Lottie Again

Originally written for HenryHiggins

Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):

I sat on my bed, knees drawn up to my chest, and stared at my posters. Tattooed guitarists, lyrics, pictures of Che. None of them could help me now.

It had been Amanda’s idea to steal the makeup. She was mischievous in a way I’d never been before, and I loved the excitement of hanging out with her. Since I’d come to live with my uncle while Mum had been ill, I’d been lonely for friends my own age, so I went along with anything Amanda said. When she nodded to the mascara and fixed me with her lined eyes, I knew this was a kind of test.

I’d slipped it into my bag, my heart pounding, and walked to the exit as evenly as I could. The alarm didn’t sound, thank god, but as my first foot left the shop, I felt a large hand on my shoulder. Busted.

The worst of it was that it was a local shop. We hadn’t even targeted a chain that could afford to lose stock. This was Beckett’s, the ‘everything’ shop on the corner. Which meant Mr B was able to march me straight home to Uncle Andrew.

Uncle Andrew made me sit on a stool in the corner while Mr Beckett explained the situation. I couldn’t make out their words, but as the volume of Mr B’s voice came down, I knew Uncle Andrew had smoothed things over. Eventually, Mr B had to return to the shop, and my uncle turned to face me.

“Well, Charlotte. That wasn’t very clever, was it?”

I mumbled something and shook my head.

“Mr Beckett was very keen to go to the police, you know.”

I looked up, horrified. “Seriously? For a stupid tube of mascara?”

Uncle Andrew stood up and walked across to my stool. “It’s the principle of the thing, Charlotte. He’s sick of shoplifters coming in and taking from him. You can understand that.”

“I guess.”

He sighed. “I’m supposed to be looking after you and making sure you stay out of trouble. But I’ve a good mind to take you to the police station myself.”

My throat went dry. “Please don’t!”

“No? It’s exactly what a shoplifter deserves.”

“Please! Mum will kill me!”

He paused for a moment. “Lucky for you, Mr Beckett was happy to let me deal with this in my own way. You see, I think you lack discipline. Your Mum being ill means you’ve grown up a little too fast for my liking.”

“What’s going to happen?” I asked.

Uncle Andrew smiled. “I’m going to discipline you, and we’re going to have a new routine to make sure you’re going at the right pace. Understood?”

“What if I don’t like it?” I could feel my neck itching. Something wasn’t being said here.

“No problem,” said Uncle Andrew . “Then we take a nice little trip to the police station, as Mr Beckett suggested, and get you a criminal record. It’s your choice.”

I nodded glumly. “I don’t want to go to the police.”

“Wise girl. Right, then. Let’s get some rules in place.”

“Am I grounded?” I asked, thinking about Tom Bradshaw’s party on Saturday.

Uncle Andrew laughed. “You might wish you were. OK, go to your room for now.”

I obeyed, stomped upstairs and threw myself on the bed. Stupid Amanda. Stupid Mr Beckett. In spite of the daylight, I found myself drowsy, and was woken up hours later by a knock at the door, and my uncle’s voice.

“Lottie! Wake up and come to the spare bedroom when you’re ready.”

Lottie? I hadn’t been called that since I was a toddler.

“Whuh – ok, but why…” I mumbled, and slid out of bed, pulling on my jeans.

When I got to the spare bedroom, the door was shut, but there was a strangely familiar scent. I couldn’t place it. It occurred to me to knock before entering.

“Ah” said my uncle, as I shuffled in. “What a polite little girl! I hope you had a good nap.”

Little girl? What?

The spare room was laid out strangely. An old massage table of my aunt’s had been set up in the centre, with a towel on it. A small hostess trolley was parked beside it, its contents covered with a cloth.

“What are we doing here?” I asked my uncle, yawning. “I thought I was being punished. Do you want my iPhone off me or anything? Only I might need it back because Amanda’s calling me at three.”

My uncle waited until I’d finished, before explaining.

“The way I see it, Lottie -”

“Charlotte,” I grumbled.

“Ah-ah! I think a grown-up name like Charlotte belongs to the sort of girl who doesn’t steal things to impress her friends. Do you agree?”

“What?” I rolled my eyes. “I guess, but -”

“And who doesn’t get huffy at the drop of a hat,” he finished. “And since your behaviour suggests you have some re-growing-up to do, you’re going to be Lottie for a little while.”

I frowned and wrinkled my nose. Fine, I thought. Let’s get this over with.

“Now, these clothes are not suitable, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Andrew. “Take them off, please.”

“What’s wrong with these?” I complained, looking at my Black Sabbath tee shirt and paint-splashed jeans.

“Take them off, please,” repeated Uncle Andrew. “Big Girl clothes aren’t allowed for now. You’ll have to earn them by showing me what a well-behaved little girl you are.”

“What am I supposed to wear, then?”

“We’ll come onto that. Off!”

I shook my head. It was embarrassing enough to have to answer to Lottie. I wasn’t getting naked in front of my uncle.

“Little girls don’t need to be modest,” said my uncle. I shook my head again, and quick as a flash, he grabbed my hand. Whipping out a wooden ruler, he brought it down on my palm with a crack.

Fireworks went off in my head and I shrieked with pain.

“What the hell? Jesus!” I clutched my hand to my chest and peered at its redness.

“That’s a taster. If you disobey me during your punishment, I will spank you. And as you just found out, that can really hurt. Now take off your clothes. You can put them in the trunk in the corner.”

“In front of you?”

“What did I just say about being modest? Do you want me to take them off for you?”

No way! I shook my head hurriedly.

“Good. Because if I have to do it, you’re going to get a cane stroke for every item I have to remove.”

I swore under my breath and yanked off my tee shirt to reveal my torn black bra. Then I wriggled out of my jeans, throwing them into the corner trunk. Next came my socks. I paused, in my bra and panties, as my uncle watched me.

“Off with them,” he said, drawing a thin rattan cane from a stand by his hip. “Otherwise that’s two strokes.”

“Yeah, but can’t I go -” I began to protest. Uncle Andrew was having none of it.

“It looks like our little Lottie doesn’t even know how to undress herself yet. I’m going to have to help, it seems.”

He took me again by the wrist and deftly swung me over his knee, trapping my legs with his own.

“No!” I yelled, reaching back, but he pinned my arm in place. With his free hand he began to tug down my knickers, so my bare bottom was exposed to him. I felt my face grow hot and wished so badly that it was over.

“Now, because you’re making me take down your panties one-handed, you’re getting an extra stroke,” he said calmly.

I wriggled and whimpered. The ruler on the hand had been bad enough. Please, no!

“Three. Count them,” he instructed.

SWACK! The first stroke came down.

I cried out in pain. It burned and spread across my cheeks, as though he’d used a hot poker, instead of a cane.

“Count it.”

“One! One!”

“One what?”

“I don’t know!” My brain was full of the sensations from the cane, the switchboard lit up for panic stations.

“One, thank you Sir,” he prompted.

Seriously? Oh God, but if I didn’t want to make this worse…

“One, thank you Sir.”

“Good girl.”



A pause.

“Two, thank you Sir.”


OhGodohGodohGod! it was agony! But I didn’t want any extra strokes, so I managed to spit out my words.

“Th-three, thank you. Sir.”

“Good girl. Now stand up.”

I stood up, panties around my knees, and tried to cover myself. He raised an eyebrow and I put my hands to my sides, blushing furiously.

“Are we going to take off our clothes like a good girl, or would you like some more of the cane?”

I hurriedly stripped off my panties and bra, and stood there, trying to keep a little dignity.

“Very good!” Uncle smiled and led me over to the massage table. “Now hop up on here.”

I did so, noticing both the coldness of the faux leather on my back as I lay down and the sweet smell from earlier. 

“Now then,” said Uncle. “This is a very serious case, Lottie. Shoplifting is a crime and is not something big girls should do. I think we need to re-educate you a little, so you don’t do it again. Agreed?”

My bottom throbbed. I nodded.

Uncle removed the cloth from the trolley beside the massage table, and I realised exactly what I’d been smelling.

The hostess trolley was neatly laid out with bottles and materials. It took me a moment to take it in. Baby oil, baby powder, wipes and a stack of white disposable nappies.

I sprang up. “NO!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not putting me in a nappy!”

“Yes I am, Lottie.”

“Charlotte! It’s Charlotte! And NO!”

“Would you like me to go to the police?”

“No!” My eyes widened at the thought. “Gah – but this isn’t FAIR!”

“Well,” said my Uncle. “How about you prove to me that you’re a big girl? You can be Charlotte, and we’ll see if you can take a dozen strokes of the cane without moving out of position. If you manage it, that’s your punishment done. If not, we can conclude you’re actually better as little Lottie for now, and you’ll dress accordingly until I say otherwise.”

Oh God, that cane. But there was no way he was going to diaper me. No way in hell. I had to accept his challenge.

“Fine! Give me your best shot!”

My uncle smiled. “Brave girl. Bend over and touch your toes.”

Naked, I padded over and held on to my ankles. Somewhere a window was open, and a breeze cooled my existing stripes. OK, just 12 to get through and we’d be done. Maybe I could even go call for Amanda this evening.

Uncle picked up the cane and stepped to one side, drawing it gently across my skin. He tapped it and I twitched. Then he brought it down with a swish and a swack.

I willed myself to stay in position, but shook and screeked to process the pain.


“Well taken and well remembered,” he acknowledged, and returned to lightly tapping my bottom with the rattan.





I was in agony. My bottom was on fire and I felt giddy from the pain. No more!



I couldn’t take any more. I really couldn’t, but I had to try. The alternative was mortifying.




At the sixth stroke, my body mutinied, and I sprang away from the cane, rubbing my striped behind.

I looked up, defeated, to see Uncle smiling.

“Up on the table, please. Lottie.”

I paused. He swished the cane. I got up on the table.

Uncle inspected me as I lay there, trying not to think, and I felt my cheeks go scarlet once again.

“Too much hair for a little girl, I think,” he said, fetching a bowl full of warm water. Inside the bowl was a razor. Uncle squeezed some shaving foam onto his hand and began to rub it into my pubic curls.

I blushed even brighter as he carefully shaved away my hair, leaving a soft, vulnerable little mound. Just like a little girl’s.

“Good girl,” he said, putting the bowl aside. “Now you’re ready.”

He bent my knees, exposing my pussy. Then he took a wipe from the trolley and deftly cleaned me up. This was followed by a splash of baby oil and powder. I was aware how completely I smelled like a baby. Thank God nobody else was here.

Finally, he took a disposable nappy from the stack and unfolded it.

“Legs up,” he commanded.

I hesitated, the baby oil wet between my legs. I couldn’t – he couldn’t –

But the memory of the cane was still fresh and I gritted my teeth and lifted my legs. He slid the bulky nappy underneath my bottom, and it rustled loudly and unmistakeably. Then he pulled it up between my legs and taped it shut at the sides.

I hung my head, beaten. I had been diapered.

Uncle helped me down from the table, and gave me a pink, girlish tee shirt to wear. With every movement, the nappy rustled and crinkled, and its bulk forced me to waddle a little.

“You look very sweet, Lottie,” said Uncle Andrew. “Much better.”

I couldn’t look at him, but stood there, completely humiliated.

“Can I take it off now?” I said, in a small voice.

“What?” said Uncle Andrew. “No. I’m afraid your punishment has only just started. Now, I don’t think your old clothes are very suitable for a little girl. Black Sabbath shirts, Iron Maiden shirts…no. I think we’ll need to go shopping.”

My blood froze.

“Like this?”

“Oh no,” laughed Uncle. “Here. You can wear this over your nappy.” (Something about him referring to it as ‘my’ nappy made it even more embarrassing.) 

He handed me a little blue skirt with pawprint suspenders and kittens printed on the hem. I pulled it on. It was too short. The tip of the nappy peeped out between my legs.

“I can’t go out in this. I need my jeans. I need to change NOW. You can’t do this!”

“You’ll go out as I say, Lottie. No more jeans for a while. Not until you’ve stopped throwing tantrums and shown me you’re ready to grow up. Yes, you can see a bit of your nappy. I imagine people can hear it when you walk, too.”

Oh God, oh God.

“But unless you want another dose of the cane AND a trip to the police station IN your new outfit, I suggest you hold your Uncle’s hand and make this a fuss-free trip. I also have pull-up training pants, if you’d like to wear those. But then, I can always pull them down and spank you if you misbehave in public. Your choice.”

“I need the bathroom,” I scowled, determined to pull off the nappy as soon as I was alone.

“No you don’t,” smiled Uncle. “I can change you later if you need it.”

He’d thought of everything. I was trapped. I was beginning to regret ever seeing that mascara.

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