Switchersuccubus

For some ABDLs, this is just a sexual fetish where they’ll wear once or twice a week for sex and that’s it. However, for the majority, it’s much more than that and you’ll know this if your partner wears a diaper outside of sex-oriented times and especially if they talk about how diapers make them feel better/happier and less stressed/anxious.

Realizing that this was more than just a fetish for my boyfriend was a big turning point for me and I made the decision that I wanted to help him accept and embrace who he was rather than him being ashamed. The mental health improvement for him of me doing this was greater than I could have imagined and is the main driver why I produce this content to try to help others.

The vast majority of ABDLs struggle with the feelings of shame and fears of their secret being discovered which often develop from childhood and their early teenage years. This comes from a general lack of acceptance of non-conformist lifestyles and it’s although it’s something we’re seeing change positively for LGBTQ+ people, widespread acceptance of ABDL is still a while away. This shame causes stress, anxiety, binge/purge cycles, and other mental health issues.

The crazy thing is ABDL is in no way “bad” or “wrong”, they have a preference to wear a different type of underwear which makes them feel better and enjoy not having to use dirty toilets all the time. Some might also like acting younger to destress or like the feeling of being forced to wear/use diapers. But crucially none of this has a negative impact on themselves as they aren’t causing harm to their bodies (unlike alcohol, fast food & drugs do) or harm to others around them. Equally wearing diapers isn’t even at all uncommon in the general population, in most western countries more adult diapers are sold than baby diapers now and it’s estimated that up to 10% of adults are wearing some sort of incontinent product on a daily basis.

I believe strongly that you should treat this as being part of their identity and not something that should be restricted, shamed, or avoided. 

A big challenge for partners though is because of this shame and feeling of guilt your partner is likely hiding some or all of their real identity from you. 

Discovering their true identity

Below are the key and common elements to ABDL identity and hopefully the questions under each section should help you identify which applies to your partner. You might be able to ask these to yourself but also don’t be afraid to directly ask your partner as well.

Diapers

Do they enjoy wearing adult diapers?

Does wearing diapers make them feel safer or more comfortable?

Are they less stressed or anxious when wearing diapers?

If nobody would find out, would they always wear a diaper?

If they’ve answered yes to 2 or more of these then it’s clear that wearing diapers is a key part of their identity.

Diaper usage

Are they happy to wet their diaper at home?

Are they happy to wet their diaper in public?

Are they happy to mess their diaper at home?

Are they happy to mess their diaper in public (as long as nobody is inconvenienced)?

Does the idea of being a bedwetter appeal to them?

Does the idea of being incontinent appeal to them?

These are straightforward but look for signs of hesitation. They might be embarrassed to answer these truthfully, especially the ones about messing so push hard to get an answer and tell they you just want the truth.

Middle Behaviors (4- 12 years old) 

Do they like acting like a child?

Do they enjoy childish activities such as coloring, playing with lego, and watching cartoons?

Do they like to dress in childish clothing such as bright colors & printed t-shirts?

Treat these responses as a way to work out how “middle” they are. Think of this like a spectrum from not a middle at all to they would love to live life as a middle.

Baby Behaviors  (1- 3 years old) 

* Do they often wear baby-themed adult diapers?

* Do they like to wear patterned onesies?

* Do they have or would like to wear other adult baby clothing at home?

* Do they feel more relaxed when sucking on a pacifier?

* If they could choose would they like to drink from bottles or sippy cups?

* Are they able to regress and act like a baby or toddler?

* Do they enjoy watching baby and toddler TV shows?

* Would they like to add AB furniture to our home, like a crib or high chair?

Treat these responses as a way to work out how “baby” they are. Think of this like a spectrum from not having baby tendencies, to they would love to like life as a baby if they could. Most people will be in the middle area of these extremes.

I’d divide this up into 5 levels:

No AB tendencies = answered no to all of the questions

Novice AB = Answered yes to the top two questions and maybe one other question

Intermediate AB =  Answered yes to 4 questions but potentially struggles to regress fully

Experienced AB = Answered yes or potentially to most questions

Full AB = Answered yes to everything

Forced Diapers & Regression

* Do they like the idea of being forced to wear diapers?

* Do they like the idea of being forced to use their diapers?

* Do they like the idea of being forced to be a baby?

* Do they like the idea of being treated as / dressed as a different gender? (e.g. man dressed as a baby girl)

* Do they like the idea of being restrained such as through bondage or locking clothing? 

If they answer yes to a question, ask how often they’d want to feel forced. Is it just occasional or all the the time. It would be quite common for someone to answer they’d like to be forced to wear diapers all the time but only occasionally forced to be a baby.

What’s next?

Asking these questions to yourself or them directly should now give you a good idea of their ABDL identity.

Diaper wearing and usage

Let’s start with the first two sections on diapers and usage. Seeing as you’re reading this I’m sure they answered yes to most of the diaper questions. It’s also likely they like using their diapers for at least wetting.

Given you now know that wearing and using diapers makes them happier you should ask yourself what is stopping them from wearing all the time. The answer is likely a combination of:

* They’re worried you won’t approve

* They feel guilty about having these desires generally

* They feel awkward wearing around you or asking if they can wear 

* They’re worried they’ll be discovered

* They’re in a period of low self-worth after an orgasm

The first three you can solve by actively encouraging them to wear as much as possible, you know this makes them happier and have better mental health so for me at least this was a no-brainer.

The fear of discovery is massively overblown, give them assurance their diaper is hidden when leaving the house and in the extremely unlikely event someone does notice you can easily say their having some waterworks issues. People however unless very close friends or family won’t mention anything.

This final one is extremely common in men and the best way to solve is by making sure either they have no choice but to stay diapered after an orgasm or use a chastity cage to prevent them in the first place. The latter I’ve found to be very helpful for my partner if you’re open to it and it has lots of benefits for you too.

So I overall I cannot recommend highly enough that  you encourage or force your partner to be diapered as much as possible. You might want exceptions for work and family initially but your goal (knowing that the time in diapers helps them) is to keep them diapered as much of each day as feasible.

If they didn’t answer with a hard no to any of the first 4 usage questions, then their diapers should be their toilet when wearing. If they do have a hard limit on messing then that can be accommodated but make sure it’s not just them saying what they think you want to hear.

Regression

If they identify as middle then this is easy to accommodate and just make sure you let them know that you want them to explore this side of themselves and they shouldn’t feel embarrassed to do childish activities at home. Buy them coloring books, lego sets and put cartoons on tv for them without them asking are easy ways to show this support.

Most will have identified with baby activities to some degree. If they’re in the novice or intermediate categories then your main role is to be supportive and encourage them with these simple baby elements. Help them pick out baby-themed diapers for the day or buy new ones online together. At night always have them dressed in a baby onesie and encourage a pacifier to be used before bed. Giving them a nighttime drink in a bottle will show your support and is convenient to drink in bed.

If they’re in the experienced or full ab categories you will need to consider more significant involvement. At these levels you should try help them get into a baby headspace lasting several hours at least 3 times a week. When in this headspace you should treat them completely as a baby, helping feed, check and change them and giving them baby toys or shows to watch. This time will massively destress them so it’s worth the effort. Outside of these times baby clothing and diapers should be the norm at home with pacifier usage encouraged at any time they want. If you have a spare room and can afford it, creating a dedicated nursery for them can be life-changing for them and keep everything in one easy place which can be locked when you have guests.

This might feel extreme to you right now but our experience is people become more AB over time so you should prepare the slowly move up the bands.

Forced Diapers & Regression

I don’t think this element gets talked about enough but many ABDLs are driven by the desire for it to be forced upon them.

If they’ve said they want to be forced to wear and use diapers occasionally then make sure that a few times a week you present them with diapers and tell them they’re in them until you say so. Forcing them to use their diapers can be achieved through making sure they drink plenty and using laxatives or suppositories.

If they have said they’d like to be forced all the time then the solution is clear. Read our article on making the decision for them and return them to diapers full time, make it clear you’re forcing this decision for them as you know it what they want and it will be good for them. They will resist at points but stand firm, they’ll thank you later. 

Even if they’re in diapers full time with no toilet privileges, you should still force them to truly lose control twice a week. I recommend doing one suppository a week; before watching tv or a film together, before sending them out of the house to go shopping or randomly in the daytime when their next change is a few hours away. And also using a tablet laxative once a week which can be given in the evening to ensure they lose control overnight.

Depending on their answer to being force to be baby, use this to dictate the frequency. If occasionally, then a few times a week make sure you treat them as a baby at the more extreme end. For example have an evening where you feed them their dinner while they sit in AB clothes and a thick diaper. Or surprise them with a whole day at the weekend where they must act like a baby.

If they’re like that more permanently, use the same guide as above but make sure they’re always in baby attire at home. You should also seriously consider creating a nursery room if possible.

Gender is easy as if that’s something they want just switch the types of diapers and clothing you buy for them and call them your baby girl, etc.

Bondage elements should generally be included if forced diapers is something they need. At a minimum use restrictive clothing to prevent them from accessing their diapers, rear zipping onesies or all-in-ones are ideal. Even adaptive clothing combined with padded mittens works well. When unsupervised access to their diapers should be prevented where possible and they should get used to asking to be changed or released if they’re changing themselves.

A locking diaper cover or belt is a good addition. Finally, they should experience times when they’re completely restrained and using their diapers is forced upon them. For daytime a straightjacket is ideal and it is perfect to watch TV together or prevent them from using their phone. My favorite is using bed restraints combined with an overnight laxative so they experience a true feeling of helplessness.

Summary

Hopefully this has been helpful and helps you understand what your partner identifies as. If this all feels too much I’d recommend starting with the diaper and usage elements first as this is normally the most important step and then layer in the AB and forced elements over the next couple of months.

I’m also conscious that I’ve likely missed off a big section I should have covered so let me know in the comments.

Easy Diaper Chastity Game for Casual Diaper Wearers

This roulette is designed for those of you who cannot wear diapers at all times but who still want to have some fun with a classic diaper chastity predicament. You may choose when to be diapered, but until you complete your diaper wearing requirements you are stuck in chastity. Either prolong your sentence by not wearing your diapers or get it over with as soon as you can. The choice is yours.

And if you are really feeling bold, you might even try out the special keyholder / caretaker modes.

Have fun and play save.

You can find the roulette via the following link:

The Home Alone Diaper Weekend Roulette

This is my latest diaper roulette created for faproulette.co.

The idea for this roulette came via an ask in my inbox that inquired whether I would be willing to design a roulette for those who can only play for a few days and only during weekends.

Therefore this roulette is a rather short one and was designed to last no longer than a weekend unless you choose to play for a longer amount of time.

There are however several handicaps and requirements that you need to deal with in order to actually complete the roulette in time without surpassing your chosen time limit. It would not be a challenge otherwise :-)

Have fun and play safe!

These are some humiliation ideas, some I have sort of experienced, all I want to experience.

-Diapers to be worn 24/7, even to work -When not diapered, panties with pad or pantyliner are to be worn -Chastity cage to be worn with keyholder visibly wearing key on bracelet or anklet -Sissy can only use female hygiene products(deodorant, body wash, shaving cream, razor, ect.) -Bra must be worn everyday all day -When at home no clothing allowed to be worn to cover up diapers -At home sissy’s extra diapers are kept in plain view -When going out, sissy must carry fully stocked diapers bag -Public diapers changes are to be done in regular stall, not behind closed doors of family restrooms -When stopping for diaper change at rest area, park far away from restrooms and have sissy carry fresh diapers in hand in plain view -When buying sissy’s diapers, have clerk help, letting them know who they are for -Take sissy panty shopping, while diapered, lift up skirt or pull down shorts, hold panties up to diaper to see if they would fit -Have sissy ask to be measured for her bra size by store employee -Regularly check sissy’s diaper in public to see if sissy needs a change -Sissy must buy diapers, pads, pantyliners, female products in person -Heavily diaper sissy, plug her, take sissy shopping for diapers. Drop sissy off two to three miles from home. Have sissy walk the rest of the way carrying packages of diapers -Hire babysitter for sissy -Make a babybook of sissy, filled with pictures taken by you and your friends -Heavily diapers sissy, tie her hands behind her back, use “O” ring mouth gag, invite all your male friends over to use sissy’s mouth, if they need to use the restroom have then pee down the back of sissy’s diapers -Put heavy make-up on sissy, have male friends use her face as a cum dump, taking pictures as make-up starts to run -Sissy service anyone who master/mistress tells them to -When in public, do not allow sissy to change diapers until they leak and the leaks are visible on sissy’s shorts -Wait till sissy’s diapers leak, have her go into busy drugstore to buy more diapers, have her ask for help finding the diapers, then have her ask to use restroom to change -Have sissy “beg” men to let her please them orally, always thanking them afterwards -Have sissy be used as a bukkake target and send her to bed not allowing her to clean her face -If sissy is not working and you are, have her send you pics hourly to prove she didn’t take diapers off, show them to your co-workers -Have sissy go to tanning salon wearing bikini -Have sissy get “cute” tatoo -Get sissy’s belly button pierced -Take sissy to get lower back tatoo while diapered -Take sissy to all doctor visits diapered -Take sissy to nail salon, diapered and in short skirt, so when pedicure is being done diapers are visible -If anyone asks why sissy is diapered, have her tell them its because she can’t keep her panties or bed dry -Have sissy watch all of your sexual acts and use her tongue to clean up all involved -The more people that know you keep sissy in diapers and why the better, encourage friends to tease her and take pictures

The milking wards of the abdl femdom hospitals serve the important function of keeping unworthy beta males from having any intimate contact with women.

When dealing with these pathetic specimens, the nurses don provocative tight protective clothing, including rubber uniforms.

This is to ensure they can perform their tasks to cause maximum arousal of the patient while having as little physical contact with them and their worthless semen.

The atmosphere is cold and clinical with the nurses only communicating by commands or invasive questions.

A seemingly endless procession of near identical rubber nurses patrol the wards with cock milking devices.

They routinely stop at each patient's bed to force the semen from their balls without mercy or sympathy.

It doesn’t take very long. Most of these men have premature ejaculation issues. The patients are usually aroused and desperate. They don’t get to spend time with women as beautiful and kinky as this: The nurses love to tease and dominate beta males.

The semen collected by these machines is thoroughly destroyed, so that not a single drop of these men's DNA will ever chance to encounter a woman's body.

Sometimes the emission is fed to the patient to reinforce their helpless submission.

Some of the kinkier nurses insert it into the patients ass. Anything to humiliate and remind the patient that they are not real men.

Image credit Femdom Empire

Im Umgang mit diesen jämmerlichen Exemplaren tragen die Krankenschwestern provokative, enge Schutzkleidung, darunter auch Gummiuniformen.

Dies soll sicherstellen, dass sie ihre Aufgaben erfüllen können, um die Patienten maximal zu erregen, während sie gleichzeitig so wenig physischen Kontakt wie möglich mit ihnen und ihrem wertlosen Samen haben.

Die Atmosphäre ist kalt und klinisch, die Krankenschwestern kommunizieren ausschließlich durch Befehle oder indiskrete Fragen.

Eine scheinbar endlose Prozession nahezu identischer Gummischwestern patrouilliert mit Melkgeräten durch die Stationen.

Sie halten routinemäßig an jedem Patientenbett an, um den Samen ohne Gnade oder Mitgefühl aus den Hoden zu pressen.

Es dauert nicht lange. Die meisten dieser Männer leiden unter vorzeitigem Samenerguss. Die Patienten sind in der Regel erregt und verzweifelt. Sie haben nicht die Gelegenheit, Zeit mit so schönen und perversen Frauen wie diesen zu verbringen: Die Krankenschwestern lieben es, Beta-Männer zu necken und zu dominieren.

Das von diesen Maschinen aufgefangene Sperma wird vollständig vernichtet, sodass kein einziger Tropfen der DNA dieser Männer jemals mit dem Körper einer Frau in Berührung kommen kann. Manchmal wird das Ejakulat der Patientin verabreicht, um ihre hilflose Unterwerfung zu verstärken. Einige der perverseren Krankenschwestern führen es der Patientin anal ein. Alles, um sie zu demütigen und ihr zu verdeutlichen, dass sie keine richtigen Männer sind.

Bildnachweis: Femdom Empire

The sound of the front door slamming shut, jolted Riley awake.

As she came to, the reality of her predicament quickly returned. The kindly lady who called at the house some days ago was now Riley’s captor. Several doses of chloroform rags were keeping our damsel groggy and compliant…..not that she was in a position to do much of anything else.

Her body was thoroughly swaddled in the glossy vinyl tape. Her gag too, was of the same sticky stuff, with a sponge ball providing the stuffing. Riley’s eyes were sore and heavy as she tried to focus on the lady standing over her. The woman was probably near 60, her short hair was greying and she wore glasses….much like a schoolteacher. Her outfit was plain and nondescript…..much like her really. She knelt down next to Riley and gently stroked the girl’s taped lips.

“I know this has gone on longer than planned, honey. Getting good help to transport you out of the way hasn’t been easy. But don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve found a solution.”

Riley mmmpphed weakly. What the fuck was this bitch talking about? Since the ambush in the hallway, the woman never revealed why she was doing this. Riley had spent the entire time like a fucking mummy, getting knocked out cold any time her jailer left the house.

If that wasn’t humiliating enough, the woman made Riley wear a layer of old pantyhose and a diaper underneath her cocoon. She was lying in her own piss, taped up and left on the floor until she was changed…..while unconscious of course.

Instead of the sickening fear she felt at first, she was getting angry. The chloroform cloud was lifting and our damsel started to scream in fury, bucking and kicking as hard as she could…..the vain hope that the tape would loosen kept her rage flowing.

The woman returned, shaking her head and admonishing Riley.

“Didn’t I warn you about causing a fuss? If you behave I promise no harm will be done. But if you carry being a naughty girl, well, then you get punished. I don’t want to punish you, sweetheart…….so don’t fucking make me.”

The sudden harsh shift in tone settled Riley down in a heartbeat. The woman smiled again and produced her purse, opening it in front of Riley.

“Now, it’s going to be a long journey down south, and I don’t want to keep drugging you. Who knows what damage that’s doing……I need you fit and healthy. So, I thought I might need to keep your mind on other things.”

Riley shook her head, grunting quizzically through her gag. The lady pulled out a good sized dildo and what looked like a small vibrator. She hummed a little tune as she carried on delving into her purse and retrieved a butt plug and a jar of lube.

“I know what you’re thinking, honey….I’m just like Mary Poppins. Trust me, this purse could hold the federal reserve. Now, I just need to get you ready and we’ll be on our way.”

The lady grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting away at the tape, again merrily humming to herself. Riley thought this could be her chance……once the tape was cut away, even from her thighs, she could kick this old bitch’s face in. The woman glanced over toward the coffee table near the sofa. She smiled again and told herself off for being forgetful. Riley’s eyes widened and she groaned in muzzled frustration as the familiar rag soaked with the chloroform was being pressed over her nose.

She was too weak to fight it, and the fumes soon overcame her. As she started to fully pass out, she felt the tape being removed from the waist down, the layer of pantyhose allowing cold air on her skin.

Another loud sound woke Riley from her chemically induced slumber. Voices drifted through the house, and the tone was lighthearted enough as she could make out the woman talking to a man. Riley squinted as the curtains were open for the first time in days….she could see a For Sale sign through the window, it was being hammered into the ground by the man who had headed outside.

Riley tried to move, but the addition of her ‘distractions’ were fully apparent. The dildo was deep in her and her ass felt full too. She squealed as the toys shifted with her movements….as for the vibe, she couldn’t feel it….yet.

The lady appeared and flashed a broad grin as she sadistically dug her heels against Riley’s crotch.

“I had a tough time getting those toys in, sugar. You were as tight as a drum. But don’t you worry….we’ll get you loosened up in no time. By the way, your new home is lovely, a nice estate in the Caribbean, I’m almost jealous.”

Riley shifted in her tape cocoon, trying to break free. The woman pressed her foot down harder.

“It was darn handy finding you when I did. You see, I have a teeny, weeny gambling problem. Didn’t really have the money to pay my debts back. So I had to find someone who lived on their own, as well as young and cute as a button. Oh, owning your own house was definitely a requirement. I took my time with you, sweetie. A few of your neighbours asked after you, but I told them that old Aunty Marge was in town. You see, I was helping you get over a terrible illness you had. I also mentioned that you were going to sell up and move down south with me. After all, isn’t that what family is about?”

Riley shrieked as loud as she could, but ‘Aunty Marge’ activated the remote for the vibe. A sudden, violent pulse paralysed Riley straight away. The relentless throbbing started to have a chain effect with the dildo and plug. The bound girl cried in discomfort as she was overwhelmed by the stimulus of her holes.

“Just settle into it, sweetheart. You’ll get used to it in time. In fact, you might enjoy it……you’re gonna have to, where you’re going. I’ll take care of the house sale and the money….a guy at the bank owes me a little favour.”

Riley felt the strong hands grab her and lift her onto a trolley. A blanket was thrown over her and she was being wheeled out to the waiting van.

Mother Maiden's Milking Farm - Chapter 1: Orientation

Macie hadn’t planned on ending up here.

A month ago, she was hunched over her laptop with a cracked screen, sitting on a lumpy futon that barely qualified as furniture, trying not to cry as her online banking app refreshed.

Tuition was due. Rent was overdue. And her roommate, Kaylee, had bailed mid-semester to go “work on a start-up” in New Hampshire. Some sort of diaper tech company, of all things. “It’s the future!” Kaylee had said, jamming a hoodie into her duffel. “Seriously, Macie. Ever since The Blowout, the demand is insane. Subsidies, medical grants, government contracts, all of it. What used to be a niche little kink and subculture is now an entire Regressive movement! The industry is booming for people that are making boom booms in Pampers!!”

Kaylee laughed at her own cheesy joke.

Macie rolled her eyes back then. She didn’t understand how someone could get excited about adult diapers, let alone voluntarily sign up to promote them. But Kaylee vanished with little more than a goodbye, leaving Macie stuck with all the rent by herself.

To make matters worse, her car had sputtered to a permanent stop two weeks ago. The mechanic quoted her more than what was left in her account. She couldn’t put it on her credit card because her ex-boyfriend had maxed that out with his gambling habits, his fantasy league buy-ins, and his new jet ski. She tried contacting him to get some sort of reimbursement, but his phone was disconnected. She tried looking him up on his socials, but those all went dark too.

She couldn’t help but wonder, with a twist in her gut, if he’d been processed. That was the word people used now. Since the Matriarchy took over, more and more men were being ‘reassigned’. Some said it was Re-Ed. Others blamed Pamper Patrol audits. Macie didn’t know. She didn’t follow all that stuff. The world outside was changing, but she could barely keep up with what was happening inside of her own.

All she knew was that her ex’s debt had followed her, and now she was the one drowning because of it.

She’d scrolled job boards until her vision blurred. Waitressing gigs were gone. Most restaurants were down to skeleton crews now that a lot of male patrons were either padded, pacified, or prohibited from dining out unsupervised. The hospital internships she’d applied to last semester had all been filled. Every posting redirected to closed applications or waitlists that stretched for miles.

Campus jobs weren’t much better. All the TA slots had been scooped up by students in the new ABC Degree tracks. “Applied Behavioral Compliance,” they called it, but most referred to it as Adult Baby Care. Either way, de-potty-training grown men was a respectable academic field now. Adult Daycares were fully staffed too, thanks to generous salaries and a rush of applicants eager for stability. She couldn’t blame them. Between state-mandated regression care and the endless need for hands-on supervision, those places had near-zero turnover.

And then, she saw it:

MILK TECHS NEEDED – High Pay. On-Site Housing. No Experience Necessary. Join the Mother Maiden Initiative. Support National Stability through Compassionate Extraction!

She clicked, half expecting a paywall or another fake survey site. The page flickered once, then settled into a plain white screen with a few lines of text. No company banner, not even a company name that she could Google, nothing that told her who or what this actually was. She leaned closer, scanning for more information.

There wasn’t much, other than:

“Must be comfortable working around Cows and Bulls. Bonus for High-Volume Extraction Techs.”

“Is this… veterinary work?” she muttered aloud. She was a nursing student. That counted, right?

None of the other options offered nearly as high of pay or benefits. Surely it had to be one of those fake ads designed by robots, but she didn’t have much to lose. Actually, she had a lot to lose. She completed the online questionnaire, submitted her resume, and hit “apply”.

Twenty minutes later, her phone buzzed. Interview confirmed. Address attached. The facility was only an hour outside the city.

*****

The compound sat at the end of a long service road, tucked behind a stand of pines and a chain-link perimeter lined with discreet cameras. From the bus stop, Macie had followed a narrow gravel path toward a set of white buildings that looked more like a medical research park than anything involving livestock. Flat roofs, frosted windows, everything symmetrical and sanitized. Not a single pasture or barn in sight.

A brushed-steel sign rose near the walkway:

MOTHER MAIDEN’S MILKING FARM

Regional Distribution Center Unit #7

“Lactation for a Stronger Nation”

Macie shifted awkwardly, her backpack hanging off one shoulder as she stepped toward the glass entrance. A security laser scanned her from boots to bangs, humming softly. When it clicked green, the door unlocked with a soft hiss, and she slipped inside.

Cold air. Stainless trim. Sterile tile. Not a whiff of hay, earth, or anything living. Just humming lights and a faint undertone of disinfectant.

So far, not much like any farm she’d ever seen.

She hadn’t expected literal barns or overalls, but she had expected something agricultural. She had expected animals. Cows. Maybe goats. A moo. A trough. Anything. Instead, she stood in a gleaming white corridor with lighting so bright it made her head hurt.

A door slid open to her left.

A woman appeared, heels clicking. She wore a crisp, white nurse’s outfit. Tight across the chest, cinched at the waist, with red piping and a little hat pinned into her auburn curls. 

“Well hi there!!” the woman smiled with a southern drawl as thick as molasses, “You must be one of the new girls!”

“Yeah…uh, Macie.” She said, trying to return the smile.

“Well, c’mon then, darlin’! Changing room’s down this way!”

Macie blinked, stumbling after her. “What? Uh..That’s it? I—I don’t get an interview or anything?”

“You showed up,” the woman said cheerfully. “That’s the part most folks fail.”

They walked past numbered doors with tiny windows too dark to see through. Macie tried to glance anyway and caught only a flash of something padded, with restraints bolted to the frame. But the woman’s brisk pace didn’t allow her to linger.

In the changing room, the woman handed Macie a neatly folded outfit. Not scrubs. Not even close.

It was a costume. A skimpy, ruffled dress that looked like a cross between a milkmaid’s apron and a slutty French maid uniform: low neckline, frilly hem, lace trimming. It felt soft in her hands but humiliating just to hold.

“This isn’t what the ad showed,” Macie said, staring down at the garment. Her voice pitched higher than she meant it to.

“Mmh.” The woman tilted her head, that knowing southern smile both kind and cutting. “They leave a lot out of the ads, sugarplum. Keeps folks from gettin’ cold feet.”

“I’m not worried about the job.” Macie said, puffing up her chest and trying to sound more qualified than she felt. “I actually used to work on a farm! Well…not really, I guess.” Macie conceded, “My grandpa had a few cows and I’d go out and fill a bucket or two every now and then.”

The woman’s laugh came sharp and sudden. “Oh, honey! Bless your little heart!! You thought we had dairy cows out here?”

Macie gave an uneasy smile. “I mean… yeah? It’s called a milking farm, right? I figured some kind of alternative ag-tech thing. Maybe hormone-free artisanal stuff, or like… oat milk or something.”

The woman grinned, all teeth. “That’s cute. You’ll catch on fast.”

Macie hesitated, then asked, “The job listing wasn’t very detailed, but it did say we’d be milking Cows and Bulls. I mean, I get the Cows part, but is there really a market for…bull milk?”

“Oh, sugar, there’s a huge market.” The woman’s eyes glittered. “You just don’t know where it ends up.”

Macie frowned. “But that doesn’t even make sense! Bulls don’t—”

“Mm-hm.” The woman cut her off gently. In that patient, practiced way that said she’d heard this question a thousand times. “You’ll learn soon enough what gets bottled around here.”

Macie swallowed hard, gaze falling back to the frilly uniform clutched in her hands. “I’m sorry, I just…maybe I'm just not understanding. What exactly are we milking?”

The woman leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh, sweetheart. You are milking Cows and Bulls. They’re just not the kind with hooves!”

Macie stared, gears turning. Trying to process what that meant. Goats? Camels? All of those had hooves. Her brain scrambled through possibilities. Exotic livestock? Bioengineered species? Something lab-grown? Nothing matched the context. Especially not with this uniform.

“Orientation will explain everything.” The woman said, reading Macie’s confusion. “You’ll see the whole process soon enough.”

“But…you said no experience required,” Macie murmured, “I don’t even know what–”

“You’ll learn everything you need.” the woman replied smoothly. “Just remember to put on a smile, bat those lashes, and always pay attention to the tip.”

Macie’s mouth went dry.

The woman tapped the dress. “This part’s non-negotiable, by the way. Uniform is policy. Helps keep the Bulls excited. Keeps production up.”

It was black and white with frilly trim, like something a girl would wear to a Halloween party after a few shots of vodka. A short, puffed skirt. Stockings with bows. A ruffled apron. French maid cosplay, basically. Her parents would disown her if they ever saw her in something like this. They’d always warned her that girls who wore outfits like this weren’t respectable. That modesty was a virtue. That the world only took you seriously if you took yourself seriously first.

She looked back up. “And if I say no?”

The woman shrugged, unconcerned. “Then you can rejoin the six-hundred-person waitlist for TA gigs and adult daycare shifts. Or you can put on the dress, clock in, and start making some real money. Your choice, honey.”

Macie didn’t answer.

She thought of her student loans, the lab fees, the price of the MCAT prep she still hadn’t bought, the medical textbooks she currently borrowed because she couldn’t afford her own copies. Her clunker of a car that needed fixing. The rent increase coming next semester.

If the ad was to be believed, one week here paid more than 2 months at any of her other options.

After a long moment, she turned to the locker, peeled off her hoodie, and started changing.

**************

Macie tugged the skirt down for the third time in as many steps. It still didn’t help. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, trying not to draw attention to how snug the top was, how much cleavage it pushed up and out. The material was soft but synthetic, clinging to her hips and cutting tight at the waist. The bow at the small of her back wobbled when she walked.

Her name tag caught her eye in the mirror: Nurse Macie Monroe

She stopped.

For a moment, the title tugged at something deep in her chest. Nurse. The word she’d practiced writing at the top of her class notes.The one that eventually would evolve to Doctor. The career she’d imagined in blue scrubs and sensible shoes, hair pulled back, stethoscope around her neck. Not… whatever this was.

Seeing it here, pinned to a costume that pushed and hugged and swished felt surreal. Like a weird dream that leaks in the wrong details.

But it was still her name. And still the title she wanted more than anything.

She inhaled, lifted her chin, and nodded once to her reflection.

You’re working toward it, she reminded herself. One way or another.

She stepped out of the locker room and followed the faded pink floor arrows toward the Orientation Room.

Seven other young women around Macie’s age were already seated in the pastel-colored orientation room, each wearing the same uniform she had just struggled to accept. It was oddly comforting. Seeing them dressed in the same outfit helped steady her nerves, made her feel like less of a sore thumb.

A soft hum of chatter filled the room. Two girls near the front were whispering.

“My friend said she’s clearing almost 3 grand a week! Swears by the wrist technique.”

Macie blinked. Three thousand??

“It’s all about output. Get them finished, cleaned, and reset. If you’re fast, the bonuses stack.”

“Yea but you don’t want to make them finish too fast.” Another one said, “Gotta edge them a bit, get it all nice and built up, then you let them go. Bigger bang for your buck. Or…bull…”

They all giggled.

Macie blinked, unsure what to say. She hadn’t even fully wrapped her head around the word Bull, much less what any of these girls were excitedly talking about. 

Before Macie could make sense of it all, the door opened with a hiss. The same poised woman from the changing area stepped inside, now holding a slim tablet. She surveyed the group with a broad smile.

“Well, don’t you all look precious!!” she said, flashing a bright smile. “I’d like to welcome you all to Mother Maiden’s Milking Farm! My name is Matron Misty, and I’ll be getting ya’ll settled today!”

Her voice had that pitch-perfect tone, warm and professional, but with something faintly rehearsed underneath, like a cruise director or someone used to smiling for cameras.

“You’re here because you made a choice,” she continued. “And it was a good one. You girls are about to become part of something very special!

She tapped the tablet, and the screen on the far wall hummed to life. The lights dimmed.

“Now, before you get started with your placements, we’re just going to show you a little welcome video. After that, you’ll be off to milking and mending in no time!”

Macie straightened in her chair, fingers brushing the lace edge of her uniform. On screen, a pink crest unfurled: two teal hands cradling what she first thought was an udder, stylized and inverted, a single droplet suspended beneath it. But as the glow sharpened, the shape resolved into something else: a bottle, wide at the base, tapering toward a soft rubber tip.

The image pulsed gently, almost reverently, and then the voice came. Soft. Maternal. The kind you’d trust to read bedtime stories.

“For thousands of years, humanity was guided by the same hand. By the fist of the Patriarchy. Men led nations, waged wars, and called it order. They built monuments to their ambition, consumed every natural resource in the name of greed, and called it progress. But what did their leadership bring us? War. Famine. Corruption. Division. Endless conflict dressed up as glory. Generation after generation, power was hoarded instead of shared. Empathy was dismissed as weakness, compassion was mistaken for fragility or femininity. The world became a reflection of their image: loud, wasteful, toxic. We let them lead, and they led us into ruin. Until the Blowout of 2032 finally changed everything…

The imagery swelled: skyscrapers burning, crowds rioting, soldiers clashing in gray smoke. Then, in a single, sweeping cut, the chaos faded to calm. Rows of pink flags rose against a bright blue sky.

“From the ashes rose a new world. A gentler world. A wiser world. One where compassion governs, not conquest. Where nurturing defines leadership. And so, the Matriarchy was born...”

Women appeared: engineers, doctors, judges, police officers, each smiling into the camera. The voice grew more triumphant, swelling with warmth.

“But rebuilding wasn’t enough. The old ways ran deep. The damage needed correcting.”

The footage shifted.

This time it wasn’t rioters or soldiers. It was the men who had profited from the collapse: Corrupt CEOs escorted out of corner offices in tailored suits now torn and disheveled. Toxic influencers and podcasters pulled from studios before they could broadcast another one of their angry, divisive rants. Politicians who had lied, stalled, and exploited now stood hunched and shaking as their indictments were televised nationwide, their polished smiles gone, their practiced charm evaporated now that they were finally being held accountable. All of them stood in front of a judge, all of them given the same sentence.

“These individuals,” the narrator said as more and more powerful male faces plastered the screen, “fanned the chaos for personal gain. They manipulated followers, exploited families, destabilized nations. They made decisions that harmed millions,” the narrator continued, voice steady. “They had every chance to act responsibly, but they chose not to. When given autonomy, they chose poorly, so their autonomy has been stripped. They will start over. From the bottom. From the beginning. Back in diapers. Where they belong.”

The next shot cut hard.

It was a regression ward dressed in deceptively gentle colors. Pastel murals, colored floor tiles, and soft lighting disguising the steel beneath. Padded stations lined the room in neat rows, each fitted with restraints, and the towering cribs with bars stretching to the ceiling stood like pastel prison cells along the walls. Everything looked warm and cutesy at first glance, until you noticed how firmly it was all bolted in place.

The camera drifted deeper through the ward, gliding past the bolted cribs and orderly supply shelves. One station was already occupied.

A disgraced shareholder who once bragged about “having his hands in every pocket” now lay strapped to a table, reddening with fury as caregivers secured oversized mittens over his wrists. Thick, padded restraints that rendered his once-grasping fingers completely useless. The man who manipulated markets with a flick of his hand could no longer hold so much as a pen. Before he could protest, attendants lifted his ankles high and slid a thick white diaper beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion.

In another area of the ward, a representative who proudly voted down every women’s rights bill for a decade stood trembling as attendants fastened him into a bright pink diaper with clinical indifference, they tied matching ribbons into what remained of his thinning hair. 

The podcaster who made a career out of yelling into a microphone and spewing hate sure seemed to hate being strapped in a nursery highchair with an enormous, medicated pacifier stuffed and strapped into his mouth. His trademark rants had dissolved into wet suckles and whimpers as drool pooled on his bib, his once-booming voice reduced to gurgles and whining hiccups.

A tech mogul who profited from misinformation pouted helplessly as his encrypted phone was confiscated and replaced with a chunky plastic toy phone that chimed nursery jingles whenever he tried to speak.

“These men spent years filling the world with noise and waste,” the narrator said coldly. “Now they will do the same…in their diapers.”

A final shot lingered on a former Senator once full of arrogance and full of shit, now sitting in a playpen with a sagging diaper…also full of shit.

“But the system does not stop with just the rich and powerful.”

The music softened as new footage appeared.

“Across the general population, the same standards apply…”

A man with six restraining orders that spent years skirting the edges of the law was now in a skirt that did nothing to hide the bulging plastic panties put over his Pampers. The only women he’d be trailing after from now on were the ones holding his leash, their grips firm as they guided him toward the Time-Out Corner where he’d be staring at a blank wall instead of through anyone’s windows ever again.

A repeat drunk driver who’d shattered two families’ lives appeared next, crawling on all fours across a padded playroom floor. The only keys he was trusted with now were oversized plastic ones meant for teething, and the only vehicle he was allowed to “drive” was a bright blue Tonka truck that wobbled across the padded ABC tiles.

A man flagged for repeated domestic outbursts was having a little outburst of his own on the floor. The attendants only smiled at the pathetic tantrum, his mittened fists too soft and useless to do any damage now. They treated the scene like nothing more than a fussy Little overdue for a change, lifting him by the underarms and carrying him to the station while his filthy, sagging diaper swung heavily. From the observation window, his girlfriend watched with her arms crossed and the smallest, satisfied smirk.

“Toxic behavior, chronic irresponsibility, and repeated endangerment of others all lead to the same outcome,” the narrator said. “When a man cannot function safely as an adult, he is reset to a level he can manage.”

More footage:

A serial cheater caught with his pants down too many times now had them kept there as staff fastened a chastity cage onto him, then slid thick protective padding over it.

A Gym-bro who filmed women without consent now has his own changing sessions live-streamed 24/7.

A workplace violator who used to grope coworkers and interns now gets his own crotch squeezed and groped by every passing attendant in the ward so they can check for ‘pee-pee’s and poo-poo’s’!

“Every day, more and more adult males enter regression programs,” the narrator continued, “where they finally experience the boundaries, structure, and supervision they avoided for so long…” 

Macie blinked hard. The footage cut rapidly: pacifiers filling bearded mouths, pens and cell phones being pulled away from mittened hands and replaced with rattles and plush toys. Rows and rows and rows of grown men strapped into cribs, squirming in yellowed, soiled diapers while smiling female attendants strutted by.

Some were sentenced. Others surrendered voluntarily. All now benefit from a kinder, corrective approach...”

Macie glanced sideways. None of the other girls in the Orientation room reacted. Maybe they’d seen this kind of messaging before. Maybe they’d heard about it. Maybe they didn’t care. The music softened again, almost playful.

“And it isn’t just in institutions anymore. Women everywhere are learning the secret to harmony in their own homes. Aferall, a diapered husband is a docile husband...”

The screen showed a smiling woman in an apron spooning mush into her husband’s mouth while he sat in an adult-sized highchair, bib snug beneath his chin. Another woman fastened a pacifier clip to a man’s collar and popped it in his mouth before taking a phone call, unbothered.

“Some partners embrace it. Others struggle. But every day, more and more households are finding peace through regression.”

The music shifted to a calm, reassuring melody as the narrator’s tone dipped with gentle gravity.

“For those who refuse care or endanger others, intervention teams ensure compliance.”

Two uniformed women escorted a man sobbing quietly toward a waiting van. He was barefoot, wrists cuffed tightly in front of him, hem of his pants bunched around the swollen diaper beneath. His wife signed a handheld tablet, hand shaking. The officers guided him in, buckled him into a large carseat, shut the door, and drove away.

“From househusbands to high-level offenders, from reluctant regressives to willing volunteers,” the narrator cooed, her tone bright and confident, “each one becomes part of a gentler, safer world. Step by step, household by household, the old chaos is being diapered, contained, and brought under control.”

News footage faded into the now-familiar sight: men lining up at public checkpoints, their pants dropped to their ankles for inspectors to confirm the presence of state-issued pampers. Men at bus stops, their bulging padding outlined under slacks. Men in grocery aisles, pushing carts beside wives who occasionally reached down to pat their huggied hips, a casual reassurance that everything was still secure.

Public changing stations dotted sidewalks like ATMs. Police enforced compliance through random checks, pulling them over and pulling down their pants, issuing citations to those who tried to go without their daily diapers. Most didn’t. Most had long since stopped trying.

All of this was done in what were called “Motherlands”: self-contained zones built in the aftermath of the Blowout, where no children lived and no families were raised. Every person inside one of these areas was over eighteen. Every crib and every changing table was for an adult who had already been processed, stabilized, and reassigned.

A map of the continent filled the screen. Soft pink icons bloomed like petals across the surface. One, then ten, then hundreds, until almost the entire land seemed blanketed in them.

“Today, nearly one-point-five million adult males wear diapers full-time.”

Macie swallowed hard. 1.5 million. It was an insane number to try to wrap her head around.

“For the most difficult cases,” the narrator continued, “every aspect of care requires regression. From how they relieve themselves, to how they are entertained, to how they take in nutrients. Bottle-feeding plays a vital role in that process. It is not only a means of nourishment, but of conditioning. It is an act of acceptance, dependence, and submission.”

The screen shifted from the map to a series of real-life scenes: suburban kitchens, pastel nurseries, sanitized care wards.

Men in all manner of attire, from onesies to business shirts to footie pajamas, cradled in the arms of their partners or caregivers, each one suckling obediently from oversized bottles. Some were wide-eyed and docile, others looked dazed, hypnotized. A few squirmed and pouted, but the hands holding their bottles stayed firm.

The music swelled as a montage built. The sloshing sound of bottles being tilted, lips suckling rhythmically, diapers crinkling under shifting weight. 

Then came a flashing of images: 

A graying man slumped in a highchair, eyes glazed, milk dribbling down his chin and soaking the bib that bore his name in pink cursive.

A row of recliners, each holding a swaddled man, caretakers rocking them in sync as the bottles drained.

A man curled up in his wife’s lap, tear tracks visible as she whispered and coaxed him to finish every drop.

In another scene, a nurse stood over a man strapped into a mesh rocker, its pastel fabric stretched tight beneath his squirming form. He fussed and twisted, the belts across his chest and hips keeping him firmly pinned as his mittened hands flailed in small, impotent gestures. His diaper was visibly swollen, sagging against the curve of the seat with each fidget. With one hand, the nurse steadied the oversized bottle at his lips, coaxing the rubber nipple between them. With the other, she reached up and gave the dangling plush toys on the rocker’s arch a light tap. The little stuffed animals began to sway and jingle and spin lazily above him. Pointless distractions meant to soothe, though the nurse’s sing-song voice made clear the true intent was to patronize.

“There we go, honeybee,” she cooed, nudging the nipple until his lips wrapped reluctantly around it. “Fussy little guys get the extra bouncy seat, don’t they?”

He let out a muffled whimper, eyes welling up as he sucked with short, pitiful bursts. The toys danced above his head. His cheeks flushed. The straps held firm.

“Shhh,” the nurse whispered sweetly, brushing a bit of hair from his damp forehead. “Drink up now. You need every drop if you’re going to be a good boy today.”

Cut to a backyard, sunny and green. A man sat cross-legged in a playpen, bib fastened under his chin. His wife knelt beside him, smoothing his hair as he drank.

In another shot, a younger man rocked in a padded jumper suspended from the ceiling. The elastic cords bounced him lightly with every squirm, forcing him into an awkward rhythm that made the crinkle of his diaper loud and inescapable. His onesie had ridden up from the motion, bearing the weight of his bulging brown of his diaper with every bounce. He whimpered, his mittened hands swiping uselessly in the air as if trying to steady himself.

The nurse stood in front of him, bottle in hand, letting him flail for a moment before catching him mid-bounce. She gripped him firmly by the chin with one hand, guiding the oversized nipple between his lips with the other.

“Come on now,” she said, her voice syrupy and patient, “you bounce, you drink. That’s how this works.”

He tried to twist away, but the cords brought him swinging right back into position. The bottle was waiting. Another bounce, another frustrated lurch forward, and this time, the rubber teat slipped past his lips. The nurse gave it a gentle squeeze as he suckled with a resentful grunt.

“There’s my thirsty little kangaroo,” she cooed, lightly tapping his nose. “Keep bouncing and draining your ba ba!”

The next shot pulled back, and back again.

A massive regression room stretched out in rigid rows. Hundreds of adult Littles lay on thin padded mats or low cots, arranged like livestock stalls. Orderly, silent, uniform. Most stared blankly at the ceiling; others suckled lazily at their bottles without ever raising their hands. Caregivers moved between them with practiced efficiency, tipping bottles, wiping chins, and adjusting positioning wedges as if tending to a herd rather than men.

The sound thinned to nothing but suckling. No music. No narration. Just the wet, soft rhythm of hundreds of mouths drinking in unison.

A few Littles blinked slowly, unseeing. Some stared upward, glassy-eyed. One reached lazily for a mobile that wasn’t there, another scratched at the edge of his swaddle, too weak or doped to do more.

None of them spoke. None of them resisted. All of them drank.

Then…another place. Somewhere else entirely.

A heavy latch clicked. The door of a large enclosure swung open. A rush of diapered men spilled forward on all fours, scampering like pigs from a pen. Pale limbs flailed, plastic crinkled, and the floor trembled with the frantic rhythm of hands and knees on tile.

They crawled toward the bars of a zoo-like cage, where a row of long, downward-facing spouts jutted out from oversized bottles mounted behind the mesh. Mouths found them. Without hesitation, they latched on, suckling greedily from the angled nozzles like hamsters feeding from water tubes. Plastic squeaked. Milk gurgled. Some moaned softly as the formula began to flow.

The footage blurred into more scenes: men asleep in cribs, bottles still nestled in their mouths; women burping limp, milk-drunk partners against their shoulders; aisles of formula bottles glinting under fluorescent light, stretching endlessly down a warehouse corridor.

Bottles in homes.

Bottles in clinics.

Bottles in cages.

Bottles, bottles, bottles.

So. Many. Bottles.

“But where does all this formula come from?” the narrator purred, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. “Artificial substitutes can only do so much. Powders, stabilizers, synthetic blends… they help, yes. But they lack that deeper something. That innate nourishment our Littles respond to so well!”

A nurse held a glass bottle up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered, pearly and white.

“They started their lives with a certain kind of milk,” the narrator continued. “And now that they’re back in diapers… doesn’t it make sense to return them to something natural? Something instinctive?”

Soft piano chords drifted in. Comforting. Warm.

Wrong.

A nurse held a glass bottle up to the camera. The liquid inside slid slowly along the glass.Thick. Too thick, almost silky.

Not chalky like formula.

That wasn’t cow’s milk.

That wasn’t goat’s milk.

That wasn’t any milk Macie had ever seen in a grocery store.

“True nourishment provides what their bodies crave,” the narrator continued. “The subtle things that soothe them, calm them, guide them. Something powders simply can’t replicate.”

More bottles glided past on the conveyor.

Dozens. Hundreds.

All filled with the same viscous white. Some thin and pearly. Some so dense they barely moved when the bottle tilted. Some faintly luminous, strands stretching and snapping like spider silk.

Macie shifted in her seat. She didn’t know why, but her stomach twisted. Like she was sensing something she couldn’t yet wrap her head around.

“The regressed require true milk. Real milk. Special milk. And that…” the voice brightened as the logo pulsed across the screen, “...is where YOU come in.”

Daylight flooded the screen.

A cheerful fiddle tune began. The exact melody her hometown used at harvest festivals, now warped under the clinical lighting. The camera swooped through the open barn doors of a candy-colored structure. A banner fluttered overhead:

COW WARD A: “Where Every Heifer Finds Her Happy Place!”

Macie blinked.

She still hadn’t seen a single animal since entering the facility. Not one hoofprint. Not one stall of hay. Not one udder. The whole “Farm” had been nothing but tile and steel and disinfectant.

The camera glided deeper into the barn, the hum of machinery swelling with every step. Pumps hissed. Something strained. Something moaned. The air vibrated with a low, relentless rhythm.

The aisle narrowed. Shadows deepened.

Machines whirred. Grunting and mooing could be heard. Rhythmic. Relentless. Not animal. It almost sounded like…

No.

No, no, no…they wouldn’t.

The camera stopped in front of a stall, and Macie saw her.

A full-grown woman, naked, on all fours in straw, arched her back like an offering. Skin slick with sweat. Breasts swollen, veined, impossibly heavy. Nipples dark and dripping. A pink ribbon tied in her hair like a prize heifer at the state fair.

Waiting. Presented.

An attendant in the exact same frilly uniform Macie now wore stepped into frame. She rolled a stainless-steel machine forward. Hoses hissed softly as they were uncoiled.

The woman in the stall’s smile cracked. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

The attendant snapped on gloves with a sharp crack.

Macie’s breath thinned to a single, sharp thread.

They weren’t milking cattle at this place.

They were milking people.

To be continued

Learning the Sissy ABC's of Diaper Domination - "F"

You had given up everything. You left your home, quit your job, and gave ownership of everything to Mommy Grace and Daddy Mick. With no control of your money, no cell phone, no drivers license in their state along with no car, and not a single item of clothing to your name, you were at their whim completely. You'd asked for this, and now you were getting it. And as promised, they were going to ensure you learned your place by teaching you the ABC's of being a Sissy Diaper Sub.

Lesson 5, Week 5 pt 2, F is for Filming

That's a great smile there, but I sense a bit of a forced feel behind it, as if you aren't having fun. So no you haven't earned a change yet, but you have made a lot of viewers very happy!

You see, you're not just a moldable play toy for me and daddy. You aren't just a task completing servant to keep our house clean while you make messes in you diapers. And you aren't just being trained and prepared to be an incoming generating sleeve for fellows either. You're property of every person who wants to enjoy your situation, and we need to capture it all on film.

Well I say film but really it's more video camera and live feeds than actual photos. Though you'll get plenty of those, flashes of your extraordinarily controlled life thanks to the fine Mommy and Daddy who took in such a poor little sissy baby.

Do you think that Mommy and Daddy wouldn't ensure the best for our flat chested diaper filling sissy? Of course not! We know that proper asset management is not cheap. So to ensure you have diapers to unload those big messes into, evacuating your guts making a duty while doing your duties, we enlisted the aid of your viewers, who just love donating to see what their money can buy for you.

Plus they provide fun ideas, like getting you a firm object like you have suspended around you, making you crawl on all fours, waddling around like the filthly little piggy that you are. And it fits perfectly since the more you force fill your diapers, the more you'll be floundering around barely able to move.

So if I were you, I wouldn't give any sort of sass to Mommy and her camera right now, because we've got an open bidding circuit for a punishment of the highest donators choice. And they tend to get very create when you don't seem like you're having anything but fun. So frolic in your room now Sissy!

Flop away now, because Mommy and Daddy have our own adult frolicking to do! Maybe play pretend with your stuffie friends, or watch your tablet we have in the corner for you, with the fuzzy mind videos playing non-stop. Just be sure to try and please the audience. They deserve to see a full smiled, fun having diaper filling sissy on film, not some fake vanilla flavored forced diaper floozy just meandering around.

---------------------------------------------------

Photo is not mine, credit goes to original owner. Contact me if you would like credit for it, and if you would like me to remove it from the page.

So there were 159 notes as of 7/17/2024, and I know it had surpass the 100 mark, meaning that within the next 9 ABC Diaper Sissy Captions, you'll see a photo of myself used to show off a lesson.

And hey, let's add extra incentive for shameless engagement fishing. Month is over in 2 weeks. As I type this, there are a total of 657 notes between all 5 of my previous posts (that's including the 92 on B before it was falsely flagged as inappropriate, and the 19 on the repost I had made). If by the end of July, The ABC Diaper Sissy series can get 1200 total notes between this and the other posts on my page, I'll get custom with my photo.

Between now and the end of July 2024, on any of the ABC captions, feel free to comment a suggestion for a word to represent any letter between H and Z (I have G already planned). If the ABC series gets the 1200 total notes, I will make a poll with as many of the suggestions as possible on it, and majority vote chooses the letter and the submitted word, as well as what my photo for said letter should be.

For example, say you wanted to make the lesson for the letter W be Waddle, and you wanted the picture to be me in a super thick diaper trying to waddle around my house, then I would take a photo like that and write the caption based on the photo and Word suggestion. Keep in mind that there are not only limitations, but also a more difficult or complex photo like S for Slides with the photo being me in a skirt sliding down a slide would require precision to not expose non-consenting people to the fetish, as well as having the ability to go to take the slide photos in general. Also there are something I just can't and won't do, like H for HR where I wear my diaper openly at work trying to bait HR to say something.

But other than that, good luck. OH and this extra incentive does not negate or even replace the photo of me. If the 1200 isn't reached, still including photo of me in 1 of next 9 ABC caps, but if it is, the suggested photo would be the 2nd photo of me to then be introduced into the series.

This was all a lot I know but figured I would offer reasons for interaction and also help spread my stuff around. Hopefully it's worth doing to and that regardless of my little challenge goals, people are enjoying them.