Chapter 4 - Rice and Greens
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
The shortalls itched faintly against my thighs, the thick, crinkling bulk of the diaper beneath making the fabric strain just enough to keep me constantly cognizant of what I was wearing. The matching booties she put me in made my feet heavy and awkward. The little propellor on the top of my hat spun with every movement of my head. I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know I looked ridiculous, but I did it anyway.
Kathy stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. “Kitchen,” she said in that firm tone. “It’s time for num-nums.”
The phrase made my stomach twist. Still, I let out a little huff and stepped toward the hall.
“Uh-uh,” she said sharply. “You’ve already been told: you crawl in this house.”
I froze mid-step, turning to glare at her. “That’s—”
“Don’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”
“It’s stupid,” I shot back before I could stop myself.
Her lips curved in something between a smirk and a sneer. “What’s stupid,” she said evenly, “is thinking you get a choice.”
She reached over and took the riding crop from its hook on the wall, letting the flexible shaft bend slightly as she brought it down to her side. The sight of it sent a little tremor down my spine, but I had to stay resolute, if only to save some of my remaining dignity.
The first strike was fast. A hiss, a snap, and a sting blooming hot across my thigh. I flinched, biting down on a curse. Three more followed in quick succession, all in different parts of my body, all equally painful and disarming.
“Hands too,” she said, voice flat. “Now.”
Heat crawled up my neck as I dropped to all fours, the diaper bulging between my thighs.
“That’s better,” Kathy said, her voice sliding back into syrupy condescension. “Much more your speed.” She circled behind me, gave a light tap to my rear with the crop. “Let’s go, baby boy. Crawl.”
I moved forward, the crinkling between my legs loud in the hallway’s stillness. Every few steps, the crop flicked out, sometimes to my hip, sometimes to my arms, sometimes to my neck with impressive precision. Each sharp sting keeping me from slowing down.
“See? Isn’t this nice?” she cooed. “No rushing. No big-boy strides. Just you, down where you belong.”
By the time we reached the kitchen, my knees ached, my thighs burned, and my face felt molten with humiliation. Kathy just smiled, crop still resting deftly in her hands and ready to be used at any second.
The kitchen was bright, almost sterile in its order, every counter wiped to a shine. I was expecting to head for the usual breakfast table when my eyes caught the hulking shape in the corner.
It took a second to process what I was seeing. It was tall enough to tower over the counters, with a thick tray and a seat broad enough for someone my size. It was very obvious what it was intended to be: a high chair. It was a fucking high chair.
Kathy followed my gaze. “Picked that up at an estate sale. Used to be one of those old lifeguard chairs.” Her hand traced the armrest almost affectionately. “Cut it down, added the tray and some…other features. Sturdier than anything you could buy new.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “You never were much good with tools.”
The tray creaked open with a sound that made my stomach tighten. She didn’t have to tell me where I was going, her little tap of the crop against my hip said it all.
I climbed in begrudgingly, the seat far too stiff to offer any comfort, the swollen bulk of my diaper shifting against the smooth wood. The crinkling was loud, every small movement reminding me of what I was sitting in. It felt strange to settle onto the thick, padded plastic of the pamper, though it at least cushioned the raw sting still lingering from the spanking the night before. My feet dangled several inches off the floor as the tray slid into place, pressing into my stomach. She pulled a broad strap over my hips, buckling and cinching it with a tug, then secured my wrists with padded cuffs fixed to the tray’s underside.
“Is this really necessary?” I muttered.
Her expression didn’t change. “Yes,” she said, tightening the last strap until I couldn’t shift an inch. “It is.”
Then her tone shifted, sweet but mocking. “Time for baybee’s breakfast!”
From the counter, she produced a mason jar the size of a peanut butter container, its contents a swampy green-brown sludge that clung to the glass with unnerving thickness.
Next came the bib. Kathy snapped it open with that neat little flick, the vinyl catching the kitchen light. She tied it snug behind my neck and smoothed the flap over my chest. It wasn’t large enough to cover my chest, just an undersized rounded square of plastic that somehow made the whole picture look even more absurd.
“There we go!!” she said, scooping up the large jar, “Now let’s get the hungee baybee all nice and fed!”
She unscrewed the lid with a little pop, and the smell hit me immediately. Sour greens and something earthy, almost rotten. My stomach turned. Kathy didn’t seem to notice. She held the jar up to the light, inspecting the thick, swamp-colored mush like she was admiring her own handiwork. Then she gave it a little stir with the spoon, making it slurp and fold over itself with a wet sound that made my throat tighten.
“Fresh from the garden,” she said, almost proud, as if that explained the stench. “Kale, spinach, peas, and a few other things to help you grow big and stwong!! All blended up. Just for you!” She angled the jar so I could get a better look at the chunky, grainy mess inside. She smiled. “Mmm!! Looks nutritious, doesn’t it?”
I swallowed hard. “I can’t,” I blurted. “Gam-Gam, I’m still full from the bottle.” The milk was still sloshing inside me, heavy and warm, stirring every time I shifted. “Please, can’t I have—”
“You’ll eat what is served.” She said sharply, brandishing a plastic spoon seemingly out of nowhere and loading it up with the green mush. “After what you did to my daughter, you get what you deserve.”
I gulped, throat dry despite the milk in my gut. “It… it looks disgusting.”
Kathy didn’t even blink. “Then it suits you.” She shrugged. “And it seems you have forgotten: men in diapers don’t get to use that word. To you, it’s yucky. Say it.”
Heat crept up my neck. “…It looks yucky.”
“Much better, but that’s not a nice thing to say about breakfast,” she said, digging the spoon into the jar and stirring lazily until the paste loosened. “Or lunch. Whichever you want to call it. It’s going in either way.”
She scooped up a heaping spoonful and held it in front of me. The sludge wobbled at the edge of the plastic spoon, streaked with darker flecks and a few stubborn strands that refused to let go. A faint warmth wafted off it, damp and vegetal, like over-boiled greens. My stomach turned.
I stared at the spoon, then at her. Her expression was calm, but her eyes warned me not to test her patience.
“Open,” she repeated, a fraction harder this time. “Or I’ll make this a lot less pleasant.”
My jaw trembled. I hesitated just a second too long, and she sighed, reaching forward to pinch my chin between her fingers. The pressure forced my mouth open just enough for her to slip the spoon in. I tried to fight it, but the straps on my wrist held me firm. All I could do was take it.
The mush hit my tongue like paste. It was warm, wet, and wrong. A grainy, fibrous taste that felt like chewing wet paper towels. My body rejected it on instinct, I gagged, pushing it forward with my tongue and letting it dribble out of my mouth.
The blob landed on my chin and slid toward the bib.
Kathy gave a little laugh, light and airy. “Oh, look at that,” she said. “Can’t even keep it in your mouth. What a messy boy.” She scooped the blob off my chin with the spoon and held it back up, still smiling. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to eat your greens? You’re supposed to swallow them, not wear them.” She nudged the spoon past my lips again, her tone syrupy-sweet. “There we go! Let’s try that bite again. For Gam-Gam.”
I tried to lean back, but the cuffs bit into my wrists where they locked me to the highchair arms. The tray pressed into my stomach, keeping me pinned while the taste clung to my tongue like it wanted to live there.
“Swallow,” she said, watching my throat. When I did, she smiled. “Good boy!! Let’s keep going...”
The second bite came fast, catching me before I’d recovered. She overfilled the spoon so a streak smeared across my cheek. I tried to wipe it, forgetting the cuffs, which tugged cruelly against my skin. The smear stayed put, sticky and warm, mocking me.
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “You look adorable with a little mush on your face. Shows you’re enjoying yourself.”
I obeyed, and she rewarded me with another mound. “Good babies finish their greens,” she said, like she was reciting a proverb. The spoon painted a crescent across the corner of my mouth when I hesitated, then shoved the rest in, smearing the crescent wider. “Oh, look at that! Such a messy little man!”
She didn’t give me time to protest. Spoon after spoon came, each loaded high. Some bites dribbled instantly, sliding down my chin to join the smear. Others sat heavy on my tongue until I forced them down. Each time, she narrated.
“Swallow it, don’t store it in your cheeks. You’re not a chipmunk.”
“Do you always dribble this much?”
“Don’t pout. Quit slouching! Sit up straight and get ready for another bite!”
“Plenty of fiber in this,” she said cheerfully, her tone too sweet to be comforting. “I think there will be lots of good poops later...”
The words hit me like a punch under the ribs, heavy enough to stir the milk in my stomach. Good poops later.
I’d been so distracted by the humiliation of pissing myself, trying to get used to the foreign feeling of having a warm, wet diaper sagging between my thighs that I’d never really let myself think about what it would be like to… to actually have to poop in one. The fear and sensations rushed in. I imagined the heat, the weight, the way it would spread, and her standing right there to watch, maybe even writing it down on my chart as if it were some proud milestone.
Or maybe, just maybe, she’d show mercy and let me use the potty.
My brain snagged on the word. Potty. Did I just call it a potty?? The shame of it buzzed in my ears. I hadn’t even been here more than a day and already my mind seemed to be regressing.
“Open,” she said, lifting another spoon toward my mouth.
The mess spread: slick on my chin, streaked on my cheeks, flecks dotting the bib. The smell was constant, the taste worse. Every instinct screamed to wipe it off, to at least lick my lips clean, but the straps made sure I couldn’t. I sat there stewing in it while she worked at her own pace.
“You know,” she said, tapping the spoon against the rim of the jar, “if you just opened faster, less of it would end up on your face. But maybe you like wearing it. Makes things easier for me.”
By the halfway point, the milk in my stomach churned with the new weight.
“Here comes the airplane!!” she said suddenly, her tone flat but mocking, like she was humoring herself. “Long flight tonight! Better clear the runway…”
I groaned but opened, and she shoved in more than I could manage in one bite. The excess smeared across both cheeks. I twisted, trying to scrape it off on my shoulder, but the bib’s slick vinyl just smeared it more.
“Aww, look at you trying to clean yourself. That’s precious. Sit still for Gam-Gam.”
She kept going until the jar scraped empty. The final spoonful was an overfilled victory lap, and she made sure to drag the spoon up my lower lip so every drop went in.
I swallowed, throat tight, stomach heavy, face hot and coated.
Kathy stepped back, eyes scanning me like she was checking her work. “Perfect.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and snapped a picture before I could react.
The shutter’s click felt louder than the whole feeding.
Only then did she smile wide. “Claire’s going to love this.”
Kathy finally set the spoon down and took one last look at my face, like a painter stepping back from her work. “Well,” she said, “that’s a job well done.”
A damp cloth appeared in her hand, cool and rough as she swiped it across my cheeks, chin, and lips. She didn’t dab, she scrubbed, turning my head this way and that, getting into the corners of my mouth until the skin tingled. “Can’t have you tracking your lunch all over the house,” she said, more to herself than to me.
When she was satisfied, she unfastened the bib and hung it over the chair back. The cuffs came next, the buckles popping loose one by one. My arms felt light and strange without the restraints, but the tray still pressed against my stomach until she lifted it away.
“Down,” she ordered, stepping aside so I could slide out of the highchair. My knees bent stiffly, the thick padding between my legs forcing my gait into a waddle. I glanced toward the hallway, but she was already pointing toward the living room.
Crawling was somehow worse. Every forward shift made the diaper pull at my hips and belly, the wet bulk from earlier squishing under me. By the time we reached the living room, my legs were trembling, and my eyes had locked onto the playpen taking up the center of the space.
I barely noticed her dropping a faded, itchy quilt on the floor until she spoke. “Tummy time.”
I hesitated. The idea of lowering myself and my bloated belly onto that hard floor made something in me clench. “Please…I can’t! I’m so ful–”
The sharp thwick of the crop against my thigh cut me off. “You can. And you will.”
I whimpered and whined, but three more sharp swats got me in line. Slowly, I lowered myself onto the quilt. The moment my stomach touched down, a groan slipped out, pressure building inside, my breath catching as the fullness spread through my core. The quilt’s rough weave scratched my bare forearms, the smell of dust and ‘old lady’ wafting up.
I tried to shift, to find some angle that didn’t press so hard against my stomach, but Kathy was already crouching beside me, something bright in her hand.
It dangled from her fingers, a teething ring, all glossy plastic and primary colors, the kind of thing meant to look cheerful. A faint chemical sheen glistened across its ridged surface. She gave it a slow little wag just above my face, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“Open up,” she said evenly, “and take it like a good boy.”
I clamped my mouth shut, shaking my head just enough to make my point. The crop tapped once against my padded hip. Light, almost polite. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
A pause. Another tap, harder. My lips parted, and she slipped the teether between them.
The taste hit first, something acrid and metallic with the slightest fruit flavor to mask the mediciney taste. Then the tingling began. It spread fast: across my tongue, my gums, my lips, creeping like pins and needles from the inside out. My jaw tensed, the muscles refusing to cooperate. The numbness deepened until every movement of my mouth felt slippery and imprecise.
Kathy studied me like she was timing a reaction. “There it is,” she murmured. “Working nicely.”
I tried to spit it out, but my tongue barely obeyed. The teether slipped against my teeth, slick with saliva, and more drool pooled behind it, spilling from the corners of my mouth in thick ropes. I tried to swallow, failed, and a wet, blubbery sound escaped me instead.
She tilted her head again, smiling. “Ohhh, are you telling me all about it? That’s precious!!”
Drool ran down my chin and onto the quilt, soaking a small patch beneath my face. My next breath hitched, came out as a sloppy raspberry. My attempt to speak turned into a wet, bubbling sound. Half protest, half helpless noise.
I’d yet to see Kathy so amused. “Oh, that’s adorable!” She cooed, slipping her phone from her cardigan pocket and holding it out above me, the lens catching the light. “Go on,” she said. “Do that again for Gam-Gam.”
The crop tapped lightly against my diapered backside, a silent command to perform. I turned my face away, but she followed the movement, keeping me framed perfectly in view. My protests came out garbled and wet, broken by raspberries that sprayed more drool across my chin.
“Go on,” Kathy said, her tone patient and practiced. “Say hi to Claire.”
I tried. I wanted to tell her to stop this, to come get me, to do something, anything. The words formed clearly in my mind, but my mouth refused to cooperate. The teether pressed against my tongue, slick with the residue of whatever numbing cream she’d spread on it. Even without it, the chemical was doing its work. My lips tingled, my jaw felt heavy, and every sound came out thick and useless.
“Cluhh— Cuhhh— p-plehhh…”
Saliva flooded my mouth. The ring slipped against my lips, and I tried again, forcing the air out harder. “Puhhh—lease—” It came out as a bubbly rasp, half gurgle, half sob.
Kathy’s voice stayed steady. “Louder, sweetheart. I don’t think she can understand you.”
My cheeks burned. The diaper crinkled under me as I shifted, the sound sharp in the silence. I tried once more, every muscle in my face tightening as I fought for one clear syllable. “Cuhhh—Kuhhh—air…” It disintegrated into a drooling whimper.
I shook my head weakly, the little propeller on the cap she’d put on me tilting with the movement. I wanted to shout, to make her understand, but all that escaped was a blubbery rush of air that sounded closer to a sob than a word.
Kathy smiled slightly, never lowering the phone. “Good effort,” she said. “That’s what she needs to see. Effort.”
I could see my reflection in the black screen between recordings: cheeks flushed, mouth slack, eyes glassy. I looked ridiculous, and she knew it. That was the point.
I shut my eyes, the humiliation settling like another weight on top of my already-bloated stomach. The scratchy quilt, the chemical taste, the numb lips, the drool pooling under my cheek, it all blended into a single, inescapable awareness: she wasn’t just making me play baby. She was recording it, owning it, and sending it away where I couldn’t control it.
“Alright, let’s sit you up,” she said, plucking the teether from my mouth. Cool air hit my wet lips, and I swallowed thickly, the taste of artificial fruit still clinging to my tongue. She guided me upright against the mesh side of the playpen, then fussed with my clothes, straightening the straps of my shortalls and brushing at the front until I understood exactly what she was doing: arranging me. Making sure nothing was hidden. She popped the buttons between my legs and let the denim fabric splay open to expose my big, yellowed diaper.
“There,” she said, the word edged with satisfaction. “Now you look the part.”
She reached for a bright plastic rattle and placed it in my hand, curling my fingers around the fat handle like I couldn’t manage it myself.
“Something you can shake instead of chew.”
Kathy sat cross-legged in front of me, picking up her phone again.
“Alright, sugarbuns,” she said, syrupy and certain. “Let’s show Mommy what a good boy you’ve been for Gam-Gam!!”
The rattle felt absurdly light. I hesitated, but her expectant look left no room for refusal.
I sighed, then gave it a small, half-hearted rattle.
“Oh, come on!” she chided. “You can do better than that. Big shakes. Show me and your wife how much fun you’re having!”
I shook it harder, the plastic beads clacking inside the bulb. The sound was loud in the quiet room, mechanical and infantile.
“There we go!!” she cooed, lifting her phone to record. “Now bounce for me! Up and down. Yes, like that!”
I shifted awkwardly, rocking on my padded backside, the diaper crinkling with every movement.
“Good boy!” she encouraged, her voice just warm enough to sting. “Now let’s hear those happy baby noises. Goo goo ga ga, just like we practiced.”
My face burned. But I figured it wouldn’t be hard. I was making plenty of gibberish on my belly earlier. But now the numbness had worn off. So I didn’t have that to fall back on. I muttered a stiff “goo goo,” hoping it would be enough.
“Louder,” she said, her phone steady. “Gam-Gam wants to hear you, and so does Mommy!!”
“Goo goo… ga ga,” I said, forcing the syllables out louder this time.
Her smile widened. “Perfect. Now keep shaking that rattle and make some raspberries for me.”
I tried one, the sound wet and sloppy from the lingering numbness in my mouth. She laughed softly, delighted. “Adorable. Do another. And bounce while you do it.”
The bouncing made my belly churn, each jostle a reminder of the mush still sitting heavy inside me. I did another raspberry, then another, my body starting to ache either from the exaggerated movements, or from cringing so hard at how stupid I must look..
She kept filming, voice lilting. “That’s my happy baby. Shake it harder. Big smile for Mommy. Tell her you’re being so well-behaved for Gam-Gam.”
I clenched my jaw but forced the words out, shaky and slow: “I’m… being good for Gam-Gam.”
“Good boy,” she sang. “And what are you? Tell Mommy what you are.”
My hands tightened on the rattle. “…I’m a little baby.”
Her head tilted. “No, say it the right way.”
“I’m a widdle baybee,” I grumbled.
“Perfect,” she said, the phone unwavering. “Now bounce for me again. Shake that rattle. Big goo goos and ga ga’s for Mommy’s big widdle baybee who makes pee pees in his diapy.”
I started bouncing again, the crinkle of the diaper loud in my ears, my stomach churning with every jostle. The numbness from the teethers lingered, making my babble come out wet and slurred. Drool ran down my chin, forming bubbles at the bottom. I didn’t want to think about how fucking ridiculous I must look as the propellor swirled on top of my head and my diaper crinkled beneath me.
“That’s it,” she praised. “Such a silly, happy baby boy! Tell Mommy you love when Gam-Gam makes you play.”
“I love when Gam-Gam makes me play,” I echoed, hating myself for the obedience.
Her hand clapped once. “And tell her you love being humiliated for her.”
The rattle shook, but my grip tightened in growing frustration. “I… love being humiliated for her.”
The room felt smaller, the air hotter. My bouncing slowed, the plastic beads rattling out of rhythm.
“Come on, shake it harder. Big smile. Goo goo ga ga. Tell her again about your pee pee. Tell her you want to make a stinky for her next.”
My jaw clenched. “No. I’ve had enough.”
“Excuse me?” she said, voice still soft, but colder now. “That didn’t sound like a good boy...”
Something in me snapped. I hurled the rattle away. It clattered against the playpen wall and fell to the quilt, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
Kathy lowered the phone slowly, her smile gone, her eyes locked on me in measured, unblinking focus.
She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t have to.
I felt the heat drain from my face, replaced by that hollow, twisting sensation in my gut. I knew I’d just made a mistake.
“I…” I started, the word shaky, “I’m sorry, I—”
“Quiet.” Her voice cut through me. Low, measured, cold.
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes steady on mine. “So. We had ourselves a little tantrum, did we?” Her tone carried no sharpness, just a slow, syrupy condescension that made my skin crawl. “A big meltdown in front of Gam-Gam. Threw your toy, raised your voice.”
“You know what has to happen now, don’t you?”
The words hit like a physical weight. My throat tightened. “No… Kath—Gam-Gam! PLEASE!”
“You know,” she said again, enunciating each word like she was speaking to a stubborn brat.
My chest ached as I whimpered, “Please… please, I—”
“Go,” she interrupted. “Fetch the paddle.”
The humiliation burned deeper than the fear. Crawling out of the playpen felt like crawling to my own execution. My knees sank into the carpet, each crinkle of my diaper a reminder of how far I’d fallen. The nursery door was open, the paddle hanging on its hook against the far wall, visible the second I entered.
My hand shook when I took it down. The smooth wooden surface felt heavy, too warm in my palm. I didn’t want to bring it back. I wanted to disappear. But she was waiting.
When I returned to the living room, she was already seated on the couch, one leg crossed neatly over the other. Her hand patted the cushion beside her. “Come here, dear.”
I crawled forward on trembling knees and placed the paddle in her waiting hand.
I obeyed, my legs unsteady. She reached for the clasps of my shortalls and undid them one by one, the metal snaps popping loud in the quiet room. The straps slid from my shoulders, the garment sagging to my hips. With a practiced motion, she tugged them down around my knees.
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my diaper. “Let’s have this down.”
The tapes gave way, the padding falling heavy around my thighs. Cool air touched my skin, my bottom already tender from yesterday.
She patted her knee twice. “Over.”
I hesitated, eyes stinging. My bottom clenched on instinct, the soreness from yesterday still alive in the muscles. She waited, not rushing, the paddle balanced loosely in her hand.
My lip trembled as I bent forward. By the time I draped myself over her lap, my eyes were wet.
Her free hand rested on my lower back. “Behavior like that,” she said evenly, “will not be tolerated. You don’t throw toys, you don’t raise your voice, and you certainly don’t tell Gam-Gam ‘enough.’ Only I will decide when you’ve had enough.” She gave a small, deliberate pause. “Are we clear?”
The first swat landed before I could breathe in. The sharp crack of wood on skin sent a jolt up my spine, my legs kicking involuntarily.
The paddle rose and fell in that steady, awful rhythm, each swat biting deeper than the last. My body twisted on her lap, my legs kicking helplessly, but her free arm across my lower back kept me pinned. The burn built until every nerve in my backside felt raw and alive, the sting radiating down into my thighs.
By the tenth swat I was gasping; by the fifteenth, my voice cracked. Somewhere after that the sobs started, sharp and ragged. Kathy didn’t stop right away, she spanked through my first cries, through the hiccuping pleas, until I was sagging over her lap, sobbing openly, my face hot and wet against her thigh.
Only then did the paddling stop. She rested it on the couch beside her, her hand patting my hip in that same maddeningly calm rhythm. “Alright,” she said, as though we’d just finished some simple chore. “Up.”
I pushed myself upright, my hands trembling as I balanced. My diaper still hung loose around my knees, my bottom on fire, each movement sending fresh sparks of pain across my skin.
“Go to the corner,” she instructed, her tone even. “Face the wall.”
I hobbled over, each step a reminder of the raw heat behind me. My forehead rested against the wall, my hands limp at my sides. I could hear my own sniffling, the occasional hitch in my breath.
Behind me, Kathy’s footsteps moved toward the kitchen. The quiet was almost worse than the spanking, my mind chewing on what might come next.
When she returned, I didn’t turn, but I heard the soft scrape of something on the floor.
“When I was a little girl,” she began conversationally, “my mother would punish me if I got a little too…big for my britches.”
The sound was clearer now: a gentle sprinkling, like pebbles on wood.
“She kept a jar of rice in the pantry. Not for cooking, no, this was special rice. For misbehaving.”
I glanced down just enough to see two small mounds of raw, uncooked grains on the carpet beneath me.
Kathy stepped into my peripheral vision, arms folded, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The word was soft but absolute.
I swallowed hard, fresh heat blooming in my cheeks as I lowered myself toward the floor. The grains shifted under my knees, sharp points biting into skin already trembling from the spanking. The sting was instant, different from the paddle but no less cruel. I tried to shift my weight to dull the pain, but no matter where I went, there were tiny, stabbing pains from the grains.
I clenched my jaw, but the tears still came, hot and steady, slipping down my cheeks and dripping onto the carpet. My legs quivered under the strain, the ache building with each passing second.
My lips parted in confusion. I hesitated only a moment before she pressed the bulb of a pacifier against them. It was oversized, almost comically so, the shield covering half my mouth and chin.
The moment it touched my tongue, a bitter, acrid taste spread through my mouth. My instinct was to pull back, but Kathy held firm, giving the handle a slow twist to seat it snugly between my teeth. The gesture felt final, as though she were turning a key.
“You’re to be seen, not heard,” she said, her voice steady and cool. “No more backtalk. Just quiet thinking time.”
The taste lingered, coating my tongue and throat until it burned faintly at the edges. I swallowed again and again, trying to make the awful bitterness go away. But every suckle of the rubber teat sent more into my mouth. That’s when I realized she’d injected the bulb with the liquid. Something to serve as another constant reminder of my place.
From somewhere behind me came the faint jingle of coins. She stepped around and held a penny between two fingers, her eyes fixed on mine. “Nose to the coin,” she instructed. “Hold it there. If it drops…” Her voice thinned to a hiss. “…we start over at the couch.”
I leaned in until my nose pinned the penny against the wall, forcing my knees to dig into the rice even more. The metal was cold. My legs screamed, trembling with every second I kept still.
She leaned close again, her words coiling in my ear. “We can do this the easy way, Ethan, or we can do it the hard way. But either way…” Her fingers brushed the back of my neck, making me flinch. “…Gam-Gam will get your behavior corrected.”
The rice bit deeper. My legs shook harder. And I didn’t dare let that penny fall.
Kathy lingered close just long enough for me to feel her presence, then stepped back without another word. I heard the couch springs creak as she sat down, the faint click of the remote in her hand.
A moment later, the tinny, familiar theme of Days of Our Lives drifted through the room, bright and casual, so out of place against the ache in my knees and the burning in my backside. She settled in like it was any ordinary afternoon, the only sound between the dialogue on the TV and the occasional crinkle of her reaching into a snack bag.
I stayed there, hands clasped behind my back, nose pinning the penny to the wall, the oversized pacifier seeping more of its bitter, sour liquid with each unsteady breath. The rice bit deeper into my knees, the sting from the spanking still hot across my skin. The swollen diaper was trapped tightly between my thighs, the padding pressing into the raw heat of my body each time I shifted. Every detail of it: the ache, the taste, the posture, all of it was part of the lesson. Kathy’s way of making sure I understood what happened when I forgot myself. Under her roof, every correction came with pain, obedience was the only thing that might make it stop, and maybe it would even get me the hell out of this godforsaken place.
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