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Interlude of the Diaper Elves (Date Night)
🕑 Added 2022-10-01 01:32:03 +0000 UTCIn a room with twelve floors and no ceiling, the one in the white jacket lay in her bed and waited for her partner to return from her secret mission.
Her private boudoir contained all her worldly possessions. Being an immortal creature with magical powers, nearly all of them were largely decorative. She had spent considerable time decorating and redecorating her private chamber, trying out different arrangements of floors and ceilings and walls until she had arrived at a configuration that suited her needs ideally. The contract that she had signed to define her new existence specified that she be allowed only a single private room. But since that room could literally be any dimensions she chose, she had elected to make it quite unique.
At about ten meters across, it was roomy enough for all her private functions, while still small enough to feel cozy, like a little closet she could slide into and feel secure in. The carpets were pristine white, just like her parade uniform and her diapers. She liked things to be clean and neat. She found that she also liked the shape of the interior of a dodecahedron, with twelve pentagonal floors, each with its own unique gravity and assigned function. It allowed her to keep all her things near at hand, while leaving her free to drift between them as her mood and the activity she was currently pursuing dictated. While she wasn't off working or socializing, she could float from her reading area to her TV lounge to her bed to her study to her kitchenette to her studio to her ironing board and back again whenever she pleased, provided she adjusted her gravitational orientation to align with each surface. The only things her room really lacked were a bathroom and a wardrobe. Apart from her name, the ability to adjust her apparel from day to day had been the greatest sacrifice she had made to purchase her current lifestyle. Forgoing the use of the toilet didn't even warrant a mention by comparison.
Many less imaginative members of her profession kept their rooms very traditional, with a floor underneath, four walls around, and a ceiling above. Perhaps they found the familiarity of this arrangement comforting. The one in the white jacket preferred things to have a clear reason for being. Now that gravity was no longer a concern for her, she saw no reason not to use every surface in her room as a floor. The floor that was her window was opposite the floor that was her bed, so that it could serve as a sort of skylight while she was sleeping. Her television, her ironing board, and her mini-fridge all had their own version of “up”. This curious setup might have been an issue for narrow-minded people, but not her. She didn't let many narrow-minded people into her life these days, and certainly not into her private bedroom. Here, the world that existed, existed entirely because she wished it to. Everything around her was only what she wanted to be around her.
Her bed was deep, built into one of the floors like a cozy little pentagonal alcove. Since it had cushioned walls, might have thought of it as more a crib, but she didn't. Beside it, another floor served as her changing table, which of course still had to be nicely padded but was much less confining. The corners of that floor contained her drawers, which held her collection of wipes, powders, and lotions. Even to one of her noble profession, it was essential to keep diaper changes separate from the bedding, which in turn should not happen too close to the refrigerator, which of course ought to be accompanied by an open dining room, with enough space for a few breakfast guests. She needed a small kitchen, as she liked to cook occasionally. There was no danger of anyone looking into her window. She kept it looking out on a set of mountains high in a remote part of the Himalayas, set under an overhang of rock on a mountain that was almost as tall as Everest, much less frequently visited. She had decided, long ago, that if anyone should brave the perilous climb and look into her window, she would simply wave at them politely, then continue on with whatever she was doing.
One floor was devoted to the front door, which she felt was an unwelcome necessity. She had to have some way of leaving her room and visiting other parts of the universe, of course, and when the mood struck her she was happy to accommodate guests in her room, who of course needed some way to get in. Still, if she could have, she would have proffered a door that didn't exist at all when she wasn't using it, and she had done her best to conjure a lock that would simulate that very thing.
This was her place. Everything she needed was right here. She even had the means of brewing coffee, which nearly all her colleagues preferred to have in the public Coffee room. She used one floor just to store all the books she was currently reading. She could have tastefully arranged them on a shelf, but as much as she loved books, she felt no need to put her love of them on a pedestal. She liked to be reading about ten books at a time, which she would flit between as the mood struck her. There was something appealing about climbing into bed at the end of her day with a few half-finished trashy romance novels, a philosophical treatise by Arthur Schopenhauer that she had found in the library and was about a third of the way through, another by Friedrich Nietzsche that she had almost entirely given up on, two of Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels (Making Money and Witches Abroad), Fairy Tale by Stephen King, and a copy of Principia Mathematica, all sitting together on a floor, like a shall knot of strangers who have all, by chance, ended up trapped in the same stuck elevator.
A series of knocks landed on the door, to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits”. The one with the white jacket eagerly floated up out of her bed and reoriented the room so that she was even with the door. She kept a full-length mirror beside the door, which she now used to make sure that her hair and uniform were in good order. She adjusted one of the tapes on her diaper and teased a few gold tassels apart on her right epaulet. The knock repeated, more quickly this time. The lock she had devised for her private room here was one of the only locks in existence that could actually keep one of their profession out. Without an intimate understanding of theoretical hypergeometry, it would be impossible to even recognize it as a lock. The one in the white jacket eagerly reshaped the 9-dimensional mechanism into a more conventional door handle, which she turned to admit her guest.
“I trust it all went smoothly?” she asked, trying not to betray too much of her eagerness.
The one with the tattoos slid inside, and the one in the white jacket carefully closed the door behind her. The lock promptly sprouted five extra spatiotemporal dimensions, ensuring that they would not be interrupted. She, too, was dressed the same as she always was: leather vest, white tee shirt, close-cropped hair, pierced belly button, arms and legs covered in tattoos of roses and thorn-covered vines, and of course a bulging disposable diaper. She stretched herself in the air once she was inside.
“Ugh! You would not believe the day I've had! I've been running around like a goddamn madwoman, trying to get all this info to the other Judges without alerting the Assassins! Are you okay? Has anyone been asking any questions about me or the one with the yellow top hat?”
The one in the white jacket shook her head. “No, I'm doing fine. You really worry too much. I don't think anyone can trace any of this business back to me.” In truth, she had been very nervous about exactly that possibility. It had been most of what she had been thinking about today. She had barely left her room, for fear that she might inadvertently let some clue slip to the Assassins about what they were up to. She drew her partner to the middle of the geometrically improbable room and helped her take off her leather vest. She tossed it careless into the air, where it drifted indecisively for a moment before dropping onto the television set.
“Well, it went off without a hitch. The message and the red stuff arrived on time, although I think the one in the yellow top hat cut that part a little close. The Assassin got a serious faceful of the red stuff. You'll never guess who it was.”
The one in the white jacket sensed how tired and stressed her partner was tonight. She drifted behind her and squeezed the tight cord of muscles between her neck and shoulders. “Are you supposed to be telling me all this? Isn't this all secret Judge business?”
“I trust you, babe. You know that. Anyway, the target tonight was this music teacher named Dr. Charles.”
The one in the white jacket recognized immediately that Dr. Charles was not one of them. Having an actual name, rather than a mere description, disqualified her from that. “Do you know who called in the hit?”
The one with the tattoos tilted her head and sighed deeply before answering. She was enjoying the massage. “Yeah. A plant. Had to make it hard to trace. You were right about the one in the yellow top hat. That dream visitation concept worked just like you said. We can totally side-step the whole rule against revisiting if we can keep using that. Opens up the playing field in whole new ways.”
The one in the white jacket hated talking shop in her private room, but she decided to hide her irritation. Discussing things that worry you is often the best way to stop worrying.
“I'm glad she's working out. She was recruited by the Collectors, but I think she might end up becoming a Judge. She's too connected to humanity to embrace their philosophy. That whole dream-thing she set up with her bedwetter girlfriend was some nice work. Shows a lot of initiative and creativity, and of course it's healthy to stay connected to humans. It might even be enough to keep her sane.” She switched to messaging her friend's upper arms.
“Maybe. I'm a little worried she might change her tune when she finds out about what went down with Dr. Charles. The one in the red racing jacket was the Assassin. She was one of the ones who recruited her, and right now she's in the Playpen, babbling and messing herself. Probably won't even be able to form a coherent sentence for a long time. Standard Collector screwjob. I almost feel bad.”
The one in the white jacket hugged her from behind, trying to comfort her. “I know. It's because you have actual compassion for people, even when they're enjoying every minute of what's happened and they completely deserve it anyway. It makes absolutely zero rational sense, but I do find it very endearing.”
The one with the the tattoos sighed. “I wasn't talking about her. I meant the one in the pink cowgirl hat. This place...” she waved her hand to indicate the weird geometry of her friend's room, and also the labyrinth of serpentine hallway full of half-deranged magical beings that lay beyond. “...is amazing, wonderful even.”
“Well, it does amaze people, certainly, and it is literally full of wonders.” concurred her colleague. She began gently pressing her fingers along her friend's spine, searching for knots of tension. There were plenty.
“But it can get lonely, too. It's rough having nobody on the same wavelength to talk to. So many of us check out mentally, either as soon as we get started, or because it just gets to be too much. One trip down to Clarity, and you never have to worry or think about what you're doing ever again. I admit, I've been tempted. I don't know what I'd do without you, babe. Now, the one in the pink cowgirl hat has lost her lifeline. The one who recruited her, the one she spends her free time with. Even if it is only temporary, and even if she was kind of a toxic influence, she's in for a rough time in the near future.”
“Well, it might be an opportunity for her to leave behind the Collector life. Maybe we could help direct her toward a less exploitative lifestyle.” suggested the one in the white jacket. She dug two fingers into the leg gather of her friend's diaper. She was slightly disappointed to find that she was relatively dry.
The one with the tattoos chuckled bitterly. “Sure, why not? You know, just because you're permanently stuck in baby diapers and have magical powers doesn't mean you have to be naive. People who have decided to check out and not care about what happens to other people don't just change all at once. If anything, this could send her down an even worse path. Especially if she found out who was responsible for her pal's little accident.”
“Do you think she will?” asked the one in the white jacket quickly. She felt the muscles in her friend's back tighten as she considered the question. It was obviously weighing on her.
“She might. Even assuming that she didn't know about her partner's connections with the Assassins, they might try to recruit her next. She's a hardcore Collector, and that's usually the kind they look for. Somebody coherent enough to follow orders, but not too ethical to carry them out. Once the one in the red jacket has the wherewithal to tell her story, they might be able to piece together what went down.”
“Do you really think that the one in the pink cowgirl hat isn't an Assassin already? She sure seems like the type.” said the one in the white jacket.
“I can't be sure yet, but I doubt it. I think she would have been with the one in the red racing jacket when she got hit with the red licorice whammy. Those two usually work together when they're on assignment. She's probably just a run-of-the-mill Collector. All the same, if you're willing to do what Collectors do, you're not going to bat an eye at an assassination. If they had their way, it don't think it would even be illegal. And that's the other thing.”
The one in the white jacket winced. She knew this was an upsetting subject for her friend, but she wanted her to share it all so she could finally relax. “What other thing?”
Another long sigh. “This wasn't a tit-for-tat assassination. The Assassins are trying to buy votes. My contact was told to do some politicking down at the Nursery to help get an Oracle reelected.”
“Which one?”
“I don't want to say. Not until I have real evidence. It's even possible that the Assassins know we're onto them, and they're trying to trick us into challenging one of the Oracles so that we'll expose ourselves. Of course, if it is true, that means the Assassins are infiltrating the Oracles, which will make them and the Collectors even more influential over time, which could mean the whole democracy concept falls apart and we end up back at square one? You see what all this cloak-and-dagger shit does to me babe?”
“It leaves you tied up in knots, stressed out, irritable, and in desperate need of an evening off.” reported the one in the white jacket, who prided herself, rightly or wrongly, on her clear and concise communication skills. She dug a fist into her companion's right shoulder and gently turned it. The one with the tattoos winced, but emitted a contented groan.
“Exactamundo.” concurred the one with the tattoos. “Which brings us to a more pleasant topic. Do you have any plans for the evening? Anything you'd like to do?”
“You know, I haven't really thought about it.” She lied.
“Uh-huh.” concurred her partner, with equal sincerity.
“We could head down to Vagueness...” suggested the one the one in the white jacket, in a lustful whisper.
Her companion groaned. “Ugh. Not tonight, babe. I don't think I have the energy. Besides, I don't want to risk running into any Collectors right now. Couldn't we just stay in?”
The one in the white jacket grinned. “You know, we could...” she settled her chin on her partner's shoulder and whispered softly.
“You know I could have you disciplined just for suggesting that. Completely illegal. Frankly reprehensible.” said the one with the tattoos. She was also smiling.
“You're right. I can be such a bad girl.” said the one with the white jacket. Her eyebrows drooped in mock disappointment.
“Besides, you're totally out of practice. Wouldn't stand a chance.” said the one with the tattoos.
“I understand completely.” concurred the one in the white jacket sagely. “You are concerned that I'll get the better of you. It's okay, sweetie. Everyone gets scared sometimes.”
The one with the tattoos rolled her eyes in response. “Oooh yeah, I'm sooo scared. Is it time to get the cane out of the cupboard and put you back in your place, babe?”
“I see only one method to definitively settle that inquiry.”
The one with the tattoos pulled off her tee shirt and tossed it into the bed. Her breasts bobbed lightly in the non-gravity. She turned and pointed her glossy white diaper-butt at her companion. “Alright, you're on. Just don't say I didn't warn you.”
“I shall say nothing of the sort.” said the one in the white jacket. She knew that showing off her breasts and cluttering up the neatness of her room were both attempts to throw her off balance. She refused to show any weakness. She slowly removed her namesake garment, undoing each gold-plated brass button in order, and carefully laid it out on the ironing board. She smiled, gave her companion a moment to regard her bare body, and then turned her own diapered rear toward hers. The two women looked at each other over their shoulders, eyes hard with concentration.
The two diapers flared to life, sending eerie blue light into every facet of the room. Slowly, the two women drifted toward each other, both facing forward and closing their eyes with stoic determination. They both inhaled sharply as their padded rears collided. The two bluish glows intensified, forming little tendrils of lightning that locked together and interacted in complex arcs. They each felt the other's mind attach to theirs, like two networks being wired together. They each began to rub their rears against the other, adding squeaks of plastic backing and crinkles of dry padding to the sound of churning electricity. Then, they each began to softly chant, at the same time, neither daring to let the other get a word in edgewise.
“Relax. Feel all the tension fall off your bones. All your worries, all your fears, all your tangled thoughts are fading away, fading into my diaper. Relax. Feel the warm light of my will sweep through you, though your thick, padded diaper. Allow all your thoughts to...”
“You can feel my power coursing through you. Feel it soaking up all your will, all your desires. All of it is becoming mine. All your ideas, all you knowledge, all your plans, all becoming suffused with my limitless power...”
“...becoming softer, becoming malleable. I am absorbing you. You are becoming one with me, becoming putty in my hands. I shall reshape you, and it will feel so, so very good...”
Tears formed at the corners of their eyes. Sweat beaded on their foreheads from the sheer mental exertion. The chant never paused for a single second.
“...have always been mine. You know that. You've always known that. It is right for me to possess you. It is right that you should be conquered by me, humbled by me, remade by me. You were always meant to serve and obey me...”
“...tension just melts away. You feel so light, like nothing can ever harm you. Like a balloon drifting in a warm breeze. Let my words flow in one ear, and out the other. Every part of you is relaxing, melting into peaceful, blissful contentment...”
“...filled with blissful, helpless submission. You want to submit yourself entirely to me, to fill my power coursing through you and know that you are utterly helpless to resist. Your own will has been turned against you, and there is no longer any desire within you but the desire to do my bidding...”
“...until you hear me say the word “Mulligatawny”, you will remain completely and thoroughly...”
“...only when you hear me say the word, “Mulligatawny” will you be able to once again...”
The fevered chant continued, growing faster and faster as their two rumps mopped back and forth. Each diapered woman felt her thoughts grow lighter and begin to twist as the other's thoughts began to tighten around them. They both sighed and gasped as the mental struggle continued. They curled their toes and clenched their fists, blasting pure joy and pleasure into each other with every breath. They had each done a similar act hundreds of times to mere mortal humans who had been simply unfortunate enough to not have black licorice on hand. This was different though. A contest of willpower, creativity, and subtlety of thought. Both minds struggling to dominate and subdue the other by blasting them with whatever pleasurable sensations they could imagine, while also trying to maintain enough focus to avoid the same fate. The one with the tattoos was by far the most skilled and experienced in this form of mental combat. She was a veteran of the days before the Oracles, when those with the greatest willpower had ruled over their weaker comrades with iron fists and bulging rears. The days when their profession had been built on a clear hierarchy in which the majority were blissful slaves, eagerly doing the bidding of the powerful few.
The one without the white jacket had had less opportunity to practice her skills, but she was still a strong contender, and what was more, she was determined to prove her strength. She usually played this game to lose. It was a very fun game, especially when you lost. Losing meant getting to relax completely, getting to drop your guard and let someone else's desires take over and control you entirely. If that person was someone you truly loved and trusted with your whole being, the desire to simply give in could be overwhelming. Not today, however. Her partner was too exhausted and unhappy to fight off the sensations she was sending. She was swaddling her companion's soul in glorious, blissful relaxation, taking dreadfully unfair advantage of the hidden wish she knew she had. The one in the white jacket knew that the one with the tattoos secretly wanted to take a fall tonight. Her mental projection of unshakable power and confidence was impressive, but definitely superficial. This was a game of distraction and stealth, not merely of head to head force. She was usually so much better.
One odd characteristic of a contest of wills is that, on some level, it is impossible to lose unless you choose to.
Both of their pussies screamed to be touched, but they each clasped their fingers to stop themselves, instead focusing on the forceful rubbing of their diapered rears. This wasn't exactly sex, of course, although it definitely ran on the same mental software. It was an intensely intimate act, the sharing of intense feelings and desires on a deep and primal level. But it was also a contest, one in which there would be a clear winner and a clear loser. Touching yourself during the duel was almost always fatal, and wetting your diaper usually led o swift defeat as well.
Finally, the one with the tattoos turned her head. Her eyes were crazed, and her forehead was covered in sweat. The one without the white jacket cried out in ecstasy as her companion twisted her body around and began frantically humping her friend's diapered rear. Their legs locked together. The one without the white jacket moaned as the one with the tattoos continued to thrust herself against her ass, all while continuing her hypnotic chant.
“...mine now. Every inch of you. Your every thought is to serve and submit to me more fully. I am a Pissy Pampered Princess.”
Her forehead knit together with confusion and concern. She pressed on regardless.
“I have conquered you, utterly. I have taken your will, and substituted my own. I am a Pissy Pampered Princess.”
She shook her head and gritted her teeth. The one with the white jacket threw her head back in a loud gasp.
“You will...do my bidding. I am...a Pissy Pampered Princess! I'm Pissy, and Pampered...and a Princess. I am your Pissy, Pampered...Oh Gaaaawd!”
She bit her lips as a squishy, thundering orgasm rocketed through her. The one without the white jacket broke contact briefly and turned to press herself against her companion. Their bare breasts pressed together. Her hand grabbed her partner's diaper between the legs and began massaging. The padding grew warmer and heavier.
“Who's my... Pissy Pampered Princess?” she asked, wiping her sweaty brow as she spoke.
“I...I am your Pissy Pampered Princess!” gasped the one with the tattoos.
“You are becoming more obedient and submissive with every breath you take.”
“I am becoming more...obedient and submissive...with every breath I take.”
“Good girl. Piss yourself more, now. Keep making tinkles in your thirsty padding. You will piddle in your Prissy Princess Pampers for your Mistress.”
“I...oh gawd! I'm making tinkles in my...thirsty padding! I...Piddle in my Pissy Princess Pampers for my Mistress!”
“That's right. You don't remember anything, do you? Nothing at all about any of that nonsense that's been weighing on your mind. You don't have the faintest idea how you even got into this room. All you know is that you are my Pissy Pampered Princess, and that I am, now and forever, your Mistress. Isn't that right?”
The one with the the tattoos finally relaxed. Her tattooed arms waved helplessly as she continued to pee herself. She lay utterly relaxed and weightless in mid-air, all thought of resistance gone from her mind. There were no more questions that needed answering, no more battles to win. She was light as a feather, tethered inescapably to a single, divine truth.
“I am a pissy pampered princess. You are my Mistress.” she said. She was smiling. It felt so good to say those words. She knew with every fiber of her being that they were absolutely true, and absolutely wonderful. Her eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. She felt every bit like a Pissy, Pampered Princess. Her bladder relaxed, further cementing her identity.
“That's my good girl. Really soak those silly pampers of yours. Make your diapers nice and soggy for me.”
“Yes, Mistress! I am your Pissy Pampered Princess!” She obeyed. To do otherwise was literally unthinkable. Her diaper swelled still further.
“That's right. Very good! Those are some nice, soggy pampers. Do you know what we're going to do with your soggy pampered butt now, my little princess?” The one without the white jacket spoke in a low, husky whisper.
“...no, Mistress!” said the one with the tattoos. She had no thought of what would happen next, or what should happen. All of that was completely up to her Mistress, and she couldn't imagine it being any other way.
“We're going to give it a nice, long spanking! A nice, long spanking on your wet little tush. Do you know why you need to be spanked in your wet diapers, little princess?”
“No, Mistress!”
“It's because you need to be punished. You thought you could dominate me. You thought your will was stronger than mine. That was really, really silly of you. So, now you need to be properly humiliated. You need a spanking on your squishy, pampered tushie to remind that you belong to me, and always will. To make sure you understand that I have complete power now, and that you are completely helpless. Do you understand?”
The one with the tattoos could nor recall doing any of the things her Mistress was telling her about, but she was certain that they were true. Every word that fell from her Mistress' mouth was absolutely true. That was all that she needed to understand. “Yes, Mistress. I need to be spanked and humiliated in my wet pampers!”
“you sure do.” Instead of turning her companion on her belly, she simply reoriented herself. The door flipped upward, the bed went sideways, the one with the tattoos was facing downward toward the changing table. She rubbed her hand against the soaked padding of her friend's diapered butt. The one with the tattoos joyfully shook her bare legs in the air in anticipation of being spanked by her Mistress. She took a deep breath. Then, a resounding slap landed. Then another. In a slow but consistent rhythm, she began the spanking. She passed from cheek to cheek, back and forth and up and down. Normally, one of their profession wouldn't be harmed in the slightest by even a high-powered artillery round, let alone a light slap to a heavily padded rear. Luckily, the one without the white jacket had planned ahead in this regard. The powerful sensations and beliefs that she had programmed into her partner ensured that the spanking felt completely real, and more importantly, completely humiliating.
“(slap) Tell me why you deserve a spanking (slap).” she ordered in a whisper.
“I need to be (ah!) punished. I need to be (ooh!) humiliated. I thought I (uh) could dominate you. That was (ah) very silly! I'm a Pissy, Pampered Princess...and I totally deserve to be spanked in my (er!) soggy pampers!”
“That's right(slap). Good girl (slap). Just relax for your Mistress (slap). Mistress is in complete control of you (slap). Mistress is in control of everything (slap). You don't need to think (slap). You don't need to worry (slap). You just need to relax and do exactly as I say (slapslapslap).”
The spanking continued for a long time. The one with the tattoos gasped and squirmed and chanted her submissive catechisms as her butt was slapped and rubbed and slapped again, over and over. The one without the white jacket was grateful that her hand was invulnerable. She didn't really get much out of the spanking. She generally preferred to be on the receiving end of this kind of play. What she loved was to see all the tension vanish from her partner's body. She had nothing in her mind now except the sensation of being held and caressed and disciplined by her loving, trusted Mistress. She was lost in the paradoxical freedom of the devoted slave, free of all concerns except the expectation of a hand against her diaper-butt. When the one without the white jacket had finally decided that she had had enough, she grabbed the one with the tattoos and embraced her. The pair hung together in the air for a long time, just feeling the warmth and softness of one another's bare bodies.
The one without the white jacket kissed the one with the tattoos softly on the cheek and whispered softly to her. “Good girl. Very good. Just cuddle with me. You're my cuddly little princess. No more punishment. You're my good girl now. A cuddly little princess in pissy pampers.”
“Cuddly princess.” agreed the one with the tattoos as she held onto her Mistress. “Pissy pampers.”
“Yes you are. I love you so much. You don't have to worry about anything while I'm around. Not a thing.”
“Don't have to worry...love you.” she whispered back. The one without the white jacket began rubbing her back in small circle. The one with the tattoos was no longer floating on her own. All her weight was resting in her Mistress' arms.
At length, the one without the white jacket announced. “Time for your diaper change now, princess.”
The one with the tattoos nodded sleepily. She had no opinion on the subject, except that her Mistress was always right. They reoriented themselves so that they could alight on the changing table. She lay the one with the tattoos on her back and gave her taught belly a light rub.
“There you are. Somebody's about to get a diaper change, aren't they? Can you ask for your Mistress to change your diaper like good girl?”
“Please change my diaper, Mistress. I'm your Pissy Pampers Princess!”
The one without the white jacket tickled her charge on her inner thigh. “That was very good, sweetie, but you have to learn to do it properly. I want to hear you show your Mistress how cute you can be! So ask me like an adorable, cutesy-wootsy widdle diapee girl!”
She did enjoy this part. The one with the tattoos was confident and assertive in her everyday life. Watching her play the helpless plaything for a change made the one without the white jacket want to waggle her fingers and laugh like a supervillain. The one with the tattoos thought about it for a second before answering.
“Pwease change my widdle Pissy Pwincess Pampews foh me, Mistwess! I yo siwwy diapee giwl, Mistwess!”
The one without the white jacket bent forward and blew a raspberry on her companion's belly. She giggled and kicked her feet against the padded surface of the changing table.
“You just have no idea how to change your own diapers, do you honey? You just need your Mistress to wipe your silly little butt for you, don't you?”
“Uh-huh! I no know howda wipey, Mistwess! Me just a Pissy Pamepws Pwincess!” agreed the one with the tattoos excitedly.
“Suck your thumb now. Your Mistress has you totally under her control. You can just lie back and suck your thumb, and think about how lucky you are to have a Mistress to change your pissy little pampers.”
The one with the tattoos did just that. Her thumb went into her mouth, and it didn't come out again that night. She sucked her thumb as her Mistress pulled open her diaper and wiped her thoroughly with plenty of cool baby wipes. She sucked as her Mistress showered her crotch in baby powder and loving patted it into place. She kept it in her mouth as her diaper was wadded up and annihilated with a single thought from her Mistress, to be instantly replaced by an exact replica by the magic of the contract. She kept on sucking contentedly when her Mistress carried her over to her bed and pulled the blankets over the two of them. She sucked away all night, as her Mistress held her in her arms like a teddy bear.
Comments
Josh Stack
Always nice to see more from our favorite group of Dommy Mommies (or at least my favorite). So we have explicit confirmation that the Diaper Elves no longer see themselves as human. Personally, I disagree. The subtle arrogance constantly on display from them is a very human trait (I’ve encountered a lot of people who, if they had an “intimate understanding of theoretical hypergeometry” would be all too happy to smugly rub that in the faces of “narrow-minded” “mere mortals”). So the dream visitation stuff isn’t going to just be a one off. I hope this means more Lucy (if there’s anyone I want to see be the protagonist of this series, it’s her). As for Paige, her being singled out as a good candidate for the position of Judge seems to indicate that the Judges are the Token Good Teammates of the Diaper Elves, especially compared to the Assassins and to a lesser extent the Collectors (though I suppose I shouldn’t be too harsh on them, not everyone can be Miranda Hubble). The fact that the Diaper Elves used to be able to enslave each other is a strong indicator that their status quo is malleable (and possibly reformable?)
