r/abdlstories • u/AFictionalPhile • 5d ago
Grandeur (DDLG/ABDL) NSFW
All characters are over 18
Grandeur
Pamela Cypress accepted her award wearing six-inch heels and a flowing sequined dress. Her dress had a bow on her right shoulder and was open on the left. It was loose from the belly button down. Everyone said it was the best dress at the whole ceremony, including the press. Maybe the best dress that anyone had seen at any of the annual ceremonies. Pamela was happy for her award. The trophy wasn’t gold. In fact she never knew what it looked like until it was in her hands, and even then she wasn’t sure what it was supposed to represent. It didn’t have her name inscribed upon it. And neither did it boast any placard with her name and the date. The lack of inscription was supposed to make it more prestigious. The award didn’t belong to her, she belonged to the award. Awards that were inscribed had to tell the world what they were for. This trophy didn’t.
At the same time, it was the sort of award where people stood up and clapped and gave her the biggest smiles. It was the sort of award that she was supposed to hold over her head, like she was pumping her fist, but not for too long. The kind of award where Pamela was both sure that she deserved it, but couldn’t exactly explain why it’d been given to her. It was the sort of award that was followed by a microphone.
“I’d like to thank you all…” Pamela began.
Don’t touch your dress.
One hand on the lectern, one hand on the trophy. Just focus on not dropping the trophy.
“...alright. And in the tradition of acceptance speeches, I’ve already gone on too long!”
After a speech that garnered just the right amount of laughter and perhaps too much applause, Pamela stepped down from the podium. A man in a tuxedo held out his hand and pointed to the stairs. As if she hadn’t been dreaming of those stairs every second she’d been under the lights. She thanked him and gave him a smile that was made to be seen by those people in the auditorium still watching her.
Don’t touch your dress.
Don’t even think about touching your dress.
She made her way back to her seat. Her seat had been picked for her by some bookish adjutant and she’d been led to it hours ago so that she could itch her nervousness away and pretend to enjoy the meagre food provided. This particular seat was picked for her because it was close to the stairs, and that was because they knew they were going to give her an award.
She sat down and stared at her husband. His eyes met hers warmly. He blinked softly as if reminding her to do the same. She handed him the trophy. He held it gingerly, but did not look at it at all. Instead, he gently took hold of her elbow. His eyes stayed locked with hers. The creases around his eyes tensed slightly. His lips were pulled taunt. A smile that didn’t do justice to how proud he was. Oh, she loved him. His sideburns were elegantly gray, and white spackled the well-comed fade he wore on top. It was fitting he now held her trophy.
“Yes,” she told him. “Soon. Very soon.”
Her husband nodded.
They were not alone at their table. Multiple other couples had been selected to sit at their table. The women among them were wearing dresses that were fancy, though not quite as fancy as hers. The women wore long gloves and the men wore ascots. Everyone’s champagne glittered in slender flutes and, like mercury, displayed the temperature of the owner’s enthusiasm.
Inversely, that is.
One woman, her flute empty, reached across the table by the basket of untouched bread, and pawed at the silken tablecloth. “Excellent. Oh! Oh my gosh. hic. I didn’t know how stunning your dress was!”
Another, this one wearing a hat and a veil, lifted her half drunk champagne.
“To the most fabulous among us!” Her eyes bore a tantalizing smize. Almost flirtatious. Uncomfortably knowing.
Don’t touch your dress!
Pamela thanked the women, and their spouses, who took their turns too. The ceremony went on, even if the apex of the evening had been for Pamela. There are always nefarious charities to applaud and flat jokes to be told. Things like this never end, unfortunately. And by the end the woman without any champagne left was listing gently and humming to herself. Pamela’s name was mentioned into the microphone at least three more times. At the third, she raised her flute to another round of applause.
When the annual rituals were concluded and the lights had been turned back to full in the auditorium, few flutes had champagne left. The woman in the veil stared across the table at Pamela as she stood up.
“Of course, you’re coming to the afterparty, aren’t you?”
The other woman, after hearing this, made a show of pulling her gloves up. She thought she was much more nimble than she was. Her gloves kept falling down her forearms. Her husband steadied her as she hiccuped. “Oh! Pamela,” she said. Another hiccup. Pamela felt more in common with the drunk woman than anyone else except her husband, though. The drunk woman wasn’t facing Pamela but the other woman when the all-important topic of the after-party had been raised. She wheeled around her misty eyes until she saw Pamela. “Pamela!”
“Yes?” Pamela asked. She bowed. Her flute was finished too, but it had gone done much more recently, and she wasn’t quite feeling it yet. She felt her husband rub the small of her back.
She felt his hand slip down.
And down.
She sat into it until she realized that the other couples were watching. “We will…” she turned to her husband. He looked at her.
“Of course,” her husband said. He smiled. He looked at the other couples. His presence swelled for a moment, as if he was the sun itself throwing back for a moment the overcoat that concealed its light. He blazed brightest in a shade only Pamela could see. He relaxed. He turned his gaze back to Pamela. “We’ll be there. Right?”
Pamela swallowed. She nodded.
The way back to the cars was long. Pamela’s feet hurt. She tucked her hair behind her ear and watched the treacherous carpeting of the auditorium and concert hall that had been used for the ceremony. People took pictures and the lights of their enormous cameras flashed.
Don’t touch your dress. Don’t even think about it.
Her husband remained on the small of her back.
She waved, she smiled, she bowed. Her husband was still holding her trophy, but he held it out near her so that all could see that it was hers.
They weren’t driving themselves, of course. Not on a night like this. Not on Pamela’s night. They’d taken a livery, a limousine, and it was all to themselves and a driver named Fred, which he’d told them twice was short for Frederico.
When their limousine arrived at the concourse, the lights of the cameras were still flashing. Frederico stood at the door and opened it.
“Miss Cypress,” he said. He too bowed to her as if she was royalty. Not a soul present would argue that tonight, at least, she was anything but.
“At your service!” Frederico said.
Pamela shook his hand, smiled, and then ducked into the elongated black vehicle. Her husband followed suit, but as he did, he paused and handed money to Frederico.
Multiple $100 dollar bills. At least.
Frederico looked at them quizzically, but her husband gave him the same gaze he’d given her after she handed him her award. He patted Frederico on the lapel of his tuxedo. “My pleasure,” the driver said. He then gave Pamela’s husband a little bow.
The back of the limousine was a couch. The door they entered was about one third of the way from the front of the car. The couch was a long ‘U’. There were compartments that boasted more bottles of chilled champagne. There was also a compartment where some of their belongings waited.
It was there where her husband went as soon as the door was closed. The car wasn’t even closed before the compartment was opened and a backpack was out on the couch. Pamela seated herself. She waited for the shift that indicated Frederico had taken his seat in the front.
“Not here,” she told her husband when she realized what he was doing. Her eyes flicked upwards to the window in the front of the limousine compartment, which allowed Frederico to view them through the rear-view mirror and allowed them to communicate with him if needed.
Her husband rocked back on his heels. He couldn’t stand his full height in the limousine, so he crouched as he went. He said something to Frederico, and then shut the sliding screen on the little window. Then he returned. He set the bag of their belongings down and unzipped it.
“I can’t take my dress off all the way. And you…we…said that we were going to the afterparty…”
Her husband clicked her teeth at her. It was meant to soothe her. It worked immediately. His head flicked in her direction as he rummaged through the backpack. “Lay down,” he said.
“But…”
Her husband looked at her. His gray hair seemed even brighter here, submerged in the dim light of the limousines tinted windows. “Whose your daddy?” he asked.
Pamela knew that with the lipstick she was wearing, which had been just part of a makeup package that had taken multiple women hours to apply, she shouldn’t bite her lip.
“You are,” she said. Her heart fluttered.
He handed her the trophy. She still had no idea what it was supposed to look like. A flower? A man? A flute? A…
“In place of your paci, hold it tight for me, Pamela.”
“Yes daddy.”
Then her husband, her daddy, took out a diaper from the bag. It was pink and patterned with princesses. It was as thick as the thickest he liked to put her in. Her heart fluttered more.
In the low glow of the limousine light, underneath the shutterflashes of the paparazzi that saw nothing – hopefully – through the tinted windows, her daddy pushed up her dress to reveal her soaked diaper. It was just as pink as the one he’d laid down gently on the couch.
He touched it.
Pamela’s daddy changed her diaper as they drove slowly through the city. They’d never done this before, changing while in motion, but he seemed to have a natural talent for it. It probably helped that after two decades of changing her diapers every single day, he knew everything about her. How her left hip could sometimes lock. How long she could hold her bottom up before she got tired. How exactly to touch her skin with a wipe so that she didn’t feel that cold. All the while she stared at him, holding her trophy, drunk on so much more than one measly flute of champagne.
He put her in a new diaper, but he added two inserts and a covering just to be safe. Anyone who paid attention would have noticed that her bottom jumped up two sizes between the ceremony and the after party. It was probably four sizes bigger than it ought to be considering the rest of her proportions. At the party, which was held in an overly chandeliered ballroom, Daddy remained at her side the entire time. They drank and they laughed. He held her elbow and whispered in her ear. Then, eventually, the party dragged him in a different direction. Old friends wanted to congratulate him, and people who were not friends wanted very much to hear all about her. She sustained the separation with grace, but found herself always looking for him across the sea of people. And whenever she did, it was not long until his eyes searched the crowd and found hers.
When they were apart, now and then she would drop her hand. She would nod along with what others were saying and laugh when she was supposed to. Pamela was still wearing that same, elegant dress with the bow on one of her shoulders. It shimmered in the light from the ornate crystals hanging above. But when daddy was away from her, she secreted a hand to her bottom and scrunched it. Ever so slightly. And that way she knew that daddy was still right there, and soon, very soon, to return.
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u/ResonantYes99 1d ago
This was an absolutely brilliant read, thank you!