It's the third day that usually breaks them.
Oh, sure – they always say they'll never fold. They'll never give in. They'll never submit to the sort of punishment the court has assigned and that we've agreed to carry out. From the moment they arrive here, they're forever wailing and screeching out how they know their rights, how they'll tell the world how barbarous we are, how in the end they'll show everyone…
Well, that's at least until the gags go in. Then it all devolves into muffled gurgles and moans of displeasure. Wide, rolling eyes full of resentment and panic and fear. Limbs tugging vainly in the extra-strength restraints we've designed just for them. Disgusted shifting in their chairs, as if the bulging, double-thick padding and rubber pants into which we've just sealed them are burning into their very skin.
But the inmates' squeamishness is none of our business. Our mission is to carry out orders – that is, to perform the most humane and expedited and enlightened form of penal correction that the law now allows. No more years upon years of imposed resentment and depression and self-loathing. No more drawn-out internalization of one's new self-image as a prisoner. Not anymore. Now it's all about a simple six-month stint in our corrective facility, before being released back into society as completely and permanently changed individuals.
Changed and improved, of course. At least, we like to think so.
But back to the third day. You see, it's the first day that they're most rebellious: tugging and straining and thrashing against the cuffs, wearing themselves completely out with their senseless struggles. They're wailing behind those gags, kicking out anytime they get a chance. Not even the benevolent act of affixing their feeding tubes goes by without meeting their senseless, panicked resistance. I'm a free adult! I don't deserve this! You can't humiliate me like this! Or at least, so goes the general thrust of whatever wails do manage to slip past the muzzles and gags.
By the dawn of the second day, they've generally grown sullen. They've felt their own body betray them now at least once; they've been forced to feel their own urine spurting out at last into their waiting diapers, and they've squirmed in revulsion at such a losing and humiliating confrontation with their own primal biology. Some, driven by our relaxants and other laxative medications, have even come to the point of soiling themselves. Yet their spirits generally haven't cracked just yet. They're still holding out hope – still dreaming of escape and revenge – still resisting the horrifying idea that we are, in fact, in control. And that they most certainly aren't.
But the third day… oh, the third day!
It's when the medication has fully saturated their digestive, renal, muscular, and nervous systems. They're sluggish at best when the third dawn arrives, hanging in their bonds dejectedly. And oh, they typically do try to fight back once more as we begin to administer their feedings and change their fully-soiled diapers. But it's futile. They're now so heavily medicated that even when loosened from their restraints temporarily, their every movement is as uncoordinated and laughably feeble as an infant's. Arms jerk and flail… heads droop and mouths drool… legs sag open into abject vulnerability…
It's that moment – when they realize that their body is no longer their own – that the first stab of the crisis arrives. And some break down right then, of course. But others, like the young woman shown here, only crumble later: when we fasten them back into their bonds for that third and final day. It comes as they sit there, now utterly dependent on those very bonds to hold them upright, propped limply up and feeling their own nerveless muscles clenching and twitching and unclenching in a crazy, uncoordinated rhythm.
It's not long until they feel the soft mush of their own excrement erupting beneath them, softened by the special formula that is now constantly flowing into their bellies and stimulated by the laxatives coursing through them. Their slack jaws and dribbling lips emit steady flows of drool from beneath the ball gags… down their naked, heaving chests, or between their shamefully exposed womanly breasts. And as their bladders, now almost completely beyond their control, spasm and dribble and flood into the swelling, infantile padding beneath them, they can no longer ignore the truth…
They have lost. Their bodies are no longer their own. We have defeated them, we have taken ownership of them, and we are completely and undeniably in control. And yes – we will break them and remake them in whatever way we choose… just as the law asks. Just as we have learned to do. And just as they deserve.
For surely it's not too harsh a punishment for one who violates the freedoms and autonomy of another to themselves be punished with the very same fate?
Image Credit: BabyDoll.com
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"No, baby. You heard me! Get those hands away before I smack them away. Or maybe I should tie them up above your head to keep them out of trouble?"
Jeff shivered at his girlfriend's clipped words. Here he was: lying flat on his back, stark naked, caught between the shame of allowing her to proceed with her humiliating project and the fear of what she might do if provoked further. Of course his natural instinct was to shield his vulnerability – to cup his hands over his limp little penis and balls, to screen them from view and prevent her from locking them away in- in- that thing…
But as he squirmed under her gaze and her stern words sank in, he slowly, tremblingly removed his hands. Like a cowed, pathetic loser. Like a-
"Good boy," she commended, with a grim little smile and a pat of Jeff's now-exposed genitals. "Spread those legs for me, Jeffie baby. You're learning who wears the pants in this relationship, aren't you? Learning to be so nice, and sweet, and obedient…" She lifted the open diaper once more and tugged it upward, preparing to wrap it securely around his naked groin. "Honestly, it's all for the best. I mean, if it wasn't for me helping you with your little problem, honey, where would you even be? Pissing yourself in the middle of the theater tonight, most likely…"
Oh, that. Caught up as he was in the shame of exposure and the diaper being wrapped now firmly around his flaccid cock, he'd almost forgotten why she'd proposed it in the first place. They were headed to a performance tonight – some avant-garde ballet – some super-long, boring thing that would keep him captive in his seat the entire evening. Something that normally he'd worm his way out of as much as possible: primarily by claiming to need the bathroom, and then slipping away to spend entire half hours at a time in the porcelain safety of the men's room…
"You always seem to have such problems with your bladder in the evening, after all," she asserted now as first one, then two, and then the final pair of tapes pulled tight and left him trapped in a swaddling, crinkling blanket of humiliation. "But it's like I told you the last few times we went out! Remember? If you can't hold it like a big boy, I have no problem whatsoever in finding something to help. And really, I can't think of anything more appropriate for a potty-trotting little boy who can't hold his pee than lovely, crinkly pampers!"
She bent closer now, and Jeff flushed as her fingers snaked gently down his cheek and wandered over his bare, hairless chest in condescending affection. "Oh, don't worry, baby," she breathed, and now her other hand was kneading suggestively at his padded crotch. "You may think going out tonight in a giant diaper is humiliating, sure. But you know what? Even if it is… I don't care. You're just a needy, horny little sub for me, after all. You know who's in control, and we both know that in the end you're going to do anything I say, no matter how humiliating it is…"
She planted a light kiss on his parted lips and smiled full in his anxious, blushing face. "So just think about that tonight, baby. Think about it while I order you that extra-large soda before the performance. Think about it while I watch you gulp it down, how you're not gonna be able to hold it when it starts running through you. Think about how you're gonna have to sit there all prim and proper beside your pretty girlfriend, so desperate to pee… And think about how in the end you're gonna have silly, pathetic accidents in your diaper, how you're gonna feel it getting a full and wet and soggy under your pathetic little butt, like a stupid, overgrown baby…"
Jeff shuddered and let out a plaintive moan: a moan both of horrified protest at her sultry words, and of helpless arousal as she worked dexterously at his crinkling crotch. Oh, god, why was she so right? He was her plaything- her toy- her pathetic little Jeffie. And worst of all?
He knew, deep down in his subby soul, that he wouldn't have had it any other way.
Image Credit: @frdiapergirls
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