Testing some Potty Training AI Fiction ideas -- (Author) thruud48

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Author: thruud48
Timestamp: Jun 15, 2025 at 11:56 AM
Content: Hi everyone, I've been working with an AI generator to try creating ABDL fiction based on a nursery visit scenario - scene is consensual regression by mid 20 something female adult (Lizzie) to a nursery in the UK. I'm thinking of working it up into a much longer story, but wanted to check to see if people like this sort of content and how it reads compared to hand drafted fiction - I've been reading ABDL stories for nearly 30 years, so tried to inject my favourite scenes and descriptions into it, but it would be great to see if others think it is credible.

In this bit, the main lead is currently being potty trained ahead of regressing to nappies and is on the potty in the nursery bathroom with adult caregivers around. I'm still working on getting it to where I want it, but hope its okay to test and see what others think!

"
I didn’t want to look down, but I couldn’t help it. The floor tiles in the nursery bathroom were cold beneath my bare feet, the room just bright enough to make everything feel clinical — like every inch of it was designed to remind me that this was not my space anymore. Not as an adult, anyway.

Natalie stood beside me, calm, unhurried, and quietly maternal in the way that only she could be. Her hand had rested gently but firmly on my lower back as she’d guided me through the bathroom door, her voice soothing but unmistakably in charge.

“All right, sweetheart,” she’d said, “trainer pants down. Let’s see how you’re doing.”

I’d hesitated, just for a second. The trainer pants were soft on the inside, but the outer layer had that smooth, almost plasticky feel that never let me forget what they were for. Not proper underwear — just a waiting room for nappies. I slipped my thumbs under the waistband and began to pull them down slowly, feeling the fabric catch slightly around my thighs before settling at my ankles.

Natalie gave them a gentle nudge with her toe, inspecting them like she might a toddler’s — not unkind, but with a kind of detached care that made my cheeks warm. I knew I wasn’t being punished. I’d chosen this. But standing there in front of the plastic potty, half-naked from the waist down, I felt stripped of more than just clothing.

“There we go,” she said, encouragingly, “let’s have you sit now.”

I obeyed, awkwardly lowering myself onto the potty, the plastic cool against my skin. I felt so exposed, perched there in the centre of the room while she turned to adjust something on the shelf. There was a bin tucked into the corner — white with a sealed lid — and I suddenly noticed the faint pastel pattern on its side. I didn’t need to be told what it was for. My stomach gave a twist. Was that really my future?

Natalie moved around me with quiet grace, wiping down a surface here, adjusting the towels there. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t need to. I wasn’t in control — that was the entire point.

It was a strange moment, suspended between childhood and adulthood, knowing I wasn’t being treated cruelly, but that I was being asked — required, even — to let go of certain privileges. Privacy. Dignity. Autonomy.

The silence between us stretched, and I found myself watching her reflection in the mirror. Her expression was calm, neutral, maybe even faintly proud. I felt like an artwork she was curating — not mocking me, just ensuring I knew exactly where I stood.

When she finally came back to kneel beside me, her voice was gentler.

“Good girl,” she murmured. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

I didn’t speak. There wasn’t really anything to say. I just nodded, eyes down, as she reached for the wipes and gently helped me stand. The trainer pants, crumpled and soft, waited beside us. She didn’t rush to put them back on.

And in that moment, I realised something important.

This wasn’t just about potty use, or fabric, or rules. It was about surrender. About learning to exist in someone else’s rhythm — and letting myself feel small.

I was still standing, wiped clean, the cool air brushing uncomfortably against the back of my thighs. My trainer pants were still pooled at my ankles, and I hadn’t yet made a move to pull them up. Maybe I didn’t want to. Or maybe I already understood what was coming.

Natalie gave me a soft, approving nod as she dropped the wipe into the bin with practiced ease. She didn’t look smug — that wasn’t her style — but there was a calm authority in the way she straightened up and brushed her palms together, as if concluding a well-executed task.

Then came the voice. That tone.

"Good girl," she said gently, almost musically. "All clean now."

I gave a timid nod, still looking down.

Her fingers lightly grazed my shoulder — not forceful, just a reminder of presence. A guide.

"It’s almost naptime, sweetheart,” she said. “So you’ll need something a little more reliable than those big-girl pants.”

My heart fluttered, though I had no idea why. I already knew where this was going.

“I’ll let you choose, though,” she added, walking to the nearby cupboard and opening it slowly, like unveiling a display. “Cloth or disposable today, hmm?”

I blinked, looking up, momentarily disarmed by the question. The inside of the cupboard was neatly arranged: folded terry squares in soft pastels, thick and unmistakably heavy; beside them, a row of disposable nappies, stacked like surrender in white and pink packaging, each crinkling slightly when touched.

It wasn’t really a question. It was theatre. The kind of choice given to a toddler — one where all outcomes led to the same place.

Still, she waited patiently, hands clasped behind her back, letting me answer.

“I… I guess…” I hesitated, cheeks burning. “Disposable?”

She smiled, not unkindly. “Good girl. That’ll keep things nice and simple after your nap.”

Then, just like that, the cupboard closed. My fate sealed by my own words.

“Up on the mat then,” she said with quiet warmth, gesturing to the changing mat on the floor nearby — pastel pink, already prepared with a soft towel.

As I took the first hesitant steps toward it, my bare feet padding softly across the tile, I felt the faintest shiver run through me. The kind that comes not from cold, but from knowing you’ve just handed over another sliver of control.

And she hadn’t forced it. Not really.

She’d just asked.