Daddy Ed’s expression went cold in that way that made my pussy clench despite my bratty mood. Daddy Bill’s jaw tightened.
“Are you going to be a bad girl today, Little Pamela?” Daddy Bill asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.
I should have said no. Should have apologized and begged for forgiveness. Instead, I lifted my chin defiantly.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m a bad girl today and always.”
The words hung in the air for a long moment. Then Daddy Ed stepped forward, his blue eyes boring into mine.
“Then you know what you need to do,” he said. “Prepare for Daddy’s belt.”
My stomach dropped even as my pussy flooded with heat. I swallowed hard, my defiance crumbling as quickly as it had appeared.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered.
My hands trembled as I walked to the bed with its childish pink sheets. I pulled the two pillows from their place and piled them in the center of the mattress. Then I reached for the hem of my shirt—I was wearing civilian clothes for the first time in weeks, jeans and a simple top they’d given me for the move.
I pulled the shirt over my head, my cheeks burning. The jeans came next, then my bra and panties, until I stood naked in my new bedroom. I moved to stand beside the bed, raising my hands to clasp them behind my head, my eyes dropping to the floor.
“Good girl,” Daddy Bill said. “Now get over those pillows.”
I climbed onto the bed and positioned myself face down, my hips elevated by the pillows, my bottom presented for punishment. I tucked my hands under my face, pressing my cheek against my knuckles.
I heard the sound of belts sliding through loops, wrapping around enormous fists. My whole body tensed in anticipation.
“We’re going to whip this little bottom until you can’t sit down,” Daddy Ed said, his voice flat and hard. “Then we’re going to put you back in diapers and an appropriate outfit for a bad girl who’s learned a memorable lesson.”
Then the first lash landed across my right cheek and I cried out at the sharp, cold sting.
They didn’t give me time to squirm or to adjust. My daddies’ belts came down in rapid succession, alternating between my cheeks, wrapping around to catch the tender flesh of my thighs. Each strike built on the last, the heat spreading across my bottom until it felt like I was on fire.
“This is what happens when you sass your daddies,” Daddy Ed said, his belt landing with particular force on my left cheek. “When you forget what we’ve taught you.”
“When you get bratty because you’re needy,” Daddy Bill added, his belt catching me low on my right thigh and making mescream. “You could have just asked for what you needed, Little Pamela. Instead, you chose to be naughty.”
He was right. God, he was right. I could have told them I was feeling neglected, that I needed their attention. Instead, I’d acted out like a child throwing a tantrum.
The whipping continued until I was sobbing into my hands, my bottom burning with that deep, thorough heat that meant they’d covered every inch. When they finally stopped, I lay there trembling, tears streaming down my face.
Strong hands lifted me from the bed and set me on my feet. I stood there trembling, my bottom throbbing with heat, as Daddy Ed opened a drawer in the white dresser. He pulled out a thick cloth diaper—even thicker than the ones I’d worn at Project Dollhouse. My face burned as he carried it over to the changing pad, which he pulled away from the dresser and laid flat on the floor.
“Down you go,” he instructed.
I lowered myself onto the pad, wincing as my punished bottom made contact even with the soft surface. The position was mortifying—lying on my back like an infant while my daddies loomed over me. Daddy Bill lifted and parted my legs, exposing everything, my shaven pussy and anus on mortifyingly full display for the men who had bought them. Daddy Ed slid the diaper under my bottom.
The fabric felt distressingly soft against my burning skin as Daddy Ed brought the front up between my legs. He fastened the Velcro tabs snugly at my hips, adjusting them until the diaper fit perfectly. I felt tears prick at my eyes again—not from pain this time, but from the overwhelming infantilization of it all.
“Up,” Daddy Bill said, offering his hand.
I took it and stood carefully, feeling the bulk of the diaper between my thighs. It forced my legs slightly apart, making me waddle as Daddy Ed went back to the dresser and pulled out a pink dress. Not a woman’s dress—a little girl’s dress, with puffed sleeves and a full skirt that would barely cover the diaper.
He slipped it over my head and I raised my arms automatically, letting him dress me like I was helpless to do it myself. The fabric settled around me, the hem hitting mid-thigh. When I looked down, I could see the white diaper peeking out beneath the pink cotton.
Daddy Bill produced ankle socks with little lace trim and a pair of black Mary Janes. I sat on the edge of the bed—gasping at the pressure on my whipped bottom—and let him put them on my feet, buckling the straps.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire their work. “That’s what a bad girl looks like when she learns a lesson.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror mounted on the back of the door. I looked ridiculous. Like a grown woman playing dress-up in children’s clothes, the diaper creating an obvious bulge under the too-short dress. My face was still blotchy from crying, my hair mussed.
