Dearest Julia (A Diaper-Girl Story)

Truth be told, it wasn't merely words. No, like a horse broken to the saddle, Henry had remade me. I was his, entirely, but it was more than that promise might imply. I gave up any sense of adult agency that day, vowing in my innermost soul to become Henry's creature; body and soul.

Now you must be aghast by this point, thinking I've had a mental breakdown, but nothing could be further from the truth. Henry is a sweet and loving man, plus he treats me like a princess. It's only that he understands that a girl like me needs to be utterly submissive and dependent in order to thrive. He saw it right away, but I understand it now, too. That's why he keeps me in nappies. As daddy's little girl I'm utterly dependent on Henry for my least and every comfort, but as matters turns out, that's exactly what I both want and need.

Nappies feel all innocent and comforting for a start, then unbelievably sexy as the wet and warm cotton encases each and every fold of one's pussy, then yucky and scratchy and miserable and horrible and shameful as the fabric cools and you begin to realize just what you've done, when the humiliation of being a diapered twenty-eight -year-old sinks in. This wouldn't be a good thing under normal circumstances, but the more wretched one feels beforehand the more glorious and gratifying it feels to be changed into a nice and fresh nappy afterwards.

I totally get the fussy crying baby thing, BTW, and quite naturally find myself acting out much the same. It's more than that, though. I don't want to be a baby, none of the goo goo gah gah stuff for the surprisingly well-named "Lydia Little," but growing up orphan there's something about the total package that does it for me. It's all so very Psych 101, but whatever the case I became an instant convert.

The point of it all, of course, is to drive home the essential fact that I am daddy's beloved little girl, to replace my lifelong sense of abandonment with the warmth and comfort of being reared and adored by a loving daddy, to convince me, I mean convince me all the way down to my mitochondria, that whether I'm a good or bad little girl, that I'll always be loved and protected.

You'll doubtless think that fornication lies at the heart of it all—daddy's own sexual gratification in particular—and if I'm being truthful I can't quite deny that assertion. It's true, the man does enjoy his "little niece." Even so, being made to feel safe and loved and adored, to be appreciated without stint—indeed, to be encouraged to be the best possible me—well let me tell you that's a heady heady thing; lifechanging, even.

I used to believe that I had to be "good enough" to be loved; as if such a thing were even possible. Daddy's taught me, however, that I'm lovable, regardless. If I wet my diapers, he's pleased and tells me so—"I'm so proud of you, Lydia, wetting your diapers like a good little girl!"—but if I DON'T wet his response is equally enthusiastic: "What a good little girl you been, keeping your diapers dry like a proper young lady." The point of it all is that I don't have to perform for the man. He keeps me in diapers because the help thrive, to be the best me I can be. It's as simple as that.

Bluuuuurg! Sorry, enough of the emotional gobbledygook. Being orphaned gives me enough baggage to make a psychiatrist's career, but let's put all the mumbo jumbo aside for the moment.

You're probably wondering about the whole nappy thing. Well, with my punishment being over, Henry untied my restraints and then began to change me. The process can be a bit involved, BTW, in that the man insists I orgasm in each and every one of my nappy changes. According to the literature—five pages of extremely small print that Henry made me read, word for word—coating the soft cotton with my feminine juices does something or another to stave off certain kinds of intravaginal nappy rash. That's undoubtedly true, but I have to I think the main reason he does it is Pavlovian conditioning; to equate orgasms and nappies in my mind, which it has. To be clear, just looking at a nappy causes me to drip, so goodo on the scientists!

Whatever the case, one can't help but love the results. I need at least six changes a day, which means I'm guaranteed to orgasm at least that often, not to mention the one-or-two-times-a-day that Henry fucks me silly, and ignoring the many many times I'm brough off by my babysitters and a bunch of ad-hoc caregivers, too. Yes, I have babysitters—two young girls, at present; girls with rather substantial motherly breasts.

My fitted nappies are made from thick multi-layer cotton, further padded at the crotch by two or three stuffers. The basic idea is that if I can't help but waddle like a baby then my nappies are thick enough. The whole swaddle then gets covered by a substantial pair of rubber pants; snap-ons, for the most part, but every now and then pullups. And then there's the pins; to tightly snug a nappy to my curves I need at least four pins, but the more petite of my two babysitters—the ridiculously named Adinestoralta Lintelhuulp—typically uses six pins, and every now and then, eight. It's all because Miss Lintelhuulp's tiny like us, and as such she has tiny hands. This means that she doesn't have the strength to snug a nappy all that tight in a single go but needs to do so progressively; hence the extra pins. Henry, himself, would have little problem in snugging me in with even two pins, but seeing as my tiniest caregiver always takes greats pains to lick my pussy beforehand, I can't say that I mind the extra bother at all.

I should mention that I've become a bit of a lesbian; well, a bit more than a bit. To tell the truth, I've become addicted to breast feeding—literally addicted; so much so that the threat of being denied toothsome teat has become a much scarier prospect for me than any threat of spanking.

I'll have more to say on the subject of lesbianism—a lot more—but first I want to dwell on the joys of being fucked. Actually, I should probably start off with a complaint. Although daddy does take care to fuck me at least once or twice each day, that's clearly not enough! I know that may sound greedy, especially since I had not been fucked a single time in the twenty eight years prior to your sailing off to England, but to be clear, my chief complaint in life is that daddy doesn't fuck me near often enough. That doesn't mean that he doesn't try to make time for "his little niece," but what with work and sporting activities, not to mention his social schedule, it's commendable that he finds as much time for me as he does.

There's another thing to mention, although I'd ask you to keep your hackles down when I tell you that daddy shags all sorts of other girls besides me. To take our household, alone, there are six female staff, each one of which he makes sure to fuck at least once in the week, lest she feel neglected. And needless to say, his activities are by no means confined to the house; an unambiguous fact since he routinely tells me about it. Now its important to note that daddy almost always brings me in the fun when having sex with any other girl in the house, so even if he isn't plowing my quim during a particular session, I do get to be part of it all.

To take a recent example, our chief maid, Sabrina Wessen, hadn't been fucked by daddy in two entire weeks so, as you might imagine, she was rather pouty. She hadn't been neglected, BTW, but was rather being punished for some sort of serious naughtiness by a long stretch of penis denial, although as to what she did to merit such a punishment I haven't a clue. Anyway, her time in the doghouse being over daddy decided it was time to fuck the statuesque beauty, to fuck her until she was quaking with pleasure. A pair of the staff got to help, along with me.

As you may or may not know, there are all sorts of ways to ensure that a girl experiences maximal pleasure during coitus, but one of the most satisfying is to pay attention to all of her naughty bit's at once. To that end, daddy positioned Serena kneeling upright at the edge of his bed and then began to fuck the pretty girl in her ass. To be clear, daddy's attentions would have been more than enough on their own, but the geometry of the thing was such that Miss Lintelhuulp and our under-maid (Miss Walters) were able to inhale Sabrina's small yet sensitive breasts into their eager mouths while I kneeled down in front of her pussy and began to lick. I should add that although Sabrina is somewhat flat-chested, has she the pokiest nipples of anyone in the house, so there had to a lot of nibbling going on, too; but I digress. Sabrina has this lovely "innie" pussy; which I adore. Anyway, with her pussy being as childishly smooth and underdeveloped as ours, I'd normally need to spread the pretty girl wide in order to have a chance of getting at her clit, but by violating the Sabrina with my entire hand, she opened to me as a blooming rose. One final detail. With daddy filling Sabrina's rear passage and my hand filling her front, I was able to giving daddy's stiff cock a sort of handjob. He clearly reveled in the sensation, loudly groaning with each and every thrust, groaning as I rarely heard him since or before.

Needless to say, we all came, together, then ended up collapsed on top of one another, on the bed. In my own case, I quite naturally wet as I had my orgasm, which made it even more delicious. As to Sabrina, she also wet, which led to daddy spanking the girl and pinning her into a n extra-thick diaper for the night.

I should probably mention that I'm far from the only diaper-girl on the premises. Sabrina never wears unless she's being punished, but both of my babysitter's wear 24/7. The rest of the girls are more off than on, but the point of it all is that every one of the girls in the household is diapered at least a couple of days in the month. Even so, I'm daddy's only little niece, so that's a distinction. Little Adi may wear diapers, for instance, but she's nonetheless employed to be a sort of stand-in mommy for me; something she couldn't do if she wasn't fundamentally an adult at heart. Me, I find myself more and more regressed as the days go by. As I said, I'm "little," and my juvenile underwear has little (tee hee) to do with that.

BTW, you might imagine that by my being diapered I've quite naturally become incontinent, but nothing could be further from the case. No, I have pretty much the same bladder control as before. And while I do suffer the occasional spurt or dribble, especially while being spanked, I most typically pee in my nappy when I intend to. It's delicious to wet oneself on purpose, BTW, if you can hold it in for a while. My urine makes this lovely, if perennially embarrassing, hiss, but the best part of wetting oneself is the praise it earns. Every time I wet myself in front of daddy he tells me that I'm his "good little girl," a simple phrase that never fails to send shivers of delight up and down my spine.

I have no doubt that I've convinced you by this point that I've (a) turned into a nymphomaniac, and (b) that I should no-doubt seek some serious psychiatric treatment, but rest assured that my new life isn't entirely about sex and nappies. No, I've been painting up a storm—being daddy's little girl has freed me from most of the doubts and terrors that I'd previously labored under—plus I go for a walk in the park nearly every day. I even socialize, if you can believe; daddy has introduced me around to a surprising number of people, other men's little nieces, even. Plus, I've attended three different state dinners. Not a one in ball gown, like the grown-up diplomats wives, but still, I'm surprisingly presentable in my little-girl outfits; diapers and all.

Again, I have never been happier, and as bizarre as my new life might seem, I would never want it to change in the least.

OK, OK . . . OK! I know I have been blathering on for pages, but we're finally at the point in my narrative where it's time, dear sister, to rip off the sticking plaster, to rip it off in a single go. "I read you diary!"

There, I said it. I know, you must be horrified, and it was an unconscionable thing to do, but I can, at least, offer an explanation.

A few weeks after Henry took me in, we had a quick chat about the apartment, and whether it'd be useful to fetch anything I might want from there to my new home. There wasn't all that much, of course, but I did wish that I could have some pictures of you, at hand. Then, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned a journal I'd been sketching in the day before you left for the UK, telling Henry that it was to be found in my night-table drawer. Unfortunately, when he went to retrieve my things he got the bedrooms mixed up and brought me your journal instead.

That doesn't excuse me for reading it. I mean, I realized the journal wasn't mine just as soon as he put it in my hands, but you have to understand how much I still missed you, just then. The possibility to "hear" your dear words, if only secondhand, was far too tempting. So, I began to read and then, well, I couldn't put it down.

You have to believe me when I say I had no idea; none. Doesn't matter though, because the mere thought of your "...hot tongue encircling one of [my] nipples..." makes my pussy slick. That's what you wanted; right? Well I want it, too: to make love to you until scream with the pleasure of it all To finger your slick and spasming pussy; to spoon you while reaching round to fondle your breasts, wishing I was a man so I could fuck you senseless, too; to suck on your titties (I've taken to standing topless in front of a mirror just to imagine it); to run my fingers so lightly across your soft soft skin that you can't help but shiver; to enact every one of your fantasies, your pages and pages of fantasies. You have no idea. Since reading your journal I've pretty much become obsessed with the idea of making you mine. Does that make sense? I know there's the incest thing—taboo, right!—but, just like you, I want to lick my sister's pussy. It can't be "that" wrong.

I've discussed the subject at length with Henry (and no, he hasn't read your journal, although I did share the general thrust of your writing.) I don't know, of course, how you'll react to his knowing. I mean, aside from violating your privacy and the fact that you do talk about being fucked every now and then, most of your fantasies seem to be about me, so "Does that make you a lesbian? I mean, exclusively, or do you want to have sex with men, too?

Henry hopes, of course, that it's the later. The man has been more than a little obsessed with fucking me, lately, but I'm starting to think that he imagines it's your tight (and virginal?!?) pussy he's fucking instead.

Well normally tight (yours?!?) and extra tight (mine!) It's a myth, I think, that being fucked a lot makes your pussy become slack. In all truth I think the exact opposite is what happens; the more I'm fucked, the more I clench. To tell the truth I'm surprised that Henry can so much as wriggle a slim pinky in there now, considering the percentage of my day I spend in orgasmic spasm. But I'm drifting, a bit.

Back to Henry, he quite clearly fantasizes about fucking the pair of us, together; indeed he's spoken about his aspiration at length. More to the point, I share those fantasies, too.

Last week, Henry had our second under-maid (Marcie Llewellyn) strapped down on top of me with our breast and pussies touching, just so he could conveniently slam that thick and lengthy cock of his into the pair of us, by turns. It was a bit of a contortionist setup, but the point of it all was that I couldn't help but pretend that you were strapped down in Marcie's place. The fucking aside, it was extremely erotic tied down on top of each other, our taut and pokey nipples almost dueling as we snogged with abandon.

Are you weirded out yet? I am, a bit—I just did a reread to this point—and I'm pretty goggle-eyed. Anyway, no matter what you think of my proposal—my transformation was a lot to take in, for me, even as I was living it—but the point to this all is that I love you and miss you and want to share as much of my new life with; as much or as little as you'd like. That's the key point, there's nothing that you "have" to do. You could return to New York, for instance, and live entirely apart from me, although that would make me unbelievably sad. Or, to take the other end of the spectrum, you could become daddy's other baby girl. Nothing would make me happier than to share daddy with you! Just thinking about your slick little pussy being swaddled in thick cotton has me dripping, but the idea that'd I'd be allowed to nappy you myself leaves me faint with lust. I know, it's not entirely consistent, what with my being the baby in the house, but daddy has a literal hard-on for our changing each other's nappies. Unlike us girls, the man almost never masturbates, at least within my sight, but when I admitted to him that I'd been fantasizing about my diapering you, myself, he took himself in hand then made me repeat the story over and over until he shot a thick gob of semen right in my face. Thick and salty, BTW; just like I like it. My only disappointment was that he did actually fuck my throat.

Anyway (Anyway? I think I'm starting to become an American since I've used that one word much too often!) that's it.

I miss you terribly!

Come home, no matter what. Be my baby sister, if you can, but even if you can't (or dare not!) know that my nubile body is yours, however you want it. To be clear, I am madly in love with daddy, but you will always be my first and best love.

Lydia

BTW, I have one more bit of news to share. As daddy's little girl I've forgone all of my adult responsibilities for the last four months, ignoring the rent, and bills and such. Not to fear, though, because daddy has handled it all. Our bills have been paid in full, for the year, but if that weren't enough, daddy setup a pair of substantial trust funds in our names, so money should never be a problem for us again. In my own case, I made daddy my executor, so it won't cause me the least bother, but in your case the money it is yours to do with as you please. We each received £100,000, so we're absurdly rich. You'll doubtless think this a Pemberley moment (I'm not above employing bribery to win draw you to my side, although to be clear, I only learned about this arrangement yesterday, whereas I've been composing this letter for days) but the point of it all is that you are totally free to do as you will. Again, I hope hope hope that . . . well I said it enough so I won't repeat, other to restate that I love you, and miss you and can't wait until we are reunited.

I know it's a lot to take in but if I may offer up a final image of myself to hold dear to your heart until we are reunited, imagine me as I am today. Diapered, of course—I'm always diapered, happily diapered—but instead of being dressed in the sort of baby-dress that daddy likes to keep me in at home, I'm turned out in a smart petticoated sailor dress, instead. One of your dresses; I hope you don't mind. I remembered you purchasing it, but until I had a rare chance to root through your closet, I had no idea that you owned anything so girlishly juvenile. The rather adult bodice aside, the hem is a length more suited for a child. Gives me hope, hope that you'll want to a little niece, too.