Tag: #corydaethot

potty abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

Kevin hadn’t “pottied” in three days. THREE DAYS. He claimed he was “saving up for a big one.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but let’s just say I know now. And I’d rather not discuss it over dinner. When I finally cornered him in the living room, surrounded by crumpled diapers like a hoarder’s confession, he gave me those big eyes and whispered “I wike diapers, Cory.” Try as I might, he really didn’t want to use the potty.

Changing him was always a challenge. Last time, he flopped dramatically onto the changing mat I laid out and whined that the powder irritated his “tushie sensors.” I’m not kidding. Actual phrase. I tried to stay professional, like a diaper-disposal Navy SEAL, but then he giggled and let one rip simultaneously while I had his legs in the air, and I lost it. I mean, I didn’t get angry or anything. Instead, I laughed like a maniac, which only encouraged him to do it again. Sigh.

Continue reading “Kevin hadn’t “pottied” in three days.” →

hypnotherapy

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

From the moment Daniel sat down, the silver wedding band on his finger seemed to mock me. He’d come to me for anxiety, but as I looked into his worried eyes, I saw a much deeper, more potent need. I  saw a craving for release and surrender that married life could never possibly provide. I offered him my most reassuring, professional smile, all while concocting a plan to make him forget all about the woman waiting for him at home.

Initially, I convinced myself this was a form of radical therapy. A way to unlock the part of him he kept chained away by duty and expectation. After all, wasn’t my job to guide my clients to their truest desires? I certainly saw it that way! As I began the induction, and my voice dropped to that low and melodic cadence that had crumbled so many wills before his, I knew I was doing him a service. I was liberating him.

Continue reading “Curing Daniel’s Anxiety With Hypnosis” →

upside down abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

It started when the power went out. Flickering lights, the fridge groaning, right as I was tucking Benny into his bed. “Mama Cory, was that thunder?” he whispered, wide-eyed, clutching a stuffed waffle toy. I smoothed his hair, adjusted his thick pull-up, and said, “No, baby. Just the flux capacitor acting up again.” I wasn’t sure what I meant, but it sounded sci-fi enough to soothe him.

As the basement lightbulb popped with a suspicious snap, I told my boy to stay put, kissed him on the forehead, and grabbed my glow-in-the-dark taser (which, admittedly, was just a repurposed sex toy). Armed with maternal instinct, I descended the stairs into the dark, humming the theme song to my favorite show as a way to stay focused.

Continue reading “Flickering lights” →

findom goddess

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I didn’t start this whole findom goddess thing on purpose. It was more like a side hustle during my “career break” after years of being a “professional” babysitter. One day, I woke up after posting a cute selfie (in which you could see my feet) to the realization that I went viral.

Suddenly, my follower count was higher than my self-esteem and I was fielding requests from people who called themselves “Cory’s Losers,” which was a little creepy considering, but hey…who am I to argue with someone who wants to pay me for simply existing?

Continue reading “I didn’t start this whole findom goddess thing on purpose…” →

abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I came home to the scent of overcooked sugar and something suspiciously like chocolate melted on the stovetop. “Liam?” I called, dropping my keys with a clatter, already bracing myself. What I found in the kitchen stopped me mid-sigh. There was flour dusted on every surface like powdered snowfall, eggshells were floating in a bowl like tiny ceramic rafts, and my grown-up baby, wearing nothing but footed pajamas and a look of proud guilt, was standing knee-deep in spilled sprinkles.

He had clearly attempted to make Christmas cookies. It was a noble effort, really, but whatever recipe he used had devolved into what looked like a science experiment gone rogue. A lopsided dough monster clung to the counter, a measuring cup was stuck on his head like a helmet, and my (VERY EXPENSIVE) mixer lay on its side, still twitching with post-beating aftershocks.

Continue reading “the scent of overcooked sugar” →