Amateur Diapergirl's, My Collection

“Ahhh, she's so stinking cute in her widdle diapers!” Mary squealed in delight, watching the diaper-clad girl on Daddy's phone, “She’s like a real baby with her pacifier!”

“Just wait,” Daddy said behind a smirk, knowing what's about to happen. “It gets better. But try not to wake her up. It was hard enough putting her down for her nap and she’s just as fussy as a toddler if it gets interrupted.”

Daddy’s friends nod conspiratorially as they go back to watching the recording on his phone while you nap down the hall, blissfully unaware that your antics are the star of the show.

Had you known the baby monitor had a camera, you might have resisted your urges.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t resist the siren song of pleasure. Between Mommy’s moans and Daddy’s decisive grunts—and your throbbing princess parts—you were utterly helpless to control yourself.

There you were, kneeling in your crib and diaper, listening to the unmistakable sounds of pure, erotic bliss, forced to accept the truth of your new place in life.

Nobody considered you an adult anymore.

Your nursery was no longer ornamental; it was a functional room designed to handle the needs of a diaper-dependent little one.

Your diapers were no longer accessories; they were necessary. It had been so long since you used the potty that the only time you spent out of them was for baths and the few minutes a day Daddy let your skin air out.

Your clothes no longer serve to highlight your feminine curves; they were designed to make diaper changes easier for Daddy.

Your binky was no longer a “mute button;” it was a necessary tool to calm the nerves of someone too emotionally immature to be expected to self-soothe.

Naptime is no longer an occasional event; it is now a daily requirement to avoid tantrums. One missed nap meant hours of fussiness.

Daddy didn’t strip away your decision-making and autonomy because he made you squirm; he did it because he no longer believes you are capable of managing yourself without a caregiver.

He sees you for who you are.

You aren’t his strong, independent wife anymore; you’re his poopy pamper princess. He knows you don’t need him to be a husband—you need Daddy. Someone to wipe the tears off your cheeks when you’re overwhelmed, to change your icky diapies, and to slide your favorite stuffy into your arms before bed.

Which is why Mommy is the one moaning in pleasure—not you.

You didn't get demoted to the nursery because you're just some silly cuckquean, getting off on being relegated to humping stuffies in a soggy diaper. He's not doing it to tease, humiliate, or titillate you.

He’s doing it because he can no longer imagine the sweet, innocent babygirl who squeals in delight when he blows raspberries on her tummy during poopy diaper changes as a sexual being.

You’re his baby.

His love for you is as strong as the day he married you—but the nature of your intimate moments together has irreconcilably changed.

For him, nothing beats the slow, tender evenings with you wrapped up in his arms, staring up at him with sleepy eyes full of love, your binky bobbing slower and slower until you drift off.

Or the rainy weekends when he raids the linen closet so he can build a fort with his little one, making room for every stuffy. Or the binky kisses.

How could he possibly imagine you as an adult with sexual desires?

“Wait…she’s not gonna use that stuffy to do that, right?” James gasped, watching you lay your favorite stuffy on his back.

Mommy and Daddy look at each other, trying not to laugh.

“She does have one naughty big girl habit,” Mommy chuckled as you positioned yourself with the stuffy, “But it’s just so stinking cute. Best part is she thinks she’s sneaky, too.”

They watch your adorably clumsy thrusts into your favorite stuffy. Slowly at first, glancing at the door periodically. Then faster. Greedier.

Mary sighed, “I can't believe I took sex advice from her.”

“Maybe you should take a leaf from her book,” James quipped, “You've been single for so long, maybe a stuffy would be the perfect boyfriend. Besides, you'd look so cute in one of those diapers! Wait, her little diaper crinkles as she humps are adorable!”

Daddy immediately rushed to pause the video.

“Why'd you pause it?”

“Because the video doesn't have sound...”

“Wha-whacha wachin', Daddy?” you mumbled. You were too groggy from your nap to be embarrassed about your friends seeing your adorably frizzy hair, diaper, and binky.

“Oh, just some boring video, nothing you'd enjoy, kiddo.”

Daddy slid the phone into his pocket before lifting you up and resting you on his hip.

“Oh my gosh, do the stars on her diaper fade away when she's wet?” Mary asks, “See, those stars are normal, and those ones are gone.”

Daddy crinkles your diaper playfully. “They do! We thought they might help her with some potty training. Seeing her stars go 'bye-bye' might inspire her to stay dry, but...Well, let's just say I expect diapers to be part of her life for a long, long time.”

Knowing your diaper is on full display—and hearing everyone casually talk about your potty training struggles—you hide your face in Daddy's neck, holding onto him like a koala in a hurricane.

“What are you doing out of bed, hmm?” Daddy cooed, bouncing you slightly to distract you from noticing his hand pulling back your diaper.

“D-Dada!” you whine at the indignity of this public diaper check.

Daddy rubs your back. “Uh oh...are you Dada's little stinkerpants? Poor baby, trying to sleep in that icky yucky didi...”

You peel yourself from Dada's neck to give him your devastating puppy-dog eyes.

“C'mon, baby, let's get you out of that poopy diapie,” Daddy says, heading towards your nursery.

As you're carried off you catch something about a stuffy and laughter.

“Wuh funny bou' sthuffie, Dada?” you ask as you're gently deposited onto the changing table.

Daddy tickles your tummy. “Oh, they can't get over how much you love your stuffies, that's all.”

For a split-second, a horrible dread crept into your mind—do they know? Why did Daddy say "love" like that? Did Daddy hear when you...played with Dijon?

But the thought is forgotten the moment cold air rushes into your princess parts as Daddy peels back your diaper.