“Let me go,” I said. “You can’t manhandle me like this.”
“That’s no way for a child to speak to an adult,” she chided, still dragging me to the bathroom. “If that’s how you want to play it - I’ll wash your mouth out with soap too. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want any of this,” I said petulantly. “What about that do you not understand?”
She shoved me into the bathroom and closed the door, shoving my desk chair underneath the handle so I was locked in. “Wait there,” she said like I had any choice. “If you want to act like such a brat, I’ll treat you like one.”
“Open the door, you hag!” I screamed, banging on the barricaded door. “Let me out of here!”
I heard her footsteps fade away and leaned back against the door, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked even worse than I felt.
My formerly beautiful updo was a rat’s nest and my makeup looked like I’d been giving $5 blowjobs all night before working a morning shift at a stripclub. My eyes were red with large bags under them and there was a line of drool dried to my chin.
I stripped off my panties and the oversized t-shirt I’d changed into last night and pulled the bobby pins out of my elaborate updo. If she was going to lock me in here, I may as well take a shower. Maybe it would help me feel a bit better.
I took a sip of water out of the sink and turned the water in the shower on. I waited until it warmed up and stepped in, letting it hit my face.
The sound of the door opening as I was about to turn around startled me. “Get out! I’m in the shower, you relentless old woman!”
The shower curtain opened quickly, the rings holding it up rattling as it was pushed aside.
“Get out of there,” the woman said sharply.
Startled and trying to cover myself, she pulled me out of the shower, hair only half-wet as my body dripped onto the bathroom floor.
“I told you, if you wanted to use dirty words, I’ll wash them out of your mouth,” she said, turning off the shower, tightening her grip on me. She closed the toilet lid and sat me down, naked on the frigid porcelain seat.
She had put an apron on and brought a bar of Dove soap with her. The faucet ran and she worked up a lather on the bar of soap, holding in front of my face. I set my mouth in a thin line and turned away, but she wouldn’t have it. She held my nose so I was forced to breath through my mouth and slipped the bar of soap in until I choked on the awful taste.
“Maybe now you’ll think twice before cursing at me or calling me anything other than Mrs. Paezel or Ma’am, you naughty girl,” she said, putting the soap down and holding a handful of water to my lips after I spat the soap into the sink. I pushed her hand out of the way and used my own to gargle the soapy taste out of my mouth.”
She stood behind me, arms crossed. “Time for your bath, Polly.”
“Stop calling me that,” I said. “My name is Paulina .”
“Just because you weren’t listening to me earlier doesn’t mean I’m not going to treat you like the petulant little girl you’re pretending to be,” she said firmly. “Regression Therapy is the only thing that’s going to help you become a successful and productive adult rather than the irresponsible, disobedient child you are. I don’t care if you don’t want to, that’s what I’m here for and if you have to be taught to obey the hard way, that’s your prerogative.”
“What the h - ” I started, still feeling the taste of soap in my mouth as I received a stern look from Mrs. Paezel. “What is ‘Regression Therapy’?”
“Sounds like we need to work on your listening skills too,” she murmured. “As I said before, it’s the practice of regressing you back to when everything went wrong. We will work on creating good habits, obedience, and correcting the stubborn attitude that started when you were a young child.”
“What does that mean?” I said nervously, clinging to what little modesty and dignity I had left. I gripped my left breast, a firm, comfortable handful, with my right hand as I pressed my arm against the other and used my left hand to cover my lower half. I had gotten a brazilian wax for the first time for prom and the lack of hair still felt unusual.
“It means that I will help you regress to a simpler time so that we can correct the root of the problem. Good children become well-adjusted adults and that’s really why I’m here,” she said. “I’m contacted my parents who feel they are out of options.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course my parents chose their only opportunity to resort to such extreme measures. “So what does that mean in practice?”
“You’re going to regress to two years old so I can train you to become an obedient and well-mannered child so you know how to behave properly,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’ll reward you for good behavior and punish you for bad behavior so that you understand the consequences of your behavior and learn what it means to be an adult.”
My jaw dropped. I was not going to be treated like a toddler all weekend. “No,” I spat. “I’m not doing that.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice, Polly,” she explained. “Your parents have signed a contract and if you don’t comply this weekend, they are not going to allow you to go to Georgetown. You’ll have to live at home and go to a community college until I can get through to you. If you’re well-behaved, it should be a relaxing weekend where you’re taken care of and able to release yourself from the stress and anxiety of adulthood, and if you’re not, it will be much less… pleasant. Since you’re going to have to do this one way or another, you may as well try.”
I was too tired and too hungover to put up a fight. “Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll give it a try.”
“Good!” she cooed as if she were speaking to an infant. “Let’s draw you a bath and clean you up. Such a dirty girl, you are.”
The taste of soap in my mouth was beginning to recede, but did nothing to help my headache. If the bath didn’t help, I would get some aspirin.
Mrs. Paezel turned the water on. She didn’t have to wait long for it to warm up since it hadn’t been off for long and soon she stopped the drain. The water rose slowly and steadily as I stood naked, waiting for her to leave.
She turned the water off, knelt down and tested it, shaking the water off her hand into the tub. “Time to get in,” she said, extending her hand to me. “Come on, dirty girl.”
The realization that she was going to give me a bath hit me like a ton of bricks. “No,” I said. “I can bathe myself.”
“Polly,” she chided, grabbing the hand that still shielded my lower half and pulling me over to the tub. “Babies can’t bathe themselves, it’s dangerous. Think before you speak.”
I stared at her, unable to move past the idea of being bathed by a babysitter.
“I’m going to count down from three and if you’re not sitting in the water by one, I’m going to have to punish you,” she said, rolling her sleeves up. “And I’m not wasting this water so it’ll get cold in the meantime.”
I peeled my eyes from her and looked at the bath. I don’t know what she meant by “punishment,” but I certainly was in no mood to take a cold bath.
“Three… two… ”
I stepped into the bath and sat, bringing my knees up to my chest.
“Good girl!” she said, pulling my hands off my knees. “See you’re learning already.”
Using the soap she had washed my mouth out with, seemingly as some kind of looming threat, she scrubbed my back, shoulders, and arms. I sat silently as she washed me, closing my eyes as if it did anything to lessen my embarrassment.
She used a washcloth to scrub the makeup off my face with a ferocity that seemed unnecessary. “Makeup is for big girls,” she said, as the wiped what was left of my lipstick off my mouth.
I coughed and sputtered as more soap made it into my mouth, running the back of my hand over it when she was done.
“Tummy time!” she sang. She tapped my knees in an unspoken request to relax my legs.
/> I felt myself flush with discomfort and humiliation. She waited and I could feel the tension building the longer I stayed still.
“Three… two… ”
I slowly lowered my legs, glaring blatantly at her.
She pretended to ignore me as she washed my chest and belly, before dipping between my legs.
My first instinct was to pull away but a stern look from her and the throb of my nearly unbearable headache changed my tune. She spread my thighs, pushing me back against the slanted edge of the tub and cleaned my most intimate areas. I stared blankly, trying to both ignore and focus on my headache to distract me.
Her vigorous scrubbing moved to my thighs, my calves, and tickled the soles of my feet.
After she rinsed me off with a plastic cup covered in Disney princess, she tilted my head back and poured the now soapy and lukewarm bath water over my hair. She washed my hair thoroughly, her fingers raking over every inch of my scalp.
When she rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, she pulled me up by the wrist so I was standing. She used the cup to rinse all of the suds off me before letting me step out.
I reached for my towel and she snatched it away from me. “No, no, no, I’ll dry you off, Polly.”
She toweled my hair so it was somewhere between dripping wet and damp before moving to my back. She was none too gentle as she rubbed my cold-harden sensitive nipples or the soft skin of my flat belly. When she was finally done, I felt cold, manhandled, and irritated.
She took a brushed to my hair and ripped it through the snags painfully. I winced as she pulled it through a particularly large tangle, letting out a shriek when she yanked down.
“Bad girl,” she said, giving me a smack on the ass. “No screaming.”
“Ow!”
“You want some more?” she threatened, holding up the hairbrush behind me in the mirror.
The sting of the hairbrush against my bare skin kept me silent until she finished brushing my hair. My relief that it was over was short lived. She put the brush down on the counter and started parting my hair.
“What are you doing?”
She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Is that how little girls address grown-ups?”
“What are you doing... ma’am?” I winced again as the headache intensified after her aggressive brushing.
“Well, I can’t have you getting anything in your hair or tangling it up again,” she said, putting some pink hairbands on the counter next to the brush, “so I’m putting it up in pigtails.”
I decided I was going to have to pick my battles and tried to put the idea of being in pigtails all weekend out of my mind. When she had pulled my hair into two tight pigtails, she tied little bows around them to further their infantilizing affect.
My reflection went from an eighteen year old who’d had one of her first incredible-but-rough nights to that of a ten or eleven year old, barefaced with pigtails tied up with little pink bows.
“There,” she said, putting her hands on my shoulders. “What a pretty girl!”
“Can I put some clothes on…” I started, getting another stern look from her as I trailed off, “...Mrs. Paezel?”
“Yes, you may ,” she said. “I have everything set up in the living room. Follow me, Polly.”
I crossed my arms over my nakedness and followed her.
When I saw what looked like a changing table, I stopped in my tracks. “What the fuck is that?”
“Polly!” she yelled, pulling a diaper out of a diaper bag. “We talked about this! No bad words!”
“I’m not wearing a diaper!” I said, my voice cracking with anger and desperation. “I’m eighteen years old, lady. I’m not wearing a diaper.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind after I give you a much deserved spanking for disobedience and filthy language,” she said, stomping over to me. “You were doing so well, but obviously, that was just an act.”
She pinched my ear, pulling me down to her waist-level, forcing me to bend over, and dragged me over to the couch. I shrieked and grabbed her wrist with both hands, but the awkwardness of the angle prevented me from pulling away.
My parents had never spanked me - not that they had any reason to - or my brother, but that didn’t stop me from being interested in the idea of being spanked by a partner. This was far from that fantasy.
Mrs. Paezel sat in the center of the couch and pulled me over her lap, twisting my arm behind my back so I was at her mercy. I kicked and struggled as she showered my poor ass with hard, quick slaps.
Tears welled in my eyes as she alternated between my left and right cheek, the crease in my thighs, and the tops of my thighs, the sound of my spanking filling my ears. She kept spanking me until my protests turned to quiet sobs.
My ass was on fire by the time she slowed to a halt.
“How does it feel to be a bad girl, huh?” she said, giving me another hard smack. “Does it feel good, Polly? Do you want to keep misbehaving or are you going to try to be a good girl? Are you going to do what your told like a good girl?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice thick with tears.
Her hand struck me again. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I cried.
She pulled me up, sitting me on my punished bottom, making me flinch.
“Good,” she said, using a tissue to wipe my face. “Oh Polly, you feel warm. I’m going to take your temperature before we get you dressed.”
I sat, waiting anxiously as she pulled a thermometer out of the diaper bag. When she pulled me back over my lap, I almost jerked back, but even the pain of sitting down made me reconsider.
I cried into the couch cushion as she spread my sore bum and poked at my rosebud with her cold, dry thermometer.
At eighteen years old, I was reluctant to admit it, but I have never been penetrated in my life. Not by a finger, penis, toy or anything. And yet, here I was, letting a woman my parents hired to baby me, poking around my crack to stick a thermometer in the tighter of my virgin holes.
I wrenched my arms out of her grasp and stretched them above my head as Mrs. Paezel pulled my thigh up to her lap. With on leg straight and the other bend high, my knee pressing against my breast, the angle to get into my ass was a bit more visible.
Mrs. Paezel ran the tip of the thermometer over my tight hole and when the tip sunk past the otherwise level flesh of my crack, she worked it in a circle, trying to work it inside me. I squirmed, leaning up on my forearms as she pressed it into my butt.
“Stay still,” she snapped. “If you don’t, I’ll find something to make you squirm.” She pushed the thermometer into me and l relaxed as she let it stick out of me, halfway buried in the tight ring of my sphincter.
Even as I adjusted to the shame of being naked over the lap of a babysitter, the idea of a thermometer poking out between my hot, red punished cheeks was humiliating. My ears pricked with heat.
The thermometer beeped and I felt her slid it out. “Normal temperature. But always better to be safe than sorry.”
She pulled me back up and led me to the changing table. I crawled up onto it and lay on my back, trying to avoid eye contact as my face and ears burned with shame.
“There’s a good girl,” she cooed, lifting my legs to slide the diaper underneath me. “Healthy, clean, and ready to get dressed.
Mrs. Paezel raised my legs, spreading them so she could dust me with baby powder, patting it so that it covered every part of me the diaper would touch. She put my legs down and taped the diaper high on my waist.
I crossed my arms, still refusing to look at her, and she pulled out something pink and frilly.
“Sit up so I can put you in your onesie,” she said, patting me on the diaper so it made a plasticy crackling noise.
I opened my mouth in protest and before I could make a sound, she silenced me with a pacifier. Without uncrossing my arms, I sat up and spit the pacifier out. “Those are baby clothes,” I said, sounding more petulant than I intended.
“And you’re a ba
by,” she said, putting the pacifier back up to my lips. I set my mouth in a hard line, squirming away from her efforts to put the pacifier back in my mouth. “Do as your told or I’ll treat you the way you’re acting! Do you want to have to ask permission every time you need to soil your diaper?”
“No.”
She caught my chin and looked me straight in the eyes. “Then stop misbehaving, young lady.”
I stared defiantly at her. She let my chin go and held my nose, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. When my lips parted, she slipped the pacifier back into my mouth before I could push her hands away.
“If I catch you with a dirty diaper without asking permission, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she said, pulling me up into a sitting position and raising my hands over my head so she could pull the onesie onto me.
She pushed me onto my back so she could snap it over my diaper. The diaper bulged out from the bottom of it and the frilly butterfly sleeves matched the ribbons in my hair. I sucked on the pacifier, trying to lessen my focus on my appearance.
After admiring her work, pinching my cheeks until they were as red as my bottom, she lifted me off the changing table and put me on my hands and knees.
“Playtime! I’m going to get you some breakfast and then we can figure out what we want to do today!” she said, handing me some dolls and plush toys.
I threw the toys aside and pulled my legs up to my chest, making it clear I would not be playing with her baby toys. I pulled the pacifier from my mouth. “Can I have eggs… ma’am?”
“Silly girl, babies can’t eat grown-up food. You’re having peas and carrots,” she laughed.
“Can I have some water first?” I said. “My head hurts, Mrs. Paezel.”
“After the night you had, you need something more than water,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
I sat silently, looking at the dolls and the lilac stuffed rabbit, putting the pacifier on the coffee table. I reached out and stroked it, surprised by how soft it was and wondered how many “babies” had played with it before me. I picked it up and put it on my knees, pressing my face into its soft belly. When I closed my eyes and rest my head on it, I could almost forget I was sitting in a diaper and a onesie with my hair in pigtails.
Nappied and Nannied Bundle Page 2