfast (once again kept locked in that soft fleece until the meal was over), then Violet had helped me change into a simple pull-up and comfortable shorts. Despite the mild embarrassment lingering from the forced wetting earlier, the day had started peacefully enough.

Late in the morning, Violet slipped into the living room while I was tidying a bookshelf. She wore a knowing smile, hands clasped behind her back. I paused, curious.

“Clara’s coming by in a bit,” she announced casually. “I need to head out for a meeting, so she’ll keep an eye on you while I’m gone.” Her eyes held a teasing glint—she knew this would make me blush. She leaned in, tapping my nose affectionately. “Remember how she offered to ‘babysit’? Well, we’re giving it a trial run.”

My heart fluttered. A swirl of excitement, nerves, and humiliation mingled in my stomach. I recalled how Clara had teased me the last time we’d met—cooing over my pull-ups, giggling about accidents. Still, she’d been sweet. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.

“When… when does she get here?” I asked softly.

“In about twenty minutes,” Violet replied. “I’ve already briefed her on a few things.” She left it at that, turning back toward her office to gather papers for her meeting. I finished tidying the shelf mechanically, unable to focus on anything but the impending babysitting session.

Sure enough, not long after, the doorbell rang. Violet reappeared, ushering me toward the foyer. There stood Clara, dressed casually in jeans and a pastel sweater, holding a small tote bag slung over one shoulder. She beamed when she saw me.

“Hey, there,” she said, her tone playful and warm. “Ready for a fun day?”

Heat crept into my cheeks. “H-hello,” I managed.

Violet exchanged a quick set of instructions with Clara—quietly, so I only caught snippets of their conversation—and then she slipped out, promising to be back sometime in the late afternoon. The front door shut with a resounding click, leaving me alone with Clara in the silent hallway.

She turned, giving me a gentle, almost mischievous look. “So,” she said, easing her tote bag to the floor, “what shall we do while your… caretaker is away?”

I swallowed. “Um… we could watch TV or… hang out?”

Clara chuckled, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “That sounds perfect. Don’t worry—I’m not here to boss you around too harshly,” she teased. “But I am in charge, so you’d better listen.” Her smile softened any bite in her words, but a quiet thrill of embarrassment ran down my spine regardless.


Part 87:

We settled in the living room, the midday sun streaming through the windows. Clara set her tote bag on the coffee table, then sat on the couch, patting the cushion next to her in an inviting gesture. I perched beside her, trying to relax.

“How are you?” she asked, voice kind. “I haven’t really talked to you alone since that day at the restaurant.”

I fiddled with a loose thread on my shorts, recalling how I’d broken down in tears during that lunch. “I’m better,” I said honestly. “Things have been calmer.”

She nodded, glancing around the tidy living room. “That’s good. I’m glad. You looked pretty shaken back then, but I hope you know I’m not here to judge. I think… well, it’s different, but I like seeing you cared for.”

My cheeks warmed. It was still surreal to have her speak so casually about this babyish arrangement. Yet, there was no denying her sincerity. “Thanks,” I murmured, forcing a small smile.

Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “So, how about we do something fun?” She gestured to the TV stand, where a few gaming consoles sat. “I remember you mentioning you like playing Mario Kart. Wanna have a few races?”

A spark of excitement lit in my chest. I hadn’t played in a while. “Sure,” I said, feeling unexpectedly eager. “That could be fun.”

She handed me one controller, taking the other for herself. Within minutes, the bright, playful music of Mario Kart filled the room, and we set up a simple Grand Prix. The atmosphere felt easy, no tension or complicated demands—just two people about to enjoy a game.

What I didn’t realize was that Clara had a mischievous plan brewing behind that friendly smile.


Part 88:

The first race started, the cartoonish tracks and colorful karts zipping across the screen. I quickly got absorbed in selecting characters, focusing on drifting around corners and launching items at Clara’s racer. She, in turn, gave a running commentary—playfully trash-talking my attempts to overtake her.

“Oh, nice try!” she laughed at one point, dodging a shell I threw. “But you’re dealing with a Mario Kart pro here, you know.”

I smirked. “We’ll see about that,” I shot back, trying to gather my gamer confidence. But truth be told, she was good—really good. She took corners with ease, timed her boosts perfectly, and left me trailing more often than not.

By the time we’d done a couple of races, I was losing pretty decisively, though having a blast. Yet, about halfway through the second cup, I felt a twinge in my bladder. Should’ve asked Clara if I could use the toilet earlier, I thought. But the game was in full swing, and I was determined not to back out just yet.

When the race ended, I set my controller on my knee, clearing my throat. “Hey, Clara?” I ventured.

She arched an eyebrow, glancing at me with a smile. “Yes?”

I felt my face grow warm. “Um… I kinda need to use the bathroom. Is that all right?”

To my surprise, she just grinned wider, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Hmm,” she mused, leaning back on the couch. “I could let you… but where’s the fun in that?” Before I could object, she tapped the screen, selecting the next track. “Let’s make this interesting. If you can beat me in the next cup, you can go. If not… well, you’ll have to hold it—or not.”

My stomach flipped at the implication. “But… that’s not— you’re really going to make me race for it?” I sputtered.

She giggled. “Why not? Seems like a good challenge.” She leaned in, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, I’d love to see if you can keep from wetting your pull-up when you lose.”

A jolt of embarrassment shot through me, but I also felt an odd spark of competitive adrenaline. “Fine,” I muttered, trying not to show how nervous I was. “You’re on.”


Part 89:

As the new set of races started, my mind was in turmoil. The urge to pee was growing, but I tried to push it aside, focusing on the screen. Clara was in top form, glancing sideways at me with a playful smirk every time she took a lead.

“You’d better speed up,” she teased, nimbly hopping a chasm. “That bladder of yours might not last much longer.”

I clenched my jaw, ignoring the flush spreading across my cheeks. My hands tightened on the controller. “I can do this,” I whispered under my breath, zooming around a tight curve. Just got to get first place in enough races to beat her total.

But Clara was ruthless. She tossed red shells with uncanny precision, dropping banana peels in my path at the worst moments. Whenever I tried to pass her, she’d swerve or unleash an item that sent my kart spinning. All the while, she teased me mercilessly—lighthearted jabs, but oh-so-effective in rattling my focus.

“Ooh, you almost had me there!” she cooed, drifting around me again. “Just imagine how nice it’d feel to go potty if you win.”

My face was on fire. “You’re— you’re playing dirty,” I accused between races, my leg jiggling in an attempt to manage the growing pressure in my bladder.

She shrugged theatrically, a grin plastered on her face. “I’m just better, that’s all. And I can’t wait to see what happens if you lose.” Her gaze dipped to my waist pointedly. My breath caught, but I refused to give up.


Part 90:

Despite my best efforts, despite grabbing a few first-place finishes on certain tracks, Clara still won the majority of the races. By the final course, I was trailing her overall points by a margin that was nearly impossible to close. I tried not to panic, but each passing lap reminded me of my desperation.

Clara hammered the last race with confidence, finishing well ahead of me. By the time I crossed the finish line, she’d already set down her controller, turning to me with an expectant look. “Second place overall,” she teased. “Nice try, baby.”

I grimaced, heart pounding. “So… that means… I can’t go?”

She tapped her chin with feigned thoughtfulness, then shook her head. “Nope. I won, so I say you have to hold it.”

A stab of frustration and humiliation hit me. “But— but I really need to—”

She clucked her tongue, wagging a finger. “Should’ve played better, huh?” Then her expression softened just a bit. “Look, you can keep trying, or you can let go in your pull-up. It’s your call.”

My cheeks flamed. She actually wants me to wet myself, I realized with equal parts shock and a strange, flustered excitement. The pressure in my bladder was borderline painful, but the idea of losing control in front of her was so embarrassing.

I exhaled shakily, crossing my legs. “C-can we do another race?” I asked, voice quivering. “Please?”

Her eyes danced with amusement. “All right,” she allowed. “But I’ll keep messing with you until you really can’t hold it. So let’s see if you can squeak out a win, hmm?”


Part 91:

We started another race, this time just a single track set to frantic mode. My bladder felt like it was on fire—I could barely concentrate on the screen. Clara, ever the shark, zipped around corners while hurling shells at me. She even leaned over now and then, whispering in a singsong tone.

“Doesn’t that pull-up feel snug? Bet it’d be so warm and squishy if you just gave in.”

I bit my lip hard, my kart spinning out after a red shell connected. My eyes watered from the intensity, and not just from the game. My focus shattered. Another minute or two of racing, and I felt the unstoppable wave approach. I clenched my thighs, letting out a small whimper of frustration.

Clara glanced sidelong. “Oh? Is it happening?” She slowed her kart momentarily, giving me a smirk.

I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. The tension in my body gave one last spasm, and I felt the warmth rush into my pull-up, flooding it. My face burned bright red, a mix of relief and mortification washing over me.

She noticed instantly. The corners of her mouth twitched in triumph. “Aww,” she cooed, letting her kart crash as she turned to face me fully. “Did you just wet yourself, baby?”

My vision blurred with embarrassment as I let out a shaky breath. “Y-yes,” I whispered, voice barely audible.

Clara let out a delighted laugh—not cruel, but utterly amused. “That is so adorable. I knew I’d win eventually.” She paused, her expression shifting to one of genuine care. “You okay? I didn’t push too far?”

Despite my burning cheeks, a strange sense of acceptance flooded me. “I… I’m okay,” I managed, blinking rapidly. The soaked pull-up clung to me, still warm.

She gave me a moment, then set her controller aside. “Let’s get you changed,” she said, surprisingly gentle. “We don’t want you staying in that too long.”


Part 92:

Clara rose, offering a hand to help me up. I could barely meet her eyes, the pull-up heavy between my legs. She guided me down the hallway toward the bathroom—my steps hesitant. Upon reaching it, she paused, glancing at the doorknob.

“Should I handle it in here?” she asked softly, searching my face. “Or do you want me to just wait outside?”

Heat prickled my neck. She was asking if I was okay with her seeing me in that state. After the teasing and Mario Kart fiasco, it felt somewhat inevitable. Hesitantly, I mumbled, “I guess… it’s fine if you help.”

She gave an understanding nod, pushing the door open. Inside, she calmly flipped on the light. The mirror reflected my flushed face, my short stature dwarfed by her presence. Clara gently shut the door behind us, then turned to me, lips curving in a reassuring smile.

“All right, stand still,” she murmured, reaching for the waistband of my shorts. She tugged them down carefully, exposing the soggy pull-up. Her eyes flicked over it—there was no hiding how thoroughly I’d used it. “That’s pretty soaked,” she teased lightly, though her touch was gentle as she peeled the sides apart.

My face burned, but I couldn’t deny a shy gratitude at her calm approach. She rolled the used pull-up, tossing it in the small trash bin, then grabbed a handful of wipes from a basket on the counter. Softly, she cleaned my skin, her expression somewhere between amused and nurturing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said in a soft voice, glancing up at me now and then. “I did make you hold it.”

I managed a shaky laugh, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “True,” I admitted.

With the final wipe, she patted me dry. Then, rummaging in her tote bag—apparently prepared—she pulled out a fresh pull-up, guiding it up my legs. The moment the waistband snapped into place, I felt both comforted and humiliated, the memory of losing that Mario Kart bet still fresh.

“Better?” she asked, smoothing the sides.

I nodded, swallowing down the last of my embarrassment. “Yes. Thank you.”

She leaned in, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re welcome, cutie. Now we can keep gaming without any… distractions.”


Part 93:

After that chaotic and humiliating moment, Clara guided me back to the living room. The adrenaline from the match had worn off, leaving me feeling oddly mellow. She offered me a glass of water and then flopped onto the couch, patting the cushion next to her.

“Come sit,” she said softly. “We can watch something or just chill. No more forced challenges—promise,” she added with a playful wink.

Relieved, I sank into the couch beside her, carefully sipping water. My mind replayed the spectacle of the past hour, how she’d teased and bested me in Mario Kart until I wet myself. Despite the flush of humiliation, part of me felt a lightness—like we’d just shared a bizarre but oddly bonding experience.

Clara turned on the TV, flipping through channels until she found a silly sitcom. For a while, we just let the canned laughter fill the room, a comfortable lull settling over us. Occasionally, she gave me a kind look or a cheeky grin, but didn’t push further.

Before long, the front door clicked open, and Violet’s voice drifted from the foyer. “I’m back!”

Clara and I exchanged glances. She shot me an encouraging smile, then rose to greet Violet. I followed, feeling that familiar swirl of nerves.

Violet eyed us both, brow lifting in curiosity. “Have a good time?” she asked, setting down her purse.

Clara leaned against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms with a casual air. “We did,” she said lightly. “Had a little gaming session— I think I bested him.”

Violet gave me a knowing look, catching the faint flush in my cheeks. “I’m sure you did,” she murmured, amused. Then she turned to Clara with a nod. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Clara smiled. “My pleasure. He was pretty well-behaved, actually,” she teased, her gaze flicking to me. “No major issues… aside from me beating him in every race.”

Violet laughed softly, and I ducked my head. “Well, I appreciate it,” Violet said. “Maybe we’ll do this again sometime.”

Clara’s eyes brightened. “I’d like that,” she answered warmly. She paused, then gave me a final pat on the shoulder. “See you soon, kiddo.”

With that, she gathered her tote bag and headed out, leaving me and Violet in the hush of the living room. I exhaled, still reeling from the day’s unexpected twists.

Violet glanced at me, arching an eyebrow. “Kiddo, huh?”

I shrugged, cheeks glowing. “It’s… her thing,” I mumbled, half-smiling.

She just shook her head, a grin tugging at her lips. “Seems you two had fun,” she observed. “No meltdown?”

“No meltdown,” I confirmed, heart fluttering at the memory of losing that humiliating bet. “It was… okay.”

Violet’s expression softened, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “Good,” she said. “Sounds like Clara is quite the babysitter.”

I mustered a small laugh, leaning into her touch. Yes, I thought, recalling the flush of that final race. She definitely is.

 

Part 94:

In the days following Clara’s “babysitting” visit, life in Violet’s house settled into a peculiar but comfortable rhythm. Mornings continued in a manner I’d grown to expect—waking in my footed sleeper, thickly padded, and being required to wait through breakfast before a change. It was still embarrassing, but I’d become surprisingly adept at managing the routine, especially on quieter days when Violet didn’t push me too hard.

Yet gradually, a shift began to take place. It started with small gestures: Violet letting me choose what T-shirt to wear on a random afternoon, or allowing me to help myself to a snack in the kitchen without explicit permission. She no longer insisted on dressing me every time, especially if she was busy with work. The fact that I had once been locked out of bathrooms now felt like a distant memory—she’d occasionally trust me to use it alone if she was in the middle of a call or stepping out for a quick errand.

Our relationship, once defined by her strict caretaker role and my near-total dependency, began to soften around the edges. The day she casually handed me my clothes and said, “Here, put these on if you like,” I nearly dropped them in surprise. Her smirk told me she found my startled expression amusing. Slowly, but surely, we were easing into a looser, more flexible arrangement.

One afternoon, while folding laundry (a chore that became second nature to me), Violet wandered over, her phone tucked under one arm. She looked thoughtful, almost pensive.

“William,” she said quietly, setting her phone down. “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time we discuss how you feel about everything—these rules, the diapers, the caretaker dynamic. We never really sat down to talk about it, did we?”

My stomach fluttered nervously, but I nodded. “No, not really. You just… set them.”

She exhaled, as though steeling herself. “Exactly. You’ve been compliant, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page going forward.”

I swallowed, folding a towel slowly. “You mean… do I want to stop? Or… keep going?”

“Something like that.” Her gaze met mine, searching. “I need to know if you’re happy. Or if we should change things to suit us both better.”


Part 95:

We retreated to the living room, taking seats on the couch. The midday light shone through the curtains, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Violet leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her usual imposing aura tempered by genuine concern.

“I do enjoy caring for you,” she began softly. “It’s… fulfilling, in its own way. But it was never my intention to push you into something that only made you embarrassed or uncomfortable.”

I fiddled with my hands, recalling the many humiliating moments—wetting on command, wearing childish outfits, locked bathroom doors. And yet, there had also been warmth, security, and a strange sense of belonging. “It’s complicated,” I confessed. “I don’t hate it. Sometimes, the strictness and babying… I actually like it.” My cheeks colored as I admitted it aloud.

Violet’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “Yes, I’ve noticed. But I also see the strain it sometimes causes.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I guess… it’s been a lot, especially early on. The forced accidents, the constant monitoring… it wore me down.” I offered a small, hesitant smile. “But over time, I’ve appreciated how safe it feels, being looked after. I just… want some balance, you know? I want to feel like I can be an adult, too.”

She reached over, taking my hand. “Then let’s find that balance,” she said. “We can keep certain aspects—like me helping you with outfits now and then, or having you wear protection when we’re out if it makes you feel cared for—but let go of the more extreme rules, like morning forced wettings or locked clothing. Would that help?”

My heart skipped. “You’d really do that?”

She nodded, squeezing my fingers. “Yes. I value us, not just the scenario I’ve created. If you want to tone it down, we will.” Her eyes flickered with relief, as if she’d been waiting for me to say the word. “But if a part of you still likes some caretaker elements, I’m happy to keep them in a gentler way.”

“Gentler way,” I repeated, a soft laugh escaping. “I’d… like that.”


Part 96:

The days that followed saw a noticeable softening of Violet’s rules. I still had occasional morning diaper changes, but the forced wettings during breakfast gradually faded out. Instead, she’d often unzip me first thing, teasingly offering to “let me be a big boy” or to “stay padded a while”—giving me a choice. Sometimes I even kept the sleeper if I felt like it, though the humiliating requirement was no longer enforced.

Bathroom privileges loosened significantly. Though she still liked me to ask if she was around—“It’s polite, baby,” she’d say with a playful wink—she didn’t get upset if I excused myself quietly. I no longer felt the dread of being told “no” every time.

Outfits, too, became a middle ground. She let me dress in normal shorts and T-shirts most days, reserving childish garments for when we were home alone and feeling playful. The booster seat in the car remained, partly because she insisted it was “cute and safer,” but if I pushed back or we were going somewhere more public, she sometimes let me ride up front. Little by little, the rigid, controlling aura around her stance softened into something more akin to affectionate teasing.

Our relationship felt… healthier. More balanced. I noticed that the sense of closeness we’d developed hadn’t vanished with the lighter rules. If anything, we talked more, confided in each other about daily stresses, hopes, and plans. She asked about my interests, encouraging me to sign up for an online class in a subject I liked—graphic design. She still took pride in “taking care” of me, but it was less about controlling every aspect of my life and more about supporting me.

Even Clara’s occasional visits took on a different tone. She’d drop by, grin at me, and ask if I wanted a rematch in Mario Kart—“No weird bets this time,” she’d joke. I’d roll my eyes, but we’d end up racing anyway, the atmosphere lighter. She even babysat a couple more times, though that basically meant just hanging out while Violet ran errands, perhaps making sure I didn’t slack on chores. The humiliating accidents and forced competition disappeared. Once or twice, if I was in a playful mood, I’d let her help me into a pull-up, but more often than not, we just hung out like friends.


Part 97:

With each passing week, I found a new sense of autonomy within the house. Violet encouraged me to apply for a local part-time job, or to at least build my skill set so I could freelance if I wanted. I still wasn’t certain what I wanted career-wise, but the fact she no longer insisted I stay home all the time felt liberating.

Occasionally, I’d reflect on how drastically things had changed since I first stepped off that plane. Back then, the shock of being diapered against my will, locked into childish clothes, and forced to wet myself at her command seemed all-consuming. Now, we’d developed a dynamic that, while still peppered with caretaker elements, gave me room to breathe.

I still wore pull-ups at night more often than not—partly because she insisted it made her feel “at ease” in case I dozed off and couldn’t make it. But if I woke with an urge, she no longer required me to wait for her. In the mornings, sometimes I’d choose a playful footed sleeper, allowing her to help me zip up, enjoying that sense of closeness. Other times, I opted for normal pajamas. She teased me gently but never forced the issue.

The gentle caretaker role remained in small ways: she liked brushing my hair after a shower, or picking out a favorite T-shirt for me. But the controlling edge was gone. She no longer kept me from the bathroom or locked my clothes. We found a new normal—cozy, affectionate, slightly babyish in private, but respectful of my budding independence.


Part 98:

One evening, about six months after everything had started, we found ourselves curled up on the living-room couch, a soft blanket over our laps. The TV played some random show, but we paid it little attention. Instead, we were talking—light, easy conversation drifting from topic to topic.

I commented on how different things felt from the early days. Violet sighed softly, her hand resting on my thigh. “I know. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you at first,” she said, voice tinged with sincerity. “I guess I got carried away with the idea of caring for you completely, not realizing how intense it could be.”

I pressed my hand atop hers. “It’s okay,” I replied. “I mean, it was a lot, but I wouldn’t trade the closeness we’ve built. And… I do still like some of it.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Me too,” she whispered. “I love tucking you in, helping you pick clothes, teasing you sometimes. But I don’t want to stifle you.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. “You know, if you want to go to school, or get a job, or see friends, you can. I’d never stop you.”

My chest warmed with gratitude. “I want that too,” I said, “but… I also like how we are at home sometimes. Just, less controlling, more… sweet.”

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. “Deal.”

We settled deeper under the blanket, letting the background TV sounds lull us. The hush of the house felt safe, comforting, and for once, I wasn’t worried about wearing a diaper or my next bathroom break. I was simply content.


Part 99:

As time rolled on, our dynamic solidified into a blend of affectionate caretaking and ordinary partnership. I took an online class in graphic design, spending a few hours each day practicing new techniques. Occasionally, I’d wear a pull-up in the day if we both felt playful, or if I wanted that extra sense of being “cared for,” but it was no longer mandatory. Violet would still sometimes insist on “helping” me with personal tasks—like brushing my hair at night or guiding me to bed in a soft sleeper—but the difference was that I chose to accept it. If I politely said, “I’d like to do it myself,” she relented without fuss.

Clara remained a close friend to us both—popping by on weekends for coffee, or inviting us out. She never forgot the earlier babysitting escapades, occasionally cracking jokes about Mario Kart or “don’t wet your pants, William!” if I looked particularly anxious. But her tone was always lighthearted, no longer pushing me toward actual accidents. If anything, we’d become real friends, sharing gaming tips and laughing at each other’s trash talk.

We even visited my parents a few months later, explaining that Violet and I were living together. The babyish aspect, of course, stayed hidden from them, but they saw how supportive and caring Violet was. They commented on how well I seemed to be doing, how mature the relationship looked. I smiled privately at the irony: it was mature in many ways—communication, trust, and respect—despite our earlier, more unusual dynamic.

Eventually, talk of the future arose. Would I move out eventually, get my own place? We both concluded that, at least for the near future, living together was what we wanted. Violet liked having me around, and I enjoyed the closeness we shared. We recognized we were forging a relationship that balanced adult independence with a playful caretaker vibe—less intense, more consensual and comforting.

One night, as I settled into bed (wearing a simple pair of boxer briefs instead of a diaper for the first time in ages), Violet slipped in beside me, draping an arm across my torso. “Thank you,” she whispered against my ear, her breath warm. “For trusting me. For letting me care for you, and for reminding me to be gentle when it was too much.”

My throat tightened with emotion. I turned onto my side, facing her in the faint glow of the nightlight. “Thank you,” I whispered back. “For easing up when I needed it… for still loving me even when it got weird.”

Her soft laugh resonated against my chest. “Love doesn’t stop being love,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “We adapt, we compromise, we grow. And we’re still growing.”

I shut my eyes, letting that sink in. In that moment, I saw our future not as a rigid caretaker-little dynamic, but as a fluid relationship where we supported each other, teased each other, and occasionally indulged in those babyish habits—only when we both wanted. The rules had softened, but our bond had deepened. A new normal, indeed.

I drifted off, my last conscious thought a wave of gentle happiness. We’ve come a long way, I mused. And in the hush of that cozy bedroom, I couldn’t wait to see where our evolving partnership would lead next.


Part 100: Epilogue

Six months later, our life had settled into a comfortable routine that no longer revolved around strict babying rules. I had my own part-time gig doing freelance design, a small desk set up in the study. Violet continued working her job mostly from home, but occasionally commuting to the office. Some days, we’d wake up, share breakfast like any normal couple— no forced accidents, no locked pajamas. Other days, if the mood struck, I might lounge in a childish onesie, or she might feed me bites of food for fun. We laughed more, teased each other lightly, but always with the awareness that we controlled the dynamic, not the other way around.

Clara became a regular friend, dropping in for game nights or coffee hangouts. She teased me about my improved Mario Kart skills— “At least now you don’t have to race for bathroom privileges,” she’d quip, sparking easy laughter.

And so, the relationship that began with intense, domineering rules evolved into a balanced, loving partnership. We found a middle ground, a gentle caretaker vibe woven into everyday life, but never overshadowing my autonomy. The “little boy” aspects existed when we both felt comfortable—less forced, more playful. I still liked feeling safe and coddled sometimes, but I also thrived on growing my independence: my design projects, my chores done on my own terms, my ability to slip out for a walk or a coffee run without elaborate permission.

Late one afternoon, Violet and I curled up on the couch, sharing the day’s highlights. She teased me about getting a haircut, ruffling my hair. I teased her back about her love for matching outfits. We watched the sun dip below the horizon, painting the living room in warm, orange light.

In that comfortable quiet, I realized how deeply we’d come to trust and care for each other. We’d forged a path from extreme dominance to a calmer, more mutual devotion. The caretaker aspect remained, but only as a tender undercurrent, something we both enjoyed together.

Life was good. We were happy. And as the sky darkened and we turned on a low lamp, I felt certain that wherever our relationship went next, we’d navigate it side by side—equal partners in our own, uniquely gentle, and ever-evolving love story.

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