Originally written for HenryHiggins
Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
Charlotte scowled to herself. It wasn’t fair. Uncle Andrew and his stupid rules. Don’t pout. Don’t refuse food (even gross food like cabbage), don’t stomp, don’t slam doors. Charlotte couldn’t do anything right, and that just made her more angry. Which made her slam doors and stomp and pout. Uncle had let her off with a few warnings the last few times, reminding her what happened to girls who behaved in a babyish way, and for a while, that had worked. She had remembered the towel, the baby powder, the thick plastic nappy waiting for her on the bed. Since that day, she had cringed and bit her lip and dialled down the rage, for fear of further humiliation. She remembered her Uncle standing watching her, smiling victoriously. Even thinking about it made her blush and squirm.
For a while, she’d avoided incurring her uncle’s displeasure. She was so sure she’d conned him into believing she was a quiet, calmed girl who had learned her lesson. He had given her back her black tee shirts and ripped jeans, her heavy boots and her chains, on the condition that she behaved meekly and politely. He’d started addressing her as Charlotte again, though he would not stretch to her preferred “Charlie”. She was feeling pretty sly, and began to exercise certain freedoms under the guise of good behaviour, even sneaking the odd cigarette round by the back of the house, taking care to hide the butts in an upturned plant pot. Nobody could possibly know.
But it seemed Uncle had been wise to her tricks all along.
It had begun that morning. Uncle Andrew had planned a garden party for himself and some of his scholarly friends, and Charlotte was expected to attend. She was resentful of this and determined that she would wear her filthiest jeans, her “F*** the System” tee and streaks of black eyeliner down her face. That’d show him. If he was going to make her hang around with his fusty friends, she’d embarrass him for a change.
“Charlotte!” Uncle Andrew called up. “Come downstairs! I have something for you!”
Charlotte put down her phone and clambered sulkily off her bed. As she got downstairs, she saw her uncle pass into the living room, carrying a large pink box. Ugh. Pink.
That better not be for me, she thought. And before she could check herself, her uncle read her displeasure in her face.
“You’re looking quite surly today, Charlotte,” said Uncle Andrew. “You do know that’s a very childish expression you’re pulling.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, through gritted teeth.
“Charlotte, have you been a good girl for me?” said her uncle. At this, his niece rolled her eyes, then set her face back to neutral and nodded.
“You know it’s very naughty to lie, don’t you?”
More nodding. More poker face.
Uncle Andrew put down the box he was holding and reached behind the bookcase. He brought out the plantpot and tipped out a dozen cigarette ends on the coffee table. He tutted and shook his head.
“I did give you a chance to be good and grown up, Charlotte. But it seems perhaps you still haven’t learned.”
He grabbed her ear and she gasped.
“You,” he growled, “are a deceitful little girl who still needs guidance.”
Charlotte gulped, then twisted out of his grip.
“They’re not mine!” she asserted.
“That’s ENOUGH, Charlotte. It’s one thing to sneak cigarettes, it’s another to lie once, but it’s insulting that you continue to lie when the evidence is right before me. I was too hasty in letting you grow up, I think.”
“What – it’s just – FINE, I had a couple of fags!” Charlotte protested. “It’s not exactly murder! You can’t punish me for that!”
Her uncle smiled. “You’re right, Charlotte. I can’t.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, warily.
“On my own, that is. No, I’ve taken the liberty of calling in a friend, Mr H. He’s got a niece around your age and has been most helpful in advising me on how to deal with willful girls. In fact, once I explained the situation -”
He went over to the sugar-pink box, undid the thick satin ribbon and lifted the lid.
“- he sent this ahead for you. You see, Mr H is a firm believer that the correct clothing leads to the correct behaviour. So if I want a sweet little darling girl for a niece, she needs to be dressed like a sweet little darling girl.”
He pulled out the contents of the box and Charlotte’s face dropped in horror. Her uncle held a ‘sweet Lolita’ monstrosity of a dress. Baby-pink with white edging, it had dainty little puffed sleeves, a pretty bow on the bodice and a short, full cupcake skirt, stiff with flounce after flounce of frothy petticoats. It was the sort of dress a toddler at a 2nd birthday party would wear. And it was in her size.
“NOPE!” she shook her head. “NOPE NOPE NOPE!”
“Yes, I had rather thought you’d say that, Charlotte,” smiled her uncle. “But you see, Mr H will be here in half an hour, and he’s the guest of honour at the garden party. So when he arrives, you’re going to be all dressed up in your pretty little party frock, and you’re going to greet him by saying thank you for your lovely dress. And if you make this more complicated than it needs to be, it’s going to be even worse for you.”
“I will NOT! I will NOT put on that DISGUSTING pink nightmare!” barked Charlotte, clutching her punk clothes to her and backing off. “It’s babyish and sissy and fucking horrible and -!”
Uncle Andrew slapped her sharply round the face.
Charlotte gaped, utterly shocked, clutching her burning cheek. Uncle Andrew grabbed her hand and whipped out a strap from his coat pocket. Before Charlotte could complain, he had pulled her over the arm of the sofa, yanked down her jeans and landed the first stinging blow.
“Owwwwowowwow!” winced Charlotte. She had forgotten how much the strap stung, and bucked up, only to be pushed back down by her uncle’s strong hand. The second blow came down, burning her bottom. Then the third, bringing tears to her eyes.
“THIS, my girl, is what you get,” said Uncle Andrew, “for swearing – THWACK- insulting a very kind gift – THWACK- smoking – THWACK – answering back…the list goes on! I think you need some very – THWACK- thorough punishment indeed to set you straight. And after that, it’s straight into your good-girl dress!”
“I’m not going to wear it! I’m not!” she began shouting, but as the eighth stroke landed, she realised she was crying.
“Not very grown up of you, Lottie,” remarked her uncle. “Blubbering from a few little strappings?”
Again and again the strap came down and by the 12th stroke, Charlotte was well and truly blubbing, her nose running, as she begged for it to stop.
“I think you know how to make it stop,” said Uncle Andrew.
“How?”
“Ask if you can wear your pretty pink dress to the party, and thank nice Mr H for his lovely gift.”
“F-”
Before the swear word was out of her mouth, Charlotte felt it knocked away by a further stroke of the strap on her bottom. Then another. Then another.
“Please s-stop! P-please!”
“Yes? Do you have something to ask me?”
Charlotte grimaced, and her uncle swished the strap once again.
“PLEASEMAYIWEARIT”
“Wear what?”
“Don’t make me fucking SAY it!”
“Wear what?” Swish. Yelp.
“UGH! Please may I wear the pink dress?”
“Which one?”
Charlotte growled. “Please may I wear the PRETTY PINK DRESS?”
“Certainly!” her uncle beamed. “Now stand up and take off the rest of those horrible boyish clothes and let’s make you into a pretty little princess.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned furiously and she swore under her breath – something about not being anyone’s fucking princess. She stripped off, her bottom still smarting from the strapping. Her uncle held up the dress once again. It was worse the second time – a fluffy, flouncy affair, all sissy, ruffly and babyish. She would look ridiculous.
Uncle Andrew unzipped the dress and she paused, glowering, before stepping into it. The petticoats rustled around her as he drew it up, popping each stubborn arm through the cute puff sleeve. Finally he arranged the petticoats and skirts just so, fluffing them out so they stood away from her body in an adorable little halo ending halfway down her thighs. It was the picture of princess-pink girlyness.
Charlotte hung her head in shame as her uncle stood back to appraise her.
“No, that won’t do,” he said.
“Phew,” thought Charlotte, and reached round to begin unzipping the back.
“Ah-ah! What do you think you’re doing?”
“But you said -”
“The dress is ideal,” said Uncle Andrew. “But since you’ve been such a little girl about this, throwing such a tantrum, I am concerned you could get over-excited. You might have a little accident at the party, and we don’t want that.”
Charlotte’s face drained of colour.
“NO.”
Uncle Andrew nodded. “I think Mr H should know exactly how babyishly you received his kind gift.”
“NO! NOT THAT! NOT IN FRONT OF SOMEONE!”
But Uncle Andrew already had her by the ear, and to Charlotte’s dismay, she was easily led upstairs, where in a deft movement, she was pushed down onto the bed, flouncy skirts puffing up around her, and her hands smartly cuffed behind her. Her uncle went to a drawer and pulled out baby powder and a fresh white disposable nappy.
“You monster!” she screamed. “You creep! This isn’t fair!”
“Ahh,” said Uncle Andrew. “Now we see the true Charlotte. Just as much of a brat as ever – only she’s been hiding it all this time, playing at being a grown-up. Never mind. Soon have you back in your nappy to remind you how you really deserve to be treated. Perhaps we’ll have you lift up your pretty frilly dress for Mr H to show him what a very little girl you are.”
“NO!” bawled Charlotte hoarsely, kicking. “Screw you! NO!!!”
“Ah yes, said her uncle, sliding the crackling nappy under her bottom and pulling it up between her legs. “That mouth of yours. Don’t think I didn’t hear you swearing earlier. Can’t have you using that foul language around Mr H.” He fastened the sticky tapes snugly around her waist and patted the plastic. Then he delved into a drawer and brought out a dummy threaded at the sides with pink ribbons, along with a bonbon-sized chunk of something orange.
Charlotte screamed blue murder, pulling on her cuffs. As she did, her Uncle popped the chunk of carbolic soap into her mouth, sealing it in with the dummy, and fastened the ribbons behind her head.
Charlotte’s eyes bulged as she realised what was caught in her mouth, behind the dummy. Her eyes began to water again as her uncle uncuffed her, stood her up and fluffed out her petticoats. The skirt didn’t quite cover the bulge of the nappy.
Uncle Andrew stepped back and looked her up and down.
“No, no, this isn’t right,” he said, frowning.
Charlotte breathed out. Oh god, was he finally going to let up on her? He’d been bluffing to scare her. Fine, fine, she’d behave! Anything! She felt behind her for the zipper of the dress, relieved it was over.
“Not right at all,” said Uncle Andrew. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a pink clip-on hair bow. He smacked Charlotte’s fumbling hand, smiled, and clipped on the bow, right in the middle of her hair.
“Much better!” smiled Uncle Andrew. “Now, we’re going to stand you in the corner, Charlotte. That way, Mr H will know exactly what kind of a girl you’ve been. And when he comes, you can start by curtseying to him, and if he asks you to lift your skirts, you’re going to lift them very sweetly. Then, if you’re good, we can take out your dummy and you can thank him for your lovely dress.”
He turned her about, waddled her over to the corner and touched the tip of her nose to the wall.
“Hands on head.”
Blushing, Charlotte obeyed. The carbolic soap tasted foul in her mouth and she could feel herself dribbling a little along the outside of her dummy, down her cheek. As her uncle went downstairs to prepare, she listened nervously for the doorbell.
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