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Warning I promised with my last story that I would post a short warning before I posted the first chapter. As with my previous stories, this one contains several elements inherent to the pre-established Diaper Dimension. These include, but are not limited to: Diapers Using Diapers for Their Intended Purpose Non-consensual Mental Regression through Various Means (Including Possible Drugs, Hypnosis, and or Surgery) Graphic Imagery Associated With Any of These Warnings Humiliation Female Domination Babying of adults Violence (pertaining to weapons, assault, or harm of others) For those readers interested or do not care about the warnings listed, please enjoy this story.

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: ------ Lily rested her mop on her shoulder. After a moment with her eyes closed and her breath steady, she peed. Warmth surged out of her. It hit the front of her diaper like a tennis ball against a wall, and then it sloshed backwards beneath her. She took a deep breath. It wasn’t a good feeling. She didn’t like her pussy being dipped in a pool of her own hot urine. But it was a familiar feeling, and fleeting. The diaper absorbed it all to carry it like a pocket against her inner thighs. Whatever peeing used to feel like was a distant memory. Another inmate walked by, heedless of the wetness on the ground. The woman smelled like sweat. She smelled of worse things too. This inmate had clearly come from the yard, and brown streaks of dirt from the women's tennis shoes followed the inmate through the part of the block that Lily had been told to mop. Lily sighed and took the mop off of her shoulder. She held it over the bucket, wrung it out, and then plunged it back into the soapy broth. Clean the floor from Cell 230 to 260. That’s it. That’s all she had to do. So she set out to deal with the tracks left by the other inmate. She didn’t bother yelling at her. What was the inmate to do? It’s not like there was a mat by the big double doors that separated the interior of Cellblock A from the yard. One couldn’t leave shoes anywhere but in one’s own cell (against the wall, under the cot, if one didn’t want to anger a guard during an inspection). This wasn’t a house, where shoes were left by the door. This was a public place. And nobody cared whether or not the floor was actually clean. Lily did though, so Lily mopped. She started in the direction where the woman came from, towards the double doors to the yard. She wasn’t supposed to go beyond cell 230 with her bucket and mop, that wasn’t her job. Her job was to just clean the floor from Cell 230 to 260 and to do it, and nothing else, for an hour. That ‘nothing else’ included talking, but she spoke anyway. Other inmates that she knew would come by and they’d say hello. Sometimes they’d ask her if she knew where another inmate went, or if the guard walking on the upper deck was in a good mood. Those bad moods really mattered because that determined if even a little amount of conversation merited discipline. But almost always, even the surliest guards don’t feel like writing a discipline report on an inmate for some chitter chatter. That doesn’t mean they never did, no, they absolutely will at some point and there is also nothing to do about that. But there’s no point in living to avoid it. They’ll write up an inmate when they want to, and Lily had learned to accept it. She took a look at the nearby guard. He was a big man, and thick around the belly. He had a belt with a club in it, though she’d never seen any of them actually use those. He was up on the upper deck, and he looked like he had seen the same thing Lily did; a woman coming in from the yard in muddy shoes. He made his way to the nearby staircase and went in the direction of the orange-clad woman in muddy shoes. Mopping wasn’t enough to fully occupy Lily’s attention, even if it was difficult to make out the dirt footprints against the reflective surface of the floor. She felt like a tracker, following some wounded animal. But really, no, she felt nothing like a hunter. She felt more like a roomba, with wheels and an optical lens that could spot filth and hone in on it. Lily see dirt, Lily clean dirt. That’s what Lily is capable of. The guard disappeared into the cell where the woman had gone. Honing in to check that diaper. A different breed of roomba. He came out a few moments later, with the woman walking in front of him. The woman’s face was expressionless as she walked in front of the guard. Her diaper was thick. Its outlines were clear in front, and they puffed out the orange fabric of her jumpsuit. Lily’s was no better, no, Lily’s was worse. Most uniforms shrunk in the caustic detergent of the laundry rooms, though the tightness and revealing embarrassment around the crotch were always the least concerning aspects of the shrinkage. The outlines of the woman’s diaper were visible on her tummy, where the top of it stopped, and across her hips, even though the plastic wings of the diaper there were very thin. The woman looked uncomfortable as she made her way, and her gait had the tinge of a waddle to it. She had probably been like that when she came through Lily’s section of the floor before, but Lily had been too busy peeing to notice. She had noticed the woman’s smell, though, and it was no surprise that she was going where she was going. Not far away, towards the center of the cross-shaped block where Lily lived (and would continue to live) was a changing center. It was one of two in Cellblock A, the other being located symmetrically opposite across the rotund central area of the block. It was nothing more than an area blocked off by a low wall, with chairs oriented around a medical table. The woman walked there and sat down in one of those chairs. From Lily’s position in the middle of the hall, she could count maybe ten or so heads sitting in chairs just like that woman. She knew almost all of them (though this particular woman in the muddy feet was someone she wasn’t familiar with). They all stared blankly at the medical table, which featured another guard as well as a woman, an inmate, stark naked on her back. The best seats in prison. Lily watched as the guard began his return journey down the hall. His boots squeaked as he went. Lily looked at the path that the guard and the woman took. Another trail of muddy footprints crossed the space between 230 and 260. These were less visible, but Lily had little else to direct her attention towards. She made a mental note to mop down in that direction once she was done with the first set of footprints that the inmate had made. She doused the head of the mop once more in her bucket and made her way. One of the things to think about in Stenton, when there is just nothing else to think about, is when you’re going to get your diaper changed. To say that Lily was not resentful of the woman who had tracked dirt not once but twice through her section of the floor was an understatement. She was jealous. Jealous that the woman was now sitting in the changing queue. The best seats in the house. She’d be out of her diaper and she looked like she’d used it well enough to make the trip worth it. Did it suck to be over there, with the other women in the changing queue? Yup, always did. Did it smell bad to be over there? No doubt. It never smelled good when you sat down in a chair next to multiple other grown women in soiled diapers. Was it fun to be stripped while a guard draws wipes through your ass? Nope. Never was and never would be. But at least the full diaper would be gone, and that was something that the woman with the muddy feet could say that Lily couldn’t. Though it wouldn’t be long until a guard took her there either. Hopefully. Although you could always guarantee that at some point, for even the slightest thing, a guard might cell you and write you up, you simultaneously couldn’t guarantee that a guard would actually take you to the changing area. Whether or not a guard took an inmate to one of the changing stations around the block had nothing to do with what was in their diaper. Everyone was on a schedule, more or less. Even a quiet, boring, and ordered place like Stenton prison could experience enough chaos such that any schedule could become wildly unpredictable. When it came to changing, guards had a plan for the day, one they didn’t share, often not even with each other. All of them, though, agreed that the diapers were there for punishment, and that if a little chaos resulted in discomfort for the inmates of Stenton, then chaos was working as intended. There was no legal requirement that the part of Lily’s sentence that enumerated ‘three diaper changes a day’ had to be religiously followed. There was no independent committee that interviewed prisoners to make sure they were getting the appropriate amount of diaper changes a day, according to what their judge had ordered. Nobody cared, for one, and nowhere in Lily’s sentence did it say she had a right to any amount. It only said: In addition; Lily is to be diapered for the entirety of her incarceration. She will be permitted no more than three diaper changes in a calendar-day during the duration of her custody. This aspect of Lily’s punishment will begin with the issuance of this sentence. Indeed, she hadn’t. She’d lost track of the days long ago, but she knew without a doubt that she’d got no more than three diaper changes a day. The average was undoubtedly lower. There were days when she only got two. There had been some sticky, hot, itchy, mushy, smelly, sleepless days where she’d only got one. Three was just the ceiling. There were no four-change days in her memory to match any of the under-three days. The only thing keeping her at three at all was the guards, for following the rules was part of their nature. Lily’s lawyer had prepared her for sentencing, way back when. “They’ll probably give you two. We’re fighting for three.” “Why not four?” Lily said. Technically, five changes was a possible limit, but she knew enough to not hope for that. The lawyer shook her head. Apparently, Lily’s lawyer knew enough to not hope for four either. Lily was already convicted by that time, already in orange, already diapered. There had been a thick diaper waiting for her in the side chamber where they took her after they dismissed the jurors that had decided to convict her. She’d remembered holding it together in court but bursting into tears as soon as that huge white diaper came into view. Her bowels churned and her feet felt like lead in the bright concrete warren beside the courtroom. Her hands had been cuffed in front of her, and two guards on either side were holding her by her biceps. Their guidance was firm as they took her, almost limp, to the table. They took off her cuffs and stripped her… Her last use of the toilet had been so unceremonious. A rushed evacuation before it was time to listen to the prosecution put the cherry on top of Lily’s public evisceration. A few months later, with her jury long gone and presumably eating ice cream and tanning on the fine Shamurian beaches, her lawyer shook her head. “No, four would anger the judge,” she said. “Three is the best we get. We ask for four and we guarantee that the judge will give you two.” Lily understood negotiation well enough to agree with her lawyer’s logic. It was hard to sit there in the sentence proceedings (there were two appearances in court prior to her actual sentencing) and listen to her lawyer argue for three diaper changes a week. Especially since she was already wearing them in jail, between her conviction and her final sentencing. In jail, prior to sentencing, they gave her five changes, and that was already unbearable. Worse, she’d seen the path of many women whose trials had gone before hers. She’d seen them all try to adjust to four from five (most wound up getting four to five changes, but Lily was in for something more serious). All whined and begged and complained. “My client is sorry for what she did, she has expressed sincere guilt. This is her first mistake before the law, and she is going to vow that it never happens again.” It wouldn’t. It literally couldn’t. They’d made sure to take away Lily’s license to practice law as soon as they diapered her. “My client looks forward to her punishment,” her lawyer said. Lily remembered herself sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair for the first time not wearing a dress, but in the same kind of orange jumpsuit she wore today. She had tried to imagine that being true; that she was looking forward to it. Yes, I’m excited for what’s coming next. I woke up this morning in my jail cell in my diaper, and listened to the woman next to me in the van to the courthouse who told me that the smartest thing to do, if I could, was to shit myself as soon as I got off the van so I wouldn’t have to shit my diaper in court because they generally wouldn’t change me again until the whole day’s proceedings were done. I figured she was right, yet she was only half right. Piss and poop was in my diaper for an hour before they changed me to bring me out here. I just got my asswiped by a policewoman who thinks my buttcheeks need to be scrubbed like metal pan, and yes, I am looking forward to years and years more of this. “Lily understands that four changes a day is fairly prompt and she’s aware that her crimes are too serious for that, and she wouldn’t want her upcoming incarceration to be wasted on a punishment that isn’t severe enough.” Her lawyer spoke correctly, if inaccurately. No matter what, once convicted, it was best to prostrate yourself before the mighty righteous will of Shamurian society. Even if you plead ‘not guilty,’ you were supposed to be ecstatic and thankful that the good people of Shamuria had put you where you belonged. You didn’t have to believe it, but you had to say it. The prosecution argued for two changes a day. The prosecuting attorney, the winning attorney, was dressed impeccably and conducted herself with the same bright-eyed enthusiasm she had worn the entire way. She was young and Lily had overheard that her case was her first-ever as the lead attorney. The swagger she brought was contagious, and the jury had awarded her with a conviction. “Got the bitch!” The bitch was Lily. She was got. Lily picked at her hot wet diaper and took a break from mopping, resting the haft once again against her shoulder. She tried to recall the attorney’s name, but couldn’t. She must have been no older than twenty three at the time. Long straight blond hair, always wore a skirt to the knee and leggings. Designer jackets, glasses. More importantly, she had perfect pitch. She sang a lullaby to the jury in a manner Lily could only dream of. Her voice rose and fell as she unveiled fact after fact, damning Lily with every note. Two hours into the first witness hearing, and Lily realized she had worse odds than a lobster hovering above boiling water. She asked questions and left them unanswered, leaving the jury to contemplate Lily’s criminality on their own. She rarely pushed the line and the judge rarely had to scold her, whereas Lily’s lawyer had to fight tooth and nail for every edge. This woman doesn’t need a law degree, the young prosecutor had said during her closing statements. She needs diapers. And you’ve got a chance to put her in them for a long time. It took just two hours of deliberations, which is barely more than the time it takes for a jury to retreat into the decision room, have a snack, and run through the list of things they have to do. Fresh off cold-cut sandwiches and soda, the jury took advantage of their chance, and a diaper had been laid out for her in the processing room. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! A win for Shamuria and humanity! Months later, when the number three came down from the mouth of the judge, the lawyer tried to be cheerful for Lily. It was as if to say, an average of eight hours in your piss and shit between changes isn’t so bad. Imagine if it was twelve! Yeah, it could have been six. It could have been less than five hours on average. But eight isn’t so bad. You’ll be fine. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yeah, you’ll have to sit in it for a while longer than you do now, but those two extra changes of five a day don’t amount to that much. It was the only thing that Lily could be cheerful at throughout the whole trial. Lily watched as a tall, slender woman exited a cell in the section she was assigned to clean. Her name was Lindsey, and like Lily and the other woman, she too was dressed in orange with an obvious diaper underneath. She stepped out onto the newly mopped floor and looked both ways, as if addressing a street that she was about to cross. In doing so, she made note of the guard, who had returned to his post on the catwalk. She looked at Lily too, and gave Lily a long, forlorn look until Lily turned away and pretended to be busy. Lily continued mopping and made a deliberate effort to not pay attention to the woman. Lindsey was a newer inmate, here for maybe three months at most, and was a four-changer. It was weird, how quickly you learned to remember how often someone got their diapers changed. But it mattered because it directly affected how pleasant they were to be around. Lily knew a few more things about Lindsey though, as she was one of the more famous residents of cellblock A. A television actress, Lindsey received a two year sentence for bribing an admissions office with cash to help get her daughter into an elite Shamurian university. Rumor was that wouldn’t be the end of it, as some of the other inmates claimed to have seen her get loaded back on the ferry, which either meant you were being freed or you were going back to court. In Lindsey’s case, it couldn’t be the former; she hadn’t been in Stenton long enough and judges never, ever, reduced sentences. Lily hadn’t seen her go, and hadn’t heard any concrete evidence of such happenings. But she did know that no matter what, whether you’re a five-changer or a one-changer, the only toilets in the building are located behind the huge blast doors for the guards. This wasn’t a guess. Inmates who had the misfortune to be taken through the doors reported that on the other side were a pair of men’s and women’s bathrooms, just for guards. Not really a big surprise, Lily saw no need to take her own trip through the doors to find out. One was never in a state of freedom when going through those. Just so, by standing in the middle of the hall, Lindsey had already internalized the dominant code of ethics among inmates at Stenton. You have to shit, so shit responsibly. Shitting at or after lockdown was a recipe for drama, as was doing it at mealtime. You tried to avoid doing it in your cell at all, unless you had a good reason. That rule was more up in the air, as sometimes avoiding a dirty diaper in the cell was a bit much to ask of one-changers. Everyone violated it at one point or another, sometimes simply because a lockdown could happen in the middle of the day. Lily had once been sitting in the changing area, one inmate away from getting her dirty diaper changed, when the alarm bell rang. She had to race back to her cell, her diaper still engorged and disgusting. That lockdown had lasted over two hours and her cellmate had to suffer through it with her. There were lots of reasons that could happen, some more forgivable than others. The rule was that you tried to avoid it. Lily saw out of the corner of her eye that Lindsey was still doing her business. It would seem odd to do it so blatantly, but it made perfect sense. She wanted to do it out of her cell, in a place where nobody would be surprised by her. Now and then that backfired, and a rowdy prisoner might point and laugh at a woman trying to be as obvious as possible so others could avoid her. Nobody wanted to come around a corner just to bump into a grown woman taking a dump in her pants. You learned to appreciate blatant evacuation as a global favor, as humiliating as it was. The most important thing, which Lindsey knew already, was to do it so the guards would notice it. Being obvious was great, yet being heckled drew even more attention, no matter how much it made you want to die. That was another part of it. The surest way to ensure that the guards don’t change a diaper is to ask them to change it. The surest way to sit in poop for the rest of the day was to see yourself to the changing queue on your own. As dirty as Lindsey was making her diaper, she wouldn’t be changed out of it until a guard decided it was time for her to sit in the chairs. Finally, Lindsey finished loading her diaper. She stretched, checked again to see if Lily was watching her, and then looked up once again at the guard. The guard, who had surely seen everything, didn’t react. Lindsey didn’t hide her dismay, and rolled her neck dramatically and sucked on her teeth. There was nothing to do, though. She fixed her uniform, pulling it out where it had gotten too snug around her crotch. She sniffed her hands. Then, pooped diaper and all, Lindsey walked gingerly towards the center of the cellblock, out of Lily’s area to clean. Lily’s chore continued. A rectangle that is fifteen cell blocks long is large, but not large enough to occupy her and her mop for an hour. To use up more time, she offered to mop the cells of inmates in that area. She didn’t go in any that were empty. Most waved her off or pretended not to hear her at her door. Some she avoided because she already knew the answer of the occupant inside. Some were asleep. But a few stepped out of their cells so she could clean the small floor that they nominally called their own. One of those women was Kimmi. Lily came across her, mop and bucket in hand, while she was kneeling on her pillow, which was placed on the floor. She was bent over a deck of cards that she had splayed out on her cot. The international card game of prisons…even diaper prisons: solitaire. “Yeah sure, though it’s the air that’s dirty,” she said. Kimmi laughed and hauled herself up. She pushed past Lily, and she crinkled as she went. Lily’s nose rankled, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. “Don’t worry,” Kimmi said. “The bitch is on the dock.” Lily took this to refer to Kimmi’s cellmate, Rita. She didn’t need any reference to know what Kimmi meant by the dock. “Hope it hurts,” Lily said. Kimmi laughed again and nodded in agreement. Kimmi stood by as Lily mopped. The cells weren’t big enough for it to take too long, but Lily took her time. Why not take her time? Kimmi talked to her as she cleaned, despite the rule forbidding inmate job-conversation going both ways. Despite her soiled diaper, Kimmi had bubbling energy inside her, and she seemed to hum to a rhythm whenever she was silent. “I hear you got a whole hell coming to you,” Kimmi said, bobbing her head. Lily wasn’t surprised the word had already gotten to Kimmi. You’ll be fine. Just fine. A few docks is better than a lot. Four docks in a row is not a lot. Argue and you’ll get five, so shut up. “It won’t be so bad,” she said. “They going to break you up?” Lily hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’d be a bummer. Luckiest thing in this whole place finally coming to an end. You two have been bumping it forever.” Kimmi said. Then she opened her arms to envelope some of the bars that formed the open wall of her cell. “Come to mine,” she said. The notion that Lily had a choice of what cell the guards put her in made them both laugh. The comment had more meaning than a simple joke, but for now Lily preferred to treat Kimmi’s absurdity as simply that. “Come on. I only stink up the room to get back at Rita. You should hear her! It doesn’t stop at lights-out.” “I can imagine.” “She’ll be writing a whole slam book on me, you can be sure of it. She’s going to make a series about her awful cellmate.” Kimmi laughed again. “I can’t wait to read it.” Lily bent low to mop under Rita’s cot. Part of her wanted to rung the sodden head of her mop onto Rita’s bed. To leave a dirty and soapy mess so that Rita had nowhere to rest on her way back from the dock. But she thought better of it. She was in deep enough trouble as it was. “So, what do you think about rooming with me?” Kimmi asked, again. “I’m still rooming with Marji.” “Yeah but not for long.” “We'll still be together.” “Really?” Kimmi said. She narrowed her eyes as the true thrust of the conversation was laid bare. “They’ll be watching you.” Kimmy leaned against the bars and stared at Lily. Lily became hyper aware of her own contours under her orange jumpsuit. She’d never thought she’d be sexy again, though this concern didn’t arise until weeks after actually being put in diapers. In retrospect, it would have been wise to get some action when they still let her wear panties. One of her greatest regrets. There had been more important worries back then, though as a lawyer, she should have foreseen where it would all end up. Now her pussy didn’t know or had forgotten that she was in prison. Her pussy was the one that made her look forward to diaper changes not just so she could get out of the diaper she was wearing, but so that she could see the bodies of the other women without their jumpsuits and their own thick diapers. It could be a gruesome sight, at times, but you could always close your eyes for the beginning and just look when the woman’s bottom was cleaner. Most diapers weren’t like that anyway. It was a weird, discordant feeling, to be aroused in a place like a changing area. But it made a sick, twisted sense; her pussy had adapted to the situation. It’d taken much longer for her to realize that other inmates had accepted the same realities, that they’d learned to ignore the thickness of her ass and crotch, and the garish glare of perpetual orange. Her thighs and ass, covered in a diaper that she had been wearing since the morning and forced to move in and pump in as she sweated in her full length suit, hadn’t gotten used to it, like her pussy had. She wanted a change badly, which, conveniently, was what her pussy wanted too. Somedays, she wished she could be more like Kimmi. Kimmi was one of those rare few in Stenton who seemed to enjoy her time behind bars. Or at least she was able to tolerate it effortlessly. She’d been cheery from the getgo, quick to joke, quick to to laugh, and quick to stop taking pee and poop so seriously. How could she care what was in her pants? She was a one-changer. The answer to what was in her pants was almost never good. She’d openly estimated that she maybe spent less than an hour a day without piss in her diaper. She even didn’t care to admit to the other women that she was wetting the bed ‘involuntarily’ and that she was ‘definitely wetter when she woke up than when she went to bed.’ Even more, she’d turned a whole breakfast table red with embarrassment when she blurted that ‘masturbation felt better when the front was thick with pee because it gave you firm something to rub against.’ Kimmi could be a hoot around the dock, too. If she was on the benches, watching woman after woman get spanked and paddled on the dock, she’d call and cheer. Kimmi never did it maliciously (as some might be for Rita right now), but always in a way that, if it were you getting spanked, it made you feel better. Lily hated, most of all, that the pillories and the dock were in the very center of the block, but Kimmi made it bearable, provided she was there. Oh come on, that one was a little low! Swing batter-batter swing! Come-on tootsie keep that back straight we gotta see that roast beef. Yes girl! Lily likes it doggie doesn’t she? She’s doing a great job! Show us what you’ve been hiding in those diapers hun! Sometimes she would get other inmates singing so that the sounds of the smacking died away, even to the ears of the woman getting hit. Nobody ever minded the raucous atmosphere she could create, save the guards and the occasional women who still thought they could sleep through their sentence. The guards sometimes felt that Kimmi’s irreverence took away from the essentially punitive exercise, and they would cell her for the rest of the day. That only made the average inmate appreciate Kimmi more. Except for the Ritas of the world, of course. The inmate cheers were markedly different when it was Rita’s bottom up on the platform called the dock. The mood was a bit more in line with what the guards intended when Rita got spanked. So it was fine to be around Kimmi, even when Kimmi smelled like shit. She was the type of inmate that could make you forget there was a bag of piss around your waist and that it’d been years since you’d had a private moment of free access to your own vagina. Moreover, she was the type of gay that wasn’t a gayness of reluctance. Kimmi guessed that up to half of the women in the prison, at least, were willing, but very few were voracious about it. Like Lily, they’d sexualized what was available. The straighter girls relished those few moments on changing tables with male guards, doing everything they could to repress their extreme embarrassment and the awareness that the guard who was seeing her excrement couldn’t possibly find her sexy. They’d whisper to each other about the way he wiped. He lingered. He palmed my butt. Nobody ever had the heart to remind the women of what they already knew themselves. Well, Rita did, and gave everyone yet another reason to hate her. It mattered greatly to the straights what fantasy they could roll their eyes back into when the stiff and pissy diaper on their crotch was pressed into their clit by another female inmate. If they could believe that they were back on that table with strapping officer Sipho, if they could believe that the mouth kissing their breasts through their orange jumpsuit featured his stubbly lips, they could cum. Lily never disabused a straight woman of that fantasy. She knew best to melt away, to simply appreciate the time between her legs, even if she wasn’t thinking about Lily and there was nothing down there but diapers and urine to smell. When their half-assed efforts to help Lily cum in return brought them both to boredom, Lily was fine to leave. The memory and imagination of the straight woman’s genitals beneath all those layers and the memory of her convulsing body, were vivid enough for Lily to pleasure herself alone in her cot. But Kimmi meant it. Kimmi reciprocated. Kimmy sought it out and saw her as more than an elaborate vibrator which she could place between her legs while she fantasized about what lay behind the zipper of officer Sipho. Kimmi didn’t become ashamed and refuse to talk to Lily for weeks after one shared moment. She would be eager again and again until the guards hauled them both on the dock. And then some. “I think we’ll still be together,” Lily said. “We haven’t talked about it.” “What’s she doing?” “I don’t know. Probably celled,” she said. Marji had been in an equally bad mood since the guards had caught them on top of eachother yesterday. Knowing Marji, she’d lashed out and was sitting on her cot with a chain around her ankle. “Atta girl,” Kimmi said. “I’m not trying to steal her girl, you know,” Kimmi said. At this point, Lily was only pretending to mop. “No. I couldn’t imagine a lady with a diaper like yours would attempt to flirt with a catch like me,” Lily said. Kimmi laughed again. “Hey. If I waited to be clean to make my moves, my cunt would close up. You gotta know what you’re working with.” With this, Kimmi made a shimmy and showed her bottom to Lily, pressing it against the bars. It was a grotesque thing to do considering what Kimmi’s diaper had inside it, but Kimmi never shied away from the absurd. It was refreshing, even when it made Lily recoil in mock disgust. “Oh stop it,” she said. “Hey, your hour is almost up, by the way,” Kimmie said. She motioned to the clock that was high up on the wall at one end of the block. “You on one or two changes today.” “I’ve not been changed since just after breakfast.” And didn’t she know it. Her diaper was soaked, and she’d been holding number two since then. A guard had felt her ass right after the end-of-breakfast bell, before her meal had got things moving. She’d discretely pushed as he felt her, but all she managed to do was fart into his hand. It wasn’t atypical timing for a first change, and as a three changer she could expect to get changed in the two or so hours after breakfast. She preferred on the later end of that range, so she could get her movement going and so her first change of the day could be a dirty one. It didn’t always work out that way. “When they let you out, let’s get changed together,” Kimmi said. She didn’t mention let’s try to get changed together. Sometimes, it was nice to pretend that you had agency. Surprisingly, she was dead right. Lily’s diaperchange was all but assured after her chore was done. It was more than an hour after lunch now, and the guards went looking for the threes before and after lunch. Lily was probably one of the last threes to still be wearing her post-breakfast diaper, excluding those who’d been downgraded to twos for discipline. It sure felt like it. The ideal day, for Lily, was a late post-breakfast change, a late post-lunch change, and then a post-dinner change, so that she was fresh for lockdown. She rarely got all three in a day, but much of her excess effort was spent trying to orchestrate it. What else was there to do? She’d hide from guards before meals and find them after, when she was fuller. The goal was always to spend as little time as possible in full and dirty diapers. She doesn’t need a law degree, she needs diapers. She wondered if her jury thought of that when they considered her guilt. Yes, this woman needs her priorities narrowed down to nothing but a toddler’s mindset. Where to pee and poop most effectively. That’s where this grown woman, who once argued cases before a court, who survived three years of law school, who was about to make partner at just twenty-eight, belonged. That’s what her mind was really good for. Good mopping and good fecal logistics. “You just want to see me naked.” Kimmi craned her head. “It’s officer Billie at the table,” she said. “At least at the close one.” Lily stepped out of the cell with her bucket and mop and looked down the hall. She still knew most of the women sitting in the chairs there. Lindsey was there. The woman who’d tracked mud through her section was there too. She was the one on the table, but from their angle they could only see her large tits bouncing about as the officer Billie raised and lowered her legs. Way beyond, she could see the blast doors to the guard quarters. One of the doors creaked open, and a guard came through it and into the cellblock. The door shut lazily behind them, but the hollow slam reverberated all the way down to Kimmi’s cell. “Damn,” Lily said, looking at officer Billie. Kimmi allowed herself to be distracted by the scene for a few moments. For once, Lily knew Kimmi wasn’t looking at the bare-chested woman. She turned back to Lily. “Well get it done and stick together. You got five minutes so nows your time,” she said. She was very likely right. Five minutes left in her hour (which was almost all the time she needed to actually complete the job allotted for an hour), meant she should get to business. She was only relieved when a guard ordered her to bring her bucket and mop to the closet. Generally, a diapercheck would come after that. Lily had planned all along to poop right at the end of her hour. Her early change notwithstanding, and the squicky itchiness she felt right now (which was par for the course after the prosecution nailed her many years ago), today was fixing to be an efficient, reasonable day. The punishments for playing with Marji would not come until tomorrow. “Alright,” Lily said, and she headed out of the cell toward the center of the block, where Lindsey had pooped earlier. It also occurred to her that she had spent conspicuously long in Kimmi’s cell, and she was definitely pushing discipline if the guard on the catwalk was paying attention. Kimmi put a hand on her shoulder, though. Lily stopped, and watched where Kimmi pointed. “Do it on Rita’s bed,” she said. Lily turned. “Noo,” she said. “That’s a little much.” “Come on. She won’t notice it over everything else,” Kimmi said, waiving to herself. “Just give her a nice extra flavor to her pillow. You know she deserves it.” Kimmi’s suggestion was extreme. It represented a side to Kimmi that Lily had rarely seen. A ferocity and vengefulness that did not coincide with her general cheerfulness. But it still made sense to Lily. Loyalty and camaraderie were the root of Kimmi’s character. It was her and her girls against the bullshit. Rita wasn’t one of them. Rita with her horn-rimmed glasses, who paid the commissary extra to get her hair products, who threatened everyone with a salacious expose, who bragged that when she was out, the world would welcome her eagerly. Many of inmates, despite their lofty origins, knew that nothing waited for them but diapered slavery and middle-class employment. And even the best outcomes were still many, many years down the road. She’d even written about Lily. Before Rita had found trouble with the law, Rita made headlines finding out everything she could about other wealthy men and women who’d fallen out of favor with Shamurian society. Case Closed! Corrupt lawyer weeps and begs like a helpless lamb as she realizes the law is no longer on her side. “She really squirmed when we got her out of court. They’re all very emotional so we understand. But they have to learn quickly that if they fight us, we’ll change them less. We’ll keep that diaper on ice until the morning and she’ll understand what she’s in for.” It’d all been true. Rita had gotten to one of those guards and got the quote. Even the story about sitting in that first diaper until the following morning was true. At first, Rita’s own fall from grace was celebrated in Stenton. Then they met her, and realized nothing could be worse than having to hear her talk. Rita was the bullshit. All of this is to say that yes, Lily leaned her mop against the bars, kicked off her slippers, and squatted right on Rita’s pillow. Here’s what happens when you’re not on our side but you’re inside, you cunt. It was relaxing and delightful, truly. One of the best bowel movements she’d ever had in her entire time at Stenton. A massive relief. Her stomach shrunk an inch in circumference. Officer Billie at the table waiting to deal with it. The rest of the day to relax and play cards and only have to worry about how fast she was pissing herself. Her poop was huge and firm and as disgusting as ever, but she wouldn’t have to be in it long. “What the fuck!” came a voice. Lily hadn’t realized she’d opened her eyes. “Fuck you,” Kimmi said. Her voice wavered though, and Kimmi seemed to shrink away from the new person standing in the door between the bars of her cell. Lily gasped and stumbled off of Rita’s bed. “I said the fuck are you doing?” Rita asked, stepping into the room. She was blonde and freckly, and she kept her hair wavy with the product she bought. “Nothing,” Lily said. “Nothing?” Rita was shouting. Lily was anxious to leave. A guard who arrived had a lot of pretext in the scene that was unfolding. “You were shitting on my pillow.” “No she wasn’t,” Kimmi said. Rita spun and pointed a finger at Kimmi. Rita’s cheeks were flush, and her eyes were still watery from the spanking she’d taken on the dock. She didn’t deserve any sympathy, but it was hard to imagine her being anything but angry at what she’d returned to. “It was your idea,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea because nothing happened!” Kimmi shouted. Lily was trying to step between the two, to get her bucket and leave. Kimmi could handle herself. If a guard came now to see this, she was sure to be disciplined. Getting into a fight in a cell when she was supposed to be mopping was way out of line. Rita’s bone to pick was clearly with Kimmi, despite the fact that it had been Lily’s action that had enraged her. Lily pushed past them, grabbed her bucket and mop, and exited the cell. Her diaper was incredibly full of piss and poop, and it squished into her as she walked. She was sweating all over now too, and she could feel the oil of her hair on the back of her neck, the moisture down the sides of her hot jumpsuit, and of course, all of the heat generated by the mess she’d made in her diaper. She wanted out of there, to continue making wet circles on the ground until some guard took her to be changed by officer Billie. “Stop! Hands on the bars!” Lily’s heart sank. She propped her mop in the bucket and did as she was told. She was outside the cell, and she knew the position. Palms open, hands up above the head, feet spread, chest against the bars. She didn’t even see the guard who had ordered her against the bars, but she could hear his boots and that his voice was male. She could also hear that he wasn’t messing around. “You two, against the wall, now!” Kimmi and Rita immediately stopped talking and assumed the same position, but against the wall at the back of their cell. Lily was anxious for what came next. She heard the guard walking, his boots creaking and the chains and metal hanging from his belt loops were jingling like he was Santa Claus. “What happened?” came another guard’s voice. This one was female. “Fight.” “Physical?” “No.” “About what?” Rita, like an idiot, decided to speak. “They shit on my pillow!” “Quiet!” The guards barked at the same time. “Head against the wall,” the female guard said. Lily could see that Rita’s head was against the wall, but the guard continued. “Do you hear me?” “Yes ma’am!” Rita said. “You talk again, I’ll bring you right back to the dock, you hear me?” “Yes ma’am!” “You want that to happen?” “No ma’am!” Lily could hear the smugness in the voice of the female guard. They enjoyed doing that to inmates. It could go on for minutes. Rita surely hated it, Rita would be scratching a hole through the concrete in rage right about now. Lily couldn’t enjoy the schadenfreude, though. Her’s was coming. The guards then talked to themselves. They were so quiet that Lily couldn’t even hear them. Finally, the male guard addressed her. “You, out here,” he said. “Yes sir.” “What happened just now?” Lily gulped. “I was offering to clean cells because I had mopped the main floor, sir,” she said. “I was cleaning this one,” she said. “You were cleaning this one?” “Yes sir.” “Whose cell is this?” “This is their cell, sir,” she said. She realized that this was vague, so she motioned with her head inwards, towards the two women. “Have you defecated in your diaper?” this time the female guard asked. “Yes ma’am.” “When did you defecate in your diaper?” “A while ago ma’am, while I was doing my job, ma’am.” “When’s your job up?” the female guard said. Lily knew this answer could damn her. “Not sure. It might be soon, I might have had another hour. I’m not sure if I’ve been given two hours or not, Ma’am.” The male guard spoke to the female one. “She’s up on her chore now, I was about to come get her.” They were quiet for a moment. Lily wondered if they were still talking. The guards knew the schedules and goals of their inmates as well as the inmates. The guards knew that inmates would try to time their messing for when they were most likely to be changed. This meant that Lily’s claim to have messed herself a while ago was doubtful to them, and if Lily was lying about that, then Lily was in all likelihood the guilty party. Rita was then asked to give them a play-by-play. Contrary to her signature journalistic flourish, Rita was not unlike the blonde prosecutor that had sent Lily here in the first place. Another blonde bitch getting the better of me. Rita knew to tell her story politely, soberly, and with plenty of sir’s and ma’ams so as to be as deferential as possible. She told everything she could. She said I think I saw and I think that to make herself seem more impartial. She might have been screaming at Lily and Kimmi just moments before, but now she ‘wasn’t quite sure what she saw.’ When Rita was done, the pair of guards returned their attention to Lily. “What do you have to say?” “I don’t know sir.” “Is she right?” “I don’t know sir, I’m not sure what she said, sir.” “She said she saw you on her bed, squatting on her pillow.” “No sir.” “No sir what?” “I didn’t do that, ma’am.” “Then what were you doing in that cell?” “Mopping ma’am.” “For ten minutes?” They were probably already going to side with Rita for everything, so there were was no use lying further. Lily felt her legs tremble. She tried to maintain her composure. Despite all of the wetness in her jumpsuit, and the piss in her diaper, Lily’s throat was dry.“Yes ma’am.” “Were you talking with another inmate while on your job?” Answering truthfully also got Kimmi in trouble, but she knew that Kimmi knew that ship had sailed. “Yes ma’am.” Lily bit her lip and rested her head against the bars. The day had been going so well… This woman doesn’t need a law degree. She needs diapers. Send her where she belongs. They’d probably cell her in her dirty diaper until dinner. She was probably looking at a two-change day. They might add an extra visit to the dock next week too. Kimmi would get something similar. “Did you lie to us earlier? Did you defecate yourself on that inmates pillow? Be honest now, don’t make us have to ask this stupid question a million times.” And then, for reasons Lily didn’t quite understand, she started crying. The tears came out of nowhere, as if they were as incontinent as Kimmi was when she was asleep. She convulsed and her stomach sucked in like she was experiencing the mother of all hiccups. She could see the jury, the prosecutor with the long blonde hair, the lawyer trying to be as nice as possible when she was really tying to say: “You’re fucked beyond belief.” She could feel the dock, which was coming for her ass tomorrow. She could feel the good day she had slipping away. Another good day lost in a sea of lost days, spent mopping and plotting out when she peed and pooped like it was life or death. “Yes,” she finally said, not knowing why she said it, and wishing she hadn’t. “Yes ma’am?” the guard asked. Her voice was a lot closer. Lily was trained well enough to not move her head. “Yes ma’am,” she said. Snot choked her voice. She thought about being in this same position, against a wall, side by side with Marji. Just yesterday. Different officers, different violations, different cells. Same awful outcome. “You defecated on her pillow?” “Yes ma’am!” she said. Tears were getting into her mouth and sticking her hair to her cheeks. Was she one of the bad ladies now, one of the idiots who couldn’t avoid the dock? “You lied to us, why?” “Because I didn’t want to get in trouble,” Lily said. She felt like such a child saying that. That was the guard’s whole point. “Ma’am.” She wanted to wipe her eyes, but she knew she had to keep her hands on the bars. “You happy you’re in trouble now though?” Always, always, guards asked questions like that. Just like in court. Lily is eager to get this next phase of her life underway, so that she can learn from her mistakes. Yes, I’m looking forward to my docking. I love my diapers. I love them so much because they remind me of who I am. “Yes ma’am.” “Say it!” “I’m happy I’m in trouble, ma’am,” she said. She broke down again, and coughed. She could hear the guard stand up. She expected one of them to grab her arm and pull her, and her full diaper, back to her cell for the rest of the day. But that isn’t what happened. Not exactly. Instead, the two guards talked quietly for the final time. “Take her through the doors,” the female guard said.

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.

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.

Hello. I am very new here, but I have been reading stories on this website for a long time, and I decided I would finally post one that I've written. It's a diaper dimension story. Those are my favorite. There will be mentions of a robo nanny in the 'first act' but they're not prevalent. This will get sweet. There's cursing. Please enjoy. Chapter One: Exposition Stew We had no glasses to clink together, so we pumped our fists in the air for Mary. In prison, especially a little’s prison, you don’t have much to work with in terms of materials for a makeshift goodbye party. Amazons in prison get more to barter with, more to pass between hands, but you don’t get such a luxury when you’re of the small set. Coco’d been saving up her banana cookies, the chewy kind meant for babies to get used to solid food that you have to buy from the commissary with money your family brought you (should you be so lucky), Double Chin’d squirreled away scrap paper for the ‘decorations’, and I’d managed the feast. The piece de resistance: a burger. Now, was it a good burger? Fuck no, it was one of those little ones made of 90% filler, 5% hopes and dreams, and maybe 5% meat after that, what kind of meat’s anyone’s guess. It was the kind you nuked in a microwave in college, where it got molten hot in the center and the rubbery cheese made it sticky, but for us here, this was gold. This was solid goddamn gold. “Solid” was the real kicker on that. The details of how I got it could be a story in and of itself, but to keep it short, because there’s a lot more of this tale to go that doesn’t hinge on the numerous favors, trades, and acts that might have added years to my sentence that resulted in me getting my hands on a shitty burger: I know a guy. I also pride myself on my ability to orchestrate, but more on that later. Mary’d almost cried when she saw it, and the small ‘cake’ made when Coco stacked up the cookies. She could have been crying at the kindness of the gesture, she could have been crying because it was the last solid food she’d possibly ever know. We didn’t ask which was which. “Thank you, Seenit,” she said to me, wiping away the tears that collected on her long long lashes. “This is so fucking sweet of you, I don’t even know how you managed this.” “Don’t think too hard on it,” I told her with a hearty pat on the back. “Just enjoy. You’ve earned a last supper.” Later today, Mary was going to die. Okay, no, Mary wasn’t going to die, but she was going to get The Full Monty. She was Going Up Front, Headed To The Orphanage, Checking Out, The Big Drool, Headed Nippleward. She was on Crib Row. We had all kinds of names for it here in the pen, but that was because State Mandated Mental Regression wasn’t as nice to say. It was also called the “summer” program, since the acronym (SMMR) kind of looked like it, and we think that the wardens wanted us to call it the Summer Program, but we, at least in my circles, refused out of good old fashioned spite. You could tell who was a newbie via several avenues, but calling it The Summer Program was one of them. After Mary ate her burger, and the cookies, and drank the bottle of the worst formula the State Penitentiary for Criminal Littles could afford - out of a baby bottle of course, you only got a sippy cup if you were extremely good, and none of us had been - she was going to get carried down the long hallway, past our cribs, and regressed to the highest extent of the law. It was rumored that they cut your tendons and take your teeth, but god if we didn’t know. Littles don’t adopt littles, so no one I talked to had experience in The Front Room, where they lay out completely blank slate, empty headed, regressed-to-newborn littles who’d committed a crime so bad that they decided you weren’t able to function even as a toddler, much less an adult, to be adopted. From what we’d all heard, you were completely emptied and physically altered to be nothing more than a bag of mush with a heartbeat and a diaper. Oh, sure, we were already treated sort of like the babies the huge ones saw us as here. None of us had seen a toilet since sentencing, and instead three times a day we were all laid on a conveyor belt and pushed along so that a team of robo nannies could clean up shop downstairs. At the beginning of my six year tenure, this was traumatizing, cold, violating, dehumanizing. Now, it was part of the daily grind. It was what it was. Meals were twice a day with a ‘snack’ in the middle. Various pureed foods were slopped onto our trays and expected to be eaten with rubbery spoons that bent if your spoonful of mush was too big, which it often was until you learned how to portion it, because we are all pretty hungry here. That guaranteed that some eager newbie would spill it down their front and get berated by the guards for being a baby. No bibs here, and if your clothes were dirty then they’d stay dirty until you could get a laundry token. That includes in the case of leaks, too. Blowouts would get you an emergency token, but you’d also get this shit beaten out of you - figuratively and literally - by the guards for making them actually do something. Baby bottles were filled with aforementioned shitty watery formula that tasted like dishwater and, hell, very well might have been. You had your own bottle with your name on it. If you lost it, you’d better fuckin find it. I remember in my second year here I’d lost my bottle, and the ensuing wild goose chase got me the unfortunate nickname of Seenit, because I kept darting in and out of out different cliques in their chatting circles and asking if they’d Seen It. At least I wasn’t Double Chin. You can put together where she got her nickname, and it wasn’t as bad as Rosie Palms, whose name is just as obvious. (Poor Rosie. They do not take kindly to ‘Diaper Touching’ here. Her punishment wound up making her numb between the legs; she can’t feel anything down there, much less pleasure. Suppose that makes the nickname cruel, but prison is a cruel place.) We wore snap-crotch onesies in the warmer months and footed sleepers in winter. Our cribs were grey with blue rubber mattresses, nothing in way of a pillow or a blanket unless it got too cold for them to ignore the inhumanity of it all. Some people found things to use as pillows, and if you had the whole Family Outside thing, you could maybe get them to bring you one. Mary hadn’t had a family. Neither had I, adopted or otherwise. I’d gone 29 years of my life without getting scooped up by an Amazon with dreams of cribbing me and making me suck her tits. 29 years not pissing myself, or making some other kind of blunder that would send me to an etiquette school or at least just kidnapped. Shoplifting, public fighting, vandalism, breaking one of the arbitrary Gotcha rules that Amazons keep in place with hair-thin triggers that’ll make you ripe for the picking, that’s the kind of stuff that gets you into etiquette schools. No, no, to get in the pen, you’ve gotta do something worse. You need to do something that’s illegal for an Amazon to do, too. Thankfully for me, I’d committed fraud, assault with a deadly weapon, and, though I still say this one wasn’t my fault and the goddamn kangaroo court just wanted one more shiny bulb on the big holiday tree of crimes, arson. See, it’s not easy for a little to start a business. You can start one for other littles, but it’s expensive, arduous, and sometimes doomed to fail. The people with the keys, the licences, the pretty papers that say you’re approved, they’re Amazons. And Amazons don’t think littles can do anything. Though even a stopped clock is right twice a day; I’d met one Amazon, Ritchie Mitchell (good old Rich Mitch) who figured out that helping me run my completely legitimate, above board, and absolutely not fraudulent talent agency that interviewed plucky youngsters in hopes of being on runways, catwalks, showing off the latest in Big Oppressor fashion, or of bringing their pretty littles in to have them waggle their diapered butts in front of the camera to be on diaper boxes or in commercials, would net money for his pockets too. As far as they all know I was giving littles and amazons their big breaks. See, what we did was have Ritchie interview the bigs and I’d interview the littles (Amazons don’t want to get career advice from someone they think shouldn’t even know what a job is), and we’d act as their agents. Unfortunately, we’d ‘never quite find work’ for those nice pretty people, but keep charging them the monthly agency fee until they quit to find a new one. Good thing about the fees were that they were strictly non-refundable. Once in a while, just to keep people from getting too mad, we’d call up an actual agency and refer them, have that agency find them a gig, say that we’d found it ourselves, and send them to the tryouts. The best moment of the scam, if I do say so myself, was the fake photoshoot I’d orchestrated from the shadows. We only managed it once, booking a pretty scenic spot on top of a building to shoot some early twenties twelve-footer in swimsuits. I paid my roommate to get her boyfriend to ask his photographer friend to lend me his setup in exchange for a supply of Sprinkles (a designer drug just for littles; don’t even try it, kids), that I had to get from one of the models after I’d ‘caught’ her with it and ‘let slide’ as a favor. Then I got Ritchie to get his husband to pretend to be a photographer. We sold the swimsuit photos to a softcore porn website after I did some pretty handy editing, instead of posting them to an online shopping website just in time for the big summer sale like we’d advertised. The clothing company she was shooting for was a front, too. We paid the model less than what she deserved, really, because to her ‘brown hair with blond highlights’ ‘high cheekbones but big sexy eyes’ ‘nice c-cup tits’ credit, she worked that rooftop. Look, I’m in prison, I don’t know what sort of saintly protagonist you were expecting. We had employees who were varying levels of unawares, including the receptionist who’d called Ritchie up front to talk to the investigative team there. I was in my office, because I always was, basking in the feeling of being a shadowy boss that no one had ever seen but had received friendly emails from. My photo on our website was a stolen image of an Amazon who’d died seven years prior. I hear a commotion because apparently Ritchie got a little jumpy at their line of questioning, so I come down, and, yeah, I lost my cool. Shouldn’t have pulled a gun on them and told them to get out of our business unless they had a warrant, but as you learn from almost three decades in this world of Amazons and littles; Amazons will not listen to you. Bing, bang, boom, we squabbled over rights and expense forms and tax reports, they told me I was under arrest, I shot one of them in the shoulder in my attempt to high-tail it out of there. I was hoping I’d make the forest’s edge and disappear to become some sort of cryptid, but he grabbed me by the ankle and my finger had an itch that only firing that damn gun could scratch. Felt good. Like when you finally get that spot on your back that you couldn’t reach. The arson thing was because in my attempt to get out of there, I knocked over the receptionists lit scented candle. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I’d embezzled enough of that money that I got sentenced to eight years, but I’ve had years shaved off for good behavior. Years off your sentence doesn’t mean you’ll be free. It just means you’ll be put into the orphanage sooner. Mary, who’d done a hit and run, crunched into her cookies under a paper sign that said “GOOD LUCK MARY!” We’d all signed it. She wouldn’t be able to take it with her, but it was the thought that counted. Myself, Coco, and Double Chin all watched her eat, tried to make smalltalk. It was near impossible to be fully happy when you knew that 24 hours from then, Mary was going to be drooling in the adoption hallway, having forgotten this, her hit and run, and everything she was before the first time she opened her eyes once the Amazons were done with her. “I think I’m gonna go lay down,” Mary said, her expression defeated. “You sure?” Double Chin scratched at her elbow. “Don’t you think you’re gonna be layin’ down enough when--” “Dubs!” Coco slapped her, right on her apparently itching elbow. “She knows, dumbass!” “It’s fine,” Mary said, shaking her head and standing. “Night change is at five. You know what time it is, Seenit?” I held up a finger and trundled over to the small alarm clock that sat on the floor under my crib. “3:30.” Mary nodded. “Yeah. I’m going down the hall right after that. They want me clean for the procedure.” It was generally good manners to not point out the state of your fellow inmates undergarments, but even beneath her onesie it was easy to see that Mary was wet. Not that I could take a high ground here. I was in the mind that I had to get a shit out before night change so I didn’t have to sit in one until morning. Coco grimaced. “Well…. Make sure you say goodbye to us before you go, Mary Bear.” Mary always smiled well. She had a pretty face, and long black hair that was in a state of light disrepair from the time she’d been here, but would definitely be cute with a washing, trim, and brushing. I would miss Mary’s smile, and I tried to lock in my mind there the one she gave the three of us before offering up an army salute and toddling over to her crib, about seven or eight down from my own. The robo-nanny sensed her doing the ‘up’ gesture, picked her up under the arms, and deposited her in the crib, locking the top. “Welp,” I said after some time of the three of us watching from where we’d thrown the ‘party’ in the hall in front of our beds, “guess we should clean up here.” “Yep!” Coco’s enthusiasm was false, but she knelt down to brush the crumbs from ‘here’ to ‘there.’ Double Chin pulled down Mary’s sign, but as I was balling up the plastic microwave wrapper from the burger and the bags of banana cookies, I held my hand out to her. “Hey, gimme that.” “Whatcha want it for?” She helped lighten my load by taking the wrappers. “She can’t take it down the hall.” “I know. I just want her to keep it in mind.” There was a final note I needed to give Mary. I’d be sure to slip it between the bars of her crib before night change. See You Soon, Girl. -Seenit. --------------------------------------- I have 4 chapters of this written so far. I will post more tomorrow. I'm very eager to have more of it up! Thank you.

I've just found out about the lost stories so I thought I'd take the opportunity to repost mine. This time there should'd be the wait like there was before as I'll be posting one chapter a week until it's finished. Enjoy (again). The Reformation of Jen Pop by Pwy Ydy'r Tad Chapter 1 My name is Jennifer Pope but the world knows me better by my stage name; Jen Pop. I'm only twenty-three but I've been in this business so long that I feel much older, especially now. I've done a lot in my short time in this world; I've been places and seen things that some people would only dream of but I missed out on so much too. Some said I never really grew up and on reflection I think they were right. And now I'm paying the price.... I suppose my career has a bit of a cliché. Like many little girls I dreamed of being famous and I was blessed with just enough talent to pursue that dream. I entered a national talent contest and fought my way through each round before finally claiming the top prize. Soon a team of professionals set to work remaking me to create my look, my sound and my style. After that the sweet girl from the little English village went on to become one of the biggest stars in the world and Jen Pop was born. The following years passed in a whirlwind of recording sessions and bigger and bigger tours. For a while I had everything I ever wanted; fame, popularity and more money that I knew what to do with. I quickly relocated Stateside and bought myself the big LA house I'd dreamed of and surrounded myself with sycophants and 'yes men'. When you live the life of a singing superstar you face temptation at every turn and I'm not proud to admit it but I gave into them all with wild parties with drinking, sex and of course drugs. So when I got high and decided to take my Porsche out there was no one to tell me it was a bad idea. And when I got into a horrific wreck there was no to blame but myself. I walked away with just a few cuts and bruises, but my passengers and they guy in the other vehicle weren't so lucky. Today I sit in court apprehensively awaiting my verdict. On stage I had been known for colorful outfits but right now I was trying to look respectable in a somber black skirt suit and sensible shoes. I fidgeted uncomfortable as I looked around the room. My lawyer sat next to me having done all she can do but in this case I don't think she can work miracles. I looked back towards my parents. Mum has buried her head into dad's shoulder refusing to make eye contact with me. She has every right to do so, I'm actually glad she has because it's preferable the look of disappointment on my dad's face which is just heartbreaking. I feel so tense that I'm going to burst but that was when the judge returns to deliver his final verdict. “It'll be OK,” my lawyer whispered in a final attempt to reassure me, “You're a celebrity, you'll get off lightly.” “Jennifer Pope,” he began, “I find the acts that you are here for to be appalling. In the eyes of the law you are a grown woman but your actions are that of a spoiled child. I thank God that no one was killed by your recklessness and wish a speedy recovery to those you hurt. Far too often have people in your situation have been shown too much leniency so I aim to make an example of you. I hereby sentence you to a correctional facility for the maximum time the law will allow......” I zoned out after that. This was so unfair, what happened to special treatment? I felt numb as the guards led me out of the courtroom and down to the cells. I wasn’t even thinking as I handed over all my personal possession and then I just sat with my head in my hands, I don't know how long for. After a while my lawyer came to see me, I was certainly paying her enough to stick around. She talked about appeals and stuff but I mostly just pretended to listen. I had a few more visitors after that who seemed to be there to check on my well-being and mental state. At one point I was handed a tray of food but I didn't feel much like eating, especially not the slop they were trying to force on me. Finally, they came to transfer me to the prison facility. I was led outside where the prisoner transport waited. When we arrived the other end things really started to get bad. A female guard led me into room and ordered me to strip. Wasting no time she yanked down on my jacket the second I started to remove it and let it fall untidily to the floor. My hands shook as I unbuttoned my blouse, slowly revealing a pale pink lace bra. Once the blouse had been taken I unzipped my skirt letting it fall to the floor. I rolled my pantyhose down my legs and stood in just my matching underwear set, the last vestige of my own sense of style. I lingered as long as I could but after a few seconds the guard singled her impatience so I unhooked my bra and slip off my panties. That was it, I was completely naked at the mercy of the prison system. The guard set to work searching me, checking every nook and cranny of my body for hidden contraband. And I mean every part of my body! She even brought out a mirror for my most intimate areas. On a normal day I would have made a wisecrack like 'buy me dinner first!' but today I just didn't have the energy and passively took the indignity. Once my little date with the guard was over I was handed my prison issue clothes and told to get dressed. During my time in the limelight I had become used to a certain standard of clothing, both on and off stage, and let me tell you this is the worst outfit I have ever been given to wear. The main item was a two piece prison uniform in a hideous canary yellow but somehow worse was the underwear. I looked in horror at the prison issue panties, on a close inspection they seemed were cut for a woman's figure but the style looked like the y-fronts my grandad would have worn. “Sorry princess,” the guard sneered, clearly registering my disgust, “you can't get Victoria Secret in here. Now are you going to put them on or am I going to have to make you?” Sighing I slipped the panties on and pulled them up to my hips. They felt just as bad as they looked, baggy in some places and the material was harsh and scratchy. The bra wasn't much better and together they felt awful compared to my usual lace and satin lingerie. The main uniform however was just a disaster, even though they had clearly given me the smallest size it sat baggily on my petite frame and I was forced to roll up the sleeves and legs so I wouldn't trip over. “Aren't you just the prettiest girl at the dance,” the guard said mockingly. Finally, I had a bundle of blankets and a set of plastic crockery pushed into my arms before I was led out onto the wing. As I walked past the cells and the other prisoners I was reminded of my first day at secondary school; a hostile environment where I didn't know anyone and the population looked like they would eat me alive. I wondered whether any of them recognised me or even cared who I was. Maybe I'm not even that much of a novelty as I'm sure the California prison system has no shortage of celebrities coming through their doors. We stopped abruptly in front of one of the cell doors. “Welcome to your new home,” the guard said as she ushered me inside. The cell was as basic as you'd expect, bunk beds and a small toilet area which I shuddered at the thought of using. A tiny window gave me a view to the outside world where the setting sun acted as a harsh reminded of just how long today had been. The final feature of the cell was a heavy set middle aged woman lying on the top bunk reading a magazine. She was attired in the same hideous yellow uniform as me, just several sizes bigger and apparently a lot better fitting. Despite all the events of the day weighing on me I mustered up the best smile I could. “Hi,” I said brightly, “I'm Jen.” “Uh huh,” my cell mate grunted, “How nice for you.” “Oh come on now, be nice,” the guard chimed in, “Jen, this is Jacqueline, I'm sure you two will become best friends in no time.” Her words dripped with sarcasm. “I'll just leave you to get acquainted, have fun!” And with that the guard turned on her heels and left us alone. Jacqueline still barely registered my presence and my mind started racing to think of something, anything to strike up conversation about. As if to provide inspiration my stomach started grumbling. It had been a while since I declined the “When's dinner served around here?” I asked. “You missed it.” “Oh, so when is the next meal.” “Breakfast.” “Oh, is there anything....” “Nope.” There was a brief science. As I surveyed the room something occurred to me. “What do we sleep in?” “The bed.” “No I mean clothing, do we get PJ's or anything?” “Nope, you're wearing your only outfit.” I sighed, this conversation was getting me nowhere. The events of the day were weighing heavily on me so with nothing better to do I slid into the lower bunk, curled up into the fetal position and drifted into an uneasy sleep. I was awoken when one of the officers passed my cell delivering the early morning wake up call to every prisoner. I silently wished all the events that had unfolded yesterday had all been some kind of horrible dream but as the cell came back into focus my heart sank as I realised that this wasn't the case. I rolled out of bed, my first instinct was to pee but when I looked at the toilet again I just couldn't face the prospect. “Just go,” Jacqueline muttered, “I got three kids and I've had a dozen cell mates. Trust me, you don't have anything I haven't seen before.” Despite her words of encouragement I decided to hold it. A guard escorted a bunch of prisoners to the showers and I'm sure you'll forgive me if I don't dwell on the details. I wasn't subjected to the horrors one might expect in a female prison shower but it wasn't exactly pleasant either. The showers were cold, the soap was harsh and the lack of privacy made me feel like I was being treated like an animal. Once I was washed and scrubbed and decked out in a clean uniform I was led to the cafeteria where breakfast was being served. I clutched the tray to my chest as one by one the line shortened until I got to the front. The main feature of the breakfast seemed to a large pot of what I think was meant to be oatmeal but had a strange aroma to it. “Tray” the large tattooed server demanded making me realise I was still holding it. “Is there another option?” I blurted out without thinking, “It's just that I'm on a low carb diet.” My clarification didn't seem to help matters as the server roared with laughter. “Yeah there's a low carb option you skinny bitch,” a voice whispered harshly in my ear, “I eat yours and you go without. Now quit holding up the line.” Reluctantly I accepted the bowl of oatmeal before filling the rest of my tray with two poached eggs and a slice of white toast and grabbed a glass of orange juice. I munched through my breakfast without any enthusiasm. If they force these carb heavy meals on me every day I going to be the only person to come out of prison fatter than when they went it. They'd better let me do pilates I can tell you that. Meanwhile every sip of the orange juice reminded me of my bladder. Once I'd finished one of the officers flagged me down and introduced me to another prisoner named Alex who would oversee my induction. At first glance Alex was quite intimidating; she towered over me and sported a shaved head but turned out to be quite pleasant. She explained to me how everything worked in there, the work programs, the library the gym, all of that. But first I was taken for a drug assessment in the medical wing which was carried out by a friendly good natured nurse. Given my previous history with drug use I was categorised 'at risk' and informed in no uncertain terms that I would have to submit to regular screenings. This quickly turned out to be a blessing as I was asked to give a urine sample so managed to take my first pee of my incarceration. Maybe this was the solution; I could make some comments and get bumped up to daily samples. It would certainly better this sterile office that the toilet in my cell. I quickly shook the thoughts out of my head, that wasn't a viable long term solution. Plus I'd been clean since the accident so was in little real danger. So far most of the other prisoners were more or less leaving me alone. Some called my name while others would shout my lyrics at me (in some cases inserting rude words) but no one had taken a real interest in me. The rest of the day passed, lunch and dinner were as uninspiring as breakfast and two meals later I was back to my earlier predicament with the toilet. After dinner I was back in my cell, thumbing through a book on gardening I'd found in the library. I'm not sure why I picked it up, it's not a subject I had any real interest in. I suppose it was just slim pickings in the library and the thought of attractive well maintained gardens brought back some happy childhood memories. Meanwhile Jacqueline lay on her bunk where I'd found her the first day. Our 'quiet time' was interrupted by guard, specifically the guard who had taken such delight in searching me when I'd arrived. Given the nature of the environment we weren't allowed to know the names of most of the staff so I've decided to call her Barbara. I named her after a PE teacher who also took great delight in tormenting me at school. “Miss Pope,” Barbara said loudly, “You have an appointment with the prison psychiatrist. I'm supposed to take you up.” “That's bullshit!” Jacqueline exclaimed before I could even respond. “I didn't get to see the shrink for weeks, how come she gets straight in? Spoiled bitch!” I tried to ignore Jacqueline's harsh words as Barbara escorted me towards to office next to the medical centre. She knocked on the door and once she was acknowledged she unlocked it and we went inside. The office was pretty basic, the psychiatrist himself was a balding middle aged man sat behind the desk while a much younger man in an expensive looking suit stood next to him. “Hello Ms. Pope. I'm Doctor Hargreaves, the head psychiatry here. How are you settling in?” “Not well,” I muttered. “I see, I'm sorry to hear that. Of course, you're always welcome to make an appointment to see me, you're health and well-being as well as your rehabilitation is my primary concern. However you've been summoned here today for a very specific purpose. This is my associate Doctor McGowen.” The man in the suit nodded in acknowledgement, “His company have had the go ahead to trial a new rehabilitation program and they have determined that you fit the psychological profile for the kind of inmate that they're looking for.” “Well that's flattering,” I said, “but I'm really not interested. I just want to put my head down serve my time and be done with it.” “I'm sorry you feel that way,” Doctor Hargreaves replied, “However there's a very good chance that by participating in this trial your sentence could be reduced.” My ears pricked up at this. “No promises of course but if you co-operate it will certainly help your cause.” “Fine, whatever it takes.” I said keen to jump on any opportunity to get me out of this hell hole. “Wonderful!” Doctor McGowen exclaimed, “Now if you'll excuse us doctor I'd like to go through the particulars with Miss Pope.” “Of course.” And with that Dr Hargreaves got up to leave his office, “I'll be in the nurse's station if you need me.” Once we were alone Doctor McGowen produced a large bound document from his briefcase. “If you would be so good as to sign this,” he said, placing the contract in front of me. I started leafing through it, trying to make sense of the technical jargon that filled every page. “Miss Pope,” Doctor McGowen said impatiently, “You really won't gain anything by reading that. You're already incarcerated and right now my program is the only hope you have to speed up your time here.” I sighed, as much as I hated to admit it he was right. My lawyer was working on an appeal but who knows how long that was going to take. If I was going to get out of here I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I grabbed a pen and signed the contract. “Thank you,” he said, “You've made the right decision. Now lets begin.” What followed was a series of personality testing questions, everything from rating various attributes on a scale of one to ten to asking specific questions about my childhood. It seemed to go on forever but finally he seemed to be reaching an end as he stared talking about my trial. “One thing the judge said really struck a chord with me, he said 'your actions are that of a spoiled child', how does that make you feel?” “Mortified,” I said angrily, “I'm a grown woman, I'm in control of my own life.” “I disagree,” he said, clearly pleased with the emotional action he had elicited, “You see it all the times with people like you, you found fame at an early age and as such your used to getting everything you wanted. You never gained any perspective or maturity.” “That's not true! I worked hard to get where I am!” I spluttered. “It's true and you know it! You didn't achieve anything, everything about you was crafted and managed by a committee. The judge was right, you're nothing more than a spoiled child. You know what happens to child when she misbehaves? She gets spanked!” In one swift move the doctor pulled me out of my seat hand had me bent over the desk. I struggled but he was much larger than me and easily kept control. The first blow connected hard across my bottom causing me to cry out in pain. “Fuck!” I yelped. “Language!” he responded as he smacked me again.” “You...you can't do this to me!” “I can, you signed the contract remember. Am I getting through to you yet?” With that he took hold of my waistband and yanked down my prison issue bottoms exposing my ass clad in the ugly white panties. He was merciless, bringing his hand down again and again. But through the pain I became aware of another sensation, the urge to pee. I felt a twinge, stronger and stronger every time he hit me. “Stop, please!” I begged, “I'll do anything!” But then came the slap that pushed me over the edge. It started as a trickle darkening the front of my panties but soon it began to flow as the hours for which I'd held my pee were finally released. The spanking had stopped and the room went deathly quiet with just the sound if urine tinkling against the tiled floor. I said nothing, I simply held my position, shaking with embarrassment and rage. Behind me Doctor McGowen stood upright and straightened up his suit jacket. He opened to door to the office and shouted out, “I'm going to need some assistance in here.” Within seconds Doctor Hargreaves, Barbara the guard and two members of the nursing staff were in the room. My cheeks burned red as all of them drank in the sight of a once popular singer with her uniform round her ankles having just wet her panties. “Clean up on aisle one,” I heard Barbara mutter. One of the nurses put her arm around me, “It's OK honey,” she said reassuringly. I didn't respond but I did allow her to help me back into a standing position. She got me to step out of my uniform bottoms which had absorbed a good about of my urine. Some had soaked through into the top so I put my arms up as she pulled that off over my head. I felt the cold latex of her gloves on my waist as she set about cutting away my wet panties with safety scissors. After that all my soaked clothing was placed into a trash bag and I suspected it would be sent away to be incinerated. Once again I stood naked before strangers with just a simple bra to protect my modesty. The nurse then set to work cleaning me up with baby wipes, starting at my pussy and then running them over every inch of my lower body. While this had been going on I had seen Doctor McGowen whisper to the other nurse who nodded and quickly left the room. She now returned carrying a bulky blue package, my heart sank when I saw what they were. The packaging clearly displayed the words 'Tena Protective Underwear' and a picture of an adult sized pull-up diaper. The returning nurse slit open the pack while the kindly nurse removed one of them and unrolled it. “No, no,” I said weakly, backing away but the kindly nurse just shook her head. “I'm sorry Miss Pope but you're going to have to wear this,” the nurse said gently, “It's the rules for any prisoner who has.... a little accident like the one you just had.” I relented and let her approach. One by one I stepped into the leg holes and she pulled it up snugly around my hips. “Good girl.” She said in a way that actually sounded sincere. “I think that's enough for today.” said Doctor McGowen, “You'll be escorted back to your cell now and we'll have a new uniform brought to you soon.” Barbara took my arm and led me out the door and across the landing. Walking back to my cell in just a bra and diaper was the final indignity, I was at breaking point. When I got back to my cell I just sat down on my bunk and cried. I'm not even ashamed to admit it. Hot tears rolled down my face as the weight of everything that had happened since the accident was bearing down on me. I thought I was at my lowest when I heard Jacqueline move above me. Great, I thought I'm sure she's here to kick me when I'm down. But what happened next genuinely surprised me. I felt two powerful arms wrap themselves around me as my cell mate pulled me into her bosom. “It's OK,” she said as she gently stroked my hair, “Mamma's got you, just let it all out.” And so I sat there in Jacqueline's arms, I'm not sure how long for. By the time I was all cried out I felt better, still lousy but things somehow didn't seem so bad. For the first time I felt like I could actually cope. “Thank you,” I croaked. “Any time Sugar, if anyone in here gives you grief you come to Mamma Jacqueline.” “But why?” I asked. I felt stupid asking but the question was playing on my mind amongst the whirlwind of other emotions. “I thought you hated me.” “At first I did,” my heart sank again, “I thought you were just going to be some stuck up spoiled princess. But when I saw you walk in here in your diaper I didn't see a singing superstar, I just saw a little girl who was upset and needed a hug. What can I say, you make me feel all maternal and such. Besides,” she added with a wink, “My kids are big fans of you, they'd never forgive me if I didn't help out Jen Pop when I had the chance.” She kissed my head and got up to leave but my hand shot out and grabbed her. “Please don't go,” I said pathetically.” “Sure thing,” she replied and climbed into my bunk next to me. She took me in her arms as I drifted off to sleep.

I'm working on a very small and very private RP women's prison in Second Life that involves 24/7 forced diapering of inmates.

Hi, I'm looking for a partner