You're a young adult living at home with your cruel step-mother and step-sisters, who keep you diapered and humiliated. Your therapist thinks you should accept that this is what you were meant to be.
Part 1 - Quiet Time
Part 2 - The Video
Part 3 - Mr. Kazoo
Part 4 - Naptime
Part 5 - Punished
Part 6 - Butterflies
Part 7 and Epilogue
Squire 👑
You're the child of a noble family who has been kidnapped to serve as a diapered squire for a fearsome queen. But who really is the queen, and who is this other pretty squire who seems intent on breaking you?
Part 1 - Kidnapped
Part 2 - Midnight Visitor
Part 3 - The Feeding
Part 4 - Her Majesty
Part 5 - Escape
Part 6 - The Hunt
Part 7 and Epilogue
Púpi 🎒
You're studying abroad in a mysterious country where you don't understand the language. It makes you feel like a helpless baby, and the local sorority girls are intent on treating you like one.
Part 1 - Levronia
Part 2 - Swaddled
Part 3 - Lessons
Part 4 - Moo
Part 5 - Exam
Part 6 - The Party
dolly.exe ⚠️
After downloading some malware, you've accidentally given a mysterious hacker control over your whole life. You'd better do, say, and wear whatever they want...or else.
Part 1 - Caught
Part 2 - Shopping Spree
Part 3 - Diapered
Drool 🍼
You've visited a clinic to get help for an irritating oral tic. The device you've been fitted with looks oddly like a pacifier, and these nurses seem to have even more humiliating plans for you.
I know, I know. You're picturing a big, dramatic scene where I pull down your pants, spank you into submission, tape you into a thick diaper and lock it into place.
You know what's so much more delicious to me? Diaper humiliation as routine. As lifestyle. As background noise.
You come home from work and swap out your house keys for a big pacifier, which you clip to your collar. You pull out your phone as you walk to the living room, casually removing your pants and underwear with your other hand. You lie down on the floor and spread your bare legs in the air, assuming the expected position as you submissively wait for your nightly diaper. Your legs dangle there stupidly as you suckle and scroll.
I let you dawdle like that for a minute or two before coming to oil and powder your bottom. You tell me about your day, drooling a bit through your paci, and I tell you about mine. I fold up the diaper nice and tight against your waiting bum and seal it.
No scene. No roleplay. No taunting or threats. Peeing in diapers and sucking pacifiers are just your everyday home life, as much as Netflix and takeout would be for a normal couple.
Because every once in a while, when you're not expecting it — as you're waddling to the kitchen in your soggy pampers or feeling a rope of drool ooze onto your dinner bib — it hits you like a ton of bricks: What a silly diapered dummy you are! When did being drooly, padded, and humiliated become so natural to you? So unremarkable? Your face will get hot, you'll feel squirmy in your tummy, and it will be so delicious, because it came out of nowhere.
You knew the rules when you moved in: you will not have dry pants in this house.
If you're not wearing a diaper, I must ALWAYS see a cute, damp little pee stain at your crotch. I don't care if you're wearing shorts, slacks, or a sundress...you're never fully dressed without your wet spot.
It's your constant, warm, wet little reminder that you're still my hopeless bedwetter, even when you're not padded. It makes me smile every time I see you. It makes you seem so small.
Go on, sweetheart. Put on your wet spot. Let out a little dribble into your panties. Let it soak through your jeans enough so I can see. Awwwwww, there you go, my little fountain! Doesn't it feel so warm and lovely? If it dries or gets cold, just dribble a little more. Keep that pee stain nice and fresh for me.
No more pouting. No more excuses. If you're not wearing a diaper...
"Yeah, my boyfriend was so pissed that I went to the frat thing last weekend, but, like, he needs to get over the fact tha — KITTY!"
"Ummm...yeah. Haha. Cute cat. But like, yeah, you're a grown-ass woman in 2026, you don't need your boyfriend's permission to — "
"DOGGY! DOGGY DOGGY DOGGY!"
"Natalie, what the hell are you doing? Stop pointing at that lady's dog!"
"I...huh? Sorry, I feel really lightheaded all of a sudden. Can we just sit for a minu—DUCKIES! LOOK! BIG QUACKERS!"
"Oh my god, Natalie, stop!"
"I don't...I can't help it! PWEASE, I WANNA PET THE DOGGY!"
"Okay, you're high-key embarrassing me right now. No wonder your boyfriend says you can't act your age."
"He said that? Wait...my boyfriend...it was him. Oh my god, I remember everything! He did this to me! He said it was a punishment! You have to believe me, I'm—ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! THAT GIRL HAS ICE CREAM!"
I wanted your face to keep turning bright red every time I asked if you needed a change.
I wanted to see that adorable little frown each morning as you looked in the mirror, paranoid that your diaper bulge was too obvious under your jeans.
I wanted to hear you whimpering softly as we watched movies on the couch, tightening my grip when I saw you glancing towards the bathroom. Not for you. Not anymore.
Don't get me wrong; breaking you was the point. After the months of reluctance and blushing and tears, I remember how your toes curled when you asked if we could try a double diaper today. It was so delicious to see you want your padding; to hear you moaning as you humped your thick pampers in ecstasy. It was the best day. And the worst.
Because you're like a piñata. Once you're broken, the game is over. You'll be in diapers for the rest of your life, with or without me. We said our goodbyes. You even thanked me. Can you imagine?
I lock your grabby little hands in a pair of slippery, pillowy mittens so that your fingers are useless.
You're forced to reach into the pail and pick up a single diaper with great concentration and care. You wrinkle your nose in disgust as you squeeze your taped-up, discarded, stinky lump of shame between two dumb, useless fists.
Then you're forced to waddle across the street to drop it in the dumpster. Your lips are trembling as you toddle into the open. To passersby, it looks like you're hugging the filthy used diaper to your chest, clutching it for dear life between those slippery, mittened hands.
It's so funny when, despite your best efforts, you drop one. Your face gets so red as you spend several minutes bent over, flashing your bulging, diapered butt as you work to scoop your pissy pampers up from the sidewalk.
It goes on for an hour. Each time you hear the satisfying plop of your dirty diaper falling into the dumpster, there's nothing to do but crinkle back to your room and grab another diaper from the pail.
Condition you to start sobbing at the slightest inconvenience or critique.
Did you drop your pen on the way to a meeting? You wail in frustration as your face scrunches up.
Did you sneeze too loud and someone looked at you funny? Now your eyes are all red and tears are pooling on your cheeks.
Forgot the laundry in the dryer? Bawling. No ketchup with your fries? Whimpering. Stepped on a crack? Inconsolable.
People started acting differently around you. Speaking to you in a soft, sing-song voice so they wouldn't upset you. Handing you things slowly and carefully with a big, stupid smile. That's it, honey, you got it.
When I started clipping the pacifier to your shirt, you thought it would be the end of your social life. Yet no one questioned it. No one stared. It made you calmer. Quieter. Easier to be around. Most of us were even grateful to see you suckling away, your constant little sobs muffled by the puff puff puff of your pretty pretty paci.
It was only natural, after all; you were the crybaby.
"There's no time for that now, honey! We have to get you to your first treatment session. Just go potty in your diaper for now; that's what it's there for."
Your eyes widen in panic. You're unable to stifle a pathetic moan of protest as you gesture frantically at the bathroom with one of your fat, pink mittens. The toilet is right there! Nurse Molly can't expect you to pee in a diaper on purpose!
"NNNNNNNNGH! Eenh oooohn uhn derrrnherrrrr!" You plead in the stupid language of your muzzling pacifier, which punctuates each drooling syllable with an embarrassing squirt onto your white cloth bib.
"Hmm?" Nurse Molly tightens her grip on your mittened wrist and practically drags you out of the bedroom. You stumble while trying to tug in the opposite direction, and your pink jelly sandal squeaks as you go tumbling to the poured linoleum floor of the clinic hallway. "Oh no, honey! You lost your balance again! Between your tinkles in the bed and how messy you got eating lunch, I'm worried that your tics are just the tip of the iceberg."
You snarl as you attempt to stand up, but it's difficult to gain purchase with the slippery mittens against the freshly waxed floor. With a girlish squeal, your arms slide forward before you collapse into a faceplant, your bobbing pink pacifier clicking against the cold ground. The sudden impact vibrates through your teeth, and you bite down hard on the silicone shaft to numb the intense pain.
"Owwwwwwwooowwwwwwwww!" You scream into the pacifier. The muscles around your eyes tighten, milking tears from the wet heat that flushes your grimacing face.
"Oh no! My little circus tumbler! Are you okay?" Nurse Molly stoops and rubs the back of your head as you try -- and fail -- to stop whimpering. You suck and smack your pacifier frantically, and the counter-stimulation soothes the pain in your mouth. Your usual reaction to any discomfort is to bite your lip or scratch your arm, but the thick, rubbery nipple has become the node through which you filter out all negative sensations. For a split-second between sniffles and sobs, you wonder if you even want to stop sucking the pacifier.
As the pain numbs, you become cognizant of your desperation to pee again. You move to make another attempt at standing, but a firm palm on your back keeps you from rising further than your knees.
"I think until the doctor can get her hands on you, we should be careful about overtaxing your motor control. Four limbs is sturdier than two! Why don't we crawl to the office like a puppy dog?"
Despite her use of the inclusive "we," it's clear that Nurse Molly intends for you to crawl while she walks behind. With one last longing look at the toilet, you shuffle forward pathetically on your mittened hands and wobbly knees, announcing your lumbering progress with a parade of crinkles from your fat diaper. Your white cloth bib hangs perpendicular to the floor, barely catching the occasional comet of drool that comes oozing from your nursing lips.
"There you go!" Nurse Molly coos, congratulating you for shuffling down the hallway as though you're accomplishing some feat of strength. "Left! Right! Left! Right! You're an expert!"
Your cheeks burn like hot lamps; you're absolutely humiliated to be seen in this state. But what else are you supposed to do? It's all apart of your treatment...isn't it?
At last, Nurse Molly stops you at the foot of an unassuming white door, gently setting the toe of her low-heeled shoe in front of your left mitten. The plaque below the frosted glass door pane reads:
AMELIA BERCEAU, M.D.
With a twist of the faux crystal knob, Nurse Molly pushes the door open. As mystified as you were by the décor of your bedroom, nothing could have prepared you for the bizarre spectacle of Dr. Amelia's office.
One corner of the room is dominated by what appears to be a mock kitchen; its full-sized stove, sink, and accessories are made of a chunky plastic with pastel colors. Though clearly not functional for actual cooking, the fake stove crackles with a tinny sound that emanates from a cartoonish teapot resting on one of its "burners."
A sandbox shaped like a smiling turtle lies in the shadow of a towering structure made of colorful foam blocks, deliberately cobbled together as a sort of play-fort. Against the opposite wall, a bookshelf gleams with the glossy spines of such titles as "Mr. Badger Makes a Friend" and "101 Animal Noises."
But most surprising of all is that there are people in this room. Two young women sit cross-legged on a carpet patterned to look like a twisting road through a bustling city. They're rolling small cars along its splashy, winding design in a bored stupor. One of the women has short black hair that hangs in her face, and she seems to be wearing some sort of braces on her legs. The other woman has long blonde hair, half of which is done up in a pigtail while the other half hangs loose, as though someone started styling it and then got distracted.
As the blonde looks up at the opening door, you see she's suckling a massive blue pacifier similar to your pink one, and that it's secured to her head with a length of white ribbon. Your eyes meet, and the pretty blonde drops her pink toy convertible to give you a gentle wave. Shivering with humiliation on your hands and knees, you feel the wet heat return to your face, tingle its way down your spine, and then concentrate in your groin. The sensation grows and grows until you realize it isn't just embarrassment at being seen like this...you've started flooding your diaper.
"Nnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggh!" You wail, frozen in place as the hot ocean begins drowning your bum, seeking out every corner of thristy padding to nestle into. Your eyes are wet again as you feel the back of your diaper grow heavy with urine, strengthening the smothering hug of gravity on your quivering bottom.
Nurse Molly ignores your obvious discomfort as she scoots you into the room with a nudge of her heel. The blonde continues to eye you curiously as she suckles her pacifier, while her raven-haired companion simply returns to her childish game.
"Here you go, honey! Meet Daisy and Emma! They're here for treatment, too, just like you! I'll leave you three to get acquainted; it looks like Dr. Amelia is running a little late."
Still reeling from the experience of soaking your diaper, you barely notice the creaking of the door as Nurse Molly leaves the room. Unable to communicate through your pacifier, you're at a complete loss for what to do now.
The blonde, Daisy, reaches over and taps Emma on the shoulder. Emma looks up, only one eye visible through her heavy bangs, appearing to truly notice you for the first time.
"Oh. Hi," she shrugs, sounding neither rude nor enthusiastic. "You must be a biter, too, huh?"
You feel the dampness of your diaper acutely as you now hold both women's attention. With a cautious suckle, you nod your head up and down.
"Well, you won't be anymore," Emma smirks, picking up a plastic dump truck and using it to piston a smaller car several feet in your direction. "Whether you like it or not."
You look down at the little car and then back up at Emma, raising your eyebrow in confusion. Daisy twirls her pigtail nervously as she nurses her blue pacifier.
"Oh, you didn't know? I guess I didn't either, when I checked in," Emma sighs. The dark-haired woman crawls over to you to retrieve her toy, and you become aware of the distinct bulge and crinkle beneath her long shirt. Your eyes shift instinctively to Daisy, who shyly lifts the hem of her dress to confirm your suspicion. Both of these women are diapered!
Your heart begins beating like a hummingbird's wings, and your nervous slurping on your pacifier quickens to a drooly allegro. Emma picks up her toy car and leans in, half-smiling, inches from your face. You can smell baby powder on her skin like a sickly sweet perfume.
"Treatment never ends, pottypants. We're here forever."
"Come on, honey, you just told me you were starving! Either there's a big scary lion growling in your tummy, or now you're fibbing. Open up."
Nurse Molly's rosy perfume fills your nostrils as you breathe hard through your nose. You're being careful not to bite your lips as you keep them pursed shut, revolted by the appearance of the brown goop dangling at the end of the nurse's pink spoon. The waxy sheen of the sticky, moist food does nothing to make the unidentifiable chunks appear more appetizing.
Your pink puffy mittens remain snugly wrapped around your fists, leaving you no outlet for nervous movement except pumping your legs back and forth in the bizarre high-seated chair you've been strapped to. Nurse Molly had said it was dangerous for you to eat lying down while still recovering from the muscle relaxers, and the restraints were necessary to keep you from falling out and bumping your head. Worst of all, as you whimper and squirm in your purple t-shirt and fuzzy cotton bib, wrinkling your nose and glaring at Nurse Molly, you can't help but hear it: the constant, gentle, singing, mischievous crinkle of your puffy diaper.
You're hyper-aware of its every hug and tug on your body: the way the leg guards press into your thighs as your hanging feet kick the air. The way the plush cotton shapes itself to your bits and bum as you sit on the cushioned seat. The way the stretchy tapes, tipped blue like a French manicure, squeeze the plastic wings to your hips, keeping it snugly in place.
But right this minute, even your humiliatingly thick diaper is not your biggest concern.
"Come on, honey. You've got to eat something! We only serve fresh, healthy food at the clinic. It's easy to digest and has all the nummy vitamins you need to keep your treatment on track!"
Nurse Molly hovers the pink spoon in front of your closed mouth as her syrupy voice coaxes you to give in. You swivel your head from side to side, and the brown goop follows the path of your lips like a homing beacon. This whole thing feels ridiculous! Why can't they let you feed yourself? Why can't they serve you real food?! And why must you be RESTRAINED in a chair where your pink jelly sandals can't even touch the floor?!
"Oh, I think I know the problem. You miss having your device in your mouth, don't you? Is that it, honey? You want your sucky little buddy back?"
This has to be a joke! You scowl at the giant pink pacifier resting on the plastic tray in front of you, its silicone shaft still glistening with your creamy drool.
"N-n-no! Ohhhhnnnngh!"
You can't stop yourself from stammering out a denial, but this serves only to form your mouth into the perfect "O" shape for Nurse Molly to slide the pink spoon past your lips. Shocked by her quick reaction, you swallow reflexively, and the first bite of brown goop slides its way into your rumbling tummy.
It tastes awful. Like bitter vegetables pulverized with protein slurry. You scrape your tongue with your teeth to get the sticky substance off your taste buds and thrust your head forward, gagging. Nurse Molly clearly interprets this as you smacking your lips and leaning in for more, which she obliges with another gooey spoonful of the brown mush forced into your open mouth.
As the horrifying feeding begins in earnest, your only goal is to get the revolting taste of the food out of your mouth. You realize, paradoxically, that this means swallowing it all as quickly as possible. But every time you force more of the sludge down your throat, it's replaced just as quickly by an even thicker spoonful thrusting past your lips. After a minute, the pace of your feeding becomes a marathon, and bits of goop you can't swallow begin dribbling out of your mouth, onto your chin, and staining the front of your drooly bib.
"Look at you go, honey! That's it! Nom nom nom! Just like that! Whoops, don't fidget, I just got some on your cheek! That's okay, just a little snack for later, hm?"
You're struggling to breathe as more mush is shoveled into your mouth than you can possibly take. Your eyes roll up to the ceiling as your jaw hangs open stupidly; more sticky food is spilling from your lips than is making it to your stomach, turning your bib into a canvas of disgusting brown slop. A heavy chunk falls onto your thigh, along the seam of your puffy diaper's leg guard, looking all the world like a messy accident that was too big for your padding to contain.
"Nnnnnngggggghhhhhhhhhhh," you moan pathetically, spraying even more goo across your face. You're not so much trying to communicate as prove to yourself you're still conscious. Stupefied by the slimy, horrible-tasting drool that now streams from your face, your pink-mittened hands pull at the restraining straps of the high-seated chair. Why? Why? Why?
"Wunngh? Wunngh? Wunngh?" You gurgle through a fresh mouthful of sludge. Tears drip from your eyes and snot from your nose, mingling with the oozing mess that decorates your cheeks and chin.
"Don't worry, honey. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, you'll have your sucky back between those pretty lips. We're going to fix you and make it all better. There's no need to cry."
Nurse Molly scrapes the bowl for a last spoonful of the brown slurry. Your eyes widen in horror as the final bite comes sailing not towards your mouth, but towards your nose. With a playful giggle, Nurse Molly intentionally smears the foul-smelling goop across every inch of your face, massaging it into your skin like lotion, mixing in your tears.
Setting down the spoon, she picks up your pacifier and leans in close, wielding the silicone nipple like a pestle to push the last of the disgusting food into your now-bulging tummy. The motion of the nipple sliding in and out between your lips is strange and humiliating, yet you can't stop yourself from sucking and slurping the soft, rubbery shaft.
"This feels better, doesn't it, honey?" Nurse Molly whispers, causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand. "This is what you wanted all along."
You realize with crippling shame that you do feel calmer now. The taste of the awful food begins to evaporate in the streams of drool that the pacifier coaxes from beneath your tongue. Despite yourself, you settle into a suckling rhythm, and breathe a sigh of relief when the pink leather strap is secured around your head. The pacifier is locked back into place. Your mouth is yours again.
"Oh no, Jess! It looks like our newest patient had a visit from the Potty Monster."
Your brain feels like it's melting. You're desperate to tic, but every muscle in your body is too sluggish and heavy to do more than slosh around in the sinking pool that has become your mattress. The enormous pacifier strapped in your mouth bubbles and squeaks as your lolling tongue pushes creamy drool through the pink shield. But that familiar wetness has been joined by a new one: a puddle of bitter-smelling urine that has periodically expanded and reheated over the last hour, your lower body paralyzed by Nurse Molly's muscle relaxers.
"Mmmmnnnnnnnnggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh," you moan into the thick shaft of the pacifier, dripping pathetically onto the tight cloth bib. The weight of your accumulating drool has now pasted the bib to your chest, and you can feel your saliva seeping through the thin pink paper of your hospital gown.
"You never mentioned any bladder troubles on your application, honey. It's okay, but it's a very important detail for the doctor to know about before your treatment can start!"
Your face gets so hot you can practically feel it crackle. You DON'T have bladder troubles! Nurse Molly obviously gave you too many muscle relaxers! You want to stammer out in protest, but with the leather strap securing the pacifier to your lips, you're completely unable to contradict your nurse's assumptions.
"Jess, I'm going to go fetch some protection. Can you do what you can with the waterworks?"
You become aware of a new presence as Nurse Molly leaves the room: a young woman in a white uniform with shoulder-length hair dyed in an eye-popping pink. You're humiliated to be seen by a stranger while you're writhing stupidly in a lake of your own pee and drool, nursing a fat pacifier and barely able to lift your worthless, mittened hands. You turn your head away as she approaches.
"Hmph. Just what we needed...another bedwetter," she says, her voice oozing with a mix of amusement and genuine frustration. "I'm Nurse Jessica; I'm usually on the night shift. I looked at your file. You're a twitchy one, aren't you? You've got a lot of work ahead of you, especially if we have to start dealing with soaked mattresses."
Nurse Jessica reaches behind your head to untie your cloth bib and peels the saturated square of fabric off of your chest. She tosses it to the floor with a wet plop before folding down the pink-and-white fiberglass guardrails of your bed. You desperately want to explain that you're not actually a bedwetter...but as the pink-haired nurse rolls you onto your side and begins laying down piles of dry towels, all you can do is suckle, sniffle, and moan.
Still unable to move under your own power, you try to focus on the television that has been playing non-stop since you were brought to the room. The bunny cartoon has been replaced with a show where some lady in a princess costume is interacting with puppets. The dialogue and plot are deliriously simple, but it's still preferable to acknowledging Nurse Jessica as she tears off your damp paper hospital gown and begins scrubbing your naked bottom. Once again, lacking any outlet for your instinct to tic, you try to concentrate your nervous energy on the rubbery bulb of the pacifier in your mouth.
"How's our super soaker?"
You hear the familiar voice of Nurse Molly as she pulls back the privacy curtain of your room. At first, it looks like she's brought some extra towels for mopping up your accident, but then you realize...
"Thick, thirsty diapers for our shy little lamb! Don't worry, honey, it's not uncommon for people with motor control issues to have some bladder problems. You didn't have to be embarrassed!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh!" You cry out in a panic as Nurse Molly unfurls the massive diaper, holding its hourglass shape aloft like a white flag of surrender for your dignity. The plastic backing crinkles and pops, and you begin to writhe in your bed as she approaches with the mass of soft, heavy padding.
"Nnngh! Nnngh! Nnnnnnnnnngh!" Gurgling uselessly into the rubbery nipple that fills your mouth, the lingering effects of the muscle relaxers join forces with the puffy, constraining mittens to leave you completely at the mercy of these two beautiful nurses. Unable to communicate, you stare up at Nurse Jessica with pleading, desperate eyes as Nurse Molly snaps on a fresh pair of latex gloves and squeezes a liberal amount of white cream into her palm.
"Oh...do you need to tic? Get the wiggles out?" Nurse Jessica sneers, ignoring your obvious panic at the prospect of being taped into the massive diaper. She retreats over to the white-and-pink dresser, which you're surprised to realize is stocked not with the clothes and personal items you brought to the clinic, but with a menagerie of animal plushies, toys, and strange-looking clothes.
"Here, cuddle with Honey Horn. That should calm you down." Nurse Jessica dangles a giant stuffed unicorn above you, nuzzling it against your naked chest in a bid for you to grasp on.
You gasp slurpily as you feel the cold cream in Nurse Molly's gloved hand against the sensitive skin of your bottom. Instinctively, you wrap your bare arms around Honey Horn and pull her against your shivering body, aching for warmth and stimulation. All you can do is suckle, wimper, and squeeze the plushie unicorn as Nurse Molly lifts your legs so they form a right angle with the ceiling.
Nurse Jessica holds your ankles, and you feel the cold, damp towels replaced by a velvety, dry cloud. You wiggle against the odd sensation of your cream-slathered skin on the cottony lining of the soft diaper. You've regained enough feeling in your legs to feel the tightness of the leg guards hugging your thighs as Nurse Molly folds the popping plastic up to your belly button. The ripping tapes are like thunder in your ears, and when the nurses' hands finally let go, the new bulk around your hips stays. You summon the strength to shift Honey Horn to the side, just so you can behold what you already know: you've been snugly and securely diapered.
"Now we need to change out this mattress, honey, so we'll need you to get out of bed. It looks like you still have jelly legs from your medicine, so it's probably safest if you hang out with Honey Horn on the floor."
The nurses work together to lift you up and slide a purple cotton t-shirt over your torso before tying a fresh cotton bib around your neck. By the time Nurse Molly helps you plop down onto the pink blanket that Nurse Jessica spread out on the linoleum, your bib is already catching droplets of warm drool that ooze through the shield of your ever-present pacifier. You have no choice but to cling to Honey Horn, unable to do anything else with your mittened hands as you try to summon feeling back into your legs with weak kicks of your pink jelly sandals. And as you lie on your back, squirming and moaning through helpless suckling, your ears ring with the crinkles and pops of your fluffy white diaper, bulging like a balloon, overwhelming your senses with its tightness, its bulk, and its crackling song...
"Well someone has ants in their pants! Are you excited to have a room all to yourself?"
Your jaw would drop if it weren't already anchored open by the giant pink pacifier bobbing stupidly in your mouth. You try to catch your breath, but it isn't a simple task. The only way you can comfortably inhale is to gum the firm, rubbery shaft in a regular rhythm, suckling like a lamb as you breathe through your nose in soft, short bursts. The metronome of your squeaking and puffing is interrupted only by sporadic, thunderous slurps, when your full mouth is no longer able to accomodate the ocean of spit spilling out from under your flattened tongue. Any saliva you're unable to swallow bubbles out from behind the shield of the pacifier in a geyser of slimy drool. It glazes your cheeks and chin before draining pitifully onto the front of the tight, cloth bib wrapped around your neck.
And yet, despite the bizarre predicament you find yourself in -- uselessly pawing at your thin paper hospital gown in a pair of pink mitten restraints -- the sight of this bedroom plunges you further into the depths of astonishment.
The pastel purple accent wall is dominated by a life-sized mural of a bashful unicorn, which trots gaily along a rainbow road. A small dresser stands in the opposite corner, painted in the same cream-white and pink trim as the heavy fiberglass guardrails of the hospital-style bed. The large flatscreen television suspended from a high wall is already turned on: a cartoon bunny wearing shortalls stares down at you, singing hypnotically about his favorite letters of the alphabet. The entrance to the small bathroom — tiled in bubblegum pink — has no door, and is fully visible from the hallway when the room's privacy curtain is drawn open.
"Nnnngggh eehn ahhee nnggh?" You gurgle in confusion to Nurse Molly, tickling your nose with the spit bubbles that froth up behind the shield of your pacifier. This can't possibly be the room they assigned for you! What is going on here? Unable to bite your lip or scratch yourself to ease your anxiety, you stomp and shuffle awkwardly in the pink jelly sandals you had been given to wear with the matching hospital gown. You use the round, squishy toe of your right shoe to play with the jelly strap of your left, lightly skinning the back of your ankle in the process.
"Sorry, honey," Nurse Molly replies with a dismissive smile. "It'll be tough for us to have a chat during your oral treatments. Before we get you settled in, we need to do something about your fidgeting; you're going to trip and hurt yourself dancing around like that."
Nurse Molly reaches into the pocket of her pink scrubs before playfully shaking an orange cylinder of pills in front of your dripping face.
"These -- " she rattles the container again, as if teasing you with an enticing treat. " -- are a simple muscle relaxer. While our program is set up to address the root cause of your tics, medication can provide some short-term relief in the early stages of treatment. These pills might make your arms and legs feel a little funny, so it's best if you lie down for an hour or two after taking them, until we find a good dosage."
Nurse Molly walks over to the bed and releases a latch under one of the fiberglass guardrails. The chunky, solid barriers of poured white plastic fold down, granting you ingress to the elevated mattress.
You hesitate, feeling the gentle rain of spittle on your chin as you once again behold the giant unicorn on the wall. Everything about this situation feels wrong, and yet Nurse Molly's impassive assurances are filled with so much promise. You imagine the life you could be living soon: no longer afraid to speak in public, no longer drawing looks of concern from your scratching and biting, no longer annoying your peers with shaking legs or incessant tapping...
In defiance of your gut instinct, you climb up onto the bed. Nurse Molly guides you into a supine position as you struggle to gain purchase with your slippery, balled mittens. Soon, she has you on your back, staring up at the dumb cartoon as you paw nervously at the guardrails.
"Stay right there, honey," Nurse Molly retreats to the pink-tiled bathroom and you hear the sound of running water. When she returns to your side, your eyes flutter in shock. She seems to have found an enormous plastic bottle with a wide rubber nipple cap, and filled it to the brim.
"It's important to take these pills with lots of fluids. The water carries the medicine throughout your body and helps it take action more quickly," Nurse Molly explains with clinical confidence. Your lips tingle as Nurse Molly firmly grips the shield of your pacifier with a finger and thumb, sliding the silicone shaft out along the curve of your tongue like a damp carrot being plucked from the ground. You grimace as you watch a thick, cloudy rope of saliva chase the shaft of the pacifier through the air for several inches, then collapse like a heavy bridge onto the front of your soaked bib.
Despite the humilation, you take a moment to rejoice in the feeling of emptiness in your mouth. Your teeth feel strange as they involuntarily clamp down on your bottom lip -- almost like they had shifted slightly to accomodate the bulging, rubbery guest that had come to join them.
"It's worse than I thought," Nurse Molly coos with concern, holding your drool-coated chin with a gloved hand as she massages the inside of your lower lip with her thumb. "We won't be able to leave you without the oral device for long. Until I can consult with the doctor, we're going to keep it in whenever you're not eating or drinking."
"B-b-but -- " The taste of latex from Nurse Molly's gloved thumb is replaced by the slightly bitter flavor of three large pills, which begin dissolving as she drops them onto your tongue. Your stammering attempt at speech is both literally and figuratively drowned as your doting caretaker tips the plastic bottle upside-down, sliding the rubber cap between your slick, drooly lips.
"Soon, all those squirmies are going to go away," she says breezily, squeezing the bottle so that you're forced to gulp down the fountain of cold water. "You'll feel so relaxed...so calm..."
The minutes tick by slowly as Nurse Molly continues to empty the bottle down your throat. You're cognizant of the cartoon playing on the television, but the sing-song of the character voices seems to melt into the background. Your arms do feel a bit funny...and heavy...like they would struggle to lift their own weight...
By the time the bottle announces its emptiness with a few notes of airy suction, your tongue is lolling lazily in your mouth. You don't feel intoxicated, just...
...flat...and...slow...
You want to say something else before Nurse Molly eases the pacifier back into your pliant mouth, but it feels like it would take too much effort. Once again stuffed full with the bulbous shaft, you barely take notice of the pink leather strap she loops around the back of your head and through two holes in the pacifier's bobbing shield. It's now snugly secured to your suckling lips.
"We can't have it falling out if you decide to take a nap," she grins, taking a moment to wipe your chin with the saturated bib. "I'm going to go check in on some other patients. Why don't you take it easy for a bit?"
Lifting and locking the fiberglass guardrails back into place, Nurse Molly pulls the privacy curtain of your room closed before leaving you alone with the sickly sweet sing-alongs of the cartoon show. You wish she had left you with the remote so you could change the channel, but realize your dumb mittened hands couldn't work the buttons anyway. Your body seems to melt into the mattress as you're forced to listen to the cartoon rabbit's next song.
"Sometimes it's sunny and sometimes it pours!"
The muscle relaxers seem to be hitting even harder. You can barely keep your eyes open.
"When it rains outside, the puppy dog snores!"
You realize with some anxiety that you can't feel your legs anymore. The whole lower half of your body has gone limp.
"Thank you Mr. Cloud, because when we're awake,"
Something feels...warm...
"We'll dance in the puddles you're about to make!"
"Can you open your mouth for me? Give me your best alligator smile!"
Your eyes fixate on the device in Nurse Molly's extending hand. It has a pink plastic guard with a long, rounded, silicone shaft. If it weren't so large, you'd almost think it was a...
Pacifier.
"Wh-wh-what is this for?" You ask nervously, failing to suppress your stammer. It's particularly difficult given how cold this examination room is. Air from a nearby vent runs up the open back of your pale pink hospital gown, and you're forced to clutch the thin paper against your bare hips to prevent your naked bottom from getting exposed. Without thinking, you begin to chew anxiously on your lower lip.
"It's for that," Nurse Molly replies, the prologue of a smile drafting itself across her pretty face. "You bit your lip again. That's what this program is all about! These nervous tics you told us about on your application: stuttering, lip biting, scratching, shaking, and all the others...they may be psychological, but your body and mind work as a team. This equipment will help prevent damage to your lips while laying the foundations for correcting the behavior."
You don't take your eyes off the silicone nipple. You fight your body's nervous impulse to start rubbing your arms, instead crinkling the paper of your pink hospital gown.
"B-b-but I thought I w-w-would be doing sp-speech therapy. How can I t-t-talk with that in my mouth?"
Nurse Molly places a hand on your wrist in an effort to comfort you. "All in good time. Right now, it's important that we work on strengthening your jaw muscles and put a stop to the biting. Pretty please, open your mouth for me?"
As much as you've started to question this inpatient treatment program, there's something in Nurse Molly's gentle voice and soft grip that calms you down. What are you so nervous about, anyway? The reason you're here is because every other program has been unable to help you. Maybe this one will finally work...
Slowly, you let your mouth fall open.
"A little wider, honey," Nurse Molly whispers, tightening her grip on your wrist almost imperceptibly. "It's going to feel like a lot to take in at first."
You can't help but nibble your lip -- just a little -- before gaping your mouth as widely as you can. Nurse Molly wastes no time before sliding the firm, pliable silicone nipple deep into your mouth. Your gag reflex is tickled, but you manage to stop yourself from sputtering by holding your tongue wide and flat against the shaft. Immediately, you feel saliva pooling in the few remaining recesses of your mouth, and the device emits a loud, slurping sound as you swallow awkwardly around it. Nevertheless, a small bubble of drool forms at the corner of your lips.
"Mmmmnmmhhhhhh," you moan, reaching up reflexively to take out the device with your free hand.
"Ah ah! No touching!" Nurse Molly scolds, grasping your other wrist and pulling your palms together in front of you. You shift your feet, desperate to spend the nervous energy which has started to build. The hem of your paper hospital gown flutters dangerously high from the blowing vent.
"The device is designed for long-term use, so I want you to get into the habit of keeping it in unless a doctor or nurse removes it. Try to form an 'O' with your lips and suckle naturally."
You grimace as you turn to look into the full-length mirror on the door of the examination room. There you are, shivering in your pale pink hospital gown, your eyes arched in a forced look of surprise, your cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. The pink guard of the device bobs ridiculously and makes a suction-cup squelch as you swallow again. A line of thick drool escapes your mouth and begins draining from behind the plastic guard. You have no doubt now: this is effectively a giant pacifier.
"It looks like you're quite the little spit factory!" Nurse Molly teases, grabbing a paper towel and wiping around the shield of the pacifier as you blush hotly. "You'll get into the rhythm of sucking and swallowing soon enough, but it may be a good idea to start wearing a bib for a while. You certainly don't want to be walking around the clinic covered in drool stains!"
A bib?! You reach up again to remove the pacifier in protest. Nurse Molly is quicker, interrupting your impulse and pulling your hand away from your mouth.
"Don't fuss," she says. Her tone is not unkind, but it is forceful. "The doctor won't agree to start your speech therapy until you demonstrate you've been using the device as prescribed."
You stare at Nurse Molly in exasperation, shuddering as more drool forms around your mouth. Surely you can't be expected to suck on a giant squishy pacifier with no way to ask questions about your treatment! Desperate to tic, you begin scratching your forearm, which causes Nurse Molly's eyebrows to shoot up.
"I have an idea."
Nurse Molly reaches to pull out a large drawer under a nearby table. After a few moments of searching, she extracts what appear to be two cloth pads in the same pale pink color as your hospital gown.
"Make a fist for me, honey."
You hesitate, cottoning on to what Nurse Molly intends to do. If you weren't dressed in the embarrassing hospital gown, there's a chance you would spit out your pacifier, turn on your heel, and march out the door right now.
"Make a fist. You have to make a fist." Nurse Molly makes it clear this isn't a request.
You swear you begin salivating more as you slowly lift your shaking hand. Frothy drool spills out from behind your pacifier as you curl your fingers and thumb together. You realize through your heavy breathing that you're actually suckling rhythmically on the rubbery shaft, filling the air with a soft squish, squish, squish, squish, squish.
Once your hand forms the desired fist, Nurse Molly wastes no time in smothering it with one of the pink cloth pads. The inside of the cloth is soft and pillowy, but very constricting; you couldn't uncurl your fingers if you tried. A tied ribbon strap is tightened around your wrist, and you raise your hand to gawk at the ridiculous balled mitten that now encases it.
"This should put an end to that scratching, and help remind you to keep that oral device exactly where it needs to be!" Nurse Molly smiles triumphantly, raising the second cloth pad.
Something clicks in your brain as your other hand is quickly mittened and secured snugly in place: you're completely helpless now. Not only can you no longer scratch, but you won't be able to get your clothes back on or open a door without help. What happens if you need to use the toilet?
"Mmmmhhhmmmn?" You gesture frantically at your pacifier as thick gobs of drool begin to collapse like icicles on the front of your paper gown. You feel the need to communicate; to take back some control. You crane your neck forward to spit the silicone shaft out, but think better of it when you see Nurse Molly's severe look.
"Ohhh, I see, honey," Nurse Molly coos with concern as you continue to point stupidly at your suckling mouth with the fat, balled mitten. "But don't worry. It's just a little drool. Let's get a bib on you. Then, I'll walk you to the bedroom where you'll be staying with us these next few weeks. How exciting! Soon, you'll feel like a whole new person."
You moan and shake your head, suckling furiously as more nervous energy builds. You want to scratch, to bite your lip, to stutter, to do something that gives you a feeling of control.
But as Nurse Molly holds up a large cloth bib -- white with a pink trim -- you realize fully that you're not in control. You're pathetic, muted, and covered in drool. The only thing you can do is fill the air with slurping and sucking as Nurse Molly tightens the bib around your neck. Robbed of your ability to tic, you try to focus all your nervous energy on your mouth. You're already painting the white cloth of the bib with thick streams of spit as you concentrate hard on suckling.
(This story is inspired and modeled by the adorable @justadumbaby, a real-life dolly who forgot her potty training. Oops! 🤷♀️ Go bully her about it.)
~~~
"Oh no...please just go away..."
You hear a tinkling sound. It's not the tinkling notification on your phone from dolly.exe — you hear a literal tinkling sound. A woman has entered one of the bathroom stalls next to yours and has begun to do her business.
You envy her. Not just because she's free from the hell of being blackmailed by a computer virus, but because she's peeing. How desperately you need to pee right now, poised over the toilet bowl with your new My Little Pony leggings bunched around your ankles. But your My Tasks app was clear:
💟 Pull down your pants, sit on the bowl, but do not pee a drop.
You've been in this restaurant bathroom for at least 30 minutes, awaiting further instructions. It has been maddening to hear women pee and toilets flush as you fight your body's desperate desire to void. Is there a notification you missed? What if there's a problem with the cellular connection? Will you be blamed? You can't check the settings on your phone anymore; the blackmailers have total control over every feature that hasn't been crafted for your humiliation...
Then, the sound. A new task! You grimace when you realize you're actually relieved to hear your blackmailers are back in contact. At least the phone is working.
💟 Leave the stall, lie face-up on the diaper changing station, and put a diaper on. 10:00
You knew as soon as you were forced to pick up the diapers at the store yesterday that you would eventually be wearing one. But somehow you were still unprepared for this moment. You have to be diapered in a public bathroom?! What if someone walks in and sees?!
But what worries you the most is the ticking timer next to the task. You've never had a timed task before! 9:56...9:55...9:54....
You can still hear the woman in the stall next to you tapping on her phone as she takes all the time in the world to do her business. Hurry up! Hurry up!
8:43...8:42...8:41
You've already lost over a minute. Is the woman a restaurant worker on her break? Maybe you can be diapered and out of here before she even leaves the stall.
7:50...7:49...7:48
You decide you have no choice but to take the risk. Shivering with humiliation and the fear that you may be caught out, you rise off the toilet seat. Your legs are numb, and your bladder aches from clenching it over the bowl for a half-hour as you pull up your childish My Little Pony leggings.
When you look at the diaper changing station, you understand why My Tasks sent you to this restaurant in particular. The station is big; there are three sections that pull down to form smaller tables or — if all are pulled down together — one extra long table. There won't be much room to maneuver, but it should be just lengthy enough to support you. Oh god, are you really going to do this?
6:03...6:02...6:01
You grimace as you reach into your Gabby's Dollhouse backpack and extract a newly purchased pink changing mat, unfurling it across the diaper changing table like you're rolling out the red carpet for the most humiliating moment of your life. With trembling hands, you then pull out one of the thick, white diapers you got from the department store, and open it up on top of the mat. Every small noise or subtle movement from the occupied bathroom stall causes you to jump.
5:30...5:29...5:28...
Now comes the hard part: getting up onto the changing table and mat. It's higher up than you anticipated, and you don't have an easy way to boost yourself. Plus, you'll never be able to spread your legs with the leggings on; you'll have to take them off completely. Oh god...you desperately hope no one else enters the bathroom as you hastily pull them down and set them by a sink, unable to believe you're naked from the waist down in a public bathroom, standing over a diaper.
Your teeth are chattering as you tentatively set an ankle up on the table, your full bladder screaming in agony. How are you going to do this? Maybe if you just hop with your other leg and try to grab the...
CRASH.
A loud, sickening snap fills the room as the fiberglass comes loose from the wall. A section of the diaper changing station now hangs loosely at its broken hinges, and the pink changing mat has slid onto the floor at your feet. You clasp a hand to your mouth in shock. What do you do now?!
4:20...4:19...4:18
You hear a confident but kind voice from the occupied bathroom stall. "Everything okay out there, dear?" No, no, NO! You want to quickly grab your leggings and retreat into a stall, but the stall door is already creaking open. Your stall neighbor wasn't a restaurant worker after all; but rather, an elegant-looking middle aged woman with a black leather jacket and a matching purse wrapped around her shoulder. You freeze like a deer in the headlights, covering your shame as best as you can with both hands, one leg crossed over the other as you fight your desperate, throbbing urge to piss. Your mouth hangs open stupidly, and your startled fawn's eyes are wide with fear.
The woman gives you an uncountable look, glancing at the broken changing table, the pink changing mat on the floor, the fat white diaper unfurled on top of it, and your bare butt. You wonder what happens now. Will she storm out and report you to the restaurant's management? Or the police? Will you fail your task and lose everything to the blackmailers behind dolly.exe?
"You haven't done this before, have you?"
You stare blankly. A noise comes out of your mouth, but you're not sure what it means, if anything. The elegant-looking woman takes it as a 'no.'
"Lie down on the mat, honey. I'll show you what you need to do. Lord knows I've changed some diapers in my time."
You remain frozen until the woman steps over to you and places a hand on your shoulder, supporting your weight as she gently but firmly guides you down onto your cushioned changing mat. It occurs to you that you really do feel like a dolly now: too paralyzed with fear to do anything but let this older woman manipulate your movements.
As you feel the cool plastic of the mat on your bare butt and watch the woman pick up the adult diaper, it occurs to you that the timer is still ticking. How much could possibly be left? Two minutes? Less than one?
"Please," your voice breaks as you try to verbalize the urgency of the situation. "Um...ma'am?"
"Hold on, sweetheart," the woman takes a maternal tone as she moves your shy hands away from your genitals and spreads your legs wide like she's parting a curtain. Something about the cold air hitting your exposed private parts causes the desperation in your bladder to double, and you worry you may actually start dribbling on the bathroom floor like a scared kitten. "We need to put some lotion or powder down. Did you bring any?"
"Umm! Ma'am! Ma'am! Ma'am!" It seems to be the only word your mouth can conjure. You're so desperate to communicate your need to be diapered — lest you fail your task and have your life destroyed forever — but language defies you. All you can do is whimper pathetically to this complete stranger who has taken pity on you, totally unaware of the stakes at play. You're not even sure if you're more scared of the My Tasks timer or of the ticking time bomb in your bladder. "MA'AM!"
"It's alright, dear. Shhhhh," the older woman says softly, trying to calm you like a fussy toddler. "First we slide the side with the tapes under your bum. Let me see if there's something in my purse we could use for rash cream..."
"Oh nooooo!" Your jaw falls open and your eyes go wide. You can already feel the dam breaking, and a squirt of warm pee dribbles down between your legs and finds the crack of your ass. "Ma'am! Ma'am! MA'AM!" You raise your volume and pitch, desperate to communicate the emergency through the only word your brain seems to remember.
"Uh oh! We've got a leaky faucet!" The woman says with a confident non-chalance. She drops her purse and reaches for the wings of the diaper, leaping into damage-control mode before the floodgates fully open.
Somehow, against all reason, the corners of your lips curl into a smile as you feel the padding fold across your tummy, and the tapes seal the giant fluffy diaper firmly against your hips. You even start to giggle as endorphins flood your body, rewarding you for finally voiding your aching bladder into the thirsty pillow strapped to your waist. It's warm, and disgusting, and you see the woman's jaw drop slightly as the diaper she put on you seconds ago has already been saturated pathetically with your hot piss.
Still lying on your back with your legs splayed, you scramble for your phone and wink out the My Tasks heart with mere seconds to spare. You've succeeded. You're wearing the diaper. You've satisfied the blackmailers for just a little bit longer.
(My inspiration and model for this story is the unbelievably adorable @justadumbaby. Please follow her blog for the cutest outfits and most pathetic diaper bulges you've ever seen <3)
~~~
"Wow, this is one big teddy bear! Is it for a boy or a girl?"
It's only when you hear the question and make a startled "oh!" sound that you realize you were holding your breath. You haven't stopped shaking and whimpering since you left the house, following the ominous instructions from the blackmailers behind dolly.exe.
You should have looked closer at the cashiers and picked a different check-out line — the one with the bored-looking teenager or the grumpy woman nearing the end of her shift. They probably wouldn't have even looked at your items as they shoved them into a shopping bag. Instead, you got Liz.
Liz, with the dimpled smile and the cute purple undercut. Liz, with the anime stickers on her nametag. Liz, who stands nearly a full head taller than you as she grins cheerfully behind the check-out counter.
Liz, who pays attention to her customers.
"Umm...what?" Your mind goes completely blank as you look at Liz holding the massive stuffed teddy you just handed to her. You're still not even sure what else is in the box that your My Tasks app instructed you to pick up at the department store. If you can't even explain the teddy bear, how will you explain whatever else is waiting in the bottom of the giant package?
"Oh! I was just wondering about the lucky kid who gets to have this giant teddy bear! Boy or girl?" Liz's smile doesn't falter for a moment, and she still looks at you expectantly.
Your mouth hangs open stupidly as you stare wide-eyed at the cashier. It's a simple question. You can just lie. Say something. Say anything. She doesn't know you. She won't suspect a thing.
"I don't know," you reply idiotically.
Liz blinks, and you see the corners of her lips fall for just a moment. "Oh," she says, wriggling your giant stuffie into an extra large shopping bag. You hear the familiar jingle on your phone that means you have a new notification from your tormentors. You quickly swipe to check the message, not sure if you're mortified to be talking to the blackmailers or relieved to have the excuse to look away from Liz.
YOU SAID "I DON'T KNOW" ??! 🤣
You feel the familiar heat in your face that means you're about to cry again. Not here! You have to hold it together until you're back at your apartment. If you start to cry, the blackmailers will make you suck your thumb again, and you think you would die if you had to suckle your thumb during the whole bus ride home.
"Anything else for you today?" You hear Liz say cheerfully. You look back up from your phone, swallowing hard to melt the lump in your throat.
"Ummm...yes," you reach into the package and pull out several more items. A pink blouse, some shortalls, some ballerina-printed socks...and then you see it. A heavy cube of what are, unmistakably, ten adult diapers. You have to fight back tears again as you lift the cube onto the counter and plop them down in front of Liz. It makes a heavier thud than you were expecting, and you see a look of realization cast itself across the cashier's face.
She knows.
The rest of the transaction is a blur as Liz scans and folds the ridiculous clothes into a smaller bag. As she passes the adult diapers over her barcode reader, the computer behind the counter makes three loud beeping noises. Oh god, what now?! Why can't she just give you the items so you can LEAVE?!
"It says these were set aside for a subscription member. You should be getting 10% off, but the account hasn't been fully set up. What is your name?"
Please. Why won't the floor just open up and swallow you? Why can't you just sink directly into the pit of hell? It couldn't be any worse than this.
"That's okay, I don't need the discount, just -- " You hear your phone jingle and you already know what it's going to say. You don't even check the message before correcting yourself. " -- right. My name. Umm..."
You blush redder than an apple as you give all of your information to Liz. She keys everything diligently, and you can only squirm and stare at the floor as uniformed managers and other customers walk past the counter, your package of diapers on display for all the world to see.
You hear a beep, and Liz furrows her brow. Something else is wrong. A few more keystrokes, and now she's reaching for her microphone. NO!
"Can a manager please get me a subscription price check on MegaMax adult overnight diapers, 10-count bag?"
"I will pay whatever it says on the screen," you say, the words shaking between chattering teeth. Another jingle. You snarl and check your phone, scrolling past the earlier message telling you to give the cashier your information.
TRUST ME. YOU ARE GOING TO NEED THE DISCOUNT. STOP BEING FUSSY.
A notification bubble pops up next to the Punish Me app, and your heart skips a beat. You don't know what that means yet, but you already know your life just got even worse.
A stern manager lady walks over and shoots you a judgmental look, glancing at the package of diapers and then back at you. Shaking her head, she helps Liz apply the subscription discount before sauntering away.
"Well, that's everything," Liz says as you pay for the humiliating purchases. "I see you have another in-store pickup that will be ready in a couple days, so maybe I'll see you then, hm?"
You don't respond as you gather the bags and hurry as quickly as you can out of the store. You try your best to hide the diapers and teddy bear under your bus seat and focus on keeping your composure the whole ride home. You open up My Tasks on your phone and ignore the curtsy of the little chibi maid before checking your SHOPPING SPREE complete. The heart on the checklist winks away, and you feel an odd touch of satisfaction mixed in with your crippling embarrassment. You can't help but glance at the Punish Me notification before you put your phone away, thinking about how your "fussiness" at the department store will come back to haunt you.
As soon as you slam your apartment door, you feel the tears you've been fighting start to well up in your eyes. You've never felt more humiliated in your life...and you're sure the worst is yet to come. Your phone jingles and you check it instantly, hating how you've already been conditioned to respond so quickly to that dreadful, tinkling sound.
IT'S TIME TO PLAY DRESS-UP WITH YOUR NEW CLOTHES, DOLLY! LET'S DO A FIT CHECK 👗🧸
MALWARE DETECTED ⚠️ Android 16 OS has identified a malicious file on your device dolly.exe. To protect your personal and financial information, please press OK and we will attempt to remove the file. Your device may reset to factory settings.
You smirk. The red background and large warning glyph seem a bit melodramatic. Your boss' email warned you that this might happen. The spreadsheet she had attached contains security features that newer phones mistake for malware. Some kind of dispute between Microsoft and Google over coding standards.
"Just tap Advanced, check the box that says Proceed Anyway, and hit OK."
You follow your boss' instructions, feeling savvy as you override your phone's plea for caution. You wonder where that file name comes from, though. EXE obviously means Excel...right? But what about "dolly?" You suppose your company uses loading dollies in the fulfillment center...
EXECUTING dolly.exe. Hello, Dolly :)
Your heart rate increases when you see the message pop up. That's weird. Your boss isn't the playful type who uses emoticons, especially for something this urgent. She's never sent you data to review on a Saturday before, so this is obviously no time for whimsy.
You hit X on the pop-up and are relieved to be returned to your phone's home screen...for about half a second. You feel your fluttering heart drop into your stomach when you realize the background has changed. A lump of despair forms in your chest and blood drains from your face in savage prickles.
Your background photo — a grinning selfie in front of the Space Needle — has been replaced by a pastel landscape of cartoonish baby bottles, rocking horses, blocks, and balloons. Your carefully organized folders of banking apps and documents have vanished. Instead, you see six sickly sweet icons for apps with confusing names: Hypno Time...Potty Chart...Punish Me...My Tasks...Reward Center...Fit Check...
You gasp slightly as the screen begins to vibrate. No, it's not vibrating — you're shaking. Your body understands the gravity of the mistake you've made, even if your brain is still catching up.
You swipe right, left, up, down...your other apps must be there. How will you access your accounts? Check your email? Find your password manager? Oh god, if this virus has control of your phone, does it have access to all of your information? To your whole life?
Life. For the first time, you notice the banner at the top of your phone's new home screen. Dolly's New Life. Who...or what...is Dolly?
You jump when a pop-up appears on screen, accompanied by a sparkly jingle that reminds you of a fairy casting a magic spell in an old Disney movie.
HELLO DOLLY. I CAN SEE YOU! 😄 8575 HAPPY STREET, PORT BRUNO, WA 98044. 🏠 CHECKING ACCOUNT 749144863 GREAT COAST CREDIT UNION 🪙 SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER 533...
The list goes on. Your name. Your address. Your accounts. Your identity.
You're finished.
You don't remember sitting down, but you're on your knees, on the floor, hot tears stinging your eyes. What do you do now? There must be a way to fix this...wait, a new message!
DON'T CRY, DOLLY, I'LL NEVER TELL 🤫 MAYBE.
But...how did it know you were crying? The camera! You quickly smother the phone's front-facing camera with your thumb, feeling violated by the realization that your own device is now putting you on display for some stranger.
AH AH AH! THAT'S NAUGHTY! THUMBS BELONG IN OUR MOUTHS! SUCK YOUR THUMB, HONEY, AND LET ME SEE. OR I WILL TAKE AWAY EVERYTHING.
They can't be serious. They're toying with you. Well, of course they're toying with you. They're calling you a dolly. What if you just took out the battery? Destroyed the SIM card? All your money would probably be gone by the time you got to the police station. And it's not just about your money — they must have your contacts. The number for your boss. Your spicy photos from your dating apps, the gross messages you've sent to would-be lovers when you were drunk and lonely and horny...
Your thumb shakes as it lifts off the screen and slides between your lips. It feels cold and invasive, and you find yourself lapping at it childishly to warm it. Your cheeks bulge crudely, and your face goes scarlet with the heat of your shame. You don't know why you're doing it. It feels stupid to give this twisted stranger the performance that they want...you shudder with humiliation at the thought of them recording you, your eyes filled with tears as you obediently nurse your thumb like a toddler...but maybe it can buy you some time while you figure out what to do...
GOOD DOLLY! :D WHAT A SWEET LITTLE THUMB SUCKER YOU ARE! NEVER COVER YOUR CAMERA. IT LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVE A TASK!
The pop-up disappears, and you see a bouncing notification dot next to the "My Tasks" app, represented by a cute chibi maid. Suddenly, the intricacy of this trap becomes apparent to you. A hacker who wanted to steal your money or your identity wouldn't still be communicating with you — those things are just tools to get what they really want. Control of you.
Control of their Dolly.
Your thumb is shaking in your mouth as you reach out with your left hand to tap the My Tasks icon. The app launches, and you see the chibi maid zoom forward to fill the screen. She winks and curtsies, flashing a puffy diaper beneath the skirt of her black and white dress. And then she's gone, replaced with a pale pink checklist marked with little hearts.
Your thumb falls from your mouth as you behold your first of many tasks as a newly netted doll.
Like a tumbler at the county fair, your stomach twists and contorts itself into improbable knots. You feel off-balance and take a step forward, only to feel the tug of the pink breastplate from your leather baby reins; Blackwood holds you fast while the Royal Interpreter looks on, unsmiling as she strokes a large white rabbit in her arms. You fear you're about to be sick all over the fine new silk dress Madame Matilda put on you this morning. Its stiff crêpe skirt flares out at your belly button, leaving your fresh white diaper on full display.
"My dear friend, what has become of you?!" You sob.
Unable to remain standing under your own power, you feel Blackwood mercifully give your baby reins some slack as you fall to your knees. Your smooth, shining legs straddle the puffy diaper that droops between them.
"Mooooooo! Moooooooooooooo!"
The blonde squire you once knew as Mouse presses against the wooden slats of this outdoor enclosure, their pale face painted with soft mud. Their erstwhile tiny body is subsumed by a heavy garment printed with a holstein pattern, which is padded to mimic the proportions of a dairy cow. You recoil in horror as a wet BLAAAAAART from Mouse's rear end is followed by an expansion of the padding below their stomach, adding even more weight to your former companion's bovine form. Their whole costume is a single, colossal diaper! It pads them from the rattling cowbell around their neck to the tips of their hoof-clad toes!
Mouse's eyes are vacant and without emotion as they stare stupidly in your direction, though their pupils dilate the moment your gazes meet. For a moment, they are still. Then, with a soft whimper, they turn away from you and saunter off on all fours, their cowbell announcing every lumbering movement as they drag themselves slowly to a feeding trough on the far side of the pen. They continue to fart noisily, adding ever more girth to the full-body diaper encasing them.
You shudder as you tear your eyes away from the miserable scene, seeking comfort in the sight of your own comparatively small diaper. You realize you're instinctively trying to piss, though you must have already wet yourself; the thick padding has become dark and yellow.
"Is this to be my fate as well?" You croak. Your mouth has gone drier than sand, though tears drip from your eyes.
"The squire will not speak without being spoken to!" Blackwood barks, his sallow face contorting in rage. "The squire does not question what royalty wishes for it! The squire is an object, a brainless toy, a -- "
"You are dismissed, minister." The Royal Interpreter's silky alto voice leaves Blackwood struck dumb. "Remove the squire's reins and tend to other matters. Her Majesty will have words alone with it."
"B-but, Your Highness!" Blackwood stammers, his mouth agape. "You cannot be left alone with this squire. It is stubborn and headstrong, and it has now seen Your Majesty's Dairy! I have it on firm suspicion that it attempted to escape the Squirey by aid of that treasonous cow!"
"Blackwood! We suffer no more challenges from the Minister of Our Holdings than we do from our squires! You have been given a command."
The color seems to drain from Blackwood's face. Despite your disgust and awe at Mouse's pathetic state, you cannot help but feel satisfaction as he is dressed down by this slender woman half his age. With rough hands, Blackwood pulls you back onto your velvet heels, unfastens the reins around your torso, and frees you from captivity. With an awkward tap of his thin black rod on the soft ground, he departs for the stables, walking stiffly.
A soft breeze catches your extremely short crêpe skirt, and you shiver from your relative lack of clothing in the autumn air. You're unsure what to do now that you're alone with the Royal Interpreter and her rabbit -- one of the hundreds you had found beneath the hollow of the tree during the Hunt.
After that day, you had spent a week confined to some dusty tower where not even Pig could manage to visit you. The only interruption to your isolation came when a handmaiden would enter to feed you gruel and change your soiled diaper. You could sense the gravity of what you had discovered in the woods, but did not fully understand what it meant...or how much danger you were in for having seen it.
The Royal Interpreter examines your face as Mouse lows softly a short distance away. You grasp at your skirts and perform a quick curtsy, but are too terrified to add the customary giggle. At last, the young woman speaks:
"You were the heir to the Duchy of Berceau."
It doesn't appear to be a question, and you're unsure how to react. It was a title you had not heard in so long...for over a year, you have simply been 'squire' or 'it.' You lower your chin in the gentlest nod.
The Royal Interpreter bends at the knees, letting the rabbit in her hands wriggle out of her grasp and hop a few paces away, where it grooms itself carelessly. She then lifts the hem of her dress and steps over to a milking stool near Mouse's pen, easing herself down before patting her legs with both hands.
"Come. Sit on my lap."
You're breathing heavily. A few moments ago, you had imagined you were about to be imprisoned in an enormous diaper and tossed into the pen with mindless, mooing Mouse, living out the rest of your miserable days as Her Majesty's milk cow. With Blackwood dismissed and the so-called "Queen" paying no heed, you're now entirely unsure what this is all about. With another curtsy, you approach the Royal Interpreter and allow your diaper to squish against her knee, which she begins to bounce as she wraps a firm hand around your back. Deprived of Pig's companionship for more than a week, you can't help but gasp and feel excited as the mushy padding massages you down below.
"Once upon a time," the young woman says, keeping up the rhythm of her bouncing. "There was a beautiful princess who was the jewel of the land. Everyone from the highest noble to the lowliest commoner was smitten with her charms. Her mother hoped she would grow to become a powerful and fearsome Queen, but the princess had a secret."
The Royal Interpreter brushes a lock of hair from your eyes before sliding one of her thumbs between your open lips. Paralyzed with confusion, you simply suckle and slurp on the young woman's hand as she goes on with her tale.
"The princess could not keep her bed dry. Throughout her life, a laundress came each morning to collect the wet linens and replace them with new, before any of the servants could see. The laundress had a daughter, in whom the princess often confided. They would sneak off into the woods and find places to hide, where the two of them could talk and play make-believe all day."
Your cheeks bulge around the young woman's thumb as you continue to suckle. A clattering of bells behind you announces that Mouse has clambered back. Drool drips from their mouth as they eye you curiously.
"The princess and her friend loved the woods, where they would imagine themselves as all manner of animals. One day, while hunting, the Queen discovered the princess pretending to be a rabbit. All the lords and ladies saw this woman of majority hopping about, eating scraps from the ground, and wetting the diapers the laundress' daughter had swaddled her in. The Queen was furious! She swore an actual rabbit would sit on the throne before she ever let the princess lead her kingdom, insane as she must have been."
The young woman begins bouncing you faster as Mouse moos plaintively, and you thrust your hips in unison, aching for relief.
"When the Queen died unexpectedly, the disinherited princess simply vanished. It was just as well, for that last promise made in a moment of anger was enforcable by law: a rabbit was crowned in her stead. The kingdom descended into chaos, until the laundress' daughter stepped forward. She could speak to the rabbit...and tell the ministers and councilors and bishops and generals everything they wanted to hear. They were so desperate for a leader, they allowed themselves to believe it was true."
"There were advantages to this strange zoocracy," she goes on. "When illness or old age or a clever assassin got the better of Her Majesty, another rabbit was always in waiting. The laundress' daughter kept hundreds in the woods, along with her favorite pet of all."
You inhale sharply and mumble around the thumb in your mouth. "Duh pwincess."
"Yes, the 'pwincess,'" the Royal Interpreter nods, stone-faced despite her amusement. "The princess who was unfit to rule, for she desired nothing more than to live as a diapered pet, and to toy with other diapered pets like her. But the laundress' daughter sought her advice on every detail of governing. And together, they hatched a scheme where Her Majesty would train squires to entertain and serve at court. Diapered squires who barked and giggled and made fools of themselves, just as the princess had made a fool of herself...all so she could at last return home."
"But even the princess needed to be broken."
You hear the familiar voice interrupt the story, and a soft hand press into the front of your diaper from behind. You moan and squirm as Pig, who had approached from outside your view, kneads your padding gently. The Royal Interpreter continues to bounce her knee and stroke your slurping tongue with her thumb.
"The princess had begun having second thoughts," the Royal Interpreter goes on. "The laundress' daughter was terrified of losing her friend again. But she had power now -- perhaps more than anyone had ever had. She would train her lovely squire to love this new life, just as she would all of her squires thereafter."
"Or, out of jealous love," Pig says -- you feel their lips brush against your ear as they grab your head and twist it to face Mouse, who moos and floods their massive diaper with yet more sludge -- "She would turn her into this."
You scream, not from terror, but from ecstasy. The bouncing of the young woman's knee, the manipulations of Pig's hand, the thumb in your mouth and the sight of Mouse's humiliation forge a cacophony of sensations that send you spinning over the edge. Your hips buckle and shake as you search out every last drop of pleasure within the thick diaper that has become your most beloved companion. You fall back against Pig and continue to suckle the thumb, bathing in the glow of your dissipating excitement.
For the first time ever, you see the Royal Interpreter smile. It is soft, and cruel, and beautiful.
"The end."
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You are reminded of your first day at court as your heels clack against the marble: all the eyes of the lords and ladies burning into your skin as you danced and sang and showed off your diapers like a giggling fool. You suppose it was not so different from how today will transpire. Some lecherous lord is sure to pick you up and slap your diapered bottom. You will certainly laugh and curtsy as you're ordered to crawl on your knees, to eat something off the floor, or to climb into a lap and fill up your padding.
But today it will feel different. Because today you will have a name.
The Royal Interpreter sits on her throne, stroking some rabbit or another who has been chosen to play the Queen. There is no flicker of recognition in her face; no betrayal of your chance meeting in the hollow or of the story she told you at the Dairy. In a way, you are as terrified of this woman as you ever were. Because now you know the fate that will befall you if you ever dare to cross her.
Pig's glittering pink hair catches your eye as you stoop into a curtsy before the Queen. They smile mysteriously, having found the perfect spot to witness your naming.
A nervous dribble fills your diaper, and you giggle genuinely. Never have you been so proud to be so humiliated.
The Royal Interpreter lifts the rabbit to her ear to make a show of listening intently. Your stomach churns as she sets the creature down in her lap, knowing your moment has finally come.
"Little Sparrow."
The words are non-chalant, almost bored. But it doesn't matter. Tears of joy roll down your cheeks and you fall to your knees, overwhelmed with excitement. You see Pig lick their lips, perhaps imagining how they intend to celebrate with you when the evening comes to an end.
"Now that is a fine trophy! Perhaps the finest I've seen. My whole pocket of silver says this squire will be bagged first; every lord in the Hunt will have his heart set on it."
Your long eyelashes flutter as you look away from the grinning man in the scarlet jerkin, squirming bashfully in your hot leather costume. Not another wager on you! For what seems like the hundredth time this morning, you hear coins changing hands, a few lecherous remarks, and a scratching of ink on parchment as the betting master records the receipt. You shudder to realize that there must be a king's ransom riding on your pretty head.
When Blackwood had first informed you that you would be entertaining at the Hunt, you assumed it would be very much like a day at court: dancing, singing, and playing a flirty diapered fool to delight Her Majesty's guests. Your suspicions to the contrary began only this morning: you had been awoken hours before dawn by Madame Matilda. Her handmaidens scrubbed you clean and raw before changing you into the thickest, most comically padded diaper you had ever seen. The form-fitting pink romper they dressed you in seemed strange and unwieldy (although the matching knee-high boots with 6-inch stilettos reminded you that little about the life of a squire is meant to be practical).
It was only after Blackwood had arrived and presented you with the hood that you came to realize the terrible twist of Her Majesty's Hunt: squires are not meant to be the garnish, but the game! Molded into the shape of a stag's head and antlers, the constricting hood obscures all but your heavily-painted eyes, which peer nervously at the row of other squires being presented outside the betting master's tent. Dressed in similar leather costumes with perverse diaper bulges, none of the docile and sad-looking figures are familiar to you. Ever since Mouse had been taken away three seasons ago, Pig has remained the only other squire with whom you share any rapport.
The man in the scarlet jerkin manages to catch your attention again as he departs for the field, and his suggestive wink makes you shiver despite the uncomfortable warmth of your hood. A different and more familiar heat alerts you that you're dribbling into your diaper again. As the months have passed, you've noticed that your bladder now empties itself uncontrollably whenever something makes you anxious. Your first true accidents had overwhelmed you with fear and anguish; your diapers were no longer just a humiliating accessory, but an undeniable necessity! But with time, you've come to find something oddly pleasant -- even calming -- about the padding growing warm and thick between your legs.
You bite down on a bit built into the frame of your pink leather hood, which opens the nostrils by way of some ingenious contraption. With a path to your mouth now cleared, you drop down to your knees and plunge your head into a long trough of stagnant water set before you and your fellow captives. You drink deeply until you must surface for air, then dive in once again. You often find yourself drinking well beyond your thirst when presented with a bottle or bowl. You tell yourself it is because you do not know when your next opportunity for water will come. You would never admit -- or even allow yourself to think -- that it was to ensure the soothing feeling of a wet accident in your diaper would never be far away.
"You! Pretty one!"
You feel a rough hand on the back of your neck and let out a gurgling whinny as your head is yanked, coughing and sputtering, from the deep trough. You release the bit in your mouth and assume the position of submission expected of you whenever you're being manhandled, holding your wrists limply and craning upwards to expose your neck. The betting master, a portly yeoman with a cheap doublet and oily red goatee, is gripping your scruff tightly while waving a messy ledger in his other hand.
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about! Pretty as a painting." The betting master pulls up sharply, and you wobble onto your towering heels before dipping demurely into an awkward curtsy.
"All these noble louts are betting a fortune that you'll be the first squire bagged," the betting master barks, flapping his ledger in your hooded face as though you had demanded some proof. "You know what that means, right? Some grubby lord runs you down in the woods, drags you back to the palace in a sack, tosses you in his bed -- then he gets to have his paws all over you for a couple of days, 'til the stench of your diaper becomes too much for him to handle. I'll bet that doesn't sound like a holiday to you, eh?"
Your eyes widen and you feel your face grow hot. You didn't realize what fate awaited you at the end of the Hunt! You had suffered many evenings at court being kissed and groped, and having your mushy diapered bottom bounced on lordly laps. But never had you been carried off to someone's bedchamber, to be used and abused out of anyone else's sight. You shudder to think what could happen, and the sound of more nervous piss streaming into your diaper echoes through the air.
The betting master grins lewdly. "I thought as much! Now, suppose I passed along some hints about Her Majesty's hunting grounds? Little nooks and crannies where you could hide out, and maybe avoid getting bagged altogether? I retire on a fat pile of silver, and you keep those doe-eyes from witnessing the true depths of a lord's appetite for pretty squires. What say you?"
In your life as a squire, you're accustomed to hearing commands, not questions. Your brain struggles to react, forgetting how to parse a proper answer. Knowing you want the betting master's information, you waggle your hooded head, feeling off-balance from the weight of the pink antlers, and produce some sort of affirmative snorting noise. He flashes a toothy grin.
"I'll take that for a hearty 'yes, mister!'" The betting master strokes his red beard and lowers his voice, out of earshot from the other diapered squires lined up outside his tent. "Now listen to me carefully. When they run you into the woods, don't follow the bridge across the brook. Just a few paces south, you'll see an older path, which loops around....."
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Your lungs are burning as you struggle to feed them enough life-giving air to keep going. Your jaw aches from biting down on the bit inside your antlered hood, trying to force the contraption's nostrils open as widely as possible. Your ears are thundering with the sound of your heavy footfalls on the cold autumn ground, crunching leaves beneath the platforms of your pink high-heeled boots. Your body can't betray you now. You're so close to the hiding spot...
Your fat diaper crinkles and pops beneath you as you leap across a shallow trench, wobbling a bit on the landing with the 6-inch stilettos. You remember all the mornings you had sobbed pathetically at Madame Matilda's feet, falling over yourself as she trained you to dance and prance like a giggling fool up and down the squiring hall. In this moment, your heart swells with gratitude for the intensity of her frollicking lessons: you think you may be trotting faster in your towering heels than you ever could in flat shoes.
At last! A rotten old tree with black bark and a wide trunk droops at the edge of a grassy clearing, about a furlong's distance away. A spark of fear rattles up your spine as the sound of a hunter's horn pierces the morning air. No! Have you been spotted?! Have all your efforts been for naught?!
Digging deep for every ounce of strength you can still muster, you feel hot piss flood your diapered loins as you sprint towards your goal. The feeling of your diaper filling beyond your control, the terror of being run down and bagged like a wild animal, the energy pulsing through your body as you push yourself to exhaustion -- it all stirs up inside of you, and for the ghost of a moment, you imagine Pig standing over you with a sack in hand, licking their dark red lips as they descend on you with lustful eyes...
The sound of galloping hooves banishes the strange image from your mind, and you redouble your efforts to reach the tree. Your heart is in your throat as you round the rotting trunk and behold the hiding spot you had been promised by the betting master: a hollow at the base obscured by woodland grasses where you can see into the clearing without being seen yourself.
You dive head-first into the hollow, deftly maneuvering your antlers through the narrow opening. But your feelings of triumph wash away like flotsam at sea when your momentum is abruptly halted at the waist. Blood rushes to your head and your arms dangle uselessly as you are stuck upside-down -- the padding of your diaper is too thick and swollen with piss to squeeze through! As the crash of horses' hooves and the call of the hunter's horn draw ever nearer, you are left wriggling and flailing with your legs in the air, your sodden diaper flashing as a white banner of surrender to whatever lord should wish to claim you as his prize.
Desperately, you begin to hump the thick root of the tree with your squishy padding, hoping you can somehow force your diaper through the constraining hole. Once again, in your mind's eye you see Pig rolling their diapered hips against yours, their wet tongue painting circles in the air as they grind your padding like a millstone. You hurl your loins harder against the tree, pumping your boots in the air to add weight behind each frenzied thrust.
Then, when the hunter's horn sounds as though it's blaring from your own ears, you feel the ground shift, and the rotting trunk of the black tree collapses around you. You fall head-first into the dark hollow, rolling into a pile of soft, damp wood. Covering the nostrils of your hood with both hands, you take your mouth off the bit and wait, shivering in silence, willing yourself not to breathe.
You hear the clank of metal spurs above your head, and the canter of a slowing steed. He must have seen you before the tree collapsed, or heard the commotion from your fall! Tears begin to spill freely from your eyes, mixing with the dripping sweat of your brow to form a salty elixir that stings your trembling lips.
"Nnnnnnnnnhh! Nnnnnnnnhhhhh!"
A muffled cry draws the whinnying horse away from you. You dare to stand at full height and peer through the widened hollow to see what has transpired! In the clearing, you see another squire in their stag costume, limping across the grass in confused panic. A muscular lord on horseback rides into view, extending a long pole with a billhook to clip one of the squire's antlers. They tumble to the ground and begin crawling in the opposite direction, clearly too lame to stand.
With a cruel non-chalance, the rider dismounts and unfurls a cloth sack the size of a wine barrel. Outpacing the miserable squire easily, the muscular nobleman crosses in front of them and thrusts his knee down onto the poor thing's neck.
"NNNNNNHHH! NNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHH!"
The squire's cries grow frantic as the nobleman effortlessly draws the sack over his trophy's kicking legs, forcing their knees into a bend before stuffing the squire's arms in and drawing the bag closed. The terrified young prize continues to writhe within their new prison, but is unable to resist their captor as he drags the squire over to his horse by the antlers and tosses them over the back of the saddle. The bagged squire's screams turn into wailing sobs as they come to realize their fate is sealed. Mounting his steed and brandishing his billhook, the nobleman gives the clearing one last searching glance before trotting off into the woods.
You collapse onto the damp ground and place your hand over your chest, at last allowing yourself to catch your breath. That poor squire! What could be running through their mind now, being captured in the Hunt and dragged helplessly to their fate? You can only imagine their fear, their anguish, their excitement. You're assaulted with new visions of Pig tossing your bagged body on the floor, writhing and mewling as they grab your antlered hood and ride you like a mule.
You don't realize you've been stroking the front of your sagging diaper until your eyes adjust to the darkness of the hollow. There is something strange about this place; it seems far larger than you would have expected for a hole beneath a rotting tree. You blink away your waking dream, but you swear there is some light-colored form watching you in the dark. Cautiously, you extend your hand and feel...something soft. Something moving.
You jump at the sound of a torch being struck, and wince as you adjust to its flickering light. The first thing you see is the ball of white fur in your hand, which unfurls to reveal the form of a large, white rabbit. As you flit your eyes around what now appears to be a spacious cavern, you realize it is not alone. Huddled in groups throughout the soft ground of this hidden chamber are untold scores of white rabbits, sleeping or grooming themselves lazily in the dark.
And at last, you clap your eyes on the source of the torchlight: radiant in her purple dress and still wearing her tall crown, the young woman you recognize as the Royal Interpreter strokes yet another rabbit in her lap as she lifts the flame to get a better look at your hooded face. Not for the last time, wet warmth spills uncontrollably into your ever-expanding diaper, causing a soft moan to escape from your lips.
"Well, what have we here?" the woman says in a low, sultry tone. Her unsmiling face isn't able to mask the hint of amusement in her voice. "It looks like we've bagged a squire after all, Your Majesties."
