The Diapered Woman — Part 5: 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 5 of 5 — the finale. age regression comfort audio, ddlg romance audiobook, little space audio. ~22.0 min.

The full written story is linked in the show notes.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome back. You're listening to Polly Bane After Dark. Tonight let's slow down together. Tonight, part five of the diapered woman. Listen close. The zipper caught on the last silk cuff, and I wrenched the bag shut with both hands. Sable wrote the archive number on the tag while I stood in the wardrobe department between rows of garment bags that used to be mine. My heels were already boxed. My trial suits hung in plastic like dead things waiting for a body I was giving away. I want one thing, I said, and held out the fountain pen. Gold nib, ink that had signed a hundred exits for other women. Housemistress O'Dill didn't look up from her clipboard. Show me. Then that stays on your chartboard. Initials only. Everything else goes to long term store tonight. Yes, housemistress. The crinkle of my diaper under the nursery smock was loud in the cold room. I'd leaked a little on the walk over, and warmth spread through the padding when I shifted, the smell of me thick enough to make my cunt throb before I could stop it. I used to walk into court dry and sharp. Now my body answered a warehouse full of my old clothes. Three days left, day twenty seven. Tomorrow the study would be ready, and I still told myself day thirty was a hearing I could win. Do you know the clause? O'Dill said, not really asking, as we walked the service corridor toward the sweet rot of warmed formula. My nipples hardened against the thin top. Gratitude sat in my chest like a stone I couldn't cough up, and I hated that I was grateful she walked slow enough for my padded waddle to keep pace. The nursery door clicked shut behind us. Nightlight glow, pink walls, my crib. Not a metaphor, the actual barred bed where I slept now. A bottle waited on the side table, rubber nipple, steamed milk laced with vanilla and the house vitamin mix that made my mouth water and my shame burn all at once. Sit on the rug. I sank down, the thick diaper ballooning between my legs, and she straddled my lap from the front, knees pinning the bulk so the wet center ground against my clit through the plastic. A slow squelch. I gasped. Drink first. Then we talk about what you're throwing away. She tipped the bottle to my lips and I opened, swallowing the warm sweet flow the way I'd been trained to because I had been. I suckled and hated how my eyes stung. Not sadness, relief, filthy relief. When it was half gone she pulled it away, wiped the string of spit from my lip, and pushed her thumb into my mouth instead. I sucked. Salt of her skin. Taste of my own drool. You packed your own wardrobe, you zipped the last bag, you asked to keep the pen that wrote other women's freedom. Say what that means. It means I'm not packing to leave. Louder. It means I'm not packing to leave. The words left bruises on my tongue. I'd spent three weeks building objections, finding the aunt's file, the waiver I'd initialed without reading. I could still stand up still file. Still walk out and sue the estate until I died of boredom. I didn't want to. She unbuttoned my smock and bared my tits, cool air against them, her palms cupping and weighing. Tomorrow I read your thirty day file in the study. You may object. You may void the year and reclaim your autonomy on paper. Tonight you're still a woman who could walk. Remember that when I mark you. Mark My cunt clenched, empty, no plug since the morning change. I'd been allowed to feel hollow on purpose. She brought out a small case, not a toy case. Ink, a sterile fine tipped pen, a stencil plate. Permanent claiming. Only if you stay past objection you understand. I petitioned in. I signed. You signed a waiver you didn't read. This is different. This is you awake. She pressed the stencil above the diaper line on my left hip. Her tape would always hide it in public, but I would know. Alcohol swab bit my nose. Hold still. The pen buzzed. Not a parlor gun. Fern hollow precision. Tiny letters, her initials mine, a date. It burned sharp and my thighs shook, the wet diaper squishing against her knee as I jerked. Mine, she said. Say it. Yours Mine. Yours, house mistress. I'm yours. The buzz stopped. She peeled the stencil back. O and V intertwined in black under my skin, small enough to hide, big enough to ruin me every time I saw it. I moaned with no touch on my clit at all. Just the burn, the words, the taste of milk still on my tongue. She stood and unbuckled the harness at her hips. Black silicone cock, thick, already slick with coconut scented lube. On the changing table. Diaper off, ass up. Paper crinkled under my knees. She tore the tapes and the heavy diaper fell away, cool air hitting soaked skin, piss warm at the front, my own arousals stringing between my thighs. She balled it up and dropped it in the bin and the smell rose. Ammonia and cunt, my face burning. She didn't wipe me clean first. She wanted the mess on me. Lube only on your asshole. Your pussy stays dirty tonight. Cold gel on my rim. One finger working and past the flinch and burn until my hole gave, then a second scissoring me open. I bit the paper sheet. You took the aunt's year. You finished what she couldn't. You'll take my cock and your ass while you thank me for keeping you. Thank you for keeping me, house mistress. Three fingers now, twisting, my ass burning wide open. I sobbed into the table, gratitude and filth knotted together until I couldn't tell them apart. The wand came next, pressed first to my hip, still weeping ink and skin fluid, buzzing pain and pleasure together until I screamed into my arm. Quiet! This is respite, you do not perform, you receive. She slid the cock into my ass in one long push, inch by inch, my rim stretching obscene around the girth until I couldn't breathe. Then the wand found my clit, low and steady, as she pulled out an inch and pushed back, wet slap of lube and skin, squelching my ass, my pussy dripping untouched onto the paper. Tell me what you are. A diaper slut. Deeper. A piss-soaked whore who comes in fernhollow. She fucked my ass slow and deep, each stroke grinding the wand harder against my swelling clit, the room thick with the smell of sex and milk and ink. She slid a small metal plug into my pussy, cold, seating with a click, and I was full front and back, hip burning, ass stretched, clit buzzing, the plug shifting with every thrust. I was going to come huge and ugly. Not yet. She pulled the wand away, left the cock buried, and I wined around the ache of it. Beg in nursery words. Please let your baby come. Please use my ass. I'm your marked little bitch. I don't want to leave, I don't want my suits back. I want your diaper and your bottle and your cock in my shithole. She pressed the wand on high against my perineum, vibration threading through the plug, the cock, my clit by proxy, and I shattered, ass spasming around silicone, pussy gushing around the plug, come soaking the paper beneath me while I grunted like an animal. More too much. Don't stop, fuck. She didn't stop. She fucked me through it, wand back on my clit, a second crest building cruelly before the first had finished, my vision widing at the edges, tears and drool mixing on the table. Count nothing, just take. I took. When she pulled out my asshole gaped, cool air kissing the open rim, and she shoved the plug from my pussy into my ass instead, bigger, colder than two fingers beside it, three, four, stretching, my spine screaming. Fist Please ruin me. You're already ruined. She tucked her thumb and worked her knuckles past my rim until her fist was buried inside me, impossible and full, and I screamed while the nightlight blurred through my tears. She held the wand to my clit without moving her fist, vibration and fullness both, and I came again, harder, ass milking her hand, pussy squirting on the table, the smell of my own cum and her lube thick enough to taste. She worked the fist in slow rotations until I gaped wide and couldn't close, red and twitching in the mirror on the wall. That is what leaving would cost you to heal, she said. You would still heal, you would still leave if you object. No. No objection. She cleaned me then, warm cloth, powder, a fresh thick diaper, tape pulled loud and tight, the tattoo hidden under the waistband, my secret, her property. She lifted me into the crib and gave me the bottle again, and I drank half asleep with her hand resting on my marked hip through the plastic. Day twenty eight Study at four. Sable delivers your pen to the chartboard. Your suits go into the vault at dawn. If you change your mind before midnight on day thirty, say so in the study and the mark means nothing legally. It means something to me. She kissed my forehead. Tasted like milk. Sleep, Vera. Tomorrow we begin the end of your trial. I cradled the thought of the pen they'd take at dawn and slide into the nursery chart slot. Three days left on the clock I used to think was a gavel. My ass ached sweetly, my hip burned, gratitude pooling in the wet diaper warming under me again. I had zipped my own exit shut. Midnight on day thirty waited. I would not open my mouth to object. I would open it for the verdict instead. The study clock struck twelve when Housemistress O'Deal fanned my case file across the desk. My own intake packet lay on top, the objection waiver clipped to the corner. My initials scrawled across it without reading. Day thirty. Zero days left on a window I'd spent a month pretending was a hearing I could win. She slid my fountain pen toward me across the oak. The same pen that had once carved alimony out of men who thought themselves untouchable. Your closing statement, counselor? My mouth went dry. The thick diaper under my nursery smock was already warm from the walk down the corridor, crinkling when I shifted on the hard chair they'd put me in for verdicts. I'd dressed for court in my head. Fernhollow had dressed me for settlement. She lifted the waiver and read my initials aloud, every line I'd marked on day one. Consent to remain subject to the twelve-month clause. Irrevocable upon failure to object before midnight tonight. No appeal. I'd signed myself in. The file beneath it was worse. Every argument I'd lost in this house, laid out in her handwriting and mine, chart notes, the plug schedule, the wand sessions logged by the minute, my aunt's file clipped at the back, dead six months short of her year, my name in her beneficiary line like a debt. You petitioned in, O'Dill said. You named yourself heir to her unfinished term. You don't get to pretend otherwise tonight. Heat climbed my neck. My pussy clenched on empty traitor flesh that had learned fern hollow faster than my brain ever would. I was still the attorney in the chair. I was also the thing in the charts that came when told. Closing statement, she said again. Object and the year voids. You walk or speak, and the window takes your words as final. I opened my mouth to dismantle her, to cite procedure, tear the waiver apart the way I'd once torn prenups. What came out was smaller. I petition to stay. I petition to remain at Fernhollow for the full year. I withdraw objection. I consent. Silence. Her eyes on me flat and full. My hand shook, not from fear, but from the wrong kind of stillness in my chest, like a case I'd stopped fighting because I'd finally read what I was defending. Odile closed the file. On the record? Verdic entered. She rounded the desk, took my chin between her fingers, and kissed me once. Hard tongue in my mouth. I moaned into it like the slut the file said I was. She pulled back and hooked a finger in the collar at my throat. Up claiming is an ink alone. She led me to the low bench where they strapped residence for sealing. I climbed on my knees, diaper bulging, plastic loud under my weight. She buckled my wrist to the rings. Spread your thighs. I did the diaper sagging, soaked with nerves and heat, squelching when she pressed her palm flat against it. Say what you are now. A resident, your resident. I chose it. Louder, what kind? A diapered whore who petitioned to stay. I kept cunt in a wet diaper because I signed for it. Good. She tore the tapes, stripped the ruined diaper away, and spanked my bare ass until my cheeks burned. Then two fingers shoved into my pussy without warning curling hard. Wet hole always was. She worked me open, three fingers for, thumb grinding my clit, until I humped her hand like an animal, dignity gone with the diaper. From the drawer she took the thick black plug already greased, and pressed it to my asshole. I clenched. She slapped my thigh. Relax or I fist you dry. I breathed out and it seated, my rim burning around it as she twisted at once. Next the wand, cordless, alive in her grip. She pinned it to my clit and turned it to high. No comin' until I count three. The vibration smashed into me, the plug sharpening every pulse. One she pulled back an inch. I sobbed. Thank you, housemistress. Again. She mashed it back and the first orgasm tore out of me anyway, cunt spasming cum gushing onto the bench. That was theft, she said. We start over. She flipped me onto my back and straddled my face, no panties, pussy lowering slick and hot onto my mouth. Lick! Tell me why you stayed. I tongued her clit, drowning in her taste. Because I read the waiver. Because I want to be kept. Because freedom is walking out and I don't want it. She ground down until she came on my tongue, and I swallowed every drop like proof. Then the harness, the thick rubber cock lining up at my entrance, driving in one stroke while the plug filled me from the other side. I howled, stretched open front and back. Take it! You chose this house. She fucked me in long strokes, leaning down to bite my nipple through the smock. Count your orgasms or I stop. One the second built fast and brutal. Two She angled harder, hitting my cervix. Three The third broke me. I convulsed, squirting around the rubber cock, and she didn't stop, pounding through it until a fourth rung out of me, smaller, meaner, oversensitive. Please fuck your cat bitch. Please don't stop. I thank you. She pulled out, unbuckled the harness, and replaced it with her fist, pushing into my cunt slow, knuckles stretching me obscenely wide while her other hand found my clit. Fifth. Give it to me. I came so hard I blacked out for a second, asshole fluttering around the plug. She pulled free with a wet pop and made me clean her skin with my tongue. On your knees again. She unlocked the cuffs. From the cabinet she took the thickest diaper I'd ever seen at Fern Hollow, printed with the house crest, meant for year long residence. Powder, then the bulk, tapes pulled vicious tight so the core pressed against my sore clit. Verdic seal. She pressed the soaked mass against me, grinding, and the weight alone nearly made me come again. Not yet. Ink first. Back at the desk, she made me read the consent to remain form aloud myself, career pause, wardrobe archive, body under house protocol, no exit for three hundred and sixty five days except medical emergency. I signed Vera. Full signature? Then initialed each subsection, hand steady. She turned to the nursery chart, powder feed orgasm log, discipline marks. And I dipped the fountain pen, the one token of my old life, into the first box of year one. The pen suits you better here, she said. She pressed the diaper again, slow circles through the layers until a sixth orgasm milked out of me, soft and endless, muffled by the bulk, urine flooding the fresh core while I came, helpless, grateful. You'll thank me when it's done, she murmured at my ear. I believed her. She walked me to the nursery. My old suits and heels were already gone from the wardrobe into long-term archive, my career formally paused in the same ink as my stay. Only the pen remained clipped to my chartboard. In the crib room the night light glowed, and through the window headlights cut the dark, a car door, footsteps on gravel. O'Deal glanced at the hall monitor, then at me. Next envelope arrived early. A woman's voice in the entry hall, confused, asking for directions, another file beginning. Odile tucked the blanket under my chin. My diaper was heavy again, warm, mine. The housekeeps who chooses it, she said. I closed my eyes. The woman who'd won everyone else's freedom had read every line this time and signed herself in. My verdict was settled, the year started under my own hand, and I would stay kept on purpose until the last day came round again. If this awakens something in you, the full journey waits in the diapered woman. Link in the show notes. Sleep well.