The Diapered Woman — Part 1: Age Regression & Diaper Care | ABDL Audio Story

Age Regression & Diaper Care — an ABDL audio story. Vera came to Fernhollow to void one clause in her aunt's will - thirty days to object, then freedom. But Odile runs the house like a courtroom, and evening one already has its verdict: diaper, nursery, no appeal. Twenty-nine days left. Her objections keep getting quieter.

Part 1 of 5 — to be continued. age regression comfort audio, ddlg romance audiobook, little space audio. ~22.8 min.

The full written story is linked in the show notes.

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Transcript

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Welcome back. You're listening to Pollybane After Dark. Tonight, let's slow down together. Tonight, part one of the diapered woman, listen close. Cold air found my nipples before shame did, hardening them right there under House Mistress O'Deal's brass lamp, and my traitor cunt went slick before anyone had laid a finger on me. Two women in soft shoes came through a side door I hadn't noticed and undressed me piece by piece, blazer, blouse, skirt, stockings, heels, without hurry and without asking. O'Deal watched from behind her raised desk like she was grating evidence. Spread your feet shoulder width. I did, and hated how fast my body answered. One of them held up a thick white adult diaper. It crinkled loud enough to scrape my teeth. No, I said, finding my lawyer's voice, you need my verbal consent for you waved invasive routine on page nine. Lift your hips. They lifted me like I weighed nothing. The diaper slid under me. Wide and stiff and obscene, powder dusting my skin cool then warm. The front panel came up over my shaved mound, and the tape pulled tight with a sticky rip that echoed off the panels, forcing my thighs apart, plastic and fluff pressing into my lips. Say what you're wearing. A diaper The word tasted like defeat. Louder An adult diaper. My voice cracked on adult, as if saying it right could still save me. Good. You leak in it tonight. You don't touch yourself, you don't use a toilet. Your privacy is mine until morning. One of them knelt and pressed two fingers against the front, finding my slit straight through the layers. I gasped. She's already well the woman said, clinical as a nurse. Record it. Odil opened a drawer, a pink silicone plug beside a cordless wand. Bent her over the chair. They folded me over the chair back before my heels could find purchase, ass up, diaper crinkling with every breath. The plug pressed my asshole, slick and cold, and I clenched against it uselessly until my ring burned and the base seated flush. Take it, O'Dill said behind me. You're a hole the estate already paid for. Twenty-nine days. That was the number I'd carried in from the car, from a cream stock packet with my name in the executor's block letters. Consent to remain, thirty day objection window, day one commencing upon arrival. I'd told myself I would win day thirty the way I won everything. With words. Odile had already read it differently. I'd broken the seal in the car, and that was arrival enough. The wand clicked on. She set it against the front of my diaper, right over my clit through the layers, and the vibration travelled through fluff and plastic, straight into my nerves. I moaned. I hated the sound of it. Do not come. Her hand stayed steady on the wand. You argue for a living. Argue now. Tell me why you should leave. Clauses, deadlines, the hearing on day thirty. Every word I owned stacked up behind my teeth, and only a wine came out. The diaper grew warm where I leaked into it, a spreading patch I couldn't hide, crinkling faster, wetter, obscene. Stop. I choked. I need you need to come in your diaper like the petition says you will beg for it. I will not beg you. She pulled the wand away and the loss hit like a slap, my clit throbbing in the empty air inside the plastic. Then you stay on the edge until you use your words correctly. Say please. My whole career was built on refusin' please. Please I said anyway, one syllable torn loose. Please what? Please let me come. I hated myself before the sentence finished. She pressed the wand back hard. Count to three. Out loud, miss a number and I stop. One. My voice shook. Two. The plug felt twice its size, my toes left the floor. Three. I came screaming into the diaper, fluff soaked, the squelch loud when my body jerked against the chair, orgasm tearing out of me ugly and open. No elegance. Spit on my lip. Tears on my cheeks, my cunt pumping uselessly into plastic that gave nothing back. Odile held the wand through every aftershock until I sobbed. One, she said. You owe me another before nursery lock. They lifted me, diaper sagging, tape straining, and laid me across her desk. Paper stuck to my sweat. She strapped a cuff to each wrist and stretched my arms above my head, then stepped between my spread legs, wand in one hand like a gavel. Open your mouth. I shook my head. A gag wouldn't fit my opening statement. She slid two fingers past my lips instead, wet with my own slick. Suck. Get them ready. I sucked. My tongue betrayed me eagerly. She tore the tape on one side of the diaper, the panel flapping open to cool air on my swollen cunt, and drove three fingers inside me while the plug still filled my ass. Tell the room what you are A lawyer. Weak, useless wrong. Her fingers curled, found the spot that whited out my vision. Try again. A resident a case. Diaper sluts say it. I'm a diaper slut. The phrase left my mouth, and my cunt gushed around her fingers. Shame and heat fused so tight I couldn't tell them apart. She added a fourth finger, the stretch burning sweet, and I arched off the desk, cuffs rattling. You'll finish the year your aunt couldn't. Day thirty isn't a hearing you win. It's the day your objection dies if you haven't already left. You believe you can argue your way out. You're about to learn what argument costs here. Twenty nine days meant nothing on her desk, with her fingers fucking me open. Come again. On my hand. Thank me for every spasm. I shook my head, so she pressed the wand to my clit with her other hand, fingers pounding, vibration grinding, and the first crest broke me instantly. Thank you I gasped. For what? For making me come in my diaper for using me Louder each time, until my ass clenched hard on the plug, and the second orgasm built meaner than the first, longer, and I broke on her counter too, cunt squeezing her fingers, cum dripping around them onto the desk wood, the smell of sex and powder and warm plastic thick between us. I thrashed until the cuffs burned my wrists, and my voice gave out to breath and whine. She withdrew slowly, taped the diaper crooked, left it open on one side, the plug still seated in my ass. Your rebuttal is deferred. Nursery now. My legs wouldn't hold. They walked me down a hall where every step crinkled back at me like an announcement, into a room with a crib rail too high and a monitor light blinking red. Odile's voice came through a speaker on the wall, calm as her courtroom. You'll sleep in what you earned, hands outside the diaper. If you wet again, and you will, you don't clean yourself. Morning review at seven. Day two begins when I say so. Footsteps moved somewhere in the hall. Another envelope, maybe, another woman who still thought day thirty was a courtroom she could win. Her voice came again, closer to the speaker, almost gentle. Kneel by the rail, Vera, mouth open. Your pacifier's on the chain, you'll hold it all night. The chain clinked. I knelt. The diaper crinkled beneath me, and my mouth opened before my mind could file an objection that would matter. The steel tape bit my ribs before anyone said good morning. A woman in a gray smock had it hooked under my arms, chin down, lips moving like she was counting inventory, and I was a bolt of cloth. Seven on the clock. Wardrobe smelled of starch and cedar, and the sour ghost of someone else's perfume baked into the racks. Arms out, she said. Her badge read only Wren. No last name, no handshake, just the tapes lighting up my sternum, cold metal on skin that still remembered yesterday's verdict, and the thick diaper I'd slept in because nobody had offered me a toilet. I'm Vera. Need to speak to House Mistress O'Dill before Sign here. Wren shoved a clipboard at me. My charcoal suit, my heels, my phone already sealed in a bag. Professional wardrobe. Archive slot seven hundred fourteen. Career pause form initial bottom right. Pause effective immediately. I could fight it in court in thirty days. That's what I told my pulse, which was already wrong, already hot at the word archive. Where's my intake packet? The objection window. Grounds go in the study at bedtime. Wren wound the tape around my hips. House mistress O'Deal said this is for your own good. The line landed flat, administrative, worse than a threat. The tape grazed my nipples through the thin sleep shirt they'd put me in, and I hated how my areolas tightened. Divorce lawyers don't flinch at paperwork. I flinched anyway. Wren clicked her pen. Strip to skin. Nursery issue is on the table. No curtain. Two women in smocks folded my suit into acid free paper. One sniffed the lapel and made a note. Scent logged. My smell, my office, my life, reduced to a line on a form. The heels went into a box marked with my name and today's date. Day three. Twenty-seven days until the hearing I still believed I could win. I peeled the sleep shirt off. The diaper from last night hung swollen between my legs, warm with piss I'd lost in the dark without permission, crinkling loud and wrong in that clean room. What? Wren said and marked it. Change first, then dress. She laid me on the table, spread my thighs with gloved palms, untaped the sides. The smell hit us both, ammonia and my own stale arousal from when I'd rubbed against the bulk in the night, ashamed and still doing it. She wiped me with a cold cloth that dragged over my clit and made me jerk. You'll learn schedule, she said. Or you'll learn verdicts. Same outcome. She powdered me, taste of chalk on my tongue when I breathed too hard through my mouth. Fresh diaper, thick and white, pulled tight enough to force my legs apart. A pacifier on a chain waited on the tray. I shook my head. Optional at wardrobe. Mandatory by nap one if you spit it out twice. I took it. The rubber nipple filled my mouth with silicone and my own spit, and I hated the suck reflex that answered anyway. The nursery outfit was a short Snap onesie in pale pink adult cut, obscene on my 35-year-old frame. No bra. My tits swung free under the fabric when Wren snapped the crotch closed over the padding, its outline showing through the stretch. Every seam screamed what I was becoming. Breakfast in eight minutes. Walk yourself to the nursery hall. If you stall, I log it. I walked. The diaper swished, the pacifier chain rattled. My phone was gone, my suit was gone. Defiant curiosity hooked me harder than fear. I had to see the machine from the inside to dismantle it. That's the lie I sold myself on the way down the corridor. Pussy already slick under the powder. The nursery hall was soft mats and low tables. Housemistress O'Dill sat with tea and my case file open on her lap. Vera, sit, spoon. The chair had a harness built in. I didn't see it until the buckles clicked at my wrists. She fed me oatmeal from a plastic bowl, sweet and institutional, and I turned my face away on the second bite. She wiped my chin. Calm. Refusal one, she said, writing. You can't I can. Twenty-seven days remain on your objection window. Every spoon, every wet diaper, every orgasm you steal without asking gets an entry. You came here to argue. Argue with evidence. My neck went hot. She'd said orgasm like it was breakfast. I opened my mouth for the next spoon because I wanted to know what refusal to cost. Nap time came at ten. O'Deal walked me to a crib frame sized for an adult, bars polished, mattress sheathed in vinyl. The harness came off only to be replaced. Ankle cuffs, wrist cuffs, a spreader bar between my knees that made the diaper bulge even wider. First full day routine. You'll sleep or you'll perform. I'm not a resident. You padded yourself with silence last night when you rubbed your clit through the plastic. I heard it on the monitor. She clicked a remote, and something buzzed to life inside my fresh diaper. A bullet vibrator taped against my clit through a slit in the lining I hadn't known existed. I gasped around the pacifier she clipped in. That's one. The buzz was cruel, constant, never enough to finish, only enough to drip. My cunt leaked into the lining, warm slick mixing with powder. She set a wand on the rail, fat head humming, and pulled on gloves. Hold still. This is for your own good. She pressed the wand against the front of the plastic, grinding the vibration into my clit through the barrier. The squelch got louder as I soaked the inside. She held my hips down when they bucked. Count aloud or I stop and log defiance. One I garbled around rubber and spit. She turned it up. My bladder let go in the same breath the first crest hit, thighs shaking in the spreader bar, sobbing into the pacifier. Coming anyway. That's two You didn't ask. She peeled the wet front down enough to expose me, air on slick skin, shame and relief in the same breath, and slid two gloved fingers in, no warning. Curling while the bullet stayed on my clit. Say what you are. I'm wet, I'm diaper slut. She supplied mildest tea. Say it. I'm a diaper slut. A third finger. The one never left. The second orgasm tore through harder than the first, gush soaking her glove, splattering the vinyl. My asshole cinched tight while my pussy spasmed on her knuckles. Good. Three entries before lunch. She wiped me down with a ruined diaper, retaped me dry and crinkling, and pushed a butt plug from the tray into my ass in one slick motion. Medium, flared base snug against the padding. You'll wear that through lunch. Refusal earns a thicker plug and a public chart note. Lunch was pureeed chicken fed by Wren while Odile read the file aloud. My wet refusal, my orgasms logged as theft. The plug rolled every time I swallowed and made me clench, and I came a third time in the high chair, silent, grinding against it, face burning while Wren spooned into my open mouth like I couldn't hold a fork. Four, O'Dill said without looking up. You clamped on the plug. Audible. I'd never come in court. Never lost control on the record. My body had other evidence now. Afternoon was wardrobe again, bent over the table, onesie flipped up, diaper pulled to mid thigh. Wren tugged the plug halfway out and pushed it back, testing the stretch while a second woman took notes. Recommend daily training starting tomorrow. Housemistress O'Deal will demonstrate, Wren said and left. Just us and the racks full of dead women's suits. O'Deal carried a harness and a bottle of lube. First procedure. You yield one inch or you yield a mile at bedtime. Your choice is only speed. This isn't medical. It's administrative. She worked the plug until my ass gaped on the pop, then lined the silicone cock against my hole and pushed the head in. I bit the pacifier chain, burn, stretch, a sick need rising under it. Beg for the next inch in your own words. Please fuck my ass. Please I need she pulled almost out and slammed back. No rhythm yet just proof she could. The slap of her hips on my padding echoing off cedar. She pressed a pinpoint vibrator to my clit, and my knees buckled. You're a hole in archive clothing. Say thank you. Thank you for using my asshole. She fucked me in long strokes, edging me twice, killing the vibe each time I got close, my ass clenching on empty air when she pulled free, spit on my chin from the pacifier I'd bitten through. On the table. Back. Diaper off. She cut it away and mounted the table between my thighs. The strap-on found my pussy next, splitting me while the plug went back into my ass, double fill, obscene pressure, pounding until my tits bounced free of the onesie. Fourth orgasm. Fifth when she rammed the wand against my clit mid-stroke. Cruel overlap, brain offline, only wet sounds and her counting. Five. One more for the file before nap two. Beg for six like a whore who pisses herself on schedule. I'm a piss-soaked whore, please let me come She did. The sixth dragged out until I screamed around the pacifier and came across the table under my own ass, mixed with the last of my bladder giving out, sharp in my face. She dressed me in a third diaper, thicker pink print, and wrote for a long minute in the file. Verdic prep at nine. You'll sleep in the nursery tonight, not the guest wing. Your adult clothing is sealed. You can't dress yourself as counsel anymore, even if you walk out tomorrow. She held up the archive receipt, my signature already initialed from intake. Done in the car without reading. The room tilted. Twenty seven days. Bring me something worth hearing at day thirty. Wren walked me down the hall at dusk. My name was already on the nursery door. Inside, a monitor light blinked red, and a fresh envelope sat on the pillow, wax seal unbroken, address in the same hand as the estate's first package. She clipped the pacifier to my collar. Open that, it lights out. Housemistress O'Deal said it's your next assignment. I lay in the crib, diaper heavy, plug still seated, throat raw from begging, and stared at the envelope until the lights dimmed on a timer I hadn't agreed to. Then reached for the seal with shaking nursery soft hands. That's where we have to pause for tonight. But the story is far from over. The rest of the diapered woman is waiting for you. The full journey, every last moment. You'll find it linked in the show notes. Sleep well, if you can.