Television: Amazing Race

Did anyone catch The Amazing Race diaper episode? I admit I haven't watched since YouTuber KevJumba and his father got the boot, so I missed this. But I'm all for any show that puts its contestants in diapers.

Check the pic.

Please don't act like a BABY...

I get all sorts of creepy interactions as a result of being a blogger. I don't even share 5% of them here. But I've mentioned it before: it gets old.

If you message me or request me on a site and I take a while to reply, please do NOT throw a pissy fit. It makes you seem like a big baby - and not in a good way.

You know who you are.

Hall of Shame - Kinda

Every few weeks I link to an article I call the 'Hall of Shame' - usually an article about some whack-ass ABDL doing something dumb to make the entire ABDL community look bad.

We've had two people who pretended to be retarded so Craigslist sitters would change their diapers...

...a male nanny with a penchant for baby sex...

...a sex offender who liked to flash his baby diapers to kids on the playground, while handing out flyers for diaper sites...

...another sex offender with a huge collection of baby sex videos, busted for hiding a VCR in a dresser drawer...

...a firefighter accused of diapering an underage relative as discipline...

...a drunk who ran around on Halloween, in a diaper, screaming at teens...

...a millionaire accused in a murder-for-hire plot who allegedly negotiated while in diapers...

...and more.

This is important because the majority of society will only come to know about the ABDL lifestyle through one way: the news media.

Some may learn directly from us.

Others may see a segment on Jerry Springer, the Tyra show, or some other TV program.

Most, though, if they learn about the ABDL lifestyle at all, will learn because someone did something stupid.

The news media certainly isn't trying to find ABDL community members to write positive stories about us...

...so the next person who gets busted for diapering a minor will be our ambassador to the world.

Never mind that the vast majority of us are normal in every other way. Professionals. College students. Athletes. Musicians. Writers.

Good people who never make the news.

Sigh...

Today's 'Hall of Shame' entry isn't about actual ABDLs at all.

But it involves diapers and sippy cups, so I'll include it.

This is a sad. Fucking. Story.

And I've talked to enough ABDLs to know that some of us have actually been lead into this lifestyle because of something like this:

"They were arrested in September 2008 after Becky Tortellet sought help handling her grandson, then 9.

The state's Child Protective Services and Pima County Sheriff's Department were called when it was discovered the boy weighed 48 pounds.

Detectives found the boy living in a 49-by-41-inch closet that smelled of urine and feces and had no light. He was forced to wear a diaper, drink from a sippy cup and sleep on the floor."

When I was writing the blog entry series on 'What Makes Us Tick' - a series I'll be picking up again soon - I got an email from a college kid with a pretty horrifying story.

It could almost mirror the one above.

We ultimately decided not to use it, since it was pretty fucking terrible. But, long story short: my new ABDL friend was diapered as punishment, locked in a crate and whipped; a decade later he's a fairly well-adjusted undergrad - with a longing to be diapered, spanked, and caged.

Who knows if we'll see this 9yo in a decade or so. I can't say that I hope so, or that I hope not, because we know that many of us were lead here by traumas, and I like to say that many of us are as welcoming as we can be to everyone.

What I can say is... I wish stuff like this didn't have to happen to ANY child. As much as some of us fantasize about 'diaper discipline', stories like this one make you realize that children across the world are living the nightmare right now.

A whole new kind of 'Hall of Shame'?

If this could be my last entry with stories like these I'd be grateful.

But I suspect it won't be.

Full story below:

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/crime/article_8892d618-be84-5235-825a-67b4b3a06970.html

Remember: be responsible.

In The News: Learned Helplessness

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Putting Out Fires?

Some parents use the "putting out fires" technique to get their diaper-dependent toddlers to develop an interest in peeing. Ready... aim... fire.

WTF is up with these guys? Diapers in firefighting? Hazing? Anyone know what's going on here?

UPDATE: Check the comments for more information on the deal with these photos. Thanks to all who replied...

Dining In This Evening...

Meet Congressman David Wu

Read the story here.

Furry? Chinese tiger? You make the call...

What Do You Think About...

I'm trying something new, and I want your opinion.

What do you think about the new toolbar at the very bottom of the page?

Can you see it on the browser you're using?

Is it helpful... annoying...

Tight or suck?

Email me: abysitter@gmail.com and let me know what you think.

Damn. 2/14

Clearing out my iPhone photos and I came across this one. Damn, was saving it for 2/14, WTF!

Google rocks...

On Self-Discovery... Part II - The Hardy Boys, Dr. Ruth, & Other Characters

[CWIS'S NOTE]: This entry contains graphic sexual content. If you aren't a fan of sex, skip the entry and continue to the next one.

Or perhaps click the "x" on this browser window and find something else to do.

Intro...

I have difficulty pinpointing exactly when it was I realized that there were other people like me out there.

When I think back to the various realizations that I made, I find that putting them in chronological order is difficult, if not impossible. Sometimes things that happened to me at age ten seem like they happened at age twelve... other times I can't remember when they happened at all.

Most of my recollections actually involve people who were forced to wear, or threatened with, diapers:

• I remember when a family friend's teenage son (the Roberts family from the story below) took a piss on my brother and, as punishment, got the belt and a week in a diaper. I'll tell that story eventually...
• I remember when I heard a talk radio host debating diapers as punishment on the radio, with a parent who insisted that diapering her child was an effective method of discipline.
• I remember being at a church picnic and listening to a father threatening to put his adolescent son in a diaper if he didn't stop whining.

I remember that each of these things happened when I was very young. But I remember actually being envious of the children involved. It was like they were like me, in my mind. We both wore diapers, after all...

...the obvious differences (forced/abuse vs. wanting to wear) were lost on me.

I think the first time I realized that there were truly people my age who wanted to wear diapers came when I was about 11 or 12, and listening to, of all things, the Dr. Ruth Show on the radio.

Abysitter.com 1.0?

By this age of my life I had taken to wearing 'diapers' nightly.

Not real diapers, of course.

Cloth diapers had ceased to fit me by now. Even the oversized defect diaper didn't fit.

So I had to get creative.

And, creative I got.

Every night at bedtime I would do one of several things. I would put two cloth diapers end-to-end, nudge them down into a loose-fitting pair of underpants, and slowly get into bed - a big diaper!

Or I would find the softest towel available, pin it to myself using diaper pins, and - voila! - a big diaper!

Eventually I would tape a garbage bag with paper towels, toilet paper or Kleenex, and duct tape - a big diaper! - but that came later, I think.

At this point in my life, the towel was my typical method. And I wore my towel diapers nightly.

I have always liked to write.

When I was 11, it was no different.

I have always considered myself creative. But, ever since I can remember, being diapered has increased my creativity ten-fold.

So picture it. Cwis, age 11, diapered nightly.

Writing.

That's right... writing.

I remember sprinkling baby powder on my bum, cinching on my terrycloth diaper, and turning over on my tummy. I'd pull out a notebook and a pen and start writing.

Sometimes I'd write diaper fiction. I'd be penning my fantasies, internet-style - this before the internet even existed, I think. Me diapered at a family gathering. Me diapered at school. Me diapered at a huge public sporting event. Crazy stories, all having a common theme: me, diapered.

Other times I'd write out what would essentially be a parenting manual. I pictured handing it to my parents, so that they could find out what they were doing wrong. (Sending Cwis to bed without a diaper? Not smart!) Or giving it to them so that they could, in turn, hand it over to a babysitter. (Give Cwis his baby bottle at 7:00 p.m.; bedtime is 7:30 p.m. sharp!)

I'd just write. I'd fill up the pages of my journal with tales of diapering, graphically illustrated.

I'd write until the words started to not make sense.

I'd write right up until I began to doze off.

When I couldn't write anymore - and this usually coincided with when I felt completely toddlerized - I'd put the cap on my pen, shove my notebook under my pillow, and fall blissfully asleep.

In the morning I'd peel off my 'diaper', hide my notebook under the mattress, and go about my business.

In some ways, Abysitter.com got its start when I was an adolescent.

One night, I discovered ejaculation.

And, like it probably was for almost all of us - it was amazing.

A-ma-zing!

It happened purely by accident.

I was laying on my stomach, writing. I used to use a nightlight which would allow me to see the pages and, most nights, avoid detection by the parentals.

I'd lay, toweled (diapered), writing away. Sometimes I would suck on a pacifier (hidden well in the morning) or drink from a sippy cup. Other nights I would just lay there. But I would do my drawings, and write my stories and guides, and - as I thought up new ideas - just lay on my stomach, daydreaming of what life would be like if I didn't have to hide my toddler side and try so hard to avoid detection.

This particular night I was writing a story. It was a story similar to one of my favorite book series at the time, The Hardy Boys. In my version, though, boy-detectives Frank and Joe Hardy couldn't solve a mystery without putting a Pamper on each other first. And, of course, their mysteries involved things like... well, missing diapers.

Yea, I was corny. A dork. All of that.

Still, I would lay there and write the beginning of a story. I pictured myself sending it off to author Franklin W. Dixon for inclusion in next book, thereby bringing the concept of diapering to the masses. Eventually I would fall asleep and, by the time I woke the next day, I'd lose interest in my story.

On this particular night the Hardy brothers were driving around Bayport, trying to figure out who had stolen all of the diapers in the town. Would they solve the mystery before one of them had to take a piss?

My little eleven year-old ass was laying on the mattress, chilling in my own diaper as I put my brilliant plot twists down on paper. I would often enjoy the feeling of the diaper against my penis while I wrote and - as I'm sure we're all familiar with - pull the diaper up into my behind, letting it caress my ass and enjoying the sensation I got as it did.

At some point I found myself moving my body up and down as I wrote. The feeling was awesome, my penis was erect, and I was actually distracted from my writing for a minute. I couldn't believe how good this felt!

I stopped writing eventually, just humping away. I think I humped for an hour or two, and loved every second of it. And then it happened: I squirted.

A J/O Noob...

I will never forget that moment.

I went from feeling amazing to feeling horrified and humiliated all in a single moment.

As with most eleven year olds, my body was saving up for this moment.

I didn't just squirt - I gushed.

It was like I peed in my diaper. The front of the towel was soaked with semen. Gooey, sticky semen.

I remember being stunned. It might sound funny now, but I thought that I had wet myself, yet somehow knew that wasn't what had happened. I instantly reached down and felt myself: my penis was soft, my diaper was soaked, and my mattress was wet.

I slowly turned over onto my back and lay, looking upward.

What had just happened?!

As children my brother and I were probably pretty sheltered. I had no idea what sex was, even at age eleven. I'd never heard the term 'cum', or 'come', or anything similar.

I'd heard kids call each other out on 'having wet dreams' in school, but I had honestly thought that they were talking about dreams involving swimming, shit like that. I didn't grasp the concept. And I'd certainly never had a wet dream. I'd never woken up sticky, icky... nothing.

But tonight... I'd gone from envisioning diapered detectives solving the Case of the Missing Case of Huggies to trying to find out the mystery of what had just squirted out of my penis.

And, like all of us, I experienced that shamed, regretful feeling we all get after we squirt.

I pledged not to hump anymore.

I swore I'd stop writing these gay-ass stories.

And towels were for drying off after a bath - I swore I'd throw this towel in the laundry in the morning and stop wearing them to bed. No more towel/diapers for me!

I wondered what my parents would think if they realized that their eleven year-old son had 'wet the bed' - and the embarrassment and shame increased.

Thoughts that something might be wrong with me went through my mind.

But I was a horny little eleven year-old.

I lay, shamed, bewildered, for more than an hour.

And, at some point, I began to relive the moment I'd squirted.

It had felt... magical.

The shame and guilt began to decrease, to diminish.

At some point I realized... I wanted that feeling back.

That amazing feeling I got when my terrycloth diaper bunched up into my asscrack. The feeling I had as I humped. And the sheer ecstasy I felt as I came on myself? I wanted to repeat it.

I eventually turned over. I humped some more. And, after a lesser period of time - maybe thirty minutes - I squirted again.

I would squirt three times total that night.

(What I wouldn't give to have that stamina today!)

Physical Education

After that, I pretty much became addicted to humping my diaper.

It's something I still do today.

[I'll explain more about that later. And I know I'm not alone in this...]

Age eleven: me, humping my diaper nightly. Sometimes two or three times a night.

Age twelve: me, humping my diaper nightly. Sometimes after school. Sometimes three, four times a day.

Age thirteen: me, humping my diaper regularly. Ejaculating numerous times each week.

By this time I'd developed a collection of towels. I'd sought out and found the softest towels in the house, and I had found the perfect hiding spot for them. Semen-soaked towels smell sweet, at first; when you're eleven and twelve your own semen is something fresh, and you love the smell. After a day or two, though... well, you know. So I began rotating my towel/diapers into the laundry, as discretely as possible. Not discretely enough, as it turns out... but I'll get to that story another time.

In the meantime I've masturbated hundreds of times, soaking towels and by now garbage bag diapers along the way.

At some point, in school, the subject of jerking off came up in the gym class locker room.

I'll never forget the conversation. One of the football kids was picking on another one, something about the game from the weekend before, and he told him something along the lines of Well, if you hadn't been playing with yourself the whole game...

The other jock protested, saying that he hadn't been, and the first kid whipped out his dick and started stroking it.

The rest of us sat their, speechless.

And then someone spoke up and said You're not even doing it right!

That lead to a whole conversation about masturbation, with one kid doing a demo and everyone else sitting around, some obviously uncomfortable and others fairly nonchalant. I will say that you could pretty much tell who'd already discovered masturbation, and who hadn't, by the looks on peoples faces that day.

One of my fellow swimmers was sitting there with a confused look on his face, and a football kid made some crack about how you had to have a penis in order to understand what they were talking about. My friend laughed and explained that he understood, but he didn't do it that way - he "humped." All at once the whole room went quiet.

"What do you mean, you... hump?" one of the jocks asked him. I was relieved, because I humped, too, and when everyone had started yanking on themselves I won't lie: I was a little bit alarmed. My friend went on to explain that he humped the mattress, and a whole bunch of people got on him about sleeping in the same bed that he'd came in. He shot back a remark about the tuggers squirting all over themselves - at least his was in one spot - and the gym teacher walked in and the conversation was over.

I was to embarrassed to chime in. I wanted to back my friend up, to say I hump, too... but I couldn't, or I didn't. Later, though, I'd ask my friend about it. We weren't close, then, but he'd later become my best high school friend, and the first person I would do anything sexual with. I told him I humped, too, and we talked about it. Come to think of it (pardon the pun), that's probably how our friendship came to be...

Another 'WTF' Moment...

At age thirteen I was laying in bed, humping in my towel/diaper, and listening to Dr. Ruth.

If you don't know Dr. Ruth, you're missing out.

She's a sex expert with a thick-ass German accent. When I was a kid she had a radio show on every Sunday night. People would write her letters, and she would read them aloud and then answer them. It was very sexually explicit stuff and, as a horny teen, I couldn't get enough. While most of it dealt with heterosexuality, and I was already pretty confident I was into guys, I would listen to her advice to women re: pleasuring their boyfriends, imagine myself in the letter-writers position, and hump and squirt.

I had to keep the radio at just the right volume. It had to be low enough so that my parents wouldn't hear words like "penis" and "ejaculation" on the radio, and loud enough for me to hear. Also, since I was humping as I listened, it had to be at the right volume to cover up the creaky mattress yet allow me to hear if someone walked by my door.

On this particular night it was a bunch of questions about typical stuff, nothing exciting, and I remember thinking what a gay fucking show tonight was. It was almost time for the show to end and she announced that she'd return with one more question.

I was pretty close to jizzing, and I remember thinking... I'll slow down the humping and time it with the last question (LOL). So I did. I was laying there, my bottom wrapped in a towel, ass moving up and down, Dr. Ruth came back with the last letter. And began reading...

I am writing for my brother. He masturbates on a nightly basis, but not in the normal way most guys do. He folds a towel up into his pajamas, lays down on it, and moves up and down until semen ejaculates. I am worried because my brother says that his penis seems to be malformed. He tells me that it's not the normal shape, that it seems to be worn out. I am wondering if it could be misshapen because of how he is masturbating. Also, my brother states that he has no interest in having sexual intercourse in the normal way. In fact, he's not even sure that he can. He tells me he's tried masturbating normally, but it won't work. Please help!

I am paraphrasing the question. In reality, it was much longer.

In fact, it seemed like an eternity.

I heard the words "misshapen penis" and "no interest in having sexual intercourse in the normal way" and "it won't work" and the words started to race around in my head.

I was in a panic!

I had, for three years, jerked off my humping in a diaper.

I hadn't seen a ton of penises by age thirteen, but I had noticed that mine looked a little different than those I had seen.

And I definitely had no interest in having hetero sex in the 'normal' way!

Was something wrong with me?

With my penis?

Was a doing dick damage with every thrust into my mattress?!

Was this kid another diaper person, or just someone who couldn't figure out any other way to masturbate?

I couldn't wait for Dr. Ruth to get to the fucking answer.

Stop reading! Answer!

By the time she finally got to her answer, I was only hearing half of what she said.

I had my hand on my penis, feeling it, trying to find signs of wear and tear.

I knew that my penis was my friend, lol. It made me feel amazing... it provided me hours of entertainment. And I didn't want to let it down by working it incorrectly.

Dr. Ruth rambled on in her German accent about everyone being different... about penises appearing different... about people having different tastes when it comes to "pleasure".

But she also mentioned that someone who masturbates in the way the caller's "brother" did, long enough, could create a situation wherein their penis wouldn't cooperate when faced with a normal sexual situation.

She recommended that the caller talk to his "brother" about trying to "mix it up" when it came to masturbation.

She mentioned the word 'diaper' at least once.

And, then, the show was over.

I immediately began trying to mix it up.

I turned over onto my back and began to rub my front. I started slowly, at first, but eventually increased the friction, tugging my junk like my life depended on it.

In some ways, I felt like the life of my penis did.

I tugged, and I rubbed, but I found that, instead of staying hard - and my penis had been erect the whole show, mind you - I went softer as time went on.

Jerking had no effect on my penis. It was like it was saying "Yo... hands off!"

I realized what was missing after a little bit. Whenever I humped, the diaper (towel, etc.) somehow managed to find its way into my asscrack. I had become conditioned to ejaculating in part because of the sensations on my penis, but in part because of the sensations in other places. This whole penis-only thing just wasn't going to work.

I tried experimenting. And while I won't go into graphic detail I will say, nothing I tried would act as a substitute for the diaper.

After more than an hour of trying to use a hands-on approach I realized I'd have to rely on the old standby: a towel diaper.

I pinned the diaper back on, turned over, and humped the shit out of it.

Two minutes later, I was sleeping in a sea of my own cum.

To this day, I have never been able to jerk off the "normal" way.

And, from responses I've received to some of my various blog entries, I know I'm far from alone.

I've had people jerk me off, but it takes way too much effort on their part, and I wind up feeling guilty half-way through.

I also have little interest in having sex "the normal way".

And, again, I know I'm not alone here.

I've given head. I've gotten head. And I've jerked and been jerked. I've done a lot of other stuff, as well. But, in the end, give me a hot DL's bottom, a disposable diaper, some baby powder, and a mattress; I'll hump like a motherfucker and be perfectly content.

It's just how I'm wired.

Sometimes I wish I could have a more 'normal' sexual existence. I've even wished, at times - although not recently - that I could have sex (and enjoy it) without diapers!

In the end, though, I realize that diapers and sex go hand in hand for me.

(Pardon that pun, too, thanks).

Dr. Ruth gave me quite a scare, and I still wonder if my penis would have a different appearance if I'd humped less and tugged more.

In the end, though - as those of you who've humped with me know - it's all good.

On Self-Discovery... Part I

Intro.

If you're a regular reader of my blog, you probably know that I have been into diapers literally since the day I was born; I never really outgrew them, and have wanted to be in them even during those times when societal norms (damn, those societal norms!) made it difficult or impossible.

I wore until around two, and then, potty trained, incorporated them into play with my brother. Once my parents took that fun away from me (grr!) I spent a year or three 'dry', then found cloth diapers and began forcing them to fit. Once they no longer fit (around age 7 ish) I began making diapers, first from towels and clothes and later a disposable version. I've really only spent a year or two of my [censored] years out of diapers.

When I was little I didn't know why I liked diapers, I just knew that I did.

I knew that I shouldn't be wearing them. And that wanting to wear them was at best different, and at worst shameful. Still, I didn't give a fuck, even at age 7. I knew that I felt more comfortable in a diaper, and more comforted in a diaper. I just wanted to wear diapers. Wrong or not, I didn't care.

It was tough to wear diapers during the day, but sometimes I managed.

BBQ Baby Boy...

I remember one occasion, circa age eight or nine. My family was having a pool party and picnic at the house, and there were probably half a dozen kids, from age two to age fifteen, along with some adults. Everyone had gone swimming, and the grill was in the process of being fired up. Someone suggested a game of badminton - our friends had brought their badminton supplies, lol - and everyone was excited to play. Since only two of the kids were in my family and the remaining five kids in the other, family vs. family was out; instead someone suggested teams be chosen. Great idea, I said! Pick teams, and I'll be right back... just have to go inside for a second.

I remember going into the house and peeing in the toilet. The window was open, and the breeze was wafting in. When you're eight years old you're both asexual and hypersexual, all at the same time; all it took was the wind on my winkie and I was aroused.

I flushed, wash my hands, and began to walk out of the room, and something stopped me. It was an odor. I instinctively knew what it was right away: wet diaper. I walked around the room searching for the source, and quickly found it: taped up in a little ball in the trash can, there it was - a soaked disposable diaper.

Most people would be disgusted by this, but as ABDLs many of us have had similar experiences. I picked up the garbage can in both hands and raised it to my nose as if I was preparing to smell a delicious dish being prepared on the stove. The diaper was recent, and the smell of baby powder and baby pee was, in my eight year old brain, something exciting. I resisted the urge to pull the diaper out of the garbage can and, instead, put it down. I slowly left the room, headed for the yard, but something stopped me. Instead I walked up the stairs to the second floor and headed for the storage attic. There were diapers there the last time I checked, and something caused me to make a beeline for them.

I rummaged through the back room for about ten minutes before I found them: a pile of Birdseye cloth diapers. I searched through the pile until I found the biggest diaper - a defect of some kind, but very convenient for me on several occasions past. I lay the diaper on the floor and carefully put the remaining diapers away, listening to the sounds of yelped excitement from outside and carefully listening for the sounds of any activity inside. Thankfully, there was none.

The diaper pins were in a bag next to the diapers. I grabbed two, baby blue teddy bears, and dropped my pants. I sat down on the diaper and let the cloth rub against my bottom. It felt so tight... I instantly felt different, and I loved the feeling. It was a feeling I'd felt many times before but, this time, it was intensified by the fact that so many people were directly on the other side of the window I was diapering myself in front of. I could have opened the curtains and everyone would have seen... what a rush! LOL...

I realized that, to complete the feeling, I needed powder. We didn't have any in the house at the time, but I gambled that our friends with the 2yo did. I scampered down the stairs and found their diaper bag by the door. I unzipped it, removed a bottle of Johnson & Johnson, and zipped it back up, whooshing back up the stairs.

I sat back down on the diaper and lay back. The windows were open a little, and the breeze hit my penis again - mmmhmmm. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds from outdoors. I heard my brother shouting something about the birdie, one of our family friends saying "Get it! Get it!" and collective groans from the gallery as he apparently missed. As I lay, my bottom square on a cloth diaper, I didn't feel weird in the least. Quite the opposite... everything felt right with the world.

I picked up the bottle of baby powder, unscrewed the cap, and raised it above myself. Without opening my eyes I let it fall, sprinkling my private parts, and sending a big squirt between my legs to cover my behind. I tightened the cap, put the bottle down, and reached forward, grabbing the front corners of the diapers and pulling it up over me.

Oh my God... the feeling was... awesome. I lay there, pulling the cloth diaper tight against my penis, letting it envelope me in softness and the aroma of Johnson & Johnson. I still hadn't discovered ejaculation, or anything of that nature, but I knew what felt good when I felt it, and this felt... so good. I lay there for about five minutes, just holding it there and enjoying the feeling. I heard someone ask "Where's Christopher?" but I wasn't about to give away my hiding spot. For a little bit I was Cwistopher, and I imagined myself, in this same diaper, crawling around in the log while the big kids played badminton. It was a feeling I didn't want to give up.

After five minutes or more I had to decide whether to pin the diaper up or take it off and go back to being Chris. Wearing the diaper outside was a real risk; first, it would barely fit, and I'd have to stretch it and strain the pins to get it to work. I had visions of the pin snapping open and busting apart, ricocheting off my groin and poking me in the penis as I desperately tried to hide the fact that I was in pain - eek! Second, my brother was going through a pants-ing phase, and while his last pants-ing had been met with a fierce swat on the behind from my father, I couldn't guarantee that the exhilaration of embarrassing me in front of so many friends might not be worth the sore bottom. How humiliating would it be to be exposed as a diaper wearer?

Actually, that might be a plus...

I knew for a fact that I did not want to give up the feeling I had at that moment, and something made me reach for the pins, stretch that diaper out, and fasten it on. I carefully stood up, feeling the diaper inch up into my asscrack. It was tight against my skin, and I slowly bent over, touched my toes, and stretched all around to see if it would hold. It did.

I picked up the bottle of powder and began making my way to the stairs when the front door opened. I panicked instantly - maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. I heard the babbling of a two year old, and some rustling, and I stood statue-still, being so careful not to make a sound. I heard zipping, unzipping, and more rustling. Then our family friend called outside to her husband.

"Honey... did you do something with the baby powder?"

I froze. I could feel myself sweating. My parents were somewhat familiar with my diaper desires, and I wondered if they were looking at each other, shaking their heads. Oh, that explains where Christopher has been for fifteen minutes...

"No, I haven't touched the diaper bag," the husband called back in. "Maybe you left it at home?"

"Maybe," she called back out. I heard her mumbling about being sure she'd brought it. It hit me: I'd found a wet diaper in the garbage can. If she'd changed her baby since they'd arrived surely she'd had it then. What had this lady done, brought a wet diaper from home and just tossed it into our trash? I was offended - and, quite probably, resentful. And jealous.

I listened to the sounds of her changing her baby, and I remember wishing she'd get mine next. (I was dry, lol). I pictured myself walking down the stairs and past her, stopping as she called out "Wait, Christopher, I have your diaper right here..." and pulling out a monster version of her son's Pamper from her purse. More jealous...

She went back outside with the baby, and I realized that I couldn't put the baby powder back into the diaper bag now. Bonus? I hid it behind a filing cabinet where I was pretty sure it wouldn't be found, and went back down stairs.

I walked gingerly outside, into the fray of commotion, now very aware of my diapered status. The feeling was fucking awesome - everyone running around getting dinner ready for playing games while I - Baby Cwis - enjoyed the feeling of a tight cloth diaper loaded with baby powder on me.

My brother and one of the older kids called out for me to join the game but I declined, giving some lame-ass excuse about not feeling well. My father called for me to come sit by him, and I obediently walked over and, realizing that all of the lawn chairs were taken by adults, parked my bottom on a blanket on the ground - the same blanket the two year-old had been playing on earlier. He was in a playpen now, unfolded on the grass, and I so wanted to crawl over and climb in. Instead I lay back on the blanket, carefully checked my shirt to make sure no diaper was exposed over my shorts, and watched the clouds in the sky.

This was truly one of the most relaxing moments of my life, and one that I will never forget.

After thirty minutes of this the smells of steaks (for the grownups) and hamburgers (for the kids) wafted through the air. Someone remarked that it smelled good, another person called for everyone to grab a plate, and it was time to eat.

As I got up my father looked directly at me. I'll never forget the way he looked at me, or what he said.

"I smell baby powder."

I probably instantly blushed, and I'm sure my little eight year-old mind began whirring, strategizing as only an eight year-old can.

"Well, there is a baby here," I replied.

My father just nodded. And then he said something I won't forget.

"There is one. Well, at least one," he said. With that he headed to the table.

Spanked Into Submission...

The meat smelled good, and it was accompanied by salt potatoes (a New York thing), potato salad, macaroni salad, and a bunch of other fixings. My mind was firing OT, though, wondering if my father had spotted my diaper, had truly smelled the powder over the smell of BBQ in the air, or just knew me well enough to know what I was up to.

There were two parents and five children in one family, and two parents and two children (me and my brother) in the other family. And, at the last minute, my uncle - living with us at the time - had returned home. This would throw the seating chart out of whack and, while I wouldn't realize it for a few minutes, would lead to one of the most embarrassing - and most memorable - moments of my childhood.

The grownup table was a kitchen table on the deck, around which four chairs were set.

The older kids' table was a picnic table with seating for two on one side and three on the other.

The remaining table was a card table, legs unfolded, with two card table chairs and a high chair next to it.

The picnic table contained a silver bucket with ice and soda.

The card table contained a small cooler with juice boxes and a baby bottle.

The line for meat formed, and everyone chose a steak, or a hamburger, stopping by a makeshift toppings bar to load up with ketchup, relish, etc.

The badminton game had broken up at the first shout of "dinner!" and, as such, the older kids were already in line. I fell in line behind my parents and grabbed a burger, and a bun, creating quite a beast of a sandwich.

I turned to the area set up with the tables and instantly realized: there was no room for me.

My uncle's return home had been unexpected; he was supposed to work late but had been released early. He was at the big kids' table, seated next to my brother and James, one of our friends' kids. On the other side of the table sat Allison and Sara, their daughters. The table was full...

I walked over to it and up to my brother, suggesting he relocate to the little kids' table. He was a year younger than me, and the youngest at the table, and I felt it was only right. His face turned red and I could see that he was trying to decide what course of action to take.

"Dad!" he cried out. "I was already here..."

My father looked over and, between mouthfuls of steak, mumbled something and pointed to the little kids' table. My brother and I looked at each other, not sure what my father was trying to communicate.

"He wants you to move over there," I told him, hopeful. My brother shook his head and told me I had it backwards. We both turned and looked at my father, waiting. He got up from his seat and walked over. Sweet victory! I thought; surely he wouldn't ask the older of the two to sit at the little kids' table?

But he did. He took me by the arm and moved me in that direction, pointing.

I protested.

My father eyeballed me and then looked at my brother. For a moment I thought surely he was about to tell my brother to get up. Then he looked back at me.

"Your brother has been playing with the older kids all day," he told me. "You were doing your own thing. Sit!" He snapped his fingers and pointed to the empty seat at the card table. Thoroughly humiliated I put my food down at the table and sat down. My brother seemed to be smirking a little, but I knew he was too smart to look too gratified, lest he find himself seated next to me. My face was beet red, and I was angry.

"Can I go eat inside, please?" I asked him, starting to get up.

"In a minute you're going to be sitting in the high chair," he answered. "Now sit there and eat your supper."

I couldn't tell if the high chair remark was an offhanded one designed to scare me into submission, or a reference to the fact that he knew I was wearing a diaper. I hoped that he didn't. I'd already reached around, feeling my behind twice, making sure it wasn't showing over the waistband of my shorts. (It wasn't).

I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be sitting next to a five year-old and a two year-old at the little kids table. What was worse, at the picnic table were all of the side dishes I liked: potato salad, macaroni salad, and scalloped potatoes, among others. At the little kids table? Some vegetable dish that looked like it came from a can, and fruit cocktail. Fruit fucking cocktail at a picnic? It was what our family friends' children liked, and it's what had been set out.

So annoyed.

I looked around for a soda and realized it was all on the picnic table. I got up and walked over, reaching for the last one in the ice bucket. My brother simultaneously reached for it, grabbing it first, and placed it in front of my uncle. My uncle didn't even like soda...

"Umm, I didn't get one," I said.

"I didn't either," my uncle replied, then snapped off the top, pouring his out into a glass. He seemed to be smirking, too, now. I felt the hairs on my neck rising as my father watched the scene play out from behind us.

"Is there any more soda?" I asked him. He looked at my mother, who replied that there wasn't. There was a bottle in the ice bucket on the grownup's table. "May I have that one?" I asked politely, thinking surely this will solve the problem... but my father shook his head and Mr. Roberts, our family friend, reached for it, as if to claim it, at the same time.

"Have juice," my father suggested, nodding towards the table. I looked over at the little boxes of juice, their straws taped to them, and blushed with anger. "Or, water," he continued.

"He is younger than me, and he gets to sit at the picnic table, and he gets to drink soda, and I have to sit with little kids and drink juiceboxes?" I retorted, raising my voice. My father and Mr. Roberts both simply nodded. "It's not fair! I'm not doing it!" I continued. "I'm going inside."

I started to walk inside at the same time my father stood up.

In hindsight, I should have stopped at that moment and just sat down. But I was angry, now, and didn't want to lose face in front of my brother, my uncle, and everyone else.

I continued inside.

My father took my arm in one giant stride.

I continued inside.

My father lightly pulled me back towards the table.

I attempted to continue inside.

My father raised his hand. I realized what was about to happen, and tried to twist out of his grip. His hand came down on my diapered bottom with a crack, and I felt the fire. He raised his hand again and I instantly sat down at the little kids' table, letting the card table chair protect my behind.

My father leaned over and grabbed a juice box. I realized that everyone was looking at me. Even the little kids were silent now, waiting to see what would happen next. My father took the straw off the box, unwrapped it, poked it through the apple juice container with such force that a little squirted into the air, and set it before me.

He leaned over, put his hand on my shoulder, and whispered into my ear - quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear against the deafening silence:

"If your bottom leaves this chair, you will be very sorry."

I sat there, humiliated, wanting to cry but too proud to do so. My father didn't spank us often, and I'd only been spanked in front of others on two other occasions. My butt had only been struck once but it hurt!

And then I smelled it.

The smell of resignation. The smell of humiliation. The smell of submission.

The smell of... baby powder.

My diaper, so carefully tucked away underneath my shorts, had been full of baby powder.

When my father had spanked my rear like a major league ball player trying to hit one out of the park, a powder cloud had been formed. The odor was unmistakable. I wondered if it had been visible to everyone there.

My face must have been red as FUCK.

I sat at the card table for more than thirty minutes. My brother, my uncle, and the Roberts kids had a lively conversation at the table next to mine. The grownups had a lively conversation at their table. At my table a two year-old babbled and a little girl said just four words: "You just got spanked!" serving to only further my humiliation. The rest of the time she pushed her food around her plate, eventually getting up to go play in the grass. The baby fell asleep in his high chair until his mother came along to pick him up and put him in his playpen. It was just me.

I'd long since lost my appetite, but forced down my burger and had drank about half of my juice box. The grownups table began to break up, with everyone taking their plates inside to the sink. I hoped that I'd be asked to help clear, since I was bored out of my mind and tired of sitting. No such luck. Eventually the teen table began to break up too. I remained seated, cognizant of my father's warning and not wanting another bottom-burning, powder cloud-forming spanking...

As he walked by me my brother grabbed my juice box off the table. He squirted it out into the grass and put it back down in front of me. I started to get up to sock him, but realized that could have negative consequences. Instead I sat back down, so angry I wanted to scream, and instead said "you're gonna get it" under my breath.

"Why?" he asked me. "I'm doing you a favor. Seems like you've had enough to drink, anyway..."

I wondered if he was referring to the diaper, or just being a dick. There was a lot of sibling rivalry in those days, and each of us always took advantage of any chance to fuck the other over. In this instance my brother saw his chance: Chris gets up, he might get spanked. Thus, Chris is afraid to get up. Thus, steal his drink. Cool.

Bedtime for Baby Cwis...

About ten minutes later I was summoned inside to help with the dishes. My mother washed, her friend dried, and I put everything where it belonged. At this point I was furious by the fact that my brother, my uncle, and all of the other kids were outside racing lawn tractors around while I was doing chores. But I wasn't about to say anything. I did my chores and, once the last dish was put away, headed for the door. I wanted to find somewhere quiet to just sit and nurse my pride. And my backside.

I was met at the door by my father. He asked my mother if the dishes were all put away and, upon being told that they were, looked at the clock. 7:30.

"Bedtime," he told me.

"Wait, why??!!" I cried out. It was summer, and we typically went to bed around nine.

"Because it's bedtime," he told me, simply. I looked at him quizzically, and he repeated it.

"Oh, so it's our bedtime?" I asked, playing dumb. "Do you want me to go get [my brother]?"

"No, you just worry about you," my father replied, repeating one of his favorite lines. "Now, don't make me say it again..."

I was burning mad, now. It was 7:30, and I wasn't near tired. I thought about making a run for it, but realized that would be unwise.

"Why am I going to bed at 7:30?" I asked once more. At this point I probably had already connected the fact that I'd gotten a spanking with the fact that I was going to bed way early, but I was a difficult kid and wanted a real answer. Instead of giving me one my father just grabbed me by the arm. I quickly covered my bottom with my hands but he just led me to the bathroom door.

"Go potty and brush your teeth," he ordered. I walked into the bathroom and pushed the door closed - almost. My father put his hand in the space between the door and the frame, leaving it open about a foot. "Go," he repeated. I realized that he probably figured that I would lock the door and sneak out the window - I'd done it once before. What he may or may not have realized was that I was pinned in an ultra-tight cloth diaper. He couldn't see me behind the door, but he would certainly hear me unpinning a diaper. And, if I pulled it off, baby powder residue would surely be left behind! I couldn't risk it. Instead, I stood in front of the toilet, trying to pull my penis through up to the waistband of the diaper, and then down through the space in the leghole. Not happening. I stood silent for a moment, waiting to see if my father would leave the doorway, but he didn't.

I brushed my teeth, rinsed, and walked to the door.

"I don't have to go," I told him, embarrassed to be reporting my bathroom needs to him. He just pointed to the stairs and I obediently walked to them, marching up as he watched. I walked into my room and climbed into bed. He called out for me to change into my pajamas and I did, rocket-fire, to avoid a diapered sighting.

Five minutes later he had tucked me in, warning me to stay in bed. I was pretty sure I'd be able to come downstairs to pee, if necessary, but I also knew that I shouldn't press my luck. Instead I lay in bed. I did have to pee, but it wasn't insane yet. As I lay there I realized something: my brother had done me a favor. If I'd have finished that whole box of juice, I'd be screwed.

I lay still, under my covers. Thirty minutes later my alarm clock said 8. Thirty minutes after that it said 8:30. The wind was blowing through the screen windows and, along with it, I heard the sounds of my brother's voice, laughing, playing. By 9:15 it had gotten dark; still, I heard my brother's voice coming through the window. For the first hour or so I had been angry: my younger brother was outside, playing with our friends, while I lay in bed, lights off, humiliated in front of everyone for the umpteenth time.

By the time the hour rolled around, though, I began to see the situation in a different light.

I'd spent the afternoon diapered, kind of in front of friends.

I'd been forced to sit at the little kids' table, due in part to my uncle's unexpected return and due in part to my being late to the table.

I'd been spanked in front of everyone.

I'd been sent to bed in a diaper (albeit unknowingly, probably), hours before everyone else.

And I'd been forced to lay in bed listening to my younger brother, uncle, and family have fun without me.

By the time I smelled the campfire and realized it was time for smo'res and hot chocolate for everyone else I was over my anger, over my resentfulness - I didn't even want to punch my brother anymore.

Which was good, because around 9:30 he made his way up the stairs and came to my door. He pushed it open. I'd since stripped off my pajama bottoms, laying only in my top and a cloth diaper under my covers. He left the light off but turned on the hall light and walked into my room. He had something in his hands.

I pretended to be asleep, but he shook me. I feigned grogginess as I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"I felt bad about taking your juice before," he said, "so I brought you a cup of cocoa." He put a plastic sippy cup full of hot chocolate down on the stand next to my bed, and set aside a sm'ore next to it. Then he whispered. "Don't tell Mom and Dad, they said you couldn't have any," he confided. He started to walk to the door, then turned and looked at me. "And whatever you do, don't wet the bed!" He giggled as he turned the hall light off and headed for the steps, making his way down them quickly and quietly. Soon his voice returned to the symphony of voices I heard outside. I drank my chocolate, feeling the warmth in my tummy and feeling very grateful that my brother had brought me some - and that he'd put it in a sippy cup, the only cup he probably figured wouldn't be missed when my parents did the dishes.

I was dozing off around 11, about the same time my brother and our friends were coming inside for the night. I heard them off in the distance, and it was clear that they were getting ready to play a video game or something. I didn't even care...

Oh, The Memories...

I am an adult baby. I do a lot of babysitting - making me a sitter. I enjoy looking at photos of hot guys in diapers, and enjoy wearing them 24/7 except for work - making me a DL. But, most of all, I am an adult baby. My AB side means regression and self-toddlerization. And I love it.

I still fantasize, even at age [censored], about being regressed.

About being spanked.

About being humiliated.

My toddler side likes to be two. But another side of me likes to be 8, 10, 12, 14, 16 - and subjected to wearing diapers as punishment, or diapers out of necessity - diapers for any reason, really.

Like many other ABies, I have a number of dreams involving diapers, and my regressed state.

One of my favorites? Dreams reliving this day.

If I rubbed a Diaper Genie today and the Genie popped out and gave me three diaper wishes, I'd know exactly what they would be:

1. Give me the chance to make amends with one or two ABies I feel like I made mistakes with - sigh...
2. Give me a lifetime supply of Cushies and a certain diaperboy's little behind to hump behind...
3. Let me find myself diapered, in a high chair, while my parents, brother, uncles, cousins, and family friends all feed me and take care of me.

Okay, so the first two are more the DL side of Chris coming though.

Wish three is the one that I consistently dream about in Cwis state, though.

The story above is 100% true.

If it happened to a normal kid, it would be titled

"The Worst Day of my Life...

...and Why I'm Fucked Up Forever."

Because it happened to me, though, it's got a different title...

"How Cwis Came To Be... To Be Continued"

...and I wouldn't trade any part of that day for anything.

Hall of Shame: Firefighter Fired

A few rules to live by, in no particular order...

1. They must be sober.

2. They must not be related to you.

3. They must not be underage.

4. You must not use diapers as 'punishment' on actual children.

Sigh...

http://www.timescall.com/mobile/story.aspx?ID=25421

http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/26914258/detail.html

Hall of Shame: 30 Days for Drunk & Disorderly Diapered

Trick or treat... smell my - diaper?!

Let this be a lesson to you: 30 days in jail for the diapered trick-or-treater:

http://mobile.wboc.com/wap/news/text.jsp?sid=167&nid=38691250&cid=3873&scid=-1&ith=9&title=Top+Stories

My Friends Are Awesome...

This is my friend and "e-bro" from AZ. He "owes me" an overnight in Pampers, which is ironic since he's not into diapers or ABDL. I plan to cash in on his offer one day when I travel out west. For now, he likes to remind me with occasional pictures alluding to his plan to "Pamp up". Here are two...

...my apologies, in advance, for all offended by his use of the N-word.

Enjoy. I'll try to post up the pic of him in a Spencer Gifts diaper sample soon.

100,000 Pageviews!

Abysitter.com passed 100,000 pageviews on Valentine's Day. Thanks to one of my favorite collegebabies for hitting me up with a 2 a.m. congratulations text! (Lol)

Pageviews refers to the number of actual pages viewed, not unique hits. I have 61,900 unique views on the counter at the bottom. The 100,000 pageviews means that most viewers check out not only the front page, but another page or two as well.

Y'all rock! Thanks for coming by so much.

<3

Cwis