Chapter 8
L ouisa
I lay in Jax’s arms, my body still trembling with aftershocks.
My mind felt foggy, disconnected from reality.
What had just happened? I’d been punished, humiliated, fucked…
and I’d loved it. I’d begged for it. I’d called him Daddy and asked permission to come.
I felt as if I might have thanked him for using me, if I had let myself.
What was happening to me?
“I can hear those wheels turning,” Jax murmured, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. “What are you thinking about, Little Lulu?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I was horrified by how much I’d enjoyed my own degradation. That would reveal too much, make me even more vulnerable. Instead, I chose a half-truth.
“I don’t understand why this is happening,” I whispered. “Why me? Why did you… you know… buy me?”
Jax shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His gray eyes were unreadable as they studied my face.
“Because you need this,” he said simply. “Because beneath all that defiance and bad behavior is a little girl who’s desperate for structure and discipline. For someone to take control and show her who she really is.”
I shook my head, refusing to accept his assessment. “That’s bullshit. You don’t know anything about me.”
His hand shot out, gripping my chin firmly. “Language, young lady. Do you want another session with the belt so soon?”
Fear and shameful anticipation fluttered in my stomach. “No, Daddy,” I whispered, hating how easily the title came to my lips now.
“Good girl,” he praised, releasing my chin to stroke my cheek.
“And I know far more about you than you think, Little Lulu. I know about your full scholarship. I know about your 3.9 GPA before everything fell apart last semester. I know about your parents in Michigan who haven’t heard from you in months. ”
A chill ran through me. “How could you possibly?—”
“I know you started selling for Charlie after that party in December where you took too much molly and woke up with no memory of what happened.” His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact, as he listed off details of my life that no stranger should know.
“I know you’ve been spiraling ever since, making increasingly self-destructive choices. ”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Stop it,” I pleaded.
“I know you hate yourself for what you’ve become,” he continued, his voice softening. “And that’s why you’re here, Little Lulu. To be saved from yourself.”
A sob escaped me before I could stop it. His words cut too close to the truth, exposing the raw guilt I’d been trying to bury beneath layers of defiance and bad decisions.
“Shh,” Jax soothed, pulling me against his chest. “It’s okay. You’ve been a very bad girl, but we’re going to get you back on track.”
Jax gently stroked my hair, then suddenly sat up. “Apartment: send Mateo to the master bedroom,” he called out to the empty air.
My body tensed. “What are you doing?” I asked, instinctively pulling the sheet up to cover myself.
“Time for you to see your own room,” Jax replied casually, as if summoning his bodyguard while I lay naked in his bed was perfectly normal.
Before I could protest, the bedroom door opened and Mateo walked in without hesitation. To my absolute mortification, he didn’t even blink at finding me naked beside his boss, just stood at attention waiting for instructions.
“Mateo,” Jax said, rising from the bed without any modesty, “show Little Lulu to her room and explain the house rules.” He gestured toward me dismissively. “She hasn’t earned her panties yet, so diaper her when you get her there.”
My mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered, clutching the sheet tighter.
Jax’s expression hardened. “I’m always serious about my little girl’s care. Mateo is fully trained to assist with your needs when Daddy is busy.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Be good for him. I have work to do.”
Blushing like the sun, I followed Mateo down the hall, my nakedness making my face burn as hot as my ass felt from Jax’s horrible belt.
He led me to a small room that made my stomach drop—it was decorated like a little girl’s bedroom, with pale pink walls and white furniture.
A twin bed with a ruffled comforter dominated one corner.
“This is your room, miss,” Mateo said professionally. “The bathroom is through that door.”
He pointed to a connecting door, then asked without any change in tone, “Do you need to use the facilities?”
My bladder did feel uncomfortably full after the pounding Jax had given me, but I felt reluctant to admit this to Mateo. The thought of using the bathroom with him watching was too humiliating to contemplate.
“Um, I’m fine,” I lied, shifting my weight uncomfortably.
Mateo’s expression remained neutral. “One of the most important rules you need to learn is that until you’ve earned more privileges, you must ask permission to use the toilet. Either Mr. Walton or one of the security staff will always supervise you.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“Very serious,” he replied. “Bathroom privileges are earned through good behavior. For now, you must be supervised at all times.”
I bit my lip, the pressure in my bladder becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. The humiliation of asking was overwhelming, but the alternative—having an accident in my diaper—would be worse in every way.
“I… I need to go,” I finally confessed, my voice barely audible.
Mateo nodded. “You need to ask properly, though.”
“Please, may I use the toilet?” I whispered, my voice trembling with humiliation.
Mateo nodded. “Yes, you may.”
Feeling faint with shame and need, I followed him into the adjoining bathroom. It was small, but well appointed, with the same childish pink décor as the bedroom. Mateo stood directly in front of the toilet, arms crossed, watching me with clinical detachment.
“Go ahead,” he instructed.
My hands shook as I sat down on the toilet.
I closed my eyes, trying desperately to pretend I was alone, but the awareness of Mateo’s unwavering gaze made it almost impossible to relax.
After what felt like an eternity, my body finally cooperated, and I began to pee.
The sound seemed obscenely loud in the small bathroom, and I wanted to die of embarrassment.
When I finished, Mateo handed me a damp washcloth. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he directed. “Especially between your legs, since your daddy used you this morning. Mr. Walton expects his property to be kept clean at all times.”
I took the cloth with trembling fingers, mortified at having to wipe my well-fucked pussy while this stranger watched.
Jax’s semen was still leaking from me, making the task even more humiliating.
Mateo observed with professional detachment as I cleaned myself, his eyes never leaving my most intimate areas.
“Turn around and bend over,” he instructed when I’d finished. “I need to make sure you’re properly clean.”
Swallowing hard, I obeyed, turning to face the wall and bending forward. I felt his clinical gaze on my exposed backside, still red and welted from Jax’s belt.
“Acceptable,” he finally pronounced. “Let’s get you diapered now.”
He led me back to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the white dresser. I watched in horror as he removed a thick cloth diaper, powder, and plastic pants.
“Lie down on the bed,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitated only briefly before complying, lying back on the childish comforter.
Mateo worked efficiently, sliding the thick diaper under my hips and sprinkling powder between my legs.
The scent of baby powder filled my nostrils as he brought the material up between my thighs and fastened it with the Velcro tabs.
The plastic pants followed, rustling loudly as he pulled them up my legs and settled them over the bulky diaper.
“There,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. “All done.”
I sat up gingerly, the thick padding forcing my thighs apart. The sensation was both infantilizing and a mortifying indication of my new status in this household.
“Can I have my phone?” I asked, hoping for some connection to the outside world, some way to contact help, even.
Mateo shook his head. “Mr. Walton believes phones are for big girls.” He gestured toward a small bookshelf beside the bed. “But there are plenty of books you can read when you’re alone in your room.”
I glanced at the shelf, my heart sinking as I took in the titles.
The Bobbsey Twins, The Borrowers, Beezus and Ramona, Georgia Jones— all children’s books, the kind a girl from half a century ago might have read when she was nine or ten years old.
Nothing that could possibly interest an adult woman or help me understand my situation better.
“What about TV?” I asked, desperately seeking any distraction from my reality.
“There’s no television in your room,” Mateo replied. “Entertainment privileges are earned through consistent good behavior. For now, reading is your only approved activity when alone.”
He moved to the window and gestured to the view of the city skyline. “The glass is reinforced and can’t be broken. The window only opens three inches for air circulation. The door will be locked when Mr. Walton or security staff is not with you.”
The clinical way he described my imprisonment made it somehow worse—like I was being given the orientation tour for a very bizarre hotel stay rather than being held captive.
“What time is it?” I asked, suddenly aware that I had no idea how long I’d been here or even what day it was.
Mateo glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s 9:07. Mr. Walton takes breakfast at ten. I’ll come for you then to bring you to breakfast with your daddy.”
I nodded numbly, struggling to process everything that had happened since last night. Had it only been hours since I’d walked into Walker’s apartment with Charlie? It felt like years.
“Any questions before I leave you?” Mateo asked, his tone suggesting he was simply completing a checklist rather than speaking to a human being.
I had a thousand questions, but most of them would reveal too much of my thoughts. Instead, I asked the one that seemed safest. “How long will I be here?”
Mateo’s expression remained carefully neutral. “That’s not for me to say. Your stay depends entirely on Mr. Walton’s assessment of your progress.”
With that, he moved toward the door, pausing only to add, “Remember, good behavior is rewarded. Bad behavior is punished swiftly and thoroughly.” He stepped into the hallway, the lock clicking into place behind him with a sound of terrible finality.
Alone at last, I sank back onto the bed, the thick diaper crinkling loudly beneath me. My fingers traced the plastic cover, the sound and sensation sending a thrill of embarrassment up my spine. My bottom still burned from Jax’s belt, and between my legs, I felt tender and used.
I should have been plotting my escape, searching for weaknesses in their security, or at least figuring out how to contact someone for help.
Instead, I found myself reaching for one of the books— The Secret Steps , a Georgia Jones mystery—and, once I’d started reading, I was quickly engrossed.
Something about the crazy forced regression to childhood Jax had imposed on me seemed to make what I read about Georgia Jones, girl detective, seem strangely, urgently compelling.
It almost seemed like I could experience something new this way, from reading about growing up in a different time—a time that seemed very long ago.
As if I could find a better way to grow up through children’s literature.
The story seemed very anachronistic in relation to my high-tech dystopian world, and yet I felt like there was something essential that remained from Georgia Jones’s world, a way to be a kind of young woman that I hadn’t even known existed.
Then, to my embarrassment, I found that I had just read the same paragraph three or four times, while letting a fantasy play out in my mind: a different kind of Georgia Jones story, about an eighteen-year-old version of Georgia.