Chapter 4: Sunday: Awakening

THE PRICE OF SUBMISSION

Stéphanie woke to silence.

The room was dim, colored only by the early gray light filtering through sheer curtains.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked - the soft, old-house kind of sound that could mean anything, or nothing at all.

She turned slowly onto her back. The sheets were warm. Her nightshirt had bunched slightly at the hem. The little lace-trimmed socks still hugged her feet like yesterday’s dream, delicate and unwilling to let go.

Her hand drifted down between her legs, almost without thinking. The plastic was smooth, still slightly warm. She pressed gently-testing. Dry.

The cage beneath was firm, held in place, the curve of it familiar now. Not painful. Just present. A quiet reminder of softness locked tight.

Sophie was gone.

She lay still, brushing hair from her face, listening for any sound-Sophie’s voice, Peter’s footsteps, even the faint buzz of cartoons from another room. But there was nothing.

She looked around the pink room: the dolls neatly tucked into their beds, the frilly socks they hadn’t worn, the pacifier still clipped to the collar of her nightdress, resting quietly against her chest.

Everything felt still. Too still.
Then the door opened with a soft click.

Sophie padded in barefoot, her nightshirt slightly rumpled from sleep. The glossy pink plastic pants still peeked out beneath the hem, their frills catching the low morning light. Nothing had changed. The same babyish softness. The same quiet compliance. It was all still there—deliberate, intact.

Stéphanie’s eyes lingered, taking it all in. Sophie looked so babyish, so small and tender—like a living doll, wrapped in softness and innocence. And then came the pang: she must look the same. She had to. The thought settled over her like a weight—familiar, inescapable, quietly enclosing her within the world they shared.

There was something in the way Sophie moved—slow, dreamlike. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair mussed, and her eyes held that dazed, faraway look ... like she hadn’t quite returned from wherever she’d just been.

“Morning,” she whispered with a sweet smile, climbing back into the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She slid beneath the covers and immediately curled against Stéphanie, the soft but unmistakable pressure of her thick diaper pressing gently against Stéphanie’s leg.

Sophie wrapped her arms around her in a slow, sleepy hug.

A soft kiss pressed against Stéphanie’s cheek, gentle and lingering. Then Sophie nestled in, resting her head on Stéphanie’s shoulder with a contented sigh.

Stéphanie turned toward her, uncertain.

“Where were you?”

Sophie pulled the blanket higher. “With Daddy.”

“You slept in his bed?”

Sophie smiled faintly. “Sometimes I do.”

“He likes when I stay with him,” she added, curling into the warmth. “Especially on Sunday mornings. We cuddle ... and he likes to be pleased.”

Stéphanie frowned slightly. “Pleased?”

Sophie looked at her, a little surprised. Then her expression softened—tender, almost proud.

“Yes. I make Daddy happy with my mouth ... or inside me,” she said, a flush rising to her cheeks. “He’s so gentle. So slow. He takes his time, makes me feel it. He always checks I’m ready—he uses lotion, and he tells me I’m his good little girl.”

Her voice turned dreamy, eyes wide with warmth.

“Daddy says my little pussy feels perfect to him. That he loves how tight I am—how good it feels when he’s inside me. And when he’s there...” Her breath hitched slightly. “It’s like something inside me opens. Every push, every pull—it’s like I unravel a little. Not in pain. In ... sweetness. Like he’s pressing into something meant only for him.”

Her eyes fluttered. She shivered, as if the memory itself had touched her.

“And when he’s close, I can feel it building—not just in my body, but in my chest, in my throat. Like my whole self is leaning into him. And when he lets go ... I let go too. It fills me. And I ... dissolve.”

Her voice faltered, thick with reverence.

“Sometimes I cry. It’s not the act—it’s the feeling. Like being broken open in the most gentle way. Like I was meant to receive him. To be his.”

Her voice lowered, almost a whisper now, eyes distant but shining.

“And sometimes ... I can still feel it leaking into my diaper, even now. Warm and slow, like a quiet reminder of him, pressing deep inside.”

She looked at Stéphanie, her voice barely more than breath.

“That’s how girls feel,” she whispered. “Warm. Wanted. Held from the inside. Like your body was made to receive it. Like you finally make sense.”

She didn’t blink. She wasn’t guessing. She believed it.

Stéphanie’s breath caught. Could it really feel like that—for her too?

“Have you ever ... felt that way?”

Stéphanie blinked. Her cheeks flushed.

“No,” she said. “Never.”

Sophie’s smile softened, almost wistful. “Oh, sweetheart...”

She shifted closer beneath the blankets, her warmth curling around Stéphanie like a tide coming in.

Their faces were close now—barely a breath between them—as the quiet wrapped around them like a second cover.

Sophie’s hand moved gently—starting at Stéphanie’s waist, gliding downward with a tenderness that asked nothing. She traced the curve of her hip, then let her palm rest over the soft ruffled seat of her diaper. Her fingers moved in slow circles, not possessive, not suggestive—just present. Just kind.

“You’ll feel that one day,” she whispered. “If you want to. You deserve to be touched like that. Loved like that.”

Stéphanie’s breath caught. Her lips parted—not in invitation, but in vulnerability. Something inside her softened, loosened.

Sophie tucked a strand of hair behind Stéphanie’s ear, then leaned in and kissed her forehead. A second kiss followed at the corner of her mouth. Then a third, full and slow.

Stéphanie didn’t tense.

She let herself be kissed—delicately, tenderly—and then, with a shy shiver, kissed back.

Her fingers curled into the sheets. Their mouths met in hush and heat, unhurried, warm, searching. When Sophie’s tongue touched hers, it was like a question she hadn’t known she was ready to answer.

But her body did.

There was no pressure. No need. Just closeness. The kind that held her in place instead of asking her to perform.

And as Sophie cradled her face, drawing her gently closer, Stéphanie felt it again: a quiet yes in her skin. Not heat. Not arousal. Something deeper.

A sense of being seen and held by someone who understood her body—because she had once lived inside the same questions.

It wasn’t just the kiss.

It was the kindness. The knowing. The way Sophie touched her not like a man claiming softness—but like a girl offering it back.

It made her feel real. Not wanted like a fantasy. Wanted like a girl.

Sophie kissed her again, and again—soft, slow. Then pulled her close beneath the blanket, their legs brushing, bellies touching, warmth shared.

“You’re so pretty when you blush,” she whispered. “Soft little thing. Jan’s lucky to have you.”

Stéphanie swallowed, her breath trembling.

Sophie leaned in once more, her lips grazing Stéphanie’s cheek.

“You were made to please someone like him,” she murmured. “That sweetness in you ... it’s not weakness. It’s a gift. That’s what makes you perfect.”

Stéphanie didn’t answer. Her hands pressed into the sheets.

She hadn’t expected this—not the kiss, not the care, not the way Sophie touched her like she mattered.

Not the way her body said yes before her mind could catch up.

Not the way it felt—finally—to be touched by another girl.

Not taken. Not claimed. But seen. And maybe even loved.

And Stéphanie wasn’t sure if that gift was hers to give ... or if it had already been given.

The door creaked open.

“Girls,” Peter called gently from the hallway, “time to get up. Jan will be here soon to take Stéphanie out. It’s a beach day.”

Stéphanie sat up, startled. Sophie stretched with a soft yawn and pulled the blanket over her head.

Peter stepped into the room with a folded outfit in his arms.

“Stéphanie, you can borrow something of Sophie’s.”

He laid the clothes down on the edge of the bed: a cinnamon-colored corduroy pinafore dress, soft and velvety to the touch, with a cream ribbed sweater beneath it—lightweight and snug, with scalloped edges at the collar and cuffs.

A fresh pair of white tights, still warm from the dryer, lay beside a pair of pale pink rubber boots and a matching quilted jacket.

Stéphanie blinked at the outfit. It looked so deliberate. Like it had been chosen for her before she even woke up.

Peter smiled. “I’ll help you dress.”

Stéphanie didn’t argue.

He gently drew back the blanket.

Stéphanie swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up slowly.

The cool air touched her bare legs, and the crinkle of her plastic pants was immediate—a soft but unmistakable sound, amplified now by the silence of the room.

She shifted her weight, and the thick night diaper pressed between her thighs—warm, padded, and softly rounded, its shape naturally forcing her legs slightly apart. The ruffled trim of the plastic pants framed it like something decorative, almost performative.