Lemongrass and Ginger

“I was going to clean it,” I explained, “I just needed to…”

She interrupted me. “Just needed to, for three days in a row? Look at it! I’m meant to brush my teeth in this sink. Don’t lie to me, you’re not four any more. Just make sure this room is clean before I go to bed.”

I sighed. She was right, and she was the landlord as well as my housemate so I couldn’t fight back anyway. Nonetheless there were boundaries. “Don’t you fucking dare speak to me like that. Ask nicely or fuck off.”

She looked angry at that. “I’ve asked nicely. I’m done with asking nicely. Now clean the bathroom and if you keep using language like that at me I’ll wash your mouth out with soap like the four year old you’re acting.”

She wouldn’t dare. Sure, she was feisty but she wasn’t big enough to force it, couldn’t overpower me if I resisted. Not that I told her this, glaring at her instead as she left the room.

So I cleaned the bathroom, reliving the conversation in my head, wondering how bad a soap filled mouth would actually be.

Not that we had any soap. A bottle full of hand wash, press the top to squirt it onto your hands, rub them together for scented bubbles. I picked up the bottle, imagined squirting it into my mouth. Lemongrass and ginger were nice flavours, made my hands smell nice, but they’d be overwhelmed by the taste of the soap. Wouldn’t they?

Curiosity overcame common sense.

On my tongue the taste was decidedly unpleasant. I persisted, a second squirt, then a third. I was grimacing by then, opening my mouth wider in response to the soapy taste, and the fourth squirt missed my tongue entirely, caught the back of my throat. That triggered my gag reflex, my body trying to cough up a blockage that didn’t really exist. I closed my mouth almost without thinking, not wanting to splutter soap suds all over the room I’d just spent so long cleaning. That created a feedback loop that my body instinctively tried to end by swallowing, slimy liquid soap sliding to my stomach.

“Are you ok?”

She’d come back in, worried by the noises I was making. I turned to face her, opened my mouth to assure her I was fine and revealed the bubbles I’d felt in there. The froth dribbled down my chin, causing her immediate consternation.

“Oh my god, what did you eat? Are you ok? I’ll call an ambulance!” she said hurriedly, pulling her phone from her pocket.

“No!” I exclaimed, the word beginning with a curious blend of 3-4 different consonants, the soap distorting my speech. My two hands holding her arm, stopping her dialling on her phone, made more of a difference.

She looked at me, questions on her face, so I raised a finger in a ‘give me a moment here’ gesture, turned and filled a glass from the tap.

It took four attempts to swill my mouth clear, stop emitting soapy bubbles as I spat into the sink. I could still taste it though, the coughing had filled my mouth with the taste, no safe spots for my tongue, its constant motion trying to evade the soapy taste. The ginger didn’t help either, warming the tongue and making it feel more sensitive.

She stood patiently, her initial concern replaced by amusement. Another day, a bottle of wine, we’d both end up in giggles remembering this scene. We were still in it though, and I had some explaining to do. The embarrassment of being told off like a child, the unlikely threat of a soap filled mouth, the curiousity and how horribly awful it tasted.

“It was that bad?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “It was fu… flipping awful.”

Her eyes sparkled at that. “It seems to have worked though,” she said, “Maybe I should threaten to punish you more often.”

My eyes went wide at that, but my silence seemed to just encourage her.

“Ooh, I know,” she said, “Come here, follow me.”

It wasn’t a request, it was a command. I could have ignored it but I was still feeling vulnerable from the soap, found myself accepting the voice of authority. I followed her, found her digging in a large closet in the laundry room.

“I bought these for a fancy dress party,” she said, “but they’re fully functional and we’re about the same size.”

I looked aghast at the pack of diapers she was holding out to me. I didn’t recognise the brand, not one advertised on TV or an in-store one, but the picture looked just the same, an hourglass shape curved as though fitted to a baby. Except these were clearly not for babies, far too large, the packaging boasting of absorbency.

“Come on,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me towards my own room, “let’s get you into one of these for the night.”

“What? I don’t need diapers,” I told her, even as I let her lead me through the house and into my room.

“No? I don’t care,” she said, “You’ve been acting like a small child, you wanted a punishment, and so you’re going to get one. Now, skirt and knickers down and lie on your bed.”

“You’re going to punish me with a diaper?” I asked, “Do you really think I’m going to let you?”

She smiled at that. “Yes. You need a punishment and we’ve just seen that you actually want one. Since you can’t keep the bathroom clean the punishment is obvious: I’m not going to let you use it.”

She reached behind me, her fingers finding the buttons and zip on my skirt, undoing them both. That brought our faces close together, her eyes locked on mine, a burning intensity from which I mentally shrank. I let her pull my skirt down, felt my underwear following it, allowed myself to be positioning by the bed and pushed backwards onto it.

She was quick, efficient, didn’t dwell on the enormity of what she was doing. Perhaps it wasn’t much to her, a simple task she’d already decided was needed. It was a lot to me, the relinquishing of control by letting her put a diaper on me, the loss of control that represented. My brain was whirring, I barely registered the diaper being brought up between my thighs, being fastened in front, trapping me in its thirsty embrace.

As she stepped back to admire her work I reached down, fingers finding impenetrable plastic, thick padding making it soft to the touch. “But… but I don’t need diapers,” I pleaded.

“You will in about two hours,” she promised, confusing me, “but it’s bedtime anyway so don’t worry about that, just get some sleep. Maybe you’ll be fine all the way through to morning.”

“I can’t use the bathroom first?” I asked. I felt silly for asking it, not only the context making it rhetorical but also the childish nature of the request.

“No. I waited three days for you to clean that,” she told me, “so you can wait three days before you use it again. Goodnight.”

She turned and left the room, somehow knowing that I wouldn’t just remove the diaper immediately. Maybe she was just teasing me, expected me to take it off, thought she’d hear me using the bathroom in a few minutes. I considered it, the need to assert adult self-determination rising as I lay there in thought. But part of me was also considering the diaper I was in, that she’d put me in, that I’d let her do that to me so easily. Was this something I wanted? Something I needed? How would it feel if I used it, and would I enjoy her changing me into a clean one?

Curiosity overcame common sense.

I decided a onesie was the right choice of nightwear with a diaper, soft comfortable cotton with buttons up the front. It helped me to sleep, and I didn’t even notice her coming into the room a little later, sitting and watching my slow breathing.

That revelation came an hour later as I woke up, eyes blurred and mind foggy from being dragged from a deep sleep. My body had an urgent demand, a desperate need to expel, scant seconds to act before I’d embarrass myself. Leaping from my bed I saw her, a smile forming and stopped, wondered why she was there. That delay wasn’t why I soiled myself, the onesie and diaper would never have been removed in time anyway, a foul liquid mess announcing itself with hot humiliation.

Closing my eyes to avoid the shame I accepted that I’d just filled my diaper for the first time in years, and stood there with my eyes closed, unwilling to sit but not daring to move. I heard her stand up, felt her wrap me in a warm embrace, her arms high on my back offering comfort while ignoring the mess lower down.

“It’s ok,” she said softly, “You had no choice. That soap you swallowed has a laxative effect. It’s why I put that diaper on you.”

I opened my eyes, looked at her in surprise. “So I can take it off, have a shower, use the bathroom again?”

She grinned, a mischievous look on her face. “After how easily you let me put it on you? Oh, no. Three days. Now, lie back, I have a very unpleasant task to do.”

I winced as I sat back on the bed, lay back. Lemongrass and ginger weren’t part of the smell now filling the room but I took some comfort that she was having to deal with it, not me. Took a lot of comfort that she was caring for me.

“What if I don’t clean the bathroom next week either?”

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