Finch_

Cry-Baby

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are consenting adults over the age of 21. The terms “baby,” and similar language are used strictly in the context of consensual adult age regression, ABDL roleplay, and power-exchange fantasy between ADULTS. This story is fictional and does not represent or involve minors in any way.

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Hey widdle guy!” Mommy cooed as she stepped into the nursery, her voice sugary sweet and dripping with mockery. “How’s your diapy?”

I tugged hard at the soft restraints holding my wrists and ankles to the crib mattress, but they didn’t budge. The heavy, warm mush pressed insistently against my skin, a constant, squelching reminder with every tiny shift I made. The plastic pants over the thick diaper crinkled loudly at the slightest movement, sealing in the unmistakable, shameful scent of my accident. It was humiliating. Degrading. I felt my face burning before I even opened my mouth. I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. What would I even say, anyhow?

Luckily, Mommy didn’t wait for me.

“No need, sweetie. I can smell you from the other room.” She wrinkled her nose playfully as she leaned over the crib rail. “Does baby want his diapy changed?”

I whimpered and nodded frantically, desperate for relief.

Mommy giggled, the sound light and cruel. “Aww, that’s so cute! But I don’t think that’s how babies ask for things anymore…”

She rested her arms on the rail, looking down at me with that calm, all-knowing smile that always made my stomach twist. “I think someone’s gotten a little too big for their britches lately. Started getting a little demanding, even while sitting in a diaper. ‘I’m hungry.’ ‘I need a diaper change.’ ‘I want this.’ ‘I want that.’ Almost like you still think you have any say in anything. Like you get any adult autonomy at all.”

My face felt hot. It wasn’t like I was trying to run the show. She had completely subjugated me at every turn, treating me like a baby. It wasn’t that I was defying her, I was just communicating as much as I was allowed to. But the way she said it made even that small attempt at expression sound like a crime. Like I was being uppity just for having basic needs. She was twisting it, using it as another excuse to push me down even further. Drop me another peg. Another step toward total regression.

“So, we’re going to have a new rule...” she continued, her voice dropping into that soft, condescending tone that always turned my insides to mush. “I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that you are no longer a man. You’re just a pathetic little baby that poops his pampers. So if you want something—anything at all—you’re going to earn it like the widdle baybee you are. No more words. No more whining like an adult pretending he still has dignity. Oh no...”

She leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with amusement. “If you want that diaper changed, if you want to be let out of this crib after naptime, if you’re hungee and that little tummy is rumbling for num nums: you have to cry like a fucking baby."

She proceeded to demonstrate with exaggerated flair, puckering her lips and letting out a loud, mocking wail that echoed around the nursery. “Wahhh wahhh wahhh! Boo-hoo-hoo! The works."

My cheeks flushed even hotter. The idea of doing that myself made me want to sink into the mattress and disappear.

“I’m talking full-on, ridiculous, over-the-top baby crying. Kicking those little legs. Wriggling right there in your messy diaper, making it crinkle and squish so I can hear exactly how full it is. And there better be real tears streaming down your face, or you can forget it. If it’s not the most pathetic display I’ve ever seen, then you can stay right there in your poopy diaper for all I care. I’m sure once that rash starts kicking in, you’ll learn to shed those tears properly.”

I stared up at her, heart pounding. The weight between my legs was growing unbearable, the warm mush pressing and shifting against my skin with every tiny movement.

Mommy reached through the bars and gently patted the front of my diaper. Her hand pressing and squeezing just enough to make it squelch audibly. "Oooh, yea...that’s a big one! Feels like you really let go during your nap, didn’t you? Good babies don’t hold back, but good babies also know how to ask for help. So let’s practice...shall we?”

She straightened up, folding her arms expectantly. “Go on. Show Mommy how badly you want out of that crib and into a nice clean diapee!! Go on. Cry for me. Let's hear it.”

For a moment, a stubborn adult fragment deep inside me resisted. This was ridiculous. Humiliating. But the discomfort in my loaded diaper won out. I took a shaky breath and let out a weak, high-pitched whimper. “Wah…wahhh…”

Mommy’s eyebrow arched. “That’s it? That’s the best you got? Pathetic. I said cry like a baby, not some half-hearted adult sniffle. Kick your legs. Wriggle. Whine. Make that diaper sing for me.”

The humiliation burned through every inch of me. I felt utterly ridiculous as I lifted my legs in the confined space and started kicking them up and down in short, frantic bursts limited by the tight ankle restraints. The thick padding crinkled loudly with every motion, the plastic outer layer rustling against the crib sheet. The mess shifted and spread, warm and sticky, coating me further. I wriggled my hips from side to side like a tottler in full tantrum, feeling the squish intensify, the scent rising stronger around me. My hands, trapped in thick mittens, clenched and twisted helplessly against the straps above me. The frilly bonnet around my head slipped and slid with every frantic toss of my head from side to side as I forced out the fake wailing.

“Wahhh! Wahhh!! Wahhh!!!” My voice cracked as I forced the wails higher, louder, more ridiculous. I sounded absurd. Completely pathetic. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes from the sheer embarrassment of what I was doing.

Mommy watched with a satisfied smirk. “Better. But I don’t see real tears yet. Come on, baby. Think about how trapped you are. How that poopy diaper is going to stay on until you break down like the helpless little thing you’ve become. 'Wahhh wahhh wahhh' let it alllll out!”

The full weight of my fall crashed over me in that moment. My entire adult life—every shred of independence, pride, and manhood I once had—had been completely stripped away until I was nothing more than this: a 27 year-old lying in his own warm filth, forced to kick and bawl pathetically in a crinkling diaper just to beg for the most basic care. Every trace of manhood I once clung to had been methodically erased until nothing remained but this sniveling, stinking broken deadbeat that she now controlled completely. The humiliation, the loss, the sheer depth of my regression...it all hit me at once. My face crumpled.

“Waaaahhh! Waaaahhh wahhh wahhh!!!!” The cries tore out of me, loud and unrestrained. I kicked harder, legs flailing against the air, yanking the straps, the crib bars rattling slightly. My whole body wriggled desperately, the diaper crinkling and squelching in a constant, humiliating symphony. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, dripping onto the padded crib mattress. I felt so ridiculous. A grown man reduced to this, bawling and kicking in a filthy diaper just to earn a change.

Mommy cooed softly. “There we go!!! That’s my good baby! Look at those big crocodile tears. Hear how that messy diapee is crinkling away? So full and soggy!! Poor thing....”

She didn’t move to open the crib yet. She just stood there, watching me continue the performance, drawing it out. I kept wailing, chest heaving with each exaggerated sob, legs pumping like a tottler in full meltdown mode. The longer it went on, the more ridiculous I felt, like every last shred of adulthood was being stripped away with every “wahhh” and every crinkle.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of blubbering and kicking, Mommy unlatched the crib side. It lowered with a soft click.

“Ohhh, what is it, sweetie?” she cooed suddenly, snapping into that syrupy, motherly voice as if she’d just discovered an upset little one. “What’s the matturr, huh? Ohh, my poor widdle baby…is that big, yucky diaper you filled up making you so fussy? Is that it? Aww, did you make a big stinky mess and now you’re all uncomfortable? Ohhh you poor thinggg...”

She reached in, unbuckled my straps, and scooped me up under the arms like I weighed nothing. My legs dangled uselessly, the heavy diaper swaying pendulously between them as she carried me to the changing table.

She bounced me gently in her arms, her tone dripping with condescending faux concern. “There, there… Mommy’s got you now..."

She laid me down on the cool plastic mat, the crinkle of fresh changing paper loud beneath me.

“You earned that one, sweetie. But barely. Next time I want even more drama. I want you screaming the house down before I even think about helping.”

With practiced efficiency, she peeled open the tapes of my soiled diaper. The cool air hit my messy skin, making me whimper anew. She wiped me thoroughly, the cool baby wipes a stark contrast to the warm filth, her commentary never stopping.

“Aww, someone made a big stinky present for Mommy!!” she teased in a singsong voice. “Did you fill your pampers like a good little loser boy? Yes you did, didn’t you?!? Lots of warm loads in here...”

As she wiped the front, she casually dragged the cool wipe across my swollen, aching balls and the flat metal cage locked tightly around my denied cock. The cage was leaking its own frustrated tears. Sticky droplets of precum that had been building for days. She barely seemed to notice them, wiping the whole area with the same indifferent efficiency she used on the rest of the mess, as if my desperate, leaking frustration was no different from the rest of my babyish accident.

“Ohhh, and look at this silly little cage dripping again!" she cooed playfully. "Aww!! Are your tiny blue balls crying too?? How adorable. But Mommy doesn’t care about those leaky tears at all, does she?? Noo...Only the big, loud, baby wah-wahs get Mommy's attention!!”

Powder dusted my skin, the talc scent enveloping me. A fresh, thick diaper was slid underneath, thicker than the last, with extra padding that promised even louder crinkles. She fastened it snugly, taping it tight around my waist and legs, then gave the front a firm pat that made it rustle loudly.

“All clean! For now...” She helped me sit up, then carried me to the rocking chair in the corner. From a nearby warmer, she retrieved a large bottle filled with warm milk. “Is my widdle baybee hungee?”

I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but after the long nap and the humiliating cry-show, my stomach was letting out loud, embarrassing growls. The hunger gnawed at me, making me feel even more pathetic and infantile.

I nodded eagerly, eyes fixed on the bottle. She brought it close to my lips, but the second I leaned forward to latch on, she pulled the nipple just out of reach.

“Cry for it.”

I hesitated, a flicker of reluctance and lingering shame holding me back. I didn’t want to do this ridiculous display again so soon. It felt degrading, like a dog having to perform tricks for treats. But she was clearly adamant that this was how things worked now. With a defeated little whimper, I finally gave in. I kicked my freshly padded legs, the new diaper crinkling crisply with each motion. “Wahhh wahhh wahhh!” Tears came easier this time, the humiliation fresh and raw. My body wriggled in her lap, the thick padding compressing and expanding. I felt utterly absurd, kicking and bawling like this while she rocked me calmly, but I couldn’t stop. I was in the throws of it now.

Mommy smiled indulgently, finally bringing the bottle to my lips. I suckled greedily, the warm formula filling my mouth as she rocked me gently. “Good boy. See how easy it is when you just give in? No more pretending to be a big boy. Every need, every comfort...it all comes with a price. Those baby tears.”

As I nursed, her free hand idly rubbed my back, occasionally drifting down to pat my diapered bottom. Her voice stayed soft but relentless, painting my future in calm, inevitable strokes.

“Imagine it, baby. Days from now, weeks from now, you’ll be doing this automatically. The second any urge hits...whether you’re wet, messy, tired, hungry, or just lonely in your crib...you’ll drop whatever little scrap of dignity you have left. You’ll kick those legs, toss your head in that silly bonnet, and wail like the helpless little thing you are. You’ll cry for diaper changes. Cry to be let out of your crib. Cry for a bottle when your tummy rumbles. Cry when you want out of your highchair. Cry when you need a cuddle. Cry when that little cage gets too tight and achy. Cry just because you’re bored and want Mommy’s attention...”

She rocked me slowly, her tone almost soothing.

“No more words, baby. No more ‘Mommy I have poo poos.’ No more ‘peas please, no prunes.’ No more tottler words at all. Just babbles. That’s all you get from now on.” Her tone stayed light and playful as she listed everything I had lost. “You don’t get to cum anymore. You don’t get to use the potty anymore. You don’t even get to properly talk anymore. All of that is gone. You're nothing but a widdle cry-baby now.”

She leaned down and kissed the top of my bonneted head.

“And if you don’t give me the full ridiculous performance every single time? Well…Mommy will give you something to cry about! I’ll spank that bottom bright red until you’re sobbing. I’ll soap that naughty mouth until you’re bubbling and blubbering. I’ll leave you sitting in that messy diaper for hours until your skin is burning and screaming louder than you ever could! Squirming won’t help. Whining won’t help. Only real, big, desperate baybee cries will make Mommy come running.”

She set the empty bottle aside and lifted me to her shoulder for a burp, patting firmly. A small bubble escaped, and I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper.

She carried me out of the nursery and into the living room, lowering me into the large wooden playpen. The padded playmat was surrounded by all the trappings of my new life: colorful stacking blocks, a pile of soft crinkly books, a bouncy activity center, and several oversized stuffed animals watching me silently. She placed a colorful rattle in my mittened hand.

“I’ll be right over here if you need anything, baby,” she said, settling onto the couch with a book. “And what do you do if you need Mommy?”

“I c-cry—” the words had already started leaving my mouth before I could stop them. I barely caught myself in time, cutting off mid-syllable. For a split second I had almost communicated like a normal person again. Mommy’s eyebrow shot up instantly, a flash of warning in her eyes. I realized with a jolt just how much trouble I’d be in if I’d slipped up and used real words this early.

Instead, I kicked my legs weakly, shook the rattle clumsily with my mittened hand, and forced out the required sounds.

“Wahhh…wahhh wahhh!”

Mommy smiled, clearly pleased. She stood up, popped a pacifier between my lips, and gave my cheek a playful pinch.

“Good boy! You’re getting the hang of it…but you’ll have to do a lot better than that. Otherwise, those poopy diapers stay on until you learn.”

She gave the rattle a little shake for emphasis, then walked back to the couch, leaving me surrounded by my infantile world.

The rules were clear now. My needs weren’t rights anymore.

They were performances.

Try telling your friends that you're being forced to wear them. That this isn't some kinky game. Beg them to please please PLEASE help you remove the locking diaper cover, because you have to poop soon and you can't hold it much longer.

But no matter how much you hate it, how much it disgusts you, how desperately you want your loved ones to believe that you don't want to wear diapers...you sigh with bliss. Your lips curl into a smile. You breathe the word "diaper" with a lustful whine and bite your lower lip.

Then exchange your tickets for fabulous prizes! Burn them daily on little treats or save them up for a big reward!

🎟 5: Eat a spoonful of sugar after your evening baby mush.

🎟 10: Pick out the onesie I'll change you into when you get home from work.

🎟 20: Watch a cartoon during tummy time instead of staring at the floor.

🎟 50: Halve the number of spankings you get for being such a brat.

🎟 100: No spiked booties tonight! You can waddle instead of crawl!

🎟 500: Five minutes of authorized humping with your stuffie.

🎟 1000: Wear pull-ups instead of diapers for the whole day and night!

🎟 5000: I delete one blackmail photo on my phone.

🎟 10000: I delete one blackmail photo on my phone without secretly taking another one.

OR

Rule 2: You are always required to talk about using your diaper. If you're wetting yourself, you must loudly blurt out "I'M GOING POTTY IN MY DIAPER," no matter where in the house you are, or what you're interrupting. If you're messing, you will holler "OH NO, I'M GOING POO POO!" Rubbing? Humping? Bouncing? Cumming? You won't hide those dirty little secrets from me. Everything going on in your diaper is to be announced as loud as you can, at the moment it's happening.

“Once upon a time, there lived a little princess…”

Jackie glowered up at her captor, biting down hard on the plastic bulb of her pacifier gag to let out some of her frustration. She was nestled in the crook of his arm, snuggled up in his lap beneath her Hello Kitty sheets. Her wrists were tied together in front of her, locked inside a pair of fingerless mittens that rendered her hands utterly useless, and her ankles were bound with pink ribbon.

She was naked but for a stupid pink bonnet and a puffy disposable diaper – white, with a decal of rattles and blocks and teddy bears. At least, it had been white when she’d been changed into it earlier than afternoon, but she’d peed in it twice since then. Three large bottles of baby formula had to go somewhere, and over the last few days Jackie had learned that no amount of screaming behind her gag would make the lunatic who’d kidnapped her let her use the toilet.

Her captor smiled indulgently down at her, ignoring the look of hatred on her face. “She was the prettiest princess in all the land,” he continued gently, “and she was known far and wide for having the cutest little bum in all the kingdom!” He patted her padded tushy, and Jackie pulled a face in disgust as her pee-soaked diaper squished against her bare skin. “But the princess was also very naughty…” her kidnapper went on. “Even though it was dangerous for a precious little thing like her, she liked to go out to parties wearing the skimpiest of clothes, tight tops and short skirts that would make even a harlot blush, and shake her little bottom on the dance floor for everyone to see! Running around with her bottom out is the kind of behaviour you might expect from a toddler, a girl too little to have any modesty, not a woman in her twenties! But the princess was desperate to get people to stare at her bouncy booty.”

Lydia walked down the street holding her Mum’s hand, trying to ignore the pointing and laughing from passers-by. Her twenty-one year old body was crammed into a too-tight Hello Kitty top, a modest white skirt, and matching tights. Her black buckled shoes clacked loudly as they hit the pavement, drawing even more eyes in her direction. To complete the look, her blonde hair had been done up in a pair of childish pigtails.

She could feel herself blushing furiously. Her regression sentence mandated that she dress as if she were no more than four years old, and her Mum had embraced the court’s decision enthusiastically, picking her new outfit from the complementary wardrobe straight away so she had something to walk home in.

A group of girls fell about laughing as they passed. “Awww!” one of them cooed, mockingly. “What a cute toddler!”

“Isn’t she adowable?” another teased in baby talk.

A third made kissy faces at her, eyes glinting sadistically.

Lydia scowled and gripped her Mum’s hand more tightly, but her mother just tittered. “You’d better get used to being treated like that, sweetie,” she said, as they walked on past the girls. “Until the end of your regression sentence, you’re just a silly little girl. I know it’s embarrassing, but hopefully it will teach you not to deal drugs!”

"WHAT?! NO, PLEASE!" 😢

"Don't worry! The good news is that there's a way you can temporarily break the spell and become a normal, respectable adult."

"OH THANK GOD, HOW?" 😃

"Easy! Just dress up like an icky toddler, push a load of shit into your piss-soaked diaper, and hump your furniture for hours until you have a shattering orgasm in your poopy pampers."

😐...😑...😐

"Ummm...yeah. Haha. Cute cat. But like, yeah, you're a grown-ass woman in 2026, you don't need your boyfriend's permission to — "

"DOGGY! DOGGY DOGGY DOGGY!"

"Natalie, what the hell are you doing? Stop pointing at that lady's dog!"

"I...huh? Sorry, I feel really lightheaded all of a sudden. Can we just sit for a minu—DUCKIES! LOOK! BIG QUACKERS!"

"Oh my god, Natalie, stop!"

"I don't...I can't help it! PWEASE, I WANNA PET THE DOGGY!"

"Okay, you're high-key embarrassing me right now. No wonder your boyfriend says you can't act your age."

"He said that? Wait...my boyfriend...it was him. Oh my god, I remember everything! He did this to me! He said it was a punishment! You have to believe me, I'm—ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! THAT GIRL HAS ICE CREAM!"

"Oh my god, stop pointing..."

A sequel to New Year’s Baby.

***

“Please, Daddy!” Natalie sobbed, “Not again! Don’t make me do it again!”

“Don’t be fussy, sweetheart,” Liam told his girlfriend sternly as he led her over to the stage curtains, beyond which the packed audience were talking and laughing with each other. “You’re going to do your little routine like a good girl or Daddy will make sure you can’t sit down for a week. Is that clear?”

Natalie whimpered and squirmed in her short yellow dress. Her hand instinctively shot to her padded bottom, as if Liam might yank down her nappy and start spanking her then and there. He’d done that in public before, and his spankings were always awful. “Yes Daddy,” she said weakly.

“Good baby,” he cooed sweetly, adjusting the pair of fluffy white bunny ears she had perched on top of her head. “Now go out there and make Daddy proud!” And with that, he pushed her out onto the stage.

Natalie stumbled out past the curtain and immediately felt her face turn scarlet. No matter how many times she’d gone through these absurd adult baby pageants for women undergoing regression sentences, it never got any easier, it never made the horrible sinking shame in her stomach disappear when she had to degrade herself in front of hundreds of people, not to mention a panel of judges. But then the music started up, and the threat of a spanking was enough to drive all other thoughts from her mind.

So, this will probably be my least popular post ever, but here we go.

One thing I’ve noticed since coming here is that a lot of littles—most commonly with diaper boys, but certainly not exclusively—can really struggle to find relationships. This kink seems to be lonely in general, but especially for some more intense of you.

And as much as I thought it was probably because it can be a fairly unusual kink to integrate with vanilla partners, I don’t think that’s the biggest issue.

This may sound mean and unfair, but to be honest, it feels like a lot of you are your own worst enemy. At least on tumblr, so many of you cannot seem to respect the few mommies on here, sending aggressive DMs about your diapers and treating them like they exist to make you squirmy. And don’t get me started on the wannabe Daddy’s, you’re just as bad.

And even those who understand that women, Mommies especially, don’t exist to be their kink dispenser, often struggle with expecting Mommy to be the primary mover of the relationship.

This will sound especially bad, though I know there is far more variance than what I’m about to say. So do not take this in the most negative light.

But littles are inherently the most selfish subs that exist. They want to have their caregiver check and change their diapers, handle their emotions, control their bedtimes, food, and often sex lives.

Caregivers are expected to handle the emotional labor, most of the physical labor, and create a world where the little gets to enjoy pure bliss.

And that is not inherently bad. It’s not that Caregivers don’t want to give all that for the ones they care about!

The problem is when littles come to expect and demand that—and don’t believe they need to bring anything else to the relationship.

Certainly there are some caregivers that prefer to handle all that, but most people want to be in a relationship first with kink play second.

Based on what I’ve seen, I think too many diaper boys think primarily of what a Mommy/Daddy can do for them. They want a Mommy/Daddy first and relationship second. It doesn’t seem to me many think of what thy are bringing to the caregiver except a soggy diaper and demands.

Ask most women in this kink and they will tell you horror stories of diaper boys sending gross and demanding messages. I know that is not all of you—it’s not even most of you—but it still happens too often.

And even those who wouldn’t ever do that, just wait so their Mommy/Daddy in Shining Armor to find them and make all their diaper dreams come true.

I don’t know, I want everyone to be happy. But the longer I’m here the more I think so much of the loneliness isn’t necessary.

Lottie is one of those girls, you know the type. Very pretty, late twenties, 'I love DDLG, it's so cute', 'I need to live this 24/7', 'I want a daddy, pleeeeeeaaaaasssseeee', she posts on her little blog all the time to the delight of her followers.

Always eager to whack on one of her nappies on a weekend, when she has a few hours to herself. After gorging her brain on smut for a few hours, she's done what she needed to do. And with her brain reset, finding not quite disgust but a want to get out of the nappy and get showered. And get back to her regular clothes & 'normal world'.

It's always enjoyable when they admit their intimate kinks & desires to you. Eventually the first 'you're going to be in them all weekend' comes along. And sure, she will think it's really, really hot, initially. She's always loved the idea, the fantasy. But then the reality sets in, after 10 or so hours she really has to go, and I mean, really go. She may even plead a little 'but I need to do the other thing' & 'I never do that in them' but you won't budge, you told her it was all weekend and you meant it.

Eventually, through all of her shame, and complete rejection of her toilet training, she will relieve herself fully into the nappy. You will glance over at it unfolding as she gets off the sofa and positions herself to do it into the already saturated nappy. You won't stare at her, acknowledging she needs some level of privacy, if you can call it that. Eventually, she will stand tall again with relief but be very meek, shameful and really quite unsure of herself, perhaps even a little emotional.

A young woman who's so used to smelling great, with her perfume's & nice lotions to have done something so infantile and in her mind, disgraceful. To know that very bad smell is emanating solely from her. Not to mention how the nappy itself will feel pressed up against her body after such an act. There will be a lot of sensations for her.

This is where you need to support and absolutely care for her, but let her know that that's what the nappy was always there for and you will change her shortly. You will not leave her in it for any prolonged time, that is not care, and we do not want rashes. That being said, if she's in it for an hour or so, it's going to do her no harm at all.

This is when the dynamic will be taken to another level. She will now truly need you, she wants to be out of it and she knows you're the only person who can fix it. But she can lounge around a little more and watch her TV shows. At first she won't want to do much sitting on her bottom, choosing to lie on her front instead. Over time, she will become way more familiar and it won't be a big deal, but the first few times? It absolutely will.

Eventually, her stinky little nappy does need to be changed. Whilst you've not got children, you have pets, so you won't balk at such a task. You love her and she genuinely needs caring for, whilst she enjoys this dynamic, she really doesn't like a dirty bottom, it's your responsibility entirely to sort that.

Of course, you will see her discomfort and further shame when you untape it and open it up, displaying everything that's been happening within the confines of it. The smell will fill the room but just comfort her and tell her it's ok, and you are here, there is no need to be upset. Then get to work with the wet wipes, thoroughly.

At least in the beginning she will be very aware when she's done such a thing in her nappy and it will be an easier clean up job. Though you will have to prepare yourself. You see, as she gets more used to being in dirty nappies, her care and attention won't be so drastic as she moves about, and that unfortunately can result in a longer clean up process.

She will come to learn that there's not a shower each time, even when she's done that. Showering a young lady takes a lot of time and so that won't be done at every nappy change. Once you've cleaned her up she will feel oh so much more comfy and return to the headspace where she loves all of this again. She may even become a little 'needy'.

Her dirty nappy balled up and chucked on the bedroom floor, whilst you immediately unfold a new one from the pack. She will watch intently, seeing the pack and all the nappies stacked inside, knowing those aren't anyone's nappies, they are her nappies and she will be using every single one.

Snapping her out of that gaze when you reapply the new layer of sudocrem in all her intimate spots, slightly cold but so soothing for her. And after recent times she will be grateful of a more pleasant smell. Likely there will be a little giggle at the coating of baby powder, when it tickles her. Again we repeat, no rashes, skin care is very important.

Then hold eye contact with her as you adjust and seal her next nappy firmly on her. For some, an actual change is actually quite a new experience. It makes them a little blushy at first, you see, she's just had her dirty nappy changed, like an infant. Out of the dirty one, but put straight into another one. No spaces in between, no go use the potty opportunities, no shower, no kinky playtimes and no going back into her big girl knickers. Just out with the old, and on with the new. This is the reality of 24/7, for any period of time. No matter what she thought it would be in her fantasies.

Now the fun part, she will melt into you, completely, not knowing you could be so caring. To know you just carried out such an act on her with no fuss, no disgust. Just a job to be done. It's a bond that will never be broken.

She knows whenever she has no choice but to fill her nappy and have a messy bottom you will be there to sort it, without fuss or admonishment. That's when she gets that twinkle in her eye because she didn't even know it was possible to be so cared for. Without thinking she will become a little shadow to you for the rest of the day. Almost to the point that this bugs you with her incessant attention, but you never tell her off. You're an expert in distracting her with other activities that she can have fun with that allows you to go about your own day.

Carrie can't quite believe that at thirty two years old she's still treated exactly like her younger cousins by her Aunt.

The rule in her house is pull-ups to bed. She complained, and fought it 'but I don't wet the bed', 'Auntie, I'm over thirty years old'.

She was told it's either that, or nappies, complete with the tabs and everything. She will not get to wear her knickers to bed. Reluctantly she agreed to the pull ups and grimaced when auntie got her in them herself. Then to add insult to injury stretched them at the back and front to pour cold baby powder into both sides.

Carrie was told to go brush her teeth. As a final invasion of any privacy, her aunt walked past and opened the door wide open. Meaning any of the household could see the same rules applied to her too, irrespective of her age.