(CLICK THE PHOTOS TO READ THE STORY)

 "Part I: The Big Boy Bucket"

It takes all kinds to make up a community. And the ABDL community is no different. You'll find adult babies and diaper lovers. Daddies, mommies, big brothers, big sisters. People who prefer disposables, vs. people who'd kick it old school in cloth. Those who are into wet, and those who are into the other. Ageplay roleplay participants, and those who don't want to regress at all, but would prefer just to wear diapers and enjoy watching others wear them.

And I haven't even begun to get into anything with fur, yet.

To further complicate things, many of us go from one to the other to the next. We're abies sometimes, but other times we just like to wear. Or maybe we don't even know what we want; we just know we like diapers.

And all of the above can make abysitting difficult.

In the past, when I diapered straight dudes for dough, I've found it easy to designate a target age. If I want a toddler, I can throw down a coloring book, pop open the playpen, and voila! I have a toddler. Infant? Lots of bottle feeding and tummy rubs. Whoever I've diapering is making bank, so their baby side comes out.

When I've abysat people from the ABDL community, on the other hand, it's never as easy.

I've diapered about a dozen ABDL people. And, while most sessions went smoothly, there were those with challenges.

I usually try to get a handle on someone's fantasy age/phase/stage well beforehand. You may be into spankings and strictness; I can do that. You may want to be cuddled and loved; I can do that, too. But you need to know which you want!

I've abysat people who had no idea. They wanted strictness - but not too strict. They wanted spankings - but nothing that hurts, thanks. They wanted to be a toddler; no, wait, they just wanted to wear a diaper with no ageplay... no, wait again, a little toddler time can't hurt, right?

There's nothing worse than babysitting someone who doesn't want to be a baby. You get all the stuffed animals and toys out, and then they announce - contrary to everything they've said before - that 'little kid stuff' makes them uncomfortable. So you're left with a lot of unwanted toys (sniffle) and some time to do... what?

On the other hand, if someone knows up front that they're not too sure about the ageplay or regression, it's easy to get into it slowly. I have a few different techniques I use; you'll have to wait for another blog entry for most of them, or come see me. But someone who wants to go from adult to teen to toddler in 'aby steps'... something I can certainly accommodate.

I'm also down for diaper dining. Movies in diapers. Sailing in diapers. Swimming in diapers. Pretty much anything in diapers. (And, some stuffnot in diapers, too). So it's not like you're required to drop your age to zero to have some Cwis Time.

For everyone who knows that they're ready for 'toddlerization', however, I'm ready to roll. And we start with... the "Big Boy Bucket."

You walk in. It's clear to me, right from the beginning, that you need to say goodbye to your grownup status. And it's up to me to make that happen.

I introduce myself, and ask me to tell you something about yourself. You start to talk, and I wave my hand to stop you. "I've heard enough," I say. "None of that'll matter in a few minutes, anyway."

My job is to send you from twenty to two in six seconds. It's not easy to get into the mindset of a toddler; it's even more difficult to give up control to someone you've just met. But you've asked for this, and I'm determined to let you have it. Your time as an adult is temporarily suspended. Introducing... Baby You!

"Corner," I say, pointing. You're surprised, at first, but then turn around with an embarassed look on your face and slowly walk into the corner. You stand in it, a foot or two away, and wait, and I tell you to get closer. You inch forward reluctantly, and I come over and gently ease you into your space.

I let you stand there and stew while I get things ready. I'm pulling out the diaper bag, and setting various brands of diapers on the table. I've got the baby powder out, the wipes, and I'm filling a bottle with warm milk for some microwave action. You don't know any of this; you're facing the corner, hearing a lot of rustling and some sort of pouring, but you're not allowed to check out what's going on. Truthfully, I'm giving you a period of time to back out. You, fortunately, don't know this either.

Once everything is set out I walk over to you and begin to explain "the rules."
Toddlers don't talk; you won't either. If you need

something it's "wahhhhhh" and wait til I ask you what you need- and I'll have you practice once. Toddlers don't walk. Don't even stand up, son; tummy crawling or hands and knees.

Toddlers do as they're told. Those who don't - the 'naughty' ones - get a swat on the bum. Don't expect the fact that you've got a little padding in the form of Pampers to protect you; it'll sting. I may even give you a demo.

You're still standing there, clothed, nose to the walls. You're probably wondering what you've gotten yourself into. This is stricter than you'd imagined, you may be thinking.

"Time for the bucket."

After it's clear to me that the rules are clear to you, it's time to say bye bye to your adult status.

I begin by reaching down and untucking your shirt; I pull it up, up, up over your head, telling you to hold your arms up until I have it off. Once it's off and you're shirtless, I tell you to take it.

I tell you to lift your left foot. You do, and I take off your shoe, and then your sock. I reach up and put them near you and you dutifully take them under your arm. I tell you to put your foot down and repeat with the left; now you're holding your shirt, your socks, and your shoes.

Time for a pocket check. You're not allowed to have any electronics. Y our cell phone, PSP , and Ipod are getting turned off. Not to silent; not to airplane mode. OFF. I pull them out and do so, then drop the now-useless devices back into your pockets. I pull out your wallet and stand up, holding it in front of your face. "Mouth this." You're now holding your wallet, too. And we're not done yet.

I take off your belt and drape it over your shoulders. Your pants come down, and you're repeating the one-foot-two-foot hop while they're removed. I put them over your head and your arms, already pretty much occupied, instinctively come up to hold these, too. Now I've got you in your underpants, and it's almost time.

"Drop your drawers," I tell you. It's kind of a joke, but you're standing there with your hands full, up to your arms in big boy clothing, with a belt hanging around your neck, and you obediently begin to try to shake your underpants off. I tell you to stop, then come up behind you and pull them down in one fell swoop. No more dancing for you; I now just pick up your feet, one by one, and the drawers are history. You're now naked; if you've been good during this process I throw your underpants on top of your pants. If you weren't as compliant as you could have been they get draped over your cranium.

I walk over to the other side of the room and bring out the Bucket. It's a big, bright yellow pail. In it's former life it was a bucket used for something at a famous upstate hot dog stand; it then became Cwis's aquarium-filling bucket. On his Road Trip South it held two dozen little bottles of liquor. And then, when those ran out, just before it was put out to the dumpster, Cwis had an idea. And it became a symbol of your willingness to surrender your status and regress to infancy.

I set it out on the floor. It has a sign on it, and I set it so that you can see the sign when I have you turn around.

"Kneel," I tell you, and you do so, quickly. "Turn around." You're swiveling, trying to hold everything without dropping it, and you're facing me, now, your face red and your junk swinging. "On your tummy."

You're laying in wait. What comes next? You can see the bucket; you've seen it in pictures, and here it is. What's that sign say?

"Come here."

You think for a second. You have shoes and socks in your hands, you're cradling other clothes at your elbows, and a belt is about to fall off your neck. You want to ask "How?!" but you're chomping your billfold. So you begin to cross the room the only way you can figure out: toddler style. On your tummy, sort of inching forward.

I wait, and when you're to the bucket I stand up and grab anything you haven't been able to hold onto. "Fanny on the floor," I tell you, and you scramble to sit up.

"If you continue, you're giving up any of the rights and privileges you came here with," I tell you. "Once your stuff goes into the bucket and the bucket goes away, you're left with what I give you. A diaper. Are you ready for that?"

You mumble a garbled yes, and nod you're head. If you're like most abies you've probably been waiting for this for a long time. You're excited, nervous, apprehensive - all at the same time. I reach down and scratch your skull for a second; trying to make you a little more comfortable. You look so adorable holding every ounce of your adulthood, so willing to say 'bye bye' to it all.

"Put your underpants in the bucket," I tell you. You either flop them in or - if you were naughty - shake your head vigorously until they fall off. "Good boy." Another little head pat, but then I explain how underpants are a symbol of adulthood. "You were pretty proud when you finally got to wear them, huh?" I ask, and you remember. "Well, those days are gone."

"You probably have money, credit cards, debit cards, an auto club card. Say goodbye to all of it," I tell you. "You don't need it. Not for a while, anyway. Put it in the bucket." You open your mouth and your wallet falls out. If you've asked for strictness and diaper discipline I may come over and pull the bills out one by one, crumpling them and dropping them into the bucket. (If you're like most abies, you won't have any bills, anyway lol).

"What did you bring shoes and socks for?" I ask you, and you're at a loss. The answer is obvious, but you don't want to say it. "Shoes and socks are for people who walk," I tell you. "Not for babies. Bye bye shoes and socks!" You drop them in, too, as I take your belt, roll it up, and send it in as well.

I take your pants from you, and root through the pockets. Out comes your iPhone. I look at it, look at you, shake my head, and drop it in the bucket. You brought your passport? You don't need one for where you're going! It goes in, too. Car keys? "Going somewhere? I don't think so. Put them in."

I'm holding your jeans, and you're left with nothing but nakedness. I hand them to you. "Drop 'em in," I say, and you do. I lift the handle and push the bucket towards you. "Take it and follow me."

You crawl, trying to move this huge bucket now filled with all your possessions. I turn and wait by the kitchen sink. It's the only cabinet with a lock, and I need you to know that there's no turning back. You are now a toddler.

You push the bucket into it's place and watch me lock the cabinet. You've been left with nothing. You're sitting on the floor, bare-bottom, and everything you came with is separated from you by a wooden door.

It's a symbolic surrender of your adulthood. For many, it may be too much to bear; you've already decided it's not something you could handle or, if you do decide to try it, you'll get to Step 3/12 and

But if you've gotten this far, you're halfway to infancy.

"I'm proud of you!"

Next up... saying 'bye bye' to the potty... and it's diaper time!

"Part II: Un-Potty Training"

I've abysat abies. I've diapered DLs. And I've put people into diapers who couldn't stop laughing because they hadn't worn one since they were actually babies and didn't think they'd wear one ever again.

Some people want to be toddlerized. Other people prefer just to be padded. And still others counted the seconds until they can pull off their Pamper and leave with their pesos in hand.

So I'm well aware that not everyone finds the idea of wetting and messing in a diaper appealing.

For those of you who don't, come back later for a blog entry about... something different.

For those of you who want to be toddlerized, however:



You're sitting on the floor, nakey. Waiting.

You've just watched everything you came with dropped into a big yellow bucket. It's locked up tight, under the sink. And you're left with nothing.

You look around. It's just you, your bare bottom, the floor, the walls, and a lot of space.

Where are the toys?

Where are the stuffed bears? Where are the... diapers?!

You crawl in behind me, and I snap my fingers and point to my feet.

"Fanny on the floor."

You obediently comply.

You're sitting now, the cold linoleum pressed up against your bottom. I snap my fingers and point down, turning my index finger in a circle. I don't have to say it, you know what you need to do: you turn around and face the corner, waiting.

You sit quietly, and as you do you hear rustling as I get things prepared. After a few minutes the anticipation is building; what's going to happen now?

"Turn around."

You about-face, and your eyes immediately avert to the toilet. You see signage; you see diapers. You see diapering supplies. You see - a lack of toilet paper.

"Time for the test," I tell you. "When you came here you drove a car. You walked in with 2Xist on. You had kicks, a chain, a watch... even a cell phone. You were an adult."

You wait.

"Let's find out how adult you really are."

I grab a baby wipe from the box, and your thoughts race. You're a pretty clean kid. You always, always wipe. You know your ass is clean. Right?!

Your face is red. I snap, point, and you come.

"Feet up," I order. You think for a moment, then instintively lay back, on your back, and put your feet in the air. I tickle them for a second, and you're both giggling and annoyed at the same time. I stand over you, holding your feet, and rest my chin on them, looking straight down on you.

"White wipe and you're golden. Nasty wipe and you're bottom's red."

I kneel down and begin wiping. I begin with your tummy, and work my way down. You feel the coolness of the baby wipe on your skin. I run it along your penis, and cover every inch of your bum. You feel it come up between your cheeks, and the moment of reckoning is upon you.

It sweeps through the test area, and you wait. I look at it, then at you. Then back at it. I shake my head.

I hold it up. You look. Eek!

I push your feet towards your head, and your bottom is facing the air.

I reach over to the sink and pull up a white plastic paddle. You didn't notice that among the diapers, powder, wipes. Suddenly you're feeling it across your behind. WHAP! It stings, and you're instantly regretful. Still, you're suspicious... you ALWAYS wipe! Maybe it's a prop wipe, you reason. Maybe he had one hidden with someone else's dookie on it.

Eww.

I whip out another wipe, reach down, and swipe. You're lucky this time; I look, and you wonder.

"As the driven snow," I tell you. You breathe a sigh of relief. I hold it up for proof, then drop it, and it falls through the air and lands on your tummy. You lay still, not sure whether to pick it up or let it stay there. I give your feet another tickle and reach over you, grabbing the diaper off the toilet seat.

"Lucky you weren't a stinky mess," I tell you. "Might've had to plop you into the tub." You look over at the bath and think about what being 'plopped' into it would have been like. Might've been fun! You wonder if the extra spankings would have been worth a bath...

I hold the diaper in the air, flapping it a little.

"Hafta go potty?" I ask you. You're do; it was a long drive, and you ended it by walking in and getting stripped and put on the floor. You nod, and I point to the toilet. You obediently get on your knees and waddle towards it, wondering if you should stand, kneel... what should you do?

I lift the toilet see up for you. You lean over the bowl and reach down to grab your junk. It's hard to urinate in front of someone you barely know, and you concentrate. You really had to go a minute ago. Now you're kneeling, embarassed and in uncomfortable silence. You force yourself, and you begin to squirt. And I stop you.

"Okay, okay... that's enough," I tell you. You force yourself to stop, incredulous. Is this guy serious?

You're kneeling over the bowl, waiting. You still have to pee, and now you're uncomfortable. And embarassed. And, frankly, pretty irritated.

"Yea, my mistake," I tell you. "You don't need this. You've got... this!" and I flap the diaper. It bonks you in the face.

Grrrrr!

You wait. 'He must be kidding,' you think. 'Any minute now he's going to let me finish.'

I take a piece of paper from the top of the sink and peel off a piece of tape, affixing it to the sign, and the sign to the toilet seat.

'He's not kidding,' you realize. 'Damn.'

"From this point forward, let's agree that the toilet has outgrown you," I say. You nod. I put the toilet seat back down.

"Say bye bye!" I tell you.

"Bye, bye?" you dutifully repeat, sounding unsure. And I chuckle.

"Now give it a kiss. Tell it 'thanks for everything'!"

You look at me, trying to judge whether I'm joking. I look sternly at you, and your head turns to the bowl. You hesitate, and I pick up the paddle. You stop hesitating.

"Thanks... for... everything," you mutter, kissing your hand and touching the toilet. I lower the paddle to your bottom and you feel it press against your cheeks.

"Try again."

"Thanks for everything!" you say, suddenly more animated. You wait. I wait. And you realize what I'm waiting for.

You lean over to the toilet seat, put your lips about a centimeter from it, and make a kissing noise. You sit back up and look at me. I shake my head. And, irritated, you lean back over, put your lips on the seat, and give it a quick kiss.

"Bye bye!" I say. "Tell it what it's meant to you over the years. And that you'll see it again in a few days."

This time you don't fool around.

"Bye bye," you say. "I got to use you a lot, and..." you're thinking of what the fck you say to a toilet bowl, and you spit out some gibberish about 'always being there'. I laugh, and you're a little embarassed. It brings you back to the reality that you've been made, for no reason, to humiliate yourself. And, kiss someone's toilet. Wtf!

I point to the floor and snap. "Lay down!" And you do.

I reach down, grab your feet, and pull them back up towards me. I give each a kiss and a tickle. Then I reach down and grab the box of baby wipes, and set it on your feet.

"Balance that... don't let it fall on the floor," I order. You hold very still, hoping that I've set it carefully. I leave the room and go into the kitchen. You hear me open the refrigerator. Pouring something. Ding goes the microwave.

'He's heating a bottle,' you think.

I return. The box is still in the air, and you're good. But you're getting sore, and you have a little bit of a cramp. I take a wipe out, reach down, and really dig into your behind. The box is still on the bottom of your feet, and your legs are quivering. I turn my attention to your winkie, and you're struggling to keep your feet still. But you do, and I tell you I'm proud of you as I remove it and put it on your tummy. The baby powder joins it, and I lift your legs a bit higher, grab the diaper off the sink, and flap it open. One end in my hands, the other end unfolds down and bonks your nose.

"Smell good?" I ask, and you nod without thinking. The smell of diapers has always smelled good to you, and you feel yourself getting a little bit... hard. You hope that diaper goes on soon... you're not sure what'll happen if you're seen with a stiffy.

I kneel down and slide the diaper under your bottom. I lean in between your legs and push them apart, grabbing the powder off your stomach, twisting it open, and begin to pour. It's coolness contrasts with the warmth you're still feeling on your bottom, and you begin to enjoy it. 'Finally,' you think, 'some relief!'

You're covered in powder, now, and you begin to enjoy the smell. I begin rubbing it in, covering every inch of you. My hands are rubbing across your backside, your front side, your sides, and the insides of your thighs. Your skin has turned a shade of pale, covered in powder.

You look adorable.

I reach down and pull the diaper in between your legs, pushing it onto your tummy. It's tight, and I cinch it tighter as I pull the tapes, tugging them. This thing is strapped to you, and I push your feet down - finally - and you begin to relax. I order you onto your tummy and pat your bottom, and you can sense the powder cloud that forms as a result. It feels good, and you forget, for a moment, that you're laying on the floor of someone's bathroom, beside a toilet you've just been humiliated next to. You feel the diaper pressing against your junk, and in between your cheeks, and you're feeling toddlerish.

Y ay!

I step over you, straddling you as you lay, and you hear it: zippppppp. I lift the toilet seat, pull it out, and begin to piss. You're laying on the floor, cringing, hoping that nothing drips on you. It goes in the bowl - all of it. I piss for thirty seconds or more. I finish, zip up, and flush.

"Thanks for everything," I say to the toilet, and you roll your eyes, careful that I can't see you. "See you again. In about an hour." I wait until the flushing stops, then point to the toilet brush. You look at it, then up at me.

"Be good," I say, "and you won't have to scrub the bowl. With this," and I reach across the toilet brush and pick up, and hold up, a toothbrush.

"You definitely won't be using it," I say. "But I'm not promising you won't see it again. Chores are every night after dinner!"

You're not excited.

I order you to say your final goodbyes, and you do, unenthusiastically. I pour blue mouthwash into the bowl, and drop the lid. 'Mouthwash?' you wonder, and I explain. "Yellow and blue make green," I say. "And green makes red." You think of your bottom and know what I mean.

"In case you tire of diapers," I say. "Now let's go."

You crawl behind me, and as we leave the bathroom I close the door. You still have to wet, and you're wondering if you should now, or should later. You're afraid to go without being told, and you decide it might be better to live with the discomfort of a half-full, undrained bladder for the time being.

You're now diapered. You've said your goodbyes to the toilet. You're still feeling a little ridiculous.

And the fun is only to begin...

TO BE CONTINUED...