Dearest Julia (A Diaper-Girl Story)

Dearest Julia:

I can't believe that these five months have seen us (heretofore inseparable!) twins parted, but I'm thrilled that the time for you to return to the states is almost here.

To answer your most recent question, "Yes, I will indeed be on the dock to meet you, and yes, I'll be sure to have a taxi and porter at hand." As to "the spot," I appreciate your sending along that helpful little sketch, but even without I would have had no problem in remembering the 1st Class Embarkation Gate. How could I not, what with my being so disconsolate at your leaving. Indeed, that detestable location is all but etched in my mind.

Anyway, I'm writing you today to tell you "My. Big. News." By all rights I should've shared the entire thing in my very first letter, but being caught up in such an emotional whirlwind I couldn't figure out what to say—the whole thing was (and is!) terribly embarrassing, if transcendentally wonderful at the same time—but as you can probably guess, procrastination was much to blame. You know how I can be!

With your homecoming less than three weeks away, though, I'd better fess up; if only to give you a chance to mull it all over in private before we're reunited. If you're standing, my dear, I would suggest that you sit down before reading another word. You'll be astounded, in either case, but we wouldn't want to bring on one of your fainting spells, now would we?

To be brief, I met a man, although to begin to understand the significance of it all I should tell you that I call him "daddy."

It's your fault, really. As I said, I was disconsolate when you left me. I managed to keep a stiff upper lip as you walked up the gangway, but as soon as you ducked out of sight, I found myself slumped down onto the concrete; sobbing.

It was your classic New York scene; hundreds of people milling about yet none of them paying the least attention to a distraught and crying girl. That is, I should say, until a handsome older gentleman did just that.

I'm not all that good at relating stories through dialogue, but I'll give it a go in order to try and give you the flavor of it all:

"Are you OK, miss?"

I wasn't, of course, but my British upbringing coming to the fore I couldn't help but try to fob him off. "I'm fine, sir; perfectly fine. I thank you for your kind concern, but..."

"Far be it for I to question the word of a young lady, but I'm going to have to disagree. I don't think I've ever watched a girl bawl so hard. Plus, a filthy quay is no place to alight in that pretty linen dress of yours. I don't doubt the fabric is ruined."

I couldn't help but blush—to judge from the heat that came into my cheeks, blush beet red!—but even so, I tried to pull myself together and stand. Unfortunately, my heel took that very moment to snap.

The man steadied me before I could totter off the pier, but not before I brushed up against one of the mooring lines; further ruining my dress by smearing it with grease. "You are quite the mess, young lady, plus you've sat in something wet. Are you generally this much of a bother or is this an especially troublesome day?"

His query was smilingly offered; a clear invitation to attempt a bit of self-deprecating humor, and thereby "shrug it all off." Being as miserable as a girl could be, I threw the kind of tantrum that would have done a distraught toddler proud, instead. I don't, in all truth, remember most of what I said, but it surely involved a fair amount of unladylike language. Not cursing, I think—Auntie Eunice raised us better than that—but even so, she would've been, doubtless, horrified.

I can only imagine what Henry must have thought as I threw my hissy fit but, gentleman that he was, he didn't abandon the (obviously deranged!) girl to her ravings. No, he attempted all sorts of gentle measures to calm me down instead, albeit to no avail.

Before long, I began to hyperventilate; a panic attack given full vent!

Again, given the fact that Henry and I were total strangers, the reasonable thing to do would be to abandon me to my fates; to simply walk away. He didn't, though. Perhaps he was afraid that I'd well and truly throw myself off the pier, or maybe it was nothing more than his lordly upbringing—Henry turned out to be an honest to goodness Peer of the Realm, styled The Right Honorable Lord Ulster-Wallbrace Finister, a bloody Earl who's 8th in line to The Queen—but whatever the case he stuck by me. Even so, I left the man with no other option but to resort to sterner measures.

A sizable mooring bollard served as a convenient spanking bench.

My first reaction was nothing more than simple outrage. Henry and I were complete and utter strangers, yet he had the temerity to spank me? Yes, my dress was ruined, but why should that be any concern of his. Who was this man anyway? As to his observation that I'd wet my behind, well that pushed all of my unpushed buttons; brought me back to the day when Cynthia Hintsteader played her prank, leaving me to spend the three months leading up to our A-Levels as "Betsy Wetsie".

To make matter worse, the spanking went on for a seeming eternity; more than enough time for my screams and invectives to become gasps and pleadings, ultimately nothing more than whimpers. And yet the man didn't stop. No, Henry must've spanked me for a good ten minutes straight, long enough to wring me out entirely.

It being the city, any number of people must have witnessed my shame, although I don't doubt that my punishment occasioned little interest. A girl being spanked in public isn't all that unusual a circumstance, after all, even with her dress and petticoats raised. A bare-bottom spanking might have prompted a bit more notice, but the fact that I was wearing a tight and substantial girdle probably deterred Henry from debagging me. Not that that made my punishment one whit less painful or humiliating.

To add to my indignity, I wet; soaked myself, really.

As you know, I've had a long and shameful history of Spanking Incontinence, and not the occasional spurts and dribbles you yourself are subject to. On the morning in question I'd been much too upset to spare any time for to my usual ablutions, so by the time Henry began to spank me I had been little shy of bursting. Then there was the bollard, a cast-iron monstrosity that seemed purpose-made to put serious pressure on a girl's bladder. The net outcome of it all was that I completely soaked the front of my dress and petticoats.

Being as miserable as a girl could be, I had no other recourse but to faint.

I came to with my hair being stroked by Henry; laying down, with my head in the man's lap, in the back seat of a rather posh and regal Rolls. "There you are. I was beginning to think you'd while away the afternoon in slumber." Again, his tone was lighthearted and friendly, with nothing in the timbre to indicate that he'd just given me the worst spanking of my life.

"You made quite the mess, young lady, but we'll have you cleaned up in a jiff." Then, to emphasize his words, Henry began to pat my still-wet behind as he smiled down at me like the cat that got the crème.

"You're quite the wet little girl, it seems, although I'm more than a little perplexed that you'd go outside without your nappies. That was very naughty of you."

"My nap n napp. . . what?"

Henry stared down at me in mild disapproval then tssked, as if he'd caught me in an obvious fib. "Your nappies; why in the world did you go outside with your nappies?"

I couldn't help but goggle at the man in amazement, but before I could manage to blurt out so much as a simple denial, let alone a scathing reply, I realized that Henry had moved on to patting me between the legs. Patting me on the behind had been scandalous enough—spanking or no, we hadn't so much as been introduced by that point—but as he continued to pat my pussy I couldn't help but blush beet red.

The thing of it all was that although it was utterly disconcerting to be touched by a stranger in such an intimate fashion, I couldn't help but crave my treatment, too.

"You've had a difficult day, for which I'm sorry. I wouldn't even be surprised If you harbored just a bit of resentment for your spanking—not that that naughty behind of yours didn't deserve each and every swot!—but I hope that won't prevent us from becoming the very best of friends. I'd like us to be friends. Would you like that?"

The man was all earnest entreaty, but for my own part I couldn't help but be distracted by the increasingly strong sensations that were taking hold of my nether regions.

"My driver should have us home in a jiff—Jakers, do drive on—then I'll have you in a proper nappy before you know it. In the meantime, I've yet to meet a little girl who doesn't love to have her pussy fingered, especially if bottom is reddened. I'm quite sure that 'you' do. You appear to be enjoying yourself, isn't that so?"

Greeting his query with nothing but a moan, Henry beamed down upon me with evident pleasure. "Excellent! Why don't you cum like a good little girl? I'm sure it'll make it feel all better." With this last, Henry slipped his hand underneath a deckled leg-hole of my girdle and began to finger me in earnest."

I was a virgin, like you, when we were last together, but I'm happy to report that that is no longer the case. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. As Henry's thick and callused fingers began to violate my privates, I couldn't help but be taken by unimagined ecstasy. The, within short order I came; came as I had never done before. Then he began to fondle my achingly taut nipples and I came even harder.

I'm sure you'll remember that awkward discussion, last April, when we talked about masturbation. I blush to think that I had been so bold as to brag that "I knew how to pleasure myself," but as I learned that day, I hadn't even been taught lesson one.

Henry, on the other hand, was clear master of the erotic arts. As such, he had me panting and screaming and whimpering as before; even begging and pleading, but this time in an unambiguously good way. By the time the limo pulled up to his house—a gorgeous five-story Georgian on East 63rd street, BTW—I found myself completely wrung out, but this time by a much more pleasant set of sensations.

I know that in the movies and romance novels it doesn't quite happen that way. I mean, Henry and I didn't have a single trapping of a traditional courtship. I didn't even learn his name until after he diapered me and put me down for a nap, but whatever the case I shortly came to find myself in love; madly in love, should the truth be told! It's as simple as that. You'll doubtless think me a lunatic but rest assured that Henry has turned out to be all and more that a girl such as myself could desire.

For a start, he's more than a little handsome, if in a grizzled and somewhat rough-hewn man's man sort of way. Tall and muscular, his appearance is at odds with his upper-crust upbringing—to repeat, he's 8th in line for the throne; 8th!—but although Eton and then Cambridge-schooled, he isn't a Nancy-boy, nor even stuffy. No, he can be quite easygoing, even impish and fun-loving. I do, of course, recognize that the description of my treatment at our first meeting might seem at odds to such assertions, but it's true; all true!

Professionally, Henry is an Ambassador to the United Nations—Britain's top envoy in the New World—but if you were to ask him to introduce himself, he'd undoubtedly describe himself as nothing more than a simple country squire.

Although 51, Henry has never married—I knew you'd be sure to ask!—but being a hale and hearty sportsman people routinely assume him to be in his early forties. I wish I could be as pleased by the fact that people routinely take the pair of us sisters to be teenagers. I know that most twenty-eight-year-olds would be more than happy to be taken for being something younger than the calendar might reveal but being routinely assumed to be Sweet Sixteen can, as you know, be embarrassing. And yes, I fully recognize the irony of a my being a young woman in swaddling wanting to be taken for an adult!

Back to my story—sorry if I can't get back in a dialogue frame of mind again—Henry carried me into his mansion and then up two grand flights of marble stairs into what would be shortly be known as "Lydia's Changing Room." Now, before you draw any conclusions, "No," there has been no talk about marriage, nor do I expect the subject to be broached at any time in the future. Henry has taken to introducing me around as his "little niece," which is how, I think, he truly sees me. My wildest fantasies rise to the man adopting me as his ward, but that's the height of my imaginings.

I should also say that Henry has had any number of little nieces over the years—a dozen or more, unless I'm very much mistaken—so I'm under no illusions that our relationship will turn out to be as long lasting as I'd prefer. He'll doubtless keep me for a year or three but I don't doubt that I'll then be replaced. Even so, I also have no doubt Henry has my best interests at heart. He frequently tell me things like "I have every intention of nurturing you, like the beloved little girl you are, until you've had the time and care to blossom into a perfect young woman." He speaks about my future all the time, how he expects to see me well settled when my time comes and—although I find this part hard to believe—even happier than I am now. It seems an impossibility, but to take the very day we met as an example, Henry was at the quayside to see his previous little niece off to her new grown-up life in Warwickshire; very much still in nappies, but on her way to becoming Lord Merill-Baxter's little bride.

I know it might seem a bit bizarre, like I've been caught up in a seedy procurement scheme, but you'll have to believe me when I say that Henry is stating nothing but simple truth when he tells me that he has my best interests at heart. In either case, the point of it all is that my role as Henry's little niece suits me surprisingly well. I am, after all, "little;" little in every sense of the word. Little in my aspirations (being Henrys "little niece" has turned out to be more than I could have ever hoped for). Tiny ("little") body, not even five-foot tall, and rather petite, besides (our proportionally oversized 30DDs notwithstanding.) Little squeaky voice, a voice better suited to a girl not yet old enough for sixth form. Little personality (a classic introvert if there ever was one.) Little courage, being the timidest (as in "littlest") mouse of a girl one might ever imagine. And now, I even wear the same sort of underwear that little girls do.

In my changing room, Henry stood me up on my feet and then undressed me naked, although my girdle did prove to be something of a problem. Let's just say that wet elastane is not the easiest fabric to wriggle out of. Thankfully, the man had a pair of scissors nearby.

Now I don't want you to assume that I remained all blushing passivity as this all went forth. No, putting my spanking and orgasms aside, I had never been naked in front of a man, so I couldn't help but tremble as Henry undressed me. Even so, I didn't actually balk until he began to undo the hooks at the front of my brassiere.

I'm sure you'd have felt the same, what with the pair of us being embarrassingly flat-chested until we began to fill out in university. The point of it all was that although I didn't have the temerity to emit a single peep at being made bottomless, I found myself struggling to hold onto the cups of my brassiere as Henry began to pull them away from my chest. It was an unequal contest, of course, but as I shortly learned, Henry doesn't brook the least drop of disobedience.

"I think you're going to need to learn to be a bit more tractable if we are ever to get along."

He didn't sound peeved, but I nonetheless found myself being lifted up onto the changing table for another spanking. Henry began his preparations by pretzelling my legs underneath my arms and behind my head, and then tying them together with a soft rope. Then for good measure, he tied my wrists to my ankles and strapped me down to the table with a pair of belts. "You'd do best to stop all of that wriggling, my dear. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

My natural response to being trussed up like a goose was to cry, but when he began to lay into my backside with those large and callused hands of his, my sobs quickly escalated into throaty screams.

As you know, I've been spanked on countless occasions; by our teachers and foster parents, for the most part, but by the odd Girlguide ranger and lorry agent, too. You'll doubtless remember what I would've previously deemed the worst spanking of my life, that time last year when the pair of us got paddled black and blue by the entire staff of the 81st library. But this was worse; much worse.

My tush felt like it was on fire from almost the first swot, so it was only natural to beg and plead for Henry to stop; not that my earnest entreaties had the least effect on the man. No, Henry peppered my behind, pussy and thighs with a steady fusillade of spanks, slaps and swots, admonishing me all the while to always do this or that or the next thing (not that I found myself able to concentrate on a single word.)

The one bright spot in it all was that while my skin got painfully reddened, I didn't sustain any lasting injury. Spankings generally leave me bruised, but Henry was much too talented a disciplinarian to let any such thing happen. No, his method was all about ephemeral pain and humiliation. Pain in that his sharp stinging blows were guaranteed to maximize the hurt while minimizing the bruising. Humiliation, in that he played my small body like a fiddle.

I won't give you a "blow by blow" except to say that being spanked in the all-too-appropriate "diaper position" is by far the most painful and humiliating position a girl can be punished in. Stretching one's skin tautly across one's tailbone only serves to make each swot land the harder. Even worse, it leaves one's pussy humiliatingly exposed; a double humiliation since I, like you, I don't have any pubic hair.

I know that Charlene gave us her schtick about how men prefer it that way but whatever the case I couldn't help but be shamed by how childishly smooth my pussy was. And yes, that's another irony, I know that. We can only thank our lucky stars that the Rubella didn't cause the hair on our heads to fall out, too.

Anyway, as a kind of counterpart to my spanking, Henry began to roughly penetrate me with at first one and then two of his thick and callused fingers. SPANK SPANK squish squish, SPANK SPANK squish squish SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK squish squish squish squish SQUISH spank SQUISH spank SQUISH spank squish SQUISH oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god I'm so close please please please (PLEEEEEEEASE!!) but then he'd stop at the perfect (as in worse moment!), maybe twist one of my nipples hard enough to make me scream, flick my clitoris with a fingernail to distract me, poke me in the nose; whatever. The man was a fiend, an absolute fiend; repeatedly bringing me up to the very crest but then denying me release. Then doing it again. And again. And again. It was maddening.

I had relished Henry's attentions in the limousine, but in the present case, my body's reaction was nothing less than mortifying. Henry's prior violations of my virginal folds had all been about my pleasure, whereas as the present efforts were to teach me just how little control I truly had.

My punishment went on for a seeming eternity—the better part of an hour, in all truth!—but then without the least pause or warning it was over. "Are you going to be a good little girl and do as you're told? I mean, do exactly as you're told; literally?"

A cascade of hoarse affirmations all but tumbled out of my mouth.