Girl on the Net

Over the last few years, I’ve come to think of @JenetalTorture as something of a kink correspondent. She boldly fucks in a variety of different creative ways, and pops back in occasionally to report on such fascinating things as erotic hypnosis, bimbofication, pony play and lots more – usually with a healthy smattering of excellent puns amidst the hotness. My personal favourite of her posts so far is this incredibly creative use of smart tech to fulfil a surveillance kink – extremely cool and right up my nerdy little street. Today she’s here to share her horn for ageplay and ABDL (adult baby/diaper lover), a kink which sits further outside the mainstream than many of the others I publish here, to the point where when she pitched it to me it was with the line: “How much ABDL action do you think your readers will go for? Just, hypothetically?” Let’s find out shall we? Like many kinks, ABDL and ageplay aren’t for everyone, and I’m aware – as with some of my own more intense fantasies – that this piece requires careful framing so you understand that everyone involved is a consenting adult. Please do read the content note carefully before scrolling to Jen’s piece.

Note that this blog features two adults well over the age of 18 engaging in ageplay – role play in which one of them pretends to be much younger. In this story, it involves one person wearing nappies/diapers (sometimes referred to as diaper fetishism or ABDL), using dummies (pacifiers/pacis), and effectively regressing to a childlike headspace (often referred to as being ‘little’ or ‘smol’). Throughout the piece you’ll read words and phrases used in a ‘little’ way (e.g. ‘dips’ = diapers, ‘dungies’ = dungarees, ‘bab’ = baby). Some people engage in ageplay in a non-sexual way, but that is not the case here: expect diapers and sex. That’s the headline. There are also other words and phrases that you might not recognise if you’re unfamiliar with the kinks mentioned – I’ve tried to link out to more info where possible. 

Ageplay and ABDL for dummies

I don’t get to spend enough time being little. Mentally that is, physically I’m a twig. When I say ‘little’ it doesn’t mean what vanilla people think it means. My littlespace, like subspace or petspace, is the mindset I enter when someone or something makes me feel smol.

Ageplay is one of the core parts of my kink identity. I don’t have a ‘little age’ per se (some people who are into ageplay claim to know their ‘little age’ and that always astounds me – apart from my having no idea of the qualitative difference between a two- and a seven-year-old, how the hell do you expect me to know anything? I’m LITTLE??), however I’m a dyed-in-the-wool ABDL so ‘whatever age you’re still in diapers sucking on pacis’ is probably a good shout.

Unsurprisingly for me, my littlespace is also horny. Some non-sexual babs like to downplay the erotic side of the community but newsflash: sexual ageplayers are everywhere, we’re all consenting adults, and we’re all getting off on surrendering the trappings of our boring, capable adult exteriors, usually by giving power over to a Big or Middle and embracing the helplessness and playfulness of babhood. Like literally all other D/s dynamics.

We’re not trying to fool anyone into thinking we’re kids, least of all our partners, or ourselves.

But alas, for someone who wears her littleness on her sleeve (to the degree she literally writes blogs about it for strangers on the internet), I’ve vanishingly few opportunities to spend time in the headspace.

So imagine my delight when I met Daddybear.

Daddybear looked, on paper, too good to be true. A cute older guy with a penchant for soggy dips, currently single and based on the other side of the county. A stone’s throw in bab terms.

That first date, strolling along the riverbank with my mint choc milkshake and dungies, Daddybear with his Americano and jacket that would soon be draped over my shoulders against the drizzle as we shared our first kiss, defied both our expectations.

But the third date was, as ever, where things got interesting.

‘Tell me what you’re wearing,’ said Daddybear as he studied my attire from the driver’s seat.

I looked down at the flimsy pink dress Daddybear had ordered for our first sleepover, suddenly panicked that I’d made some error.

‘Just this,’ I said uncertainly.

‘Nothing else?’

‘Only panties.’

A look. I didn’t need telling twice.

As we exited the car and circled round to the boot, out of sight of the main road, I took care to follow Daddybear’s orders to the letter. I’d already racked up one punishment and we weren’t even halfway home.

Hitching up my dress to reveal my exposed girldick, Daddybear produced the cutest pullup I’d ever seen and slid it up my legs till my princess parts were adorned with vibrant pastel-coloured butterflies, and I was utterly, insensibly smol.

I stayed in littlespace all the way to the supermarket, where it became apparent that if I didn’t want everyone in the store to know about my little secret, I was going to have to keep the hem of my dress firmly pulled down… and stay out of the wind.

I’m quite sure that Daddybear’s neighbours, several of whom were waving at us as he pulled up outside his house and opened the door for this young trans girl with white thigh highs and sparkly new supermarket kitty ears perched on her bottle blonde locks, were all fully convinced that Daddybear was seeing a woman of ill repute.

Irony of ironies, he was. I just wasn’t on the clock.

Once inside, it was time to change out of my pullup and into a full-fat diaper (I may have had a tiny accident in the car), and once Daddybear was thoroughly convinced I was no threat to the upholstery, we snuggled down in front of the telly.

The night started with me nuzzling up to Daddybear’s beard in front of an Attenborough doc about dinosaurs, and it ended with me in a onesie, pink tutu and matching paci, bouncing on Daddybear’s lap in front of a Panasonic view of my own porn.

I didn’t realise I’d fallen asleep until I was awoken by a pair of hands exploring my unconscious form (somnophilia FTW!), accompanied by a finger inserting itself between my cheeks and the weight of my Daddybear pressing down on his babygirl, exploring her mouth with his.

Sleepily, I let out a mumbled plea for permission to come, and to my surprise found it granted.

I climaxed hard on Daddybear’s hand, then wasting no time I climbed on top, squeezed out a measure of lube, and took his thick cock deeper than I ever would have thought possible.

Let it be known that Daddybear’s dick is incredible. I could have ridden that monster for hours, but Daddybear had other ideas, and in short order I was bent over his knee awaiting my all but forgotten punishment for wearing panties without permission.

And as I lay there taking my ten hits from the hairbrush, counting out each stroke and thanking Daddybear like the good girl I was, I felt adult Jen beginning to resurface.

Punishment over, I snuggled down in front of the telly once more, as piece by piece my grown-up self returned.

Daddybear had now kept me little for fourteen hours straight, orders of magnitude longer than my previous record.

I relayed this to Daddybear, and was surprised to find myself on the verge of tears that had nothing to do with the pain in my bottom. Being little may be a kink for me, but it’s also a deep-seated part of who I am. Slipping into that headspace is not putting on a mask so much as letting one fall, and the gift that Daddybear had given me that day, the gift of making it OK, of removing any need to adult, was worth a thousand hits with his hairbrush.

And now I’ve said it I’ll probably be getting that next time.

Silly bab…