Untitled

Intake

He was already sniffling when I entered the room.

Not even five minutes in, not even touched, and already his nose was running like a tottler with no tissue in sight.

Of course, I thought as I tugged on a pair of gloves and stepped toward the diaper cart. It’s always the new ones.

He stood in the corner like he was in time-out, arms awkwardly clenched behind him, hospital gown hanging open at the back. His socks were a reddish pink. They always were. Meant to “ease the transition,” supposedly. But somehow they made them look even more ridiculous.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as I sifted through the stack. Thin, daytime, leak-prone? No. He didn’t seem like he’d be earning that kind of leniency anytime soon.

I pulled out one of the thicker ones, unfolded it slowly, letting the crinkle echo around the quiet tile and plastic of the room. There weren't any pink ones in the room, but he'd be in them sooner or later.

At the sound of plastic unfolding, his knees crumbled and he let out a shrill, hiccupping wail, so sudden and raw it didn’t sound like it belonged to a grown man at all.

He knew what he was in for. They all do if they’ve made it this far. When the Matriarchy deems them unfit to be a man, there is only one path left.

Some come quietly, resigned and numb. Others fight, thrashing and shouting until they’re strapped down and drained of resistance.

And then there are the ones like him. The most pathetic kind. The ones who cry the whole way through. Loud, grating sobs, as if crying like a baby could somehow prove they didn’t belong in diapers. As if wailing might make the sentence seem less fitting, instead of sealing it in place.

I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to. I just moved to the exam bed and laid the diaper out with practiced ease, giving it a sharp, smooth pat at the center. The powder and wipes were already waiting.

Routine. Predictable. No different from the last dozen or the dozen before that. His cries didn’t matter. They never did. The process was always the same: lay it out, secure the subject, strip them down, and reduce them to what they’ve already been told they are.

“Lie down.” I finally said, my voice loud and echoing through the room.

He sniffled. “N-n-no… no, p-please…”

There it was. The inevitable plea. The one they all thought might make a difference.

I didn’t sigh. I didn’t soften. I only waited, gloved hands loose at my sides, letting the silence stretch. The diaper lay open behind me like a patient verdict, waiting.

He shifted on his feet, eyes darting from the diaper, to the bed, to me, to the diaper, to the door, to the diaper again.

“Please,” he whimpered again, voice cracking, “I’ll be good—”

“Awww...” I said at last, gentle and resigned, trying to maintain my patience. “You think good behavior changes the sentence? Sorry, sweetie! It doesn’t. Not here.”

He trembled harder, chest hitching, eyes going glassy. His feet still didn’t move.

I let the quiet drag another few beats, then lowered my voice until it cut like wire. “Now. Lie down. Or I call the guards. And i'm sure you know by now what they’ll do with you.”

His eyes went wide, horrified at the thought, tears spilling fresh down his cheeks. That always worked. They feared the guards more than they feared the diapers.

Another sniff, another hitch in his breath, but he moved, step by step, toward the table like someone approaching their own grave. When he reached it, he hesitated just long enough for me to enjoy it.

Then he sat. Then swung his legs up. Then laid down.

Good boy.

I stepped to the side, folded back the gown from his hips, and took in the trembling mess of him.

Soaked in sweat, trembling like a leaf, still mumbling “please” like that word had ever saved anyone in here. His thighs clenched together, his hands balled into the sheets.

I tugged at the waistband of his underwear, the last flimsy symbol of adulthood he had left. He gasped as I peeled them down and off, and without ceremony I tossed the bundle into the bin. They would be incinerated with the rest. As gone as the man who once wore them.

You’re not fighting, I thought. That’s something.

At least he wasn’t one of the screamers. At least he hadn’t kicked. Or spit. Or made pointless threats to call a lawyer.

No, this one was already halfway inside his own cage, emotionally speaking. He'd carried the truth in him all along. The diaper didn’t change his fate. It just made it official.”

He whimpered as I spread his legs with a gentle press. Reflexively resisted. But he didn’t stop me.

“You’re doing fine,” I said absently, more to fill the air than anything else.

He wasn’t.

He was blubbering. Red-faced. Sniffling. Eyes glassy and wide with humiliation. As if this—lying on a padded table, legs spread, tabs padding waiting—wasn’t where he was always going to end up.

“You know what comes next, don’t you?”

His lips trembled. He shook his head weakly, like denial might change it.

I reached for the tray. The cage lay waiting there, gleaming under the lights. Small, flat, designed for restraint rather than comfort. A slender catheter extended from the tip, already lubricated and sterile, its tubing curled neatly like it had been waiting for him.

His sob broke into a sharp cry. “N-no, please—please don’t—”

I ignored him. I always did.

His penis was tiny. Shriveled. Retracted. Like it thought if it went into hiding it might escape the inevitable. I pinched it, giving it a few strokes with my two gloved fingers so as to coax it into getting at least a little bigger so as to make it somewhat manageable for my next task. He stood at a full 3 inches almost instantly.

With resigned efficiency, I adjusted my gloves and positioned the catheter. It was always an awkward step, but routine: a little patience, steady pressure, and the body yielded whether it wanted to or not. Resistance gave way, the tubing sliding into place exactly as it was designed to. His thighs quivered, toes curling against the paper sheet as it advanced. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, high and wet.

“In,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. A few more centimeters, until I felt the faint give that told me it was properly seated. I secured the port with a small adhesive strip against his skin, then attached the tubing to the drainage valve built into the base of the cage.

All clean. All self-contained. No control left for him to cling to.

“Shhh,” I said over the sounds of his wet blubbering, guiding the head of the flat metallic cage forward with, efficient hands. “It’s better this way. No more accidents to hide. No more bargaining. Just control where it belongs: with us.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hands knotting the padding beneath him, fingers digging into the crinkling paper as though that would anchor him. His chest hitched, a strangled sob rattling in his throat, but the rest of him stayed limp. Resigned.

Pathetic, I thought. I was relieved that it was so easy, but also a little embarrassed for him. Most of them at least tried. Kicked, cursed, made me call the guards. It didn’t change the outcome, but it gave them a shred of dignity on the way down. This one couldn’t even muster that. Just sobs and limp compliance, like he already knew he wasn’t worth the fight.

The device slid into place with clinical precision, the catheter seated, the chamber closed, his penis pressed painfully inward with little to no room to move. A turn of the key, and the click echoed sharp in the room.

“See?” I murmured, smoothing the metal once with my gloved thumb. “That wasn’t so hard.”

And you won't ever get to be 'hard' again. I thought, smirking and pondering whether or not he'd realized that himself yet. If he knew his puny penis would never achieve a full erection again.

I wiped him slowly. Thoroughly. Efficiently. He flinched when the cold cloth touched him, a soft gasp escaping his lips. He looked like he wanted to cry harder but didn’t have the water left in his system to make it count.

Poor thing.

I dusted him with powder. No rash yet, but there would be. New ones always thought they could “hold it.” They couldn’t. Not after the formula. Not after the routine. Not after their sense of time and pride dissolved away. The longer he held his bowel movements, the longer they would make him stew in them. I wondered if I should warn him about that.

Na...let him learn it the hard way.

I slid the thick white diaper beneath him, lifting him by the thighs. He let out a quiet, mortified moan. The gravity and finality hitting him in the face again.

“I-it’s not—” he tried to speak, but it caught in his throat.

“Shhh,” I said. “You’re being very brave.”

He wasn’t. But he was being compliant.

And that’s really all I needed.

I brought the front panel up, pressed it down over him with finality, and slowly drew the first tape across with a loud, plasticky rip. Then the second. Then two more, until he was fully sealed in.

Four little sticky declarations that said he no longer had a say in anything. I gave the diaper a light press, smoothing it across his pelvis.

“That’s better,” I murmured. “Now you’re ready.”

His voice cracked when he whispered it. “R-ready… for what?”

I paused, studied him, let the silence draw long enough to sting. “Ready for your assignment,” I said at last. “You’ll still be in a crib, still dirtying diapers, still sucking down ba-ba’s and getting spoonfed mushy num-nums.”

His breath hitched, clinging to that faint hope.

“But don’t fool yourself,” I went on. “You won’t get trucks or blocks or dinosaurs to play with. You’ll get dolls, frilly clothes, and your pacifiers will be shaped very differently.” I leaned in closer, my voice cool, certain. “You won’t be one of the boys. You’ll be one of the girls pleasing the boys.”

I let the words sink in, watching the last of him collapse under their weight. “Because you’re going to the sissy ward.”

His eyes went wide, lips trembling.

It hit him like a body blow. His face crumpled, sobs surging up out of him raw and ragged, his hands clawing helplessly at the tapes as if he could undo what had already been sealed.

I only watched. Did he REALLY not see this coming? Did he think all that blubbering, the limp compliance, and the pathetic begging would do anything but solidify his status as a sissy??

I let him sob for another few seconds, his voice breaking, tears streaking down his blotchy cheeks. Then I exhaled, slow and final.

“Guards!" I called.

The door hissed, and two guards stepped inside, broad and silent, uniforms pressed sharp. He twisted toward them, panicked, sobbing louder. “No, please! PLEASE! Not that! Don’t take me! PLEASE!”

They didn’t hesitate. Thick hands closed around his arms, yanking him off the table. He kicked, thrashed, heels skidding on the tile, diaper crinkling violently with every flail. His voice cracked into high, broken shrieks as they dragged him to the door.

His cries echoed down the corridor, shrill and desperate, carrying long after he was out of sight.

For a moment—just a fleeting moment—I almost felt it: a shred of sympathy. A twinge of pity at the sight of him broken and diapered, being hauled off to something worse.

But then I scoffed at myself. Sympathy was wasted here. He’d earned every tape, every tear, every sob.

Just Breathe

The tea was still warm when I set it down.

Not quite the usual blend she made, some essential oils crap she constantly raved about.

“This one’s for calming,” she said. “Just try it. A few sips.”

I don't even like tea. I told her that. Put up a bit of a fuss. But she was insistent. Smiled that smile. Brushed my arm. And I gave in. Like I always did. I was too tired to care. Now I wish I had.

Because now I can’t move.

My legs are stone. My arms barely twitch. My head lolls like it’s too heavy for my neck. And she’s right there, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, hands trembling as she unfolds a thick, white diaper in her lap.

I know what it is. I just… I don’t understand.

Not yet.

She doesn’t look at me. Not right away. Just keeps smoothing it out, like she’s working through something in her head. The crinkling is deafening in the quiet room. Like every fold is another nail in something I didn’t realize was being built.

Then I see it: a little glass vial. Clear. Innocent-looking. She uncaps it with a shake in her fingers, tips it gently over the padding, lets a few drops sink into the lining.

“Wait,” I croak, barely above a whisper. “What… what is that?”

She finally looks up. And God help me, she looks beautiful. Her eyes are red. Glossy. Her lips are trembling.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” she says, sniffling. “I really didn’t.”

She lifts the diaper, fully unfurled. Brings it closer.

My chest tightens.

“You drugged me,” I manage.

She nods. Just barely.

“You would have put up too much of a fuss otherwise.”

The diaper crinkles as she folds it inward. Closer.

“You’re going to wake up in diapers,” she continues, adjusting the folds again. Crinkle. “Every day. Every night. Until you forget what it felt like to wear anything else.”

"What the fffuck are you talkinggg about?" I try to say, but it comes out slurred. I try to push back, to lift my arms, to do something. But all I can do is stare as she positions herself in front of me, gripping diaper like she's a nurse with a gas mask about to put me under.

I flinch. Try to turn my head. But her hand’s already there, fingers firm against my cheek, guiding me back. Not rough. Not violent. Just certain.

The padding covers everything. My nose. My mouth. The soft bulk of it sealing me in. I try to shake free, but my neck barely responds. I try to pull back, to push her away, but my body doesn’t move.

And she’s holding it now, one hand behind my head, pressing me forward, the other cupping it to my face like she’s chloroforming me. Her thumbs press at the back of my neck. Her grip tightens just enough to make the crinkle echo in my ears. I gasp. Instinct, nothing more.

Too late.

The scent floods in: floral and powdery and chemical all at once. A deep, suffocating sweetness that spreads like heat through my skull.

She doesn’t let go. Just holds it there until I’ve taken several breaths. Until she feels me sag. Only then does she ease the diaper back. Slowly. Carefully. Like peeling a mask from my skin.

She exhales softly. Almost shaking.

“That’s one.”

I inhale. Fresh air this time, but my head is spinning. My brain hums.

The scent wraps around me like a net—powdery, sweet, but laced with something else. Something sharp. Not bad, just… thick. It fills the space behind my eyes. My brain hums. My head dips. My fingers twitch.

“You’ll be changed on schedule,” she whispers. “You’ll be spoon-fed. Bathed. Monitored.”

I blink slowly. Her voice is syrup in my ears.

“Wuz… whuz is goingg on?” My voice cracks. Slurs. “What are you… doing to me?”

She’s already shaking her head. Her eyes glisten, like she's pained to say it. “What has to be done.”

The diaper crinkles again as she turns it in her hands. Sharp. Clean. Certain.

I don’t even understand what I’ve done wrong. But something’s happening. Something final. And it’s already too late.

“You won’t ask for the bathroom,” she continues, her voice low and steady. “You’ll use your diapers. Just like a good little baby.”

And then, she brings it back.

Cupped firmly in her hand. Centered. Aligned. The thick, padded front pressing to my mouth and nose once more. The crinkle is deafening.

“Again,” she whispers.

I try to pull away. I can’t. Her grip tightens on the sides, holding me in place.

I breathe.

Not because I want to. Because I have to.

“Deep breath.”

The chemical hits faster this time. The warmth spreads down my neck. My mouth hangs open. My thighs relax.

I’m losing ground.

She watches me. Like she wants to stop. Like she’s begging me to give her a reason to.

“I thought you were one of the good ones,” she whispers, voice shaky, nose sniffling, “And maybe you were once, but you lost your way. And no matter how much I tried to get you back to the man I married, you always refused. Still, I thought I could change you."

Her eyes are misty, a solitary tear trails down her cheek, her voice cracks.

“But I was lying to myself.”

She presses the diaper in again.

“Breathe.”

I do.

A soft whimper escapes me as it floods in. My cheeks burn. "Pleashh, I'll be betturr" My muffled voice says through the chemical-laced padding.

She pulls it away, holding it gently now. Reverently. The smell lingers even without it pressed to my face.

“I tried everything,” she says, barely audible. “I begged you to grow up. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.”

She leans in, her lips just inches from mine.

“So now you’ll be something else.”

She smiles. Not cruelly. Almost lovingly. Then...she pauses.

I realize I’ve started to lean forward, as much as my sluggish body will allow. Just slightly. Toward the diaper in her hands. The smell is faint, still lingering. Powdery. Warm.

My breath hitches. I want to say no. To tell her to stop all of this. But I can’t.

Because it’s happening again.

The scent. God, the scent. It’s starting to feel good.

It makes my head light. My chest warm. My thoughts… slow.

And she sees it.

“You’re already getting used to it, aren’t you?” she whispers, her voice soft with heartbreak. "You're starting to crave it."

Not mocking. Not triumphant. Just sad. Like she’s watching the last part of me fade, and trying to tell herself it’s for the best.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “It’s not your fault. The compound does that. Rewires things. You’ll start to get addicted to the smell. The feel.”

The diaper presses against my face. I don’t pull away.

“You’ll beg for it,” she says distantly. “You’ll hold out your arms and whimper when you’re wet. You'll giggle when you're messy. You won’t even know why.”

She cups the back of my head. Brings it in.

“Again.”

I huff. This time I moan. A low, pitiful sound from deep in my chest. My mouth stays open. My nose presses into the padding. I nuzzle it, ashamed, needy.

She doesn’t speak. Just strokes my hair as I tremble.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers.

“You needed someone to teach you. I just didn't have the right...tools."

I try to speak. Nothing comes out. Just a soft gurgle. My jaw moves. My eyes flutter.

“Good boy…” she coos.

She tilts the diaper again, releasing more of that scent. I whimper and press toward it.

“Shhh,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

She holds it to my face. This time, I suck in like I want it. I do want it.

I need it. Like an addict eager for his next fix.

It smells like safety. Like being held. Like the guilt is gone. The expectations. The failure. Just softness. Warmth.

I babble into the padding. A broken, burbling sound.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Just let it happen.”

She strokes my cheek with the edge of the diaper, her voice a whisper in the growing fog.

“When you wake up,” she murmurs, “you won’t remember what it was like to be in control. This is the last time you’ll ever feel like a man. From now on, everything is decided for you. You won’t need grown-up thoughts anymore. You’ll be who you were always meant to be.”

Then, she presses it in again. Firm. Centered. Final.

“Just one more,” she whispers.

I breathe. I whimper. The scent rushes in, deeper than before. It floods my skull. Spreads behind my eyes. Everything softens. Thoughts slip loose. Memories come unstitched. Language curls inward and fades.

What was I saying? What was I so afraid of?

I don’t remember anymore. I don’t care.

She leans in close, and I feel her breath at my ear. Her voice cracks. Wet. She’s crying now. Full tears. Silent. Steady. Dripping down her cheeks as she holds the diaper to my face.

“You’re safe now,” she whispers, choking on it. “You don’t have to think anymore. Just be little.”

I try to respond, but nothing comes. Just a little sound. Muffled. Gurgling. My lips are slack. My eyes barely open.

Her fingers stroke my hair.

“That’s it,” she breathes. “Let it all go, sweetheart. Let the grown-up part go. When you wake up you'll be my little baby. Forever.”

The world fades to white.

Her silhouette above me. Blurry. Trembling. Weeping. The diaper pressed to my mouth.

The last thing I hear is the crinkling of the diaper. The sound I’ll become very used to over the coming years. The sound I’ll wake up in. The sound I’ll fall asleep to. The sound that will follow me… until there’s nothing left to remember but softness.

Three women compete in a game show where the penalties are humiliating, infantilizing, and possibly permanent.

When I first released this story, I let readers vote on what happened to the contestants in a series of polls, so that’s why the structure is the way it is. All voting is now concluded!

***

“Welcome everybody!” called a strong, male voice. “I’m Jacob, your host, and this is Babe or Billionaire, the game show where our contestants either walk away with more money than they could ever dream… or they say bye-bye to their big girl privileges forever!”

There were loud cheers and applause from the live studio audience as a spotlight lit up Jacob’s tall, well-built frame and ruggedly handsome features.

“Before we start, let me fill you in on the rules! The contestants will compete in a game of rock, paper, scissors each round. The winners will gain points, and the one with the most points at the end of the game will win our fabulous cash prize! But when one (or more) of our girls loses, our game master behind the scenes will bring up a selection of delightful penalties that you the audience get to vote on!”