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Microfiction (noun) A complete story told in 300 words or less. Multi-chapter novellas like Weekend in the Mechanical Nursery or Bella's New Punishment both started as 2,000 word shorts, and I wanted the chance to push myself to be more concise with microfiction. Follow along as I aim to tell complete and compelling stories of discipline, humiliation, and regression in less than 300 words. If you want to support my writing and get access to exclusive stories and works in progress, come and hang out with us on Ream. -------------------------------------------- She sat in her playpen in his office that normally smelled of mahogany and bourbon, but now carried the sweet, lingering scent of baby powder. Jess needed a change, but would need to wait on her friend Morgan for that. Mr. Franklin was old-fashioned and thought it improper to have an intimate connection with an employee. But he was into weird shit. That was undeniable. After the audit exposed her embezzlement, Jess tried to blackmail her boss with the weird diaper shit she found on his computer, but the older man surprised her with a proposal. That’s how Jess found herself doing office work in pull-ups and sucking on a pacifier. For weeks, they were pleased with the arrangement. Then both wanted more. For an extra $3,000, Jess agreed to ask permission before going to the potty and stand in the corner for any sub-par work. For $3,000 more, she stopped wearing pants altogether and occasionally had ‘accidents’ earning herself a few sad faces on her new potty-training chart. It was weird, but had effectively doubled her salary. Diapers were the next obvious step, but Jess struggled with diapering herself and recommended her friend for the new part-time assistant role. That role quickly grew to full-time nanny status until the blonde’s job description consisted only of filling diapers and looking cute, for which Jess had received a bonus in her latest performance review. Mr. Franklin looked at his pigtailed and pacified manager and she smiled and waved from her playpen. Today was Morgan’s quarterly evaluation and she was late. Again. Overhearing the woman’s financial troubles, Mr. Franklin wondered what it might be like to have two adorable playthings at his office and made a note to hire a contractor for the new office nursery and find a new assistant. -------------------------------------------- Get instant access to most of my stories with new exclusive chapters every week and at least three new stories each month on Ream.

I don’t know if this will be the multi-chapter story I actually follow through on, but it’s my favorite thing I’ve written in a while so I hope you guys like it—if I get a little positive feedback I will try to continue it. “Oh god, don’t stop, don’t…” He could feel it, god he could actually feel it. “Oh fuck,” he panted, and collapsed on Ezra’s chest. “Good boy.” He felt Ezra’s hand in his hair as the sweaty chest he lay on began to feel clammy. “Okay,” he said. “Okay?” “Okay, I’m getting up.” “Just like that?” Tom was already getting wobbly to his feet. “Mmmm... yeah,” he said. He shivered slightly and grabbed the towel that hung on the closet door, wrapping it around himself and padding into the hall. “Mornin’”. He turned to see Steve coming up the stairs. “‘Morning,” Tom answered, blushing slightly as he hurried across the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and slid the latch, still feeling a little hot in the face. He wasn’t sure what he was embarrassed about. Ezra was a brother in the fraternity. Tom was his boyfriend and had as much right to stay the night and shower in the morning as any of the girls Steve hooked up with who did the same. When he got back to the bedroom, Ezra was sitting naked at his computer. As soon as Tom came in—wet and no longer smelling like sex and piss—he got up and wrapped himself in the other towel. “Clothes are on the bed. Wanna go get some bagels and coffee and bring ‘em back here? I got an email from Professor Lambeck that’s gonna take some time to answer.” “Sure,” Tom answered. “Thanks, kiddo. Don’t forget to take my keys. And throw that away.” Ezra pointed at the wet diaper he’d ripped off of Tom in their morning frenzy. “Yessir,” Tom agreed, still glowing under the petname, and Ezra blew him a kiss before shutting the bedroom door. Tom hung up his towel and began to get dressed. Laying his clothes out was a bit pro forma—since Tom didn’t keep any clothes at the house and all Ezra had to do was fold up his pants and take the clean shirt out of his backpack—but it was a nice gesture, and the Goodnite sitting on top had come from a case that now lived in the bottom of Ezra’s closet. When Tom had seen it was a case and not a bag, he’d felt a bit more sure Ezra wasn’t already getting bored of him, and that he really didn’t mind his… quirks. He’d had to come clean about his bed-wetting early on in their relationship, when Ezra had spent the night in his dorm room after their first date. The next morning Tom had decided to share the real secret: that he only wet the bed because he’d started faking it when he was 11 so that his parents would buy him diapers, and after 7 years he couldn’t easily stop even if he wanted to—which he did not. He would never confess the origin of his bedwetting to his parents, but keeping it from Ezra had quickly started to feel like lying. When he got to the bagel place he realized Ezra hadn’t been terribly specific, but as he looked at his phone he saw a text. <Can you get extra for the rest of the guys? I’ll venmo you.> Before he could answer, Ezra had sent him $50 from a shared fraternity account. <Okey doke.> he replied, and began dividing $50 by bagels and toppings. It turned out to divide pretty well, and Tom arrived back at the house laden with plenty of bagels, cream cheese, and lox for the six guys that lived there and himself, as well as a box of hot coffee. Ezra and Steve were both on their laptops at the kitchen table. “Thanks, babe,” Ezra said, getting up and favoring Tom with a kiss on the lips. Tom blushed again, feeling like Steve was watching them. It wasn’t like him to be a prude or to get embarrassed about his sexuality. Something about staying in this house, though, with his boyfriend and five straight frat bros, made him feel… vulnerable, if not exactly unsafe. “You forgot to do something before you left—do you remember what it was?” Tom felt a little more heat in his cheeks. His wet diaper was still on the floor upstairs. “Oh, uh, I think so,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Want me to go do that now, or…” “No, I took care of it, I just wanted to see if you remembered.” He gave Tom’s butt a pat and went back to his computer. Tom felt a little unsettled. Ezra had talked down to him, almost like to a child, in front of Steve. It wasn’t enough to make anyone think “ageplay”, but that was the problem: it didn’t quite feel like play at all. He was quiet as he ate his bagel, but after drinking some coffee and waiting for Ezra to finish up his email he started to feel better. Ezra didn’t seem mad or anything, and he was new to ageplay—he just needed to calibrate his tone a little. “Oookay,” he said finally, closing his laptop with a satisfying clunk. “Come back upstairs, kiddo.” They’d agreed that they enjoyed the petname too much to save it for private, but it did make Tom squirm a little after being talked down to a few minutes earlier. He almost felt like he was about to be punished. That impression intensified when they were back in Ezra’s room. He turned to face Tom and looked serious, almost grave. He sat down on the bed and patted it for Tom to sit beside him. He obeyed. “I’m not mad,” Ezra began. Ezra had said he wanted kids some day. It sounded like he was practicing for their adolescence. “But I do think there should be consequences.” “Uh huh,” Tom said. “Like… a time out?” He was not into the kinds of “consequences” that many ageplayers were, and Ezra knew that. “No, I think we should start with more serious consequences than that.” He stood up and went to his closet. “For my first two years in Delta, I had an ‘older brother’ who was in charge of disciplining me. Not everyone takes that seriously, but he did. And like every pledge, I had to make him one of these to use on me.” Ezra reached into the closet and produced a painted wooden school paddle. “No,” Tom said, and he stood up. “Nope, sorry, not my thing.” Ezra put it down on the bed, far from Tom’s seat, and returned to his own. “You told me that you admired my discipline, my work ethic, right? I don’t know if either is that amazing, but I know you wouldn’t say that if you saw me at your age.” Tom rolled his eyes. Easy enough to see where this speech was going. “So you and your paddle are gonna teach me to be a straight-A student?” That’s what Ezra was, so he could cut the false modesty. “No,” Ezra answered patiently. “We’re just going to help you correct behaviors that you and I mutually agree you could benefit from correcting.” “Like?” “Like forgetting to do something five minutes after you say you’re going to do it.” Yeah, well, whatever. “And oversleeping, and forgetting assignments, and not flossing even though you’re terrified of your teeth falling out when you’re 40...” Tom was starting to feel just a little bit attacked. “Hey, I’m not some basketcase, okay? And I’m not… I don’t need fixing.” The last four words hung in the air for a moment. Ezra looked physically pained. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quietly. “And you know I would never ever try to stop you wetting the bed, right?” “No?” Tom said. His voice sounded weird. “No,” Ezra said. “You made that a part of yourself by force of will and I can’t ever imagine wanting to take it away from you.” It seemed easier to both of them to let the tears out at that point. They were only Tom’s tears, but they ended up mostly on Ezra’s shirt, along with a good deal of snot. “Where are we gonna go so your housemates don’t hear?” It was just the occasional sniffle now. “Don’t hear what?” “The paddle.” “I… you sure?” “No, but I want to give it a try, if you think it will help me.” “Okay.” Ezra rubbed Tom’s back. He sounded sleepy after his cry. “Well, they are going to hear. It’s okay, it’s no different than if you were a pledge. Everyone hearing is part of it.” “Oh.” “That okay?” “Y-yeah, I guess so.” “It is kinda hot, isn’t it?” “Y-yeah.” “Good boy.”

“Do I have to take them down myself, little girl?” I hate it when my girlfriend calls me that! Yes, I’m six inches shorter. Yes, she’s eight years older. Yes, she’s the one in charge in our relationship, and yes, this whole domestic discipline thing had all been my idea three years ago, but I’m 30 and Not. A. Little! Girl! Dammit! But all I did instead was whine, “Not here. Please? I’m sorry. Can’t we just wait until we get home?” “Daphne,” Mary said, “this is not up for discussion. Besides, Brenna has seen plenty of bare bottoms spanked, including yours.” I glared at Brenna. We knew her through a local Fetlife group. Sometimes we did just plain vanilla stuff with her, like regular friends, like today, when she’d asked us for help planting trees in her yard. Mary has the green thumb. I hate yard work. “Bare? Can’t it just be over my shorts?” You’d think I’d have gotten used to being spanked, what with not a week going by when I wasn’t, but I never had, which I guess is the point. I looked at Brenna, who was smiling approvingly from the couch. Mary had pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and sat down. “Did your shorts make a rude comment to Brenna? Did your undies? So why would I spank those,” Mary asked me in her stern voice, the one she saves for when she’s talking to me like I’m a naughty little kid. “No,” I mumbled. I’d learned the hard way that there is no such thing as a rhetorical question when I’m in trouble. Mary reached out and grabbed me by the waistband of my innocent shorts and pulled me closer. None of this would have happened if Brenna had just been grateful we were over there helping in the first place. So I’m not Ma Nature - did it really matter if the hole wasn’t exactly fifteen inches deep? Of course, I do have a tendency to kill houseplants, even succulents. But anyway, she was harping on it, and I got irritated and said, “Then why don’t you just do it yourself, dammit?” I’m not sure if I’d have been in so much trouble if I hadn’t added the ‘dammit.’ At least I didn’t interfere while Mary popped the button on my shorts and whisked them, along with my panties, down to me ankles. “How did you get so dirty, anyway,” Daphne asked. “Not like you were putting that much effort into it.” I didn’t need to respond because Mary easily tossed me over her knee. My hands were on the floor, but my feet were not, leaving my butt hanging there. “Anything to say, Daphne,” Mary asked as she rubbed my butt. “I’m really sorry?” “Not as sorry as you will be.” That little rub is all I ever get for a warm up. Mary believes spankings are best delivered hard and fast, and within ten second she’d probably spanked me thirty times. This all started as a relationship with spanking involved, a little role play and bedroom fun. I even spanked her a couple times, though neither of us liked it. Eventually, I said I wanted it to be more than roleplay. I wanted it to be our lifestyle. I shortly thereafter found out just how many issues Mary had with my behavior and how much she’d been wanting to fix them for a while by then. But I wasn’t thinking about the time she had needed to spank me three times in one day. I was thinking about the spanking she was giving me right then. Mary is thorough in everything she does, and a creature of habit. She always starts out spanking me seemingly at random, no order to which side she wails on or how many. She likes to make sure I can’t anticipate anything. I lay there doing my best to hold still and be quiet, trying to keep my eyes closed and pretend Brenna wasn’t there, probably smiling. Only when my butt is a dark pink from top to sit spots does Mary really get going. As she says, this is when the real spanking starts. She stopped assaulting my butt and said, “Hand me the paddle, Daphne.” I freakin’ hate the thing. It’s small, heavy, and has four holes in it. She got it specifically to keep in her purse. She could just use her hairbrush when she disciplines me away from home (dressing rooms are the worst - everyone can hear!), but no, she says knowing she has a just-for-spanking implement with her at all times does a better job reminding me to behave. I pick it up with my left hand and reach behind me to give it to her. She takes it, then takes my arm and pins it behind my back. I’m a wiggler when she uses that thing. She’s like a freakin’ ninja with it. Equal parts thuddy and stingy, she paddles as fast as she hand spanks, but in a tight pattern. Up and down, each spank overlapping with the one before it, in a tight row, then shifting over and working a line from top to sit spot again. She never makes it from one side to the other but that I go from grunts to sobs to tears. Every. Damn. Time. The small paddle bounces off my bottom so fast I don’t even feel the individual spanks anymore. It’s all one swollen throb. She’s gentle, by comparison, with my thighs, but before she’s done with those ten spanks to the tender backs of my legs, I frantically promise, “I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” Mary finished the last spank, and I lay over limp over her soft lap, big tears falling, and my nose running. It takes me a few seconds to realize Mary is rubbing my back, like she always does after a hard spanking, shushing me gently. When I’m ready, I start to get up, and Mary helps me so that I’m sitting on her lap, my crimson bottom aching when I do, and crying into her shirt as she calms me. “It’s okay, little girl,” she coos to me, “All is forgiven.” She kisses my temple. “Let it all out. That’s my brave girl.” When I get myself under control, though still struggling with the occasional sob and needing badly to blow my nose, she helps me off her lap. “What do you say to Brenna,” Mary asked. I don’t know when I kicked off my shorts and panties, nor do I care. I shuffled over to Brenna. “I’m sorry for being rude,” I said. “I forgive you,” she says, opening her arms. Brenna is big woman, and I all but collapse into her softness. I do like her, even though she has a way of bringing out the brat in me, but that brat never seems to be that far away. I stand between her big thighs, and she rubs my butt with one hand while she hugs me with the other. I’m grateful she does because I’m not allowed to rub. “Mary, why don’t you go take her to wash her face, and I’ll get lunch ready,” Brenna suggests. “Can I have my shorts back,” I ask meekly. “After lunch,” Mary says, holding out her hand. I take it. I like Mary’s hands. I also know she’s gonna lift me up and seat me on the cold vanity, and that it’s gonna feel good for about five seconds then feel clammy and hard. After lunch, I’m for sure gonna dig those holes right, and without a world of complaint.

Hi Everyone! In order to have more time to work on stories without it taking away from other things I need to do (stupid adulting!?), I've decided I have no choice but to move my writing to Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/alex_bridges. It's only $3 a month, and that's less a Starbucks. Now, we all know what you're doing while you read this stuff ?, and isn't AN ENTIRE MONTH of that worth more than a coffee (if you don't think so, you're doing it wrong!?). So as many do, I'll be posting new chapters here one week after they've posted on Patreon, beginning with Chapter 8. ________________ Prologue It was bad enough I was in trouble again. Hearing her tell her friend all about it over the phone just made it so much more humiliating as I stood with my nose in the corner. Nothing I ever did could delay a punishment, but a call from Kiley apparently could. I could hear her fine as she talked in the hallway. “Hey, Kiley! … O, nothing much. Just about to give that boy of mine a spanking … He just has an attitude today and took the wrong tone of voice with me; you know how he gets … He thinks he’s too old to be spanked, too, but you know how I feel about it: if he’s not too old to be in diapers, then he’s definitely not too old to go over my knee … Yeah, always over my knee … Because being spanked bent over is for big boys who wear big boy underwear … Haha, yeah, just like a little boy, but it’s like my mom used to say, a spanking doesn’t just stop for tears … Yeah, let’s do that this weekend … Anyway, I think I’ve kept him waiting long enough … Yeah, thanks … Bye bye.” I swallowed hard, knowing she was on her way down the hall now. I wanted to start crying already, though that never seemed to elicit the sympathy I hoped for, and anyway, I wanted to at least seem grown up and not like a kid. Just because my wife treats me like one sometimes doesn’t mean I am one. How did this happen anyway?