Padded by The Po-Po

The knock on the door was loud, someone with confidence and intent. It was too late at night to be charity scammers or religious freaks, late enough that I was in my underwear, brushing my teeth ready for bed.

I quickly spit into the sink, swilled my mouth clean from the glass on the counter and spat that into the sink too. Another loud knock on the door, commanding voices from outside. I couldn’t hear the words but hurried to pull on a robe, made my way downstairs and unlocked the door.

As I pulled it open someone outside slammed it into me, knocking me over. I looked up in shock at the man glaring down at me, a stab vest over his police uniform, his colleague pushing past him into my house and standing over me.

They both paused, seemingly surprised to find me splayed on the floor. I’d put my hands behind me to break my fall, was leaning on them as I sat at an angle, my robe in disarray revealing my underwear. I straightened my legs, brought them together and sat upright, drawing my robe back over me.

“What are…” I started to ask but stopped in fear as the first man pointed a weapon at me.

“Stop resisting,” he yelled, which made me angry. The taser in his hands stopped me responding though, and I just froze, looked up at him in confusion.

His partner stepped towards me, grabbed my arm roughly and tried to pull it behind my back. They’d invaded my home, hadn’t told me they were police officers, hadn’t said they were arresting me so I felt no guilt about defending myself from this assault. I couldn’t punch hard but a full arm swing to his nose got his attention. He fell over backwards, from shock than the force of the blow, but didn’t let go of my arm, pulled me down to the floor with him.

That turned out to be a good thing, his colleague firing his taser at where I’d been, missing, metal studs skittering off my wooden floor. He dropped it after that, leapt on top of me, pinning me face down to the ground.

“Assaulting a police officer?” he asked, “You’re under arrest for that.”

He told me my rights without moving, my arms ineffective against his weight across my shoulders, his partner getting up and turning to look at me. “That hurt,” he said, “You’re lucky we don’t put you in hospital. Injuries received while resisting arrest.”

His partner, still kneeling on me pulled my head up with my hair, making me gasp with pain. “But we can’t let you get away with it, even after you’ve flashed your underwear at us. Very pretty but that won’t save you from a spanking.”

My eyes went wide at that, and I started protesting. “You can’t do that! That’s assault. I want a lawyer. No! No, stop!”

Those last comments were in response to them dragging me over to my coffee table, putting me in a kneeling position at one end and pulling me face down over it, my chin ending up on the wood as they used their handcuffs to fasten my wrists to the legs at the far end. I was vulnerable now, limited movement and my bottom raised in the air. The table stopped me lowering it so I raised my legs, bent them at the knee and tried to use my feet to protect myself.

This seemed to amuse them, but as one of them pulled my knees back to the floor the other drew the belt out of its loops on my robe. He used it to loosely tie my thighs to the table legs, enough to prevent me raising them again. I felt my robe being lifted, exposing my cotton underwear.

They weren’t granny pants but they were comfortable for sleeping, ordinary high waist briefs with soft lace panels at the sides. It meant my rear was well covered, but thin cotton doesn’t offer much protection against a hard slap.

The first one shocked me, made my whole body jerk forward, my elbows bending in an automatic attempt to block the pain. That made the cuffs dig into my wrists, additional discomfort but barely noticeable to the pain from behind.

Even as I gasped and begged them to stop another slap landed, this one entirely on one buttock. I collapsed against the table, knowing I couldn’t stop this, realising they weren’t going to listen to my pleas. The spanking continued, 2-3 seconds between each hit, the man taking his time to aim and get a good swing in. I could turn my head enough to see he was using his hand but that hurt enough, his muscles rippling with each strike, and I was in tears from pain and humiliation long before I lost count of the blows.

“Keep it even,” said his partner, “You want a nice consistent red glow across the whole area. She won’t be able to sit comfortably no matter which way she leans but there’ll be no bruising, no evidence of this.”

There would be evidence. The red soreness would take a while to fade, I could get photographs that showed the abuse they’d meted out. I didn’t tell them this, didn’t want them doing anything to prevent it, just sobbed and waited for it to finish.

I don’t know how long it took. They didn’t taunt me, didn’t count the strokes, didn’t even try and fondle me while I was lying there helpless, just delivered a firm and thorough spanking.

After it stopped I heard them moving through the house, opening drawers and cupboards. The few times I could see them they seemed to be searching for something. They weren’t taking anything though, left things where they found them, closed the cupboards after looking inside.

“What are you looking for? Why are you here?”

One of them walked up, crouched down in front of me. “We’ve had reports of a lady running into the street to pick up broken glass bottles.”

I looked at him in confusion. “Glass bottles? Where did they come from? What’s wrong with picking them up? Why are you doing this to me?”

He grinned, gave me some more information. “The suspect wore just a t-shirt and an absorbent medical brief.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A diaper,” he said, “Like a baby would wear.”

I suddenly realised what had happened. “Oh! You’ve got the wrong house,” I told him, “You want Diana. She wears diapers.”

“How would you know that?” asked his partner from behind me.

He himself just smiled. “Oh, we were at her house earlier,” he said, “She was polite, didn’t try and break my nose, didn’t need a spanking.”

As I looked at him in distress he continued, “No, I think we’ve found our culprit. You’re the little diaper girl that goes out improperly dressed.”

I knew about the local clothing ordinances but had never breached them. “But I don’t wear diapers,” I told him, “There are none in the house. I don’t need diapers.”

“Oh?” he asked, “We’ll see about that.”

A gentle pat on my already sore bottom made me tense up, a sharp intake of breath drawing a chuckle from the man in front of me as he stood up. I heard them both leave the room, seemed to hear them leave the house so I tested the cuffs, tried to see if I could free myself.

I’d made no progress by the time they came back in, a large canvas bag thudding onto the floor beside me.

“You don’t need diapers, hmm?” asked one of them. The one I’d punched. “We have an easy test for that.”

I twisted my head around, an uncomfortable strain on my neck and shoulders as I tried to look at what he was doing. He pulled something from the bag, plastic, a hose hanging from it. “Fill this up,” he instructed his partner, “try and get the water warm but not hot.”

“Ah hush,” said his partner, “I’ve done this before. You want soap in it?”

“No,” was the reply, then more quiet mutterings as they moved into the kitchen together.

I wasn’t a fool. I knew what they were planning but couldn’t see a way of stopping it. One of them came back into the room so I tried anyway.

“Please, this is all a mistake. I’m sorry I punched you, but you’ve given me a spanking so we’re even. Let me up and I’ll help you arrest Diana.”

He pulled something from the bag as I was speaking, then drew a knife from his belt. I heard it slide from its sheaf, turned to see my fears confirmed and for the first time that night screamed, a full lung cry of terror.

A hand over my mouth reduced the noise, my lungs emptying ended it. He didn’t seem happy.

“That was uncalled for,” he said, “I’m not going to cut you. But we can’t have that happening again.”

He fished back into the bag, pulled out something with lots of straps, held onto something almost hand sized by a ring. I knew what it was too.

“No, please. I’ll be qui…”

I didn’t get to finish the sentence; he took advantage of my open mouth to plug it, something thick and pliable pinning my tongue to the floor of my mouth, stopping me bringing my teeth together, effectively gagging me. In front of my lips was a thin plastic plate, the straps coming off its edges, and he brought those back behind my head where I heard the clip of small clasps. A pulling sensation and the straps went taut, holding the gag in place without his involvement, stopping me spitting it out.

“Oh, how sweet,” said his partner, back in the room, “Such a darling pacifier.”

The knife got used then, slicing through my underwear. Bra straps first, then the back, cutting through next to the clasp he could just have unfastened. Then the blade ran along my hips, cutting through the cloth there before the cotton was pulled away from my bottom, tugged out from beneath me.

“Oh, nicely done,” I heard, “that’s a beautifully even red.”

Hands on the still stinging flesh made me gasp behind my gag, a gasp that turned into a stifled squeak as they pulled my buttocks apart and something cold and wet came into contact with my firmly clenched rear exit.

“Look, we’re using lube,” someone told me, “but this will still hurt if you try and resist. You don’t want permanent damage so just relax because it’s going in whether you want it or not.”

I knew he was right but couldn’t relax. I didn’t want the pain, definitely didn’t want damage but also didn’t want to help them, couldn’t make myself complicit in my own violation. I think he knew that, and launched a series of attacks on my body. Small slaps, tickles, poking and prodding me on my hips, my bottom, my back, my thighs and, presumably his partner, my feet. I writhed in respond, trying to escape the torment, muffled yelps barely audible from my gag but it had the desired effect, I lost my concentration and stopped clenching.

It was only a moment but the constant pressure to invade was ready and before I could hold back something was inside me. I’d never allowed a man back there, wasn’t familiar with the sensations of something going the wrong way, couldn’t stop its progress even by squeezing tight.

“It’s pencil thin,” he told me, “you’re through the difficult bit already. Just need to lie there now, and we’ll soon be done.”

Suddenly inside me a new sensation, strange without being uncomfortable. I guessed they’d opened the valve, that I had warm water filling me inside, my first ever enema. I wriggled and tried to stop it but the probe inside me didn’t budge, kept letting the bag held high above me empty inside.

The strange sensation got uncomfortable, a bloated feeling that ebbed and flowed, seeming to shift inside me. Then it subsided, and I felt them withdraw the probe, my bottom able to close again. I felt sure I’d need to expel the water and whatever came with it but it must have been drawn up deep inside me, no immediate need to eliminate. I tried anyway, a small squirt of water that made the two men laugh.

“Don’t worry,” one of them said, “It’ll come soon enough.”

“You won’t want it to though,” the other warned.

I started to understand why as they loosed the belt around my thighs and undid the handcuffs, helping me stand up then forcing me to sit naked on the floor behind the table. They’d put something on the floor, soft and yielding and looking down I could see it was a diaper, abnormally large, surely too big even for an adult.

One of them held my wrists above my head and used them to pull me prone on my back as the other knelt between my knees. He pulled the front of the diaper up between my legs, then tight against me, forcing my thighs even wider apart. It was several inches thick but a little thinner where the front overlapped with the side panels he’d brought up around my hips and waist. I could see him using a strange device that he put either side of the overlapping material before pulling on a trigger. A loud snap and he repeated the exercise lower down, then moved to the other side. I could see a metal bar at the top and bottom of the diaper on the side he’d done, it must be a staple gun of some form.

Two more snaps and I was wearing a diaper I’d need tools to remove. Unable to voice my distress I gave up making babyish gurgles from behind my gag and just lay there sobbing, but he hadn’t finished.

Something white with pink lace was pulled from the bag, an odd thing for the police to be carrying. Because of course, I thought sarcastically to myself, pacifiers and diapers are normal equipment. He shook it out, showed me the inside before reaching down and putting my feet through holes in it. It was a pair of panties, thick plastic covered with thin white cotton, the legs and waist lined with the delicate pink lace. On a baby it would be adorable but I wasn’t a baby, didn’t want it on me.

He didn’t care, pulled it up my legs and then used them to lift my hips from the floor. His partner let go of my wrists then, reached forward and tugged the panties up over the diaper I’d been fastened into. The waistband was pulled tight somehow and I heard a click.

“There, all locked in, snug and secure. That’ll stop you leaking,” he told me but my mind was on other things.

For the first time since I threw a punch my hands were free and the knife he’d used to cut my underwear off was within reach. I sat up, stretched for it and got immediately tackled back to the ground.

“Good girl,” said the man now on top of me, “I respect that so I’m going to be kind and assume you just wanted to cut your diaper off, rather than try and stab either of us.”

I looked at him, the tears hiding any response I might have made, the gag stopping me verbally telling him whether he was right. I wasn’t even sure, I hadn’t planned that far ahead.

“But we can’t have little girls playing with knives,” he said. Taking one of my arms he held it firmly in position as his colleague pulled something onto my hand. It was a mitten, soft against my fingers but unyielding, not letting me use my thumb or bend my fingers into a gripping position. I could curl them but only behind the padding that kept the outside smooth, making my hand useless. It was buckled into place, making it impossible to remove without using my other hand, or maybe my teeth.

They were already out of commission, the plate on the pacifier gag stopping me biting anything, and soon my other hand was too, a mitten of its own buckled into place, leaving me entirely helpless.

“Now,” said the one I’d punched, “We’ve already told you you’re under arrest so we’re going to have to take you in. We can take you naked like that or we can put this on you.”

He held up a t-shirt, envelope fold shoulders suggesting an adult version of a baby’s top. Then I realised it wasn’t just a t-shirt, it would fasten between the legs, an actual baby’s onesie big enough for me.

I sighed. It was infantile in every respect but it was still better than being naked, the diaper on show, my breasts hanging free and visible to everybody. I held up my arms so he could pull it down over my head, then let them help me stand up and stood passively as it was fastened below my crotch. As he let go the material he was stretching settled into position, my shoulders pulling it up against the diaper, holding it snug against me.

“Now, we’ll take you to the station,” he said, “but if you arrive in a messy diaper they’ll immediately transfer you to the Daycare Institute.”

I looked at him in horror. The Daycare Institute was for people deemed incapable of looking after themselves, someone arriving in a messy diaper would be assumed entirely incontinent and kept diapered - even against their will.

“Yes, they’ll keep you in diapers,” he said, smirking at my expression, “and if you try to remove them, well, you’re already wearing the mittens.” So that’s where he got these horrid things from!

“You can complain, but you wouldn’t be there if you were considered mentally competent,” he said, “so they’d find a way to keep you quiet.”

“I hope you’re comfortable in that pacifier gag,” said his colleague from behind me, “Could become a common thing for you to wear.”

“It’s ok,” said the first man, “You can demonstrate you don’t need diapers by keeping them clean.”

The second one spoke again, “Although how you do that when you’re kept in them permanently I’m not sure.” He chuckled, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Of course, you might not end up there,” said the first one again, taking my arm and leading me from my house, “All you need to do is keep your current diaper clean until we’re at the station and can remove it. You told us you don’t need diapers, this shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

I thought furiously. I couldn’t complain about their treatment with a gag in, and if I messed myself that wouldn’t be removed until I reached the Daycare Institute. They’d ignore my complaints, tell me to hush and be a good girl, or I’d get gagged again. They’d keep me in diapers either way, which gave me just one choice: I had to avoid messing myself.

I winced as they sat me in the back of their police van, a strange reclined seat with a five point harness. It was padded and comfortable but sitting on my spanked bottom was uncomfortable even with the padding of the seat and my diaper. I shivered in fear. My diaper, the first of many if I didn’t keep it clean, and… that enema finally wanted back out.

“How far to the station?” asked the one strapping me in, my mittened hands unable to release the harness that held me snug in the seat.

“Only about five miles,” said his colleague, getting behind the wheel, “but they’ll have started works on Main Street by now, I figure we’ll need to go around the back.”

“Oh, that’s annoying, that’s quite a detour. Does that mean we’ll have to take the unpaved road?”

“Sure will,” said the driver, pulling away from the kerb. Twenty minutes later we reached that unpaved road. Twenty minutes of mental torment caused by increasing physical torment and distress, my innards demanding a release I didn’t dare offer them, the consequences of letting go too horrific to contemplate.

Already I knew that I was holding on only through sheer willpower, the slightest relaxation would cause a foul smelling deluge into my diaper, condemn me to spend the rest of my days in a padded daycare prison.

“Last mile and we’ll be there,” said the driver, giving me momentary hope. Then we hit the unpaved road, a sudden bump jolting the van, and…


A very fun sequel! :+1:

You are somehow getting better (or worse, depending on how you look at it) at setting up cliffhangers. :slight_smile:

I do kind of wonder how legitimate the claim of whether they were actual police officers.

Now, I do also wonder, assuming she makes it out of there, whether there will be some future interaction between these neighbors.

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Well, after suggesting to CK that ending a short story on a cliff hanger can be fun I figured that after using her story as inspiration for this one I’d better actually follow my own suggestion.

Nonsense, that’s precisely when you’re supposed to switch it up. :stuck_out_tongue: