Welcome to the Rest of Your Life

[zorroabdaddy]

Taken from the ABDL ebook: Storytellers,

here is a little story about the fantasy of a masochistic BabyGirl who could use a little sadism.

(Warning: This story is a little intense with emotions and in topic.)

 

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Storytellers -

“Okay, so here’s a couple things you need to know before I tell you this story.  And I think I probably told you some of these things already.  But in case I didn’t …,” Jenna started, settling in as she placed her hands on the top of her thighs and slid her palms down to her knees.  “I’ve had quite a few daddies.  I know.  I know.  I’ve said this so many times before and you all know this, but I’ve also had a few mommies.  It was an exploration thing and I really enjoyed the attentiveness and the care.  It felt amazing to have someone tend to me for once with attention to the details.  You know what I mean?”

“Yes.  Some women are big on those intricate touches.  Other women have no idea what a detail is.  But the same could be said for men.  Some grasp the little things while others don’t even know the little things are there,” Flora said in her usual maternal way while signaling to switch lanes.  “You’re dawdling, Jenna.  And you know it.  Don’t worry what we will think.  Just get to the story.”

“Okay,” Jenna said, inhaling and exhaling deeply as she collected herself.  “Being little brings out of me emotions of anger and hurt and rage.  So you wouldn’t think that anyone would want to be little, if those are gonna to be the reactions to it … unless they crave feeling miserable in some sort of masochistic way, I guess.  I don’t know.  But it’s the opposite for me.  It makes me want to be little all that much more because it gives me the opportunity to purge those emotions in a constructive way.  That probably sounds crazy.”

“No.  That makes sense,” Flora said, Lexi and Dani keeping their eyes on Jenna as they knew she was about to supply the why.

“But I’ve never been abused at all in my life.  So, it doesn’t stem from that.  I’ve just never had luck smile upon me.  And it gets me angry,” Jenna admitted.  “That’s why I’m bitter a lot of the time.”

Jenna’s set-up was making the forthcoming story that much more appealing, having made captive her audience before ever starting.

“Though being little brings out negative emotions, it still forces me to not only take a good look at myself but also to deal with those emotions,” Jenna continued.  “The problem is that it requires a guy who is willing to put up with more of my outbursts and tantrums and frustration and rageful anger than he should have to.  My fantasy isn’t fair to him and I know it.  And I do nothing about it.”

Flora raised an eyebrow, finding greater intrigue all the sudden.

“So, my fantasy deals with all of that directly, very directly,” Jenna admitted, Lexi and Dani staring at her wide-eyed as they had never heard this much explanation from her before.  “In my fantasy, I still don’t deal with what I do to him.  Instead, he deals with it as he deals with me … just not in the way you may be thinking right now.”

The car remained silent - Flora, Dani and Lexi enjoying the set-up thoroughly but hoping she would soon begin the story.

Luckily, the wait was over.

“For better or worse … here’s my fantasy,” Jenna said.

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I get home from work in a bad mood.  Work does that to me.  A lot things do that to me, it seems.  As you girls know, I’m a factory worker.  It’s horrible.  I need to a new job.  I stand on an assembly line and package a bunch of wonderful clothing and other stuff I can’t afford because they don’t pay me much.  Every day, pretty merchandise, that will go to other people, passes through my fingers as a constant reminder of what I don’t have.  And I try to remember what I do have, but it doesn’t always work out for the best or put me in a good mood.  And the last thing I wanna do is come home and talk about my day.  Why would I wanna talk about it after having dealt with it for 8 hours, knowing I’ll be going right back to it?

As the only luck I have ever known will have it, I have off work tomorrow.  But that doesn’t stop my back or feet from hurting me tonight.  And as I put my purse on the counter and plop down on the couch, I just know that my Daddy is gonna wanna talk to me about what’s upsetting me.  He can see it right away.  I’ve never been one to hide how I’m feeling and as I take my shoes and socks off to rub my feet, he does the good Daddy thing … of course. 

He sits down and takes my feet in his hands, beginning to massage them.  And I just know that he’s gonna be in one more of his positive moods and his positivity is gonna piss me off and make me angrier.  I mean, why is he always positive all the time?  Are his days that easy?  Why can’t I be more like him?  Why can’t I just brush the bad things off my shoulders the way he does?

Anyways … the beginning of him massaging my feet is painful.  Most people don’t realize that.  The beginning of a proper massage isn’t very enjoyable at all.  But strangely, it’s something that I like.  It’s a bit of pain I feel that comes from him.  And for some idiotic reason, I like it.  But when the pain goes away, all I see is his supportive Daddy nature in front of me, trying to nurture me.

He works the same hours as I do each week.  But where he works, 40 hours don’t feel like the Hellish 80 that just won’t end for me.  He has that luxury.  I don’t.  And it seems I never will.

Small talk with Daddy goes poorly because he is just so positive about everything and is showing genuine interest in me, like always.  But he just won’t stop being so cheerful and it’s getting me furious at him, as usual.  So, I reduce my answers to yes and no.  I stare at the coffee table and feel my rage beginning to build.  It’s only a matter of time and I really don’t wanna blow up at him tonight.  But I’m so deep in a pool of cynicism that it’s a foregone conclusion.  Still, I try to hold it back.  But that only makes it worse.  So, I try other methods of avoiding the inevitable … like ignoring him.

But if my fantasy Daddy is anything, he’s persistent.  And he keeps trying to get me to open up until I stop talking to him altogether and shut down.  I curl up in a ball on the couch and stare at the rug.  So he gets up and goes into the kitchen.  And he starts to make dinner.  I mean, geez!  Is he actually trying to piss me off or is he really this oblivious?  His was nice and kind and supportive and anything that any normal girl would be grateful to have in a guy.

But I’m not a normal girl.  And he needs to learn this well and readjust his approach to absolutely everything or this is never going to work.  He was smart when he stopped trying to help me, especially because I wasn’t cooperating with him.  And I really can’t blame him for trying, though.  So I don’t blame him for that.

But the good marks he got for having stopped trying to help me have now been erased because he is in the kitchen making dinner.

It’s yet another stupid act of kindness and genuine caring!

And I can’t blame him for that, either.  But the fact that I can’t blame him only gets me angrier.  Now … this is when the anger begins to turn to hurt.  And that is a recipe for disaster.  If I was to say or do something horrible, I could apologize afterwards.  But the fact that I can’t blame him only stirs the pot inside me that is growing closer and closer to a boil.  I’m now a pressure cooker!

And that’s all I wanna do right now … just blame him!  But I can’t because he’s been nothing but nice to me!

And to top it all off, he’s not pushing it, either.  He’s being intelligent about it and not continuing to tout how wonderful his day was - while seeing that I am so miserable.  For this reason, I believe him to not be stupid.  But if he’s not stupid, then why is he with me?  Why does he willingly go through this with me every day?  Wouldn’t a sane individual just end this and move on to a girl who can show she appreciates him?

And leave me tell ya something: while laying there in a ball on the couch, gripped up with every bad emotion I can possibly have, I am seriously contemplating that he might be the one with problem … not me.  Maybe that’s it!  Maybe all of this is some mental abuse he is putting me through and he is why I am the way I am.

But I wise up to my own senses pretty quickly.  If that was true and he was the problem, not me … then I wouldn’t be experiencing this with every single relationship I get into.  I mean, I’m truly not lucky.  But no one, and I mean no one, is that unlucky!

And it looks like he’s going to make dinner.  So I get up and stomp back the hallway.  I toss my work clothes on the floor in the bathroom and get in the shower.  Hot water and feeling clean usually helps to calm my tension and sometimes my emotions, too.  There’s nothing quite like a hot shower.  Well … there are actually other things that are better.  But that won’t happen tonight.

Unfortunately, for as often as a hot shower helps me out, it doesn’t on this night.  And all I can think about is how irritable I am.  Here I have this nice guy who is my Daddy, who has never abused me and has never shouted at me or even raised his voice to me.  And all I can do is stand in the shower, boiling over because I just can’t seem to kick the funk I’m in.

I get out of the shower and put on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  I go back out to the kitchen to find that he has set the table very nicely and is making my favorite meal, chicken teriyaki.  This should melt my heart a little, but it doesn’t.  That would make sense.

I sit at the kitchen table and glare him down.  He gets out a glass and pours me a drink of water.  He puts it on the table in front of me. And I tell him I don’t want it.  He then puts it by his plate and I tell him I don’t want him to drink it either.  Then I knock the glass off the table.  It hits the floor and shatters everywhere.

For a few seconds, there is an awkward silence in the kitchen - not just in the sense of neither of us talking out loud but also a silence in my mind as I try to process the fact that I just deliberately knocked a glass off the table and it is now in a million pieces all over the floor.  Did I actually just do that?  Did I actually just break a glass in anger?  I mean, I get that I’m an emotional mess right now, but it’s not like me to do something like that.

And as I’m trying to silently scold myself and get myself to realize that what I did is not right to have done, I see him cleaning the broken glass up.  He says nothing, just cleaning it up and then going back to finish making dinner!  The nerve he has!

That’s the moment that my anger and hurt hit a fevering point of rage.  And I convince myself that it is okay to do things like break glass.  I also convince myself that the only way I am going to calm down is to be put in my place.  And that’s where he comes into it all.  It is his job to get me to see that I need an attitude adjustment.

But he doesn’t do that for me.  And this sparks a whole bunch of questions in my mind.  Why won’t he shout at me?  Why won’t he correct me?  Why won’t he help me in the way I need to be helped?  He’s the only one who can do it.  Clearly, I can’t do it for myself.  That’s the problem!  But I guess the truth is I actually can do it for myself, but I won’t.  I’ll make him do it.  I will push him until he has no choice but to do what he has to do to help me settle down.

He sets the dinner on the kitchen table and sits down next to me.  I cross my arms and pout, refusing to eat.  I figure this will really get him going.  If I refuse to eat my favorite meal which he has slaved to make for me, then I’ll finally get the best of him.  And that will be all it will take.  But he doesn’t react that way!  Instead, he lets me sit there as he starts to eat.  So, I glare him down.  I am so ready to explode, I can feel my body temperature rising with the rage.

Is there nothing that will break him?  Is this the way it will always be?  Will he always be patient with me as I act like a fickle lunatic?  And is there no relief I can expect to receive from him at any point in the near future?  What kind of relationship is this?

And that’s when it hits me like a ton of bricks.  He is now yet another Daddy I can put on the long list of Daddies from my past.  That’s why he’s not doing anything.  That’s why he’s not doing what I need him to do.  It’s because he’s already given up on me, just like every single flipping Daddy who came before him!  I’m sure of it!

And now, there’s only one thing on my mind … revenge!

I push my chair back and lunge at him.  My fingers are curled and my nails are ready to scratch his eyes out.  Why did I ever get into a relationship with this guy?  How desperate am I, really?

He drops his fork and puts his hands on my sides.  Then he lifts me up in the air.  I start screaming at him, punching him in the face.  My screams turn into hard crying as the emotions finally erupt out of me.  And my punches to his face turn into half-hearted slaps.

He kicks a chair over into the one corner of the kitchen and puts me down on it, making me sit and face the corner.  But I’m not giving up so easily.  He won’t get me in the corner without a fight.  Though he is holding me by the upper arms and keeping me on the chair, I spit on him and start flailing my legs - all while screaming and crying about how much I hate him.  Still, he refuses to let me get up.  So, I kick him in the balls and another awkward moment of silence fills the kitchen.  He grimaces and that’s the first moment since I got home that I catch my senses for real.

I just hurt him.

I turn to face the corner, feeling bad about what I’ve done.  And I take a second ride on that same train of thoughts as when I knocked the glass off the table.  But this time, I stop myself at the part when I give myself permission to do things I know I should not do.

He walks away for a few minutes, down the hallway and back to the bedroom.  Now, I feel obligated to sit in that chair, facing the corner of the kitchen until he returns.  It’s the least I can do after having kicked him in the balls and told him I hated him.  This gives me ample time to mentally damn myself for my behavior.

And the unavoidable truths hit me very hard:

1. Kindness is so rare.  And here I am squandering it from him.

2. Common decency isn’t an art form.  It isn’t something you learn along the way, either.  You have it or you don’t.  And it’s obvious to me that I don’t want to show I have it.

3. My problems are my problems and when I heap them on his shoulders, it’s like I’m expecting him to fix my problems for me.

By the time he returns to the kitchen, I am able to finally be settled enough to not throw dangerous tantrums anymore.  And this was really all that I needed, I guess.  A bit of quiet so I could collect myself.  But I have no idea what damage I have already caused.  The only thing I’m certain of is that he won’t hit me.  He probably won’t do anything that will help me to remember that my actions of this night were wrong.  And since I won’t remember it, I’ll do it again - the next time I feel an evil swell of overload inside me.

This is another undeniable truth that is currently trying to get me to shut down again.  And because of this, I know that I’m not out of the woods yet.  But when his right hand appears from behind me and when I feel one of my pacifiers being plunked into my mouth, I’m suddenly at a loss of what to expect next.

This is both an intriguing situation as well as a frightening one.  I have never been able to not see what will likely happen.  I always find myself attracted to the predictable Daddy types.  But now, I have no idea what I will see in his eyes when he allows me out of the corner.  Maybe I actually did break him after all.  Whereas, just a few minutes ago, that was what I wanted to see happen … now, I’m hoping that I wasn’t successful in shattering him just like that glass.

I hear him behind me, making up a plate of the dinner and putting it in the fridge - then cleaning up the kitchen table.  Tears well in my eyes.  I feel so horrible for what I’ve done, but I’m beginning to feel the impatience of not being allowed to get up so I can walk away from the mess I’ve created.  A bit of poutiness comes over my senses, but I stay right there, keeping the pacifier in my mouth as I sniffle a bit.  A pacifier in my mouth means I am not to speak until it’s removed.  Waiting for my Daddy to let me get up is the least I can do, given everything that I’ve done since I came home.

I hear him using the microwave.  And I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t.  I have a pacifier in my mouth.  I’m also scared that I’ll try to apologize to him, but instead, something horrible will come out of my mouth … words that will ring deafeningly in my ears for hours afterwards.  And I’m feeling settled right now.  I don’t wanna do anything that will make me slip up and act out again.

It is this possibility that terrifies me the most.  I nurse from that pacifier as if every milli-second of the rest of my life depended on it.

He walks into the living room and then back into the kitchen.  I have no idea what he’s doing.  I can’t even imagine.  Maybe he’s just making me wait until he has calmed down.  Maybe I got him angry.

Then he comes over to me and spins the chair around.  I look up at him with puppy dog eyes, hoping he will once again forgive me for having had to deal with yet another round of me in rage mode.

But in his eyes, his deep electric blue eyes, I see no anger, no frustration, no hurt.  Instead, I see cheerfulness and a lively smile on his face.  I’m wondering if he is covering up his disappointment in me or if he is really feeling his usual happy self.

Maybe he’s a robot!  I hadn’t thought of that before.  It’s my belief that men are emotionally closed off anyway.  But my behavior of this night gives proof to the belief that women can be emotionally overloaded.  So I really have no right to speak about him in that way.

And besides, my pacifier is still in my mouth.  I have no right to speak at all, at the moment.  That’s probably for the best.

He takes me by the hand and stands me up.  Then he walks me back the hallway and up to our bedroom door.  He opens the door and on the bed, I see a diaper - spread out and awaiting me.  Next to it, I see baby powder.  Next to that, I see one of my nighties and hair ties.  He prepared all of this while I sat in the kitchen corner.

But it’s impossible for me to be a BabyGirl when I’m in such a defiant state of mind.  It won’t work, but that doesn’t stop him.

NO!!! I scream, turning and trying to run out of the bedroom - the pacifier flying up in the air as I spit it out of my mouth.  But he prevents me from running past him.  Instead, he pulls the t-shirt up and off my body.  Then he grabs the waist of my shorts and yanks them down my legs.  The shorts land at my ankles and when I try to run to the hallway again, the shorts trip me.  I’m now naked.

On the way down, I reach for the walls, the door frame, the doorknob … anything I can grab hold of.  But I miss it all.  And it is he who catches me, then lifting me up and taking me over to the bed.  He puts me down on the diaper, on my back.

NO!!! I scream again as he crosses my wrists above my head.  I try to kick him but he grabs my ankles, bending me in half and pinning them down above my head with his right hand.

Daddy has big hands and his grip goes around both wrists and both ankles.  He holds me there with no trouble.  This makes me feel small.  And with my body folded in half, my bottom is exposed.  He can easily spank me into complete submission.  I’m so angry that I’m growling at him and I’m so upset that I’m bawling aloud.  But he doesn’t spank me.  He doesn’t shout or yell.  He doesn’t even show much fatigue or frustration.  This makes everything worse for me.

If he would just spank me, I could purge my bad emotions so easily.  Purging my emotions through physical pain has worked for me so many times in the past.  And with a positive twist to it from someone else, it could work for me again.  But he won’t spank me.

Instead, he slides the diaper into place beneath me - taking the back waistline up to my lower back.  Then he starts using calming words to speak to me.  I am still screaming and growling.  So, I don’t really hear what he’s saying, but it’s his calm tone that is digging into my mind.  He sprinkles baby powder on my bottom … a really heavy amount.  And for as nice as the powder feels, I begin my wiggle for freedom again, that damn rage mode of mine going into full extreme yet again.  Keeping me folded in half by continuing to keep my ankles and wrists pinned above my head, he powders my front with such a delicate touch that I almost wanna starting rocking my hips to get him to caress me between the legs a little more.

He is trying to redirect my attentions away from the emotions that have controlled me since I got home.  And it’s working, but I know myself.  And I will never go down without a fight.

So, I think of ways I can ruin his efforts:

I could pee on his hand and maybe that would be the last straw, getting him to spank me at long last and helping me to end all of this before something else regrettable comes out of me.

But I don’t try to seduce him or pee on him.  Instead, I wiggle myself into exhaustion.  Fatigue sets in and prevents me from trying to get away from him anymore.  The muscles on the backs of my legs feel like they’re on fire.  He lowers my legs down and parts them with no resistance from me.  It upsets me that I’m physically exhausted.  He gets another pacifier from one of the drawers in my nightstands and plunks it between my lips.  I take the nipple in my mouth and nurse from it as I bawl so hard I make no noise at all.

He pulls the front of the diaper up and then releases my hands as he fastens the tapes.  I’ve stopped fighting against the diaper.  He wins this round.  And he never once lost his composure or emotions, like me.  I don’t even fight him as he gets the nightie and sits me up, dressing me in it before grabbing the hair ties and a brush from my nightstand.  I am now wearing my nightie and my diaper.

This is usually the beginning stage of BabyGirl mode for me, being dressed and treated like a baby.  But this time, my starting point is filled with a sense of being drained - physically, emotionally and in every other possible way I can feel.  So it sends a bit of confusion through my mind as well as all my senses.

He picks me up.  I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, like normal.  He carries me out to the kitchen where he gets that plate of food from the fridge and a fork.  Then he carries me into the living room and sets me on the floor behind the coffee table.  Putting the plate of food in front of me, he sits behind me on the couch and reaches to the end table next to the couch where he picks up a bib and puts it around my neck.

The bib says: ‘Good Girl’ on it.  But I don’t feel like one.

“Be a good girl and eat your dinner,” he says as he takes the pacifier out of my mouth and sets it on the coffee table.

A bit embarrassed by my behavior, I pick up the fork and begin to eat the meal he made for me.  It is indeed my favorite meal.  I love chicken teriyaki.  But it is cold, at this point.  And I don’t bother to ask him to heat it up.  It reminds me of how cold I was to him when he treated me with the same kindness he always shows me.

He takes the hairbrush through my hair, giving my scalp a massage.  There’s little in this world that is quite like getting your hair brushed out by someone else … except for the obvious.  When he is done brushing me, he pulls my hair back into a loose ponytail.

He sets the hairbrush on the couch.  Then he gets up and walks into the kitchen and I hear him opening the microwave.  But I keep my attention on the meal in front of me, the meal he prepared for me - despite my total lack of appreciation when he did so.

Cold or not, I finish the whole plate of chicken teriyaki.  He returns from the kitchen and sits back down on the couch.  Taking the bib off me, he wipes my face with it before setting it on the coffee table and picking me up onto his lap.  Making me lean back into his arms, he touches the warmed rubber nipple of the baby bottle he just got from the microwave to my lower lip and with one whispered word of direction, he makes me submit more deeply than I have ever submitted before:

“Open,” he says, his eyes keeping their kindness and his demeanor doing the same as I part my lips.

My forehead wrinkles but I take the nipple into my mouth, still feeling a bit of physically fatigue.  With a full tummy, it is hard to resist.  I gaze up at him as he gently begins to rock me.  Tiny gulp after tiny gulp, I drink the warm milk - the effects working on me faster than usual for how much I had exhausted myself.

And then he changes my world, my entire outlook on life and even how thoughts are cultivated in my mind.  He speaks and erases everything I have ever known as being the way my life will be.

“You are going to quit your job.  It’s not good for you.  We’ll find you other work, but not for a while.  Jenna needs some Jenna time,” he says as I close my eyes, knowing that tears are coming.  “And from now on, when your emotions get the best of you, you will regress. I will make you.  And you’ll remain in the safety I provide.”

I try to swallow the tiny gulps of milk more quickly as to avoid allowing the lump in my throat to take me over.  It’s one last bit of submission I will still resist.

“I will never strike you.  I will never hit you.  I won’t even spank you if you beg me to do it and if that sends you into a frenzy of anger, then so be it,” he states with a gentle tone that melds with the aggressive dominance he is conveying.  “We will go down this route however many times it takes until you finally are free from it all.”

And that is when I break.  I sob inconsolably, but he of course attempts to console me - pulling me close to him while keeping that rubber nipple in my mouth and forcing me to continue to nurse it.

I am without any excuses.  I am without any escapes and without any desires to find a point of exodus.  I am finally made to accept that, at long last, I am with someone who is stronger than my emotions are.  And I am with someone who will never leave me.

The rules he creates for me are what I know the best.  They are the guidelines of my life.  And without them, I would feel lost.

The normalcy that exists in our apartment is both the one thing I oppose when surrounded by it while also being the one thing I hope is there every day.  Without that normalcy, I would feel hopeless.

He never once hit me, even though I hit him.

He never once raised his voice, even though I yelled at him.

He never once lost his patience, even though I went berserk.

He never got angry with me, even though I went into rage mode.

He never let me get away with anything, though I tried to cry my way out of it several times.

He never treated like anything but a Princess.

He never stopped loving me.

And as I drift off to sleep, I cling to his body with a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in a very long time.  He is my Daddy.  He is my rock and I can’t live without him.

“It’s okay.  You’ll get used to the kindness.  You’ll get used to all of it,” I hear him whisper into my mind as I enter into sleep.  “This is the way it will be, Jenna.  Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Tomorrow will be exactly the same as today.

And he will be the same as well.

That’s the kind of Daddy in my fantasies.