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Shotgun Diplomat

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    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    Chapter 5

     

    Day: 1459, Morning.

    Today is the day! The last day! The final day! The end! I have reached the finish line! Soon I will be free. I have hardly slept these last couple of nights, practically vibrating in excitement, in anticipation of being free of this brace. Soon enough I will join the thousands of other people my age who drink from glasses without care, eat their meals under their own power, looking at their plate all the while. Reclaiming for myself all those mundane tasks that the brace and all of its subsequent restrictions have stolen from me. Hell, I am even excited to change my own diaper. Like I said, today is the last day it is my birthday I am 19. Despite all the infantile trappings of my life, I am in fact a grown woman. Only one more sleep to go until my freedom.

     

    Birthdays are not a big deal for our little family. It is just the two of us. We say the words, have a nice meal, a couple of presents and eventually some cake. That is all, no big over the top parties, no streamers and confetti. Just a quiet and dignified acknowledgement of the day. Making a big production out of the day… is unseemly to us both.  

     

    I woke up as I normally did, laying in my bed, awaiting my mum to remove my bed clothes and pull me upright. In the beginning we tried so many ways to let me ambulate into and out of bed under my own power, but there were no good solutions. I was just too inflexible, held too rigidly. We eventually settled, after many tears and tantrums on my part, on the fact that I needed her to help me even there. I got used to it. Waking up, and waiting. In a way it is the perfect way to start your day. Waking up and waiting, very meditative. The door opened, and I heard her footsteps approach my bed.

     

    “Happy Birthday dear. You ready for today? You getting nervous for tomorrow?”

     

    I huffed my usual ‘Yes’ through my nipple hole. Now whether that was a ‘Yes’ to being ready or a ‘Yes” to being nervous my mum couldn’t distinguish. Without access to my type and talk, I am mute. The school provided the device, and thus that is where it lives, at school. I don’t own it; I just use it, at school and only at school. That was a bitter pill to swallow. After the administration learned that I hade been taking it home they came down like a hammer from the gods. They now require that I sign it out and sign it in every day. At home I make do with my various huffs, my slurps, and my interrogative eyebrow raises.

     

    Not that I ask for much, not that I need to. I have bottles in the fridge, I can get them whenever the mood strikes. The rest of my life is run pretty much on a schedule.

     

    Wake up: 0515, Get out of bed: 0530, Morning feed: 0545-0605, Teeth brushing: 0610-0615, Diaper change: 0620-0635, Dressing: 0640-0650, Wait (patiently) for mum to eat and shower: 0655-0740, Walk to curb: 0745-0750, Wait for bus: 0750-0800, Get on bus: 0800. You get the idea. It is a highly regimented morning.

     

    The weekend is a little more flexible. I can lay in bed as long as I want. Well, as long as I awake before my alarm. My alarm is set to go off at 0700 on the weekend. Quite the sleep in, not that I mind. I mean despite all of my infantile trappings I am a teenager.

     

    Today is not a school day, nor is it the weekend, it is summer hols. Thus, my alarm goes off at regular weekday time 0515. Just because there is not school is not a reason to deviate from the schedule, at least that is what mum says. If I were given the choice I would laze around and eventually get going. But it is not up to me and I am awake as per normal at 0515, ready to start the morning.

     

    Being a mute, something I have gotten used to over the years. Something in a weird way I almost appreciate. I listen more than I used to. I listen way more than your average teenager. How can I not? When you can’t talk, people tend to ignore you unless they are directly engaging with you. Some of the scandalous things I have heard! You would not believe me even IF I could tell you. Living a silent life has made me a better listener. Who would have thought.

     

    Besides when I do speak, seldom though it is, my voice is raspy, and very quiet. In fact, it hurts to do so. Mum said no to worry about that so I don’t. I am just out of practice; it will come back in time. Besides, she said that I shouldn’t worry about what I sound like at all. My mouth voice is my mouth voice, as unpleasant as it is, it is what it is. In truth, I don’t care for my mouth voice very much. I much prefer my school voice. It is louder, clearer. Projected from a speaker, perfected by a computer. Its diction perfect. Its inflection perfect, if a touch robotic, but meh. It is much more pleasant to hear than the rusty croak that leaves from between my lips. It is a shame that I only get to speak with it at school. As raspy, and painful as it is I am glad that I can’t talk with my mouth voice most of the time.

     

    Regardless, mum grabs my feet and swings my legs over the edge of the bed, sitting me up in the process. I feel my nightly deposits in my diaper mush and smush themselves around and against me within their soaked confinement. I don’t really care anymore. I don’t react at all to the sensation. Like I have said before, long habituation to the sensation. My crotch is covered in a layer of filth? Oh no! Stop the presses! What a noteworthy thing to have happen. Not like I don’t experience it at least thrice a day, every day. Standing up and steadying my swaying self, I slurp back my drool as I am wont to do. We make our way to the dining room for my breakfast. Her walking, and me trailing behind her lurching and slurping along.

     

    About halfway through the first year, it was decided that making and feeding me oatmeal every morning was a waste of her precious morning time. Not my time, I mean I am uninvolved except as the final recipient of the food. No more weekday oatmeal, but I still needed to eat. I suppose I agreed with the decision, not like I was consulted in the first-place mind you. The decision was made, my agreement was, I assume, assumed. I just had to accept it. I understood, the sheer amount of time that it takes to care for my unique needs every single morning and night is a little ridiculous. Helping me out of bed, feeding me, brushing my teeth, changing my diaper, dressing me, walking me to the curb, waiting with me for bus, and finally making sure that I get on the bus safely. The list is rather long.

     

    Thus, on every morning that makes up the regular work week, I was fed a quick, easy, and wholesome puree of various greens, and fruits. I am sorry, did I make it sound like a delicious smoothie? No. I was not fed a delightfully delicious smoothie I was fed baby food.

     

    Not that lunch was any respite either. I was sent to school with my bag for the day full of jars of baby food. In the beginning when I was first getting used to it, I really, really missed properly chewing food. I missed the taste too certainly, but it was the textural differences that I missed most. So, here I am, 2 out of every 3 meals every single weekday consists of baby food. That must mean that supper is something a little more special right? Right. Well kind of right. Well not really, I’ll explain.

     

    There were some rules that governed my behaviour during feeds, oldest of them all was one that was implemented very early on into my sentencing. Something to help me get used to the new way I received sustenance. To prevent me from being tempted to feed myself, during the second month of my sentence, a rule was implemented that I was not to remove the bite block myself. No matter where, no matter when, I was not to touch. Learning to sneeze with it in was unpleasant. Felt like my head was going to pop the first couple of times.  

     

    Even the twice daily tooth brushing was handled by mum. I was not to touch my bite block. As far as I was now concerned, the block was my mouth, my mouth was the block. My mouth, a solid, pink acrylic slab with a small dainty hole in the middle of it for the nipple of my bottles. That’s it. A solid slab that existed perpetually behind my lips. It’s smooth pink perfection only broken up by the obligate nipple hole. The nipple hole, allowing me the only aspect of ingestion I was in control of. The imbibition of fluids, suckling and slurping my drink like an infant. Lost in a haze born of rhythm and concentration.

     

    But meals, right. So, I was to sit in my feeding chair, and await the appearance of my meal. Opening my mouth for block removal only when signaled. The signal? The sound of my bowl being placed in front of me and tapped three times rapid staccato succession. I HATE it. Yes, it means that it is time to eat, and that is nice, but I hate it just the same. It is probably the most degrading aspect of my braced life. Worse than the diaper changes, worse than the bottle drinking, worse than the muteness. Worse than all of the various indignities that make up my daily life is the fact that I have been trained to open my mouth at the sound of my bowl.

     

    My bowl, not just any bowl, my bowl. My bowl is special it is made of metal. All the better for making a recognizable sound when placed in front of me. At the end of my feedings, I am conditioned to open my mouth again to accept the block by the sound of mum tapping my bowl with the spoon. Five times in rapid staccato succession. That’s the signal for me to open. Pavlovian much?  

     

    I mean I understand it, really, I do. Okay not really. It is the biggest sticking point for me. In the beginning sure, it was a hard aspect of bodily autonomy to give up. But now? Four years into my sentencing, me feeding myself without permission is something that is not going to happen. Like I said, I HATE that rule.

     

    The temptation to feed myself in the beginning was intense! If I am being honest with you, it remains intense, I am just trained to wait. Trained to sit, and passively accept my feeding, one spoonful at a time. Not that the feeding starts immediately following the withdrawal of my bite block, no I am forced to fight the temptation. Required to wait.

     

    Oh, the temptation! Especially when I am forced to sit there and smell her meal. My feeds don’t really smell. Mouth open, lips parted and drool pooling onto my chin and bib for sometimes up to what feels like an hour. In reality it is maybe five minutes but time drags. I can’t see my food, but I know that it is there. That is all that really matters.

     

    All the while mum is busy running around prepping her own meal. Mums meals, mums delicious smelling meals. The smells that I savour. The sights I have imagined. Mums meals ready for consumption only after I have been fed, brushed, changed, and dressed. Only after I have been banished from the dining room. Forced to sit and wait for the continuation of my morning routine. We haven’t shared a meal together since I got put in this damned thing, during my feedings she is too busy, at least so she says. But regardless, I get fed, the morning routine continues, I wait in the sitting room, only then does she eat. I am not to enter the dining room while she eats. It is a rule. She says it is to keep me from getting jealous. It might work somewhat, but it feels cruel. And I am still jealous.

     

    Either way, over the years it is a rule I have gotten used to, hate of it notwithstanding. I sit in my spot before the food is put front of me. If the food is not ready, it makes no difference to me. It is feeding time. At feeding time, you will find me in my feeding seat. It is a special seat. My seat. My special feeding seat. It is a glorified highchair. Designed for adults with special needs, it is an upsized model of the type seat that is reserved for toddlers.

     

    It is not at the table; it faces the wall. At first, I was more than a little miffed that my only view was of the bare wall. However, mum explained to me that because of the design of the room it was the best place for it. It was the safest place for it to go when taking into account my special navigational needs. I.e., being unable to see anything around me except for the upper portions of the wall and ceiling as I lurch my way around the house. If it made my passages through that room less hazardous, I am all for it. Boring view or not, I don’t relish tripping.

     

    So, feeding time. I sit in my seat. Being the good daughter I am, I reach up and I lower the tray down from over my head making sure to lock it in place. With the tray locked down, I am effectively trapped in my feeding chair. I cannot easily unlock it. I mean I physically can, it is just awkward for me to do so. Locking the tray ensures that it is ready to receive my bowl. I sit in my spot and await the hand that feeds me, it enters my field of view. Like always it is holding my bowl with a spoon. The bowl is placed on my tray and at the sound of three taps I obediently open my lips and tilt my head back forcing my jaws to open wider than is comfortable to allow for extraction of the bite block. This is all done in an automatic reaction to the sounds ringing off of my bowl. Like I said I am trained. Lack of dignity or not I am eager to get the block out, ready for a feed. I am hungry. Never being able to snack between meals means that when it is time for a feed, it is time for a feed! I feel a hand on the block, and with the usual noises of ‘slurp, slop, and plop’ the block is removed and I am finally ready to receive my feeding. One spoonful at a time. That’s breakfast. Lunch is the same.

     

    Dinner however, mum would make my dinner, and I would sit down in my feeding chair. Lowering the tray as I do. Generally, dinner is something soft. Soft, easily chewed, and easily swallowed. The usual sound signals denote the beginning and ending of my evening feed. For all that I miss eating chewy foods it is something that is not worth the hassle and pain. My nightly feedings were as varied as you can imagine. I mean, I got to eat scrambled eggs, and soups, and mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, and even sometimes stew. I was spoiled for choices. Really. Well, I say choice, but much like the morning and lunch selections of baby food, no choice was ever offered. I am fed what is placed in front of me. I am not consulted on the menu.

     

    That is not to say that I never feed myself. On the day I celebrate another year in confinement, my anniversary as it were, I am allowed to feed myself. Every year I get the evening meal all to myself! Evening meals all me. Breakfast and Lunch, still her. Depending on the day of the week still baby food.

     

    On my anniversary I even get to choose what I eat for dinner. I normally go for food that was a favourite of mine pre-brace life. Food that takes lots of chewing. Something with texture. It takes forever, being able to only open my mouth only so wide without straining means that I am limited to very, very small bites. Not that I mind. I would spend all day feeding myself if it meant it, was my choice. Not that I don’t pay for my choices, I do. By the end of the meal my chin is red, and sore. But it is worth it. For that one day a year I am in charge of where my food goes. No one else. It feels good. A little taste of the future. A little taste of hope.

     

    That one day a year where I feed myself means that I am generally covered in it too. Not being able to see where the food is, makes it something of an adventure. The perilous journey from my bowl to my mouth can and frequently does result in mishaps, but that is why I wear a bib. Besides after every single meal, self-fed or not, my bib is at least somewhat soiled, and needs a replacement anyway. My face same thing, no not a replacement. Just somewhat soiled. I have given up feeling self-conscious about having leftovers dried on my chin, or at the corners of my lips. If I was not in charge of the feeding; it is not my fault that people can’t aim. It is not like my head can move. I am a stationary target; you have no excuse for missing my mouth. Besides it is an easy and regular thing for either mum or an aide to give my face a wipe with a damp cloth after my feed. Very refreshing. And, if after the wipe there is still some remaining? I don’t care, it will get taken care of next feeding, or barring that in the shower later that night.

     

    We arrived in the dining room. Like all feedings I make my way to my chair, sit down, lower and lock my tray, and await the sound signals. Over the years mum has tried to make my view of the wall less depressing. There are pictures of beaches, of trees, of butterflies, and even to my perpetual distaste some of me. In one of them I am facing towards the camera. In another I am caught in profile. In yet another I am walking away from the camera. I don’t like pictures of me.

     

    I hate looking at myself. I mean I don’t think I am ugly. I have a pretty enough face, I was never one to suffer terribly from acne. My hair is long, but not too long, a nice subtle shade of red. It’s nice. My neck is slim, and graceful looking. My figure is lithe. My womanly attributes are well endowed and perky. My legs are long and shapely. I think I have a nice bum. I can’t see it, I haven’t seen it in years, but I think it is nice. I mean I am 175 cm tall and I wear size small day diapers. That alone tells me that I have a small tight bum. But for all of those positives that should rocket me to a ten on the scale. Okay real talk, an eight. Uhm… Eight pint five. There are some serious, glaringly obvious flaws. Flaws that I cannot help but see when I look at pictures of myself. Flaws that disappear when I close my eyes at end of day and dream about myself. How I could be. The flaws that I cannot help but see in the day are gone. I see myself as I want to be, as I should be.

     

    Instead of my nice face, my eyes are drawn instead to my mouth. In one photo I am smiling at the camera, my bite block is out. You can see my beautifully straight teeth! It was a rare day, we went out for a trip and I got my afternoon feeding at the park. My mouth is formed in what I think is a pretty smile, but the remains of the meal are plastered around the edges, somewhat ruining the effect. My brace clearly revealing itself at my chin. A chin that caught the light of the flash, revealing that it is glistening, covered in drool. In a different one I am looking directly at the camera. My bite block is in, you can tell because I am not smiling, and my lips and cheeks have a noticeable bulge to them. I am used to it, but it doesn’t mean that I like people seeing the obviousness of my block.

     

    In another photo, a slim delicate neck in profile that showcases the large pads that support my head, both front and rear. The uprights that exit my shirt, giving me an awkwardly square neck profile, as highlighted by the odd shape of the collar of my jacket. Pathetic. Instead of seeing how shapely my body has become, all I can see is the bib that covers my shirt. In the picture it is obviously food stained, and from that evidence it is a clearly needed accessory. Gross. In place of my shapely legs my attention is forced to focus on my crotch, bulging and saggy as it is in one picture or in another instead of seeing a nice heart shaped outline of my bum all I can see is a saggy, oddly square profile. Clearly showcasing the fact in both photographs that my trousers conceal a diaper. A diaper that for all the obvious sag, and bulge has been used. Not a bit of embarrassment on my face in the pictures. Did I even know if my diaper was used. No, probably not. I hate looking at pictures of myself. My hair is nice though, that remains true.

     

    At the sound of the taps upon my bowl, I tilt my head back and open my mouth. Eager to be freed of the block, eager to start my feed for the morning. My block gets removed, and the feeding commences. One spoonful at a time. Today it tastes like banana. One of the better flavours. The best flavour, as far as any of my breakfast feedings go is probably pear cinnamon. Apple cinnamon is good too, but I prefer pear. Much nicer than the nasty lunch variety, generally I am fed a turkey and gravy flavour, or ham and gravy flavour. Who wants to taste that? Not me! But like with most things in my day to day I control them not. I have no choice and, rhythmically, like an automaton I open and close my mouth and lips at the request of my mum. Eating whatever flavour is on the spoon. Regardless of how good or not it tastes. Because, at the end of the day when it is time to feed, it is time to feed, and I am hungry.

     

    “Open, close, and… swallow.”

     

    Everyday, every feeding it is the same thing. Over and over. I don’t even have to think, I just do. Soon enough the feed is over. My face is wiped of any residue and at the sound of five taps I push my head back, and open as wide as I can. Ready to accept my bite block once again. Feeling my block get placed securely back in my mouth, I relax and I feel my teeth and tongue settle into their ordained places. Mum unlocks the tray and raises it over my head, freeing me from my voluntary confinement.

     

    I slide out of the seat; as my feet hit the floor, I hear, and feel my backside explode.

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    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    1 hour ago, littlebopeeper said:

    I'm curious as to how she maintains muscle tone.  Is she lifting weights?  Doing some kind of workout program for her legs?  It looks like atrophy would be a big, big danger here.

    I haven't really addressed that. I honestly didn't take that intonaccount when writing. I'll probably do some editing in the next chapter and mention it in a vague way. Thanks for reading.

    • Thanks 1

    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    Chapter 4

     

    Day 2, Morning

     

    I awoke the next morning, not having slept very well. Not being able to move around in bed was much like the brace and all of the other new indignities piled upon me; something I was going to have to get used to. I did my best to get up, and failing that I laid there. Stuck. Trapped in my bed. I made what sounds I could around the block, but they were unintelligible and very quiet. Giving up that avenue I took to pondering my condition. I must have nodded off, because I awoke to the sound of my door opening.  

     

    “Sweetie, are you up? It is very late, and your room smells like you need a change.”

     

    I raised my arms in the bed in the classic come here gesture recognized the world over. I heard her footsteps approaching me. As she got nearer, I began to struggle again, attempting to make her realise that I was trapped in bed. I yet again needed help. I continued to make the gesture, as she approached. I think she clued in with my desperate stare.

     

    “Oh honey, are you stuck? That’s no good. Let me help you out there.”

     

    She loosened the bedclothes and pulled me upright. As she did, I felt my nightly mess shift forward in my diaper. Would that I could shudder I would have done so. It had gone somewhat cold. In my opinion as an incontinent there little worse that being stuck in a poopy diaper, trapped in it, unable to change. Little worse I said. Worse is a chilled poopy diaper, that really is the pinnacle of unpleasant. Standing up slowly, getting my balance, I started my waddle towards the door. Eager to get breakfast.

     

    As I approached the kitchen, I thought about what to eat for breakfast. I was feeling something simple. Oatmeal sounded like just the thing. Reaching the kitchen, I realized there was just one problem. I was no longer able to reach the oatmeal. Nor was I able to get a pot out of the cupboard. I stood there looking forlornly at the stove. Shuffling off dejected, reaching the dining room. As I sat down at the table, my mess redistributed itself, it was a little warmer, I must have peed. I tried to shimmy my way into some form of comfort while sitting on a pile of my own creation. I wasn’t wholly successful.

     

    “What do you want for breakfast?” She asked me as if I were able to give a coherent answer. She looked at me. I looked at here. I made a nasal grunt. A little better than my huff. Less dignified, but more vocal. I smiled, exposing the acrylic that covered my teeth.

     

    “Oh. Right. I forgot about the block. Sorry hun.”

     

    I rolled by eyes at her. She forgot, what a luxury. I certainly didn’t forget about it. As I tilted my head back, and withdrew the block, a gush of morning saliva came with it, and soaked my chin and shirt. Gross! Note to self, first thing in the morning slurp back more than you think you need to. Save your clothes. As my chin settled back into its confinement I said,

     

    “Oatmeal please.”  

     

    “Coming right up.”

     

    She was as good as her word, and she started making me my breakfast. Now, I know what you are thinking. How can you possibly consider being hungry, or even eating when you are sitting in a messy diaper? A messy diaper that has been messy for an unknown amount of time? That’s easy. Long habituation, you can get used to anything… eventually. Plus, I also tend to make a mess either during or immediately after breakfast, so it is prudent to wait. Better to do it in an already soiled diaper as opposed to a freshie.

     

    Not 20 minutes later the oatmeal was done and in a bowel in front of me. It looked, well as good as oatmeal ever looks. But I knew that it was full of milk and sugar, and therefore would be very tasty. There was just one problem. No spoon.

     

    “Mum, you forgot a spoon.”

     

    As I said that she walked over to me, a large tea towel in her hand. “No, I didn’t. Remember what I said last night? While you need this brace, you will wear a bib, and I will be feeding you.”

     

    Would that I could turn my head and look at her. As it was, I could only swivel my eyes to speak somewhat into her chest.

     

    “You were serious about that? Mum! That’s not right. I am 15! For Gods sake! 15! Bad enough that I can’t change myself anymore. Not to mention the fact that I am a mute for 23 hours a day. No, let’s really fuck me over and not even let me feed myself for the next 4 years. Fuck!”

     

    I push away from the table sharply, and as I do the chair starts to tip over. Normally not a big deal, I would twist and right myself. As it is, unable to even turn my head, the feeling of falling is terrifying. I shriek. Mum steadies me. Well, this is delightfully awkward. I just had a little blow up, now my heart is racing, and I am on the verge of tears. What the fuck emotions? Can you please just pick a lane and stick to it?

     

    Mum, sounding rather unimpressed says, “You done now?”

     

    Her tone quickly moderated into one of love and understanding,

     

    “Sweetie, I know that this isn’t easy for you. I know that. I can’t even begin to imagine what you are feeling. You have lost what little agency; what little control over your own life that you had. You think I don’t know how hard you worked to feel normal? How hard your school life has been? Trust me, I may not have said it, and Lord knows you aren’t one to complain, but I have seen it. I am so proud of you. You have friends who love you, you have good grades, and to top it all off you manage to do all of that while fully needing diapers. I don’t know how you do it. If I were your age with your issues, I wouldn’t have been half the person you are. This new challenge, is just that a challenge. If you tackle it like you have tackled everything else it will be as naught to you.”

     

    I needed to hear that. As she finished talking, I started to bawl. All of the pent-up emotions from yesterday coming out of me in a torrent. The unfairness, the shame, the indignity. I shook, and I cried, and she held me through it. Through all of it.

     

    After I had cried myself out, and calmed down somewhat. Only hiccupping from time to time.  

     

    “So, you ready for breakfast now?”

     

    “Yes,” I replied “I am ready for you to feed me my breakfast.”  

     

    And so, she did. One spoonful at a time. Under my chin was tucked the tea towel, acting as an impromptu bib. I got my feeding in for the morning. The first of many more to come.

     

    “There, all done. Now was that as horrible as you feared it would be?” She asked.

     

    “No, no it wasn’t. I didn’t like it, but it could have been worse. Thank you for not making airplane noises, or train sounds. I am not sure if I could have dealt with that.” I opened my mouth, and slid my bite block back in, feeling my teeth lock in place. I was once again mute.

     

    She chuckled,

     

    “You’re welcome sweety. Now, lets get your teeth brushed, and your diaper changed. You my dear, stink.”

     

    She walked down the hall. I followed her lurching, and slurping all the while. The day passed with little of note. Other than one incident that sticks out in my mind.

     

    I lurch up to her, and give a slurp to get her attention. She looks over at me.

     

    “Yes dear?”

     

    I grab my board and start writing. Turning it towards her she reads. ‘I am thirsty, may I have a drink?’

     

    “Of course, hang one second and I’ll get you a water okay?”

     

    I tap my board in the upper left corner. This corner is reserved for the permanent marker indication for ‘Yes’. The opposite, is for ‘No’. Other than that, my board is still just a blank. I am sure as time goes by it will be filled with shortcuts and jargon. But for now, it is practically empty.

     

    She returns, and in her hand is something that I was not expecting. It was a bottle. An upscaled version of a baby bottle, nipple and all. She hands it to me. I look at it. I turn my body to make a point of looking at her. I raise my eyebrow in inquiry.

     

    She just shrugs, “The doctor did mention bottle drinking. I think that you just put it in the hole in your block and go nuts on it. I am not sure if there is a proper adult bottle feeding technique. It can’t be different from an infant’s technique. IF I remember right, you were always a good drinker. I am sure you’ll get the hang of it after a fashion.”

     

    The doctor did mention bottle drinking. I remember that. It seemed like a throw away line. Or at least a regular water bottle. Not this… thing. I gather myself. It is just one more of those things. I put the nipple into my bite block and proceed to suck.

     

    Nothing. Taking the bottle out and holding it at my eye level for inspection reveals that I need to tilt the bottle upwards to get any flow. Normally, not a big deal. Well normally I would not be nursing from a bottle, but I digress. To tilt the bottle, I needed to tilt myself. I needed to tilt the trunk of my body back in order to get the proper angle for flow. Inconvenient. This is something I am not going to be able to do while standing, I refuse to risk my stability to quickly satisfy my thirst. I need to sit to drink. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I proceed to lean back further in to the chair, waiting for the inevitable moment that I strike the backrest, and am safe from tipping. Placing the nipple of my bottle into the requisite hole in my bite block feeling the nipple with my tongue, I give a tentative suckle on it. I am rewarded with blessedly cool water. Getting into a rhythm is important, lest I mistime it and spill. Soon enough I establish an efficient suckling pattern, the outside world fades away as my entire focus is taken up by me slurping up my drink.

     

    And, that was how my Summer went, feedings, changings, and bottle drinking. Not exactly how I expected it to go. My life was becoming a lot more infantile than I liked. I mean the diapers were bad enough. With everything together, it painted a rather bleak picture of my immediate future. My life was that of an absurdly large infant, a well educated one to be sure, but an infant none the less. Eventually I got used to all of the changes.  All of the indignities that brace made me adopt. It took a while. Well, I say used to them, but it was more resigned to them. It is hard to get used to having zero autonomy over your own life. Especially as a teenager used to some degree of independence. But like I said I got used to it. Kind of. Sort of. Not really.  

     

    After a couple weeks I let my friends in on what was going to be my life from now on. All of the changes. They were pretty cool about it. A little shocked, and a little sad for me, but all in all they took it in stride. I had always been the odd one out. Now, I was just the odder one out further than before.

     

    I started school on time, and put up with spending most of my lunches in the ‘special’ classroom. Even chartered schools have them. Not everyone is there because of a brain and a scholarship. Some families have a legacy to uphold, special needs child notwithstanding.

     

    Being fed, and getting changed. Every day, same time same place. By the time I was fed, watered, and with a fresh diaper it was almost time for class again. Yes, only at lunch. I was ‘special needs’ but not in the intellectual sense of the word. It was more like ‘special care needs’ than actual ‘special needs’. But yeah, lunches seemed really short, getting a diaper change and having your meals spooned into your mouth is not a fast process, no it takes time. At first it was more than a little mortifying reporting there, to that particular room. But like with all of the new restrictions and requirements forced upon me by the brace I got used to it. Being fed, and getting changed, day in and day out.

     

    Getting fed and changed by the aides was certainly not as nice as being fed and changed by mum. They were good at it; I am not complaining about their care. It was just that they were clinically efficient, they were professional. That was all there was. When my mum did it there was care and love for me present. Obvious in every wipe of my diaper area, every spoonful of food. When they did it, it was a task to be accomplished, no more.

     

    My whiteboard and dry-erase got a real workout that first half of the year. But by midway through the Autumnal semester, it was decided that I needed a type and talk device. I just couldn’t participate meaningfully in class without one. So that is what I got. It was not a super fancy model, it couldn’t do any accents or really any inflection at all, but it did speak what I typed. Finally! I had my voice back! I could talk to people, ask questions, answer questions. All with the push of some buttons. Yes, the voice was obviously synthesised, but to me that didn’t matter. For the 16 hours a day I was awake with the bite block it was my voice. The doctor was right, eventually I got used to my own silence. Even with the bite block out during meals I generally didn’t speak very much. Focused fully on getting each spoonful of food into me with as little mess as possible. There simply wasn’t time to divert my attentions to idle things like chatter. Mum eventually began to fill the silence, but it was no concern of mine.

     

    I finished the school year with top marks. I had my one-year braced anniversary. My present was getting to feed myself a delicious meal of my own choosing, plus a slice of chocolate cake, my absolute favourite dessert. After a calendar year of being fed by others, I will admit that my aim was more than a little compromised. But that was what the bibs were for.

     

    My bibs, funny story that. As much as I hated them, they actually became a constant part of my daily ensemble, I eventually grew so used to the bite block that I sometimes forgot to suck back regularly all of my accumulated saliva. When I did that, I had a tendency to dribble, and drool. The bib caught it all, sparing my shirt. My dignity, not so much. But I had sacrificed that long ago. The brace gods demanded such, who was I to argue? I learned to appreciate them. Much like how I appreciate my diapers. I don’t like them, but I appreciate the job they do and the fact that I need them.

     

    I even grew to almost appreciate getting fed my meals. Having all of my nutrition spooned into my mouth one bite at a time. Never any hurry, and never any rush. Before the brace, eating was an almost rushed affair. Cram it in, chew, chew, chew, and swallow. Repeat. But being fed? Just one leisurely bite at a time. And if it spilled or I dribbled and some food landed on my bib, it was not big deal. That is what it was there for.

     

    That’s how my life went. My life was still my life, I was just in charge of much less of it than most other teenagers. I got used to everything over the years. My friends got used to it too. They still hung out with me. Much less than before the brace it seemed. I mean they still came around now and again, but only after my mum made specific mention of ‘How nice it would be to see them’. It was probably because planning an outing with me now required some serious logistics. Still every couple of months we got together, going out and just chilling. At the mall or at the park, it didn’t matter. It was really nice to feel if not normal, then at least less abnormal. Sometimes when we went out, if we stopped for food, they would take turns feeding me. My mother hovering proactively in the wings. Generally, one booth or bench over, or sitting at the counter. Keeping one eye on me.

     

    At first, I minded her presence. As fully dependent on her as I was, I still wanted some freedom. Some time away from her, some time where it was just me and my friends, but it was not to be. My displeasure at her presence lasted right up until I needed my first diaper change. Before the brace, I would nip off and take care of it. Barely an interruption to the days activities. Now? I needed help with it, and not like I was going to get my friends to do that. There are some boundaries that are not meant to be crossed. They never did get brave enough to ask to change my diapers, and I never wanted them to. In fact, I am grateful that they didn’t. It was something that I wanted to keep strictly between myself and mum. They were happy and I was happy. Well, I was not happy per se, but at least I was less embarrassed. I can only imagine my extreme mortification if they offered to change me. No thank you. Management of my diaper changes was a task that was always given to my mum. It was as convenient as such a thing could be. I needed a change, we excused ourselves. A quick little side quest later with only my mum and me as party members. The reward? At the end of the mission, I was clean, dry, and back with my friends again. No muss, no fuss.

     

    But the countdown to get this brace off began the first day I got it put on. We are T-minus four weeks from my nineteenth birthday. Therefore, we are twenty-nine days away from me being free. In preparation for getting my brace off I am once again at the orthotist getting x-rayed and measured. I can’t wait!    

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    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

     

    Chapter 3

     

    After getting changed, it was decided that getting me a way to communicate was of utmost importance. I may be muted, but I am not mute. A small white board and a dry erase marker. That is just what I needed was the consensus taken from a sample audience of one. We just so happened to have one. In a matter of moments, I was now the owner of a white board that hung from a cord wrapped around my upright struts, dangling at mid chest level, and repeatedly bumping into my carapace as I lurched and slurped my way around the house. It was not an elegant solution, but it beat a pad of paper and a pencil. Needless to say I was dubious of it as a solution.

     

    Eventually it was time for dinner, and I was excited. Mum had made my favourite, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. I was slurping back my saliva more and more frequently the closer we got to dinner time. Dinner was served. Bearing in mind the instructions on how to remove the bite block, I did so. With a distressingly loud ‘slurp, slop, and plop’ the offending piece of equipment was removed from my mouth, and placed unceremoniously on a napkin on the table to drain. Gross. It really was a disgusting looking thing.

     

    A just this side of the uncanny valley flesh toned piece of acrylic. Wider than it was tall, I was amazed that I could even fit it in my mouth to begin with. Looking at the blank featureless front of the block, I realised that when it was in place, should my lips part, you would not see the expected teeth. Rather you would see only the smooth plastic featurelessness of the block. A somewhat unexpected surprise. I made a promise to myself that I would keep my lips sealed tight. I was enough of a freak already, showcasing an oddly featureless mouth was not something I wanted to do.

     

    Relishing the newfound freedom that I had I stretched my jaw and to my dismay found that I could barely open my mouth. Well, I could open it, but it was open only so much that I could slip my finger between my teeth. Maybe about three centimetres in total. I mean sure I could open it wider if I really pushed at it, really forced my head back, and pushed my chin down, I could get an extra couple of centimetres of space. But I shouldn’t have to force it. It shouldn’t be uncomfortable. It was going to make eating, something that required an oral dexterity I now lacked something of an adventure.

     

    That didn’t even begin to take into account that when sitting the pressure of the chin pad forced my head up, so I couldn’t easily see my plate. The very edge of it yes, and only if I strained my eyes. But I am sure I could get used to that in time. What I feel the worst part was that being that my head was canted at an upwards angle, so too was my mouth. It meant that I had to sort of drop the food into my mouth from above, all while pushing my head deeper into my occipital supports. It was not very dignified.

    Plus, chewing with any kind of vigor, while fighting the pressure of the chin pad was really hard. By the end of my meal, I was sweaty, my chin was sore from rubbing and bumping on the pad, and I was tired. Mum then said something that would haunt me for years to come.

     

    “I think… maybe you should have a bib when you eat from now on. Also, I think that I should feed you too. Save on the mess, and save your dignity.”

     

    I looked at her with wide shocked eyes. And I said,

     

    “No, no, no, no. Not happening. No. This is bad enough,” I made a sort of all over motion with my hands indicating the brace, and all of its assorted issues.  “Just, no. Please… no more.”

     

    “Yes, a bib, and yes being fed. Have you looked at yourself, no you haven’t. You’re filthy, gravy all over your face and shirt. Not that it is your fault, it isn’t. But sweetie, there is gravy everywhere, I am not going to be doing laundry every day. No, I will be feeding you your meals at home. And I will find an aide to help you with lunch at school.”

     

    The remainder of dinner was an uncharacteristically silent affair after that little discussion. Normally I am quite the chatterbox. Not tonight. I wasn’t pouting per se. It was more of a silent brood. Needing to be fed, at my age… What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I mean I could through a tantrum, but that would reduce myself further in my own eyes than I am already being reduced in the eyes of others. It wouldn’t change anything anyways. Plus, I have to maintain what dignity I can salvage from this situation.

     

    Truthfully, I was just wrung out; this day could end. It had been a lot, yeah, today was a lot. I forced open my mouth, and slid the block back in. Intentionally muting myself until it came time to brush my teeth in preparation for bed. A silent statement to mum of ‘I’m done’. I stood up, and lurched my way out of the dining room. I made for my bed. I needed to be alone for a while.

     

    Eventually enough time passed, and it was now time for bed preparations. For me that meant a shower, the first shower that I would experience with the brace. I undressed and waited on the change table for mum to loosen my restrictions. While waiting I mused that for all intents and purposes, I was completely reliant on others for everything. I would be fed by others, I would be changed by others, I needed help to bathe myself from others. No, I was not liking just how reliant on the help of others I was becoming. It was more than a little degrading. Needing this level of help. It sucked. Sucked hard.

     

    The door opened and I saw her step through.

     

    “I know that you are not happy with all of this sweetie, especially with needing all of this extra help. But it is only for a little while. In the grand scheme of things these couple of years are going to fly by. Pretty soon it will be good-bye brace, and you can put all of this into your rear-view.”

     

    That was all well and good for future me. Current me? Not so much impressed. Either way, I huffed through my nipple hole in the way that was slowly beginning to become recognised as my standard ‘Yes’ noise. Less a ‘Yes’ and more just a resigned acceptance. Not that I actually agreed, I just wanted her to be quiet. I was in no mood for this kind of talk.

     

    Feeling her hand on my back gave me the confidence to lay back, and await the unbuckling of my girdle sections. I couldn’t wait. With a ‘ker-clunk’ I felt the first of my many restrictions get lifted. If only as a temporary measure, it did feel good. Mum grabbed my hands and sat me back up.

     

    “I’ll take you diaper off, after you are in the shower. No point tempting fate is there?”

     

    I huffed an agreement, to my shame she was 100% correct. I really couldn’t be trusted out of protection for any length of time whatsoever. Making our way out of my room and to the loo, I stepped into the shower. Finally, I was about to get released. Her hands reached towards me, and I heard and felt the tell-tale rips of my tapes being removed. My diaper was off. I felt the wondrously refreshing air. Such a treat.

     

    My face burned, as I heard a steady stream of liquid, and felt my feet get warm and wet. In vain, I attempted to look down. I should have known better than to try that. There was no point. I knew that I hadn’t started the shower yet. There was only one source that could be producing the liquid. Me. I was having another accident, this time sans diaper. At least I was standing somewhere with a drain. I looked at mum, and her face was not full of disgust, but with compassion. I just closed my eyes. Removing myself from the situation in the only way I could.  Turning around and now facing away from her, I felt the remainder of the brace get loose around my body. It opened a lot less then I was hoping it would. I had a maybe ten centemtre gap on either side through which I could access myself for cleaning. Taking what little comfort from that I could, I turned on the shower and stepped into the warming water. It felt so good. I relished in the refreshing feeling of rinsing away the accumulated sweat, stink, and shame of my day.

     

    All too soon the shower was over, I was dried off, teeth were brushed, bite block was reinstalled, brace was retightened, diaper was reapplied, and with a more and more familiar ‘ker-clunk’ the girdle was reassembled around me. I was sealed up, ready for bed.

     

    Not necessarily in that order mind you. In point of fact, diaper came first. Diapers would always come first, lest I leak or make a mess on the floor. It has happened before, and it will happen again. That is why they are called accidents. It is not like I mean for them to happen. They just do. The most dangerous time of day for me, the unprotected walk from the loo to my room. I generally hold the towel that I dried myself with bunched up between my legs. To catch any errant streams that my spring forth unbidden from my unprotected nethers. However, should the worst come to pass and I have an unprotected messy accident, I just pray that it happens in the loo or in the shower. At least the floor there is tile. If it happens in the hallway though… eugh… carpet. But this trip was safe, and soon enough I am laying on my table ready to receive my nightly diapering.

     

    My night diapers are something else. I mean my day diapers are thick enough as it is. My night diapers put them to shame. Thick, loud, and obnoxiously bulky. They need to be. Very few diapers I know of can handle a full night strapped around my hips. Finding them was an exercise in extreme patience (and lots of laundry), but when we found them, we knew that they were going to be the diapers that I used at night for the rest of my life.

     

    Still all of that activity done within an hour, not too bad that. Mum bade me goodnight, and I attempted to drift off to sleep.

     

    Sleep didn’t come easily. But come it eventually did.  

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    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    Chapter 2

    Having had all of five minutes to get myself back together and get used to the idea that I would once again need help in the most basic of personal hygiene tasks, it was decided by the doctor that there was:

     

    “No time like the present, best get you in the brace now.”

     

    I walked over to the table that held the brace. The table that held my damnation. The table that held my salvation. As the doctor unscrewed the neck shackle he explained to both myself and my mother.

     

    “Now, this brace is not designed to be removed. Loosened for bathing certainly, but removed totally no. This decision was made in order to ensure both patient and parent compliance with the treatment regimen. Your mother will hold the tool that allows you to open it for cleaning. Other than that, there are no special considerations that you need to take regarding your new brace.”

     

    Needless to say, this new discovery that I apparently couldn’t be trusted to wear the damned thing without being locked into it was not a revelation that I appreciated. The hits really did just keep on rolling. I said as much.

     

    “What do you mean I can’t loosen it myself? Bad enough that I can no longer change myself, but to trap me in this thing with no release, no control over it whatsoever... why?” My words trailed off; I could say no more. It seemed monstrous that I would be trapped inside of this thing.

     

    The doctor looked at me. Not with pity, and certainly not with anything that could be construed as cruel amusement. He looked at me with the cold clinical detachment of one who is not enjoying their job, but does it notwithstanding. As he continued to look at me, he finished opening the brace.

     

    Making a come-hither gesture he opened up the maw of my new prison. Guiding me into what I would eventually consider to be my shell. The polished metal was cold. The plastic was cold. The brace was cold. I felt my bladder contract, and my diaper expanded as it warmed. Using the mirror in front of me, I noticed that the chin pad for the brace was at least ten centimetres higher than where my chin was. They must have made a mistake! No way was I ever going to be able to get my head up there.

     

    “Oh yes, right. Before we go any further, please open your mouth as wide as you can.”

     

    I did so.

     

    From an inconspicuous little case came what I was to discover was the least pleasant part of my treatment. Worse than the indignity of needing to have my diapers changed. Worse than the brace and all of its associated restrictions. The bite block. It was huge.  It didn’t look evil, but it was. Just an acrylic mould of my upper and lower teeth. There was a little hole in the middle, the purpose of which would soon be made clear. He slipped it into my mouth, and I felt my teeth lock into place. All of the space in my mouth was taken up. I felt my tongue sink to the bottom of my mouth. I felt my mouth begin to fill with saliva. Attempting to speak, all I was left with were some quiet ‘Shthths’, and ‘Thbth’ sounds. Okay, what the fuck. First, they take away the ability to change myself. Now they take away my speech?

     

    “As you can see communication is going to be a work in progress. I recommend you get a notepad.”

     

    I looked at him through the mirror with what I hoped was loathing. I saw my mother in the background. Silent tears were gathered at her eyes. For all of the good her tears did, it was nice to get some sympathy. I felt saliva gather at the edge of my mouth, and I was forced to noisily slurp it back in what I was to discover was the first of many more undignified sounds to come. The doctor continued.

     

    “As unpleasant as the bite block is, it is required for your treatment. As I explained at our earlier appointment, the amount of cervical traction that you are going to require is rather extreme, and is therefore hard on the jaw. To prevent any unsightly malformations from cropping up, this is the tried-and-true method. Unpleasant and limiting for certain, but for the best. Like the brace, it is to be worn for 24 hours a day, excepting meals of course. To remove it you need to tilt your head as far back as you can into the occipital pads and open your mouth as wide as possible. Grab it by the sides, and pull. It will come out with little fuss or fanfare. There is a hole provided in the middle of the device to allow you to bottle drink between meals. As I am sure you are aware talking with the block is rather difficult. You will get used to it, and with practice you will be able to make yourself understood.”  

     

    I had my doubts. There was no way I was ever going to get used to this.

     

    The doctor began tightening up the brace.  

     

    “Take a deep breath in, and hold it.”

     

    I felt the brace constrict around me I heard latches slam home, tightening me further into this… this thing. As it tightened, I felt my bowels move and a rather unladylike sound erupted from my diaper. I felt the mess explode out of me and plaster itself onto and between my cheeks. I don’t even bat an eyelash. It is not a feeling or a sound that I am unused to. I mean I don’t relish it, but I am used to it. I spend a measurable portion of every day in messy diapers. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Having a loud accident is embarrassing sure, but it is not the end of the world. Despite the sound, at least everything is relatively neatly contained safely in my diaper. As he completed the tightening of the brace I felt my head rise, and finally rest itself upon the chin pad. At that, I heard an ominous click at the back of my head, locking the shackle into position. It was done.

     

    Looking a little uncomfortable, the doctor stepped back away from me.

     

    I looked around. Learning to move in this thing was going to be a challenge. The fact that I can no longer use my neck in any useful capacity, my head held fast by the pressures of the pads. If I wanted to look further than my eyes could swivel, I needed to turn my entire body to face the desired direction. If I wanted to look up, I had to lean back. Feeling that eery sense of off-balance weightlessness as I did so. Look down? Lean forward as best I could at the hips, the front of the brace digging uncomfortably into my thighs. This sucked.

     

    Looking in the mirror I see the doctors face has a subtle wrinkle of disgust writ upon it. I guess he could smell me. I could certainly smell myself. It was an odour that was less than desirable. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Turning myself to face it, I saw my mum approach. Her having been uninvolved thus far, I knew that that was about to change. The thing I was dreading was upon me. She was going to change me. For the first time in years, I was about to get my diaper changed, not because I asked for the help, or she offered to help. But because I needed the help. Needing the help, it makes all the difference in the world.

     

    “Sweetie,” her voice was soft, and gentle. Almost like the tone that gets used to reassure skittish animals. “let’s go home and get you cleaned up, okay?”.

     

    How was I supposed to agree, I couldn’t nod. I couldn’t speak. I huffed my assent though the nipple hole, spraying some saliva onto myself as I did. Lovely.

     

    She took my hand and guided me towards my clothes. My walk was little more than a graceless lurch at this point. All of the motions of my body transferred up to my head. It made focusing on the destination harder than it needed to be, and by the end I had a little bit of a headache. Learning how to walk smoothly in the brace. Just one more thing. Getting to my clothes I stood there looking at them. I turned, facing my mum. She grabbed my trousers, and knelt. A sad smile on her face.

     

    “Don’t worry sweetie, I’ll help you. Give me you foot… that’s one. Now the other… that’s two.”

     

    In the end I got dressed, and we left the clinic. There were some stairs leading down to the car park, and it was there that I once again realised just how seriously limited I was. I couldn’t look down. I could walk up to where I thought the steps would be, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t see the steps. I had to shuffle up to what I hoped was the edge and take a step of faith. The presence of a handrail a very welcome feature. Thankfully mum was there in front of me acting as a safety. Still, stairs and learning how to deal with them safely. Just one more thing.

     

    As we walked, well she walked. I lurched, and slurped, lurched, and slurped. I felt the mess in my diaper migrate both forward and backward. Between those two directions I preferred it to migrate forward. Yes, it made for a less pleasant clean-up, but it also reduced the risk of getting THAT on my clothes. I would take the longer clean-up every time.

     

    We got to the car, and I was presented with yet another new challenge. Getting it without smacking my head. Being unable to bend or contort in anyway left me with few options. In the end, I decided to squat and shimmy my way on to the seat. As I sat down, the mess in my diaper spread out further still. I grimaced at the feeling. Also, I discovered that upon sitting down, my head was thrust further upwards by the pressure on the chin pad, leaving me looking primarily at the roof of the car. I could see a little bit through the windscreen, but it was exhausting keeping my eyes trained down like that. Eventually I accepted that driving was not something I was going to enjoy. It was boring. I couldn’t even see where we were, I had to just accept that eventually we would get home in good order. Wow, boring. Also, being unable to look at mum or intelligently verbalise in general left her filling the silence with inane optimistic babble.  

     

    “Oh, you can hardly see it at all, I mean if I didn’t know you were wearing a brace, I would never have guessed.”

     

    Sure, uhuh, press ‘X’ to doubt. The huge pad in the front, and the two at the rear sort of make a liar out of you mum. The fact that I move like a cheap ‘B’ movie automaton is also a dead giveaway. Good attempt though. I don’t believe you, but good attempt. 

     

    Or my personal favourite. “Don’t worry about it, I am sure that everyone at school will be nice enough. I mean it is not like they are little children.”

     

    Speaking from the experience of being the only fully incontinent girl not enrolled in the ‘special’ classes, I could state, and I do state for the record that they would not be. I mean, they won’t be outright cruel. They are teenagers in a very good chartered school, practically adults. Truthfully, I would prefer the unabashed stares, and unapologetic questions of children. Much easier to handle those instead of the furtive glances that I am sure to receive now. The hushed whispers. The subtle ostracization that occurs, groups get formed and I am excluded. It is not a conscious thing I don’t think. It is I think a holdover from the days of communal living. I am different. Different from the group. That might be bad. Better not chance it. Keep her at a distance.  

     

    That is why I am so grateful for what friends I have been able to make. Why I am so terrified that I will lose them because of my new restrictions. Because of my new life.

     

    Shifting my weight was gave me a little reminder that I am in a rather filthy state. We have both gotten used to the smell, but the feeling of the mush between my cheeks is a reminder that despite our nasal habituation to my accidents I was in desperate need of a fresh diaper.

     

    Eventually we arrived home, and I was very eager to get a change. Getting in the house, I was confronted by my newest enemy. Stairs. At least going up them is not as daunting, I can at least see the stairs, if not where I put my feet.

     

    Lurching and slurping my way down the hall, I finally get to my room. It is a pretty typical room, I think. Bed, dresser, etc. All of the expected items are there. The two things that make it stand out from your average bedroom are, the gigantic clinical diaper genie, and the larger than average change table. Even I, for all that I hate needing diapers, can appreciate the change table. It gives me some sense of dignity when I change myself. Well, when I used to change myself. Better than doing it on the floor at any rate. I clamour with as much grace as I am able, read none, onto the table. Sitting there in my filthy diaper I am confronted with yet another one of those things. I can’t easily lay myself back. I could fall backwards sure, but that would be uncontrolled and scary; plus, I really don’t want to miss the table and fall off. Even to get into the proper changing position I need help. Thankfully my mum arrives and seeing the problem gently lowers me down so that my back is resting on the table. I hear my trousers get unbuckled. Only feeling them when they are drawn down my legs. The thick plastic girdle makes simple things like feeling if your clothes are fastened rather impossible. You just have to trust that they are there.  

     

    Next comes the ‘ker-clunk’ of the latches and a feeling of air as the girdle pieces get removed. I can only strain my eyes so much. Being stuck flat on my back, all I can see are her arms and occasionally her torso as she leans inward. I feel and hear the tell-tale rips of my tapes being removed. All of a sudden, I feel the bliss of fresh air. Such a treat. So cool. Just as I am savouring the sensation, I feel my diaper get hastily pulled back over me.

     

    Why? It is a very wet, very dirty diaper. I want it off. Making what interrogative noises I can, I eventually get her attention. She comes more into my view. I raise a singular eyebrow as if to ask. “What gives, why did you put that back over me?” I guess she takes the hint because she replies.

     

    “You are having an accident right now.”

     

    I blush. It is one of my least favourite aspects of my incontinence. The fact that I am so totally reliant on my diapers I release anywhere, anytime. Immediately post change is always cause for consternation. Mid-change is not so bad. Embarrassing sure, being seen having an unprotected accident sucks. Still better than and accident immediately post changing. At least this diaper is already used, and I will get to enjoy the feeling of dryness that much longer.

     

    Eventually it is determined that I am done, and the change proceeds as usual. The feeling cleanliness is a very welcome respite from my previous state of being. As temporary as I know that it is I appreciate it nonetheless. I hear “lift up, and lower.” And I lift my bum as much as I am able, lowering myself down I feel the warm dry embrace of my new diaper.

     

    Some creaming and some powdering later I feel the diaper get bunched tightly up into my crotch, followed by the feeling of my tapes being applied. I am once again sealed into my own personal toilet, protecting the world from my accidents. The girdle gets replaced. Same with my trousers. The change was complete.

    7 hours ago, igel said:

    I'm glad you're back with a story.

    Thanks. 

    • Like 4
    • Thanks 1

    An English Rose in a cage of steel (Chapter 7, 16/12/2023)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    “Go and lay down in the usual spot, I’ll take care of you in a moment.”

     

    I swivel my eyes to the very extreme of my field of view, and give a low huff. I am going to take her word for it, not that I can rightly tell on my own. I glide over to the ordained place in my usual graceless fashion, and get myself in position to receive the most important hygienic ministration that dictates my daily life.

     

    Words like that, or words to their effect have defined my life for far longer than they did not. The words themselves in this specific context are of referring to the changing of my diaper. Yes diaper. I much prefer that word to nappy. It feels less infantile, as ironic as that is. It’s all about the little things.

     

    I remember why I was put back in diapers for good, I was seven years old. I had been having regular accidents since I was five. I was a difficult and late potty trainer to begin with, not graduating out of day diapers until the age of four. Never graduating out of night diapers. The accidents. Well, they started out small; but they continued to grow in scope and frequency. Eventually progressing to the point of totally wetting and soiling my clothes. Medical advice was sought, eventually it was agreed by both the doctor, and my mother: Some protection was called for.  Fun Fact! If you are unconsciously soiling your clothes on the regular, protection is in your future. We started out with cutesy pullups. They lasted all of a month. Nope, I needed diapers. No more cutesy Tinkerbell pullups for me. I needed proper youth medical diapers, thick enough to deal with my frequent accidents.

     

    It was not pleasant, and it is seldom truly comfortable, but I have worn diapers ever since. The lest pleasant of the sensations can be mostly mitigated with creams and potions. But when it is all you know and remember, it is all you know.

     

    It was a bright summer evening when I saw the bag of diapers sitting innocently on the kitchen table. I knew that it was the first of what would eventually become a lifetime subscription to the bulky bottom club. That was 25 years ago. Now I, a 32-year-old woman, was about to get my diaper changed.

     

    Now, it always feels good to get a fresh diaper. It didn’t always. In the beginning, I hated both the act of getting changed, and the inevitable fact that I would helplessly use the new one. The new diaper, unapologetically proclaiming my need for it with every crinkle, crackle, and unconscious fart. However, eventually the memories of conventional toileting faded. I even grew to appreciate getting the sodden, and sticky mass that had been hanging from my waist for the last several hours removed. Removed and replaced with the feeling of a fresh one. The cooling sensation of wipes taking away the cloying feeling of my emissions. Feeling the freshness of lotions and powders spread around, indicating that at least for the moment I smell not of my own wastes but of lavender, and medicinal chemicals. It smells clean, it smells nice.

     

    Of course, I now take pills to manage the majority of the smell of my solid waste products. Despite that, there is still a subtle odour that permeates the immediate vicinity of my diaper area. Even after getting wiped down, it lingers. Probably the result of more than 25 years of that area being kept in a dark and frequently damp and dirty wrapping. No matter how hard I was cleaned, how vigorously I was wiped the smell yet lingers after a change. But that is what powders and creams are for. Disguising my odours, keeping the smell of my diaper area as pleasant as it can be.

     

    This is all second-hand information anyway, after so many years of olfactory exposure I am anosmatic to most any scents that waft up from my diaper. I can’t even rely on the sensations within my diaper to inform me of its state. Wet or dry, clean or dirty it makes very little difference to me. I don’t notice their condition. It is not something I need to trouble myself about; I am just that used to it. Not that I am able to change my own diaper anyway. No matter how much I may want to.

     

    I used to change myself, from the ages of 12 to 15 I was able to manage my diapers without any outside assistance. It was rather marvellous. The sheer freedom. Being able to go and explore the world, without the need to be in direct contact with my mother. To hang out with my friends knowing that it was just us. It was great. Of course, I needed to carry my diaper bag with me. It contained all of my daily essentials: spare diapers, creams, gloves, a small changing mat, plastic bags, a pair of shorts in case I leaked into my trousers, and wipes. It was a big, bulky, and given my death grip on it at all times, clearly needed bag. Obvious bag or not, the fact it gave me the freedom to go out and be with my friends’ sans supervision was truly fantastic.

     

    That all changed when I was 15. It was discovered that I had been suffering unknowingly from scoliosis for years. It was only noticed because I had recently been suffering from persistent pins and needles in my fingers, and told my Mum. We went to the doctor, and from there to a specialist. From that specialist, we learned that the most concerning scoliotic curve was too high up in my neck to safely allow for surgery. Furthermore, there were three curves in total. Two were compounded upon each other in my neck and upper spine. The third could be found in my lumbar region. Their angles and their positions in my body made me an apparently ‘interesting’ case.  At the time, I was grateful, I didn’t want surgery. Little did I know that what was to come would make me look back on that thought and scoff.

     

    It was determined that I would need to wear a brace, it would be a highly unusual brace. Unusual insomuch as it would not be the more conventionally modern Boston or Lyon style of braces. No, it would be a Milwaukee brace, fallen out of fashion for the last several decades, it was the only brace that would be suited to my particular needs. Yippee. So we went to the orthotists for an examination. It was rather involved. Measurements were taken, and I was placed into a cast. The cast was just to ensure that they could create an accurate model of my body. During the drying of my cast, I had felt myself both wet and mess. Thankfully it was a reasonably fresh diaper, and I managed to avoid having a leak.

     

    After the last several hours suspended in a plaster cast, I was pretty soiled. No two ways around it, I stunk. Not that I am unused to it mind you, but being forced to stay soiled, being unable to change made the unpleasant sensations that I am accustomed to seem all the greater.

     

    My diaper was too dirty to handle it on my own. As a favour mum came to my rescue and changed me. I didn’t expect her to do it, she offered, and I accepted. I was grateful for the rare favour. Sometimes it felt nice to be taken care of. We were directed to go next to the orthodontist. Unsure as to why, we were told.

     

    “The particular Milwaukee brace that we are making for you is rather hard on the jaw and tooth alignment of the user. With your high cervical curves, you are going to need some serious traction to straighten out, so this will be just a precaution.” Accepting this we went to the next office. Moulds were taken of my teeth, and that was that. We went home to await the inevitable notification that my brace was ready.

     

    Arriving back at the orthotists some weeks later we were warmly greeted by both the doctor and the technician. This was unusual, but no more unusual than my case already was. Apparently, Milwaukee braces were extremely rare, so the doctor wanted to make double sure that everything was proceeding safely apace with my treatment.

     

    My mum and I were led into the fitting room, and I disrobed. I was a little embarrassed to have my diaper, damp as it was, on full display, but these people were professionals. No comment was made about the state of my personal toilet. The Doctor looked rather excited about my brace. As the sheet was removed, I failed to see why.

     

    It was an unholy amalgam of plastic and steel. There were three steel struts that rocketed upwards from what appeared to be a plasticised version of my torso. They terminated in what I could only describe as a cruel metal shackle that would surround my neck. There was were three large pads that were attached to the shackle, one large pad in the front, with two highly angled ones on the rear.

     

    My mum I am sure felt me stiffen in dread. Although I had been playing it pretty cool since finding out exactly what type of corrective device I would need, I am sure neither of us were looking forward to it.

     

    For myself, it was because it was hard enough to cultivate and maintain friendships as a teenager. Doubly so when said teenager needed a diaper to manage their daily life. Adding a further complication of a large, obvious, and bulky brace, to my large, obvious, and bulky diapers; I am sure I would cut quite the figure. Memorable for all of the wrong reasons. I gripped her hand, and I felt her return the affection.

     

    The doctor proceeded to explain the exact workings of the brace, suffice to say that I was horrified. I would need to wear this thing 24 hours a day for the foreseeable future. Not impressed. It was restrictive, I would effectively be a plank, unable to casually slouch in any capacity. He saved the worst feature for the last.

     

    “As you can see there are several latches spread equidistant around the lower portion of the girdle. That allows you ma’am to remove the lower portions of the girdle and subsequently access to, and the servicing of the incontinence device that your daughter unfortunately relies upon. This is an extremely unusual feature, and required that we stiffen and thicken the remainder of the girdle to prevent any unwanted shifting.”

     

    I am sure I was 1000 shades of red. I hated being talked about like I am not in the room, doubly so when it involved the shameful aspect of my life that I had finally gained control over. Control insomuch as I was in charge of their management. I spoke up.

     

    “What do you mean access to. Why ever would she need access to them. I get it I need a diaper, but I have been handling them on my own for years now.”

     

    Mum looked a little embarrassed, the doctor looked a little embarrassed. Hell, everybody in the room besides myself looked embarrassed. Clearly, I had missed something. The doctor looked my mum directly in the eyes and spoke.

     

    “You didn’t tell her?” He queried, a look of consternation on his face.

     

    “How could I tell her? Do you know how much she is going to hate this? How much she is going to hate me? It was easier to pretend that this wasn’t happening.”

     

    There was an almost desperate pleading note in her voice, like she didn’t want to acknowledge in any way what was to come.

     

    It was at this point I jumped in. “Okay, well not okay but you know what I mean. What did I miss here? What exactly are you two talking about?”

     

    The doctor looked at my mum. My mum looked at me. She took both of my hands in hers, and steeling herself with a fortifying breath she said. “We are talking about the fact that while you need this brace, you will be unable to change yourself. I will need to start changing your diapers again. At school the therapy aides will need to do it. I am so sorry; I know how much being in control of your diapers meant to you. But you are going to have to let it go now.”

     

    I looked in her eyes, looking, pleading, hoping for her so have the telltale sparkle of mischief in them. It isn’t there. Her eyes are sad. I could feel myself on the verge on panic.

     

    “WHAT?! NO! Why? Mum why? That’s not fair! Do you have any idea how much that sucks?! Do you? No, you don’t. Because you don’t have to wear diapers. For the first time ever, I finally feel a little bit like an adult. DO you know how rare that is for me? Do you have any idea at all? I mean at all? No you don’t. I smell like piss most of the time, except for when I smell like shit. My diaper pokes up out of my trousers no matter what pair I wear… I crinkle and crackle like a fucking toddler if I am dry. If I am wet or dirty, I smell like a sewer and I waddle. No matter what I wear over them, there is no disguising my diapers. Not really. Everybody at school already knows about them. Christ, as thick as they are I am surprised that I don’t get more comments than I already do. At least getting to handle it myself was the one positive to needing to wear these fucking things! The first little bit of actual privacy I have ever had. Not having my filthy crotch tended to, but handling it myself. It was MY job! MINE! No one else’s. MINE! GOD! Do you have any idea what my friends are going to say?” I continued in a much smaller voice. “You’re taking everything away from me. Please don’t.”

     

    “Sweetie… if they are really your friends, you needing a little extra help is not going to make a difference to them.”

     

    In retrospect she was kind of right. However, at the time I was a very self-conscious teenager. My self esteem had finally almost caught up to the level of my peers. Having friends that didn’t make a big deal about my diapers certainly helped. The diapers were mine and mine alone to deal with. Hell, they seldom even came up in conversation. And when they did it was a very casual mention of them. Something along the lines of “You’re poking out.” That’s it. Nothing embarrassing, just a matter-of-fact statement. But now? With the addition of needing a brace. I felt all of those old feelings of inadequacy, of shame. Feelings that I had hoped were dead and buried come marching back to the fore of my mind. I felt my lower lip wobble. I had a small break down. I admit it freely. It wasn’t fair. Why me?        

    • Like 5
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    Strange days indeed - a 24 x 7 experiment

    in Our Lifestyle Discussion

    Posted

    7 hours ago, oznl said:

    That’s because he’s got stiff-upper-lipped British endorphins: brought up on cold showers, dismal weather and a “Dolce et decorum est” fatalist ethic brewed in a land that considers “Not too bad” as a desirable state of affairs.

    I love that phrasing so much. Some Brits are taciturn to an almost unbelievable degree. As an example, I slaved away for hours making Osso Bucco for a visiting cousin. Having talked up my dish for years of visits to them, on their infrequent hopping across the pond and a continent I decided to go for broke and make it. So I did, it was absolutely delicious, tender not spongy veal; the sauce was beautiful. Their response... "Not too bad." Needless to say I was unimpressed and needed some wine.  

    • Haha 4

    Partner with incontinence and how you feel

    in Incontinent-Desires

    Posted

    Yeah, this is a very sensitive topic that needs to be handled with care and tact. Personally I feel that you should tell her, but be very very gentle about it. I am not exactly sure that you should say, that is entirely situationally dependant. All I can say is that I know that if I had a lingering odour after changing, I would want to know. 

    • Thanks 1

    Big Baby Steps (Updated with 12/29/22 Edition)

    in Story and Art Forum

    Posted

    Interesting addition.

    It is nice to get a solid new point of view with regards to the why of the baby treatment, especially in the case of Jackie. In all of your previous stories Jackie has been the main focus- if not the narrator, you sympathize. And, from her point of view she didn't deserve the babying (arguably no one deserves such a long lasting punishment ((treatment?)(torture?)). But, from the perspective of the (and I hesitate to apply this word to her jailors) family she most certainly did deserve it for being manipulative towards friends and loved ones. Very much looking forward to whenever you have more to post. Thanks a bunch, have a gooder! 

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