regressionschool

[regressionschool]

The Camera Part II

Amanda’s eyes were glassy, fixed on the glowing spiral above the camera. The edges of the room had gone soft, blurred, like she was underwater. Daddy’s voice still hummed through her, deep and slow, curling around her thoughts until nothing else mattered.

She barely noticed she was on her knees now, teddy propped beside her on the changing table. At some point, she couldn’t remember when, her pink onesie had vanished, discarded in a heap on the floor. The cool air on her bare shoulders barely registered. What mattered was the weight between her thighs, the soft resistance of her thick white diaper as she rocked forward against Mr. Snuggles’ plush leg.

Her hazy, toddled-up brain clung to the one clear idea Daddy had left for her: give them a show. Whoever “them” was didn’t matter. The camera was the audience. Daddy wanted her to perform. And good girls always did what Daddy wanted.

Amanda turned so her back was to the lens, hands clutching at the bear’s arms, diapered bottom swaying and crinkling in exaggerated little bounces. Each press sent a dull throb through her, the hypnotic fog in her head making it impossible to tell where the pleasure ended and Daddy’s voice began.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew the next part of the show. Her body recognized the signals before her mind did. The gentle cramp in her belly became a rolling pressure, warm and inevitable. She glanced back over her shoulder, meeting the unblinking eye of the camera, and let go.

The muffled sound filled the air, soft, squelching, growing heavier with each push. Heat bloomed in the seat of her diaper, spreading as the padding thickened and sagged. She whimpered, half in shame, half in relief, but kept her eyes locked on the lens. This was for them. For Daddy.

The speakers crackled, and his voice poured into the room again, rich and slow. “That’s it, babygirl. Mess your diaper for Daddy. Show them what a good little one you are.”

Amanda’s breath caught, hips still rocking lazily against the bear’s plush leg. The praise hit harder than she expected, sending a shiver down her spine. The crinkle and squish beneath her became the only rhythm in the world, and when Daddy’s next words rolled out—low and certain,she couldn’t hold back.

“Good girl.”

Her body went slack, forehead resting against Mr. Snuggles’ fur, the spiral still spinning in her gaze. She didn’t even think about what she’d just done, or that the camera was still rolling. All that mattered was that Daddy was proud.

[regressionschool]

New blog…same cute girl! 😋 Please help me reconnect with everyone! 🥺🙏❤️

[regressionschool]

The Camera

Amanda sat on the padded edge of the changing table, legs dangling, the soft rustle of her thick white diaper audible every time she shifted. The bulge beneath her pink onesie left no doubt as to what she was wearing or how impossible it was to hide. In her lap rested the oversized light-brown teddy bear Daddy had sent her this morning, its stitched smile wide and unblinking, just like the lens she was facing now.

She didn’t know who was on the other side of the camera. Maybe one person. Maybe dozens. Maybe hundreds. She didn’t dare ask. All Amanda knew was that she had to be entertaining. Daddy had said so, in the same calm, unyielding tone that made her stomach twist. The alternative to playing along wasn’t worth thinking about.

“D-did Daddy’s pwincess… get a pwesent today?” she lisped deliberately, eyes wide, letting the babyish cadence settle into her voice. She hugged the bear tightly to her chest, rocking side to side. “Teddy… say h-hiiiii!” Her gaze flicked toward the small red light above the lens, confirming it was still live. The light always felt like it was staring back, silently judging every coo and wiggle.

She turned the bear toward the camera, lifting one of its floppy arms in a wave. The thick mittens she wore made her grip clumsy, which Daddy would like. He’d told her once that the harder it was to act “grown-up,” the better she looked on camera. “Dis… is Mr. Snuggles,” she announced, burying her face in the plush fur for a moment before peeking up shyly. “He’s my… my bestest fwiend in da whowe wowld.”

Amanda swayed in place, kicking her feet lightly, letting the thick padding under her onesie bunch and creak in a way the microphone would catch. Every exaggerated babyish sound, the creak of plastic, the soft squish, made heat rise in her cheeks. She clung to Mr. Snuggles, feeling the camera’s invisible weight pressing her into her role. Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop.

“I-I take him e-evewywhere, ‘cause… ‘cause Daddy says… Daddy says good giwls keep their teddy cwose.” She pressed her cheek to the bear’s round head and smiled at the lens, forcing herself to beam like she was genuinely proud of that rule. “An’… a good giwl… nevah…” She swallowed, the lisp curling her words into something foreign and clumsy. “…Nevah gets lonely, ‘cause Teddy’s dere to wisten when Daddy’s busy.”

For a beat, Amanda’s eyes softened. It was almost easy to pretend that this was harmless. Just silly play. Just a woman humoring a strange, private performance. But then she shifted, and the bulky diaper underneath her tugged at the snaps of her onesie, reminding her exactly how far from “normal” this was.

She sat the bear upright beside her on the table, propping him so he could “watch” the audience too. “Do you wan’ me to sing to him? Daddy says I sing pwetty.” She leaned in conspiratorially toward the lens, lowering her voice to a whisper that was still cloyingly sweet. “Daddy wikes it when I sing… even if I mess up the wowds.”

Her voice wobbled through a fractured nursery rhyme, each lisp and stumble carefully performed, her face lighting up in mock pride at the end. She clapped for herself, the padded bulk between her thighs forcing her hands to move awkwardly.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how long she’d been doing this. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. She knew better than to stop before she was told. So she turned back to Mr. Snuggles and pressed her nose to his. “You’re my best fwiend, Teddy. We gonna pway all day, huh?”

The room was quiet except for her sing-song babble, until the screen above the camera blinked on. She froze. The swirling spiral filled her vision, sharp and bright, drawing her forward with every turn.

Then Daddy’s voice flooded the room, deep and warm, seeping into her thoughts.

“Good girl.”

[regressionschool]

Still clean?

Dana could hear the muffled bass of music and distant chatter from beyond the closed playroom door. The party hadn’t started yet, but the air already felt charged, heavy with the promise of what was coming. Leather straps crisscrossed her wrists and ankles, holding her spread against the tall St. Andrew’s cross. Her red hair clung to her flushed cheeks, strands sticking from where she’d been nervously chewing her lip. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thick, crinkling bulk between her thighs made it impossible to forget her role tonight.

The door creaked open, and Dom Anna stepped inside. In her glossy heels and black corset, she was the kind of beautiful that made Dana’s stomach twist. She paced slowly around her like a predator circling prey, heels clicking softly against the hardwood. When she stopped in front of her, Anna’s painted lips curved into an indulgent smile.

“Well, well…” Anna’s voice was smooth and playful. “Let’s see how our little party favor is doing.” Her manicured fingers slipped past the waistband of Dana’s diaper, pressing firmly against the padding. Her brow arched. “Still clean?”

Dana’s cheeks burned hotter. “Y-yes, Ma’am…” she murmured, barely audible.

Anna blinked in exaggerated surprise, pulling her hand back. “Really? Still clean? And here I thought you were supposed to be ready for our guests. They paid good money for a messy little toy, sweetheart.” She shook her head with mock disappointment. “This won’t do at all.”

Dana’s protest died in her throat as Anna’s hand returned not to check, but to tug the tapes loose just enough to slip something inside. The small, slick suppository slid in with humiliating ease, and Dana gasped at the sudden intrusion. Anna pressed her palm against the seat of the diaper afterward, rubbing slow circles to make sure it stayed exactly where she wanted it.

“That should help,” Anna purred. “We can’t have you wasting everyone’s time, now can we?”

Dana shook her head weakly, feeling her stomach knot in dread. The knowledge that the “help” would start working soon made every second stretch unbearably.

When Anna opened the door again, the sound from the main room flooded in. Guests, men and women, filed in with eager eyes, their gazes immediately locking on the restrained redhead. Some whispered to each other; others simply smiled, savoring the view. Dana’s knees trembled against the leather straps.

Anna turned to address the room like a hostess showing off a prized exhibit. “Everyone, our little Dana here thinks she can show up to my party in a perfectly clean diaper.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “But don’t worry, I’ve given her a little encouragement. We’ll have her… presentable… in no time.”

The cramps started small, tight pinches deep in her belly, but quickly began to roll in stronger waves. Dana whimpered, shifting as much as the restraints allowed. She didn’t want to do this in front of them, but there was no stopping it now.

Anna stepped closer, her voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear. “That’s it, baby. Let it happen. All these nice people came to watch.”

A stronger cramp hit, and Dana’s body betrayed her. The first warm, soft push spread into the seat of her diaper with a muffled, sticky sound. The crowd reacted instantly, some laughing, some murmuring their approval.

“That’s a good girl,” Anna cooed, patting the bulge as Dana’s face burned scarlet. Another push came, unbidden, and she could feel the padding swell, sagging slightly between her spread thighs. She closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear, but the sounds and the smell told everyone exactly what she was doing.

When the last cramp faded, Anna gave the seat of the diaper an appraising squeeze. “Perfect. Now you’re ready for the party.” She turned to the crowd, smiling. “Who wants the first turn with her?”

Dana’s heart sank. The night was only beginning.

[regressionschool]

Entirely incapable

You only meant to be gone a minute.

The package on the porch looked innocent enough. But when Mrs. Tisdale caught you on your way back in, you couldn’t just brush her off, twenty minutes later, after a long-winded chat about HOA flowerpots and her new rescue cat, you finally escape. You laugh at yourself as you reach for the nursery door, only to freeze the moment you see her.

She’s exactly where you left her.

Laying flat on her back on the changing table, legs bent just a little. Pacifier gently bobbing in her mouth, eyes wide and distant. Her cheeks are pink, but not from embarrassmen. Just waiting. Patiently. Trusting. Her freshly cleaned skin glows under the soft light, and the thick, white diaper still lays open beneath her hips. Untouched. Unfastened. The tapes haven’t moved an inch.

You stare at her. “Sweetheart… you didn’t put your diaper on?”

She sucks her paci harder and shakes her head, just once.

It hits you in that moment not just how long she’s been regressed, but how deep she’s fallen. How much she’s come to rely on you for everything. Taping a clean diaper should’ve been a simple task, something she could’ve managed. But looking at her now, eyes glassy with that faraway little space haze… she’s not just waiting.

She’s incapable.

She simply couldn’t do it.

You step forward, letting your hand settle gently on her tummy. Her skin nice and warm, faintly smelling of powder and lotion. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest. “Oh, baby…” you murmur, lowering your voice to that quiet, syrupy tone she loves, “you really do need Daddy for everything now, huh?”

Her answer is a soft, barely audible whine behind her pacifier, followed by the faintest squirm as she sinks further into the table’s padding. You slide the diaper up, snug and secure, pulling the tapes tight one at a time. Her body doesn’t resist. She doesn’t try to help. She’s still—peaceful. You realize she’s gone totally pliant under your touch, as if even holding her legs up would be too big a job for her little brain now.

When the final tape smooths down, you tuck your hand under her back and lift her gently into your arms. She melts into you instantly, arms looping around your neck in that clumsy way she does when she’s deep in her little space. Her head finds its familiar spot on your shoulder. You feel the soft puff of her breath, slow and heavy.

You lower into the rocking chair and pull the fuzzy blanket over both of you, cradling her in your lap. Her fresh diaper crinkles faintly as she shifts, nuzzling against your chest. You brush her hair behind her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” you whisper. “You don’t have to worry about anything. Daddy’s here. And Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say a word but the way she sighs, the way she clutches tighter to you with her warm, helpless little body… that says everything.

She’s yours. Entirely.

And you’ll make sure she never has to grow up again.

[regressionschool]

The First Surrender

She always savored this moment when the struggle was still fresh, when the mind hadn’t yet cracked all the way. The new girl on the table was no exception. Bound at the wrists and ankles, silenced behind a thick red ball gag, she still believed she had some say in the matter. That belief made everything so much sweeter.

The nurse’s gloves crinkled as she smoothed the front of the girl’s diaper, freshly taped and whisper-white. For now. It wouldn’t be long. She could already feel the tremble in the girl’s belly, the squirming tension in her hips. The formula always worked faster when the subject was resisting, like the body wanted to prove the mind wrong. Her favorite kind of rebellion: doomed from the start.

Leaning close, she cooed into the girl’s ear. “Oh, sweetie… you’re trying so hard to hold it, aren’t you?” The girl screamed into the gag, muscles tight, forehead damp with strain. That sharp, intelligent mind so proud, so scared still fought to stay above it all. As if clenching thighs and gritted teeth could stop what was coming. As if anything could.

A low, wet gurgle betrayed her. Then another. The nurse smiled and palmed the front of the diaper again, feeling it expand ever so slightly with the first betraying tinkles. “Good girl,” she whispered, voice like velvet, “let it all out. You’re almost home.”

And then it happened, full and sudden. The sharp gasp through the gag, the desperate arch of her back, the diaper swelling with soft crackles and squishes beneath her. It was always the same expression when they crossed that line: horror, relief, disbelief.

The nurse stroked her hair as she whimpered and sagged against the restraints. “First one’s always the hardest, baby. But they get easier. Especially once your brain catches up to your tush.” She patted the warm, bulging padding, already browning at the edges. “Give it a few weeks. You won’t even flinch.”

[regressionschool]

You’re getting a sister

When Daddy first told her she was getting a sister, her stomach sank. Not from formula or prune mush, but something deeper: heartbreak. She didn’t care if her diaper was wet. She didn’t care that she couldn’t remember the last time she used the potty. All she knew was that Daddy was hers. Her boyfriend. Her Daddy. The idea of Daddy kissing someone else, calling someone else “princess,” wiping another girl’s soggy bottom? It made her heart burn with something too sharp to name. She wasn’t just a soggy little girl! She was Daddy’s girlfriend! Or at least… she used to be.

She had cried. Thrown her stuffie. Refused her baba. Daddy just waited patiently, patting her soggy bottom and letting her tantrum burn out. Then he knelt down and spoke the words that crushed her spirit like nothing else could: “Sweetie, girls who sit in soggy diapers all day aren’t women. They’re little girls. And little girls don’t get to have boyfriends, they get to have sisters.” Her lip had trembled. Her Pampers squelched as she shifted in shock. She was too stunned to even argue.

She planned to hate her new sister. She really did. But when the girl arrived—pigtails bouncing, diaper thick and pink, face glowing with shy blushes—something shifted. The jealousy dulled, replaced by a strange, fluttery warmth. It started small: holding hands during cartoon time. Falling asleep in the same crib. Whispering to each other after Daddy tucked them in. Soon, they were stealing kisses between diaper checks. Giggling when Daddy found them cuddled together in a soggy pile of plushies and baby powder.

Now, there isn’t a single day they don’t beg to wear matching diapers. One in powder pink with a soft satin bow. The other in sky blue with frilly ruffles. Matching hair ties, matching pacis, matching whimpers as they squirm in their wet padding, desperate for Daddy’s touch or each other’s. They cling tight during changies, kissing softly while Daddy wipes their princess parts clean, eyes dreamy and full of love.

Daddy watches them with a knowing smile, calling them his “soggy little soulmates.” And they beam at his praise, their cheeks burning pinker than their diapers. Sometimes they cry when they’re apart—even for naps. They don’t know how they ever lived without each other.

Daddy was right. Having a sister is the best.

[regressionschool]

Her toes curled against the nursery carpet, the pink fuzz tickling her soles as she swayed side to side. She looked over her shoulder, giggling at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The thick padding between her thighs forced her into that waddly little stance she secretly adored. Her diaper, puffy and proud, shimmered slightly under the nursery lights, the little stars printed across the front still glowing bright blue.

"Still dry?" she whispered aloud, frowning just a bit, not out of shame, but playful disappointment. She gave her hips a little wiggle and watched the words "DRY DRY DRY" glint across her pampers like a teasing promise. It wouldn’t stay that way, not if she had anything to say about it. She reached out to press her fingers gently against the front of the diaper, wondering just how long it would take before those stars faded and blurred, washed away in the warmth she was longing for.

The pacifier bobbed in her mouth as she suckled unconsciously, eyes dreamy now. She didn’t want to be a grown-up today. She didn’t want to hold anything in. She wanted to feel the way she was supposed to feel: safe, helpless, cozy, and just a little bit soggy. Maybe more than a little. Maybe Daddy would notice the stars were gone and smile. Maybe he'd scoop her up and pat her squishy bottom, telling her what a good little baby she was for not holding it in.

She let out a soft whine—more of a squeaky sigh—as her tummy did that bubbly little flutter. Her body knew what she wanted before her brain could admit it. She wasn't worried. That diaper was big. Big and soft and waiting. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her onesie, dancing nervously, excitedly.

One last glance at the mirror confirmed what she needed to see. Not the grown-up she used to pretend to be. Just the baby girl standing there in her princess onesie and diaper full of twinkling stars. Waiting to watch them disappear.

She smiled again. Not long now.

hehe I have such a cute diapered bum ☺️

[regressionschool]

Right Where He Belongs

He didn’t mean to do it. Not right then. Not in that moment, curled up so perfectly at her feet, resting his cheek against her ankle like some obedient, oversized lapdog. But when Mommy’s hand reached down and stroked his hair with that slow, knowing rhythm, just behind the ear, where she knew it made him melt—his bladder gave up without a fight.

A soft hiss filled the silence between them, barely audible over the hum of the washing machine and the clink of her wine glass on the coffee table. But she heard it. Of course she did. She always did. Her foot shifted ever so slightly, nudging his padded crotch with the side of her slipper. His breath caught. His cheeks flushed.

“There we go,” she murmured, voice like syrup. “Just like a good baby. Snuggled up and soaking your pampers for Mommy.”

He buried his face in her leg, hiding from the shame. But there was no escape. Not from the heat pooling in his diaper, nor the warmth blooming in his chest as she cooed over his helplessness. The scent of lavender lotion and the distant floral notes of her perfume filled his nose, wrapping around him like the blanket she’d draped over his back when he first crawled to her.

Mommy didn’t ask if he needed to go. She never had to. Not anymore. His job was just to stay close, stay padded, and let go when it happened. And it always happened when she was near—especially when she petted him like this, with slow, deliberate strokes, right on his scalp.

He whimpered softly, the front of his diaper growing heavier with each second. But Mommy only smiled, letting her hand drift down to rest gently on his hair. “There’s my soggy snugglebug,” she whispered, “Right where he belongs.”

Right where he belongs: at mommy's feet, getting all snuggly while he pee himself 🤭

[regressionschool]

Too Good to Be True

When he first told her about Regression School, she rolled her eyes and laughed. A daycare for adults who wear diapers? A playhouse for “littles” to color, nap, and play pretend? It sounded like something pulled from one of their more elaborate roleplays, not something real. She had only ever played his babygirl at home, in the quiet safety of their shared space. Pacis and onesies were part of their private world, never meant to leave the bedroom or, at most, the living room.

Even when he handed her the sign-up forms, she thought he was just deepening the fantasy. She filled them out with a giggle, half-expecting him to break character and laugh with her. But he didn’t. He only smiled warmly and kissed her on the forehead, telling her how proud he was of his brave little girl. She figured he was just committing to the bit, nothing more.

Now, she stood in the hallway of their apartment, wearing a short-sleeved dress that barely reached the top of her thighs, the edge of her thick, crinkly diaper peeking out with every tiny movement. Her hair was pulled into neat pigtails. She shifted uncomfortably, the bulk between her legs unmistakable. Daddy was packing her bag with all the essentials—juice box, stuffie, extra diapers, her nap blankie. He hummed to himself, calm and focused, like this was a normal morning routine. She watched, waiting for the moment he'd break the illusion.

But he never did.

It wasn’t until the door opened and she saw it, that van parked by the curb, powder-blue with cartoon characters painted along the side, that her smile faltered. A uniformed woman was stepping out with a clipboard. A car seat waited inside. Her heartbeat slammed against her chest. She turned to Daddy, suddenly unsure, hoping to catch a flicker of mischief in his eyes, a hint of the old joke they were both in on. But there was none. He looked down at her with all the seriousness and warmth of a real parent sending their babygirl off for her first day.

That was when it hit her. This wasn’t pretend . She wasn’t just Daddy’s little girl in the bedroom. She was really being dropped off, diapered, dressed, and packed for her first day at Regression School. And as the woman at the door cooed, “You must be our new student! Don’t be shy, sweetie,” she realized with a jolt: her diaper was already damp.

[regressionschool]

Sharing Is Caring

You don’t like her.

Daddy’s “special friend.”

She’s everything you used to be. Confident. Sexy. In control. The kind of woman who wears lace lingerie and makes men weak in the knees just by existing.

She’s everything you’re not anymore.

And right now, she’s sitting on your couch. In your Daddy’s lap. Wearing your favorite lipstick. The one you used to wear when you still pretended to be a grown-up.

You’re not a grown-up anymore.

You're sitting on your crinkly, padded bottom on the floor. Legs spread wide by the bulk of your princess Pampers. Hair in pigtails. Thumb in your mouth. The cartoon on the TV isn’t even enough to distract you from what’s happening just a few feet away.

Daddy's hand is on her thigh. That’s your Daddy. Yours.

But when you open your mouth to whine, the words come out too babyish to be taken seriously. “D-daddy…M-miss you…”

He barely glances at you. Just pats your puffy diaper. “I know, baby girl. But sharing is caring, remember?”

Your face burns.

You hate that phrase.

Because every time Daddy says it, it means you’re about to lose something. A stuffie. A toy. A moment of his time. And now?

Now it means losing him.

“C'mon, Calli,” he coos, glancing over his shoulder at you like you’re some fussy toddler, “Don’t be a grumpypants. Daddy's special friend needs a turn too.”

You pout harder, trying to cross your arms but your mittens make it impossible. You squirm, the soggy bulk between your thighs making your crinkles louder than your protest.

You want to scream. You want to beg. You want to rip the paci out of your mouth and tell her to get the hell out of your house.

But then… your tummy gurgles.

Loudly.

Your eyes widen as the cramps tighten like a belt around your belly. Oh no. Not now. Not in front of her.

You try to shift, to sit on your knees, to fight it. But the pressure only builds. The oatmeal and prune puree Daddy spoon-fed you earlier churns like a storm cloud.

You don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

But you can’t stop it.

Your thumb slips out of your mouth as a quiet grunt escapes you.

Crinkle. Squish. Pop.

Your cheeks flush red-hot as you fill your diaper, helpless to stop the warm, mushy weight from ballooning into the seat. You curl forward, whimpering, the smell already betraying you.

Daddy turns his head just slightly. Smiling.

“Awww, Calli,” he chuckles in that sing-song voice he uses when you’re especially pathetic. “Did my little princess make her pushies?”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Not with her looking at you.

She giggles. “Did she seriously just poop herself because you stopped giving her attention?”

Your eyes sting. Your diaper squelches as you shift.

“Be nice,” Daddy says with a grin. “She’s just a baby. That’s what babies do.”

He walks over, crouching down beside you, pressing his palm into your swollen diaper. “Still warm. Just happened, huh, Stinkybritches?”

You hiccup a sob. “D-daddy…please…”

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. His voice softens but not with mercy.

“You’re doing a good job, baby girl. Being a big sharer. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

You sniffle, clinging to him, burying your face in his shirt as if you could melt into him and hide forever. But you can't. You’re not the girl on his lap anymore. You're the one in the corner, in the crinkly princess Pampers, with a warm, messy seat and a tummy full of shame.

“You stay right here,” Daddy murmurs sweetly, guiding you down onto your padded backside with a squish. “Daddy’s going to give his special friend a turn in bed now, okay? And if you're a good girl and don't fuss... maybe you'll get extra cuddles during your changie.”

He kisses your forehead.

You nod.

Because that’s all you can do now.

You're not the woman who gets Daddy's cock.

You’re the little who gets the floor and the full seat of her Pampers.

Because sharing is caring, Calli.

And Daddy says you’re such a good little sharer.

Also kinda can’t stop thinking about being coerced into being cucked with infantile reminders that “sharing is caring” and that I “need to give daddy’s friend a turn” 🥺

[regressionschool]

The Special Pampers

The nursery smelled like baby powder and warm milk, the air thick with comfort, with safety. Stuffed animals lined the crib, the mobile above it spinning lazily, casting soft shadows on the walls. The changing table was stocked high with thick, crinkly diapers—normal ones, everyday ones. But not the ones Daddy had just unfolded with deliberate care.

The special ones.

The ones with the extra-thick padding, the extra-cute baby prints, the ones that made his head feel all fuzzy and warm and… empty.

He sat on the floor in just his t-shirt and diaper, sucking absently on his pacifier, fingers twitching in his lap. He shouldn’t have been able to think like this—so clearly, so aware—but it always happened before Daddy taped one on. The moment it was snug, everything changed.

And he knew it.

“Daddy?” he murmured around his paci, looking up as Daddy turned from the changing table, fresh Pampers in hand.

“Yes, baby?”

He shifted, his current diaper squishing beneath him. He had no idea when it had gotten wet. He didn’t remember needing to go, didn’t remember doing it, but there it was—puffy, warm, soaked through, and totally unnoticed until now.

That was new.

And he knew why.

“Uhm…” He sucked harder, cheeks warming, struggling to find the words. “I—I think… I f’got sumthin’.”

Daddy kneeled in front of him, smiling gently. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

His fingers twitched again, grasping at something—some memory, some skill, something that had been his before the last diaper change but was now completely out of reach. He whimpered.

“Last time… last time you put me in one of the special Pampers…” He hesitated, pressing his hands between his legs, feeling the sodden padding there. “I—I knew when I was wet before. I knew when I hadta tell you. But… now…” His lips wobbled. “I dunno no more.”

Daddy cupped his cheek, thumb stroking soft, slow circles. “Oh, baby,” he cooed, voice filled with warmth, with reassurance. “That’s because little ones like you don’t need to know when they’re soggy.”

His breath hitched.

“But I did know before…” he whispered. “And now I don’t.”

Daddy only smiled, guiding him gently onto the changing mat. “And after this change, baby? I wonder what you’ll forget next.”

His pacifier bobbed in his mouth as he whimpered softly, squirming as Daddy lifted his legs and slid the special Pampers underneath him. The thickest ones. The ones that always made him feel so floaty, so little, so… empty.

His thoughts swirled, slow and sleepy.

Maybe next time… maybe next time he wouldn’t even know how to ask.

And maybe… just maybe… he wouldn’t mind at all.

[regressionschool]

no choice

The morning sun hadn’t quite peeked through the blinds yet when Daddy stirred, blinking blearily at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:17 a.m.

But that wasn’t what had woken him.

It was a soft, muffled grunt. Then another. A squishy, barely audible crinkle. He turned his head and there she was.

Pam, kneeling at the foot of the bed, bottom facing him with a proud little wiggle. Her thick nighttime diaper, already swollen from a long night of dribbling, had changed shades entirely—those wetness indicators were long blue. The air had that unmistakable morning little scent. Daddy didn’t even try to hide his amused sigh.

“Really, sunshine?” he asked, his voice a little gravelly from sleep.

She froze for just a second, caught mid-push, then let out a breathy giggle and gave her diapered bum a playful shake. “Mmmaybe,” she said innocently. “You left me no choice, Daddy.”

“I leave you no choice, huh?” he asked, folding his arms behind his head as he watched her with tired but fond eyes.

“You un-potty trained me, remember?” Pam turned slightly so he could see the sly smirk on her face. “Now this is your fault.”

Daddy arched an eyebrow. “I only took your bladder control.”

Pam huffed—a dramatic little pout forming on her lips as she wriggled around to face him properly, diaper squishing audibly beneath her. “You said that’s all you were taking,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But now look at me! Kneeling here like a good little stinker, making my morning mess right in front of you. That’s more than just my bladder, mister.”

Daddy chuckled, the sound warm and low, and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I think someone’s feeling extra bratty this morning.”

Pam leaned in a little closer, resting her padded bottom on her heels with a wet squelch. “Well, whose fault is that, hmm?” she asked, head tilted.

That earned a real laugh from him this time, a full-bodied chortle that made his chest rise and fall under the blanket. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m your problem,” Pam replied sweetly, crawling towards him on all fours—each movement accompanied by a heavy squish.

Daddy watched her approach with that knowing little smirk she always wore when she was especially proud of herself—cheeks flushed, eyes wide with that mischievous glint that told him she knew exactly what she was doing. Each step forward brought her crinkly, sodden diaper closer, and the closer she got, the heavier that unmistakable scent became.

Daddy raised an eyebrow and let out a slow whistle. “You sure made the most of your overnight padding, didn’t you?”

Pam beamed, sticking out her tongue. “I aim to please.” Then, with a coy glance over her shoulder, she added, “And fill.”

He leaned up on one elbow and reached down, running a slow, deliberate hand across the back of her diaper. The soft plastic was stretched tight, the bulk warm and sagging. He gave it a little pat, then a squeeze, just firm enough to earn a squeal from her.

“Someone’s going to need a thorough change later,” Daddy murmured.

She gave a quick nod. “Yup. And you better not leave me hanging.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her up into the bed with him, careful not to squish the mess too much—though judging by her smirk, she wouldn’t have minded. She nestled against his chest, her puffy diaper brushing his thigh as he settled the blanket over both of them again.

“Mmm... You’re warm,” she murmured, curling into him like a content kitten.

Daddy kissed the top of her head and let his fingers gently trace little circles along her back. “You wore yourself out making that mess, huh?”

She giggled sleepily, burying her face against his chest. “Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, stinkbug,” he whispered, placing one more kiss on her hair. “Now close your eyes. You’ve earned a bit more rest.”

[regressionschool]

Unpotty-Training: The Locked Door

The lock clicked the moment the door closed behind her.

That soft metallic snick so quiet, so automatic, so final, was the only sound she ever heard from the door. No keys. No creaking hinges. No turning knobs. Just the cold, casual certainty that she was sealed in, one more day.

The room greeted her with its pastel pink walls and oversized nursery décor, mockingly sweet like frosting on a bitter cake. Everything had been designed for someone her size but not her age. The crib was huge, with tall bars and soft bedding in cheerful yellows and lavenders. She could climb in and out on her own, but only just. And she did—every single night.

There was a small sink in the corner, mounted low and round with a pink plastic toothbrush that had her name, Cora, stuck in bright foam letters on the handle. Just Cora. No last name. No memory of one. No memory of arriving here.

Each morning, the little fridge hummed softly by the wall, full again. Its contents were always the same: toddler meals in squeezable pouches, diced fruits in syrupy cups, soft sandwiches in crustless halves, juice in sippy cups with animal faces. Comfort food. toddler food. Nothing she could cook. Nothing she could use to feel big.

And beneath the changing table—ugh, her changing table—was the stack. A fat, neat row of thick, crinkly diapers, their pastel prints bright and infantile. She didn’t count them anymore. She knew better. Somehow, there were always enough.

The air smelled faintly of powder and lavender detergent. The floor was soft, covered in thick foam mats with ABC patterns. There were bins with toys: a shape sorter, big plastic keys, a bead maze. A few board books stacked by the corner near the fluffy bunny she’d stupidly named Lulu.

“Don’t say it,” Cora muttered aloud as she passed the bunny, its felt ears folded over like it was eavesdropping. “Don’t say it.”

But she did glance at it. Then, blushing, stooped to straighten Lulu’s ribbon.

Her padded steps crinkled softly as she crossed to the fridge. She opened it slowly, already knowing what she’d find. Three meals. A few sippies. Neatly arranged. No notes. No clues. Just like always.

It had been… how long now?

She didn’t know. Time passed differently here. No clocks. No windows. Just that warm ambient light that dimmed each evening and brightened in the morning. She’d tried carving tally marks once, on the crib rail but by morning, they were gone. Scrubbed clean. Someone, or something, was watching.

She settled onto the floor with a sigh, pulling out a grape-juice sippy cup. She hated how it made her feel, holding it with both hands, sucking gently, like it was perfectly normal.

As she sipped, her legs spread slightly without her noticing, the padding between them thicker now squishy, warm.

She stilled.

Her free hand moved automatically, pressing against the diaper’s front. It gave slightly under her fingers. Soft. Damp. Not soaked yet, but definitely wet. She groaned.

“No, no, no…”

This was the second time today.

At night? Sure. That she’d accepted. Every morning now, she woke up in a soggy diaper, the damp warmth and bloated bulk no longer even surprising. She still hated it, but it was routine. Predictable. Almost passive.

But now, she was having daytime accidents.

That was new. That was terrifying.

She tried to remember the moment it happened but there was nothing. She hadn’t felt the urge. Hadn’t realized anything was happening. Her body had just… let go. Without asking. Without warning.

She set down the sippy and stared at the door. Her breath came quicker.

“Who are you?” she whispered again. “What do you want from me?”

Silence.

The fridge buzzed quietly. The foam mat creaked under her shifting weight.

She stood up slowly, waddling slightly from the bulk of her diaper. It was usable. It wasn’t leaking. Not even close. She didn’t need to change. Not yet.

She could put it off. Pretend everything was fine. That this wasn’t happening. That she wasn’t losing control.

Her eyes drifted to the mirror above the sink just tall enough to show her face, chest, and the slight peek of the diaper beneath her pastel shirt. The cartoon animals stared back at her. So cheerful. So oblivious.

“I don’t need to change,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “It can hold more.”

But the fact that she had to tell herself that…

She glanced at the changing table. The wipes were still in their container. The stack of fresh diapers sat untouched beneath, lined up like soft white reminders of how far she’d fallen. They were always just there. No one left them out for her. No caretaking hands. No gentle instructions. Just the expectation that she’d handle it.

That she’d know when to.

She crossed the room instead, sitting heavily onto the padded mat. It squelched slightly beneath her. She winced.

“I didn’t even feel it,” she murmured.

That, more than anything, was what scared her.

She remembered her first few days here desperate to hold it. Legs clenched tight, eyes screwed shut, curled in the corner with a burning bladder. She would fight it for hours. And if she lost… well, she knew she’d lost. She’d sobbed. Screamed. Slammed her fists against the mat in humiliation.

But now… she just leaked.

And the worst part?

Part of her didn’t mind.

The warmth. The lack of effort. The way the diaper hugged her hips, kept it contained, made it easier to just let go and move on.

She hugged her knees, chin resting between them. The diaper rustled under her, and the sound echoed in the still room.

“This isn’t me…” she whispered. “This isn’t who I am…”

But the voice was small. Unsure.

She stood slowly and looked at the changing table again.

Just change, Cora. Be clean. Be dry. Pretend this never happened.

But she didn’t move.

Because she didn’t need to change. Not yet.

Instead, she waddled to the shelf and pulled down a board book: “Colors with Cookie the Cat.”

She settled back on the mat, the squish between her legs oddly comforting now, the plush bunny within arm’s reach.

Each page was simple. Red is for apples. Blue is for the sky. Yellow is for bananas.

Her hand crept up without thinking, pressing the front of her diaper again. Still warm. Still damp. Still wearable.

The book was way to easy. But it was there. Something to focus on.

And the quiet stretched. Peaceful. Gentle. A routine she didn’t ask for but had accepted, even embraced in moments like this.

Until it happened again.

A sudden heat. A slow spreading warmth. Her breath caught and she froze.

No warning. No urge. Just another accident.

Her eyes widened in horror.

“…I didn’t know I had to go,” she whispered.

She was wetting. Fully. Sitting cross-legged, awake, and soaking her diaper like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“No no no no—”

But it was done. And her diaper swelled under her, sagging slightly at the crotch.

She dropped the book. Scrambled to her feet. The squelch was louder now. The smell barely there, but real. Tangy. Embarrassing.

This one… this one needed changing.

Her cheeks burned. Her heart pounded.

She waddled to the changing table, hands shaking. She didn’t cry. Not this time. She just felt… numb.

She reached under, pulled a clean diaper from the stack, then the wipes. No fanfare. No reward. No judgment. Just… her. Handling it.

She climbed up and lay back. The lights above were soft. Warm. Nonjudgmental.

She opened the tapes. Peeled back the shell. Wiped. Powdered. Folded. Taped.

She did it all silently.

And when she slid down from the table, clean and dry again, she saw it.

The screen on the wall flickered on.

“Unpotty-Training Progress: 65%”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled at her sides.

“Fifty-five,” she whispered. “I’m… more than halfway.”

The screen flickered again.

Then went dark.

She turned slowly and looked at the crib. Her crib.

The sheets were turned down, already waiting.

And in the silence of the room, the only sound was the soft rustle of her clean diaper as she walked toward it.

[regressionschool]

Guess who is back!

INTRODUCTION

Hi! I'm Mad, Mads, Ollie, Papa, or Mr. Paci, depending on where you knew me from. I use he/him pronouns.

I'm an AB/DL, pansexual switch. I have a serious (vanilla) partner who is not into this scene, but she lets me play online to scratch my ageplay itch.

I love meeting new friends to play with either as a big, little, switch, or most importantly, to get to know you as a person. Feel free to reach out in my asks or in my DMs if you want to talk.

I have written a large number of stories that I will link below in a table of contents. **IMPORTANT: ALL CHARACTERS IN MY STORIES AND POSTS ARE 18 OR OLDER.**

DNI: Minors, Bigots, Zoophiles, Pedophiles, or Jerks

TABLE OF CONTENTS

New You Gym

Kylee and Michael join a new gym that will change them and their relationship forever. (CW: Diapers, Wetting, Messing, Sex, Dubious Consent, Manipulation)

Chapter 1

[regressionschool]

It's repost time!

Maybe I do like it

So many times I've said it: "I don't want to wear diapers." "I want to use the potty." "I'm a big girl." I've screamed it until my throat was raw, until my voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. I've cried it all, every tear a testament to my defiance.

But no matter how loud I screamed, no matter how hard I fought, it didn't change anything. They still took away my big girl panties, replacing them with diapers. They still made me fill every diaper they strapped onto me to the brim, ignoring my protests and pleas.

I screamed at them, at my captors, the ones who held me prisoner in this childish state. But my screams fell on deaf ears, drowned out by their laughter and mocking whispers. In their eyes, I was nothing but a helpless little.

But as time passes and I obediently fill diaper after diaper, I find myself facing a troubling realization: maybe I like it. Maybe I like the way my diaper feels all warm and snug when I pee myself, the comforting embrace of its soft padding. Maybe I like the convenience of never having to search for a bathroom again, of being free to go whenever and wherever I please.

And as I squat down to mess my diaper, hours away from the next change, I can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, I do like being a poopy pampers princess. The thought sends a shiver of guilt and excitement down my spine.

Picture property of: @theabdaycare

Twitter.com/theabdaycare1

Justfor.fans/theabdaycare1

[regressionschool]

The Nose knows

The steady tap of keys fills your office, soft light from your desk lamp casting a warm glow on your keyboard. The house is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional squeak of the living room floorboards down the hall. You pause, roll your shoulders, and stretch your neck.

It's been a productive morning: emails sorted, project timeline finalized, and your second cup of coffee cooling slowly beside you. You glance toward the baby monitor perched beside your monitor. Not a camera, just audio. You believe in giving your little girl some freedom… but with boundaries. And one of those boundaries is knowing when Daddy needs quiet time—and when she needs supervision.

She’s been playing in the living room for the past hour, and aside from a few soft squeals and giggles, she’s been calm. A good sign. You smile softly to yourself, picturing her there: sprawled on the plush nursery rug, her favorite stuffies scattered around, maybe her stacking rings beside her.

She’d insisted on wearing her blue denim shortalls this morning, the ones with the pink heart buttons and the silly cartoon bear on the front pocket. Underneath, she had on a pale pink t-shirt with ruffled sleeves. The moment you finished dressing her, she tugged at the hem of the shorts and asked if her “diapee was pokin’ out.” You’d ruffled her pigtails and told her it was supposed to poke out a little.

"That’s how Daddy knows what to check," you teased, tapping the seat of her padded bottom until she giggled.

Now you lean back in your chair, trying to recall how long it’s been since you last changed her. Right before her second bottle… so maybe… three hours?

Then it hits you.

It drifts in slowly. Faint at first. Almost nothing. Just a subtle shift in the air.

You inhale lightly again, lips pressing into a knowing smirk.

It’s that smell. Warm. Slightly earthy. And unmistakable.

The scent filters in like a whisper at first, clinging just under the neutral scent of your office. But you know it. It’s a scent that clings to nursery rugs, to onesies left in the hamper too long, to the back of a diaper pail when you open it just a second too slowly.

You sigh, stand up slowly, and give your back a stretch. The air swirls a little as you move—confirming what your nose already suspected.

“She didn’t even call for me,” you murmur.

You leave the office, walking down the hallway. The scent grows stronger with each step still not overpowering, just present enough to trigger that Daddy switch in your head.

She’s in the living room, just as you expected.

And oh, the picture she makes.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the toy bin, completely absorbed in whatever tiny drama she’s invented between her stuffies and her dolls. The late morning light pours through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the rug. Her pigtails bob gently as she tilts her head, murmuring something to her plush bunny.

You pause at the doorway, arms folded across your chest. Your lips twitch into a subtle, amused smile.

The denim shortalls ride a little high on her hips. One strap is twisted, the cartoon bear now staring sideways from her chest. Her bare feet are splayed out lazily on the carpet, and the pink ruffled sleeves of her t-shirt puff with each motion. And most of all...

In that stinky little cloud hovering softly in the air.

It’s not offensive—not to you, at least. It’s just… real. Warm. Lived-in. Familiar in the most primal, parental way. It’s not the air-freshener gloss of a nursery commercial—it’s the scent of a little girl who's fully regressed. A little girl who doesn’t ask for potty breaks, because she doesn’t take them. A little girl who uses her diapers—without thinking twice.

You take a step closer.

Still, she doesn’t look up.

She’s too busy pretending that her unicorn plushie is getting married to a rubber duck.

“…an’ then you say ‘I do,’ an’ then you get kisses on the nose,” she mumbles matter-of-factly to the toys, unaware of your approach.

You crouch down beside her, resting a hand gently on her back.

“Hey there, stinker.”

She glances up at you, bright-eyed, grinning wide.

“Hi Daddy!”

There’s zero hesitation in her tone. No guilt. No shyness. Just sunshine. She squirms a little in place, the thick crinkle muffled by her shortalls as her weight shifts from one thigh to the other. Her bottom presses deeper into the rug for a second, and you hear the faintest squelk of padded compression beneath her.

You arch an eyebrow.

“Ohhh… I think Daddy’s nose knows something...”

She blinks.

Then she shrugs casually, her hand reaching down to pat one of the toys absently.

“Mmhmm,” she chirps.

“Mmhmm what?” you ask, voice low, teasing.

She gives you a beatific smile, one finger tapping her lip in mock thought. Then, as if stating the weather, she replies:

“I’m poopy.”

Just like that.

Clear as crystal. No shame. No giggle. No whisper. Just a simple truth from a girl who clearly doesn’t even consider what’s sitting in her pants to be out of the ordinary.

Your heart gives a warm little tug.

Not long ago, she would’ve whined for you the moment she felt a cramp. She might’ve pouted, clung to your leg, begged to be changed right after. There would’ve been fuss. Sniffles. Maybe even a blush.

But now?

Now she just goes when she needs to. Right in her diaper. Right in the middle of playtime. And then? She keeps right on playing.

That, right there, is progress. That’s regression done right.

You gently ruffle her pigtails.

“Poopy, huh?” you say, nose scrunching with exaggerated Daddy-drama. “That would explain why it smells like a little stinky-pants in here.”

She giggles.

“It’s not pants, Daddy! It’s my diapee.”

“Well, your diapee is doing some very hard work today,” you tease, giving her back a soft rub. “I bet it’s extra full by now.”

She shrugs again.

“Yup.”

And then she reaches for her stackable donuts, completely unbothered by the status of her diaper. No request for a change. No pause in her play.

You can’t help but smirk.

You sit beside her quietly for a moment, watching her organize plastic toys by color. The air still carries that unmistakable stinky warmth, but there’s no rush. She’s not upset. She’s not uncomfortable. And more than anything, you want to let her be little a bit longer.

So you let her play.

Five more minutes.

Ten, maybe.

Just long enough to enjoy the view of a happy little girl sitting in her messy diaper without a care in the world.

And when you finally do scoop her up?

She’ll giggle, squirm, and probably pretend she forgot she was stinky again.

But you’ll remember this moment.

Because she didn’t call for you.

Because she didn’t try to hold it.

Because she knew her diaper would catch it—and that Daddy would be there, when she needed him.