Written in 90 minutes, this started as a one line premise which is why there’s no plot, no erotica, just a brief exploration of what is ostensibly a Diaper Dimension situation. I didn’t originally tag it such because there’s nothing explicitly DD about it; change a couple of elements and it’s a short story that could be native to a number of worlds.
Kirsty knew all about blowouts. Anybody with small children knew. It wasn’t something anybody was ever taught, you learned about them the hard way. A blowout wouldn’t happen while a child was safely tucked away in a cot, secure, within easy reach of a change of clothes, a washing machine, a clean diaper. No, blowouts happened in public, when it was least convenient, the child in ignorant bliss of the horror it had just caused.
The weird thing was that friends didn’t realise the problem. “Oh dear, someone needs Mommy,” they’d declare, confident that Mommy could cope, would quickly and efficiently return the gorgeous tot to full cuteness. It was the parent that had to deal with the mess, the way the explosion had shot up out of the back of the diaper, somehow leaked at the legs, ruined the tights, the diaper shirt, the pretty dress.
Experienced parents knew to take a change of clothing, as well clean diapers. The cafe, the village hall, the doctor’s waiting room; they were someone else’s problem, they had staff to clean them. Kirsty had raised three children and they had all been her problem, their comfort and cleanliness something she had to provide, and even if they didn’t know what they’d done, she did, and she had to deal with it.
So when someone else was the parent, Kirsty reflected that she should at the minimum not be dismayed. It wasn’t her problem, she wouldn’t have to replace the soiled clothing, gently wipe the skin, pretend this was a normal run of the mill diaper change. Unfortunately she felt only distress, the realisation that this was a full blowout, and that the Mommy hadn’t even noticed.
“Ewwww,” she said, “That’s smelly!”
It was a white lie. The food was somehow treated; extra bulk, less smell, same awful stickiness. In a way it helped, made filling a diaper a more private function, fewer people sniffing loudly and declaring, “Oh dear, someone needs Mommy.”
Alice turned and looked at Kirsty. “Oh dear,” she said sympathetically, “Does someone need Mommy?”
Kirsty groaned. No shit someone needed ‘Mommy’. She knew better than to say that, three different punishments would come from that single retort. Instead she forced a smile to join the frown on her face, looked up at Alice and provided a carefully neutral reply, “Mommy…”
Alice did that adult thing of pausing to change expression, going for the sympathetic look in an obvious ‘I’d better show sympathy’ way. She turned back to her friend Julie, begged forgiveness for a moment and walked over to where Kirsty was strapped immobile in a push chair. Undoing the straps long enough to lean Kirsty forward, she flipped up the back of the short dress and immediately wrinkled her nose.
“Holy mother of…” she exclaimed, before her voice trailed off. She looked across to Julie and called out, “You would not believe this! It’s a full scale blowout. We’re going to have to find a bathroom.”
Kirsty knew all about blowouts. She hadn’t expected to suffer one, be the subject of that humiliating call across the park, see her friend Tracey look across in horror. Tracey knew all about blowouts too, and had never even had children. Sometimes people learn about them the very hard way.
Carefully standing up Tracey started to waddle towards Kirsty. The look of sympathy on her face was genuine, and Kirsty knew she wanted to provide comfort and commiserations. She just didn’t want them, was embarrassed enough already, just wanted to get clean.
“Tracey! Come back here.” demanded Julie. Tracey stopped, looked at Kirsty in consternation, clearly torn between friendship and the fear of disobedience. Friendship doesn’t come with punishments though so when she turned and unsteadily made her way back to Julie, Kirsty silently shared thanks.
The world turned around her, and Kirsty could no longer see her friend. Alice had wheeled her around and was pushing her determinedly up the path. “Come on Sweetie,” she said, “Lets get you clean and beautiful again.”
Kirsty knew all about beautiful too. This wasn’t something she had ever claimed, and although the occasional unguarded look on Alice’s face showed genuine affection and the love of a mother, she couldn’t believe a thick diaper and pigtails made her beautiful now. Sure, the portal had changed her body, the tired lines and stretch marks of a well used body in its forties gone, replaced by a beach ready body that looked - and felt - in its late teens. Her new body’s lithe youthfulness was spoiled by poor muscle definition and wide, broad hips, which she’d decided were worth the chance to feel young again, but she was being treated as even younger, nearer 18 months than 18 years.
But beautiful? No. Not with the freckles she’d somehow acquired, even if they did help her face match the outfits she was forced to wear.
“Why the frown, gorgeous?” asked Alice. “You’re much prettier when you smile, it really lights up your eyes. Julie says she loves your face when you smile, the dimples and freckles make you just adorable.”
Kirsty had heard this before, so many times she’d lost count. She’d lost count of many things, repeated humiliations, public embarrassments and private mortification. Her memory was good, mentally she was in surprisingly good health, adapting well to what had once been so strange a situation. She didn’t seem to be aging here, her body retaining its youthful elegance, no matter how many years passed, the promise of the advertisement kept, and that promise extended to her brain, keeping her sharp and aware.
Sadly aware. The advert hadn’t mentioned that her young body would not be under her control, that forced adoption by someone claiming to be her new Mommy was inevitable, that her perpetual youth would be lived in perpetual babyhood. Yes, she was aware of that.
A good memory still loses track of the prosaic, the things each day holds, the forced feedings, the mornings trapped in a playpen and the afternoon naps. Even the changing of a diaper becomes mundane, an uncomfortable embarrassment replaced by another, a temporary respite from dismal damp.
“Here we are,” gushed Alice, pointlessly telling her charge they’d reached the bathroom. Kirsty knew this building, knew the flap inside that folded down from the wall, knew she fit easily onto it and that she couldn’t undo the strap that would hold her in place. She’d lost count of the diaper changes even just here, the trips to the park seldom short enough for her to stay clean throughout.
Kirsty wasn’t incontinent. At least, she hadn’t been. Giving birth had weakened her control but she had still had it, just the occasional emergency dash to the nearest toilet. Coming through the portal fixed even that, and for a few hours she’d revelled in the choice she had to delay those bathroom breaks, no longer hostage to the nearest facilities. It was a naive joy, replaced by a permanent delay. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used a toilet, never needed the facilities. She didn’t know if she had control any more, after days, weeks and months of only using a diaper the body stops worrying about such an irrelevance.
Strapped to the padded shelf Kirsty looked up and reached out to Alice. She hated playing the cutesy toddler but it made Alice happy, and a happy Alice treated her much better.
“No Darling,” apologised Alice, “Mommy has to get you clean first. We can cuddle afterwards.”
Kirsty lowered her arms again, her simple point made, and really she was glad Alice had that priority. The park path wasn’t smooth and every bump, every little jolt had transmitted through the pushchair into her diaper, reminding her its revolting contents, spreading it further. Her unwelcome, repetitious and intimate familiarity with being soiled had inured her somewhat to the situation but she still hated it, wanted it gone. She felt the diaper shirt being unfastened between her legs, her tights pulled down, then her shoes being removed and the tights taken off completely.
“Oh my,” sighed Alice, “you can’t wear those again.” She pulled out a small plastic bag, normally used for dirty diapers, and put the filthy clothing in it. She unstrapped Kirsty, lifted her up and stripped the dress and onesie off her.
Kirsty stood there, wearing just a heavy diaper and pale blue ribbons, in her hair. She watched Alice examine the clothing, saw for herself the horrible state of her onesie, prayed it wouldn’t be put back on her. Alice fortunately reached the same conclusion, thrust it into the same bag containing the tights.
“Even your dress is dirty, but it’s just a small patch by the hem. I’ll wash that down Sweetie, or you’ll have to go home in just your diaper.”
Kirsty knew better than to comment on her clothing, but allowed a quiet smile to show her satisfaction with the compromise. The day was warm and, while she was permanently in diapers, and she knew that in the pushchair her dress would ride up and reveal her shame to passers-by, she still wanted it on, even the smallest concession to covering her diaper was worthwhile. But first, she wanted a clean diaper.
“What’s wrong Kirsty?” begged Alice, obvious concern lining her face. Kirsty realised with horror that she’d let her true feelings show in her facial expression, right as she’d been mentally berating herself for falling into the mental trap of wanting a diaper, rather than just wanting to be taken out of this dirty one.
Kirsty recovered fast. She’d learned well, knew how important it was to keep Alice on her side, knew the buttons to push. “Sticky!” she sniffed, concentrating on not saying any more than that, and especially not asking to be changed.
Alice melted a little, reached forward and gave Kirsty a quick hug around the shoulders. “Awww, you poor thing,” she acknowledged, “Lets get you out of that horrible diaper.”
For once the pair shared a moment, full unanimity, all guile and pretence unnecessary as they looked at each other in agreement.
A swift change, Alice well practiced, soft wipes quickly leaving Kirsty’s skin smooth and pristine, a light dusting of powder and clean padding, firmly fastened, securely sealing Kirsty into a gently scented leakproof prison that she knew would soon be a torment once more.
“There,” celebrated Alice, pulling Kirsty’s dress back on and giving her the promised hug, “all clean and beautiful.”
Sure, thought Kirsty. Until the next time. She knew there’d be a next time, it was inevitable, unavoidable, one of the few certainties in her new life.
Yes, Kirsty knew all about blowouts.