“Mummy, please!” Hannah sobbed, kicking and squealing over her mother’s knee as her plump bare bottom got redder and redder. “I’m sorry!”

“You’d better be sorry, young lady,” her mother said, still raining smacks down on her exposed rear. Hannah’s nappy had been pulled down to allow more access to her rapidly reddening tushy. “I’m not going to tolerate naughty tantrums, missy! Mummy didn’t set up a lovely nursery for you just to have to stomp your feet and say it’s too babyish! You’ll be sleeping in a crib for the next five years, so you’d better get used to it!”

“I’m sowwy!” Hannah cried, her diction falling apart as tears fell down her cheeks and she started taking in heaving, gasping breaths. “Pwease, Mummy! I’ll be a good giwl!”

Finally, Mrs Whitehouse stopped. “That’s better, sweetheart. Mummy knows you just need a little time to adjust. You need to start thinking of yourself as a big two-year-old, okay darling? Nothing’s too babyish for you anymore.”

Hannah sobbed and nodded her head, even as she cringed and seethed on the inside.

Unfortunately for you, I find you absolutely adorable, strapped into your highchair, ankles and wrists cuffed into place, with mushy baby food dripping down your chin.

It doesn't matter to me that you detest every bite. It doesn't bother me that I have to bribe and cajole you at each turn. It doesn't frustrate me that you throw your head to the side, lock your mouth closed, and spit out your food.

Why would it? You're just a baby after all. All babies throw tantrums at meal times. But, Papa knows what's right for them.

You always had to force yourself not to smile when she pouted. It was her most effective weapon against you. She knew how to push your buttons, to convince you to bend the rules for her. But not today.

“Is my babygirl pouting because she couldn’t cover her diaper or because it’s filled with your tinkles?” you ask, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but you know your diaper must be visible at times, baby, even in public.”

She huffed again, gently kicking the dashboard in an infantile display that drove you wild. You couldn’t help but keep going. You reach over and check her diaper. “Oh wow, baby, you sure know how to wet your diaper. So much tinkles for such a little girl.”

You know she’s on the verge of a tantrum. You know you’re going to have to punish her for something you started. But you didn’t care, it was too fun.

“You know what, I think maybe I might have to stop and change your diaper at the McDonalds down the street. They have that nice changing table that you love so much. The one where you always get so blushy hoping nobody comes in and sees what a little girl you are. You look so cute as you lay there covering your eyes as I slowly change your diaper. Nobody would ever confuse you with a big girl there.”

You see her face grow red with embarrassment and anger. She knows not to talk back to Daddy but she won’t let herself be changed in public without a tantrum. You see her little mind try to come up with some way to get out of it.

You don’t give her the chance. “Yeah, that diaper is soaked, I can’t let your princess parts get a rash, babygirl. It’s decided, you have a date with Ronald McDonald and his finest changing table!”

“No daddy I don’t need my diaper changed! It’s not even that wet! You’re not stopping! I won’t let you,” she pleads, her voice trying, but failing, to avoid sounding like a petulant toddler.

“I don’t think you have a choice here, babygirl. You’re going to be laying on that changing table in five minutes.”

“But I will offer you one choice. You can lay down on the changing table with a red, achy bottom after I spank you like a naughty little girl, or you can lay down without it. Your choice.”

She sits in silence for a moment. Trying to decide. “I’m not getting my diaper changed at McDonalds and that’s final!” she shrieks.

Despite your trembling fear at what's about to happen, this part is easy: after two hours squatting in the corner, waiting for the laxatives to finish their dirty work, even the curve of His thigh provides a moment's relief to your aching calves.

"Pick up your feet."

You hesitate for just the ghost of a moment. It's not that you're trying to disobey: He trained that out of you months ago. But when the only mental stimulation you've had since last year are mindless cartoons, stacking colorful blocks, and staring at the floor during Tummy Time, you've found the connection between your brain and your body has started to atrophy.

"Pick 'em up!"

It's firm, but not cruel. He knows you're resigned to your fate, but He's already getting impatient.

The sudden pressure on the seat of your diaper causes you to cry out into the muffling rubber nipple of your pacifier. He hasn't had to secure that to your head for quite some time; your mouth now feels strange and unpleasant the few minutes a day you're not suckling it.

"Mmmnh! Mmmnh! Mmmmh! Mmmnh mmmmh mmmmnh!"

The first few bounces are startling, and do the most to spread your mushy mess into every crinkling crevice of your fluffy diaper. After a few seconds, there's a pause, and you wonder stupidly if that might be the end of the punishment. But He simply smacks the back of your diaper, making sure no part of your butt is spared from being slathered in the slick, brown mess you were forced to make.

"Mmmmnh...mnnh mnnh mnnh mnnh...."

You continue to whine as the bouncing knee picks up again in earnest, but it's more on principle than anything. He doesn't mind when you whine, as long as you do what you're told. Now that the damage is done, you try to concentrate on the rhythmic pressure being applied to your poopy parts...

"Mnnnnh mnnnnnnnnnnnnnh!"

It doesn't take nearly as long as you'd expect to get excited. You're never allowed to have Big Girl fun, and your Tummy Time is strictly monitored to make sure you can't try. You know you'll get in trouble. You know you'll be spanked until you can't waddle for a week. But your body is making the decision for you.

"Mmmmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggghhh..."

Your final, plaintive moan is one of both ecstasy and disappointment. The swirling butterflies you had felt in your diaper explode and send happy electricity up your spine...but it all happens so quickly. You had wanted time to savor it. To enjoy it. And now you'll be punished for sure.

"Don't let your feet touch the ground."

The lapse in concentration causes your toes to scrape the floor. Filled with shame and self-loathing, you snap up your heels and continue to moan and whine as the bouncing knee continues. Maybe there's time to try again...maybe you can find the butterflies. You can feel them swirling around already, preparing for an encore performance. Just one more time would fix you, and make your punishment worth it. Hurry up, butterflies! Hurry up!

"Stand."

Becky’s New Life

Becky awoke from her midafternoon nap, and was immediately assaulted by the strong smell of baby powder, pee, and something yuckier. Every time she woke up, she prayed that everything she’d gone through with the Magician had all been some terrible dream, but when she opened her eyes, it was to see the white bars of her crib in front of her face, and the daycare’s naptime room beyond. It was a sight she’d become very familiar with over the last few months.

She got to her hands and knees, her bare breasts dangling beneath her, and felt her diaper droop heavily between her legs, almost brushing the plastic mattress cover of her cot. She screwed up her face in disgust and shame. She felt as though she was trapped in a nightmare. This was who she was now; an overgrown baby who filled her nappies in her sleep like a one-year-old. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. In fact, some of her former colleagues at the daycare had even made sure to capture it on video, so they could force her to watch her sleeping self lift her bottom into the air and start packing her oversized Pampers while they tittered. None of them liked her – they remembered how dismissive she’d been of their careers, the ones for whom it was more than just a Summer job, and how haughty and harsh she’d been with the children. In their minds, she was getting exactly what she deserved.

You tried to hold it. For so long you tried to fight it. Not just the urge to wet, but what he was making you become. You didn't want to be a girl that had to wear diapers. That had to use diapers. Giving up now would give him exactly what he wanted.

Your bladder was screaming. You were screaming for the last several hours, but it proved to be pointless. Was trying to keep your diaper dry just as futile?

No. No way! It was possible. Any minute now he would come back in, tell you you passed, or you're free to go, or anything to get you out of this mess. How did you make so many dumb decisions to land yourself in this mess anyway? Speaking of mess...

NO! Absolutely not! You would not piss yourself. You would not mess yourself! The churning in your guts made it hard to differentiate whether or not you had to pee or poo. Well, it was both, but which one did you need to do more?

You whimpered and whined, groaned and cried. But you didn't shed a tear. Again, you didn't want to be the 'baby' he so desperately wanted you to be. You'd wail and flail, but you would not let him see you cry.

You clenched your legs, squeezed and squirmed, anything to try to alleviate the pressure. Your muscles strained. The most minor of movements threatened to break the barrier and let everything go.

There were sounds coming from the computers set up behind you. The camera pointed right at you, at your diaper, at your predicament. The more you struggled, the more dings and 'cha-chings' went off. Some sort of online forum. Were they bidding on you? Were they rooting for you? Or against you?

More stabs of pain. The alarms going off inside your system. Your bladder and bowels were screaming, trying to alert your brain of their pressing needs, and when it thought the brain wasn't listening to its warnings anymore, it upped the signals...it upped the pain.

You groaned into the wall, jerked at the restraints, screamed again. You weren't going to wet. You weren't going to mess. You weren't going to cry.

But no matter how many times you repeated it to yourself, you just couldn't take it anymore.

The first few drops escaped without your consent, but once the damn was cracked, the river burst through. You couldn't stop it, no matter how much you tried. Everything seemed to be falling out of you at the same time. Piss, poop, and whatever else your body had been holding on to, it all flooded your diaper at once. You felt it swell, soaking up the onslaught you dropped on it. But it couldn't contain it all. That sick, warm, disgusting feeling washed over you, sending shivers down your spine.

Then, the final dam was broken. You tried to clamp your eyes shut, but it was already too late. Tears streamed down your face. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't help it. You were stuck here. Again. Another day, another test failed. Even faster than last time. You were nowhere closer to being a free adult. Instead, you were one step closer to being the little baby girl he was making you be. Everything finally sank in at that moment, right as all your messes soaked into the padding of your diaper...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Can you open your mouth for me? Give me your best alligator smile!"

Your eyes fixate on the device in Nurse Molly's extending hand. It has a pink plastic guard with a long, rounded, silicone shaft. If it weren't so large, you'd almost think it was a...

Pacifier.

"Wh-wh-what is this for?" You ask nervously, failing to suppress your stammer. It's particularly difficult given how cold this examination room is. Air from a nearby vent runs up the open back of your pale pink hospital gown, and you're forced to clutch the thin paper against your bare hips to prevent your naked bottom from getting exposed. Without thinking, you begin to chew anxiously on your lower lip.

"It's for that," Nurse Molly replies, the prologue of a smile drafting itself across her pretty face. "You bit your lip again. That's what this program is all about! These nervous tics you told us about on your application: stuttering, lip biting, scratching, shaking, and all the others...they may be psychological, but your body and mind work as a team. This equipment will help prevent damage to your lips while laying the foundations for correcting the behavior."

You don't take your eyes off the silicone nipple. You fight your body's nervous impulse to start rubbing your arms, instead crinkling the paper of your pink hospital gown.

"B-b-but I thought I w-w-would be doing sp-speech therapy. How can I t-t-talk with that in my mouth?"

Nurse Molly places a hand on your wrist in an effort to comfort you. "All in good time. Right now, it's important that we work on strengthening your jaw muscles and put a stop to the biting. Pretty please, open your mouth for me?"

As much as you've started to question this inpatient treatment program, there's something in Nurse Molly's gentle voice and soft grip that calms you down. What are you so nervous about, anyway? The reason you're here is because every other program has been unable to help you. Maybe this one will finally work...

Slowly, you let your mouth fall open.

"A little wider, honey," Nurse Molly whispers, tightening her grip on your wrist almost imperceptibly. "It's going to feel like a lot to take in at first."

You can't help but nibble your lip -- just a little -- before gaping your mouth as widely as you can. Nurse Molly wastes no time before sliding the firm, pliable silicone nipple deep into your mouth. Your gag reflex is tickled, but you manage to stop yourself from sputtering by holding your tongue wide and flat against the shaft. Immediately, you feel saliva pooling in the few remaining recesses of your mouth, and the device emits a loud, slurping sound as you swallow awkwardly around it. Nevertheless, a small bubble of drool forms at the corner of your lips.

"Mmmmnmmhhhhhh," you moan, reaching up reflexively to take out the device with your free hand.

"Ah ah! No touching!" Nurse Molly scolds, grasping your other wrist and pulling your palms together in front of you. You shift your feet, desperate to spend the nervous energy which has started to build. The hem of your paper hospital gown flutters dangerously high from the blowing vent.

"The device is designed for long-term use, so I want you to get into the habit of keeping it in unless a doctor or nurse removes it. Try to form an 'O' with your lips and suckle naturally."

You grimace as you turn to look into the full-length mirror on the door of the examination room. There you are, shivering in your pale pink hospital gown, your eyes arched in a forced look of surprise, your cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. The pink guard of the device bobs ridiculously and makes a suction-cup squelch as you swallow again. A line of thick drool escapes your mouth and begins draining from behind the plastic guard. You have no doubt now: this is effectively a giant pacifier.

"It looks like you're quite the little spit factory!" Nurse Molly teases, grabbing a paper towel and wiping around the shield of the pacifier as you blush hotly. "You'll get into the rhythm of sucking and swallowing soon enough, but it may be a good idea to start wearing a bib for a while. You certainly don't want to be walking around the clinic covered in drool stains!"

A bib?! You reach up again to remove the pacifier in protest. Nurse Molly is quicker, interrupting your impulse and pulling your hand away from your mouth.

"Don't fuss," she says. Her tone is not unkind, but it is forceful. "The doctor won't agree to start your speech therapy until you demonstrate you've been using the device as prescribed."

You stare at Nurse Molly in exasperation, shuddering as more drool forms around your mouth. Surely you can't be expected to suck on a giant squishy pacifier with no way to ask questions about your treatment! Desperate to tic, you begin scratching your forearm, which causes Nurse Molly's eyebrows to shoot up.

"I have an idea."

Nurse Molly reaches to pull out a large drawer under a nearby table. After a few moments of searching, she extracts what appear to be two cloth pads in the same pale pink color as your hospital gown.

"Make a fist for me, honey."

You hesitate, cottoning on to what Nurse Molly intends to do. If you weren't dressed in the embarrassing hospital gown, there's a chance you would spit out your pacifier, turn on your heel, and march out the door right now.

"Make a fist. You have to make a fist." Nurse Molly makes it clear this isn't a request.

You swear you begin salivating more as you slowly lift your shaking hand. Frothy drool spills out from behind your pacifier as you curl your fingers and thumb together. You realize through your heavy breathing that you're actually suckling rhythmically on the rubbery shaft, filling the air with a soft squish, squish, squish, squish, squish.

Once your hand forms the desired fist, Nurse Molly wastes no time in smothering it with one of the pink cloth pads. The inside of the cloth is soft and pillowy, but very constricting; you couldn't uncurl your fingers if you tried. A tied ribbon strap is tightened around your wrist, and you raise your hand to gawk at the ridiculous balled mitten that now encases it.

"This should put an end to that scratching, and help remind you to keep that oral device exactly where it needs to be!" Nurse Molly smiles triumphantly, raising the second cloth pad.

Something clicks in your brain as your other hand is quickly mittened and secured snugly in place: you're completely helpless now. Not only can you no longer scratch, but you won't be able to get your clothes back on or open a door without help. What happens if you need to use the toilet?

"Mmmmhhhmmmn?" You gesture frantically at your pacifier as thick gobs of drool begin to collapse like icicles on the front of your paper gown. You feel the need to communicate; to take back some control. You crane your neck forward to spit the silicone shaft out, but think better of it when you see Nurse Molly's severe look.

"Ohhh, I see, honey," Nurse Molly coos with concern as you continue to point stupidly at your suckling mouth with the fat, balled mitten. "But don't worry. It's just a little drool. Let's get a bib on you. Then, I'll walk you to the bedroom where you'll be staying with us these next few weeks. How exciting! Soon, you'll feel like a whole new person."

You moan and shake your head, suckling furiously as more nervous energy builds. You want to scratch, to bite your lip, to stutter, to do something that gives you a feeling of control.

But as Nurse Molly holds up a large cloth bib -- white with a pink trim -- you realize fully that you're not in control. You're pathetic, muted, and covered in drool. The only thing you can do is fill the air with slurping and sucking as Nurse Molly tightens the bib around your neck. Robbed of your ability to tic, you try to focus all your nervous energy on your mouth. You're already painting the white cloth of the bib with thick streams of spit as you concentrate hard on suckling.

"What am I wearing?!" Tracy shrieked, getting up on her knees and goggling at the disposable diaper strapped tightly around her waist. Her head felt funny. Why was she in bed? The last thing she remembered was Sabrina, her stepdaughter-to-be, giving her something to drink, and then...

"Ah, you're awake!" came a young woman's voice. "Did you enjoy your little nap, Tracy?"

Tracy looked up to see Sabrina standing over her, a mocking smile on her face. "Sabrina?" She still felt a little confused and disoriented, but she didn't like the expression on the girl's face at all. "What's going on?" she demanded. "What did you..." She thought back to that moment in the kitchen, when Sabrina had unexpectedly offered to make her morning coffee. "Did you drug me?!" she screeched. "And why did you put me in a fucking diaper?"

Sabrina's smile widened. "If my Dad wants to get remarried, fine," she said matter-of-factly. "But it's not going to be to some vapid bimbo who's only after his wallet."

Tracy flushed. So what if she was only after Sabrina's father for his money? He was in his sixties or something. If he wanted a hot young trophy wife, what was wrong with that? And if she ended up divorcing him after a year or so and taking half of his fortune, it would be his own stupid fault for being so naïve.

"Unfortunately," said Sabrina, "Dad's been totally taken in by your seductive little schemes, so it's up to me to protect him." Her eyes glittered dangerously. "It's up to me to make sure he'll never be attracted to you again."

"What are you..." But Tracy suddenly gasped, a manicured hand flying to her mouth, as she felt a tiny trickle of pee leak into her Pampers. She tried to clamp down on the flow, but nothing happened. The trickle stopped after only a few seconds, but it was enough to make the padding between her legs feel disgustingly warm and wet, and more to the point, it had been completely out of her control. “What did you do to me?!" she squealed, repulsed by the sensation of piss soaking into her pants and pressing against her pussy.

"You really are stupid, aren't you?" Sabrina laughed. "Isn't it obvious, you dumb whore? I made you incontinent. Or is that word too big and complicated for you? Would it be easier to understand if I told you that you'll never use the little girl's room again?"

Tracy stared at her, open-mouthed, too stunned and horrified to speak. She couldn’t be incontinent. She couldn’t be. It wasn't possible to just take someone's control away!

"I added a special ingredient to your latte this morning," Sabrina explained, as if reading her mind. "A little something I found online. A few drops are enough to cause total and permanent incontinence, though I promise you it's quite untraceable, so don't bother running to the police to whine about how your boyfriend's meanie daughter stole your potty training. I made sure not to leave any evidence, and you'll just sound crazy."

Tracy felt as though she'd been doused in icy water. If Sabrina was telling the truth, if she really was incontinent, then she'd never be able to seduce a man again! Her stomach rolled as she imagined trying to persuade Sabrina's father to buy her a new pair of shoes, clutching his arm and rubbing her breasts against his chest, only to feel her diaper drooping between her legs as she pooped in it without warning. She'd be a joke!

“That’s it, baby, let it all out,” I cooed. “Have a big cry. Daddy's here, little girl." I stroked my wife's hair gently while she bawled her eyes out like a two-year-old, sat on the floor of our bedroom wearing nothing but her sopping wet diaper.

She gasped in big lungfuls of air, her bare chest heaving with every shaky breath. “You… did something… to me!” she said between hiccups, batting my hand away and glaring at me accusingly. It seemed that I'd finally been found out.

"What did I do to you, sweetheart?" I asked softly.

"You... turned me... into... a cry... baby!" she sobbed, almost hyperventilating now, her words barely intelligible. "You... want me... like this!"

“That's right, darling," I said, and I saw her tear-filled eyes widen in surprise at my ready confession. "I want to be your Daddy. I want to take care of you. But you've always been so strong and independent. I knew I had to do something to change that, so I used some special hypnosis files, hidden in that night-time background music you like to listen to, to erode your emotional control. It's the same technique I used to take away your potty training.”

She looked at me in horror, but I just chuckled and reached out to stroke her tear-stained cheek lovingly with the back of my fingers. “It’s so sweet that you can’t control when you go pee-pee or poo-poo anymore." I patted the front of her soggy diaper. “And you look so pretty in your princess nappy!”

“You did this to me?” my wife whispered, so shocked that her wracking sobs had come to a halt. Her hand drifted down to the huge disposable diaper bulging between her thighs. "You made me need these?"

"Yes, baby," I said. "I thought making you incontinent would be enough, but even then you were still trying to be self-sufficient; insisting on changing your own nappies, refusing to let me comfort you after an accident. So now you're going to be emotionally incontinent as well, sweetie. No more bottling things up. No more self-control. When you get even the slightest bit upset about something, you'll be in tears."

“But whyyy?!” she wailed, her sobbing returning in full force. "Why did you... do this... to me?!"

“It’s not good for girls to hold in their feelings,” I said, running my fingers through her hair again. She seemed too appalled by what I was saying to even notice. “It’s so much cuter, so much more feminine, when you lose control and have a little meltdown instead.”

“But I don’t… want to be… like this!” she cried.

“I know, darling,” I said soothingly, “but this is how I want you. Daddy knows best. Being a tearful toddler suits you much better than being an adult woman. In any case, there's no undoing the effects of the hypnosis now, little one. I made sure it was completely permanent."

“No!” she wailed, bouncing on her wet bottom and beating her fists impotently against the floor. “It's not fair! I wanna be a grown-up! I wanna use the toilet! I don't wanna be a stupid crybaby! I don't wanna! I don't wanna!" Her words trailed off into incoherent blubbering as she devolved into a massive temper tantrum.

Another Spooky Season remaster, this time featuring some awesome original art from @spaced-goddess. Go check her blog out!

“Alright now, up we go,” came Mrs. Winthrop’s soft voice, as she picked her onesie-clad student up from the classroom floor and placed her onto her desk, their school principal looking on as she did. “Can’t be having a talk with you while you’re crawling around on the floor.” 

Amber didn’t resist. She didn’t say anything, didn’t fight back against her teacher’s choice of words - after all, walking without tripping seemed to have become her latest challenge, and she had the carpet burns on her knees to prove it. Without a word of protest, the girl allowed herself to be picked up and placed on the desk, hiding her blushing face away as much as she could. 

This was a far cry from the girl who first arrived in Mrs. Winthrop’s preschool classroom on Halloween day, half a year before. That Amber was headstrong and defiant, fuming constantly that some saboteur had seemingly drugged her and messed with her brain, leading her down a road of failed tests and embarrassing accidents. She was furious that she had to drop out of the college and come here to relearn her basics, and she let everyone around know it. 

That Amber was proud. She was sure of herself. And even through all of her setbacks, she was confident. “Whatever,” she would snarl, “fine.I’ll just re-do some stuff and get out of here. I’m still an adult. I’m still better than all these dumb little brats.” 

As the school year wore on, though, those “dumb little brats” could actually keep up with their preschool lessons. And Amber? Not so much. 

By reading this, you certify that you are at least 18 years of age and consent to viewing adult-themed material. All characters depicted are adults aged 18 years and older.

_

Yes, little girl, I expect you to wet it. No, I don't care if it's embarrassing. That's what your diapers are for. I put you in them so you could use them. No, you aren't a "big girl." You've proven that several times over, each time you wet your bed or pissed yourself in my car because I didn't pull over fast enough. A "big girl" should be able to hold it and not have constant accidents all over her boyfriend's seats.

No, I don't really care if people find out. If anyone says anything, I'll just tell them you couldn't control yourself and that something needed to be done about it. Honestly, I bet everyone that knows you would agree. Your behavior has been getting out of hand lately. You're always acting like a petulant child and going around thinking everyone is just going to tolerate it. Well, I'm not going to anymore.

It starts with diapers, which, again, you will wet. But we're also going go through your panty drawer and cut up all your panties, since you won't be needing them anymore. And we might as well throw away most of your wardrobe too, since we'll be buying you a whole host of new, more "age-appropriate" outfits. That's right. You'll be wearing bright pastels and flowing skirts. No more sexy lingerie for silly little girls who can't keep their pants dry.

But it won't just be your wardrobe. We'll be making some more changes around here. For starters, bedtime is 8 o'clock. I don't want to hear any fussing. You're always tired in the mornings, and you're frequently late to your college classes and even to work, not that you bring home much of a paycheck. I still expect you to cook and clean, but I'll make you a little chore chart and give you gold star stickers every time you do a good job. I know you're blushing now, but I have a feeling you'll grow to love your sticker chart.

And you won't be needing to cum anymore. Little girls don't do that, after all. Of course, you'll still be expected to pleasure Daddy, but I'm sure that's a given. That's right, you can suck Daddy's dick or give him a handjob. Maybe, if he's feeling generous, he'll even fuck your little princess parts. But you won't ever be allowed to cum, and if I ever catch you touching yourself without permission, I'll stick your hand in ice. Try me and see if I'm lying.

I went out for lunch with some friends yesterday. So to prepare I changed into a new diaper so it would be thin and discreet. I wore a pink flared skirt to cover it and some gray shorts under it. It was so nice having lunch with them, but it can be hard. While they are thinking about vacations and dreaming of their careers, I’m dreaming of poofy diapers and pink nurseries.

We got drinks of course. We began with mimosas. Then a mojito. Then finished off with a mule. It was a good thing we walked there since we’re so close to town. The drinks soon got to me. The shorts that once discretely covered my pink diaper no didn’t as much. The front of it was noticeably puffy and bulging out of place. Good thing I had a skirt on top 😉. I definitely did not notice myself tinkling so much into my diaper, but then again I never do. I excused myself to the restroom to check the damage. It was puffy, squishy, soggy, and saggy. Went back to the table and we got the check.

We did not each much food mostly appetizers, loaded fries, Brussel sprouts, mini tacos, and some other little things for all of us to split. As we began walking back I noticed my tummy getting full. No big right. I can handle it until I got home. Dropped first friend at her car. And the next two at their apartments. It was me and two others. We were so close to my place but I felt my tummy churning.

We got to my place and said goodbye. I was safe right. I began to relax. Taking my keys out to open the door I felt my mess begin as I let go barely holding on. I was caught by my neighbor trying to get my attention but it was too late. I opened the door and closed it behind me and proceed to fill my diaper will a new soft mess smearing all over my ass. The weight pulling my diaper down farther where my shorts were now useless and my diaper is breaking out the back of my skirt.

Until today, I had been ordering Hannah's diapers online. However, since Little Miss only wears them when she has wet her bed or when she is being punished, they're not delivered regularly. This morning, when I reached into her drawer to pull out a thick diaper for her as part of her current two-week punishment, I realized that it was our last one!

Fortunately, it was a nice day and we weren't too busy, so it was the perfect day to run to the store. Part of Hannah's punishment is that I pick out her daily outfits, except when she works in person. When we're working from home, she usually just gets a shirt and her diaper. But when we go out at night and on weekends, her outfits can vary. I like to remind her that it's an incentive to behave during her punishments. The fussier she is, the less she's going to like her outfit.

This morning, I dressed her in a cute white shirt with flowers that I like a lot when we're at home because it's short enough that it doesn't go past her belly button, leaving her diaper completely visible to me. For our errand, I grabbed her denim shortalls.

Hannah wasn't surprised when I walked into the living room holding clothes since it was normal for us to go out on a Sunday. However, she'd never worn these shortalls with her thickest diapers, and as she stepped into them and I pulled them up her legs, we realized we were going to have to unbutton the sides to get it past her thick bum. When I clicked her shoulder place into place, she immediately frowned. Sure, it was definitely more revealing than what she usually wears, but practically, no stranger was going to notice. But as soon as Hannah looked in the mirror, she began whining and asking me to change her into something else.

"Please, everybody is going to notice!" she begged. But I knew better than to give into her and ignored her as I got the rest of our things together.

We got in the car and took off. Hannah still didn't know where we were going, but that wasn't abnormal. I had made it clear to her that girls who still wear diapers don't get to ask a lot of questions. They just go where they're brought and do as they're told. We reached the grocery store and I leaned over to her, "We ran out of your diapers this morning, so we have to go shopping for some more!"

Miss Crinkle Pants was NOT thrilled. She started squirming and looked over at me. I tried to reassure her. "Sweetie, nobody is going to know that the diapers are for you! We could easily be buying them for someone else."

She still didn't look convinced. "But they're going to look at me closer, and then it will be obvious," she said. I almost felt bad for her, her cheeks were already blushing. I couldn't help but feel a bit turned on by her utter humiliation.

We walked into the store and I made sure to remind her of our purpose. "Where do you think they keep diapers for baby girls who wet the bed?" I asked her, not making any effort to lower my voice. She looked around, horrified. We walked towards the pharmacy section and found the adult diaper aisle. She couldn't stop squirming, pulling up the denim so the top of her diaper wasn't visible, only for it to fall back down again the second her fingers left her waistband.

"Sweetie, what diapers do you think are best for a little girl who can't behave?" I asked her again. A couple on the end of the aisle walked by us. The man was looking ahead, but the woman suddenly looked at Hannah and then to her crotch before whispering something inaudible to her husband as they passed.

An ABDL/DDLG story inspired by true (and some hopefully soon-to-be-true) events…

8:45 am

One of the advantages of working from home was that she could get out of the shower 15 minutes before work. She finished drying her hair and headed back into the bedroom. He was already showered and dressed and waiting for her.

“Do you need Daddy to diaper you today or are you going to try to be a big girl?”

One of the other advantages of working from home was that she could be his little girl even while she was in meetings.

“Big girl!” She replied.

But the undies he picked out for her didn’t exactly scream “head of marketing with eight direct reports.” They were from the kids section. White cotton with moons and stars and a pale blue trim with a little bow.

She put them on, along with her much more mature work outfit. She had Zoom meetings today and only he would know that she was still a little girl underneath.