LITTLE Stories
			by Laurel
(c) Copyright 1995.  All rights reserved.  No permission to reproduce.
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	I'm in your bedroom and showing you what I've chosen to
wear.  It's a girlish outfit.  Not so young looking so as to
look like a costume, but clearly baby-dollish in appearance,
complete with laced bobby socks.  You look me over, walking
around me, and take out the brush.  You run it along my 
backside and my thighs.  I squeeze my eyes closed in anticipation
of being spanked.
	Instead, cruelly, you chuckle and lift the brush to my hair 
and brush it into a ponytail, fastening it with a ponytail holder.  
I start to feel young and cared for. . memories flooding back to me 
when I was a little girl and my mother used to braid my long hair for me.
You tell me that we're going to the store, and that I'm to hold 
your hand and cling to you at all times. . .you wouldn't want me
to get *lost* after all.
	This embarasses me naturally.  You know it will.  And I
get that shrinking diminutive feeling.  I lace my fingers through
yours and open my eyes very wide at you.  I may not be a little girl,
but your adult slave girl has become significantly "other."  She
is small and moves gingerly, with trust.  
	We drive to the mall, and you lead me through the parking
lot by the hand.  You speak to me with smiles, but your grip
on my hand is firm.  As soon as we get into the mall, you ask
me if I want a balloon.  I giggle and shake my head no.  But you
give me that *look* and seem insistant.  You lead me to the 
vendor, speaking to me as if I was a child.  "I think this
little girl wants a red balloon" you say. . .or something like it.
My eyes are glued to the floor and I nuzzle close under 
your arm.
	You tie the balloon around my wrist so that it won't get
lost. . .and we walk through the mall together.  You are very
patronizing and controlling the whole time.  People watch us,
unsure if we are doing what we're doing, or if we're just being 
a disgustingly loving couple.  You insist on stopping at every
vendor for a drink, and sitting and talking to me as I drink up.
You make me drink soda, and juice, and eventually a blue slushy
that turns my tongue colors.  I shrink more and more by the moment.
	Eventually, as we shop, I have to go the bathroom very much.
I ask to stop in the restroom, but you say no.  At first, I can 
tolerate it, but eventually it makes it hard for me to walk.  I
start squirming, my face is red.  I start begging, quietly, in
tones that I hope will not be overheard.  At one point
we pass near a bathroom and I try to bolt for it, but you have
my wrist fast, and yank me back, giving me a quick swat on the ass.
"Be a good girl" you tell me and drag me into another store where
you take your sweet time shopping.  
	When you do this, the full impact of what's happening
hits me.  Yes, we're playing a game, but it's a game with a very
specific design.  You want to humiliate me.  Publicly.  Completely.
Show me what you can make me into.  You can reduce me to a 
child.  You *can* do this to me.  You can do *anything* to me.
I am left wondering how many people witnessed the swat.
	The whining begins, and I *feel* like a little bratty child
as I stomp my foot on the ground trying not to pee myself and 
trying to convince you to change your mind.  At the register, I'm
near tears, and almost not caring how much I would embarass myself
if I started begging.  Instead I whimper next to you like a little
girl. . . even as the checkout girl watches me.  I keep saying, "Please!
Please". . .and you quietly say: "No." and continue to write out
your check.  The lady at the checkout doesn't know what I'm begging
for.  Or does she?  It doesn't really matter.  I'm a wreck.  I'm
breaking.  All my control and dignity is slipping through my
fingers.
	You grab my hand and pull me as we walk back to the car.
You have to pull me cuz I'm positive I'll have an accident if I move.
When we reach the car, I know what has been prearranged, and I 
have to go so badly I don't even wait for you to get into the car
on your side.  I pee my panties and find myself standing in a puddle
sniffling and whimpering.  You look at me. . . smile *ever* so
briefly, and then come around the side of the car.  For a breif
shivering moment our eyes meet.  My humiliation is complete, I
think.  I don't even care what you do next.  I bite my bottom lip
as the sweet swell of embarassment rises in my throat and the 
tears well up.
	Without a word, you bend me over the car hood, pull down
my panties and start spanking me.  I know that there is no one in 
the parking lot, and that even if there were, they wouldn't be able to
see what was happening very well through all the cars. . .but 
the possibilities make me crazy!  I feel you spank my wet bottom
while telling me what a naughty girl I am to wet my panties.  "Since
you wet your panties like a baby, I think we'll have to start
treating you like one, instead of a big girl" you say.
	There is a towel in the car, and you make me sit in my wet 
clothes on the towel all the way home, holding the balloon in
my lap.  I am too ashamed to get out of the car once we're home
and you have to pull me out by the wrist and pull me into the house.
	
	*               *               *

	It is the next night, and Bomber is at the house.  We 
are sitting around watching television when Bomber gets up for
a beer and asks me if I'd like one.  I say yes and he brings it,
but you shake your head.  "Laurel, you know better than that."
	I blush immediately, having forgotten.  You take the 
beer out of my hands and turn to Bomber.  "Laurel's not allowed
to drink without permission. . .especially before bed.  Would you
like to know why?"  Bomber grins malevolently, and I sink into
the couch.  I feel my stomach clenching in that way it always does 
when you humiliate me. And you love to do this to me.  I know.  I 
can feel your heat and your sexual energy rise just looking
at me shrink.  And, in spite of the humiliation, no, because of it,
my body reacts to you.  
	You continue, "Laurel has been having some accidents
lately.  It's not her fault poor thing.  She can't help that she
wets the bed and has accidents in her panties.  She wasn't properly
potty trained."
	I curl up in the corner of the couch, staring at the floor.
"So since Laurel can't act like a big girl, we have to treat her
like a little girl until she grows up."  I hate you.  Yes, I
must hate you.  How else can I accept you doing this to me.  No,
I love you for doing this to me.  My god you are taking so much
from me.  But this is yours to give.  I have given you my 
embarassment. . . and I get heat in return.  I feel it
swirl in me.  The sexual response, climbing, climbing.  My
breath going faster.
	Bomber chuckles (in that infuriating and humiliating way
he has of doing) and asks if I'm ever allowed to drink at all.
"Yes, in supervised ways.  And I keep her in diapers so that 
we can avoid nasty accidents like the other day."  And now . . .
I want to dissapear.  I can hardly look at you, and the blood
drains from me. . . I can't speak, I can't hardly breath.
"Laurel wet herself in public in the mall.  I had to take her
home and clean her up and give her a spanking."
	Bomber adjusts in his seat, you continue.  "Laurel has
to be taken to the bathroom when she wants to go, and I reward
her appropriately.  But until she earns it, she has to take 
naps and she goes to bed early.  I even feed her."
	You look at your watch.  "In fact, it's about Laurel's 
bed time now."  I look at you in shock.  We have company and I
don't *want* to go to bed.  I can't tell how serious you are
or not.  Suddenly I don't want to be treated like a child, I 
want to stay up with the grown ups!  I feel the same pouting
feeling that always came over me when I was young.
	You ignore my shock.  You ignore the fact that this has ceased 
to be fun for me.  You get up, and go into the kitchen, returning with
a bottle full of apple juice.  I look at you aghast.  I feel
the submission inside fighting. . .this humiliation is nearly
too much.  You hand the bottle to me. "Drink up before bed
Laurel."  I stare at you near anger.  I'm rebelling inside.
I can feel it.  I am totally MORTIFIED.  I will *not*
drink out of a bottle in front of Bomber.  And yet, I will not
safeword either.  No, I WILL NOT!
	I put the bottle down on the table.  There is a silence
in the room.  Bomber leans forward, and you stare at me.  I look away 
from you.  Moments pass, but they feel like hours to me.  You pick the 
bottle up and repeat the command.  In furious humiliation, I throw 
the bottle on the floor.  I am struck with terror at that very
instant.  
	It's too much for you.  Without
hesitation, you grab me and yank me over your knee on 
the couch.  "Just like a little girl, she also needs a spanking,"
you say.
	I feel you pulling my pants down and suddenly
realize that Bomber's going to see the diaper you've put
on me.  I start to yelp and struggle, but you're too 
strong and I'm exposed before I can stop it.  You start
spanking me. . .flailing. . . I grunt as the stings increase.
I stop struggling for a while, trying to take the pain.  
I know you'll stop soon, you always do.  But the spanks don't
stop and they don't get lighter.  I start to squirm and make
noise. . . knowing this will appease you.  You'll stop.
	Instead, you take the hairbrush and start spanking me
faster and harder.  I don't think it's *ever* going to stop!
And then it hits me.  You want me to cry.  You want me to cry
like a little baby in front of Bomber.  Even more humiliation and
embarassment. . . I think in my mind that you can't make me.
But I am near tears already that you have exposed the diapers and
the bottle. . .my lower lip is trembling, and the spankings will
not stop.  No you can't make me.  You can't.  No.   
	It breaks at once like a dam.  My legs start kicking and
I start crying. . .sobbing.  My bottom hurts so much, and 
I feel that same loss of control I felt as a child.  But even after
I start crying, the spanking continues, driving my mind over the edge
and making me *truly* submissive.  I'll do *anything* for it to stop.
I beg you, "Please daddy please stop" and then cry harder as I 
realize I have embarassed myself further by calling you daddy.  I
don't think it's ever going to stop now.  My begging is blubbering.
And I know Bomber is watching me flail, bareassed, and crying and
begging.  And I can feel you hard underneath me. . . 
	You rest your hand on my bottom and hold the bottle to
my mouth. I'm not expecting it.  I keep writhing in your lap a moment,
reaching behind me to rub my bottom.  I howl.  With tears streaming 
down my face, I suck from the bottle until it's finished.  Then 
you lead me to the bedroom with my pants around my knees.  You insist 
on rediapering me even though I haven't wet myself. . .because you feel 
my pussy is wet.  Then you tuck me into bed, and I have to listen in the 
bed to you and Bomber talking for some time. . .feeling like a little
girl. . .tears still on my cheeks. . . until you come into the bedroom.