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“Fine, if you can keep your panties clean like a big girl, I'll let you leave,” Mommy says, much to the amusement and surprise of the other Bigs around her.
“Fine,” I agree snappily, pulling my panties on angrily. Mommy doesn't think I can do it: in fact, she hasn't let me wear anything other than diapers for months, pull-ups long behind me. I'm no longer some human trapped in New Amazonia to her: I'm her obedient Little, doctorate in chemistry be damned. Where did the plan to get me home go?
Today that all changes, because if I know one thing it's that I can keep my panties dry. I'm a grown-ass woman, goddamnit!
I've fought so hard to be allowed panties but the exhilaration dies when they're on. They're so thin: thinner than the padding I've grown accustomed to. I feel so much more vulnerable, when the gap between my privates and Mommy's watching audience is so small.
“And pants?” I ask, only for Mommy to shake her head.
“No, Poppy… if you have a soggy little accident, Mommy needs to know,” Mommy insisted.
I'd been spanked enough to not fight back anymore… If I'm bad Mommy puts me in time-out and doesn't change me when I go stinkies till I'm really, really sorry… It's the most humiliating thing ever.
“I'm not gonna go tinkies…” I protest weakly, feeling my panties carefully.
Still dry.
“Oh, of course not… I'm sure you'll be able to hold it,” Mommy says, almost sarcastically, “But when- if, sorry, you have an accident like any little would, just know Mommy's here to give you changies.”
“I'm not going to go tinkies,” I repeat to myself, insistent.
Mommy passes me my pacifier and I take it, savouring the meagre comfort in this stressful moment. I never used to suck on pacifiers but Mommy says it's okay, and Mommy-
Fuck, Mommy's the one who ruined my life. I hate her. I hate her. But I can't help but relax as I suck on my pacifier, wearing only my panties.
I look like a prepubescent girl, what with my nonexistent breasts (removed months ago) and my hairless body. I hate it so much.
But I let myself look away from Mommy and head over to my toys, which lay strewn out across the play-pen. As I crawl, I feel myself dribble into my panties a little… but just a bit, till I stop myself. No — I can’t be going wee-wee in my big girl panties.
My dollies seem unimpressed about my big-girl panties, which is par for the course seeing as their faces never change. They are dolls, after all. Still, I talk to them, just to stop me going mad.
“I’m in big-girl panties today, ‘cos Mommy knows I’m a big girl who makes tinkies in the potty like a big girl,” I say seriously.
“You’re so mature!” my diapered dolly, Diapered Di, exlaims.
“I know wite- Right!” I beam, relaxing just a little.
I clench before more than a dribble can get out.
“This is just where you’re meant to be,” Mr Sockbuttons cheers, “A grown-up like you deserves this!”
I move to grab Mrs Sockbuttons, letting go a little again. But I’m not a baby, so I stop myself. I’m grown-up. I don’t wet myself.
As I play, my dollies tell me how mature I am: how I never needed diapers at all! I’m so grown-up, even if Mommy can’t see it — this’ll show her! Mommy lets me play for a few minutes, leaving the room to cook lunch. I’m thankful for it, because it means I can play without thinking about how I’m in my undies. There’s less pressure that way.
Every so often, I think about going potty on the big-girl potty for once but I don’t need it. I’m so grown-up that I can just hold it! No need for tinkies!
When Mommy comes back in, I’m just teaching my dollies their ADPs and their Ones and twos. It’s all very complicated stuff, but I manage. I’m a smart girl, after all — even Mommy says so.
“Alright, Poppy, let’s check if you’re still dry,” Mommy says, as if I’ve gone potty in big-girl panties when there’s a potty right there.
“I’m a big girl!” I scoff, looking down at my panties.
Oh.
Mommy squishes my front: it’s soaking wet. So is the floor beneath; the carpeted floor beneath.
“Poppy, what have you done?” she asks, angry beyond definition.
“I… I uh…” I stutter, in utter panic. How could this have happened? I only dribbled a few times! And now I’ve lost my only chance at freedom! How could I have let this happen?!
“Poppy…”
“I went tinkies in my panties…” I sob, barely wanting to so much as look at the tinkies on the floor that I know I’ve made.
“And do Bigs wet their panties?” Mommy asks, appraising me, inspecting me like a parent who’s caught their child red-handed.
I sniffle, and shake my head. I’m crying, still shocked somehow. I thought my potty-training was far better than- than that… to not even have noticed? It’s appalling.
“Please, give me another try!” I beg, grabbing at Mommy’s feet, dripping onto the floor.
Mommy sighs, “I think you’ve shown me enough, darling. I think we’ve made it clear from that little stunt that you’re not going to wear panties ever again… oh, did you not understand what Mommy said? You’re her little girl now: you lost fair and square,” she determines, her face harsh yet soft in a strictly parental way.
“Please!” I squeal, pitch raising as Mommy lifts me up in the air like I weigh less than a bag of flour. My eyes widen; I’m like a shower as I’m dragged over to my changing table.
Mommy lays me down and I suck on my pacifier, returning to the autopilot I’m usually in. Things are easier when I just let it happen, when I convince myself that I’m really a Little, Mommy’s Little girl to be exact. When I accept that I’m nothing more than a baby…
“Mommy,” I say pathetically, weakly.
Mommy sighs, expecting resistance, “No, I’m not giving you another pair of panties to ruin,” she scoffs.
I wiggle, trying to get the words out as Mommy pulls my panties down, revealing my princess parts to her. Months ago, that would have been a source of humiliation, perhaps even trauma. Now, it’s a fact of life: I need diaper changes; Mommy gives them to me.
“No, Mommy… I… I wanna just- be your Little,” I admit hesitantly, sucking on my pacifier between words, after them, too…
I just want it all to be over: I don’t want to think anymore about how shameful this all is. I don’t want to see proof that I couldn’t keep my panties dry; that I couldn’t live the life I used to. I want to pretend that this is just some land of mythos where I’ve been coerced into diapers, where merely being in panties could keep me dry once more… I want to pretend that I can blame Mommy forever… but I can’t.
I’m like this now. I wet my diapers; I make messies in them every day. If I was brought back to my home world, if my old life was returned, I’d be miserable. I’d wet my panties; I’d probably need diapers there, too… but at least here, it’s normal. Here, everyone knows I’m a Little: it’s okay for me to wander around in a soggy diaper; I don’t have to hide the fact that I don’t even know when I go potty anymore. I’m Mommy’s: she’s caught me, and now, at least, I can admit it. Accept it, even.
“Is my Little girl gonna behave?” she asks, wiping me down, cleaning the pee off my panties, the last ones I will ever wear, “Is she going to go to daycare without complaining? Use her diaper instead of getting all constipated? Stop pretending like she’s anything more than a silly Little baby girl? Well, that’s not giving in: that’s not being a good Little girl… That’s just being honest.”
I think her words over, hiding inside me the hatred I have for them. I don’t want this to be normal… but I can’t keep my panties dry anymore.
“Mommy,” I groan, “I’m try’na be good,” I say, trying to be as babyish as possible for her, even through my annoyance.
Mommy slides my diaper on, and I instantly relax. It’s a return to normalcy: none of those expectations of going potty. Even if I wasn’t successful in the slightest, there was a huge stress around trying to make it, and I couldn’t. If I go tinkies in my diapie that’s no failure: that’s been a good Little girl.
Glaring, Mommy says, “And Littles your age don’t need to be told that. You’re a bad Little,” Mommy announces, glaring somewhat at me, “You still want to pretend to me more than what you are. But you’re nothing more than a Little baby girl. You’re Mommy’s: that’s it.”
I know this to be true. I know. I wasn’t born here; I wasn’t sent here as a child, our world’s orphanages overflooded. I was taken as an adult: I am Mommy’s prisoner. I am Mommy’s Little girl. I am her baby, who wets her diapers and makes messes in them, too…
As Mommy tapes me in, I become cognizant of a feeling in my tummy. It’s a familiar feeling, one I know how to solve.
I grunt; I give it a little push (hardly any effort at all, now) and already, I’m making a stinky in my diaper. It’s warm; it’s squishy, but it’s comforting. Automatic. No dash to the potty needed; no pretending to be a Big girl. I suck on my pacifier, relaxing. Mommy’s right: this is freedom; not a fourteen-hour (minimum) working day; not being chained to my desk. This, here: being able to let go. Yes, this is freedom.
Feeling the back of my diaper, I recognise that I’ve gone stinky. But, oh — what’s that there? I’ve also been dribbling the whole time… and I didn’t even notice I was wet!
Blushing, truthful, I admit, “Mommy, I went oh-oh…”
Mommy sighs, smiling from above like she’s the centre and the mastermind of my world, “If someone thinks they’re getting changies after this, she’s mistaken,” she determines, ticking me under the chin.
I snicker, unaware of more dribbling into my waterbottle-like diaper. I don’t argue; I merely suck on my pacifier. Enough sweat, tantrums and tears has taught me that it’s just Mommy who decides when I get a change, not when I go stinky. And I haven’t even gone stinky that much!
“There’s Mommy’s good Little girl,” Mommy says, giving me another tickle.
And I laugh, not because the idea is ridiculous; not because I’m scared. I laugh because it’s a truth both of us know deeply; I laugh because we are a family. I laugh because I’m Mommy’s, her diaper-wetting Little, sucking on her pacifier and being, for once, good.
The feeling is warm in my heart and my body; chemical and physical. My eyes shut and almost immediately, I’m in the land of dreaming, tuckered out after the effort of messing.
Mommy picks me up and rocks me in her arms, rocking my messy diaper, my small body.
And if I wake up in time for her to call me her good Little girl, to hear her whisper sweet nothings… well, that’s between us.
And if, when my eyes next drift open, Mommy’s moving me towards her breasts, it’s just between us if I latch on tight; if I suckle from Mommy like a good Little should.
“Perfect,” Mommy breathes, and it’s true: Mommy’s trained me into being a good Little; my ego has been broken. All delusions of grandeur gone. Now and forever, I, Poppy, will be Mommy’s good helpless Little baby girl, truly free.