Initially, she had left me tied spreadeagle on my bed. When she came in to check on me after a couple minutes, I had loosened the binding from my wrist and let my fingers wander. The coffee enema filling me to my limit. The shame of my ass being filled with a bright pink buttplug that read “brat” as I ground my clit into the ‘horse’ that prevented me from clenching as the belt licked my supple skin.
Rather than punish me right away for my ‘big girl’ discretion - rather than getting it over with and putting me back down for my nap, she left me with a daunting and insidious threat.
She told me I would want to rest while I could then put me in the playpen, tying my wrists and ankles tightly so I couldn’t maneuver my way out. The additional warning about finding the pacifier anywhere but my mouth made my mind wander insidiously.
After that, the mere concept of relaxing eluded me entirely.
Eluded.
You like that? It was one of my SAT words. “To evade or escape.”
2380 on my PSATs and here I was entirely naked except for the plug stuffed unceremoniously between my exposed cheeks.
I was in the master bedroom - my parents’ room. The parents who had gone away for the weekend and hired a nanny to babysit me and train me for adulthood using what Nanny Paezel called “Regression Therapy.” I still couldn’t believe they did this to me. It wasn’t that they did this to me as much as it was how easily they ignored how well I was doing and how absolutely dreadfully my brother did - not even by comparison but from an entirely objective perspective.
The door swung open so quickly that it made me jump, forcing me out of my resentful brooding.
“Polly?” she said as if I was even able to have left the room. “Is lil’ Polly done with her nappy wappy?”
I had wavered in and out of wanting to humor her over the course of the day.
My initial standoffishness brought out by my hangover, then confusion and embarrassment and then pain. The pain made me think if I played along, it might be nice to be coddled. It was only the disgraceful near-pleasure of my punishment that made me think I might not be the good girl that I thought I was.
My most recent stream of consciousness made me irritated and reluctant.
The pacified I had begun chewing on made it impossible to respond properly, not that I would have if I could have. Instead, I chewed more aggressively, taking my anger out on the pacifier.
“Polly wolly,” she cooed, walking over to the playpen. “Are you ready to be a good girl?”
Still, I said nothing. The sound of my chewing filled my ears.
“Polly wolly looks mad. Is she mad?” she said playfully, flicking my nipple with her finger, making me wince. “Is she mad at herself for being such a bad girl and touching herself in her no-no place?”
Her long ash blond hair was back in a bun, white blouse and black skirt still as spotless as when she first arrived, but the addition of big, black-rimmed glasses giving her the look of a mature, pornographic library.
She walked toward my feet and tickled the soles of my feet masochistically. I squirmed, a whine of complaint muffled through the pacifier. With a rubber nipple in my mouth and a “brat” plug stretching my sphincter, I felt skewered even with my limbs outstretched.
“Why don’t we take a look at that bum?” she said, untying one ankle and moving slowly toward the second. “Don’t want to put an entire form of punishment out of commission before your first day is over, do we?”
I grimaced, chewing angrily on the pacifier as she patted my cheek condescendingly after making her way over to my wrist. That was until she pinched my nipple hard, jiggling the flesh of my breast jovially before untying my wrist.
Even after she untied my last wrist, I felt just as inferior as I had when I was spread wide.
She lifted me under my arms out of the playpen, pulled the chewed up pacifier out of my mouth and put me on my hands and knees, pressing my head down to the floor so that she could get a good view of my backside and the humiliating plug protruding between my punished cheeks.
She ran her finger over one of the aching welts the strap had left criss-crossed over my ass, making me flinch.
“Does that sting, Polly?” she said playfully. “Will that help you remember to stop misbehaving? If it doesn’t, I’m sure what you have coming will. Only naughty girls touch themselves and naughty girls get punished.”
I moaned as she spread my sore cheeks, poking at the buttplug so that it pumped in and out of the wrinkled pucker of my anus.
“Let’s get you dressed,” she said. “It’s time to go to the market! Does that sound like fun, Polly?”
I turned to look at her, my cheek still pressed on the floor. I was shocked speechless. My heart pounded in my ears and I felt the tingling heat of embarrassment spread across my face.
She couldn’t be serious.
Mrs. Paezel smiled at me, worsening my nervous dread.
After a couple seconds of silence, she smacked my smarting rear. “I asked you a question, Polly.”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Paezel,” I stammered, still processing what she said.
“Good,” she said finitely. “Let’s get you to the changing table, you bad girl.”
She pulled me to my feet by the arm and dragged me to the changing table, lifting me onto it.
“Can’t I wear normal clothes, Mrs. Paezel?” I said quietly. “Since we’re leaving the house?”
“Silly Polly,” she laughed as she ran a baby wipe between my cheeks. “These are normal clothes for a little girl. And you’ll act your age and be obedient or I’ll bend you over my knee in the middle of the store.”
I grimaced as she picked up my ankles, bending my knees back so she could cover the full surface area between my eyes with a cloud of baby powder, leaving the plug in.
The telltale crackle of diaper made me wince as I thought about the possibility of someone I knew seeing me in it.
Luckily, I lived further away from school than most of my friends so the likelihood of that actually happening was pretty low, but knowing my luck, it was far from impossible. What was more likely was being seen by a trucker or one of the older ladies from the condo complex that seemed to be a retirement haven for everyone within a hundred miles.
I’m not sure which would be worse but I’m sure I would find out.
“Why do we have to go to the store, ma’am?” I squeaked as she let my legs down and pulled the front of the diaper up around my lower belly.
“We need more diapers since you seem to be running through them so quickly - unless you prefer to run around naked?” she said, looking at me over her glasses. I shook my head vigorously in response. “We also need some more baby food. Can’t have you malnourished on my watch… And now that I’m thinking about it, we should get a guardrail for your big girl bed if they have one.”
Before I could even think to protest, she popped an unscathed pacifier in my mouth so that she could tape the diaper tightly around my waist in silence. Her irritated expression faded into one more pleasant as I sucked mindlessly.
She pulled me up so I was sitting on the changing table, the diaper crunching loudly under me but softening the harshness of the thin padding of the changing table and preventing it from ramming the hard plastic penetrating me from being pushed any deeper into my bowels.
The diaper forced me to sit with my legs bowed to keep upright. I looked down and pressed my fingertips into the spongy synthetic material.
Mrs. Paezel riffled through one of the bags near the changing table, completely out of view. It wasn’t until she raised my arms up and slid something over my hands and my head that I realized how intent she was on utterly humiliating me.
Instead of a onesie or anything that could potentially be stretched to conceal the diaper, she put me in a dress that more resembled a toddler’s tutu than a dress. It was pink, frilly and barely covered the tape strapping the diaper to me which almost made the shame of wearing a diaper at eighteen years old even worst.
&nb
sp; A feat which, before today, I would have thought impossible.
As I looked down, the bottom of my pigtails grazed my arms just below the cap sleeves that felt tight enough to somewhat limit my mobility - as long as I didn’t want them to rip. I could barely reach up to touch my hair to check how the infantilizing hairstyle had held up.
Much to my surprise, it seemed there was not a hair out of place. At least as far as I could tell - Mrs. Paezel slapped my hand away once she turned back around to face me.
“Little girls aren’t self-conscious because they don’t know any better,” she said sternly. “And if you think you do know better that makes your disobedience even worse and in need of even more severe correction than what you’re already in for when we return. Is that the case, Polly?”
Again, I shook my head, sucking harder as I felt a frantic desperation creep into my expression.
“That’s what I thought,” she said knowingly. “Now sit still.”
I watched as she pulled another item of clothing out of one of her bags. I prayed they were pants to cover my embarrassingly visible diaper but instead, she pulled a white, equally frilly baby bonnet over my pigtails, cutting off my peripheral vision and adding to the anxiety of being seen by someone I knew.
“There,” she said. “Perfect. The sun may be down but that should limit distractions while we’re out. Wouldn’t want you to get fussy… fussier than you have been, anyway.”
It was too early to know if the bonnet would help or hurt my efforts to go unseen but, as with my nanny’s other efforts to help me regress, it would soon become all too clear.
Mrs. Paezel handed me the plush rabbit she had given me earlier in the day and carried me to her car. Shoving it into my chest so I caught it with both hands before she picked me up and carried me toward the front door.
I squirmed in her arms which only made her hold me tighter, her fingers gripping me like talons. She opened the front door, leaving it open behind us.
Her car looked strange and unfamiliar in the driveway. She had a big black car that she had backed into the driveway. It was only as we approached it in the darkness that I could make out the Porsche logo and “Cayenne” printed on the right-hand rear side.
Mrs. Paezel opened the passenger-side back door and lifted me into a large child’s car seat. I watched as she pulled the center strap from deep between my legs and pulled it up over the diaper so that she could snap the v-shaped top strap into it. She tugged the strap so that I was buckled snugly in place, slipping mittens on me and tightening the wrist straps so that I couldn’t unbuckle myself even if I wanted to.
The car door closed and I heard her walk back to the house to close and lock the door. Her heels clicked against the smooth cement as she walked to the drivers’ side of the car.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Mrs. Paezel buckled herself in, silencing the pinging seatbelt warning, and looked back at me.
“Look at you, Polly,” she cooed, grabbing my toe and jiggling my leg as if I were a toddler. “I think getting out will be good for you. Sometimes all you need is some external reinforcement to remember your place.”
The car revved to life and we were off, the sinking feeling in my stomach making my heart hammer against my ribs as we pulled out of the driveway.
This was really happening.
It wasn’t until we reached the main road that I really realized I wasn’t wearing any shoes. I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Paezel hadn’t thought ahead or if she meant for me to sit in the child’s seat of a shopping cart… or something more insidious, but I was determined to put it out of my mind until we actually reached our destination.
There was no use contemplating what was unquestionably out of my control. If I had learned anything from this so-called “Regression Therapy,” it was that it was all out of my control.
When we drove past the grocery store - at least, the one I was used to - I was relieved, but the sense of unknowing dread that was becoming much too familiar set in. Any sense of relief was plagued by a twinge of anxiety that whatever replaced it would be worse. More humiliating, more uncomfortable, more punishing than whatever I had avoided.
I closed my eyes and tried to get some rest.
Even though I was strapped to the soft, cushioned car seat, it was the most comfortable I had been all day. The dress was a little tight but my movement was only minimally restricted and I had all but forgotten about the buttplug nestled in my puckered rosebud. Soon, the gentle hum of the car engine lulled me into a light, pleasant sleep.
By the time the car slowed to a stop, I had no idea how long we had been on the road. I looked out the tinted window and saw a supermarket whose name I didn’t even recognize and was partially obscured by a tall tree.
“Alright, Polly,” Nanny Paezel said jovially, turning back and smiling at me buckled into my car seat. “Time to go to the market.”
She got out of the car, slinging her purse over her shoulder before closing the drivers’ seat door. The clicking of her heels grew louder, fainter, then louder as she walked behind the car to my door where I was unable to unbuckle myself thanks to the mittens.
I was unbuckled and lifted out of the car.
Just before Mrs. Paezel went to put me on my feet, she realized I was barefoot.
“Uh oh,” she said with a hint of audible regret in her sigh. “You’re not wearing any shoes and I don’t think we brought any. I suppose you’ll have to wear whatever I have.”
She carried me to the trunk, lifted the hatchback and sat me on the edge as she looked through the precariously piled bags.
After a few minutes passed, her rifling becoming more frantic, she zipped everything back up and placed a pair of nude pumps next to me.
“If you’re going to wear these,” she said reluctantly, “I’m going to have to take your mittens off, but that means you’re going to have to be on even better behavior and if you misbehave, the consequences will be twice as severe. Do you understand, Polly?”
“Yes, Nanny Paezel,” I said, trying not to sound too thrilled that the mittens were coming off as perverse of an ensemble as it may be. “I understand.”
“Good,” she griped, loosening the mittens and slipping them off my hands one at a time. “Because I’m not going to be the only one keeping an eye on you.”
I looked at her, confused.
“Oh,” she said in mock surprise. I could see a smug smile spreading across her face even in the dim lighting of the car park. “Did I forget to mention? This isn’t just any grocery store. Everyone who works and shops here is very much aware of the practices and benefits of Regression Therapy. Nannies and little girls shop here and you’ll be held accountable by all of them.”
Of course.
I wasn’t even sure I was surprised. If anything, I was relieved that there was no chance of anyone I knew seeing me this way. Not that strangers would be that much better.
I slipped each foot into the nude pumps and stood. The light night breeze reminded me just how exposed my lower half was.
“One last thing,” Mrs. Paezel said. Before I could turn around, she buckled a thin leather choker on me with a heart-shaped, cold metal tag that made me shiver as it tickled the hollow of my throat. “There you go, Polly.”
I touched the choker and realized that it was a collar. The metal tag had brat engraved across it. It was so stylized, I almost couldn’t make it out by touch, but I’m sure it would be more than obvious to anyone within five feet of me.
Mrs. Paezel slapped my hand out of the way and clipped a leash onto the collar, walking ahead so that I had to wobble a few feet behind her, still unused to walking in heels.
The sound of our thin heels clicking against the asphalt lulled me into a hypnotic bout of reflection. I barely considered the irony of wearing heels helping me regress more than anything else Mrs. Paezel had tried.
With the recent exception of prom, my parents had never let me wear heels.
For a long time, I had never understood w
hy because it wasn’t unusual for any of the girls in my grade to wear them to semi-formal school dances. About a year ago, my father had explained to me that the reason why I couldn’t wear heels before I was eighteen and the reason why my mother was always so reluctant to supply a substantial reason for any of her absurd, seemingly arbitrary rules was because she had grown up in and broken free from a strict, fundamentalist family.
I remember the exact moment he had told me. It was like one of those moments that was so shocking and unbelievable that every detail stands out as if it were more recent than the day before.
She had always told both me and my brother that she didn’t like speaking about her family because they had all died in a tragic plane crash, which was understandable [and true, as confirmed by my father in this moment of confession] but the more I thought about it, the more so many of her rules, restrictions, and conservative-borderline-ignorant opinions made sense. Especially when he told me that she had only begun reconsidering what she had been brainwashed to believe after her family died when she was twenty-one - the same year she had met him.
And even though I didn’t agree, there was something about wearing heels that always seemed promiscuous and taboo. My current circumstances did nothing to contradict the feelings of brash recklessness and shameful self-consciousness.
As we approached the well-lit entrance to the supermarket, I lost my train of thought.
The automatic doors opened for us and the sound of an open palm meeting a fleshy backside grew louder and louder as we passed through the short thoroughfare.
It wasn’t long before I saw them. An older woman was seated on an armless chair, shielded from any curious onlookers outside the store by a wholesale-sized shelf full of diapers, with a girl around my age over her lap. The girl’s skirt was flipped up over her waist and tears streamed down her face as the woman rained hard smacks down on her bare bottom.
Nappied and Nannied Bundle Page 4