Let’s get one thing straight,” Ella said, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t make the rules. I do.”
I gulped, squirming in my highchair. Already this girl was more stern than the last few babysitters my wife hired. Apparently they had reported that I was displaying some “less than desirable behavior”, but could you blame me? My wife was putting me in dresses and diapers and going off to fuck other men. I had to listen to her—lest she divorce me and take all my money, but I did not have to listen to some mid-twenties “babysitter” when I was twice their age. But that was before I met this girl.
“Rule number 1,” she said matter of factly, tossing back her hair so hard her boobs bounced, “you will address me as either ‘Miss Ella’ or ‘Ma’am’ at all times. I will not answer to ‘hey’ or ‘um’ or ‘uhh’. If I tell you to do something, you do it. No pouting. No arguing. No backtalk. You will say ‘Yes Ma’am’ and you will follow my instructions.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued, pacing back and forth as she rattled off her rulebook.
“Rule number 2, you will not use foul language or any grown-up words for that matter. Since you are not dressed like an adult, you will not speak like one. That means I want to hear nothing but lisps and baby babble, otherwise I will wash those filthy grown-up words out with a bar of soap, do you understand me?”
“Yes Miss Ella.” I said before I could even think about rebelling.
“What was that?!” She snapped. Her voice cracking like a sharp whip.
She smiled, but only for a second before morphing back into her menacing glare. “Better.”
Why was I trembling? This girl was practically half the size of me. I could easily take her. But instead I was…afraid? Seriously?
She scooped up the little canvas bag she’d brought in with her, “That brings us to Rule 3…” she said unzipping it and rifling through it. “Whatever I bring to you, you will take it and you will use it for its intended purpose. If I put a pacifier in your mouth, it stays there until I remove it. If I put a rattle in your hand, you shake it. If I put a spoon full of mush in your mouth, you will eat it, and…”
She pulled out the object she was looking for, setting it down on the tray in front of me. “…if I give you a bottle, you will drink it. Every. Last. Drop. I don’t care how thick it is or how full your little tummy thinks it is. You’re in a high chair, diapered, and in a ridiculous little onesie. You don’t have a say. You drink what you’re given and say ‘thank you’ after.”
I stared at the bottle in front of me. My wife had the highchair, sure, but it was mainly just to emasculate me. She’d cut my food into tiny, bite-sized pieces to patronize me, but steady it was real food. She never made me drink a bottle before. I wrinkled my nose involuntarily.
Ella stopped mid-step and turned slowly, eyebrow raised. “Was that a face?”
She leaned over the tray, hands on her hips, her face so close to mine I could feel her minty breath from the gum she was smacking. “Is there a problem, babygirl?” Her voice was smooth, but dangerous. “Do we need to go over the consequences of you disobeying me?”
How was she so intimidating?? “N-No Mith Ewwa!” I squeaked.
“I think we should! If I catch you making any sort of face I don’t approve of, you will be facing the corner in timeout. Mmk, pumpkin?”
“Good!” She smiled, sliding the bottle forward, “then drink up!”
Reluctantly, I picked the bottle of milk up, trying my best not to make a face. She watched closely as I brought it to my lips, took the nipple in my mouth, and started sucking. It somehow tasted worse than I expected. I’m sure I made a face, or at least cringed, but luckily she only found that amusing. I suckled the bottle slowly, trying not to groan at the weight of it in my mouth or the embarrassment blooming in my chest.
“Rule four…” she continued, pacing once more. “No touching your diaper without asking. If I see you tugging at it or sneaking a feel, you’ll spend the rest of the day in mittens. If I catch you trying to rub your pathetic little penis against anything, I…well…do you know what a chastity cage is?”
I did, but I didn’t want to learn what it felt like. I squeezed my legs together, because erections tended to have terrible timing. I could feel the dampness of my diaper between my thighs—already there from earlier—or had I done it just recently? People didn’t actually piss themselves from fear…right?
She crossed her arms, staring at me like I was the most pathetic thing she’d ever seen. “Rule number 5,” you don’t ask for a diaper change. Ever. You wait for me to check you. Only I decide when you get a fresh pamper.”
I whimpered softly around the nipple of the bottle.
She raised an eyebrow. “Was that a whine?”
I shook my head frantically.
“Good. Because one more noise like that and you’ll be making all kinds of noises when I pull that diaper down and put you over my knee! Think I won’t?”
My heart raced. I believed her.
“Rule number 6: I don’t change poopy diapers. So if you make a poopy diaper, you can expect to stay in that poopy diaper until your wife gets back. Do you understand me?”
“What was that?” She snapped.
“Now,” she said, her voice softening just a notch as she reached forward and brushed a lock of hair from my face, “you focus on your bottle like a good baby. When you’re done, I’ll check your diaper. If you’re wet—and we both know you are—you’re getting changed on the living room floor. No whining, no hiding. You’re the baby. You don’t get to feel shy anymore.”
My face was so hot I thought I might faint.
“Oh, and rule number…what rule are we on now? Doesn’t matter,” she shrugged with a smirk, leaning in close for added effect, inches away from the bottle I was choking down. “If you pull any of the shit you did with those other sitters, I will bring out the reins, and you’ll crawl. On all fours, in nothing but your wittle baby diapers and a pwetty pink tutu, and I’ll parade your ass around the block!”
I nodded quickly, then forced the words out, my voice high and broken.
“Y-yeth, Mith Ewwa…I’ll b-b-be good!! I pwomise!!”
She laughed wickedly, obviously taking pride in already breaking me. “Oh, and one more thing…” she pulled out her phone. “When I want to take pictures—and I will want to take pictures—you will smile like the big, happy baby I know you are!! Now say ‘Cheese and baba-squeeze!!’”
I popped the bottle out of my mouth, milk—or whatever it was—dripping down my cheek as I said the words and flashed a wide smile.
“Good girl. ” she said, standing back up with a satisfied grin. “I need other Mommies to see how good I am at putting their bratty husbands in their place! Now finish up your ba ba, I have much more in store for you today!”
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