Other Fetishes

This story is very very loosely based on some things that happened to me when I was young. It’s true that in real life, my mother left when I was 7 and never came back, and my father went to prison about 18 months later. He served 15 years, so I was raised by my uncle. I had bedwetting issues, my uncle did all the right things, taking me to see a doctor, taking me to therapy etc. Nothing physically wrong with me, just a response to everything that had happened to me. He never got angry at me, and made sure I and my bed were protected with pull-ups and a rubber sheet, upgrading me to proper diapers, because eventually the pull-ups couldn’t handle my accidents any more. I was 16 when he came up with his “therapeutic” technique, where he would act as if I were a baby, he thought it might help to make up for my chaotic early life. The thing is he did actually hit the nail on the head, because to this day, I find that spending time in little space is so therapeutic. He didn’t go as far as the fictional Uncle in the story, short sessions, maybe a day or a weekend, a few times it went on for about a week. It went on until I moved into my own place last year. Nothing over the top, diapers all day, onesie/romper type clothes bought from an adaptive clothing website, pacifiers, bottles, kids TV. We never left the house with it, it was only ever at home, no one else ever saw, not even family, and I was never forced. Just trying to stress that, I don’t want people thinking he was a monster. I’ve been a lurker here for a while, just reading stories, I’ve slowly been working on my own. I have a bunch of chapters ready to go, that just need proofreading. I’m still working on the story though, I think it’s gonna be a long one. …   Bound by Gentle Hands - Prologue   Justin Rossi was seven when his mother left. There was no note, no teary goodbye. She just wasn’t there one day when he got home from school. He waited for weeks, half-expecting her to walk back in, annoyed, like she’d just gotten lost or needed time to think. But the silence grew longer, and the house colder. Her absence became normal. Justin’s father didn’t explain, nor did he seem surprised. He simply shrugged off the questions and turned the TV volume higher. His energy was limited...he preferred the couch and a can of beer to hard conversations. From then on, Justin was left to raise himself. It wasn’t an abusive home. Not in the traditional sense. His dad didn’t yell, and didn’t hit. He did love him in his own passive way. But he also didn’t help, didn’t check homework, didn’t make sure Justin was fed or washed. If school called about an absence, he might mumble a half-hearted excuse...if he answered the phone at all. Meals were whatever could be microwaved or opened from a box. Justin often fell asleep on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, cartoons flickering in the dark, because bedtimes didn’t exist. Showers were rare. By the time he turned eight, his clothes were too small. Some shirts barely made it over his head. His shoes pinched his toes until they blistered, and most of his jeans were wearing thin at the knees or unraveling at the seams. Laundry got done only when his dad felt like it, which was rare. Uncle Tom, Dad’s older brother, had always kept a cautious distance. He’d visit now and then, clearly uncomfortable with what he saw, but rarely pushing too hard. He’d ask quiet, careful questions...“How’s school?” “You eating okay?”...and his brow would furrow at the answers. Once, after overhearing Justin complain about his shoes hurting his feet, Tom returned with a brand-new pair. Clean, Well-made, and practical. Something a kid could run in. His father was furious. “You think I can’t take care of my own son?” “You can, you choose not to.” They argued, voices rising. After that, Tom stopped coming around. Years later, Justin found out he’d spoken to CPS, but Dad was arrested before they got around to anything. Two weeks later, Justin’s dad got into a fight at a bar. It started with shouting, ended with a punch. The other man died in the hospital two days later. Dad was found guilty of Manslaughter and was sentenced to fifteen years The night Justin’s father was arrested; he’d left Justin home alone. It got late…too late, Justin was starting to get scared that his dad had abandoned him too…and he was right. Uncle Tom arrived later that evening, gathered the few clothes that still fit, and took him home. Justin didn’t cry. He didn’t ask questions. He just went where he was told. His mother never returned. Even after the sentencing, even once custody passed permanently to Tom, there was no word from her. Justin overheard a conversation between Uncle Tom and his maternal aunt that she’d moved in with a new boyfriend. He didn’t want a kid around. She preferred some man over her own child. And just like that, Justin was no one’s child anymore...except Tom’s, by default and legal decree. But that early abandonment etched itself deep. And Justin had learned one thing too well: Don’t expect anyone to come back for you. Tom’s house was warm, clean, and quiet in an unfamiliar way. It smelled faintly of wood polish and coffee. Justin slept in a real bed again, with crisp sheets tucked in too tightly. The lights turned off at the same time each night. Meals happened at the table. There were no locks on doors, but everything felt...closed. Tom never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. There was a firmness in the way he moved, a steadiness in his presence. He wasn’t unkind. He was affectionate enough, giving him a hug at bedtime, speaking softly when he was sad, hurt or sick. He made sure Justin ate, made sure he was warm, made sure he was heard. But there were rules. Always the rules. 1.     You shower every night. 2.     You brush your teeth. 3.     You don’t yell. 4.     You ask before going out. 5.     You go to school. 6.     You go to bed by nine. 7.     We go to church every Sunday. It felt like another kind of loss. Justin had come from a life with no boundaries. Now, everything had edges. Structure. Expectations. Where once there had been nothing but vague days and empty hours, now there was a schedule. A life being shaped around him whether he liked it or not. He didn’t. He hated the preppy clothes Tom bought...polos with buttons he didn’t like to fasten, khakis with scratchy seams, a bow tie for church. Tom tried to let him choose; he took him to stores. But Justin just trailed behind, arms folded, muttering how dumb it all was. Eventually, Tom stopped asking. He chose for him instead. There were other things too...quiet humiliations that made Justin feel small. The way his stomach clenched when he sat at a set table. The way he flinched when he was asked a direct question. The way he’d freeze when someone opened a bedroom door without knocking. But the worst was the bedwetting. It wasn’t new. It had happened before...back at home, when things were unraveling. But no one had noticed back then. The sheets were never changed unless he changed them. His dad had never even mentioned it. Now, though, it mattered. Tom didn’t shame him, he never scolded, but he noticed. He handled it gently...bought a protective sheet for the bed, and quietly added a pack of pull-ups to the closet. “No big deal,” he’d say, folding clean pajamas, “Sometimes bodies hold stress in ways we can’t see.” He took him to the doctor. Then to a therapist. They talked about trauma and adjustment. About how sometimes the body reacts long after the chaos ends. Justin sat through the sessions like he was underwater. He didn’t want to talk about feelings. He didn’t want soothing explanations. What he wanted was control. But control was the one thing he didn’t have. Not anymore. At night, when the house creaked and everyone else was asleep, Justin would stare at the ceiling and feel like a stranger in his own life. The sheets beneath him felt too clean, too cold. The quiet pressed in too tightly. He missed the chaos. He missed being invisible. … Time passed slowly in Tom’s house. At first, it felt like walking through fog...days full of unfamiliar rules, unfamiliar warmth. But Justin adjusted eventually. By the time he was fourteen, the routines that once chafed had become quiet comforts. Dinner at six. Homework before screens. Bed by ten on school nights. Clean clothes folded just so. He didn’t always like the structure, but he no longer flinched at it. And more importantly, he no longer flinched at Tom. Their relationship grew...gradually. They didn’t talk about feelings much, but there were other ways to bond. Tom taught him to bowl...patiently, one Sunday at a time. He showed him how to hold the ball, how to find the right grip, how not to overthink the swing. He wasn’t great, but it didn’t matter. They laughed more than he scored. He took Justin to his weekly line dancing class once...just once. “You gotta try everything once,” Tom had said. Justin tried it, stiffly and uncomfortably. It wasn’t for him. They never spoke of it again. But Tom didn’t push, he only nudged. They found other things. Fixing things around the house. Changing tires. Making chili from scratch. Justin learned how to make eggs the way Tom liked them, and Tom pretended not to notice when Justin started making them that way for himself. They weren’t father and son, not exactly. But there was trust. Steady, slow-growing trust. Justin never said it out loud...but part of him believed that Tom would never leave him. Not like his mother. Not like his father. And as he settled into that belief, his world finally started to feel still. The bedwetting stopped, almost completely. By the time he was sixteen, it only happened once in a blue moon...usually after a nightmare, or on nights when memories snuck past the walls he’d built. Tom never made a fuss. Just washed the sheets, left clean clothes, and said nothing more than: “It’s alright, kid.” And somehow, that was enough. Years passed. Justin turned twenty-one. He was quiet, but functional. He worked part-time, attended a local college, cooked most of his own meals. He still lived with Tom, but that felt more like a roommate situation than anything else, they had a rhythm. Until the message. It came out of nowhere; a ping from someone named Sarah Jefferson. There was no profile picture at first. Then, suddenly, one appeared: a woman, older but familiar, smiling beside a man Justin didn’t recognize, a toddler girl in her arms, a boy in his. She was his mother. “Jefferson”, that wasn’t her maiden name, whoever that guy is, she’d married him. Thirteen years without a word. Then: “Hey Justin! Hope you’re doing good 💕” No apology, or explanation. Just casual, breezy words as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t abandoned him and replaced him with new kids. More notifications…comments under random pictures from years ago, Justin at his High School graduation, his prom, wearing his KFC uniform on his first day at work. It was the comment under the photo of him dressed in his groomsman’s suit for his cousin Ollie’s wedding that really pissed him off. “Looking good! Spitting image of your dad on our wedding day!” Justin stared at the comment for a long time, the room slowly darkening around him. Being compared to his father, the man that caused two little girls to lose their dad, it was insulting. He didn’t respond, he blocked the account, but the damage had already been done. The first accident happened that night. He woke up cold, the sheets damp, shame pooling in his chest like something old and half-forgotten. He told himself it was a one-time thing. Just stress. But it happened again. And again. More frequent, more intense. Each one dragging up feelings he thought he’d buried long ago...confusion, rejection, that aching, gnawing guilt that had no real shape but never quite let go. He didn’t tell Tom at first, but Tom noticed. He always did. He brought back the waterproof sheet. Quietly replaced a drawer’s contents with a small pack of pull-ups. Justin said nothing, he just let it happen. And in some ways, that silence said everything. Justin didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, not really. He knew Tom knew, just like Tom had always known. Nothing was said, no raised voices or lectures. But the quiet was heavy, and that was worse. Justin tried to fix it. He drank less after dinner, set alarms in the middle of the night, even started looking up solutions online...embarrassed even as he typed the words. But it kept happening. More than before, sometimes three, four nights in a row. And each morning, he woke up ashamed. After cleaning himself up, he’d strip the sheets quietly and toss them into the wash before Tom came home from his morning jog. But sometimes, Tom had already done it before he got out of the shower. It made Justin feel smaller than any scolding ever could. He started sleeping in again. More naps in the middle of the day. His appetite faded...until Tom started setting full plates in front of him again, same as when he was ten. He didn’t argue, he didn’t have the energy. He tried to stay out of the way, and when he couldn’t? He just apologized. For everything. “Sorry.” “I forgot.” “I didn’t mean to.” “I’ll do better.” Even when Tom hadn’t said anything at all. Some part of him had thought he was past this. That whatever damage his parents had done...however long ago...it had been laid to rest in that quiet space Tom built around him. But it wasn’t gone, it had just been buried. And now it was surfacing again...louder, messier, harder to name. He caught his reflection in the mirror one evening, the outline of a pull-up peeking beneath his pajama pants. He looked away, disgusted. He was tired, tired of feeling like a child in an adult’s body. Tired of not knowing if he was going forward or backward.   Chapter 1   At twenty-two, Justin Rossi wasn’t supposed to be living like this...waking up in soaked sheets, tiptoeing through his life like a ghost afraid to wake a sleeping authority. He had dreams once. College, a job in graphic design, maybe even a dog. Now, he had a rubber mattress cover, and a towering uncle with opinions thicker than his glasses. “You’re wet again,” Tom announced from the hallway, his voice syrupy-sweet and disapproving, like a preschool teacher with a crucifix. He stood in the doorway with that same ever-serious expression, as if this was all just a natural part of his God-given duty. “Third time this week, Justy.” Justin flinched at the nickname. “I...I’ll wash the sheets,” he muttered, already scrambling to pull the comforter off, praying the damp patch hadn’t soaked through to the mattress again. But Tom had a different idea. “No, no. We’ve been over this.” He stepped into the room with deliberate calm, like a general inspecting the aftermath of a skirmish. “You're stressed, you're embarrassed, and you're avoiding the real solution. But I found something that might help. It’s… modern, grounded in psychology. A little new-age, perhaps, but promising.” Justin froze mid-fold. “Not hypnosis again.” Tom chuckled softly. “No, Justy. This one’s a little more... hands-on.” Tom held something behind his back. That always meant trouble. “I’ve been reading,” he said, moving closer, “Found a forum...Modern Family Dynamics. A whole section on regression therapy. You know what that is, don’t you?” Justin gave a dry, half-laugh. “Like hypnosis, inner child BS, bongo drums and incense. Emotional vomiting.” “No,” Tom said, “It’s about comfort, rebuilding trust, creating safety where development got… stuck.” He looked at Justin meaningfully. “Like you still wetting the bed. That says something, doesn’t it?” Justin’s cheeks flushed. “It says I shouldn’t drink so much before bed.” Tom pulled the object from behind his back. It was large. Soft. Plastic. White with faint pastel stars and big blue tabs. “A diaper?” Justin’s voice cracked. “Not just any diaper,” Tom said with the pride of a man introducing a prize-winning hog at the fair. “Ultra-absorbent core. This baby could absorb a tsunami.” Justin stared, horrified. “I’m not wearing that thing. I’m not...” “Not getting better,” Tom interrupted. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen, I’ve tried gentle. I’ve tried ignoring it. I’ve tried every laundry detergent on the market. But this...this is different, this is nurturing.” “Nurturing?” Justin repeated, slowly backing toward the door. “That’s not nurturing, that’s insane.” Tom didn’t budge. “You’re stressed and ashamed. This helps you let go, let someone take care of you, properly. The way you need.” He patted the bed. “Lie down, Justy. Just once, try it, then decide.” Justin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He didn’t move, there was something in his uncle’s eyes…gentle, yes, but unyielding. That unwavering missionary intensity, as though he were trying to save Justin’s soul and dignity with the same gesture. The diaper rustled in Tom’s lap like an accusation. Justin looked at the ceiling. “God, just kill me now.” “Don’t be dramatic,” Tom said, pulling on rubber gloves with a snap. Justin stood like a statue...barefoot, pale, shirt clinging with nervous sweat...as Tom unfolded the diaper with a practiced flick, the plastic crinkling like a plastic bag. “This is crazy,” Justin whispered, his voice barely above a breath. Tom tilted his head. “So is wetting yourself at twenty-two.” Justin flinched. “It’s not...God, it’s not like I want to. You think I like waking up like that? Do you know what that feels like?” “I know what it smells like,” Tom said flatly. “And I know you hate yourself every morning it happens. That’s what I’m trying to fix.” Justin's lip twitched. Anger rose in his chest, but it was met with something stickier...guilt. Tom wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t threatening. He was calm. Too calm. That was worse somehow. Tom patted the bed again, invitingly. “Lie down, just one day, give it a fair try.” Justin’s legs didn’t move, but his knees were trembling. “Why does it have to be this way?” he asked, voice brittle. “Why diapers? Why not like… therapy? Medication? Hypnosis again? Literally anything else.” Tom looked almost sad. “Because those things haven’t worked. You need structure. You need to feel safe. I’ve prayed on this, Justy. This is the path God’s opened for us.” “For us?” Justin choked on the word. “This is about you needing control, not me needing diapers.” Tom stood up...slowly, deliberately. His eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed soft. “You know I don’t like raising my voice. But I am your guardian, I raised you, I’ve sacrificed for you, and I’m not going to stand by while you spiral further into shame and denial.” He walked over, gently placed a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I know this is strange,” he continued. “But it’s either this, or we have to talk about stricter options. Medical intervention, involvement from the church. I’d rather keep this in the family. Wouldn’t you?” Justin stared at the floor. His stomach twisted. His body felt hot and wrong. His brain screamed no but the years of being under Tom’s rule spoke louder. “…Just one day?” he asked quietly. Tom smiled like a shepherd spotting a lost lamb. “One day,” he said gently, “but we’ll do it right. You’ll see. You’ll sleep deeper than ever before.” He held up the diaper again, and Justin finally sat on the edge of the bed. The diaper was larger than he expected. Thicker, too...ridiculously so. It crinkled in Tom’s hands like a plastic bag as he fluffed it. Justin sat stiffly on the bed, wearing only an oversized T-shirt, trying not to make eye contact, trying not to think. But it was impossible not to hear every plastic rustle, not to smell the faint scent of baby powder in the air like a slow-acting toxin. “Lie back,” Tom said gently. It was a voice Justin remembered from childhood...when he’d scraped his knee, when he was sick, when Mom had vanished, Dad went to jail, and Uncle Tom took him in without a word of complaint. That voice had always meant safety. Now it sounded like a soft trap closing. Justin hesitated. Then, with big exhale, he lowered himself back onto the bed. “That’s it,” Tom said, sliding the thick padding beneath him. “Just let go. Let someone care for you for once.” Let go. That phrase clung to Justin’s ears as Tom began his work. First the powder, then the careful pull of the front panel, the snugness of the fit. The tapes sealed with a sound like packing tape...the crinkling sound of the diaper as it was taped shut, that made Justin’s stomach turn. He couldn’t look down. He didn’t want to see what he was wearing. “Raise your arms,” Tom said. “What? Why?” Tom was already unfolding something soft, pale blue, with cartoon ducks on the chest. It had flaps that stretched over the diaper, secured closed with three metal snaps. A onesie. Justin’s eyes widened. “You said just the diaper.” “And I also said ‘do it right,’” Tom replied, ever the immovable wall. “Lift your arms, Justy.” He did. Reluctantly. The onesie slid down over his head like a bad dream he couldn’t wake from, and when Tom fastened the snaps between his legs, Justin flinched at each humiliating click. The fabric hugged the bulky diaper tight, rounding out the shape, amplifying its presence. “You look adorable,” Tom said warmly. “Innocent. Like you were always meant to be this way.” Justin lay still, hands clenched at his sides. He felt exposed. Trapped. Infantile. And worst of all… safe. The next morning, Justin woke up dry. That should’ve felt like a victory, instead, it felt like a setup. For a terrifying second, he forgot what he was wearing...and then he moved, heard the crinkle, and remembered everything. The humiliation from the night before clung to him like sweat. He sat up slowly, tugging at the fabric between his thighs, trying to ignore how much thicker it felt while sitting. He had survived the night, technically, that didn’t mean he’d agreed to anything permanent. The door creaked open before he could even swing his legs over the bed. “Morning, sunshine,” Tom beamed, holding a tray, a banana, a bowl of oatmeal, and...God help him...a baby bottle filled with milk. Justin stared at the bottle like it might bite him. Tom didn’t seem to notice, or he pretended not to. “You’re dry!” he said brightly, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “See? One night of structure, and already an improvement.” “I think it’s just because I didn’t drink anything after 6 PM,” Justin muttered. Tom chuckled, waving a finger. “Or because you felt secure. Emotional safety is half the battle, Justy. And now that we know it works…” Justin’s blood went cold. “No.” Tom’s smile didn’t waver. “Just hear me out...” “No!” Justin snapped, standing up fast, diaper crinkling loudly beneath the onesie. He flushed. “This was supposed to be one night. That’s what you said.” “And it was,” Tom said calmly, folding his hands. “But healing doesn’t happen in a night. It takes consistency. Nurture. And if you’re willing to be brave enough to trust me...really trust me...I know we can fix this.” Justin gawked. “By turning me into a literal baby?” Tom raised an eyebrow. “Is it really so awful? You slept peacefully, you’re dry. You didn’t have a panic attack or check your phone twelve times. I haven’t seen you that calm in months.” “Yes, it was, I look like a fucking baby!” Justin exploded. Tom’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened. “You’re lashing out. That’s okay. Regression therapy often brings up discomfort at first. Denial. Resistance. But underneath that? Relief. You already felt it last night. You were calm. Small. Safe.” Justin shook his head violently. “No. This is messed up. This is...this is control.” Tom finally stood. His height, his presence...both loomed suddenly larger. “I raised you, Justin,” he said quietly. “When your father went away, when no one else stepped up...I did. I gave up everything so you could have a home, and I’ve watched you drift for years. Afraid to date. Afraid to leave the house. Lost.” “I’m not lost...” “You are,” Tom interrupted firmly. “And I won’t let you drown in shame and adult pressure anymore. You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not.” There was a long silence. Justin trembled. “So,” Tom said gently, “I’m giving you this weekend. Just the weekend. Treated fully, properly, and lovingly, like a child in need of care.” “No,” Justin whispered. “No, no...” “If by Monday, you’re not calmer, sleeping better, more regulated,” Tom continued, “we’ll stop. No more diapers. No more babying. You’ll be free to go about your life however you choose.” Justin hesitated. It sounded like a trap. But the pressure in Tom’s voice was undeniable. This wasn’t a discussion. It was an illusion of choice. “And if I say no now?” Tom’s smile faded. “Then I’ll have no choice but to involve a medical evaluation. A full psych workup. I’d much rather keep this between us.” Justin sat down slowly, the diaper squishing audibly beneath him. His eyes burned. He stared at the bottle of milk like it was poison. “Just the weekend,” he said bitterly. Tom placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s all I ask, Baby.”

Sounds wonderful, I would enjoy something like that as well. Glad you had a good time 

I color when i felt a pacifer being put in my mouth as i start sucking on it as i lay on the floor. I take my time coloring a picture.

Okay (yes, I am on a roll when it comes to stories; I even have the next chapters for INSIWAb... and Semper Fi ready for their usual postings on Saturday and Tuesday, respectively.), I know this is another medical story in a whole lot of them...but it's quite different than most. Welcome to Patient Zero, a medical age regression journey into young toddlerhood for some (and maybe younger for one). I know it doesn't sound very impressive, and I was somewhat basing this off of an idea I got from an age-regression story (I don't recall which one.) where...well, I won't spoil. But as for the content warnings, not every character gets a nice background. In fact, a lot of them are quite hard, if not going-through-the-absolute-wringer hard (I kinda based one of the characters off of Killer Croc's backstory, though this one isn't a fictional disease, but a very real one.), and the content warnings are there for a reason. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Thank you in advance! And let's not delay, for here it is:   -   Chapter One: 4:30 AM - 6:55 AM, May 22nd, 2024   -   Dr. Berry Glass woke up at 4:30 AM as she always did, ready for her job as a researcher and group therapist for one of the most prevalent modern diseases known to women under the age of thirty: Sudden Adult Age Retrogression Syndrome or SAARS.   The thirty-three-year-old yawned, stretching out her long legs and arms as her alarm blared, her short sandy-brown hair frazzled with sleep. She slipped out of bed, rubbing her hazel eyes, going to the bathroom to shower; she didn’t use makeup at work.   Work, she thought as she turned the water on, shivering from the chill. Giving hope of a better life to those who had none.   SAARS was a disease that regressed otherwise normal women under thirty to a set age, normally around twelve to sixteen months old. It was also permanent as far as researchers like her could tell; whatever enzymes that aged people - namely telomeres that broke down with cell division - were paused. Worse still, they had their adult minds and memories during the whole process. It would be so much easier if their minds were also regressed, but to be forced into babyhood forever with an adult perspective was a horrifying prospect, especially adults who had their own dreams taken away from them.   Some people regarded it as an act of God for sin and rejected the unfortunate women. Worse still, a lot of people, whether it was parents, husbands, or boyfriends didn’t want to take care of the now-infantilized women that were their daughters, their partners, their friends, possibly forever being babies. Such a thing was heartbreaking, yet common.   Therefore, there was a therapy session Berry headed, knowing the most about the disease, how the process worked (although there was no common vector as of now, no original patient to discuss; it had infected thousands of young women simultaneously), and - as one of the rare woman doctors unable to be infected - what to do in the process. Her job aside from research was helping the few women and partners who were struggling and genuinely asked for advice instead of being buried within walls of secretive shame. They came to her for advice, even if she didn’t have a clue about how to stop it, let alone reverse it.   One thing for sure was this: it was manmade. Someone was playing God with the lives of innocent women, and as a doctor who took pride in following the Hippocratic Oath to the letter, Berry was furious that someone was doing this to these poor women on purpose.   But she couldn’t focus on her rage, she mused, as she turned off the shower, her body cleansed. The women patients of simultaneous ages and their desperate partners - boyfriends, husbands, and the odd parent - were her priority today. Then came a long day of research as the only woman allowed in the laboratory while the cultures were done, even if she had to deal with…Digby Fletcher.   She wrapped the towel across her nude body, her firm breasts sensitive at the touch. Fucking Digby Fletcher - Doctor Digby Fletcher, a transplant from the United Kingdom with Scottish and Irish descent, judging by his mixed accent - the arrogant, pretty-boy cocksucker (hey, it was true! His definite flamboyant sexuality was no secret.) with his against-the-rules-long ginger hair in a bushy ponytail that fell to his back and bangs that mostly hid his eyes. He was an asshole to everyone, to put it as kindly as she could, and always acted like he knew better than everyone in the room.   Well, he was extremely intelligent like she was, that couldn’t be denied; he graduated with a doctorate from a super young age (he was currently twenty-two years old and graduated at Oxford with honors at the precocious age of seventeen), much like she did at Stanford University at eighteen years old (2005, good times), getting to college early and skipping a lot of grades, valedictorian, highest marks in the country in her graduate year.   Maybe super smart people butted heads, but Fletcher’s caustic sarcasm and swelled head was almost unbearable and most definitely insufferable, especially when he had gone to the subject of parents and how hers must’ve been annoyed that she was a mere “pediatrician”.   Mine died, she thought bitterly as she got into her therapy clothes - a lab coat and smart black pantsuit, and got her purse, the time on her phone reading 5:00 AM. To a drunken driver when they were on the way to celebrate her valedictorian honors. The drunk had died as well, leaving behind two devastated families.   It was the only time she had ever seen Fletcher with any kind of remorse for what he said, with any kind of empathy - or any positive emotion that wasn’t snark, for that matter - in his dead icy-blue eyes, and to his rare credit, he never brought up the subject again.   And Warwick had immediately stepped in and read him the riot act.   Berry’s heart fluttered as she got her usual breakfast and lunch (both small meals for the slim 5’6” woman) packed in another bag and stepped out into the beautiful San Diego weather to get to her car, thinking of Dr. Warwick Cooks, his handsome tanned complexion and smile, his trimmed beach-blond beard and hair, his warm ocean blue eyes, so unlike the shards of glass that represented Fletcher’s eyes. Warwick was a fellow Stanford graduate who had taken her under his wing as a freshman, her best friend, her confidant, her occasional on-and-off lover when she turned eighteen, she recalled with a rare blush to her face, as she got in her Hyundai Kona Electric car and pressed the button to start the engine. Hot damn, he was good in bed.   Thankfully, rush hour in San Diego was not until much later, and she got to the hospital in record time at 6:15, ready to begin the group therapy session at 7:00 in the morning.   She prepared the seats for the prospective people…and the toys, stuffed animals, and lots of diapers for the women who needed them. Even though there was no mental regression with SAARS, emotional regression to the age they became was almost certain, and toilet training was the very first thing to go with them. SAARS usually took off years quickly, one year regressed a day, so she assumed she’d see people of varying ages.   The windows on the outside were the only ones showing with the rest shuttered. The walls were soundproofed, so that nothing came out of the room. Safety and privacy were of the utmost importance when it came to those suffering from SAARS; they didn’t need the hatred, anger, and judgment from the outside world.   The first people arrived at 6:30: a skinny young Black man with thin cornrows, glasses, who wore a black hoodie and sweats, gently carrying a sleeping two-year-old Black girl while balancing a computer bag and empty diaper bag on his scrawny shoulders. Her hair was done expertly, braided with beads in them, and she was wearing a pink onesie and a thick diaper. She drooled on her stuffed zebra before the man replaced it with a pacifier, which she unconsciously started sucking on. Berry didn’t recognize either of them, and she hadn’t had a phone call with them, but she figured she’d know more about them during the session.   The next people arrived ten minutes later: a fairly young, pale cleanshaven Caucasian man with dark brown hair who wore a San Jose Sharks hat, and a black T-shirt and camo shorts that showed his sinewy frame. He was carrying a two-year-old blonde girl who was fearfully tucking her head into his arms, her thick diaper peeking from her pink dress, clutching a stuffed gazelle as if her life depended on it. She knew them from a phone call: Detective Oleksiy Pomonarenko of the San Jose Police Department, and his ex-partner/now-child Natasha Orlova. Oleksiy had taken custody of Natasha immediately, knowing her parental figures were…not very nice, to put it lightly. Berry’s research on Natasha’s parents confirmed Oleksiy’s fears, but it was not the place for a private session.   The last to come at 6:50 was a bald Black man wearing a Sacramento Kings beanie, an Oakland Raiders mask across his entire lower face, a San Diego Padres jersey and blue jeans, and a Caucasian girl toddler in a dress and diaper who looked two years old, her hair in red pigtails. She chewed on one of her pigtails before the man replaced it with a pacifier, which she gleefully started sucking on. She was holding a stuffed horse, a Clydesdale. Berry remembered both of them from a prior session: Amos Norwood and Hannah Norwood, a husband and wife in…less than ideal circumstances, poor Amos, especially. She wondered if Oleksiy would recognize Amos.   Unfortunately for her, he did.   “You,” Oleksiy said in a flat tone to Amos, who glared back. “I trust you’re on the straight and narrow when it comes to your new kid?”   “It’s always been hard to find honest work,” Amos retorted. “Especially now. Y’all ain’t let me find it.”   “A cop?” the young Black man with glasses asked in an accent that sounded slightly Arabic, rolling his eyes. “If there aren't enough problems…Allah give me strength.”   “We are not going to argue about our backgrounds in front of your partners. Everyone is welcome here.” Berry’s voice was firm, her eyes flashing a warning sign to all that there would be no arguments on that front. She turned to look at the young Muslim man. “Might I know your name?”   He looked at her, his brown eyes calm behind his glasses. “Darquarius Zerrouki. I’m from Morocco, born in the United States with citizenship from my mother. My partner, her name is Chief Petty Officer Lynn Graham of the United States Navy.”   “Can she confirm?” Oleksiy asked immediately.   The man called Darquarius surprisingly didn’t argue, as he gently nudged the girl awake, as she whined, “Daddyyy!”   “Lynnie, cupcake, you need to meet the nice people,” the man said, his voice filled with genuine love.   The Black girl rubbed her eyes with a yawn and said with a tired smile, “Hi! I’m Chief Peppy Offsher Wynn Gwaham. Me wash…” She frowned as her two-year-old lisp prevented her from saying the words right, her squirming meaning that she likely was close to messing her diaper when she didn’t want to, and Berry’s heart broke for the SAARS-infected woman. “Me wash en-gay-jed to Daddy. Daddy, I gots to go now.”   “That’s what your diaper’s for, Lynnie. I promise I’ll get you changed.” Darquarius looked at Berry, the look in his eyes desperate, as a giant brown and yellow spot ballooned in his former fiancée’s diaper. “Do you have Pampers Swaddlers? That’s what she said she prefers, and I’m running on fumes, trying to babyproof the house alone...”   “I have them,” Berry said kindly.   “Natasha prefers Huggies Little Snugglers,” Oleksiy said.   “Good choice; that’s what Hannah likes as well,” Amos agreed.   “I have them as well,” the doctor said, noticing that Natasha’s face relaxing as she pooped her diaper, and Hannah was squirming in discomfort, about ready to go herself. “We can change them here, and hopefully more people will come to start the session.”   Thank holy God I came prepared.   She was not prepared for a blindside hit she never saw coming.   -   Hope y'all enjoyed~

Evelyn walked over and grab her daughter's Winnie the Pooh pacifier clip attached it, she also grabbed the baby wipe cleaned her doors now before catching the pacifier clip to her daughter's PJ's and gave her pacifier the suck on before heading back to the rocking arm chair to pick up her computer and get back to her job.