Sweet and the Arrival of Nanny

The clock on the kitchen wall seemed to count down the seconds like hammer blows. Sarah had less than an hour before her life ended. She wiped the cold tears from her face and took a deep breath. The fear was there, paralyzing, but the anger burned hotter. If she was going to hell, she was taking Emily’s plastic dignity with her.

​Sarah knew where her mother kept the "transition" medications. She ran to the cabinet and grabbed a dark glass bottle: Free Flow: Clinical Grade. It was an industrial-strength laxative, used only in **** cases for people who had severe psychological blocks and couldn't use their diapers in public. The recommended dose was three drops.

​Sarah poured half the bottle into the chocolate brownie batter she was preparing—Emily’s favorite.

​The smell of baking chocolate filled the house, masking the tension and the chemical scent of the medicine. Just as she pulled the tray from the oven, Emily waddled into the kitchen, still shaking her hips in her noisy neon diaper, humming a pop song.

​"Making a farewell snack?" Emily mocked, leaning against the counter and making the plastic of her Stardust crinkle loudly. "I didn't think prisoners got to eat chocolate."

​"It's a peace offering," Sarah lied, forcing a sad smile as she cut a generous, still-warm slice. "I accept it, Emily. Mom is right. I'm not mature. You won. Enjoy your maturity."

​Emily’s vanity was greater than her suspicion. She took the plate, her eyes gleaming.

"At least you admitted it," Emily said, devouring the brownie in a few bites. "Mmm, this is great. Maybe at the Reformatory, they'll teach you to cook for important people."

​Sarah watched every chew with grim satisfaction. Free Flow took about twenty minutes to kick in, and when it did, there would be no warning. It would be violent.

​At that exact moment, the doorbell rang.

​It wasn’t a normal ring. It was a long, insistent, authoritative buzz.

​Emily’s smile faltered for a second, but she continued to lick the chocolate from her fingers. Eleanor appeared in the hallway, pale but composed, smoothing her own clothes before opening the main door.

​"We have been waiting," Eleanor said, with a submissive voice Sarah had never heard before.

​The figure that stepped into the living room made the temperature in the house drop ten degrees.

​It was a tall, heavy-set woman with a severe face that looked carved from stone. She wore a classic Victorian maid's uniform: a black dress, a pristine white apron, and a starched cap. But what stole all the attention was her silhouette.

​Beneath the short skirt of her uniform, she sported a colossal diaper.

​It wasn't like Eleanor’s social diapers or Emily’s patterned ones. It was a stark white, clinical piece, immensely thick and wide, designed not for comfort, but for intimidation. The bulk was so massive that it **** the woman to walk with a bowed-leg stance, a heavy, rhythmic stride that announced her power. That volume screamed that she didn't just have permission to use diapers, but that she lived in them, that she was the ultimate authority on control and release.

​She didn’t look at Eleanor. Her cold eyes swept the room and landed on Sarah.

​"I am Nanny," the woman said. Her voice was soft but loaded with a veiled threat, like a teacher speaking to a naughty child. "I have been informed that there is a baby here who refuses to be potty trained. Where is the little incontinent one?"

​Emily, who was finishing the last piece of the brownie, let out a nervous giggle at the sight of Nanny’s imposing figure. But suddenly, the laughter died.

​A loud, audible, gurgling rumble echoed through the kitchen. It didn't come from Sarah.

​It came from Emily’s stomach.

​Sarah looked at her sister and saw Emily’s face turn a pale green. The laxative was starting to work, and Nanny, with her gigantic diaper and eagle eyes, was standing right in front of them.