When I get in the door he puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me over to the bench, he sits me down, then onto my back, legs bent, and starts removing my shoes, tights, underwear. In another universe this would be a prelude to sex, and in a way, it is. He encourages me, with soft, soothing words, like you'd use to a child, to lift up my bottom, manoeuvre around, so that he can fix a thick disposable nappy, made thicker with extra padding, on to me. He dusts me with talcum powder then tapes it firmly into place with rather incongruous silver gaffa tape. I already feel weird. Uncomfortable in the padding, uncomfortable with my body enclosed like this, not entirely sure where this is going. Then the final, horrible touch: plastic waterproof pink bloomers that come up high on my stomach and reach down my thighs. He pulls my skirt down, smooths it in place and heIps me back up, holding me against the mirror so we can both see the bulk of it, under my skirt. He touches the padding, patting it a few times. I wrinkle my nose in disgust at my inflated bottom and duck waddle gait and he grins. He hands me some money to go to the shop. I pause, then accept with a resigned, downturned look. He lifts up my chin and kisses me, full and deep. A "proper" kiss of the sort I don't get very often and I know I should pause and enjoy the moment, kiss him back, but my mind is whirling, heart racing. I don't want to go outside like this. And yet, I also do. I want to see what will happen, to see what it will be like.
"This is like sex for me." He says, and I don't really get it. I get that he's excited, but the feeling isn't really mutual beyond a response to his excitement. Mostly I feel a bit silly. What I definitely don't feel, is sexy.
Once outside, I think a bit more about how I do feel. My feelings are quite complex. There's the response to the nappies themselves, which give me reminders of hospitals, fear of physical degeneration - it's always age, illness decrepitude and senility that adult nappies put me in mind of, rather than infantilisation. I don't want to be, and have never felt like a baby when in them. I feel like me, forced into something awful. It's an ugly thing, bulky and awkward. Awkward too, the thoughts that come with it, body consciousness, erosion of attractiveness and sexuality. But there are other thoughts, as I walk down the (mercifully) dark street towards the off-licence. The waddle is also a bit of a wiggle, the padding has given me a bigger, curvier bottom and the bulk between my legs forces me into a different gait. My skirt has slits down the side and I'm uncertain as to whether the ghastly pink plastic pants can be seen as I move. That turns into the desire to be seen, which is where my exhibitionist streak runs roughshod over any sense of embarrassment, as I remind myself of the many ridiculous things I have chosen to do in public, and this is a choice. Whilst I have not picked my own attire I have chosen to do what he wants. I wiggle a bit more, wondering if the passers-bye catch a glimpse of the plastic, wondering what they think, wondering if they will make eye-contact, perhaps say something. Grinning to myself about what I might say.
It's over in a few minutes, even some conspicuous leg shifting in the shop failed to get anyone to notice, and I walk back without incident, smiling to myself. On return, there is a flurry of "good girl", smiles, tea, biscuits and curling up on the sofa. My fingers wrapping around his as I lean against his shoulder and snuggle up to him. Content.
I want to take a moment and draw a line between two types of humiliation. The first is a sense of discomfort within oneself, the second a sense of discomfort that arises from social situations. In this respect, embarrassment can occur when you are by yourself, whereas humiliation requires other parties and, crucially, is a guilty or otherwise awkward response arising from the social approbation of others. This distinction is fairly important to me (maybe not so much for others, I'd be interested in hearing about that) partly because of my exhibitionist fetish, which can work in tandem with "public humiliation" and turn it into more of a potential thrill, as with the walk to the shop, and also because the sense of discomfort about myself is far stronger than a sense of discomfort given to me from someone else. I can often brush the latter away because of my submissive state - I'm in this position because someone has put me in this position, it's no fault of mine etc.
As the evening wore on, I thought about the sexuality of humiliation. It doesn't work for me merely because it turns my partner on and I find his desire sexy - though that sparks my interest in trying and is a natural draw. There is the D/s aspect of control, particularly control over the body and those bits of us we normally consider private. The nappy acts as a chastity device. This can create a sense of intimacy, of trust and through that a connection. When I'm doing something difficult, feel like I am really submitting in instances like this - I am clearly being made to do something I don't want to do (although compulsion is a little strong given I acquiesced without only a couple of half-hearted whines of complaint on the way it made me look). I am submitting to his will. I am allowing him to do something to me that makes me feel uncomfortable. So I get to be submissive, which fortunately for me, is a sexual thrill, like the exhibitionism. Titillation. It was embarrassing, in the classical sense of it being a disruption of my own composure (from the french embarrasser meaning to block or obstruct).
So far, so good, so thoughtful. But then it came time to go to sleep. As anyone who has ever possessed a bladder knows, there is a relief in urinating, especially when you really need to go. And once we went to bed, I really did. But I couldn't. I then endured several hours of extraordinary frustration. I knew that the nappy would keep me dry and so assumed that I would find it pretty easy just to piss when I wanted to. Yet I didn't. There was no constraint upon me not to: Captain was actively encouraging it, reminding me to relax, stroking my skin and hair. I had this immense pressure in my stomach area and the clenched muscles and heightened sensitivity around my labia was, in a very real sense, sexual. I could feel his hard-on against my body, he was playing lightly with my nipple piercings and I was definitely turned on. My legs and arms hand tensed up in the same fashion as the build-up to orgasm, with all the attendant difficulties. No amount of relaxing, tensing, cat-napping, breathing exercises or sheer bloody mindedness seemed to work. I was very upset with myself, starting to feel like a failure and cursing my body no end. At certain points I began to be confused as to which I was actually trying to do as either would have been a release at that point, and I was bitterly confounded by my body's apparent refusal to "let go", which in turn not only made me feel more physically uncomfortable, but also as if I was holding back for an unknown reason.
Eventually, he encouraged me to get out of bed and squat on the floor, stroking my hair whilst I was finally able to piss. The warm wetness flooded around me, then was absorbed by the material, which got noticeably heavier. There was a definite - almost defiant - sexuality in pissing, though, the connection to orgasm was very strong. It was quite liberating, as well as powerful. I entertained thoughts of pissing on someone, on their naked back, into their mouth, to mark them as mine. The nappy didn't exactly support those fantasies, but the sensation of finally urinating worked for me irrespective of the coverings. He broke through this reverie, hammering the humiliation home by demanding I refer to it as "pee pee" when informing him that I'd finally managed to do it, which did make me feel silly, bringing a rush of colour to my cheeks, followed by a bit of a giggle. The relief was overwhelming, in more senses than one, not least being able to climb into bed and fall asleep.