Grab one of your plushies, whoever happens to be closest to you right now.
Pause any and all media you've got going on right now.
Pick out a good makeout song (my personal choice is No Witness, by LP) It must be a minimum of 2 minutes long.
Hold your plushie in your arms, close your eyes, and start the song.
Until the song ends, you are not allowed to open your eyes, and you must make out with your plushie the whole time. Don't just kiss her on the lips, lets your lips trail down over her, guide her mouth down over your neck for her to nibble at, have fun with it. Maybe moan or whimper a little.
Once the song ends, open your eyes and tell your plushie how amazing she was, and thank her for making out with you, then cuddle with her a bit as you resume what you were doing before.
Alternatively, if you're both a bit hot and bothered after that, you two could always move things to the bedroom...
Either way, you may now resume scrolling. You are immune to this post until sunrise tomorrow.
If you do not have a plushie available, are not in a place where you can do this comfortably, or cannot complete this task for any other reason (including discomfort with the idea itself), you are also immune until sunrise, an immunity which may be repeated as many times as necessary.
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Denying them cummies because their diaper is too dry. Watching them strain and whimper desperately as they try to fill their diaper to please their Mommy enough that she lets them hump a stuffie. Slowly breaking them down, conditioning them so that they can only cum in a messy diaper. Not making them just willing to fill their diaper, but eager to.
Slowly, as their training progresses, their dumb little baby brain will associate a messy diaper with cummies. They'll become more and more horny each time they fill their diaper. In the end, they won't even need buzzies or humpies. They'll cum just by messing their nice, thick diaper while Mommy tells them what a helpless little baby they are.
The line between messies and cummies will be blurred until it's essentially nonexistent. And that's exactly the way it should be for little ones in diapers. ♡
I was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, lazily scrolling through my phone while cheerful songs drifted from the television in the background. The living room was bright with afternoon sunlight pouring through the big windows, warm and peaceful.
A faint rustling caught my ear. I glanced up at the trees outside, their leaves dancing gently in the breeze. Probably just the wind. I thought, and went back to scrolling through my phone.
Another rustle. A little closer this time.
I looked over at the corner where our golden retriever was curled up in his bed, snoring softly, one paw twitching in a dream. Not him.
The sound came again. Soft, rhythmic, unmistakable now that I was really listening. It was accompanied by the quiet crinkle of plastic. I finally lowered my phone and looked down at the floor.
There he was, my husband, lying on his tummy on the thick play mat, wearing nothing but his puffy diaper, and a cute little t-shirt too small to cover it. His pacifier bobbed between his lips as he...bobbed. Secret little wriggles, hips shifting in tiny, guilty movements he clearly hoped I wouldn’t notice.
“Honey?” I said softly.
He jumped a little, eyes wide, freezing like a deer in headlights, cheeks already flushing pink behind the shield have the pacifier. Then he quickly looked down at the mat like he could hide from me.
“You sure are doing a lot of wriggling over there, sweetheart...”
He didn’t say a word. Just suckled his paci, obviously scrambling for some excuse.
I leaned forward, tucking my hair behind my ears so I could see him better. “Are you… trying to make humpies?”
His blush deepened instantly, spreading all the way to his ears. He couldn’t meet my eyes. As if by avoiding my gaze he could make this whole situation go away.
“Awww! It’s okay, hunny!! No need to be embarwassed! You’re not in trouble!”
He peeked up at me then, eyes wide with surprise behind the pacifier still working anxiously in his mouth. His chin was already a little shiny with drool.
I smiled warmly. “It’s okay. Honest! You put up such a fuss about your diapers for so long! Mommy’s happy that you’re coming to accept them and… enjoy them.” I sat back on the couch once more. “So go on… have your fun!”
He hesitated, searching my face, clearly unsure if this was some kind of test. But after a long moment of nothing else being said, his hips began to move again. Slowly at first, testing the waters. Then gradually picking up pace with growing need.
I pretended to go back to my phone, thumb scrolling through videos I wasn’t really seeing, wanting to give him the illusion of a little privacy while he “did his business.” But my eyes kept drifting back to him. I couldn’t help it.
There he was: a grown man, my husband, someone who used to stand in boardrooms and run high-stakes projects, now reduced to this on our living room floor. Humping his own thick diaper like a desperate, clumsy little pup who couldn’t help himself. It was so ridiculous. So pitiful. And yet...it filled me with the deepest, warmest sense of satisfaction I’d ever felt in our marriage.
He used to fight this so hard when we first started the restructuring. When the diapers went from the occasional “punishment” to an everyday reality.
He would throw full tantrums. Tears, yelling, begging, swearing that he hated them. That he could never, ever enjoy them. He’d safeword out of scenes, withdraw for days, insist it was “too much,” “too humiliating,” “not who he was.” I had to be firm and consistent, even when it was difficult. It was a long, painful, arduous process.
And now look at him.
His hips ground into the floor in short, awkward little ruts at first, the thick padding between his legs forcing them apart and making every movement clumsy and limited. The diaper was already plump and swollen from his morning wetting, the front puffy and slightly yellowed, the tapes stretched tight around his waist. I could tell his poor little penis wasn’t angled quite right inside the pamper. He kept shifting, frustrated, his hands twitching as if fighting the urge to reach down and adjust himself. But he knew the rule: no touching. Ever.
The crinkling was loud and constant, almost comical, each thrust producing a wet-sounding crinkle beneath the cartoon’s distant singing.
Every now and then he’d turn his head just enough to glance back at me, checking if the coast was clear, like a naughty little tottler trying to sneak something forbidden. Each time he saw me “absorbed” in my phone, he’d look away again and resume those pitiful little movements. I could see the shame burning in his face: the way his ears stayed red, the way he kept his eyes fixed on the mat as if staring hard enough might make him invisible. And yet it wasn’t enough to stop him. That only made it sweeter.
Part of me wondered if I should have changed his diaper first. The padding was heavily yellowed and plump, making an almost fat lump flat on the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, the extra warmth and squish seemed to excite him more. His movements grew bolder, hips pressing down harder against the mat, grinding the bulky, cushiony front against his sensitive parts. His whole body looked so helpless like this. Legs slightly kicked out, feet sliding on the mat, back arched just a little in that pathetic attempt to get more friction. A successful, intelligent man reduced to rutting against his own soaked diaper. The sight made my heart flutter with affection and something deeper, something possessive. This was the proof. All those months of pushing him, of holding the line when he cried and protested, had led to this exact moment. He wasn’t enduring the diapers anymore. He was using them. Willingly. Right in front of me.
He didn’t make eye contact with me. He didn’t look my way at all after those quick checks. As if staring off into the distance would make him look more non-chalant, despite him straining his little face. Faint, humiliated whimpers and grunts slipped out every few thrusts—soft, breathy sounds he probably thought were quiet. I wondered if he even knew how loud he was being, even while trying so hard to stay inconspicuous. Drool was dripping steadily now from the corner of his mouth onto the mat, forming a small shiny puddle beneath his chin. I made a quiet mental note to myself: we’d definitely need bibs or burp cloths during tummy time from now on if this was going to become a regular thing. The pacifier shield bobbed wildly as he sucked harder, trying to soothe himself while his body chased that building pleasure.
His movements grew a little more frantic, hips jerking in pitiful, uncoordinated bursts. The thick diaper squished audibly with every desperate hump, the swollen padding compressing and shifting between his spread thighs. His legs gave tiny, helpless kicks, toes curling inside his socks. He looked so ridiculous. So completely lost in the act that it made my chest tighten with love. This was what I had wanted all along. Not just control, but this deep, total acceptance. He had fought it with everything he had, and now here he was, grinding away like he couldn’t stop even if the world was watching.
His pace quickened. If he was trying to be quiet, he was failing miserably. His whole body began to tremble. His nose whistled with each quick breath. The grunts turned into longer, needier whimpers. Then, he tensed. Hard. Back arching, legs straightening, hands clutching at the edge of the blankie as he came in his diaper with a long, muffled whine around the pacifier. His hips gave a few final, twitching thrusts before he collapsed flat against the mat, breathing hard, clearly overwhelmed.
I let the moment stretch for several seconds, letting him have his little humpie high. Then I asked as sweet as possible, keeping my tone light and non-judgmental:
“All done?”
He gave the tiniest, most ashamed little nod, face still hidden. I could practically feel the post-nut clarity crashing over him. The sticky warmth spreading inside the already wet padding, the sudden wave of humiliation at what he’d just done while I sat there watching. I didn't say anything else. I didn't need to. He probably had enough internal dialogue going on already.
I thought again about changing his diaper. It was visibly swollen and discolored now, sagging heavily between his legs. But I pushed the thought aside. No. I wanted him to sit in that diaper. To really feel it. Every warm, sticky reminder of what he’d done in his pamper. So I simply went back to scrolling on my phone and let the quiet settle over the room. Giving him time. Letting it all soak in.
The cartoon kept singing cheerfully in the background, bright and innocent. A few peaceful minutes drifted by. The only sounds were the occasional soft, squishy crinkles as he shifted restlessly on the mat, the heavy, used diaper compressing and rustling beneath his weight. Then, quietly at first, I heard the rustling start again.
Wait... Again??
My thumb froze on the phone screen for a second as genuine surprise washed over me. Already? After barely a few minutes? After that intense first orgasm and all the shame that should have followed? I hadn’t expected this. Not this quickly. A warm rush of shock, delight, and deep satisfaction bloomed in my chest.
Look at him go!
My sweet, stubborn husband, the man who used to fight every single diaper with tears and tantrums, was already going back for sloppy seconds in his own messy, cum-soaked pamper like he couldn’t help himself.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to embarrass him further. I mean, it was embarrassing: a grown man desperately humping his own wet, sticky diaper right there on the living room floor. But this… this was so good for him. Learning to enjoy what his body craved without fighting it anymore.
His hips were moving once more. Slower this time, almost exploratory, like he was savoring the slick, sticky mess he’d already made inside. The used diaper made everything sloppier, the crinkles wetter and more obscene. He ground down harder, rolling in deeper circles, clearly chasing that second release with renewed, almost frantic need. Those faint little grunts and whimpers returned, even softer this time, as if he were trying harder to stay quiet. Every so often he’d sneak another glance back at me, checking if I was still “not watching,” before turning away and resuming his pitiful humping. The shame was written all over him, but it clearly wasn’t enough to stop the desperate little ruts.
His movements grew more intense. Hips rolling in deeper circles, then quick little thrusts that made the heavy pamper squish between his legs. The front was visibly swollen, the padding compressed from his efforts. I wondered how it felt for him. That warm, cushiony embrace hugging his sensitive skin, the evidence of his first orgasm helping slick the way for his second.
I watched openly from the couch, warmth blooming low in my belly at the sight. There had been so many nights early on when I’d felt genuinely guilty enforcing this. The sound of his choked sobs while I spanked him over my knee, the way his voice would crack as he begged me not to make him use his diaper. There were evenings I’d had to turn the baby monitor off completely because I couldn’t bear to listen to him crying himself to sleep in the crib, tugging on his little restraints, trapped in a heavily soiled diaper with no way to escape the mess. I’d told myself it was necessary. That he needed to break. That the only way he’d ever truly accept this was if I held the line even when it hurt to do so.
And now here he was. All that resistance had melted into this eager, desperate acceptance. It was everything I’d worked for.
His second orgasm came even faster than the first. Usually the second was more stubborn. But apparently he was getting better at it. His breathing turned into quick pants. His body twitched harder. Then he tensed again, a long muffled whine escaping around the pacifier as he came in his already sticky diaper, hips jerking through the aftershocks before he went limp once more.
I waited until his breathing had mostly calmed, then spoke casually without looking up from my phone, voice still as sweet as could be. “Would you like a bottle, baby?” I asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof, "Perhaps you worked up a thirst?"
He shook his head quickly, flushing in embarrassment. Surely he didn't think he was being discreet?
I smiled softly to myself and let it go. I really did need to change him at this point. The front of his diaper was visibly damp and defiled now, sagging heavily between his legs from the two loads he’d pumped into it.
But then I glanced at the clock on the wall. 1:37. He usually had his afternoon poop right around 2:00. No sense in changing him just so he could dirty up a fresh one soon after. He could wait a little longer.
I stayed right where I was on the couch, scrolling.
Not long after, I heard his tell-tale grunts. Not the humpy kind of grunts. The other kind. When he was handling his...other type of business.
Unnh…unh…eh…unh…
Oh? I thought. He's a little early today...
I kept my eyes glued to my phone, pretending to be completely absorbed, watching everything from the corner of my vision so he could keep that tiny illusion of privacy and dignity. Even if it was only pretend.
Even on his tummy, I could see the subtle changes in his posture: the way his back tensed, his shoulders drew up slightly, the slow, concentrated push of his padded hips against the mat.
The back of his diaper began to crinkle and slowly balloon outward as he filled it. The seat expanded gradually, sagging heavily downward, the thick padding stretching and bulging under the weight. It was a thorough one. The warm, earthy smell drifted up toward the couch a few moments later, unmistakable and strong. I pretended not to notice, keeping my face perfectly neutral, thumb still scrolling at the same lazy pace.
He used to fight pooping his diapers with everything he had. Full-on meltdowns that could last an hour. Screaming, kicking, refusing, bargaining, tears streaming down his face. He could barely manage it even when I made him drop into a squat like a little tot, face bright red with humiliation and effort. So much time and energy spent resisting the most basic, babyish act. And now here he was, doing it face-down on his tummy on the play mat without a single word of protest, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The restructuring had worked so completely it almost took my breath away.
But oof… it was a stinky one. The smell was thick enough to make my nose wrinkle for a second before I schooled my expression again. Still, I didn’t comment. I didn’t even acknowledge it.
But oof… it was a stinky one. The smell was thick enough to make my nose wrinkle for a second before I schooled my expression again. Still, I didn’t comment. I didn’t even acknowledge it.
When he finally finished, he stayed very still for a long moment, clearly processing the heavy, warm mess now packed against him. Then he turned his head just enough to glance back at me, eyes wide and hopeful, clearly desperate and grossed out, silently begging for a change. The shame was written all over his flushed face—the way his pacifier worked anxiously between his lips, the way his hands clenched and unclenched against the mat. He looked so small. So pitiful. A grown man sitting in his own heavy, stinky diaper, hoping Mommy would take pity on him.
But I kept my eyes on my phone, calm and unbothered, as if nothing at all was happening. He knew better than to ask. He knew the rules by now.
Besides, I wanted to conduct a little experiment.
I wanted to see what would happen if I left him like this for a while, trapped in that heavy, warm, messy diaper on his tummy, no relief in sight, the evidence of everything he’d done today squishing and shifting with even the smallest movement. So I stayed quiet, scrolling, my heart beating a little faster with quiet anticipation and satisfaction. All those early struggles, all the guilt I’d sometimes felt enforcing his new reality… it had led to this. Total surrender.
Sure enough, after a few quiet minutes of nothing but the soft sounds of the cartoon and the occasional creak of the play mat, I heard the faint, rhythmic rustling start again…
“Daniel?” Irene demanded. “Who were those young women dressed like whores I saw leaving the house as I drove up?”
Daniel blushed at his mother's question but he was still to amazed by the way he'd just lost his virginity to think straight.
“Oh, uh, Hi Mom!” He said “You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
“But you don't deny they were here with you dressed like that? This is a Christian household, Daniel! I will not abide sin under this roof! If you want to go chasing after fallen women, you can get out right now! I never should have agreed to you going to that college!” She exclaimed. “Get on your knees and pray to The Lord for forgiveness right now!”
“I, um, should pray in my closet,” Daniel hedged. “Like the bible says.”
His mother flushed with indignation but she couldn’t deny he was right.
“See that you do!” She exclaimed. “and I'm turning off the wifi!”
Daniel willfully kept himself from running to his room and tried to look chastened. He closed the bedroom door and went straight to his desk and the leather-bound notebook he had found at a thrift store. The one where the first pages held a story where the Wilson sisters dressed up slutty and then came over to claim his virginity.
Something they had done in real life shortly after writing the story.
Daniel had been writing smut for years. After his dad died, his mother, who had always been religious, went completely overboard with it. And she'd become obsessed with Daniel’s ‘wickedness’. She had every net nanny imaginable and routinely demanded access to his laptop and phone to check for smut.
But unlike his dead father, whose porn stashes discovered after his death had triggered his mom's crusade, Daniel preferred stories. And as his mother had become more and more vigilant of his electronics, he discovered the paper loop hole. He wrote out smut stories for himself by hand in notebooks. His mom never thought to check them.
But this notebook was special. Tara Wilson’s lace panties beside it on his desk proved it. Daniel opened to a new page. Could he really do this?
How could he not?
When Irene's husband died, she had a bit of a mental breakdown. But not in a bad way. She realized how short and unpredictable life was and decided she didn't believe in a god that would deny anyone the pleasure of being alive. She became obsessed with sex…
Daniel closed the book, took a deep breath and steered himself to go see if it had worked.
It had.
“Hey mom! New dress?” He asked, grinning from ear to ear.
“Yes!” She exclaimed, arching her back to better show off her breast implants. “Do you like it?”
“It's amazing! Utterly amazing!” He exclaimed.
Irene giggled and gave her tits a shake.
“You're so sweet, Danny!” She exclaimed. “Always building up your old mom's self-esteem!”
“You're not old, Mom! You're mature!” He said.
“Well, that is the category that they put my content in,” she conceded.
“Do you have another date tonight?” He asked, knowing the answer. He'd written it after all.
“No, I just ordered us dinner, if that’s alright,” she said. “We don't spend enough time together since you started college!”
“That's an awesome idea, Mom!” He exclaimed. “I love hanging out with you! I'll set the table!”
“Such a good boy!” She exclaimed.
***
Dinner was delivered and soon Irene was working on her fourth glass of wine. Before Daniel wrote his story she didn't drink but now the pantry was half devoted to alcohol. Thanks to his story, her inhibitions had quickly washed away as she told him about her day working at the lingerie and sex toy shop.
“I love that we can just talk like this, Mom,” he said. “Now that we're both adults, it's almost like we're friends more than mother and son.”
“I feel that way too!” Irene exclaimed, triggered by the dialog in Daniel's story . “You're a grown man! There's no reason we can't be friends! Best friends, even! In fact, would you like to call me Irene instead of Mom?”
“You know what, Irene, I think I'd like that,” he said. “I could introduce you to people by saying ‘This is my hot, mature friend Irene.’.”
Irene giggled drunkenly.
“You really think I'm hot?” She asked.
“Oh, come on, Irene!” He said, gesturing towards her by way of demonstration. “You're gorgeous! I mean, you were always pretty, but ever since you went blonde and got your boobs done…MILF City!”
She blushed and giggled and downed her fourth glass of wine.
“I…I noticed you noticing,” she confessed. “You seem.., you seem to really like my implants.”
“They're hard not to notice, and their hard not to like,” Daniel said, unashamedly looking at his mother's fake tits.
“You don't think it was foolish to get them? At my age?” She pressed.
“Not at all!” He assured her. “I love how they've boosted your self confidence! They seem to genuinely make you happy! And Lord knows they make a lot of other people happy…”
“Do they, um, make you happy, Daniel?” She asked nervously.
“I think you know they do, Irene,” he said.
“Would you… like to see them?” She asked.
“I'd like that a lot, Irene,” he said. “Since we're friends now, I can't think of any reason you shouldn't show me your tits. Can you, Irene?”
“I can't,” she admitted, standing up unsteadily. “And I really want to!”
She peeled off her slutty pink dress and revealed the surgically enhanced titties her son had written for her.
“Oh wow, Mom!” he exclaimed. “I mean Irene! They're more spectacular than I imagined!”
She tittered nervously.
“Would you… like to touch them?” She asked.
Daniel was up and around the table in less than a second.
“You don't have to ask me twice, Irene,” he said, groping her tits from behind. “I've wanted to do this ever since you got them!”
Even if that was just an hour ago.
“Oh Danny! Of Fuck, that feels so good!” His mother exclaimed as he massaged her bare tits. “I've dreamed of this!”
Daniel wasn't sure what was making him harder, the fact that she was letting him feel up the fake tits he had given her or that she had just said “Oh Fuck” for the first time he was aware of.
Regardless, he pressed his erection through his pants against her ass as he started nibbling her neck, his hands still exploring her tits. He wasn't sure how firm her ass had been before but he'd written it as mind blowing, so it was.
“Oh Danny! Oh fuck, Danny!” Irene exclaimed as she realized what was pressed against her ass. “I…I want you! I know I shouldn't… we shouldn't…”
Daniel had written her hesitation, so he knew it wouldn't last. He let go of her right tit to slide his hand down her belly and find her crotch. He placed his thumb on her clit and pressed.
“We should,” he insisted. “We must! You need it, Irene. You need to be fucked hard and you need me to be the one that fucks you! Now bend over and put your palms on the table, you horny little slut!”
His mother gasped, her eyes wide at his forceful language, then she did as she was told as the submissive streak he had written into her took hold.
“Yes, Daniel, “ she agreed . “Whatever you want.”
He peeled down her sodden panties and slapped her ass.
“It's not about what I want, Irene,” he corrected. “It's what you need, Irene! Tell me you need my cock!”
“I…I need your cock, Daniel!” She admitted.
“And where do you need my cock?” He pressed, running a finger up her slit by way of a hint.
“In my pussy! I need your cock in my hot, wet pussy, Danny! I need you to fuck me!” She confirmed.
“And why do you need me to fuck you, Irene?” He asked, taking her hips in his hands.
“Why?” She asked, near panicked at not knowing the right answer, then breathing in sharply as she remembered. “Cuz I'm a horny little slut!”
“Good Girl!” He declared and thrust his hard prick into her weeping twat.
Irene squealed and Daniel proceeded to pound her pussy, thrusting again and again with all the power of years of sexual repression and resentment. She urged him to fuck her harder in her increasingly rare moments of intelligibility. Mostly she just jibbered.
Daniel's experience with the female orgasm up until that day was limited entirely to smut stories he had found online or imagined himself, but from Irene's response, he must have gotten something right. She eventually went into uncontrollable paroxysms, then collapsed, boneless and drooling on the table.
“You're a good little slut, Irene,” he said, stroking her ass as he pulled out of her, his jism dribbling out of her.
“I'm your little slut, Daniel…” she said dreamily. “I'm all yours… anything for you… anything for your cock.,, need it so much…”
Daniel grinned at her, giving the dialog he had written to end his story. Now he just needed to see if the happy ending stuck.
He picked his drunk and thoroughly fucked mother up and carried her to her bedroom, his magic notebook having made him strong enough to do so easily. Irene's head lolled against his shoulder.
“I'm your slut, Daniel…” she reminded him. “All yours”
“You most certainly are, Irene,” he assured her.
“Are you gonna fuck me more?” She asked. “Please?”
He dropped her on her bed and mounted her by way of answer.
***
Daniel had just finished filming Irene jumping on her bed to post on her socials. He had no doubt it was going to be popular and bring in more paid subscribers to her spicy pages. He could have written a story about it, but it didn't seem to be necessary. A throwaway sentence in his first story about her growing career as a spicy content creator was all it took. Her accounts were already set up and there was recording equipment in her bedroom.
“That was awesome, Irene,” he assured her.
She giggled.
“I can see you liked it, Danny!” She exclaimed, pointing at his crotch. “Can I help you with that?”
“If you don't mind,” he said.
“I never mind!” She exclaimed, and was on her knees with his cock in her mouth in an instant.
Daniel sighed. He would never get bored of this!
He hadn’t known what to expect once his story had ended. The Wilson sisters had just thanked him for the good time and left. He hadn't had time until later to find out that everyone in the neighborhood now thought of them as the sluttiest girls in town.
No one from his mom's church showed up to ask about her. As far as they knew, she hadn’t attended since his dad died. Daniel was the only person in the universe who remembered how things used to be, who his mother and neighbors used to be. The notebook was more powerful than he had even imagined. He hadn't just rewritten his mother's personality. He'd altered history itself.
He came down Irene's throat and she happily swallowed. He patted her on the head and then sent her off to upload her content and flirt with her fans. He probably shouldn’t, but if the journal was that powerful, could he go beyond simple smut stories? There were other subgenres, after all…
“””
He walked into his mother's bedroom and found her touching up her makeup.
“Daniel!” She exclaimed. “I was just thinking of you!”
“I was thinking of you too, Irene,” he said. “I invented something I wanted to show you!”
“Really? You're so smart! What is it?” She asked.
He remembered being not nearly so smart. But his story had made him an engineering genius.
“It's a bimbo gun,” he told his mother, showing her his trumpet-nosed pink pistol.
“A bimbo gun?” She asked. “What does it do?”
“Well, Irene, there's really only one way to know for sure, isn't there, “ he said, pointing it at her and firing.
Irene gasped as a blast of brightly colored confetti hit her and formed a vortex. As it slowly settled down, in the aftermath Irene was on hands and knees giggling. She was 21 years old and the quintessential blonde bimbo. Daniel's invention worked exactly the way he had written it would.
“OMG, Daniel!” She exclaimed, getting up. “You turned me into a bimbo!”
“You don't mind, do you Irene?” He asked.
“Mind?!” She said. “It’s a fucking dream come true! I always wanted to be your bimbo girlfriend! Now we can go out and people won't think it's weird!”
“Hey, that's right!” He said. “Do you want to go out now?”
“Nu-uh!” She shook her pigtails in denial, then pulled her top off.
“I wanna thank you with that big pecker between my titties!” She proposed.
She did. And what happened next? Well, that's another story.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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@babyclaire recently requested a list of messy content, and so here it is at last! It’s probably not exhaustive, but I hope the links are useful anyway. I’ll try to get together a messy story index too before long!
Gahhhh! I told you I didn’t need so much baby powder! I don’t even need diapers at all!!!! And now I can’t stop making powder clouds whenever I move >.<!! Everyone’s gonna know!!! ###>.<###
I was once babysitting a little for a bit while they were between caregivers, and she was a total cutie. But she told me that she always wanted to mess her diapers but never find the right CG or get herself to do it. After a few attempts, it just didn't happen.
She tried different positions and still nothing.
So I did something (that i definitely dont advise for long term because it can be bad for your body) I told her to just hold it. Don't try to go, just hold it.
She held it for a while, it was uncomfortable and I just kept reminding her "Its gonna feel so much better in your diaper than in your tummy I promise." But she still held it.
What i didnt expect is that this would create one of the most embarrassing situations for her as she went to the fridge she crouched down to grab something and fully messed her diaper accidentally. She did this in a common space in her apartment (luckily no one around)
Oh the look on her face, tears instantly started forming. What an absolute angel. I remember saying something like "Awww there you go, feel better?"
And she nodded into my chest as I hugged her.
There's something REALLY cute about an accident like that 💕 when it surprises all involved.
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15 screen "booster pack" of new nursery PSAs just released! It's cool to see these going around corners of the community that my usual content doesn't always reach. People have asked if it's okay to use these for hypnosis videos or similar projects. Unlike my photos, I think it's fine for people to do whatever they want with them, provided it's non-commercial and I'm credited appropriately. More coming soon!
More and more. You were seeing them each and every day.
Your pony friends. Your bestest buddies. You loved them and they loved you.
You always watched their show! Whenever your daddy popped in the dvds, you’d watch each episode with intent and always paid attention to the lessons they taught you.
They helped you lots and lots. They were always there for you. You could depend on them. Your super safe and secure support group. They always knew what was best for you.
So of course, it came as no surprise, when they recommended that you give up potty training and just use your diapers. You did just that !
You were a good girl after all. And good girls listen and obey.
“Okay, applejack. I’ll be a good girl and give up my potty training….I’m a good girl!” -you said as you sat up. Walking up to the screen and Talking to Applejack through the tv.
You went through your drawers. Through your closet. Your whole room. Scouring for your undies. Your panties.
Your tossed those undies right in the trash. Where they belong. Where they usually ended up anyways. You had a habit of wetting them anyways….
The next day, you found that your daddy had filled your drawer with pretty pink padded pony princess pampers. So soft and safe. printed with your pink pony friends too. Your pony pals were basically everywhere in your life.
You were ecstatic…
And that morning too , your daddy said that he had a special dvd for padded pamper pony princesses like yourself !
Your daddy taped on your pampers, got your baba and teddy and brought you to the tv room while holding your hand. And you fell down in front of the tv with a soft squish. Suckling your baba before the dvd movie even started.
Your brain began to buzz and hum soft funny fuzzy feelings as you saw the colors start on the screen.
“What am I going to learn this time ?” -you wondered to yourself.
Reba came home to find her daughter topless with a ridiculously large set of breasts.
"Good Lord, Tiffany!" She exclaimed. "What happened?"
"Greg found a ring that grants wishes, Mom!" Her stacked daughter exclaimed. "It's so awesome! Not just three wishes like some stupid genie! Like, unlimited wishes!"
"You did this to her, Greg?" Reba demanded.
She had never liked her son-in-law and liked him even less since he got fired, forcing Tiffany and him to move into her basement.
"I did, Reba!" He grinned.
"He totally did!" Tiffany enthused. "He gave me these awesome titties and he made it so I can finally enjoy giving head! Best husband ever, right?"
"You son of a bitch, Greg!" Reba exclaimed. "You undo what you did to her this instant!"
"She really doesn't want me to, do you Tiff?" Her disgustingly smug son-in-law said, goosing her daughter and making her squeal.
"Of course not!" Tiffany said. "Don't be such a bitch, Mom! Don't you see how lucky we all are? Greg has infinite wishes! And he's not being selfish with them either! Most of his wishes have been for stuff I want, like bigger titties! I'm sure he'll wish for things for you and dad too, won't you Sweetie?"
"Of course, Babe!" Greg said and groped one massive boob.
"There’s no way you wished for those, Tiffany!" Reba insisted.
"Now Reba, there's no reason to be upset," he said. "I really wish you'd believe everything I tell you."
There was a weird tingle in Reba's head and she realized that, as strange as it seemed, this was what her daughter wanted.
"And I really wish you were as excited as I am about me having the power to make all of our dreams come true, especially your own, Reba!" He said.
Reba gasped! How had she been so foolish? Her son-in-law had infinite wishes and was willing to use them to make their dreams come true!
"I... I don't know what to ask for first!" She admitted as dozens of ideas tumbled through her head.
"I wish you'd just trust me to know what you need like Tiffany does, Reba," he said.
"Oh! Yes! Of course I do, Greg!" She said. "Please, wish what you think is best for me!"
"I'm going to start by giving you a new career, " he said with a grin. "Something that will make a LOT more than your part-time job at the yarn store. You'll make a lot more than Dan!"
Reba gasped. A new career wasn't one of the wishes she had thought of, but Greg knew best! Her husband could get used to her making more than him. Hell, he might even like it!
"I wish that you were a popular MILF cosplay performer under the stage name Reba Rabbit and that you will bring in a seven figure income from internet content and live performances," he said. "I wish the basement had a recording studio with state of the art equipment for you to act like a sexy bimbo for all your fans."
Reba squealed as she realized that this truly was her fondest dream! And thanks to her son-in-law, it had come true!
"OMG, Mom!" Tiffany exclaimed. "I had no idea you wanted to be a bimbo too!"
"I just act like a bimbo for money, Sweetie," she clarified.
"Oh Reba, I wish you'd just accept that the reason you enjoy acting like a bimbo is because you ARE a bimbo," Greg said.
Reba giggled.
"You're right, Greg," she admitted. "I know you're right. I'm a bimbo!"
"Just like me!" Tiffany exclaimed and jiggled her jugs.
"I just can’t thank you enough for my new career, Greg!" Reba exclaimed.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find ways, Reba," he said.
"You should suck his dick, Mom!" Tiffany suggested.
Reba gasped.
"Tiffany!" She scolded. "He's your husband!"
"Oh, Tiffany doesn't mind," Greg assured her. "And I really wish you would, Reba Rabbit. I wish you desperately want to suck my cock and that you're very proud of how skilled you are at blowjobs."
Reba gasped, then grinned.
"I guess a vigorous b.j. is the best way to thank you, Greg!" She conceded, and licked her lips.
She strode forward and sank to her knees in a fluid motion and shucked off her son-in-law's pants to find his cock was massive and growing.
"Oh! So that's what my daughter sees in you!" She exclaimed.
Tiffany giggled and nodded.
"I love his cock so much!" She agreed.
"You're so nice to share it with your mom, Babe!" He told her.
"I am, aren’t I?" Tiffany agreed. "But it's more than big enough to share!"
That was certainly true! Reba took him in both hands and proceeded to thoroughly thank him. She hoped her daughter gave him head regularly, but it couldn't compare to her decades of experience!
"Oh my, you're an incredible cocksucker, Reba!" Her son-in-law praised as she began bobbing her head along his shaft in earnest. "I can see where Tiffany gets it!
Her daughter giggled. Reba fellated.
"You know, Reba, you can't help falling in love with me, sucking my dick makes you so happy," Greg said. "Is it okay if your mom becomes my love slave, Tiff?"
"Of course! Everything you want is for the best, Greg! I know that!" Tiffany said.
"And Reba knows it too!" He said, stroking her hair as she swallowed his spectacular cock. "I don't even have to wish for it, Reba! You adore me!"
She believed him, of course. She was so fucking happy! She couldn't say how much she loved her son-in-law with her mouth full, so she redoubled her efforts to show him.
***
Dan came home to find his daughter topless, his useless son-in-law bottomless and his wife on the floor in a bunny costume.
"What the fuck? " he exclaimed.
Reba turned to see him and gasped. There was something at the corner of her mouth that his mind balked at identifying.
"Oh! Dan! You're home!" His wife exclaimed, glancing briefly at Greg. "We need to talk."
"Damned right we do!" Dan agreed. "But first, YOU need to pull your pants up so the neighbors don't complain when I throw your naked ass in the street!"
"Daddy, don't be mean!" Said his absurdly stacked daughter. "If you do, maybe Greg won't even wish something nice for you!"
"Yes, Dan," said Reba, getting to her feet and standing on the other side of Greg. "I know this all might seem unusual, but it really is for the best! You just have to trust Greg and everything will turn out great! All our dreams can come true!"
"What the fuck are you talking about, Reba!" Dan demanded. "You dream of being a bunny?"
"I'm a cosplay MILF and content creator!" She declared proudly, sticking her chest out.
"I can give you a new occupation too, Dan," his son-in-law smirked. "I have a ring that grants infinite wishes! "
"That's absurd!" Dan said, but then considered his daughter's expanded chest. Something weird was certainly going on.
"You can finally get your wish of being a freshman college bimbo on a cheerleading scholarship with an exhibitionist kink," Greg said.
"What? I don't want that!" Dan denied.
"I wish you did and I wish you were." Greg wished.
Danica gasped.
"OMG!" Danica squealed. "My wish came true!"
Tiffany giggled and clapped. Reba gawked.
"I... I had no idea!" She said. "Is that really what Dan wanted?"
"Of course, Cunny Bunny!" Said her son-in-law, cupping her ass with a palm. "You trust me, don’t you?"
"Of course, Lover!" Reba swore.
"You're so pretty, Daddy!" Tiffany exclaimed.
"I think maybe we should think of Danica as your slutty baby sister, Babe," Greg suggested.
"Oh! Right!" Tiffany said. "You're so smart, Greg!"
"Hey! I'm a bimbo, not a slut!" Danica objected.
"Danica, I wish you understood that everyone in this family believes whatever I tell them and is happy to be whatever Ii tell them to be," Greg said. "So you're happy to be Tiffany's slutty little sister and Reba's dumbest bimbo daughter."
Danica giggled and nodded enthusiastically.
"So go ahead and show us your cheer routine, you little slut," he invited. "We all know how much you love to shake your tits and ass, and it gives you a naughty thrill to do it for your family."
Danica giggled. It was totally true!
She went into her routine. She didn't remember all the words, but her family didn't judge. They accepted her for the slutty bimbo she was! And she rewarded their acceptance with generous helpings of T&A!
She was so glad to realize she wasn't wearing bra and panties beneath her uniform! She flashed her tight twat at her family with every high kick and jump! Her tits bounded and jostled with every move.
When she finished the routine, her new mom, big sister and brother-in-law applauded. And then they started a cheer of their own.
"Show your tits! Show your tits! Show your tits! "
So she tossed her top in a corner, to her family's delight and applause.
They liked her! They really liked her! She did an encode routine topless.
"That was amazing, Danica! " Greg praised her. "You are definitely my favorite sister-in-law!"
She stood there panting and glistening with sweat, her tits sore from all the bouncing, happier than she could ever remember being! Not that she remembered much.
Danica giggled.
"I'm your only sister-in-law!" She pointed out.
Still, it made her proud!
"You deserve a reward for your performance, Danica." Greg said. "How should we reward Danica, Tiffany?"
"You should fuck her, Greg!" Her big sister declared. "We should all fuck her!"
"That's a great idea!" Greg agreed, and so they all did. "I just wish Reba's bed was big enough for all four of us!"
So, dear bimbo, I have some bad news for you - you can't actually, permanently, reduce your intelligence, barring genuinely getting brain damage, I guess. Trust me, I tried. A lot. Ultimately, you still have a lot of learned habits, ideas and neural pathways that can't just be erased with some hypnosis and a snap saying "you're totally stupid now".
Except I lied - that's not a bad thing at all. In fact, it's a very, very good thing. It means that your big, smart head, so full of ideas about literature, language, engineering, medicine, law or history - whatever it was you decided to be smart at, is also capable of redirecting your "intelligence" into actually important things.
Which is why I would like you to stop thinking about your IQ, or your EQ, or whatever silly smartness score there is that you care about. No, we need to talk about your PQ. Your Porn Intelligence.
"What is Porn Intelligence?" I hear you ask.
Simple, my little curious thing, it's a measure of how smart you are at being porn. If your brain is so smart, so full of ideas, then why do you think you can't fill it up with all the ideas of how to be the best porn you can?
Why are you trying to empty it, to make yourself dumber, when you can instead make yourself smarter in a much more useful way?
Why focus your smarts on the unimportant stuff, on being someone smart. A lawyer. A teacher. An engineer. When you can instead learn what are the best camera angles to show off your tits?
So, I wanted to coin something - a score you all dumb sluts can work on increasing, realistically. Each new way you find to make yourself more like porn. Hotter, sluttier, easier to jerk off to, you can gain a point of PQ.
Make a tracker, even.
Learning that it's better to always show off cleavage? That's a PQ point.
Finding out that always having something tight around your ass, so that people can stare, even without you knowing? Another PQ point!
Posting your tits on the internet, for others to jerk off to? I'd give you three, just for that! So smart!
Learning all about what kinds of fake tits will make you the best slut? Jerking off to the imagination of yourself with them? Yeah, that's a point too.
And actually getting them? Making yourself irl jerk-off fuel, permanently, irreversibly. Well, that'd put you into the "genius" part of the PQ curve, wouldn't it?
So, girls, whores, sluts and bimbos - why are you wasting your precious, silly little brains trying to be stupid, when you could just get a super high Porn Intelligence instead?
and who knows, maybe along the way, you'll forget why you found all that other smart stuff interesting anyway?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Safe age appropriate orgasms in her nappy is all she will ever get - if she deserves to get an orgasm at all. It should always be done when she is safely padded up. No big girl sex allowed; just soft warm orgasms in her wet and messy nappy.
Not being allowed to take it off or push it to one side, girlie has to just endure having the magic wand pushed against her special area, all safely taped up behind the thick rustling plastic and all of her wet warm accidents that smush against her. (It’s the only pleasure she’s accustom to anymore.) softly moaning into her pacifier as she screams, being hit with waves of pleasure. She doesn’t get any control at all. The grown ups hold the vibrating wand under the guise of “she’s too little” to do anything for herself. She doesn’t decide when it ends, that’s not her choice either. It could be one orgasm or she could be repeatedly forced to cum over and over again until she’s a sobby, soar, overstimulated, hot blushy mess.
After princess has had her fun, give her some gentle encouraging pats and send her off to play or to take a nap. She’s not allowed a change. In the post orgasm glow and come down she can feel all of the shame that’s resulted in her humiliating herself to this level. Peeing her pants and making messy accidents just to own the grown ups approval to cum. Sitting in her nappy -well soaked with all of her many different types of accidents princess can reflect about the decisions she’s made that have leak her to this point in her life.
But with all that said, deny her long enough that she’s be begging for it all again…
