He tried to see the clock but she had turned it away from his direction.  He had no idea how long it had been, how long he had been in her world.  The world he could never have imagined; a world that hurt.

“Come here!” she had said.

She had caught him looking at her, looking at her over the wall as she dropped the towel she had been hanging on the line.

“Did you look at my bottom, when I bent to pick it up? Did you look at my knickers?” She glared at him in his red face silence. The blush was his answer.

“I see. In that case, follow me!” She commanded.

He probably could have run, but he didn’t.  Even now, with his bottom spanked and locked into a nappy, he did not know why he had not fled.  Why he had instead followed the tall, elegant lady into her house and – when she turned and told him that if he had seen her knickers she should see his –  he had just dumbly and obediently undid his trousers and let them drop.  They had soon come off, as had his underpants, before she sat on a chair and pulled him over her lap.

It had seemed an age, that first time.  But the little clock on the shelf had reported only half an hour.  Ten minutes from her hand, ten from her brush, and then ten more from the hard, wooden paddle that had cracked loudly in the quiet house – echoed only by his howls of anguish.

The spanking had changed him.  It had left him docile and surrendered to her, so much so that he followed her upstairs to be dressed as ‘the cheeky school girl you seem to want to be’, and locked into a thick nappy – in which he was then kept until eventually, and while singing nursery songs for her amusement, he lost control and wet himself – as she watched.

“Dirty little girls who wet their nappy get spanked,” she told him, leading him back downstairs to her chair.  “But they get a much harder spanking than cheeky boys.”  She was true to her word, every minute of it.  He spent much longer across her lap, and even when he started crying it made no difference – if anything it made her spank him harder.  It almost seemed as if she enjoyed making him suffer and from the comments she made, it was clear that she believed severe punishment was good for him.

Indeed, when afterwards she put him back into a nappy, she also rubbed heat cream all over his bottom and between his legs, causing him to soon be squirming and squealing in anguish – something that seemed to amuse her as she led him to the corner where he was made to stand with his hands on his head and back of his school gymslip pinned up so that his wriggling nappy was on show.

She sat on her sofa and watched him.  “Keep your bottom still”, she said, “or I shall cane you!”

He tried to keep still, but he had wet himself again, and the wetness had made the heat cream spread throughout his nappy – every bit felt like it was on fire. So stopping was impossible. But he knew she wanted to cane him and on some level, somewhere inside him, he wanted her to.  He wanted to do whatever made her happy, no matter how much he suffered or how humiliating it was.

Or even how long it lasted – for he had already realised, he never wanted to leave.