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Chapter 23 – In The Play Pen
It had been the only door in her hallway she had not seen behind, and now the room behind it was revealed to her.
The entire room was painted pink; that was the first thing that struck Charlotte. The second was that the centre of the room was sunken. Well, sunken wasn't quite right either.
Running in a circle around the centre of the room was a wooden bar fence, similar to play pens that Charlotte had seen in friend's houses who had younger brothers or sisters. Inside the pen the floor level dropped so that a fully-grown adult could stand in the pen and be entirely unable to reach the top of the fence. Strewn across the floor of the depressed pen were rattles, plastic blocks and a variety of other toddler's toys. Charlotte also noted that someone had been "kind" enough to deposit Cynthia, her newly adopted doll, in the pen.
Against one of the walls stood a white oversized cot, complete with wooden rails. A whitewashed antique rocking chair sat in another corner next to a large bay window that shed copious amounts of natural light into the room. A series of shelves set into another of the walls held a variety of dolls, toys and children's books containing bright pictures and super sized lettering that told stories about dogs called spot and girl's with single syllable names.
Madeline ushered the coy Charlotte into the nursery before locking the door behind the two of them. The young girl stood sheepishly just inside the room, scanning the contents and layout as the maid grasped her by the elbow and pushed her toward the playpen in the centre of the room.
"You don't want me to go down there do you?" Charlotte pleaded – already knowing the answer to the question.
"You know what my mother always said? 'Children should be seen but not heard.'" In rapid succession one of the maid's arms took Charlotte into a firm headlock while her other hand shoved a large plastic pacifier into the young girl's surprised mouth. Taken off balance by the sudden assault, Charlotte failed to put up much resistance as the maid fastened the pink pacifier's clear-plastic straps behind Charlotte's head.
Released from the headlock Charlottes fingers flew to the back of her neck, where she found that the pacifier/gag's clasp contained a small lock.
The supple plastic bulb in her mouth irritated her – she had never sucked her thumb, even while still in the womb. Her father had said that even the ultrasounds had never showed her sucking her thumb. As she was so unused to having a foreign object lodged in her mouth she wanted it out now. She soon found however, that no amount of prising or playing with the lock helped her.
The maid stood-by, watching with amusement while Charlotte moaned through the pacifier. Frustrated beyond belief Charlotte turned to the maid with a pleading look in her eyes. Muffled sounds came from her mouth; however none were distinguishable. Charlotte pointed to the pacifier with its quaint pink plastic handle sticking out from her mouth.
"Does baby want to play? Is that what she wants?" The maid adopted a higher-pitched cooing tone of voice as she took Charlotte by the elbow and led her to the playpen's gate. Charlotte's incomprehensible mewling continued as the maid opened the gate and pushed her in. The young girl stumbled and fell as she dropped the three feet onto the padded floor of the playpen. She turned her head back to see the maid locking the gate, leaving her trapped behind the wooden bars.
"Why doesn't baby play for a while, Aunty Madeline will be back soon." The maid now departed from the room, closing the door behind her and presumably locking it.
Charlotte, on her hands and knees in the centre of the playpen, began crying behind her pink plastic pacifier.
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She'd tried jumping up to grab the top of the pen's wooden bars without success. They were simply too tall for her to reach even if she tried jumping at full stretch. The gate to the pen wouldn't budge an inch, she knew because she had tried for ten minutes to coax, cajole and finally use brute strength to force the door open, without success.
Likewise her personal bondage was equally immovable. If she'd had some scissors, or any object that she might use for leverage, she might have been able to snap the durable plastic straps that kept her pacifier/gag firmly in place. As it was all she had in the playpen was her doll Cynthia, a few rattles and some plastic bricks. The rubbery bulb sitting on her tongue forced her to breath through her nose – and more annoyingly swallow regularly, which to a casual observer gave her the appearance of sucking on the over-sized pacifier.
The chain around her waist wouldn't budge an inch either, keeping her locked inside the plastic pants and diaper. This in itself was starting to worry her – she now wished that she hadn't drunk all her apple juice at breakfast, she doubly wished that she'd relieved herself before being dressed up like this.
It was paradoxically cruel. If she had been dressed normally she was sure that she wouldn't even be thinking about going to the toilet yet. But simply due to the presence of the diaper her thoughts kept returning to how much she'd drunk, when she'd last gone to the toilet and how long she could hold off if necessary. These thoughts didn't help matters at all and Charlotte could already imagine feeling a building pressure in her bladder.
Unable to escape the pen, unable to get out of her diaper or rid herself of the pacifier, Charlotte abandoned her attempts to escape and sat in a corner of the circular playpen and began crying softly to herself again.
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It felt like two or three hours had passed and yet the maid had not yet returned. There wasn't a clock in the room so she had no idea of the passage of time. The closest approximation she could get was watching the shadows moving across the floor that were cast by the bay window. They hadn't moved far, but it felt like hours had passed.
She'd stopped crying, now she was bored. No books to read, no television, not even other human company. She'd even picked up one of the plastic blocks and started throwing them at Cynthia, pretending that the doll was a basketball hoop and the brick a ball. She'd tired of that soon enough though and started using one of the rattles like a baseball bat, hitting the plastic blocks across the playpen.
The supple plastic pacifier remained firmly stuck in her mouth, she'd found that the most comfortable position for her tongue was wrapped underneath it. It still annoyed her, and occasionally she futilely reached up to try and budge it without success.
She tried as hard as she could to keep her mind off going to the toilet, but recently she'd found herself squirming about while sitting down to try and rid herself of the ever increasing reminder that she would have to go sooner rather than later.
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Still no Madeline, the shadows had moved even further – surely it was lunchtime or something? Charlotte had gotten bored with playing ball with the rattle and plastic blocks, now she refocussed herself on trying to get out of the pen.
Jumping up still didn't work; she simply wasn't tall enough to grasp the top of the wooden railing. She even tried taking her shoes and socks off to try and climb up the bars only to find that the wood was well oiled with furniture polish and that she was entirely unable to get even the slightest purchase. All she'd got for her trouble was a splinter in her big toe. It had taken her a long while to pull it out with nothing but her finger nails to use. Thinking the rubber soles of her Mary Janes might provide better grip she put them back on to find that they made no noticeable difference.
Her renewed attempt to escape had been fuelled by two drives – a wish to escape this dead-boring and humiliating enclosure and the second, and most overriding concern, the continuing building force downstairs. She'd tried everything to try and forget about going to the toilet, but now she was starting to get worried, really worried.
She found herself beginning to alternate between sitting and standing just to try and stop the mounting need to let loose her bladder.
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Now she was urgently walking back and forth. The shadows still crept slowly – it had been HOURS! It felt like it should have been nighttime by now, but the sun still slowly crept across the floor.
'Where are you Madeline! Please!" She screamed inside her gag. 'Please come back! I'll forgive you for everything! I'll be good! Please just let me go to the toilet!' She even tried screaming at the top of her lungs through the pink pacifier. A pitiful squeal was all that came out, probably not even audible outside the door to the nursery.
Now she attacked the chain around her waist with a newfound vengeance. At one stage she got her pinkie finger just inside the chain – but she could get no further purchase under the chain. She twisted her little finger brutally at one point, causing her to reactively pull her finger out, undoing ages of hard, yet pointless work.
Finding the chain an impossible target she moved her attention to the elasticised leg holes of her plastic pants. It was a difficult task as she had to sit down in order to get a decent angle on the edges. Sitting down didn't help at all, further increasing the explosive pressure building up in her tummy. Again she was thwarted; Mr Campbell's satin and plastic pants were measured to exact proportions. She could barely get two fingers behind into the panties; the taut fabric would give no more. Once they were inside she could only just brush the cloth diaper that she wore with her fingertips.
Able to cope no more with the burning stress of sitting down, she got back to her feet to resume her pacing. Walking helped. She started trying to think of anything else, anything other than the diaper, the apple juice and how much she was absolutely dying to go to the toilet.
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