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I Love My Daddy

There have been quite a few times when I’ve been glad I was wearing a nappy whilst out and about in public. I know a seventeen year-old should be past that stage by now but, for instance, when an F16 screams in over your head at about 200 feet, pulls back and accelerates away vertically before going into some incredible aerial manoeuvres, you know that the spine-tingling pee you’d just excitedly let loose, it’s a nappy that saves you from an embarrassing damp patch on your pants.

It is times like that, when the unexpected leads to a sudden loss of control, a nappy is designed for.

To explain the F16: Daddy and I have recently moved to his villa on the coast near Murcia in Spain, where the local Air Base was having an open day and part of their itinerary was a fantastic air display. People had flocked to the beach to watch and the place was crammed packed with visitors. Although Daddy always insists I wear a nappy I’m constantly thankful for that resolve when such things happen.

The display had seen loads of different aircraft, both old and new, doing incredible stunts in formation and solo. Loving planes like I do I was in my element and marvelled at the clever pilots as they guided their planes through various brilliant aero-spectaculars. Suddenly, from behind where we were standing, a F16 military jet roared in over our heads.

The noise was deafening but I stood thrilled and in total admiration, giggling and crying in absolute delight as the pilot swung his jet into the most wonderful aerobatics. Physically, I was not in control of my body, which was jumping up and down like an excited two year-old, whilst my bladder had a mind of its own. Being seventeen made no difference, I was so gripped by the awe-inspiring display and oblivious to what else was going on in my baby pink shorts but thankfully, the nappy and matching pink plastic pants were as dependable as ever. My heart was beating madly as the pilot veered his aircraft into yet another superb roll right over my head and several other jets of pee excitedly filled my soaked nappy.

However, before Daddy insisted on what I wear I’d had enough embarrassing incidents of wet and messy pants to know his solution was correct. Like earlier in my young life, I was in a London shopping mall and I came face to face with one of my TV heroes. I didn’t dare speak to him but the fact that he was only a few feet away from where I stood, signing autographs and having his photo taken, prompted another loss of control and I wet myself. Had I then had the protection it would have saved me from ridicule but, as it was, the flow didn’t just stop at my pants but trickled onto the marble floor.  To my shame, people noticed and people reacted... it wasn’t only kids that mocked me.

I’m emotionally and physically unable to stop the excitement I feel at any time from spreading out in other directions. Each time my shorts or trousers would be soaked if not for my well-padded and protected lower half. From the moment Daddy had made that decision he ensured I was always expertly fastened in my nappy and securely wearing plastic protection. It might be ungainly at times but at least I felt safe from any mishap that such a sudden exhilarating thrill might cause.

Daddy knew how to prepare me for the day (and night) and Daddy knows best.


Daddy is in fact my Uncle John. He took me in when I was four years old after my parents died in a particularly grizzly accident, one in which I somehow (and some said miraculously) survived. However, once I was out of hospital it was Uncle John, being mum’s younger brother and my only close relation, who took me in and brought me up as his own.

From the moment I entered his home he’s treated me as a bewildered little boy in need of constant care and attention. Needless to say, to begin with I was scared and terrified of a world without my parents and that led to some pretty appalling moments. I was angry at everything and alas couldn’t contain any of my bodily functions without tears, tantrums and general hysterical, messy behaviour. I was a four year-old jumble of emotions who acted like an irritable toddler all the time. Uncle John eased me through it all, slowly realising just what I needed to help me control my mental and physical problems.  

Off course he found that cuddles and reassurance helped enormously but to control my incontinence I needed something far more practical. Nappies were his solution and because of the number of times and the amount I peed, thick nappies with thick rubber pants he deemed best. I didn’t like the idea at first but he was insistent that my life would be better if I was protected in such a way. He gently explained that part of why I was getting so upset was the obvious evidence of a wet spot, so, he reasoned, if we could prevent that, it would help.  I still wasn’t convinced and hated being put in nappies but they did stop the tell-tale stain, and, more to the point I was no longer plagued by worry of ridicule.

Sometimes, if I’d had a bad dream, I would wander into his room crying and wet but he’d never get mad. He’d just pull back the covers and let me snuggle in beside him. His gentle soothing caresses relieved my agitation and I’d drop off quickly. Every so often, he could see that the drooping soggy mass needed instant attention, so he wouldn’t flinch at changing me at such an unsociable hour, my comfort being of the utmost importance. He’d then guide me to my room but it wouldn’t be long before I’d pad back, the soft rustle of my protection accompanying each step, and slip in next to him.  His comforting arms always made me feel safe and secure as I’d wriggle up close to his warm, strong, reliable body.  

He didn’t mind the continuous changing because of the trauma I’d been through and actually thought, as a four, five and six year-old, it was OK for me to still be wearing such stuff. I didn’t know at the time but he later told me that despite all the seething resentment at losing my parents I had coursing through my young mind, I looked innocent and at ease when dressed in thick protection.

He was amazed at how peaceful I became once I was cleaned up and put into a nappy, it was a sort of acceptance of how things were before my parents died - apparently they had also kept me in rubber pants as I was very slow to potty train.

It was also at this time, as he was changing me and I was giggling at something he’d done, that I accidently said “Thank you Daddy” instead of uncle - he liked that. He hugged and kissed me so tightly that I had no option but to return the love and gratitude I felt for him. So, it was a very easy transition seeing as when we went out, most people assumed I was his son anyway, and he never corrected that assumption.


Bits of my memories from those early days keep coming back to me and I can see how the bond between us grew. The first intimate recollection was once as he changed me out of a particularly wet and messy nappy. I was overwhelmingly upset and crying. However, undaunted, he cleaned me up, fitted a thick disposable and, as he pulled up my protecting plastic pants, I threw my arms around him and sobbed uncontrollably for ages. All the time he soothed me with gentle massages to my back and padded bottom. 

He nuzzled and kissed the top of my head easing away my utter distress - hushing away the tears and rocking me gently. He told me that I’d hugged him so tightly and begged him not to leave (apparently I was so scared of losing him) he replied he wouldn’t want to go anywhere without his ‘Little Soldier’. I fell asleep in his arms and when I eventually did wake up I was still laid in his arms but in his bed and he was sleeping.

As I lay there, snug and warm, even as a young boy, I realised the love he had for me and I wanted to return that love. I huddled up close and wrapped my small arms around him as much as I could and fell back to sleep. When we woke up again, to my shame I was wet. Thankfully my nappy had protected me from any spillage but I felt guilty for doing what I’d done in my Daddy’s bed. I was sure I would be punished for it but, once he realised what I’d done he just smiled.

“It’s a good job my little fellow has adequate protection,” he beamed. “As long as you’re watertight,” he rubbed the front of my plastic pants, the damp nappy underneath feeling a bit strange as it slipped against my skin, “we’re all safe from whatever you do.”


He told me it was strange that these days, when I  wore a nappy, I hardly ever wet or soil myself but, as soon as he puts me in briefs (which I insisted on wearing like other boys my age), I inevitably peed my pants. He also noticed that if I got excited about anything, no matter how small (or huge) a deal it was, I would somehow manage to let a little trickle of pee out, often without even knowing I’d done so.

I remember fairly early on that Daddy took me to a Christmas Panto and I’d got so excited while watching (there was a lot of flashing lights, bangs and smoke) that I wet myself and the seat pretty badly. I think he was embarrassed as he explained to the manager what had happened but he just smiled knowingly and told Daddy that he’d be surprised at just how many kids wet themselves when the villain appears. I would even wet myself whilst watching TV or if I received a new toy or even saw a toy on TV or in a shop window. It appeared to Daddy that anything and everything slightly excitable could lead me to fill my pants and the only way to prevent that tell-tale damp stain was a nappy and thick vinyl pants.

This led me to become even further embarrassed and nervous about going out in public. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worn briefs as well, especially for school but they get damp pretty quickly. There have been other times when I’ve worn normal underwear and things appear to be OK, only for the dreaded excited spurt distressingly reducing me to a wet stain. So, despite carrying on alarmingly about having to wear them, he eventually convinced me that they were necessary and so as not to cause further humiliation (I think he meant arguments and damage to people’s furniture) they became compulsory. Of course I argued about how unfair it all was but time and time again I was thankful to have my boy bits safeguarded as I’d inadvertently wet myself.

I don’t remember much about the accident that killed my parents but sometimes I’d scream in my sleep and wake up wet and sometimes messy.  Psychiatrists had tried to get to the bottom of my problem but once in a doctor’s office I tended to be scared and clam up. Eventually Daddy stopped trying to ‘cure’ me and said that I’d had enough trauma as a young boy I hadn’t been able to enjoy my childhood as much as I should.

This gave both of us the excuse to be silly and juvenile all the time. Daddy was (and is) a whiz at keeping me happy and amused. The nappy he insisted on helped relieve me of any anxiety, which I suppose it still does. The thing is... from the beginning Daddy had always told me not to rush to grow up. Almost every day he’d tell me that being grown up was not as exciting as some people expected. I think he was trying to make me feel better because I was still wetting at night and wearing a nappy had become a necessity. 

What helped was the fact that Daddy never resented me having to wear protection. He never saw it as babyish, just something I couldn’t control so therefore it wasn’t a problem. He was always complimentary and encouraging when I did, and reassuring if I was anxious. So, the fact that my wearing a nappy, even as I got older, didn’t faze him was enough for me to accept that padding wasn’t a bad idea.


Daddy has been quite strict with me since those earlier days of messy tantrums and fits of nonstop weeping. He said he understood why these things were happening to me but from that early age he curbed my mental anguish by instilling a ‘nappy regimen’. He said that because I found it ‘calming’ the ‘daily diaper’ (a term he used occasionally) became part of both my waking and sleeping arrangements.

He checked that everything fitted well and was watertight so no drips or dribbles would appear in my bed or on my outer clothes. He also hoped I wouldn’t feel ill at ease to do all the things an active boy wanted to do. The bulk I eventually got used to and Daddy’s constant approval and compliments gave me confidence. If I asked him if he thought the nappy was too obvious he would tell me how well it all fitted and how no one would be able to tell so, over time, he persuaded me I need not worry. He also convinced me that my needs were paramount and other people’s opinions didn’t matter.

However, he also explained that his own upbringing had been very loving but strict. A set of rules was laid down and he was expected to abide by them. He said he found that having such boundaries were helpful. Knowing what is and isn’t acceptable - attitudes that are disrespectful and unthoughtful words and actions that impact badly on others were a definite no-no. He saw his friends struggle with even the most basic of these formalities but was thankful for them as they made him who he is.


Throughout the years Daddy has taken great delight in making sure I was always clean and dry. He loves to see me in a pristine nappy and my plastic armour (as he calls my vinyl pants), often making sure that all the fabric is tucked under the smooth, glossy cover and I’m waterproof.

Daddy insists on what I should wear, what I should eat and the TV programmes I am allowed to watch (which even now he still keeps an eye on) and to do as I am told - he will not take any cheek or disrespect... because that isn’t the way to behave.

In those early days my rebellion was met with understanding but as soon as I went to school and adopted my friend’s defiance, he became more and more insistent on making sure my conduct was acceptable. The strict nappy regimen was the way in which he curtailed any bad behaviour and, he pointed out, the thickness of my protection made my overall attitude a lot more agreeable. Although he was firm on this point, he was also very loving. He admitted that what makes his life worthwhile is seeing me out and about enjoying my childhood, whilst a glimpse of my plastic pants when I’m charging around wearing shorts (which I now wear all the time) confirms my status as a little boy who still needs his Daddy to look out for him.

As I’ve said I wore padding under my school clothes because I wet unexpectedly. I didn’t want to but the embarrassment of a damp smudge appearing on my school pants would have been a beacon to the rest of the class to torment me. Because of the precautions that Daddy took, I was never such a target. However, once home he would check to see if I was wet and we were both often amazed at the amount of pee my nappy had soaked up though thankfully leaving me feeling relatively dry. So now I do what I’m told with no argument because I have learned that Daddy is always right and to defy his ‘rules’ is a silly course of action.

It wasn’t all instant acceptance; it took a couple of extremely fierce spankings to begin with for me to grasp that Daddy’s word was law and, even though I might have once wanted to dress like a big boy and be treated as such, I had to learn that Daddy insisting on my childhood being extended for as long as possible is a good thing and not a punishment.

He likes me to dress younger than a teenager. He thinks that it is far more appropriate for a boy wearing a nappy to sport such clothing. He says it fills him with pride and delight to see me running around uninhibited in my colourful outfits with my protection not preventing me from doing anything.

The thick nappy or pull-ups are always augmented by a pair of colourful plastic/rubber pants, which sometimes get revealed if I bend over or stretch. Daddy says it cements my place in his life - that of a sweet, innocent little boy who wants nothing more than to be happy.  Besides, as these are the only clothes I get bought I am now used to them and, the up side to this is… I am so well protected I never get embarrassed by any unforeseen wet spots. He says my ‘individual look’ constantly reminds him just how precious and unique I am and if my protection wasn’t there I’d actually miss not having that secure feeling between my legs.

However, Daddy likes it best when I act like a kid; a silly, irresponsible little kid who just wants to enjoy himself and one not bogged down with the baggage of growing up. The clothes and how Daddy treats me certainly help me feel that way, with the lack of restraint to do anything, say anything that is anything but childishly fun has me behaving exactly as Daddy wants… and I love it. I might wear juvenile outfits but I have a terrific, fun-filled life and we do loads together.

Daddy loves me and I love my Daddy.


Week days my bed time is eight o’clock unless we are away or on vacation, then it can move around a bit. But Daddy used to insist that on school nights I was ready and in bed by that time and it’s the same now. Daddy thinks boys should get a good night’s sleep at any age and that just staying up watching TV is not good for a young mind. Of course there were occasional treats and I would be allowed to stay up later but, they were treats, so couldn’t expect them all the time.

Since we’ve moved out to live in Spain permanently I spend more and more time in just my protection. Certainly around the villa, which is quite private, it has a pool and a large garden and even the two young guys who come to keep it all tidy don’t appear to bat an eyelid as I play around wearing my plastic pants. 

I chat to them in my very poor Spanish as they trim the vegetation or keep the pool area clean. They are two very handsome young guys, probably a little older than me, and I really feel at ease, if incredibly immature around them. Sometimes, as I’m lying out in the sun I wonder what they’d look like wearing what I do. I’m sure Daddy would be happy to have them dressed in protection as they went about their business. Alas, as yet, they seem content wearing just their bright red shorts and matching red and white t-shirts. They’re always good-humoured and comment with a smile when I wear something colourful, shiny, rubbery and new that Daddy has bought.

At night Daddy fixes me into my night time protection after he’s applied all the various lotions and potions he says I need to keep me from getting a rash. He makes this fun and I’m giggling as he pins me in and pulls up my night time rubber pants - they are a good deal thicker than what I wear during the day but Daddy says this is all just a precaution to keep me safe and my bed dry. It’s a nightly routine that I like and makes me feel very special.

Sometimes, depending on the temperature, I am left to sleep in just my protection but other times Daddy zips me into a onesie or footed PJs or something else he thinks I look cute in. More often than not I get fed a final juice or a warm bottle of milk, which I suck down as he gently rocks my sleepy body cradled in his arms. Once that’s finished, if I’m not drowsy enough he’ll put some soothing music on to help me relax. I have a selection of dummies and stuffed animals that also accompany me to bed and he’ll make sure I am sucking on a dum-dum and cuddling a furry friend before he turns out the light and leaves me to the Sandman.

Even now, at seventeen, I like this routine as I feel it brings me and Daddy closer together… and I love my Daddy.






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