by Shire, Devon
My breathing turned shallow, and for a second, I refused. I even managed a little shake of my head, though I must have appeared more timid than defiant.
“Do it or we’ll have to share some of this incredible video. And don’t forget, I can always pull out some stills.”
I got onto my knees, then wobbled back onto my feet. I couldn’t really walk, but that didn’t matter. I twisted around and flinched when I heard the first click. After that, it wasn’t so bad. At least this way, the camera couldn’t see my face. Not that anonymity was even close to possible anymore.
“Okay, baby girl, get back on your hands and knees.”
“Please don’t make me,” I begged.
“Do it or you’ll get another spanking,” promised my sister.
I started to crawl for them. They took pictures. Worse, Mia ordered me to smile at the camera. I didn’t want to do it, and this time I managed to hold out for a few more seconds. But she came up to me and swatted my butt. The stinging rang between my nerves, so I lifted my face and smiled brightly for the camera.
After they made me crawl around like a stupid baby, they started to dress me. For the most part, I managed to block it out. They put me in a onesie first. It clipped into place right between my legs. Bright pink with little flowers, the onesie practically screamed infantile. This would have looked adorable on a baby girl. On me, it made me look childish.
From there, they put me in a ruffled dress. Trevor seemed content to simply make me pose with my hands on my hips, or my wrists held together over my stomach, but Mia remembered something. Back in high school, I had been on the dance team. She made me dance.
Every hop and squiggle made the skirt fly up, flashing my diaper again and again. My face turned bright red, but I danced. Then she had another idea. She made me do the exact same dance, this time with the pacifier in my mouth. At least she didn’t tie it into place this time.
I don’t think she wanted there to be any question of my complicity. Whoever saw this would just think I liked being a big, diapered baby. That thought repeated in my head again and again.
Finally, I fell back to my knees and Mia smiled down at me. “Are you ready to be a good girl?” she asked, only this time she sounded sweet. I peeked up at her and nodded. She took the pacifier out of my mouth. Tucking it into her pocket with one hand, she touched my chin with the other, raising my gaze to meet her own.
Mia wanted to hear me say it. She wanted to hear me promise to be a good girl for her. “Yes,” I said.
“Smile for me.”
I smiled for her. It was big and bright and made me look happy.
“Good girl!” Mia even clapped for me. A second more and her expression shifted back to serious. “Now, you’ve been such a good baby girl, do you have something to say to Trevor and me?”
It was another trap, another challenge. She wanted to see what I had learned from my day in diapers. Because they had me and I couldn’t get away, I surrendered. This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t me searching for some way to outfox my captors. No, I gave up right then and thought to find the best way to accept this all.
Taking a breath, I sounded meek with, “I’m sorry I tried to break you up.”
“And?” asked Trevor.
“And I should accept my sister, and her decisions.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, pressing me farther.
Instead of meeting some mental block, I spoke, and my words seemed like the truth, “Because she’s a big girl. She deserves to be an adult. She is smart and mature.”
“And what are you?” Mia asked.
“I’m the baby.”
“Are you really a baby?” she asked, sounding sweet, but deep down, I knew she was mocking me again. It didn’t matter what pitch she picked. This would be another humiliation for me.
“No,” I said.
“You’re not. Are you really a grown up?”
“I have the body of an adult,” I said, closing my eyes for a second. Opening them again, I found my sister’s triumphant smirk. “But I need to be diapered because deep down I’m just a little girl.”
“Diapers? Really?” she asked with faux astonishment.
“Otherwise I’d make a mess,” I said, pathetic and defeated.
“I think you have learned your lesson, so you’re going to get a very special treat,” Mia told me. She took up my leash and followed her boyfriend from the room. I had to crawl after her, though this time they went faster. I started to pant and my skin got hot as I struggled to keep up.
They took me to the bedroom. It was big and open. The king sized bed was spread out across a quarter of the room. Mia led me over to the middle of the room, about five feet from the mattress. She tied my leash to the end and told me to sit there quietly while she and her boyfriend did something very important.
I promised to be good. Mia flicked my nose, probably to watch my face scrunch up.
“You will be a good girl. And while we’re playing, you’re going to do the same, aren’t you?”
I didn’t understand. Only she went back to another dresser then pulled something out. A vibrator. She dropped it in front of me and told me to have fun. It would the last chance I had for a long, long time. My face heated, especially when I realized what they had planned.
Mia stripped off her clothes. Trevor did the same, revealing his cut, animalist body. He was muscled, and I felt myself getting wet. He had already made me come. And yet, as I picked up the vibrator, I didn’t know if I could simply sit there like a toddler.
They started to kiss hungrily. Their motions were passionate and primal. He pinned her in moments, and she whimpered, clearly begging for more as his hands ran over the length of her body. They were going to make me sit there, diapered and powerless. I came there to stop this from happening, to keep them from being together, but now I didn’t have a choice. Nothing I did or said could make this stop.
Worse, I heard my little sister’s moans, and I got hot. I got wet. I didn’t want to use the vibrator, but when I tried to press my fingers against my crotch, I couldn’t really feel it. The thick padding kept me trapped.
If I dared take the diaper off, I would get spanked again. That left only one choice. A quick flick turned the vibrator on. As Trevor and Mia went at it like lions or tigers, I pressed the pulsating cylinder just over my clit and pressed down.
A rush of ecstasy flowed through me. All at once, a burst of sexual tension exploded within me. I didn’t care that that was my little sister. I didn’t care that she changed my diaper or forced me to wet in the first place. I was their captive, their pet, and their baby doll, but right then, I just played with myself.
The pulsating rush of desire moved through me, washing away all reluctance. I got so wet and so hot, and I couldn’t know when they would allow me this kind of playtime again. I pressed harder, working the diaper against my body. The motions pulsed through my clit until I started to come.
The orgasm washed over me as I sat there in my little dress. The frills rubbed against my wrist as I worked the vibrator back and forth, back and forth. It pounded down, but the diaper absorbed most of the force and friction. Still, I savored every sensation as Mia’s words echoed in my ears.
No one knew I was there. Our parents would be out of town for months. They could keep me diapered for the whole summer. Or longer. How long would it take for them to convince me I belonged in diapers? The orgasm rolled through me, but I didn’t care as Trevor made my sister come again and again, and I accepted my fate as my little sister’s baby doll.
The End
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Baby Time (The Complete Series)Lauren Kay
Diaper Time
You have always liked teasing me. When we first got together, we flirted a little bit, but within a month, it was clear you liked pulling my pigtails. Both lit
erally and figuratively. And teasing me wasn’t especially hard. First off, you could make up whatever you wanted, and you did.
One of your favorite games happened at dinner. If I ever got a desert or one of the more elaborate coffees, you would lean over and dab your finger into the whipped cream. The first time it happened, I looked at you, my brows tight with confusion. I didn’t ask anything because I thought you were just being a silly boy and eschewed the use of flatware.
Except you didn’t dip your finger back into your mouth. Rather, you dabbed your fingertip along with that dollop of cream right against my nose. It was cold, and it shut down my brain. Seriously, I had no idea what I was supposed to think of this. You put whipped cream on my nose!
My fingers bunched up and my forearms stiffened and shivered right against my chest. I was about to ask what the heck you were doing, but you slipped out of your chair, crossed the two feet between us, leaned down and suckled the cream from my nose. It felt so weird!
Then, as though nothing strange had happened, you returned to your seat.
My face blossomed into a bright shade of red as I squealed, “What was that?” The pitch of my voice went up about ten degrees.
“I wanted to try something new.” Again, you spoke with the easy confidence of a criminal mastermind who knew he could get away with anything.
That was only one of the games we played.
After we got together, you also decided you liked teasing me about my age. On paper, I was only a year younger than you. For most couples, this wouldn’t have been a big deal except I look quite a bit younger than most of my friends. Even in college, I turned twenty-one and got carded everywhere I went. Not just carded, the bartenders all insisted on pulling out their little scanning gun to make sure the codes on my driver’s licensee were legitimate.
For one, I’m pretty short, something else you don’t mind teasing me about at every chance you get. We’ll stand together, you pull your arms around me, rest your chin on my head, and make some crack about how I must have shrunk. I giggle or fake frustration and lightly hit your chest with the bottom of my fists. Sometimes you grab them and pull me down onto your lap. Once or twice, you’ve even spanked me.
The rest of my body doesn’t really help. While I wear a fairly reasonable C-cup, it doesn’t make much difference. There’s something about my waist and thin arms. I’m just too slight. Like people see my willowy frame and just assume I must need protection.
Then you started to tease me about my maturity.
“Okay, so I know your actual birthday,” you started to say over lunch. You had been very sweet and showed up to my work and offered to take me out. It was the kind of sweet surprise that made all of my female coworkers shoot me jealously dirty looks. I grinned and bobbed my head like an overly excited little kids. Twenty minutes later, you had me at the sandwich shop down the street.
“I’d hope so,” I said with a smile.
“But what about your mental age?”
“My mental age?” I smirked between bites of my turkey and bacon. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same as my physical age.”
“Nope.” You said with such confidence and sureness. You said it the same way most people talk about the color of the sky. Complete certainty rang out in your one word reply. “You are definitely younger. There’s an immaturity about you.” That should have been insulting, but coming from you, I just giggled like a schoolgirl. You had that effect on me way too often.
Seriously, if someone else questioned my “mental age” or sucked whipped cream from the tip of my nose in a public restaurant, I would have left right then (or at least been really offended). But you? You seemed to smile or make it all sound so sweet and fun. As much as I hated to admit it, you really could make me feel like a little girl. I could imagine myself in some frilly skirt as I ran around a playground with you chasing me, maybe threatening me with boy cooties.
“No!” I squealed, “I’m mentally an adult.”
“Nah, I think you’re hiding something.”
He was bating me, but I didn’t care. Suppressing another giggle at you, I crinkled my eyes and said, “Fine. How old you do think I am?”
“I don’t know. Let’s try to do a mental inventory to figure this out. First off, you really like pink.”
I should have let you continue, but I couldn’t help myself, “So? Lots of people like pink. Even some guys are into pink. Sure, they call it salmon or something silly, but just liking pink isn’t enough for you to downgrade my age!”
“A fair point,” you conceded like a teacher who was eager to placate one of his more energetic and engaged students. There was something the way you looked at me. Something about your confidence made me feel small but safe, childish but loved. In spite of myself, I savored the feeling as something fleeting. “But there are other issues as well.”
“Like what?” I asked, my eyes narrowed with a slight squint.
“Your hair.”
“What about my hair?”
“Kelly,” you said, reaching over and covering my hand with yours as though I might find this to be a complete shock. “Adult women don’t wear their hair in pigtails with little white bows.”
“Okay, so maybe it’s a little unusual, but I like my hair this way. It’s comfortable.”
You didn’t need to hound me on this point, not when you had so many others. “There’s also your taste in music and TV. You are way, way too into Disney movies to really be an adult.”
“Hey there! Lots of adults like Disney.”
“Exactly,” you agreed breezily. “Lots of adults like Disney. But you’re something of a fanatic. You don’t just watch those movies twice. You watch them over and over again. On your mornings off, you get a bowl of cereal and sit in front of your TV and watch movies you’ve seen a hundred times.”
“It’s not that strange,” I said, pouting.
“It’s not strange for a six-year-old.”
“And I don’t mean to harp on this one, but you don’t just watch Disney programming. You focus almost entirely on the princess movies. That’s pretty juvenile.” Coming from someone else, that last word might have been insulting. You made it simply teasing.
“Fine.”
“So you agree?” you asked. Now your eyes got crinkled as you suppressed some laughter at my expense. “You’re about six?”
“No.” I made my response sharp and pouty.
Rather than seem hurt or offended, you simply sat further back in your chair and considered me for a moment before deciding, “You’re right. I’d say you’re more like five. Maybe even four. What do you think? Are you four?” Then to be a really big, teasing jerk-boyfriend, you raised your hand along with four fingers the same way a little kid might.
So you teased me about my age.
A lot.
I didn’t mind for the most part, especially since you’ve always been really good at reading my moods. If I had a hard day at work or didn’t want to flirt, then you left it alone until I calmed down or my mood improved.
The games of flirting and teasing were only a small part of our relationship. We had our lunches when you came to visit me at work. We took walks around our apartment, and you got me into way too many video games. Sure, they were all the simple racing and party games designed for little kids, but you were a kind teacher and never let me get beaten too badly. If a pixilated enemy came at me too hard, you’d always save me without being mean about it.
On some random night, we were playing a racing game. I had won the last three matches and felt pretty good. You might have said I was getting a bit too full of myself since I had taken to tossing away my controller, jumping to my feet, swinging my arms, and shooting, “Face! Oh yeah! Who rocks! That’s right, I rock!” Then you got to see my embarrassingly silly happy dance.
“Want to try a one-on-one?” you asked, still seated like a cal
m adult.
I twisted back and smirked down at you, “What? You think you can take me?” I had been playing this game long enough that I had managed to beat you once or twice. Only right then, I was high on victory and expected to beat anyone and everyone if I really tried.
“Just as long as you think I have a chance. I wouldn’t want this to be unfair.”
At that moment, I forgot about how the game and console both belonged to you, how you and your friends sometimes played this game. I forgot all about the hours and hours of practice you had on me. Granted, this game sometimes turned into button smashing, but there was an element of skill.
“I’ll take you!” I announced and gave another wiggle of my butt. You smiled and petted my thigh as though this were the only way to calm me down.
“If you’re so confident, would you like to make a little wager?”
“Sure! What’cha got?”
“Are you feeling brave?” you asked, teasing and daring me at the same time.
“Absolutely,” I said, sitting back down and bunching up my shoulders. I had to mentally prepare myself for the next race.
“How about this? If I win, you have to do whatever I say. If you win, I have to do whatever you say.”
“You mean I’d get to dress you in a collar and walk you around the apartment like my little doggie?” Before you even answered, I hopped up and down on my side of the couch. “Okay then, let’s get started!”
We agreed on the racetrack, picked our characters, chose our vehicles, and waited for the game to load. The disk spun in its compartment as I wondered what I had just agreed to. Then again, I also imagined myself winning and all of the deliciously naughty things I could make you do.
The game loaded and the countdown began. I touched my finger to the acceleration and ran through the different facets of this course. The track would be covered in ice, which would make wild acceleration a bad idea on anything except the straight-aways. At the same time, I considered which weapons might work best. This game had both racing and combat. The drivers could always try to blow one another off the road.