PeculiarChangeling
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Baby's Date (Bonus Fiction!)
🕑 Added 2023-04-27 20:12:12 +0000 UTCContains: Humiliation, Coddling, Humping, Messy Diaper Layering, Force feeding, and a lot of teasing!
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This was written as part of a collaboration with another prolific producer of extremely kinky shit, Sissy Becky!
Sissy Becky used to run an ABDL website way back on the day. Now they write “Adult Baby Research Institute” a long form serial about a ABDL BSDM sex asylum where everything is turned up to 11.
And, they also wrote 'Part One' to this story! If you want the full context and backstory of what's going on here, I highly recommend you go read the very huffy, blushy prequel to this piece of writing!
Baby's Date, by Sissy Becky, can be found here:
https://www.legitfic.com/o/836-babys-date---collab-with-peculiar-changeling
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Baby's Date
“So… who are they?” you ask Mommy, while she lathers up your hair with tear-free shampoo. Since promising that you’d get your very own ‘Grown-up date’, she’s been uncharacteristically coy about any details. All you know is to expect a blind date, and that everything has been prepared for you.
You’ve got concerns. It could be someone else from the kinky community–a friend or at least an acquaintance with similar interests. Or, heck, it could be someone you’ve never so much as met, a real grown-up with no idea what your bedroom looks like. You might get some clues as you get prepared, though–you haven’t even been told what you’ll be wearing.
You’re excited, anyways. The anticipation–the possibility of actually getting some proper grown up fun–is enough to put up with the dog and pony show Mommy and Daddy are putting you through.
“Arms up,” Mommy instructs, ignoring your question completely. You lift, and she scrubs under your armpits with a soapy washcloth. “Can’t have you all smelly before we even get you dressed, can we?”
(Is that a clue?) You wonder. (Or is she just teasing about the state of my diaper last night?)
You could just safeword and ask, but what’d be the fun in that? You didn’t want to be told plainly, you wanted to guess it.
It had to be someone she knew well, didn’t it?
After you’re washed, rinsed, and helped out of the bath, she pats you down with a towel, then pats your bottom with her hand. “Go see daddy, he’s in your nursery.”
Squeaky clean and naked from tip to toe, you’ve got no choice but to toddle out of the bathroom, arms crossed over your chest, hurrying to get to your nursery and get some clothes on. The transition from tub to air always makes you think you’re going to freeze, conjuring image of a ‘you popsicle’, and without any clothing to help warm you up you’re shivering in moments.
Daddy is waiting next to your changing table when you get to your room, and your heart sinks, just a little. That isn’t a guarantee that you won’t be going out with a real grown up, but it does mean they’ll find out if you want to have any naughty fun. More likely, it’ll be one of your kinky acquaintances or friends, taking you on a pity date.
“Bottoms up,” Daddy instructs, patting on your changing table. A bright pink Bunny Hopp diaper is already laid out, for you to lay upon.
You obey–what else can you do? If you refuse, you don’t get your date. Taking Daddy’s hands, you crawl up onto the table and get on your back, diaper laid below your hips. Instead of the expected sensations, though–powder and cream and then ruffly padding pulled over you–Daddy surprises you with something else.
Watching, you can only squirm anxiously as he bends to the shelf below the table. He unscrews a plastic lid, comes out with a small object, and stands again, holding a little bullet of glycerin.
“But–” you start to say.
“Do you want to go on your date gagged?” he asks in reply. You shake your head. “Then the only ‘butts’ tonight should be the one in your diapers.”
You swallow, but lift your bottom a little to give Daddy free access to you. He pushes the glycerin suppository deep inside, so deep that you whimper, then pulls his finger free and cleans it off with a baby wipe.
Only then do you get the cold, soothing cream, and the thin dusting of scented powder, and finally the diaper being folded over your waist.
Your anticipation of the night recalibrates. If you’re going to be in a smelly diaper–and you will be, you’ve never once managed to hold it for more than thirty minutes after a suppository came into play–it can’t possibly be a vanilla person. It has to be one of your friends, and one who doesn’t mind poopy diapers. The options shrink, and you realize you’re most likely in for a night of teasing at the hands of one of Mommy or Daddy’s dommy friends.
“Stay there,” Daddy says, bending over at the edge of the changing table. “Now, when grown ups go on dates, they try to dress up in sexy clothes for each other. You want that too, right?”
You nod. “Uh-huh.”
“Of course you do. You’re just like a little grown up,” he assures you, and you hear a lid open.
You know what’s over there on that end of the table, and what that lid sound was. In confirmation, the smell of old diapers assaults your senses a moment later, and you screw up your face, reaching to cover your nose.
He comes out with an overnight diaper–your diaper, the one you’d been put to bed in, the one that the prunes and castor oil had already done a number on. It’s heavy and sagging in his hands, smelly from the mess you pushed into it. “Bottoms up.”
You almost–almost–say the dreaded ‘B’ word, ‘but’. Before you do, you catch yourself and just say, “That’s not sexy!”
“You thought it was, though, didn’t you?” he asks. “Last month, while you watched Mommy and I without our permission, you had a stinky diaper just like this one and you were about ready to burst in it! If you didn’t think it was sexy, why were you doing that?”
You’ve got no argument, no defense, no excuse for why you were rubbing yourself so desperately the night before. Sheepishly, it’s all you can do to raise your hips, to allow him to slide the mucky old diaper beneath your current, fresh padding. The sides of it are cold, and you shiver as he folds it over, using the restickable hook-and-loop tapes to seal the clammy, putrid diaper onto you.
“How’s that feel?” he asks, pulling you into a sitting position.
Your weight sinks, and you hesitate. It’s a lot of bulk, and you can smell it plain as day, but it’s different from normal. “Weird,” you admit. “It’s clean and dirty at the same time.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem for you for much longer. Up!”
Responsively, you hop to your feet, and he bends again, picking up the prepared outfit he’d stowed beneath the table.
First comes a pair of fabric training pants–they’re almost as bulky as a diaper, and though not as absorbent, it’s not like he perforated your inner diaper anyways. It’s clearly not to prevent leaks, just to add even more poof to your already heavy, bulky baby bottom. You step into them, and when he pulls the puffy training pants up, the bulk makes you feel like you can barely close your thighs, let alone walk.
After this, comes the onesie. The onesie, the one Daddy likes to parade you around in, decorated with cartoon strawberries and stitched with a bib that reads, clearly, ‘Crybaby’ in big swoopy letters. He pulls it over your head and has to stretch the elastic fabric almost to its limits to button the snaps around your very impressive padding.
But he’s not quite done. As the final pièce de résistance, a pair of frilly pink plastic pants, with rhumba ruffles on the seat, are tugged up your legs. They seal snugly around your diaper, completing the ensemble, and one thing is certain:
You’re not even leaving the house tonight. Your ‘date’ is going to be coming to you. You’re not getting a real grown-up date at all, you’re going to be treated to dinner and humiliation. That’s not what you were promised, and you start to tear up, highlighting the truth of your ‘crybaby’ bib.
“There you go,” Daddy says, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, preserving your moment of deep humiliation and frustration forever with a little camera ‘click’. “Now, just one more thing…”
You don’t even know what he could add to the outfit. Maybe a bonnet? Or a bib? But instead, he steps forward and reaches down, rubbing his hand against the front of your diaper, eliciting a desperate moan from between your lips.
In a whisper, he asks, “This is what you really wanted, right? Do you really think you’re big enough for a grown up date, or would you rather admit you’re nothing but a bitty baby and have fun in your play clothes?”
It’s unclear where he produced the vibrator from, but you hear it kick to life in the same second you feel it pulse through your layers of padding, transmuting your words into juvenile mumbles. You cover your mouth with your hands to stifle your whimpers, legs locking up as you ride the pleasure.
But you don’t say, ‘Yes’, you don’t admit anything, and after riling you up just enough to get you horny and purge your head of any coherent thoughts, Daddy kills the vibrator. “There. Grown ups need to get in the mood before their dates sometimes. You’re all ready now!”
You swallow, and your belly grumbles. “Are you gonna tell me who it is yet?”
He shakes his head, taking your hand. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough. You wait here, and I’ll come get you when she arrives, okay?”
She! That’s a clue! You almost don’t notice that he’s steered you into the corner of the room and pushed your nose against the wall, quietly asserting your time-out without even needing to say those words, because your brain is reeling with the implications. That cuts down the options by more than half, and the list of possible friends who could be coming by rolls through your mind.
Some are meaner than others—you’re expecting mean, someone who will tease you and mock you to put the idea of ‘grown up dates’ out of your head, even as you still quietly hope that it might be someone who will treat you gently, someone who will take you as you are and pretend—no, not pretend, but see the truth—that you’ve still got a bit of ‘grown up’ in you.
You swallow. Maybe you’ll at least be able to come say hi before the suppository does its work and you fill your diaper—though, the reek wafting off your old diaper, the one sandwiched between your new one and your training pants, will likely dash any hope of dignity before it can even be formed.
Still, you’re going to try, if for no other reason than that Mommy and Daddy will point out your inability to hold it if you lose control while your nose is in the corner.
It’s not long before you hear footsteps—the light flappy thwip-thwip of Mommy’s flip-flops—and feel a hand on your shoulder. “Your date is here, sweetie.” There’s a slight giggle, and she adds, “Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll say anything about the smell.”
You turn pink as you get out of the corner. Mommy offers you her hand, and you take it, waddling awkward after her—you can’t tell if she’s moving faster than normal to make you struggle in your triple-layered, heavy padding, or if the difficulty you’re having is just from the sheer bulk and tight fabric pulling it against you. Either way, you’re led downstairs, towards your dining room, excitedly anticipating who will be…
Oh.
Oh.
Sitting at the dining room table, which has been lit with candles while mood music sets the tone, is your favorite stuffy. Peaches, a thirty inch plush fox that’s shaped roughly like a big pillow, with a permanent cutesy smile printed on her fabric face.
Your stomach drops, and the suppository takes advantage, overpowering your bowels and forcing warm, semisolid mush into the seat of your previously clean diaper.
Mommy giggles. “Don’t be shy, baby, go introduce yourself–once you’re done going potty, at least.”
A grunt escaped your throat and your face screws up, tears showing. This isn’t fair. It’s not what you wanted, or what you promised! You were supposed to go on a grown up date, you weren’t supposed to muck your diapers in front of one of your stuffies and be teased for it.
Mommy nudges you forward, and you waddle up, sitting in the chair across from Peaches. Your weight sinks into your newly-deposited mess, and you squirm, reminded that you weren’t given any satisfaction during Daddy’s teasing earlier.
At least you weren’t put into a high chair.
“Say hi,” Mommy prompts.
You blush. “Mommy, I can do this myself!”
She makes a ‘tsk’ noise in her throat. “You thought it was okay to watch Daddy and I during our grown up fun, I think it’s only fair that we get to be here for yours.”
You squirm, but tamp down before you can say the ‘B’ word.
Squirming, you look at Peaches. “Um…”
“It’s polite to tell your date about yourself,” Mommy instructs. “Why don’t you tell her how many stinky diapers you’ve made this month?”
“Um…” You flush, trying to mentally consider–over the whole month? While you were being teased and punished and made to be as flustered as possible? One a day seems reasonable, so you guess, “Thirty?”
“It’s not nice to lie,” Mommy chides. “Be specific–tell her about all of them.”
Pinkness spreads up your face, until you’re certain your blush has reached past your eyebrows. “Um–well–uh–last night, I went in bed, ‘cuz mommy and daddy gave me castor oil…and the night before, I just couldn’t hold it, cuz they hadn’t let me use the potty at all and I didn’t want to go in my daytime diaper, and…ugh, they gave me a suppository the day before while I was in time out, so…”
You feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into your seat as you have to regale Peaches with each stinky accident–and, worse, as you go back further and further, you start to feel certain you’ve forgotten some. You’ve been so helpless to use the potty this past month that you can’t even remember all the accidents–the times you’ve been allowed to use a toilet are far, far more noteworthy.
Finally, though, you get to the beginning of the month, to the accident you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. “Um–and, a month ago, I…I was sitting in my special chair, in Mommy and Daddy’s room, and–”
The humiliating confession is cut off by Daddy’s entrance, carrying a little clipboard. The ‘Waiter’, it seemed, for the ‘Date’.
“Welcome to our restaurant, may I take your order?” he says, smirking and wrinkling his nose at you. Rather than ask what you want, though, he turns to face Peaches. “Excellent choice, ma’am. And what will your date be having?”
Your eyes widen. You–Peaches is even ordering for you. You won’t even be allowed to pick what you eat!
“Oh, your date needs a high chair? Of course,” Daddy says, nodding. “I’ll be right back with that, and your drinks.”
He walks away, leaving you to sniffle and wipe at your face while Mommy captures more photographs of your predicament—you weren’t even getting the one dignity you thought, the grown up chair. When Daddy returns a moment later, he’s dragging your high chair with one hand and carrying two cups in the other—one, an icy glass of cola which he sets in front of Peaches, the other, a plastic sippy cup decorated with teddy bears, and the fluid inside is a chalky white.
He sets the high chair next to your chair—it’s your chair, you don’t need to move, it’s not fair! Expectantly, he waits.
When you refuse to budge, he reaches down, grabs you by the ear, and tows you up, forcing you into the high chair. Unlike grown-up chairs, the seat is a little rounded, conforming to your thickly padded bottom, squelching everything more tightly against you. The tray is locked down over your lap, and your sippy cup is placed in front of you.
“Daddy…” you whimper.
“I’m just making sure you and your date are comfortable,” he promises.
Mommy laughs at your confounded, defeated expression, and snaps another photo.
Daddy takes food orders—again, listening exclusively to Peaches and ignoring what you want—and then leaves the room.
“So, um…” you start to say, to Peaches. You don’t know why you’re talking to her, but it just seems like the thing to do. Nervously, you pick up your sippy cup and take a sip—it’s formula, with a chalky aftertaste. You stick out your tongue. “Gross!”
Off to the side, Mommy giggles. Fumbling for words, you squirm, but that only makes you more aware of the mucky state of your diaper, and the after-cramps that are still sending wracks of discomfort down your belly–possibly a coincidence, possibly as a result of whatever chalky medicine Mommy and Daddy put in your bottle. Instead of words, you only let loose a little grunt, your bowels squelching a bit more ick into your padding.
“Dinner,” Daddy declares, sashaying into the room, “is served.”
Two bowls are set out in front of you both. Peaches gets a slice of rich, savory meatloaf, with perfect, fluffy mashed potatoes, butter dribbling down the sides. In front of you, a bowl full of white slop with a spoon poking out.
You eye the contents suspiciously, sniff, and–yogurt. It’s plain yogurt, and your nose wrinkles at the sour odor instantly. Gross, gross, gross.
“N-no, I want what Peaches has,” you protest.
“No alterations or substitutions,” Daddy insists, tilting his head as though listening to your stuffy. “Oh, your date needs a little assistance? Of course.”
Bending slightly, he picks up the spoon, lifting it towards your mouth. You seal your lips and turn your head, pouting, but he gives you The Look. If you continue to fuss and refuse to eat, you know you’ll regret it. There are much, much worse things he could be forcing down your throat, and you both know it.
You open your mouth. Sour, slimy yogurt fills your cheeks, a little brushing on your lips, assaulting you with the sharp, unpleasant taste. You swallow, desperate to get the slime off your tongue, but before you have any relief, a new spoonful is waiting.
Unable to do anything except accept the sludge as it’s spooned into your mouth, your eyes lock on Peaches. On her ‘dinner’, the plate of tantalizing grown-up food only a few feet away. The smell makes your stomach growl, but the only satisfaction you’re going to get is from not having to swallow any more yogurt.
The bowl is deeper than you thought, and Daddy’s piled-high, sloppy spoonfuls don’t seem to deplete it as fast as they should.
You can feel the slimy yogurt on your lips, wet and clammy, and know there’s a little that’s dribbled onto the stitched-on bib of your onesie. The bib that reads ‘Crybaby’. The one you’re about to prove true yet again as you fuss and debate closing your lips to any more of the goopy dinner.
But, just as your belly feels a little too full and you’re ready to scream, the bowl runs dry. Daddy scrapes out one final spoonful, taking his time to get as much as possible, and plops it between your lips. You swallow, gag, and it’s done. Finally.
Quietly, Daddy says over to Mommy, “Do you think our little one’s earned grown up time?”
You sit up straight, suddenly the model of obedience. You don’t even wipe off the last bit of yogurt on your lip–you just want a yes, even if that ‘grown up time’ is with Peaches.
Mommy takes a long pause before answering, drawing out her, “Hmmmm…”
You can’t help yourself. Looking over your shoulder, eyes huge, you give your most helpless pleading look. “Please?”
She smiles and nods. “Alright, I suppose.”
Excitement completely drowns out all the discomfort–yes, yes, yes! Beaming, you start to try and get up, only remembering a second later that you’re still strapped into the high chair and can’t actually move under your own power.
“I’ll go get her ready,” Mommy says, reaching over to pick up Peaches while Daddy wipes your face down, doing an unnecessarily thorough job.
“Do I–” you stammer. “Do I really get to? You’re not going to stop me or tell me ‘no’ right as I’m almost done?”
Daddy notices the slight anxiety in your voice. It’s barely there, but it’s there—the uncertainty is almost to the point of not being fun anymore. Reassuringly, he pops the latches on your high chair.
“You might not like how it happens,” he hedges, “But you’ll get to make a sticky diaper if you’re obedient.”
That’s good enough for you, you practically jump out of the highchair into giving Daddy a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank–urp—”
You’re interrupted by a heavy pat on your back, drawing out a belch you hadn’t expected. Face turning pink, you drop right back into the situation, reminded of what you’re wearing, the bulk and weight and squelch between your legs, and the thing you’ve gotten so excited for—a few seconds of humping a plushie in your ruined diapers.
You look down, and Daddy pulls you by the hand towards the stairs. “Let’s go up, ok?”
What are you going to do, argue? You follow, hand outstretched in front of you as he takes the lead. You want what he’s offering, you want it so badly that any humiliation is worth being suffered. Waddling forward in double-thick ruined diapers and puffy training pants, eating anything they feed you, throwing out your dignity for their entertainment.
Or…if you’re being honest with yourself, the humiliation isn’t being suffered at all. It’s almost as indulgent as the sex you’re hoping to get in a moment.
Mommy’s already in your nursery, leaning over the side of the crib, and you spot what she’s done instantly—Peaches has been adorned with a strap-on, just like the one Mommy had worn a month ago, an intimidating dildo extending from the midpoint of her plush body. She rests on your crib, the side bars held open so you’ve got access to her.
“Be a good date,” Mommy encourages. “Show her a good time—don’t just worry about yourself.”
“O-okay,” you say, looking at her, then up at Daddy. “Um–can I have a little privacy?”
Mommy giggles, as though you just asked for a pony and a magic wand. “Of course not, silly—you thought it was okay to watch us during our grown up time, right? So that means we should get to watch you, too.”
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
That’s what Daddy meant by, ‘You might not like how it happens.’
“But…” You say, forgetting the rule for a moment.
No, ‘Buts’.
“Oh, you’re worried we won’t enjoy the show enough, aren’t you?” Mommy asks, reaching for her pocket. “It’s okay—I’ll make sure we can enjoy it, again and again.”
She produces her phone, directing the camera lens right at you. You flush, but you know you’re getting off light–for using the B word, you could have had your pleasure denied completely.
Still, you cover your face with your hands, mortified.
“Aww, baby’s all shy now,” Daddy says. “It’s alright–go show Peaches you know what grown-up sex looks like… even if you can’t do it yourself.”
You drop to your knees. Walking just doesn’t feel appropriate right now. On all fours, you shuffle across the room, your layered, poopy diapers swaying between your thighs, barely held in place by your straining onesie.
Reaching to the side of the crib in front of Peaches, you feel another cramp. Maybe from all the yogurt causing a glitch in your system, maybe another aftershock from the suppository, but you have no will to fight it. Sticking your bottom a little higher, you push, and–
Pop!
The onesie’s snaps, though they fought admirably, pop open–first just one, then the rest in a rush. Too much bulk, too much straining mass and poof, your onesie just can’t contain it all, and your mushy diapers and padding all flop out between your legs.
“Awwww,” Mommy coos above you, crouching slightly so your bulging bottom is right in the video’s frame. “You had to go so bad, didn’t you? Well—that’s why you wear baby diapers and Peaches gets to wear grown up clothes.”
“It’s a good thing Peaches doesn’t mind the smell,” Daddy adds. “I can’t imagine a real grown up having sex like that–— so nice of her to put up with your poopy bottom.”
You look down and burying your face in the fabric of your mattress, hiding your blush.
“Thank her,” Daddy says, in a tone that’s not-quite warning.
You look up, staring at Peaches’ smiling face, at the looming dildo strapped onto her. “Thank you for putting up with my poopy bottom, Peaches.”
Mommy laughs, and your head feels so devoid of maturity that her laughter has plenty of room to echo in your thoughts. “Now show her how grateful you are.”
Scooting up, obedient, your lips find the edge of the dildo. Gently at first, pulling it all into your mouth until you feel the tip at the back of your throat. You go a little faster, then, pulling your mouth back, swallowing, running your tongue along it.
“It’s like the baby wants to act like a real grown up,” Daddy says. “Do you think we should let that happen?”
You can tell Mommy’s shaking her head from how it sounds, but your eyes are closed, focused on the rapture of your task. “No, I think the baby prefers poopy diapers to real grown up time, can’t you hear all the moans?”
And that’s true–you’re moaning into the dildo, caught up in the feel of it in your mouth, the submission, the desire to give Peaches pleasure when all you can feel is mucky diaper squelch around your baby parts.
Daddy snickers. “At least the baby isn’t being shy anymore.”
“I think the baby made all the snaps pop on purpose–to show off what an impressive little mess that diaper is!” Mommy agrees.
You take Peaches’ cock into your mouth, again and again, feeling it thrust—or, rather, feeling your head thrust—onto it in a desperate rhythm.
There’s no real indicator of when she’s done, but you know. You can tell, when you’ve done enough, when you’ve given your stuffie the ‘pleasure’ she deserves, as she rolls back onto the crib bed, flopping plushily. Exhausted, mouth a little sore, you flop back and look her in the eyes—not Mommy, or Daddy—but Peaches herself. “May I please make stickies?”
“The baby is so polite like this!” Mommy says, almost shocked, moving her phone to capture your face, your ever-so-kind request.
“Maybe grown-up pretend time should only happen with Peaches,” Daddy agrees. “Call it a monthly date night.”
You’re vaguely aware of the threat, there—that you’ll only be allowed to make stickies once a month, and never like a grown up—but you don’t care. You just want to hear…
“Well, I think I heard her say, yes,” Mommy confirms, speaking for Peaches.
That’s all you need to hear–clambering up onto Peaches, so the front of your thickly layered diapers presses against her cock, you start to hump, moaning in desperate ecstasy.
“So, so precious–” Mommy starts.
You last all of a second.
That’s all it takes—one moment of thrusting, and then bliss.
A part of you is disappointed—you wanted to make this last longer. You wanted to savor it, to really enjoy your brief chance at grown up fun time. But when Mommy realizes by the sound of your gasps, she laughs and you feel so helpless that your pleasure skyrockets.
Overwhelmed, exhausted, you collapse onto the crib next to Peaches, holding her in one arm.
“Awwww,” Daddy says. “The baby’s all tuckered out.”
“Should we let the two lovebirds rest?” Mommy asks, lowering her phone, ending the recording.
Daddy thinks for a moment, then reaches down through the bars of your crib and squishes the front of your diaper. Still in the phase of post-coital sensitivity, you spasm and your leg kicks, eyes going huge.
Snickering, Daddy says, “Sure. Baby, you nap with your girlfriend—we’re going to go have some adult time, some real grown up sex.”
Quietly, as she shuts the side of the crib and seals you in, Mommy adds, “If Peaches says it’s okay, you can show her your pretend sex again—just don’t leave the crib.”
You smile, and nod, and pull your stuffie closer.
A minute later, you hear the baby monitor come to life. Mommy and Daddy’s sounds carry through, their moans and flirting—they’re having real grown up sex in the next room. The kind you’d been denied.
Smiling, you roll onto all fours, getting on top of Peaches again, mimicking Mommy and Daddy’s actions with your own smelly, squelchy emulation.
Maybe it wasn’t real sex, and maybe Peaches wasn’t a real girlfriend, but you didn’t care. This was just where you wanted to be.
