Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
The crowd chattered excitedly as scruffy figures dashed back and forth across the stage, setting down large objects draped in dust sheets. Thousands of people had gathered in what had once been a shopping centre, each wearing an item of sky-blue clothing to show their proud membership of the resistance.
The regime had fallen after a hellish struggle. Once the tyrant was dead, the rebels had been swift to round up and imprison the officers who had enforced the cruelty and restrictions of the ruling party. These lackeys and henchmen would stand trial and face imprisonment or banishment, depending on the severity of their crimes.
But there was a third group to bring to justice. A number of women had quickly abandoned their fellow rebels and jumped into bed with officers of the regime. No doubt this was for their own protection. They would step out with their lovers, looking on as their neighbours were beaten or imprisoned; their presence at these time allowed the officers to claim this was what the people wanted. Some would go further, pointing out those people they felt had wronged them and proposing them as punchbags. The same girls posed in their underwear for posters promoting the regime, simpering behind propaganda slogans.
Their attentions earned them party privileges like phones (something the masses had been banned from carrying) and they showed these off ostentatiously as those around them struggled. If a former neighbour confronted one of the traitors, the girl would whip out her phone and drum her long nails on the plastic, wondering aloud which penal officer she should call.
“Maybe Officer Harring? He’s very good with a steel whip. Or perhaps we need Officer DeCreuz. Nobody humiliates a dissident quite like him. I’ve seen him cut off a girl’s clothes in the market square and make her crawl home with her arse in the air…”
The neighbour would turn white and mumble that there was no need for all that. If they were fortunate, they would be allowed to apologise and walk away.
Some had stood up to these girls before and found out that the threats made were very real, and the officers in question took delight in carrying out the whimsies of their girlfriends. Worst of all: they were always done in full view of a large crowd, and anyone not in attendance would be up on stage the following week for a lesson in patriotic conduct.
The rebels had nominated Peter Lennox as their Master of Ceremonies for public displays. He was a rough-handed man with a clear voice and a wicked smile. Having been persecuted relentlessly by the prior regime, he was only too happy to spearhead the restorative justice programme.
Lennox nodded at his comrades as they worked, then addressed the crowd:
“Nearly ready, my friends. We have an excellent presentation today, and one I suspect many of you will find very satisfying. As you’re aware, we lost track of several of the young women who sold their souls to the tyrants who oppressed us. They got away from our volunteers and we assumed they’d crossed the border to evade justice, but good news! A chance encounter on the road led us to a hideout and we were able to arrest three of them! Thre girls who considered themselves too good to fight alongside us, and who relished our suffering as they snuggled in their officers’ beds.”
The crowd booed and stamped at the painful memory.
“That’s right,” said Lennox. “Today, we’re going to teach them a lesson in manners!”
The crowd cheered.
One of the younger rebels gave Lennox a thumbs-up.
“I believe we’re ready to go. First, a reminder of the captives and their misdeeds…”
A screen at the back of the stage lit up and a video began to play.
The screen showed a young woman in her early 30s, with curly brown hair and almond eyes, kicking a man as he howled on the ground. Suddenly she realised someone was filming her. She began pointing angrily and shouting at the videographer, demanding to know where he had acquired a camera, before the visuals cut out. The caption at the bottom of the screen read: “Grace Fenner”.
The second video, captioned “Fiona Brynn”, showed a young blonde woman in an expensive coat, walking into a small shop with three regime soldiers in tow. She instructed the men to empty the shelves into a set of boxes on wheels. The shopkeeper, another young woman, began screaming that this was looting, that the stock was her only source of income. When the woman in the expensive coat laughed, the shopkeeper ran at her, attacking her physically; clearly they knew each other. The film cut out, then resumed some time later, filmed from around a corner as two of the soldiers wheeled out the goods and the third man carried the struggling shopkeeper away.
The final video was captioned “Amethyst Dean”. The camera was mounted in someone’s breast pocket – clearly they were afraid of being discovered with contraband. A red-haired woman sat across the way, impassive. The man filming her asked where their wife had gone. The woman shrugged. The man grew angry, saying he knew the two women had quarrelled shortly before his wife disappeared. The redhead smiled to herself and said it was surprising to learn that the woman had been his wife, as she had been flirting with the rebel leader when the troops came into town. Then the redhead got up and left, warning him not to pursue her.
The crowd spat and hissed.
“Turncoats!” yelled one woman. “Scum!”
“Quite,” said Lennox. “I bet you’re wondering what possible punishment we could possibly mete out to these three. Assault with impunity, destroying their neighbours’ businesses for fun, slandering and handing over other women, knowing the rumours about the regime troops… “
“I’ll beat the daylights out of them!” yelled one woman. “I’ll do it for free, for what they did to my Heather!”
“I’ll join you,” said several more.
Lennox’s face grew serious.
“I understand your anger, but violence has been the language of the oppressor and violence will not be ours.”
The crowd grew restless.
“No,” said Lennox. “I proposed a different remedy to the senate and they agreed. One I hope will be equally just but no easier for the collaborators. We will not injure them physically, because we are not regime criminals. Instead we will attack their pride.”
“Bring them out!” he called, and his comrades marched out the three young women from the videos, their hands cuffed behind their backs.
The crowd, which had been so bloodthirstily angry, was silent for a second. Then one person sniggered and soon the whole throng was laughing at the spectacle.
The women were almost entirely naked, their breasts bared for the crowd’s entertainment. They toddled along on bare feet, blushing furiously at the whoops and uproar. Each girl had been forced into a thick disposable nappy.
One of them paused, looking out at the crowd in mortified horror, and her rebel guard swatted them on the back of the thighs, causing her to yelp. This made the crowd laugh even harder.
“Welcome back, ladies,” said Lennox. “I should probably say girls, since you look more like naughty little toddlers right now. Aren’t they adorable, comrades?”
The crowd made mocking kissy noises and coos, and the three women – Grace, Fiona and Amethyst – squirmed, unable to hide their ludicrous nappies.
“As you can see, it’s an unusual sentence,” said Lennox. “But then, these naughty little girls aren’t criminals in the same sense as their fascist boyfriends. These three thought only of themselves, took what they wanted and screamed when they didn’t get their way. What does that remind you of?”
“Babies!” shouted a girl from the crowd.
“Exactly!” said Lennox. “And we thought perhaps we might humiliate them as they have humiliated us, before attempting to raise them to be better behaved. What do you all think?”
The crowd cheered.
One of the three women, Fiona, could not contain herself. Livid, she wrestled her cuffed hands away from her guard and barked, “Shut up! All of you! We’ve done nothing wrong!”
A mixture of booing and laughter met her.
“Shut up!” she yelled. “You would have done exactly the same, but you witches were too ugly to get the troops to –”
Her volley was cut short by Lennox plopping a large pink dummy into her mouth, fastening it behind her head with a pink satin ribbon.
The crowd was in stitches as the furious girl was hoisted over her guard’s knee. The young rebel rubbed his hands with delight and ripped open Fiona’s nappy, revealing her bare bottom.
“Oh dear,” he pouted, as the crowd whistled sarcastically, “look like this naughty little girl needs a spanking.”
“That’s right!” chuckled a man in the crowd. “Give the baby a lovely rosy bottom!”
The young rebel tipped his cap to the crowd and delivered a hail of swats, resounding through the microphone.
Howling through her dummy gag, Fiona kicked and thrashed.
“Har-der! Har-der!” chanted the assembled.
The blows pelted down as Fiona began to sob.
“Now,” said Lennox. “I know we said no violence, but I don’t really feel a few taps on the bottom count as violence. Not like the kicking we saw in the video.”
When her spanking was over, Fiona, still cuffed, was held still while her Pampers were taped back up. Her nose had run down her blotchy red face and a trail of drool glinted down her chin. Her guard did nothing to remove the snot or dribble as she stood facing the crowd.
“Are we going to behave, little FiFi?” said Lennox, as though he were talking to a two-year-old. Fiona winced at the belittling nickname, then grudgingly nodded. The guard patted her bottom patronisingly as he guided her back into line, and tugged up the bottom of her nappy to show the audience her glowing red cheeks.
Grace and Amethyst looked at each other in dismay. But being cowards, they couldn’t help themselves.
“She made me do it!” they blurted in unison, pointing at each other, before beginning to argue.
“You blackmailed me! You forced me to see that soldier!”
“I did not, you lying slut! You made me go with you, then said you’d hand me over if I refused!”
Lennox turned to the crowd once more.
“Looks like our naughty little girls are blaming each other. How very babyish. And that language will have to go.”
He produced a bar of soap from his pocket and lathered up a cloth, handing it to Grace’s guard. Then he took out a second cloth and soaped that as well, passing it to Amethyst’s handler.
“Comrades,” he said, gesturing to the squabbling girls. The two guards grinned, took firm hold of their charges and thrust the cloths into the two girls’ mouths. The prisoners thrashed and spluttered as the soapy linen invaded their mouths, scrubbing teeth and tongue with the foul bubbles.
“Stoppuhh!” spat Amethyst. “Stoppuhhh rurrr nurrr!”
The citizens fell about as each tormentor twisted and bucked, failing to spit out the hated soapy cloth.
“Ughhhh!” barked Grace, flailing as the sickly taste filled her throat. “Uttthhh unbrrrable! Uthh…”
She froze for a second and her guard, surprised, froze too, his hand still mid-scrub.
The crowd quietened as Grace’s tear-filled eyes widened.
“What’s happening, comrade?” asked Lennox. Grace’s guard, holding her across his knee, whispered a reply. Lennox smiled.
“My friends,” he said, struggling not to laugh. “It appears little Gracie got a little too… animated when she got her mouth cleaned out…”
Grace remained paralysed, suds running down her face.
“… and she had a little accident in her nappy,” said Lennox, making a pouty ‘awww’ face.
The crowd gasped and a few Oh my Gods broke out.
“Awwww,” mocked one of the men in the audience. “Did Baby go wee-wee?”
“Awwwwwwwww,” the crowd teased.
Grace turned scarlet and came to life, spitting out the cloth and shouting between soapy coughs.
“Lies! These are LIES! (ugh!) I’m a grown woman and (ugh!) I have complete control! I don’t – “
Lennox coughed and gestured to the front of her nappy, where a cute pink indicator message had appeared, reading “Oopsy!”
This sent the audience into fits once more.
“She can’t stop lying, can she? Even when she’s wet herself!”
“Lucky her Huggies are here to tell the truth for her, eh?”
“Good job they put the little princess back in nappies. Maybe she needs some plastic pants over the top if she’s going to tinkle like that!”
Grace hacked and spat out more soap, and was about to launch into another furious tirade when a baby-blue dummy was shoved into her mouth and tied with a matching ribbon.
“Smile, Gracie!” called a man in the crowd, and the unmistakeable sound of a camera could be heard.
“THTOPPIT!” she lisped through her dummy, recognising the cameraman as the one she had betrayed to the regime.
“Aww, she can’t talk properly with her dumdum in,” he mocked, taking a dozen more pictures as Grace was carried back into line.
As she was wrangled into place, Lennox squeezed her soggy nappy.
“We’ll change little Gracie later,” he said to the crowd. “Who knows? We may even have a volunteer!”
Several hands flew up at once, and the MC chuckled.
“Check the other soapy-mouthed one!” called one young man. “She might have pissed her Pampers too!”
Amethyst, still retching from the soap, backed away.
“Don’t TOUCH me!” she burbled, spitting out foam and wrinkling her nose at the taste.
“But Ammykins,” said Lennox, scornfully, “We need to make sure you’re not wet like your friend.”
“I’m not!” said Amethyst. “And don’t talk to me like that! These other idiots might have given in and let you humiliate them, but I’m not playing your stupid game!”
“Sounds like someone is a bit grumpy. Perhaps we could give her something to take away the nasty taste,” said Lennox to the crowd, who whooped encouragement. He signalled to one of the men on stage, who brought across a baby bottle filled with milk.
“NO!” barked Amethyst. “I’m not hungry and I’m not drinking from a BOTTLE!”
“Hmm,” said Lennox. “Maybe you’re right. Something’s not quite right.”
He turned back to the second man. “Could you fetch the special food, please? And Ammy’s bib?”
“WHAT?” Amethyst’s jaw dropped. She turned to run, but found her arms pinned by yet another rebel, who whispered “Bon appetit, baby!”
The struggling traitor was held tightly while a frilly white bib was tied around her neck. It was embroidered with a cute building block showing the letter A.
The camera shutter clicked and clicked, documenting her humiliation.
“NNNNNNHHHH!” grimaced Amethyst as she tried to break away from her captors. “I WON’T!”
She clamped her mouth shut but Lennox’s strong fingers pinched her nose until, eventually, she gasped for air. That split-second was just long enough for a plastic device to be slipped into her mouth, holding it open.
“OK, shall we spoon-feed our sulky Ammy?” Lennox grinned at the crowd. The cheer was deafening.
He dug a plastic spoon into a bowl filled with mush and thrust it into Amethyst’s mouth.
“Urgghhhh!” she glubbed. It was horrible! But the device in her mouth stopped her spitting it out, and she was forced to swallow most of it.
Lennox made sure to smear some of the mush round her mouth. Some tumbled out onto her bib, making her look even more babyish.
More photos were taken.
“Messy little girl, isn’t she?” guaffawed a man in the crowd. “Explains her life choices. Little brat can’t even eat properly!”
“Maybe she needs the ‘choo-choo train routine’!” hooted a young woman.
Amethyst battled not to vomit all over herself, swallowing glob after glob of the horrible sludge. The green goo went all over her bib, spilled on the front of her nappy and splatted in her hair.
Finally the bowl was empty and, to her relief, the plastic wedge was removed from her mouth.
“All gone! Well done, Ammy!” praised Lennox, putting aside the bowl. “Now, you have a choice to make. You can either ask nicely for your baby bottle and show everyone here how well you can finish it… “
Amethyst snorted. She was NOT going to be doing that.
“… or you can have a second bowl of your special food!”
Amethyst gagged at the prospect. No. God, no more of that horrendous stuff… but… but…
Lennox held up a second bowl of gloop and scooped out a big helping, holding it closer and closer to Amethyst’s lips.
“Ugghhh, no more!” groaned Amethyst, her stomach churning.
“So what do we say?”
Amethyst’s cheeks blazed as the spoon crept nearer once again.
“Ugghhhhh, I’ll do the bottle. Fine!”
Lennox paused. “That’s not really good enough, is it? Ask like a sweet little girl who really, really wants her bottle.”
Amethyst winced, her top lip curling, and Lennox wasted no time, shoving a spoon of mush into her mouth.
“MMMMPHHH!” howled the captive, disgusted by the mouthful. The crowd were delighted to see her cringe and shudder in her messy bib and puffy nappy.
“Swallow, or you get the full bowl anyway,” warned Lennox. Amethyst forced it down.
“Now,” said Lennox, “shall we give our little Ammy one more chance to be good?”
Amethyst felt angry tears stream down her face as she closed her eyes and asked, “Please may I have my bottle?”
“Your baby bottle?” teased Lennox. “You want your milkies in your baby bottle?”
Amethyst stamped in frustration.
“Uggghhh. Yes… please. M-Milkies in my… baby bottle.”
Lennox produced the bottle, with its infantile design of teddies and hearts, and the guard fred Amethyst’s arms so she could hold it.
“There we go, Ammy! Be a good girl and finish your bottle for us.”
Amethyst looked at the bottle in disgust, gritted her teeth and tossed it to the ground.
The crowd held its breath.
Lennox hardly batted an eyelid. He nodded to the guard to seiz Amethyst once more as he took a seat on a crate his men had placed downstage. From there, he waved a hand to the guard. A second guard retrieved the bottle and handed it to Lennox as Amethyst was wrestled into a cradle position onto the leader’s lap. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and Lennox pinned her kicking legs between his own.
“Some little girls aren’t ready to feed themselves yet, are they?” he teased, pinching her cheek.
Amethyst spat in his face.
The crowd gasped, unsure what would happen, but Lennox calmly wiped the spit from his cheek, then unscrewed the top of the bottle and spat into it. He offered the bottle to every man onstage, to spit into, then fastened on the lid.
Amethyst shook her head, wailing “NO! NO, I WON’T DRINK THAT!” until Lennox sharply pulled the hairs by her temple and tipped her properly onto her back. Amethyst gasped with pain, then groaned as the rubber teat was rammed into her open mouth.
“A good girl would have had milkies to drink,” chided Lennox, “but Ammy here had to be a brat and spit, so she’s getting lots of lovely spit to drink. Num num, Ammy!”
Amethyst writhed in disgust, her nappy crinkling against Lennox’s knee as she was forced to suck down the spit-covered milk. When she finally came up for air, Lennox clasped her roughly to him, her head over his shoulder, and to her horror, she burped.
“Baby Ammy made all-gone, didn’t she?” said Lennox. “A yummy bottle, made by everyone here!”
Amethyst wanted to be sick, but staggered back to the Fiona with her spanked bottom and Grace with her clearly soaked Pampers, unable to meet either person’s eye.
Lennox thanked the crowd for coming to meet the three traitors in their new form.
“The girls will be staying in custody until the auction tomorrow night,” he said. “Please do come along and bid on one of our little handfuls.”
“What?” cried Amethyst, and the others protested from behind their dummies.
“That’s right,” said Lennox. “People will be bidding to take care of you and raise you properly this time. You’re going to be someone’s little treasure, to treat as they see fit. Maybe they’ll spank you. Maybe they’ll keep you little forever. Maybe they’ll parade you round the square like a precious little princess. Aren’t you lucky?”
And with that, they were taken to the cells.