Daddy’s Little Girl 𑣲

Like, yes darling, I'm aware that you see yourself as a big girl but I care about you too much to ever let you be anything other than my beautiful little girl.

Of course you're a big strong girl sweetheart, but you're too beautiful and wonderful to have to worry about any of those big girl responsibilities.

The crayon snapped in Kira’s fingers with a satisfying crack. She grinned, tossing the broken pieces onto the table where her half-finished coloring sheet lay abandoned. The letters at the top of the page K-I-R-A were barely recognizable, scribbled over in angry, jagged lines. She didn’t want to color. She didn’t want to sit still. And most of all, she didn’t want to admit how much she liked the thick, crinkly diaper tucked under her plaid skirt, already damp from the apple juice she’d gulped down at snack time.

Mr. Thompson didn’t even look up from his desk. "Kira," he said, his voice calm but firm, "that’s the third crayon this week."

Kira stuck out her tongue, swinging her legs under the table. The movement made the diaper shift between her thighs, the padding squishing slightly. She loved that feeling, the way it made her waddle, the way it reminded her she didn’t have to be big here. But today, she was in a mood. A bratty mood. "They’re stupid anyway," she muttered, kicking the table leg.

The classroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional crinkle of a diaper from one of the other littles. Kira glanced around, her lips curling. Most of them were obediently coloring, their tongues poking out in concentration, their diapers peeking out from under skirts or shorts. Boring.

Mr. Thompson finally set down his pen. "Kira," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument, "you know the rules."

She rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered. Rules. Rules meant consequences. And consequences meant...

"Yeah, yeah," she huffed, crossing her arms over her blouse. The fabric pulled tight over her chest, but she didn’t care. She wanted him to see her. To notice. "What’re you gonna do? Spank me?"

Mr. Thompson didn’t react. He just stood, his chair scraping back, and gestured toward the couch in the corner. The lesson couch.

Kira’s stomach twisted. She bit her lip, torn between the urge to bolt and the part of her that wanted this. Needed it. The diaper between her legs felt heavier suddenly, the wetness spreading as her body reacted to the thought.

She didn’t move fast enough. Mr. Thompson’s hand closed around her wrist, gentle but unyielding, and guided her toward the couch. Kira’s breath hitched as he sat, pulling her over his lap. The skirt rode up, exposing the babyish pattern of her diaper, thick, white, with little purple cricles printed along the edges. The tapes were secured snugly, the plastic backing crinkling as she squirmed.

"Kira," Mr. Thompson said, his voice low, "you’re better than this."

The first smack landed before she could retort. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final. Kira gasped, her fingers clawing at the couch cushion. The sting radiated through the diaper, but beneath it, something else unfurled, something warm and needy. She whimpered, her hips shifting involuntarily, the padding squishing against her.

"You don’t get to decide when you follow the rules," Mr. Thompson continued, his hand coming down again. Kira yelped, but she didn’t fight. She couldn’t. The diaper was warm now, the wetness spreading, and every smack sent a jolt through her, making her feel small and safe and seen.

By the time he stopped, Kira’s cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in short, shaky gasps. The diaper was heavy between her legs, the wetness clinging to her skin. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay right there, draped over his lap, where everything was simple and she didn’t have to be anything but little.

Mr. Thompson helped her up, his touch careful. "Better?"

Kira nodded, her throat tight. She could feel the tears pricking at her eyes, but they weren’t sad. They were the kind that came when you were so full of feeling you didn’t know what to do with yourself. She sniffled, rubbing her face against her sleeve like a child.

"Good," he said, patting her head. "Now, let’s try coloring again. And this time, no breaking the crayons."

Kira nodded, her fingers twisting in the hem of her skirt. She didn’t trust her voice yet. But she didn’t need to. The diaper, the warmth, the way her bottom still tingled, it all told her everything she needed to know. She was little. She was safe.

Lining up your toys counts

Organizing them based on height or colour counts

Colour cordinating your colouring supplies count

Sensory mats count as play

Playing with fidget toys counts as play

Using gloves to protect your hands from finger paints or clay is okay!

Making scenes with your toys counts

ʚ 𓈒 ֹ Baby Regressor ᰔ Gentle Cg ｡ ˚ ɞ

Little one who's feeling smaller than usual, their words catching in their throat like honey and resorting to little noises and tugs at their carers sleeve to communicate instead

Feeling fussy and getting teary eyed without knowing why, making grabby hands at your cg, silently asking for them to hold you in their warm and safe arms

Your cg goes down a mental checklist of all of the things that could be upsetting you, finally settling on hunger as they try to set you down for a moment while they make you a bottle only for you to follow them close behind like a little duckling, holding onto their finger instead of their entire hand

Snuggling up against your cgs lap and drinking your bottle, one of their hands holding it in place while the other is rubbing soothing circles along your back

After your bottle your cg sets you down on the floor surrounded by a plethora of soft toys, chuckling to themselves as you begin to nibble on the ear of a stuffed animal before they quickly clip a paci to the collar of your sweater and gently push it into your mouth instead

Feeling overstimulated by the loud and colorful cartoon playing on the TV, making your way back to your cg and clinging to them for comfort as they run their fingers through your hair and begin rocking you at a slow pace

Dozing off as your cg quietly reads a story to you, placing soft kisses on the top of your head and spreading a blanket over the both of you, not daring to move even if the position is uncomfortable in fear of waking you