The Big Boy Bucket - Part I

CWIS'S NOTE: Up today I have the promised 'Big Boy Bucket' blog entry. This is kind of a continuation of my What Is Abysitting? page from the blog, but with less strictness. 

During my recent visit to CAPCON I was fortunate to finally meet up with Baby Spencey - a longtime Abysitter.com contributor and my online fwiend for almost six years! I also got to meet his daddy, Daddy Paul, who met Spencey after seeing so many of his photoshoots right here on this blog. Spencey and Paul also introduced me to a brand new friend, ShyTony. 

The four of us got together and took a whole bunch of photos of the 'Big Boy Bucket' and parts of the toddlerization process. This is Part I - Part II will be coming soon. 

I'll be looking for some abies local to me to participate in other 'toddlerization' photos in the future. If you're around central Florida and not hooked in to any sort of diaper drama, hit me up: abysitter@gmail.com. [18+]

THE BIG BOY BUCKET

PART I

You sit on the couch,

flicking through your text messages. 

You want to be babied,

but now that you're here it's a little...

awkward.

I know you've had a bit of stress back home, 

and a lack of opportunities to pad up lately. 

I can see that you desperately want to be little,

but you don't know where to begin. 

I've promised to toddlerize you, 

and make you feel like the 'true you' - two. 

You don't seem very little, though, at this moment. 

You sit across from me,

a very serious expression on your face,

and I watch you concentrate on those text messages

like your life depends on it. 

It's time to set things straight... 

I walk over and set the 'Big Boy Bucket' down

on the table with a sort of thud. 

You look up, startled for a moment. 

You've seen pictures of the bucket before

on my blog. 

Now it's inches in front of you. 

I can tell you don't know what to make of it. 

You read the label like it's a poison warning lol. 

"Pick it up and look inside," I instruct. 

You obediently comply.

The look on your face says it all... 

"Find the diaper pins and I'll let you

put the diaper on yourself," I tell you.

You move everything around inside the bucket,

but you don't see any diaper pins. 

You look closer... 

"Just kidding," I tell you. "There are no pins. 

Nor is there any way you're putting

that thing on yourself." 

I stand up, snap my fingers, point to the couch, 

and command you to lie down. 

You do.

Your face is beet red now. 

I'm not sure if it's because of what's to come, 

or because of the diaper pin trick. 

It doesn't matter. 

I put my finger to my lips, 

and tell you, "SHHHH." 

You know this means there's no more talking. 

Not that you could think of something 

to say at this moment, anyway... 

I pour the contents of the bucket onto the table. 

Diaper - check. 

Wipes - check. 

Powder - check. 

I'm doing my checklist out loud, 

as you lay quietly, taking everything in. 

I stand over you, gazing into your eyes as I 

lean down, undo your belt buckle,

and then pull your pants down and off in one

expert fluid motion. 

You look surprised by how fast it's all happening,

and your look of surprise intensifies

as I pull your feet up toward your head,

your bottom in the air, now. 

I slide the diaper up underneath you,

get you squeaky clean with just a few wipes

- and some intense wiping - 

and send a cloud of powder reigning down

across your torso, tummy, and li'l squirter. 

"I actually was going to ask to use the bathroom," 

you say. 

Just for talking

I flick you

somewhere nobody wants to be flicked,

and then shake my head

and point to your diaper.

The fact that your face

turns a much deeper shade of red

indicates that you understand. 

Potty? That's a big nope.

You're silent again. 

I tape each tape tightly,

making sure your diaper is on you 

like a second skin. I like diapers nice and snug. 

"Stand up," I order,

as I sit down across from you. 

You stand, putting your hands on your diaper, 

rubbing your bottom, and appearing to be 

marveling at its snugness.

I can't help but smile. 

"Hands at your sides," I cut in. 

You obediently stand, diapered, with your hands

hanging down. 

I let you stand and wait, awkwardly,

for two or three minutes

as I check my own text messages. 

You look toward your phone - I know you're tempted 

to pick it up and check your own texts - 

but you think better of it, 

and remain standing, 

silently,

waiting for me to finish.

I finish reading my phone and set it down on the desk. 

Full disclosure: I didn't really have any text messages. 

My phone is actually on 'airplane mode' now - 

(I take sitting pretty seriously. )

Still, you need to see that you're on my time, now. 

If I want to check my texts, or watch a movie,

or go out into the kitchen and bake a cake (lol), 

you'll stand quietly and wait. 

"Little boys should be seen and not heard"

is one old-fashioned motto

that fits modern-day abysitting well. 

That's what being my little is all about. 

"Take off your socks, and put them into the bucket," 

I finally command. 

You look relieved to have something to do, 

and comply quickly. 

I give you instructions, one item at a time,

making sure there's at least a half minute of 

awkward silence in between. 

"Put your shoes in the bucket, Spencer." 

You do. 

[awkward pause]

"Pick up your pants, fold them neatly, 

and put them on top of your shoes."

Quiet obedience follows. 

[awkward pause]

"Turn off any electronics you've brought with you,

and put them in the bucket." 

"Does that mean - " you begin to ask, 

but I snap my fingers and silence you. 

"Off, then in," I order. 

You obey, but I see you wishing for one last peek 

at your phone before you drop it in the bucket. 

Smartly, you resist the urge. 

"Put your car keys in, now." 

You look at me as if I might steal your car

and take it for a joyride. 

I look at you sternly, and you obediently drop them in. 

"Driver's license? Passport? Any other ID?" I ask.

You carefully pull out your identification,

handing it to me as if I need it to fill out

paperwork or something. 

I roll my eyes, chuckle, and toss it into the bucket. 

"From now on you're Baby Spencey," 

I tell you. "Not whatever that ID says." 

You nod. 

Once your cigarettes and rolling papers

top everything off, I tell you to pick up the bucket

and hold it up in the air. 

"What do the contents of this bucket represent

to you?" I ask you. 

I sit back, awaiting your answer. 

You look thoughtful, for a few moments, 

and I watch you mull my question over. 

"Well," you begin,

and I can tell you've come up with

something both thoughtful and introspective. 

I shake my head, cutting you off.

You roll your eyes. 

Tricked again... 

"I'd love to hear your thoughts, Spence...

some other time," 

I tell you as I hold up my phone and take a pic. 

You hold your bucket up, looking uncomfortable. 

I take a good minute looking at the pic, 

then take a few more while you wait,

for good measure. 

My time, little bro... 

I snap my fingers and point to the floor,

and you slowly get down on your knees, 

careful not to drop the bucket. 

I motion for you to follow me, 

and you do, awkwardly crawl-walking behind me. 

I stop by the bathroom and point to the toilet. 

You know better than to speak, 

but you look at me with a look of horror on your face. 

I read your mind. 

"Not in the toilet, on top of it," 

I command, rolling my eyes, 

and you look relieved as you obediently set

the contents of your life

on the lid of the commode. 

Now it's time to get serious. 

"Until I dismiss you later, you're in toddler mode," 

I tell you.

You smile a little, but blush at the same time. 

"Your dinner will come out of a baby bottle. 

Or a little jar with Gerber on the label.

You won't even see the potty again, 

or anything else in this room, 

until it's time to leave. 

Nod if you understand." 

You nod, and obey my gestured instructions

to crawl backward, 

across the bathroom floor,

away from all of your possessions. 

I push your stuff into the bucket,
put the top on and sort of seal it, and

point for you to crawl out into the bedroom.

I follow you, closing the door behind us. 

I can't be sure, but you seem more relaxed now. 

Like watching all your grownup stuff

be sealed in a container

and left in a room you're not allowed to enter

may have had a positive

psychological effect. 

I certainly hope it has...

that's the basic premise of the bucket. 

You're backed up against the playpen, 

looking at it out of the corner of your eye,

and you are finally smiling a little. 

You look at me, as if waiting for your next set

of instructions, but you already know

what they're going to be. 

"Climb in," I command, 

and I lift you a little, helping you climb the wall

and descend into your new playspace. 

You instinctively pick up an inflatable toy, 

clutch it,

and look around... 

you spy a plushie, coloring books and crayons...

you're even more relaxed now, 

and I can see it. 

"Is wi'l Spencey thuwsty?" I coo. 

You giggle and hold your big, inflatable baba

toward me. 

"Don't worry, Baby Spence," I assure you

with a smile, "you'll be slurping on the real thing

soon enough." 

Now you're starting to get silly,

and I can see that you're allowing yourself

to be transformed to 'toddler mode'. 

"What an adorable wi'l squirt," 

I say in babytalkanese. 

You smile shyly, and hold your bottle out to me. 

I reach in and tousle your hair, instead. 

"There's that big smile I've seen on Tumblr," 

I say. You nod vigorously. 

"Big smile for Cwis!" you say, giggling. 

Now you're feeling little. 

You notice a pacifier, and pick it up, holding it out to me. 

I gently take it from your hands

and pop it in your mouth, 

clipping your paci clip to your shirt. 

Wait a minute... a shirt? 

How did Cwis not notice you somehow managed

to keep your shirt on?!

I think about giving you a smack 

across your padded butt,

but I can see how relaxed you are, 

finally, so I don't. 

I know that your daddy will be stopping by shortly. 

I'll let him decide how to handle this.

I watch you play for a few minutes. 

You're coloring in that coloring book

like it's your job, 

and you look so adorable in your playpen

that I suddenly realize that I wish

that it could be. 

Growing up should be optional. 

Working from the nursery, in diapers and a playpen,

should be encouraged. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... 

You look up and toward the living room. 

You look at me quizzically, 

as if to say

were you expecting company?

I haven't mentioned that Daddy Paul 

will be stopping by.

He wanted you to have a little time alone

with me and the 'Big Boy Bucket'. 

I open the door and let him in, 

and he spies the problem immediately. 

"How'd the baby get to keep his shirt?" 

Daddy Paul asks. 

I admit that I failed to notice, 

and invite Daddy to take it off of you. 

You look surprised as he reaches for it, 

but obediently put your arms into the air

and let him pull it off of you.

With your shirt off you're even more adorable - 

and even more relaxed. 

You're going ham on that coloring book, now,

and I hear you explaining

the plot on each page

to Pomsky,

my little stuffed Pomeranian-Husky mix

that you seem to have adopted. 

It's adorable. 

Daddy Paul and I decide to let you

do your thing, and we sit back and relax, 

having some grownup conversation

while you babble away, 

choosing colors and crayons, 

taking your little project very seriously. 

"Spencey has a puppy back home - Banner," 

Paul explains. He tells me how you both called home

and talked to Banner that morning, 

and the idea of you communicating with your pup

through the phone makes me smile. 

I fix drinks for Paul and myself, and we sit, 

talking about goings-on and CAPCON,

the people we've met, and other

'grownup' talk. 

Once or twice I see your ears perk up, 

and I can tell you want to contribute to the conversation. 

You think better of it, and continue

your murmured convo with your new canine friend. 

Your coloring is finally finished. 

You tear out the finished page and hold it in the air proudly.

I take it, and Paul and I both agree

you and Pomsky have done

an outstanding job. 

I peel a tape off an old diaper in the diaper pail

and stick it to your masterpiece, 

hanging it on the fridge.

You beam broadly.  

Daddy and I are finished with our drinks now,

and I tousle your hair again

as I walk into the kitchen to fix one for you. 

I push the contents of the refrigerator around. 

Coca-Cola? Went well with my Jack,

but not for Baby Spencey. 

Blue Moon? Not for the baby... 

There it is, in the back... 

good old fashioned Vitamin D milk. 

I pour it into a baby bottle,

pop it in the microwave, and it heats up nicely. 

I let Daddy Paul know it's feeding time,

and he helps you out of your playpen. 

You happily toddle across the floor, 

waiting for him by the couch. 

Paul picks you up and puts you on his lap, 

and you go to town on that bottle. 

By the time you're finished, you're wet. 

"Look, look!" you exclaim with excitement, 

pointing to the front of your diaper. 

"LittlePawz all gone!" 

I have to admit, it's adorable. 

You lay back, contentedly, 

and look like you're about to pass out. 

"It's too early for naptime," I say,

and you giggle and close your eyes. 

They're quickly re-opened by a knock at the door. 

You don't know it yet,

but outside stands a fwiend for Baby Spencey - 

and he's eagerly waiting the chance

to go from 20s to 2, 

just like you.

Let the toddlerization begin, again... 

TO BE CONTINUED... 

The Big Boy Bucket - Part I Coming Soon...

Uh oh... looks like someone is in for a surprise... 

Our little friend Baby Spencey, 

Daddy Paul, and a new friend posed for some pictures

at CAPCON 2016. 

I'll be posting some

diapered adorableness, plus the 2016 revision of

"What Is Abysitting"

soon. 

Stay tuned... 

UPDATE: What Is Abysitting?

I'm working on updating the section about abysitting.

CLICK HERE FOR 'WHAT IS ABYSITTING'

If you have any particular aspects of abysitting you are curious about please email me at abysitter@gmail.com. Likewise, if you'd like to contribute any pictures for this section, which will eventually be linked from the front page of Abysitter.com, email me. 18+ please.

Return of the Big Boy Bucket

I've posted them before, but fresh off of an upload to RUPadded and Facebook I thought I'd post 'em here again. I get more comments about the Big Boy Bucket than I do about any other pictures on my profile/s and/or blog... damn. People love the concept of taking their adulthood and locking it far away, apparently...

Oh, and for the record... no, nobody has used the Big Boy Bucket for a toilet. Yet.

Abysitting Part II: Un-Potty Training

Interested in what being abysat is all about? I'm a specialist in toddlerization. (Yes, I made that word up hehe.) I've diapered more than seventy people, and done at least a dozen abysitting (or pup sitting) sessions. 

The number of people who ask me to describe what I'd do during a session is staggering; what used to be fun to banter about has become little more than tedious typing, in most cases, the result of too many people who'd squirt and Merc - my little term for ejaculating and jettin', hah. (I go through the trouble to give someone a description of a session so he can j/o and be out? Wow). 

So I'm cheating. From now on I'll be able to link to this blog. This, my little diaper friends, is what abysitting is all about...

"Un-Potty Training"

I've abysat abies. I've diapered DLs. And I've put people into diapers who couldn't stop laughing because they hadn't worn one since they were actually babies and didn't think they'd wear one ever again. 

Some people want to be toddlerized. Other people prefer just to be padded. And still others count the seconds until they can pull off their Pamper and leave with their pesos in hand.

So I'm well aware that not everyone finds the idea of wetting and messing in a diaper appealing. 

For those of you who don't, come back later for a blog about... something different. 

For those of you who want to be toddlerized, however:

You're sitting on the floor, nakey. Waiting.

You've just watched everything you came with dropped into a big yellow bucket. It's locked up tight, under the sink. And you're left with nothing.

You look around. It's just you, your bare bottom, the floor, the walls, and a lot of space. 

Where are the toys?

Where are the stuffed bears?

Where are the... diapers?!

"Come here," I snap my fingers and point to my feet. You obediently get on all fours and begin the long crawl across the room. I stop you.

"On your tummy, toddler" I tell you. You comply.

You're crawling along, trying to keep your winkie from scraping the carpet, feeling slightly ridiculous. 

I begin walking. 

"This way."

You follow me down the hallway. We're heading towards a door. I push it open and flip on the light, walking in. That's clearly a bathroom sink you're seeing. You're thinking 'Why, of all places, is this guy taking me into a bathroom?!?!'

Don't fret... you won't be here long. Or, again. 

You crawl in behind me, and I snap my fingers and point to my feet.

"Fanny on the floor."

You obediently comply.

You're sitting now, the cold linoleum pressed up against your bottom. I snap my fingers and point down, turning my index finger in a circle. I don't have to say it, you know what you need to do: you turn around and face the corner, waiting.

You sit quietly, and as you do you hear rustling as I get things prepared. After a few minutes the anticipation is building; what's going to happen now? 

"Turn around."

You about-face, and your eyes immediately avert to the toilet. You see signage; you see diapers. You see diapering supplies. You see - a lack of toilet paper.

"Time for the test," I tell you. "When you came here you drove a car. You walked in with 2Xist on. You had kicks, a chain, a watch... even a cell phone. You were an adult."

You wait.

"Let's find out how adult you really are." 

I grab a baby wipe from the box, and your thoughts race. You're a pretty clean kid. You always, always wipe. You know your ass is clean. Right?!

Your face is red. I snap, point, and you come. 

"Feet up," I order. You think for a moment, then instintively lay back, on your back, and put your feet in the air. I tickle them for a second, and you're both giggling and annoyed at the same time. I stand over you, holding your feet, and rest my chin on them, looking straight down on you.

"White wipe and you're golden. Nasty wipe and you're bottom's red."

I kneel down and begin wiping. I begin with your tummy, and work my way down. You feel the coolness of the baby wipe on your skin. I run it along your penis, and cover every inch of your bum. You feel it come up between your cheeks, and the moment of reckoning is upon you.

It sweeps through the test area, and you wait. I look at it, then at you. Then back at it. I shake my head.

I hold it up. You look. Eek!

I push your feet towards your head, and your bottom is facing the air. 

I reach over to the sink and pull up a white plastic paddle. You didn't notice that among the diapers, powder, wipes. Suddenly you're feeling it across your behind. WHAP! It stings, and you're instantly regretful. Still, you're suspicious... you ALWAYS wipe! Maybe it's a prop wipe, you reason. Maybe he had one hidden with someone else's dookie on it.

Eww.

I whip out another wipe, reach down, and swipe. You're lucky this time; I look, and you wonder.

"As the driven snow," I tell you. You breathe a sigh of relief. I hold it up for proof, then drop it, and it falls through the air and lands on your tummy. You lay still, not sure whether to pick it up or let it stay there. I give your feet another tickle and reach over you, grabbing the diaper off the toilet seat.

"Lucky you weren't a stinky mess," I tell you. "Might've had to plop you into the tub." You look over at the bath and think about what being 'plopped' into it would have been like. Might've been fun! You wonder if the extra spankings would have been worth a bath...

I hold the diaper in the air, flapping it a little.

"Hafta go potty?" I ask you. You're do; it was a long drive, and you ended it by walking in and getting stripped and put on the floor. You nod, and I point to the toilet. You obediently get on your knees and waddle towards it, wondering if you should stand, kneel... what should you do?

I lift the toilet see up for you. You lean over the bowl and reach down to grab your junk. It's hard to urinate in front of someone you barely know, and you concentrate. You really had to go a minute ago. Now you're kneeling, embarassed and in uncomfortable silence. You force yourself, and you begin to squirt. And I stop you.

"Okay, okay... that's enough," I tell you. You force yourself to stop, incredulous. Is this guy serious? 

You're kneeling over the bowl, waiting. You still have to pee, and now you're uncomfortable. And embarassed. And, frankly, pretty irritated.

"Yea, my mistake," I tell you. "You don't need this. You've got... this!" and I flap the diaper. It bonks you in the face.

Grrrrr!

You wait. 'He must be kidding,' you think. 'Any minute now he's going to let me finish.' 

I take a piece of paper from the top of the sink and peel off a piece of tape, affixing it to the sign, and the sign to the toilet seat.

'He's not kidding,' you realize. 'Damn.'

"From this point forward, let's agree that the toilet has outgrown you," I say. You nod. I put the toilet seat back down.

"Say bye bye!" I tell you. 

"Bye, bye?" you dutifully repeat, sounding unsure. And I chuckle.

"Now give it a kiss. Tell it 'thanks for everything'!" 

You look at me, trying to judge whether I'm joking. I look sternly at you, and your head turns to the bowl. You hesitate, and I pick up the paddle. You stop hesitating.

"Thanks... for... everything," you mutter, kissing your hand and touching the toilet. I lower the paddle to your bottom and you feel it press against your cheeks.

"Try again."

"Thanks for everything!" you say, suddenly more animated. You wait. I wait. And you realize what I'm waiting for.

You lean over to the toilet seat, put your lips about a centimeter from it, and make a kissing noise. You sit back up and look at me. I shake my head. And, irritated, you lean back over, put your lips on the seat, and give it a quick kiss.

"Bye bye!" I say. "Tell it what it's meant to you over the years. And that you'll see it again in a few days."

This time you don't fool around. 

"Bye bye," you say. "I got to use you a lot, and..." you're thinking of what the fck you say to a toilet bowl, and you spit out some gibberish about 'always being there'. I laugh, and you're a little embarassed. It brings you back to the reality that you've been made, for no reason, to humiliate yourself. And, kiss someone's toilet. Wtf!

I point to the floor and snap. "Lay down!" And you do.

I reach down, grab your feet, and pull them back up towards me. I give each a kiss and a tickle. Then I reach down and grab the box of baby wipes, and set it on your feet. 

"Balance that... don't let it fall on the floor," I order. You hold very still, hoping that I've set it carefully. I leave the room and go into the kitchen. You hear me open the refrigerator. Pouring something. Ding goes the microwave. 

'He's heating a bottle,' you think. 

I return. The box is still in the air, and you're good. But you're getting sore, and you have a little bit of a cramp. I take a wipe out, reach down, and really dig into your behind. The box is still on the bottom of your feet, and your legs are quivering. I turn my attention to your winkie, and you're struggling to keep your feet still. But you do, and I tell you I'm proud of you as I remove it and put it on your tummy. The baby powder joins it, and I lift your legs a bit higher, grab the diaper off the sink, and flap it open. One end in my hands, the other end unfolds down and bonks your nose. 

"Smell good?" I ask, and you nod without thinking. The smell of diapers has always smelled good to you, and you feel yourself getting a little bit... hard. You hope that diaper goes on soon... you're not sure what'll happen if you're seen with a stiffy.

I kneel down and slide the diaper under your bottom. I lean in between your legs and push them apart, grabbing the powder off your stomach, twisting it open, and begin to pour. It's coolness contrasts with the warmth you're still feeling on your bottom, and you begin to enjoy it. 'Finally,' you think, 'some relief!'

You're covered in powder, now, and you begin to enjoy the smell. I begin rubbing it in, covering every inch of you. My hands are rubbing across your backside, your front side, your sides, and the insides of your thighs. Your skin has turned a shade of pale, covered in powder.

You look adorable.

I reach down and pull the diaper in between your legs, pushing it onto your tummy. It's tight, and I cinch it tighter as I pull the tapes, tugging them. This thing is strapped to you, and I push your feet down - finally - and you begin to relax. I order you onto your tummy and pat your bottom, and you can sense the powder cloud that forms as a result. It feels good, and you forget, for a moment, that you're laying on the floor of someone's bathroom, beside a toilet you've just been humiliated next to. You feel the diaper pressing against your junk, and in between your cheeks, and you're feeling toddlerish. 

Yay!

I step over you, straddling you as you lay, and you hear it: zippppppp. I lift the toilet seat, pull it out, and begin to piss. You're laying on the floor, cringing, hoping that nothing drips on you. It goes in the bowl - all of it. I piss for thirty seconds or more. I finish, zip up, and flush.

"Thanks for everything," I say to the toilet, and you roll your eyes, careful that I can't see you. "See you again. In about an hour." I wait until the flushing stops, then point to the toilet brush. You look at it, then up at me.

"Be good," I say, "and you won't have to scrub the bowl. With this," and I reach across the toilet brush and pick up, and hold up, a toothbrush.

"You definitely won't be using it," I say. "But I'm not promising you won't see it again. Chores are every night after dinner!"

You're not excited.

I order you to say your final goodbyes, and you do, unenthusiastically. I pour blue mouthwash into the bowl, and drop the lid. 'Mouthwash?' you wonder, and I explain. "Yellow and blue make green," I say. "And green makes red." You think of your bottom and know what I mean. 

"In case you tire of diapers," I say. "Now let's go." 

You crawl behind me, and as we leave the bathroom I close the door. You still have to wet, and you're wondering if you should now, or should later. You're afraid to go without being told, and you decide it might be better to live with the discomfort of a half-full, undrained bladder for the time being. 

You're now diapered. You've said your goodbyes to the toilet. You're still feeling a little ridiculous. And the fun is only to begin...

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