For Her Good

Chapter 2: Brianna

The day of her diapering was fast approaching. Her butt would be in plastic for good on a Friday night, by six pm. For the first time, Sir would see her. She would set up her computer and angle her webcam towards the end of the bed. She would remember to clean her room beforehand. She would lay out a diaper from the cardboard box and she would strip naked while the green light from her computer's webcam blared witness. She would not see Sir. She would show the last of the panties put in the For Your Good shoebox, and she would bundle the package and get it ready for the mail. Then she would sit on the unfurled diaper and put it on.

She would never wear undies again.

She would never use a toilet again.

That was the plan at least. The sordid, stupid, absolutely salacious plan – the hottest thing she'd ever let enter her dreams. Sir would be prompt with the diaper deliveries, she could expect weekly resupplies of cardboard boxes full of padded piss catchers.

Yet perhaps it wasn't real, the cardboard box already beside her bed notwithstanding. Sir said that they would never ask for proof – not in pics – not texts. Perhaps that was because the idea of it was far more fun for Sir than the implementation.

"What about asking you permission for changes?" she'd asked Sir months ago. It had been a question borne of her bed, of a tangle of hair and a heaving chest. A question not too dissimilar from when she'd asked permission for something else. And speaking of that, her question about changes was the very last she could bear before she would have to ask for that other privilege she'd so freely given away.

Her thumb blasted it out in a dead heat.

But the reply chastised her in a way she did not predict. She had been imagining months – years – of sitting around for the texts that would permit her to change her diapers...

Mari, I need you to take this seriously.

Flustered, she used both hands to send her reply. "What do you mean?"

You're going in diapers, Mari. For good and For Your Good. Think about the mall, you will wear diapers there. To the beach? Pullups under a swimsuit. On trips and on planes. While you work and while you sleep. In fancy dresses at nice restaurants, your bottom will carry the shape of padding. When you go for a run you will wear pullups. To the gym they will be under your shorts. Every picture taken of you, every smile for Instagram, beneath this there will be a diaper. Every date, a diaper. I cannot stop you peeing in the shower, but the toilet is off limits. Flushing will be foreign to you. Your life of worries will end, myopic down to the demands of just two numbers, fixated all on one and two.

I cannot manage that for you. If you are taking this as seriously as you need to be, you'd understand that, Mari. You are not destined for a mindless nursery, you are to be an encumbered adult. You will wear your liability so that you no longer carry your liabilities like ghosts in your mind. You will learn to plan for your day with spares, or you will leak. You will learn that the world will not end when someone hears the sound of your pants, or the rustle in the stall. You will do everything right and still, things will go wrong. You will experience embarrassment and shame in measures you can't yet believe and if it works, and works well, you will learn to really and truly laugh.

It will not work if you put your shame on me.

And then...

We will delay the diaper date for a few months.

Mari, in anguish with her arousal tossed into a cold shower, texted frantically. This was all months before, but even now, she remembered her dismay.

"A few months! But I don't understand..."