18+ only! 100% NSFW! Dedicated to age play, spanking, domestic discipline, corporal punishment, medical fetishism, and, of course, beautiful women in diapers. If you like what you see here, leave a comment or drop me a line at: parkerlongabaugh@yahoo.ca

Sunday, January 29, 2012

The Gift

My friend Jamie requested “a really embarrassing story” for her birthday. Be careful what you wish for…
This is a dark, messy, Kafkaesque tale of forced regression and very public ABDL humiliation. It is, at best, semi -consensual. It operates according to an internal, nightmare logic, not according to reality or actual human behavior.
The Gift
     Poor little princess. You thought this was just a game, didn’t you? You thought it was all role-play; psycho-sexual penance for your bratty behavior—private punishments for public misbehavior. Your tantrums are legendary; how many friends have look at me and chuckled “she’s quite a handful…” with a knowing smile… never imagining how sweet and submissive you could be when we got home…
     After I spanked and diapered your little bottom, anyway.
     Do you think about how people would react if they could see you at home, crawling around in your little diapers, sucking your pacifier? What your co-workers would think if they heard their ice-queen colleague sobbing in the corner with her little girl dress pinned up and her diaper tugged down to her knees, revealing a red, spanked bottom? And what do you think your stuck-up, rich-bitch friends would say if they could smell one of your stinky, poopy diapers?
     Well, soon you won’t have to wonder anymore. What’s that? You had no idea that diapers 24/7 at home was just phase one? And what’s phase two? Remember that special present I promised you for your birthday? The one I said you were going to remember for the rest of your life? Well, that was no lie, sweetheart. But it’s not the sort of present I can slide into a box and wrap up in a bow. It’s a little more complicated than that…
     Did you recognize the waitress at lunch? That’s right; six weeks ago you yelled at her in front of everyone when your dinner got overcooked. In fact that’s just the most recent incident… you’ve been rude to her before. Which is why she was so eager to slip that secret ingredient I gave her into your lunch today… Ha ha, calm down, honey! It’s already in your system; it’s too late to do anything about it… though it might not be too soon for you to start feeling the effects. Do you feel it yet? That sharp, gurgling cramp in your tummy? The doctor who sold it to me assured me it was the most potent laxative on the market—guaranteed to cause a strong need to go without a lot of painful cramping… just a lot of embarrassing tummy-rumbling and a lot of gas leading up to the big explosion… Oh, not to worry, sweetheart; you’re a big girl, I’m sure you’ll make it home…
     …And if you don’t, well, cheer up: if walking home sobbing with a big, poopy load in your pants is the most embarrassing thing that happens to you today, well, you can probably consider yourself lucky.
     Let’s take the scenic route through the park. I take your hand, squeezing it tightly as we pass the public toilets. You eyeball the building longingly, but I know you wouldn’t dare, even if you wanted too… You don’t was to get a spanking when you get home, and besides, I know you’re getting turned on you naughty girl.
     We walk slowly through the park, your dainty hand enfolded in mine. I smile and savor the air in the trees, the warmth of the sun, the flawless blue bowl of the sky… not to mention the way you begin to squirm and turn pale beside me. You touch your stomach lightly… Oh, what a loud tummy gurgle! Your pale cheeks color red and you bite your lip, knowing it’s just the beginning.
     By the time we reach the opposite side of the park, your desperation is becoming obvious; you alternately prance in place and double over to stick your butt out. You force yourself ramrod straight and squeeze your butt-cheeks together. Your tummy gurgles loudly, so loudly I can hear it clearly. We pass the final set of public toilets. You unconsciously begin pulling toward it. Transferring your tiny hand to my left side, I swat you across the bottom with my right palm. “Don’t even think about it, young lady,” I whisper, tugging you along and swatting your bottom nonchalantly. “You know I won’t hesitate to bare your bottom in public and spank you right here as soon as you get back,” I remind you sternly, swatting your tushy once more. You yelp and prance in place, redoubling your efforts to keep from soiling yourself.
     By the time we’re on our block, you’re both ecstatic to be so close to home and ready to cry since you’re so close to pooping your pants in public. No longer concerning yourself with keeping your desperation a secret, you prance and shimmy and gyrate beside me, pressing your free hand against your backside as you “OO!” and “AH!” beside me. You’re either oblivious to the stares and chuckles your little dance routine is drawing or you’re just beyond caring... The stomach rumbles are growing louder, and you lost control of your gas about five minutes ago.  At first they were just cute little quacking toots… but now you’re ripping out some long and loud farts, aren’t you? You’re so cute when you blush!
     Finally, we’re back in our building. Home free, right? Not so fast: First we have to ride the elevator up to our floor. The elevator is old and rickety and (wouldn’t you know it?) almost as slow as riding a turtle up 15 flights. I back you into the corner and kiss and caress you, grinning as your arousal wrestles internally with your desperation for control of your body. You have no choice at all but to sit back and experience the dueling sensations I kiss you and nibble your ear, kneading and massaging your tightly clenched butt cheeks.  Sweating, you groan and mew and press yourself against me, exhausted from your ordeal.
     We arrive on out floor. I support you as you hobble down the hall, allowing yourself a tight smile. You made it!
     Well… not quite. I pin you to the wall outside the door. You emit a groan of protest. “Hush,” I command, pressing against you. You struggle gently, but in your weakened state, it’s easy for me to gather your slender writs into my hands and restraining them to the wall above us. “What’s the matter, princess?” I whisper, kissing your throat. You squirm and groan in erotic discomfort. “What do you need?”
     “I gotta go potty, daddy,” you blurt. “So bad!”
     “Baby gotta go poopy?” I ask, giving your bottom a squeeze.
     You blush. “Yeah,” you lisp quietly.
     “’Yeah’ what?” I demand, giving you a spank and making you quiver.
     You lock eyes with me and force yourself to say “I-I gotta go poopy, daddy…”
     “Don’t want to make a messy in your pants?” I ask with a grin.
     You shake your head firmly.
     “Is that because you know I’m gonna diaper that cute little ass as soon as you’re finished?” I give her a quick kiss. “Is it because you know it’s the last time you’re going to be using a potty for a while?” I whisper, just barely managing not to add: “even longer than you think.”
    You nod. “That and cause I don’t wanna get spanked,” you say with a cute, embarrassed smile.
     I chuckle and kiss your forehead. “OK honey; I’ll let you go.” I ease off you and you instantly jump into position in front of the door, hopping from foot to foot in desperation. “But I want you to promise me you’re really going to savor the experience,” I smile, punctuating the remark with another open hand swat to your ass.
     “Yes, I will, I promise!” you blurt, desperately potty dancing in place, tottering on the brink between blissful relief and total, infantile humiliation.
     I open the door. We step inside. The lights go on:
     I told you lunch was just the beginning.
      You gape in astonishment, the shock alone almost causing you to load your pants like a baby on the spot. You somehow manage to regain your control, pressing a hand against your butt-crack for good measure.
     Standing before you is everyone you know: Your family, your snooty rich-bitch friends, everyone from work from your boss to the clerks from the mail room… I even managed to dig up a few of your friends from high-school on Facebook. They all wanted to come in for your party. Ha ha, no, not your birthday, honey! I told you that was only the beginning!
     Finally, you notice the banner. You gasp, your fiery blush turning pale so quickly I fear you may faint!
     Up above, in large letters, the banner reads: Happy Un-Toilet Training!
     “What?” You stammer, unable to process the nightmarish turn of events. I don’t even give you a chance: soon we’re walking through the crowd, each one of them an old face, all cheering and laughing at you and offering you congratulations.
     “Congratulations on going back to diapers!” your best friend laughs snidely. “They really suit your personality!”
     “I think it takes a lot of guts to admit to the world that you want to wear diapers and be a big baby,” your rival from work sneers sweetly, “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all behind you 100%.”
     “Quite so,” your boss blusters pompously from behind his push-broom moustache. “Our entire operation is in full support of you and your, er… federally protected choice of lifestyle…” he trailed off for a moment before continuing, “and I, uh, assure you it will not affect your position one bit. Your fiancĂ© has explained it to us quite, uh… thoroughly.”
     “’Lifestyle?’” you mutter to yourself as I move you along to the next person.
     “Sweetheart,” your mother says emotionally, “at first I was against your decision to go back into diapers. But when your fiancĂ© sat down and told us the whole story, well,” her eyes twinkled, “How could I say no? Good luck, honey bunch.”
     You father ambles up, beaming at you as proudly as her must have when the first time he laid eyes on you. “Well, my little kumquat,” he says, “back to diapers again, eh?” you smile weakly and nod, trying to get him to stop, but he’s in full remembrance mode. “Yes, as I recall, you were never too far away from diapers as long as you lived beneath our roof. You used to get so mad at your mother for hanging your nighttime diapers out on the clothesline in the back yard. Wore them right through high school, am I right pumpkin?”
     “George!” your mother utters, “You know full well I had her trained completely in time for the prom!”
     The crowd roars with laughter. You shift and squirm, and not just because you’re desperate to go anymore.
     “Of course,” your father says warmly. “What I’m trying to say sweetheart is that your mother and I love you, even if you are going back into diapers. Again.”
     And now the moment of truth. Can you feel the air going still? The crowd parts, revealing the centerpiece of the evening. You gasp in horror and shake your head.
     “No!” You cry, “No, PLEASE! You can’t make me do that, please, anything but that!” you beg and plead as I drag you toward the center of the room, and toward the bright pink, adult-sized potty sitting, majestically ridiculous, in the middle of the crowd.
     “Well, you still have to go, don’t you?” I prod, giving your straining buns a squeeze. I turn to address the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming tonight to Jamie’s Adult Baby Coming Out Party!”
     This remark is greeted with delighted applause. You cringe; every deep, dark, “public exposure” fantasy you ever had never prepared you for this.
     “Most of you know Jamie as a tough as nails lawyer or business woman, or a sleek, fashionable young lady, or a great friend and daughter… But how many of you know that there’s nothing Jamie loves more than putting on a big diaper, sucking a bottle and watching Spongebob Squarepants at the end of a hard day?”
     The crowd titters. You blush and fume.
     “Jamie is an Adult Baby, folks. Most of you may have only seen quick glimpses of this side of her, but trust me I know that little Jamie here’s never as happy as she is sitting in a dirty diaper…”
     The crowd roars with laughter. You stew and re-double your efforts to keep your pants clean.
     “This is a hard decision for her, as I’m sure you all understand,” I smile, “but she doesn’t think she should have to hide what makes her happy. Who agrees?”
     A cheer goes up. I turn to you with a smile. Bending down, I lift the lid on the potty. “So now, I present to all of you; Jamie’s last independent act of toilet training.”
     You look at me, then at the crowd. Thoughts of refusal rush through your head, but the need is so strong, and you’re so weakened by the day’s events that you find yourself unable to resist. Fumblingly, you undo your belt and pants as you rush over, as fast as your tightly clenched bottom will allow. You hike your jeans down, baring your butt for the whooping crowd. Spinning, you practically fall back, slamming your rear-end onto the potty.
     You explode. Right there, sitting on your oversized, big girl potty, in front of everyone you know, you blast a torrent of mushy poop, accompanied by an almost inhuman farting sound that echoes off the plastic bowl. Your embarrassment hits fever pitch as the stench hits your nostrils, but you can’t help yourself from emitting a triumphant cry of relief: “AHHHH!”
     Another noisy, flatulent mess goes splattering into the bowl. “Ah” becomes “OH!” as the gooey mudslide comes farting out of you uncontrollably. You feel every eye on; you hear every snicker and gasp and see the gathered crowd fan their faces and wrinkle their noses at you as the smell emerges. And you want to stop: you squeeze your sphincter closed, clench your buttocks tight, cross your feet, and will your body to stop humiliating you in front of everyone. For a long silence you sit and sweat and moan and sob, trying desperately to maintain your dignity.
     But you can’t fight nature. Your stomach gurgles and you screech as you lose control once more. “Uh!” you grunt involuntarily as another humiliating, gassy explosion nearly lifts you off the bowl. And for the next five minutes, you conduct an apocalyptic symphony of plops, farts, grunts, moans and splatters; all while perched on your pretty pink throne like a princess.
     The crowd whoops, laughs and applauds. You sit in a daze with your pants and underpants around your ankles. I help you to your feet, pants and panties still at half-mast. “Hold still, honey,” I say gently. You yelp as I press the cold baby-wipe between your butt-cheeks and proceed to wipe your messy little tushy. You give me an outraged look, followed by another surprised squawk as I repeat the process with a fresh wipe.
     And there you stand: in front of everyone you know, pants and panties around your ankles, freshly cleaned bottom on full display, so exhausted/shocked you don’t even resist when I strip you down to your birthday suit. A changing mat is laid down on the floor, and you shoot me a panicked look as you’re lowered down onto your back. Out comes your diaper bag… you stir, beginning to protest. I silence you with a big pacifier. You blush and groan when the baby oil comes into view, anticipating and dreading what’s about to come. “Turn over,” I command, giving your thigh a little smack. You flip over, presenting your bare backside to me and everyone. I squirt the oil across your back and rub it in firmly, grinning as you moan beneath me.
     Smiling, I take the oil and squirt it onto your bare bottom, squeezing a fat line of it down the crack and making you squeal. You try to suppress your arousal, but it’s no use; as I work the oil into your bottom, kneading and rubbing your cheeks, you begin to moan and groan suggestively. Your thighs part, and I can tell that you’re getting wet.
     You turn over. I repeat the process on your front. You melt beneath my touch as I make your breasts glisten, paying extra attention to your nipples. I work my way down your tummy to your neatly trimmed pussy. I work
     I pull away quickly, making you yelp in frustration. Taking your ankles, I lift your legs into the air, revealing your oily butt. I give it a blast of powder and pat it in firmly. After sliding a big disposable diaper under you, I lower your legs and repeat the process on your front. You squirm your bare butt uselessly on the open diaper as I pat the talc into you delicate little pussy. Despite your groan of protest, I pull the diaper up tight between your legs and seal you in.
     I pull you to a sitting position. Dazed, you rest on your well-padded bottom, eyes slightly glazed, sucking passively on your soother. The diaper is huge and crinkly and comes up all the way to your belly button. The crowd gathers and watches with laughter in their eyes. I pull a frilly pink party dress over your head. A matching bonnet is the finishing touch. I stand back and help you to your feet.
     The audience explodes into applause, wolf-whistles, and laughter. You really are the belle of the ball, princess: The dress accentuates your womanly figure while at the same time making you look utterly infantile. Your pretty legs are entirely bare, calling attention both to your sexy curves and the big, bulky diaper bulging out well below your dress. Framed between your bonnet and your pacifier, your eyes are huge and pleading. You’ve never looked so completely, helplessly beautiful. Taking your hand, I lift it to my lips and kiss the back, grinning as you squirm in discomfort. I turn to address the audience.
     “Let’s all give a big hand for Big Baby Jamie!”
     You whimper behind your pacifier as everyone applauds. A shiver runs up your spine and I smile, knowing that beneath your total humiliation you’re still achingly aroused.
     “Now I want you all to know that this will in no way effect the rest of Jamie’s life,” I assure the audience. “She will still attend work and handle all of her old duties—her assistant, Ms. Hawthorne has kindly agreed to handle all on-the-job feeding and diaper changing.”
     You shoot your assistant a fearful look. She grins smugly and waves in your direction, you never did treat her too well, and from the looks of it, she relishes the opportunity for a little pay-back.
     “Jamie has been kind enough to donate all of her big girl clothes to various women’s shelters,” you shook me a stupefied, angry stare as I point toward a stack of garbage bags in the corner, bulging with your expensive designer wardrobe. “But don’t worry, baby,” I say with a smile. Taking you by the hand, I lead you toward your office. “Your favorite AB outfitters have given us a huge discount.”
     “On what?” you mumble around your soother.
     “Everything,” I say, throwing the door open.
     You gasp. Even after all you’ve already been through, the shock of seeing your grown-up sanctuary transformed into a fully functioning adult nursery is enough to make you faint. Your desk replaced with a giant crib, the beautiful furniture you took such time in selecting replaced with a playpen, a changing table—not to mention a wardrobe packed with footed PJ’s, onsies, dresses, nighties, and every other piece of baby apparel available in your size. Next to that, a dresser packed with all the cloth and disposable diapers a girl like you could ever need, plus plastic panties and covers. You emit a choking sob, unable to believe how completely you’ve been stripped of your womanhood.
     You stand passively in the middle of the room, a big, adult baby girl in her nursery, surrounded by familiar faces. Embarrassment weighs you down; your life has seemingly become a never-ending series of humiliations.
     And, in spite of it all, you’re still so powerfully aroused it’s all you can do to stop yourself from reaching down the front of your diaper and bringing yourself to a powerful climax. You’re sure there’s no way it could possibly be more humiliating than this.
     And then your tummy begins to gurgle again. Your guts cramp, your bowels quiver, and suddenly, you’ve got to go again—right now! You double over and grab your tummy with a moan. Once again a low gurgling emerges.
     “Something the matter, dear?” I enquire sweetly, knowing full well what the problem is.
     Stepping in place frantically you shoot me a desperate look. I take the pacifier from your mouth. “Daddy,” you whine desperately, reaching back to grab your buttocks through your thick pamper, “I gotta go poopy!”
     “Ok, stay calm, sweetie. Let’s get you to the potty.”
     But there’s no chance of getting to the potty—not this time. You double over and groan. Passing gas loudly, you begin messing your pretty white diapers.  Squealing helplessly, you illicit a big, messy fart, filling the seat of your diapers with a massive gush of mushy poop, drawing gasps and laughter from the crowd. Bending your knees, you stick out your bulging, diapered bottom and grunt; you fill your diapers to capacity with a flatulent accompaniment. Behind you your diaper inflates and sags noticeably, the seat growing stained and lumpy.
     You finish with a grunt, a fart, and a sigh. Straightening, you peek back over your shoulder at the seat of your massively messy diaper, which bulges grotesquely from underneath your party-dress. I can’t help but laugh: from the waist up you’re an adult baby princess, delicate and beautiful in your pretty pink finery. But down below, you’re nothing but a stinky baby in a really messy diaper. Reaching out, I pat the seat of your poopy pampers firmly. “Phew sweetie! You stink!” I chide good-naturedly, leading you over to the changing table.
    “Upsie-daisy!” I say, taking you under your arms and lifting you like a doll. You gasp, then wince as I set you down on the table, your messy diaper squishing audibly beneath you. You blush and squirm, and I smile, knowing you find being on your changing table both mortifying and deliciously arousing.
     I gently push you onto your back, savoring your expression as the mess shifts in your diaper. And then, as you squirm helplessly in your dirty diaper, squishing the mess around your entire backside and up your back, I undo the tapes and fold down the diaper. The entire room cries out at the sight of the massive mess, then gags as the smell hits them. Ignoring them, I take the box of wipes and begin the process of cleaning off your incredibly messy hiney. We lock eyes; you blush, unbearably ashamed and uncontrollably aroused. I know you want to look away—but you can’t.
     Finally, I have your little butt cleaned-off. Slipping a diaper under you, I soon have you powdered and diapered up tight, all clean and fresh. I pull you into sitting position on the edge—you look so adorable with your legs dangling off the table. I pull you close and pull you into a hug. With a kiss, I pick you up, carry you across the room, and deposit you in your crib. “Rest,” I say quietly, kissing you again. “Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”
     I turn and usher the crowd out. You clutch the bars, peering out at me longingly. “Pleasant dreams, princess, I say, turning out the lights behind me.

     Happy (slightly late) Birthday Baby Jamie. Thanks so much for this great storyline, and for sharing with everyone else.
     I had a lot of fun with this one, and if the response is positive, I may do a whole series: Baby Jamie on the job, Baby Jamie gets married, Baby Jamie’s honeymoon etc.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

A Couple of Celebrity Diaper/Baby-Clothes Pictures...

     ...But first a boring word from your webmaster.

      Things in real life are getting hectic again, but I'm still going to aim for at least one post a week. I've got two new stories on the go, but I'm not feeling wonderful about either of them at the moment... maybe I should put what I've got up on the blog and see what you guys have to say...

     But enough of my moaning... Here are Pictures of Shirley Maclaine, Lucille Ball, and Carol Burnett in diapers and/or baby clothes. Thanks to Michael for sending these.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Disciplined by Her Mother-In-Law

     When is an AB video not an AB video?

     Though it doesn't feature diapers, Bobbie Tawse's Disciplined by Her Mother-In-Law (AKA Mother-In-Law Discipline) features one of the most thorough and embarrassing regressions of a full grown woman that I've even encountered on video. Through it's 45 minute run-time, it's protagonist Tammy (the luscious Sinn Sage)is put through a series of embarrassing and infantile punishments by her domineering mother-in-law (Clare Fonda, in rare form). Caught cheating on her husband, Tammy is spanked repeatedly, forced into little girl clothes, made to stand in the corner, has her mouth soaped and her temperature taken rectally. There is seemingly no punishment Tammy's in-law won't resort to in her quest to reduce her son's naughty wife to a contrite little girl.

     One of the best things about Bobbie Tawse's movies are the costumes (designed by the director herself. In fact, everyone who plays in real life should stop by her site and browse her selection; tons of cute dresses, baby doll nighties, and drop-seat jammies). Sinn finds herself dressed like an over-sized schoolgirl with her skirt pinned up at the back to reveal her spanked bottom (when she protests the idea of a trip to the park with her panties and red butt on display, she's given a good spanking). But I think my favorite is probably the little girl outfit she finds herself in later, seen in this screencap:

     Frankly the lack of diapers in this video is a little strange: Bobbie did feature diapers in three other clips (Spanked and Diapered, In This House, and Changing Attitudes, all deserving of their own future reviews). It certainly seems to be what the story is building toward (Tammy is spanked for having skid marks in her panties in the final scene). We all know how Clare Fonda feels about diapers. Bobbie's website even sold cloth diapers and covers for a while (though I don't see them there anymore). Perhaps Ms. Sage balked at the idea of performing in diapers... and I must say, it would have been sort of a shame to hide her magnificent derriere in pampers. Including diapers, however, would have made the video one of the most perfect adult baby videos ever.

     But diapers or not, Disciplined By her Mother-In-Law is still one of the best regression/domestic discipline videos I've ever seen. It's been two years since Dropseat Productions released a video. That's a damn shame: Their videos were unique, original, not afraid to delve into mutiple fetishes (spanking, domestic discipline, diapers, enema's etc.) while still delivering the goods in spades. I hope we see a resurgence in the near future.

The clip is available to stream here and here.


Friday, January 13, 2012

Blushing at Both Ends

Hey everyone,

Not really sure if I like how this one turned out. It was supposed to just be a short one, but it just kept growing. Let me know what you think.

Blushing at Both Ends

     Carla was a tomboy: the sort of girl who saw herself as a rough, tough, no-nonsense hard-ass with a take no shit attitude. She liked to drink, swear, and fight; and like most people who like to cop a tough guy attitude, she had no idea how ridiculous her little act made her look.  I had to smile—her efforts to seem hard and tough mostly wound up making her look like a petulant little girl. She thought her jeans and flannel shirts made her look strong and independent. I could only laugh when I imagined how angry she’d get if I told her she looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her daddy’s work clothes.
     How Carla came to be under my care is a long a twisted story, the short version being that after her third drunk and disorderly arrest in a year, Judge Martin had had enough. He decided that what Carla needed was a little “firm guidance and adult supervision,” (Carla sputtered indignantly at the suggestion that she needed any kind of guidance or supervision like a little kid). He ordered Carla’s adult rights and privileges be suspended and ordered her to be remanded to the custody of her closest living relative… her ex-husband—me, in case you hadn’t pieced it together.
     Surprised? Don’t be. It’s a small town, and my family’s always had a lot of influence. You may think it’s sleazy of me, but I just couldn’t bear to see Carla in jail. Despite of the problems we’d had in our relationship, in spite of the fact that our divorce wasn’t exactly what you’d call “Civil,” I still cared for her. Carla was a naughty girl, not a hardened criminal. She had to be punished, I knew, because she’d never get her life back on track without it. Jail, I knew, wasn’t the answer… but I was sure I had the perfect treatment for her bratty disposition.
     I knew it would be a challenge. We’d never really gotten along too well in the first place. But Carla was still family, and I figured I had to at least try and help her out. And beneath her bitter scowls and resentful words, I was confident she was relieved to be heading home with me and not to prison.
     I tried to make polite small talk on the way back, but Carla wasn’t interested. She gazed out the window and answering my questions by grunting. When we got home she stormed off to the guest room and slammed the door behind her—like a tantrum throwing teenager.
     I decided to let it slide. The Judge had given me carte blanche to discipline Carla, but I reasoned that she’d had a tough enough day already. Instead I made dinner—home made macaroni and cheese, her favorite. She’d come around, I thought. In fact, this could wind up being the best thing for her. She’d had it rough since the death of her dad, which I knew she’d harder than she let on. I resolved to do whatever it took to help Carla get her life in order.
     When dinner was ready, I knocked on her door. “Dinner’s ready, Carla.”
     She opened the door and fixed me with a withering pout. “Smells awful!” she whined.
     “It’s your favorite: Homemade mac and cheese, just the way you like it.”
     She sniffed the air. “I haven’t liked that crap in years, and when I did, I liked it smelling a little less like re-fried ass.”
     I was getting annoyed. “C’mon Carla, you have to eat. Just give it a try. “
     She snorted. “Jesus, when did you turn into such a sissy? What next, you gonna darn my socks for me, sweetheart?” She laughed delightedly.
     It was the final straw. I had no real desire to hurt Carla, but she was way out of line. How, I thought, could I help her when she didn’t even respect me?
     She moved to slam the door in my face. I slid my foot in front of it, forcing it back open with my hands.
     The door slammed back against the stopper. Carla stepped back, looking nervous for the first time. And with good reason: I was bigger than her and I kept myself in shape. “Wh-wh-wh-what do you think you’re doing?” she stammered, trying and failing to sound tough.
     I answered her by taking her wrist firmly in my left hand and pulling her foreword. When she was standing in front of me, I took my right palm and cracked it against the seat of her tight jeans, making her squeal.
     “Hey!” she gasped, “cut it out!”
     Ignoring her, I landed a series of about ten swats on her wriggling denim backside. She pranced in place, hopping from foot to foot and squealing in protest as I warmed her jiggling bottom. “Hey! Stop that! OW! OWIE! You can’t—OW! You—OW you’ve got no—OWCH! OW! OH!”
     “Now march, young lady,” I scolded, pulling her along with one hand and swatting her wriggling tushy all the way there. She yelped and squealed and pranced the whole way to the dinner table. “Take a seat,” I told her. She glanced over her shoulder at me with pout, fixing me with her very best dirty look. I swatted her again, and she yelped, shaking herself loose from my grip and sitting herself down as quickly as possible.
     “OOOWWWW!” she moaned as her stinging buns hit the seat. “That hurts,” she pouted.
     “Oh I think you’ll live,” I assured her, putting her dinner in front of her.
     We ate in silence, Carla pouting and occasionally grimacing and shifting uncomfortably in her chair and glaring at me. It was apparently calculated to make me feel guilty, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing. The more she pouted, squirmed in her seat, and shot dirty looks my way the more convinced I was that I was doing the right thing.
     She ate quickly. “ ‘M done,” she muttered and began to rise.
     “Sit your butt back down, young lady,” I said sternly, shooting her a look. She hesitated, then settled down on her tender backside with a cute grimace. I locked eyes with her. “What do you say?”
     Her eyes flashed with anger. She pouted and squirmed in her seat, but finally made herself mutter the words: “thanks for dinner.”
      I smiled at her. “You’re welcome. Now clean your plate and put it in the dish washer and then come and see me.”
     With a heavy, angry sigh, she took her dish into the kitchen. I ate my dinner quietly, listening to her scrape her plate, rinse it in the sink, and load it into the dishwasher. She came back out and stood next to me. “What now?” she huffed.
     I pointed. “Go stand in the corner over there,” I instructed casually between bites.
     Furrowing her eyebrows, she frowned at me. “Why?” she demanded.
     “Because I said so,” I said, reaching back and giving her a swat on the backside. She yelped and reached back to rub her butt petulantly.
     “Hey! You can’t do that,” she whined, and she looked so cute standing there, pouting and rubbing her backside that I nearly burst out laughing.
     But I bit my cheek and continued eating as I explained: “The hell I can’t; I’m your legal guardian now. You heard the judge: I can punish you as I see fit.”
      “But…” she frowned, knowing that I had her. “Well… you don’t have to be such a hard-ass about it!”
     “It’s entirely up to you, Carla,” I said casually. “If you don’t want to go back to jail, you have to stay here. If you stay here, it’s on my terms. Which means you get your little hiney in that corner now, missy.”
     She stood in place sputtering for about 30 seconds, then turned and stormed toward in the corner in a huff, sighing dramatically and crossing her arms when she arrived. I slowly ate the rest of my dinner.
     “How long do I have to stand like this,” she asked. Even though she was facing the wall, I just knew she was rolling her eyes.
     “Until I’m finished,” I said. Then you and I can have a little chat.”
     “Can’t we just do it now?”
     “You made it clear you didn’t want to talk over dinner. I’m respecting your wishes.”
     She went quiet then for about two minutes, occasionally huffing or sighing dramatically. Finally she snapped, “Jesus, will you finish already?!”
     “Number one: it’s been less than five minutes. Number two: I’m not going to rush through my dinner for your convenience.”
     She tisked.
     “Number three:,” I said, just a touch ominously, “I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to get where you’re going, young lady.”
     She went quiet at that, and I finished my dinner in peace.
     Rising, I went to the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher. Carla stiffened a bit as I passed.
     I went into the living room and sat on the couch. “Carla,” I called firmly, “Come and see me in the living room please.”
     She came in slowly and stood in front of me with her arms crossed. “What now boss?” she said sarcastically.
     I gestured for her to sit next to me. She lowered herself slowly, eyeing me carefully. She seemed incredulous when I took the tiny hand and enfolded it in mine. “I know you’ve had a tough time, Carla, but I want you to know I’m here for you now and I’m going to do whatever I need to do to help you get your life back on track.” I lifted her hand and kissed the back. “So I want you to understand: I’m only doing this for your own good.”
     “…What?” she said suspiciously.
     By way of answer, I pulled her across my lap, positioning her upturned rump before me. She squirmed and fought like a wildcat. “NO!” she growled, thrusting her palms back across her seat to protect herself. A miscalculation: I took her wrists and gathered them at the small of her back, immobilizing her. “LEMME GO!” she roared, squirming and struggling to get loose. It was all in vain: She wasn’t going anywhere. I took my time, raising my palm slowly and delivering a casual swat across her wriggling butt. “OW!” she cried, and doubled her struggles. I raised my palm and brought it down at a leisurely pace, allowing time for one stinging smack to sink in before I landed the next., followed by another and another, and before she knew it, Carla was in the middle of a full fledge spanking. “OW! HEY! STOP IT! OW! OOO! YOU JERK! OUCH! LET GO! YOU’VE GOT NO RIGHT!”
     “Carla, I’m tired of your whining!” I stepped up the pace and made her howl. “Pout and plead all you want, missy: things are going to be different for you from now on,” I informed her, continuing to spank her at a brisk pace. She moaned and beat the air behind her with her feet as I methodically swatted her bottom.
     Without warning, I yanked her jeans down at the back, exposing a pair of pink panties. “Hey! No!” She bucked and squirmed furiously across my lap, but she had no place to go. I tightened my grip and began bringing my palm down across her upturned backside again. “I SAID NO! OW! STOP IT!”
     I ignored her, continuing to warm her bottom through the flimsy seat of her panties. I peppered her wriggling backside with stinging swats on the left, then the right, top and bottom in a ruthless rhythm. I couldn’t help myself from smiling when I noticed the twin bands of red peeping out of her leg bands. Her buns jiggled and she squealed and whined, but I didn’t relent.
      When I was sure I had her all warmed up, I reached up and took hold of the waistband of her panties. “HEY! NO!” she demanded hotly, writhing helplessly across my knee. “DON’T YOU DARE! YOU CAN’T DO THAT!”
     I couldn’t help grinning as I tugged them down, revealing her bare bottom, a healthy pink glow radiating from her dainty butt cheeks. “PULL ‘EM BACK UP RIGHT NOW!” she roared, struggling even harder now, bucking and kicking her feet in the air behind her.
     She yelped as I brought my palm down again. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! The steady clap of my hand against her bare bottom rang out  in the small room. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! An unremitting rain of firm, even smacks made her derriere jiggle and pinken delightfully. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! She let out a cry of fury and struggled impotently as another flurry of spanks landed against her glowing backside. “LEMME GO!” she demanded. “YOU LEMME GO RIGHT NOW!”
     I redoubled my efforts instead, delivering a series of five quick, firm smacks on both cheeks. She screeched and howled and twisted on my lap, making one last desperate escape attempt. I held her in place and continued to apply my palm to her struggling rump.
     Finally she relaxed and began to cry, out of frustration, I suspected, more than as a result of her spanking.
     “IT’S NOT FAAIIIRRR!” she whined, collapsing into sobs.
     I stopped the spanking and released her wrists. To my surprise, she didn’t rise from my lap. Instead, she remained dangling across my thighs, sobbing quietly. She reached back and began rubbing and kneading her sore little bottom emitting cute little “Ooo’s” and “Ah’s” as she did.
     “Ok, sweetheart,” I said, giving her a pat on the backside, “c’mon, up.” I helped her to her feet. She stood before me, her tough girl persona in shambles; her hair was tussled, her face red and streaked with tears. Her pants and panties were around her knees, her bare pussy on full display, but she was so focused on her burning tushy that she didn’t even seem to notice. I couldn’t help peeking at her butt, as red now as her shirt. I couldn’t stifle my grin as I watched the bratty Carla blush at both ends.
     “Alright, young lady; corner time.”
     There was no arguing this time. Carla waddled to the corner as fast as the jeans around her knees would allow, rubbing her backside. I grinned at the way her red butt cheeks glowed like taillights behind her. She stood in the corner, pants and panties at half mast, bare butt shining brightly in the drab afternoon light. She rubbed her tushy petulantly. “Hands behind your head, Carla.” She complied instantly.
     I read the paper for about half an hour, looking up periodically run an admiring gaze over Carla’s pink backside. Carla herself was staying quiet,  perhaps fearing further punishment.
     Finally, I got up. “You stay right there and don’t move,” I ordered. “We’re not done here yet.”
     With that, I went into the other spare room-- the one I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to use. I gathered what I needed and came back into the living room. Carla had been using my absence as an opportunity to rub her red bottom. She snapped back into place, but I’d caught her red handed.
     “You naughty girl,” I scolded jokingly. Moving behind her, I gave her a series of swats across her glowing rump, making her screech and hop in place with her pants at her knees. “Now come along,” I said, taking her hand and leading her back to the couch. I sat and patted the cushion beside me. She hesitated, then lowered her red rump slowly, hissing as she made contact. With a smile, I handed her a box. “I got you a little present. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to give it to you, but I think you’ll agree your behavior has left me with no choice.”
     Slowly, she pulled the lid off. Carla stared at the contents, her expression puzzled… and horrified. “What—is this?” She pulled it out and stared at it, the box sliding to the floor. She held it up and stared at it, her face reddening. Her embarrassment was, it must be said, priceless: well worth all the time I’d invested in selecting it.
     It was the absolute most babyish baby-doll nightie I’d been able to find. It was wispy, see through, and the absolute epitome of everything femininely infantile. She stared at me, horrified. “What’s this thing?”
     “It’s your new nightie,” I said with a smile. “Strip.”
     She stared at me, pleading. “I—you—that’s not—“ she stammered, trying desperately to talk her way out of it.
     “Right now, Carla,” I said, “or do I have to turn you over my knee again?”
     She practically leapt to her feet and began tugging off her clothes. In seconds she stood in front of me, naked as the day she was born. Her bottom blazed bright red against her creamy white skin. So did her face. She pulled the nightie on quickly, squawking in dismay when she realized it was too short to cover her pussy, or her bare, spanked butt, and that is was so see-through it was practically non-existent.
     Becoming suddenly self-conscious about her nudity, Carla daintily reached up to cover her breasts and her pussy, totally unaware that this only had the effect of drawing the eye directly toward her bright red tushy. “Ok, let’s go to your room young lady; time to get you ready for bed.” She turned and headed toward the guest room, but I took her arm. “No no, honey,” I said firmly, leading her toward the special room I’d prepared.
     “Where’re we goin’?” she asked with a pout.
     “You’ll see,” I said with a smile. She turned to ask another question, but I gave her bare, wobbling bottom a swat. Carla squealed and walked the rest of the way ruefully rubbing her bright red rump.
     I opened the door and lead her inside.
     She seemed awed and a little afraid. I felt strangly validated: it had taken a lot of work to get Carla’s nursery all set up under such short notice. She wandered inside, gazing with disbelief at the changing table and crib, the rows and rows of stuffed animals, the closet full of baby clothes. I cleared my throat. “Carla?”
     She turned. I pointed toward the changing table without a word. Hesitantly, she came over, and I lifted her onto it with ease.  She gazed out at me with apprehension. “What’s goin’ on?” She asked. I smiled and patted her bare thigh.
     “Turn over on your belly, honey.” Reluctantly, she did as she was told, sticking her bare, spanked bottom into the air behind her.  Taking a small tube of diaper-rash ointment, I squirted a large dollop onto my palm and smeared it across her throbbing cheeks. Carla gasped when the cool cream first hit her reddened backside, then groaned as the relief hit home.  Moaning and cooing, she pressed her rump against my hands and wiggled it, luxuriating in her delightful tushy massage.
     “Like that?” I asked with a smile.
     She emitted a long groan.  “Feeeellllssss sssooo ggoooodddd…” she finally managed to say.
     “Turn over,” I commanded. She lazily rolled herself onto her back and gazed up at me lustily.
     She gave a squeal of surprise when I took her ankles and hoisted them above her head. I slid the thick, thirsty diaper under her glistening backside, then liberally powdered her bare butt. Lowering her legs, I quickly repeated the process on her front, and before she knew it, Carla had been diapered like a two year old.
     “Hey,” she said, sitting up, “what’s going on?”
     “I’d think it would be obvious buy now,” I said, slipping a pacifier into her mouth.
     Her eyes widened and she frowned behind the plastic guard, but wisely maintained her silence.
     “Now don’t pout,” I said, kissing her on the forehead. “Your bratty behavior is the whole reason you’re in this predicament, young lady,” I told her. She lowered her eyes, but I tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “If you ever want to wear panties again, little girl, you’d better do as you’re told and be good, or it’s going to be  a red bottom and diapers for you from now on. Understand?”
     She nodded reluctantly, and I smiled. “Good girl,” I told her, tickling her stomach and ribs. She squealed and chortled, wriggling helplessly on the changing table’s padded surface. I stopped when she’d had enough, then took a pretty little bow and clipped it into her hair. I laughed as I admired my work. The pouty little tough girl was no more. I’d effectively turned her into a simpering adult baby.
    Carla heaved to regain her breath and eyed me warily as I took her hand and helped her into a sitting position. She squirmed and sulked and sucked her pacifier, wriggling her backside in the diaper to try and find a comfortable position. “Ok, c’mon sweetie. Let’s go watch some TV.”
    She slid off the table onto her feet and moved to walk into the living room. I took her arm gently. “No, sweetie, babies don’t walk.”
     She gave me a puzzled look, her eyes widening when she figured out what I was saying. She looked at me and was about to say something. I shot her a glance that froze her voice in her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, she got on her hands and knees. I walked to the living room, the diapered Carla crawling along behind me.
     Since she’d had such a hard day, I let Carla use the remote. She flipped through, eventually deciding on a silly reality TV talent show. She settled in on her tummy on the floor, her bulky, diapered backside sticking up in the air behind her. After a bit, I went to the kitchen, returning with a beer for myself and a bottle of juice for Carla. “No fair,” she pouted before sticking the nipple into her mouth. I smiled and sipped my beer, watching the infantilized Carla lay on her tummy, slurping on her bottle, her diapered butt waggling behind her as she kicked her feet in the air. For all her protests, Carla had slipped nicely into the role of big baby girl.
     After a while I stood and stretched. “Ok, precious: Bedtime.”
     She pouted over her shoulder. “But it’s only 9:30!” she whined.
     “That’s right,” I said, bending down to deliver a few firm pats to her diapered rump, “time for all big baby girls to go to bed.”
     I scooped her up, making her gasp. Carrying her toward the nursery, I kissed her forehead. She blushed and buried her face in my chest.
     I deposited her in the crib. “You gonna be ok, honey?”
     She hesitated, then nodded.
     “You still dry?” I asked, knowing that she was. She blushed and quickly shook her head yes, but I still reached out to check between her legs for wetness. She squealed as I patted and squeezed the material in the front. Sticking my fingers in through the leg bands, I found her dry.
     “Ok, baby. I’ll see you in the morning.” Turning, I went toward the door.
     “Um…” Her voice behind me was as tiny and hesitating as a little girl’s.
     “What is it honey?”
     She crouched near the bars and waved me closer. “What is it, baby?” I asked again.
     I was taken aback when she reached over the bars and wrapped her arms around me. She pulled me in close for a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered sweetly.
     I swatted her backside, making her yelp and grin. On my way out I turned the lights off. “Sweet dreams princess.”