regressionschool

[regressionschool]

magic floaty boxes

The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above as the elevator doors glided open with a pleasant ding. A bustling department store sprawled out on every floor, filled with the smells of perfume, coffee, and warm pretzels from the food court downstairs. People shuffled into the elevator, clutching shopping bags, lattes, strollers, and smartphones, their chatter a quiet background hum.

And right in the center of it all, stood Daddy and his Little.

She was dressed adorably in a sunshine-yellow romper with puffy sleeves, the hem barely brushing the tops of her thick, pastel-print diaper peeking out beneath. Her hair was done up in two neat pigtails, tied off with ribbons that matched her outfit. She clutched Daddy’s hand with one hand and held her favorite stuffie—Mr. Wibbles, a floppy-eared bunny—in the other. Every step she took was accompanied by a distinct crinkle-crinkle, her diaper padding making her waddle slightly, even as she bounced up and down on her heels with uncontainable excitement.

The elevator was already nearly full, but Daddy guided her gently in, murmuring, “Come on, sweet pea, let’s make some room.” She wiggled herself between a woman holding a shopping bag full of baby clothes and a grumpy-looking businessman on his phone.

As the doors slid shut, she gave Daddy’s hand a tight squeeze and suddenly chirped, in a voice far louder than anyone expected:

“I wuv elevators! They're like magic floaty boxes!”

Her enthusiasm echoed off the mirrored walls. Several people blinked. A woman stifled a chuckle. Someone in the back snorted quietly. The businessman’s phone call paused mid-sentence.

The Little bounced again, her diaper rustling loud and proud in the confined space, drawing even more curious glances. Unbothered and beaming with pure joy, she turned toward the strangers and declared:

“Guess what! I made potties in my pants right now!”

The man nearest the buttons choked audibly on his coffee, the lid nearly popping off from his startled grip. A teenage girl near the corner quickly turned her face away, shoulders shaking as she tried desperately not to burst into laughter. Her friend elbowed her with a whisper, “Shh! Stop it! It’s adorable…”

The Little just giggled, completely unaffected by the reactions, eyes wide with pride. She leaned up against Daddy’s leg, tugging gently on his sleeve.

Daddy, perfectly calm and unfazed by the announcement, ruffled her hair with a small, warm smile. “That’s why you wear your special pants, sweetheart,” he said gently, his voice the epitome of loving patience.

She beamed up at him as if he’d just declared her a princess. “Yup! I’m super good at using my diaper!” she said proudly, her little voice practically glowing. “I didn’t even try to hold it!”

Another crinkle echoed as she shifted her weight, clearly pleased with herself, the warmth of her soggy padding pressing softly against her. She gave a little bounce for emphasis, her diaper sagging slightly with each hop.

The elevator was silent but for the mechanical hum as it glided upward. Some passengers were frozen, uncertain where to look. Others stared openly, fascinated or amused. There was a kind of tension—awkward, confused, but undeniably curious.

Finally, a woman standing near the back, dressed in smart slacks and a lavender blouse, spoke up with a smile that cut through the quiet.

“Well, someone is clearly doing a wonderful job at being little,” she said warmly, looking from Daddy to the proud, bouncy girl.

Daddy turned slightly and offered a polite smile. “Thank you. She’s really embraced her role lately. We’ve been working on full regression for a while now, and she’s doing better than I ever hoped.”

The woman nodded approvingly, eyes twinkling. “You can tell. It takes a lot of dedication and care to guide someone so fully into that headspace. She’s lucky to have you.”

At that, the Little lit up even more, tugging on Daddy’s hand again. “Didja hear that? She says I’m lucky!” she said, puffing out her chest with a proud giggle. “I am lucky! Daddy even picks out all my clothes and changes my soggy pants so I don’t hafta think at all!”

There were a few surprised murmurs from the other passengers. A woman whispered something that sounded like, “Honestly? Goals,” before covering her mouth with a grin.

Daddy crouched slightly, eye-level with his Little. He gently tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and whispered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, “You make me so proud, munchkin. Every day.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him for a tight, squishy hug, the audible squelch from her diaper drawing more than one raised eyebrow. Her grin was pure sunshine as she whispered back, “I made the whole thing warm just for you.”

Ding!

The elevator reached its destination with a cheerful chime, and the doors slid open again to the bright, busy second floor of the store—children’s apparel, toys, and furniture. It smelled faintly of baby powder and soft plush animals.

The Little didn’t wait. She squealed and skipped out with a joyful waddle, Mr. Wibbles flopping in her arm as she toddled gleefully into the store. Her diaper sagged a bit with each step, obvious and unashamed. She turned back toward the elevator and called out:

“Bye-bye floaty box! Fank you for the ride!”

The woman in the lavender blouse chuckled again. “You’ve done an amazing job,” she told Daddy one last time as he followed his gleeful Little into the store. “It’s so refreshing to see someone so confident in their dynamic. The world needs more Littles who can be this free.”

Daddy inclined his head with a grateful smile. “It’s not always easy, but watching her thrive? That makes everything worth it.”

As the doors began to close behind him, a final chorus of crinkle-crinkle drifted back from the toy aisle, followed by a joyful shout of, “Ooooh! Dinosaurs!”

The elevator descended, returning to its routine—though for a few of the passengers inside, something about that ride left a lingering sense of wonder, and maybe even a little envy.

After all… magic floaty boxes were pretty amazing.

[regressionschool]

You follow them back inside, your heart still fluttering in your chest, cheeks warm and tingling with excitement. The front door swings shut behind you, and it’s only once you're safely back in the house that your partner lets go of your belt loop with a playful tug.

“Ah-ah, don’t hide it now,” they tease. “You’re the one who waddled here in a soggy bottom.”

“I-I’m not that wet,” you mumble, cheeks going warm. You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the soft sag beneath your shorts.

“No? Let’s check.”

Before you can argue, their fingers slide down the back of your shorts, curling under the waistband of your diaper. A firm palm presses against the padded seat, giving you a confident little squeeze. You inhale sharply. The pressure makes the squish so much more real.

“Mmm,” they hum thoughtfully. “A little soggy, but not too bad.”

You swallow, face burning, but then they grin at you—mischievous, sweet, and just a little knowing.

“Still,” they add, “better to get you into a fresh one now, before we go for a ride. Wouldn’t want to have to do a change out in a parking lot again, would we?”

The memory of that very public parking-lot diaper change hits you like a jolt. Your whole face goes crimson. You cover it with both hands and groan.

“That was one time!”

“Uh-huh,” they smirk. “Come on, inside, baby. Let’s get you ready.”

Your diaper’s exposed now—faded stars and moons on the front, slightly swollen between your thighs. The press of it is so comforting, even if you’re blushing a thousand shades of pink.

You expect to be led to the changing mat on the floor, but instead they guide you straight to the couch, patting the cushions.

“Sit, baby.”

You do, and the squish beneath you is immediate—warm, mushy, and just barely damp enough to feel it. You shiver a little. Your partner leans in, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before slipping your shirt up and over your head.

“I’ll grab a fresh diapee and your shortalls,” they say, already halfway to the bedroom. “Be right back!”

You sit there obediently, in nothing but your used diaper, toes curling in the carpet. You can’t help but shift back and forth, the padding squishing noisily each time you move. By the time they come back with the fresh diaper and your clothes, you’re warm all over with anticipation.

“Let’s get this soggy one off ya,” they murmur, lowering you down. The tapes pop one by one. The cool air hits your skin and you let out a tiny breath, completely still as they wipe you clean with practiced care. The tapes peel off with four familiar pops—rip, rip, rip, rip—and your used diaper is folded neatly away, replaced with a thick, fresh one that smells faintly of baby lotion and chamomile. You squirm and shiver slightly as cool powder dusts over you, and the snug, crinkly pressure of the new diaper being taped up pulls a small, content sigh from your lips.

Next come the shortalls—light denim with little embroidered clouds near the hem—and your partner even braids your hair with gentle fingers, tying off the ends with soft pastel ribbons. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: a blushing, babified version of yourself, standing in a fresh crinkly diaper under denim shortalls, hair braided neatly down either side of your head.

“I-I look like a toddler,” you murmur, heart pounding.

Your partner beams. “That’s ‘cause you are, silly goose.” They lean down and kiss your forehead. “My littlest passenger. Now go grab your car trip things while I pack your diaper bag.”

Your blush deepens. “I don’t need a diaper bag…”

But your partner is already rustling through the drawers—stuffing in a few extra diapers, a paci clipped to a string, wipes, powder, and—of course—a change of clothes “just in case.” You try to ignore the warm fizz in your tummy at the sound of the zipper being pulled shut.

Meanwhile, you toddle off to your room, picking out a soft, well-loved stuffy—your favorite one, with one floppy ear—and a picture book with thick pages and colorful farm animals. Perfect to keep you busy on the drive.

By the time you’re back, they’re already holding the diaper bag in one hand and jingling the car keys in the other. “Ready to go for a ride, little one?”

“Uh-huh!” you say, hugging your stuffy close.

Outside, the sun is warmer now, and the car glints softly in the light. Your partner opens the passenger door, and you stare at the seat again, heart racing with excitement. That harness. It looks even better up close. They guide you in gently, making sure your shortalls don’t bunch as you plop down into the seat. You squirm a little, your fresh diaper crinkling loudly as it meets the soft pressure of the cushion.

Then come the straps—first over your shoulders, pulled snug across your chest. Click. Then the lap straps, pulled from either side and joined together with a soft snap. And finally, the lower strap—pulled up between your legs and clipped in at the base, resting firmly against your thickly padded crotch.

You let out a tiny gasp at the feeling—the way it presses in gently, reminding you exactly how little you are, how protected.

Your partner crouches to check the straps, tightening them just a touch more.

“Snug?” they ask softly.

You nod, hugging your stuffy to your chest and flipping open the first page of your book.

They close the door with a soft thunk, and you’re alone for a moment—just you, your bunny, your book, and your new car seat. The straps hug you close, the sun warms your legs, and your diaper squishes ever so slightly as you shift.

And you smile.

Because you’ve never felt more babyish.

Or more loved.

"I got you something," says your partner, a glint in their eye.

"Oh?" Your curiosity is piqued. You've learned that something could be anything from a treat from the bakery to a humiliating new punishment.

"Close your eyes, take my hand."

You obey and reach out. Their hand is soft and warm in yours, fitting together perfectly, just like puzzle pieces.

The front door clicks open and your socked toes hit the scratchy door mat. The spring air outside is warm, finally. A dog across the street barks and the rumble of a truck goes by.

"We're going outside?"

"Uh-huh, almost there!"

You can tell you're in the driveway, the way the textured cement grips your socks. Your partner drops your hand and you hear the chirping of the car keys and the door open. What could they possibly have to show you in the car?

"Ta-da! Open your eyes!"

You open, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the bright outside light. You gather your bearings and realize you are, in fact, in the driveway, facing the passenger side of the car. You gaze around, not quite sure what you're looking for. Squinting into the dim car you finally see it. The passenger seat has been fitted with two long straps coming from the top of the seat, just below the headrest. There's a set of conjoining plastic clips at shoulder height and a set of metal prongs further down. Another strap coming from the bottom rests on the seat, a receiving clip with two slots on the end. A bright red button sits in the middle.

A five point harness. Your partner installed a five point harness, just like the one on a toddler car seat, in the passenger seat of their car.

"F-for me?" you say, as if it could be for anyone else.

"Of course it's for you, silly! I want you to be as safe and comfy as possible in the car," they say with a grin. "Do you like it?"

You nod your head so fast you're almost dizzy. "Uh-huh!"

You like it. You really like it. In fact, you even feel a little excitement in your pants at the idea of being strapped in tight, lower clip up against your padded crotch, shoulders pressed back against the seat.

You duck your head and push forward to start to climb in. You want to try it now. Something stops you abruptly, though. Your partner has curled their fingers in one of your belt loops and is holding you back. The slight tug on your shorts reveals your diaper waist band, you can feel the breeze on your lower back. Normally you'd be scrambling to get your pants back up while outside, where anyone could drive or walk by. However, the allure of your new seat belt overpowers any embarrassment.

"Woah, woah!" they say.

"I wanna go somewhere!" You whine, instantly feeling a lot smaller than you did a few minutes ago.

"We can test it out, baby, but you need shoes first! Come one, let's go inside and get ready. Then we can take it for a test drive."

[regressionschool]

Happy April Fools!

Hope's Eternal Spring (Remastered)

My greatest and best story. No further introduction is needed.

*******

Hope clasped her résumé tightly in her hands as she approached the double-doors of the daycare, her heart pulsating inside her chest as she remembered those words in the paper. 

LITTLE ONES NEED CARE AND DISCIPLINE. PLEASE APPLY. 

Something had seemed strangely off about that job listing. There was no email and no business name, and the whole thing felt hastily strung together. And now, she was about to find out what it meant.

The building looked larger than any daycare she’d ever seen, particularly daunting for Hope’s diminutive five-foot frame. The nineteen-year-old attempted to collect herself, but a deep breath-in almost caused the top button of her blouse to burst, struggling as it already was to contain the girl’s supple breasts. And so she breathed out, adjusted her shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair, and stepped forward. 

It was a Saturday, and the center was empty except for a small, frazzled-looking woman at the front desk, who rose quickly to meet her visitor.

“You must be Hope,” she said breathlessly, struggling to keep several stacks of papers on her desk from flying away as she got up, “I’m Miss Chaucer, I run the place here, let me show you around.”

Hope simply nodded along and followed as the woman walked her through the building, spouting generic drivel about how the facilities were new and demanded careful upkeep. There were several rows of cribs, with sizes ranging from a small infant to a large toddler, two open areas for play, a kitchenette with a few snack cupboards, and several changing stations. The center seemed large, but it also struck Hope as rather normal, and so naturally she began to worry. 

“Any questions?” The woman finally stopped as she finished her tour, crossing arms on her chest as she leant against the wall behind. 

“Ummmmm…” Hope paused, her finger on her lip, looking for the right way to word her question, “so… this is all the rooms? Nothing… ummm… hidden?”

“Hidden? No, that’s all of them. Except the adult restroom, I guess? It’s to your right, behind you, if you want to take a look.”

Hope turned and managed to peer in, seeing what looked to be an ordinary restroom. 

“And we’re… umm… allowed to use it, while working?” Hope asked wishfully.    

At this, the overworked woman raised an eyebrow. “Well yes, of course. Why wouldn't you be?”

“Ummmm… I guess… uh…” Hope stammered and blushed, tapping her foot to the floor.

“Is this about the newspaper listing?” Miss Chaucer raised an eyebrow, “Oh, we’ve had a few people ask about that. Sorry if that was vague - we wanted to keep it simple for the old folks.”

“The old folks?”

“Yep. Same reason we didn’t put our email there. I mean, who else looks for jobs in the paper these days? Come to think of it, why did you?”

Hope blushed. “It just… ummm… it just caught my eye, I guess.”

“Ah. I suppose the all-caps will do that. But yes, just a normal daycare here.”

“Oh, ummm, okay, sorry, yeah, just trying to make sure…” Hope tried to brush off her earlier fluster, wincing at her own embarrassment only to be embarrassed further by her wince. 

“You sound disappointed,” the woman observed, “What- what exactly were you expecting?”

The girl’s blush returned and deepened, eyes widening as she fell into an awkward silence, looking for something to say to escape the situation. 

“I… uhhh… I think I should be going now,” she finally stammered. 

“I think that’s best.”

Hope scrambled away, whistling to herself, before finally calming down into a slow walk once she left the door. She tossed her résumé into a nearby can, and spent the next several hours meandering about town, trying to take her mind off of her strange interview. And take her mind off she did - she ran into a few friends at the mall, shopped for new skirts and tops, and enjoyed a burger with fries and soda, successfully finding distraction in the comfort.  

Before she knew it, the sun was setting, and Hope finally made her way back home. But when she entered the living room, she saw her mother waiting for her, arms folded sternly across her chest. 

“Sit down,” the older woman demanded, “we need to talk.”

Hope was unprepared for this, but she did as she was told, stepping backwards towards a loose dining seat at the edge of the room. She sat with her shoulders snug against her ample bosom - a feature she inherited from her mother, whose bosom was also ample. 

“Ummm, yeah, mom?”

“Well? Did you get the job?”

Hope paused. She had completely forgotten about the interview that started the day. 

“Oh… uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Her mother glared. “That’s it? ‘Oops, sorry, didn’t get it’? Hope, it’s been almost a year since you finished high school, and you’ve done nothing but shop at the mall with your posse of airheads” - she gestured towards the bags the girl had brought home - “and twiddle away at home on your InstaToks and FaceGrams.

“You’re almost twenty years old, Hope. I expected you to act like an adult. But so far, you’ve been acting more like…”

Hope’s eyes widened slightly, and she leaned forward in her chair. “Like what, mom?”

“Like a child, Hope. No, worse than that - like a baby. You’ve been acting like a baby!”

The girl gulped, her legs starting to shake excitedly. “So… so what are you gonna do about that?”

“Well, if you’re going to act like a baby,” the mother declared, “then I’m just going to have to… I’m just going to have to ground you!”

At once, Hope’s legs stopped shaking, and she let out a defeated sigh. “You’re… going to ground me?”

“That’s right, young lady! No malls, no little playdates, no social media for a week. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, okay, cool. Going to my room now.” Hope grabbed her bags and headed upstairs, as her mother’s stern eyes continued to follow her. 

The girl gave another longing sigh as she entered the room, preparing herself for a dull night at home, when something very strange happened. 

As she tossed a bag of clothes towards her large bedroom mirror, the corner of the paper grazed the pane. But instead of knocking against glass, it seemed to create a ripple, a ripple that reverberated across the entire bottom half of the mirror before it all returned to its normal, smooth state. 

Hope rubbed eyes in disbelief, and then slowly approached the mirror herself. With fear, wonder, and excitement coursing through her, she inched her finger closer and closer to its reflection until, sure enough, it went in. 

Through the mirror, she could feel the tingle of a warm breeze, and could even hear the faint rustle of leaves from beyond the portal. Hope took a long, deep breath as she contemplated her next move, but the curiosity quickly became too much to bear, and the girl stepped forth. 

In an instant, she was transported to a lush rainforest paradise. Landing on the edge of a small pool of water, Hope took note of its strange ripple matching her own mirror’s, and wondered if she would ever take it as a route of return. 

On she went to explore! With the songs of birds surrounding her, she strolled along the dewy grass, her ripe melons dancing in the tropical wind. And then, she was struck by the greatest excitement of all, as she saw a large silhouette in the distance, perched beside a tall tree. 

It can’t be, she thought to herself. But it was. She was, standing majestically, towering close to eight feet tall, wearing a bronze breastplate and a simple loincloth.  

A giantess! And this giantess noticed the girl coming towards her, returning Hope’s look of wonder with one of her own, and kneeling down to get a closer look. 

“A… a small one?” the Amazon wondered aloud, her voice firm and commanding even in a whisper, “where did you come from, small one?”

Hope was overwhelmed by the moment, pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “I… I… I came from another world, I guess,” she finally stammered. 

“Another world?” the giantess repeated, “Then it is truly a miracle that you have come. We Amazons need small ones like you.

“You are a curved one, I see,” she remarked, her large fingers hovering curiously over Hope’s pillowy bazonkas, “and yet, with your nimble, graceful form, you are perfect.”

“P-perfect for what?” Hope asked, her eyes welling with excitement as her mind raced across the world of possibility. 

“For everything, my dear -” the Amazon smiled, outlining the shape of Hope’s petite body with her hand, “for sneaking around undetected, for surveying terrain, for planting traps. You are our ideal tool for tactical reconnaissance against the 50-foot Robot Aardvarks.”

“The… what?” Hope blinked, the look of wonder washing immediately away from her face. 

“Those beasts,” the massive woman declared, “they have ravaged our plane for far too long. But that is going to change. Starting today, we will quiver in fear no longer. Starting today, we will stand and strike back. Sta-”

“Yeah, no.”

“What?”

“Sorry, can’t help you.” Hope was already turned around, walking back towards the portal she entered through. 

 The Amazon was in disbelief and despair. “But, please! Please, small one! You’re our only Hope! Get it!? Hope?” she cried out desperately, her words drowned out by the robot-aardvark eye-lasers bearing down upon the forest around her. 

Meanwhile, Hope was well into the woods, back at the small stream where her short journey began. With one more disappointed sigh, the girl covered her nose, closed her eyes, and plunged feet-first into the water. 

With a splash, she was back at home, glad to be done with the day. Drenched from the interdimensional dive, the girl took a long, hot shower. Then, after thinking about the things she had seen, she took another long, hot shower. 

Finally, Hope dried herself off, opened up a bag hidden under her bed, and took out a diaper to wear. After taping it on and tucking herself under her blanket, she went onto her phone and jumped to her favorite AB/DL erotica blog. And then, she masturbated. A lot. 

The End   

[regressionschool]

The Softest Start (Morning on the Bedwetter Floor)

You wake to that now-familiar warmth, spreading low and thick beneath you, clinging in soft squishy folds. Your eyes blink open against the dim early morning light, filtering in through the curtains, and your first thought isn’t the time or even what class you have today—it’s the slow, gentle realization that your diaper is soggy. Again.

A sleepy smile curls at the corners of your mouth. Of course it is.

You don’t sit up right away. Why would you? The crinkle of your blanket shifts as you stretch, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way your thick overnight diaper—your “babyish” ones, as you used to call them — clings between your legs. A pastel safari of smiling animals peeks out over the waistband of your pajama shorts, faded and slightly blurred from use, the prints almost tender now from how many nights you’ve worn this brand.

You let your hand rest over the front, feeling the bulk. Definitely soaked. Not leaking, though—thankfully. The plastic sheet under your bedding might never see action with how reliable these things are.

Still, you've got a routine to stick to.

With a sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and stand, wincing just a little at the familiar squish and droop. The first step is always a shuffle, the padding forcing you into a slow waddle until it settles. You tug your pajama shorts up, but they barely do anything to hide the swollen shape. Not that it matters. It’s not like anyone on this floor hasn’t seen worse.

You pass by your roommate’s bed—already empty.  The bathroom light’s already on, too. As you shuffle inside, your bare feet cool against the tile, the smell of powder, lotion, and faint ammonia greet you. The familiar scent of the floor’s shared morning ritual.

You slip your pajama shorts down and untape the diaper with a practiced sigh. The tapes give way with soft pops, and you ball it up neatly before tossing it into the corner pail. It lands with a padded thud among the others.

You glance in the mirror while washing your hands. There’s a ghostly imprint on your hips where the elastic left its mark. Your skin is still a little pink, a little soft. You pull out a pair of regular cotton panties from your drawer—plain and simple. They fit, sure, but they feel... wrong. Exposed. Paper-thin.

There’s no hugging bulk. No protective cushion. No rustling softness between your thighs. Just fabric, and skin, and the vague chill of being unpadded. You tug your jeans on, sighing at the rough way they sit. They’re almost too roomy now, ever since you started ordering that brand of thick nighttime diapers that bulked you out so well. Maybe you’re used to it. Maybe you miss it.

Maybe you don’t want to admit how fast you reordered them.

You brush your teeth, still adjusting to the coolness of cotton against you. You hear someone come into the bathroom behind you, another dormmate padding softly past—wearing a shirt and nothing else, thick pink pull-up on full display. They give you a sleepy nod, rubbing their eyes as they walk right past the row of stalls and lift the lid on the diaper pail. Another one changed.

And then—finally—you hear it: the flush of a toilet. Just one. A single stall, once, across the whole floor. It sounds almost... out of place.

You snort a little into your toothbrush.

You tuck your toothbrush away and glance once more in the mirror.

Everything about you looks normal. Jeans. Hoodie. Hair pulled up in a lazy bun. But under it all, you feel… wrong. Lighter. Colder. Cotton doesn’t hug you the way your usual padding does. And the longer you go without it, the more you notice that absence like an itch behind your ribs.

You sigh again and step out into the hallway.

The dorm is quiet at this hour. But your floor—the bedwetter floor, as it’s been lovingly nicknamed—always has a few early risers. And it’s easy to tell who’s up by the soft crinkles and heavy footfalls echoing off the walls.

You pass a guy from down the hall, shuffling toward the lounge. His pajama pants hang low in the back, pulled down by the soggy bulge pressing against the fabric. Every step makes a faint squish, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Just yawns, stretches, and scratches his belly on the way to the microwave.

You don’t even blink anymore.

At the elevator, you catch the sound of slippers behind you—quick, light, but with a familiar plastic-y undertone. You turn as Ellie, the same girl from the bathroom, jogs up with a bright smile.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Her hoodie is oversized, sleeves bunched at the wrists, but the hem of her skirt barely covers her thighs. She bends to tie her shoe, and you immediately see it: the band of lavender stretching across her hips, the soft puff of her pull-up pressing beneath the fabric. When she stands again, the skirt flutters just enough to flash it again.

She doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“Morning,” she chirps, pressing the elevator button. “You coming to breakfast?”

“Yeah. Everyone else is already down there?”

“Think so. Mason said he was waiting for waffles, and Jules was ‘testing the structural limits of her morning diaper.’” She grins as she says it, air quotes and all.

You snort. “Nice. I guess I’m the only one not waddling down today.”

Ellie eyes your jeans. “You changed?”

You nod.

“Boring,” she teases, bumping your arm.

“Comfy.”

“Cold.”

“Dignified.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep dry at night. Oh wait…”

The elevator doors open before you can hit her with a comeback.

College dorm floor that's all bed wetters. The same way you can indicate your preference for a single-gender or quiet floor, you can check a special box confirming you can't keep your sheets dry.

On move in day you see people's cases of pull-ups and diapers being toted in on carts, alongside their bags of clothes and knick-knacks. All the beds are already fitted with plastic sheets, even though you brought your own.

On the first night you wander into the lounge and find a group of people playing cards and getting to know each other. When you sit to join the group you notice a crinkly diaper waistband poking out of someone's pants. The girl across from you in the circle is wearing a crop top and the edge of a purple pull-up is just above her sweat pants. You're surprised they're already changed for bed, then jealous that you aren't.

There's a diaper pail in the communal bathroom. You seem to run out of toilet paper at a much slower rate than the other floors.

A few weeks in you realize you didn't reorder more diapers in time. No need to panic, your roommate has extras. They're a little much for you, with baby animals all over, but you have to admit they're more comfortable than yours. Maybe you'll get a pack like these next time.

You've made a little group that likes to get up early for breakfast before the dining hall gets busy. You can tell by the bulge and waddle your friend has as they shuffle through the line that they haven't changed yet.

You start putting your diaper on a little earlier every night. You realize you like the cushy dry feeling, one you never got to savor when you waited until the last possible minute before bed to change. Sometimes it's already a little damp before you've turned out your light and closed your eyes.

Finals roll around you head to the library for an all nighter. Friends from the floor and your roommate join too. No one makes a single bathroom trip the entire time.

[regressionschool]

Little Pauses

There’s a stillness in the room, but not an empty one. It’s the kind of calm that settles only when everything is just right. She lays back against the soft rug, arms folded loosely over her tummy, her legs slightly apart in quiet invitation. There’s no tension in her body—no hesitation. Just a quiet trust, the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken.

Her onesie is unbuttoned, the little snaps left open like petals peeled back, revealing the thick diaper beneath. There’s even a faint crescent-shaped spot near the seam where her diaper leaked a little, just enough to darken the grey fabric and remind you how full she really is.

The diaper beneath her is soaked. Not just damp, but heavy, clinging low and swollen. It’s sagging between her thighs, the shell faintly tinted, the tapes still holding strong against the fullness pressing out. It’s not just worn—it’s used. Completely.

And she knows it. That’s the beauty of it.

She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t glance down to check—she just waits, calmly, silently. Because that’s her role now. To lie back, warm and small, and let you notice. Let you take over. She’s already done her part, after all. You feel it in the way her legs stay so still, so trusting. In the way her fingers rest gently across her chest, not even trying to cover anything up.

There’s a kind of intimacy in this pause—this space between—where she’s soaked and leaking and not even thinking about what comes next. Because she doesn’t have to. That’s what you’re for.

Your fingers skim over the edge of the diaper, tracing where the plastic gives way to softness. The warmth beneath is obvious, even through the thick bulk. It’s a mess, but it’s hers. And in a way, it’s yours too. You made this moment happen. You’re the one who dressed her, snugged her up, told her it was okay to just be. To let go.

And now, here she is.

Silent. Waiting. Diaper soaked. Onesie damp. And not even a flicker of concern on her face.

Only that dreamy calm.

That little pause.

That perfect in-between where she knows she’s loved, and cared for, and that everything—everything—is taken care of

[regressionschool]

Caught in Her Web

Mia’s gaze drifted to the pendulum, its rhythmic swing mesmerizing her more with each pass. She tried to look away at first, but the slow, steady motion caught her and wouldn’t let go. Her thoughts began to blur as if the smooth arc of the pendulum’s path was brushing them away, one by one.

“Just relax, Mia,” the woman murmured, her voice low and soothing. “Let it all go.” The words seeped into Mia’s mind, weaving through the haze. Her eyelids grew heavy, her limbs slackened, and soon she was leaning into the sensation, falling deeper and deeper into the calm the pendulum promised.

As Mia settled into the trance, the woman’s smile turned sharper. “That’s a good girl,” she cooed, brushing a strand of hair from Mia’s face. “So willing to listen. So ready to hear the truth.”

A pause lingered, filled only by the ticking of the clock on the far wall. The woman leaned closer, her voice taking on a sweetly venomous edge. “You thought I didn’t know, didn’t you?” she said. “Poor, naive Mia. I’ve known about the affair for weeks now. With my husband. My husband, who’s old enough to be your daddy.”

Mia’s breathing deepened, her shoulders rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. She remained completely still, her expression slack, while the words settled into the corners of her hypnotized mind. The woman chuckled softly. “You never thought you’d get caught. But now, here you are. And here I am.” She reached out, lightly tapping Mia’s cheek. “You’ll be such a good girl from now on, won’t you, Mia?”

As Mia’s body slackened in the chair, the woman—still unnamed but with a calm, calculated demeanor—leaned in closer, her words smooth as silk. “You don’t need all those silly grown-up thoughts,” she cooed. “They’re heavy, aren’t they? So tiring. Wouldn’t it be nice to let them go?”

The pendulum swung steadily in front of Mia, and with every pass, her mind seemed to unravel a little more. Each suggestion the woman made peeled away another layer of Mia’s self-control. She was like a spider, spinning a delicate, intricate web, until Mia was caught entirely.

“You don’t need to worry about silly things like self-control,” the woman murmured. “It’s too much work. Just let go.”

Mia’s breathing slowed. A soft, dazed expression spread across her face. Her body grew looser, more pliable. Her legs, slightly parted in the chair, trembled as her fingers moved to her lips. Her thumb hovered there, then slipped between her lips without a second thought.

“There’s a good girl,” the woman said softly, watching as Mia suckled her thumb, her mind a foggy, submissive haze. She crouched before Mia and brushed a hand over her knee. “No more big girl worries. No more holding it in. Just let everything happen as it should.”

And then, slowly, it happened. The front of Mia’s panties dampened, a small, spreading warmth that quickly turned into a full release. The woman stayed perfectly still, only smiling wider as Mia’s face went slack with shame.

The woman stood and fetched a folded diaper from the nearby table. “It’s all right, Mia. You don’t have to feel bad. I’ll take care of you now.” She spoke with a saccharine tone, her hands deftly removing Mia’s soaked panties and sliding the diaper beneath her. Mia barely reacted, save for a faint flush of embarrassment as her thumb stayed firmly in her mouth.

Just as she pulled the diaper snug and began to secure the first tape, the door opened. The husband entered, his steps slow and deliberate. He paused in the doorway, the scene before him frozen in time: Mia mid-change, her thumb in her mouth, the woman standing over her, hands still on the diaper. The air hung thick with tension, and then the husband’s voice broke through. “What’s going on here?”

[regressionschool]

She wriggles in the highchair, her diaper audibly crinkling beneath her as her mittened hands rest awkwardly on the tray. Her legs kick softly, booties bumping against the footrest with dull thumps. You can tell it’s all hitting her now—really hitting her.

The mittens. The pacifier. The pink, soggy diaper she’s been crawling around in. And now—strapped into a highchair, staring at you as you hum to yourself like this is all completely ordinary.

Her eyes flit from the bib tucked snugly under her chin to the toys abandoned behind her in the living room, then to the tray in front of her where you begin setting things down—first the bowl of baby food, the label still peeled back to reveal Banana Oatmeal Mash, then the bottle, full and faintly warm, the liquid inside tinted ever-so-slightly pink.

She doesn’t notice. Not yet. And you’re not about to tell her.

The soft clink of the spoon tapping the bowl makes her flinch. You meet her gaze with a patient smile.

“Aww, baby girl looks a little overwhelmed,” you coo, tilting your head sympathetically. “Is all this a bit much for your fuzzy wittle brain?”

She blinks. Her paci bobs slightly as she suckles, whether out of habit or comfort, you can’t say. But her cheeks are burning now, her whole body language curling in on itself with embarrassment and confusion.

“You said yes, remember?” you remind her sweetly, bringing the bottle to her lips. “And good girls don’t back out once they’ve said yes. That’s how we build trust, baby.”

You gently tug the pacifier free with a soft pop, and before she can respond, the bottle’s nipple is already nudging her lips. She hesitates—just for a moment—but then, slowly, drinks.

That first taste makes her blink. It’s milk... mostly. Sweetened, soft. But there's something else mixed in—subtle, almost floral, barely there. You see her brow furrow in quiet confusion, but she doesn’t stop suckling.

You stroke her hair, soothing. “That’s a good girl. Drink up nice and slow. It’ll help you settle down... help you stop worrying about all those big thoughts swirling around that mushy little head.”

She whimpers faintly through the bottle, but doesn’t resist. With every pull, her breaths deepen, her shoulders soften. Whatever you added is starting to do its work—calming her nerves, dimming that last flicker of resistance, slowing her down to baby speed.

You let her finish half the bottle before you ease it away.

“Time for some yummy nummies,” you sing, scooping a generous spoonful of the banana mush. “Say ‘ahhh,’ baby girl.”

She tries to mumble something—probably a protest—but the spoon’s already in her mouth. She flinches, surprised at the texture, but swallows with a grimace.

“You don’t have to like it,” you tease, wiping her chin with the corner of her bib. “You just have to open your mouth like a good girl.”

Another spoonful. Then another. Each one slower, softer, timed with the gentle bounce of your voice and the lulling warmth of the bottle that’s still halfway full. Her eyes have that glazed, uncertain look—the kind of dazed that comes from sensory overload, from being stripped of control, padded, fed, and cooed at like a helpless toddler.

And she is helpless now. Mittened, bootied, strapped in, soggy and compliant.

“There we go,” you murmur, wiping her mouth again as she sniffles quietly. “Look at my little girl now. So full. So quiet. Just the way she’s meant to be.”

You lift the bottle again, watching her eyes flutter as the nipple returns to her lips. She barely hesitates this time. Her body is getting slower. Softer. Heavier.

And you just smile, brushing her cheek as you let her drink.

You stroke her hair, brushing it back from her face. “Good girl,” you whisper again, letting the bottle tip just enough to let her take the last few swallows before easing it from her lips. A soft whimper slips out as she blinks up at you, confused and comforted all at once.

Then you straighten, smoothing the front of your shirt like you're about to start a lecture… and in a way, you are.

“Now that your tummy’s full,” you begin gently, “I think it’s time we go over a few little rules for your special baby time.”

She frowns softly, her mittened hands fidgeting on the tray. The pacifier bounces slightly between her lips again—she’s already gotten used to it being there, like a habit forming faster than she realizes.

“First,” you say, holding up one finger, “no walking. Crawling only. That’s what your booties are for, remember? Littles like you are way too precious to go stomping around.”

She squirms at that, her legs rubbing together with an audible crinkle.

“Second, no big girl words unless I ask you something. If your paci’s in, that’s your signal to be quiet and suck, not talk. Babies don’t need grown-up words.”

Her cheeks puff slightly in protest, but she says nothing. Another soft suck on the paci. She's already starting to obey, even if she doesn't realize how naturally it’s coming.

“And third,” you say, voice soft but firm now, “no asking for the potty.”

That gets her attention.

Her brows lift, eyes suddenly sharper beneath the haze. She mumbles something behind the pacifier, but you gently pull it free with two fingers. “What was that, sweetpea?”

“I-I mean… what if I need to… like… y’know…” she trails off, glancing down at the tray, the bib, the mittens, then at the soft, puffy diaper bulging quietly beneath her.

“No what-ifs,” you say, tapping her nose. “Babies like you don’t need the potty. Not for anything.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait, even for—?”

You press a finger to her lips and gently push the pacifier back in.

“Hush, hush,” you coo. “Don’t worry that mushy little head. It won’t be long before you won’t be able to hold it anyway…”

You lean in close, brushing your knuckles along the curve of her cheek as her expression twists with nervous confusion.

“It’s already working,” you murmur sweetly. “So just relax, baby girl. There’s no big decisions left for you to make. Just let go.”

She squirms again, clearly overwhelmed, her mittened hands bumping uselessly against the tray as the pacifier bobs in and out of her lips.

You step back, letting her sit in it all—figuratively and otherwise—watching the realization settle in behind those flushed cheeks and fluttery eyes.

And the best part?

She still hasn’t even asked what was in the bottle.

To be continued…

Walking in [warning, bad pun]

You push open the door, the familiar creak barely registering over the surprise of seeing your roommate caught in such an unexpected state. There she is, only in a soft pink diaper, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade as her eyes widen in shock. You were supposed to be away for two more days, and her embarrassment fills the room like thick perfume.

"Oh! I, uh... I thought you were coming back on Thursday," she stammers, her hands awkwardly trying to cover up, though there isn’t much to hide that the pink diaper hasn’t already revealed.

You can't help but feel a stir of excitement at the sight, her vulnerability so openly displayed, but you keep your tone playful to keep the mood light. "Looks like I've caught my naughty roommate red-handed. Or should I say, pink-diapered?" you tease, stepping closer, your smile broadening.

Her face heats up even more, if possible, and she bites her lip, a mix of mortified and something else—perhaps a dash of excitement? "It's not what it looks like," she tries to defend, her voice a whisper of defiance.

You chuckle, walking over to sit beside her on the sofa, your expression softening. "It looks exactly like someone loves her comfy diaper time a bit too much to check her phone," you say, nudging her playfully with your shoulder.

She sighs, a playful pout forming as she finally meets your gaze. "Maybe I do," she admits, her voice small. "Well, since I'm back early, how about we make the most of these next two days?" you suggest, your tone teasing yet gentle. "You seem to love being so coddled and cozy in your diaper—how about you be my baby for the next two days? I think it suits you."

Her eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and nervousness, but she nods, a shy smile creeping across her face.

[regressionschool]

Ask and you shall receive :P Chapter Two: Soft Steps and Crinkly Secrets

You step away from the couch, trying to hide the eager grin tugging at your lips as you head into your bedroom. The soft thump of your roommate’s diapered bottom shifting on the couch follows you, echoing in your ears as your fingers brush against the drawer’s edge. You open it slowly, revealing a neatly arranged set of padded mittens and matching booties—soft, pastel pink, and perfectly coordinated with her current blushing state.

You return with them in hand, the gentle crinkle of your own steps punctuating the silence as her eyes go wide again when she sees what you’re holding.

“Mittens?” she squeaks, backing up a little against the couch cushions. “And… are those booties?”

“They sure are,” you hum sweetly, kneeling down in front of her. “Only the coziest for my little baby girl.”

She squirms, but doesn’t protest as you gently slide her trembling hands into the mittens, fastening them snugly around her wrists. You can feel her breath hitch as the soft padding wraps her fingers up tight, rendering them clumsy and useless. Her toes curl as the booties come next—puffy and just as pink, you strap them on carefully, locking them with a quiet click around her ankles.

She tests them almost immediately, trying to stand—only to yelp and fall back onto her padded backside with a surprised crumpf. Her eyes snap to yours in confusion.

“You put something in these!” she gasps, lifting one foot just enough to feel the subtle nudge of something uncomfortable pressing from inside.

You just grin, arms folding as you admire the view. “Little girls don’t walk, sweetpea,” you remind her gently, nodding toward the floor. “Babies crawl. And look at that cute diaper wiggle when you try.”

Her blush returns in full force, but this time it’s accompanied by a tiny, frustrated whimper as she awkwardly shifts onto her hands and knees. The mittens make her clumsy, the booties force her weight forward, and every move sends her thickly-padded bum swaying adorably behind her.

“Good girl,” you purr, watching her crawl toward the living room. “Such a sweet little crawler…”

She disappears into the hallway, her crinkly padding announcing every movement as you return to your room for more “baby supplies.” You grab a pastel pacifier on a matching ribbon and a soft bundle of plush toys—rattles, blocks, and one extra fluffy stuffed lamb.

When you step into the living room, your roommate is there on the carpet, her knees spread just slightly, her diaper squished beneath her. You can't help but pause, soaking in the sight—her back to you, diapered rear up, wiggling ever so slightly as she shifts uncertainly.

You walk over and gently ease the pacifier between her lips, the ribbon clipped to her mittens so she can’t spit it out easily. Then, with a theatrical little plop, you drop the toys in front of her.

“There you go, baby girl,” you say in a sing-song tone, brushing her hair out of her face. “Play nice while I grab more goodies, okay?”

You start to turn, already planning what you’ll bring back next—maybe the bib? Or the bottle? Maybe even the blankie—but then, a tiny voice breaks through the silence.

“Mmmhh… whuh… why do you have all this stuff?”

Your pulse jumps at the question, but you mask it with a slow, teasing smile, turning just enough to see her wide, paci-filled eyes watching you with nervous curiosity. Her diaper crinkles as she shifts slightly, clearly waiting for an answer.

“Someone’s quick,” you chuckle, stepping closer to boop her nose gently. “But little babies don’t need to worry their mushy little brains about grown-up things.”

You tousle her hair playfully, and she pouts around the pacifier, her mittens swiping half-heartedly at your hand. You just smirk. “You just sit here, play with your toys, and try not to drool on the carpet, okay?”

With that, you head back toward your room, giving her one last glance before disappearing.

Her diaper squishes as she scoots around, the thick padding making even the smallest motion exaggerated and noisy. Every rustle and crinkle fuels that warm, mischievous thrill in your chest as you gather the next set of supplies: a bib embroidered with “Messy Girl”, a foldable highchair, and of course, the baby bottle—pink, decorated with cartoon bunnies.

You take your time returning, curious how she’s doing left to her own clumsy devices. When you step back into the living room, the sight that greets you is pure perfection.

There she is, still on the carpet where you left her, kneeling in that adorably helpless way with her legs slightly parted and her weight sunk into her thick, well-padded bottom. The pink diaper is visibly puffier now—creased, a little more saggy, with a telltale yellow stain forming underneath the cartoon prints.

She’s focused on the plush toys, or at least trying to be. With her hands stuck in those oversized mittens, she can’t really grab anything—so she’s just patting at the stuffed lamb, fumbling to stack two soft blocks that wobble and fall over every time she gets close. Her face is scrunched up in frustration, brows furrowed like a pout is brewing.

And the pacifier? Still snug between her lips, her soft breaths fogging the plastic as she unconsciously suckles, the ribbon holding it securely clipped to her mittened wrist. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, you notice.

You lean against the doorway, watching her for a few moments in silence. She’s lost in it—embarrassed, probably, but also so deeply settled into the role you nudged her toward. The rhythm of the paci, the natural wiggle of her diapered bum as she shifts, the way her thighs squeeze together like she’s not even sure how much she’s already gone...

You walk over slowly and kneel beside her again.

“Having fun?” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

She looks up at you with wide eyes, her mouth still gently working at the pacifier. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

You giggle softly. “Good girl.”

After a few more playful teases—compliments about how cute her squishy bum looks, and gentle reminders that mittens and booties aren’t optional—you finally pat her diaper softly and stand.

“Time for lunch, little one,” you say brightly. “Crawl with me, come on.”

She hesitates, her gaze flicking toward the hallway like she knows she should be more nervous. But then she obeys, shuffling forward on all fours, diaper swaying rhythmically behind her as you lead her into the kitchen.

And there it is. Waiting.

A highchair.

Not a joke. Not pretend. Not a childish stool or small seat. A real highchair, slightly larger, custom fit—just right for an oversized baby girl like her.

She freezes when she sees it.

You smirk.

“Aww, what’s the matter?” you coo. “This isn’t news to you, right? You’ve already got the diaper, the toys, the paci... Did you really think I wouldn’t have a highchair too?”

She doesn’t answer as you gently lift her—mittens still useless, booties making her dangle helplessly—and lower her into the seat. The harness clicks into place around her chest and waist, snug but cozy. You strap her in securely, buckling the tray in with a final clack.

Her eyes are wide again, and for a moment you can see the question still burning there. You know exactly what she’s thinking.

And this time, you answer.

“In case you were wondering...” you say, leaning in close so your voice is soft and syrupy, condescending in that warm, knowing way that makes her toes curl, “You’re really bad at hiding how much of a baby you are.”

You tap the pacifier gently with one finger.

“But me?” you continue, brushing imaginary lint from her bib as you secure it behind her neck, “I’m very good at hiding that I’m a caregiver. Until now.”

You stand back, hands on your hips, and take in the picture before you.

Pink diaper. Clumsy mittens. Paci gently bobbing. Trapped in a highchair, looking absolutely, undeniably little.

She wriggles faintly. And you smile.

“Now... let’s get baby’s bottle ready.”

Walking in [warning, bad pun]

You push open the door, the familiar creak barely registering over the surprise of seeing your roommate caught in such an unexpected state. There she is, only in a soft pink diaper, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade as her eyes widen in shock. You were supposed to be away for two more days, and her embarrassment fills the room like thick perfume.

"Oh! I, uh... I thought you were coming back on Thursday," she stammers, her hands awkwardly trying to cover up, though there isn’t much to hide that the pink diaper hasn’t already revealed.

You can't help but feel a stir of excitement at the sight, her vulnerability so openly displayed, but you keep your tone playful to keep the mood light. "Looks like I've caught my naughty roommate red-handed. Or should I say, pink-diapered?" you tease, stepping closer, your smile broadening.

Her face heats up even more, if possible, and she bites her lip, a mix of mortified and something else—perhaps a dash of excitement? "It's not what it looks like," she tries to defend, her voice a whisper of defiance.

You chuckle, walking over to sit beside her on the sofa, your expression softening. "It looks exactly like someone loves her comfy diaper time a bit too much to check her phone," you say, nudging her playfully with your shoulder.

She sighs, a playful pout forming as she finally meets your gaze. "Maybe I do," she admits, her voice small. "Well, since I'm back early, how about we make the most of these next two days?" you suggest, your tone teasing yet gentle. "You seem to love being so coddled and cozy in your diaper—how about you be my baby for the next two days? I think it suits you."

Her eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and nervousness, but she nods, a shy smile creeping across her face.

[regressionschool]

going full toddler part 9:

Find all other Chapters [here]

Marie still felt warm and flustered from all the teasing, her fingers gripping her bunny so tightly that the soft fabric wrinkled under her touch. She didn’t dare look at Steve or Mommy—not when they were both so clearly amused by her reaction.

Tim, of course, was still giggling, practically bouncing in place as he nudged her playfully with his foot. “You love ‘em,” he sing-songed again, grinning.

Marie pouted, her cheeks puffing up in frustration. “Do not.”

Tim smirked. “Do too.”

Before Marie could huff out a response, Mommy clapped her hands lightly. “Alright, babies,” she announced in that tone that immediately shut down any more squabbling. “I think it’s time for two very sleepy little ones to go down for a nap.”

Marie’s stomach flipped.

Nap?

Already?

She was sleepy—Tim had pointed that out earlier, and she had definitely felt it. But now that it was being decided for her, something about it made her squirm.

Her pout deepened. “I’m not sleepy…” she mumbled, hugging her bunny tighter.

Steve chuckled from behind her. “Oh, princess,” he murmured, crouching down beside her again. His hand was warm as he brushed her hair back, fingers gently scratching her scalp in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. “You’ve been yawning nonstop, sweetheart.”

Marie whined softly, ducking her head, but—okay.

Maybe she had been yawning a little bit.

Tim, however, wasn’t arguing.

“Nap time!” he cheered, bouncing excitedly on the playmat, his fresh diaper crinkling beneath him.

Marie gawked at him.

Was he actually happy about this?

Like—genuinely excited to go down for a nap?

Her cheeks burned as he popped his pacifier into his mouth, his thumb rubbing the fabric of his dragon plush absentmindedly as he looked expectantly at Mommy.

“I wanna go up!” he chirped, holding his arms out.

Marie blinked.

Up?

And then—

Mommy lifted him.

Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

Like he was an actual baby, being effortlessly scooped into her arms.

Tim giggled as she settled him against her hip, nuzzling into her like it was second nature. His legs wrapped around her waist, his arms slung lazily over her shoulder, completely at ease.

Marie stared.

He didn’t just accept it—he wanted it.

The way he clung to her, the way his fingers idly curled against the fabric of her sundress, the way his body melted against hers the moment he was picked up—Marie’s tummy twisted in a way she didn’t understand.

She was still trying to process it when she felt herself being lifted, too.

“Ah—!” she squeaked softly, her breath hitching as Steve’s hands slipped effortlessly under her arms.

Her whole body stiffened for just a second—

Then she was up.

High off the ground.

Cradled against Steve’s chest.

Her lips parted in surprise, her bunny squished between them as Steve adjusted his hold, securing her with ease. One of his arms wrapped under her bottom, his palm pressing against the slightly soggy bulk of her diaper as he supported her weight.

Marie froze.

She wasn’t used to this.

Not really.

She had been carried before, but not often. Not like this.

Not so effortlessly.

Not so completely.

Her legs instinctively curled around his waist, mirroring the way Tim clung to Mommy.

Steve smirked at her reaction, bouncing her lightly in his hold. “There we go,” he murmured, rubbing slow, lazy circles against her back. “See? Just like my little princess deserves.”

Marie’s face burned.

She should have protested.

She should have wiggled away.

But instead…

Her body melted.

The second he bounced her, the second his hand rubbed slow, soothing circles over her back, she sagged against him, her cheek pressing into the crook of his neck.

Her bunny was still squeezed between them, warm and comforting.

She felt so small.

So helpless.

So—

So safe.

She barely even noticed when they reached the crib.

Her eyelids were drooping by the time she was lowered down, Steve’s hands steady as he settled her onto the soft mattress.

Marie whined softly at the loss of his warmth, her fingers automatically reaching out—

Only for Steve to smirk down at her.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he teased, tucking her in gently. “You’re not sleeping alone.”

Marie blinked.

And then—

Tim was plopped down right beside her.

Marie squeaked, scooting over instinctively as the mattress dipped from the added weight.

Tim flopped onto his back, his pacifier still in his mouth, his dragon tucked firmly under his arm.

Marie stared at him.

And he—

Didn’t even seem to care.

He was already snuggling in, already settling, already shifting onto his side with a soft, sleepy hum.

Steve adjusted the blankets, making sure they were tucked in just right, while Mommy smoothed Tim’s hair, humming softly.

Marie swallowed, still feeling a little too awake, a little too hyper-aware of how… close they were.

She fidgeted slightly, shifting under the blanket—

Only for Steve’s hand to suddenly press down on her tummy.

Marie froze.

He didn’t press hard—just firm enough to keep her still.

“Shhh, princess,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “Close your eyes.”

Marie whimpered softly, feeling herself flush all over again.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t even move.

She just… obeyed.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath slow and steady.

She barely even noticed when her thumb slipped into her mouth.

Didn’t even realize it was happening.

She only faintly heard Mommy giggle, a soft, amused hum following after.

“Awww,” she murmured. “Look at that, Steve.”

Steve chuckled, rubbing her tummy slowly, soothingly.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured.

Marie barely processed the words.

She was already slipping.

Already sinking.

Already drifting.

And just before she completely let go…

Just before the world faded away into warmth and softness…

She felt it.

The softest little nudge.

A tiny, warm hand brushing against hers under the blanket.

Tim.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t even open his eyes.

Just scooted closer.

Just curled up beside her.

Just held her hand.

Marie shivered.

But she didn’t let go.

She just sighed softly…

And slept.

Interlude : Adult Conversation

The nursery was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic breaths of the two littles curled up together in the crib. The faint scent of baby powder and warm blankets lingered in the air, mingling with the occasional rustle of crinkling padding beneath the covers.

Lilly lingered by the crib, her eyes fond as she brushed Tim’s soft hair back from his forehead. He barely stirred, his pacifier bobbing lazily between his lips, his dragon clutched tightly against his chest. His other hand was still curled loosely around Marie’s beneath the blanket, their tiny fingers intertwined.

Marie had settled too.

The tension she’d carried all day had melted away the moment sleep had claimed her, her little thumb still resting between her lips, her bunny tucked close against her. The small rise and fall of her chest was slow, steady, peaceful.

Lilly smiled.

“They look cute together,” she murmured.

Steve smirked as he leaned against the doorway, watching them. His little girl—who had spent the morning still clinging to whatever was left of her big-girl self—was now curled up in a crib, sucking her thumb, her diaper thick and crinkly beneath her blanket, lost in the same kind of sleep that only littles knew.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice low. “She’s adjusting faster than I thought she would.”

Lilly hummed thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the edge of the crib rail. “And does she know yet?”

Steve glanced at her, raising a brow. “Know what?”

Lilly grinned.

“That you’ll never let her go back?”

Steve’s smirk deepened. He exhaled slowly, watching the two sleeping littles for a long moment before turning back toward the main room, gesturing for Lilly to follow.

She did, stepping lightly across the floor as she grabbed her wine glass from the counter. Steve poured himself a fresh drink, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he leaned against the counter, his expression unreadable.

Lilly studied him, tapping a single manicured nail against the glass. “And you?” she asked, tilting her head. “How far do you plan to take her?”

Steve took a slow sip of his drink, savoring it before replying.

“As far as she’ll let me.”

Lilly’s lips curled.

“Oh, she’ll let you, darling,” she mused, taking a lazy sip of her wine. “Sooner or later, she won’t have a choice.”

Steve chuckled. He knew that.

He’d always known that.

Marie thought she still had control, thought she was still choosing this. But bit by bit, he was stripping that choice away, guiding her deeper into her little space, into complete dependence.

She wasn’t quite there yet.

But soon, she would be.

Lilly’s eyes gleamed. “Tell me,” she purred, twirling her glass between her fingers. “Did you help her along today?”

Steve smirked.

“Oh, absolutely.”

Lilly chuckled. “Oh?”

Steve set his glass down, rolling his sleeves up slightly. “She had her first messy diaper today,” he admitted, his tone laced with satisfaction. “And she still thinks it just happened.”

Lilly’s eyebrows lifted slightly, intrigued. “Oh, Stevie,” she cooed, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Did you put something in her bottle?”

Steve’s smirk widened.

“A little something to help her relax,” he confirmed, crossing his arms. “She was hesitant about it before, but when the moment came… she didn’t even try to stop it.”

Lilly let out a soft hum of approval. “Good boy,” she praised, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “That’s how you do it. You make them think they still have control—until suddenly, they don’t.”

Steve exhaled, pleased. “Exactly.”

Lilly swirled her wine, watching him. “And how did she take it?”

Steve’s smirk softened into something deeper.

“She whimpered. Got all flustered. But she let it happen.” He took another sip of his drink. “And after? She was so overwhelmed, so deep in little space, she let me hold her like a baby. Didn’t fight it. Just let me take care of her.”

Lilly chuckled. “Poor thing,” she teased, though there was no sympathy in her tone. “She really thought she had a say in it, didn’t she?”

Steve hummed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Not for much longer.”

Lilly smirked behind her wine glass, taking another sip. “And tomorrow?”

Steve leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

Marie had no idea what was waiting for her.

Right now, she was warm and sleepy, safely curled up in her crib, still thinking she was just playing baby for a weekend.

But tomorrow…

Tomorrow would change everything.

His smirk darkened.

“She’ll learn,” he murmured.

Lilly sipped her wine, pleased. “I have to admit,” she mused, “I was skeptical about your little girlfriend at first.”

Steve glanced at her.

Lilly grinned.

“But I think she’s exactly where she belongs.”

Steve chuckled, tipping his glass toward her in a silent toast.

“She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Lilly smirked. “She will soon.”

They clinked their glasses together.

And in the nursery, in the quiet warmth of her crib, Marie slept soundly—unaware that tomorrow, her world was about to change forever.

[regressionschool]

Going full Toddler Directionary

[Chapter 1]

[Chapter 2] arrival

[Chapter 3] So icky [Chapter 4]

[Chapter 5]

[Chapter 6] Confession

[Chapter 7] Playtime

[Chapter 8] She really loves her Pampers

[Chapter 9]

[Chapter 10] coming soon!

[Chapter 11]

[regressionschool]

come with me

"Oh my gosh, it is you! I can’t believe it! You—oh wow, your face—you look so shocked! Haha, ohhh, I guess I do look a little different, huh? I mean, it’s been months, but I don’t blame you for staring. I probably wouldn’t have believed it either before I signed up for regression school!“

Giggles

"Oh, c’mon, don’t look so surprised. It’s just a onesie and a diaper! What, did you think I’d still be wearing, like, big-girl clothes? Pfft! Silly! That’s not how things work here. Clothes are all itchy and bunchy and ugh, grown-up stuff is just so unnecessary once you get used to this. I mean, just look at me! Comfy, cozy, and so much happier.“

"...Oh? You’re not saying much. Are you okay? You keep looking at my—ohhh, that’s what’s freaking you out, isn’t it? Hehe, don’t worry, I get it. The first time I saw someone here like this, I kinda stared too. But trust me, after a little while, it just starts feeling right. Like, why did I ever think I needed all those silly grown-up things? This is just better.“

soft sigh

"Awww, don’t give me that look! You really think I’d sign up for something that wasn’t amazing? You have to at least be curious! I mean, c’mon, it’s me! You know how stressed I used to be—always worrying about responsibilities, deadlines, bills, ugh! But now? No worries, no stress, just softness and warmth and people who take care of you. It’s the best thing ever!“

"...What? You don’t believe me? Okay, okay, I know it sounds kinda crazy. I thought so too at first! But, like, I don’t have to think about anything now. No pressure, no worries, just... being little. Playing, napping, snuggling. And, well—“

giggles again, a little sheepish this time

"—and not having to worry about the potty either. Yeah, I know, you’re making that face, but listen, once you stop thinking about it, it just happens, and it’s so freeing. Like, why should we have to hold it? It’s not natural! Littles don’t worry about that stuff. And it’s not gross or weird, it’s just normal here. You just let go, and the grown-ups take care of everything!"

"...Awww, you’re still nervous, huh? That’s okay! You don’t have to decide right now. But, you know... if you did sign up, we could be together. Imagine that! You and me, playing all day, cuddling up for nap time, giggling in our jammies. Wouldn’t that be so much better than all that grown-up nonsense?

Come on, you don’t have to jump in all the way right now. We can start slow! Maybe just a little padding, a little cuddle, a little letting go? Just imagine it… not worrying, not holding back… just feeling soft and safe and small.

happy wiggles

Oh! Oh! I see that smile! See? You do wanna try! So c’mon, say it. Just say yes. I promise you won’t regret it."

[regressionschool]

Oooh a new caption writer and a mommy at that!

The Great Soggy Escape

“Oh-ho, where do you think you’re going, little mister?” I tease, watching my little one crawl away with a telltale crinkle and a saggy-bottomed waddle.

He doesn’t answer—just keeps scooting forward, knees pressing into the soft blanket, his padded bottom swaying with every determined movement. Oh, he’s trying so hard to make a getaway, but all I can do is smile. Because really, what’s cuter than this?

This is the same little boy who used to whine the moment his diaper got even the tiniest bit wet. Who used to pout and squirm at the mere idea of staying soggy. And now? Now he’s actively crawling away from his fresh, dry diapee like it’s some kind of punishment. Oh, how things change.

I reach out and give his squishy bottom a little pat, just enough to make it squish in a way I know he feels. “Uh-oh, someone’s a soggy little thing,” I coo. “And yet… you’re running away from a change? My, my, what happened to all those ‘icky diapee’ complaints, hmm?”

A tiny huff, a wiggle of his hips, but no answer. He knows exactly what I’m getting at.

“You know, I don’t mind letting you stay soggy,” I continue, amusement lacing my voice. “I mean, if my baby wants to waddle around with a big, swollen diaper all afternoon, who am I to stop him?”

That gets a pause.

He glances back at me, eyes wide, like he’s actually considering it. Oh, the little stinker.

But I see the hesitation, that little flicker of indecision. Because as much as he thinks he wants to keep crawling around all squishy, we both know the moment his diaper starts to really droop, he’s going to get all shy and fussy.

I inch closer, slowly, playfully, like a lioness circling her prey. “Buuuut,” I sing, wiggling my fingers, “that does mean I get to tease you about your big, soggy bottom all day long.”

His whole body tenses, like he’s debating making a last-minute dash for it. But before he can, I swoop in, wrapping my arms around his waist and pulling him into my lap. He lets out a dramatic little whine, kicking his sock-covered feet, but I just giggle, rocking him gently.

“Aww, my little squish,” I murmur, giving his diaper a few playful pokes. “Such a soggy escape artist.”

He pouts, but the warmth in his cheeks tells me everything.

“Alright, stinker,” I chuckle, “let’s get that bum all dry again. You can go back to being my squirmy little troublemaker after, deal?”

A sigh. A wiggle. And then, at last, a tiny, reluctant nod.

The photo is take with permisson from @diaperdino77

[regressionschool]

JOBLESS & JUVENILE: A NEW FUTURE FOR THE UNEMPLOYED?

By Emily Dawson, Investigative Reporter

For decades, governments have struggled with rising unemployment. Now, in partnership with Pampers Corporation, a revolutionary solution has emerged—one that provides financial security, housing, and a structured daily routine for those out of work for extended periods.

The "Retraining & Relaxation Program" (RRP) is a bold new initiative that reimagines what it means to be unemployed. Rather than forcing job-seekers to endure endless applications, stress, and uncertainty, RRP offers them something better: a fresh start, free of adult burdens. Enrolled participants receive free housing, nutritious meals, and a basic income—but in exchange, they must embrace the Pampers lifestyle.

For some, it’s a dream come true. For others, it’s a nightmare.

"I Never Want to Grow Up Again!" – A Happy Little Student

At Sunny Steps Learning Center, one of the program's many Retraining Facilities, I meet Steve, 25, who has been enrolled in RRP for four months. The moment I step into the playroom, he rushes up to greet me, his Pampers crinkling loudly beneath his onesie as he bounces on his heels.

“Hi-hi, Miss Emily!” he chirps, his voice light and playful. “Didja come to play too?”

Steve, once a struggling software developer, no longer concerns himself with résumés, bills, or job interviews. Instead, his days are filled with storytime, snack breaks, and supervised play. He eagerly shows off his favorite toys, his plump diaper sagging slightly but still holding strong—a testament to Pampers’ renowned absorbency.

"I used to be sooo stressed all the time," he tells me, plopping onto a soft mat. "Always worried 'bout money, 'bout findin’ work. But now? I just get to be me! No worries, no hard stuff! Just nap, snack, and play!"

I ask if he ever thinks about returning to adulthood. He looks at me like I’ve suggested something completely absurd.

"Nooo way! Big-boy life was way too hard! I like my diapers, I like my nap times, and I LOVE snackies! Who’d wanna give that up?"

It’s difficult to argue with the enthusiasm in his voice, especially when he kicks his feet happily, completely unconcerned as his caretaker comes over to check his Pampers. The program has given him everything he needs—and taken away everything he doesn’t.

A Different Perspective: "I Don't Belong Here!"

Not everyone shares Steve’s enthusiasm. Dana, 29, is in the program as well, but she’s far from thrilled about it. She shifts uncomfortably on the bench where we meet for our interview, the thick pull-ups beneath her skirt crinkling softly with every movement.

"This is humiliating," she huffs, crossing her arms. "I had a career. I just hit a rough patch! How does that mean I should be treated like a preschooler?"

Unlike Steve, Dana is still classified as a “transition student”, meaning she hasn’t yet fully regressed. She is in the pull-up phase of the program—technically given some independence, but still under heavy supervision. She is required to ask permission for bathroom breaks, follow a strict bedtime, and participate in “learning activities” designed for early childhood development.

"I try to use the toilet whenever I can," she insists, glaring at the playroom around us. "But they’re always watching. They say ‘oopsies happen’ and that it’s okay to have accidents, but I don’t want to have accidents! I’m not a baby!"

Before I can respond, Dana suddenly tenses. A blush creeps up her face, and she quickly looks down, her hands clutching the bench. Seconds later, she gasps softly—a nearly inaudible whimper—as a warm, wet patch spreads across the front of her pull-up.

A nearby caretaker notices immediately. "Oh, Dana, honey," she coos, kneeling beside her. "That’s why we wear our special trainers, remember? Let’s get you all dry, sweetheart."

Dana's face burns with shame as she’s gently led away by the caretaker, a visible waddle in her step from the bulky, swollen pull-up sagging between her thighs.

"See? This is what I mean!" she cries, her voice cracking. "They’re MAKING me like this!"

But is she truly being "made" into anything? Or is she simply proving that some people, no matter how much they protest, aren’t quite as ready for adult responsibilities as they believe?

A Program with Results

As more participants enter the Retraining & Relaxation Program, the statistics speak for themselves. Over 97% of enrollees never return to the workforce, choosing instead to remain in the program permanently.

Psychologists point to reduced stress, structured care, and positive reinforcement as the key factors behind its success. Pampers’ high-quality, ultra-absorbent protection ensures that comfort and security are never a concern, allowing participants to focus solely on their retraining.

Despite some criticism, it’s clear that the RRP is achieving what traditional welfare programs never could—not just financial stability, but true, lasting contentment.

“Some people just aren’t built for the pressures of adult life,” says Dr. Amelia Brooks, a behavioral specialist working with the program. “And that’s okay. With the right care, they can live much happier, healthier lives without unnecessary stress.”

Perhaps the only question left is this: Is unemployment truly the problem? Or is adulthood itself?

(Sponsored in part by Pampers Corporation. Because some people were never meant to grow up.)

[regressionschool]

You captured his inner surrender perfectly!

Baby Shark

“Good boy! Just like that, baby! Swing that diapered tushie for me!”

There is no more fight left in you. Whatever tattered shreds of your dignity have long since scattered in the wind.

You exist solely for her entertainment.

As her diapered plaything.

All you can so is smile and dance for her, pretending you are the toddler she treats you as.

Your diaper crinkles merrily as it sways, drooping low under the strain of your work filling it. Her sweet, loving encouragement rings in your ears.

What troubles you is it’s so brutally authentic that you can no longer tell if she’s doing it to humiliate you—or if this is genuinely how she sees you.

Not that it matters.

You never expected to be in this situation. Who would? Sure, you always expected to hear the loving tell-tale sounds of motherhood in the house. But you never expected that you would be the object of her motherly affection.

Yet here you are, “dancing” for your wife in nothing but an overworked diaper, stripped of any signs of your former adulthood.

Turns out you lost far more than your potty training after your incontinence diagnosis.

“You’re making Momma so proud, crinklepants! Do a little spin for me!”

You pretend you don’t notice her taking a video of your infantile performance. It’s better that way. No point in wondering which of her friends—your friends included—she’s sharing it with.

Just smile and dance like a good boy.

She knows what she’s doing. You saw that satisfied smirk when she told you it was time to donate everything from your well-stocked closet to someone who “needs it more than you.”

You always prided yourself on appearances. Flashing your fancy designer brands to anyone and everyone.

Well, you’re still doing just that—it’s just the brands you’re showing off are Pampers, Huggies, and Luvs.

Finally, mercifully, Baby Shark fades away.

She walks over to you, patting your diaper appraisingly before attempting to lift your diaper up on your hips.

“This diapie is sooo soggy, diaper butt! Momma’s baby just can’t quite keep it dry, can hims? No, hims can’t! Only soggy Pampers for my Babyboy!”

You look down in shame, cheeks burning red hot, “N-nuh uh, Momma…”

“That’s okay, squirt! Some men are meant for a boardroom. Some are meant for fame and fortune. And some,” she boops your nose playfully, “Are meant for the nursery!”

“You’re right where you belong, cutie pie!”

[regressionschool]

Grand Haven Hotel [an ABDL Universe Story]

In the morning rush at Grand Haven Hotel, Lena confidently tells housekeeping which rooms need priority cleaning, only to subtly shift as she feels her diaper growing warm and soggy mid-sentence.

She doesn’t falter, doesn’t pause, just keeps speaking, her voice steady as the gentle heat spreads, padding swelling beneath her skirt.

The housekeeping staff listens attentively, taking notes, accustomed to her professionalism. Lena is efficient, direct, unshaken even as her body takes care of itself, as natural as breathing.

By the time she finishes, the staff disperses to their assigned floors, leaving her alone in the quiet of the lobby.

It’s only then that she exhales, rolling her weight slightly onto her heels. Her diaper is squishier now.

She turns toward the front desk, where her assistant and assigned caregiver, Ms. Calloway, stands reviewing the guest reservations for the day.

Calloway doesn’t even need to glance up. She already knows.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she murmurs, fingers flipping through the ledger. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine,” Lena replies, stepping around the desk, her usual grace only slightly hindered by the thicker weight between her legs. “Housekeeping’s on track.”

“Good girl.” Calloway finally lifts her gaze, appraising Lena the way she always does sharp but soft, warm but in control.

Lena knows what’s coming before it happens.

Calloway’s hand drifts down, fingers brushing against the small of Lena’s back, guiding her in closer then pressing gently against the seat of her diaper.

Lena keeps still, her cheeks warming slightly at the light squeeze, but she doesn’t protest. She’s used to this.

Calloway hums. Evaluating. Calculating. Deciding.

Lena waits.

The verdict comes in the form of a soft, knowing smirk. “Still has some room.”

Lena exhales quietly, not surprised.

Calloway’s touch lingers a moment longer before she withdraws, already turning back to her paperwork as if nothing happened. “You’ll be fine for a little while longer, sweetheart.”

Lena took a steadying breath, smoothing down her skirt as she made her way toward the grand entrance of the hotel. The VIP was arriving.

It was part of her job to greet important guests with warmth, professionalism, and charm. She was good at it. Confident. Poised. In control.

Even if her diaper was still noticeably squishy between her thighs. Calloway had decided she wasn’t ready for a change yet, which meant it wasn’t Lena’s concern. She didn’t worry about those things her caregiver did.

The doors of the hotel swept open, and in walked Madame Sinclair, a well-known patron of luxury hotels, accompanied by her little, a dainty, soft-looking girl clutching a designer handbag in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other.

Sinclair was tall, poised, effortlessly elegant, the kind of woman who commanded attention simply by entering a room. Her dark sunglasses rested atop her sleek silver hair, and her perfume a subtle, expensive floral lingered in the air.

Lena smiled, stepping forward with her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Welcome to Grand Haven, Madame Sinclair. We’re honored to have you staying with us.”

She kept her voice bright, warm. Professional.

But before she could continue with the formalities, Madame Sinclair’s sharp eyes swept over her, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Oh, my dear,” she murmured. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?”

Lena felt her cheeks heat not with embarrassment, but something else.

She was used to polite compliments from guests, used to the occasional indulgent coo, but something about Madame Sinclair’s tone made her stomach flip just a little.

Sinclair stepped closer, reaching out without hesitation, fingers grazing under Lena’s chin as if inspecting her.

“My, my,” the woman continued, clearly delighted. “You are simply precious, aren’t you?”

Lena stood tall, keeping her practiced composure, even as warmth spread through her chest.

Madame Sinclair chuckled knowingly. “You don’t have to pretend, dear. I can see it, you like being doted on, don’t you?”

Lena wanted to deny it.

But she couldn’t.

Not when Sinclair was right.

Her fingers traveled downward, slipping lightly to Lena’s hip, tracing the fabric of her skirt before giving a deliberate tug.

“Let’s have a little peek, shall we?” Sinclair murmured, not really asking.

Lena hesitated for only half a second.

Then her training took over.

She obeyed without protest, fingers delicately lifting the hem of her skirt just enough to reveal the soft, swollen bulk of her diaper beneath.

A gentle, knowing press of fingers against the seat of her diaper. A slow, thorough squeeze. Sinclair’s smirk deepened.

““Wet, of course.”

The words weren’t a question.

Lena swallowed, her voice quieter than before. “…Yes, ma’am.”

Sinclair beamed.

“Adorable,” she praised, turning slightly toward her own little, who had gone pink at the open display.

“You see, darling?” Sinclair said, addressing her little now. “She wears the very same brand as you.”

The younger little blinked.

The girl blinked, shifting slightly as if suddenly aware of her own diaper.

Lena, still holding her skirt just slightly lifted, saw her chance.

She smiled again, professional, polished, entirely unruffled despite the growing heat in her cheeks.

“Yes, Madame,” she said pleasantly, letting her skirt drop back into place. “We make sure every guest receives the absolute best here at Grand Haven.”

She folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head slightly.

“That includes only the finest care for littles,” she added sweetly, eyes flickering toward Sinclair’s charge. “Our staff is specially trained to ensure comfort, discretion, and only the highest quality provisions.”

Sinclair hummed, intrigued. “Is that so?”

Lena nodded. “We offer a full-service experience, with dedicated caregivers, premium amenities, and, of course” she gestured subtly downward, not needing to say the words.

Sinclair’s grin widened.

“My, my,” she murmured, pleased. “I think we’re going to love it here.”

She turned to her little, running a hand through the girl’s soft curls.

“What do you think, darling?” she purred.

The girl nodded shyly, clearly a little overwhelmed but not unhappy.

Sinclair laughed. “Good.”

She turned back to Lena, her gaze sharper now assessing, testing, approving.

“You,” she said, reaching out to tap Lena’s nose with one perfectly-manicured finger, “are an absolute delight.”

Lena held her ground, her heart beating just a little faster.

She liked the praise. Loved it, actually.

But she didn’t need to show it.

She simply curtsied, the gesture small, practiced, perfect.

“We strive to please, Madame.”

Sinclair’s chuckle was low, rich, and knowing.

“Oh, my dear. I believe you do.”

And with that, she strolled toward the reception desk, her little trailing behind, Lena’s cheeks still warm in the aftermath.

Lena straightened her posture, smoothing the front of her uniform with a practiced touch, her cheeks still slightly warm from Madame Sinclair’s attention. But there was no time to dwell on that not when she had a tour to conduct.

A group of potential investors had arrived earlier that morning, and it was her responsibility to show them why Grand Haven Hotel was the premier destination for high-end guests and their littles.

The investors, three men and one woman, were dressed in impeccably polished shoes, tailored suits, and expensive watches. They carried themselves with the same air of casual wealth as many of Grand Haven’s guests, but Lena knew they were watching carefully, assessing every detail of their experience.

Which meant she had to be perfect.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she greeted them warmly, “I’ll be leading your tour today. Grand Haven is proud to provide world-class service for all our guests, from esteemed travelers to the littles they care for.”

They nodded, impressed.

And so, she began.

Lena led them through the lobby first, pointing out the concierge desk, the custom-designed furniture, the high-end art pieces that added to the luxurious ambiance. She spoke with confidence, gesturing gracefully as she described the hotel’s exclusive amenities, her voice warm and steady.

What she didn’t notice at least, not at first was the way the investors’ expressions softened as they watched her move.

Her waddle was slight, but noticeable the gentle crinkle of her still-damp diaper accompanying each step, the slight sway in her hips as she walked ahead of them.

It was subtle. Polished. Unintentional.

And yet, the group was clearly entertained by it.

One of them, a man in a dark navy suit, exchanged a quiet, knowing glance with his colleague, lips quirking in amusement. The woman in the group, elegant and composed, merely smiled, her eyes flickering down to Lena’s gait with undeniable approval.

Lena, oblivious to their reactions, kept talking.

The final stop on the tour was the Penthouse Suite, a grand, sweeping space with floor-to-ceiling windows, an expansive balcony, and a luxurious private lounge designed specifically for guests who traveled with littles.

“This suite,” Lena explained, gesturing gracefully toward the plush furnishings, “is one of our most sought-after accommodations. It features a fully customized nursery area, premium bedding, and direct concierge service.”

The investors nodded, murmuring their approval as they admired the view.

Then it happened.

As Lena stepped toward the center of the room, turning slightly to bid them farewell, a soft, unmistakable warmth bloomed in her tummy.

She knew immediately.

She’d felt it before.

The slow, involuntary relaxation. The pressure. The quiet shift of weight deep in her core.

She didn’t stop talking, couldn't stop talking, not with the investors watching her so closely.

So she simply let it happen.

Her diaper bulged ever so slightly as she filled it, the warmth spreading, the padding expanding beneath her skirt.

Her body relaxed into the feeling, the sensation familiar, natural, inevitable.

And still, she smiled, keeping her hands neatly folded in front of her.

“…Grand Haven is committed to excellence,” she continued, her voice unwavering as the last of the movement settled into the seat of her already damp diaper. “We take pride in ensuring that every guest receives the very best experience possible.”

No hesitation. No reaction. No pause.

“…We take pride in ensuring that every guest receives the very best experience possible,” she finished smoothly, gesturing toward the Penthouse Suite’s elegantly arranged seating area.

The investors nodded, murmuring their approval.

One of the men tall, with salt-and-pepper hair tilted his head slightly, watching her with an amused expression.

“Your dedication to hospitality is remarkable, Miss Lena,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “Even with… distractions.”

His gaze dipped oh so briefly downward before flicking back to her face.

Lena did not blush.

She met his gaze steadily, smiling as if she hadn’t just filled her diaper mid-sentence. “Grand Haven expects the highest standards from its staff,” she said warmly. “I strive to meet them.”

The elegant woman in the group chuckled. “A true professional.”

Another investor hummed, exchanging a glance with his colleague. “Quite the impressive little hostess.”

Lena curtsied gracefully, her skirt shifting lightly over the swollen bulk beneath.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

There was an unmistakable twinkle in their eyes as they murmured their goodbyes, taking one last glance at the Penthouse before stepping out of the suite.

Lena followed them down to the lobby, keeping her pace even despite the soft squish accompanying each step.

Her diaper was very full now.

But still, she kept going.

After ensuring the investors were escorted out properly, Lena made her way toward the housekeeping wing, checking in on the cleaning progress.

She’d barely taken two steps past the concierge when a familiar voice rang out:

“There’s my little ray of sunshine!”

Before she could react, a warm hand ruffled her hair, fingers tousling her carefully styled locks.

Lena immediately recognized the voice a regular guest, Mrs. Harper, an older woman who had taken a clear liking to her.

Lena straightened, smoothing her skirt even as delight bubbled in her chest at the affectionate greeting.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harper,” she said politely, her voice bright and professional.

But she couldn’t stop the tiny smile that crept onto her face.

“Just as precious as ever,” Harper cooed, giving Lena’s cheek a gentle pat before stepping back. “I don’t know how this hotel gets any work done with you being so distractingly adorable all the time.”

Lena beamed before she could stop herself.

She liked being praised. Liked being doted on.

Even as she stood there, her very messy diaper hugging her snugly, she felt nothing but warmth from the interaction.

“I do my best,” she said sweetly, her voice carrying just a hint of playful pride.

Mrs. Harper just laughed, patting her back before continuing on her way.

Lena sighed contentedly, still standing in place for a moment before she remembered herself and shook it off.

She still had work to do.

She was halfway to checking on the cleaning staff when a familiar presence stepped into her path.

Calloway.

Lena immediately felt the shift in the air and knew that look in Calloway’s eyes.

The gentle but undeniable authority.

The moment had come.

Lena had delayed her change long enough.

She opened her mouth, already preparing an excuse but before she could say a word, Calloway’s hands were already on her.

A firm grip at her waist.

An easy lift.

Before Lena could even think to protest, she found herself scooped up against Calloway’s chest.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips as her legs left the ground, her body settled effortlessly into Calloway’s arms.

The movement made her very aware of the heavy bulk beneath her, pressing warmly against her caregiver’s hip.

Calloway simply smirked.

“I let you wait long enough,” she murmured, adjusting her hold. “You’re coming with me.”

Lena whined softly but didn’t resist.

She just tucked her face against Calloway’s shoulder, letting herself be carried past the hall, through the lobby, toward the staff changing lounge.

Calloway lowered her onto the cushioned bench, fingers immediately moving to unsnap her uniform skirt.

The moment the very full diaper was revealed, Calloway chuckled, shaking her head.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, pressing her palm lightly against the swollen padding. “You really waited, didn’t you?”

Lena only huffed quietly, cheeks warm.

She had been busy.

Calloway worked with calm efficiency, untaping the well-used diaper, cleaning her up with the same practiced ease she always did.

By the time she was fresh, powdered, and snugly re-diapered, Lena felt melted into relaxation, her limbs loose and content.

Calloway, of course, wasn’t done yet.

She plopped a juice box in front of her, tapping the straw against Lena’s lower lip until she accepted it.

“Snack time,” Calloway reminded her.

Lena obediently sipped, the cool fruit juice a welcome relief.

As she drank, Calloway leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement.

“I spoke with Madame Sinclair earlier,” she said casually. “She and her little would love your company for dinner tonight.”

Lena blinked, straw still in her mouth.

Dinner? With Sinclair?

A tiny flutter stirred in her stomach.

Calloway chuckled. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Lena swallowed, fingers curling around her juice box.

“…I’d like to,” she admitted.

Calloway’s smile softened.

“Good girl.”

Lena beamed. Thank you @liljams for providing the idea/setting

[regressionschool]

Walking in [warning, bad pun]

You push open the door, the familiar creak barely registering over the surprise of seeing your roommate caught in such an unexpected state. There she is, only in a soft pink diaper, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade as her eyes widen in shock. You were supposed to be away for two more days, and her embarrassment fills the room like thick perfume.

"Oh! I, uh... I thought you were coming back on Thursday," she stammers, her hands awkwardly trying to cover up, though there isn’t much to hide that the pink diaper hasn’t already revealed.

You can't help but feel a stir of excitement at the sight, her vulnerability so openly displayed, but you keep your tone playful to keep the mood light. "Looks like I've caught my naughty roommate red-handed. Or should I say, pink-diapered?" you tease, stepping closer, your smile broadening.

Her face heats up even more, if possible, and she bites her lip, a mix of mortified and something else—perhaps a dash of excitement? "It's not what it looks like," she tries to defend, her voice a whisper of defiance.

You chuckle, walking over to sit beside her on the sofa, your expression softening. "It looks exactly like someone loves her comfy diaper time a bit too much to check her phone," you say, nudging her playfully with your shoulder.

She sighs, a playful pout forming as she finally meets your gaze. "Maybe I do," she admits, her voice small. "Well, since I'm back early, how about we make the most of these next two days?" you suggest, your tone teasing yet gentle. "You seem to love being so coddled and cozy in your diaper—how about you be my baby for the next two days? I think it suits you."

Her eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and nervousness, but she nods, a shy smile creeping across her face.

[regressionschool]

Trigger [an ABDL Hypnosis Story]

The café was comfortably lively, a gentle hum of voices and the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic filling the space. Sunlight streamed through wide windows, glinting off the water glasses, and the air smelled of fresh coffee and warm pastries.

Molly sat across from Dave, stirring cream into her coffee with small, absentminded motions. She had barely touched her croissant, only nibbling at the edges while her thoughts drifted. Dave, on the other hand, was cutting into a stack of pancakes with practiced ease, unfazed by the conversation unfolding between them.

“I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Molly said, shaking her head slightly. “Like—Emma just… lets it happen?”

Dave chewed, swallowed, and lifted his coffee cup. “It’s not really ‘letting,’ though, is it? It’s what she wants.”

Molly made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “Does she? Or is it just what he wants?”

Dave arched a brow but didn’t respond immediately. He took another bite, letting the syrup soak into the pancakes before cutting another neat square. “She seems happy. I mean, she always said she wanted something different, right?”

Molly’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Different isn’t the same as being put back into—into toddlerhood. That’s not just a ‘different lifestyle,’ Dave. It’s… regressive.”

He shrugged. “And?”

“And—” Molly exhaled sharply, setting her spoon down a little too hard. “And I just don’t get how she could want that. Like, really want it. No responsibility? No autonomy? Just being put in—” she stopped, shaking her head. “It freaks me out.”

Dave took a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her she was overreacting. That wasn’t his way. Instead, he let the silence sit between them for a beat before saying, “I think it freaks you out because you can’t imagine wanting it. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Molly frowned. “I didn’t say it was wrong. I said it was scary.”

Dave tilted his head slightly. “Same thing, in a way.”

Molly opened her mouth, then shut it again, glaring at her croissant like it had personally offended her. She didn’t like that—when Dave did that thing where he made a point without actually making one. It left her feeling unsteady, like she had to defend herself when she wasn’t even sure what she was defending.

She pushed her plate away slightly, leaning back in her chair. “I just keep thinking about it. Like, if that can happen to Emma, could it happen to anyone? What’s the… trigger?”

Dave chuckled, shaking his head. “Molly, you say that like it’s a virus or something.”

“Well, isn’t it?” she shot back. “One day, she was just our friend Emma, and now she’s…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “She’s in nappies, Dave. Full-time. And not just that, but he makes the choices now. What she eats, what she wears, when she sleeps.”

Dave tapped his fork against his plate thoughtfully. “She let him.”

“That’s what scares me,” Molly admitted. Her voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “That she let him. And she’s fine with it. More than fine. She’s… content.”

“Would it be different if she wasn’t?”

Molly blinked. “What?”

“If she was miserable,” Dave said. “If she hated it. Would you feel better?”

She scowled. “That’s not the point.”

“I think it might be,” he said, and for the first time, there was something pointed in his tone. “If she hated it, you could see it as something being done to her. But she doesn’t. So instead, you have to deal with the fact that she chose it. And that makes you uncomfortable.”

Molly crossed her arms, looking away. “It should make you uncomfortable too.”

Dave sighed and set his fork down. “I don’t know, Mol. Maybe I just don’t care as much as you do. It’s weird, yeah. But people do weird things all the time. If it makes her happy, why should it matter?”

Molly shook her head, staring out the window. Outside, people walked by with shopping bags, strollers, coffee cups in hand. Just… normal people. People who weren’t Emma.

She could almost see her in her mind—Emma, giggling, dressed in something soft and pastel, clutching a stuffed animal. Not a woman anymore. Not in the way she used to be.

Dave studied Molly for a long moment, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup. The tension in her shoulders, the hard set of her jaw—it was all so familiar. The same reaction he’d seen before, whenever Emma came up in conversation.

He sighed. “You know, it’s funny.”

Molly frowned. “What is?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping just a fraction. “You keep talking like you don’t understand. But I think, deep down, you do.”

She scoffed, opening her mouth to retort, but Dave cut her off with a single phrase, low and deliberate:

“Little minds don’t worry.”

Molly’s breath caught. For a second, nothing happened—just a flicker in her expression, a slight widening of her eyes. Then, like a ripple spreading across the surface of a pond, something shifted.

Her lips parted, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her fingers, which had been tense around her coffee cup, suddenly slackened, as if the very concept of holding it had become too complex. She blinked rapidly, her gaze unfocused.

“Wh—” Her voice came out small, uncertain. She shook her head, strands of hair falling into her face. “Whazza…?”

Dave sat back, watching as it unfolded.

Molly’s posture sagged, her body language morphing from sharp and guarded to something looser, more instinctual. The weight of her own thoughts—thoughts that had moments ago felt so heavy, so complicated—seemed to vanish.

Her expression flickered through confusion, then something closer to frustration. “S’fuzzy,” she mumbled, bringing her hands up to rub at her temples. “Don’—I don’ get… um…”

Her tongue tripped over her own words. Concepts unraveled like loose threads, slipping through her grasp. Even the sentence she’d just started—what was it supposed to be? What was she even trying to say?

Her eyes darted to Dave, wide and almost pleading.

“Davey,” she whimpered.

He hummed. “Yeah, Mols?”

“F’eels weird,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. “Dunno—s’diff’ent. Ev’rything all… ‘spicy’.”

Dave tilted his head, amused. “Spicy?”

Molly pouted, frustrated by the word she couldn’t quite find. “Mmmm, not spicy, but—y’know! All wiggly ‘n’ tingly ‘n’ funny.”

As if on cue, she let out a sharp gasp, her hands darting down to her lap. A slow warmth spread beneath her, soaking into the fabric of her jeans, pooling against the seat.

Molly let out a breathy little whimper as the last remnants of adult thought crumbled. “Uh-oh…”

A dark patch spread beneath her, creeping outward, the undeniable hiss of her accident filling the air.

Dave chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair. “That’s okay, kiddo,” he said lightly. “Little girls don’t worry ‘bout things like that, remember?”

Molly blinked up at him, her bottom lip wobbling, the lingering ghost of something wrong flickering across her features before fading into soft, placid contentment.

She wasn’t an adult anymore.

She wasn’t supposed to worry.

She didn’t worry.

Dave sighed, shaking his head with a good-natured chuckle as he glanced toward the café staff. A few nearby patrons had already started whispering, their eyes darting toward the growing puddle beneath Molly’s chair. He caught the eye of a barista, offering an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about this," he said smoothly, his tone warm but firm, the way a responsible caretaker would explain a toddler's accident. "She’s still getting the hang of things."

The barista, a young woman with tired eyes and a sympathetic expression, only nodded. "Don’t worry about it," she murmured, though her gaze flicked toward Molly, who was now squirming in her seat, fascinated by the way the damp fabric clung to her legs.

Dave turned his attention back to her, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face. "Alright, Mols," he said gently, slipping into the comforting role she now expected of him. "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Molly only giggled, tilting her head up at him with big, unfocused eyes. "Mmmkay, Daddy," she lilted, the title slipping past her lips effortlessly, as if it had always been that way.

Dave’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, but he didn't linger on it. Instead, he rose, moving around the table and helping Molly up. Her legs wobbled slightly, unsteady now that her adult coordination had slipped away.

As she stood, the full extent of her accident became clear. Her jeans were soaked, clinging to her thighs, the damp material darkened almost entirely down to her ankles. She looked down, blinking slowly at the mess, but there was no shame in her expression—only mild curiosity.

She poked a tiny finger against the wet denim. "Squishy," she declared with a giggle.

Dave grinned, ruffling her hair. "Yeah, kiddo. And that’s why we wear proper protection, huh?"

Molly giggled again, her gaze unfocused and dreamy. "Mmhmm!"

Dave led her toward the back of the café, past the staff-only sign. No one stopped them. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, so confident, so sure of his authority over her. Maybe it was the way Molly so clearly wasn’t in charge of herself anymore, her small hand tucked securely into his, her posture loose and trusting.

Inside the staff restroom, a sight that would have mortified Molly just minutes ago now greeted her without a flicker of concern—

An adult-sized changing table.

Dave patted the cushioned surface. "Up you go, kiddo."

Molly obediently reached her arms up, letting him lift her onto the table without a second thought. She kicked her legs idly, her soaked jeans sticking to her skin, a little pout forming on her lips.

"Wan’ dry," she mumbled.

Dave chuckled. "That’s the plan, sweetheart."

With practiced ease, he peeled away her jeans, the damp fabric clinging for a moment before slipping free. He balled them up and set them aside, then made quick work of her sodden panties. Molly didn’t react, other than giggling as the cool air hit her bare skin.

She squirmed as he wiped her down with a warm cloth, but it wasn’t from discomfort—it was the way a toddler would squirm from tickles rather than modesty.

Then, he pulled out the final piece.

A puffy, pastel-colored Pampers—one big enough for her, decorated in soft patterns that made it impossible to mistake for anything grown-up.

Molly’s eyes widened, but not with the resistance she might have once had. No, this time, it was delight.

"Ooooooh!" she cooed, her fingers twitching eagerly.

Dave smirked. "Like it, baby?"

Molly nodded enthusiastically, reaching out to poke at the plastic shell as he unfolded it. "Is crinkly!" she giggled.

He lifted her legs effortlessly, sliding the padding beneath her before securing the tapes snugly at her waist. The thick bulk forced her legs apart slightly, and when he patted the front, she let out a soft, happy hum, wiggling against the plush comfort.

"There we go," Dave murmured, smoothing her shirt down over the top of her new, much more appropriate underwear. "All fresh."

Molly beamed up at him, wiggling her toes as she enthusiastically poked at the front of her new padding, fascinated by the way it crinkled under her touch.

"Dis is way better!" she declared, giggling as she gave the front a few experimental pats.

Dave laughed. "I thought you’d see it that way, princess."

Then, he picked up her jeans, inspecting the soaked fabric with a smirk. "Well, kiddo, looks like you’ll have to go without these for a bit."

Molly didn’t even blink.

If anything, she giggled, swinging her bare legs with delight.

The Molly from before—the one who had argued, who had frowned and questioned—was nowhere to be found.

She was just Mols now. A little girl in nothing but a crinkly diaper and her soft shirt, giggling as she prodded at the thick bulk between her legs.