Sissy Room

Same here, definitely feels like Grace could have more going on that we don't know about with her own previous bedwetting issues, she seemed all to understanding and not grossed out of Maddy hanging out in a wet pull-up before. In a bit of a twisted way I was a little disappointed with Grace being busy at work, hoping that she would be around again to possibly notice Maddy once again in her pull-up, if not Maddy wetting herself at the table without even voicing her need to go to the bathroom. Out of everyone it definitely seems like Grace with her own probable diaper use and how observant she has shown herself to be, that she would be the one to figure out something more is going on with Maddy's "bedwetting", dare I saw something she can relate too?

I feel like the biggest winner 🏆 

The only thing that breaks up the monotony of our days is when the new government permits journalists and filmmakers to tour their revolutionary new supermax, the crown jewel in their war on gangs. They proudly display their trophies- us gangsters they’ve captured, the defeated and diapered.    The Warden gives the tours personally. He’s the only one brave enough to show his face. The only time we get news of the outside world is when the journalists talk to their cameramen and viewers, or when the Warden brags to the foreign journalists about how other nearby countries are emulating their revolutionary padded prison blueprint and tough crackdown on crime.    The diapers are his favorite thing to point out. Before a tour begins, he often makes us take our shirts off to show off our gang tattoos. He has us line up at the front of our cells, our bulging, wet and messy baby diapers on full display.    One of his favorite lines is “Our country is now the safest in the solar system. Children can safely play outside and go to school and our vendors can sell their goods in peace. Our streets are clean. Now the only thing these criminals dirty are their diapers.”  He always laughs at his own lame joke.    Today’s tour begins like any other. While the Warden escorts the journalists and film crew through intake- where they will be thoroughly searched as a matter of protocol to prevent smuggling in of any contraband- us prisoners are ordered by the Deputy Warden to take off our shirts and line up facing the cell front in just our soiled diapers, socks, and crocs.    Only a few well-vetted journalists from across the globe and the space colonies get the privilege of being international propaganda. I know all this because I hear the journalists comment into their microphones how rigorous and thorough the screening process is.    I sit on my bunk bed- my little space on the long metal slab bolted into the cement wall. From my reputation out on the streets and my tattoos that bear witness to my gang rank, I’ve earned the privilege of the bottom bunk. Another inmate and I stare wordlessly at each other, both our faces blank. Out on the streets, we would be rivals and kill each other on site. In here, all we can do is shut ourselves down, sit, stare, and helplessly fill our diapers. I have no affection for him, and he has none for me. But we do have mutual respect for each other as fellow victims of a ruthless regime.    Suddenly the guards snap to attention as if sensing an incoming inspection. They’re always paying attention, the guards in front of the cells and the guards above the cells.  Sometimes their stances may relax when their shift was almost over, but their eyes are always upon us. I’ve often wondered how they don’t get bored watching diapered jailbirds do nothing all day. How do they keep their minds from wandering and attention from wavering?    Their eyes- those the only thing of their masked faces we can see- tell me. The guards fear and hate us in equal measure, and the flames of that hatred have yet to burn out. When it does, the guards will probably quit or transfer to a lower security prison and someone with a shiny new axe to grind will take their place.    And here comes the Deputy Warden. Something is off. He’s sweating profusely and looks harried and nervous, not proud and excited like he usually is. He bellows orders, tone short and clipped and unsure. He keeps changing his mind on what inmates he wants up front. He points at one, shakes his head, then points at another. He bangs his baton on the iron bars when the inmates don’t crinkle fast enough for his liking. It would be so, so easy to grab that baton and bash him on the head. No one dares try. Maybe they’ve broken us more than we’d care to admit.    The guards are statues, silent sentinels the Deputy Warden ignores as he prowls up and down both lines of cells. He gets near mine. With a resigned sigh, I stand up. My partially wet diaper with the teddy bear ballerinas on it crinkles then sags, the weight of a full, heavy bowel movement pulling it down.    Due to my numerous tattoos, I’m usually selected to be up front. My face, head, back, and arms are covered in symbols of the respect and power I once carried. It’s my chest that draws the most interest. My entire abdomen from pelvic area to collar bones features a large hand in the devil horns pose. But the pointer and pinky fingers are the same length. Instead of human nails, these nails are sharp and pointed- claws instead of nails. A demon hand. It represents rebellion against societal norms and inner strength. The journalists are always fascinated by it and always ask the Warden what it means. The Warden loves to point my tattoo out then points out my diaper, especially if I’m visibly wet and messy.   Once I helplessly crapped myself in full view of a camera. It was awful. My bruised pride remembers it so well, the first time I messed myself in front of journalists. The Warden and some nameless, faceless journalist stood on either side of my cell, just outside the damn yellow lines. Just one more step and I could’ve reached through the bars and choked both of them, a hand for each obnoxious throat.   The journalist rambled on, spewing the propaganda lies he’d been fed, proclaiming how our forced diaper dependence was good and wholesome, how it supposedly shifted criminal thinking and it was a revolutionary new technique in the rehabilitation of hardened criminals.    The Warden smugly nodded along. Like that fucker understood the foreign language the journalist spoke. I did. That language is my second tongue. I knew better than to reply or act like I understood, so I just stared dead-eyed and defiant at the hovering camera drone. Suddenly, no warning at all all, not even a tummy twinge, my butt trumpeted out a long, loud, and wet sounding fart.    The microphone picked up every sound, every toot and squirt and squelch. The back of my thick diaper visibly ballooned out as I deposited my noisy, massive load. The cameraman operating the drone’s remote controls zoomed in on my defecation act. Then my diaper sagged with the weight of my shit. The Warden looked even more smug than usual. He explained in great detail the cutting edge technology behind our diapers. He even made me turn around so the camera had a better view of my visibly poopy diaper.   This time, just like every time, I am chosen to be up front. I take my spot in front of the bars next to the other chosen sacrificial lambs while the rest of our numerous cellmates line up behind us. A few lucky ones get to stay in their bunks at the back of the cells because there is not enough room up front. We all pay attention because it’s the only thing to do in this gods-forsaken hellhole. Even a religious book would be a relief.    The main door opens with a loud metallic echo. We hear the heavy stomps of the Warden’s boots before we see him. The Deputy Warden rushes to his side, stiff at attention. The guards all tense as if eager for a prison revolt or riot to put down. Three cameramen and their floating camera drones with multiple lenses to capture everything from every angle follow.    Something is off with the Warden. His chest isn’t puffed out and he’s not strutting around like he usually does. He’s nervous instead of eager to show off. More guards in different uniforms come in. I stiffen at the sight. I know those uniforms. Everyone knows those uniforms. The personal bodyguards of the president.    I barely repress a sneer. So the big dictator himself couldn’t resist a chance to gloat on intergalactic social media no doubt. I feel the tension in my fellow inmates, anger, pride, and defiance bubbling up. Unless the tyrant has come to personally announce the reinstatement of the death penalty, there is nothing more that man can do to us. He’s already taken away everything. I do not fear him. Hell, death would be an improvement, a release from the decades upon decades in this hell.    Like we didn’t have enough guards already. It’s all a shitshow to impress the sheeple. My country’s elected dictator is followed by high ranking sycophants and toadies. His ministers and cabinet leaders, and decorated military leaders in crisp uniforms dripping with medals.    The president is talking to the cameras, addressing the world and the space colonies. The Warden’s normal bluster is gone. He’s subdued, submissive to these men of higher rank and social status. My contempt for all of them only deepens. I don’t pay any attention. My eyes glaze over. I stare across the vast room to the opposite cell. It’s empty, awaiting the next load of victims condemned to diapers.    The president is still yapping. I tune him out. No doubt his flapping gums are praising himself and his revolutionary new diaper rehabilitation program. He’s probably going to make some new announcement about it-maybe he’s building another prison or some big, powerful country has asked for help in implementing it. Whatever it is, his ego will not allow anyone else to make such a grand proclamation. What better place to announce any breaking news than the torture dungeon that started it all?    While he blathers on, some of his entourage break off and look around at the various cells and the prized trophies on display. I keep my gaze straight ahead, my chin up in defiance and my shoulders squared in pride. My tattooed face is a hard mask, unreadable and intimidating. Despite the big baby diaper sagging with my piss and shit, I’m still a terrifying force to behold. We all are. In the past, I’ve made journalists cringe and stay far back from my cell with just my fierce demeanor. I will not give anyone here to gawk the satisfaction of engaging with them, of acknowledging they exist. I never do.    Two of the flunkies manage to catch my attention. Hatred flares hot in my gut, rumbling like an impending bowel movement. How didn’t I notice those miserable bastards as soon as they walked in? I loathe those special operation soldiers more than I do any rival gangster. They wiped out the entire set of my gang. They’re the reason I’m in here.   I also know a dirty little secret about those experimental freaks. I tried to tell it but no one would believe me. After the atrocities those two committed, they should be locked away in a cell with us. They deserved to be shaved and forever diapered like us. Instead those bastards are celebrated as heroes. It’s just more fascist propaganda.    My gaze focuses on them, bitter revulsion smoldering. They don’t notice me. New medals shine on their uniforms. What makes those government lapdogs such monsters? Glad you asked. Nanites. Tiny robots so small you need a microscope to see them. They’re new, first used in medicine about the same time the moon colony was established. They manipulate organic tissue at the cellular level. I read an article in my smart watch about them once when a drug drop off was late. They’re mostly used in surgery to repair damaged tissue and organs. Cut out a tumor and the nanites will construct healthy tissue. It’s revolutionary and saving lives. Spinal cord injuries that would’ve left someone paralyzed a century ago are now nearly fully treatable with recovery just a matter of time. Some causes of blindness can be treatable. Nanites make the lame walk and the blind see, cancer cured. Friggin miracles.    Like many new things, the use of nanites first started off only for the wealthy upper classes in rich, privileged countries then slowly trickled down and spread over the rest of the world to the poor and downtrodden and eventually became a new standard of healthcare. Emergency responders carry injectable vials of them.    What happens when they’re used to manipulate and fuck with healthy cells? A top secret government and military experiment, that’s what. Super soldier freaks like Thing One and Thing Two walking down the rows of cells. Enhanced speed, endurance, and strength. And fucking night vision. I found that last one out too little, too late. I’ve heard whispered rumors there’s more of the fuckers, but I don’t really know. Then again, I brushed rumors of nanite experimentation off as conspiracy theories and fake news until I saw it with my own eyes.    Many civilians say the tattoos turn gang members into monsters. I know the truth. I’m just a human dealt an unfair hand in life who did what he had to to do survive in a cold, hard, cruel world that wanted him to die. Thing One and Thing Two? They’re the real monsters.    My gaze locks onto Thing One. He looks like any young man in his late teens or early twenties. Fit, muscled, a perfect soldier boy. His short cropped hair is dyed cherry red. To symbolize his desire to spill blood? His perfect white teeth flash in a radiant smile I remember so well. Even in the midst of a shootout deep in the jungle he smiled. He smiled as he killed my gang brothers. That red hair. Soldiers, government boot lickers, are not normally allowed such self-expression. I guess the monsters get special privileges for being good little guinea pigs.    On his hip he carries a slip of a boy, a little waif around fourteen years of age. The boy is a soft, effeminate version of him with porcelain skin and hair dyed cherry red in imitation of his big brother. No denying their relationship. The boy’s head lay on his big brother’s shoulder. He is a delicate doll. He would’ve fetched a high price on the black market. Rich pedophiles would pay anything for such fine, tender flesh. It’s why I ordered my men to kidnap him in the first place.    That was my crucial mistake. He is a pampered, spoiled brat born to wealth and power. I never should have taken him. But he was so beautiful, his flesh worth so much. I was blinded by greed and couldn’t resist. Rich or not, I’d have him spirited away so far and so fast his family would never see him again. I didn’t know at the time about his big brother.    I never understood Thing One. How could someone born to such a posh, privileged life end up a military guinea pig? Did his father, a well known and decorated general, volunteer his eldest son to prove his loyalty to the new regime? Did Thing One volunteer willingly out of love and loyalty for his country, his people and stupid idealism? Did he martyr himself for the greater good? Fucking dumbass.    The baby brother is quiet and still, clinging to his big brother and obviously terrified of all the diapered monsters in their cages. No double reliving painful memories. I hope the little shit got PTSD. It would serve him right.   He sucks a petite thumb, drooling. A white terrycloth bib trimmed in red is tied around his neck to catch his drool. Only one of his big brown eyes moves around. The other is unfocused, vacant. Blind. He breathes through a tracheostomy hole and tube in his neck. A feeding tube is heavily taped to one cheek and goes up one nostril and down his throat. The boy’s pants balloon out in an unmistakable diaper bulge. A perfect circle scar of angry pink and white right between his eyes mars the perfection of his complexion.    A memento of when I shot him point blank. He should’ve died. I thought he was dead.

I do have a cat. She was scared of the possum and hid in the kitchen on high shelves. Still in the kitchen unsure that Paulie is really gone.

Crawl space, too short for me to move around in.