Rachel's Choice

[BabyAnna]

Rachel realised she was crying, a salty taste as her tears reached her mouth, forced inside as she vigorously worked her lips and tongue on his penis.

To the two women watching she looked passionately in love, an ardent attempt to give pleasure to her man as he sat there, elbows high, hands behind his head, looking down at her in amusement. Rachel wanted to curse at him, at the two women, but she didn't have time, knew she had to take him over the edge, make him lose control.. before she lost control.

"I have two openings," he'd told her, "one for a lover, the other a toy for my boyfriend. He wants a baby."

Rachel had looked at him in confusion. She'd applied for a job as a Personal Assistant, turned up in her professional suit, a smart straight skirt that needed the slit at the back to let her walk properly, the matching jacket closed over a lace trimmed camisole. Some men stared at the brief band of lace that was visible in the V of the jacket collars but she ignored them, gave her time and energy to the men that looked higher, held eye contact, treated her as a colleague and not a toy.

So why was this man talking to her about toys? And if he had a boyfriend, why would he want a female lover? "I'm sorry, I thought this was a Personal Assistant role," she said, "I wish you luck finding the right people, but.."

Her voice stopped abruptly as Rachel felt hands firmly grasping her arms, pushing her forward, making her stumble and drop to her knees. The fall didn't pull her arms free, instead they were wrenched backwards, enough pain to make her cry out. The surprise and pain stopped her from twisting and fighting as her wrists were pulled roughly behind her, a metal ratchet sound explaining why she couldn't then bring them back forward again.

He'd wordlessly mocked her then, a condescending smirk as she knelt before him, before looking up and speaking to whoever was behind her. "Get her prepped. I'll be with you in a moment."

Pulled to her feet Rachel looked to see who was manhandling her, found out it was two women, both dressed for the office too. One she recognised as the receptionist, she'd shown Rachel into the interview, hadn't gone back to the front desk. Rachel turned and tried to run but their grip on her arms was firm and one of them hooked a leg in front of hers, stiletto heels clashing with her more modest wedges, forcing her off balance and wrenching her shoulders once more.

"Now then," said the woman she didn't recognise, auburn curls framing a kind looking face that matched her compassionate tone, "You'll get hurt and that doesn't help anybody."

Maybe it was the tone, or just the need to avoid more pain, but Rachel found herself letting them pull her along a corridor and into another room. She started to struggle again when she saw what was in there, unmistakably a gynaecology chair, padded and reclined, straps on the arm rests, a deep basin below the cut-out front edge. Even as her brain marvelled at the leg holders being padded and covered in the same rich purple plastic as the rest of the chair she realised they too had straps on them, and that triggered her flight response, a proper kick at the woman to her right even as she leant her weight into the woman to her left.

They seemed to expect it, the kick deftly dodged by one, the other braced to withstand her charge and then twist, forcing Rachel off balance again, then somehow catching her as she fell, using her momentum to swing her back upright and propel her towards the chair. With practiced ease they sat her on it and she found herself leaning backwards against her bound hands, unclenching them to relieve the sudden pressure on her kidneys. Before she could recover her balance and stand, a strap was pulled down over her head, tightened around her neck and drawn taut. 

Rachel had frozen then, head pushed against the high back of the chair, discovering for the first time her strong fear of strangulation, preferring to let them have the control they'd so effortlessly taken. Their response was silent and efficient, as they raised each of her legs in turn, place it in the holder, fastened the straps to keep it here. Her skirt sagged down her thighs, ruffled below her hips, protecting her modesty from anybody not standing between her now spread and outstretched legs.

The pressure on Rachel's neck reduced, enough that they could turn her a little in the chair reach in behind and release her hands. Rachel briefly considered her options but the neck strap pulled taut again, so she relaxed both arms, allowed them to be pulled onto the armrests and fastened securely there. A final strap was drawn around her waist, leaving her entirely unable to move.

"I can't breathe," complained Rachel as the women moved behind her, the lie revealed by her heavy breathing, half panic attack, half a result of the physical tension she'd been under. The strap around her neck was released anyway, letting Rachel move her head and see the rest of the room.

There wasn't much to see, a dusty empty shelf on one wall, faded paint with a bright square suggesting a recent picture on another. The door she'd come through was closed, a cupboard beside it, doors closed. From behind her the two women reappeared, still in their smart suits with a new addition, white disposable plastic aprons still showing the creases they'd gained while folded and new. They pulled on medical gloves, purple, latex or maybe nitrile, Rachel wasn't sure. 

"No, please," she begged as a gloved hand reached behind her and brought into sight what looked like scissors. As they opened she almost laughed, the blunt nosed blades weren't safety scissors at all, they were pinking shears. Maybe they'd been unable to find the right thing, or possibly this was just a stylish kidnapping.

It made no difference either way, her smart skirt ruined in moments, her jacket cut from sleeve to sleeve across the shoulders, the cream chemise never to be worn again. Seconds later her pantyhose lay tattered below the chair, revealing that she'd worn a matching bra and panties set, never intended to be seen by anybody else but giving her inner confidence, the comfort of being well dressed. A few more snips and she wasn't dressed at all, just vulnerable, open and unable to protect her body, let alone her modesty.

Rachel had stopped asking questions by then, the lack of answers or even acknowledgement making it feel futile, her immobility making the answers irrelevant anyway. Instead she watched bemused as a soft cooling cream was spread down her legs. The bowl built into the chair was filled warm water, used to wet and wash a safety razor as it scraped the cream away. Rachel knew that this was unnecessary, she'd done this to herself just yesterday, knowing she wanted her legs looking good for the interview. She'd done her armpits too, and even her arms, but they too received careful ministrations.  Rachel hadn't though plucked the few tendrils of fine hair around her nipples and winced as they were removed now by one of the women, the other now lathering the last hair left on her body. 

"No, not that," she said, then went silent, aware she sounded whiny, knowing that she had no choice anyway. It took longer than she had expected, her electric trimmer a far more effective way of shaping and controlling the morass, but eventually the razors stopped their relentless scraping and a damp cloth wiped her clean.

Rachel stared in fascination, the loss of hair making her look younger, making her feel more naked, more vulnerable. Worse, the loss of her clothes showed that this wasn't an idle prank, the loss of her hair even more sinister. Rachel shivered, moaned in distress, watched what was happening around her.

While one woman removed the bowl in the chair and took it away the other covered Rachel's eyes with a damp cloth. She shook her head fearfully but stopped when two hands firmly held it in place before one took the cloth and gently wiped her face, removing the streaks of make-up left by her tears. Both hands held her head again as the other woman came back into the room, leaned over Rachel and used tweezers to carefully shape and tidy her eyebrows. 

Rachel opened her eyes again, the sharp pain of hairs being plucked receding and saw a tube of lipstick just inches from them. Even as she watched the base was turned, the coloured wax emerging, a bright red that demanded attention. She looked up at the woman holding it, shook her head slightly, forced her mouth firmly closed. The woman shook her head in return and pout her lips, mimicking the expression of someone about to apply colour. Rachel shook her head again but stopped as it was shaken for her, a sharp slap that stung, drew her attention, reminded her how vulnerable she was. Another mimicked pout and this time Rachel complied, pouted herself, let them paint her lips that eye catching colour. 

The women stepped back from the chair, one leaving the room. Rachel found herself tugging at her wrist restraints and trying to close her knees, an instinctive realisation that this had all merely been a prelude and she was about to become the main event. Even as she struggled the woman returned to the room, an effeminate man with her. Dressed in an awful yellow suit, a matching yellow tie with excessive large knot almost obscuring the navy shirt beneath, he cackled with apparent delight.

"Oh, she's beautiful," he said, "Can I have her? Oh please let me have her. I'll be so gentle with her and make sure she's really well cared for."

Rachel stared at him, her red rimmed mouth dropping wide open in shock as he walked around the chair, stopping between her legs, her attempts to close her knees having failed and the view also wide open.

"Look!" exclaimed the young man, "no hair at all, she's a perfect baby girl." He looked at Rachel's face, saw the horrified disbelief, misread it entirely. "Oh, it's ok my sweetheart, you'll get lots of attention and cuddles and a lovely thick diaper. I'll make sure it's changed regularly, we wouldn't want you to leak or get a nasty rash."

"But I don't need diapers," said Rachel slowly, trying to find the right tone, "I'm an adult."

"No," said the man, "you'll be my little baby and never need a toilet ever again. I've already found the most adorable diapers and I'll make sure your hands are well protected by thick mittens so that you don't hurt yourself trying to do adult things. It's ok, we'll feed you and give you a bottle and I'll pick the prettiest dresses and onesies for you."

A deep laugh caught Rachel by surprise, making her turn. The man she'd met earlier had come back into the room, must have heard the younger man's comments.

"I'm sure she'd love that, but we need to let her decide."

The effeminate man subsided, clearly the junior in the relationship, subservient to his alpha partner who continued, this time speaking to Rachel.

"You can be my lover, available when I want, for what I want, whether you want it or not. The rest of the time will be your own, to pursue your hobbies, enjoy an adult but captive lifestyle. Or you can become the baby girl my partner so eagerly desires, incontinent front and back, cared for like an infant, no responsibilities, no decisions, just strapped into any chair you're sat in, knowing every meal you eat will end up in your diaper, life a routine of naps, bottles and diaper changes."

He paused, looked at Rachel, gave her a moment to absorb his words, understand the implications of his offer. He held up a finger to her, indicating that he hadn't yet finished, continued his firm measured words, "Now, before I ask you, I think it'll help to give you an idea of just how real this situation is.

The man indicated to someone stood behind Rachel and she found the chair she was in being slowly rotated, giving her a chance to see behind it for the first time. A table with a large open plastic crate on it stood in the corner of the room, a door in the wall beside it. One of the two women stood there, the other releasing the chair and stepping back to give Rachel a clear view. From behind Rachel heard the man speak again.

"These offices are on a very short term lease, we'll be gone by this evening, anybody pursuing the financial trail will find it petering out in the Cayman Islands; nobody will know who we are, whether you even came here, where we've taken you. Or them."

At those words, or possible a gesture made from behind Rachel, the woman by the door leaned across, turned its handle and pushed it open. Rachel sat forward in the chair as much as the waist strap allowed her, arms pulling away from the chair as her legs pushed into their rests, her muscles taut as she stared in shock through the open doorway.

Rachel had known she was in trouble anyway but this was a final confirmation, a counter to the slivers of hope she'd been trying to retain. The cages she could see were about waist height, three metal cubes with sturdy bars keeping captive in each a naked woman, all of them turning to stare back at her. They were silent, their ankles and wrists secured to the bars, preventing them removing the painful looking gags in their mouths, fetish style ball gags that distended their jaws. The only communication was a look of raw terror and anguish in their eyes, fearful glances from Rachel to the man behind her, a look back at her with a mix of sympathy and distress.

"Two of them are for foreign export," she heard from behind, "my clients in the Gulf like a nice American blonde. The other one will be a fine earner in a New Orleans brothel; it's one of the ones that lets its clientele explore their sadistic side, so they're a good repeat customer for us."

It was Rachel's turn to look with sympathy, watch the women's reaction to these statements. They must have not been told this before, their mouths working feverishly at their gags, their eyes doing the screaming for them. That was the last Rachel saw of them, the door closing on the terrible sight, her chair being turned back to face the man she now knew was evil, that for the first time she really feared.

"Oh, don't worry," he told her, "You're too good for that. We want you to be part of the family."

He crouched down, his face level with her naked vulnerability, looked up past it to her face. "But how will you join us? Baby or lover, adult or infant, taking care of my needs or needing care?"

"Neither," said Rachel bravely, "Let me go."

She held his stare, not daring to look away, but also not able to hide the turmoil inside her. He waited a few seconds, let her inner tensions mount, then chuckled. "I thought you might say that, so we have a simple test. You're going to get an enema." 

He paused, tilted his head a little, asked her with a curious tone, "Have you had one before?"

"Umm. What? No," said Rachel in surprise. Of course she knew what an enema was but she'd never had one, wasn't sure why people had them, didn't know why she was being given one now.

The man didn't keep her in suspense. "Well, it's straightforward. We fill you with warm water through your bottom, a tiny amount of soap in the mix to irritate your bowels, and before long your body will scream to release it. Of course, anything else up there will come out at the same time; it's a very thorough cleansing."

Rachel didn't like the sound of that. She hadn't moved her bowels since the previous evening but couldn't see any sensible reasons for needing to be clean inside, and the phrase 'your body will scream' filled her with dread.

"As soon as it's administered you'll be secured in a very thick diaper."

"Oh yes!" said the effeminate man, a big smile lighting up his face.

The man looked across in amusement before turning back to Rachel and continuing. "If you  want to become a baby then you'll just have to do what babies do: Relax your muscles and fill your diaper. If you want to be an adult though, you'll have to convince me that you want to be my lover."

Rachel stared at him in consternation. Her bad situation was getting worse and she couldn't see a good outcome from this. Her confusion was obvious so the man explained, "It's very simple, you just need to bring me to orgasm. Do that while you have a clean diaper and we'll remove it, you can empty your bowels into a toilet and walk out of here with us. It's that or a pushchair, but you can choose."

He stood back up, looked at her, held his hands out to the side and theatrically said, "Let the test begin!" Beckoning to the younger man he turned and they both left the room.

Being forcibly given an enema was the most humiliating thing Rachel had ever experienced. Well, for around 15-20 minutes anyway. She'd asked the woman how long it would take to come out and that was the answer; it would be ready sooner but with discipline and determination she could hold it through the pain. 

Her stomach distended, a bloated feeling making her want to waddle, a newly attached diaper making it impossible not to, Rachel was led to another room, her arms tied behind her once more, already aware that she wanted relief from the torment inside. Wincing in discomfort she looked up and saw the man sat in a chair, his trousers undone, the smile on his lips matching the anticipation shown by his already twitching member.

Rachel had already made up her mind, and her decision was to escape. That meant creating the chance, and even being regularly raped was preferable to losing her autonomy, being permanently strapped down or trapped behind a crib's bars, unable to run in a diaper this thick. So she needed to work some magic, make him a happy man before she made his boyfriend a happy father.

Gently pushed to her knees, legs forced too far apart by the thick disposable diaper, Rachel edged closer and leaned forward between his thighs, opened her mouth and put to good use four years of experience at college.

That had been around ten minutes ago, and with the time it had taken to diaper her and waddle through to here, her 15 minutes were up. Rachel knew it too, her stomach squirming, the pain making the clenching so much more difficult, matched by the aching pain now in her jaw. She was good at this, she knew it, but the man had resisted her clever used of her tongue, the gentle sucking and use of her soft lips, spreading their red brightness down the full length of his shaft.

Without warning he suddenly grabbed the back of her head, his fingers intertwined in her hair, pulled it down further onto him. Rachel resisted the urge to fight this, normal etiquette discarded; if he was ready then she might get to the toilet yet. As her teeth painfully trapped her lips against his pelvis she realised she'd gone too far down, couldn't breath, uncontrollably coughed and jerked her head back. Even as she spluttered for breath she realised the cough had broken her control, relaxed her sphincter, allowed a vile mess to start forcefully squirting from her body.

With frenzied action Rachel renewed her ministrations, desperate to finish him off before anybody could tell what she'd done. His penis twitched, a sign she knew well, but a horrific smell rose around her, obvious confirmation that she was already too late, that she'd just condemned herself to a life of infancy. Her mind reeling she relaxed her mouth and started to lean back, looking up to see a strange expression on her face.

Even before his penis slipped from her mouth it exploded, an acrid taste adding to her humiliation, then the head pulled free of her lips and another twitch gave her a new lipstick, this one white and badly applied, spread on her cheek and chin.

Time seemed to stop. Rachel knelt there, letting her body continue its purge, no reason to try and hold back now, feeling the tickle as liquid started to dribble down her cheek, along the edge of her chin. She looked up at the man, watched him regain his composure, look back down at her.

"Well now, isn't this an interesting situation," he said, "It smells like you've really put that diaper to good use, just like a baby little girl."

Rachel blushed, unable to deny this but unwilling to admit the truth, apparent though the smell was making it.

"But then you kept going anyway, didn't you?" asked the man rhetorically, "You didn't stop until you had my seed inside you." He looked at Rachel in amusement and added, "And dripping off you."

Rachel's blush deepened and she looked away, turning her head to the side, not wanting to see the penis that she'd put so much effort towards satisfying. 

"What does that mean?" asked a male voice behind her. The effeminate boyfriend, he must have been watching the whole thing. "She filled her diaper, that makes her my baby!"

Rachel felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her off the man, off balance. She fell backwards, unable to use her arms to steady herself, knees too far apart to provide support, her weight landing instead on the thick padding beneath her bottom and the mess it held, trapped against her skin, squelching up the back and around the top of her legs.

"It does indeed," reassured the man, confirming her worse fears, condemning her future, "but your baby has also shown she wants to be my lover too. Don't you my darling," he asked her, not expecting a reply, "I think your baby girl wants a regular feeding. Don't worry," he said, an insincere kindness in his tone as he looked down at her, "we'll make sure you don't get hungry."

As she sat there, rank smell and horrid sensations at one end, awful taste and itching face at the other, Rachel realised that this was the plan all along. He'd held back, waited until she'd fouled herself before letting himself go, set her up for a life as a sex slave adult baby. She stared at her new owner in shock, wondering at the cruelty of the man she could still taste, couldn't wipe off her face.

He looked back at her, saw her expression, nodded at her and smiled. "Welcome to the family."