Date Published: March 15, 2016, 7:10pm
Written By: WBDaddy
I wrote this today (and intend to finish it tomorrow) just because I knew I hadn’t written anything in quite a while. It’s pretty cheeky, but hopefully you’ll have some fun with it.
“Do you think this is fun for me?!” I shout over the din of the rushing water, disgusted as I pick up her soiled jeans and panties off the bathroom floor.
“No,” she groans. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice, and it grates my nerves. “Sorry, Dad,” she huffs. Not a stitch of sincerity in it.
“All because you can’t be bothered to interrupt a goddamned VIDEO GAME to go to the damned bathroom! What is WRONG with you?!”
“I said I’m sorry, okay?!” she barks back. “Get over it already!”
That plucked my last nerve. I storm out of the bathroom and down to the basement, hurling the wet clothes into the washer when I arrive. I ordered the supplies for this online a few weeks ago, before school let out, but guilt prevented me from going forward with it. This was wrong, doing this to a 12-year-old girl, wasn’t it? Now it clearly was the only option. I’d tried buying her those bedwetting pants for older girls, but she only ever wore them if I checked up on her in the morning, and even then only after an extended screaming match. Half the time she’d ditch them later anyway. Of course, she never had “accidents” at school. Oh no, in fact the teachers complained she was constantly asking for a hall pass in the middle of class. If I hadn’t intimated to them all the toileting problems she had at home, they would have insisted she wait until between classes.
This, though, this is the end. No more of any of that, not for a long time. It’s the beginning of summer break, and I’m not going to deal with mountains of laundry and cleaning up puddles everywhere for the next three months. I listen; the shower is still running. Good. I have time, but I have to move fast. For once I’m grateful she has such a penchant for marathon bathing sessions.
By the time I hear the water cut off, the stage is set. Her underwear drawer has been properly reorganized; I’ll buy her new panties if and when she shows me that she’s ready to start using the damned bathroom on a consistent basis. Everything I need for this battle is sitting under the bed. I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom. This is going to be a fight to end all fights, but I’m ready. If I have to, I’ll take her over my knee, something I haven’t done in years, though I quietly wonder if that fact hasn’t contributed to where we are now.
“Dad?! What the hell are you doing in here?!” she shrieks as she enters the room, clutching her towel.
“Sit down,” I say calmly, patting the bed next to me.
“Can’t we save ‘the talk’ for after I get dressed?!” she snaps.
“I SAID SIT DOWN!” I command. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in a while, and she startles, just as I expected her to. She complies, but not without a huff.
“I can’t believe you’re still pissed. What’s the big deal?” she grumbles.
“I’m not still pissed about that. And it’s not going to be a big deal anymore. You’ve made it perfectly clear to me that you don’t want to be responsible for your toileting anymore. So I’m going to handle it for you.”
“What does that even mean?!” she asks, her face a picture of confusion.
“Lie down,” I reply flatly.
“Wait, wha…”
“LIE DOWN!” She complies hurriedly, and I reach for the towel.
“Dad, what are you doing?!” she protests, clutching it tighter against her chest.
“Let go of the towel, Melissa.” I glare at her fiercely, and she relaxes her grip.
“What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice softer but just as confused.
“Just what I said. Handling your toileting for you.” The towel is spread out beneath her, and she’s lying there, naked and blushing. I reach under the bed and grab my supplies. Her eyes lock on one in particular, and it crinkles softly as I drop it next to her.
“DAD! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” she shrieks, retreating towards the head of the bed.
“Get your butt back on that towel and don’t move.” I grab her ankle and lock on as she squirms.
“I’m not wearing that! No fucking way!” She’s trying to pull away, but my deathlock is holding her fast. I grab the other ankle and pull her back down.
I scowl at her darkly. “If that word comes out of your mouth again, you’re going to be a very unhappy little girl. Now lay still.”
“Dad! Daddy! Come on! I’ll wear the pull-ups! Just not that! Please!” she pleads. She starts to squirm again. I quickly swat her on the thigh. Not hard, just enough to get her attention.
“Ow!” she yelps. Her eyes are filling with tears. “This is ridiculous, Daddy! Please! I promise I won’t do it anymore! Just don’t make me wear that!”
“Roll over,” I instruct, ignoring her begging.
“NO!” she shouts back. “I’m not wearing diapers Daddy!”
“Roll over, or I will do it for you, and then I’ll warm your little bottom up for you as well, Melissa,” I growl, deep and low. The tone that she knows means business.
“Daddy, please,” she whimpers as she turns over onto her stomach. She’s crying now, and a pang of guilt shoots through me as I pick up the tube of rash cream and gently apply it to the insides of her little butt cheeks.
“I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up,” I lied, picking up the baby powder and sprinkling it liberally all over her backside and the tops of her thighs. “This way, you’ll be able to sit there and play your little video games and not have to worry about going potty anymore.”
“I’m not a little kid Dad!” she snaps back through her tears. “I don’t need stupid diapers!”
Ignoring the protests, I unfold the diaper and spread it out next to her. It’s a noisy little thing, for sure, crinkling like a ball of grocery bags the whole time. Truth be told, I was rather surprised to discover that companies actually made larger-than-infant-sized diapers with cute prints like this, and I was downright tickled when I finally found one that produced a size small. Still yet, this thing was going to be huge on her. The better to keep her aware of it, I think to myself with a chuckle. “Roll over please,” I instruct.
She does, and more rustling ensues. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take more bathroom breaks, I promise. Just don’t do this, please!”
More cream and powder in the front, and it’s fairly obvious she’s panicking now. I draw the front up. It rides right up above her belly button, just to the bottom of her ribcage. “Daddy PLEASE!” she shouts. She tries to stick her hand in between the two side panels, and I give it a sharp swat. She yelps, but tries again. This time I give her a firm smack on the thigh.
“Do it again and I’ll turn you back over and give you a real spanking,” I warn her. She whines an incoherent protest, but her hands return to her face. Recalling the video I watched on how to deal with four-tape diapers, I cinch the bottom tapes across and slightly down, then the top ones across and up. I run my fingers along the leg elastics; they’re snug, but not too tight. On her skinny frame, all the tapes comically overlap, obscuring the cute little pictures of baby animals printed all over them.
“I HATE YOU!” her shriek through the pillow breaks the moment. “I HATE YOU DADDY!” She flops over onto her stomach, the diaper rustling loudly in reply.
“I know you do, Pixie. I know,” I offer sympathetically as I rub her back. “Pixie” has been my pet name for her ever since she was able to walk; she’d always been long and gangly, and as soon as she had her feet, she flitted around the house and the yard like a little fairy, constantly on the run.
“Don’t call me that!” she pouted from under the pillow.
“I know, I know, Daddy’s a big meanie.” Thoughtlessly, I patted her bottom gently, and it responded with dull, hollow sounds along with the plastic rustling.
“How long do I have to wear this stupid thing?” she grumped.
“Well that’s entirely up to you, Pixie,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“It means that, after you’ve had a chance to try out Daddy’s solution to your wetting problems, you’ll get to decide for yourself if you like this arrangement or if you’d rather handle them yourself like a responsible young woman.”
“Well I don’t like it. I want to wear my pull-ups!”
“Silly Pixie. You haven’t even given it a chance yet. In a week or so, we’ll talk about how you feel about this arrangement.”
I’d never seen her flip over so fast. “A week?!” she shouts, sitting back up with a loud crinkle.
“Or longer if you need.”
“NO!”
“That’s fine, a week should be long enough.”
“I have to wear diapers for a whole week?! This is so unfair!”
“Melissa, stop. This has been going on for nine months. I took you to the doctor, he sent you to the urologist, both of them said there was nothing wrong. It never happened at school, only here at home when you were lazing around playing your video games. I asked you to handle the problem yourself by wearing your pull-ups, and you refused unless I threatened to ground you, and even then you still took them off the first chance you got when my back was turned. And all the while Daddy was stuck washing two, three extra pairs of jeans and panties every day. So, now that school is out, Daddy’s going to handle the problem for a while, and a week from now you can decide if you like this arrangement better.”
The picture in front of me is downright adorable. She’s sitting there in a lotus position, her tear-streaked face hanging low, staring at her feet while she picks at the fuzzballs on her socks, the huge, colorful diaper engulfing her middle. Twelve going on three; I can’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whimpers.
“Sorry for what, Pixie?” I ask.
“Sorry for being lazy and not wearing my pull-ups.”
“Come here, Pixie.” She rustles over and straddles my lap, wrapping herself completely around me. I return her embrace, though I can’t help but pat her crinkly bottom with one hand. “I know you’re sorry, sweetie. And I know you’re not happy with this right now. But you also know why I had to do something, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers into my shoulder.
“And you know I still love you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does my Pixie still hate me?”
“No.”
“Daddy’s glad to hear that. Now why don’t you go find a t-shirt to wear, and then you can go back to your Fallout or whatever you were playing, okay?”
“And some jeans?” she asked.
“You can sure as heck try to put jeans on over that, but I’ll bet you the next Destiny DLC that none of them will fit.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” she whined.
“It’s summer, you’re in the house, you don’t really need pants.”
“But what if we go out?! I only have like…”
“One dress, no skirts. Which is why you’re going to wear that dress tomorrow when we go down to Goodwill and get you some more.”
“But I hate that dress!” She’s getting worked up again, and I have to stop it.
“Would you rather go in a t-shirt and diaper?”
“NO!” Her arms drop away and now she’s pouting up at me again.
“I know you hate the church dress, but you’re the one who decided she was too ‘cool’ to wear skirts or dresses to school anymore and filled your closet and dresser with jeans and t-shirts. So tomorrow, after you have a chance to get used to our new arrangement, we’ll fix that problem, okay?”
She’s still pouting, but she mutters, “Okay.”
“Go find a t-shirt, Pixie.”
She huffs as she slides off my lap with a crinkle and waddles over to her dresser. “Oh my god, this thing is huge!” she complains. “It’s like I got a big pillow between my legs!”
“Why do you think I’m giving you the rest of the day to get used to it before we go out in public?” I ask, doing my best not to laugh.
“Hmph!” she grumps, no doubt frustrated at my lack of sympathy. Several rustles later, and she’s sliding something I’m sure she used to wear as a nightshirt down her skinny arms and poking her head out of the top. It still doesn’t hide her puffy new underwear, despite all her tugging and hemming and hawing over it. She turns back to face me and sticks her tongue out, half a diaper poking out from under the shirt, before stalking out of the room, the crunching plastic announcing her departure and echoing the whole way down the hall. I finally let loose the laugh I’d been holding back the whole time. The more a little girl grows up, the more she’s still a little girl at times, and nothing could ever prove that point more perfectly than the spectacle I just witnessed. All that’s changed are the toys she plays with now.
The TV in the living room quietly announces that she’s back to work shooting up hapless players from all over the globe, and her trash-talking confirms it. I have another job yet to do, and I may as well get it done now rather than wait until the issue actually arises.
I get up and head back to my bedroom, removing a Lowe’s bag from my drawer. Three key lock doorknobs; one for my bathroom, one each for her door to the second bathroom and the hallway entrance. I couldn’t trust her to wear the damned bedwetting pants I bought for her, I’m certainly not going to give her a chance to try and take her diaper off to go to the bathroom now. With her headset on and engrossed in the game, there’s zero chance of her hearing me replacing the knobs. I get straight to work, quickly and quietly popping the screws, starting with the door in her room. Once the new knob is in place, I lock it from the inside and close the door firmly. Half an hour later, I’m finished. I peek into the living room; for all her consternation over her new underwear, it certainly hasn’t affected her fixation on the Xbox.
Chuckling, I head over to the kitchen and get started on dinner. The work day is pretty well shot, but I’ll make up my production later on tonight, after the next big fight I’m quite certain is coming.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I definitely want to see the second half. This is cute though. The father’s perspective is rare in these stories, a biological father even more so. If you do bring the series to term, I hope you really play on that angle.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Storytime link=topic=6762.msg67356#msg67356 date=1458109406:
I definitely want to see the second half. This is cute though. The father’s perspective is rare in these stories, a biological father even more so. If you do bring the series to term, I hope you really play on that angle.
There may wind up being more than two parts here, I’m not entirely sure. Depends on which way the story decides to take me.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom.
I only found this error, shouldn’t it be ‘sat’ down?
Although, I have say I liked the story and would like to see more of this story to see where it leads. Also it is an interesting concept. Thanks WBDaddy
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
aredcloak link=topic=6762.msg67364#msg67364 date=1458157101:
I only found this error, shouldn’t it be ‘sat’ down?
Although, I have say I liked the story and would like to see more of this story to see where it leads. Also it is an interesting concept. Thanks WBDaddy
I’m narrating in present, not past tense.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Ah ok. I have been writing in the past tense.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Sure thing, and thanks for the encouragement.
Primary purpose here is to set a scene that actually ticks off all the boxes in terms of realism, as opposed to the wildly abusive backdrops so typical of diaper punishment stories. Granted, I’ve only given you limited backstory so far, but there’s certainly more coming. Unfortunately, I haven’t finished the second segment yet, though I’m close.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67370#msg67370 date=1458164340:
Sure thing, and thanks for the encouragement.
Primary purpose here is to set a scene that actually ticks off all the boxes in terms of realism, as opposed to the wildly abusive backdrops so typical of diaper punishment stories. Granted, I’ve only given you limited backstory so far, but there’s certainly more coming. Unfortunately, I haven’t finished the second segment yet, though I’m close.
A certain amount of suspension of disbelief is required to read a diaper punishment story however you slice it. People just don’t do that to their older kids/lovers/friends/random strangers. It’s astronomically unlikely, so you have to come into the story willing to accept it. I’d prefer the term “verisimilitude” to realism, because I think it’s impossible to “tick off all the boxes in terms of realism” and still have it remain a diaper punishment story. Even if a father were to decide his daughter needed diapers because she kept peeing her pants, he wouldn’t storm in when she’s fresh out of the shower, force her to strip and forcibly diaper his 12-y/o daughter - and then lock her out of all the bathrooms. That’s just so beyond the idea of psychological realism, it’s ridiculous on the face of it. It’s like reading a science fiction or fantasy story, almost. Oh, dragons and hyperdrives? Ok, cool. The reader comes into it expecting a certain departure from accepted reality, and the author’s job is not to convince them it could really happen, but rather not to break that unspoken contract.
None of the above is a specific critique of your story, just a perspective on fetish stories in general. I’ll be interested to read part 2.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
satyr link=topic=6762.msg67373#msg67373 date=1458166218:
A certain amount of suspension of disbelief is required to read a diaper punishment story however you slice it. People just don’t do that to their older kids/lovers/friends/random strangers. It’s astronomically unlikely, so you have to come into the story willing to accept it. I’d prefer the term “verisimilitude” to realism, because I think it’s impossible to “tick off all the boxes in terms of realism” and still have it remain a diaper punishment story. Even if a father were to decide his daughter needed diapers because she kept peeing her pants, he wouldn’t storm in when she’s fresh out of the shower, force her to strip and forcibly diaper his 12-y/o daughter - and then lock her out of all the bathrooms. That’s just so beyond the idea of psychological realism, it’s ridiculous on the face of it. It’s like reading a science fiction or fantasy story, almost. Oh, dragons and hyperdrives? Ok, cool. The reader comes into it expecting a certain departure from accepted reality, and the author’s job is not to convince them it could really happen, but rather not to break that unspoken contract.
None of the above is a specific critique of your story, just a perspective on fetish stories in general. I’ll be interested to read part 2.
Okay, I can buy into that.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Actually, Regardless of, (Maybe Because Of) her Age
NINE months of this!!
How long would You have put up with it??
I don’t mean Making Her clean up after herself
But having to DO the cleaning yourself
I would have had her in Diapers Sooner!!!
And I would have had her wait 2 weeks to a MONTH before
Getting the "pull-ups’ back
How long will she keep Diapers at night??
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Liefdesverdriet link=topic=6762.msg67376#msg67376 date=1458177126:
Actually, Regardless of, (Maybe Because Of) her Age
NINE months of this!!
How long would You have put up with it??
I don’t mean Making Her clean up after herself
But having to DO the cleaning yourself
I would have had her in Diapers Sooner!!!
And I would have had her wait 2 weeks to a MONTH before
Getting the "pull-ups’ back
How long will she keep Diapers at night??
That was the reaction I was hoping to get out of the back story…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67378#msg67378 date=1458180153:
That was the reaction I was hoping to get out of the back story…
Easy.
I’ve seen worse, and stranger punishments in person.
As far as checking off realism boxes, this really does just that. Fetish related or not, diapers are the solution to wetting, especially wetting that comes from laziness.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Vearynope link=topic=6762.msg67379#msg67379 date=1458181941:
Easy.
I’ve seen worse, and stranger punishments in person.
As far as checking off realism boxes, this really does just that. Fetish related or not, diapers are the solution to wetting, especially wetting that comes from laziness.
Key also being that Dad tried to make her deal with it herself, but she refused over and over…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
This gets right down to it.If this is all you end up writing for it, it works as a stand alone piece. It’s a more realistic than the typical, generic diaper story (where a character wets their pants once then parental unit freaks out, puts them in diapers full time, long list of rules and somehow transforms bedroom into nursery in the process). You’ve set up a more believable scenario.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I enjoyed this one so far. Good to see more of your writing.
Since you seem to be trying for (near) realism, I’ll go into more detail than I might otherwise. The long standing issue does make it a good deal more believable. After months Dad gets too fed up, and takes his chance when the surrounding situation changes such that the risks of social consequences from wearing diapers drops substantially. One unanswered question is that of why Dad is the one picking the wet clothes up in the bathroom. Is it because he hasn’t really tried to make Melissa do it, or because she flat refused? In the former case, then perhaps there should (in a perfect world) have been an intermediate step between the pull-ups as described and the result in the story. In the latter case, why didn’t this happen by Christmas break, or failing that due to remaining uncertainty as to the cause, spring break?
As for forcibly diapering, problematic though that is, when is enough enough, and it remains the only reasonable choice? If there exists a time for it, you’re certainly doing a good job of setting up a situation where it is needed.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
ally link=topic=6762.msg67390#msg67390 date=1458253227:
One unanswered question is that of why Dad is the one picking the wet clothes up in the bathroom?
The inferred answer is, just like with her actual wetting, leaving it to her to deal with hasn’t yielded particularly good results. There are other things going on too, as the first chunk of the next installment will reveal. I’m kinda mulling over this part, though, as it almost reads like a “delayed” info dump right now, and I’m not really happy with that…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I’m happy to hear there’s going to be more! ;D I run into the info-dump frequently when I write. A way to break the info up a bit is to have a character doing something- cleaning, cooking, whatever- and intersperse information within the character’s musings and physical actions as they clean, etc or whatever. Not sure if that’s any help or not, it’s just a suggestion. ^^ Or maybe break it up with the dad checking/ peeking in on his daughter?
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Here ya go. Screw it, if it’s too much, it’s too much. It starts out as ruminating anyway, and the train of thought is fairly linear and reasonably well-connected to the situation, so…
The chicken is in the oven, surrounded by leeks and carrots and potatoes, seasoned beautifully with butter and rosemary and sage, but Melissa hasn’t moved from her spot on the floor in front of the TV. Sure, it only took me an hour or so to prepare it, but I’m still a little surprised she hasn’t attempted the bathroom yet. May as well try and get some work done in the interim; those reports aren’t going to transcribe themselves. I head to the spare bedroom, AKA my office, but I can’t shake the nagging thoughts. It’s been so hard on her, growing up without a mother. My beautiful wife died when Melissa was just a tiny thing, and I had to change my entire career path to prevent some minimum-wage daycare worker from raising her. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it; she did pretty well in school, though she constantly complained of boredom. What could I do? I was just as bored in public school when I was a kid. I just assumed it was a rite of passage; they treat you like you’re stupid until they figure out you’re smart, right?
This year, though, she hit middle school. And it all started coming unglued. She didn’t do well socially, though she managed to keep her grades up. At home, she lived on that damned gaming system. Skryim, Destiny, Fallout, Call of Duty, she played all of it. I drew the line at Grand Theft Auto. Didn’t matter, though, she still camped out in front of that TV. At first, I thought maybe it was anxiety that caused her wetting problems. Maybe she was just too wound up after school. I took her to her pediatrician, and he said it might have something to do with puberty, though it was certainly strange that she was wetting during the day and not at night, but he referred her to the urologist anyway. I hated it, watching her suffer through all the horrible tests the urologist put her through, but I held on to the hope that there was something physical that could explain it. No such luck. He suggested a psychiatrist, but I wasn’t going to let some jerk put her on drugs that not even the people who invented them couldn’t say for sure what they did, just what they “thought” they did, and they damned sure didn’t know what kind of effects they had on kids who were still growing, still developing.
So I put up with it. I bought her the bedwetting pants. And I did the best I could to make her wear them, despite her prideful rebellion. And I did laundry every day. Every. Single. Day. Because it was at least two or three times a day she’d be changing her pants, less on the weekends when I could lord over her and be sure she kept those damned pull-ups on. It was only the last couple months when I started putting the pieces together, though. Never an accident at school. Never when she went out with friends, never on sleepovers, never at parties, never when anyone else was around. She only ever peed her pants at home, when it was just she and I. At first I thought maybe it was an attention thing, that I wasn’t plugged in enough. So I shuffled some hours around and tried to be more involved, help her with homework, sit next to her when she was playing those stupid games, talk to her, at least when she wasn’t talking to her gaming friends on the headset. Nothing helped. One day, I even watched her sit there and pee on herself while she was in the middle of a raid. I shook her, shouted at her, begged her to realize what she was doing, and she had the nerve to get mad at me for making her team wipe!
I decided that night that this wasn’t anything but laziness, and that was the night I went shopping online. I searched out diapers, but all the ones in her size looked just so clinical, so medical, so not at all the point I was trying to make to her. She wanted to be independent, to be grown-up, to have more freedom, but she wouldn’t even get up and go to the bathroom when she had to pee? No, I wanted proper baby diapers, to make her see herself the way she’d been acting all this time. How utterly silly this was, peeing her pants because she was too busy playing a stupid video game.
By the time that box arrived at my door a few days later, I lost my nerve. When I clicked “order now”, I was all set to send her to school with a bag full of the damned things to drop off to the nurse so she could get her diaper changed when she needed, since she cared so little about going to the bathroom. But when I opened that box, I couldn’t do it. If one of the other kids found out, her life would be ruined. So I put them away, until now. Four days since school let out, and she’d gone through at least three pairs of jeans and panties every one of them, despite my insistence that she wear a pull-up every morning. Really, what else could I do?
BEEP BEEP BEEP
The tell-tale alarm on the digital meat thermometer snaps me out of my thoughts. Another 90 minutes gone. That made three hours since I put that diaper on her, and she hadn’t so much as made a peep. Here I am expecting a nuclear war over her suddenly deciding she wanted to go to the bathroom, and there’s been nothing. I head into the kitchen, peeking over the island into the family room when I get there. Her mouse-brown curly mop is still locked in on the TV, in the same spot as the last time I looked. I take the chicken out of the oven and shuffle it onto the serving plate I laid out to let it rest, and I begin to wonder; should I check? Does she need a change? Confusion sets in for a moment. I didn’t really think this part out when I decided to do this. Do I ask? Or just go over and look? Should I make a big deal of it? No, it’s been this long, she almost certainly needs a change, and I’ve got time while the bird rests anyway. I’m not going to make her sit in a wet diaper at the dinner table. I go back to her bedroom and fetch one along with the powder and cream and wipes, making a mental note to get some kind of bag to stash that stuff in while we’re out and about tomorrow. Once I reach the family room, I toss the stuff over onto the couch and walk up behind her, peering over her head to get a glimpse. Sure enough, her spindly legs are splayed out, and the diaper between them is swollen and yellowed. I tap her on the shoulder.
“Hang on, Dad! We’re almost done here!” I look up at the screen; she’s right, there’s less than a minute to go in a PvP battle, and her team is leading by a fairly wide margin. I can wait. I arrange the supplies on the carpet and kneel down, watching the timer tick down.
As soon as it ends, she pulls her headset off and turns toward me, “What’d you… Oh.” She takes on a mild blush when she sees what I laid out. Comicaly, she slides over on her bottom and lays out in front of me.
I get started pulling the tapes loose, and I can’t help but comment. “See, now isn’t this better than having a big blowup because you peed your pants?” I playfully scold her. She rolls her eyes with a huff and stares off into space. As I clean her up, I notice the look on her face, and it’s a stunningly familiar one; if she had her thumb in her mouth, she’d be the very picture of herself ten years ago.
Once she’s taped up into the fresh diaper, I take my time stuffing the wipes into the soiled one, wrapping it up into a ball and taping it down snug. She’s still under that spell, and I let her lay there for a minute, doing my best not to chuckle. Finally I gather the changing supplies and stand up. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes, Pixie. Mind setting the table for me right quick while I wash up?”
Her head snaps back and she scrambles to a sit, loudly rustling the whole time. “Uh… sure Dad…” she stammers, crinkling her way to her feet as I toss the used diaper into the kitchen trash and head back down the hall, sneaking a little peek over my shoulder as she waddles into the kitchen and reaches up into the cabinet for plates, her shirt riding up and revealing her adorably puffy bottom in all its glory.
As I unlock the bathroom door and go in to wash, it occurs to me that there had been no fight, not even when I changed her. She was completely demure, passive, almost accepting of it. And I hadn’t even told her the bathrooms were off limits except for bathing and teeth-brushing and, well, probably for bowel stuff as well. I definitely would prefer not to be cleaning up that sort of mess. I still feel conflicted somehow; even with my rational brain telling me that this is proof she’s okay with my solution, I still feel guilty over my emotional side celebrating the return of Daddy’s little Pixie. Like I’m just rationalizing it all. I promise myself that I won’t try to go any further with it, that I won’t do anything goofy like buy her a pacifier or something.
I come back out as she’s pouring herself a glass of pop. “Beer, Dad?” she asks.
“No, I’ve still got work yet to do. I’ll take Coke as well.”
She pours mine, sets the two-liter down on the end of the island, and climbs onto her stool, rustling the whole time. She seems to have adapted somewhat to the bulk; her movements are much less clumsy, despite still being slightly bow-legged. Her big, brown, doe eyes lock with mine, and I’m a bit staggered by them. For a minute, it was like looking at her mother. So strange, to look into one pair of eyes and see her tweener self, the grown woman, and the baby all at once.
“Um, yeah, so plate on table maybe?” she asks, breaking the little spell.
“Oh… right.” I set the serving platter between us. She grabs the big spoon and starts piling veggies on her plate while I carve the bird, serving her a couple slices of breast meat and hacking off a leg quarter for myself. She’s never been much for meat, but I long ago decided that wasn’t a fight worth having, considering how hard it is for most parents to make the kids eat vegetables.
She squirms in her seat a little as she starts digging in, and the subtle rustle put my mind on a different track. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for the bathroom,” I offer casually, hoping to probe her a bit without causing a confrontation.
“Would you have let me go if I’d asked?” she replies, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.
“Well, no, I…”
“Which is why I didn’t bother.”
“Oh,” I fumble, unsure what to say.
“I don’t like it, but what’s the point in fighting about it? You’d just make me wear them even longer, right?”
“Well, that’s true.” Am I that transparent, that she can read me that easily? “Either way, I expect the Xbox to be off at 10:30 tonight.”
“Aw come on, you’re not gonna do the early bedtime thing now too, are you?” she whined. “I’m not a….”
“No, you’re not. But you need to take a shower before bed, and then I need to get your diaper on for bed, and both those things take time. So 10:30, or tomorrow it’ll be ten o’clock. We clear?”
“We’re clear,” she grumbled, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork and stuffing it into her mouth as if to announce that she didn’t really want to talk anymore. And I was happy to oblige.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I take it this is going to continue, then? Nice to see a light piece from you without so many mind games, makes nice easy reading.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Paradoxx link=topic=6762.msg67394#msg67394 date=1458268669:
I take it this is going to continue, then? Nice to see a light piece from you without so many mind games, makes nice easy reading.
Yeah, the story decided it wasn’t happy being a quick couple thousand words, so now I’m (and, by extension, you’re) stuck following it to whatever its little conclusion is going to be…
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We’re only stuck following it to its conclusion if we like it enough to keep reading… but of course I’m unlikely to leave this one. Perhaps not quite one I’d have thought of, but so far it seems to be fitting along the lines of the sort of thing I particularly like. Therefore I, for one, won’t complain that the story didn’t like being too short.
I can agree that assuming Melissa did a rather lousy job of picking up is reasonable. I’ve seen too many cases of parents doing too much to discount the other possibility, though.
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Enjoying this throughly, and it might just deserve a title now…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Talldarkanddiapered22 link=topic=6762.msg67405#msg67405 date=1458315103:
Enjoying this thoroughly, and it might just deserve a title now…
Open to suggestions.
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It didn’t feel like an info-dump to me; more like summarizing some important background info and fleshing out the characters a bit more.
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Cute-Kitten link=topic=6762.msg67409#msg67409 date=1458339332:
It didn’t feel like an info-dump to me; more like summarizing some important background info and fleshing out the characters a bit more.
Maybe I’m just paranoid about info-dumps…
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WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67410#msg67410 date=1458344752:
Maybe I’m just paranoid about info-dumps…
A writer is often his own worse critic.
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WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67406#msg67406 date=1458321307:
Open to suggestions.
I was thinking maybe a parody of the ‘stereotypical’ diaper story title. Start with something like ‘Melissa’s Story’ or ‘Diapers for Melissa’ and… twist it somehow, I’ve just got no idea how. Something about how surprisingly reasonable and thought out things are.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Since I assume its going to progress intro heavier age play, “Baby Steps”.
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Talldarkanddiapered22 link=topic=6762.msg67417#msg67417 date=1458367240:
Since I assume its going to progress intro heavier age play, “Baby Steps”.
Is it really though? We all know WB’s style and im pretty sure he could pull of a realistic story that doesnt go too much deeper than this while keeping it entertaining.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Paradoxx link=topic=6762.msg67427#msg67427 date=1458431986:
Is it really though?
The answer is already embedded in Dad’s thought process.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67428#msg67428 date=1458432081:
The answer is already embedded in Dad’s thought process.
Actually the reaction to the diaper change has me wondering if it’s even one-sided. Somehow, I’m no longer certain Dad read Melissa correctly during the initial diapering.
I’m eagerly awaiting the next installment.
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I feel like this story is still kind of like a blank canvas. Some characters and their backstories have been setup, but there’s still no inkling of any sort of conflict. Melissa takes it all in stride, leaving the father dumb-struck. This is the kind of point where you can take the direction of the story literally anywhere, although perhaps an obvious one would be using regression to explore her feelings regarding her mother’s death and the lack of a maternal figure in her life.
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ShinraS link=topic=6762.msg67432#msg67432 date=1458498178:
I feel like this story is still kind of like a blank canvas. Some characters and their backstories have been setup, but there’s still no inkling of any sort of conflict. Melissa takes it all in stride, leaving the father dumb-struck. This is the kind of point where you can take the direction of the story literally anywhere, although perhaps an obvious one would be using regression to explore her feelings regarding her mother’s death and the lack of a maternal figure in her life.
All I know is, it’s completely by the seat of my pants at this point, because I really didn’t have a complete storyline in my head when I started writing it, just some thoughts, scraps of ideas, etc…
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Judging by your reply I think what I said was taken in the wrong way. That was more of a stream-of-consciousness type post laying out my thoughts than any kind of criticism.
As far as plot goes, you definitely have a lot of material to work with, plus a (so far) very realistic set-up. As a previous person mentioned, I could see this turning into a deconstruction of the genre, taking a generic story title and a generic plot setup, and then forcing it upon the confines of a hyper-realistic world.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
ShinraS link=topic=6762.msg67436#msg67436 date=1458508067:
Judging by your reply I think what I said was taken in the wrong way. That was more of a stream-of-consciousness type post laying out my thoughts than any kind of criticism.
As far as plot goes, you definitely have a lot of material to work with, plus a (so far) very realistic set-up. As a previous person mentioned, I could see this turning into a deconstruction of the genre, taking a generic story title and a generic plot setup, and then forcing it upon the confines of a hyper-realistic world.
I’m actually kicking around some thoughts along the lines of exploring the father/daughter bonding within the social vacuum of their home, then injecting the societal pressures to watch how it changes… Not sure what it will look like, but…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67438#msg67438 date=1458509239:
I’m actually kicking around some thoughts along the lines of exploring the father/daughter bonding within the social vacuum of their home, then injecting the societal pressures to watch how it changes… Not sure what it will look like, but…
That would be cool if you did
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I wish I had noticed this gem earlier, but bugs prevented me from accessing the site.
While I do agree with the critique about it being a blank canvas at this point (which is sort of a good thing at the start - it gives you lots of room to flesh the story out in more directions in future installments), there was one aspect that hit a little closer to home.
The father’s opinion of psychiatry and medications, while very understandable for someone who isn’t knowledgeable of that field, is also fairly ignorant. I realize this isn’t very big in the grand scheme of things, since it was just your way of exiting that route before you started it, but it still bugged me. Psychiatry isn’t a hard science, especially for kids: you never know exactly how a medicine will affect a person until they’ve tried it. With kids, there’s a lot more regulations on what can be given but also a lot more experimentation, because you never know whether they’ll have an adverse reaction to a new med (though this is also true for adults, it happens less because they’re done or closer to done developing).
An example of this cited from personal experience: when I was still a kid/teen, people thought I had ADD (though it was really just a symptom of a sleep disorder), so they put me on Ritalin to help me focus. It only helped me focus on what I wanted to, not what I needed to. In addition, it also only lasted a few hours, and then I would binge eat like crazy because the pill killed my appetite. So they tried to put me on an extended release focus med. That made my anxiety spike and made me highly irritable, which put me in verbal confrontations with just about everyone.
Though my case was somewhat extreme in terms of what can go wrong, it does demonstrate how medications have different effects on different people. The best psychiatrists won’t know how a med affects a person until they’ve tried it, whether they’re a kid or adult.
Whew. Sorry about this, it was way too long for just critiquing one semi-relevant thing. Even so, I hope it can be of use to you in future stories where psychiatry plays a bigger role.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
XenonVoid link=topic=6762.msg67460#msg67460 date=1458555352:
The best psychiatrists won’t know how a med affects a person until they’ve tried it, whether they’re a kid or adult.
Here’s a little kernel of observation for you about psychiatric drugs, particularly antidepressants, coming from a quasi-layperson:
If you pay close attention to the commercials they run for these new designer antidepressants, you’ll notice that they never say “this is how the drug works”. They’ll say “this drug is THOUGHT to work by (blah-blah-blah)” - meaning they don’t actually KNOW how it works (or even IF it works). If you looked at the study results with these drugs, you’d notice a pattern as well - that they’re not much better than placebo - best I’ve seen was 10 out of 100 better. And then there’s the laundry list of side effects, some of which include things like suicidal ideology.
And considering the laundry list of side effects and the myriad ways the “wrong” drug can affect someone, what you just said is rather terrifying, that the psych has little choice but to play roulette with these drugs and hope they either get lucky on the first prescription or at least the patient doesn’t get irreparably screwed up in the process.
I’ve had up close and personal encounters with the “wrong” AD. One of them, Wellbutrin, put me in a state where the slightest irritation would throw me into a psychotic rage. I consider myself fortunate I was not in possession of any firearms at the time, seriously.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67466#msg67466 date=1458562495:
Here’s a little kernel of observation for you about psychiatric drugs, particularly antidepressants, coming from a quasi-layperson:
If you pay close attention to the commercials they run for these new designer antidepressants, you’ll notice that they never say “this is how the drug works”. They’ll say “this drug is THOUGHT to work by (blah-blah-blah)” - meaning they don’t actually KNOW how it works (or even IF it works). If you looked at the study results with these drugs, you’d notice a pattern as well - that they’re not much better than placebo - best I’ve seen was 10 out of 100 better. And then there’s the laundry list of side effects, some of which include things like suicidal ideology.
And considering the laundry list of side effects and the myriad ways the “wrong” drug can affect someone, what you just said is rather terrifying, that the psych has little choice but to play roulette with these drugs and hope they either get lucky on the first prescription or at least the patient doesn’t get irreparably screwed up in the process.
I’ve had up close and personal encounters with the “wrong” AD. One of them, Wellbutrin, put me in a state where the slightest irritation would throw me into a psychotic rage. I consider myself fortunate I was not in possession of any firearms at the time, seriously.
If you’ll note my phrasing, I never actually disagreed with you - actually, what I said lined up with your opinion rather well. I just said that such a way of looking at it is ignorant of the way the field works. The field isn’t and will likely never be one where the docs have all the answers about how various meds will affect any given patient. Criticizing it for not being absolute is just pointless because it doesn’t have the potential to be. While most drugs do have a myriad of side effects, I know firsthand that the appearance of most of the side effects is usually very rare - sometimes less than one percent. If even one person suffers a side effect it gets reported, even if the amount of people taking the drug numbers in the hundreds of thousands. I myself have been in that less than one percent before, though I seem to have a ridiculous amount of adverse reactions to psychiatric drugs.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
To further both of our points, I thought I’d add that psychiatry as a profession is basically like working in a giant lab full of human guinea pigs. Because the scientist/psychiatrist doesn’t know how the drug will affect each particular guinea pig/patient, they have to test it out first. This is why you’ll usually be starting on a very low dose in most cases. Humans are too individually diverse for anything that affects them to affect everyone the same way. There are exceptions to every rule.
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Well I’m firmly convinced that antidepressants are complete placebo.
Everyone I know who’s taken them, usually only gets a mild benefit from it. However, they often become addicted, or completely reliant on the drug, just to function. (Outright refusing to do or try things without taking their meds first.)
Problem is that they only soothe the symptom, not target the root of the problem.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Vearynope link=topic=6762.msg67469#msg67469 date=1458564890:
Problem is that they only soothe the symptom, not target the root of the problem.
Yep. Cognitive therapy is the only real cure for chronic depression. Change the way a person thinks, change their outlook.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67470#msg67470 date=1458565810:
Yep. Cognitive therapy is the only real cure for chronic depression. Change the way a person thinks, change their outlook.
It’s also a partial side effect of chemical imbalances in the brain. Something that stems from our highly-processed diets, be it in the subject, or their mother during pregnancy. It could also be from the effects of substance abuse, again, in the subject or their parents.
And yes, it often comes down to just changing their outlook. But that takes effort, and many people would rather just take pills to ease the pain.
I suppose I shouldn’t go into this rant, though.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Vearynope link=topic=6762.msg67469#msg67469 date=1458564890:
Problem is that they only soothe the symptom, not target the root of the problem.
Quoting this as well because it hits the nail on the head. The docs thought I had depression for years, and I was on at least ten different antidepressants during that time. They kept me stable most of the time but if it got really bad they didn’t do jack.
Come to find out that the cause of my depression symptoms was me repressing a sleep disorder called non-24. After I started letting my sleep-wake cycle last longer than a day and make me cycle around the clock like I should’ve been doing, the depression symptoms vanished along with the ADD symptoms.
Also worth noting is that antidepressants are perhaps the least reliable psychiatric medication type on the market. I’ve never seen any type of psych drug have more all over the place results. They’re also the only ones I’ve seen (I think) that can just as easily make the problem worse.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
XenonVoid link=topic=6762.msg67472#msg67472 date=1458570121:
Also worth noting is that antidepressants are perhaps the least reliable psychiatric medication type on the market. I’ve never seen any type of psych drug have more all over the place results. They’re also the only ones I’ve seen (I think) that can just as easily make the problem worse.
And, indeed, if it was just the docs that had to play roulette because of different wiring patterns, I wouldn’t have as much of a problem with it.
Problem is, the drug companiesthemselvesdon’t really know what the shit does to the brain, and certainly they don’t know what it does to an adolescent or child brain, because their trials are only conducted on adults…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67466#msg67466 date=1458562495:
Here’s a little kernel of observation for you about psychiatric drugs, particularly antidepressants, coming from a quasi-layperson:
If you pay close attention to the commercials they run for these new designer antidepressants, you’ll notice that they never say “this is how the drug works”. They’ll say “this drug is THOUGHT to work by (blah-blah-blah)” - meaning they don’t actually KNOW how it works (or even IF it works). If you looked at the study results with these drugs, you’d notice a pattern as well - that they’re not much better than placebo - best I’ve seen was 10 out of 100 better. And then there’s the laundry list of side effects, some of which include things like suicidal ideology.
And considering the laundry list of side effects and the myriad ways the “wrong” drug can affect someone, what you just said is rather terrifying, that the psych has little choice but to play roulette with these drugs and hope they either get lucky on the first prescription or at least the patient doesn’t get irreparably screwed up in the process.
I’ve had up close and personal encounters with the “wrong” AD. One of them, Wellbutrin, put me in a state where the slightest irritation would throw me into a psychotic rage. I consider myself fortunate I was not in possession of any firearms at the time, seriously.
Yea they must play roulette with these drugs. The brain is complex and you never know how one chemical change can affect things. All the FDA cares about when it comes to ADs APs etc is that they havelesspotential for screw ups than what is currently on the market. I almost died of heart failure due to an antidepressant. So the attitude of the father here is completely understandable to me at least. An interesting aspect of this is Melissa’s online friends react. Dad could well have CPS on the doorstep before the summer is out
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67473#msg67473 date=1458570500:
And, indeed, if it was just the docs that had to play roulette because of different wiring patterns, I wouldn’t have as much of a problem with it.
Problem is, the drug companiesthemselvesdon’t really know what the shit does to the brain, and certainly they don’t know what it does to an adolescent or child brain, because their trials are only conducted on adults…
Well, there are exceptions to that last part. As a kid I was part of trials for antidepressants that were being conducted on children. Not very many, but they are there. But for the most part you’re right, they typically don’t have near good enough results to be used on children outside of extreme cases.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
By the way, psychiatry bit aside (because I mostly agree with you anyway), the story itself is great. I had a real hard time thinking of things to critique. I wish I could have been more useful…
Also, I absolutely love how the story is written in a way that makes the diaper punishment seem not just believable, but also like a natural consequence. That was great to read, and having the perspective be from the one punishing added to it.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
XenonVoid link=topic=6762.msg67476#msg67476 date=1458571654:
Also, I absolutely love how the story is written in a way that makes the diaper punishment seem not just believable, but also like a natural consequence. That was great to read, and having the perspective be from the one punishing added to it.
I’m glad to hear this, because that was the one thing I most wanted to accomplish early on, was to demonstrate that this was literally Dad’s last resort, that he’d exhausted all other options he felt viable before taking it to this extreme, and that he still had doubts about whether it was the right thing to do.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67477#msg67477 date=1458571955:
I’m glad to hear this, because that was the one thing I most wanted to accomplish early on, was to demonstrate that this was literally Dad’s last resort, that he’d exhausted all other options he felt viable before taking it to this extreme, and that he still had doubts about whether it was the right thing to do.
Cool, looks like I was useful after all. Feeling much better about myself now.
But yeah, all of that was conveyed very well. Though at this point I’ve learned to expect as much from you. You’re one of the site’s current top authors, after all. When it comes to your work, even if I’m not interested by the concept, I’m always impressed by the quality.
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Yes, on topic actually.
I’m curious to see if this turns out a little like an idea I had. Where the “subject” kinda forced another to baby them.
Makes you wonder who’s really in control here.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Wow, quite an anti-psychiatry sentiment here. I don’t think it’s possible to say there’s “only one real cure” for depression or other mental disorders. Most studies have found that antidepressants and cognitive therapy were equally effective in treating depression; some, but not all, have found the effects of therapy to be more enduring. There are non-responders to each who may respond to the other, or to combination therapy (personally I’ve tried cognitive therapy and it just didn’t work, despite the best efforts of myself and my therapists). And therapy cannot bring acute change. Newer drugs can actually give immediate relief (such as ketamine, not a new drug but new as an AD), which can be crucial if a patient is actively suicidal. There are also finally new trials of psychedelic assisted therapy, after forty years of research being outlawed. Such combination approaches may crack treatment-resistant conditions, and the goal is not for the patient to be dependent, as the drug is only administered during a limited amount of sessions, sometimes even only one session. We’re also learning more about how the brain and drugs interact every year. Some conditions don’t respond well to therapy at all. I don’t think you can categorically state that one approach is always better.
The use of psychiatric drugs in children and adolescents is an entirely different matter. There’s a whole lot less research on how it affects the developing brain, and much more skepticism is warranted than in adults.
I don’t intend to drag the thread too off topic again, I just thought an alternate viewpoint was warranted. I’ve spent a lot of time battling my own demons and reading up on the research, so I consider myself fairly well informed on the matter.
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67477#msg67477 date=1458571955:
I’m glad to hear this, because that was the one thing I most wanted to accomplish early on, was to demonstrate that this was literally Dad’s last resort, that he’d exhausted all other options he felt viable before taking it to this extreme, and that he still had doubts about whether it was the right thing to do.
It’s definitely well done for an ABDL story. I still don’t feel it’s entirely realistic that an allegedly concerned and empathetic dad would go about the diapers in the manner he did, even if forcing her to wear them was the right thing to do. I just don’t see any reason why a father should ever need to see his healthy, almost pubescent daughter naked or wipe her between the legs. It gives me a rather icky feeling to think about it in real world terms. But like I’ve said earlier in the thread, I think a certain suspension of disbelief is required for this kind of story.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
On the psychiatry subject, from what I’ve heard, the latest research that has the most potential suggests that the gut microbial flora has the greatest effect on personality. Still too early to know how to choose bacteria to introduce and adjust the flora to cure specific conditions, but I won’t be at all surprised if that is coming. Though something that targeted could easily end up being used to “cure” things I would be afraid to have considered a disease. Then again, some of what is out there today falls into that category, and the drugs to go with them, so that isn’t a good reason to reject it.
"satyr":
I still don’t feel it’s entirely realistic that an allegedly concerned and empathetic dad would go about the diapers in the manner he did, even if forcing her to wear them was the right thing to do. … But like I’ve said earlier in the thread, I think a certain suspension of disbelief is required for this kind of story.
I think the answer to that is found in the screaming fights over pull-ups described in the first chapter, and the refusal to take any responsibility for the situation, leaving Dad with all the work. If I’m not mistaken, the expected response from Melissa leaves most anything short of something like this story equally as unsuccessful as the pull-ups were. Perhaps the forced diapering by Dad with no intermediate warning is a little over the top, but I’m not convinced it is that much so.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67466#msg67466 date=1458562495:
I’ve had up close and personal encounters with the “wrong” AD. One of them, Wellbutrin, put me in a state where the slightest irritation would throw me into a psychotic rage. I consider myself fortunate I was not in possession of any firearms at the time, seriously.
Oh, gosh. Wellbutrin. I hear you. I was on the wrong side of that one too. 0.o It was bad. I did manage to find the “right one” and ever since my outlook on life has improved dramatically. No chance of it being a “placebo” effect. But yeah, there’s some really dangerous stuff out there that’ll mess with you. It should definitely not be handed out like candy like it is, but for some they do help.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
ally link=topic=6762.msg67483#msg67483 date=1458591820:
On the psychiatry subject, from what I’ve heard, the latest research that has the most potential suggests that the gut microbial flora has the greatest effect on personality. Still too early to know how to choose bacteria to introduce and adjust the flora to cure specific conditions, but I won’t be at all surprised if that is coming. Though something that targeted could easily end up being used to “cure” things I would be afraid to have considered a disease. Then again, some of what is out there today falls into that category, and the drugs to go with them, so that isn’t a good reason to reject it.
I think the answer to that is found in the screaming fights over pull-ups described in the first chapter, and the refusal to take any responsibility for the situation, leaving Dad with all the work. If I’m not mistaken, the expected response from Melissa leaves most anything short of something like this story equally as unsuccessful as the pull-ups were. Perhaps the forced diapering by Dad with no intermediate warning is a little over the top, but I’m not convinced it is that much so.
Yeah, the microbiota is another interesting avenue of research, still in its infancy.
About the diapering, I just feel like a girl at that age deserves her privacy, even if she does pee her pants. I’m sure in a real world scenario, dear old Dad could have found some way to let her diaper and clean herself and checking up on her to make sure she complied. And taking away bathroom privileges when the goal is to get her to go to the bathroom on time is just completely counterproductive. You don’t like that she pees her pants, and appears to have no qualms about it, so you force her to pee her pants? Come on, now.
I wouldn’t bring it up, because I do enjoy the story. I just feel the praise for realism may be a little over the top. Realistic as compared to most diaper stories? Absolutely. Realistic compared to actual reality? Not so much.
Moving on. I’m willing to accept it for the sake of the story. (Not that WBDaddy needs my permission, but he has it anyway
) I’m interested to see where the bonding goes. Clearly this issue has driven a wedge between father and daughter, but maybe the diapers can bring them closer together. And I do like WBDaddy’s idea of exploring that bond, and then injecting wider society into the mix later. Melissa clearly doesn’t care that she wets her pants in front of Dad, and equally clearly she does care if it happens in the vicinity of others. So there’s your potential conflict, once “I don’t want no stupid diapers” is resolved.Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I took the locking of the bathroom doors as a means to enforce the diaper use. Previous methods, even the pullups/ sleep pants, failed to encourage the girl to use the bathroom. She just took them off and went in her pants anyway. If given access to the bathroom, the diapers would most likely go the same way of the pullups, and the dad would just be running in a circle, so to speak.
I take the diapers and removal of bathroom privileges- or at least, the initial intention behind this punishment- is it’s a last straw effort to convince the girl to use the bathroom. That might seem contradictory- encourage bathroom use by not allowing it- but that’s the whole point. She took it for granted; now she’s forced to wear her bathroom and use her diapers. The dad expected her to hate being diapered so much that when bathroom privileges are restored, she’d be more than happy to start using the toilet instead of peeing her pants.
Though (and just speculation on my part) she could always remove her diapers and still pee her pants. But she seems much more complacent with the diapers than the dad was originally expecting. I wonder how that will effect upcoming events. Maybe she will find the diapers so convenient she doesn’t want to get rid of them? She may even end up asking her dad if she could stay in them.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Well, Cute-Kitten managed to put my thoughts into much better words than I had come up with.
Melissa’s complacency has me ready to accept the possibility that her reaction to the initial diapering was more the surprise of it than that she really didn’t want it. Still, overall, her reaction seems genuine dislike - but beware the Dad’s eye view of everything distorting reality. He may or may not see or read events correctly, and if he misreads the situation we won’t know until something shows him he was wrong.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Cute-Kitten link=topic=6762.msg67488#msg67488 date=1458599161:
I took the locking of the bathroom doors as a means to enforce the diaper use. Previous methods, even the pullups/ sleep pants, failed to encourage the girl to use the bathroom. She just took them off and went in her pants anyway. If given access to the bathroom, the diapers would most likely go the same way of the pullups, and the dad would just be running in a circle, so to speak.
I take the diapers and removal of bathroom privileges- or at least, the initial intention behind this punishment- is it’s a last straw effort to convince the girl to use the bathroom. That might seem contradictory- encourage bathroom use by not allowing it- but that’s the whole point. She took it for granted; now she’s forced to wear her bathroom and use her diapers. The dad expected her to hate being diapered so much that when bathroom privileges are restored, she’d be more than happy to start using the toilet instead of peeing her pants.
Though (and just speculation on my part) she could always remove her diapers and still pee her pants. But she seems much more complacent with the diapers than the dad was originally expecting. I wonder how that will effect upcoming events. Maybe she will find the diapers so convenient she doesn’t want to get rid of them? She may even end up asking her dad if she could stay in them.
I don’t think we’re getting any further with this. I think it’s an invasion of privacy and unwarranted intimacy that, in the real world, classifies as abuse. But this isn’t real life, it’s just a fantasy (caught in a landslide…) so I’m not gonna argue further. I’ll let WB continue his story.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Wasn’t arguing. Just offering my take on it since I found it an interesting discussion. Its possible to talk with differing points of view.Causing an argument wasn’t my intention and if my post was read that way I apologize.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Cute-Kitten link=topic=6762.msg67495#msg67495 date=1458604863:
Wasn’t arguing. Just offering my take on it since I found it an interesting discussion. Its possible to talk with differing points of view.Causing an argument wasn’t my intention and if my post was read that way I apologize.
No, no! I didn’t mean to imply that you were arguing at all. I appreciate the different perspective. I just don’t want us to talk in circles, because then it gets in the way of the story! I actually need to get back to a story of my own, intending to post the first chapter very soon.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
satyr link=topic=6762.msg67496#msg67496 date=1458605218:
No, no! I didn’t mean to imply that you were arguing at all. I appreciate the different perspective. I just don’t want us to talk in circles, because then it gets in the way of the story! I actually need to get back to a story of my own, intending to post the first chapter very soon.
That’s cool.Yeah, there comes a point when different points of view tend to start arguing in circles. I agree, we’re at that point.So I’ll just eagerly await the next installment of this one. Good luck with your story. ^.^
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
You might consider that “realistic parent dealing with a problem” does not by any means equal “model of perfect parenting”. I can agree that as we have it so far, it is an invasion of privacy and too much too fast. I can also see that with suitable fleshing out of the backstory it won’t be very far wrong. If Melissa were an adult, she would rightly have been evicted long ago. Since that isn’t an option, at what point is her Dad (with no Mom around to do the job) forcibly diapering her the correct option?
Agreed that this is getting to the point of arguing in circles, and the solution is for WBDaddy to give us more information.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I feel scared for him considering a BM need will arise eventually and her not resisting it will possibly present another issue outside of not arguing over diaper-use; it can certainly mess with one’s psychie. MORE PLEASE!
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Complaining that this is abuse when there’s stuff like the Diaper Dimension posted here is pretty hyperbolic. You rarely see half this much thought put into justifying this sort of scenario, with every logical alternative specifically shown as having failed (and over a long time span as well) leaving it as a last resort.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Raynar Brusk link=topic=6762.msg67516#msg67516 date=1458665463:
Complaining that this is abuse when there’s stuff like the Diaper Dimension posted here is pretty hyperbolic. You rarely see half this much thought put into justifying this sort of scenario, with every logical alternative specifically shown as having failed (and over a long time span as well) leaving it as a last resort.
No one is complaining. Just noting. Like I’ve said before, diaper stories require suspension of disbelief, like a science fiction story. I think this one stretches that suspension very little compared to most diaper stories, so I agree with you there. But if you must compare it to actual reality, and not to other stories, then I don’t think it’s hyperbolic at all.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
@ Raynar Brusk: Did I complain? If so, how?
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Meh. I sometimes lurk in the comments of stories where the ‘caretakers’ are just sociopathically evil to see if anyone would mention how creepy it is. That something so benign is one of the only stories I’ve seen compared to abuse bothered me.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Raynar Brusk link=topic=6762.msg67553#msg67553 date=1458839049:
Meh. I sometimes lurk in the comments of stories where the ‘caretakers’ are just sociopathically evil to see if anyone would mention how creepy it is. That something so benign is one of the only stories I’ve seen compared to abuse bothered me.
I’m the one who opened that Pandora’s Box, so…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
I was on antidepressants for about a year and a half a while ago, and I felt they helped me in many ways. Did they get rid of my depression? No, but I didn’t expect them to. They did however make my depression a lot more manageable. As an example, before I took them I had absolutely no motivation to do anything, my days were spent trying to pass the time, but after I started taking them some of my motivation returned, I started seeing friends again, paid attention more during school etc.
So while they do not remove the problem, they make it easier to deal with it. Because of them I managed to get out of my depression, not by just taking the pills, but by taking the opportunity to fight my depression when I had the upper hand.
I also realise some people react to antidepressants differently than others, I just happened to be lucky enough to have found help from them.
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
Raynar: I suspect the reason for looking at where the story falls relative to the line between reasonable consequences and abuse is partly because WBDaddy brought the question to the fore, and partly because this story really does fall very close to the line, one way or the other.
In the other stories you mention, I think the story is so far over the line that everyone considers it patently obvious that it must stay in the realm of fantasy, and if it were real it would be abuse, to the point where there is no reason to mention it. Take Long Rifle as an example: would you have reason to comment on the abuse and sociopathy in his stories? Or is it simply known that he likes writing that as fantasy, it is abuse, and it isn’t worth rehashing.
When I see the far over the line stories critiqued in this way, it seems to be mostly new authors who get it. Though it could be because I avoid the established authors who write that stuff.
Back to this story, there is an intent to write it as something that could really happen, and so we get people debating exactly where the abuse line falls, and then where this story lands relative to it. That takes a great deal more ink (or electrons) than to point out a story being far over the line.
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (Update 4/3/16)
Still haven’t come up with a title. Apologies for the delay on this update; I haven’t really sat down and made myself do any writing lately. Bad Daddy!
After dinner, Melissa dutifully clears the table and starts washing the dishes, and I retreat to my office to work. It’s a relatively quiet evening, punctuated only by her occasional yelling at the TV, of which I’m only cursorily aware, what with my own headset on listening to doctors babble on in esoteric medical terms. The time passes surprisingly quickly, and it isn’t long until the clock reads ten o’clock. I finish the report I’m on, log off, and head for the family room.
Of course, she’s still planted in her usual spot. I look up at the screen and frown; she’s doing the nightfall in Destiny, and from the looks of things based on the number of times I’ve watched her do this particular raid, she’s at least 40 minutes from finishing. I decide to just quietly sit back on the couch and wait, give her enough rope to hang herself, right? Her frustration level is rising as they close in on the boss; she’s barking orders and cursing like a sailor. Despite all the foul language and raging, the team succeeds, though it took even longer than even I estimated; her headset doesn’t come off until five minutes to 11. I frown at her as she turns around.
“What?” she says innocently. “It’s not that late!”
“What time did I tell you to be done?” I ask.
“It’s not my fault! The people I usually do nightfall with weren’t on, and I didn’t know we were gonna get stuck with a bunch of fu… friggin’ blueberries! We wiped twice because this stupid kid wouldn’t stay in position!”
“You should have checked the clock the last time you wiped, kiddo. You know how long this raid takes.”
“Yeah…” she mutters. She gets up, and so do I. As we reach the bathroom door, I grab my key ring off my belt loop and unlock it. “Really, Dad, locking the door?” She rolls her eyes.
I ignore her and open it, letting her pass first. Her diaper is swollen and sagging around her waist, and she rolls her eyes as she raises her shirt so I can pop the tapes. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “Go on and get your shower done. I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom,” I say as I wrap it up and toss it into the bathroom trash. Note to self, I definitely need to get a diaper pail, or something resembling one anyway. Wet diapers in every bin in the house isn’t going to cut it.
She strips her shirt off and steps into the tub, pulling the curtain across and turning on the water. I lock the hallway door and exit via her bedroom door. Fresh diaper and the supplies are laid out on the bed, and I sit down to wait, eyeing my watch periodically. “You’re only supposed to be washing down there, Melissa!” I shout. “Don’t make a big production out of it!”
“I’m not!” she yells back.
Quarter after eleven, the water finally cuts off. Five more minutes before she surfaces from the bathroom, towel wrapped around her. Surprisingly, her hair is pretty dry. Makes me wonder what the heck she was doing in there all that time.
“Assume the position,” I say, stifling my frustration. She silently lies down, unwraps the towel, and rolls over onto her belly. I concentrate hard on being gentle and thorough as I go through the motions, knowing she’s going to be in this diaper all night. “It’s nearly 11:30, Pixie,” I say softly as I massage a bit of lotion on her bottom, hips, and upper thighs before spreading the powder, to help it stick. “Tomorrow, if you’re in bed by 10:30, then we can try 10:30 again on Friday. If you’re in bed by eleven, then we’ll leave it at ten, and if you’re late again like tonight, then we’ll move it back to 9:30, understand?”
“Mmmmhmmmm,” she mumbles sleepily. I tap her on the bottom, and she rolls over. Her eyes are barely open, and I wonder if anything I said registered. I do her front just as gently as the back, then cinch the diaper up between her legs and tape it up snug.
“C’mon, Pixie, we need to get your 'jamas on,” I whisper, tugging her up into a wobbly sitting position with a rustle. Just like I used to when she was so much smaller, I find myself guiding her lazy arms into her nightshirt and pulling it over her head, and I can’t help but pull her into my lap and rock her for a bit. “I love you Pixie,” I whisper as I stroke her back softly.
“Love you too Daddy,” she mumbles, her head against my chest. I soak in the moment for a little while, a rush of emotions flooding through me, then reluctantly lay her sleeping form down and cover her with the top sheet. With a sigh, I stand up and just watch her for another minute, so peaceful, her breathing slow and even. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe to the door and turn. She doesn’t stir.
I step out, closing the door behind me, and the guilt hits me like a ton of bricks. What the hell am I even doing?! She’s nearly twelve, not two! This is totally inappropriate! I’ve let nostalgia cloud my judgment, and I have to fix this. Trying to just let her take care of it herself obviously didn’t work; she wouldn’t even wear the damned pull-ups I gave her, else it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe tomorrow I could teach her how to change herself, and just stay on top of her to make sure she’s doing it? I mean, school’s out; it’s not like she has anywhere to go. There’s nothing stopping me from just being vigilant about making sure she changes every couple of hours, right?
As I doze off to sleep a little later, I feel a lot better about my new plan of action, and I wake up at half past six, early even for me, but refreshed, ready, and confident. With Melissa not likely to be awake anytime in the next several hours, I decide to get some work done after I fix a pot of coffee.
I’m just taking a little break in the kitchen at around nine thirty when I hear the familiar heavy thud of Melissa’s half-asleep gait coming down the hall. She walks in, rustling loudly, and heads straight for the coffee pot despite a clearly yellow and sagging diaper between her legs. Curiosity and concern get the best of me, and I ask, “You didn’t wet the bed, did you?”
She scowls at me and growls, “No, I didn’t wet the bed. You said I had to use my diaper, so I did.”
“Alright, no need to get snippy, I was just asking,” I shot back. She sits down with her coffee and starts sipping. “Well don’t you want a clean one?” I ask, incredulous at her indifference toward it.
“Whatever,” she mutters.
Okay, she’s always grouchy in the morning, I remind myself. “Tell you what, I’ll be in my office whenever you get sick of sitting in pee,” I say, getting up from the table. She doesn’t respond. I go back to work. An hour goes by, and I’m stunned that she hasn’t come to ask for a change. Good grief, I can’t just let her sit in it all day. I come out of the office and sure enough, I can hear her barking at the damned TV again. I head into the family room and tap her on the shoulder.
“In a minute, Dad!” she says, her eyes never moving from the screen.
“No, now!” I holler.
“I’m almost done!” she yells back.
Disgusted, I reach over and turn the power off on the console. “NOW!” I shout.
“Ohmygod, Dad! We were up four zip! What’s your problem?!” she snaps, ripping her headset off and throwing both headset and controller on the floor as she turns around.
“My problem?! You’re the one sitting in your own piss! Do you want diaper rash or something?!”
“Okay fine, so change me already! You didn’t even bring a damned diaper?!”
“No, I didn’t!” I fire back. “Come on, you’re gonna learn to change your own damned diaper!” I grab her wrist and pull her to her feet. She tries to pull her arm away after she stands up, but I’m latched on tight as I march her down the hall.
“I can’t believe you’re making a federal case out of this, Dad!” she complains as I pull her into her bedroom. I elect to ignore the comment as I turn her around in front of me.
“Pull the tapes loose,” I say, trying to calm myself down a bit. She does so with a huff and a heavy thud on the carpet when it hits. “Wrap it up and throw it away.” She rolls her eyes and fidgets around, folding it up and tossing it in her trash bin. I grab the box of wipes and open it up in front of her. “Wipe.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” she mutters, grabbing one and rubbing between her legs without even looking, then tossing it in the general direction of the trash.
I shake my head in disbelief. Maybe the next time she won’t be so hotheaded and she’ll do a better job. At this point, I just want to get it done. "Get a diaper out of your underwear drawer and spread it out on the bed. She huffs again but does as I ask, flopping the diaper out and opening up the sides.
“Now lay down on it with the tape side at your waist.”
“This is so ridiculous,” she grumbles as she flops down with a rustle.
I hand her the can of powder. She splatters it around the front and even curls her legs up and hits her bottom a little. Before I get a chance to utter the next instruction, she pulls the front up between her legs and slaps the tapes down, doing a fairly decent job of replicating the pattern she’s seen me apply. She sits up and scowls at me. “Happy now?!” she spits.
“Doesn’t that feel better than a soaking wet one?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“Whatever.”
“Okay, fine. Now you know how to change yourself, you can do so for the rest of the week.” She gets up and starts to brush past me, but I catch her.
“What now?!” she snaps.
“Put your dress on. I’m taking you clothes shopping today, remember?”
“Ughhhhhh.” She storms to the closet and snatches her church dress off the hanger roughly, pulling it on and showing me her back. I zip it up for her. “So when are we leaving?” she grouches, turning to face me.
“Well I’m definitely not taking you anywhere with that attitude. Go play your damned game for a while. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood after lunch.”
“Whatever.” She blows past me, stomping off down the hall. Between her heavy footfalls and the rustle, it’s hard not to laugh. How many times did I hear that sound when she was two? I sigh and head back to the office.
I get back to work; there’s a pretty good backlog of reports, and I find myself getting into a groove, so much so that I lose track of time. By the time I stop to check the clock, it’s half past three! Well, at least I’m done for the day. I wonder if she bothered taking a break to eat. Egad, I wonder if she even stopped to change herself! I rush out to the family room and into the unthinkable…
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
THX for continuing
With that now out of the way: I have only 2 ideas, but it could go either way which means that his plan might’ve backfired; only time will tell (remaining silent on thoughts). MORE PLEASE!
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
As someone who played Destiny, you’ve got accurate details going. You either play it, or your kids play it. Either way, I could never stand that game.
Secondly, who on earth gets into the shower before turning the water on? It’s gonna be freezing cold the second it comes out; even in the summer it wouldn’t be comfortable… Right? Or are things not like that in more southern places?
And I’m still wondering where this is going. She’s giving an interesting mix of signals, but it really seems to just be laziness from game addiction.
Most of us are thinking the unthinkable, though; but I’m sure it’ll be fun, whatever it is.
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
Yay, an update! And that is an evil cliffhanger. I wonder what he ran into? My guess is he finds her involved in her game, diaper wet and leaking- either leaking from being saturated or leaking because she didn’t put it on right. Or maybe she took her diaper off and peed on the carpet.
Melissa seems to be taking the diapers rather….well, non-chalant? She doesn’t seem as upset as she was when he first put them on her; she’s neither super pissed off or super happy about it. Which makes me think she views toileting as an inconvenience and sees the diapers as an easier way to void than getting up, disrupting her activities with a trip to the toilet. It’s especially easy with her father handling her changes and doing all the work for her. I wonder if she, too, enjoyed the extra attention from him?
I liked the part about him re-thinking and having some doubts about diapering and changing her. That gives it an added realism depth to me. I wonder how long Melissa being in charge of her own diaper changes is going to last?
Diapers and a dress = cute!!! I’m looking forward to the shopping trip!
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
Vearynope link=topic=6762.msg67688#msg67688 date=1459723656:
As someone who played Destiny, you’ve got accurate details going. You either play it, or your kids play it. Either way, I could never stand that game.
Secondly, who on earth gets into the shower before turning the water on? It’s gonna be freezing cold the second it comes out; even in the summer it wouldn’t be comfortable… Right? Or are things not like that in more southern places?
And I’m still wondering where this is going. She’s giving an interesting mix of signals, but it really seems to just be laziness from game addiction.
Most of us are thinking the unthinkable, though; but I’m sure it’ll be fun, whatever it is.
My kidwasa religious Destiny player, though with no new content since Taken King, he’s rapidly tiring of it.
A subtle detail about the construction of their shower was left out here, one that will surface in the next installment.
Feel free to speculate. I enjoy reading such things. Sometimes they even give me ideas when I’m stuck somewhere…
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
satyr link=topic=6762.msg67487#msg67487 date=1458595729:
And taking away bathroom privileges when the goal is to get her to go to the bathroom on time is just completely counterproductive. You don’t like that she pees her pants, and appears to have no qualms about it, so you force her to pee her pants? Come on, now.
Looking back on a previous reply, I think this is probably the major technical error. The logic in Dad’s (my?) head when the decision was made to take bathroom privileges away was a function of, “Okay, you want to only go to the bathroom when you feel like it, let’s see how you like not having that option at all!” - it’s the old “too much of a good thing” approach. In retrospect, knowing how Melissa was going to respond to the diapering anyway, I could have left it out, with Dad just trying a little humiliation (the diapers) to jolt her out of her laziness. Then again, if I’d gone that route, her response would almost necessitate some sort of escalation on his part in order to be believable, and then we’d be treading in dangerous territory as to what shape that escalation took.
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
Nice to have an update to this one. It may not have been the ideal response to go as far as locking the doors, but it seems to be plausible.
I’m still not entirely sure that Melissa is actually unhappy about being diapered. So far, I could still accept the possibility that she wanted proper diapers, and the dad filter won’t accept that possibility yet, so we haven’t seen the clues. Then again, if that was what she wanted, it would probably have been more effective if she had used the pull-ups (grudgingly, to appearances) and let them leak regularly, which would also be at least close to what she wanted. Of course, there is the possibility that she decided after being put in diapers proper that it wasn’t so bad after all.
Now, why is it that I suspect the “unthinkable” to be a messy diaper, and perhaps one that has been that way for a while, especially after that comment about the shower?
Re: Quick vignette… no title…
WBDaddy link=topic=6762.msg67692#msg67692 date=1459732647:
Looking back on a previous reply, I think this is probably the major technical error. The logic in Dad’s (my?) head when the decision was made to take bathroom privileges away was a function of, “Okay, you want to only go to the bathroom when you feel like it, let’s see how you like not having that option at all!” - it’s the old “too much of a good thing” approach. In retrospect, knowing how Melissa was going to respond to the diapering anyway, I could have left it out, with Dad just trying a little humiliation (the diapers) to jolt her out of her laziness. Then again, if I’d gone that route, her response would almost necessitate some sort of escalation on his part in order to be believable, and then we’d be treading in dangerous territory as to what shape that escalation took.
I think this chapter added a whole lot to the psychological realism of this story, with the father having second thoughts and teaching her to diaper herself. I don’t quite follow why not locking the bathroom would necessitate any escalation. And wouldn’t having to go out in public in a diaper constitute an escalation of the humiliation anyway?
I also think the “unthinkable” is a messy diaper. She’s been in diapers, what, a day now? Gotta go sometime. But if that is the case, I hope to see Melissa at least somewhat embarrassed. That if she’s been sitting it for a while, it’s at least partially because she’s embarrassed, even if she hides it behind petulance. Because I just can’t see any kid being genuinely nonchalant aboutthat. After all she never messed her pants before, even with her laziness with peeing in the toilet. As someone who occasionally holds/wets for sexual purposes, pooping is a whole 'nother mess.
We’ll see. I hope your motivation to write doesn’t desert you again (but no pressure, I know how that goes; I will write thousands of words in a day and then nothing for months sometimes). This is one of the more intriguing stories on this site, perhaps because it’s sopurein its ABDL focus, without being a badly written smut piece. Sometimes you don’t need a huge cast of characters with conflicting motivations, sometimes it’s just about the relationship between two people.
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/3/16)
Actually, I’m forcing myself to make time every day to write again, and it seems to be working, at least for now…
Thanks for all the thoughtful contributions, everyone. As always, half the fun of posting stories for me is talking about them as they develop.
The scene that greets me looks relatively normal; she’s sitting there, an empty plate next to her with crumbs on it. She fixed herself a sandwich. It’s the smell that’s horrifying.
“MELISSA!” I shout.
She pulls her headset off with a start and turns around. “What?” she asks.
“You’re sitting in a dirty diaper! What is wrong with you?!”
“That just happened like a minute ago, Dad, I was gonna go change!” She stands up. So much for taking responsibility for her own diapers. I grab her wrist and lead her down the hall toward the bathroom.
“Ew…” she squeaks as I fish the key off my belt.
“Of course, ‘ew’, you’re sitting in your own poop!” I respond, shoving the key into the lock and opening the door. It occurs to me there’s absolutely no point in locking it anymore; she clearly isn’t interested in using the bathroom. Then I turn and notice a trickle of pee running down her leg. “Oh my god, Melissa! You’re leaking! Did you not change even once in five hours?!” I shove her into the bathroom, probably harder than I should, and she staggers a bit.
“You’re the one who said, ‘Oh, I’m gonna take care of it for you and see how you like it!’ I don’t even get why you’re so pissed!” she yells.
I’m incensed now. “Fine. Get in the shower. Clearly I was wrong to think you might be mature enough to at least handle the responsibility of changing your own damn diaper when you needed it!”
She steps into the tub, and I take her dress off, then rip the tapes loose, catching the diaper with one hand underneath to avoid making a bigger mess than what’s already coming in the tub. “Spread!” I snap, letting the diaper down far enough to get it out from between her legs without smearing feces on her legs. She turns toward the shower faucet as I wrap it up, and I shout, “Don’t touch that!”
“What the hell, don’t you want me to…”
“Stand still and don’t move!” I growl. Her hands shrink back. I toss the diaper into the trash can and step toward her. She cowers a bit as I close in. “Turn around!” I say. She faces opposite the shower nozzle, and I pull it off its hook and turn the water on.
“I can wash myself, Dad!” she protests, but I ignore her. Once the water is a decent temperature, I aim the nozzle at her backside, bending her forward to make sure I rinse all the shit from between her butt cheeks, then run it up and down her back. I let the nozzle hang for a minute, grabbing her body wash and a loofa, then soap her up all around, paying special attention to her “diaper area”. At this point, she’ll be lucky if it’s not still her “diaper area” when she’s legal drinking age!
I rinse her off and turn the water off, leaving her standing there while I fetch a towel. She’s blushing fiercely, and I’m glad. It’s about damned time she got embarrassed at this whole thing. But I’m not done, not now. Inappropriate my ass! Clearly she WANTS to be treated like a toddler, so that’s what I aim to do.
I snatch one of the huge bath towels I keep on the top shelf of the closet and storm back in, wrapping her up in it and hoisting her up into my arms. She squeaks in surprise as I carry her through the door and into her bedroom, laying her out on the bed and drying her off before spreading the towel out. “Look, Daddy, I’m sorry, okay?” she says, much less defiant now.
A new plan is forming in my mind. “Nothing to be sorry about, Melissa. You just made it perfectly clear what you wanted, and now you’re going to get it.” I’m calmer too, but no less intense.
“What does that even mean?” she whines, curling up a bit as I grab the Desitin.
I roll her over, pull her legs back straight and spread them out, and begin smearing the stuff all over her bottom, just like I did last night at bedtime. “I thought you might be ready to be an adult about this, being nearly a teenager, but obviously you’re not.”
“Look, Dad, I’ll pay more attention from now on, I promise!” she protests as I cover her in a cloud of powder, shake out a fresh diaper, and roll her over onto it.
“Nope, we’re gonna do this just like when you were little. The baby poops in her pants, and Daddy cleans her up.” I repeat the process in the front and draw the diaper up between her legs, cinching it down methodically, taking care that my frustration doesn’t spill over into rough treatment.
“I’m not a baby, Dad!” she snaps.
“Are you sure? Because I’m starting to think it might be time to treat you how old you’re acting right now!” I get up and grab her dress from the shower. “Stand up,” I command.
“What are you gonna do, stick me in a playpen and feed me a bottle or something?” she says, glaring at me, a fierce look in her eye. So much for her defiance going away.
“Is that what I need to do, to make you see how ridiculous your behavior has been for the past nine months? I thought having to wear baby diapers would be enough, but apparently not! Arms up!”
She raises her arms, and I pull the dress back on, turning her around and zipping up the back, then pulling down the hem. The powder-blue dress is modestly cut, ending below her knee, and loose enough to where I wouldn’t know she had a diaper on underneath if I wasn’t looking for it, the flower print sufficiently distracting to divert attention from the outline of her bottom, which was only vaguely rounded under the pleating. I know she hates this dress, but I don’t expect her to be much happier with the Goodwill offerings, considering what gets donated there in a girl’s size 8-10 range. Oops. Better make that 10-12. Loose fitting.
“Sit,” I instruct. She flops down onto her bed and stares at me while I head for her closet, rummaging through her shoes until I locate the pale blue Mary Janes that I got for her to match the dress.
“Wait, you’re not actually taking me out like this, are you?!” she whines. “Come on, Dad, can’t I just stay here while you go get some clothes?!”
Oh hell no she’s not fighting me on this now. How about a game of lesser of two evils instead. “Well sure you can stay here if you want. But if you stay here, you’re going to have to just put up with whatever clothes I pick out for you. You good with that?”
She looks up, pouting a bit. “Well, yeah, I mean, I only have to wear them for a week, right?”
I didn’t expect that response, but I’ve got another card left to play. “Secondly, since I can’t trust you to take care your own diaper anymore, I’ll need to call a babysitter. Of course, most girls 15 and up have summer jobs by now, so I may only be able to get a middle-schooler on this short a notice.”
“You wouldn’t!” she gasps, horrified.
“I might not have a choice.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go with you!” I knew that’d make her cave. “This is ridiculous, Dad, you know that?”
“Keep complaining and I’ll find that big blue carnation I used to put in your hair when you were in kindergarten and give you some nice braided pigtails,” I threaten. Of course, I’ll do nothing of the sort, but I figure it’ll back her off some. I grab her feet one at a time and slip the shoes on, cinching them up snug while she hums and haws and rolls her eyes. “Now we’re all set to go,” I declare, grasping her wrist and pulling her to a stand. She tries to pull away from my grasp, but I hold firm.
“I’m not five, Dad, I don’t need to hold your damned hand!”
“You’re twelve going on two, and you’re going to hold my damned hand until I let go of it, or I’ll swat your little fanny, no matter where we are!”
She groans, loudly, but stops resisting. Her face is fully flushed as I stride out the front door at a full gait, forcing her to nearly run to keep up with me. “Would you prefer I carry you?” I ask with a grin. She just scowls at me. I open the passenger’s side door of my old Honda sedan, the one I figured I’d give her when she was old enough to drive, and let her in. I intended to buckle her seatbelt for her, but she’s too quick for me. I shrug and close the door, then get in myself.
“Letting you know now,” I say as I get on the expressway a few minutes later, “since I’m the one going to be doing all the diaper changing around here, I’m buying dresses, because it’s a lot easier for me to lift your skirt than pull down your pants to check your diaper. No jeans, no sweat pants, no shorts. We clear?”
She doesn’t even look up. “We’re clear.”
“Good.”
The ride is quiet the rest of the way, though I can feel her glaring at me here and there, in between staring at her shoes. My goodness, if looks could kill. We pull into the parking lot. She goes for the door handle, but I hit the power lock. She looks back at me, scowling again. I reach for the hem of her dress, but she grabs it and pulls it down. “I didn’t pee!” she hisses.
“My job now, Melissa. I can check now, or I can check while we’re in there. Your choice.” She lets go in a hurry, crossing her arms with a pout. I check. She’s right, it’s dry. “Good girl,” I say.
“Can I at least just stay in the car?” she begs.
“Did I let you stay in the car when you were little and I had shopping to do?”
“No.”
“If you lose the attitude and behave yourself while we’re in there, I’ll let you pick out some stuff you might actually want to wear after this is over, okay?”
“Okay.”
I flip the power lock, and we both get out at the same time. She stands there expectantly as I start toward the store. “What?” I ask.
“Weren’t you going to hold my hand the whole time?” she says sarcastically.
“Kinda hard for either one of us to go through clothing racks with one hand, don’t you think?” I respond, smiling.
“Oh, okay.” She’s still blushing a bit, and she’s still clearly not happy, but that definitely took the edge off.
I open the door for her and say quietly, “Feel free to look around, I’ll be in the kids’ section. Don’t make me come find you.”
“Okay, Dad,” she says. The sarcasm is gone, and I think I even hear a little bit of excitement in her voice. I grab a shopping cart and head for the girls’ racks while she walks rather stiffly in the opposite direction. She’s trying her damnedest to keep her underwear quiet, but she doesn’t yet realize that, to anyone who isn’t listening for the sound of rustling plastic, the hustle and bustle of other shoppers drowns it out completely.
Re: Quick vignette… no title… (updated 4/5/16)
Well, it looks like there is a bit too much frustration and anger involved for either of them to properly read and understand the other. Maybe a bit of time in the world will help give them the perspective to step back and consider the situation without emotion getting so much in the way.
At this point, she’ll be lucky if it’s not still her “diaper area” when she’s legal drinking age!
Methinks me hears the voice of impetuous anger “thinking before thinking”, if you will. Even so, it seems a bit early for that, unless you meant what I would have written as “At this rate…”.
Thanks for the quicker updates. I certainly enjoy it, and I think this rates the top slot in my list of current stories.