New day, new life

I stared at the screen. I should have been devastated. I should have been planning my disappearance. But as I watched the video—watched the way my diaper crinkled under Krista’s hand, watched the way my small, strange breasts looked so vulnerable—I felt a surge of desire. I reached down, sliding my hand inside the waistband of the diaper.

"Oh... oh yes," I whimpered.

The school's response was swift. I was fired, of course. But because of a strange, archaic clause in my contract related to the endowment my father had left the university, they couldn't simply kick me out. They offered me a "rehabilitation" path. If I wanted to keep my pension and my standing within the academic community, I had to enroll as a student. I had to complete a semester of "behavioral readjustment" under the supervision of a senior faculty member.

That faculty member was Ximena.

Ximena taught History of the Mediterranean, and she had hated me since the day I joined the staff. She was a woman of sharp angles and sharper wit, a traditionalist who viewed my gothic aesthetic as an insult to the profession.

On Monday morning, I stood outside her classroom. Per the "rehabilitation agreement" drafted by the board—and heavily influenced by Krista—I was required to dress in a manner that reflected my "true nature.”

I wore my usual black skinny jeans and Joy Division shirt, high black boots and sunglasses. I was stripped of everything.

I ended up wearing nothing but the white kids panties my step mom still bought for me. They had disney princesses printed on them and they were so tight I looked like a muffin.

It was a new one, my ginger hair was brushed flat, a simple headband holding it back. My small, tubular breasts with huge areolas and giant nipples were bare. My nipples went hard in the cold hallway air.