Hi! Here is an old chapter I wrote for a story I want to call ‘Nurserton’. Check it out if you think it’s cool!
Mentions of BDSM
After spending all three of my first years in Nurserton’s daycare, it took a magic wand to get me to grow up. I always wanted to get there, to preschool, and I could always bandy with everyone else about the perks of such advanced living. Not much time in daycare passes until you overhear someone wailing to a grownup to let them have a pass to the preschool building because “PLEASE, but, but Casino Royale !”. Or someone sits you down in the big plushy forest in the back of the playroom and swears that the preschool cafeteria has jugs of wine and beer mini-kegs. The conversation topic can also rear its head in the changing rooms with someone stuck there with you, waiting for new diapers, where they’ll explain that potty class is so much better there, because in those potty classes the plastic bowls they make us daycare people use are actually real flushables, hidden behind real big kid stalls.
I had a boyfriend who always whispered to me, when we got heavy in the crib, that he’d heard that well behaved preschoolers who were potty trained enough for pullups had secret keycards for a special sex dungeon located in underground tunnels between the preschool and the juniors building.
One of my friends, one of the ones who actually had been to preschool, proclaimed that bathtimes were conducted by oneself, with no tub partner and no grownup.
And there were other fanciful tales about preschool, as well, and the higher the ratio of babies around tea-time that there was, the more absurd these tales could be. If you were having a chat on the swing set in the nursery, for example, you may learn between lurches on the rubber seat that preschool kids had wings hidden beneath their t-shirts, and that you never saw them on their swingsets because they could very quickly launch off them and fly.
Of course, you’ll take from this that my three years of lackadaisical pursuit of this stylized promised land of preschool that I didn’t believe any of these tales. This is partly true. While you never argue against a nursery baby about things such as wings sprouting from people’s clavicles (no one should be in the business of ruining such a story), I did know that the tub thing was false. Though preschoolers, especially former preschoolers, will tend to assent to any perk you assign to that place, if you ask the question with guile they may betray the truth. So if you ask; who did you take a tub with? They may admit the person, and prove your friend wrong. Of course, if you ask further, you may learn that Kayla did indeed take baths by herself, but this was for general sanitation.
I do admit to believing the wine and beer thing, and about a year at Nurserton I asked a newly minted preschooler and former daycare baby to take me to the lunchroom there to have a sip. I’ve scarcely been redder. The question of the sex dungeon remains to be decided.
But I’ll admit that the real reason I’m not out of my crib is that I haven’t been arsed to potty train.
Now, good behavior “commensurate with the maturity level of a preschooler” is technically the foremost prerequisite, but I’ve never been too sour in that category. In practice, good behavior is really a gatekeeper rather than an accelerant. There are tons of saints still pooping their pants in the nursery, and it doesn’t matter how much you’re parking your booty on the plastic seats if you’re one of those guys who drops his diapers and beats off during story time. Nursery time for you, Liam.
The motivation for preschool just hasn’t been strong enough. For me, preschool is like the snarky essay I always wanted to publish in the college newspaper about real library etiquette, or the online classes I could have taken for some extra salary, or making buffalo chicken dip with chicken breast and not canned chicken, or someday getting around to actually reading Pride and Prejudice .
Eh? It was really more fun to speculate about a different daily routine than do all the tugging and begging for potty time necessary to get there. James Bond is for old people, and I came to Nurserton to be a baby.
This magic wand entered my life as a reward. It was a prize, a wager placed in escrow, a spoil of sweat and battle.
Nurserton has many forms of elective competitions and activities to occupy the population. Some of these are taken more seriously than others, none more seriously than the monthly band competitions or the rarer but very esteemed theater productions. Pacifier Spit , a goth and punk quad of daycarers (though their bassist dips to the nursery now and then) are basically town celebrities. If you’re more into rock there are the Cradle Robbers , though I missed most of their first and only concert after getting picked up in a mid-act diapercheck. There’s a few rappers, too, with vulgar names like MC Poops or something. I think the other guy is good (not MC Poops ), but again, I tend to find myself grounded whenever he’s doing stuff. I’ve heard him freestyle in the daycare playroom, though. His real name is Carl.
After that, it’s the thespians. Everyone who calls themselves a big kid, whether they are or not, fawns over the Shakespeare in Diapers troupe. You thought that temper tantrum I described over James Bond was bad? Imagine when an aspiring preschooler with a whole calendar of potty stars learns she dropped too many f-bombs to see Hamlet in diapers. Honestly, Shakespeare in Diapers is as unimaginative as their name. Much better is the Sillyvilles , a vaudevillian group that remains one of the longest traditions in Nurserton. The group is always five in number, four nursery babies and one junior. It’s slapstick, wordless, and potty humor. Right up my alley.
But this magic wand came from something a bit more hardcore. Yes, more hardcore than the pink-haired frontgirl in Pacifier Spit .
Though many people play sports and most are physically active in the gyms and in the big leafy quad between the main buildings, there are leagues organized by the grownups. And while there are leagues for non-athletic stuff, most are for pared down versions of regular sports. Basketball, volleyball, and soccer-all larger team sports that can be played indoors, though the soccer league is reduced to five person squads. There are a few informal leagues, such as a summer tennis one, a softball one. Softball is a favorite for the nursery babies in the spring and summer, because inning swaps mean reprieves from swollen diapers. It’s a fun low-stress activity for me when the weather’s nice, and being still in diapers I found the grownup waiting in the dugout to be handy too. I did my business in the outfield once, during a lengthy interim between the first and second batters (a delay due, I found out, to exactly the sort of business I was up to). Luckily, the batter who did eventually walk out of the opposing dugout hit a grounder and the next one hit a pop up right to me, so though I did have to catch, I did not have to run with the extra weight. Back in my dugout, though I got caught up in conversation, forgot the batting order, and found myself behind the plate in the same diaper. After the first swing the umpire noticed, though the catcher might have told him or sniffed conspicuously. Alas, It’s an OUT if you’re on the bases in a dirty diaper. Nobody cared that I missed the two next batters on the bottom of the inning and that the centerfielder needed to cover for me, though I did get chirped and dead-armed on my walk of shame through the dugout to the picnic blanket.
Soccer, the league I take seriously, wouldn’t let me have my glove back.
The first thing is that the soccer, basketball, and volleyball leagues all are BDSM leagues. You win, good things happen. And if you lose…good things happen. Or bad things. Good things, bad things, it’s all a matter of perspective. We can argue forever on whether getting a spanking is a good or bad thing, and we can also just agree that what I mean is pretty clear. The whole point of the league is to let some of us babies, strictly disallowed from topping in any capacity ever, an outlet for our broader needs as multi-varied kinksters. It’s gonna come out somewhere, and better under strict guidance than under the moon’s supervision deep within the junglegym in the nursery’s playground. Regardless of what you want to happen to you, the big allowance bonus for getting far in the season-end tournament motivates everyone enough to align towards winning. I even believe the Goobuses try to win.
You set out what’s going to happen to you, should you lose. The referee, a grownup, lined the five of my Power Puffs against the Five Booping Boops. He pointed to each of us, one from each team, alternating down the rows. My choice should not surprise you, though it did raise the eyebrows of my teammates. There are four choices: tying up, spanking, enemas, and cummings (wandings or handjobs). I’m an enema girl, often the only one in the whole game. But one of Booping Boops was a friend of mine, close enough that I’d coordinate with her even if I prefer men. The referee then matched each with an opponent based on preferences. My gambit worked, and Samara and I were promised to each other following the outcome of the thirty minute game.
The next thing the ref does is inspect everyone’s diaper, with the help of another grownup. He went down the line for both teams, standing in our sneakers and shorts and colored pinnies, and felt and pried into our pants to back up what his fingers or nose told him. On my side, Nathan and Mittie got nabbed, while on their team only Samara got lifted out of the line. The rest of us sat around and hydrated or stretched and chatted while our teammates got changed. My other two teammates, Bianca and Earl, appeared disturbed that Mittie arrived in a dirty diaper, but it was better than the alternative. Dirty diapers mean ejection in this league. You’re also done if shit happens in basketball or volleyball, so it’s be big or get wrecked across all the BDSM leagues.
Then you have to play one less, and four out of five is much worse than ten out of eleven, like in real soccer. It’s a death sentence and a sure trip to bottoming, whether that’s good or bad. Mittie had done her business in a manner demonstrating poise and wisdom.
Those pretentious preschoolers, I thought to myself as I tugged my ponytail yet tighter
I was too competitive to mingle with Samara’s teammates, so I sat and focused on keeping my own diaper dry. I had to pee, and at the moment envied Mittie for thinking ahead. The ref would go around and tap everyone’s diapers, or pullups, one final time before the game began, but you really don’t wanna go down in the second wave. It’s just not classy.
The game would occur in the gymnasium, as this fateful day fell during last winter. Tuesday afternoons were for soccer, and they drew huge green curtains down the middle of the basketball court to serve as walls. Two soccer matches could be played in the mini-fields simultaneously, with goals wheeled in that were about half as big as a real soccer goal. In good weather we used the same goal posts and the same sized fields, but instead on a flat section of lawn. The biggest difference really were the cleats and the heat, but the result for both settings was that the game was more about dribbling than big shots and set pieces, and thank goodness; because I played Goalie.
Samara was the first of the three who needed new diapers to return from the table, and came over to find me.
“You peeing, Jessica?”
“You look like you’re peeing.”
I looked over to the ref, who was now helping Nathan onto a changing table, arranged in a room that would have been a coaches office, had this been a gymnasium at any other place. A layer of glass allowed me to see some of the players from the other game laying with their legs in the air. Neither noticed Samara’s baseless accusations.
Brad and Earl eyed our fraternization, as did Samara’s teammates, but mostly because there was little else to do. Samara, feeling the same boredom, of a game of soccer teetering on the edge of a ledge, held back by the accidents of my teammates, sat down against the wall with me.
“Mattie’s bad,” she said.
“You wished she waited.”
Samara grimaced, then shrugged. “Nah.”
“Comon. Yes you did.”
“You are the world’s worst with a vibrator.”
“You would know…three time’s in a row!” I held up my fingers and waved them, but I was most proud of my rhyme.
“Whatever. Hold us up and keep peeing.”
I stuck my tongue out. “Am not!”
Samara returned the hex. She stood, fixed her shorts so they rode up less on her diaper, fiddled with her waistband, and returned to her team. I noticed the smell of baby lotion and powder, though after three years it barely registered.
Since grownups of all occupations wag fingers at tongue flexing, I kept my gum slug behind my pearls when the ref passed me over after a suspicious fondling. This welling pride let itself in my pants, though, and by the time the ref deemed each of us clean and dry and we were told to get to our halves, my bladder was empty.
We took our sides of the indoor field. The basketball hoop hung from the ceiling, and had been folded upwards to be as out of the way as possible. Earl and Bianca, our preschoolers and forwards, approached the midpoint, denoted by a painted white line that would be out of place on the greater basketball court. But between the hanging sheets of green and the two goals, and the other white lines roughly denoting ‘out’ everything made sense. Not as good as the spring or fall, of course, but at least the great curtains were enough to stop errant balls. Nathan and Millie stood behind them, their fresh diapers bulging beneath their shorts. Millie, stockier and bearer of the thickest padding in the whole game, almost seemed bowlegged. Compared to Earl and Bianca’s whose pullups only shone through their spandex in the form of boxy underlines, Millie looked to be straddling a balloon. I’m not much better, and at the time my wetness wasn’t helping. But I didn’t have to scurry about as much.
Biggest in the front and littlest in the back was how it went for most teams, and ours only featured me behind Millie as the exception. But once upon a time I did play goalie, and not even I trust Millie enough.
The Booping Boops only fielded one preschooler, a weakness compounded by the fact that he is not in pullups, at least not at the time of the game. They even dared to let a nursery baby on their team, albeit they shoved him in the goal. Their record of 8-22 seemed further deserved by their chaotic rotations…I’m honestly not sure if they knew they could have distinct roles beyond ‘goal person who can use their hands.’
The ref reminded us all that we weren’t to poop our pants, and blew his whistle. The underdogs took to the court with great energy. They swarmed Earl and Bianca. Millie and Nathan hovered, remembering Bianca’s harsh call for discipline from a prior week, but towards the beginning, this patience was not rewarded. Consistently Samara found a way to punch the ball out, and from there, their preschooler could make headway. Quicker than Millie, he found ways to puncture deep to my right, but Millie managed to hem him into the corner to my right enough or force throw ins, or goal kicks. One time he did manage to get a kick around her, meant to set up Samara for a cheeky dig at me, but Nathan cut it off and launched in the safe direction. The first actual attempt at a goal was a weak kick by Bianca, but it delivered straight into the feet of their goalie.
Then things went the way of Millie’s last diaper.
Bianca’s bone-headedness started it. She tried to take the ball across the middle of the field, toting it along the white line in a fit of inspired toe-work. The preschooler on their side, though, waited patiently with his eye on the checkered orb before leaping into action. His foot pre-empted a cut-back by his counter just as Earl was attempting to relieve Bianca by opening himself away from the other defender. The Boop’s preschooler now had position. Things didn’t need go so south, and towards me, should Bianca had not lunged her foot out towards the ball. Stretching herself out as one might when losing a phone over a fence at Niagara Falls, she not only failed to reach her fleeting mark, but also rendered herself upon her thinly padded ass.
Their preschooler, Kyle, steamed ahead. He juked Nathan like a boy who hadn’t known peekaboo. Mittie, either picking her nose, slipping, or busy leaking into her boosted diapers, arrived like a baby giraffe with legs screwed on backwards. Seeing the chaos unfold, I narrowed the distance to give him the worst angle, but with a jostle of his ankle akin to the snap of a finger, he found the corner of our net.
They found the net again not a minute later. This time, even less of the blame fell upon me, as Bianca’s heroism turned Greek tragedy before the diapered preschooler. When had he gotten so good in their losing streak? This time Bianca had traveled so far towards the right and Earl’s side that Nathan could scarcely help in time. Mittie blocked the way, but found the ball shooting between her feet so fast that the wind with it knocked her on her butt with a soft puff.
I blocked the first shot, but it came too fast and too protected (not to mention, Goaltending has never been my forte) and I couldn’t corral it. It ricocheted to Nathan, but he had too much speed in the wrong direction. Spinning after it, he simply watched Kyle continue, his diaper swishing loudly, as he lined up another attempt.
Ding ding! Right into my pussy. Well…right on the piss filled crotch guard I created for myself. Smart thinking, Jessica. Once again, I couldn’t grapple the direct blast of the preschooler, and since Nathan was still Elmur-fudding himself, and because Millie didn’t know the soccer ball from a potty, and because Bianca and Earl were still jogging over, Kyle had no trouble tapping the loose ball into my right corner with the slickness of soft-serve ice cream. The 24-6 Power Puffs were down 0-2 vs the skidding Boopers.
I was about to get familiar with magic wands.
Though Earl was the official captain, it was Bianca who upbraided us during the half. The score still dismal, and with only a quarter hour left, we had to make changes to avoid (or didn’t have to change in order to gain) whatever fitting end we’d priorly consented to. She made sure to make us all clap, and leaned closer to me to make sure I was clapping hard enough. I wasn’t at first, but I increased the sting in my palms for team spirit. Just don’t go thinking I had anything to do with this. Mittie got most of the pep-talk, though. Don’t fall down, don’t be slow, and this went for Nathan-his overbid in my defense had not gone unnoticed. The littlest one on our team said nothing and simply nodded. Get potty trained or we won’t tolerate you much longer . Bianca reminded us too of our strict competition, of the few teams above us who never dropped matches to the likes of the Booping Boops. Of the Crushers, whose goalie had stuck a nozzle in my butt three weeks ago, and of the Tush Smushers, who almost never lost. Never did she mention her own failed dribbling experiments.
“Form up,” she said. We put our hands together. “1-2-3, let’s go!”
At the moment, I was too caught up in what I wanted to say to Bianca, or at least Earl, and I did not notice the attitude on the other half of the sideline. As much as I enjoy both the top and bottom of the bedroom, I most like to win, and Samara’s sneering face was not what I needed until the game was finally over. Amidst squirts from their waterbottles, hands on hips, and the occasional diaper adjustments, their attitude was mute and disconnected. Their nursery baby, the goalie, stood off from the rest, almost still in the goal with his hands crossed.
“All right, diaper checks!” the ref called. These always happened, quick and cursory. They were for #2 only, because if the ref had done his job right, none of us should be so leaky yet. All the players lined up as they had before, and the ref prepared to go down the line.
My first thought, pessimistic and frustrated as I was, dwelled on Mittie. She’d swallowed Bianca’s criticism a bit too hard. Well, there was no better time to do it, if it happened. The game was lost anyway, if any game was truly lost with this much time left. Get the feeling out, hun. And then my thoughts went faster. Bianca did it. Bianca felt some guilt and did the thing she hadn’t done in years. These, I regret, were positive thoughts.
The culprit, in retrospect, was obvious. Though the ref gave Mittie and me a good long look down our buttcracks, the prize lay behind the littlest door. Of the ten players, only one was a nursery baby, and the nursery’s reputation sunk a little lower. The teammate standing next to him gave him a shoulder pat, and the rest of them smiled as he found himself led off to the side room. He would return in time, but only to the sideline.
From then on the Booping Boops played in the small court at eighty-percent strength. They were allowed to deputize one of their players as goalie, who asked for the pair of gloves from their original before he was led off.
The second half played out much like a constrictor pounces on a sleeping rodent…slow deliberate strangulation. Their fluid organization that allowed them to overwhelm Nathan and Mittie now failed them, as they did not have the tools to coordinate a new strategy. Their preschooler understood that they needed to adopt a defensive posture. Real soccer teams call it parking the bus, passing up on offensive opportunities to keep as many back as possible, especially when you’re the lesser team in possession of a freak advantage. I call it the padded phalanx. Samara, however, did not perceive this need, or else she figured to catch us haughty and post an unreachable third goal. But Bianca’s and Earl’s discipline proved too effective, whatever its cost on morale. The few times the ball came to Samara, she was all alone and surrounded. Nathan, Mittie, or I had long taken the ball before any of her teammates showed up.
Earl got the first one about three minutes into the second half. The tying goal came a few minutes later.
Samara became frantic after that. She dipped back, surprised Earl who had not expected her. In some senses, her challenge was a foul, but the ref let us play. Samara, huffing and with a scrunchie loose, lowered a shoulder into Nathan, who didn’t put a fight. Mittie found herself waddling in her double boosters. Samara let loose a swift shot.
I caught it. I did not drop it, but immediately released it over my friend’s head towards Bianca. The go-ahead was scored moments later. Samara, still dwelling down beside me and far ‘offsides,’ hung her head.
The Booping Boops became 8-23 moments later.
I’m working on more of this story here!