The problem wasn’t that I’d been naughty. I knew I shouldn’t and did anyway. The problem was, she knew too.
I sat pensively waiting, my knees primly together, the short skirt more elegant when I was standing but I wasn’t sure how long she’d be, hoped my submissive seated position would assuage her anger.
She threw open the door and stood there, a strong commanding posture with her feet apart, a hand on each side of the door frame, blocking any escape with her body as well as the imposing stare she turned on me.
Just as I felt the need to break the ominous silence she gestured to me, a single finger upright, thumb out to the side, a slight frown on her face. I spoke anyway. “I can explai…”
“Hush,” she said, “I’m not interested.”
“But I…” I tried.
I was silent, but only for a few seconds. She still hadn’t moved, so I took a last gamble. “I’m sorry, I…”
Three strides and she was there, her hand at my mouth, stifling my words. I resisted raising my hands as she put her fingers between my lips, her other hand holding my jaw open as she grasped my tongue and pulled it firmly between my teeth.
“Hold that,” she told me, then as I looked up at her glaring eyes in confusion, “I said hold your tongue.”
Confused but trying to obey I reached up, took hold of my tongue between forefinger and thumb and sat there feeling silly as she stepped back and looked at me.
“I told you to be quiet. Now you have no choice. If you let go before I say, I’ll pierce your tongue and fit a loop to it so that I can fasten it to a gag.” She stopped as though thinking a little before suggesting, “Perhaps a bit gag. You won’t be able to draw it fully into your mouth but your tongue will hold it in place, no need for straps. That would be rather stylish.”
It wasn’t clear whether she was joking but I really didn’t want to test her. I was already in enough trouble, I didn’t need her modern take on a Scold’s Bridle to add to my woes, no matter how stylish.
“Stand up.” She wasn’t asking nicely, not tonight.
I stood up, tongue still gripped, starting to drool a little. This wasn’t comfortable and felt silly but I didn’t dare let go, challenge her to go through with that threat. I had pierced nipples already, a previous challenge I shouldn’t have made, had since suffered more than one uncomfortable punishment with them chained together tight enough to touch.
“You won’t be needing these,” she said, pulling down my skirt, my tights, my underwear, all of it in one aggressive tug from the hips. The clothes pooled around my feet, the tights still clinging patriotically to my ankles. Crouching down she lifted each of my feet in turn, pulling the tights free and leaving me entirely naked from the waist down.
“Stay there,” she said, leaving the room, taking my clothes with her. I stood there, thumb and finger now in my mouth; it made me drool more but was more comfortable for my tongue, the punishment now humiliation rather than pain. She could have intended either, would happily accept both. Easy for her to accept, she wasn’t the one with a sore tongue, stood there like an infant with its hand in its mouth.
By the time she returned my arm was aching and I was using my other arm to hold it up, keep my grip on my tongue. My front was wet now, making her smile briefly, not enough to light up her eyes. That more than anything worried me, told me just how much trouble I was in.
She walked around behind me, put down the bag she was carrying, a large open one that I had been too busy watching her face to see inside, and from the sounds I heard took something from it.
Her hand on my wrist, accompanied by a soft instruction. “No talking but you may let go now.”
Letting go immediately I stood there quietly, rubbing my arm, pain she probably hadn’t intended. Her hand stayed by my mouth, moved to tug my jaw down, forced a wide gap between my teeth, got me worried. I tensed but didn’t try to close my mouth, knew that biting her would be a step too far, would lead to permanent damage. She felt my tension, didn’t try to relieve it, knew I’d be fearing one of her invasive gags.
“You drooled like a baby,” she told me, “I like that.”
I shivered in concern. The ball gags made me drool but not as much as the ring gags, uncomfortable iron behind my teeth, forcing them wide apart, leaving me vulnerable and dripping saliva through my gaping lips. I lifted hands slightly, instinctive resistance to being gagged but managed to control myself, stop them getting near enough to impede her.
She noticed of course, a quick slap as I moved them down again making me glad I hadn’t tried taking them any higher. She didn’t say anything though, just lifted her hand, plugged my inviting hole.
It was plastic of some form, yielding as I probed it with my tongue, thick enough to keep my teeth well apart but not uncomfortably so. This surprised me and as she released my jaw I started to turn my head towards her, trying to understand why she’d been so lenient. That movement made something bounce against my breast; there was something hanging from my gag. Even as I looked down she took it, held it in her hands, gave it a squeeze.
Even in its existing form the gag worked a little, taking the edge off my squeal. The plastic in my mouth expanded, seemingly inflated by her action. Another squeeze and it inflated again, less surprising this time, no squeal but making me aware of the front of the gag, outside my mouth, now pushing against my lips.
She kept squeezing until my mouth was full, tongue held in place, teeth unable to meet with the gag as it passed between them at the front, where it connected to that rigid plate, pressing firmly against my mouth around and beyond my lips. I stood passively while she unscrewed the pump, inserted a small key into the hole that it left and twisted it around before removing it again. I realised I could now breath through my mouth, a passageway opened through the centre of the inflated gag.
More noise behind me, then she told me to sit down. Even as I bent my knees I realised she’d put something on the bed behind me, intended me to sit on it. I froze, reluctant to expose myself to her plan, even though I knew it was unavoidable.
She made her impatience clear. “I said, sit down. Now.”
That wasn’t a tone to play games with. I sat down, looked down, discovered I was sat on a folded towel. No, it was too thick, there must be more than one here. I reached to take hold of it, have a look, but she caught my arm at the wrist, pulled it towards her, slid my hand into a glove.
I looked at her in consternation, then at my hand, which she was gently but firmly curling into a loose fist. It wasn’t a glove at all, it was a mitten, and with my hand curled up inside it I’d be unable to grip anything. Sighing through my gag I forced that arm to relax, watched her buckle the mitten closed at my wrist, fit a tiny padlock that would stop me undoing it even with free fingers.
Not that I’d have free fingers; she quickly moved across and did the same to my other hand, both of them now out of action, clumsy appendages useful only as blunt instruments. Those clumsy limbs were lifted high above my head then released. I kept them there, waiting for permission to lower them. Instead she pulled my top off, lifting it up over my head and, standing up, over my arms too. I was glad to get out of the wet thing, wasn’t glad to have my bra on display. It didn’t stay on display, joining my top on the floor moments later, my breasts hanging free, those hateful rings in full view.
She must have noticed my shiver because she paused for a moment, took one of the rings and gave it a gentle tug. Not enough to hurt but uncomfortable anyway, a stark reminder of my vulnerability. “Not this time,” she told me, “I have other plans for you.”
Those plans included a t-shirt lifted above my head, slid down my arms, pulled into place at my waist. I looked at her in surprise but she just laughed, a nasty knowing chuckle. With a hand just below my neck she pushed me back on the bed, walked around to the other side and kneeled on it, reaching for my arms. I’d put them down to steady myself as I’d fallen back but she brought them back up over my head, did something to my wrists there. As she walked back around I twitched them gently, found them fastened in place. I could have tugged, tested the strength of the restraint but there was no point; she’d have done a good job, and I wouldn’t like the consequences were I able to prove otherwise.
What I could do was lift my head and watch as she pulled the towels up between my legs, revealed that they weren’t towels, that it was a cloth diaper, tailored to fit an adult. It was fitted to me, velcro on flaps that folded from the back to the front, wrapping me securely in what was an astonishingly thick diaper.
Reaching down between my legs again she brought up some plastic that I hadn’t seen, didn’t know was there. I protested from behind my gag, muffled noises telling her of my displeasure. A diaper was kinky, a plastic cover for it functional. She intended me to use this and that wasn’t something I wanted at all.
“Hush baby,” she said, and ignored me as she used poppers to fasten that terrible plastic around me, encasing the diaper I was wearing and assuring its effectiveness. “We don’t want you leaking now, do we.”
No, we did not. My preferred way to achieve this involved using the toilet instead, but removing that diaper would be hard with my hands in these mittens, impossible while they were fastened above my head.
She made it even harder for me, tugged at the waistband of my t-shirt, revealed that it too had flaps that could meet between my legs. It wasn’t a t-shirt, it was a onesie, a babygrow, infantile clothing suited to someone in diapers. She’d reached underneath me for the rear one, pushing thick cloth against my crotch, then fastened the onesie between my thighs, holding that cloth there, the diaper pressing firmly against me no matter how much I wriggled to escape it.
She finally laughed at that, reached down and tickled my tummy. This stopped me wriggling, I wasn’t enjoying this at all, didn’t like the humiliation she was forcing onto me. Not least because I didn’t think the humiliation had ended, a fear she moved to confirm.
Moments later, my arms free to move again, my hands unable to do more than prod at my diaper through their thick mittens, I sat up and looked at her, waited for her next move. It was an explanation, one I didn’t like.
“Your punishment is simple,” she said, “You’ve acted with all the restraint and maturity of a baby, so as a baby I shall treat you.”
I looked at her aghast. I knew, we knew I’d been naughty, but normally her punishments were swift, targeted, effective. I tried to ask for details, what did she mean, how long was this for, why this? The muffled noises were ignored, a contemptuousness snort making it clear I was wasting my time.
“Kneel down,” she commanded, “On the bed, not the floor. Now sit back on your heels.”
I knelt there, looking at her, arms by my side. She hadn’t bothered to change for this scene, was still in jeans and a comfortable jumper, casual domestic attire that made her so attractive, made this whole situation so much nastier. If she’d been in leather or latex, one of her PVC outfits, thigh-high heels and dramatic make-up this would all be a game, a fun interlude in our busy lives. She wasn’t, she was a real person, acting as herself, making my role feel terribly real too.
That made her next instruction chilling. I just looked at her in dread, wishing I hadn’t heard it, unwilling to obey.
“I said, you’re a baby and babies use their diapers. Use your diaper.”
Despite the impatience in her voice I still knelt there, still trying to avoid that infantile act that would confirm my status, burden me with living the role she’d so carefully dressed me to represent. I knew she wouldn’t accept my refusal, and she didn’t.
“Last chance. Use your diaper, or I’m taking it off you long enough to fit a catheter,” she told me, and paused to let that sink in before adding, “And I’ll cut the tube too short, so that it slides inside you, needs surgery to remove. You’ll have no control until then and if things go wrong, ever again.”
That made things easier for me. Act like a baby or be left with the urinary control of one. I lifted a little off my knees and tried to wet myself.
It still took time, my body telling me this wasn’t the place, that I’d soil my clothing, that I’d damage the bed. Luckily she could see I was trying, gave me the time, nodded in satisfaction as she saw my expression change to indicate that I’d done as she asked, started to use the diaper as its design intended.
I knew I’d struggle with the embarrassment, the humiliation of wetting myself, of doing it in front of her. I didn’t expect the surprise of it not being uncomfortable, the diaper soaking the liquid quickly enough that I could barely tell it was there, the discomfort coming from the legs and waist of the plastic pants, a tightness I’d been coping with since she fitted them. That surprise made me tense slightly, enough to stop the flow.
She frowned at me, and as so often in the past, I wondered at her ability to know whether I was doing as she’d asked. I closed my eyes and concentrated, resumed wetting myself, a nearly full bladder emptied into my diaper.
Eventually I finished. I looked at her but didn’t move, didn’t want to sit on that wet diaper. She smiled, walked up to me and cupped her hand beneath it, pushed it softly against me.
“There,” she said, “That wasn’t so difficult was it. Good baby.”
Kneeling on the bed I was slightly taller than her, and that praise made me sag with relief. I leaned my head against her shoulder, eyes against her neck, tried not to cry. Maybe this was all over now, she’d let me out of this and we could resume our lives.
That hope was bolstered by her response to me nuzzling against her, arms around my back drawing me off the bed and onto my feet. She swivelled me around then and banished my hopes by pushing me face down onto the bed, bent at the waist, my diapered bottom uppermost and facing her.
Even that simple move had given me new sensations, wet cloth against my body, the onesie stopping it sagging away, feedback from every movement that I was in a diaper, and that it was wet. That I’d wet myself. I lay there, face down on the bed, trying to come to terms with the situation.
“Your punishment is for acting like a baby,” she told me, breaking my line of thought, “but you were naughty and babies need punishing so that they can learn when they did things wrong.”
Wait? She was going to punish me by dressing me as a baby, making me wet myself and then punish me on top of that anyway? That wasn’t fair, and I perhaps foolishly told her this.
“What was that?” she asked, “Those mumbles make no sense sweetie. It’s ok, I understand, babies can’t talk.”
Great, now she was pretending that the gag meant I talked like a baby too. Sadly she wasn’t too far wrong, all vowels and no discernible words.
“Because you’re a baby I’m only going to hand spank you,” she told me. I shivered anyway, she had a good swing and I’d been in tears from her hand spankings before.
“But there’s a change from our usual spanking rules. You still have to count, but any missed counts won’t result in additional spanks.” She rubbed my shoulders and leaned over me, whispered into my ear, “I don’t want to be accused of child abuse, so you’ll just get ten strokes even if you miss a count.”
Forget child abuse, there was a fine line between play, punishment and domestic abuse and her spankings seldom cared about it. Even ten strokes were going to cause me pain, but I knew from experience that I couldn’t avoid them now; she never relented.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, standing up again, “Since I can’t add extra strokes because you’re a baby, if you fail to count we’ll have to recognise that as an admission that you are a baby, and want to stay that way for another week.”
Another week? A whole week as a baby for merely missing a count? I was so shocked I nearly missed the first count.
“One,” I called.
“Oah?” she asked me, “I asked you to count. You’re going to have to do better than that.”
A second stroke landed, the diaper squidging against my skin but softening the impact, a dull thud that made my hips bounce off the bed rather than cause me pain. “Two,” I called in response.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I’m not sure ‘ooh’ is a number.”
The rest of the spanking went much the same way, finishing quickly due to having no added strokes. “Eng? Really?” she said, rubbing my diaper against my bottom, “I didn’t hear a single valid count through that entire spanking.”
I turned my head and looked at her in horror. “What do you mean, I counted all of them!” I protested, but the gag did its job, kept my voice to a burbling wordless noise.
“Aww, that’s so cute,” she said, “Are you talking to me? Who’s a clever baby? Who’s my clever little baby?” She tickled me then, as I rolled over trying to escape, looked into my eyes and added nastily, “For the next ten weeks.”
I looked up at her, and for the first time throughout the punishment, started to cry.
“Aww, poor baby,” she said, the concern sounding genuine, her fingers wiping a tear away and caressing my cheek, “It’s ok, I’ll look after you. You wait, this will be fun.”
That stopped me crying. Not her concern or care, her suggestion it might be fun. She wasn’t the one lying here in a wet diaper, unable to use their hands, reliant on someone that had just spanked them for all their needs.
“I need to go and do something so you sit here and watch TV, and I’ll be back in a little while,” she told me, “Don’t worry if you need to use your diaper again, it’s a nice big one that’ll cope perfectly well.” She put on the TV and left the room, locking the door behind her.
I sat up, poked at my wet diaper, decided that it wasn’t my problem whether it could handle another full bladder, didn’t have one to test it with anyway. She hadn’t told me not to take it off but the mittens and onesie made that a hopeless task anyway, one that she’d punish should I even manage it.
Instead I sat and watched TV, the gag becoming increasingly uncomfortable, the diaper entirely intolerable. I couldn’t do anything about either, but this seemed the ‘reflect on it’ part of the punishment, promised release and relief on her return.
She came back sooner than expected, unlocking the door and walking swiftly in. I could hear activity elsewhere in the house through the open doorway, shot a questioning glance at her, then saw what was in her hand.
“Just getting some things sorted,” she told me, “but you must need a drink. You can’t hold a glass or even a sippy cup with those mittens on so here, I’ve brought you a bottle.”
She put it beside me, an oversized baby’s bottle, large rubber nipple instead of a lid and a creamy brown liquid inside. I looked at it in consternation, worried about the contents, started to panic about what she was trying to feed me.
She saw this, brushed my hair back off my voice, spoke with a kindly tone. “It’s a latte, with two sugars, just as you like it,” she told me, “Look at me!”
The revelation of the drink surprised me but I responded quickly to the command, looked at her. She drew the small key out of her jeans pocket, fitted it to my gag and turned it the other way. I lost the ability to breath through it but seconds later, a sound of escaping air letting me know moments in advance, the gag deflated, letting her draw it from my mouth.
“Stay quiet,” she told me, “or this can go back in. When you’ve finished your bottle I want you to put this in your mouth, it’ll remind you to keep quiet and maybe help you relax.”
She pinned a ribbon to my onesie, from which dangled an adult sized baby’s pacifier. Looking at the gag she’d removed from my mouth I realised it had a mouth plate and ring just like a pacifier too. I’d look the same whether I used the one she just gave me or if she put the gag back in. That made it an easy choice, comfort and a drink, even if that drink might make me need the toilet before she returned again.
The latte was still hot, tasted good, made the efforts of trying to pick up the bottle and hold it in my mittened fists worthwhile.
It felt hot on the way out too, a different heat, this one spreading through an already wet diaper, confirming to my unwilling body that I’d used it again. I hated the sensation but it wasn’t uncomfortable; the relief to my bladder making me feel I’d made the right decision.
The discomfort came a little later, when the diaper cooled, a soggy reminder that I needed a change, cold urine making my skin crawl and my brain scream. I sat as still as I could, trying to avoid any movement that would make the wet cloth rub against me, stop me forgetting that I was dressed as a baby, had used a diaper like one.
She returned just after it had gone dark, the room lit now only by the TV. The door swung open and she stood there, smiled in delight at me, taking in the empty bottle, the pacifier dutifully in my mouth. I held my hands out towards her in a childlike beg for a cuddle, and she came over to give me a quick hug.
“Good baby,” she said, “Look at you all cute and adorable.” Ignoring my sigh she continued brightly, “Come on, let’s take you through and get you changed.”
Through? This was our room, where was she taking me through to? I followed her anyway, thick wet padding making me waddle, something on which she chose not to comment. I guess she was aware she’d hit my limits for the day, needed to be gentle now, couldn’t push any further.
She pushed further. She got away with it too, my arms secured above my head again before I realised, my waist strapped to what was clearly a changing table, sized for me.
I’d been too stunned to resist, amazed at the new furniture in the room. The changing table, the shelves full of what looked like disposable diapers, piles of the same cloth ones I’d so unwillingly used and a crib, high wooden bars on a bed big enough for me to lie flat in.
“Look at all your nice new furniture,” she said, “Won’t this be a lovely nursery for you for the next ten weeks.”
I pulled at the restraints on my hands this time, using all my strength, not caring whether it annoyed her or not. It didn’t annoy her, because she’d been as efficient as always, and the struggling achieved nothing. I was trapped there, at her mercy.
“Aww, little baby feeling grumpy?” she asked in a sing-song voice, “I know what the problem is.”
Yes, she was the problem. The evil vicious wench was getting me properly worried now. These punishments should be fun, at least in some form, and should be done quickly, transgressions forgiven, our relationship strengthened.
She seemed to disagree. “Poor darling needs a nice clean diaper. Come on, let’s get you out of this nasty wet one.”
The infantile chatter continued as she took that sodden nightmare off me, cleaned and dried my body and then, to my distress, put a clean one in its place.
I could have protested, yelled, called her nasty things. She’d brought the gag with her though, had held it just above my head, made it clear that she was willing to use it again. The threat was enough; no matter what I said she would follow through with her threats, all of them. She always did.
Defeated I lay there as she fastened the onesie, attached a chain to my wrists and used it to pull me into the crib, my strength maybe enough to resist but not enough to break free, let alone overpower her and escape. Instead I lay in the crib as she raised the side, trapping me in there, my hands still unavailable to me, unable to release the catch or remove my diaper.
“Here,” she said, passing me a stuffed toy, “Someone for you to sleep with.”
I looked at her and tears formed. She knew I wanted to sleep with her, not a cuddly animal. That forced separation would hurt me more than being treated as a baby, more than using my diapers, drinking from a bottle.
“Maybe another night,” she said, “if you’re a good baby for me.” She turned, left the room but didn’t switch off the light, didn’t close the door. I waited patiently for her return, hoping this must be a wind-up, that she’d be about to end it all for me.
Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t acquired all this furniture, enlisted the help of friends to build it while I was watching TV, gone to the effort of a clean diaper and a crib for the night just to end it now. She’d just gone for another bottle, this one with cocoa in it, something to drink before I slept.
As she left the room again she turned, a final stern gaze and a closing admonishment, “Goodnight, my baby. Maybe you’ll think twice before being naughty next time.”
She was right, I would think twice. But I’d be naughty again; I’d know I shouldn’t, but would anyway. The problem was, she knew too.