wimpe:

bbcharlotte:

Oooh to have this view

Jeremy, I see you’ve finally awakened.   Trying to yawn, I see?  The specialty adult-sized pacifier, firmly secured around your neck and head by the satiny ribbon ties, may make that rather difficult.

Or quite impossible, in fact.

Trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes?  Your soft poofy fingerless & thumbless “mittens” would make that difficult enough, but the fact that your wrists are secured to your pram’s solid steel frame makes it impossible.

Sure, go right ahead and try and kick your feet in frustration, just like a real baby would.  Go on, try it again.  Kinda tough when your ankles are lashed to the frame, isn’t it babe?

I see the look of desperation in your eyes, Jeremy.  I assume that’s partially because you’ve woken up to find yourself restrained and dressed as a sissy frilly baby girl, but is that also because you’re feeling the need to go, as in really really bad?  If so, then that means that the heavy-duty laxative suppository your mom and I inserted into your backside during your sedative-induced dreamless sleep is hard at work.  Sooooo, would you like to go to the bathroom, my precious love?

Oooh, there’s an enthusiastic head-nod!  Well Jeremy, that’s what your diaper is for.  For the indefinite future, until your mother is satisfied that you are trying to mend your ways, your diaper will be your bathroom.  I know the potent chemical properties of what we inserted into you, so there’s no point in trying to hold it in; it will only make you incredibly uncomfortable, and in the end you’ll lose anyway. Or should I say “OUT the end”, haha.

Since I’m on a standup comedy roll, here’s another anal one:  Did you know that “innuendo” is just another name for an Italian suppository? Hahaha, I absolutely slay me.  Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be here all week.  Try the veal, and be sure and tip your waiters and waitresses.

Okay, my comedy stand-up routine is done (bet you couldn’t wait for that).  It’s time to get serious.  Jeremy, speaking as your aunt, I cannot even begin to say how deeply disappointed I am in you, boy.  What on earth would possess you to throw away a full-ride Ivy-League university scholarship, along with the virtual certainty of being accepted into the country’s most prestigious elite law school after attaining your undergraduate degree?

You want to throw away that kind of opportunity … and for what?  Because you met a pretty girl who manages a daycare, and you want to marry her and work with her daycare, wiping snotty noses and poopy butts, putting toddlers down for naps and waking them up to play patty-cake and the hokey-pokey?  Have you gone freaking INSANE?!?

I am taking you to the large quadrangle green next to the historic marble water fountain, on the edge of the leafy-green ivy-colored walls of what should be your hallowed academic institution of higher learning.  You can watch the serious preppy boys and girls interacting, and think how it would be to be one of them.  The movers.  the shakers.  The not merely financially secure, but the upper-crust wealthy elite one-percenters.

Across the street from the college is a food truck where the lower middle class and the working poor, people who are just barely scraping by, go to eat because it’s cheap.  Your day care girlfriend gal eats there most every day, and I just got a text that she’s headed there now.  We can time it just about right for her to meet you.  Maybe she can take hold of these baby reigns so she can lead you on a walk to hear what you have to say for your sorry self.

Since your girlfriend is the day care expert, we’ll have her change your diaper.  Then with my dress’s handy breast-zippers, I can breast feed you (a competent professional wet nurse never runs dry!) while she and I talk financial realities.  You will hush and keep quiet and enjoy my most natural of fine dairy products while the adults (that’s she and I) talk.  The only sounds I expect to hear coming from you will be delighted gurgles and a satisfied burp.

If, after seeing you in your pathetic sissy state, plus hearing all about our family’s generous financial buyout proposal, she still wants to remain with you, then so be it.  I hope you two have a happy fulfilling financially-struggling life together with all the whiny smelling daycare kids.

But if she has more sense than you, and accepts our money in exchange for walking away from you, then you, my dear nephew, have a choice.  Ivy League and Law School, or your mama and auntie’s involuntary sissy baby girl?  At one time I would have confidently predicted you would always go for the high legal prestige … but the way you’ve been eyeing me and my pendulous milk-filled bosoms today, I’m no longer so sure.

Let’s go see your girlfriend.  Any thoughts on which way she’ll go?


wimpe:

diaperedsassy:

http://www.akumi-alice.com/be-a-little-girl-at-the-beach/

I am so ashamed, I just want to just dig myself a hole in the sand deep enough and long enough and wide enough to bury myself forever.  Or at least until

several thousands of years from now, when archaeologists can dig my bones up and have their chance to laugh at me too.

But my tiny pink plastic pail and shovel, suggested for ages two and up (according to the packaging they came in), is unfortunately not going to be enough to get my body buried.  So I’ll continue diligently working on my sand castle, hoping that by staying focused and busy on a task, I will not only make less eye contact with other beach-goers, but it may even help this wretched day pass more quickly.

My head feels increasingly itchy in the summer heat and humidity, but I don’t dare remove my wide-brimmed ladies’ sunhat to scratch my helmet-head curls, which are still stiff from the setting lotion and curlers inflicted upon me earlier.  My babysitter tied my hat’s attached satin ribbons in a pretty bow under my chin to help keep the hat in place, even with the occasional windy gusts.  If I untied her bow from under my chinny-chin-chin (so that I could remove my girly-girl chapeau), that would reveal to one and all how short my hair actually is, thus bringing even more unwanted attention.  It’s much better that people think I’ve got longer hair twisted up into a bun underneath my pink-polka-dotted hat’s crown.  Only a few out here know I’m a boy, and for all the rest who see me in my one-piece tank-style swimsuit with the pink hearts,

Hello Kitty logo, chest bow and peplum ruffle, I desperately want to preserve the illusion.

But I’m an eighteen year old boy.  Granted I’m only 4′10, 92 pounds, I haven’t completely finished going through puberty, and I look like I’m about ten.  But a short time ago at the beginning of summer I discovered my hormones had turned on just enough to successfully expel some sticky, mostly clear fluid from my tormented tiny but tumescent member.

The feeling was life-changing; I’d never known such pleasure before.

Unfortunately, mom came in and saw me, catching me red-handed with my pants down, as it were.  I was so busted.  Even worse, she saw what I was looking down upon from my upstairs bedroom window, and using as my erotic inspiration muse: Our drop-dead gorgeous sixteen year old big-tittied neighbor Darla was working on her jazz dance routine in her backyard, wearing only a bikini.

My mother was horrified that her “sweet innocent boy” would be doing such a thing at all, but especially while lusting after a neighbor girl we’d both known all her life, and whose mom was best friends with my mom.

Mom decided I needed to be taken down a peg or three.  First she ordered a chastity device to prevent unfettered access, but puberty was coming on more quickly, and the cage did not prevent the sticky ever-increasing pre-cum seeping out.

So that’s why she put me in diapers, to catch and absorb the leaks.

I then stupidly complained that by wearing diapers 24/7, I’d never be able to go to the beach.  Mom laughed and assured me I could go beaching, as long as I wore a proper swimsuit that could cover up and look appropriate with a diaper.

That’s why she bought me the pink Hello Kitty special.  Yes, the stretchy fabric technically covered my diaper, but it didn’t exactly hide it.  Anyone could see the poofiness underneath and recognize it for what it was..

So now here I am on the worst beach outing of my entire life, with mom, Darla’s mom, and Darla … my new summer-long babysitter.

I remember how embarrassed I used to be in gym class when my toddler-sized micro-peenie would be revealed and compared in the showers and locker room to everyone else.  That’s nothing to the mortification I experience now, having my diapers changed by Darla, the neighbor I’ve been silently crushing on for years.  Feeling my helpless jailbird throb desperately in his cage as she does her babysitting ablutions before taping me into a new diaper … now that’s a new low of teeth-grinding despair mixed in with pangs of involuntary guilt-ridden loin pleasure.

I know mom made me wear this chastity, diaper, and swimsuit for punishment, so that there was no way I could ever think I stood a snowball’s chance in hell with someone as out of my league as Darla.  Also, I’m pretty sure my mom told Darla exactly why I was being treated this way, what led up to it and brought it on.  Even so, Darla refuses to be bitchy toward me about my idiotic lust, she doesn’t bring it up at all, she’s just as nice and sweet as she’s ever been, even with me in a sunhat, little girl’s swimwear, diaper, and chastity humbler.

Darla acts as though it’s perfectly natural for me to be this way, and talks to me exactly like she would when babysitting a three year old girl.

“Having fun at the beach, cutie?  I bet you are!  Everybody loves your adorable swimsuit!  Mommy was right again!”