The Babyfication Of Robert

Copyright © Baby Bunnykins, www.thaiadultbabynursery.com , 2026. All rights reserved

Chapter 1

Robert blinked, the morning light piercing his heavy eyelids. For a blissful moment, his mind was blank, a clean slate. Then, the physical sensations rushed in. The bulk between his legs was undeniable, a warm, waddling mass that forced his thighs apart. He tried to sit up, but the raised bars of the crib loomed above him like prison walls, blocking out the rest of the room. He wasn't in his bed. He was in a cot.

"Panic is very unattractive in a baby, Bunnykins," a voice drifted from the corner.

Robert’s head snapped toward the sound. It wasn't Mac. Sitting in the rocking chair, looking fresh and vibrant in a crisp yellow sundress, was Simone. She was reading a magazine, her legs crossed casually, but her eyes were fixed on him with a playful glint.

Robert’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the forced calm of his surroundings. He gripped the wooden bars of the cot, his knuckles white, and tried to force his adult voice to work.

"Simone? What... what is going on? Where is Mac? Let me out of this cage," he demanded, though his voice came out as a dry, croaking whisper.

Simone closed her magazine with a soft snap and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. She didn't look the least bit intimidated. Instead, she walked over to the crib with a bright, beaming smile that was entirely at odds with Robert’s distress.

She leaned over the railing, her chin resting on her folded arms, looking down at him as if he were a precious kitten that had just mewed for milk.

"Mac is busy being a grown-up, Bunnykins. She left you in my charge. And this isn't a cage," she corrected him gently, tapping the wooden bar with a fingernail. "It's your cot. It's where babies belong when they aren't being played with."

Robert stared at her, his mouth opening and closing. "I am not a baby! I am a grown man, and I demand to be released this instant!"

Simone’s giggle was light and musical, completely devoid of the cruelty Robert had feared, yet somehow infinitely more condescending. She reached through the bars and patted his head, her hand cool against his flushed skin.

"Oh, look at you," she cooed, her voice dripping with syrupy affection. "All grumpy-wumpy because he woke up in his nappy. That’s just the sleepies talking, isn't it? Babies don't make demands, Bunnykins. Babies have needs."

"I don't have needs!" Robert shouted, trying to shake off her hand, but the bulk of the nappy between his legs made sitting up awkward, sending him tumbling back onto the mattress with a soft rustle. "I have rights! Get me Mac!"

"Now, now," Simone scolded, her voice shifting from sugary sweet to a tone of crisp maternal authority. She reached over the side rail and grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly firm. "Shouting is for naughty little girls who want a spanking. Do you want a spanking, Bunnykins?"

Robert yanked his hand back, his face burning. "Don't touch me! I'm not—"

"Aha! A temper," Simone interrupted cheerfully. She lowered the side rail with a smooth mechanical click, leaving the cage open but standing over him like a towering gatekeeper. "I suppose we can't expect a baby to have perfect manners right out of the cot. That’s what we’re here for, isn't it?"

"That’s it, kick your little legs," Simone chirped, ignoring his furious sputters as she grabbed his ankles and hoisted his bottom into the air with seemingly effortless strength. "Mummy says a bit of exercise is good for a baby's circulation."

"Put me down! Simone, I swear to God—"

"Hush now, no need for potty mouth," she interrupted, her voice rising in volume to drown him out. She unpinned the bulky toweling nappy with a practiced flick of her wrist, exposing his naked lower half to the cool morning air. "Oh my goodness, look at this! Someone is a soggy little bunnykins this morning, isn't she? Yes she is!"

Robert squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation burning through him like a fever. He tried to twist away, to cover himself, but Simone held his ankles firmly in one hand, her grip like iron wrapped in velvet. She began to wipe him down with cool, wet wipes, cooing incessantly, her voice a wall of sound that blocked out his dignity.

"Just look at all that pee-pee!" she sing-songed, loud enough for the neighbors to hear through the walls if they were listening. "Did Baby make a big puddle for Aunty Simone? Yes, she did! What a good little wetter."

"Stop it! Stop talking like that!" Robert cried out, thrashing his hips in a desperate attempt to dislodge her hand. "I am not a wetter! This is— this is insane!"

His struggles earned him nothing but a sigh of condescending affection from Simone. She stopped her wiping for a moment, pressing his ankles down into the mattress to pin his flailing legs, and looked him right in the eye.

"Insane? No, baby, it’s just reality," she said, her voice dropping an octave, though the smile remained fixed. "And reality is that you are wriggling around on a changing table with a wet bum, throwing a tantrum because your nappy is being changed. If you don’t stop squirming, Aunty Simone will have to teach you how to behave."

"I don't want to be taught!" Robert yelled, twisting his torso in a bid to break free. "I want my clothes and I want to get out of this— this madhouse!"

Simone’s expression hardened instantly, the sugary veneer cracking to reveal the steel beneath. She didn't say a word. Instead, she used her free hand to grab his hip and, with a strength that belied her slender frame, flipped him onto his stomach.

"Madhouse?" she scoffed, her hand coming down hard against his exposed, upturned bottom. SMACK!

The sound was sharp and loud, echoing through the nursery like a gunshot. Robert cried out, more in shock than pain, though the sting radiated heat across his skin.

"That," Simone announced, landing a second, sharper smack that made Robert yelp into the pillow, "is for using that tone with Aunty Simone. And this," SMACK! "is for trying to kick your mummy's best helper."

Robert’s face burned with a mixture of pain and utter humiliation. He lay pinned, his bottom stinging, tears of genuine frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was a grown man, a retired professional, and he was being spanked like a toddler by a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

"Are you going to be a good girl now?" Simone asked, her hand resting on his heated, red cheek. "Or does Bunnykins need more spankings to remember her manners?"

Robert buried his face in the soft pillow, unable to look at her, his body trembling with a potent cocktail of rage and shame. "Yes," he mumbled, the word muffled by the fabric.

"Yes what, baby?" Simone prompted, her hand gently massaging the stinging skin of his bottom, the touch confusingly soothing after the sharp discipline.

"Yes... I'll be good," he choked out, his voice breaking.

"Yes, what?" Simone's voice was light, but the pressure of her hand on his smarting bottom was heavy and unyielding. She wasn't letting him off the hook that easily.

"Yes... Aunty," Robert whispered, the defeat tasting bitter in his mouth.

"Good baby," Simone chirped, instantly flipping him back onto his back as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. The whiplash from the discipline to the doting care made Robert’s head spin. Before he could even attempt to cover himself, she was sliding a fresh, thick nappy under him.

"There we go, all fresh and dry," she cooed, dusting him liberally with sweet-scented baby powder that filled the air with the cloying aroma of infancy. She worked quickly, pulling the fluffy white cloth up between his legs and pinning it tightly at the hips, the bulk forcing his thighs apart once more. "See? Isn't that better? No more soggy bottom for Bunnykins."

Robert lay limply, staring at the ceiling, the heat of the spanking still radiating from his behind, competing with the mortifying coolness of the powder. He felt utterly defeated, his adult status reduced to nothing more than a pinned nappy and a few sharp smacks.

"Now," Simone said, bustling over to the wardrobe, her heels clicking on the floor. She returned holding something impossibly frilly and pink. "Since we have a playdate today, we need you to look your prettiest. Up we get!"

She reached under his armpits and hauled him to a sitting position, the bulk of the nappy making him roll unsteadily. Before he could even process the word "playdate," she was shaking out a garment that made Robert’s stomach drop. It was a sunsuit in the palest pink satin, trimmed with rows of frothy white lace at the legs and neck.

"Arms up, like a good girl," Simone commanded, her voice breezy, as if she were simply asking him to pass the milk.

Robert stared at the frilly monstrosity, his jaw set. "I am not wearing that. I am not going on a... a playdate. I am staying right here until I can speak to a solicitor."

Simone didn’t sigh, didn’t roll her eyes, and didn’t argue. She simply smiled, a bright, terrifyingly patient smile that belonged on a television presenter, not a girl holding a grown man captive in a nursery. She dropped the frilly sunsuit onto the mattress and reached for him.

"Oh, Bunnykins," she giggled, grabbing his wrist and giving it a sharp tug. "Lawyers are for grown-ups with big boy problems. You’re just a baby with a wet bottom and a bad attitude. You don't need a solicitor; you need a time-out."

Before Robert could brace himself, she maneuvered him with terrifying efficiency. She spun him around, her grip like a vice on his ear, and marched him toward the corner of the room.

The corner was dominated by a large, wooden stand in the shape of a smiling duck, its painted beak open in a permanent, silent quack. Robert stumbled forward, his legs awkward and wide in the thick nappy, until his nose was inches from the yellow paint.

"Nose on the ducky, Bunnykins," Simone instructed, giving his ear a final pinch before releasing him. "And don't you dare move a muscle. If I come back and you've turned around, or if I hear one single peep out of you, you won't just get a spanking. You'll get the back of my hairbrush across your bare thighs. Do you understand me?"

Robert stared at the glossy wood, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was trapped. If he refused, he knew she would carry out the threat, and he was already humiliated enough. The sheer physical dominance she had exerted earlier had shattered his delusion that he could simply overpower a teenager. He was weak, drugged, and utterly at their mercy.

He stood in the corner, the scent of baby powder still clinging to his skin, listening to the rustle of fabric behind him. Simone hummed a tuneless, happy melody, entirely unconcerned by his simmering humiliation. He could feel the heat of the spanking radiating from his bottom, a constant reminder of his new reality. He wasn’t a man standing in a corner; he was a naughty child awaiting forgiveness.

"That’s long enough," Simone announced abruptly, her cheerful voice cutting through his brooding. "Turn around, baby."

Robert turned slowly, his eyes watering from the strain of staring at the painted duck. Simone was sitting on the edge of the mattress, the pink sunsuit spread across her lap like the hide of a slain beast. She patted her knees, beaming at him.

He stood there, frozen, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The sheer indignity of the position—the standing in the corner, the freshly spanked bottom, the thick diaper forcing him into a waddle—warred with the primal instinct to obey the woman holding the metaphorical paddle.

"Did you hear me, Bunnykins? I said, come to Aunty Simone," she said, her voice dropping that dangerous octave again. "Unless you want to go back to the ducky for the hairbrush treatment?"

Robert flinched. He stumbled forward, the massive nappy between his thighs forcing his knees apart, turning his walk into an ungainly, toddler-like waddle. It was involuntary, biological betrayals of his dignity that were far worse than any clothes they could force upon him.

"No more stalling," Simone said, her voice brisk but not unkind, as she guided him to stand between her parted knees. "We have a schedule to keep. Up we pop!"

With a firm grip on his waist, she pulled him closer, the soft rustle of the nappy loud in the quiet room. She held up the pink satin sunsuit, the white lace trim shimmering in the morning light. It looked impossibly small, yet Robert knew with a sinking dread that it would fit.

"Lift your foot," she commanded.

Robert hesitated, his feet planted on the soft rug, his mind racing for an escape route that didn't exist. "Simone, please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Don't make me wear that. It’s... it’s humiliating."

Simone didn't even blink. She merely tapped his knee with her fingernail, a sharp, staccato rhythm that demanded obedience. "Babies don't worry about fashion, Bunnykins, they worry about staying warm and looking cute. Now, lift your foot before Aunty gets cross."

The threat in her voice was low and vibrating, a reminder of the sting still burning on his backside. Defeated, Robert lifted his foot. Simone guided it into the leg hole of the sunsuit, the satin lining sliding cool against his skin. She repeated the process with the other leg, then stood up.

With a swift tug that left him breathless, Simone yanked the sunsuit up his legs. The satin lining whispered against his skin, cool and slippery, until the garment snapped snugly over his thick nappy. She spun him around to zip him up at the back, the zipper singing shut with a final, metallic hiss that sounded like a door locking.

"Arms in," she ordered, not giving him a moment to mourn his lost adulthood.

Robert obeyed mechanically, sticking his arms out like a zombie. She slid the straps over his shoulders and fastened them with a click. The suit was tight, compressing the bulk of the nappy against him, forcing him to arch his back slightly. It was high-cut at the legs, exposing the frills of his plastic panties peeking out from beneath the lace trim.

Simone stepped back to admire her handiwork, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. She reached out and gave the front of the sunsuit a playful tug, smoothing the lace over the bulge of his nappy.

"Oh, look at you!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. "Absolutely precious! The pink suits your complexion perfectly, Bunnykins. And look how the frills cover your nappy—well, mostly."

Robert looked down at himself. The reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror was a stranger. A man in a pink satin bonnet—wait, when had she put the bonnet on him?—dressed like a grotesque, oversized doll. He felt a tear escape and trail down his cheek, hot and humiliating.

"Aw, don't cry, baby," Simone cooed, stepping forward to dab at his cheek with a lace handkerchief she produced from her pocket. "Tears are just nature's way of washing away that big, boring old man. Look in the mirror! That’s Bunnykins now. Mummy is going to be so thrilled with how pretty you look."

Robert stared at his reflection, the frilly bonnet framing his flushed face, the pink satin straining against the thick diaper between his legs. He wanted to scream, to rip the absurd garments off, but the memory of the hairbrush threat—and the lingering pain from the spanking was enough to stop him.

"Right, let's get those frilly socks on before we go downstairs," Simone chirped, seemingly oblivious to his internal anguish. She bustled him back to the edge of the bed and sat him down with a heavy thump that made the plastic pants crinkle loudly. "Knees up, baby! High as you can!"

Robert sat frozen, his hands resting uselessly in his lap. He wanted to resist, to tell her that he would do no such thing, but the morning’s events had drained him. He was trapped in a haze of sedatives and submission. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted one leg.

Simone wasted no time. She pulled a white sock with a thick layer of lace at the cuff onto his foot, followed by a black patent leather shoe that shone in the light. It was the kind of shoe a toddler would wear to a wedding, buckle included. By the time she clicked the strap on the second shoe, Robert felt ridiculous and utterly small.

The final click of the buckle echoed like a judge’s gavel. Robert stared down at his feet, encased in the ridiculous, shiny patent leather, and felt the last shards of his resistance crumble into dust. He looked like a grotesque caricature of infancy, a man-sized doll dressed up for a tea party he never agreed to attend.

Simone stood up, dusting off her hands with a flourish of satisfaction. She reached out and grabbed his chin, tilting his face up until he was forced to meet her sparkling, dominant gaze.

"There," she beamed, turning his head side to side, inspecting him like a prize poodle. "Absolutely perfect. Though we are missing one little thing to finish off the outfit."

Simone turned back to the dressing table, her heels clicking a sharp, staccato rhythm on the floorboards. She hummed that same maddeningly cheerful tune, completely at odds with Robert's internal screaming, and picked up a large pink object.

Robert recoiled instinctively as she turned back around, holding what looked like a shallow bowl made of stiff, scratchy lace and satin ribbons.

"No," he whispered, pressing his back against the wooden bars of the cot. "No, absolutely not."

"It’s a bonnet, silly baby," Simone laughed, advancing on him with the garment held high like the net of a butterfly catcher. "And it’s the most important part. We can’t have the neighbors seeing your messy hair, can we? They might think Mummy neglects you."

She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed his ear, her fingers pinching the cartilage with practiced ease, and used the grip to steer his head forward. Robert winced, his hands flying up to her wrists, but her grip was ironclad.

"Arms down, Bunnykins," she chided, slapping his hands away with her free hand. "You know the rules. Bad babies who don't keep their hands to themselves get the strap. Do you want the strap before we’ve even had breakfast?"

Robert dropped his hands instantly, the memory of the hairbrush threat still fresh and stinging. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the final nail being hammered into the coffin of his dignity. He felt the stiff scratch of the lace against his forehead, followed by the tightening of the satin ribbons under his chin. Simone pulled them tight, forcing his mouth into a slight, perpetual pout.

"There!" she exclaimed, giving the bonnet a final adjustment so the frilly brim framed his face perfectly. "Now you look like a proper little Victorian doll. Open your eyes, baby. Look how pretty you are."

Robert slowly opened his eyes. The mirror showed a stranger; a towering, absurd figure in pink satin and lace, with a face flushed with shame beneath the canopy of a bonnet. The man who had managed accounts and driven to France was gone, buried under layers of frills and humiliation.

Robert stared at the reflection, his mouth moving uselessly behind the tight satin ribbon, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. The person staring back was a grotesque parody of femininity—a towering, fleshy doll trapped in a confection of pink satin and white lace. The bonnet cut off his peripheral vision, forcing him to look straight ahead at the shame written across his own face.

"Speechless? I don't blame you," Simone giggled, giving his padded bottom a playful pat that sent a jolt of humiliation through him. "You are a vision of baby perfection. But we can't admire you all day; we have guests arriving, and Mummy wants her baby downstairs to show off."

End of chapter 1

Copyright © Baby Bunnykins, www.thaiadultbabynursery.com , 2026. All rights reserved