I'm an experienced caregiver who also loves writing. I will be sharing my ABDL writings here. | MDNI | Characters are 18 or older. | DM for custom stories
Joined March 2024
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You say it almost politely, as if good manners could still save you. “Daddy… I think I need the potty.” I look into your eyes. My voice drops to the same tone I use when I choose what you wear… and when you sleep. “You don’t need the potty.” I feel your weight shifting side to side over my thighs. The thick padding that’s wrapping your hips crinkles as you clench.
I already know what’s coming.
[1/4]
Daddy who warms your bottle before you even ask, tests it on his wrist, then tucks you into the crook of his arm like you were always meant to fit there. 🍼
DadIsWriting retweeted
You finished that one so fast your thirsty mouth is still searching. You can take another, can’t you? Your hands won’t hold it steady anymore, I already see them trembling. Come climb onto my lap so I can tip the bottle for you and keep your body from slipping. Feels safer when I decide how much milk fills you, doesn’t it? Nothing happens that I don’t allow while you’re this open and helpless in my arms. 🍼
She stood in the bedroom with the suit already on the chair. The diaper was open on the bed. She stepped into it, waiting to be powdered. The plastic was cool, then warm once he pulled it up and smoothed the front. He pressed the lower tapes first. She felt the thickness between her legs and the way it changed the set of her hips when she shifted her weight. She thought of the wooden chair in the classroom, how the seat would press when she sat, the possibility that a sensitive ear might hear the crinkle.
“They’ll see it,” she said.
He did not answer. He took the navy dress from the hanger and held it open. She lifted her arms. The fabric dropped past her shoulders, past the rounded outline at her hips, past her knees. The hem brushed her ankles. She walked the length of the rug and back. At home, the diaper even made her feel safe and playful at times; she sat, stood, crossed the apartment on all fours, and forgot the outline under whatever she wore inside. Outside their place, the same poofy whiteness made her measure the distance between steps. She lowered herself onto the bed to see how far the dress would open at the knee. It did not open. She rose. The padding stayed in place. The movement that was automatic in the rooms where only he saw her now required a small, constant correction she could feel in her hips and in the set of her shoulders. She stopped in front of the mirror, hand on her bottom, before he turned her.
[1/2]
His hands rested at her waist. The dress hung straight in the glass. No bulk showed. Her hair was already pinned. The small earrings were in place. He fastened the button at the back of her neck. His fingers stayed against the skin above the collar for a moment. She drew the usual thin line of color at her mouth, then ran one finger once under each eye and left the rest alone. She felt the shape through the cloth when she breathed. The classroom, the walk across the quad, the hours of being called professor; all of it would happen with the diaper still on. At least she was allowed to change herself if needed.
She breathed slower this time. The worry stayed, though. She could still picture a student glancing down when she crossed her legs at the desk, or the sound of the chair when sitting down, or… The dress was already on. The hem was long enough that nothing visible had changed. He handed her the bag she carried to work. At the door he declared: “No one will notice.”
She stepped into the hallway. The minimal rustle moved against her thighs. She walked toward the elevator, already repeating the first sentence of the lecture she would give in an hour. The thickness stayed where it was. No one outside the room would be told what she was wearing. The only person who knew was the one who had pressed the tapes.
[2/2]
#ABDL
You finished that one so fast your thirsty mouth is still searching. You can take another, can’t you? Your hands won’t hold it steady anymore, I already see them trembling. Come climb onto my lap so I can tip the bottle for you and keep your body from slipping. Feels safer when I decide how much milk fills you, doesn’t it? Nothing happens that I don’t allow while you’re this open and helpless in my arms. 🍼
DadIsWriting retweeted
If you get wetter thinking about a big, sturdy Daddy deciding you never get to choose again, you are already His. You can squirm and whisper that you’re still grown.
It does not matter.
Once the tapes seal and the crinkle starts, you will, inevitably, flood. 💦
DadIsWriting retweeted
I find her on the floor beside the crib, already half gone. Eyes half-closed, cheek against the rail, the onesie doing its best to hold her thick diaper. When I reach down she lifts her head just enough, looks up at me, and says, soft and small, “eepy.” That is all it takes.
I gather her up; her weight settles into my arms, limbs loose, breath slow against my neck. I lower her onto the mattress and rub the bulk between her thighs. “It’s ok, darling,” I say, turning the mobile on. “Daddy will stay until your safely asleep.”
Soft light moves across the sheet. I tuck the blanket snug. Then I rest my palm against her cheek and begin to stroke, thumb moving in a gentle line along the bone. She turns into it, mouth open, and latches onto the thumb as if she has been waiting. The suckling is hungry and thoughtless , her breath evening out while the animals on the mobile go round and round.
If you get wetter thinking about a big, sturdy Daddy deciding you never get to choose again, you are already His. You can squirm and whisper that you’re still grown.
It does not matter.
Once the tapes seal and the crinkle starts, you will, inevitably, flood. 💦
DadIsWriting retweeted
Her eloquent reply brings smiles and nods from the small circle gathered around her. The long blue dress moves cleanly under the sweater as she continues; beneath both, the pull-up sits thin enough that she can almost call it underwear. For the length of the next sentence she believes it. She believes she has left the accidents behind. The man with a black mustache beside her turns and asks whether she knows the artist personally. She does. The room treats her as reliable. She lets the treatment stand.
[1/2]
¡Gracias a @sexoconka por la invitación a @salvameradio para hablar sobre ser Daddy en el mundo ABDL!
Her eloquent reply brings smiles and nods from the small circle gathered around her. The long blue dress moves cleanly under the sweater as she continues; beneath both, the pull-up sits thin enough that she can almost call it underwear. For the length of the next sentence she believes it. She believes she has left the accidents behind. The man with a black mustache beside her turns and asks whether she knows the artist personally. She does. The room treats her as reliable. She lets the treatment stand.
[1/2]
Under the talk, the fear remains: one full accident and the thin layer fails twice: once in the fabric, once in the face she has been keeping steady for them. And back, again, to diapers. The permission to stand here as reliable is withdrawn the moment a drop—or many—proves it was never earned. She keeps her movements even. She keeps the tone steady. She laughs at what the man with the black mustache just said. The joy is real. The warmth that follows is not a choice. It doesn't stop while her mouth is still open, the smile unfinished.
#ABDL
I find her on the floor beside the crib, already half gone. Eyes half-closed, cheek against the rail, the onesie doing its best to hold her thick diaper. When I reach down she lifts her head just enough, looks up at me, and says, soft and small, “eepy.” That is all it takes.
I gather her up; her weight settles into my arms, limbs loose, breath slow against my neck. I lower her onto the mattress and rub the bulk between her thighs. “It’s ok, darling,” I say, turning the mobile on. “Daddy will stay until your safely asleep.”
Soft light moves across the sheet. I tuck the blanket snug. Then I rest my palm against her cheek and begin to stroke, thumb moving in a gentle line along the bone. She turns into it, mouth open, and latches onto the thumb as if she has been waiting. The suckling is hungry and thoughtless , her breath evening out while the animals on the mobile go round and round.
DadIsWriting retweeted
You’re already on your back, legs bent and spread, brown leg warmers framing the thick white diaper still fastened. The wand drills into the wettest part of the padding. Its vibrations travel toward your clit, trembling there like an electric tongue. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and the wand’s relentless pulses continue. You press it more firmly before you can say no.
Warmth spreads through your crotch as urine slowly releases into the diaper. The tapes hold, hold. Your mouth opens in a sound that’s half laugh, half the small noise of resistance giving way. Warmth envelops you. You pull up your top so the air can touch your skin. The smile that comes marks the end of the adult decision: you wet on purpose, simply for the pleasure of the dampness. The good girl does what her Daddy encourages. You could keep going like that all day.
You’re already on your back, legs bent and spread, brown leg warmers framing the thick white diaper still fastened. The wand drills into the wettest part of the padding. Its vibrations travel toward your clit, trembling there like an electric tongue. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and the wand’s relentless pulses continue. You press it more firmly before you can say no.
Warmth spreads through your crotch as urine slowly releases into the diaper. The tapes hold, hold. Your mouth opens in a sound that’s half laugh, half the small noise of resistance giving way. Warmth envelops you. You pull up your top so the air can touch your skin. The smile that comes marks the end of the adult decision: you wet on purpose, simply for the pleasure of the dampness. The good girl does what her Daddy encourages. You could keep going like that all day.
DadIsWriting retweeted
The cat seat is already buckled around you when he opens the back door. The dress is soft over the thick diaper; the padding keeps your knees apart even while you sit. He climbs into the front and glances at you in the mirror.
“Remember when you drove yourself everywhere?” he asks, quiet.
He reaches back and offers the pacifier. You open for it without speaking. He watches you take it, then turns the key.
“This is how you’ll sit from now on. Back seat, bulk locked, pacifier in. If anyone looks in you keep your eyes down. Daddy handles the rest.”
The car rolls forward. One of your hands rests on the front of the diaper while you suck. The steering wheel stays empty. You stay where you were put. 🍼
She is on her knees, the diaper already heavy and soaked between her thighs, the blue tapes pulled tight across her hips until the plastic shell is taut over the swollen bulk. The pillow sits under her. She settles her weight, and the first slow rock pulls a low, involuntary sound from her throat. Her hands plant on the mattress.
[1/3]
The soaked mass forces her stance wider than any choice she still possesses, plastic wedging into the insides of her thighs and the sharp chemical scent of the shell rising with the heat. Every grind presses the cloudy softness and the thick padding directly against her pussy, holding her folds open and rubbing, rubbing. The joke about being a “pillow princess” is the last adult sentence she is able to think before her mind melts into babbles.
[2/3]
The heat and the pressure build exactly where the diaper is thickest, right against the swollen place already trapped inside, the bulk itself removing any need for her to decide how hard or how long. Her hips lock onto the pillow and take its rhythm; no veto remains. A smile breaks across a mouth already open. She rocks harder, fucking the pillow through the bulk. The plastic crinkles and the sheets answer every thrust. Under the sweat, the woman who used to decide when and how is simply the one whose hips keep moving until the pillow says she is done.
[3/3]