Her Pampered Little Prince
The pen had trembled in your hand that day, the paperwork so official, so final. The words blurred as you read them, but the meaning was crystal clear: Do you understand what you’re agreeing to? Mommy had asked, her voice soft but firm, her fingers already tracing circles on your back like she knew the answer before you did. And you did understand. You understood that this was the last time you’d ever have to pretend, to pretend you had it all together, that you knew what you were doing, that you didn’t secretly crave the simplicity of being small, of being hers.
Now, your days are a dream. You wake up swaddled in softness, the thick padding of your diaper a constant, comforting presence between your legs. No alarms, no deadlines, no expectations beyond the ones Mommy sets for you and those are always so gentle, so easy. "Time for your bottle, prince," she’ll coo, pressing the nipple to your lips before you’ve even rubbed the sleep from your eyes. The warm milk fills your belly, and you sigh, your body already relaxing into the rhythm of the day. There’s no need to think, no need to try. Just drink. Just swallow. Just be.
And oh, the outfits. Mommy has a whole wardrobe for you, onesies with tiny dinosaurs or clouds, shortalls that make your waddle even more pronounced, bibs that she fastens with a smirk because she knows you’ll need them. The booties are your favorite, though. They make your feet look so small, so helpless, and the little bells on the toes jingle with every step, announcing your presence like the royal little you are. "There’s my prince," she’ll say, scooping you up when you toddle into the room, your diaper crinkling loudly with every movement. You preen under her attention, your cheeks flushing. This is what you were meant for.
The best part? The way Mommy takes care of everything. You don’t have to worry about a thing, not meals, not messes, not even the growing warmth between your legs as your bladder gives in to the inevitable. The first time it happened, you’d blushed so hard your face burned, but Mommy had only laughed, her voice dripping with affection. "Such a good boy for Mommy," she’d murmured, her hands already working on your buttons, stripping you down to your soggy diaper. The embarrassment had melted away under her touch, replaced by something sweeter, something lighter. Now, you barely even notice the wetness spreading, the way the padding swells against your skin. It’s just another part of the routine, another way Mommy reminds you that you’re hers.
And you are hers, completely, utterly. There’s no shame in it, not anymore. The world outside might still spin with its chaos and demands, but in here, in Mommy’s arms, you’re untouchable. She brushes your hair back from your forehead, her thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "My perfect little prince," she whispers, and you believe her. How could you not? Every diaper change, every feeding, every moment of her undivided attention proves it.
Some days, you catch yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror, at the way the onesie hugs your shoulders, at the way your diaper bulges just a little too much to ignore. You look small. You look soft. You look like the kind of boy who doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything. The old you, the one who stressed and struggled and tried, feels like a distant memory, a ghost of someone you used to be. And honestly? You don’t miss him.
Because this, this, is better. The way Mommy’s voice turns tender when she calls you her good boy. The way your body relaxes into her touch, into the knowledge that she’ll handle everything. The way the world feels warmer, safer, when you’re wrapped up in her care. You get to focus on the simple joys: the crinkle of a fresh diaper, the sweetness of your bottle, the way Mommy’s eyes light up when you toddle over to her, your steps unsteady but eager.
You never thought you’d sign it all away. But now? You wouldn’t take it back for anything.
