I heard you miss the face stuff
In a bizarre way, you would have preferred if I dressed you in a onesie and a bonnet and a pair of soft booties. Sure, you would feel humiliated, but it would be like wearing a costume. Playing a role. You could look at your ridiculous outfit in the mirror and say, "this is make-believe. That's not the real me."
But after I put you back in diapers, I chose your outfit for date night: a sexy little black dress, cute heels, an expensive bra. You did your hair and makeup perfectly, like you would have in your clubbing days. If not for the fat, disgusting diaper peeking out from under your flirty tiered skirt, you would have felt confident and desirable, just like the night we met.
But then, before our candelight dinner, I clipped the big yellow pacifier to your shoulder strap. I fastened the silicone scoop bib around your neck and applied the numbing gel to your tongue and lips.
Because this is so much more delicious to me: a woman in her prime, desperate to feel sexy, being forced to nurse red wine from a baby bottle and drool truffle pasta into the scoop of her bib. You try to cross your legs coquettishly, but the diaper full of piss forces you to splay them. You cringe with shame at my amused smile, knowing that no matter how much effort you make, no matter what clothes you wear, there's no way I'll see you as a grown woman — ever again.
