Disclaimer: This was a freewrite and mostly just some thoughts I wanted to jot down into a sort of coherent story/scene. While it is definitely not my best work, critique is still welcome, of course. Some elements of this story included are: ABDL themes, Chastity play, messy diaper play, drugs (Marijuana), existentialism, self harm, light hypnosis play, public play, BDSM, dominance, lesbianism, mommydomme/little girl play, etc etc.
It started innocently enough with a simple piece of chocolate. It was lovingly sweet, with a hint of that oh so familiar taste cooked right in. I let it swirl in my mouth for a while, savoring it, but…I digress. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
Earlier that day….
I awoke from a long, restful sleep. My dreams are hard to come by these days and insomnia is the least of my problems, but sometimes I’m lucky to dream the most wonderful dreams. As I rolled over, she was still asleep. I like watching her sleep sometimes, even if I do sometimes become envious of her peacefulness.
I curl up close, wrapping my legs over her body as I continue suckling my binky. I smile a little as I wipe a small trail of dribble from my cheek, and I close my eyes once more as my head rests on her shoulder.
A few minutes later, I feel a hand on the front of my diaper. A squeak escapes me as my I open my eyes. She simply kisses me and smiles, “Someones a wet girl this morning, isn’t she?” I nod, feeling a little heat well up in my face as my cheeks turn red. “Don’t worry little one, we’ll get you changed.”
A quick diaper change later, we’re both up and ready to start our day. I began by making us some veggie bacon and eggs as she worked on making me some pumpkin pie coffee. I’m white, what can I say, I enjoy it and I don’t care.
A little while later, I found myself getting dressed by mommy. She picked out one of my lolita dresses, a lovely blue knee length dress covered in little musical notes. I’ve never really been your typical girl, preferring gothic dark attire over traditional sundresses and high heels, and when I discovered Lolita fashion, it hit home. It was like gothic meets little girl, and I’m smack dab in the middle of both.
A pair of white tights adorned and my Mary Jane’s buckled in, we were out. Busy day. Busy busy busy. So many people.
“Hey are you guys furries too? My coworker is a furry, do you know each other?”
“Why do you dress like that? You look weird.”
“Here little mousey, want some cheese?”
I guess a pair of felt mouse ears and a cute dress are too much for people to not notice and decide to comment.
I’m me. I’m no one else but me and I can’t be anyone else but me. I learned a long time ago when I came out of the closet that the comments of strangers and passerby’s never matter in the grand orchestra that is my life. Sometimes the brass will get louder and more chaotic, sometimes the violins and violas shine their acoustic beauty, and sometimes when the piccolo has the spotlight, all that’s needed is something quiet, and playful. The people who comment like that are the gongs of the instrument. They only make a lot of noise for a brief moment, but for someone like me, that noise is all it takes to spiral down from an okay day to a bad one.
They don’t matter, but they still affect us all; a lesson people all too often forget.
Suddenly, as if the first thunder of a storm were my stomach, the coffee I lovingly drank earlier had worked its charm. I gently, and subtly clutched my abdomen. I had hoped it went unnoticed, but alas, I felt her hand wrap around me from behind, gently pressing down “Don’t hold back, little one. Just let go…”
She whispered so softly and I was trembling as I felt it escape me. What little control I had over that area of my body had all but gone away when my fiancee decided that “I’m not allowed to go near the potty” anymore, as she put it.
“Good girl. Such a good little girl for mommy, aren’t you.” I’m done. My head is no longer my own, my mind is filled with a cavalcade of emotions I can’t quite express; she and I both knew that this experience, while not traumatic, was definitely intense. It always is.
Finally, the checkout lanes. I can stand here, say nothing, do nothing, look at no one but the oh so familiar conveyor belt and try to convince myself that other people are oblivious to the odor. Most days we go grocery shopping, at the end of it all I’m so overexposed with social activity and people surrounding me that, try as I might, I can’t even make eye contact with my fiancee anymore. My face felt like it was as hot and red as the sun itself.
What do you get when you combine social anxiety, PTSD and OCD in a woman who’s had over fifteen therapists since she was six? The ability to read people as efficiently and succinctly as a Wikipedia article and a penchant for neurotic behavior. An eye twitch, a jowl quiver, a wrinkle in the nose, I can read people’s emotions better than they can usually read themselves. And I really, really wish I couldn’t.
We’re in the car and I’m shaking, violently. Too many stares, too many comments, too much harassment. Why can’t I handle it? Am I not strong enough? I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t. It’s too much!
She noticed my panic attack, my shaking and rocking. She ruffled through her bag, grabbing a small clear container with my pacifier inside. A moment passed and suddenly, I felt it parting my lips so gently and sweetly. “Come on little one, open up,” she gently cooed. “That’s right, just suckle. Just let your worries and anxiety melt away and suckle.”
She knew me all too well, and knew this was all it took. I melted, slinking back into my seat, holding on to my stuffed otter the way one would hold onto the ledge of a cliff to not fall off; my life depended on it. And…at the same time, despite all the anxiety inducing stares and comments, I felt truly little in that moment, sitting in my fiancee…nay, my mommy’s car, having messed my diaper as I clutch a teddy and suckle away.
“We’re home little one, time to get you changed!” She gently shook me awake as I continued nursing the pacifier like any other teat. As my lifeless eyes adjusted and awoke, I felt her take a tissue and wipe away a trail of dribble on my cheek. “Is my stinky little girl feeling better?”
I nod, ducking my head and blushing profusely. She knew all my buttons and knew when and how to press every single one just so that I can stay in a liddle mindset. Wait…did I say liddle? I meant little. Sorry.
She set to work putting the groceries away and I ran off to the bathroom, pulling off my diaper and cleaning myself in the shower quite thoroughly. When I emerged from the steamy bathroom in nothing but a towel, she was already standing there with a fresh diaper ready for my rump. At that point, I had noticed I didn’t even bother removing my binky while cleaning myself; it felt safer where it was.
I noticed this because she had taken it out herself and given me a piece of chocolate, and not just any ordinary chocolate either.
“A 360?” I ask as it hits my tongue. She nodded. Marijuana was something fairly new in my life, but I found it immeasurably helpful for people like me with anxiety and PTSD, people who don’t know how to calm down, to not be in a fight or flight state 24/7.
Panic attacks went from daily to weekly, and hurting myself stopped entirely, though to be fair, my stomach still sometimes takes a beating when the cravings kick in. A small sacrifice to pay to be able to function once again, to be creative, to be little….or is it liddle. I don’t know anymore. It takes two hours for it to kick in, unless I suck on it like a hard candy. It can take as little as fifteen minutes sublingually, at least for me anyway.
I lay there, exposed, vulnerable as I suckle my binky. I feel a hint of arousal from the embarrassment earlier, and am quickly reminded of how meaningless that arousal is. Steel wrapped around my naughty bits, and held together around the base of my little bells. She held the key on a necklace to my chastity cage, constantly dangling over me as she changed me, taunting me, teasing me, and reminding me that I am hers; I belonged to her. The cold dustlike babypowder encased my nether regions, covering me completely as she continued to gently and very lovingly change me and soon I was taped up.
My arms threaded through the sleeves of my favorite onesie as the rest of my body swoons and swirls around, my head feeling quite intoxicated. I felt something else slip on as well, something unusual. My fingers were replaced with a tuft of oval shaped padding wrapped in a purple, Winnie the Pooh fabric, and as they were forced to ball into a small fist, I felt a shiver go down my spine with the distinct sound of a padlock being clicked shut. I shook my hands a little, finding no give in these mittens.
“Don’t worry little one, it’s just to keep those little fingers out of trouble.” Her words, unlike earlier, were far more potent. Each syllable carved its way into my brain like the etching of a stone. She gently blew hot air into my ear, causing my entire body to arch and squirm.
She lead me over to my crib, positioned next to her bed and climbed in with me. The haze in my eyes was clear, I was inebriated; and the glimmer in here eyes was clear as well, she had every intention of taking advantage of that.
She laid next to me, pulling me into her arms after removing her shirt. I was helpless, I was a total and complete puddle as she pulled me in close. I never even noticed that my mouth instinctively opened for her teat, I never noticed that I was already suckling. She held my head firmly, occasionally pressing it in deeper and deeper as I innocently suckled away, letting her milk wash down my throat like a sweet nectar given to me by a goddess. And then…I heard her.
“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” I squeaked once. “That’s right you are, a good little girl who uses her diapers like she’s supposed to, who suckles her binky like she’s supposed to.”
She and I both felt my body twitch at those words.
“Shhhhhhh….it’s okay little one. Just listen to my words…just listen…and obey.”
I can’t move. I can’t stop suckling. I can’t even open my eyes. Wrapped in a blanket, an already wet diaper and swaddled so lovingly in her arms, I didn’t even want to move. ‘I’m just too liddle to do things on my own’ I thought.
Dependency is not something most people enjoy. This is the do it yourself generation, the be your own hero world. I’ve had lovers in the past tell me it’s okay to need them, to be clingy. It’s okay to be high maintenance. They were giving me permission, and they could take it away just as easily.
But…mommy, she simply accepted it. Accepted me for who I am, what I am. She rarely says “it’s okay to be clingy” because it doesn’t need to be said, because I don’t need permission to simply be who I am. There are people who prefer independence, who aren’t ready to settle down and want to be polyamorous, having multiple casual partners. There are people who never want to get married, who want a career over love.
I respect them, but I am not one of those people.
“That’s right little one, you love doing what mommy tells you, don’t you?” I nod slightly, without losing my rhythm nursing. “And today you were a very good girl, weren’t you?” Again, I nod.
“Day or night, at home or out shopping, it just feels so good to use your diapers, doesn’t it? To not hold back, to let go. You NEED your diapers,” she emphasized that word…need. Apart from being a dependent kind of person, I also don’t mind enjoying that dependency in controlled circumstances. In this case, her words were like hypnotic flashes all over my brain, telling me, urging me to obey, to listen and to obey.
“Good girls use their diapers for everything, you NEED your diapers,” there it is again. Need. I need my diapers. I need them, that’s all I can think. My head is flying, lost to the depths of euphoria, sinking slowly into an empty abyss of my own visually abstract thoughts. “Even in public, even at the store…you need your diapers.”
I gasp, letting go of her teat for a brief moment as my intoxicated mind acts of its own accord. My glazed over eyes tell her that I’ve fallen so deeply down the rabbit hole, even as I press myself to her lips, kissing her with a fever dream of passion and ferocity. And soon, my body goes back down, switching to the other teat. “Goooood girl,” she coos, a little louder.
A trickle of pee escaped me as she pressed me back into her breasts. When sober, if I concentrate, I can hold it back if I really want to or need to. But…when I get like this, when I feel so tiny and helpless in her arms, when I’m so high from the pot that I can barely move, I can’t. There is no more holding it, front or back, and she takes great care to nurture that loss of control.
“Didn’t it feel so good to make a stinky diaper in the store?” Without even thinking, I nodded. I know what I felt, I know what was happening in my head earlier that day, that I was scared and anxious. I may have felt the twinges of being little, but my anxiety was shouting from a megaphone. “And you wanna do that all the time, don’t you? Diapers are just so much easier than that mean ol potty.”
I felt her hand reach around to my back side, gently rubbing up and down the center of my padding, “Especially for messy diapers.”
That time I had to cringe, not because of what she said, not because it was wrong or inaccurate, but because of what else was happening down below. The throbbing and aching behind steel, and I feel my padded hands move to the front of my diaper, unable to feel or do much of anything through all the thick, fluffy encasing.
Her hand replaced mine in the front, “and no need for any of those naughty adult thoughts anymore. Such a good girl wearing her cage, staying tiny and soft in her diaper. It fills you with such…‘pleasure’, doesn’t it?”
And there it was, the P word. I am done, I am so done. Every last ounce of my adulthood faded away with that one, simple word. A little behavior conditioning and some loving encouragement has turned that word from an ordinary series of letters into something almost magical.
“It FILLS you with so much PLEASURE to mess your diaper…you need your diapers so much and it feels SO good to just let go. You want to do it all the time, you need to do it. You need your diapers to be wet, and stinky, even in public. ESPECIALLY in public.”
She kept repeating it over and over: I need my diapers, I need to wet them, I need to mess them. And soon, I was repeating it. Not aloud, but somewhere in the corners of my universe, I was repeating them. Over and over they flew through the empty crevices of my brain, scribing themselves into my memory forever like the proverbial ten commandments. Indeed, this wasn’t just hypnosis, this wasn’t just the power of suggestion, it was a full blown religious experience and my mommy had become my goddess.
Soon, I was fading. She had already replaced her teat with my pacifier, and she simply watched as my eyes sunk lower and lower, as I lost consciousness. Without ever stopping, without ever even pausing with her commanding and hypnotic words, she tucked me in to my crib. I don’t even feel the headphones slip on as she finally stops, but her words simply continue on.
I feel nothing, I am empty, I am without thought. The words swirled around in my head, mixing in to every aspect of my brain as her words become my reality. I only barely stir in my sleep from a soft kiss on my binky, and with that, she closed the blinds, turned on the white noise behind my headphones, and pulled the side of my crib up.