Unconventional Methods
A story by Mironde
CONTENT WARNING: This story depicts child characters in mildly suggestive scenarios.
NOTE: This story contains infrequent usage of special characters not identifiable to Inkbunny’s document reader. For best experience, please download and read the original .doc file.
White claws, snowy peaks, frosty moons rising over the ridge—on his tiptoes, the young arctic fox stood peeking. There was only so much the seven-year-old could mask his intrigue, his fascination in watching that girl, slightly younger than him, crawl along the padded mat above. Her hips seemed to sway with exaggerated momentum. Her striped tail bounced to and fro, its fluff splaying out almost the full length of the table when she flipped over on her back. And as her head came to rest on the pillow, the skunk settled into place, beamed her innocent smile. The cartoon sun on her sky-blue shirt grinned in much the same way. Her pleated yellow skirt, adorned with sunflowers, barely covered the slight splotch of yellowed pink between her legs that seemed to shift and jiggle long after she stopped moving.
The sight of it turned his face flush with rosy hues—left him flustered for good reason. After all, it would not be long before he was there in her place, in a similar pose, with a similar need.
They were not alone, though. There as well, by the tableside, a figure towered taller than the boy—a female mink, a woman garbed in the white and turquois uniform of the daycare’s attendants, with fur the color and softness of cream. She flashed a pleasant smirk to her young companion at her hip, rich hazel eyes meeting his icy blue mirrors, before they darted bashfully elsewhere upon her notice. A mellow, restrained chuckle escaped her. One after the other, then, her paws pulled back to her wrists, snapped on a pair of blue rubber gloves, and with her mitts suitably sheathed, she turned to greet the girl sprawled out before her.
“How’s my li’l sweetness doing today, hmm?” babbled the mink. To the skunk’s stomach her fingers fell, lightly wiggling and tickling to coax the girl’s giggling. “All antsy in her pantsies to get back to playtime?”
Squealing laughter erupted, the child’s hands over her muzzle. In time, her uproar calmed and quieted, leaving only her toothy grin, a gap in her front teeth. “Uh-huhhhh…” she hummed, rear end shimmying impatiently on the changing mat.
“Well, you just stay put and let me take care of you, ‘kay, darling? We’ll have you back to your friends in no time flat.”
While one hand maintained its ministrations, her other was free to act, shifting, lifting, peeling back the tot’s skirt to give them both—the adult and her observer—a glimpse of the exposed underside. Faded floral prints and dark brown leg-cuffs greeted them, the blurred and puffy contours of a thick pink diaper that hugged her waist yet sagged ever-so-slightly away from it. Delicately, the attendant palmed the seat, found it not unlike mud—a soft consistency, splutting out in all directions at the smallest amount of pressure. Though the skunk giggled, tickled at the sound and sensation both, the fox was far less amused, far more reserved. His eyes were warily fixed upon the scene, with evident, hesitant interest on the shape of her diaper as it slowly slumped back into place, practically oozing like sludge.
“Goodness!” the attendant remarked. Her gloved paw took to the skunk’s ears, lightly rubbed them, praised and caressed with fond, approving strokes. “Someone sure left me a big present, didn’t she? Yes she did!”
Another chorus of childish glee resounded. For a moment, the worker bent low, rummaged the shelves beneath the table, compartments lined with changing supplies. She surfaced shortly with the standard fare of toiletries placed on the mat—a bottle of baby powder, a packet of baby wipes, a tube of rash cream, and the folded slip of a brand-new pink diaper of an identical design.
As he spied that thick parcel, her bulky daywear, a mewl of envy escaped the fox. Idle paws fiddled with the backside of his purple shirt, shyly stretching it in a vain attempt to cover his exposed, powder blue diaper and its leg-spreading density. Of course, his was anything but fresh—seat heavily mottled, drooping off his tail, soaked from many a drizzle, and only some of it his own. In the space below his tail, adorning the shell, a series of three black arrows formed a circling pattern—the triangle of a recycling symbol. Beneath it, a neat typeface of lettering, though blurred from wear and wetness and dispersed into the cloth covering, was printed in black ink. Below that, a long, straight line, with a name written by hand:
This diaper
courtesy of:
x Toby
Then, amidst the din of background noise, of children at play, a ripping sound snagged the boy’s attention, simmered in the tips of his ears. Their caregiver was already hard at work tugging the tapes off, lifting the front of the girl’s diaper free from her waist. But the moment it graced the open air, that familiar, odious smell struck him—ammonia and petrichor, rain and mud, heavy earthen scents; a pungency befitting of a skunk, befouling the delicate undertone of baby powder mixed in. Instinctively, the kit shot his paws up, protecting his nose while the woman raised the little damsel’s legs aloft from the mire.
Here, however, guided by morbid curiosity, he could not help but lean on his front feet, peek up over the table’s edge, to sneak his first glance at the remains. It was, in so many words, a disaster. From what little he could spy over the diaper’s frilled cuffs, there was far too much in far too many places—everywhere, from front to back. Never had his cheeks glowed so brightly nor his stomach sank so low, less from disgust than from awful anticipation.
Wipe after wipe came yanked from the pack, sudsy squares with a vaguely citrus fragrance. Each the nurse guided down the tyke’s tush and nethers, streaking top to bottom, stripping filth from fur and flesh, disposing of the spent cloths in the diaper pail by the table. While the worker scrubbed her, the babe was the picture of contentment, lost in the moment and peering around to relieve her boredom. That was when she caught sight of the shy older boy on the other side, watching the process silently. She grinned at him in that oblivious, child-like way; he shrank below the edge, hid his blazing cheeks, until only his eyes and ears poked over the horizon.
In time, the girl smelled more of oranges than skunk, just as her old protection was pulled out from under her, brought to the side. Only, rather than remove it, the mink simply folded its tapes in and its front forward, preserved for later. A new diaper followed shortly after, swabs of rash cream, a dusting of powder—tugged up, taped snug, fit adjusted, skirt flipped into place, her bottom perfectly rounded.
“All done!” the mink announced. Down drew her head, nose to belly, nuzzling the girl’s vulnerable tummy to tease out that bubbly, sputtering titter. “Clean and neat and oh-so-sweet.”
A paw beneath her backside, the other on her chest, she sat her up, letting the bulk of her fresh pants puff out between her thighs with trapped air while she strapped the tail-tape. To the counter’s edge she shifted, helped off with hands under her arms, gingerly set on the ground with an uneven step as her balance regained. A small hug to the lady’s leg later, and that little stinker was bounding off back into the playroom without a care.
Following her departure, the kit’s attention fell promptly back to the changing table, to stare at the bulbous pink package she had left behind. More than a hint of color now showed through the leak-guards. There was a clear, dark streak of brown where the mulch had clumped, drowning the gentle pastel pink of the diaper’s shell. The sight alone was like a stone plummeting in his stomach.
The mink, meanwhile, was far too busy to acknowledge her gawking charge as she ran her palms all over the ruffled changing mat, smoothing out the surface, fluffing up the pillow. Once all had been reset, she eased the changing supplies—and the girl’s discarded diaper—off toward the crown of the table, next to the headrest. All the preparations had been made, such that she was ready for her next guest, already smiling down at him in fact—a kind, caring, patient expression to contrast the task ahead of her. Twice she patted the mat, inviting him.
“Your turn. Hop up.”
He knew well what came next. His face was practically aflame, a lump in his throat, his ears crested back, tail tucked and whimpering when he stared up at the adult. “Do I gotta…?” he mewled tragically.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she consoled, though without sympathy. “You know the rules—and this’ll be a good lesson to teach you which ones not to break again.”
Dismayed, his head swung ‘round again to size up the changing table, before his eyes snapped back to her, pleadingly wide and miserable for one final, futile gambit. But the attendant was having none of it. Hands on her hips, a stern slant to her muzzle, she peered down at him quite cross.
“Oh no you don’t, mister. You’re not getting out of this. I better see you start climbing before I start counting, or that rear’s going to be more red than white.”
That much made him flinch, recoil, swallow. His sensitive skin still recalled the sting of her first volley, like prickling needles, sharp hail—as fresh in his mind as it was two hours ago. In seconds, he was scrambling to the stepstool at the foot of the table. He clambered up, hooked a leg around, yet struggled to get himself over with the gravity of his damp derrière dragging him. Pleased with his earnest effort, however, the mink took pity enough to help him up, to heft a full paw under his soaked seat and lift him. His diaper audibly squelched at her touch, a morning’s worth of accidents, lukewarm and grody, gushing against him altogether.
Up on the mat now, he took to his hands and knees, cheeks scorching, and crawled as a baby would to the other side, where he flopped over onto his back. The attendant adjusted his position, gently eased him into the most comfortable spot, while her hands stretched his tail, stroked it out, unfurled it the full length of his legs. The extra attention, much to his shame, brought a purr rumbling from his chest. At rest, the scents of flora and fruit finally caught up to him, along with the fouler, earthier aroma of the fresh, full diaper sitting directly beside his head, mixing and mingling together to form the cloying bouquet of a nursery. He turned to meet the parcel, glanced sidelong at it, whined his disdain.
Suddenly, a gloved paw eclipsed his view, along with something in its grasp—a pacifier, pink to compliment his cheeks, among other things. Before he could even think to protest, he found the bulb wedged to his muzzle and pressed through his lips, goaded into suckling purely by reflex. Yet despite the humiliation of it, he knew better than to argue. Past the pink mouth-guard, that butterfly shape looming on the fringe of his vision, he saw the mink smirking proud. She leaned down, cradled the back of his neck, and smooched the space between his ears.
“Keep it in.”
While she took to task, then, he swung his head timidly away rather than face her. He stared every which way for distractions—at the many colorful plushies sitting atop the table rails, at the cute cartoon prints painted behind them, at the clouds and stars drawn on the ceiling. Now and again, however, curiosity caught the better of him, and he found his gaze drifting, lured back to watch the nurse tentatively from across his chest. Already, she had his legs parted, his tapes ripped, his drenched diaper flipped open, where it landed with a muffled thud. Deepening shades of pink plagued his face, hearing that weighty plop strike the mat. Yet it was the least of his problems once the cool air hit his loins, sent a shiver all the way up through his spine—discomfort magnified by the ice of wet wipes along his groin. With one paw, the mink had a wrap of both ankles, hoisting his bottom off the swollen, sodden padding to clean his rear. Though not entirely unpleasant, he could not shake the novelty of it, the embarrassment of having his diaper changed after so many years out of them.
In the end, the wipes were all tossed into the tyke’s spent pants, themselves pulled out, rolled into a ball, and slotted through the top of the pail. Back to the mattress his hindquarters dropped for but a moment. And before long, with a tender smile, the mink held his new change up in full view of him—the younger girl’s well-cherished diaper, pinched in her fingers by its waistband as if proudly showing it off. Its contents visibly shifted inside.
“Warm, gooey skunk-pants, fresh from one bottom to another,” she playfully chirped, bouncing that package with a soft burbling noise. “The perfect kind for an attitude adjustment.”
His heart, his stomach, his expression all sank. Against his whining protests, his splaying ears, the mink began to unfold the package atop the table. Her paw secured both his ankles once more, legs lifted, shoes above his head, while her other dragged the diaper along his tail and into place under his bare rump. Recognizing his fate was nearly sealed, the fox wriggled and squirmed and tossed anew, fought her restraint in futility, legs kicking, tail curling. But his guardian simply hoisted him higher, flattened that errant appendage back down, and stopped his struggling with a gentle swat to his backside, loosing from him a muffled yip from behind his binky. Now thoroughly unimpressed with her unruly cub’s behavior, she waggled a finger to his snout, tsked her disapproval.
“Uh-uh. You start fussing and you’re going right over my knee after this, then I’m plunking that muddy butt down on the naughty stool in front of everyone.”
Her threats threw him into panic, captured his attention instantly. The kit’s paws grasped for his tee’s neckline and pulled it up over his snout, where from behind his miserable grimace cowered up at her.
“Doesn’t sound fun, does it?” she challenged. “This is your last warning. Are you going to settle down so we can get your poopy Huggies on?”
At that, the tot winced, whimpered, shuddered for the implication—his Huggies, as if ownership of the diaper and the deed had fallen squarely on him. Such a threat was more than enough to tame him, however, and still his squirming. Without words to speak, he could only groan a begrudging affirmative, could only nod rapidly, desperately. Once again assured of her charge’s obedience, a pleased smile bubbled back to the mink’s face.
“Thought so. Now stay still. One way or another, this’ll be messy.”
She resumed shortly, with no ill will toward her baby boy but for the amount her job necessitated. Clutching a tube in her hand, she squeezed from its tip a generous dollop of white cream, spread it around his loins and buttocks in ample supply. A healthy spritzing of powder assailed his waist, along with a heavy pour into the diaper itself, as if it would ever mask that overpowering odor. At last, with dreadful anticipation, he found his bottom slowly dropping, lowering, sinking into the soft marsh.
Nothing could have prepared him for that awful, degrading warmth—gross to the touch, still hot with the heat of another’s making. He could feel his behind plunging deeper, feel the mess squooging out underneath him, feel himself settling into the swamp. But he had little time to acclimate, as both of his caregiver’s paws were soon tugging the heavy front up through his legs, pushing it snug to his waist, pulling it taut in one swift, sudden movement. The shock of it left him groaning through his pacifier’s shield, biting into its bulb, clutching the changing mat with his stubby claws. More than damp, it was drenched front to back—perhaps only marginally drier, but still infinitely dirtier, than his previous undergarments. The attendant, satisfied with his reaction, and after a moment’s wait, began to flatten the diaper’s wings along his stomach, plucking the tapes out, fastening them tight to the front panel.
Finally, he was snug, safe, and secure in his cushy, mushy pants, perfectly sized for the daycare’s older charges.
“There we go. All done!” she sang. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”
He had no comment but a pensive glance over his belly, down at his “new” pink underwear, bloated and sickly yellow. His tush wriggled in its confines, embraced by several squishy layers coating his fur. The seat was overly snug, pressing the contents intimately, awfully close. Worse, its skunky stench now wafted to his nostrils in full, that dirty diaper and baby powder scent that marked him no better than any infant. It had been years since he had worn a diaper, let alone used one—not since he was three. To be punished with stepping back into them—with wearing another kid’s mess, no less—made the experience considerably more mortifying.
Conversely, the attendant made no reaction, simply snapped her gloves off, tossed them into the bin by the wayside. As if adding insult to injury, she lifted her fledgling charge by his armpits and sat him straight up, right in the thick of his secondhand mulch. He cringed, squicked, as his diaper puffed out with more than trapped air. Underneath his rump, through his legs, up the front, that acrid slurry gushed into every crevice it could. But while he moaned his disapproval, his guardian had the wherewithal to adhere the back tape over his tail, to scoot him along the mat, to lift him off and set him down.
Now returned to solid ground, the fox staggered, stumbled, stopped himself from tripping. That new weight hanging off his hips took some adjustment, to say nothing of the sagging bulk of the diaper spreading his thighs forcibly apart, preventing him from squeezing his legs together. Then, a sudden weight, the steadying grip of his caregiver’s paw settled upon his shoulder. From behind and below, he felt a digit probe his leg-cuffs, slide along the diaper’s length—the clean caress of a baby wipe tracing his inner thighs, mopping the excess muck left behind in his fur. And yet, he barely had any time to process one indignity before there came another, familiar sensation of some blocky shape against his rear. Pressed firm and deep, the stamp sank into the softest parts of his diaper-back, leaving an imprint not only in the muck, but in the fabric itself. Next, a cap popping loose, writing on his rump, the heady scent of black marker piercing the pungent miasma surrounding him. That he could not see the words only intensified the humiliation, of being branded and labeled for ridicule. At long last, his guardian stowed her instruments, knelt down behind him.
“You’re staying in this yucky, mucky thing through naptime,” she cooed into his ear, whilst giving his back waistband a stiff, admonishing tug upward, to his immense displeasure. “Then, we’ll find you a ‘new’ pair to wear, and another, and another. While everyone else gets clean, comfy pants, we’ll make sure you get nice and used to their leftovers. And when Daddy comes to pick you up, we’ll tell him all about what a bad little pup you had to be to end up back in dirty diapers, and what a good boy you were while wearing them.”
The prospect alone brimmed his eyes wide, shriveled him to submission, sent him whimpering and suckling his soother to mask his disgrace. Seeing her charge suitably cowed, the mink closed in for a kiss to the back of his neck and a pat to the seat of his pants, producing a heavy, slushing smursh for her efforts.
“Now run along and play, kit.”
Dejected, defeated, he had little choice but to totter off, an awkward waddle swaying his pants in each trudging step toward the playroom. He fumbled with the back hem of his shirt for all the good it would do, trying to tug it down over his bottom, to cover up the damage, to no avail. The words on his rear remained, permanently printed in black beneath that etched-in recycling symbol, the same stamped template as before:
This diaper
courtesy of:
x Melanie
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