Category: age regression

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 #4: What’s in the drawers of my dream changing table?

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

When I fantasize about diaper changes, my brain populates the drawers of the changing table with things like this:

  • Basic wipes, diaper cream, etc. – the basics
  • Fragrant baby powder, with a powder puff and a brush for application
  • Icy Hot or capsaicin ointment as a punishment diaper cream
  • Punishment wipes that have been treated with hot sauce
  • Scissors to cut away my panties when I misbehave
  • Multiple butt plugs in sizes labeled from “a little naughty” to “very bad”
  • Inflatable plugs with cords long enough to hang out of my diaper when they’re in my holes
  • A powerful plug-in vibrator
  • Bullet vibrators for tucking into my diaper long-term
  • Waterproof tape to hold my pussy lips open or tape a vibrator into place
  • Several shades of lipstick that can be applied first to my nipples and pussy, then to my mouth
  • Small clothespins that can be placed on my clit before my diaper is tightly taped up
  • Duct tape and padlocking panties to keep my diaper on me as long as assigned
  • A catheter for when I lose the privilege of being allowed to hold my bladder
  • A tiny electric cattle prod to discipline me for resisting
  • A powerful pussy pump to get me nicely swollen up under my padding

As you can see, my fetish-brain is apparently convinced that adult babies require an awful lot of care taking place during diaper changes …

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.”

Little Living #2: Powder my … nose

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

An underrated element of humiliating ageplay is baby powder.

(Personally, I am … maybe overly fond of the fancy tins of talc powder with scents like rose and lavender.  They’re feminine and old-fashioned, and my style of ageplay is very sort of … simultaneously controlling and hedonistic, rooted in this overtly regressive, pseudo-Victorian aesthetic.  Others insist on nothing but plain drugstore baby powder, and more power to ‘em.  But I go through a lot of the gift-y stuff you find in the fancy bath section at discount places.)

Depriving a regressed slave of the privilege of touching herself?  Let her do it only with a powder-puff … and send you a picture of the results to prove she’s desperate.

Looking for a lighter element of bathroom control?  Forbid a little one to use toilet paper.  If she wants to absorb any remaining moisture, that’s what her jar of baby powder is for.

And she has to take that with her if she leaves the house, of course.  While direct public exposure has all kind of consent issues, a lot of doms like to impose something on an adult baby to keep them just a little off-kilter: a childish bracelet, or a pair of baby-pink socks.  Making a woman carry a large plastic shaker of baby powder in her purse at all times is perfect for this.

Little Living #1: What’s a pussy called?

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

One of my most least most favorite behavior rules to be given is controls on my speech.  Not “speak when spoken to” – although obviously that has its place – but “No, only naughty girls ask for orgasms.  Ask for treats instead.”

There’s a mix of condescension and guidance in being corrected on my terminology (and sometimes punished for “speaking inappropriately”), and this works so well for online submissions because it’s a way of controlling the best way I have to express myself.  That, and there’s some sexy infuriating notable elements of the top controlling the tone of the whole scenario by controlling the words I use.  An adult woman who is instructed to talk like a perfect polite, ankles-crossed little girl, but refer to her dom’s body with words like “Daddy’s tickler” and her own body with words like “little whore cunt” – that’s a specific dynamic.  A separate, more infantilizing and embarrassing dynamic is created when the same woman has to call her breasts “booboos” and refer to sex as “activities.”

Of course, this only works if it’s imposed on me … baby talk isn’t at all sexy unless it’s a Rule someone else made for me … but that’s true of pretty much everything when it comes to my sexuality.

Here are a few ideas for how a girl* can be made to refer to her own essential parts in order to give a scenario between consenting adults just the right kind of skeezy overtones.

*Now and always, please assume that anything on Helplessly Regressed refers to all girls who are 18 and over, regardless of biological bits.


Being required to say “private parts” is especially embarrassing for me because the very neutrality and vagueness of the term feels childish.  Medically accurate terminology can also feel affected and remind me of my role when I refer to “my vagina” instead of my usual adult terminology.


Similarly to “private parts,” something extremely vague, like “my secret,” has a tantalizing thrill of the forbidden.  And making up a silly neologism for the naughty bits is just utterly humiliating.  I once subbed for someone who had me call my clit my “daisily-do.” Every time.


If I’m having a sexy time while in little space, an imaginative aspect to how I refer to my body keeps me feeling a bit outside of my usual headspace and body image.  So I might, for instance, be made to talk about my “kitten cunt,” my “mouse” or my “puppy parts.”


There’s something so fucked-up about being carefully taught to use unimaginably filthy words.  “No, that’s your cunt” – shiver.


Words like “tuck,” “cunny,” and “flower” were once used more widely to refer to female genitalia; today, they’re deliciously retro and blushy to say, adding to a sort of Victorian governess or schoolmaster scenario (which is something I love).


This is what I’m told to use most often, and from “no-no” to “bitties” to “potty parts,” it’s just so embarrassing.

New Story! Magic Daycare

Here’s part 1 or a patron ordered story from my Patreon.

It’s a 5 part story and you can read the rest here :  already 5 chapters of this story available, plus much more!

WIFE & HER MOM FIND YOUR DIAPERS!!!While you were out, your…

While you were out, your wife Kaelin (about 22) finds your adult diapers and ABY stuff in the closet and of course she has to show her mom Jessica (40’s) who’s visiting. They’re both inspecting your stuff & realize that everything is big sized & fit you!  They certainly don’t fit a real BB. You come home as they’re inspecting it all & they ask you point blank if you like to wear diapers.  You’re really embaressed but admit that’s what you want. At first they’re in shock & disbelief in a condecending way especially when Jessica reaches over & feels that you’re already wearing a diaper…!! 

Grammy doesn’t have time to rock you today – she has…

Grammy doesn’t have time to rock you today – she has important grown-up concerns you couldn’t be expected to understand – but Grammy will leave you for a nice long rock in her chair all by yourself.  How does that sound?

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.