“Polly!” Mrs. Paezel called from the kitchen. “Time for breakfast!”
I stood, walking cautiously to the kitchen, holding the stuffed rabbit by the arm. In the center of the kitchen was a highchair that was almost as tall as I was.
“I don’t want to eat in a highchair, Mrs. Paezel,” I whined. “Can’t I eat at the table?”
“Nonsense,” she said, walking over to me and guiding me forcefully to the torture device. “You’ll eat in the highchair or you won’t eat at all.”
She lifted the tray and I reluctantly let her usher onto it. I sat and waited for whatever further childish treatment she had in store.
When she turned, I saw something powder blue in her hands. She grabbed my right wrist and put a mitten on it, tightening the strap at the wrist so I couldn’t get it off. Before I could even process what was happening, she had the other one on and just as tight. “Can’t have you sticking your little fingers in your food,” she said, pinching my cheek. “Now open up!”
The puke-green jar of baby food smelled like it would taste just as awful as it looked. She looked at the jar and at the onesie. “Let’s get a bib on you first - wouldn’t want you to stain yourself with you yummy, yummy breakfast.”
She snapped a terry cloth bib with a giraffe on it around my neck and I groaned. “Seriousl - ”
I was silenced by a plastic spoon of baby food. I choked it down, ready to protest, but it just kept coming. By the time I finished the whole jar, I was closer to throwing up than I had been earlier this morning.
“Good girl,” she said patronizingly. “Time for your bottle!”
With the bottle wedged in her arm, she lifted me out of the highchair and took me to the loveseat in the living room. She sat me in her lap and held the bottle to my lips. I turned away.
The arm cradling me gripped my ponytail forcing me to hold my head still. “Polly, drink your milk.”
She pressed the rubber nipple to my mouth.
“It’s this or castor oil,” she said breezily. “And this has baby aspirin in it for your headache. Three… two… one…”
I opened my mouth just as she finished counting. I sipped hesitantly, suckling the bottle slowly. Unhappy with my speed, she began to squeeze the bottle into my mouth. I coughed, spitting up milk on myself and on her.
Her displeasure made me smile.
Without a word, she waited for me to finish the entirety of the adult-sized bottle. By the time I finished, I was painfully full of milk, which I hadn’t had since I was a toddler.
“I’m going to change and then you’re going to take a timeout,” she said, putting me on the chair. “You need some time to think about your behavior this morning. Stay there and don’t move.”
I sat on the chair, crossing my legs and smiling at my small victory.
A timeout? Please.
I pulled a magazine out from under the coffee table and read about Meghan Markle’s pregnancy. I squirmed slightly as I felt a pressure building in my bladder. I looked up, knowing I would hear Mrs. Paezel returning.
I sped to the bathroom and closed the door. Before I could slip out of the diaper with the limited mobility the mittens allowed me, the door flew open.
“Polly!” Mrs. Paezel thundered. “What do you think you’re doing, naughty girl?”
She pulled me away from the toilet and walked me to my parents’ room.
At the foot of the bed, there was a playpen. It was tall, wooden, and barred.
Mrs. Paezel picked me up and put me in it, pulling ropes from the corners and tied an arm to each side. “Now you’re going to finish a second bottle of milk and if you spill this time, I’ll take it out on your tush.”
Stretched and restrained, putting up a fight was much more difficult. Mrs. Paezel left and returned with the refilled bottle. She pinched my nose, forcing me to open my mouth and suck down another liter of milk.
I pressed my knees together, my bladder and stomach feeling stretched to their limit.
Mrs. Paezel smiled and wagged her finger at me. “Oh no,” she said, pulling one of my legs over to the third corner of the playpen and tying it tightly to the post before doing the same with my other leg. “You get twenty minutes of timeout for being such a bad girl and not staying in the chair.”
“I need to pee!” I cried, frustrated at my lack of mobility.
“Did you ask permission?” she said, eyebrows raised. “Do you want to find out what happens to little girls who use their diapies without permission?”
“Please, Mrs. Paezel!” I screamed, the frustration becoming unbearable.
“Bad girl,” she chasitized, setting a timer on her phone. “No screaming and no peeing during timeout. I may change my mind when timeout is over, but from the way you’re acting, I seriously doubt it.”
She sat on the window box, a pair of glasses on, and opened a book. I looked at the book, seeing To Train Up a Child written across the front.
I closed my eyes and tried to rest, but Mrs. Paezel cleared her throat so routinely, it felt like she could tell when I was closest to sleep. That and the mounting pressure of my full bladder growing into a painful ache made the timeout more punishing than I ever would have guessed.
Just when I thought it could get any worse, the need to go reared its ugly head. All of my focus went to keeping from peeing and pooping myself in the playpen.
After what felt like my remaining teenage years, the timer went off, startling me so much that I jumped, accidentally letting out a little pee. Once I had a taste of relief, I couldn’t stop. Warm pee poured into my diaper like a flood and as Mrs. Paezel walked over to untie me, I doubled down and felt my sphincter stretch to evacuate my bowels.
The warm wetness combined with the degradation of sitting in my own filth, made me grimace. The smell hit me like a brick wall and when Mrs. Paezel came closer to untie my wrists, I could tell she smelled it too.
“Polly!” she hissed. “What did I say, you disobedient little brat?!”
I shifted uncomfortably in the mess, breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell.
Instead of untying me, she walked to the door. “Maybe an extra ten minutes in a dirty diaper will remind you to ask next time.”
She slammed the door behind her, leaving me to sit in my dirty diaper.
It was barely the early afternoon and I felt like I’d already hit rock bottom. I was being punished by a babysitter at eighteen years old. I let her bathe me, put my hair in pigtails, give me a spanking as I lay naked over her lap, put a thermometer in my asshole, put a onesie on me, spoonfeed me in a highchair, feed me a bottle, put me in timeout, and last but not least punish me for not asking permission to perform a basic bodily function.
Maybe the easiest way to get through this really would be to play along. I thought about the lilac plush rabbit as I tried not to think about the poop squishing into my punished cheeks.
Maybe I could learn something from Mrs. Paezel. If I didn’t act out, she would probably just baby me the whole weekend.
By the time the ten minutes were up, I was willing to do anything to avoid the painful shame of being punished. The door creaked open and I looked up, happy and relieved it was over.
“Has Polly thought about what she’s done?” Mrs. Paezel said so condescending, it felt like she was daring me to say no. “Will Polly remember to ask permission before going wee or poopy and ready for a clean diapy or does she want to take the rest of her punishment with diaper rash and a stinky bum?”
“I’ll be a good girl, Mrs. Paezel, I promise!” I said emphatically.
For a split second, she looked genuinely surprised. “You’ll start obeying like a good girl? Doing whatever I say because I’m a grown up and you’re a little baby?”
I nodded quickly, the tips of my pigtails brushing over my shoulders. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Good,” she said, self-satisfied. “So I shouldn’t hear any complaints during the rest of your punishment.”
My face fell. “More, Mrs. Pa
ezel?”
“Not more,” she said, untying me. “This was going to happen whether or not you realized what a bad girl you’re are. I’m not going to cut your punishment short just because you told me what I want to hear. You need to understand that your actions have consequences.”
My bottom lip wobbled. “But-but…”
“No buts. A clean diaper should be reward enough,” she said, making a face and sniffing dramatically in my direction as she finished untying me. “Stinky baby. You’re going to crawl all the way to the changing table.”
I could tell she was trying to get a rise out of me.
She opened the door of the playpen and waited. “Go on, naughty girl. Crawl like the disobedient baby you are.”
I got on my hands and knees, blood flooding back into my hands painfully. I crawled across the carpet as quickly as I could, looking forward to getting out of my dirty diaper.
“Oh, hold on,” Mrs. Paezel said smugly. “Don’t want you to get any poopy on your cute little onesie.”
I looked up at her as she bent down and unsnapped the onesie under my heavy, sagging diaper. She rolled it off my torso and I went up on my knees, obediently so she could pull it off me.
The air was chilly against my nipples and I blushed as they hardened. Mrs. Paezel looked down at them and laughed as my face grew redder and redder. I fell back on all fours and crawled to the door, painfully aware of my nakedness.
I heard the tap and rattle of beads as Mrs. Paezel caught up to me easily.
“Hold on, Polly,” she said, her amusement audible. She pulled me up by the armpits and stood behind me so I didn’t know what was happening before it was too late. I felt a sharp pinch on each sensitive nipple and something cold hit my skin. I looked down and saw nipple clamps connected by pink and white seed beads that spelled out “Naughty Girl.”
I was so shocked and ashamed that I almost cried. When Mrs. Paezel played with the beads so they tugged on my nipples, my face burned.
She walked a few steps behind me as I crawled naked, with my nipples clamped, in a dirty diaper to the changing table. She beat me to the changing table and helped me up onto it.
“Ugh, if I have to smell your messy accident then so do you,” she said, putting the pacifier back in my mouth and forcing me to breathe through my nose. She peeled my diaper back and coughed. “I’m going to have to hose you off and clean you out.”
I watched her tape the diaper back up.
“Get down and hold your diaper up,” she said, holding her nose. “We’re taking this outside.”
“But what if somebody sees me, Mrs. Paezel?” I stammered. The thought of being outside the safety of the house topless, nipples clamped with beads that looked like they were from summer camp, and in a dirty diaper was overwhelming.
“I don’t care,” she said impatiently, pointing toward the yard. “I’d rather risk someone seeing you than the smell of your filthy mess stinking up the house. When you want to go potty whenever you want to like a dog, you get cleaned up like a dog. It’s bad enough I have to clean you up, you’re lucky you’re not getting another spanking. Now go before I change my mind.”
“Where am - ”
“Five strokes after we’re done,” she said. “Do you want more?”
“I just want to know - ”
“Ten,” she said firmly. “How does fifteen sound?”
I walked out to the backyard, barely sure I could take ten strokes of whatever implement she had in mind. The chilly breeze of early spring made me shiver in the shade. I walked out onto the grass, grateful for the warmth of the sun.
Mrs. Paezel followed shortly after, setting the diaper bag down near the door next to some long, leather triangle-shaped cushion.
“Good, you’re on the grass,” she said, walking over to me and throwing something at my feet. “Take your diaper off and put it in the trash bag.”
The bag was almost picked up by the breeze, but I grabbed it just before it blew away. I took the diaper off carefully, humiliated by the sight of the soiled diaper and put it in the trash bag, now naked in the backyard.
I turned around and saw her unfurling the green hose used to water the grass and the plants, wearing gloves. She turned the hose on low and walked over to me.
“Put the trash bag down over there,” she said impatiently, holding the running hose away from her. “Bend over, put your hands on your knees - legs straight and shoulder width apart!”
The beads swung in front of me, pulling at my nipples.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her put her thumb in the hose, increasing the pressure to a forceful spray.
She pointed it at my crack and sprayed me down with icy water. I yelped and she increased the pressure, hosing me clean. When I was thoroughly hosed down, she spread my cheeks, letting the frigid water run down my leg.
“Time for the inside,” she said, giving me a wet smack on my sore cheek. “Come here, Polly.”
I walked over to the smooth cement as she placed the leather triangle on the ground. I saw her pull out a bucket and a rubber tube with a dauntingly long, thin tip.
“Get over that long ways,” she said, pointing to the triangle.
I straddled it, my thighs barely long enough to touch the ground, forcing me to spread my legs wide. It dug into my kitty as I lay my torso along its length with both hands on the ground to take some of the uncomfortable pressure off.
As soon as I had begun to adjust to the discomfort, I felt the long tube, probing my crack.
“Spread your cheeks,” she snapped.
The dull point of the triangle pressing hard against my belly and my clit as I struggled to obey with the mittens still limiting my mobility. As she prodded me with the tube, my belly began to stir with unfamiliar feeling. She found my rosebud, and shoved the cold, lubricated hose deep into me.
I gasped at the sensation, hearing a click, and when I felt warm fluid running into me, I looked back over my shoulder. The hose coming from the bucket was lodged into my bowels as brown liquid flowed into me.
“A coffee enema,” Mrs. Paezel said, taking in my confusion. “It’ll get whatever filth is left in you out so I can plug you up and so that you have the energy you need to get through the rest of the day.”
The coffee made my tummy rumble and cramps racked my body. I groaned as I felt my belly swell against the hard leather triangle. When I was so full I thought I would burst and writhing in pain, grinding my clit against the leather with every movement, Mrs. Paezel pulled the thin tube from my clenched back hole.
“You’ll hold it for five minutes and then squat in the grass,” she said smugly as I winced through a particularly bad wave of cramps.
Five minutes went mercifully quickly as the coffee worked itself into my bloodstream. When the timer went off, I leaped up and ran over to the grass. I squatted and let the coffee run out of me.
“Back on the horse,” she said, pointing to the leather triangle. “Since you can’t control yourself, I’m going to help you.”
I looked back to see her holding up a dart shaped buttplug, which she all to happily showed me the other end of - a round pink handle with the word “brat” written across it in cursive.
She covered it in lube and positioned it at my puckered anus.
“Take a deep breath,” she said, shoving it deep inside me as I inhaled.
I shrieked and she smacked my aching cheek. “I’m going to give you and extra stroke for that.”
I clenched around the tapered part of the plug, still getting used to the feeling of being stretched by something nestled inside me.
“You’re getting eleven strokes,” Mrs. Paezel said, pulling out a belt. “I was going to make you humble yourself a bit, but considering this will probably be the second spanking of many, I’ll settle for a count and “Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
I gasped as she started without warning. “One. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
“Two. Thank you, m
a’am.”
WHAP .
“Three,” I said, breathing heavily. “Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
I clenched against the plug as my already sore cheeks began to throb. “Four. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
“Five. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
“Six. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
“Seven. Thank you, ma’am,” The pain completely wiped my brain. I couldn’t think past the pain of the strap licking my supple skin.
WHAP .
I pressed my clit hard against the leather, feeling a moisture dripping down the leather. “Eight. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
My voice trembled. “N-nine. Thank you, ma’am.”
WHAP .
“TEN. Thank you, ma’am!” I screamed, my voice thick.
WHAP .
“E-eleven,” I said, my breathing hitched as I tried not to cry. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“If that doesn’t get through to you, I don’t know what will,” Mrs. Paezel said, pulling me off the horse by the arm. “Now you’re going down for a few hours so I can clean all of this up and I’m tying you down so you can’t touch yourself. We’re going to have to do something about finding a punishment that doesn’t make you wet.”
She dragged me by the ear to my room where she tied me spreadeagle to the bed.
“It’s going to be a long weekend, Polly,” she said villainously, “so don’t get too comfortable.”
The only thing worse than my throbbing cheeks was the ache that had started between my thighs.
To Be Continued...
Pamper-ed and Paraded
An ABDL Story of Regression Therapy
Part II
I used to think I was a good girl. I thought I was well-behaved, responsible, and independent.
Mrs. Paezel knew better.
She had bathed me, fed me, diapered me, put me in time out and given me a spanking.
For the past hour, she left me in my playpen with a pacifier in my mouth. She said if she found it out of my mouth, which she would have because my arms and legs were bound to each corner of the play area with not even a diaper to cushion my belt-whipped backside from the unforgiving ground, my punishment would be much worse than what she already had planned.
Nappied and Nannied Bundle Page 3
