The classroom flickered with strobing spirals on the projector screen, the mesmerizing patterns swirling in kaleidoscopic colors. Jennifer's eyes went glassy, her mind emptying like a draining bathtub as she stared transfixed.
After the brainwashing video ended, the instructor tapped his pointer on the chalkboard. "Alright ladies, time for your weekly assessment test. Put those pretty little heads to work."
Jenny gnawed on her pencil, brow furrowed in confusion at the simple math problems. Hot flashes rushed through her as Chad, the hunky frat boy proctor, passed by. She giggled vapidly, sneaking peeks at his muscular body.
When time was up, the instructor collected the tests, making tsk-tsk noises. "Well, it seems most of you are barely at a fourth grade level now. Just a few more weeks before you'll be ready for your future..." He winked conspiratorially at the male administrators observing from the back.
Jenny's gaze drifted to the window, her mind clouded with hazy cotton candy swirls. She hadn't the faintest idea what they had in store, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to look pretty and have fun! Education was stupid anyway. With a ditzy smile, she began applying thick, gloopy cherry lip gloss in preparation for...whatever came next.
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Daddy
Angelica's heart hammered against her ribcage as she stood before Jason, the weight of her defiance pressing down on her like a thick blanket of dread. Shadows from the dimmed living room lights stretched across his face, deepening the furrowed lines of disappointment that had settled there. She could barely muster the courage to meet his gaze, feeling every inch of her 22 years slinking away, leaving her trapped in the body of a chastised child.
"Angelica," Jason's voice was somber, steady—a foreboding rumble that echoed the internal tremors threatening to unravel her composure. He moved with deliberate slowness, the creak of the leather couch punctuating the silence as he seated himself, an unspoken edict in the gesture toward his lap.
A solitary tear escaped Angelica's eye, tracing a hot path down her cheek as she stepped forward, her movements hesitant and laden with resignation. Lowering herself across Jason's knees felt like crossing an invisible threshold back into a time when the world was larger, scarier, and full of giants. His hand, once a source of comfort and warmth, now felt like the harbinger of atonement as it swept over her hair with deceptive tenderness.
She shivered, a vague awareness of his touch shifting from her head to her posterior—the last remnants of her autonomy slipping through her fingers like sand. Time seemed to contract around her, each breath dragging her further down memory lane until she was no longer in her own apartment but transported to the vulnerability of her youth.
The first impact jolted her back to the present, the sting spreading like wildfire, igniting a cascade of pain that shattered her adult illusion. "Swat! Swat! Swat!" The sound of Jason's hand meeting her skin was a metronome of discipline, stripping away layers of self-reliance with each punishing strike until nothing remained but a raw, exposed nerve of obedience.
Sobs wracked her body, the tears flowing freely now, as Jason's ministrations shifted from punitive to soothing, his palm rubbing gentle circles over the tenderized flesh. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, the agony ebbing away with each pass of his hand, replaced by a hollow emptiness that yearned for absolution.
"Are you going to be my good little girl?" Jason's query floated down to her, loaded with expectation.
"Y-Yes, Daddy," Angelica whispered through hitching breaths, the title slipping out with practiced ease, a testament to their dynamic—a pact sealed with pain and penitence. She clung to the word 'Daddy' like a lifeline, embracing the simplicity of the role laid out before her.
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ABDL Stories and Bimbofication Stories
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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.
Mary twisted the cap off her oversized water bottle, the plastic giving way with a satisfying crack. The classroom lights bounced off the clear liquid inside—innocent, innocuous, and central to her carefully constructed plan. She took a long swig, feeling the cool water slide down her throat, knowing exactly where it would end up later and precisely what that would accomplish.
The water bottle had been her mother's idea—stay hydrated, she'd said, especially while your body is going through these changes. Mary had seized upon the suggestion, transforming a maternal concern into the perfect vehicle for her scheme. She'd filled the largest bottle she could find, a thirty-two-ounce monstrosity with measurement lines along the side that allowed her to track her progress throughout the day.
By second period, she'd already drained half the bottle, her bladder sending insistent signals that she stubbornly ignored. The pull-up beneath her jeans felt secure, its presence both a comfort and a stepping stone toward her true goal. Mary shifted in her seat, crossing her legs tightly as her English teacher droned on about symbolism in "The Great Gatsby." The pressure built, a physical manifestation of anticipation rather than discomfort.
Between classes, rather than heading to the bathroom as Kalie had instructed, Mary made a beeline for the water fountain. She bent her head to the stream, drinking deeply, pointedly ignoring the looks from passing students who wondered why anyone would spend precious passing-period time at the fountain. Let them stare. They were background characters in her private performance, extras with no knowledge of the plot.
By lunchtime, Mary's pull-up had already absorbed one substantial wetting. She'd felt the warmth spread during history class, had pretended shock and dismay while secretly noting the protection's capacity to handle the volume. Not enough—not yet. She needed more.
In the cafeteria, she refilled her bottle twice, drawing commentary from her friends.
"Are you training for a desert trek or something?" asked a girl with copper hair and freckles that spanned her nose like constellations.
Mary offered a practiced laugh. "Doctor's orders. Something about proper hydration helping with... stuff." She let the vagueness hang in the air, knowing teenage politeness would prevent further inquiry into bodily functions.
The afternoon stretched before her like a canvas awaiting paint. She continued her methodical consumption, feeling her bladder fill again, straining against her abdomen. In math class, she excused herself to use the bathroom, but instead of relieving herself properly, she simply changed into a fresh pull-up, ensuring maximum absorption capacity for what was to come.
The deliberate pressure she placed on her lower abdomen as she sat down for her final class was almost unnoticeable to observers—just a girl adjusting in her seat, nothing to see. But Mary knew exactly what she was doing, applying just enough force to weaken her already tenuous control.
When it happened, it was everything she'd planned for. The pull-up, already containing one wetting and now subjected to a second larger one, reached its capacity and surrendered. Mary felt the warm wetness spread past the leg barriers of the protection, seeping into her jeans in a visible patch that would be impossible to hide.
Her performance was flawless—the gasp of surprise, the mortified expression, the sheen of tears that she had prepared by thinking of genuinely sad things. A classmate noticed first, a whispered "Mary, I think you..." that carried just far enough for nearby students to hear.
The teacher, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a perpetual coffee stain on her cardigan, noticed Mary's distress and approached her desk.
"Do you need to go to the nurse?" she asked quietly, her voice pitched to minimize embarrassment.
Mary nodded, gathering her books with trembling hands—the tremor real enough, born from excitement rather than shame. She felt eyes follow her as she left the classroom, the wet patch on her jeans impossible to conceal, exactly as she'd intended.
The school nurse, a no-nonsense woman with silver-streaked hair and hands that smelled perpetually of antibacterial soap, took one look at Mary and sighed with something like recognition.
"You're the second one this week," she said, gesturing toward a vinyl-covered cot behind a curtain. "Wait here while I call your mother."
Mary sat on the cot, feeling the damp fabric of her jeans cling uncomfortably to her thighs. The discomfort was worth it—a small price to pay for what would come next. Through the curtain, she heard the nurse's muffled voice explaining the situation to her mother, using terms like "accident" and "might need more protection" that sent a thrill of anticipation through Mary.
When her mother arrived thirty minutes later, concern etched in the fine lines around her eyes, Mary allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug that smelled of home and safety and everything she'd been missing.
"It's okay, sweetheart," her mother murmured against her hair. "We'll figure this out."
The car ride home was filled with gentle reassurances, her mother's voice a soothing balm to manufactured wounds. Mary kept her responses appropriately subdued, with just enough vulnerability to nurture the maternal instinct she'd been craving.
At home, her mother led her upstairs to the bathroom, where a fresh towel and a change of clothes waited.
"I think," her mother said carefully, "that we might need to consider the same solution for you as for Kalie. These pull-ups don't seem to be enough protection if you're having multiple accidents during the day."
Mary nodded, affecting a reluctant acceptance that masked her inner triumph. "I guess that makes sense."
After her shower, Mary found her mother waiting in her bedroom, a thick diaper identical to Kalie's laid out on the bed. Next to it sat a pair of overalls similar to the ones Kalie had been wearing, though Mary's were a deep purple rather than denim blue.
"This might be more comfortable," her mother said, gesturing to the diaper. "And more reliable."
Mary allowed herself to be guided through the process, lying back on her bed as her mother applied powder and secured the diaper with practiced ease. The thickness between her legs was substantial, the crinkle of plastic unmistakable as she stood to step into the overalls.
"How does that feel?" her mother asked, adjusting the straps over Mary's shoulders.
"Different," Mary replied honestly. The bulk was more significant than she'd anticipated, forcing her legs into a slight waddle that would take some getting used to. But the sensation of being completely encased in protective padding, of being babied by her mother, provided exactly the comfort she'd been seeking.
Later, as her mother left to prepare dinner, Mary stood before her mirror, examining her transformed appearance. The overalls did little to disguise the diaper's bulk, her silhouette distinctly childlike despite her fifteen years. She smiled at her reflection, a private acknowledgment of a plan well executed.
For years, she had felt her mother's attention slipping away, consumed by work demands and adult preoccupations that left little time for Mary. The distance had been subtle at first—a distracted response here, a missed school event there—but it had grown until Mary felt like a background character in her own home.
The solution had presented itself in an unlikely place: an online advertisement for Huggies Trainer Shakes. According to the ad, the shakes were designed to make it more likely that a teenage girl wearing pull-ups would have an accident in her pull-ups. The small print said that they would induce incontinence and temporary mental bladder anxiety. All of it was designed to enable a mother to get her daughter back into diapers. The shakes had promised exactly what Mary needed—a way to recapture her mother's nurturing attention.
She had ordered the shakes using a prepaid card and drank the first one that night. The bed-wetting had been embarrassing, yes, but the resulting maternal concern had been worth every moment of discomfort.
But Mary had quickly realized a flaw in her plan. If she alone regressed while Kalie remained a mature, functioning teenager, the contrast would eventually cast her in a negative light. The solution had been simple: ensure Kalie experienced the same symptoms, creating a medical mystery that would require their mother's full attention and care for both daughters.
After some more research Mary found that the active ingredent in the shakes was a substance called Tinklex which suprisingly could be bought over the counter. She quickly but a small bottle form the local CVS.
Slipping the Tinklex into Kalie's evening tea had been surprisingly easy, her sister never suspecting that her own regression had been carefully orchestrated by the person she trusted most.
Mary sat on her bed, feeling the diaper crinkle beneath her. She wasn't sure how long she would continue the deception—perhaps until her mother's work schedule eased, or until she felt secure again in her place within the family. But with the new laws raising the age of majority for girls, she knew that Kalie could remain in this infantilized state for at least five more years without raising eyebrows or legal concerns.
And wasn't that for the best, really? Kalie had always been the more fragile one, despite being older. Her quiet, introspective nature often masked a sensitivity that Mary, with her outgoing confidence, had never fully understood. In some ways, this regression suited Kalie better than it suited Mary herself.
Yes, Mary decided, adjusting her position to accommodate the thick padding between her legs. This arrangement made perfect sense. After all, Kalie had always been less mature than her, hadn't she? It was simply the natural order of things, now made visible through the physical manifestation of diapers and childish clothing.
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.
Morning arrived with dampness—both sisters discovering their nighttime protection had succeeded in its singular purpose. Kalie stared at the ceiling, the familiar warmth spreading beneath her a sensation she was beginning to anticipate rather than dread. Beside her bed, a stack of fresh pull-ups sat in mute testimony to her new reality, their cartoon patterns simultaneously infantile and necessary.
The bathroom became a staging ground for their shared regression, Kalie and Mary moving around each other with a practiced efficiency born of shared embarrassment. Kalie helped Mary secure her pull-up, trying not to notice how the younger girl's cheeks flushed pink at needing assistance. In turn, Mary kept watch at the door as Kalie changed herself, both pretending this was a temporary arrangement, a blip in their otherwise normal teenage existence.
"You'll be fine," Kalie assured her sister as they lingered by the front door, backpacks slung over shoulders, pull-ups hidden beneath carefully selected jeans. "Just go to the bathroom between every class, even if you don't think you need to."
Mary nodded, her green eyes wide with an anxiety Kalie recognized all too well. A week ago, it had been Kalie standing paralyzed with fear at the thought of walking into school wearing what amounted to an undercover diaper. Now she was the expert, dispensing wisdom with a confidence she didn't entirely feel.
Their mother kissed them both on the forehead—a gesture typically reserved for elementary school send-offs—and Kalie found herself leaning into the contact rather than pulling away.
"Call me if either of you needs anything," their mother said, her eyes lingering on them with a warmth that felt both protective and tinged with something unreadable.
The school hallways seemed unchanged despite the seismic shifts in Kalie's personal landscape. Lockers still slammed with percussive urgency, conversations still ebbed and flowed like tidal patterns, and teachers still droned through lessons as if nothing in the world mattered more than the quadratic formula or the causes of World War I. Kalie moved through her morning classes with one part of her attention always diverted to the state of her pull-up, excusing herself between periods to check and change if necessary.
By lunchtime, she had already gone through two pull-ups, the second barely wet but changed anyway out of an abundance of caution. The routine was becoming familiar—slip into the handicapped stall, quick change, wash hands, return to class as if nothing unusual had happened. She had mastered the art of keeping spare pull-ups wrapped in a sweatshirt at the bottom of her backpack, indistinguishable from normal teenage detritus.
As afternoon classes began, however, Kalie found her vigilance waning. The constant monitoring had become exhausting, and her mind—usually so ordered and deliberate—began to wander. During history, she became engrossed in a discussion about the Civil Rights movement, forgetting entirely about her bodily needs until a warm trickle alerted her that her pull-up was already damp. Rather than excuse herself immediately, she decided to wait until the end of class, reasoning that the pull-up could handle a little more.
Physics lab followed, and Kalie found herself paired with a quiet girl who rarely spoke but worked with focused precision. They were measuring the coefficient of friction, and Kalie became absorbed in the task, relegating her wet pull-up to the background of her awareness. When a second wave of warmth spread between her legs, she barely registered it, merely shifting her weight slightly to adjust to the increased heaviness.
It wasn't until the final bell rang that Kalie realized her error. Standing from her desk, she felt an unmistakable squish, the pull-up compressed beyond its capacity. A quick glance down revealed no visible leak, but Kalie knew she was living on borrowed time. She hurried to her locker, gathered her books, and walked with small, careful steps toward the parking lot where her mother waited.
The car's fabric seats proved to be her undoing. As Kalie slid into the passenger side, the pressure forced the oversaturated pull-up to release its contents along the leg bands. She felt the warm wetness seep through her jeans, and a small gasp escaped her lips.
Her mother glanced over, instantly understanding. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry," Kalie whispered, mortification washing over her in waves. "I forgot to check. I got distracted."
Her mother reached across the console to squeeze her hand. "It's okay. It happens. But this is why I've been thinking—if you're wetting multiple times throughout the day, these pull-ups might not be enough protection."
The ride home passed in uncomfortable dampness, Kalie sitting perfectly still to minimize damage to the car seat. When they arrived, her mother led her directly to the bathroom, helping her out of the wet jeans and pull-up with the same matter-of-fact tenderness she'd shown when Kalie was a toddler.
After a quick shower, Kalie wrapped herself in a towel and padded to her bedroom where her mother waited, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"Kalie," she began, patting the bed beside her, "I've been noticing something at school drop-offs and pick-ups. Have you noticed how many girls your age seem to be wearing protection lately?"
Kalie frowned, thinking back to her school day with new awareness. There had been subtle signs she'd overlooked—the slight waddle in some girls' walks, the occasional crinkle when someone sat down too quickly, the bulky outlines beneath certain skirts and dresses.
"I guess maybe... a lot of them?" she ventured.
Her mother nodded. "I'd estimate about forty percent of the girls in your class are wearing some form of diaper. It seems to be quite common now."
Kalie absorbed this information, recalibrating her understanding of her situation. If nearly half her classmates were dealing with the same issue, perhaps it wasn't as isolating as she'd feared.
"So," her mother continued, "I'm wondering if we should consider something more absorbent for you. Something that can handle multiple wettings without leaking."
She produced a package from beside the bed—thicker diapers that looked more substantial than the pull-ups but still had the pull-on design.
"These are a hybrid," she explained. "As absorbent as regular diapers, but you can still pull them up and down if you need to use the toilet."
Kalie took one from the package, feeling its weight and thickness. It seemed like a reasonable solution to her current predicament, and the thought of avoiding another leaking incident was appealing.
"I'll try them," she agreed, standing to pull one on.
The diaper slid up her legs with more resistance than the pull-ups, settling heavily around her hips and between her thighs. The bulk was immediately apparent, forcing her legs slightly apart as she moved experimentally around the room.
Reaching for her jeans, Kalie encountered the first problem. Try as she might, she couldn't pull the denim over the padded bulk. The waistband wouldn't close, the zipper refusing to ascend past the top of the diaper.
"I can't wear these with my clothes," she said, frustration edging into her voice.
Her mother nodded, as if she'd anticipated this very issue. "I thought that might be the case. I picked something up that might work better."
From a shopping bag on the floor, she withdrew a pair of overalls made of soft denim. Unlike Kalie's usual clothes, these had a wide, roomy bottom half, clearly designed to accommodate additional bulk underneath. They also looked decidedly juvenile, with bright stitching and a small embroidered flower on the front pocket.
Kalie held the overalls up, her expression caught between dismay and resignation. They looked like something Mary might have worn in elementary school, not appropriate attire for a high school junior.
"These are my only option?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Unless you want to stick with pull-ups and risk more leaks," her mother replied gently.
Kalie stared at the childish garment for a long moment, weighing her limited options. The memory of sitting in wet jeans on the car ride home tipped the scales.
"Fine," she conceded, stepping into the overalls and pulling them up over her diapered bottom. The fit was loose elsewhere but snug over the diaper, creating an unmistakable bulge. She avoided looking in the mirror, not ready to confront the visual evidence of her regression.
When Mary returned home later that afternoon, she took one look at Kalie and pressed her lips together, clearly suppressing a laugh.
"Don't," Kalie warned, though without real heat. "This could be you next."
Mary's amusement faded, replaced by a thoughtful consideration of her sister's new attire. "Do they help with the leaking?"
"So far," Kalie admitted. "But I haven't had to use it yet."
That changed by dinner time, when Kalie felt the familiar relaxation of her bladder without any conscious decision to void. The diaper absorbed the wetness efficiently, leaving her dry on the outside but distinctly aware of the swollen padding between her legs.
Her mother noticed her slight shift in posture. "Do you need a change, sweetheart?"
The question, asked in the same tone one might inquire about homework or dinner preferences, somehow normalized the extraordinary situation. Kalie nodded, following her mother upstairs to her bedroom, where a changing pad had been laid across her bed.
Lying back as her mother unfastened the overalls and expertly changed her diaper, Kalie stared at the ceiling and accepted that this was her reality now. She was seventeen years old and back in diapers full-time, being changed by her mother on what amounted to a changing table. The strangeness of it all had begun to fade, replaced by a resigned acceptance that felt almost like peace.
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.
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.
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.
The week unfolded in a series of small surrenders. On Monday morning, Kalie stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection—a seventeen-year-old girl in a pull-up, trying to reconcile this new reality with the person she'd been just days before. She still made the effort then, dutifully using the toilet before pulling the unused protection back into place. By Monday afternoon, she'd used her pull-up once—just once—when the line for the bathroom at lunch had seemed interminable. A practical decision, she told herself. Nothing more.
Tuesday brought a shift so subtle she almost didn't notice. The slight pressure in her bladder during history class became a warm release without conscious thought—her body making the decision before her mind could intervene. She'd frozen mid-note, pen hovering above paper, as the pull-up expanded gently between her legs. No one noticed. The world continued turning. And something inside Kalie quietly recalibrated.
By Wednesday morning, she no longer automatically headed for the toilet upon waking. Instead, she relieved herself in the pull-up she'd worn overnight—already wet from sleep—before peeling it off for her shower. The new daytime one went on without question, an accepted part of her routine now, like brushing her teeth or combing her hair.
The school bathrooms, once urgently mapped in her mind, faded into the background of her awareness. She passed them without that nervous calculation of time and need. Once, catching herself unconsciously wetting her pull-up while standing at her locker, she felt a fleeting moment of alarm—not at the act itself, but at how natural it had become.
"Are you even trying anymore?" she whispered to her reflection Wednesday night, changing into her third pull-up of the day. Her reflection offered no answer, just the image of a girl with hazel eyes and a mouth twisted into something between resignation and relief.
Thursday arrived with the understanding that she had crossed some invisible threshold. She used the pull-up more often than not now, the toilet becoming the exception rather than the rule. Each time grew easier, more automatic, until the distinction between "holding it" and "letting go" blurred into meaninglessness. Her body seemed to have accepted this new reality with alarming speed, as if it had been waiting for permission all along.
Meanwhile, Mary's journey took a different path. While Kalie's days became a seamless continuation of her nights—one pull-up after another, wet and replaced, wet and replaced—Mary maintained her daytime continence with apparent ease. Only at night did she regress completely, her overnight protection growing thicker and more substantial as the week progressed.
"These are much better," Mary declared on Thursday evening, examining the overnight diapers their mother had purchased—thick, crinkly things with cartoon characters dancing across the waistband, tapes rather than elastic at the sides. She wore a bright blue t-shirt with a unicorn on the front, her hair pulled into a messy bun, looking younger than her fifteen years. "The other ones kept leaking."
Kalie watched her sister's casual acceptance with a mixture of envy and bewilderment. Mary had compartmentalized perfectly—daytime teenager, nighttime toddler—while Kalie found herself sliding steadily toward the latter in all aspects of her life.
Friday morning brought the strangest sight yet. Kalie woke early, the gray dawn light filtering through her curtains, and heard soft voices from her sister's room. She padded to the door, still half-asleep, and peered through the crack.
Their mother sat on the edge of Mary's bed, murmuring gentle encouragements as she untaped the sides of a clearly soaked overnight diaper. Mary lay back, arms stretched overhead in sleepy compliance, her face peaceful as their mother lifted her hips and slid the wet diaper away. There was something ritualistic about it—the wipes, the cream, the fresh diaper unfolded and positioned, the careful securing of tapes.
"There we go, all clean," their mother cooed, patting the front of the fresh diaper with unmistakable affection.
Mary smiled up at her, a drowsy, contented expression that made her look five instead of fifteen. "Thanks, Mom," she mumbled, making no move to get up or take over any part of this intimate process.
Kalie backed away from the door, a strange tightness in her chest. The scene had been so tender, so... loving. Not embarrassing or shameful, but almost sacred in its quiet intimacy. She returned to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, aware of her own wet pull-up cooling against her skin. Would her mother change her too, if she asked? The thought brought heat to her cheeks, not entirely from embarrassment.
By Friday evening, Kalie realized she had used an actual toilet exactly twice that day—both times for bowel movements, the one function she couldn't imagine relegating to her pull-ups. Everything else happened in the protection that now felt as much a part of her as her own skin. She changed herself after school, after dinner, before bed—a routine that had established itself with unsettling speed.
The weekend arrived, and with it, a strange new normal. Mary wore her regular underwear during the day, changing into her thick overnight diapers only at bedtime. She seemed perfectly content with this arrangement, neither fighting the nighttime protection nor seeking to extend it into her days.
Kalie, in contrast, now lived in pull-ups. She changed them when they became uncomfortably heavy or when the smell threatened to become noticeable, averaging four or five a day. She no longer thought about bathrooms unless absolutely necessary. Her body had adapted with remarkable efficiency, as if reverting to a more primitive state required no effort at all.
Sunday night, as she prepared for bed, Kalie caught sight of the protest signs still visible from her window—now just three girls standing defiantly against the tide of regression that had swept through their school. She wondered if they knew they were fighting a losing battle, that the persistence of their bodies would eventually overcome the stubbornness of their minds.
She slipped under her covers, the familiar crinkle of her pull-up a comfort rather than an annoyance now. One week. It had taken just one week to rewrite seventeen years of toilet training. As she drifted toward sleep, Kalie couldn't decide what was more disturbing—how quickly she had changed, or how little she now cared that she had.
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The smell hit Kalie first—that unmistakable ammonia tang that signaled another night of failure. She opened her eyes to find her mother already in the room, gently shaking Mary awake. "Oh dear," her mother was saying, her voice a practiced mixture of concern and reassurance. "Looks like we had a big leak." Mary's sheets were soaked, a dark stain spreading from her hips to her knees, the overnight diaper clearly overwhelmed by the volume of urine. Kalie pressed a hand to her own pull-up, feeling the familiar weight of saturation. Two nights in a row. This couldn't be coincidence.
"I'm sorry," Mary mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, green eyes blinking against the morning light. She didn't seem particularly distressed—just inconvenienced, as if finding herself in a soaked bed at fifteen was a minor disruption rather than a mortifying regression.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart," their mother soothed, already stripping the wet sheets with efficient movements. "These things happen. That's why we have protection."
Kalie watched from her own bed, a strange detachment settling over her. Their mother's calm acceptance felt rehearsed, as if she'd been waiting for this moment. As if it were all part of some plan.
"Kalie, can you help your sister get cleaned up while I take care of the mattress?" her mother asked, bunching the wet sheets into a tight ball.
With reluctant movements, Kalie slid from her bed, conscious of the sodden pull-up between her legs. "Come on," she said to Mary, extending a hand to pull her sister up.
In the bathroom, Mary chattered as if nothing unusual had happened, as if they weren't two teenage girls who had both wet themselves in their sleep. She stepped out of her soaked pajama bottoms without a hint of embarrassment, the overnight diaper—thicker and more babyish than the pull-ups—sagging heavily between her thighs.
"Mom says I might need the thicker ones now," Mary said, reaching for a washcloth. "These ones with the tapes, you know? Since I leaked through the pull-up."
Kalie stared at her sister, searching for signs of distress or shame. Finding none, she turned away, peeling off her own wet pull-up with mechanical movements. "Doesn't it bother you?" she asked finally, her voice low.
Mary shrugged, wringing out the washcloth. "Not really. I mean, it's just pee. And nobody knows except us and Mom."
There was a simple logic to it that Kalie couldn't quite refute. Still, as she showered and then slipped on a fresh pull-up—the daytime version, slightly less bulky than the overnight ones—she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being manipulated somehow, guided toward some predetermined outcome.
The pull-up nestled against her skin, the material soft and absorbent. She pulled on her jeans, checking her reflection critically. No telltale bulge, no visible lines. Just as the advertisements promised, no one would know.
---
At school, Kalie found herself watching the other girls with a new, almost obsessive attention. The thirty she knew about were easy to spot now that she knew the signs—the careful way they sat down, the slight adjustment of clothing after standing, the frequent glances toward the clock during long classes. But how many others were hiding the same secret beneath their clothing?
During lunch, she counted again. Thirty visible signs. But what if there were more? What if the number was closer to forty, or even higher? Over half the girls in her grade could be wearing diapers, and no one was talking about it. The counter-protest had dwindled to just a few stubborn holdouts, their signs less emphatic, their voices less certain.
She thought about the advertisements that had begun appearing three months ago. The billboards, the magazine spreads, the commercials during shows aimed at mothers of teenagers. All of them normalizing the idea that teenage girls might need "extra protection" during this "challenging transition."
Was her mother somehow causing this? The thought had seemed paranoid yesterday, but now, sitting in a classroom full of potentially diapered girls, it felt less far-fetched. Could there really be subliminal messaging in those ads, something that triggered bedwetting in teenagers? Was something being added to their food or water?
The conspiracy theory blossomed in her mind, taking root despite its outlandishness. What if this was all some sort of social experiment? What if—
"Kalie? The answer to number twelve?" Her teacher's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Um, sorry," she stammered, looking down at her empty worksheet. "I don't have it yet."
The teacher frowned but moved on to another student. Kalie tried to focus, but the pressure in her bladder was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until the bell. She could hold it.
But ten minutes later, the pressure had intensified to an urgent demand. She raised her hand, asked for the bathroom pass, and hurried down the hallway to the nearest girls' room.
A yellow sign blocked the entrance: "CLOSED FOR CLEANING."
Kalie stood frozen, her bladder pulsing with need. The next nearest bathroom was downstairs and across the building—at least a three-minute walk. She clenched her muscles, considering her options.
And then, with a clarity that startled her, she remembered what she was wearing. A pull-up. Designed for exactly this situation.
The realization washed over her like cold water. She could just... go. Right here. No one would know. No wet pants, no humiliation, no desperate sprint across the school.
She took a halting step back toward her classroom, her body screaming in protest. Could she really do this? Deliberately wet herself, like a toddler who couldn't be bothered to find a toilet?
But it wasn't like a toddler, she reasoned, her steps growing more confident. It was practical. Logical, even. The pull-up was there to be used. That was its purpose.
She reached a quiet stretch of hallway and paused, leaning against the wall as if checking her phone. Then, with a deep breath, she relaxed her pelvic muscles.
For a moment, nothing happened—years of training held her body in check. Then, with a sensation that was almost electric, she felt warmth spreading between her legs. Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. That's what this felt like—a jolt, a transgression, a barrier broken.
The pull-up grew warm and heavy, expanding slightly to accommodate the liquid. There was no sound, no visible evidence, just a private, secret relief that made her knees weak.
When it was over, she straightened, adjusting her stance to the new weight between her legs. The pull-up had absorbed everything, just as promised. She felt oddly powerful—she had taken control of the situation, had made a choice that the old Kalie would have found unthinkable.
Walking back to class, she was hyper-aware of the wetness against her skin, but not unpleasantly so. It was... fine. Different, but manageable. By the time she slid back into her seat, the initial warmth had faded to a neutral temperature, and the sensation had become almost unremarkable.
She finished her worksheet with a new focus, the physical discomfort that had distracted her now absent. When the bell rang, she gathered her things and walked to her next class, the wet pull-up shifting softly between her thighs, a secret known only to her.
---
After school, Kalie went straight to her room, intending to change out of the used pull-up. She had just removed her jeans when her mother knocked and, without waiting for a response, opened the door.
"Oh!" her mother exclaimed, her eyes dropping to the visibly swollen pull-up. "You had an accident."
Kalie froze, one leg in her clean pajama pants. "I—" she began, but couldn't find the words to explain that it hadn't been an accident at all.
Her mother stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "This is exactly why I wanted you to wear them to school," she said, her voice warm with vindication. "Better safe than sorry."
"Mom, I—"
"You don't have to be embarrassed, sweetie. This just confirms that you need them right now. Maybe it's stress, or maybe it's just a phase your body is going through, but clearly, the pull-ups are necessary."
Kalie stood still, the lie solidifying between them. To admit she'd deliberately used the pull-up felt somehow more shameful than allowing her mother to believe she'd had an accident. And yet, the deception gnawed at her.
"I think you should continue wearing them full-time," her mother continued, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a fresh pull-up. "At least until we figure out what's causing these accidents."
Kalie took the offered pull-up, her fingers closing around the soft material. "Okay," she said quietly, decision made in that moment. "I will."
Her mother smiled, a flash of something like triumph in her eyes, so quick Kalie might have imagined it. "That's my sensible girl. Now get changed for dinner."
After her mother left, Kalie stood holding the clean pull-up, a strange calm settling over her. She was now in pull-ups full-time. The thought should have horrified her, but instead, she felt an odd relief. No more worrying about finding bathrooms, no more close calls. Just the soft, ever-present embrace of the pull-up, ready whenever she needed it.
She stepped into the fresh pull-up, adjusting it around her hips. Maybe this was easier, after all. Maybe giving in wasn't such a terrible thing.
But as she pulled on her pajama pants, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that something still wasn't right—that this surrender had been orchestrated from the beginning. She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the simple comfort of not having to worry anymore.
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.
Kalie woke to the distinct sensation of dampness. For a moment, she lay perfectly still, hoping it was just sweat or perhaps a spilled glass of water she didn't remember. But as full consciousness settled over her, the warm wetness between her legs told a different story. The pull-up, snug against her skin, had done its job—containing what would have been a mortifying accident. Instead, it had merely become a mortifying discovery.
She sat up slowly, pushing back her covers with trembling hands. The pull-up felt heavy, foreign against her skin. She pressed a palm against it through her pajama pants, feeling the squishy give of the saturated material. Her stomach clenched.
"This isn't happening," she whispered to her empty room. But it was. Somehow, after years of dry nights, she had wet herself in her sleep. Like a child. Like the thirty girls in her class whom she'd silently judged.
A knock startled her. "Kalie?" Her mother's voice was cheerful. "Time to get up. Breakfast in fifteen."
"I'm up," she called back, her voice cracking.
"How did you sleep?" The question hung there, innocuous but loaded.
Kalie hesitated. "Fine," she managed. "Be down soon."
Footsteps retreated, and she breathed again. With quick, efficient movements, she peeled off the wet pull-up, folding it tightly and burying it beneath tissues in her trash can. She showered quickly, scrubbing at her skin as if she could wash away the evidence, the shame.
When she finally made it downstairs, Mary was already at the table, spooning cereal into her mouth with her usual enthusiasm. Their mother stood at the counter, packing lunches.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Mary chirped, her green eyes bright. Then, leaning closer as Kalie sat down, she whispered, "Mom already changed my pull-up. I totally soaked it."
Kalie stared at her sister, the casual admission stunning her into silence. Mary continued eating, untroubled, while their mother hummed by the sink.
"Did you, um," their mother began, her tone carefully neutral, "need to change this morning, Kalie?"
The heat that rushed to Kalie's face felt like it might burn her alive. "I'm seventeen," she hissed. "This was just—it was a fluke. It won't happen again."
Her mother nodded, but her smile held something knowing that made Kalie's stomach twist. "Of course, honey. But you should take another pull-up for tonight, just in case."
"One accident doesn't mean I need diapers," Kalie insisted, the word 'diapers' feeling like a stone in her mouth.
"They're not diapers," Mary interjected, licking milk from her spoon. "They're protective undergarments."
"Whatever," Kalie muttered, her appetite vanishing. She pushed back from the table. "I'm going to be late."
---
The school day crawled by, each minute stretched into an eternity of self-consciousness. Kalie found herself counting again—not just the girls she knew were wearing protection, but everyone, wondering who else might be hiding the same secret she now carried. Was every trip to the bathroom a desperate scramble? Did everyone else feel this constant, nagging awareness of their bladder?
In fourth period, the pressure began—a subtle signal she would normally ignore until the next break. But today, each minute amplified the sensation until it dominated her thoughts entirely. By the time the bell rang, Kalie had broken into a cold sweat, her teeth clenched against the growing urgency.
She bolted from her seat, weaving through the sudden flood of students in the hallway, the bathroom seeming impossibly far away. Each step was a negotiation with her body—hold on, just a few more seconds, please, please, please.
The bathroom door swung open under her desperate push. A stall door, a fumbling with her jeans, and then—relief. She sagged against the wall, breathing heavily, her heart hammering in her chest. So close. Too close.
She washed her hands, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. What was happening to her? She'd never had trouble holding it before. Was it psychological, knowing she'd wet the bed? Or was something else going on?
The rest of the day, she found herself mapping the locations of every bathroom, calculating distances and timing her water intake with mathematical precision. By the final bell, exhaustion had settled over her like a heavy blanket.
---
On the bus ride home, she flipped through a magazine someone had left behind, desperate for distraction. Her eyes caught on a full-page advertisement: a smiling teenage girl in a stylish outfit, books clutched to her chest. "Freedom from Worry," the headline proclaimed. "Why more teens are choosing daytime protection."
The copy below was cheerful, matter-of-fact: "No more bathroom emergencies. No more anxiety during tests. No more embarrassing accidents. And the best part? No one but you and Mom have to know what's keeping you confident all day long."
Kalie stared at the page, her fingers numb against the glossy paper. The girl in the ad looked so normal, so unconcerned. Was it really that simple? Just give in, wear the pull-ups, and stop worrying?
She closed the magazine with a snap, shoving it away. No. She wasn't going to let one accident—two, if she counted last night—redefine her. She was seventeen, practically an adult. This was ridiculous.
The bus halted at her stop, and she stood, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. As she stepped down onto the sidewalk, a sudden, intense pressure gripped her bladder—the kind that admitted no negotiation, no delay. Kalie froze, a desperate gasp escaping her lips as warmth flooded her jeans, running down her legs in rivulets that darkened the fabric and pooled in her shoes.
Time seemed to stop. The bus pulled away. A few younger kids walked ahead, oblivious. And Kalie stood motionless, her body locked in shock as the last drops emptied from her bladder.
When she could move again, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely undo the arms of her sweatshirt from around her waist. She tied it low, the sleeves straining to encompass her hips, the material hanging just low enough to cover the worst of the evidence. With stiff, uncomfortable steps, she began the walk home, each movement a squelching reminder of her humiliation.
The house was mercifully empty when she arrived. She peeled off her sodden clothes, showered for the second time that day, and buried the jeans and underwear at the bottom of her hamper. She would wash them herself, she decided. No one needed to know.
But when she returned from dinner at her grandmother's that evening, her mother was sitting on her bed, the damp jeans folded beside her.
"I was sorting laundry," she said simply.
Kalie stood in the doorway, her body rigid with defensive anger. "I can explain—"
"You don't have to," her mother interrupted gently. "Honey, it's okay. These things happen."
"Not to seventeen-year-olds," Kalie's voice cracked. "Not twice in one day."
Her mother patted the space beside her. After a moment's hesitation, Kalie crossed the room and sat down, leaving a careful distance between them.
"What happened?" her mother asked.
The gentleness broke something in Kalie. She stared at her hands, which were numb, but she felt a warmth in her chest, an uncomfortable heat that she recognized as shame. "I almost didn't make it to the bathroom at school. And then, getting off the bus, I just... couldn't hold it. It happened so fast."
Her mother nodded, no judgment in her expression. "I think, maybe, it would be a good idea to wear the pull-ups during the day too. Just for a while."
"Even Mary doesn't have to wear them during the day," Kalie protested, the unfairness stinging.
"Everyone's different," her mother replied. "And Mary didn't have an accident today."
Kalie's eyes burned with unshed tears. "What if someone finds out?"
"The ad says no one has to know but us," her mother said, and Kalie realized she must have seen the magazine too.
"You sound like a commercial," Kalie muttered.
Her mother laughed softly. "Maybe. But it's true. Your clothes will hide them. No one will hear them. And you won't have to worry about finding a bathroom in time."
The argument made a horrible kind of sense. The relief of not having to worry was tempting—seductively so. Kalie stared at the pattern on her bedspread, tracing it with her finger.
"Fine," she whispered finally. "But just until this... whatever it is... passes."
Her mother squeezed her hand. "Of course. Just until then."
But as her mother left the room, Kalie couldn't shake the feeling that she had just crossed some invisible line, and that returning to the other side might not be as simple as she hoped.
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