“Stay out of trouble,” my mother tells me, and I roll my eyes. I have to wonder, sometimes, if she actually realizes that I’m 22, not a kid anymore. Or, at least, not technically…
“Okay,” I agree, just to get her out of the house more quickly. I give her a kiss on the forehead and watch her leave, slipping back into my room, heart starting to flutter in my chest. I walk back over to my desk, turn the monitor back on and stare at the webpage.
“The Princess’s Castle,” it reads. “155 posts, last published on July 18, 2011.” My eyes flick down to the clock on my taskbar, the one that tells me it’s now July 30th, nearly two weeks later. More than ten days, and I hadn’t posted so much as a single caption, a snippet of a story. That was, I couldn’t deny, rather naughty of me. I open my word processor and sort through my notes, even though I know there’s no way I’ll be able to get any of those stories done enough to post in the next few days. I browse through my pictures, too, the ones I’d earmarked after spending a semi-desperate morning looking through my collection. There are definitely some with potential, and I can see captions brewing inside them… But I just don’t think I’ll be able to draw them out anytime soon.
There is, I know, no two ways around it. I’ve tried to make myself sit down and get some work done for the past couple days, and it’s done me no good. I’m tempted to try again, to let it slide, but I can’t do that. My parents are gone for the rest of the day, and most of the night – what they’re doing tomorrow, I don’t know, and I don’t know how much of Monday I’ll have to myself, and by then it will have already been two full weeks. No, I need a punishment, and if I’m going to have it, it has to be now.
The thought makes me squirm a little as I reach over and turn my monitor back off, then stand up from my chair and unbutton my jeans, sliding them down over my legs and leaving them in a pile on the floor. On top of those goes my underwear, then my shirt and bra, leaving me standing here, naked, blushing slightly, despite being alone, in my room, door closed. I walk over to my dresser, pulling out a plain pink cotton camisole first, which I slip over my head and pull down over my tummy. It’s old, which is part of the reason I like it, and wear it when I’m in little mode, and doesn’t quite reach my belly button.
Then I bend down to pull open my bottom drawer. I know I’m lucky not to have nosy parents, as that allows me to keep my baby stuff pretty easily accessible. I don’t even make any attempt to hide it in here, as I just have to pull it open to see my cloth diapers, folded off on one side, plastic panties beneath them. On the other side are my accessories – my baby bottle, the little container I keep my pacifier in, my tubs of suppositories and (rather icky tasting) fiber supplement, my baby powder and lotion, and, at the bottom, what I’m really looking for. I pull it out, feeling a bit apprehensive, and, honestly, a little excited – it had been so long since I’d used it! – and set it to the side, then take out my powder, lotion, and one cloth diaper.
Then it’s over to my closet, where the other half of my not-so-cunningly hidden stash resides. I push aside my clothes to find the twin packages of diapers, both still mostly full. One is Abena X-Plus, the other Tranquility ATN. I ponder, for a moment, which to use, and then wind up with one of each. The X-Plus gets tossed over to my bed as I fiddle with the ATN, unfolding it and gently ripping the plastic coating before I spread it out and sit myself down on the peach-colored padding, reaching over for the baby powder and sprinkling it liberally onto myself and the diaper, savoring the sweet smell, knowing it wouldn’t be long before my scent was much less agreeable. I squirt in a bit of lotion, too, though after rubbing it in I realize I didn’t think to grab anything to wipe my hands off with. I use my leg, for the time being, though as soon as I’m done I realize my cloth diaper would have worked just as well.
I lie down, pulling the diaper up between my legs and onto my tummy, then tug one side up and fasten the bottom tape before moving on the other side, from there moving up to the top tapes. I grab my X-Plus next and rip its plastic before strapping it on, then, finally, I slide the cloth diaper under me and snap it into place. It’s an All-in-One, so it doesn’t really need plastic pants over it, which is lucky, because I don’t think they’ll go on over all this padding.
That same padding keeps my legs just a bit splayed as I sit up, then stand, giving me a waddle while I fetch my pacifier, and the rest of my punishment. I begin to suck on my paci as I toddle into the kitchen. I go past the bathroom, which is where I know I’ll end up, but the sink in there isn’t quite deep enough for what I need.
In the kitchen, I dump out the bag onto the stove, grabbing the lid, tubing still attached, first. I take it to the sink and rinse both ends, just to be safe, before setting it back on the stove and grabbing the water bottle in its place. It gets a good rinse as well, but when I’m done with that, I let it start to fill. I can’t help but feel apprehensive as the rubber begins to bulge outwards, knowing just what it’s for, where it’s going. In the past, I’ve used cold water, because the cramps that causes feel more like a punishment to me, but I always have a hard time actually holding it for any amount of time, so I try to keep it warm.
I consider adding a little soap, something I’ve never tried, but chicken out. I’m not sure what kind of soap you use for that, exactly, and while I doubt it really makes that much of a difference, I decide against running the risk of trying the dish soap sitting just inches from my hands.
The bag just keeps filling, more and more, and while I know I’ll wind up regretting it, I keep raising the top of it higher, letting more water in, until the bottom is dangling, rather than resting on the bottom of the sink, and I know it’s just as full as it can get. I carefully carry it over the the sink and screw the lid on, then make my way to the bathroom.
“You don’t really have to do this,” I tell myself. “Nobody’s complained or anything…” But, nervous as the full water bottle in my hands makes me, I know I need it. After all, none of my other attempts to motivate myself have worked, so clearly I need to do something drastic.
I gingerly set the bottle in the sink, wetting the nozzle and then tugging the back of my diapers open. I snake the tube inside, blindly fumbling with it to get it into position before sliding it up into my bottom. I’ve always been a bit of a chicken about it, so I don’t push it in too far, but I can feel its invasive head inside of me, and I know that’s good enough.
I let my diapers snap back into place, feeling the tube running up my back, knowing that it meant there was no backing out now. I mean, yes, technically I could have stopped the whole thing, since I’m the one in charge… But all it will take now is to lift the bottle, and it’s all over. I’ve never backed out once I’ve gotten this far, and I know I’m not about to start now.
But before I can take that final step, I happen to notice my bar of soap, sitting off to the corner of the sink. I knew it was there all the time, of course, but I hadn’t really been thinking about it. I bite my bottom lip as I stare at it, glancing up at my reflection in the mirror, seeing myself standing there like the naughty little girl I am, thick diapers bulging out around my waist, beneath my bare belly button, enema tubing dangling behind me and extending up to the sink.
It’s a punishment I’ve used in my stories often enough, mostly just because it seems like such a juvenile thing to have done to you, but if I’ve ever experienced it myself, I don’t remember it. “I have said some bad words lately,” I remind myself. “Plus, it might not hurt to know what it feels like, first hand…”
I sigh as I decide to indulge myself, picking up the soap and rinsing it off as well. I pluck out my pacifier, setting it to the side, and replace it with the bar of soap. I’m not sure quite what I’m expecting, but it doesn’t really do much, or have much of a taste. Mostly, it just makes my mouth feel fuller. I’m a little disappointed, a little relieved. I almost switch it back out with my paci, then change my mind. Might as well go all the way, now that I’ve started.
My fingers actually shake a little as I reach for the bottle, done messing around. As I reach for the hook, however, I find that it isn’t there. I think back, making sure I’d seen it attached to the bottom when I’d removed it from the bag – I’m fairly certain I did. It must have come off when I was rinsing and filling it. I ponder for a moment, wondering if I should unplug myself for the minute it would take me to go to the kitchen, find it, and return, upon which I’d have to replace it, which I’m not exactly fond of.
It only takes a moment because the answer is pretty clear, even if I do feel silly, toddling through the house, carrying an enema bottle that is already attached to me, mouth full of soap. The hook is right in the sink, where I really should have noticed it, which only makes me feel more ridiculous. I slip it through the hole in the bottom of the bag and make my return trip.
I know it’s pointless – if my parents do return, way ahead of schedule, I’m screwed whether I do it or not, since, even if I do wrap myself in a towel and dash to my room to get dressed, I’ll still have my diapers to deal with – but I close the door anyway, then slide the shower door open and carefully step inside. The enema bag’s hook fits quite nicely on the towel rack, which is, handily, right by the tub.
Finally, I flip the bag over and hang it up, bracing myself for the coming rush of water, fidgeting as I mentally tell myself I’m going to take it all this time, and even hold it for a few minutes, a feat I’ve never pulled off. The warm water, I tell myself, should help with that. In fact, that warmth seems to be working so well that I can’t even feel the water…
I turn back, reaching for the tubing. There’s a spot that’s bent, creased in from where I didn’t coil it up right the first time I put it back in its bag. Usually that doesn’t seem to matter, but now, for whatever reason, I guess it does. I push the sides in, giving the water space to run through. Nothing happens.
“Well,” I think to myself, “maybe this is a sign I don’t need this punishment after all…” I’m definitely starting to notice the soap as more than a gag now – it’s starting to leave an acrid taste in my mouth – and I wonder if that might be enough. I could always use one of my suppositories… Or even an Enemeez, since I still have most of my sample pack of them. It wouldn’t be quite the same, but it might be all I have. I have had the enema kit for a while, and it was awfully cheap. I don’t know how it would have broken, but if it had, I can’t do much about it now.
Just as a test, I lower myself onto my knees, waiting to see if giving more distance between the bag and me would help, but after a little fidgeting, I realize it won’t. I stand back up, not quite sure if I should be disappointed or relieved. I reach up to try one more thing, poking at the swollen red rubber bag that held my fate. It wasn’t a particularly hard poke, yet it was enough, apparently, as almost instantly I feel the water start to gush inside of me, and I bite into the soap in surprise, wrinkling my nose.
As I feel my insides filling up with water, I can tell, almost instantly, that the warmth of the water won’t help as much as I’d thought. Not quite thinking straight, I lower myself onto my knees again, reasoning that it would help me take the rest of the enema more quickly. That’s true, of course, yet not as much help as I expected, since the increased pace put more strain on my body. I unconsciously bite into the soap again, feeling bits and pieces of it sticking to the backs on my teeth, as a spasm rocks my body, and, looking for relief, I send a rush of water back into my diaper.
“Couldn’t even hold it all until the enema is finished!” I reprimand myself. “Bad girl!” It isn’t unexpected, though… It happens most of the time. Usually, it’s enough to loosen the nozzle, send the water meant for me pumping into the seat of my diaper, making me pinch the tubing while I decide whether to bother attempting to reinsert it and continue, or just let the rest of the enema drain into the tub. This time, however, I can still feel the water flowing into me mercilessly.
Before I can even try to loosen my teeth from the soap, they dig in deeper as I feel the cramps starting. I manage, somehow, to stop the first, but after an anxious look at the enema bag that makes me realize I’m only half done, I scramble to my feet, hoping that would slow the rush of the water enough to make it easier to control. Another spurt of water pushes out and into my diaper as I stand, and if it actually helps any, it’s hard to tell.
I shudder a little, the foul taste of the soap growing too much for me in conjunction with everything else. I try to spit my mouthful of suds out, only for it to drip down my face, leaving a damp line of drool on my shirt. Whimpering, I stare back at the bag, wishing it would empty just a little quicker so I could be done with it. It deflates slowly as the cramps begin getting worse, and, at last, my body fights back enough to push the nozzle loose. By now, the bag is hanging mostly limp, so I fish the tubing out of my diaper, let it flop down into the tub, where the last of the water drains out. I watch it flow out, surprised at how little there is – usually, there’s quite a bit more left when I give up.
I don’t have much time to feel proud of myself, though, as seconds later, I let a rush of water into my diapers, thoroughly soaking at least the bottom layer. My body had barely even tried to hold it, and there was no conscious choice in letting go… It had simply happened.
It’s been so long since I’ve given myself an enema, I’m not sure if that’s all I can expect or not. After all that, was it over so quickly? I hope so. Then I can get out of the tub and take out this soap… It’s starting to burn against my tongue now. It’s hard to believe I thought it “wasn’t so bad” when I started… I’ll definitely be watching my language from now on! I let out another line of drool, trying again to expectorate it away from me, again winding up with a wet chin and shirt. It would be much easier to do without the bar of soap, but then, that’s kind of the point, I suppose.
And then, as quickly and unrelenting as the water, my body pushes a load of warm mush into the seat of my diaper, sending it bulging outward even further than usual, proving that it was not, in fact, over. A few moments later, I can feel a second load approaching. This time, I have enough warning I might try to stop it, but what’s the point now? I push, letting my diaper grow all the filthier.
My diapers are sagging quite heavily now, though, luckily, they managed not to leak. The first time I gave an enema to myself, I had leaked, quite badly, which was why I still keep in the tub, even though I know how thickly I need to diaper myself. Still, I’m not about to try sitting in my chair, or anywhere else in the house, in case that’s all it takes to push my diapers too far.
But I can’t change just yet. I didn’t take my whole enema, and I couldn’t even hold it until I’d taken as much as I could. Normally, that might not be so bad, but this is supposed to be a punishment. So, wincing a little, I lower myself down, letting my bottom sink into the squishy mess beneath me as I sit in the tub, turning so that I’m facing the corner. A final, much smaller, round of ickiness pushes its way into my diaper as I sit there, the last of the enema making its exit, making me feel even more thoroughly infantile.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, though probably not as long as I should. The soap gets to be too much for me, though, and I just have to get up and out of the tub so I can take it out. I rinse it off in the sink and set it back on its dish, blushing to see the ridges my teeth dug into it. It’s a good thing my parents have their own bathroom, and only sometimes use mine, so they aren’t likely to notice them, or that might be a little hard to explain.
I spit a few times, trying to remove the excess soap still in my mouth. When I look up at my reflection in the mirror, I wrinkle my nose as I see it caked around my lips. I wipe my face off with my towel before toddling to the kitchen for a glass to rinse my mouth out with. My tongue is still burning – in the back of my mind, I worry that I used the wrong kind of soap for that, too, and poisoned myself or something, though I’m sure I’m just being overly dramatic.
I grab a trash bag and return to the bathroom to start cleaning up, dumping my two thoroughly used disposables into it and tying it loosely closed. My cloth diaper is a bit damp, so I take it to the washing machine and toss it inside, then strip out of my drool-wettened camisole and put it in as well before returning to the bathroom, naked again, to take a quick shower. Feeling clean and fresh, I go to my room and put on another ATN, slipping on the plastic panties over them – they aren’t necessary, but they’re nice to have. I put on my blue Eeyore onesie, snapping it into place under my diaper, feeling it hold the padding snugly and securely against me, then tug on a pair of short black shorts on over that.
I start the washer and grab the garbage bag, taking it outside and setting it in the driveway. There’s a little store a few miles away. It closes in an hour or two, and, by then, there won’t be many people driving the road it’s on. By then, this diaper will probably be nice and wet, and I’ll change into one of my other cloth ones, keeping the rest of my outfit, slipping on a pair of sandals. I’ll carry my wet diaper gingerly out to the bag, adding it to its stinky cargo and re-tying it shut, more securely this time. I’ll toss it into my trunk and drive out to that store to dump the bag off in their dumpster, and no one will be the wiser.
Feeling satisfied that my punishment is mostly over, I return to the kitchen, rinsing my mouth out another time or two before filling my bottle with water. It still tastes a little soapy, but it isn’t so bad anymore, and the burning is starting to go away too, slowly. I make my way back to my room and sink into my chair. I turn on the monitor and stare at the webpage. Punishment or not, it still tells me it’s been 12 days since I last updated it.
And then I have an idea. There’s not much to it, but still, this might make a decent little story. It would be something, anyway, better than just watching the number of days since my last update continue to rise. I suck on my bottle as I gather my thoughts, then open up my word processor and start to type.