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  1. Hey everyone, finally getting the time to write again. This is a commissioned short story, though as discussions continue in the background, the plot is getting deeper and more complex than our originally planned 10 chapters will allow for, so who knows when it’ll be done. Insert obligatory mention of my Patreon here… Anyway, have fun with this one. There’s a little inspiration coming from The Handmaid’s Tale, except without all the rapey murdery stuff. Fear gripped Penelope Russo as she stared at the paper on the wall. Seven years she worked at Donatello, never missing a shift, always coming in to cover other people, and her name wasn’t even on the new schedule for next week. Since the day she graduated high school, she’d waited tables there, while other girls came and went. How could this even be happening?! “Tony wants to see you in his office, Penny.” Jacky Phillips tapped her on the shoulder, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. The girl was barely twenty, but they became fast friends when Jacky started working there. Well, more than friends on occasion… friends with benefits? But that was behind tightly closed doors, not spoken of at work or anywhere else. The look on Jacky’s face confirmed what Penny already feared; this wasn’t going to be a good conversation. Jacky gave her a quick hug. “Good luck, hun.” “Yeah, thanks.” Dejected, she walked through the kitchen, up the stairs, and knocked on the general manager’s door. “Come in!” the low voice boomed behind the door, with that signature Jersey-Italian accent thick through it. She opened the door and stepped inside. “Penny.” He shook his head. “Penny, Penny, Penny, what am I gonna do wit’ you?” “Tony, please, you can’t…” “Look, you’re a hard worker. You’re polite. You make sure everyone’s drink is full and their food gets out hot. But I’ve told you over and over, the guys have expectations. Parents bring their boys in here looking to get them hooked up. You know this. I know this. And the big boss knows it too, and he says I gotta let you go, because you won’t do it.” “But Tony!” “You need a man, Penny. You need to be home making babies for your man. Not here turning into an old spinster. The customers complain, they want their waitresses to be friendly. And young. And the girls, they flirt until they find a guy that clicks, and boom, I’m hiring a new one because she went off and got hitched.” “Spinster, Tony! I’m twenty five, not fifty!” “When did I hire you, Penny? You were eighteen. Most of these girls that I hire, they’re fifteen, sixteen. That’s what the customers want to see, young girls they can pair up with their teenage sons to make grandchildren for them.” “But Tony…” “Penny, look, I know what you are. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. But it’s not my world, Penny. I just gotta live in it. Back in my grandfather’s day, no one would even blink over someone like you, but since the religious kooks took over, I mean, what’re you gonna do?” Penny struggled not to cry as Tony’s words cut through her. All throughout school, she and every other girl was drilled about how the most noble profession and honorable profession for women was being a mother and wife. Only the Barren went to work, because the fertile were needed to keep the population growing. But as much as she tried to like boys, or at least to tolerate them, she lusted after other girls. Boys, they just wanted to squash her tits with their meat-hooks and then hump her like a dog until they were spent. Girls went out of their way to make her feel good, touch all her special places the way she’d touch herself when she thought about them. The dirty, dirty thoughts she had. And she hated herself for it. “I just… what am I gonna do, Tony? As long as I’m making eggs, they won’t let me work in the factories or go to college or anything! This is all I got!” “I wish it didn’t have to be like this, Penny. Maybe try being nicer to the boys at another place? Maybe suck it up and get hitched what they expect of you? I don’t know. Maybe…” He leaned over and got much, much quieter. “Maybe I know a guy. Maybe he can get you some of those sticks, you know what I’m saying? Maybe you make a phone call or somethin’.” He slid a piece of paper across the desk with a phone number on it. Penny shuddered, but took the piece of paper and slipped it into her purse. One of her “girlfriends” in high school tried to get hold of the “egg-breaker sticks” - injections you could take that would turn you up as infertile when you went to the clinic to get harvested every month. But they were as illegal as heroin and cocaine. A cop showed up for her at school not long after that, and no one ever saw her again. “Th… thanks Tony.” She hung her head, and he stood up. “I wish you luck Penny. You’re a good kid. Take care of yourself, huh?” She stood up as well, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it weakly. “I’ll have your last check ready for you on Friday, okay?” “Sure.” “Hey. Maybe… maybe in a few months, I might be needing a front of the house manager, eh?” Her mind reeling, Penny trudged back down the steps and out the back door, speaking to no one on the way. Tony’s words burned at the back of her brain. Why? Why’d she have to like girls? Why couldn’t she just be normal and find a husband and have a happy life surrounded by kids? It would have been so much easier than what she’d been through since high school. She thought about the phone number he gave her. God, if she got caught, she’d wind up disappeared like that kid Sarah! But if she didn’t get caught, that was her golden ticket! All she needed was to turn up empty at the fertility clinic three months in a row, and she’d be reclassified as a Barren. No more pressure to get married, no more being a waitress and getting groped by horny teenage boys while their parents laughed about it. She and her little circle of special friends would still have to keep quiet about their little get-togethers, but no one really cared about what Barrens did with their free time. It was only illegal for boys - If a man lie with a man as a woman, it is an abomination, was how the verse went. Girls, well, society thought it was shameful, but the Coalition couldn’t find any biblical justification to outlaw it. But first she had to at least try to find another job. Even if she could get the sticks, she had to keep her rent up long enough to make it three months…
  2. Hi there! This is a diaper prison story that I've been working on. It's supposed to be about a country that imprisons wealthy criminals in diaper prisons that include spankings and paddlings. More information about the complicated themes in the novel can be found here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/65185502 I have about 10 chapters written, and am working on posting them here over time. Content Warnings Extensive Forced Diaper Wearing (Wetting/Messing) Extensive Public and Private Humiliation Extensive Corporal Punishment and Bondage Extensive use of the themes of fear, shame, guilt, and dread Some consensual sexual slavery/servitude themes Occasional Sexual Themes Occasional Sexual Intercourse ***I do not condone any of the events or themes in this story, and do not intend to glorify or advocate that anyone conduct their life in this way. Nobody should model any sort of erotic behavior on the events of this story.*** -------- Tonight’s entertainment would be small, but that still meant it required every minute of Gillica’s day. It would require: Sweeping the inner foyer. Priming the Topiary promenade from valet dropoff to the main door. Scrubbing and shining all the windows of the Eastern and Western facing facades of Bisgrave Manse. Dusting all interior surfaces in the Hargrave room as well as the Opiante battle memorial room. Checking every piece of the ‘azure blue’ china set for imperfections and assembling it for the kitchen staff. And so much more of the long list of what was expected of her, and her fellow slave Penelope, every single day. Densen Polliver, the majordomo of Bisgrave Manse, son of the former majordomo of Bisgrave Manse and also grandson of the majordomo of the very same Manse, in the time when the Opiante battle memorial room was called something else, came to wake her up. He entered the slave quarters not yet wearing his uniform for the day, and flicked on the switch. Gillica woke up immediately with the light, and was already wide-eyed by the time Densen Polliver was undoing the locking mechanism on Penelope’s cage. Once Penelope’s cage was open, the slippers of Densen Polliver appeared by the entrance to Gillica’s cage, and he squatted down. He ignored all he saw as she stirred the cover off of herself. His sole focus was on the padlock. As soon as it was undone, he swung the door open and rose with a groan. Without a word, he closed the door to the slave quarters behind him, the only sign that he was there being the bright overhead light and the fact that the cage doors now swung open. -freedom- Penelope sighed above, rocking the stacked cages. Compelled by powers even Penelope would not tempt, she made her move, and Gillica knew to let her step out onto the small shared floorspace of the quarters before crawling out of her lower cage herself. The cage doors were oriented perpendicular to each other, such that Penelope could step down out of hers and Gillica could crawl out of her own at the same time, but Gillica had long ago learned that Penelope didn’t like that at all. Where the majordomo’s slippers had been, two pale and bare feet stepped onto the tiled floor. A moment later, a diaper fell with a splat between the feet. It was wet, though from her place down in her cage on the floor, Gillica could see that it wasn’t as bad as the one she herself had woken up in. The feet moved away, stepping across the tile floor with just the sticking sound that skin makes on cold surfaces. The feet walked to a table built into a wall, and now Gillica could see all the way up Penelope’s waist. The slave who slept above her, slave-one, found a container on the table and pulled out a square moist cloth. She drew it across her bottom, one cheek then the other, and then through her buttcrack. Another rectangle came out and she got the inside of her thighs. Another came out and she dealt with her frontside. These too, Penelope dropped on the floor when she was done with them. Still, Gillica knew better than to stir. Slave-one then hauled herself out of sight, onto the table. The sounds that came, the sounds of tearing, of a bottle hitting the top of a table, of the grunting and breathing of a woman dressing herself while laid down horizontal, were all immensely familiar to Gillica. They were sounds that had been her night and day for almost a decade, and figured to be sounds with her a lot longer. Or forever. No, not forever. When Penelope’s body re-appeared in her view, her bare legs now facing away from the table instead of toward it, and her groin now covered in a new, fresh adult diaper, Gillica knew that it was time to flip over on her stomach and make her way through the mesh door of her cage. Her back didn’t hurt when she stood, but the tile was cool and her head was a bit cloudier than it had felt when Densen Polliver had first turned on the lights. It didn’t stop her from predicting what Penelope wanted, though. Gillica’s discipline-a hard acquired skill of survival-took over for her, and she made her way to the table where Penelope stood. Penelope allowed her to pull herself on the table and lay her head down on the cushion. At least there was a cushion. She wished she could sleep here instead of on the mat on the bottom of her cage. Then her knees would not ache and she would not always have a persistent bruise on the top of her head. It would surprise some to know that the cage was not the worst place she could remember sleeping. It would also surprise some, perhaps even more, to know that it was worse than where she had slept most of the last decade. Penelope was wordless as she got to work. There was nothing to say between them. Penelope was slave-one and had at least the right to wipe herself. Gillica didn’t even have that right. It was a strange thing to think of as a right, and now and then it occurred to Gillica that, in this case, she was the one being served by the slave of higher rank. But it never felt that way. It was not supposed to seem that way. It was not that way. Gillica wore what she had been put in until someone put her in something else. What made it the way it was was the real and credible threat of what would happen if Gillica upset that order of things. That’s what made Penelope’s role of sliding a wipe between Gillica’s own buttocks, and another down her shaven vagina, the role of privilege. The slimmest, most minuscule form of an edge anyone could have. The only sort of edge that Penelope had over anyone, anywhere, except maybe those still living behind the bars of Stenton. Penelope could be caged by anyone in the household at any moment, could be ordered to undress, and could be ordered not to dress at all. She was above no task in the Manse, and not even in public were the paid servants of the Bisgraves or the AG Bisgrave herself required to bestow any dignity upon her. And all the while, prison loomed over Penelope. Four more years of servitude to Bisgrave, four more years of proving that without the watchful eyes of guards and cameras and the impossibilities threatened by steel and cement, Penelope could learn her new place in the scheme of things. Until then, cages and diapers. Until then, only one small island of autonomy; the right to change herself. And until then, one small land-grant of privilege. The right to make Gillica squirm. The diaper change was quick. Penelope was far less interested in Gillica’s cleanliness than she was her own, and that was fair. Gillica would require Penelope’s assistance many more times before the day was through, and the Bisgrave’s gave slave-one no credit for the additional labor. Quick and without tenderness. Gillica was clean and dry, and she hopped down off the table herself. She adjusted the tapes of her diaper, a small comfort nobody begrudged her. Penelope would expect her to clean Penelope’s piss-covered wipes that had been dropped on the floor, to ball up Penelope’s diaper by the cages where she had unceremoniously ripped it off, and to of course deal with Gillica’s own bloated and sodden mess that now lay discarded on the table. Gillica got to work, and washed her hands in a large sink-basin that appeared to be a holdover from when the slave quarters might have been a gardner’s storage room. Perhaps from before the north-side greenhouse was built. All that they would wear around the house was a maid’s apron. Black with white frills, tied around the back but covering little else. It was the same apron as the regular servants, the paid servants, save for that the paid servants had the choice of dress pants or dresses underneath. And dress shirts, of course. The men wore tuxedos, of course. The women were expected to pull their hair back and affix a white bonnet there as well, and this included the slaves. The apron did not cover what was most humiliating in her outfit, and anyone looking at her backside could not only see her diapers, but how much she had used them. But at least the gown covered her tits. Well, from the front at least. Everyone knows what I am, Penelope had observed once. So I like the freedom. They’re the ones diapering me, so I don’t care if they’re forced to witness it, referring of course to the stipulation that she must wear them, and not the fact that it was her own hands that performed the task for her overlords. Perhaps because Gillica was not just forced by Bisgrave to wear one did she feel differently. Perhaps it was the torture of finally having access to her undergarments, but still being prohibited from tampering with them, was what made her miss those ratted orange jumpers. “No matter how bad it is, just remind yourself of how much worse it could be.” Gillica tried to remember which cellmate had said that. It seems like something Saathia would have said. Out of self-pity, though, and not out of any attempt to comfort Gillica through one of those more uncomfortable nights. Densen Polliver had the list, ordered with numbers and expected time-to-completions on all of them. By noon more than half the list needed to be done, and if it was not, they would be permitted only one of those viscous smoothies instead of any actual lunch. “And dinner too,” Penelope asked, holding the paper. “And dinner too. You will both be expected to support the wait-staff, though you are not to be seen in the dining hall, nor heard. Is that understood?” Both slave-one and slave-two voiced their understanding. “I will remind you that the attorney general will be entertaining the Mayor of Stenton herself this evening. The usual retinue will not be in attendance; this is a private gathering. The wait staff will be in their weekend attire to accentuate the leisure of their meeting, and the menu will be adjusted according to the Mayor’s expressed desires. After dinner, the Attorney General will retire to the Opiante Room with the Mayor, where they will enjoy cocktail service by myself, with you two in-support in the ready-room. “Why not one of the servants?” Penelope asked. Densen Polliver’s hairy eyebrows twitched, annoyed that Penelope had pre-empted what he was trying to say. “You will be in attendance to offer personal testament to the rehabilitative power of Mistress Bisgrave’s criminal justice system, if required by the attorney general. You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance expected of you and expected of any woman truly committed towards putting their lives of crime behind them.” Penelope reddened, but said nothing. Then Densen Polliver was gone. He was off to trade his slippers and nightgown for his tuxedo, and to shave the graying scruff off his neck. The slaves were permitted to eat, and were allowed to do so in the slave hall, where a large bench occupied a narrow ante-chamber between the kitchens and the rest of the servant’s quarters. Like Densen, the servants wouldn’t be ready for a little while, and Penelope and Gillica used this time to find food from the kitchen and occupy the table-on opposite ends-in the brief and blessed time when nobody would begrudge their presence. It was smart to eat in less than 10 minutes, and Gillica would eat faster if she could chew the dense protein bar any faster. And even with a thick adult diaper on, the servant’s bench was hard against her bottom, as if it joined with the Manse and all of society in prodding her to begin her work. In prison there was nothing to do. Now there was too much. Gillica started with preparations for the real servants. She washed any straggling dishes, she organized the fridge and made sure that their breakfast materials; milk, cereal, bars, vegetables, were in ample supply. She found the folder of servant orders and bulletined them to the board, making sure that each corner was square. She didn’t hate them. Not all of them, and those she did were for reasons of their own. They had their part to play. And Gillica…she had… She had hers. “Penelope, I’m wet already.” “I don’t fucking care.” Densen would paddle Penelope if he overheard slave-one say a think like that, and not just for the language. But if Gillica told on her, she’d get asked herself why she didn’t mark her wetness on the bulletin and cage herself to wait for a servant to send Penelope to take care of her. And there would be no answer to that, and they both would be paddled, and Penelope would have it out for her. So Gillica left Penelope to iron the servant suits, which they would not need until the mid-morning, and set herself to start on her list as far from the other servants as she could. Any that saw the growing yellow down below would order her to her cage to await Penelope, and give her no credit for falling behind on her chores. Ordered to her cage for soiled diapers too often, and she was spanked. But falling short on her tasks meant even surer and more frequent discipline. Gillica had learned that it was not a choice for her between winning and losing, but between losing, and losing harder. It wasn’t fair, but when she answered to someone who was on parole herself, who was herself one of the very bottom human beings in all of Shamuria and yet still wiped Gillica’s ass, it was all the lot that Gillica could expect. Gillica, wet, went out in the cool morning area to trim the hedges. It was almost a perfect temperature for her attire, and felt even better when she got down to work on the long line of green bushes. Trimming into a basket she went, ensuring that the bellies of the five-foot bushes were all uniform and that no leaves sprouted out like little branch boners. It was refreshing outside, and the smell of the sliced branches overpowered the smell of stale piss that had wallowed in the slave quarters since she and Penelope were caged for the night. When her basket was full she carried it across to the compost at the north Greenhouse, careful to not overfill it so none of the sliced branches tumbled onto the lawn that had been cut just yesterday. If she left any on the lawn and it was seen, a servant would hear of it and tell it to Densen, who would find which of the slaves took care of it, and bring a branch of considerably more heftiness and meanness upon her rump. A basket only could hold the branches from two of the hedges, and in total there were sixteen hedges to clip. Eight times she waddled across to deposit her clippings into the compost. Once she had addressed them all she walked carefully through them to make sure that she had not missed a spot. She clipped a few more times, and then took her basket back to the compost a ninth time and then left it there, happy to have finished one of the more involved tasks of the day. As she was returning to the Manse, which loomed tall and shadowy from the north in the morning sun, one of the delivery vehicles rumbled down the gravel path between the hedges. She stood out of its way, mindful of the submissive posture expected of a slave-servant. Hands at her back, head down. The delivery truck rumbled on, and whether the driver had seen or cared about her or not, she couldn’t tell. By now her diaper was heavy with urine, and she knew it was yellow all the way up the back. It was no good denying herself water and coffee in the morning, and she hadn’t tried that since prison. No servant would do anything but order her to her cage, even the nice ones, but Gillica’s list was extra long, and working was worth the risk. Sometimes the servants forgot to log her sinful pee in the ledger of improvement. Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave was not just her mistress, was not just her once-upon-a-time top jailer, and was not just Gillica’s punisher-in-chief. She viewed things more expansively. She viewed herself as something of a maverick and innovator to Shamurians, a mold cut from the stock of the Americans. She was all those things, mistress, jailer, and punisher, as well as goddess, granter, and mercy conditional. But over and on top of all these things, Angelina Bisgrave viewed herself as correctional. There were eleven servants who were servants and not slaves of the Bisgrave Manse. Ten of them served the eleventh, the majordomo Polliver, to whom the two slaves also served. In the evenings, the slaves also served the servants, tending to their dishes and their occasional needs. It was not uncommon for Polliver to add the servants linens to the list of responsibilities that the two slaves had to handle, though most days one of the servants themselves handled the accumulated laundry of them all. The servants preferred to keep the slaves out sight. It was better to keep the smelly diaper-bound slaves on tasks that couldn’t contaminate their own spaces and autonomy, however meagre they were. They would send them on tasks into the town for personal errands. Some snacks from the grocery, some envelopes from the post-office, or something for the Manse that was needed. Any servant could task her if the slaves were not still working through their daily bill. Finish the tasks too late, and get punished. Finish them too early and get sent into town without even an apron to cover her breasts. There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated. You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance. Instead, it was Boris. The shimmering of his braces flickered through his smile. His coarse orange hair was unkempt, and if Densen Polliver found him he’d order him into his quarters to comb it. He probably already had, but it was a losing battle. Boris’s hair was as untamable as he was.being handcuffed, Gillica had seen the back of Yara’s diaper bow outwards as her slave’s laughter turned to pleading. They’d gotten Yara on a checkup violation, something about skipping parole meetings. There was a long court proceeding where Yara accused Gillica of preventing her from doing her obeisances to her overseers. That was the only court proceeding that Gillica had won, and Yara was sent down to prison again. But not, Yara celebrated on the day of her release, for as long as Gillica would be sent down. Not nearly. Gillica wondered what happened to Yara. Probably back in front of a court again, she figured. She didn’t wish ill will on many. Not even on obnoxious Penelope and her persnickity lording of the slave quarters. Pick up my piss cloths, shitter. It became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated. But she did at least hope for discomfort for Yara. Maybe not all the way back to Stenton Prison, though that felt inevitable for that idiotic woman who would have fought Gillica off if Gillica had not kept her chained. Maybe just a harsh patron. A real upstanding elite who was unimpeachable and unyielding. Someone like Mistress AG Bisgrave. A real correctional. Gillica knew the servants were buzzing about the Manse now. Bisgrave had arisen and left in her car, driven by one of the servants, and they’d crunched up the gravel road while Gillica was emptying her bucket of twigs. She could see them in the windows, through the steam that came out of the western wing’s smokestacks, indicating that the labors of meals were well underway. Their maid uniforms, complete with dresses, flitted through the windows. Wet, with a diaper that felt not just wet up the back but wet in the front too, Gillica headed back into the servant quarters to get the window cleaning supplies. She’d get her outdoor window cleaning done before one of them spotted her and caged her, so long as she could get in and get out without one of them noticing. She entered the side door, which took her through the living quarters for the servants. It was a hallway of dorms, and the newer ones slept two to a room, while the more advanced servants slept alone. They would be empty at this time, Gillica guessed, and this morning she guessed correctly. Her diaper was sodden and sweaty, and she wanted out, but it barely registered as discomfort. Paddlings were discomfort. Wetness and itchiness were life. At least it wasn’t stewing underneath the old fabric of an orange jumper. At least she wasn’t in the cage. Yet. Her guess having paid off, Gillica only had to cross the main area of the servant quarters, take a left, and open the closet. This was the danger zone, as by being in the closet and by facing the closet, her rump was facing the whole openness of the main area, including an open angle into the kitchen. The number of times a hey, slave! Had come to her when she was in this closet was innumerable. It was a gamble, and the last three consecutive days had seen her go from closet to cage. Being soiled at this closet probably got her caged 75% of the time, no matter what time of day. Those were good odds. All of her other chores took her into the main living areas, and into the teeth of the rest of the servants. She looked both ways from the living area hallway, saw nobody, and made her move. She opened the closet, honed in on the extendable mop and the washbasin. She found the adjustable squeegee to stick on the end of it so she could reach the highest parts. Footsteps. There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated. Exuberance. You know what, a cage is a place I belong. A cage keeps me where I belong. A cage reminds me of where I’ve been and it doesn’t let me hide from where I’ve been. It’s not a box. It’s transparent, and by seeing through it they can see right into me. Onto what I’m wearing, and what I’m really worth. The footsteps continued, and Gillica picked up her bucket and stick and headed back to the living quarters. She waddled crazily now, carrying her supplies and all of her pee. But she made it to the door without a shout from one of the servants down the hallway, without any of the servants stepping out of one of the bedrooms to see the worried face she wore. She wasn’t worried about leaking. The attorney general she called her mistress, Angelina Bisgrave, the one who ruled her world, the one who sat on a throne of discipline that Gillica ministered within far below, had access to the best sort of diapers. PGV3000s, which Gillica worked out long ago meant Punishment Garments, Version 3000. They were designed to hold, because they were designed to become as uncomfortable as possible for the wearer before causing a problem for those that lorded over the wearers. Leaks hadn’t been a problem for her three years at the Manse. They hadn’t been a problem all throughout prison either. Only on her last night in jail, the night before they put her on the Ferry of Justice to take her where she belonged, to the cage within the cage within the cage and the true start of the life she deserved, did she make darkspots on her bed and jumper. The piss just kept coming that night. Uncomfortable it became, and the ever-tropical weather of Shamuria began to take its effect. Cleaning the tall windows that lined the facade was difficult work, and it splashed soapy water down on top of her (the soap and water she was able to get from an outdoor shed hidden behind some bushes on the far side of the Eastern grounds.) Her bonnet was sprinkled, and now and then a dollop of soapy scum got in her eye, and she bent and struggled with the hem of her gown to dry it out. She had to get her back and hips into the scrubbing, and the curled up posture of her cage-bound sleep came to haunt her. The stamina in her legs bailed on her quickly. The rhythmic pumping of her thighs to reach the highest parts of the window made the bloated diaper swing between her legs. Still she worked, moving her bucket down the row of windows when each one was finished. By the end, Gillica resolved to cage herself. Her body ached, and she guessed it was barely ten in the morning. She leaned the mop handle against the wall of the Bisgrave Manse, walls that were made of large stone blocks, and felt herself. Wetter than she had been, more than could be accounted for than just sweat. The cage was calling. The cage lurked around every corner. She packed up her equipment. She took the bucket and dumped its contents on the leafy floor of the palm grove that flanked one side of the grounds. She took the squeegee off and threw it in a trash bin by one of the sheds. It was covered in a brownish-green grime typical of the seaside tropics. Yara used to complain about that muck all of the time. Browner than my cocksucking diaper, she would curse. She brought the bucket and the pole back to the closet, and this time, the servants didn’t fail to notice her. She didn’t bother to tell them that she was going. She simply said. “Yes sir.” The servant who saw her had been sitting at the servant table, taking a quick break with the newspaper. He saw her come and and as soon as she turned her back on him, he barked at her. He was one of the mean ones. Male and eighteen and clearly the communist type, despite his role as a servant. At least what Bisgrave does keeps them in check, was something she’d overheard him say in the servants quarters. Them being her kind, them being the wealthy who were wrong. He relished humiliating Gillica and Penelope, finding any opportunity he could to take them leashed and in just diapers and sandals to the town. Never thought it’d come to this, up there in your villas, all high and mighty. Did you? Over and over again he’d make her respond. “Yes sir, I didn’t sir. But I’m glad sir. I need it sir. I was wrong sir. You were right sir. Whatever you say sir. This is my place sir. Humility is a lesson I still need to learn sir, and I appreciate your patience with me sir.” You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance expected of you and expected of any woman truly committed towards putting their lives of crime behind them. “What are you doing, look at how much piss is in that thing,” he said, setting the newspaper down. Another servant, an older one, entered in from the kitchen, looked at Gillica, shrugged, and continued to the living corners. “What are you thinking? It seems like your disgusting ass likes it.” “I don’t like it, sir. I’m still learning responsibility sir.” “I think the cage is right for you then!” “I agree sir. I’m going to my place now.” Oh, how the little man enjoyed it. Boris was his name, and his teeth were still in braces and his hair was all mopped. She walked herself into the slave quarters, aiming herself for the cage. She wanted the cage. Earlier she thought to approach her day with a mind to minimize the amount she took the paddle, but now she hardly cared. She was so tired, and her cage was calling. Penelope could take an hour to filter down and wipe her pussy, and thus absolutely doom her from finishing even most of her chores, but at least her legs could rest. As she entered the quarters, something stirred next to her, and she saw that it was Penelope, on her back where she had been earlier. She was changing herself, and this time her diaper was far worse than Gillica’s. A pile of stained wipes grew to cover the open mess on the diaper. Gillica didn’t even flinch. This was life since the day they came for her, when she found herself with cold steel on her wrists, when Yara bricked herself because she knew she was going back. Penelope looked at her, and then returned to her work. Her neck craned down her navel to observe the work cleaning the shit off of her ass. There was nothing to say between either of them. “Don’t just fucking look at it, get in your cage and wait for me, you useless idiot.” Wordlessly, Gillica did as she was told. Even the thin mat and blanket felt comfortable on her aching muscles. She watched Penelope’s progress, knowing that the job of packing the dirty diaper up and bringing it to the disposal a few yards away would be her job. “Are you shitted?” “No,” Gillica answered. “Goddamn it,” Penelope answered. “You’re going to make me wipe your cooch all fucking day aren’t you?” Gillica didn’t answer. “You know. In four years. When I’m free of all this, I’m going to come and buy your ass off Bisgrave. You know I still have an estate, right? I’ll have enough if she’ll sell you. She’ll be tired of you by then. And then I’ll get back at your shitty ass. I’ll make it so miserable on you that you’ll finally learn to clench that wide open asshole you have.” Both of them were required to use their diapers. Penelope’s requirement was a legal one, a stipulation for all former occupants of Stenton prison who were still on parole. Parole was not a post-punishment phase, it was a reintroduction phase. Penelope had to exist in the world while being seen as the least of it, the base and mean denominator of all of Shamuria. If she tried to escape her new role in things, if she was ever found clothing herself more than ordered, or if she was found using a toilet, she’d risk trading her steel mesh cage for a concrete cell again. Some owners were lenient, Gillica heard. The top cop of Stenton was no-nonsense. Correctional did not mean forgiving. Gillica’s reasons were simpler. Finally, Penelope rolled herself off the table, a new fresh diaper taking the place of the old one. Gillica once again understood her queue to get to work removing the detritus of the old one, doing her best to avoid touching any of the shit that her fellow slave left behind. She balled up the diaper, taking care that all of the soiled wipes were contained within it. She used the tapes to wrap it into a ball, a technique she’d learned from countless prison guards ages ago. She carried it like nuclear waste over to the bin, stepped on the foot locker, and deposited on top of her and Penelope’s overnight briefs. Then she washed her hands in the bin, and began to undo her gown, while Penelope re-did her own. On the table once again, Penelope stood over her and got to work. Gillica felt the tapes of her PGV3000 come undone, exposing her pussy once again to the brick walls of the humble slave quarters. She tried to relax on the slab of the table, lowering her head and letting Penelope’s grunts and taps instruct her on whether to raise her legs or lower them. Just then, the door opened. It could only be a servant, and Penelope dropped the cold wet cloth she had been drawing through Gillica’s buttocks to face the door at attention. Gillica turned her head on the slab to see who it was, but she did not feel that, in this position, her movement was required unless it was Bisgrave herself. And Bisgrave herself never came down here. Instead, it was Boris. The shimmering of his braces flickered through his smile. His coarse orange hair was unkempt, and if Densen Polliver found him he’d order him into his quarters to comb it. He probably already had, but it was a losing battle. Boris’s hair was as untameable as he was. “Got bad news for you idiots,” he said. “Penelope. The domo just came by, and I told the domo that I caught you taking a dump in the Opiante room. He’s very displeased.” “Did you tell him that I was profusely sorry, and the need came over me and I couldn’t get out of the sacred room in time?” “You know he doesn’t care. He expects more out of his slave-one.” Gillica could feel the rage coming through Penelope, a quivering anger that threatened to rise up from her ankles into a fighter’s stance that would culminate in a savage punch to Boris’s askance teeth. And a trip back to Stenton prison, should she actually punch, and stripped of the small rights she had over Gillica, no matter how she begrudged them, and the cruel inevitability of the dock. What was more, Penelope had obviously tried to shit herself in the Opiante room on purpose, as a sign of disrespect. Gillica could see right through it, and could see that Penelope’s rage was half-directed at herself and the fury that her act of defiance had ended in capture. No room codified the brilliant patriotism and public service of the Bisgrave genealogy than the Opiante room. It was a room Gillica had heard of, and an event Gillica was very familiar with, long before her life changed and they came for her. The pride and joy of the Bisgrave family, the Bisgrave estate, and the Manse itself. At least when Gillica was caught soiled in there, there was the defense that she couldn’t do much about it. Penelope had no such defense. “I’m sorry sir,” Penelope said. She hid her anger well, but Gillica had known Penelope longer than Boris did. They’d overlapped at Stenton Prison, and Gillica knew the stance and tone of someone obeying a haughty guard. “I will accept whatever the majordomo deems necessary to correct my behavior.” “He said to cage yourself.” “I will do it gladly and await his further instruction, sir,” Penelope said. She turned briefly toward the cage, and then stopped. “Sir, should I finish changing slave-two?” Boris’s face expanded into a wide grin. He looked at Penelope, and stared at her from sandals to bonnet. “No, slave-one. The domo made it clear that your caging should be interrupted for nothing. I’ll finish with Gillica,” he said. The room was silent for a moment. The quivering anger that Gillica had observed in the twitching of Penelope’s calves, in the sway of the inches-deep padding of Penelope’s pristine white diaper, gave away. The anger was displaced by a stunned stiffness, stunned, like a small rodent paralyzed as the wheels of a mighty vehicle bear down upon it. Gillica’s pussy felt cold there on the slab. “Yes sir,” was all Penelope could say. She said it stiffly, and she didn’t look at Gillica. Instead she turned on a heel, exposing her diaper to the two of them, and walked toward her cage. Gillica could tell it took all of Penelope’s effort to hold her head high. Boris watched her go into her cage, and then stepped forward and found the key on a loop on the wall, and addressed the lock. Penelope was on her knees, her head bowed, her eyes staring blank out at the door to the slave quarters, as if hoping that by somehow watching, Densen Polliver would not arrive. “And you,” Boris said, coming closer to the slab that Gillica still laid on. “How far along in this change are you?” “Slave-one just started, sir,” she said, to the scruffy-headed eighteen year-old. “Alright,” he said. He looked over her nakedness like a starving man viewed a five-course meal. If it was left to the servants to deal with Gillica’s diapering, it was generally one of the older, more established ones. Never in his short tenure had it fallen to Boris, the newest and youngest of the group. Gillica wondered if he’d ever touched a vagina, or touched a woman at all. He seemed to know how it went, though. He found the wipes and got to work. He was not mindful of their coldness against Gillica’s skin. To his credit, he did not linger on her pussy, as she expected (and would have tolerated, no, would have enjoyed). Penelope treated her sex as if it were poisonous, even though Gillica knew for sure that Penelope had succumbed to the allure of tenderness during her incarceration. Gillica had no aspersions that her piss-covered pussy was romantic. She tried not to think about love at all, anymore, but sex was hard-coded into her body. The only way men touched her anymore was on a changing table, and her mind had learned enough to crave it. Even if the guards had discovered her sharing many cots in lockup, searching for the same tenderness that Penelope had sought, it was men she wanted, and it was changing tables where men found her. Even eighteen year old servants like Boris. “I always wondered why you chose this,” he said as he wiped the piss off her groin. “You’re not under threat of prison anymore,” he said. There were many answers to that. But Boris supplied his own. He took a wipe and held it up, showing to Gillica that there was more than pee, but less than poop on it. “Now I understand,” he said. Yes, you dolt. At least you know the difference between a pissed on pussy and a moist one. And no. It’s not for you. It’s just that your hand is male. You’re not Penelope, that’s all. And it’s certainly not why I swear myself to Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave! But she could do nothing but mutter a ‘yes sir,’ to him. It was a damn shame that she could not for a moment relish the cowing of Penelope before stumbling further into her own humiliation. She tried to distract her mind as her legs went in the air and he dealt with her asshole. Penelope. Penelope is in for it. Maybe I’ll be wiping her ass again, as it was for the short while after she arrived, until she stole that job from me. Maybe the shoe was soon to be on the other foot. Maybe her station was rising in the Manse. It didn’t matter if where you rose wasn’t high, it did matter if where your rose was as high as you deserved to go. There was something to be said for that. “You’re not out of the woods either,” Boris said, finding a fresh diaper for her. His words crushed her out of her brief reverie, and back into the disgusted awareness that his motions on her privates felt good. “You cleaned the windows, didn’t you?” If there was anything that could dry her pussy up, it was that question. She would have squirted for the mop-headed fool if it meant he could never have asked it. “Yes sir,” he said. “Well unfortunately, you’re going to have to do it again. You left streaks, big ones, on every window.” “I understand sir,” she said. Streaks, what streaks! Was this a joke? Her muscles cried out in rebellion. Cage, I just want to crawl into my cage. I thought it was going to be just me and my nice little cage! “The mistress herself came back in her car and was outraged. All of the servants will have to work extra hard to pick up the slack from the both of you. She wants you to give the windows another shot, and if she isn’t pleased the second time when she personally inspects them…” Boris shined his braces once again. This time, his fingers did linger as he spread lotion on her crotch. She felt herself moisten again. Felt his strength and imagined his cock. It had been so long since she’d felt a cock go inside her. She didn’t care who owned the next cock, she’d fuck it if she had a chance. But to feel like this in this context was torture. “Yes sir,” she muttered, again. “I will do the windows again, and accept the Mistress’s judgment,” she said. All she felt was a warm, rushing sensation. A pooling, trickling, splashing one. Boris yelped and stepped back in surprise. Gillica sat up to see a fountain of piss exiting herself onto the opened and formerly dry diaper that Boris had been preparing for her. “Disgusting, pathetic. Idiot. I can’t believe this happened to me on my first time!” Boris said, examining his shirt to see if she’d gotten pee on it. He continued to inspect himself, cursing and sputtering under his breath every time he found her urine on his servant’s uniform. Gillica laid down her head on the slab once again. There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated.
  3. Disclaimer: https://www.patreon.com/posts/65185502 Content Warnings Extensive Forced Diaper Wearing (Wetting/Messing) Extensive Public and Private Humiliation Extensive Corporal Punishment and Bondage Extensive use of the themes of fear, shame, guilt, and dread Some consensual sexual slavery/servitude themes Occasional Sexual Themes Occasional Sexual Intercourse ***I do not condone any of the events or themes in this story, and do not intend to glorify or advocate that anyone conduct their life in this way. Nobody should model any sort of erotic behavior on the events of this story.*** Previous chapter: -------- Monica’s office was, despite appearances, fully functional. The large desk that ran down the middle might seem absurd to a newcomer, especially since she had a separate, personal desk located at the far end of the room. But a war-room where Monica could control all of the factors, where she could ensure all of the secrecy, was not to be undervalued. The doors along the side that led to servant’s quarters meant that her office and the large table could become a venue of ‘negotiation’ for the most important guests. The private kitchen and attending chef-servant served this essential purpose as well. One never knew when a supreme dish of steak or lobster could turn the tide of a deal. Monica was austere in her personal life. She had no need for excess sets of china or elaborate golden statues. She did not need a phalanx of servants waiting for her at Jannis Villa, and she derived no satisfaction in housing, discipling, and smelling personal slaves. She had never attended the Stentonville gala, save one time when her presence rendered her audiences otherwise difficult to secure. She had donated her gown afterwards, in a highly publicized auction. Monica couldn’t remember who won the dress, or how much it sold for. She certainly didn’t remember what charity all that money went to. If she needed to find out, Delia would have the answer in moments. All she knew was that the empty space where the garish eyesore of a dress had hung in her wardrobe was far more valuable to her than retaining that item of ‘stunning beauty.’ Beauty is power. Some people think that if beauty is attained, power follows. Monica knew better. Beauty was nothing if it could not be converted, and beauty had an inconsistent or nebulous relationship to power. Monica found that there were simpler ways to get what one wanted. Power, believe or not, is the asset that converts most efficiently into further power. Money was good too. Monica sat at her personal desk, the one behind the massive, chestnut-lacquered one that ran the length of the room. She swirled her chair and looked out on the city of Stenton. Her office was not on the top floor, nor was her building the tallest in Stenton. But that didn’t matter to Monica. Nobody had a better view for less. She was sure that ShamProm had paid a fortune for the real estate on their recently finished tower. It gleamed in the tropical sun where it rose from the center of the city’s busiest district. It had a bulbous shape to it, and it seemed to twist and flex as it rose to the clouds. It would take them thirty years to recover that cost even at their current and inflated revenues, and by then, who could know if Stenton was still the hottest place in Shamuria to do business? Maybe their structure would pay dividends, so the claim about the eternal value of real-estate always went, but Monica preferred smaller costs to create opportunities for smarter, faster investments. She knew the CEO of ShamProm, who probably was sitting much like her in her own gaudy office. Little Mindy Topper. The do-gooder of Stenton’s elite, the star CEO, the five-time winner of Stenton’s best businesswoman, and two-time (in a row) winner of Shamuria’s best entrepreneur. Entrepreneur of a gas company started over a hundred years ago. The lucky lady holding the golden goose after Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave rode in on a warhorse and threw them all of her previous bosses in diapers. The thought still made her laugh. She the only person she hated more than Mindy Topper was Vittoria Vincentza, the old CEO who took the biggest fall for the decades-long schemes of embezzlement that almost tore down ShamProm. That there was a cunt for the ages. Monica had worked for Vittoria a decade ago, when she first got out of Business School and got a job at Shamuria’s oldest and largest multinational. Monica was elite, so that meant right off the bat, she was assigned to a team that advised them on their highest corporate strategy. All that was worth, though, was months spent on detailed, foolproof proposals only to have them eviscerated on a whim by Vittoria. Each failed proposal, no matter how perfect, no matter how debased the criticism was, came with it an hours-long tirade into the team’s personal failings. “Selfish, up-jumped, small-brained, myopic servants! I’d have collars around your neck soon, I’ll have you believe it! You think this entire power-point isn’t something I couldn’t have had in a dream, that one of my slaves couldn’t have scribbled while locked in her cage? It’d go on and on, and Monica and her colleagues had to take it until they quit. Monica tried to imagine Vittoria’s rages now. Change my diaper now damnit! You know what I saw in my dreams…that I would get my asswiped now! I now suck the dicks of the slaves I once owned! Ha. The font of truth; Vittoria Vincentza. Monica had no need for slaves. They didn’t perform as much work as servants, and the extra cost of the servant more than made up for the fact that servants didn’t shit themselves. How many dinners had she been to that had been sullied by some ill-timed fart from a slave? Vittoria had had dozens though, in her typical, dominating fashion. She’d parade them around, stark naked, collars and chains holding them together, each of them responsible for holding one of her personal belongings. A slave for her phone, a slave for her purse, a slave who carried a change of close. A slave who carried the diapers for the other slaves who would soon need them. A slave to carry the paddle for any who needed it. Each had some connection to Vittoria; a childhood bully, her valedictorian, the guy who stole her homework, her neighbor who never quieted her dog. If Vittoria knew who you were in elite circles and you went to jail, Vittoria made sure you did your parole in a cage in the basement of her expansive mansion. The memories aroused her. No, there was nothing interesting to her in slaves. It was no fun to own and control someone who had already lost all legal standing. It was much for fun to conquer someone who had a chance, but succumbed to you anyway. That was the difference for Monica; the boredom of everyday dominance, versus the thrill of actual conquest. Vittoria, like Mindy after, bathed in the adulation of a world that bowed for them. Monica spurned that for a more exhilarating route. Greatness only comes when safety is shunned for greater glory, and when time and effort are spent to achieve it. The most thrilling victories were those that were won despite the possibility or probability of defeat. The greatest prizes were those that didn’t even know they could become trophies. There in her office, in her swivel chair looking across the city, past Mindy’s new tower, Monica looked upon the bay. She reached into her skirt and touched herself through her panties. The thought that came to her was not Vittoria in her chains, huddling and squirming as shit filled her diaper. Yes, she’d fantasized about being a fly on the wall of Vittoria’s cell for many years now, but no, that’s not what came to her. Neither did thoughts of Mindy enter her mind. Oh, how pluggable her little asshole must be. Long ago, when Monica had worked for Vittoria, Mindy’s small, mousy self had helped Monica assemble those reports. She too had gone from her elite business school to the soulless grinder of ShamProm's thankless higher circles. Her work ethic had been good, but her ideas were small and predictable, and often her research and conclusions were inaccurate (not that this mattered to Vittoria-everything to her seems inaccurate). If Monica had not watched her closely, Vittoria’s rages might have occasionally had the semblance of a cause. Monica long wanted to spank the little ditzy upstart. And someday she would, when Mindy had run ShamProm into the ground. Monica would have the capital to sweep in and save the pride and joy of Shamuria’s industry, and she’d put a nice leash around Mindy’s neck as an extra part of the package. No, Monica wouldn’t demand Mindy swear herself to slavery. She’d make it voluntary. Yes, little Mindy, it would make great sense for me to come in and save ShamProm, it’s not just that you’ll need me to clean up your mess. Despite that, I’ll let another one, a lesser one, gobble it up. They’ll save it for a time until once again your baby falls into disrepair and the pressure mounts on your neck once again. I can save it forever, I can cover your failings forever, on the condition you stick your little keister on that bulb right there. In fact, the new ShamProm tower did look quite like a buttplug rising out of the Stenton skyline. In her dreams, Mindy ripped her own clothes off, sat herself on the plug un-lubed, and humbled herself before Monica enthusiastically. Monica sighed as her hand touched herself. Vittoria and Mindy were among her favorite dreams. Yet despite the hotness of the real plight of Vittoria and the eventual, imagined one of Mindy, Monica thought of another woman. One much closer by, one right at hand. She turned away from the window and pressed a button on her phone with her free hand. “Delia, I need to see you in my office,” she said. “Yes ma’am, be there right away!” came Delia’s reply. Monica leaned back and exhaled. The feelings were strong. Her wetness oozed through her panties and soaked them. Her nipples stiffened and her bra suddenly felt coarser and tighter around her breasts. The door on the other end of her office, at the end of the massive table, opened just a crack. A woman came through and shut the door behind her, and then began to scurry down the side of the table. Her heels clicked loudly as she made her way across the floor. “Miss Monica, what do you need?” Delia said after she stopped five feet away from Monica’s personal desk. “Come closer,” Monica said. Delia did as she was told immediately. Oh, how she was a pretty, obedient little thing. Dumb as rocks, yes. Her long brown hair and busty tits distracted from an eternal blankness in her stare. Her parents had given her everything, Monica knew, and Delia had tried her very hardest, Monica also knew. All for naught. She couldn’t manage business school, and only because her father flagged her down at the gala last year did his daughter have a job at such an esteemed tech company so close to its leadership. Monica knew better than to hesitate at the request of one of Shamuria’s retired Presidents. Make her something respectable. Give her confidence. But if I were you, don’t rely on her too much. Oh, if Delia ever heard those words! Delia was smart enough, at least, to know she couldn’t cut it. She knew that her role as chief talent executive was ceremonial, at best. She knew that her performance could never actually save her, and that her father bought her all the prestige she owned. She know also knew that in addition to her father, Monica was her best ticket to what her father had called respectable. Delia was a long way off. “Did you do everything I asked of you this morning?” Monica asked. Delia’s lip quivered. “There was a uh, a delay.” Monica had no doubt that the task was impossible. Whether Delia had foreseen it too didn’t matter. Delia would do as she was told with the assumption that Monica’s word was infallible. If she couldn’t live up to it, Delia understood that she wasn’t meant to be anything but a disappointment. Delia never hid from nor avoided being a disappointment. “What were the delays?” Delia searched the floor and the window and through it the skyline of Stentonville for answers, but she found none. Her brown hair was tied back into one long and elegant ponytail. Her black skirt made it only halfway to her knees, and her blouse was one-size too tight. All she wore she wore at the request of Monica. The best part though? Delia didn’t wear panties. She hadn’t for the last six months, since the time when she’d caused quite the snafu at the New Year’s ball for only providing fish-shellfish options as entrees. Not only were the vegetarians and vegans angry, but it turned out many were allergic to the only dish options as well. Delia’s event planning was always lackluster, but so long as she didn’t spend too much, Monica didn’t mind. Employees were fickle anyway, and once they realized that work was not fun, Monica didn’t want to try to keep them. It was better that they moved themselves along, if they could. “Delia, I asked you a question. You’re twenty-four now. Your father didn’t have me put you in charge of an entire function of my company so that you couldn’t find your big girl words and fail to answer a simple question. Peons don’t even have trouble with this sort of thing. Is that what you are, Delia? A peon?” “No ma’am.” “Do you remember what it was like when I busted you down to the mail room like a servant?” “Yes ma’am,” Delia said, biting her lip. Monica could feel Delia’s desire to hurry, to get back to work, to continue to call the union chief to get the answers Monica requested. But the union chief wouldn’t be accepting calls while on his island, and Monica had really been testing Delia’s ability to figure that out. She wanted to touch herself, but she did not. That would be Delia’s job, by the end of the day. “Did you like it?” “It was a good lesson for me ma’am. I have learned the value of a good lesson.” Monica didn’t like that answer. It would have been acceptable a few years ago, but now, Monica wanted more. “Answer my question.” Delia shifted on her heels. She was no longer biting her lip, but it was clear she didn’t want to answer. “Yes ma’am, I liked it,” she said. Delia was so pathetic. She could strike an imposing figure, being nearly six feet tall even without heels. Her slender and lengthy build was naturally commanding. Her posture was sophisticated, and her shoulders and neck made use of every inch given to her. Despite all her elegance, though, Delia was nothing more than a horse. She was the ultra-feminine version of a male grunt. Rather than being a tough chunky bouncer, Delia was the feminized version; lithe and prim, and shared the critical characteristic of being only dimly aware of the yoke around her neck. “I’m not sure I believe you,” Monica said. Then she made a motion with her hand that Delia understood as beckoning her forward. Delia took a step. She widened her stance to permit what would happen next. Monica stuck her hand under Delia’s skirt and felt Delia’s uncovered pussy. Somebody likes her yoke. Monica used the sopping wet vulva as a handle and pulled Delia, who tottered forward on her heels, while letting out the slightest moan. Did Delia understand that she was always going to be yoked? Always going to be serving people? Always going to be outsmarted, always nothing more than a knight or a bishop and not the queen she was bred to be? A knight or bishop was probably too generous. Delia probably thought that service like this would someday set her on the path to becoming something more than her wealth and inborn status could freely grant her. Delia had sisters; all either CEOs or politicians already, and there she was, a lowly senior-vice president of the fifth largest corporation in Shamuria. And barely capable of that. No. Completely incapable. Every employee at Klepin Inc (Monica’s last name was Klepin) knew their human resources bigwig was a buffoon. It was all over forums, brought to Monica directly in this big office by Delia’s own nervous associates. It was whispered in private chats, where employees thought they were secret. It was in the news, where Delia’s father still had enemies. Even Delia’s panty-less punishment made the bottom-barrel periodicals, after Delia had been dumb enough to walk on the crystal staircase on the thirty-seventh floor. Even Delia had to be aware of that. But did she know that despite all of her wealth, despite all the doors that would magically open for her for no reason, Delia would only ever be the recipient of charity? That she would be a pawn for access to her father? Did Delia understand that the wetness Monica now felt in the palm of her hand was the smartest part about Delia, the only part of her that accurately incentivized her to make the good choice. The choice to say ‘yes ma’am’ to those who were actually competent. Delia wasn’t Monica’s real prize. She was a means to an end. She was a dumb tool to be used for her bloodline and her loyalty (the stupid and the poor are generally loyal, because they can find no other choice or can’t realize they have no other choice). Vittoria was already in the freezer, rotting slowly in her shitted diapers. Mindy was the goal. When Mindy worked for Monica, earning her panties wouldn’t even enter her wildest dreams. Still clutching Monica’s vagina, Monica spoke to Delia again. “When you do get ahold of that union chief,” she said “make sure he knows that there are a few more compensation inquiries coming his way.” Delia’s eyes widened. “There are?” “Yes. Don’t you know about them?” Delia squirmed. She knew that Monica would be disappointed that something was happening in Delia part of the company, yet Monica knew about it before her. Monica continued. “We need to make sure we’re doing everything we can,” she said. Delia, whose wetness had surged in the last moments, and who was still perched on Monica’s slowly flexing and unflexing hand, stiffened to an even more severe attention. “Yes absolutely,” she beamed. Her hand stopped flexing and began to caress Delia’s pussy. She had a fleshy opening, and kept herself hairless save for a small tuft at the top. Monica truly loved Delia’s pussy because it hid nothing. Her outer lips could not hold back the deluge of Delia’s submissive frenzy. It was a miracle that Delia didn’t leave puddles wherever she went. Apparently, Delia managed seven slaves back at her private cottage (which was far, far from a cottage), and another seven servants. Daddy gave her a good allowance, Monica certainly didn’t pay her enough for all that. How she could keep them in line was a mystery, though it was perhaps a complement to who must be the sternest majordomo in Shamurian history. All of those who served her, even the ones defecating themselves, must already know all about Delia’s panty-less scandals. The laughter in the servants quarters could start a peasant insurrection. That would be a funny legacy for this elegant yet dense Clydesdale. So dumb that the rabble rose up and rode her like a horse. Monica stuck a finger in, just a single one. “It’s a disappointment you weren’t ready to tell me how much you liked your mailroom time,” she said. “I think I’ll add another month to your current punishment.” Delia replied with a “yes ma’am,” that barely seemed to register Monica’s words. Whatever brains Delia had were lost in a sea of ecstasy. In truth, there were some brains there, and Monica contemplated them after she was finished with her VP of Human Resources. She wiped off the moisture on her hand on Delia’s inner thigh, and had Delia kneel and lick off the rest. “You better have better news for me in the afternoon,” Monica said. “I will,” Delia said, standing and wiping some of her own cum on her mouth. She beamed, and began to make her way down the long table in Monica’s office. Monica’s stomach twisted seeing the cleft in Delia’s skirt that marked the bareness of her buttocks. It was a miracle that nobody just bent her over and humped her in the elevator. “Come back for a second,” Monica called. Delia did what she was told, and assumed a stance a few feet away from Monica. “Back to where you were, how you were.” Delia bit her lip again, and stepped close to Monica’s chair. She made sure her thighs were spread. Monica flatted her had, aimed, and gave Delia a smack on her pussy. Delia groaned. “Now you can go,” Monica said, snapping her fingers. She watched Delia’s butt cheeks flex in her clothes as she went. There were, indeed, just enough brains there. Just enough for Delia to make her own misguided solution to the problems that Monica presented her with. Of course, there was only one solution Delia could come up with given the circumstances. How could a company with the size and impact of Klepin Inc. save so much on labor costs? How could they cut so many corners and avoid so many extra fees and investments in the presence of such a powerful and connected union? Workers all across Monica’s many factories and stores, which distributed everything from adult diapers to assault rifles, were a part of the union. Amazon had no such union, and neither did Alibaba, for all of its talk of being the communist pride and joy of the People’s Republic of China. Monica had simply told Delia that Klepin Inc, needed to compete globally. Delia couldn’t fill in the rest, of course, but Monica guided her to the numbers. Delia could count, at least. Delia could listen to the bottom line of analysts and understand what they told her. Monica got Delia to ask the question Delia couldn’t approach on her own. What’s the number we need to get to? Delia found that number, and knew that the margin they currently were at wasn’t going to cut it. Monica then set her up with the union chief, someone whose intentions she could see from a mile away. Amazon and Alibaba may have no powerful unions to speak of, but those they did have were fresh blood and virile. Klepin’s came from her father’s day, and her grandmother’s before that. It was old, it was ponderous, and it had forgotten its original purpose. In the end, Delia, ever loyal to Monica and the way Monica made her pussy feel, found the answer. All on her own, just like Monica wanted. Smart enough to come up with a collusion scheme with the union to bury all complaints about abysmally low wages across many of Klepin’s offshore factories, yet dumb enough to not realize that it was ridiculously illegal. Monica just had to insulate herself from Delia, she had to ensure that she herself had plausible deniability. When it came to a head (and it would), they’d make Klepin bow to Shamurian law. Monica would disavow the practices, and would rail against the union chief and express her disappointment in Delia (a disappointment and frustration often mentioned in the papers and earnings reports). It would be a setback, but the gains of many years of lower wages wouldn’t be overturned. She’d used her extra cash well, and her claims to a portion of the market share in America, China, Europe, and India, as well as a dominant claim in Africa and South America, couldn’t be peeled back by any ramifications. Delia’s father would protect Delia from the worst of it. Monica would do her bit. I would have stopped it if I had known. I don’t disagree that she needs to be punished, but please don’t be too hard on her. She simply was in over her head. Not that Monica had a ton of guilt. The little idiot had gotten way more opportunity than she deserved. And besides, Delia would get tons of spankings in prison. Delia loved that. Delia probably wouldn’t love the diapers, but she would love the slavery that came after. She might just sell herself into it permanently after she’d gotten a taste. Tit’s out in a cage? Delia’s legs were long for a little mesh holding cage, but she’d get used to it. People did that. Prison got to them, servility and humiliation got to them. What was the name of that little lady who’d served her at the Attorney General’s manse at the last soiree? Gillica? That stupid woman who’d embezzled ten million dollars in forged company checks she wrote to herself? They wouldn’t sentence Delia to enough time to become incontinent, at least. There was much to do through the rest of the day. There was a merger call for an international team that was in charge of acquiring a smaller national distribution company in Ireland. For that meeting, different screens were set up by the servants on the table so Monica could clearly see the different people she was talking to. There were preparations from the finance team for the upcoming earnings call with the shareholders. They came in dressed impeccably and simply, as all mathematical business sorts would. And then finally, there was a smaller gathering of her marketing team. They came early and kept knocking on the door during the finance meeting-which went long-and Monica decided to order some tea from a servant and let it steep while the marketing team waited outside her office more than ten minutes after the finance team had gone. They needed to talk about a potential PR headache. A journalist in a remote shore-town of Shamuria had sniffed out the shell company owned by Klepin Inc. that controlled the sole strip of shops and businesses in the small town. They were afraid that the journalist was going to spill how Klepin basically controlled over eighty percent of available labor in the small town, and how this was used to keep salaries at a minimum. Monica wasn’t worried. Nobody in Shamuria cared about people on that side of the country. After her tea, Monica availed herself of the toilet. Her bathroom also had a big window, so she could look out at a different part of Shamuria while doing her bodily business (she was always doing business). The servants always kept it clean and stocked, and it never smelled like a bathroom in any extremes. Bathrooms can obviously smell like human refuse, but they can also smell overly of the very cleaning supplies that are meant to rid the room of human smells. Sometimes, the bleach and antiseptics were so strong they were worse than the natural smells themselves. Monica made sure to dismiss any of her office’s servants who couldn’t do anything exactly right. She always made sure that a different, salaried assistant left them a good recommendation. Servants shouldn’t have to become slaves simply for being incompetent. They couldn’t help their upbringing. Monica was generous. Her toilet was a great place to imagine the rage that her marketing VP was experiencing. Finally, after the bidet had done its work and after Monica had fixed herself and more than 30 minutes had passed since the marketing meeting was supposed to begin. Monica finally allowed her marketing team to walk in. They did so solemnly, and Monica noticed that her VP sat as far away as possible from Monica. Her marketing VP was named Regina Naples, and she was always wearing something flamboyant. Today was a nauseating suit that, between the pants and the jacket, was divided up into quadrants that each bore patterns of the different suits in a deck of cards. One breast had big red hearts, the other hand dark black spades. Diamonds and clubs started at the hem of her sport coat and continued onto her pants. She also always traveled with a personal slave. Personal slaves were permitted for manager and above employees at Klepin Inc, which was a standard perk across Shamurian businesses. Regina brought a different one every day in a seemingly endless rotation. Today’s slave was a short woman with sagging tits, older, and naked down to her diaper. She wasn’t a pretty sight to Monica, but the woman had a proud posture even despite her shame. Her chin remained stiff and raised despite the metal collar she wore. Whomever this slave had been in her past and criminal life, she’d been proud. There was always something sexy to Monica in a proud woman brought down. Monica noted to herself that Delia would have to come back for a little update. To see if Delia had finished what she’d started, of course, and to ensure that Monica could finish what she started. Monica looked at her underlings. They were pissed at her, she could tell, but they knew better than to show it. They tried to sit and bounce in the chairs to prove that the half-hour icing they’d received while Monica drank tea and used the toilet hadn’t dulled their enthusiasm. That they understood that the boss was the boss and they would work late into the evening to accommodate her whims. Some of them may have been unaware of the chill relationship between Monica and her VP of marketing, the only one among them who made no effort to hide her inconvenience. Let her stew if she’ll bring a pissy wench up in here. Monica had a rule that there were no soiled diapers in her office, but Regina would retort that the diaper hadn’t been soiled when their entourage had first arrived on Monica’s floor. Monica didn’t raise the issue; her point had been made already. Of all the executives, Regina had found out best the arrangement that Delia and the union chief had forged ‘without Monica’s knowledge.’ Regina knew better, she saw more in Delia than the up-jumped slut who flashed herself on the crystal staircase and couldn’t put an intelligent sentence together. There were whispers that Delia and Monica had a relationship, but that’s as far as most went, and most assumed that as a way to explain how ditzy Delia even had a job. Regina grasped the whole cake. She knew better, of course, than to ever raise it directly. She used phrases like we’re sitting on a volcano or our tongues are in a beehive. But she didn’t know enough to know how sensible it all was. How safe it all was. She didn’t see that if the dominos fell, they’d fall on Delia and the union chief. She didn’t see what was gained by all of the deceit, all of the dealing that buried every worker compliant in the paperwork of the dysfunctional union. All she saw was the headache it would cause from a PR sense. Regina had a brain, but it was a marketing brain only. She didn’t understand the criminality that Klepin was up against, she didn’t understand that at this level, the rules were a death-sentence. Which is an ironic narrow-mindedness for a woman dressed as she dressed. But like her simplistic villa and her artless office, whose immensities and details were all for practicality, Monica long understood that flair and bombast almost always covered for a lack of substance. Do not beware the peacock, fear the brown and gray snake. There was more to fear in Delia than there was in Regina Naples’ diamond and club pants. They spoke for a while. Regina had each of her minions explain different portions of the issue to Monica, and Monica had to tolerate it. She knew the value of letting the little people get their moment to shine, even if they provided nothing. They told her about the town, as if Monica had not picked it years ago for this specific purpose. They told her about the number of workers there, as if Monica had not found out about it on her own. They told her about the population of the town, as if Monica had not researched that while in the livery to the building this morning. They told her about the history of the shell company, and how the journalist had the information to prove that it was owned in part by Klepin Inc. Piece by piece they revealed information to Monica that Monica already knew. And credit to the journalist, he knew it all too. He’d done his work well and had managed to keep it under wraps until just last week, when the factory manager had tipped off Delia. Delia hadn’t brought it to Monica directly, Delia wasn’t that attentive, but Monica had ways of finding out what Delia knew. He knew that the company was actually owned by another man, a similar actor to Monica’s favorite corrupt union chief, something that the marketing team had not demonstrated awareness of yet. When it all came down to it, the journalist would have nothing illegal to dig up, provided he found documents long since ignited in a furnace. Monica stifled a yawn. Regina went next. She added in all the implications. How this could bring investigations, which themselves could bring yet more investigations. She stood up as she spoke, the hearts and spades distracting from the substance of what she said. There was little. Regina was doing nothing more than reminding Monica about that volcano, about that beehive that all of Klepin Inc was sitting on. Monica sat there and took it all in, and chose to remain silent and pensive, and made sure to play the good CEO to all of the little fools who believed that maybe someday, if they worked hard enough, they would sit where she sat. As they told her things she knew, Monica wondered how many of them were middle-class. None of them were poor, they’d have never made it this far for sure. But one or two might have been the affable type that could trick and charm their way up this high. Eventually their lack of connections would hurt them when they would up at the top of a tree with no branches left to climb. Some people had sympathy for those that were middle class, and wished that the good ones had a chance to make it to the upper echelons. Nobody, of course, wished that they could ever run anything. That would be too dangerous. Monica’s opinion was that, for all the Delias and Reginas and Mindys of the world, there were enough people like her that they didn’t need any influx of talent from the lower classes. Letting a few break through their iron ceiling was necessary only in the sense that it gave others enough hope to keep working hard. Like these ones, here in this room, telling her things that she already knew. Monica thought about Delia. Her panties were still moist, and she wished she’d have more time to play with her VP of Human Resources a little longer. After this meeting, Monica told herself, she’d press her button. But Delia would arrive a lot sooner, as it turned out. No, nothing went wrong. Far from it. The meeting droned on and on until finally a buzz from Monica’s phone alerted her to the potential of something interesting. Despite Regina’s thinly veiled hectoring, Monica took out her phone. CEOs could do that sort of thing. Hey Monica, though you should know. Just heard it down the wire that Mindy Topper is going to be arrested later today for insider trading. “Let the journalist go,” Monica said. “Take everything off the table,” she said. “Even his demands for access, to personally interview you?” Monica laughed. “Oh yes. Let him rattle his cage. Let him stomp his fists. Let him write something serious and let him get it out as soon as he can.” Regina looked at her minions, and shifted uncomfortably in her playing card outfit. Monica wanted to laugh at the irony. It was she who had the winning hand. “He’ll publish the article tonight, it’s already in the gun barrel!” At this, Monica did laugh. “All the better!” she said, to the surprise of everyone at the table. A few minutes later, Monica was back in her swivel chair, staring out at the massive butt plug across the skyline of downtown Stenton. She felt a surge of feeling through her body. Nothing could stop her from reaching into her blouse and stretching her fingers onto her nipple. Below, Delia did her best work. The only work she ever knew how to do correctly. It was such a shame, when prison finally claimed dull, unsuspecting Delia, that there would be too many diapers for her to pleasure the other ladies the way she did best. Her tongue was warm and active, and Delia knew just how Monica liked it. Drawn out, surprising. Long licks here, and then short frantic ones. Delia leaned forward and sucked on Monica’s clit. “Good girl!” Monica said, her voice hoarse. Oh, it was so incredibly good. There was nothing more orgasmic than victory! She hadn’t expected this to come for many years yet. What a wonderful summer surprise! This time, though, she didn’t daydream of Delia. This time her thoughts and fantasies were not directed at the brown-haired mule kissing away between her legs. Instead, Delia watched the red and blue lights filter through the streets far below toward the great big butt plug tower that Mindy owned. Or…had owned. Like Vittoria before her. Two-time Shamurian best entrepreneur indeed! Monica shouted incoherently in delight.
  4. To Mary, who sat suckling her thumb in her newest prison, life seemed simple. you listened to the higher classes of furries, and obeyed when they gave orders, so you got food pleasure warmth and shelter. It was a good life she had, with her master Phillip, but he had been ordered to move nearer to the northern Lights alliance, rather than stay In Unityia. ANd Mary couldn't go with him. so as his property, she was part of the estate sale. She sat, listening to the market bustle around her, and tried to breathe softly, easily, calmly. Phillip had been so kind, he had changed her diapers as soon as she had wet them and he only required her to mess her diapers in the night...during the day, in his usual lenient manner, he had allowed her to actually use a bathroom for her messy accidents. But this market around her brought down the realization that she was, in fact, a diaper slave. just a little fox in her diapers. She knew better than to talk to the Market manager, she would be punished. she was supposed to act like any of the other possessions, like the couch or the range, silent and useful. Mary could see a woman across the yard from her, a tall panther, who had been pointing at Mary and talking to one of the market directors for over half of an hour. Mary turned away from her, trying to wiggle her bum at some of the nicer looking people, old men who she didn't think could spank her if they tried, and young women with children, who knew what it was like to have real babies. but none of them looked at her seriously. she didn't know how much she was being sold for, but it must have been high. according to her slaves' contract, it should make her proud that it was so high. But mary had never been good at Being a Diaper slave. The Panther woman continued to haggle, as a storm cloud moved in. the tents set up over the soft items like couches and painting would keep them dry, but Mary was considered waterproof. She only wished that her diaper knew that. as the soft rain started to hit her skin she enjoyed the cooling effects after yesterday's summer heat. it was hard sometimes to look as cute as she was supposed to, but that made some people drool even harder. her thoughts were interrupted as the door to her cage opened. two strong arms pulled her out, and presented her to the Pather woman. Mary spoke first "Hello Ma'am, are you purchasing me?" The panther smiled and nodded her head "Yes, little fox, I am. but first we need to test your obedience. tell me, how long have you been a slave?" "fifteen years ma'am. I was sold when I was six" Mary responded, shifting uncomfortably on the hard market tiles, slid with rain. annoyingly, her diaper was starting to sag with the water weight. The panther nodded, then looked at her notes. "Unfortunately, it looks as if Sit Westburton, Your master Phillip, and previous daddy, was rather as laxidasicle with your training as he was with his militia and his finance. so let's test this, shall we? As your first order, I want you to fill that diaper for mommy. immediately" Mary blushed as she moved from a kneeling, to a squatting position. the pee came first, hot and fast, hissing into the front of her diaper, making it sag and discolor. the mess was harder, she pushed, and it slowly came out, pushing into the seat of her diaper, forming a solid, squishy mass as her diaper ballooned out. Mary was panting like a dog, her long foxes tounge loolling out. her conditioning making the diaper filing a highly erotic and stimulating experience. as her diaper continued to sag and discolor, the Panther shamelessly began to rub her own clot from the outside of her pencil skirt. it was one of the perks of being an alpha, since the change had taken place. that kind of behavior was outlawed in lower slave castes, and certainly would have never been allowed in The pre-change Human society. Mary moaned as she tried to push out any more, but there was none left to evacuate, and the panther walked around behind her, gently bouncing the mess in mary's diaper up and down with the toe of her high heels. "I'll take her for the price we agreed upon, and her entire Nursery stock. around how many diapers did her has in reserve, and what condition..." Mary stopped listening as the panther absent-mindedly handed her a vibrating wand, and gestured towards Mary's bulging crotch. mary HATED to pleasure herself while she was messy. but..but.. she couldn't disobey her new mistress/mommy, not on the very first day! So she pressed the head of the wand against her wet padding, moaning openly as she went up and down with it, groaning as her hips bucked, and inwardly screaming at herself for enjoying it so much. as she climaxed, she fainted into the arms of one of the guards. as her eyes were covered by darkness and she fell into sleep, the panther woman squatted down and said "good girl"
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