Not For Your Eyes

In der Schwimbadumkleide muss man sich ausziehen.

You have to get undressed in the changing room at the public pool

Starting potty training. So I wear pull-ups by day…

The nursery was bathed in the soft, golden glow of the lamp on the changing table, casting long shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender, the scent of bedtime rituals and comfort. You’d been clingy all evening, following Mommy from room to room, your arms wrapped around her legs, your voice small and whiny as you begged for just one more story, one more cuddle. She’d indulged you, of course, but now it was time for bed. And bedtime meant one thing: a fresh diaper.

You lay on the changing table, the padded surface cool against your bare back. The plastic sheet crinkled beneath you as you shifted, your legs kicking restlessly. Mommy stood beside you, her hands deft as she unfastened the tapes of your soaked diaper. The wet padding sagged as she peeled it away, the cool air hitting your skin and making you shiver. You bit your lip, your face already warm with embarrassment. You knew she could see how flushed you were, how your body had already started to react to her touch.

“Mmm, someone’s a little excited tonight,” Mommy murmured, her voice thick with amusement. She wiped you down with a warm, damp cloth, her fingers lingering just a second too long as she cleaned you. You squirmed, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Her touch was gentle but deliberate, tracing circles over your hips, down your thighs, and then… oh… there. You gasped as her fingers brushed against you, your body betraying you instantly. She chuckled, low and knowing. “Look at you. Such a needy boy for Mommy.”

You wanted to protest, to tell her to stop, but the words died in your throat. Instead, you just whimpered, your fingers clutching at the edges of the changing table. She powdered you next, the puff of white dust billowing into the air before settling onto your skin. The scent was thick, babyish, and it only made the moment feel more intimate, more real. You were at her mercy, and she knew it.

Mommy reached for the fresh diaper, unfolding it with a practiced flick of her wrists. It was thick, extra thick, the kind that would make you waddle when you walked, the kind that would crinkle with every movement. She slid it beneath you, the plastic backing cool and smooth against your skin. But she didn’t tape it up. Not yet.

Instead, her hand found its way to the front of the diaper, her fingers pressing down through the dry padding. You let out a broken sound, your hips jerking up off the table. “Does this feel nice, baby?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement. You nodded frantically, your face burning. You hated how much you loved it, how your body arched into her touch without a second thought. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Mommy’s going to take such good care of you,” she cooed, her other hand pressing down on your hip to keep you still. “But you have to be a good boy for me. Can you do that?” You nodded again, your voice lost somewhere between a whimper and a plea. Her fingers worked you through the diaper, the padding muffling the sound of her touch but doing nothing to dull the sensation. If anything, it made it better, the way the plastic crinkled, the way the thickness of the diaper pressed back against you, trapping you in the moment.

Your hips started to lift off the table, your body moving on its own, grinding into her hand. She let you, her smile widening as she watched you unravel. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Show Mommy how much you love your Pampers.” Her fingers picked up speed, her touch firm and unyielding. You could feel it building, coiling tight in your stomach, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The diaper crinkled loudly with every movement, the sound filling the room, a constant reminder of what you were, who you belonged to.

“P-please,” you managed to choke out, your voice trembling. You didn’t even know what you were begging for, more, less, something, but Mommy seemed to understand. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Shhh, baby. Mommy’s got you.” Her hand didn’t stop. If anything, it moved faster, her fingers pressing harder, her touch demanding. You were lost in it, in her, in the way your body responded so eagerly to her command.

And then… It hit you like a wave. Your back arched off the table, your fingers clawing at the padded surface as your body tensed. A gasp tore from your throat, your hips jerking wildly as you spilled your seed into the diaper, the padding growing warm and sticky beneath you. You collapsed back against the table, your chest heaving, your face flushed and damp with sweat. The diaper was a mess, your mess, and the realization of it sent another shudder through you.

Mommy finally taped up the diaper, her movements slow and deliberate as she secured the tabs. She patted your thigh, her touch lingering. “There we go,” she said, her voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “All sticky for bedtime.” She lifted you off the table, cradling you against her chest. You could feel the weight of the diaper between your legs, the warmth of your release seeping into the padding. It was humiliating. It was perfect.

She carried you to your crib, tucking you in with a kiss to your forehead. “Now you remember how much you love your diapers, don’t you?” she whispered, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You nodded, your cheeks still burning, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. She smiled, pulling the blanket up to your chin. “Good boy. Sleep tight.”

The nursery was quiet except for the soft crinkle of your diaper as you shifted in the playpen. The bars were tall, the padding beneath you plush, but none of it mattered. You were mad. Mommy had put you here for talking back, again, and no amount of pouting or kicking your feet was going to change that. The thick, baby-blue diaper between your legs felt like a betrayal, a reminder of how small she could make you feel when she wanted to.

You sighed, your pacifier bobbing as you sucked on it absently. The blanket beneath you was soft, but it did nothing to ease the frustration bubbling inside you. Without thinking, your hand drifted down, fingers pressing against the padded front of your diaper. The pressure was instant, a spark of something warm and forbidden. You bit down on your pacifier, your hips lifting just a little, seeking more.

That’s when you heard it, the soft creak of the rocking chair.

Mommy had been watching.

Her voice was sweet, almost musical, but there was a edge to it that made your stomach twist. "Aww, is my baby boy bored?" She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin propped up in her hands. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but her smile was knowing. Too knowing.

You froze, your hand still pressed against your diaper. You knew you weren’t supposed to touch yourself. Good boys didn’t do that. But the way she was looking at you, like she already knew exactly what you’d been doing, made your face burn.

Before you could pull your hand away, hers was there, slipping between the bars of the playpen. Her fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to guide you. "Boys don’t get to touch themselves," she murmured, her voice low and firm. "Only Mommy can touch you."

Your breath hitched. You should’ve been embarrassed. You were embarrassed. But the way her fingers replaced yours, pressing into the thick padding of your diaper, made it impossible to care. Her touch was deliberate, her palm cupping you through the layers of plastic and fluff. You whimpered, your hips jerking upward instinctively, seeking more pressure.

Mommy’s laugh was soft, almost a purr. "That’s it, baby. Let Mommy take care of you." Her fingers worked in slow, deliberate circles, her thumb pressing just there, right where you needed it most. The diaper crinkled loudly with every movement, the sound filling the quiet nursery. You could feel yourself getting harder, the pressure building until it was almost unbearable.

Your pacifier slipped from your lips as you panted, your free hand clutching at the blanket beneath you. "Mmm, someone’s very excited," Mommy teased, her voice dripping with amusement. She didn’t let up, her fingers never stilling, never giving you a moment to catch your breath. The pleasure was overwhelming, a hot, heavy weight in your groin that made your toes curl.

You tried to speak, to beg, but all that came out was a muffled, desperate sound. Your hips bucked against her hand, your body moving on its own, chasing the release that felt just out of reach. The diaper was warm now, damp from earlier, but the heat between your legs was something else entirely.

Mommy leaned closer, her breath warm against your cheek. "You gonna make a mess for Mommy, baby?" Her voice was a whisper, but it might as well have been a command. The way she said it, like she already knew the answer, sent a shiver down your spine.

And then, just like that, you were there.

Your body tensed, your back arching off the blanket as the pleasure crashed over you. A choked cry tore from your throat, the sound muffled by the pacifier you’d barely managed to shove back into your mouth. Your hips jerked, once, twice, your entire body shuddering as you spilled into your diaper. The warmth spread quickly, the padding soaking up every last bit of your release. But Mommy wasn’t done. Her fingers kept moving, kept pressing, and the pleasure didn’t stop. Your body clenched, and with a gasp, you realized…

You were going number two, too.

The heat in your belly twisted, and before you could stop it, your diaper gave a loud, wet squelch. The smell hit you immediately, thick, musky, stinky. Your face burned with humiliation, but Mommy just giggled, her fingers finally stilling.

"Looks like someone made a big mess," she cooed, her voice laced with delight. She didn’t move to clean you up. Didn’t even reach for the wipes. Instead, she simply stood, her hands on her hips as she admired her handiwork.

You lay there, panting, your diaper sagging with the weight of your mess. The warmth was unbearable, the stickiness clinging to your skin. You wanted to squirm away, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. The playpen bars were still between you and freedom.

Mommy’s smile was wicked as she reached down and scooped you up, cradling you against her chest. You were heavy in her arms, your diaper a warm, squishy burden between you. "Such a messy boy," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "But you’re my messy boy."

She carried you to the crib, the one with the tall, unyielding bars, and laid you down gently. The mattress was cool beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat of your diaper. You whimpered, your fingers twisting in the sheets, but Mommy just shook her head.

"No, no, baby. You made this mess. You can stay in it a little while." She tapped your nose playfully, her eyes twinkling. "Besides, it’s almost naptime. And good boys nap in their sticky diapers, don’t they?"

You wanted to argue. Wanted to beg her to change you, to clean you up, to anything but leave you like this. But the look in her eyes brooked no argument. And deep down, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the discomfort, there was something else, a warm, fuzzy feeling, like the first sip of hot cocoa on a cold day.

Mommy tucked a blanket around you, her touch lingering on your shoulder. "Sleep well, baby," she said, her voice soft. "Mommy will check on you later."

The new Jurassic bottoms from @onesiesdownunder are BEYOND cute! 🥺

Holding my wrists as her friend pushes and squeezes my bulging soaked diaper.

Feeling so humiliated and shy…  Just trying to get ready for classes at college, but my neighbor and her friends know how submissive I am.  Such a helpless pushover now that they know my dirty little secret.  Teasing me when I leave the house and checking in on me from time to time.