Category: adult baby girl

The Daily Curtsey

“It’s time for your daily curtsey practice, princess.”

She is solicitously ushered to the dance studio, where cheerful hands pull off her dress and stockings.  She’s laid on a mat on the floor, her diaper removed and her under-diaper parts efficiently wiped down.  Gloved fingers – she can’t see just whose – massage an ointment into her clit and pussy lips.  Almost immediately she knows which balm she’s been treated with today: the one that makes her swell and tingle, makes her private parts pink and plump.

“Let’s get you dressed for your lesson, now.”

She used to think of herself as an average-sized woman, but she is lifted so efficiently by her attendants that she feels small and frail.  The leotard is pulled over her head.  Its hem lies in soft scallops just above the well-waxed, already-swelling skin of her mound.  The top is tight enough to force her breasts into strained mounds above a punishing seam, the fabric stretching sheer over nipples that have grown erect against her will.

“Up we go, princess!  Onto the practice stand.”

She’s lifted by her arms, and she knows enough to point her toes as the dildo slides home.  Long and soft, it’s already been oiled for her; she saw the coating glisten over the pink and blue glitter silicone, and anyway she can feel how it slides home like it was made for her.  (For all she knows, it was.)  It’s flexible enough that it doesn’t carry the vibrations from the little, humming bulb attached to the bottom of its upright shaft.

“Remember, right foot forward, left knee tucked back, and do try to be graceful enough that the stand won’t bend.  Now, down.”

She has to do this every day, and she doesn’t hesitate anymore.  Daintily pinching out the short skirt, she sinks into a girlish curtsey, head up, smiling for an invisible audience.  Her pin-curls bounce as she rises in time with the instructions.  She can see herself in the mirrors that circle every studio wall, smiling like a little film star.

“Up … and down.”

She manages to sink deeper this time, feeling the soft silicone ripen into a firmer impalement as her weight compresses it.

“You must touch the curtsey-button, princess!  It’s so easy for you to forget things, isn’t it?  Touch the button each time – Or we shall get the pink cane.  Up … and down.”

On the third try, her plump clit kisses the vibrator.  It’s nearly silent but shockingly powerful, enough to rock her on the stand even as the dildo pushes inexorably at her cervix.  The full dip is always enough to make her feel the dildo in her core.

“Much better, princess!  But mind your balance.  Straight up, straight down.”

She doesn’t need that reminder.  Any torque on the dildo turns this daily practice’s feeling from discomfort to pain.

“Better, dear.  Up … and down.”

She’ll be at this for exactly half an hour, just like every day.  She widens her smile, re-settles her feet, and tries to find a pace that will give her the right stimulation in her aching clit.

Bottles infuse the daily drink with vitamins that grown-up…

Bottles infuse the daily drink with vitamins that grown-up growing girls need – vitamins that don’t come from a regular cup.  How does Mama know?  She just does.

Mothers also know that the sunlight on Baby’s thighs is healthier than sunlight anywhere else.  A big baby needs more vitamins, so adult baby girls must keep their legs spread and their diapers uncovered.

Mother knows best, after all!

A Fantasy

I am a doll, round and poseable.  My skin is textured like a dainty glove.  My clit is a little rosebud of pale pink silk, vivid between legs stuffed to perfect plumpness.  When I’m naked and upright, it barely peeps out to be visible, but it’s so easy to spread my legs.  Every time a finger strokes that silky bud, or anything at all touches it, the feeling thrums through my soft body, but I am curiously weak and I cannot flinch away or hide myself from the touch.

Most of the time I’m dressed, though, and to get to that part, you have to lift or lower layer after frilly layer: pinafore, dress, petticoat, lacy bloomers, ruffled panties, snug little diaper.  With tight, tight panties pressing its thickness close to me, the diaper is taut and smooth and puts a constant, steady pressure on my ribbon-slick clit.

My face is re-painted regularly, making my mouth a rosebud the same color as my clit.  When you lay me down, my eyes close softly and I can’t reopen them until you sit me up.

When you don’t get your way in some other realm, you come to mine to relieve your feelings.  When you’re bored, you pull down my bloomers, panties, and diaper and you rub my clit absentmindedly until I can’t think.  You tie my hands with baby-blue yarn, turn my ragdoll body over the arm of the sofa and spank my round bottom with assorted implements.  I live in a dollhouse filled with the torture implements you’ve devised out of popsicle sticks, clothespins, little plastic hangers with lambs on them.  All the furniture in my dollhouse has little ribbon cuffs in which you can secure me in any position you like. I spend hours rubber-banded to a little china potty chair with my ruffles around my knees.  I live in silent fear of your shoelaces.  

You dress me however you like, always in absurd lace and layers. You’ve taken the belt from a toy soldier and put it around my neck as a collar.  It will always be a little too tight.

Today you came in with a bobby pin.  It’s as long as my stuffed forearm.  There’s nothing I can do.

Diaper Training Log

I’m going to have unreliable Internet access for a while, so I wanted to leave you with this incredibly squirmy-hot set of instructions that a follower kindly sent me.  They’ve given me several lengthy sessions of fun, and I hope they will do the same for you!    –helplesslyregressed

~~~~~~

Timeliness can be the greatest trait of a respectable little girl. Little girls who do not express this behavior must be taught such lessons with a stern hand. Unfortunately, simple spankings and scoldings have not distilled this behavior in you, little girl, but mommy has a training plan for you that will give you the hands-on lessons you need.

Starting at 6:00 am, your pants and toilet privileges will be revoked. Instead, you will be diapered and copiously powdered for the day. You will notice that the disposables mommy has chosen for you do not have wetness indicators, and there is a reason for that.

For every time you go potty in your diaper, you will log it with the time and the type of accident (ie. #1 or #2) on the front of your diaper with a black marker. It must be accurate, and you must write it up-side down from your perspective so that mommy can read it from her side. This is to teach you the importance of detail, and that mommy’s perspective is the only perspective you should worry about. You will be gagged with your pacifier for the duration of the day, as any communication you must make must be done on the diaper. Writing down the time will teach you timeliness, particularly regarding your own body which you have clearly little understanding as evidenced by your recent accidents.

There are rules and punishments for the timings. Two adjacent recordings of #1 that are less than thirty minutes apart will result in 1 clothespin being added to your princess parts at your next diaper change, while those apart by 3 hours or more will result in 2 clothespins. The moment you record #2, you must immediately find mommy and direct her attention to the front of your diaper. If alerting me to your #2 recording takes longer than 5 minutes, it will result in one clothespin being added to your princess parts at diaper change time. Every extra two minutes after the initial five minutes will result in an additional clothespin. I will not be home all day, either, so you must plan for this as well. By the end of the day, this will teach you the importance of timeliness.

Finally, mommy may give her little girl permission to orgasm during the day. Any cummies made in your diaper must be recorded as such with the time that mommy gave you permission and when you orgasmed. If the difference between these times is shorter than five minutes or greater than thirty minutes, you will earn an additional clothespin.

Your numbers on your diaper will be copied at the end of the day to mommy’s personal chart so she can track your progress. I expect my little girl to be acutely aware of timeliness by the end of her training. 

Some Very Exciting News

Some new and exciting, considerably longer HelplesslyRegressed photo captions and stories can now be found exclusively (and very inexpensively) on the Patreon of fellow diaper enthusiast !

Here’s a peek at the first caption available:

All the girls at Ruth’s new school were expected
to be sitting on nicely made beds at eight o’clock sharp, with their evening
schoolwork resting on their knees.
Tonight Ruth was exactly on time.
She plunked her diapered bottom onto the candy-pink satin coverlet of
the day bed.  It was in a row of other
day beds just like it, lined up along the walls of the long bubblegum-pink
dormitory …. She brought her legs together – one of the most important
comportment rules was to keep the legs together, until told to “sit like a
lady,” at which point the legs were to be spread for a diaper check – and
placed her open workbook where the teacher on duty could inspect her evening’s
progress.  

Read on !

And Allerted is still going to be posting original content at the same place, so you’ll have a lot of highly educational reading material to choose from.

In addition to it just being cool to work with another fetish writer … I am hoping that this will actually allow me to post here on HelplesslyRegressed a bit more often (although I’m about to embark on about a month of spotty Internet access … eurgh).  I do enjoy seeing all you lovely people and your reactions, so I’m excited to be able to hopefully devote more time to actually, y’know, writing for pleasure.

So this is excellent news all around, and little regressed ones everywhere should join me in celebrating with lots and lots of cake.  (Tell Mama I said it was okay.  That’s certain to go over well.)

Little Living #5: Horrible homework

This is a new (irregular) series by @helplesslyregressed aiming to provide a variety of creative behavior rules for ageplay-oriented BDSM relationships.

Many littles see their caregivers as providing teaching and guidance to them.  When you like your ageplay to involve some abuse and exploitation, well … it requires some different forms of teaching.

One possible assignment is to direct a girl to watch a particular kind of porn.  (Unless, obviously, you’re in one of the rare jurisdictions where she can be old enough to consent to sex without being old enough to view porn.  There are a few.)  This can be represented as her viewing instructional videos about technique – or being trained to enjoy something specific as you warp and twist her regressing mind at your whim.  Alternately, she could be assigned to read literary erotica and write book reports about it.  (The Marquis de Sade makes a nice mix of sexual content and sometimes slow, difficult reading.)

You might find a textbook for the age group you’re regressing your adult lover to, and ask her to write paragraphs creatively applying the concepts in the book to her service to you.  (This is a difficult one, unless it’s certain chapters of high-school biology!  You can find out what her least favorite subject was if you want to be really cruel.)

Have her draw crayon pictures of whatever you tell her to draw.  A daily or weekly drawing would be a nice regular task.

Make her write lengthy descriptive paragraphs about whatever feature of her own body you choose for her.  Another good regular task!

Adult baby girls can be given word lists to copy and define, expanding their vocabulary – or changing it to suit you.  She must learn how you’re redefining words at your pleasure or risk punishment for using them “incorrectly.”  Similarly, you can have her build up an encyclopedia of punishments – describing their method of application; their effect on her physically, mentally, and emotionally; and notable occasions on which she earned those specific punishments.  When she’s seeming naughty, have her come up with a complete entry for a punishment that’s never been applied to her before.

Little Living #3: Less-special special outfits

This is a new (irregular) series by @helplesslyregressed aiming to provide a variety of creative behavior rules for ageplay-oriented BDSM relationships.

Let’s face it, I think everyone who likes forced ageplay has a wishlist of ageplay clothes or gear that’s just … not a responsible financial decision.  (Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat ourselves when we can, or be dressed up properly by our owners for special occasions.)

I don’t have the wardrobe of lolita-goth dresses, waist-trainer corsets, and frilly panties that I’d love to have, but I can be instructed to dress up in something humiliating very easily.  

Here are some elements that I always find it embarrassing to incorporate into an outfit, because they just feel so childish.  And telling me that if I’m going to be bratty, I need to dress in something more appropriate to my maturity level is a sure way to get me pouting.

  • Aprons (the less useful the design, the better – a little lacy waist apron feels more foolish than something actually helpful for cooking)
  • Chunky pony-bead jewelry, especially beaded jewelry with my name on it
  • Ankle socks with lace at the cuffs
  • Opaque white tights
  • Slips or bloomers under my regular clothes (most effective if combined with punishment for being unladylike if my slip shows for an instant under my skirt)
  • Oversized leg warmers
  • Stretch leotards instead of regular shirts (bonus points if they are tight enough to make my diaper bulge on either side of the crotch)
  • Tight shapewear (panty-girdles or those hourglass-waist thingies) layered over my diaper or panties (makes it difficult to change or remove)
  • Butterfly hair clips
  • T-shirts with animals on them
  • Pastel pink or baby blue nail polish/eye shadow
  • An obviously fake pearl necklace with day clothes
  • Wrist-length gloves, especially lace, on a not-cold day
  • Carrying a backpack instead of a purse

The people I know in real life would be so horrified if they understood why I have a “whimsical,” “ironic” collection of cartoon-character earrings …

My Mother Gave Me a Dollar; She Told Me to Buy a Collar

I had never known my real name.  My mother, my grandparents, my teachers; every one of them called me by a nickname.  But on this milestone birthday, my mother had promised to tell me what my name truly was.

She’d also promised me a lavish gift that would show me exactly what my life from then on would be like.

The night before my birthday was spent at my grandparents’ house.  I begged them to give me a hint as to what this gift would be.  They laughingly refused and told me they were dying to see my reaction, too, but to avoid the temptation to give hints they needed to keep their distance.  They told me teasingly that I was old enough to amuse myself and to go outside.  At least that wasn’t hard; I loved hiking, so I explored the hills around their house to my heart’s content.

As I drove back to my mother’s house, my heart was in my throat.  I’d fantasized all my life about my real name: would it be beautiful?  Of course it would.  Long, dramatic, fantastical?  Or short and strong?  Whatever it was, I just knew it would tell me who I truly was.

My grandparents waited in the living room while I climbed the stairs with my heart in my throat.  “Mom?” I called.

Her voice drifted back from my bedroom.  “In here!”

I went toward my room – and stopped dead as soon as I saw a sliver of the floor through the open doorway.

My dark blue carpet was gone, revealing beautiful floorboards underneath, scattered with pink and white hooked rugs.  I moved forward into the doorway and couldn’t help a gasp.  Everything, everything, was either white or pink.  A crystal chandelier with pink drops had replaced my light fixture.  My soft grey walls were now a soft shell pink.  Iridescent pink toiletries sat in a salon-ready array of pink glassware on the new white wicker dressing table in the corner. Underneath that table sat a pink porcelain pot with a white flowered pattern and a handle – was that a chamber pot?  My once-natural wicker bed had also been painted white, and finished with a skirt of downy white ruffles under a pink crushed velvet bedspread.  Toward the foot of the bed, delicate little pajamas were folded – a short nightshirt with a lace yoke and teeny-tiny shorts, the fabric of both garments totally sheer with lilac stripes and embroidered edges.  Dainty lace-edged pink pillows were piled at the head, and just before them – a pink leather collar set with shimmering rhinestones.  Similar leather bands lay on each corner of the neatly pulled-up blanket, and these were tied to the bedposts with broad pink grosgrain ribbons.

Mom smiled and opened the closet.  “That’s not all.”

Where once there had been jeans and blouses and the occasional baby-doll dress, now there were literal baby-doll dresses.  Full skirts jostled for space, held out by rustling crinolines.  Peter Pan collars with lace edges hugged the hooks of the hangers.  I saw blue gingham and pink polka dots, a mint-green pinstripe and a sober lavender plaid.  On the floor, worn tennis shoes and hiking boots and the few pairs of heels Mom had occasionally convinced me to wear were gone.  Instead I saw a sole pair of pearly sandals next to beaded ballet flats and patent-leather mary janes in shiny black and white, plus every pastel color imaginable.  The black pair had heart-shaped golden padlocks on the straps.

She slid open a drawer, too, and lace foamed out – lace from ruffled and beribboned panties.  They were enormous.  I saw a camisole, too, in baby pink satin.  And under it, something rosebud-patterned, tightly folded, stiff-looking – no.  No, those could not be diapers.  They couldn’t.

I stared at my mother in shock.  She was smiling. 

“Happy birthday, darling,” she said.  “Oh, my dear girl, you’ve done such a good job of growing up.  From potty training to preschool to making friends and learning manners, to real school to … oh, every little milestone there is!  You’ve made your mama so proud.  You’ve done a good job.  You’ve done enough. You’ve won.  You don’t have to work so hard anymore; you were good enough at growing up, and now you can be my tiny baby again.  You’ll never again have to use a grown-up toilet, make a grown-up decision, or have a grown-up responsibility.  The room is a well-deserved bonus, but that’s your special birthday gift: freedom.  Your life from now on is just household chores, following rules, and looking pretty.”

Reeling, horrified, I grasped for something familiar in this strange world I’d been presented with.  My name!  She was going to tell me my name, the perfect woman’s name that had always been mine.  We’d always planned – I’d ask and then this strange, surreal joke would end.

“Mom,” I said, “my name?  You said on this birthday you’d tell me my name.”

“It’s Mama now, darling,” my mother told me.  “I will give you a little spank to help you remember if you forget more than once.”  As I tried to incorporate that little tidbit into my spinning worldview, my mother looked at me, her eyes shining with tenderness.  “Can’t you guess, dear?”  She gestured around at the pink, pink room.  “I planned it just for you.”  She smiled gently as she prepared to tell me the lifelong secret.

“Your real, legal name … is Bubblegum.”

cutenaughtyageplaygirls: Baby girl with her legs wide open. The…

:

Baby girl with her legs wide open. The way they should be.

Show Mama how wide Baby can spread.

Mama’s here for daily inspection!  Show her you’re dressed…

Mama’s here for daily inspection!  Show her you’re dressed properly … one layer at a time.  And smile!  What a pretty little white frock.  But Mama’s going to have to get you some tighter-fitting diapers so you can’t fall right out …

TaraTainton.com, apparently

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