Welby barely registered what was happening as he was guided into the ride vehicle, his body moving on autopilot, his mind desperately focused on one thing and one thing only—

Holding on.

Just until after the ride.

Just until he could get to the bathroom.

Just until he was alone.

He lowered himself carefully into the seat, Hannah nestled securely in his lap. Her tiny body snuggled into his chest, her warmth a cruel contrast to the cold panic gripping his stomach.

Emily sat beside him, her face glowing with excitement. Her small hands gripped the safety bar as the ride operator moved through their checks.

There is a sharp click.

The restraints locked into place.

Welby’s stomach groaned, loud and angry, a horrible, aching reminder of the storm brewing inside him.

His fingers gripped the edge of the seat. His breathing was shallow, and his entire body was clenched and trembling. He was desperately, hopelessly, trying to hold out just a little longer.

‘Please… just let me make it through the ride.’

Just a little bit longer.

Maters’ cheerful Southern drawl rang out over the speakers, signaling the start of the ride.

“Alright, y’all! Hold on tight! Here we go!”

And then—

The ride lurched forward.

The tractor jerked violently, spinning, swinging, tossing them from side to side as the music blared and the wind rushed past them.

Emily squealed with joy, her laughter bright and unfiltered, her hands thrown into the air as the vehicle twisted.

Hannah giggled and kicked, the rapid movement delighting her, her tiny fingers gripping his shirt in excitement through her mittoned hands.

Welby—

Welby knew.

The moment the ride flung them sideways, his body jostled, shaken, rocked back and forth—

He knew.

The battle was lost.

There was no stopping it now.

His stomach seized, a sharp, unbearable wave of pressure crashing down on him—

And then—

The floodgates opened.

His body betrayed him completely.

The first wave of warmth spread through his already wet diaper, thick and hot, soaking deeper into the saturated material, swelling around him, hugging him, mocking him.

And then—

The second betrayal.

A deep, twisting cramp ripped through his gut, and before he could even think, his body gave in.

He felt it.

The shift.

The soft, warm mass spreading beneath him, pressing thickly against the padding, the diaper cradling the mess effortlessly, absorbing, expanding, making room for everything.

And he was trapped.

The ride spun again, another sharp twist flinging them sideways, and the movement only made it worse.

The mess spread shifted and pressed further against him, the padding squishing around him, reminding him, taunting him, holding him in its humiliating, inescapable grasp.

His breath hitched.

His face burned.

He had completely, utterly, hopelessly lost.

The ride continued, the music cheerful and playful, the Littles laughing and screaming with joy—

And Welby sat there.

Soaked.

Messy.

His cheeks were flaming red, his heart pounded violently, and his entire body was tense with mortified humiliation.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t react.

Couldn’t do anything but sit there, pretending—hoping—that neither Emily nor Hannah would notice.

That no one would notice.

His stomach twisted violently, another deep cramp rippling through his gut, the pressure unrelenting, unbearable, unstoppable.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the seat, trying—desperately, hopelessly, pathetically trying—to stop what was already happening.

But his body didn’t listen.

It continued.

Another wave surged through him, forcing his muscles to bear down involuntarily, pushing more out, filling the already swollen confines of his diaper as the thick, warm mass spread further beneath him.

He felt everything.

The bulging softness expanded, oozing outward, pressing against the tight plastic shell wrapped around his waist, against the tapes that held it in place, against his already damp, swollen padding.

And worst of all—

The ride didn’t stop.

The sharp twists and turns, the whirling momentum, and the way the vehicle lurched violently from side to side only made the situation worse.

With every spin and jerk, the mess beneath him shifted, squishing, spreading, and pressing thickly against his skin.

It was warm, sticky, heavy, moving with him, moving against him, the thick padding absorbing, molding, cradling the humiliating weight.

Each sharp turn sent new sensations through him, the soft mass smearing deeper, squishing up between his legs, oozing into every available space within the overfilled diaper.

It clung to him.

Pressed into him.

Held him in its disgusting, suffocating embrace.

And he couldn’t escape it.

The ride swung hard to the right, forcing him down deeper into his seat. The movement pushed everything back against him, pressing against every inch of available space, oozing outward, and filling every crevice the diaper allowed.

His face burned hotter than the sun overhead.

His entire body radiated humiliation, shame creeping up his spine like an unstoppable wave of fire.

The horrific contrast of the joyful, bright atmosphere, the laughing, cheering children, the cheerful banjo music filling the air—

Against his nightmare unfolding beneath him.

Hannah squealed. Happily, her tiny body bounced slightly in his lap, her mittened hands pawing at his chest as the ride tossed them around.

Emily laughed beside him, her voice bright, carefree, innocent—so painfully unaware of what was happening to him, to her Daddy.

And Welby—

Welby sat there, soaking, squishing, shifting helplessly, his entire body stiff, burning, mortified, frozen in shame.

He couldn’t react.

Couldn’t move.

He couldn’t acknowledge the full, thick weight pressing against him, clinging to his skin, shifting with every jarring movement of the ride.

He could only sit.

Sit in his humiliation.

Sit trapped in the very thing he had once controlled.

Sit while his babies cried for joy—

And he cried inside.

The ride finally ended.

The momentum slowed, and the vehicle coasted to a stop. The world settled around him, but inside—inside—Welby felt like he had been shattered into a million pieces.

His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, though he kept his face neutral, composed, Daddy-like.

Then—

The lap bars lifted, the restraints retreating with a cheerful mechanical click, signaling that it was time to get out.

But Welby—

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His entire body locked up, his muscles stiff with dread because he knew.

The second he moved, it would squish.

The moment he shifted his weight, the thick, warm mass that clung to him would spread even further, pressing into every last available space within the diaper.

Emily was already climbing out, bouncing happily, talking excitedly about the ride.

He had no choice.

Every fiber of his being fought against it, but he forced his legs to move, forced his stomach to stay strong, forced himself to pretend everything was fine.

The second he stood—

It happened.

The mess pressed up against him, shifting, squishing, oozing in ways that made his entire body burn with humiliation.

It spread up the back of his diaper, clinging to his cheeks, the bulk forcing his legs apart even more than before.

The front wasn’t spared either.

The sheer volume of what he had done filled every inch of available space, pushing up between his thighs, against him, around him, the diaper containing it effortlessly, trapping it against his skin.

Welby nearly shuddered, his body tense, locked down, screaming inside, but outwardly—

Outwardly, he remained Daddy.

He stepped off the ride, walking as normally as he could, feeling every sickening shift and press, every deep, warm squelch, every single ounce of his humiliation clinging to him like a suffocating embrace.

Evelyn walked beside him, her face neutral and calm, but he knew she had noticed.

She had instantly determined that something was wrong.

But she didn’t know the full scope of it.

She didn’t know just how bad of a situation he was in.

She had no idea that Welby—strong, unshakable, always-in-control Daddy—had just helplessly soiled himself in the middle of a ride.

Lucas and Emily ran ahead, giggling and laughing, their words blending into the background noise, but Welby barely heard them.

The only thought in his mind was getting out of this.

“I need to use the restroom,” he said, his voice calm, steady, and practiced.

Evelyn nodded immediately, not questioning him. But as he passed Hannah to her, he caught the smallest flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

She was concerned.

She didn’t know why, but she knew something was very, very wrong.

Welby ignored it.

He didn’t care.

Not about the fact that other people might find it odd that he was going alone with a diaper bag slung over his shoulder.

Not about the nagging thought that Evelyn might backstab him, that she might do something while he wasn’t there.

Not about the countless warning signs screaming at him that he was making a mistake.

He should be worried about leaving his babies.

He should be worried about leaving Hannah.

He should be worried about leaving Emily alone with someone else after everything he had been through, after everything he had lost.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

He knew better.

But right now—

Right now, he was so caught up, so distraught, so humiliated, so disgusted, so overwhelmed—

That he couldn’t think straight.

His only thought was escape.

His only thought was getting this thing off of him.

And so, without another word, without another glance back—

He walked toward the bathroom, his pace stiff, his every step filled with the awful, constant, humiliating reminder of what he had just done.

Welby stormed into the men’s restroom, his breath ragged, uneven, bordering on frantic as he shoved his way into a stall and locked the door behind him.

His hands were shaking.

His heart was pounding.

His entire body felt filthy, tainted, and humiliated beyond reason.

Without hesitation, he undid his pants, letting them fall to his ankles, revealing the full, unrelenting devastation that had befallen him.

And it was—horrible.

The Amazon tech kept the smell at bay, but the sight alone was nauseating.

The thick, swollen diaper sagged between his legs, grotesquely bulging, full, pressed against his skin in ways that made his stomach churn.

It had absorbed everything perfectly—that was the cruel irony of it all.

It was engineered for this.

To hold a helpless Amazon-turned-baby.

To ensure he never had to worry about accidents.

To trap him in his shame with no hope of escape.

His chest heaved, rage and humiliation twisting together in a storm that was too much, too big, too overwhelming—

And then, like an idiot, like a man desperate beyond reason, he tugged at the tabs.

He yanked.

Nothing.

He pulled harder.

They didn’t budge.

His entire body went rigid.

No. No, no, no.

He had been so caught up in his emotions, so desperate to escape, that he had forgotten—

The diapers were locked.

Miranda had made sure of that.

A deep growl rumbled in his throat, his breath shaky and uneven, his fingers scrambling uselessly against the waistband, against the unforgiving tapes, against the thick, disgusting bulk that clung to him.

He. Wanted. This. Thing. OFF.

NOW.

His frustration exploded into pure fury.

A deep, throaty, dangerous growl escaped him, the sound feral, raw, that of a trapped predator, enraged and helpless in equal measure.

CURSE THAT WOMAN.

His fists clenched, his entire body trembling with fury as he snatched his phone from his pocket, his fingers flying over the screen, barely able to see through the haze of rage and humiliation.

“Let me out. NOW. I need to change.”

He sent it, his jaw locked, his shoulders rigid, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Seconds passed.

His screen lit up with a response.

“Tsk, tsk. That’s no way to talk to me.”

His stomach twisted.

“To Mommy.”

His entire body tensed.

“Now, if you want a change, I want you to show me what a big baby you really are.”

Welby froze.

His breath caught.

His fingers tightened around his phone, his grip so tight it threatened to crack the screen.

She was toying with him.

Again.

And now—she had him exactly where she wanted.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat, his entire body locked in place as his phone buzzed again.

Another message from Miranda.

“Take a video for me, baby. I want to see what a big poopy baby Welby made.”

His stomach lurched violently.

“Show me your diaper. Show Mommy what a big mess you made.”

His eyes glazed over, his entire being fracturing beneath the weight of it—fury, anger, frustration, humiliation, shame, disgust, all of it crashing down on him at once, all of it clawing at his sanity, all of it dragging him under.

His fingers tightened around his phone, gripping it like a lifeline, like a weapon, like a piece of himself that he still controlled, still owned, still held onto.

“Then look at the camera and ask nicely if Mommy will let you change.”

The words burned into his vision, his brain short-circuiting, his pulse roaring, his breath uneven.

This was—

No.

Surely—

Surely, she didn’t mean this.

Surely, there was a limit to this.

Surely, she wouldn’t make him do this.

Wouldn’t push him this far.

Wouldn’t force him to strip away every last ounce of his dignity like this.

His mind refused to move forward, refused to accept what was being demanded of him.

But Miranda—

Miranda took his silence as defiance.

Another buzz.

Another message.

“THIS, Welby. This is what you should be orchestrating for your Littles.”

His stomach clenched, his vision blurred.

“THIS is what it means to be an Amazon.”

His heart pounded.

“Until you understand that, I will continue this game.”

His hands shook.

“I will keep you under my control, keep you well and truly mine until you finally learn your place.”

His place.

The words echoed in his mind, over and over, a hammer driving the nail deeper and deeper into his already cracked and broken composure.

She didn’t just want to control him.

She wanted to break him.

She wanted him to beg.

She wanted him to humiliate himself so completely, so thoroughly, that there would be no part of him left that resisted.

No part of him left that believed in himself as an Amazon, as a father, as a protector.

No part of him left that could fight, a puppet for the government to play with.

She wanted to reduce him to the very thing he had protected his Littles from.

A helpless, obedient, shamed thing.

His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat, his fingers tightening around his phone, his body locked in place, trapped in his skin, trapped in the humiliating, warm, swollen, soiled bulk of his diaper.

This was it.

This was the moment.

Either he submitted—

Or he fought back.

Either he did what she asked—

Or she would make things even worse.

And worse.

Until there was nothing left of him.

Welby’s breath shook violently, his fingers hovering over the camera button.

His mind screamed.

His soul rebelled.

But he wasn’t sure anymore—

If he had the strength to resist.

Tears brimmed his eyes, blurring his vision as he stared at the glowing screen, the blinking cursor waiting—expecting—his response.

Was this truly what we’ve become?

Was this what Amazons do now?

No longer treating Littles as people, no longer respecting their individuality, their independence, their rights—

No.

Now, they were just playthings.

Dolls.

Objects to be used, humiliated, controlled.

His fingers tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white. His grip was so fierce that he could hear the plastic casing groaning under the pressure, dangerously close to cracking.

A part of him wanted to break it.

To hurl it against the stall wall.

To scream, to rage, to fight back.

But then—

A cold, sharp wave of fear shot through him.

They were waiting for him outside.

His girls.

His babies.

He HAD to get back to them.

He still didn’t fully trust Evelyn, and yet—he had left them with her.

He had been so caught up in his shame, desperation, and unraveling humiliation that he had left them vulnerable.

His stomach coiled with dread, the very thought sending ice through his veins.

He had to get back.

He had to get out of here.

He had to finish this.

His hand shook violently as he forced himself to tap the record button.

His face flamed red, his entire body stiff and trembling with humiliation as he lifted the phone, angling it downward, forcing himself to record the state of his diaper.

The swollen, sagging bulk, the disgusting bulge pressing thickly against him, the humiliating evidence of what he had done.

His mouth went dry, his throat closing, his entire soul rebelling.

But he forced himself to speak.

“…Mommy,” he gritted out, his voice thick with humiliation. “Can I… can I have a change?”

Silence.

The message was sent.

His chest heaved, shame curling around him like a vice, making him feel small, helpless, and powerless.

The phone buzzed immediately.

“No, no, no, baby.”

His stomach dropped.

“That was awful.”

His blood ran cold.

“Try again.”

He stared at the message, his entire body trembling.

“I want you to be nice, Welby. Be polite.

“Give me a little lisp, just like a baby should have.”

“Say it properly, like a good boy. Say, ‘Mommy, pretty please, can I have a diaper change? I made poopies.’”

The words stabbed through him, burning into his vision like a curse he would never escape.

His lungs seized.

His face burned hotter than he thought possible.

His hands trembled, his body locked up, trapped, frozen between two unbearable choices.

Either he complied—

Or Miranda would make it worse.

And worse.

Until there was nothing left of him at all.

His entire body burned with shame as he held the phone aloft, staring at the discolored cartoon characters on the front of his diaper, the pathetic, humiliating evidence of his defeat.

His hand shook violently, his knuckles aching from how hard he clenched the device.

And then—

He forced himself to speak.

“…Mommy,” he whispered, his voice quivering, brittle, shattering under the sheer weight of his humiliation.

He lisped, just slightly.

“Pwease, Mommy, can I have a diapiee change? I made poopies…”

The second the words left his lips, his entire body locked up, nausea twisting deep inside him, his stomach churning violently from the unbearable weight of his degradation.

His phone buzzed.

A single-word response.

"Yes."

A faint warmth spread across his hips, and he felt the tabs loosen.

The locks were undone.

Welby pocketed the phone immediately, shoving it away as if merely holding it was tainting him further.

His fingers fumbled, desperate and frantic, as he ripped the tabs apart, gasping as the diaper fell open beneath him.

And then—

He froze.

His stomach twisted.

His once proud Amazon manhood—the thing that had defined his strength, his control, his masculinity—

Now pathetically small, shriveled, coated in his shame.

The mess clung to him, warm and disgustingly thick, suffocating in its presence.

His cheeks burned hotter, his breathing shaky and uneven, the weight of his degradation crushing him from all sides.

And this—this was only the beginning.

This was the life of a Little.

This was what he had forced so many of them to endure.

The long, humiliating process of cleaning up after an accident they never should have had.

The disgust, the helplessness, the shame.

And now—it was his turn.

Welby swallowed back bile, reaching for the wipes, beginning the slow, painful process of cleaning himself.

Every swipe was a reminder.

A reminder of what had been taken from him.

A reminder that he was just another toy in Miranda’s hands.

A reminder that his dignity was no longer his to protect.

His search through the bag was brief and just as damning as he had expected.

No underwear.

No pants.

No salvation.

Only more diapers.

And next to them—clothes.

Not his clothes.

Not the masculine, well-fitted attire of an Amazon man.

But infantile, humiliating, degrading outfits meant to strip away any last shred of his dignity.

His phone buzzed again.

A new text.

“Finish stripping.”

His stomach dropped.

“Since you were so rebellious, we’re going to put you in something more appropriate today.”

“You had your chance to behave. You failed. Now, you will be punished.”

A pause.

Then—

“And if you delay any longer, I’ll punish you again.”

“Do. Not. Test. Me.”

Welby’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body shaking, trembling, the last vestiges of his resistance being ripped from his grasp.

He had no choice.

No way out.

No escape.

His phone buzzed again.

"Pick the overalls."

Welby’s stomach twisted violently, his hands shaking as he secured the last tab of his fresh, thick diaper, feeling the soft heat spread as it adhered to the waistband—sealing him in once more.

Trapped. Again.

The humiliating bulk between his thighs pressed firmly against him, forcing his stance just a little wider, ensuring that no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he would feel it with every step he took.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself to move, to finish dressing so he could get out of this nightmare.

But the moment his eyes landed on the overalls, he froze.

The panic came fast and violent, an unstoppable force ripping through him. His breath hitched, his pulse skyrocketed, and his muscles locked up.

They weren’t just any overalls.

They were those overalls.

The teddy bear overalls.

The very same ones he had been forced into the day they had tried to take everything from him.

The day his girls had been stolen from his arms.

The day they had tried to strip him of his identity, his mind, his entire existence.

A cold sweat broke out across his skin, his vision blurred, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as the memories slammed into him like a freight train.

Strapped down. Bound. Helpless. A needle poised over his arm, moments away from rewriting everything he was.

His girls. Gone.

His life. Over.

His phone buzzed again.

He barely registered it. His entire body was locked in fear, and his fingers clenched around the fabric of the overalls, crushing them in his grip.

Another buzz.

"This is a reminder, Welby."

His breath hitched sharply.

"A reminder of what once was. And what could be again."

A deep, horrible dread sank into his chest, ice curling around his heart, suffocating him.

"I am in control. I decide what you can and cannot do. You belong to me now."

Welby’s hands trembled violently.

"If you push back, even once, I can ensnare you again. I can bring you down. I can strip you of everything. Just like before."

His fingers clenched, his throat tightening, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

She was taunting him.

Tearing him apart, one thread at a time, dragging him back to the very moment he had fought so hard to escape.

Forcing him to relive it.

Forcing him to wear it.

With shaking hands, he slowly, mechanically stepped into the overalls, his body moving on autopilot, his mind fractured under the weight of it all.

The fabric felt suffocating, even though he knew it was just his imagination, his entire body burning with humiliation and trauma as he pulled the straps over his shoulders.

They clicked into place.

Secured.

Just like before.

The plain pastel shirt beneath the overalls only added to his infantilization, making him look and feel even smaller, even weaker, and even more vulnerable under Miranda’s thumb.

A bright, cheerful teddy bear was stitched onto the front.

Mocking him.

Taunting him.

His fists clenched, his tears threatening to spill over, but he forced himself to keep going.

With shaking hands, he folded his discarded clothes, tucking them neatly into the bag, his only link to normalcy now hidden away like it had never existed.

He grabbed the utterly soiled diaper, his entire body cringing in revulsion as he stepped out of the stall.

The air felt too cool against his flushed skin, the diaper between his legs crinkling loudly with every tiny movement.

His stomach rolled with nausea as he tossed the soiled diaper into the pail next to the changing table, the final act of submission, the final reminder that Miranda had won.

For now.

He turned to the sink, his movements slow, hesitant, his reflection in the mirror a stranger—

A man who had once been strong.

A man who had once been free.

A man who was now trapped, diapered, humiliated, infantilized, controlled.

A man who could be erased at any moment.

His fingers tightened against the counter.

His jaw locked.

His chest heaved.

She wanted him broken.

She wanted him defeated.

She wanted him to forget who he was.

But even as the tears burned his eyes, even as the weight of his shame threatened to crush him completely,

A spark remained.

Small.

Faint.

But still burning.

Still his.

And as he stared at himself, at the mockery Miranda had forced him into—

He made himself a promise.

She may have control for now.

But he was still Welby.

And he would not let her win.

He felt like he was walking in slow motion, as if his body were moving toward its execution, every step a funeral march toward his destruction.

The bright, mid-morning sun beat down against his skin, warm and welcoming—a cruel contrast to the chilling terror that surged through his body.

The humiliation sat heavy in his chest, an unrelenting weight, pressing down, pressing in, suffocating him.

And then—

The stares.

He felt them before he even saw them.

Eyes. Everywhere.

Curious gazes. Judging glances. Silent, questioning concerns.

People looked at him, saw him, studied him, their minds desperate for answers to the puzzle he had become.

What was wrong with Welby?

Why would an Amazon be dressed like that?

Why was he wearing something so... infantile?

The weight of their unspoken questions crushed him.

He bore their silent judgment, feeling it in his bones, in his soul, in every ounce of his being.

And yet—

He had to.

He had to endure this.

For them.

His eyes lifted—landing on his girls.

His babies.

And in that single moment, he knew.

He knew he was about to break.

He knew he couldn’t handle this.

Emily and Hannah turned toward him, happy, bubbly, excited—

And then—

Their smiles vanished.

The joy evaporated, their bright eyes widening in horror, in fear, in utter, gut-wrenching confusion.

They froze.

Their gazes darted—first to his face, to the mask he wore, the forced stoicism holding back the tidal wave of shame.

Then—

To the teddy bear on his chest.

The mocking, stitched emblem of his downfall.

And finally—

To his crotch.

To the thick, padded, humiliating bulk hidden beneath the fabric of his overalls.

They couldn’t see it.

They couldn’t know.

And yet—

They knew.

THEY KNEW.

His girls weren’t dumb.

They were brilliant, sharp, perceptive.

The brightest bulbs he had ever seen.

And now—

They were panicking.

They were terrified.

He saw it in their eyes—the fear, the uncertainty, the horrible, soul-crushing realization creeping into their minds.

Was it happening again?

Was he losing?

Was she coming back for them?

They were waiting—waiting for the hands of their cruel, unrelenting ex-mommy to reach from the shadows, to drag them back, to rip them from him just as she had once before.

And in that moment—

They weren’t just looking at him.

They were looking at their entire world collapsing.

Waiting for Miranda to destroy them all.

Waiting for HER to take them back.

Waiting for this to be the end.

And Welby—

Welby had no idea what to do.