I saw them ahead of me, walking the other way. They were joking with each other, lads on a night out or walking home from an event. One of them had a backpack, casually slung over one shoulder, pulling his denim jacket aside. His t-shirt was plain, a v-neck, a dark colour in the shadow from the streetlight behind him.
His friends were casually dressed too, jeans and fashionable sneakers, hairstyles that need investment and chemicals.
They ignored me, so I ignored them, maybe sped up a little as I approached. I’m not generally nervous on the streets but caution is ingrained, especially when I’m alone.
I should have had more caution. Should have crossed the street, turned, run away. I didn’t, and as they passed they turned, grabbed me, a burly hand over my mouth blocking a scream I didn’t even consciously try and then I was dragged backwards, five, maybe ten yards along the street, into an opening between two buildings.
My struggles hindered the two of them dragging me but they had height, weight and muscle on their side, and kept calm. My legs kicking futilely didn’t stop them, but my shoes came off. Nice heels, great for the office. Terrible for fleeing a street attack. The third man bent and picked them up as he followed, a small shake of his head.
“That’s far enough,” he told the other two, and they lowered me to the floor, each of them pinning a shoulder and its arm with their knees.
I kicked out at the third man as he approached, and went for the loudest scream I could muster. He laughed, pulled something from his backpack and threw it to one of the two holding me down. A second later my scream was cut off, my mouth now full of something. A latex taste, unpleasant and uncomfortable.
“Behave or we’ll lock this in place, throw away the key,” said the one that had put it there, “You’ll be sucking on it for hours before anybody gets it off.”
I looked up in fear, not sure what he meant by that. It suggested they expected me to be alive in a few hours time so they weren’t planning to kill me, but it was the next few minutes that I feared more.
His next words heightened that fear. “Come on, hurry up. Get her knickers off, we haven’t got all night.”
He leaned down and tugged at the hem of my skirt, already around my thighs because of my kicking. A vicious yank, a tearing sound and I felt the skirt coming up past my hips. I managed to lift my head, saw the third man pull something out of backpack, step to the side of my flailing legs and kneel near the top of them.
“May as well cut them off,” he said, “quicker, and she won’t be needing them again.”
I tensed as cold metal met my flesh, heard a snip, saw him lift a strange pair of scissors, their blades bent midway. He dipped them again, leaning over me and cut the waistband of my high-legs on the other side too.
The moment they’d grabbed me it was obvious what was about to happen, but their preparation seemed to make it worse. These weren’t opportunists, they’d planned this in advance, had been waiting for the right victim. For me. I didn’t think it was targeted, I was just the right woman at the wrong time.
My struggles had dislodged that latex in my mouth and as he moved to my feet, grabbing my ankles I forlornly begged. “Stop! Please, don’t do this. Just let me go. Plea…”
Latex in my mouth again.
“Final chance,” said the man that put it there, “Behave and we won’t hurt you. It’s nearly over already.”
It might not hurt him, sure. It was already painful for me, pinned to the ground, psychological horror about to be matched by physical torment.
I felt my feet lifted, high enough to draw my bottom and lower back off the ground. The man that had used my ankles to achieve this changed his grip, arms coming over my calves before he stepped forward, his body between my legs, forcing my thighs apart.
I was helpless, vulnerable, incapable of preventing what was now inevitable. I tried anyway, wriggling and squirming beneath the weight of the other two even as I felt one of them tug loose the ruined remains of my underwear. He threw it aside and then, to my surprise, my body was lowered to the floor again.
It felt different, something below me. Soft and padded, and making me panic. I finally realised who these men were, what they were doing to me and had the bizarre experience of wishing it would be rape after all.
Instead a large hand confidently reached down between my thighs and pulled up some of that soft padding between them. I could see it was exactly what I’d feared, a thick diaper, now held taut against my tummy. The two men pinning me each pulled up a side flap, fastened it quickly and expertly to the front, a practiced move that I knew condemned me.
The man holding my legs saw my expression, understood that I was aware and knew what they’d just done to me. “Yes,” he said, “Supersoft Fluffies.”
As they walked away I sat there frantically pulling at the tabs, trying to escape before the diaper took effect on me, a futile scrabbling that ended as I felt myself lose control.
It was too late. I’d become a Supersoft customer, another unwilling recruit caught by the roving so-called Supermen that they so vehemently denied were theirs.
Not that it mattered. I was theirs now, a perpetual customer, caught in a cycle of dependency that it took months to break. If ever.
I got up, pulled the tattered remains of my skirt off and waddled back into the street. I needed to find someone willing to give me a change…