Regressive Therapy Chapter 1

Warning: The following story contains shrinking, diapers, and age play.  It’s also Cheryl’s for-serious birthday present.  

Chapter 1

Dior pumps clacked across the pavement in steady rhythm, a discerning soul could count the microseconds between clacks and determine how close the storm named Emma Frost was coming.  The receptionist of The Golden Apple Clinic, while not terribly discerning, was at least smart enough to register and react accordingly.  

By the time the door swung briskly open and the woman stalked into the waiting area like a lioness with a purpose, the receptionist—a short wisp of a woman with short, black hair and more earrings than was professionally smiled upon—had opened screens on her computer for both schedules and accounts.  Often she had to feign pleasantry with the clinic’s clientele, but the sight of Ms. Frost always elicited the real thing.  

Emma was tall—a quality enhanced further by her stiletto heels—with expertly shaped curves, immaculate yellow-blond hair, and clothes that had never moldered on anything so gauche as a rack.  She regarded the world with a continual mixture of impatience and amusement, and much like the receptionist, her pleasantries were usually manufactured.  Fortunately, at least from the receptionist’s perspective, the smile Emma gave her was as unaffected as they came.  

“Good afternoon, Ms. Frost,” said the receptionist, unable to help her eager smile.  “Ready for a little pampering?”  

“Is it really so obvious?” Emma asked, one immaculate brow raised.

“No,” said the receptionist, “but knowing what you do…and how hard it is…”

“Yes, yes,” Emma said, handing her purse across the counter.  “Being so utterly fabulous is quite the taxing to-do.  It would be nice if others could at least try to keep up.”  

Taking the purse, the receptionist slid it into one of the lockers behind the receptionist’s desk and grinned.  “Guess that’s the price of being better than everyone else.”  

“How inescapably true.”

“Well the doctor is waiting for you,” the receptionist said, handing the locker key to Ms. Frost.  “You know the hows and wheres.”  

“Intimately,” Emma said, putting a charge in the word that vibrated through the twiggish receptionist from chest to pelvis and back again.  “Ta for now, darling.”  

The receptionist meant to call after the Queen as she disappeared down a short hallway and behind the heavy door leading to the therapy room, maybe a “See you later” or “Enjoy”, but her head was too full of Emma’s husky, milky tone to function.

The room beyond the door, seen only by a carefully vetted few, was brightly lit and open, walls done in cheery pastels, floor covered with soft, shaggy carpet.  The furniture was sparse, a few chairs—mostly of the rocking variety—a crib in the back corner, opposite a well-stocked changing table, and a stock of toys neatly arranged along the back wall.  

Cheryl, therapist to the stars, stood by the changing table, running a final supply check before she began with her longest tenured, and most exquisite client, possibly with the hopes that her mostly-reliable receptionist had forgotten to restock something as it would have given Cheryl grounds for punishment.  Alas, all was in order.  

Emma entered and paused, holding her silence to better inspect the busy therapist.  Cheryl was nearly as tall as Emma with rich, bronze skin and jet black hair.  Today she was wearing a red top with a ruffled front and dark slacks that accentuated her curves in delicious ways.  Emma nodded approval at both the well proportioned woman and the well chosen wardrobe.  “You look positively divine.  As always.”  

Cheryl tried not to redden too much at the compliment; it wouldn’t be very conducive for the upcoming session to be flattered rouge by her patient; it might complicate the balance of things, which with Emma was always guaranteed to be complicated enough.  Still, no one paid a better compliment than Emma Frost.  “You’re much too sweet,” Cheryl said with a trace of humor.  

“Oh, I’m known for my unfailing sweetness.  A kindness to all creatures, dull and drab,” said Emma.  “I believe it’s my defining trait.”

“I believe I’ve heard that,” Cheryl said smiling.  

“No doubt from the dozens of bores I’ve enlightened through…shall we call it psychic reeducation?”  

“Sounds like a clinical term.”  

“Perhaps you’d like to try a bit for yourself?”  Emma smiled, an expression both promising and predatory that throbbed down beneath Cheryl’s skin.  “I promise you won’t regret it.”  

Clearing her throat to rid it of the odd build up of saliva, Cheryl said, “Another time, maybe.”

“As you wish,” Emma said with an elegant shrug of her shoulder.  

“Ah,” Cheryl said, raising a finger, “but this—today—is about your wish.”  

“It always is, dear; it always is.”  Emma shed her coat and handed it over to Cheryl.  “After all, it’s what I pay you so dearly for.”  

“And do you think I do it solely for your dear, dear pay?”

“However should I know?” said Emma airily.  “You certainly don’t refuse my payments.”  

Carefully guiding the coat onto a hangar, Cheryl hung the garment in the wardrobe immediately beside the table.  She knew exactly what the White Queen was doing, playing a circumlocutious game of questions, the same dance Emma had led since she first came to Cheryl.  The fact that Cheryl hadn’t broken quickly was the main reason Emma selected her for a therapist, but quickly was the operative word.

“We both know what you’re doing,” Cheryl said primly.  “And we both know I can’t win.”

“Ever since that first time, you simply refuse to engage.”

“Hat please,” said Cheryl, hand outheld in expectation.  “I’m not here to engage in your games.”

“But aren’t you?”  Emma removed her hat and handed it over, mindfully rubbing a finger over Cheryl’s as the therapist grasped the hat.  “Is that not what we’re about to do?”

Cheryl’s lips quirked and wordlessly, she took the cowboy hat and placed it inside the wardrobe.  

Flashing a knowing grin, Emma said, “I believe I’ve won again.”  

“Shoes,” Cheryl demanded.  

Grin becoming a full-on smile, Emma stepped out of her heels.  Bending at her lithe waist, Emma reached down, offering a complete view of her wonderfully thin back and a little peep down the front of her shirt, just in case anyone was interested in sneaking a glance.  Cheryl was.  And while she was professional enough to not be caught looking when Emma straightened up, Emma knew.  She lifted her elegant chin as she handed over her precious Diors and regarded Cheryl with a languid expression.  “Anything else you’d like?”  

“N-not, uh…”  Cheryl put her fist to her mouth and cleared her throat, pretending to have a little cough to explain her problems.  “Excuse me.  Not at the moment.”  

“Of course,” Emma smiled a Cheshire grin.  “Perhaps later then.”  

Even without her heels Emma was taller than Cheryl, and standing there in her all-white wardrobe—a blouse with a dangerously low décolletage and wide-legged trousers—she looked, well not angelic…never angelic…but certainly like some kind of deity.  

Cheryl took an extra second to appreciate Emma’s assets, and Emma gladly let her.  No compliment lifted a woman’s spirits like the appreciation of an equally appreciable woman.  

“Do I have your permission to begin?” asked Cheryl.  

Emma huffed.  “Must we do this?  I am here.  Should that not be permission enough?”  

“Emma,” said Cheryl, “you know the rules.  They’re there for a reason.”  

“Yes.  Mostly for people like me to ignore.”  Emma put a hand on her hip.  “I could just make you continue.  We both know your little dampening field isn’t up yet.”

“You could,” Cheryl agreed, “but I’d hope you wouldn’t.”  

“Please, darling.  You know I wouldn’t.  After all, that would rather defeat the entire point of my being here.”  

“So then…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Emma, waving her hand as if shooing away some unpleasant odor.  “You have my permission, you disgustingly lovely creature.”  

Choosing to take that for a compliment—it did include the word ‘lovely’, after all—Cheryl pressed the button hidden beside the wardrobe, activating the dampening field that prevented her more mutantous clientele from using their powers on her during a session.  Then, without a word, she crossed to Emma and placed a hand on the woman’s exquisite shoulder.  “And here we go.”  


At first nothing happened.  Emma just stood there.  Occasionally blinking.  And then her pants, expertly tailored to hug her ivory hips shifted.  Now not quite so snug.  Not quite so high.  Emma blinked down at them, as if in disbelief.  Another second and they slipped noticeably down, so that Emma had to spread her legs out to keep them from falling off.  

“Oh,” she squeaked in surprise.  

She reached down to tug them off, but she was too slow and her pants fell down around her feet.  As a consolation prize she managed to grip her also white panties before they slid down.  She went to look down at Cheryl, to demand to know what was happening, but Cheryl wasn’t down anymore.  In fact Emma found herself eyelevel with Cheryl’s bountiful bosom, which the other woman was practically thrusting in Emma’s face.  Emma hunched back, away from breasts that had no business being bigger than hers, and then glared up at Cheryl.  “What have you done to me, you great cow?”  

“Uh-uh-uh!”  Cheryl wagged a finger.  “We’ll have no name calling, little girl.”  

“Who are you calling a little girl, you slag?”  Emma, incensed, stepped forward, poking her finger up at Cheryl.  “Do you have any clue who you’re dealing with?  I am Emma Frost.  The White Queen!  I—”

A wave crashed over Emma, a sensation building up from within and breaking down.  She doubled over, holding her stomach and groaning.  And when she found the strength to rise back up, prepared to remind this quack just who she was, she found her eyes now at belt level.  Her shirt was down at her knees, her sleeves swallowing up her arms.  

She looked up at Cheryl, eyes widened in shock, and upon seeing the smug glint in Cheryl’s dark eyes, Emma flinched.  Cheryl folded her arms under her chest, giving added prominence to her breasts.  “Not much of a queen now, are you?  More like a princess.”  

“No!”  

“Or maybe a pwincess?”  

“I won’t let you do this to me!”  

“Too late, tiny.  It’s already done.”  Cheryl tapped a finger to her chin.  “Well, not completely done…”  

That sickening sensation began cresting within Emma again, and the enlittled blond whimpered, afraid how low this ride would take her.  But no matter how tightly she clung her panties to herself, no matter how many times she repeated, “No, no, no, no,” she couldn’t stem the tide.  It crashed down over her, again doubling her over beneath the weight of the pain.  

When she straightened again, the world had disappeared.  All she could see was a dark-tinged whiteness surrounding her.  One hand holding resolutely to panties now large enough to be a good hammock, Emma thrashed around wildly with her other hand.  

After flailing and failing for what felt like an eternity, Emma caught a glimpse of daylight.  She threw herself at it, kicking and clawing until she made it out of her prison.  Upon taking in her surroundings, she was shocked to find it was her shirt she’d just escaped.  Shock turned to horror when she turned to find a pair of knees above her eye-level.  

Cheryl looked down at the miniscule woman clinching her panties to her chest and laughed.  “Aww, wookit the widdoo bay-bee, pwaying wiff big girl panties!”  

“No!”  Emma stomped her foot.  “You will not talk to me like some infant!  You will make me bigger, right this instant, you insufferable clod!”  

The larger woman’s laughter cut off abruptly, changed to a frown which she directed down to Emma.  “What did I tell you about name calling, little girl?”  

Cheryl reached toward Emma, but the smaller woman backpedaled away from her, making it several steps before her legs got tangled up in the monstrously large leg holes of her panties and she fell back on her divine—if diminutive—derriere.  

“Uh-oh!” Cheryl called.  “Baby faww down go boom?”  

Not waiting around to make a retort, Emma rolled to her knees to get back to getting away.  Cheryl made a grab for her, but came up with only a handful of panty, forcing Emma to let go her of her covering.  Knowing she didn’t have the time to stand, Emma crawled away, hands and knees slapping wildly at the floor as she padded away.  

“Look at the little baby tiny hiney do crawlies!” Cheryl taunted.  “Sooo cutesy-wootsy!”  

“Stop it!” Emma called over her shoulder.  “You can’t treat me like this!”  

“Oh, can’t I?”  

Cheryl decided she’d given Emma enough leeway; it was time to show what she could do when she bothered trying.  In two steps she caught up with the scooting queen and in one motion, hooked her hands beneath Emma’s shoulders and lifted her up, up, up away from the floor.  

Hanging there in the air, Emma kicked her legs, flailed her arms, shook her head wildly back and forth in a vain effort to get free—not really thinking that at her current size, at her current height, free was the last thing she wanted to be.  “No, no, no!  You will stop this, right now, you dried up bovine!”  

“Oh, that.  Is.  It!”  Tucking the mini-mutant under her arm, making sure to put Emma’s screaming face up close to her larger, shapely buns, a little taunt to what was coming next, Cheryl stalked across the room toward the rocking chair.

About the time Cheryl sat down and slid the little woman into her lap, Emma put the pieces together, her struggles growing more fierce and desperate.  Just to show Emma how ineffectual were her attempts at freedom, Cheryl picked Emma under her armpits, again leaving her to dangle and flail in the air.  But Emma, never an easy cookie to crumble, kept right on fighting, figuring if she couldn’t get free, she could at least give this unfortunate giantess a headache.  

Cheryl, after a few minutes, caught onto this and plopped Emma back across her lap, holding the diminutive diva in place with one hand and taking a second to caress those milky white buns before she toasted them.  

And then the first smack fell.  The impact—and the fleshy thwack that echoed across the room—brought Emma’s conniption to an abrupt end.  She simply lay there, eyes wide, gripping Cheryl’s slacks with both hands.  She shook her head in dazed disbelief, and Cheryl gave her the time to whine a thin, “No, no, no,” before she put the heat to Emma’s buns.  

To no surprise of Cheryl’s, Emma was nothing if not resilient.  The spanking carried on, each fall of Cheryl’s hand rocking Emma’s entire, tiny body.  But despite the pained moans and whines that died at the top of Emma’s throat, disallowed from reaching the outside world, Emma didn’t cry out.  This only served to excite Cheryl.  Most of her other clients would have long since broken, but the Queen—as she always was—was a cut above.  

Which simply meant it was time to get creative.  

Abruptly standing, cradling Emma to her hip with a single arm, Cheryl stalked to the changing table and plunked the Little down on her hiney.  A grunt escaped Emma as her reddened tush hit the table’s mat.  Forcing herself to not rub the owies away, Emma glared up at Cheryl, who covered her mouth with the back of her hand and tittered.  

“Oh, my!” said Cheryl.  “Such a defiant expression.  Let’s see what we can do about that.”  

With that ominous thought hanging in the air, Cheryl disappeared from sight, digging around the changing table’s cabinet.  When she popped back up, hands conspicuously out of sight, her face had assumed the most evilly sweet smile Emma had ever seen, and before the tiny blond could comment, Cheryl forced a big white bonnet down over Emma’s honeyed locks, fighting off the little woman’s little hands and tying in place.  Emma reached up to tug at the bow snuggly tied beneath her chin, but a hard swat to her hand put a stop to that nonsense.  So did the frilly white booties Cheryl deftly slipped over Emma’s kicking tootsies.  

“Now you look more the part,” Cheryl beamed.  

“Get if off me.  Right.  This.  Instant.”  

“No.”  

She plucked Emma up and walked her over to a mirror, all the better to give the deposed Queen a look at how royal she didn’t look.  

“See, Emma?”  Cheryl gave her charge a little shake, the motion causing Emma’s breasts to wiggle, a cruel taunt to her reduced size and infantile attire.  “You’re just a bratty little baby.”  

“No!”  

Cheryl turned her around, putting Emma’s bright red rear into the mirror’s view.  “Look,” she demanded, “Look at the Widdoo White Queenie’s little red bottom.”  When Emma resolutely refused, she gave her a little shake and shouted, “Look!”  

Emma glanced over her shoulder, appalled at the reflection of her beautifully crafted hiney blazing like a wildfire.  Reinforcing the knowledge there was nothing she could do to stop this.  And it hurt her worse than any thousand lashes with any thousand belts.  

“Now do you see?”  

“Nooooo!” Emma whined, but the petulance in her voice was exactly what Cheryl wanted to hear.  

She returned to the rocking chair, grabbed the hair brush lying beside the chair, and picked up the spanking where she left off.  This time Emma squirmed and kicked and flailed, her whines and pleas to stop becoming more and more desperate, her voice climbing higher and higher in her throat.  

“Stop it!  Stop it!” she pleaded.  

“Tell Mommy you’re sorry.”  

“You’re not my mummy!”  

Cheryl paused her spanking for an ominous second.  “What a terrible thing to say to Mommy!”  

The spanking resumed and Emma’s voice began cracking with more and more with each swat.  

“Stop!  Ple-hee-hee-se!  Pl…please…”  

Cheryl knew it wouldn’t be long now.  And it wasn’t.  Inside of ten more swats the tears began flowing.  Sobs wracked Emma’s little body.  She balled up her fists and began pounding weakly on Cheryl’s thighs, squealing at the top of her lungs.  

“Whaaaa!  Whaaa-haa-haa-haa!”  She sputtered and sobbed wetly, then back with, “Uh-whaa-haa!  Whaa-haa!  Ah-whaa!”  

“You know to make it stop,” said Cheryl conversationally as she swatted away.  

“I…I sorry…” Emma muttered, voice barely audible between her tears.  

“What?” Cheryl asked, delivering a few harder swats.  “I don’t think I heard you.”  

“I sah-reeee!  I sah-reee!  I sah-ree-hee-heee-eeee!” Emma squealed to the ceiling.  

But the spanking didn’t abate.  “I’d love to help you.  I would.  But I don’t know who you’re apologizing to.”

“Nnnuuhhhh!”

“Guess we’ll keep going…”  

“No!”  Emma squirmed with renewed vigor.  “I sah-haa-ree, Muh-mee!”  

Cheryl leaned close, cupping a hand to her ear.  “Who?”  

“Muh-mee!  Muh-mee!  Muh-mee!  I sah-ree, Muh-mee!”  

As if she’d finally gotten correct the special Latin phrase of some magical spell, the spanking came to an end.  Not that the crying did.  Emma lay there, shifting back and forth—had they not been mid-session, Cheryl would have given in to the temptations of having a miniaturized Emma Frost rubbing her breasts and crotch against her lap, but she had to maintain some measure of professionalism…besides they could probably have some ‘fun’ later.  Sobs sent shudders rocking up and down Emma’s body, and her eyes were squeezed shut as her tear ducts ran themselves dry.  While she waited for Emma to cry herself out, Cheryl rubbed a little ointment on the Little’s blazing buns.  As red as they were, she was hoping she hadn’t pushed things too far—that was the dangerous of a hard as diamonds patient like Emma.  

Eventually the sobs receded to the occasional spasm, and Cheryl rolled her little woman over, carefully parting her legs enough to let Emma’s bum hang through without pressing on any flesh.  Emma looked up at Cheryl with moist, blue eyes, her full-formed lips puffed up in a pout.  Cheryl flashed her a reassuring smile, but the little woman, her blond tresses poking out from beneath her bonnet, ducked her chin to her chest, popped her thumb between those luscious lips, and sucked away as if it would soothe the achies in her hiney.  It actually made Cheryl feel bad for spanking her.  

“You know why I had to do that, right sweetie?”  

Pressing her thumb even deeper into her mouth, Emma shook her head in an emphatic no.  

“You were being a bad girl, Emma.  And bad girls need spankies.”  

“Uhhh buuuuh guuugh?” Emma slurred around her thumb.  

“Sweetie,” Cheryl corrected, “you need to take your thumb out of your mouth when you talk.”  

Emma didn’t want to.  Her thumb made her feel better.  And after the massive spanking Mummy had just given her she needed a lot of better.  On the other hand, she wasn’t about to disobey Mummy again.  Not and get more spankies.  So she yanked her thumb out and with thickened lips said, “I bad girl?”  

“No, honey,” Cheryl assured her, stroking a finger down Emma’s porcelain cheek.  “You are the sweetest, kindest, gentlest angle Mommy knows.”  

Emma’s shoulders scrunched up and she giggled—well, giggled as much as her still tingling tush would allow her.  

“But sometimes you can act like a bad girl.”  

“But I not bad girl?” Emma asked in earnest.  

“No.  You’re Mama’s special girl.  Her good, good girl.  But you have to remember to be a good girl, okay?”  

Emma nodded her head, her bonnet making silken noises as it swished against Mummy’s pants.  “Okay, Mummy.  I be good.”  

“That’s my girl!”  

Emma’s lips pursed up, obviously with some deep, important thought, and finally, when she decided how best to express it, she asked, “Mummy?”  

“Yes?”  

“I nakey?”  

Cheryl tickled Emma’s trim, defined abs, the little woman squirming and squeeing in ticklish glee, and Cheryl nodded, “Yes, honey-bunny, yes you are.”  And with the greatest of reluctance, her eyes taking in one last taste of the mini-sized feast before her, she added, “And we should probably do something about that.”