Untitled

You lean there against the bars of your crib, despondently contemplating your future. Hair done up in the most adorable pigtails, the prettiest and cutest onesie imaginable snugly wrapped around you, your thick and now ever-present diaper swaddling your groin… Yes, you are quite the sight. You know it. Auntie reminds you of it every day, after all…

A sigh escapes you as you meditate on the life choices that have led you to this unexpected place. Not every twenty-three-year-old young woman expects to be reliving her infancy! Normally, folks finish college and find a job so they can settle down, maybe find someone special, pay off those hideous student loans, and get on in life. Well… that’s the plan, anyway. But when a job isn’t forthcoming, and you’ve got no family to rely on… It’s tough.

Into that darkness had suddenly come Auntie’s offer. She was not really an aunt - more of a friend of your parents before they’d passed away - but she did seem to have a soft spot in her heart for you. It didn’t hurt that she was pretty obscenely wealthy, either. So when she’d offered to help you out if you could only come live with her and help with her home business as a personal secretary, you’d jumped at the chance. Maybe fairy godmothers - or at least super generous aunties - really were a thing! At any rate, you had nothing to lose, right?

Well, maybe you did, you reflect now, feeling yet another warm spurt of urine wash into the reassuring padding between your legs. Sure, Auntie was taking care of your student loans, waving a bank account number and magically making them disappear. But she, indulgent as ever, had also begun to buy you clothes and furniture that seemed decidedly out of keeping with your age. It wasn’t every young college graduate that had footie pajamas, sparkly princess shirts, and a bed with a built-in railing, was it? The pattern had progressed over the months, and you’d kept your mouth shut, not wanting to appear ungrateful to the woman who had literally given you a financial future…

Until the day when she’d brought home a onesie and shortall set with snaps in the crotch, and had begun cooing over how cute you’d look in it. You’d timidly asked the rather rhetorical question: did she want you to look like a baby? And when she’d unexpectedly told you, yes, she kind of did, the real discussion had begun. She’d always wanted a child of her own, she sadly smiled, and you were the closest thing she’d ever had to a daughter. Couldn’t she at least pretend that you were her little girl? It would mean so very much to her…

Well, the power dynamic being what it was, you’d been completely and utterly unable to say no.

So here you were, a full year into your new job with Auntie. It had been six months at least since you’d even touched the big girl potty - six months that had been filled with little more than bottle-feedings and high chairs, bulging diapers and smelly diaper pails, a doting Auntie and you as her increasingly dependent baby girl. You felt your big girl life steadily slipping away, all the exciting knowledge and ideas from college drifting ever more certainly into the past… You were Auntie’s “secretary” now - more like her office baby, whose only remaining job was to waddle and crawl around and put the wadded-up papers one by one into the trashcan. It was a mind-numbing routine, but admittedly a seductively simple and comfortable one. No phone calls or meetings or appointments like Auntie had - just your familiar carpet and toys and ba-bas to keep you company… It could be worse, couldn’t it?

And as you felt the familiar pressure building in your tummy, you sighed again, releasing the now-familiar wave of soft, warm mush easily and steadily into your expanding diaper, followed by the involuntary flood of pee afterwards. Well, whatever. You didn’t get upset over such things anymore. Auntie would change her stinky baby sometime soon. It didn’t matter much anymore, after all - you were wet or dirty most of the time these days. Maybe that was the real trade-off, you mused as your diaper slowly sagged underneath your adorable onesie. Trading your dignity and independence for a secure future…

Was it worth it? You honestly didn’t know… But even if you did, you probably couldn’t have done a thing to change it. Not anymore.

Image Credit: Ageplay247.com

Mommy changing my diaper 💕😍💋🤷🏼‍♀️

Look at Him Go

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.

Sitting the PS5 controller down, you quickly stand up with a grimace, grabbing your stomach as a sharp cramp shoots through your belly.  Lifting yourself off the ground, you hear the loud crinkle of the large white diaper wrapped around your waist.  Looking down, you notice your red t-shirt barely covering the front of the diaper, clearly showing the dancing bears and baby blocks scattered across the front.  Your girlfriend had just changed you about an hour ago, and the diaper was dry.

Another, larger cramp erupts within your stomach, forcing you stand up straight, tightening your butt checks to force back the hot pressure pushing against your backside.  A loud gurgle of gas circulates through your guts, sending a cold chill up your spine.  You need to get the toilet as as possible, or you might not be able to hold back next cramp.

Not bothering to pause the video game, you start waddling across the carpeted living room, slowly making your way down the adjacent hallway. Knowing to be as careful as possible with each step, you hold the back of your diaper with one hand as your other grasps your churning, aching stomach.

You approach the apartment bathroom and notice the door is closed.  Letting the back of you diaper go, you reach for the doorknob and turn.  It doesn’t budge.  Panicked, you attempt to turn it again multiple times, shaking the door as you let out a quiet whine.

A loud shout comes from inside the bathroom.

“Yes?” your girlfriend Becca asks loudly. “I’m in here, what you do you need?”

“Uh, I need to use the bathroom, like right now!” you reply in embarrassment.

“Why? I just put you in a new diaper and you know the bathroom is off limits.  Just go in your diaper.”

You pause, acknowledging that you would have to elaborate on the embarrassing details of your situation.

You stammer, “I uh, need to go number two”.

There was a moment of silence.  Neither you or your girlfriend had dealt with a messy diaper.  The topic rarely came up when you were wearing, and whenever your girlfriend joked about the topic you avoided it.

“Oh, gross” she says, followed by mocking laugh.  “Well just hold on I’m almost done”.

Disappointed you whine, “come on this isn’t a joke, it’s really bad Becca, I might have an accident!”

“Just hold it.  You’re a grown man, I know you can do it”. She says, scoffing at your desperation.  “Or you know, you can use your diaper.  That’s what it’s for"

”NO!” you shout back, not amused.

Annoyed by her lack of her support you look around, desperately thinking of what to do.  It was a single bathroom apartment, and going to one of the community bathrooms seemed insurmountable.  You would have to get dressed, walk down two flights of stairs, across the parking lot, into the clubhouse and then remove the diaper before you could sit down on the toilet.  You knew that even lifting a leg could risk causing your backside to blowout. Hopeless, you decide you have to at least try, so you begin to waddle to your bedroom for some clothes.

As your approach the doorway another cramp pangs through your abdomen causing you to stop and fully tighten your buttocks.  Sweat dripping from your face, you know you have to relieve the pressure.  In a moment of instinct and trepidation, you hold your anus tightly closed as possible as you slightly push.  A rude squelch of flatulence erupts into your diaper, causing the backside to puff outward.  The relief is immediate, and you smile as the pain eases from your gut.

Relieved you step into your room and open the dresser to find some clothes.  In an instant, another cramp shoots through your belly, and almost involuntarily you push to relieve the pressure again.  Expecting another fart, your face shifts to horror as you feel a hot bulge of mess squirt between your cheeks.  Blushing, and in shock at what just happened you hear your girlfriend call out. 

“Almost done and then it’s yours!”

Standing still you think what to do next.  Not sure how obvious your accident was, you poke at the back of the diaper.  Not feeling any bulges, you sniff the air.

“Huh” you say, “that’s weird”

You don’t smell anything at all.  Knowing all the jokes about dirty diapers, you expected it to smell awful.

“Well I guess wet diapers don’t really smell, maybe it’s just an exaggeration”, you say out loud in thought.

You feel pressure building up in your gut again and think “what if I just go a little bit? Becca won’t know and I can clean it up in the bathroom.”

Dead set on your new plan, you think of where you can commit your deed.  Looking around the room, the gap of space between the bed and wall catches your eye.  Walking over to it you think of the most practical position to make it easy.  You remember the squatting positions that toddlers take before relieving themselves, so you decide it would have to do. 

Squatting down, you grab the side of the bed and push your butt out, feeling the small glob of mess against your skin rub against the diaper.

Breathing in, you scrunch your face and begin to slightly push.  A quick popping sound of gas bursts into the diaper providing more relief.  Feeling an odd sense of comfort, you instinctively slip your left thumb into your mouth.  While wearing diapers wasn’t really an age play thing for you, this felt completely natural.

You push harder, biting down on your thumb.  You feel a large log of poop slowly pushing its way out.  You continue to strain, feeling it push past your rectum against the padding of your diaper.  It continues outward, pushing the back of the diaper out, causing the front of the diaper to tighten around your groin.  Surprised how large it is, you feel it slip downwards as it drops into the bottom of the diaper.  You pause to examine your situation.

You begin the sniff the air, as a wave putrid stench slowly drifts upwards.  The smell was unmistakable and horrid. Pulling the thumb from your mouth your feel the need to gag.  There was no way of hiding this, you had completely soiled yourself.  Thinking about what to do, you’re caught off guard by a churning feeling in your gut.  Immediately the pressure shifts and you feel a wave of heat pushing through your colon.  You stop pushing but realize it’s too late as the wave of liquid diarrhea presses up against your rectum.  Not prepared to hold it, the hot sludge spurts out, pouring downward, causing your diaper tighten even more. 

Whining, catching your self you stop the flow. 

“No, no, no” you beg into the air, realizing the stench of your soiled diaper was beginning to spread. You stick your thumb back in your mouth and think what to do.

“No, no, no, what?” Becca asks as she walks into the room.

You look up, in pure shock, slowly letting the spit covered thumb out of your mouth.

You beg in a panic, “Becca, no! I’m sorry, don’t come in here!”

“Wh…” Her question is cut off as the growing smell crosses her nostrils.

“Oh, my, god.” she says staring at you.  “You shit your diaper didn’t you?”

Stuttering you reply, “It was an accident! I tried to fart and it..”

“Stop it!” she says sharply, cutting you off.

Shocked, you stop talking.

“Now, I expected this to happen at some point”. she says, looking at you with a concerned face.  “Lets take a look”.

“Are you sure?” you say with a concerned tone.

She doesn’t respond as she walks towards the bed.  Wearing just a thong and a short cut shirt she leans across the bed, pushing you back as she looks around your side at your bloated diaper.

“You really did it.  I really thought you could hold it.” she says, leaning in front of you.  The back of her thong clearly visible as she hung off the bed, her hand covering her face, either plugging her nose or concealing a laugh.  You can’t tell.

“I’m so-sorry” you say on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay little bumpkin. I wasn’t prepared for this, but I think I can help” she replies, a smirk on her face.

A loud gurgle churns from your belly, startling you and causing her to raise an eyebrow.  Chuckling she asks, “Did you get it all out? Or do you still need to go?”

“I uh, think I uh.. still need to go”, you say, looking away.

She grabs your chin, turning your face to hers.

“Well show me.  Push it out little baby.  Go in your diaper”

Paralyzed by her statement you stare back at her, mouth open.

Smiling, she coos, “I saw you had your thumb in your mouth, put it back in.  Just like a baby” she pauses “I really like the idea of you acting like a baby while you’re in diapers. It makes it easier for me”.

Feeling another cramp starting to grow, you decide to go with it and slip your thumb in your mouth.  Looking at Becca, she whispers, “Go on, it’s OK”

You push down on your tummy muscles, feeling a small spurt of diarrhea squirt into the diaper. 

“That’s it” she coos, “fill your diaper up for me”

You continue straining but don’t feel anything come out. Stopping pushing, you still feel bloated, like you can’t finish.

“What’s wrong little man? All done?” Becca asks in a intentionally dismissive voice.

“It’s not coming out.” you say, concerned.  “It feels like I gotta go, but nothing is coming out.”

“When’s the last time you went?” She asks with a serious tone to her voice.

“Uh, I don’t know. It’s been few days I think.” you say, clearly embarrassed.

Becca’s face twists into a look of shock, “A FEW DAYS?” she says chuckling. “Well of course you’re constipated.”

“Constipated?” you ask.

“Here”, she says, smiling.  “My mom showed me a trick for this when we were babysitting my cousins.”

Becca points to the ground and says “tushie on the floor, lay back”.

“Gross, I’m not sitting in..” you almost finish but are cut off as she harshly pushes your shoulders down causing you to fall back. You lose your balance and fall onto the diaper, causing the contents to smash in all directions.  You feel a mound of poop shift forward, smashing against your groin.

“Becca!” you cry, not amused by what was happening. “I don’t wan-”

Your girlfriend slams a finger against your lips stopping you.  “Lay back before I give you something to really cry about.  Now!” she growls, annoyed by your reluctance.

You slowly roll to your back, feeling the sticky contents shift and smash up your backside.

Whining, you smell another wave of stench from your diaper and start to suck harder on your thumb.

“Now let me take off my shirt to get comfortable” she says as she lifts her shirt over her head, tossing the shirt to the bed.  She’s wearing a pink, lacy push up bra, outlining her large breasts.  Sitting on your back, in a poopy diaper sucking your thumb with your girlfriend in a bra and thong looking down at you causes a warm, nervousness to grow in your chest.  You feel the uncontrollable urge to babble out loud “Momma! I’m sowy!”.

The sudden shift in demeanor causes you to blush and Becca looks down at you, half confused, half amused.

“Well I wasn’t expecting that either, but you can call me mommy. You’re just a stinky helpless baby, aren’t you? Now relax little man, we’re going to make you feel much better” she coos, smiling at you.  Leaning down, she presses two of her fingers next to your belly button, immediately pushing harder down.  You stiffen in shock but immediately relax.

Beccas fingers begin rotating in a circular pattern, and you feel your insides slowly shifting.  A loud gurgle of gas churns in your gut, causing Becca to look at you, smiling.  She starts humming a melody you hadn’t heard before, and you close your eyes in bliss as the soft massage eases the bloating in your gut.  After a few minutes she moves her fingers to the other side of your belly, continuing the same motion.

On the verge of falling asleep, you’re shook out of the trance as Becca says “OK baby, legs up”

You feel her grab your ankles and lift them into the air.  “Now just relax little one, just relax” she says, beginning to hum the melody again.

You don’t resist as she pushes your legs forward to your stomach, causing your knees to touch your chest.  She pulls them back and forward,then proceeds with the same motion with one leg at a time. She repeats these movements for several minutes.

Suddenly a tingling sensation ignites from your tail bone, sending a shock of energy up your spine to your jaw. Kicking your legs, an almost orgasmic eruption surges through your groin and rectum.

“Momma momma!” you manage to sputter behind a spit filled gasp.

“Here we go!” Becca says bracing your legs into the air.

A magnificent wave of pressure shifts against your rectum and you barely have to push as a giant log of poop slips out into the diaper.  You hear several loud crinkles as the mess continues pushing out, coiling into a large ball in the diaper.  The messing stops for a moment just as another wave of diarrhea erupts out of your backside.  You try to kick your legs in desperation but Becca holds them tight.

“Push! Keep pushing!” she says beaming down at you.

Feeling a growing pressure from your bladder, you let go and hear a loud hiss of urine spray into the diaper.  The warmth covers your groin, dripping down over your butt.  Slowly the diaper begins to swell between your legs.

“yes, that’s it baby.  Fill your diapy up for mommy. You’re making me so proud” Becca says, smiling at you.

You tighten your back causing the mess to shift as several more small chunks push out.

Feeling the movements slow down, Becca lets your right leg to the ground, and cups the bottom of your diaper in her hand.

“Well I think my little man needs a new diaper, what do you think?” She says, softly squeezing and bouncing the mess against your skin.

“Yesh momma.” You say in an infantile tone.  “I make a poopy diaper”

Giggling, Becca says, “OK, follow me into the living room.”

You roll forward, feeling the mess mash against you even more.  As you begin to stand you’re stopped by Becca waving a finger in front of you.  “Uh uh uh, babies crawl.”

Excited at the idea, you roll to you your hands and knees.  Feeling the diaper shift between your legs causes your heart to flutter, making you want to regress even further.

“Come on little one” she says, walking to the door.

You slowly crawl out of the bedroom towards the living room where Becca is standing. Each movement forward causes the loaded diaper to shift back and forward. You’re not sure if it’s leaking, but you don’t care.  You’re just a dumb baby in a dirty diaper.

Approaching the living room, you see Becca putting away the PS5 with a thoughtful look on her face.

“Why don’t you wait a little bit and color something for me?” She says, pulling out a coloring book and box of crayons. “You can sit in a stinky diaper a little longer I think.  What do you think?” she says, looking at you while leaning over.

“Otay momma” you say, excited at the idea of more childish activities.

“You know, just in case you need to get anything else out before you get in a clean diaper.” she says, winking at you. “I’m going to look at what to start for dinner.” 

Becca walks out of the room, as you sit backwards onto the diaper, smashing the contents against your rear.  Looking down at diaper, a collage of yellow and brown stains cover the bloated plastic.  Without a worry in the world, you make a babbling noise and bounce several times up and down, shifting the contents of the diaper around even more.  You think to yourself, “Becca wanted me to act like a baby, well she’s getting the full act”.

Tummy Time!!

They say it like it's fun. Like it's the next exciting event on a field trip.

“Tummy time!!” Amber announces in that singsong voice she always uses, clapping her hands like I'm supposed to be excited.

Kayla is already unrolling the blanket in the center of the living room. “Let’s get those wiggles out, stinker.”

I don't argue. There isn't any point. This is just what comes after breakfast bottles and “num-nums” in the highchair.

I waddle as best I can, the heavy sag of my soiled diaper rubbing between my thighs with every reluctant step. They don't even bother putting me in a clean one first. I got my change a few hours ago, so "maybe baby needs to stew in his mess for a while."

Tummy time is better than the bouncer, at least. That stupid harness seat with the dangling toys and the padded crotch strap that’s always just a little too tight, pressing the contents of your diaper into every crack and crevice it can. The thing that forces you to bounce, like some cruel mechanical rhythm, while they watch and giggle. I hate it.

But tummy time? Tummy time is softer. Slower. Deceptively kind. Lying flat. Arms pinned beneath me. Diaper ballooned out behind me. It almost feels like a break.

But it isn’t.

Because I always mess it up.

Try to stay still, try not to get worked up.

That’s what keeps circling through my mind, over and over, even as my hips twitch again, sinking into the bloated bulk of my diaper. The warm squish underneath is unbearable. The weight of a devil and an angel sitting on my shoulders.

But it's been so long! THEY are the ones that got you worked up. It's not your fault that you're horny, even with the disgusting state of your diaper right now.

If I keep it subtle. If I breathe slow. If I don’t moan. Maybe I can rock just enough. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to quiet the constant ache they leave me in at all times.

The teasing. The way they rub my cock with the wipe too long during changes, making sure it's "squeaky clean", fingers “accidentally” slipping into my hole while they wipe it clean and pretend nothing happened. "Why are you getting so worked up, baby?" Amber always says as she strokes me. "I'm just trying to rub the lotion in to protect you from a diaper rash!" They know exactly what they're doing, they've learned my mannerisms well enough to know how to stop when I'm right at the edge before pulling their hand off. "Such a squirmy baby!!" Kayla will giggle as she pulls a fresh diaper over my purple, twitching, dripping dick and tapes it up tight. Amber always tapping the crotch lightly and say something like, “Keep it in your pants, Romeo,” knowing full well I don’t have any.

Then they move on with their day like I hadn’t been left trembling and desperate in my own padded prison.

Just like now.

I groan into the mat, trying to stay still, but it’s no use. The pressure. The warmth. The weight of my hips against the swollen, messy bulk, it’s all too much. Even with the mush. Even with the smell. Or maybe because of them. It’s awful. It’s overwhelming. And it’s the only time I can get close. Tummy time is the only part of the day where I might get a little stimulation.

The only moment I’m not being spoon-fed, strapped into something, or hovered over so I don't get handsy. In the highchair, they’re right there wiping my chin and tapping the crotch of my diaper with condescending coos. During nap time, my hands are mittened and strapped to keep me from "getting any ideas."

But this?

Lying flat, arms pinned beneath me, diaper ballooned out behind me. If I keep it subtle, if I breathe slow, if I don’t moan, maybe I can rock just enough. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to quiet the ache they leave me with after every “innocent” diaper change.

I shift forward slightly. The mush spreads. The squish deepens. I exhale through my nose, slow. They’re talking on the couch, scrolling their phones, probably not even watching me. Just like always. Maybe I’ll get away with it this time. Maybe I'll—

“Uh-oh,” Kayla murmurs, like she’s caught me stealing cookies. “Somebody’s moving his hips again…”

I freeze.

Amber doesn’t even look up. Just lifts her tumbler and smirks. “He always does this during tummy time. Right when his diaper’s at its messiest. Like clockwork.”

I bury my face in the mat. My face burns.

“You are just the squirmiest little thing!!” Kayla coos, climbing off the couch and crouching beside me.

Her voice dips into that syrupy sing-song that makes everything worse. “I think he likes how it feels. Do you like that, sweetie? That warm mushy feeling smooshing under your wittle bum-bum?”

I groan into the mat, shaking my head.

Amber kneels down on the other side of me. “Tummy time strikes again!"

I go completely still. Like if I just freeze, they’ll stop. Like if I don’t move, maybe they’ll let it go. But their eyes are on me now. And they’re smiling.

“Oh, come on,” Amber teases, leaning in close so I can feel her breath on my flushed cheeks. “You were just rocking back and forth like a little puppy trying to make happy humps. Don’t be shy now.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Kayla coos. “Not if you admit it.”

I try not to move, but the pressure is building. The warmth. The need. It’s so much worse when I know they’re watching. I hate how turned on they make me. How horny all of this makes me...

“You want to rub your squishy diaper, don’t you?” she whispers, brushing my hair from my eyes. “That’s what tummy time is for.”

Amber leans over the side of the couch. “We made it nice and soft for you, didn’t we? Fresh blanket. Warm mat. Big stinky diaper, just how you like it.”

“I bet you can’t even help it anymore,” Kayla says gently. “It just happens. Like everything else now.”

They’re right. Of course they’re right.

My hips twitch again. Barely a movement, but enough. They both see it.

“There’s our baby boy,” Amber says with a smirk. “Go on, sweetie. Just slow and steady. Nice and gentle. Let that squishy diaper do what it’s meant to.”

My body betrays me again. I rock, slowly. The pressure is unbearable.

Kayla leans in close, her voice soft. “Good boy. Just like that. That’s it. Rock your little hips. You’re not even thinking about it now, are you?”

“You just do what your body tells you,” Amber chimes in. “It’s not like you’re in charge anymore anyway.”

I let out a pathetic little whimper.

Kayla grins. “Awwww, are you getting fuzzy? Is your baby brain starting to melt?”

They’re both so calm. So encouraging. Like this is normal.

“You can let go,” Kayla murmurs. “You’re already in a dirty diaper. Just give in, baby.”

“And we’ll be right here when you’re done,” Amber adds, crossing her legs with a soft rustle. “We’re not going anywhere.”

My eyes are wet. My face is burning. And still, I keep moving.

Slowly. Shamefully. My hips rock with that pathetic, traitorous rhythm. The squish beneath me spreads wider with every motion, heat blooming between my thighs like something rotten. The smell rises. Faint at first, then stronger. Rich. Humid. Unavoidable.

Kayla rests a hand on the small of my back. Firm, steady, grounding. “Uh-uh, sweet boy. No stopping now.”

Her touch pins me in place. “Tummy time isn’t over until that diaper’s really full.”

“Like emotionally full,” Amber adds with a laugh, swirling her drink. “Not just the squishy kind. The soggy, sticky, spent kind.”

I try not to whimper. Try not to drool around the pacifier. Try not to think about what I look like. Spread out like this, squirming in my own mess while two grown women supervise.

Amber leans forward, her voice bright and awful. “That’s it, baby. Rock those hips. Work it out.”

“Aww, you’re breathing so heavy,” Kayla coos. “Is your wittle diaper getting you all worked up?”

“So mushy,” Amber says. “So squishy and full. Can you feel it all smearing under you? That’s your own stink, sweetheart. Your mess. And look at you, humping it.”

I shudder, rutting harder now. I can’t stop.

They giggle like it’s entertainment. Like I’m just a toy winding down on the floor. Kayla gives my diapered bottom a light pat, and the resulting squelch makes me cringe so hard my toes curl.

“Oh yeah,” she says, drawing it out. “He’s definitely close.”

Amber sips her drink. “Think we should count it out for him?”

Kayla grins. “Or make him say what he’s doing first. In his big boy words.”

My head shakes wildly against the mat.

“Uh-uh,” she warns again. “We let you have tummy time. The least you can do is tell us what’s going on in that squishy little pampers of yours.”

I freeze, breath caught in my throat.

Amber crouches low, grinning like a wolf. “It’s not a secret, baby. We see those little hips moving.”

Kayla strokes the small of my back with maddening patience. “So come on, sweetheart. Use your words. What are you doing in your big poopy diaper?”

I shake my head. Pathetically. Hoping somehow that they’ll let it go.

They don’t.

Amber leans in, voice syrupy and smug. “What’s wrong? Too embarrassed to tell the truth?”

“I…” My mouth is dry. The smell is thick. My whole body feels hot and heavy and low.

Kayla taps the back of my diaper. Squish. “We’re waiting.”

I want to disappear. But the pressure’s too much. Their stares. The squelching rhythm beneath me. The ache between my legs. The baby talk.

Everything.

“I… I’m…”

Kayla’s tone sharpens just enough to cut. “Say it properly.”

I close my eyes. My voice cracks.

“I’m w-wubbin’… my messy diapee…”

Amber claps her hands, delighted. “Awwwwww! Did you hear that?”

Kayla giggles, brushing my hair from my forehead. “He’s rubbing his messy diaper like a wittle stinkbug. That’s so nasty, baby.”

I groan into the mat, humiliated beyond words, except they still want more.

“Tell us why,” Amber says. “Why are you rubbing it, baby boy?”

I can’t. I absolutely can’t.

Kayla pouts, mock-sad. “Do we need to get the paddle?”

I whimper. My voice high-pitched in fear and need. “Cuz… it feews… good…”

They both melt with fake awe.

Amber wipes a pretend tear. “He’s such a brave little stink monster.”

Kayla giggles again. “Tummy time really does bring out the best in him.”

I keep moving. Because Kayla’s hand is still resting on the small of my back, warm and heavy like she’s reminding me who I belong to. Because Amber’s crouched beside my face, close enough that I can smell the sweet mint on her breath as she grins.

“Go on, wiggle worm!” she whispers. “Wriggle in your muddy diaper. Rub it in. Just like that. Nice and slow. That’s what tummy time’s for, right?”

I let out a pathetic sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob.

Kayla hums gently, “Wub-wub-wub that mushy diapee… that’s a good baby…”

Amber bites her lip dramatically. “I can see your little bum trying so hard. Are you almost done, baby boy?”

I clench my eyes shut.

The pressure is unbearable. The squish. The friction. The warmth smeared everywhere. The sound. The smell. But worst of all: their voices.

“Tell us what’s happening,” Kayla croons. “Tell us what you’re doing.”

I shake my head.

Amber isn’t having it. “Use your words, mister. Or we’ll make you start all over.”

“I…” I’m breathless. Desperate.

Kayla whispers right above my ear. “What do you say when you’re making a mess, baby?”

I can barely speak.

“I’m makin’… a goo-goo…”

The words fall out of me like a confession.

Amber gasps, hand over her heart. “Oh my god. You are. You’re making goo-goo in your diapee like a good little mushy huggie humper!”

Kayla pats my back, sweet as anything. “That’s it. Ride it out, baby. Rub your nasty little stink diaper. Let your body do what it wants.”

I’m shaking now. Rocking harder. I can’t stop.

Amber giggles. “Does that feel good? Does your mushy diaper feel soooo nice on your little bits? Aww, are you gonna make cummies in your poo-poo pampers??”

Kayla’s tone stays calm. Maternal. Inescapable. “Make your goo-goo, baby boy. Make it all gone!”

And I do.

With a shudder. A gasp. A whimper into the mat. My muscles clench and tense. My knuckles turn white as my hands grip the blankie and my body rocks back and forth. All filth forgotten, only focused on the feeling.

I cum.

Right there. Face-down. Diaper full. Everything sticky and awful and hot and wrong. Kayla strokes my back. Amber claps like I just took my first steps. And neither of them moves to change me.

Not yet.

Kayla giggles. “I knew he had it in him. Or, well… not anymore.”

They let me lie there. Chest rising and falling. Face burning. Pacifier half-falling from my lips.

The warmth isn’t comforting anymore.

It’s just… gross.

The mess I made, the squish beneath me, the smell clinging to the air and my skin, it’s all too much now. My hips don’t move. My breath doesn’t hitch. It’s over. Whatever fog had taken over my brain is gone, and all I’m left with is the awful truth of it.

I came in my diaper.

While they watched.

While they talked me through it.

Kayla must see it hit me, because her smile changes. Softer. Meaner.

“Ohhh,” she coos. “There it is. There’s that little crash. Poor baby. You’re all done now, huh?”

Amber leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Not feeling so proud anymore?”

I bury my face deeper into the mat. I want to disappear. To melt through the floor. To not exist. But the diaper clings to me. It’s sticky and bloated and shameful. I can feel everything now. The squish, the smell, the cool air on the back of my thighs. Every word they say cuts deeper than before.

“You were such a little animal a few minutes ago,” Amber sighs. “Just humping and humping your poopy pampers like a good little perv.”

Kayla tilts her head. “But now? You look like you want to cry.”

I do. I honestly might.

Amber nudges my ankle with her foot. “Tell us what you did. Use your big boy words.”

I shake my head weakly.

Kayla’s voice turns mock-gentle. “Oh, honey. We saw. You might as well say it.”

I don’t answer.

Thwack.

Her palm lands hard across my diapered backside, making the mess squelch. I let out a sharp yelp.

“Say it!” she snaps.

My voice cracks, barely audible. “I… I made stickies…”

“In what?” Amber prompts. “Be specific, baby.”

I shut my eyes. “In my… m-my dirty diaper.”

They both squeal in mock delight, clapping like I just recited the alphabet.

“Yaaay! Honest little diaper freak!” Amber sings. “A gold star for stinky post-nut clarity!”

Kayla crouches beside me, fingers tracing lazy circles on my back. “And how do you feel now, hmm? All done. All empty. Just lying there in your own mess while two grown women laugh at you.”

I don’t answer.

“Do you feel like a man?” she asks sweetly. “Or do you feel like what you really are: a drooly little hump-toy who blows his load into his own mushy pampers?”

I flinch. My cheeks are wet. They’ve made their point.

Amber pulls out her phone again. “Smile. Or don’t. Honestly, the shameface is better.”

Kayla pats my head. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before rutting like a horn-dog. But probably not.”

“Either way,” Amber adds, setting a timer with a cruel little grin, “You’re sitting in that mess another twenty minutes. Consider it part of your post-rut cooldown.”

Kayla nods, brushing imaginary lint off my onesie. “Let it really soak in, baby. That’s what tummy time’s for.”

And then they leave me.

Right there on the mat. No towel. No wipe. No change. Nothing left to say. Nothing left to do. Just lie there on my tummy.

And feel it.

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

Note to the babysitter