Mommy Mei Fly - Version B2

Chapter 1
Mommy Mei Fly - Version B2

-- Maternal Regression --

Character: Mei

A 29-year-old former dancer of Chinese-American heritage who has always taken pride in defying stereotypes with her curvy figure. Perfectionistic and image-conscious, Mei struggles with the gap between her idealized vision of motherhood and her current reality. Her determination can be both her greatest strength and weakness as she navigates this challenging transition. She doesn’t love her man flirting with the wet nurse, but she doesn’t mind being babied by her employee.

Background:

You've always prided yourself on perfection. As a former dancer with an enviable, curvy physique that defied stereotypes about your Asian heritage, you married well and created the picture-perfect life. Your pregnancy was meticulously planned, your delivery scheduled precisely, and your nursery designed with magazine-worthy attention to detail.

But nature had other plans. Despite your determination and research, your body has betrayed you in the most fundamental way - you cannot produce enough milk for your newborn. The pediatrician suggested formula, but you refused outright. Your own mother used formula, and you've always blamed that choice for what you perceive as your emotional distance. Your child will have better.

After weeks of struggling, sleep deprivation, and your baby's concerning weight chart, you've made a difficult decision. You've hired help - a young nursing student from your building who advertised her services as a wet nurse. It feels like admitting defeat, but you tell yourself it's temporary. Just until your own milk comes in properly.

Amber stands in your doorway, her honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through your meticulously designed living room windows. Your eyes involuntarily trace the curves visible beneath her thin cotton top, and something twists inside you—a knot of inadequacy tangled with an unexpected flutter of arousal.

"Hi, Mrs. Chen," she says, extending a hand. "Thanks so much for this opportunity. I've been studying lactation science extensively in my program."

You take her hand, noticing how soft it is compared to your own, which have grown dry from constant washing between diaper changes. "Please, call me Mei," you manage, your voice higher than intended.

Your husband David appears from the hallway, the baby monitor clipped to his belt. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Amber, and he runs a hand through his disheveled hair before extending it to her.

"David Chen," he says, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in weeks. "We're really grateful you're here. Mei's been having a tough time."

You feel your cheeks burn. "I was just about to explain my expectations," you say sharply, then falter as both turn to look at you. The carefully rehearsed speech dissolves on your tongue.

"I—I've prepared a schedule," you continue, gesturing toward the color-coded chart on the refrigerator. "And there's a list of—"

A thin, reedy cry emanates from the baby monitor, cutting through your explanation. Your breasts ache in pavlovian response, though you know they hold nothing substantial to offer.

"That's perfect timing," Amber says with easy confidence. "Would you like me to show you how I work?"

Before you can answer, David nods enthusiastically. "Yes, please. Mei's been up all night trying."

The three of you move toward the nursery, a room you spent months perfecting. Your daughter's cries intensify as you enter, her tiny face red with effort. You reach for her automatically, but Amber steps forward.

"May I?" she asks, though she's already lifting your daughter with practiced ease. "Hello, beautiful," she coos. "I'm Amber, and I'm going to help your mommy take care of you."

You watch, frozen, as Amber settles into the glider rocker you selected from an exclusive boutique. She unbuttons her top with casual efficiency, revealing a nursing bra that's clearly seen use. Your daughter, who has been rejecting your breast for days, latches immediately to Amber's exposed nipple.

"Oh," Amber sighs with satisfaction, looking up at you with a smile that's both sympathetic and triumphant. "She was just so hungry. Poor little thing."

David stands beside you, his hand on your shoulder, but his eyes are fixed on the tableau before you: another woman feeding your child, in your carefully curated nursery, while you stand uselessly by.

"See?" he whispers, squeezing your shoulder. "This is exactly what we needed."

You nod mechanically, unable to articulate the complex cocktail of relief, jealousy, and something darker stirring within you as you watch Amber stroke your daughter's cheek with a tenderness that matches your own.

You move closer to Amber, perching on the ottoman beside the glider rocker. The proximity allows you to catch her scent—something clean and floral that makes you feel simultaneously matronly and juvenile.

"Would you mind showing me what you're doing?" you ask, your voice straining for casual professionalism. "I've tried everything, but nothing seems to work for me."

Amber's eyes light up with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. "Of course! I'd love to help." She shifts slightly, angling your daughter's tiny body so you can see better. "See how her mouth covers most of the areola, not just the nipple? That's key."

You nod, studying the technique while trying to ignore the intimacy of the moment—this stranger's exposed breast in your home, your husband watching with undisguised interest from the doorway.

"When it's your turn," Amber continues, her tone sliding into something gentler, almost maternal despite her youth, "we'll try a different position. Your breasts are..." she pauses, eyes flicking over your chest with clinical assessment that somehow feels more invasive than if she'd been leering, "shaped differently than mine. You might have better luck with the football hold."

David clears his throat. "Mei's tried everything. The lactation consultant at the hospital said—"

"That I wasn't relaxing enough," you finish sharply, heat rising to your face. "As if I could just flip a switch."

Amber's free hand reaches out, patting yours with cool fingers. "Stress is the enemy of milk production. When we try later, maybe David could give you a shoulder massage while you feed? Sometimes that helps new mommies."

The infantilizing term 'mommies' lands like a slap. You're nearly thirty, a professional woman who's choreographed dance productions and managed budgets, yet in this realm, you're reduced to an incompetent novice.

"I'm not sure—" you begin, but your daughter chooses that moment to unlatch, milk dribbling from her tiny mouth as she turns her head toward your voice. The sight of her recognition pierces you—she knows you, wants you, even as her sustenance comes from elsewhere.

"Look at that," Amber coos. "She heard her mama. Do you want to try now, Mei? She's taken the edge off her hunger."

Before you can answer, she's already shifting forward, gently transferring your daughter to your arms. You fumble with your nursing top, aware of both Amber and David watching as you expose your swollen, inadequate breast.

Your daughter latches, then immediately pulls away, her face screwing up in frustration.

"Here," Amber says, leaning close enough that her hair brushes your shoulder. Her hands move to your breast without hesitation, her fingers repositioning your nipple near your daughter's mouth. "Like this."

The casual way she touches you—as if your body is community property now—sends a confusing ripple through you: indignation tangled with a strange surrender.

Your daughter latches again and begins to suck, but you can feel the difference. With Amber, she drew deeply, rhythmically. With you, it's shallow, searching, ultimately futile.

"She's trying," Amber says encouragingly, but her tone carries the unmistakable note of pity. "That's progress!"

David steps closer, his hand landing on your shoulder. "You're doing great, honey," he says, but his eyes flick to Amber for confirmation.

You sit there, trapped between them, your body failing at its most primal function while this younger, more capable woman witnesses your inadequacy with kindness that cuts deeper than cruelty ever could.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the nursery feels with the three of you crowded around your daughter. "Maybe we should move to the living room," you suggest, your voice straining for authority. "It might be easier for me to try again there. More... space."

Amber's brow furrows slightly, her lips pursing as she adjusts your daughter against her breast. "Actually, babies feed better in quiet, familiar environments. The nursery is perfect—you've created such a soothing space here."

You look to David, expecting support, but find him nodding along with Amber's assessment.

"She's right, Mei," he says, his voice taking on that placating tone he uses when he thinks you're being irrational. "Remember what Dr. Patel said about consistency and routine?"

The betrayal stings more than it should. You swallow the argument rising in your throat and nod, defeated by their united front.

"Why don't you sit here?" Amber pats the rocking chair beside her. "You can watch how she feeds for the rest of this session. It might help you get a better sense of what works."

You sink into the chair, oddly grateful for the direction. Amber shifts slightly, angling your daughter so you can see her tiny mouth working against the breast that isn't yours. The sight awakens something primitive in you—jealousy tangled with a strange, humiliating relief that someone else can provide what you cannot.

"Your nursery is absolutely adorable," Amber says, her eyes scanning the room. "All this pink and the ballerina theme—those dancing baby girls with their diapers showing under their tutus. And so many stuffed animals!"

You follow her gaze around the room you spent months perfecting—the hand-painted mural of baby ballerinas dancing with teddy bears and bunnies, their cloth diapers peeking beneath frilly skirts. The collection of plush toys arranged on shelves, waiting for a child old enough to appreciate them.

"It's almost as if a baby designed it for herself," Amber says with a light laugh. Then she catches herself. "Well, a toddler, I mean. Newborns can't play with stuffies, or dance." She looks down, her voice softening to a coo. "Can they, sweetness?"

The endearment hangs in the air between you. You're not entirely sure if she's speaking to your daughter or to you, and you're disturbed by how much you crave either possibility.

"Mei designed everything herself," David offers proudly. "She spent weeks on that mural."

Heat crawls up your neck as Amber's eyes widen slightly. "Really? That's impressive. It has such a... childlike quality to it. So innocent."

The compliment feels backhanded, highlighting the disconnect between your professional, adult self and this nursery that suddenly seems to reveal more about your psyche than you intended. You shift uncomfortably in the rocking chair, acutely aware of how the motion mimics the way Amber is swaying with your child.

Amber's question catches you off-guard, your eyes drawn to the ballerina mural you spent weeks perfecting. The tiny dancers in their tutus suddenly seem to mock you with their perfect arabesques.

"I... tried," you admit, your voice smaller than intended. "I took lessons from age four to sixteen, but I wasn't built for it. Too curvy, even back then."

Amber's eyes widen with exaggerated sympathy, her free hand reaching to touch your arm. "Oh, sweetie, that must have been so hard for you. All those skinny girls in their leotards making you feel different."

The condescension in her tone makes your chest tighten. You're not a child to be pitied, you're a grown woman with accomplishments. You straighten your spine.

"I actually went on to become a choreographer," you say, hearing the defensive edge in your voice. "I've designed productions for the regional ballet company and several modern dance troupes. My last piece before my maternity leave was featured in—"

"So now you tell the babies and bears how to dance," Amber interrupts with a bright smile, nodding toward your mural. "Sounds like fun!"

David chuckles, oblivious to how she's infantilized your career. "Mei's incredibly talented. You should see some of her videos."

"I'd love to!" Amber coos, but her attention has already shifted back to your daughter, who's beginning to fuss. "I think someone needs a diaper change. Would you like me to handle it, or would you prefer to do it, Mei?"

The question feels like a test. Of course you should change your own child's diaper, but the way Amber phrases it—as if she's offering to spare you a chore—makes you hesitate.

"I can do it," you say, reaching for your daughter.

Amber transfers her with practiced ease, but as your baby settles against your chest, she whispers, "The changing pad is on the dresser, and the wipes should be warmed first. Babies hate cold wipes."

You know this. You've been changing diapers for weeks. Yet somehow, under Amber's watchful eye, you feel like you're being evaluated, your every move subject to critique.

As you lay your daughter down on the changing pad, Amber hovers nearby, rebuttoning her top with casual efficiency. "You know," she says conversationally, "I had dreams of being a doctor, but nursing school is probably more my speed. We can't all be what we dreamed of as little girls, can we?"

The parallel she's drawing is unmistakable—both of you, settling for less than your childhood ambitions. Except she's framing her nursing career as a reasonable compromise while positioning your choreography as a childish consolation prize.

"Some of us find better dreams," you reply, focusing on securing the clean diaper rather than meeting her gaze.

David, still leaning against the doorframe, smiles fondly. "Mei's always been good at adapting. Remember when you twisted your ankle before that showcase in college? You redesigned the whole piece in a weekend."

The memory of your resilience should bolster you, but instead, it highlights how far you've fallen from that determined young woman. Now you can't even feed your own child without assistance.

You pass your daughter back to Amber with an automatic gesture that surprises even you—as if she's the rightful holder of this tiny life you created. Your hands feel suddenly empty, purposeless without the weight of your child.

"Look at what a good job Mommy did," Amber coos to your daughter, her voice pitched high in baby talk. "Yes she did, such a clean diaper! Mommy Mei is learning so fast!"

The words land like tiny barbs under your skin. You're not the one learning; you're the one who read every parenting book, who designed this nursery, who carried this child for nine months. Yet somehow, in Amber's presence, you've become the novice.

"I have so many tips for new Mommy Mei," Amber continues, bouncing your daughter gently. "Little tricks I've learned from all my childcare experience. We'll have you feeling more confident in no time."

David beams at this, as if Amber has offered you both a priceless gift rather than a thinly veiled critique of your maternal abilities. You catch his eye and tilt your head toward the hallway, a silent request for privacy.

"We'll be right back," you tell Amber, who nods and continues whispering to your daughter.

In the hallway, you keep your voice low but urgent. "David, I don't want this woman in our home. There's something about her that feels... wrong."

His face falls, exhaustion etching deeper lines around his eyes. "Mei, please. You've been running yourself into the ground. You're exhausted, you're frustrated, and it's affecting both of us." He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. "You deserve to be pampered a little. Let someone else handle the hard parts for a while."

The word 'pampered' sends an electric current through you. Unbidden, an image forms in your mind: yourself, small and helpless, cradled in Amber's arms. Your lips seeking her breast, latching with the same instinctive hunger as your daughter. The vision is so vivid you can almost taste the warm sweetness, feel the comforting weight of her breast against your cheek.

Heat floods your face as the fantasy dissipates, leaving confusion in its wake. What is wrong with you? You're a grown woman, a professional, a mother—not an infant seeking comfort from a stranger's body.

"Mei?" David's voice pulls you back. "Are you okay? You look flushed."

"I'm fine," you lie, unable to meet his eyes. "Just tired."

"Exactly my point," he says, squeezing your hands. "Let's give her a chance. Just for a week or two, until you're feeling more like yourself."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The image of being nursed by Amber lingers at the edges of your consciousness, both disturbing and oddly compelling. You tell yourself it's just exhaustion playing tricks on your mind, nothing more.

"Okay," you finally agree. "We'll try her out."

Three days have passed in a blur of feedings, naps, and a gradual shift in your household's dynamic that you can't quite pinpoint but feel acutely. You sit on the couch, watching Amber move through your space with the confidence of someone who belongs here far more than you do.

"Look who's ready for Daddy to come home," Amber coos to your daughter, who's freshly bathed and dressed in a onesie you don't recognize—pale pink with tiny ballerinas printed across it. "Yes, we're all excited to see Daddy, aren't we?"

The way she says "Daddy"—warm, respectful, intimate—contrasts sharply with how she refers to you when your daughter is present. "Mommy might want to hold you while I finish dinner," she says, her voice taking on that slightly lilting, almost teasing quality when she says "Mommy."

She hands you your daughter, who settles against your chest with a contented sigh. This small victory—your child actually wanting your touch—feels disproportionately significant after days of watching her prefer Amber's arms.

"I made that pasta you like, Mei," Amber says, the words coming out quickly, almost sounding like "Mei Mei"—a childish nickname that makes you feel inexplicably small. "The one with the little bow-ties. Thought it might be fun."

Your eyes follow her to the kitchen, where she moves with practiced efficiency. She's wearing an apron you didn't know you owned, tied neatly around her slender waist. In three days, she's reorganized your kitchen, established a feeding schedule for your daughter that actually works, and somehow managed to keep the apartment cleaner than it's been since before your pregnancy.

"Oh, I meant to ask," she says, gesturing toward a ballerina figurine on your bookshelf with a wooden spoon. "Is that a Degas reproduction? It's adorable."

You nod, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You'd forgotten how many ballet-themed items you've collected over the years—the figurines, the framed prints, the coffee mug with worn pink slippers painted on its side.

"I've always loved ballet," you say, hating how defensive you sound.

"It's so sweet," Amber replies, her tone making the word 'sweet' sound like 'childish.' "I'm noticing all these lovely ballerina things around your home. It's like living in a little girl's dream."

The front door opens before you can respond. David enters, looking more rested than he has in weeks.

"Something smells amazing," he says, his eyes finding Amber first, then shifting to you and the baby.

"Auntie Amber made your favorite pasta," she says to your daughter, though clearly for David's benefit. The way she says 'Auntie'—confident, authoritative—makes it sound like a title rather than a term of endearment.

"You're a lifesaver," David tells her, setting down his briefcase. "Mei, how was your day?"

You open your mouth to answer, but Amber interjects. "She had a nice long nap this afternoon while I took care of everything. Didn't you, Mei?"

The question hangs in the air, infantilizing and yet somehow tempting. You did nap—longer than intended—and woke to find laundry folded, dinner started, and your daughter happily playing on her mat under Amber's watchful eye.

"I was tired," you admit, the words feeling like a confession of inadequacy.

You desperately remind yourself that the 22-year-old Amber is practically a baby compared to you, and not even a mother.  The image of Amber as a toddler blooms in your mind with startling clarity—her honey-blonde hair wispy and fine, chubby legs wobbling as she bangs on pots on the kitchen floor with wooden spoons, the pink dress riding up to reveal a thick diaper. The fantasy feels like revenge, reducing this woman who infantilizes you to an actual infant herself.

But the fantasy warps, disturbs itself. The toddler looks up at you with adult eyes, Amber's voice emerging from the baby's mouth. "Mei. Mei? Hello, is Mommy still in there?"

You blink, reality reasserting itself. Amber stands before you, head tilted in concern, your daughter now resting in a bouncer nearby.

"Y-yes?" you stammer, disoriented by how easily your mind slipped away.

"Would you like to help set the table, Mei? It'd be a big help to me." Her tone is warm, encouraging—the way one might speak to a child being given their first chore.

You rise from the couch, oddly eager to please. "Of course."

In the dining area, your hands move with muscle memory—forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. You remember standing on a step stool in your childhood home, your mother guiding your small hands through the same motions.

"Perfect," Amber praises as she brings out serving dishes. "You're such a good helper."

The compliment shouldn't matter—you're a grown woman, a professional choreographer, a mother—but warmth blooms in your chest anyway. You catch your reflection in the decorative mirror hanging on the dining room wall and for a disorienting moment, you see yourself as a child—six years old, hair in pigtails, wearing a pink romper covered in dancing ballerinas. The image feels right somehow, comfortable in a way your adult self hasn't in months.

"Mei?" David's voice breaks the spell. He's standing in the doorway, watching you with a curious expression. "You okay?"

"Just tired," you reply automatically, the adult mask slipping back into place. But part of you mourns its loss, that brief respite from decision-making, from the weight of your own expectations.

"Dinner's ready!" Amber announces, carrying a steaming dish to the table. "David, would you mind getting Mei a glass of water? She seems a little spacey tonight."

Your husband nods, moving to fill a glass without questioning why Amber is directing him in your home, or why you need someone to get you water. You should object, assert yourself, but the words die in your throat. It's easier this way. Easier to let them handle things.

"Here you go, honey," David says, setting the water before you. You notice he's given you the cup with the cartoon ballerinas on it—the one you bought on impulse and kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, embarrassed by your own childish taste.

Amber notices too, her lips curving in a knowing smile. "That's perfect for her, isn't it?"

You take a sip, avoiding their eyes, unsure which is more disturbing—that they see you this way, or that some part of you likes it.

You shift uncomfortably in your dining chair, the hard surface making you fidget. Amber notices immediately.

"Here, let me get you a cushion," she offers, already rising from her seat before you can protest. She returns with a decorative throw pillow from the couch, sliding it beneath you with practiced efficiency.

The cushion feels plush and comforting, but as you settle onto it, you realize your feet no longer quite reach the floor. They dangle slightly, toes barely brushing the hardwood. The sensation is disorienting—your body suddenly smaller in a space designed for adults.

"Better?" Amber asks, her smile warm but knowing.

You clear your throat, determined to reclaim some authority in your own home. "I'll serve," you announce, reaching for the pasta serving spoon before either of them can react.

Your movements are deliberate as you portion out the bow-tie pasta onto each plate, starting with David's. "I was thinking about my last choreography project before maternity leave," you say, your voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "The director of the regional ballet company called yesterday. They want me to consider a guest position for their winter showcase."

The lie slips out easily—no such call came—but you need to remind them both of your professional identity, your worth beyond these walls.

"That's nice, honey," David says absently, his attention already shifting to Amber. "How was the baby's feeding schedule today?"

"Oh, we had a breakthrough!" Amber responds enthusiastically. "I've been tracking her hunger cues, and I think we've finally established a pattern."

You sit there, serving spoon still in hand, as they discuss your daughter as if you're not present. The cushion beneath you feels suddenly infantilizing, your professional accomplishment—even the fabricated one—dismissed like a child's drawing proudly displayed on a refrigerator.

"David," Amber continues, "tell me about your presentation today. You mentioned it was important?"

Your husband launches into an animated description of his workday, something he hasn't shared with you in weeks. Amber leans forward, nodding at all the right moments, asking insightful questions that draw him out further.

"I want more pasta," you interrupt, the words bursting from you with childish abruptness. Your plate is still half-full, the bow-ties you've barely touched glistening with sauce.

The conversation halts. David blinks at you, confusion creasing his brow. Amber's response is smoother, more practiced.

"Of course, Mei," she says gently. "But maybe finish what's on your plate first? We don't want to waste food."

The correction is mild, reasonable—exactly how one might address a child's impulsive demand. What disturbs you most is not her tone but how natural it feels to be spoken to this way, how some part of you responds to the gentle boundary-setting with relief rather than indignation.

"I'm not hungry anymore," you mutter, pushing the plate away slightly, aware of how petulant the gesture appears but unable to stop yourself.

David sighs, exchanging a look with Amber that speaks volumes—the weary parent and the understanding caregiver, united in managing a difficult child. And that child, somehow, is you.

Annoyed, your hand moves with deliberate slowness toward your water glass—the childish ballerina cup that David selected for you. With a quick flick of your wrist, you send it toppling, water cascading across the table and spilling onto Amber's lap.

The reaction is immediate. David jumps up, napkin in hand, while Amber gasps as the cold water soaks through her shorts.

"Mei!" David's voice holds more shock than anger. "What the hell?"

You'd expected satisfaction—forcing them to acknowledge you, disrupting their cozy dynamic—but instead, heat rushes to your face as shame washes over you. The gesture feels pathetically juvenile, exactly what a toddler would do when ignored at the dinner table.

Amber recovers quickly, dabbing at her wet clothes with a napkin. "It's fine, David. Just an accident." Her voice is measured, but her eyes when they meet yours are knowing. She sees through you completely.

"I'll get paper towels," David mutters, heading to the kitchen.

Amber leans across the table, her voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear. "Is that what you need, Mei? To make messes so someone will clean up after you?" The question isn't mocking—it's probing, almost clinical in its precision.

Before you can respond, David returns with a roll of paper towels. As he mops up the spill, Amber rises to help, the two of them working in tandem while you sit uselessly, the cushion beneath you now feeling like a high chair.

"Maybe we should get you something more... secure to drink from," Amber suggests, her tone light but loaded. "A sippy cup would be practical."

David chuckles, the sound piercing you. "Or one of those bottles with the rubber tops. Wouldn't that be easier?"

They're joking, but the undercurrent is unmistakable—they're discussing you as if you're not present, as if you're the second child in the household.

Humiliation burns through you. You push back from the table, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm going to my room," you announce, the words sounding childish even to your own ears.

"Mei, come on," David sighs. "It was just a joke."

But as you turn to leave, your foot catches on the table leg. You stumble, catching yourself against the wall, but not before knocking a framed photo to the floor. The glass cracks—a spider web fracture across your smiling face in the wedding portrait.

"Jesus, Mei," David says, exasperation replacing concern. "What's gotten into you?"

Amber is already kneeling to pick up the broken frame, her efficiency highlighting your clumsiness. "It's okay," she soothes, though it's unclear whether she's speaking to you or David. "We're all tired. Why don't you go rest, Mei? I'll clean this up and take care of the dishes."

The suggestion—reasonable, practical—leaves you feeling hollowed out. You wanted to provoke a reaction, to assert yourself through chaos, but instead, you've only reinforced their perception of you as unstable, childish, in need of management.

You flee to the bedroom, the sound of their voices—lower now, conspiratorial—following you down the hallway.

You slam the bedroom door behind you, fumbling with the lock until it clicks into place. The sound of it—that tiny mechanical barrier between you and them—offers a momentary sense of control that crumbles as soon as you collapse onto the edge of the bed.

You meant to cry—to release the confusion and hurt in a cleansing torrent of tears—but they won't come. Instead, your chest heaves with dry, painful sobs that leave you gasping. Your reflection in the vanity mirror across the room is a stranger: hair disheveled, eyes wide and glassy, mouth twisted in anguish.

"What's happening to me?" you whisper to the empty room.

A soft knock at the door makes you flinch.

"Mei?" It's David, his voice hesitant. "Come on, honey. Open up."

You press your palms against your eyes. "I need some time."

"The baby needs you," he says, the words like a knife between your ribs. "Amber says she's hungry again."

Of course. Not 'I need you' or 'Let's talk about what's wrong.' The baby needs you—or rather, needs Amber, who apparently can't proceed without your permission. A formality.

"Tell her to go ahead," you call back, voice breaking. "She doesn't need me for that."

Silence from the hallway, then a murmured conversation you can't quite make out. You imagine them standing close, heads bent together, discussing what to do about you.

"Mei." David's voice again, firmer now. "You're being childish. Come out and talk to us."

Childish. The word echoes in your mind, a perfect distillation of how they see you. Not a mother struggling with her place, not a woman fighting to maintain her identity—just a child having a tantrum.

"I said I need time!" Your voice rises, cracking on the last word.

Another pause, then: "Fine. Take all the time you need."

His footsteps retreat down the hallway. You've won this small battle, but the victory feels hollow. Alone in your bedroom—your sanctuary that suddenly feels like a prison—you curl into yourself, knees drawn to chest.

The tears finally come, but they bring no relief. Each sob feels like surrender, not release. You're crying not just for the role you're losing, but for the part of yourself that's beginning to accept its loss—the part that finds comfort in being small, in being cared for, in abdicating the crushing responsibility of motherhood.

What terrifies you most isn't that they're pushing you into this role.

It's that some buried part of you wants it.

You lock yourself in the bedroom, the sobs finally subsiding as a dangerous clarity takes hold. In the ensuing silence, you study your reflection in the vanity mirror—eyes puffy, hair disheveled, looking nothing like the confident dancer who once commanded stages. Something has to change.

With deliberate movements, you open your makeup drawer, selecting products you haven't touched since before the birth. The ritual of application steadies you—foundation smoothing away the blotchiness of tears, eyeliner defining the eyes that have lost their spark, and finally, a deep crimson lipstick that feels like armor.

"I'm still me," you whisper to your reflection.

You slide open your lingerie drawer, fingers trailing over silk and lace before selecting a pink babydoll nightie with delicate ribbon trim. It's both innocent and provocative—childlike in color but revealing in cut. Your postpartum curves fill it differently than before, spilling over edges designed for your dancer's body.

Strangely, you like the contrast—the softness against the sexuality. Standing before the full-length mirror, you turn sideways, assessing. You look like a woman playing at being a girl, or perhaps a girl playing at being a woman. The confusion of it excites you.

When David knocks again, you don't answer—you simply unlock the door and step back, letting him find you.

"Mei?" He stops short in the doorway, his irritation evaporating at the sight of you. "Jesus."

"The baby's asleep?" you ask, your voice deliberately lower than usual.

"Amber's with her." His eyes track down your body, lingering on the places where flesh meets fabric.

"Good." You move toward him, pressing your painted lips against his neck. "I need you to remind me who I am."

He doesn't ask what you mean—his body responds to yours with an urgency that requires no explanation. His hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you against him with a desperation that matches your own.

You fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and purpose. As he moves inside you, you close your eyes, imagining him not just as your husband but as something more primal—a protector, a guardian. The word forms in your mind before you can censor it.

"Yes, Daddy," you gasp, the forbidden word escaping your lips as pleasure crests through you. "Please, Daddy, yes!"

David's rhythm falters for a moment, surprised, then accelerates. The taboo seems to ignite something in him—his grip tightens, his movements become more commanding.

"That's it, baby girl," he growls, the endearment new between you. "Let go for Daddy."

Your climax shatters through you with unexpected force, your cries echoing off the walls. In the aftermath, as you lie panting against his chest, a thin wail cuts through the house—your daughter, awakened by the sounds of your pleasure.

"I'll get her!" Amber's voice calls from the hallway, too close to the bedroom door.

Heat floods your face as you realize she must have heard everything—your cries, your words, the rhythmic creaking of the bed. The humiliation should crush you, but instead, it mingles with the afterglow, creating a confusing cocktail of emotions.

"Shh," David soothes, stroking your hair. "It's okay, baby girl. Let Amber handle it."

The endearment, spoken outside the heat of passion, should jar you back to reality. Instead, it settles over you like a warm blanket. You curl against him, feeling small and protected and, paradoxically, powerful in your surrender.

"Again," you whisper, guiding his hand between your legs, already slick with renewed desire. "Please, Daddy. Again."

Consciousness returns slowly, a warm heaviness pinning you to the mattress. David's arm is draped across your waist, his breathing deep and even against your neck. The events of last night flood back—the passionate reconnection, the forbidden words that passed between you, the way he called you his baby girl even after the heat of the moment had passed.

You shift slightly, and that's when you feel it—a cold, uncomfortable wetness beneath you. At first, you think it might be the aftermath of sex, but this is different. More pervasive. Your thighs are soaked, the sheets beneath you sodden.

You've wet the bed.

Horror washes over you as you carefully extract yourself from David's embrace. The wet patch is unmistakable, spreading across your side of the mattress like a damning accusation. Your nightie clings to your thighs, transparent where the urine has soaked through.

"David," you whisper, shaking his shoulder gently. "David, wake up."

He stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. "Mmm? What time is it?"

"I had an accident," you say, the words catching in your throat. "The doctor warned me this might happen after childbirth, but..."

David sits up, fully awake now. His eyes widen as he takes in the wet sheets, your damp nightgown, the shame burning in your cheeks.

"Oh, Mei," he says, his voice softening. "It's okay. These things happen."

"You can't tell Amber," you say urgently, gripping his arm. "Promise me, David. She can't know about this."

Something flickers across his face—hesitation, perhaps—but he nods. "I promise. Let's get this cleaned up before she wakes up."

You strip the bed together in tense silence, bundling the sheets into the washing machine. David helps you change into fresh pajamas, his hands gentle but clinical, as if handling something fragile.

"The doctor did mention this could happen," you say, needing to fill the silence. "Postpartum incontinence. The muscles get weak, and last night's... activity... probably didn't help."

David nods, but there's something in his expression you can't quite read. Concern, yes, but something else too. Something that makes you feel even smaller than you already do.

"It's just temporary," you add quickly. "It'll stop."

But even as you say it, you remember the doctor's warnings about how long recovery can take, how some women struggle with this for months after childbirth. The thought of waking up like this again—of David waking up to this again—makes your stomach clench with dread.

"Let's get some coffee," David suggests, clearly eager to move past the moment. "I'll make it."

As he leaves the bedroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is tousled from sleep, your face bare of the makeup armor you'd applied last night. You look young, vulnerable—exactly like what you've become in this household. A child who can't even control her bladder.

The worst part isn't the accident itself. It's how perfectly it fits into the narrative Amber has been crafting all along.

The second time it happens, there's no hiding it. You wake to the same telltale wetness spreading beneath you, David's arm still draped across your waist. This time, he stirs before you can slip away, his hand moving to your hip and finding the soaked fabric of your nightgown.

"Again?" he asks, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turn your face into the pillow, shame burning through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

David sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "This isn't sustainable, Mei. We can't keep washing the mattress every morning."

"I know," you say, your voice small. "I'll call the doctor tomorrow."

"I think we need a more immediate solution." He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, thumbs moving across the screen.

"What are you doing?" You prop yourself up on one elbow, suddenly alert.

"Ordering something." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Adult protective underwear. For nighttime."

The clinical description doesn't soften the blow. "Diapers," you say flatly. "You're ordering me diapers."

David finally meets your eyes. "It's not a big deal, Mei. Lots of women need them after childbirth."

"Then why does it feel like such a big deal?" Your voice cracks on the last word.

His expression softens. "Hey, look. They have different styles." He turns the screen toward you, showing a website with various options. "These even have little ballerina prints. Thought you might like those."

The gesture is so earnest, so clearly meant to comfort, that it breaks something inside you. He's trying to make this palatable, to find some small way to preserve your dignity while addressing the practical reality of your situation.

"Okay," you whisper, surprising yourself. "The ballerina ones."

That night, after another passionate reconnection where David calls you his "baby girl" and you call him "Daddy" again, he helps you into the protective underwear. The package arrived discreetly that afternoon, and you'd hidden it in your closet immediately, as if the cardboard box itself were shameful.

"Lift," he instructs gently, and you raise your hips as he slides the diaper beneath you. The crinkling sound is mortifying, but his hands are tender as he secures the tabs at your hips.

"How does it feel?" he asks, his palm resting on your stomach.

"Weird," you admit. "But... secure."

He pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. "Sleep well, baby girl," he murmurs against your hair.

You drift off with surprising ease, the unfamiliar bulk between your legs a constant reminder of your new reality, but also oddly comforting—a barrier against further humiliation.

When you wake, the bed is empty beside you. Sunlight streams through the curtains you forgot to close. Your hand moves automatically to check the diaper—it's dry, the ballerina prints still visible against the white material. A small victory.

It's only as you become fully conscious that you realize your thumb is in your mouth, wet with saliva. You pull it out quickly, staring at the glistening digit as if it belongs to someone else. You don't remember putting it there. You don't remember making that choice.

Days blur together in a haze of diminishing responsibility. The ballerina-print diapers become a nightly ritual—David helping you into them before bed, checking you in the morning. About half the time, they're wet. You've stopped feeling mortified; now it's just routine.

"Let's try again today," Amber suggests, positioning your daughter at your breast. The baby turns away, fussing until Amber takes her back. "She's just particular," Amber says, but her tone carries a note of satisfaction as your daughter latches eagerly to her swollen breast.

You watch, hollow, as your own breasts shrink back to their pre-pregnancy size over the week, the milk drying up while Amber's seem to grow more lush, straining against her nursing tops. The contrast between your bodies becomes a visual representation of your shifting roles—hers flourishing with maternal purpose, yours returning to a state that feels increasingly childlike.

"Can you help me pump?" Amber asks one afternoon, setting up the breast pump at the kitchen table. "My hands get tired holding these."

You find yourself kneeling beside her chair, holding the plastic cones to her heavy breasts while she adjusts the settings. The rhythmic whirring fills the kitchen as her milk flows freely into the collection bottles.

"You're such a good helper," Amber praises, her hand absently stroking your hair. "Auntie's little helper."

The diminutive stings, but you say nothing, transfixed by the steady flow of milk—milk your body failed to produce, milk your daughter prefers to anything you could offer.

David walks in from work, briefcase in hand, and stops short at the domestic tableau before him.

"What's going on here?" he asks, his tone curious rather than concerned.

"Mei's being Auntie's little helper," Amber explains, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "She's got such gentle hands."

David laughs, the sound striking you like a physical blow. Not because it's cruel—it isn't—but because it's accepting. In his eyes, this scene makes perfect sense: his wife kneeling at another woman's feet, helping to collect the milk that will feed their child.

"That's cute," he says, loosening his tie. "You two seem to have worked out a system."

You force a laugh, the sound brittle in your throat. "Just helping out."

But as you continue holding the pump to Amber's breast, you feel it—that curious sensation of shrinking, of becoming less substantial in your own home. You're not the mother, not really. You're the helper. The assistant. The child.

And the most disturbing part isn't that they see you this way.

It's that you're starting to find comfort in it.

The house is quiet when you finally stir, sunlight already high in the sky. David's been gone for two days now, his business trip leaving you alone with Amber and the baby. You've been sleeping later and later, the exhaustion of new motherhood—or perhaps the comfort of surrender—keeping you in bed well past dawn.

You stumble from your bedroom, mind foggy with sleep, wearing only a short silk nightie that barely covers your thighs. It's only when the cool air hits your legs that you realize you're still in last night's diaper, the ballerina print now swollen and heavy between your legs.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Amber calls from the nursery doorway, your daughter cradled against her shoulder. Her eyes drop to your waist, then lower, taking in the unmistakable bulk beneath your nightie. "Oh."

You freeze, one hand instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it's far too late. Heat floods your face as you stand exposed in the hallway, the evidence of your regression impossible to hide.

"I've been having accidents," you confess, the words tumbling out like you're reporting to a teacher. "At night. David's been helping me with...these." You gesture vaguely at the diaper, mortified yet strangely relieved to have the secret out.

Amber's expression softens, her lips curving into a smile that's both maternal and knowing. "Little girls like their secrets," she teases, but her voice is warm, not mocking. "How long has this been happening, Mei Mei?"

The diminutive—little sister in Chinese—makes something twist inside you. "Don't call me that," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"Sorry," Amber says, stepping closer. "Did you have a nickname when you were little?"

You hesitate, then surrender this small piece of yourself. "Mei Fly. My dad called me that because I was always jumping around."

"Mei Fly," she repeats, testing it on her tongue. "That's adorable. Listen, do you want me to help you change? That can't be comfortable."

The offer hangs between you, loaded with implications. Accepting means crossing a line, acknowledging a hierarchy that's been forming since Amber first entered your home. But standing here, wet and small in the hallway of your own house, the line seems to have already been crossed.

"Okay," you whisper.

Amber nods, all business now. "Let me put the baby down. She just fell asleep." She disappears into the nursery, returning moments later without your daughter. "Come on, we can do it in here. I've got changing supplies ready."

Of course she does. You follow her into the nursery, where a changing pad lies spread on the floor. Your daughter sleeps peacefully in her crib, oblivious to the role reversal playing out beneath her.

"Lie down," Amber instructs, and you comply, stretching out on the pad designed for an infant. The ceiling fan spins lazily above you as Amber kneels between your legs, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your diaper. "Lift up."

You raise your hips, allowing her to slide the wet diaper from beneath you. The cool air on your exposed skin makes you shiver—or perhaps it's the way Amber's gaze lingers on your most intimate parts.

"You know," she says conversationally, reaching for a wipe, "if you're going to need these regularly, you should really consider shaving down here. It's more hygienic with diapers."

The warm wipe glides over your skin, Amber's touch clinical yet somehow intimate. Each stroke sends a jolt through you, your body responding in ways that have nothing to do with maternal care. When she presses the wipe directly against your center, ostensibly to clean you thoroughly, you can't suppress a small gasp.

Something shifts in the air between you. Amber's movements slow, her eyes meeting yours with a question in them. The combination—her motherly tone, your vulnerable position, the care she's taking with your body—ignites something desperate inside you.

You sit up suddenly, grabbing her wrist, then her face, pulling her into a deep kiss. She stiffens in surprise, resisting for just a moment before softening against you, her lips parting.

When you break away, shame floods you immediately. "I'm sorry, I—"

But Amber is smiling, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Does Auntie's little Mei Fly want more?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

You nod quickly, need overriding dignity, and pull her back to you. On the nursery floor, beneath your sleeping daughter's crib, you surrender the last vestiges of your authority, making out with Amber like a teenager while the evidence of your regression lies discarded beside you.

Amber's lips curve into a smile against yours, her hands sliding up to cup your face. "Such a needy little thing," she murmurs, her thumb tracing your lower lip. "Is this what you want, Mei Fly?"

You nod, words failing as she pushes you gently back onto the changing pad. The nursery floor is hard beneath you, but you barely notice as Amber straddles your hips, her weight pinning you down. She's still fully clothed, her nursing top stretched tight across her full breasts, while you lie naked from the waist down, exposed and vulnerable.

"Tell Auntie what you need," she commands, her voice honeyed but firm.

"Touch me," you whisper, shame and desire warring within you. "Please."

Amber's smile widens as her hand travels down your body, fingertips skimming over your silk nightie, pushing it up to reveal your stomach, the stretch marks from pregnancy still visible on your skin. You flinch, trying to cover them, but she catches your wrists.

"No hiding," she says. "Good girls don't hide from Auntie."

The words send a shock of arousal through you. You go still, surrendering as her fingers find their way between your legs. Her touch is expert, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, how to circle and tease until you're arching against her hand.

"That's it," she encourages as you begin to tremble. "Let go for Auntie."

Your release crashes over you, intense and unexpected. You bite your lip to keep from crying out and waking the baby, your body shuddering beneath Amber's steady ministrations.

Before you've fully recovered, she's reaching for a fresh diaper from the stack beside the changing table. "My turn to feel good," she says, unzipping her shorts and pushing them down her hips. She positions herself over your face, her thighs bracketing your head. "Show Auntie how grateful you are."

You comply eagerly, your tongue finding her center, tasting her arousal. Above you, she sighs with pleasure, one hand braced against the wall, the other tangled in your hair, guiding your movements.

When she's satisfied, she climbs off you and reaches for the fresh diaper. "Now, now Mei Fly, Auntie wants to see if you can keep those dry today before she lets you out of them," she says, cutting you off when you begin to protest.

Shame floods you, but you find yourself nodding meekly. "Please, please don't tell David, about any of this," you whisper.

"Don't tell whom?" she checks.

You understand what she means.  "Don't tell Daddy, please."

Amber tsks in scolding disappointment. "Little girls and their secrets. Very well, but you will when he returns."

She tapes you into the fresh diaper with practiced efficiency, then helps you to your feet. The bulk between your legs is a constant reminder of your new position in this household hierarchy.

Throughout the day, you find yourself checking the diaper obsessively, hyper-aware of every bodily sensation. By evening, you're surprised to discover it's still dry, and stranger still, you feel an absurd sense of pride at this accomplishment.

"Good job, Mei Fly," Amber praises when she checks you before dinner. "Auntie's so proud of you." Her approval washes over you like warm sunshine, and you bask in it, momentarily forgetting how far you've fallen.

You stand up shakily from the changing pad, tugging your nightie down to cover yourself. The diaper crinkles loudly with every movement, a constant reminder of your regression.

"Amber," you say, summoning what remains of your authority, "I need you to take this off. This has gone too far."

Amber tilts her head, studying you with amused interest. "Has it? You seemed quite comfortable with our arrangement earlier." Her fingers brush against your hip, tracing the outline of the diaper through your nightie.

"That was..." You struggle to find the words, heat rising to your cheeks. "A moment of weakness. This is still my home, and I'm still an adult."

"Of course you are," Amber agrees, her tone indulgent. "But adults make responsible choices, don't they? And responsible choices include proper hygiene." She gestures toward the changing supplies. "I'd be happy to remove the diaper, Mei Fly, but first we need to address the cleanliness issue I mentioned earlier."

Your stomach drops as understanding dawns. "You want to...shave me?"

"It's really for the best," Amber explains, her voice taking on that sickly-sweet tone that makes you feel simultaneously comforted and diminished. "Hair traps moisture and bacteria. If you're going to continue having accidents, we need to keep you clean and prevent rashes."

"I'm not going to continue having accidents," you protest, but your voice lacks conviction.

Amber smiles knowingly. "Then there's no harm in being prepared, is there? It's just basic hygiene, Mei. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

You weigh your options, feeling cornered. The diaper is uncomfortable, a constant reminder of your diminished status. But allowing Amber to shave you feels like surrendering another piece of your adulthood, your autonomy.

"Fine," you whisper finally. "Just...be quick about it."

Amber's smile widens. "Lie back down, Mei Fly. Auntie will take good care of you."

You comply, settling back onto the changing pad beneath your daughter's crib. Amber retrieves a basin of warm water, a razor, and shaving cream from the bathroom. The preparations feel clinical, but her eyes hold something else as she kneels between your legs.

"Lift up," she instructs, and you raise your hips as she removes the diaper. The cool air against your skin makes you shiver as she applies the warm shaving cream to your most intimate area.

"Such a brave girl," Amber coos as she begins, the razor gliding over your skin with practiced precision. "Auntie's going to make you all smooth and clean."

Each stroke of the razor feels like another layer of your identity being stripped away. You stare at the ceiling, trying to disconnect from the sensation of Amber's fingers positioning you, the gentle pressure of the blade. With each passing minute, you feel smaller, more vulnerable, more childlike.

When she finishes, Amber wipes you clean with a warm cloth. "There," she says, her voice thick with satisfaction. "All done. Doesn't that feel better?"

You reach down tentatively, fingers finding nothing but smooth skin where once there was evidence of your womanhood. The sensation is foreign, unsettling—and yet, there's something about it that doesn't feel entirely wrong.

Evening settles over the house like a weighted blanket. You've spent the day in a strange limbo—part woman, part child—the fresh diaper a constant reminder of your surrender. Your newly smooth skin feels hypersensitive against the padding, alien yet oddly comforting.

Amber appears in your bedroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. "Getting late, Mei Fly. Time to think about bed, don't you think?"

You look up from your phone, where you've been mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, seeing other mothers' perfectly curated lives. "I guess so."

"Would you like Auntie to help you get ready?" Her voice lilts upward, sweet yet challenging. "I could tuck you in. Or..." She pauses deliberately. "You can handle it yourself. Your choice, of course."

The offer dangles between you—a rope to cling to or to hang yourself with. You know what accepting means: another step down this rabbit hole of regression. Yet the thought of being cared for, of surrendering the crushing weight of decision-making even for a night, pulls at something deep within you.

"You can say no," Amber adds, her smile knowing. "Though I suspect you don't want to."

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I'd like that," you whisper, the words barely audible.

"What would you like, Mei Fly?" Amber presses, making you articulate your surrender.

"I'd like you to...help me get ready for bed. And tuck me in."

Amber's smile widens as she crosses to your closet. "Let's find something cozy for sleep, shall we?"

She selects a soft cotton nightgown—one you haven't worn since before your pregnancy—and lays it on the bed. "Arms up," she instructs, and you comply, allowing her to pull your daytime clothes off and slip the nightgown over your head.

"Good girl," she praises, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders. "Now, let's check if you need a change before sleep."

You lie back obediently as she checks your diaper, her fingers pressing against the material to gauge its dampness. "Still dry," she announces. "Auntie's so proud of you."

The praise washes over you, warm and intoxicating. You smile despite yourself.

"Into bed now," Amber directs, pulling back the covers. You slide between the sheets, feeling small and protected as she tucks them around you, smoothing away wrinkles with practiced hands.

"Would you like a story?" she asks, perching on the edge of the bed.

You nod, unable to voice this final surrender.

Amber reaches for a book on your nightstand—one of the parenting guides you'd bought during pregnancy. She opens it but doesn't read from its pages. Instead, she begins a story in that high, sweet voice reserved for children.

"Once upon a time, there was a little fly who thought she was a butterfly..."

You drift off to the sound of her voice, to a tale of a creature who forgot what she was, who she was, until someone else defined her.

You wake with a jolt, disoriented in the soft morning light. Your diaper is wet again, the ballerina print swollen between your legs. For a moment, you lie there, thumb hovering near your mouth, the urge to suck it almost overwhelming.

No. Not today.

With newfound determination, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your fingers fumble with the tapes of the diaper, ripping them free. The sodden padding falls to the floor with a damp thud that sounds like liberation.

"I am a grown woman," you whisper to your reflection as you step into the shower, letting hot water sluice away the lingering scent of baby powder. You scrub vigorously, fingers exploring the strange smoothness between your legs where Amber shaved you yesterday. The sensation is still foreign, but you reclaim it as your own choice.

After toweling off, you march to your closet and pull out clothes you haven't worn since before pregnancy: a tight black dress that hugs every curve, showcasing the cleavage that once fed your daughter. The irony isn't lost on you.

You apply makeup with surgical precision—winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut, red lipstick like war paint. Each stroke of the brush feels like reclaiming territory.

When you emerge from the bedroom, Amber is in the kitchen, your daughter cradled against her breast. She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something more calculated.

"Well, look at you," she says, her tone hovering between admiration and mockery. "All dressed up. Special occasion?"

"Just feeling like myself again," you reply, pouring coffee into a mug emblazoned with 'World's Best Mom'—a gift from David before everything changed.

"And how did you sleep?" Amber's eyes flick meaningfully toward your hips, now encased in the tight fabric of your dress.

"Fine," you lie, taking a deliberate sip of coffee. "I've been thinking, Amber. I'm calling some friends today. Going out tonight."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what about the baby?"

"You'll be here," you say, the statement both a question and a command. "That's what we pay you for, isn't it?"

A slow smile spreads across Amber's face. "Of course, Mei. I'm always happy to help." She adjusts her position, deliberately exposing more of her breast as your daughter feeds. "Though I wonder what David would think about you going out so soon after giving birth."

"David isn't here," you remind her, gripping your coffee mug tighter. "And I don't need his permission."

"Of course not," Amber agrees, her tone suggesting otherwise. "Mei Fly doesn't need anyone's permission, does she?"

You flinch at the nickname but hold your ground. "No. She doesn't."

-- Turn 20 -- (This is this point where the story deviates between versions A and B)

You call your old friends Molly and Veronica to arrange a night out clubbing, where you can tell them everything that's been happening.  You call Molly first, your fingers trembling slightly as you dial. The phone rings three times before her familiar voice answers.

"Mei? Is that you? God, it's been ages!"

"I need to go out tonight," you say, the words tumbling out. "With you and Veronica. I need to get drunk and tell you something important."

There's a pause, then Molly's voice softens. "Of course, honey. Is everything okay with the baby?"

"The baby's fine," you say, glancing toward the nursery where Amber is putting your daughter down for the night. "It's me who's not okay."

Two hours later, you're seated in a pulsing nightclub, the bass thrumming through your body like a second heartbeat. Veronica, tall and statuesque with her signature platinum bob, slides another tequila shot toward you. Molly, petite with wild red curls, leans in close to hear you over the music.

"So let me get this straight," Veronica says, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising higher with each revelation. "This wet nurse has basically taken over your house, your husband, and your baby?"

You nod, downing the shot. The alcohol burns a path down your throat, warming your blood. "And the worst part? I've been letting her. I've been...enjoying it, in some sick way."

Molly's green eyes narrow. "That bitch is manipulating you, Mei. This is textbook psychological domination."

"David comes back in five days, Wednesday," you say, staring into your empty glass. "By then, she'll have completely taken over."

"Not if we have anything to say about it," Veronica declares, signaling for another round.

It's well past midnight when the three of you stumble through your front door, giggling and shushing each other. The house is dark.

"Is she out?" Veronica whispers, collapsing onto your sofa.

As soon as she asks, the lights turn on.  Amber stands there in her night gown, arms crossed, her face stern.  "Please do not wake the baby.  Did you have fun with your little friends Mei Fly?"

You stand unsteadily, alcohol coursing through your veins, emboldened by the night out and your friends' presence. The room tilts slightly as you jab your finger into Amber's chest, the soft give of her flesh under your fingertip momentarily satisfying.

"Stop it! I'm an adult! I'm a mother!" Your words slur together, voice rising higher than intended. "YOU are the child here!"

Amber's face transforms, amusement giving way to something colder, more calculated. Her eyebrow arches perfectly, a question mark punctuating your outburst.

"Truly?" she asks, her voice soft as a blade. "Then why are you doing the 'Pee Pee Dance' Mei Fly?"

You suddenly realize that you have been shifting your hips from side to side and grinding your thighs together.  You then become become aware of a great need to pee.  "Don't change the subject!" you protest, feeling defiant and embarrassed at the same time.

"Have I?" Amber sweetly responds.

You retreat, moving for the nearest bathroom, the hallway one.  You remove your heels, the bending nearly causing your bladder to explode.  Everything works against you, the cold shock of the kitchen's tile floor on your suddenly bare feet, the movement of your thighs, your growing panic at having an accident and then finally, as your feet move ever faster to your goal you find with shock that the door is locked.

"Oh God NO!  No, no, no.  Why is it locked?" you whimper.

"Oh!  I forgot, silly me," Amber responds.  "So very sorry Mei Fly.  Now where did I put the key?"

You bang on the door and kick at it a few times, but the only effect your actions have are to release your control over your bladder. The effect is immediate. Warmth floods between your legs, liquid trickling down your thighs in rivulets that catch the dim light. Your bladder empties completely, urine pooling at your feet on the hardwood floor. The sharp ammonia scent rises, mingling with your expensive perfume.

Molly gasps. Veronica freezes mid-motion on the couch.

"Oh, Mei Fly," Amber says, her voice honey-sweet with mock concern. "Look what you've done. And in front of your friends."

Your face burns hotter than the alcohol could ever make it. Shame coils around your spine like a serpent as you stand in your own puddle, the expensive dress clinging to your wet thighs.

"I think," Amber continues, addressing Molly and Veronica now, "it might be time for Mei to get cleaned up and into bed."

Veronica rises from the couch, her expression wavering between disgust and pity. "Mei, do you want us to stay?"

Before you can answer, Amber interjects. "That's very kind, please, I would love to have your help.  It's not the first accident she's had this week, and she is quite the big baby about it."

The words land like individual slaps. Your friends exchange glances loaded with concern and confusion.

"I don't... I'm not..." your protests dissolve into incoherent mumbles as Amber scoops you up with surprising strength. Your body feels weightless, alcohol-numbed limbs dangling as she settles you against her hip like a toddler. The position is humiliating and oddly comforting at once, your wet dress clinging to your thighs as urine continues to drip onto the hardwood floor.

"Shhh," Amber coos, her breath warm against your ear. "Let's get you cleaned up, Mei Fly."

Molly and Veronica follow behind as Amber carries you down the hallway, their footsteps hesitant. You catch glimpses of their faces—shock mingled with fascination, judgment tempered by drunken curiosity.

"Does this happen often?" Veronica asks, her words slightly slurred.

"More and more lately," Amber replies, her voice a perfect blend of concern and authority. "Poor thing just can't seem to help herself."

In your bedroom, Amber lays you on the bed with practiced ease. Your friends hover in the doorway, swaying slightly as they watch Amber peel the wet dress from your body. Cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps across your flesh.

"She needs proper protection at night," Amber explains, retrieving a thick adult diaper from the dresser drawer—a drawer that once held your silk lingerie. "The bedwetting started about a week ago. Postpartum regression, the doctor called it."

There is no doctor. You know this somewhere in the fog of your mind, but the lie sounds so convincing that even you begin to doubt your memory.

"That's a thing?" Molly asks, her eyes wide as she steadies herself against the doorframe.

"More common than you'd think," Amber says, sliding the diaper beneath your hips with the efficiency of someone who's done this many times before. "Some new mothers, their bodies just... revert. It's like their subconscious is saying, 'I don't want to be the caretaker anymore.'"

You should protest. You should push her hands away and tell your friends this is all wrong. But the room is spinning, and Amber's fingers are cool against your heated skin as she sprinkles baby powder between your legs, the scent enveloping you in a cloud of infantile comfort.

"There we go," Amber says, taping the diaper securely around your hips. The thick padding forces your legs slightly apart, a constant reminder of your regression. "All clean and protected."

Veronica yawns dramatically, her eyes heavy-lidded. "God, I'm wrecked. Is there somewhere we can crash?"

"Right here is fine," Amber says, gesturing to your king-sized bed. "Plenty of room for everyone. Mei sleeps better with company anyway. Don't you, sweetie?"

You manage a weak nod, shame and alcohol and exhaustion swirling together into a potent cocktail of surrender.

"Perfect," Molly mumbles, already kicking off her shoes. "Just like college sleepovers."

Except in college, you were never the one in diapers, being tucked in by someone else while your friends watched with pity in their eyes.

"Could you..." your voice emerges small and childlike, "read me a story?" The words hang in the air, fragile as soap bubbles. Your friends exchange glances, but alcohol has blurred their judgment enough that the request seems merely odd, not alarming.

Amber's smile spreads slow as honey dripping from a spoon. "Of course, Mei Fly. Everyone deserves a bedtime story." She retrieves a book from the nightstand—a children's picture book you don't remember owning. Had it always been there?

"But first," Amber says, turning to Molly and Veronica with maternal authority, "we should check if anyone else needs protection for the night." She pats your diapered hip meaningfully. "Alcohol does terrible things to bladder control, doesn't it, girls?"

Veronica laughs nervously, crossing her legs. "I'm fine, thanks."

Molly, however, sways slightly where she stands. "I did have three margaritas," she admits, her words slurring together. "And I've had... accidents before."

"Better safe than sorry," Amber says, producing another diaper from the drawer. "No judgment here."

You watch, transfixed, as your friend allows herself to be guided to the edge of the bed. Amber helps her remove her skirt and underwear with practiced efficiency. The absurdity of the situation—your employee diapering your friend—registers dimly through your alcoholic haze, but you remain silent, thumb creeping unconsciously toward your mouth.

"There we go," Amber says, securing the tapes on Molly's diaper. "Now everyone's safe and protected."

Veronica kicks off her heels and climbs into bed beside you, keeping her clothes on. "This is the weirdest sleepover I've ever had," she mutters, but there's something in her tone—curiosity rather than disgust.

Amber settles against the headboard, the picture book open on her lap. Molly crawls in on your other side, the crinkle of her diaper echoing your own movements. The three of you lie there like oversized children while Amber begins to read.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful dancer who thought she could do everything perfectly..." The story is about you—thinly veiled but unmistakable. A tale of a woman who tries too hard, who breaks under pressure, who finds peace in surrender.

As Amber reads, her free hand strokes your hair. The rhythm of her voice, the warmth of bodies beside you, the snug embrace of the diaper—it all coalesces into a cocoon of regression. You feel yourself slipping deeper, your adult self receding like a tide.

"And the dancer learned that sometimes, the bravest thing to do is to let someone else take control," Amber concludes, closing the book with a soft thump.

"That's kind of beautiful," Molly murmurs, already half-asleep.

"It's fucked up," Veronica whispers, but she doesn't move away.

Amber leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingers just a moment too long. "Sweet dreams, Mei Fly," she whispers. "Tomorrow's another day to be small."

Morning light filters through the curtains as you stir awake, the thick padding between your legs a reminder of last night's surrender. Molly and Veronica are still asleep beside you, their makeup smeared across your Egyptian cotton pillowcases. The events of last night flood back—your public accident, Amber's story, Molly's unexpected diapering. Instead of shame, you feel a strange lightness, as if you've finally stopped fighting a current that was always going to carry you away.

You sit up, the diaper crinkling loudly. Rather than hiding the sound, you amplify it, shifting your weight deliberately until Veronica's eyes flutter open.

"Morning," she mumbles, taking in your state with a raised eyebrow.

"I think I need a change," you announce, surprising yourself with how easily the words come. "And breakfast. Where's Amber?"

As if summoned by your need, Amber appears in the doorway, already dressed in a simple sundress that accentuates her curves. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, highlighting the sharp angles of her face.

"Good morning, sleepyheads," she says, her gaze lingering on your diapered form with unmistakable satisfaction. "How did everyone sleep?"

"Amber," you say, your voice pitched higher than usual, childlike in its eagerness, "could you make us breakfast? All three of us? And I..." you hesitate only briefly, "I want to stay in my diaper."

Molly stirs beside you, groaning as she becomes aware of her own padded state. "What the fuck happened last night?" she mutters, hands exploring the thick material encasing her hips.

"Language," Amber chides gently, crossing to the bed. She checks Molly's diaper with practiced efficiency, slipping two fingers beneath the waistband. "Dry. Good girl."

Molly blushes furiously but doesn't protest.

"Veronica?" Amber asks, turning her attention to your other friend. "Would you like protection for breakfast? Accidents can happen anytime, not just at night."

Veronica sits up straighter, her jaw tightening. "I'm perfectly capable of using a toilet, thanks."

"Suit yourself," Amber shrugs, turning back to you. "Let's get you changed first, Mei Fly. Then I'll make pancakes for everyone."

She leads you to the changing table—when did that appear in your bedroom?—and lifts you onto it with surprising strength. The plastic surface is cool against your bare thighs as Amber removes your wet diaper, wiping you clean with practiced motions.

"Such a good girl," she coos, sprinkling fresh powder between your legs. The scent envelops you, familiar now, comforting. "Embracing what you need."

You catch Veronica watching from the bed, her expression unreadable. Molly has disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water suggesting she's removing her own diaper in private.

"There," Amber says, securing a fresh diaper around your hips. The thick padding forces your legs apart slightly, a constant reminder of your regression. "Now, let's get some food in these tummies."

She helps you down, keeping a steadying hand on your lower back as you waddle toward the kitchen, your gait altered by the bulky padding. Your friends follow, Molly emerging from the bathroom looking sheepish, Veronica maintaining a careful distance as if afraid your condition might be contagious.

In the kitchen, Amber settles you into a chair with a booster seat—another new addition you don't remember purchasing. "Pancakes for my big girls," she announces, moving around your kitchen with the confidence of someone who's always lived there.

Amber leaves to check on the baby's cries echoing from the nursery, her footsteps fading down the hallway. The moment she's gone, you lean forward in your booster seat, the thick padding between your legs crinkling loudly against the plastic surface.

"So..." you whisper, eyes darting between Molly and Veronica, "what do you guys think of her?"

Veronica sets down her coffee mug with deliberate precision. "What do I think? I think you've completely lost yourself, Mei. This woman has taken over your life in less than two weeks."

Molly fidgets with her napkin, avoiding eye contact. "It's... complicated. I mean, if this is what you want—"

"Want?" Veronica interrupts, her voice rising before she catches herself and lowers it again. "She's treating Mei like an infant. There's a fucking booster seat. And diapers. And baby talk."

"Some people find comfort in that," Molly says softly, still not meeting your eyes.

"Do you?" you ask, studying Molly's face. "Find comfort in it?"

A blush creeps up Molly's neck. "Last night was... interesting."

Veronica looks between you both, realization dawning. "Jesus Christ. Am I the only sane person here?"

As they speak, you relax your bladder muscles deliberately, feeling warmth spread between your legs. The sensation is simultaneously humiliating and liberating – a physical manifestation of your surrender. The diaper grows heavier, sagging slightly between your thighs.

"Oh my god," Veronica whispers, watching the yellowing material between your legs. "You're doing it right now. You're actually pissing yourself at the breakfast table."

Instead of shame, you feel a strange power in your vulnerability – the freedom of having nothing left to lose, no pretense to maintain.

"It's easier this way," you admit, voice small but steady. "Being taken care of. Not having to be perfect all the time."

"But you're a mother," Veronica insists, pushing her plate away. "You have responsibilities."

"Amber handles those now," you say, the words sending a thrill through you – part arousal, part relief.

Molly reaches across the table, her fingers brushing yours. "If this is what you need right now, Mei..."

"It's what I want," you correct her, surprised by your own certainty.

Veronica stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "I can't watch this. This isn't healthy, Mei. It's not normal."

"Normal didn't work for me," you reply, feeling the warm wetness settle against your skin. "This does."

Amber returns, the baby cradled against her breast. She takes in the scene with a knowing smile – Veronica standing rigid with disgust, Molly's conflicted fascination, your visibly wet diaper.

"Everything okay in here?" she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows exactly what transpired in her absence.

"Mei needs a change," Molly says, surprising everyone including herself.

"Veronica, please stay," you plead, reaching for her wrist as she turns to leave. "Give Amber a chance. Give this a chance." The diaper between your legs is heavy with warmth, a constant reminder of your surrender.

Veronica's face contorts with conflicting emotions. "This isn't healthy, Mei. This is some kind of... psychological breakdown."

"Or maybe it's a breakthrough," you counter, surprised by your own conviction. "Maybe if you opened your mind a little..."

Amber approaches, baby still at her breast. "Mei needs changing," she observes, her tone matter-of-fact. "Veronica, would you like to watch? It might help you understand."

"Absolutely not," Veronica snaps, but she doesn't leave. Her eyes betray a flicker of curiosity beneath the disgust.

"Come on, Mei Fly," Amber says, extending her free hand. "Let's get you clean."

You follow her to the living room where she's set up a changing mat on the coffee table. With practiced efficiency, she lays the baby in a bassinet before patting the mat. "Up you go."

You climb onto the table, acutely aware of your friends watching—Molly with undisguised interest, Veronica with reluctant fascination. Amber unfastens your wet diaper, exposing your shaved pubic area to the cool air.

"See how peaceful she looks?" Amber says to Veronica as she wipes you clean. "No more pressure to be perfect. No more exhaustion from trying to do everything right."

Veronica crosses her arms. "She's a grown woman with responsibilities."

"And who decided what those responsibilities have to look like?" Amber challenges, sprinkling powder between your legs. The scent rises around you, comforting and infantilizing. "Society? Her mother? You?"

You glance at Molly, noticing how she shifts her weight from foot to foot, her hand occasionally drifting to her abdomen. Is she considering wetting herself? The thought sends an unexpected thrill through you.

"I've never seen Mei so relaxed," Molly admits, stepping closer to watch as Amber secures a fresh diaper around your hips.

"Because she's finally letting herself be taken care of," Amber says, helping you sit up. "After a lifetime of taking care of others."

Veronica uncrosses her arms, her resolve visibly weakening. "And what happens when David comes home?"

"That's for Mei to decide," Amber says, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer. "Whether she wants to be big again for him, or whether she wants to stay my little girl."

The possessiveness in her voice should alarm you, but instead it wraps around you like a security blanket. You look up at your friends—Veronica's judgment softening into uncertainty, Molly's fascination blooming into desire—and realize you're not the only one being transformed by Amber's presence.

"I need to use the bathroom," Molly announces suddenly, but makes no move to leave.

"Do you?" Amber asks, her smile knowing. "Or do you need something else?"

You turn to Molly, your eyes bright with encouragement. "You should try it, Mol. It's... freeing. Like letting go of everything you've been holding onto." Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "I could help Amber diaper you."

Molly's cheeks flush crimson, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. "I don't know if I could just... do it. Right here."

"You don't have to decide right now," Amber says, her voice a gentle caress as she finishes taping your fresh diaper. "But the offer stands."

You notice Molly shift her weight again, crossing and uncrossing her legs. The internal struggle plays across her face—desire warring with decades of socialization.

"What if..." Molly starts, then stops. Swallows. Tries again. "What if I just try the diaper? Without, you know, using it yet?"

Amber's smile is radiant. "Of course. No pressure."

You glance at Veronica, expecting disgust, but find her watching with an unreadable expression. The rigid line of her shoulders has softened slightly.

"Veronica?" you ask, surprised by the hopeful note in your voice. "What do you think?"

She exhales slowly, uncrossing her arms. "I... fine, I'll try a diaper, just make it quick." The words seem to surprise her as much as everyone else. "Not to use it. Just to understand what's happening here."

"Of course," Amber agrees, too quickly. "Just to understand."

You clap your hands with childish delight. "A diaper party!"

The absurdity of the statement—three professional women in their late twenties having a "diaper party"—hangs in the air for a moment before Molly bursts into nervous laughter. The tension fractures, and even Veronica's lips twitch upward.

Amber retrieves her supplies, laying out two changing mats side by side. "Who's first?"

Molly volunteers, her movements jerky with anticipation as she lies back on the mat. You kneel beside her, squeezing her hand as Amber unfastens her jeans.

"I'll help," you offer, reaching for the powder. The role reversal—you helping to diaper someone else after being diapered yourself—creates a strange loop of power and submission that makes your head swim.

As Amber slides the diaper under Molly's hips, you notice Molly's eyes flutter closed, her breathing quickening. This isn't just curiosity for her—it's awakening something deeper.

"There we go," Amber says, securing the tapes. "How does that feel?"

"Weird," Molly admits, sitting up carefully. "But... not bad weird."

Veronica watches, her expression caught between horror and fascination. "This is insane," she mutters, but she's already unbuttoning her slacks.

As Amber prepares to diaper Veronica, you notice Molly's sudden stillness, the flush deepening on her cheeks. A small gasp escapes her lips.

"Molly?" you whisper. "Did you just...?"

She nods, eyes wide with shock and something like relief. "I didn't even mean to. It just... happened."

The power dynamic in the room shifts again, invisible currents rearranging around this new surrender.

You kneel beside Veronica as she lies rigid on the changing mat, her jaw clenched with determination. "It's okay to let go," you whisper, reaching for the baby powder. "It feels strange at first, but then it's... peaceful."

Amber watches you with approving eyes as you sprinkle powder over Veronica's exposed skin. "Look at my good helper," she coos. "Such a natural little mommy's assistant."

The words strike you like a physical blow – not mommy, but mommy's assistant. Your role diminished yet again.

"I don't need the commentary," Veronica snaps, but her voice lacks conviction. "Just get it over with."

Amber's smile turns predatory. "Listen to that big girl voice trying so hard to sound grown-up," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. "But I can see right through you, Veronica. Always the perfectionist, always in control. Always terrified someone might see how scared you really are."

Veronica's eyes widen. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know that perfect ebony bob takes an hour to style," Amber continues, sliding the diaper under Veronica's hips with practiced ease. "I know those manicured nails are armor. I know you're exhausted from holding yourself together so tightly."

You watch, transfixed, as Veronica's composure begins to crack. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes.

"Wouldn't it be nice," Amber whispers, "to just let someone else be in charge for once?"

A single tear escapes down Veronica's cheek as Amber secures the tapes on her diaper.

"Now Molly," Amber says, turning to where Molly sits fidgeting in her already-wet diaper. "Our little accident-prone one."

Molly blushes furiously. "It just happened."

"Of course it did, sweetheart," Amber says, guiding her to the changing mat. "Because deep down, you've always wanted this. To be free of responsibility. To be taken care of."

As Amber changes Molly's wet diaper, her fingers linger just a moment too long between Molly's legs, causing her to gasp softly. You recognize the technique – the same one Amber has used on you, blurring the line between infantilization and arousal.

"There," Amber says when she's finished. "Three little girls all clean and protected."

She disappears briefly, returning with an armful of stuffed animals. "I thought you might like some friends to play with," she says, distributing them among you.

You accept a soft rabbit, cradling it against your chest. Molly takes a teddy bear without hesitation. Veronica stares at the offered unicorn for a long moment before slowly reaching for it.

"Good girls," Amber praises, sitting cross-legged on the floor with you. "Now, who wants to play a special game?"

Her hand finds your thigh, fingers tracing patterns that send shivers of unwanted arousal through you. You watch as she does the same to Molly, then Veronica, each touch seemingly innocent yet deliberately placed to stimulate.

"Just like that," Amber murmurs as Veronica's breathing quickens. "Isn't it nice when someone else takes control?"

"I think we should all just... let go," you say, your voice soft but certain. You clutch the stuffed rabbit to your chest, feeling its plush comfort against your skin. "It feels so good not having to be in control all the time."

Amber's eyes glitter with triumph as she strokes your hair. "That's my good girl. Show your friends how happy you are."

You turn to Molly first, her diaper crinkling as she shifts on the carpet. "It's okay, Mol. Remember how we used to play pretend as kids? This is just... a different kind of pretend."

Molly nods, already halfway surrendered, her fingers absently stroking the teddy bear's fur. "I do feel... lighter somehow."

"Veronica?" you prompt, watching her struggle against the invisible threads Amber has woven around all of you.

"This is insane," Veronica whispers, but her grip on the unicorn tightens. "We're grown women with careers and—"

"Responsibilities?" Amber interrupts, her voice honeyed poison. "And how's that working out for everyone? Mei, drowning in new motherhood. Molly, exhausted from sixty-hour work weeks. You, Veronica, so tightly wound you can barely breathe."

She moves behind Veronica, hands settling on her shoulders, kneading the tension there. "When was the last time someone took care of you, Veronica? Really took care of you?"

Veronica's resistance crumbles visibly, her shoulders slumping under Amber's touch. "I can't remember," she admits.

"That's what I thought," Amber murmurs. "Now, who wants a bottle?"

The question should sound ridiculous—three adult women being offered bottles—but in the strange bubble Amber has created, it feels natural. You raise your hand eagerly, Molly following suit with only slight hesitation. Veronica stares at her lap, but doesn't object.

"Perfect," Amber says, disappearing into the kitchen. The moment she's gone, Veronica leans forward.

"Are we really doing this?" she hisses, though her voice lacks conviction.

"Just try it," you urge. "It's... freeing."

Amber returns with three bottles filled with what looks like strawberry milk. She settles on the couch, patting the space beside her. "Mei first."

You crawl to her, diaper crinkling loudly in the quiet room. She cradles you against her breast, positioning the bottle at your lips. The sweet liquid fills your mouth as you suckle, your eyes drifting closed in contentment.

"Good girl," Amber praises, her free hand stroking your hair. "Such a perfect little one."

When your bottle is half-empty, she shifts you to make room for Molly, who joins without hesitation. The three of you form a tableau of regression—you and Molly nestled against Amber, suckling bottles like infants while Veronica watches, her resistance visibly weakening.

"Look how peaceful they are," Amber tells Veronica. "No stress. No expectations. Just being taken care of."

Veronica crawls forward then, her movements stiff with residual dignity. "Just this once," she mutters.

Amber's smile is victorious as she welcomes Veronica into the fold, completing her collection of adult babies. As you drift in the hazy comfort of regression, you distantly recognize that something fundamental has shifted. The hierarchy has been established—Amber at the top, the three of you reduced to competing siblings in her nursery kingdom.

As Amber cradles Veronica against her chest, you notice how her fingers trace patterns along Veronica's collarbone, lingering in ways they hadn't with you or Molly. There's an intimacy to her touch that makes your stomach twist with something between jealousy and fascination.

"You know," Amber says, her voice honey-smooth as Veronica suckles at the bottle, "Mei mentioned how much you love your spa days, Veronica. All that tension you carry..." Her fingers drift to Veronica's shoulders, kneading experimentally. "I was actually trained in massage therapy before nursing. Would you like a special treatment?"

Veronica pulls away from the bottle, suspicion flaring in her eyes despite the dreamy haze that's settled over all of you. "I don't think—"

"It's just a massage," Amber assures her, voice innocent though her eyes are anything but. "To help you relax fully into this experience."

Veronica glances at you and Molly, hesitation evident in the tightness around her mouth. "Only if they stay," she says finally. "I don't entirely trust you."

Amber's laugh is musical, unbothered. "Of course they can watch. They might learn something."

She guides Veronica to lie face down on the couch, the diaper crinkling loudly as she settles. You and Molly sit cross-legged on the floor, bottles forgotten as Amber begins working her fingers into Veronica's lower back.

"So much tension," Amber murmurs, her thumbs pressing into knots of muscle. "You carry the weight of the world here."

Veronica's soft moan of pleasure sends an unexpected pulse of heat through you. You've never heard her make such an unguarded sound before.

Amber works methodically upward, her hands accessing bare skin on Veronica's neck and shoulders. When she reaches Veronica's shoulders, her fingers occasionally drift to the sides, brushing against the outer curves of Veronica's breasts.

"Turn over," Amber instructs, and Veronica complies without hesitation, her earlier suspicion dissolved by skilled hands.

The transformation in your normally composed friend is startling. Veronica's chest rises and falls rapidly, her nipples visibly hard beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Her eyes, usually sharp with awareness, have gone soft and unfocused, fixed on Amber's face with naked longing.

"May I pull your dress top down?" Amber asks, her fingers hovering at the fabric. The question hangs in the air, loaded with implications that extend far beyond a simple massage.

You watch, transfixed, as the power dynamic shifts yet again—Amber ascending to an even higher position of control, Veronica surrendering in ways you never imagined possible.

"Stop!" you blurt out, clutching your stuffed rabbit tighter against your chest. "I think we all need naps after those bottles. We're tired." Your voice wavers between childish whine and adult assertion, landing somewhere uncomfortably in between.

Amber's hands pause on Veronica's shoulders, her head tilting as she studies you with predatory amusement. "Is that what this interruption is really about, Mei Fly? Or is baby jealous that Mommy's giving someone else attention?"

Heat floods your cheeks as she exposes the childish possessiveness you've tried to mask as concern. Veronica's eyes narrow, suddenly more alert despite the haze from the bottle.

"If it's okay for your friends to share in being babies," Amber continues, her voice silky with dangerous knowledge, "then surely they can share 'Mommy' in an adult way too... just like you did."

The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade before dropping. Molly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"You cheated on your husband?" she whispers, eyes wide with shock.

Amber's laugh is musical, triumphant. "We don't call him 'husband' in this house anymore, do we Mei? What do we call him?"

You stare at the carpet, shame and arousal warring within you. "Daddy," you whisper.

"That's right," Amber confirms, stroking Veronica's hair. "And Mei Fly will be telling her Daddy everything when he gets home."

Veronica sits up suddenly, something calculating replacing the dreamy surrender in her eyes. The revelation has shifted something in her—awakened a desire to reclaim some control, to punish you for your hypocrisy.

"Baby Ronnie wants out of her icky dress, Auntie," she says, her voice sliding into a playful pout that sounds nothing like the composed Veronica you've known for years. She shoots you a defiant look, one that says clearly: If you can surrender everything, so can I—but I'll do it better.

"Of course, sweetheart," Amber coos, helping Veronica to her feet. "Let's get you into something more comfortable."

As Amber begins unbuttoning Veronica's dress, your friend maintains deliberate eye contact with you. This isn't just surrender—it's competition. The hierarchy is shifting again, and Veronica intends to supplant you in Amber's attention.

"Maybe Mei needs a time-out in her crib," Veronica suggests, her adult voice momentarily breaking through the baby persona. "She seems cranky."

Amber's smile is razor-sharp as she slides Veronica's dress from her shoulders. "What an excellent suggestion. Molly, would you take Mei to her crib while I help Ronnie get comfortable?"

Molly hesitates, caught between competing loyalties, before nodding slowly. "Come on, Mei," she says, taking your hand. "Let's get you settled."

As Molly leads you away, you catch a final glimpse of Veronica standing in just her bra and diaper, her expression a complex mixture of defiance, surrender, and something that looks disturbingly like victory.

You yank your hand away from Molly, a surge of possessive rage coursing through you. "No! This is my house, my wet nurse, my fantasy. MINE! Get out, both of you!" Your voice cracks between adult indignation and childish tantrum.

Molly reaches for you again, her expression softening with concern. "Mei, I think you're confused—"

The crack of your palm against her cheek echoes in the sudden silence. Molly stumbles backward, her hand flying to her reddening skin, eyes wide with shock. The moment stretches between you—your hand still tingling, her betrayed expression, the stuffed animals scattered like silent witnesses.

"I think the brat needs a spanking," Veronica says, her voice cool and amused. She stands in her bra and diaper, suddenly looking more powerful than vulnerable despite her infantile attire.

Amber's eyes gleam with calculated interest. "I think you're right, Ronnie." She turns to Molly, who's still cradling her cheek. "Molly, would you like to do the honors?"

Molly hesitates, conflict evident in her expression—loyalty to you warring with the sting of your slap and the allure of Amber's approval.

"Yes," Veronica encourages, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Show her what happens to little girls who can't share their toys."

You back away, suddenly realizing you've miscalculated. The power dynamic has shifted again—Amber at the apex, with Veronica rapidly ascending to favored status, while you've been demoted for your outburst.

Veronica turns to Amber, wrapping her arms around her neck. "Let's watch Mommy," she giggles, raising the pitch of her voice to a childish register that somehow sounds more deliberate than your own regression. She presses her lips against Amber's in a kiss that's anything but infantile—open-mouthed, hungry, a performance designed for your benefit.

Amber responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding down to cup Veronica's diaper-padded bottom. When they break apart, both women turn to look at you with identical expressions of triumphant amusement.

"Well, Molly?" Amber prompts, one arm still wrapped possessively around Veronica's waist. "Are you going to help teach our little brat a lesson?"

Molly takes a step toward you, her expression hardening into something you've never seen before—a mixture of hurt, resolve, and a flicker of dark excitement.

"Sorry," you whisper, lowering your eyes in submission. "I'll be good." The words feel strange in your mouth—half-performance, half-genuine regression. Your tantrum dissolves into something more calculated, a strategic surrender to regain position in this new hierarchy.

Molly's expression softens slightly at your contrition, but her eyes remain hard with lingering hurt. "Come here," she says, patting her lap as she sits on the couch. The authority in her voice is new—borrowed from Amber but wielded with surprising confidence.

You crawl toward her, keenly aware of Veronica's smirk as you position yourself across Molly's thighs. The carpet scrapes your knees, a minor discomfort compared to the humiliation burning through you.

"Pull down her diaper," Amber instructs, her fingers already working at the clasp of Veronica's bra. "Let's make sure she feels this lesson properly."

Molly hooks her fingers into the waistband of your diaper, tugging it down to expose your bare bottom. The cool air raises goosebumps across your skin. You turn your head, unable to look away as Amber slides Veronica's bra from her shoulders, revealing small, perfect breasts with dusky nipples already hardened with arousal.

"Good girls get rewards," Amber murmurs, cupping Veronica's breast with one hand while maintaining eye contact with you. "Bad girls get punished."

The first slap of Molly's palm against your flesh coincides with Amber's mouth closing around Veronica's nipple. Pain and jealousy twine together in your gut, indistinguishable from arousal. Veronica moans theatrically, her fingers threading through Amber's blonde hair to hold her closer.

"Count them," Molly orders, her voice trembling slightly with newfound power.

"One," you gasp as her hand connects again, harder this time.

Amber breaks away from Veronica's breast, lips wet and eyes gleaming. "Louder, baby. Let Mommy hear how sorry you are."

"TWO!" you cry out as Molly's palm cracks against your increasingly sensitive skin. Tears spring to your eyes—from pain, from humiliation, from the confusing arousal pooling between your legs.

Veronica pulls Amber into a deep kiss, their tongues visibly tangling as Molly continues your punishment. Each slap forces a number from your lips, each digit punctuated by the wet sounds of Amber and Veronica's increasingly passionate embrace.

By "Ten," your bottom glows hot pink and your voice has devolved into sobs. Molly's breathing has quickened, her free hand resting possessively on your lower back.

"I think she's learned her lesson," Amber says, finally breaking away from Veronica. "Haven't you, Mei Fly?"

You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face. "Yes, Mommy. I'll be good. I'll share."

"That's my good girl," Amber praises, but her attention quickly returns to Veronica, who preens under her gaze. "Now, who wants to show Mei how good girls get rewarded?"

You crawl toward Amber and Veronica, your eyes wide with need. "Can I join too? Please, Mommy?" Your voice is small, childlike, yet tinged with adult desire.

Amber's eyes narrow as she pulls away from Veronica's embrace. "No, Mei Fly. Bad babies don't get rewards." Her voice is firm but honeyed with false sweetness. "Corner. Now. Face the wall until Mommy says you can turn around."

Humiliation burns through you as you crawl to the corner of your own living room. The walls—painted the soft sage green you'd chosen during nesting—now feel like the boundaries of a prison. Behind you, the wet sounds of kissing resume, punctuated by Veronica's performative moans.

"That's it," Amber purrs. "Show Mei what good babies get."

You press your forehead against the cool wall, trying to block out the sounds of pleasure. Molly's hand touches your shoulder briefly—a gesture of comfort or dominance, you can't tell which—before she joins the others on the couch.

Time stretches like taffy as you kneel there, the carpet burning your knees, your diaper half-down around your thighs, your spanked bottom still stinging. The sounds behind you grow more urgent—gasps, the creak of furniture, Veronica's voice rising in pitch until it breaks in a shuddering cry.

Silence follows, broken only by contented sighs and whispered endearments that twist in your chest like a knife.

"You can turn around now, Mei Fly," Amber finally says.

You shift awkwardly, hampered by the diaper around your thighs, to face the room. Veronica lies sprawled across the couch, flushed and disheveled, her eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. Molly sits beside her, looking both aroused and uncertain.

Amber stands, adjusting her clothing with practiced ease. "Let's take the game further, shall we?" Her smile is all predatory delight. "I want you both to do your best to act like real little babies. No big girl talk, only crawl, things like that. Be inventive. The winner gets a special treat from me later."

Veronica immediately slides from the couch to the floor, her movements liquid with post-orgasmic relaxation. She arranges herself on hands and knees, bottom raised provocatively despite the infantile posture.

"Goo?" she coos, batting her eyelashes at Amber.

Molly hesitates, glancing between you and Veronica before slowly lowering herself to the carpet. Her attempt at baby talk comes out stilted, self-conscious. "Ba... baba?"

Amber's laugh is rich with satisfaction. "Perfect. And Mei?" She turns to you, eyebrow raised. "Will you play nice with the other babies now?"

The question hangs in the air—not just about this moment, but about your place in this new hierarchy. About surrender versus resistance, about what parts of yourself you're willing to sacrifice to belong.

You drop to your hands and knees, diaper crinkling loudly as you crawl toward the center of the living room. Your mind races through every baby behavior you've ever observed, determined to outperform Veronica at her own game.

"Goo-goo," you babble, adding a slight drool for authenticity. You reach for a stuffed elephant, clutching it against your bare chest with exaggerated childish delight.

Amber's eyes light up at your enthusiasm. "Look who's decided to play nicely," she coos, crouching down to stroke your hair. The touch sends electricity down your spine, validation flooding your system like a drug.

The afternoon unfolds in a haze of regression. Amber feeds each of you bottles of warm milk laced with something that makes your limbs heavy and your thoughts fuzzy. The living room transforms into a nursery as Amber brings out toys from the actual nursery—rattles, stacking rings, soft blocks—scattering them across the carpet.

"Nap time," Amber announces after your third bottle. She leads you all to the master bedroom, where she's somehow found time to build an adult-sized crib for the three of you to share. Soft lullaby music plays from hidden speakers, the melody weaving through your consciousness with subliminal whispers you can't quite catch but somehow understand.

"Such good babies," Amber whispers as she tucks each of you in. "Growing smaller, softer, needier with every breath."

You wake to find yourself sucking your thumb, the pad wrinkled from prolonged moisture. Veronica has already mastered an authentic infant's crawl—knees splayed wide, bottom high, movements uncoordinated yet purposeful. Not to be outdone, you perfect a babyish giggle that makes Amber's eyes crinkle with delight.

"Baba," you demand, reaching up with grabby hands whenever Amber passes. You notice Molly watching you carefully, mimicking your techniques with growing confidence.

By dinner time, Amber has stripped you all to just diapers, explaining that "real babies don't have modesty." The cool air on your exposed breasts feels both vulnerable and liberating.

"My special babies need special accessories," Amber announces, producing a pink bonnet for Veronica, who coos with delight as it's tied under her chin. Molly receives a tiny lime green bib that drapes provocatively over her naked breasts, the material just brushing her nipples.

For you, Amber has saved a thick pink pacifier. "Open wide for Mommy," she instructs, pressing it between your lips. The bulbous rubber fills your mouth completely, silencing any adult protests while triggering a primal sucking reflex.

To your surprise, you find yourself enjoying the rhythmic sensation, the way it focuses your attention and quiets the anxious thoughts that have plagued you since childbirth. The competition fades into the background as you surrender to the simple pleasure of sucking, of being cared for, of existing without expectations.

"I think we have a natural," Amber whispers to David, who has returned home to find his living room transformed into an adult nursery. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene—three topless women in diapers, playing with colorful toys on the floor.

"Welcome home, Daddy," Amber greets him with a kiss. "The babies have been waiting for you."

Veronica crawls across the carpet with exaggerated movements, her naked breasts swaying beneath her as she approaches David. She tugs at his pant leg with one hand, the other still clutching a colorful rattle. "Ba ba!" she babbles, a string of drool deliberately escaping her lips and trailing down her chin. Her eyes, though, are anything but infantile—sharp with adult desire as she stares up at him.

David freezes, his expression cycling through shock, confusion, and unmistakable arousal. He looks at you, silently pleading for guidance in this bizarre scenario he's walked into.

Before you can respond, Amber steps forward, her hand coming to rest possessively on your shoulder. "Mei Fly, it is time to tell Daddy everything," she orders, her voice honeyed but firm. "All your little girl secrets, including your time with Auntie, and if you are okay with this."

Your mouth goes dry. The pacifier suddenly feels too large, too intrusive. You spit it out, the pink rubber bouncing across the carpet as panic rises in your chest.

"I... I don't..." you stammer, adult speech returning awkwardly after hours of babbling.

"Use your words, Mei," Amber encourages, her fingernails digging slightly into your bare shoulder. "Tell Daddy how you let Mommy touch you. How you liked it."

David's expression hardens, his initial confusion crystallizing into something more complex. "What is she talking about, Mei?"

Veronica sits back on her haunches, watching the drama unfold with undisguised interest. Molly edges closer to you, her presence both comforting and complicit.

"I..." Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, caught between your regressed state and adult awareness. "Amber and I... we..."

"We had a special mommy-baby time," Amber finishes for you, her smile predatory. "Didn't we, Mei Fly? And now Veronica wants special daddy-baby time. Is that okay with you?"

The question hangs in the air between you and David, loaded with implications about power, consent, and the new family dynamic taking shape in your home. Your husband's eyes search yours, looking for the woman he married beneath the infantilized exterior you've adopted.

"I need to know if this is what you want," David says quietly, ignoring Veronica's continued pawing at his leg. "Any of this."

The moment stretches, taut with possibility. Your answer will determine not just the next few minutes, but potentially the shape of your life moving forward.

You take a deep breath, finding a sliver of your former self beneath the layers of regression. "I... I like being your baby," you admit, your voice wavering between adult articulation and childish hesitation. "But Amber is my wet nurse. And David is my husband. I don't want to share them."

The words hang in the air, a fragile assertion of boundaries in a room where all boundaries have been systematically dismantled.

Veronica's face crumples into an exaggerated pout, her bottom lip protruding dramatically. "Mei Mei no share! Nah faiwh!" she whines, the baby talk not quite masking the adult calculation in her eyes.

Molly crawls closer, her naked breasts brushing against the carpet as she joins the protest. "Yea, nah faiwh. Bahd fweind!" she adds, shooting you a look of theatrical betrayal.

Amber's laugh is low and dangerous as she crouches beside you, her fingers trailing along your bare shoulder. "David did tell me that Mei Fly's mother told him Mei never liked to share her toys," she says, each word precisely aimed to cut. "The same little girl who refused to let anyone touch her dolls is now a woman who can't share her... playmates."

You flinch at the comparison, at how she's reduced your marriage to a child's possessiveness over playthings. David shifts uncomfortably, caught between Veronica's continued pawing at his leg and your desperate claim of ownership.

"Well, listen close, Mei Fly," Amber continues, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow fills the room. "I am a grown woman," she emphasizes the last two words, letting them land with deliberate weight. "I may decide to be with any baby girl I wish."

Veronica blows a wet raspberry in your direction, the childish gesture carrying adult mockery. Molly giggles, the sound high and babyish but her eyes sharp with awareness of the power struggle unfolding.

"In fact," Amber says, rising to her full height and looking down at you with cool assessment, "if you're unwilling to share, perhaps I should just take Molly and Veronica home with me instead. They seem much more willing to play nicely together."

The threat lands like a physical blow. The thought of Amber leaving—taking her care, her control, her validation with her—sends a spike of panic through your chest. Worse still is the image of her continuing this game elsewhere, with your friends but without you.

David clears his throat, finally finding his voice. "Mei," he says carefully, "is this really what you want? To keep playing... whatever this is?"

Three pairs of eyes fix on you, waiting for your answer—Amber's calculating, David's confused, and somewhere in the background, Veronica's triumphant. The choice before you isn't just about who touches whom, but about what kind of person—what kind of baby—you're choosing to become.

You swallow hard, feeling the last fragments of your resistance crumble. "Okay," you whisper, the word barely audible. "I'll share." Something shifts inside you—a door closing on your former self, another opening to this new reality.

Veronica giggles triumphantly, her eyes gleaming with victory as she tugs at David's pants. "Baby Ronnie want special treat!" she coos, her fingers working his belt buckle with surprising dexterity for someone supposedly regressed.

David looks at you one last time—a final check, a last chance to object—but you simply nod, sinking deeper into your role. Permission granted, he allows Veronica to pull his pants and underwear down his legs, revealing his already hardening cock.

With surprising strength, Veronica pushes him onto the couch. "Daddy comfy," she babbles, her adult intelligence gleaming through the childish facade as she wraps her fingers around his shaft. "Baby help Daddy feel good."

You watch, transfixed, as your friend strokes your husband's cock with deliberate slowness. The contradiction is mesmerizing—her infantile babbling paired with the unmistakably adult movements of her hand.

"Daddy big!" she giggles, before lowering her head to take him into her mouth. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks, eyes fluttering closed in exaggerated pleasure. David's head falls back, a groan escaping his lips as his fingers tangle in Veronica's hair.

"That's right, baby girl," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Just like your bottle."

Molly watches the scene unfold, her expression shifting from shock to curiosity. After a moment, she crawls toward Amber, who stands observing the tableau with satisfied amusement.

"Miwk?" Molly asks, patting Amber's dress-covered breast with tentative fingers. Her eyes are wide with need—not just playing a role now, but genuinely seeking comfort in the midst of this transformative experience.

Amber smiles down at her, stroking Molly's wild red curls. "Of course, little one. Mommy always has milk for hungry babies." She unbuttons the top of her dress, revealing a lace bra beneath. "But first, let's get you properly dressed for feeding time."

She produces a frilly pink bonnet from a nearby bag, carefully tying it under Molly's chin. "There," she coos, "now you're ready."

You remain kneeling on the carpet, watching as your life rearranges itself around you—your husband receiving pleasure from your friend, your other friend being mothered by your wet nurse. The jealousy you expected to feel transmutes into something else entirely—a strange, warm acceptance, a surrender more complete than you thought possible.

"What about our special baby?" Amber asks, looking at you with knowing eyes. "Does Mei Fly want to join the fun, or does she need a nap in her crib first?"

You drop to your hands and knees, the carpet rough against your palms as you crawl toward Amber. The sight of Molly at her breast awakens something primal in you—not jealousy, but a desperate need to join, to belong, to surrender completely.

"Me too?" you whisper, your voice high and childlike. "Milk for Mei Fly too?"

Amber's smile is radiant as she extends her free arm, welcoming you to her side. "Of course, precious. There's always room for my special baby."

You nestle against her, your head resting on her lap as Molly suckles at one breast. Amber deftly unclasps the other side of her bra, revealing her swollen breast. The nipple is already beaded with milk, a pearlescent drop trembling at the tip.

"Open wide," she coos, guiding your head to her breast.

Your lips part, and the moment her nipple touches your tongue, your mind begins to drift. The warm sweetness of her milk floods your mouth, and with it comes a profound sense of letting go. Behind you, the wet sounds of Veronica pleasuring David fade to white noise.

Time becomes fluid, stretching and compressing like taffy. You're vaguely aware of days passing, then weeks. The routine establishes itself with dreamlike inevitability—Veronica and Molly dress in adult clothes each morning, kissing you goodbye as they head to their jobs. You remain home, diapered and infantilized, the special baby who needs constant care.

"It's because you're the youngest," Amber explains one afternoon as she changes your diaper, her fingers gentle against your bare skin. "Some babies need more time to grow up."

The words fill you with a perverse pride. Being the "youngest" feels like an achievement, a special status in this strange new family.

When evening comes, the transformation is almost magical. Veronica and Molly step through the door as adults, briefcases in hand, lipstick perfect—and within minutes, they're crawling on the floor beside you, babbling and giggling in their own diapers.

"Baby sisters home!" you squeal, genuine delight bubbling through you.

Your happiest moment was when Mommy Amber bought you a pretty pink ballet outfit to dance in, complete with a tu tu to wear over your diapered bottom.  Each evening you ask to dance for your new family, loving the applause that your childish performances bring.

Tonight, as Amber prepares dinner, you three "sisters" play on the living room floor. Veronica pushes a toy car across your bare stomach, making engine noises that vibrate against your skin. The plastic wheels trace a path dangerously close to your diaper line.

"Vroom vroom," she murmurs, her adult intelligence gleaming through as she deliberately slips the car beneath the elastic leg band. "Oops! Car crash in baby's special place!"

Molly giggles, crawling closer to watch as Veronica's fingers follow the car, slipping beneath your diaper. The touch sends electricity through you, and you arch your back, whimpering.

"Good baby," Veronica coos, her fingers finding your wetness. "Baby likes special playtime."

From the kitchen doorway, Amber watches, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "My little ones are getting along so well," she observes, catching David's eye as he enters from the hallway. "Daddy, look how nicely they're playing together."

David's eyes darken with desire as he takes in the scene—his wife being touched intimately by her friend, all while dressed as infants. "Very nice," he agrees, his voice husky. "Maybe Daddy should join playtime too."

You crawl toward Veronica, your diaper crinkling with each movement. The sound—once mortifying—now sends a thrill of excitement through you. "Baby Mei wanna play too," you coo, your adult intelligence flickering behind the childish facade.

Veronica's eyes light up, predatory and playful at once. "Oh yes, baby sissy wants special touches?" Her fingers withdraw from your diaper only to push you onto your back. The ceiling fan spins lazily above as she straddles you, her adult weight pressing down on your abdomen.

"My turn to be big sister," she announces, grinding herself against the front of your diaper. The pressure and friction send waves of pleasure through you.

Molly crawls over, her bonnet slightly askew, eyes wide with curiosity. "Me help?" she asks, her voice pitched higher than her normal speaking voice.

"Yes, baby Molly help," Veronica instructs, guiding Molly's hand to the tapes of your diaper. "Open present."

Molly giggles as she pulls at the adhesive tabs, the tearing sound loud in the hushed room. Cool air hits your exposed skin as they pull the front of your diaper down, revealing your arousal.

"Look how wet baby is," Veronica announces, her fingers tracing patterns through your wetness. "Baby likes being watched by Mommy and Daddy."

You glance toward Amber and David, who stand side by side observing the tableau of regression and desire unfolding on their living room floor. David's hand rests possessively on Amber's hip, his erection visible through his pants.

"That's right," Amber encourages, her voice honeyed with approval. "Show Mommy and Daddy how much you love your sisters."

Molly lowers her head between your legs, her tongue tentative at first, then growing bolder. The sensation is electric—your body arches involuntarily as pleasure spirals through you.

"Good babies," David murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. "Daddy loves watching his little girls play."

Veronica shifts position, crawling up your body until her knees bracket your head, her diaper hovering inches from your face. With deft movements, she unfastens her own diaper, revealing herself to you.

"Baby Mei's turn to make big sister happy," she commands, lowering herself until your mouth makes contact.

The taste of her fills your senses as you lick and suck, Molly's tongue still working between your legs. The dual sensations—giving and receiving pleasure simultaneously—overwhelm you. You're dimly aware of movement nearby, of David unzipping his pants, of Amber's dress falling to the floor.

"Room for Mommy and Daddy?" Amber asks, though it's not really a question.

The family circle completes itself as they join, adult and infant roles blurring in a tangle of limbs and desire. In this moment of surrender, you find a strange new freedom—the liberation of absolute submission.