Turning You Into My Diaper Slave

The following story contains adult content and is intended only for adult readers over the age of 18. Any characters depicted in adult situations are over the age of 18. This story is entirely fictional and has been written and shared for entertainment purposes only.

As a friendly reminder, all non-fictional BDSM fantasy role-play should always and only be performed safely in the context of fully informed and consenting adults.

I’m gonna turn you into my diaper slave, honey.

You’re not going to like it. It’s going to be unbearably humiliating and degrading and embarrassing for you. And it’s only going to get worse and worse for you at every step.

I’ll start by blackmailing you. It won’t be too hard.

Maybe I’ll gain your trust over the internet, and get you to share with me some compromising photos of yourself. Photos you would be mortified to see released to your family, your partner, your boss, or even just the general public.

Or maybe I’ll invite you over and get you liquored up. And with my devious cunning, I’ll get you to reveal to me something deeply compromising. Perhaps it’s a victimless crime you’ve never been caught for. Or perhaps it’s a secret that’s deeply personal, and just as devastating… like a highly embarrassing fetish you’ve never had the courage to tell anyone about.

Or maybe, I’ll just seduce you. I’ll seduce you, and threaten to tell your partner you cheated on them, if you have a partner. Or if you don’t have a partner, I’ll videotape our whole rendezvous without you knowing, and threaten to share the footage to the whole wide world that shows just how small your little pecker is, or how tiny your tits are, or how truly embarrassing your pathetic little O-face is…

Or, if all else fails, maybe I’ll threaten to frame you for a crime. A devastating crime, that even if you knew you wouldn’t actually be convicted of it, the public accusation and negative publicity alone would cause you to lose everything you hold dear, making you eager to do anything to keep that from happening…

But the bottom line is, I’m going to get my first bit of leverage over you.

I’m going to use it to force you to start spending more time at my house, doing chores, cleaning, and whatever else I tell you to do…

And then, when the time is right, I’m going to make you start wearing diapers.

“You want me to wear a diaper?” You’ll whine the first time I demand that you don the crinkly, babyish garment. “But… why?”

Because, I’ll think to myself… I have a burning sexual fetish.

A sexual fetish for your humiliation, degradation, and ever-worsening submission before my almighty feminine power.

And my ultimate turn-on is seeing you slowly regressed before my eyes to a sniffling, incontinent, diaper-pooping baby, totally dependent on me, your soon-to-be new Mommy, for your every basic need.

But that’s not how I’ll answer your question about why I’m making you wear a diaper. At least… not at first.

Instead, I’ll find the seemingly non-perverse reason I need you to be wearing diapers under my roof from now on.

Perhaps, it’s the filthy, shameful skid marks I discover in your dirty underwear from the day before. The ones I show to you at the kitchen table right before dinner, holding your soiled undies up before your eyes and filling you with crushing shame, before I finally send you to the corner to think about how you’ve behaved like a filthy, naughty child.

Or perhaps, I’ll induce a proper incident of bedwetting while you’re sleeping in my guest bedroom. If you’re prone to bedwetting at all, I’ll ensure you do it under my roof with the right combination of medicines slipped into your drink before bed.

And if you’re not prone to bed-wetting, I’ll just covertly supply the urine myself, skillfully soaking your crotch while you sleep with my own fluids, forcing you to wake up in the morning in a full-blown panic, mortified by what you think you’d done.

Or maybe, if I’m feeling especially cruel, I’ll just ‘accidentally’ leave the bathroom door locked while I leave the house for the afternoon, one day. And I’ll do it right after secretly dosing you with an incredible amount of extra-strength Dulcolax liquid laxatives.

I’ll laugh and laugh and laugh to myself as I watch the video feed on my hidden camera of you painfully dancing and squealing before the closed bathroom door.

And right when I see you finally reach the mortifying moment of losing control… of pooping your pants, just like a toddler again… I’ll ‘just happen’ to walk through the front door and catch you red-handed, your pants and underwear ruined with your new humiliating, poopy, infantile mess.

But no matter how I first make you prove to me you need your diapers from now on, it’s all going to go the same way once I decide you need them…

I’m going drag you by the hand into my other guest bedroom. The one you haven’t been in yet. The one I tell you is for my visiting toddler nieces and nephews…

Inside, you’re going to be astonished by the incredibly well-equipped nursery I have waiting for you.

The walls and furniture will be totally covered with bright pinks and gorgeous baby blues. There will be a fully stocked diaper changing table and an adorable crib. And the room will have the faint, yet undeniable, scent of baby powder and dirty diapers.

You’re going to be overwhelmed by the fact that it’s the most incredible nursery you’ve laid eyes on since you slept in one yourself, as a baby.

And in fact, it’s going to be so visually and olfactorily overwhelming, you’re not even going to register how its strange that all the furniture is big enough to fit someone exactly your size…

I’m going to stand you in the middle of the nursery and undress you piece by piece, scolding you the whole time about what a naughty, naughty, stinky little baby you are.

Then, I’m going to throw the clothes you were wearing right in the trash, telling you you’ve soiled them far too much for me to bother trying to wash them.

I’m going to then lead you, bare-cheeked and exposed, over to the diaper changing table.

Your new diaper changing table.

I’m going to swiftly strap you down by your wrists, ankles and waist with my custom-made diaper changing restraint system. And I’m going to mercilessly spank your naked little tush to the point of tears the second you dare whimper a single complaint about it.

I’m going to hold up in front of you, your brand new, extra-big, extra-crinkly, extra-thick disposable diaper.

I’m going to explain to you, that since you’ve been acting like such a baby, these diapers are what you’ll be wearing under my roof at all times from now on. At least… until you can prove yourself finally mature enough for potty-training. (As if I’ll ever actually decide to let you do such a thing again, hah!)

I’m going to relish every second of your utter humiliation as you feel the soft, crinkly diaper slid beneath your bottom, the fragrant powder dumped over your loins and rubbed in, the sensation of you being helplessly taped into a diaper for the first time in your waking memory.

You’re going to blush bright red and look away from my penetrating gaze in utter embarrassment.

And you’re going to suddenly feel just like a baby again. In ways you wouldn’t have even thought possible before.

Because deep down, you’re going to feel like you really deserve to be treated this way now, that you deserve to be diapered after your accident, even though the experience is more humiliating than you ever could have imagined.

When I let you get to your feet, I’m going to secretly delight in the way that you suddenly waddle from the diaper’s bulk.

The way you blush and grimace as you run your hands up and down the humiliating, babyish diaper you’re now taped in, visibly mortified by the deafening crinkle and the stench of baby-powder you know will now be following you out of the room.

And finally, soon after you’re first put back in diapers…

You’re going to have your first ‘accident’ in a diaper, too.

And by that, I mean you’ll think it’s an ‘accident’, of course. But, of course, it won’t really be.

Because I’m going to slowly, secretly fill you full of liquids, water pills and muscle relaxants. And just when I sense your bladder is on the verge of bursting, I’ll send you to time out and tell you to ‘hold it till the end of time-out like a big kid’.

Or maybe I’ll get you ready for bed in your new ‘leak resistant’, fleecy, footed-onesie, which I’ll explain is mandatory for diaper-wearing guests sleeping under my roof. The onesie will zip up in the back—and secretly lock.

After I get you ready for bed in your special new onesie, I’ll tell you to ‘help yourself’ to the bathroom if you need it during the night. But when you wake up and run down the hall that same night—your bladder now on the verge of bursting due to the enormous amount of milk I fed you to ‘make sure you get a good night’s sleep’—you’ll find yourself maddeningly unable to unzip your infantile garment, and edging closer and closer to wetting your diaper like a baby.

You’ll then run back down the hall in the other direction and desperately bang on my locked bedroom door for help getting your onesie undone. But I’m a heavy sleeper. And I won’t answer until you happen to have finally just lost control and utterly soaked your diaper like a baby, just because apparently, you weren’t even mature enough to get your own onesie off.

Or maybe, one night, if I’m feeling extra cruel, I’ll give you a mouthful of castor-oil before bed as punishment for mouthing off to me. And I’ll lock you in your new crib, letting you moan in humiliation and shame as you helplessly mess yourself in your brand-new nursery for the first time. And I’ll let you stew in your awful, naughty mess all night, until I find you in the morning.

“Pee-ew!” I’ll exclaim the moment I walk in, holding my nose and waving the air in disgust. “You are one stinky baby!” I’ll scold you as I pat your poopy butt and fill you with shame about your uncontrollable, poopy mess.

But, no matter how exactly you have your first ‘accident’ in your new diapers, I’m going to use it as the very reason why I won’t be letting you even try to use the toilet at all, anymore.

“Apparently, you have nearly no potty-training skills whatsoever,” I’ll scold you as you stand before me in tears, desperately begging for your messy diaper to be changed.

“From here on out, you’ll be wearing and using your diapers completely and fully, 24/7, with zero toilet privileges whatsoever, until I decide otherwise. Maybe after a good long course of being treated like the incontinent, pathetic, diaper-pooping baby that you really are, you’ll be motivated to actually become potty-trained one day, and you won’t take the privilege of being allowed to use the toilet for granted. But until then, I’m going to make you feel every bit of the shame you deserve for being the pathetic, diaper-pooping baby that you apparently are.”

I’m then going to tell you that it’s time for you to pack up the remaining things in your former residence and permanently move into my nursery, “For your own good. After all, who else in your life is going to be changing your stinky diapers?”

I’ll do the work of explaining to any former employers, or family, or partners of yours, that you’ll be taking a ‘little break’, a little ‘leave of absence’ to stay with and ‘help out a long-lost aunt of yours’.

And once you’re finally good and settled and moved all the way into your new abode, finally completely under my clutches, I’ll suddenly spring on you, your new, shockingly severe, iron-fist regimen of discipline, rules, chores, punishments, life-style-changes, and of course, diaper-changes. All turning you into my new, utterly servile, helpless little baby.

You’re going to hate every minute of it, of course.

You’re going to hate the non-stop humiliations of wetting your diaper in front of me. Soaking it like a baby and helplessly toddling around in your soggy, yellow mess as you do your daily chores.

Or even so much worse, pooping your pants, which you’ll be forced to do daily, at minimum.

And you’re going to be mortified by your every poopy diaper change. The way I tease and verbally humiliate you for being a stinky baby. The way I make you sit in your mess and beg me for a change until I decide you’re cute enough to deserve one.

And the way I even make you poop your diaper in front of my guests. The way I then make you apologize to each of them individually, with your thumb in your mouth, saying to them, ‘sawwy I made a big stinky messy in my diapee, I’m just a helpless, stinky baby. I love my Mommy for putting up with my poopy, stinky diapees.’

But despite how humiliated you now feel 24 hours a day, how degraded you feel at all times, how resentful and embarrassed and indignant and mortified you are every second of the day about the outrageous nature of your new, helplessly diapered, baby life…

You’ll still be utterly powerless to resist.

There will be the original blackmail, of course, that I could threaten you with. The thing I first used to lure you into my clutches.

But now, it’ll also be so much more.

Because in addition to the first piece of blackmail, I’ll have been secretly accumulating hours upon hours of the most humiliating photos and videos of you imaginable.

Footage of you getting your diaper changed on the changing table.

Footage of you sticking your thumb in your mouth, blushing, and pooping your pants in time out.

Footage of you calling me Mommy and asking for your ba-ba before I tuck you into your crib at night.

To put it simply, I’ll have built a secret treasure trove of enough accumulated footage of you, that should it all ever be released, it will guarantee that no one in your former life will ever again believe that you’re the adult you say you are.

And yet, despite all the blackmail, that still won’t be the real, greatest obstacle now facing you when it comes to ever again attaining your freedom from me…

Your real greatest obstacle… will be yourself.

Your utterly crushed spirit.

You’ll soon stop craving a life without me… because you’ll stop believing that such a life would even be possible for you anymore.

Because from the start, I’m going to make you believe that all your wet diapers, all your poopy messes, all your new, utterly infantile habits, traits and desires—it’s all who you really are.

That the way I treat you is what you really need.

It won’t be long until you’re going to truly believe, deep down, that you really are the naughty, pathetic, incontinent little baby I say you are.

You’re going to stop believing that you could even survive without me if you wanted to.

You’re going to truly need me.

Me—Your new Mommy.

You—My new utterly helpless, droopy, poopy diapered baby.

That’s when your transformation will finally be complete.

You’ll have finally become my new, permanent, diapered-baby-slave.

From now on and for forever…

You’ll be totally mine.

THE END.