Diaper References

I have poor sleep.   I have severe apnea.  I have a CPAP (actually, I believe it's a BiPAP) machine.   It helps, but it doesn't really resolve the underlying problem.  As far as what I sleep in -- diaper and whatever shirt I was wearing that day.  Sometimes I do change out to a onesie when I diaper up in the evening, so it's that instead of the shirt.  Like some others, I get way too hot.  I sleep with a fan blowing on me.  It's not helping that I got 3 or 4 giant plushies on the bed at any time now either.   I will wake up repeatedly anywhere from as little as 30 minutes to maybe 2 hours.  All night long, every night.  

He hasn't said anything for the last couple of minutes. Hard to guess what he's thinking.   So… do you think chapter 49 should be the end of Act II, or the start of Act III? I'm still a little unsure. And sorry for the delay with this part; I've recently discovered that one of the downsides of living with my parents again is when they randomly decide to switch to an ISP that has "child safe" content filtering as standard.   50. Deep Cover The first sensation that filtered through the fog of returning consciousness was a feeling of wrongness. Isadora didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but the instincts that had been drummed into her in basic training told her to keep her eyes closed, and not to move until she understood what she knew. Thinking about it was harder than she might have expected. Her head was swimming, half asleep. For a few seconds she found it hard to remember her life, and to separate those facts from the miasma of bad dreams that seemed just barely beyond recollection. But she knew how to deal with that; and dwelling on memories from the night before wasn’t it. To distinguish between imaginations, dreams, and memories, the best method was to think about something she knew was real. She couldn’t hear anything right now, and she couldn’t see anything, but that still left at least three senses. And once she had grounded herself by deducing everything she could about her current location, she would be thinking clearly enough to recall how she had gotten there. The first thing she was aware of was that she was lying on her side. Her legs were slightly bent. Under her was what felt like rough cotton; over a surface somewhat softer than the ground. So she was probably in a bed, but not her own bed at the Kleins’ house. She would have expected to have more detail than that, but apparently her sense of touch didn’t give her that much detail without shifting her body weight to see how much the probable-mattress beneath her yielded; and she wasn’t willing to do that until she felt ready to deal with anybody who was waiting for her to wake. She could, however, confirm that she wasn’t in any pain. She wasn’t comfortable, but that seemed more a property of the confusion than anything physical. The air smelled wrong. She kept her breathing steady like she had been trained, to put off the moment when she had to face the world, but she could still make out a complex mix of subtle odours. Something chemical, slightly astringent but barely noticeable, Maybe it was the faintest trace of detergent left on freshly laundered sheets, or some antiseptic cleaner used somewhere else in the room. But beneath that, there was a trace of sweetness, something vaguely floral without resembling real flowers in any way. Somehow it made her think of baby powder, though it had been years since she had any contact with the stuff. She didn’t expect to get much from the fifth sense, taste, but somehow that was what brought all the memories of the night before rushing back. There was a bitterness there, tinged with the sharp sweetness of artificial cherry flavour. A cocktail she wasn’t really familiar with, and which had masked the taste of… something. Her drink had been spiked, she remembered. The crime boss – Arrencani – had figured out that the Kleins weren’t what they seemed, and she needed to find out what had happened. Whether she was in some kind of safehouse, if Brock had managed to get her out of there. And if she was in the clutches of the enemy, she needed to find out whether he was in there with her, held somewhere else, or if he had managed to get away. “Br…” she gasped as the thought came to her, but she caught the treacherous impulses before she could say his real name. He was Bernard Klein, she thought, and she needed not to mention any other name until she knew exactly how much the bandits were actually aware of. Still, she had made a sound, and if anyone was here they would know she was awake. So she stopped forcing herself to sleep and sat up, blinking blearily as she gasped: “Bernard? Where are you?” As the sound came out she noticed how dry her mouth was, and she felt just a little nauseous. As if she needed any further confirmation that she had been drugged. The surface under her moved, and she thought she could feel the pressure of a grid of springs, confirming that this was a mattress. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could make out bars around her, and a room she wasn’t familiar with. The whole room seemed to sway from side to side with every movement, and she realised that she was still under the influence of the drugs. That would explain why it had taken so much effort even to understand where she was. She reached out and grabbed the wooden bars to steady herself. They seemed solid, which was no surprise. Beyond them, she could see waves of pastel colours across the walls, and giant renditions of popular cartoon characters. The fog in her head clearly hadn’t faded as much as she might have hoped, because it took her several seconds to realise that she was in some kind of nursery. She corrected her mental image, replacing the cage around her with a crib, but somehow that didn’t make her feel any more secure. She guessed that this was the mysterious Pink Room, although pink was no more prominent than any other colour in the decor. Next she looked down at herself. She hadn’t noticed when she first woke, but now she was aware that she was no longer constrained by that absurd dress. The shoes were gone, the dress was gone, and even her stockings were gone. Maybe someone had been checking her for a wire; and she dreaded to think what conclusions they might draw after looking through her purse. Thankfully for the sake of modesty, her underwear today was more substantial than usual; a snug undershirt and shorts necessary to squeeze her body into the elaborate dress. There was a small sticky patch on her chest as well, not quite covered by her top. After a quick check, she found a couple more. That suggested she had been connected to some kind of heart monitor while she was unconscious; or something she couldn’t even imagine. But before she could think any more about that, her head turned automatically at the sound of the door opening. Two figures entered the room, in blue uniforms that immediately put Isadora in mind of a hospital; though she realised that the same aesthetic could have been appropriate for medical staff at a daycare. She had to fight a little to make her eyes focus, and then the stern, matronly figure leading the way resolved into the familiar shape of Claudine. She looked very different now, less nervous than she often seemed while serving in the Arrencani house. Behind her was an unfamiliar man, but Isadora thought she could have seen him before. One of the innumerable groundsmen at the Yaxley Club, perhaps? He might have been a hair shorter than Claudine now that she drew herself up to her full height, but he more than made up for it in breadth, and it was clear that he either had an intense, physical job, or spent all his spare time in the gym; probably both. Both figures looked down at Isadora as they came closer, and she found herself mentally going over everything she could remember about Estelle Klein. Now, more than ever, she would have to play the role to perfection in order to convince them they were wrong about anything they might think they had discovered. “Oh, you’re awake!” Claudine said, with a kind of false jolliness that instantly put Isadora on edge. “My name’s Claudine, and I’m going to be looking after you for a little while. So if there’s anything you need, just give me a call.” Her accent wasn’t any different; she was the same person Isadora had been trying to get to know, hoping that she might learn something. But her bearing was different now, her tone was different, and her attitude gave the impression of a completely different person. “What’s happening?” Isadora asked. She tried to be just as confident in return, but her words tripped over her heavy tongue like a rake in the grass, and she knew that her nervousness must be showing through. “Claudine? What is this place?” They were probably the same words Estelle would have said, but that was due more to luck than judgement. “Don’t worry, Stella,” Claudine answered with another forced smile. “We just need to teach you some things. About showing respect, and not worrying about things that don’t concern you. You’ll enjoy yourself more once you’re not asking all kinds of troublesome questions. And I promise, if you work with us, you’ll find yourself having fun before you know it.” Isadora’s mouth opened automatically, ready to respond. Her hands moved as well, trying to hide herself from the eyes of the young man, but that was an entirely natural behaviour. It was the words she was about to say that quickly needed correction as one detail from her legend jumped to the forefront of her mind. Estelle Klein hated being called Stella. It was a detail she had insisted on, and she was sure that Arrencani would know that detail. And she couldn’t afford to slip up on that now. “That’s not my name!” she protested, more acid in her voice than even she had expected. “I don’t like–” “Shush, Stella,” Claudine cut her off, while the man firmly gripped Isadora’s shoulders. “Trust me, you’ll have a whole lot more fun if you stop thinking about what you want. I’m sure there’s a lot of things you’ll be amazed by how good they feel.” Isadora still felt groggy; her head was heavy and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but she remembered clearly how much Estelle hated her name being shortened to Stella. And she knew she had to be mad at that if she was to have any chance of maintaining her cover. “My name’s Estelle!” she barked more forcefully, pulling herself up against the bars. She put all her fear into the words, as if being called the wrong name was a metaphor for all her fear and uncertainty. As if getting one word right would make it easier to cope with her capture by a potentially hostile organisation. “Please, just…” She couldn’t hold back the sobs, so she didn’t try. She was angry, and she was scared, but all of those feelings would have been just perfect for Estelle in these circumstances. So Isadora decided that she might as well use those instincts to make her performance work. Like Brock kept saying, it was easier to pretend if the feelings were the same. “Oh, sweetie, don’t cry. Stella is such a cute name, and it suits you so well.” As she spoke, Claudine reached up for a catch somewhere Isadora couldn’t see, and with a click the wooden bars of the crib started to slide down. Claudine was reaching over them now, while her muscular assistant was clearly taking the weight of the bars. That meant that Isadora was only facing one person in a position to stop her, and that was probably the best chance she would get. It didn’t help that she had felt herself starting to lose her balance when the bars first moved; but Claudine was clearly prepared to help her with that. What she wasn’t expecting was for Isadora to grab her wrist, pushing her hands aside, and try to dive out of the crib. It was a clumsy move, but it allowed her to use her weight as an advantage, and turned the bars into a handicap for her captors. She might not have been top of her class when it came to unarmed combat training, but Isadora knew she could do this. But before she hit the ground, she saw the bars jerk the last few inches with a thud, and strong hands grabbed her shoulders. “Let go!” she yelled at the top of her voice. She might know that the Pink Room was effectively soundproofed, but Estelle surely wouldn’t; and yelling was cathartic in any case. “What are you doing? Where’s Bernard? Get your hands off me!” She flailed around, swinging her arms in every direction in the hope of making contact. She still found it hard to believe that Claudine was involved in something like this, and wished she had the time to work out what was going on. But right now her movements were driven by sheer panic. A lucky backhand swipe caught the man across the face, and Isadora tried to turn and follow it up with a proper punch; but she stumbled again and almost fell as something caught her wrist and held her in place. Her hand was caught on the bars of the crib, it seemed. Looking closer, she saw that it was her bracelet, apparently caught on a small metal latch. That must be how it stayed closed. For a second, she wondered why they hadn’t taken it off her, like her rings and shoes. But then she remembered Brock fastening the bracelet for her. It and the necklace both looked like a continuous ring of jointed plastic pieces, without a visible clasp. In the box had been a magnetic key to clip them together; which possibly meant that her captors hadn’t known how to remove it. That could have been an advantage, but now it had snagged on the corner of the latch, and she wasn’t sure how to free it again. “Don’t worry about anyone else, Stella,” Claudine continued, while Isadora struggled to get free of her companion’s grip. The man was behind her now, with his hands around her waist. He was lifting her off the ground with little apparent effort, which made it easier to kick out with her feet while she was down one arm, but also meant that he wasn’t presenting much of a target. “Just focus on enjoying yourself. I promise, this will be a lot easier if you stop fighting us.” “Let go!” Isadora shrieked, somehow managing to make her voice even louder. She tried to move, and a sharp tug was rewarded with the sound of splintering plastic, and sent rounded pieces of plastic flying in all directions. It turned out that the bracelet wasn’t as strong as she might have hoped; but at least it meant that both of her hands were free now. She kept on pushing, flailing around in the hope of making an impact. “You can’t do this, Bernard will–” Isadora thrashed around with her arms, but there wasn’t much she could do. The man was holding her up, while Claudine moved around behind her. She didn’t think that she was impaired by any feelings of sympathy towards the woman; it was clear by now that she was an active member of the crime family. But there was just no way she could bring her hands into contact with the enemy. And her protests were cut off suddenly by a slight stabbing pain. A second later, she recognised the feeling of an injection; her anxiety grew stronger, but she could only try to guess about what was going to happen now; or what these people had in mind. “What are you…” she gasped, but she didn’t expect to get any answers. “Just a little muscle relaxant,” Claudine said. “So you won’t need to keep on struggling. If you’d been a good girl, we wouldn’t have to do that. Maybe in future you can behave, and then you won’t have to worry about the side effects.” Isadora kept on fighting, desperate to get out of this situation. But these people clearly knew what they were doing, and she could already imagine that she was starting to get weaker. Whether that was the drug taking effect or just what she expected, she couldn't be sure yet. But her movements felt less coordinated than they had a moment before, and every futile effort to strike at her captors carried as much fatigue as a marathon. Her arms felt like sacks of jelly, so heavy and unwieldy. “No chance,” she growled, hoping against all hope that a little confidence might be enough to make them back off. “Where. Is. Bernard?” “Oh, don’t worry about that, sweetie,” Claudine continued. “Let’s try getting you in some more suitable clothes, okay?” Isadora gritted her teeth, but didn’t say anything else. She couldn’t believe how hard movement was getting now, but she wasn’t willing to give up. She just glared at the woman she used to have so much sympathy for. Claudine ran over to a closet, almost hidden in the corner of the room. And as she turned around with clothes in her hands, it only emphasised for Isadora that she was in her underwear right now, and there was a man holding her. Anything had to be better than that. There weren’t too many choices. Claudine held up a couple of hangers in each hand, her body language making it clear that she expected Isadora to pick one outfit or the other. And as much as she didn’t want to spend any more time half-naked, Isadora couldn’t find a good thought about either of them. The one in Claudine’s left hand looked like it was designed for a toddler, but she had no doubt that it would be the right size to fit her. It was a bright yellow romper, with a pattern of cartoon ducks across the front, marching in step like the world’s most adorable soldiers. It had outsized red and yellow buttons, and it was easy to imagine wearing something like that would make her look like a real baby. The other option was arguably even worse. Frilly and pink, with multiple layers of lace and a dozen bows that couldn’t possibly serve any practical purpose; this dress looked even less practical than the formal one Isadora had so recently been cursing, and she thought that wearing it would likely make her look like an overengineered wedding cake by a designer whose love for pink overwhelmed all aesthetic sensibilities. It had a Peter Pan collar and puffy sleeves, and what could have been rhinestones decorating the bodice or perhaps just sequins; but most of the other details were lost in a mass of gauzy fabric. They were both styled as if she were a child. Did that mean they already knew about her little side, and understood better than Brock had thought? Were they hoping to confront her with an extreme version of her own desires and so demoralise her? Or was that just what they had in the closet for residents here, if what Brock had deduced about Nina’s stay had been correct? Did Arrencani routinely use humiliation as a method of interrogation, or was this scene improvised? Isadora didn’t know, but she told herself in no uncertain terms that she was not willing to even consider wearing either of these cute outfits. If she had to feel shame, it would just be from some unknown henchman seeing her in her underwear; which the Agency’s basic counter-interrogation course had at least prepared her for. “No way,” she said; a show of defiance desperately trying to conceal the train of thought which had immediately started trying to pick which of the embarrassing outfits would have the least impact on her composure. “I’m not wearing those, I’m not a baby. Just wait until Bernard gets here, he’ll be so mad.” She didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The guy holding her carried her towards another corner of the room like this was a scene he’d played out a dozen times before, without showing any sign of listening to what she was saying. She redoubled her efforts to escape, thrashing out more as he fastened a padded strap around one of her wrists and she realised that she was going to be restrained. She needed to stop them, she needed to fight back, but swinging her arms was no more effective than swatting at the guy with a pool noodle, especially when they were too heavy to wield effectively. He managed to get one of her wrists strapped down to the table, which seemed to have some kind of firm upholstery under a plastic cover. She could still kick, though, keeping him from locking down her feet for now. But Claudine came closer to grab at her ankles, while the henchman held against the table with one hand on her collarbone and the other pressing firmly on her abdomen. Reminding her of something that hadn’t even crossed her mind up to now. Her thoughts were still fuzzy enough that it took her a second to recognise the warmth spreading across her thighs. But as soon as she looked down, a wave of humiliation crashed over her. Between all the time she had presumably been unconscious, the weakness from the muscle relaxants, and the sudden force applied to her bladder, she shouldn’t have been surprised. But in that first moment she was mortified, too shocked even to cry out. She was wetting herself now, showing her just how helpless she was as a small pool started to form on the padded surface under her butt. It only took a second for her to get over the initial shock. She clamped down hard, putting all her effort into stopping the stream. But her underwear was already soaked, and there was no way her captors wouldn’t have noticed. Her mind was whirling, trying to guess how they might use this to manipulate her, but there were too many unknowns, too much uncertainty about what was going on here, and she couldn’t focus at all in the face of that embarrassment. “Ohh, sweetie!” Claudine cooed, showing every sign of real enjoyment now. “I guess that little Stella wants to be a baby for us after all.”

“Let me go let me go you bitch!” Kayla cried as she now realized her friend was going to babysit her!  “No no you can’t do this!” She yelled  Kayla fought but it was no good as Kim quickly strapped her down..  “I hate you!” She yelled sounding just like a toddler throwing a tantrum.. She laid there as she couldn’t have done anything with her mittened hands!   

Tell ‘em to f*** off and mind their own business 

Can't wait!!!