My fresh whip-marks were plainly visible, red stripes down the backs of my thighs, the fiercer, redder lashes disappearing beneath the folds of my diaper. An obscene, adult-sized pacifier was the coupe-de-gras, it's dangling baby-blue handle protruding from my mouth, smeared with just enough cherry-red lipstick to suggest blood.
He had me put my blonde hair in pig-tails, and the slightly out-of-proportion plumpness of my "booty" and breasts, embarrassing in the best of settings, made me look utterly indecent in this horrifying, sexualized baby costume.
Was he going to make me go out in this? The thought sent shudders down my spine, and yet, although I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, I also knew I would silently, voicelessly submit to it. As I would to all my costumes, to any humiliating situations Ben forced me into. I would not be able to resist his calm command, even knowing that I could never win his approval, that everything I did to please and obey him just made him think the worse of me, just convinced him more certainly that I was creepy beyond measure, sick beyond repair, and not worth saving.
Especially as he knew, just from looking at me, that I enjoyed this. I could feel his stare as my blush descended from my cheeks to my neck to my breasts, and my nipples hardened like miniature corks about to pop out of their obscene Champaign bottles, cutting holes in the fabric of my little-girls' stretchy t-shirt. He could just as well sense how I was leaking like a spigot down below: good thing I was wearing diapers! And even as this very thought popped into my head, I could hear Ben chuckle. He had had the same thought at the same time! He could read my mind, I believed for one second.
But no: more accurately, we were linked. Locked together in a psychic battle, with me forever loosing to his mastery, ever yielding to him, offering everything, my body, my sexuality, my dignity, my sanity, my physical well-being, my free agency, my very status as a human being. I had become an animal for him, and it wasn't enough: it would never be enough, he would always want more ravishment from me, a deeper raping, a further level of despoilment. And I would always yield it to him, and what is more I'd demonstrate, for him and others, the putrid evidence of my needy, perverse responsiveness. I'd show him openly, along with any others he might care to show, my own orgasmic thrill in the act of being ravished and destroyed!
And right at that moment, I realized I desperately had to pee. I could not contain it; I was about to burst. Again, it was a good thing I was wearing diapers.
But then, to my utter surprise and horror, the doorbell rang, and Ben, ever so casually, got up to answer it. I was standing in the living room in my whore-diapers, teetering on the brink of orgasm but truly on the edge of wetting myself, and suddenly there was a man at the door, and Ben was letting him in!
