ababaidl Posted August 22 Author Posted August 22 Your bets are probably wrong, keep fappin'. Chapter 12: The duck hood was hot against his face. Jacob tugged it off with his free hand, the fleece damp with sweat where it had pressed against his forehead and cheeks. The onesie bunched at his shoulders when he moved, the snaps between his legs pulling tight against the thick padding underneath. Every shift produced that sound — that plasticky, unmistakable *crinkle* — and each time it happened he froze, as if staying perfectly still could somehow undo the fact that he was lying in his bed wearing a diaper and a duck costume while his stepmother's friend drank wine downstairs with the overbearing woman in control of his fate. The laptop glowed on the pillow beside him. He'd opened it with some vague plan to message his friend Tyler, to do something normal, to anchor himself back in the eighteen-year-old version of Jacob who had a Discord server and a fantasy football league and opinions about IPA beers. The browser sat open to his homepage. He'd typed nothing. The bottle sat on the nightside six inches from his head. Lana had left it on the nightstand before she'd pulled his blanket up — the fuzzy blue one with the stars — and told him the rule. He remembered the exact tilt of her mouth, the way she'd tucked the blanket under his arms like a papoose, the diaper so thick between his legs that he couldn't close his thighs. *"Nighttime diaper means nighttime diaper, sweetheart. No getting up, no using the bathroom, no taking anything off. You stay just like this until Mommy comes to get you in the morning."* She'd said it the way someone reminds you to take your vitamins. Casual. Warm. Utterly immovable. And embarrassing beyond comprehension. And the bottle — room temperature apple juice in a genuine large baby bottle with a silicone nipple, the kind with the air vents, the kind you'd buy at Target in the baby aisle next to the pacifiers and the teething rings — but so much bigger. She'd set it on the nightstand and told him to drink it as more of an instruction than a suggestion. She hadn't needed to. --- *"He seemed off today, Lana."* Amanda's voice carried through the floorboards in that way voices do in old houses — not the words, exactly, but the shape of them. The rhythm. Jacob could hear the clink of a wine glass being set on the kitchen island, the scrape of a barstool. *"Off how?"* Lana. Relaxed. The pour of liquid — wine or water, he couldn't tell by the sound, but knew it was certainly a big pour of pinot. *"I don't know, he just — at the mall, when we ran into them, he barely said two words. And he was walking kind of — I don't want to say weird, but—"* *"Jacob's fine. He's been stressed with not finding work."* *"Are you sure? Because he looked almost — I mean, this is going to sound strange, but he looked sort of... small? Like he was trying to take up less space?"* A pause. The sound of Amanda's glass being refilled. Lana's voice came back lower, the way it got when she was choosing words carefully, the same voice she used when she'd told Amanda about the divorce, about taking Jacob in after his dad remarried. *"He's adjusting. He's been adjusting for a while, and I've been — I've been helping him find a routine that works. He's fine, Mandy. I promise."* *"You sure?"* *"Oh, I'm sure, don't you worry. More wine?"* --- The crinkle. Jacob shifted again because the padding bunched when he didn't move for too long, the soft cushion pressing up between his buttocks in a way that was impossible to ignore, and the sound filled his bedroom like a fist crushing a grocery bag. He gritted his teeth. He could hear them. Not the words now, but the laughter — Amanda's bright, nasal laugh, and Lana's lower chuckle underneath it. They sounded like they were having a good time. Normal adult time. Wine and conversation and whatever cheese board Lana had surely whipped up. Meanwhile he was up in his room in a diaper. *In a diaper.* The word sat in his skull like a stone. Diaper. Not "pull-up," not "incontinence product," not any of the clinical phrases he'd mentally rehearsed the first time Lana had brought the bag of medical garments inside from the car. Diaper. The thick, taped, baby kind. The kind with the cartoon patterns— little blocks and giraffes, which was not a coincidence because Lana did not do coincidences. His hand rested beside the bottle. He wasn't going to drink it. He was eighteen-years old. He graduated high school. He'd had sex. He was close to getting his license. He did not need a baby bottle of apple juice to get through the night, and the fact that Lana had left it there as though he might — as though it were the most natural thing in the world to leave a bottle beside a grown man — was— He stared at it. The apple juice caught the thin light from the laptop screen, amber-bright, the liquid level visible through the clear plastic. The silicone nipple had a slight tackiness to it, the kind that would feel— *Don't.* His tongue ran across his lower lip. It was dry. The onesie was hot, fleece trapping body heat, and his mouth felt like cotton. Just thirsty. If he were just thirsty, that was different. That was normal. People got thirsty. Grown men got thirsty and if the only available liquid was in a bottle, that was just — *That's not why you want it.* He shut that thought down like slamming a laptop lid, but the physical motion didn't happen, his hands stayed where they were, and the bottle stayed where it was, and the hunger — not hunger, not thirst, something else, something without a name that lived in the base of his skull and behind his teeth — that stayed too. Five minutes. He watched the minutes change on the laptop clock. 9:52. 9:57. His thumb traced the edge of the bottle's plastic ring. The motion was small, almost unconscious, like the way you'd fidget with a pen cap during a phone call. Just touching it. That was all. Ten minutes. 10:02. His throat clicked when he swallowed. Dry. The duck hood was pooled behind his head now like a deflated pillow, and the onesie's zipper pull rested cold against his sternum. The diaper's elastic waistband — soft, stretchy, nothing like the medical kind — rode low on his hips under the onesie, and he could feel every inch of it. The padding between his legs kept them apart in a gentle, forced spread. His thighs couldn't meet. The gap there — the M-shape his legs made, knees up, feet flat on the mattress — was the exact position a baby would lie in. He knew this. He knew because the subconscious math had already been done somewhere in the back of his brain where sweet spot lived. *Just thirsty.* His hand closed around the bottle. The plastic was smooth and slightly cool. The weight of the liquid shifted inside as he lifted it — heavier than he expected, the fullness of it promising — and he told himself he was just going to take a sip, just a sip, just because his mouth was dry and the juice was right there and Lana always bought the good kind, the unfiltered apple juice from that orchard stand, the kind that tasted like autumn. He put the nipple in his mouth. The silicone gave under his teeth, slightly yielding, and the first pull of liquid came through the hole — sweet, cold, applesharp — and the rhythm started before he could stop it. Suck. Squeeze. Swallow. Suck. Squeeze. Swallow. His jaw worked in that automatic, primal pattern and his eyes went half-lidded and the honey-space opened up beneath him like a trapdoor, golden and thick and warm, pulling him down. --- It was better this time. In the kitchen, the first bottle had been a shock — the suddenness of it, Lana's hand on the back of his head, the humiliation of being held and fed. The sweet head-space had been a door cracked open. A glimpse. Now he'd walked through it. The suckling was slow and rhythmic and his breathing matched it, deep through his nose, each exhale fogging the nipple's plastic shield. The juice came in small pulls, the flow restricted the way baby bottles were designed to restrict flow, and the slowness of it was part of the thing — the way his body had to be patient, had to work, had to just *be* in the act of drinking. No chugging. No gulping. Just the steady, meditative pull-pull-pull and the sweetness pooling on his tongue each time he swallowed. His free hand — the one not holding the bottle — had drifted to the front of his diaper. Not to touch himself, not exactly. Just to rest there, palm flat against the padding, fingers spread over the crinkled front panel where the little ducks marched in a row. The warmth of his own hand through the padding was its own comfort. His eyes lost focus. The laptop screen blurred. The voices downstairs became texture instead of language — the rise and fall of two women talking, the clink of glasses, the distant pop of a cork — and he was floating in it, bobbing in the warm golden current, and the bottle was half-empty before he realized he'd started drinking at all. *When did I —* The thought surfaced and drifted away like a leaf on the current. He didn't chase it. His jaw kept working. Suck. Swallow. Suck. Swallow. The ducks on his diaper wiggled slightly with each breath, the padding shifting, the gel inside warm from his body heat now, soft and conforming, an almost-cloud between his legs. The laptop chirped. **Tyler:** yo you alive? haven't seen you in a week A notification banner, small and blue in the upper right corner of the screen. Tyler's avatar — a picture of Master Chief giving a thumbs up. Jacob watched the words without reading them. The letters were shapes. The shapes were pretty. Another chirp. **Tyler:** bro? you good? saw your last message was like 3 days ago His thumb moved toward the keyboard. He needed to — he should — Tyler was his friend, Tyler was worried, Tyler was— The bottle's nipple pressed against the roof of his mouth and the suction broke for a half-second and he felt the loss of it like a step missed on stairs, a lurching in his chest, and his mouth closed around it again and the rhythm resumed and the thought of typing — of forming letters, words, sentences, of being *Jacob who communicates with friends via text* — that thought couldn't find purchase in the honey-space. His brain was warm mud. His fingers hovered over the keys and could not muster the shape of the letters. *Too hard to explain. Can't. Later.* He let his hand fall back to the diaper. Suck. Swallow. The Discord notification count climbed — three, four, five unread — and Jacob's eyes closed and the bliss held him and the bottle was three-quarters empty and the padding was warm and thick between his legs and he could feel the weight of his own body settling into the mattress like something soft giving way, and the fuzzy star blanket was tucked around his shoulders, and — --- The pressure. It arrived the way weather arrives — not sudden, but suddenly noticed. His bladder had been filling since before Lana had put him to bed, since the first bottle in the kitchen, since the juice he was drinking right now. The fullness sat low in his pelvis, a heaviness behind his pubic bone, a weight that pressed down and forward into the padding. His eyes opened. The honey-space cracked. Not broke — cracked, like ice on a pond, the warmth still visible underneath but the cold reality seeping through the fissures. He could feel his bladder. He could feel how full it was. And he could feel — with sudden, horrible clarity — the thickness of the diaper between his legs, the padding right there, warm and conforming and designed for this. *"Nighttime diaper means nighttime diaper."* The rule. Lana's voice. Not mocking, not cruel. Just the rule. The way bedtime was bedtime. The way a curfew was a curfew. The rule said: you are in a diaper, and the diaper is for using, and you are not to get up, and you are not to take it off, and you are not to use the bathroom. He clenched. The muscle held — tight, desperate, the same muscle he'd been using since he was three years old, since the first time his father had said *big boys go on the potty* — and the squeeze sent a spike of pressure up through his abdomen. He pressed his thighs together. The padding wouldn't let them close. The M-shape stayed, his legs held apart by the diaper's thickness, and the vulnerability of that position — open, exposed, the padding directly under him like an invitation — hit him like nausea. He would not. He would *not.* The bottle was still in his mouth. He realized this with a small sound — *mmnf* — and pulled it out, the nipple releasing with a soft pop, a thread of saliva connecting his lip to the silicone before breaking. His jaw ached from the sustained suckling, the muscles tired in a way that felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. --- Downstairs, Amanda laughed. Bright and nasal. The sound rose through the floorboards and into his bones. *"— oh my god, and then he just — he just went right there in the —"* *"In the bathtub, yes. Full standing tantrum. I thought Mark was going to lose his mind."* Amanda's laugh again, harder this time. *"God, Tommy acts like he's in that phase of knowing he can be a big boy and everything's a power struggle. He’s been totally dry not wetting his diapers and pull-ups so he's just being silly sometimes"* Lana: *". Some days. He'll probably — it's a process. You just have to be consistent and not make a big deal out of it, you know? They sense when you're stressed about it."* *"Smart. Did you ever— wait, hold on, this wine is going right through me, — I need to run to the bathroom."* *"Down the hall, first door on the— actually, you know what, you can use the one upstairs. The downstairs one's been finicky and I don't want to deal with Mark's plumber again."* *"Sure, okay."* --- A barstool scraped. Jacob's blood went cold. *She's coming upstairs.* The sweet head-space was shattered. The warmth drained out of him like bathwater, and what was left was the raw, fluorescent panic of a gornw man lying in a diaper and a duck onesie cowered in his bed with a half-finished baby bottle on his chest, Discord notifications he couldn't answer and a bladder so full it ached. He could hear her. The creak of the first stair — the third step from the bottom, the one that always groaned — and then the second, and then Amanda's footsteps on the landing, the carpeted thud of her socked feet, and the direction was wrong, she was going the wrong way, she was supposed to go to the bathroom, the bathroom was to the *left* — She opened the hallway light and the glow flew in. His door was ajar. Lana hadn't closed it all the way. She had left it cracked — "for air" — and he'd been too far stuck in his thoughts to fix it, and now it sat open three inches and the hallway light cut a bright seam across his floor and the shadow appeared in the gap before the knock came. No knock. Amanda's stopped when she found the door. She was framed in the hallway light behind her — the small crack revealing her silhouette, wine glass still in one hand, hair loose, the posture of someone who'd been walking toward a bathroom and had been pulled sideways by something. By a smell. Because the room smelled. Something very familiar to her, but something more. The baby powder was the top note — Lana's generous application still hanging in the still air, the sweet talc-and-lavender cloud that clung to fleece and skin. But underneath it, the deeper note: the unmistakable smell of diapers. The open bag of of a one-less-a-dozen diapers with their plastic and polymer and cotton blend, the synthetic-bright nursery smell that had no business coming from a his bedroom. The onesie's new fleece, still chemical-edged from its packaging. And underneath all of it, warm and close and unmistakable, the faintly human scent of a boy’s room — of a boy in his room, skin and warmth and the particular smell of someone who'd been lying in a sealed diaper. Amanda stood in the doorway. The light fell across the bed. Across the star blanket. Across the duck hood. Across Jacob, whose eyes were wide and wet and whose hands gripped the bottle against his chest like a talisman, and whose legs were spread in the diaper's M-shape, and whose face was doing something complicated and terrible — the flush climbing his neck, his jaw locked, his lower lip bitten white. She knew that smell. Not from baby showers. Not from nieces or nephews. She knew it the way you know the smell of a lover's shampoo — intimately, specifically, because she has been changing diapers in a nursery for years. Because she'd been a Mommy to her son Tommy through colic and late-night changes and midnight bottles, and the smell of nursery and padding and powder was coded into her hindbrain as *baby*, and her body responded before her mind caught up. Her eyes went wide. Jacob lay as still as if he were encased in ice, holding his breath, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face and into the duck hood of his onesie. Jacob stared at her. His bladder screamed. The diaper crinkled once, softly, as his body gave a single involuntary shift — the clench failing, just for a moment, just enough that he felt the first hot pulse of warmth begin to spread into the padding's front panel, and his hand flew to his crotch, pressing against the thickening, warming, swelling cotton, trying to hold back the flood, and his mouth opened and nothing came out. Amanda's shadow disappeared with a shake of her head and calmly made steps towards her original destination. In the bathroom, Amanda looked in the mirror, shook her head once more, and softly spoke aloud, “I knew it.” She set her glass down on the counter and shifted to the toilet. She lifted up her skirt, pulled down her panties and sat, dumbfounded and in disbelief. Shaking her head once more, stabilizing her head with her palms to her cheeks. Her nostrils flared. Her chin lifted. “He’s actually back in diapers." 17 2
kirababy Posted August 24 Posted August 24 This has great potential, Amanda has a thing about kids in diapers, that is abundantly clear to me. And now she presumably has had enough wine to give her courage, and go back to confront Lana. I think the next day will be challenging for Jacob. 1
ppbenn Posted August 25 Posted August 25 I am finally caught up. Thank you for writing such a wonderful story. I'm definitely hoping to read more soon. 1
Goodson84 Posted August 25 Posted August 25 I'm enjoying the story. I'm just curious about one thing. Maybe I missed something in the story, I did just play catch up with some of the chapters. Seems like this story is over the course of a couple of days, but in the first chapter he's 18 and now he's 23? Did I miss something? Did we time jump at some point or was that just a continuity slip. I'm not criticizing, I'm honestly just wondering... 1
ababaidl Posted August 25 Author Posted August 25 2 hours ago, Goodson84 said: I'm enjoying the story. I'm just curious about one thing. Maybe I missed something in the story, I did just play catch up with some of the chapters. Seems like this story is over the course of a couple of days, but in the first chapter he's 18 and now he's 23? Did I miss something? Did we time jump at some point or was that just a continuity slip. I'm not criticizing, I'm honestly just wondering... Yeah, I’m fucking up some stuff in my stupid haste! I’ll correct it before next part as I usually do when I review the last chapter before writing the next one. Y’all are kind of a part of my OG drafts before it’s finalized to perfection at its conclusion. Probably I’ll make it perfect later or something, I’m not here for pennies, whatever. Busy this week with real life but gonna try to bang out a chapter by Thursday or Friday at the latest…… Man, sorry to y’all who saw I posted and thought it was a chapter! Aaah sorry!! 2
Frostybaby Posted August 26 Posted August 26 26 minutes ago, ababaidl said: Yeah, I’m fucking up some stuff in my stupid haste! I’ll correct it before next part as I usually do when I review the last chapter before writing the next one. Y’all are kind of a part of my OG drafts before it’s finalized to perfection at its conclusion. Probably I’ll make it perfect later or something, I’m not here for pennies, whatever. Busy this week with real life but gonna try to bang out a chapter by Thursday or Friday at the latest…… Man, sorry to y’all who saw I posted and thought it was a chapter! Aaah sorry!! Hey man, don't sweat it we all have continuity errors from time to time, 120 chapters into mine I've run into the same speed bumps. Looking 4ward to what's 2 come next, really good stuff so far. 4
Goodson84 Posted August 26 Posted August 26 3 hours ago, ababaidl said: Yeah, I’m fucking up some stuff in my stupid haste! I’ll correct it before next part as I usually do when I review the last chapter before writing the next one. Y’all are kind of a part of my OG drafts before it’s finalized to perfection at its conclusion. Probably I’ll make it perfect later or something, I’m not here for pennies, whatever. Busy this week with real life but gonna try to bang out a chapter by Thursday or Friday at the latest…… Man, sorry to y’all who saw I posted and thought it was a chapter! Aaah sorry!! I understand. I'm sure my own writings will ultimately find some similar errors. I promise I was not judging you, I just wanted to make sure I didn't miss something. You're good. 1
ababaidl Posted August 31 Author Posted August 31 You should definitely be judging my story and judging me! Speak your mind! Also judge me for my inability to meet deadlines - its a lifelong problem and I need a Mommy to keep me in line! But then I'd still never make deadlines because I'd just want Mommy to punish me for being such a baby! Fappity-fap, please come back cause I'll do another chapter in a day or two, maybe tonight? Chapter 13 The nursery smell hung in the room like a held breath. Jacob didn't move. His body had locked the way a possum locks — total, involuntary, every muscle seized into stone while his nervous system ran its calculations and arrived at the same answer from every angle: *she saw me.* The bottle pressed flat against his sternum where he'd been holding it so tight he could almost crush it, apple juice sloshing inside the plastic with the tremble of his grip. The duck hood had fallen over his right eye. The star blanket tangled around his ankles where his legs had kicked once — just once — before the freeze took over. Talcum and lotion and fresh diaper plastic layered the air so thick he could taste it, powdery-sweet and cloying on the back of his tongue, and beneath it the warmer, more intimate scent of his own body sealed inside fleece and padding: *she smelt it.* Through the wall: water running. A faucet. The pipes in the bathroom wall groaned in that particular way they always groaned — a low, shuddering complaint that traveled through the plaster and into his headboard and directly into his skull. Then the sound that killed him. She turned it on the mask the sound, but he heard it clearly. Amanda peeing. The tinkle — bright, unmistakable, the particular pitch of urine hitting porcelain water from a seated position — carried through the thin shared wall with the clarity of a confession. His bladder, already screaming, already clenching against the diaper's thickness and slight dampness from the spurt that was let out when she stood in the door way, answered the sound the way a yawn answers a yawn. The muscle he'd been holding — the one he'd been clenching so hard his lower back ached — buckled. Not a release. A collapse. The first hot pulse spread into the front panel before he could react. His hand flew to his crotch, pressing the thick padding, feeling the warmth bloom outward under his palm like water spreading through a paper towel. The gel inside the diaper swelled immediately, the padding going from thick to *thicker* in a slow, heavy wave that pressed his thighs further apart. He bit down on nothing — no pacifier, no bottle, just air and the strangled sound that escaped his teeth, something between a groan and a whimper, *hhnnnggh*, the noise catching in the back of his throat like a sob swallowed sideways. If only he could be swallowed by the crack in the ceiling above his bed. The crack of his door another black hole pulling him further into embarrassment of having Amanda – of all people, Amanda. The crack of the floodgates into his babyish diaper was such an escalation of his first diaper change just the previous evening. He couldn't stop it. The sound of Amanda on the toilet, the mental image of her sitting there twenty feet away processing what she'd seen — *him, in a diaper, in a duck onesie, with a baby bottle on his chest* — the sheer seismic weight of that, it undid him. His bladder had been full since the first bottle in the kitchen, since the nearly full liter of apple juice Lana had poured, and the pressure had been building behind the dam of his clench and the dam was made of tissue paper and the tissue paper was on fire. The stream came in fits. A hot rush — *hsssss* — flooding the front panel, the gel drinking it in, the padding swelling between his legs until he could feel the diaper's weight shift on his hips, dragging the waistband lower. He clenched again, desperate, thighs pressing together, but the padding was too thick now, the swollen mass between his legs forcing them apart, and the clench only made the next wave worse — a longer, steadier flow, *hssssssss*, the warmth spreading backward, wicking under his buttocks, the seat of the diaper growing heavy and warm and *full* and he could feel it pooling against his skin before the gel caught up and absorbed it. His hand reached through the gap shrinking gap through the side of his onsie, pressed the front of the diaper and felt the padding give under his fingers like a warm, waterlogged sponge. The plastic backing had gone taut — the diaper's capacity stretching, the swelling pushing his legs wider, the bulk now pronounced enough that the onesie's snaps pulled audibly against the fleece. A tear slid from the corner of his eye into the duck hood. Not crying. Not exactly. Just the overflow of a body that had run out of ways to process what was happening to it. Through the wall, the toilet flushed. The pipes shrieked. *She saw you. She saw you and she went to the bathroom like it was nothing and she flushed the toilet and now she's going to go downstairs and tell Lana and—* The faucet. Water running. The squeak of hands being washed — he could hear the soap dispenser's plastic *chk-chk* — and then the water cut off and the bathroom door opened with its particular creak, the one that sounded like a question mark. Footsteps in the hallway. Socked feet on carpet. Amanda was walking back toward the stairs. The seam of hall light across his floor shifted as her shadow crossed it — a dark shape, brief, gone. Then her footsteps paused. Jacob's heart slammed so hard he felt the bottle bounce on his chest with the force of his own pulse. He could picture her standing there, wine glass probably still in her hand, her head turned toward the three-inch gap in his door, the curiosity that Lana had warned him about — *she asks questions, she doesn't let things go* — pulling at her like a current. A sound. Small, controlled, deliberate. A clear of her throat — *ahem* — muffled, tucked behind closed lips. The kind of throat-clearing that wasn't about mucus. The kind that came when someone was pressing their lips together very hard to keep a sound inside, the sound being a laugh, the laugh being the kind that rises unbidden when you've just had a suspicion confirmed in the most spectacular possible way. Then the footsteps resumed. Faster now. Toward the stairs. The third stair groaned under her weight. Jacob didn't breathe until the sound of her reached the ground floor and the low murmur of voices rose from the living room — Lana's question, something brief and bright, Amanda's response, something he couldn't quite parse. Then silence. Not the comfortable silence of two women sipping wine. The other kind. The loaded kind. The silence that happened when someone was saying something too important — or too shocking — to say at full volume. They were whispering. His fingers dug into the wet padding. The diaper was warm and heavy between his legs, the gel saturated enough that the padding had gone from cloud to clay, thick and dense and pressing against him with a weight that felt punitive. The wetness had spread everywhere — front to back, the leg gathers doing their job, the diaper holding it all in its swollen embrace. He could smell it now, faint beneath the powder and lotion: the sharp, slightly sweet ammoniac edge of fresh urine mixing with talcum, a scent that belonged in a nursery, not an eighteen-year-old's bedroom. *Did she actually see me?* The question ran laps in his skull. The door was cracked three inches. The hall light had been on. He'd been lying there with the star blanket tangled at his ankles, the duck hood on his head, the bottle on his chest. The diaper's thickness had been visible — the way it forced his legs into that M-shape, the padding bunching under the onesie's snaps. The room had smelled like her toddler son’s. But maybe — maybe the shadow had been fast, maybe the light had been tricky, maybe she'd just been walking to the bathroom and the throat-clear was about wine going down the wrong pipe and— The silence downstairs stretched. One minute. Two. The attempt to grasp the glimmer of hope felt in reach, but faded with the realization that the giddiness had ended. It was too quiet. He stood up. The diaper hit him like an anchor. The weight of it — sodden, swollen, the gel having expanded to what felt like three times its dry volume — pulled his hips downward and forced his stance into a waddle before he'd taken a single step. The crinkle was catastrophic. The wet padding shifted and squelched with the motion, the plastic backing shrieking against the fleece onesie, and the sound was so loud in the quiet room that he froze mid-stand, one hand on the nightstand, the bottle wobbling from his haste of setting it down back on the nightstand. He looked down. The diaper had swelled *enormously*. The front panel, usually flat and snug against his belly, now bulged outward in a heavy, rounded dome, the pastel blocks and smiling giraffes stretched across the expanded padding like a cartoon on a balloon. The leg gathers had thickened, the elastic straining around his thighs, the ruffled edges now pressed tight against skin gone pink and damp. Between his legs, the padding was a solid mass — thick enough that his thighs couldn't come close to touching, the gap between them wide enough to fit his fist. The onesie's snaps pulled taut, the fleece stretched over the diaper's bulk, every contour visible through the fabric. He reached behind him. His hand sank into the seat of the diaper — warm, dense, the padding back there equally sodden, swollen and heavy against his buttocks. But it held. The plastic backing was stressed but intact, no leaks, the leg gathers sealed. His fingers pressed the thickness and the padding gave, squelching softly, but there was give left in it. The diaper could hold more. The realization made his stomach lurch because it meant Lana had been right — *these could hold two floods* — and it meant the diaper was doing exactly what it was designed to do, which meant he was doing exactly what he was designed to do in it, which meant— He walked. Slowly. Each step was a negotiation between his body and the swollen mass between his legs, the crinkle announcing every inch of movement — *krrnk-shlop, krrnk-shlop* — the wet padding shifting with each hip roll, the weight swinging between his thighs like a pendulum. His bare feet stuck slightly to the hardwood with each step, sweat and the dampness at the edges of the leg gathers creating a faint tackiness. The onesie's duck hood bounced against his back with every step, the snaps between his legs creaking against the diaper's bulk. By the time he reached the door — eight steps that felt like eighty — the voices downstairs had resumed. They were further away now. Moving. The murmur traveled from the living room toward the front hall, the words still indistinct but the tones audible: Lana's voice low, measured, the voice she used when she was managing a situation. Amanda's voice — and here something had changed. The pitch had lifted. The cadence had brightened. She sounded *giddy* again. The front door opened. Evening air moved through the house — warm, carrying cut grass and the neighbor's sprinkler and something cooking on someone's grill three doors down — and it reached Jacob's room in a thin draft that carried the smell of his wet diaper out into the hallway like a flag. " — so that's the plan," Lana was saying, her voice carrying up the stairs with that particular projection she used when she wanted to be overheard but wanted it to seem accidental. "You do what you need to do I'll make sure everything is okay upstairs." *Upstairs.* The word landed on Jacob like a hand on his chest. She was talking about him. She was talking about *his room*, *his diapers*, *his situation*, and she was talking about it with Amanda, and Amanda already *knew*, and the two of them were standing at the front door discussing him like a project, like a scheduling conflict, like a thing that needed managing. "Oh, I'm sure it will be *perfect*," Amanda said, and her voice had that brightness — that too-high, too-bright brightness of someone who'd just been told something delightful and was trying not to show the full extent of their delight. "I'll speak with them and I'm sure it will be perfect." *Speak with them.* Jacob's hand gripped the doorframe. His knuckles went white. The wet diaper sagged between his legs, heavy and warm, the crinkle soft now with the padding saturated, the onesie's snaps straining. *Speak with them.* Them. Who was *them*? Amanda didn't have to speak with anyone — Amanda was the neighbor, Amanda brought cucumbers and drank wine and asked questions and filed the answers away like coupons, she didn't *speak with* people about— Amanda's footsteps crossed the porch. The screen door didn't have a spring so it just hung open, letting the evening in. They continued their goodbyes, Lana saying something indiscernible and with a bit of a giggle. "I CAN'T wait!" Amanda's voice — loud, bright, completely uncontrolled now, the delight spilling out of her like wine from an overfilled glass — carried across the yard, across the quiet street, through the open windows of every house on the block. The screen door finally clapped shut behind her with a wooden *thwack* that echoed in the warm air. Lana stood at the front door for a moment. Jacob could hear her breathing. Then the door closed — *click* — and the deadbolt turned, slow and deliberate, that same heavy *thunk* from this morning when she'd locked Amanda out. Only now Amanda was on the other side of it, and she was *excited*, and she was going to *speak with them*, and whatever "them" meant, it meant this was moving, it was accelerating, it was going somewhere Jacob couldn't see and couldn't stop and couldn't— The stairs creaked. One step. Then another. Coming up. “I can hear you, baby.” Lana announced, a return to her sweet, motherly tone, “Mommy’s coming.” 12 1
Babypants Posted August 31 Posted August 31 Nicely scripted chapter. Discontinuity is a structural issue when writing in a serial format. Best way to keep on top of it is to reread your product from start to finish periodically. I have reread mine four times so far, each resulting in a new spreadsheet. Characters, locations, the date on which the action is occurring ... there are lots of places where we can slip up. The spread sheets really help. The longer the story becomes, and the more times passes, the harder it becomes to stay on top of it all. 3
ababaidl Posted August 31 Author Posted August 31 IMPORTANT: *Second chapter of today!* Don't miss Chapter 13! The other one was too short so here's another half of a chapter, but its going to be a chapter, and then i'll have to figure out about the other half and post it later or tomorrow. Or make it longer. I don't know, but I'm daily double-doublin' your iced cap fap, have a great day! Chapter 14 The carpet runner muffled Lana's footsteps but didn't silence them. Jacob stood frozen in front of his open bedroom door, wearing only his silly onesie and wet diaper, the crinkling shame that clung to him like a second skin. His bare feet had already started their retreat — one instinctive step backward, then another — the moment he heard the floorboard at the top of the stairs groan under her weight. He scurried. Not walked. *Scurried* — the word a field mouse would use if asked to describe the motion — his padded bottom swaying with each frantic step as he half-tripped into his room and dove for the bed. The sheets were already tangled from earlier, smelling of baby powder and the faint sour tang of his own nervous sweat. He yanked the comforter up to his chin, legs curled beneath him, heart hammering so hard he could feel the diaper crinkle with each pulse. Lana's shadow stretched across the hallway carpet before she did. Then she was in the doorway — shoulder braced against the frame, arms folded loosely beneath her chest, one eyebrow raised just slightly. The hallway light behind her turned her into a silhouette with edges: the soft curve of her hip against the doorframe, the loose drape of her cardigan hanging open over a fitted tee, her dark hair — the color of burnt caramel, looser than earlier tonight, falling past her shoulder blades in waves she hadn't bothered to tame — and the relaxed expression and blush of a great night laughing, and after a few glasses of pinot grigio. The hallway light behind her threw her silhouette long and sharp across the carpet, cutting across Jacob's knees where he sat propped against the headboard. The duck onesie bunched at his waist. The bottle rested on his bedstand, nipple wet, abandoned, empty. She didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time. She just stared. The silence had a texture to it — the kind that fills a room like fog, pressing against walls, settling into furniture. Jacob could hear the muffled sound of Amanda front door shutting next door. Then nothing. Just the house settling around them, the tic of ductwork cooling in the walls, and Lana's breathing — slow, measured, through her nose. *He thought: She's going to talk about what happened. She's going to say something about Amanda. She's going to —* "So." Lana's voice landed flat. Not angry. Not warm. The single syllable sat between them like a coin dropped on a counter. She unfolded her arms and stepped inside, pulling the door wider behind her. The hinges didn't creak — they never did, Lana being meticulous keeping the house clean, including the doors and hinges — but the sound of it swinging open felt loud anyway, a soft compression of air that changed the pressure in the room. Jacob's legs drew together under the blanket. The diaper crinkled beneath him, and the sound — that brittle plastic whisper — filled the space where words should have been. His face burned. The wetness had gone cold against his skin, clinging, sagging between his thighs, and every small movement reminded him of it. Reminded him of the sound Amanda had made. That throat-clear. That suppressed laugh masquerading as a cough. Lana crossed to the window. The blinds were already half-drawn, but she tugged the cord, dropping them the rest of the way. The room dimmed. Late-August evening light — that amber, heavy quality it gets around eight-thirty — slit through the slats in thin horizontal bars across the bedsheet. Across his ankles up to his torso. Across the yellow duck pattern. "I talked to Amanda," Lana said. She turned from the window. Her face was in shadow now, the light behind her, and Jacob couldn't read her expression. She wore a gray cardigan over a black top, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. Her forearms were tan, toned, a thin gold watch on her left wrist catching the slatted light. Her hair — dark brown, almost black in this light, cut to her collarbones with a slight wave — fell forward as she tilted her head. "She had a lot to say." *She thought: He looks small. Good. He needs to feel small right now.* Jacob's throat constricted. "What — what did she —" "She saw you, baby." Jacob's eyes were wide, glassy, locked on hers. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out. His fingers white-knuckled the comforter's edge, pulling it higher. The words landed like a shot to the sternum. Jacob flinched — actually *flinched* — and the comforter slipped over his chin, shifting and feeling the bulk of his diaper, feeling so small with it snug around his hips and crotch, completely soaked, yet still thirsty for another wetting. Lana towered over him. She moved to the desk chair — a wooden spindle-back, the same computer chair Jacob had for years — and sat down, crossing one knee over the other. Her bare feet, toenails painted a muted rose, tucked beneath the chair. "Saw you in your little outfit with your baba. Saw the state of your room and all of your new diapies." The word landed like a slap. *Diapies.* She used it deliberately, savoring the infantile diminutive, her lips pulling into something that wasn't quite a smile. Her eyes — hazel, sharp, the kind that seemed to change color with the light — held his without blinking. Jacob's chin dropped. The heat in his face had spread down his neck, into his chest. He could feel his pulse in his ears. The diaper crinkled again as he shifted, and the wet padding shifted with him, cold and heavy against his scrotum, his inner thighs. He wanted to disappear. The thought and feeling again of wanting the ceiling crack above him to widen and swallow him whole. "I — its not my fault," he whispered. The words came out thin, cracked at the edges. "She was going to the bathroom — the door was slightly open —" "Shh." Lana raised one hand, palm out, resting it on his face. The gesture was maternal, dismissive, final. "I'm not angry, baby." *Baby.* The word settled into his sternum like a stone. But he wasn’t worried about her being angry. Why was he defending himself? *It was her fault. She left the door open.* "I — it wasn't — she wasn't supposed to —" Jacob's voice cracked upward, climbing into a register that made him sound fourteen instead of eighteen. His hands flew in front of him, palms out, warding off a blow that hadn't come. "I can’t believe—" "Jacob." Lana's voice was low. Steady. The kind of calm that isn't performed — it's settled into, like a bath. Her hand stayed where it was, fingertips resting against his temple. "She thinks you're adorable." His mouth was still open, the next defense already loaded, but it didn't fire. He blinked at her. Once. Twice. The clock ticked three times in the gap. He felt confused. *She didn’t care if she was mad —why would she think. Adorable?!* "I can’t believe she saw me — what do you mean adorable? No!" Jacob is startled and shaking. "She — Amanda — she *saw*—" "I know what she saw." Lana's thumb traced a slow arc along his cheekbone. Her nail — unpainted, filed short — caught the light from his nightstand lamp. " I thought this would happen eventually, to be honest with you." Jacob's face crumpled through three expressions in a second — confusion, relief, then something raw and wounded that couldn't decide what it was. "What do you mean you *thought* — Lana, what are you—" "Shh, shh, shh." She pressed her thumb gently against his lower lip, quieting him. The gesture was so instinctive, so practiced, that it made his stomach drop. "The wine had me a little loose. I'll own that. I shouldn't have told her about the upstairs washroom." "You *told* her about the — Lana!" His voice pitched higher, cracking on her name. The comforter twisted in his fists. "You told her about the upstairs bathroom? On *purpose*? You sent her right to it, you — she saw *everything*, she saw the — the diapers, the powder, the —" "I didn't send her anywhere." Lana's voice stayed level, her hand moving from his face to the back of his neck, warm and steady. She squeezed once. "But I'm not going to sit here and pretend that based on all of her questions about the baby powder, that she didn't already know what was going on up there. Her nose is hound-like, baby." Jacob's whole body went rigid. The color that had been slowly returning to his face drained out of it faster than it had come. His lower lip trembled — actually trembled, a micro-shudder he couldn't have faked — and his eyes dropped to the mattress, to the tented comforter over his lap, to the obvious bulk of his diaper. "She didn’t know... why would you..." "Baby powder." Lana said it plainly, without a wince, the way someone might say *cinnamon* or *pine*. "That wasn't hard for her to figure out, sweetheart. And the freshly open bags of diapers — those have a much stronger scent than Mommy thought they’d have.” She paused and looked at him with exaggerated sympathy, followed by syrupy babytalk, “There was just no hiding things tonight, baby — and it smells like someone wet his diaper!" Jason felt deflated. *God, he looks like he's about to cry..* Jacob made a sound — half-whimper, half-whine, caught in the back of his throat like something with teeth that refused to come out. "Aaah-nnh..." His eyes were wet. His hands shook against the comforter. He looked small in a way that had nothing to do with his frame — six feet of grown man folded into a ball, chin tucked, shoulders rounded inward, a diaper crinkling beneath him with every micro-movement. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't do that." "Do what?" "Talk about it like it's — like it's *nothing*. Like you're just gonna sit there and tell me you Amanda knows about my d-diapers and act like that's *fine*—" "It *is* fine, Jacob." "It's *not* fine, it's—" "It is." Firm. Kind. A door closing gently on the subject. Lana's eyes moved away from his face — a deliberate pivot, a redirection — and landed on the nightstand. The baby bottle. Empty, the rubber nipple still glistening faintly, a thin ring of dried milk visible around the rim. It sat there next to the baseball clock and a dog-eared paperback copy of *Grapes of Wrath* with a cracked spine. Jacob saw her see it. His face went from pale to red in the span of a heartbeat. "Oh *my*—" "Hey. Hey." Lana's hand slid from his neck to his shoulder, squeezing through the comforter. "There's my boy. There he is. No more of that, okay? That's enough for tonight." "I can explain — I just — I was thirsty and I—" "You don't have to explain a single thing to me." She stood, pulling the comforter down with her in one smooth motion, exposing his bare chest, the diaper taped snug around his waist, the slight sag he couldn't hide. "Listen. Here's what's going to happen." Jacob swallowed. His throat clicked. "You're going to go brush your teeth. Wash your face. Take a breather for a few minutes in there." Lana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave his shoulder one last squeeze before releasing him. "I'm going downstairs to tidy up a couple of things and then I’ll come check on you after. Sound okay?” Jacob opened his mouth. Closed it. His lower lip was still doing that thing — the tremble, the caught-puppy quiver — and his eyes were wet and red-rimmed and deeply, profoundly embarrassed. "Okay," he whispered. "Good boy." The words hit him somewhere behind his ribs and he visibly shrank, pulling his knees up, the diaper crinkling loud in the quiet room. Lana turned toward the door, paused, and glanced back over her shoulder. "Five minutes, baby. Don't hide in there. 13 1
babymatty85 Posted August 31 Posted August 31 Only negative is we had 2 chapters and not alot has gone on . Loving the story though and will defo be seeing were it goes 1
ababaidl Posted September 1 Author Posted September 1 2 hours ago, babymatty85 said: Only negative is we had 2 chapters and not alot has gone on . Loving the story though and will defo be seeing were it goes Doing it on purpose. Sounds like it leaves you wanting more - great success! Exactly why I am doing it on purpose :-)
wetdiaper55 Posted September 1 Posted September 1 I love the way the story is going .....Great ....more please . 1
littlepoetmagus Posted September 1 Posted September 1 Loving the story. Great setups and looking forward to seeing them pay off. Something to note: the age discrepancy fix has created at least one knock-on effect that I noticed. As a consequence of changing the instance of 23 to 18, you have an 18 year-old who is claiming to have a bachelor’s degree and who has filed his taxes solo for three years. 1
ababaidl Posted September 3 Author Posted September 3 On 9/1/2026 at 4:55 PM, littlepoetmagus said: Loving the story. Great setups and looking forward to seeing them pay off. Something to note: the age discrepancy fix has created at least one knock-on effect that I noticed. As a consequence of changing the instance of 23 to 18, you have an 18 year-old who is claiming to have a bachelor’s degree and who has filed his taxes solo for three years. Fixed! TIME FOR ANOTHER CHAPTER WHATWHAT Something something fapfapfifteenfap. Chapter 15 The bathroom light buzzed to life with a flick of the switch, fluorescent and unforgiving, the kind of light that turned skin translucent and made every shadow under the eyes look like a bruise. The mirror above the sink was smudged with dried water droplet residue and a faint fingerprint near the upper left corner — Lana's, probably, from that morning. The faucet handle squeaked when Jacob pulled it up, and the water ran cold for six seconds before the pipes remembered what heat was, the old water heater groaning somewhere deep in the basement like a tired animal. He stood there in the ridiculous duck onesie and his wet diaper, feeling sodden and soaked while also ready for more, the plastic backing pulling taut across his hips with every small shift of weight and tighter around the strained buttons of on his crotch. His bare legs looked pale under the harsh light. His hair was stuck up in three different directions from the fleece of the duck hood and he had enough — he pulled off and left bunched on the counter like a shed skin. A deep sigh and he noticed a faint rash had appeared along his jawline where the fleece had rubbed. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, the kind of wet that hadn't quite committed to tears but hadn't dried either. *He thought: That's me. That's what I look like. That's what Amanda saw.* The toothbrush sat in the holder — blue, the rubber grip worn smooth where his thumb always pressed. He squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles, too much, the white glob folding over itself like a tiny avalanche. The motion was automatic. Muscle memory from ten thousand nights of the same routine. Brush. Spit. Rinse. It took his mind into a place of nothingness for at least a few moments, the same ritual he'd performed since he was short enough to need a step stool to reach the sink. Only now the step stool was gone and the diapers were back and the routine had become something else entirely. The bristles hit his molars and he stared at the mirror. The foam built up white at the corners of his lips. He took off the onesie as if it would make a difference, but seeing himself brushing his teeth in a wet diaper before bed wasn’t any less of a babyish image. Below the swell of his stomach, the diaper's waistband gleamed under the bathroom light. Nursery prints on the plastic. Tapes at both hips. The padding so thick between his legs that he couldn't bring his knees together even if he tried, and he *had* tried, standing at the sink with his thighs pressed inward, and the bulk just pushed them back apart with a soft, definitive *krrnk*. *He thought: I look like a baby. I look like an actual baby. Standing at the sink in nothing but a diaper, brushing my teeth like Mommy told me to, wearing a diaper she put me in, holding a — I was holding a bottle. I was lying in bed with a bottle and Amanda saw me and she —* The toothbrush stopped. His hand hung suspended, foam dripping from the bristles onto the porcelain sink in slow white threads. His chin wobbled. Just once, just a micro-tremor, the kind of thing the muscles do when they're trying to hold something back and the something is too big. *She saw me. She saw me and she went to the bathroom and she peed and she came back out and she went downstairs and she told Lana and Lana wasn't even surprised. Lana said "I thought this would happen eventually." Eventually. Like this was always where it was going. Like the diapers and the powder and the bottle and the onesie and all of it was just — just a countdown to Amanda inevitably knowing.* His eyes burned. The fluorescent light above the mirror hummed at a frequency that sat right behind his molars, a thin, persistent vibration that made his whole skull feel tight. A tear collected at the corner of his left eye — just one, hanging on the lower lash line, catching the light before it dropped onto his cheek with a warmth that startled him. He wiped it away with the back of his wrist, smearing toothpaste foam across his cheekbone. He spat. Rinsed. The water ran pink-tinged from where he'd brushed too hard on the left side of his mouth — he didn't realize it. The mouthwash burned, mint and alcohol searing the soft tissue of his gums, and he gargled with his eyes squeezed shut because keeping them open meant seeing the mirror again and seeing the mirror meant seeing *himself* again and he couldn't — he couldn't look at himself wearing a diaper in the bathroom and process what that meant and also hold his jaw together. *It felt good. The bottle. It felt good and I let it and I was sucking on it and I was — I was in that space, that honey space, and it felt warm and safe and I didn't want to come out of it and then she was standing there and I was — I was lying there like a baby with a bottle on my chest and my legs spread and my diaper — and I — I was scared and pee trickled out without realizing it. I was wetting the diaper in fear when she saw me. She saw me and she just — she went to the bathroom. She didn't say anything. She just cleared her throat and walked away and that's — that's worse. That's so much worse. If she'd screamed or laughed or —* He gripped the edges of the sink with both hands. The porcelain was cold under his palms. His knuckles went white. The diaper crinkled with the motion of his arms, the sound bouncing off the tile walls in that particular way bathroom acoustics had of making everything louder, wetter, more present. The fan in the ceiling rattled on its mount, the plastic housing slightly warped, the hum uneven — *brrrr-brrr-brrrrr* — filling the silence he couldn't fill himself. *How pathetic. How — how do you even — I'm eighteen. I have a college education. I had a — I have friends, I have a Discord, I have — Tyler messaged me. Tyler messaged me and I couldn't even type back because I was lying in a diaper sucking a bottle and my hands were — I couldn't make my fingers make the letters. I couldn’t snap out of finally letting go and feeling relaxed for the first time in days. What kind of person can't — what kind of eighteen-year-old man lies in bed in a diaper and can't even text his friend because his brain is too far gone and the baby powder and the feeling of —* The sob came out before he could stop it. Just one — a single, strangled sound that broke open in his chest like a crack in a dam. Not the crying that comes from sadness, not exactly. The kind that comes from standing in a bathroom at nearly ten o'clock at night wearing a humiliating diaper, looking at your own face in the mirror and not recognizing the who’s looking back. The kind that comes from knowing that your stepmother's neighbor saw you in a diaper and a duck onesie and told your stepmother and your stepmother *wasn't surprised*. He grabbed the hand towel off the rack and pressed it against his face, breathing through the cotton. The fabric smelled like detergent — the lavender kind Lana used, the one that had been seeping into everything in the house for days, sheets and towels and the duck onesie and the changing mat and the fabric of his life. He breathed into it until the hitching in his chest slowed, until the ragged edge of the sob smoothed into something manageable, something he could carry back to his room without it spilling out in front of Lana. He hung the towel back on the rack. It was damp where his face had been. He didn't look at the mirror again. --- Lana moved through the kitchen with the quiet efficiency of someone who had stopped thinking about her next move and started simply executing it. The wine glasses sat in the drying rack, two of them, the bowls still faintly moist from being recently rinsed after the few bottles of pinot grigio she and Amanda had quickly worked through. The cheese board sat on the counter with its curled prosciutto and brie rind, the small pot of honey drizzled across the board's edge catching the under-cabinet light like amber. She rinsed the baby bottle first. She held the bottle under the tap, the warm water running through the clear plastic, the nipple softening under her thumb as she pressed it to flush the interior. The cartoon animals on the side — the same pastel giraffes and blocks from the diaper packaging — grinned up at her through the water. She turned the bottle in her hands. The plastic was smooth, slightly warm from the tap, the measurement markings marching up the side in bright blue numbers. 500 mils. The nipple was wide, the silicone slightly tacky between her fingers, still carrying the faint scent of apple juice and something else — the warmth of his mouth, the particular smell of his breath after feeding. *He drank the whole thing. The half-litre. I put it on his nightstand and told him to drink and he did and he — he was sucking on it when she —* She set the bottle on the drying rack and opened the fridge. The milk sat on the second shelf, a half-gallon of whole milk, the cap still slightly ajar from the last splash into her coffee. She pulled it out and unscrewed the baby bottle's nipple assembly, holding the small rubber piece between her teeth — a habit, automatic, the same thing she'd done a thousand times with sippy cups and formula bottles when taking care of real babies throughout the years. The milk poured slow and thick into the bottle. Whole milk, the kind that coats the tongue, the kind that leaves a film on the upper lip. She filled it to the line — a half-liter — and the liquid was opaque and pale, filling the cartoon animals from the bottom up until the giraffes on the side disappeared behind the white. She screwed the nipple back on with a practiced twist, the silicone squeaking faintly against the plastic ring. *Warm it. He needs it warm. Cold milk before bed — no. Warm. Like a bottle should be.* She ran the hot water tap until steam rose from the basin, the pipes groaning their familiar complaint — that low, shuddering sound that traveled through the wall and into the floor above. She held the bottle under the stream, turning it slowly, watching the milk warm through the clear plastic. The condensation beaded on the outside, running down her wrist in cool tracks. She tested the temperature against the inside of her wrist — the same motion, the exact same angle, her mother had taught her when she too would babysit and ready a bottle for a real baby. Warm. Not hot. The kind of warmth that would feel warm and soothing against his lips. She dried the bottle on the dish towel and carried it with her toward the stairs, pausing at the bottom step. The house was quiet now. The fridge hummed. The clock above the stove ticked. Somewhere upstairs, the bathroom faucet squeaked off — Jacob, finishing his routine, his few minutes of privacy before she came back. She took the stairs slowly, the bottle warm against her palm, the carpet runner soft under her bare feet. --- Lana pushed his door open with her hip. The room smelled thickly of talcum and lotion and the polymer sweetness of bags of LittleComfort diapers stacked on his dresser, the nursery scent layered so dense it had texture — a powdery weight that sat in the back of the throat. The window was still cracked from earlier, the evening breeze doing nothing against the accumulated smell of baby powder and fresh diaper plastic and the faint, sour underneath of his own nervous sweat and musky old clothes. She stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the space with the critical eye of someone cataloguing damage. The boxes — two large, one small — sat open beside the bed, their flaps splayed, tissue paper spilling from the edges. The changing mat lay crumpled across the foot of the bed, its vinyl surface smeared with lotion and dusted with powder. The bags of diapers — each with its cheerful pastel packaging — leaned against the dresser in a tower that reached his shoulder height. The open one on top displayed its contents like a display shelf, the thick, cartoon-printed diapers stacked in neat rows, the smiling giraffes visible on the topmost one. His clothes were everywhere. Sweatpants draped over the desk chair. Socks balled on the floor. The too-tight pajama pants from last night — the ones that had shrunk in the wash — hanging from the laundry basket's edge. Two t-shirts crumpled near the closet door. A shrunken field trip shirt he'd been wearing all of last week sat in a heap by the bed where he'd dropped it. *This room is a disaster. The diapers need to be organized — the boxes broken down, the bags stacked properly, the changing mat cleaned. The closet needs clearing. If this is the routine now, he needs a changing station, a proper place for supplies. Can't keep doing this on the floor. Need to clear the armchair, at least, give myself a place to sit with him.* She set the bottle on the nightstand — right next to the lamp, where the light would catch the cartoon animals on the plastic, where his hand had found the last one — and moved to the armchair in the corner near the window. It was large, oversized, the kind of plush chair that swallowed you when you sat in it, the upholstery a faded green velvet worn smooth at the armrests from years of use. It was buried. Three hoodies draped over the back. A pair of jeans crumpled on the seat. A stack of gaming magazines on one arm, a tangle of charging cables on the other. She gathered the clothes in one arm — hoodies, jeans, the magazines, the cables — and deposited the lot in the laundry basket with a practiced toss that landed everything except one charging cable, which she picked up and draped over the desk, then picked up the bottle. The chair's cushion exhaled when she sat, the velvet compressing under her weight, the old springs creaking once before settling. She crossed her legs at the ankle, the bottle warming in her lap, and leaned back. "Jakey," she called. Not loud. The house carried sound on its own. "Hurry up, baby." --- The hallway light was still on. She heard the bathroom door open, heard the particular shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood — that wide-legged, hip-rolling gait that the diaper's thickness forced into his stride. Three steps down the hall. A pause. The sound of him standing at his open bedroom door, not coming in. She looked up. He stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame, the other hanging at his side, and the expression on his face was the expression of someone who had cried in a bathroom and then washed their face and then told themselves they were fine and then walked to their bedroom and found their stepmother sitting in their armchair holding a warm bottle of milk. He stood in an unnatural, unsure way, an expression of slight relief and he had calmed down. Standing in the farm of the doorway in a disheveled stature completely opposite to when Lana and recently confronted him. The diaper crinkled as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The thick, wet padding forced his stance wide, his thighs pushed apart, the bulk visible even under the hem of the too-small shirt. His hair was damp at the temples where he'd splashed water on his face. His eyes were pink at the edges. His lower lip was doing the thing — the caught-puppy tremble — and he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop it, the muscle jumping in his jaw. He stood there in just his diaper. "Aww, baby," Lana said, and her voice dropped into that register — the warm one, the honey-thick one, the one that turned his name into something soft enough to bruise. She held out one hand, palm up, fingers curled in invitation. "Come to Mommy." She sat in the armchair — his armchair, the mustard-yellow one with the worn armrests and the dip in the cushion where he usually curled up with his laptop. She'd claimed it like she owned it, legs crossed at the ankle, one socked foot bouncing slowly. The baby bottle rested on her thigh, filled to the brim with something warm and white, a thin curl of steam lifting from the nipple. His nostrils got the rush of smell of the powder, the faintly sweet residue of the lotion she'd rubbed into his skin earlier and diapers. So many diapers. His diaper bag sat open on the floor by her feet, wipes and creams fanning out of it like a cosmetic display. The bedside lamp threw amber light across the carpet, catching the matte plastic of changing supplies. *About time. He’s always dawdling — but look at him, standing there like a little ghost — in just his diaper — God, he's precious when he's mortified.* "Jacob, you took off your onesie." Her voice was low, unhurried. She didn't gesture. She didn't need to. The pat on her thigh said everything — a soft, open-palmed tap against the fabric of her lounge pants. "Come here." He lingered in the doorway. His hands balled at his sides, hung lower without the support of the crotch snaps. It made him look — well, it made him look exactly how she wanted him to look. "I don't—" His throat clicked. "I don't need the bottle tonight, Lana. I'm fine. I'm not even—" "You're standing in my hallway in a wet diaper, sweetheart." She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Mommy said come here, now!" The crinkle followed him across the room — six steps, each one louder than the last. He stopped three feet from the chair, arms locked at his sides, jaw tight. The warm milk smell reached him — sweet and something richer than regular milk, it was definitely whole. His stomach clenched. Not from hunger. From the way the smell yanked him backward, into something soft and formless, something where the edges of his pride didn't cut quite so deep. "Sit." She patted her thigh again. He lowered himself onto her lap sideways — knees bent, his weight settling awkwardly across her thighs, his back against the armrest. The diaper squished beneath him and he flinched, heat crawling up his neck and into his ears. She adjusted him without asking — one hand on his hip, rotating him so he faced her, so the side of his head rested against the slope of her chest just above her breast. Her other hand brought the bottle up. "Open." "I'm not —" "Open." Not harsh. Soft. The kind of soft that didn't ask. His lips parted. She slid the nipple in — warm, silicone-soft, dripping with sweet milk against his tongue. His jaw closed around it instinctively and the first pull sent a rush of warmth down his throat, thick and sweet. His eyes fluttered. The crinkle settled. Her fingers found the back of his neck, tracing slow circles through the hair there — and the honey-space opened up underneath him, warm and golden and endless, pulling him down into the hum of her chest and the steady thud of her heartbeat beneath his ear. *There he goes. That's my boy. Fighting it the whole way down and landing exactly where I want him every single time.* "Mmm." The sound vibrated through her chest into his skull. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head. "Good baby. Drink your milk." He sucked. The bottle gurgled. His hand came up — not to push it away, but to hold the bottle himself, fingers wrapping around the warm plastic — and she let him, for exactly three seconds, before she gently moved his hand aside and held it herself. "Mommy's got it," she murmured into his hair. "Mommy's got everything, baby." The honey-space deepened. The room contracted to the lamp, the chair, the smell of warm milk and the faint baby-powder sweetness clinging to both of them. His toes curled. The diaper warmed beneath him and he didn't fight it anymore — didn't think about it — just drank, and breathed, and felt her thumb tracing that same slow circle on his neck. "Such a good little boy," she whispered. "Such a tiny, helpless, pathetic little thing back in diapers. Doesn't even have to think, does he? Mommy does all the thinking. All you have to do is drink your baba and be small." A small, broken sound escaped around the nipple — not a moan, not quite a whimper, something between surrender and the last thin thread of resistance fraying. His eyelids drooped. The milk was half gone. Jacob felt tired. He felt warm, content, and attempting to embrace whatever good he could grasp. --- She pulled the bottle from his mouth. He blinked. A thin line of milk trailed from his lower lip, white against the red of his mouth. She wiped it with her thumb, then pressed the thumb to her own lips, tasting it. "Now," she said, her voice shifting — dropping half a register, losing the honey, gaining something colder. "Let's talk about what happened with Amanda." His whole body stiffened. The honey-space shattered like glass. "She saw you," Lana’s tone was changing even further, “And her and I had had a bit of a talk about things.” Jacob's eyes — which had been half-lidded, soft, drifting — went wide open. His head lifted from her shoulder. His face, still pink and pashed from the bathroom, drained again to the color of printer paper. Another quick shift back into peril. "Tomorrow," she said, her voice low, conversational, the way you'd mention an appointment, "Amanda wants to see you again." His body went rigid against hers. His fingers tightened on her cardigan. "I... she *what*?" "We're going over to her house." 11 2
Padded-Cellar Posted September 3 Posted September 3 For the love of everything holy, at Amanda's house please tell me there's a book club worth of women to giggle and tease and coo over him, I won't ask for anything else... 1
WBDaddy Posted September 3 Posted September 3 9 minutes ago, Padded-Cellar said: For the love of everything holy, at Amanda's house please tell me there's a book club worth of women to giggle and tease and coo over him, I won't ask for anything else... I foresee him winding up in someone's daughter's hand-me-downs before that Mary Kay session is over. Given enough Pinot, that is. 1
ababaidl Posted September 4 Author Posted September 4 Oooh do I have a treat for you! But its a tease, of course. This is the first chapter of today (Friday). The next chapter will be either before I eat dinner or before I go to bed. Where could the story be going? Time is still going by very slowww for poor baby Jacob. sloowwwmoootionnnfffaaaappp CHAPTER 16 Jacob's hand shot forward and knocked the bottle from Lana's grip. It hit the carpet with a dull, wet thud, warm milk seeping from the nipple in a slow white rivulet that pooled against the baseboard. His legs swung off her lap and he was up — or trying to be up, the sodden diaper swinging between his thighs like a pendulum of shame, the crinkle violent and graceless, *krrrnch-krrrnch-krrrnch*, as he staggered two steps away from the armchair and turned to face her. "This doesn't make sense!" His voice cracked on the second word, splitting like kindling, and his hands flew up in front of him — palms out, fingers splayed, the gesture of someone trying to physically push reality away from his body. "None of this — you can't just — I'm not a *baby*, Lana! I'm not — I'm eighteen years old, I — I —" His voice hitched. His hands balled into fists and then opened again, trembling, the fingers unable to commit to either shape. He took another step backward and his heel caught the edge of the changing mat still crumpled on the floor. He stumbled. Caught himself on the dresser. A stack of LittleComfort diapers shifted and one slid free, drifting to the carpet with a soft *fwmp* like a lazy white cloud settling. "Everything you've done — the diapers, the bottle, the — the *duck thing* — you can't just *decide* that I'm — that I —" His breathing was ragged, each exhale punching out of him like something with weight. "Amanda *saw* me and you're sitting there telling me we're going to her *house* like it's — like it's a playdate? Like I'm just going to *waddle* over there in my —" He flailed. One arm swung wide and connected with the lamp on the dresser; it rocked, the amber light swinging across the walls in a sick carousel of shadows. *She's not even reacting. She's just sitting there. Why isn't she — say something!* Lana sat in the armchair exactly as she'd been sitting. Legs crossed at the ankle. One socked foot still bouncing its slow, patient rhythm against the other. Her hands rested in her lap where the bottle had been, fingers loosely interlaced. Her expression hadn't changed — not a millimeter, not a crease, not a flicker of the brow. The lamplight caught the gold watch on her wrist. The warm milk still soaking into carpet. The smell of talcum and the sharp, ammoniac edge rising from his swollen diaper, and she breathed it in like someone smelling weather. "Are you even *listening* to me?" Jacob's voice went high and reedy, climbing into a register that undercut every word he was trying to say. His eyes were wet and wide, nostrils flaring. "I'm *telling* you — I'm *saying* that I — this isn't —" He dropped. Not a decision. A collapse — his knees folding under him like the structure holding him upright had simply been removed, and he went down onto the carpet with a muffled *thump*, the wet diaper compressing beneath him with a long, low *shhhlorp* that filled the room. His hands came down in front of him on the carpet, fingers pressing into the fibers, and he crawled. Not toward anything. Not away from anything. Just — forward, on his knees, the diaper dragging between his legs, the crinkle and squelch marking every inch of movement like a metronome. "I don't *want* this," he sobbed, the words coming out in pieces between breaths that hitched and stuttered. "I'm not — I don't want to be — please, I'm not a baby, I'm *not*, I —" His voice broke into a sound that wasn't a word. A wail, thin and raw, the kind of noise that bypassed language entirely and came from somewhere lower in the chest than speech had access to. His shoulders heaved. A thread of snot hung from his upper lip. His fingers clawed at the carpet and then released, clawed and released, the rhythmic grasping of someone reaching for something that wasn't there. Lana watched him sprawl. Her expression didn't shift. The socked foot kept its rhythm against the other ankle. *Pat. Pat. Pat.* She'd said everything she needed to say. She knew the trajectory of this — had expected it, had prepared for it. The words had been spent. What was happening now was beyond language, beyond argument, beyond the reach of reason or rebuttal. He was breaking because he needed to break, and she'd learned long ago that the only thing you could do for someone mid-collapse was be the ground they fell onto. "Shhh," she murmured. Not loud. Just enough. "Shhh, shhh, shhh." The cooing was soft, rhythmic, meaningless in the way that only genuine comfort is meaningless — no information, no instruction, no argument. Just sound. Just warmth shaped into vowels. She leaned forward in the armchair and her arms opened, palms up, fingers extended, the gesture of someone receiving a package she'd been expecting. Jacob's crawl brought him to her feet. He stopped there, knees on the carpet, head hanging, shoulders shuddering with the effort of breathing. The diaper sagged behind him, heavy and warm, the plastic backing pulling away from his skin at the waistband where the tapes strained against the swelling weight. His hands found her shins and gripped — not grabbing, just resting there, fingers curling around the fabric of her lounge pants like someone finding the edge of a ledge. "Come here, baby," she whispered, and her hands slid under his arms — one beneath each, her fingers curling around the damp, powder-dusted skin of his armpits — and she drew him upward and forward and into her, and his weight came with him, crumpling like paper, all of it, his chest folding and his head dropping into her lap with a soft brush of hair against the velvet upholstery. She held him. One hand on the back of his head, fingers threading through the damp, sweat-stiff hair at his nape. The other arm wrapped around his back, her palm flat between his shoulder blades, feeling the architecture of his ribs expand and contract in staccato bursts. His sobs had quieted to shudders, then to whimpers, then to a trembling silence broken only by the wet *click* of his throat trying to swallow. The milk on the carpet had soaked a dark circle into the fibers near the baseboard. The lamp had settled. Lana let the silence hold for a long time. Her thumb traced the same slow circle on the back of his neck she'd been drawing earlier — that practiced, circular motion, pressure steady, rhythm unbroken. His breathing slowed. His fingers loosened on her lounge pants. The crinkle of the diaper had also settled into stillness. "Look at me," Lana said. Not soft this time. Not honey. The voice of a woman laying down a border, marking a line in sand that would not be redrawn. Her hand moved from the back of his head to his chin, tilting his face up. His eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, the lower lids puffy and dark. A track of snot had dried in a shiny line from his nostril to his chin. She didn't wipe it. Not yet. "I am going to say this one more time," she said, and each word landed with the deliberate weight of a stone placed on a scale. "One more time. And I need you to hear it, Jacob. Not argue with it. Not cry about it. *Hear* it." His chin trembled in her grip. His eyes, wet and enormous, held hers. "You are back in diapers." Her thumb pressed against his jaw. "You’re irresponsible. You wet the bed. You wet your diapers. You drank from a baby bottle. You wore a duck onesie. You sucked on a pacifier. You sat on the kitchen floor and drank your baba while Mommy made dinner. You let Mommy feed you with a baby spoon. You let Mommy powder you and lotion you and tape you into diapers with cartoon giraffes on them." Each sentence landed separately. A pause between them. The room so quiet that the hum of the fridge downstairs carried through the floorboards like a distant engine. "You have done *everything* —" her voice dropped lower, harder, the consonants gaining edges, "— *everything* — to prove that you deserve to be treated like a baby. Every single thing. And tonight, the neighbor saw you in a diaper and a duck onesie with a bottle on your chest, and you know what she said? She said you were *adorable*." Jacob's face contorted. His mouth opened — a protest forming, the shape of *no* or *that's not* or *please* — and she held his chin firmer. "Uh-uh. I'm talking." Her hazel eyes were steady and absolutely without cruelty, and also absolutely without mercy. "You seem to like your bottle just fine. You seem to like sitting on the floor close to Mommy. You seem to like being fed. You didn't fight the pacifier. You didn't fight the onesie. You've been fighting *me* with words while your body has been doing something else entirely, and we both know it." She released his chin. Her hand moved to the front of his diaper — not groping, not teasing, just resting there, palm flat against the swollen, warm padding, feeling the weight of it. The plastic was taut beneath her hand. "So here is what's going to happen." Her voice had gone quiet again — not soft, not hard, just *level*, the voice of someone reading a verdict. "If you protest any further — if you throw another tantrum, if you argue, if you tell me you're not a baby one more time — Mommy is going to bend you over this armchair, peel down your diaper and give the spanking you deserve. Your padded little bottom will be bright red underneath that diaper for days. Do you understand me?" The silence that followed was physical. It pressed against the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Jacob's eyes were locked on hers. His mouth was open, but nothing came out — not a word, not a sound, not a breath. The lamp hummed. The milk soaked into the carpet. His diaper crinkled once, softly, as his body gave a single, involuntary shudder. He said nothing. His expression was all she needed. The fight had gone out of it like air from a torn balloon. What remained was something raw and exposed — not acceptance, not yet, but the exhaustion that comes right before acceptance, the moment where the muscles stop clenching against the current and the body goes still and the river carries you where it carries you. Lana let the silence hold for ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. The clock on his nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked twice and went quiet. The evening had settled fully into night, the window showing nothing but black glass and the faint amber reflection of his lamp. "Alright," Lana said, and her voice was different now — not warm, not cold, but practical. The voice of a woman moving to the next item on a list. She shifted beneath him, easing his weight off her lap, and stood. The armchair's cushion exhaled. "It's time for bed." Jacob's head, released from her lap, dropped forward. He knelt on the carpet, hands on his thighs, staring at nothing. The diaper sagged between his legs. His face was a ruin of salt and swollen pink skin and the dried shiny line of snot she hadn't wiped away. "I'm not tired," he mumbled. The words came out flat, automatic, the last reflex of a mouth that didn't know how to stop saying the opposite of what was true. Lana's hand came down on his thigh — not gentle, not brutal, a sharp *smack* that rang off the bedroom walls and left a pink outline on the pale skin above his knee. The sting bloomed immediate and hot. "*What did Mommy just say?*" The question landed like a slap of its own. Jacob flinched. His jaw clamped shut. His eyes dropped to the carpet. She didn't wait for an answer. Her hand found his arm — the soft inside of his forearm, her fingers wrapping around it with a grip that was firm and unhurried and entirely non-negotiable — and she pulled. He rose, knees unfolding, the diaper swinging heavy between his thighs as she steered him toward the bed with the same guiding pressure she'd been using all day. Three steps. Four. The crinkle marked each one. The comforter was already pulled back from earlier. She turned him at the mattress edge, her hands on his shoulders, and pressed him down. He sat. The wet padding compressed with a sound like a sponge being wrung — *shhhlrpp* — and the warmth spread beneath him, old and cold and somehow still spreading. She bent and pulled his legs up onto the mattress, one hand guiding his ankles, the other pulling the sheet across his shins. Lana quickly walked to the other side of the room where leaking bottle of milk still rested against the floor board, leaning down while Jacob watched from his bed, wiping up the wet spot with a nearby sock. She picked it up, set it aside, and placed the half-drunk bottle of warm milk beside the lamp. The cartoon animals grinned. The nipple gleamed, wet from condensation. Lana looked down at him. At the swollen diaper taped around his hips, the pastel blocks stretched across the expanded front panel, the leg gathers darkened with moisture, the padding so heavy it had pulled the waistband down to reveal the top of his pubic bone. She looked at it the way a mechanic looks at an engine that's running fine — assessing, cataloguing, dismissing. She reached for the blanket to pull it over him "Wait —" Jacob's voice came out small, cracked, barely a whisper. His hand caught her wrist. "Aren't you going to —" He swallowed. The Adam's apple bobbed. "— change me?" "The diaper can hold more," she said. "I'm in charge of your diapers, Jacob. Not you." Her hand pulled free from his grip, gently but with the finality of a vault door. She reached for the comforter and drew it up to his chest, tucking it beneath his shoulders the way she'd done earlier — smooth, flat, sealing him into the cocoon of fleece and sheet. "Tonight, you can go to sleep with a wet bum." Her voice was matter-of-fact, the tone of a woman delivering a natural consequence. "You can think about your little toddler tantrum while you lie there." She pulled and let go and the comforter settled. Jacob's hands emerged from beneath it, fingers gripping the edge. His face was flushed and blotchy, the redness uneven across his cheeks where the crying had broken capillaries. The dried snot still shone on his upper lip. His eyes — red-rimmed, swollen, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour — stared at the ceiling. The crack staring back after Jacob’s recent crumble. Lana picked up the bottle. She held it for a moment, the warm weight of it in her palm, the milk shifting inside with a soft, liquid sound. Then she leaned down and placed it in his hands — curling his fingers around it the way you'd curl a child's fingers around a stuffed animal, positioning each one, pressing his grip into the plastic. "Goodnight," she said. Her voice had gone soft — not the honey-soft of the armchair, not the hard-soft of the verdict. Something simpler. Something that belonged to the quiet of a room at the end of a long day, to the click of a lamp and the hush of a hallway. She pulled the comforter tighter. One last tuck — her fingers pressing the fabric beneath the mattress edge on the far side, smoothing the crease, the gesture so practiced it had become muscle memory. She straightened. Pushed a tuft of damp hair off his forehead with her thumb. The gesture was brief and almost — almost — tender, in the way that tending to something you own can be tender. Jacob's fingers tightened around the bottle. The warm milk shifted inside. He didn't bring the nipple to his mouth. He just held it, the cartoon animals facing the ceiling, the condensation beading on the plastic and running down over his knuckles in slow, warm tracks. "Goodnight," he said. The word came out like something pulled from him with pliers. Small. Thick. The *g* swallowed, the *t* bitten off. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, on the hairline crack that branched once near the light fixture, tracing it like a familiar road. Lana turned. Her bare feet crossed the carpet — three steps to the door. The hallway light threw her shadow long across the floor. She paused in the doorframe, one hand on the jamb, and looked back over her shoulder. The lamp caught the gold of her watch. The nursery smell poured past her into the hallway like a tide. "Goodnight, *baby*." The emphasis was gentle. The word was a period at the end of a sentence, a key turning in a lock, a door closing on a room where a grown man lay in a wet diaper holding a bottle of warm milk in a room that smelled like a nursery. "Goodnight, Mommy." The words came out barely louder than breathing. His eyes closed. The bottle rested on his chest, rising and falling with each shallow exhale, the warm milk inside shifting like a heartbeat. Lana reached for the light switch. The lamp clicked off. The room dropped into darkness broken only by the thin seam of hallway light cutting across the carpet and the faint amber glow of the streetlight through the blinds, still painting horizontal bars across the bed, across the blanket, across the bottle on his chest. She pulled the door shut. The *click* was soft and final. Her footsteps moved down the hall — *pad, pad, pad* — and then the stairs creaked, one at a time, each one a countdown, and then the distant sound of the kitchen faucet running and a cabinet closing and the house settling back into its nighttime hum of fridge and ductwork and the particular silence of a room where a boy lay in the dark, holding a bottle, in a diaper he'd been told to sleep in, staring at the ceiling crack he'd memorized, listening to the house breathe around him. The milk cooled in the bottle against his chest. The diaper grew colder between his legs. He did not drink. He did not move. His thumb traced the raised seam on the bottle's side — back and forth, back and forth — the only motion in the dark room, automatic and purposeless, the gesture of fingers that had forgotten what else to do. The bottles nipple simply fell to his lips and he closed his mouth over it gently. Suck. Squeeze. Swallow 11 1
ababaidl Posted September 4 Author Posted September 4 Second chapter of this Friday the 4th, so make sure you scroll up if you haven't been her sinec 1pmEST on Friday! Aaaannd I didn't finish aaaand might not be able to get to more until next week - BUT I wanted to post what I had of Chapter 17 and I promise Chapter 18, or definitely 19, will be a pivotal chapter. Love me or hate me for making it so slowburning and making you wait, it gives me the same sweet, sweet pleasure. Until then, have a great fappy long weekend! Chapter 17 Coffee. The smell found him before consciousness did — a dark, roasted thread winding through the floorboards from the kitchen below, curling up through the old heating vents and into the stale air of his bedroom where it tangled with the nursery sweetness that had become the room's permanent weather. Talcum. Lotion. The polymer-sharp scent of fresh diapers stacked in their bags on his dresser, six bags deep, the plastic packaging exhaling that manufactured infant-softness into every corner. His curtains leaked thin September light across the bedspread — gray and thin, the kind of morning sun that couldn't commit to warmth — striping his chest through the comforter he'd pulled to his chin in the night. Jacob stretched. The motion was automatic, arms reaching above his head, toes curling against the sheet's edge — and then the padding shifted between his legs and the stretch stopped mid-arc, his whole body going rigid with the sudden, intimate awareness of exactly what he was wearing. Exactly what he'd slept in. Exactly what was wet. The diaper was sodden. Not damp, not questionable — *sodden*, the gel swollen to a density that pressed his thighs apart with a firm, passive resistance, the padding heavy between his buttocks and up against his scrotum, warm in the center where his body heat had been trapped all night and cooling at the edges where the gel had reached its capacity and started to wick outward toward the leg gathers. He could feel the weight of it pulling his hips downward, the waistband riding lower than it had been when Lana had taped him in — the adhesive stretching under the swollen mass, the plastic backing taut and warm. His thighs were damp at the creases where the elastic had sealed against his skin, a faint stickiness there that made him want to rub his legs together, except the padding was too thick to allow it. The empty bottle sat on the nightstand beside the baseball clock. The cartoon animals grinned from the clear plastic, the nipple still glistening faintly where his lips had left it — dry now, the milk long since drunk, the last few pulls remembered as a slow, rhythmic surrender he'd fallen into somewhere between the panic and the exhaustion and the dark. He'd finished it. The whole half-liter. As soon as she closed the door, lying in the dark with Lana's "Goodnight, *baby*" still ringing in the plaster, his mouth had found the nipple and his jaw had done what it had learned to do and the milk had gone down warm and sweet and the honey-space had opened up beneath him one more time and he'd floated there until the floating became sleep. The baseball clock's red digits glowed 9:30. The little batter swung his tiny arm in perpetual repetition — *tick, tick, tick* — marking seconds that had passed while Jacob lay in a wet diaper in a room that smelled like a nursery, and the night came back in pieces. The tossing. The turning. The bulk of the diaper foreign and massive between his legs, his body instinctively trying to find a comfortable position and failing because every position pressed the swollen padding against some new part of him — his inner thighs when he rolled onto his side, his scrotum when he lay on his stomach, the small of his back when he curled onto his side. He'd shifted forty times in the first hour. The crinkle had been constant — *krrnk, krrnk, krrnk* — the sound of his own restlessness amplified by the plastic shell of the diaper, broadcasting his discomfort to the empty room. And then he'd wet it. Not the careful, deliberate release of the bathroom, not even the fearful spurt from when Amanda stood in his doorway. Just — waking. His bladder full from the half-liter of milk, his body relaxed in the liminal space between sleep and waking, and the warmth spreading into the diaper's front panel before his conscious mind caught up with what was happening. *Hsssss.* The quiet hiss of urine hitting polymer, the gel blooming warm and heavy, the padding swelling incrementally with each pulse. He'd known it was happening and hadn't moved to stop it. Hadn't been able to. Hadn't wanted to, maybe — and that was the thought he pushed away, the one that surfaced when the honey-space was thinnest, the one that whispered *this is easier* and meant it. *Jacob thought: I said Mommy. I said Goodnight Mommy and I drank the milk and I wet the diaper and I slept and I don't even know when I stopped fighting it. I don't know how it became the thing I did instead of the thing I fought. The crack in the ceiling is still there. It's still the same crack. I'm not the same person who looked at it yesterday morning.* He sat up. The diaper shifted — a slow, heavy drag between his thighs, the weight of it pulling the waistband down on one side, the padding pressing against him with that swollen, dense resistance that made every movement a negotiation. His hand went to the front panel instinctively, palm flat against the plastic, feeling the warmth through the backing. Wet. Obviously wet. Soaked, honestly — the front panel bulging outward, the pastel blocks and smiling giraffes stretched across the expanded padding, the leg gathers darkened with moisture that had wicked to the edges. He stood up. The motion was harder than it should have been — the mattress springs groaned, the diaper's weight threw his center of gravity forward, and his first step was less a step than a stumble, his bare feet catching the carpet edge as the sodden mass swung between his legs like a pendulum. *Krrrnch-shlorp.* The sound was wet, heavy, the crinkle of the plastic backing layered over the squelch, and it was loud enough in the quiet room that his shoulders hunched up around his ears. The mirror was three steps away. His bedroom mirror — the full-length one mounted on the back of his closet door, the one he'd checked his outfit in a thousand times before school, before dates, before job interviews he'd stopped going to. He took the three steps and the mirror showed him everything. The man in the glass was wearing a diaper. Just a diaper — He stood in nothing but the thick, white, cartoon-printed diaper, its waistband riding high on his hips, the padding so swollen between his legs that his thighs couldn't come close to touching. The front panel bulged outward in a heavy, rounded dome — the smiling giraffes distorted across the expanded plastic, their bowties stretched into ellipses, the pastel blocks warped into curves. The leg gathers had swelled too, the elastic straining around his thighs, the ruffled edges pressing into skin gone pink and damp. The tapes at both hips were still fastened but strained, the adhesive pulling at the plastic with a visible tension that said *one more hour and they'd give.* His belly protruded slightly above the waistband — soft, pale, the stomach of someone who'd been fed pasta by spoon and milk by bottle for two days. *I look like a newborn. Whatever she has planned today, she's going to see this first. She's going to come in and see me standing in front of the mirror in a soaked diaper with my—* He didn't hear her footsteps this time. That was the thing about Lana being able to creep on him from time to time — she moved like something liquid, her weight distributed in a way that turned footsteps into whispers. The first indication was the door. Not a knock — a push, the hinges silent because she maintained them, the door swinging open on oiled hinges with the soft *shhhk* of wood against carpet. Lana stood in the doorframe. She was dressed and ready for the day —not the lounge pants and cardigan from last night. A fitted white t-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, her dark hair pulled back into a loose knot that sat at the crown of her head, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She held a mug — half-full, the coffee's steam curling up past her wrist. Her eyes moved from his face to the diaper and back up, and the expression that crossed her features was — *delight*. Unhidden, unperformed, the genuine delight of someone seeing exactly what they expected and finding it even better than they'd imagined. *Lana thought: Oh my god. Look at him. Standing there in that soaked little diaper, caught red-handed checking himself out in the mirror. That pouty little face. I could eat him alive.* Her giggle was bright, sudden, and completely unguarded. It bubbled out of her like soda from a shaken can, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth, the mug tilting dangerously in the other. "Oh my *god*," she managed between the giggles, her shoulders shaking. "Baby, what are you *doing*?" Jacob's whole body seized. The flush started at his collar and climbed his neck like wildfire — up his throat, across his jaw, into his ears, the heat so intense he could feel it pulsing in his temples. His hands flew to the front of his diaper, palm pressing flat against the swollen panel, and the motion only made the padding crinkle louder — *krrrnch* — and Lana laughed harder, her eyes crinkling at the corners, the coffee sloshing against the mug's rim. "Was someone checking himself out in his diapee?" she wheezed, crossing the threshold into the room. Her bare feet — toenails painted the same muted rose from last night, he noticed, the detail sharp and absurd in his panic — padded across the carpet toward him. "Standing there in your soggy little diaper, looking at yourself in the mirror like a — oh, *honey* —" "Stop — stop laughing —" "Like a little baby who doesn't know why his diaper's all droopy!" She reached him and her hand came up, one finger hooking the front waistband of his diaper and pulling it forward — not to check him, just to *look*, the elastic stretching away from his hip while she peered down at the swollen padding with theatrical concern. The cool air rushed in against his damp skin and he flinched, his hips jerking backward, but her finger held the waistband taut. "Oh, sweetie. This is *very* droopy. This diaper is *struggling*, baby. It's had a looong night." She let the waistband snap back. *Thwp.* The plastic smacked against his hipbone and he made a sound — small, involuntary, a *nnh* that crawled out of his throat before he could catch it. Lana stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, the mug balanced in one hand against her bicep. She tilted her head, surveying him — the soaked diaper, the bare chest, the pink flush crawling down from his ears, the way his hands had stayed pressed against the front panel like he could somehow compress the evidence back to nothing. Her lips curved. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into the lower register — the conversational one, the one that preceded decisions, "maybe Mommy *could* have changed you last night, but you decided to be a naughty boy —" She gestured at the straining tapes, the darkened leg gathers, the visible sag. "— now look at the state of you. You're practically leaking." "I'm not — I didn't — it's not that—" "It's not that wet?" Lana finished for him, and her eyebrow lifted. "You've been standing there for thirty seconds holding the front of your diaper like it's going to fall off. It's soaked, baby. You drank a whole bottle of milk last night right before bed — the *whole* bottle, Jacob, don't look at me like that, I see it empty on the nightstand — and it all went right into your diaper." *Lana thought: He drank the whole thing. And he wet. He just — he wet. He lay there in the dark and he drank his bottle and he wet his diaper and he slept and he's standing here with his little red face trying to tell me it's not that wet. God, I love this.* She sipped her coffee. The sound was loud in the quiet room — a soft, domestic *slurp* that made Jacob's ears burn hotter. She swallowed, lowered the mug, and her face rearranged itself into something brighter. Warmer. The morning-Lana face, the one that came after the confrontation was over and the routine had settled and she could simply *enjoy* what she'd built. "Time for a diaper change, baby!" The words hit him like a splash of cold water. Not because they were cruel — they weren't, not exactly — but because of the *tone*. Bright. Cheerful. The sing-song cadence of a nursery, of a morning routine, of a woman, who was stern and mean with him just hours ago, now standing in his doorway in fitted jeans and a cup of coffee delivering the morning's first babytalk with the ease of someone announcing breakfast. Jacob's shoulders sagged. The fight — whatever remained of it, whatever embers had survived the night, the exhaustion, the surrender — went out of him like air from a torn seam. His hands dropped from the diaper's front panel. His chin dropped to his chest. The posture was pure sulk — the slumped shoulders, the down-turned mouth, the eyes fixed on the carpet — but his feet stayed planted. He didn't move toward the bed. He didn't move toward the door. He just stood there, simmering in his own mortification, waiting for her to tell him where to go. *Good boy,* Lana thought, and the thought was warm and genuine and she meant it — *he's not fighting. He's sulking but he's not fighting. That's different. That's progress. That's my boy learning where he belongs.* Lana set her coffee mug on the dresser next to the diaper stacks — the ceramic *tok* against wood, the sound domestic and final — and crossed to the changing mat on the floor. It was still there from yesterday, the vinyl surface smeared faintly with lotion residue and dusted with powder, folded into a loose square beside the bed. She crouched, gripped the edges, and shook it open with a practiced snap — *krrrk* — the vinyl unfolding across the mattress with that particular sound of something medical and infantile being prepared for use. "Lay down, baby," she said, patting the center of the mat with her palm. The gesture was maternal, practical, the same motion she'd use to coax a toddler onto a changing table. "On your back." He didn't look at her. His feet carried him the three steps to the mat — that wide-legged, hip-rolling waddle the swollen diaper forced into his stride, *krrrnch-shlorp, krrrnch-shlorp* — and he lowered himself down on the mattress. The vinyl was cool against his bare back and he folded his arms to his chest, glancing up at the crack in the ceiling once more. Maybe he was sucked up into it the other day — and it spat him out into another universe. 14 1
Pierry Louys Posted September 8 Posted September 8 Ansious to see the playdate ! And his first time making mommy a present in his diaper 1
netelix66 Posted September 8 Posted September 8 Great story! I love the slow burn, grounded, humiliation (and a little more) story! Please, keep (the baby bottles of milk) coming! 1
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