BabyAnna

Big welcome hugs Gummybear, and story readers here are in for a treat!

Rosa had always dreamed of having a curvaceous and voluptuous body, and she had spent a significant amount of time and money in her quest to achieve the perfect figure. Despite her efforts, however, she always felt like something was missing. So when her friend suggested that she try wearing a thick disposable diaper to achieve the appearance of a larger bottom, Rosa was initially hesitant. At first, she felt a sense of trepidation and uncertainty about wearing something so infantile. She worried that it would look obvious or strange, and that people would judge her for it. But as she considered the potential outcomes, her desire to be fashionable and her optimism about the results won out, and she decided to give it a try. Rosa ordered a pack of thick, absorbent diapers online and waited nervously for them to arrive. When they finally did, she was surprised at how soft and comfortable they felt against her skin. She put one on and examined herself in the mirror, feeling both excited and nervous about the prospect of wearing it in public. As she adjusted the diaper to fit snugly against her curves, Rosa noticed that her bottom looked fuller and rounder, just like she had always wanted. She was amazed at how natural it looked and how confident it made her feel. Over the next few days, Rosa wore her diaper under her clothes and marveled at the compliments she received on her figure. She felt empowered by her decision to try something unconventional and was proud of herself for embracing her desires and exploring new ways to achieve the look she wanted. However, as Rosa continued to wear the thick disposable diaper to achieve the appearance of a larger bottom, she grew more comfortable with the idea of wearing it out in public. However, she was still anxious about the possibility of someone discovering that she was wearing a diaper. One day, as she was out running errands, Rosa felt an urgent need to use the bathroom. She searched for the nearest restroom but found that it was out of order. Her anxiety increased as she realized she might have to reveal her secret to a stranger in order to find a bathroom. In a moment of desperation, Rosa made the decision to use the diaper. She felt ashamed and embarrassed, but she knew it was better than risking exposure. As she made her way home, Rosa felt conflicted. On the one hand, she was grateful for the convenience of the diaper and the freedom it gave her to move around without worry. On the other hand, she felt ashamed and infantilized by the experience. Over the next few days, Rosa struggled with her conflicting feelings about the diaper. She appreciated the way it made her look and the freedom it gave her to move around without worry, but she also felt humiliated by the idea of wearing a diaper as an adult. Eventually, Rosa came to the realization that she didn't have to choose between the two. She could wear the diaper to achieve the look she wanted without feeling ashamed, and she could also take it off when she didn't need it. It was her body and her choice, and she didn't have to justify it to anyone. From that moment on, Rosa wore the diaper with confidence and pride, knowing that it was a part of her unique style and identity. She learned to embrace her desires and celebrate her individuality, no matter how unconventional it may seem to others. The story does include certain keywords I used to prompt its generation, and based on my prompts and feedback was refined and edited by ChatGPT four times following the initial draft. I have however copied the exact text, entirely unedited, from the final generated version.

This was only meant to be a three sentence story to start with, no plans to write anything more.

I opened the door, and stood there. He looked me up and down, and grinned. Clearly he liked my short skirt, a Japanese school type design, or perhaps it was my t-shirt, the low scooped neck revealing just a little cleavage. Maybe it was the picture on it, a happy looking girl dressed very similarly but with a diaper peeking out from her skirt, or possibly the writing below that. "Daddy's Girl." "Cute," he said, his grin widening. "No," I said, "This is cute." I lifted the hem of my skirt, showed him the thick disposable diaper I was wearing underneath. His eyebrows raised, and his smile broadened. "Kinky." "No," I said, "This is kinky." I held my skirt clear of the diaper and let him see it start to discolour as I relieved the pressure on my bladder. I didn't need to force it, and he watched in rapt fascination as visible dampness rose up the inside of the waterproof covering for over half a minute. "That's just perverted," he said, wonder in his voice. "No," I said, "This is perverted." I swivelled around, letting my skirt drop down to my thighs, hiding the wetness in my diaper. Instead I lifted it at the back, and let him watch as it started to swell from within. I twisted my shoulders, turned my head to watch him watching me. His face was a picture, but he didn't move, didn't stop watching. "That's disgusting," he said. "No," I said, "This is disgusting." I dropped the hem of my skirt and instead pulled at its waistband. My fingers hooked in behind that, and into the back of my diaper. I pulled them both away from my skin. The smell was immediately obvious; I was glad he couldn't see my reaction to it, and didn't doubt his was at least as bad. The groan I heard from him certainly suggested that. "That's just abusive," he told me. "No," I said, "This is abusive." I nodded to the three men that had walked up behind him while I was distracting him. They grabbed him from behind, two of them pinning him to the ground while the third cut off his clothing, the knife scaring him into submission. They quickly dressed him again, larger versions of my skirt and top, the picture and words on his still showing Daddy's Girl. When one of them used a hand to push his penis down between his legs as they brought the front of a thick diaper up and over it, he finally spoke again. More of a scream. "This is rape!" "No," I said, in amazement that he hadn't already learned. I winked at the men holding him down, and closed my door. As the screaming suddenly became muffled I waddled away from the door. All I'd wanted was an apology, and now I needed a change instead. As I got everything ready I thought to prepare a second clean diaper too. He'd be needing that, afterwards, and many more. Until I got my apology at least, but maybe the guys would like their new toy, want to keep him. He might even like it. I did, even when I had to be patient. I sat down and wriggled in my soiled diaper, waited for them to finish, to come and change me.

I'm sorry, your reply has confused me. There's no coercion here, no pay to play and I'd class this as fiction rather than fantasy. Also no consent, which does help make it dark, but you should see what I do to the first person narrator in some of my other works. This is nothing.

He sneered at me, and his voice carried contempt too. "Really?" he asked, "Accusing men of manspreading is so 2015." I retained control, didn't roll my eyes. Didn't raise my voice. Didn't step up and kick him right between those wide spread thighs. "Interesting that you use that term," is all I said, "I didn't. I just asked you not to sit opposite me with your knees wider than a desperate whore's." I hadn't said that to him originally either, but he took it well. "Well why not," he said, "I'm open for business too." "So why wave your crotch at me?" I asked. "I'm hardly going to step between your thighs and stick something inside you. You'll need a man for that." He actually brought his legs closer together at that, but only so he could lean forward, speak to me from closer across the aisle. "I'm sat down, lady, I figured you'd want a wide stable platform as you wrapped your legs around me." What could I say to that? "You'd like that would you?" He smirked, cocksure in so many ways, nodded at me and leaned back again, his knees moving further apart as he did. "Sure, you look.. experienced. We could have some fun together." I was flattered, but not enough. I played it shy though, allowed myself to blush, lower my gaze a little, look up at him through my eyelashes. "This is my stop," I said, standing up. I wriggled my hips a little as I got off the train, and it did the trick. He followed, subtly at first then with long strides catching up with me. I held out an arm and he took it in his, a right proper gentleman. He tried small talk with me on the short walk back home. I shushed him, no need to get to know each other. As we entered my house I showed him into the lounge, invited him to take a seat, walked into the kitchen. Moments later I joined him, handed him an open bottle of beer, expensive lager. My glass of wine went on the table, a cup mat that I made sure he saw me use. He got the hint, put his beer on one too. Good boy, but too late now. "Enjoy that beer while I change into something more comfortable," I told him. Corny old lines still work, especially that one, in that situation. That was always a promise. I was back quickly, my drab leggings and tunic top gone, a tasteful camisole top showing my bra, a short skirt fluffed out by petticoats flashing the top of the hold-ups I'd quickly pulled on. I'd skipped the heels, they would've come straight off again anyway. I struck a pose in the doorway. He took his bottle from his mouth, looked up, smiled, let his eyes take it all in. I wasn't in my prime any more but he wasn't complaining, patted the seat beside him. "Well hello sexy, why don't you come and sit here." Corny old lines still work, but not that one. I walked towards him but sat opposite, a reprise of our roles on the train. This time as I sat down I spread my knees, a little at first, widening as he watched. He wasn't watching them, or my thighs, but where those met, hidden behind the fluffy skirt that was long enough to drape down between them. I coughed gently, and he looked up, didn't even have the grace to acknowledge his inappropriate focus. Maybe he felt it appropriate. "I couldn't help it," I said, "couldn't keep my thighs together either." He grinned at that, put his beer on the table - on a cup mat, I was glad to see - and stood up. I grinned as he fell back down, his legs giving way beneath him. If he'd been a girl he'd have known better than to drink a beer someone else opened, that he hadn't been in control of. The joy of date rape drugs is that nobody can remember what happened. He wouldn't remember coming to my house, or me stripping him naked. I didn't have trousers in his size and his no longer fit, no over the thick diaper I'd put him in. That was what I'd changed into, why I couldn't close my thighs, and why he couldn't now close his. I couldn't send him out like that though so he got one of my old skirts, just as fluffed out by petticoats as my own, but instead of hold-ups I put him in a pair of dainty lace topped nylon socks. Annoyingly his legs looked great in those, the skirt too short to hide them. Good job I'd shaved them, and that wasn't all I'd shaved. He wouldn't want nasty hair making cleaning himself harder. He'd need to clean himself too. I told him to speak up if he didn't want the enema but he said nothing. Unconscious people tend to be quiet, but I did ask. Unconscious people don't fight an enema either, even one as large as his. Getting him back to the train was a challenge, a friend helping out, trying not to giggle the whole time. "Drunk," we explained to the only person that queried us, disgust in our voice. They didn't challenge that, a man in a short skirt and dainty socks with bright red lipstick could be easily believed to lack personal control. I'd done his lips too. He'd surely want to look his best on the train. We left him sat there, the diaper forcing his thighs apart, the skirt carefully arranged to not drape between them, his thick diaper clearly on show. Left him there, his t-shirt hiding the words written on him with a sharpie. Left him there, his head pushed back, resting on top of the seat back, his mouth open, drool escaping past those bright red lips. Left him there, to wake up, discover how we'd left him. Discover what the enema had done to him. Discover what the other passengers had done to him. Discover those words he'd be wearing for a few days. "You wanted to spread your legs. Now you have no choice. Next time we'll make it permanent." I added his photograph to my collection. One day I'd get a repeat customer; I was looking forward to that.

As I joined the queue in the cafe I found my eyes drawn to the bottom of the woman in front. It lacked her svelte curves, distended a little, her skirt hanging further from her legs than I’d expect. Was she.. wearing a diaper? As she glanced behind, saw my focus, she smiled. I caught her eye, smiled back, blushed. She winked and turned away. Even as I wondered how to react I noticed her reach behind, a scratching motion at her bottom, drawing her short skirt up enough to reveal her underwear. It wasn’t just padded, it was swelling before my eyes. She’d soiled herself in public, making sure I knew about it. I caught her arm, turned her to face me. I reached up and kissed her welcoming lips, our tongues teasingly probing for dominance. It was love at first shite.

This one did have a choking hazard. You can't win. So I don't play.

Being equally serious, academic analysis has found that content warnings cause unnecessary triggering and are counter-productive. Irrespective of that as an author I despise them for multiple reasons, including the blatant spoiler that would pre-emptively make the entire story pointless. See also Content Warning.

Husni looked up at the beaming face of her new Mommy and smiled back. "Cuddle!" she demanded, reaching out with her arms. Natalia couldn't resist and picked little Husni up, embracing her in a tight hug that kept going long after they'd entered the cafe. "You're just so adorable!" gushed Natalia, "I'm so lucky we found each other." Husni nestled her head against the Amazon's muscular arm but didn't reply, just enjoying the warmth and security she was feeling. They'd met literally that morning but their instant rapport, the ease with which they both adopted their new roles was entirely predictable. Indeed, the Little Portal Group were rapidly gaining a tremendous reputation entirely because of the AI algorithms that matched littles with prospective parents. It wasn't that Husni had any issues she was escaping. She just recognised the benefits and opportunities of a life of carefree abandon, someone else seeing to her every need, the chance to be loved and cherished and avoid the big decisions adult life forced upon her. Natalia would have also said she had no issues in her life, and perhaps even believed that. Indeed, had two of her friends not become mothers in the past few weeks her issues would all have been extremely mundane. Those friends gaining their first maternal experiences - one through adoption of a little, the other an actual pregnancy and childbirth - had however caused an irrevocable descent into broody desire, almost forcing Natalia into action. She'd signed up to with the Little Portal Group, wanting to take on a little that had chosen a life of dependency rather than kidnap or force a native little into a role they really didn't want, even if it was for their own good. A difficult ethical dilemna but Natalia had gone with her heart and her innate sense of fair play, and the result had been a match with Husni. The trip through the portal had been strange for Husni but not difficult, and she'd recovered quickly, marvelling at the size of the Amazons around her and how vulnerable she felt in their presence. Then Natalia had entered the room, been introduced and Husni had instantly relaxed, an instinctive perception that this was someone she could trust, be safe with. Even the inevitable first diaper had been easy. Natalia had practiced beforehand, made the experience swift and painless, treating it as a normal part of caring for, dressing and preparing Husni for the day. Husni in turn barely registered its role, the diaper not standing out against the other new clothes in which she was garbed. The matching onesie and pinafore dress were adorable and infantile, which her subconscious entirely accepted without complaint given her diminutative stature besides the Amazons around her. "She's just darling," one of them had said, with noises of agreement and appreciation from the rest of the group. "She certainly is," was Natalia's response, before thanking the Little Portal Group team and heading out into the city. "I know you want to see your new home," Natalia said to Husni as she pushed the stroller through the city, "but I haven't had breakfast yet so I thought we'd stop at a cafe on the way." Husni had smiled up at her new Mommy. These decisions were no longer hers to make and she relaxed into the freedom of just accepting what was happening around her while looking around with interest and amazement. All the cars were different, the people walking around so unbelievably large, some of them pushing a stroller just like the one she was sat in. Those contained people her size, some of them looking like pudgy child versions of the Amazons, others clearly already adult themselves but the same size, treated just like the children. Like herself. That reassured her, confirmed that she hadn't turned herself into a circus freak. Adult littles really were treated like toddlers here, kept in diapers, pushed around in strollers, dressed in cute clothes. The fascination with the world around her kept Husni distracted until they reached the cafe, and the first real chance for a cuddle. It was everything she'd anticipated, hoped for. It was everything Natalia had wanted, needed. The waitress broke the spell, drew them both back to the present. Natalia handled the questions and placed the orders, making it clear who in the relationship had control, was the decision maker. The waitress hadn't assumed anything different but Husni found it strange, not used to being a passive presence while the others around her discussed and made choices on her behalf. As though she were a child and they were adults. Husni realised that was exactly the relationship and looked up at Natalia. "I think I might love you," she said, surprised by the depth of emotion she was feeling. Natalia melted within at that, but tried to hide it from her new child. "I do love you," she said, then had to hide her own surprise that she hadn't lied, hadn't exaggerated. Somehow in just a couple of hours she'd bonded entirely with her adopted daughter, already felt that maternal need to always be there, always protect and support her child. That emotional connection survived through to food arriving. It didn't end then, the arrival of breakfast just forcing other considerations into focus. Hunger, for both of them, and the new experience of being fed; of feeding. That proved straightforward, a bottle full of warm milk easy for Natalia to offer, one arm cradling Husni and letting her use her own hands to hold it in place as she suckled. That freed Natalia's other arm, scrambled egg easy to scoop one-handed with a fork, toast eaten with fingers, offered and shared with Husni as she took a break from the bottle. The eye contact between them had to end eventually but it was a jarring interruption, loud exclamations and performance enthusiasm. Ursula had been Natalia's friend for many years and they regularly caught up for dinner or attended the same parties. Natalia hadn't yet broadcast her adoption though so Ursula had all the surprise and delight of a friend that wanted to show support and celebrate. "Is she yours?" she asked, "She's just adorable! What's her name? When did you get her? Oh, you're so.. oh!" Emotions overwhelmed Ursula, finally halting the continuous loud stream of enthusiasm. "Husni is my daughter," confirmed Natalia proudly, "She arrived just this morning - we haven't even been home yet, we popped in here for breakfast on the way back. What brings you here? I hadn't expected to meet anyone!" Ursula had explained the cafe's proximity to where she worked, the opportunity to enjoy a nice coffee while getting out of the office mid-morning, then returned the conversation to Husni. In the meantime Natalia busied herself putting Husni into the provided high-chair, using the straps to hold her in position, her inexperience as a mother making her take longer with the basic task while also going overboard with the restraints. She didn't want her new baby put at risk! Husni had found this all a shock. One moment being fed by her new Mommy, now she was being strapped into a chair, no physical contact, not part of the conversation even when she was the subject of it. "Mommy?" she said, the question inherent in her tone. "Hush baby," said Natalia, "Mommy's friend wants to know all about you. Sit there and be a good girl while I tell her how wonderful you are." Husni didn't appreciate this. "I can tell her," she said, "and we can still cuddle while you talk." "Oh, isn't she just adorable," said Ursula, "You're so lucky to have found one that wants to engage." Natalia nodded, understanding and appreciating the compliment. "You're right, I can't believe I found her," she said, "but she does need to learn that she can't be the centre of attention all the time." Natalia reached into her bag and pulled out a pacifier. For Amazon children it was a perfect size, which also made it ideal for adult littles, as Husni immediately discovered when Natalia pushed it into her mouth. She spat it out. "No!", she said firmly, perhaps a little loudly, "I'm not.." Ursula never learned what Husni was not, as Natalia used the open complaining mouth as an opportunity to put the pacifier back in. This time she twisted something on its front and Husni discovered that she could no longer spit it out, stop it quelling her complaints. "Be a good girl," admonished Natalia, "and we can talk later and I'll give you a big cuddle and then a nice warm bath for you to soak in." That did sound good but Husni hadn't yet adjusted to her new role in society. She did have feelings for Natalia, was already accepting her loss of decision making, but this felt a step too far, too soon. She reached up and tried to work out how to release the pacifier. Ursula laughed at that. "Oh, isn't she cute. Such a little rebel. You're going to have your hands full here." Natalia grinned at her friend. "You might be right," she accepted, "but gorgeous baby girls need to know how to behave." She reached over to Husni in the high-chair and gently but firmly took one of her arms, drawing it down to her legs and using a soft padded strap to hold it in place. The high-chair had been designed for littles, for keeping them secure not only from accidentally falling out but also from resisting the control their adopters legally imposed upon them. The second arm was swiftly secured, and Natalia contemplated fastening Husni's legs too. "I'll let her kick," she said to Ursula, "She'll get tired but the physical release might be what she needs." Ursula verbally gushed her admiration for Natalia's consideration, the two of them talking together and barely paying intention to Husni. It meant they missed Husni's chest convulsions as the pacifier triggered her gag reflex, induced vomitting. Husni kicked her legs in desperation, tried screaming for help, her arms tugging futilely against the unrelenting restraints. "Aww, look, she's having a tantrum." The Amazons finally noticed Husni's distress and reached across the table to each other, sharing a moment of adult unanimity. "She's still so cute when she's like this," admitted Natalia, "but I don't want to cause her distress. She just needs to learn that she can't be the centre of attention all the time." "You're so right," said Ursula, "You're going to make a marvellous Mommy. She's so lucky she has you." Natalia remembered that, forty minutes later, the paramedics telling her it was too late, all over, that her little had choked to death on her own vomit. Husni would never again be the centre of attention, had completely escaped the stresses of adult life, would forever be loved for who she was. Who she had been. Such a lucky little.

This story is complete. The lack of prologue, the absence of consequences? These are the spaces that allow imaginations to play. Why would I destroy such creativity?

Well, most readers never comment, I suspect only a subset of DD story forum users are interested in sexually explicit stories involving adults, and a very small minority of those will appreciate first person fellatio. So thank you for the kind words, and don't worry about the lack of comments. I'm not

Fellatio is a loving tender treat, a gift involving soft lips and a willing tongue, teasing, tormenting and eventually giving release to a lucky man. Getting face fucked was nothing like that. I don't know when my drink was spiked but I can guess who. I woke up when he splashed cold water on me, looked down, saw him using a small towel to dry my pubic mound. It was bare. I flinched, tried to bring my arms around to stop him touching me there. They hardly moved, pressure on my wrists, preventing me drawing them from behind my back. The movement drew his attention, made him look up, smile at me. "Ah, you're awake," he told me, as though I hadn't noticed. "Let me finish up here and we'll get you comfortable." I spoke too, in my mind. The actual sounds I made were grunts, conveying none of my words, not telling him to stop. Not asking him what he was doing or why. Not even asking why my mouth was full, and why trying to talk made my tongue sore. My tongue was sore. Another thing I hadn't noticed. The grunts might have turned to a pitiful whine. He looked at me curiously then his face cleared. "Ah, the piercing," he said. "I'll finish up and fetch you a pain killer." Piercing? What piercing? Wait, my tongue? He'd pierced my tongue? Why - and what with? Those thoughts were hidden from him, didn't distract him from what he was doing, kneeling between my widely spread legs. I hated that position, hated having him there, hated the vulnerability it made me feel. I was vulnerable too; he was fully dressed now but that wouldn't take long to change; I was just seconds away from being raped. He didn't rape me, not then. Arms under my thighs, lifting me, a hand swinging across and beneath me. He lowered my legs again, ignored my heels kicking futilely against his back. Reaching down he pulled something up around my hips, clothing of some form. Plastic covered? He was putting me in a diaper! I looked at him in confusion, my kicking paused while I tried to think through what was going on. Ok, it was clear what was going on, he was pulling the front of the diaper between my legs, using it to cover the mound he'd just shaved bare, hairless for the first time in many years. What wasn't clear was why. He spoke again, telling me why. "I," he said, pausing, emphasising himself, "control you. I control your actions, I control your whole life. You're in diapers to remind you that I control whether you even go to the toilet." He wasn't gloating, threatening, laughing, just calmly sharing how he viewed our situation. "I choose whether to change you when you're wet," he added, "I control your comfort." That didn't sound good. "Now, let's get you more comfortable," he said, and got up from between my legs. He left the room, giving me my first chance to take stock, look at where I was, how I was dressed. It was a normal living room, a couch, TV, various electronics and some shelves, books and a vase, some ornaments and a picture. I couldn't see the picture clearly from my position on the floor, turned my focus to myself. That proved quick. I was wearing a diaper and nothing else. Well, something around my wrists but I couldn't see that. I wriggled my fingers, tried to see if they could inform me but could reach whatever was there, stopping me moving my arms. I struggled to sit upright, the diaper making it strangely hard, stopping me closing my legs fully and adding a thick layer I had to overcome. He re-entered the room as I made it, walked over to me, crouched down beside me. "Good, you're sat up already. That'll help," he said. Help what? "I'm going to remove the gag," he told me, "so that you can take a pain killer. You can take the pill, wash it down with a glass of water, get a break from whatever discomfort your tongue is causing, or you can try and talk or scream or shout and get the gag straight back in. Is that clear?" I nodded. "Good. Are you going to be a good girl?" I hated him for that. Bad enough to force this situation onto me, now he wanted me to admit that doing what he wanted was 'good'. I didn't nod. "No pill then," he said, shaking his head at me. "Last chance. Are you going to be a good girl?" I blushed, closed my eyes and nodded my head. I wouldn't be helping myself by sitting here in pain but didn't want to see him enjoy his little win. His hand on my chin, holding my head steady. The sensation of something happening with my mouth, fingers brushing my lips, a tugging sensation. Cold air reaching my mouth. I closed my mouth. Swallowed the saliva that had been building up, almost gagged at the plastic taste of whatever he'd had in there. Then looked at him in shock, opened my mouth again. The gag went straight back in. He'd been ready, and my question became grunts. "Now now," he said, "You promised to be a good girl." I had, but that was before I'd tried to swallow, felt something on the top of my mouth, a stud in my tongue. I hadn't forgotten he'd pierced my tongue but feeling it was a shock nonetheless. Not least because of where I felt it. Tongue piercings are near the front of the tongue, seen teasingly when the mouth is open, a seductive promise possible by sticking your tongue out, revealing it past your teeth. I couldn't do that with this one. It was in too deep, must have been two inches along my tongue, maybe more. The confusion on my face seemed to amuse him. "Found the stud?" he asked. I nodded, wrinkled my brows in a puzzled frown at him. "It's not for show," he said, "It's for my pleasure." I thought about that, and didn't like where those thoughts took me. For him to get pleasure from that stud meant being that far into my mouth. Maybe further. I shivered. He grinned. "Let's try again," he said, pulling the gag from my mouth once more. I swallowed again but didn't try and speak, just enjoyed having my mouth closed. I opened it again as he put a pill to my lips, let him push it in. A glass held to my mouth, tilted, cool water filling my mouth. I swallowed it, the pill with it, then another mouthful. The glass was drawn away from my but I followed it, unexpected thirst needing to be satisfied. He laughed at that but brought the glass back, let me finish it. Moments later the gag was back in. I hadn't tried to speak but he didn't want to give me the chance. Instead he used my shoulders to lower me back to the floor and rolled me over onto my stomach. "That's a very cute look," he said, a firm slap on the padding covering my bottom making it clear which look he liked. It didn't hurt, physically, just the reminder of what I was wearing, what that meant. It made me think about that, made me realise my bladder was ready for release. Another thing I hadn't noticed. Not something I had time to worry about, instead trying to track what he was doing to me now. He'd reached under my shoulders, lifted my upper body off the floor and was now dragging me across the room. "There," he said, "Now, lets get you turned around." He picked up my ankles and pulled them with him as he walked around me, swivelling me on my bottom. My eyes widened as a wooden chair came into view, its seat around the height of my eyes. I looked up at him in confusion. He didn't notice, or didn't care. Maybe both. His focus was on fastening my ankles to the back legs of the chair, leaving my legs spread uncomfortably wide around its front legs. Getting the second ankle fastened made that worse, as he pulled me right up to the chair, its strange curved cut-out at the front now against my face, making me close my eyes. "Thought that might be a bit high," he said, walking around behing me. "Come on, up we go." He reached down as he said that, lifted me, and I felt him kicking something in under me. As he released me again I found it was a padded cushion that raised me higher, enough that my chin was now just above the height of the seat. I pulled my head back, looked at the chair now that I could see it better. It was a sturdy wooden chair, but with a curved cut-out in front and, I could now see, a hinged section that could swing around in front of it, leaving a hole a few inches wide in the seat at the front of the chair. I already knew the seat was the right height for someone sat on a cushion in front to rest their chin on it. Now I realised they wouldn't have a choice, if their head was placed at that height in the cut out at the centre, and the front of the chair swung into position, clipped into place. It was like a pillory, but holding the head upright rather than facing down. This would leave someone sat in that position facing the crotch of anybody sitting in it. He tugged me into position, fastened the curved wooden bar behind my neck, and sat there in front of me, his crotch brushing my nose. That was his next target, gripping it with one hand and pulling it painfully up. I opened my mouth to gasp with the pain and his other hand pushed something into it, prevented me closing it again. Obviously I tried struggling free. My ankles had a little flex, letting me change the angle of my knees, but I couldn't get them free, couldn't move away from the chair. With him sat in it I couldn't move the chair either, although with my neck in that wooden embrace I'd have had to go with it. My arms remained tied firmly behind my back, wrists together, stopping me even reaching the diaper I knew was wrapping my freshly shaved body. All I could do was watch in horror with a sense of inevitable doom as he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his flaccid penis. He reached down beside the chair and picked up another cushion, pushed it back behind him so he could comfortable sit right up against my distended jaw, allowing his penis to rest inside my unwillingly gaping mouth. I'd guessed we'd end up like this, after finding out about the piercing, but was confused anyway. He made no attempt to make me lick him, arouse him, just lifted his legs onto the table behind me, leaned back and turned on the tv. Actually sat there drinking beer, his cock in my drooling mouth, otherwise ignoring me. I tried talking to him, the thing holding my mouth open and the thing inside it preventing proper words. He didn't try and interpret them, didn't respond, just watched TV. Had another beer. That reminded me of the drink I'd had earlier, the coffee I'd had with breakfast. They'd finished with me, wanted back out, and I didn't think he'd gone to the effort of diapering me, tying me up and fastening me into this chair just to let me go to the toilet now. So yes, of course I did. I sought relief for my bladder, as that was the only thing I could control. Hot humiliation as hot liquid spread around my crotch and my bottom. Strange sensations as the padding wrapping those swelled. He must have noticed. "Have you wet yourself yet?" he asked. My blush was the only reply he needed. His response wasn't verbal, made itself known in my mouth not his, as he started to get erect. The drool had made my mouth very wet, now my tongue could taste him making it wetter, his body generating lubricant it didn't need. We sat there a while longer, the warmth down below cooling off, becoming a damp clammy feel. I wondered if he'd take it off if I asked, if he'd insist on replacing it with another diaper. At least that would be clean, dry. The football finished, he turned the TV off and turned his focus to me. "How's your diaper?" he asked, "Do you want a change?" My face must've been a picture. Disgust at having him in my mouth, distress at being in a wet diaper, desire to be taken out of it, horror at being changed into a clean one, humiliation at him knowing all those feelings and not wanting to show them. The semi erect penis in my mouth revealed I'd shown them, and its increased rigidity told me he liked that I had those feelings, liked being able to force me to experience such humiliation. I tried to pull back, avoid choking on what was now entirely filling my mouth, tried again to bite down on it. All that did was make the piercing rub him from underneath, make my lips gently brush against the base of his shaft. He liked that, started rocking back and forth. My neck trapped in that wooden embrace stopped me moving my head away, whatever he'd put between my teeth prevented me from stopping him, and that stud in my tongue, so far back in my tongue, did its insidious job, arousing him as he thrust repeatedly into me. I sat there helpless, a plaything for his entertainment, unable to respond or react even as he put his feet back on the floor, gave him better traction for his thrusts. Now his pubic mound was bouncing off my face each thrust, his hair scant protection from what felt like being hit in the mouth every second. If being hit in the mouth included several inches of penetration and a ball sack bouncing off your chin. As his orgasm approached fortunately the thrusts were shorter even as they were quicker. My drool kept him sliding easily between my lips and the painful bumps from his crotch had pretty much stopped now. The weird sensation of him rubbing against the piercing had not, was intensified, made me realise how effective it was - at both its jobs. It was there to arouse him, and it was doing just that, but that meant me being penetrated, humiliated, taking him deep into my mouth, and I was doing that, whether I wanted to or not. Maybe in other circumstances I'd have wanted to. Give him a blow job, but with me in control. I wasn't in control here, I was his fuck toy, and he was face fucking me now with increasing pace. In a blow job you can control when orgasm happens. I had no control here, knew it was imminent but not when, was breathing in at just the wrong moment. I choked, spluttered, my mouth suddenly full of a thick salty taste, and the drool dripping down my chin was suddenly joined by another liquid - and not just my tears which had finally come, at the moment he did. A couple more thrusts and he stopped, leaned back in the chair, his breathing calming as his penis softened. It was still in my mouth, occasional little pulses, more liquid that I didn't want on my tongue. I just sat there, staring at the pubic hair that had been my sole vista for over an hour now, hot with anger and frustration at my helplessness and feelings of humiliation. I didn't move; couldn't move, couldn't talk, my mouth still gaping and plugged. A minute later he finally spoke. "Ah, that's better," he said, "my bladder is bursting and I was never going to be able to go with an erection like that." I looked up in panic. Was he planning to..? No. He was getting up instead, his penis sliding from my mouth, leaving a trail of stickiness down my chin and on the seat of the chair before he stepped over me, dragging it up my face and across my hair. I shook with rage at this treatment, on top of everything else he'd done, but he ignored me, took the hateful device from my mouth and I could finally close it, swallow all that drool, everything else in there. While I was doing that he was unfastening my ankles, then released my neck from its restraint. I would've collapsed then, fallen backwards onto my bound arms, but he was stood there, held me up. Reached below my arms and pulled me upright, held me steady until I'd got me feet below me, remembered how they work, fought through the pain of blood flow returning to them and finally stood up without needing his help. He was taller than me, my head reaching only his shoulders. That made his next action easier, one arm wrapped around me, just below my shoulders, the other pulling the front of my cold sodden diaper out so he could flop his still wet penis over the top, dangling down from my belly button into the diaper. I knew what he was about to do before he did it but that didn't lessen the shame. As his hot urine soaked my skin, made my newly shaved area sting, caused the diaper to swell further I wept in raw distress. He'd pierced my tongue, pierced my mouth; now he was piercing my dignity. The emotion overwhelmed me and as I rested my head against his shoulder I finally allowed him his well earned victory, needing his strength to hold my collapsing body as ripple after soul searing ripple of violent orgasm flooded through me, even as he continued to flood my diaper. Later, while he was finally changing my soaking diaper, I looked up at him and asked shyly, "When's the next match?"

Thank you for devising your own brand, and it's always a delight when my stories inspire others, even if it's basically a rewrite of Supersoft Fluffies. I do though like that rather than Supersoft's faux "we're here to help the unfortunately incontinent" your brand takes a different approach. The full range of Supersoft products is detailed (in reverse chronological order) here: https://stories.annaumea.me.uk/wp/category/supersoft/

This story is complete and will not be continued.

As the ropes looped around my wrists went taut I instinctively resisted, tried to prevent them drawing my arms away from my body. It didn't help, and I forced myself to relax, allow the electronic winch to pull my arms out to the side, holding them and my hands helpless, unable to defend my body. It was what I'd agreed, putting my own hands through the loops, pressing the button on the controller to start the motor, putting myself into this unforgiving bondage. We'd agreed that would be my consent to what followed, and my measure of trust in her. I didn't know what was to follow, just that she'd promised I'd appreciate it. I did trust her, did feel safe giving control over my body. I was surprised when she pulled a strap across my chest, thick leather running between my armpits and above my breasts. It would stop me sitting up and, with the aid of the ropes holding my arms out to the side, from rolling over. I was now pinned to the table, suddenly glad of its upholstered padding. She took my ankles, slid my feet through slings hanging from the frame above me. A quick adjustment and they were snug against my skin; I could swing my legs but not withdraw them, pull them free of their dangling restraints. I didn't try, curiousity spurred by how much I was enjoying this making it easy to relinquish control, let her proceed. She proceeded by reaching beneath the table, a loud mechanical click and it seemed the table fell away from below my legs. Instead of soft leather my thighs now felt only air. Stepping between those restrained ankles, she walked forward and my thighs soon felt her, her hips forcing them apart, the hanging restraints swinging easily to the side and taking my ankles with them. I did try to resist now, the spread becoming uncomfortable, her relentless progress frightening me. It didn't help, her whole body against my inner thighs overpowering me, dominating me. I had to concede, brought my knees towards me to relieve the strain, found it a more comfortable position. A vulnerable position. One she took advantage of. I'd mostly stripped before lying on the table, just my underwear remaining, bra and briefs. They were nice, comfortable stretch lace, but not expensive, and I found myself feeling glad of that as she used sewing shears to cut them at the hips, pull them off me. Lacking even that flimsy protection I was now entirely at her mercy, something that brought a knowing smile to both our faces as we made eye contact. She kept that eye contact as she leaned forward from between my thighs, bent her head to my chest and licked me laviciously. I trembled and couldn't help myself, used my hips to try and push against the strap across my chest to follow her mouth as she stood upright again. My eyes widened in shock but I didn't shout out, didn't cry, just moaned as her hand slapped the top of my thigh, long fingernails scratching my tender bottom as she pulled her hand away. She bent over me again but instead of her mouth, this time both her hands assaulted me, soft caresses, gentle pinches and subtle little flicks from my shoulders down to and across my breasts. She didn't neglect my nipples but didn't monopolise them either, spreading her stimulation around, leaving me yearning for more all over. I'm not sure how long that lasted, just that it left me desperate, no longer using my hips to push against the table to try and raise my chest. Instead they were writhing, thrusting in the air trying to push myself against her naked body. She smiled, a nasty evil controlling smile that left me churning inside. Finally she broke eye contact, by ducking her head to my stomach and I could feel her tongue tracing its way down my body. A tantalising touch and she pulled back, stepped away from the table. She returned, carrying something that I soon found to be a blindfold, soft cloth loosely fastened around my head. It didn't block all light but prevented me seeing her, watching her. Instead I could only sense her, feel her between my thighs once more. This time it wasn't just her tongue, her lips, her nose, her fingers.. I could only guess what was touching me, rubbing me, tugging and stroking me. Inside me. I couldn't prevent it, helpless and at her mercy. So instead I embraced it, enjoyed the pleasure she was giving to me. Time and again I neared the edge, wanted just that little bit more, squirmed to get the sensation that would tip me over. But I was indeed at her mercy, and she wasn't merciful. Time and again she seemed to know when I was at my peak, pulled back, kept me gasping, always wanting more. Never getting it. Before long I was exhausted, desire overwhelming and unfulfilled, my brain overcome by the sensual overload. My body ignored that, kept sending signals, kept trying to get her to go that tiny step further. She didn't, and instead stepped away again. I tugged futilely against my bonds, seeking to release my hands, let me finish things for myself. I sensed her near me and felt the blindfold being unfastened. As it was removed I looked up, saw the amusement in her face, in her eyes. "Please," I begged her. We both knew what I was asking; only she knew whether I'd get it. I didn't, not then. Instead I turned my head and watched as she pulled a large square towel out of a box. Intricate folds, the top edge folding over the rest, then a fold from either side towards the middle. Some towel origami as hidden corners were pull out to the side before the bottom was folded up. It reminded me of folding a cloth diaper and my brain caught up with what she was preparing. My arms tugged at their bonds once more, the chest strap brought back into action and my ankles tugging at the swings supporting them. She just smiled, stood up and walked over to me holding the oversized diaper. "It's a fold called the Poo Catcher," she told me, "Just in case." "No!" I said, but she ignored me. I'd put myself into these binding ropes, granted my consent, and couldn't withdraw it now. That reminder reinforced the arousal she'd spent so long causing, renewed it afresh, kept me teetering on the edge. As she returned to between my thighs I tried to slide forward, make the contact that would let me complete but she kept just far enough away. A bob at her knees and her shoulders were below my knee. As she stood it lifted my legs, pulled my hips and bottom from the table. I knew she was putting that folded diaper there beneath me even before I could feel it, then as she bent her knees again my fears were confirmed. Soft absorbent cloth against my skin. A quick tug and she pulled it up between my thighs, a strange sensation that my arousal made sexual even before I felt it pulled snugly against me, soaking up the fluids my body was confusedly generating. Raising my head I could see her pulling the sides up and using large safety pins to fasten them to the front. Pinning me into a diaper. It felt thick, intrusive clothing, utility the priority, function over form. She made that worse, folding the leg openings in on themselves so they didn't come down my thighs. Instead they became bulky padding forcing my legs apart, a visible display of my entrapment. The waist was folded in too, leaving the diaper looking neat even as it bulged around me. She didn't leave me long to get used to it before adding further humiliation. A cloth diaper is a statement, imposition of her will on my body, but one I could ignore. By itself it was a symbol, not working protection. That needed a hydrophobic layer, something that would catch and retain any liquids until the soft thirsty cloth could absorb them. Something like the plastic panties she was threading over my feet, working through the loops at my ankles. I watched in fascinated horror as she inexorably pulled them along my legs towards that inevitable transition from symbolic representation of control to full imposition of it. Once those were on I couldn't pretend this was for show; the diaper would be fully functional. That didn't mean I'd use it. I thought furiously whether she'd demand that, how I'd respond, almost missed her tugging the waterproof protection over the diaper. I couldn't avoid her careful ministrations, tucking loose bits of cloth under the elastic legs, inside the frilly waistband. As I frowned in distress, at her betrayal and its manifestation, she saw my expression and smiled in delight. A brief and subtle shake of her head and a hand sneaked down between my thighs once more, started kneading the thick cloth against me. Even as my brain rejected this my body provided its own response, grinding against her hand, my nipples springing to life to confirm the full return of my arousal. I wasn't sure why she'd done this, what she wanted. At that moment I didn't care. Too long on the edge, too near to try and pull back, all I wanted was release and she could tell. My hips gyrated and my breath shortened, and.. she stopped. "Not yet," she told me, then confirmed my worse fears, "Only when you're wet."

Tonight's dinner consists of multiple courses, kicking off with a tomato stuffed tomato amuse-bouche, beetroot three ways as the appetiser followed by the fish course, a rich mackerel infused with a squid ink broth. The main event begins with an entree of beef and red cabbage teased with bacon, adorned by a rich red wine onion gravy, with a reprise of venison. Paying homage to French traditions the vegetables will follow as a separate course, with asparagus, brocolli and a green olive oil spinach sauce. Recognising diverse influences, the savoury course is an Asian influenced turmeric chicken with coriander rice that will inspire and impress. Diners will be invited to cleanse their palette on a brief course of blueberry muffins with stilton before launching into the dessert. Peach and mango jelly with a nectarine sorbet will be given time to settle before you're presented with caramel toffee bananas served on a firm Devon custard base. To finish white chocolate cheesecake with vanilla ice cream will fill any remaining gaps, leaving our lucky few enjoying a small tot of gold leaf vodka that will assure a sparkly end to their next rainbow expulsion.

The cultists filed silently in, faces shadowed by their hoods, the flickering candle providing light enough only to find and sit in a chair. The High Priestess stood up, her velvet gown sending shivers down the spine of the younger, more impressionable cult members. She glared around the dark room, then spoke in a commanding tone. "Do we have the Sacrificial Diaper?" One of the cultists waved something at her, the candle showing what could well be a diaper, one side glistening as the light caught it. The High Priestess nodded approvingly. "And the Spaghetti?" Another cultist stood up, a deep male voice confirming, "I have the Spaghetti." The High Priestess smiled. "Then we may begin." She turned and jumped up to sit on the table, lying back and reaching above her head. The cultists grasped her arms and gently drew her towards the centre of the table. Two of them lifted an ankle each, raising them high above her waist, her gown falling to her hips and revealing her nakedness beneath. Other cultists lifted her hips from the table and the diaper was placed below her then, as she was lowered onto it, brought between her legs and taped closed, snuggly sealing her in waterproofed padding. "What next?" she heard someone ask in a loud whisper, and hid her sigh. "Now we put the Spaghetti in her diaper, make her squish around a bit and it summons the Great Tentacled One," explained one of the other cultists. Carefully the High Priestess was pulled back to the end of the table, helped to her feet and held in a cruciform position. A cultist either side kept her hands out horizontally, another lifted her gown to her waist, revealing the diaper. This was pulled away from her belly button, leaving an opening at the top into which Spaghetti was poured by the one that had brought it. The gown was released, allowed to fall down over the diaper. The cultists holding the High Priestess' arms guided her onto her seat, and they watched with bated breath as she writhed and squirmed upon it. Even in the dim light of the candle there was obvious shock on the faces of the cultists as a loud and terrible noise filled the chamber. The High Priestess gasped, her hands flying towards her crotch and one of the cultists yelled out jubilantly. "The Tentacle Great One approaches! Hear his footsteps. Now we shall be judged!" The High Priestess stopped moving and glared at him. "No, you bloody fool," she said, "That was the Spaghetti." She stood up, noisily, and turned to face the cultist that had brought it, that had thrust it into her diaper. "You were supposed to cook it first!"

Sandy followed Debbie into the club, hiding how impressed she was with the greeting and welcome from the doormen and hostess. They were led to a table and as they sat the hostess gestured towards some well built and smartly dressed men lined by the wall. "Welcome Ladies," said the hostess, "Would you like to pick which of our team will be servicing you tonight?" "Oh, I'm having him," said Debbie, pointing out a chisel jawed young man, "Who would you like Sandy?" "Wait?" asked Sandy in confusion, "We get more than one person serving our table?" Debbie held up a hand to let the hostess know not to reply, and explained herself, "The table? No, these lovely gentlemen will be servicing us individually." Sandy had thought she'd misheard the hostess but her friend had just repeated the crucial word. "Servicing?" she asked. Debbie laughed. "Yes hon. Sure, he'll bring you a drink too, but after that? He'll do whatever you want." "Anything?" "Anything," confirmed the hostess, "And before you ask, the answer is yes. When we promise 'anything' we mean it." Debbie smiled at Sandy's shocked face. "Now," she said, "Who would you like?" Sandy thought for a moment, gave a wicked grin to her friend and pointed out a slightly older man stood at the end of the line. "That one." "Really?" asked Debbie, "He's old enough to be your father. Heard he's a bit short in the trouser department too. Why not try Brian, he'll keep going for hours and I can promise you he's got everything you need." "No, that one," said Sandy, pointing at the same man she'd highlighted before. Debbie sighed and shook her head. "Ok, your choice," she said, then looked up at the hostess. "Thank you." The hostess smiled at them both and went over to the line of men. The two they'd picked out stepped forward and came over to their table. Debbie beckoned the younger of the two, spread her knees wide apart and pointed at the floor between her feet. The man knelt there, sat back on his heels and looked up at her. "Yes Ma'am?" he asked. The elder man approached Sandy, who sat quietly looking up at him, a slight smile on her face. She ignored Debbie lifting her skirt and helping the man between her legs duck his head under it, and kept eye contact with the man nearing her. He spoke first, "Whatever you wish. Perhaps a drink to start?" "A drink would be nice," said Sandy, "Warm milk, in a baby's bottle. But first you'll need a baby. Me. Do you have diapers the right size?" The man smiled and nodded. "Disposable or cloth, and would my baby like infantile patterns or simple plain white?" Sandy smiled back, relaxed against the seat and closed her eyes for a moment. Opening them again she looked up and gave her answer, "Daddy can decide."

It's the third entry in the Decadence Trilogy.

Tonight's pizza delivery was unusual. Not the pizza, I knew my favourite and so did the delivery company. But today it was delivered by someone new. A woman. She was a little older than most of their delivery boys. They were university age, she was more mature, in her prime. A proper woman, not someone I could so easily embarrass, tease with sexual innuendo and a flash of thick padding below my skirt. I'd opened my door coyly at her knock, hiding behind it, red lips and dark eye shadow looking down at her. "Pizza," she said, "Still nice and hot. Which one did you get, it smells fantastic!" Oh, she was good. Maybe she was the manager, filling in for a missing driver. She was dressed like a manager, dark slacks, sensible shoes, a branded polo shirt and the obligatory smile. Hers wasn't the usual fake one to comply with policy or a cheeky attempt at a tip, it was a soft warm smile, full of confidence, that widened as she saw me take all of this in. I lost my own confidence at this, abandoned my plans of a sexy shocking reveal, kept hidden behind the door. Instead I extended my arm, reaching for the slim cardboard box she held. The sleeve of my onesie was visible to her, but not the rest, and many women wear childish patterns. She ignored my arm anyway, not even handing me the pizza. Instead she stepped forward and pushed firmly on my door, making me take a step backwards as it came towards me. I was too surprised to try and stop her as she strode into my house, walked right past me, went into the kitchen. Now she'd come up my front steps she seemed taller, even in her flat shoes I would have to look up to make eye contact. In amazement at her brazen invasion of my home I turned and followed, finding she'd put the pizza on my table and had turned back towards me. "As I thought," she said, walking up to me. I wondered what she'd thought, in the brief moment before she continued. "You need a change." My eyes widened and my mouth fell open at this. Not gaping, maybe wide enough for a grape, or the nipple of a pacifier. Not having one she put her finger over my lips instead, a clear instruction not to speak. "Come on, let's get that sorted," she said, "Do you have a changing table?" I didn't, but pointed through to the lounge where I had a small mat to keep the floor clean, let me change downstairs. Taking my outstretched hand she led me through to it and used both her hands on my shoulders to voicelessly encourage me to sit down. Sat on the changing mat I felt even smaller, looking up at her. I tugged at my skirt trying to hide the bulge of my diaper, its swollen padding obvious beneath the onesie, but my efforts were futile. I'd chosen this skirt especially for tonight's pizza, a corduroy dungaree style that I'd found in the children's section. The embroidered butterflies weren't really my thing but they were very cute, and although it was described as a 'generous fit' that meant it was for chubby little girls, not tall ones. So it came only halfway down my diaper, hid nothing, couldn't be pulled into a modest position. She laughed at that, my embarrassment obvious, but said nothing, just looked around and found my diaper bag. "Lie back," she said, "Let's get you nice and clean so you can enjoy your pizza." Although I'd intended to tease the delivery boy, invite him to change my diaper, maybe enjoy some fun as he did, I didn't actually expect it to happen. I certainly didn't expect it to be a delivery woman. But she was being friendly, was offering to help and maybe this could be fun anyway. So I lay back, used my hands behind my head to prop it up, watch her as she kneeled between my legs and undid the poppers on my onesie. "Why.." was as far as I got before she shushed me, reaching up with a finger on my lips again. An elegant finger, the nail clean and neat, quite short but nicely painted. She answered the why anyway, as she efficiently changed my diaper. She must have done this before, didn't hesitate with the tabs, a thorough clean, wiping me gently without tickling or playing. "You're famous, you know?" she said, then smiled at my surprised face. "The lady in diapers. Orders pizza, wants more than that." My used diaper was off by now, rolled up, in a disposable plastic bag. "Took me a while to track you down. Had to wait for the job to come open. Been delivering pizza for three weeks waiting for your call." A clean diaper was already under me, and as she brought it up between my thighs, soft padding forcing them apart, she looked over it at me. "Waiting for you." I looked back, wondering what was going on. No threat here, and being changed by someone else was an absolute treat, something I could get used to. That pressure against me as she fastened the tabs, trapped me in the diaper, the sense that I wasn't in control, the trepidation and excitement that caused. "So what now?" I asked. My voice wasn't its normal confident self, traces of shyness and uncertainty. She didn't answer immediately, concentrating instead of fastening my onesie. I could feel her fingers fumbling down there, realised I was enjoying it, jumped when it stopped and she patted me there instead. "Now?" she asked playfully, "Pizza, of course!"

This story is complete. This story is complete. I hope you enjoyed it, it's one of my favourite stories I've written.

"I was going to clean it," I explained, "I just needed to.." She interrupted me. "Just needed to, for three days in a row? Look at it! I'm meant to brush my teeth in this sink. Don't lie to me, you're not four any more. Just make sure this room is clean before I go to bed." I sighed. She was right, and she was the landlord as well as my housemate so I couldn't fight back anyway. Nonetheless there were boundaries. "Don't you fucking dare speak to me like that. Ask nicely or fuck off." She looked angry at that. "I've asked nicely. I'm done with asking nicely. Now clean the bathroom and if you keep using language like that at me I'll wash your mouth out with soap like the four year old you're acting." She wouldn't dare. Sure, she was feisty but she wasn't big enough to force it, couldn't overpower me if I resisted. Not that I told her this, glaring at her instead as she left the room. So I cleaned the bathroom, reliving the conversation in my head, wondering how bad a soap filled mouth would actually be. Not that we had any soap. A bottle full of hand wash, press the top to squirt it onto your hands, rub them together for scented bubbles. I picked up the bottle, imagined squirting it into my mouth. Lemongrass and ginger were nice flavours, made my hands smell nice, but they'd be overwhelmed by the taste of the soap. Wouldn't they? Curiosity overcame common sense. On my tongue the taste was decidedly unpleasant. I persisted, a second squirt, then a third. I was grimacing by then, opening my mouth wider in response to the soapy taste, and the fourth squirt missed my tongue entirely, caught the back of my throat. That triggered my gag reflex, my body trying to cough up a blockage that didn't really exist. I closed my mouth almost without thinking, not wanting to splutter soap suds all over the room I'd just spent so long cleaning. That created a feedback loop that my body instinctively tried to end by swallowing, slimy liquid soap sliding to my stomach. "Are you ok?" She'd come back in, worried by the noises I was making. I turned to face her, opened my mouth to assure her I was fine and revealed the bubbles I'd felt in there. The froth dribbled down my chin, causing her immediate consternation. "Oh my god, what did you eat? Are you ok? I'll call an ambulance!" she said hurriedly, pulling her phone from her pocket. "No!" I exclaimed, the word beginning with a curious blend of 3-4 different consonants, the soap distorting my speech. My two hands holding her arm, stopping her dialling on her phone, made more of a difference. She looked at me, questions on her face, so I raised a finger in a 'give me a moment here' gesture, turned and filled a glass from the tap. It took four attempts to swill my mouth clear, stop emitting soapy bubbles as I spat into the sink. I could still taste it though, the coughing had filled my mouth with the taste, no safe spots for my tongue, its constant motion trying to evade the soapy taste. The ginger didn't help either, warming the tongue and making it feel more sensitive. She stood patiently, her initial concern replaced by amusement. Another day, a bottle of wine, we'd both end up in giggles remembering this scene. We were still in it though, and I had some explaining to do. The embarrassment of being told off like a child, the unlikely threat of a soap filled mouth, the curiousity and how horribly awful it tasted. "It was that bad?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "It was fu.. flipping awful." Her eyes sparkled at that. "It seems to have worked though," she said, "Maybe I should threaten to punish you more often." My eyes went wide at that, but my silence seemed to just encourage her. "Ooh, I know," she said, "Come here, follow me." It wasn't a request, it was a command. I could have ignored it but I was still feeling vulnerable from the soap, found myself accepting the voice of authority. I followed her, found her digging in a large closet in the laundry room. "I bought these for a fancy dress party," she said, "but they're fully functional and we're about the same size." I looked aghast at the pack of diapers she was holding out to me. I didn't recognise the brand, not one advertised on TV or an in-store one, but the picture looked just the same, an hourglass shape curved as though fitted to a baby. Except these were clearly not for babies, far too large, the packaging boasting of absorbency. "Come on," she said, taking my hand and pulling me towards my own room, "let's get you into one of these for the night." "What? I don't need diapers," I told her, even as I let her lead me through the house and into my room. "No? I don't care," she said, "You've been acting like a small child, you wanted a punishment, and so you're going to get one. Now, skirt and knickers down and lie on your bed." "You're going to punish me with a diaper?" I asked, "Do you really think I'm going to let you?" She smiled at that. "Yes. You need a punishment and we've just seen that you actually want one. Since you can't keep the bathroom clean the punishment is obvious: I'm not going to let you use it." She reached behind me, her fingers finding the buttons and zip on my skirt, undoing them both. That brought our faces close together, her eyes locked on mine, a burning intensity from which I mentally shrank. I let her pull my skirt down, felt my underwear following it, allowed myself to be positioning by the bed and pushed backwards onto it. She was quick, efficient, didn't dwell on the enormity of what she was doing. Perhaps it wasn't much to her, a simple task she'd already decided was needed. It was a lot to me, the relinquishing of control by letting her put a diaper on me, the loss of control that represented. My brain was whirring, I barely registered the diaper being brought up between my thighs, being fastened in front, trapping me in its thirsty embrace. As she stepped back to admire her work I reached down, fingers finding impenetrable plastic, thick padding making it soft to the touch. "But.. but I don't need diapers," I pleaded. "You will in about two hours," she promised, confusing me, "but it's bedtime anyway so don't worry about that, just get some sleep. Maybe you'll be fine all the way through to morning." "I can't use the bathroom first?" I asked. I felt silly for asking it, not only the context making it rhetorical but also the childish nature of the request. "No. I waited three days for you to clean that," she told me, "so you can wait three days before you use it again. Goodnight." She turned and left the room, somehow knowing that I wouldn't just remove the diaper immediately. Maybe she was just teasing me, expected me to take it off, thought she'd hear me using the bathroom in a few minutes. I considered it, the need to assert adult self-determination rising as I lay there in thought. But part of me was also considering the diaper I was in, that she'd put me in, that I'd let her do that to me so easily. Was this something I wanted? Something I needed? How would it feel if I used it, and would I enjoy her changing me into a clean one? Curiosity overcame common sense. I decided a onesie was the right choice of nightwear with a diaper, soft comfortable cotton with buttons up the front. It helped me to sleep, and I didn't even notice her coming into the room a little later, sitting and watching my slow breathing. That revelation came an hour later as I woke up, eyes blurred and mind foggy from being dragged from a deep sleep. My body had an urgent demand, a desperate need to expel, scant seconds to act before I'd embarrass myself. Leaping from my bed I saw her, a smile forming and stopped, wondered why she was there. That delay wasn't why I soiled myself, the onesie and diaper would never have been removed in time anyway, a foul liquid mess announcing itself with hot humiliation. Closing my eyes to avoid the shame I accepted that I'd just filled my diaper for the first time in years, and stood there with my eyes closed, unwilling to sit but not daring to move. I heard her stand up, felt her wrap me in a warm embrace, her arms high on my back offering comfort while ignoring the mess lower down. "It's ok," she said softly, "You had no choice. That soap you swallowed has a laxative effect. It's why I put that diaper on you." I opened my eyes, looked at her in surprise. "So I can take it off, have a shower, use the bathroom again?" She grinned, a mischievous look on her face. "After how easily you let me put it on you? Oh, no. Three days. Now, lie back, I have a very unpleasant task to do." I winced as I sat back on the bed, lay back. Lemongrass and ginger weren't part of the smell now filling the room but I took some comfort that she was having to deal with it, not me. Took a lot of comfort that she was caring for me. "What if I don't clean the bathroom next week either?"

The soft light reflecting from the almost full moon cast shadows on the heath, an eerie unearthly silver too gentle to draw out the colours of the bushes and coarse grass. It was bright enough to light up something white, make it stand out in the night, visible from a distance. "What's that?" asked the Deputy Sheriff, "Over there, couple of hundred yards away." The Sheriff looked across, then smiled grimly. "That's a class 2 felony," she said, opening the door and getting out of the car. The Deputy Sheriff scurried after her, stumbling as he tried to keep up, stopping in shock when she switched on her torch. Pinned in its beam were naked buttocks, hairless and pointing skywards. A stifled scream and they disappeared, a skirt falling to cover them as a woman stood up, turned and glared towards the torch. "Who are you?" demanded her strident voice, "You sick perverts. Go away before I call the Sheriff!" The Deputy Sheriff winced at that but stayed silent, opting to watch and enjoy instead. The torch was redirected, used to light up the pointed star mounted on the Sheriff's belt. "When you call me will you admit why someone with a torch came to find what you were up to?" she asked. The torch swung back to the woman who stood there seemingly struck mute, a look of horror on her face. "Right now I think I have you for public indecency," said the Sheriff, "Any reason I shouldn't arrest you, keep you overnight and put you in front of the judge in the morning?" "I wasn't harming anybody!" protested the woman, "I was, just, well.." "Just what?" demanded the Sheriff. "Umm. Just mooning at the moon," admitted the woman. "Thank you for the confession." said the Sheriff, "I could haul you in, you'll get a fine, a record, be put on the register. That feels a bit much for wanting moonlight to shine off your bottom. So look, here's a deal: Let me take you back to the station, get that cute backside covered up properly in something white and shiny, and we can avoid disturbing the judge at all. How does that sound?" The woman looked worried, hesitated. "I'm a virgin," she admitted, "I don't want.." The Sheriff laughed, an innocent sound unless you knew her as the Deputy did. "I'll keep you that way," she promised, "pure and innocent." "Ok, I'll trust you, come with you," said the woman, then asked fearfully, "You won't handcuff me will you?" "No, you're not under arrest," explained the Sheriff, "But for insurance purposes I'll have to strap you securely in the car seat." The three of them made their way back across the heath to the police car, the Deputy Sheriff still silent but now grinning to himself. He wouldn't be sleeping alone in the crib tonight, even if something would be keeping his companion pure and innocent.

Emily squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She wanted to get up, run to the toilet, relieve the misery caused from within. The table stopping her raising her knees prevented that. It wasn't tight against her tummy, unless she leaned away from the back of the chair, but she couldn't lift her legs, couldn't lean all the way forward. Certainly couldn't stand up. If she'd been able to move the table Emily would have been fine. It wasn't locked in place, simple latches anybody could undo. Anybody that could reach them. The wrist straps stopped Emily reaching them. Soft expensive Italian leather, stylish in their own way, soft padding making them so comfortable. Except they were bolted midway along the frame of the seat, holding her wrists low enough that her forearms were level with her thighs, her hands flapping helplessly in the space below the chair. "Why do you leave her hands free?" The voice was female, clear elocution, the question neutral in tone, actual curiosity. The response was also female, and Emily recognised it. She'd trusted Violet, had played dress-up for her, had even sat in this chair for her. The table had been slid into place after that, holding her long enough to strap one of her wrists, then the other. After that she was helpless, vulnerable to Violet's wishes, even with her hands free. Violet confirmed that. "They're out of use there, so no need to cause discomfort or pain. Anyway, I enjoy watching them." With a shock Emily realised she'd been flexing her hands, her fingers reaching everywhere they could to touch something, anything. She wasn't consciously doing it, her instincts being to grab hold of something that could give her leverage, help her escape this awful situation. She tried to still her hands but with their movement offering a degree of relief from her physical stress her feet started moving instead, the velvet mary-jane shoes with their soft soles catching the eye of the women watching. "Those shoes are very cute," said the first woman, "But I love the socks. They're just like the frilly lace socks you can buy for newborns." Emily didn't see Violet nod but heard her chuckle. "Just the right search online, Margot. Anything you can buy for a baby is available in adult sizes these days." Her voice rose slightly, "Not that little Emily here is an adult. Not any more, not if she soils herself. You're not going to soil yourself, are you?" Emily tried to answer but couldn't. The sounds she made lacked consonants, actual words impossible with her mouth so wide open, a plastic shield hiding her lips. "That pacifier just looks adorable," said the woman Emily guessed was Margot, "and so effective at keeping the little girl quiet. Aren't you worried that with it strapped tightly to her like that she might choke?" "Ah, you do yourself credit," said Violet, "Not many people would think of that. I won't leave her alone while it's in, but it's also got a safety feature." Emily's blindfold stopped her seeing the hand reaching for her face but she felt it grasping her chin, turning her head. "See," she heard Violet, the voice much closer to her now, "it's hollow through the centre. Means she can breathe through it, if she throws up it'll drain her mouth and there's a bonus: If I fit this little reservoir to the outside she has no option but to consume its contents. Emily already knew this. She'd had no choice about swallowing what had been in it a couple of hours before. She'd known its taste immediately, known she didn't want it inside her, guessed the effect it would have. She'd swallowed it anyway, the pacifier acting as a medication dispenser, giving her no option but to receive the full dose. "You didn't enjoy its contents, did you Emily?" asked Violet. "Oh? A special treat for her?" asked Margot, amusement in her voice. "Very special," said Violet, "Even after the two full bottles of lovely warm milk I fed her after I bet Emily here can still taste the castor oil." Emily shivered despite herself. She'd greedily accepted the milk, anything to rid her mouth of that awful taste, but she suspect it'd be a while yet before it was completely gone. "Ah," said Margot, "that explains the squirming." It was true. Emily couldn't sit still any more, the foul tasting liquid had worked its way into her system, was causing havoc within. Her hands had started writhing again, with her face hidden by the blindfold and the pacifier her wriggling fingers betrayed her inner anguish. "Looks like it's time for the show," she heard. Violet, sounding satisfied. "Let's get her properly displayed." A click, the chair juddered, and the sound of a motor. Emily felt movement but wasn't sure what it was, couldn't tell she was being raised vertically. It was only a couple of feet, enough for the seated audience to see her from below. It was a revealing sight, her empire dress too short to sit on anyway hadn't been able to fall completely down at the back, its hem held a few inches above the base of the chair. If she had known, she'd also have known Margot and Violet could see that, the chair made of clear plastic, its robust wooden frame not blocking sight from below or behind. Emily would have been horrified at that, because it meant that what she wore below the dress was also clearly visible. "So pure, innocent, clean. I love a plain white diaper," said Margot. Violet almost purred in response. "Oh, I know," she said, "and the contrast when it does its job. It's why I had this chair made; how better to show off lovely Emily's descent than to raise her up high." They went silent for a moment and watched Emily, the white plastic revealed below the dress hiding the thick padding that shifted against the clear seat, that forced her thighs apart, that ameliorated her wriggling as she tried not to lose control. "Remember Emily," Emily heard Violet calling from what seemed to be below her, "you're only dressed like a baby. Unless you soil yourself and confirm I should treat you like one." As tears soaked the inside of her blindfold Emily knew she was doomed, that she'd be sat in this chair many times again. Her chair. Below it the two women watching stared in fascination at the white plastic crushed against the chair as a small spot appeared, then started to spread, discolouration showing Emily losing her battle to retain control. Retain adulthood. Emily heard the noise but didn't recognise it, her sobs obscuring the sound a little. A clink, as though two glasses, wine or maybe champagne, touched together in a silent toast. To Emily, and her chair.