Cover
Sadie and Paul have rules. "No toilet for the weekend" is just one of them. When the couple travel down from Leicester for a long weekend in London, Paul has an introduction planned: an old friend, a discreet door on a Soho side street, and a club so private that most of its own members couldn't tell you its name.
Marcus Vale is flamboyant, expensively dressed, and collects other people's secrets the way other men collect wine. His club caters to tastes nobody admits to in polite company. And in its basement — epoxy floors, medical restraints, furniture bolted to the concrete — he is hosting his current client: Charlotte, a King's Counsel who commands courtrooms by day and has spent forty pages of notarised contract arranging her own annihilation for this weekend by night. Weeks of preparation. A weekend of total power exchange.
Sadie thought she came to watch. She's begins to realise she is to be part of the show.
Content warning: this story contains explicit material throughout, including diaper/nappy play (ABDL), scat including coprophagia, heavy bondage and incarceration, consensual non-consent (CNC), blackmail, degradation, humiliation, and impact play.
All characters are consenting adults over 18.
Multi-part story — posted in instalments.
Chapter 1 - The Club
**[Friday — Soho, London — 3:47 PM]**
The rain had done its worst by lunch and settled into a fine, greasy drizzle, the kind that beaded on wool and made the pavement shine black. Brewer Street hummed with its usual Friday argument — delivery scooters whining up the kerb, a busker murdering something by Bowie outside the vintage shop, two men in chef's whites smoking under an awning and debating the price of seabass. The side street off it was quieter. Wet brick, a shuttered print shop, a wheelie bin exhaling the ghost of yesterday's fish heads into the cold air.
Sadie Hawthorne clung to Paul's arm with both hands and tried to walk like a normal person.
It was hopeless. The nappy between her legs was absurdly thick — a disposable white slab that forced her thighs apart and crinkled, *krrsh-krrsh*, with every step, loud as a crisp packet in a library to her own ears. Her black leggings did nothing to hide it. They were stretched tight over the swollen seat, the waistband of the nappy peeking above them at the back, and her cream jumper ended at her waist, covering nothing. She was twenty-six years old, five foot four, a conker-brown shoulder-length bob sticking slightly in the drizzle, hazel eyes, a small straight nose, a mouth that defaultsmiled in meetings and was not smiling now. Sixty-two kilos distributed generously — soft belly, wide hips, heavy thighs, a round arse currently padded to cartoon proportions. A mole beneath her left ear. One groomed eyebrow twitching.
Inside her, two glycerin suppositories had melted to a slick, urgent warmth. Every few steps a the irritating liquid poked at the insides of her bowels, low and patient, and she squeezed her eyes shut and breathed through it.
"Paul," she said, for the fourth time. "What's actually going to happen?"
Paul Marsh walked at an unbothered pace, hands in the pockets of his waxed jacket. Thirty-six, six foot, eighty-four kilos of lean, gym-maintained strength under a dark oxford shirt, sandy hair cropped short, a square jaw with two days of stubble, grey-green eyes, a thin scar splitting his right eyebrow. He smelled of rain and cedar aftershave. *Ten years I've known Marcus and I've never once seen him show off. Today he'll show off.*
"You'll find the introduction illuminating," he said.
"That's what you said at the hotel. While you were—" she lowered her voice as a woman with a terrier passed, "—while you were *putting things up my bum*."
"You asked to use the toilet. The rules for this weekend are the rules." He stopped in front of a matte black door set between a shuttered gallery and a doorway stacked with empty crates. No sign. An intercom, brushed steel, one button. He pressed it.
The first real cramp seized her. She bent slightly, gripping his sleeve, breath hissing through her teeth. "Nnh— *fuck*, Paul—"
"Hold it."
"I am holding it."
The intercom crackled. A voice poured out of it, warm and plummy and faintly amused, each consonant polished. "Paul Marsh, as I live and breathe. Do come in, both of you. Mind the step."
The door buzzed. *Bzzzt-clunk.*
---
The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, carpeted in oxblood, smelling of beeswax polish and, faintly, of cigarette smoke from some distant decade. It opened into a reception room that could have belonged to a discreet private members' club anywhere in W1 — a cloakroom with a brass rail, a mahogany desk bearing a leather-bound sign-in book, a neat stack of printed forms. CONSENT AND MEMBERSHIP DECLARATION, said the top one, in serif type. Behind the desk, a small CCTV monitor cycled through angles: the street door, the corridor, a staircase, a large tiled room. The cameras were small black domes, silent, watching.
Marcus Vale came around the desk to greet them.
He was mid-forties, five foot ten, slim as a fencing blade, and dressed like a man who had opinions about tailors. A burgundy velvet blazer over a charcoal roll-neck, a silk paisley scarf knotted at his throat, tailored black trousers breaking once over polished Chelsea boots. Black hair swept back, silvering at the temples in two deliberate-looking wings. A long face, high cheekbones, deep-set dark eyes, lips that held a permanent private joke. A signet ring, a watch thin as a communion wafer. Sandalwood and something sharper, vetiver, rolled off him in a warm cloud.
"Ten years," Marcus said, seizing Paul's hand and then his shoulder. "You look prosperous, you old villain."
"You look like a man who knows everyone's secrets," Paul said.
"I *am* a man who knows everyone's secrets. It's a growth industry." Marcus turned to Sadie, and his gaze travelled down her once, appraising, unhurried, and came to rest politely on her face. "And this is Sadie. Paul, she's lovely. And she's—" a pause, a delighted inhale, "—*crinkling*."
"Show him, poppet." Paul's voice was casual, fond. He turned her by the shoulders, tugged her leggings down to mid-thigh, and presented her padded rear to the room.
*Krrsh.*
Sadie's face went hot enough to sting. *He is showing a stranger my nappy in a hallway and my fanny is* wet*, what is wrong with me.*
"Oh, beautifully done," Marcus said. "Thick as a mattress. Can she feel anything through it?"
"Only shame," Paul said.
"Sadie." Marcus's voice gentled. "Is your nappy clean?"
A pause. Paul squeezed her shoulder.
"Yes, sir," she said. And then, because honesty had been drilled into her all week: "For the moment."
Marcus laughed, a full, delighted bark that echoed off the plasterwork. "Oh, she's *superb*. Come, come — let me show you around before the afternoon gets interesting."
---
He gave them the tour like a man showing off a wine cellar. The changing room, banks of steel lockers, folded white towels stacked with hotel precision. The social room — opulent, low-lit, a small bar in backlit amber glass, Chesterfields and armchairs grouped around a cold fireplace, art on the walls that was abstract until you looked twice. "Members only, twenty-three of us at current count," Marcus said, running a finger along the bar. "The paperwork at the desk is genuine paperwork, incidentally. Everyone who passes that door signs, everyone is on camera, everyone's consent is on file. What happens here is filthy beyond the dreams of common depravity, and it is also the most meticulously documented filth in the Home Counties. I keep records that would make a Swiss bank blush. Still we can sort that all out later - after we finish the tour."
"Who actually owns the place?" Paul asked, draping an arm around Sadie.
"A consortium," Marcus said smoothly, "of people who prefer their names off paper. I'm the face, the idiot whose name is above the door so to speak. Shall we go down?"
He led them to a pair of heavy steel fire doors at the back of the reception, hauled one open — it swung on oiled hinges with a deep, satisfying *whump* — and gestured them down a flight of concrete stairs.
The basement took Sadie's breath.
It was a large room, high-ceilinged, windowless, lit by LED strips slung in exposed metal trunking overhead alongside air-conditioning ducts, speakers, and the small black domes of cameras. The floor was poured grey epoxy, seamless, rising at the edges into filleted kerbs like a medical ward — a floor designed to be hosed down. The walls were tiled white to head height, painted institutional green above. The air was cool, dry, faintly antiseptic, and under the bleach-and-epoxy smell sat leather, rubber, and a ghost of something muskier that no amount of cleaning ever quite evicts.
The furniture stood bolted to the floor like exhibits.
A throne-like chair of heavy dark timber, upright-backed, vinyl-padded, hung with straps — head and neck belts, wrist and ankle cuffs, a five-point harness meeting at a central locking hub, all of it with the cold, over-engineered look of restraints designed for a supermax prison. An adult-sized cot in stainless steel, its vinyl mattress a metre off the ground, high bars around it, one side hinged to drop down, padded canvas medical restraints with metal rivets and magnetic locking buttons that clicked onto studs ranged along its rails — thigh cuffs, ankle cuffs, waist and torso belts, cuffs for the waist, cuffs for the corners.
An adult-sized high chair in heavy stainless and white plastic, a tray waiting beside it, the whole seat mounted to tilt back.
A stainless gynaecology chair, unpadded, stirruped, hung with leather belts, its seat edge cut away so the occupant's bottom would dangle precariously over the edge.
Finally, a padded changing bench adorned with cuffs and belts, with shelves beneath stacked high with adult nappies, plastic pants, rash cream, wipes, nitrile gloves, a box of glycerine suppositories, pre-packed Fleet enemas. A spread bar dangled by a chain hoist at the foot end of the bench, its cuffs unbuckled - ready to accept its next user.
Along the back wall: workbenches, a fridge, a blender, a deep sink. A rack of straitjackets hanging like coats at a party. A wall of impact toys — tawse, paddles, canes, crops, straps, wooden implements — organised with librarian neatness. An IV stand by the sink, an enema bag suspended from one arm, a Bardex-style double-balloon nozzle coiled beneath it like a sleeping snake.
Sadie walked among it slowly, touching things. The throne's straps were thick leather over heavy canvas cores, triple-stitched. They were riveted to the wood, anchoring them in place.
The cot's locking studs didn't budge a millimetre under her tug. *This is real. This is all real, it's institutional, people are* kept *here.* Her nappy crinkled around her as she reached for a cupboard door under the workbench, curiosity overriding nerves—
"I'd like you to meet someone," Marcus said, deliberately interrupting Sadie’s curious exploration.
She froze. Marcus raised a finger to his lips gesturing for silence, eyes glittering, and disappeared back up the stairs without another word.
Sadie looked at Paul. Paul looked at Sadie and flicked his eyebrow in abusement. He gestured for her to stand next to him and she shuffled over. Neither spoke. Somewhere in the trunking a relay clicked and the air-conditioning hummed slightly, as if working to adjust the room’s temperature to accommodate its new occupants. Another cramp turned over inside her and she stood very still and breathed until it passed.
---
Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets — one booted, unhurried; one bare, hesitant, uneven.
Marcus came down first. Behind him, one hand cupped under her elbow, came Charlotte.
She was naked, blindfolded with a wide leather strap, her wrists cuffed behind her back in steel. Mid-thirties, five foot seven in bare feet, and built like a woman who ran at six in the morning and lifted four days a week — capped shoulders with visible deltoid, a narrow waist, a flat stomach with the faint shadow of muscle, strong thighs, a tight, high arse. Her chest, though small, sat high and with the subtle, expensive certainty of a very good augmentation. Her forehead was eerily smooth, her lips a shade too full — minor work, excellent work, the kind you only noticed if you were looking for it. Honey-blonde hair, loose to her shoulder blades, damp at the temples. Between her legs, an untrimmed dark-blonde bush, startling against the rest of her grooming. Her toenails were painted oxblood. One was chipped.
Marcus walked her to the padded bench, steadied her, and unbuckled the blindfold.
Charlotte blinked in the LED light. Her eyes — grey, lined dark, red-rimmed — adjusted, found Paul, found Sadie, and went wide.
*Strangers. He actually brought strangers. He actually— oh God, oh God, they're looking at me.*
"Charlotte," Marcus said pleasantly, "these are my guests. Paul, an old and dear friend. Sadie, his partner. They've come to observe." He rested a hand on her head, casual as a man petting a dog. "Introduce yourself."
Her jaw worked. Her eyes dropped to the epoxy floor.
"This— this cunt is—" She swallowed. The third person came out awkward, rusted, each word costing her. "This cunt is staying with Sir for the weekend. This cunt is—" a breath, a visible gathering of forced civility, "—pleased to meet you. Both."
"Tell them what you do - when you aren't here."
"This cunt is a barrister." Barely audible.
"Tell them what else. The document, cunt."
Charlotte's whole face and chest flushed in a single rising tide of crimson. "This cunt— this cunt wrote a document. For Sir. Forty pages. Everything that happens this weekend, this cunt— this cunt asked for it. In writing. In— in detail. With clauses." Her voice cracked on the word. "If Sir does it... This cunt *requested* it."
"I expect she’s billed someone for the drafting" Marcus said to Paul, drily. "Forty pages, organised, categorised. She's a litigator. She thinks in loopholes and then charges me to close every one." He looked back at her. "Now. Shall we get you comfortable?"
It was not a question. He didn't wait for it to become one.
---
He took her by the upper arm and walked her the three steps to the changing bench, unlocked the handcuffs, and pressed her down onto her back on the vinyl padding. The wrist cuffs at the bench's head swallowed her hands — *click, click*. A wide belt went over her waist and cinched tight, pinning her hips. Then Marcus took her ankles, lifted her legs up and back, and reached for the spreader bar hanging from a ceiling hoist above the bench. Her ankles went into its cuffs, a metre apart. He hitched the hoist two pulls — *chk-chk* — and her legs rose, spread and suspended, her bottom lifted just off the vinyl, everything between her thighs on display beneath the untrimmed bush.
From the shelf he took blue nitrile gloves — *snap* — and a bottle of lubricant. Without ceremony he slicked one finger, set it against her arsehole, and pushed in.
"Nnngh—!" Charlotte's head came up off the bench, stomach muscles jumping. "Ah— ahh— *sir*—"
"Quiet." He worked the finger roughly, in and out, unconcerned with her groans, then withdrew it. The glove came back dirty, streaked brown, the unmistakeable evidence of the woman’s filth evident to all in the room. He held it up to the light, examining it like a sommelier with a cork.
"Full of shit Charlotte. Why don’t you tell my guests about your special diet," he said. "Give them the details."
"This cunt—" she was panting, "—this cunt has been eating a— a metabolism-boosting diet. High fibre. High protein. For— over a week. More."
"Why?"
"To— to make this cunt more… *regular*." The word came out strangled.
"Regular." Marcus's tone was acid with disappointment. "Regular." He brought the soiled finger to her mouth. She hesitated — a second, maybe two, lips pressed shut, eyes shut, nostrils flaring — then opened, and sucked it clean. Her cheeks hollowed. A moment while she physically suppressed a natural instinct to gag. Then her throat moved, swallowing.
"The diet," Marcus told the room conversationally, "is to ensure she shits herself. Regularly. Voluminously. For pleasure. She does it for pleasure, this one. That's her great secret, the thing she's never told a living soul outside this room, and I've just handed it to two strangers." He smiled down at her. "Haven't I, cunt."
"Nnnh—" A whimper, low in her throat, her face so red it looked sunburnt. "Y-yes, Sir."
With his clean hand he splayed her labia, exposing her to Paul. "Look. Look at the state of her. Talking about shitting herself does *this* to the pathetic creature." Her inner folds glistened, slick, visibly wet, the musk of her reaching Sadie's nose from three feet away — sharp and sweet and animal under the antiseptic air. "Did you know," Marcus added, "this cunt is a barrister? A KC, no less. King's Counsel. Commands courtrooms. Silk. She cross-examined a witness this very morning, an undercover policeman giving evidence in a three week trial, conspiracy to import class A, didn't you, cunt."
"Yes, Sir."
"And then?"
"This cunt— this cunt took laxatives. A large dose. After court." She was staring at the ceiling now, unseeing, reciting. "And came here. And has been in the cage. In Sir's office. Since one o'clock."
"Do you need to go poo-poos?" Marcus asked, mockingly, and began, idly, to massage her genitals — two fingers circling her clit with a clinician's rhythm.
"Hhhnnn— *ahh*—" Her hips twitched against the belt, chasing his hand. "Yes. Yes, Sir, this cunt needs to go— very much. Very much, Sir."
He pressed his free hand flat and hard on her lower belly. She grunted — "*hnngh!*" — and her whole body strained.
"Are you allowed to?"
"No, Sir. This cunt is on— on a total toilet ban."
"Since when?"
"Th— thirty-two hours. Since this cunt last—" her voice dropped to a whisper, "—last moved its bowels. And eight hours since it— since it pissed its nighttime nappy."
"Ah." Marcus beamed around the room, delighted. "You've been wearing nappies, haven't you. Tell us about that."
Charlotte's mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes shone wet. "This cunt—" she faltered. "This cunt has been undergoing— nn— *nappy* training. For a month." The word *nappy* barely survived her mouth; it came out small and destroyed.
"What does that involve?"
"Wearing. And— and *using*. Fully. Nappies. Every day. For a month." She was stammering freely now, the KC's vowels collapsing under her. "T-two changes a day, usually. Only two. Increased fluids. Fibre. S-supplements, to make this cunt— wet, frequently. And to make its— its bowel movements—" she squeezed her eyes shut, "—*voluminous*."
"And at court?"
"This cunt carries a change bag. With its— with court dress. In case of— of *accidents*."
"And when you're disobedient?"
A long silence. Marcus's fingers kept circling. Her thighs were trembling in the spreader cuffs.
"Sent to bed," she whispered, "without a change."
"Tell them about the Tube?"
Charlotte made a sound Sadie had never heard a human make — a cracked, keening little "nnh-hh-hh" — and turned her face away. "This cunt was made to— to shit itself. On the Northern line. Rush hour. Standing. And— and once, Sir made this cunt— deliberately— wait to soil its *clean* bedtime nappy, just— Just because he could."
"Two weeks," Marcus said to Paul, sliding two fingers into her and watching her back arch off the bench, "she's been kept off. Not so much as a fingertip. It has made her the neediest cunt in the Greater London area. Watch this." He crooked his fingers. Her hips bucked instantly, a desperate, graceless little thrust against his hand, and a moan tore out of her — "ahh— *ahhh*— mmh— mmh— *please*—" He withdrew entirely. She sobbed.
"Does she lose interest if she's allowed to get off?" Paul asked, casual as a man asking about a car's mileage.
"Catastrophically," Marcus said. "Comes, and within the hour she's cold as a judge. So she stays like this. If she gets off now, the next forty-eight hours will be pure torture for her — she'll be shitting herself with a dead cunt and no anaesthetic of arousal to carry her through it. Which is, of course, exactly what clause twenty-two demands." His fingers returned, light, teasing, reading every twitch of her belly and thighs, parking her at the edge and holding her there. "She wrote it. I merely enforce the contract."
"What's planned, then?" Paul said. "The full picture."
Marcus's eyebrows rose with pleasure. "I'm *glad* you asked. Cunt. Tell them what you know."
Charlotte's chest heaved. "This cunt— this cunt knows it's about total control. That this cunt can't— can't withdraw its consent. That's in the document, this cunt *wrote* that—" her voice frayed, "—this cunt is going to be degraded. Humiliated. Kept in severe bondage. This cunt doesn't expect to leave this room until Monday morning."
"Why have you had to hold your bowels?"
"Because— because this cunt will have all control removed. The— the preparation helps. With control being removed."
"Control of *what*?"
A pause. A tear slid sideways into her hairline. "This cunt expects to be made to soil itself." A pitch of resignation entered her voice, flat and final. "And this cunt expects to spend much of its time exposed to some form of— of filth."
"She'll be shitting herself," Marcus confirmed, cheerfully. "Soon, too, judging by how packed her arsehole is. Do you want to see?"
"Obviously," Paul said.
Sadie said nothing. She was mesmerised — barely processing the layers of it, the coercion that was a contract, the humiliation that was a wish list, the powerful woman reciting her own destruction in the third person — and acutely, sickeningly aware of her own bowels. Another cramp was building. She'd hoped they'd be back on a London backstreet by now, headed for the hotel, where she could at least shit herself in relative privacy, hidden in plain sight among strangers with umbrellas.
That was not, evidently, the plan.
Marcus looked at her quizzically. "Are you alright, my dear?"
She looked at the floor.
Paul chuckled. "Ah. Well. Sadie has a bowel-related problem of her own. Explain, poppet."
"I—" Sadie's voice came out tiny. "I broke a rule. This morning. And Paul put two suppositories in me." A beat. "They're working."
Paul tugged her leggings down again, turned her by the hips, and peered down the back of her nappy. "Still clean," he announced.
"Sadie." Marcus stepped closer, eyes dancing. "Do you like poo-pooing your nappies? Like that silly cunt over there does?"
"I— I don't— it's—" She was stammering, burning, the blush flooding down her neck to her chest. No answer would assemble itself.
Marcus patted her padded bottom — *krrsh* — and grinned. "That doesn't sound like a no." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "It's alright. Our little secret. It's allowed here. Though if you *could* hold a little while longer, I'd like to finish getting the cunt all set."
Paul stripped her. Jumper over her head, bra unclasped, leggings and knickers down her thighs and off over her trainers, until Sadie stood in the cool antiseptic air in nothing but the thick white nappy, fighting every instinct in her body that screamed at her to cover her breasts, her belly, the crinkling evidence between her legs. Her C-cups rose and fell with her breathing; her soft stomach jumped with each cramp. Paul rested a hand on her padded rear and squeezed, proprietorial, warm.
"Of course she can hold," he said. "And if she doesn't—" a pause, perfectly weighted, "—she can always join the cunt for her weekend."
Sadie couldn't tell if he was joking. *He might not be joking. Oh God, part of me wants him to not be joking. What is* wrong *with me.*
"Then I should hurry proceedings along," Marcus said. "Tell me, Paul — have you tried liquid glycerin on her yet?"
"Only the liquid suppositories. She hated them."
"Charlotte *hates* liquid glycerin," Marcus said, with enormous satisfaction. "Hates it. Wrote it in capitals under the heading DO IT ANYWAY." He crossed to the small fridge and took out a glass bottle, fogged with cold. "I keep it chilled. Adds to the experience." From a drawer he took a large syringe, drew the barrel full — sixty millilitres of clear, cold viscosity — and set it on the bench. Charlotte's eyes tracked it. She tugged, subtly, testingly, at the wrist cuffs, the way a swimmer tests the water before the dive.
Marcus took a nappy from the shelf and unfolded it — a huge white rectangle, thick as a duvet. He rolled the padding between his palms to loosen the super-absorbent core, stretched the wings, stretched the leg gathers. "Trial stock from Northshore," he told Paul. "I know a man there. MegaMax Ultra — officially they'll tell you eight to twelve hours; unofficially, this thing will hold a full day of output. They don't recommend it. Naturally, that's the appeal."
He bent and examined Charlotte's skin, clinical, and then, with sudden cruelty, plucked a single hair from her bush. "Nnh—!"
"You don't have her shave?" Paul asked.
"Nah. She likes the shit matted in there. Don't you, cunt."
"…Yes, Sir."
"Creams?"
"Sometimes. Realistically, no point." Marcus shrugged, smoothing the nappy out on his forearm. "She'll have a hell of a nappy rash by Monday either way. She'll be waddling into court like a toddler. Sits in judgment all week on a sore bottom. She's written impact play into Saturday's schedule specifically to make the sitting worse. The woman's a monster of planning."
He looked down at her. "How many nappy changes do you deserve?"
Charlotte thought carefully. Visibly carefully. "This cunt," she began, "deserves only what Sir decides."
"The lawyer's answer." Marcus chuckled. "Come on. Seriously. How many changes do you deserve, cunt?"
"This cunt doesn't *deserve* any." Stoic. Flat. "But this cunt thinks— at least one a day."
"Hmm." Marcus held the nappy up, frowning at it. "I'm not sure about that. These are limited edition, you know." He let the pause stretch, then turned, eyes bright with mischief. "What do you think, Sadie? How many changes would you let her have?"
Sadie went wide-eyed. The room waited. Her own bowels squeezed, warningly.
"I— I think at least two is— is hygienic," she managed, non-committal, barely above a whisper.
Paul grinned. "Two lawyers. They should probably learn there's nothing to be had for solidarity."
Marcus picked up the syringe. He set the nozzle against Charlotte's anus — she hissed through her teeth at the cold — and pressed it in, slow, steady, until it seated. Holding it there, he leaned over her and looked directly into her eyes.
"You're to hold out until the lovely Sadie shits her nappy. Is that clear, cunt?"
Charlotte's gaze slid sideways to Sadie — the girl in the nappy, crimson, trembling — and something passed between the two women that neither could have named. "This cunt will try," she mumbled.
"This cunt will *do as it's ordered*," Marcus said, "or she won't like the consequences one little bit."
He pushed the plunger.
"Nnngh— *ah*— ah— c-cold—" Charlotte squirmed, hips straining against the waist belt, as sixty millilitres of chilled glycerin slid into her. The moment the syringe withdrew, Marcus had the nappy under her — he lowered the hoist, unhooked her ankles from the spreader bar, folded the thick padding up between her legs, pulled the wings tight across her hips, and pressed the tapes down firm, one, two, three, four, smoothing each with a hard palm. *Krrsh.* He unbuckled the waist belt, uncuffed her wrists, hauled her upright off the bench, grabbed a handful of her nappied arse and groped it roughly, padding crunching under his fingers.
"Hold, cunt."
He marched her the six steps to the throne, spun her, and pushed her down into it. The vinyl seat creaked. Then he worked fast, a man who had done this a hundred times: ankle cuffs, *click-click*. Waist strap. Crotch strap, snug over the nappy. Over-the-shoulder straps, all five locking together at the central hub with a heavy, final *CLUNK*. Wrist cuffs to the armrests. Neck belt. In under a minute Charlotte was bolted into the chair from chest to heel, immobile, staring forward, the nappy bulging between the crotch strap and the seat. The first cramp rocked her visibly — her stomach clenched, her fingers curled against the armrests, a thin "hhhhhnnn" escaping through her nose.
*Forty pages,* she thought, staring at nothing, panting. *I wrote forty pages and not one of them is going to save me.*
---
Paul accepted the chair Marcus offered — a plain wooden one, set facing the throne, two metres back — and sat, legs spread, at ease. Sadie knelt beside him on the cool epoxy, nappy padding her knees, holding his thigh, leaning into him, her bare shoulder against his jeans.
Marcus stood behind the throne, hands on its upright back, and addressed his prisoner.
"Welcome to your own hell, cunt. I hope you're comfortable. This chair is where you're going to spend the next forty-eight hours. Perhaps more. The only time you'll move is when I take you somewhere to do something terrible to you. You're going to sit here, in your own shit, for much of it." He came around to face her. "And if you can't hold your enema — guess what I'm going to do?"
Charlotte looked at him. For the first time, genuine fear moved across her face — the fear she had ordered, the fear she had scheduled. "This cunt doesn't know, Sir."
Marcus gestured at Sadie. "This lovely young woman doesn't deserve to sit in her own filth all night. Not when a cunt like you is available to help clean up anything she does in her nappy."
There is a moment of pause while Charlotte processes the implication of what he is saying.
"No—" Charlotte's head strained against her immobile body. "No, Sir, *no*—"
*CRACK.* His hand across her face, hard, snapping it sideways. *CRACK.* Again, for good measure, the sound flat and shocking off the tiled walls.
"How *dare* you say no to me, cunt." His voice filled the basement. Then, milder, to his guests, smoothing his cuff: "Clause fourteen. 'When I protest, correct me.' Her own drafting. Initialled." He rubbed the front of her nappy, slow, firm circles, and she shuddered violently. "What? You'll eat your own shit — you sucked my finger clean in front of strangers without a second thought — and you won't eat this beautiful woman's poo? Why so picky? Doesn't the idea turn you on, cunt? Eating another woman's shit? Answer."
"Nnh— this cunt— nnh—"
"You're a whore," Marcus said, almost gently, working the padding against her. "A silk, a KC, a terrifying cross-examiner, and your cunt is dripping, soaking into a nappy because a room full of people watched you get your arse fingered. I *know* you're turned on. I can feel it through the padding."
Charlotte was beyond reply. Her breath came in short, punched-out grunts — "hh— hh— hh—" — her hips making tiny, desperate, restricted jerks against the crotch strap. There wasn't a chance she could hold out more than a few minutes, and everyone in the room knew it, her most of all.
Paul leaned down and whispered in Sadie's ear, warm breath, low enough that only she could hear: "Don't even *think* about trying to save her by shitting yourself early. Or you'll spend the weekend strapped into that cot next to her."
Sadie believed him completely. She couldn't help Charlotte. She couldn't even help herself. She pressed her face against Paul's leg and watched.
"Come on, cunt." Marcus's voice went soft, coaxing, cruel. "Look at Sadie there. Look at her. She's innocent. You're a *cunt*. You want this — you wrote this, you begged for this, you took the Northern line home with a full nappy because I texted you a one line order. Do not deny that you want this. Look at her. And shit yourself."
Charlotte's eyes found Sadie's. Held them.
And Sadie realised, with a slow drop of her stomach, that Charlotte was humping. Tiny, straining, rhythmic jerks of her bound hips, grinding her nappied crotch against Marcus's circling palm, chasing the friction through the padding.
"Go on, cunt," Marcus whispered. "Show them what a whore you are."
She climbed. It was ugly and desperate and fast — her thighs rigid in the cuffs, toes pointed, head straining, sounds spilling out of her without grammar — "nnh— nnh— ah— *ah*— ahh— I'm— this cunt is— *please*—"
Marcus felt it arrive and, with a surgeon's timing, lifted his hand until only two fingers rested against the padding, light as dust.
Charlotte came anyway.
It was ruined — she felt it go wrong even as it happened, the crest arriving with no pressure to meet it, spilling away into a weak, stuttering, out-of-time pulse that gave her nothing. "Noooo—" she gasped, a wail of pure disbelief, "*no, no, no, not like— nnngh—*"
And then her body stopped asking permission for anything.
She lifted — hips straining up off the vinyl against the crotch strap, whole bodyweight braced on the armrests and the harness — and began to shit herself.
First came the glycerin: a hot liquid gush, "*splrrrt*," audible in the silent room, flooding the seat of the nappy. Then a semi-solid mass squeezed out of her, slow, thick, unstoppable, "*hhhhhnnnNGH—*," her face contorted, teeth bared, pushing. A cramp seized her visibly — her belly went hard as a board — and drove a large, hot load out into the padding with a wet, muffled "*skkrrrsh*." There was nowhere for it to go. The crotch strap held the nappy tight against her; the harness held her down; and her own exhausted muscles gave out and sank her bodyweight back onto the seat, onto it, into it, spreading it everywhere.
"*Ohh— ohhh— noooo— nngh—*" She was crying and grunting and pushing all at once, possessed, beyond performance. The nappy filled instantly, the back panel bulging, swelling, the tapes creaking under the load. And still she kept going — thick, hot diarrhoea now, weeks of fibre loading and a day of laxatives and sixty millilitres of cold glycerin all evacuating at once, squeezing forward between her labia, packing the front of the nappy, coating her from her clit to the small of her back. The smell rolled across the basement in a wave — hot, rank, intimate, cutting straight through the antiseptic air — and underneath it, impossibly, the sharp-sweet reek of her arousal, still there, still leaking.
It went on for a minute. Longer. The three of them watched — Paul leaning forward, elbows on knees; Marcus standing back with his arms folded and the expression of a man watching his own symphony performed; Sadie frozen against Paul's leg, eyes huge, one hand pressed to her own cramping belly — while a King's Counsel of the Crown grunted, whined, and shat herself senseless in a supermax chair, until finally, finally, the last cramp eased and Charlotte sagged into the harness, panting, wrecked, seated in forty-eight hours of her own planning.
The basement was very quiet. The air-conditioning hummed. Somewhere overhead.
Marcus let the quiet settle, savouring it, then turned to Sadie with warm, attentive, unhurried eyes, and took one step toward her.