It attaches itself to you one day when you're wandering through the forest. Before you even have a chance to realize what's going on a slime darts from the underbrush, engulfing your boots and sliding up your leg underneath your clothes until it surrounds your waist, trapping you in a thick, bouncy padding. The slime forms a thick rubbery membrane you just can't penetrate no matter how hard you try to remove it. As your fingers desperately try to scrape away the goo, it rebuffs you, not allowing your digits to find purchase. You're at the creature's mercy.

When your bladder finally gives out, warm piss flooding into the gelatinous mass around your waste, the slime begins to react. It shapes its gel to caress your crotch, gently teasing you, rubbing back and forth. It seems to know exactly how to play with you, shaping itself perfectly to caress and tease you, the warm wet mass filling every nook and cranny until you just can't take it. As you find yourself splayed out on the ground begging for mercy, riding the edge of an orgasm it stops, leaving you painfully unfulfilled.

You finally manage to find your way out of the woods, looking for anyone who can help you. Plenty are willing to try, but the longer they spend with you the more they seem to... change. They start talking down to you, they insist on doing more and more for you, making decisions for you, feeding you. Coddling you. Treating you like an infant. Your protests fall on deaf ears as allies once horrified by your struggles now find amusement in your predicament, treating any argument against them as nothing more than outbursts and tantrums.

The longer the slime is attached, the more it works to degrade you. What once was simply a diaper begins to morph and change, leaving you more and more helpless and dependent on your new 'caretakers'. It starts by creating a living slime onesie that eats through any covering you try to throw over it, leaving you unable to hide the infantile attire. Once you get used to having your shame on display 24/7, it slides down your limbs, creating two mitts over your hands leaving you unable to manipulate anything with any amount of dexterity, and two booties on your feet, leaving you incapable of walking (not that you could do anything more than waddle these days), forcing you to crawl. The final humiliation comes in the form of a pacifier, the gooey nipple invades your mouth, spreading out into the shape of a shield and button on your face to complete the look. No matter how hard you try to spit it out, the adhesive bond of the gel leaves it locked in place, only releasing when a 'caretaker' decides to take it out and feed you. As you're forced to idly suckle on the bulb you can feel the slime secreting a sickly sweet, syrupy substance down your throat. As you swallow it you can feel your body moving slower, mind growing hazier, thoughts becoming more simple and indistinct. It's harder to bring yourself to resist.

So here you are: completely and totally dependent on your caretakers, perpetually drugged, and continually edged but never able to cum. You knew you used to hate it but as the weeks turn into months turn into years, you start to enjoy it. No more responsibilities, no more working, no more thoughts.

you remember the first time she gave you a diaper change and you hadn’t even realized you were wet. That one really hurt, it took you a long time to accept that had actually happened, but it’s common place now. you haven’t been able to notice your bodily functions for years now. it’s amazing what your brain can accept as normal when it has no other options.

you feel her hand move down to your padded crotch and without even thinking you begin to lazily hump against it, the soggy padding gently squishing and caressing your “private parts” as she called them. it was the only stimulation you got anymore, something else you had gotten used to. Sometimes you try and remember what real sex felt like but… the memories are really too hazy to recall. Most memories before meeting her were.

the pacifier bobs back and forth between your lips as you lazily continue to thrust against her hand, her other one stroking your hair. she cooed something in your ear but you didn’t quite catch it, too focused on the task of pleasuring yourself. you knew she wouldn’t mind, babies can’t really understand what adults are saying anyways. this was what she trained you to be after all. This was how she preferred you.

you feel yourself reaching a climax, and so does she. Once she feels your breath start hitching, your slow rhythmic becoming more intense and meaningful, she removes her hand, leaving you helplessly on edge. You used to hate this feeling, but she had solved that problem too. after keeping you locked up down there for so long any form of pleasure was a gift. You learned to stop complaining about not getting to finish, because the alternative was no “playtime” at all.