Emily squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She wanted to get up, run to the toilet, relieve the misery caused from within.
The table stopping her raising her knees prevented that. It wasn’t tight against her tummy, unless she leaned away from the back of the chair, but she couldn’t lift her legs, couldn’t lean all the way forward. Certainly couldn’t stand up.
If she’d been able to move the table Emily would have been fine. It wasn’t locked in place, simple latches anybody could undo. Anybody that could reach them.
The wrist straps stopped Emily reaching them. Soft expensive Italian leather, stylish in their own way, soft padding making them so comfortable. Except they were bolted midway along the frame of the seat, holding her wrists low enough that her forearms were level with her thighs, her hands flapping helplessly in the space below the chair.
“Why do you leave her hands free?”
The voice was female, clear elocution, the question neutral in tone, actual curiosity. The response was also female, and Emily recognised it. She’d trusted Violet, had played dress-up for her, had even sat in this chair for her. The table had been slid into place after that, holding her long enough to strap one of her wrists, then the other.
After that she was helpless, vulnerable to Violet’s wishes, even with her hands free.
Violet confirmed that. “They’re out of use there, so no need to cause discomfort or pain. Anyway, I enjoy watching them.”
With a shock Emily realised she’d been flexing her hands, her fingers reaching everywhere they could to touch something, anything. She wasn’t consciously doing it, her instincts being to grab hold of something that could give her leverage, help her escape this awful situation.
She tried to still her hands but with their movement offering a degree of relief from her physical stress her feet started moving instead, the velvet mary-jane shoes with their soft soles catching the eye of the women watching.
“Those shoes are very cute,” said the first woman, “But I love the socks. They’re just like the frilly lace socks you can buy for newborns.”
Emily didn’t see Violet nod but heard her chuckle. “Just the right search online, Margot. Anything you can buy for a baby is available in adult sizes these days.” Her voice rose slightly, “Not that little Emily here is an adult. Not any more, not if she soils herself. You’re not going to soil yourself, are you?”
Emily tried to answer but couldn’t. The sounds she made lacked consonants, actual words impossible with her mouth so wide open, a plastic shield hiding her lips.
“That pacifier just looks adorable,” said the woman Emily guessed was Margot, “and so effective at keeping the little girl quiet. Aren’t you worried that with it strapped tightly to her like that she might choke?”
“Ah, you do yourself credit,” said Violet, “Not many people would think of that. I won’t leave her alone while it’s in, but it’s also got a safety feature.”
Emily’s blindfold stopped her seeing the hand reaching for her face but she felt it grasping her chin, turning her head.
“See,” she heard Violet, the voice much closer to her now, "it’s hollow through the centre. Means she can breathe through it, if she throws up it’ll drain her mouth and there’s a bonus: If I fit this little reservoir to the outside she has no option but to consume its contents.
Emily already knew this. She’d had no choice about swallowing what had been in it a couple of hours before. She’d known its taste immediately, known she didn’t want it inside her, guessed the effect it would have. She’d swallowed it anyway, the pacifier acting as a medication dispenser, giving her no option but to receive the full dose.
“You didn’t enjoy its contents, did you Emily?” asked Violet.
“Oh? A special treat for her?” asked Margot, amusement in her voice.
“Very special,” said Violet, “Even after the two full bottles of lovely warm milk I fed her after I bet Emily here can still taste the castor oil.”
Emily shivered despite herself. She’d greedily accepted the milk, anything to rid her mouth of that awful taste, but she suspect it’d be a while yet before it was completely gone.
“Ah,” said Margot, “that explains the squirming.”
It was true. Emily couldn’t sit still any more, the foul tasting liquid had worked its way into her system, was causing havoc within. Her hands had started writhing again, with her face hidden by the blindfold and the pacifier her wriggling fingers betrayed her inner anguish.
“Looks like it’s time for the show,” she heard. Violet, sounding satisfied. “Let’s get her properly displayed.”
A click, the chair juddered, and the sound of a motor. Emily felt movement but wasn’t sure what it was, couldn’t tell she was being raised vertically. It was only a couple of feet, enough for the seated audience to see her from below. It was a revealing sight, her empire dress too short to sit on anyway hadn’t been able to fall completely down at the back, its hem held a few inches above the base of the chair.
If she had known, she’d also have known Margot and Violet could see that, the chair made of clear plastic, its robust wooden frame not blocking sight from below or behind. Emily would have been horrified at that, because it meant that what she wore below the dress was also clearly visible.
“So pure, innocent, clean. I love a plain white diaper,” said Margot.
Violet almost purred in response. “Oh, I know,” she said, “and the contrast when it does its job. It’s why I had this chair made; how better to show off lovely Emily’s descent than to raise her up high.”
They went silent for a moment and watched Emily, the white plastic revealed below the dress hiding the thick padding that shifted against the clear seat, that forced her thighs apart, that ameliorated her wriggling as she tried not to lose control.
“Remember Emily,” Emily heard Violet calling from what seemed to be below her, “you’re only dressed like a baby. Unless you soil yourself and confirm I should treat you like one.”
As tears soaked the inside of her blindfold Emily knew she was doomed, that she’d be sat in this chair many times again. Her chair. Below it the two women watching stared in fascination at the white plastic crushed against the chair as a small spot appeared, then started to spread, discolouration showing Emily losing her battle to retain control. Retain adulthood.
Emily heard the noise but didn’t recognise it, her sobs obscuring the sound a little. A clink, as though two glasses, wine or maybe champagne, touched together in a silent toast. To Emily, and her chair.