Mommies and Daddies

The Nursery and the Guest Roots of a Secret Gerald’s sissy and adult-baby desires ran far deeper than any passing fancy—buried so deep they felt like part of who he’d always been. They had taken root in his early teens, when he first found himself drawn to soft fabrics, frills, womens panties  and later  the quiet, comforting shape of baby things. By his university years, he was wearing nappies beneath his clothes, the crinkle of plastic pants a secret lullaby only he could hear,or so e thought and he’d long since learned how to source frilly baby-girl knickers and satin garments in sizes made just for grown-ups who longed to be small. Romance had never gone well. Girlfriends would come close, see him bare, and then pull away—amused, disappointed, or outright cruel. One ex-girlfriend, the first to see him fully naked and aroused, had burst out laughing, staring at him and shaking her head. “That’s it? That’s all? You’re far too small—no one would ever feel anything.” That night, she’d told her friends. Soon the nickname stuck: “Babydick.” It stung, yet somehow it also twisted inside him and woke something alive. A girl from her circle even left a folded nappy tied to his dorm room door, a cruel joke—and Gerald had taken it inside, smoothed it out, and hidden it away, ashamed and thrilled all at once. Years passed before he met Eleanor at a work function. Tall, slender, poised, with that long  flowing dark hair and warm, knowing  dark brown eyes, she’d seemed like everything he was not—confident, substantial, fully grown. They married, and for a time he kept his world locked away. But the longing grew too strong, and one evening he laid it all before her: his hidden collection, neatly folded—thick cloth nappies, clear crinkly plastic pants, sheer babydoll nighties edged in lace, frilly knickers and satin panties in pale pink, cream, and white, even a few little girl’s dresses, all custom-made by a seamstress who never asked questions. Eleanor was stunned. She stood silent for a long time, turning a satin garment over in her hands, before she sat beside him and said, simply, “It doesn’t hurt anyone, does it? You’re not hurting me,I suppose but you should have told me before we got married but  I’m not hurt by it.” In time, she came to see it as just another part of him—odd, yes, harmless, and even something she could play with. Sometimes she would dress him herself, and when they were intimate, he would lie there soft and vulnerable in frills and nappies, feeling loved and safe even as she teased him. She derived little physical satisfaction from their lovemaking—he knew that unless he gave her oral pleasure —but she delighted in how easily he melted under her hands. She would rub her palms over his padded, rustling bottom, cooing in baby-talk that made his face burn and his breath catch when he was inside her.The crinkle of his plastic pants rubbing against the frilly baby knickers was emasucalating but comforting. “My sweet baby girl,” she would murmur, smoothing the lace and chiffon of his nigtie  over his chest. “Trying so hard to make love to his Mummy with his tiny, wee-wee thing… so sweet, so useless…” And it did excite him—terribly. Once, as she held him, she sighed and said, half-mocking, half-truthful: “I do wish you were bigger, darling. I wish you had a nice, thick, long cock like all my old boyfriends—something I could really feel.” Gerald groaned aloud—and pumped his tiny organ in and out of her faster and faster instantly cumming , helplessly, spent but betraying another of his secrets. Eleanor laughed, low and throaty, stroking his damp cheek. “Oh? Did you like that? Does the thought of me with a proper-sized man make you tremble and come so quickly ?” Flushed and shivering, he confessed—everything. The fantasies he’d carried for years: her in someone else’s arms, being filled completely, crying out with pleasure he could never give her. He told her he imagined her with men who were large, strong, well-endowed, and that the thought of them together left him burning with shame and longing. Eleanor listened, thoughtful, and then she kissed his forehead. “We’ll see, my sweet baby. We’ll see we can talk about but no promisses but to be honest it sounds quite exciting .” The Babysitter and the New Routine Enter Lacey—nineteen, bright and lovely, with long blonde hair and a sweet, cherubic face that hid a sharp, playful streak. She came to sit with Gerald whenever Eleanor went out with her freinds , and it fell to her to tend to him: to change his nappies, fasten his plastic pants, brush his hair into soft styles Eleanor liked—longer now, falling in soft waves—and tie ribbons around his pigtails. The first time Lacey changed him, she stared at the soft less than one inch sized penis  She had never seen an adult man so small down there. “Oh my,” she’d said, voice soft with genuine shock, then laughter. “Why, it’s barely there! It’s smaller than my little cousin’s—and he’s two! You really very tiny ,just a baby, aren’t you ,you dont even have any hair down there ?” From then on, she took to dressing him in the most humiliatingly frilly things she could find—pale pink sheer nylon babydoll nighties  dripping with lace, matching frilly knickers covered in layers of lace on the front and rear , some plastic lined that rustled and whispered, and the thickest, bulkiest cloth  nappies secured with pink headed safety pins .Lacey often , held them out up to the light shaking the tight  clear plastic pants that crinkled loudly with every step. She would tie satin ribbons in his hair, pinch his blushing cheeks, and talk to him exactly as one would speak to a toddler—high, sing-song, dripping with mock-endearment. He hated it. He ached for it. Eleanor’s Date It was inevitable. Eleanor was beautiful, charming, and outgoing—men noticed her. One evening out with friends, she caught the eye of Marcus—tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a way that commanded attention, warm and easy to talk to. They hit it off instantly. On their third date, over dinner, she told him everything—about her husband, about Gerald’s nursery life, his clothes, his preferences, and, with a frankness that made them both laugh, about his size. “He’s sweet,” she said, swirling her wine, “but he’s terribly small. Barely three inches, even when he’s trying his best. I’ve never once felt him. And he knows it—poor thing.” Marcus chuckled. “And you think I’ll mind?” “I’m telling you because I want you to know what you’re walking into,” she said, meeting his gaze. “And for the record—you’re not exactly hard to miss. I’ve seen the way you carry yourself. I can guess.” He laughed outright. “Then let me confirm it for you: I’m eight inches, and thick. You’ll feel every inch.” Eleanor’s breath caught. She smiled, slow and bright. “I expect you’ll meet my husband—or my baby girl—sooner or later. I call him Daisy now. It suits him.” The following week, Eleanor went shopping. She bought herself exquisite white silk underwear—delicate lace-trimmed bra, skimpy bikini panties, sheer stockings, and a suspender belt. She found a sleek black dress that clung to every curve, had her hair styled, her makeup done, and felt younger, bolder, than she had in years. She called Lacey early that afternoon. “Get Daisy ready for bed,” Eleanor instructed, her voice bright and excited. “Full nappy, his frilliest pink nightie, ribbons in his hair, tucked into his cot. I’ll be late—and I won’t be alone.when I return, Marcus is coming home with me. He’s staying over.” The Nursery at Night Lacey did as she was told. She bathed Gerald, powdered him soft and sweet, pinned him into a thick, bulky cloth nappy that pushed his legs apart, pulled on the clear thin crinkling plastic pants, and slipped over him a sheer pink nylon babydoll that barely covered him, lace frills brushing his padded hips. She tied two pink satin ribbons into his hair, stood back, and smiled. “Perfect,” she whispered, patting his nappy so it crinkled loudly. “Pretty little Daisy. All ready to watch Mummy bring home a real man.” He was flushed, trembling, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it against the lace. He heard the car pull up below, voices—Eleanor’s, bright and laughing, and a deeper, richer tone that made his stomach twist. Then footsteps climbing the stairs, slow and deliberate. The door opened. Eleanor stood there, radiant, Marcus beside her—broad, strong, handsome, his arm resting around her waist. He looked around the room, at the pastel walls, the crib, and then at Gerald, sitting small and wide-eyed, ribbons in his hair, bulging nappy prominent beneath frills. “There he is,” Eleanor said, smiling. “My Daisy.” Marcus stepped closer, looked down—and smiled, not unkindly, but with unmistakable amusement. “Good heavens. He really is tiny, isn’t he?” “Show him, Lacey,” Eleanor said calmly. Lacey stepped forward, knelt, and before Gerald could squirm away, she pulled back the hem of his nightie, popped the tapes of his plastic pants, and peeled them down. Gerald whimpered, covering his face, but not before they all saw it—his manhood, shrunken and babyish, barely visible, and only just beginning to swell from shame and helpless excitement, rising to a pathetic, ridiculous little peak. “Look at that,” Marcus said, leaning in, his voice warm and incredulous. “It’s precious. It’s like a button. A sweet little baby button. You really expect anyone to feel that, darling?” Eleanor laughed, running a hand down Marcus’s chest. “That’s exactly what I tell him. He knows he can’t. He knows only you can give me what I need.” She turned to Gerald, eyes gleaming. “See him, Daisy? See how big he is? Eight inches, my sweet baby. Thick, too. He’s going to fill me completely. You’ll hear us. You’ll know exactly what I’m getting—and exactly what you never, ever could.” Lacey’s hand rested over the front of his nappy, now refastened, and she rubbed slowly, deliberately, smiling as she felt that tiny, useless hardness beneath. “Poor Daisy,” she murmured, so only he could hear. “Getting all excited watching your Mummy get what she deserves. Aren’t you the tiniest, saddest little thing?” What Gerald Hear They left him then, the door ajar, and went to Eleanor’s bedroom across the hall. And Gerald heard it all. He heard the rustle of silk, the click of a latch, then Eleanor’s breath catching, a long, soft sigh that turned into a gasp. He heard Marcus’s low voice, murmuring things that made Eleanor laugh, then her breath hitched sharply, and she cried out—loud, clear, and utterly delighted. “Yes—oh God, yes—”* The sounds that followed tore through him: flesh meeting flesh, rhythmic and deep, the bedstead creaking, and Marcus’s low groans, followed by Eleanor’s cries—sharp, uninhibited, pleasure so raw and loud it filled the house. He heard her say his name, “Marcus—Marcus, it’s so big—you’re stretching me—please—don’t stop—”* and then she was crying out, over and over, legs wrapped tight around him, her voice breaking into sobs of pure, overwhelming pleasure. “I can feel you everywhere—you fill me so completely—oh, yes—yes—”* Gerald lay trembling in his crib, Lacey’s hand still resting lightly over his nappy, watching him, smiling, as his own tiny erection ached and throbbed, useless and inadequate, a pitiful hardening against the thick padding. He listened to the woman he loved being taken apart and put back together by a man who could give her everything he could not—size, depth, satisfaction, pleasure that made her scream and cling and beg for more. He heard the wet, heavy sounds of their joining, the groans, the cries, the way Eleanor sobbed his name and arched into him, and then—finally—they climaxed together, one long, shuddering roar of pleasure that left the room silent at last, save for their ragged breathing. Lacey leaned in, kissed his hot, damp forehead, and rubbed gently, making him gasp and come, hard and helpless, spilling into his nappy with a whimper that was lost beneath the quiet from across the hall. “There, there, Daisy,” she crooned, patting his crinkling padding dry. “Good little babies don’t cry when Mummy finds a proper man to love. You just lie there, all soft and sweet, and remember… he’s big enough to make her happy. And you? You’re just her pretty little baby girl.” And as Gerald lay there, spent and shivering and damp, he knew, with absolute certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again. Eleanor had found her match. And he had found his place—small, frilly, and utterly, hopelessly, happily theirs.

Sixty-Four: The History of Alfie It is decided that each of us Alfies will pick one of the doors at random, park ourselves in front of it, and study what we see. We’ll watch Mother and the things she’s done. The people she’s interacted with. The steps she’s taken. We’ll even be paying special attention to the things she doesn’t do. What does she avoid? What gives her pause? Are there ever times when she seems concerned about how events are playing out? Later, we’ll touch base with each other, compare notes, and see where that leads us. Alfie-Prime, to the surprise of noone, has already put some thought into how a process like this would work. He says that with an infinite number of doors to look through, there’s always a good chance that we’ll peer into a world where Mother’s presence hasn’t yet arrived. Also, he reiterates that viewing a random door is important, because we shouldn’t be made to look through our own world’s door–assumedly because of the reason he advised me of before, that the temptation to just bail and jump through the door would be strong. And thus, Alfie-Prime screens the doors for everyone. He peers through a doorway, decides whether or not this is a world worth reviewing, and then passes it off to one of us other Alfies for further analysis.  Meanwhile, a few new Alfies are slowly trickling into the center of the ‘Onion.’ An ‘Alfie Welcoming Committee’ has been appointed, tasked with onboarding them to the new strangeness of where we are–much in the same way Alfie-Prime gave me the little tour when I first arrived. “You know what this feels like, don’t you?” Audry asks me, as we wait in line to be assigned a door to look through and study. “Work?” I ask. She laughs, nodding her head. “Been a while since we actually had a job, right?” “I was writing for this online news website-thingee,” I say, shrugging. “Honestly, that was just barely a job.” Once more, I’m thinking about my poor editor Benny. By now, he must assume that I’m gone and not coming back. But what does he think happened–does he think I just flaked out, or does he think I’m in danger? She laughs. “You do realize I had the same job, right?” “Oh…yeah. I guess I sometimes forget that you’re…me.” “No, no,” she says. “You’re the one who is me.” I’d like to get her opinion on what she thinks Benny makes of our absence, but that’s about when I’m called forward so that Alfie-Prime can give me a door to review. “Good luck,” Audry says. I wave to her as I trot forward. “Same to you. Let’s see who can find the, uh, silver bullet first, yeah?” === I am a god. Well, not God, to be clear. Whether or not I believe in him, it seems unwise to blaspheme powers bigger than myself. And, well, given all of the strange things I’ve seen, maybe an all-powerful deity is now slightly more believable to me than it might have been before. No, I’m not a ‘god.’ But gazing through this door–being able to look at any single point in time, from any angle–it’s more power than any mortal has ever known. I know what my task is, I know what I need to actually be watching for, but I can’t help but be curious. Don’t I potentially have the ability to view things that the people of my time have never seen for themselves? Living dinosaurs, stomping around? The secrets of the pyramids? The truth about Amelia Earhart’s demise? The truth about Roswell, New Mexico? Oh, it’s tempting. Maybe if I had all the time in the world–maybe if I didn’t have any other place to be, or a home to get back to–I would consider such ventures.  But also? I just don’t know if I can handle some of those things. What do I do with the knowledge of how a T-Rex actually looks and moves? Would I even be able to wrap my head around it? I want to see things I understand. I want to see…me. All I have to do is stare forward through the doorway and decide on what I want to see, and it’s presented to me. I say: “Show me my fifth birthday party.” Suddenly, I’m looking into the living room of my parents’ old house. This day is one of my earliest memories. I remember my family coming over for cake, ice cream, and to watch me open gifts. I remember opening some Ninja Turtle action figures–toys that would be among my most treasured for years. I remember eating too much ice cream and passing out on the living room floor and missing the latter half of my own party. But actually seeing it unfold, from outside my own body and with my adult perspective, is absolutely surreal. All these details that either meant nothing to me at the time, or I was just oblivious to. My sister, still a child herself, has a slight pout on her face because she’s not getting as much attention. My Uncle Barry lingers in the background, pouring something from a flask he keeps in his jacket pocket into his plastic cup of soda. My grandmother making condescending remarks to my mother about not sending me to private school in the upcoming school year. I have to remind myself: This is not my world. Not all of these details may have been true of my own experience. But it’s close. Close enough. And it’s a living, breathing world, with people I know.  If this wasn’t real for me, it was real for some version of Alfie. I want to see more. I don’t want to see the high school years. I don’t need to see me moping around and getting ignored by girls. You know what I want to see? I want to see what I was like with my first serious girlfriend. I want to see who I was when I was with Julie-fucking-Ross. === Things ended badly between Julie and I–and I have no desire to see the last few weeks of our relationship where it felt like everyday was the latest battle in a neverending war. I wanted to see the early days, when I was so sure that she was perfect for me and that we were going to be happy together forever. We went to high school together, actually, though we barely knew each other during those years. It would be later, after we graduated and went in different directions for college, that we’d find each other again. We were both back in town one night. I want to say it was a night or two before Thanksgiving–one of those traditional nights where all the homebound college kids went out to catch up with their friends they hadn’t seen in months. I was at the bar with Nikki and this kid Derek that Nikki was hanging out with at the time–maybe they were romantic, or maybe they weren’t, she kept stuff like that close to the chest. I was at the bar, waiting for a drink, and I realized that I recognized the person I was standing next to. “Julie Ross?” I asked. She smiled at me, and seeing that smile again after all these years, I completely understand why I fell for it. She’s pretty and confident. Big eyes. Luscious hair that you just want to run your hands through.  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You look familiar…but I can’t quite place the name…” “Alfie,” I said. I’m tempted to point out that we had at least one class together four years in a row–and that I had even sat directly behind her in our Chemistry class–but hopefully my less-than-common name would be enough. It was. She nodded her head. “That’s right. Alfie! How are you?” It’s kinda funny, you know? We’d never been friends. Never been close. Never ran in the same social circles. We were essentially strangers, except we had survived the same miserable experience at the same time. And this wouldn’t be the first time this happened. Over the next few years–and maybe this will happen until I’m dead–I’ll occasionally meet someone from high school that I barely knew, and yet we’ll share this friendly conversation like we’d always known each other better. And so we made some small talk. Maybe we were each the right amount of tipsy, or maybe we had better chemistry than we ever knew, but we seemed to be enjoying the conversation. We were laughing with each other. We were ignoring the people we came to the bar with. We moved to another table so that we could talk to just each other. Later, we’d spill out into the parking lot and start making out near her car. I had her back pinned against the side of it. Fast forward a few months. Julie and I are a couple. I take Julie to the bar that Nikki works at, eager to both show off my bartending friend Nikki to Julie, and to show off my cute girlfriend Julie to Nikki. Neither seems impressed by the other. This, upon watching things play out from my current perspective, seems incredibly obvious. But there I am–young, dumb Alfie in love. Completely oblivious. “Ugh,” Julie moaned at the bar as I took off my coat. “You wore that shirt? You know I hate that shirt.” And Alfie just shrugged. “Oh, sorry about that…I guess I forgot.” I see the smile on his–my–stupid face, and I think about how he doesn’t see what Nikki already sees. What I, now, see.  You stupid fool. Maybe things weren’t that good earlier than I thought. I see no point in bumming myself out any further. Let’s see something else. Let’s see…Maxine. === I know exactly what I want to see: the first time that Maxine and I met. I know where I need to go, and when I need to be there. It was an overcast Saturday and I had just stumbled into a book store–a local-ish branch of a nationwide chain. I didn’t often go to this store because it was a little out of the way–and a little expensive, on top of that–but I had just about exhausted my options in my town’s library, and needed to browse through some books I was less familiar with. I remember it being overcast, because I brought an umbrella with me; I wasn’t sure that it would rain, but I figured that it would definitely rain if I didn’t have an umbrella with me. At some point, early on in my perusing the books, I lost my umbrella. I didn’t realize this at the moment, though it ties into the story of Maxine later. Now, watching this all play out from the outside looking in, I see when and where it happened. I’m in the ‘new releases’ aisle, and I set down my umbrella to flip through a book I pick up off the shelf. When I’m done, I put the book back and I walked onwards, obliviously leaving my umbrella behind. Like I said, there are little differences between the world I’m watching and my own. For example, in my own world, I remember meeting Maxine while looking at the DVDs and Blu-Rays. As I recall, I was reading the back of the case for a recent reissue of The Dark Crystal, a childhood favorite of mine, curious to see if there were any new features that could entice me to buy it yet again. That was when Maxine approached me from behind, my umbrella in her hand. In this world, I was standing in the graphic novel section, holding a comic adaptation of The Dark Crystal in my hands, flipping through pages of it while scoffing loudly when Maxine approached me with my umbrella. The conversation is the same–it’s just the location of it that has changed. “Dark Crystal?” she asked. “Isn’t that, like, with evil Muppets?” I laughed as I spun around to face her. It didn’t yet occur to me that the umbrella she was holding was mine–though it should’ve, since it was an obnoxious red color. “They’re not evil,” I said to her. “Have you ever seen the movie?” She shook her head, adding in an extra little shrug to help send the message that she not only hadn’t seen it, but that she didn’t really care about it either way. “Should I?” “Well, I like it,” I said. “But that might be a nostalgia thing, you know? I don’t know if I’d feel the same way about it now if I just watched it for the first time.” I have a history of being awkward and goofy around most girls, but there’s exceptions to that. Nikki and I, for example, never missed a beat when we first met. And while I’d have plenty of opportunities to be awkward around Maxine later, I think I handled myself pretty well when we first met. Maybe because we started the conversation off talking about Muppets, I don’t know. “Maybe I’ll see it sometime,” she said, smirking.  I laughed, as her expression made it pretty obvious that she didn’t mean that. “Sure you will.” “I mean…eventually, I might,” she said. “Like, fifty years from now, when I’ve watched every other movie ever made and this is the only one left that I haven’t watched.” “Every other movie?” I asked. “You’d watch, like, Air Bud 7 before you watch The Dark Crystal?” “Shit, they made seven of those?” she asked. “Hell yeah. I’d love to see what that dog was up to by the seventh movie. At that point, I’d have to assume he’s, like, the fucking Dog President or something. Do you think this store even sells that movie? I want to see that right now.” “I…I was joking,” I said. “Yes, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes a little while smirking. “I was too.” That was when I looked down and saw she was holding a red umbrella like the one I owned. Of course, it still hadn’t occurred to me that I wasn’t holding my umbrella.  “Oh, hey, I have a red umbrella too,” I said. She laughed again. “Yes…I know. This is yours. I saw you drop it back there and I came to bring it to you.” “Oh, right.” I was laughing. She was laughing. It felt like one of those special shared moments–the kind you needed to be there for to really appreciate. Even now, just watching footage of my own life–or a life very similar to my own–there was a part of me that couldn’t fully appreciate what was so funny about this moment.  “So,” I finally said to her, pointing to the umbrella, “are you going to give it back to me or what?” “I was thinking that I’d trade you for it.” “Trade?” I asked. “It’s my umbrella.” “Well, do you want it or not?” “What do you want in exchange for it?” I remember being equal parts amused and irritated by this conversation–feelings I can see captured in my face as I watch it now. “How about you and I walk over to the cafe and you buy me a coffee?” she asked. “That seems fair to me. A, uh, finders’ fee.” Things like that never happened to me–stumbling into a cute little trap from a cute girl. And, god, was she cute. At the time, she had this haircut–the hell if I know what it was called–where the one side of her head was shaved, while the rest was kept long. The long part draped over that shaved area and it was just so…I don’t know. Punk rock, I guess–or what I thought was ‘punk.’  She was cool. Effortlessly cool. Like, she seemed cool just because of how little it seemed that she cared about being cool. She was the kind of girl that I was always into, despite the fact that they were never into me. So, yeah, we went to the bookstore’s cafe and I ordered us some overpriced, and overroasted, coffee and we sat down together–at which time she slid my umbrella across the table to me. I wasn’t paying much attention to the things we said to each other–I was more interested in our expressions. The way she smiled, and how her eyes were always pointed at mine. The way I blushed and playfully shrugged whenever I tried to defend myself against her teasing.  I literally watched as a sexual tension began to develop between us. Our cheeks were getting redder. Our laughs were getting a little more candid sounding and less forced. When one of us spoke, the other leaned across the table just a little bit more.  “Do you, uh, have anywhere else to be?” she asked. I naively shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Why?” “Do you think I could show you something in my car real quick?” she asked. A few minutes later, we were rolling around in the backseat of her car in a quiet corner of the shopping center’s large parking lot. I had fed my hand through the bottom of her shirt and was groping at her breasts through the thin fabric of her cheap bra. She kissed my neck while rubbing my hard cock through my jeans. If it wasn't daytime, if we weren’t within eyeshot of a religious gift shop, if we didn’t see a security truck slowly meandering around the other end of the parking lot, maybe we would’ve taken that moment a little bit further. Instead, we composed ourselves and exchanged phone numbers. Our relationship was always like that, I guess–just coursing with this sexual energy. I never thought I was that kind of person before, or at least I’d never had that connection with anyone else. But Maxine and I just couldn’t keep our hands off each other. At some point, early on in our relationship, we just stopped going out for dates, because we knew that, inevitably, we’d end up getting frisky and would have trouble finding some privacy. Her place was out of the question, as she still lived with her family, but I had an apartment, and a bedroom with a locking door. We fucked like bunnies. There’s never been, and there probably never will again, a time when I had as much sex as those first few weeks of Maxine and I’s relationship. It’s weird, watching yourself have sex. I don’t recommend it, honestly. Yes, it was nice to see Maxine’s legs spread or her ass sticking up in the air. It was nice to see her tits jiggling below her as I fucked her from behind. I love watching her face as she cums while my face is buried in her pussy–a sight I’ve never gotten to see before now. It’s less nice to see me panting and huffing as I pumped my pelvis into her. Or watching my face twist and contort as I tried to communicate that I was about to blow. I don’t care to see my own ass shake back and forth while I screw her either. I jump forward a bit. I know what I want to see next: I saw the day that Maxine and I had met, and now I want to see the day when we essentially broke up. It wasn’t the ‘end’ of us, per se, as I suppose we still might be considered ‘friends with benefits,’ or something like that, but it was certainly the end of an era. Something else happened that day too. She diapered me, and we had a really good time with it. We had spent a few days apart at that point. It was after the diapers had been ordered and shipped to my house, but we had a little tiff about me going back to California instead of spending the rest of the summer before. Now, I watched as we sat in my apartment.  “I missed you too, you stupid baby,” Maxine said to me. I watched as my cheeks brightened. If I was remembering correctly, my cock had gotten firm in my pants.  “DId you get the things I ordered?” she asked. “Did you open up the boxes? Did you play with your new toys?” I said: “It, uh, didn’t feel right. Not without you.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. “You’re the cutest fucking thing, Alfie. And, well, I’m here now, right? So maybe show me where you stashed all that stuff.” “It’s in my room. Still in the boxes it was shipped in.” “Then why don’t you stay here,” she said. Her hand grabbed my crotch, getting a good grip of my erection through the fabric. I winced, though none of the lust diminished from my face. “I’ll be right back.” “I’ll stay right here,” I assured her. She giggled and ran to the bedroom, leaving me behind as I tried to catch my breath and collect myself. But it looked as if I was doing a poor job of that–my hand had slipped between my legs, stroking at the bulge in them as I stared off into space, no doubt deep in thought.. A moment later, Maxine emerged from my bedroom, just as I remembered her doing, with her arms crossed and a look of faux-frustration on her face. “Someone opened one of the packs of diapers. Know anything about that?” I blush as I watch myself squirming in my seat. I said: “Well…I had to at least try one of them on,” “And how was it?” “Amazing.” “Thought so,” she said. She waved her hand for me to get up and follow her. “Come on, baby. Get into your nursery over here so Mommy can take care of you.” I loved hearing her call herself that, and I still love hearing it now. In fact, I’m erect as I watch this footage of myself and Maxine. It’s kinda surreal, really–like watching homegrown porn that was filmed in my apartment without me even knowing. I, of course, followed her. In the bedroom, I watched as she stripped me of my clothes. She’s kind of haphazard about it, so eager to get to the next part that she just pulls and yanks at my clothing, leaving me to have to contort myself so that the garments properly slip off of me. When she was done, she pushed me down on the bed, on my back. I don’t remember this happening, but maybe it’s just impossible for me to remember every detail. Or, perhaps, there are minor differences between my experiences and the experiences of this version of Alfie. She unfolded the diaper and slid it underneath my lifted ass. But moments after I lower myself onto it–ready for her to finish the act of diapering me–she leaned in to kiss my lips. This inspires a round of us rolling around and fondling each other–our limbs grabbing for whatever we can as we desperately kiss at each other’s faces. Her clothes are torn off in this frenzy. By the time she’s ready to get back to diaper-duty, her tits are hanging out from her bra and there’s a welt on my chest from where she had bit me. I remember this next part. The diaper gets ripped in the midst of our horseplay, and Maxine decides that she’s still going to make me wear the diaper anyway. Except, in the interest of protecting against leaks, she’s going to put another diaper on over this one.  But that’s not what happened here. The diaper seems to make it through this frolicking unscathed. Either there’s no hole in it, or at least not one that either of us notice. It’s a little jarring, watching this footage that’s so close to my own memories, except with a few of the details switched around. Maxine got back to the original task she brought me into my room for, wrapping the diaper around me good and tight while my legs were spread apart for her. We shared a look with each other–this tender moment where we stared into each other’s eyes while grinning. It probably seemed just as strange then as it did now that all of this was happening just a few minutes after it was decided that we were no longer in an official relationship. “There we go,” she said, her hand between my legs and stroking the bottom of the thick diaper. “All diapered up like Mommy’s little prince.” I don’t remember her saying this to me. But in my own history, this was the part where Maxine put the second diaper on me. It’s a subtle difference, but one that seems to change the timeline some. “Prince?” I repeated to her. “I…I like that.” “I thought you would,” she said, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand.  I forget about it sometimes when I think of Maxine–I guess it’s her punk-rock spirit that comes to mind before anything else–but she did have a very sweet maternal side to her. I like watching this side of her. “How do you feel?” she asked. But she asked this while stroking the bulge of my stiff cock through the diaper.  Predictably, my answer came in the form of a long moan. “You really are such a big baby, aren’t you?” “Erm…” “I’m not going to lie to you, Alfie–I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.” I remember her saying that to me, too. And I remember what happened next, too–she proceeded to stroke my cock through my diaper. It took a bit of effort for her, because I was double-diapered–but her magic fingers had a way of bringing me pleasure in spite of how much padding she had to massage me through. She had gotten me almost to the point of orgasm, only to stop entirely and tell me to get dressed so we could get lunch. I squirmed and groaned with frustration–though I was just as thrilled over the control she exerted over when I could climax as I was frustrated with how close I was to cumming, only to be cut off. But that wasn’t what happened here. Things played out differently. “Get down on the floor,” Maxine said. “On your hands and knees. I want to see you crawling around in your big diaper like a baby.” And this version of Alfie did exactly that. Of course he did–I would’ve too. Alfie–he felt like someone else now, as I was no longer sharing his experience–crawled around in little loops for Maxine, which made her very happy. She clapped her hands and cheered him along. “Yes, baby!” she said. “Show Mommy what a good boy you are when you crawl.” I like hearing her say that. This Alfie liked hearing it too. “What other tricks can baby do?” she asked. “Tricks?” Alfie asked.  “Can you…show me what a baby does in his diapers?” she asked. “You want me to, uhm, go?” Maxine giggled, nodding her head. “Yes, baby. Mommy wants to see her baby ‘go.’ Do you think you can? Can you go potty in your big thick diaper for me?” In my reality, I did, eventually, wet my double-diapers. It happened while we were out at lunch together. As we sat there in the diner, I leaned across the table and whispered to her that I had to pee. She shrugged nonchalantly and told me that I knew what I needed to do, then. It wasn’t as easy as just flipping a switch and wetting, though. I remember sitting there for a while, willing myself to just pee in my pants while we were out in public. She’d giggle at me from time to time, no doubt noticing the look of determination on my face as I tried to wet. And when it finally happened, it was different than all the other times I had wet myself in a diaper. Thanks to the hole in the inner-diaper, the padding didn’t bloat quite the same way. The front of the diaper did, but then it was the back of the outer-diaper that grew denser and heavier. It didn’t feel wrong, it just felt different–and it was thrilling to have that happen in front of Maxine, and in a public place. But this Alfie wouldn’t know anything about that. He had his own experience. Here, on his hands and knees in his apartment, he nodded his head to Maxine. “I…I can go potty if you want,” he said. “I want that,” Maxine said. “Go on.” He closed his eyes, making a little grunting sound as he attempted to empty his bladder. I remember those days–maybe not his exact days–but, in general, the days before Mother’s milk made it so that I had to make myself use the diaper. No matter how badly I had to go, it always took a while–like when I was in the diner in my double-diapers. Suddenly, Alfie went: “Oh!” “Are you…are you doing it?” Maxine asked, her eyes huge. “I…almost…” Braaap. The noise that emanated from Alfie’s diaper is just as surprising to me as it seemed to be to him and Maxine.  Maxine giggled. “Alfie…you’re not actually, uhm…” Alfie’s face was a deep shade of crimson–a shade I had never seen on myself before, though there were certainly times when I felt like I was blushing that much.  He stammered: “I…I didn’t mean to do that…I wasn’t trying to, uhm…” Maxine tilted her head a little, narrowing her eyes at him while her hands were on her hips. “Alfie, did you just…go poo-poo?” “I, well, no…” “No? Are you sure about that? Because…” She let out a little cough as she held her hand up to her face, covering her nose and mouth. “J-just a little,” Alfie said. Maxine giggled loudly at this. “You seriously just sharted in your diaper?” “It was an accident…” “Of course it was an accident,” she said. “You’re a baby. Babies have accidents in their diapers. I just…” Her voice trailed off again as she laughed again. “...I didn’t think you’d lose control of yourself so soon.” God, I felt mortified for this Alfie–the secondhand embarrassment thick and transcending space and time.  “But…but I…” He sounded so pathetic. Have I ever sounded so pathetic? Oh, I’m sure I have. I probably sound like that all the time.  “Oh, it’s okay,” Maxine cooed. “Nothing to cry about, baby. If you just made a little poopy in your pants, you’re in luck, because Mommy is right here to help take care of you.” Fuck. I want to keep watching–I want to see how this plays out, but I just don’t think I can. Maxine. Dirty diapers. The fact that it’s me–but not me at all. It’s too hard to watch. I think I need to see something else. === I’m moving forward into the future, but I’m staying in the apartment. Maybe I’m curious to see what my world looks like when I’m not in it. What does Nikki do with herself after I go back to California, and back to The Cradle, without her? As I might have predicted, the first few days aren’t too far outside of her norm. She comes home from the bar late at night, and sleeps in until pretty late in the morning. She cooks herself some food and she watches TV. She never speaks a word–which, sure, one might expect given that she’s the apartment alone. But, man, the apartment is so dreadfully quiet, especially while she’s in it. It’s kind of sad. Or maybe I just equate happiness and contentness with noise. I always have music on or a movie playing. Sometimes I talk to myself. She seems just fine in the silence. Watching this just makes me miss home. Not just the apartment. Not just Nikki. But the entire concept of home–the combination of all the things that make that need to be there for a home to feel like a home. Picking up my mail. The forgotten snacks in the cabinets. The laundry that either needs to be washed or put away. My collection of DVDs. My laptop. The smell of Nikki’s shampoo wafting from the bathroom after she finishes her shower. The sounds of the neighbors coming home and fumbling with the keys in their doors. The constant threat of my mother, father, or Sam calling me to complain that I haven’t seen them in a while. This is the closest I’ve felt to home in a while, even if I’m watching someone else’s home right now. I see the subtle differences here too–the details that only I would know. That’s not where we keep the vacuum cleaner–in fact, that’s not even the same model of vacuum. The DVDs are sorted by release date and aren’t alphabetical–a system I had tried once myself, but almost immediately scrapped. The fridge is a slightly different shade of white. My Pixies concert poster isn’t hanging on the wall near the bathroom.  Whatever, it’s home enough. My mind drifts for a while as the life of Nikki speeds past me through the doorway. Suddenly, I see something out of the ordinary that brings my full attention back to Nikki again. It happens late one night after she gets home from the bar. First, she takes a shower–which isn’t out of the ordinary in itself, thankfully. But when she emerges from the bathroom, clad in just a towel wrapped around her body and concealing everything from her chest to her knees, she walks into my bedroom instead of her own. She does a brief lap around the room, just looking at my things. This is a little strange in itself, as I didn’t think she cared about any of my stuff. Next, she walks to my bed, running a hand along the top of the folded sheets. I have to laugh a little, because I almost never make the bed, though it felt like the right thing to do when I was going to California and leaving my room behind for a while. I guess I’m glad that I–and this other Alfie too, apparently–did that. Then, Nikki flops herself down on the bed, the towel loosening and unwinding itself from her body as she rolls onto her back. Nikki was naked, atop my bed. Just laying there, staring up at the ceiling. And she just…laid there for a while. Oh, no wait, she’s sleeping. Sleeping in my bed. It’s not as strange as it is sweet. She missed me, just as I miss her now. I’m curious now, and I put everything in reverse, like I have the world’s biggest rewind button that controls an entire planet. Days and months zip by in seconds. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking for, though it slowly dawns on me that there’s an old memory of mine I’m seeking confirmation for–one of those things that may or may not have happened late one night, and I’ve never been sure if I dreamed it or not. And then I stumble upon the scene. In it, it’s very late at night, and the alarm clock on the table near my bed reads that it’s just past two in the morning. I’m in bed, sleeping. I’m still clutching my phone, in fact–I probably fell asleep reading it. The apartment is mostly dark, save for a faint beam of light coming from under my closed bedroom door. Then, that door opens slowly and quietly. There’s a figure in the doorway, I can tell by the silhouette that it’s Nikki. And she doesn’t do much beyond standing there, watching me for a few moments–the way a mother might wistfully watch one of her children.  Is that…creepy? No, I’m not creeped out. I’m touched, I think. She’s just checking in on me. Protecting me. Like she’s always done. See, this is how I remember it–waking up just enough to see her standing in the doorway. She didn’t notice that I was awake. I didn’t say anything. After she left, I quickly fell asleep again, left to wonder in the morning if that actually happened or not. Except, as best as I can observe, this version of Alfie didn’t wake while she stood there. Maybe that didn’t happen in his word. Or maybe there were multiple times that she came into my room in the dead of night to check on me. I decide that some things are best left unknown–even if I could have the answers if I wanted them. Maybe I know too much now as it is. There’s one more thing I want to see. === Somewhere, in the midst of my traipsing across the multiverse–back in ‘PISSTOPIA’–I came across evidence that Nikki had come back to The Cradle to find or retrieve me. It had made me wonder, at the time, if my Nikki had also gone back to California to find me. It makes sense–if enough time had elapsed without her hearing from me, that was exactly the sort of thing Nikki would do. I move time forward again, but not too far. It’s here that I see Nikki sending Mirabelle an email about my current state. And when she’s disappointed by Mirabelle’s response, I see that she goes so far as to reach out to Anders. Hell, she goes to Anders’s house to talk to him. And I watch as Anders is just as surprised as I am now that Nikki is willing to go to his house without me.  I watch the moment she decides that she’s going to go to California. I watch her get on a plane and fly across the country. I see her meet with Tommy at the airport. Tommy. Shit. I think seeing the two of them together, Nikki and Tommy, really drives things home for me. I mean, I guess on some level, I’ve always known that Nikki loves me and that we have this tight bond. But seeing that she’s willing to put aside her feelings about Tommy and The Cradle aside for the sake of finding me? Goddamn. She’s one in a million. One in a bajillion.  I didn’t see Maxine flying out to California. At least, not in this world. === “Hey,” a voice says behind me, a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see that it’s Audry. “Any luck? See anything helpful in the world you’ve been reviewing?” I feel my face get red and I offer a sheepish shrug. “Well, uh, actually…” “You haven’t even started yet, have you?” she asks. “Not really…” She lets out a laugh and shrugs. “Yeah, me neither.” “I’ve been watching…me,” I say. “Yeah. I’ve been watching me too,” she says. “Well…I’ve been watching you. Or another version of you. I mean, it’s pretty close to my own life, I guess. The genders are all fucked up, so that’s weird. But otherwise…” “Hey,” I say. “Uh, do you think that Nikki…” “Nick?” she asks. “Well, that’s who he is in my world. But I know what you mean.” “Right, right. “Do you think that Nikki–or Nick–is, like, our soul mate?” “I guess I never really believed in that kind of thing before,” she says, shrugging.  “Yeah, me neither.” But she then says: “But if there is such a thing? It’s got to be Nick. Or, in your case, Nikki.” “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s what I was thinking.” === I guess I’ve seen everything I wanted to about myself. I suppose now I’m ready to get to the actual task at hand. I’m rewinding time, not entirely sure what I’m looking for, even though I know what it is I ultimately want to review. It’s time to learn everything there is to know about The Cradle, and Mother, that I can. Sixty-Five: The History of Mother When faced with, essentially, infinity before you, it can be just a little bit daunting. Where does one start when looking for a specific moment in the greater scheme of all history? The figurative needle in the haystack? But I wonder if I might have a decent starting point. It comes to me from none other than Anders–who, right now, is completely oblivious to the strange circumstances of my current life and is probably listening to jazz music in a world that’s very far away from me. Quite a ways back, when I had come to The Cradle for a second time, with the intention of staying a while and checking out what the place was all about, he had sent me a series of emails, detailing his own history with Mirabelle, Mother, and the milk. His story had also, inadvertently, told a part of the story of The Cradle itself. If I had my phone with me, I’d just refer back to those emails directly. Alas, my phone is just as far away from me as Anders is. It’s a little funny, in a way–before coming to The Cradle, I would’ve considered my cell phone to be one of my most important possessions. But between my time at The Cradle, and whatever weirdo odyssey I’ve been on recently, I’ve grown quite accustomed to not having that tiny computer in my hands at all times. I might even go as far as to say that I’ll be annoyed if I ever get back to a life where that’s a necessity again. Which is to say, since I don’t have my phone or Anders’s emails, I have to rely on my memory of what he said. And, sure, I remember the gist and the general arc of his story, but I don’t know that I remember all the important details. Okay, let’s see… There was that girl he met in Chicago–the one who got him to wear a diaper for the first time. Megan? No.  Maya, that’s right. But Maya wasn’t tied to The Cradle. She was just the catalyst for him discovering his little side. So then, what happened after her? He continued his little cross-country road trip, right? Met some other perverts online in various cities.  There was that one story he shared–and I know this isn’t helpful to the knowledge I’m currently seeking, but it’s a story I like to think about from time to time–where he was drinking at a bar while wearing a diaper under his clothes. And this girl comes up to him and says that her and her friends had observed his diaper sticking up out of the back of his pants and they wanted to let him know. That’s the kind of humiliation that would probably wreck me entirely if it happened to me, even though I still fantasize about it like I was in his shoes. Alright, so where in his travels did he meet Mirabelle?  Right, right, he met that kinky couple in California. They were from San Diego. I remember the girl’s name, Mandi, because I was reminded of how I went to school with a girl named Mandi. And her husband–maybe they weren’t married, I don’t remember now–was named…Kirk? Chris? Kalamazoo? Karl! Mandi and Karl from San Diego. ‘Relationship anarchists,’ as Anders described them. Full-time lovers of pleasure and ecstasy. Mandi was a ‘full-time’ baby, as I recall–almost always in a pair of diapers and crawling about.  Through the door, the image changes, like it knows what, where, and when that I want to see.  === It’s nighttime, and Karl–who doesn’t at all look like what I imagined him to (uglier, older)–and Anders are sitting at the patio while two adult babies tromp about in the dimly-lit backyard in their diapers and infantile clothing. Anders asked Karl about how he and Mandi came to embrace their lifestyle. Karl responds that it took time, and that it came from iterating on things until they found what worked best for them. “But we had some help too,” Karl said, flashing Anders the kind of smile that just invites follow-up questions. Anders took the bait. “What kind of help?” “A year or two ago, we met this woman at a convention. A, uh, convention for ‘littles,’ you know?” “Sure,” Anders said.  “We were approached by this woman,” said Karl. “She said she had something that we might want to try. Like, it seemed kind of shady, right? Some stranger walks up to us–and she doesn’t have a booth or anything–and offers us the chance to try some ‘product’ she has.” Milk, I think. My fingers drum against my thigh as I consider this.  Anders laughed. “So what did you do?” “She convinced us,” Karl said, shrugging. “Well, she convinced Mandi more than me. All the woman had to say was something about ‘an intensely regressive experience,’ and Mandi was onboard. So, you know, we agreed to meet this lady back at her hotel room.” I think I’ve seen all I need to here. I have a new thread to follow.  === I’m rewinding time, focusing on the lives of Karl and Mandi. I see now that their house is every bit the ‘community’ that Anders suggested it was. People are always coming and going. Some stay for a while, and come back repeatedly, while others show up for a blip and then never come back again. There’s a bounty of scenes that I want to watch attentively–diaper changes, spankings, piles of diaper-clad adult babies groping at each other in ecstasy. Not to mention all the other non-diapered kinky doings. Leather. Whips. Bondage. Toys and tools I’ve never seen before. I wish that I could spend days soaking all of this in–there’s something so blissfully perverse about watching someone else’s life from a perspective that I’m probably not supposed to have. These were, mostly, private moments. I shouldn’t be watching them. But, then again, I shouldn’t be here. None of this should be happening right now. I let their life, dirty scenes and all, zip past me in reverse.  What I want to see is this convention where Karl and Mandi met Mirabelle.  When I think of ‘convention,’ I think of the comic book and nerdy ephemera cons I’ve been to in the past–well lit and high-ceilinged convention halls packed with booths and mobs of people pushing wads of cash and credit cards over tables; cosplayers; scenesters; overpriced food; stinky basement dwellers braving the sunlight for the first time in months. But when I find what I’m looking for, I realize that it’s not quite what I had in mind. Yes, it is obviously a convention, in that there’s vendors and swarms of people. But there’s a much different vibe. This feels less driven by commerce and advertising, instead feeling like it’s more about building a community. It’s networking with diapers. It’s people complimenting each other’s diapers and ridiculously cute attire. It’s watching a group of strangers break out into a communal giggle as a young man’s thighs press together tightly while his ‘mommy’ comments that her ‘little one’ is having an accident. As fun as it is to observe it, I really wish I had been there myself. It reminds me of my best moments at The Cradle–no judgment, just the security of being the person you want to be. Perhaps, one day, I’ll get to go to one of these things. I find what I’m looking for–the exact moment that Karl and Mandi meet Mirabelle. I’m less interested in Karl and Mandi at this point, it’s Mirabelle that I focus on and follow around for a bit. It’s funny, watching this from my perspective, because I think there are details that I notice that nobody else who was actually there had been able to pick up on. Like, Mirabelle doesn’t just walk up to anyone and offer them a sample of her milk. She’s not just handing out tasting cups, willy-nilly. She watches people carefully–just as I am watching her now. She studies them. She’s looking for specific people, I reckon. But who? Of that, I can’t be certain–I may be able to see everything, but that doesn’t mean I know the context for everything.  Just who is Mirabelle looking for? Mandi fits the bill, it seems. As does a young woman with green highlights in her hair, waddling about in a thick diaper that bulges out from her black onesie with cat faces printed on it. As does a sheepish young man in glasses who seems almost invisible to everyone else at the con–save for Mirabelle, who notices him right away. Perhaps some people are just more susceptible to its effects, and Mirablele knows this. Or maybe it’s not so much about the susceptibility to the milk as it is finding people she knows will give it a fair chance–people who she thinks are willing to believe in the magic of the milk’s transformative powers. It opens up bigger questions about the curation of the occupants at The Cradle, and whether or not everyone who lives there was chosen for a specific reason or not, but those will have to be saved for another time. I rewind time further. I don’t need to see Mirabelle here at the convention, giving her best public relations spiels and trying to sell people on the mysterious milk. What I want to know is who Mirabelle really is–what she’s like when she doesn’t have to impress anyone else. And so I follow her timeline back to the morning before she goes to the convention, where she’s in a hotel room, applying makeup to her face in the mirror with a smile on her face. She’s wearing only a bra and a thick, white disposable diaper. It’s the most I’ve ever seen of Mirabelle, and it’s unsurprising how pretty she is like this. It takes me a few moments to realize that there’s someone else in the room with her–it takes the other person speaking for me to realize they’re present at all. “You seem optimistic about today,” they said to Mirabelle.  It’s Mother herself, wearing a black robe and sitting on the hotel suite’s couch with her arms folded in front of her. “Today will be another good day for us,” Mirabelle said. “You just watch. Those who taste your milk will believe. And once they believe, they’ll spread the word to others. There will be a demand.” “You make me proud, Mirabelle.” “This is where it starts, Mother," said Mirabelle. “These will be the first to drink your milk. Your influence grows with every sip they take.” Mother hummed a delighted note to herself. “And for you, my dear–is it not time for you to have your own sip? Your own taste of my gift?” Mirabelle’s smile grew, and she immediately stopped what she was doing, putting her makeup brush down on the counter below her. She excitedly nodded her head. “Yes, Mother.” “Come to me, my child.” It’s a side of Mirabelle I don’t know that I’ve seen before. In an instant, she loses that confident posture and self-assured smile, and she suddenly looks so…docile. Innocent and naive. Like a little girl, I suppose. I watch as Mirabelle lays across the couch and Mother’s lap as the robe opens, exposing Mother’s–Harriet’s, it might be worth noting–breasts. Beads of white milk are already forming on the tips of her nipples, ready to be swallowed. Mirabelle looks downright infantile, save for the size of her body. The way her mouth opens and reaches for the tit. The way her diapered bottom bulges out behind her body, with Mother’s supportive hand there to cradle it, pulling her closer. There’s just something about this scene that affects me. I mean, yes, there’s no point in denying that there is something inherently (pardon the pun) titillating about watching an attractive woman in a diaper being breastfed. But it’s also a scene that conjures up my own memories and experiences. I’ve been there too–greedily suckling from Mother’s breasts. And despite all the things that I’ve learned–whether it be that Mother has stolen someone else’s body, or that Mother’s bigger plans are more selfish and sinister–I’m still overcome with a feeling of desire. I want that to be me. I want to taste the milk again, right from the source. I can practically taste the milk on my tongue, and it arouses me. There’s a part of me that wants to look away, or at least get back to the task at hand to uncover the past of The Cradle and search for Mother’s weaknesses, but it’s not strong enough to deter me. My hand is on my cock as I watch Mirabelle suckling. She makes little gulping noises, along with intermittent moans and grunts. Her fingers wrap around Mother’s tit, pulling it to where she needs it. There’s a faint rippling sound, and I realize it’s coming from her diaper. A fart–a harbinger, perhaps, of what’s to come soon. “That’s a good girl,” Mother cooed to her. “Let it all out. Empty your thoughts from your head. Empty yourself into your diaper.” Either Mirabelle wants to comply, or she was going to do what comes next regardless of whether or not she was asked. I watch as the bottom and back of her diaper suddenly expands as new mass is added to it. A sinful little bulge forms, and in the moments that follow, I watch as the diaper’s color turns from white to a faint yellow to, ultimately, a light brown color. Mother is just as aware of the mess Mirabelle is making in her diaper as I am, as her fingers gently caress the padding–as if to further goad Mirabelle into unloading more of herself into it. Which is exactly what she does with another grunt. “Keep suckling,” Mother said. “Swallow every drop.” I’m reminded of when Mother said those exact words to me. In fact, they’re my very last memories of my own world–that final time being fed her milk before I was sent off to the white space, and from there, being thrust into a multiverse of strange possibilities. “Do you like being a baby, Alfie?” She said to me on that day. “I sure hope so. Because after this, that’s all you’ll ever be.” I wish I could relive that moment. I would want to resist–to pull my mouth away from her tit and spit out the milk. I’d want to get away. I’d crawl away if I had to. But… I sigh, watching as Mirabelle groans with delight in her swampy diaper. I totally get that feeling of bliss, girl. Despite knowing how bad it is for me, I still want it. Maybe it’d be best if I moved away from this scene. I need to go back further. === I follow Mirabelle’s life in reverse, waiting to see when and how her and Mirabelle had first met. The trip back through time goes by in a blur of diaper changes and breastfeeding–revealing that Mirabelle has only grown more and more dependent on Mother over time. Perhaps that’s how it works. With prolonged exposure to Mother’s milk, you become more and more dependent on it to function. Meanwhile, Mother’s influence over you gets stronger and stronger. It occurs to me that the Mirabelle I’ve known has never actually been the ‘real’ Mirabelle–she’s a puppet being operated by Mother. In time, that’s what everyone in The Cradle could become, if they’re not halfway there already. It’s what I could become. Hell, for all I know, that’s what I am right now. While I’m having adventures in the strangest parts of the multiverse, my body is walking around and shaking hands with other big babies as an extension of Mother herself. I wonder who Mirabelle was before she tasted the milk. Of course, I’m in the strange position of being able to find answers to such questions. All I have to do is go back far enough. === It’s a rainy night in San Francisco, and Mirabelle was sitting at the bar of a rather posh restaurant by herself, sipping on a martini. A few minutes ago, she was wiping tears from her eyes, but she seems to have composed herself since. She’s even smiling now. It could be performative–reassurance to any of the strangers around her that she’s fine–but I suspect that she’s actually doing better now, and that she’s gotten over whatever emotional hiccup she was experiencing. Truthfully, it doesn’t look like much of anyone has been paying attention to her regardless. Well, with one exception. A woman has stepped forward and has pulled a stool out from the bar beside Mirabelle. She is, of course, Mother–though she doesn’t look like the Mother that I would meet later. She doesn’t quite have that regal glow about her–that beaming confidence that she wears like an aura. She’s not clad in robes or ceremonial gowns–she’s just wearing a rather flattering black dress and a gold hairband that almost looks like a tiara.  Okay, I suppose she looks a little regal. I realize that, moments before taking a seat next to her, Mother was watching Mirabelle in a way that’s very similar to how Mirabelle had been watching the folks at the convention where she met Karl and Mandi much later in the timeline. Of course, I have to remind myself that this isn’t my world that I’m watching. It might have been exactly like this. It might have been mostly like this. It might not have been anything like this at all.  “This seat isn’t taken, I hope?” Mother asked, sitting down. “No, of course not,” Mirabelle replied. She straightens herself out a little, smoothing her skirt with her one hand while running the other through her hair.  “I don’t wish to embarrass you,” Mother said softly. “But, well, I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking a little despondent earlier.” “Oh, uh…” Mirabelle’s cheeks blushed and she momentarily bit her bottom lip. She clearly didn’t think anyone had noticed that. “I’m not here to pry,” Mother said. “It’s none of my business. I just don’t like seeing someone look so upset.” “I-I’m not upset,” Mirabelle said. Her voice surprises me a little, it’s a little less confident than I recall it being. It’s a softer, more timid tone. “Well, I’m not upset anymore, at least.” She laughed and shrugged. “I’m feeling better now, honestly.” “Well, I wanted to see if a drink might help you feel a little better. But…maybe you don’t need that?” Mirabelle blushed a little. “Buy me a drink, huh? I mean, I’m feeling better–but another martini doesn’t sound bad.” “Two martinis, then,” Mother said to the nearby bartender. “Whatever she had before, make two of those.” She turned to Mirabelle and smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” “Do you want to hear what made me so upset?” Mirabelle asked. “It’s going to sound so stupid.” “I doubt that,” Mother said, her voice rich with patience. “But go on. Tell me more.” “I’m crying about a man,” Mirabelle sighed. “A man that I didn’t even like. I was going to break up with him tonight.” “But?” “But I guess he was a step ahead of me. He waited until I was here, waiting for him to show up, to text me that he wasn’t coming and that we were done-zo.” “Done-zo,” Mother repeated, an amused grin on her face as she nodded. “I’m not mad about him,” Mirabelle said. “I mean, he was an ass. I was literally going to dump him myself tonight. I guess I’m just mad about, y’know…me.” “What about you?” asked Mother. Everything about her–her expression, her body language, her tone–suggested that she was invested in what Mirabelle had to say. “I’m sorry,” Mirabelle laughed. “Maybe I shouldn’t be airing my dirty laundry to a complete stranger.” “Nonsense,” Mother replied. “Perhaps a stranger is exactly who you should be talking to. I have no preconceived notions of who you are. You can be as honest as you wish to be. You can tell me anything you want to. And later, if we part ways, you’ll have gotten it all out without any repercussions.” Mirabelle laughed at this, nodding her head. “That’s one way of putting it. I suppose you’re right.” I take note of the fact that Mirabelle doesn’t call attention to Mother’s use of ‘if.’ ‘If’ we part ways. Cryptic sounding. Or, maybe I’m just biased. “My name is Mirabelle. A-and I guess it’d be best if I knew who you were before I go rattling off about my insecurities.” “That’s a very pretty name,” Mother said,flashing a warm smile. “My name is…Harriet.” Interesting. Mirabelle didn’t seem to register the little pause before Mother said ‘her’ name. But maybe I wouldn’t have either if I were in her shoes–these are just the details I know to look for now. The drinks were delivered, and Mirabelle immediately reached for hers and started to sip from it. What she didn’t observe–but I do–is that Mother never even touches her own martini. It just sits there in front of her. Mother doesn’t drink alcohol. Perhaps, Mother doesn’t need to drink or eat at all.  “Well, Harriet, if you must know, I’ve been feeling very…unloved lately. I don’t really get along with my family, so I don’t talk to them anymore. All my childhood friends have moved on. My job feels very lonely and isolating. And all the men I meet are either only interested in sex or having someone that listens to them while they prattle on about the book they’re trying to write. Like Doug, who waited until twenty minutes ago to text me that he doesn’t think things are working out between us, despite the fact that we had plans for dinner here scheduled for a week now.” Mother took it all in, digesting every word carefully. She nodded, her warm smile never wavering. “I am sorry that you feel this way.” Mother’s apology catches Mirabelle off guard. “You’re sorry? I mean…thank you. But you didn’t do these things to me.” “That doesn’t mean that I can’t wish better for you, Mirabelle. You deserve love. Companionship. Community.” “You’re right. But, well, no offense, but that’s like saying that I deserve a million bucks, right? Just because we say it doesn’t mean that I’m going to get those things.” “Mirabelle, you don’t have any other plans tonight, do you?” Mirabelle laughed at this, shaking her head. “Unless you’ve got a better idea? I’m going to finish this martini, maybe even have another, and then I’m going to go home and watch some shitty romance movie and fantasize about being the female lead.” “I may actually have a better idea,” Mother said. She put her hand on top of Mirabelle’s–an action that seemed to startle the young woman at first, though not so much that Mirabelle pulled her hand away. I can see that Mirabelle was intrigued. Perhaps even pacified some–perhaps even Mother’s touch has some soothing qualities to it. “What did you have in mind?” “I have a hotel room not far from here,” Mother said. “I understand that this might sound rather forward of me, but I’d like for you to go with me there. There’s something there that I want to show you.” Mirabelle’s cheeks blushed. “N-no offense, Harriet. But, uhm, I don’t really swing that way… I mean, I’m flattered, of course. But…” Mother chuckled softly and nodded her head. “Dearest Mirabelle, what I mean to offer you is…” And it was at this moment that Mother leaned towards Mirabelle, cupped her hand to her mouth, and whispered something into her the young woman’s ear. Whatever it was she said made Mirabelle blush. It made her mouth hang open and her eyes open wide.  If I want to, I could hear those words for myself. But I don’t know if I need to–or want to. Mother may just be a master manipulator, and she’s probably capable of telling anyone exactly what it is that they need to hear. All I need to know is that it’s at this exact moment that Mother has gotten Mirabelle on her hook.  I watch the night progress, albeit while speeding past the less important bits. What I really want to know is where things end up.  It’s, then, no surprise to me to find that Mirabelle did end up going to ‘Harriet’s’ hotel room with Mother. They talked for a while–long, heady conversations about life, dreams, and perfect utopias. Mother disarms Mirabelle completely, pulling her in even deeper with every exchange. Soon enough, they were lying on the hotel room bed together, as Mirabelle shared her most intimate hopes and insecurities. Mother listened intently–an intensity that was obviously missing from everyone else in Mirabelle’s life, given the way this attention seemed so important to her. “I can help you,” Mother said at last. “I have all the answers you require.” At this point, Mirabelle was under Mother’s spell. No, perhaps not the more literal spells that are cast when drinking her milk, but she was hearing all the things she needed to hear and she had been given the chance to say all the things she had never been able to say to anyone else. In a short time, she had been completely beguiled by Mother, and had no idea that she was now stuck on a figurative spiderweb.  Mirabelle, maybe a little too trusting of her new friend, and perhaps still a little tipsy from the alcohol earlier in the evening, brought her body closer to Mother’s. “Do you? I don’t know how that would be possible. But…there’s a part of me that really wants to believe you.” “Mirabelle, dearest, do you remember when you were a child? A small child? A baby?” “N-no,” Mirabelle replied, giggling a little. “Nobody remembers that, do they?” “That’s what you, and others, often tell yourself. But I think those memories are there–just buried deep within your mind. I bet I could pull them out from within you.” Mirabelle bit her bottom lip hesitantly. “I mean, I guess that sounds nice. But what good would that do me?” Mother reached her hand to Mirabelle’s face, gently stroking her cheek. “Close your eyes for me, Mirabelle. I want you to think of the softness of your mother’s skin. The warmth of her body as she held you in her arms.” “But…I don’t remember those things and…” “Just breathe,” Mother said, her hand continuing to gently caress Mirabelle’s skin. “And focus. Let my voice guide you back.” “I…I don’t know if…” But then Mirabelle let out a little gasp. “I…feel it. My mother’s warmth. I feel her arms around me. I’m swaddled. I’m…” “Yes,” Mother said. “Go on, tell me what you are.” “I’m safe,” Mirabelle replied softly. “I’m the safest I’ve ever been.” Mother’s voice is hypnotic and soothing, even to me, who is just listening from beyond that space and time. For a moment, I close my own eyes, and I swear that I can almost feel the presence of my mother’s arms wrapped around me. Or, perhaps, I’m just imagining what I think I’m supposed to–what Mother wants me to. For all I know, Mirabelle is doing the same, without realizing it. She has no reason to suspect Mother of nefarious things as I do now. Hell, she probably never suspected Mother of anything sinister–Mother had Mirabelle wrapped around her finger from this moment on, never relenting.  I think that I’ve seen all that I need to see here. Mother chose Mirabelle to be her accomplice. Her representative among the humans. Her puppet. And maybe I’ll never understand all the reasons why Mother chose her, but I think I get a few of them. Mirabelle said it herself, didn’t she? Disconnected from her family, and struggling for companionship, Mirabelle needed to be a part of something. Too, I wonder if it was why Harriet was chosen as the host for Mother–someone who could easily go ‘off the grid’ without causing much of a disturbance in the world. Maybe a handful of folks would wonder where they want off to, but at the end of the day, nobody would be sending out search parties. Kinda sad, really.  I don’t need to see anymore–but of course I can’t bring myself to leave this scene just yet. I’m curious. Transfixed. Or maybe I’m just…jealous? There’s still a part of me that craves milk, and mother’s attention. Living vicariously through MIrabelle’s past is the closest I can get to that right now–and might as well be the closest I want to get to it. Mother wrapped an arm around Mirabelle’s shoulder, pulling her closer. “Mommy always takes care of her little girl, doesn’t she?” “Yes,” Mirabelle said softly. “Keep your eyes closed, darling,” Mother cooed. “How else does Mommy care for her little girl?” “She, uhm…she…”  At first, I think it’s that Mirabelle was too embarrassed to say the answer aloud, but I think it’s something else–something that I have been able to relate to myself. She’s lost in a moment. Lost in the world that Mother is slowly pulling forth from Mirabelle’s memories and imagination. Her cheeks were bright pink, her eyes were still tightly closed, and her lips… Her lips were pursing together–her face slowly drifting towards Mother like she needed something that she couldn’t quite find the words for. But I know what it is she wanted. Mother knew too, and she had a hand already pulling away the cloth at her chest so that her naked breast was exposed and waiting. This should’ve been so weird, so off the cuff, for Mirabelle that she would immediately stop what she was doing, open her eyes, and question Mother as to what was going on. But, alas, Mother had Mirabelle under her spell, and Mirabelle seemed to think nothing of allowing Mother’s hands to guide her head closer and closer to her nipple so that she may suckle upon the wondrous milk. And then the deed is done–the infernal contract signed. Mirabelle is fed the milk from Mother’s breast. This is just the beginning of Mirabelle’s descent into the loyal, milk-addled, sidekick of Mother role that she’d take by the time I met her.  It’s in watching Mirabelle’s story that I see the story of just about everyone who has drank Mother’s milk. All of us, eventually, are due to be toys of Mother’s. Soldiers. Henchmen. Acolytes.  I guess I’ve seen what I needed to see here.  If I’m to go back further, I think it only makes sense to go back to the very start of it all: when Mother first came to Harriet. === The story of how Harriet became Mother isn’t especially dramatic. There’s no battle between Harriet Tuller and some space alien for the ownership of Harriet’s soul–which I wouldn’t actually wish upon her, though I don’t think I’d be able to look away from it if I had the chance to see such a battle play out before me. It just sort of…happens. One day, Harriet Tuller is a single woman living by herself in a small apartment. She has an unexciting day job, which she neither hates enough to quit nor loves enough to consider her dream job. It pays the bills and gives her something to do–it’s just a part of an intensely mediocre routine for the woman. She’s not unattractive. She doesn’t have an annoying personality. She’s kind, patient, and gives the people around her–especially in the office–far more grace than they deserve. She’s a good person. A sweet person. The kind of person a lot of people would love to make a friend from. A partner, even. She wants friendship and companionship. She has an online dating profile that yields nothing but hits from horny men who would probably be just as happy with a bowl of mashed potatoes. She sometimes keeps an eye on her phone to see if any of her friends, co-workers, or family members are going to reach out to her to see how she is or if she’d like to go and do something with them. They don’t, and it seems to bum her out. She seems to have accepted her lot in life. She does her best to continue smiling. Perhaps, Harriet is the kind of person who just…falls through the figurative cracks. She’s been forgotten and left behind by the world. It’s nobody’s ‘fault,’ per se–these sorts of things just happen to people. Despite her good demeanor and spirit, the rest of the world just doesn’t seem to notice her enough, and thus it passes by. Or, maybe, if she’s guilty of anything, it’s of not being a little more motivated. Maybe if she reached out to people first, or if she pushed herself a little harder to live the life she truly wanted, she’d be happier? It’s the sort of thing that I don’t think you’re supposed to actually say to someone–unless you were a therapist or something–but I can’t help but think it as I watch her mundane adult life zip past me. It occurs to me, though, that maybe I think these things about her because I can relate to them myself. Sure I have friends and family–a whole social circle, for better or for worse. I have–or, rather, had–Maxine in my life. But when I think about it, I was never that far from being in Harriet’s shoes. People’s priorities change as they get older. Samantha might be a promotion or two away from having little-to-no time for me. Anders might actually hit it big in the local jazz scene. Nikki might decide someday that she’s ready to live on her own, or maybe she’ll meet someone she wants to have a relationship with. Maxine’s already pulled away some, and she could easily pull away from me more. And then what? I can see myself being Harriet, watching TV alone at night, watching for my phone to ring and cursing at the dating apps for feeding me more dead-ends. I could’ve been Harriet. Just as I could’ve been Mirabelle. I think about Tommy, running from his past mistakes, and ready to thrive in a community who can actually accept him for being who he is. I think about Sloane, who intended to rob The Cradle of its resources, only to realize that the strange community of big babies might have been the best thing to ever happen to her. There are probably countless stories like this within those fences and gates–people who just wanted a place where they could be accepted. They might not have even needed the magic milk–that was just icing on the cake. In my eyes, The Cradle was never real. It’s an illusion. A sham. Part of a bigger manipulation from some sort of cosmic entity that’s looking for something to snack on.  Everyone at The Cradle deserves better. I feel my fists balling up at my sides and I realize I’m getting a little distracted. I’m not here to get mad on everyone else’s account–I’m here to figure out what to do about Mother. I take a centering breath and get back to the task at hand. Ah yes. One day, Harriet was just living her mundane, lonely life. Then she just…gets absorbed by some faint cloud that just appeared on our planet after blasting through the atmosphere. In just a moment, the Harriet that was is no longer. Mother was in possession of her body, and went about ignoring the uninteresting, irrelevant facets of Harriet’s life like her job, her favorite TV shows, her phone, or her book of sudoku puzzles that she worked on at night in bed before going to sleep. But Alfie Prime already saw all this. So what the hell am I looking for? Something he missed? Some strange little morsel of a detail that explains everything? Or maybe we have to look at this from a different angle. If Alfie Prime has just been watching the history of the Earth through these doors–analyzing the time since Mother has arrived–maybe he’s looking in the wrong place. The answers could be beyond Earth. Right? I mean…the little cloud that became Mother after absorbing Harriet came from space, right? I mean, let’s follow that thread. === You think you know what space looks like. I thought I knew what space looks like. Years of pictures in text books, science fiction movies, and looking up into the starry night make us think we get the jist of space.  But I tell you now, as I watch as time races by in reverse–and we leave behind the Earth, the moon, and maybe even our own solar system, for all I know–and I follow the strange streak of light that brought Mother to Earth as it heads back to where it originally came from–space is nothing like what we think. It’s big. It’s empty. It’s dark. It’s impossibly lonely. Everything is far away. Everything is disorienting. Or maybe I’m just watching the wrong area of space. I see, at last, where this beam of energy–this strange silver-y lance of light–is headed, and I guess I might best describe it as a portal of sorts. A disc of distorted colors and rippling lights that looks almost like a vertical pool of water out here in the middle of nowhere. I have no context for how big or small this thing is. It’s simply an anomaly in the middle of the bleak nothingness. It’s from this portal, or whatever the hell it is, that Mother has come from. And as that beam of energy flew into the portal, I follow it.  And this must be the end of the road for the doorway I’ve been watching all of this through. Because I can’t actually follow the beam through the portal and see the other side. It simply stops right there, at the rippling wall of water-like energy that separates this dimension from whatever’s behind it. “Trippy,” I say aloud. “Are you disappointed?” asks a voice. I am unsure of where the voice is coming from, as it doesn’t seem to be in the same place that I am.  And yet I know that it’s talking to me. “I…I’m sorry?” I ask. “Alfie,” the voice says. It sounds vaguely like Harriet–like Mother–though distorted, like it’s a recording steeped in reverb and strange effects. “I asked if you were disappointed that you can’t get any closer.” The voice is coming from beyond the doorway. For the first time, I’m not just an observer–someone or something knows I’m here. “Well…maybe it’s a good thing I can’t come any closer,” I say, figuring it’d be best if I was honest. “Oh, but you can,” the voice says. “Step through the door. Step through the portal. Step into my home, Alfie.” “Your…home?” I ask. “And, uh, just to be clear…who am I talking to?” “I do not have a name, Alfie,” the voice says. “But you’ve spoken to pieces of myself that names have been assigned to.” “Mother,” I say. I don’t even mean to say it aloud, it just tumbles out from my mouth. “Yes. Alfie. Come forward. Come meet me.” “I…I don’t think that I can, I mean…”  “Step forward, Alfie. I want to meet you for myself.” I don’t know what they mean by that. I don’t know anything anymore. All of this is weird, none of it makes any sense, and I wish I was running around having carefree adventures in a thick pair of wet diapers. And I guess that's why I decide to step forward, through the doorway and into whatever weird Mother-portal is on the other side of the doorway. Because…why not? It’s like I’m stepping into the TV I’ve been watching.  Things have been pretty weird already. How much weirder can they possibly get? What else do I have to lose?

Random thought that might help as you go further. At times, it helps to avoid specifics, especially numbers. For example, instead of saying "each step covered 7 feet," say "each step covering far more then her little legs could get her." Instead of "the 12 foot amazons" say "the amazons towered over her", or vague comparisons and descriptions like "as tall as a tree" or "covered the entire distance in a few steps." It reads more clearly, and avoids the issue of having to ensure everyhting you describe is accurate, or answer questions like "well I'm 6 feet so a 10 foot giant wouldn't actually be big enough to do what your describing" and issues like that. It helps especially for fantasy and sci fi world building. Later, you can clarify if you want, or people can discuss, but any specific just invites questions. Anyway, good work, and i'm excited to see a Little Rebellion. If you want to keep using Alex, please do. As per my own story, he was some kind of figure in resistance groups through writing before getting himself caught and put in diapers and absurdly pink clothes.

Camilla listened and thought deeply on the response from watching Madison and the little time they've been together she could tell that the little woman was stubborn, so it would take time to get her to let go, well not exactly like Alice I believe she's diaper dependent and completely dependent on Ana, but how do you know that Alice is not 10 years old." On that question Madison felt like she just put her foot in her mouth.

Maddison liked the answer—it all made sense: the accidents, the reason Camilla had all those things—so she replied: "Yeah, it was an escape route from my responsibilities back home." Maddison then asked, "So, you want me to be your baby, like Alice—I know she isn't ten years old?"