gabbydiaperenema

My name is Gabby. And no, I’m not a good girl. I could be, maybe, if I listened, followed rules, and remembered my place… but I don’t. I test limits. I whine. I resist. And that’s exactly why I’m kept under constant supervision—strict, clinical, and unrelenting.

Punishments aren’t warnings or soft lectures. They’re routines. Protocols. Carefully prepared consequences that leave no room for negotiation. When I act up—and I usually do—I’m stripped of whatever dignity I thought I had left and reminded, step by step, that I’m not in charge. Ever.

I’m laid out, wrists bound tightly, sometimes tethered to the ceiling to keep me still and exposed. My pacifier is traded for a firm, locking ball gag. No more talking back. No more whining. Just muffled sounds as I’m positioned and secured. Then the process begins.

A 2-liter enema bag is filled above me. Not with warm water—no, that’s for good girls. Mine is always hot, heavily soapy, sometimes with salt, designed to punish from the inside out. The double-balloon inflatable nozzle is prepared, coated, and inserted slowly, deliberately. One balloon, then the second. Inflated until I’m sealed tight. I’m expected to take it all. To hold. To endure.

When I’m especially disobedient, suppository laxatives are administered beforehand—softened just enough to slide in while I’m already squirming, already regretting everything. The pressure builds. The burn deepens. But I’m gagged and restrained, so there’s nothing I can do but submit.

Sometimes I’m diapered in double-thickness afterward, tightly taped and plugged, left to stew in my shame. Other times, the enema is followed by a firm, methodical spanking—each strike a reminder that my behavior has real consequences. Whether I’m over a lap, bent over a bench, or secured face-down in a changing position, the punishment is thorough… and never rushed.

After care? That depends. If I’ve earned a bit of mercy, I’m powdered, diapered, and tucked into my crib to reflect, pacifier between my lips and my body aching from discipline. If not? I’m left restrained, gagged, cramping, with my mess locked in until it’s decided I’ve learned.

I don’t pretend to enjoy punishment. But I need it. I crave the structure, the control, the complete helplessness of being under someone who doesn’t tolerate disobedience. Someone who knows how to take a brat like me and reshape her into something quiet, compliant, and utterly dependent.

If you believe in strict rules, no-nonsense discipline, and full medical control… then maybe I’m exactly the kind of little girl you’ve been waiting for.