Whitney

For someone as tightly wound and anxious as her—incessantly stressing over deadlines, hearings, and trials—making time for silly things like orgasms was never a priority.

You have no idea how hard I worked to help her relax enough to finally orgasm. I mean, I spent so much time going down on her, I could barely chew my food for two weeks straight. My jaw still clicks every once in a while.

But then it happened.

That first orgasm changed everything—hard work pays off. The way she shook and shuddered, the way her legs squeezed my head so tight I almost passed out, it was magical.

Her first lesson in the power of pleasure.

No matter how stressed she was over a hearing, how anxious she was about a deadline, she could, for a few blissful moments, lose herself in the sweet release of a powerful orgasm.

My tongue became her stress reliever.

I will admit she wasn’t entirely wrong that knowledge is power. The knowledge I unlocked over the next few months proved indispensable.

Her body was my teacher; I was its diligent student, soaking in every lesson. I learned every pattern, pressure, and pulse that her body craved. I knew her body better than my own.

In a matter of weeks, she went from being unable to cum to coming home to fuck away the memories of her boss yelling at her, her inbox of angry emails, and the impending deadlines.

Pleasure became her escape. And I was more than happy to be her accomplice.

With every orgasm, she fell deeper down the rabbit hole, blissfully ignorant to the consequences of her dependence on those moments of ecstasy.

And me.

I no longer gave her those precious orgasms on demand. No, those only came when the dishes were clean, our clothes washed and folded, and the house was clean.

None of this was ever explicitly discussed, of course.

But that’s the point of Pavlovian training—I simply rewarded the behaviors I wanted to encourage with orgasms and ignored the behaviors I wanted to discourage.

Any time she left work early, chose a brain-rotting reality show over the news, or made a simple mistake on her Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, she was rewarded with my head between her legs.

Work was never rewarded. The days she worked late at the office, left for work early, or even complained about her boss or deadlines never ended with an orgasm.

There were no rules, no expectations, no punishments. I never made any demands or criticized her choices.

I simply rewarded her when she deserved it.

And soon enough, the house was always clean, my drawers were filled with freshly laundered, folded clothes, and she spent more time at home with me than ever before.

But that was far from the only benefit. Her entire demeanor changed as she shed the weight of years of internalized anxiety and work stress.

For the first time in her life, work wasn’t her top priority. Suddenly, staying up all night to meet a deadline for some demanding client no longer appealed to her. Not when it was so rewarding to leave work early.

Even as her work performance plummeted and her bosses were rethinking their plans to offer her a partnership, she continued to choose pleasure over promotions.

She was so eager to please that most days started with her under the covers, showing me just how much she appreciated everything I did for her.

In her mind, the more pleasure she gave, the more she would receive. A notion I did little to dispute.

It was proof that the pursuit of pleasure dominated every facet of her life.

That was when I knew it was time. Sex became increasingly more sporadic and infrequent. She could no longer rely on the same behaviors being rewarded so easily.

Nor could she assume our time together would always end with an orgasm. As often as not, it ended with her on the brink of an orgasm. Or only after being edged and teased until she begged and pleaded for the sweet release of an orgasm.

I almost felt bad watching her desperately struggle to figure out the secret behaviors to unlock the orgasms. But it was all part of the process.

A clean house and shorter workdays weren’t going to cut it anymore. I needed more.

After a week without a single orgasm, she reached new levels of desperation. Her calm, confident façade collapsed into an adorably whiny, needy, sex-crazed shell of her former self.

Her normally sharp intellect crumbled under the weight of her denial-fogged haze. She struggled with even the simplest tasks. Her attention span wouldn’t have impressed a goldfish.

The hardest part was figuring out how to reward her whiny, vapid behavior without resorting to the usual rewards. Obviously, orgasms were out of the question—denying them is what caused the behavior in the first place.

The solution was elegantly simple: praise.

Praise lit up the pleasure center of the brain. A quick, fleeting hit to be sure, but enough to encourage her to be as dumb and whiny as possible.

I lathered her in praise whenever she replaced her post-graduate level vocabulary with simple, unrefined words. Or when she misplaced her keys. And especially when she acted particularly whiny and helpless.

So, she never questioned why the house was suddenly full of coloring books, crayons, and dolls. Not when bringing me a finished drawing or quiet playtime with her Barbies earned her heaps of delicious praise.

Her long, tedious month of denial ended in spectacular fashion when she came home from work with tears pouring down her cheeks. She was so ashamed, she could barely look me in the eye when she told me she was fired.

She expected disappointment; she received more praise than ever before. And, of course, the best orgasm of her life.

Things moved quickly after she was fired. With me working from home—and her not working at all—there were significantly more opportunities to reinforce and encourage her behaviors.

Especially because the ghost of the last orgasm haunted her; she was willing to do anything for the next one.

I didn’t make her wait long.

A few days later, she found the package of Beddybyes diapers I left in our room for no particular reason other than my own curiosity.

And because they are ridiculously adorable.

I’ll never forget how nervous she was when she crinkled into my office. Her beet-red cheeks almost distracted me from the comically inept way she taped her diaper on.

I never loved her more than that moment. And I rewarded her courage beyond wildest dreams.

The diaper wasn’t the only surprise. What good would a diaper be without a Hibachi Wand? They go together like peas and carrots.

I spent the next few hours heaping praise on her over the buzzing and crinkling of the wand on her diaper. By the time she fell asleep, she had set a personal record for the number of orgasms in a day.

Based on how soggy her diaper is right now, I’m sure you can guess I wasn’t content with her just wearing diapers, even though I never told her to wet or mess them.

All I did was lower the rewards for simply wearing them—she did the rest.

I wish you could have seen the way her face scrunched in concentration just to tinkle her diaper in the beginning. It was a whole thing. You might have thought she was solving complex math problems in her head.

But no, she was just trying to pee—hoping for another round with Senor Buzzy.

And let me tell you, she loved Senor Buzzy. He was so persuasive, I think I owe him a thank-you note.

The way she went feral when she was tucked into my lap, gazing lovingly at me, while Senor Buzzy vibrated on her soggy diaper is the cutest thing I have ever seen.

It didn’t even take a month for her to go from occasionally wearing and tinkling her diapers when she was horny to lustily humping Senor Buzzy while I tossed all her panties in the trash.

That was the point of no return.

From then on, it was all downhill. Once she accepted she belonged in diapers, she didn’t even try to hold onto whatever intelligence and independence she had left.

It was Daddy’s job to make sure her diaper was clean, her tummy was filled, and the bills were paid. Though by then she had been so conditioned to be my vapid, needy baby, I don’t think she could have handled adulthood anymore.

I don’t even think she realizes that we haven’t had sex—or that I haven’t gone down on her—since her first poopy diaper. Pleasure isn’t a static concept.

Which brings us to today.

Look how excited she is to play with her stuffy. Listen to her moans. Nothing matters to her but the warm, soggy diaper rubbing against her princess parts.

The anxious, success driven woman she used to be is long gone. She lost her job, her autonomy, her continence, and every facet of adulthood.

Every plan she had for her life abandoned for the sake of the next orgasm.

All the knowledge she worked so hard to get is as useless as her old panties rotting in some landfill.

And she has never been happier in her life.

Doesn’t that silly little squeal prove it? She doesn’t even care that her silly, infantile display has an audience. It’s the sound of someone in love with her pampers and their life. Exactly where they belong.