One Privilege a Day
Disclaimer: sex toys, forced orgasms, exhibitionism, mindfuckery, wet and messy diapers, heavy bondage, sensory deprivation, dubious consent, and friendship. You have been warned.
One privilege a day. I’m certain that that will be my asking price for taking care of an AB. Food, board, entertainment, toys, and diapers paid for just in exchange for that. Most ABs fantasize about someone who wants to take care of them and let the AB not contribute anything in return. This is an opportunity for any male, thirty-five and under, though an older AB may have room in another scene or if they proved themselves exceptional.
I don’t want a son, slave, baby, child or pet. What I want is a project. When done, there will be no further obligation. No incriminating evidence left behind, just a memory that will be treasured and forgotten with time. All I want is the ability to take away your adult privileges, the ability to give them back, seven weeks of your life to do it in, and a signed agreement.
It will start with a your arrival at the bus station or airport. I want you to dress and travel like you normally do so that I can get a better feel for who you are. I want to get to know you as deeply as possible. As an artist I want to have a full appreciation of the material that I’m working with.
With a suitcase of adult clothing and toiletries in tow, we arrive at my house. It’s modest, but I make a living. In the kitchen of my house is a white board. Each privilege that is taken each day will be written there, as a reminder so you can keep track.
The first week isn’t hard at all. Little things like the right to choose your clothing, what food you eat, what medications you take, the right to be without a stuffed animal, and when your bed time is will be taken first. At this point, the rules will be easy to obey and your options are mostly adult. I will insist that you take chlorophyll tablets to reduce the smell of your used diapers.
The second week your right to use the potty for wetting is revoked. This is followed by the right to bathe yourself, then the right to feed yourself. The right to privacy from me will be taken, along with the door to your room. The right to change your own diapers will likely be taken last this week.
At this point, you are beginning to act clingy. You are in a strange situation and you aren’t sure what you should and shouldn’t do. You are learning slowly to be dependent on me. This is something I continue to encourage.
Week three, I take further advantage of the rules of week one: your adult clothes are no longer an option, your food is more like toddler food, and medications to encourage wetting may be used. The first privilege removed this week is your right to stand without being helped. Then, the right to use the toilet at all. Then the right to speak. Then the right to see.
Now you are blindfolded, fed on bottles of high fiber adult formula, bound to prevent you from standing, and expected to crawl around the house for exercise. We aren’t done yet.
All pretense is removed. You are not an adult, you are an infant, one under my care and supervision. For the first half of the fourth week, three more rights will be taken: the right to choose when and how you cum, the right of privacy from public exposure, and the right to have your diaper changed at all.
Imagine it: you’ve been crawling for ten days. You haven’t spoken for three, going on four. Yesterday we had our friends over. You tried to hide. They thought it was cute. Part of my plan for you is to introduce you to good friends, people who will watch over you during your stay and care for you when I cannot. You won’t be able to see them or speak to them, but you’ll hear them. Each of them will make an introduction and a promise. Protection. Companionship. Entertainment. Fellowship. Support. They provide these things to me, and they will provide these things to you because they are wonderful and accepting people.
Throughout your stay they will be there to protect you and help you feel human. But not yet. Today is only an introduction.
This morning is the third time that I’m brought you to climax via an incredibly powerful vibrator on the front of your already wet and messy diaper. As you lay there, shaking on the ground slowly recovering from your orgasm, I whisper into your ear: “No more diaper changes.”
What must be going through your mind at this point? Surely, you’d consider safewording. Maybe you’d try to remove your diaper, only to end up in thick leather mittens. Maybe you’d break down in frustration and cry. I would love the chance to comfort you. To hold you. To feed you a baby bottle filled with fiber and laxatives while telling you that everything is alright and that you’re never getting another diaper change. You’d permit me this one lie, wouldn’t you?
That day will be your messiest day. The day when you felt the most degraded you’ve ever felt in your entire life. All though the day and into the night your cute little stinky butt will feel worse and worse. You’ll seek me out, blind and unable to talk. At that point I will comfort you, hold you, tell you that everything was going to be alright, no matter how much it hurt now. Your bottles that day will contain shots of energy drinks or concentrated caffeine, to keep you awake and feeling all night long. I will stay up all night talking to you, rubbing your back or tummy, commiserating like one does with an ailing pet. I might cheat a little and stretch the day from 24 hours to 30 hours or give you a bottle that will give you severe cramping and messing towards the end, but you wouldn’t hold it against me, would you baby?
The day will be unbearable for you. In surviving an unbearable experience you change as a person. Something inside of you will forever be different. It was caused by me. Maybe weeks after we part ways, maybe years, you’ll want to relive that day and it will be foremost in your mind until you do.
Still, the best is yet to come.
When I finally decide you’ve had enough, I will take you into the bathroom, place you on all fours in the shower, and hose you down with cool water. Still unable to speak, still tied, still blindfolded. I will clean you thoroughly and leave you in the shower until you try to get out. Then I will tell you something that will make today one of the best days in your life:
“Starting today, every day, I will give you back a privilege.”
The last four days of week four, we reel back the intensity a little and give you some time to come back to yourself. You get your sight back on the day that you’ve spent a month with us. The first thing you see will be a surprise party for you: our one month old baby. Presents and party games, all of them picked exclusively for you and featuring more and more ways to humiliate you in front of the people we’ve invited.
Will you enjoy the remote vibrator? The new baby clothes? The extra thick cloth diapers? The enema kit? You won’t be able to talk yet, so you’ll have to test them and find out. Of course your cute reactions in front of all your guests will be taped, for prosperity.
Week five: Pictures. Are you thirsty? Draw me a picture. Do you want a change? Draw me a picture. Do you want anything at all? You guessed it, more pictures. Finger paints, crayons, water colors, pencils, markers, pens, sculpting clay, paper mache, and origami. You’ll do all these things baby. We’ll cover the refrigerator with your art. Then your room. Everywhere will be cute drawings and works of art.
Week six? Two words baby: public outings. A real baby isn’t shy, and you shouldn’t be either. At the end of this week I’ll give you back the ability not to be exposed, but in the six days leading up to it that’s all you will be baby. This is one of the reasons I got to know the adult you so well early on. Your favorite restaurants. The places you’d enjoyed going to. Wherever you passed the time while visiting me. We’d visit all of these places again baby, and your state of dress? Obvious. It’ll be impossible for anyone to mistake you for anything other than my baby boy.
As your privileges return, each one of them will be hit upon, and hard. These will be the ones that I know will mess with you most, and each occasion will be photographed in its entirety. I expect you to cry this week, more often than at any other point.
The last privilege you’d receive back? Well… that depends on you, doesn’t it? What do you hate most? What is the one part of your fetish that makes you want to scream, cry, and swear to never again be kinky? After six weeks, I’m willing to bet that I’ll know what it is, even if you don’t. Two days before you leave, I’ll ease you into it. Gently introducing you to the thing that you absolutely hate the most. Something intolerable. And, after twenty-four hours in its presence, interacting with it and only it you will have to admit… it wasn’t that bad, really.
Two, three years down the line, you’ll probably be doing it regularly. Whatever it is. It is another change, a second unbearable situation that you’ve survived and become the master of. Whatever happens to you down the line, now you have dealt with worse. You’ve been faced with something that a sane person could never handle. Twice. And you’ve pulled through. That strength, that ability to handle anything, will be my gift to you.
It was, after all, the entire point of this exercise. Well, maybe not the entire point.
The day before you leave you have earned all of your privileges back, and I have something special for you. One last outing.
At this point, we get to load my vehicle up with all of your drawings, all of the presents that you’ve been given, and everything that I’ve bought for you over the last seven weeks. We’ll drive out to the beach with everything and meet the friends you’ve made during your stay.
We’ll have a bonfire. Call it a potlatch, if you will. We will exchange gifts that are ruinous and grow because of it.
We’ll watch the video of your exploits, and you will throw it in the fire. We’ll got through your pictures, and you will add each and every one of them to the blaze. Your drawings. The gifts you’ve received. Every piece of evidence that you ever visited. The receipts from eating out. Movie tickets. Your bed. Your dresser. Everything. Every single physical reminder that the whole thing ever happened.
As the last seven weeks of your life burns we will dance. Party. Frolic. Alcohol and loud music will be had as the smoke rises and the fire burns down.
Perhaps one of your friends asks to keep a picture you’ve drawn or a photo to remember you by. It will be your decision, and what you say at that point will define you as a person. Are you fearful? Are you weak? Are you worth the air you breathe? Are you going to live your life the same way, or will you change?
I don’t know what decision you’ll make, but I can hope that you will have learned. From your friends. From your experience. From your caretaker for the last seven weeks.
I will hope that you follow my example and that you will give someone a gift that may ruin you.
…so. Any takers?