"Quack Therapy: A Session of Self-Control"

You sit across from Brayden in his office, the kind of room that smells faintly of chamomile tea and old leather-bound books stacked haphazardly on a shelf shaped like a wonky elephant trunk—his attempt at making therapy feel less like a sterile cage and more like a quirky safari adventure. Your legs swing idly under the chair, too short to touch the floor, and you chew on the end of your pen, smirking at him as he jots notes. "Self-control," he says for the umpteenth time this session, his voice steady, almost paternal. "Emily, it's about boundaries. You can't just snap at people when things don't go your way. Imagine if everyone acted like a toddler in a candy store."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, the soft fabric of your skirt riding up just a bit on your chubby thighs. "Yeah, yeah, Dr. Boring. I'm not a kid. I can handle myself." But deep down, you know he's right—your bratty outbursts have landed you here, court-mandated sessions after that blowup at work. You're twenty-five, for fuck's sake, but sometimes you feel like you're still throwing tantrums. The session drags on, him probing about your impulses, you deflecting with sarcasm. Finally, he glances at the clock. "That's time for today. We'll pick up next week."

You hop up, grabbing your bag from the floor, bending over without a second thought. The skirt hikes up, exposing the padded bulk beneath, the faint outline of those silly ducky prints peeking out. You don't notice his eyes lingering, don't see the way his gaze sharpens, a slow smile curling his lips as he watches the curve of your ass, all soft and encased in that childish secret. It hits him like a gut punch—your vulnerability, the way it screams for control he could provide. His cock twitches in his slacks, a rush of heat flooding him. He shifts in his chair, composing himself as you straighten up and saunter out with a flippant wave. "See ya, Doc. Try not to miss me too much."

The week blurs by in a haze of takeout and Netflix binges, your mind wandering back to Brayden's calm authority more than you'd admit. By the next session, you're fidgety, smoothing your skirt as you settle into the chair. He doesn't waste time on small talk today. His eyes lock onto yours, serious, probing. "Emily, we need to talk about what I saw as you were leaving last week."

You blink, confused, tilting your head. "What? I didn't do anything. You mean that stupid pen I dropped? Or are you just making shit up to fill the hour?"

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. "No, Emily. I didn't realize your issue with self-control was so bad you can't even control your bladder." The words hang there, and realization crashes over you like cold water. He saw. The diaper. Those goddamn duckies you'd slipped into because, fuck, sometimes you just leak a little after a long day, and it's embarrassing but practical. Your cheeks burn crimson, heat spreading down your neck to your chest. You squirm, crossing your legs tighter. "You... you didn't. That's private!"

Brayden doesn't flinch, his expression a mix of concern and something darker, more commanding. "It's relevant to our work here. Self-control starts with honesty. Now, Emily, show me what's under your skirt today." His tone leaves no room for argument, and to your surprise, your body responds before your brain does. You hesitate, heart pounding, then part your knees just enough, lifting the hem of your skirt to reveal white cotton panties, simple and snug against your full hips, the fabric clinging to the slight dampness you hadn't even acknowledged.

"Good girl," he murmurs, but there's no praise in it, just assessment. "And let me check." Before you can protest, his hand is there, warm and firm, cupping your panty-covered pussy. His fingers squeeze gently, pressing into the soft folds through the thin cotton, and you gasp, a jolt of electricity shooting up your spine. The touch is clinical at first, but it lingers, his palm grinding subtly against your clit as he feels the growing wetness seeping through. "Just as I thought. Wet. Already? Emily, why did you think you could manage big girl panties? Clearly, you're not ready for them."

You whimper, thighs trembling, but you don't pull away. His hand stays right there, possessive, as he continues, his thumb circling lazily over the damp spot. "Look at you, leaking like this. It's clear you need external discipline at this moment—you're not capable of self-discipline on your own." The words sink in, humiliating and intoxicating, your pussy clenching under his grip. Fuck, why does it feel so good? The cotton is soaked now, outlining every curve, and you can feel your arousal dripping, making his fingers slick even through the fabric.

"I... I thought I could try," you mumble, voice small, but he shakes his head, squeezing harder, sending a spark of pleasure-pain through you.

"No more trying without guidance. Over my knee, Emily. Now. So I can spank you for wearing panties instead of your diapers." It's not a request. Your body moves on autopilot, the bratty fire in you flickering out under his command. You drape yourself over his lap, skirt flipped up, ass exposed in those wet panties. The position is vulnerable, your chubby cheeks spilling out, and you feel his thigh tense beneath you. His hand comes down first— a sharp smack on your right cheek, the sting blooming hot and immediate. You yelp, "Ow, fuck, that hurts!"

"Language," he says calmly, delivering another to the left, harder this time, the slap echoing in the quirky office. He alternates, methodically, each spank building the burn, your skin turning pink then red under the thin cotton. His free hand holds your lower back, keeping you steady, while the spanking one explores between strikes—fingers dipping under the leg band to tug the panties aside, exposing your bare ass fully. "This is for thinking you could hide from me. For not owning your needs." Smack. The pain mixes with the throb in your pussy, still slick from his earlier touch, and you grind subtly against his leg, chasing friction.

By the tenth spank, you're sobbing softly, ass on fire, but the heat pools low in your belly, arousal dripping down your thighs. He pauses, rubbing the reddened flesh, his touch soothing yet teasing, fingers brushing your soaked slit. "There. Lesson one." He helps you up, but instead of letting you sit, he points to the corner. "Stand there, red bottom on display. Skirt up, panties down. I need to ready the supplies for the rest of your treatment."

Humiliation floods you, but you obey, waddling to the corner with your panties around your ankles, skirt bunched at your waist. Your ass stings in the cool air, pussy exposed and aching, clit swollen and begging. You hear him rustling behind you, the door opening and closing softly. Minutes stretch, your mind racing with embarrassment and need—fuck, you're so turned on you could cry. Finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Emily, turn around. It's time for more immersion treatment."

You pivot, panties still down, and freeze. There's another man there—tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. David, Brayden introduces him. "David and his wife are going to take you in for a while, care for you as their adult baby. I'll continue seeing you weekly to check on your progress and administer discipline." Your mouth drops open, a mix of shock and illicit thrill surging through you. David's gaze rakes over your exposed body, lingering on your red ass and glistening pussy, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Brayden's filled me in," David says, voice warm but firm. "We'll get you settled at home. Regression therapy—it's intensive, but effective for cases like yours." Brayden nods, gesturing to a bag on the desk filled with supplies: diapers with more of those ducky prints, powder, wipes, even a pacifier and a bottle. "David, I've gotten all the supplies you need to begin Emily's regression. If you'd like to get her ready to take home."

David steps forward, and you back up instinctively, but Brayden's there, a hand on your shoulder. "Be good," he warns. David kneels, efficient and gentle, pulling your panties off completely and tossing them aside. "Let's see how wet you really are." His fingers part your folds, two slipping inside your pussy without preamble, curling against your walls. You moan, loud and needy, as he pumps them slowly, thumb on your clit. "Dripping. No wonder you need this." He withdraws, slick fingers holding up the evidence, then grabs a diaper from the bag.

You stand there, legs spread, as he powders your mound, the cool talc dusting your sensitive skin, making you shiver. His touch is clinical yet teasing, fingers grazing your clit as he tapes the diaper on, the padding snug against your soaked pussy, absorbing the wetness immediately. It crinkles as you shift, a constant reminder. "There," he says, patting your padded crotch. "All set. Let's get you home."

The drive to David's house is a blur of awkward silence and building anticipation. You sit in the back, the diaper crinkling with every bump, your ass still smarting from the spanking. David's wife, Lena, greets you at the door—a curvy woman with sharp eyes and a mischievous grin, dressed in a simple sundress that hugs her ample breasts. "Oh, she's adorable," Lena coos, circling you like you're a new pet. "Come on, little one. Time to settle in."

Their home is a converted Victorian with a nursery wing—crib big enough for an adult, changing table stocked with lotions and toys, walls painted in soft pastels but with hidden hooks for restraints that make your pulse race. They waste no time. Lena leads you to the changing table, stripping you down fully, your chubby body exposed under the bright lights. Your tits heave with each breath, nipples hardening in the air, pussy throbbing beneath the diaper. "Arms up," she commands, slipping a soft onesie over you—pink, with snaps at the crotch for easy access. David watches, adjusting the bulge in his pants.

"First, we need to check your progress," Lena says, laying you back on the padded table. She unsnaps the onesie, peels open the diaper, and spreads your legs wide. Your pussy is on full display, lips puffy and slick, clit peeking out. "Look at this messy girl." Her fingers dive in, three now, stretching you as she fucks you with them, slow and deep. You arch, moaning, "Fuck, please..." but she shushes you with a pacifier, popping it into your mouth. The suction calms you even as she works your g-spot, her other hand pinching your nipple.

David joins, his cock out now—thick, veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Suck," he orders, guiding it to your lips around the paci. You obey, the rubber and his dick filling your mouth, tasting salty skin as you bob your head. Lena's fingers speed up, curling relentlessly, and you feel the orgasm building, your muffled cries vibrating against David's shaft. She adds her thumb to your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you shatter—squirting hard, juices soaking her hand and the open diaper beneath you. Waves of pleasure crash over you, body convulsing as David groans, pulling out to stroke himself, hot cum splattering your tits.

They clean you up tenderly, powdering and re-diapering you, but the night doesn't end there. Dinner is in a high chair, pureed food spooned into your mouth while they tease you—David's hand slipping under the tray to rub your padded pussy through the diaper, building you up again without release. "Not yet, baby," he whispers. Bedtime brings the crib, but they climb in with you, a tangle of bodies. Lena strips, her full breasts pressing against your back as she grinds her wet pussy against your ass, fingers sneaking into your diaper to finger-fuck you. David takes your mouth again, then flips you, unsnapping the onesie to tear open the diaper tapes.

His cock presses against your entrance, thick head nudging your folds. "Ready for Daddy?" he growls, and you nod frantically, paci falling out. He thrusts in, filling you completely, the stretch burning sweet as he pounds deep. Lena watches, masturbating, then straddles your face, her pussy dripping onto your tongue. You lick eagerly, tasting her musk, sucking her clit as David rails you, his balls slapping your ass. The rhythm builds—his cock hitting your cervix, Lena grinding harder—and you cum again, clenching around him, milking his release. He pulls out at the last second, creaming your padded mound, hot spurts mixing with your wetness.

The weeks blend into a haze of regression and release. Weekly sessions with Brayden reinforce it—spankings over his knee, his fingers or cock inside you as "discipline," always ending with you diapered and sent back to David and Lena. They expand the play: bondage in the nursery, wrists tied to the crib bars as they take turns eating your pussy until you squirt endlessly; anal training with plugs while you nurse from Lena's tits, her milk fantasy making you suckle hard; group sessions where Brayden joins, double-penetrating you with David while Lena rides your face.

But it's not just sex—it's care. They cuddle you after, bottle-feeding you warm milk, rocking you to sleep. Your bratty edges soften; you learn control through surrender, impulses checked by their structure. One night, after a particularly intense threesome—Brayden fucking your ass while David takes your pussy, Lena's strap-on in your mouth—you lie spent, bodies entwined. "I think she's ready," Brayden says softly, stroking your hair.

You sit up, diaper crinkling, a sly smile on your lips. "Ready? Doc, if this is progress, sign me up for life. But next time, make it ducks with attitude—none of this cutesy shit." They laugh, pulling you close, and for the first time, you feel truly held, your self-control blooming not from force, but from the filthy, freeing trust you've built. The sessions continue, but now you're the one bending them to your whims, a brat reformed but never tamed.