PROTOCOL DETENTION — CELL 6: DIAPER CONTAINMENT

He was locked in on day one.

Not restrained with rope or cuffs—but entombed. The detention cage was no more than 3 feet tall, rubber-lined, sound-dampened, and bolted to the chamber floor. The door sealed with six pressure locks and a steel badge that read: Specimen 6: Active Waste Containment.

Mistress installed him herself.

He had been fully suited—head to toe in thick latex, custom-fit. Only his cock and mouth were accessible. A plug harness sealed his ass, but the diaper was the centerpiece.

A multi-layered, synthetic containment brief. Padded, pressurized, tight. Built not for comfort, but for overflow.

“You’ll live in it. You’ll fill it. And if you want release, you’ll beg to wear your failure.”

The cage had no space to stand. Rubber crinkling with every movement. The diaper swelled with each forced enema, filled by the automated hose on a timed release.

Every two hours: another fill. Every hour: another round of swallowing from the upper line—warm, bitter sustenance that kept his belly churning.

“Nothing clean goes in. Nothing clean comes out. That’s your new cycle.”

The CBT system was built into the floor of the cage. Once daily, it activated.

First, the chastity cage unlocked. His cock, red, swollen and sensitive, poking through a hole in the front of the diaper, was smeared with mint paste by gloved hands through the access panel. Then came the pins—ten of them, clamped evenly along the shaft.

Mistress knelt beside the cage, her eyes calm.

“This is how we condition need. You want to cum? You suffer.”

She applied the Wartenberg wheel. Slowly. From base to tip. Then inserted the sound—long, chilled, metal.

“Now you’ll earn it.”

The paste burned deep. The sound vibrated slightly as she slid it. The diaper pressed tighter against him, every shift forcing heat and scent to bloom inside the cage.

Then came the humiliation.

She reached through the top hatch and removed the diaper—now sagging, hot, soaked—and folded it neatly.

“This is your face now.”

She taped it across the rubber hood—tightly, sealing it over his mouth and nose. The scent filled his mask. Every breath was soaked in his failure.

“Cum in your own air. Show me how far you’ve fallen.”

She stroked him, slow and cruel. Gloved hand, mint-slick, twisting just enough.

“Cum in your mess. Own your condition.”

He obeyed. Shaking. Hissing between breaths. Tears inside the hood.

She smiled.

“You’re not released yet. But you’re getting closer.”

She applied a fresh diaper, and closed the hatch. Re-locked the door. Left the system running.

The cage dimmed.

Cycle resumed.