Mommy's Diapered Bride

The diaper went on while I was still telling myself I would walk out the door.

That was the lie I held onto, even then, with my ankles already lifted in Mommy’s hands and the cool of the powder settling between my legs. I had a name out there. Clients who called me by my last name and meant it as respect. A corner office with my degree on the wall. None of that had any weight in this room. The room only knew the version of me lying on her changing table with my knees bent and my breath gone shallow, waiting.

“Lift,” Vale said. Not a question. She never asked.

I lifted. My hips came off the padding before I had decided to obey, and that was the first betrayal of the night, the way my body moved for her ahead of my thinking. She slid the thick padding under me and I heard the crinkle of it, loud in the quiet, and somewhere under my ribs something pulled tight and warm and wrong.

I am a grown woman, I thought. I run payroll for forty people. The thought arrived like a stranger knocking at the wrong house, and it left just as fast, because Vale was tucking the front of the diaper up over me and pressing it snug, and my whole body went still the way a hand goes still under warm water.

“There’s my girl,” she said.

Heat climbed my throat. I hated the sound that came out of me, small and grateful, a sound I would have died before making in front of anyone who knew the other me. Vale heard it and smiled, slow, like she had all the time anyone could ever need.

She taped the left side first. Then the right. Each tape made a short tearing sound and each one closed something in me a little further. By the second tape I could feel my pulse between my legs, thick and insistent, and the shame of feeling it there, now, while she dressed me like this, only made it worse. The wanting and the not wanting braided together until I could not find the end of either.

Vale stood back and looked at her work. I lay there in nothing but the padding and a thin white camisole that did not reach my belly, and I let her look. That was the part the office me would never understand. I let her look, and my thighs pressed together, and the padding shifted and the friction of it ran straight up through me.

“Stop squirming,” she said. “You’ll get yourself worked up before I’ve even finished.”

“Yes, Mommy.” The word came out before I could stop it. I had not planned to use it. It just lived in my mouth now, smooth from use, and saying it made my eyes sting, and the sting made me want to say it again.

She crossed the room to the dress.

It hung on the back of the door, white and long and soft, and I had been refusing to look at it all evening because looking at it did something to my breathing. Vale lifted it down and carried it over both arms like something alive. My wedding dress. Mine. She had ordered it cut to fit a body wearing exactly what I was wearing now, full and padded and snug, so that the skirt would sit out a little at the hips and no one but us would ever know why.

“Sit up,” she said.

I sat up. The diaper crinkled under me and pressed warm against me when I bent, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. Vale gathered the dress and dropped it over my head, and the lining slid down my arms and my shoulders and pooled cool against my chest, and for one second I was hidden inside the white of it, in the dark, just my own breath and the smell of the fabric.

Then her hands found me through the cloth and tugged it into place, and I came out the other side as her bride.

She turned me to the mirror.

I did not recognize the want on my own face. That was the thing that undid me. I had braced for the diaper, for the dress, for the slow ceremony of being made small. I had not braced for my own reflection looking back at me flushed and bright-eyed and leaning, very slightly, toward the woman behind me. My hair was down. My mouth was open. The girl in the glass wanted to be exactly where she was, and I could not lie to her the way I lied to myself.

Run, said the stranger again, fainter now, almost fond. You still have your shoes by the door.

I did not look at the door.

Vale set her chin on my shoulder and met my eyes in the mirror. Her hands came around my waist, flat over the padding, and pressed, and I felt every layer of it give against me and against her palms at once.

“Look at you,” she said, low, just for me. “All that pride you walked in here with. Where did it go, hm?”

“I don’t know, Mommy.” It was the truth. I genuinely did not know. It had not been taken from me by force. I had set it down somewhere between the front door and this mirror, the way you set down something heavy when your arms are finally tired, and the relief of being free of it was so sharp it frightened me.

Her hands slid down. Over my hips, over the front of the dress, until they cupped me through the skirt and the padding both, and pressed up. I rocked onto my toes. A sound left me that had no dignity in it at all.

“Already?” she murmured against my ear. “I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please.” I did not even know what I was asking for. My hips had started to move against her hand on their own, a slow grind I could not have stopped if she had ordered me to, and the friction came through every layer dulled and maddening, enough to light me up and never enough to finish it. My clit throbbed against the thick warmth of the padding and there was nothing I could do to reach it, no skin, no fingers, only her hand pressing and my own helpless rolling against it.

“Look in the mirror,” Vale said. “I want you watching her while you do this. I want you to see her.”

I tried to drop my eyes and she caught my chin and turned my face back to the glass.

“No. Watch. That’s your bride. That’s who you are now.” Her other hand kept its slow pressure between my legs. “Say it.”

“I can’t.” My voice broke on it.

“You can. Say what you are.”

The word was so far down I had to reach for it. The office me stood at the very bottom of me with her arms crossed, watching, and I felt her watching, and I came apart anyway. “I’m your bride,” I said. “I’m your girl. I’m. Mommy, please, I’m so.”

“I know.” Her hand pressed harder, ground a slow circle that pulled my whole body taut, and the dress whispered with every helpless movement of my hips. “I know exactly what you are. Look how wet you’ve made your padding already, and we haven’t even started.”

The shame of that, said out loud, in her calm voice, with my own flushed face watching me from the mirror, did not cool me down. It poured fuel straight onto the part of me that wanted to be exactly this small and this seen. I pressed into her hand and bit my lip and felt the orgasm gathering low and tight and unreachable, building against the maddening dull pressure with nowhere to go.

And then she took her hand away.

I made a sound I will not describe. My hips chased nothing. I stood there in the white dress, swollen and aching and empty-handed, rocking against air, and she stepped back to watch me do it.

“Not like that,” Vale said. “Not the easy way. You don’t get to come grinding on your padding like a needy little thing, not tonight.” She walked to the cabinet, unhurried, and I heard the drawer slide. “Tonight you take it the way a bride takes it.”

I turned. I should not have turned. I should have kept my pride and my shoes and my whole built life. Instead I turned, dress and all, and I looked at what she had lifted out of the drawer, and my mouth went dry and the ache between my legs clenched so hard it hurt.

She was fitting the straps over her hips, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving mine, and the thing rose dark and thick in front of her where her hand smoothed down its length.

“Come here,” Vale said. “Let me see if my bride knows how to kneel.”

And God help me, my knees were already bending.