Dangerousangleofadream - Femdom

I Think We’re Alone Now

If you asked me a year ago, I’d have said that wearing diapers was the ultimate sign of babyhood.

It’s not.

Don’t get me wrong, diapers are inextricably intertwined with babyhood, but they’re not the defining aspect of babyhood.

Trust me, I know.

If she taught me anything over the past year, it’s that diapers are only the symbol of babyhood. Believe me, I’ve filled enough diapers this year to become an unwilling expert on the subject.

It’s not the diapers—it’s the utter lack of privacy and autonomy.

Yes, I wear diapers. And yes, she checks and changes them. That’s infantilizing enough.

But that’s nowhere near the worst part.

Do you know what it’s like to have absolutely no privacy? Knowing your own diaper is under her control?

Of course you don’t. You’re an adult. Adults take the right to privacy for granted.

How could you possibly understand?

Nobody randomly stops you and slides their hand into your shorts to check your diaper without asking. Nobody pulls down your pants and exposes your mess without you having any say.

Babies have no expectation of privacy.

And neither do I.

Look around. Does this look like a private place to you? Would you feel comfortable messing your diaper right here?

Yet, look at the way she’s smiling at me, patiently waiting for me to finish loading my diaper like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t think someone like me—a baby in her eyes—has any use for privacy. She expects me to squat down and fill my diaper whenever and wherever the urge strikes.

Like right here, in this busy hallway full of people.

Real adults do their business in private—nobody ever would watch you do this—let alone smile as they watched. You get the dignity of handling it yourself.

Everything I do is public. Even if I’m fortunate enough to mess my diaper in a private place, it’s not like I get to hide what I did.

Nope, she’ll push me down and open up my diaper anyway, exposing my shame. I can’t run. I can’t hide. She is in control.

There is no dignity in this situation.

If you asked her, she’d tell you it’s perfectly natural, babies can’t help making poopoos when they have an icky tummy.

And yes, she’d use those same horrible, infantile words. Do you really think she uses adult language when she talks to me?

Get real.

I mean, look at her! That’s how a mother looks at their toddler when they know they’re about to be on diaper duty.

She’s my wife!

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when you’re in diapers. She’s way closer to a caregiver than a lover.

And I don’t want to talk about that right now. I have enough on my mind right now.

As soon as she’s satisfied I’m done pushing, she’ll check my diaper as publicly as this mess. She’ll say something in that same sickly sweet, babyish voice and march me to the nearest women’s bathroom to change me.

“Good job, kiddo! Did you push all that icky poopoo into your diapie? Yes you did! Turn around, Mommy has to check on her mush tush.”

See?

Savor your privacy. You have no idea how terrible it is without it.

After party clean up….

Will chastity ruin my boy? (My experience)

My third boyfriend in college was the real deal. I did my undergrad at a well known UC school located very close the beach. Lots of people surfed and body boarded…but not like this guy. He looked the part and his character backed up those looks every wit.

The first time I ever saw him was at a surf contest. He came in second but caught the biggest wave of the event. The way he maneuvered and fearlessly dominated the roaring force of nature was enough to twitterpate this pre-med student.

I remember ogling him when he came out of the water after his run. His wavy  blond hair dripped water down his chest. It was curled and bleached from hours and hours spent in the salty sea. HIs deep aqua-blue eyes were confident and he had no problem meeting my stare. A girl can tell when a guy is totally wrong for her and sometimes a girl just doesn’t care.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to him until the luau. I maneuvered over to the table laden with pineapple drinks where he was stationed, chatting up another surfer. I watched him through the corner of my eye, willing him to approach me. He wasn’t a body builder but was incredibly fit. His golden tan skin seemed to glow at dusk. His left arm was completely covered in tattoos, and not the lame poser variety. They looked for all the world like authentic ancient Polynesian symbols of gods of sun and sea.

Like clockwork he approached me and offered me a pineapple. I don’t recall his opening line but I remember him laughing heartily when I said, “Nice job out there. A little too far ahead of the curl, though…” We chatted briefly before I was cut off by other girls trying to get their turn.

Shortly afterward I was walking on campus when I heard a bike behind me. It was our surfer friend. He had spotted me and recognized me and rode up next to me to offer me a ride to class. He was bare chested (his white “wife beater” was tucked into his pants) so of course I couldn’t say no. You know, he reminded me of a perpetually shirtless Heath Ledger. He lifted me right up on the handlebars of the big beach cruiser and whisked me through the warm air to class.

That was the beginning of our long dance. We would tell each other about parties and we’d sort of show up. His parties were pretty exclusive surfer gatherings that you had to be in the know to attend. The parties I was usually invited to were the geekier pot lucks that the biology and medical students over-organized.

I remember when he showed up to the first biology party. It was in a professor’s house near campus. When he walked in I could feel his presence change the tone in the room. His feet were only ever bare or shod in some ultra insider hand-made leather sandals that you can only buy in Hawaii. He had a shirt, thankfully, but compared to the rest of the tight-laced khaki-wearing attendees he stood out like a lion in a flock of sheep. And I wasn’t the only one smitten by his aura. I was talking to a girlfriend at the moment and I remember laughing aloud at her try to carry on our conversation while her eyes slowly tracked his movements around the room.

He made his way over to me, sampling a few of the hors-d'oeuvres and shooting smiles and head-bobs in the direction of people who seemed to recognize him. He reached me put his tan hand on my elbow and said, “Let’s go to a real party.”

To be continued…