A pile of freshly made blueberry pancakes sit just off to the side, ready to be devoured when you finally get out of bed.
I smile to myself as I hear the patter of your feet behind me. The awkward rhythm of your steps tells almost as much of a story as the tell-tale crinkling that accompanied it.
I don't turn to face you, just leaning back into your touch as you wrap your arms around my waist and bury your face into my back.
"Morning, little one," I coo, turning to see your eyes peeking up at me from under your messy bed head, "Did my baby sleep well?"
You grumble something wordlessly behind your paci, rub your sleepy eyes, and whimper a little, before looking down at the diaper sagging heavily below the hem of the oversized shirt you wore to bed.
I shake my head and chuckle, giving you a peck on the shield of your binkie before speaking.
"Oh, does someone want a change?"
I say through a smile.
You respond with a hopeful look and nod of your head.
I laugh again.
"Oh, sweetie, no changies before breakfast. You know that! Why waist a didi when we both know that your pants will be more full than your tummy by the end of your meal?"
You let out a dissatisfied grunt.
I smack the soggy padding covering your ass.
Who knew an adult could look so adorable dressed like an overgrown toddler?
"Now, go find your seat, sog monster! Breakfast's almost done, and I made your favorite! Pancakes!"
Your eyes light up at that, and you toddle off quickly to the table.
I turn back to the eggs, grinning as I slide them onto our two plates.
I'm Sister Jess. You're probably already familiar with me due to my established employment in the ministry salon, but I was informed these new roles may include responsibilities that I would be able to perform in addition to my current position. So if that would be the case, I'd certainly be interested in expanding the ways in which I serve Papa and our Dark Lord.
Overall I'm pretty good with my hands. Obviously I get to do some pretty fancy scissor work throughout the work day, and I type at around 80wpm. I also know my way around musculature and nerves and blood vessels from my time working in the spa, as well as from some experience I've had being essentially a human pincushion. Obviously I have a pretty high pain tolerance from said experience, and I actually find the sensation rather enjoyable. My blood type is O+.
I hope you will consider me for these new responsibilities. It would be an honor to further devote myself to Papa.
~Sister Jess (they/them)
Hello, Sister Jess. Lovely to finally hear from you <3
Sibling Nyx said that you might be interested in applying to my personal team and I'm delighted you did. No one at the salon can handle my curls quite like you do Sister, so I trust that you'd be more than diligent in any task I'd assign.
Your combination of skills is intriguing. It wouldn't be difficult to put your anatomical knowledge and tolerance for needles to work, especially seeing as we're hiring for those who can supply "product" to be stored frozen for when Nyx's health prevents them from fulfilling their duties. Perhaps you would be open to be trained in performing extraction of "product" on other volunteers?
Nyx can be rather... Territorial when it comes to certain actions I perform with my teeth and I try to respect their wishes as my right hand, so you being comfortable with needles is ideal given the circumstances.
You've already been approved for additional duties and will receive a briefing packet written up by Sibling Nyx as soon as Frater Imperator signs off on everything.
Oh, darling, we don't have to jump into this all at once.
We don't need the onesies, the bottles, the pacis or the diapers.
We don't even need to dress you like an obnoxious teenager.
Let's start slow.
You only need to let go of one thing.
It's a tiny thing, really. You won't miss it at all. It's truly just freeing.
Just stop trying to control your emotions.
Feeling frustrated? Show me that adorable little pout when you don't get your way.
Getting angry? Hold your breath and stomp your foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
Shy and uncomfortable? Just squeeze my hand and hide behind me. Papa will make it ok.
Overcome with joy? Let that bubbly, infectious laugh of yours flow freely from your lips.
Adults are trained for hide our emotions, not to let anyone see all of those messy feelings hiding inside of us.
Being little isn't about diapers and onesies or paci's and highchairs. It's about letting yourself be unencumbered by those silly societal norms placed on us as adults.
So, how about it? Let's start slow.
How about throwing Papa one adorable little tantrum?
You pause as my finger slowly slides under the next word on the page.
Squirming subconsciously on my lap, you chew your lip in intense concentration.
I have to stifle a chuckle.
You're not pausing because you can't read the four-syllable-long word on the page.
That would be silly.
You're a respected professional. You have a college degree. There's not a word in the whole Babysitter's Club series you can't read.
You're pausing because you don't know if this a word you shouldn't know how to read.
After months of "reading lessons," you still haven't deciphered my rules for which words you are and aren't allowed to know.
It's probably because there aren't any.
You dare a warning glance back at me, trying to see if you can gather more information from my face than the page in front of you.
I shake my head.
"What's wrong, sweetie? Need help sounding this one out?"
You let out a little sigh of relief, nodding your head in affirmation, clearly believing you've avoided punishment for being too much of a 'smarty pants.'
A flutter of joy forms in my chest. "Teaching" you how to read has been one of my favorite parts of the day.
"Innnnn-deeeee-penn-dennt," I read slowly, carefully annunciating each sound, "Just like you used to be before you met me! Remember?"
You blush, throwing your head back into my chest as I take the opportunity to kiss the side of your head.
"That one wasn't even that hard. You could read it just last week, remember?"
You look back at me in fear as I continue.
"Maybe these books are a little bit too hard for you," I declare.
Panic fills your face as you realize you've escaped a spanking, but may have subjected yourself to an even worse fate.
"But, I..." You stammer out before I cut you off.
"No, 'buts'! I won't have you straining that poor little brain with books that are so clearly far above your reading level!"
You whimper as I set the book to the side and help you off my lap.
"I'm pretty sure we have some of those Magic Treehouse books in your room, why don't you go pick one out?"
You look from me to the book you were just reading, sitting on the side table. I can see it on your face. You know you'll never read anything that mature again.
"What are you waiting for?" I say, interrupting your train of thought, "Are you afraid those books will be too hard, too? I'm sure we have some Dr. Suess around here if..."
I don't even finish my sentence before you dart off, desperate to not fall any farther this afternoon.
You shuffle uncomfortably from foot to foot as you stand there, nose pressed firmly into the corner.
The pressure in your bladder, building for the last hour, is finally reaching its crescendo.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the lime green training potty, the same one that, just hours earlier, you swore that you would never use.
Now though? It calls out to you like a siren, the cheap plastic your only hope of salvation from a deeper humiliation.
The padding of the pull-up strapped around your waist brushes against the red, irritated skin of your freshly spanked ass.
It made sense at the time, but now, you can't remember why you threw such a tantrum about wearing the infantile garment.
You whimper as you feel yourself losing control.
Heat grows between your legs and you're flooded with relief at the same time your poor pull-up is flooded with your hot piss.
You feel a hand on your shoulder just before a deep, chiding chuckle feels your ear.
"Uh oh," the voice coos, "Looks like someone is not big kid they insisted they were, are they?"
You let out a low, wordless whine in response, as you feel a hand press the damp pull-up into you.
You let yourself be pulled out of the corner and led past the childish training potty. You can't help but stare at it longingly as the swollen padding between your legs forces you to waddle.
Your attention is drawn back to your captor--or was it caregiver now?--when you hear them click their tongue.
"Get a good look, sweetie," they coo as they drag you away, "That's the closest you'll be getting to that potty in a very, very long time."
Oh, baby, if you're so mature--so BIG--and your sister is so little, why is it you fit so perfectly in her poofy little pampers?
Now, toddle over to her and apologize for teasing her about being a baby.
Maybe if you're lucky, she'll forgive you and let you be a big girl again before you have to use that didi for it's intended purpose.
Or, maybe, in a few hours, you'll be the--what was it you called her again?--oh, yes, the "Silly Little Tinklebutt" toddling off to the corner, hoping no one notices YOU squatting down to load your pants!
Oh, baby, it's adorable how you keep whining, claiming you're an "adult," a "big kid," how you "don't need a caregiver."
But, sweetie, I think it's about time you give that up.
I mean, look at yourself, squatting there in your cute little onesie, diaper drooping nearly to your knees!
Have you ever seen anything so precious in your life?
If you weren't meant to be just like this, my adorable diapered pet, why would the universe make you this irresistible?
Now, stop your whimpering, the smell isn't that bad.
If you waddle off quickly to your playpen and show me just how perfect of a baby you were built to be, I might even change that messy bum of yours before you go nini!
Goose bumps form on the back of your exposed thighs where they're kissed by the gentle touch of the school's sanitary, climate controlled air.
The muscles in your shoulders feel like they're on fire as they continue to hold your hands firmly in place on the back or your head.
The tip of your nose itches from where it's spent the last hour pressed firmly into the pristine white wall of the classroom's 'Naughty Corner.'
Your pants are bunched around your ankles, leaving the soaked, drooping diaper taped around your waist on display for everyone else in the room to see.
You may be an adult.
You may have a college degree.
You may have even had a successful career.
None of that matters now.
In Mrs. Stinson's Re-Education program, you're just another failed adult, fated to be treated like somewhere between a rebellious teenager and a troublemaking toddler for the rest of your life.
Your blood boils a little as you hear your 'teacher' drone on behind you, lecturing the rest of your class on the importance of sacrificing their dignity and submitting to their new 'caretakers.'
None of this is fair.
You don't belong in this program.
You've done nothing wrong.
You hadn't committed a crime, like some of your other classmates. You haven't made an embarrassing mistake at work, like some others. You haven't cheated on a partner, racked up credit card debt, or even done so much as disrespecting your biological parents.
No, all you've done was fall in love with the wrong person.
Papa, as you were now forced to call him, had seemed so great at first.
He was doting, caring, kind, smart, strong, and attractive. He was everything you were looking for in a partner.
And when, after months of dating, he asked you to move in with him, you had been ecstatic to start a new chapter of your life together!
In retrospect though, you should have asked more questions before taking that finally leap. Questions like, "What's behind that door you always keep locked in your house?" and "Why is there so much small, nearly illegible fine print on this lease?"
Your stomach rumbles in anxiety as you remember that first morning, after you'd gone to sleep drunk, celebrating moving in, when you woke up diapered, strapped in a straight jacket, and locked in a crib.
The fear you felt, thinking you'd been kidnapped by one of those human trafficking outfits that created regressies for money, only for Papa to appear, and explain that you'd signed away your entire life--your independence, your maturity, your adulthood--to him.
"Gaaaaaaaahhhhh!"
You stomp your feet as much as you can as you growl out in frustration.
You shouldn't be here.
You know you've made another mistake as soon as you notice the room go silent behind you.
"Oh, my naughty little one, do you have a comment on today's lesson you want to share from the corner?"
Mrs. Stinson's voice is cool and authoritarian. It seems shivers down your spine.
You don't dare pull your nose from the corner as you respond.
"No, Mrs. Stinson, I was just… I was just…" You scour your brain for a good response, "I was just feeling frustrated and throwing a tantrum."
You can feel every eye on the room on you as the soft click of your instructors heels announce that she has walked up behind you.
You feel her delicate but firm hand as she lays it on your shoulder.
"A tantrum?" she coos, her voice a mix of approval and delight, "How perfect!"
She turns you from corner, beaming as her eyes meet yours.
"You're finally letting yourself feel all of those big icky feelings! I'm so proud of you!"
To your surprise, she wraps you in a hug, before wrapping an arm around you and presenting you to the hold class, as if you've made some great accomplishment.
"See class," she lectures, "Holding your emotions back, repressing them, not showing that? That's a luxury only afforded true adults. Something none of you will ever be."
You blush as such humiliating words flow out of the woman in such a supportive tone.
"Tantrums, meltdowns, hissy fits? You should all be embracing them! If you aren't, you're just hurting yourself by clinging to dignity that you'll never again get to possess!"
You whimper a little as the ramifications of Mrs. Stinson's words sink in.
"The quicker you learn that, the happier you'll be!"
She announces to the class.
Lines of mortified adult faces stare back at you, their expressions a reflection of the fear you know that you're feeling.
"Now, I know out star pupil was just sitting in the Naughty Corner for having the audacity to ask for a diaper change," you blush as you remember being lectured for even being aware of the state of the glorified piss sack dangling between your legs, "But, this breakthrough deserves a celebration, don't you think?"
You shuffle your feet nervously, worried about what's go come.
Mrs. Stinson grabs the school-issued walkie talkie on her hip and clicks a button on its side.
"Can we get a daycare attendant and a stroller in Room 14, please? We have a star pupil whose earned an afternoon in the Nursery!" Your teacher announced proudly, causing another pit of anxiety to form in your stomach.
An afternoon in the Nursery meant an afternoon spent crawling around, sucking a binky, and being fed bottles like an infant. It wasn't a reward. It was a further demotion.
The overwhelming sense of injustice overwhelms you again.
Tears start to roll down your face as you throw yourself to the ground and begin kicking your hands and feet against the floor.
"It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!" You wail out as your classmates look on horrified.
Mrs. Stinson grins a deep, satisfied grin.
"Good baby," she coos as you crash out on the floor, "That's perfect! You're Papa's going to be so proud, and I am really going to miss having you in my class!"
You slow your tantrum as Mrs. Stinson's words hit you.
"What?" You chirp out timidly, "What do you mean?"
Your instructor crouched low next to you and rubs your back.
"You're done here, sweetie, your tantrum just proved it. You've officially graduated to the Nursery. Congratulations!"
The door to the classroom opens and a large stroller is pushed in. The stroller meant to carry you off even farther away from the life you once had as an adult.
