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He wants to be seen like this. He wants to be helpless in it, knowing I could do anything at all.

I slide my real hand up his torso, slow enough that he starts to anticipate each inch—over the babydoll, then up to his chest, where I flick and circle each nipple until he’s keening, sucking hard at his pacifier. My prosthetic hand holds him steady by the waist, implacable and absolutely inescapable.

“Such a good boy,” I say, and with my thumb, I rub a little at the hot pink tip showing through the sheer fabric. “I’m going to touch you until you’re too stupid to sit up.”

He makes a strangled noise and leans all his weight against me, his entire body trembling with the effort to stay still.

I let him hang there, trembling, for a full minute, just watching his face in the mirror, the way his eyelids flutter and his lips tremble around the paci. Then I deliberately slide my hand lower. Over the frilled hem, over the front of the diaper, pressing flat enough to make him feel every inch of pressure. He jerks, the tiniest spasm, and I know what that means.

“Oh, you like that,” I tease, voice low and a bit cruel. “You want more?”

He nods, desperate and jerky, and tries to grind down against my hand, but the diaper forces his motions into slow, frustrating friction. Perfect. He whimpers again, the wordless sound vibrating down my chest.

“You’re such a little mess,” I say, and this time I don’t try to hide the hunger in my voice.

I let my thumb circle the thick, yielding front of his diaper, just at the growing wet patch. Every tiny movement makes him squirm, the friction dull and overwhelming all at once. He tries to rut forward, to chase more, but I hold him back.

“That’s it, princess. Show Daddy how much you like this.” He moans, high and breathy behind the pacifier, fists clenching in his lap. The cuffs keep his hands together, so even if he wanted to touch, he couldn’t. I like that. I like knowing all he can do is take what I give him. His eyelids flutter, lashes high and trembling.

He looks at himself in the mirror like he doesn’t recognize the boy reflected there—so pretty, so helpless, a mess of color and want. I want to wreck him even further.

“Spread your legs for me,” I whisper in his ear, and he obeys, the thick padding forcing his knees apart and his thighs trembling with effort. I press harder, palm flat against the bulge, and he arches so hard that for a second I think he’ll come apart right here. But he doesn’t. He holds, shuddering, noises spilling out around the paci in a sweet, choked rhythm.

I keep toying with him, teasing circles, gentle squeezes, until his head falls back onto my shoulder, neck arched and defenseless. His face is a study in desperate submission, so open and needy I have to restrain the urge to bite him, to mark him up until everyone knows who he belongs to.

“Such a good baby,” I croon, kissing his temple. “Daddy’s so proud of you. Want to know what I’m going to do to you?”

He whimpers, nodding, eyes wide and glassy. I grin into his hair, my hand never stopping its slow, cruel rhythm.

“I’m going to fuck you, Kammie. I’m going to bend you over, pull your diaper down, get that tight pink hole nice and slick, and push inside until you can’t even remember your own name. And you’re going to make all those pretty noises for me, aren’t you?”

He nods, frantic, the tip of the paci bobbing with each movement. I want to see him break.

“Want me to, Daddy,” he mumbles, voice barely intelligible behind the pacifier but so honest it leaves me breathless. “Want you to fuck me. Please.”

I lift him up with both hands, one arm under his thighs, the other holding him steady by the waist. He squeaks, startled, but melts against me, his cuffed hands curling at my neck. I lay him out on the bed, face down, the skirt of the babydoll fanning out above the gentle bulge of his ass.

“Stay,” I tell him, and he does, legs splayed, pacifier still in his mouth. I kneel behind him, hands skating up the backs of his thighs, over the soft swell of his diapered ass. I stroke the backs of his knees, the inside of his thighs, tracing patterns until he’s shivering with anticipation.

I hook a finger into the waistband of his diaper and peel it down as slowly as possible. The adhesive tabs give a satisfying rip, the sound loud in the hush, and the soft plastic comes away from his skin with a little cling. He whines, not in protest, but in anticipation—hips wriggling, thighs flexing.

Underneath, he’s flushed, trembling, and already wet from how hard he’s been grinding against the padding. I run my hand over the delicate skin where his thigh meets his ass, and he gasps, arching up off the bed. The skirt of the babydoll floats around his waist, a ridiculous halo that somehow makes everything filthier and more innocent at once.

“Perfect,” I tell him, so low he almost doesn’t hear it. “So, so perfect.”

He hides his face in the crook of his elbow, pacifier still in, making soft, muffled noises as I trail my hands over his ass, squeezing, kneading, parting his cheeks just enough to bare him to the cool air. His little pink hole is already twitching impatiently.

I reach into the bedside drawer and come back with a bottle of lube. The click of the cap makes him shudder, and when the gel hits his skin, he yelps and clamps his thighs tighter for a second before forcing them obediently apart again.

God, he’s good.

I smear it over him, working the lube into his crease. He’s so sensitive everywhere, a single knuckle’s pressure making him squeak around the pacifier. I trace the edge of his hole, teasing, until he’s pushing back against my hand, desperate and helpless.

Only then do I let my finger breach him—slow, so fucking slow, the tip pressing in and meeting almost no resistance. He bears down, greedy for it, and I watch his whole body tense, then melt as I slide the first knuckle in.

He whimpers, high and shaking, legs kicking just a little against the bedspread. I keep my weight over him, one hand on the small of his back, the other working the lube deeper, twisting my finger gently until he’s moaning in earnest.

“Good boy,” I tell him, and he preens, arching his ass up higher. “Is this what you want, baby?”