I should’ve known better than to poke at Emma before her precious football game. It was just past noon, and she was already wired for the 1:00 PM kickoff. I was sprawled on the couch, yammering about some pointless drama—maybe that jerk at work—when Emma shot me the look. That sly, dangerous smirk that sent a shiver through me. We both knew what it meant. Bondage was our shared thrill, the spark that made our friendship electric.
“Keep talking, Jess, and I’ll make you shut up,” she said, her voice teasing but with a bite. I grinned, leaning closer. “Oh, you gonna drag me to the bedroom to silence me?” I was half-joking, half-begging, my mind already racing with images of ropes, cuffs, and sweet surrender. Emma didn’t answer, just stood and jerked her head toward the hallway. My pulse spiked as I followed, anticipation buzzing under my skin.
In the bedroom, things got serious fast. “Strip,” she ordered, no nonsense. I shed my clothes, standing naked and a little jittery as she pulled out chains—cold, heavy, glinting like they meant to own me. She looped them around my wrists, then my ankles, the metal pinching just enough to make me squirm. I thought this was our usual dance, but then she grabbed the ballgag. Not our normal one—this was a monster, glossy red and so huge it made my stomach drop. “Open,” she said. I hesitated, but her stare was unrelenting. She forced it in, and my jaw screamed as the rubber stretched my mouth to its limit, crushing my tongue and filling every inch of space. The pain hit immediately, a sharp throb in my jaw muscles that promised worse.
Then came the worst part. Emma held up a pink diaper, its plastic crinkling like a taunt. My face burned as she slid it on, the humiliating bulk settling between my legs. I tried to protest, but the gag turned my words into garbled nonsense, each attempt sending a jolt of pain through my jaw. I yanked at the chains, testing them, but they held fast, clanking with every move. I was trapped, naked except for this absurd diaper, my mouth aching around the massive gag.
Emma stepped back, smirking. “Game’s about to start,” she said, cool as ever. Then, glancing at the diaper, she added, “At least you don’t have to worry about needing to pee.” My cheeks flamed—she knew my bladder was already nagging, the pressure building from that coffee I’d chugged earlier. I tried to yell, to tell her this wasn’t fair, but the gag reduced it to a pathetic whimper, my jaw throbbing harder with every sound. She turned and left, shutting the door behind her.
The TV roared to life, pre-game chatter seeping through the walls. I tugged at the chains, my wrists chafing, my ankles pinned. Nothing budged. The diaper crinkled with every move, mocking my helplessness, and the urge to pee grew sharper, a tight knot in my gut. My jaw was killing me now, the gag’s size forcing my mouth open so wide that sharp pangs shot through the hinges with every twitch. Drool spilled down my chin, and I couldn’t even wipe it away. I tried to scream Emma’s name, to rattle the chains loud enough to make her come back, but the TV drowned me out. The game kicked off at 1:00 PM, the crowd’s cheers taunting me from the living room.
Hours crawled by. I twisted, pulled, thrashed, the chains rattling but refusing to give. The diaper rustled, amplifying my humiliation, and my bladder was screaming now, the pressure unbearable. I fought it, clenching every muscle, but it was no use. With a muffled sob, I gave in, the warm rush flooding the diaper, its bulk swelling as my face burned with shame. The gag made my jaw a furnace of pain, each muffled grunt sending stabs of discomfort through my face. I wanted to rip it out, to kick the door down, to make Emma deal with me. But I was stuck, exposed, ignored. The game droned on—announcers, cheers, Emma’s occasional shout when her team scored. She was watching the whole damn thing, leaving me here to stew in my frustration, the sodden diaper’s weight, and the relentless ache in my jaw.
I was furious, trapped in my own body, unable to do anything but endure. The pain in my jaw, the chains biting my skin, the diaper’s humiliating bulk, the shame of having used it—it all mocked me. Emma didn’t care. She’d won, and all I could do was wait, struggling in vain, while the game played on without me.
