Pierry Louys Posted June 20 Posted June 20 Curious / ansious to see when arrive the new diapers ! And hoping for new comfy clothes for or big toddler rsrs
Pampertimmy Posted June 20 Posted June 20 Great story so far. Keep it up. I think Jacob is going back to toddler life for a while.
ababaidl Posted July 9 Author Posted July 9 You wanted it, you got it. Won't make you wait so long next time! Chapter 5 Jacob felt flabbergasted and overwhelmed at what just happened within five minutes of Lana clicking on her tablet. The diapers were literally made to be as babyish as possible, Lana is relishing in it, and even bought a pacifier and a bottle? "This can't be happening... " Jacob whispered to himself, feeling his heart racing. His fingers twitched toward his missing phone like a phantom limb. "Can I—" His throat clicked around the plea. "Can I just go somewhere else for a while?" The words tumbled out too fast, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy's. "This is... a lot." Lana's manicured nail tapped against the iPad case—once, twice—before she set it aside with exaggerated care. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Of course, sweetheart." She reached for the baby wipes on the counter, the plastic package crinkling ominously. "Right after Mommy changes your diaper." "It's not even that wet!" Jacob blurted, the words escaping before his brain could filter the absurdity of the statement. He froze, his gaze dropping to the sodden, sagging mass between his thighs. The phrase hung in the air, stripped of any actual logic; complaining about the degree of wetness in a diaper was essentially an admission that he did, in fact, wet his diaper. He felt a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck, the realization hitting him that he was arguing the technicalities of his own regression. Lana paused and didn't laugh immediately; instead, she tilted her head, her expression shifting into one of exaggerated, wide-eyed curiosity. "Oh? Is that so?" she mused, her voice dropping into a cooing register that made Jacob want to sink through the kitchen tiles. "Does my little man think he can decide when he's too wet? Since when did you become the expert on your own diaper?" The question was a trap, and Jacob walked straight into it. He opened his mouth to retort, but the movement caused the heavy, saturated padding to shift with a wet, rhythmic squelch. The sound was visceral, a heavy *shloosh* that resonated through the quiet of the kitchen. He clamped his jaw shut, the silence that followed only amplifying the dampness clinging to his skin. "Right then," Lana decided, her tone shifting back to that clinical, commanding efficiency. "If it's 'not that wet,' then you won't mind waiting a few more minutes while I finish my coffee." She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes scanning the way the diaper sagged, the waistband now dipping dangerously low on his hips. "Actually, seeing as you've got such a high tolerance for wetness, we can just leave you in that until I've finished my morning emails. Consider it a lesson in patience." Jacob stared at her, horrified. The idea of sitting in the cooling, heavy mass for another hour was unbearable, the dampness beginning to itch and chafe against his thighs, and it was his fault. He shifted instinctively, the plastic crinkling loudly, the outer diaper still dry, the sodden core compressing with a sickeningly soft sound. The power dynamic had shifted; by trying to minimize the accident, he had inadvertently given her permission to prolong his own discomfort. Jacob retreated from the kitchen with a slow, rhythmic *crinkle-shloop*, his gait a wide-legged waddle necessitated by the saturated mass clinging to his skin. He didn't look back at Lana, who was humming a tune and sipping her coffee, her satisfaction radiating off her like a physical heat. He made his way to the sanctuary of his bedroom, each step a heavy reminder of the weight sagging between his thighs. Once inside, he clicked the door shut and collapsed onto his bed, the impact causing a wet, muffled *thump* as the sodden padding compressed against his crotch and behind. He lay there in the dim light, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rhythmic thrum of his own panicked heart, trying to reconcile the image of the "big boy" he thought he was with the shivering, diapered reality of the boy he had become. He reached for his desk, his fingers searching for the familiar cold glass of his phone, only for it to be completely out of battery and dead. Defeated, he set it to charge and went to his laptop, the screen flickering to life and casting a pale blue glow over his flushed face. He clicked through his discord servers and group chats, scrolling through names of his few friends, some who were currently halfway across the country or deep in their own morning routines. One by one, the gray icons stared back at him—offline, away, dormant. He was his own island of shame, isolated by a secret that was becoming an architectural part of his daily life. For an hour, Jacob existed in a state of suspended animation. He tried to focus on a gaming forum, but the text blurred as the dampness of the diaper began to cool, turning from a warm embrace into a clammy, irritating chill. The saltiness of the wetness began to itch against his skin, a relentless prickling that made him squirm. Every shift of his hips produced a wet, squelching sound that echoed in the quiet room, a sonic confirmation that he was utterly dependent on the woman in the next room for his basic hygiene. By the time the clock on his wall ticked toward eleven, a dry, scratchy thirst had settled in his throat. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering tang of the protein shake and ketchup. The thought of the kitchen—and Lana—sent a jolt of anxiety through him, but the craving for a cold glass of water was becoming too strong. He sat up slowly, the diaper shifting with a heavy, sodden drag that felt like it weighed ten pounds. Jacob navigated the hallway with a labored, wide-legged gait, the sodden clump between his legs swaying with another heavy, rhythmic *slosh*. Each step was a battle of friction and gravity, the saturated padding dragging against his thighs like a wet sponge in a plastic bag. He focused on the distant light of the kitchen, his mind fixated on the imagined frostiness of a glass of water, but as he passed the linen closet, a sudden, sharp pressure bloomed in his bladder. He froze, his toes curling against the carpet. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the inevitable. He tried to summon the mental image of the bathroom he had just passed—the cold porcelain, the privacy of the locked door—and the effort intensified the urge. He stood perfectly still, his breath hitching, trying to consciously hold back the tide. But the psychological wall he’d built was crumbling; the sensation of the wet padding against his skin acted like a catalyst, whispering that the battle was already lost. He felt the first hot pulse break through his resistance, a slow, steady stream that began to soak into the already heavy core of the diaper. He groaned softly, leaning his forehead against the hallway wall, feeling the warmth spread and the plastic outer shell tighten as it absorbed the flow. "Well, well," a voice chimed from behind him, dripping with a mixture of amusement and clinical observation. Jacob jumped as he felt Lana's hand make its way thorough the elastic band of the outer diaper, the sudden movement causing a loud, wet *crinkle*. He spun around to find Lana in front of the bathroom doorframe, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as her finger dug deeper. She had clearly been waiting for him to make his move. Her eyes dropped immediately to the front of his diaper, where a dark, widening bloom of moisture was visibly expanding across the plastic. "Caught in the act," she murmured, stepping forward. Her manicured finger reached out and poked the center of the saturated padding, the plastic depressing with a wet, hollow sound. "I could hear you from the bathroom, Jacob. That was a very long, very deliberate little leak, wasn't it?" Jacob’s breath hitched, a jagged sound that died in his throat as the physical evidence of his failure pulsed under her fingertip. The sensation of her nail grazing the plastic sent a jolt of electric shame straight up his spine. He tried to recoil, but his legs were splayed in that clumsy, wide-legged stance the diaper demanded, feeling anchored in place. His face burned a deep, vivid crimson, the heat radiating from his cheeks as he realized he hadn't just had an accident; he had been caught in the precise, agonizing moment of surrender. "Stop it," he managed to choke out, though the command lacked any real authority. He felt small, not just because of the height difference, but because the heavy, sagging weight between his thighs seemed to pull his entire center of gravity downward, anchoring him in a state of total vulnerability. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and shimmering with a fresh layer of moisture, seeing the way her expression shifted from amusement to a sort of satisfied, maternal pity. Lana didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she let her fingers linger, feeling the warmth of the fresh leak through the plastic. "Such a little drama," she cooed, her voice a soft, rhythmic contrast to the loud crinkles. "You're doing as your told, at least." She stepped closer, her floral perfume mingling with the sharp, clinical scent of the pharmacy diapers. With a sudden, deft motion, she gripped the waistband of his outer diaper and tugged it forward, the plastic straining with a sharp, discordant *creak*. The movement forced him to arch his back, exposing the full extent of the sodden, bulging mass to the hallway light. "Look at this," she whispered, her eyes glittering. "Absolutely drenched. You're lucky I'm being as patient as I am with you, Jacob." Without another word, she pivoted, her hand sliding to the back of his neck to guide him toward the living room with a firm, guiding pressure. Jacob stumbled along, the saturated padding swinging rhythmically between his legs. The humiliation was no longer a sharp spike; it had become a dull, constant hum, a background noise to the terrifying realization that he was no longer fighting a battle—he was merely enduring it moment by moment. The living room had been altered into a staging ground for his undoing. In the center of the plush beige carpet, Lana had laid out a large, sapphire-blue towel, its edges squared off with a precision that felt more like a surgical suite than a home. Beside it, arranged in a neat row, sat a fresh stack of the pharmacy-brand diapers, a container of baby wipes, and a tall, powdery white bottle of talcum. The sight of the powder, specifically—the way it sat there, waiting to be puffed over his skin, noticing the word BABY in big alphabet blocks on the container—made Jacob’s stomach do a slow, nauseating roll. It was a visual promise of the thoroughness to come. "Since you decided to treat the hallway like your own public restroom, we're moving operations to the common area," Lana announced, her voice airy and devoid of any apology. She pointed toward the blue towel with a flick of her wrist. "Down. Now." Jacob hesitated, the sodden weight of his current diapers shifting. He decided not to argue that she told him to use his diaper, feeling fatigued from failing with any plea or protest and feeling like he might as well go through the motions of another diaper change. The sheer clinical nature of the setup—the way she had pre-staged the wipes and the powder—stripped away any illusion that this was a temporary fix. This was what she conjured after deciding they were ‘moving on to the management phase’. He felt the air leave his lungs in a long, shuddering sigh as he lowered himself onto the towel. The impact caused the saturated padding to compress with a sickeningly loud *squelch*, the moisture nearly breaching the plastic barrier of the outer shell. Lana didn't waste a second. She knelt beside him, her movements efficient and practiced. With a sharp *rip* of the adhesive tabs, she peeled back the first layer of plastic, then the tapes of the second diaper came loose next, the sounds echoing like gunshots in the quiet room. The cool air of the living room hit his damp skin, causing him to shiver violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dissociate from the sensation of the heavy, sodden mass being peeled away from his body, but Lana’s hand was firm on his hip, keeping him pinned to the blue fabric. "Goodness, Jacob," she murmured, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft, maternal register. "You really did wet yourself, didn't you?" She reached for the wipes, the plastic package crinkling as she pulled one out. “Right through the sides and into the second diaper. Wow”. She shook her head as the cold, wet cloth swiped across his skin with precision, erasing the remnants of his failure. Jacob let out a small, involuntary whimper, his hands clutched into fists at his sides, feeling the vulnerability of his position—bare and exposed having his butt wiped in the middle of the room. Lana paused, the wipe hovering just an inch above his skin. She looked at the discarded, sodden heap of plastic beside him and then back to Jacob’s flushed face, a playful glint in her eye. "You know," she mused, her voice drifting into a conversational lilt, "I think I’m actually starting to enjoy the rhythm of this. The prep, the cleanup, the little *shlooshes and crinkles* every time you walk across the room... it's cute." She chuckled, the sound warm and devoid of any actual malice, which somehow made the clinical nature of the act feel even more permanent. "You can’t help but make a little waddle in your diapers, but I don't think either of us will actually miss the pharmacy brand once those fancy baby ones arrive this afternoon." She didn't give him a moment to process the horror of that statement and he just winced. These diapers already felt thick, but the new ones were made to hold so much more and going to be thicker. With a sudden, decisive motion, she reached for the baby powder. A thick, white cloud erupted, settling over his skin in a heavy, fragrant layer. Jacob coughed, the fine powder coating his nostrils, but Lana was already moving. She reached for the first diaper, snapping it open with a sharp *crack* of plastic that echoed through the living room. She slid it under him with practiced ease, the tapes securing with a definitive *scritch-scritch* that felt like a lock turning on a cell door. "And since you've proven that one layer is essentially just a suggestion for you," Lana whispered, her eyes dancing with mischief, "we're sticking with what we know works." Before Jacob could even draw a breath to protest, the flap of the second diaper was being lowered over his hips. He felt the familiar, restrictive squeeze as she cinched the tapes tighter than before, the double layer of plastic creating a bulky, impenetrable cocoon that forced his legs apart. The resulting silhouette was absurd—once again, back in a massive, crinkling protrusion that made any hope of a normal gait impossible. Lana stepped back, admiring her handiwork, and reached out to give the front of the padding a playful, rhythmic pat. *Pat. Pat. Pat.* The sound was dull and heavy, the plastic straining under the pressure of her palm. "There we go. Secure and snug," she crooned, leaning down so her face was level with his. She reached out and pinched his cheek, a gesture so aggressively maternal it made his stomach flip. "My little diaper boy. You look absolutely precious in all that padding." "Stop it! Just—stop talking to me like I’m three!" The outburst erupted from Jacob like a ruptured pipe, sudden and messy. He lurched upward from the sapphire towel, his movements clumsy and restricted by the sheer mass of the double padding. The plastic shrieked under the strain of his sudden movement, a violent *crinkle-crunch* that punctuated his anger. He glared up at Lana, his chest heaving, his face a blotchy mask of indignation. "This is temporary! Do you hear me? It’s a phase, or a medical thing, or whatever, but it’s not *this*! You’ve wasted all this money on stupid baby stuff for nothing because I’m going to stop wetting the bed!" Lana didn’t flinch. She didn't even blink. She simply remained in her crouched position, her head tilted slightly to the side, watching him with the patient, detached curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly erratic lab rat. The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic, heavy *shloop* of the padding shifting as Jacob trembled with rage. Slowly, a small, knowing smile curved her lips—not a smirk of malice, but the soft, terrifyingly calm smile of someone who knew exactly how the game ended. "Oh, look at those big emotions," she murmured, her voice returning to that syrupy, maternal coo that acted like a trigger for his frustration. "Someone's feeling a little grumpy, huh? Is my little man having a tantrum?" Jacob opened his mouth to scream, to roar some definitive statement of his adulthood, but as he shifted his weight to stand, the bulk of the second diaper caught on the fabric of the towel. He stumbled, his legs splaying wide in a desperate attempt to regain balance, and he landed back on the blue fabric with a muffled *thump* that echoed through the living room. The sound was so pathetic, so fundamentally contrary to his outburst, that the fire in his gut vanished, replaced by a cold, sinking sense of irony. He was trying to demand respect while lying on a towel in double diapers, smelling of talcum powder and failure. Lana let out a soft, melodic giggle, the sound echoing with a terrifying level of contentment. She didn’t reach out to help him up; instead, she stayed crouched, her eyes dancing as she took in the sight of him sprawled across the sapphire fabric, limbs splayed and helpless. "Oh, look at that!" she cooed, her voice dropping into a high-pitched, melodic babble. "Did the wittle baby have a big tumble? Did the mean old diapers make Jacob go *boom*?" She leaned in closer, the scent of her floral perfume mixing with the heavy cloud of baby powder still clinging to his skin. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, the mock-sweetness replaced by a chillingly honest intimacy. "You know, Jacob, when this first started, I thought it was absolutely ridiculous. I mean, a grown boy in diapers? I almost laughed myself sick. But as things have progressed, I realized something." She reached out, her fingers tracing the puffy, plastic ridge of his waistband with a slow, deliberate motion. "I actually *love* this. I love seeing you like this—so small, so dependent, so utterly pathetic in your little diapers." Jacob tried to recoil, but the double padding acted like a weighted anchor, pinning him to the towel. The sheer honesty in her voice was more suffocating than the diapers; she wasn't just managing a problem anymore, she was enjoying the power dynamic. "It’s for your own good, sweetheart," she continued, her expression softening into a mask of maternal concern that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You’ve spent months drifting through this house like a ghost, lazy and useless. If you want to be treated like a man, you have to act like one. But until you can prove you've got the discipline to handle your own basic needs—and your own bladder—then this is exactly where you belong. This little routine is the only way you're ever going to learn. Consider it a necessary lesson in humility, which is why I bought you those baby diapers." Jacob stared at the ceiling. The weight of the double diapers felt like a physical manifestation of his submission, a heavy, sodden anchor that kept him moored to the towel. But it was the mention of the "baby ones" arriving—the specific, curated infant supplies Lana had ordered—that finally cracked the shell of his resolve. "The diapers... fine," Jacob whispered, his voice cracking as he looked up at her, his eyes searching for a flicker of the woman who used to let him be an adult. "The diapers are one thing. I get it. They're... they're for my... accidents." He swallowed hard, the scent of talcum powder clogging his throat. "But the rest of it? The bottles, the clothes, the... the *everything* else you're ordering? Lana, you can't actually be thinking that... that I'm just going to be your baby." The question hung in the air, fragile and desperate. For a moment, the mask of maternal efficiency slipped, and Lana looked at him—really looked at him—not as a project to be managed or a problem to be solved, but as something she could mold. A slow, thoughtful hum vibrated in her throat, and she reached out to pat the swelling bulk of his padding. "Well," she murmured, her gaze drifting toward the front door as if imagining the delivery truck already turning the corner. "You’ve certainly got the appetite for it, Jacob. You’ve got the helplessness down to a science. Why fight the inevitable?" She stood up slowly, her silhouette imposing against the living room light. "You’ve spent eighteen years trying to be a man who can't even find a job or clean a dish. Maybe the problem is that you were trying to grow up too fast. Maybe you just need to start over. From the very beginning." "You can't actually do this," Jacob stammered, his voice straining against the restrictive bulk of the double padding. He tried to shift into a sitting position, but the plastic shells of the diapers fought him, emitting a loud, discordant *crrrrk* that seemed to mock his attempt at dignity. "You can't just decide to... to reset my life! I'm eighteen! You can't just order a baby stuff and expect me to—" Lana didn’t let him finish. She stepped forward, her hand landing firmly on his chest to press him back down onto the towel. The movement was swift and absolute. "Listen to me very carefully, Jacob," she said, her voice dropping an octave into a tone of cool, clinical authority. "The moment you surrendered your autonomy to these diapers, you handed me the keys. If I am the one monitoring your leaks, if I am the one choosing the diapers and fastening the tapes, then I am the one in charge of the boy wearing them." She leaned over him, her floral scent momentarily eclipsed by the sharp, powdery smell of the talcum. "You don't get to pick and choose which parts of this arrangement apply to you. You can't claim the comfort of being taken care of while pretending you're too grown for the rules that come with it." Her eyes narrowed, locking onto his. "And right now? You're acting up. And we both know what happens to babies who throw tantrums." Jacob opened his mouth to retort, but the words died as Lana’s gaze drifted downward to the waistband of his diaper. With a deliberate, slow motion, she hooked a finger under the plastic and gave it a sharp, playful tug. The resulting *snap* echoed through the room, a sonic reminder of exactly who held the power in the living room. "The more you fight, the more I realize you aren't ready for 'big boy' responsibilities," she crooned, the softness returning to her voice like a velvet glove over a steel fist. "Which only makes me more excited to see those packages arrive." A heavy silence settled over the room, and Jacob sat still. He felt the air leave his lungs in a long, defeated sigh, his muscles finally slackening. The fight was draining out of him, replaced by a terrifyingly seductive sense of relief of just giving in. If he stopped fighting, he didn't have to worry about the job search or the expectations of the outside world. But to be treated like a baby? No, this was ridiculous at first and now it is beyond logical and comprehensible. There was no way he was going to allow this. Then the doorbell rang 20 2
Pierry Louys Posted July 9 Posted July 9 Great chapter ! And mean cliffhanger hahahahaha Now I am ansious to see him in the new diapers and clothes rsrs
diaperplane Posted July 11 Posted July 11 I love this story hopefully in the next chapter he messes? 1
WBDaddy Posted July 11 Posted July 11 On 6/11/2026 at 3:40 PM, abdlwpg said: Ya I mean I could see like cumming enough that part of the wetness indicator changes colour but not seeming fully wet. I mean I was kinda figuring she was gonna notice that he masturbated which you could also just be by her noticing the diaper being disheveled (or the smell once she is changing it if it's supposed to be a ton of cum). BTW - wanted to revisit this. In my head, Lana pretended that the jizz was piss. Because when the SHTF the next day, she talked a lot of shit about how much he was *enjoying* his diapers. She was willing to overlook it, until the bed was soaked anyway in the morning. 1
diaperplane Posted August 6 Posted August 6 this story had a lot of potential hopefully it’s continued but it doesn’t look likely 😔 1 1
ababaidl Posted August 7 Author Posted August 7 On 8/6/2026 at 9:41 AM, diaperplane said: this story had a lot of potential hopefully it’s continued but it doesn’t look likely 😔 Hmmmm let's seeeeeee 1
ababaidl Posted August 7 Author Posted August 7 Alright, I've got some time the next while and lets see what happens. I'm doing away with some of the sound effects, and if you have a problem with that, then you can go *schloop* yourself. Shorter chapter now, 2 or 3 more short chapters after weekend. CHAPTER 6 The house had settled into that thick, syrupy afternoon quiet, the kind where the refrigerator hum carries through the floorboards and dust turns lazy in the sunbeams. Jacob sat marooned in the middle of the living room rug, thighs forced apart by the twin bulk of his diapers, the plastic backing whispering every time he shifted. Talcum hung in the air around him like a low cloud, sweet and powdery, clinging to the back of his throat. Ding-dong. The doorbell split the afternoon quiet like a dropped plate. Jacob's whole body seized on the living room carpet. The thick padding between his legs crinkled—*krrrk, krk-krk*—loud as a bag of chips in a library, and he clamped both hands over his crotch like that could muffle it. His heart slammed. Every breath came shallow, tasting faintly of the baby powder Lana had dusted him with an hour ago, sweet and cloying and inescapable. "Hnnh—" A whimper slipped out before he could bite it back. His whole body locked. He felt the blood drain out of his face so fast his ears rang. His bare heels skidded on the hardwood. *Someone's here. Someone's at the door and I'm—I'm like THIS—* "Stay put, sweetheart." Lana set her wine cooler on the counter without hurry, smoothing her sundress over her hips. "Not a sound. You understand me." *If anyone sees him like this, he'll combust. Delicious.* Lana thought. Jacob nodded so hard his neck clicked. He scrambled behind the couch on hands and knees, diapered bottom swaying, the plastic backing of the crinkly briefs announcing every inch of retreat. He wedged himself into the narrow gap between furniture and wall, knees to chest, and went statue-still. The powder smell followed him. Of course it did. It *was* him now. Lana opened the front door and August heat rolled in, carrying cut grass and cicada drone. "Well, hi, Amanda!" "Lana, honey, I hope I'm not interrupting." Amanda Delgado stood on the porch in a wide straw hat gone soft with years of sweat, silver-threaded black hair twisted into a knot, a wicker basket hooked over one forearm overflowing with cucumbers. She was round through the middle, sun-spotted forearms, gardening gloves stuffed in the pocket of her denim overalls. "My garden has lost its ever-loving mind this year. I can't give these things away fast enough. Tommy won't eat them, Marcus won't eat them, I'm about to start leaving them in mailboxes like a cucumber fairy." "That is so generous, you have no idea." Lana accepted two cucumbers, cool and waxy, and leaned against the doorframe—blocking the view inside with the casual geometry of long practice. "I'll slice them with a little salt tonight." “You don’t need to tell me what you plan on doing with the other one,” Amanda joked. “They are pretty big though…” “Oh Amanda, stop it!” Lana chuckled at her crude joke, “Don’t you have enough toys instead of relying on your fertilizer for girth?” “Well, fertilizer sounds more reliable than my husband these days!” Amanda rolled her eyes and they both burst into laughter. They caught their breath and Amanda didn’t seem ready to leave. Neighbors like Amanda never left on the first goodbye. She shifted the basket, and her nose twitched. Once. Twice. "Do you smell that?" Her head tilted, brown eyes narrowing at the ceiling of the porch. "Is that... baby powder?" Lana's smile didn't move a millimeter. "Air freshener. I got one of those plug-ins—some lavender-powder thing. It's a little much, honestly." "Mmm." Amanda inhaled again, deeper, and something soft crossed her face. "No, that's—honey, I know that smell. That's real baby powder. Johnson's, the classic bottle. You can't fool me, I went through cases of that stuff with Tommy." She laughed, but it wobbled at the edges. "God. I'd know it blindfolded." "You've got a nose like a bloodhound," Lana said lightly. "Maybe the plug-in's doing a better impression than I gave it credit for." "Tommy used to smell like that every night after his bath. Powder on his little bottom, pajamas with the feet." Amanda's gaze drifted somewhere past Lana's shoulder, into the cool dim of the house. "Now he's pretty much out of diapers and the scent doesn’t linger like it used to." “Oh, Amanda, you’ve been talking about his potty training lately like him getting out of diapers is something you are dreading,” Lana assertively suggested, “I’m sure you’ll be very happy not changing his wet bum anymore.” Behind the couch, Jacob pressed his forehead into his knees. His thighs were sweating where the diaper's leg gathers sealed against his skin. Every breath he took, he measured. In through the nose. Out through the nose. The crinkle waited under him like a loaded spring—one shift of weight and it would sing. “Oh Lana, don’t you miss when Jacob was just a baby?” Amanda questioned, “don’t you miss the cuddles, the snuggles, the smells?” "Well, not all the smells…" Lana responded. "They just grow up so fast - you blink and the next thing you know, they're shaving." "You're telling me." Amanda set the basket on the porch rail, freeing her hands to talk with. "Are you babysitting for somebody? Is that why—" She stopped herself, waved a hand. "Listen to me, being nosy again. Marcus says I interrogate people like it's a police procedural." "Don't be silly. It's just the freshener." "It's just—" Amanda sniffed again, unbothered, cheerful, persistent as weather. "It smells *lived in*, is the thing. You know? Air freshener smells flat. This smells like there's a freshly powdered baby in this house right this minute." “Alright, Amanda, your potty-training grief is real,” Lana told her, “when we go shopping later, I’ll see if I can find the same one for your house.” “Okay, that’s sounds perfect,” Amanda conceded, “maybe it’ll help with the pull-up blues I’ve been feeling!” A floorboard creaked. Tiny. From the living room. Lana turned her head a half-degree toward the sound, then back, and her laugh came out bright and easy. "That's just the house settling. She's old, she groans." "Mmhmm, mine does the same." Amanda accepted this the way neighbors accept things—provisionally, with a filing-away motion behind the eyes. She reclaimed her basket. "Well. You enjoy those cucumbers, and what time for shopping? 3pm sounds good? "Perfect, I'll be ready. Thank you so much." Lana began easing the door closed, inch by sociable inch. "Give Marcus and Tommy my love." "Oh, and Lana—if you ever *do* end up babysitting someone's little one, I’m coming over! Oh, I just love the smell of a powdered baby." Amanda chuckled her way down the porch steps, hat brim bouncing, cucumbers swaying in their basket like green torpedoes. The door clicked shut. Lana locked it. Then the deadbolt, slow and deliberate—*thunk*. Jacob heard her heels cross the hardwood. Felt her stop directly above him. "Well, baby," Lana said, peering over the back of the couch at the grown man folded into the gap, diaper peeking over the waistband of nothing, powdered and trembling. "That was educational. Amanda's nose works better than your bladder control." She crouched, brushing a damp curl off his forehead with two fingers, clinical and tender all at once. "You did good staying quiet. Mostly. That floorboard almost cost you everything." Lana stood, and her voice lifted into something singsong and terrible. "Now—since you behaved, I think you've earned an outing. Mama's been thinking about going to the mall, and you're coming with us. You'll wear your diaper under those loose shorts, and if you're very, very good, maybe nobody leans in close enough to smell what Amanda smelled. Especially her, right sweetie?" She gathered his hand from the carpet and pulled him up out of hiding, the padding crinkling loud and bright in the quiet house, and she walked him toward the stairs to pick out his clothes 16 2
ababaidl Posted August 10 Author Posted August 10 I bet you thought I was bluffing. Nope - another chapter. And another one tomorrow, hopefully a little sooner. Chapter 7 Three pairs of shorts lay rejected across the bedspread, and Lana was holding up a fourth against Jacob's hips, studying the mirror behind him with her head tilted like an artist appraising a canvas that refused to cooperate. "Hmm. No. The waistband's the problem, baby." She tossed the khsentakis onto the pile. The room still smelled faintly of the morning's change—talcum and the plasticky sweetness of fresh padding—and beneath that, the lavender detergent she'd been washing his clothes in all week, like the house itself had conspired to erase any trace of the man he'd been. Jacob stood in the middle of the floor in nothing but a t-shirt and the double pharmacy-brand diapers she'd taped him into before Amanda's unexpected visit, the padding forcing his thighs apart in a stance he couldn't correct no matter how he shifted his weight. "Arms up." She peeled the shirt off him, and he heard it—the *fwip-fwup* of plastic as she knelt and ran two fingers along a tape, checking the seal with a nurse's efficiency. Her fingertips pressed the front panel. "Still dry. Good boy." The praise landed worse than mockery. She retaped one corner snugger, patted the seat twice—*pap-pap*—and rose with a pair of baggy black athletic shorts hooked on one finger. "These. They swim on you." They did. The nylon engulfed the bulk, hanging loose enough that nothing showed when he stood straight and still, which was exactly the problem, because standing straight and still was the one thing he couldn't do in public for two hours. She pulled the shirt back over his head, tugged the hem down past his waistband, and turned him toward the dresser mirror. A stranger looked back—flushed cheeks, hair still mussed from not showering this morning, shoulders hunched like he was trying to occupy less space in the world. *Look at you,* Lana thought, catching his eye in the reflection rather than behind her. *My little one, dressed for his first day out.* "Bend over and touch your toes." "Lana—" "Mommy," she corrected, mild as milk. He bent. The shorts tightened across his backside; he heard her hum thoughtfully, the sound of a woman checking a hem. "Nothing shows. *Amanda could never kno-ow,*" she sang, stretching the last word into three syllables as he straightened. She turned him back around by the shoulders and smoothed the collar of his shirt with both palms, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke her voice dropped into the register she used for rules. "You stay beside me. If you need to go potty, you tell Mommy quietly." Her thumb traced his jaw. "And Mommy decides." --- Amanda drove with her sunglasses pushed up into copper-streaked curls, one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing through a story about her sister-in-law's terrier, vanilla perfume riding the vents every time the AC kicked. "Squeeze in next to the car seat, honey!" she'd chirped at the curb, and now Jacob sat wedged against Tommy's empty carrier, the hard plastic edge of it pressed into his hip and, through the shorts, into the padding beneath. Every pothole ground the two together—*fwip*—a sound so loud to him that he couldn't understand how the whole street didn't turn to look. The cabin was small. That was the problem. Powder had nowhere to go. It layered under Amanda's vanilla, sweet and identifying, and Jacob watched her nose twitch at a stoplight, watched her eyes flick to the rearview and find Lana's. *There it is again,* Amanda thought, her wonder about the faint powdery scent interrupted by Lana asking about Tommy’s potty training "Tommy got five stickers on his potty chart this week. *Five.* I nearly cried into the sticker sheet knowing the journey is almost complete." "Oh, you and those silly pull-up blues," Lana said, serene, turning around from the front seat and patting her hand on Jacob's knee in a way that would read as affection from any windshield in the world. “Even when they grow up, you still have to take care of them, even washing their dirty underwear and days-worn stinky clothes.” “Aww, I know I’ll always be his Mommy,” Amanda assured herself, “but I’ll miss watching him run around in his diapers” Jacob blushed being mocked for his laziness yet again and stared out the window at the strip malls sliding past and did not trust his voice to exist. --- The parking lot shimmered—June sun off asphalt, heat coming up through his sneakers—and the mall doors exhaled refrigerated air that smelled of pretzel salt and the sweet frying-oil ghost of a Cinnabon two corridors over. Weekend crowd noise swallowed everything. Footsteps, music bleeding from storefronts, a toddler shrieking joyfully somewhere near the escalators. The ever-present crinkle in his walk vanished into it completely, and the breath that left him was the first real one since the driveway, feeling at least a bit of tension relief. Then, from directly behind them: "Jacob, you walking okay, hunnie?" His spine went rigid. Amanda had dropped back a pace; he could feel her studying his gait—knees slightly wide, steps short, hips doing their unavoidable roll. Lana didn't even turn her head. "Looks like he's wearing his old shoes. I guess I should have checked before we left." "Ha! He’s such a big kid sometimes, eh?" Amanda laughed, and moved up beside them again, satisfied, and Jacob's face ignited so fast he felt it in his ears. --- The first store swallowed them in new-clothes smell—fabric finish and hanger plastic—and Jacob became furniture immediately, two of Amanda's selections draped over one forearm while the women browsed. Amanda kept hurling normalcy at him like life vests. "Red or blue, Jacob?" she demanded, holding sundresses against her chest, and he croaked "blue," and she declared him *a man of taste* and moved on, and he stood there double-diapered under two layers of clothing, nodding on command. Lana reappeared with a lemonade nearly the size of a traffic cone, thirty-two ounces sweating condensation onto his palm. She pressed it into his hands, and then—smoothly, in full view of a checkout display of discounted scarves—patted his bottom twice. "Hydration, sweetheart. It's hot out." He understood instantly. Drink it and it becomes the thing that’ll be absorbed between his legs. Don't drink it and she'd simply find another lever. The straw scraped. The lemonade was too sweet. He drank it anyway, because Amanda was watching and humming along to the store playlist, and because some exhausted arithmetic in him had concluded that compliance cost less than refusal. --- A half-hour later, the pressure arrived like a tide that had made up its mind. Amanda was looking at bras while he and Lana were between two racks of blouses. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear. "I need the restroom," he whispered. "Please. Really." She didn't stop browsing. Her voice came back soft enough to hide beneath the store music, each word placed like a coin on a counter. "You have your potty on, baby. Use it when you need to." The protest climbed out of him—"I'm not—please don't make me—"—and died mid-sentence, because Amanda rounded the rack with six dresses over her arm and a story already loading in her throat, and Jacob rearranged his face into nothing at all. --- They were in line. Fourth from the register. The kiosk fan pushed warm air down the queue; someone ahead of them had a strong floral body spray that mixed horribly with the pretzel smell drifting in from the corridor. Jacob locked his knees, then unlocked them, then locked them again. The lemonade had become a hand tightening around his bladder, and he held it through Amanda's monologue about a coworker's divorce, held it while the woman at the front disputed a coupon, held it until holding it stopped being a decision and became a memory. It left him in a hot rush—*hssss*—flooding the front panel and spreading, spreading, the padding blooming warm and heavy and then heavier, wicking back between his thighs and up the seat until the whole architecture of the diaper swelled snug against him. He stood perfectly still through all of it. The world did not stop. Amanda did not stop talking. The register beeped. Nobody turned. But Lana—Lana had read his stance the way she'd read everything about him for days. The frozen knees. The blush crawling up his neck. Her hand settled against his lower back, a pressure like a period at the end of a sentence, and she leaned down and mouthed it, silent under Amanda's chatter two feet away: "All done?" He nodded. Once. His eyes were wet and furious, and hers were delighted. "He's shy about crowds," Lana told Amanda, patting his back. --- They passed the family restroom at the corridor bend, Jacob a half-step in front of Amanda, and the door swung open at exactly the wrong moment—a tired mother steering a stroller out, and with her, a puff of bleach wipes and ripe, unmistakable wet-diaper smell. Amanda sniffed. "Oof. That’s a *really* wet diaper." Jacob flinched so hard his shoulder hit a sale sign. For one white second he was certain she'd turned on him, that the outing had collapsed, that the waddle or the smell or some mercy of physics had finally given him up. Then the stroller wheels squeaked past, and the smell receded with them, and he understood. Amanda caught the flinch. Her eyes lingered on him a half-second too long. *Why did he jump like that?* She filed it away next to the powder mystery and said nothing, because Amanda kept her odd little observations the way she kept coupons—stacked quietly, waiting for a use. --- "Sandalwood? No—" Amanda stopped mid-stride outside the department store and inhaled like a bloodhound at a gate. "Lana. The powder smell. It's following us. It was in my car, it was at your house, it's *here.*" Lana didn't blink. "There's a baby store in this wing." "Huh." Amanda's suspicion dissolved into acceptance so easily that Jacob's soul briefly left his body and hovered somewhere near the skylights, looking down at a boy in swollen double diapers standing between two oblivious women, holding a giant empty lemonade cup. --- The boutique announced itself in pastel—mint-and-cream signage, a wall of layette sets, and powder everywhere, ambient and industrial, the smell of a hundred changes that hadn't happened yet. It was the first place all afternoon Jacob's own scent disappeared completely, smothered by camouflage, and the irony stood on his chest. "Oh!" Lana steered them in with a hand on his shoulder. "I need a shower gift for my coworker." What happened next was yet another embarrassing moment that left him silent and stiff as a board. A onesie—soft yellow, footed, a smiling giraffe across the chest—pressed into his arms to hold. A three-pack of pacifiers added on top. Lana held up two bibs. "Bears or ducks, sweetheart?" "You're torturing the teenager," Amanda laughed, watching him stand there glowing red with an armful of infancy. "Jacob, blink twice if you need rescue." *Something is off with him today,* Amanda thought, and couldn't name it, and let it go. "At least he's making himself useful," Lana said, and paid, and folded the pale-paper shopping bag—pastel stork logo, tissue rustling—into Jacob's hand, where it stayed for the entire walk back through the mall, swinging softly against his thigh at every waddling step. The drive home was uneventful. Amanda talked and was glad they were on time for her to drop us off and go pick up Tommy from daycare. The wet padding cooled against him. He was in his own world and counted streetlights. --- Amanda's SUV idled at the curb in between their houses as Lana and Jacob climbed out into the slanting late-afternoon light, and there they were—three big boxes and one small one stacked against the door, white packaging sweating in the heat, LITTLECOMFORT printed down each side in letters that seemed, from any distance, completely legible and completely enormous. Amanda leaned across the passenger seat, curls spilling over the window. "What'd you order, honey?" "Storage bins!" Lana called back, sunny as a weather report, and Amanda waved and pulled away, and the second her taillights rounded the corner, the temperature of the afternoon changed. The door shut behind them. Jacob felt sure that Amanda couldn’t have seen the logos on the boxes and made the trips one box at a time—the big ones first, arms straining, waddling, the swollen diaper dragging at his hips with every step down the short hall; then the small one, light as a feather. Four deliveries, stacked in the foyer. His own supplies. Every step of the way. Lana came up behind him while he stood breathing over the pile, and her nail traced the packing tape of the first box, slow, from one edge to the seam, and he could hear it catch and release, catch and release. "Well, baby, you barely survived the day." Her voice had gone soft in the way he'd learned to fear. "Shall we get you into something more… *appropriate?*" Her nail slid under the tape, and the first box sighed open 12 2
Babytom3 Posted August 11 Posted August 11 Well,that is indiscreet packaging,I'd call customer service,lol. 1
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