DadIsWriting

You finished that one so fast your thirsty mouth is still searching. You can take another, can’t you? Your hands won’t hold it steady anymore, I already see them trembling. Come climb onto my lap so I can tip the bottle for you and keep your body from slipping. Feels safer when I decide how much milk fills you, doesn’t it? Nothing happens that I don’t allow while you’re this open and helpless in my arms. 🍼

If you get wetter thinking about a big, sturdy Daddy deciding you never get to choose again, you are already His. You can squirm and whisper that you’re still grown. It does not matter. Once the tapes seal and the crinkle starts, you will, inevitably, flood. 💦

I find her on the floor beside the crib, already half gone. Eyes half-closed, cheek against the rail, the onesie doing its best to hold her thick diaper. When I reach down she lifts her head just enough, looks up at me, and says, soft and small, “eepy.” That is all it takes. I gather her up; her weight settles into my arms, limbs loose, breath slow against my neck. I lower her onto the mattress and rub the bulk between her thighs. “It’s ok, darling,” I say, turning the mobile on. “Daddy will stay until your safely asleep.” Soft light moves across the sheet. I tuck the blanket snug. Then I rest my palm against her cheek and begin to stroke, thumb moving in a gentle line along the bone. She turns into it, mouth open, and latches onto the thumb as if she has been waiting. The suckling is hungry and thoughtless , her breath evening out while the animals on the mobile go round and round.

Her eloquent reply brings smiles and nods from the small circle gathered around her. The long blue dress moves cleanly under the sweater as she continues; beneath both, the pull-up sits thin enough that she can almost call it underwear. For the length of the next sentence she believes it. She believes she has left the accidents behind. The man with a black mustache beside her turns and asks whether she knows the artist personally. She does. The room treats her as reliable. She lets the treatment stand. [1/2]

You’re already on your back, legs bent and spread, brown leg warmers framing the thick white diaper still fastened. The wand drills into the wettest part of the padding. Its vibrations travel toward your clit, trembling there like an electric tongue. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and the wand’s relentless pulses continue. You press it more firmly before you can say no. Warmth spreads through your crotch as urine slowly releases into the diaper. The tapes hold, hold. Your mouth opens in a sound that’s half laugh, half the small noise of resistance giving way. Warmth envelops you. You pull up your top so the air can touch your skin. The smile that comes marks the end of the adult decision: you wet on purpose, simply for the pleasure of the dampness. The good girl does what her Daddy encourages. You could keep going like that all day.

The cat seat is already buckled around you when he opens the back door. The dress is soft over the thick diaper; the padding keeps your knees apart even while you sit. He climbs into the front and glances at you in the mirror. “Remember when you drove yourself everywhere?” he asks, quiet. He reaches back and offers the pacifier. You open for it without speaking. He watches you take it, then turns the key. “This is how you’ll sit from now on. Back seat, bulk locked, pacifier in. If anyone looks in you keep your eyes down. Daddy handles the rest.” The car rolls forward. One of your hands rests on the front of the diaper while you suck. The steering wheel stays empty. You stay where you were put. 🍼

You said the back seat feels safer. So the car is parked, windows already fogging, and you’re on your back with the tapes open. The old diaper is peeled away, and the wipe is warm against you as someone walks by outside. Daddy’s body stays between you and the world. “Stay still,” he says, low. You leak the second the wipe moves. He doesn’t flinch. He just cleans again, slower, then shows you the thicker one already waiting on the seat. [1/2]

Daddy who lifts you out of the high chair and sets you on his lap, burps you with steady pats, then keeps you there with his palm pressed flat to the back of the diaper just because that makes you melt deeper.

You already said being changed while you sleep is nice. Imagine waking up mid-change, tapes already open, the mess being wiped away, and a thicker diaper waiting to be locked on tighter than you would have picked. You don’t get to decide it yourself.

Babies and friends, Do you read Medium? I might start writing there, too: medium.com/@dadiswriting458/…

Daddy who feeds you from the bottle while you’re still strapped in the stroller, then reaches under the blanket to check the front and tells you to finish every drop before he even thinks about stopping.

Turn a little more. There. Daddy wants the whole smile, not the polite half you think is enough for a man standing at the rail. You heard me and your shoulders went before your mind did. I watched the order of it. The pacifier clicked wet against your teeth, a small silly sound, and then the bear came up under your chin like a door you shut from the inside. Good girl. Stay in the shape you just made. Knees on the pad. Back bare to the curtain. The diaper is thick enough to refuse a closed knee. Your thighs stay parted around it, and the kneel is only you agreeing with the plastic. [1/6]

The trip to the bathroom requires an audience and a performance. The wet diaper only requires you to stay where he put you. You choose the quieter one. 🍼

You are already down on the rug, knees spread, the diaper thick and ballooned so every shift makes the plastic rustle against your thighs. He sits ten feet off, legs crossed, arms open. “Come on, baby. Crawl to Daddy. You can do it.” You start. The knees slide. Halfway, the crinkle gets loud, and your face heats; you stop, breathing shyly. He doesn't move, only smiles and opens his arms wider. “That’s it, sweetheart. Keep going. Almost here.” When you reach him, he pulls you into his lap and presses one hand flat against the back of the diaper. You like how his steady palm feels. “Good girl. You made it all the way in your wet diaper. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

You begin to set the plates because the table is the only thing still asking anything of you. Breakfast is gone. The chairs are pushed in. Light curls up on the terracotta and does not move. When you shift, the plastic answers against the inside of your thigh, a small crinkle the furniture can hear. The white diaper rounds under the black hem as you walk for the utensils. The apron bow is neat at your back. It lies about the rest. [1/7]

Look at the little mess crawling toward the changing table. Chin wet, spit strings meandering through your neck and onesie, face flushed because you know how ridiculous you look. That’s fine, that's a silly baby. Babies drool and crawl when they need a change. Keep coming. Daddy’s waiting with powder and a fresh diaper, and you don’t get to walk the last few feet.

You keep squirming like the diaper isn’t already deciding for you. Those little fists push at my chest, try to roll free, but the plastic crinkles louder than your protests, and your hips stay exactly where I settle them. I smooth the tapes flat, press my palm low, and the wet spot spreads under my fingers while you go still. This is where you stay: thick, leaking, and finished arguing.

His hand closes over yours on the last step off the curb. You are still naming the room upstairs. He does not let go as you walk across the lot. At his car, he opens the rear door with the other hand. The front seats stay empty. Your diaper bag is already on the leather. You look at the lobby once. He holds your fingers and pulls you in.