Cloth Diapers & Panties

Chapter 19 The walk to the new master bedroom was a study in choreographed submission. Leo followed the rhythmic sway of Mrs. Gable’s hips, his gait awkward and hesitant. As they crossed the threshold, the room greeted him with a deceptive, domestic tranquility. It looked, for all the world, like an ordinary master bedroom—a plush cream carpet, a pair of mahogany nightstands, and a sprawling king-sized bed draped in ivory linens. There was no clinical machinery, no flashing lights of the transmitter, no obvious signs of the "ventilation system" that had plagued his dining experience. It was a sanctuary of soft edges and muted tones. On the far wall, nestled between two ornate floral panels, was a singular, rectangular observation window. It wasn’t a window to the outside world, but a heavy-paned aperture of reinforced glass that looked into a small, sterile annex. Beside it sat a door of industrial grade, its surface a matte, uncompromising grey that clashed violently with the bedroom’s ivory elegance. The window acted as a silent sentinel, a transparent barrier that suggested the room was not a place of rest, but a theater of observation where the audience remained hidden in the shadows of the adjacent room. "Ah yes, this is my room," Mrs. Gable announced, her voice sweeping across the ivory expanse of the bedroom with a proprietary warmth. She gestured vaguely toward the plush king-sized bed and the ornate vanity, claiming the space as her own private sanctuary of luxury. Then, her arm extended, the index finger pointing with surgical precision toward the grey industrial door and the reinforced glass aperture. "And over there, Leo, is your room." Leo stared at the grey door. The "room" she referred to was not a room in any conventional sense; it was a cell of utility, a sterile annex designed for the sole purpose of management. Through the observation window, he could see the cold glow of fluorescent lighting reflecting off white tiled walls. The window didn't just allow Mrs. Gable to see in; it served as a reminder that his existence was now segmented—his "living" space was a functional appendage to her master suite. The grey door hissed shut behind them, sealing Leo into a space that smelled of rubbing alcohol and ozone. He gulped, the sound echoing sharply against the tiled walls, feeling the sudden constriction of the room pressing in on him. "I will give you a tour, my dear," Mrs. Gable announced, her voice losing its maternal softness and adopting the brisk, instructional tone of a curator showing a new acquisition to a donor. She led him toward the center of the room, where a piece of furniture stood beneath a harsh spotlight. It looked like a hospital bed, stripped of linens and stripped of mercy, crafted from a seamless, clinical white polymer. "First, we have your bed," she said, gesturing with a flourish of her hand. "Though, it isn't a conventional bed in the sense that it is designed for rest alone. You'll notice the modification here." She pointed to the center of the mattress, where a precise, circular void had been carved out of the foam. "There is a hole where your behind will rest every night, Leo. It ensures that even while you sleep, there is no barrier between your skin and my supervision. I can have access—to apply your salves, to check for inflammation, or simply to ensure you haven't suffered another... accident... in the night." Leo stared at the aperture. The bed wasn't a place of sanctuary; it was a docking station. The idea that his most private anatomy would be permanently presented to the room below—wherever that led—made his stomach churn. He realized the "access" she spoke of wasn't just about the bed, but about the architectural intent of the entire annex. He was being installed into the house like a piece of plumbing. “And here,” Mrs. Gable announced, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum as she stepped aside to reveal a heavy, white-enameled apparatus bolted firmly to the tiled floor. “We have your cleaning station. It is designed for absolute precision, Leo. No fidgeting, no shifting, no clumsy attempts to hide your failures from me.” The device resembled a clinical pillory, though it was crafted with a modern, surgical sterility. It consisted of a padded waist-rest and two hinged, locking cuffs for the wrists, all set at an angle that forced the occupant into a deep, permanent forward bend. Once locked in, the occupant’s torso would be draped over the padded bar, and their hips would be elevated and locked into place, leaving the lower half of the body completely suspended and exposed. “You get locked in and bent over,” she explained, demonstrating the snap of the wrist-cuffs with a brisk, metallic *clink*. “You can’t move, really. No struggling, no twisting. But in this position, I have full access to your rear. It turns the act of cleaning you into a science—a systematic removal of every stain, every smear of cream, and every trace of your instability. You are simply a patient awaiting treatment.” Leo stared at the apparatus, a cold hollow forming in his chest. The "cleaning station" was the logical conclusion of the hole in the dining chair and the void in the bed. It was the point where the management of his body ceased to be an intermittent task and became a scheduled, mechanical process. The idea of being bent over, immobilized and open to her scrutiny, stripped away the last vestiges of his adult privacy. He wasn't just being washed; he was being processed. “And finally,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice regaining that smooth, maternal cadence, “we have your desk and your computer. I’ve ensured your academic pursuits aren't interrupted.” She stepped aside to reveal a sleek, white workstation that seemed to grow out of the tiled wall. The monitor was oversized and curved, glowing with a sterile, expectant light. At first glance, it looked like a high-end student setup, but as Leo approached, he noticed the modifications. The chair was not a chair at all, but another iteration of the void—a heavy, ergonomic seat with a precision-cut aperture that mirrored the dining chair and the bed. “I will, of course, let you continue your studies and your work experience,” she continued, her hand resting lightly on the keyboard. “It would be a tragedy to let your intellect wither while your body is being disciplined. However, the nature of your... instability... requires a new level of oversight. I cannot have you distracted by the chaos of the open internet or the anxieties of unmonitored communication.” Leo looked at the screen. A small, persistent icon of a stylized eye sat in the corner of the taskbar. He realized with a jolt of nausea that the computer wasn't just linked to the house; it was linked to *her*. Every keystroke, every search for a way out, every tentative email to his uncle would pass through her filters first. The "oversight" she mentioned wasn't just about safety; it was a digital extension of the physical void beneath him. He was to be a scholar of law and policy, but only within the parameters she deemed healthy. “Here is the rolling cart with all of your supplies, Leo. I thought it best to keep everything centralized, rather than hunting through cabinets while you’re... preoccupied.” Mrs. Gable glided into the annex, pushing a stainless-steel medical trolley that rattled with a rhythmic, metallic chime. It was a curated inventory of dependency. On the top shelf sat a row of heavy zinc oxide pastes and hydrocortisone creams, their white tubes lined up like soldiers. Beside them lay a stack of oversized, quilted washcloths and a basin of lukewarm water. The middle shelf was dedicated to the "barrier" protocols: thick, petroleum-based salves and a variety of absorbent pads. The remainder of the annex was a study in sterile banality. A few white laminate dressers stood against the tiles, holding neatly folded stacks of the maternity trousers and the utilitarian undergarments that had become Leo’s only wardrobe. There were shelving units stocked with backup supplies—gallons of distilled water, boxes of oversized wipes, and towers of absorbent pads—all organized with a clinical precision that made the room feel less like a bedroom and more like a logistics hub for a long-term patient. Yet, despite the oppressive order of the dressers and the humming silence of the workstation, the room possessed a singular, gravitational center. In the middle of the tiled floor stood an object draped in a heavy, charcoal-gray velvet cover. The fabric pooled around the base in thick, silent folds, obscuring the shape of whatever lay beneath. It was the only piece of soft textile in the entire room, and its presence was an undulating question mark that drew the eye away from everything else. “Don’t hold your breath, Leo... this is the best part,” Mrs. Gable murmured, her voice sliding into that dangerous, honeyed tone of a teacher revealing a surprise that is less a gift and more a lesson. With a fluid, theatrical snap of her wrist, she yanked the charcoal velvet cover away. The fabric hissed across the floor, revealing a piece of equipment that looked as though it had been plucked from a mid-century psychiatric ward and polished to a mirror shine. “Behold, Leo. Your throne,” Mrs. Gable announced, her voice ringing with a mock-regal cadence. The object was a grotesque hybrid of clinical utility and delusional luxury. At its core was a heavy-duty, porcelain toilet, but it had been surgically grafted into a massive, high-backed chair of deep crimson velvet. The plush upholstery hugged the porcelain, creating a jarring contrast between the absorbent softness of the fabric and the cold, hard reality of the toilet bowl. To complete the mockery, the armrests were topped with gold-leafed mahogany, and a small, ornate side table was bolted to the frame, holding a single, silver-plated bell. It was a masterpiece of humiliation—a royal seat designed for the most undignified of human functions. “A king’s comfort for a subject’s needs,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her eyes dancing with amusement. As Leo stepped closer, the true nature of the ‘throne’ revealed itself. Integrated into the velvet armrests were heavy steel cuffs, and encircling the base of the porcelain bowl were two wide, padded straps designed to lock across a lap. This wasn't a place for a quick visit; it was a station for containment. Once he was seated and the locks snapped shut, Leo would be physically merged with the plumbing, unable to rise until Mrs. Gable decided the ‘session’ was over. The cruelty lay in the details. Beside the golden armrests, a small, motorized dispenser had been installed, holding a roll of industrial-strength wipes. There was no modesty here, no curtain, no door. The throne sat in the center of the sterile annex, perfectly aligned with the observation window of the master bedroom. He realized with a jolt of panic that if he were locked into this seat, Mrs. Gable could watch him from the comfort of her bed, her gaze unobstructed and clinical. “Enough!” Leo’s voice didn't just crack; it shattered. The sound tore through the sterile air of the annex, vibrating against the white tiles. For months, he had been a ghost, a curated object, a series of medical failures and velvet voids. But as he stared at the crimson monstrosity of the throne, something inside him—the last flickering ember of the university student—ignited into a roar. He didn't just shout; he detonated. “I am not a patient! I am not a project! I am twenty-one years old!” He stepped toward Mrs. Gable, his movements frantic and jagged. He began to scream, a guttural, raw sound that had been bottled up since the first time she’d told him his laundry was "soiled." He yelled about the maternity pants, the fake infections, the clinical precision of his humiliation. He yelled until his throat burned, his chest heaving, his face flushing a deep, angry purple. He was blowing up, shattering the carefully maintained silence of her dominion, demanding to be seen as a man rather than a managed specimen. Mrs. Gable didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She stood there with a look of mild, clinical curiosity, as if she were observing a chemical reaction in a petri dish. As Leo’s voice reached a crescendo, his body betrayed him. The high-fiber slurry and the laxative-laden protocol of the last few weeks converged in a sudden, violent spasm of his . The sound was a sharp, discordant rupture—a sudden, wet, and unmistakable trumpet of surrender that sliced through the silence of his shout. It wasn't just a noise; it was a physical proclamation of his body’s absolute betrayal. The gas escaped with a violent, shuddering force, a low-frequency rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very tiles of the annex. In that one singular, guttural blast, the air shifted, carrying with it the heavy, unmistakable scent of a system in collapse. It was the biological white flag, the same sound a dam makes a second before the wall gives way. Leo froze, his mouth still open to deliver another scream that now felt absurdly out of place. The roar of his indignation was instantly replaced by the crushing weight of his own physiology. He could feel the pressure mounting, a relentless, churning tide in his lower gut that rendered his claims of adulthood irrelevant. The "transparency" Mrs. Gable had designed into the house now felt like a spotlight focusing on his most basic failure. He was no longer a man protesting his captivity; he was a vessel on the verge of overflowing. “What perfect timing, Leo,” Mrs. Gable murmured, her voice devoid of surprise. Before he could process the betrayal of his own body, her hand shot out, gripping his shoulder with a strength that belied her frame. She didn't guide him; she launched him. With a sudden, authoritative shove, she propelled him backward. Leo’s world tilted for a fraction of a second before he collided with the crimson velvet of the throne. The impact was a dull thud, and as he settled into the porcelain void, the steel cuffs on the armrests snapped shut around his wrists with a definitive, metallic *clack*. “Let me go!” Leo screamed, the sound bouncing off the sterile white tiles and returning to him as a hollow echo. He strained against the steel cuffs, the velvet of the throne absorbing his frantic movements, making him feel as though he were sinking into a luxurious swamp. “Unlock these! Just let me go!” Mrs. Gable didn’t flinch. She leaned in, her face a mask of disappointed maternal authority, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous simmer. “You ungrateful child,” she snapped, the sudden sharpness of her tone cutting through his panic. “Do you have any idea the effort it took to curate this environment? I have built an empire for you, Leo. A world where every need is anticipated, where your failures are scrubbed away by my hand, and this is how you repay me? With screaming? With tantrums?” She straightened up, her eyes scanning the room with a cold, calculating distance. “You seem to have forgotten that your autonomy is a privilege I have graciously allowed you to believe you still possess. But let’s be clear: if your behavior doesn’t change right now, you’ll be sitting on your throne well into your internship. Imagine the efficiency of your commute from this annex to your uncle’s office—carried, perhaps, or simply left here to reflect on your lack of discipline while the world moves on without you.” The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The thought of his internship—the last shred of a professional identity—being subsumed by this clinical nightmare sent a fresh wave of terror through him. He stopped struggling, his muscles going slack as the reality of the cuffs sank in. He was bolted to a toilet in a velvet chair, a king of nothing, completely exposed to the woman who managed his every excretion. Mrs. Gable leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her expression shifting from stern discipline to a predatory sort of glee. She didn't look at him with pity, but with the satisfaction of a collector who had finally pinned a rare specimen to a board. "Exactly as I thought," she whispered, the words vibrating through his skull. "The tantrum was inevitable. The collapse was predictable. And now, you are exactly where you need to be." She stepped back, her gaze sweeping over his immobilized form with a look of absolute ownership. "Now, give me everything you've got, Leo. Every last drop of resistance, every shred of dignity you think you have left. Empty yourself of this pride. Our new adventure is just getting started." The "adventure" began with a series of clicks. Mrs. Gable reached for the padded straps encircling the base of the porcelain bowl, cinching them tight across Leo's thighs. The sudden restriction anchored him firmly into the void of the chair, eliminating any possibility of shifting or sliding. He was no longer just sitting on the throne; he was integrated into it. The sensation of the cold porcelain against his skin, contrasted with the oppressive softness of the crimson velvet, created a sensory dissonance that left him feeling dizzy and small. “One thing about this room, Leo, and your throne in particular,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice echoing with a strange, crystalline clarity, “is that Mama designed it so every noise is very loud.” She stepped back, and as she did, the acoustics of the annex revealed their cruelty. The room wasn’t just tiled; the walls were angled in a precise, parabolic fashion, focusing every sound toward the center of the room. The same principle applied to the throne. The porcelain bowl acted as a megaphone, a resonant chamber that amplified every biological tremor, every wet slide, and every involuntary gasp. The same sound that would be a quiet murmur in a normal bathroom became a theatrical event here. To prove her point, Mrs. Gable lightly tapped the porcelain rim with her fingernail. The resulting *ping* didn’t just ring; it exploded, the sound bouncing off the white tiles and rushing back toward Leo’s ears with a deafening intensity. He flinched, the movement causing the steel cuffs to rattle. In the oppressive silence of the room, the clink of the metal sounded like a sledgehammer hitting an anvil. He realized with a surge of panic that there was no such thing as a private sound in this room. Every shudder of his muscles, every wet shift of his anatomy against the cold porcelain, was being broadcast to the entire room—and likely to the woman watching him through the glass. Mrs. Gable smiled, a thin, predatory expression of satisfaction. She reached for the rolling cart and retrieved a heavy, saturated wipe, the fabric glistening under the harsh spotlights. The sound of the wipe being pulled from the dispenser was a violent, ripping noise that seemed to vibrate in Leo's very teeth. “Potty time,” Mrs. Gable whispered, the words landing with the weight of a sentence. The phrase acted as a psychological trigger, a final command to a body that had already surrendered. At the sound of those words, the tension in Leo’s lower abdomen snapped. There was no gradual release, only a violent, total collapse of control. His bowels exploded into the porcelain void beneath him with a force that felt like a physical blow to his dignity. Because of the throne’s acoustic design, the sound was not a mere accident; it was a thunderclap. The wet, guttural roar of his evacuation echoed off the parabolic tiles, amplified by the porcelain bowl into a symphony of shame that filled every cubic inch of the sterile annex. Leo gasped, his head falling back against the crimson velvet. The sheer volume of his own failure, broadcast so loudly in the silence of the room, left him feeling hollowed out. He could feel the warmth of the accident, the terrifying lack of a barrier, and the absolute vulnerability of being locked into a seat that turned his most private moment into a public performance. He closed his eyes, but he could still hear the echoes dying away, leaving a ringing silence that felt even more oppressive than the noise. Mrs. Gable didn’t recoil from the scent or the sound. Instead, she stepped closer, her heels clicking with a rhythmic, predatory precision on the white tiles. She looked down at him, not with disgust, but with the serene satisfaction of a scientist whose hypothesis has been proven. “My little boy is finally where he belongs,” Mrs. Gable cooed, her voice a silken thread that wound around Leo’s panic. She leaned over him, the scent of her clinical floral perfume clashing with the raw, biological reality of his failure. She didn’t just see a student in distress; she saw a completed puzzle, a man reduced to the most basic requirements of care. Leo’s response was a desperate, instinctive surge. He lunged forward, his muscles screaming as he tried to wrench his body away from the porcelain void. *Pfffffft.* The sound was a cruel punchline—a small, pathetic leak of gas that escaped as he strained, amplified by the throne’s acoustics into a sharp, wet hiss. The effort only served to tighten the grip of the steel cuffs and the lap-straps, reminding him that every movement he made was merely a vibration within her design. He wasn't escaping; he was just rattling the bars of a very expensive, velvet-lined cage. The first surge had been a breach, but what followed was a systematic collapse. For the next ten minutes, Leo ceased to be a man and became a conduit for the high-fiber slurry and the chemical catalysts Mrs. Gable had spent weeks installing in his gut. It was an unrelenting, rhythmic evacuation that stripped him of every remaining shred of composure. Each wave of release was broadcast by the porcelain megaphone, turning the sterile annex into a chamber of echoing, wet dissonance. He tried to time his breaths, to find some rhythm of dignity in the chaos, but the throne’s design ensured that every shudder of his sphincter and every guttural splash was amplified into a theatrical event. He felt the heat of the release against the cold, unyielding porcelain, a visceral reminder that he was now physically merged with the plumbing of the house. There was no cloth to clutch, no door to lock, and no way to shift his weight to hide the sound. The lap-straps held him in a state of forced transparency, presenting his failure to the room—and to the woman standing just inches away. Ten minutes of absolute, biological surrender passed in a blur of shame and noise, a countdown that felt as though it were erasing the last twenty-one years of his life. “The throne is for the act, Leo, but the station is for the aftermath,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice humming with a terrifyingly calm precision. With a series of sharp, metallic clicks, she released the lap-straps and the wrist-cuffs. For a heartbeat, Leo felt the rush of returning autonomy, a desperate surge of hope that he might simply stand and walk away. But as he shifted, the suddenness of his release left him unsteady, his legs trembling from the prolonged tension of the throne. Before he could find his balance, Mrs. Gable’s hand was firm on his shoulder, guiding him not toward the door, but toward the white-enameled apparatus bolted to the floor. “Into the pillory, my dear. Let’s not leave the job half-finsihed. The transition from the throne to the cleaning station was a blur of sterile white and cold steel. Leo didn't have time to process the "pillory" comment before he was being maneuvered into a position of absolute vulnerability. He felt the heavy, padded bar descend over his shoulders and chest, locking with a definitive, hydraulic *thump* that resonated in his sternum. His arms were guided into side-slots, pinning him against a tilted, ergonomic board. He was no longer a tenant or a student; he was a specimen, bolted to the architecture of the room. The lockdown was total. The bar across his chest didn't just hold him—it compressed him, forcing his posture into a rigid, arched curve that exposed his lower half entirely to the open air of the annex. He strained against the padding, but the mechanism was seamless, leaving no gap for leverage. He was effectively a statue of flesh and bone, held in a state of forced openness. The psychological weight of the lock was heavier than the steel; it was the sound of the final door closing on his privacy. The silence of the annex was punctured by a sharp, elastic snap. Mrs. Gable had just donned a latex glove, the sound echoing like a starter's pistol against the sterile walls. She didn't look at Leo's face; instead, her gaze was fixed on the area of his body now fully surrendered to the sterile air. She stepped closer, the rubber of her gloves clicking as she flexed her fingers, a predatory sort of precision in her movements. "Now, let's get that rear nice and clean," she murmured. There was no warmth in the phrase, only a terrifyingly efficient maternalism. Mrs. Gable reached for the dispenser, her movements rhythmic and deliberate. One by one, she plucked heavy-duty, medical-grade wipes from the pack, layering them in her gloved palm like a deck of cards. Five, ten, fifteen—a small mountain of saturated cloth that promised a level of scrutiny Leo had never experienced. "A simple wipe won't suffice today, Leo," she announced, her voice echoing off the parabolic walls. "The thoroughness of the cleaning must match the scale of the accident. We are going to be much more exhaustive than usual. Every fold, every crease, every single millimeter of skin will be addressed until there is absolutely nothing left." Leo’s throat tightened, the sound of his own swallow echoing loudly in the silence of the annex. He tried to shrink into himself, but the padded bar across his chest held him in a rigid, inescapable arch. He felt the air hit his skin, cold and indifferent, as he waited for the inevitable. "Come to mama," she cooed, her voice dropping into a low, honeyed purr that vibrated with an ownership more absolute than the steel cuffs.

Here's a sequel to the story called Mai's New Life.    

Here's a sequel to my story, Mai's New House, which you can read here. Hope you like it. 😏 In the months that followed Mai's agreement with SOL, the AI that ran the automated house that she had purchased, Mai had been getting the hang of the situation. Much like Duel Monsters, SOL displayed maturity points in each room of the house. Any immature actions Mai committed would make the points drop. The lower the points, the younger she'd be treated. Over the past two months, she had been able to hold out long enough that she only had to spend a couple of days in diapers, where as early on, she'd be out of maturity points in two weeks. But, on this brand new month, she was finally put an end to SOL's obsession with diapering her, caused by her own poor choice of words, though she'd never admit it. Mai walked home after the opening ceremonies of a Duel Monsters exhibition and looked around. Her maturity points were at a full 8000, and she was ready to relax. She tossed the keys onto her table as a chime sounded. "Throwing things." SOL cited. "That’s one thousand maturity points." "Oh crap." Mai groaned as the counter dropped to 7000, and the chime sounded again, and the counter dropped to 6900. "Cursing." SOL cited again. "That’s one hundred maturity points." "Shit." Mai said through gritted teeth before she covered her mouth. "Major cursing." SOL said as Mai now only had 6400 maturity points. "That’s five hundred maturity points." "Are you serious?!" Mai said angrily? "You agreed to the rules, Miss Mai." SOL said plainly. "Well that's real nice, you shitty computer!" Mai said, losing her composure over the snowball effect caused by her simply tossing her keys down. "Extreme swearing." SOL repeated as Mai's maturity points dropped down to 5900. "That’s another five hundred points." At that, the silver, ball-jointed mechanical arms came down and removed Mai's jacket before pulling off her corset-like top as a black tank top was shoved over her head and onto her torso, symbolizing that SOL now saw her as an eighteen-year-old. Mai snatched her jacket back and put it on. She wanted to say something else, but she'd already blown through a lot of maturity points, and the first day of the month wasn't even over yet. Mai just sat down and watched television, not daring to speak until she had calmed down. Once that had happened, she sighed and looked around. She felt thirsty and was ready to drink something. "I could use some grape juice." Mai said. Her Harpy Lady then appeared with her teal skin, red hair, green eyes, blue leotard that barely covered her nipples, sky blue wings on the ends of her arms, legs covered in purple feathers, and talons for hands and feet. Harpy Lady flew to the kitchen, and the hard light hologram grabbed the juice in her talon and flew over to Mai before giving it to her. "Thanks." Mai said as she drank the juice. After a few moments, Mai felt pressure in her bladder. She quickly got up and ran for the bathroom upstairs. She had never had to pee so badly in her life. She entered the bathroom and had just taken off her skirt when she felt herself wet her panties, and she looked down in horror. "Accident." SOL said diplomatically. "Four thousand maturity points." Mai nervously looked at a display over the bathroom mirror as her maturity points dropped down to 1900. The mechanical arms arrived and stripped Mai naked. They used baby wipes to clean Mai's groin before putting new panties on her. Next, they used a wet wipe to scrub off her makeup before putting her in a purple dress. This meant that the house now saw her as a ten-year-old. She walked outside and saw her Harpy Lady now wearing a blue one piece swimsuit, and the complete disaster of the month hit her. As far as SOL was concerned, she was a literal child now. She had never been so thoroughly reduced up until now, aside from when she first moved in. Overwhelmed by the indignant misfortune she had suffered, Mai began crying at the top of her lungs. It wasn't fair! She just misspoke a couple of times and had an accident! She didn't deserve to be relegated to being an overgrown child. "You can't do this to me!!" Mai wailed. "I'm an adult!! I'M AN ADULT!!!" At that, a buzzer sounded, signaling that Mai's maturity points had dropped to 0. She continued screaming and crying as the mechanical arms picked her up again, and Harpy Lady was suddenly wearing nothing but a cloth diaper like a cartoon character. The arms pulled her back into the bathroom and stripped her naked again while Mai continued crying. "Temper tantrums." SOL stated. "2000 maturity points. You are now a baby for the rest of the month." "That’s not fair!!" Mai screamed as the mechanical arms coated her butt and groin with baby powder. "I wasn't throwing a tantrum!!!" "Yes you are, Baby Mai." SOL said as a plastic diaper with the Harpy Ladies on it was put on her, the tapes trapping her inside. A purple bib was then tied around her neck, and a matching bonnet was put on her head and tied under her chin. "Now don't you look adorable?" "I... Look... Ridiculous!!!" Mai shrieked between sobs as a pink pacifier was shoved into her mouth, and she was forced to suck on it. "Now, now." SOL said. "Since you've been so good lately, I'll let you off with a warning, but any further tantrums will result in extreme measures." Not liking the sound of that, Mai kept sucking on her pacifier as the holographic Harpy Queen appeared and picked Mai and the Baby Harpy Lady up. She took them to Mai's room, once again a nursery, and set them down in Mai's crib, repurposed from her bed. At that, a lullaby played, and with nothing else to do, Mai went to sleep, hugging Harpy Lady for comfort. To be continued...

lasagna tonight. 

While I've been there in the past, I am happy that I haven't been in that situation in many years.