Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“No! Don’t you fucking—”
My words cut off as I found myself draped over his thighs, my bare ass in the air, my face toward the floor. One of his hands pressed down on the small of my back, pinning me in place with surprising strength for someone who looked like an academic. I thrashed against his hold, trying to push myself up with my hands against his shin, but he just pressed down harder.
His other hand came down on my right cheek with a crack that echoed through the sterile room.
The pain was immediate and shocking. Not the worst pain I’d ever felt, but the humiliation of it—being spanked like a child, naked, over this stranger’s knee—made it a thousand times worse. I opened my mouth to scream at him, to curse, to say anything, but his hand came down again on my left cheek before I could form words.
And again. And again.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t count. Didn’t explain or lecture or give me any kind of framework to understand what was happening. Just methodically, rhythmically brought his palm down on my ass over and over while I struggled uselessly against his grip. Each impact sent a jolt of pain and shame through me. My skin burned. My eyes watered despite my desperate attempts to keep the tears back.
“Stop! Please!” I hated myself for begging but I couldn’t help it. The pain was building, layering, each new strike landing on already tender flesh.
He didn’t stop. His hand rose and fell with mechanical precision. My ass felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t stop the tears anymore—they ran down my face and dripped onto the floor beneath me. I couldn’t stop the small, choked sounds that escaped my throat with each impact.
How long it lasted, I couldn’t say. Time stretched and warped. Eventually my struggles weakened, not because I’d accepted it, but because my body simply couldn’t maintain that level of resistance. My ass throbbed with a deep, burning ache that I knew would turn into bruises.
Then, finally, his hand stilled. He kept me pinned there for another moment, his palm resting on my burning skin, and I realized I was sobbing—ugly, helpless sounds I couldn’t contain.
“Get her dressed,” he said, his voice perfectly calm, as if he’d just finished filling out paperwork.
The officers pulled me upright. My legs barely supported me. My ass felt like someone had held a blowtorch to it. I still hadn’t managed to stop crying. I couldn’t even catch my breath between sobs.
One of them left and returned with something white, made out of fabric. It took my blurred vision a moment to process what I was seeing.
A diaper. A fucking cloth diaper.
“No,” I managed, but my voice came out weak and broken. “No, you can’t—”
“If you want to behave like a child,” the doctor said, standing and brushing off his coat a little, “you’ll be treated like one.” He looked at me directly for the first time since the spanking, his cold blue eyes assessing. “And where you’re going, Pam, that’s exactly the treatment you’ll receive.”
The officers moved with intimidating precision. One held my arm while the other positioned the diaper, spreading my legs roughly so that he could thread the cloth underneath my privates. I tried to resist, tried to pull away, but my body was done fighting. The padding pressed against my burning ass and I whimpered at the contact. They pulled it up between my legs—thick and humiliating—and fastened it at my hips.
Then came the rubber pants, translucent and crinkly, pulled up over the diaper to seal it in place. The material made soft rustling sounds with every tiny movement.
“Arms up,” one of the officers commanded.
They dressed me in what looked like a prison uniform, but pink—bright, humiliating pink. The shirt was soft cotton with short sleeves, and the pants had an elastic waistband that accommodated the bulk of the diaper underneath. The outfit was clearly designed for this purpose. I wasn’t the first woman they’d done this to.
I wasn’t going to be the last, either, I felt certain. Fucking Selecta.
They marched me out of the examination room, each officer gripping one of my arms. My legs felt weak, unsteady. The diaper forced my thighs apart slightly, changing my gait, making me waddle. Every step sent the padding rubbing against my punished skin.
We went down another corridor, through a security door, and out into a loading bay where a black van waited. No windows in the back, just solid panels. The rear doors stood open.
Inside was a metal bench along one side with restraint points built into the wall above it. They guided me up the steps—I stumbled, and one of them caught me roughly—and pushed me down onto the bench. The padding of the diaper compressed beneath me and I couldn’t suppress a small sound of pain.