All characters depicted are 18+. This story contains several kink-related themes.

The Author leans back in her bright pink gamer chair, sighing. Today is a difficult day for writing, as her ideas are not flowing like usual. She should just take a break and play a game, sew, or simply go out for a walk. Heck, she could go take another pole-dancing class, the lessons are already paid for. But…

Glancing over her various monitors, she can see several browser tabs, chats, and documents open. The tabs display various dresses, designs, bondage equipment, or other’s writing for inspiration. The chats occasionally ping, letting her know that someone is responding to her. Typically, these are either a fun conversation about sissyhood or another sissy roleplaying with her. The documents are all sissy or ABDL stories in various stages of draft. Some closer to being released, while others are only in outline form.

As her eyes drift over the stories and references, she gives a weak smile. But for some reason, reading over the chats…she purses her lips a bit. It isn’t that they are bad or unwanted but…

She scrolls up to a previous roleplaying scenario where her friend acted as the domme. The Author bites her lip, one clenching her mouse a tad harder. Flitting back and forth between this and her stories, she realizes what is bothering her.

As much as she loves writing these scenarios and enacting them for friends online…she knows they would never happen to her. Reading over her Nannybot story, part of the excitement in writing it was imagining herself as the one being terrorized by the automaton.  In writing about a pair of e-girls, she daydreams about being both the domme and the baby sissy sub. Heck, half of her roleplaying as the domme is actually inspired by imagining herself as the sub.

It adds an element of fun to the writing, being able to imagine scenarios playing out from either side. But the stories are all fiction, several being implausible in terms of reality.

The Author sighs again. But suddenly, she perks up, rolling her chair closer to her desk. Inspiration strikes! She begins typing an outline furiously. She pauses…trying to think of a name for the new character. It’s always difficult…but she smirks, thinking of a placeholder.

The Author wakes up in an unfamiliar room, naked and shivering. Looking around, she notices that the room is mostly bare, although it has the appearance of a movie set. One without an audience or director…for now. She notices something else in the room.

Several items are laid out before her. There are dresses, onesies, and other outfits…all ready to be worn, along with various accessories. The Author gulps.

She tiptoes over to the singular door, not surprised that it fails to open. Why would it? She inspects the walls. Four of them. One of them is odd and of a different texture than the others. Smoother. “One-way glass,” she thinks. Someone is watching. She shivers. She tries to cover herself with her arms, knowing that someone is probably on the other side.

Looking over her options, the intent is clear. She must choose. Her stories usually involve a choice. A dumb choice usually, but a choice. Part of the shame and humiliation experienced by her characters involves having a hand choosing their own fate, whether it’s a diaper, a collar, or a maid’s dress. The choice is being forced on her, same as her characters. Someone has been reading her stories…

The Author smiles whilst typing this out, becoming excited over the thought of subjecting herself to this. “It’s not like anyone will read this…”

The Author knows that she won’t be allowed to leave or remain naked. An announcement will be made or else someone, or something, will force her into one of the many outfits. Either way, she will be punished. Probably with an even worse option, if it exists. So, she considers her choice.

There’s a skater dress which could be worn with panties and sneakers. She could also go commando. This is a horrible option…she will just be made to “upgrade” to the most humiliating option possible over time. That’s what she would do to herself in this situation anyway. 

Prolong the sissy’s humiliation or slowly degrade the woman into diapers. They make the easy choice but are forced to beg to stay in “their” panties or “their” dress. It’s a trap. Eventually, the other items are what you will wear anyway…Thus, The Author is inclined to move straight for the most shame-inducing option available. 

The Author considers this, making a note to insert various outfits her character will try on before actually getting to the “final” outfit. It would be entertaining to have a voice directing her to go even further with each selection.

She picks up and lays out several thick, cloud-like diapers. She picks pink. The Author loves pink diapers for her characters, they’re bright and like a beacon of mortification. The Author pours baby powder on herself before finalizing the many tapes on the diapers. The scent wafts over her, further reminding herself of the impending humiliation.

She attempts to stand, falling down several times before managing a squat. The diapers are incredibly bulbous and spread out her thighs. She finds a flaw in her strategy, she should have saved this for last. Now her awkward movements add to the humiliation. Or maybe she did it on purpose, knowing that’s what the watcher wants.

She does not falter though. The Author continues to pick out her costume. She tightens a corset around her waist, pulling until the ribbons won’t budge. No “cheating” allowed there, too loose and she would knock the wind out of a sissy. A breastplate is added. A sissy needs them after all, the swaying of the breasts a constant annoyance and reminder.

“Maybe just a C- or D-cup though…,” considers The Author as she writes. She glances down at her own flat chest, frowning. “Alright, I’ll go back and make sure each outfit gets a progressively larger cup size!”

Next comes a glittery bra. She snaps the straps onto her shoulders, surely leaving a pink mark underneath.  Then a fluffy, short petticoat, one that does nothing to cover the diapers. 

The goal is to keep the underwear or diapers visible. Otherwise, the victim is subjected to the constant game of trying to keep their skirt down. The Author knows to go straight for utter embarrassment here. This petticoat offers absolutely no cover.

“Oooohhh, but before this the skirts will be longer and then progressively more useless for covering anything!”

Sheer stockings with bows are pulled up The Author’s legs, slowly and with difficulty. Again, the diapers should always go on last…

A pair of shiny, peach Mary Janes are somehow strapped on. With the dress coming on next, there’s no way she would be able to see her feet. She can hear the hard plastic clacking against the floor. 

She picks up a frilly confection of satin, lace, and ruffles. It’s simple but incredible in terms of defeating any man’s ego…or hers for that matter. It’s a lovely peach color, lighter on the main fabric and darker on the trim. The skirt barely covers her diapered ass, ending in rococo-like lace. A massive bow sits upon the back of the skirt. The tiniest apron sewn into the dress gives the sense that it’s supposed to be for a maid. More ruffles and lace frame the bust and shoulders. A small, frilly flower decorates her chest, almost like a ribbon for first place. A first-place sissy that is. 

The Author shivers with excitement thinking about this dress…maybe she should actually sew it for herself. She bites her lip thinking about the possibility of wearing this out on Halloween. Too bad there was no one who could subject her to this impossible dream…

The Author lifts the dress over her head, allowing it to slowly fall over her frame, the slightest rustle heard as it adjusts to her contours. She pulls it into place before zipping it up, with some difficulty, each tooth closing audibly. Before she removes her hand, she clicks something else into position. She does the same to her heels and a matching choker. A sissy should always be locked in. She doesn’t even see the keys. It doesn’t matter, she has an audience to please.

Accessories, hair, and makeup come last.

“Technically, makeup should go first because it takes forever…but it’s my story, I can say it takes blah blah amount of time…” thinks The Author. She smirks, thinking about the fact that no one is ever going to read this self-indulgent nonsense. Or if they do, she’ll just change the names, make it about another unfortunate sissy. She mulls over her hair choice. Should she go with the pink pigtails that everyone associates with her? Or her own naturally long and curly black hair? “Maybe the reader decides, pfft.” Sometimes she leaves appearances open to interpretation for fanart. “Oh! Maybe my- her black hair becomes visible over time due to the hassle of needing to constantly change wigs!”

Her makeup takes an equally, painfully long time…and is done in no time at all. A bit of primer, foundation to match her tan skin, contour, bright pink blush, cupid-bow lips glossed, fake eyelashes…the works. She places a bow in her either black or pink hair.

“Oooh, or are bunny ears better?” She backspaces wildly.

She places a pair of bunny ears in her either black or pink hair. A bell is attached to her frilly choker, in order to make herself heard. A sissy must be seen and heard…just not, like…heard heard. 

“Whatever. It’s just an outline, I’ll work on the wording later…”

Then, a pair of pink mincing ribbons are attached to her wrists and ankles. It adds a layer of punishment if they touch the ground. Maybe an electric shock? 

“Ooohh, maybe a photo gets sent to my followers every time the ribbons touch the ground!”

Once those are locked into place, The Author admires her outfit…in her mind initially, but then the one-way mirror becomes an actual mirror.

 “Still one-way I guess,” mulls The Author. “At least until I figure out who the ‘Director’ will be.”

The Author is blown away by her sissy baby appearance. She blushes, realizing how ridiculous she looks. But it can’t stop there. No additional announcement or movement has been made. She must sink herself even further it seems.

Looking around the room again, it seems more items have been added. A bouncer, a baby walker, a bench with straps and cuffs, a pole, a pink rocking horse which could be mistaken for a unicorn…if the horn were a giant sex toy.

“Hmm,” thinks The Author. It’s not enough to just sit in one of these torture devices. You have to take it further for the sissy…she had it!

The Author reaches down and fiddles with several more toys. Once she’s done, she reaches behind herself, grimacing as she stuffs something rather large, thick, and phallic into her diaper.

The Author cringes as she imagines the actual sensation, smiling a bit.

Panting, The Author picks up another phallic instrument…and stuffs it into her mouth. She gags a bit, before it settles into place, filling her entire mouth. To any outsider, they would see her cheeks bulging with a pacifier inserted between them. She locks two straps around her head, giving it a light suck. But then a light buzz is felt in her ass. She yelps, muffled by the gag.

Letting the toys settle for a minute, she feels saliva building up in her mouth. She has to suck to clear it. Then her ass buzzes. “Perfect,” she thinks. Next is to choose her torture device. She favors the bouncer…but the rocking horse is new!

She straddles the cute device, attempting to remove the dildo from the thing’s head. “I only wrote that one in for the unicorn joke anyway…” mutters The Author. She thinks about how to increase the shame factor here, while making use of the extra toy. Maybe the horsie has more than one?

The Author rocks on the horse, realizing that with every movement, the seat vibrates. Shocked, she stops…only to feel a giant smack on her diapered ass! Looking behind her, a riding crop has been set up to hit her if the horse sits still for too long. She has to keep rocking. But the rocking sensation makes her drool with anticipation, which makes her suck, which makes her feel a buzzing.

She also has to keep her mincing ribbons off the ground, or suffer more humiliation by having pictures of herself sent out. The sensations make it hard not to smile, meaning people will interpret them as her enjoying herself. But if she skips to this step, her captor will have an even worse torture set up for her.

The Author pauses her writing. She fans herself, this is getting too hot. “Plus, I need to figure out the plot…once she chooses her humiliation…or humiliations, the person…or people…behind the glass are revealed. Is it a sissy formerly dominated by her? One of “The Author’s” characters? A former lover? A rival author? Hmmm.”

She considers how to best get “The Author” in the rocking horse. Nobody would want to read about her breaking the fourth wall or whatever. No…some sort of manipulation is needed but to what end? Maybe the horse is part of a Pride Parade…or just paraded in front of her peers or friends.

There are so many other options too…maybe “The Author” is subjected to each device in turn, one per chapter. Start with the bouncer, make your way all the way to being covered in vibrating devices while riding a rocking horse? She needs an antagonist…someone readers will root for in furthering her humiliation.

“Oooh, that could work! Maybe a collaboration with someone else…but who could take me on? Ok, let’s save this for now….The Author.docx…I’ll figure out how to best humiliate this character later….Oh!” Speaking of the devil, a message comes in from Leila. She had asked about a collaboration earlier, so The Author had already drafted a story. A thrilling ode to her Dolly character, which she hopes will delight her. It's titled ‘The Artist’.

She pulls up the attachment, distracted by thoughts of how to continue her newest idea, and hits send. She’s happy with herself, starting to stretch and get ready for a walk…before looking down at her chat log.

“Wait…” The Author feels a cold sweat beginning. She clicks on her folders and sorts the files by new. “Why are there two files labeled ‘The Artist’...”

Opening the older file pulls up the right story…but clicking the other file pulls up…

“Oh no…it must have auto-filled a name and saved as the previous file…I clicked on the wrong story and then saved it as…oh no no no no!” The Author attempts to move her mouse quickly, opening the chat window again. But she can see Leila typing already, dread building…then a message pings, indicating she is too late. The woman sends a single terrifying emoji.

Leila-Stoat:

The Author gulps with fright at the sight of that single emoji.