My jaw ached. The cramp had thankfully subsided but a dull continuing pain remained. Opening and closing it felt sore, my tongue felt swollen and my cheeks kept reminding me how little they were used to this treatment.
I sobbed and wished for it to be over. This wasn't what I'd wanted. Horrible pain isn't my thing, around my mouth or my loins. They were sore too, but not aching. This was a different pain, the telltale signs of a rash in need of treatment.
The rash itched, but I couldn't scratch it. My hands were secure, comfortably by my thighs, my elbows slightly bent, enough movement to avoid them getting cramp too. That at least I'd got right.
I shifted my bottom, but had nowhere to go. The straps holding me to the seat were designed for race drivers, padded and comfortable but very strong, fastened securely beyond the reach of my hands. I'd added some trimmings, a strip of pink lace down the centre to make them prettier and a thick wide strap the race drivers didn't need, pulled up tight between my legs.
That's how babies are secured, and like a baby, I was well diapered. Not that you could easily tell, my diaper covered by pink woolly tights, themselves underneath short dungarees. With my hair in two bunches, pretty ribbons matching the tights, I looked a baby too, just bigger.
Squirming didn't help the rash, probably made it worse. I'd lost track of the time, didn't know how many hours ago I'd first wet myself. I couldn't even remember how many times. The diaper was well past its capacity but I'd planned ahead, multiple layers under elasticated plastic, my thighs held well apart even without the strap. It wouldn't leak.
It also wouldn't let me manage the other itch. Despite the aching, the soreness, the rash, being forced to sit there, wet myself again and again, despite the degrading act that I had to repeat before I could get free, I'd succeeded: my body definitely responded to this. Unfortunately lots of padding, no source of stimulus, fingers too far away to help meant that I couldn't even offset the pain that way.
I tried emptying my bladder again, yet more nourishment for the rash assailing me. I'd put myself in the situation that I'd have to wet myself, had fantasised being forced like this, but no longer wanted it. I'd been too efficient though, too effective in setting myself up, and now needed the room inside so that I could drink more.
I blame my coffee machine. I was fascinated that it knew when it needed its water tank refilling, an electronic message that it was empty. Investigating I'd found a simple mechanism, a floating magnet that triggered a relay, changed the flow of electricity through the machine's circuits, made the message appear.
Online I found water container with the same mechanism built in, bare wires allowing integration to whatever machine you were building. I'm not good with electronics or woodwork but it proved simple to nail some wood into a basic frame, screw this chair onto it, fitted the straps and put the water tank behind the chair, where I couldn't see it. The wires I hooked up to another online purchase, electromagnetic locks that fail safe: if the power cuts, they open.
Those locks were why I couldn't move my hands much. I'd used leather wrist restraints, padded and comfortable but tight enough that I couldn't slip free, attached by short chains to the electromagnetic locks. I was stuck here, sat in my now wet diaper until the water tank was empty or the power cut out. We hadn't had a power cut for three years.
I could have made this work by fitting a simple tube to the tank, sucking its contents through that until the liquid level dropped, released the locks. That's how I tested it, a pint of water quickly sucked up, the locks clicking open as designed. I'd celebrated and filled the tank with blackcurrant squash. It tastes nicer than simple water, but also stains anything it's spilled on.
That was to stop me trying to cheat, suck up the liquid and spit it out. I'd placed the whole contraption on my favourite rug, an expensive purchase, easily ruined by spilled liquids. I'd also put down piles of clothing, almost everything white I owned; if that liquid went anywhere other than inside me it was going to get very expensive, very fast.
Getting it inside me was why my jaw ached. Merely being forced to wet myself was degrading but not humiliating enough for this fantasy. I wanted to feel entirely debased and, many hours later, I'd hit rock bottom. Now that I'd wet again I could drink some more, so leaned forward, opened wide and wrapped my lips around the improvised straw I'd created. It had started as a sex toy, a plastic replica of, well, a man. I'd removed the bulb intended to squirt a liquid in a flimsy facsimile of ejaculation and attached the tube from my water tank instead. Now sucking on it fed me blackcurrent squash, tasty but never-ending, constantly leaving me full and bloated.
I'd made it harder for myself too. No gentle kiss on the tip to draw liquid through this pipe. I'd cut two holes part way down the shaft, over three inches from the end. If I didn't seal these they'd act as air inlets, preventing me sucking any liquid at all. So I had to take that much into my mouth each time, extending my jaw but closing my lips, forming a seal so that I could suck.
Had it been a pint or two I'd have finished it quickly, enjoyed the experience, escaped. I knew that wouldn't be enough though, nowhere near enough to fill my bladder, force me to use the diaper. I needed enough liquid to fill me up, force me to wait until it had passed through me before I could drink some more, start again. The tank was large enough for this, it was advertised as holding ten litres.
I hadn't filled it, didn't want any struggling in the chair to make it slosh and spill. I'd filled it enough though, the effort needed to suck squash from it enough to make me pause, tired and sore before I was full the first time. I'd sat there, amazed that I'd just spent an hour worshipping a plastic phallus, sucking away like I was being paid for it, consuming everything it gave to me. My hands still held in place I knew I'd have to do it again, keep sucking, my mouth full the whole time.
Wetting myself the first time had been fun, knowing it was unavoidable, an erotic charge from the act. I still felt full though, had sat watching the TV, the remote sensibly in reach of my hand.
I felt ready for more, filled my mouth once again, filled my stomach once again. This time my bladder filled quicker too, and emptying it still felt naughty.
Not now. Now I was too sore. I'd fallen asleep in tears, not knowing how far through the tank I was, just knowing that everything hurt, that I had a rash that would take days to heal, that this was no longer erotic. My fantasy had become a nightmare, one that I woke up to find still continued.
I did have a choice. I'd been sensible, kept a back-up plan available. My cleaner was due to arrive later, had her own key, would find me if I wasn't already free. I didn't think she'd appreciate that, knew that I wouldn't. I cried some more, stretched my mouth and took that hateful device deep inside once more, so adult an act with so childish an outcome. Maybe I'd finish this time, before I was full once more, wet myself yet again. Maybe.