New Diaperboy and his Daddy. A DD/LB TUMBLR

Let´s see how many people like the same kinky stuff I am into.

Six days in, six days of diapers, six days without release. All of the above would have been unthinkable a week ago.

I could feel the weight of my diaper, the way it sagged between my legs, heavy with piss. I hadn’t changed since yesterday, and the thought made me flush with shame and excitement.

I had a doctor’s appointment this morning, and the thought of going diapered sent a thrill through me. The waiting room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of magazines. I stood at the desk, my back to the other patients, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. My diaper had formed in a bulk around my bum, which the jogging bottoms did little to hide. If they looked they’d know a tough, healthy looking masculine guy like me couldn’t control his most basic of functions .

The doctor was kind, and full of life. She complimented my tattoos, there was something in her gaze she either fancied me or felt sorry for me. Undoubtedly the latter.

I left the office feeling calm, the doctor had made me feel good I liked her.

I headed to the gym and smashed the session, I used the sexual tension from the constant state of arousal I’d been In to throw some serious numbers up.

Work was uneventful, hours spent in a haze of arousal and submission. I returned to my flat afterward, the space transformed into a sissy baby’s room. The pink lights cast a soft glow over everything, and I felt a sense of peace settle over me. I crawled onto the bed, the thick diaper crinkling beneath me, and reached for my dildo. I rode it slowly, my body trembling with need, until I could take my biggest plug. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but the pleasure was overwhelming. I felt myself teetering on the edge, my pussy gave me so many new sensations , in contrast my clit felt lifeless in the cage. The thought of having made myself sexually dysfunctional turned me on so much.

I lay there afterward, my body spent, my mind still buzzing. I reached down putting a finger in my cage, feeling the limp, shriveled thing that was my clit. It was strange, feeling it so lifeless especially when I was in such a high state of arousal, so small, shrivelled and helpless. I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name—shame, perhaps, or maybe just resignation. Through lack of use and weight gain I’d already shrunk my clit by a significant amount - I wondered how far this would go.

Being in my own space felt so freeing, I waddled around in my thick diapers, rolled around on the floor and involuntarily made the baby noises daddy liked me to make

I curled up under the blankets, my teddy bear clutched to my chest, and reached for the bottle of formula. I sipped it slowly, the sweet taste calming me. The pink lights bathed the room in a soft glow, and I felt myself drifting into a state of bliss. I put in my dummy, the familiar comfort of it soothing me, and listened to the ABDL hypnosis file playing softly in the background. My eyes drifted shut, the weight of my diaper pressing into me, the smell of piss and formula filling the air. I was at peace, lost in the world I’d chosen.

Exposure Day

The morning light filtered through the curtains as I woke up, the familiar dampness of my diaper clinging to my skin. My head felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish, as if the weight of the week ahead was already pressing down on me. Monday. Back to reality. Back to responsibility. But first, back to the mess I’d made. The stale stench of urine hung in the air, a sharp reminder of my night. My diaper was soaked , thick and sagging between my legs. I shifted slightly, feeling the wetness press against me. No time for this, I thought, glancing at the clock. 9:30 AM. My friend was coming at 10.

But I needed to mess. Desperately. The pressure in my gut was unbearable, a constant, gnawing reminder of my training. I could feel my heart racing, my mind spiraling as I thought about the options. I could just use the toilet, I thought, the idea flickering like a forbidden beacon in my brain. He’d never know. It’d be quicker, cleaner, more convenient. But then I remembered the conversation from the first day of my training. The one that sealed my fate.

I’d asked daddy if he would help encourage me to mess as and when I needed too. His response had been swift, unyielding. “Oh, you don’t have a choice. You are 100% forbidden from any potty. You will poop and pee in your diaper because you will always be lesser than me and all people.”

The memory of his words sent a shiver down my spine, a twisted mix of dread and arousal. I didn’t have a choice. That was the point. I stripped down to my soaked diaper, my hands trembling as I squatted like a toddler in the middle of the bedroom. The pressure in my gut intensified, and with a grunt, I pushed, feeling the mess fill my diaper. The sensation was both disgusting and exhilarating, a reminder of how far I’d fallen. I stood up, the weight of the mess sagging against me, and hurried to the shower.

By the time my friend arrived, I was dressed in a single pink Northshore diaper, a thick waddler stuffer bulging inside, and a black onesie to keep it all in place. My bum looked huge, the edges of the pink diaper peeking out, a stark contrast to the black fabric. God, what if he notices? I thought, my stomach churning with anxiety as I opened the door.

I led him inside. My heart pounded as we got to work, every movement reminding me of the diaper beneath my onesie. The smell of my mess lingered faintly in the air, and I prayed he wouldn’t notice. Act normal, just act normal. But the humiliation was a constant weight, a reminder that this was my life now.

When he left half an hour later, I collapsed onto the bed, my mind racing. There was so much to do—work, managing my business, training at the gym, preparing for the part-time job starting next week. The stress was overwhelming, and now, on top of it all, I had this. My training. My exposure. The thought made my stomach clench, and I reached for my phone, dreading what I might find.

I logged into the site, my heart sinking as I saw the video Daddy had posted on his page. It was the one from Friday—the one where I’d begged, nearly in tears, for him to keep me in diapers forever. I clicked play, my hands trembling as the video loaded. There I was, naked except for a pink and white bib, my tripple-thick diapers soaked with piss. Triple diapers, I thought, the absurdity of it hitting me. No incontinent person would wear this. This wasn’t about function—it was about humiliation. About looking as faggy and degenerate as possible. My pink ruffled socks and glossy black dolly shoes completed the look, but it was my face that killed me. The desperation, the pleading in my eyes as I stared dead into the camera. I looked pathetic. Broken.

I tried to focus on my work, but it was impossible. My stomach was in knots, my mind spiraling as the humiliation washed over me. This is the most degrading thing I’ve ever done, I thought, my face burning with shame. But even as the shame consumed me, the excitement built. To be seen like this, so pathetic, so exposed—it turned me on in a way I couldn’t explain. My clit throbbed, the warmth of my wet diaper only adding to the sensation. I found myself rubbing the outside of the diaper, moaning softly as the pleasure built. I’m stuck in diapers, I thought, my breath hitching. I’m being blackmailed. Fuck, this is such a rush.

The slightest touch was enough to push me over the edge, and I knew I had to stop. I couldn’t allow myself to cum, not now. Not without Daddy’s permission. The post-nut clarity would be too much, the shame overwhelming. So I reached for my chastity cage, less than an inch in length, pink, clit-shaped prison that would keep me under control. I slid it on, the snug fit desensitizing the sensation of my diaper enough to calm the storm raging inside me.

My anal stretching sessions started today. I started with the smallest plug (still large by other people’s standards), warming up my pussy before moving on to the larger one—the one the size of a beer can, thick as a small fist. I lubed it up and pushed it in, the initial pain making me grunt. I kept it in for the full 30 minutes, the discomfort growing with each passing moment. By the end, I was immobilized, legs spread, face down, ass up, grunting as I counted the seconds. What am I doing with my life? I thought, my mind wandering. All my peers are at work, being responsible, and here I am, taped in thick diapers with a giant plug in my pussy, my clit streaming pre-cum into my diapers.

I had ordered some locking mitts on Amazon, I decided I’d go and collect them in double diapers, layering them for extra thickness. I peeled off my wet, soiled one and tossed it on the floor, then taped myself into a fresh one not bothering to clean myself up. The fresh diaper felt strange against my skin, but I knew it wouldn’t stay clean for long. I pulled on a second diaper over the first, adjusting the tapes until they were snug. The bulk between my legs was unmistakable, even under my baggy sweatpants. No one would mistake me for a normal man now.

The exposure earlier lingered at the edges of my mind, surfacing in quiet moments, but I refused to let it rattle me. Processing it felt pointless. It had already happened. If anything, I started thinking about where facial recognition would be in five or ten years—how easily this kind of thing would be flagged and cataloged. No doubt, by then, I’d have been exposed more times than I could count.

But by the end of the day, I landed on a simple truth: fuck it. Who really cares? People get off on all kinds of things. If someone wants to judge me for mine, that’s their problem, not mine. I know who I am. My morals are in check, I help people. I care. I’m a role model, people want to be me and be around me. If this ever comes back to bite me, I’ll handle it.

Yeah, it’s degrading, but that’s the point. And I own that.

Day out

The city was loud, chaotic, a symphony of car horns, distant chatter, and the occasional siren. Sitting in the passenger seat of my own car, I felt small. So small. The thick padding between my legs, the Northshore diaper stuffed with two Waddler inserts, was a constant reminder of the life I’d chosen. Or rather, the life I’d given up.

As we drove through the streets, the noise of the city seemed to press in on me from all sides. I glanced out the window and saw him—a man in a sleek, expensive car, windows down, arm casually resting on the doorframe. He exuded confidence, success, a kind of effortless masculinity that I used to think I wanted. That could’ve been me, I thought, a pang of longing twisting in my chest. But it wasn’t. Not anymore.

Instead, there I was, slumped in the passenger seat, my thick diaper sagging under the weight of my piss. Pathetic, I thought, the word echoing in my mind like a mantra. I shifted uncomfortably, the dampness against my skin a stark contrast to the man in the car, who seemed so untouchable, so free.

We parked and walked through the city, my movements awkward and stilted, the bulk of my diaper making me feel clumsy, exposed. I tried to carry myself with confidence, but it was gone, stripped away by the thick padding between my legs. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact, and felt a new kind of vulnerability I’d never known before. Was this how it felt to be small? Every noise—a car honking, a raised voice—made me flinch. I felt like a child, scared and unsure of the world around me.

The day was a blur. I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was my diaper, how heavy it was, how full. I’d been in the same one all day.

When we got back to the car, I felt a wave of relief. At least here, in the relative privacy of the vehicle, I could let go a little

I thought about the man in the nice car again. Why couldn’t that have been me? I had everything, once. All the potential in the world ahead of me, a good job, a life that looked normal, successful. And I threw it all away. For this. For diapers, for humiliation, for a life of submission. Was it worth it? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t have a choice anymore.

I took out my phone and messaged Daddy. “What does my week look like?” I asked, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed.

He replied almost instantly. “Anal stretching starts tomorrow. Thirty minutes a day for now just to get you into it. Every day no exceptions. You’ll be exposed weekly now aswell.”

My stomach churned at the thought. Exposure. The word alone was enough to make me feel sick. Daddy had already posted a good number of videos of me. But now it would be weekly. Weekly exposure, weekly humiliation. Accumulated hours worth of footage of me degrading myself stuck on the internet forever.

I thought about the video I’d sent him, the one where I’d begged him to keep me in diapers forever. I’d been so desperate, so out of control. Watching it back had been soul-crushing. I couldn’t bear the thought of that being online, where anyone could see it. Please, not that one, I thought, my chest tightening with anxiety.

But I knew it didn’t matter what I wanted. This was Daddy’s decision now. Not mine. Never mine.

I went inside and took pictures of my soaked diaper, sending them to Daddy with a message. “Thank you for keeping me trapped in diapers.” The words felt strange coming out of me, but they were true. I was grateful, in a twisted way. Grateful to be stripped of my choices, of my old life.

But as I lay down that night, the weight of my diaper pressing into me, I couldn’t shake the image of the man in the nice car. That could’ve been me, I thought again, the words echoing in the darkness. But it’s not. And it never will be.

Day 3 brought a new level of humiliation. I woke up in the middle of the night, soaked to the point of leaking. I added another diaper over the first one and went back to sleep, too ashamed to change in front of my SO.

When I woke up, I was horny and submissive, the weight of my wet diapers grounding me, they were a crippling reminder of my new status as a diaperfag. Gone were the days of waking up as a man.

We slept top to tail that night, their feet in my face. I massaged them, worshipping them, they teased me, denying me the one thing I truly wanted—their touch. When they got up, I pushed a load of poop into my diaper, grunting as I felt it fill the space between my legs.

Exercise was a welcome distraction, but when I got back to my flat, I gave in fully. I taped myself into thick diapers, put on my onesie and frilly cover, and pushed another mess into my diaper, reveling in the way it felt against my skin. I took pictures for Daddy, thrashing my legs and making baby noises, completely lost in the moment.

I napped at my flat listening to Abdl hypnosis that encouraged messing in your sleep. I awoke as the hour long session wrapped up.

I went back to my SO’s place, we spent an evening on the sofa reality came crashing down again when I found myself pooping again almost without thought. They noticed the smell almost immediately, they teased me but their kindness couldn’t hide their disgust. I admitted what I’d done when they had threatened to check my nappy.

I told Daddy about lying to my SO about using my diapers out of shame. He gently reminded me that I had no reason to hide anything anymore. This was my life now.

Day 2 started with a jolt of panic. I woke up in my wet diaper. The reality of what I’d done hit me like a punch to the gut. I grabbed my phone and checked DB, my stomach twisting as I saw the three new videos Daddy had posted. Me in a pink diaper, making baby noises. Me driving in just a diaper. Me in enormous diapers under tight shorts, a pacifier in my mouth and a cropped top that said “Diaper Faggot” across my chest.

What was I doing with my life? How could I just throw everything away like this. I felt a wave of shame so intense it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. But underneath that shame, there was something else—something dark and thrilling. The thought of people seeing those videos, recognizing me, knowing what I’d become… It was terrifying. And it was exciting.

Knowing the potty was not allowed I got on all fours on the bed and pushed a load of poop into my diapers. I got myself out of bed and got cleaned up and ready for work, trying to ignore the way the diaper crinkled with every step. It was a constant reminder of what I’d signed up for, a humiliating symbol of my submission. But I also loved it. I loved the way it felt—the way it made me feel. Like I was giving up control, giving up my pride, and embracing something deeper, something more primal.

After work, I stopped by my flat to drop off some things. A pink mermaid bedding set. Pink unicorn posters. Pink fairy lights. White frilled socks. Slowly but surely, I was transforming my space into something more fitting for a sissy baby. I recorded another video for Daddy, dressed in thick diapers, a bib, frilly socks, and dolly shoes. I crawled around on the floor, waddling like a baby, thrashing my legs and crying. I begged Daddy to keep me in diapers forever, my voice growing more desperate with every word.

Life was good—I’d been setting myself up well for the future, the gym was going well, I’d been making solid social connections, I had work lined up, I was feeling confident and charismatic and for the first time in my life hopeful for what the future might bring. But something always felt missing.

In a moment of longing, I reached out to my Daddy Domme. Within an hour I had committed to resuming my diaperfag training, I was ready to throw it all away, to strip myself of everything, and to embrace a lower existence.

I’d be in diapers 24/7, forbidden from using the toilet ever again. I’d obey without question, completing humiliating tasks, taking pictures and videos that my Daddy had full control over, to share as he pleased. My life was no longer mine—I was my Daddy’s property.

Daddy gave me every chance to back out — but I still didn’t stop. I sent him a video, sitting in just a thick diaper and a bib, begging him to blackmail me, to use my personal information against me, to trap me in diapers and ti never let me leave his service.

This is the abdl cat. He only appears every 329 737 398 days.

Every time he tried to use the restroom throughout the day one of them would turn him away and say little boys need to learn to hold it. After last period they pulled him into the locker room and one of them put a hand into his pants to check his pull-up. They all laughed at how wet he was and had him lay down on the floor. He saw one of them pull wipes, powder, and a full diaper out of a locker and he tried to say something but a large pacifier was forced into his mouth and strapped behind his head.

They used scissors to cut all his clothes off and took a few more pictures of him on the ground in a wet pull-up sucking on a pacifier. While two of them took off his pull-up and put him in a real diaper the third one fished Seth’s cellphone out of this shredded jeans and sent off a quick message then smiled at the replay.

“I just told your mommy you’ll be staying the night with a few new friends and helping them out with their math homework. She said you can stay all weekend since she’s visiting your aunt.”