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Carla was a tomboy: the sort of girl who saw herself as a rough, tough, no-nonsense hard-ass with a take no shit attitude. She liked to drink, swear, and fight; and like most people who like to cop a tough guy attitude, she had no idea how ridiculous her little act made her look. I had to smile—her efforts to seem hard and tough mostly wound up making her look like a petulant little girl. She thought her jeans and flannel shirts made her look strong and independent. I could only laugh when I imagined how angry she’d get if I told her she looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her daddy’s work clothes.
How Carla came to be under my care is a long a twisted story, the short version being that after her third drunk and disorderly arrest in a year, Judge Martin had had enough. He decided that what Carla needed was a little “firm guidance and adult supervision,” (Carla sputtered indignantly at the suggestion that she needed any kind of guidance or supervision like a little kid). He ordered Carla’s adult rights and privileges be suspended and ordered her to be remanded to the custody of her closest living relative… her ex-husband—me, in case you hadn’t pieced it together.
Surprised? Don’t be. It’s a small town, and my family’s always had a lot of influence. You may think it’s sleazy of me, but I just couldn’t bear to see Carla in jail. Despite of the problems we’d had in our relationship, in spite of the fact that our divorce wasn’t exactly what you’d call “Civil,” I still cared for her. Carla was a naughty girl, not a hardened criminal. She had to be punished, I knew, because she’d never get her life back on track without it. Jail, I knew, wasn’t the answer… but I was sure I had the perfect treatment for her bratty disposition.
I knew it would be a challenge. We’d never really gotten along too well in the first place. But Carla was still family, and I figured I had to at least try and help her out. And beneath her bitter scowls and resentful words, I was confident she was relieved to be heading home with me and not to prison.
I tried to make polite small talk on the way back, but Carla wasn’t interested. She gazed out the window and answering my questions by grunting. When we got home she stormed off to the guest room and slammed the door behind her—like a tantrum throwing teenager.
I decided to let it slide. The Judge had given me carte blanche to discipline Carla, but I reasoned that she’d had a tough enough day already. Instead I made dinner—home made macaroni and cheese, her favorite. She’d come around, I thought. In fact, this could wind up being the best thing for her. She’d had it rough since the death of her dad, which I knew she’d harder than she let on. I resolved to do whatever it took to help Carla get her life in order.
When dinner was ready, I knocked on her door. “Dinner’s ready, Carla.”
She opened the door and fixed me with a withering pout. “Smells awful!” she whined.
“It’s your favorite: Homemade mac and cheese, just the way you like it.”
She sniffed the air. “I haven’t liked that crap in years, and when I did, I liked it smelling a little less like re-fried ass.”
I was getting annoyed. “C’mon Carla, you have to eat. Just give it a try. “
She snorted. “Jesus, when did you turn into such a sissy? What next, you gonna darn my socks for me, sweetheart?” She laughed delightedly.
It was the final straw. I had no real desire to hurt Carla, but she was way out of line. How, I thought, could I help her when she didn’t even respect me?
She moved to slam the door in my face. I slid my foot in front of it, forcing it back open with my hands.
The door slammed back against the stopper. Carla stepped back, looking nervous for the first time. And with good reason: I was bigger than her and I kept myself in shape. “Wh-wh-wh-what do you think you’re doing?” she stammered, trying and failing to sound tough.
I answered her by taking her wrist firmly in my left hand and pulling her foreword. When she was standing in front of me, I took my right palm and cracked it against the seat of her tight jeans, making her squeal.
“Hey!” she gasped, “cut it out!”
Ignoring her, I landed a series of about ten swats on her wriggling denim backside. She pranced in place, hopping from foot to foot and squealing in protest as I warmed her jiggling bottom. “Hey! Stop that! OW! OWIE! You can’t—OW! You—OW you’ve got no—OWCH! OW! OH!”
“Now march, young lady,” I scolded, pulling her along with one hand and swatting her wriggling tushy all the way there. She yelped and squealed and pranced the whole way to the dinner table. “Take a seat,” I told her. She glanced over her shoulder at me with pout, fixing me with her very best dirty look. I swatted her again, and she yelped, shaking herself loose from my grip and sitting herself down as quickly as possible.
“OOOWWWW!” she moaned as her stinging buns hit the seat. “That hurts,” she pouted.
“Oh I think you’ll live,” I assured her, putting her dinner in front of her.
We ate in silence, Carla pouting and occasionally grimacing and shifting uncomfortably in her chair and glaring at me. It was apparently calculated to make me feel guilty, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing. The more she pouted, squirmed in her seat, and shot dirty looks my way the more convinced I was that I was doing the right thing.
She ate quickly. “ ‘M done,” she muttered and began to rise.
“Sit your butt back down, young lady,” I said sternly, shooting her a look. She hesitated, then settled down on her tender backside with a cute grimace. I locked eyes with her. “What do you say?”
Her eyes flashed with anger. She pouted and squirmed in her seat, but finally made herself mutter the words: “thanks for dinner.”
I smiled at her. “You’re welcome. Now clean your plate and put it in the dish washer and then come and see me.”
With a heavy, angry sigh, she took her dish into the kitchen. I ate my dinner quietly, listening to her scrape her plate, rinse it in the sink, and load it into the dishwasher. She came back out and stood next to me. “What now?” she huffed.
I pointed. “Go stand in the corner over there,” I instructed casually between bites.
Furrowing her eyebrows, she frowned at me. “Why?” she demanded.
“Because I said so,” I said, reaching back and giving her a swat on the backside. She yelped and reached back to rub her butt petulantly.
“Hey! You can’t do that,” she whined, and she looked so cute standing there, pouting and rubbing her backside that I nearly burst out laughing.
But I bit my cheek and continued eating as I explained: “The hell I can’t; I’m your legal guardian now. You heard the judge: I can punish you as I see fit.”
“But…” she frowned, knowing that I had her. “Well… you don’t have to be such a hard-ass about it!”
“It’s entirely up to you, Carla,” I said casually. “If you don’t want to go back to jail, you have to stay here. If you stay here, it’s on my terms. Which means you get your little hiney in that corner now, missy.”
She stood in place sputtering for about 30 seconds, then turned and stormed toward in the corner in a huff, sighing dramatically and crossing her arms when she arrived. I slowly ate the rest of my dinner.
“How long do I have to stand like this,” she asked. Even though she was facing the wall, I just knew she was rolling her eyes.
“Until I’m finished,” I said. Then you and I can have a little chat.”
“Can’t we just do it now?”
“You made it clear you didn’t want to talk over dinner. I’m respecting your wishes.”
She went quiet then for about two minutes, occasionally huffing or sighing dramatically. Finally she snapped, “Jesus, will you finish already?!”
“Number one: it’s been less than five minutes. Number two: I’m not going to rush through my dinner for your convenience.”
She tisked.
“Number three:,” I said, just a touch ominously, “I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to get where you’re going, young lady.”
She went quiet at that, and I finished my dinner in peace.
Rising, I went to the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher. Carla stiffened a bit as I passed.
I went into the living room and sat on the couch. “Carla,” I called firmly, “Come and see me in the living room please.”
She came in slowly and stood in front of me with her arms crossed. “What now boss?” she said sarcastically.
I gestured for her to sit next to me. She lowered herself slowly, eyeing me carefully. She seemed incredulous when I took the tiny hand and enfolded it in mine. “I know you’ve had a tough time, Carla, but I want you to know I’m here for you now and I’m going to do whatever I need to do to help you get your life back on track.” I lifted her hand and kissed the back. “So I want you to understand: I’m only doing this for your own good.”
“…What?” she said suspiciously.
By way of answer, I pulled her across my lap, positioning her upturned rump before me. She squirmed and fought like a wildcat. “NO!” she growled, thrusting her palms back across her seat to protect herself. A miscalculation: I took her wrists and gathered them at the small of her back, immobilizing her. “LEMME GO!” she roared, squirming and struggling to get loose. It was all in vain: She wasn’t going anywhere. I took my time, raising my palm slowly and delivering a casual swat across her wriggling butt. “OW!” she cried, and doubled her struggles. I raised my palm and brought it down at a leisurely pace, allowing time for one stinging smack to sink in before I landed the next., followed by another and another, and before she knew it, Carla was in the middle of a full fledge spanking. “OW! HEY! STOP IT! OW! OOO! YOU JERK! OUCH! LET GO! YOU’VE GOT NO RIGHT!”
“Carla, I’m tired of your whining!” I stepped up the pace and made her howl. “Pout and plead all you want, missy: things are going to be different for you from now on,” I informed her, continuing to spank her at a brisk pace. She moaned and beat the air behind her with her feet as I methodically swatted her bottom.
Without warning, I yanked her jeans down at the back, exposing a pair of pink panties. “Hey! No!” She bucked and squirmed furiously across my lap, but she had no place to go. I tightened my grip and began bringing my palm down across her upturned backside again. “I SAID NO! OW! STOP IT!”
I ignored her, continuing to warm her bottom through the flimsy seat of her panties. I peppered her wriggling backside with stinging swats on the left, then the right, top and bottom in a ruthless rhythm. I couldn’t help myself from smiling when I noticed the twin bands of red peeping out of her leg bands. Her buns jiggled and she squealed and whined, but I didn’t relent.
When I was sure I had her all warmed up, I reached up and took hold of the waistband of her panties. “HEY! NO!” she demanded hotly, writhing helplessly across my knee. “DON’T YOU DARE! YOU CAN’T DO THAT!”
I couldn’t help grinning as I tugged them down, revealing her bare bottom, a healthy pink glow radiating from her dainty butt cheeks. “PULL ‘EM BACK UP RIGHT NOW!” she roared, struggling even harder now, bucking and kicking her feet in the air behind her.
She yelped as I brought my palm down again. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! The steady clap of my hand against her bare bottom rang out in the small room. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! An unremitting rain of firm, even smacks made her derriere jiggle and pinken delightfully. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK! She let out a cry of fury and struggled impotently as another flurry of spanks landed against her glowing backside. “LEMME GO!” she demanded. “YOU LEMME GO RIGHT NOW!”
I redoubled my efforts instead, delivering a series of five quick, firm smacks on both cheeks. She screeched and howled and twisted on my lap, making one last desperate escape attempt. I held her in place and continued to apply my palm to her struggling rump.
Finally she relaxed and began to cry, out of frustration, I suspected, more than as a result of her spanking.
“IT’S NOT FAAIIIRRR!” she whined, collapsing into sobs.
I stopped the spanking and released her wrists. To my surprise, she didn’t rise from my lap. Instead, she remained dangling across my thighs, sobbing quietly. She reached back and began rubbing and kneading her sore little bottom emitting cute little “Ooo’s” and “Ah’s” as she did.
“Ok, sweetheart,” I said, giving her a pat on the backside, “c’mon, up.” I helped her to her feet. She stood before me, her tough girl persona in shambles; her hair was tussled, her face red and streaked with tears. Her pants and panties were around her knees, her bare pussy on full display, but she was so focused on her burning tushy that she didn’t even seem to notice. I couldn’t help peeking at her butt, as red now as her shirt. I couldn’t stifle my grin as I watched the bratty Carla blush at both ends.
“Alright, young lady; corner time.”
There was no arguing this time. Carla waddled to the corner as fast as the jeans around her knees would allow, rubbing her backside. I grinned at the way her red butt cheeks glowed like taillights behind her. She stood in the corner, pants and panties at half mast, bare butt shining brightly in the drab afternoon light. She rubbed her tushy petulantly. “Hands behind your head, Carla.” She complied instantly.
I read the paper for about half an hour, looking up periodically run an admiring gaze over Carla’s pink backside. Carla herself was staying quiet, perhaps fearing further punishment.
Finally, I got up. “You stay right there and don’t move,” I ordered. “We’re not done here yet.”
With that, I went into the other spare room-- the one I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to use. I gathered what I needed and came back into the living room. Carla had been using my absence as an opportunity to rub her red bottom. She snapped back into place, but I’d caught her red handed.
“You naughty girl,” I scolded jokingly. Moving behind her, I gave her a series of swats across her glowing rump, making her screech and hop in place with her pants at her knees. “Now come along,” I said, taking her hand and leading her back to the couch. I sat and patted the cushion beside me. She hesitated, then lowered her red rump slowly, hissing as she made contact. With a smile, I handed her a box. “I got you a little present. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to give it to you, but I think you’ll agree your behavior has left me with no choice.”
Slowly, she pulled the lid off. Carla stared at the contents, her expression puzzled… and horrified. “What—is this?” She pulled it out and stared at it, the box sliding to the floor. She held it up and stared at it, her face reddening. Her embarrassment was, it must be said, priceless: well worth all the time I’d invested in selecting it.
It was the absolute most babyish baby-doll nightie I’d been able to find. It was wispy, see through, and the absolute epitome of everything femininely infantile. She stared at me, horrified. “What’s this thing?”
“It’s your new nightie,” I said with a smile. “Strip.”
She stared at me, pleading. “I—you—that’s not—“ she stammered, trying desperately to talk her way out of it.
“Right now, Carla,” I said, “or do I have to turn you over my knee again?”
She practically leapt to her feet and began tugging off her clothes. In seconds she stood in front of me, naked as the day she was born. Her bottom blazed bright red against her creamy white skin. So did her face. She pulled the nightie on quickly, squawking in dismay when she realized it was too short to cover her pussy, or her bare, spanked butt, and that is was so see-through it was practically non-existent.
Becoming suddenly self-conscious about her nudity, Carla daintily reached up to cover her breasts and her pussy, totally unaware that this only had the effect of drawing the eye directly toward her bright red tushy. “Ok, let’s go to your room young lady; time to get you ready for bed.” She turned and headed toward the guest room, but I took her arm. “No no, honey,” I said firmly, leading her toward the special room I’d prepared.
“Where’re we goin’?” she asked with a pout.
“You’ll see,” I said with a smile. She turned to ask another question, but I gave her bare, wobbling bottom a swat. Carla squealed and walked the rest of the way ruefully rubbing her bright red rump.
I opened the door and lead her inside.
She seemed awed and a little afraid. I felt strangly validated: it had taken a lot of work to get Carla’s nursery all set up under such short notice. She wandered inside, gazing with disbelief at the changing table and crib, the rows and rows of stuffed animals, the closet full of baby clothes. I cleared my throat. “Carla?”
She turned. I pointed toward the changing table without a word. Hesitantly, she came over, and I lifted her onto it with ease. She gazed out at me with apprehension. “What’s goin’ on?” She asked. I smiled and patted her bare thigh.
“Turn over on your belly, honey.” Reluctantly, she did as she was told, sticking her bare, spanked bottom into the air behind her. Taking a small tube of diaper-rash ointment, I squirted a large dollop onto my palm and smeared it across her throbbing cheeks. Carla gasped when the cool cream first hit her reddened backside, then groaned as the relief hit home. Moaning and cooing, she pressed her rump against my hands and wiggled it, luxuriating in her delightful tushy massage.
“Like that?” I asked with a smile.
She emitted a long groan. “Feeeellllssss sssooo ggoooodddd…” she finally managed to say.
“Turn over,” I commanded. She lazily rolled herself onto her back and gazed up at me lustily.
She gave a squeal of surprise when I took her ankles and hoisted them above her head. I slid the thick, thirsty diaper under her glistening backside, then liberally powdered her bare butt. Lowering her legs, I quickly repeated the process on her front, and before she knew it, Carla had been diapered like a two year old.
“Hey,” she said, sitting up, “what’s going on?”
“I’d think it would be obvious buy now,” I said, slipping a pacifier into her mouth.
Her eyes widened and she frowned behind the plastic guard, but wisely maintained her silence.
“Now don’t pout,” I said, kissing her on the forehead. “Your bratty behavior is the whole reason you’re in this predicament, young lady,” I told her. She lowered her eyes, but I tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “If you ever want to wear panties again, little girl, you’d better do as you’re told and be good, or it’s going to be a red bottom and diapers for you from now on. Understand?”
She nodded reluctantly, and I smiled. “Good girl,” I told her, tickling her stomach and ribs. She squealed and chortled, wriggling helplessly on the changing table’s padded surface. I stopped when she’d had enough, then took a pretty little bow and clipped it into her hair. I laughed as I admired my work. The pouty little tough girl was no more. I’d effectively turned her into a simpering adult baby.
Carla heaved to regain her breath and eyed me warily as I took her hand and helped her into a sitting position. She squirmed and sulked and sucked her pacifier, wriggling her backside in the diaper to try and find a comfortable position. “Ok, c’mon sweetie. Let’s go watch some TV.”
She slid off the table onto her feet and moved to walk into the living room. I took her arm gently. “No, sweetie, babies don’t walk.”
She gave me a puzzled look, her eyes widening when she figured out what I was saying. She looked at me and was about to say something. I shot her a glance that froze her voice in her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, she got on her hands and knees. I walked to the living room, the diapered Carla crawling along behind me.
Since she’d had such a hard day, I let Carla use the remote. She flipped through, eventually deciding on a silly reality TV talent show. She settled in on her tummy on the floor, her bulky, diapered backside sticking up in the air behind her. After a bit, I went to the kitchen, returning with a beer for myself and a bottle of juice for Carla. “No fair,” she pouted before sticking the nipple into her mouth. I smiled and sipped my beer, watching the infantilized Carla lay on her tummy, slurping on her bottle, her diapered butt waggling behind her as she kicked her feet in the air. For all her protests, Carla had slipped nicely into the role of big baby girl.
After a while I stood and stretched. “Ok, precious: Bedtime.”
She pouted over her shoulder. “But it’s only 9:30!” she whined.
“That’s right,” I said, bending down to deliver a few firm pats to her diapered rump, “time for all big baby girls to go to bed.”
I scooped her up, making her gasp. Carrying her toward the nursery, I kissed her forehead. She blushed and buried her face in my chest.
I deposited her in the crib. “You gonna be ok, honey?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“You still dry?” I asked, knowing that she was. She blushed and quickly shook her head yes, but I still reached out to check between her legs for wetness. She squealed as I patted and squeezed the material in the front. Sticking my fingers in through the leg bands, I found her dry.
“Ok, baby. I’ll see you in the morning.” Turning, I went toward the door.
“Um…” Her voice behind me was as tiny and hesitating as a little girl’s.
“What is it honey?”
She crouched near the bars and waved me closer. “What is it, baby?” I asked again.
I was taken aback when she reached over the bars and wrapped her arms around me. She pulled me in close for a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered sweetly.
I swatted her backside, making her yelp and grin. On my way out I turned the lights off. “Sweet dreams princess.”
Babes In Diapers
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