Feeling thoroughly refreshed, and quite sleepy, I lay within a big canopied bed. It was the kind of bed little girls dream of. I know I had, when I was little, dreaming of lying in such a bed awaiting my knight, who would come and do to me whatever it is men do to women when they love them.

Yet, despite such a sumptuous place of repose, with its light, airy curtains pulled back, yet hiding me behind their pulled back folds, leaving just a vee through which a visitor might see me, I felt anxious. I rolled on my belly. With some difficulty I drew my head toward my knees, and finally erected myself upon them. I gazed out through the window. There was a window in the room, behind a thick curtain that I’d mistaken, at first, for part of the wall. It was a large Mayan tapestry. Embroidered upon it were girls hiking upmountain to be sacrificed, their bodies so young and slender, virginal. With them went their guide, hidden behind an Indian mask with many Chieftain’s feathers in it. Joanne and Sylvia had pulled the curtain back to let me watch the sunrise. In the distance, the sky reddened. Watching it, I let my bottom cheeks draw in. I wondered how long I could avoid having a derriere the color of the sunrise.

Finishing my bath, the girls had drawn me out and toweled me with a kind of introspective curiosity. They patted me down carefully with a big, soft towel.

“You have such fine skin,” Sylvia, the nurse, the one for whom a branding was in store, told me. She seemed a little like a doctor evaluating a patient. She scared me, yet she was very considerate, very kind. She studied my bottom, though I tried to twist away. She parted my cheeks and looked within, ignoring my squirmings. She studied my hole.

A hope was dawning within me, even as I watched the sun until it became too bright for my eyes, that Polly and I would just play here, being children really, and never having to submit to men unless we truly wished to. But how would that make us grown-ups? We’d still be little brats when we left, picking and choosing, doing or not, entirely as we pleased, and suffering no consequences. It would hardly train us to be mothers, with morning sickness, blood tests, birthing, nursing, and all the other motherly chores. Yet, the night had passed and, exhausting as it had been, It had been less than I faced at Abandon Gardens, or with Max. Perhaps Rose was simply too sweet to really test it. I must admit, I’d be grateful to her if that were the case. Yet, if Louis, my lover, was really calling the shots, I could not believe that he’d let me (or, wicked man that he was, little Polly) content ourselves with limo rides and visits to saloons.

After my bath Joanne and Sylvia had seated me on a bidet. They told me I’d be cleansed here after fucking. There was a small porcelain ledge at the back of the bidet on which I was able to rest the outermost cheeks of my bottom. The rest, joining with my thighs, was left free, so that water could be forced into my privates. There was no need for that now. Joanne and Sylvia had me lift my legs up and rest them on the opposite sides of the bidet. They knelt on either side of me and painted my toenails for me. Then they drew out my hands and did my fingernails. Finally, using a makeup kit, they pencilled my eyelashes, put lipstick on me, and brushed and fixed my hair. My blonde locks were piled atop my head so that all of my slender back could be seen. A few locks dangled down before my eyes. They did not bother to discipline those. They said they made me look pretty.

Prepared in this most exacting way for bed, I was taken out to the place where I would sleep. It was the same room as before, but now the canopy had been put upon the bed, by unknown servants. I gasped when I saw it. The girls just smiled. Sylvia patted my bottom and urged me toward the bed. When my knees bumped the side of it they stopped me. Joanne pulled back the bedcovers and Sylvia turned me around and had me sit down on the edge of the bed. Or, rather, had me scoot myself up onto it. The bed was high. When I sat on it I found my feet dangling over the floor. I could not touch it.

Joanne brought a pair of manacles from the dresser beside the bed. They’d lain within a drawer, hidden. Now she slipped them over my wrists, giving one to Sylvia, so that each of them confined one of my arms in the steel. It was light, like Mithril, as if drawn by dwarves from the depths of Middle-Earth. I’d read that book by Tolkien, when I was little. I liked the hobbits in it.

I flexed my arms and looked at my new bracelets. There were hooks in them so they could be locked together.

“What are these for?” I asked.

“You must wear them as a guest here,” Sylvia said softly to me. I shifted my bottom on the cool sheets of the bed. I looked at her hands.

“Where are yours?” I asked. She had none, nor did Joanne.

Sylvia pointed to a metal bracelet round her upper arm. My eyes widened. I saw that both she and Joanne were ‘equipped,’ as one might say, with bracelets halfway between their shoulders and elbows. And the bracelets had the same lockets on them as mine did. Their arms, if clipped together, would be pulled back so far it promised instant pain. Their bodies would be grotesquely distorted, their bosoms thrust out like obscene melons. Their arms, drawn tightly behind, would make them appear like prisoners at some medieval trial. Then I saw little chains dangling down from the outside of each metal armband, and I realized that the chains would provide a little relief, giving each girl a few inches of play between her otherwise immobile arms.

Joanne stretched out her arm and displayed the manacle on it. “Yes,” she said, sensing my thoughts. “It would be cruel for my lover to bind my arms using the lockets on the inside of my bracelets, locking each bracelet to the other. Fortunately, he chooses only to attach the two chains, locking their ends together.” She pulled her arms behind herself to imitate how she would look in such an uncompromising position. Her breasts lifted, her nipples, excited, stuck out with female hardness. Sylvia burst out laughing, looking at her friend, and Joanne could not hold the position and instead fell into giggles.

“That’s terrible,” I gasped.

“It’s advanced training,” Sylvia said. “You needn’t worry about it now. You’ll get only what your lover orders for you. And Rose insists that a girl be broken in through stages. She doesn’t believe in giving a girl more than she can handle.”

“Though what Joanne believes a girl can handle may still be more than the girl herself thinks she can handle. Much more,” Joanne added, obviously a bit less sanguine about a female’s prospects at the castle.

“Don’t scare her,” Sylvia told Joanne. “Women are quite strong and hardy. It’s nonsense, all this delicacy stuff.” She lifted her own arm and examined the bracelet round it. She toyed with the little chain a moment. I wondered if she relished being bound, and hoped to be used that way again soon. Sylvia was tawny, like a lioness. I got the feeling she’d broken so many hearts in her life that she longed to be paid back. Obviously she’d chosen a lover who was not unwilling to give her her wish.

Joanne got a leather collar from the dresser drawer. I’d been stripped completely of everything before getting in the bath. Joanne took the new collar, obviously meant for a dog, and buckled it tightly around my throat. She placed a finger within its grip and tested its hold.

“Swallow,” Joanne told me. I did. The collar, though tight, did not keep me from taking in air or gulping.

“Good,” Joanne said. “I’m glad it fits.”

“Why are there rings hanging down from it?” I asked. There were two, one in front and one in back.

“That’s what we’re going to show you right now,” Joanne smiled. As if simply performing an experiment, they lifted my arms up and crossed my wrists behind my neck. I felt my bosoms gain height, like twin marshmallows being hung up on the sticks of my ribs. My nipples lengthened and felt ever more sensitive as I realized how utterly helpless I was with my wrists caught behind my neck. And then, before I could object, Sylvia and Joanne swiftly buckled my self-latching wristlets into the ring at the back of my collar.

“What??!” I blurted. Joanne and Sylvia each gave a soft laugh, as if remembering past days of their lives. Joanne took her hands from my neck and lightly flicked one of my nipples. Sylvia, always more intrusive, cupped my breasts and weighed them in her palms. Was I being given a forced mammography?

“You look so sweet,” Sylvia said at last. That was hardly a medical response. “Lift up your heels. Put them right up on the bed.” Sylvia took one of my small feet and drew it up and placed it, wiggling toes and all, beside my bottom. I resisted, but her grip was firm and uncompromising. Joanne raised up my other leg. Sitting with my arms bound behind me, and my cunt displayed, the twin girls put manacles similar to those on my wrists on my ankles.

“There. Now lie back,” Sylvia told me. I was pushed onto my back as Joanne opened the curtain behind me, letting in the first budding rays of dawn.

“Happy dreams,” Joanne said to me, and she and Sylvia left me there, bare, my breasts wobbling like jello on my chest, my hands raised and bolted behind my neck. For a moment I lay there stunned, my tummy rising and falling in soft indrawn swells, in time with my breaths, my knees bent and my feet firmly planted on the sheets; barefoot, naked, perfectly made up, with my only ‘clothing’ wristlets, anklets, and a dog’s collar. Finally, to regain just a little of my modesty, if I could, I lay my legs flat against the bed. The girls were gone, the door shut firmly behind them. I’d heard them lock it as they departed.

I was alone. My lover knew I was here, Rose knew I was here, but where were they? Were they making love someplace, the two of them, perhaps in some perverse desire to teach me to share? I felt my blood rise. Where was Polly? I guessed, knew I was right. She was in a bed just like this one, in some other room, bound just as I was. I saw in my mind’s eyes her small tennis-ball breasts jiggling nervously on her chest. She might be crying, perhaps, missing her morning cartoons. XuXa would perform her songs this morning without her. Mr. Rogers would show off the fish in his fishtank without Polly’s eyes avidly tracking their tails. She said she just watched him for his fish, though I knew otherwise. I kidded her once that she’d learnt from Mr. Rogers that she couldn’t flush herself down the potty. She’d flung her bra at me for that. Right in public. She was wearing a little vest, in a club, and she’d slipped her bra off, me thinking the joke was past, its damage done, when suddenly she’d used her bra like boys use their towels in a locker room. I’d had to dodge her as, again and again, she tried to whip me by using her training bra as a whip.

Her breasts were bigger now. They’d grown fast since she met Andre. Perhaps he’d inspired them.

I let my eyelids grow heavy with sleep. I had long lashes. They obscured the rising sun. Kneeling before the sun, facing it as it rose, my bed soft beneath my knees, I let its light bathe me. New light, virgin light, the first direct rays of the dawn. They shafted through the window and illuminated my body as if I were an angel in the presence of the lord. If only my arms weren’t pinioned behind my neck, I’d have thought I was in heaven. Without realizing it, I fell into an exhausted sleep, and tumbled down onto the bed’s down-filled pillows.

Soft hands awoke me. I looked up, startled. Where was I? Sylvia beamed down at me. Her bosoms hung heavy, compressed a little, like tulip bulbs, by her dress that was not a dress. It was a different color now. The other had been green. This one was red.

Joanne was dressed identically to Sylvia. Carefully, attentive to the stiffness of my arms, they lifted me up and turned me round so that I faced the window. It was afternoon. I saw the tops of green trees. Birds, keen in their mating and nesting, were flitting about the branches, looking for bug-morsels to feed to their young.

As Sylvia stroked my bottom with her hand, Joanne positioned me on my knees under a chain that hung down, isolated, from the ceiling. It plunged through the roof of the bed’s canopy, and was bound round a wooden post that held it in place. I’d wondered at it, been too sleepy to ask of it’s purpose. Now I found out. My wristlets were drawn back, taking my head with them, so that I was hooked to the base of this post. I felt like a cow being hung up in a slaughterhouse. My bosoms wobbled uncertainly on my chest. What was to happen to me?

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I squeaked. Certainly they’d let me down for that. Joanne giggled. Sylvia unfolded a pair of cloth baby diapers. As I watched, immobile and horrified, the twin girls fitted the diapers to my loins. They even used real safety pins. I drew in my breath, fearing they might stick me with them. They did not. Perhaps that would have been better.

“There. When you need to pee, you won’t have to run to the potty now,” Sylvia said with a devilish little laugh. She patted my diapered behind.

“But I have to go NOW!” I blurted. And I did, too. A full night’s worth of pee had accumulated in my bladder.

“Good! Then we must hurry and get you downstairs for it,” Sylvia answered. She and Joanne unhooked me from the post but did not bother to undo my wrists from the back of my head. They gave me no shoes. On our way past the dresser, Joanne fetched a pacifier from its drawer and stuck it between my lips.

“Wasth thisth for?” I burbled over the intruding nipples.

“Babykins must be good. Suck on your pacifier,” Joanne told me. She had a mother’s concern in her voice, as if company were coming for which I must be very good.

I tripped down the grand central staircase at the front of the house, with Joanne and Sylvia steadying me as we went. I was so scared! What was to happen to me? They led me barefoot and diapered into the same sitting room Polly and I had met Rose in the night before. She was sitting there now, decked out in a formal dress, and Polly was there too!

“Poolly!” I lisped over the indwelling nipple of my pacifier. She spoke my name in response, no more concisely, for she was dressed just like me. I saw she was sitting between two men, both of them dressed in tuxes, with a small square of plastic under her bottom to, I feared, protect the couch from her pee.

She appeared dry as yet. But, like me, she was wiggling, obviously having to go. She held a teacup in one hand. Steam wafted from it. In her other hand Polly held a croissant. I saw she’d taken a bite from it. Perhaps her new lovers had held her pacifier for her to allow her to do it. They were able-bodied men, business men who obviously did a regular workout to stay fit. They held coffeecups. They seemed much more relaxed than Polly. I doubted they had to go like she did, or me.

“Good morning, Fleury. Did you have a nice sleep?” Rose asked me brightly. Her face was powdered. She wore a little too much makeup, I thought. Was that a bruise on her right cheek? I couldn’t tell. If it was, she’d covered it well. Who had done it to her? Louis? I had no idea.

I found myself facing two men on a loveseat. A small square of plastic sat between them, as if awaiting my bottom. Joanne and Sylvia greeted the men, turned me around, and sat me down between them. Immediately one of the men caressed my back, and petted my slightly mussed hair, as if to restore it. The other man frankly fondled my breasts. I was utterly unable to stop them. I had a pacifier jammed in my mouth and my arms were still uplifted and locked by my hands to the back of my neck.

The first man, taking his hand from my head, put it between my thighs and spread them apart.

“Fleury,” Rose said to me. “Louis wanted you to meet two of his friends. They’re business associates.”

Our maid from the night before, the woman with too many clothes, her dress and her girdle and her stockings all rustling and rubbing together, brought me tea on a tray. There was a selection of croissants as well, some with jelly inside.

The man who was so free with my breasts undid my hands. I drew them gratefully from behind my neck and stretched out my arms. I turned them, looked at them, all the while the Mexican woman with the tray waiting for me to select my choice of pastry.

My other male lover, or perhaps I should call him simply my newest male acquaintance, removed my pacifier from my mouth. My tongue slid out between my lips with my pacifier. A string of saliva ran from my tongue to the pacifier’s nipple, breaking finally as he drew the baby toy away.

“Have something to eat,” the man said to me. The maid urged her tray closer.

“I really couldn’t,” I protested. I put a hand to my tummy. “I really do have to go,” I said, looking past the maid at Rose.

“Take a pastry, dear, and then we’ll talk about your more pressing needs,” Rose told me. Reluctantly I obeyed. I reached out a faltering hand, picked up a teacup, wavered with my other hand over the icing-laced crescents.

“Pick one of the jelly ones! They’re gooood!” Polly exclaimed. I looked up. One of her male lovers was holding her pacifier for her. As soon as she’d spoken she lustily bit into her croissant. Some of the jelly inside it squirted out onto her cheek. Quickly her lover took out his handkerchief from his tux and wiped the jelly away. It was a crisp, new handkerchief, carefully folded, which he now opened to wipe her mouth. Polly seemed not to notice. She bit into her croissant again, clearly enjoying it. Then she lifted her teacup daintily to her chin, holding it just so, with her little finger extended, and sipped in some tea to help her swallow the pastry.

I picked a cinnamon croissant. I knew I’d like the spiciness of it, mixed with, of course, plenty of sugar. I bit into it. Yes, very delicious. It tasted as if it had been baked right here, at the castle, perhaps by this very maid herself, slaving over the hot stove out back where we’d found clothes for our little trip into town. My two male lovers watched me eat my croissant. The maid offered them seconds. They declined.

“Now girls, we have four men here whose wives are home pregnant,” Rose said. Her voice was direct and simple in its tone. “As you might imagine, men know nothing about babies. And they, babies I mean, are such delicate creatures. Yet in the 90’s men are expected to feed babies, and wash them, and of course to diaper them. That’s why I decided to dress you up this way this morning. These men need practise. You’re young enough to still look babyish,” (at this Polly frowned, her cheeks bulging with pastry) “yet not quite so delicate as a real baby. I want you both to enjoy conversing with these friends of your lovers. Enjoy them. They certainly enjoy you. And please, when you have to go, just pee right in your diapers. Then the men can change them for you, and learn how to do it properly.”

I just about spluttered out my tea at hearing that! I was supposed to piss right into my diapers, here on this nice couch, and then be changed? I guess I’d somehow expected something else, though it was hard to say what, now that I thought about it. A square of plastic under me, two men leaning in toward me, and me in diapers. Yep. I guess that meant I had to pee in public. God, I detested the thought of it. Last night had been one thing, with my own boyfriend, on a children’s potty. But to actually pee on myself? That was too much.

“Rose,” I said, speaking over my tea and my pastry. “It really is too much. I don’t want to have to pee in these diapers! I mean, okay, I look cute and all, but to actually wet them?”

“I have to go REALLY bad now,” Polly declared, feeling the effects of all the tea she was drinking.

“Wet your diapers, dears,” Rose told us. “It’s the only way these men will learn. You can hardly blame them. What boy would ever be allowed to babysit like we girls do, and learn how to change diapers when he’s a teen? No, boys grow to manhood without ever learning the skills we women do. Now it’s time, their wives are pregnant, and they can hardly learn properly on a woman who’s big with child. It just wouldn’t be the same. And, you know, we wouldn’t want them fumbling their own child, in the middle of Sears or Pennies or something. Babies don’t look too good when dropped off the diapering table. They need to start out with a larger babykins, one that’s a size they can handle. So, I figured, a woman would be too big, a baby too small, but a 13-year-old girl, that would be about just right.” She laughed at her soliloquy. “Piss, darlings. I’ll sound like Lady Macbeth in a minute!”

“Ooooh! I can’t hold it!” Polly announced. One of the men beside her had begun to lightly tickle her belly. It’s smooth flesh shivered, sending her breasts jiggling, and I saw a wet spot begin to appear in her crotch. I think the sight of it inspired me.

“Oh!” I cried. I looked down, holding my tea aloft, trying so hard to look proper despite my nudity. In my other hand my croissant wavered, half-eaten, my mouth watering for more. Too late! I felt a quick outrunning between my thighs and knew my battle with my bladder had been lost. I watched as the wet spot within the vee of my thighs grew larger and more vivid. Yes, I’d wet myself, just like a baby.

I looked up at the men beside me as I felt my bladder continue to piss out my pee. It was so silly, sitting here, looking at these two strangers as I wet the diapers that served as my panties.

“Oh, I can’t stop it!” Polly lamented.

“Don’t, dear,” Rose told her. “Let it all squirt out. You’ll feel much better, and the men will get their training.”