Amber's Hideout

The kitchen smelled of warm applesauce and the sharp, sour tang of a diaper pushed to it's limits. Emma sat strapped into her high chair, her naked thighs spread wide around the sagging bulk of her Pampers, the plastic backing crinkling with every wiggle. Her bib, a ridiculous pink thing with cartoon fruits, was smeared with drool and half-eaten bananas, barely covering the swell of her exposed cleavage. She giggled, her fingers digging into the mushy remains of her snack, her other hand absently patting the engorged front of her diaper.

Lisa stood over her, arms crossed, her manicured nails tapping against the high chair’s plastic tray. “My god,” she sighed, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Daniel told me you used to have a degree. I don’t believe it for a second.” She reached out, flicking the damp fabric of Emma’s bib, letting it snap back against her skin. “Not with the way you’re drooling all over yourself like a brainless infant.”

Emma whimpered, but the sound melted into a giggle as Lisa’s sharp tone sent a warm tingle down her spine. She kicked her legs, the plastic-backed Pampers crinkling loudly, the weight between her thighs shifting with a wet squelch. The diaper sagged, heavy and soggy, the tapes straining to contain the mushy mess inside. She cooed, pressing her thighs together, only for a thick, mushy plop to escape, the sound obscene in the quiet kitchen.

Lisa didn’t even flinch. “Oh, wonderful,” she drawled, her lips curling into a smirk. “Now you’ve gone and filled it up again.” She grabbed Emma’s chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Do you hear me in there, babygirl? Or did Daniel scrub out everything but the part of your brain that knows how to make a mess in your pants?”

Emma just grinned, her fingers digging into the soggy front of her diaper as another wet plop answered for her. She didn’t understand the words, not really. But the way Lisa’s voice wrapped around them, sharp, mocking, and just a little bit impressed, made her stomach flutter. She arched her back, her bib riding up as her heavy breasts jiggled with the movement. A fresh trickle of drool escaped her lips, pooling on the tray as she giggled, her hands flailing uselessly.

Lisa’s smirk deepened. “Look at you,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Daddy’s little piglet. Can’t even keep your tits covered, can you?” She reached out, pinching Emma’s nipple through the thin fabric of her bib, twisting just enough to make Emma gasp. “Pathetic,” Lisa murmured, but there was a gleam in her eyes, something almost admiring. “I bet you love this, don’t you? Love being nothing but a drooling, messy little baby for Daddy.”

Emma didn’t answer, not with words, at least. Instead, she let out a happy squeal, her hands flying to her diaper, pressing down on the swollen bulk. The tapes groaned under the pressure, the plastic backing crackling as she shifted her weight. Another squelch echoed through the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable plop of something thicker, something that made Lisa’s nose wrinkle in disgust.

“Unbelievable,” Lisa muttered, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re disgusting, you know that? A grown woman, sitting there in her own filth, giggling like an idiot because her daddy took away her big girl panties.” She grabbed Emma’s wrist, pressing her hand flat against the soggy front of her diaper. “Does it feel good, Emmy? Does it feel good to be nothing but a baby?”

Emma’s giggles turned breathless, her cheeks flushing as she nodded eagerly. She didn’t understand the words, not really. But she understood the tone. She understood the way Lisa’s voice made her feel small, and helpless, and wanted. She understood the way her diaper sagged between her thighs, the way her body responded to the humiliation, the way her nipples ached and her stomach fluttered.

Lisa let go of her wrist, stepping back with a shake of her head. “Daniel’s gonna love cleaning up this masterpiece,” she said, her voice thick with amusement. “I almost feel bad for him. Almost.” She turned toward the sink, grabbing a baby wipe from the pack on the counter. “But I suppose someone has to take care of you, huh? Since you clearly can’t take care of yourself.”

Emma watched her with wide, adoring eyes, her fingers twisting in the tapes of her diaper. She didn’t understand the words. She didn’t need to. All she knew was that she was warm, and full, and happy.

With a contented sigh, she let her head loll back against the high chair, her pacifier slipping from her lips as she drooled down her chin.

She was Daddy’s little mess.

And Lisa was right, she loved it.

My night starts with the biggest sized Hush 2 plug being slowly but firmly inserted into me while I squirm and whine.

Once that's done, I'm put into double nighttime diapers with my mittened hands cuffed to the sides of my crib, ensuring I stay on my back without any hope if touching my diaper or humping anything.

Then my partner is off on her date.

About an hour later, my boredom is shattered by the plug roaring to life.

My wife, as usual, has remotely activated the noise detection setting on the plug's app. Now any noise her phone detects is translated into vibration patterns against my prostate.

I can't hear anything, but the plug pulses consistently twice a second. As the 'plap plap' of their fucking is picked up by her phone. Every so often the soft vibration screams into the highest setting as she moans and screams with pleasure. The vibrations are driving me mad with lust....but all I can do is drip precum from my cage as the vibrations of their sex buzz deep inside me.

I would never have lasted even half this long. Every minute it continues is a humiliating insult about how useless I am at sex, and why she's out there, and my useless ass is marinating in my own piss.

It goes on for hours. The lovers orgasm multiple times, the sounds of which have me arching my back and impotently thrusting my caged and diapered crotch toward the ceiling.

Imagine that feeling when you’re tucked away upstairs in your cozy little nursery, locked in your crib, wearing nothing but a crinkly, thick diaper and a soft, pastel unicorn onesie snapped over your padded crotch. Your pacifier is snug in your mouth, muffling those little whimpers as you suck on it hard, feeling that babyish comfort wash over you. Downstairs, your boyfriend is hosting a wild party—laughter, music, and clinking glasses echo through the house. He’s invited a bunch of girls, including his ex, and they’re all drinking, giggling, and having the time of their lives. But you? You’re up here, hidden away like a naughty little secret, playing with your magic wand buzzing on the soggy padding of your diaper.

Now picture this: your boyfriend set up a baby monitor, but it’s reversed. You’ve got the screen right in front of your crib, showing every filthy detail of the party downstairs. There he is, groping his ex’s ass in her tiny slutty skirt and thongs, pulling her close, kissing her deep while the other girls cheer and laugh. You watch him pin her against the wall, his hands all over her, fucking her right there in the living room while the party rages on. And that feeling, oh, that feeling as you’re watching your boyfriend fucking his ex as you suddenly completely lose control and start shitting in your diaper, The hot, huge mushy mess just bursts out of you, making a loud, wet sound as it quickly spreads, filling your thick diaper, forcing you to squirm helplessly in your crib. It’s so humiliating, knowing you’re up here messing yourself like a helpless baby while he’s down there having his fun.

Non-Chalance

I'm staring at the ceiling again. I practically have the constellations of the popcorn plaster memorized now after 6 months of this.

“Your mom called while you were down for your nap...” She says as she tears the tapes of the diaper off. One, then the other, and the flap falls open. She barely even blinks, using the front of the diaper to scrape most of the mess down in one big swipe. “She’s still going on about that cruise.”

The package crinkles as she pulls out three wipes in quick succession. “I told her we'd think about it. But honestly, babe, I don’t know if I’m for it. Getting a passport is such a hassle these days, and those ships are gross.” She says as she wipes the shit off my creases with hardly even a wrinkle of her nose. She folds it over once, swipes again, then tosses it down into the open diaper and grabs some more.

With one hand, she grips both of my ankles and hoists my legs up. I feel so vulnerable and ashamed as my dirty crack is on display. But she doesn't hesitate, doesn't comment, just wipes me down front to back in one smooth motion between my cheeks like it's the most normal thing in the world. My sphincter twitches involuntarily at the sudden air and the wet drag. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She never does.

How does she not find it weird that she's wiping her 44-year old husband's ass? I want to disappear, I want the floor to swallow me. Even after all this time, I'm still so embarrassed and humiliated, but she couldn't be anymore non-chalant about it as her fingers dig the wipe over my butthole. She checks the cold fabric for a brown streak, folds it over, and does it again until it's clean.

“She asked how you were doing, of course.” Her voice stays light, conversational. “I told her you’re fine, no big changes. She sounded happy about that.”

My mother doesn't know that my wife keeps me in diapers 24/7. She doesn't know that call I someone else 'Mommy' now.

Ava lets my legs down, checking me over for any missed spots. Finally she takes one more fresh wipe and drapes it over my cage and balls. The wipe comes away sticky, ropes of constant pre-cum clinging to it. But once again she doesn't acknowledge or comment on it. It's just the norm now. Expected.

She drops the final wipe the dirty pile beneath me, and balls it all up inside the soiled diaper. Folding the tabs over to secure it tightly so it's a big round mound.

"I also called a plumber about the downstairs toilet." She continues casually as she sets the dirty diaper down next to us, and unfolds a fresh one, “Just because you don’t use it anymore doesn’t mean it can just sit there all backed up. He said he can probably make it out tomorrow."

A lump forms in my throat at that. A small part of me used the broken toilet as a reason why I had to use the diapers. Without that excuse, I was just left knowing it wasn't from lack of options, diapers were my only option no matter what.

She fluffs up the diaper as big as she can make it, then plants it down flat. "Can you lift up for me, hon?" she asks sweetly. Too sweetly. She slides it under my hips while she continues her one-way conversation. There's no talking while my pacifier's in.

“Taxes are coming up too," she says as she powders the area with cool, white clouds. Smoothing it in with the flat of her palm between my cheeks, over my balls, all with the detached efficiency of someone spreading sunscreen on a little one before the pool. No lingering. No teasing. Just matter-of-fact caretaking. "I’ve got most of the receipts and stuff pulled together already. Shouldn’t take long.”

Ava pulls the front of the diaper up snug. Another fresh little home for me to live in for the next several hours. She smooths it down, adjusts the fit, then grips one of the tapes. "“Oh, and Sandra texted too. She’s coming over Saturday afternoon. I told her we'd just be hanging around, doing the usual."

The implication hangs unspoken: I'll still be in diapers. Still dressed in whatever snap-crotch onesie or shortalls she picks out that morning. To Ava, none of this is taboo anymore. It's just Tuesday. Last time her best friend Sandra was over, Ava had me draped over her lap, latched to her breast, breastfeeding while the women discussed work drama. When Ava felt the warmth spreading between my legs and pressing against her thigh, she didn't even glance down or pause the story. She simply eased me down onto the living room floor, popped the snaps of my onesie open, and changed me right then and there while discussing the latest episode of Real Housewives. She even handed me a rattle afterwards to keep me 'entertained'.

And that’s the worst part.

If she laughed at me, if she smirked while taping me shut, if she yelled when I fussed, if she cooed exaggerated baby talk or spanked me for “being naughty,” if she ever turned vicious or cruel or even just triumphant: I could hate her for it. I could tell myself this is a game, a punishment, a malicious powerplay. I could cling to anger, to resentment, to the thin comfort of seeing her as the villain.

But she doesn’t. She’s gentle. She’s patient. She’s… kind.

It's incredibly disarming.

The last tape of the fresh diaper presses down firm, sealing me in with a final rip of adhesive. She pats the front once, twice, then grips my hands and helps pull me upright.

“They had a new flavor at the store today." She says, pulling out my pacifier, "Pureed Chicken and peas. Would you like to try that one, or stick with the carrot-squash?”

My nose turns upward at both options. "Carrot-squash."

"Good choice." She smiles, kissing me on the forehead, picking up the still-warm dirty diaper and placing it carefully in my hands. "Can you be a big helper and put this in the pail for me? I'm gonna go get your num-nums ready and warm you up a bottle."

She didn’t mock me. She didn’t pity me. She didn’t even acknowledge how absurd it all is.

She just continued the morning.

And somehow that made it worse. Because it means this isn’t temporary. It isn’t punishment.

Non-Chalance

I'm staring at the ceiling again. I practically have the constellations of the popcorn plaster memorized now after 6 months of this.

“Your mom called while you were down for your nap...” She says as she tears the tapes of the diaper off. One, then the other, and the flap falls open. She barely even blinks, using the front of the diaper to scrape most of the mess down in one big swipe. “She’s still going on about that cruise.”

The package crinkles as she pulls out three wipes in quick succession. “I told her we'd think about it. But honestly, babe, I don’t know if I’m for it. Getting a passport is such a hassle these days, and those ships are gross.” She says as she wipes the shit off my creases with hardly even a wrinkle of her nose. She folds it over once, swipes again, then tosses it down into the open diaper and grabs some more.

With one hand, she grips both of my ankles and hoists my legs up. I feel so vulnerable and ashamed as my dirty crack is on display. But she doesn't hesitate, doesn't comment, just wipes me down front to back in one smooth motion between my cheeks like it's the most normal thing in the world. My sphincter twitches involuntarily at the sudden air and the wet drag. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She never does.

How does she not find it weird that she's wiping her 44-year old husband's ass? I want to disappear, I want the floor to swallow me. Even after all this time, I'm still so embarrassed and humiliated, but she couldn't be anymore non-chalant about it as her fingers dig the wipe over my butthole. She checks the cold fabric for a brown streak, folds it over, and does it again until it's clean.

“She asked how you were doing, of course.” Her voice stays light, conversational. “I told her you’re fine, no big changes. She sounded happy about that.”

My mother doesn't know that my wife keeps me in diapers 24/7. She doesn't know that call I someone else 'Mommy' now.

Ava lets my legs down, checking me over for any missed spots. Finally she takes one more fresh wipe and drapes it over my cage and balls. The wipe comes away sticky, ropes of constant pre-cum clinging to it. But once again she doesn't acknowledge or comment on it. It's just the norm now. Expected.

She drops the final wipe the dirty pile beneath me, and balls it all up inside the soiled diaper. Folding the tabs over to secure it tightly so it's a big round mound.

"I also called a plumber about the downstairs toilet." She continues casually as she sets the dirty diaper down next to us, and unfolds a fresh one, “Just because you don’t use it anymore doesn’t mean it can just sit there all backed up. He said he can probably make it out tomorrow."

A lump forms in my throat at that. A small part of me used the broken toilet as a reason why I had to use the diapers. Without that excuse, I was just left knowing it wasn't from lack of options, diapers were my only option no matter what.

She fluffs up the diaper as big as she can make it, then plants it down flat. "Can you lift up for me, hon?" she asks sweetly. Too sweetly. She slides it under my hips while she continues her one-way conversation. There's no talking while my pacifier's in.

“Taxes are coming up too," she says as she powders the area with cool, white clouds. Smoothing it in with the flat of her palm between my cheeks, over my balls, all with the detached efficiency of someone spreading sunscreen on a little one before the pool. No lingering. No teasing. Just matter-of-fact caretaking. "I’ve got most of the receipts and stuff pulled together already. Shouldn’t take long.”

Ava pulls the front of the diaper up snug. Another fresh little home for me to live in for the next several hours. She smooths it down, adjusts the fit, then grips one of the tapes. "“Oh, and Sandra texted too. She’s coming over Saturday afternoon. I told her we'd just be hanging around, doing the usual."

The implication hangs unspoken: I'll still be in diapers. Still dressed in whatever snap-crotch onesie or shortalls she picks out that morning. To Ava, none of this is taboo anymore. It's just Tuesday. Last time her best friend Sandra was over, Ava had me draped over her lap, latched to her breast, breastfeeding while the women discussed work drama. When Ava felt the warmth spreading between my legs and pressing against her thigh, she didn't even glance down or pause the story. She simply eased me down onto the living room floor, popped the snaps of my onesie open, and changed me right then and there while discussing the latest episode of Real Housewives. She even handed me a rattle afterwards to keep me 'entertained'.

And that’s the worst part.

If she laughed at me, if she smirked while taping me shut, if she yelled when I fussed, if she cooed exaggerated baby talk or spanked me for “being naughty,” if she ever turned vicious or cruel or even just triumphant: I could hate her for it. I could tell myself this is a game, a punishment, a malicious powerplay. I could cling to anger, to resentment, to the thin comfort of seeing her as the villain.

But she doesn’t. She’s gentle. She’s patient. She’s… kind.

It's incredibly disarming.

The last tape of the fresh diaper presses down firm, sealing me in with a final rip of adhesive. She pats the front once, twice, then grips my hands and helps pull me upright.

“They had a new flavor at the store today." She says, pulling out my pacifier, "Pureed Chicken and peas. Would you like to try that one, or stick with the carrot-squash?”

My nose turns upward at both options. "Carrot-squash."

"Good choice." She smiles, kissing me on the forehead, picking up the still-warm dirty diaper and placing it carefully in my hands. "Can you be a big helper and put this in the pail for me? I'm gonna go get your num-nums ready and warm you up a bottle."

She didn’t mock me. She didn’t pity me. She didn’t even acknowledge how absurd it all is.

She just continued the morning.

And somehow that made it worse. Because it means this isn’t temporary. It isn’t punishment.

*plap! Plap! Plap!*

“Good girl! Just like that! hump your pillows just like this real man is humping me! MMMH! It feels so good! Fuck yes! God! Fuck that diaper just like I’m getting fucked! Show me you still have SOME useful sexual function left!”

“Mmmgh!” *suk-suk-suk*

“I can’t understand your whines with that pacifier in! Are you enjoying it? Are you pretending you’re sucking the cock that’s fucking me? Are you picturing sucking down a real man’s thick salty load? No? Well you should be!”

“Mmm-mmm!!!” *suk-suk-suk!*

“Are you getting close? Are your denied little girl-grapes just full to bursting after a month in chastity? Try not to think of how wonderfully soft, wet, hot, and squishy your diaper feels! Don’t think of how it feels remarkably like a pussy as you fuck it!”

*PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP*

“Don’t you dare slow down! Fuck it harder! OH! That feels SO FUCKING GOOD! AAH!”

“MMMMMGLGH!!!”

“What? Done already?! Did you spurt your pathetic load into your diaper after only a minute or two?! WOW! HAHAHA I win again!”

“If you can’t fuck a diaper as long as a real man can fuck me, you’re clearly right where you belong, cuckcake! You’re neither deserving of fucking or being fucked, aren’t you? Next time maybe you’ll do it and get the reward of a fucking me again! Until then it’s diapers and chastity for my sweet little cuckie!”

“mmfphmm!”

The wife asks if she can stay and he very uncomfortably agrees. Cut to like 20 minutes later I'm giving her "the best head of her life" and she gets a call from him. He's like crying and asking her if she can come home. She responds very sweetly "of course honey I'll head out now." And gives all those romantic platitudes before hanging up and giving the most exasperated groan I've ever heard. Without missing a beat she says "we'll have to be quick about it" and lays back down spreading her legs.

He still doesn't know I came inside his wife to my knowledge.