I smirked down at my sleeping girlfriend as I gently manoeuvred her into position for a nappy change. Charlotte had been wetting the bed at night for two weeks now. Her new problem had started not long after she’d confessed to cheating on me, the result of a wild, drunken night of partying. She’d been tearful and full of remorse, begging me not to leave her – I’d forgiven her, but I knew I had to make sure it could never happen again.
Turning her into a silly little bedwetter was the perfect solution. All it had taken were some subliminal messages in her music playlists, and Charlotte’s night-time bladder control had been reduced to the level of a toddler’s. The shame of wetting the bed every night had made her much more sweet and submissive, and I knew there was no chance of her cheating on me again, not now she piddled her pants in her sleep like a little girl. Charlotte was far too embarrassed by her childish new habit to sleep anywhere except cuddled up next to me, and in any case, other men tended not to be attracted to a woman who woke up every morning in a pissy nappy.
I undid the tapes and pulled the front of her nappy down, exposing the sodden padding and her gleaming pussy. As I got to work cleaning her up with a pack of baby wipes, she shifted on the bed, and her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she stared sleepily down at herself, and then her face turned bright red when she realised she had woken up in the middle of a nappy change, just like a baby.
“Morning little Lottie,” I cooed, making her cringe at my condescending tone. “Looks like someone made wetties in the night again.”
Charlotte made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
“Botty up,” I said, taking her by the ankles and lifting her legs into the air so I could slide her nappy out from underneath her bottom. “Good girl.”
“Why is this happening to me!?” she whined, thumping the bed petulantly with her fists. “I feel like a fucking baby.”
I gave a sharp smack to her bottom, making her squeal. “Don’t use bad language, Lottie,” I admonished her gently. “And hold still. Don’t be a wiggly little girl while I’m trying to change your nappy.”
“I’m not a little girl!” she snapped, trying and failing to look severe while lying on her back in the diaper position. “And my name is Charlotte, not Lottie.”
I held up the heavy, pissy nappy for her to see. “You can complain about being patronised when you stop peeing yourself at night,” I said firmly, plopping her nappy down beside her head.
She blushed furiously, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the used nappy next to her face, but did not retort.
“Imagine being your age and still wetting the bed,” I went on. “How many other girls your age need their boyfriends to change their wet night-time nappies?”
“I don’t need you to change my nappies!” she whined. “You’re the one who told me I wasn’t allowed to do it myself!”
“Do you remember when you tried changing into them yourself?” I asked sternly. “You leaked all over the bed. Do you think I want to wake up in sheets you’ve gone potty in? No, you’ve lost the right to change your own nappies, little one. You can’t be trusted to do it right.”
Charlotte sulked while I finished wiping her bottom. When I was satisfied she was clean, I gave her a tickle on her tummy, forcing a reluctant giggle from her, then I bent down to plant a quick kiss on her bare pussy. “All done, little one.”
Charlotte scowled at me. She was probably trying to look stern, but it just made her look adorable.
I picked up her sodden nappy and held it out for her to take. “Be a good girl and put this in your nappy bin, okay?”
Blushing, Charlotte took her soaking wet nappy, pinching it between two fingers and holding it as far away from her as she could, a look of mingled disgust and shame on her face. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it.
I smirked as I watched her cross the room bare-bottomed to deposit her soggy nappy in the large white bucket in the corner. I’d bought it especially for her nappies. It gave the room a faint, persistent smell of pee, but I didn’t mind. Charlotte complained about it, but I insisted it would help incentivise her to stay dry at night by reminding her of her embarrassing habit. In reality, it was only to help her sink further into babyhood.
Because I wasn’t going to stop at turning her into a bedwetter. Charlotte just couldn’t be trusted to be an adult. Her cheating had proved that. She was too immature and impulsive, and a lifetime of wet and stinky nappies would suit her much better than grown-up underwear. It would be diapers 24/7 for my little lady, and after that, slowly, incrementally, the full baby treatment; bibs and highchairs, cribs and baby toys, pacifiers and baby bottles and adorable little-girl frocks, until Charlotte forgot what it was like to be an adult at all.
“Good girl,” I said, once she had dropped her nappy into the bucket with a wet thump.
Her new morning ritual complete, Charlotte got herself dressed, sliding her underwear up her legs, not knowing it was one of the last pairs she would ever wear.
I watched her, imagining how she would look toddling around the house in nothing but a full nappy, completely incontinent, completely dependent on me, reduced to nothing but an overgrown baby. It wouldn’t be long now.
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I smirked down at my sleeping girlfriend as I gently manoeuvred her into position for a nappy change. Charlotte had been wetting the bed at night for two weeks now. Her new problem had started not long after she’d confessed to cheating on me, the result of a wild, drunken night of partying. She’d been tearful and full of remorse, begging me not to leave her – I’d forgiven her, but I knew I had to make sure it could never happen again.
Turning her into a silly little bedwetter was the perfect solution. All it had taken were some subliminal messages in her music playlists, and Charlotte’s night-time bladder control had been reduced to the level of a toddler’s. The shame of wetting the bed every night had made her much more sweet and submissive, and I knew there was no chance of her cheating on me again, not now she piddled her pants in her sleep like a little girl. Charlotte was far too embarrassed by her childish new habit to sleep anywhere except cuddled up next to me, and in any case, other men tended not to be attracted to a woman who woke up every morning in a pissy nappy.
I undid the tapes and pulled the front of her nappy down, exposing the sodden padding and her gleaming pussy. As I got to work cleaning her up with a pack of baby wipes, she shifted on the bed, and her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she stared sleepily down at herself, and then her face turned bright red when she realised she had woken up in the middle of a nappy change, just like a baby.
“Morning little Lottie,” I cooed, making her cringe at my condescending tone. “Looks like someone made wetties in the night again.”
Charlotte made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
“Botty up,” I said, taking her by the ankles and lifting her legs into the air so I could slide her nappy out from underneath her bottom. “Good girl.”
“Why is this happening to me!?” she whined, thumping the bed petulantly with her fists. “I feel like a fucking baby.”
I gave a sharp smack to her bottom, making her squeal. “Don’t use bad language, Lottie,” I admonished her gently. “And hold still. Don’t be a wiggly little girl while I’m trying to change your nappy.”
“I’m not a little girl!” she snapped, trying and failing to look severe while lying on her back in the diaper position. “And my name is Charlotte, not Lottie.”
I held up the heavy, pissy nappy for her to see. “You can complain about being patronised when you stop peeing yourself at night,” I said firmly, plopping her nappy down beside her head.
She blushed furiously, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the used nappy next to her face, but did not retort.
“Imagine being your age and still wetting the bed,” I went on. “How many other girls your age need their boyfriends to change their wet night-time nappies?”
“I don’t need you to change my nappies!” she whined. “You’re the one who told me I wasn’t allowed to do it myself!”
“Do you remember when you tried changing into them yourself?” I asked sternly. “You leaked all over the bed. Do you think I want to wake up in sheets you’ve gone potty in? No, you’ve lost the right to change your own nappies, little one. You can’t be trusted to do it right.”
Charlotte sulked while I finished wiping her bottom. When I was satisfied she was clean, I gave her a tickle on her tummy, forcing a reluctant giggle from her, then I bent down to plant a quick kiss on her bare pussy. “All done, little one.”
Charlotte scowled at me. She was probably trying to look stern, but it just made her look adorable.
I picked up her sodden nappy and held it out for her to take. “Be a good girl and put this in your nappy bin, okay?”
Blushing, Charlotte took her soaking wet nappy, pinching it between two fingers and holding it as far away from her as she could, a look of mingled disgust and shame on her face. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it.
I smirked as I watched her cross the room bare-bottomed to deposit her soggy nappy in the large white bucket in the corner. I’d bought it especially for her nappies. It gave the room a faint, persistent smell of pee, but I didn’t mind. Charlotte complained about it, but I insisted it would help incentivise her to stay dry at night by reminding her of her embarrassing habit. In reality, it was only to help her sink further into babyhood.
Because I wasn’t going to stop at turning her into a bedwetter. Charlotte just couldn’t be trusted to be an adult. Her cheating had proved that. She was too immature and impulsive, and a lifetime of wet and stinky nappies would suit her much better than grown-up underwear. It would be diapers 24/7 for my little lady, and after that, slowly, incrementally, the full baby treatment; bibs and highchairs, cribs and baby toys, pacifiers and baby bottles and adorable little-girl frocks, until Charlotte forgot what it was like to be an adult at all.
“Good girl,” I said, once she had dropped her nappy into the bucket with a wet thump.
Her new morning ritual complete, Charlotte got herself dressed, sliding her underwear up her legs, not knowing it was one of the last pairs she would ever wear.
I watched her, imagining how she would look toddling around the house in nothing but a full nappy, completely incontinent, completely dependent on me, reduced to nothing but an overgrown baby. It wouldn’t be long now.