18+ only! 100% NSFW! Dedicated to age play, spanking, domestic discipline, corporal punishment, medical fetishism, and, of course, beautiful women in diapers. If you like what you see here, leave a comment or drop me a line at: parkerlongabaugh@yahoo.ca

Sunday, January 29, 2012

The Gift


My friend Jamie requested “a really embarrassing story” for her birthday. Be careful what you wish for…
This is a dark, messy, Kafkaesque tale of forced regression and very public ABDL humiliation. It is, at best, semi -consensual. It operates according to an internal, nightmare logic, not according to reality or actual human behavior.
The Gift
     Poor little princess. You thought this was just a game, didn’t you? You thought it was all role-play; psycho-sexual penance for your bratty behavior—private punishments for public misbehavior. Your tantrums are legendary; how many friends have look at me and chuckled “she’s quite a handful…” with a knowing smile… never imagining how sweet and submissive you could be when we got home…
     After I spanked and diapered your little bottom, anyway.
     Do you think about how people would react if they could see you at home, crawling around in your little diapers, sucking your pacifier? What your co-workers would think if they heard their ice-queen colleague sobbing in the corner with her little girl dress pinned up and her diaper tugged down to her knees, revealing a red, spanked bottom? And what do you think your stuck-up, rich-bitch friends would say if they could smell one of your stinky, poopy diapers?
     Well, soon you won’t have to wonder anymore. What’s that? You had no idea that diapers 24/7 at home was just phase one? And what’s phase two? Remember that special present I promised you for your birthday? The one I said you were going to remember for the rest of your life? Well, that was no lie, sweetheart. But it’s not the sort of present I can slide into a box and wrap up in a bow. It’s a little more complicated than that…
     Did you recognize the waitress at lunch? That’s right; six weeks ago you yelled at her in front of everyone when your dinner got overcooked. In fact that’s just the most recent incident… you’ve been rude to her before. Which is why she was so eager to slip that secret ingredient I gave her into your lunch today… Ha ha, calm down, honey! It’s already in your system; it’s too late to do anything about it… though it might not be too soon for you to start feeling the effects. Do you feel it yet? That sharp, gurgling cramp in your tummy? The doctor who sold it to me assured me it was the most potent laxative on the market—guaranteed to cause a strong need to go without a lot of painful cramping… just a lot of embarrassing tummy-rumbling and a lot of gas leading up to the big explosion… Oh, not to worry, sweetheart; you’re a big girl, I’m sure you’ll make it home…
     …And if you don’t, well, cheer up: if walking home sobbing with a big, poopy load in your pants is the most embarrassing thing that happens to you today, well, you can probably consider yourself lucky.
     Let’s take the scenic route through the park. I take your hand, squeezing it tightly as we pass the public toilets. You eyeball the building longingly, but I know you wouldn’t dare, even if you wanted too… You don’t was to get a spanking when you get home, and besides, I know you’re getting turned on you naughty girl.
     We walk slowly through the park, your dainty hand enfolded in mine. I smile and savor the air in the trees, the warmth of the sun, the flawless blue bowl of the sky… not to mention the way you begin to squirm and turn pale beside me. You touch your stomach lightly… Oh, what a loud tummy gurgle! Your pale cheeks color red and you bite your lip, knowing it’s just the beginning.
     By the time we reach the opposite side of the park, your desperation is becoming obvious; you alternately prance in place and double over to stick your butt out. You force yourself ramrod straight and squeeze your butt-cheeks together. Your tummy gurgles loudly, so loudly I can hear it clearly. We pass the final set of public toilets. You unconsciously begin pulling toward it. Transferring your tiny hand to my left side, I swat you across the bottom with my right palm. “Don’t even think about it, young lady,” I whisper, tugging you along and swatting your bottom nonchalantly. “You know I won’t hesitate to bare your bottom in public and spank you right here as soon as you get back,” I remind you sternly, swatting your tushy once more. You yelp and prance in place, redoubling your efforts to keep from soiling yourself.
     By the time we’re on our block, you’re both ecstatic to be so close to home and ready to cry since you’re so close to pooping your pants in public. No longer concerning yourself with keeping your desperation a secret, you prance and shimmy and gyrate beside me, pressing your free hand against your backside as you “OO!” and “AH!” beside me. You’re either oblivious to the stares and chuckles your little dance routine is drawing or you’re just beyond caring... The stomach rumbles are growing louder, and you lost control of your gas about five minutes ago.  At first they were just cute little quacking toots… but now you’re ripping out some long and loud farts, aren’t you? You’re so cute when you blush!
     Finally, we’re back in our building. Home free, right? Not so fast: First we have to ride the elevator up to our floor. The elevator is old and rickety and (wouldn’t you know it?) almost as slow as riding a turtle up 15 flights. I back you into the corner and kiss and caress you, grinning as your arousal wrestles internally with your desperation for control of your body. You have no choice at all but to sit back and experience the dueling sensations I kiss you and nibble your ear, kneading and massaging your tightly clenched butt cheeks.  Sweating, you groan and mew and press yourself against me, exhausted from your ordeal.
     We arrive on out floor. I support you as you hobble down the hall, allowing yourself a tight smile. You made it!
     Well… not quite. I pin you to the wall outside the door. You emit a groan of protest. “Hush,” I command, pressing against you. You struggle gently, but in your weakened state, it’s easy for me to gather your slender writs into my hands and restraining them to the wall above us. “What’s the matter, princess?” I whisper, kissing your throat. You squirm and groan in erotic discomfort. “What do you need?”
     “I gotta go potty, daddy,” you blurt. “So bad!”
     “Baby gotta go poopy?” I ask, giving your bottom a squeeze.
     You blush. “Yeah,” you lisp quietly.
     “’Yeah’ what?” I demand, giving you a spank and making you quiver.
     You lock eyes with me and force yourself to say “I-I gotta go poopy, daddy…”
     “Don’t want to make a messy in your pants?” I ask with a grin.
     You shake your head firmly.
     “Is that because you know I’m gonna diaper that cute little ass as soon as you’re finished?” I give her a quick kiss. “Is it because you know it’s the last time you’re going to be using a potty for a while?” I whisper, just barely managing not to add: “even longer than you think.”
    You nod. “That and cause I don’t wanna get spanked,” you say with a cute, embarrassed smile.
     I chuckle and kiss your forehead. “OK honey; I’ll let you go.” I ease off you and you instantly jump into position in front of the door, hopping from foot to foot in desperation. “But I want you to promise me you’re really going to savor the experience,” I smile, punctuating the remark with another open hand swat to your ass.
     “Yes, I will, I promise!” you blurt, desperately potty dancing in place, tottering on the brink between blissful relief and total, infantile humiliation.
     I open the door. We step inside. The lights go on:
     SURPRISE!!!
     I told you lunch was just the beginning.
      You gape in astonishment, the shock alone almost causing you to load your pants like a baby on the spot. You somehow manage to regain your control, pressing a hand against your butt-crack for good measure.
     Standing before you is everyone you know: Your family, your snooty rich-bitch friends, everyone from work from your boss to the clerks from the mail room… I even managed to dig up a few of your friends from high-school on Facebook. They all wanted to come in for your party. Ha ha, no, not your birthday, honey! I told you that was only the beginning!
     Finally, you notice the banner. You gasp, your fiery blush turning pale so quickly I fear you may faint!
     Up above, in large letters, the banner reads: Happy Un-Toilet Training!
     “What?” You stammer, unable to process the nightmarish turn of events. I don’t even give you a chance: soon we’re walking through the crowd, each one of them an old face, all cheering and laughing at you and offering you congratulations.
     “Congratulations on going back to diapers!” your best friend laughs snidely. “They really suit your personality!”
     “I think it takes a lot of guts to admit to the world that you want to wear diapers and be a big baby,” your rival from work sneers sweetly, “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all behind you 100%.”
     “Quite so,” your boss blusters pompously from behind his push-broom moustache. “Our entire operation is in full support of you and your, er… federally protected choice of lifestyle…” he trailed off for a moment before continuing, “and I, uh, assure you it will not affect your position one bit. Your fiancé has explained it to us quite, uh… thoroughly.”
     “’Lifestyle?’” you mutter to yourself as I move you along to the next person.
     “Sweetheart,” your mother says emotionally, “at first I was against your decision to go back into diapers. But when your fiancé sat down and told us the whole story, well,” her eyes twinkled, “How could I say no? Good luck, honey bunch.”
     You father ambles up, beaming at you as proudly as her must have when the first time he laid eyes on you. “Well, my little kumquat,” he says, “back to diapers again, eh?” you smile weakly and nod, trying to get him to stop, but he’s in full remembrance mode. “Yes, as I recall, you were never too far away from diapers as long as you lived beneath our roof. You used to get so mad at your mother for hanging your nighttime diapers out on the clothesline in the back yard. Wore them right through high school, am I right pumpkin?”
     “George!” your mother utters, “You know full well I had her trained completely in time for the prom!”
     The crowd roars with laughter. You shift and squirm, and not just because you’re desperate to go anymore.
     “Of course,” your father says warmly. “What I’m trying to say sweetheart is that your mother and I love you, even if you are going back into diapers. Again.”
     And now the moment of truth. Can you feel the air going still? The crowd parts, revealing the centerpiece of the evening. You gasp in horror and shake your head.
     “No!” You cry, “No, PLEASE! You can’t make me do that, please, anything but that!” you beg and plead as I drag you toward the center of the room, and toward the bright pink, adult-sized potty sitting, majestically ridiculous, in the middle of the crowd.
     “Well, you still have to go, don’t you?” I prod, giving your straining buns a squeeze. I turn to address the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming tonight to Jamie’s Adult Baby Coming Out Party!”
     This remark is greeted with delighted applause. You cringe; every deep, dark, “public exposure” fantasy you ever had never prepared you for this.
     “Most of you know Jamie as a tough as nails lawyer or business woman, or a sleek, fashionable young lady, or a great friend and daughter… But how many of you know that there’s nothing Jamie loves more than putting on a big diaper, sucking a bottle and watching Spongebob Squarepants at the end of a hard day?”
     The crowd titters. You blush and fume.
     “Jamie is an Adult Baby, folks. Most of you may have only seen quick glimpses of this side of her, but trust me I know that little Jamie here’s never as happy as she is sitting in a dirty diaper…”
     The crowd roars with laughter. You stew and re-double your efforts to keep your pants clean.
     “This is a hard decision for her, as I’m sure you all understand,” I smile, “but she doesn’t think she should have to hide what makes her happy. Who agrees?”
     A cheer goes up. I turn to you with a smile. Bending down, I lift the lid on the potty. “So now, I present to all of you; Jamie’s last independent act of toilet training.”
     You look at me, then at the crowd. Thoughts of refusal rush through your head, but the need is so strong, and you’re so weakened by the day’s events that you find yourself unable to resist. Fumblingly, you undo your belt and pants as you rush over, as fast as your tightly clenched bottom will allow. You hike your jeans down, baring your butt for the whooping crowd. Spinning, you practically fall back, slamming your rear-end onto the potty.
     You explode. Right there, sitting on your oversized, big girl potty, in front of everyone you know, you blast a torrent of mushy poop, accompanied by an almost inhuman farting sound that echoes off the plastic bowl. Your embarrassment hits fever pitch as the stench hits your nostrils, but you can’t help yourself from emitting a triumphant cry of relief: “AHHHH!”
     Another noisy, flatulent mess goes splattering into the bowl. “Ah” becomes “OH!” as the gooey mudslide comes farting out of you uncontrollably. You feel every eye on; you hear every snicker and gasp and see the gathered crowd fan their faces and wrinkle their noses at you as the smell emerges. And you want to stop: you squeeze your sphincter closed, clench your buttocks tight, cross your feet, and will your body to stop humiliating you in front of everyone. For a long silence you sit and sweat and moan and sob, trying desperately to maintain your dignity.
     But you can’t fight nature. Your stomach gurgles and you screech as you lose control once more. “Uh!” you grunt involuntarily as another humiliating, gassy explosion nearly lifts you off the bowl. And for the next five minutes, you conduct an apocalyptic symphony of plops, farts, grunts, moans and splatters; all while perched on your pretty pink throne like a princess.
     The crowd whoops, laughs and applauds. You sit in a daze with your pants and underpants around your ankles. I help you to your feet, pants and panties still at half-mast. “Hold still, honey,” I say gently. You yelp as I press the cold baby-wipe between your butt-cheeks and proceed to wipe your messy little tushy. You give me an outraged look, followed by another surprised squawk as I repeat the process with a fresh wipe.
     And there you stand: in front of everyone you know, pants and panties around your ankles, freshly cleaned bottom on full display, so exhausted/shocked you don’t even resist when I strip you down to your birthday suit. A changing mat is laid down on the floor, and you shoot me a panicked look as you’re lowered down onto your back. Out comes your diaper bag… you stir, beginning to protest. I silence you with a big pacifier. You blush and groan when the baby oil comes into view, anticipating and dreading what’s about to come. “Turn over,” I command, giving your thigh a little smack. You flip over, presenting your bare backside to me and everyone. I squirt the oil across your back and rub it in firmly, grinning as you moan beneath me.
     Smiling, I take the oil and squirt it onto your bare bottom, squeezing a fat line of it down the crack and making you squeal. You try to suppress your arousal, but it’s no use; as I work the oil into your bottom, kneading and rubbing your cheeks, you begin to moan and groan suggestively. Your thighs part, and I can tell that you’re getting wet.
     You turn over. I repeat the process on your front. You melt beneath my touch as I make your breasts glisten, paying extra attention to your nipples. I work my way down your tummy to your neatly trimmed pussy. I work
     I pull away quickly, making you yelp in frustration. Taking your ankles, I lift your legs into the air, revealing your oily butt. I give it a blast of powder and pat it in firmly. After sliding a big disposable diaper under you, I lower your legs and repeat the process on your front. You squirm your bare butt uselessly on the open diaper as I pat the talc into you delicate little pussy. Despite your groan of protest, I pull the diaper up tight between your legs and seal you in.
     I pull you to a sitting position. Dazed, you rest on your well-padded bottom, eyes slightly glazed, sucking passively on your soother. The diaper is huge and crinkly and comes up all the way to your belly button. The crowd gathers and watches with laughter in their eyes. I pull a frilly pink party dress over your head. A matching bonnet is the finishing touch. I stand back and help you to your feet.
     The audience explodes into applause, wolf-whistles, and laughter. You really are the belle of the ball, princess: The dress accentuates your womanly figure while at the same time making you look utterly infantile. Your pretty legs are entirely bare, calling attention both to your sexy curves and the big, bulky diaper bulging out well below your dress. Framed between your bonnet and your pacifier, your eyes are huge and pleading. You’ve never looked so completely, helplessly beautiful. Taking your hand, I lift it to my lips and kiss the back, grinning as you squirm in discomfort. I turn to address the audience.
     “Let’s all give a big hand for Big Baby Jamie!”
     You whimper behind your pacifier as everyone applauds. A shiver runs up your spine and I smile, knowing that beneath your total humiliation you’re still achingly aroused.
     “Now I want you all to know that this will in no way effect the rest of Jamie’s life,” I assure the audience. “She will still attend work and handle all of her old duties—her assistant, Ms. Hawthorne has kindly agreed to handle all on-the-job feeding and diaper changing.”
     You shoot your assistant a fearful look. She grins smugly and waves in your direction, you never did treat her too well, and from the looks of it, she relishes the opportunity for a little pay-back.
     “Jamie has been kind enough to donate all of her big girl clothes to various women’s shelters,” you shook me a stupefied, angry stare as I point toward a stack of garbage bags in the corner, bulging with your expensive designer wardrobe. “But don’t worry, baby,” I say with a smile. Taking you by the hand, I lead you toward your office. “Your favorite AB outfitters have given us a huge discount.”
     “On what?” you mumble around your soother.
     “Everything,” I say, throwing the door open.
     You gasp. Even after all you’ve already been through, the shock of seeing your grown-up sanctuary transformed into a fully functioning adult nursery is enough to make you faint. Your desk replaced with a giant crib, the beautiful furniture you took such time in selecting replaced with a playpen, a changing table—not to mention a wardrobe packed with footed PJ’s, onsies, dresses, nighties, and every other piece of baby apparel available in your size. Next to that, a dresser packed with all the cloth and disposable diapers a girl like you could ever need, plus plastic panties and covers. You emit a choking sob, unable to believe how completely you’ve been stripped of your womanhood.
     You stand passively in the middle of the room, a big, adult baby girl in her nursery, surrounded by familiar faces. Embarrassment weighs you down; your life has seemingly become a never-ending series of humiliations.
     And, in spite of it all, you’re still so powerfully aroused it’s all you can do to stop yourself from reaching down the front of your diaper and bringing yourself to a powerful climax. You’re sure there’s no way it could possibly be more humiliating than this.
     And then your tummy begins to gurgle again. Your guts cramp, your bowels quiver, and suddenly, you’ve got to go again—right now! You double over and grab your tummy with a moan. Once again a low gurgling emerges.
     “Something the matter, dear?” I enquire sweetly, knowing full well what the problem is.
     Stepping in place frantically you shoot me a desperate look. I take the pacifier from your mouth. “Daddy,” you whine desperately, reaching back to grab your buttocks through your thick pamper, “I gotta go poopy!”
     “Ok, stay calm, sweetie. Let’s get you to the potty.”
     But there’s no chance of getting to the potty—not this time. You double over and groan. Passing gas loudly, you begin messing your pretty white diapers.  Squealing helplessly, you illicit a big, messy fart, filling the seat of your diapers with a massive gush of mushy poop, drawing gasps and laughter from the crowd. Bending your knees, you stick out your bulging, diapered bottom and grunt; you fill your diapers to capacity with a flatulent accompaniment. Behind you your diaper inflates and sags noticeably, the seat growing stained and lumpy.
     You finish with a grunt, a fart, and a sigh. Straightening, you peek back over your shoulder at the seat of your massively messy diaper, which bulges grotesquely from underneath your party-dress. I can’t help but laugh: from the waist up you’re an adult baby princess, delicate and beautiful in your pretty pink finery. But down below, you’re nothing but a stinky baby in a really messy diaper. Reaching out, I pat the seat of your poopy pampers firmly. “Phew sweetie! You stink!” I chide good-naturedly, leading you over to the changing table.
    “Upsie-daisy!” I say, taking you under your arms and lifting you like a doll. You gasp, then wince as I set you down on the table, your messy diaper squishing audibly beneath you. You blush and squirm, and I smile, knowing you find being on your changing table both mortifying and deliciously arousing.
     I gently push you onto your back, savoring your expression as the mess shifts in your diaper. And then, as you squirm helplessly in your dirty diaper, squishing the mess around your entire backside and up your back, I undo the tapes and fold down the diaper. The entire room cries out at the sight of the massive mess, then gags as the smell hits them. Ignoring them, I take the box of wipes and begin the process of cleaning off your incredibly messy hiney. We lock eyes; you blush, unbearably ashamed and uncontrollably aroused. I know you want to look away—but you can’t.
     Finally, I have your little butt cleaned-off. Slipping a diaper under you, I soon have you powdered and diapered up tight, all clean and fresh. I pull you into sitting position on the edge—you look so adorable with your legs dangling off the table. I pull you close and pull you into a hug. With a kiss, I pick you up, carry you across the room, and deposit you in your crib. “Rest,” I say quietly, kissing you again. “Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”
     I turn and usher the crowd out. You clutch the bars, peering out at me longingly. “Pleasant dreams, princess, I say, turning out the lights behind me.



     Happy (slightly late) Birthday Baby Jamie. Thanks so much for this great storyline, and for sharing with everyone else.
     I had a lot of fun with this one, and if the response is positive, I may do a whole series: Baby Jamie on the job, Baby Jamie gets married, Baby Jamie’s honeymoon etc.

9 comments:

  1. Another fun story from you! I enjoyed this quite a bit, and certainly wouldn't mind seeing more in the series. Great job!

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  2. Thanks Princess, glad you liked it.

    And let me just say that I love your new captions and everyone should head over to your blog (pottypants.blogspot.com/)and check them out right now.

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  3. I agree, this is a wonderful story! I really hope you do some more in the series

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    1. Thanks!

      I'd love to do more. I always have so many damn ideas, it's just a matter of finding time for them.

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  4. Please do more, this was a fantastic story!

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  5. WOW FANTASTIC Hope there will be more to come I love it.

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  6. This was so fun, and so well crafted. I love all the humiliation.

    -Kalika Gold, VirginWhore

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    1. Thanks! Glad you liked it. I hope you check out some of my other stories if you get a chance.

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    2. Your story really got to me in a rather strange way - I had to fill my knickers to relieve the effect.

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