You are still now. You will listen. You cannot help but listen, Little One, to every word I say to you…
I writhe silently in my bonds, my drug-fogged brain protesting feebly that all this isn’t right, that I need to get away, that I must escape this sibilant, seductive Voice whose whispers are seeping into my ears and my consciousness. I tug, I wriggle, I squirm. But oh, how tight the cuffs have been secured. I can scarcely move here inside this locked crib, my veritable cage not only for tonight, but for every night to come…for more weeks and months than I dare even consider.
No. I am trapped here in the dark, well and truly. And so, there is nothing I can do but endure this voice, the low whispers that are every minute pushing my groggy senses closer to the edge…of what, I can no longer say. The edge of my rational adult mind, perhaps? Every moment I am growing less aware of those small, insidious little earbuds Sir tucked inside my ears before wrapping them in soft bandages, deviously trapping them inside my head. As my senses grow fuzzier, in their place I am aware only of the sound they carry - that soothing, commanding Voice. It gently, insistently echoes and reechoes in my mind, occupying my sleepy senses, dominating my small, shrinking mind…
You are helpless. Know that, Little One. Your place is here, in the crib that is the proper home of every baby like you. For you are now becoming aware of that you really are… a baby… Sir’s baby. Oh, yes. You have always needed to be a sweet, helpless baby, Little One. You know this now. You need Sir to take charge, to teach you, to train you to accept being the baby you really are…
No. Not a baby! Deprived of the ability to physically resist, I struggle mentally, vainly trying to shut out the sweet insistence of these whispered phrases. No, I’m an adult. I’m grown woman. I, I, I-
Little One, repeat after me… I belong here. I am Sir’s baby. I need him. I need Sir to baby me. I will not resist him. I will never resist being a baby. I love being a baby. Babies are good. Bottles are good. Diapers are good. Pacifiers are good. I need them all… I want them, Sir. Make me your baby now…
My mind is faltering, spiraling helplessly, awash in the haze of sedatives and relaxants and whispered commands that are washing over me. No, not baby. Yes, you are already a baby. No. Yes, you know this. Everyone knows it. Everyone sees you, calls you a baby. No, no… Just a helpless, innocent little baby. So sleepy, so sweet. No worries, no cares, no control. Just…peace…and relaxation…and happy, mindless, helplessness…
I can’t. No, can’t give in. You have already given in, baby. No! Yes, you have. Feel those cuffs securing you, baby. Feel the soft flannel crib sheets crinkling beneath you. Feel that warm babyish sleeper swaddling you. Feel that soft, bulky diaper bulging between your little baby legs… No, no diaper…. Yes. Because you need it all. You deserve it all. You sense it all around you, baby. It surrounds you, claims you, shows everyone what you are. And that is good. You will never need or feel anything else but your sweet, warm babyish clothes…
The energy is draining out of me. I simply can’t fight anymore. So…tired. The darkness is everywhere, enfolding me. Such an effort to open eyes. Still dark. So I close. Yes. Maybe I sleep now… escape Voice…
You feel your little baby bladder so full now. All babies do, Little One. And all good babies just…let it go. They relax, and wet, because they simply cannot do anything else… You are a very good baby, Little One. You wet, helplessly and constantly, as all babies do. You dribble and leak out into your diaper, awake or asleep, and you accept this. You love this. Everyone now knows you use your diapers, Little One. Everyone expects it. And you will never let them down. You will wet for them: here…now…tonight…tomorrow…wherever you are, whenever you need to, time after time after time. You cannot help it…
I’m drifting now, afloat on a sea of words that bear me up, carry me away, paint pictures of pastel shapes, and softly bulging cotton and plastic, and smiling faces cooing down at me. Is there something going on down there…something warm and soft and wet swelling beneath me, between my legs? Perhaps I am just imagining things. I’m so very sleepy, after all… But still the voice echoes softly in my softening mind…
Good baby…good wet little baby…good messy little baby…Sir loves you so much. You are his wet, messy, helpless little baby now. Know that. Feel that. You want this. You crave this. You will show Sir, and everyone, what a good baby you are. So now wet, Little One, and mess, and feel how helpless and sweet you are. You want this… You need this… You deserve this…
areudirty
amandla
blakekathryn
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
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