Tinkydrew - Part 9
The fog has lifted slightly, but the air in Aunt Margaret’s sprawling backyard remains damp and heavy, carrying the salty tang of the nearby sea. I’m suspended in the harness, the pink and lavender straps glinting with rhinestone hearts, my fairy princess dress billowing around me like a cloud of tulle and sequins. The fairy wings on my back flutter faintly in the breeze, and my bouffant curls, still stiff with coconut-scented hairspray, bounce under the silver tiara. The chastity belt presses firmly between my legs as I hover above the toddler-like playground. Alone now, with Margaret gone inside to tend to her “adult things,” I’m left with nothing but the hum of the cables above and my own spiraling thoughts.
I glide half-heartedly toward the pastel-colored slide, the harness letting me swoop low enough to brush my fingers against its smooth, soft plastic. It’s inviting in a childish way, but as I hover closer, I realize how pointless it is. A slide? When I’m already flying? I try the swings next, kicking my legs to make the plush, pink seat sway gently, but the motion is slow, padded, designed for a toddler who can’t handle anything faster. The sandbox glitters below, its white sand sparkling like sugar, but the heart-shaped molds and star-shaped rakes scream “little kid,” and I can’t bring myself to land and play in it. The playhouse looks equally unappealing, its heart-shaped windows and frilly curtains reminding me too much of the pink-drenched room upstairs. Everything here is soft, safe, and so painfully juvenile that boredom settles over me like the fog itself.
My mind drifts to what I’d be doing if I were back home, before... Everything. I’d be sprawled on the couch, playing video games—maybe a racing game, my fingers flying over the controller as I drift around corners, or a first-person shooter, dodging bullets with friends online, laughing over headsets. Or I’d be outside, kicking a football across a field, weaving through my mates, the grass stained on my knees, the thrill of a perfect score making my heart race. Those were the things that made me feel alive, like Andrew, not this… sparkly fairy princess trapped in a cage disguised as a playground.
I glance down at myself, the tulle skirt flaring out, the Mary Janes glinting with rhinestone buckles, the wand still clutched in my lace-gloved hand. I can’t believe this is me. A fairy? With wings and a tiara? The absurdity hits like a wave, and a sudden, desperate urge to break free surges through me. I have to get this thing off me!
I tug at the dress, reaching for the puffed sleeves, hoping to pull them off, to shed at least some of this humiliating costume. But the zipper is at the back, out of reach, and the harness straps crisscross my shoulders and chest, pinning the dress in place. I try the sash next, fumbling with the oversized bow, but the knot is tight, and my fingers, encased in the lace gloves, can’t get a good grip. The petticoat rustles mockingly, and I twist, trying to reach the straps of the fairy wings, but the harness locks them securely to my back. Even the tiara is pinned too tightly to my curls to remove without pulling my hair out. Everything is designed to stay on, to keep me as Tinkydrew, and the realization makes my chest tighten. I’m trapped—not just in the harness, but in this entire fairy-tale nightmare.
Frustrated, I swing my arm, and the sparkly wand slips from my grip, tumbling to the grass below with a soft thud. My heart stops. I gesture with my hand, expecting the harness to respond, but nothing happens. I’m frozen, dangling in mid-air, the cables above holding me in place. I try again, waving my arms, kicking my legs, but the harness doesn’t budge. Without the wand, I’m stuck, unable to rise, lower, or glide. The playground below taunts me, the slide and swings just out of reach. “Aunt Margaret!” I call, my voice cracking. “I dropped the wand!” The words echo across the empty yard, swallowed by the fog. No response. I call again, louder, “Aunt Margaret, please!” but the mansion’s glass doors remain closed, the towering brick walls silent.
Boredom creeps in again, heavier now, as I hang limply in the harness, my legs dangling, the fairy wings swaying uselessly. The minutes drag on, and I try to distract myself, counting the rhinestones on my Mary Janes, tracing the patterns of the cables above, but it’s no use. My mind wanders, and then I feel it—a faint pressure in my bladder. I need to pee. My stomach twists. I call out again, “Aunt Margaret, I need to come down!” but there’s still no answer, just the distant cry of a seagull. I shift in the harness, trying to ease the pressure, crossing my legs as best I can within the tight straps. The chastity belt presses harder, its metal unyielding, making the urge worse. I squirm, the tulle skirt rustling, the petticoat crinkling, my movements frantic but limited by the harness’s grip.
I try everything to hold it. I clench my muscles, biting my lip, focusing on the cool air against my face, anything to distract myself. I wiggle my toes in the Mary Janes, twist my hips as much as the harness allows, even hum a tune to keep my mind off it. But the pressure builds, relentless, and my small frame can’t fight it forever. I’m dangling, helpless, the playground below a mocking reminder of my predicament. My face burns with shame as I realize I’m losing the battle. “No, no, no,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut, but it’s no use. A warm trickle escapes, seeping into the pink panties with their embroidered crowns. The surge of warmth spreads, dribbling down my leg, soaking the delicate fabric and staining the frothy tulle of the dress. The chastity belt’s metal traps some of the liquid, making it pool against my skin, warm and humiliating, before it drips further, leaving wet streaks down my thigh.
The shame is overwhelming, a hot wave that makes my eyes sting. I’m twelve, not a toddler, yet here I am, wetting myself like a baby, dressed as a fairy princess, stuck in mid-air. The dress, Margaret’s creation, is ruined, the tulle splotched with dark patches, the petticoat heavy and clinging. As much as I hate it, I still feel so much shame that I ruined it. The panties feel sodden, the lace now a soggy mockery of their delicate design. I hang as limply as the wet lace, my head bowed, the tiara tilting slightly, my curls falling into my face. I feel utterly defeated, small and powerless. If that wasn't enough, I feel water flowing down my nose, dripping into the dress, dropping to the ground. My tears, dripping. An echo of what I've done. There's a moment where I feel I've become like the “Delicate Doll” etched on my chastity belt. Andrew is gone, drowned in Tinkydrew’s shame, and all I can do is dangle here, a broken doll waiting for Margaret to find me like this.
Hours pass—or at least it feels like hours, the fog thickening again, the yard growing dimmer. My legs ache from dangling, my skin prickles from the damp fabric, now cold, and the chastity belt dripping a little bit more with every shift. How can there still be liquid trapped in there after all this? Finally, I hear the glass doors open, and Margaret’s footsteps crunch across the grass. I brace myself, expecting anger at ruining the dress, fury about doing such a childish thing, but when she looks up at me, her face softens, her eyes wide with concern.
“Oh, Tinkydrew, my poor darling!” she says, her voice warm and soothing. She picks up the wand, waving it expertly, and the harness lowers me gently to the ground. My feet touch the grass, and she’s there in an instant, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug despite the wet dress. “This is all my fault,” she says. “I didn’t expect to be away so long, my sweet princess. I should have known better.” I can hear the sorrow in her words. But yet... It must be my mind tricking me, but I almost thought I heard a hint of something else in her voice. Like... Was she really upset? It almost seemed like the upset might not be genuine?
She pulled me closer, my face pressed against her shoulder, the damp tulle sticking to my legs. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, my voice thick with shame. “I ruined the dress… I couldn’t hold it.”
“Nonsense,” she says firmly, pulling back to cup my face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the remnant of a tear I didn’t realize I’d shed. “You didn’t ruin anything, Tinkydrew. These things happen, and it’s my fault for leaving you up there. Don’t you worry, we’ll get you cleaned up, good as new.” Her smile is gentle, her eyes warm but still glinting with that strange intensity. “We’ll have a nice bath, and I’ll take steps to make sure this never happens again. I will protect my perfect Tinkydrew.”
She lifts me again, her strength making it effortless, and carries me back toward the mansion, the fairy wings swaying, the wet dress clinging to my skin. I’m too exhausted, too humiliated, to protest, and her comfort, however strange, is so welcome after what I've just been through. As we pass through the glass doors, the lavender-rose scent of the house envelops me, and it's shocking how happy I am to be going back 'home'. As unexpected as this has all been, the house still represents warmth and comfort. I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I barely give a passing thought to what 'steps' Auntie Margaret might be taking...
Topic: Tinkydrew (Read 6037 times)
