I looked up, alarmed. “Guests? Will they… know about…” I gestured vaguely at my diapered state.
“They’ll know exactly what you are to me,” he confirmed. “You’ll be properly dressed and will conduct yourself as my well-behaved little girl. Any embarrassment or disobedience will be dealt with severely, in front of our guests if necessary.”
The threat hung in the air between us. I nodded again, unable to form words as anxiety coiled in my stomach.
After breakfast, Rudy escorted me back to my room, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he waited for me to enter. I hesitated at the threshold, fidgeting with the top of my diaper.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, my voice softer than I’d intended. The words came easier this time, the humiliation less acute.
Rudy nodded, his expression professionally neutral. “Of course, miss.”
In the bathroom, he efficiently unfastened my diaper, his movements clinical and impersonal. As the thick padding fell away, I realized with a start that I wasn’t trembling with shame anymore. The routine was becoming familiar—almost normal. The thought disturbed me more than the actual experience.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I sat on the toilet, no longer needing to close my eyes while he watched.
When had this happened? When had I started accepting this invasion of privacy as just another part of my new life?
After using the toilet and cleaning myself under Rudy’s watchful eye, I let him re-diaper me before I returned to my room and picked up the Georgia Jones book again. Rudy locked the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the adventures of a teenage detective from another era.
I lost myself in the story for about an hour, the simple narrative providing a welcome escape from my complicated reality. When Rudy returned, I was deep into a chapter where Georgia was investigating an abandoned mansion.
“Mr. Walton wants you in the gym,” he announced, opening a drawer and removing what looked like a pair of pink athletic shoes and a sports bra to match. “These should fit you.”
I set the book aside. “Do I get, you know, actual workout clothes?”
Rudy shook his head. “Not necessary for today’s session.”
In the hallway, I followed him to an elevator I hadn’t seen before. We descended one floor, then walked down another corridor until we reached a set of double doors. Rudy pushed them open to reveal a state-of-the-art private gymnasium with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
“Remove your diaper,” Rudy instructed, his tone matter-of-fact. “Mr. Walton prefers you exercise unencumbered.”
I stared at him, momentarily forgetting my new resolve to play along. “You want me to work out naked?”
“Those are my instructions. Nothing but the bra and the shoes.” His expression remained impassive, professional.
I hesitated, then slowly removed the diaper, feeling strangely vulnerable without the bulky padding I’d come to associate with my new identity. Rudy took it from me and dropped it in a bin near the door.
“We’ll start with a five-minute cardio warm-up on the treadmill,” he said, guiding me toward the machine. “Then bodyweight circuits. Mr. Walton wants you in peak physical condition.”
I climbed onto the treadmill, acutely aware of my nudity except for the bra, which seemed to make my nakedness from waist to knees even more embarrassing.
As the treadmill started its gentle warm-up pace, I couldn’t help wondering what Georgia Jones would think about this situation. The prim and proper teenage detective from my childhood books, working out basically naked while a huge, muscular man watched her every move? The thought seemed so incongruous it almost made me laugh, despite my humiliation.
But then my mind wandered down a darker path. What if Georgia’s new husband—the one from my earlier fantasy—had specific ideas about her fitness regime? What if he’d told her personal trainer that he was allowed certain… liberties with his new bride?
I imagined Georgia, innocent and shy, being informed by her husband that her personal trainer would be helping her ‘release tension’ after workouts. Her protests silenced with a stern look and a reminder that she’d promised to obey.
The fantasy grew more vivid as I ran. Georgia, reluctantly following her trainer’s instructions to get on her yoga mat. The muscular man positioning her on her hands and knees, face down, ass up. Her husband sitting in a leather chair across the gym, watching with cool detachment as the trainer dropped his shorts and positioned himself behind the young bride.
“Your husband wants you to learn to please different men,” the trainer would tell her as he thrust inside, making Georgia cry out in shock and unwanted pleasure. “He’s training you to be the perfect little fuck toy.”
And Georgia’s husband would just watch, maybe sipping whiskey, as another man used his wife, his property, his little girl…
I nearly stumbled on the treadmill as I realized where my thoughts had gone. What was wrong with me? Why was I fantasizing about this?
Even worse, I found myself stealing glances at Rudy as he stood nearby, monitoring my workout. His muscles strained against his tight black t-shirt, powerful thighs evident beneath his tactical pants. Would Jax—my daddy—ever share me with his men? The thought sent an unexpected thrill through my body that I couldn’t entirely suppress.
“Increase the pace,” Rudy instructed, reaching past me to adjust the treadmill settings. His arm brushed mine, and I felt a jolt of awareness at the contact.
