Category: mommy

You Still Wear Your Mom's Pantyhose

Goddess Rita 1844-332-2639 Ext 413

I know your secret. Did you know you talk in your sleep? It’s true. After a fantastic night of lovemaking, with my head resting against your chest as you slept, I heard you mumble. I listened more carefully, and what you said was, “Please, Mommy. I won’t wear them again. Don’t spank me.”

Wear them? I thought. What had my naughty boy stolen from his Mommy that caused him to get punished? “What did you wear?” I asked softly, while noting how your cock pulsed to life under the blankets.

“Your pantyhose again.” You tossed your head side to side in your slumber as if you could escape Mommy’s wrath.

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Cory 1-844-332-2639 et 407

It all started innocently enough. My friend, Gary – a man whose beard had a beard and whose idea of a challenging morning was deciding between two different artisanal coffee blends – casually asked if I could “help out” for a few weeks. He’d apparently aggravated an old sports injury, which sounded legitimate at the time. My visions were of fetching him an extra-large pizza and maybe a few remote controls. Never did I envision myself becoming, for lack of a better term, his “Mama.”

The first clue was the distinct odor of Johnson’s Baby Powder mixed with something vaguely earthy. Then came the sights. A crib, oversized bottles, a mountainous pile of what I initially mistook for industrial-grade pillow stuffing, but which quickly resolved into absurdly large, plastic-backed diapers. And there, nestled amidst a sea of plush toys and a particularly garish cartoon blanket, was Gary. Not the beard-having, coffee-snob Gary I knew, but a version clad in a pastel blue onesie, sucking on a pacifier the size of a teacup, gazing up at me with eyes that seemed far too innocent for a man who owed taxes.

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BZ's Unpotty Training Reward

Kayla Cumsalot 1844-33-CANDY Ext 357

BZ wasn’t loving unpotty training. He really wasn’t a fan of wearing diapers, especially out of the house, but like all good boys, he was trying for Mommy. He waddled over to me and tapped me on the thigh. I was texting Ryan and asked BZ what he needed.

“Um, I have to go potty.” He looked sheepish and embarrassed. My hand reached out to squish the front of his very dry diaper crotch.

“Just go in your diaper like you’re supposed to.

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Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

When most folks hear “massage parlor,” they think hot stones and essential oils. And we have those, of course. My hands are good, trained to ease knots you didn’t even know you carried. But it was never quite enough, not for me, and certainly not for some of my more adventurous clients. I noticed a pattern. A look in their eyes, a certain aspect of their tension that a standard massage just couldn’t quite smooth away. They craved a different kind of release, a deeper surrender.

That’s where the “add-on” came in. It started subtly, a suggestion here, a whispered request there. Soon enough, it became my signature service, the one that keeps my regulars coming back, often with that eager, almost wonderous glint in their eyes. After a thorough, tension-melting massage, when their muscles are liquid and their minds are drifting, I offer it. “How about something truly liberating today?” I’d purr, my voice effortlessly reassuring. Many already know what I mean. For those who don’t, I explain: a comfortable, absorbent diaper, snugged just right, a return to a state of complete, unburdened freedom.

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 Anna 844-332-2639 EXT. 203              ☏ ☏ ☏        Zesty Zoey 1-844-332-2639 Ext 403

Mommy Anna was preparing a special dinner. She had Little Zoey and Ronnie help her prepare everything: cutting up the vegetables, toasting bread, and then she made them set the table just right. Zoey was a perfectionist and she made sure to correct Ronnie every time he cut a vegetable the wrong way, or folded the napkins wrong at the dinner table.

Continue reading “Naughty Ronnie just can’t behave” →

bitch

Anna 844-332-2639 EXT. 203

Mommy Anna took her naughty boy to the mall to buy some clothes. She warned him before they left that he’d better behave. Something told her that he wouldn’t so she packed a diaper bag just in case. As they walked in the mall, hand in hand, Mommy Anna started to notice something funny.

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Timmy's Tantrum

Valerie 1844-332-2639 Ext 243

I scanned the field as I walked closer to the stands. The new guy I’ve been seeing plays on this co-ed softball team against other local businesses every Wednesday night. They get hot and sweaty, then after the game, go to the pub around the corner from the field to grab a few cold ones. Timmy takes softball VERY seriously.

He’s the guy who organizes the practices, schedules the games with the other teams, and is their star batter. The man is swoon-worthy when dominating the diamond, but at home, he’s just my wittle Timmy. At home, he can’t tie his shoes or catch a ball! He’s far too wittle for big boy things like that, never mind playing a game with the big kids or knowing how to use the potty. Softball and I are two parts of his life that Timmy would prefer never to collide. That’s why I’ve decided to crash his game tonight and be the best sports mom he never knew he wanted.

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abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

James was one of my regulars. He was a successful architect, intelligent and articulate in his professional life, but beneath the veneer of competence was a deep-seated need for comfort and discipline. The contrast was often poignant. He stood on the porch, clutching a worn teddy, his eyes wide and a little anxious. “Cory,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Hey, sweetie,” I replied, opening the door wider. “Come on in. It’s chilly out.”

He shuffled inside, immediately drawn to the cozy warmth of my living room. The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air, the soft lighting casting a comforting glow. A playpen sat discreetly in the corner, surrounded by toys and plush blankets. It was a sanctuary. “Rough day?” I asked, gesturing towards the plush armchair. He nodded, burying his face in the teddy. “Mr. Henderson keeps micromanaging everything.” I knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on his back. “Sounds stressful, honey. Did you remember to wear your pull-up today?” He nodded again, a small blush creeping up his neck. “Yes, Mama.” “Good boy,” I praised, my voice soft but firm. “Did you have any accidents?”

Continue reading “James Needs A Break” →

julio

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I’ve known Julio since college. We bonded over bad cafeteria food and worse poetry. He was always a bit intense. He felt things deeply, maybe too deeply. So, when he called me, his voice laced with a melange of excitement and shame, I should have been less surprised. “Cory,” he started, the word almost a gasp, “I need to tell you something. Something kinda fucked up.” I braced myself. With Julio, it could be anything from accidentally setting his apartment on fire while trying to flambé bananas to getting into a philosophical argument with an inanimate object.

This was different, though. I could hear it in his voice, that ragged edge of genuine distress. He told me about the photos. An old shoebox he’d found while helping his mother sort through her attic. Candid shots from her twenties, a lifetime ago. She was beautiful, vibrant, radiating a joy that Julio confessed he’d never really seen in her. And, yes, she was with other people. Arms around her waist, laughter on their faces, in various states of undress and even sexual positions, all moments of intimacy frozen in time.

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Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

The Met Gala was a whirlwind of glamour and chaos. The red carpet was a sea of flashing cameras and eager photographers. I stood there in my silver mermaid gown, the cool fabric shimmering under the bright lights. My silver flowers in my hair added a touch of whimsy to the futuristic look. You, in your silver suit, looked like a god among men. The photographers loved us, snapping pictures as if we were A-listers.

You leaned in, your breath hot on my ear, and I thought you were going to give me a sexy bite. Instead, you whispered, “I had an accident.” My eyes widened, but I kept my composure. “It’s okay,” I reassured you, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. “Let’s get inside.” Once we were in, we ran into an old friend who quickly understood the situation. She led us to the washroom, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The changing table was tiny, barely big enough to sit on, let alone hold a grown man. You looked at me, a mix of embarrassment and relief in your eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered,

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