Babysitter Bondage (An Age Play Story) (12 page)

It was another trap, another challenge. She wanted to see what I had
learned from my day in diapers. Because they had me and I couldn’t get away, I surrendered. This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t me searching for some way to outfox my captors. No, I gave up right then and thought to find the best way to accept this all.

Taking a breath, I sounded meek with, “I’m sorry I tried to break you up.”

“And?” asked Trevor.

“And I should accept my sister, and her decisions.”

“Why’s that?”
he asked, pressing me farther.

Instead of meeting some mental block, I spoke, and my words seemed like the truth, “Because she’s a big girl. She deserves to be an adult. She is smart and mature.”

“And what are you?” Mia asked.

“I’m the baby.”

“Are you really a baby?” she asked, sounding sweet, but deep down, I knew she was mocking me again. It didn’t matter what pitch she picked. This would be another humiliation for me.

“No,” I said.

“You’re not. Are you really a grown up?”

“I have the body of an adult,” I said, closing my eyes for a second. Opening them again, I found my sister’s triumphant smirk. “But I need to be diapered because deep down I’m just a little girl.”

“Diapers? Really?” she asked with faux astonishment.

“Otherwise I’d make a mess,” I said, pathetic and defeated.

“I think you have learned your lesson, so you’re going to get a very special treat,” Mia told me. She took up my leash and followed her boyfriend from the room. I had to crawl after her, though this time they went faster. I started to pant and my skin got hot as I struggled to keep up.

They took me to the bedroom. It was big and open. The king sized bed was spread out across a quarter of the room. Mia led me over to the middle of the room, about five feet from the mattress. She tied my leash to the end and told me to sit there quietly while she and her boyfriend did something very important.

I promised to be good. Mia flicked my nose, probably to watch my face scrunch up.

“You will be a good girl. And while we’re playing, you’re going to do the same, aren’t you?”

I didn’t understand.
Only she went back to another dresser then pulled something out. A vibrator. She dropped it in front of me and told me to have fun. It would the last chance I had for a long, long time. My face heated, especially when I realized what they had planned.

Mia stripped off her clothes. Trevor did the same, revealing his cut, animalist body. He was muscled, and I felt myself getting wet. He had already made me come. And yet, as I picked up the vibrator, I didn’t know if I could simply sit there like a toddler.

They started to kiss
hungrily
. Their motions were passionate and primal. He pinned her in moments, and she whimpered, clearly begging for more as his hands ran over the length of her body. They were going to make me sit there, diapered and powerless. I came there to stop this from happening, to keep them from being together, but now I didn’t have a choice. Nothing I did or said could make this stop.

Worse, I heard my little sister’s moans, and I got hot. I got wet. I didn’t want to use the vibrator, but when I tried to press my fingers against my crotch, I couldn’t really feel it. The thick padding kept me trapped.

If I dared take the diaper off, I would get spanked again. That left only one choice. A quick flick turned the vibrator on. As Trevor and Mia went at it like lions or tigers, I pressed the pulsating cylinder just over my clit and pressed down.

A rush of ecstasy flowed through me. All at once, a burst of sexual tension exploded within me. I didn’t care that that was my little sister. I didn’t care that she changed my diaper or forced me to wet in the first place. I was their captive, their pet, and their baby doll, but right then, I just played with myself.

The pulsating rush of desire moved through me, washing away all reluctance. I got so wet and so hot, and I couldn’t know when they would allow me this kind of playtime again. I pressed harder, working the diaper against my body. The motions pulsed through my clit until I started to come.

The orgasm washed over me as I sat there in my little dress. The frills rubbed against my wrist as I worked the vibrator back and forth, back and forth. It pounded down, but the diaper absorbed most of the force and friction. Still, I savored every sensation as Mia’s words echoed in my ears.

No one knew I was there. Our parents would be out of town for months. They could keep
me diapered for the whole summer. Or longer. How long would it take for them to convince me I belonged in diapers?
The orgasm rolled through me, but I didn’t care as Trevor made my sister come again and again
, and I accepted my fate as my little sister’s baby doll.

The End

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Baby Time: The Complete Series.

Lauren Kay

You have always liked teasing me. When we first got together, we flirted a little bit, but within a month, it was clear you liked pulling my pigtails. Both literally and figuratively. And teasing me wasn’t especially hard. First off, you could make up whatever you wanted, and you did.

One of your favorite games happened at dinner. If I ever got a desert or one of the more elaborate coffees, you would lean over and dab your finger into the whipped cream. The first time it happened, I looked at you, my brows tight with confusion. I didn’t ask anything because I thought you were just being a silly boy and eschewed the use of flatware.

Except you didn’t dip your finger back into your mouth. Rather, you dabbed your fingertip along with that dollop of cream right against my nose. It was cold, and it shut down my brain. Seriously, I had no idea what I was supposed to think of this. You put whipped cream on my nose!

My fingers bunched up and my forearms stiffened and shivered right against my chest. I was about to ask what the heck you were doing, but you slipped out of your chair, crossed the two feet between us, leaned down and suckled the cream from my nose. It felt so weird!

Then, as though nothing strange had happened, you returned to your seat.

My face blossomed into a bright shade of red as I squealed, “What was that?” The pitch of my voice went up about ten degrees.

“I wanted to try something new.” Again, you spoke with the easy confidence of a criminal mastermind who knew he could get away with anything.

That was only one of the games we played.

After we got together, you also decided you liked teasing me about my age. On paper, I was only a year younger than you. For most couples, this wouldn’t have been a big deal except I look quite a bit younger than most of my friends. Even in college, I turned twenty-one and got carded everywhere I went. Not just carded, the bartenders all insisted on pulling out their little scanning gun to make sure the codes on my driver’s licensee were legitimate.

For one, I’m pretty short, something else you don’t mind teasing me about at every chance you get. We’ll stand together, you pull your arms around me, rest your chin on my head, and make some crack about how I must have shrunk. I giggle or fake frustration and lightly hit your chest with the bottom of my fists. Sometimes you grab them and pull me down onto your lap. Once or twice, you’ve even spanked me.

The rest of my body doesn’t really help. While I wear a fairly reasonable C-cup, it doesn’t make much difference. There’s something about my waist and thin arms. I’m just too slight. Like people see my willowy frame and just assume I must need protection.

Then you started to tease me about my maturity.

“Okay, so I know your actual birthday,” you started to say over lunch. You had been very sweet and showed up to my work and offered to take me out. It was the kind of sweet surprise that made all of my female coworkers shoot me jealously dirty looks. I grinned and bobbed my head like an overly excited little kids. Twenty minutes later, you had me at the sandwich shop down the street.

“I’d hope so,” I said with a smile.

“But what about your mental age?”

“My mental age?” I smirked between bites of my turkey and bacon. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same as my physical age.”

“Nope.” You said with such confidence and sureness. You said it the same way most people talk about the color of the sky. Complete certainty rang out in your one word reply. “You are definitely younger. There’s an immaturity about you.” That should have been insulting, but coming from you, I just giggled like a schoolgirl. You had that effect on me way too often.

Seriously, if someone else questioned my “mental age” or sucked whipped cream from the tip of my nose in a public restaurant, I would have left right then (or at least been really offended). But you? You seemed to smile or make it all sound so sweet and fun. As much as I hated to admit it, you really could make me feel like a little girl. I could imagine myself in some frilly skirt as I ran around a playground with you chasing me, maybe threatening me with boy cooties.

“No!” I squealed, “I’m mentally an adult.”

“Nah, I think you’re hiding something.”

He was bating me, but I didn’t care. Suppressing another giggle at you, I crinkled my eyes and said, “Fine. How old you do think I am?”

“I don’t know. Let’s try to do a mental inventory to figure this out. First off, you really like pink.”

I should have let you continue, but I couldn’t help myself, “So? Lots of people like pink. Even some guys are into pink. Sure, they call it salmon or something silly, but just liking pink isn’t enough for you to downgrade my age!”

“A fair point,” you conceded like a teacher who was eager to placate one of his more energetic and engaged students. There was something the way you looked at me. Something about your confidence made me feel small but safe, childish but loved. In spite of myself, I savored the feeling as something fleeting. “But there are other issues as well.”

“Like what?” I asked, my eyes narrowed with a slight squint.

“Your hair.”

“What about my hair?”

“Kelly,” you said, reaching over and covering my hand with yours as though I might find this to be a complete shock. “Adult women don’t wear their hair in pigtails with little white bows.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s a little unusual, but I like my hair this way. It’s comfortable.”

You didn’t need to hound me on this point, not when you had so many others. “There’s also your taste in music and TV. You are way, way too into Disney movies to really be an adult.”

“Hey there! Lots of adults like Disney.”

“Exactly,” you agreed breezily. “Lots of adults like Disney. But you’re something of a fanatic. You don’t just watch those movies twice. You watch them over and over again. On your mornings off, you get a bowl of cereal and sit in front of your TV and watch movies you’ve seen a hundred times.”

“It’s not that strange,” I said, pouting.

“It’s not strange for a six-year-old.”

“And I don’t mean to harp on this one, but you don’t just watch Disney programming. You focus almost entirely on the princess movies. That’s pretty juvenile.” Coming from someone else, that last word might have been insulting. You made it simply teasing.

“Fine.”

“So you agree?” you asked. Now your eyes got crinkled as you suppressed some laughter at my expense. “You’re about six?”

“No.” I made my response sharp and pouty.

Rather than seem hurt or offended, you simply sat further back in your chair and considered me for a moment before deciding, “You’re right. I’d say you’re more like five. Maybe even four. What do you think? Are you four?” Then to be a really big, teasing jerk-boyfriend, you raised your hand along with four fingers the same way a little kid might.

So you teased me about my age.

A lot.

I didn’t mind for the most part, especially since you’ve always been really good at reading my moods. If I had a hard day at work or didn’t want to flirt, then you left it alone until I calmed down or my mood improved.

The games of flirting and teasing were only a small part of our relationship. We had our lunches when you came to visit me at work. We took walks around our apartment, and you got me into way too many video games. Sure, they were all the simple racing and party games designed for little kids, but you were a kind teacher and never let me get beaten too badly. If a pixilated enemy came at me too hard, you’d always save me without being mean about it.

On some random night, we were playing a racing game. I had won the last three matches and felt pretty good. You might have said I was getting a bit too full of myself since I had taken to tossing away my controller, jumping to my feet, swinging my arms, and shooting, “Face! Oh yeah! Who rocks! That’s right, I rock!” Then you got to see my embarrassingly silly happy dance.

“Want to try a one-on-one?” you asked, still seated like a calm adult.

I twisted back and smirked down at you, “What? You think you can take me?” I had been playing this game long enough that I had managed to beat you once or twice. Only right then, I was high on victory and expected to beat anyone and everyone if I really tried.