My eyes widened as a room full of men and women in evening wear gawked and gaped at me. There must have been twenty or thirty of them. They were a sea of faces that I made a point to look away from - if I didn’t look at them, I could pretend they weren’t there. Those who were sitting closest to the speaker near the fireplace, stood and craned their necks, trying to get a better view of me.
The silence of their surprise, curiosity and undivided attention was all-consuming.
I was desperate for something to distract them or at least for someone to break the tense silence - until the woman who had introduced us did.
“Doesn’t she look cute?” she said. She was gorgeous with a figure like Marilyn Monroe and there was something about her presence that was captivating, which only made me more self-conscious. “Little Polly is all dressed up.”
“So sweet,” one of the women said with a mocking twinge in her tone. “Give us a twirl, sweetie.”
I was stunned silly. I’m not sure I could have moved or spoken if I tried.
“Is she simple?” a male voice laughed. “Even a dog can follow a basic command.”
My ears burned.
Mrs. Paezel nudged me forward. “You heard her,” she said sternly. “She wants you to twirl, Polly. Show everyone how pretty your party dress is.”
I heard whispers in the crowd and saw a couple of them pointing at me for reasons I could only imagine. I took a hesitant step forward, the sound of my mary janes on the marble nearly drowned out by the sound of my diaper.
“Is that a real diaper?” I heard a male voice say.
“I wonder if she uses it,” an amused feminine one stage-whispered. “Could you imagine walking around in - having to be changed by someone?”
I spun around slowly, not sure what else to do. I stopped after one full circle, keeping my eyes down and feeling my pigtails brush against my cheeks.
“What’s wrong with her?” someone said. “Is she sick? Why is she so quiet and slow?”
“Can we feed her?”
“Someone take her temperature,” someone else said. “She looks too immature to handle a thermometer in her mouth. Plus she would probably slobber on herself.”
“Why is she walking?” someone said. “Don’t babies crawl?”
“It’s eight o’clock - shouldn’t someone give her something to eat?” a woman said, doing nothing to disguise the laughter threatening.
“Would someone like to feed her?” Nanny Susan said. “She still takes a bottle.”
“She’ll get it all over her pretty dress,” the woman who suggested dinner said deviously. “And baby wipes only go so far.”
“Take the dress off altogether,” a woman whose voice came from the same direction jeered. “If she can’t even obey a simple command, she’ll probably make a mess anyway.”
“Take it off!” a man’s voice echoed. It sounded like he was already a little drunk.
Another man barked out a laugh, he sounded older and heavy-set. “I don’t know why you’re so proud of yourself - it’s not like she even has tits. She couldn’t even fill out a training bra.”
There were a couple deep chuckles.
“Gardner, I don’t know why you’re upset she has the chest of a little boy when she’s in a diaper,” a woman said sarcastically. “I’m hoping your preference for using the backdoor doesn’t extend to anything that could dirty that diaper.”
The whole room burst into laughter as another waiter walked around the room bringing them more drinks or refreshing the ones they were holding.
“I’ll give her her dinner,” a new voice said. The crowd parted for a middle-aged woman, one of the younger ones, dripping with jewels that included diamonds on every finger except the fourth on her left hand. “But it would be a shame to ruin such a pretty dress. Nanny Susan, what would you recommend? In your professional opinion?”
“I think Mrs. Paezel should help Polly take her big girl dress off and I’ll get her baby bib,” Nanny Susan sneered. “You should have seen the accident she had this afternoon - what a disgusting mess.”
“I couldn’t even get a twirl,” the woman said, her tone far less endearing. “If she needs to learn the consequences of her actions, maybe she shouldn’t be allowed to wear such big girl clothes, especially since she’s acting like a baby. It’s not like she has anything to cover up.”
There seemed to be titters of consensus in the crowd. I stayed silent, ignorantly hoping that someone would suggest something before they were actually able to follow through. I thought about how embarrassed I would be when they noticed how hard my nipples were or, even worse, infantilize me even more.
“I want all of you to feel empowered to take on the role of authority over Polly,” Nanny Susan said. “No one’s ever suffered from too many authority figures so if you think Polly is too young to eat dinner in such nice clothes, she needs someone to help her get undressed. In the meantime, I will get her bottle.”
A woman who looked to be pressing fifty pushed through the others, walking over to me with purpose and determination. It wasn’t until she got closer that I realized she was tipsy. She grabbed me by the arm, turning me around so she could untie the bow and unbutton the back of my dress.
I let her maneuver me, moving lazily and limply, and when my back was to the rest of her peers to her she brought her open palm down on my diapered behind.
“Bad girl!” she chastised. “No dillydallying.”
She untied the bow at my back and unbuttoned the dress, turning me around by the shoulders so that I was facing everyone again. She slipped my shoes and socks off, handing them to another of the uniformed waiter who I hadn’t noticed behind us.
“Arms up, Polly,” she said warningly.
I put my arms up and let her lift the dress up over my head, leaving me in nothing but my diaper.
I crossed my arms over my chest, still flushed with the degradation of being undressed like a baby because I couldn’t be trusted to bottle feed without making a mess.
“Did Miss Patricia ask you to cross your arms, Polly?” Mrs. Paezel admonished.
“No, Mrs. Paezel,” I said, lowering my arms slowly.
“Shouldn’t you apologize for doing something without asking?” she said expectantly.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, looking at my feet. “I’m sorry, Miss Patricia.”
“For…?” Mrs. Paezel continued, handing the woman a cloth bib with a word in curlicue letters on the front.
“I’m sorry for doing something without asking, Miss Patricia,” I said softly.
“What was that, Polly?” the woman said faux-obliviously. “Did you say something? Babies gurgle - big girls speak up.”
“I’m sorry for doing something without asking... ma’am,” I said a little louder this time, remembering how I was supposed to address her.
She was silent for a moment. “I accept your apology, Polly, but don’t let it happen again. Do you hear me, Polly?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, as loudly and clearly as I could manage.
She closed the distance between us and snapped a bib around my neck. It was just long enough to tickle my shamefully erect nipples, making me wet enough to cause a dampness in my diaper.
“Come here, Polly Wolly,” the glittering woman said, now sitting alone on the couch with everyone else crowded around her. “Come to Mommy.”
Before I could take a step forward, the same man piped up. “Babies who can’t be trusted to not make a mess don’t walk. They crawl. Crawl to your Mommy, Polly, on your hands and knees.”
I tried not to grimace as I lowered myself to the ground, feeling the diaper sag slightly between my legs as I leaned onto my hands and knees. I crawled toward the woman on the couch, grateful she wasn’t far.
“Look at the wittle baby,” Nanny Susan cooed. “Does the wittle baby want some milk?”
“Yes, she does!” the glittering woman answered as Nanny Susan handed her a distressingly full bottle of milk. “She wants some milk in
her tummy. Come here, Polly, lay your head on my knee so I can feed you your dinner.”
I crawled onto the couch, laying on my back with my knees bent to block the morbidly curious and intrigued faces of the party-goers. She brushed a stray back behind my ear and rested her forearm along my breastbone, holding the bottle’s long rubber nipple a couple inches away from my face.
“Don’t be ungrateful, Polly,” Nanny Susan said. “Drink your bottle.”
I realized why she was resting her forearm on me - she wanted me to stretch to the bottle and suckle at it. I looked at her and then at the opaque orangy-brown plastic nipple.
“What happens if she doesn’t want it?” a man said, unamused.
“Well,” Mrs. Paezel said patiently, knowing I was listening for the implied threat, “if she’s not hungry now, we can give her two bottles later when she is hungry. And if she soils her diaper, she’ll have to spend however long between now and the time it takes her to get hungry with a dirty diaper.”
There were a few disgusted sounds and faces, which was even more effective than the thought of walking - crawling around in a wet diaper. I extended my neck, trying to ignore when the nipple was pulled back a fraction of an inch more so I was straining to get my lips around the tip of it.
I suckled at the bottle, the distance Miss Patricia put between my face and the bottle facilitating humiliatingly infantile sucking and slurping noises. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the mocking laughter I heard from all sides.
“Look at her suckling like a little baby!” someone whispered cruelly.
Someone snickered before hissing. “She’s going to need a new diaper by the time she’s done guzzling all of that milk.”
As if by some twist of fate, the second I heard someone mentioned having to pee, I noticed the pressure I felt on my bladder. Without even realizing it, I had somehow managed to tune out the growing urge to relieve myself far more efficiently than the chatter and speculation. It made me wonder if I was simply pretending not to like it.
When I tried to pull my lips from the bottle, knowing all too well I had to request (and receive) permission to dirty my diaper, but Miss Patricia followed me with the bottle so that it was now seated deeply in my mouth.
“You have to drink it all down, Polly,” she said sweetly but sternly. “Can’t have you getting hungry in the middle of the night.”
I pressed my thighs together, scrunching up the diaper as I tried to squeeze them shut to moderate but entirely ineffective success. Not that it did any good.
Miss Patricia smacked my upper thigh. “No squirming,” she said. “I don’t want you spitting up when I burp you.”
I did my best to relax my legs, feeling the need to empty my bladder increasing exponentially as I drained the bottle woefully slowly. I whined into the nipple earning another warning smack.
I could tell that everyone was beginning to catch on as my brow furrowed with the substantial effort to keep from soiling my diaper. It seemed like it was becoming a game for my audience - I was not surprised when I heard a whisper that sounded like a bet. I had no doubt Miss Patricia heard it far better than I did, the lack of suckling echoing in her ears aside, she showed her preference for the gamblers by pressing firmly on my tummy, disguising it as a soothing belly rub and shushing me rhythmically.
With the bottle only half empty by the time my bladder began to pinch and cramp, I felt myself losing faith. It was a fruitless struggle and I was better off preparing for the consequences - the ensuing punishment that followed my lack of discipline and self-control.
One way or another, I would pay for my relief.
As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I felt the slow trickle of warm liquid weighing the loud plastic of my diaper. The pleasure of alleviating the sharp discomfort of a full bladder made me moan. It was instinctive - a reflex that surprised me just as much as it surprised and entertained everyone else.
“What do you think you’re doing, Polly?” Mrs. Paezel said as soon as my moan called attention to the diaper beginning to sag between my legs.
The hot wetness clung to my skin, making me suck at the bottle enthusiastically. There was no avoiding it - I may as well finish my dinner before that infraction is added to whatever degrading punishment would follow.
Mrs. Paezel rushed over, feeling my diaper and scowling. “Nanny Susan, we’re going to have to do something about this.”
Nanny Susan walked over and felt my diaper. “Since we are your guests, may I solicit the group for suggestions? The punishment should, at the very least, fit the crime, but considering what landed her here - creativity is welcome.”
“Give her an enema!”
“Spank her!”
“Put something cold in her diaper!”
The group began speaking over each other with so much enthusiasm, it was difficult to make out what they were saying.
“I think Polly should take a timeout so that we can decide how to proceed,” Mrs. Paezel said quietly to Nanny Susan.
“Brilliant idea,” Nanny Susan said. “Leave her in her diaper.”
“She’ll be lucky if I don’t put it back on her to sleep in,” Mrs. Paezel said, flashing me a threatening look.
“Ladies and gentlemen, do you know what happens to naughty girls who don’t do what they’re told?” Nanny Susan said to the audience as my cheeks flushed and my heart raced with the intoxicating titillation and bittersweet agony of anticipation. She was speaking to them but I could feel how pointedly her words were directed at me. “Naughty girls get punished.”
To Be Continued...
Cradled and Coddled
An ABDL Story of Regression Therapy
Part IV
N anny Susan flashed a devilish smile at me as her words echoed in my ears. Ladies and gentlemen, do you know what happens to naughty girls who don’t do what they’re told? she had said to the audience as my cheeks flushed and my heart raced with the intoxicating titillation and bittersweet agony of anticipation. She had been speaking to them but I could feel how pointedly her words were directed at me. Naughty girls get punished.
My nipples, already pebbled by keen attention from the audience and ever-present public humiliation, hardened noticeably.
The inner turmoil I felt about being inescapably aroused by being treated and disciplined like a petulant child, especially with the most recent addition of an audience of rich and powerful middle aged men and women in evening wear, had not faded. It fed into the vicious cycle of shame and lust.
Degradation and desire.
How could I come to terms with the fact that being belittled and infantilized made me infinitely wetter than anything I had ever seen, hear, read, experienced in my eighteen years?
This could hardly have been what my parents had in mind when they hired my nanny - Mrs. Paezel.
It wasn’t until a short while ago that I had learned she was employed by the sadistic and domineering Nanny Susan Schoell, founder of Naughty Girl Nannies.
This whole ordeal began when I disobeyed my parents for the first time since I was actually the age I was being treated. Any other parents’ would have kissed the ground at my feet.
I was a perfect student, friend and child but for some inexplicable reason, I was doomed to live in the shadow of my irresponsible-at-best brother in the eyes of my parents.
Thinking it over, they may have known exactly what they were signing me up for. Considering they were able to entirely ignore how much of an unmotivated, entitled, good-for-nothing slacker my brother was, I would say it could go either way.
I’m not sure who the joke was on - me for being punished so severely for my first offense or them for choosing something that gave me so much pleasure and satisfaction, if only in spite of myself.
Mrs. Paezel, also known as Nanny Paezel, also known as Hennie or Henrietta was a professional babysitter and second-in-command to Nanny Susan’s age regression therapy expertise. Yet, neither of them had seen the progress they had hoped to with me.
/>
As far as I knew, they had disciplined me with most, if not all, of their arsenal of dubiously-age-appropriate punishments.
Earlier this morning, Mrs. Paezel had spanked me, humiliated me, diapered me, fed me in a highchair, bottle fed me, put me in timeout, shoved a “brat” plug in my once-virgin anus, given me a coffee enema after hosing me off like a dog in the yard and before taking a strap to me.
When she did not see the desired results (and probably in an effort to further shame me), she dressed me up in a frilly pink dress, put me in a car seat and drove me to a supermarket that catered to nannies and their adult-babies. That was where I was really put on display… until now, at least.
She explained to Nanny Susan how the day had gone and asked if Nanny Susan might know how to get through to me. “Getting through to me” must be some type of nanny euphemism for stripping me naked, filling my asshole with a pig tail plug, and parading me on all fours in a leash and collar through the supermarket where she put me in a pillory, filled me with a milk enema that I had to hold for ten minutes while being spanked with a wooden hairbrush and stimulated with a vibrator.
The thought still made my clit tingle.
Needless to say, I was unable to retain the enema for ten minutes and was left in the pillory to serve as an example for other nannies and their girls until Nanny Susan discussed with Mrs. Paezel what to do with me.
The consensus? I would serve as entertainment at a cocktail party for Nanny Susan’s benefactors.
I was to be on my best behavior and obey every wish and demand… or else.
Considering my presence was meant to exemplify, entertain and serve as the consequences for my misbehavior, it wasn’t long before I realized that I would be further punished and humiliated regardless of my performance.
I had been so nervous when I was first introduced that I was dumbstruck - it took me a few moments to process.
When a woman asked me to twirl, I had acted slowly and awkwardly. At first, I thought I would bore them but I had discovered that I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The benefactors had decided it was my dinnertime and I lacked the self-control have my dinner without messing up my beautiful white dress. Instead, I would dine naked in my diaper with a bib. The bib provided no modesty but rather teased and tickled my pebbled nipples.
Nappied and Nannied Bundle Page 7
