Untitled

Not that it matters. She doesn’t have much in common with twenty-somethings anymore.

Most twenty-somethings are starting their careers, enjoying their first taste of adult money, and thinking about settling down and getting married.

Otterpop is not like most twenty-somethings—but I’m sure that’s obvious by now. Which is why this moment is so special for us.

This is Otterpop’s first public outing as my little.

So, of course, I have something special planned for her. After all, she deserves it. She did give up her adulthood, autonomy, and potty training for a lifetime of diapers, pacifiers, and constant adult supervision after all!

And what better place for her to learn her new place in life than her favorite public library?

Back when she was a big girl, she spent hours and hours here. She must have made it through the entire art history section and a respectable way through the philosophy section.

Pity she’ll never finish—silly girls in diapers don’t need to worry their pretty little heads about the mysteries of life.

Dr. Seuss is the closest she’ll ever get to academic literature ever again.

And before you tell me I’m being mean, ask yourself if it’s more appropriate for someone in a loaded pamper to be pondering Hegelian dialectics or wondering if Sam-I-am will ever convince his friend to eat green eggs and ham?

That’s what I thought.

Luckily for me, I went to college with two of the librarians. And they were all too happy to help put together a little…celebration for my Otterpop—though they knew her by an entirely different name.

And how could they not like her, anyway? She was always friendly, returned her books on time, and was one of the few people who appreciated books in an increasingly digital age.

I sense Otterpop’s nerves as we approach the doors to the library. Poor baby. I can’t say I blame her.

Even though this is what she’s always wanted—she’s right where she belongs—it doesn’t mean it’s easy for her. She may be my little, but she’s never experienced what that entails outside of the safety of our home.

I pull her into a hug, stroking her hair. “I’m so proud of you, Otterpop! You know that, right? You’re the bravest little popsicle I know.”

“M-mhm, uh huh, D-Daddy,” she stutters nervously.

“It’s okay to be nervous, little one. But remember, Daddy is right here with you. I’ll never let anything bad happen to my special little lady.”

Before she answers, I try to surreptitiously check her diaper. She can be quite the tinkle fountain when she’s nervous.

“H-hey, Daddy!!” she squeals.

So much for being slick.

“Sorry, kiddo, just checking to make sure you’re not about to leak! That wouldn’t any fun, would it?”

She huffs. “But, wha-what if someone sees?”

“Then they’ll see a concerned Daddy checking his little one’s diaper! Babies like you get their diaper checked in public all the time; it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Hmpff.”

I boop her nose playfully. “Always Daddy’s pouty princess. Ready to go inside, Otterpop?”

She nods tentatively, grabbing my hand and holding it as if she’d fly away if she let go.

“Here we go!”

We walk into the library she’s so familiar with. Yet, unlike before, she’s not the confident, well-read big girl she used to be.

I can’t help but smile—she looks exactly like a nervous toddler being dropped off on their first day at daycare.

The sweet lady at the front desk shoots me a knowing smile.

“See, this isn’t so bad, huh, Otterpop?”

“Nuh uh,” she says with a bit more confidence. She instinctively pulls me in the direction of her favorite section.

“Sweetie, where do you think you’re going?”

She looks at me, puzzled as if I asked a ridiculous question.

“That area is for adults, not silly little Otterpops. Let’s find some more age-appropriate books for you, hmm?”

Oh no. That face only means one thing.

If I know anything about my little Otterpop, it’s that she’s usually extremely well behaved. But there is one sign—the way her eyebrows furrow like that—that is a clear sign of trouble.

She huffs and puffs, foot stomping harder and harder. Tears are welling in her eyes. She’s building up steam to a full-blown tantrum. I need to act fast.

“Daddy it’s not fair!! Not a st-stupid baby!!”

I try to pull her towards me, to snuff out the tantrum with a hug—a tried and true tactic. But the moment I reach out she steps backwards.

Far too fast for her own good.

I watch as my poor Otterpop falls down, straight on her thankfully soggy diaper, which squelches loudly as she lands.

The tears are immediate. I get down to her level as fast as I can, holding her in my arms.

“Shh shhh shh, it’s okay baby, Daddy’s here, I got you.”

A whirlwind of emotions are swirling in her eyes. A perfect storm of her being littler than ever, but still not having fully let go of her former big girl self.

I wipe the tears from her eyes, rocking her in my arms while her breathing steadily slows.

I would have preferred to avoid all this, but it could have been far worse. After a minute or two, she’s calm enough to talk.

“S-sorry, Daddy,” she whimpers.

“It’s okay, babygirl. Those were some big feelings, huh?”

“Mhm,” she sniffles.

“Can you stand up for me, little one?”

“Mhm.”

“There’s my girl!”

As I help her up, I see a trace of a smile on her lips.

Before I could say anything else, we hear footsteps approaching.

“Well, hello, little one,” my friend, Janet, beamed, “So good to see you again. We’ve missed our favorite bookworm!”

Otterpop could only manage a barely audible “hi.”

“She’s still a little shy,” I say, rubbing her back, “But I know she’s excited to be back here.”

Janet winks at her. “That’s okay, honey. We have a special treat set up to celebrate your big day. Would you like to see it?”

“O-okay, Miss Janet.”

Otterpop hesitates as Janet motions for her to follow, realizing Janet is heading towards the children’s section.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask.

“I…but, Daddy, it’s the... the kids' area.”

She’s just so stinking cute, I fight back a smile. “But Otterpop, that’s what you are!”

“Nuh uh!”

“No? Sweetie, what are you wearing right now?”

“Dress.”

“No, silly, under the dress.”

“Hmpff. A diaper.”

“Good girl, that’s right! And what do you call me?”

“Daddy…”

“Very good, such a smartie. Now, do you think a silly thing in a diaper with her Daddy belongs in the kids’ area or the adult area?”

She sticks out her tongue.

“Silly girl. Come on, we don’t want to keep Janet waiting.”

“Kay, Daddy,” she huffs.

We only make it a few steps before she stops again, her diaper crinkling loudly with each step in the quiet library.

Janet fails to fight back a smile, clearly overwhelmed at how adorable the crinkles are.

I pat Otterpop’s diapered tush. “You’re okay, nobody can hear your diaper, honey,” I lie.

Even still, her walk becomes more of a waddle as she follows Janet, doing her best to mitigate the crinkle symphony that accompanies each step.

We finally make it to the kids’ area. It’s even better than I could have ever imagined.

In the corner is a reading nook, complete with blankets and pillows, looking cozy and comfortable. A poofy couch sits next to it, inviting us to sink in and read all day. And in the center is a table with a neatly wrapped present sitting on top.

“We couldn’t help ourselves,” Abigail, my other friend, says, “Nothing but the best for you, dear.”

“It’s perfect,” I answer, “Thank you both for this, you have no idea how much we appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Janet says, “Oh, and we installed a changing table big enough for your sweet little one in the family bathroom in case she needs her diaper changed.”

Otterpop’s face flushed a deep crimson.

“There is one more thing,” Abigail says, “We got you a present, sweetie. Would you like to open it?”

“Y-yes, please.”

Abigail motions to the table for Otterpop. She opens it excitedly but looks confused.

“A library card? B-but I have one, Miss Abigail.”

“Well, this one is special! We made it just for you.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but her face reached deeper levels of crimson than before.

“What’s it say, Otterpop?”

“I-it says…‘Children’s Books Only.’”

“Awww, how nice of them! Can you say thank you, to the nice ladies?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. We wanted to show you we accept you just the way you are! And ensure you don’t get into trouble sneaking big kid books.” Janet winks at me.

“Well,” Abigail says, “We’ll leave you two alone so you can enjoy some time together.”

“Thank you both,” I say as they walk away.

Otterpop takes the area in, eying the reading nook.

“I got us a special book for us to read, honey. Wanna read it with me?”

“Yes, please,” she answers, looking excited for the first time.

I tickle her sides. “There’s my bubbly girl!”

“Daddy!”

I reach into her diaper bag and pull out her favorite binky, sliding the nipple into her mouth.

“Bu-bu Dada! Wha if people thee?” she lisps.

I wrap her in a big hug, staring into her vulnerable puppy dog eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore, okay? You’re my little Otterpop. It’s okay to be little. No more big girl worries. This is where you belong. Right here. I promise I’ll always be here for you. You just be my happy, bubbly babygirl. Let Daddy take care of the rest.”

The tension fades completely from her body as her paci bobs in her mouth. “Pwomith, Dada?”

“Pinky promise, honey.”

“Yay!” she squeals, crinkling wildly as she runs to the reading nook, “C’mon, Dada!”

I grab the book from her bag and head over to my excited little Otterpop.

This is everything I ever wanted.

Seeing her happiness, completely unbothered by being so openly little in public, is the best gift she could ever give me. She can finally be herself.

I squeeze into the reading nook, adjusting her in my lap. I can smell her no-tears baby shampoo and baby powder. Her diaper crinkles as she gets comfortable.

“Want to see the book I chose, sweetie?”

“Yeth pweath!”

I put the book in front of her, letting her hold it.

“Can you read the title?”

“Mhm! It thays ‘Wif Your Paw in Mine’!”

“Good job! And what are those animals, kiddo?”

“Odderth, Dada!”

“That’s right, baby, just like you!”

“Hehehe, buh Dada, ithn’t Odderpop a popthicle?”

“Maybe it’s both, sweetie!”

We spent the next twenty minutes reading the story, my sweet little Otterpop giggling along with the story, completely lost in littlespace.

So lost she doesn’t even notice her body tensing up. Or hear the grumbly, bubbly little toots escaping her diaper. Or feel her diaper filling up with stinkies. Or even smell the unmistakable scent of a dirty diaper.

No more big girl left. Just my sweet little Otterpop.

I kiss the top of her head, wishing I could stay in this moment forever.

We can test out that new changing table after we finish the story.

This revelation changes everything—and nothing.

Your life will look the same, sure. You’ll have the same rules, the same routine, the same everything.

But there will be one major change.

We’re not pretending anymore.

For so long, you allowed yourself to believe this was all a game that we chose to play. You weren’t actually a silly diaper girl!

No, you were an adult who just got off to the idea of it all. Of pretending you needed diapers. It was hot because it felt real, but never was.

Well, it’s real now.

You’re everything you pretended to be. A silly, helpless diaper girl.

You’re back in diapers for good.

It’s not a choice. There is no more “big girl” AND “diaper girl.” No more flittering between two worlds. You don’t get to comfort yourself that your diapers are a kinky accessory.

Diapers aren’t kinky anymore—they’re a necessary and practical solution for those who can't control themselves.

I’m sure it will be a much easier transition for me. My life won’t change much. I mean, it makes no difference to me whether you choose to fill your diaper or not—I’ll still wipe your tushie clean.

You’re the one who’s going to have to accept she’s no longer potty trained. Diapers are a permanent part of your life. You’re just a diaper girl, whether it’s hot or not.

I remember how squirmy it made you when I decided you were no longer allowed to cover your diaper at home. It drove you wild having your “shame” on full display.

Will it still be squirmy for you, knowing it’s a practical reality of your life?

I hope so! But it doesn’t really matter.

Because from now on, I won’t be doing it to make you blush—I’ll do it because I need to know if you’re about to leak. To make my life easier.

Now that you’re back in diapers, my primary concern is being the best caregiver I can be for my babygirl.

Because that’s what you need.

I won't slide my finger into your diaper to make you blush; I’ll do it because you need constant diaper checks to prevent leaks.

I won't lay you on the changing table because it makes you squirmy; you’ll be there because your diaper needs to be changed.

I won’t carry your diaper bag with me everywhere we go because it’s fashionable; I’ll do it because I’ll need to change your diaper anywhere—whether it’s a party, bar, or the grocery store.

And don’t think you’ll keep any big girl privileges, sweetie.

Your bedtime isn’t for fun anymore; it’s because after a long day of caring for my diaper-dependent buttercup, I need some alone time.

And of course, all the silly nicknames won’t change—because how else would I speak to someone who is back in diapers?

Are you starting to understand?

You’re an authentic diaper girl now. You get all the privileges of someone hopelessly trapped in diapers.

There’s no such thing as a bad day with her. Two years into your relationship and you’re as hopelessly addicted to her smile as the day you met.

She’s everything you could ever ask for.

There’s only one problem: she loves you just the way you are.

For most people, that’s hitting the jackpot. A beautiful woman who loves you for who you are?

If only you were like most people.

Most people aren’t doomed to a life in diapers, hopelessly destined to inevitably fill each one up.

Most people aren’t still virgins at 25, unable to convince anyone your diapers render you anything but cute.

To the outside world, you’re the perfect couple. Undeniable chemistry, matching humor, and always touching each other.

And they’re not wrong—you do have all that and more. A deep, loving connection that most people only read about in romance novels.

But unlike most people, you’ll never have sex with the love of your life.

And it’s not because she gets off on denying you. It’s not because she doesn’t love you. It’s not even because she doesn’t find you attractive.

She’s told you a thousand times after all your desperate, silly whining.

“Honeybun, you got the greatest gift in the world! Your diapies have kept you pure and innocent, uncorrupted by icky sex! I love you because of your childlike wonder! Why would I take the best part of you for a few minutes of bliss?”

Nothing you say makes the slightest but of difference. She has no interest in taking your virginity.

No interest in seeing the irony that she’s had, and still has plenty of sexual partners—while you jealously listen in the next room—yet still has the same attitude as you.

You are her special boy.

And that’s all that matters to her. The closest you get to sex is when she energetically wipes you clean during diaper changes.

She’s perfectly fine ignoring your little diaper tent after a long make out session. Kissing is somehow okay—but anything else would ruin who you are apparently.

But you’re still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her.

Nothing could ever change that. She’s the woman of your dreams. Not even a lifetime of imagining what it would be like to be with her can change that.

As long as you get to spend your time with her, you’re okay with waiting until she’s asleep so you can slide a pillow under you and quietly hump your soggy diaper.

Your quiet crinkles an ode to the woman you’ll never be with—but can’t live without.

Which is why you’re not faking your smile as you spin and dance with her in the middle of a busy park.

You have everything you ever wanted.

It would’ve been one thing for everyone to find out you’re still in diapers. Wildly embarrassing, sure, but vastly preferable to this.

You didn’t just prove you need your diapers—you proved to the world you need your Mommy.

There is no coming back from this.

The worst part is it was entirely your fault. Mommy made sure nobody would notice your diaper—even letting you wear your big boy clothes to the picnic.

But you were too proud to ask her to take you to the potty when you felt your tummy rumble. Too confident in your dwindling ability to hold it.

And far too little to maturely handle what happened next.

It was already too late when you shot up and ran—well, waddled—to Mommy to take you to the bathroom. The only thing you managed to accomplish was drawing everyone’s attention onto you.

You did your best to poop your diaper in dignity. If it had to happen, you’d at least do it like a man. With your head held high.

It did not go according to plan.

Turns out it’s impossible to look like a man when you’re squatting down, hands in itty bitty fists, doing the thousand yard stare.

Especially when a stream of bubbly toots announces what everyone already knew.

But when you grunted and filled your diaper with your shameful mush, there was only one possible outcome.

Unlike you, Mommy didn’t seem to mind the exasperated looks of all your friends. She casually sauntered over to you, her smile never wavering, and put her hand on your shoulder.

“Ut oh, is my little honey bunny making pushies for Mommy?”

It was too much. Mommy promised she wouldn’t “mommy” you in front of everyone! “No!!! I didn’t poopoo!” you squealed, stomping your foot, “She’s lying!”

To your dismay, nobody seemed convinced.

Had you not been in the midst of a poopy pamper meltdown, you’d have realized your infantile denial only served to make you look even more ridiculous.

But it didn’t matter. You were too far gone.

You didn’t give Mommy a chance to respond. Yelling and screaming gibberish as you waddled away, settling on a patch of grass to plop yourself on.

For the next five minutes, your friends watched in utter shock as you sat in your poopy diaper, ranting and raving about “not being a baby” and that you’re a “big boy!”

Needless to say, you were in no position to send Mommy away.

Not when you needed her most.

“C’mon, baby. You’ll feel much better after Mommy wipes that icky tushy. What do you say?”

You look deep into her eyes, finding no trace of anger or derision. Even after your very public tantrum. Only love.

“O-okay, Mommy. Bu-bu what about t-them?” you stutter pointing to your friends.

“Leave that to Mommy, hun. You trust Mommy to make everything all better don’t you?” she asks, booping your nose.

A weak, teary smile appears on your face.

“There’s my happy boy!! Now let’s get you changed, stinker.”

By the time Mommy had you laying in the trunk, pants down at your ankles, poopy diaper exposed to the parking lot, you completely forgot about your friends. Forgot that you’ll have to face everyone as the little you just proved yourself to be.

Mommy was there to make everything better.

“Hi, Daddy!” you chirp, walking over to me to let me check your diaper.

“Hi, sweetie!” I respond, removing your lab coat and feeling the soggy diaper under your clothes, “how was your day?”

It’s the contrast I love so much. Listening to you ramble on about roleplaying as big girl while you obediently lift your arms so I can remove your shirt. On and on you go. All the while, I strip you of your big girl costume, replacing them with clothes much more suited to your authentic self.

You continue rambling on about your “big girl” life, even as you’re standing in nothing but your soggy diaper. It’s adorable. But not as adorable as the onesie I put you in, delightfully colorful and covered in all kinds of barnyard animals.

Perfect for you.

I shove your paci in your mouth when I finish buttoning your onesie, stopping your adorable rambling midsentence. I’m done listening. You may command a room there, but not here.

I’ll never get tired of the look on your face when the paci silences you. It’s the look of a woman caught between two worlds. The moment you truly understand whatever happens outside of the house is nothing but a mirage. You aren’t the well-respected, highly competent biologist you think you are. Not at home.

Here you’re nothing more than Mommy and Daddy’s diaper girl—our plaything. You never have been—and never will be—in charge. Not over us, not over your own life. Your place is filling your diapers for us, adorably begging for changes, desperately wishing you could join our adult fun.

I carry you to your playpen, playing Doc McStuffins, before heading to the kitchen to make dinner. You may supervise others out there, but here you are supervised. The only thing you supervise here are the stuffies scattered around your playpen.

Someone walks into the kitchen. I turn around, preparing to scold you for leaving your playpen, only to find my girlfriend smiling back at me.

“Hey babe, how was your bath?” I ask, kissing her.

“Amazing, I love those new bath bombs,” she replies, “do I hear Doc McStuffins? She’s home early!”

“Yep, she got home a few minutes ago!”

I watch as she approaches your playpen, kissing you on the forehead. She picks you up and carries you back into the kitchen, sitting you in your high chair at the table.

Your face still burns in embarrassment whenever you’re locked into your highchair. I have no idea how we went so long without it. You look so cute in it, especially when Mommy puts your bib on you.

For the next twenty minutes, you sit in silence, listening to Mommy and Daddy talk about our day. We make an effort to ignore you, all to make you feel even more little. Besides, adults don’t want or need a baby to talk about her day.

Once dinner is ready, Mommy prepares a plate for you, cutting your chicken into bite-sized pieces and filling your cute Disney Princess plate with all your num-nums.

Mommy playfully feeds you before we eat, your face burning brighter every time she says, “here comes the choo choo train! Open up for Mommy!” When you’re finished, your face is smeared with mac and cheese, your bib dirty from all your “oopsies” as you clumsily spilled your food.

As we eat, I notice you fidgeting in your seat. I’m careful not to draw any attention to it. I know what’s about to happen. I surreptitiously prod my girlfriend, letting her in on your potty dance. You’re staring off into space, desperately—and fruitlessly—trying to avoid packing your pampers at the dinner table.

You continue to squirm, no doubt wondering why we’re still at the table long after we finished eating. I couldn’t help but laugh seeing the relief on your face as we finished eating, believing you’d be freed from your plastic prison before loading your diaper only for the relief to vanish, replaced with renewed terror, as I sat back down after cleaning the dishes, continuing my conversation.

The cutest toot, slightly—and adorably—muffled by your soggy diaper, escapes into the room. You whimper as our conversation stops, our undivided attention on your endearing display in your highchair.

“Are you making a stinky for us, baby?” Mommy asks rhetorically.

“Mmmmphfff!” you unintentionally respond, your body tightening to fill your diaper.

Your legs, once freely swaying in boredom, are now rigid and unmoving. You unconsciously grab the plastic of your highchair, fingers white, as you grip for leverage to push. Your eyes are wide, full of humiliation.

More toots escape into your diaper.

Finally, with one loud grunt, your diaper visibly expands, crinkling as it does.

“Good girl,” Mommy coos, “get all those ickies into your diaper, little one!” Your face somehow manages to grow an even darker shade of red.

You struggle for a few more minutes, your diaper occasionally expanding as you push the mess out. It’s adorable.

“All done, kiddo?” I ask, unlocking the highchair, “you did such a great job filling your diapee for us!”

“C-can I hab changies?” you whimper through your paci.

“Not yet, little one,” Mommy answers, “it’s almost your bedtime and I want to spend some time with you, baby!”

You look up at me pleadingly. I laugh. “Sorry, kiddo, I’m with Mommy on this one!”

I pick you up, carrying you over to the couch. I sit beside Mommy, gently laying you on your back across our laps.

Mommy tickles your tummy, causing you to laugh despite your embarrassment. “Such a cutie patootie we have! Daddy and I are so proud of you!” Mommy coos.

“That’s right, sweetie! I don’t know how we got so lucky! We have the cutest baby in the whole world! Even if she is stinky! Pee yew!!”

“Can you say ‘I’m the cutest, stinkiest pamper packer in the whole world!’ for us, baby?” Mommy asks.

You nervously suck on your paci. “I-I’m da cudest, stinkwiesth…p-pam-pamper packa in da ‘ho world," you stammer, faced flushed in embarrassment.

“Yes you are! Yes you are!” Mommy chirps proudly, “you’re the smartest baby in the whole world too! I don’t think there’s another baby who knows as much about animals as you!”

You stare back at Mommy, knowing the humiliating game that’s about to start.

“Yes you do, sweetie!” Mommy continues, “can our widdle scientist tell us what sound a cow makes?”

You squirm in embarrassment.

“You can do it, little one!” Mommy prods, “tell Mommy and Daddy what a cow sounds like!”

“M-moo,” you answer meekly.

“Surely you can do better than that!” I add, tickling your tummy, “try again, silly!”

“HAHAHA Daddy! It tickwes!!” you plead, squirming around, diaper crinkling wildly.

“Well, tell me what a cow says, silly!”

“MOOOOOOO!” you scream, still laughing after I stop.

“That’s right, baby!” Mommy says, “so smart! What about a pig?”

“OINK OINK OINK!” you squeal, starting to have fun despite your humiliation.

“Good job, kiddo!” I gush, “how about a frog?”

“WIBBIT! WIBBIT! WIBBIT!” you chorus, proud of yourself.

“Good girl!” Mommy sings, “what about a duck?”

“KWAK KWAK KWAK!” you lisp, violently blushing.

“So good!” I congratulate her, “but this is the hardest one yet! What does a baby say before bedtime?”

The smile fades from your face, “b-b-but I ‘on wanna go ni ni Daddy! I wan’ stay wif Mommy and Daddy!”

“No buts, silly,” Mommy says sternly, “Mommy and Daddy want to have some fun, and I gotta get you into a fresh diapee before you stink up the house!”

“Wha-no, PWEASE daddy!” you beg me, knowing I’m much more persuadable than Mommy.

Before I can answer, Mommy flashes you a dangerous look. “What did I say?”

You hiccup in fear. “T-that it’s b-bedtime, Mommy,” you answer dejectedly.

“That’s right, silly. Now say good night to Daddy, little one,” Mommy chides.

“G-goodnight, Daddy,” you whine.

“Goodnight, sweetie,” I say, kissing your forehead.

The last thing I see before you turn the corner is your pleading eyes over Mommy’s shoulder as she carries you to the changing table. I can’t help but smile at how adorable you are.

Daddy asks, to which you curtly nod, too focused on trying not to fill your already very soggy diaper.

You and Daddy had planned this trip months ago; your second anniversary trip to the beach to celebrate two years of Daddy being your legal guardian. Of course, you were much better at potty training back then.

3….2

You whimper as your stomach growls, it seems to echo in the tiny waiting room as more and more people collect there, joining you and Daddy in the wait to go up from the beach. Your swimsuit does little to hide the waterlogged padding around your waist, causing you to get some lingering glances. 

But you don’t care, you need to go potty now. 

‘Not here, not here’

You think to yourself as more and more people crowd around the elevator doors, the numbers continue to shrink until inevitably 

1

The elevator dings, metal doors sliding open as a flurry of people collide, some getting in while others get off, but not you. 

It’s too late.

There’s nothing you can do as your legs stiffen, hands balling into fists as you feel your brows furrow and your nose scrunch ever so slightly, eyes glossing over as you stare off into space.

Your daddy watches you with a sympathetic expression, his own cheeks twinged with the slightest shade of pink; The last of the people waiting to board the elevator clamber on and hold the door open for the two of you.

“Are you going up?”

The gentleman holding the door asks sweetly, him and many others watching you two expectantly.

He’s interrupted by a rather loud toot from your backside as your diaper begins to bulge out of the leg of your swimsuit. 

“Um, we’ll catch the next one. We might be here for a minute.”

Your daddy laughs awkwardly, scratching his neck, embarrassed by the little show you are putting on for all the other patrons of the hotel. 

The deafening silence is cut through by only the sounds of you grunting.

“Oh, I see. I don’t miss those days, brother. Enjoy your trip”

The gentleman laughs, along with a few others behind him, a murmur of agreement floating out of the elevator and onto your red ears. Letting his hand fall away from the door so it can begin to slide closed.

“Stay out of trouble, stinker”

The stranger calls out before disappearing behind the door as the elevator makes its ascent. 

Your legs feel like jelly, and you can finally take a deep breath again as your body relaxes, you feel the bulk of your now soiled diaper, whimpering as you reach behind and feel the comical bulge in your swimmie. The nasty smell filling the air of the tiny room and assaulting your senses, daddy sighs.

You get to work building your little space, laying your blankets and adorning the space with pillows and stuffies. Toys and changing supplies are strewn about. The smell of baby powder drifts through the room, an erotic scent that makes your legs shaky with lust.

It was perfect. Cozy, warm, and undeniably cute.

All that was left was that thick, delicious diaper calling your name. Just unfolding and fluffing it sent erotic jolts through your body. By the time you finish taping it on, your mind is flooded with ecstasy.

Your paci bobs in your mouth as you focus on the growing warmth in your diaper. Your hand rubs it greedily. Desperate, overwhelming arousal floods your brain.

You lay in a daze for the next few minutes, empty of all thoughts. Empty of everything except your diaper, its warmth, and the touch of your fingers.

A car door slams. It was close. Terror replaces the ecstasy from moments before. This wasn’t supposed to happen! What is your boyfriend doing home so early?

You stare at the door like a deer in the headlights. Despite begging your body to move, your legs remain glued to the floor. Any second, your boyfriend would walk in the door and see you pathetically sucking on a paci in a soggy diaper —exposing you as the diaper girl you are.

Minutes—or was it an eternity—pass. But the door never opened.

It wasn’t your boyfriend’s car door slamming; it must have been your neighbor's. Breathing in deep relief, you grab your phone and text your boyfriend.

“Hey babe, when do you think you’ll be home from work?”

“Working late tonight,” he replies, “My boss is out of control on this project. I’ll call you when I leave.”

Perfect. You’ll have plenty of time to clean up before he gets home.

“Time for Bluey,” you say to nobody in particular as you turn on the TV.

You spend the next hour and a half in a blissful little space, watching Bluey and playing with your toys. All the while, your diaper slowly swells without any conscious effort.

A sudden cramp forces your attention to your tummy.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for days, eating high-fiber foods and even holding it yesterday. All for this. You didn’t want to mess your diaper—not when days like these are so rare—you wanted to destroy it.

Never taking your eyes off Bluey, you get on your hands and knees, lowering your diapered bum into the perfect squatting position.

It was like nothing you have ever experienced. You were a passenger in your own body. Your diaper is filled with wave after wave of mess without any effort.

It just happened.

Your diaper crinkled under the effort of your load, the mess spreading to every nook and cranny of your diaper.

No drug could ever make you feel as good as you do right now. The bulging warmth of your mess, the smell mixing with the baby powder. Bluey playing on the edge of your awareness.

You were so lost in the moment you never heard two car doors closing. Or the keys rattling in the front door. You didn’t even see two people walk inside, laughing at the scene unfolding before them.

“I think she pooped her diaper, babe!” That voice—her voice—startled you out of your daze.

In your sheer horror of realizing you weren’t alone, you fall backward, landing on your poopy diaper. A sickening, humiliating squelch echoes through the room.

“Wait, was that her diaper?”

Tears well in your eyes. You look up to find your boyfriend holding hands with your best friend, Mia, both with rabid excitement in their eyes.

“Don’t be scared, Kayla,” your boyfriend coos, “Everything is okay. We know all about your diapees! You have nothing to be ashamed of! Not even a poopy diaper!”

Too stunned to speak, you do nothing but blankly stare at your boyfriend, doing your best to cover your browning diaper.

Mia steps toward you. “Yeah, Kay-Kay, we already talked all about your little, uh…interests, and we settled on something that works for all of us!”

“Wha-what do you mean,” you whine.

“Well, sweetie, that stash of diapers of yours wasn’t as hidden as you think. And you really should use incognito mode if you're gonna browse on my computer. I read all the silly things you want. So, Mia and I decided to make all your dreams come true!”

Your face burns in horror, shame, and humiliation. You’ve never felt so exposed. They know.

Mia kneels next to you. “I promise, it’s okay, Kayla. Why don’t you lean back for Mommy so I can get you into a clean diaper while we explain how things will be from now on.”

You scan Mia’s face but find nothing but compassion….and authority. Too overwhelmed to argue, you lay back.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Mia gushed, “You already laid out all your diaper change supplies too! Such a smartie!”

Your boyfriend sits on the couch behind you, leaning over you. “Obviously, things are gonna change around here, Kayla,” your boyfriend starts, pausing when Mia rips open the tabs of your diaper, “You were right about hiding this from me, I never would have been in a sexual relationship with someone who poops her diapers. So, Mia is going to take over for you.”

You try to get up, but Mia gently nudges you back down. “Where do you think you’re going, little one? Your bum is still covered in poopies!”

“From now on, I’m not your boyfriend—I’m your Daddy. And Mia agreed to be your Mommy! Isn’t that great?”

You look at both of them, flabbergasted at this turn of events. “I-I-…b-but…”

“Let me finish, honey. Mia is moving in tomorrow. She’ll be sleeping with me. We’ll turn the guest room into a nursery for you, complete with everything an oversized baby like you needs.”

Your boyfriend continues, “Now that we know what you really are, you can expect to be treated like the baby you are. You’ll be in diapers all day, every day. What your websites called ‘24/7.’ You are never allowed to change yourself—you will wait for me, Mia, or whoever we put in charge of you to change you. And do not ask for changes either. We will check your diaper.”

Mia lifts your legs into the air. She grabs wipes with her free hand, cleaning the mess you left for her.

“You will not have any adult responsibilities—or privileges. You can kiss things like driving, alcohol, and any movie or TV show rated above PG. You’ll be put to bed at 8 PM every night and nap every day at noon.”

Mia buts in, “Babe, don’t forget about…you know!”

“Oh, right! I almost forgot! Sex. Or, more appropriately for you, the lack thereof. Babygirls are far too sweet and innocent for things like sex. But, if you behave, you’ll get some special diapered buzzy time with your wand once every week or two. Always with your diaper on, though. Your princess parts will never have anything touching them except a soggy diaper.”

You hear Mia fluffing your next diaper. She smiles at you. “Up!” she says, tapping your bum. She slides the diaper under you. “Thank you, sweetie!”

Baby powder rains down on you, the infantile scent proving you belong where you are.

Under their control.