Regressive Ad Campaign:Part 12

By Sage Ann

This story is set in the incredible world created by AlteredStates14. Her universe is brought to life not through traditional written narratives, but through a powerful collection of images—advertisements, media articles, and other visual artifacts—that vividly capture everyday life in her setting.
All images associated with this story are her original work. Please consider supporting her so we can continue to explore and enjoy more of this fascinating world.
You can find her work here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/alteredstates14
Another author has also written a story based in this universe from a different perspective. You can find it here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/fatherfish/art/Pampers-and-Propaganda-1028729633



The darkness of Kalie's room seemed to pulse with her shame as she woke, the warm wetness beneath her an unmistakable betrayal of her body. She lay perfectly still, as if immobility might reverse what had happened, but the discomfort spread—cold now—against her skin, and she felt the first hot tear slide from the corner of her eye.
It wasn't just wetness. It was worse. The smell told her everything her mind didn't want to acknowledge. At seventeen, Kalie had pooped in her pull-up, and the mess had leaked beyond the protective garment's boundaries. The sheets beneath her felt ruined, her dignity even more so.
A sob escaped her lips, followed by another. The sound felt alien, like it belonged to someone much younger than her—perhaps to Mary, her fifteen-year-old sister who, despite being younger, sometimes seemed the more practiced at navigating emotional waters. But Mary wasn't here now. It was just Kalie, alone with the evidence of her body's rebellion.
She didn't know how long she cried before her mother appeared in the doorway, a silhouette backlit by the hallway's soft glow. She didn't need to explain what had happened; the smell in the room told its own story.
"Oh, sweetheart," her mother whispered, approaching the bed with the careful steps of someone who understood the fragility of the moment. "Let's get you cleaned up."
The process was humiliating—her mother helping her out of bed, guiding her to the bathroom, running a shower while Kalie stood trembling in her soiled pajamas. Yet there was tenderness in her mother's movements, a lack of judgment that made the unbearable slightly less so.
"I think you should stay home today," her mother said as she helped Kalie into fresh pajamas after her shower. Dawn had barely broken outside the window. "Give yourself time to recover."
Kalie nodded, unable to imagine facing her classmates, sitting through lectures, pretending everything was normal when she felt so fundamentally changed by this regression.
"Is this going to keep happening?" she asked, her voice so small it barely disturbed the air between them.
Her mother tucked a strand of Kalie's chestnut hair behind her ear. "I don't know, honey. But we'll figure it out together."
As morning bloomed into afternoon, Kalie found herself wandering through the house, her embarrassment gradually giving way to a strange, hollow acceptance. She wore clean pajamas and a fresh pull-up that her mother had insisted on "just in case." The television provided background noise as she leafed through old photo albums, finding pictures of herself and Mary as toddlers, both in diapers, both blissfully unaware of the concept of shame.
She dozed on the couch, read a few chapters of a novel, and avoided thinking about tomorrow. When her mother brought her lunch on a tray—soup and a sandwich, the kind of meal reserved for sick days—Kalie accepted it with a quiet gratitude that extended beyond the food itself.
Evening arrived with unusual swiftness, the late autumn sun retreating early behind the neighborhood rooftops. Her mother appeared in the living room doorway, a different package in her hands than the pull-ups Kalie had grown accustomed to over the past week.
"I think we need something more reliable for nighttime," her mother said, the package crinkling in her hands. "These are more like what Mary wears."
The diapers inside were thicker, with tapes at the sides rather than the pull-on style Kalie had been using. They looked undeniably infantile, and Kalie felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her.
"Do I have to?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. The evidence of last night's failure was currently soaking in stain remover in the laundry room.
Her mother's expression was gentle but firm. "I think it's best, at least for now."
Later, wearing the new diaper beneath her pajama pants—the bulk between her legs impossible to ignore—Kalie found her mother in the kitchen, washing dishes with methodical precision.
"Mom," she began, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, "are you doing something to make this happen? To make me have accidents?"
The question had been building all day, a suspicion born of desperation for an explanation. Her mother's hands stilled in the soapy water, and she turned, her expression a complex mixture of surprise and hurt.
"Kalie," she said, drying her hands on a nearby towel, "I would never do anything to cause you distress. Not ever."
She approached, placing her still-warm hands on Kalie's shoulders. "I won't lie to you—there's a part of me that doesn't mind having my babies need me again. Time moves so quickly, and soon you'll both be gone from this house." Her voice wavered slightly. "But I would never, ever do something to make you have accidents. I'm just here to help you through whatever this is."
Kalie felt the tension in her shoulders ease, a weight lifting that she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. "I just don't understand why it's happening."
"I don't either," her mother admitted. "But I promise I'll be here for as long as you need me."
The front door opened with a bang, interrupting their conversation. Mary burst into the kitchen, her face streaked with tears, her backpack clutched to her chest like a shield.
"I had an accident," she sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "At school. Everyone saw."
Their mother moved immediately to embrace Mary, who buried her face against her shoulder. "It's okay, it's okay," she murmured, one hand stroking Mary's wavy brown hair. "These things happen."
"Not to seventeen-year-olds!" Mary cried, then caught sight of Kalie standing awkwardly by the counter. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," Kalie said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "I'm the last person who has any right to judge."
Their mother guided Mary to a chair, then filled a glass with water. "Drink this, sweetie. Take a deep breath."
As Mary's sobs subsided into hiccups, their mother knelt beside her. "You know, Kalie's been going to school in pull-ups for over a week now, and no one's noticed."
Mary looked up, her green eyes wide with surprise. "Really?"
Kalie nodded, feeling an unexpected surge of protectiveness toward her younger sister. "It's not as big a deal as it seems. I just wear looser jeans, and no one's the wiser."
"How is it," their mother asked Kalie, "going to school with the pull-ups?"
Kalie shrugged, trying to project a casualness she didn't entirely feel. "It hasn't really been a problem. I just check to make sure I'm dry before each class, and if I'm not, I change in the bathroom."
Mary wiped her eyes, her breathing steadier now. "And no one knows?"
"No one that matters," Kalie replied, realizing as she said it that it was true. The people who mattered were in this kitchen with her, offering unconditional love despite her body's betrayals.
"Would you be willing to try pull-ups tomorrow?" their mother asked Mary, who hesitated before giving a small nod.
"I guess it's better than the alternative," she admitted.
That night, as Kalie lay in bed, the thick diaper between her legs a constant reminder of her new reality, she found herself oddly at peace. There was something comforting in knowing she wasn't alone in this strange regression—that Mary, too, was navigating this unexpected return to childhood. Whatever was happening to them, they would face it together, with their mother's steady support guiding them through.