Baby Talk

Chapter 8 Fish really are the dumbest beings in existence. I've been watching one of the goldfish in the waiting room tank eat and then spit out the same pebble for about a minute straight. He's surrounded by cheesy, tacky fish enrichment furniture like a treasure chest and a rock filled with large crevices to explore, and all he wants to do is figure out if the thirty-seventh time's the charm for swallowing down the dastardly, impossibly smooth hunk of mineral before him. Then again, I'm the one that's been staring at him for just as long.  I glance around the room again despite the fact I know nothing has changed. The same sterile waiting room with oddly colorful trim, lined with the same overstuffed chairs that are nicer than any furniture I've sat on full stop, let alone at a doctor's office. The same two girls are sitting in the same two chairs on the other side of the room, still in their same slightly slouched positions, still staring at their phones. The further girl is anxiously twirling her braided hair. The blonde highlights in her dark hair look absolutely gorgeous, and her light pink nails contrast her dark skin beautifully. It takes me a second to realize I'm twirling my own hair, and I break my gaze to inspect my nails. I probably should've gotten them done when I got my haircut. The closer girl's leg is bouncing just the tiniest bit. I'm biting at my lip ring…nope, fuck, that same phantom hole in my face. My eye twitches involuntarily as I watch her long, slender right leg continue to quake — a nervous tic I had myself at one point. I had to cut that one from the toolbox after a friend made a joke about feeling an earthquake. I cringe at the memory, and the visual throwback isn't helping. The anxious silence between us hovers in the room like a thick fog, broken only by the occasional haptic taps of our phones and the low, underlying hum of the fish tank's filter.  My eyes shoot back to the kiosk set up next to the door on the far side of the room. I had used it to sign in for the intake just a few minutes ago — super easy, with just a quick tap of my temp badge and a confirmation of my name — but god how those minutes of dreadful anticipation have dragged. It's then that I notice movement out of my peripheral vision, through the frosted glass of the door that must lead to the exam rooms. A loud click and creak of the opening door breaks the palpable silence of the room. "Courtney?" projects the nurse who now stands in the door before us, tablet in hand. I hear movement from the other side of the room, my vision shooting over as I see the girl with the braids is now up and power-shuffling her way to the nurse. The nurse quickly glances between me and the taller girl with glasses, who has paused her shaky leg momentarily. A slightly forced but still warm smile forms on her lips, and then she looks back to the girl walking towards her. "Right this way," she tells her. She closes the door with another creak-click, and the room is thrust back into a pervasive quiet once again. The fish doesn't seem to have deviated from his pebble-focused mission at hand, so I look to my phone for a more stimulating distraction. I pull up my feed for something, ANYTHING to keep my mind from catastrophizing what I'm sure will be a perfectly fine and normal medical checkup. Ads. Ads. Mundane life update from a high school acquaintance I should have deleted years ago. Ads. A meme video — wait, nope, that's also an ad. Headline about TheNile in yet another class-action lawsuit from the employees they're trying to replace with scab-bots. Okay, maybe this isn't helping. I hear another click-creak, and my head shoots up. There's now a girl standing in front of the slowly closing frosted door. She's the first one I've seen return from the ominous, opaque portal, and here she is in one piece. She's got maybe an inch on me. Light brown skin, dark hair cut blunt at the jaw. Wide-leg trousers in some kind of green-and-cream check that has absolutely no right to work as well as it does. Her top is a men's cardigan two sizes too big, and Jesus Christ Almighty, are those fucking loafers?  It should be illegal to look that good coming out of a doctor's office. Worse yet, I can't tell if it took her two minutes or two hours to get that look together, and that is so deeply fucking annoying.  She checks her watch, taps it twice, and starts for the exit at a pace that says she has somewhere to be. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't look at anybody. Halfway across the room, she starts whistling. I catch it just as she passes my chair. Under the whistle. Under the pat of her loafers against the carpet. That soft, familiar crinkle, there and gone. I would kill to be able to pull off those trousers. Instead I'm sitting here in loose jeans and a t-shirt so big I could wear it as a dress, all so I can cover the exact same thing she's easily hiding under an actual outfit. The front door to the office swings shut and she's gone, and I'm sitting here staring at it like a goldfish staring at an inedible pebble. Huh. Okay. So it's fine, then. Right? She looked fine. She looked like she was going to brunch. This will be fine. "Erica?" I jump in my seat. I laugh nervously to deflect my embarrassment as I turn back to what I assume is the same nurse standing in the door. This time, my assumption is correct. "Hi! Yes! Sorry, that's me." I quickly stand and start making my way towards her. It's then that I remember the damp pull-up I'm wearing.  Shit. This is gonna be so awkward. The nurse doesn't look that much older than me…maybe in her late twenties? Either that or she has an amazing skincare routine. She does look tired, but I'm guessing that on account of the fact that I'm probably the twentieth new student she's checked in for an intake today. Still, she maintains a happy and inviting look on her cute, rounded face, hair tied back in a severe bun and standing at least four inches shorter than me. "Just this way, Erica," she tells me, holding the door open as she leads me into the hallway beyond. We only have to take a few steps into the hallway to reach the room. It's a little bigger than I was expecting: the same calming shade of blue wallpaper lining a room with a dark laminated counter with white drawers on one side, one of those overstuffed, reclining exam tables in the center, currently in an upright position, and a dark curtain curiously draped over the room's back right corner. The wall opposite the entrance is lined with a slightly unsettling number of medical gadgets that are familiar in shape but unmistakably high-tech. "Can you just confirm your full name and date of birth for me?" She doesn't look up from her tablet when she asks, and I can see her making a rapid series of swipes and clicks on it while she leads me towards the exam table. "Erica Fairport, January 17th, 2016," I reply as I continue to rapidly glance from one sci-fi-looking instrument to the next. The nurse nods along and she clicks a few more buttons, turning back around to me as we reach our final destination, just short of the exam table, a plain white medical gown lying neatly folded on top of the table's paper lining. "Good, good," she says with a light smile as she looks back up to me. "It's great to meet you, Erica. I'm Joyce, and I'll be the nurse helping out with your exam today. I'll be stepping out for a moment, but the doctor and I will be back shortly to begin your intake. While you're waiting, I just need you to go behind that curtain to leave me a urine sample in the receptacle you'll see back there. After that, you'll just need to undress and put this gown on." She glances briefly at the medical gown on the table, then back to me, looking me up and down. "Are you currently wearing a diaper?" My eyes go wide at the question. I'm not sure if I'm more shocked by the content or the flat, matter-of-fact delivery, like she was asking if I had eaten breakfast yet. My brain stutters, my mouth opening as I stammer stupidly. "I…I, uh…not…exactly?" Joyce glances down again, then nods once as she taps her tablet a few more times. "Noted," she says with a warm smile, "No wrong answers, by the way. It's a pretty even split. We only ask so we can let you know there's also a trash can and self-hygiene supplies on the other side of the curtain, if you need them. Training pants and underwear can be kept on for the exam. Totally your choice." And with that, she walks back towards the exam room door, gently shutting it behind her on the way out, leaving me frozen, staring blankly at the dark partition curtain as if it were the void itself. I shake my head to bring myself back to reality. Okay. One step at a time. You can't get overwhelmed if you just break it down, one step at a time. Step number one: peek behind the veil. I cross to the curtain in a few quick steps and slide one of the sections to the side. Step two: inventory. Directly in front of me, a large button is built into the wall with a chute-like opening underneath it. That'll be the trash the nurse mentioned. She didn't say anything about a button, so there's absolutely no way I'm pushing it. Fine. A little weird, a little too much open space for my liking, but fine. See? One thing at a time. In the backmost corner, low to the floor, is a chair. That's the first thing my brain lands on. A chair. It's the finish and the color that make my brain stutter with confusion, giving me pause. Molded plastic, a soft glossy pink like the inside of a shell, with a high curved back and two little arms, rounded at every edge — the kind of shape designed so a person couldn't hurt themselves on it if they tried. There's a step molded into the base. There's a shallow raised lip at the front of the seat. And in the center of the seat there's an opening, and under the opening there's a bowl, and the bowl has a handle on it, like the bowl is meant to… Oh. Oh. It's a potty. It's a fucking training potty. It's a god damn fucking training potty scaled up like somebody ran one through a photocopier at four hundred percent, sitting on the floor of a medical exam room, and the seat of it would come to just below my knee. The 'receptacle.' Okay, maybe I was wrong. This is pretty fucking overwhelming.  Despite it all, I squirm, and suddenly the damp pull-up I'm wearing goes from background noise to the sensual focal point of my entire consciousness. It's only now that I realize how quickly that god-awful coffee ran through me. Between the sight of the potty and the pull-up I'm wearing, the urgency of my bladder has suddenly skyrocketed to "Oh shit" levels.  But still I'm frozen. If I don't make a move soon my body is once again going to make the decision for me. I haven't even stress-tested these pull-ups, either. Was I really about to let myself make a puddle in front of a training potty on my first day of GOD DAMN FUCKING DIAPER SCHOOL??? I turn off my brain and let my body move for me. I quickly slip down my jeans and training pants in one fell swoop, pivoting myself in a full one-eighty as I seat myself on the cold plastic, flinching involuntarily from the sensation. A half second later and my body relaxes completely. I breathe a heavy sigh as relief washes over my body. And then my conscious brain kicks back in. My face gets so hot you could vaporize an ice cube on it. It must be five shades redder than it was two seconds ago.  I look down, my gaze focusing on the fluffy white cotton interior of the training pants around my ankles. The volume of the steady, heavy stream of piss exiting me and hitting the hard plastic bowl is more deafening than any metal show I've seen. I can feel tiny, hot droplets splashing back onto my thighs and ass.  This is fucking humiliating. And yet this is the most dignified way I'll be emptying my bladder for the foreseeable future. The stream exiting quickly loses steam, and I hear the pattering of it against the pool that's formed at the bottom of the bowl as it fizzles to a finish. My cheeks are still on fire, my knees awkwardly close together thanks to the potty being so low to the ground.  I'm still staring at the pull-up between my knees. More specifically, the small, barely discolored splotch in the front of the padding from my previous accident. I literally pinch myself to make sure this isn't all some extremely elaborate, fucked-up sex dream. Ow. Nope. Somehow, amazingly, horrifyingly, this is all real. Which means the real doctor is coming back into the room really soon.  Shit. I look around frantically, only then noticing the divots in the right armrest. I press in, and a small door pops open, and I can see a bright white baby wipe poking out of a smaller opening within. I grab at it, pulling a few into my hand and wiping myself off thoroughly. I step out of my jeans completely and I stand, then pause as I bend back down to pick up the pull-up with them.  Joyce said I could wear my pull-up under my gown for the exam. But I'm sure it will need to come off at some point. Which means the doctor will absolutely see that same little off-color splotch. I toss it hastily into the nearby chute before pulling my shirt up and over my head. I hadn't bothered with a bra this morning since I knew this was probably coming. Completely naked, I run back to the exam table and throw my balled-up clothes into a pile on the floor next to it. I slip the bright white gown on one arm at a time. As I fumble with those dumb little ties on the back of the gown, I take another glance around the room. The backs of my palms lightly graze the small of my naked back, and a sudden feeling of smallness grips me entirely, almost out of nowhere. The sterile room seems cavernous now; like it's somehow getting bigger and closing in on me at the same time. My hands are trembling. I give up on my effort to tie my gown shut, letting the string fall lazily to my sides as I sit back on the exam table. The crinkle of the paper lining against my weight makes me flinch slightly. A very different kind of crinkle against my ass than I've gotten used to in the past few weeks.  And with that, the absurdity of everything hits me like a wave, and it washes my spiking anxiety out with it. A smile breaks across my face. Jesus Fucking Christ. This really IS happening. I sit there in silence for a few minutes, breathing slowly to center myself again. A small shiver creeps up my body, the soft blow of cool air from a nearby vent just a touch uncomfortable against my bare skin. Turns out I panicked just to hurry up to wait. Classic Erica. But it's fine. It's a lot, but you'll get through this. You wanted this. You still want this. It's just the transition that's going to be difficult, just like with anything in life. You got this. Djunt Djunt My gaze shoots across from the room as I hear two quick knocks on the exam room door. It swings open silently before I can decide whether or not to answer with a "Come in". "Hi there, Erica? I'm Dr. Neeson." She's younger than I expected. Early thirties, maybe? A little shorter than me, light brown hair scraped back into a bun so tight it looks load-bearing. Thin wire glasses, and a spray of freckles across her nose that are making me second-guess how well I gauged her age. She's holding a thin tablet flat against her chest like a clipboard. Joyce follows her in and peels off toward the counter, already frowning at the wall. "Is it freezing in here, or is it just me?" She jabs aggressively at a panel by the light switch. "I swear, I can't tell if it's the system or gremlins that keep turning this thing down. I honestly hope it's the latter with how 'cutting-edge' all this tech is supposed to be." I laugh as a small shiver runs across my body, right on cue.  "Definitely not just you," I reply. Dr. Neeson hooks a rolling stool with her foot and sits, which puts her eyes a little below mine.  "Okay. So here's how this is going to go, so nothing surprises you. First I'll grab your vitals. Then I'm going to ask you some history questions. Some of them are standard, some of them are specific to the program. Then a physical exam. Start to finish, maybe thirty minutes. If anything makes you uncomfortable, or you want me to stop, or you just want to know why I'm asking something, say so, and I will. Sound okay?" Specific to the program. I feel myself cringe internally as my eye twitches. Hopefully that's the only tell I'm giving off. I appreciate how upfront she's being, but I can't tell if that's making it better or worse at the moment. "Sure! Sounds great," I say. YEP. GREAT. SURE. "Okay." Her eyes flick to the back of my gown, to the ties hanging loose at my sides. "Want me to get those for you?" Oh, god. "Oh — yes, sorry, thank you, I couldn't—" "Nobody can. They were designed by sadists." She stands, ties them in two lightning-quick tugs, and sits back down. "Okay." The vitals are, mercifully, boring. A cuff around my arm that squeezes until my fingertips tingle. A little plastic clip on my index finger. A thermometer swiped across my forehead. She narrates every step a half-second before it happens — cuff's going to get tight, little clip, no needle — like she's read every bad review a patient has ever written about a doctor and taken notes. Step on the scale. Back flat against the wall for height. She reads each number aloud, and Joyce types it without looking up. It's… shockingly normal. This could be any physical I've had in my life. I feel my shoulders come down half an inch at the realization. "Okay. Any medications? Prescription, over the counter, supplements, birth control?" "Just Adderall for ADHD. Ten milligrams, twice per day." I see the doctor swipe and tap a few times on her tablet as she nods. "Allergies? Medications, foods, latex, adhesives?" Adhesives. My brain helpfully supplies a close-up of the four little tapes on a Trest. "Nope. None that I know of." "Other than ADHD, any other chronic medical conditions? Asthma, diabetes, anything you see a specialist for?" "No." "Surgeries, hospitalizations?" "Wisdom teeth?" "That counts." Tap, tap. "Okay. Now we'll get a little more specific." And here we go. "How often would you say you urinate during the day? Rough count is fine." I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Not because I don't know the answer. Because the honest answer is often. Like, very fucking often. Often enough that I apparently have to VERY CONSCIOUSLY think about it before my body does whatever the hell it wants. "Um. A lot? Like… every hour? Maybe more." "Is that new, or has it always been that way?" "Newer. The last few weeks." She nods like that's exactly what she expected. "Very common with increased fluid intake and regular wear. Any urgency? Feeling like you can't hold it?" Regular wear. She says it like a weather report. "Umm…only a few times that I've noticed." "Waking up at night to go?" "No," I answer honestly, but it suddenly gives me pause. I've always been a heavy sleeper, but I've also worn to bed every night since this whole thing started. Could she mean… "Any accidents before you started wearing?" She mercifully interrupts my thought. "No. Never." "Okay. And how long have you been wearing?" "About three weeks. Like… full-time-ish for the last week and a half, maybe?" "Wearing what, specifically?" She looks up from the tablet for the first time in a while, stylus hovering, expression pleasantly blank. "Um. Them. A few different… brands." "Diapers." "Yes. Those. Diapers." The word sits in the room like I dropped something heavy on the floor. "Okay. And how many changes per day, on average?" I actually have to count. "Two? Three?" "Would you say those are typically wet, soiled, or both?" "Wet," I say. Too fast. "Just wet." "Okay." She doesn't react. Not even a little. Which is somehow louder than if she had. Seconds of silence drag on for what feels like an eternity. Then I realize she's frowning at the tablet now, tapping the same spot on the screen. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. "Sorry, this form freezes every time I — there it goes. Okay. How long would you say you're comfortable remaining in a wet diaper?" She asks it to the tablet. Still swiping at the form. The question lands somewhere behind my sternum and stays there. Comfortable. Not how long is safe. Not how long do I usually. How long am I comfortable. As in: what do I like. "Um. An hour or two, I guess? Sometimes more?" "Roughly two hours, got it." She types it. "Okay." I have no idea if that was the right answer. I have no idea if there IS a right answer. The more I think about it, I don't even know if it was the honest answer. "Almost done with history. Are you currently sexually active?" And just like that, it's normal again. Every doctor asks this. Every single one. I've been answering this question in fluorescent rooms since I was seventeen. "Not currently." "Any partners in the last year?" "No." Ouch, Dr. Neeson. "Any history of STIs?" "No." "Okay. We'll run an STI panel with your bloodwork and urine. That's standard for everyone." Tap. I nod, relaxing. And then, about three seconds later, I un-relax. Why is that on an intake form? Why does a school need to know who I've been sleeping with? Standard for everyone, she said. Everyone here. "Okay," she says, standing. "Physical portion. Can you lie back for me?" The table hums, and its back slowly reclines until I'm flat. The ceiling is the same calming blue as the walls. Someone painted a few little clouds in the corner, which is either very sweet or completely deranged. Probably both, the more I think about it. "First a couple of measurements, for sizing." Joyce hands her a soft tape measure. "I'm going to put this around your waist. You can stay right where you are." The tape is cold, even through the gown. "Seventy-four," she says. Joyce types. The tape slides lower, around the widest part of my hips. "Ninety-eight." I have no idea what those are in inches. I will be thinking about them for the rest of my life. "Okay. Next I'm going to take a look at your skin. Specifically the areas that are covered when you're wearing. I'm going to lift your gown up to your waist, and then I'll have you roll onto your side for a second. Okay?" "Okay," I tell the ceiling clouds. Gloves. That snap of latex practically echoes through the room. The gown lifts, and the cold air from the vent finds every inch of me it couldn't reach before. She's quiet for a moment. Gentle, impersonal fingertips at the crease of my thigh. Then the other side. "Mild erythema, bilateral inguinal folds," she says. Not to me. Joyce types. "Can you roll toward me? Thanks." A light hand on my hip. "Extending to the inferior gluteal region. Skin intact. No maceration, no satellite lesions. Consistent with mild irritant dermatitis." I don't know what most of those words mean. I know exactly what all of them mean. "You can roll back." She tugs the gown down over my hips again. "You said two-plus, sometimes more. When it's more, how long are we talking?" Of course she rounded up. Of course she heard the sometimes. "Overnight," I admit through burning cheeks. "And… some afternoons. If I'm, like, busy." Busy. On my couch. Doomscrolling. "Okay. That tracks." No judgment. Nothing. Not even a pause. "Very common in the first few weeks, and very easy to fix. We'll get you set up with something for it." She strips off the gloves, drops them in a bin, and snaps on a fresh pair. "Okay. Last part is a pelvic exam. I'll check everything externally first, then do a speculum exam. Since you're over twenty-one, I'll take your pap while we're in there so you don't have to come back for one. Then a quick internal check of your pelvic floor muscles. You'll feel pressure, maybe some mild discomfort, nothing sharp. Same deal as before: say stop, and I stop. Okay?" "…Okay." Joyce reaches past my feet and presses something on the side of the table. Two padded footrests swing out from the end of it with a soft mechanical whir and lock into place. Of course they do. "Scoot down for me until you feel the edge," Dr. Neeson says. "Little more. Perfect. Feet up." I put my heels in the stirrups. My knees drift apart, and the gown tents over them like a sad little pavilion, and the vent, which I'm now convinced is both sentient and evil, adjusts its aim accordingly. Abandon all dignity, ye who enter here. "Okay. I'm going to touch now." Her fingers are light and quick and entirely professional. "External genitalia normal. No lesions." Joyce taps her tablet. The haptic clicks are somehow the loudest sound in the room. "I warmed this," Joyce says, handing something over, and it's the single kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. "Speculum going in. Pressure." Pressure is an understatement and also exactly right. Cool lubricant, the slow, steady insertion, and then the click-click-click of it opening, and I fix my eyes on the painted clouds so hard I could probably describe them to a sketch artist. It's funny; why can you always find abstract figures in real clouds but never in paintings of them? "Little scratch for the pap." It's not even bad. That's what's bad. It's not painful, it's not long, it's just a woman I met ten minutes ago looking very closely at the inside of my body while another woman types what she says about it. All to get me prepped for fucking diaper school. That last bit. Something about it. I've done this before at other doctors' offices, plenty of times in my life. Yet now, somewhere under all the mortification, something low and traitorous stirs. No. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not. Not now, not on this table, not with a stranger's instrument holding me open. My pussy has never once in its life had worse timing. There's lube. There's a speculum. She cannot possibly tell. Right? …Right? "Okay, speculum's coming out." Flat. Pleasant. Exactly the same voice she used for my blood pressure. Good. She can't tell. That's what I'm choosing to believe regardless of objective reality. "Two fingers now, and my other hand's going to press on your lower belly." It happens just like she describes, but the freshly applied lube feels just as cold the second time around. "Uterus normal size, mobile, nontender. Adnexa nontender, no masses. Okay. Now I'm going to keep my fingers right where they are and have you squeeze, like you're trying to stop the flow of urine." Oh good, I have extensive recent field experience with this one. I did it in my car this morning. I squeeze. "Good. Hold. And relax. Now bear down for me, like you're having a bowel movement." I bear down. My face goes hot all the way to my hairline. "Good. One more squeeze. And a cough for me." I cough. Amazingly, it's the most embarrassing thing I've done all day. "Strong pelvic floor, good tone, no prolapse," she tells Joyce, and withdraws her hand. "Okay. All done." The gloves come off with another snap. The footrests fold back into the table with the same soft whir, like nothing ever happened. "You can sit up whenever you're ready. Take your time." She's already standing, tablet back against her chest. "Joyce is going to come back in a few minutes with your watch and go through orientation with you. Any questions for me?" "No! No. Thank you. Really." She gives me a small, brisk nod, the first thing she's done all exam that could almost be called a smile, and then she's gone. Joyce gathers her tablet and pauses at the door to glare at the thermostat panel one more time. "Gremlins," she mutters. "Be right back." The door clicks shut. I sit up slowly. The paper crinkles under me. My whole body is humming, and I genuinely can't tell how much of it is the cold.  

I'm gonna stick my neck out and say the average ABDL enthusiast would run out of enthusiasm on the electric floor pretty quickly.   Treating someone like a newborn would be decidedly un-fun for anyone, even an ABDL.  Can't move?  Can't see?  Can't speak?  Only way to communicate is to wail/scream and wait for someone to come figure out what's wrong?  Bland formula every 2 hours, no solid food?  No one would be able to stand that for weeks on end. 

You’re good! No pressure at all. I don’t expect you to leave two comments or anything lol. I just know that visibility is important on here and bumps are big for maintaining visibility, but ultimately my viewership on here is a fraction of that on DA - I know that, but it feels like there are more cultured and nuanced writers here lol. In any case, whatever you do is genuinely fine! I’m not upset at all, and I’m grateful for your continued viewership. I understand what you’re saying all too well, lol.

Roast turkey breast, smashed potato, gravy, green beans, butternut squash and salad.

I really haven’t read any of the comments, but I was intrigued by the title about aging Littles in the DD. My answer is they don’t age. At least not outwardly. They appear immortal. It’s magic or science or because I have a hard time with my own mortality and pretend it doesn’t happen in stories 😂