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Pilot (Part 2) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 12 18
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Pilot (Part 1) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 14 2
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It's Not A Competition (Part 2) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 8 2
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It's Not A Competition (Part 1) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 6 4
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The Struggle (Part 4) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 3 10
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 6, Part 3 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 5 2
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 6, Part 2 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 4 0
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 6, Part 1 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 4 0
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The Struggle (Part 3) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 7 10
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The Struggle (Part 2) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 9 1
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The Struggle (Part 1) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 6 8
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The Struggle (Prologue) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 7 12
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A.M. (Part 5) :iconpersonalias:Personalias 4 3
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 5, Part 3 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 5 15
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 5, Part 2 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 5 1
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Better Late Than Never: Chapter 5, Part 1 :iconpersonalias:Personalias 5 1


Tugscarebear, You've Crossed the Line
Alright, :icontugscarebear:, so you decided to completely ignore me the first time I told you NOT to try submitting artworks involving spanking minors. And you've given me a LOT of trouble since then, having to drudge through the bajillions of disgusting submissions you try to shove into the group, regardless of whether or not they even involve spanking to begin with. You've tried to submit so much art involving spanking minors that you've MORE than earned to be kicked out of the group permanently. I've actually tried to remove you from the group myself on multiple occasions, but to no avail, apparently, not only because you're deliberately committing repeat offenses on this group, but because I just don't like you, as an added bonus.
But THIS... You've gone TOO far this time.
I mean, seriously, this has to be one of the most absolutely disgusting and perverted pie
:iconviva-las-panales:VIVA-LAS-PANALES 1 35
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A Diapered Decision :iconcutekitten-ck:CuteKitten-CK 16 1
Dante Willis and Lucy (Dante's Infanzia) by InformalFallacies Dante Willis and Lucy (Dante's Infanzia) :iconinformalfallacies:InformalFallacies 10 2 Gravity Generator Malfunction by LordDominic Gravity Generator Malfunction :iconlorddominic:LordDominic 19 2 The eye Madam Spiral part 1 by Pink-Diapers
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The eye Madam Spiral part 1 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 129 35
Videl Caught P3 by ABDLartist
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Videl Caught P3 :iconabdlartist:ABDLartist 64 5
The Eye Of Madam Spiral part one by Pink-Diapers The Eye Of Madam Spiral part one :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 11 20 ABCD page 5 by Pink-Diapers ABCD page 5 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 105 49 ABCD page 4 by Pink-Diapers ABCD page 4 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 99 5 ABCD pg3 by Pink-Diapers ABCD pg3 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 98 24 ABCD page 2 by Pink-Diapers ABCD page 2 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 107 27 ABCD page 1 by Pink-Diapers ABCD page 1 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 137 20 ABCDcover1 by Pink-Diapers ABCDcover1 :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 130 17 AB Lysa by Pink-Diapers AB Lysa :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 235 50 Teaser comic + Streaming by HofBondage
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Teaser comic + Streaming :iconhofbondage:HofBondage 74 20
commission for Personalias by Pink-Diapers commission for Personalias :iconpink-diapers:Pink-Diapers 92 26


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 The briefest of pauses loomed as the actors launched into character. “And here’s our baby girl,” Miranda said as Carla stacked blocks in the background. “She’s the apple of our eye.”

“Gosh,” Carla heard Debra say with the most over-the-top delivery possible, “she sure is big, isn’t she? She looks bigger than me.”

“She is,” Randy recited the script. “She’s our Big Baby Bella.”

“How old is she?” Debra did her best impression of a curious five year old.

“Twenty-two,” both actors playing Bella’s parents spoke in unison. Carla froze and looked up at the scene, her eyes wide. Her character was supposed to be how old?!

Debra gave a fake, hollow laugh like a child who didn’t get the joke but knew something was supposed to be funny. “Hahahahaha! That’s too old to be a baby.” Carla had no idea that part of impersonating a child meant having the acting range of one. Why the hell wasn’t Max shouting cut?

“Don’t you know?” Randy continued as if Debra hadn’t fed him the line like a total amateur. “This is Little Land!”

“No one grows up in Little Land unless they want to,” Miranda said the next line. A wave of revelation hit Carla. The block she was holding tumbled from her hand, almost knocking down the pre-constructed tower.

Ay, dios mio! Fuckity fuck fuck! Carla wasn’t an adult playing a little kid who didn’t want to potty train; she was playing an adult that couldn’t be bothered to stop pissing her pants!

 Debra kept the scene going, and Max wasn’t stopping her, despite her acting. “Gee whiz! Can I meet her?” Where was the cut? Someone should be yelling cut by now! Acting this bad couldn’t be considered star quality, even for a kids’ show.

“Sure!” both “Mom” and “Dad” said in unison. Randy and Miranda followed the blocking and walked over to Carla and began murmuring coos and pantomimed pinching her cheeks and being deeply fascinated by her block tower.  Meanwhile, Debra was mugging for the camera and talking to the little tykes in their living rooms once this show aired.

“A big baby! I gotta see this for myself!” the ex-child star said to the camera. “Come on!” she waved the camera man to follow her. Debra trotted over to where the rest of the cast were waiting. Carla caught a glimpse of Debra staring down at her from the other side of the block tower; the trace of a sneer on the star’s face before the camera wheeled around and put them all in frame.

Carla did her best to continue playing with the blocks as the other cast members loomed over her. She wasn’t supposed to pay attention to them, she reminded herself. Only the blocks mattered. Only the blocks. Become one with the blocks.

“So she’s really a grown up?” Debra, as “Little Miss Lucy” asked.

“Oh yes,” Miranda said, “but she never really wanted to grow up, so she’s still just a big baby.”

“But that’s not how growing up works,” Debra put her hands on her hips and stuck her bottom lip out in a bit of blocking and delivery that would make the Olsen Twins seem Oscar worthy.

“It is here,” Randy kept the scene going. “So our Big Baby Bella still lives here with us. She sleeps in her crib, plays with her toys, and goes on walks with us in her stroller.”

“Does she at least go potty like a big kid?” Debra recited.

“Oh, goodness no!” Miranda laughed. It sounded genuine, too. That was how you laughed. “Bella isn’t potty-trained.” Even though it was in the script, Carla felt incredibly humiliated. She leaned back on her heels and pulled the hem of her dress downward, trying in vain to conceal her studio-mandated shame.

“But whyyyy?” Debra as “Lucy” asked. If the embarrassment of being diapered on camera didn’t kill her, Debra’s “acting” just might.

“She too busy playing to use the potty.” Randy said.

“Speaking of which,” Miranda paused, standing over Carla. Carla was now acutely aware of the cameraman pivoting around the scene and getting Carla’s backside closer into frame. Oh no, oh no, oh no! She felt the actress playing her mother pushing down on her shoulder and Carla felt she had no choice; dropping to all fours. For all intents and purposes, she was improvising, and the first rule of improvisation was to never say “no”.

Then, to Carla’s horror, she felt the tiny hem of her dress being lifted. No! Miranda wouldn’t, would she?  No one had shared this blocking with her. She hadn’t been warned of this! She didn’t consent to this! This wasn’t part of the deal!

Deal or no deal, Carla felt the weight of the camera’s gaze upon her, and feeling no other choice, shuddered in revulsion as Miranda’s hand reached in and gave the back of her diaper a firm squeeze and finished with a light pat as if to confirm


A complete stranger had without warning just violated her personal space, and touched her as casually as any parent might check their own child’s Luvs. Carla cheeks flushed hot with humiliation at the act. The world went blurry as tears came unbidden to her eyes.

“Looks like Big Baby Bella needs a diaper change,” Miranda’s words rang out in Carla’s ears. Diaper change?! They weren’t going to do that on camera, were they? This was supposed to be a kid’s show, not a porn shoot. Good God, what had Nick gotten her into? Her breathing became shallow and Carla felt herself beginning to break out into a cold sweat. Chest heaving, Carla inhaled deeply so that she could scream her head off. If no one else was going to stop this lunacy, she would. Thankfully, Max beat her to the punch.


The diapered actress leapt to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to give the director the biggest hug. Standing up from his chair, Max stomped over to her. Evidently, he wasn’t in the mood for a hug.

Stone faced and silent, Max stood in front of them with his arms crossed. “Do you think so little of our target audience?”

“Excuse me?” was all Carla could think to say. She looked over her shoulder, to check if Debra was standing right behind her or something.

“Children aren’t stupid, Miss Garcia,” Max said. “They know what a wet diaper looks like; especially when said diaper has-fade-when-wet designs. You’ve still got all of your butterflies!” He pointed at Carla’s padded crotch.

Carla lifted up her dress and gawked down at the gaudy purple and white garment wrapped around her pelvis. She hadn’t noticed before, but all the butterflies on the diaper went from front to back in a straight line right down the middle.

They wanted her to pee in this thing? On T.V.?! No wonder her predecessor had quit so suddenly.

“And while we’re at it, your acting left something to be desired too.” the director criticized. “Your manager led us to believe you were capable for this role.”


Her pride at stake, Carla got defensive. “You told me to not say anything and play with the blocks.”

“Yes, but what choices did you make?” Max pressed. “That wasn’t Big Baby Bella playing with blocks and then getting her diaper checked, that was Carla Garcia pretending to play with blocks and getting her ass patted. You need to get into your character’s head, more, Miss Garcia.”

The absurdity of the situation was quickly being lost to Hammerschmidt’s scathing criticism. Her desire to defend herself was being superseded by the pain of her throat tightening up and feelings of helplessness as even more tears threatened to spring forth. Maybe she really wasn’t that great of an actress. Maybe she only thought she was good. Maybe the auditions had a point.

Max turned on his heel and took a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at Carla. “Walk with me.” Suddenly numb and shocked into submission, Carla obeyed and waddled after him.

“Your character isn’t some mentally invalid simpleton, Miss Garcia,” Max told Carla. “She’s both victim and victor. Like our target audience, she was faced with the pressures of growing up and was too afraid to even make the attempt. Just like a young child, she fears growing up because some part of her thinks that being more independent means her parents will love her less. The only difference between her and a real child is Little Land gave her the option to not grow up.”

This production had gone from kids’ T.V. to a course in societal philosophy. “What does that have to do with me playing with blocks?”

“At this point in the story,” Max elaborated, “Bella is in complete control of her tiny world in the same way that a baby is in control of its parents. She calls the shots. Her world is complete. She’s playing with her blocks in a wet diaper because she’s in control by being so utterly dependent. That’s why toddlers do it. Their diapers aren’t their problems. They’re their parents’ problems.”

“Her diaper isn’t her problem,” the words came out of her Carla before she fully realized she had said them. “Her diaper is somebody else’s problem. Lucy isn’t my problem,” Carla slipped into character suddenly, “she’s Mommy and Daddy’s problem. And I’m playing blocks the same way that a Queen might play chess while waiting for her subjects to come adore her.”

Max snapped his fingers. His eyes lit up. For an instant he was Professor Higgins and she was Eliza Doolittle  I think she’s got it! “Exactly! Now you’re getting it. Now, go ahead and wet yourself so that we can get this on camera.”

Reality came crashing back down on Carla’s head. He wanted her to do what? “Can’t we just pour a cup of water down there, or something?”

“Water never really flows quite right,” Max shook his head. “It must come from the source, so to speak; more authentic that way.”

“I…I…I…” Carla reached for an excuse. “I don’t have to go right now.” It was true enough.

Max held his forehead in his hand and seemed aggravated. “Actors,” he muttered. “Very well. Let’s get you something to drink, and do another scene while things are…progressing. Someone get the big baby a bottle!” he yelled before walking back to his director’s chair. “We only have the nursery to work with today! So let’s get as many of those scenes in the can as possible. We’ll do the invitation scene in five minutes!”

“Thank you, five!” a bevy of shouts came from the actors. Carla’s voice was the meekest among them.


The almost motherly, but not unwelcome presence of the assistant director came up to the diapered actress.  “Rough first scene,” Justine said. It wasn’t a question. “Don’t worry, if he’s berating you and having you overthink things about your character it means he likes you.” She shoved a particularly large baby bottle- close to two liters by the look of it- into Carla’s hands. “Drink this. Bottle is courtesy of the prop department for the kitchen scenes tomorrow. Apple juice is compliments of the caterer.”

“Do I…” Carla gulped. “Do I really have to…you know?”

“Now you know why the last Big Baby Bella quit,” Justine said before adding. “Just think of it as another way to get into character.” A loud crash then drew Justine’s attention and the assistant director jogged away to deal with some new disaster.

“MAKE THAT TEN MINUTES!” Max’s voice echoed off the sound stage’s walls.

“Thank you, ten!”

Now with a whole minutes left to her, and still wanting the job, Carla had little choice but to insert the rubber teat into her mouth, tilt her head back, and drink herself sick. Carla hated apple juice, but she was on a mission. She had never consciously thought of her throat having muscles before but as she forcefully gulped down mouthful after mouthful of the amber colored liquid- a liquid very similar in color to what would end up splashing into her underwear – she felt she was really giving herself a workout.

Breathing through her nose and not stopping until the bottle prop was drained, Carla guzzled down the stuff with roughly five minutes left; letting out a hefty belch that echoed so loudly several cameramen and sound guys stopped and nodded appreciatively. “Good one,” she heard one of them compliment her. Not exactly the kind of positive feedback she was looking for, but okay.

“Someone’s getting into character,” Debra Donaghy sashayed over to Carla. “Careful or someone might accidentally think you’re enjoying this.” The girl’s eyes sparkled at Carla with a smug sense of superiority. “Max told me to come run some lines with you real quick.”

“I haven’t read the-“ Carla began.

“Don’t bother,” Debra held up her hand. “You’ve basically got two lines. First,” she said “you wait for me to stop talking, and you say ‘But I love my diapees’. Then, you wait for me to stop talking again, and when I hold out my hand, you take it and say ‘Otay’. Don’t fuck those up, and you’re golden. It’s so easy, even a…whatever-you-are could do it.”

Between the director being an accidental jerk, and the star of the show being a royal bitch, the inside of Carla’s cheek was starting to get sore. It seemed her initial instincts about Debra had been spot on. Guiltily, Carla found herself wishing that a pacifier was a part of her costume. At least then she’d be chewing on a piece of rubber, instead of the inside of her mouth.

A flash of chestnut hair, and glimpse of a well-worn clip on tie on the periphery of her vision let Carla know that Nick was nearby. “Well, she’s a little c-word, isn’t she?” Nick whispered.

“Nick…” Carla warned. “I’m in no mood.”

Evidently, Nick couldn’t resist himself. “What? Cutie is a c-word, too,” Nick said, winking. He paused a beat before continuing. “Sorry I’m late. Had a call to take, other clients, but I wanted to see how things were going for you.”

“Your phone died, didn’t it?” Carla called him out on his bullshit.

Nick blanched. “Yeeaaah. Also, I was bored, so I figured I’d come watch. Kinda sexy getting to watch you get felt up like that. Your ass looks bigger, too. In a good way, I mean.”

Jackass. Flirt. Jackass flirt.

“That c-word,” Carla told her agent, “is the star of this little circus.”


“Yeah, that’s so.” Carla replied

Her agent shook his head. “No. I mean, ‘so’ as in ‘so what? Richie Cunningham was supposed to be the star in Happy Days until Fonzie came along. Breakout characters are a thing, even in kid’s T.V.”

Bullwinkle. Popeye. The Smurfs. Elmo. All of them hadn’t been meant to be more than bit supporting characters, and they all got their day in the sun. Maybe Carla could make this thing work.

“Too bad this is a one shot deal, y’know?” Nick’s words were a sucker punch to Carla’s hope. If Carla had had any apple juice left in her bottle, she would have done a spit take just then.

“One shot deal? What do you mean a one shot deal?”

Nick cocked an eyebrow and then frowned. His normally casual demeanor was replaced with genuine concern. “Haven’t they let you read the script, yet? End of the episode, you get potty trained and move out. Whole show’s about Little Miss Lucy helping a bunch of people grow up.”

“Nick…” Carla whimpered. The giant baby bottle slipped from her grasp and rattled around on the floor. She didn’t know if she was cursing him or pleading for his help. It might have been little bit of both.

“Nothing I can do, babe,” Nick sighed, “This gig is a guest spot, not main cast.”

“Places!” the call went out from Max Hammerschmidt and echoed around the set.

The diapered actress sulked back to the set. This was supposed to be her big break, not a random guest spot where she barely got two lines. She no longer noticed the waddle she was forced to walk with. Nor did the crinkle of soft plastic ring in her ears. Her diaper wasn’t her problem; her dumb luck and high expectations were.

The next hour or so passed by in a blur. Carla mindlessly recited one or two word lines and set up strawman arguments on the merits of not growing up while the star of the show butchered children’s programming.

“But I love my diapees.”


“CUT! Next scene! Are you ready to wet, yet?”

“I don’t wanna be a big girl!”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“CUT! Next scene! Are you ready to wet, yet?”

And so the dreary dance went.

“Alright,” Max said, “let’s see if we can do the potty training scene. Miss Garcia, you’ll be relieved to know that you won’t actually have to relieve yourself in this scene. We can add the appropriate sounds in post production.” The prop department carried in a comically large pink potty chair and placed it square in the nursery.  “Unless of course you’re ready to wet, Miss Garcia. Then we can delay the potty training scene for the introduction and the diaper change scene.”

For what had to be the sixth time that day, Carla shook her head, even though by now the apple juice was working its magic and her bladder was crying out for release. Carla was just far too potty trained to use the garment imprisoning her waist. But her diaper wasn’t really the problem, was it?

“Very well, places!”

Carla walked to the giant potty and stood opposite of Debra. This was the big scene where Little Miss Lucy convinced Big Baby Bella to grow up and leave Little Town. To leave her diapers behind and go be a big girl.

Her diaper wasn’t her problem.

Debra leaned in close and hissed, “Look on the bright side, you can add today to your resume when you eventually get desperate and go into porn.”

Her diaper wasn’t her problem. This bitch was. Carla was better than her. She was a better actress. Hell, she was a better person. But she wasn’t going to get a chance to prove it; not now, anyways.

Her diaper wasn’t her problem.

“AAAAAAAAAAND-“ Max’s voice rang out. Time slowed to a stop as Carla had what is often called “A moment of clarity.” Just as “crazy” and “eccentric” are separated by degrees of success, so too is it the case when something inside someone “snaps” and something in someone “clicks”. Between the ticks of the clock- when the potty training scene was about to be filmed- was when something in Carla either “clicked” or “snapped”. Time to roll the dice.


Carla finally relaxed her bladder, sweet relief filling her up as she filled her diaper. The thing gained weight as it absorbed her urine and was already starting to sag a bit. The newfound weight of the diaper felt like the weight of newfound confidence. If she could wet herself on command, she could do anything. The best part was, she felt like she was metaphorically pissing all over Debra’s performance. Also, it admittedly didn’t feel that bad.

“…that’s why it’s time for you to grow up, Bella.” Debra finished delivering the stilted, poorly written lines. “Now are you ready to go potty and stop being Big Baby Bella, and start being Big Girl Bella?”



There was a pause. Debra shook her head in disbelieve. This wasn’t in the script. “No? What do you mean no?! That isn’t in the scri-“


“I was fine until you came here, Lucy” Carla spoke over the brat in front of her. “I had a Mommy and Daddy who took care of me and I got everything I wanted. It was perfect! Nobody really wants to grow up, and I didn’t have to. But then you came along and ruined everything!”


Debra tried to improvise to keep up with Carla. “But…but…your diapers…!”


“My diapers weren’t my problem. Someone else always took care of them for me. I was a princess,” Carla said. She stomped up to Debra and poked her in the chest; the fantastic warmth in her nether regions emboldening her. “You. You’re my problem. I’m not growing up, and I’m going to stop you from making all the other people in Little Land grow up, too!”

    “CUT! CUT! CUT!” Max was waving his arms frantically. “What on earth was that?”


Carla shrugged nonchalantly. “Just made some different choices is all.”


Max’s face now matched his tacky scarf and beret. “I don’t like going off script, Miss Garcia.”


“I had an idea about that, actually.” Carla told him. “The script sucks. This show sucks. It’s missing something.”


Max wouldn’t let her finish. “You’re fired, get off my set. I refuse to deal with some prima donnas.”


Carla lifted up the hem of her dress and gave the director a full view of her diaper; butterflies all gone. “I was just getting into character, Max. It’s like you said. Diapers aren’t my problem.”

Max’s eyes darted down to Carla’s pee stained crotch. Then, perhaps for the first time, he made proper eye contact with the girl and something in his face changed. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time. “What did you have in mind?”

“Show needs a villain,” Carla said. “It needs a brat to act as a counterpoint for Little Miss Lucy.”

Debra started to whine. “But Maaaaax-“

“Not now, Debra,” Max shushed. He returned his attention to Carla. “Go on.”

“It’s like you said, Max. Kids aren’t stupid. They’ll know a one sided argument when they hear it. Make Big Baby Bella be the one encouraging the kids to stay babies and Little Miss Lucy the one to talk them out of it. Little Miss Lucy wins in the end, of course.” Carla stuck her tongue out at Debra. Little Miss Lucy might win on T.V., but Debra Donaghy was losing this battle in real life.

Max started stroking his drawn in mustache in contemplation. “That’s not in the script,” he finally said, “but it might just be better. This could be just the thing we need, like an evil Dora or something.”

Carla smiled and shot Debra a look as Max began pacing. “Yeah, something like that.”

“We’ll have to do rewrites of course.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see if the monkeys in the writers’ room can make the necessary script adjustments.” Max declared. “You go ahead and freshen up. Get out of that costume for now. I’m not sure how long it’ll take, probably an hour at least for the scenes I’m going to need.”

    “No thanks,” Carla smiled, looking down at her wet diaper before giving the sodden thing a firm pat. “I think I’m going to go play with some blocks for a while instead. My Nick-Nick can change me on the table over there if I need it.”

The End.
Pilot (Part 2)
A Cushypen Request by CS_Fox.  Broken into two parts due to formatting issues with deviantart.


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It’s said that a single, seemingly insignificant event can alter the course of person’s life. A ripple in a pond leads to a tidal wave; a butterfly flapping its wings makes a hurricane half a world away. For Carla Garcia, struggling actress, it was something as simple as what underwear the director wanted her to wear.


“Nick?” Carla’s voice echoed off the pickle green bricks of the studio hallway. “What the hell is this?” Carla’s manager and agent looked up from his phone, giving a passing glance to the soft plastic-backed bundle she held in one outstretched hand. From the way she held the thing, one might think it was a hungry piranha wriggling around and trying to bite her fingers off.

“That,” Nick stated plainly, “would be a diaper.” He gave Carla a little smirk like he thought he was being cute or something. Of course it was a diaper. What else could it have been, with its white plastic backing and nauseatingly pink and purple flowers and butterflies? Even from arm’s length, the scent of its lavender perfume wafted into Carla’s nose.  This was either a diaper meant for a particularly large baby or a maxi-pad for an amazon.

“I know it’s a diaper, Nick,” Carla growled, “but what the hell is it doing in my dressing room?!”


Nick slicked back his chestnut hair. “I’m not an expert, but I’m betting that’s part of your costume. Just guessing.”

“I know it’s part of my wardrobe,” Carla hissed, “but why?!” Nick furrowed his eyebrows in concentration and confusion. For a brief moment he was a dog that had been asked to pedal a unicycle. He wanted to make her happy; he just didn’t know how.

Her gaze followed his as he looked conspiratorially over his shoulder. “I snooped around and saw some other packages in Wardrobe,” Nick whispered like he was a spy in one of those cheesy prison break movies they’d watch together. “They’ve got diapers with teddy bears on ‘em, and owls; even ones with clouds and balloons and stuff. Say the word, and I make a call. We’ll get you the right kind of dia-“

“I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT WEARING DIAPERS IN THE HALLWAY WHERE EVERYONE CAN LISTEN IN!” Carla’s shouts rattled the door to the dressing room behind her. She was suddenly acutely aware of exactly how loud she had just been. Several stage hands and technicians had stopped dead in their tracks and stared in horror and disgust at her. Her first acting gig in months, and they likely already thought she was being a diva.  All that was missing for them was the popcorn.

“Dressing room!” she scolded him as quietly as she could. “Now!” With her free hand, Carla grabbed Nick by his tie and dragged him into the dressing room the studio had provided; any harder and the tie would have unclipped from his shirt.


“I get that you’re upset about something,” Nick said after the door to Carla’s dressing room was closed and Carla had released his tie, “but I just don’t get what it is or why.” Carla puffed out her breath in frustration. Now it was her turn to be perplexed. What was so hard to understand?

“Why do I have to wear a diaper in the first place?”

“Uh…because you’re playing a baby…?” Nick offered sarcastically. “Says it there right in the casting call: ‘Big Baby Bella’.”


Nick had gotten Carla a part for a T.V. pilot. It was some kind of kid’s show, targeted for late bloomers and immature types who didn’t want to grow up, or something. Nick had described the show as a variation on Lazy Town, only for children that didn’t want to move up to “big kid” status instead of ones who didn’t want to exercise.


And just like Lazy Town, all the characters for Little Land were being played by adults. Only one part was available: “Big Baby Bella”. The downside was that Carla didn’t know anything else about the part. It had been a last minute gig, with the original actress dropping out suddenly and Nick managing to get Carla’s headshots into some casting director’s lap.


Carla had yet to meet any of the other actors, or do a table read, or anything other than make it to the studio. She’d managed to get a glimpse of the director- Max Hammerschmidt, a local legend in children’s programming- before a few stage hands shuffled her into a dressing room while Nick walked behind them playing on his phone.


Worse yet, she wasn’t going to get the chance to properly prepare for the role, it seemed. Max Hammerschmidt had a reputation for being particularly demanding when it came to keeping on schedule, and today was the first day of filming. No rehearsal, no nothing. Carla was going to have to read the script moments before the cameras started rolling, hope that she could memorize the lines, and let her natural talent carry her through today.


That had been the plan, at least, until Carla had seen her wardrobe: a lavender colored dress with puffy sleeves, a matching wig with its artificial hair in pigtails, some baby bootie socks with grips on the soles so that she could walk around without slipping, and a diaper big enough that it could actually fit her. It wasn’t even an adult style diaper like something found in the “embarrassing personal products aisle” at the grocery store. It was, for all intents and purposes, a baby diaper that had been blown up to scale. The moment she found the dreadful thing waiting for her in the dressing room, Carla had gotten a pretty good idea why her predecessor had suddenly quit.


“This is ridiculous, Nick,” Carla whined, shaking the diaper in her hand for emphasis. “Why do I have to wear a diaper?”

Nick glanced at his phone, like he had somewhere better to be. More than likely, he had one of his games on pause and was itching to play. “It’s for the part. You’re ‘Big Baby Bella’. You wear diapers. It’s kind of in the name.”


“Yeah,” Carla allowed, “but I didn’t expect to have to wear a real diaper for the part. I figured that they’d just give me some kind of puffy pants, or maybe the old white-cloth-and-giant-safety-pin bit. Y’know? Like in the cartoons?”


Nick sighed. Why was he the one acting exasperated? He wasn’t the one expected to trade in his undies for Pampers Size 26. “This isn’t a cartoon, and it’s supposed to be educational,” he told her. “How are the little two and three year olds of the world going to know that being in diapers is a bad thing if your diaper doesn’t look like something they’d wear? How many kids wear diapers without some kind of cartoon on them? How many kids wear safety-pinned diapers?”


“If it’s supposed to be realistic, then why is this diaper plastic?” Carla countered. “I’ve got a little niece, and all of her Pampers are that fake cloth-like shit.”


There was a pause. Nick’s eyes searched the room for an answer. “It’s part of the aesthetic, I guess. Your other stuff seems kinda plastic to me.” Nick levied a finger at the dress and wig laying on the countertop. Gingerly, Carla picked up the dress and rubbed the material between her fingers. It didn’t crinkle like a raincoat, or a…well, Carla didn’t even want to think the word if she didn’t have to…but there was definitely a kind of shimmer and sheen to it.  Maybe Nick did have a point there. Still, she wasn’t about to admit defeat.


“That’s not the point,” she moaned. “This is degrading and embarrassing.”

“That’s showbiz,” Nick replied flatly. There was another ten full seconds of tense uninterrupted, unblinking silence between the two.


Nick let out a long sigh and rubbed his temples. “Look, babe; you’ve basically got two choices: either put on the diaper, or give up on being an actress.” Carla’s heart was in her stomach in an instant. “I have busted my ass trying to get you good, speaking parts, and for some reason, this is the only one that’s panned out. And…and…and…” he seemed to search for words and came up wanting.


The young actress felt like she was going to throw up in her mouth. Even Nick was close to giving up on her. Nick never gave up on anyone. Anyone. He had a mime as a client for God’s sakes! She was about to be brought lower than a mime all because she wouldn’t wear a diaper.


“Other than this,” Nick broke into her train of thought, “best I can do is get you a gig as an extra in a herpes medication commercial.” An extra? In a herpes commercial? She wouldn’t even be the one talking to the camera about how she had herpes. Best case scenario, she’d be bike rider number four in a crowd of bike riders to demonstrate that yes, even people with herpes could ride bikes. She wouldn’t even get to say “…But not anymore.”

“Do you want the part, Carla? Do you want to at least get your foot in the door? Or do you wanna go back to waiting tables at the shit bar where we met?” Nick was right. This might be her last chance.

That’s when the fight went out of her. “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll put the damn thing on. Now get out. I need to get…” she paused. “Changed” would have been a poor choice of words on her part. “I need to get dressed.”


“Atta girl,” Nick grinned, stifling a laugh as he went for the doorknob. “That’s very mature of you. I’m proud of you.” Carla gave him a look and Nick slapped his hand over his mouth. This is why they hadn’t worked out as a couple. Never one to restrain himself too much, Nick waited until he was almost completely out the door, leaned back in and said, “Now you just let your Nick-Nick know if you need any help getting your diapee on,” before fluttering his eyes coyly. Son of a bitch managed to get out and slam the door right as the diaper came flying at his head.

The young actress turned to face the dressing room mirror and took a deep breath in through her nose before letting it out quickly through her mouth. “Nick…” she whispered to herself. Sometimes that man’s own name could be used as a curse word. But as infuriating as he could be, Carla still liked him, at least as a friend and agent. He had gotten her plenty of auditions over the past few years and it wasn’t his fault that she was never “quite what the director was looking for.”


An old Mitch Hedberg joke came to mind just then: “You know what keeps me from acting? Fucking auditions.” It had been funny when Mitch had said it. It wasn’t nearly as funny when Carla was living it. The irony that she hadn’t auditioned to get this part wasn’t lost on her, either.


Regardless, she had gotten a speaking role, and something about her was what at least one person had been looking for, even if it had been as a last minute replacement. What did it matter if they had also been looking for someone desperate enough to wear a diaper on camera? She could do this. She could totally do this.


With a last look at herself in the mirror and a huff, Carla pulled her midnight black tank-top over her head; folding it neatly, almost ceremonially, before setting it down on the counter in front of her. She pondered leaving on her matching sports bra for a moment before double checking the dress she was supposed to wear. Twisting her lips to the side, she frowned slightly as she examined the childish costume. Her bra would definitely show if she left it on; not camera appropriate in the least. It was a stupid mistake on her part. Should’ve brought something strapless, just in case, she thought.

But, she reminded herself, babies don’t wear bras, so it made sense to go without. It wasn’t a mistake, it was a character choice. Further inspection of the front of the dress revealed that it had a little bit of padding up top, too, so it was likely meant to be worn without any additional support. The actress sighed in relief, and the bra soon joined the sacrificial altar of her dignity. Her sneakers, socks, and jeans were added shortly after.

   Carla was about to take off her panties when she remembered that their replacement was still lying on the floor. Shimmying her panties down her hips while she tiptoed to the door, Carla picked up the tacky, padded, plastic, monstrosity and turned it over in her hands. Once again, the faint smell of lavender wafted up into her nostrils, bringing with it memories of babysitting her niece and perhaps even long buried memories of being babysat herself. It did smell nice, if you didn’t think about what its intended purpose was. Not that she’d be using it, of course. This was a costume piece; a prop and nothing more.


For the first time since discovering it, she completely unfolded the adult baby diaper in her hands. Opening up the sides revealed even more purple plastic around the waistline and leg gathers; God, but this thing looked gaudy! Still, if meant getting the job, then…

    Carla froze. She didn’t actually know how to put a diaper on herself. She knew how to put a diaper on someone else, but she quickly realized that she didn’t have the slightest inkling of how to be both the adult and the baby at the same time.

   Perplexed, she looked at the thing in her hands and studied it like it was some sort of puzzle. She could tell where the back was by the tapes, but didn’t get much further than that. How to put this thing on? What secrets did it hold?!

At first, she tried to pull it up between her legs and fasten it standing, but whenever she reached for a tape in the back, the front drooped down like a wet noodle. Likewise, when she pulled the front up to her waist for a nice snug fit, the backside inevitably fell before she could fasten it properly. Carla considered squeezing the middle between her thighs so she might hold the damn thing in place long enough to fasten it together, but that might wrinkle it up and make it unappealing to the camera.  Did diapers wrinkle that much? She’d never thought about it before.

This wasn’t working. Carla was Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill. “Wish there was a spare,” She whispered quietly enough so that she was sure Rick wouldn’t hear her. “That way I could worry less if I made a mistake.” The irony that she was now wishing for more diapers wasn’t lost on her. Defeated once more by this simple task, Carla decided to go at it from another angle.  She lowered herself down to the floor; the carpet tickling her spine while the padding cushioned her backside like an overstuffed pillow.

   Better. Much better. Carla reached between her legs and pulled the undergarment up past her belly button. So far, so good. But as she twisted around to try and grab at the tapes, she felt the underside of the diaper tickling at her thighs. How the hell had that happened?! She was doing it wrong, again!

Well past the point of frustration, Carla sat up only so she could throw herself back onto the carpet with a thud; her forearms brushing into the carpet in a miniature tantrum that resembled making a snow angel. Damnit! Damnit! Damnit! She might lose this job just because she couldn’t diaper herself! How was she supposed to play Big Baby Bella if she couldn’t get a damn diaper on? That was the rub though: babies didn’t diaper themselves.


Carla picked herself off the floor and went to the door of the dressing room; opening the door just enough so that she could see Nick leaning against the wall, playing on his phone.


“Nick,” she whimpered through the crack in the doorway. “Heeeeelp meeee.” Nick looked up from his phone.

Her agent did a double take. “Seriously?” he asked. Her throat dry from embarrassment, Carla nodded. In the space of a heartbeat, Nick was a through the door and in the dressing room. Carla didn’t even have time to blink before Nick was picking the repulsive padding up off the floor and walking towards the counter where the rest of her costume laid.

“Right,” he nodded, more to himself than to her. “Let’s do this.” Nick placed the rest of the costume on a nearby stool while still managing to knock some strips of lavender plastic and a bottle of spirit gum to the floor. “Over here”, he patted the countertop. “Come lay down.” Carla looked at him indignantly. “What?” Nick scoffed. “You asked for my help, now come lay down.”

The countertop was cold as she hoisted herself up onto it. Carla shivered a bit as she laid her head down using the pile of her adult clothes as a makeshift pillow, and closed her eyes. “The things I do for my clients,” Nick muttered loud enough for her to hear.


His hand gently moved hers away from her pelvis; she had already started to cover herself in a kind of second nature to preserve her own modesty.  “Relax, you literally don’t have anything I haven’t seen before,” Nick reminded. “Or have you forgotten those couple of months when we tried being more than actress and agent?”

Sadly, Nick had a point. However in her current state of vulnerability, his words made Carla feel less like an ex-lover and more like a little girl at the doctor’s office. She shut her eyes all the harder when she felt her agent slip an arm under the back of her knees and push her legs up over her head. Just relax. Let him do his job.  Carla heard just as much as she felt when Nick used his free hand to slide the diaper under Carla’s rump. She let out the slightest breath of relief as her naked skin touched the soft inside of the diaper and cringed a bit when she heard the accompanying rustling of the soft plastic.


“Just a second,” she heard Nick say. Carla didn’t even have time to respond before her senses were overwhelmed. The sickly sweet lavender scent from the diaper multiplied tenfold in her nostrils and her skin was assaulted with the sensation of cool flakes pelting her backside. Baby powder?


Carla opened her eyes to see Nick sprinkling baby powder on her, coating caramel skin with a layer of powdered sugar. “Hey,” she coughed, “what gives? I already smell like a baby.” Her nose twitched as she suppressed a sneeze.


“You’ll thank me at the end of shooting when you haven’t been chafing all day,” Nick told her. “Besides,” he continued talking after he lowered her legs and began sprinkling the stuff on her crotch. “I really think it’ll help you get into character.”

There was a knock on the door. “Miss Garcia?” A muffled voice from the hallway interrupted their banter. “Five minutes till they need you on set!”

“Thank you, five!” Carla called back, using theater lingo as a matter of habit. Her entire body tingled with embarrassment as Nick pulled the diaper up between her legs and pulled the tapes taught over the front. She was acutely aware of the new and invasive bulk between her legs. His hands reached out to her, and she accepted them, pulling herself up into a sitting position before hopping off the impromptu changing table.


There was a distinct change in her gait, Carla noticed, as she took a few tentative practice steps in the bulky thing strapped around her waist. “How’s it fit?” Nick asked. Carla’s ears rang with the crinkle of thin plastic. She twisted her hips a bit and bent and stretched to see if the noise could be reduced through use; like breaking in a new shoe. It couldn’t. On the bright side, it showed no sign of slipping off, so there was that at least.


“Fits pretty good,” Carla replied before picking the purple baby dress and slipping it on over her head. “It’s been awhile since I’ve worn one of these, so I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel.” She smoothed the material down and adjusted herself so that her breasts fit comfortably. Absentmindedly, she ran her hand down the down the hem of her dress and noted that her hand hit smooth plastic far sooner than she would’ve liked. That could be a problem.  

   Not having the luxury of time to fully examine herself yet, Carla quickly went about the business of pinning back her hair and slipping a wig cap on so she could properly adorn the violet wig, pigtails and all.

Nick chuckled to himself as Carla finished getting dressed. “You have no idea how pathetic you looked; all naked and afraid, begging me to help you put on a diaper. You couldn’t even get it on without me.”

The eyes in Carla’s head rolled so much she almost got a glance at her own brain. “Ass,” she playfully spat as she pulled on the baby booty socks, complete with grips on the soles and frills on the edges. “When was the last time you wore underwear that required assembly?”


“More recently than I’d like to admit,” Nick smirked, “but not nearly as recently as you. And I wouldn’t call what you’re wearing underwear. Underwear is typically…under something.” He pointed his finger and waggled it between her dress and the diaper.


The actress caught her reflection in the full length mirror by the door. It was worse than she thought: Her “hair” was plaited into two dangling pom-poms, her feet were slipped into in little more than baby booties, and she was wearing a dress that Cindy Brady might call immature. She was a sight to behold, like something out of a cartoon.


The dress seemed to flare out, making a kind of triangle at her hips. Only, more to Nick’s point, the hem of the dress wasn’t covering much of anything. To call this thing she was wearing a dress was an overstatement. It didn’t even completely hide her diaper; it covered the top half at most. There was absolutely no angle where one couldn’t see that she was heavily padded. Carla burned inside a bit once she realized she thought of the diaper as hers.


“Ay, dios mio! I’m a friggin’ Kewpie doll!”


Nick took a spot beside her in the mirror; comparatively the Ward Cleaver to her Cindy Brady. “I think you look kinda cute, actually.”


“I look like I’m two!”

“The two concepts aren’t mutually exclusive,” Nick said, adding a wink.

Jackass. Flirt. Jackass flirt.

“You’ve got less than five minutes to get to the set,” he quickly changed the subject. “So quit stalling, and go get ‘em!” Carla nodded, more to herself than to him, and shuffled over to the dressing room door and opened it, giving Nick one last look back over her shoulder before she left.

“What?” Nick teased, “You need me to hold your hand and walk you there?” If he said anything after that, Carla couldn’t hear him over the door slamming.


“Nick…” she cursed, before storming down the hallway towards the set. The word “storm” may have been an overstatement, though. It was actually very difficult to “storm” when every step you took reminded you that you were dressed more like your toddler niece than the adult you actually were.

As embarrassing as it was being dressed like this, though, it was evident she was expected. Every crew member she passed in the hallway nodded at her politely as she passed, and when she asked, one of them confirmed that she was headed in the right direction. Maybe her earlier outburst in the hallway had gotten her a little bit of respect.

“Aha!” a voice rang out as she approached the stage. “There she is!”  Carla’s neck craned as she looked through the crowd of key grips, best boys, errand runners, and interns. Finally, she located the source of the voice. An older man, dressed most peculiarly, was rapidly approaching Carla; considering Carla looked like she wasn’t quite ready for potty-training, that was saying something.

The old man was dressed less like what a director would actually wear to set, and more like what someone going to a costume party as “a director” would throw together. His brown riding pants were tucked into black boots. A too-tight banana yellow t-shirt clung to his torso. His wrinkled face wore dark aviator sunglasses and he had a curly mustache penciled on with what must have been eyeliner. His fire-engine-red beret was complimented by an equally obnoxious red scarf thrown around his neck. In one hand he carried a riding crop and the other held a giant megaphone that a cheerleader might use.

The eccentric old codger made an exaggerated and genteel bow. “Miss Garcia, I presume? How do you do?” Carla’s lips smiled politely, but her eyes were frowning. She cocked her head to the side like she was looking at him from the wrong angle. Who was this joker? Looking past the aviator sunglasses and into his eyes, something clicked. She had seen this man barking out orders on set just moments before she had been shoved into a dressing room.

“Mr. Hammerschmidt?!”

The director’s mouth frowned while his eyes smiled, “Mr. Hammerschmidt is my father’s name. I insist that all the cast and crew call me ‘Max’. If the children who we make these programs for can’t be expected to pronounce my name, why should you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Carla apologized. “I didn’t recognize you at first. You just look so…so…so…” Carla stuttered to a stop; using her arms to gesture at his outfit.

“Ridiculous?” Max supplied the words Carla couldn’t quite spit out. “Quite right. It’s a bit of a superstition I have. If am to expect my actors to be comfortable in their borrowed skins, I must create one for myself.” He gestured dramatically, like a Shakespearean actor past his prime and drew her gaze to her current wardrobe. “Most of this cast is portraying a kind of caricature of childhood, and thus…” he paused for effect, “…I must portray a caricature of myself.”

“Oh,” Carla said, feeling stupid. “That’s…cool, I guess.”

“Indeed,” Max agreed, though Carla had the sneaking suspicion he was agreeing with himself more than her. “We must all sacrifice for art. Speaking of which…” His riding crop hovered to the hem of her dress and lifted it so that her diaper was on full display. Carla froze, her arms rigid by her side as if the crop were a poisonous snake.  

Max leaned in, examining Carla’s padded crotch as though it were a painting, before nodding. “Good!” he said, letting the hem of her dress fall back into place. “Everything fits as intended, and you clearly know how to follow direction. We were lucky to find you on such short notice.”

Her mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Thank you?” This was a kid’s show, right?

Max squinted his eyes from behind his sunglasses. “You also seem to be one of those Latinos. Also very lucky. Very popular with the target audience these days, thanks to that Dora cartoon and all. So, good for you! Very good. Very good.”

Carla didn’t say anything to that, but felt her anger rising at the older man’s casual racism. Her hands became fists at her side. Her fearful trembling mutated into furious shaking. Max, for his part, did not seem to notice. Instead he looked over her shoulder, raised the megaphone to his face and then blared “Aha! There he is!” before walking right past her to the next cast member that had caught his attention.

Her blood hot, Carla whipped her body around; the hem of her lavender dress angrily fluttering around her. A soft, feminine hand on her shoulder kept her from waddle-storming after Max to tell the old bastard off.

“I know that look,” the woman attached to the hand said to Carla. She too, was older than Carla, with several strands of her otherwise straw colored locks giving way to a middle aged gray.  “Let me guess, Max just said something casually stupid and or offensive.” Seeing a sympathetic soul, Carla nodded to the newcomer. “Yeah,” the older woman sighed, “Max does that sometimes. I don’t think he means to be that insensitive, he’s just a little out of touch with everything. Still, I’m glad he’s sworn off voting.”

Carla frowned.  “And you are…?”

“Justine,” the woman held out her hand, “assistant director and one of the few people willing to put up with Max on a regular basis.” Smiling politely, but noncommittally, Carla shook Justine’s hand.

“Max can be a little like everybody’s drunk uncle at Thanksgiving,” Justine explained, “but he’s brilliant and brings out the best in his actors. He wore his own paper-mache dinosaur head when he directed Barney & Friends and got a daytime Emmy nod for his work.” Justine’s nose wrinkled as if remembering a particularly bad dream. “Had to be taken off the show the next season, though, because the kids on set were heard repeating his theories on ancient Egypt. Long story…don’t ask.”

There’s a fine line between “crazy” and “eccentric”, the measure typically being success. Obviously, Max Hammerschmidt was “eccentric”. The cold and calculating lizard part of Carla’s brain buzzed with ambition. She could handle some old white guy calling her “one of those Latinos” every now and then if it meant regular work on an award winning T.V. show.

Justine leaned in closer and Carla flinched, preparing for yet another stranger to stare at her pelvis. Fortunately, the assistant director instead peered at the actress’s face. “Hmmm, you should have been given some prosthetic eyebrows to exaggerate your facial expressions. Didn’t Wardrobe leave them in your dressing room?”

Carla’s brow furrowed in concentration.  The memory of two little slivers of rubber and a bottle of spirit gum left being swept off the countertop as Nick readied to diaper her flashed in her mind’s eye. Shit…

Carla began to fidget nervously. “Oh yeeeeah. I might have accidentally misplaced those when I was getting my…” she racked her brain for an appropriate euphemism, but couldn’t find any delicate way to get around it, “…diaper put on me. I must’ve misplaced them then,” she confessed.

Justine pursed her lips. “You couldn’t put it on yourself?” Carla felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. So she had been expected to diaper herself.

“I was getting into character…?” Carla lied; the uncertainty showing in her voice.

“Well, not a big deal,” Justine replied. “I’ll send someone over with replacements to make sure you’re camera ready. Just wait here.” Carla nodded politely and did as she was told. Camera ready. That was a laugh. No one would be noticing her eyebrows once they got a look at her bottom. Two people quickly ran up to her and glued the purple strips of silicone to her face, making her look even more like a cartoon character, while she continued to feel sorry for herself.

Before the spirit gum had even properly dried, Max’s voice rang out over the set from his megaphone. “Alright, alright! Actors gather round for the Big Baby Bella scenes!” Carla walked over to the stage with purpose, the crinkling with each footfall buzzing inside her ears and the smell of baby powder wafting up from her bottom making her increasingly self-conscious.

“It’s just the crinkling of money,” Carla whispered a prayer to the acting gods. “I’m getting paid for this. I’m getting speaking lines, and I’m gonna be famous someday because of this. That’s not baby powder; just the smell of success.”

The set piece where they gathered looked like a giant nursery. Every trope was accounted for: giant crib, oversized rocking chair, a box of toys big enough to be a coffin, a bouncy harness that looked like it would fit Carla perfectly, a rocking horse the size of a Clydesdale and the usual assortment of gargantuan stuffed animals worth thousands of tickets at a carnival. All of it was painted in bright, simple colors. There was grass green carpeting, sky blue walls, and purple, yellow, and orange furniture pieces with not a single muted hue to be seen.


None of that particularly surprised Carla, given the subject and theme of the show; though Carla did feel a pang of dread when she spotted the adult changing table with diapers identical to her own stacked and waiting on the shelves beneath. Please let that be just for decoration.

“Ah, Miss Garcia,” Max Hammerschmidt motioned for her to come closer as she approached, “join us, please. Everyone, this is our Big Baby Bella for today. Miss Clark canceled after the incident at rehearsals yesterday.” There was an uncomfortable and knowing nod from the other actors, hinting at memories best not revisited. What incident?

Max motioned to the two actors directly in front of him, “Carla, meet Randy and Miranda. They’ll be playing your parents, lack of family resemblance not-withstanding.” The hairs on the back of Carla’s neck bristled, waiting for some form of ignorance to spring forth from Hammerschmidt’s mouth. Thankfully, none came.

The two actors playing Bella’s parents, Carla estimated, were about her age: mid to late twenties, early thirties at most. The campy old-age makeup couldn’t really hide that fact, even though Randy’s plastic looking eyebrows and mustache were dust bunny gray, as was the square top wig he had on. Miranda, likewise, wore a stiff wig which was styled in a ‘do June Cleaver might call conservative, and was a shade of tangerine that still came off as a bad dye job in a technicolor world.

The “Dad” costume consisted of a boxy sweater vest the same nauseating pickle green color as Carla’s dressing room. His loafers were similarly the shape and size of shoe boxes. “Mom” wore a dress that was an orange hue only a few shades lighter than her wig. Like Carla’s dress, Miranda’s costume flared outward giving it a kind of triangle effect; with the main difference that being you couldn’t tell what kind of underwear Miranda was wearing at a glance.

    “Hello,” they each said, politely. Carla returned the courtesy.

“And this,” Max indicated the actress standing beside him, “is our star, Debra Donaghy. She’ll be playing the part of ‘Little Miss Lucy’.” Carla’s jaw hit the floor.

Debra Donaghy was quite obviously younger than all of them. If she was eighteen, she was only just eighteen. Her petite form only came up to Carla’s shoulder, exaggerating the perception. Her neon blue wig came down in bangs, framing her face perfectly and drawing the eye to her too perfect button nose. Equally as complimentary was her light blue plaid jumper with leggings and high tops that matched her wig. Carla bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a jealous scoff.  

This was the lead?  Carla had never heard of Debra Donaghy, but she was instinctively certain that this was some ex-child actor who had gotten the part by sitting in some producer’s lap.  She looked so young, Carla bitterly thought, that they should trade roles; girl looked like she just got out of Huggies anyways. Maybe that was the point, though: To have adults acting like babies while a baby taught them how to act like an adult. Visual Irony.

“Hi,” Donaghy’s smile was saccharinely over-sweet and obviously fake, “I’m looking forward to us working together. This’ll be fun.”

Carla returned the fake smile. “Same!” She’d met enough girls like this one in high school. Real queen-bee-mean-girl type who would kick dirt in your face the moment the teacher wasn’t looking. She hadn’t come here to relive high school, Carla reminded herself. The trick was to just keep things professional and everything would be fine. This wasn’t junior year of Drama Club all over again.

“Alright! Now that everyone is acquainted,” Max spoke up, “let’s get to filming.” He looked over to Carla, but something about his gaze gave Carla the feeling that he was looking through her and not at her. “Now, Carla, I’m told that you haven’t had a chance to review the script yet. Correct?”

Mutely, Carla nodded, suddenly feeling small and “less-than”.

“Not a problem,” Max waved his hand Carla’s insecurity. “Your dialogue is fairly basic. Debra is doing most of the heavy lifting. We’ll give you a peek where needed before rolling. But just in case,” he went on, “we’ll start with a scene where you don’t talk.”

Apprehensively, Carla licked her lips. “Okay. Let’s go with that.”

“Places, everyone!” Max shouted. “Come with me, my dear. Let’s chat.” Suddenly the kindly grandfather, Max offered his wrinkled hand to Carla, the little girl. She took it and Max escorted her over to the toy box big enough to bury someone in.

“This scene is fairly simple,” Max explained. “Little Miss Lucy has just come to Little Land and she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Petite. This scene is where we meet your character. You’ll be playing with the blocks, and generally ignoring them while they talk about you. I’ll have the camera following Debra around, but she’s the only one allowed to break the fourth wall. You just act naturally. Understood?”

    The directions were so simple, Carla didn’t know whether or not to be insulted.  Besides, she hated it when people said “act naturally”.

“Play with blocks. Don’t look at them or the camera. Got it.”

Max’s lips puckered like he was sucking on a lemon. Once again, he squinted at her, sizing her up. “Let’s see if we can get this done in one take, shall we?” Carla toddled over to the pile of alphabet blocks and went down to her knees so she could begin properly playing with the little wooden cubes. The other thespians, meanwhile, gathered downstage and took their places closer to the camera.

“Quiet on the set!” Max yelled into the megaphone. Soon there was complete silence and Carla was left with only the sound of the padding on her ass rustling as she gently shifted her weight. God, she hoped that wouldn’t be picked up by the boom mics. “Roll film! Aaaaand action!”

(Continued in Part 2)
Pilot (Part 1)
A Cushypen Request for CS-Fox. Broken into two parts due to formatting issues on deviantart.


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The three men came to consciousness quite suddenly.  The last thing each of them remembered was coming home, cheap but practical baby gift in hand and opening the door, and then, as if reality itself had had a stroke, they were here.

And more disturbing to each of them, in turn, was that they each had the distinct impression of having missed time.  It was difficult to describe, really.  It didn’t have the groggy feel of slowly waking up from a long sleep, or the wooziness of waking up from a nasty hit on the head.  It was more like they had been “on” one moment, switched “off” as soon as they had gotten home, and now who knows how much time had passed and they were back “on” again.  They existed, they ceased to exist, and they existed again.  They had been dead, now they weren’t.

They were dead…

“The….?” Jim stopped himself from talking, his voice raw and caught in his throat.  He took a few more deep breaths, cleared his throat and finished, “…hell?”  He looked to his left and his right, Dale and Steve were beside him on the floor.

They were on the floor.

All three of them were blinking and turning their heads, confused as to what was going on.

“Fuck was…” Dale coughed.  “…fuck was that?”

“No idea,” Steve grunted.  “I feel like I’ve got a two ton weight on my shoulders though.”

“Where are we?” Jim asked.  He sat up, the light rustling crinkle he heard not registering to his conscious mind as anything other than the slight creek of floorboards under old carpet.  Dale sat up too, rubbing his eyes, his vision still blurred from whatever drug was still in his system. It had to be a drug doing this. He didn’t notice the sounds his movement was making either.

Steven didn’t even think to sit up. He rolled over to his belly instead, lifting his head up oh so slightly off the ground to get a look around; but he would be forgiven for that soon enough.

The room was painted pastel blue- baby boy blue- and pictures of Looney Tunes paraded around the top trim of the wall.  They were baby Looney Tunes, Dale noted.  Bugs, Daffy, Sylvester, Porky; the whole gang. They were playing with blocks, or lying on their backs, crawling after a bouncing ball, or taking naps.  Stereotypical snapshot stuff you put as the sample pictures in frames.  Baby stuff.

You knew they were the “baby” Looney Tunes because each and every one of them had a plain, puffy white diaper wrapped around their bums, and nothing else.  It wasn’t until he rubbed his eyes and took a second look that Dale noticed that even though they were definitely wearing puffy white diapers, those weren’t the “baby” Looney Tunes.

A full grown, but padded Sylvester cuddled with a stuffed Tweety Bird.  Bugs Bunny, also diapered, walked with stiff legs, and an awkward gate with arms flailing, a tiny carrot in his mouth like a pacifier.  Dale even noticed a scene of Porky Pig getting his ass dusted with baby powder by Granny, what could only be a fresh diaper laid beneath him as Granny hoisted his legs into the air with one hand and applied powder with the other.

“Is that a fuckin’ crib?” Steve asked from his position on the floor.  “It’s huge!”  Indeed it was.  Any one of them could have fit into the bed with the wooden bars.  The entire room, each realized as they took in their surroundings, had the appearance of a nursery for oversized infants.

The giant crib was directly behind them.  To their right was a dresser with a concave, cradling changing mat so thick it might as well have been an air mattress.  A colossal wooden box marked “TOYS” was to their left, and directly in front of them was a small walk-in closet.

Jim stood up off the floor and walked to the closet.  As he looked through the clothes he saw rows of shirts and shorts decorated with cartoon characters like Spongebob Squarepants and Jake and the Neverland Pirates. In the back he saw a couple of boxes of Huggies lying against the wall.  The only thing that struck Jim as odd was that all of the clothes seemed big considering how they were decorated.  Some of the shirts looked like they could even fit him.

Jim stepped out of the closet.

“Jim,” Steve called from his spot on the floor.  Something sounded off about Steve, like something was bothering him;

“Just a second, bro,” Jim said sliding the closet door closed.  He looked at the closet door, and then turned his head to the right, where there as a door leading out of the room.  Then Jim’s spacial awareness finally kicked in.

“Guys, I know this room.” Jim said, looking to his friends who for some reason were still on the floor.  Steve hadn’t even sat up yet.  “This is the spare guest room in my house.  Somebody re-painted it.  Jim went for the door leading out to prove his theory.  His hand clutched rough, hard plastic and he turned the knob, but to no avail.

“What the…?” Jim drew his hand back and looked at the door knob.  It had a child grip on it.  Stranger yet, Jim soon realized as he tried to open the door again, his hand couldn’t properly navigate the grip.  His fingers had developed a mind of their own, and that mind wasn’t particularly bright.

“My hands…” Jim gasped, looking as though his own digits had betrayed them.

“Dale,” Steve called when Jim had ignored him.  Dale wasn’t much better.  Dale was preoccupied with his own problems.

“Jim,” Dale said, a touch of panic in his voice.  “I got a problem, man.  I can’t stand up. My legs aren’t working.”

Jim turned from the door and looked down at Dale.  He noticed that Dale was still sitting on the floor, his bare legs gathered up underneath him, and his bare feet digging impotently into the carpet.  Dale looked like he was trying to rock forward, but he could barely get his rump off the ground, and his feet wouldn’t move or shift to support his weight.  He just kept rocking back and forth as if that would somehow accomplish something.

It only then registered to Jim that his friend wasn’t wearing any pants.  Dale was clad in nothing but an orange t-shirt and ridiculous underwear printed with polka dots, circles, tiny pictures of Disney characters and for some reason the number 3.  Only, Jim realized, it wasn’t underwear…not really.

“Dude…” Jim said.  “Are you in a diaper?”

Dale, who had just then managed to shift his weight enough so that he could support his weight on the palms of his hand and the flats of his feet- like a little scrunched up cat- looked between his legs and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“SHIT!” he yelped, right before he tried to cover his groin with his hands.  He was beet red.  Unfortunately, this caused him to lose balance and fall right back onto his padded backside.

“The fuck man?!”  Dale’s legs splayed a bit as he was forced to sit back down, the bulk of the diaper caused his legs to spread ever so slightly.  Adrenaline rushing, Dale went for the tapes around his waist- ready to rip the infantile garment off of him right then and there- only to find out that much like Jim, his fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

“The hell,” Dale said as he struggled in vain to remove the diaper, “Why won’t these tapes come off?”  Dale took a closer look at what was encasing his nether region. “And who makes Huggies this big?”

“Dude,” Jim laughed.  “You look ridiculous.  Steve, did you get a look at this?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, fucker,” Steve cursed.  “I. Can’t. Move.”

Both Dale and Jim finally took the time to notice their friend. Steve, all close to three hundred pounds of him, was sprawled on the floor, squirming pathetically with his arms and legs leeched of strength and not getting any traction whatsoever.

Unlike Dale, who was pants-less, and Jim with his T-shirt and shorts, Steve was dressed in soft yellow pajamas with feet sewn in.  Only Steve’s hands and head remained uncovered.  And even though they couldn’t see it directly, the crinkling sound as he struggled to find purchase and significant bulge around his hips and buttocks made it obvious that he was thickly diapered.

“Ha!” Jim pointed and laughed.  “You guys are so messed up, man.  I knew you were going to a baby shower, but I didn’t think you’d be the baby!”  Steve groaned and grunted as he managed to roll back over to his back with almost Herculean effort.

“This isn’t…errrrr…funny…Jim.” Steve said.  “Besides, you’re dressed like a baby, too, bro.”

“What?” Jim was incredulous.  “No I’m not.  I’m…” he looked down at himself.  His T-shirt had a “Go Diego Go” logo on it, and his shorts- which come to think of it he didn’t normally wear shorts- were a soft Navy Blue color with an elastic waistband.  His shoes were an obnoxious shade of neon yellow and were obviously the kind with Velcro instead of shoe laces.  Still, that didn’t mean that he was dressed like a…

Jim heard the crinkle as he bent over to look at his shoes, and realized it was coming from him.  How he had not noticed how far apart his feet were?  He realized he had appeared to gain a few padded inches of girth directly below his belly as well.  Jim lifted the front of his shirt up and heard Dale and Steve gasp and start to sputter as he looked down at his waist.  Poking up above the elastic waistband of his new shorts was a white paper thin top of a diaper, and for some reason, Jim somehow knew that if he pulled his pants down he’d see Mickey and Minnie Mouse holding hands on the front. Just like the Huggies that he’d bought earlier today.

“There they are!” a familiar voice caught Jim’s attention.  The voice was immediately followed by equally familiar giggles.  Jim turned around and saw, what had made Dale and Steve start gasping and sputtering in embarrassment: Lisa, Mindy, and Heather. Their wives.

“Whatcha doin’ lifting up your shirt, big boy?” Lisa came over to Jim. “Are you wet?”  Then, without any further warning, Jim found his pants yanked down and his wife squeezing the front of his diaper, a dry crinkle being the result.  “Nope,” she pronounced.

“Baby!”  Jim screeched.  “Not in front of the-“

“I know, I know,” Lisa tutted as she walked around Jim. “You’re a big boy and don’t like having your diaper changed in front of the littler babies, but Mommy’s still gotta check.”  That wasn’t what he was going to say at all! Still, Jim stood there, a crimson statue of embarrassment as his wife pulled back the waistband of his diaper and glanced down his backside.  “Good for now,” she pronounced, letting the diaper snap back into place.  Then, just as quickly as she yanked Jim’s shorts down, she bent over and shimmied them up his hips.

“The fu-?”

“Mindy? Heather?” Lisa talked over Jim’s astonished swearing, “How are your boys?”

Dale gawked like a fish as Heather walked over to him, her high heels and the fact that she could stand making her seem so much taller than he was.

“Honey,” he started, “this isn’t what it looks mmmph!”  Dale’s attempt to explain was cut short as his wife shoved a pacifier in his mouth and clipped it to his t-shirt.  Dale’s lips began sucking on the thing immediately, and a strange sense of relaxation began to spread through him.  That didn’t mean that he didn’t notice or mind when Heather bent over and traced the thin yellow line on his diaper running down his crotch with her finger nail.

“Still dry,” she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice.  “Oh well,” she said, bending over, “let’s get you to your party.  Dale had wanted to echo “party”, but his lips wouldn’t stop sucking, so all that came out of him was a mumbled “pahpy?”

The almost stoned buzz that Dale was getting from the rubber tit between his lips was thrown off as Heather, his wife almost his exact same size and weight grabbed him under his arm pits and deadlifted him off the floor.  His legs, part from shock and part from a long buried instinct wrapped around Heather’s waist.  In a seamless, and effortless transition, Heather moved one hand to Dale’s back, and the other arm to under his rear end.  She was holding him like a baby.

“Mommy!” Dale shrieked without entirely meaning to; though the pacifier in his mouth made it come out as “Mmmmeee!”.  Heather looked at Dale in the eye, and a faint smile crossed her lips.

“Dude!” Dale heard Jim exclaim.  Dale looked over at Jim.  Jim hadn’t seemed to notice it, but he was holding Lisa’s hand, now.  Jim’s hand was white knuckled, while Lisa barely seemed to register.

Mindy walked over to her husband and knelt down beside his prone form.

“Mindy, help!” Steve begged. “I…I…I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  Mindy ignored her husband and unsnapped a few buttons running up the legs of his feetie pajamas.  Barely able to lift his head up, Steve felt her two slender fingers slipping past the leg gathers of what was most definitely the diaper he was wearing and feel around.

“He’s wet,” Mindy actually smiled, “but I think he’ll be okay for a little while longer.”  She quickly refastened the buttons she had undone.

“Wait!” Steve panicked, “You don’t mean I…I…?” The words “I pissed myself” wouldn’t voluntarily come to Steve’s brain, but they did to Dale and Jim’s.  Both Jim and Dale watched in astonishment as Mindy, who while tall, was over a hundred and fifty pounds lighter than her husband, picked him up from the floor and cradled his massive form in her arms.

Steve’s diaper became a little wetter for the experience.

“Okay, Mommies,” Lisa proclaimed, “now that we have the stars of our party, let’s go meet the guests.”

“Guests?” All three said.

Then the three ladies began to walk.  Dale could only hold onto Heather.  Steve, big as he was might as well have been a kitten in Mindy’s arms.  And Jim try as he might, couldn’t pull away from Lisa’s grip.  He tried, briefly to dig his heels, but his feet wouldn’t listen and just kept in a leisurely pace with Lisa who was leading the way out of their spare guest room, down the hall and into the living room.

“Lisa,” he said, “what’s going on?  Why are we dressed like-?“

“Patience, big boy,” Lisa pushed a finger on his lips, which somehow shushed him.  “It’s your and your little friends’ big day.”

“Aaaaawwwww!” a series of overlapping and ear piecing cooes and squeals overwhelmed the men’s ears as they were carried and lead into the living room.  Women, close to a dozen of them, all around their age, were sitting around the family room with gift boxes in childish wrapping paper.

Jim, still being led by his wife, avoided eye contact.  The women, who all seemed to know his name kept saying “Hi” to him, and waving at him.

“Hi Jim!”

“Hi Jimmy!”

“Say Hi!”


They were smiling at Jim, but not in a way that made him feel particularly comfortable.  When he finally caved and waved back at them, causing them to cheer even more.  He felt like a trained monkey.  Like a captive animal he immediately began looking for exits and to his dismay noticed that there was an impossibly high wooden gate blocking his way to the front door.  No way was he going to be able to jump that, not with the super thick underwear crinkling between his legs and throwing off his gait.  He was the only one of his friends that could still walk, it seemed, and it was more of a waddle at present.

Dale was getting more of the same, with the requests for waving “hi”.  Instead of complying like Dale, he buried his face in Heather’s hair, nuzzling her shoulder as if it could protect him from all of these strangers.  That only made them redouble their efforts.  They started running their fingers through his hair, and patting his pack.  Some even tried to poke him or tickle him while beckoning “Look at me!”

“He’s so shy.”

“Poor little guy”

“Doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Well, they at least had that part right.

“Awww,” Heather reassured him, gently.  “It’ll be okay.”  Somehow, Dale knew that to be both true as far as Heather was concerned and a complete lie as far as he was.

Steve had his cheeks pinched, and his belly rubbed as Mindy paraded him around the living room, every woman’s hand just dying to touch him as if he held the cure for cancer.

“So cute!”

“Oh my god, so tiny!”

“Are you kidding? He’s already gotten so big!”

“Stop!” Steve demanded after the first one started tickling his chin.

“Stop!” He pleaded when a second one started working on his feet.

“Staaaa”, he broke down into whining and squirming and squealing when an entire horde descended upon him and he was unable to do anything to stop it.

“This was a great idea, Lisa,” one of the strangers said.  “Having a late baby shower for little Stevie at the same time as a birthday party for Jimmy is just perfect! Two birds with one stone” she raised a wine glass.

“And don’t forget Dale’s christening,” Heather chirped in.

“Oh, he was so cute up there in his fancy little onesie,” One of the strange women added.  “Good thing you got that off him as soon as you did, though.  Wouldn’t want him getting it all messed up crawling around on the floor.”

“Wish I could just crawl around the floor in my underwear,” one of the guests joked as she tipped back a glass.

“Didn’t that used to be your job?” another remarked. More tipsy laughter followed.
“So which gifts should we open first?” someone asked when the laughter died down.

“Oh I think we should open little Stevie’s gifts,” Mindy said, “but then I’m biased.”

“That’s a good idea,” Heather nodded while lightly bouncing Dale on her hip.”

“I agree,” Lisa said.  “Jimmy’s a big boy.  He can wait.  Besides, if we let him start opening his gifts, he’s gonna want to open everyone’s.”  All the women nodded as if sage wisdom had just been uttered from the lips of the sage herself.  Jim thought he saw a few mouth the words “Terrible Twos”.

“Do you want little Stevie to open his presents?” a guest asked.

“Oh, I don’t think he has the patience to sit in my lap while I help him unwrap everything” Mindy said.  “Why don’t we let little ones play in the pen a bit, and I’ll open the first round of gifts.”

“Agreed,” Lisa said.

Lisa led Jimmy over to an impossibly large playpen that could have been the plastic, steel, and mesh skeleton of a bounce house and put Jimmy inside it.  Jimmy waddled through the door, a door that a regular playpen would never need and turned around to view the party behind him.

“Aren’t you worried that Jimmy might be too rough with the little ones?” someone asked.

“Not really,” Heather said, lowering Dale onto the floor of the playpen with Jimmy.  “Jimmy and Dale have always gotten along so well.”

“And I know they’ll both be careful with Stevie,” Mindy added, as she laid Steve down the padded mat on the floor.

“Now let’s open some presents!”

“Dude,” Steve choked back a sob as the women began to drink more wine and unwrap presents somehow intended for the men, “the hell is going on?!”

“Vey fink..!” Dale stopped and finally spit the pacifier out of his mouth, leaving it to dangle on the clip.

“They think we’re babies or something,” Dale hissed. Dale managed to scramble to all fours and was now on his hands and knees.

“Yeah, but why?” Jim asked.  “I mean, Dale’s in a diaper, but…-”

“You’re in a diaper too, asshole!” Dale snapped.

“At least you can’t see mine right now,” Jim’s lip curled defensively.

“Really?” Dale said, “because I’m pretty sure you’ve either got a diaper on under those shorts, or you gained five pounds in the ass and are really, really happy to see me.”

“Guys!” Steve pleaded, “This isn’t a competition.  We’re all fucked.”

“Says the guy who wet his diaper,” Jim snarked.

“Jim!” Steve growled. “I can’t sit up, mother fucker!”  Both Jim and Dale had the decency to look ashamed.  “I feel like I’ve been working out for non-stop and that there are invisible weights on every major muscle in my body and that my spotter is on coffee break.  And I’ve got a giant sponge wrapped around my dick that’s getting wetter and wetter every couple of minutes.”

“Okay man,” Jim admitted.  “This isn’t a competition.  You win ‘suckiest situation’ right now.  How do we get out of this?”

“I don’t even know how we got into this,” Steve said.

“Me neither,” Jim sat down so he could look his friends in the eye.

Dale shook his head, and began to grab his pacifier to put it back in his mouth like a smoker going for a pack.  A glare from Jim and Steve made him reconsider.

“You heard what they said, right?” Steve asked from his back.  “This is a baby shower…for me.”

“And my second birthday party,” Jim added.

“And I apparently got Christened today,” Dale said.  “But we’re not babies.”

“I dunno,” Steve said.  “Diapers.  Wet.  Hard to move.  I’m kinda feelin’ the part.”  It was meant to be a kind of ironic joke to cut the tension, but inside, Steve was already beginning to despair.

“Yeah, we’re dressed the part,” Jim acknowledged, “and kinda acting the part, too.  But that shouldn’t matter.  We’re still grown-ass men”

“Yeah,” Dale agreed.  “How is Heather picking me up, then?  Fuck, how is Mindy picking up Steve?  No offense Steve.”

“None taken,” Steve replied.  “It’s pretty fuckin’ weird.”

“So this is more than just dress up,” Jim said. “But what’s going on?”

“Sounds like somebody’s hungry.”  Mindy walked over and into the play pen, interrupting their conversations.  “You hungry, little guy?”

“Little?!” Dale shouted indignantly.  “Mindy, he’s like me and Jim put together!”  He reached up to tug on her dress.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Mindy easily swatted Dale’s grasp away.  “You’ll have to get fed by your Mommy, sweetie.”
“It’s like they’re ignoring us because we can’t talk or something,” Jim said.  Predictably, Mindy didn’t respond.

Steve’s world was thrown off again as he was lifted into the air and cradled by what had until today, been his wife.  Now, Steve wasn’t quite so certain.  Soon he was separated from his lifelong friends and being taken out of the playpen.

“Let’s get some num-nums in your tum-tums,” Mindy announced.  “No cake for you. Mommy’s got all you need.”

“Do you want room on the couch?” one of Mindy’s work friends asked, preparing to give up her seat.

“No I’m fine doing it here,” Mindy said, gently settling down on the soft carpet of the living room; repositioning Steve on the floor so that his head and upper body was in her lap, and his legs sprawling on the floor.   The continued remarks of “so tiny” made it clear they weren’t seeing the same thing as he was.

“Time to eat,” Mindy said, as she popped one of her breasts out of her dress.  “Show everyone what a good little eater you are.”

Here?  Here?!  In front of everyone?  Steve trembled, helplessly as Mindy guided his mouth to her nipple.  And of their own accord, fueled by a long buried primal instinct, Steve’s lips latched on.  A small but vital part of his adult-self broke away from him with each gulp, and Steve felt the warmth of Mindy’s milk filling him and sliding down his throat, as well as a very different warmth soaking into the front of his already saturated diaper.

“Oh, Mommy,” he whispered between gulps.  Meanwhile, Mindy whispered sweet nothings to him and rubbed his back.  The two seemed, if only for a moment, completely content.

Jim and Dale watched on in silence from the play pen.  They didn’t say it, but both of them were a little jealous.  Maybe the big guy didn’t have it so bad after all.

“Mommy,” Steve gasped as he was shifted over to the other breast.  “Please.”  Whether he was about to beg for help or beg for more, only Steve knew for sure, and even he might not have known. All the while, giant “Steve size” onesies and jammies and teething rings and baby blankets were being unwrapped and shown to Mindy, who just nodded her approval while Steve kept nursing.  When he was done Mindy sat him up and started beating on his back.

Several loud belches followed in quick succession, followed by applause from the other party goers, including Dale and Jim’s wives.

“I think it’s about time for a nap for this little baby,” Mindy announced while Lisa and Heather spread out a baby blanket on the floor.  All the other women watched in awe as she delicately picked the giant baby up and laid him on the floor.  Steve seemed drunk in a haze.

“But first…” she held out her hand.  Heather brought her an already open package of Huggies, Size 1, and Mindy removed a diaper from the pack.  Jim and Dale’s jaws both hung wide open as they watched the tiny diaper, meant for infants only a few months old, at most, balloon into something that could fit their plus-sized best friend.  The Winnie the Pooh decoration on the diaper stared back at them from their spot in the playpen.

“Holy shit!” Dale shuddered.  “Did you see that, man?”

“Yeah,” Jim nodded mutely.  The world had gone mad.  “Yeah I did.”  Then he looked over to Dale and a flash of blue drew his eye down to Dale’s crotch.

“Whoah!” Jim exclaimed.

“Huh?” Dale looked down at the diaper between his legs.  The wetness indicator had turned blue.  “Whoah!” Dale echoed.  “I…I peed!”

“Yeah,” Jim said dumbly.

“When did that happen?” Dale asked.  Dale stared at his urine soaked crotch and wondered.  The wet squish down below confirmed what the wetness indicator told his eyes.  But how could he, an adult, manage to wet himself and not even notice it until someone else pointed it out to him?

“No clue,” Jim shook his head.  “No clue at all.”  Jim tentatively grabbed between his legs.  Thankfully, as far as he could tell, he was still dry.

“Mommy!” Steve mewled.  “Mommy! Nooooo!”  Jim and Dale turned their attention away from their own diapers to Steve getting his changed.

“Such a fussy little guy.”

“Oh they always hate getting their diaper changed at this age.”

Mindy placed the gigantic “Size 1” diaper down and used both hands to rip at the tapes of Steve’s all but destroyed Huggies.  Steve kicked feebly at the air as the front of his diaper was pulled down and cold wipes were drawn across his cock and balls before being deposited into the front of the soggy padding.

Mindy easily lifted his legs into the air and wiped his ass before dropping the last of the wipes into the wet diaper and kept his hips and buttocks off the ground while she slid the old diaper out and balled it up on itself with her free hand.

She only hit a snag when she reached for the fresh Huggies.  She wasn’t sure how to unfold the diaper with one hand and keep her giant baby husband’s legs in the air.
“Better hurry before he tinkles again,” one of the visitors teased.
Lisa, still nearby, unfolded the diaper for Mindy and handed it to her so she could slide it under Steve and set him down on the fresh padding.

“Pro-tip,” Lisa said, “Make sure to have the new diaper ready to go before you open up the old one.”

“Good point,” Mindy said while bringing up the diaper between a still crying Steve’s legs.  “Where’d you learn that?”  She taped one side up while he continued to bawl.

“Jimmy’s given me lots of practice,” Lisa said.  Jim and Dale were sure that she winked at Mindy.

“Oh yeah,” Mindy giggled, taping up Steve’s mammoth Huggies.  “I guess you have, haven’t you?”

“Kinda weird that those almost newborn diapers inflate to be big enough to fit Steve, isn’t it?” Jim mused.  “I mean, our diapers are probably smaller than his.”  Jim shuddered once he realized that he had referred to the infantile underwear wrapped over their loins as “our diapers”.

“Dude!” Dale said.  “That’s it!  The diapers!”

“What about them?” Jim asked.

“Steve bought Size 1, I bought Size 3, and you bought Size 5.” Dale explained.  “And that’s what we’re all wearing, and that’s how we’re being treated.  That can’t be a coincidence!

“Yeah, but why?” Jim wondered.  “Did we buy magic diapers or something?”

Mindy quickly redressed Steve, whose bawling had started to subside to whimpers now that he had a clean diaper on.  Then, without missing a beat, she began to wrap the blanket around him, first binding his legs, and then his arms.  Steve was being swaddled.  His eyelids were drooping and he was already snoring lightly by the time he was completely wrapped.

“Mind if I put him down in Jimmy’s crib?” Mindy asked Lisa.

“Oh go right ahead,” Lisa waved off Mindy’s question.

“Man,” Jim muttered after watching their best friend be swaddled and carried away to be put down for a nap.  “Steve’s done.”

“So are we if we don’t get out of here,” Dale shuddered.

“Whoooooo’s next?” Heather playfully asked as she walked up to the mesh prison.  “Dale is!”  She opened the side and held out her arms to Dale.  “Come to Momma!” Dale was never one to say no to his wife; he couldn’t resist.  Hand over hand, knees scraping against the play mat, Dale crawled to Heather.
“Heather,” Dale pleaded.  “It’s me, Dale.  Your husband.”

“That’s right,” Heather agreed with all the enthusiasm reserved for a small child.  “You are my special boy.  Now show all these nice people how you can walk.”  She held out her hands to him.

Slowly, Dale reached out to his wife and pulled himself up by the hands.  Then with unsteady steps, guided by his wife, Dale stepped forward.  Heather took a step back.  Dale stepped forward.  Heather stepped back.  Her steps looked easy and without effort.  Dale appeared to be using a great deal of concentration as wobbly legs and locked knees propelled him shakily forward.

“Jim!” Dale screeched.  “Jim!  I’m walking! I’m walking!”  Dale sounded as though it were some kind of miracles.

“Dude,” Jim called back.  “You were walking this morning! And,” he added “you weren’t wearing wet diaper, either.”  Dale frowned at that.

“Oh man,” Dale said, the blood rushing to his face.  “You’re right.  I was just so excited that I was-”

“Such a good little walker,” Heather interrupted Dale, “let’s go over to the couch and you can sit in Momma’s lap.”

“Hey!” Jim called out from the playpen.  “We’re talking here, Heather!”  Either ignoring him or not understanding him, Heather continued to lead Dale over to the couch where a spot was cleared for her and she pulled her husband into her lap.

“Oops,” Heather looked down at Dale’s diaper.  “Someone’s a little wet.”  She gave it a gentle pat as if to confirm.

“Better go change him, Heather,” one of their friends suggested.  “I read somewhere that if they get too comfortable sitting in a wet diaper they get harder to potty train.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about potty training,” Heather giggled.  “Dale’s got a long ways to go before that happens.”

“It’ll happen sooner than you think,” the friend replied.  Heather only giggled more at that and bounced Dale, squishy Huggies and all, on her knee.

“Shhhh,” Lisa walked up the playpen.  “I know you’re excited with all of your little friends, Jimmy, but Stevie just got put down for a nap and he needs his sleep.  So we need to be quiet.”

“Lisa, baby,” Jim begged.  “I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn’t right.  Let me out, please.”

“Sounds like someone is getting restless for his presents,” Mindy said as she walked back in the room.

“How is he?” Lisa cocked and eyebrow.

“Sleeping like an angel,” Mindy confirmed.

“Would you like to come out of the playpen and get some presents?”  Lisa asked Jim through the mesh wall that Jim for some reason could not traverse.  When phrased as the option between being left alone in the playpen, and being let out, Jim was inclined to go with the latter option.  Biting his tongue, Jim nodded.

“Okie dokie,” Lisa smiled. “Let’s get my birthday boy some presents.”  Now it was Jim’s turn to be lifted into the air and miraculously hoisted up onto his wife’s hip.  As they walked to their own seat on the couch, Jim felt Lisa give his padded rump a firm patting as if checking for something.  Then he watched her mouth cock to the side the way it always did when she was annoyed or frustrated.

“I didn’t know what to get Dale for a Christening,” a strange lady gave a relatively small, giftwrapped present to Heather.  “I hope it’s okay.”

“Thank you very much,” Heather smiled politely and then put it in Dale’s naked lap.  “Go on, Dale,” Heather whispered.  “Open it.  It’s yours.”

Dale looked to Jim.  Seeing no other option, Jim nodded.  It took about half a minute longer than it should have.  Dale’s hands felt much clumsier than usual, as if only his fingers were drunk, but Dale finally managed to get it open.

It was a book, or more accurately, it was shaped like a book.  It was an electronic music box that had several thick and rigid plastic pages on top, so that it resembled a book.  The writing, or title Dale supposed, was “Storybook Rhymes.”

“Oh, it’s perfect,” Heather clapped her hands.  “Go on, Dale,” she said to her baby husband.  “Open it.”
Dale opened the plastic book and in an annoyingly high pitched, sing-song voice, “I Went to the Animal Fair,” blared out of the fake book’s tiny speakers.

“I went to the Animal Fair

The Birds and the Beasts were there

The old baboon by the light of the Moon

Was combing his auburn hair!”

Dale turned another page, and “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” played.  Then when he turned the page back, “I Went to the Animal Fair” started playing again, only to cut itself off as Dale started to lift and set down the page experimentally.

“I went to the-

I went to the-

I went-

I –

I went to the-

I went to –

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider crawled up the-

I went to the Animal Fair.”

“Hey Jim, look!” Dale looked up from his new toy, “Remix!”  Heather giggled at her baby husband’s cleverness.  The others laughed and clapped, happy that the baby was entertained by the simple little toy.  Both Mindy and Lisa nodded approvingly at Heather.  It was only the shock on Jim’s face that snapped Dale out of his excitement.

“Oh shit…” Dale gasped as the toy dropped from his fingers and onto the floor.

“Let’s give Jim a present,” Lisa suggested, bouncing Jim on her hip.

“Here you go, big boy” the work friend who had suggested that Dale’s diaper be changed post haste to promote potty training presented Jim a box.  “This is for you.”

A box was pushed in front of Jim, and it was big, too, at least compared to the baby music box book that Dale had opened.

“Go on honey,” Lisa said, lowering Jim to the floor.  “Open it.”

Much like Dale, Jim’s fingers were clumsy and really only good for opening and closing.  It took a bit, but Jim managed to rip off most of the paper by himself.  The sound of the ripping paper masking the crinkle that came with every step he took.

It was a child’s potty, like the kind that a two or three year old- the kind of kid that everyone seemed to think Jim was- would use during potty training.  Jim frowned at the gift.  He reached into the box and pulled it up to his chest, hoping that maybe the thing would engorge in his hands in the same way that Steve’s tiny Size 1 diapers seemed to grow to fit him.  No such luck.

The thing might have been the right size for a proper toddler, but if Jim sat on it, he estimated, his knees would be up to his chest and his dick would be scraping the bottom.  The giant pair of Huggies he was wearing wouldn’t even fit into the bowl all the way.  He literally had more room and privacy to relieve himself in his pants than in this tiny little thing.

And furthermore, he thought what kind of person gave a two year old a potty on their birthday?  That was like giving his Mommy…Lisa…it was like giving Lisa a vacuum cleaner for Mother’s Day.  Jim felt a pang of jealousy.  It was only after he felt it did he realize that maybe it wasn’t good to be jealous that your friend got a baby toy and you got a pot to piss in.  Really, the problem was that they shouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.

“For potty training,” the work friend said.  “He’s two, so it’s about time.”

Mindy was snickering about something and whispered to Heather, who snickered back.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Lisa smiled insincerely.  “This is very nice, but I don’t think Jim’s quite ready yet.  Thank you, though.”

“Oh, well,” the lady friend shrugged.  “He can use it when he’s ready.”

There was a bit of an awkward silence.  Then Lisa brightened up and announced, “Let’s get the boys some cake!”  Everyone seemed excited by that.

Once again, Jim and Dale, both full grown men as far as they could tell, were manhandled and transported into the kitchen.  A surprisingly large highchair and an adult sized booster seat awaited Dale and Jim respectively.

Before the tray was clicked in place, Mindy and Heather yanked the shirt off of Dale’s chest, leaving him only in his wet diaper.  Dale himself wasn’t completely sure, but he had the sinking feeling that the blue line on his crotch had suddenly spread a little more.

“Here you go, honey,” Heather said playfully.  “Eat your cake.  Make it all gone.”

Lisa lovingly, and expertly tied a bib around Jim’s neck.  “Try not to make a mess, big boy,” she told Jim, before putting a plastic fork in his hand.  Each of them had a piece of cake slid in front of them.

Jim and Dale looked down at the cake in front of them.  Dale looked at the cake with temptation.  Jim with disgust.  There was no way he was going to give in to this.  Dale was another story.

“Dude,” Jim said, looking at his friend.  “Don’t.”

“But…” Dale said, his lip trembling.  “It’s cake.  It’s chocolate cake.”

“That’s what they want you to do.” Jim warned.

“Yeah, I know that’s what my mommy wants.  She told me,” Dale sighed, sounding defeated.

“Dale,” Jim gasped.  “Heather isn’t your mommy.  She’s your wife.”

“Can’t she be both?” Dale asked, a mixture of denial and hope hidden in his tone.

“No.” Jim said flatly.

“Dude,” Dale said.  “I’m already naked.  I’m in a highchair.  I’m wearing a wet diaper from a pack that I bought this morning, and if I’m being honest, it’s actually kind of comfy, even if it is wet.”  Dale blushed at the admission.  “Like, I might not know or care if it wasn’t for the wetness indicator.”

“Nobody but you and me knows or cares that I’m not a baby and that Heather’s not my Mommy,” Dale went on.  “The only way I’m getting out of this diaper is if Heather- I mean, my Mommy,” a single tear rolled down Dale’s cheek at the correction, “changes me into a new one. I might as well eat cake while I’m at it.”

Dale took one hand and made a ham handed fist, crushing the cake between his fingers.  Then, without breaking eye contact, he shoved a fistful of the stuff into his mouth, smearing it all over his hands and lips and face.  Then, still chewing, Dale went for another and ate it in much the same way.  Then another.  Then another.

“Look at him go,” came the cooing cat calls.  “Loves that cake!”

Jim watched in a combination of disgust and horror.  His friend had given up and accepted this bizarre reality that saw them all as toddlers and younger.  And the final straw had been a toy and some cake of all things.  At least Steve lost himself to his wife’s titties, Jim could sympathize with that.

Soon enough, Dale had demolished the cake and even gone so far as to wipe the frosting and crumbs on his bare chest.

“Uh oh,” Heather chuckled.  “Looks like Dale got more cake on him than in him.  I’m glad you enjoyed it sweetie.”  She pinched Dale’s cheek and Dale giggled sheepishly, throwing his frosting covered hands over his face.  “Such a cutie!  Yes he is!  Yes he is!  He’s Momma’s little cutie!”

Jim was entranced by this exchange, as if he were witnessing a car wreck.

Was Dale getting an erection?

“Any chance I can put Dale in the tub, Lisa?” Heather asked.  “I think it’ll be a lot easier to clean him up, that way.”

“Of course,” Lisa said.  “Go take care of what you need.”
Heather walked back to the living room briefly to grab a Huggies, Size 3  from the pack that was laying in the living room with the rest of the presents.  Jim watched again as the diaper ballooned from “Huggies, Size 3” to “Huggies Size Dale” as she walked back into the kitchen and removed the Dale’s highchair tray.

Jim sat in the booster seat at the kitchen table, staring sullenly at the untouched piece of chocolate cake as Dale was carried away on his Mommy wife’s hip to be bathed and changed into a fresh diaper.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” Lisa asked.  “Don’t you want some birthday cake?”  Jim shook his head.

“Oh come on, baby boy,” Lisa cooed, “Just take a little bite.  You’ll love it.  I promise.”  Again, Jim shook his head.

“Pleeeeease,” Lisa asked.  Jim remained stone faced.

“You’re a little old for this,” Lisa said, snatching the fork away from Jim, “but let’s see if you still like this game.”  She dug in with the cake and brought a piece of it up to Jim’s lips.  “Here comes the choo-choo train!  Chugga-chugga-chugga-”

“Get that away from me!” Jim slapped the fork out of Lisa’s hand.

“Terrible twos,” Jim heard go around the room in not-so-hushed laughter and whispers.

“Okay,” Lisa said, unbuckling Jim from his booster seat.  “If the birthday boy doesn’t want cake, he doesn’t have to eat cake.  Let’s go

“No!” Jim said defiantly.  “This is way too messed up, Lisa.  I’m an adult.  I’m not a baby!  I don’t need diapers.  I don’t need cribs!  I definitely don’t need this birthday party.”

“Oh honey,” Lisa smiled.  “I know you think you’re a big boy, but don’t be in such a rush to grow up. You’ll always be my baby.”

Jim’s face was hot with anger.

“I am not a baby!” he stomped.  “I’m not!  Stevie isn’t a baby!  He’s an adult!  Dale’s not a baby!  He’s a grown-up!  And I’m definitely not a baby!  I’m a big…” Jimmy stopped and grabbed at his tummy.  “I’m a big…” something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite articulate.  He was looking at Lisa, but and was ready to scream, but then he just sort of stared off into the middle distance.  His mind was furious but his body needed to take care of something, so he did what came naturally.  “I’m a big…” Jimmy went quiet until the need had passed.

“….boy.”  He finished.  The women were giggling.  Why were they giggling?  What had he done?

Lisa walked around Jim, and peered down the back of his pants again.  He shuddered a little bit when she reached around him from behind and gave the front of his diaper a little squeeze for good measure.  Jim didn’t hear the crinkle this time as much as he felt the muted squishing all around him.
“Yup,” Lisa smiled as she walked back around.  It was a contented smile; a satisfied smile.  Not typically the expression of a mother who just found out her toddler needed a fresh diaper.  “Finally,” she whispered.  “It’s done.”

“So much for potty training,” Mindy laughed.  “Not today.  Not today.”

“Come on, big boy,” Lisa smirked.  “Let’s go change your diaper.”  Jimmy took Lisa’s hand and together they walked, Lisa smoothly, Jimmy, waddling and bowlegged the entire way, flinching with every step towards the nursery where he had woken up in diapers earlier today.

“Shhhhh,” Lisa hushed Jimmy as they went inside.  “Let’s not wake Stevie.  He’s napping in your crib.”
Jimmy nodded, feeling a knot in his throat.  He didn’t want Stevie to see him like this.  He’d have to be good and quiet while Mommy…while Lisa changed his diaper for him.  There was no way he’d have the will to do it himself.

He flinched as Lisa pulled his pants down to his ankles and then picked him up and positioned him on the concave changing mat on top of his dresser.  So much was coming back to him now, as if he had always been two
“The hell is going on?”  Jimmy asked himself while looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m changing your diaper, sweetie” Lisa answered as she undid the tapes on his Huggies, Size 5, and pulled down the front.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”  Jimmy flinched as his legs went towards the ceiling and Lisa began wiping him down.

“Used to it?” Jimmy asked, his voice still a whisper.

“Soon it’ll be like you were never potty trained at all.” Lisa confirmed sliding the used diaper out from under Jimmy.  She balled it up and threw it away, before reaching under the changing table and producing a new Huggies, Size 5, complete with a portrait of Mickey and Minnie Mouse on the front and a big smiling Mickey- now solo- on the back.

With a flick of her wrist, she unfolded the diaper before it magnified itself to fit Jim’s decidedly adult frame and slid it under him.

“Never potty trained?” Jimmy asked.  Why was Mommy talking like this?  It was like she knew.  She knew!

“You can understand me?!” Jimmy asked, confused why his wife would be diapering him if she knew and recognized that he was a full grown adult.

“Yes, baby,” Mommy said dipping her fingers into a small jar of white goo.  “Now hold still.”

Jimmy couldn’t help but as Mommy began to smear and knead diaper cream into his bum and private parts.  Mommy gave him a look telling him to be quiet lest he wake Stevie in the crib and Jim moaned into his thumb while Mommy finished her work and reached for the baby powder.

“You’re still my baby, but I can make diaper changes very fun for you.” Mommy whispered.  Jimmy’s pee-pee felt funny and began to swell while Mommy rubbed in the baby powder.

Jim shook the cobwebs out of his head as Lisa began to pull the front of the diaper up and secure it around his waist.

“How are you doing this?” he asked her.

“That’s not important for babies to know,” Lisa said sweetly.  “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then why?” Jim asked, on the verge of whining.

“Well,” Lisa seemed to think for a moment, choosing her wording carefully.  “I love you,” she whispered.  “Just not as a lover. Same for the other girls.”

“While you’ve been hanging out with your little friends,” Lisa said, “we’ve been talking.  We all married you because we were attracted to your boyish charms, despite…or maybe because of how immature you all were with your ‘dudes’ and ‘bros’ and drinking and late nights.  But we thought you’d grow out of it.  You didn’t.  We thought we could change you.  We couldn’t.” She chuckled darkly at that. “But we all realized we liked taking care of you.  We liked being needed.”

“But now,” her tone brightened, “we can change you.  We get to take care of you.  We get to love you.  And you don’t have to ever really grow up!  Everybody wins.”

“But…but…but…” Jim meekly argued from his spot on the changing pad.

“No ‘buts’, baby boy.  This is for the best,” Lisa said.  “You’ll see.”

“You bitch…” the words came right out of Jim’s mouth without thinking.  It was the last part of his adult-self, his raging angry manhood attempting to assert itself. How dare she do this to them?  How dare she?!

In the blink of an eye Jimmy found himself across his Mommy’s knee, pants still around his ankles, being spanked like there was no tomorrow.  Jimmy’s wailing woke Stevie from his nap and Stevie’s whining mewls blended with Jimmy’s cries of pain.  Mindy ran in to see what was going on.  She gave Jimmy just a passing glance before picking up Stevie and shushing him before starting to change his diaper, now wet again.

Heather came in with a freshly cleaned Dale from the bathroom.  He was naked save for the clean diaper he’d been put in and the fluffy white bath towel wrapped around.

“He got fresh?” Heather asked.

“Oh yeah,” Lisa said in between spanks.

“Should have gone younger,” Mindy said in the midst of wiping Stevie.

“No, Jim was most like a two year old to begin with.” Lisa said.  “This was more appropriate.”

“Fair enough,” Heather conceded.  She turned her attention to Dale, “Just don’t pick up any bad habits from Jimmy, okay honey?”  Dale nodded goofily.

Meanwhile, crying, whining, snot bubbling out of his nose, Jimmy didn’t know how this had happened to him but he did know the truth:  That just like his friends, he was a baby.  He might have been a big one, but he was still a baby.  And he’d be a baby for as long as Mommy said so and that was that.  Only now, he promised himself, he was going to be a good baby.

“Oh, I like Stevie this way,” she said, now that her baby husband was changed and had once again latched onto a breast.  “You have no ideas how close I feel to him right now.”

“I’m quite happy with my little snuggle bug,” Heather petted Dale.

“Girls,” Lisa said, ending the spanking and pulling up Jimmy’s pants.  She pulled him up to a sitting position and gave her baby husband a kiss on the cheek.  “We all win.  After all, this isn’t a competition.”

The End
It's Not A Competition (Part 2)
A request done for  Originally published as one piece, limitations on this site have made me post it as 2.


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It’s Not a Competition

Jim wandered down the baby supplies aisle, past the diapers, wipes, food, and formula.  Where were the toys?  True, he had seen some stuff in the toy section of the store, but he wasn’t about to spend that kind of money on something some kid would forget about in a month and never remember.

He briefly thought about the pet aisle and wondered if a two year old would know the difference between a dog toy and a kid’s toy.  More importantly, would the kid’s mom know?

“Jim?” a familiar voice called out.  Jim turned his head and at the other end of the aisle was a short and spindly man with scraggly hair and tuft of chin hair that belonged on a mystery solving stoner with a talking dog.

“Dale?”  Jim called back.

“Jim!”  Dale called back.



The two ran and hugged each other, as if they were long lost war buddies who thought the other hadn’t made it home.  It hadn’t even been a week since they’d last seen each other.  Their hug broke down into raucous laughter as they slapped each other on the back.  Their own “bromance” had become a self-sustaining joke long ago.

“One day I hope you love me like that,” Lisa would often quip to Jim when he went out for a night on the town with his friends.”

“Dude,” Jim said, “fancy seeing you here.”

“I know, right?” Dale agreed.  “What are you up –?”

“Dale?  Jim?” A third voice rang out.  Dale and Jim looked and saw him.  He was half a head taller than either of them, but weighed almost as much as the two of them combined. He had the gut to prove it and the complete lack of facial hair to hide his multiple chins didn’t have a slimming effect either.

“STEEEEEEVE!”  Jim and Dale shouted out in unison.  And once again, the ritual repeated itself, this time in a massive group hug with Steve purposefully trying to bear hug and squeeze the air out of his friends.

This is how it had always been for the three of them, or at least that’s how it felt.  They had met years ago in middle school, bonded, and had never really looked back.  They had managed to be roommates back in college, traveled the world a bit in their mid-twenties, and were even each other’s best men (yes, plural), at their respective weddings. Even now with jobs and wives and responsibilities, they managed to meet for drinks at least once a week.

“So, no joke, what are you guys doing here?” Jim asked.

“Mindy sent me to get some diapers,” Steve shrugged.  Jim and Dale exchanged looks.

“Dude…” Dale said.  “Like, are you…?” he let the question hang in the air.

“What?!” Steve frowned, “No! God no!  We’re not pregnant…”

“Pregnant?” Jim smirked.  “I was gonna ask if you were pissing yourself or something.  But if that’s the case,” he gave Steve’s belly a playful poke, “you might want to go down an aisle or two.  I don’t think any of this stuff will fit you.”  Jim was rewarded for his sophomoric humor with Steven’s big meaty hand smacking him on the head just hard enough to remind him that Steve could hit like a truck when he wanted to.  It had been well over a decade since Steve had been a linebacker for the high school football team, but that didn’t mean he didn’t remember how to ring someone’s bell.

“Worth it,” Jim said as he instinctively rubbed the back of his head.

“But yeah,” Steve ignored Jim, “Mindy’s dragging me to a baby shower this afternoon.  Figured diapers were a safe bet for a present.”

“Heh,” Dale said, “thought you’d already won the dad race or something.”

“Nah,” Steve shook his head.  “Nothing like that.”

“You sure?” Jim asked.  “You know the lady?  What if this baby shower is how you find out that you’ve won?”

“If you can call that winning,” Dale added. “Congratulations, dude, you win eighteen years of responsibility!”

This was another curious quirk of their relationship; most everything was framed as a competition of some sort.  Who could drink more, who could eat more, who could stay up watching bad movies longer, who had the highest paying job, who had the nicest house; they were always friendly competitions, but they were competitions all the same.
“No, I’m pretty sure this isn’t how I find out,” Steve replied.  “Pregnant women don’t go buying more tampons three days ago.”  That elicited an immature shudder of revulsion from all three of them.  “’Sides,” Steve added, “I don’t need to win the Dad race.  I already beat you guys in the marriage race.”

“Which is bullshit,” Jim countered, still grinning, “because I beat you in the getting engaged race.”

“By a week,” Steve replied. “It’s not my fault that Mindy and I got our wedding planned and booked before you and Lisa.”

“Pffft,” Jim scoffed, “As if you had anything to do with the planning.”

“Hey, I helped!” Steve said, seeming somewhat offended.  Jim crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side in a smug expression.

“Uh-huh,” Jim said.  “and when I was a kid I used to ‘help’ my mom lick the cake batter out of the bowl.  I was a real helper, same as you.”  Steve’s nose started to crinkle up into a snarl, one of the few signs that he was getting truly angry.

“Guys, guys, guys,”  Dale interjected.  “I think you’re both missing the point.  I won the competition for hottest wife.”  Dale smiled wide and toothy.  Both Jim and Steve’s demeanor’s instantly softened.  They looked at each other, then at Dale, then back to each other.

“Really, dude?” Jim snorted derisively.  “You think Heather is hotter than either Lisa or Mindy?”

“Uh…yeah?” Dale said.  Now it was his turn to get defensive.

“I mean, she’s okay…I guess…” Steve shrugged. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean ‘that sort of thing’?!” Dale huffed.

“No, no, no, no,” Jim bit his lower lip in an attempt to hide a shit eating grin.  Dale’s buttons were so easy to push sometimes.  “Heather is a really nice, cool person….” And he let the phrase just hang in the air.

“But…?” Dale pressed, his toes curling in his sandals.
“Huh?” Jim pretended to not understand. “Nothing.  She’s just a really nice and cool person.”

“Hey, little buddy,” Steve placed his hand condescendingly on Dale’s shoulder, “the important thing is that she’s attractive to you.”

“Oh you sons of…!” Dale puffed.  He swatted away Steve’s hand.  He wasn’t truly angry; not really, he knew a rib when he heard one, but it was still frustrating when you couldn’t think of a good comeback.

“Heeeeeeey!” Jim exaggerated, “That’s too far, Steve.  Way too far!  All of our wives are attractive.” He turned to Dale.  “Dale, I swear to you that if Lisa ever dies before me, I’ll have sex with Heather; right in front of you if you want, just so you know I’m telling the truth.”

There was an intense silence as the three stared each other down.  Then, they all burst into raucous laughter and the tension evaporated from the baby aisle in an instant.

“There is no good way out of this, guys,” Jim laughed into his hand, “so let’s just awkwardly change the subject.”

“Yeah, there was no way to win that,” Dale agreed.  “It’s not a competition.”

“So yeah,” Steve chuckled into a sigh, “last minute baby shower gift.  What are you jackasses doing here?”

“Two year old birthday party,” Jim answered.  “One of Lisa’s work friends got invited and I’m being dragged along.  Looking for a toy,” he added.

“Weeeeeird…!” Dale said. “Heather talked me into going to this christening for some work friend of hers.  We’re not even religious.”

“Why is that weird?” Steve asked.

“All three of our wives are having us do baby stuff today,” Dale said.  “That’s kind of a weird coincidence, don’tcha think?”

“Dude,” Steve said, “Our wives are getting the fever…”

“Ugh,” Dale groaned, “we might all win that ‘Who’s a dad’ competition at the same time.”

“Dude, it’s not a competition,” Jim said.  “Besides, Lisa’s not getting the fever today.  I practically guarantee it.”

“Why not?” his friends asked.

“You want a woman to get baby fever,” Jim explained, “you take them to a baby shower, or a christening, or something like that.  When the kid is still crawling and cute and cuddly or not born, it seems so romantic.”

“Uh-huh,” Dale and Steve nodded, thinking about their own not so distant futures.

“But if you want to turn a lady off of having kids,” Jim continued, “have them hang around a bunch of toddlers. The whining, the crying, the snot, they can’t make up their damn minds; complete turn off.”

“Okay then,” Dale said.  “Then you mean you’re not getting laid tonight.”

“What?!” Jim said.

“They get the baby fever,” Dale said, “they want to make babies.  You know where babies come from, right Jim?”

“Do you want me to tell him?” Steve nudged Dale.

“No,” Dale joked, “that’s not our place.  But you and Lisa need to have a long talk when you get home.  Talk.  But no sex.”

“Whoa,” Jim said.  “I’m totally getting laid tonight.  I’m so smooth, Lisa won’t be able to resist, AND she won’t want kids yet. Just you guys watch.”

“What is it with him and watching today?” Steve said.

“Ha-ha.” Jim shook his head.  “Well I got a party to get to,” he reached for a pack of Huggies, size 5.  “See you guys later.”

“Whoah!” Dale said.  “What are you doing, man?”

“I’m getting my present for the party,” Jim cocked an eyebrow.  “Why?”

“Dude,” Steve said, “that works for a baby shower, but that kid already has diapers.”

“Besides,” Dale added, “don’t kids start potty training at two?  Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to get a potty or something?  At least some Pull-Ups?”

“Well he’s gonna need more,” Jim defended his decision.  “And it’s not like they’re gonna start potty training right at the birthday party.  Most kids are closer to three when they start training.”

“Fair,” Steve shrugged, grabbing his own package of Huggies, size 1, for the baby shower.

“And isn’t giving a two year old a potty a little bit like giving the kid homework or like giving your wife a vacuum cleaner?”  Jim didn’t really care or believe what he was saying, he just liked arguing and wanted to win.  Sometimes it was a competition.  “Happy Birthday, kid!” Jim mocked, “Now here’s a chore for you.”

“Point taken,” Dale said reaching for his own gift package of Huggies, size 3.  He looked at the duo of his friends, now staring at him like he was the biggest hypocrite on earth.

“Really?” Steve and Jim both asked.

“Hey,” Dale said, “it’s not like I know what to get a kid for a christening, either.  Might as well go for the safe bet.”

And so each one took their package of Huggies and went home, diapers in tow to their waiting wives.  But as each man stepped across the threshold of their home, their world went black…
It's Not A Competition (Part 1)
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Text limitations made me split this into multiple parts, even though it was published as only one before.


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“So you’re serious about this?”  Jack asked as he pulled the baggy sweat pants over his diaper. The robot nanny had brought out a baggy t-shirt, sweat pants, socks, and tennis shoes, all on Jamie’s command.  They were a little dumpy looking, but they were probably the only thing that could fit over the bulk of Jack’s diaper while managing to somewhat conceal it.   Jack shuddered at the idea that he had just mentally labeled it his diaper.  That had to be more of the nanites that had rewired his brain. Had to be.

“Well,” Jamie snorted a bit, blushing her blonde hair to the side, “I wouldn’t say serious.  Serious implies that I have something to lose in this.  But if my new baby boy wants to play big kid for a day, I’ll let him.”  She leaned in and tickled Jack under the chin.  Jack felt himself “hmm” a little bit from her caress, but then made himself recoil from her touch.  He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this!

“Look, Miss Vasquez,”  Jack said, taking a plain blue t-shirt- baby blue, he realized- and pulling it over his head, “I can’t go to the police or tell people what you’ve done to me; you’ve made that much clear.  But I am leaving, and I’m not coming back.”

“D’awwww,” Jamie grinned,  “He called me ‘Mommy’.”

“I’m serious,” Jack said, feeling indignant.  Why wasn’t she taking him seriously?

“I know,” Jamie chuckled, “and that’s what’s so cute about it.  You’re like a two year old telling me you’re running away from home and going out to live in the backyard forever.”

“That’s…that’s” Jack stuttered, “that’s not what it’s like at all!”  This mad woman was gaslighting him.  Worse yet, she was trying to trick him into staying, she had to be.

“Of course not,” Jamie cooed insincerely.  “You’re a big boy. But just so you know, Mommy will be here, ready to take care of you while you go camping under the slide.”

Jack said nothing, but instead sat down on the ground so he could pull on the socks and shoes that had been presented to him.  He gave a final indignant sigh when he noticed that the shoes were Velcro instead of laced.

“Don’t want my little baby tripping over his shoe laces,” Jamie said when she noticed Jack’s annoyance.
Jack stood up, choosing instead to say nothing, afraid of how his mouth might betray him now that the language centers of his brain had been tampered with.

“Just remember,” Jamie said slowly, almost seductively, “it can be really bad out there.  But in here, with me, with your Mommy, it can be really, really good.”

Disgusted with the insane woman in front of him, Jack turned around in a pivot and did his best to storm out of the posh office.  However, the waddling from the bulk between his legs and the soft crinkling coming from his rear end greatly diminished the effect.

“Oh Jack-Jack!” Jamie called after him.  Jack stopped, his lip curling in disgust and the hairs on his neck standing on edge.  “Don’t you want your wallet, baby boy?”

Jack looked back over his shoulder and saw Jamie dangling the wallet between her thumb and forefinger like it was a treat for a lapdog who’d done a fairly amusing trick.  Now all he had to do was beg.

“I managed to save it from your little accident, earlier,” Jamie smirked.  “Good thing you didn’t have a more serious accident, baby boy, or else this would be ruined.”  Jack half-snarled as he made himself turn around and waddle back to Jamie.

“Don’t worry though,” she added as he re-closed the distance between them, “you’ve got your diaper back on, so you should be fine.”  That part, in particular, struck a nerve with Jack.  ‘You’ve got your diaper back on…’   The way she phrased that was so insidious, so venomous, so condescending.  The statement’s purpose, Jack knew immediately, was to imply that Jack had worn the giant diapers his employer had foisted on him before today.  It was as if he wasn’t a grown man, but some naughty toddler who had decided he’d been ready for potty training, even though he clearly wasn’t.    She was gaslighting him, all right, and he was done putting up with it.
Jack’s stomped up to his tormentor and looked her dead in the eye.  Jamie didn’t blink.  Jamie didn’t look away.  Jamie was in no way intimidated by him.  And why should she be?  He was the one who a short time ago had just pissed himself and watched helplessly as he was stripped, diapered, paraded through a gaggle of women, pissed himself again, force fed mush in a wet diaper, and then have his body hair removed and his diaper changed; all because of a woman who had taken a perverse interest in him yesterday.

Jack imagined what she might do to him tomorrow.
He swiped through the air and snatched the wallet from Jamie’s fingertips before shoving it angrily into the pocket of his baggy pants.

“We’re going to have to do something about that,” Jamie said seriously.  “Otherwise Mommy isn’t going to be able to take you shopping without worrying about you snatching things off the shelves.”  Jack did the smart thing and chose not to engage her.  She was trying to make him mad; she was trying to justify to herself and to him that he should be treated this way.

Jack turned around, again, and moved to leave, but as he did, he felt the back of his waistband being pulled back.  He stopped and looked around to find Jamie peaking down the back of his diaper.

“Just checking.” Jamie said.  “You’re good.  Go play, baby.”   She let the waist band snap back into place, before giving Jack a pat on the butt.  Something inside Jack snapped right then.

Without saying a word, Jack reached down the front of his pants and grabbed hold of the tapes holding the scaled-up Pampers around his waist.  The tapes ripped open with a flick of his wrists, and then with the slightest repositioning of his hands he grabbed the front of the diaper and yanked up, pulling it out of his pants and sending it wafting into the air above his head.  Jack knew this was a bad idea.  He’d just experienced first hand that Jamie could make him pee his pants whenever she wanted.  He was likely incontinent.  But right now it was the principle of the matter.

Jamie didn’t gasp as the diaper, still thankfully dry, sailed through the air.  She didn’t laugh as it fluttered down to the ground.  She didn’t yell.  Instead, in a tone much less playful and infinitely more clinical, she said six words:  “You’re going to need that diaper.”

“Maybe,” Jack managed to say.  He couldn’t think of anything else to say; nothing witty, nothing threatening.  He just wasn’t going to give that bitch the satisfaction of the last word. He didn’t look back again as he walked once more towards the elevator, now no longer waddling or crinkling.

As the doors to the elevator closed behind him, he heard Jamie call back, “Bye baby boy! See you soo-”

Damn it. So much for the last word.

“MiSs VaSqUeZ,” Nanny buzzed.  “ArE yOu SuRe ThIs iS a WiSe CoUrSe Of AcTiOn?”  The robot rarely offered much in the way of counsel or conversation, especially when it didn’t involve the direct care of Jamie’s big little ones; so this was a bit odd.  Then again, according to its programming Jamie had just done the equivalent of sending a child out to play in traffic. So perhaps it wasn’t that odd after all.

Jamie re-punched some calculations into the almost comically tiny little tablet in her hand, before looking back at the droid.  A pleasant ping came back in response.

“There is an infinitesimally small chance that this little outing of his will backfire on me.” Jamie said.  “There’s virtually no risk.  I have a higher chance of being bitten by a shark who’s won the lottery while being simultaneously struck by lightning.”

“AnD tHe BaBy?” Nanny asked.

“He’ll be fine,” Jamie assured her humanoid appliance as much as herself.  “He’ll be back by tomorrow.”

“YoU dIdN’t Do ThIs WiTh ThE oThErS,” Nanny beeped.

“No,” Jamie sighed to herself, “I didn’t.  But they didn’t work out, did they?  And you know what they say about doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.”

“FiLe NoT fOuNd,” Nanny droned in reply.

“Oh,” Jamie shrugged.  “I guess you don’t, then. Point is, it’s madness.  Scientifically and statistically speaking, I have to try something else if I expect this to work.”

“ThEy LoVeD yOu,” Nanny stated.  It was not suggestion, it was fact.  “ObJeCtIvE cOmPlEtE.”

As much as any broken man baby could.  Jamie rolled her eyes.

“Love and care is your primary objective, Nanny.  Not mine.”

“PlEaSe StAtE oBjEcTiVe,” Nanny responded.

“Nanny,” Jamie groaned, “just shut yourself off until the baby comes back or until I have need of you again.”  She’d grown tired of the artificial “intelligence”.

“YeS, mIsS vAsQuEz.”

“Come on,” Jack whispered to himself as the elevator slowly descended.  “Come on!”

The elevator dinged and came to a stop, but it wasn’t at the ground floor.  As fate would have it, Marty walked in, beard first, as usual.  He came in and stood next to Jack, absentmindedly before doing a double-take and gasping in surprise.


“Hey,” Jack said, nervously.  If it hadn’t been whatever Jamie had spiked his food with making him unable to properly tell anyone what had happened to him, the almost crippling embarrassment he felt would have silenced him anyways.

“Dude!” Marty exclaimed.  “You look…different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”  Jack shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet, grateful in that moment that he didn’t have a giant diaper on that crinkled with every move he made.

“Yeah,” was all Jack said.  He looked over at his coworker.  The look in Marty’s eyes made it clear he was expecting more of an explanation.  “New job,”  Jack said after an uncomfortable silence.  Couldn’t this metal box move any faster?

“Yeah,” Marty nodded, smiling.  “I heard all about it.  Sweet gig, bro.”  Heard all about it?  Heard all about it?!  Either Marty had actually heard all about it, and was subtly weedling Jack under orders- he wouldn’t put such things past Jamie-or he knew nothing about Jack’s new “job” and was only unintentionally tormenting him.  The worst part was Jack couldn’t be sure which was going on.

“I’ve got some good news of my own,” Marty prattled on, oblivious to Jack’s discomfort.  “While you’re living the sweet life in product testing and reviewing, Shelly from HR just told me, I’ve been given all of your clients.  It’s more responsibility and a bigger workload, but it’s more money for me too.  So it looks like we both made out thanks to your little promotion.”

“Uh-huh.”  Jack said.  He stared at the numbers going down.  Too slow…too slow…

“So,” Marty leaned in, conspiratorially .  “Got any good stories, yet?”

“Huh?” Jack asked.

“Come on, man.  You’re working side-by-side with the genius hottie herself,” Marty playfully elbowed Jack in the ribs.  “What cool shit are you trying out?  What’s coming down the pipeline to market?”

“I…uh…” Jack fidgeted nervously.  “I can’t say.”

“Non-disclosure agreement,” Marty sagely nodded.  “I understand.”  He really didn’t.

“So,” Marty said.  “What’s she like, anyways?”

“Jaime?” Jack said – or at least thought he said.

“Mommy!”  Marty barked out a laugh.  “Dude! I didn’t know you were that close already.”  Jack bit his tongue, angry at himself.  Stupid! Fucking stupid!

“I know it’s a sweet job,” Marty guffawed, “but tell me you didn’t call her that to her face.  Chick that young? That hot?  Being called “Mommy” would not be the way to go if you wanted into her good graces.”  That decided it: Marty had no idea what Jack was going through.

Jack suddenly felt a slight twinge in his bladder and cast his eyes downward, in horror.

You’re going to need that diaper.  
Jack braced himself, ready for the yellow stream to just gush out of him and begin trickling down his legs.  Surely, he was incontinent. Obviously, the dam inside of him was about to break loose and he’s piss himself uncontrollably in front of his coworker and friend. Yet, somehow, nothing happened.  He still felt like he had to pee a little bit, but nothing more than “that soda went right through me”.  For the moment anyway, Jack felt very much in control.

The elevator slowed to a stop, dinged, and the doors slid open.  Marty moved to get out, but then stopped himself.

“After you,” he motioned out into the receiving area for “Sales”

“I’m going to the ground floor,” Jack said unsteadily.  “Lunch break,” he added.

“Oh!” Marty said.  “I thought you were coming to clean out your desk or something.”

“I’m sure somebody else is coming for that,” Jack half-lied.  “You can raid it first for anything you might want.”

“Dang, the perks you must get.” Marty shook his head.  “Okay, see you man.”

“See ya.”

The doors slid closed again, and Jack took a white knuckled ride all the way down to the bottom floor.  He kept staring at his crotch, wondering he would suddenly pee himself.

You’re going to need that diaper.

He had to be incontinent on some level.  That was the only reason to explain why he had peed himself while being wheeled around in that giant stroller.  There was no other reasonable explanation.

Maybe it was a command phrase.  The deliberateness of how Jamie had said “Mommy wuvs it when her widdle baby wears his diaper,” had to be a command phrase.  As soon as the words “Mommy wuvs it when her widdle baby…” came out of her mouth Jack was sure his body would react and obey the next direction.

But then again, how likely would it be for anyone else to use that phrase and make Jack pee his pants?

You’re going to need that diaper.

That, in of itself might have been a command phrase to his reprogrammed brain.  Perhaps a time release of some sort.

Jack stared again at his crotch, expecting his bladder to let loose as the elevator doors slid open.  Still, nothing.  Jack sighed, bitterly, and walked out into the lobby and then rushed out into the busy city streets.

He was going to wet his pants again, likely at an embarrassing moment that would cement his adult infancy in his mind so that he’d come crawling (perhaps literally) to Jamie.  The Sword of Damocles was hanging over his head; of that Jack had no doubt. Now if only he could figure out where the scissors were so he might be able to dodge it.

As he hailed a cab to take him home, Jack felt yet another ache coming from his bladder.  God, why was this happening?  Did he really have to pee that bad or was the anticipation of having to pee just making things seem that much worse?

A yellow car pulled up and Jack opened the door and got in the back seat.

“Where to?”  A man with a foreign sounding accent in the front of the cab asked.

“Co-op City,”  Jack told him.  Jack leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

You’re going to need that diaper.

“And where is that, sir?”  The cab driver asked.  Great, a cab driver who didn’t know directions.

“The Bronx,” Jack sighed, not even opening his eyes.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, sir.”  The driver replied in a measured and calm tone reserved for when customers were being particularly difficult or obtuse.

“You want directions?”  Jack leaned forward, his eyes open.  This was getting to be annoying.  Jack had had enough bad luck as he could stand.

“No, just a more specific location than ‘home’.”  The cabbi said.

“I said Co-Op City,” Jack said very slowly.  “In the Bronx.”

“I’m sorry sir, but I do not understand you.”

Fucking idiot.  Guy clearly didn’t know how to speak English.  Jack felt another unpleasant tingle down below and envisioned himself pissing all over the back seat of this guy’s cab.  It’d serve him right, but Jack was in no mood to humiliate himself.  His bladder was likely a time bomb now and he wasn’t ready for it to go off just yet. Jack opened the door, and went back into the street.

“Hey!” The cabbi called after Jack.  “You still owe me two-fifty for opening the door!”  Jack was in no mood to argue with the useless idiot, so he opened his wallet peeled off a five dollar bill and threw it in through the passenger side window.

A very enthusiastic “Thank you very much sir!” made it to Jack’s ears as he continued walking down the street.

Frustrated at how easy it was for someone to get a permit to drive a cab and the fear of wetting his pants buzzing in the back of his mind, Jack walked down the street, his eyes cast downward the whole time, trying to think of a plan of some sort. He needed to see something for himself.  Jack walked a couple of blocks, apprehensive the entire way, and ducked into a nearby liquor store.  Without saying a word, Jack ducked and weaved through the aisles of gin, vodka, and rum and slipped into the tiny little bathroom.

Door locked, Jack dropped his pants, held his dick in his hands and…


Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  He pushed.  He relaxed.  He grunted.  He shook it.  Nothing.  He was as dry as a bone.  But why?  He felt the urge to pee, but couldn’t actually complete the act.  It was like his prostate was swollen or something.  Or was it shrunken?  Jack wasn’t sure which one, but he was sure that not being able to pee had something to do with his prostate.  He’d have to look that up later when he’d found the time.

Jack lowered the seat and sat down on it, like a little kid.  Maybe that would get things going.  It didn’t.  Jack looked around to make sure there wasn’t any cameras, and when he didn’t see any, he tried sticking his thumb in his mouth.  Maybe there was some kind of stimulus that would trigger his bladder.  If there was, he hadn’t found it yet.

Dejectedly, Jack rose up and hiked his sweatpants back up.  Not even bothering to flush, he walked back into the liquor store, head down in worry and frustration.

You’re going to need that diaper.

“Hey, buddy!” The shopkeeper called from behind the counter.  “Toilet’s for customers only.  You better be buyin’ somethin’.”

“Huh?” Jack looked up from the floor.  “Oh yeah.”  Jack grabbed a bottle of rum from off a nearby shelf.  Fuck it.  The way his day was going, a drink would do him good, anyways.  Drinking always made him have to pee anyways, thanks to it inhibiting his vasopressin secretion.  (Thank you, trivia night!)
Jack placed the bottle on the counter and grabbed a two-liter of coke to join it.  Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled a few bills out of his wallet and all but slammed them on the counter.

The store clerk behind the counter looked at the rum, and then looked at Jack, and then eyeballed the rum again.

“Lemme see some I.D.”, he said.

“Huh?” Was all the response Jack could muster.

“Come on baby face,” the clerk motioned ‘gimme’ with his hands, “lemme see some I.D.”

Jack sighed as yet another straw was added to the pile and held open his wallet so the man behind the counter could verify his age.

“This isn’t you,” the clerk said plainly.

“What do you mean this isn’t…?” Jack flipped his wallet around to look.  It definitely wasn’t him.  Jamie must have tampered with his wallet.

“You don’t look like a Hector Gutierrez to me,” the man behind the counter smirked.

Jack squinted his eyes to read the name on the license, only to realize he couldn’t.  Some part of Jack’s mind knew it was written in English; but for the life of him, Jack couldn’t read it.  The name on the license might have said “Hector Gutierrez” but Jack couldn’t be sure of that, and that made him even more scared.

Language centerrrrrs

“Jamie…” Jack hissed.

“Don’t cry for your Mommy in here, kid.” The clerk said.  “Ask her nice, and maybe she’ll by you booze.  But I’m not sellin’ any to you.”

“I wasn’t…” Jack started, “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t trying to say…”  Jack sighed, this time in defeat.  He moved the bottle of rum to the side and pushed the two liter of coke to the front.  “Just this, please.”

The man rang Jack up and gave him some change and the bottle of coke.  It was only when he was putting the change back in his wallet that he noticed something:  He couldn’t tell how much money he had.  The numbers made no sense to him.  They just looked like little scribbles and marks.  They didn’t mean anything to him.  He recognized the faces of Jackson, Hamilton, Lincoln and Washington, but none of the numbers on the bills himself.  The same was true for the soda waiting for him on the counter.  He recognized the familiar red and white color scheme and knew the white scribbles to be writing of some sort, but nowhere could he read the words “Coca-Cola”.   He couldn’t read.

That must’ve been why the asshole cabbie had been so happy; Jack must’ve peeled off a bigger bill than he had meant to; something that would have made stopping and arguing with a customer about where the Bronx worth the time.  That must’ve been why the cabbie was such an asshole to begin with.  Just like how he thought he was saying “Jamie” but people were hearing “Mommy”, he must also be describing his neighborhood, but all that  was really coming out of his mouth was “home”.
Language centerrrrrs.


Jack couldn’t hail a cab and communicate on how to get home.  He couldn’t read, so the subway was out.  For all he knew his brain had been damaged to where he couldn’t even be able to properly ask for directions to the correct train.  Phrases like “A-Train”, “B-Train”, and “C-Train” might have been replaced with “Choo-Choo”.


It was going to be a long walk home.

Jack took the coke with him as he started walking down the sidewalk.  He twisted off the little red bottle cap easily enough, but then it got slippery and fumbled out of his fingers and onto the pavement.  Great.  Just great.  Now it was guaranteed to go flat in a few hours.  But soda that wouldn’t last the night was literally the least of his problems.  It was at least a sixteen mile walk back home, and a trek in the heat of the day, with the sun reflecting off of the hot pavement, all while worrying about wetting his pants, wasn’t going to be a fun one.

With regards to the pants wetting: Some of that had to be a trick, Jack reasoned.  He was just likely oversensitive and paranoid.  He remembered a time when he had a urinary tract infection; how it hurt like hell and how because of that he was particularly aware of his bladder filling up to the point of absurdity.  Peeing was sometimes like an itch.  The more you thought about it the worse it was.  He wasn’t about to pee himself, he didn’t have anything left in his bladder to pee out again.  And the best way to prove that would be to fill up the proverbial tank once again.

You’re going to need that diaper.

“Fuck you, bitch”, Jack muttered to himself.  He tipped the bottle back…and gasped….and sputtered.  Brown, fizzy, sticky, sugary liquid rushed out of the bottle and into his eyes, and nose, then spilling into his mouth and then running out the corners down his face.

Jack stopped and spat as people walked by him, his face and neck dripping with coke.  Like a kid who had swallowed too much pool water, he gave a loud and almost angry burp as he shook his head, splattering little brown droplets onto the sidewalk.

“The hell,” Jack whispered. He had just over shot it a little, that’s all. He tipped the bottle back again, this time making it went properly into his mouth and his lips wrapped around the nozzle.  He started sucking at the bottle with all his might, inhaling the sugary drink as much as he was drinking the stuff.

When his own suction wouldn’t get enough of the stuff inside his mouth, he tilted his head back with it and gazed up at the sky through the clear plastic bottle.  He let gravity do the work.  Then Jack realized that he was gripping the bottle very carefully.  He was holding the Coke bottle with both hands, one on either side of the bottle.

He was holding the bottle just like a….like a….

You’re going to need that diaper.

Damn it!

The bottle tipped and spiraled out of Jack’s grasp from the shock of realization.  Jack didn’t have time to react as liquid sugar splashed down his chest, stomach, and the front of his baby blue sweat pants.  Great, he looked like some kind of drunken slob. Or, more appropriately, he looked like some kind of toddler that couldn’t even feed himself properly.  He couldn’t even buy booze and yet somehow he had a literal drinking problem.

Well, now his pants were wet anyways, but a diaper wouldn’t have been able to stop that regardless.  Jamie had really thought things out though with what she was putting Jack through.  His mind had been, for all intents and purposes, hijacked.  He couldn’t read, couldn’t accurately describe important people, places, or things so that people would understand him, there was something definitely off about his fine motor skills, and for some reason he constantly felt like he had to go to the bathroom.  This was likely exactly what that psychopath bitch had in mind when she let him “have the rest of the day off.”  It really was going to be a long walk home.
Roughly sixteen miles later, Jack staggered home, exhausted.  The long walk had given him time to acclimate and think about his predicament.  It was a big city, and plenty of people freakier than a messy eater were out there walking the streets in broad daylight.

And Jack definitely was a messy eater, now.  A stop by a hot dog cart and ordering a foot long with the works had confirmed that much.  Unless he really concentrated, he’d grasp the bun too hard or too lightly.  He only seemed to be able to take either meager nibbles that provided neither taste nor sustenance or huge gaping mouthfuls that smacked up against the roof of his mouth and sprayed out into the air between bites.

It had taken him five whole foot longs to get it right so that he could adequately eat his food instead of wearing it, and even then a very un-adult-like amount had stained his clothes.  Fortunately “One please.  The works,” had been enough to be understood.  The words “Mommy” or “home” or possibly even “hot doggies” had not even needed to come out of Jack’s mouth.

The guy selling him the food didn’t seem to mind.  Jack’s money was still good, and Jack had enough wherewithal to remember which dead guy was on which bill.

The vendor had meant well enough when he asked, “So do you have that Michael J. Fox disease or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Jack replied.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The vendor prattled.  “You don’t seem stupid, if you know what I mean.  Like one of those…” the man paused and made a rude gesture with his hands to his chest and cocked his head to the side for emphasis. “Just seems like your arms and mouth ain’t listening to your brain.  Kinda like my grandpa near the end before senility kicked in.”

“Thanks,” Jack said flatly.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” them vendor kept digging, “why don’t you have some pretty nurse or somebody to help you?  Not that there’s anything wrong with being independent,” he added before Jack could shoot him death glares, “but there’s no shame in getting help if ya need it.”

Jack would have normally agreed with the man, except that the person who wanted to ‘help’ Jack had done this to him to begin with, and ‘help’ meant parading him around in Pampers for all to gawk at.

You’re going to need that diaper.

For what felt like the hundredth time today, Jack glanced down at his pants.  If he was peeing his pants, he couldn’t tell because of how stained they already were.  The ache in his bladder wasn’t going away, either.  No relief.  So that was a good sign…kind of.
“Hey buddy…?” the words of the hot dog vendor stirred Jack out of his reflection haze.  “Why don’t you have some kinda help?”
Jack paused and chose his words carefully.

“It’s…work related,”  Jack said.

“Oh those sons of bitches,” the vendor shook his head, gravely.  “Lemme guess; you got hurt on the job, fucked up your spine or something, and they’re dragging their asses with the insurance money while you’re out there having to fend for yourself with nobody watching your back, and they’re hoping that’ll make you willing to settle for less.”

“Pretty much,” Jack nodded.

“Mother fuckin’ rich fat cats,” the vendor commiserated.  “They think everybody else is their doll or something.  Like we’re just something to just play with and amuse them, never mind that we’ve got our own shit going on.”

“You have no idea,” Jack said.

“Here, buddy.  This one’s on me.”  He handed Jack the fifth and final foot long.  The one that Jack could actually eat most of the way.

“There ya go!”   the man’s fist pumped into the air.  “Fuck those sons of bitches!  If they think you’re gonna come crawling back to them because of the shit that they put you in, they’ve got another thing comin’!”

Jack blushed as this perfect stranger cheered him on as if he were a toddler learning how to feed himself.
“Yup,” Jack said after swallowing.  “Oh,” he added.  “And it’s Parkinson’s Disease.”

“What is?”

“That disease that Michael J. Fox has,” Jack told the guy at the hot dog cart. “The disease that gives him the shakes.  Bit o’ trivia.”

Presently, Jack was just outside his apartment building.  He didn’t even bother trying to get home through the front door, since Jamie hadn’t bothered to give him his keys back.  It was very possible that Jamie hadn’t even intended Jack to get as far as he had.  Jack hoped that meant she hadn’t thought to disable his ability to turn knobs and locks.

“Might as well check out what I’ve got left in me,” Jack said to himself as he eyed the fire escape.

A dumpster push, jump, climb, and sneak later, Jack was just outside his apartment.  Fortunately the tiny robots that Jamie had poisoned him with hadn’t taken away his natural athleticism.  Now, Jack was poking and prodding the windows of his living room, trying to remember which pain was the loose pane.

“Come on, come on,” Jack muttered.  He was rewarded with the feeling of a small pain of glass jiggling like a loose tooth.  Jack’s pokes became outright pushes and the specified piece of glass came right out and fell to the floor, shattering.   If Jack had had better neighbors, he might get the police called on him for trying to break into his own apartment.

Jack did his best to will his arm to become a snake as he twisted and contorted himself to reach through and unlock his own window.  He almost dislocated his shoulder, but he was able to trip the latch, allowing him to slide the window open.

Once he was inside, and the window was closed and latched again Jack collapsed in exhaustion and laid on the floor.  His eyes closed and if it weren’t for the sounds of the city outside streaming into his apartment through the missing pain of glass, he might have thought he was dreaming.

You’re going to need that diaper.

Jack sighed.  He still hadn’t managed to pee since he’d put on non-absorbant clothes.  Now was as good a time as any.  He was exhausted, but then again, all he really had to do was properly relax his bladder and let nature take its course.  Maybe that’s why some people called public toilets “restrooms”.

He picked himself off and walked to the toilet, feeling the need to relieve himself welling up inside of him.  Not even bothering to stand, he dropped his pants, sat down, and…



No gush.  No trickle.  No nothing.  No relief.  And try as he might, Jack couldn’t make himself pee.  He definitely had to go to the bathroom, he knew that much himself.

“What gives?” Jack asked himself.

You’re going to need that diaper.

Jack couldn’t understand what was happening.  Why couldn’t he pee?  Why wasn’t he peeing more often?  Why hadn’t he peed himself on any number of occasions throughout this miserable day?

He couldn’t speak like an adult when it mattered.  He could barely eat like one.  Why wasn’t he pissing his pants?  Everything Jamie had revealed told Jack that she had wanted to treat him like a big baby.  And babies didn’t have any kind of bladder control.  That’s why they wore…

You’re going to need that diaper.

Eureka!  What if Jamie hadn’t meant that Jack was going to be incontinent? What if Jamie had meant that he was going to need diapers?  What if after the initial “accident”, Jamie’s tampering with his brain had made him absolutely and definitively diaper dependent?  What if he wasn’t incontinent?  What if he wasn’t un-potty trained?  What if by some strange mechanism, Jack was now diaper trained?

Only one way to find out.

Jack hiked his pants back up and went to the front door, the urgency of his need eating away at his composure.  He unlocked his door and let himself out.  If some burglar wanted to rob him, let them.  He had more urgent matters on his mind.

The nearest pharmacy and convenience store was an agonizing four blocks away.  Every step Jack took caused a festering pain in his nether region.  Briefly, Jack’s mind flashed to how in ancient times men’s penises were tied up and they were force fed wine until their bladders ruptured.  That was not a fun bit of trivia to have in his mind right now.  Would that happen to him?  If something in his brain was making him hold it in right now, would his bladder ever give out or would it rupture and kill him? Even if it did give out, would the strain do any kind of long-term damage such as true incontinence or would he be subject to a life of excruciating pain until inevitably he peed himself?  No option seemed good, and the lesser of these evils lay in front of him.

With pain driven steps, Jack walked into the store and went straight for the embarrassing medical products aisle.  He grabbed a package of Depends without breaking his stride and went straight for the men’s room.

The handicap stall in the men’s room didn’t give Jack much in the way of privacy, but it did give him room to change his clothes.   In a perverse reversal of order of operations, Jack was squirming and squinting and shifting from foot to foot– doing a potty dance- as he opened up the package, kicked off his shoes and pants, and slid the adult pull-up up his hips.

The tiniest trickle came out of him was he was padded and Jack held his breath.  Yes?  Yes?

Then nothing.  What the hell was going on?  He was diapered, wasn’t he?  The condition had been met.  He was wearing a Depends for God’s sake! He was as diapered as any…

You’re going to need that diaper.

Jack looked over to the wall in the handicap stall and saw the baby changing station on the wall.  Oh no.  Jamie hadn’t put him in an adult diaper.  It was adult sized, but that was the only thing “adult” about it.

Still without pants, Jack dashed out of the men’s room and ran to the baby aisle.  He grabbed a package of Pampers before doing a U-turn and running back into the men’s room.  The started shouts and guffaws of other customers echoed behind him as he ran back into the men’s room handicap stall from which he came.

He ripped open the package and the sweet smell of baby perfume wafted up to his nostrils.  The cast of Sesame Street smiled at him from the soft padding in his hands.  Jack unfolded the diaper and stuffed it in the front of his incontinence brief.

It wasn’t even ten seconds before Jack felt the sweet humiliating relief of his bladder relaxing and the warm wet liquid gushing into his pants.  The baby diaper didn’t hold much comparatively, and it wasn’t long before the leak guards failed and leaked out the sides and back and into the waiting Depends.

The diaper was sagging with the better part of a day’s worth of urine.  Jack had just put on the diaper and already he needed a change.  He grimaced and looked down at the packages on the bathroom floor.  These things weren’t cheap, either in the long term.  He was effectively incontinent, but required baby diapers in addition to incontinence products that might actually get the job done.

A catheter might work, Jack considered, but that was painful and expensive too. Plus, he highly doubted any kind of medical scan would indicate a blockage explaining why he could no longer pee on command, so there likely wasn’t an insurance company in the world that would pay for the supplies.  Some nagging feeling also told him that it wouldn’t go over well if he requested a brain scan to prove that his “Mommy” at “Mommy’s work” had drugged him so that his name was “Jack-Jack” and now he couldn’t go pee in the potty.

He was also effectively illiterate, and he ran the risk of literally not knowing what he was talking about.

Was this how it was going to be?  Buying adult diapers and baby diaper stuffers so that he could have the comfort of being able to uncontrollably wet his pants or else be in constant pain from a bladder that wouldn’t unclench otherwise?  And having almost no skill set with which to support himself?

Jamie literally had something that no one else could give him.  Diapers. Rent free shelter. Bottles he could drink, and food he could eat.  And like the guy at the hot dog stand had brought up, was it really that bad getting help taking care of himself if he needed it?  More importantly, did he really have a choice?

The door flung open and a man walked into the restroom.  Based on the logo on his polo shirt, he worked here.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man began.

“Here,” Jack cut him off.  He handed him the wallet from his sweat pants.  “Take it.  There should be just enough money left to cover the diapers.”

“Sir, if you don’t put your pants back on I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store,” the man said with a mix of practiced forcefulness and a touch of fear.  Jack must’ve looked like some kind of crazy to the man, and everyone knew you just don’t mess with crazy.

“I’m already leaving,” Jack said.  No looking back now.  Only forward.

It was going to be a long walk back to Jamie.
“D’aw,” Jamie cooed.  “Look who came back!”  It was late, but not too late, as far as Jamie was concerned. Jamie had stayed in her office and was prepared to spend the night in case Jack had decided to come back.  Just as she was getting ready to fall asleep on the couch, security buzzed her and let her know that a strange man wearing just a ratty t-shirt and an adult diaper was banging on the front door.

Of course she instructed them to let the boy in.  Jack now stood before her, at the doorway to her office, smelling of sweat and stale urine, an adult diaper swaying like a pendulum between his hips.

“Awww,” she mocked her new fascination.  “You missed your diapers, so you came back didn’t you?”

Jack didn’t say anything.  He didn’t need to.  Jamie was certain and her calculations were correct: If the meddling with his language centers didn’t do the trick, the trouble eating and the diaper dependence would.  Jamie was curious though.  With the programming from this batch of Dominance nanites, he shouldn’t even have been able to relieve himself in an adult diaper.

Casually she leaned over and pulled back the front of his diaper.  Sure enough, there was a baby diaper of some sort stuffed in there.  He had managed to find a loophole in her programming. To say that she was impressed would actually be an understatement.  She’d have to remember that for future batches of Dominance.  Maybe this baby boy would provide more fun for her than expected after all.  Still, she was going to win and that made it all better.

“Such a clever boy,” Jamie patted her charge on the head.  “But aren’t you tired of wearing these homemade diapees?  Don’t you want some that actually fit you?”
“Yes, Mommy…” Jack said, his  head bowed.  He hadn’t meant to say “Mommy,” Jamie knew.  Likely he had just thought to say “Jamie” or perhaps “ma’am.”  But soon enough, he’d call her “Mommy” and mean it.

Jamie smiled.

“Let’s go home.”

To be continued….


United States
I've been a closet AB/DL my entire life. My parents and close older family members probably suspect from when I was too young and dumb to know to hide my fascination. Then again, it probably got written off as "a phase", as soon as I got older and started not talking about it.

My friends may suspect, but if they do, they're kind enough not to say anything about it. The weird thing is, I have some friends that are open fetishists of different sorts; mostly furs. So yeah, I'm a bit of a coward. Even my name is a reference to that.

I'm not using anything even close to my real name, and anything with "Diaper" or "Baby" in the name was just too cliche. I'm so much more than just my fetish. We all are.

I'm just so paranoid that I'm going to be branded by it. So do I use a persona and change up my writing style and tone to further disguise myself? Live the internet dream by pretending to be someone much cooler than I am?

Or maybe just a simple Alias? Be myself with the exception of my name?

Persona+Alias= personalias

I'm actually scared some of my friends will find this page, and find enough clues to figure out it's me. I console myself with the question: "What the heck were my friends doing looking at AB/DL stories and pics anyways?"

My wonderful wife is the only person in my life who officially knows my secret. It was she who encouraged me to take some of my ideas, write them down and post them online for others to see.

The thing that it's happening. Now that I'm becoming part of the online community. I can't help but wonder why I didn't join sooner.

Thanks for reading this. It was really cathartic.
Dear Internet Stalker,

When we first met each other, you seemed like a nice but lonely person who was new to the ABDL "scene," or "community," or "lifestyle," or "culture," or whatever you'd like to call it.  The point is you seemed lonely and needed someone to talk to and to ask the kind of "stupid questions" that come across people's brains when they're excited about something new but don't know much about the topic, so I was okay with that, and expected there to be some faux pas that happened.

For example, I did not particularly mind that you wanted to know what I thought of the various AB diapers that I knew of and had tried.  Perfectly fine.  Maybe not the kind of thing you ask at your first munch at the local Shoney's while the waitress is taking your order, but it didn't bother me out on the internet over PM's and notes. The distance between two computer screens can be beneficial in these instances.

However I became increasingly uncomfortable with pretty much everything else.  I found it weird that within a week of you constantly messaging me, you began to tell me about how your ex-girlfriend accused you of rape and how that broke your heart and almost ruined your life.  Moreso, I was uncomfortable that you started proposing these fantastical meet ups and coming to visit me in my hometown, even though we hadn't known each other very long at all.  

The fact that in fantasizing about this trip to meet me, you basically kept asking me if I'd want to do everything diapered with you was more than a little off-putting. You basically acted like Jon Stewart's character in the movie Half-Baked, except instead of weed it was diapers.  "Hey would it be okay if we watched a football game while diapered?"  "Could we one day meet and play musical instruments while diapered?"  "Would you be okay if we just hung out wearing nothing but T-shirts and diapers?"   I don't have a problem with doing said activities with people I trust. Also, I am particularly squeamish about (let's call it) "dress code" when I'm meeting fellow age players/ABs/DLs/littles, in that I want to make sure no one minds if I show up in what would otherwise be an objectively ridiculous outfit for a grown man to be seen in.  So I was patient up to a point.  But the fact that you kept asking it again and again and again, made me feel like you were fixating on me instead of any particular form of clothing.  That's one of the reasons I kept politely suggesting you meet with people who actually live in your state.  I figured you'd take the hint.  

I also didn't like how every time you messaged me (at least once a day during this time period) how you asked if I was wearing a diaper or if I had worn one lately.  I asked you not to ask me that, and that I would volunteer that information if and when I was comfortable with it and if I felt it was relevant to any conversation we were having and you apologized immediately, passionately, and profusely.  And then you did it again...and apologized.

The one time where I did volunteer that information, you immediately began asking me if I had wet it yet.  Lesson learned for me. I never mentioned anything regarding that to you again.

The fact that every day when I came home from work, I had three to five pms from you asking me the same sort of above questions, mixed with apologies for asking them, mixed with asking if you had angered me, mixed with the random minutae of your life, really made interacting with you a chore.  I continued to suggest that you meet more local and real people in your area and make more friends besides me.  I asked that you be more patient and let me find the time to respond to your questions and anecdotes in a less pressured manner where I didn't feel like my entire evening would be taken up in correspondence with you.  I feel that this did not help, because then you'd update me about how you waited a whole two days for me to respond before filling my inbox up with close to a dozen PM's, or you'd tell me about making more friends and that I should be proud of you because of the progress you were making.  

 We don't have many interests in common, outside of diapers.  Yes I went to college and you're a fan of my college's football team.  I haven't seen a game in years.  Yes we both learned how to play a musical instrument in high school; you are far more passionate about that subject than I am.  The fact that I didn't really talk about either of those things beyond the "oh neat" and "yup" and "cool" comments, I felt, should have been a clue.  

 Then I came upon a rough patch in my life.  I was taking a break from the scene and making a concentrated effort to not get involved in ABDL stuff outside of my writing.  Long story short: I had neither the time nor money to go to any sort of ABDL gathering and hearing about them and talking with other with this interest was only going to make me feel worse than I did.  I made an announcement where it was relevant, said my "goodbye for nows" and stopped logging on and interacting by-and-large.  But you kept sending me messages.  My other kink friends respected my need for alone time and privacy.  You didn't.

You even went so far as to find one of the very, very, few people that I trust enough and feel safe enough with to let them see my face and know how to contact me through non-fetish channels and tried to use them as an intermediary to get my attention.  At that point, I had had enough.   You showed me multiple times that you weren't going to respect my boundaries, my interests, or anything about me beyond me helping you feel good about yourself.  The bugging my friends was the straw that broke my camel's back.

I blocked you on Fetlife.  I considered the matter closed.  You go on with your life. I go on with mine.  

Then you come and message me on Daily Diapers a few months ago.   You say that you're sorry, and that you never meant to hurt me, and that if I just told you to go away you would never talk to me again.  I didn't believe you for a second, especially not that last part.  Then after a lengthy silence on my part, you tell me you're not going to talk to me anymore.  I hit "ignore" on your profile.  It's not quite as good as "block" on Fetlife, but if you say or do anything over there, I'm not told about it.   I can at least go on with my life.

Then I find a PM on my Deviantart account yesterday.  You had just made an account that day and you messaged me first thing, telling me how much you like my writing. You're now blocked there, too.  Any other site that you find me on you will find yourself blocked should you choose to try to interact with me. 

I am not going to be responsible for you, your fun, your social development, or your problems.  I am not your caregiver.  I don't care if you're "sorry".  I don't care if you "regret" things you've done.  I don't care if you're "improving".  I don't care if I "don't understand".  I don't care if I "don't know the whole story".  If you continue to harass me, I will have no choice but to tell everyone on this "scene", or "community", or "lifestyle", or "culture", or whatever that I care about about your behavior, including your screen name.

No reply is needed or wanted in any way, shape, or form.  I'm not unblocking you on any site.  If you don't see this, I don't particularly care.  This was for me, not for you.  Someone blocks you on three different sites, you don't go looking for a fourth.

No means no.
Stop means no.
Silence means no.



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Manolo79 Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2018
There just needs to be three of you probablyWink/Razz 
Areat Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2018
Hello personalias. How are you? Fine, I hope. I was wondering what was the status of the queue for commissions since the last time we talked about it. Is there still many stories or chapters for you to write? :]
Personalias Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2018
Be patient.  
Areat Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2018
Manolo79 Featured By Owner May 20, 2018
Cool. By the way I'd totally subscribe to your patreon page if u chose to do one.
Manolo79 Featured By Owner May 19, 2018
Sorry if its rude to ask but I was just wondering if u were going to post any more Better Late Than Never chapters. I was really digging it. Either way thanks for all the awesome stories.
Personalias Featured By Owner May 20, 2018
Better Late than never is a WIP commission.  So yes, there will be more.
InformalFallacies Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2018  Student Traditional Artist
Pitch for a story: "an offshoot of the Church of Satan that worship Lucy and her associates are working on a plan to turn Earth into a new Limbo where humanity are sent into an eternity of babyhood. The story is set on a high schooler/college campuses/small town that the Cult has quarantined as a test site where they poison the water with liquid re-lease."
Personalias Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2018
It's an interesting idea, I'll grant, but when pitched that way, I don't know if I'd want to do it.

Couple of reasons:

1. I'm a Christian, but I don't want to purposefully slander another religion.  To my understanding, the Church of Satan are mostly aethiests (sp?).  They "worship" Satan not as the devil from the Judeo-Christian and Islamic faiths, but as a symbol of rebellion against absolute authority.  Ironically enough, you'd be hard pressed to find a Satanist that actually believes in and worships demons.  While I do include angels, demons, devil, devils etc. in a VERY, VERY loose interpretation of Biblical Theology, I'm okay with that because it's dealing with stuff that happens after we die, and I'm far from the first author of any kind to suggest "What if the afterlife isn't what we think it is?"  I'm not outlining or claiming to represent an actual belief system here on Earth.

2. The shared universe of Dante's Infanzia, Addiction, College or Cribs and even The Bagman, is more about personal journeys and decisions than large scale regression; of knowing when to take responsibility for yourself as opposed to shifting blame and going further down the spiral. Dante succeeded in his journey.  Damien didn't.  And I haven't finished Johnny's and Chris's tales.  Large scale "Cult of Lucy" stuff could be fun, but it's not in keeping with that universe.

3. Speaking of that universe, I miss it, but I don't have the time to revisit it.  I'm saving up money for a big trip, and that means more commissions, less requests, and I NEED to finish Bagman and College or Cribs BEFORE I revisit it.  I JUST HAVE TO.  As of now, I've got Cushypen deadlines, commissions, a video game, and a collaboration filling up my plate.  There is no time right now.

All of that being laid out though.  I've seen some of your fan-fiction in the Dante-verse, and some of your own ABDL afterlife stuff, and some of your "spreading regression" type stuff.  I think you've got skill, especially when it comes to writing in other character's voices. 

A little over a year ago, someone posted a "fan-sequel" to Dante's Infanzia.  They didn't ask me if they could.  They didn't tell me about it.  Someone had to tell on them for me to know.  I was pissed off.  Then they played the victim when I asked their work be taken down.  I'm not a bigshot.  I don't make a lot of money doing this; if I'm lucky my writing sometimes pays for new stuff involving my (ahem) hobbies.

I'm not famous.  These stories are my toys and I always think it's polite to ask about playing with other people's toys.  

YOU however, have done everything right.  You did fan-fiction of my setting, but you left my main characters alone.  (Judy doesn't count.  They are like a dime-a-dozen.)  It's like with the Diaper Dimension Stories.  Princess Potty Pants doesn't mind the setting use, but don't touch Dr. Bremer et. al.  I'm of the same mind. 

So, if YOU would like to write this as a fan-fiction, I could be persuaded to give it my "blessing" for you to proceed if that sort of thing was important to you. I'd recommend you give it the Stephen King treatment; small little town with a secret and disaster just bubbling under the surface, but that'd be up to you. 

TL;DR.  I can't/won't do it.  But if you want to do it as a fanfic, I'd be okay with that.
zeeko28 Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2017
Hi there, I really like your stories. Would be especially interested in a story like "LIfe Swap", I hear you do commissions. I might be able to do one for 75. My question is, how long do you think it'll take to write? And how can I contact you? Thanks.
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