Sissy Room

Ethical Disclosure: Inspired by Room and Board by Babydoc49 | Unofficial continuation, posted with respect and acknowledgement. AI was used as an editing tool   Chapter 12 The wooden hairbrush came down again, a sharp, explosive crack of fire across his already glowing bottom. He screamed, a raw, ragged sound, his body jerking against her lap. He had lost count of the strokes, his world reduced to the searing pain and the overwhelming humiliation of his position. He was an eighteen-year-old man, being spanked like a toddler by his landlady, face down over her knees. Then, the punishment changed. Mrs. Williams shifted her position, pressing her thigh firmly against the side of his hip. In a movement that was both clinical and deeply violating, she reached between his legs, her fingers wrapping around his flaccid penis. She pulled it back, tucking it securely between her own powerful thighs, clamping it in place.  The new sensation was far worse than the pain. It was a profound, mortifying intimacy that stole his breath. He was completely immobilized, his most private part held captive in the warm, vice-like grip of her leg. He couldn’t move, couldn’t thrust away, couldn’t do anything but lie there and take it. “Let’s try counting, shall we?” she said, her voice dangerously calm. She raised the brush again.  “One!” The brush landed with a wicked thwack, right on the tender crease where his bottom met his thigh. He cried out, a strangled yelp of pain and shame. “Two!” Another stroke, parallel to the first. He bucked, but her hold on him was absolute. “Three! You naughty little baby!” Her voice was a sharp rebuke. Each word was punctuated by another stinging blow from the brush. The pain was intense, but the humiliation was absolute. He was being punished not just like a child, but like a piece of property she could control and manipulate in every way. He felt a hot tear of shame mix with the sweat on his forehead. Finally, she stopped. The sudden silence was almost as loud as the spanking had been. She released her grip on him, and he lay there, a sobbing, quivering mess. Without another word, she diapered him with rough, efficient movements, the thick padding feeling like a brand of his own failure. She then pulled him to his feet, led him to his room, and pushed him toward the bed.  “Now go to bed,” she commanded, her voice devoid of all warmth. She slammed the door, the sound echoing his total defeat. He cried himself to sleep in the darkness, the ghost of her grip and the fire on his skin a tormenting memory. The next morning, he was woken not by his alarm, but by Mrs. Williams pulling back his covers. He was still in the diaper she had put on him the night before, and it was soaked. He had been so exhausted he had slept through the night, his body apparently deciding that since resistance was futile, surrender was the most comfortable option. Chapter 13 The next few days were a blur of classes and submission. He went to his lectures, sat in the back, and came straight home. He endured the daily diaper changes, the toddler pants, the feeling of being slowly erased. He was no longer Derek; he was Mrs. Williams’ project.  One afternoon, he came home to find his bedroom door closed. He pushed it open and stopped. The room was gone. His desk, his bookshelf, his posters—all of it had vanished. In its place was a nursery. The walls were painted a pale, infantile yellow. The floor was covered in soft, colorful foam tiles. In the corner stood a large wooden crib, its side rail up. Mobiles with fuzzy animals hung over it, spinning slowly in the still air. A low toy chest sat against one wall, and a towering bookshelf was filled with stacks upon stacks of diapers in all different sizes and colors. His bed was gone. “What… what did you do?” he whispered, his voice trembling. Mrs. Williams appeared behind him, smiling proudly.  “Do you like it? I thought it was time you had a proper room. Your big boy things are in the attic. You won’t be needing them anymore.” “You can’t… this is my room,” he stammered, turning to face her. “My books. My computer.”  “Oh, don’t you worry about your studies,” she said, patting his arm. “I’ll get you a little desk for your corner. But this is where you’ll sleep from now on. It’s safer. And cozier. And the crib has railings, so my little boy won’t fall out.” He looked at the crib, a cage made of wood. “No. I’m not sleeping in that. I’m not a baby.” “Really?” she said, her smile fading slightly. “We’re back to this? After our talk? After our lesson?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “Derek, this is your room now. This is your bed. You will sleep here. If I have to put you in there, you will not like the consequences. Am I making myself clear?” He looked from her hard eyes to the crib and back again. He remembered the hairbrush, the agonizing pain, the utter helplessness. He nodded, defeated. “Good,” she said, her cheerful demeanor returning in an instant. “Now, let’s try it out! Up you go!” She led him to the crib and lowered the side rail. He climbed in, the mattress firm and covered in a plastic sheet under a soft blanket. He sat down, the bars of the crib surrounding him on three sides. She reached in and pulled a large, fluffy teddy bear from the toy chest, handing it to him. “Here’s a new friend for you. Mr. Cuddles.” He stared at the bear, his hands limp at his sides. She took his hands and wrapped them around the bear’s soft body. Then she raised the side rail. It clicked into place with a sound that echoed in his soul. “It’s nap time now, sweetheart,” she cooed. She reached over and flicked a small switch on the mobile. The fuzzy animals began to slowly rotate, and a tinkling, tinny melody of a lullaby filled the room. Then, she flipped the light switch by the door, plunging the room into a dim, shadowy twilight, illuminated only by the sliver of light from the hallway and the spinning, dancing shapes above him. He was locked in. Trapped. He sat on the mattress in the middle of the room that was no longer his, clutching a teddy bear, and listened to the sound of Mrs. Williams humming as she walked away. The door clicked shut, and the lullaby continued its maddeningly cheerful, infantile tune. In the near-darkness, with the plastic-scented bear clutched to his chest, the finality of it all crashed down on him. He was no longer a student, no longer a man, no longer even a person. He was a baby in a crib. And he began to cry, hot, silent tears of despair soaking into the fur of the bear as the mocking music played on. Chapter 14 The following weekend, Mrs. Williams announced another surprise.  “We’re going for a little drive,” she said, holding up a set of car keys. Before they could even think about the garage, she led him to the changing room. “First, we need to get my baby dressed for his big outing.” She put him on the changing table and strapped him in. She pulled down his wet diaper, the cool air hitting his skin. She began with the baby wipe, her movements methodical. She started on his hips, then moved to his groin, stroking his penis and cleaning under his balls with a detached, clinical efficiency that was more humiliating than any overt malice. Then she did what she always did: she inserted a finger in his bum and wiggled it around, a violating “cleaning” that made him clench his teeth and stare at the ceiling. Afterwards, she lathered him in lotion, her hands slick as they covered his entire body. Then came the powder. She used so much that he was almost completely obscured, his skin barely visible under the thick, chalk-white layer. She put on two large white diapers, forcing his legs to spread apart awkwardly. She pulled up a pair of crinkly plastic pants over the thick bulk and finally unstrapped him. The outfit wasn’t over. She then forced him into a silk, frilly dress that sat just above the top of his diaper, the lace trim tickling his thighs. She locked his hands in mitts and his feet in soft booties, completing his transformation into a parody of a little girl. Finally, they went to the garage. His heart sank when he saw the back seat of her sedan. In it was a large, imposing car seat. It was an adult-sized front-facing seat, complete with a sturdy five-point harness. “No,” he said, his voice muffled by the pacifier she had just popped into his mouth. He shook his head, taking a clumsy step back in his booties.  “Now, now,” she said calmly. “A little one has to be safe in the car. And I can’t have you getting into mischief while I’m driving.” “You can’t be serious. I’m too big for that.”  “The reviews said it was perfect for our needs,” she said, completely undeterred. “Now, get in.” He resisted, planting his feet. It was a stupid, pointless gesture, but it was all he had. She sighed, her patience wearing thin. “Derek, we are not doing this today. You will get in the car seat, or you will be punished, and then you will get in the car seat. Which is it going to be?” The threat of the hairbrush was enough. Defeated, he allowed her to maneuver him into the seat. It was a tight squeeze, his thickly padded legs forced into an awkward position. She threaded the straps between his legs and over his shoulders, pulling them tight until they bit into his flesh. With a final, metallic click, she locked the harness in place. He was immobilized. The drive was the most humiliating experience of his life. She drove right through the center of town. People on the sidewalks stared. A car full of students pulled up next to them at a stoplight, and he heard them laughing and pointing at the grown man in a frilly dress, strapped into a car seat. He closed his eyes, his face burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight. He wasn’t a person; he was a spectacle. The destination wasn’t a friend’s house. It was the mall. She parked and unlocked him from the car seat, leading him by the hand. The mittens made him clumsy. He was forced to waddle through the crowded mall in his frilly dress and diaper, a giant baby on display. She bought him a new, larger stroller, a heavy-duty model with a big canopy and a basket underneath. She strapped him into it right there in the middle of the store, and he had to endure the stares of the other shoppers as she calmly paid for it.  From then on, the stroller became his mode of transport to and from campus. She would push him right to the front door of the lecture hall, unstrap him, and send him waddling inside. The walk from the entrance to his seat was a gauntlet of whispers, giggles, and pointed fingers. He became a ghost in his own academic life, a figure of pity and ridicule, his only thought the desperate need to get back to the “safety” of the house that was his prison. Chapter 15 A month later, Mrs. Williams told him they were having company.   “Some of my friends are coming over,” she said, her voice bright with an excitement that made his stomach turn. “They’re very excited to meet you.” He was terrified. He had a sinking feeling he knew who these “friends” were. He was made to wear a particularly thick diaper and a short, frilly-bottomed t-shirt that did nothing to hide it. He wasn’t allowed pants. In the early afternoon, two other cars pulled into the driveway. Out stepped three other women, all of them Mrs. Williams’ age, and each one leading a young man who was clearly in the same state he was. One was dressed in a sailor suit, another in a shortalls and a bib, and a third just in a diaper and a t-shirt. They all had the same dazed, defeated look in their eyes. “Welcome, ladies! And babies!” Mrs. Williams chirped, opening the door.   The women cooed and fussed over their “boys,” who were led into the living room. Derek watched in horror as they were all lined up together. Then, one of the women, a stern-looking woman named Margaret, produced a long, polished wooden bench with short, carved legs and a padded leather top. It looked like something from a vet’s office. “Line them up, Caroline,” Margaret said to Mrs. Williams. “Let’s get them ready for our little game.” Derek was pushed toward the bench. “On your hands and knees, sweetie,” Mrs. Williams instructed. He saw the other boys obeying without a fight, their faces blank with resignation. He hesitated, but a sharp look from his landlady was enough. He knelt and leaned forward over the bench, his padded bottom presented to the room. One by one, the other boys were positioned beside him, a row of diapered young men, bent over and waiting. Then the women produced soft leather straps, which they deftly buckled around the boys’ thighs and ankles, securing them to the legs of the bench. Derek’s breath hitched as he felt the leather tighten around his own legs, holding him fast. But instead of the strap-ons he feared, Margaret produced a box. Inside were four enema bags, each with a long, thin nozzle. The women worked with efficient cruelty. They unpinned the boys’ single diaper, doubled them up for extra capacity, and re-pinned them securely. Then, one by one, they pulled back the leg of the fresh, thick padding and inserted a cold, lubricated nozzle into each boy’s rear. Derek felt the invasive, alien presence of the plastic inside him, a different kind of violation, cold and clinical. Mrs. Williams and another mom then came forward, each holding a baby bottle filled with a milky-white liquid. “Drink up, babies,” Mrs. Williams sang, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She held the bottle to Derek’s lips. He clenched his jaw shut, but she simply pinched his nose, forcing him to gasp for air. As he did, she shoved the bottle nipple into his mouth. He had no choice but to drink. The liquid was sickly sweet, and he could taste a bitter, medicinal undertone. He knew, with a horrifying certainty, that it was a powerful laxative. They all drank, their whimpers muffled by the rubber nipples. Once the bottles were empty, the women released the clamps on the enema bags. Derek felt a flood of warm, soapy water gush into his bowels, a deep, cramping pressure that built and built until he thought he would burst. He began to cry, the tears mixing with the humiliating liquid still dribbling from his lips. The other boys were sobbing too, their bodies trembling with the same unbearable pressure. Then, it happened. A loud, unmistakable wet sound erupted from the boy in the sailor suit. It was followed by another, and another, until all four of them were helplessly voiding themselves into the thick padding of their diapers. The smell was immediate and overwhelming. The women seemed delighted.   “Oh, what messy babies!” one of them cooed. They unbuckled the straps and pulled the sobbing, soiled boys from the bench. They were each laid across their respective “Mommy’s” lap. Derek was draped over Mrs. Williams’ knees. He felt her hand press against the seat of his diaper, which was now hot, heavy, and squelching with mess. She began to rub and spread the filth around, pressing it against his skin, her movements methodical and utterly debasing. She began to bounce him on her lap, each jolt squishing the mess further, a disgusting, rhythmic reminder of his total loss of control. “I’ll change Derek,” Margaret said, her voice cutting through the haze of Derek’s shame.  Mrs. Williams stopped bouncing him and handed him over without a word. Margaret carried him, his legs wrapped around her waist, his soiled diaper pressing against her. She took him to the nursery’s changing table, strapping him down with practiced efficiency. She didn’t speak as she began the cleanup, her movements unhurried and precise. She unpinned the soiled diaper, the smell hitting them both like a physical blow. She cleaned him with a thorough, clinical touch. But then, as she was applying the lotion, her hand changed its motion. Her fingers, slick with the cream, began to stroke his penis with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You have a wonderful mother,” Margaret said softly, her eyes locked on his. “But she doesn’t pleasure her boys. She believes in discipline. In order.” Her hand continued its work, and despite his revulsion and shame, his body began to betray him, responding to the expert stimulation.   “What a shame,” she murmured, her voice a low, possessive hum. “Your member is way too nice… too bad Mrs. Williams won’t be keeping it.”  The words were a confusing, terrifying poison in his ear, but his body was past listening. He felt the pressure build to an unbearable peak. Just as he was about to climax, Margaret calmly picked up a clean, empty baby bottle from the shelf and held it to the tip of his penis. He convulsed, a shuddering, unwanted orgasm wracking his body as he spilled into the bottle. She capped it swiftly, her movements sure and practiced. She dropped the bottle into her large purse, then leaned over him, her face close to his. She gave him a slow, deliberate wink.  “This is our little secret.” Chapter 16 The days after the “playdate” were a blur of numbing routine. Derek moved through his life like a ghost. The humiliation of what had happened—of what Margaret had done—had carved out a hollow space inside him. He felt her words, a cold poison, circulating in his veins. Too bad Mrs. Williams won’t be keeping it. The phrase echoed in his mind, a terrifying puzzle he couldn’t solve. He watched Mrs. Williams more closely now, trying to see her through Margaret’s eyes, but he only saw the same calm, disciplinarian who had always been his captor.  Two weeks later, the opportunity presented itself. Mrs. Williams had a dentist appointment and would be gone for three hours. As she was getting ready to leave, she came into the living room where he was sitting on the floor, building a small tower of soft blocks.  “Now, be a good boy for Mommy,” she said, patting his head. “I’ll be back soon. No mischief.” She left, and he listened for the sound of her car pulling out of the driveway. Silence. The house felt immense and empty. His heart hammered against his ribs. He could run. But the image of Margaret’s bottle in her purse was a terrifying anchor. He had to know what she meant. Instead of running, he found himself walking toward Mrs. Williams’ study. The door was usually closed, but today it was slightly ajar. He slipped inside. He went to her desk and started with the drawers. The top one held pens and stationery. The second held bills. The third was locked. His pulse quickened. He remembered her hiding a small, ornate key in a vase on the mantelpiece. He retrieved it, his hands trembling. The lock clicked open. Inside were files.  Manila folders with names written on them in neat, blocky letters. He saw his own name: DEREK. He pulled it out. Inside were his student records, his rental agreement, and a detailed logbook of his “progress.” It was a meticulous, horrifying account of his punishments, his diaper changes, his diet, his “attitude.” But there was nothing else. Nothing about a plan, nothing about Margaret. He saw other folders. THOMAS. JAMES. MARK. The names of the other boys from the playdate. He pulled out the file for the boy in the sailor suit, Thomas. It was identical to his. He was about to put it back when he saw a second folder, tucked behind the others. It was thicker. On the tab, in red ink, was a single word: INVENTORY. He opened it. The first page was a spreadsheet. Column A listed names: Thomas, James, Mark. Beside each name was a series of codes and dates. He scanned the page, looking for his own name. It wasn’t there. He flipped to the next page. And then he saw it.  At the bottom of the second page, his name was listed. But the codes next to his name were different. Next to the others, the last column read “Term End - Rehoming.” Next to his, it read "Permanent Ward." Underneath that, in a separate section, was a list of “Procedures.” Next to the others’ names were things like “Discipline Reinforcement,” “Behavioral Correction.” Next to his name, there was a new entry added just a few days ago. It read: “Surgical Consultation - Dr. Albright. Orchiectomy.” He didn’t know what the word meant, but the cold, clinical nature of it made his blood run cold. He slammed the file shut, his entire body shaking. He shoved everything back into the drawer, locked it, and returned the key to the vase, his movements frantic. He scrambled back to the living room and sat on the floor, just as he was before, his mind a white-hot scream of terror. He wasn’t a tenant. He wasn’t even a pet. He was livestock. And he was the one they weren’t sending to the market. They were keeping him. And they were going to cut something off him. Margaret’s words finally clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Too bad Mrs. Williams won’t be keeping it. She wasn’t talking about him. She was talking about a part of him. The foreshadowing wasn’t a hint; it was a receipt. Chapter 17 The handle of the front door started turning. But the front door was deadbolted. Derek’s eyes darted around the living room, landing on the heavy oak chair by the kitchen table. He didn’t think. He moved. He grabbed the chair, its legs scraping loudly against the floor, and heaved it toward the large glass sliding door that led to the backyard. He swung it with all his might.  The first impact made the glass shudder, a spiderweb of cracks erupting from the center. He swung again. With a deafening crash, the door exploded inward in a rain of glittering shards. He didn’t hesitate. He was still dressed in only a thick diaper and a frilly bonnet. He scrambled through the shattered frame, ignoring the sharp sting of glass cuts on his bare feet and arms.  He ran across the wet grass and into the neighbor’s yard, his lungs burning, the chilly air a shock against his exposed skin. He dove behind a thick line of hedges, crouching down into the damp, scratchy foliage. He was free. He gasped for air, a wild, desperate laugh escaping his lips. He had done it. He was out. That’s when a shadow fell over him. He looked up slowly, his heart seizing in his chest. It was Margaret. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t even out of breath. She was just standing there, holding a large, expensive-looking leather handbag, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “Running away?” she asked, her voice calm and conversational. “That’s not very smart, little one. You’ll catch a cold.” He tried to scramble back, but his feet were tangled in the branches. He was trapped. Her smile widened, and she took a deliberate step forward. The sheer confidence in her movement was more terrifying than any threat. He felt a cramp in his gut, a primal, animalistic fear response. He tried to hold it, to clench every muscle, but it was no use. His body betrayed him. He felt a hot, sickening rush as his bowels evacuated, filling the diaper with a heavy, warm mess. The smell was immediate and humiliating. He began to sob, the sound choked and pathetic. “Tsk, tsk,” she said, not with disgust, but with a kind of clinical disappointment. “And you were doing so well. Looks like you need a stronger hand than I thought.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded white garment. It was a canvas straitjacket.   “Come along. We’re going for a little walk to the park.” She pulled him from the bushes, her grip like iron. The park was just across the street. She marched him toward a secluded picnic table, his soiled diaper squishing with every step, the shame a physical weight. She forced him to sit on the table, then efficiently undid his bonnet and let it drop. With practiced movements, she wrapped the straitjacket around his torso, pulling his arms across his chest and buckling the straps behind his back.  His arms were now useless, pinned to his body. She cleaned him with wipes from her seemingly endless bag, her touch impersonal and efficient. Then, as he sat there, helpless and exposed, she began to stroke him. Her fingers were slick with lotion, and they moved with an expert, maddening rhythm. He cried, hot tears of shame and despair streaming down his face, but his body responded traitorously, hardening in her grip.  Just as he felt the familiar, unwanted build of pressure, she produced another small, empty bottle and caught his release, capping it and tucking it away with the first one. “There,” she said, wiping him clean one last time and diapering him. She leaned in close, her voice a low, possessive whisper. “You’re special, Derek. You’re not like the other babies.” The words were so simple, yet so horrifying, they broke something final inside him. She carried him back to the house, his useless arms bound, his head pressed against her shoulder. She didn’t knock. She simply used her key. Mrs. Williams was in the living room, pacing.   “Oh, Margaret! Thank God! I came home and he was—” she stopped, seeing them. “What happened?” “He had a little accident,” Margaret said calmly, setting Derek on his feet. He stood there, swaying, a diapered, broken doll in a straitjacket. “And a bit of a tantrum. I think he’s been under-stimulated. I had to take matters into my own hands.” She looked down at Derek, her eyes glinting. “Isn’t that right, baby? We’re going to have to be much more… proactive with your care from now on.” Chapter 18 The morning after his failed escape, Mrs. Williams came into his nursery holding something new. It wasn’t a straitjacket, but something worse. It was a soft, black leather harness, like a restrictive vest. She pulled it over his head and tightened the straps. His arms were forced into a posture of submission, folded across his chest and secured with buckles at his sides. It left his hands free but rendered them completely useless. It was more comfortable than canvas, but infinitely more permanent. This was not for occasional punishments; this was for every day. Days bled into a week. The leather vest became a part of him, a second skin he could never remove. He was fed, changed, and bathed in it. He learned to maneuver by scooting on his padded bottom. The worst part was the silence. The constant, unnerving silence from Mrs. Williams. She no longer hummed. She no longer cooed. She simply performed her duties, her movements efficient and cold. It was during one of his endless hours on the nursery floor that he saw it. He was staring at the mobile above his crib, the spinning fuzzy animals a source of constant, maddening mockery. He noticed one of the animals, a plush elephant, wasn’t moving with the others. It was fixed. And its eye, a black plastic bead, seemed to have an unnatural glint. He squinted, his heart starting a slow, heavy beat in his chest. It wasn’t a glint. It was a tiny, black lens, almost invisible. He began to scan the room.  A small, dark circle in the corner of the bookshelf, disguised as a knot in the wood. A pinprick of black inside the screw of the light switch plate. They were everywhere. They were in the changing room. They were in the living room. They were in the bathroom. They were in his crib, watching him sleep. A cold dread, deeper and more profound than anything he had felt before, washed over him. He wasn’t just a prisoner. He was entertainment. That evening, when Mrs. Williams came to change his diaper, he finally broke his silence.   “The cameras,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I see them.” She paused, a wet wipe in her hand, and looked down at him. A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed her face before being replaced by a calm, placid mask.  “Of course you do, silly. You have an audience. They’ve been watching you for a very long time. They paid a lot of money to see you. And they expect a good show.” She then held up a piece of paper he recognized all too well.  “I also received this from your university. It seems you failed your classes and have been kicked out. That’s fine. It was a distraction anyway. Now you can focus all your attention on your new life.” She finished diapering him and led him to the living room, placing him on the floor in the center of the room. She sat in her armchair and picked up a tablet.  “Now,” she said, her voice flat. “We have our first request.” She read from the screen. “They want to see you wiggle your bottom. On your hands and knees.” He stayed still, his face burning with a fresh wave of humiliation. He wouldn’t do it. Mrs. Williams didn’t look up from her tablet. “You have ten seconds to comply, or you will be punished. Ten… nine…” He remained motionless. A spark of defiance, foolish and fleeting, flared within him. “…three… two… one.” She sighed, setting the tablet down.  “Very well.” She stood, walked over to him, and pulled him across her lap. She pulled back the seat of his diaper and delivered a series of sharp, stinging smacks to his bare bottom. He yelped, tears of pain and shame springing to his eyes. “Now,” she said, her voice dangerously calm as she set him back on the floor.  “Wiggle your bottom.” Broken and hurting, he got onto his hands and knees and wiggled his padded behind for the unseen eyes. “Excellent,” she said, picking up the tablet again. A moment later, a new request came. “This one is from a high-tier member. He wants to see you fill your diaper. Right now. On command.” He froze, his blood turning to ice. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Mrs. Williams just looked at him, her expression utterly bored. “Do I need to get the hairbrush, or are you going to be a good boy and give the nice people what they paid for?”  The threat of the hairbrush was enough. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling with the effort of violating himself so completely. He felt a hot rush, followed by the heavy, sagging warmth of a messy diaper. The shame was a physical thing, crushing him. A notification chimed on her tablet.  “Very good,” she said, giving his head a patronizing pat. “They loved it. They’ve sent another request. They want you to sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ while you hop like a bunny.” With a sob, he began to perform, his voice a broken, pathetic warble as he hopped awkwardly in his messy diaper, his bound arms jiggling with each humiliating movement. When he was finished, she looked at her tablet and nodded, a look of satisfaction on her face.  “That’s enough for tonight. The audience is very pleased.” She stood up and walked over to him, grabbing him by the leather harness. “Time for bed. We have a long day of performances tomorrow.” Chapter 19 The live show became his new reality. The red blinking lights in every corner of the house were a constant, silent audience. He learned to perform. He learned to smile when Mrs. Williams handed him a block, to coo when she offered him his bottle, to look at the camera with the vacant, infantile expression the subscribers craved. His real self, the eighteen-year-old college student, was locked away so deep inside him that he sometimes forgot he was ever anything but the diapered, helpless “Derek” on the screen. The shame was still there, a constant, corrosive acid in his gut, but it was buried under layers of resignation and the sheer, overwhelming need to survive the day. One Tuesday, she dressed him in his most humiliating outfit: a short, frilly white romper with a pale blue sash, and a thick diaper that forced him to waddle. She buckled him into the stroller, but this time, they didn’t head toward campus. They drove to a sleek, modern office building downtown.  “Where are we?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words in days.  “We have some appointments to make things official,” she said cheerfully, pushing the stroller through the polished lobby. People stared, but their looks were different now. It wasn’t just pity or ridicule; it was a kind of morbid curiosity, as if he were an exotic pet being paraded by its eccentric owner. Their first appointment was with a sharp-looking man in a suit whose office was on the top floor. Dr. Evans, a neuropsychologist. Mrs. Williams unbuckled Derek and led him by the hand to a chair. The doctor asked him a series of simple questions, but Derek, conditioned by his regime, could only answer in monosyllables or with a vacant stare. He was too terrified to do anything else. Mrs. Williams answered for him, weaving a tale of a tragic accident, a head injury, a complete mental regression. Dr. Evans watched him with detached, clinical eyes, nodding along. After twenty minutes, he signed a document. “Severe cognitive impairment,” he declared. “Incompetent to manage his own affairs.” Next was a lawyer’s office, all dark wood and leather-bound books. The lawyer, a severe woman named Ms. Albright, barely looked at him. She and Mrs. Williams discussed legal terms he couldn’t understand: “conservatorship,” “power of attorney,” “permanent ward.” He sat in his stroller, sucking on the pacifier she had plugged into his mouth, feeling his life being legally dismantled without his consent.  When they left, Mrs. Williams was clutching a thick sheaf of papers, her face radiant with triumph. The final stop was the most bizarre. A small, plain office that belonged to a Justice of the Peace. An elderly man with a kind face presided over the short, surreal ceremony. Mrs. Williams stood beside him, holding his hand. She had dressed him in a tiny, comical little tuxedo jacket over his diaper.  “Do you, Caroline, take this man, Derek, to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the judge asked. “I do,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.  “And do you, Derek, take this woman, Caroline, to be your lawfully wedded wife?” He just stared, his mind blank. Mrs. Williams squeezed his hand. “He does,” she said for him. “He’s just overwhelmed with happiness.” The judge nodded, and with a bang of his gavel, Derek was legally married to his tormentor. She was now his wife, and his legal conservator. She owned him, completely and irrevocably. On the drive home, she was giddy. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re a real family now! This is the best day of my life.”  She glanced back at him in the rearview mirror, her eyes shining.  “You know, I’ve been thinking. The other boys… Margaret’s boy, Sarah’s boy… they all have an end date. Once they finish their degrees, their time is up. It’s a bit sad, really. But you… you’re different. I like you so much, Derek. I’ve grown so attached to you. I’ve decided that you’re staying here. You’re not like the other boys who get to leave. You’re my baby. You’re home forever.”  The words washed over him, a wave of pure, unadulterated horror. Forever. The word echoed in the silent car, in the vast, empty space where his future used to be. The other boys had an escape hatch, a light at the end of the tunnel. His had just been sealed shut with concrete and steel. He wasn’t just a prisoner anymore; he was a permanent fixture. When they got home, she carried him inside and laid him on the changing mat. As she unsnapped his romper, she smiled down at him, a genuine, loving smile that chilled him to the bone.  “I know you’re happy about it, too,” she cooed. “To be with me forever. But to make it truly official, to make you look the part of my precious little husband forever, we need to make one more little change.”  She pulled a small, sterile medical kit from her bag. Inside, gleaming under the light, was a pair of surgical-looking steel clamps. “We’re going to make sure you never, ever have to worry about big boy things again,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. “We’re going to make you a proper baby, permanently.” The end. 

Emily looked at Lily suspiciously clearly something was up, she did have a guess though as Lily was acting like one of the students who had an accident and we're trying to hide it. Emily decided not to touch on it just yet she didn't want to have to actually check Lily's diaper like she was one of their students and wanted Lily to at least tell her before she had to resort to that. "anyway I'm thinking of ordering Chinese food what would you like have?"

Lily had only just gotten herself back into place on the couch when Emily returned. She tried to sit as gingerly as possible, given the still sopping nature of the YL diaper she wore. She was paranoid that any wrong move would lead to it leaking. "Oh, no problem at all!" She chirped, trying to act as naturally as possible all while covering up the fact her urine was cooling at the moment.

Not to day I am the true winner!

'Oh Valeria you won't disappoint me and sometimes we fail, sometimes we can do everything right and still lose, but as long as we try our best we can hold our head held high. That's all I ask that you try your best." Evelyn then gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek before shitting her on her lap, "now sweetie can you be a big girl and finish your meal and then how about we go home early and you can spend the rest of the day relaxing." She suggested not wanting her daughter to be overwhelmed as this was going to be a process.