Changing (Subscriber Exclusive)

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“Are you comfortable? Are you cozy? Good. I want you to be comfortable. Just lie back, and let your mind wander.

“Take deep breaths. I’m going to start counting back from ten, and with each number, you’re going to fall deeper under my control. Okay?

“Ten…”

…

It was one thing to agree to the rules. It was another thing entirely to live with them.

Mistress had explained it clearly–I was allowed to do whatever I wanted, but I knew the consequences. If she gave me permission, if she allowed me an orgasm, I would be fine. But without her permission, without her in complete control, there would be a cost.

The first couple nights were okay. A little pent up, particularly when she made time to tease me in our bed, but I took it in stride. We had our date night planned for that weekend. I’d get satisfaction then, wouldn’t I?

She brought me into the bedroom. I was wrapped around her finger the whole night–at her beck and call, utterly under her spell, knowing if I wasn’t perfectly obedient, she might say ‘no’.

“You’ve been very good for me,” my mistress whispered, as I came up for air, head resting on her thigh. I’d lost count of how much pleasure I’d given her that night–it didn’t matter. “You want a reward, don’t you?”

I nodded eagerly. “I’ve been good, I haven’t even touched myself in two days.”

She laughed, a silky, slightly condescending laugh that rang in my ears. “I didn’t say you had to do that, you know,” she said, reaching out, taking my hand so she could pull me up. I followed, crawling to her side, resting my naked body against hers.

“I know,” I said, avoiding eye contact.

My mistress touched my chin, turning my head to look at her. “But you want to keep on acting like a grown up, hmm? Is that it?”

I nodded, and she reached down, sliding her fingers between my legs. Immediately I perked up, a helpless moan escaping my lips.

“Well,” she said, her fingers caressing me. “I’m not giving you permission tonight. Do you want me to stop touching you?”

My eyes widened, emotions fighting in my head. She’d set me up–I could give in, and lose something, or I could try to stay strong and be denied pleasure.

(Just once,) I told myself. (I can give in just once.)

I shook my head, and with just a little effort, my mistress made my pleasure so intense I screamed.

…

The next morning, wet, yellow spots were on my underwear. They hadn’t soaked through to my PJ pants, at least, but they were still there. Taunting me. Reminding me the consequences for my behavior.

I asked my mistress about this, pointing out the unfairness–if she never gave me permission, I wouldn’t be able to help but lose control. She just giggled at me, smirked, and explained that I could always just stay pent up instead.

I swallowed, as her words, her glance, her smile had me desperate and horny in the middle of breakfast. I’d just gotten an orgasm the night before.

She knew the position she had me in, my helpless expression told all.

“You’re cute,” she teased.

I just bit my lip and fought the desire to run to my bedroom right then and there.

…

My willpower held out for three more days–this time, my mistress wasn’t present, but she’d been sending me teasing messages and instructions for most of the day. I’d been tasking with sending her photos in various states of undress, declaring my submission to her, telling her how good I was.

One more time couldn’t hurt that much. As long as any accidents stayed confined to the nighttime, it didn’t really matter, right?

Maybe that logic would’ve held, but when she woke me up the next morning to a whispered comment of, “Baby, you wet the bed,” my cheeks burned with such humiliation that I doubted I could take it if things went any further.

That night, she came home with pullups, ensuring in my mind that the one accident wouldn’t be a fluke. I’d lost my bedtime control, and without her help undoing the hypnosis, it wouldn’t be coming back.

But what made things worse was that she insisted on putting me in the pullup herself. I got ready for bed at around our usual time, but as I started to undress to put on PJs, she intercepted me, coming into our bedroom and pushing me gently onto the mattress.

“I need to make sure you don’t make any mistakes, silly,” she instructed, ripping open the plastic packaging on the pullups. They were a static, bright purple, just big enough to fit me, and when she slid them up between my legs, I released an involuntary gasp.

“Um–” I said, blushing.

“What’s that?” she asked, running her fingers along the waistbands to ensure a snug fit. Pressing her other hand into the front of the diaper, so I could feel her through the thin padding on my privates, she asked, “Do you want something, baby?”

“Um–I want permission,” I mumbled. “Please.”

Giggling, she shook her head. “Of course not–but if you ask correctly, I’ll keep playing with you.”

I swallowed. Under her deft touch, I would have asked her for anything. “Please, keep touching me, mistress.”

“Good baby.” She smiled, moving onto the bed, straddling my legs with her thighs.

I gasped, and she took a little more potty training from me that night.

…

I didn’t notice the effects right away. I still wet the bed, but that wasn’t new–startlingly, I’d already begun to accept that a soggy pullup in the morning was just a part of my daily routine. It wasn’t until just around lunchtime, when the need to pee crept up on me out of nowhere and I had to scramble to the bathroom, that I knew what exactly I’d given up. A few dribbles still escaped into my undies, just enough to confirm that I no longer had total control.

I’d crossed the ‘daytime accident’ threshold. Even if I could make it to the bathroom without completely peeing my pants, any further loss would put me there–and that was a line I just couldn’t cross.

When I told my mistress about my resolution, though, it came out far less confident than I’d expected. “I…I’m going to try not to cum anymore.”

She just raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re going to try?”

“I mean, I’m not going to,” I corrected. “Not without permission.”

“Mhmm, I knew what you meant, silly,” she replied. “But do you really think you’re big enough to manage that without having any oopsies?”

“They weren’t oops–” I started to object, but I knew defending myself wouldn’t help. My attempt to divert the objection came too late, though, and she stepped up to me, grinning.

“You mean you wanted to be a little potty-pants?” she asked, reaching down, her hand sliding under my pants. Feeling the front of my underwear, the wet droplets. “A little baby bedwetter?”

“N-no,” I protested weakly. “I didn’t–erm–”

“Which is it?” she asked. “You can’t have it both ways, baby. Either you made a mistake, or you didn’t want your potty training anymore.”

My cheeks burned red, and I looked down. “I…I did this on purpose.”

“Mhmm,” she replied, stroking the outside of my underwear. “I know, baby. But if you don’t want your potty training any more, why are you going to stop here?”

“Because–” she’d trapped me. I couldn’t argue with her, not when she could get me flustered and blushy with just a few words. No matter what I said, she’d use it against me.

“Do you want me to help with that?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer with words, only with a quiet, “Mnm–”

She smiled. “There we go, baby. Let’s go upstairs, ok?”

Nodding enthusiastically, I held her hand, following her to the bedroom so she could steal a little more control away.

…

“Baby, wake up.” My mistress nudged me, and I blinked awake.

It was early–the sun hadn’t even started to creep over the horizon yet.

“Hmm?” I asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing back at her. “What?”

“You stink,” she said, nose wrinkled.

I sniffed the air, and blushed suddenly–she was right. I sat up, alarmed, and felt my pullups squelch between my legs, the thin garment struggling to contain everything. “Um–”

“Just go sleep in the guest room,” she said. “I’ll come change you in the morning.”

Turning pinker, I mumbled something in my defense, but the words weren’t even legible. I tried again. “I can clean myself up.”

“You’ll make a mess everywhere,” she said, sleepy but stern. “Go.”

Blushing profusely, I got out of bed, my pajama bottoms sagging heavily as the pullups strained under the weight of my accident and of being totally sodden. The smell followed me to the other room, something I could take away from her, but not something I could escape myself.

Our guest bedroom was a space barely bigger than a closet–it had a twin mattress and a dresser, and little else, but it was at least a space where someone could crash if they needed to. Getting onto the bed, though, I heard a noticeable crinkle.

Pressing my hand against the bed, I heard it again, a distinctive rustling, and I pulled back the covers to confirm my suspicion: My mistress had already put down plastic sheets. She’d anticipated this.

That made me blush even more than the mucky pullup struggling between my thighs, and I had a hard time getting back to sleep. I tried to blame it on the smell, but I knew it was really the frustration, the deep humiliated arousal that she’d trained me to feel.

Squirming in the guest bedroom, I rubbed a hand against the front of my pullup, whimpering as the need to go further washed over me. Mistress was in our room, sleeping in our bed, and I’d grown so helpless that I didn’t even get that dignity–the humiliation drove my need. It was more than just a squelchy bit of pleasure, it was the knowledge that I’d gone almost as far as I could go anyways–what was one more time?

Why should I bother fighting it, when my mistress was right–this was exactly what I’d wanted all along? I couldn’t have much control left. May as well lose the last of it, and then I could enjoy this, enjoy her control over me, without downsides.

It didn’t take much. A little rubbing, a little humping in my filthy pullup, and then I laid back and relaxed on the bed. I felt a little delirious, a little delighted, and full of sleepy contentedness. I dozed off, smiling.

…

“Wake up, baby,” my mistress cooed from the doorway. “It’s time to get your bottom changed.”

I blinked awake. I wasn’t surprised to see that she was holding a diaper–a proper, four-tape diaper–instead of my pullups. I turned a little pink, but after my decision last night, I couldn’t be that upset.

I got out of bed, my pullup hanging on for dear life. It was probably good we were transitioning to stronger protection.

“You were right,” I admitted, following her to the bathroom. “I…I came again last night.”

She smiled back at me, pulling on my hand. “What was I right about?”

“That I didn’t want any control,” I confessed. “I…I won’t have any more potty training now, will I?”

My mistress shook her head as we entered the bathroom together, turning to lead me onto the floor, where a plastic mat was laid out. My changing pad. “Not even a bit, baby. Nothing but smelly bottoms for you from here on out.”

I squirmed, half delighted, half humiliated, as I laid down. She ripped the sides of the pullup to pull it away, and I said, “But at least now I don’t have to worry any more. It’s all gone, I can touch myself whenever I want.”

She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow at me. “Oh?”

My first attempt at a response was cut short by cold baby wipes, cleaning up the muck on my thighs. I tried again. “I mean…unless you tell me I can’t anymore, I guess.”

“Silly baby,” she said, smiling at me. “What ever made you think that your potty training was the only thing you had to lose? This is just the start.”

My eyes widened, and I covered my mouth with my hands. “But–”

“Lay down, baby,” she said, unfolding the fresh diaper. “I need to keep changing you.”