Cloth Diapers & Panties

As a writer Im torn between adding a chapter that goes into explaining what happens to Diane and Becky or keeping the plot moving by focussing on Heather. A sub plot diversion to Diane would add more complexity to the story, but it risks dragging or being a distraction from the main plot. Sticking to the main plot will need care to avoid running too quickly and making the fatal flaw in many DD stories of wham, bam  thank-you Mamm… i.e. lots of initial detail in the main plot than a mad dash to the finish line tact is poorly written.

Part 2 please   

Part two is a little bit shorter, as I realised that I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks - holiday, yay! - and wanted to get something out before that. The good news is that being half the size means the forum probably won't give me some weird error when I hit the 'submit reply' button.    Part II: The Making Of A New Friend With my face stuck pressed against the bars, blinded and deafened, whoever out there was trying to wrestle me into a clean nappy were clearly having a difficult time. Laying on my back wasn't feasible, no matter how hard the strange hands tried to push me down, so when they finally relented and left me almost entirely naked, I silently enjoyed the rest of my liquid meal. Enjoy may seem like a strong word to describe a mixture of milk and whatever it was that caused my stomach to gurgle ominously. With no way of knowing when the next drink would be, I resolved to make the most of it, and enjoy being free of the thoroughly soiled garments I was previously trapped in. Slowly, the flow of liquid came to an end, my tongue explored the shape of the teat, cleaning it up as best I could, as making myself unwell by drinking spoiled milk left in the teat wasn't high on my list of priorities. Considering how poorly they treated me while relatively healthy, there wasn't much chance of getting cared for properly while suffering from food poisoning or the like.  If there was a room full of adult toddlers enjoying themselves, though, surely there had to be some kind of healthcare available? What did they do when one of their overgrown charges got sick anyway? I'd been too busy considering this to notice the bottle being removed, releasing me from the uncomfortable angle my neck was at, and finally allowing my captors an opportunity to get me into a new nappy. Being handled, rather ungently, while being uncertain from where the next touch would come left my mind reeling.  By my count, there were- four? The purpose of the orderlies being in the room was fairly obvious, but this meant somebody new was involved in the changing process. Further confusion came from the fact that, once they were done sealing the tapes and patting the front panel of the nappy, there were no more clothes added. Despite being almost fully naked just minutes before, it felt somehow more shameful to be just in this blinding, deafening hood and a bulky disposable nappy. The sleepsuits, cruel as they were, at least did something to hide the nappy. As if anyone in here, I realised, didn't already know what they were making you do. What they were making me wear. The hood was loosened, and pulled roughly free, without much fanfare or warning. So much time spent in the darkness of the hood turned each of the light panels in the ceiling into miniature blazing suns, dazzling and blinding, and I scrunched my eyes closed to try and block it out. I opened my mouth fully for the first time in imagined months, and had a dummy pushed into it for my trouble, which brought me back down to earth. Slowly, reluctantly, I opened one eye, then the other, to see the blurry shape of the lady who'd ordered the hood attached to me in the first place. She held the confining hood now in one hand, a horrible thing made of innocent looking white fabric and, rather than paying any attention to me, she pulled it through the crib bars and inspected it. "Somebody upstairs likes you. Friends in high places, no doubt," it felt unfair that her voice was the first thing I'd heard in however long and, worse still, was that a tinge of frustration in her voice? As if I had somehow inconvenienced her while being forced to endure filling up a nappy with my own waste, and then being left to sit in it for however long it was. I could feel my cheeks turn red. Furiously, I sucked my dummy, eyes narrowing towards the lady who spoke at me, rather than to me. "I'd have you in this for another week at least. Months, if I had my way. Just a machine for turning feed into feces. That offer isn't fully off the table. Another strike on the behaviour chart and," her gaze drifted finally from the hood to me, a rare moment of acknowledgement, "it'll be lights out until I sign off on having it removed. We are going to put our trust in you. In your willingness to help us. "A little bit more freedom. A few more opportunities to cause trouble. If you want to. There's consequences to every action. I'll be watching." Standing up from her crouched position by the side of the crib, the last look she gave me said - I dare you to try me. I dare you to do something. Give me one good reason. Hell, give me the flimsiest of reasons, and you are mine. As she left the room, her goons, the orderlies, made their way in. Two were content, apparently, to stand guard by the crib, staring down at me. I stared back. They were not impressed. The third had taken to the wardrobe again and approached the crib shortly thereafter, carrying with him something new. Rather than the dreaded sleepsuit, it was a long-sleeved onesie. Plain white, institutional looking, the sleeves were still capped with mittens, but at the very least, there would be nothing covering my legs, or those menacing little spikes in the soles of the feet. The institutional nature of it was reinforced by a set of buckles and straps hanging from the end of the mittens. Not quite a straightjacket, but close enough to make me think of one almost right away. While they dressed me, again relying on reaching through the bars rather than putting me on what I'd thought was the designated dressing-and-changing table, the speaker on the baby monitor came to life. The voice was obviously different, even with the tinny nature of the speaker, still male, but less authoritative. New, and trembling slightly, hesitantly but obviously reading from a script. "A reminder, um, babies do not walk," they didn't use the word rule, but it was clear enough that it was an instruction to be obeyed. The script continued as one orderly pulled on the bottom of the onesie, stretching it out just enough that the snaps along the crotch could be done up. I'd expected one of them to do something with the buckles on the mittens, but it seemed as if one of the little bits of extra freedom was getting to flap my hands about. What joy. "Please stay in the crib like a, uh, like a good little baby while we make adjustments to your living area. Who- who's a good baby? You are a good baby." The first compliment I'd received since arriving here, and it was one written down on a script. It seemed so horribly insincere, it was almost comical, but I'd just endured what happened if I didn't play along in the way they wanted. Playing along just a little couldn't hurt more than the uncomfortable sensation of a rash developing on my bottom. So I watched, and made hopefully acceptable excited gurgling sounds, as my environment was enriched. A quilt, made of colourful clashing patchwork, was spread out on the floor next to the table. On it was placed a selection of rather large wooden blocks, equally colourful, with which I would no doubt be expected to play. A few more objects were dutifully placed by the orderlies on the quilt, large shapes, made of foam, each with some sort of bell within. In the opposite corner of the room, near the doorway, a pair of orderlies carried in a large stuffed lion toy with some effort, propping it up against the wall so I could see it clearly. It was a bright, unnatural kind of yellow, the sort that lions were not, its face frilled with a mane made of mostly orange rags. The button eyes and the smile were comforting, reassuring in a way that everything else about the situation was not. Somebody had made this, quite clearly, by hand, slightly inexpertly, but with love. Not quite perfect, but identifiably a lion nevertheless. Immediately, I named him Leon. The side of the crib wasn't lowered, however, and so Leon and the rest of the toys remained thoroughly out of reach. As a little treat, I wriggled my toes, and then kicked my legs, pressing the soles of my feet against a few of the crib bars. They still hurt from my previous escape attempt. Freedom, however limited it was, still felt great. If these were the perks of playing along, well, _worth it_. Napping came easily that time. I'd stretched out as much as I could, taking up the maximum amount of space possible in the crib. The developing rash was a concern, but one that could wait until some well-earned rest, and it seemed like a much better idea to sleep in a dry, clean nappy than use it before trying to sleep. Eyes closed, silence save for the suck-suck-suck of the dummy in my mouth, I enjoyed the best sleep yet within this strange place. Just as I was stuck here, though, even my subconscious mind couldn't escape, as my dreams that night - or day, who could be sure? - were confined to scenarios that could play out from the room. I watched as Leon took clumsy steps in a march around the room, along each of the walls, bumping his head into the wardrobe. I saw the shapes of foam float into the air, tumbling about one another now freed from gravity, until the ceiling stopped them. I even dreamed of the orderlies, who rescued the shapes from the ceiling and took away Leon, who had bumped his head quite badly. When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the damp sensation in my nappy. The crotch flaps of the onesie held it in place, and it certainly wasn't the most sodden nappy I'd ever worn up until that point, but one thing was certain - it happened while I was asleep, without my knowledge. My stomach looked bloated, and felt uncomfortably full, which signalled that it was something I needed to take care of in the near future. The second thing I noticed was that Leon was missing.   - - - "You know the rules, and so do I," Penelope looked down at Steve expectantly with a smile. Whatever response she was expecting, she didn't get it, and she responded with a roll of her eyes. Steve, naked on a yoga mat, was too busy watching the attendants for any sign of yet more hostility. The rapidly developing bruise on his stomach flared colour against pale skin. Survival instincts said, comply. Compliance is what Penelope wanted as well and, as long as she got what she wanted, Steve knew he could avoid immediate harm.  He did put up a fight when the attendants got to work attending to him. Penelope had other matters to attend to - somebody in this institution was about to get a promotion to Behavioural Adjustment Assistant, after all - but this was a rare opportunity, a moment to savour. A firm, resounding slap put Steve back in his place, on the floor, rendering him something less than human. A trembling meat sack of bones and underdeveloped muscles, ready to be made something new. Not necessarily something better, Penelope mused, just something a little more interesting. "Oh, poor thing in there, oh no, she's so mean, oh, won't somebody think of how it must feel," her voice took on a mocking, sing-song quality, before she noticed that this was an opportunity to indulge in a proper monologue. As she gave her speech, Steve was treated to the process of having a nappy pinned on him. Not one of the disposable ones that stocked the changing table in the nursery room, but a square of folded cloth, held in place by large pins. Sprawled out on his back, the next piece of the puzzle was pulled from one of the bags by Penelope's side - a garment designed to restrict and confine, sack-like extensions where there ought to be trouser legs and sleeves. Folding his arms and legs into the waiting sacks, Steve squirmed about frantically, trying to pull himself free both of the attendants and the suit he was slowly being forced into. "This room used to be storage for gym equipment. God, when I signed up for this job, they said there'd be an in-house gym. Pizza on Fridays. A swimming pool. A pool, Steve," she paused with a sigh that could kill, "with a sauna room. Do you see a pool? A gym? When did we last get pizza? There were supposed to be perks to living here. One by one, they've been taken away. This is justice. This is fairness. I'll make my own perks. I'll make this place bearable. For me, at least." The attendants took a step back, giving space for Penelope to admire their handiwork and the nod to proceed. It'd taken all three of them to make it happen, but now Steve was fully enclosed by the suit, his arms pinned back with hands touching his shoulders, his legs folded as far as they could so that his heels pressed into his padded rear. Penelope remained still, admiring their work from a respectful distance, as Steve helplessly squirmed about on his back. Stumpy little legs and arms waved in the air, unable to find purchase on anything, while he shouted all manner of creative insults in the direction of the attendants. At Penelope. At the whole damned place. "Roar as much as you like, toy. Get it all out, that's it. I want to hear it. I want to feel it. Show me your rage." Steve obliged, his chest rising and falling heavy with the effort of telling her just how he felt. Variations on being uncomfortable, upset, angry. A whole range of emotions finally expressed with a scream-  "That's enough."  -that was cut short by the arrival of a gag. Suitably bound and silenced, Steve put up an even less effective resistance than before. From the other bag came the next layer of punishment and, from Steve's vantage point, it looked more like a huge stuffed toy than anything someone would be expected to wear. Yet he was expected to wear it, and the attendants had an easier time now of it, as they flexed the costume to reveal an opening along the back. Somebody had even gone to the trouble of lining the inside in a cheerful pattern, reminiscent of a child's blanket, all smiling zoo animals and simple, colourful trees. He was half pushed, half pulled into it, head pushed down into the plush, padded darkness. While his limbs were rendered all but useless, he made one last valiant attempt at freedom, craning his head back, eyes flicking to and fro, trying to find some kind of sympathy or mercy in the eyes of the attendants. A hard slap to the back of the head later, and the limp man was zipped up inside the costume.  "Put him in the room with his new friend. I'll add him to the feeding and changing schedule later. Oh, and," she paused mid-turn, ready to leave Steve to his fate, "not a word about this to you-know-who. You are being well compensated for your discretion." * * There was only so long that I could reasonably occupy myself with enjoying the perks that came with being declared a 'good baby'. WIth so little to really focus on, slipping in and out of sleep came remarkably easy, and it felt that I'd rapidly descend into spending little more than half of a day being awake. Leon hadn't come back, and I was worried that it was my fault he'd been taken away, a punishment for some forgotten rule. It felt intolerably cruel to dangle the promise of a stuffed toy, and then take it away, even if Leon was kept out of reach. When the door opened, I genuinely hoped it heralded the arrival of the silent, stuffed, inanimate witness to my situation. An orderly entered, straining and struggling, carrying with him a high chair. Like every other inanimate object in my new life, it was mockingly large, designed clearly to accommodate me just as my crib, the changing table and, now that I gave it a closer look, the wardrobe as well. Not that I expected much in the way of explanation from the orderly, and its purpose was so plainly clear that I didn't need an explanation, but it would've been nice for him to say something. Maybe even tell me when Leon would be put back.  Before this orderly, with the oh-so-usual silent treatment, finished finding just the right spot for the chair (between the crib and the wardrobe, overlooking the quilt and the toys that still remained out of reach), she was back. She rarely heralded anything good. I could see that there was something different about her, her bait just a little bouncier, accentuated by a change of clothes. Gone were the medically inspired scrubs, abandoned in favour of a chunky knit jumper and pinafore dress. She looked more like somebody involved in childcare, rather than whatever you called someone who delighted in sensory deprivation hoods, restraints and making grown adults repeatedly fill the same nappy. My stomach gave a little gurgle, providing a reminder once more that I needed to make time to fill a nappy, lest it decided to force the matter. The lady even said _thank you_ to the orderly as he adjusted the feet of the high chair to ensure it was level. Someone was in a good mood. Now with her underling suitably thanked, she sauntered over towards the crib, all smiles and sunshine and joy. I couldn't yet see past the memory of her just before she ordered the hood placed on me, or hear enough to erase the warning she gave me after deigning to remove it. With arms folded and resting atop the crib railings, I was treated first to a barrage of cooing sounds. "Is somebody hungry? Oh, somebody sure is, who is it? Who's a hungry little guy?" Nonplussed, I shuffled about a little in the crib, sitting myself up and craning my neck upwards to stare at her. From down here, her nostrils looked really, funnily large. "It's you! You're my hungry little guy!" While she continued to work on occupying my attention with equally trite nonsense, the orderly that had set up a high chair now worked on lowering the side of the crib. She was speaking plenty enough for both of them and, as he hauled me up with hands under my armpits, I was left wondering why the change of heart. The new tone. She'd referred to me as Thomas before, and now I was being showered with cute little names. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were, for her to drop the act. It was only, I was certain, a matter of time before she pulled the rug and found some reason to blind and deafen me. It was my first time being strapped into a high chair. Much like the table, which I'd figured was designed to keep me secure with straps while having the nappy around my waist changed, this made use of buckles and straps to hold me in place. One around my waist, and then another, coming up from between my legs, to keep me from sliding out, or wriggling free. My feet were free to swing to and fro and, in an emergency, could surely land a devastating kick to the tummy of anyone who drew my ire. _But,_ that quiet, calm voice said in my mind, _this gentleness was nice. Surely I don't need to kick anyone._ The option was still there. A back up. Just in case. I ran through the pros and cons of it as the tray was secured to the chair, while the rest of the chair was made from sturdy wood, practicality demanded a tray of easily cleaned plastic, in a shade of pastel purple that really didn't match the blue paint scheme of the room. This lady was no interior designer. Beyond offending the aesthetic sensibilities of any sane onlooker, it also further pinned me in place, and now I couldn't even see my own feet. A cross bar between the two front legs of the chair served as a spot to rest them, ready to kick off at a moment's notice. Now she'd got some jars from her satchel. I hadn't noticed the satchel. It was probably too large to be considered a satchel, more like a bag, still slung over one shoulder though. With the zipper on the top undone, I could see some of the contents. A bottle, a packet of wipes, the edge of a large folded nappy. She'd brought a changing bag with her. And now the jars were being arranged on the tray in front of me - just as homemade as Leon, clearly, as they had no labels, and the rather uniform brown colour of the contents didn't give any clues as to what they were supposed to be. Food, obviously, but beyond that, a mystery. "Oh, I swear, I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached to my neck," she laughed, and I wasn't certain if it was genuine. Temporarily abandoning the process of opening up the large class jars, she pulled a piece of fabric from the bag, and set about fixing it around my neck. A bib, covered in playfully childish depictions of safari animals. It was hard to be certain if the green blob was supposed to be a tree, or a particularly menacing piece of broccoli.  With the matter of protecting my pristine onesie well in hand, she removed the dummy from my mouth, setting it on the tray. A thin strand of drool briefly connected me to it, and part of me grew concerned. Not about the dummy, but-  It was so easy to obey the "no talking" rule with that thing in my mouth. Now that somebody was actively engaged in talking to me, it would be so easy to just reply, to just let something slip. Sure, an adult had taken it out, just as the dummy rules required, but until it was put back, I had to remind myself. Say nothing. Answer no questions.  "Are you going to open up for Nanny?"  She snapped me back to attention, standing on the other side of the plastic tray. A large plastic spoon trembling slightly, laden with unknowable brown goop, poised to be put in my mouth. The spoon was obviously too large to easily fit in my mouth. I wanted to say something. I almost did, honestly, I could feel my mouth opening and the words that'd earn me some horrible punishment forming in my throat, but she - Nanny? - took that as a sign to shovel the slop into my mouth. Maybe she didn't want me to fail.  The taste, though, that made me yearn for the adulterated milk. There were some savoury notes in there, if one could just imagine hard enough, but the best way I could describe it was as if somebody had taken a bunch of unsalted, unseasoned vegetables and put them into a blender. Maybe a little bit of meat, that was probably delivering the savoury note, but the rest of it - vegetal, but you'd struggle to identify exactly what vegetables went into it. I instinctively screwed up my face, recoiling from it, while she prepared the next spoonful. On and on it went, this dance, while she 'coaxed' me to open my mouth with promises of trains coming into stations and airplanes making landings. While I didn't enjoy the food, every swallowed mouthful was one step towards getting it over and done with. I wasn't yet able to have solid foods, apparently, but it was identifiably food, rather than milk given from a bottle.  This was the moment my insides opted to remind me that I needed to defecate. I'd put it off for long enough and now, with a painful squeezing contraction, it was due. I couldn't even swallow down the mouthful of food I was holding onto, and instead scrunched my eyes tightly shut, and tried to lift myself up ever so slightly from the wooden seat of my high chair. The straps, and the plastic tray, didn't allow any room to move.  "Someone's getting wriggly!"  I didn't need the running commentary on what she thought was happening. It didn't stop her from doing it, narrating how I was wriggling about and how I must be happy to have such yummy food in my tummy, about how it's a little happy dance. The deafeningly loud fart issued forth from my rear quickly put an end to any notions she held that this was a happy little dance. Instead, she took this opportunity to try and push yet more food into my already full mouth, causing food to dribble out from the sides of my mouth, while I was busy focusing on things coming out the other end. It was a relief to push the soft, squidgy stool out, as if my guts had a little more breathing room to tackle the soft, squidgy stuff being shoved into me. I could even overlook the fact I was now stuck sitting in my own waste, such was the drop in pressure inside me. When I sighed with relief, I was rewarded with yet another spoonful of food.  If she knew what had just happened down there, she didn't let on, at least not immediately. The feeding continued. I wished that she'd just get it finished quickly instead of insisting upon a little song-and-dance routine with every spoonful. Sometimes it went in my mouth, sometimes it mostly got in my mouth, sometimes something would apparently distract her and I could feel the cool gloop congealing conveniently on my cheek. No mirror needed, I knew I was in an absolute state by the time she put the spoon on the tray and declared that "num nums" were finished. "Nanny's got some apple pie for dessert." The orderly, who had been busying himself doing something to the crib, turned and looked at the lady with the same incredulous look I had. I felt like I'd just eaten my own weight in semi-solid blandness. My stomach was full. My nappy, also full. Now here she was removing a jar of yellow-green something from the bag. The lid opened with a pop that made her jump or, I suppose, made her act as if she was surprised. I couldn't be sure that anything she did was sincere at this point; it seemed more likely to be just an act that we both were expected to join in with. Reusing the spoon that delivered my main course, the apple pie was at least identifiable, she'd gone to the trouble of filling a glass jar with chunky apple sauce. Tart, slightly sweet, and the apple chunks within had been stewed to an inch of their life, killing off any chance of a crunchy change in texture. After a couple of spoonfuls, I wanted no more, and turned my head away from the offered spoon, silently indicating that I was sure mealtime was done. "Is Precious done? No more pudding?" I remembered not to open my mouth. With an overblown pout, she offered an equally overblown shrug of the shoulders, and set about refastening the lid on the mostly full jar. My protest paid off! I felt what was almost certainly misplaced confidence, borderline smugness, as she began cleaning my face up, using a relatively clean corner of the bib to scrape off the worst of the meal from my face before working at it with a cloth. Leaning in close to inspect her handiwork, she spoke again, but without the sing-song, gleeful charm. "Wasting food. Shame." Then she leaned back, the cold look disappearing, back to smiles and joy. Unclipping the tray that helped to hold me in place, she pulled it free and held it out towards the orderly. He clearly wasn't paying enough attention, and required summoning over with a polite cough. Once he made it to her side, he held the tray as instructed, while she unclipped the restraints on the high chair. This is when she finally deigned to acknowledge the state of the nappy. "Now when did that happen, stinkybum? Someone left a present for me in their nappy, and," she pulled me down from the seat of the high chair, my feet finding the floor, my weak legs shaking under the strain of it, "I think I know who it was. Mister Johnson, put that tray down, and get Precious here to the changing table before they fall over. Quick quick, Mister Johnson." She held my wrists tightly, keeping me upright as best she could, before the orderly came to the rescue. He'd put the tray on the floor, it was still laden with empty jars, a grubby spoon and the dummy, but now he was focused on carrying me the short distance to the table. I'd been worrying about what her rather cryptic message was about, and the ease of which she slipped from role to role, so the new information - this was Mister Johnson, the largest of the orderlies had a name! - gave me something new to think about it. I didn't know her name, only the title she'd given herself, but maybe there was a chance one of the orderlies would break their vow of silence around me. Maybe they'd slip up, just as I almost had, and I could put a name to the face I couldn't trust. He worked the strap over my chest, tightening it until it felt almost difficult to breathe, and for the first time, I would get to watch "Nanny" go through the process of changing a nappy. While the orderlies were always in a rush to get it done, and rougher than I would care for if I were to leave an honest review, she took her time. She explained each step, though in such a cutesy manner that she might as well have been changing a toy doll. The snaps at my crotch weren't simply undone, they went off with her proclaiming "snap, snap, snap, snappity-snap!". My bottom wasn't wiped clean, no, it was "bathtime for bum-bum", not to mention my "tinkle-tinkle" getting the cold wipe treatment. Even the baby powder was declared to be "a big ol' sprinkle of sugar". As if changing the nappy of a grown man wasn't ridiculous enough, she found a way to make the whole process even more infantile.  "Mister Johnson, might I trouble you for that pudding?"  After unfolding the fresh nappy beneath me, she gingerly took the offered jar and proceeded to dump the contents into the crotch of the nappy. Walking her fingers over my stomach, and up my chest, up to my chin, she walked around the table and looked straight down at me. No childish voice this time, just the sound of somebody dropping cold, hard truths. "It's not really wasting your food, is it? It's all going to end up in that nappy either way," she started walking back to the other end of the table, whistling rather tunelessly, and set about her work again. Whimpered protests did not stop her from carefully scooping out the last of the jar with the spoon, making sure not a scrape of it was wasted, dropping each smaller and smaller spoonful into the inside of the nappy. Satisfied that indeed none would be going to waste, she continued the whistling, pulling up the front of the nappy and pressing the apple sauce against my skin. It briefly reminded me of the mess I'd just been cleaned up from, just colder, immediately more sticky, with the lumps of heavily stewed apple yielding into yet more slime as the tapes on each side were fastened up. Proud of her work, she patted the space between my legs, sending more of my spurned dessert up towards my genitals and into the gap between my buttocks. I imagined, I hoped, hearing a disgusting squish. It probably wasn't that loud. I certainly felt the disgusting squish. "Mister Johnson, if you'd be so kind as to finish up here. It's not just Precious that needs a nap!" I was treated to Mister Johnson finishing up, as it were. There wasn't much left to do, though I entertained some hope that he'd take this opportunity to undo her work, and put an actually fresh nappy on me before fixing up the bottom of my onesie. He did not. Mister Johnson was not on my side, though he did see fit to recover the dummy from the discarded high chair tray and place it into my mouth before engaging in the tricky task of carrying me from table to crib. While normally this orderly, this Mister Johnson, lifted me with - not ease, exactly, it certainly took a lot of effort - normally he could carry me, but this time, my feet brushed against the ground ever so slightly, and I took some of my own weight while he supported the rest of it with familiar hands underneath my armpits. This was, I considered, a way in. If I could ease his burden, ever so slightly, bit by childish bit, perhaps he'd come to see me as something other than a thing to be mindlessly tended to.  Up went the side of the crib while I kneeled, watching him observantly, all the while keeping my weight on my legs rather than risking disturbing the dessert resting in the nappy between my legs. Mister Johnson lingered a little longer than was strictly required once the crib bars were secure once more, watching expectantly, waiting for something, while I in turn watched him. What did he want? A thank you? For what? A tip? The only thing I had access to was the contents of the nappy, and if he wanted that, he could darn well take it himself, it'd be doing both of us a favour. Then those big hands came down into the crib, lifting me up for just long enough to turn me about-  Somebody, Mister Johnson, I'd assume, had installed a mobile that hung out from above the baby monitor. An ensemble of little stars and larger planets, fashioned out of wood, hung from strings attached to the frame of the mobile. It rotated ever so slightly in the gentle breeze of the air conditioner above us and, reaching up with my mittened hand, I gave it a little nudge to set it moving faster. The strap and buckle at the end of the mitten made contact with one of the brightly painted wooden planets, sending it spinning about. That same quiet voice that reminded me not to kick, it spoke again, a little bit louder, a little more insistent. _You're being a good baby. Let go for a bit._ And I moved to sit down underneath the mobile, not even caring about the state of the apple sauce now, and then, on to my back, but never taking my eyes off the cosmic dance above me. If this was what letting go was like, then fine, I thought, let's indulge in it for a while. The world, my world, however limited it is, would still be there tomorrow. I dimly registered the fact I was wetting myself, observing it and noting it less as a thing that I was doing, but simply something that was ongoing. The stream of warm urine did little to help what was left of my meal, I could feel the wetness move, flowing down around my testicles, and forming a pool, which was then absorbed away. Not quite dry, just damp, warm, sticky, and not a problem I was compelled to deal with. Let it happen. Let go for a bit longer. The nappy will soak it up, and then someone will come along and change it. The nappy.  My nappy.  -- There were no cameras in Steve's room which had the upside, as far as Penelope was concerned, that she would have to check in on him herself, in person, and admire her handiwork. By the time she'd switched to more comfortable shoes, thoroughly washed her hands and made sure to show her smiling face to the people in the cafeteria, Steve had been stripped of his ridiculous feline outwear, some of the padding lay scattered about on the ground, while he was on his back. Waving his little stumps about in what Penelope observed was a humorous but useless manner. The two attendants stood by, one on either side, at attention, waiting for the orders to come through a chain of command only they recognised.  "Guess what I brought," she paused at the threshold of the room again, throwing the hood previously worn by Thomas onto the floor. It landed with a heavy thud next to the writhing form of Steve, who turned his head just enough to see it and acknowledged the hood's existence with a scream into the gag in his mouth. "I even had it laundered for you. You're welcome, by the way. Strap it on him, if you'd be so kind, we can feed Steve here just like we fed it. I don't think it'll be needing it for a while anyway. Because unlike you, Steve, I know how to handle a subject. If you could see it. See it's compliance!"  Between the removal of the gag and the application of the padded hood, there was just enough time for Steve to speak. He took advantage of this brief window, locking eyes with the attendant as if daring to try and silence him. "Go to hell, you-" the attendant pulled the hood down, filling his mouth with the rubber teat, before pulling at the strings at the back to lace the thing tightly to Steve's head. It was only then that Penelope stepped in, striding across the room, and kneeling down to look at the angry, writhing shape that was once Steve. Her hands reached down to find a zipper on the suit, exposing Steve's padded crotch. That same hand then rested against the cloth nappy, pressing it just gently enough that she could feel its weight, how wet it was, and despite squeezing the cloth enough to cause cold urine to drip from it, she zipped the suit back up and declared to the attendants: "No need to change him. Let him stew for a while longer. Get him dressed. I want Steve back in its room before it wakes up from the inevitable nap." *** Someone had been in the room while I was asleep, though trying to pinpoint exactly when it was I'd fallen asleep was hazy. It certainly didn't feel like a long sleep, a nap at best, so I mentally filed this as being a continuation of the 'current day' rather than beginning of a new one. Whoever was in charge of the climate controls and lighting had a pretty easy job, as both remained constant. Bright. Slightly chilly. The old sleepsuit kept me warm at least, now I could feel the chill on my legs, and the quilt that could provide some respite from it was on the floor outside the crib, beyond my reach. Great. The nappy between my legs felt a little heavier too, resting more against the fabric of the onesie than my skin, even the sticky glue of the apple sauce clearly couldn't hold it in place. With a large, long yawn and a stretch, I felt the dummy tumble out my mouth and land on the mattress. Not wanting to receive a punishment for breaking the rules so soon after what was a surprisingly relaxing nap, and slightly curious as to what'd happen, I began to perform as they wanted. No tears, I couldn't cry believably on command, it was just a slow and steady build-up; a distraught little sound, then something a little louder, until finally I'd built all the way up to a wailing that'd surely get the notice of whoever was on the other side of the baby monitor.  The biggest problem was keeping it up - how long would this pretend meltdown need to last? Until my throat was raw from screaming, in this case, and I was red in the face when one of the unnamed orderlies came through the door, clearly in quite a hurry. He wasted no time in jogging over to the crib, peering down at me, inspecting me, trying to work out what was the matter. I pawed uselessly at the dummy next to me, which guided his attention to what the 'problem' was. While he retrieved it and pushed it back into my open, waiting mouth, the other two orderlies - Mister Johnson, and his friend - carried Leon between them, who was thankfully no worse for wear. All of the orderlies seemed rather frazzled, by my reckoning at least, and the two tasked with safely conveying Leon to the room left him right next to the door. The orderly who rescued the dummy even gave Leon a pat on the head as he left, which was sweet. It seemed odd that they'd go to the trouble of arranging toys that'd do something to stave off the boredom in the room, but then not release me from the crib so I could actually do something with them. Perhaps building up anticipation was the point. After all, part of me recognised that it was thoroughly bizarre to be longing to play with baby toys, but just like the mobile, it offered a potential break in the monotony of it all. A chance to do anything other than sit here, napping whenever the mood or need took me, something to help keep my mind from drifting away from me. Speaking of naps, a few extra moments of sleep wouldn't hurt, and it wasn't as if there were any pressing matters to take care of. Much like in my dream, I saw Leon move again, flopping forwards and struggling to put his feet underneath him. This must have been a daydream, or something seen while half-asleep, or some product of the treatment I'd been on the receiving end of. Rubbing my eyes with the back of the mittens to banish the sleep, Leon had moved - I was sure of it. Leon was on all fours. Before he was sat on his bottom. Then he moved again, a tentative little step forward with one paw, tapping at the ground, feeling his way forward. Given how chubby the lion toy was, it made sense that he'd have difficulty moving aroun- No. Toys don't move. I looked around, trying to ascertain the parameters of this odd dream sequence, yet everything else looked and felt as close to normal as my situation would allow. I was stuck in a crib, watching a stuffed toy take yet more wobbly steps. Leon was struggling, and I wanted to cheer him on, offer him some advice maybe, though even in this dream I couldn't bring myself to break the no-talking rule.  Reality finally got around to asserting itself as Leon gave up walking and flopped down fully onto the floor, right next to the door, all that heroic effort getting him no further than a few feet. Whoever pushed open the door next would have to contend with him blocking some of it. Leon, the tripping hazard. -- _Steve. Twenty eight. Cheshunt._ It took three people to carry him comfortably, though there was little about his predicament that he found comfortable. Something had happened somewhere that necessitated him being moved, and it was apparently quite urgent, as only two attendants could presumably be found to lift him. He gathered that it was likely the same journey he'd made before, just taking a little longer due to the trio being a man down. Before he was afraid of the violence that the three of them could inflict with just a nod from his former coworker, but now that he was confined beneath a layer of padding, their blows didn't really pose as much threat. They did find ways of making their annoyance felt; the pair rudely dropped him to the ground, rather than carefully place Steve down. The only sense Steve really had available to him was touch, and even that was dulled by the suit and costume combination he'd been strapped into. Moving about was a challenge, not simply because of the unfamiliar means of locomotion required by being folded up in such a way, but because the heavy foam inserts shifted his center of mass considerably. With a grunt of effort muffled by the feeding teat in his mouth, Steve rocked himself forwards, onto his knees and, after some squirming, he positioned his elbows underneath him. One elbow forward, wobbling, and the words repeating in his mind. _Steve. Twenty eight. Cheshunt._  Another tremendous effort, and another step. He'd not bumped into anything yet, so he hadn't found a wall, but once he did, it would just be a matter of following it, keeping it at his side. Though he had an inkling of where he was - the nursery room, where Penelope could easily watch him and Thomas remotely - if he could bump into one familiar landmark, like the wardrobe, that'd confirm it. He wasn't sure what could be done once he'd confirmed his location, one way or another, but it'd certainly help in whatever escape plan came next. Perhaps he could find some way of recruiting Thomas, before either of them were too far gone, he considered.  _Except he won't want to talk, and I wouldn't be able to hear him if he chose to. Step one, convince her or one of her lackeys not to put the hood back on._  Seeing that there was little point in trying to walk any further, Steve allowed gravity and the weight of the outfit to win, falling onto his side, right in front of the doorway that connected the nursery room to the hallway and, with it, the rest of the institute. If it weren't for the hood wrapped tightly around his head, Steve imagined there'd be sweat pouring into his eyes from the effort required to move as much as he did. The rest of him was sweating profusely, making the fabric of his inner restricting suit cling to him, and he grimly wondered whether the cloth nappy pinned to him underneath was wet from urine, sweat, or some horrid combination of both. -- From: Human Resources @ The Epping Institute To: candidate-shortlist-refPABAExp26@epping-institute.co.uk Subject: New Role Available Dear %EMPLOYEE_NAME_INFORMAL%, As you have previously expressed interest in a position within the Behavioural Adjustment department and indicated your consent to keeping your application for a transfer on file, we are happy to announce that you have been automatically shortlisted for the position of Personal Assistant to one of our Behavioural Adjustment officers. This entry level position will give you hands-on experience in behavioural adjustment and management and, when we expand to open recruitment for new officers within the department, the candidate pool will initially be open only to assistants. As this open position is for a role within the experimental treatment wing, you will be required to demonstrate flexibility in thinking, assisting in the creation of new procedures and recording their efficacy. Working efficiently alongside your officer and liaising with others as required, you will help influence the systems that deliver the verifiable results the Epping Institute is renowned for. Some hands-on work may be available based on the needs of the subject and officer, and additional training may be offered as the needs of the current project change. Full details of the current project will be made available to the successful candidate. Your previous work in %DEPARTMENT-NAME% will no doubt be relevant and is one of the many reasons you have been shortlisted for this position. If you would like more details about the role, please get in touch. Reply to this email with the text 'Personal Assistant - Behaviour Adjustment (Experimental) 26' to confirm you are ready to proceed to the interview stage. Many thanks, Christoper Meretz, Internal Recruitment Officer  

Yeah, that sums it up about right.

Meals Ready to Eat (MRE). Some were actually good, but some are so bad you almost don't want to eat them. The thing is, when you've been out in the field all day. You're going to be so hungry, so you literally will eat almost anything.  I once dropped part of an MRE on the ground. But I was so hungry I brushed it off and ate it anyways. That's when you learn to never be a picky eater again. And those uncooked mashed peas (or whatever) start looking good in comparison.