When the dungeon of your deepest kink is at your door

A booking at a dungeon next door becomes inevitable when their speciality is your greatest “weakness”

Important disclaimer and trigger warning: the contents of this post deal with the topic of infantilism, age regression, little space, adult babies and diaper lovers. Oftentimes people conflate these practices between consenting adults with some form of abuse or pedophilia or other non-consensual practices. There is nothing more heinous than an adult who sexualises a child or asserts themselves with someone who cannot give adult, conscious, consent. In my experience the ABDL community is extremely conscious of the difference, and I have never encountered pedophilia or its ugly cousins within this kink. May it always remain so. Nonetheless, many people find anything to do with age regression challenging, including many professionals in the Sex Work industry. Part of me wonders whether this is a case of them not quite believing that age regression doesn’t somehow inherently involve the sexualisation of children.

In my case, it never has. In all cases that I am aware of, it never has. On the contrary, many of us have been scarred by some forms of abuse in very early childhood that have possibly contributed to the development of these desires. I understand where mine came from, but that took many years of therapy. You might read the excerpt below and find it disgusting, or you might wonder what all the fuss is about when someone is just cared for and held for a few hours. There are few things in this world that nurture me more.

A wee while ago I was doing research on my future profession.  Yes.  I know.  I was looking at dungeons in my city.  Surprising that I had never done it before.  In any city.  But now I have a business reason.  Right?

Do you have any idea how many dominatrixes have dungeons in any given major city? I had no idea.

Well, imagine my surprise when I found that there was a very well-established dungeon right around the corner from my house.  Trouble.  But that kind of trouble was nothing compared to what happened in my guts when I discovered that one of the three resident dominatrices specialised in a particular kink.  Littles. Adult Babies. Fully equipped multi-room nursery.  Uh oh.

In all my years of being the way I am, in all my years of having such colossal fantasies around being regressed, of being a baby again, I had never really, truly, been to see someone who specialises in this kink.  

Okay, yes, I had played with Ex-Mistress on three or four occasions in this way.  But this was a drop in the bucket in relation to our overall dynamic, and anyway, it was already too much with her…once or twice was enough…And no, I am not saying she wasn’t good at it…she was fantastic, it was just that I didn’t want to go back to the same place.  I’m not like that.

And when I was younger, I saw a dominatrix in a full-blown house in London, a house which today I would be a very wealthy person to own, but at the time was in an “edgy” area…but that experience was cold and indifferent.  On another occasion I had met a matronly professional nurse, and her diapering skills were phenomenal, and her suggestion that I remove my pubes as they were inappropriate for a baby did eventually take root, but I didn’t like the idea that I was left to my own devices so that I might masturbate…that wasn’t it for me then, or ever.  Same thing with the dominatrix with the London dungeon.  Babies aren’t sordid.  Masturbation felt to me like an act which was very counter to my feeling as a baby.

How far I have come that now I am happy to masturbate! LOL.

One other time, when I had hired a seamstress to make me some baby clothes in the South of England, I went to pick them up, and her house was a full blown nursery, and I think my eyes bugged out when I saw that the whole house was geared up for all kinds of fun and games.  I am sure I would have gone back, but there were other babies present, and that was something I wasn’t ready for.  A man with a beard in diapers standing, chewing the fat, and drink coffee from a sippy cup was just so not me. So, I picked up my things and left.

Despite these experiences, or perhaps because of, there has been a long-lingering desire to experience the charms of a dominatrix who does this and only this.  Expertise comes with specialisation.  The market research part would be a byproduct of the experience, and in the event, in many ways, it was.

I wrote to her, and as always, waited in fear until (and if, for very often you never hear back) she wrote back. She did, was very gentle and kind, and noted that I was very clear. I had asked her, offered her, references, and she said that she already could tell that she wouldn’t need them with me.  When I have approached a dominatrix in the past, it is usually much more open-ended.  With her I was very precise.  I paraphrase.

Dear X…I’m a baby.  I’ve always been a baby.  I am also a recently post-op transsexual.  While I might like to pretend that the baby part of me is not around anymore, the truth is that I am feeling it very intensely now.  I would like to come to you and to just slip completely into being a baby.  Perhaps you could read to me, feed me a bottle, and just hold me.  I don’t have any other needs.  I suspect you know exactly what to do.

She wrote a warm response back, suggested we meet for 5 hours, and gave me a clear indication of how things were to work.  I complied within the hour.  She noted it and was appreciative.  I wondered what we would do in five hours, whether she would get bored as Ex-Mistress had when feeding me…a 15 minute drop in an ocean of time.

In the event, five hours flew by.  I fell asleep in her arms.  She read all the books she brought and all the books I brought.  I drank two bottles, she fed me a meal of actual baby food…the bottles I drank were formula that I had made.  Super yummy.

We had a long chat before we started about life, about the business, about what she does, about how my kink manifested.  She asked me a question I had never really properly considered, even though it is a common question in the ABDL (adult baby diaper lover) community…”what age are you,” as in what do you regress to, how do you get there.  

I remembered that as a child, I had this fantasy that played in my head that I was forced back into diapers and was told that if I was wearing diapers that I must be a baby.  It was a kind of circular logic, but was a real turn on for me growing up.  What I have since realised is that my version of this kink is not so specific like that.

“I think I’m pre-verbal.  I don’t have any need or desire to play games or make baby talk.  I just like to be treated gently, lovingly, and held.”  If you can imagine such a thing, you can also imagine that this could make for a really lovely afternoon.  For both of us.

After our talk, I asked, “do you have a bathroom I could use before we start.”  I have never used diapers for their intended purpose and I had already told her that I wasn’t really into making a mess or such a thing.

“I don’t think that is such a good idea,” she said.  “I am putting you in diapers because you are a baby, and if you pee now, you might struggle to wet your diapers.”

“But I’ve never done that,” I said.

“I know,” she said, “but I’d like you to try.  Will you?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Good,” she said, “now, let’s get you undressed.”  And she wasn’t kidding.  She gently removed all of my clothes, including my jewellery, “because that’s for big girls, and you’re not a big girl yet, are you?”  And so we began.

And you know what?  I found it really difficult to pee.  Really difficult.  I was dying to pee, and the first thing she did after diapering me was feed me an enormous bottle, so I just needed to go even more. But I couldn’t. Even when she left the room and waited for me at length to try.  In the end, she had me try standing up, and I finally did it.  What else?  I was proud that I did it.  I was proud enough to announce to her that I had done it.

This was a really interesting lesson in letting go. 

Oh dear reader, will you ever think of me the same again?  I have always had that fear about these baby games, the delicious world of little space.  And the body-mind connection is so powerful that I find it extraordinary that it took me nearly an hour to pee in a diaper when I was really trying to and had to pee so badly that it hurt, and yet was still unable to do it.

The best part of it?  Getting changed and being put back in a big, fat, clean, fluffy diaper.  The other best part?  About an hour in I asked if I was allowed to call her “mommy.”  I know plenty of dommes that can’t stand that.  But she hadn’t mentioned that in the names she had suggested I refer to her by when we first talked…so I wasn’t sure.  The answer was ‘yes’ and delivered in such a way that made it feel very welcome when tripping from my lips.

She held my head in her hands, strong hands, and told me, “but yes baby, you are mommy’s baby already.” I was so glad she was kind and gentle the whole time. I reckon she could really take the starch out of someone.

The second time I peed in my diapers it only took about 15 minutes.  Major progress.  It is funny that letting go of inhibitions is so hard.  But it is clearly just such a thing.  That is how I regard it.  It wasn’t a thrill on its own, but what was thrilling about it was to overcome the shame reflex.

A very dear person on the inside of my psyche on matters such as these recounted to me her hard won prowess in wetting herself in public.  I couldn’t imagine.  But practice might just be the ticket.  I have to say that peeing as a woman is a hell of a lot more fun than it ever was as a man.

This burning desire to see a baby wrangler domme was so strong with me, and I am glad I did it.  It was extraordinary to spend the best part of a day in a proper nursery with adult-sized baby furniture, in a fantasy land of mutual construction, as played out with a specialist in people like me…at least in this way.  It was great.

I also find it hot, hot, hot that the place is just a few doors down from one of my favourite places for coffee. It creates a buzz in my guts to just be nearby, but I did find myself generally avoiding the area after. I like that she knows exactly where I live though, too.

I had a field day on the topic with my therapist.  It felt a bit that I had broken through a barrier with my therapist as well.  Even if I am theoretically open about everything, I am circumspect about certain topics, this being one of them, and had never described to her the anatomy of a session, what happens with me and this particular kink.  Now she knows, and it was really good for me to speak it out. It felt good, but more importantly, being “weird” about talking about it was a kind of hanging onto shame.

We spoke at length about why I was feeling the need so strongly to be a baby at this particular juncture.  We were able to work it through.  My new vulva.  The healing process.  A big scary world out there.  A period of suspended disbelief, a period with no responsibility other than healing, or doing what I was told, what doctors told me to do…That was the cocoon I had been living in. A pre-paid, fully catered, loving, cared for warm, fuzzy space that I transitioned through, and which was coming to an end. It was the fear of the big wide world out there that was triggering this feeling.

[Short Aside. In conversation with a prolific writer-domme years ago, we mused on the trope of how many of the male diaper lovers she has come across are CEO’s or other high-powered execs. Though I fear my days of being high-powered anything are over, I do see little space as an antidote to stress. But the trope of the two together makes no sense. I’ve never (and this is anecdotally common to all littles) not wanted to be a baby. This state is linked to my submissive nature, and I see these as the founding spirit of what turned me into a high-powered executive, not as the crutch that helped me perform as one. Servant leadership is not just a catchy phrase, it is an increasingly well-understood leadership style, and is mine 100%.]

Learning how to regulate and manage these feelings, the need to be treated and held like a baby, to understand them, is one that has been a central theme of my adult life.  These and other recent therapy sessions have led to my first prescriptive from my therapist…being told what to do.  She wants me to step up…but interestingly, to step up so that I can continue to take care of the baby part of me…’that’s what adults do, that’s what you will do to make sure that baby you has the room to breathe.’  I like my therapist an awful lot, and she’s right.

Oh, and I am sorry about the somewhat clinical or factual description of interacting with a mommy domme, but that’s just it, a measure of how much I enjoyed it, and how I see it.  It is spiritual sustenance.

Will I do it again?  Don’t know.  I’ve met a professional submissive who is really into being treated like a baby.  I couldn’t think of someone I would rather play with and learn from.

Different question.  Will I see that provider again?  Probably.  I can think of my new favourite fantasy.  She needs a secretary.  My style?  1950’s pencil skirt, black stilettos, stockings with a black seam up the back, white blouse, bullet bra.  Blood red nails.  Hair up in a bun.  She loves corporal punishment and protocol.  I see that she needs lot’s of typing.  I could see my feet shackled together, a very high collar around my neck.  Ahh, the joys of a fertile imagination!

Plus the idea of a strong executive woman wrestling me to the ground for a typing error is one that I just can’t resist!