Personalias

Chapter 101: Conference The rest of that day was a special kind of tense for me. It’s difficult to describe. In one long shouting, screaming, crying, fight, I felt like I had gotten through to Beouf in a fundamental and emotional way. Over the course of a single day, I felt like I had gotten my best friend back. I felt raw and relieved like some strange invisible barrier between us had been lifted. For a brief but precious few hours I was euphoric. I’d made her cry. I’d cried too, and I’d destroyed my enemy. My enemy didn’t go away like I thought she would; she just turned back into my friend. Let me see that part of her that had been closed off in the name of cognitive dissonance and so-called professionalism. ‘Mrs. B.’ was gone and in her place was Melony Beouf, and I had no idea just how much I’d missed her until she was back. Sadly, the first fact of a Little’s life is that the world isn’t fair. Good things don’t last. I had my best friend back, and for a few amazing hours I felt more whole than I had felt in a long long time. Then the reality of it kicked in: Melony Beouf was still Melony Beouf. She still believed in Maturosis with all her heart and could not be dissuaded. That hadn’t been a dealbreaker before, but she had long convinced herself that I had Maturosis, too. She was still technically my teacher. She was still in charge of forcing me to accept my infantile state. Highchair feeding and bottle feeding, diaper changes, naptime, and baby toys were still the order of the day. Her recognizing my personhood or that I had thoughts and feelings beyond a fictional disease did nothing to make her recognize my adulthood. Therein lay the problem. As soon as school let out and Janet handed me off to ‘Auntie’ Jessica, my mind went to war with itself. Now that Beouf and I had experienced some kind of breakthrough with each other, how did that factor into my other plans? Did I try to convince her that Maturosis wasn’t real? Or at least that I didn’t have it? My designs at long term freedom hadn’t factored in any kind of Amazon assistance. Having Beouf actively aid me in some form or fashion could speed up the timetable significantly. It wouldn’t be that different from all the times she defended me as my union representative. No. That wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t going to undo decades of self-delusion in any kind of realistic timeframe. What if I could convince her that my Maturosis wasn’t as severe as she thought? I could get myself back into regular underwear; training pants at least. A toddler bed in place of my crib would be sweet sweet freedom by comparison (and the extra mobility at night could have some interesting implications). No. Stop. Something didn’t feel right about that either. Not that I didn’t want to get some semblance of outward maturity returned to me, or that I wasn’t quietly anxious about my steadily declining independence. I quietly sighed in relief every time I woke up in the middle of the night having to pee so that I could get back to sleep. It meant I wasn’t a bedwetter yet. Being allowed underwear I could remove myself had other benefits: Like the status of being the ‘biggest’ Little in a room full of diaper dependent dolls. That idea gave me a kind of joy. Every other Little in class, from the A.L.L. to the most mindfucked down to Ivy would see my success and have to acknowledge me. Big kid undies would mean that I was able to manipulate the bullshit system to the point where I’d convinced both a professional brainwasher and a full blown Yamatoan that I didn’t need diapers anymore. Now that was power fantasy! Now how to get Beouf to give me another chance at potty training and make her think it was her idea? Nuh-uh. No. That wouldn’t work. I couldn’t explain why. It just didn’t. It was almost like baby monitor programming that kept me from telling Janet how much I hated her to her face was now giving static to my thoughts. Every time I started to think of a way to manipulate Beouf the gears in my head stopped spinning. It wasn’t the same as not knowing what to do, like before, more like my brain was digging its heels in every time I started to plot. Maybe I was overthinking things. I didn’t need to make Beouf an accessory to my escape or trick her into elevating my status. Now that we were on good terms again, things could go a lot easier for me. I could get preferential treatment. Play teacher’s pet. Just because I wasn’t going to stay imprisoned didn’t mean that I couldn’t make my temporary stay as comfortable as possi- No. No. No. No. I couldn’t do that either. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t do that, but I couldn’t. “Clark?” I blinked myself out of my own plotting and planning. I was in my highchair in the kitchen. Janet and Jessica looked at me concernedly. “Hm?” “You’re not eating,” Janet pointed to my tray. A plastic bowl with meatballs lay untouched in front of me. They had been freshly made and cooked from scratch so that I could handle them and eat them with one hand. Janet and Jessica ate their own larger versions. Jessica had cooked dinner and had rolled them individually to size. In all honesty, they looked and smelled delicious. Compared to school cafeteria food, they were amazing. Other than being an Amazon Janet had many good talents; but she wasn’t a particularly good or fancy cook. “Is it okay?” Jessica asked, seeming worried. “I hope I didn’t put too much spice in yours.” Her head turned back over her shoulder towards the pantry. “You got any spaghetti sauce, Janet? He might like that. We could mash it up and stir in some sour cream. He’ll get messy, but bathtime is soon, right?” “I don’t think that’s the problem,” Janet said to her bestie. She looked like that classic mix of cautiously suspicious yet caringly concerned. “Are you feeling okay, honey? Not getting sick again?” She leaned forward and I let her hand press against my cheeks and forehead. “No J..Mommy,” I said. We weren’t in public, but Jessica technically counted in my mind. Oh. Janet! Maybe I could get Beouf to talk to Janet so I could call her Janet instead of…no. “I’m fine.” “You look like something’s bothering you kiddo,” Jessica said. “Does your tummy hurt?” Mutely I shook my head, and kept trying to puzzle things out inside myself. The puzzle wasn’t getting solved, however, afternoon had blinked into evening and bedtime was fast approaching. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Janet said. “Did something happen at school today?” Yes. Something very big. Unpredictable. A minor miracle. How did she not know? Why didn’t Mrs. Beouf tell her at the faculty meeting? Or was this a test of some sort? Another plot? Maybe I could redirect the conversation to Skinner. That, however, would have required retelling her slip up about Cassie and revisiting feelings that I did not have the internal strength for. Truthfully, beyond getting chewed out by Janet - an admittedly satisfying proposition- I wasn’t sure what else would come of it. Maybe she’d get written up or something, but I found it hard to justify imagining her getting fired for that. It’s not like she hit me or something. I gave the only truthful answer I could. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Janet considered. “Okay. You can tell me if you want to. You know that right?” “Yes,” the lie came out naturally. “Is this something we should discuss at the conference tomorrow?” A ‘no’ would send up a red flag. I just shrugged. “Do you want something else to eat?” Jessica butted in. “Fruit? Or yogurt? Or…? Janet’s attention immediately turned to Jessica. “I don’t want him spoiling his dinner or wasting food.” “It’s meatballs,’ Jessica said. “They’ll keep.” “I’m not comfortable with that,” Janet said. Her tone was rigid, bordering on tense. A warning had been issued. My honorary Auntie leaned back. “Okay. Okay. Sorry. Trying to help. Not to interfere.” “I appreciate that but I want Clark to at least try a meatball before he decides he doesn’t like it.” “Sure, sure. I’m just saying, sometimes babies…” “Jessica…” “I saw some of that jarred food that has all the right nutri-” “Jess!” In that millisecond sparks went off in my brain. In what was practically second nature, I started envisioning scenarios on how to escalate this fight between them. Imagine how awful Janet would feel if I started leaning into Jessica’s arguments and taking her side. She’d managed to listen to me when it was just the two of us. Would my opinions have as much weight if there was another Amazon to lose face in front of. This could be a wonderful time to find… Oh no. I realized what was wrong with me. Melony Beouf was my friend, again. My wonderful, honest, well meaning, protective, Maturosis crazy friend. Every angle and possibility I’d considered that afternoon factored that in. I knew how to manipulate, agitate, and frustrate Amazons who were my enemies. Littles too. It was all about seeing them as a collection of behaviors, delusions, impulses and insecurities while turning off the part of my brain that registered the giants as people. I could poke at and misdirect enemies all day long. It gave me life some days. I just didn’t know how to do it to Beouf now that she wasn’t my enemy anymore. She was my friend. And every scenario I started to scheme still relied on me needing to convince her of a truth she would never ever believe in or me using our relationship and my knowledge of her to manipulate her in some form or fashion. I had my friend again. I felt just a bit less alone in this fucked up world. Why couldn’t that be enough? Why did there have to be a step two and three? Why did my brain have to immediately start thinking of plans that would take advantage of her in some way? Why couldn’t I just have my friend back?! “Can I please have some milk?” my voice croaked. Janet and Jessica stopped their argument. “What’s wrong?” Janet asked. “Honey, you sound like you’re about to cry.” “I just want to go to bed,” I said. “I don’t feel sick. I just feel…I just feel.” Janet tilted her head. “Big emotions?” I hung my head in shame. “Can I please have some milk to help me sleep?” “Can you please take a bite of one of Auntie Jessica’s meatballs?” I picked up one and crammed it in my mouth. Even lukewarm, it was delicious. Savory with just a hint of spice, but nowhere near the volcano temperatures. Some sweet spaghetti sauce would have perfected it. “Thank you, Clark,” Jessica said. “I appreciate it.” Janet walked to the refrigerator and removed another premade bottle of goat’s milk. I crammed another meatball into my mouth and swallowed it down. It really was that good. “Do you want me to hold you while you drink it?” she asked. I nodded, just barely. Some form of touch sounded good right then, and I could at least comfort myself knowing that I was using my captor in some small way while tugging at her heartstrings. In Janet’s lap, the milk went down easy, and her body flared up like a heating rock for a pet reptile. Janet skipped bathtime and changed me straight for bed. It was easy to get to sleep after that. *********************************************************************************************** Awkward and uncomfortable cannot begin to describe that Wednesday. On the outside, it appeared as any other day in the Maturosis and Developmental Plateau Classroom. We had a full day of the same numbing activities and propaganda designed to desensitize us to get to the point where we either believed we were infants and toddlers or at least didn’t object to the treatment. Underneath it all there was the tension of walking a highwire. Beouf kept checking on me, and I don’t mean the status of my pants. She would ask “Are you okay?” and “Doing alright?” and “How are we feeling?”. To which I would reply, “Yes, ma’am,” and “Mmhmm?” and “Hanging in there”, as well as a mixture of awkward smiles and an inability to maintain eye contact on both ends. Sometimes when Cassie and I would fight, we’d do this. The dust settling and the smoke clearing, we would think of all the horrible things we said to each other and inwardly recoil at what we’d just said and done. We’d check in on each other; overcompensate for the loudness and cruelty with a gentle shushing and a constant reassurance that yes, we still loved each other. Beouf and I had just spent an entire report card period warring with each other. Our relationship was based on nothing like what Cassie and I had, but love comes in many different forms and flavors. So we walked on eggshells around one another and kept reassuring that yes, Tuesday’s screaming match had happened and that things were going to be different now. It was still awkward. That awkwardness spread to the class. Chaz tried to start up another Why Day and love bomb Zoge, but it didn’t pick up any sort of steam. For obvious reasons, I wasn’t into it, and without me stoking fires the rest of us lost interest. Who knew: You give someone an immersive environment that treats them like a child and they start developing one’s attention span. Beouf seeming less tense put everyone else on guard, too. It made the day go by faster and drag simultaneously. The dismissal bell rang, the buses came and went, and much too soon I was being picked up and put in Janet’s arms. “Ready?” Beouf asked her. “Sure.” Janet said. “Your room?” Beouf smiled. “I think that’d be appropriate. C’mon.” Looking at her face I saw that Janet was plainly confused. I don’t think she’d seen Beouf smile quite like that in a while. Neither had I. Beouf led the way back to her classroom with an almost lightheartedness that I had forgotten. I was actually glad that Janet was carrying me this time. I don’t know if I could have kept up otherwise. Nothing much had changed in the five or so minutes since we’d been corralled. With how Beouf and Zoge managed things all the tiny props, games, centers, and toys were cleaned up and put away by lunch time. Naps immediately followed lunch, recess followed naps, and dismissal followed that. Outside of changes in the adjourning bathroom, the classroom proper didn’t see any use by the end of the day. That gave the teacher and her assistant plenty of time to keep things clean, orderly, and have the room set up for the next day. The only difference between Beouf’s room before school and after was the position of the sun and the amount of stress in its main occupant. “Go ahead and have a seat guys.” Beouf said. “I just need to get something out of my closet.” “Okay…” Janet looked at me, searching for answers. Just as confused, I shook my head and shrugged. She set me down and I took what had informally become ‘my spot’ at the kidney table. Janet maneuvered the Amazon sized one from behind Beouf’s teacher desk and scooted up. We sat there, casting nervous, questioning glances at each other and back towards Beouf’s walk-in. A terrible thought: We were about to do some kind of therapy using stuffed animal proxies again. All told we weren’t kept waiting longer than a minute, when she finally came out of her closet carrying a tremendous pot of steaming, freshly brewed, black coffee. My nostrils tingled at the smell of the stuff. Coffee tastes like chalk, but smells like mellow comfort and love. I will never stop loving the smell of coffee for as long as I live. Beouf went over to the counter sink where sippy cups and bottles were washed and rinsed, set the steaming pot down and reached up above into an impossibly high cabinet to get a giant pair of mugs and a clean bottle. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ms. Grange?” “No, thank you,” Janet said. “If I have some now I won’t get to sleep until midnight.” “It’s Decaf.” “Oh,” Janet said. “Okay. Sure.” She still looked confused. Which was good because I had completely lost the plot. Whatever was going on, Janet and Beouf were not on the same page this time. No predetermination had happened. Beouf filled both mugs to near the brim and set them down on the kidney table. “Give that just a minute.” She went back to the pot and grabbed the baby bottle. Like watching a stage magician doing the set up for their grand illusion, I stared in a kind of wonder and awe as my oldest Amazon friend filled the bottle to about the halfway point, and filled it near to the top with water from the sink. “Almost done.” She opened up another cabinet and took out a shopping bag. She reached in and took out sugar packets, non-dairy creamer, and flavored syrups. “Mrs. Beouf?” Janet said. “Mel? What are you doing?” “I’ll explain,” Beouf replied. “Just give me a second to get this mixed up.” All of the heavenly sugary sweet junk that I used to cut my morning coffee with was summarily dumped into the bottle. The cap was put on, and Beouf shook it and swirled around until the whole concoction was a creamy tan. Without further explanation she took her seat across from us. “Should be good by now,” she slid the coffee mug across to Janet. Janet raised the mug to her lips and took a polite sip. “Can I give Clark this?” My Mommy looked uncertain. “I don’t see why not…?” Beouf plopped the bottle down in front of me. I’d seen her prepare everything and mix it together, yet still I tilted my head and stared as though it were suspicious. “Sorry I didn’t call you last night,” Beouf said and took a gulp of black bean water. “I had a lot to think about.” Janet took another tiny sip; a matter of ritual more than thirst. “No problem. This week is crazy. Faculty meeting yesterday. Fall festival. Report cards. Were things okay yesterday?” “Mmmmhmmm…” Beouf agreed. “I don’t know what Brollish or the School Board is thinking. They just keep piling everything on.” “Tell me about,” Janet agreed. Then a light came on behind her eyes. “Oh. Sorry I couldn’t help out yesterday. I couldn’t get away from my classroom.” Beouf waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I get it. It’s crunch time.” “Thanks.” Janet’s next sip was slightly more in earnest. I watched the exchange, arguably the first I’d been allowed to watch between them that wasn’t scripted in some way. Almost unconsciously, I held myself very still in my chair. If I didn’t look at my clothes or move so that I crinkled, I could almost imagine I’d traveled back in time. Because someone had to and it wasn’t going to be me, Janet cut the small talk. “So? Clark?” Beouf moved her already half drained mug off to the side. “Yes. About Clark.” “How can I help?” Janet rose up, a good Little Voices member eager to get her baby on the right track. “I think we should revisit some of the expectations and procedures we have for him,” Beouf said plainly. My temper didn’t flare. I didn’t feel anger as much as let down. Why Mel? Why? Practically reading my thoughts she held out her hand to me in a gesture telling me to wait. “Okay,” Janet said. She nodded and tensed, ready for the next task that would no doubt be torturous to both of us in some degree. “Why? What’s happening?” “I was up all last night reviewing everything I knew about Maturosis,” Beouf said. “Trying to figure out the best way to help Clark adjust and develop.” “Yeah?” Janet said. “Did you find something? Some technique? Some therapy?” My teacher was smiling but shaking her head. “Nope. Nothing like that. You can know everything there is to know about Maturosis and it’s still a case by case basis.” “Okay…?” Janet bit her lower lip nervously. “Then what can we do?” “Honestly?” Beouf told her. “I took a step back, and started listening to what I’ve been saying, and I had a lightbulb moment.” She looked at me and gave me the warmest, kindest smile I could ever remember. “He’s still Clark. He might be my student and your Little boy, but he’s still Clark. So what do we know about Clark?” Janet’s answer came in the very next breath. “He’s a cheeky brat,” she said. “Uh-huh,” Beouf nodded along. “He is. What else?” “He can be very emotional, but sweet when he wants to be.” “Yup. That’s our Clark.” It was like the night of the monitor switch, all over again. I was just in the room with them and in the present tense. Janet kept going. “He’s nosey and paranoid and slow to trust.” She spared me an apologetic look. “But he’s spent a lot of time around people like Brollish, Ambrose, and Forrest. So I get it.” “And who are his two best friends in the world?” Beouf asked. Janet looked confused. Her head edged to the side, like she was trying to remember my classmates. “You’re overthinking it, babe.” “Us?” Beouf put her finger to her nose. “Got it, Mommy. Clark’s a baby. But he’s still Clark. Remember that block tower talk I gave last week? The early years are up at the top, but there’s still thirty-two blocks.” The younger of the two Amazons, the youngest in the room technically, seemed to be understanding. “Yeah. Yeah. We have said that, haven’t we?” “I think we’re leaning too hard on him. It didn’t work before, why would it work now?” Janet took a long drink of coffee. “What do we do?” “Three basic things,” Beouf said. “Number one is you stop visiting the classroom in the middle of the day. We tried it, it’s not working, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair to you. You’ve got your own kids to teach. I shouldn’t need this much help for just one.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “It’s not fair to him, either.” Janet agreed. “Nobody else has to deal with their Mommy and Daddy checking up on them in the middle of the day.” “Except Ivy,” I interrupted. “Except Ivy,” Beouf agreed, “but that’s different and you know it.” A cheeky grin was coming to me and I couldn’t help it. Some tension left Janet’s body and she sat back in the chair. She liked the idea of getting her planning period and lunch breaks back as much as I did. “Two?” “Two? Change the routine. I miss spending time with the cheeky brat.” Her cheeks turned rosy. “Absolutely,” Janet agreed. “I can get him here as early as you need.” “Why early?” Beouf asked in response. “Let me just take him back here after dismissal. You can get rid of the cramped playpen by your desk and do paperwork in peace.” I was shaking with something besides rage or fear. I looked at the bottle across from me. Was I really hearing this? Was she suggesting what I think she was? “What are you going to do with him?” Janet asked. “I don’t want to be a bother.” Beouf grabbed her mug and took a sip. “Not a bother. We’ll just hang out. Drink decaf. Play with toys. Watch UsBox Videos. Some of what we’ve always done. Some of what we do now. Whatever he feels like.” It was happening. It was really happening! I was getting more than an old friend back. I was getting a piece of my old life with it! I couldn’t wait any longer. If there was a trap or catch to this, I needed to know. “What’s three?” I’d meant to blurt it out but it came out as closer to a stage whisper. “Three,” Beouf said, “Is your Mommy and me get better about talking to you about important stuff. You should be able to talk to us, and we should listen.” So bizarre, I realized. She’d been talking this entire time in her regular voice, not her chirpy teacher voice. None of this was measured or performative. It was all Beouf. “We might still decide on something you don’t like,” Janet added. She paused but Beouf didn’t object. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t see how you feel about it or try to come up with a better solution if we can. We should still talk to you and ask.” Beouf turned all the way so that she was directly facing me instead of Janet. “Starting now. What do you think, Clark? Does this sound like a plan?” I snatched up the bottle and put the rubber nipple to my lips. The coffee was weak, watery, luke warm, and tasted more of artificial sweeteners than anything else. Best damn coffee I ever had. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Beouf chuckled. She raised her mug in cheers and finished the cup. I didn't need to attack or hurt or manipulate my friend to get something nice from her. Because she was my friend. She was as crazy as ever, but not so deep down, she was still looking out for me. If by some chance you're sitting down, reading this: Thank you, Melony. End Part 8

Writing this in the most playful tone possible : "Yes, because Beouf is the only Amazon Clark would want to prank." I'm writing this out of personal experience as well.

Note: All character's in this story are HIGHLY fictionalized versions of real people. The Hook…. Professional wrestling is fake. Every time the camera is rolling, every time someone who isn’t a wrestler is watching you; it’s a work. No one is actually trying to injure one another, at least they shouldn’t be. The shiny gold belts are nothing more than props to dazzle fans and to create drama and tell stories. The toy replicas sold in Walmart would be just as valuable if the right worker sold it like it was. Likewise, most wrestlers practically live out of their cars, bars, and cheap hotel rooms. Even at the top levels, wrestlers have more in common with the carnival folk that started the business than the stylin’, profilin’, limousine riding, jet flying, kiss-stealing, wheelin’ and dealin’ sons of guns they purport to be. It’s all an illusion. Professional wrestling is also the realest thing ever. Workers might not be trying to hurt each other, but everyone is still in competition with one another. Everyone wants to get the top spot on the card, to steal the show, to draw the most money, to sell the most merchandise. It’s still an athletic competition; it’s just a performance based competition like gymnastics or figure skating; and the only judges that matter are the people who pay to see you and the person who signs your checks. It also never really ends. It doesn’t matter that everyone older than seven knows it’s a performance, the performance never stops. Chris Hemsworth can put down the plastic hammer and he’ll stop being Thor. On some level, a wrestler is always expected to be their character. Heels tend to hang out with other heels. Faces with faces. The old code of kayfabe still runs deep. It was part of the reason why Rhea Ripley thought of herself as her ring name just as much if not more often as her birth name. When co-workers, bookers, and fans across the board tended to call you by your gimmick name, hearing your real name from just about anyone outside of family left a bad taste in your ear. That’s why even in her head, she was Rhea. The other reason was the simple truth that while wrestlers could be great actors, they didn’t tend to be particularly good character actors. Every successful wrestling gimmick, so it was said, was just taking a part of one’s personality, turning it up to eleven and then cramming it into the preferred mold; whatever got the strongest reaction from the crowd. That meant that Miz was kind of a button pushing cocky douche, Ronda Rhousey was kind of a competitive try hard, and Sami Zayne was definitely a wholesome goober. Even the legendary over-the-top gimmicks of yesteryear had this. Undertaker was closer to his biker persona, but even the Dead Man gimmick channeled his natural stoicism and old school traditionalism. Hogan was a bastard and a shameless self-promoter, but what was Hulkamania other than a positive spin on one man being the president of his own fan club? Similarly, when she was Rhea Ripley, she had the ability to be a massive wanker when needed. When she went out to the ring she just flipped on a switch inside and went from her naturally laid back and personable self to become incredibly intense, brutal, and uncompromising in everything she did. Presently, Rhea was riding around in a rental car just outside of Seattle. They had a house show that night, and a quirk in the scheduling had given them almost a whole day to settle in ahead of time. It was nice, just cruising around and killing time for once. Nothing big, she had neither the time nor inclination to play tourist, but it was fun to just decompress and people watch. PING! Rhea picked her phone up from her lap and sighed. “Who is it?” Alexa asked from the driver’s seat. “Buddy?” she asked hopefully. Despite currently working for different promotions, Rhea’s boyfriend regularly texted and called her. “No,” Rhea sighed. “It’s Dom.” From her spot in the back of the rental car, Bayley rolled her eyes. “Seriously? I thought he’d get the hint when you weren’t traveling with the rest of Judgement Day.” Rhea shook her head and groaned. “Guess not.” On the subject of gimmicks as a reflection of one’s personality, Dominik Mysterio had found his true calling as a spoiled brat. The guy had grown up in the business and his dad was one of the most famous luchadores of all time. When it became clear that he would never be a carbon copy of his famous father, Dom leaned into his privilege and relative inexperience, turning heel and making people successfully hate him instead of struggling to earn their love. Rhea and Dom had a natural kind of chemistry together, with her playing the part of the domineering temptress and him as her submissive pet project and protege. She trained him to be a better wrestler with him feeding off of the supposed resentment his character had for his father. It was a good angle. Made her look good on multiple levels, both as a wrestler and a character. Gave Dom a bit more room to work and develop his craft and character; better the prodigal son lead astray than Daddy’s perpetual sidekick. Win-win. Oh boy did they get heat. It was glorious. Like all the best things in wrestling, there were elements of truth mixed in. Ripley really was working out with the young Mysterio and training with him. Their relative sizes and body types were a closer match than the father and son were, so it made sense for Dom to modify his style so that he was less acrobatic and more of a technical brawler. Dom also very clearly looked up to Rhea, almost like a kid brother wanting to play with his big sister. Rhea read the message on her phone. “Just checked into the hotel, Mami. Want me to find a gym? I’ll save you a machine.” Lately the act had become too real. He’d started calling her “Mami” more and more when the cameras were off. Had gotten too flirty. Too familiar. The ‘little brother/big sister’ analogy was becoming less and less accurate behind the scenes. Week after week, it looked like Dominik was toeing the line between art and real life. “I think it’s kind of cute,” Alexa said. “He’s kind of like a puppy dog.” “You try having him constantly humping your leg, then.” Rhea joked. “Point taken.” Bayley tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Is there a way to get him to take the hint? Court?” Bayley, of course, wasn’t referring to actual legal intervention, but “wrestler’s court”, the informal system of locker room justice where the eldest and most respected amongst the workers settled squabbles by hearing complaints and then deciding which one had to buy the other booze and pizza to atone for their transgressions. Rhea ignored Dominik’s next three texts and turned her phone off. “Naw,” she said. “It’s an old boy’s club.” “Yeah…” her riding companions sadly agreed. The business had come far for women in recent years. Just not that far. “Heh,” Alexa said. “What about the other way? What about a rib?” Wrestling had a long and storied history of what amounted to frathouse level hazing, bullying and pranks. It had gotten toned down over the years, but the practice had hardly gone into the dodo. You didn’t have an industry filled with performers that were the exact intersection of jock and theater kid and not have drama and pranks…some more legal than others. You just didn’t. “I don’t think he deserves it that badly,” Rhea mused. There was an implied “yet” at the end of her sentence. PING! Bayley looked at her phone and giggled in the back seat. “You sure about that?” She showed Rhea her phone. “Look who just texted me.” Rhea read the text out loud and grimaced. “Hey B. Have you seen my Mami? Tell her her Dom Dom misses her.” “How did he even get your number?” Alexa wondered, still driving around aimlessly. “I didn’t give it to him,” Bayley frowned. “He’s Rey’s kid,” Rhea sighed tiredly. “He probably just asked someone who asked someone who asked someone. He’s been around this business since he was literally in nappies and his Dad is a Hall of Famer. Who’s gonna tell him no?” “Yeah,” Alexa teased, “But now he wants his Mami to change him!” PING! The blonde haired ‘Miss Bliss’ stopped the car in the middle of the road to check her phone. To be fair, it wasn’t really a road as much as it was a quiet alleyway. “Goddamn it, Dom!” That got a laugh out of the other two. Fate and inspiration have a funny way of playing off each other. Legend has it that Jake the Snake Roberts invented the DDT by grabbing his opponent in a front headlock and tripped over the other man’s feet. One night Steve Austin’s wife had told him to come get his dinner before it turned “Stone Cold”. What happened here wasn’t nearly as momentous, but just as serendipitous. Right as the car was pulling out of the empty alleyway and into a parking lot, Rhea saw a couple of young men walking out of a store. From their belly buttons up to their chins, they hefted heavy cardboard boxes out and towards their parked hatchbacks. One of them turned his head and regarded the slowly passing vehicle. The ladies got a look. Then another. Then a third. Eyes became squinted in consternation, then a jaw went slack. All three women knew that look. “I think we’ve got a fan,” Bayley said. They’d been recognized. The shock and awe on the fan’s face explained why he didn’t set the cardboard boxes down in the trunk of his car properly. The poor guy also didn’t pack his boxes very carefully. The packages weebled and wobbled until gravity took over and sent them to the pavement, their contents spilling out. “Are those diapers?!” Alexa asked. Indeed they looked like it, though not any diapers the trio were used to seeing .The packaging was clear plastic, with a single colorful slip of paper that did nothing to cover the crinkly cartoon covered rectangles inside. They certainly looked like diapers. So too did the thin white slip poking out the back of the now extremely embarrassed man’s shorts as well as his companion’s while they scrambled to pick up the spilled contents. The only major difference Rhea could detect was that the packages didn’t say ‘Huggies’ or ‘Pampers’ on them. “Go-go-go-go-go-go!” Rhea shouted. Alexa tore off, with all three women cackling and cringing from second hand embarrassment. Rhea caught a glimpse at packages. Eagle eyed, she took note. “Wow!” Bayley laughed. “That’s a story for later!” “Oh-no-no-no-no,” Alexa shook her head laughing. She drove around the block slowly. “It’s not over yet.” Rhea cocked an eyebrow. “Meaning?” “Did you see those boxes they were carrying?!” Alexa crowed. “We’ve gotta see where they got that stuff!” It then occurred to Rhea why her companion had stopped peeling out. “Awwww,” she cooed. “You’re giving those boys time to get away, aren’t you?” “Yup,” Alexa giggled. “So that we can go back in and gawk.” “Gawk?” Bayley said. “Gawk at what? A medical supply store?” Call it a premonition, or perhaps the Australian was just slightly more cynical than her peers, but Rhea had the sneaking suspicion that those diapers weren’t strictly for medical use. Medical briefs didn’t have blue huskies on the front or alphabet blocks on the crotch. “We’ll see…” A full five minutes later, the trio of superstars were parked, out of the car and waltzing through a tinted glass door in what was supposedly a boring and nondescript office space. The door opened, a bell rang, and the ladies' senses were delighted at the lighthearted absurdity in front of their eyes. Racks of giant onesies hung from the wall. They weren’t feetie pajamas like what came in and out of style around winter time. They were onesies; the shirts that babies wore that snapped between their legs and over their diapers, only for much bigger babies. Above them were displayed the same clear plastic packs of whimsically decorated adult diapers. Above those were innocuous looking baseball caps that had very similar decorations on the front. “Hello there,” a man in a black polo said, striding towards them. “Welcome to Ay Bee…” he froze. “You?” Looks like they had another fan. Rhea looked to her friends. None of them were laughing, but they both had a mischievous glint in their eyes that matched her own. “Excuse me,” she said. “But…what is this place?” “It’s uh…uh…uh…uh..um…wow…” the young man stammered. Definitely a fan. Rhea held her palm out to silence him. “Just a sec.” She turned to her companions. “About that rib…” she said, a sinister grin blossoming on her face. “I think I have an idea.” Alexa and Bayley were grinning and nodding along with the idea. “Yeah?” Bayley asked. “Does it have anything to do with a certain someone calling you…Mami?” Rhea nodded, slowly. “Mmmmhmmm…” She turned her attention to the star struck sales attendant. “So…can you tell me all about this stuff?” By the time the associate was done (very politely and professionally) info dumping a whole lot of things into the triad’s brains, the inkling of a rib had turned into something resembling an actual plan to get Dom back. A couple autographs and pictures bought the building’s silence. The people there were very helpful about what sort of things could be purchased, where, and for how much. They didn’t buy any diapers that day, but out of courtesy purchased a onesie or two. There were only two questions remaining. “When and where?” Alexa asked back in the car. “Patience, ladies,” Rhea said, turning her phone back on. PING! This time she didn’t mind Dom’s childish harassment. “Chicago…” *********************************************************************************************** The Angle… Going into the family business is harder than most people give it credit for. Yeah, you have access to resources, training, and a kind of job security; there’s no denying that. But it also takes a toll on your identity. You never really break away from the people who see you as a kid. There’s no such thing as a fresh start or a clean break. You’re always in the shadow of someone else’s legacy. That’s what Dominik mysterio thought. For all the leg-ups that being a “Mysterio” gave him, it came with the baggage of being ‘Rey’s kid’. Everybody in the locker room who knew him before he started performing saw a little kid playing dress up. Everybody who met him after saw a punk coasting off of Daddy’s coattails. Some choice: A wannabe kid or a spoiled brat. It wasn’t all bad. Growing up with the culture gave Dom a special insight into most things. He still had dues to pay and respect to show, but those expectations were second nature. There was no learning curve or culture shock. Some kids were raised Catholic; other folks were Jewish. Dominik grew up in the Church of The Business. To him, things like locker room etiquette and kayfabe were no different than communion. Being young, dumb, and twenty-five, Dom particularly liked ribbing folks. With what a high stress, and physically demanding profession that often involved the portrayal of overly dramatic characters that would make a telenovela star advise them to dial it back a bit, ribbing was a time honored tradition. If you couldn’t relieve the tension by f***ing with your friends and co-workers, how could you relieve it? It was part of one big game, and Dom loved playing it. “Two hundred ninety-two,” Dom whispered to himself, driving to the address Rhea had given him. “Two hundred ninety-two…two hundred ninety-two…” That’s how many times he’d called Rhea Ripley ‘Mami’ not counting on camera segments. His count was likely off by a dozen or so, but that didn’t make the game any less fun to him. This particular game had started with an innocent slip of the tongue. They’d just finished filming a backstage segment before a show. Between recording f**k ups and line flubs, the less than two minute scene had taken close to an hour to record and over twenty takes. The pre-recorded promos were sometimes harder to do than the in-ring stuff. If a body botched something live there was no choice but to just grit your teeth and push forward. It was better than doing take after take after take on something that might not even make the final cut. They’d cut, called it a wrap, and the on-screen couple nodded and agreed to meet up after a quick dinner and a wardrobe change. “Okay. See ya later, Mami.” An honest mistake. Over the last couple of months, he’d called her ‘Mami’ more times than any other name. It was his character. “The camera’s not on, Dom.” Rhea’s eye twitched, ever so slightly. Someone not as familiar with her might not have noticed. “Oh. Sorry,” Dom had apologized. He’d meant it too. Didn’t stop him from noticing how annoyed she looked. Contrary to her character, or the tough emo/punk rock aesthetic she sported, Rhea was a sweetheart with nearly infinite reserves of patience. One could hardly blame the young man for seeing the opportunity for some light psychological warfare, just to see how far he could push things. Maybe the perceptions of him as a kid and a brat had a kernel of truth to them… Since then, he’d been calling her ‘Mami’ every chance he got, just barely tapping that button again and again until, pestering her like a fly buzzing in her ear, or a note sung just slightly off key. Nearing three hundred instances over the course of months, the game was almost over. Dom could sense it. Either Rhea would snap and chew him out once and for all, or she’d become numb to it and accept it as a kind of pet name. Either way he’d stop. The joke wasn’t fun if it didn’t bother her, and if she yelled at him that meant he won. On some level, he suspected she knew this, too. That’s why the game had lasted this long. Rhea was also playing the game. Any day now, the game would be over. His on-screen lover was close to cracking. He could sense it. Just. A. Little. More. Then he could apologize and get back to work. Dom wasn’t slotted on the card , but he had a series of intricate interference spots to run for Rhea’s match. Hence him showing up to do his part. Dom pulled up to the address Rhea had given him and looked around, worried that he’d punched the wrong address into his GPS. It was dark by the time he rolled up, but this neighborhood was nice. Really nice. Just short of a gated community. He was expecting a hotel or maybe a motel, but the place was closer to a single story mansion. Nice cut lawn. Decorative trees. Calming brownish reddish bricks. Wide front windows with curtains that hid the inside. Was this even the place? The mailbox said it was. He parallel parked on the street and got out of the car, looking around despite knowing he wouldn’t find anything. Shitty part about constantly living out of airports and rental cars was that you couldn’t look from your buddies’ cars to know if you were in the right place at the right time. Dom pulled his hoodie up over his head and slinked up to the front door. Big show this weekend. Big enough so that they were given several days in advance to show up and practice their matches. No house shows in between last night’s T.V. taping and this weekend. Didn’t mean he wanted to be recognized and bothered by nosey locals. Then he thought better of it and pulled the hood down. Young man in a hoodie after dark in a fancy neighborhood? Recipe for disaster. Thankfully the front lights were on. Nothing to do but to walk up and knock on the door. Three swift knocks, and the door opened up. A welcoming familiar face greeted him from just across the threshold. “Dom!” Rhea smiled. “You made it!” “Mami!” Dominik smiled back, loving the teasing. Two-hundred ninety-three. “I did!” Rhea stepped aside and waved him in. “Don’t just stand there,” she said, “get in. Get in before somebody sees you!” Dom thumbed back over his shoulder. “Sure! Just let me get my suitcase.” Rhea leaned forward and yanked him inside. “Pfft. Get it later. Come in and say hi!” “Okay, okay!” He laughed, blushing despite himself. He stopped and looked around, taking the inside in. Large, open floor plan. Kitchen, living room, big screen television, and the like could all be seen with just a scan. The place even had a bar along one of the walls, and bottles of liquor shelved right behind it. All of it was in one big common area like a clubhouse or a high end fraternity house. Adjourning doors and hallways more than likely lead to bathrooms, bedrooms, laundry room, garage and such. “Nice place!” “You like it?” Rhea asked, ushering him deeper inside, steering him towards the bar. After a long day of travel, Dominik did not resist. “Yeah,” Dom replied. “Real nice.” Something just occurred to him. “Who am I saying high to?” One of the side doors opened up just a crack. Alexa and Bayley slipped out of the opening they’d made and quietly shut the door behind them. “Hi, Dom!” they waved, coyly. Dirty thoughts intruded into Dom’s head. “Hey Alexa. Hey Bayley,” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. “So…what are we doing here?” He asked, hastily. “Why aren’t we in a hotel or something?” Rhea and he finished walking up to the bar and leaned backwards on the counter. “Oh, you know,” she said casually. “Figured since we’d be in Chicago for a couple days, it made more sense to get an AirBnB. Pool our money together, get some privacy and just…chill, y’know?” That made sense. Privacy and the time to be still and unpack a suitcase for something besides dumping clothes into a coin operated laundry was something of a delicacy. There were fans everywhere who harassed them. Most were nice, perfectly pleasant people, but there were just enough borderline stalkers out there to put someone on guard when traveling. “Who else is here?” Dominik asked. This AirBnB wasn’t the ritziest, but it didn’t look cheap. Wrestlers at this level could make serious bank, but they had to pay for most of their travel expenses, too. This place could fit a lot more people comfortably if they were willing to double up. “Just us,” Bayley answered. She was soon behind the bar, reaching for a bar of tequila. Dom blinked. The young man’s lust battled with a sense of propriety. The only guy with three beautiful women? Yes please! Something didn’t feel right about it though. When Rhea texted they’d be hanging and partying tonight, Dominik had pictured something less…intimate. Lots of people, loud music. Drinking, yes, but also dancing. Was he just early? “Who else is coming?” Alexa set out a couple of shot glasses. “Tonight? Just us.” The young man swallowed. His libido had been slightly bluffing him and it was being called. “Just us? Why just us?” He clarified. “Why me?” “We’ll have banger later,” Rhea assured him. “We just wanted to have tonight to ourselves.” Was this happening? Was this really happening? Dom repeated himself. “Yeah. But…why me?” Rhea pivoted so that she was leaning forward. The two were now side by side, heads turned towards one another. “Honestly, Dom?” she said. “We felt better having a guy around if somebody decided to follow us back here. Chase ‘em off.” “Um…” Dom blushed. “Pretty sure you’re better in an actual fight than me.” He remembered to look across to the other women. “All of you.” “We know that,” Bayley said. “But some creep off the streets might not.” “We just don’t wanna get harassed this week,” Alexa added in. She took a bottle of tequila and started pouring into the shot glasses. “Figured a guy hanging around could keep the idiots from trying and finding out the hard way.” She finished pouring and looked up. “And you’re safe.” “And if you’re not,” Rhea elbowed him. “I’ll kick your ass.” The nervousness fled right out of Dom’s brainstem. He wasn’t being hit on! He was being friend-zoned! Oh God, what a relief. He liked Rhea and the others, but coworker stuff never worked out in the end. For once, he was glad to be everybody’s kid brother. Internally he wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow. “Okay,” Dom said. “Cool.” Another thought. “Shit, how much do I owe you?” He hadn’t given them a cent for this place. “Don’t worry about it,” Rhea waved it off. “We’ve all got a big payoff coming.” By ‘we’, she clearly meant herself, Alexa, and Bayley. Wrestlers getting their own match tended to get paid more than the ones doing run-ins and interference. “Just handle your own food and drink,” Bayley said, “and we’ll be good. Throw in for pizza or whatever.” Bayley slid a shot glass full of tequila Dominik’s way. “Here you go.” Dominik did his best to hide a grin. Get to hang out most of the week in a big house with three beautiful women and only have to pay for his food? Sex or no sex that was a hell of a deal! Any bruising to his ego (It still would have been nice to get hit on, even if he’d have to object ) was immediately salved by the accommodations in relation to his wallet. He reached to grab the shot glass…and suddenly thought better of it. “No thanks,” he said. “That stuff looks expensive.” If he hadn’t been looking at the glass, he’d have clocked the enormous stink eye that Rhea was giving Bayley right then. “I think I’m gonna go out to my car, get my stuff, and go to bed.” He stood up from the bar. “Which room is mine?” “Or…” Alexa offered, “How about a bet?” Dom cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of a bet?” Alexa giggled. “Last one to pass out doesn’t have to pay for it.” She took one of the glasses and threw it back. A drinking game? Dom’s competitive instinct kicked in. Free booze tasted the best. He had to have had at least fifty pounds on all of them. He could totally drink all three of them under the table. Dom took the offered shot and took a shot. “Wooooooo!” he crowed. This stuff was smooth! “Deal!” Rhea and Bayley took their shots, and Rhea walked behind the bar. “I gotta feeling we’ll need two bottles of this stuff tonight,” she said, opening a second bottle while Dom was pouring a second shot. Dom took another shot before the others had started pouring. The stuff was already starting to kick in. “You ladies are in for a rough night!” Rhea poured herself, Alexa and Bayley, shots from the extra bottle she broke out. “We’ll see about that.” **************************************************************************************** Dark… “Smooth move, Bayley,” Rhea said sarcastically while she plopped an unconscious Dominik onto the couch. “You almost blew it with that pay for food and drink, thing.” “I thought he’d get suspicious if we told him everything was free,” Bayley said. How was I supposed to know he’d want to be cheap?” “His dad has been doing this forever, and he’s got a sister,” Alexa answered. “You think Rey didn’t teach him how to save?” Bayley was starting to get defensive. “Why’d we have to go for the expensive stuff? We could have gotten him to pass out with just beer and pizza.” The women made almost no attempt to lower their voices. They’d steadily plied Dom with tequila until he was blackout drunk and dead to the world. They could have their own wrestlemania here in the rented living room and he’d sleep through it. Rhea rolled her eyes. “Because beer and pizza takes longer, and it’s harder to fake.” The second tequila bottle had practically been a prop.There was just enough tequila in it so that the smell lingered. The rest of its contents had been flat ginger ale. After the first round of shots, Dom had been the only one of them actually drinking anything. If he’d been paying attention, he might have noticed that the girls were all drinking from the same bottle and weren’t half as wobbly as he was, but being drunk tended to make it harder to notice such things. Point being, beer and pizza didn’t hit as hard or as quickly. Rhea had wanted to go straight for the proverbial throat. “Whatever,” Rhea said. “It’s not a big deal. Things are still going according to plan.” She gave a thumbs up to Alexa. “Nice save with the drinking contest.” Alexa returned the gesture. “Don’t mention it.” “Ready to get to work, ladies?” Bayley smiled, mischievously. “We kind of beat you to it. Everything is about ready to go.” So that’s what they’d been doing in Dom’s room! Rhea’s glee bubbled up so hard that it was easy to forgive and forget the close call Bayley made in the name of realism.“How much of it?” “We managed to get everything out of the boxes,” Bayley said. Alexa reported “Table is put together. Figured you’d want that first.” “Uh-uh,’ Rhea shook her head. “We do this, we’re doing it right. We put everything together, we clean up the packaging, and put everything that either doesn’t belong to us or that we don’t need in the garage.” There had been a reason Rhea wanted to do this bit of ribbing revenge here, just outside of Chicago. When they’d found out about this particular community back in Seattle, Rhea had learned that there was a very big presence in Chicago as well. How big? Big enough where custom furniture was a thing. What she couldn’t rent, she could commission. The whole thing was insanely expensive to the point where the opulent AirBnB they were staying in was one of the least costly parts of this bit. It would all be worth it in the end. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get to work.” Alexa jerked her head towards a still sleeping Dom? “Don’t you wanna…you know? Just in case?” “No,” Rhea told her. “I don’t. I don’t wanna risk waking him up. I want everything perfect when he wakes up.” “What if he…?” Bayley folded her hands over the front of her pants and did a little dance in place. They’d really have to get used to saying the words out loud. “If he wets in his sleep, it’ll add to the rib and make it even more embarrassing what I put a nappy on him.” With just the three of them, it’d take at least a couple hours to set all this up. This stuff was heavy and none of them were experienced at this. It wouldn’t be easy, but it most certainly worth it. “Come on. Let’s get to work. See how he feels about calling me ‘Mami’ after this.” The three laughed. Dominik stirred drunkenly, but didn’t open his eyes. ************************************************************************************ Shine… “Dom,” a gentle voice roused Dominik from his slumber. “Dom. Time to wake up, honey. It’s morning!” Dominik Mysterio was still dreaming, or so he thought. He certainly wasn’t awake. Couldn’t be. His body was determined to stay unconscious to the point where he was practically a bear in winter. “Hrrrn…?” He sleep-mumbled. “Now, now,” the voice chirped gently in his ear. “I can’t have my widdle man sleepin’ the day away. Let's get up. C’mon! Wakey, wakey!” That voice? That accent. It sounded so familiar that even his not quite awake brain recognized it. It was Rhea, wasn’t it? Except it sounded higher pitched and happier than he was used to. It wasn’t anything unnatural, just…different. It was like how people’s voices unconsciously got higher and happier when they talked to little kids. Exactly like that. “Mmm…Mami?” Dom mumbled. He hadn’t meant to call her that this time. He’d just spent so much time messing with her, ribbing her, that the word jumped up and out of his mouth by accident. Oddly enough, the slip of the tongue was rewarded. “That’s right,” Rhea cooed back. “Time to wake up, baby.” Dominik opened his eyes. Rhea was standing over him, gently nudging him on the shoulder. “Baby?” He really was dreaming. Rhea would never call him that. Not off camera. She’d never responded in any kind of affirmation before. As far as Dominik knew she’d been trying to ignore him into submission. “That’s right,” Rhea reached down and grabbed him by both shoulders, guiding him up off the couch until he was in a sitting position. “Time to get up, Dom-Dom.” Every syllable was so syrupy that Dom could have poured it over pancakes. Pancakes. Dominik’s stomach rumbled. Last night’s drinking contest had given him a light hangover and a craving for sweet and greasy breakfast foods. “Did I win?” he asked, groggily. “Win what, baby?” Rhea took hold of his wrists and stepped back, pulling him up to a standing position. “That’s right. Stand up. Good boy! So big! Now let’s walk for Mami to your bedroom.” She slowly led the stumbling Dominik away from the couch (how had he gotten there anyways?) and towards the door Alexa and Bailey had crept out of last night. Besides his stomach, something else inside of him was signaling to him that it needed to be taken care of. Off in the opposite direction, he spied an open door with the trademark tiling and sink inside it. Still slightly drunk, dreaming, or both, Dom leaned away from Rhea and tried to stumble towards the room with the porcelain. “Baffoom,” Dominik mumbled. “Bathroom?” Rhea replied. “Awww, that’s silly. It’s not bathtime yet.” She yanked him back in the right direction, and Dom’s body saw little point in putting up any resistance. Dominik’s vision got just a smidge clearer and he was more certain than before that he was still fast asleep. How else could there be a big wooden playpen in the middle of the floor? The thing was practically a cage- he’d seen training rings smaller than this- but it was loaded up with tremendous carnival sized stuffed animals. His gaze sharpening, he saw that next to the open island in the kitchen area was a tremendous highchair. In stumbling away from the couch, Dom remembered, he’d barely scraped by a baby floor gym that could have been used as a tent frame. He really was still dreaming, wasn’t he? “Wussallat?”he slurred while the dream came more and more into focus. Groggily, his hand drifted between his legs and he held himself. Rhea gently slapped his hand. “Ah-ah-ah” Dream Rhea said. “Mustn’t touch. Mustn’t touch.” The slap stung almost enough to wake him up. Almost. Dominik had had dreams like this before. Okay, not like this, but close enough. Lots of times, especially after drinking, Dom would have dreams where he needed to pee, but some outside force- a vanishing toilet, a locked door, someone distracting him- prevented him from reaching his destination. Then he’d wake all the way up, go take a piss, and be done with it. Dream over. He’d be lying if he said this was the first time Rhea was the distraction. Might as well just go with it. “Mami,” he whined, “I gotta peeee!” “Awwww,” Rhea giggled, leading him along. “Let’s get baby Dom Dom into his widdle nappy before he makes puddles on the floor.” She placed her hand on the door and pushed it open. “Nappy?” Dominik repeated. “I thought I just woke…” The sight inside gave him pause. “...up?” The common area outside the room had already looked like a giant baby lived there. Big playpen out in the open. Big highchair in the kitchen. Big floor gym by the couch. This bedroom…wasn’t. There was an adult sized crib in the far corner, the floor was tiled with foam puzzle pieces, there was a rocking horse as big as the real deal in the middle of everything and a changing table directly across from him. Forward momentum with a pinch of shocked disbelief carried him and his figment Rhea over to the oversized baby changing station. Rhea leaned into Dom, pressing her forearm against his chest and hooked her leg onto his heel. “Up we go!” With one swift and surprising movement Rhea swept him off his feet; tripping him and then scooping him the rest of the way onto the table. “Ooof!” The padded surface of the changing table broke his fall, but the sudden impact and the shock still knocked some air out of his lungs. “Huh?” Dominik gasped and blinked. This wasn’t feeling like a dream. Rhea capitalized and worked Dom’s hands into something that was uncommon on changing tables meant for actual tables: two wrist cuffs. “There we go,” she smiled maliciously. “This will keep the baby safe.” “Baby?” He still couldn’t believe what was going on. This had to be a dream. There was no way that his senses could be showing him what they were showing him. Wasting no time, Rhea dug her hands into the waistband of Dominik’s pants and stripped them off his body as quickly as a magician removing a table cloth. Shoes, socks, jeans, and underwear were all off and on the floor in less than two seconds. The feeling of cold air on his cock. The sensation of smooth vinyl cushions on his bare ass. The way the cuffs around his wrists chafed and stopped him from sitting up. The gleefully malicious grin on Rhea’s face. “Awwww!” Rhea giggled. “Mami’s widdle boy must be cold.” She reached down, took out an adult diaper stacked beneath the changing table, and unfolded it. “Maybe this will help him feel more comfy womfy!” Holy shit! This was real! This was too real! “Rhea?!” Dom yelped. “What are you doing?!” “It’s Mami, now.” Rhea said, taking an extra pad- a booster-and adding it to the front of the diaper. “Ma-mi. Can you say that for her? Mami? Ma. Mi.” Was she serious? Dom chuckled despite everything. “Rhea…” The resulting smack to his naked thighs would have gotten a pop from the audience had there been one (Thank God there wasn’t one). Pain and reflexes caused Dom to arc his back and thrust his hips, instinctively jumping away from the pain. “Yow!” Rhea took the opening and slid the open diaper underneath Dominik’s rump just as it was coming back down to the mat. “Nuh-uh. It’s Mami now, Dom-Dom. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” A cloud of baby powder sprinkled down over his junk while she shook his head. “Yes it is! Yes it is! Only a baby would keep calling me Mami all day and all night!” Oh no. Too late, Dom understood that he’d taken this ‘Mami’ thing too far. “Rhea, I-!” The resulting smack risked leaving a bruise. “Ma-miiiiii!” She seemed to enjoy hearing that name come from him. “Mami!” he tried again. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Rhea took the front of the adult diaper and hoisted it up between his legs. “Hold still, baby,” she said. “I know it’s hard, but you only have to lay there for four seconds. “Just one second longer than you’re used to.” Oooof…that comment stung almost as much as the slap to his thigh, but she was true to her word. “One…two…three…four! All done!” Four seconds. One for each tape on the snug new diaper. On some level Dominik hoped he was actually dreaming. He craned his neck and looked at the waistband of his diaper. The pastel colored blocks stenciled in just below his belly button spelled B-A-B-Y over and over again. He didn’t know that. “Mami!” He repeated, his desperation mounting. “Please! Let me out of this! I’m sorry!” “Sorry?” Rhea sweetly mocked him. “What’s there to be sorry about? It’s natural for baby boys like you to call the women who take care of them ‘Mami’. Isn’t it?” She dug into her pocket with one hand and took out her cell phone. With the other she pushed the t-shirt and hoodie Dominik had fallen asleep in high up to his chest so that nothing was obstructing the view of his diaper. “What are you-?” “Sh-sh-sh-sh” she said. Aiming the phone so that his crotch and face were in full view. “It’s important for Mami to have some baby pictures of her widdle Dom-Dom.” The clicking sound gave proof that it wasn’t a bluff. “Aaaaaand send!” “Send?! Send where?!” Two pinging sounds echoed from somewhere in the house. The sound of rapid feet slapping in. A head of dyed blonde hair came into view. Alexa stormed in, wearing only a loose t-shirt (as far as Dom could tell). “Eeeeeeeeee!” she squealed. “So precious! Why didn’t you wake me up? I told you to wake me up!” She was jumping like Dom was a new puppy that she wanted to play with. “Is he wet yet?” Her hand reached out and groped him through the padding of his diaper hard enough to where he could feel it through all the padding. “I’m bad with baby stuff! I can’t tell!” “Sorry,” Rhea apologized to her. “I didn’t know how fussy he’d be first thing in the morning. I just got him changed.” “Was he wet when you got him up?” “No,” Rhea replied. “I think we got lucky.” Dom tried to interject. “Guys-?” “Dom-Dom,” Rhea cut him off. “Adults are talking.” A second pair of footsteps preceded Bailey barging in. She was more dressed than Alexa, but her outfit was still extremely casual. “Awwww!” she said. “I missed the first change!” “No you didn’t,” Alexa giggled. “Dom-Dom was dry when his Mami got him up!” This ‘Mami’ rib was getting less and less funny. Bailey muscled her way to the spot by Dominik’s waist. She slid two fingers past the leakguards of his diaper and frowned. “Darn. Still dry.” Dom had fantasized about pretty girls touching him down there. Just not like this! Rhea fiddled with the restraints by his wrists. “Well he better keep dry for as long as he can. Nappies are expensive. I’m not changing his soggy bum until much later today.” “But I thought if you left a baby wet for too long,” Bailey teased, “they’d be harder to potty train.” Alexa piled on, “I don’t think that matters as much for someone like Dom-Dom!” “That’s right,” Rhea agreed in the same cooing motherese she’d woken him up with. “By the time he’s ready for the big boy potty, Dom-Dom won’t even remember all this, he’s so widdle!” Dominik said nothing. He waited till the wrist cuffs were loosened enough, then slipped his hands out and punched up for Rhea’s head. Nothing too serious, mind you. Knocking someone out is incredibly difficult to do in the best of circumstances; impossible from lying down. Yet when a rib goes too far, sometimes the best way to get it to stop is to show that you’re done f***ing around. It didn’t matter if he was done with this and his new Mami wasn’t inclined to be gentle. Full rested and alert, Rhea parried the blow and leaned away from the swing. She grabbed his arm and dragged him off the table. “Ow-ow-ow-ow!” Before he knew it, Dom was on his feet, but maneuvered back around so that his face was pressing down in the same general spot that his ass had been. Rhea had him in an armbar. A real one. “Awwww….did baby Dom-Dom lose his balance?” she taunted. “Is he not thinkin’ things through again? That’s okay. His Mami will explain.” She cranked the arm just enough to keep him in pain. “Mami and her friends are gonna take lots of pictures.” The sound of whirring and clicks behind him reminded him of his diapered status and his lack of privacy. “If Dom-Dom is a good baby, none of his big boy friends will have to find out about this. If he’s naughty, he’s gonna get hurt, poor boy. If he’s VERY naughty, all his friends are gonna see the pictures.” She paused for effect. “Understand?” They had him by the balls, figuratively and literally. He wasn’t getting away. By herself Rhea would be a fight. No way he was getting out of this with Alexa and Bailey at her beck and call. Even if he did slip and slink away without a fight, those pictures could end up with every guy in the locker room. Worse yet, Twitter! Defeated and somewhat resigned, he growled out a reluctant “Yes, Ma’am.” “What was that?” She cranked on his arm again. “Mami!” He cried out. “Yes, Mami! Sorry, Mami!” The pain stopped and Dom got his arm back. “Good baby.” She side-stepped up behind him and took the rest of his clothes off just as he was getting the full motion back in his shoulder., Dom was forced to examine himself, afraid to touch the white plastic shell taped around his hips. Afraid to touch the baby blocks right above his crotch. “Where’d you get this stuff?” “Mami has her ways,” Rhea said. “Come on. Up you go!” She hefted him up onto her hip. “There’s a good boy!” Whether it was his wrestling training or some kind of long buried instinct, Dominik helped Rhea, jumping with the lift and wrapping his legs around her waist so that he was supporting some of his weight. She carried him out of the adult sized nursery, seemingly unbothered by his weight. “Ladies, why don’t you go get dressed for the day and get the pram ready while I give Dom-Dom his brekkies.” “Can we help get him dressed?” Alexa asked. “Oh I’ve got the cutest outfit out of the stuff we got him.” Bailey chimed in. “It’s got a little sailor hat and everything!” “Sailor suit? Really?,” Alexa scoffed. “Do you want people to think it’s a costume? What about those overalls I saw? They’ve got the cutest mickey prints on them!” “Overalls?” Bailey balked. “Tell me you don’t know babies without telling me you don’t know babies. Do you know how hard it would be to change him? Those don’t even have any snaps on them!” Change him?! Did that mean they expected him to use the diaper as more than just very puffy underwear?! Dominik felt like crawling into a hole and dying just listening to them talk. Rhea carried Dom to the open kitchen and boosted him up into a highchair. For a quarter of a second, Dominik worried that more than just food would be going inside him. He let out a worried “Yip” when he felt a protrusion press up against the back of his diaper. “Scooch scooch scooch” Rhea clucked, and kept pushing him further back in the seat. What he foolishly thought was some kind of plug was merely a protrusion, a dull horn like on a horse’s saddle. Dom had been in higher spots before. The chair wasn’t even top turnbuckle height. It was still disconcerting and disorienting that he could be fully seated while looking Rhea in the eye. His feet were dangling too. Damn. He couldn’t even come close to remembering the last time his feet were dangling. He was distracted enough and relieved at the same time that Rhea was able to slide a feeding trade in front of him and secure it into place with a simple latch mechanism just out of reach. Rhea reached up and out and pinched his cheeks. “Is Mami’s baby boy ready for some brekkies?” Dominik didn’t immediately reply. Pride, embarrassment, and confusion mixed with adrenaline and the psychological need to cook up a snarky comeback made it so that all he did was stutter and stammer like a car. “Bi…Buh…Uh…nnnnnnn…” Rhea went for the other cheek. “Bububububub. Someone’s not quite a talker yet, is he?” This only made Dominik bury his face deep into the palms of his hands. Unconcerned, Rhea left him and opened up the freezer. “Let’s give baby some waffles!” The diapered Dom quickly found she had good reason to be unconcerned. He couldn’t get out. The protruding horn made it so he couldn’t slide out of the seat. The tray was so low that he couldn’t slip his legs back up into the seat. Trapped! Trapped by simple physics! If she wanted to, she could leave him here. Leave him all day. Trapped. He squeezed his legs together and felt as much as he heard the crinkle and felt the thick padding between them. In his humiliation he’d already forgotten how badly he needed to go to the bathroom. Well, he remembered now. “Rhea?” Dominik called out. “Rhea?” His on camera lover ignored him, content and intent on the toasting of frozen waffles. “Rhea?” She was practically deaf to his calls. Except for maybe… “Mami?” Rhea perked up and came right over. “Awwww!” She squealed. “He can talk!” She clapped her hands together, mock applauding him like he’d just said his first real world. Then she said, “Yes, Dom Dom?” ‘Dom Dom’ squirmed in the highchair. His mind hyperfocusing on certain dreadful inevitabilities. “You’re not going to just leave me in here all day, right?” Dominik did not like the grin that spread across her face. He feared he’d just given her an idea. “Of course not, Dom Dom!” she said. “Didn’t you hear Mami talking to the girls? Mami’s gonna feed you breakfast, and then she’s gonna get you dressed.” “Can I go to the bathroom between then?” he asked, feeling terribly childish in the asking. It had been forever since he’d needed to ask such a thing. Rhea paused and cocked her head to the side. “Bathroom?” She mused. “Oh Dom Dom. You’re much too little to go potty!” Dom felt his heart rocket up into his throat. “Just make your tinkles in your nappy, Dom Dom. Mami will change you when you need it.” “Rhea! Come on!” Dominik protested. “This is ridiculous!” He was screaming almost as much as his bladder was. The Australian woman stopped. “Call me ‘Rhea’ one more time and find out what happens.” The threat was made with a smile. It was still very much a threat. Beat and nearly broken, Dominik switched to begging. “I’m sorry I kept calling you Mami off camera! Just let me out of this!” A hollow, metallic ka-thick sounded off. The waffles had just popped out of the toaster “Time for brekkies widdle Dom Dom!” Rhea walked around the back of the highchair, out of Dominik’s line of sight. The highchair’s wide back made it useless to try and look behind him. “You don’t have to apologize,” she called out. “You were just doing what came naturally, weren’t you?” Her voice pitched up another octave. “Weren’t you? Weren’t you Dom Dom? Weren’t you?” Dominik had no idea if he was being genuinely asked or taunted. “Yes…?” “See?” Rhea cooed behind him. “Then you have nothing to worry about. Mami isn’t mad. She just wants to take care of you!” From behind, a bib was draped over Dominik’s chest and fastened around his neck. Like everything else it was comparatively massive. Dom could have used it as an apron or so he reckoned. “And I’ll get you out of your highchair as soon as you’re done eating your yummy waffles.” She practically danced back around into Dominik’s line of sight. She placed a plate on the highchair feeding tray. It was purple, and plastic, like something a little kid might eat off of. The waffles, likewise, were equally unsophisticated. They were store bought and frozen; practically bread hockey pucks. Thankfully, Rhea made up for it by smearing them with butter and drowning them in syrup; she wasn’t that cruel. Only one problem. “Where’s the silverware?” A terrible realization dawned on him. “You’re going to make me eat with my hands, aren’t you?” “Of course not,” Rhea laughed. She took the dull knife and fork and waggled them mockingly in front of him. “Mami just has to cut up your waffles into smaller bites for you, so you don’t choke.” Dominik was forced to sit there, diapered and bibbed, his bladder screaming, while Rhea sectioned off his food into individual bite-sized pieces. His waiting was not rewarded. As soon as the waffles were appropriately shredded, Rhea ditched the knife and jabbed a piece with the fork. “Okie dokie. Open up! Heeeeere comes the choo-choo!” “I can feed myself,” Dominik insisted. “Look at him!” She gushed as if he couldn’t understand simple English. “Thinks he can feed his self! Choooooo-chooooo!” Dominik blushed hot and opened his mouth anyways. The first bit of bready breakfast entered his mouth. He chewed. And swallowed. “Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-chooooo!” The second one came. He accepted it and swallowed. At least the waffles weren’t half bad. Laying idly on the trail, his hands and fingers anxiously twitched. What did real babies do with their hands? Dominik didn’t have time to ponder that question, overmuch. The third piece darted for his mouth just as he was done swallowing. Then the fourth. Then the fifth. The train was picking up steam. Dom opened his mouth before he swallowed, with more syrupy buttery bread mashed into a pulp being shoved down his throat. Then again. Then again. Soon the first few crumbs slipped out and tumbled down his bib “Whoops!” Rhea said. “I guess that’s why babies wear bibs.” She didn’t slow down. Dominik kept chewing and swallowing as fast as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough. Rhea would shove the blunted fork between his lips time and time again. If he had enough room in his mouth to accommodate, he did. If not…”Whoops!” When the food was gone, and he swallowed the last bits, Dominik was left panting, the frozen waffles having been oddly filling. If not for his aching bladder, he’d have been tempted to lie back down and go back to sleep. That would mean getting locked inside a crib, he realized. He stared down at his plate in contemplation and got insult added to his injured pride. A goofy smiley face, with googly eyes and a crooked smile laughed. He’d been eating from a toddler’s plate. “Yaaaaay!” Rhea clapped again. “Good job Dom Dom!” “Thank you,” he panted. “Can I-? “Thank you…?” Rhea put her hands on her hips. She was waiting for him to say something else. Dom sighed. “Thank you, Mami.” “Good baby!” A bottle was shoved directly in Dom’s face. “Now wash it all down!” “But I have to-!” Dominik was cut off with the nipple and a warning look before he could get the sentence out. He took the bottle and started chugging, less from thirst and more from willpower. “That’s right,” Rhea praised him. “Drink it up. Make your ba-ba all gone.” Dom’s thirst was quenched after less than five sips of the heavy, creamy stuff. From there it was pure torment. Every gulp and glug filled an already full stomach, making Dominik feel bloated and overfull. His already screaming bladder kept filling, feeling like it was going to pop like a water balloon. This was no ordinary baby bottle either. Most baby bottles were small and didn’t hold much. Less than a can of soda. If the markings just beyond Dominik’s nose were accurate (and there was no reason for him to believe otherwise) this was a full thirty-two ounces!. Dominik felt every single drop. “Done!” He gasped when he was finally sucking on air. “Fin-UUUUUUUUUUUUUURK!” He’d meant to say finished, but the bubbles in his stomach had other ideas. Rhea’s eyes widened with the delight of a new idea. “Baby needs burping!” The bib was removed, the latch was undone, and the highchair tray was removed. Dominik wanted to make a break for it, but his stomach was so full and his muscles yet ached, so he was left with no choice but to fall back into his Mami’s grasp. Rhea wasted no time beating the young man across the back. Some of them were hard enough that if he’d been performing, Dom would have taken a dive to the mat in order to sell the impact. “UUURP!” “URRRP!” “URRRP!” “AWWWWWWW!” Dominik stiffed in Rhea’s grasp. Rhea turned with him to show. Alexa and Bailey had come out of their rooms, fully dressed, and had whipped out their phones. “Got it?” “Got his cute little butt getting burped!” Alexa laughed. The day had barely begun and the three of them were compiling a lifetime’s worth of blackmail material on him. Bailey put her phone down long enough to say, “Sad we didn’t get out in time to see him in that highchair.” “That just means we’ll have to find a reason to use it later,” Rhea smirked. “Got an outfit picked out?” From behind her back, Alexa took out a bright blue onesie, the world “Mommy’s Boy” emblazoned on it in white blocky font. “It’s not spelled right,” Rhea nodded, “but it’ll do.” She started walking back towards the nursery. “Mami!” Dom yelped. “I gotta go to the bathroom!” He’d done everything she’d said. Surely she’d let him have this if he was determined enough. Rhea didn’t break her stride. “Awww, that’s cute. But I already told you Dom Dom. You’re not potty trained.” “But I ate my breakfast!” Dom said, panic rising with his mounting discomfort. “You said-!” “I said I’d get you out of the highchair when you were done,” she countered. “And I did.” Dom was roughly deposited sitting on the changing table. Only an act of supreme willpower kept more than a dribble from ending up in Dom’s plastic backed panties. Even that tiny trickle was enough to tempt the young man. The onesie was pulled roughly over Dominik’s head. He didn’t get his arms through the sleeves before he was roughly shoved back down onto the padded bench, causing another agonizing trickle. He would not do this. He would not do this. He would not do this. Rhea hooked both legs to boost his hips and yanked the back of the onesie up and over. Four button snaps later. Dominik somehow looked even more babyish than when he was wearing just the diaper. “I think he should wear that to the ring,” Bailey teased. “Full agree,” Alexa smiled. If Rhea disagreed, she didn’t disabuse her cohorts. “Everything ready?” “Mhm,” Alexa nodded. “Carriage is nice and cozy, with extra blankets.” Carriage?! Like a baby buggy? The kind that only the smallest babies rode in? Not even a stroller?! How the hell-? “I packed his diaper bag,” Bailey added, with overmuch enthusiasm. Dominik felt like swallowing his own tongue. Wriggling his arms into the onesie’s sleeves and tried to sit up. “We’re not going to the arena are we?” Rhea’s palm and Dom’s terror were all that were needed to keep him down. “Awww, wook at him wonderin’!” She taunted. “No, Dom Dom. Mami’s not taking you there. That’s much too far away. We’re going somewhere else.” “Where?” Her eyes twinkled malevolently. Out from underneath the changing table, Rhea revealed one last article of clothing: A bright blue, frilly baby bonnet. Grinning like a cheshire cat that swallowed the canary, she tied it around Dom’s head. The transformation was complete. She picked him up once more and hefted him to the front door. “Why doesn’t Mami show you?” (To be continued…)

Chapter 100: A Much Needed Screaming Match “f**k YOU, MELONY! YOU’RE A f***ing MONSTER! YOU CAN GO f**k YOURSELF YOU GODDAMN PSYCHO BITCH I HATE YOU! f**k YOU! I HATE YOOOOOOOOU!” The snot was already beginning to bubble. The tears were boiling but felt cold on my face because of just how red my cheeks were. With every condemnation and swear that I threw in, I stomped my foot until it looked like I was marching in place. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I balled my fists and leaned forward, doing my best to roar like a lion but succeeding only in screaming like a toddler having a grocery store meltdown. “Oooooooooooooooo,” Billy sneered. “Gibson. Is. Pissed.” I could barely see anything because of how watery my eyes were and I refused to blink or wipe away the droplets. I could barely hear anything save for the furious thud-thud, thud-thud. Rationality didn’t keep me from throwing my body straight to the floor, but rage did. Hitting the floor would have broken eye contact with Beouf. My body would have wanted to tuck my face in the crook of my elbow or roll over on my back so that I could better kick and scream and fuss until all of the pain and frustration. Rage wouldn’t let me do that, however. Children do such things when they have no viable target for their anger. They throw themselves down and weep and scream and thrash at nothing when they are overwhelmed and the entire world seems against them. The entire world was against me, but I’d found a single drop of salt-water in that entire ocean of inequity to focus fury upon. I could not beat an ocean, but I could at least disperse this single bead; dry it out or drink it and withhold it from the ocean until I pissed it back out. “FUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOU!” I couldn’t pinpoint where all of this was coming from. I didn’t know why I chose then and there to throw my total and utter hissy fit. The emails I’d just read? The slip-up from Skinner? Recent memories of what I’d heard over the baby monitor? Guilt? Shame? Resentment? The feeling of love suddenly being lost and there being a hole in my heart where so much of who I was and how I knew myself was located? Several holes? At least three? Each one shaped like a person who had either vanished from my life entirely or reoriented themselves in such a way that I barely recognized them? Anything that I could say then or now would be a complete rationalization on my part. The only true thing is that it hadn’t been planned in advance, and it came so suddenly and naturally as to feel wholly involuntary on my part. More than involuntary, it felt right. It felt like coming up for air after swimming in the deep end. The other kids didn’t laugh. Nor did they shirk, mostly. Statistically speaking, every one of them had done something like this at some point since being enrolled into Beouf’s care. I was no longer ‘new’ in terms of socialization and acceptance, but I was still the ‘freshest’ in terms of treatment and gaslighting. They’d all had this moment at some point or another. Some had had it more than once. Even Ivy, I’d believed had at some time or another where compliance, malicious or otherwise, had given away to a maddening anger at the outright unjustness of the situation. Oftentimes, that had been what would get them sent to my room where I’d give them a stupid hackneyed pep talk about degrees of suffering and how a certain crazy but kind Amazon was better than a cruel one. Better to be a baby that was still you on some level. Better to go full native or pretend to buy into the hype than to be a programmed husk with a heartbeat; a doll. How f***ing naive I’d been. Dolls didn’t suffer, and if they did, they at least didn’t have hope to constantly freshen up the pain. After a certain layer, a burn is a burn. Heal it and let it cool, and suddenly that red hot poker feels just as intense the hundredth time as it did the first. “AAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Neither did my classmates cheer me, (except for Billy). Some stared. Some turned their gaze in the opposite direction out of politeness. A few swore exclamations of moderate surprise under their breath, I’m sure. None were particularly offended this time. We weren’t actually babies that were upset by loud noises or expressions of negative emotion because we couldn’t understand ourselves or others; just prisoners conscripted into becoming the ultimate method actors. They’d all had this breaking point at some time or another. They’d gone through this, too. They’d raged and bargained and despaired and denied and back again until a warm acceptance washed over them, and they’d become happy enough until they weren’t. That was kind of the point of Beouf’s class: To numb and reduce outbursts, and to find outlets and replacement behaviors; to condition and desensitize until a Little could be trusted to go to a full time daycare without causing any more fuss than the average Amazonian two year old. I wasn’t a revolutionary, or a saboteur, or a class clown or a bully. I was just a Little with lots of Big Feelings. I was just someone currently unable to either deny or accept just how fucked he was in the grand scheme of his personal fable. No different than any of them. To the culture of the classroom, this outburst was no different than someone getting sick and vomiting or getting a case of the runs. It happened. It was slightly disturbing. But it was normal enough. Save for the intensity, I’d done this sort of thing enough times already. Save for being verbal and visibly angry instead of panicked into paralysis or sad to the point of being insensate, I’d done much of this my very first week back in diapers. This was nothing new. For anyone. Just a remix. The only surprising element might have (might have) been the timing. Amidst all of it, In the back of my head a thought: I wonder if Tracy can hear me from here. And would she be surprised? Proud maybe? Probably not. Maybe sympathetic, not that it mattered. “I’M NOT DEAD!” I screamed. “I’M NOT DEAD! I’M NOT DEAD! I’M NOT DEAD! f**k YOU SIDEWAYS AND THE HIGH HORSE YOU RODE IN ON! I’M NOT DEAD! I’M! NOT! DEAD!” Beouf gave me nothing in return. No negative energy to feed off of. No questions, or demands, or anything that could be shouted down. She did not make a point to ignore me and continue her propaganda distribution in storybook form. An emotional rope-a-dope. My feet were lead and all the adrenaline I was pumping into my body had magically frozen me in place. If I hadn’t been, I may have marched up to her and smacked the glasses right off her face. For all my bravado and aggression, there wasn’t much a Little could do against a fully grown Amazon. We aren’t even strong enough to take off our diapers by ourselves. A slap in the face, a poke in the eye, or a punch in the nose still hurts no matter who you are. And Beouf wouldn’t have written me up for it, either. Not for slapping her. Getting slapped at by tantruming Littles was pretty much in the job description. That and what Amazon would want to admit on paper that they’d been hit by a Little and cared? “YOU WANT ME TO BE! BUT I’M NOT DEAD!” I didn’t even fully understand what I was saying, but I felt there was a truth to it. The biggest truths often come not from what we’re supposed to say, but what we actually think and feel. ‘Out of the mouth of babes’ is just another way of saying that children haven’t been conditioned enough to lie to themselves or factor in basic societal expectations and assumptions to their responses. In my case, it was a momentary lapse in giving a f**k. “STOP MOURNING ME! I’M RIGHT HERE! COME AT ME BITCH! STOP! MOURNING! MEEEEEEE!” Beouf closed the story book and leaned it against the bit of wall beneath the whiteboard. She stood up. I didn’t move. I didn’t know if I could. “Mrs. Zoge,” she said curtly. “Take over.” Zoge was already hurrying to take Beouf’s place next to the storybook. No reply required. “Miss Winters? Miss Sosa? Can you do me the favor, and take as many of the children out for therapy as you reasonably can?” Her voice had all the command and precision of a surgeon calling for a scalpel. The Physical and Occupational Therapists had yet to leave the classroom. They stood mortified and horrified at what I’d said. They thought they’d done right by either me or Beouf in peeling back the curtain and telling me how much she’d been trying to help me ‘adjust’. No good deed goes unpunished they say. “Uh, yeah. Sure. We can do that.” They came deeper into the room and started herding Littles out like cats. “But I don’t wanna go,” Billy whined, “I wanna see!” “Billy.” Beouf said. “Go. Now.” Billy gulped. “Yes, ma’am.” I let out another roiling wordless scream. Nearly half the class was out the door within thirty seconds. Beouf stood firm. So did I. Give us a pair of six-shooters already. Three steps and she was on me. She snatched me up and tucked me under her arm like I was a basketball. I could have thrashed and kicked but chose to go limp and just let out yet another ear piercing scream. “We’ll be back,” she announced. I didn’t look up but heard the door open again. Saw her feet take titanic, angry strides over concrete. Then up a metal ramp. Then pivot left. Then through mulch. When the world went upright for me again, I was being sat down on the bench she and Zoge favored in the corner of the Littles’ Playground. Beouf stood over me, frowning, breathing hard and crossing her arms. She had removed me from the classroom, but was keeping me in an environment that I couldn’t escape or disrupt. Nothing I could mess up besides wood chips. She had proximity to stop me from hurting myself. I could scream and curse as loud as I wanted and my voice would be eaten up by the open air and go unnoticed by the second graders playing kickball at the far end of the P.E. field. Basic school culture etiquette would cause most students trusted enough to travel campus unaccompanied by an adult to look the other way and go about their business. Any other member of faculty or staff would more than likely do the same or briefly greet Beouf as a subtle form of asking if she needed help. Parents would see a Little in need of a spanking shouting at a woman with the patience of a saint. Brollish, if she were on the prowl, might choose to intervene. The teacher in me recognized it as a good move. Were our positions somehow miraculously reversed and I had the power, it is the move I would have made. Isolate me. Let me wear myself out. Then bring it up on Wednesday’s conference because f**k you, kiddo, the house always wins. I was so terribly, viscerally upset that I didn’t actively notice the constant buzzing in the back of my brainstem despite being on the playground. “Okay, Clark,” she said. “Let’s ta-” I dashed to my right to jump off the bench. Beouf sidestepped and shot her arm out to block me. “Nope.” I backpedaled and started twisting to leap off the other end. Her other arm penned me in. “No, sir.” I stopped my turn and tried to climb the.back of the bench. Hypothetically, I could jump from the back, and leap the chain link fence and hit the steel incline ramp on the other side without breaking any bones if I rolled with it. I was plucked back up and sat down on the mulch. “No. Unacceptable.” My feet were already kicking, propelling me backwards to the old oak tree, giving me distance that she could cover in a handful of steps. I was fighting the stupidest, most misleading grin, from sprouting on my face. It didn’t match how I felt on the outside at all, but just like my swearing it felt automatic. This was no fun, but I was taking a sick enjoyment The dash to the playground exit was no dash at all. Beouf was blocking it before I was halfway there. Not that I could have opened the gate by myself. “Clark. Stop. Please.” “NO!” My body changed course and I crawled into the cement play tunnel. I was at exactly the halfway point when I saw her legs at the other end. I wasn’t going to get away like this. I wasn’t going to get away at all. People just do stupid stuff when they hurt enough. I hope no one reading this ever hurts that much. Ever. I wouldn’t wish how I felt in that moment on Beouf, herself. I stopped and rolled and twisted to get comfortable. The space was meant for someone my size. I could technically stand up and walk upright if I was willing to hunch over. I parked myself on my pillowed keister, crossing my arms and leaning back in a sort of fetal position. Beouf’s knees bent and touched the ground, and she looked inside. She could just barely crawl in after me if she’d wanted to but the woman wasn’t fool enough to try without help. I didn’t expect her to either. She might get stuck and I might get away. “You okay in there?” she asked. Her voice was even more grating to me when reverberating off of molded concrete. “f**k off.” “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” She stood back up, leaving her legs blocking one end of the tube. It’s sometimes hard for me to imagine the world from an Amazon’s point of view, to have everything so small and effortless, to have the ground so far away, but I figured she had to be blocking one end while watching for me to exit the other. All was silent. For about five minutes. She sidestepped and leaned over. “You still okay, buddy?” “Have you fucked off yet?” “Alrighty then.” The silence lasted another minutes. I knew because I immediately started counting to myself. “Clark? Are you ready to talk?” Only three minutes? She was getting impatient. “Clark?” “I can wait you out, Mel,” I taunted. “I don’t have to go to the bathroom.” “That’s fine.” One….two… …one-hundred-seventeen, one-hundred-eighteen… “How about I come in there?” Beouf offered. “I just want to talk.” “Bullshit,” I yelled back. “You don’t know how to talk to me.” More to myself I said, “Just at me.” Beouf dropped down to her rump, her knees drawn all the way up to her chest, and her head cocked so that she could still see inside the cylinder. “What is that supposed to mean?” I looked away. “Did I stutter? Do you need me to say it in baby talk so that you can pretend to understand it? Will you believe me then, Mel?” “Mel?” she didn’t sound offended the way Sosa did when I invoked her given name. She was more perplexed than anything. I barely called her by her first name when we were co-workers. “Why are you calling me that? Is Mrs. Beouf getting too hard to say? You can just say Mrs. B if that’s easier.” “I need to call you Melony.” I spat. “Or can’t you take one of your Little babies calling you by your first name?” “Clark…” “MISTER! GIBSON!” And just like that I was close to crying again. I clutched at my chest in a pointless gesture to try to control my breathing from the outside. “I’M! MISTER! GIBSON! “No.” My old mentor said with an air of finality. “You’re not. Not anymore.” “At least I used to be a teacher,” I said. “A real one.” Her eye twitched and her composure faltered for a moment. “I am a teacher, hon. I’m your teacher.” “You’re a goddamn animal trainer.” I felt the light echoes gave my words a sense of gravitas. “The only thing you teach is that it’s pointless to resist and that if you’re a good forever puppy you get treats. And that Amazons and Littles can never be friends.” Beouf was taken aback. “Clark,” she said. “I’m your teacher. Of course I’m your-” “YOU WERE NEVER MY FRIEND!” I propped my elbows up on my knees and buried my face in the palms of my hands. “Not really.” “Honey.” Beouf’s heart was slowly breaking right in front of me. “That’s just not true.” “It is.” I snapped back. Against my hopes, she didn’t try to contradict me. “Why do you feel that way?” “f**k you, that’s why.” I wasn’t going to get drawn into an argument where nothing I said really mattered. “Come on out,” she repeated. “Let’s talk about this. Just you and me.” “No.” “Okay.” One…two… …eighty-eight…eighty-nine…ninety…ninety-one… “How about now?” Beouf asked. “Ready to talk to me like a big boy? Use your words instead of just saying mean things to try to hurt my feelings?” The operative word there had been ‘try’. She wasn’t going to admit that anything I said was having an effect on her. “Your classroom management is pretty good,” I said. “That’s about it, though. Everything else is snake oil.” Calling the legitimacy of her profession into question had struck a nerve. So I struck again. “Why do you think you have an indefinite timeline for student graduation? Why does Ivy get to stay forever? It’s because you don’t actually have a curriculum. You don’t actually teach anything.” She didn’t have anything to say to that. Not right away. I raised my head up out of my hands and re-established eye contact. “You’re not even a glorified babysitter like people joke about real teachers. Because you’re not even taking care of actual babies.” Beouf’s reply was immediate. “All those diapers of yours that I’ve changed would beg to differ.” Silence from me. I held my breath until eight….nine…ten seconds. “I’m ready to come out now,” I said. “We’re not going back inside until after we talk,” Beouf said. “Actually talk.” “Okay,” I sighed. “Deal.” I shifted my weight and crawled out towards her. My cheeks dry again and the crinkling coming from my pants were the only sounds I made. Gently smiling, Beouf offered me her hand; an unnecessary but kindly gesture. So I bit her. I bit her as hard as I could, right on the most tender part of the hand on the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger, and hoped to break the skin. “OOOOOOOOW” Beouf howled. “MOTHER FUUUUUUU….UUUUDGE!” Even with me trying to make her bleed, she didn’t dare drop an f-bomb around me. I’d brought Ivy to tears like this, but Beouf was a trained teacher with nearly twenty years of dealing with folks like me. Ignoring the normal and natural reflex to try and yank her hand away, she fed into the bite, grabbing the back of my head with her free hand and shoving her palm deeper into my jaw like a wedge until it hurt so bad that I had to loosen up and release her. The Amazon examined her hand, looking at the tiny tooth sized indentations I’d left on her flesh. Astonishingly, I’d failed to draw blood. More astonishingly, she didn’t press her physical advantage. Beouf stayed seated there on the mulch by the tunnel. I was permitted to stand up. She kept her unmarred hand on my chest but attempted no grip to restrain me. “WHAT THE HELL, CLARK!” She shouted. “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!” I brought my foot down on the mulch like it was a hammer. “YOU’RE MY PROBLEM, MELONY! YOU ARE! JUST YOU!” “WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME THAT?” She shouted back. My ears throbbed like I was right up next to the speaker at a heavy metal concert. She was a better screamer than me. Bigger lungs. More practice. Less tired. But I didn’t back down. “BECAUSE I’M AN ADULT! ADULTS CALL EACH OTHER BY THEIR FIRST NAMES ALL THE TIME IN PRIVATE!” It was getting harder and harder to yell. My throat was already raw. My normal speaking voice was becoming raspier and raspier with each shouted syllable. Still worth it. My shouting was not reciprocated. Beouf pouted out her lip in thought. “You didn’t before your Maturosis flared up.” My own lip threatened with a quiver. “Because before I didn’t need to,” I replied. “Back then you at least pretended like you thought I was an adult.” “You are an adult,” Beouf answered. “Physically. For your size. But on the inside, you’re a-” “Don’t say it, Mel.” I threatened. “Don’t. Stop it with that Maturosis bullshit. It’s not real.” I was allowed to take a step back. “It’s a fantasy you tell yourself so you can feel better about what you do. That’s it.” “Science suggests otherwise.” She dryly adjusted her glasses. I did not retreat. What I wanted more than anything was to wipe that smug look off her face. “Goddamn it, I hate you so much.” My growl was practically a hiss. “You haven’t had a dry day since you were enrolled,” Beouf said matter of factly. “Not one. I bet you're wet right now.” I blanched but admitted nothing. The state of my pants was besides the point. “Why would I? It’s not like you’d let me go to the bathroom.” “You haven’t asked to go since your first day,” she said. “Where you made me poop myself and sit in my own mess!” “Because you lost your potty training.” All of this happened so fluidly. Clearly, my ex-mentor had been thinking about this almost as much as I had. Why wouldn’t she? It was her job to make Littles believe in her fantasy world. “Which if you actually believe,” I countered, “you’ve made no attempt to help me back.” “Potty training isn’t my job.” Beouf shrugged. She seemed so calm and control, sitting there on the ground. With me standing up at my full height, I was the closest to her eye level that I could remember. How ironic yet appropriate. “If your Developmental Plateau merited it, you’d have a natural interest in trying for yourself. You haven’t.” “Because I know you won’t listen!” I said. “You never listen! You just find a conclusion you like and then make up whatever you need to make it true!” It felt amazing to say such a thing out loud. “I’m your co-worker one second, and then you think I’ve been stealing diapers because someone poisoned me and made me poop my pants? How does that make sense?” Beouf rolled her eyes and shook her head at me. I was a child talking of closet monsters. “Honey, there’s no evidence that you were poisoned. That was just a major flare up with your Maturosis is all. It’s what helped you get diagnosed.” I scoffed at the word ‘helped’. She tried to lean over and place her hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t having it. “No,” I said. “I don’t care that you were sneaking diapers out of my bathroom to try and stop it,” she kept going. “That was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances.” I tugged at my hair in disbelief. “See?!” I said. “You literally just did it. You predetermined and ignored all other evidence!” I smacked the back of my right hand into my left palm for emphasis. “You figured out that Forrest slipped me one of those wonky chocolates! You told Janet about it the second week of school, remember? Did it occur to you that she somehow might have done it before? Put one in my coffee or something?” “You know that’s impossible, honey.” Beouf said. “I brew a fresh pot every morning and all that sugary junk and syrups you liked were single use packaging that was tamper evident.” I was getting jittery and antsy. I wanted to keep shouting and pace the playground like some sort of courtroom drama. Beouf remained seated on the ground in her jeans and t-shirt. Beyond a minor outburst, she’d regained and retained her calm. She seemed comfortable. Reasonable. It was unnerving. “Okay, maybe she didn’t poison me,” I conceded. This wasn’t about Raine. Raine was beside the point. “Or maybe she did it some other way. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was you!” Beouf clicked her tongue. “Do you know how silly you sound when you say that? Why would I do that?” she asked. It didn’t sound rhetorical to me. “You were a good teacher and this year just started.” “Yeah,” I stammered. “but-” “If I’d wanted to ‘frame’ you,” she said, “I could have just let Brollish and Ambrose get their way before Spring Break. I could have done something any day or any time from the first time we met.” Damnit, she had a point. Beouf had technically had my balls in a vice for years and never once squeezed. Any rationale I could devise sounded convoluted, even by Amazonian standards. “How did you know my wife’s name, then?” I demanded to know. “Cassie! How did you know about her?” I hadn’t figured that part out yet; had barely given myself time to wonder about it. It was a good question but one that felt irrelevant somehow, like I was grasping at straws. “Honey,” she replied as if the answer were painfully obvious. “It’s no secret you were married. You had a ring. You talked about going out with your wife plenty of times.” “But…but… Cassie! I never told you her name.” Now I had her! “Are you sure?” “Yes!” “Positive?” Suddenly I wasn’t. “Yes.” “You don’t think that once, not once, you maybe mentioned her name in passing? On accident? For as long as we worked together?” I squinted at her. I was being gaslit. I could feel it. “Did Tracy tell you or something?” It was too late to hold it against her, but it was a possibility. “She was your emergency contact, buddy,” Beouf spoke plainly. “On your personnel file. You filled it out pre-employment.” She gave me a second to process. “When I heard you’d had your accident I checked it because I knew you were married. Maturosis onset is an emergency.” The fire inside me was dimming and I hated it. “Okay,” I said. “Good point. An accident. Maybe I was just sick with a stomach bug. Remember the week before students came back when I ran to your bathroom? People get sick. Accidents happen. It doesn’t mean that…that…their personal block tower is flipping upside down or whatever!” “With Littles it usually does.” “You think I was stealing diapers?!” I screeched. I took a step closer. “Why?! Do you even count them?” I cut her off before she could say anything. “No. Don’t answer. I’m positive you don’t.” My feet kept moving. I was pacing. Doing laps around her while my emotions ramped up. “Did you think for even a second that your count seemed low that week for other reasons?! Maybe there was a defective one, or Zoge accidentally ripped a tape on a couple, or somebody peed in the middle of a change?” I stopped right in front of her. “Maybe some poor janitor snagged a couple overnight for their own kids?” She gave me no reply, verbal or otherwise. She might have been listening. She might have been going into neutral in another attempt to de-escalate. “Did any of that cross your mind?!” I said. “Doubt it. You had the vaguest of f***ing suspicions that you were down a few Monkeez and pinned it alll on me, the only mature Little you know!” She took a deep breath through her nose and gave me the most honest response she could, all things. “It just made sense.” “No,” I said. “It didn’t. It doesn’t.” “I’m sure it feels that way to you.” Just like that, I’d lost her again. “You don’t listen!” I wanted to roar. I settled for pacing laps and tugging at my hair. “You just pretend to when it’s convenient and then do what you were gonna do anyways.” “I bought those line leashes so you wouldn’t have to hold Ivy’s hand everyday,” Beouf said, like it disproved my entire thesis. “I did that for you.” My heels dug in when I was to her right, not that she turned her head. “No. You only do things for me when it benefits you. You only listen to the Littles in your class if it makes things easier or you can twist it in some way to make us act more babyish. You disregard literally everything else.” “You have to understand, honey,” Beouf said like she was reciting something. “I’m an expert on Maturosis. A professional. I know more about your condition than you do and you just have to accept that.” “I don’t have a condition!” My cracking voice protested. “Maturosis. Isn’t. Real. I do not have it because it’s not real. You can’t be an expert on something that isn’t real!” Was she just this self-deluded or was she more devious than I’d ever given her credit for? “If you really think that’s true, what does that say about you, Clark?” Now she turned her head to look at me. Really look. “If Maturosis is made up, and I’m some terrible crackpot who forces Littles into something that’s unnatural to them, then why did you work with me for so long?” A beat. “Why were we friends? Me being who I am and teaching what I teach wasn’t a dealbreaker for you until it directly impacted you.” My jaw dropped, but only for an instant. “And you treating me like I was an actual person with legitimate thoughts and feelings and a soul was just a game to you,” I fired back. “It was pretense. It was a side hustle. Don’t you dare shake your head no!” I growled. “The second I checked enough of your boxes you disregarded everything we’d been to each other and everything you knew about me. Ten years, Melony! Ten years down the drain like that!” I snapped my fingers and pictured flames leaping up from the tips. My so-called teacher, my friend that never was, averted her gaze. “It’s been…challenging for me, too, kiddo.” “Challenging?” I walked around to her front. “Challenging?! You threw me under the bus, Beouf! And in return you got allll this!” I spread my arms out wide and turned around a full circle. “You finally got your fancy playground!” “Wait just a second!” she seemed genuinely offended. “That’s not fair!” Oh the irony. “I’ve been lobbying for this playground for years. It’s not my fault Brollish decided to approve it when she did. That had nothing to do with me.” I didn’t want to admit that. “Okay,” I sneered. “Was it challenging for you to be my teacher instead of shipping me off to New Beginnings like you’d wanted to? Was it challenging to include me in your lesson plans instead of screwing me over and forgetting about me?” The Amazon flinched like I’d struck her. The gears in her head were turning and she was revisiting the fateful afternoon when my old life had ended. My personal apocalypse really had just been another Thursday to her. “Oh,” her expression softened. “Oh you poor thing.” She was shaking her head and untensing her muscles. She looked like she wanted to give me a hug. “Honey. No. I never would have let them send you to New Beginnings. I was just trying to stall until your Mommy got there.” I turned my back. This revisionist history wasn’t worth the spittle coming out from between the giantess’s lips. “If worse came to worse,” Beouf kept on, “I would have lied and let her Adopt you the next day. If she got cold feet for some reason I would have Adopted you for real. I would not have let them take you there. I promise.” I didn’t know how much I’d wanted to hear that until the words reached my ears . I just couldn’t bear it. “How the hell am I supposed to believe that?” I asked. Without thinking I’d spun around to look at her again. “You hurt me! Literally! Worst physical pain of my life!” My arms were wrapping around me, fingers digging into my shoulders and scratching as a way to relieve myself from that awful memory. “You shoved me in a tube!” I choked. “You stripped me naked, stole my wedding ring, and then zapped off all of my body hair within minutes of me having an accident! You couldn’t wait to get rid of me!” IIt was hurting to breathe again, getting harder and harder to say something without my voice warbling. “That’s not true,” Beouf said. Her composure was finally starting to mirror “Not at all.” “How is it not true?” I cried. “Even if everything you think about Maturosis is correct, even if I was doomed to need daycare for the rest of my life, why did you have to do that? Huh?” I would be crying again soon. I could feel it. Months away from the incident and the trauma felt as fresh as ever. “Body hair retains odor.” She sniffled, sounding unsure of herself. “Getting rid of it makes it easier to keep you clean and happy.” How dare she cite happiness? How dare she? “But why then?” I pressed. “Why right away? At school!? Five feet away from where I’d…” I couldn’t finish that thought, so I jumped to the next one. “You couldn’t have given me a day? A night?” My whole body was on fire. Phantom follicles screamed out in remembrance. “Or done something that hurt less? Some kind of cream?” I was so angry I was shaking. I released the grip on my shoulders and yanked down the front of my pants to show off that morning’s Monkeez. “Would these not fit if I still had my pubes?” I yanked my pants back up. It felt good to dress myself. “And you couldn’t tell me about Janet when we were alone? You couldn’t have given me even that comfort?” “I didn’t want you to accidentally give something away,” Melony sniffed again. “I didn’t know if Brollish had said anything or tried anything.” The confidence was leaving her and her voice was taking on a more wistful tone. “That and I wanted it to be a nice surprise. I knew Janet would be the best Mommy for you. She loves you even more than I do.” Love is not what I wanted to talk about; least of all Janet’s. “Admit it.” I leveled a finger at her. “You just couldn’t wait to take away my adulthood!” There it was. Ahead of schedule. My voice had regained some strength but my face was puffy and red and tears were trailing down me again. “Admit it!” “Some things hurt less if you just get them over with.” I could just barely hear her. “I was ripping a band-aid off.” “For who? You?” “Yes,” she said. “For me.” “What?” I started wiping my nose. Wiping my face and eyes. Shaking my head. Something must have been clogged. I wasn’t hearing what I thought I was hearing. “You’re not…” I stammered. “You’re not supposed to say that.” “Clark, buddy.” Beouf sighed. “Honey. Baby. Try to see it from my point of view.” She lowered her knees and made her legs flat. “I’ve known the whole time since we became friends that something like this might happen.” The corners of her mouth, once stuck in neutral, started to ooze towards the ground. “ I was ready for it for a while, but I started to think that maybe it wouldn’t happen to you.” Another wistful sigh. “Maturosis can lie completely dormant in a Little. Skip a generation. Skip several.” She moved from side to side. The whole world did. I felt dizzy and off balance, shaking my head and trying to make the confession not feel true coming from her. It didn’t matter that I’d heard or thought or deduced something similar. It didn’t make anything better. She’d never said all this out loud. Not to me. “So when it finally happened,” she explained, “I was in almost as much shock as you were.” She paused and her eyes clouded over. She was back there with me, on the other side of the tube. “To get through that day I had to let my training take over and I went on autopilot.” She gulped. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re right to be mad at Mrs. B. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.” “And I’m sorry.” Like me, her voice was strong, but her eyes had begun gently weeping. “I’m doing my best. We’re all doing our best. This is new to all of us. But I never wanted to hurt you or make you feel bad. I’ve never had a student who I knew before their Maturosis kicked in.” The wind was the only thing that answered her “If it makes you feel any better,” she cut the silence, “I still love you as a student and I want you to be happy. You really were my best fr-” ‘I’M STILL HERE YOU IDIOT!” I screamed and stomped. “I’M STILL HERE! RIGHT NOW! RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! I’M NOT DEAD!” I would not attend my own funeral twice. I refused. Unlike earlier when I yelled, Beouf looked shaken. “I know,” she replied meekly, almost a whisper. “NO. YOU DON’T! YOU TALK ABOUT ME LIKE I’M SOMEBODY DIFFERENT THAN I USED TO BE!” I had to stop yelling to keep myself from sobbing wordlessly. My next words came out soft yet somehow even harsher than my screams. “You talk about me like you don’t know me. I heard how you and Janet talked about me that night on the baby monitor.” I had to keep rubbing my eyes to see straight. I felt so stupid and pathetic and small. “You both talk about the old me and how I used to be. There is no ‘used to be’. There is no old me, Mel. There is no new me. There’s just…just…just me.” I wanted to lose myself to this sadness; this renewed grief. My knees gently buckled and I was sitting down on the ground across from my oldest companion. “The only thing that’s changed is how you think of me. That’s it. That’s all.” Beouf started quivering and crying for me. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her puffy pink eyes with her shirt sleeves. She allowed her own breath to lose its rhythm. And unlike every other time, she didn’t run or hide from me. “I’m still Clark,” I half-whispered into the gyre between us. “I’m still your friend. Why can’t you see that? Why are you mourning me when I’m right here in front of you?” “I don’t know what to do,” Melony wept. “There’s no training or documented research on this. None of this was supposed to happen.” Did I look that sad,I wondered? That pathetic? I must’ve looked worse. “I don’t know what to do.” “I’ve lost my job, Mrs. Beouf. I’ve lost the love of my life. My dignity has been stolen. I…I…” I had to wait for my throat to unclench. “I’m losing my f***ing toilet training. I don’t even have my last name anymore. This is the worst thing that could happen to a Little. You have no idea.” Not entirely true, I thought to myself. I’d seen more than enough proof to know that she had some idea of the horrors I’d gone through. “I’ve had nightmares about this my whole life,” I squeaked. “What I didn’t have nightmares about was you. I’ve lost you. And Janet. I feel like I’m about to lose Tracy again. f**k it, I even lost Zoge and I barely had her. And every day, I have to deal with you treating me like I’m a diagnosis.” Something in that spoke to her. “What do you mean?” “I’m not ‘Clark’ to you, anymore. I’m just his Maturosis.” A quiet sob followed by a river of hurt. “Everything you do or say to me or talk to other people about me is through some filter of how you think I’ll act because of it. Nothing is really my decision to you. Nothing is my fault. Nothing is me. It’s just my Maturosis. You don’t see me. You just see this pretend disease that you think I have.” It was then that Beouf said the two most surprising words I’d yet heard from her. “You’re right.” My lungs collapsed in shock. My brain wanted to shut down then and there. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I am so sorry. I’ve been trying to help you without really thinking about you.” She wiped her nose and replaced her glasses. “I miss you.” Nothing made sense. How could I feel what I was feeling? How could I be so angry with her and not hate her? How could I say I hated her to begin with? How could any of this be happening and why did it have to be now instead of never. How could I be nodding in agreement? “I…I…I miss coffee!” I blurted out. “I miss just sitting with you and complaining and talking about nothing. Or not talking at all and just sitting! I miss being with you! I miss being something besides your f***ing job! A project! I don’t even have coffee anymore! I WANT IT SO BAD!” “I MISS COFFEE TOO!” Any pretense of control left both of us and we both started full on ugly crying on the spot. She scooted closer and scooped me up into her lap. I let her and buried my face into her chest, wiping my nose on her shirt while she held me close in a hug that I didn’t want her to stop. “I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY, CLARK! I LOVE YOU!” “I LOVE YOU, TOO!” “YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND! I DON’T CARE THAT YOU HAVE MATUROSIS! YOU’RE STILL MY BEST FRIEND!” “I DON’T HAVE MATUROSIS! BUT YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND, TOO!” All words left us for a while. We just cried. And cried. And cried. And cried. Ten years of friendship and two months of animosity all rolled themselves into one tidal wave of emotions. And just when one of us thought we were done, the other started things going again. At some point, the therapists walked the others back to Beouf’s room. We heard their voices but no one called out to either of us. We wouldn’t have responded anyways. Words were too hard. For both of us. We just kept crying. Happy and sad tears. Relief and regret. We left nothing to chance. Nothing uncried. Finally, after we were both all out of tears for the day, I said something. “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole,” I apologized. “I’m sorry I made you cry.” “I forgive you,” my mentor, my oldest friend said. “You’re not first.” “What do we do now?” She shifted me on her lap so she could check her phone. “Lunch.” “Then what?” “Nap. Recess. Dismissal. Faculty meeting for me. Babysitting for you.” “You know what I mean,” I said, too emotionally spent to be offended. “I don’t know, buddy,” Melony Beouf sighed. “I really don’t. That’s a tomorrow problem. Deal?” “Deal.”

Chapter 98: Compounding Fractures I sat with my head down, wheezing at Beouf’s teacher table. My eyes were puffy. My vision was blurry and my nose was running like a snot faucet down over my upper lip. My breathing was labored and ragged and my face felt hot even though the air conditioning was cranked up as far as the thermostat would allow. To the typical Amazon, I looked like a Little who was in the depths of toddlerish despair: Maybe I needed a fresh diaper, or I’d seen a cartoon animal lose his mother, or my Mommy had told me that I couldn’t have chocolate pudding first thing in the morning even though it had the same calorie count as my cinnamon applesauce. To a non-Amazon, my ragged appearance might have been an indicator that I was feeling sick. Allergies, or just a good old fashioned case of the campus crud. Those puffy eyes could have been a matter of pollen instead of potty pants. Or maybe an actual relative had died; or some other legitimate reason for a person to feel sad or afraid. A Little still on the outside would have looked at me and shook their head, predicting that I wasn’t long for the adult world. Said imaginary Little would have been off by about seven years, give or take. On some level, all of the above assumptions would have been at least a tiny bit correct. I was about as sick as I could ever remember being up to that point. I’d been awake since two that morning and couldn’t get back to sleep because of all the aches and pains I’d had. By three, I’d gotten over the resentment I’d felt watching Cassie blissfully snore next to me and quietly booted up the computer. The next two hours had been spent typing up a lesson plan so thoroughly detailed that it would be impossible to actually implement. The damn thing would have better functioned as programming instructions for a sophisticated nanny-bot. Every child had accommodations and if/then behaviors with reinforcement procedures as well as notes to a complete stranger on which child could likely be trusted and which couldn’t. It was the level of paranoid, meticulous detail that first time parents left a neighborhood sitter who barely knew how to properly heat a bottle of milk. Only there were ten children in my class and preschoolers had far more idiosyncrasies than your average newborn blob. In the end, I buckled and rode into work on my scooter, despite how awful I felt. I just had to make it through the day and then Cassie could take care of me when I got home. She all but begged me to stay and call in sick; let her take care of me like she always did, but I stubbornly refused. It was so much work for a teacher to make substitute plans, that it was almost always easier to work sick than it was to stay home and get better. Teaching was juggling and it was easier to keep the clubs in the air by myself instead of passing them to a stranger who hadn’t had the time to experiment and test out the various balances and weights of each object. Being a Little made it harder. Weakness could not be shown. If I showed up and was under the weather, there was every chance I’d go unnoticed by admin, and my assistant Tracy would help me pick up the slack. Brollish though? And that psycho Forrest? Me being absent would draw their attention and scrutiny. It was exposing my underbelly and inviting them to analyze everything about me that they could to justify and then slap a diaper over my bum and plop me, ironically enough, in this very room. Tiredly, I glanced over and saw the open door to Beouf’s bathroom. I wasn’t feeling nauseous; I didn’t even have food in me right then. I’d skipped my usual breakfast shake out the door and didn’t kiss my wife because of how gross I felt. But I wondered if it would be a better idea in a worst case scenario to make a run for it and vomit in her bathroom. Heavens knows that that would be the only use the toilet saw this school year. More importantly there’d be less of a chance of one of my kids accidentally tattling on me and telling their parents I was sick. Beouf’s own mindfucked brats wouldn’t know enough to tell their Mommies and Daddies and if they did it’s not like they’d be believed, the poor bastards. Being sick and not filling out plans for the substitute would be taken as a sign of Maturosis. I wasn’t mature enough to plan ahead of time or be thorough enough in my notes; or maybe I was too thorough. I might need a doctor’s note or I’d be accused of lying or exaggerating my symptoms. Very immature. Coming to work sick would be a sign of Maturosis, too, since I couldn’t advocate for my own health well enough. Getting sick in the first place might have been a symptom of Maturosis since it was evidence that I was doing something unhygienic or unhealthy. Trying to hide my sickness might be a sign that I was hiding other things, however. Beouf had explained a lot of the ups and downs and ins and outs of the fraudulent condition my rookie year with the confidence of a doctor, the enthusiasm of a zealot, and the straightforward unblinking faith of a child who thought Mastodons could hide in jelly bean jars. I’d tuned out more than half way through to stop myself from a panic attack. Maturosis was definitely my co-worker’s particular flavor of baby crazy. Two things I was sure of: My sick days were purely symbolic and that the true definition of Maturosis was “Whatever the Amazon needed to say to win the argument against a Little.” If I wanted to keep the madwoman my ally, it was best to avoid the topic as tastefully as possible. On the bright side her position as a teacher probably kept her from Adopting. It was easier to not binge on chocolate when you got a steady drip of candies every day. Beouf took her seat and slid over my usual mug. “Here,” she said. “Drink this.” I saw her hand slide over and place something next to the mug. “And this.” I barely looked up. “No thanks, Mrs. Beouf. I’m not feeling very thirsty.” “Drink, Mr. Gibson,” she said. “You’re going to dehydrate yourself if you don’t.” My head lifted up and regarded her. Back then she was still rocking a bleach blonde look before she finally gave up and settled back into naturally curly reddish brown locks with an ever growing crop of gray. “Doesn’t coffee-?” I stopped myself. The only thing in the mug today was tap water. Next to it was a golden gel capsule the size of a horse pill. “Take some water to grease your pipes,” Beouf said. “Choke down the pill. Finish the mug. Then refill the mug and down that.” It was an order, but not a threat. I did as I was told and gulped everything down. I barely breathed until I was up on the step stool refilling the mug. Beouf quietly sipped her black coffee, not saying anything until I’d retaken my seat. “Make sure to finish the mug before Tracy and Mrs. Zoge get here. Two of those pills keep me wired all day when I’m sick. For your size? That might be closer to three.” “Thanks,” I said, and started gulping down more water. “Welcome.” As we did approximately four hundred or so times before, we sat in mutual comfortable silence for a minute or so, waiting for the sun to finish waking up and join us. “Got a case of the third year panics?” Beouf asked when I’d been done pretending I was a fish. I raised an eyebrow. My face was starting to buzz, but in a good way this time. “The what?” “First year sucks,” Beouf said, leaning back in her chair. “You learn that everything they taught you in college was more or less bullshit as far as how things work in the real world.” “Yeah,” my noggin bobbed in agreement. “Textbooks are too old. Resources are too small. Time is too short.” If Cassie and I had any friends we could have regularly interacted with, our social life would have died then and there. Beouf added, “Parents and kids don’t act like you thought they would.” My head was in my hands. “Don’t get me started on parents.” My coworker laughed that wild bark of a laugh she did when the students and admin weren’t around. “Same. Then the second year,” she continued, “you start to get kind of good at it but you’re still waiting for things to get better. Then the third year everything hits the fan and it sinks in that it’s not gonna get better; you just have to get tougher.” She waited till I looked up at her. “How am I doin’?” “You forgot Brollish.” Beouf shook her head and glowered at a spot in the air. “Oh don’t get me started on that woman. Mann wasn’t great, but at least he had the decency to leave us alone and let us teach. I swear that woman is out to get everybody who doesn’t actively kiss her ass.” “Yuuuuup.” “That why you’re working sick? Too many notes to write? Afraid the old witch is gonna invent something wrong with them? Worried that your kids will act up cause their routine is broken and somehow that’ll be your fault?” Right on the money. “Yuuuup.” I wasn’t shivering anymore and my sinuses had dried up completely. Despite only having water I felt like I’d downed an entire pot of coffee. Wow, that pill had some kind of kick to it! “I get it,” Beouf said. “You can’t just put on a movie, or have a one size fits all emergency lesson plan. Or just leave a note telling the sub to do worksheets or have them read a couple pages of a textbook. Too many moving parts.” “Yuuuup.” “Yeah. The bigger grades don’t get it. Maybe Kindergarten, but that’s it. Our babies need lots of love and attention every day.” Through willpower or fatigue I didn’t make a face when she compared her gaggle of mindfucked adult Littles to students who were actually children. Beouf reached over the table and put one tremendous palm over my hand. Oddly enough, I didn’t flinch or jump back in my seat and it had almost nothing to do with the mounting medicine high. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.” And I believed her. ****************************************************************************************************** “Good morning, Clark,” Beouf chirped the moment I waddled across the threshold. “It’s good to see you again!” I buried down a quip about how the feeling wasn’t mutual and chose to look down at the rough worn carpet of her classroom. “Yuuup.” “How was your weekend?” Predictably, Janet answered for me. “It was pretty quiet, but good. We did some yoga. He’s actually pretty good.” Actually. As if I wasn’t supposed to be good at it. Typical. Janet wore a blue dress with white polka dots, her dark hair up in its professional looking bun. I never expressed it, outwardly, but it was one of my favorites. I was in shortalls with long socks. Arguably, my favorite outfit because my Monkeez were covered up and it was impossible for anything to be poking or peeking out. This pair was baggy enough that it’d be hard to tell if I was wearing them until they were good and wet, and as the day wore on and the air heated back up my socks could be rolled down from just below my knees all the way back down to my ankles. Even better, I could do the adjusting as I saw fit. f**k my life that being able to bunch up and straighten out socks was something I was excited for. I couldn’t prove it, obviously, but I had the distinct sense that Janet was trying to cushion my ego by picking out the clothes for me that caused minimal agitation. Darkly, I wondered if she chose that day’s outfit because more layers made it harder to masturbate. “Yoga?” Beouf echoed in her sing-song teacher voice, so unlike the casual co-worker tone I’d grown accustomed to over the years. “Cool! If we ever get stuck inside for recess one afternoon, maybe you can show us some poses or something.” In reply, I gave a decidedly non-committal shrug. I was in no mood for Beouf’s infantilizing antics. Quite the opposite actually. “I’ll catch you up on our way to the front,” Janet said. That was enough for my other ex-friend and the pair made their way out the way we came in. I heard the beginnings of chatter before the door swung shut, trapping me with Ivy and Zoge. My mouth twisted into a terrible scowl. Would she tell Beouf what I had done in my crib last night? Had I lost even that bit of privacy. Why had I done that to myself and indulged in that moment of weakness? Why couldn’t I have stopped myself? It’s not like with the training chocolate, or the diapers in general. There had been nothing forcing me to lose control and losing control hadn’t been a physical inevitability. And when I had finally achieved that sweet, very adult release, why had I accidentally been thinking of…? I was disgusted with myself and everything about me that morning. Not even the mellow buzz of a belly full of goat’s milk completely numbed my shame. Beouf was going to hurt for it and I already knew how I’d make her. “Ready Clark?” Zoge asked. “Yes, ma’am.” I replied, not even thinking about it. “So polite!” the Yamatoan beamed. “We’re off to a good start today! I’m proud of you!” The words barely registered. Nor did her tender violations as she patted my bottom and sniffed around me, casually checking to see if I needed to be taken to the changing table before snapping the walking leash around me. “Good morning, Clark.” Ivy said, her voice neutral, but cordial enough considering everything I’d willingly put her through. Where Ivy stood, I failed to see another person with thoughts and feelings and a past, but instead saw a collection of traits, quirks, behaviors, and the risks associated with them. “Ivy,” I echoed her tone. “I hope you’re well enough.” That was a lie. I wasn’t even thinking about her beyond how she might make my goals harder. “Thank you.” She sounded slightly taken aback and on guard. Why wouldn’t she? The only time I was reliably nice to the faux Yamatoan was when I wanted to manipulate her, and she was finally getting smart enough to realize it. Hopefully that meant she’d keep her distance this morning. Silently, we three walked to the bus loop as we always did. I waited next to Ivy while trying to eavesdrop on the two Amazons, tuning out the smell of bus exhaust, and listening over the sound of rumbling engines and squawking children. My pulse picked up a notch when the Little bus arrived. Chaz in his stroller would be dead last, so I had to hope that the first kids out would be Billy, Annie, or even Tommy. No such luck. Plopped in front of me with a fresh bob cut and a pink bow on top of her head was Sandra Lynn. Behind me was resident tomboy Mandy. If not for the color of her shirt and shorts, not to mention, her breasts, she might have been mistaken for a boy. Mandy was near the bottom of my list of Littles to break and recruit because of the effort it would require, and Beouf had made Sandra Lynn’s brain match the contents of her diaper just before summer vacation. To hear Chaz tell it, she was sticking around this semester just so Beouf could make sure that she wasn’t faking it. Neither were fans of mine or my crew. Nobody said something worth doing would be easy. “Morning, Sandra Lynn,” I waved. “Wanna hug?” What I really wanted was to be able to whisper into her ear. The inmate who’d done the longest time here next to Ivy curled her upper lip in distrust and disgust. She may have genuinely regressed to the point where she thought boys had cooties. “Why?” My eyes lit up in pantomime inspiration. “Why? Ooooo. That gives me an idea…” I mouthed the words slowly enough that even someone who’d lost their literacy could read me: ‘Why Day’. The doll’s eyes widened “Mm-mm,” she refused. “No. I want recess.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Ugh,” Mandy groaned lightly while more and more of us were being lined up. “Boys. Stop trying to make Why Day happen again. That’s so last year. Why Day’s Over.” I looked back in line over my shoulder. “I can bring it back.” “How?” she narrowed her eyes, curious but distrustful. “Only do it to Beouf,” I hissed quietly, my voice masked by the nearby buses. “Just Beouf. Zoge tells. The smarter of the two pouted her lip out. She clearly had a sour taste in her mouth. Damnit. Where was the A.L.L. when I needed them? “Wwwwwhy?” How to explain why this would work to someone whose emotional complexity had been reduced to a five year old (and that’s if I was being generous)? “If we don’t do it to both of them it’ll take them longer to know what we’re doing.” “No,” Mandy said. “I mean, ‘Why Beouf? Zoge’s way more gullible.” Because I wasn’t in the mood to hurt Zoge. Because Zoge hadn’t betrayed me. Because Zoge had never really been my friend so she was a lesser enemy. Because Zoge wasn’t moving a cult along that was slowly turning me into a full time pants wetter, crib sleeper, and bottle sucker. Because I could hurt Beouf without having to sleep under her roof. Because I was processing a vast array of complex, conflicting, and complicated emotions, and the best way to stop myself from coming to terms with those emotions was to hurt that hypocritical bitch who only ever really looked out for herself and tossed me in the cradle at the first opportunity and was going to do the same thing to Tracy if Tracy wasn’t clever or lucky enough. Because I needed to hurt her the way she’d hurt me. What I said was, “Because we were good for Zoge all last week and she’ll protect us.” I wasn’t sure if they’d heard me or if I’d kept my voice too low. “I’ll give one of you half of my snacks all week.” “And,” Sandra Lynn piled on, “You have to play house with us and be the baby at recess.” I sighed. This had better work. “Fine.” “And we get to pinch you. And you have to tell everybody when you poop and let us know what a big dumb baby pants pooper you are.” Mandy teased. “Only if we miss recess,” I glanced up. It was cloudy already. It might rain. “Only if we all get in trouble, I mean. Not just me.” I saw Mandy look over at Sandra Lynn. The pair exchanged a handful of nods, shrugs, and hums; some bizarre language the two had worked out. With no further questions or debate, it started down the gathering chain of Littles. “Why Day, but only Beouf, pass it on.” ********************************************************************************************** “Okay, Clark,” Beouf called from the tiny classroom bathroom. “Come on up, buddy. Let’s get you changed.” Jesse had already tapped me on the shoulder, signaling that it was my turn. I’d ignored him, obviously. I rolled my socks down to my ankles and looked behind me from the circle on the floor. Beouf was on diaper duty and Zoge was leading the Yamatoan nursery rhymes. “Why?” “Because it’s your turn, silly.” Beouf cooed, not yet showing any signs of annoyance. “Now come on.” “Why?” She kept trying to wave me in. “You can come back and sing later, bubba. Come on.” Good ol’ Chaz craned his neck. “Why?” Zoge stopped singing and the rest of the class faded out. We all knew what was happening. Smartly, Mandy jumped in. “Yeah. Why? Let Clark sit in his messy pants if he wants to.” For the record, my pants were not messy at the time. Without further reply, Beouf walked to the circle, hoisted me up by the armpits, and carried me over to the bathroom. “Mrs. Zoge. Please continue.” “Welcome back, Mrs. Beouf.” Zoge. Circle Time continued with me in the bathroom, the sounds fading and being covered up with the cave-like echoes of Beouf huffing to herself while she restrained me to the changing table, popped open the snaps and readied the new diaper. “Oh Clark,” she said. “What am I gonna do with you? Mrs. Zoge said you were so good while I was gone.” “Why?” I wasn’t even looking at her. I turned my head to the opposite side and stared at the slightly raised wood paneling of the changing table and the white concrete bricks of the wall behind it. My ex-mentor made no reply or remark. She just changed me, carried me out of the bathroom and sat me directly on the naughty stool. She was in no mood today, which of course made it the perfect mood. I spared her a quiet, terrible and thin smile and swore I saw one of the curly brownish hairs on top of her head lost some color. She went over to the circle and tapped Tommy on the shoulder so as not to interrupt. Tommy straight looked up. “Why?” “Tommy,” Beouf warned. “Make good choices.” From different sides of the circle, I caught Chaz, Annie, and Billy giving our lowest member the death glare. Tommy did make the right choice, after all. “Why?” Beouf picked him up like she had me and carted him away. “I’m very sad, Tommy,” Zoge said when the stupid baby game song had finished. Then Tommy struck gold. From the bathroom, with what I can only imagine was his ankles crossed over his head and his dick hanging out, Tommy shouted. “Yes Mrs. Zoge, I’m sorry Mrs. Zoge, I love yooooou!” “Yeah!” Annie said. “I love you Mrs. Zoge!” “I love you, Mrs. Zoge!” “Love you, Mrs. Zoge!” “Love you.” Chaz started the escalation with a crawl towards the big woman. Like good Little monsters, the others followed suit, not even bothering to rise to their feet but shifting over to their hands and knees, crawling to the seated Amazon and wriggling into her lap for a hug and making a cuddle puddle all over her. “Love you.” “Love you.” Looooove you.” “Love you, Mommy.” Zoge was overwhelmed with all the affection. Her entire life she’d been taught that people like us were supposed to be adorable babies by default and we were giving her everything she wanted. If Zoge had a weakness it was us giving her exactly what she wanted. From the naughty stool I leapt up and scampered into the Circle Time area by the whiteboard. Both Amazons were too preoccupied to stop me. I steeled myself and licked my lips, ready to do what needed to be done. Gently nudging and shoving my way in, I leaned over, and planted a big wet sloppy kiss on Zoge’s cheek. “I LOVE YOU MRS. ZOGE!” The assistant’s eyes popped open. “Clark, no kissing.” She gently nudged everyone off of her. “And get back to the naughty stool. You’re still in time out, mister.” She was melting inside. Outside too. I should try this trick on someone el…no. Just her. Just Zoge. Only Zoge. Ever. “Yes Mrs. Zoge,” I said and immediately rushed back to the stool by the teacher’s desk. “I love you!” Reflexively, Zoge echoed. “I love you, too, Clark. Mrs. Beouf and I love all of you. But we have to sit down and finish Circle Time.” There was no ‘Why’. Only obedience. “Mommy! I want kisses too!” Poor Jealous Ivy was too caught up to hear the sound of Beouf’s heart breaking. Perfect. It’s wonderful when a plan comes together and all the variables are accounted for. In turns. Sandra Lynn and Mandy shot me satisfied, approving glances. It was early yet, but it didn’t look like I was going to be playing house any time soon. I gave them each quiet thumbs up. They weren’t Adult Littles; but they were accomplices. The only two things that I’d found to be particularly effective and replicable at rattling Beouf were stalling her instruction through the ‘Why’ game, and through giving Zoge affection. So why not just hit her in both sore spots simultaneously? ************************************************************************************* Janet held my hand in the bus loop that afternoon. It made her hunched and crooked, but she didn’t try to lift me up onto her hip. Nor did she place her hands over my eyes and play a stupid game of Guess Who. “Can we talk?” Beouf asked her. “All three of us? For a conference?” She was worn and tired. The humidity had made her hair frizz even more and it was a wonderful reflection of how she must have been feeling. Every Little in class had been questioning her while being completely subservient for Zoge while reminding her of their love. Close to snack time she’d started pre-empting the kids at Beouf’s table to behave after every center rotation. “Yes, Mrs. Zoge. I love you.” Oh did that grind on the ol’ gal. To hide it, Beouf had stayed on diaper duty all day, including emptying the pail in the dumpster. Snack time too. Anything where she could technically be doing something without having to actually interact with any of us. Credit given where credit’s due, she was smart enough to just take her spot back on the carpet during whole group and wait expectantly for us to check our visual schedules. You can’t ask “why” when a command is not given, and none of us were bold or stupid enough to directly defy her in any other tangible way. At lunch, Ivy had genuinely asked a question and Beouf’s jaw started grinding and her teeth clicking to stop herself from biting the idiot’s head off. Fun day. Good day. Real ‘Week One’ stuff. High fives behind the oak tree were shared. Not ten minutes ago, I had gotten Mandy and Sandra Lynn to quietly admit that they were, in fact, big dumb baby pants poopers in the concrete tunnel. That wasn’t part of the deal, but some sense of playground honor allowed me to coax it out of them as an admission of defeat. No pinching or playing house was in my immediate future. It almost made the annoying buzzing in my brain go away. Almost. “Of course,” Janet replied. “Why? Did something happen after I left?” All the air came out of Beouf and she rubbed her temples. “Kind of yes. Kind of no. I just. I’m having difficulty and I’d like to set up a conference where all three of us can talk and strategize. Something isn’t working and we need to make it work.” Conference. Another intervention. More punishment. More expectations. More attempts to talk down to me and get me to see their non-reason for tormenting me. More humiliation that started in private but would spill into public. More threats. “That’d be great,” Beouf said. “Thanks. When works for you?” Janet squeezed my hand. I was going to get such a talking to when we got home. “We can do it right now, if you want.” “Oh no, no,” Beouf said. A note of panic that came out as a sad but tired laugh. “Not today. I’ve got other stuff I gotta do. Paperwork. An I.E.P. meeting to prep for. Lots of stuff.” “Tuesday we have that faculty meeting.” Janet noted. “His Auntie is picking him up.” “Wednesday then?” Beouf offered. “Wednesday.” Janet agreed. She looked down and Beouf’s gaze followed her. “Does that work for you, Clark?” She was actually asking me? I stared up at the two giantesses who had once been so close to me. “Yeah. Sure.” Wednesday would be enough time to steel myself. Easy peasy as long as there were no surprises. I was running out of emotional silver bullets, but so were they. “Okay,” Beouf said. “Wednesday after school. Conference time. No getting rushed by the buses and needing to check in.” Janet picked me up for ease of transport. “Deal.” The women said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Looking at Melony’s shrinking form I saw her shoulders start to shake. She might not make it to her room before she started crying this time. I smiled to myself… And felt nothing except a strange sense of guilt and sadness. Chapter 99: Testimony “Excuse me Mrs. Beouf,” Jasmine Sosa popped her head in. “Can I borrow Clark?” Beouf frowned in confusion and looked at the clock on the wall as if to confirm. Tuesdays were common enough for Speech, Occupational, or Physical Therapy to pop in, but that happened well after morning activity centers. “Um…sure,” she said. Sosa stayed with one foot out the door. “Awesome,” she said. “Just trying to make up for lost time before progress reports go home at the end of the week.” “Got it,” Beouf said. “Anybody else?” “Nope. Just, Clark.” The so-called teacher pointed towards the door. “Alright Clark. Hop to it.” “Why?” My gaze was unwavering and a challenge to her. I might as well have not have heard her command. “Clark, my love,” Zoge said from across the room. “Please go with Miss Sosa.” I stood up out of my chair and pushed it in. “Yes Mrs. Zoge.” Every word felt like a jab right into Beouf’s throat. “I love you.” Zoge fluttered, then stiffened. “Go, please.” She made a point to avoid eye contact and to immediately restart her own center activity. We’d put her in a pickle. She was the only Amazon any of us would listen to without complaint or question, but Beouf was also her superior. Everytime she helped she was indirectly undermining her supervisor’s authority. They had the option of running us through their curriculum or derailing themselves in trying to correct only slightly objectionable behavior. How wonderful would it be if I was causing professional strife between the pair?. I yanked my pants up and pulled my shirt down and made my way to the door. Stretchy waistbands and bulky plastic backing had never been a great combination. Sosa held open the door for me and allowed me to walk out by myself. I veered right so we could walk around the building as usual. There was an extra skip in my step that morning. Without prompting or asking, the ‘why’s’ and ‘love bombs’ were continuing. Some one-on-one to antagonize Sosa was sweet sweet icing on the cake. Overstepping my bounds or not, I still had an ax to grind with her. “Hold up, sir,” Sosa said three steps in. “We’re not going that way.” I paused. “We’re not?” “This way.” Sosa thumbed to the left. “But that’s towards Skinner’s room,” I said. “I know.” She started walking away. “You’re going to work with all three of us. Come on.” I set my jaw. “Sure.” The crinkle in my walk sounded louder. Or maybe that was just stress, but I power walked until I was side by side with Sosa while she opened up the door to the Speech Therapy room. “Good Morning, Clark,” Winters waved me in. She was sitting at the smaller table where the Littles and Kindergarteners did their speech exercises. Skinner was at her desk clacking away on her keyboard. Right away I took a seat so as to seem cooperative.Just in case, I pulled my pants back up (they needed it) before I sat down. I tucked my hands and gripped the bottom so that if I was picked up by any of the giants the construct of plastic and steel was coming with me. “Miss Winters,” I said. “Miss Skinner.” That got me the curtest of nods. I threw my head backwards towards the door and stared at Sosa upside down. “Jazzie-licious.” Sosa didn’t reply but her eyes practically leapt out of her skull. I could practically see the smoke coming out of her ears. That got her a big toothy smile from yours truly. “Are you sure we want to do this?” she asked Winters. Winters said nothing but took one of the bigger chairs and sat down on my left. Skinner grabbed another and sat to my right. Skinner got off her computer and took her usual spot across from me. I was surrounded, again. These three particular ex-work friends had zero fuzzy maternal feelings for me and much less history. Depending on how much they lied to themselves, I was either a cheeky brat that needed a spanking or a problematic prisoner that wouldn’t get with the (re)program. Maybe both. I figured: Why not play the part? “So…what are we doing?” My voice was gratingly playful. My tone nails on a chalkboard. Winters took the lead. “Clark. We wanted to talk to you about some thi-” “Shouldn’t we be doing introductions?” I interrupted. “You know? Name and occupation?” I sat up a little straighter and folded my hands on the table. “Hi I’m Chandra Skinner, Speech and Language Pathologist? Hello, I’m Maxine Winters Physical Therapist? Hello I’m Jasmine Sosa, Occupational Therapist?” I made double sure to enunciate every last syllable in Sosa’s name, just to piss her off. “That sort of thing? Don’t we need the Resource Compliance Specialist before we start?” This trio had backed me up so many times for countless years and talked me up to dozens of parents, only to turn on me the second I had an accident. They were no better than Beouf. The only reason I hated them less than her was because they were never really friends. “This isn’t an I.E.P. meeting,” Sosa said. “And you know it.” “Do I, Jazzie? Do I?’ I smiled but I didn’t feel it. There was nothing whimsical or comical about my emotions. Class clowns were always the least likely to actually find things funny. “Hm? Do I?” “You do, Mr. Grange.” “Miss Sosa,” Winters gently redirected. “We’re getting off topic.” “Why didn’t you spank her and diaper her to put her in line, Winters?” I spat. “I know you had the urge.” Winters kept her cool and plowed on over my baiting. “Sweetie, we know you’re really smart and you’re having a hard time adjusting to things. We know.” Bullshit they knew. They didn’t know a damn thing, and if they did that only made them worse. If they knew, if they had any idea, then that made them Ambroses in Janet’s clothing. “No.” I said, flatly. “You don’t.” “We wanted to talk to you by yourself,” Sosa said, having regained her composure, “because we know you like performing and making people happy.” I turned my head to look at her and let my fake smile completely drop. So much past tense was needed to correct that sentiment. I liked performing. I liked making people happy. The only thing that gave me satisfaction was frustrating Amazons and their wet and waddling pawns. Winters made my head pivot again with, “Right now, it’s just you and us, buddy. You don’t have anybody to impress or show off for. No one to embarrass us in front of.” I eyeballed Skinner and watched her shift uncomfortably. Not quite. I kept my gaze straight ahead at her. Sosa and Winters were trading off lines to keep me swiveling and off guard. Nice try, ladies. “You brought me here because you didn’t want any distractions with the ballpit while you chew me out. Skinner’s room sucks so you think it’ll help me focus.” Skinner’s lips retreated inward. I was disappointed when neither of her co-workers affirmed my hypothesis. “We think you’re a good…” Winters chose her words carefully, lest she offend, “...person. And you’re very, very clever. That’s why the three of us are wondering why you keep trying to pick on the people who are helping you.” Behavior? They wanted to talk to me about my behavior? It would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. “Shouldn’t I be talking to the Guidance Counselor? Or the Dean? Or the Principal?” f**k it. Give me Brollish. “We don’t want you to get in trouble,” Sosa said. She actually sounded like she kind of meant it. “We don’t want to punish you. We want to help.” My blood pressure spiked, yet my voice remained even and steady. “You left me in a room with someone awful enough to make Billy cry. Billy. Have you met the man? He’s not a crier.” No rebuttal came so I continued. “You put me pantsless in front of my kids. Or did you think I would forget that those were my students before I forgot what sound a bird makes?” This whole conversation was becoming terribly awkward and as angry as I was becoming I was enjoying myself. “You’ve got a point, Clark.” Winters said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sosa scoff and cross her arms. “We should have taken you back to your classroom, not Mrs. Ambrose’s. We won’t be doing that again.” Sosa tagged in, keeping her temper. “But you were acting in a way that was highly immature and inappropriate, sir. You were impeding your own learning, our ability to teach, and everyone else’s ability to learn.” That would have been true if any of us were ‘learning’ things besides that it’s easier to give up and a Grown-Up for help or that crawling was a viable option for locomotion. “Do you understand why we had to remove you, kiddo?” Kiddo. Sosa had dared use the word that Maxine had been cautious enough to avoid. “I guess I’m just too Little to understand,” I droned. “Beouf ever tell you guys about the block tower metaphor? Maybe my early blocks were just super fussy and bratty. Maybe I was a horrible child the first time around and only through good parenting and patience did I grow into a teacher.” My nostrils flared at the blasphemy I was making myself say. “Now all those old impulses are coming back, and it’s taking forever to get to the adult I used to be. This is just who I am now.” I didn’t believe a word I was saying, obviously. That wasn't the point. I was insulting myself in an effort to derail their grievance. They’d said I’d acted badly and I’d parried it by saying I was an innately bad person who could not be cured. Now they were being pressured to argue that I could. Skinner took the bait. “Clark,” she spoke for the first time. “Don’t say that, sugar.” Her voice was already becoming sweet and syrupy like maple on pancakes. Damn, I missed pancakes. “You’re good. You’re really good. You’re just having a rough time of it and don’t have the words to ask for the help you need. That’s why we’re here trying to listen.” She reached out and placed her palm over my folded hands. “No,” I stated. “I’m bad. I’m very, very bad. You should just give up on me. If you don’t want to write me up, just go through the motions. Stop trying. It’s not worth it.” A soft, sorrowful smile bloomed on Skinner’s face. “That’s not gonna happen, bubba. We’re here for you.” “Miss Skinner?” I had to do my best not to laugh. “Yes?” “Are you, Maxine and Jasmine all part of a throuple?” I asked. “Just wondering.” Skinner withdrew her hands and leaned all the way back in her chair. Her nose wrinkled up like I’d just had an accident. “No wonder your wife burned your house down.” Gasps erupted out from everyone’s lips. Mine, Winters, and Sosa. Even Skinner looked like she couldn’t believe she’d said what she’d said. “Chandra!” “Miss Skinner!” “Sorry!” My whole world went blood red. “YOU MOTHER f***ing BITCH!” Two heavy hands shot to my shoulders to keep me from standing up. I kicked the chair out and dropped to the floor, ready to give a new meaning to the phrase ‘ankle biter’. I screamed and surged under the table but didn’t get far enough to do anything. Winters and Sosa scrambled after me and dragged me out from under the table. Sosa sat cross legged on the floor and pulled me into her lap. She grabbed my wrists and forced my arms across my chest like a mock straight jacket and leaned her body weight forward on me so that I was bent over and couldn’t kick. My throat was starting to get raw, I was screaming so hard. I stopped caring that my pants had slid down past my knees in the struggle. “KEEP MY WIFE OUT OF YOUR f***ing MOUTH YOU CUNT!” The blood rushed out of Skinner’s face and rushed all the way to her ankles.To make someone’s mask slip that drastically should have made me feel proud. I didn’t feel anything except rage at that moment. Skinner walked out of my line of sight. Nobody talked over my shouts and screams. I wanted to keep screaming forever. Eventually I ran out of breath and started huffing. “You ready to talk, sir?” Sosa asked me. “It’s okay if not. Take your time. I just can’t let you try and hurt anyone. You understand.” I inhaled and steadied my breathing. “Yeah. I can talk. Let me go?” “Not yet.” “Do you need to switch?” Winters asked her partner. I felt Sosa’s upper body shift when she shook her head. “No. I’m good.” The speech pathologist walked back around to my line of sight. “Clark, I’m so sorry,” Skinner said. She got down on her knees so that she was closer to eye level. “I shouldn’t have said that. That was wrong of me. I was angry, but that doesn’t excuse what I said. I’m sorry and I wanted to know that. Forgive me?” My tongue ran over my teeth and I mulled over her half-hearted mostly panicked apology. “No.” I said. “Not at all. I’m going to tell on you. I’m going to tell my Mommy on you and she’s going to believe me because I never tell on any Amazon that hasn’t actually done something. It’s the only thing I don’t lie about.” I would do so much worse than that. Skinner was in for absolute hell for as long as I was Janet’s captive. For once, me not being held to a lower standard than an Amazon was working in my favor. As long as I wasn’t a danger to other students, I’d be okay. If Skinner was scared of me before… Skinner’s eyesight rose above me. “I should go.” “You should go,” Winters agreed. The dreary room stayed quiet until the door opened and closed again. “Clark. I’m going to let you go, now.” Sosa said. “Okay?” “Okay.” “One…two…three…” My wrists were released, I half jumped out of her lap and yanked my pants back up over my waist. Sore and aching, I turned to face them, and started stretching my back and arms. Winters stayed standing and Sosa remained seated. She mirrored my own stretches. Holding even a Little in a restraining like that can be taxing and uncomfortable after long enough. The clock on the wall said that I’d been close to insensate with anger for close to twenty minutes. They were both in front of me where I could see them and one was sitting down. I shuffled a few steps back. They blocked my path to the door, but I could make them work to catch me if I felt like running around. “What now, ladies? Where do we go from here?” “We talk,” Winters addressed me. “Like we said, Clark,” Sosa said. “We know you well enough to know that making people upset and getting upset are what you do when you don’t want to do something.” Winters tacked on the obvious. “It’s an escape behavior.” My feet shuffled a few more steps back. Fantasies of me knocking Skinner’s computer monitor off her desk danced in my gray matter. “So you guys just want me to be nicer to you? You want me to behave? Is that why you wanted to corner me?” “No,” Sosa said. “We can handle you.” “We only see each other once a week,” Winters clarified. I cocked an eyebrow. “So the other Littles?” Who was snitching on me to the therapists? It couldn’t have been Ivy or my clique. A lack of opportunity and a healthy amount of loyalty prevented that. Mandy maybe? Jesse? Shauna? What had I done to Shauna lately? “We want you to take it easy on Mrs. B. for a while,” Winters said. Laughter. Melodious, sidesplitting, rictus grinning laughter made me double over to the point that my knees felt weak. I was panting again by the time I’d finished. “No.” I said. “Just. No.” “What we mean is,” Sosa said, “is we don’t think you know just how much your teacher cares about you. How much she’s always cared about you.” A second round of cackling found me rolling on the floor in hysterics. Neither Amazon moved, waiting for me to finish my theatrics. “Miss Skinner was pulling up some emails for you to look at. Would you please read them with us?” Winters was playing me, I knew. Didn’t care, though. Curiosity was getting the better of me. I was allowed to stand up on Skinner’s chair and sort through dozens of handpicked emails. “In the weeks and possibly months that follow, please be patient with C.G.” Sosa read one aloud. “That’s you,” she said. I rolled my eyes. Teachers generally didn’t refer to students by name in official emails for reasons of confidentiality. “Obviously.” “Not only is his Maturosis in wild flux, but more importantly he is in a new stage in his life yet in an environment that he is very familiar with. Most Littles experiencing Maturosis have the benefit of a completely new start in terms of caregivers and services. He is not fortunate enough to have that option available. As his former colleagues and professionals, we owe it to him to make him as comfortable as possible as he reaches his Developmental Plateau. He is going to need a lot of love.” It was dated the Friday that my Adoption was being finalized. Winters read another. “C.G. is unavailable for therapy this morning. He’s been crying all day. Shock at recent trauma is starting to set in. Will inform you of specifics after school.” That explained that. “Thank you for the mittens,” Sosa read the next one. “I think they were an effective deterrent to him attempting to purposefully break things. I do not think at this time that they are appropriate for his needs beyond that. Would you like them back?” “C.G. has always been talented with speech and language,” I recited. “It does not surprise me to learn that he is having difficulty learning new communication strategies in the event that his vocabulary decreases due to Maturosis. Can we collaborate and try to brainstorm some new strategies for him?” My jaw started to drop. “Maybe something whole group so that he doesn’t feel singled out? He might even be motivated to encourage his classmates. He’s always had great leadership potential.” Tears threatened as I read the last sentence. I had to sit down for a moment. I felt dizzy like I hadn’t eaten. “You okay, Mr. Clark?” Sosa asked. I shook my head, but I said, “Yeah.” More evidence that Beouf was a madwoman who saw me as a child in desperate need of her intervention. We read another. And another. And another. Every week I’d been enrolled, she was giving all of them updates and practically begging for second chances and offering insights and guesses as to what might be going on in my brain. Sometimes she was close, too, even though it always got tracked back to my bullshit condition. Every step of the way, she’d been trying to advocate for me in her own twisted manner. “She doesn’t do this with every student of hers,” Winters said. “Not even close. She really cares about you, Clark. Really, really.” “There’s more,” Sosa said. She dug into her pocket and took out her phone. “Since you like reading texts so much…” She tapped her now password protected screen and showed me. ❤️ Maxine ❤️ Ready for MM’s IEP? no it’s too early in the year for this shit ikr? Think we’ll have any problems? probly not just the usual beginning of the year crap from new pre-k rents don’t like CG teaching here Who does? mel Touche, lol. That particular conversation had been dated over two years ago. I suddenly felt extremely empty inside. I chomped down on my own tongue to keep myself from bawling. “Mrs. B has been looking out for you ever since you got here,” Sosa whispered. “You have no idea just how much she cares about you and wants you to be happy, Clark. The only reason I think she didn’t Adopt you herself was because she thought you’d be happier with your Mommy.” “She’s doing her best,” Winters said. “We just want you to do yours, too. Try to be fair to her.” “Why’d she ask you to help her?” I asked. “She didn’t,” Sosa answered. “Then who?” “Mrs. Zoge,” they said in unison. They pulled up the email to prove it, carbon copied to all three of them. It had been sent yesterday and gave a blow by blow of every terrible thing I’d managed to accomplish last week through the end of school yesterday. She was well aware of what I was doing but didn’t know how to help either her friend or her student and felt caught in the middle of it all. Zoge ended the letter by asking them to please not tell Beouf because of how proud she was and she didn’t want to embarrass her partner. I hung my head. “I think I’m ready to go back to class now,” I said. “I think you are, too.” Winters agreed. We walked back in silence while everything I’d seen and heard blended together in my head. I remembered in more than just an academic sense how much I’d liked Melony Beouf. How much the woman had meant to me over the years and how much I’d evidently meant to her. I’d already heard it from her own lips. Hearing it come from others, from people I just wanted to make miserable, made it feel even more real. Beouf’s protection and fondness of me had been more than some long buried secret that came bursting out in moments of overwhelming regret and grief from things that could have been; it was a publicly recognized fact that was common knowledge to all. At some point, in her own crazy typical Amazon way, she had really loved me and was doing her best to do so again. I owed her a lot. So much. Just thinking about it made me flush and feel utterly overwhelmed. “He’s all yours,” Sosa said. “Thank you,” Winters chimed in. “Much appreciated.” “Thank you very much, ladies.” Zoge said in her almost musical way. “We are happy to have him back.” Activity centers were over. Wrappers of animal crackers lay empty in the wastebasket. I’d missed practically the entire first half of my school day reading emails and throwing blood lust temper tantrums while trying not to cry. Presently, Beouf sat on the floor with a big book in her lap; probably something about the fun one can have when one is a baby instead of an adult or something. The rest of the class sat around in a semi-circle formation. She dared not make a statement for fear of a chorus of ‘Why?’. Neither did Zoge intervene on her behalf and tell me to join them. The therapists stayed at the classroom entrance, waiting to see what I’d do. Likewise my peers all turned their heads and stared, expecting me to join them in their brainwashing or to create some fresh havoc to amuse. Everyone was looking at me. I was the center of attention. It was almost like being a teacher again. So, of course, I did what came most naturally to me. Fresh tears streaming down my face, I looked to her, stomped my foot and shouted at the top of my lungs, “f**k YOU, MELONY! YOU’RE A f***ing MONSTER! YOU CAN GO f**k YOURSELF YOU GODDAMN PSYCHO BITCH I HATE YOU! f**k YOU! I HATE YOOOOOOOOU!”

Author’s Note: The following was an entry into a contest for the Dear Jazzie Podcast (where we answer all of life’s kinky questions). The rules were to write a 1-5k Short story featuring the show’s titular host, Jasmine Starshine and her Co-Hostess with the Mostess FawnyABDL. Now that the contest has passed, I am free to share. https://www.atoddswithgod.com/ https://www.patreon.com/jasminestarshine *********************************************************************************************************** Gentle Reader, Atoms may be the building block of the universe, but it is conscious thought and whimsical fantasy that reality itself is built upon. If enough sentient beings agree on something, then the universe itself makes it true. Platypi are mammals because enough people think they are, despite the fact that they lay eggs. Birds are living dinosaurs only because we conceptualize them being so, or else they would otherwise have remained distant strangers who have maybe only vaguely heard of one another. It’s more than just a matter of scientific categorization, too. Reality itself has been retroactively rearranged (or retconned as the young people prefer to call it) in and out of existence an innumerable amount of times. The world was once ruled by giant house cats till a hundred tiny naked humans dreamt otherwise. Presently, they have never ruled and are relegated to being handheld bundles of fluff that serve few if any practical purposes save to ruin furniture and weigh down laps . Should a hundred house cats all dream the same, they will have always been our rulers once more and Gumbie cats will teach us to sing and dance before eating us whole. How fortunate it is that getting even a hundred cats to all do the same thing at once would require yet another miracle of reality altering proportions. The strings of truth and reality are not always plucked in such radical and world altering ways, either, Gentle Reader. Zeus and his ilk did not reside upon Olympus until the Greeks thought so in unison. Then when they got over the notion and moved onto other, bigger deities, the gods left and had never been there, (though not without complaint). Nor is this phenomenon limited to the ancient world or require the population of an entire civilization to manifest. If as few as two people can agree on something and their thoughts, wishes, desires, and whatnot sync up accordingly at precisely the right moment, entire lives can be resculpted. As recently as 1971, a mother and daughter have switched places due to their mutual jealousy and desire for one another’s lives. Granted, said documented occurrence was later novelized and then adapted into a mediocre Disney Movie, but the point still stands. For magic to happen, no more than two people need to broadcast the exact same thought at the exact same time out into the heavens and aether. It’s harder than it sounds, but on the rare occasions when it happens, the stuff of dreams and nightmares comes to pass. Everything else is simply a matter of show and spectacle. Spellbooks, incense, magic rings, lamps, and circles of salt or piles of entrails are exactly as useful as a crow’s feather held aloft by a baby elephant’s trunk. It doesn’t even have to happen on purpose or with intent. None of this flashed through Fawny’s mind. She had much bigger concerns; like getting her panties back. “Daddy!” She whined. “I don’t wanna wear diapers!” Her Daddy flipped over the first stack of pancakes. “I’m well aware, dear.” Wearing nothing but a baggy sleep shirt and a crinkly pink diaper poking out the bottom, Fawny did not look like the beacon of maturity she knew she was. Her forehead was almost as hot as the pancake griddle, and it took considerable willpower not to stamp her foot in frustration. Who could blame her for being so put off? Daddy had come into her bedroom first thing in the morning, and instead of cleaning her up and popping open a pair of panties the way he usually did, he kept her laid down and slipped a new diaper underneath her. She’d had her diaper changed. Like a baby. It was enough to make any big girl properly cross. “It’s not fair,” she said. Her lip pouted out despite her best efforts to contain it. “I’m not a baby!” Daddy pivoted around and set a stack of pancakes down. “No one said you’re a baby,” he corrected her. Despite her reservations, Fawny was drawn closer to the breakfast table by the smells of the delectable flapjacks. Only when she was seated did she need to raise her head to maintain eye contact with her Daddy. “Then why do I have to go to a daycare?” she asked, a hint of whining despair coloring her inflection. “Why do I have to wear diapers?” Calmly, her Daddy smeared butter and poured syrup all over the morning’s feast. With the patience of a saint and the coordination of a hibachi chef, he cut the stack into neat bite size pieces as he explained. “Because school’s out,” Daddy told her. “Daddy still needs to work and you need someone to look after you.” He handed the fork to her and doubled back to pour some milk to wash it all down with. “So you’re going to daycare. It’s not forever. Just for the summer.” Fawny took a forkful of pancake pieces and stuffed them in her mouth. She chewed them daintily with her lips closed and swallowed. “But why diapers?” she asked again. “I don’t have to wear diapers at school.” Daddy put a bendy straw inside Fawny’s glass and placed it beside her plate. At least it wasn’t in a sippy cup. “Diapers aren’t allowed at school,” he told her. “They are here.” “But everyone will make fun of me,” the girl fretted. “They’ll call me a baby! “No they won’t,” Daddy reassured her. “All the others will be in diapers, too. You’ll be the biggest kid there.” Fawny took another bite of pancakes, despite her appetite waning. “Okay, but that’s worse,” she replied. “You do see how that’s worse, right?” Daddy sighed and tried another tack. “You’re not a baby, Fawny. No one thinks that, I swear. Just sometimes you get so preoccupied with what you’re doing that you forget to go to the bathroom on time. And the teachers at this daycare are really busy taking care of the actual babies that they might not have time to remind you.” He waited a beat for his words to sink in. “I’m just having you wear them to make it easier on everybody.” At the mention of her past potty problems, Fawny eyed the straw as though it were a poisonous snake. “So I don’t have to use my diapers?” A soft smile from Daddy. “Not at all. They’re ‘just in case’ diapers.” Fawny stuck out her tongue involuntarily in disgust. In her experience, ‘just in case’ never meant ‘just in case’. Daddy kept talking. “Nobody but the teachers will even know you’re wearing one,” he promised. “If you need to go, just find a teacher and they’ll take you to the bathroom, just like at school.” “And if I forget?” “They’ll help clean you up.” Flashbacks as recent as fifteen minutes ago flashed across Fawny’s mind. Images of her on some daycare changing table with her skirt hiked up and her diaper fully exposed made the pancakes in her mouth turn to sand. A resentful eyebrow arched up above the rim of her glasses. “You mean like you did this morning?” Daddy had the good grace to look ashamed when she said that. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.” He finally took a seat and started to eat the remaining pancakes. “If you have an accident, they’ll just quietly take you to the bathroom, and help you clean up, and then you can get back to playing.” Fawny supposed she could live with that, as long as nobody tried sticking their fingers down her pants or anything. Fork still in hand, she leaned over and took a long sip of milk. “Will I have to take a nap?” “Yes,” Daddy answered without hesitation. “You’re not in first grade, yet.” Damnit. Oh well. It was worth a shot. Fawny blinked to herself. She wasn’t supposed to know that word.How’d it get into her inner monologue? For that matter, how did ‘inner monologue’ get into her inner monologue? How old was she again? The oldest kid in daycare and still in diapers. That’s all that mattered. A new thought came to the forefront of Fawny’s mind. “I’m going to be the biggest kid at daycare?” Daddy nodded and swallowed more of his breakfast. “Yep.” “Does that mean I could…” she tried to search for the right word, “...help?” “Help?” “As in…babysit?” “I think you’re too little to babysit, honey,” Daddy chuckled softly. “And I don’t think they’d want your help changing diapers or feeding lunch.” Fawny’s nose wrinkled. Ew! Not what she wanted, anyways. Still… “But I could tell a teacher if a baby needed a change…? And I could pass out snacks to some of the bigger babies…? Or give them a bottle…?” She did that thing that adults do when they were both making a statement and asking a question at the same time, with the last word of every sentence going up a note. Daddy’s brow knitted in contemplation. “Yeah. I suppose that’d be alright. We’ll have to check with the teachers, though.” More possibilities were starting to build up inside of her. “And I could play peekaboo with them. And make funny faces! And read some books to them! And show them my dollies! And reach stuff up high for them!” There was no hint of uncertainty here. Fawny might be the biggest kid still in diapers at this place, but she’d still be the biggest kid. That came with privileges and responsibilities! “I could play with them!” she rambled on excitedly, bouncing in her seat. “Show them how to be big like me! Help take care of them!” And if she got so busy that she forgot to go potty it would just be because she was doing something more important. Like legos, or dollies. Or teaching the little ones about different kinds of bugs. It wouldn’t be like any of them could make it in time either. Daddy scratched his mustache lightly with his thumb. “Sure,” he agreed. “You can be a good example at nap time, too. Lay down without a fight so they know not to be fussy, either.” Fawny rolled her eyes. “Okay,” she droned. “Good girl,” he said. “Now go back to your room and start getting dressed. You’ll want to look your best.” Fawny’s eyes widened and a smile crept its way back onto her face. Babies definitely couldn’t dress themselves. Nor did they have her inimitable sense of fashion. ‘Inimitable’. There was another word the Kindergartener didn’t know how she knew. How odd. As she got up from the breakfast table and skipped back to her bedroom, Fawny ignored the intrusive crinkle that came with every step. She ignored certain intrusive thoughts as well. ************************************************************************************************** Something was off about today, but Jazzie couldn’t quite put their finger on it. That morning, Jazzie woke up in a sopping wet diaper. That was pretty normal. It was the same one she’d gone to bed wearing, so that wasn’t what was off. Daddy had come in, lifted her out of her crib, cleaned her up and put her in a new one followed by a clean purple onesie. Said diaper was now presently wet, because it had been almost forty five minutes since her Daddy had changed her and fed her breakfast. Wet, but not soaked. Very familiar. Fairly standard. For some reason, however, Jazzie couldn’t help but feel something was deeply wrong about their situation. All the way to daycare that morning they felt as if they’d forgotten something. It made their temples itch with anxiety and guilt, the way anxiety and willful procrastination tends to. Like skipping band practice or putting off an editing session for a well paying but utterly annoying client. Oh gosh! “Daddy!” She called up from her carseat. “Speckles?! Is Speckles okay, Daddy?” Jazzie’s Daddy gazed lovingly at her from the rear view mirror, dark eyes smiling with adoration. “As far as I know, Princess,” he said. “Why?” No! Something was wrong! “Where is he?” Jazzie was shaking so hard that she was practically vibrating against the tight straps of her car seat (and not in the fun way). “Last I checked, he was back in your nursery,” Daddy replied matter of factly. Jazzie closed their eyes and tried to remember the way her nursery had been set up this morning. Crib? Check. Changing table? Check. Speckles? Okay, yes. Speckles had been right in the corner where he belonged. Eyes closed, Jazzie tilted her head back and exhaled, newly content to doze until she got to daycare. Daycare? Something about that thought stuck in Jazzie’s craw. Did they normally go to daycare? They certainly went to something a lot like daycare, with lots of people just like them, waddling around and playing. And there were dear friends and people who took care of them instead of Daddy so it certainly felt like daycare. However, that was…seasonal. Daycare was everyday. What would Jazzie be doing normally? She didn’t know, but she felt she should. Something about taking her dick and taping it to her thighs? That didn’t make any sense. “Uh oh,” Daddy chimed in, breaking Jazzie’s concentration. “Someone’s got a case of the morning grumps!” Jazzie’s eyes popped open, bewildered. “Wha-? “I know how to fix that!” Daddy cooed. “One…two…three!” A big strong hand pointed backwards at Jazzie and Daddy shouted in the most teasing yet loving way possible: “BAAAAAAAAAAABY!” Jazzie shrunk down in her seat, blushing and covering her face. “Nuh-uh.” she said, loving all the blushy attention he was giving her. “Oh really?” Daddy said back to her. “Then what are you?” Jazzie peaked out from behind their fingers. “BARK!” “Bark?” Daddy pretended not to understand. “You’re a bark?” “Mm..mm…!” Jazzie shook their head. “BARK!” A flash of understanding in the rearview mirror. “Oooooh!” Daddy said. “You’re a puppy, now. Is that it?” Jazzie nodded and wiggled her butt in her seat. “BARK!” “Okay,” Daddy said. “You can be my little puppy.” “BARK!” Existential crisis forgotten, Jazzie ‘barked’ and ‘woofed’ all the way to daycare, as she did most everyday. ***************************************************************************************************** “And this must be Fawny!” The daycare teacher said. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Fawny!” Fawny took her dress and performed a curtsy. “It’s nice to meet you, too, ma’am!” she chirped. The grown-up reached out and gave Fawny a pat on the head. This seemed odd considering she was at about the same height as the girl, but Fawny couldn’t articulate why that was odd. This was forgotten the instant the teacher said, “I love that cute little dress of yours.” “Thank you!” Fawny beamed, and gave another curtsy. “I made it myself!” The teacher put her hands to her cheeks and gasped. “Oh my! Really? All by yourself?” Fawny flashed a toothy grin and nodded, feeling terribly proud. “Yes, ma’am.” “My goodness you’re such a big girl!” the grown-up praised. “Sewing all that all by yourself? How old are you?” Fawny started to tell her but then froze. “I’m…! I’m… I’m…” Her smile melted like wax. “I forgot.” “She just graduated Kindergarten,” her Daddy explained. The teacher bobbed her head up and down appreciatively. “That is big!” she agreed. “Are you ready to be a big helper for us here today?” Fawny’s smile immediately returned to her. “Yes, ma’am!” The new teacher opened the door and bid Fawny enter. “Then go on in and make yourself at home.” Fawny trotted in but paused at the threshold. She looked back over her shoulder and saw her Daddy handing over a pink backpack filled with Fawny’s ‘just in case’ diapers. “Go on,” the teacher shooed. “I just need to check with your Daddy about a few things.” Daddy blew her a kiss, sending her on her way. “Why couldn’t I remember my age?” Fawny whispered to herself. “Why can’t I still?” The kindergartener walked into the daycare, scanning for playmates and toys. Little girls and boys ran around screaming joyfully in various states of undress, all obviously padded and oblivious to their lack of modesty. Plastic toys were being smacked together as impromptu musical instruments. Little babies rolled aimlessly on the floor, racing crawlers. Toddlers played ‘Restaurant’ with artificial food. This all felt familiar. Vaguely familiar. Kind of babyish, but fun. Fawny could learn to like it here. Being a big girl fish in a little baby pond could definitely have its advantages. It certainly seemed better than a positively ‘mid’ coke orgy. Fawny gasped. How did she know that? She…she… “Thirty,” Fawny gasped in realization. “I’m thirty!” Neither the teacher nor Daddy had needed to stoop to pat her on the head or make eye contact because she was the exact same height as them. Upon closer inspection, she realized that none of the other ‘children’ actually were, either. “Fuck…” the young woman hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Without hesitation she pinched the top of her hand as hard as she could. Imagine her disappointment when the pain did not cause her to awaken in her house in Canada, safe in her bed. To borrow and bastardize from far more eloquent wordsmiths: There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in most philosophies, and after one has eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever’s left must be the truth no matter how batshit improbable it seems. “I’m in a story,” Fawny realized. Just thinking of herself as ‘Fawny’ made that part seem obvious. And considering that this wasn’t sensual and delightfully poetic yet realistic fiction, she highly doubted Darleen Lattle was involved. That likely meant… Oh no! Equal parts terrified and annoyed to the point of numbness, Fawny couldn’t think of anything else to do in that moment of revelation other than to nervously bite her lip and stare down at the floor. She had a bad feeling that she wouldn’t be making it to the potty after all. “At least I’ve got a ton of chapters and an erratic release schedule…” she muttered darkly to herself. Who knows…maybe this was just a Sophie & Pudding joint. They sometimes had happy endings. “Could be worse,” Fawny said in order to keep herself sane. “At least it’s not the Diaper Dimension.” Her sardonic pondering as a defense mechanism was disrupted however, by the sound of sobbing. Not just any sobbing, either. *********************************************************************************************** Jazzie spent the first few forevers that day losing herself in the joy of play. Running. Spinning. Rolling. Building things up. Knocking them down. Playing fetch. It was so fun being little! One of the best things in the world! At some point, Jazzie planned to take the daycare’s mega bloks and stack them into a giant space marine. She might even snatch the finger paints and customize them like her miniatures at home! Worlds! Biggest! Miniature! How sweet would that be? The baby stopped and furrowed her brow, confused. Why did ‘being little’ sound temporary in her mind? If Jazzie had always been a baby, wouldn’t they lack any competing experience to compare it with? These thoughts all felt…not wrong…but incongruous with something a baby might think. How the hell did they know the word ‘incongruous’?! A rumble from inside her brought more immediate matters to Jazzie’s attention. “Teacher!” Jazzie called out for help. “Teeeeacher?!” One of the daycare’s teachers practically glided into view. “Yes, baby?” “Teacher…teacher!” Jazzie said, holding her stomach. “Can I…” their face turned bright pink. “Is it okay if I make pushies?” “Pushies?” the grown-up mused. “What do you mean? Are you saying you want a turn on the baby swing?” “No,” Jazzie said, then corrected herself. “Well, also yes, but that’s not what I was asking about.” She took a deep breath and did her best to communicate her needs. “I mean…is it okay if I…y’know…?” One look at the teacher told Jazzie that the grown-up didn’t know. “Poop my diaper…?” she choked out. “Oh, Jazzie!” the teacher laughed. “Of course it is! Why are you even asking? You’re far too little to even hold it in! Are you trying to pretend to be a big girl?” “No!” Jazzie gasped. “I just didn’t want to violate your consent, is all.” “Awwww,” the teacher said and pinched Jazzie on the cheeks. “How precious! Babies don’t understand consent!” Two things happened then and there: The first was that Jasmine Starshine came fully back to herself. The second thing was that her body gave out and she uncontrollably filled her pants, pushing a steaming behemoth into the seat of her already wet diaper. Jazzie was gazing off into the middle distance as the mess expanded in the back of their diaper, ballooning out her onesie as more and more of her personal mud forced its way past cheeks unable to clench. With each push and exhale, came a deluge of memories from another life; one interrupted if not stolen. Their legs started to wobble, and with a final grunt, Jazzie lost balance and landed sitting spread eagle on the daycare floor. Completely overwhelmed, Jazzie did what was perhaps the most natural thing for anyone to do in this present situation, regardless of age. “Great!” Jazzie sobbed. “Now I need some crazy magic bullshit AND a diaper change!” ******************************************************************************** Gentle Reader, The primary reason why so many children’s stories feature a singular protagonist is that the world is a fundamentally scary place when you’re by yourself, and much less so when you’ve someone else to turn to. Hansel and Gretel conquered the Witch of the Black Forest solely because they had one another. Wendy Darling had her brothers and the puckish Peter Pan as a guide through Never Land. Perhaps Alice wouldn’t have found Wonderland quite so mad if she’d been able to turn to another little girl like herself and ask “Are you seeing the same shit that I’m seeing?” Jazzie was sobbing like a banshee, terrified out of her mind. She wanted her job. She wanted her life. She wanted her Daddy! Her real Daddy! Not the mindfucked facsimile that had driven her here. In her fear and panic, she needed comfort and certainty. A familiar face. An understanding ear. They wanted Grey. Or Nif. Or Joe. Or Chloe. Or…or… “Jazzie?” Jazzie lifted their head. She lifted her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes. She knew that voice. She’d heard it long before she’d met its source in person, but it was near and dear to her in so many ways. “Fawny?” Standing over her, and dressed like a Kindergartener to Jazzie’s baby, was Fawny. Her co-host and partner in crime eyed her wearily. “Is it really you?” Fawny asked. Jazzie sniffled and wiped her nose with her forearm. “Yeah. You?” “Yeah.” As if by instinct, Jazzie lifted a hand up from the carpet and reached out toward Fawny. Thumb angled out and down and fingers bunched together and crooked like a claw. Fawny’s eyes sparkled with recognition. She mirrored the gesture and touched her hand to Jazzie’s, thumbs pressing against each other at the tips, and fingernails and first knuckles of each hand kissing. Two halves forming a whole heart. “It is you!” Jazzie shouted! She gathered her legs underneath her and shot up. Fawny met her friend halfway, practically picking Jazzie the rest of the way up off the floor. “It’s you, too!” They cackled in nervous relief, just glad to be two sane people in a world gone mad. “So,” Fawny said when they finally had the nerve to let go of one another. “I think we’re in an AR trap.” Jazzie’s face fell. She’d reached the same conclusion, but hearing someone else say it made it all too real. “What kind?” A beat. “Darleen Lattle?” she asked hopefully. Fawny put her hand on Jazzie’s shoulder as a gesture of comfort. “I think it’s Pers.” The fear of imminent ego death gripped Jazzie by the heart. “Oh noooooo!” they howled. “We are so boned!” “Yeah,” Fawny sighed dejectedly. “And not even in the sexy way.” Well past denial and anger, Jasmine Starshine barreled through to bargaining. “Maybe this will be okay,” she said. “Perpetual Change has some wholesome vibes. What if this is like Perpetual Change?” “I haven’t touched it,” Fawny admitted. “Does it have a happy ending?” Jazzie sunk back down to her knees, her tears and anguish renewed. “I don’t knooooooow! I’VE NEVER FINISHED IT!” The two renewed their embrace, seen by the other residents of this cursed place as nothing more than a toddler giving a slightly older toddler a hug. “It’s okay,” Fawny promised. “I’m here. You’re here. We’ll get out of here.” “How?” Jazzie squeaked. “I don’t know,” Fawny admitted. “But we’ll figure it out.’ Jazzie hugged her back for what felt like the thousandth time. “Okay…” she whimpered. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.” “And who knows,” Fawny added. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.” “Yeah,” Jazzie agreed. “Yeah. You’re right. This could be fun.” “Sure it could.” Fawny said. “But um…Jazzie?” “Yeah, Fawny?” Fawny leaned up closely and discretely whispered in Jazzie’s ear. “I think you need a change.” “Yeah,” Jazzie whispered back. “I really do.’ Fawny, the bigger girl (at least in this version of reality) stood up. “I’ll go get a teacher.” “Thank you,” Jazzie sniffled. “I appreciate it.” “You’re welcome.” ************************************************************************************* And so it came to pass that the duo spent that summer together, living in an altered world where they were seen as different yet no less true versions of themselves. It wasn’t bad at all, actually. After about a week of futile escape attempts and baseless theorizing they eventually began to enjoy themselves and share a summer of childhood fun neither one had gotten to experience the first time around. Sleepovers were had. Games were played. Tea parties attended. Elaborate improvisational concerts and plays using classroom instruments and finger puppets were created on the fly and then promptly forgotten after the curtain dropped. On the weekends, water wings were adorned near pools that inflated and only required a garden hose to fill. Cuddles and hugs were aplenty, but only the sort that two innocents might share together. There was even a ‘time out’ or two with smirking grins and hissed declarations of “worth it”. And yes, ‘accidents’ and the resulting natural consequences of said events occurred, but it really wasn’t all that exciting after day three or four. The whole bizarre shebang ended up feeling normal. Blessedly, blessedly, normal. Enough for them to forget their troubles for a time. But as so many things eventually do, the pair found themselves back in our world. And just like the gods of Olympus or the mother and daughter of Freaky Friday, when the pair found themselves back in their (relatively) mundane homes one late July evening, finding that no time seemed to have passed, they assumed it had all been a dream and it quickly faded back into their respective souls’ subconscious. It was real, Gentle Reader. It was real. Where do you think I get my stories from? My imagination? Ha! It is to laugh! Still, it felt right to share this with them. Let them know what really happened. They are both very good friends of mine and I’d like to think they’d appreciate knowing about the events that transpired; even if it is all just a so-called silly story by now. How did I do it? How did I send them on this wonderful whimsical reprieve? There’s the secret: I didn’t. Writers are but the receivers and recorders of the worlds other than these. We are the scribes of the histories that no longer happened, not the architects. If not me, then who, you ask? To topple the human race in favor of the felines, it would require a hundred cats all having the same dream at the same time. For a summer’s worth of daycare in a world without responsibilities or shame, it would only require two very special people accidentally thinking the same thought. The same two thoughts, actually: “Gosh, I need a break” and “I can’t wait to see them again.” -Personalias

Chapter 97: Tension and Release Sunday afternoon, just after lunch. In lieu of a nap and Janet starting her paperwork, Janet and I were torturing ourselves. Each other too, by proxy. “Alright now,” the yoga instructor on T.V. said, “let’s just ease on back into cobra and inhale.” From my position on the floor, I pushed up and locked my elbows while keeping my lower body flat on the ground like a snake. “Now get your toes underneath you and exhale into downward facing dog!” I planted my toes and lifted my ass up towards the ceiling while keeping my head near the ground. I looked like a toddler that was just about to work out how not to crawl. “Ooooooooooffffffff!” Janet groaned on the floor beside me. I was naked save for the Monkeez. She was in shorts and a sports bra. The ceiling fan was on full blast yet we were both dripping with sweat. It had been a while since I’d done anything like this but outside of a few differentiated terms it was like riding a bike. Janet had never done exercise like this and she was panting heavily. That made me feel good about myself. That was something about yoga that I liked. No limits but yourself, your own endurance and how far you were willing to push yourself. Janet could lift me up over her head like I was a pillow, but the world was made for her; so she rarely had to test or push herself. She wasn’t as experienced as I was. “Take a second and bend those knees,” the hunky himbo on screen said. “Walk that dog! Bend that left knee, bend that right knee. Make sure you’re stretching out those ankles!” The mindfucked Little to his right responded with “Yes, Daddy!” “I know you’re doing it, my Little bud. Daddy’s just talking to the people at home.” “I know, Daddy,” the Little said. “I’m just tryna help.” “Heh. Right, Jem! You are! You’re a super big help!” The camera didn’t zoom in or anything, but I I could see a hint of blush start to rise in the Little’s cheeks. I didn’t think it was from embarrassment at being condescended to, but from genuine praise from his Daddy. Poor son of a bitch had gone full native and been mindfucked all to hell. It was the only explanation as to why he was going along with this farce. Janet and I were all but naked. The two men on screen- one Little and his so-called Daddy-were decked out in official looking t-shirts and pants (that still failed to hide the outline of the Little’s diaper ) and didn’t look at all fatigued. Twenty minutes in and Janet and I were absolutely drenched with sweat. “Okay, look at me,” the Amazon video instructor said, “Now bend your knees, and you can either step up like Jem or pounce like me!” The Little moved his feet forward and slowly raised himself into a standing position, the Amazon leapt forward to where his hands were and stood up. At home, Janet stepped; I pounced. I wasn’t going to let her win this one. “Before you get too comfortable,” the Amazon said. “Squat, drop and lower into catcher’s position. Now lift your arms up over your head, biceps by your ears! Remember, you gotta keep those arms stiff and tense so that your heart is pumping faster to get more blood to those muscles. But if your heart rate is getting too high, it’s okay to untense and disengage. Breathe in…and as you’re breathing out, stand up and count back from five…four…three…two…one…” Neither Janet or I counted along with the duo on screen. We both were straining too much to speak. If she had counted, I would have made myself count back, too. In the living room we reached a full standing position about a quarter of a second from the yoga instructor and his pet Little. My muscles sang out in pain and relief when he said, “Now fold forward and just let your upper body hang there for a second. Don’t lock your knees, you can bend them a little.” I sighed and turned my head to look at my captor. Janet’s hair was a raven mop obscuring her face. It was gratifying in ways I couldn’t give words to seeing her struggle like this. Mean spirited? Maybe. I didn’t think so, though. Vulnerability meant more than seeing each other naked and it was nice to feel like I was genuinely better than something at her. The fact that I was several months out of practice and overweight made it even more gratifying. “Go ahead and roll it up to a standing position one vertebrae at a time. Your head should be the last thing up.” Like marionettes coming to life we did. I was breathing kind of hard. She was panting. “Now back up into touch down!” We raised our hands straight up over our heads. Janet and the instructor in the video closed their legs and put their feet together. The Little and I couldn’t because of what was between our thighs. “Arms down by your waist, press your thumbs and index fingers together.” The instructor kept going. “You know where we’re going. My favorite move of the day. Bend backwards like a catapult.” I did so, imagining that my hands were cupping a massive boulder, ready to launch its payload towards a castle I was laying siege to. I couldn’t be certain, but I told myself I was bending further back than Janet. “Now arms out to a T, clench your fists and get strong!” “RAAAAAWR!” The Little on the television growled as we all leaned forward and flexed like the old fashioned muscle men. For Janet, myself, and the Little in the workout video, it looked comical. From the Amazon leading us, it looked impressive. Dude definitely did more than just yoga. “Ten-hut! Shoulders back, chest out!” We held it for a silent three count. “And shake it out. Go ahead, grab some water.” He bent over and grabbed a water bottle. His mindfucked Little took a sip from one with a rubber nipple. Janet did the same as her counterpart. I abstained. “Mommies and Daddies, if you or your Little one needs a break,” the oddly flexible gym bro said, “it’s okay to pause this and come back to it later. Check in with your Little one. See if they need to cool off or if they need changing. Maybe they need to get down to just a diaper. Maybe they need a new one. You’d be surprised how much exercise loosens things up if you know what I mean.” “Daddy!” the Little giggled. “Oh. Sorry, Jem,” he winked at the camera. The redness in the Little boy’s face was definitely not from exertion or overheating. Something in his expression told me he wasn’t hating the attention, however. “And you know,” Grown-Ups can need a rest too, and that’s okay. “Do whatever is right for you. It’s your workout.” It wasn’t my workout, though. I’d never done this program before in my life, and was far from my first choice. It was only a dozen or so moves and poses done in repetition with a handful of variations but it was killing me. The fact that it was being marketed online as a home workout for Amazons and their Littles made my skin crawl. It was on a short list of Little Voices approved exercise media; a recent addition according to Janet’s site. To be fair though, it was pretty low budget making it brass tacks. Also there were no cartoon characters involved or edited in. The fact that it was marketed as a ‘family workout’ goaded Janet into participating with me and it kept the Amazon instructor from being too condescending. I wished the Little wasn’t wearing diapers, but what else was new? It was either this, or an old recording of Dancercise. I’d made the right choice. “Okay. Now if you're ready we’re gonna take this into a whole ‘nother rhythm.” DING-DONG! It seemed like we were both being saved by the bell. Janet walked over to the coffee table and pressed the pause button on her phone, halting the feed to her television. “Coming!” she called. I picked up the bottle filled with water and took a pull on the rubber nipple when her back was turned before following her to the front of the house. There was no delivery man waiting at the front. Just a box of Monkeez big enough for me to fit inside, a bundle of wipes I would have needed both hands to carry, and a bottle of green goop bigger than my head. “DiaperDash,” Janet explained. She closed the front door behind her with her foot, and I remembered to feel embarrassed at the idea that a stranger could have seen me nearly naked. “We’ve got enough food for now and I didn’t want to go all the way to the store for essentials.” I hated that these sorts of things were becoming ‘essential’. She walked right back past me and I followed along behind her back into the living room. “I didn’t think we were running that low,” I said, more afraid of silence than anything else going on. Janet didn’t break her stride. The giant baby supplies were more cumbersome than heavy to her. I had to walk double time to keep up, just like the old days when we were headed up front instead of back to the nursery. “We’re not. Most of this is going to Mrs. Beouf’s room. Hopefully this will keep you stocked up over there until Winter Break.” She placed the bundle of wipes on the lowest shelf of the changing table. A single stack of diapers was unwrapped and went into the hammock above it. The massive jug of green goop went into the alcove next to the baby powder, and Janet broke the seal to attach a plastic hose to it. I cringed imagining where that hose might end up. I suddenly wished we were back doing three second push-ups and runners lunges. “So are we gonna finish?” I thumbed back towards the living room. “I think I need to stop,” Janet let out a long breath. “If I don’t, I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” “Heh,” I muttered. My heartrate was starting to slow and I was feeling slightly dizzy. “Cool.” “You want me to throw up?” Kind of. “No,” I said. “I just…it’s been a while.” Janet nodded in understanding. “Me too. I see why you like this stuff. You can do it without any special equipment and you don’t have to run anywhere.” She wiped beads of sweat off of her forehead. “I think I might want to get yoga mats…that or carpet cleaner if we’re going to be doing this more often.” I cocked my eyebrow and swiped my own forehead. “You want to do this more often?” “Yeah,” she replied. “It’s healthy. Good exercise. Maybe something we could start doing after school?” Our breathing was slowing and we were both regaining our composure. “Yeah.” I said. “Maybe.” It wouldn’t hurt to lose a few pounds. Being less pudgy couldn’t hurt my escape attempt in the long run. The pettiest part of me fantasized about going down a size and forcing Janet to waste money on buying a new diaper size for me. My eyes slowly wandered up to the baby monitor and I remembered that I had bigger, and more immediate worries regarding my freedom. Janet letting me exercise in a manner that didn’t involve cartoons or tights was an empty gesture if my thoughts were slowly being rewired night after night. “Janet,” I said. “Can we talk about something…?” She finished closing up the Monkeez box and moved it right next to the nursery door. Those would be joining me in the backseat of the car on Monday, no doubt. “What’s that?” “You know how we had a shower together last night?” Instant discomfort washed over her. “Yeah, I don’t know if I want to do that right this second.” She grabbed her left bicep, shielding her breasts at the same time. “I feel gross right now. I can rinse you off in the tub real quick and put you down for your nap, but I need to shower by myself. Maybe later?” A strange feeling that I wasn’t brave enough to label came to me but the mention of a nap allowed me to push past it. “I was thinking about tonight, actually. I was thinking maybe we could put that cot together and I could sleep in your room tonight?” The giantess averted her gaze over to my crib. “No.” “No?” Her posture was icicle rigid. “You need your rest. You’ve got school tomorrow and I don’t want to keep you up with me coming and going.” “You won’t,” I said. “I just don’t…” I froze. How much truth could she handle? She’d already slammed her foot down in regards to my toileting. “I don’t want to sleep in here anymore.” “Why not?” She stepped away from the crib and changing table over to me and sat down on the floor. Her skin still glistening from sweat she cocked her head to the side and asked, “What’s wrong?” Half-truth worked with Jessica. Might work with her bestie. “I’m scared,” I admitted. My index finger pointed accusingly at the thing that had been slowly but surely fucking with me in my sleep. “Of that.” My Mommy didn’t need to look at what I was pointing at. “Auntie Jessica said that, too. Why?” “I don’t think it’s doing what it’s supposed to do.” Janet averted her gaze again. “Trust me,” she said flatly. “It was working last night.” My face fell. She’d heard me last night, but it wasn’t my curses that had grabbed her attention. I felt gross all over just imagining her listening to the crinkling sound of me rubbing my hands and thrusting up against piss soaked padding while I tried to remember what sex was like. “I think it’s hypnotizing me,” I squeaked. “I’m having trouble saying…things.” My skin buzzed all over in the worst way, just thinking about what I wanted to tell her. “I can’t say…I can’t say…I hhhhh….I can’t say.” Janet’s face turned into a wax candle and dripped to match my own. “Oh, honey.” Amazon arms pulled me into a hug and I was too bewildered to fight back. “That must be so scary. I’m sorry you’re going through that.” Briefly, I forgot my fear and resentment and whispered “Thank you.” Maybe she’d listen this time… “It’s just a King Fisher, though. All it does is listen. It doesn’t tell.” To herself, she chuckled ruefully and added, “as long as Auntie Jessica puts the right end in.” So much for that emotional respite. I shoved myself away and almost tripped over the back of my heels onto the carpet. “No! You’re not listening! It’s…it’s…!” “You’re not gonna like what I have to say,” Janet told me, “but if you think you’re losing vocabulary that’s probably not the monitor. It’s a King Fisher. All it does is listen. Part of the reason you’re in speech therapy is to give you strategies for if and when you lose Grown-Up words.” My entire body was turning pink in frustration. “You’re! Not! Listening!” I stomped my foot with each word, not giving a damn that it wasn’t helping my case. Nothing would help my case unless she wanted it to. The monitor was fucking with me. Just because a so-called Maturosis Advocacy group hadn’t flagged it, didn’t mean it was safe. The hypocrites probably knew it and were looking the other way because it suited their narratives. Janet held her palm out to silence me. Incredibly, I obeyed. She lowered her hand and stared at my feet so as to avoid eye contact again. “Okay,” she sighed. “You win. No monitor for now. You’ve been sleeping through the night mostly anyways. I’ll take it out. For now.” “Really?” I asked. Sadly, sulkily she nodded. “I was gonna take it out for at least tonight, anyways.” “Why?” She puffed air out her lips and stood up. “After dinner,” she said. “In the meantime, let’s get you clean. Then I’ll take a quick shower, and we can grade papers together.” I was up on her hip a moment later. “You can skip your nap and I’ll give you a bottle of milk after dinner so you can sleep better tonight. Deal?” I thought about it. “You’re getting rid of the monitor?” “I’m unplugging it and walking out with it so you can have some privacy.” I felt the heat from her face with that remark. I should have foreseen what was to come. “Deal?” “Deal.” ********************************************************************** The rest of that lazy Sunday went by as planned. I got to skip a nap, I graded third grade spelling and math papers, (this time not sabotaging any), and had a relatively relaxing afternoon well into the early evening. Dinner was vegan chicken nuggets (supposedly lower fat), and dessert was a bottle of goat’s milk on Janet’s lap watching a boring office sitcom that was half a season in and half a season away from cancellation. I didn’t pay attention to it, instead just allowing Janet to cradle me in her arms while I pondered what new forms of torment to unleash on Monday. Beouf had missed two days of school and the A.L.L. had been perfectly well behaved in her absence. We’d have to make up the difference this week. Maybe something with vomiting? Perhaps finding a way to work in obscenities or better yet, a secret language that merely sounded obscene. I dismissed Amy’s ‘kitty cat’ game as unoriginal and something Beouf would adapt too quickly to. No shower was offered, nor was one asked for. I felt clean enough in my t-shirt and diaper and other than a change of each before bed I wouldn’t need help getting to sleep that night. When the show ended, I dropped the mostly empty bottle onto the couch and let out a mighty yawn. My drowsiness wasn’t helped by the fact that it was getting darker earlier in the year. “I think it’s about time,” Janet said. She kept me in a cradled position and carted me back towards the nursery. As she laid me on the changing table, she started humming softly to herself. The tone of her tuneless song subtly altered in the midst of her changing me, just after she slid the thicker nighttime diaper beneath me and just before she reached for the baby powder and stopped herself. There’s a difference when one is humming because they’re content and humming because one wants to seem content. I almost missed it, myself. “No baby powder?” I asked as the first tape was fastened onto the landing zone, right over the rainbow colored primates snoozing on clouds and crescent moons. Janet visibly shuddered, struggling with herself. She helped me up to a sitting position and pulled the t-shirt up over my head forcing my arms up. “We’re going to try something kinda different tonight.” A looser night shirt followed and my arms were fed through the sleeves. “Different?” I echoed, not seeing where this was going. The baggy shirt more than covered my diaper. I had classmates who would have killed to have clothing so discreet, that is if they had any sense of privacy left to them. We weren’t going over to the crib. “I’ve talked to Amy’s Mommy and some of your other Little friends’ parents.” I did not like where this was going. Had Amy or one of the other Little Voices kids ratted me out? “About…?” Janet wasn’t looking at me again. She took a deep breath. “This is going to suck,” she said simply. “This is going to be embarrassing. But as your…” I saw her jaw work around. Is that how I looked when I was second guessing myself and choosing my words carefully? “As someone who loves you, I want you to have everything you need. That includes…sleeping.” My pulse doubled in speed. “Was there something in the milk? There was something in the milk, wasn’t there?” She kept talking over me. This was a speech she’d rehearsed in her head at least a hundred times over the course of the afternoon. “So I’m going to put something in your diaper to help you.” In my diaper? “Help me what?” “Sleep…cuddle…” Every syllable caused her to cringe. I could hear the air quotes and the naked discomfort all the way from the back of her throat. “Like you were trying to do last night…” Oh no… “Masturbate?” I asked. Janet winced and shut her eyes like I’d levied a curse. She was visibly uncomfortable. Her reason for not wanting to share a bedroom with me took on a completely new context. “Janet. It’s not like that, I promi-!” “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Janet’s speech trampled right over me. She grabbed the bottle of green goo- the rash lotion she’d had delivered earlier that day. “You can go right to sleep if you want. This stuff is also very good at stopping and soothing rashes like it says.” She took the rubber hose from the bottle, lifted my shirt and stuffed it down the front of my diaper. “Hey!” I complained. “What are you-? Stop!” She smacked my hands away with enough force that I hesitated.That hesitation gave her the time to give the pump top three quick pumps. BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! For the second time in less than twenty four hours, something icy cold covered my genitals. I fell back on the changing table and pawed uselessly at the front of my new Monkeez, spreading the jelly like goop around my front. “AAAAAAH! What the fuck are you doing?!” My cursing didn’t seem to register to Janet. She merely withdrew the hose and readjusted the tapes so that there’d be no chance of me reaching my hands through the gap the hose had created. “It’s supposed to be for if you have diarrhea or for when we’re on a long car trip where I won’t be able to change you.” I felt the hose sneak into the back through the leg cuff. BLURT! “It just also might make your diaper very…comfortable.” I wriggled on my back. “How is this comfor…?” No. That was besides the point “It’s cold! And I don’t want to!” Janet picked me up and quickly deposited me down into my crib. I stood up and gripped the rails. Behind me, in the middle of the mattress, Janet had already deposited an extra big, extra fluffy pillow: Amazon sized. Big enough for my entire body to…cuddle with. “You don’t have to,” Janet said stiffly. “But it’s for your own good that you…it’s just for your own good.” The cold mint colored jelly was starting to tingle as my body added heat to the stuff. “Janet!” I whined. But I didn’t know what to say. Janet busied herself unplugging the baby monitor and rapidly wrapped the power cord around the box. “See? I’m giving you privacy. Like you need. You can do whatever you want and Mommy…” she winced and her entire top row of teeth bit into her bottom lip. “Sorry. I won’t be listening in. Promise.” Baby monitor clutched to her chest, Janet walked over to the side of my crib and leaned over. She gave me a kiss on the top of my head. “Good night, Clark. I love you.” She power walked out the door like she couldn’t get out fast enough. Her legs were so absolutely wooden that if I hadn’t known any better I might have supposed that I was back at a Gwiffin Party and that she was actually the greatest Little cosplayer to ever don a pair of stilts. With three swift actions: I heard the flicking of a light switch, the clicking of a closing door, and something I hadn’t heard since my Adoption: the metal fidgeting of someone locking a door. I was alone with only a childish nightlight, stuck in a diaper that I hadn’t soiled myself, trapped in a crib that if I’d managed to hurdle over would result in me spending the night on the nursery floor, and confined with a blanket a judgemental stuffed lion a sleeping pillow and a humping pillow. “What the fuck Janet?!” I screamed through the door. “What the fuck?! I…I h-...” I still couldn’t say it though. I shuffled around in the crib, my eye twitching and my face grimacing while I tossed the extra pillow to the foot of the barred bed. This was gross. This was so gross. She expected me to…in this…and sleep in it? I’d slept in worse. My finger gingerly poked at my crotch and I heard the crisp crinkle coming from the diaper. Diapers become swollen and more squishy as their cores absorb more liquid. Whatever was in this stuff wasn’t getting absorbed, meaning that I could pee all night and the diaper would be at no great risk of leaking or blowing out. Urine would likely flow right by the stuff and get absorbed. Poop might get mixed in, but the gel would still act as a kind of barrier on my skin. The application was admittedly clever. It could also be used as a subtle way to delay (or undo?) potty training. I’d just been changed and already felt like I’d both wet and messed myself. Sensory wise, would I even notice if I used the diaper? Like so many other Amazon ‘achievements’, whether intentional or not, this one had decidedly sinister uses: An Amazon could pop a training chocolate into a Little’s mouth, force feed them water, and then squirt this stuff into their pants every single day and said Little might be functionally incontinent within a fortnight and forget to care about it. The bulk of the rash goop sloshed around in between my legs but left a tingling layer on my privates that was hard to ignore. The initial chilling shock had gone completely and whether through body heat conduction or some chemical reaction the goop had taken on a pleasant tingling, tickling, warmth. It was similar to wetting and messing but without the disgusting bodily implications and it lacked the distinct unpleasant odor of either function. Also, to my chagrin, my pants didn’t feel like they were cooling back down to room temperature. A wet diaper would keep the telltale squish in front or the mush in back but within minutes the temperature would fade. This wasn’t. Not even close. The tingling. The warmth. The wetness. The squelching, sloshing, sticking. From a purely physical standpoint, it was the closest thing to sex that I’d had in a long time. I poked my crotch again and felt the pleasurable warmth spread and double down. All I had to do… My manhood was engorging itself in anticipation before I’d finished the unconscious, intrusive thought. “Fuck,” I hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I practically slammed myself down into the sitting position. That did nothing, save spread the warm tingling stuff to the front and back again. My balls and asshole felt like they were being played with, tickled by a million sterile tiny sloshing fingers. “Oh no….” Squeezing my legs had the opposite effect, just sending more of the slime up my front, causing me to twitch and moan through my teeth. I wanted to paw at the front of my plastic backed prison; to smooth stuff as far as from my sensitive spots as I could manage. What if I started and then accidentally…? “No,” I promised myself. “No. No. No. No.” I laid down and tucked myself in, grabbing Lion and squeezing him as tight as I could, almost as tight as I squeezed my eyelids. “Just go to sleep, Clark.” I whispered to myself. “Just go to sleep.” It wasn’t working. It just wasn’t. The payload that started in my front was still mostly there by the feel of things and my penis was now painfully erect and no matter how many times I sang “We’re all together again”, listed off Muffet facts to myself, or quoted lines from Ghosthaunters both one or two. This was worse than Saturday night because there’d been no dream to trigger it, no. Could I wait until I peed myself and maybe that level of perpetual disgust would calm me down or was there a secondary reaction in store for me that the manufacturers of this so-called rash medicine neglected and that Janet would refuse to acknowledge? I didn’t realize I was pawing at my crotch again until I heard myself quietly humming. I rolled over onto my stomach to make it stop. Big mistake. The added pressure only made things worse. Thrusting my hips and grinding myself into the mattress felt practically reflexive. It was like having an itch and the only way to relieve it was to knuckle under and scratch it. I wasn’t sleeping tonight. Not until I got some kind of release. I sighed and lied to myself, tossing the blanket off and crawling to the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry, Cassie…” Propping myself up on my elbows I shimmied and straddled the nearly full body sized pillow and started to slowly grind into it, thrusting and trying to get comfortable like a virgin after he’s finally talked himself and that special someone into giving him what he craves but isn’t ready for. “Oh…” I gasped. “Mmm….” The extra mass and the tiny bit of friction from sliding and bumping around, grinding against the pillow was intensely, almost primordially satisfying. I once read about a study that was done on baby monkeys: They were separated from their actual mothers and given two dummy mothers. One was made of cloth and offered only basic warmth and comfort. One was made of wire and offered only fundamental nourishment. The study found that the poor orphaned monkeys would cling to the cloth dummy for as long as possible until the nearing point of starvation forced them to climb onto the wire dummy and feed. Then it’d be right back to the simple emotional comfort of the cloth dummy. Humping that pillow and feeling like an imbecile I didn’t know if what I was doing to myself was a matter of a biological need or an emotional comfort. But as I gripped the wooden bars and thrust harder than I thought possible, aching for climax, I felt a connection to the poor baby primates in that experiment. If I wasn’t going to finish before that moment, I definitely was after. I had to and there was no going back. No amount of tossing a stupid stuffed animal or grumbling to myself or swearing was going to help me. I needed sleep if I was going to keep hurting Beouf and if I was going to get it, something had to give. If I didn’t do this, Janet would just keep hosing me down night after night until I did. The cult of Little Voices had gotten its hooks into her brain and after Thursday night’s special presentation and Saturday night’s mishap, she wasn’t going to settle for less. It didn’t matter if she took the baby monitor out of the room if my ability to sleep was still being sabotaged. All of that might have been bullshit lies, but they were lies that I needed to tell myself then and there. Coitus is objectively silly looking no matter what the circumstances, but it’s also a bit like riding a bike. It’s all a matter of finding the right balance: Leverage, rhythm, and the ability to mentally take in everything that works for you in the moment and block out everything that doesn’t. Needless to say, there was a lot more to block out than I’d become accustomed to. I closed my eyes and pretended the bars were a headboard. I half-pretended that the warm fluffy pillow beneath me was a body of some kind. I reminded myself that no one but Lion was watching me, and Lion counted less than a dog licking its own asshole. I replayed and whispered half a dozen of my personal greatest hits back to myself. “Oh Clark…” “Cassie…” “I love you…” “I love you too..” My virginity. My wedding night. The time we’d gone at it like rabbits after my close call before graduation. The re-enactment we’d done when our washing machine had broken down just before I’d gotten sucked into this pastel hellscape. It was all so good, but none of it was good enough to get me there. Mentally the pillow was on its back. Then I was taking it from behind. Then fuck it, it’s just a pillow who cares what position it was in? Either I was unwilling to finish and was purposefully drawing out pleasure I hadn’t allowed myself in months, or I was too afraid to let go and consider what this might mean for me. Pissing and shitting myself was inevitable given my current situation. Purposefully cumming in my taped on jockeys…was that a form of surrender? My arms were starting to ache and my hips and ankles were feeling sore, both from what I was doing and from aftershocks of the yoga workout that afternoon. If I’d had an actual partner, I would have asked to switch and be ridden so I could catch my breath. “Come on,” I whispered to myself. “Come on. Just do it. Get it over with.” I bit my lip and started humping the cushioning like I thought I was on the verge of winning something. My teeth gritted against each other and I kept grinding, listening to the sounds in my head and breathing in through my nose. A single real world scent followed by a solitary musical note heard only in my head. A subtle whiff of someone else’s shampoo embedded in the pillow from an unquantifiable number of times going to bed right after taking a shower. The memory of a note from a corny ass song heard twenty four hours prior. Panting and quaking, I collapsed on the pillow as the illusions in my mind shattered like windshield glass in a high speed car accident. My penis pulsed and throbbed, ejaculating sperm out into the still thirsty padding up against it. My heart thudded happily in my chest while my junk spasmed joyously, already starting to deflate and rest. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t tell that I’d added anything to the contents of my diaper after the fact. It was probably a placebo effect, but the gel caking my loins didn’t seem to tingle or tease as much as before. Unfailingly, my bladder woke up enough and told me that the price for sleep was further debasement. So I took a piss before my aching body and buzzing consciousness finally calmed down and allowed the nightlight shadows to claim me. Janet found me early the next morning, still asleep on top of that ‘cuddle pillow’ as she’d referred to it. She didn’t say anything or ask any questions: No ‘did you sleep well?’, or ‘have fun?’, nothing to imply that she was doing anything besides wiping gel residue off of me and getting me ready for school. If she was uncomfortable or blushing, my morning vision was too blurred and my own personal dignity kept me from examining her very closely. Still, her tuneless humming sounded more content and natural than it had before I’d gone to sleep. I asked her to leave Lion in my crib that day. Judgmental bastard had been laying on his side near the head of the crib staring at me all night long. Screw him… just not like that.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Max said. “You’re gonna be fine.” He held Ably close to his chest, feeling the doberman’s heartbeat thudding and thumping at the pace of a machine gun. He petted Alby’s head again and again, shushing him. “No one saw,” he whispered. “Nobody knows. Your secret is safe.” He led Alby deeper into the living room. “Promise?” The dog sounded so pathetic to the wolf’s ears. Less than ten years difference between them and yet Alby seemed so much the little kid in that moment. Someone who needed to be told it would be alright and comforted lest the bogey mammoth get them out from underneath the bed. Come to think of it, he should use that the next time he put a pup to bed in the crib. Raise the bars high to keep out the bogey mammoth… “I promise,” Max repeated. Was Max that…that…adorably pathetic when he was in his twenties? Probably not. Max was always something of an old soul. His muzzle wasn’t even gray yet, he was only in his thirties, yet he often felt he had tendencies closer to someone in their fifties. “Nobody’s gonna find out. Nobody’s gonna see you like this.” Like this… Alby caught sight of himself in a hallway mirror, all gussied up in that maid costume Max had forced him to wear. In the back of his head, Max thought he had to try that hard. Caught in pissy panties or not, everyone had their breaking point. If this outfit really offended the boss’s kid so much, he wouldn’t have put it on. He’d have said “Fuck it,” and stormed out of Max’s farmhouse. If he’d taken more than a second to think about it and had anything resembling a poker face, Alby would have realized he could have stormed out in his little girl pajamas and Max wouldn’t have had much of anything on him. He was just so embarrassed by a harmless little kink that his ability to bluff was completely destroyed by it. Hard to play poker when all of your buttons, both the good and the bad, were being pressed. Speaking of buttons being pressed, it didn’t take much for Max to guess at what Alby was thinking. The doberman stared at himself, fidgeting at his reflection, looking without trying to look. He kept burying his head in Max’s chest, but fidgeted and tore away to sneak peeks at himself in the frilly outfit. Ashamed and transfixed at the same time. Max tried to quietly maneuver the dog away and into the living room proper, but he felt a slight tug back and stopped. Poor little guy. Hating and loving himself at the same time. “You know,” Max whispered. “I know how I can make you even less likely to get recognized by the boys in the office.” Quivering, Alby pulled back just enough so that he could look Max in the eye. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He scooped Alby up in his arms like a groom taking his bride, and headed towards the stare. “Let me show you that room. I think we can find you some more…appropriate clothing options.” “Yes, Daddy” Alby said. Max shook the fantasy out of his head, stood up from the toilet, and flushed. He let out a sigh as he trudged over to the shower. Nothing after the initial promises and reassurances that everything would be fine, had actually happened. What had really happened was that Alby had clung to Max for a good thirty seconds, they waited for the sound of a car starting up and driving off, and then Alby begged to be allowed to change into his regular clothes before taking the garbage out. Max, of course, let Alby do just that. He’d already had his jollies and got some insurance to use against the little bully if started picking on people smaller than him, socially speaking. No sense in being needlessly cruel. Alby had been on the verge of having a panic attack from the look of things. But damn, did he look cute in that maid uniform. The wolf lingered in the shower before turning on the water. Part of him felt guilty for that stupid, harmless, fantasy. It’s not like he’d actually have done it. It’s not like he was a character in some kinky romance fic. Consent mattered. So did actually liking the person you were Daddying. Nope. Why the fantasy, then? Just because the twerp was a jerk didn’t mean he looked all that bad. Years and years ago, Max had caught his dad staring at a pretty lady when they were out and about. “Your Mom doesn’t care where I get my appetite,” Dad told him, “as long as I always come home for dinner.” Nothing wrong with a little fantasy. Just in case, he made sure the shower water that night was freezing. ************************************************************************************************* “Gotta…time it…just…RIGHT!” Alby hit the parry button at just the right moment, not only blocking the cartoonishly giant cleaver coming down at his PC but clearing it completely, and throwing the two headed zombie lizard wielding it off its balance for the precious second he needed to get his own attack in. “RAWR!” The thing roared through Alby’s computer speakers as its health went down but just a fraction. He jumped up, just in time to avoid the retaliation swing. Blocking would just bowl his character over and make him ragdoll. He’d found that out the hard way the first time he faced this boss. Every creature in Blackest Spirits was a boss though. Each with its own effects, speeds, tactics, and A.I. Next should come a two handed attack that he would have to roll out of the way to avoid. That would get the cleaver stuck in the ground and leave the thing open again. Alby dived too early though, telegraphing his intent. The two headed butcher stopped its swing well above its head, and just stomped on Alby’s prone body, with realistic cracking sounds followed by a death rattle while the pool of blood spread out beneath him. The screen faded to black. “DEAD!” the screen spelled out in dripping blood red letters. This game is really fun, the reviews said. Challenging with complex A.I. Variety of opponents and tactics. A sense of real skill development combined with character upgrades. Bullshit. Such bullshit. All of that was just code for ‘This game is so frustratingly hard that by the time you manage to beat even one enemy you’ll feel like you accomplished something and then keep playing because you’ve tricked yourself into thinking it will get easier. And it worked. Alby had tricked himself into playing this game again and again and again, and every inch felt like a mile. Countless hours spent analyzing the A.I. and attack patterns of over the top creeper monsters. Yet he was only about halfway through the game. He would not let it beat him. He couldn’t. Quitting for good was letting the game win and Alby was not a loser. But he would be for now. If thirty eight times wasn’t enough to kill this thing, thirty nine wasn’t going to be the charm. Alby held his temper enough to log off properly and not toss his controller on the ground. “Stupid fucking game,” he grumbled and set it down as calmly as he could. The doberman tossed his head back, ran his paws over his scalp and then went and laid down on his bed. It was his bed, too, though one wouldn’t guess just by looking at it. Corner to corner, his walls were covered in anime posters. Tanuki-Nin, Human Orb X, Treasure Pirate, Fightbots, Fetcher X Fetcher, and Fabric Softener. His collection of Bitty Kritter stuffies kept him company at night, as did a special pillow with a pretty dalmatian in a swimsuit on it. The light pink walls beneath the posters was also something of a mislead. As was the matching comforter. This appeared to be more of a thirteen year old girl’s room he was going through something of a weeb tomboy phase. Everything in Alby’s apartment was immaculate; practically spartan in spots. His kitchen had fancy countertops and fancy cabinets that held sophisticated wine glasses and dishes that were hand washed before being put into the dishwasher. Alby’s couches in the reception area were almost never sat upon, but when they were, he went over them with a lint roller after in case he shed. His bathroom was always spotless and he had a neurotic habit of cleaning the tub after every shower. He likened it to how a trained hibachi chef would clean the grill at the end of a meal. Deep down, all he was really doing was what he’d taught himself to do to survive and earn his father’s praise. Life was about presentation and appearances. A positive presentation created positive expectations and a clientele who was inclined to see good results despite lack of quantifiable evidence. One’s expectations often inform one’s reality. Those who expected a good time found it easier to have one. This philosophy had been imparted on Alby when he was in late middle school. It was time to grow up, his father informed him. Time to start acting like an adult. A man. Time to learn how to start managing things. And the key to start managing people is to start managing their expectations, first. That was probably why Alby’s bedroom decor hadn’t aged up much once he moved out and got his own apartment. The only difference between this room and the one he grew up in were the color scheme leaning infinitely more femme. The young doberman’s bedroom was one of the few places in the world that he could let his guard down and be himself; or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. Still on his bed, Alby turned his head towards his dresser. The top drawer mocked him. He could practically hear it accusing him, calling to him. Just like in that one raven guy’s story, the contents seemed to pulse, mocking him like the beating of a dead man’s hideous heart. Alby hadn’t worn panties since Max had caught him and humiliated him for it. He hadn’t dared. Back to boxers for him. Boxers were safe. One couldn’t get caught with boxers on. No one’s expectations could be messed with. He’d tried walking around with the panties in his pocket, like a good luck charm or something, but it just didn’t feel the same. There was no thrill, no softness, no nothing. And if this weekend had been any indicator, they might not do the trick anymore. Alby reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the photos he’d taken of himself in Max’s bathroom before he’d stripped that damned maid’s outfit off and gotten back into his normal clothes. He really did look cute in that black maid’s dress, he thought. More than cute; pretty even! He’d taken photos of himself from several angles using the mirror. Each one, he swore, was going to be the last one. It just took him many, many last ones. It would be the last one too. Because he was never going to get to wear something like that ever again. That thought made him feel a little sad. He hadn’t expected to end up liking how much everything looked and felt. If he thought he could have gotten away with it, he would have at least smuggled the black panties away for himself. So soft and frilly. But that would have demanded swift retaliation from Max and Alby would have deserved it. The whole thing would have been wonderfully naughty if it wasn’t for two things. One was the presence of that smug killjoy wolf, and the other was that close call he’d had. Alby wasn’t completely naive. Max was obviously into some strange shit, just like Alby. Nobody just had a maid outfit lying around. Same went with the pajamas. That’s probably what Alby had stumbled into: Max’s drag closet. Lucky son of a bitch got an entire room for a closet… Not that it mattered. Because Alby wasn’t going to do it again. He just wasn’t. He was going to play this smart. Genius I.Q. Super cautious. The dog’s thumb hovered over the delete button. He just couldn’t make himself push it. What was one little photo shoot; for the sake of memory? For the sake of fantasy? Feeling feisty, Alby unzipped his pants, grabbed his member and started quietly dreaming of all the wonderful little ways that encounter could have gone wrong. He imagined the big strong wolf picking him up and carrying him over to the couch. Placing him on his lap and bouncing him as if he were a helpless little thing. Alby didn’t fantasize Max talking, because the wolf’s voice would be a total buzzkill in this moment, but in his imagination he knew that he’d missed a spot. Sliding down to the floor, he lowered himself to his knees and spread Max’s lap open. He unzipped the other man’s pants and took out the hard throbbing cock inside. “I think I forgot to polish something,” he whispered to himself and licked his chops. The young doberman felt his lips start to pucker and his pace started to quicken. As he neared climax, he almost whispered a certain D-word. Almost. Didn’t though. “Wooof!” Alby said to himself. The post orgasm guilt shattered the illusion. Max could never know about this. Ever! He’d never live it down. “I gotta go take a shower.” ********************************************************************************************* Alby worked all that month and well into the next like a man possessed. It turned out that when he wasn’t busy trying to make sure certain people knew he was above them for reasons beyond being the boss’s son, or trying to correct them from doing a substandard job, it was actually easier to do his own job. It was a bit like gaming, really. It was all about reading the data and understanding the meta, the people behind the numbers to make accurate predictions. The main copy machine was due for maintenance, but that also meant it was probably about to break down. Better put a call in. The accounting team tended to take their office supplies in bulk. But it had been a while since a request had been made. Time to order up. A binge was imminent. Christine was shedding, and Morgan was sick. Sanitize both of their areas heavily at the end of the day. Come to think of it. Morgan got sick a lot when Christine was shedding and their cubicles were very close to one another. Was Morgan allergic to cats and didn’t know about it? Something to look into. The big wigs tended to go out and take three martini lunches. Better to schedule their most important meetings before lunch, just in case, (unless Alby needed to be involved in said meeting). The sales reps stayed sober and tended to eat lean, so it was most sensible to schedule tutorials, workshops, and strategy updates for them in the afternoon instead, when they’re re-energized from the break. Yeah they’d bitch and moan about wanting to go home right after their lunch break instead, but bitching and moaning was generally what sales reps did. Speaking of sales reps, thoughts of a certain wolf hung darkly over Alby’s head. He’d only gotten a knowing nod from Max whenever they passed each other. No mention of what happened at the New Years Eve Party. Or the blackmail. Or any of it. It was like it had never happened. It had happened though, and Alby couldn’t quite sort out how he felt about it. Wasn’t Max supposed to pop in with veiled threats or reminders every once in a while? Wasn’t that how blackmail worked? Alby assumed it did, but that was mostly because his only experience in it was movies. This wasn’t any normal blackmail, though. A normal blackmail, and Alby could have tried to bargain for those pictures, pay a ransom or something. Or he’d have to humiliate himself. Or keep doing favors. Not hold off on some of the peons. More importantly, a normal blackmail wouldn’t result in him kind of wanting to lose… ******************************************************************************************* A month and a half had passed since the party, and Alby had continued to behave. Better than just ‘behave’ as a matter of fact. He’d really stepped up his game. Christine’s shedding wasn’t an issue, as the cleaning crew were given special instructions to clean her space instead of to ignore it. The copier busted from overload and was fixed by the end of the same day. Meetings were organized and arranged around people’s lunch time instead of going over them. Everyone’s emails and queries were replied to within minutes instead of hours. Just ithe other day, one of the secretaries called in sick the, and Alby stepped in to help take over their duties. Alby? Doing actual work instead of just telling people when and where to work? Remarkable! The office at Madden & Maddox had always been fairly well run in the sense that Alby’s transition into the role didn’t really disturb anything. The positive momentum of Alby’s predecessors had mostly taken care of that. Bully or not, Alby still had a job to do and he did it without breaking any rules. Things had changed, however, and in a good way. For the past two months the office had run like a motherfucking Swiss watch.. There was efficiency, and then there was perfection. It really showed how good Alby was at his job. It also, Max noticed, showed what an asshole the kid could be. If he could keep things going this smoothly all along, then it was a wonder of how petty he was capable of being by slow rolling, browbeating and generally inconveniencing people he didn’t care for. A deal was a deal however. Max decided not to show the photos to anyone. He expected the kid to be less of an asshole and back off some of his work buddies. Humble the boss’s brat. Making things at work significantly better was three scoops of ice cream on top. Christmas was still a long way off and there was no fat Clydesdale with a beard hanging around, so Max wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Imagine Max’s surprise when he got an email asking to see Alby in his office. The dog was sitting at his desk when Max walked in, typing away. “Hey, Alby. You wanted to talk?” “One moment,” Alby said, not yet looking up from his computer. “You said you wanted to talk at eleven,” Max said. “It’s eleven now.” “I know,” Alby droned. “Just a moment. I need to put out this fire real quick.’ Max frowned. “What kind of fire?” “Nothing to worry about…” Alby said. The wolf’s personal bullshit detector was going off. Invite someone for a private meeting and then make them wait for you when you show up on time. It’s a shame. This really was too good to last. “Sure…” “Aaaaand done.” Alby looked up from his screen. “Now. What can I do for you?” Oh yeah. Power play incoming. “You asked me here, dude. Not the other way around.” Alby smirked. “Oh yes, that’s right. Would you do me a favor and close the door? I think you’re going to want to give us some privacy.” Oh boy. Here it came. Idiot thought he had some kind of silver bullet. Probably found one of Max’s fetish profiles. “Sure, if you want.” He closed the door and then sat down in the chair across from Alby’s desk. It was one of those low seated ones that made it so that you unconsciously felt compared to the higher seated person across from you. Cheap trick. Wouldn’t work. “What did you want to talk about?” “That deal we made? The one under coercion?” Alby said. “It’s off.” The wolf didn’t blink. “Nope.” “I thought you might say that,” Alby said, like a villain in a third rate spy movie. “Hear me out: The other night, I did a little research.“ “Mhm.” Max crossed his arms. He knew where this was going but might as well let the guy talk. “I’ve been thinking about those pajamas that you forced me into when I was unconscious. You don’t really have a cousin, do you?” “Of course I have a cousin.” Max replied flatly. She just happened to be in her forties and was much too big to fit in them. Alby seemed annoyed by Max’s flippancy. “That maid outfit was more than just some halloween costume.” “Doesn’t matter what people have or where it comes from, it’s how it’s used.” Max felt dirty saying it. He was playing defensive when he didn’t need to. It was like he was luring Alby into a trap. Let him show his ass again. He’d seen it before. “Still. I did a little digging. Did some image searching, and went to a whoooole lotta sights, and you won’t believe what I found!” Alby turned the computer monitor around. Yup. It was Max’s kinky dating profile. Isn’t that interesting?” Alby mocked. “Or should I call you ‘Daddy’? You do look good in leather, by the way.” Max’s blood boiled but he kept his composure. “Say your piece.” “It’s simple,” Alby said. “The deal we made? It’s off. You show people those pictures of me, I’ll show them these pictures of you. Mutually assured destruction. So why don’t we just stay out of each other’s way from now on?” Max leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Nope.” “But if you ever follow through on your threat, I’ll post these pictures of you,” Alby said. He scrolled through some more photos. “Is that person wearing a diaper?” Max ignored that last question. “Deal’s still on Behave or everyone will know what I know.” “But then they’ll know you’re into all this crazy stuff.” He squinted at the screen. “Enema play?” “Go for it. I don’t care.” The key to blackmail is that you need someone to care about the secret. “If you act like an asshole, I’m gonna show it off to everybody.” “What if I show these first?” Max tilted his head ever so slightly and shrugged. “Probably nothing. That won’t affect my job performance so I don’t care.” “Job performance?!” Alby practically yelped. “You’ll be the office laughing stock! You might even be fired!” So as to show that he was just done and not upset, Max took the time to slowly rise out of the chair. Once again, he was the bigger of the two. “Nah. Probably not. Might get an annoying email telling me to adjust my privacy settings or something. But that’s about it. The guys in H.R. like me.” “But…but…I…I just want…” Alby had turned into a robot on the fritz. He really thought this gambit would work. Granted, Max was bluffing, but not by much. Max thumbed behind him. “The difference between you and me, kid, is that most of the people out past that door like me. You dad won’t fire you because you’re his kid. He won’t fire me because I’m a damn good salesman.” “Wanna bet?” Alby’s eyes were twitching. “Yeah,” Max said. “I do. Call your dad. Tell him what you found. Go for it.” There was a long, uncomfortable stare. Finally, Alby looked away. “Did you really think that’d work?” Alby hung his head. “Yeah. I sorta did.” He exhaled and deflated, defeated. “So what happens now?” Max shrugged again. “Nothing.” He couldn’t tell if Alby was shocked or panting. Both? “What? You’re an alright guy when you’re not trying to be an asshole. Just don’t be one and we won’t have a problem.” “So you’re not gonna…retaliate?” The pup just couldn’t wrap his head around the concept. “Naw. The deal was you lay off my friends. I’m fair game if you want to come at me.” That came out with more double entendre than Max had intended. “But last time-” “Last time,” Max cut him off. “You got drunk and busted down a locked door that I then had to replace. This is nothing.” “Oh…okay…” Alby said, sounding slightly disappointed. Max went to the door and rested his paw on the knob. Time for his own parting shot. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I know you switched to boxers, but it’s okay to put something more exciting on if you want. It won’t make the pictures any better or worse.” Alby looked like he was about to faint. “How did you know?” The slightest grin came from Max. That had been another bluff. “You’ve been walking differently.” ************************************************************************************************* Alby didn’t know what he was thinking. Literally. It was like there were two different people inside of him telling him completely conflicting things. The first voice spoke of vengeance. It had a desperate need to get even with Max. He wanted to get even. To make the wolf pay for humiliating him. First he dressed Alby up in little girl pajamas, then made him perform chores in a maid outfit! Then when Alby went through all the trouble to cyber stalk Max back, the asshole didn’t have the decency to seem concerned! It was like Alby wasn’t even a threat to him. Oh, he was a threat, though! When Albert Madden Jr. put you on his shit list, you were gonna get shit on! It was better to be feared than loved, and even if he couldn’t make Max fear him, he could at least get the bastard’s temper up! That’d show him! The other voice was egging towards Alby for failure and both he and Alby knew it. He’d gone off half-cocked with the picture plan because he was kind of hoping that Max might take exception to it; might try to coerce him into something else. Something that started along the lines of ‘I see you haven’t learned your lesson yet.’ Any excuse to be permitted to wear that maid outfit again. Or maybe something more risque. Maybe nightie, perhaps. Or if not risque, more coerced. Alby imagined being forced to wear those satin panties again; forced to buy more. And every day he’d have to wait for Max to come into his office and inspect him to make sure that he’d worn them again. It was okay if it wasn’t Alby’s choice, or so the voice assured him. Both voices were incredibly drunk. That’s why Alby was here outside Max’s farmhouse in the snow at two in the morning, holding a ladder. He’d parked his car just outside the privacy fence, used the ladder he’d just bought to get over it, pulled the ladder up over with him and climbed down. The plan was simple: Climb up onto Max’s roof. Break the window and burst into his sex dungeon or whatever he called it from the outside. Then piss his pants and go to sleep in it. Max would find him the next morning, and then things would get interesting from there. Scientifically speaking, it should have similar results as the first time. Objectively, it wasn’t a very good plan. Alby was no cat burglar. He was probably going to make a lot of noise breaking in. There was a very real possibility that he’d make so much noise that Max would think he was being robbed and just shoot Alby instead of asking questions. The doberman didn’t so much as have a way to break into the house, assuming the windows were locked from the outside. He hadn’t thought of getting even a hammer or a crowbar. It was a bad plan. But any plan sounds good when you’ve had enough scotch. Alby reached into his winter coat and took another swig. It went down easy, almost like water. He didn’t want his bladder to be too empty. He had to really make a good show of it. The ladder went up against the first story roof with a clack. In the stillness and quiet of the night, enhanced by Alby’s own guilt and paranoia, it sounded like a gunshot. This was going to work. Alby counted to thirty and waited. No footsteps sounded. No lights came on. This was going to work. He grabbed the ladder, and just like with the wall he started to climb and make his way up. Up, up, up, towards whatever he’d stumbled into but couldn’t remember because of darkness and drunkenness. This was going to work. He might not even remember what was in that forbidden room this time with how he was feeling. He was almost as drunk as he’d been on New Year’s. That’d be kind of neat, actually. It would make this a magic door or ritual wherein he went into a trance and woke up wearing something cute that he’d never have the balls to put on by himself. This was going to work. He was more than halfway up the ladder before he started to question whether he was on the right side of the house. Was it the east side or the west side? Which way was east anyways? This was going to work. Alby shouldn’t have taken that last swig. As he neared the final rung and went to step onto the first story roof, Alby’s blood alcohol level spiked just enough to make his limbs too loose and wobbly. “Whoah! Whoah! Whoah!” He lost his balance and rocked back, his arms flailing like a chicken trying to fly despite itself. “FUCK!” The faintest flash of starlight registered in the Doberman’s brain for the split second that he was parallel with the ground. Then, much too fast, he plummeted backwards knocking the back of his head on nearly every rung all the way down. “-UCK -UCK -UCK -UCK -UCK!” He crunched into the snow, pile driving himself on the top of his head and momentum carried him all the way back onto his belly. The fact that he was able to roll over onto his back was all the proof he needed to know he hadn’t paralyzed himself. There was no way to tell when he wet himself; on the way down or after the crash. But his pants felt warmer in the snow. He felt so cold. And dizzy. Here was good enough. Here he could pass out. Get some sleep. Close enough. This was going to work. Alby wouldn’t get the chance to pass out. A door slamming open. Tromping footsteps. A very angry wolf looking down at him. “Jesus,” Max swore. “Not again! Goddamn it Alby!” “Heh,” Alby whispered to himself. “Whadya know? It worked…” It was probably for the best that the wind had been knocked out of him.

Maybe try talking about what you liked about it? I, for one, love the letters and correspondence between the demons. It seems that there might be a connecting thread to these separate stories. I also love the infantilization of the different sins, and the idea (though I do not know why) that various otherworldly entities have a thing for abdl.

Chapter 96: Inches and Miles I jumped completely awake as ice water was dumped over my crotch. A massive hand darted over my chest and stopped me from sitting up. Where was I? What was happening? Where’d my crib go?! “Sorry, baby!” Janet said. “Sorry!” The whole of me tensed up in flashes of surprise, confusion and fear. Janet’s palm held me firm for the second it took for me to calm down. Simultaneously a flash of yellow arced slightly into the air and she quickly yanked up the nighttime Monkeez back over my crotch. I’d been so startled that I’d peed a little, and now that my bladder was going it saw no point in clamping back down “Huh?!” I panted and looked around. I struggled with whether or not to try and cut the stream off. It was over too soon to matter. I’d already gotten up two more times to pee that night and drifted back off immediately. My tank wasn’t full; just full enough. I repeated my mumblings. “Huh? Wha-?” No bars around me and I was higher up off the ground than usual. The lights were still off but the sun was out. I was up on the changing table with pajama leg snaps open and the diaper now loosely pressed up against my groin. That ice water that had disturbed me, was merely the first cold wipe caressing my penis. A rude awakening, but given my life it shouldn’t have been unexpected. I was more disturbed that Janet had lifted me out of the crib and managed to unsap the legs and get my diaper off without me stirring. Was I that tired? A yawn gave credence to that fear. No other dreams had plagued me that night and other than waking up to pee (which I did standing) I had no other marker for the passage of time. “Sorry,” Janet said. “You looked really cute sleeping, but you needed a change.” Gingerly she pulled the diaper back open, as if she were afraid that I’d open fire on her again; would that I could. I rubbed my eyes and fought back sleep. I hadn’t even stood up to pee that night.. I’d just opened my eyes, rolled over to my stomach and hoisted my hips up enough to do the deed. Then I’d plopped back down with an added squish to my front, and went back to sleep. Add the cringe I was feeling to things I was fighting off. At least the baby monitor hadn’t turned back on…that I could tell. Jessica’s incompetence of switching out the wrong end of the monitor that one time had spared me from a single night of conditioning and gave me a peek into the minds of otherwise tight lipped ex-friends, but not much else. Recovery wouldn’t happen if the abuse was still regular. I’d hoped that Janet’s turning off the monitor before she went to bed ended the subliminal messaging. The fact that I was still waking up to pee let me pretend I had a measure of bathroom autonomy left. Some of my classmates in Beouf’s room pooped themselves while they snored. It was the kind of thing to make one self-conscious. I stopped fidgeting so that Janet would remove her hand and get back to work. Memories of that night’s dreams and frustrations parted with the morning fog. My eyes darted down to my penis. My pale, limp, flaccid, not even close to erect penis. Thank goodness. Janet’s lips were a tight thin line while she wiped me down front to back. Each wipe that my member remained limp seemed to give her a kind of calm like an old man trimming a bonsai tree. Janet was just as uncomfortable with what happened in the shower last night as I had been, though likely for very different reasons. I could imagine her going back and looking up some crackpot religious nut named Froid, worried about what the ramifications were. Hot water, naked bodies, and nice singing could happen to anybody. Sometimes a boner was just a boner. It didn’t mean anything. My ex-friend balled up the diaper beneath me and visibly loosened up once she tossed it away. She grabbed another Monkeez, this one a daytime diaper. “Okay, baby. Almost done. Then you can sleep in if you want-” “Please don’t call me baby right now,” I said. The ‘please’ was the only thing keeping my tone from being described as ‘snapped’. Color spread in my former colleague’s cheeks. She had genuinely forgotten herself. Typical. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry. Mo-...I didn’t mean it like that, Clark. I just meant it as a term of endearment.” My teeth threatened to grind together and outraged adrenaline started seeping into my bloodstream. I’d let her take an inch in the shower and she was giving herself a yard. Unacceptable, and yet so, so predictable. Typical. “I don’t care how you meant it,” I said. “I don’t like you calling me that word right now.” There was no context in which I’d be comfortable hearing the giantess call me ‘baby’ after last night. On a side note: It’s very hard to sound authoritative while someone is powdering your ass and slipping a fresh diaper under you, but I almost pulled it off. Almost. Janet looked like she didn’t know whether she should be angry or embarrassed or both. Her eyebrows, nose, and lips looked like they were in a kind of three way wrestling match for dominance, with her blood vessels acting as referee. Her face was practically a neon billboard that couldn’t make up its mind on what combination of mix and match expression to use. She waited to finish diapering and redressing me back into the pajamas, built in socks and all. “I am guessing that you’re having some very complex feelings right now. Not because of Maturosis, just sometimes things get complicated and time is needed to process.” She took a deep breath. “Me too,” she confessed. “Me too. So I will do my best to respect your needs and not say certain things.” “Thanks.” I reached up and let her scoop me onto her hip. She swayed and pivoted slowly so that I was by turns facing the crib or the door. “Back to bed or breakfast?” she asked. I opened my mouth to say neither, but she cut me off. “One or the other, Clark. Not both. Not neither. This is a fair choice.” I grumbled. “Breakfast.” “Good,” we turned right out of the door into the hallway and towards the living room and kitchen. “What do you want?” I yawned again. And spotted the clock. Dang. It was almost nine. I almost never slept that late, not without copious amounts of alcohol and staying up till at least three in the morning. “Milk, I guess.” My stomach wasn’t exactly growling. “Okay.” The trip to the fridge to get a freshly prepared bottle was a quick one. “In here or on the couch?” I eyeballed my dining cage otherwise known as the highchair. “Couch.” That was good enough for her. A dozen or so giant strides later we were both on the couch. She handed me the icy cold milk, making sure I had it gripped in both hands and then shifted me off of her lap. “There’s some stuff I want to talk to you about…” she said. “But that can wait until after breakfast.” I tensed and untensed in equal measure. She knew what I’d been doing in the crib last night, or rather trying. I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew. We both knew. It didn’t mean that I wanted to talk about it. My own face heated up at the very thought. Out of all the times she supposedly missed out on me cursing her, she just happened to overhear me failing to masturbate. What were the odds? What was I missing? Stupidly, I with drew the nipple from my mouth after a couple of sips. “Like what?” “We’ve got a four day work week coming up,” Janet said. “I wanted to take some time to plan ahead with you.” A wet throat and a dry bottom helped my gears turn more smoothly. What was likely coming up soon, that necessitated a four day weekend. “Fall Festival?” I asked. Her eyes brightened. “Yup.” She tilted the bottle back up to my lips. “Breakfast first. Let’s get that out of the way.” I started sipping from the milk, letting it fill my stomach. Janet reached for the remote and flicked away from the news towards one of the two kid/Little friendly stations she let me watch. I zoned out and went inside myself, thinking about the week I had ahead of me. A cultural wasteland like Oakshire has relatively few big events. When a supposed selling point of living in a place is that it’s close to many more interesting locales, having a big event is kind of against the point. The Fall Festival was one of those exceptions that proved the rule. Every town and city has something like a Fall Festival. Some call it Harvest Haunt. Some call it Spooky Night. Or Howl An’ Scream. From my understanding, what the festivities are called is largely a matter of region but basically the same thing; much like grocery stores. So depending on where you live and when you’re reading this, you might or might not have a different name for your town’s particular shindig. All involve a fascination with a fall harvest and an obsession with tricks and the macabre. People dress up in costumes that range from scary to sexy to silly, and beg strangers for Tricker Treats. Legends say the traditions are rooted in fear of people dying over the winter and superstitions about monsters creating a societal need to maintain the appearance of control by making merry and pretending to “trick” the imaginary predators that would be growling at your door Depending on how cynical I was feeling any given year, I attributed the stupid not-quite-a-holiday to either corporate greed selling an excuse to party or Amazons desperately needing an excuse to act in a manner they’d otherwise consider ‘immature’. Presently, I was leaning towards the latter. Oakshire’s Fall Festival is somewhat notable because it directly involves much of the town with the schools acting as central hubs for the festivities. For one whole day, Oakshire Elementary, Middle, and High, would cease pretending to be places of education, and run themselves as makeshift circuses to supposedly raise money. The highschool’s football, soccer, and track fields would boast rented carnival rides with questionable safety standards. The middle schoolers were treated to having their entire campus turned into a giant haunted house replete with community theater volunteers acting as ghouls and goblins. Oakshire Elementary regularly transformed itself into an even brighter and kitschier version of a carnival boardwalk with makeshift games, cheap snacks, and jokey sideshow attractions. (Behold! The Two Headed Cat, Born With Only One Head!). Technically, the whole shebang was labeled as a teacher workday, and schools were formally closed. Students were not required to attend, but naturally their parents would take time to buy tickets and drive them back and forth to all three sites. Beouf and I would sometimes joke that Fall Festival was the one time of year that kids were actually willing to pay to go to school. Remembering that made me sadder than it should have and I focused back in on the T.V. “Mommy Yay! I’ll-be-big-some-day!” Another commercial for training pants that I wouldn’t get to wear, featuring a model who was young enough to actually need and grow out of them. Nevermind… Lazily I leaned into Janet’s side and kept nursing the bottle. The warmth of her body felt good with the coldness of the milk. She draped her arm around me, and I tolerated it, admittedly enjoying the physical touch in the moment. At least she wasn’t talking. The only complaint I could muster was how much the pajamas muted the sensation. It was like I was wearing a body sock. I closed my eyes and wondered how nice this might feel if we were skin to skin. Shower-! Something stirred down below, ever so slightly, and my eyes popped open. Nope. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. Fuck. Nevermind. I continued sucking down goat’s milk and zoned out inside of myself. Back to dreading Fall Festival For Fall Festival, the teachers, of course, were quietly encouraged to participate and run booths, attractions, and concession stands. We could hypothetically claim that we needed the day to ourselves to work from home and put in grades for the first report card, but such lack of community spirit was frowned upon. This time of year, I envied Tracy’s position as a Teacher’s Aide. Technically, assistants weren’t required to be on school grounds for teacher work days. They got the time off. Zoge always volunteered for a few hours before taking Ivy to a bounce house. Personally, I always did the bare minimum, handing out spicy cinnamon and lemon sour candy to kids and Littles while they Tricker Treated at my classroom door. “Oh-ho! I really thought you were a skeleton! You sure tricked me! Here’s a treat!” Hokey winks would be thrown back up to the parents and the older students. What? If a highschooler wanted free candy from me, they were going to get it but I was going to annoy them slightly. It was practically a rule. In real life I leaned over and fell into Janet’s lap. Muffets were on, but the crazy screams, corny jokes, and canned laughter were more background noises than anything to me in my morning haze. “Hmm?” Feeling my wait, Janet looked down from her phone and purred, petting me.. “You can close your eyes if you want.” So of course I kept them wide open, staring into the middle distance. More than just students came to the Fall Festival. It would have been a poor fundraiser if we only tried to take money from our parents. Everyone in town knew to stop on by, throw some money into a plastic bucket and get a roll of tickets so that they could bob for apples and toss rings onto glass bottles. Dwarfing the bus loop, Fall Festival is also when I expected to see more mindfucked Littles than any other time of year. If I’d bothered to commit their faces to memory, there was a good chance that I’d have been at least passingly familiar with a few of them during my first Little Voices meeting. The one thing that neither Brollish nor the school board required of us teachers was to dress up in a costume. Good thing, too. I couldn’t have afforded to be ‘mistaken’ for anything other than a teacher. Oh. That made sense. I finished my milk, sat up and sighed dejectedly. “You want to pick a costume out, don’t you?” Janet’s surprise and delight was so genuine that it hurt. “I really do!” she shoved her phone in my face. “Here, what do you think?” I leaned back like the phone was an overeager dog. “Pee & Gee’s Moisturizing Diaper Rash Gel?” That wasn’t a costume on screen, but an online shopping ad for green goop that looked like it would harden hair better than it would soothe bottoms. “Ooops!” Janet turned her phone away and started thumbing at it.. “Sorry. Just getting some things delivered from DiaperDash.” The woman who regularly stripped and washed me seemed embarrassed for some reason. “Hopefully by later this afternoon.” The phone came back at a less intrusive distance. “How about this?” The image on screen was of a woman in a kangaroo costume. The kangaroo’s pouch was modified and moved up closer to the chest and allowed a space for the legs to dangle out like a proper baby harness, but hid the legs beneath a detachable flap. The baby costume was just a long sleeved shirt and a hoodie with ears. “Mommaroo and Joey?” I said, reading off the official “That’s very nice Janet, but I don’t know how you’re going to fit into the pouch.” “Ha. Ha. Clark.” Janet rolled her eyes. “What do you really think?” “So I have to be carried around by you all day?” I said. Janet’s lips puckered in thought. “Not necessarily. I can take you out of the pouch if you want to play or ride one of the rides.” She let me take her phone from her and I pointed to what I saw as the design flaws. “I thought I didn’t have to show people my diaper in public anymore,” I said. “This would be forcing the choice to get carried around by you, or have everyone see it.” “You could have something on over it.” I did not react. I might have been my own picture day retake photo. The pause grew longer. “I don’t see why you’re so hung up about…” she held her palms out to no one in particular. “Okay. No. You’re right. That’s fine. No Mommaroo and Joey.” She seemed disappointed. My gut gurgled slightly. “Thank you,” I told her. Janet’s acquiescence was more strategic than anything. The Fall Festival for some was Oakshire’s Event of the Season. She couldn’t have me throwing a temper tantrum. That was an inch she’d give me, so I’d take my due ten yards. “Okay,” she thumbed through. “How about this?” I was pre-loading my objection before my eyes could focus on the image when my head whipped around to the sound of blaring trumpets playing a corny pseudo medieval fanfare. A Little frowning on a king’s throne wearing crown and diaper. Just like all Monkeez commercials, the Little boy didn’t talk so that the footage could be reshot with an actual baby but the audio kept the same and aired in different Little-centric markets. “Old King Cole was a sad Little soul, for a wet and leaky diaper had he.” The announcer spoke over the footage. The Little on screen made a harlequin frown and bowed his legs out the way we all tended to do when pee was dribbling down our thighs. The poor bastard still had enough of his wits about him to play act. “So he called for one that could stop leaks. It is Monkeez, my lord for thee.” Sliding in on a golden ottoman, a package of Monkeez entered the frame with the package showing a Little on it of course. I almost ignored the building pressure in my bottom. The heavy cream of the morning milk had threatened to put me to sleep, but it had woken other things up. The camera shifted to a picture of an open diaper with a femine hand brushing the insides to show the features the same way that a woman on the nightly news might gesture towards the winning lottery numbers. “Monkeez have leakage control shields and an extra absorbent core that protects from leaks like no other diaper. With extra firm tabs to keep everything in place they provide leakage protection that’s fit for a king.” “Now Monkeez are the royal choice guaranteed to make this king rejoice.” Changed into a fresh diaper between takes, the Little ‘king’ bounced on the balls of his feet and clapped his hands, no better than a baby. “Monkeez: Happily Ev-.” “Can you please turn the T.V. off?!” I shouted louder than I meant to. Janet reached for the remote and flipped the screen off. “Okay, okay. Is the noise bothering you?” “Yeah,” I half-lied. “Sure. I’m just feeling kind of overstimulated.” She looked disturbed. “Overstimulated?” “Not like that!” I yelped, embarrassed. “Like what?” We were both doing great at not talking about last night. So why start now? “Just let me see the next costume.” That got her attention. “Here, what about this?” She handed me her phone back. It didn’t take me three seconds to reject it. “No thanks.” “Awwww,” Janet whined. “Why not? I thought it looked cute.” She turned it around and pointed to the duo. These models were an Amazon and Little. “See? I’m the cowgirl, and the horse is part of the costume so I walk around in the inflatable half and it looks like I’m riding it.” As if I couldn’t see that from the product photo. “Yeah,” I rolled my eyes. “And you want me to be the dumb cow that got roped.” Janet scoffed. “What? No! That’s just part of the costume. It gives you a harness so you can walk but I don’t have to worry about you getting lost.” A rock hit my stomach and settled in, nestling down into my lower intestines right by my sphincter muscle. Over the last week my bowels had started to catch up with my bladder in just how worthless they were. The discomfort I felt wasn’t half as great or urgent as it had been at the doctor’s office, but not pushing things out was starting to feel just as pointless as holding my urine. If holding my bladder was akin to trying holding a mug of coffee all day, not messing myself in the moment felt like I had a weighted gauntlet with an itchy wool interior. It was easy to ignore the cup of coffee to the point where it was possible to set it down and forget it if I wasn’t careful. Conversely, the gauntlet added a weight and discomfort with every movement and every stillness that was harder and harder to ignore. Eventually, I’d give in and take the gauntlet off so that I could scratch that itch, and all the weight would leave me alongside my dignity. But at least I’d be relieved of the weight and the irritating urge to scratch. “Janet, can I go to the bathroom please?” The Amazon looked like she’d broken herself out of a light trance. “Honey, I just changed you. You can’t be that wet, yet.” “No,” I felt myself grow flustered. “I have to poop.” Why was it still so fucking embarrassing to say out loud? Shame was the downside to potty training’s autonomy. “You almost peed on me,” Janet retorted. “I think we’re way past potty training, sweetie.” She seemed to almost catch herself then doubled down instead. “No. Sweetie doesn’t count.” I tried to rebut but got bowled over. “Come on, that’s not-” “I think you’re just trying to redirect the conversation because if you stall long enough I’ll have to pick out a costume and then you can make me feel bad for not picking out one you liked. I know you.” She gave me a smug smirk and crossed her arms over her chest triumphantly. Janet may have been an Amazon trying her best, but she was still an Amazon. Any inch I gave, she’d take and drag the entire football stadium back in her direction. Getting naked and bathing was negotiable, diapers were still a hard limit she would not let herself cross. Fine. I’d hold it, easily enough. I knew enough places around the house to poop in peace and Janet wouldn’t hound me all day. In a worst case scenario I could wince and moan until after lunch and use the privacy of my crib. “That’s not it at all,” I said. “It’s just a dumb costume that makes me look stupid.” “I’d be wearing an inflatable horse,” she countered. “I’d look silly. You’d look cute.” I didn’t want to look cute. Slowly, tantalizingly, Janet zoomed in on the picture of the Little in the cow suit. “It says the udder attachments actually squirt,” she cooed playfully at me. “It would be very easy to fill them up with milk and have you ‘accidentally’ squirt Miss Ambrose or Miss Forrest.” Okay, she kind of did know me. “No.” Janet threw her head back into the couch cushions. “Can you give me more to work with?” “You’re in charge all the time,” I said. “Why can’t I be in charge for costumes?” “That’s why I’m letting you pick it out, honey.” She just wasn’t getting it. I slipped down onto the floor and walked around to her lap. “Mommy and baby, Mommaroo and Joey, Cowgirl and Cow,” I ticked off on my fingers. “Who has the power in that dynamic?” What I was really asking for- more like bluffing if I’m being honest- hit her. “You want my costume to be lesser than yours.” “Yes!” I pointed. “That!” That hadn’t been my plan at all. I hadn’t had one starting out, but that was a suitable obstacle to throw up. It’s remarkable what lies can become truth under the right circumstances. My obstacle wasn’t enough for her. Within seconds she scrolling through ready made options to order. “Shark and victim?” She offered. “You get a full body costume, I get a fake bloody t-shirt.” The blood stains were on the breasts. “No.” “Mad scientist and flesh golem?” “Creator and creation?” I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t think so.” “They’ve got it with the sizes switched. You could be the mad scientist.” “And remind myself that I used to be a teacher?” That was a reach and I didn’t care. “You’re just being difficult.” “Maybe.” “I didn’t like that one anyway. Wise Wizard and Owl Familiar?” “No fake beards.” “A flower and a tiny bumble bee?” “Vaguely sexual, and there’s a million bay-bee jokes in there.” “Milk and cookies?” “No. Just no.” Janet put the phone down and yanked me back up so that I was standing on her lap, her arms steadying me. “Then what? What do you want?” Her voice turned into a kind of rumbling gargle. “You come up with something creative, Mister Silly Sock Day.” She was getting aggravated and trying to play it off as being silly. Maybe it was the other way around. I breathed in. If Janet wanted this inch, I’d make her give me the entire mile. “Let’s be silly and cross dress.” That didn’t sound right. “Sorta. Let me wear that stupid outfit that looked like my teacher clothes. You go to a pharmacy and buy diapers in your size. Get some markers and decorate them so they look like Monkeez and-” “Absolutely not.” “No, no, no. Hear me out, Mommy.” I was grinning ear to ear. “It’ll be a funny subversion of the status quo!. Plus if you have to go to the bathroom, you can just go and it’ll be part of the costume! We can have leash system and you can secure it to my wrist so I can’t run away, but the majority of the harness will be on your chest!” A beat. “It’ll save a lot of money since we have most of the materials.” I was sorely tempted to suggest that I could also check said costume diaper and ask all sorts of personal and invasive questions that any self respecting adult would shudder at. I was getting better at bear poking and knowing when to pull back. Janet, admittedly, was polite enough to let me finish my absurd pitch. “Nice try,” she said with finality. “No.” I didn’t think it would work. “Oh come on, Mommy! It’ll be fun!” “Clark…” she warned. I’d overstepped. She’d trained herself to hear the insincerity in my voice. Now, if only she could train herself to listen when I wasn’t on the verge of tears. “Why do we have to coordinate costumes at all?” A faint buzzing moan played at my throat. “Why can’t I just be what I wanna be, and you be what you wanna be?” While still keeping me steady on her lap, Janet averted her gaze. “This is going to be our first Fall Festival together,” Janet said. “I want it to be special, ya know?” Our first. If I had my way, it’d be our last, too. I wouldn’t get a chance to get my way unless things got better at home. “What about something less…I don’t know…cutesy?” “You think mad scientist and flesh golem are cutesy?” I offered only a shrug in reply. Something about it just wasn’t hitting the mark. If Janet was going to earn this small insignificant victory from me, it’d have to be worth my while. I wouldn’t fake amusement, and it’d be better for me if I didn’t have to create my own. My legs shaky, I was lowered back down to the carpet by a temporarily defeated Janet. “I’ll think of something,” she whispered mostly to herself. “You can go play…” My cheeks clenched and I turned around to go search for Lion. If memory served me right he would still be on the nursery floor where I’d tossed him. If I was going to poop, I needed something to squeeze the life out of and then curse when I finally broke down and asked Janet to wipe me. “Wait!” Janet half yelled, sounding excited. “What about this?!” I didn’t even have to turn around. She bounded off the couch and circled around me. “Huh? Huh? Scary. Kinda cute. Very clever. And you’re kind of the star and I’m kind of the sidekick?” She’d switched over from one cheesy costume site to another: ColdConcept.com “Isn’t this place for middle schoolers that want to look like edgy highschoolers and for highschoolers who don’t know what goth, punk, or college style really looks like?” “Used to be, back when we were kids,” Janet agreed. “They just aged up with us and cash in on nostalgia.” That Froidian slip earned her selection actual consideration. I leaned over and inspected her choice. My heart leapt into my throat. This lady really did know me. If the past several months hadn’t happened the duo costume is exactly the sort of thing I could have talked myself into going along with. Almost. “My costume is a onesie…” “Onesie still covers your diaper,” she replied. “I’ll check the weather, but I think it’ll be warm enough after eight or nine…” She was reeling me in and she knew it. “No.” “I’ll get you pants to wear over the onesie if you really want…” The smile and cheeriness in her tone were becoming infectious. “Still no.” She was all teeth and beaming eyes. “You’ll get to pretend to zap me…” I’d get to pretend to zap her. In public. “And you’ll roar in pain? Like in the movie? Not ignore me when it gets old to you.” Dang it! Now I was starting to grin! “Ten times,” she offered. “I still want to be able to talk.” “Twenty,” I countered. “Ten.” “Fifteen.” “Ten.” “Twelve.” “Five.” I growled. “Fine, but it has to be ten, and no exceptions. If I zap you in front of somebody’s parents wanting to have a teacher conference or whatever, you get zapped.” She chuckled. “You’d be doing me a favor there, honey. Deal.” She reached out her hand. I gripped her fingers as hard as I could and we shook on it. Before I went back to my room, I wondered aloud. “Hey. About that costume.” Not many, if any, would have thought of something that clever and oddly appealing. Not even…I didn’t let myself finish the thought. “It’s not Muffets. How’d you think of it?” Proudly Janet tucked her phone away. “Little Voices, last week. I was eavesdropping with you. First rule of being an involved Mommy: Pay attention to what your Little is paying attention to. I know you like more things than just Muffets.” The nail in the coffin. “I kind of like this stuff, too.” A wise strategy. Good parenting. Might be bad for me in the long run. No matter. Let Janet have her inches upon miles. I’d make my compromises where I could find them and strike harder when the opportunity presented itself and take it all back from someone else. On some level, I’d already decided I’d take this day out on Beouf somehow. In the meantime I was going to go find a quiet place to take a dump. “Hey,” Janet called after me. “Do you want to help me grade papers later? Maybe we could do some of that yoga together this afternoon?” “Yeah,” I replied without thinking. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.” “Kay kay. Say hi to Lion for me.” “I will.”

“Hey Makayla!” Tammy called out. “Wait up!” Nova rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not my name, Tammy.” the goth girl said. “You know that.” Despite herself, she let Tammy catch up to her instead of picking up the pace. “It is, legally,” Tammy said, breathlessly. “That’s what it is on your birth certificate. On your social security number. Driver’s license. It’s what’s going to be on your diploma in a couple months.” “Still not my real name,” Nova countered. “Not who I am on the inside. Not who I want to be.” “Then why haven’t you changed it?” Tammy asked, sounding like a teasing brat. “Hm? Hm?” “Because that takes money I don’t have yet,” Nova said frankly. “And I don’t have my own place yet.” Nova could list off two or three more reasons why, but she didn’t need to. “Yeah,” Tammy admitted. “That’s fair. Sorry, Nova.” “Don’t worry about it,” Nova said. Tammy wouldn’t. They’d be having this exercise next week. It might last longer depending if Tammy wanted to find a way to really mince words. It didn’t help that Nova’s parents kept insisting that her Goth aesthetic was ‘just a phase’. Such was life. They’d had this conversation at least once a week since 9th Grade. Tammy didn’t forget, she just liked being obnoxious sometimes. Okay a lot of times. Most times. Tammy Greene was the annoying little sister Nova never had asked for, but they’d been stuck together since Kindergarten. Nova attributed Tammy’s less flattering qualities to the fact that she was something of a brainiac academically. Straight A’s, all Honors and AP courses, and being in the running for Class Valedictorian came at the cost of Tammy having next to no social skills. Some might say that Nova didn’t have room to talk, but there was a difference between not having social skills and not liking most human beings. Nova dressed in all black not because she was depressed, but because she found a deep beauty in the macabre and the sad. Humans were often their truest selves when they were at their lowest points or thought no one was looking. Everything else was just fake. Speaking of Fake, yay for College Fairs. County wide, all the highschool seniors were allowed to skip as long as they submitted proof that they were at the Fair. The grounds were dotted with booths and tents from every college in the state and a few that were right on the border. Highschool kids milled around talking to recruiters and college folk about the different programs, tuition costs, and scholarship opportunities. They were all the same to Nova: Come to our school. Here’s our colors. We have a mascot. Behold our pamphlets containing racially and ethnically diverse models wearing our school colors and smiling. You can get good degrees if you pay us money, or kinda good degrees if you pay less money. If you order now we’ll also throw in a set of steak knives. “Worst. Fair. Ever.” Nova snarked. “I know,’ Tammy agreed. “Mostly community colleges.” Tammy had already been accepted to Yale during her junior year. She didn’t need to be here. Frankly, it blew Nova’s mind that she was even here. “Why are you here?” Nova asked. “What else was I gonna do?” Tammy replied. “Teach Mr. Stowers how to actually do calculus? No. No, no. Never again.” In truth, Nova suspected it was because Tammy had imprinted on her. They’d known each other since Kindergarten, declared each other BFF’s and Tammy had taken it to heart, no matter how wildly their paths diverged. Nova had gotten into poetry, theater, and art. Tammy was still the rigorous academic specializing in the STEM fields. They had almost nothing in common anymore, but Tammy was just still drawn to Nova like a lightbulb battered bug. Three more familiar faces worked their way through ever mingling tides of eighteen year old bodies. “Hey, Nova,” Charlie said. He winked at Tammy. “Sup Lil Sis?” “I keep telling you, I’m three minutes older!” Tammy flustered. “Mom said so too!” Charlie was Tammy’s twin brother, and the brawns to her brains. Big and muscular, but surprisingly fast, Charlie had played Varsity since freshman year and had already broken the school record for most interceptions in a single season. He had at least three separate colleges from different conferences making offers but he’d yet to accept one. Nova didn’t much care for Charlie since they’d both gone through puberty. He’d become a different kind of cocky from his sister that Nova didn’t much care for. That and he had a very particular odor about him that never seemed to fade. Charlie wore his letterman jacket everywhere, because of course he did, and he never washed it either, because of course he didn’t. Chloe, his girlfriend, didn’t seem to mind the smell too much. She hung onto his every word, and as of this very moment, was hanging from his arm. With as big as Charlie was and with how petite Chloe was, he could probably carry her around in his arms if he wanted to. They were almost a cute couple. Almost. “Hey Nova, hey Tammy,” Chloe waved. Her voice was much too high, almost squeaky. That had to be an act of some kind. So fake. Faker than the cheap costume pearls she wore around her neck. She also had an annoying habit of checking her makeup every five minutes. Not that Charlie was any better. He was constantly combing his hair and peacocking. “So,” Charlie said. “This place kind of sucks, right?” He moved his arm to indicate the entire fairgrounds. It was a big sweeping gesture, because everything Charlie did was big. He’d turned man spreading into a conversational art form. Case in point, he and Chloe fell in line with the girls and draped his arm over Tammy’s shoulder. “No spinny rides. No roller coasters. No face painters? Nothing. I don’t think these guys know.what fair means.” Nova stepped to the side so she could get away from the pungent odor of uncontrolled glands, ax body spray and unwashed jacket. “A fair can be a gathering for commercial purposes instead of entertainment,’ Tammy grumbled. Charlie scoffed. “I don’t see any commercials. Not even a T.V.” Chloe giggled like she thought Charlie was being clever. He probably wasn’t. “Learn what words mean!” Tammy shouted. Nova tried to take another step sideways, lest anyone see her associated with this bad comedy act, and almost slammed directly into Jane. “Whoah!” “Sorry!” Nova yelped. “Didn’t see you there.” “It’s cool,” Jane said. “No harm done.” Jane was the school’s token lesbian, and had the butch haircut and clothing to prove it. Most people assumed she was a boy before she opened her mouth. “What are you losers doing here?” she asked jokingly. Jane had moved in from out of state, and she and Nova had clicked with their mutual disdain for most people. “Free day off and nothing better to do,” Charlie answered. “Yeah. Same.” Nova wanted to argue the point, but truthfully didn’t see any. It’s not like she was seriously looking at any of these universities. Nova wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to college at all. If she did, it would primarily be to get as far away from this place as she could and none of the colleges advertising here fit that criterion. She had a feeling Jane was in the same boat, albeit for different reasons. “Mind if I hang?” Jane asked. No one objected and so she slinked in among them. For a time they meandered about., doing what came naturally: Gossipping. Gawking. Pretending to show interest in things that they weren’t even remotely interested in so that they could mock it later. They were all eighteen, but they were teenagers all the same. Highschoolers too.. “You’d think they’d have a food court,” Charlie said. “Turkey legs or something.” “It’s not that kind of fair,” Tally said. Chloe laughed and hugged her boyfriend closer. “He’s just joking,” No he wasn’t. But Nova kept the thought to herself. They lingered on the very fringes of the fair grounds. Sadly it was on the edges that were farthest away from the fairground parking lot. They’d seen all there was to see, but no one was quite comfortable with leaving yet. No one wanted to be the first to leave the party, even if it was a bad one. Jane pointed to something that didn’t quite fit in. “What’s that?” The group looked in the direction she’d indicated. It was a double long trailer, the kind commonly seen being pulled by semi-trucks all along the hallways. It rested at the very edge of the parking lot, its sides painted to make a stunning mural of the same woodland scene multiple times but in different seasons. Winter blossomed into spring, intensified, into summer, and faded into fall. The trees were in the same location, but the color palettes, position of the sun, and fauna changed. Furthermore, Nova noticed, the seasons seemed to bleed into one another. Near the border of Winter and Spring, the snow seemed patchier, with little sprouts sticking up out of the ground. Truth be told, it looked more like the kind of thing that would be hauling things to and from the kind of carnival Charlie had desired. What signaled its inclusion in this particular gathering was the banner hanging from its side. “Arcadia Academy of the Fine and Vulgar Arts,” Nova read the banner aloud. Tammy harrumphed. Folding her arms over her plain white blouse. “Never heard of it.” “Me neither,” Jane agreed. The way she said it, made it sound like a good thing. “I like paintings,” Chloe said. “Do you think they have some paintings?” Charlie answered for everyone. “I dunno. Looks less boring than every other fucking place. Let’s check it…” Nova was three steps ahead of everyone. This looked interesting! The rear end of the trailer had been converted so that in place of a drop down sliding metal sheet, a false wall had been installed with steps leading up to a door. Whatever this thing held, its contents were small enough to fit through a regular sized door. The door was open with a welcome banner draped above it. Nova was first up the steps. She found herself possessed of a strange giddiness. What strange kindred spirit would she find inside? To her slight confusion and disappointment, waiting for her was a girl about her age, maybe a tad older, sitting behind a desk. Unlike the other college students peddling pamphlets with the recruiters, this one was dressed infinitely more casual. She wore paint splattered overalls, and her hair was dyed bright neon pink. Actually…this might not be her particular aesthetic, but it was still a sign of a free spirit. The others caught up to Nova as she walked up to the desk. “Hey hey,” The girl said. “I’m Erin. May I have your name?” “I think I’ll keep mine, but I’ll tell you,” the goth girl joked. “It’s Nova. College girl got the most sour expression on her face at a harmless fucking dad joke. “Thank you for telling me. Come to check out the exhibition?” “So…is this like a fancy art college or something?” Charlie asked. “For freaks and geeks and glee kids?” He looked at Tammy and Jane. “Some taken,” they said together. Even adoring Chloe felt a need to peel herself off of her boyfriend. “You are such a guy, sometimes,” Chloe said. It did not sound like a compliment. Charlie immediately turned into a kicked puppy dog. “My bad…” “Are there brochures,” Nova asked, “or…” “This is more of an art exhibition,” the girl behind the desk explained. She thumbed behind her to a black velvet curtain. “Was kind of hoping we’d get a better spot, if I’m being honest. But we’ve got some really cool pieces. Interested in taking a look?” Nova felt her face fall. “So you’re not recruiting?” “We’re always recruiting,” Erin said. She removed a clipboard from the desk and slid it across to Nova. “Just put your name here for our attendance logs, and see what I can dig up while you’re in there.” “Attendance logs?” Tammy asked. “Why?” “To prove we had visitors, mostly. Justify the funding. All that.” She tapped the clean piece of paper. “Just put your name down here and you can go on in, and take a look.” Nova sniffed and wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something didn’t feel right. Also she could swear something foul. It wasn’t rotting corpse foul; closer to the odor that seemed to come from Charlie two inches in every direction. Something unclean…but natural. “Fine,” Nova said, and scrawled some illegible gibberish on the clipboard. The others followed suit, deciding it was better than nothing. Their host didn’t move from her seat. “Okay,” she said, jerking her head. “Go on back. Have fun and play nice.” Nova pushed back the curtain and went in. “Play nice?” Jane said as soon as the curtain had closed. “What was that about?” “Maybe this is a modern art or experimental exhibit?” Tammy supposed. “Looks like a boring old art museum to me,” Charlie said. He was right. It was dimly lit and air conditioned, but as far as any of them could tell, it was just a long hallway full of painted pictures. Chloe was already checking her makeup in the new, slightly dimmer lighting of the trailer. “It’s not that bad.” Hard to tell if she was talking about her makeup or the exhibit. “Let’s check it out,” Nova said. “Maybe something will speak to us. Or like there’s a hidden theme or something.” Gosh she hoped so. There was definitely a theme, if an unexciting one. Location,Location Location: Lots of landscapes and depictions of static places. Nova noted paintings of cabins in the woods, Roman-esque ruins, jungle settings, cityscapes both modern and futuristic, tropical islands, and so forth. Admittedly, the one that looked like the inside of a dilapidated farmhouse from pretty much every horror movie ever held Nova’s interest, but there was no action. None of them had any people or animals or whatever in them. Everything was static and still life; the most uninteresting fictional travelog. “What’s with the titles?” Tammy wondered. Nova hadn’t even remembered to read them. “Lumira? Vente? Arachne? Strata? Raksha & Pavo?” Tammy shook her head. “They sound like proper nouns, but the pictures are all empty?” “Places can be proper nouns,” Jane said. “That, or maybe they people in the paintings are all invisible.” She joked. Speaking of invisible… “Where’d Chloe go?” Charlie asked. The teenagers all did a double take, looking left and then right. It’s not as if the mobile gallery were big enough to get lost in. Yet, Chloe was nowhere in sight. “Hey!” Nova said. “That’s her purse!” Sure enough, Chloe’s purse was lying neatly by its lonesome on the floor, directly in front of one of the mobile gallery’s paintings. As if drawn to it, the four of them gathered around it. Tammy picked it up. “It looks too neat to have just been dropped,” she said. “Maybe she put it down and forgot it?” Chloe was bubble headed enough to do that, hypothetically. “Where’d she go, though?” Jane asked. “Maybe she went to the bathroom?” Charlie guessed. Nova rolled her eyes. “Why wouldn’t she take her purse with her?” Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she looked at all the water in that painting and had to go.” Again, he shrugged. “Maybe? Or maybe it was girl stuff or whatever. I dunno.” “Dude,” Jane called him out. “You can be such a tool.” “Whatever,” Charlie grunted, I’m gonna see if there’s a bathroom over here at the end. The three young ladies shook their heads at one another. “Don’t look at me,” Tammy said. “I’m only genetically connected to him.” The group forgot about Charlie and went back into the painting where they’d found Chloe’s purse. A placid beach scene if there ever was one. Fairly boring, really. “Sedna,” Nova read the plaque. “What’s a Sedna? Is it the name of the beach? Or the artist or what?” “Not relevant,” Tammy replied. “It’s just a pai…” Tammy stopped. What’s that sound?” The three stayed completely still, and in the silence they heard the faint cawing of gulls and the dull whooshing sounds of waves crashing on the beach. “Sound effects?” Jane wondered. “Maybe they put speakers behind the painting or something?” Nova squinted her eyes. Looking at the painting from a certain angle made her eyes hurt, almost like she was staring at the sun. Her skin tingled, albeit not in an uncomfortable way, reminiscent of the feeling of heat reflecting off of white sand. “What…is…?” WHOOOOSH! A powerful force, like a riptide, yanked Nova off her feet towards the painting. She let out a scream of shock and surprise. Two skinny arms wrapped around her waist with Tammy instinctively reaching out to save her, but the extra weight failed to anchor either of them. Nor did it save Jane. A flash of blinding light engulfed them, followed by a subtle yet distinct change in the air around them. Cold recycled air conditioning was replaced with warm breezes that whipped through their hair, causing Tammy and Nova’s skirts to flap, as well as Jane’s baggy shirt. “The fuck was that?” Jane asked. She turned to face the ocean. Tammy looked up and adjusted her glasses. “Those are seagulls…” she said, more to herself than the group. “No shit,” Jane said, still entranced by the ocean. “Last I checked, we don’t have any oceans nearby. So where fuck are we?” Before Nova had dived into the works of beautiful self-torturing despair by Edgar Allen Poe, she had taken a swim through the silly absurdities of Lewis Carol. Their works were not so dissimilar, she found. Carol simply chose to externalize nihilism where Poe internalized. “Guys…” she said. “I think we’re in the painting.” Tammy looked down from the sky. “Impossible! That’s just impossible.” “Yeah,” Jane. “There weren’t people in the painting.” She pointed and the group followed her aim. In the middle distance, farther along the shoreline, were what were very obviously people who appeared to go about their business. “What do we do?” asked Tammy. “We…we…we’re not at all dressed for beach weather.” In lieu of being unable to wrap her brain around the impossible, Tammy’s mind leapt to other reasons to disengage lest she shut down completely. No one was buying the flimsy excuse, however. “Go say hi,” Nova said, simply. “Maybe they’ve seen Chloe.” When in Wonderland, don’t stop to wonder. “But…but…but…” Tammy was already leaning back, digging her heels in the sand. “The further we get away from the…the…” she didn’t want to say ‘portal’, such dreck was for science fiction. “We popped up here. If we’re going to leave, shouldn’t we stay in proximity?” Jane was unusually quick to point out, “Doesn’t mean there’s only one way out.” “But those people…” Tammy pointed to the figures in the distance. Nova took her oldest friend’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “I didn’t hear any screaming. Nobody saw us. We can walk right up, ask where we are, ask how to leave, ask if they’ve seen Chloe.” That was just barely enough for Nova. The walk along the shoreline was longer than it seemed at first. What they hoped would take one minute, took closer to ten. Even that was more of a rough estimate. The walk gave them plenty of time to check their phones. Painting or not, wherever they were didn’t have any kind of cell reception. They might as well have had rocks in their pockets. Their pace slowed as they drew closer. The waves were further up the beach the more they closed in. The sand was becoming wetter and darker, almost muddy in some places. All around their feet, shallow ankle deep pools started to dot the landscape and waves threatened to overtake their sneakers. None of them knew enough about the ocean to guess whether the tide was rising or falling, and it didn’t much matter, they supposed. They wouldn’t be here long enough for it to be a factor. The tide and the state of their shoes was the least of the group’s concerns, however. As they drew closer, and the silhouettes grew sharper, they realized that something was dreadfully peculiar. Building sandcastles, running around giggling, and splashing in the shallow pools were young adults; men and women roughly their age. They weren’t exactly dressed for the part, however. Many wore bright bucket hats with straps fastened to their chin. Sunscreen was slathered on thick and pasty over many a face. Nothing inherently wrong with that, but a glimpse saw more than a few paraded around with inflatable water wings on their biceps, or bulky life jackets on their torsos. “Who our age needs floaties?” Jane scoffed to herself. “Is this a joke or something?” It was Nova who spotted the biggest reddest flag. “Is that a diaper?” Nova grimaced. She motioned to a young man with his back turned to them, squatting in the sand on his haunches and digging a hole with a tiny shovel and bucket. Out from under his baggy swimsuit, peeked something blue and padded. Nova didn’t have any little brothers or sisters but she had been to the public pool enough times to recognize a swim diaper when she saw one. This one just looked a lot bigger. “If that isn’t,” Tammy gasped, “I bet that is.” Beside them a young lady lifted up her baggy white t-shirt to prevent it from getting splashed by an oncoming wave. It was very clearly a pull-up style swim diaper, decorated with little fishes. That’s what was off: Every single person around them, playing happily in the sand and shallows, was dressed like a toddler might be on a day at the beach. Extra sunscreen and shade protection for sensitive skin, bright and cute colors that made them easy to spot should they toddle away. Bathing suits adorned with children’s cartoon characters, flotation aids to prevent drowning, and padded bottoms to make sure that no nasty surprises were left on the sand. Across the shore, everyone the three of them laid eyes on was very obviously diapered. Even the girls their age wearing bathing suits- gaudy frilly one pieces mostly- had a tell tale padded bulge along their backside and a hint of aquamarine peeking out around the legs that clashed with the rest of their outfit. The boys who wore bathing suits were more discreet, but it didn’t take more than a glance to see the waistband of the diaper poking up out the top of a seawater drenched pair of trunks. Most of the boys (and some of the girls) didn’t bother to wear bathing suits at all, instead choosing to tromp and splash along happily in nothing but colorful swim diapers. “We are definitely not in a painting,” Jane said. “This has gotta be some weird convention or something.” “How do you know?” Tammy asked, oddly curious. “I’ve seen some shit online,” Jane answered matter of factly. “Just…not to this level.” “Hey guys!” A familiar voice called out, causing the group to jump. “Tammy! Jane! Nova! Over heeeeeeere!” “CHLOE!” They ran towards their friend, waving to her, ready to embrace her and tell her how worried they were. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw what she was wearing. Save for the fake pearl necklace, the clothes she’d been wearing were gone, not a trace to be found. In their place, Chloe was wearing something that might be deemed by the locals as ‘appropriate’. Chloe’s makeup had been washed off, with gobs of sunscreen smeared on her face. A bright, neon pink bucket hat rested over her curly red hair with decorative sunglasses laying over the brim. Her bathing suit was a two piece, but it was hardly what one would call ‘sexy’ or even ‘mature’. Like her hat it was bright pink, with the covering Chloey from her shoulders down to just above her belly button. Needless frills ran along the shoulder straps and the hem, and cartoon starfish were painted over her petite breasts. The bottom half was much the same, frills wise, and the girls wondered to themselves how Chloe could possibly move around without having the inside of her thighs constantly tickled. Had Charlie been there, he would have noticed that it looked like she’d suddenly gained a few extra inches of junk in her trunk. The bottom was less of a bathing suit and more of a diaper cover. Nova recoiled back a step, but in the recesses of her mind, an intrusive thought wormed its way inside her: It really was a very good look for her. It showed off her femininity, but kept her cool in the sun, and the bottom would be easy for a Mommy or Daddy to remove whenever she needed a change. The goth girl cringed. Where had that thought come from? “I’m building sandcastles,” Chloe said. “Wanna play?!” “Hun, why are you dressed like that?” Jane asked. “You look like you’re two or something.” As always, Chloe giggled as if a joke had been made. She grinned big and wide, and bounced a little, like a child barely able to contain their excitement. “Nuh-uh!” Was all she said. “Where’d you get that stuff?” Tammy asked. “Why are you wearing that?” Chloe looked down at herself, clearly confused. “I’m wearing them because it’s not bathtime, silly. Naked time isn’t allowed when I’m not getting washed.” “Naked time?” Tammy and Jane parroted. Nova found her voice. “Who put you in that outfit? Who dressed you up like that?” Strange how Nova phrased it, she realized. Why ask that question as if she didn’t or couldn’t dress herself? From the lack of stares from her companions, no one else thought the phrasing was strange either, but even that was strange in its own way. “Mommy got me this swimmy suit,” Chloe said proudly. “Isn’t it pretty?” “And the diaper?” Tammy asked, unable to take her eyes off of Chloe’s bulging bottom. Chloe pouted out her lip and blinked. “Mommy did, too. She gets all my diapers. Why? Who gets yours?” “Mommy?” Jane asked. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means. “Who the hell is ‘Mommy’? “I am!” a deep yet feminine voice bellowed and a shadow fell over them. Looming over the reunited quarted, still dripping from the waves, was what could only be described as a giant mermaid. With breasts wreathed in coral, and hair wrapped in seaweed, the woman stood high above them. Despite her bottom half being decidedly fish-like, she sat on it perched and strong, muscular like a sea lion instead of flopping pathetically on her belly. Chloe clapped her hands together and squealed. “Mommy!” “Hello baby girl. Mommy just had to run back and make sure your nursery was all ready. Do you want to go see it, or do you want to stay here a while longer and finish your sand castle?” “Can my friends come play too, Mommy?” Chloe asked innocently, oblivious to the horror on her friends’ faces. “Can I show them my nursery?” “Awww, I’m sorry, my little guppy. Your friends aren’t quite ready to visit yet. Maybe later?” “Mommy?” Nova spoke up. “You’re not her ‘Mommy’. You’re…you’re…what are you?” The mammoth mermaid looked down at her as if seeing Nova and the others for the very first time. “Of course I’m Chloe’s Mommy,” she said sweetly. “I adopted her, didn’t I? People call me Sedna. ‘Miss Sedna’ to little boys and girls like you. Chloe’s Mommy if that gets too hard.” She seemed to bubble at the thought of being called that last one. “You can’t adopt her,” Tammy pointed up at the giant fish lady. “She’s eighteen! An adult! You can’t adopt an adult.” The mermaid chuckled good naturedly. “Oh, aren’t you precocious? I just know somebody is gonna loooove you, little eel.” “Sedna?” Nova thought out loud. “Like the name of the painting?” “Painting? Painting?!” the mermaid laughed as if Nova had just said something adorably funny. Chloe laughed too, but it was the empty hollow laugh of a child who didn’t get the joke. “What’s so funny?” Jane demanded, trying to sound tough and failing. “I’m so sorry, little ones,” the mermaid spoke over them. “I would have happily adopted any one of you, but Chloe washed up into my arms first.” As she said this, the foamy waves gave way to other merfolk, all titanic and monstrous in size, slithering up. In lieu of screams, the diapered young adults threw up their hands and shouted with joy, as if witnessing the return of a loved one. Nova’s jaw fell and her head went on a swivel at the madness practically engulfing them. People their own age were scooped up and hugged, or had their lips brought up to behemoth breasts which they happily began slurping and suckling on. Still more got their bottoms pat and the back of the swim suits pulled back for inspection. Beach towels were being flapped out and used as changing mats while people only a year or so older than she (if that) laid down to have their bottoms wiped. “Babies!” It was Jane who said it. “They’re all babies!” The disgust and fear coming out of her was palpable. It was almost a slur the way she intoned it. Only children whose ages were still in the single digits could have such open vitriol for something they used to be. “Oh, I think that’s enough excitement here,” the mermaid, Sedna, said, grabbing their attention. She picked Chloe up, and the already petite girl looked like an infant cradled in the giant’s arms. “Off you go. I hope you find your Mommies and Daddies soon.” She placed her free hand under her chin, inhaled, and puckered her lips. From out between them, a hurricane blew, hurling them through the air back the way they came. The trio of highschool seniors screamed. Like a roller coaster, they were flipped end over end until they didn’t know which way was up. Nova sat up from a mulchy dirt covered floor and grabbed at a painfully bruised ankle. It felt like she’d caught her foot on a door frame or something. Or a picture frame. “I think we’re in another painting,” she moaned, rubbing at her ankle through stark white socks that went all the way up past her knee. She stood up and looked down at her feet. A stray thought: Hadn’t she chosen all black, eight down to her socks? And why were her shoes so shiny? They were still black, but Nova could practically see her reflection in them. “Snap out of it,” Jane said, jostling Nova for the shoulder. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.” The sounds crowing and the chittering of monkeys rattled from behind impossibly tall trees. “It looks like a rainforest,” Nova said. Tammy indicated a bit of paved ground. “Rainforests don’t have sidewalks,” she said. “And the sounds sound automated. Canned.” An identical round of monkey chattering coming from the exact same place, gave truth to Tammy’s hypothesis. “ It’s more like a zoo. A poor imitation of real wildlife.” “Okay,” Jane said. “But then where are the animals?” “There,” said Nova. Not thirty feet away from them, they spied an elaborate network of cages made of elaborate bamboo, with tiny creatures flitting about in them. “Those aren’t animals…” Tammy said. Without realizing it they began to move closer, drawn deeper and deeper by the sidewalk. “They’re people.” They swung from the tops of branches. Pushed each other on tire swings. And slid splay legged down inclined planes. Others ran after one another in intricate games of tag. Encircling the cages were rows of monstrous sized benches. Titan sized creatures with the brown feathered legs and wings of a bird, but the torso of a woman sat upon them, keeping careful watch of their happy prisoners. “This isn’t a zoo,” Jane realized. “It’s a playground.” Indeed, it was. The people running around were giggling, having the absolute time of their lives from the look and sounds of things. None of them looked the least bit afraid of the sharp toothed monsters just on the perimeter. They all walked with a familiar yet foreign wobble, too. It was a toddler’s waddle, legs spread wide by thick poofy padded underwear. None seemed bothered by it. Disgustingly they watched a game of tag abruptly pause when an effeminate looking young man clad in drab dirt colored shortalls stopped, popped a pacifier into his mouth and then squatted right there in the middle of everyone. On one side of the playground, a row of strollers big enough to fit people in them sat, with occupants loading and unloading at a regular pace; each of them pushed there by a drab colored bird woman. Nova looked over at a bench and almost gagged. One of the harpies openly vomited into an empty baby bottle, screwed the lid on and then fed it to a gurgling baby girl in a bonnet and indigo baby dress that was barely a curtain for her bulging wet diaper. “Fucking sick!” “You think that’s sick,” Jane pointed to. “That chick is getting her butt wiped in front of everybody.” It was true. A little girl in a frilly green dress hiked up way past belly was in the middle of being changed, and no one seemed to mind. “I don’t think that’s a girl,” Tammy said. “See?” When the not-so-little girl’s bottom was lowered down onto a fresh diaper and her legs were spread, the three young women got a good look at a penis. “Tammy!” Nova said, shocked. “Transphobic much?” “Hm?” Tammy blinked, adjusting her glasses. She glanced at her companions and took notice of their faces and back to the full grown adult getting their privates powdered by a feathery hand. “No, not that! That!” She pointed again and Jane and Nova finally saw the diaper bag the harpy had been taking the changing supplies from lying on the ground next to the bench. It was just as intricate and ornate as the dress the big baby was in, but it had a name stitched into it that they hadn’t expected. “How many girls do you know named Jonathon?” Tammy asked. She jerked her head to a plain brown one. “Or boys named Kimberly?” “Mommy! Mommy!” A deep voiced adult dressed like a kewpie doll reached out for the girls like a child wanting to pet a puppy. “Play?” The harpy pulled the baby man back by just a single wrist. “No, no, Scott. Not till they’ve been adopted. You know better, little boy.” She still had a soft, indulgent smile that cut down on the severity of her butch haircut. With fresh eyes and a new perspective, the girls saw things in a new context. All the strange men and women were dressed like babies and toddlers, but the gender aesthetic was completely swapped. Girls had short haircuts, some even buzzed, and wore baggy clothes in muted colors that hid their womanly curves. Boys’ hair had been grown out and filled with ribbons and bows, and wore ornate festive dresses straight out of a beauty pageant. But in all other ways, certain gender stereotypes still played out. Short haired, butch girls played jump rope with a vine and hopscotched on sidewalk chalk. Boys still rough housed and played war games yelling “Bang!” and “You’re dead!” The trend didn’t end with the ersatz babies. “Come to think of it,” Jane whispered to herself. “These bird ladies do look kind of…like me.” The Harpies likewise had what would be referred to as ‘butch’ haircuts. It was easy enough to assume they were women because all of the diapered humans called one ‘Mommy’. That, and they all had their naked breasts on display. A pair of talons came down on Jane’s shoulders, and yanked her into the air. Her screech of shock made every other resident of the playground look up in alarm, but only momentarily. As soon as they saw what was happening there was a collective shrug. “HEEEEEEEELP!” Jane cried out, in the harpy’s grasp. She let out another shriek while the bird thing flipped her up into the air, caught her and cradled her just as it landed. This Harpy looked very different from the others. The human parts were lithe and fit with rippling abs and long flowing blonde hair, and carefully applied makeup on his face reminiscent of the powders and markings that the aristocracy of various cultures had used for time immemorial. His (and it was decidedly a he) bird parts were bright and colorful, and as he stood to his full glorious height, his bright and shining tail feathers spread out in a fan. “Worry not, my beautiful bouncing baby boy!” the peacock of a man crowed. “For you have been chosen, by the one, the only Pavo!” He paused as if waiting for applause. Jane kicked in his arms. “I’m not a boy, you jerk!” “Now, now, now,” the peacock said. “I’m not falling for that one again. I know how you little ones work.” He let loose Jane’s legs and dropped her to her feet, but only so he could use his other hand to yank her baggy shirt up over her head. “You dress backwards because you don’t know any better. But that’s why you need…” Jane’s shirt came flying off, exposing her. “Boobs?” Tammy and Nova blushed slightly and looked sideways. Something inside them was telling them not to interfere. Little girls shouldn’t bother grown-ups… Braless, Jane covered herself with her arms and practically roared up at the bird man. “Told you, you idiot!” “This isn’t fair!” the peacock harpy whined. “I wanted a boy! And the one time I got a clear shot, I picked a dull little girl that somehow managed to dress herself properly! What are the odds?!” The two remaining girls snapped out of whatever trance of shock and spectacle they’d been placed under and made a mad dash towards the peacock thing and their friend. “Grab Jane and run. I’m going for the shins!” “Right!” Jane shouted back. The pair ran straight towards the towering feathered grown up. They should have been faster than they were, but it was like the air around them worked against them. Perhaps it was some mesmerizing power peacocks had but neither girl’s legs moved quite right. A blur of orange and black crossed their path and snatched their friend off the ground and away from the peacock creature. “Mine!” the muscular woman tiger creature proclaimed. “Mine!” She cradled Jane in her arms and cooed down at her. “Don’t worry, baby girl. Mama won’t let that icky peacock man adopt you!” She lowered her head and nuzzled Jane. “Raksha,” the peacock harpy screeched. “No fair! That was supposed to be my baby!” “Get bent, Pavo.” The tiger Mommy growled. “You snooze, you lose.” The male harpy puffed out his chest, in an attempt to be intimidating. “But I saw her first, Rakasha!!” Unconcerned, she turned her back on him. “Pavo, you were disappointed with her the second you found out she was a girl. You want a baby with Daddy issues?” She looked down at Jane and regarded her. “Especially when she’s so very obviously a Mama’s girl .Isn’t that right my widdle cubby wubby?” Despite the impossible circumstances, or perhaps because of them, Jane showed little fear and less patience. Even half naked and cradled in a monster’s arms, she remained more indignant than scared. “I’m not your baby you maniac!” She shouted. “I’m not your baby. Not anybody else’s baby! I’m! Not! A! Baby!” The peacock man stepped back and folded his tail feathers away. “Nevermind, Raksha.” He said. “She’s a better fit for you.” He flew off with little pomp. Nova and Tammy regrouped. “How are we taking on a tiger lady?” Tammy asked, at a total loss. “No clue,” Nova admitted. Meanwhile, Jane was staring down the tiger with a woman’s face and not blinking. “Not a baby!” “Really?” The tigress cooed. “My baby girl isn’t a baby?” She set Jane back down on her feet. “Explain this, then!” Clawed hands quickly tore Jane’s pants asunder, leaving her completely naked save for her pink tennis shoes. That and her diaper. “Huh?” Jane gasped, turning several shades of crimson. Forgetting about her breasts, she tried and failed to use both hands to hide it. “No! I don’t wear these! I don’t” It didn’t even look like an adult diaper. It had cartoonish jungle leaves, the kind of foliage tigers stalked in, printed all over the front and back. “Mommy! I don’t!” “Is that so?” the tiger Mommy said. She used a claw to pull back the waistband of Jane’s diaper. “Not poopy,” she said. Nova and Tammy gawked at Jane and one another. “I didn’t know Jane wore diapers,” Tammy said. “Is that why she wore those baggy clothes?” The goth girl looked at Jane's pink sneakers and considered her buckle shoes with the frilly socks. “She doesn’t. Or didn’t…” “Guys!” Jane called out pathetically. “I’m not a baby! You gotta believe me!” Raksha reached around and stuck her fingers inside the leakguards of Jane’s diaper. “Wet,” she said. “But not too wet.” Jane’s face sank. “Wet?! I’m not! I mean I’m not that wet…! I’m still a big girl! Right?” Her friends didn’t shake their heads, but they were inclined to disagree. Instead of properly terrified, the girls were more disappointed than anything else. “Go on,” the tiger lady gave Jane’s padded butt a gentle pat. “You can go play on the playground for a little bit.” Jane whirled around and clenched her fists. “I don’t wanna go on the playground!” She stamped her foot. Her new Mommy stroked her chin. “I think you’re right. Maybe a nap first.” “No!” Jane stomped her foot again. “No nap! NO! NAP! MOMMY!” She collapsed on the ground and started flailing. Plenty of bawling sounds came out, but none of them were words. The tigress seemed unimpressed. “I know, I know,” she cooed over the now insensate girl. “Mommy’s so mean for making you take a nap. Maybe this will help.” She moved the girl over to a naked, and decidedly human looking breast. Jane’s cries ceased as she latched on to the nipple and started nursing. “Now as for you two rascals,” the tiger woman stepped over to the cowering girls. “My new baby needs some time to adjust. Go play somewhere else.” Her free hand was a blur when it connected with the two of them. It should have killed them; broken both their necks. What it did this time was hit them with so much force that they were knocked sideways and at such a velocity that when they landed, they almost didn’t realize that they’d been knocked into another painting. “Ooooooh…” Tammy groaned. “That shouldn’t be possible.” “None of this should be possible,” said Nova. “People don’t go into paintings,” Tammy said, rubbing her head. “That’s the least weird part,” Nova replied. “You mean with Jane and Chloe?” Tammy asked. “Yeah. Finding out they were big diaper babies all along was weird, but I think the painting thing is worse.” Nova thought about it, and despite herself couldn’t think of a decent way to argue the point. “Where are we now?” Wherever they were was dark and mist laden, a quiet woodland scene in the middle of a moonlit night; a dark cabin being the only sign of humanity. “Maybe we should go into that cabin?” Tammy suggested. “The lights are on.” Nova yanked on her tightly braided pigtails. “That’s probably the last place we should go,” she said. “Do you want to deal with whatever’s inside?” “No.” The two crinkled into the mist, but no matter how far they got, the cabin seemed to be the same distance away, like it was following them. Or maybe, they weren’t really going anywhere. A figure in the mist caused the girls to freeze. Everything they’d met so far had been too friendly for their tastes. “Hold on,” Tammy said. “I’d know that stupid jacket anywhere.” She dashed forward. “Charlie! Charlie!” “Tammy!” Nova called out. “Wait!” Tammy chased after her brother, and Nova ran after Tammy. With a sticky, sickening ‘thuck’, the pair collided with something invisible yet sticky. The collision didn’t hurt and the phrase ‘baby proofed’ popped into Nova’s mind uninvited. It peeled off their skin sickeningly when they backed away from it. Part forcefield, part cling wrap, it prevented the girls from going any deeper into the non-existent forest without hurting them. “Look!” Tammy said, putting her palm and pressing against the extra thick chunk of reality. “It’s Charlie!” Whatever was penning them in here also seemed to be part window, too. When Nova and Tammy pressed their hands against the spot, they found they were able to peer into the trailer gallery where this whole mess had started. Charlie walked around the narrow walkway, his head turning this way and that. His body language suggested that he was more lost in his own thoughts than anything, neither looking at the painting, nor for his friends. “Hey Charlie!” Nova called out. “Over here! Look! We’re in the painting!” Tammy slapped the invisible wall too. “Charlie! Can you hear us! Get us out of here! I’ll let you call yourself the big brother!” Charlie walked on, oblivious. The barrier between this one and the real did not seem to transmit sound, only sight. So it was particularly painful watching as a brightly colored feathered peacock hand reached out from a nearby painting and groped at the air. “Turn around!” “Run!” It was too late. Charlie was grabbed by the scruff of his letterman jacket and yanked into the painting they’d just come from. Nova felt her last desperate hope go up in smoke. “NOOOOOOOOOO!” “That…that…that…!” Tammy hopped up and down. “That dummy head!” “Dummy head?” Nova repeated, feeling the word an odd choice. “All he had to do was turn around! Big dumb poopy butt dum dum! Now he’s gonna get put in a diaper and get turned into a baby! Just like Jane and Chloe!” A switch flipped on in Nova’s head. “I thought you said Jane and Chloe were always babies.” “They are,” Tammy stated with absolute certainty. “And now my poo-poo pants brother is gonna get turned into one, too.” Tammy’s eyes widened in recognition. Whether she recognized the logical fallacy she was reciting or just that her choice of swear words were incredibly juvenile, Tammy knew something was wrong. “It’s not just them! It’s us too! Look at your clothes!” Nova looked down at her black babydoll dress and her pretty black shoes with the socks that were patterned along the ankles after Victorian doilies. She made sure that hair was still nice and neat and woven into a braid. Everything seemed in place. A naughty thought entered her brain yet again, and she thought to lift the hem of her dress, even though she know she shouldn’t. Just as always, Nova was wearing an extremely comfortable diaper with cloth backing made of the finest silk so that even when she was wet and soggy and saggy, her bottom cover was still soft to the touch. DIAPER?! “We’re babies!” Nova shrieked. Somehow, her skin managed to become even paler. “This place is turning us into babies!” “I know!” Tammy shrieked back. She was no better off. Her plain, ordinary, styless clothes had mutated into a brown romper with the subtlest hints of gray and darker brown splotches. The thick diaper sagging between her legs was more covered up than her friend’s, but it was no more obscured. “Brown!” Nova pointed, thinking back to the fate they thought they’d just avoided. “Does this mean I’m a peacock?” Tammy asked, crying. “Am I a peacock baby? Wait. Peacocks are the boy birds.” “What are the girls called?’ “I DON’T KNOOOOOOW!” The creak of a cabin door and the light fluttering of wings. “There, there, Tammy dear,” A kind sounding voice said. “It’s alright. You don’t need to cry. Mommy Lumira’s here.” Nova gazed up at the pixie-like giantess with moth wings and compound eyes. She tried to scream, but all sound left her throat. “What am I?” Tammy bawled. “What am I?” For the first time in her life, Tammy Greene didn’t know the answer to something. The giantess fluttered all the way down. “You’re not a peahen, my little caterpillar.” She took a knee and reached behind her. “You’re my darling baby girl.” Tammy looked up and the first thing she saw was not the monster, but the stuffed caterpillar she’d brought with her. The last of Tammy’s willpower melted away and she looked at the stuffed toy and the oddly beautiful, oddly terrible thing that gave it to her with only love. “Mommy!” “That’s right,” the moth woman’s voice said, just above a stage whisper. “I’m your mommy and you’re my little caterpillar. She unsnapped the girl’s romper and inspected her diaper. “My my, you’re soggy!” she gushed. “I think we’ll have to switch you to extra thick nighttime diapers all the time!” Tammy’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Nighttime! Mommy! Can my friend, Makayla, spend the night with us? Pweeeeeease!” She hadn’t lasted even a week without slipping. That was okay, though. Babies like her were allowed to make mistakes and be wrong. Lumira fluttered back into the air, holding her padded prize. “I’m sorry, Tammy, but your friend needs to find her Mommy before we make any plans” Tammy hung her head. “Oh,” she said. “Okie, Mommy.” “Now to send her along to…” the moth Mommy paused and looked around. “Where’d she go?” Nova laid on the ground of the trailer gasping for hair. She’d almost suffocated clawing and scratching through that invisible barrier, but she’d gotten through. As soon as she’d realized what a baby Tammy was, the big girl had started digging her way out of the painting. She wasn’t about to let herself get blown or knocked about into another painting. Except it wasn’t ‘realized’. Not really. Tammy hadn’t been a baby before today. None of her classmates had. There was just this naggingly persistent voice that kept whispering to her that she and her friends were just babies and had been all along. The most insidious part was that voice sounded so much like her own voice. It felt so natural. So right. “I’ve gotta get a grown-up,” Nova hissed to herself. She stood up, and smoothed the dress over her diaper. “Adult,” she corrected herself. “I’ve gotta get an adult.” Much better. When you need help, always find an adult. That’s what Mommy always told her. She thought of Edith, the girl at the front of the exhibit. Edith was a little older than her! In college already! Surely, that was close enough to start looking. The goth baby waddled unsteadily towards the front. “Lady?!” she called out. “Miss Edith?! Art lady?!” Nova pushed her way past the black curtain at the entrance and froze. The college girl who’d invited them to look at the paintings hadn’t changed, but Nova’s view of her had. There’s nothing wrong, or particularly scandalous about wearing shortalls. Among young women around Nova’s age it was often quite popular in the warmer months. All the same, most shortalls for adults didn’t have snaps in the inseam. Nova knew that her host’s clothes had snappies because when she poked her head through the black curtain, she saw the other woman laying spread eagle on her desk with the snaps popped open, an absolutely vile diaper balled up on the floor, and a fresh one being taped up by what could only be described as a giant woman made of paint splotches. Something clicked into place for Nova. This whole thing, from beginning to end, had been a trap made for people like her. This place was an angler fish and Edith was the dangly little bulb meant to bring the prey in. The only reason this place was on the fringes of the fairground was likely because too many people would notice that no one was coming out in a more crowded section. “You…you…meanie!” Nova screamed in blood curdling rage. She couldn’t remember any other meaner, more accurate, but ‘inappropriate’ words. Edith turned her head to the sound of Nova’s voice.. “Huh? You’re not supposed to be out-” The other diapered girl was cut off by Nova’s ramming tackle that spilled them both off the heavy oak desk and onto the cold metal floor. “Dumb! Poopy! Meanie!” Her words were cut short with Edith’s hands wrapped around the goth girl’s neck. That did not stop the attack. They rolled around the floor for a moment, the hostess wrapping her hands around Nova’s neck, with Nova sincerely trying to claw the other girl’s eyes out. Regardless of her murderous intent, Nova was never much of a fighter. If she had been prior to today, she didn’t remember how. Within five seconds, the girls had been separated, with Nova finding herself pinned to a wall by the paint creature. “Mommy! Mommy!” Edith said. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” She held up her hands in a calming defensive gesture. “We can play nice. We can play nice.” Like hell they could! Nova struggled against the scary grown-up, not caring at the moment whether or not her brain was turning to mush. She wanted this brat dead! Something changed when she looked at Edith's face. A few of her scratches had hit home and drawn blood. Blood wasn’t seeping out of the cuts, though. Bright splotches of green, yellow, and blue paint were. Fury transmogrified into dread curiosity. “What are you?” A look to the paint creature from Edith got it to back off. It quickly opened the desk drawers and handed out plastic tea cups to the girls. Evidently it served less of a desk and more of a combination changing. Nova noticed that the paint creature’s outline looked vaguely feminine; ever shifting but always having the faint silhouette of a woman in a dress with her hair done up. A quilt was laid out and a plastic tea set was made ready. Edith wiped away the paint on her face, and her wounds immediately started to close. It looked less like she was healing and more like the top layer of her skin was seeping over the scratch marks, painting over them. “Come on,” she said to Nova. “Let’s have a tea party.” Nova took a seat on the quilt and felt a sodden squelch as soon as she did. Her eye twitched and her face flushed. She didn’t know when she’d wet her diaper, but it was obvious that she had. Several times, possibly. Edith took a sip from her empty cup. “Do you need a change? My Mommy can give you a change if you need it.” Nova gulped for real as she pretended to sip imaginary tea. “No thank you,” she fibbed. “I’m fine.” Her eyes flitted towards the entrance. Maybe she could get to it.” Edith shrugged and pretended to pour some more tea. “Fine by me. The whole point of diapers is so that babies like us can keep playing for longer.” There was so much to unpack about that statement. Unpacking it wouldn’t get Nova closer to knowledge or escape. “What are you?” she repeated herself. Edith looked mildly uncomfortable. “I’m an artist,” she said. “Or I used to be before all this.” There was a thought Nova hadn’t considered until just now. Maybe the girl who’d dragged her and her friends into this was just as much of a victim as she was. “What happened to you?” In answer to Nova’s question, Edith gave a completely different answer. “Their fairies, you know.” she said quietly. “Fae. Arcadians. Muses. Powerful beings. Responsible for inspiration, passion, and madness.” She motioned with her head towards the paint woman. “My Mommy has personally touched the greatest paintings of all time, giving them her blessing. She doesn’t talk much, but the grown-ups call her Mona when she takes me on playdates.” Nova looked over at the brightly colored mishmash, and got a friendly little wave. It didn’t stop until Nova shyly waved back. “They kidnapped you?” “Not exactly,” the girl in the shortalls sighed. Her shortalls were more of a skirt at present. Her Mommy hadn’t had the time to snap the legs back together, and Edith, Nova guessed, no longer knew howl. “They offered me a deal, and like an idiot, I took it.” Nova leaned forward and barely noticed the squish. “What kind of deal?” “Eternal youth in return for creating portals to their different realms. I was born in 1948.” Nova forgot to blink. “Yeah. I’m old enough to be your grandma. That part has a bigger effect every year I tell it.” “So what was the catch?” Nova asked. “There’s always a catch.” Edith put the tea cup down and unfolded her hands right in front of her diaper. “This. I’m a baby. Forever. And babies don’t get to decide what they do or where they go. If Mommy and her friends want to go on the road and round up more people to adopt. I have to do what they say.” She sniffled. “Because I’m a good girl.’ It turned out that even the woman’s tears were rainbow colored. “Why the scratches?” Nova asked. “Why do you bleed paint?” “They treat us like children for a reason,” Edith squeaked, her throat sounding tight. “Any human who spends long enough around a Fae will start to change and be like them. We’re growing up, Makayla. We’ll just never finish. And it’s all my fault!” She buried her face in her hand and continued to sob. There was a light clicking sound that Nova thought was the crinkling of her babyish underwear. She paid it no mind and leaned forward. “Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” The girl frowned. “Wait. How do you know my real name?” “Because you gave it to me,” Quiet sobs turned into muffled laughter. “You put it down when you scribbled nonsense on the paper. Slipped right off ya. I picked it up!” Edith looked up and wiped away her dazzling crocodile tears. Makayla recoiled like Edith was a snake. Why couldn’t she think of herself as anything but Makayla anymore? “Why are you-? How are-?” “Like I said,” Edith giggled. “I’m a good girl. Except for one part,” she grinned. ”I lied. I knew this would happen. There was no trap.” Makayla was stunned into silence. “Do you know how much humanity sucks?” Edith went on. “We never really grow up anyways. We just act like a bunch of selfish brats as soon as someone can’t tell us what to do. We’re not really adults. We just got really good at playing dress up!” Makayla felt her hopes sink and her fear rise. “Why are you telling me this?” “Stalling,” Edith smirked. She pointed high above Makayla’s head. “Waiting for your Mommy to come getcha.” The goth baby felt herself yanked up as if she were a puppet on a string. “Gotcha!” a new voice announced. With her feet dangling, Makyla looked down and saw eight spindly legs clicking on the floor. She was turned around and gazed eight loving eyes on an otherwise human face, blinking out of unison so she would never not be looking at the girl. “Come to Mommy, sweetie!” Pure terror washed over Makayla and she made to scream, but a pacifier was jammed between her lips and pulled taught with spider silk. “Mmmmph!” “Thank you so much for keeping Makayla, company, little Edith.” The woman-spider clicked and cooed down to the artist. “I’m so glad you and your Mommy were here to stop her from toddling off. Who knows what would have happened then?” “You’re welcome, Miss Arachne,” Edith beamed like a proud little girl. The air whipped through the goth girl’s hair and the rows and rows of paintings swept by her field of vision. When the world stopped again, Makayla was looking at a portrait of a very creepy haunted house. “Home sweet home,” the spider with a woman’s face said. Makayla screamed into her pacifier, but the silk that tied it around her head held fast and her strength was no match for the. She could feel herself going and her guts starting to rumble. Her eyes darted around the old gray house with its loose floorboards and dusty cobwebs showing the decay of man’s time on this world. It was…pretty awesome actually. “It’s okay,” Mommy shushed. “You’re home now. You’re with Mommy. That’s speeding it up. It’ll all be over soon.” Over. Her life was over. The spider-woman tossed Makayla over her shoulder and started rubbing her back as if she were a fussy toddler. “Just let it all go. Let it all out.” Whether she was still something of a rebellious teen, or had just been propelled back to her terrible twos, being commanded to something made her want to do the opposite. Makayla clenched her cheeks together and grit her teeth, practically biting through the rubber bulb of the pacifier. “I knew you would be the perfect baby girl for me,” Arachne whispered to her “the moment you put your name down and I got a whiff of your essence. All except your name…” That gave Makayla pause. She stopped struggling as much. Her cheeks loosened slightly, despite herself. Simultaneously, she forgot how to get them that tight ever again. “But we can let go of names, can’t we?” her new Mommy whispered. “Fresh start? All you have to do…is to let everything go.” The words were hypnotic, weaving a spell that was too potent to resist. “Finish the transformation like a good girl. Give in. Let your true nature take its course. Get everything you don’t want out of you.” She patted Makayla’s diaper. “Put it right here for Mommy. Then when you’re done, I’ll get you a new diaper.” She paused. “And a new name. How about…Nova?” Spell complete, the embers lit inside the girl, she not only relaxed her muscles but actively pushed, forcing all the mess inside of her to fill up into the seat of her pants. As the baby did, she felt better and better. She lost her inhibitions. Her shame. Her past. Her future. Her cynicism. But the love of all things dark and macabre she kept. It would serve her well in her black nursery. The last thing that ended up ballooning her diaper with all of the mush, was the name she’d tried to get rid of since freshman year she couldn’t really remember anymore. “Good girl!” Mommy whispered to the baby changeling. “Very good baby.” She took the pacifier out of her new daughter’s mouth. “Isn’t that better?” “Yuh-huh!” Nova said. “Mommy, can I play with my friends now?” Mommy Arachne kissed her precious on the cheek. “Maybe later. First, though, I think its time to change your diaper. The first of infinite.” Nova felt a little sad, but that was mainly because she didn’t want to get her diaper changed just yet. She was just starting to enjoy the squish. A short eternity later, a most peculiar playdate was going on as a group of tiny eighteen year olds babbled and played with one another. Among them were a petite little girl who was just starting to grow her gills, a kitten baby who was going through a scratching phase, a beautiful baby boy in the most elegant dress and bonnet that complimented (not outshone) his feathers, a moth girl who was constantly squeezing her caterpillar for comfort, an eight eyed goth baby he flounced around clinging to her Mommy’s silks, and an splotchy little artist made of many different colors. “How do you guys wear these every day?” Chloe wondered, marveling at the piece of plastic between her legs. “I feel so…dry.” Her Mommy had gotten a pack of land diapers that she had to wear for trips away from her domain. “That’s kind of the point,” said Jane. Her Mommy was just glad her diaper tapes were extra strong. Jane squatted down into a pouncing position. Either that or she was pooping with her but up in the air. Maybe both? Charlie did a twirl so that his layers of skirts rustled about and opened like a flower. “Their point is to make you look cute.” “No,” Tammy said, looking down at herself. “I get it.” She poked her padding in her romper and looked worried. “How do you wear daytime diapers without being worried you’ll leak?” “You think that’s bad?” Edith joked. “You should have been around before disposables were a thing. All that cloth and safety pins and extra layers.” “I wear cloth,” Nova said. “It’s comfy.” “Cloth,” Edith corrected. “Not cloth-backed. Completely different. Yours is just like a facsimile of the old style. Not washable. Doesn’t need safety pins. It’s still basically a disposable.” A mockery of a past aesthetic? Something worse for the environment but containing the shell and vague appearance of something more wholesome and benign? All in the name of convenience?. How…wonderful! Nova giggled While the other babies played, Edith was still stuck in her own head. Break or no, there was a part of her that was always creating, ever the artiste. She’d heard a demoness, Lady Sousa, had become a patron to a coven of infantilist witches. Maybe she’d paint a portal to her next. Just imagine what she might give in return for some fresh forever children?! (The End)

Flash Fiction: Advanced Day 2 You’re wandering around the re-education center’s playroom. You feel the old familiar cramp in your stomach, and the fullness in your bottom. You stop. You pick a spot in the middle distance. You bend your knees slightly. You push. No muss. No fuss. No crying. No shouting. A slight groan rattles up from your throat, but that can be forgiven. You feel your cheeks spread and your anus stretch while you push. Gravity helps a tiny bit, but the brown squishy mass hits the back of your diaper very quickly. You’re going to have to push the rest of the way. This is weird. This is gross. This is weird and gross. Just don’t think about it. Don’t stop! You keep pushing. It’s easy. Your stool is soft and your sphincter muscle’s need to contract and push makes it feel more natural than it is. Just keep pushing. Don’t think about the mucky warmth. Don’t reach back and feel the lump that is forming. You just push and push and push until the pain stops and you unintentionally sigh with relief. Then, like a good ‘baby, you keep toddling around as if you had no idea what just occurred. You ignore the body temperature mess or the smell that is starting to invade your nostrils. “Hold on,” one of the Mommies says. That’s what the center calls them here: Every woman is ‘Mommy’. Every man is ‘Daddy’. She reaches around and squeezes the front of your diaper without preamble or explanation. “You’re a little wet, but I don’t think you need a change yet.” She gives you a tiny swat, right on the lump of protruding out the back of your onesie. “Okay. Go on.’ So you do. Three steps like nothing happened,and the same hand that groped you snatches you by the wrist. “Hold up! Almost forgot!” That’s a lie, but you’re smart enough to correct her. You’ve seen what happens to the babies that correct the Mommies and Daddies. A mushy tushy is better than a blisteringly smacked bottom. She starts patting your backside, practically massaging the lump in your non-pants. “Oh wow! You really made a big poop!” A droplet of sweat starts to form on your forehead. “Good baby!” She tugs at your wrist and leads you away. Your spirits are only slightly dampened when you realize she’s not leading you towards the changing tables, but you chastise yourself. This doesn’t bother you. It won’t bother you. You refuse. This Mommy parks herself in a rocking chair and pats her lap. Without hesitation, you sit down in her lap. Your face is a mask of comfort as the lumpy mass is flattened and spread out to more of your bum. You nuzzle her forehead with your own like you’ve seen the other, more successful babies do. You feel and smell gross, but you remind yourself: You’ve been here forty-eight hours, and in that time you haven’t seen a single baby have to change themselves. Diapers are only gross when they’re your problem. You add to that rationalization with a dash of hope. You’ve only been here forty-eight hours. Someone will rescue you. Your pardon will come. They’ll know you don’t deserve to be treated like this. Mommy produces a bottle and offers it to you. You take it and start suckling on it while she rocks you both. “You’re doing so well!” she praises you. “You’re such a smart baby!” You are. You know what’s up. “Most babies your age need help and reminders! But not you!” She gives you tiny pecks on your cheeks and strokes your hair. “You must be advanced!” You’re not advanced. You’re just not stupid. Since you’ve been here you’ve seen a boy screaming through his pacifier shaped gag while Daddies held him down and inserted an enema tube up his ass. He needed help pooping. Another girl asked for a change during naptime, so today they overfilled her bladder, waited until the wetness indicator turned all the way blue, and then chemically sedated her so she got used to laying in nothing but a wet diaper. Good babies played the part they were given. Those who didn’t, had things turned up to eleven until being a regular baby didn’t seem so bad. The room starts spinning and the Mommy hugs you closer so you don’t fall out of her lap. “Uh oh. I think someone’s getting sleepy,” she coos tauntingly. “I think someone needs a nap.” Your lips start to move, to ask about getting changed first. But your speech is too slurred to comprehend. That wasn’t just milk you’d been chugging. She bounces you on her lap, making the poop smear and smash up, as if your pants are filled with the foulest smelling playdoh. “Aw, you’re so tuckered out,” Mommy says. “I was gonna change you, but I think the rest is more important.” You did everything right, and you’re still getting the extreme treatment. It’s not fair. You can’t win. “Let’s put you down right away, my clever little baby. Then we’ll change you…if you need it.” You can’t win. That’s the lesson. No matter what you do, you’re going to be a baby and at the whims of whomever isn’t. That’s the real lesson. And it didn’t even take you two days. Maybe you are advanced.

(Part 2) Max gazed down at the passed out dog on his nursery floor, drenched in his own piss. He snickered to himself in tiny little puffs through his nose. His eyes took in the diapers and the baby powder the little twat had knocked over. He had a thought and winced. “Would’ve had to hit the table hard to knock those diapers loose,” he said to himself. “Ouch.” Max could already see a bit of swelling on the top of Alby’s head. The younger man’s snoring and mumbling being the primary thing that let Max know that he wasn’t dead or brain damaged. Probably not brain damaged… How easy would it be, Max wondered, to make Alby’s stay in the nursery a bit more…long term? Max already had enough supplies: Diapers, wipes, powder, gags, mittens, booties, restraints. How simple would it be for the bigger, taller, stronger wolf, to dress the boss’s son up in diapers and mittens and contain him in a big enough crib? Force feed him bottles laced with laxatives until he messed? Get him good and wet and squishy and then take a vibrating wand to him but stopping from going all the way until Alby begged him to cum. Or put him in chastity and tease him until he couldn’t take it anymore? Then parade him around the office on a pink toddler leash wearing nothing but a Little Bo Peep dress and tights that did nothing to hide what was underneath. All to culminate with the broken little sissy getting on his knees and sucking Max off in front of everyone. That’s how it worked in the stories, anyhow. Too bad this wasn’t a story. Kidnapping people was highly illegal, not to mention to unethical, even if they were brats and bullies. That and Max wasn’t much for prolonged torture and humiliation. He knew himself to have something of a temper and could hold a grudge like a mother fucker, but tying someone up and humiliating someone (against their will), just wasn’t who he was. Threaten? Bluff? Intimidate? Even cold cock a guy? Sure, if they had it coming. But kidnapping? Prolonged humiliation and torture? Sexual assault even? That wasn’t who Max was. Save it for the role play forums. That and Max didn’t want Alby’s lips anywhere near his dick. He didn’t even like the mutt. Flirting with revenge fantasies complete, Max set about doing what was more than likely the right, albeit less satisfying thing. Gently, he rolled Alby onto his back and then hoisted him up off the urine soaked nursery carpet and onto the custom made changing table. The wolf grit his teeth and groaned in doing so. Alby wasn’t bigger than him and didn’t have the middle aged beer gut that Albert Madden Sr. had, but he wasn’t helping either. It sucked deadlifting someone. “Goddamn motherin fuckin’ Daddy’s boy,” Max grumbled more to himself than to the unconscious dog. He’d just finished making that table too. Hours in his tool shed carving, sanding, assembling, and painting till it was perfect. Somebody, literally anybody else, was supposed to lay on this changing table, not Alby. It was honestly a waste of a maiden voyage. He worked the Doberman's pants off from around his knees and flapped them out for inspection. As anticipated they were wet, but more so at the waistline than the crotch. Alby had had them down part way before the dam had broken and the urine had either run down his legs or just puddled beneath him. Max tossed them onto the rim of the hamper right by the diaper pail. They were going straight into the wash after this, but he needed them out of the way for the time being. Next came Alby’s soaking wet underpants. The wolf mentally corrected himself: Alby’s soaking wet panties. Max dug his cell phone out of his pocket and took a picture. The angle was narrow enough to make it hard to tell what Alby was laying on, but wide enough to identify who was in the picture and what they were wearing. “Just in case…” Max whispered. He heaved the Doberman's legs up and reached his arms around so he could shimmy the red satin panties off his hips down past his ankles. Max held the soiled underwear by his thumb and forefinger. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he wasn’t at least tempted to toss them in the pail and replace them with something much thicker and more crinkly. Never mind all that, Max decided. He gingerly hung the soaked panties over the pants and made for removing Alby’s shirt. That was the hardest part. It was almost as wet as the underwear, clinging to his, and he had to roll the drunken mess one way to get one sleeve off and then the other to remove it entirely. Alby was a living ragdoll the entire time. If Max had liked the little bully, it might have even been endearing. As things stood it was just the lesser of two inconveniences. A passed out Alby was more tolerable than a conscious one. That and he was genuinely wondering how much Alby had seen and recognized before he passed out. It was a good thing the Daddy’s Boy didn’t have many friends at the office. Max didn’t want to explain to anyone why he had a changing table and crib big enough to hold an adult, nor diapers with cartoon prints on them big enough to fit. Things might get difficult if Mr. Madden got that whispered into his ear, which was another good reason for taking that photo. Mutually assured destruction and all that. Now how to clean him up? Ideally, Max would have preferred to use a shower or a bathtub. It was late however and Max didn’t want to have to prop up Alby to keep his head above water and he didn’t have a shower chair to sit him in. That and it might wake him up. He didn’t trust the safety straps enough to leave his unconscious co-worker alone long enough to get a wash cloth and a buck of soapy water, either. Easier to just wipe him down here and now with the supplies on hand. “Baby wipes it is,” Max concluded. Gently, carefully, almost lovingly he pulled the first wipe from the pack and started to pat and wipe the younger man down, first his thighs down to his knees. Then another wipe for the other. Then a third for his genitals. Alby twitched when the cold wipe first touched his penis. Max froze like he’d been caught and held his breath. He went so far as to take a step back and hold his hands up by his chest defensively. Instead of waking up, Alby mumbled “Daddy” and popped his right thumb into his mouth. Max couldn’t help but softly smile. “I think he likes it,” he remarked as Alby sucked. He finished wiping down Alby’s pubic area, penis, and testicles, and pushed the man-child’s knees back up to his stomach so he could grab another wipe and get at his taint and bottom. Alby moaned in his sleepy stupor and sucked his thumb harder. “Mmmmm….” The wolf’s eyes widened in surprise. Wow. Kid didn’t know it, but he seemed to like it. Max tossed the wipe away and looked back down below Alby’s waist. To his not-quite surprise, Alby’s penis was getting visibly excited and standing at attention thanks to all of the tender, if cold caresses from the baby wipes down there. “Yeah,” he chuckled to himself. “He definitely likes it.” Idly, Max wondered what would happen if he invested in a wipe warmer. Max dug out his phone again and took another picture. Christine from sales wouldn’t be getting much trouble out of Alby if Max had anything to say about it. He didn’t know what would be more embarrassing to the grown-up pup: A picture of him passed out in women’s underwear, or one of him sucking his thumb and sporting a healthy erection, but he’d find out soon enough. Just because Max wasn’t going to physically torture the brat didn’t mean he wasn’t going to use this incident against him. He patted down Alby’s belly with two or three more wipes and then disposed of them. Half by reflex, he reached for a bottle of baby powder and sprinkled some on over Alby’s nethers before he fully realized what he was doing. “Mmmmmm…” Alby groaned behind his thumb, his muzzle breaking into a dopey smile. “Yesh Babby…” This sounded silly considering Max was in his private kink nursery, but Max had to say it. “Dude…you’ve got issues.” Alby just kept sucking his thumb. He continued powdering the twenty-five year old’s rump and sprinkled a bit on his chest and thighs for good measure. If he missed a spot wiping, the powder would at least dry him out and cover up the smell until Alby could give himself a proper shower. Now came the hardest question. What to dress him in? He certainly wouldn’t fit in Max’s pajamas. Their size difference was enough that Alby would practically look like a child trying on Daddy’s clothes with sleeves flopping all the way over his arms and pant legs completely covering his feet. The thought of Alby wearing his clothes didn’t sit right with Max for multiple reasons. Chief among them was that it felt like it would be going too easy on him. Like a drunken douchebag, Alby had battered down his private door, pissed himself, and passed out on the floor. What kind of lesson would that teach him if he just woke up a little hungover in the morning? It wasn’t in Max’s nature to be overly cruel, but the keyword in that thought process was ‘overly’. Alby was still due for a little payback, and the pictures of him passed out in panties wouldn’t balance the budget in Max’s eyes. Alby had already earned that for being a tool. This specific violation required a different kind of penalty. While he was pondering such intricacies, Alby’s free hand drifted down to his penis and he started rubbing it. His hips thrust lightly so his dick pressed up against his open palm and he mumbled and moaned incoherently around his thumb. His hand didn’t grip anything, probably because Alby didn’t consciously know that he was masturbating. It didn’t make things any more pleasant from Max’s perspective. “Ooooh no!” Max said out loud. “Oh no no no no.” He rushed over to the nearest dresser drawer and dug out a pair of baby panties. They were cotton pastel yellow underwear with butterflies on them, and were thick enough to where they could withstand a light wetting without dripping. In the past, Max had had some play partners who were into potty training play over full on diaper wearing and he’d had accommodated them. Presently, Max swatted Alby’s hand away from his privates and slipped the childish looking undergarment onto him. “Not doing that here, kid,” he said. Alby seemed to settle, the firm pressure coming from the snug panties pleasing his impotent lust enough so that he stopped fiddling with himself. Max would probably burn those panties tomorrow night just in case. Yet the moment of problem solving killed two birds with one stone in Max’s mind. He suddenly had a very good idea on how he could pay Alby back and have the tiniest bit of fun to boot. The wolf turned his head to the dresser and nodded to himself. “Bingo…” ******************************************************************************************************** THOK-THOK-THOK-THOK! WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! THOK-THOK-THOK-THOK! Alby woke up in terrible pain. His head was throbbing in the worst way. His pulse in his temples hammered him from the inside out and there was a nasty ringing in his ears that made his teeth hurt that Alby only experienced at the dentist. His eyes ached so that the minor motes of light that came in through the soft navy blue curtains might as well have been tiny boxing gloves smacking him right in his corneas. If he thought about it too much, he noticed how the throbbing in his head was mirrored in his neck so that every heartbeat felt like someone was lightly strangling him. “Uuuuuuuuuuuh,” Alby groaned raspily, his throat dry and crackling. “I am never drinking again.” He would have rolled over, grabbed a pillow, and slammed it over his head, except his bladder was screaming at him to get up. His bowels too. He was not going to be able to go back to sleep like this, and worse would happen if he waited much longer. The Doberman threw off the comforter and swung his feed over the side of the bed, rising up and scraping the crust out of his eyes. It took two seconds for Alby to realize he hadn’t woke up in his own bed. His California King that he never made had been usurped by a Queen size mattress covered in heavy navy blue comforters. The walls were a calming beige decorated by oil paintings of sailboats. Memories of the night before bubbled up to the surface. Too much to drink. Looking for a bathroom. Busting down the door and hitting his head in the dark. He was still at the farmhouse! Max’s place! A quiet curse was replaced by confusion when the Doberman looked down at himself. Head to toe, he was dressed in pretty pink pajamas with a kitty cat print. It looked like something a little girl would wear to a sleepover. “The he-?” THOK-THOK-THOK-THOK! Alby slammed his paws over his ears and shut his eyes in pain. It seemed the throbbing and the pain weren’t completely internalized after all. The stinging in his bladder, and the rumbling in his guts however… Prioritize and triage time! Alby could deal with the strange (yet oddly comfortable and pretty) clothes later. He needed to find a bathroom and pronto! Alby flung the door open so hard that the knob banged against the inner wall and he stepped out into the hallway. “Easy there!” a nearby voice scolded him. “You wanna put a hole in my wall?” Max was just across and a little further down the upstairs hallway. He was hammering and drilling at the bathroom that Alby had been denied last night. “I need to get in there!” Alby yelped, immediately resorting to holding himself to prevent leakage. Max stopped hammering. “You most certainly do not!” he said. Alby’s sense of competitiveness and need to be seen as in charge was overwhelmed by a very different need. “Bathroom! I need to use the bathroom.” Max pointed down the hall. “That way! It’s open! You can’t miss it! Go!” Alby sprinted further down the hallway, still holding himself. He didn’t even say ‘Thank You’. The young Doberman shut the bathroom door behind him at the very last second. His payload releasing itself into the waiting bowl before he had fully sat down. He sighed in relief while his overfull bladder hissed and his irritated bowels spluttered. Every passing second brought a bit of pain followed immediately by passing relief, like when a blood pressure cuff comes off. There were aches and pains, but it was from the sore muscles finally getting to ease their burden. His innards clearing themselves out didn’t do much for the other symptoms of his hangover, but he was at least able to think about something else, like how much the light fucking hurt his eyes. He leaned forward on his knees and held his head there for a minute. His eyes looked down between his legs and he took in the sight of the thick yellow panties he’d pulled down in order to use the toilet. “These aren’t mine…” he mouthed the words more than spoke them aloud. CUNK-CUNK-CUNK! A loud rapping at the door rattled Alby and made him jump. “When you’re done in there, we need to talk!” Max’s voice sounded from the other side. Alby dry swallowed, his throat feeling like gravel. He was in different underwear. That meant that Max had seen what he’d been wearing before. He knew! That was why he’d been dressed like this, as some kind of sick joke! Alby would never hear the end of this. His life was over. “Can you hear me?” Max boomed. “Don’t tell me you passed out again!” “I’m in here!” Alby called back, his voice sounding ragged. “Just…give me a minute, okay?” “Alright,” Max answered. “I’ll be waiting in the hall.” Alby rested his head back in his hands and took a moment to feel sorry for himself. “The hell am I gonna do?” He felt tears threaten but none came. Either he was too dehydrated from last night or he was digging down into his reserves to keep from breaking entirely. Sitting up straight, he gathered his faculties as best he could, flushed, wiped, flushed again, and pulled his pants back up. He took an extra long time washing his hands and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He could practically hear his father’s voice scolding him, telling him how ridiculous he looked; calling him a disgrace right before firing him. It was a shame. He’d never admit it, but he thought he looked kind of cute in the girlish pee-jays. “You can do this,” he whispered to himself. “You can still come out on top.” He wasn’t some tap dancing con artist in sales. He was the office manager! He. Got. Shit. Done. As psyched as he tried to be, his momentum was killed the instant he stepped away from the sink and remembered what he was wearing. Having his slight ‘indiscretion’ on underneath his regular clothes gave him a kind of charge that put him on alert that he channeled into boosted confidence. Having his under and outerwear match, though? Let’s just say the effect was greatly diminished. Max was leaning up against the wall in the hallway, just a few steps away from a drunken Alby had thought was the bathroom last night. His arms were crossed over his chest and his body at ease. “Morning,” Alby said, clearing his throat. “Good afternoon,” Max corrected him. “Oh,” Alby felt his face flush. “Good afternoon. Happy New Year?” “Happy New Year,” Max nodded. “So do you want to tell me what you were doing or should I tell you?” Alby gulped again and smacked his chops. “I uh…really had to go to the bathroom.” Alby sheepishly admitted. “And?” Max asked expectantly. Alby patted the top of his head and winced. “And I hit my head I think…?” “And?” “And I was drunk but I’m really sorry.” Max stopped leaning against the wall and stood up to his full height. He wasn’t directly facing Alby, not looming over him, but Alby still felt a twinge of intimidation coming off the wolf. “You were looking for a bathroom, and so you found the first- and only- locked door you could find, and you busted it open,” Max said. “Now I’ve got to get a new door. You might’ve warped the frame too.” “Oh,” Alby looked down at his feet, pretending to focus on the bright pink cat pajamas around his waist. “You also peed all over your clothes and ruined my carpet.” Alby could hear the tapping claws of Max’s foot. “Sorry…” He mumbled, feeling like a naughty puppy. Staring down at his clothes, he remembered to muster a bit of outrage. He lifted his head and made eye contact. “Why the heck am I wearing this though? This some kind of joke?” It was hard to tell whether Max was stifling a laugh or just clearing his throat. “You’d pissed yourself. I wasn’t about to risk you doing it again to my clothes. My niece’s leftovers were the only thing I had that fit you.” It was a blatant lie, but Alby didn’t know that. It was one that spared his feelings. “Oh…” “That and I thought you’d like wearing them.” So much for that bit of comfort. Alby looked back down. “Oh…you saw that, huh?” “Hard not to,” Max replied. “Your pants were down.” A beat. “And you’d pissed yourself.” The floor seemed very interesting all of a sudden. “Sorry,” Alby said. “What side did you wake up on?” the wolf asked. Confusion shook Alby’s head back up. “Excuse me?” “I left you on your belly. Did you roll over?” “Oh,” Alby scratched behind his ears. “Yeah. I was on my back.” “Any vomit? Did you puke?” Max continued. “Is there more to clean up?” “No!” Alby yelped. “At least, I don’t think so.” He brushed off and looked down at the hot pink kitty cats on his chest. There was no vomit or anything that he could see. He sniffed himself to see if he picked up any traces of stomach acid or partly digested food on him. “Baby powder?” Max’s shoulders relaxed. “Okay,” he said. “Come on downstairs. Let’s get some breakfast.” “Don’t you mean lunch?” Alby asked. “Whatever.” ************************************************************************************************** There was a few minutes of blessed silence while Max grilled up hot dogs and heated up baked beans in a skillet. Max cut up the hot dogs and stirred them into the skillet. Then he slopped them onto a plate and set in front of Alby. “Here,” Max said. “Eat up.” “Thanks,” Alby said. From how he talked, there was an implied ‘I guess’, though that could just be Max’s bias showing. Max piled some of the stuff on his own plate, right as the toaster popped and added two crisp slices of recooked bread on top of everything before sitting down at the breakfast table. Beanie weenies wasn’t anything fancy, but it was good fatty hangover food. Max noticed the two aspirins he’d given Alby had been gulped down dry. He pointed to the glass of water he’d placed in front of the dog. “Drink.” Alby gingerly forked some beans into his mouth. “I’m not very thirsty.” “You’re dehydrated,” Max said. “I don’t want you keeling over halfway home. Drink.” The Doberman took the glass and started sipping. Gingerly at first, but after a few gulps he was lapping it up with gusto. “Oh wow!” he gasped. “This is great!” “It’s just water,” Max said. “It tastes great because you basically poisoned yourself.” Max kept wanting to tack on words like ‘dummy’ and ‘stupid’ at the end of every sentence, and his tone did nothing to hide it. He was still mad at the guy. Having to fix his nursery door and scrub the carpet clean was not how he had intended to spend his new year and he certainly wasn’t going to let Alby do it. “Thanks,” Alby said after he’d chugged down the water. He started to eat with more gusto, shoveling down the chow like it was life saving medicine. Max picked up a piece of toast and tossed it on top of Alby’s plate. “Here,” he said. “Use this at the end to wipe up the bits of sauce and leftovers.” Alby examined the bread, and put it to the side. “Edible napkin. Got it.” Max ate some of his own food, deciding to give the little trespasser a few minutes to breathe. This was meant to be restorative justice after all, so let the kid restore himself a little bit. That and Max was admittedly hungry. They ate in silence, the only noise being the clinking of forks on plates, the gnashing of teeth against gobs of beans and chopped up wieners, and near the end the crisp crunch of bread scraping up leftovers. “So,” Max said when they were finished. “Let’s talk about a few things.” Alby’s guard instantly went up. “Alright…” Max took his phone out and showed Alby the pictures he’d taken. He still couldn’t tell which of the two he’d taken the one of him in the soaking wet panties or the one with him sucking his thumb with a full erection- mortified Alby more. But they did mortify him. That was enough. “From now on,” Max said, “you’re gonna take it easy at the office. No more holding services or slow rolling orders for people on your bad side.” “You’re black mailing me?” Alby’s ears drew back. “I’m not an expert on the term, but I don’t think so,” Max said confidently. “Not by the strictest definition. I’m not asking you to give me money. I’m just asking you to do your job.” “I do do my job!” Alby said, sounding defensively. “Listening in to other people’s phone calls is part of your job?” “They were on company time!” Max tucked the phone back into his pocket. “I’m not gonna argue with you, Alby, because I don’t have to. You’re not our supervisor, not our manager, you’re the office manager. I’m asking you to do your job, and only your job.” “But my dad-!” “Pretty sure your dad didn’t ask you to do that,” Max cut him off. “And like I said. I’m not arguing with you. You’re going to stop being such a petty bitch at work.” No doubt refreshed by cold water and greasy food, Alby narrowed his eyes. “Or else what…?” Max didn’t back down. “I can promise you that if you just take it easy no one but you or me will know about those pretty little panties you like to wear, or how you’re a thumb sucker.” He purposefully left out how he evidently liked getting his butt wiped. “But if you don’t, there are people who will know. Can’t promise who, but people will know.” Alby drooped back down along with his ears. “I didn’t know about the thumb thing…” he said, sounding dreadfully ashamed. Max felt a twinge of sympathy for the twerp and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you wouldn’t if it’s in your sleep.” He tried his best to sound conciliatory. “Yeah.” Alby moped. “Yeah.” Max agreed. After a minute, Alby found the wherewithal to speak. “So…what next?” “We talk about how you’re going to get your clothes back, and go home for the rest of the weekend.” Max said. “Okay…” Alby replied suspiciously. ‘How?” “You busted my door down. I’m gonna need you to make it right,” Max said. Nervously Alby looked around the room and patted his pajama bottoms as if looking for his wallet or phone. “Sure sure,” he said. “Let me get my wallet. You can order the new door and use my credit card. Or I can zelle you the money after you give me the receipt.” Max shook his head softly. “Nope. Not like that. I don’t have your Daddy’s money, but I can afford to fix a door. It’s the principle of the thing. You broke something, now you have to fix something.” Alby frowned. “I don’t know how to fix a door,” he half-whined. Max gestured around the kitchen. Bottles of booze and full trash cans still littered the periphery. Both of them had seen worse messes, but it still looked like a pain in the ass. “You’re going to clean up down here. Take out the trash. Wash the dishes. Do some vacuuming and dusting.” “Chores?” Alby smirked. “You’re having me do chores?” “Unless you want to go home in those pajamas,” Max said. Alby seemed to consider it, stroking his chin. “Okay. That’s fair.” He stood up from the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit and then we pretend this whole thing never happened. Deal?” Max leaned further back in his chair at the breakfast table. “There’s one other small condition,” he said. “I had to clean up your pee soaked britches. So you need to do a little extra. You’ve got to wear a uniform.” “What uniform?” Alby cocked his eyebrow. *********************************************************************************** This sucked. This totally sucked. Alby couldn’t believe he agreed to this. There was no agreement however. Max was dealing purely in ultimatums. Either he went home in girly pajamas, or he picked up Max’s house. His entire body felt like it was on fire from embarrassment. He should have just bit the bullet and drove home. Nobody would be able to tell what he was wearing while driving, and the run from the parking lot to his apartment wasn’t that far. He could have been a regular blur so that nobody would think he was wearing anything worse than a tacky jogging suit. Yet he’d taken the deal. He’d taken the deal and he didn’t know why. Truthfully, he knew why, he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. The uniform that Max had mandated he wear was a full blown French Maid costume. White stockings jutted up to his knees, complemented by the frilled half apron draped over the frilly black dress with gray ruffles that didn’t go far enough for Alby’s liking. Everytime he bent over, he felt a draft on his stark white panties. Max even made him wear the white bonnet hat. Max had made him dust the shelves, standing on his tippy toes, followed by a thorough vacuuming of the floor. As he worked, Alby felt Max’s eyes (and more importantly phone) on him, taking in his humiliation. Despite how the food, water, and rest had helped revive him, Alby felt terribly sick. Over the vacuum’s roar he kept imagining people at work seeing him like this. It… It… It was a rush in the worst possible way. Max shouted something over the vacuum and Alby had to cut the power to hear him. “What?” Alby asked. “I said I think that’s enough vacuuming,” Max said. “I’ve got plenty of footage and you’ve gone over that same section of carpet seven or eight times.” He had the biggest shit eating grin and had been following Alby around with a decidedly obnoxious swagger. Nervously, Alby fluffed out the skirt. He’d never dared wear something like this before. “Where did you get this, anyways?” “Costume shop,” Max said. “Why?” “That’s not important,” Max replied. “All you gotta do, now, is take out the trash and I’ll give you your clothes back.’ Some bit of intuition was plaguing Alby. “Because I trashed your room?” “Yup.” “What’d I mess up, again?” Alby asked. “The carpet.” Max said brusquely. “Yeah, but what was in that room? What kind of room was it?” Max looked ready to bark. “Do you want your clothes back or do you want to stay in that frilly little maid’s dress?” “I…I….” Alby stammered feeling like he might incinerate the cotton covering his fur. He positioned himself so that he was standing directly in front of Max so the big wolf wouldn’t see his tail wagging. “I want my thing back. Please. That was the deal.” “Then live up to your end of it,” Max said, just barely suppressing a snarl. “Yes sir!” Alby yelped, tucking his tail and getting back to work. He trotted to the kitchen. Max had been kind enough to already remove the garbage bags from their cans and tie them off. All that was left for Alby to do was to take them outside and put them by the curb at the end of the long driveway. The young Doberman allowed himself a smirk while he hefted up the hefty bags. He’d finally figured it out. Max had some of the same kind of strange habits and secrets that Alby did. Probably more if they needed a whole room to contain them. Alby only dared to have an underwear drawer and a few hangers in his closets. The wolf had him over a barrel at present, but whatever was in that room was something Max definitely didn’t want Alby seeing or knowing about. The office manager clung to the hope that maybe he could arrange some kind of mutually assured destruction to get Max off his back. That and maybe find a way to get an outfit like this… Alby’s situation took on a new level of gravity when he stepped outside. Never in his life had he been in the open air wearing something like this. He’d felt like a daredevil on the days when he switched things up with his underwear. But walking out in the afternoon sunshine dressed like this took things to a new level. His heart went pitter patter while he trotted along the long walkway leading out past the privacy fence. His mind analyzed and felt every swish of his skirt and how it moved slightly with the crisp breeze. It was still cold enough to where Alby should have needed a coat, but his body felt incredibly warm all the same from all the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. “Almost done,” Alby said to himself. “Almost done. Then I can put this…behind…” The sissified Doberman froze in his tracks as a car pulled up to the gate. His quiet enjoyment turning to absolute terror. Someone was coming! Someone from the office! He looked behind him to the few remaining cars parked in the field. Someone was coming back for their car! What if they saw him wearing…this?! He’d be ruined! He’d never hear the end of this or command an ounce of respect ever again. What if Dad found out? Tail between his legs and still carrying the garbage bags, Alby bolted back towards the farmhouse. He buried his nuzzle in the black plastic bags, hoping against hope that it would somehow conceal his identity. Non-kinky people hired maids, right? Of course they did. Or fuck! Maybe he was a kinky maid, as long as he wasn’t recognized as himself! Panting and whimpering, Alby almost broke down the second door in as many days, this one belonging to the kitchen, and slammed it behind him. “What are you doing?” Max asked, sounding confused and annoyed. “I told you to take out the trash.” Alby dropped the bags back onto the kitchen floor and collapsed to his knees. “Please don’t make me go out there, Max!” he begged. “Please don’t make me go. I can’t. I just can’t.” Max frowned. “A deal’s a deal Al-” “No, you don’t understand!” Alby almost screamed. “I can’t go out there! Not right now! They’ll see me!” “I’ve got a privacy fence,” Max scoffed. “Someone came back for their car! Someone from work!” Finally, those tears that had been threatening earlier that day broke loose and ran all the way down Alby’s face. “I’m sorry I fucked up your door, but please let me wait till their gone. Please!” Max’s expression immediately changed. One from a stern and angry know-it-all to someone softer and more compassionate. He stepped closer and helped Max to his feet. “I’m sorry, Alby. I didn’t know. Of course you can wait inside until whomever drives off.” “They can’t know!” Alby begged, his emotions boarding on hysterical. “They just can’t! Please Max!” Max peered out the kitchen window and clicked his tongue. “It looks like Barbara from H.R. I think you’re okay. If she says anything about it, I’ll spin it so it won’t seem embarrassing. Turn you into the class clown or something.” He turned his head and smiled at the dog. “It’ll be funny.” “She can’t know!” Alby said breathlessly. “Please, Max!” Alby found himself pressed up against Max’s chest, held there and petted by big strong arms. “Okay,” Max shushed him. “She won’t know. No one will know.” “Promise?” Alby asked. “Promise,” Max said. “We’re square. You’re gonna be fine.”

"No Choice". You’re in bed. Making love to Mommy. She’s wearing nothing. Neither are you. Except for your diaper. “Faster, baby,” she moans. “Faster.” You obey, thrusting into her as best as you can. No penetration. Pure friction. The only lubricant you have is the wet, pulpy feeling from your diaper. Your dick hasn’t been wet with anything save your own piss since don’t know how long. Literally. You don’t know. You’re not allowed to know. Mommy moans turn into giggles. “That’s right baby. Just a little longer. Let Mommy try for her third orgasm, first…” “Then I can cum?” you ask. “Then you can cum.” Your gyrating intensifies. You balance yourself and adjust so that you’re sucking on her tits with her legs wrapped around you, you humping her as best as you can given your compromising condition. You know she likes it. You like it too. You have to. You have no choice. “Awww, someone’s hungry,” Mommy teases. “It’s okay baby, you’re allowed.” Mommy used to have a different name. You used to think of her in so many different ways. Not anymore. You’re not allowed. Only Mommy. A cramp pushes through you. Those pills Mommy has you take to make it easier to poop are kicking in. You want to ask her to stop; take a break. Go potty. But you’re not allowed. Despite yourself, you slow down and unlatch from Mommy’s breasts. “What’s the matter, honey?” she coos up at you. “Does your tummy hurt?” You’re allowed to answer questions. “Yes, Mommy.” “Do you have to make pushies?” “Yes, Mommy.” Lovingly, she strokes your hair. “It’s okay honey. You’ve got your diaper on. Your diaper is so that you can do all the important things you need to do and be happy.” “Yes…Mommy.” Your eye twitches. You’re being given permission to make pushies. It’s not the permission you want. But you’re not allowed to ask for permission, it can only be given. “Such a good baby.” In the darkness of the bedroom, Mommy sees your distress. “Baby? Do you not want Mommy to give you permission to make pushies in your diaper?” You’re still humping her. Through the cramps. Through the conversation. Through the anguish. You haven’t stopped. She hasn’t given you permission to. You’re not allowed to stop. “Yes Mommy…no Mommy…I…I…” God you wish you could cum. She’s still grinding back beneath you. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy understands. Mommy will take away your pushy permissions.” Any relief is short lived. “Tomorrow we’ll let you watch your special video again and then you won’t have to wait to make pushies. You’ll just go as soon as your body tells you it’s time to go.” Those videos. It all started there. Maybe? It’s so hard to tell. This could be night one. This could be night always. You could be imagining things. You don’t know. You’re not allowed to. You just know that whenever you watch that special video that you and Mommy got together, you lose something, have it locked away behind a wall that your mind can no longer access. The first thing was the ability to take off your diaper by yourself. Or what to call or think of Mommy besides ‘Mommy’. First thing tomorrow, you’re going to start pooping your diaper like you were never potty trained. Yay? Were you into this Mommy/baby stuff before the videos? Did you wear diapers before? Did you know Mommy before this? You don’t know. Access denied. Not allowed. “Tell you what,” Mommy says. “Make pushies on purpose one last time and then you can cum. Okay?” “Yes Mommy!” You close your eyes. You grunt. You push. And like someone stepping on a tube of toothpaste the poop. After the initial seal is broken, your body goes on autopilot, pushing it out. “That’s right. Baby’s using his diaper for everything now, isn’t he?” “Yes, Mommy…” you pant, still in the midst of filling your pants. “Now cum, little mush tush.” One… Two… Three… That’s how many little bump and grinds you needed to push yourself over the edge. You start spurting cum into the front of your diaper right as your bowels are achingly pushing the last of the mess. It used to be so hard cumming into anything but another person or a tissue, now it’s nearly impossible to imagine you ejaculating into anything else. It’s as natural as peeing your diaper now. As natural as pooping your diaper will be tomorrow morning after the video. “MOMMY!” You scream while you go over the edge. “MOMMY!” Unlike the other two functions of the diaper, you have to announce your climaxes by calling out her name. “MOMMY!” “Good baby,” she whispers. She rolls you off of her and you collapse into a post orgasmic puddle. Mommy goes for number orgasm number four by herself. You lay perfectly still like you’re supposed to, stewing in your mess. When she’s done, Mommy helps you stand up and roll off the bed. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s get you changed and then Mommy will put you down in your crib.” If there was ever a time when you and Mommy actually slept in the same bed, you no longer remember it. You take her hand and toddle after her into your nursery. You hop up on your changing table and lay there in a haze while she changes your diaper. Wipes you. Powders you. Puts a fresh diaper on you. Then she has you hop off and walk to your crib. She gives you a kiss good night. “Sweet dreams, little one.” She raises the bars. You can’t get out. You close your eyes knowing you’ll most likely wake up wet. Tomorrow you’ll have a full day of watching your special videos, doing chores around the house, and generally doing anything that Mommy tells you to do… including playing with baby toys, drinking from your bottle, or taking medicine that makes it easier for you to use your diapers. You’ve never been happier. You don’t have a choice.

Alby Madden stalked through the cubicles of Madden & Maddox Testing Services, listening in on the sales reps, his floppy ears perking up in various directions. “When can we arrange a meeting with your school board?” “That’s right, we include remediation and test prep materials” “We’ve got a free inservice workshop tutorial package so that all of your teachers can use the specialized curriculum with ease.” “Oh no ma’am, we’re not like those other education companies. It’s about Students, not Scantrons.” Madden & Maddox Testing Service was a growing and competitive company that marketed standardized testing materials, as well as curriculum, remediation, and tutorial services to various school boards across the country. They hadn’t over taken any of the big four- Harcourt, MCGraw-Hill, Riverside, or Pearson- but they were getting there. It was all about that hustle. “So dinner tonight? Seven? Yeah. Sounds great. Can’t wait.” Alby’s ears pricked up. That wasn’t company talk. The doberman padded over to the sound of the disturbance. “Hey, Christine,” he popped his head in. “Working hard, or hardly working?” The manx cat stiffened at the sound of Alby’s voice. “Oh, hey, Alby! What’s up?” “Nothing much,” Alby said. “Just doing my rounds, you know how it is.” Christine stared straight at Alby, not daring to so much as blink. “Yeah. Heh. I do.” Alby narrowed his eyes, and resisted the urge to growl. “Cool cool. Just checking.” “I was just about to start another call…” “Awesome.” Christine didn’t turn her head until Alby snorted and trotted off back to his office, his well trimmed claws not so much as brushing against the thin functional office matte. He sped up with a jaunty spring in his step when the manx actually started doing her job. In the pecking order, Alby technically wasn’t very high. He was the building’s office manager- a word which here means ‘glorified secretary’- but he was very good at his job. The way he explained it to people, he was kind of like the head of the office’s pit crew. He managed janitorial services, put in work and supply orders for materials, putting together and creating reports, and giving orientation to new administrators. Alby. Kept. Shit. Running. Pissing the twenty-five year old off, was a good way to end up at the top of his shit list and at the bottom of whatever list you needed to be on to get a problem solved. It didn’t hurt that his dad was the co-owner and boss of the company. A little nepotism never hurt anybody; or it didn’t hurt Alby at least. Alby went to his office in the back and made a note about Christine. He’d see if he could tell custodial services to skip her space. Let the clutter build. Or maybe he’d just tell his dad that an employee was making personal calls on company time. Not the specific employee, but a vaguely worded email from on-high could do wonders for group productivity. Chances are Christine wasn’t the only one breaking policy; and it’d make everyone sweat. Then as soon as sales boosted back up, Alby could order a couple of pizzas or a party sub and all would be right with their tiny little world. The idea was enough to make Alby wag his tail slightly, but he stopped, after one or two. Gingerly, as if scratching an itch, he patted the back of his pants, carefully feeling for any hint of satin or lace peeking out of the waistband or through the tail hole. For all his quiet bravado and perceived power, Alby had a secret, an addiction almost, that he just couldn’t shake. It was stupid on multiple levels. On the emotional level, who would care that Alby liked to wear women’s underwear to work? Or that he wore even more feminine clothes in his spare time? Objectively speaking, they were just clothes. Officially speaking, Madden & Maddox gave zero shits about what a person wore or did outside the office as long as it didn’t get them arrested, and didn’t care much about what they wore inside the office as long as it wouldn’t affect their bottom line. It was only panties, for gosh sakes! Dad would care, though. Albert Madden, Sr., wasn’t some kind of raging homophobe; that would have required a sign of emotion. The man was positively stoic about most things. That was so unnerving to Alby, though. If he knew…he would know…and he’d know…and they’d never talk about it…but he’d know… At most, he could see himself getting a formal debriefing (an ironic choice of words considering) about what was and wasn’t appropriate company dress, and a warning. He’d be told he wasn’t technically breaking any office rules, and it was only underwear, but it might be for the best if he avoided such indiscretions in the future as wearing something a lady would wear on a hot date. Same as any other employee, and somehow that made it worse. Then there was the fact that any authority or leverage he had over anyone would evaporate the second his choice. Alby did his best to present a front of formal business sheik and above all masculine. He was a young professional; the boss’s son. The next boss when the old man retired in ten years or so. He’d been made Office Manager so he could learn the inner workings of the company, and thus did everything he could to project a kind of relaxed strength. But who would follow his lead if they were constantly snickering behind his back? No one. Alby’s choice of undergarments was stupid for more strategic reasons, also. One could only be caught if they were doing something risky to begin with. The funny thing about twenty-five is that it’s a special age where taking risks is half the fun and you’re the main character of your own story. The secret thrill of wearing satin and lacy panties around the office while subtly bullying and bossing around people ten and twenty years his senior gave Alby an adrenaline rush. ************************************************************************************************ Max Connors sipped his tea and watched Alby pad away back to his office. The company’s top sales representative shook his head at Alby. “Hmmmph…” The Eurasian wolf’s senses were just as keen, keener even than the boss’s son’s. He waited until the little doberman was in his office busying himself with paperwork. “Brat.” Max sort of wished Alby were just a ‘brat’, but no such luck. The boy was cute, handsome even, but he knew it, too. The cute ones were always dangerous when they knew it. He was the heir apparent to the company, despite having zero previous job experience. Yay nepotism. Alby was the kind of cocky sonofabitch (literally in this case) that Max knew he was when he was in his twenties. Most people were like that at that age: Knowing they’re not kids and knowing they’re adults, while still failing to realize just how much shit they’d yet to experience yet. Max smiled to himself, thinking of what an idiot he’d been back then. He really had been still a kid. Granted, Max was only thirty-six, and assumed his forty and fifty year old colleagues probably thought the same thing about him, and he knew that when he was their age, he’d look back and realize they were correct; but even knowing that he possessed that kind of bias was leaps and bounds from where he was at Alby’s age. Something about Alby itched at Max, however. Something that made Max not want to give the basic courtesy and patience afforded to youth. Alby wasn’t a brat; not in the way Max liked them. Brats literally begged to be put in their place; they towed and crossed lines wanting to be punished and shown where the line was. It was part of the game, part of the fun. Part of the challenge. Alby just liked getting his way. And because he could so often, the doberman had become something of a bully. Case in point: Christine. The burly wolf stood up, stepping to the side in the aisle and then waiting patiently next to the manx’s cubicle. He waited respectfully for his co-worker to finish her call. Christine caught Max out of the corner of her eye and jerked her head around, loosening up when she saw it was only Max. “Oh,” Christine slowly blinked. “Sorry Max. I thought you were somebody else.” Max cut straight to the chase. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Alby’s not gonna do anything. He’ll probably just say something super vague to his dad and then we’ll get a company wide email about not making personal calls on company time.” Christine started shaking. Bits of hair started to fall in loose strands to the floor. Poor lady was so nervous she was shedding. “It’s my wedding anniversary. I was just finishing up dinner reservations and…and…” Max put a big strong paw on the cat’s shoulder. “Hey. Take it easy. That doberman’s literally all bark.” Christine looked down at her lap and around the chair. “Oh crud,” she brushed her skirt off and wheeled away from the strands of hair. “What if he makes it so that nobody vacuums here tonight? What if the hair piles up? How will that look? What’ll that do to me?” The wolf leaned forward so he could look the cat in the eye. “Don’t. Worry,” he said softly. “That’s not gonna happen. If he sabotages you too badly, that’s gonna look bad on him, not you. Nobody’s gonna get fired. Nobody’s gonna lose that bonus. You’re gonna be fine.” Christine certainly didn’t purr, but the ends of her hair stopped sticking out as much. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. You’re right.” He breathed deeply. “You’re right. It’s just…it’s just…ooof, I messed up.” “No you didn’t,” Max assured her. “You taking ten minutes prepping for tonight so you can focus the rest of the day isn’t going to mess with the company’s bottom line. Do you have any idea how much minesweeper I play in a given day? It’s crazy.” “Yeah?” Christine asked, a hint of hope bubbling up to the surface. “Yeah.” Max assured her. Hearing it come from the top seller seemed to relax Christine. “You do what you gotta do to keep yourself sane in this place, that way you’re giving your best energy when you’re dodging and weaving through some district’s red tape so you can talk to a Superintendent. You’re not a robot, and that’s part of our selling point.” One of Madden and Maddox’s biggest selling points was ‘Students before Scantrons’. It was mostly advertising, but it was advertising that worked “Okay,” Christine sniffed. “Yeah. Thanks, Max. I got this.” Max stood back up. “I know you do, hon. You got this.” This wasn’t the first fire that Max had put out. Nor would it be the last. Alby had no idea how much weight he carried around the office. Or he did, and didn’t care. It made Max feel old thinking this to himself, but Alby was comparatively a pup who’d never actually worked a day in his life. Max wouldn’t have traded places for the world with Alby, though. As a sales rep (and a fantastic one at that) Max got a hefty commission for every contract he reeled in and a good pay for every seminar he ran re-educating teachers on how to use the company’s. When he wasn’t in the office he was on the road. Speaking of which, he was due to get on a plane and seal a few deals and run a few seminars all the way up until the holidays. Double dipping and burning the candles at both ends as it were. That meant that he’d have to spend the majority of tonight packing his suitcase as well as packing things away for the New Year’s Eve party at the end of the month. Max had drawn the short straw and Alby had all but volunteered him to host it. Max had a big farmhouse he’d inherited on an acre of land just outside of town. Lord knew he had the room to host. He’d hosted more than a few non-office parties there, and the weather was getting good and crisp so building up the fire pit would make for good times. Nothing like drinking and roasting marshmallows to pass the time. The big brick privacy wall running around Max’s property was also attractive since it allowed coworkers to make an ass out of themselves without getting arrested. Once again, Max had made use of that wall more than once. Alby assured Max that the company would foot the bill for most of it. They’d pay for booze, pizza, and catering. All Max would have to do is provide the space. Connors hated to admit it, but the boss’s kid was good at his job. Already had everything picked out months ago besides the space. Just wish he hadn’t been so gosh darn smug about it, like he was doing Max the favor instead of the other way around. Rank had its privileges it seemed… In another world, Max would have loved to break Alby of such attitudes. Alas, it was not to be. Someone as potentially toxic as Alby would just love to find out why Max had the big privacy wall surrounding his acre of land. That little mutt would just love to yap his head off and laugh if he discovered the kind of stuff Max kept in a certain room in his house. No one with any goddamn sense would care, but it’d be annoying. The wolf made a mental note to sweep his house one last time before going to sleep tonight; make sure everything was put away where it was supposed to be. When one lived a private life, one tended to take for granted certain things and normalize them; forgetting what new visitors might think. Max had his own secrets. He kept them not out of fear, but simply because what he did in his private time wasn’t anyone’s business. He’d take extra care to make sure it stayed that way. The image of Alby finding Max’s private playroom and then running his mouth about it caused Max to involuntarily snarl to himself, but he disguised it as having an itch. “Bullies…” Max muttered to himself. ***************************************************************************************************** “Should aaaaaaall acquaintance beeeeeeee forgot, and ne’er brought to miiiiind!” Alby paused. What was the next lyric? He couldn’t remember. So he just sang the first lyric again, but modified the melody so it sounded more like the second part “Should old acquaintance beee forgot, and ne’er brought to mind!” That got a polite chuckle from the gathered coworkers around the roaring fire before everybody went back to what they were doing anyways. Even in his inebriated state, Alby could tell the joke was roaring thin. It had gotten hearty laughter the first time. Now on the third time, people were just humoring him. Alby knocked back the cheap whiskey and coke and then hungrily crunched on the ice. “I’m out,” he said to no one in particular. “Gonna go get some schmore.” He giggled at his own accidental joke. There were people holding up long metal rods up to the fire to toast marshmallows right this very second. He thought about repeating himself, but the tiny part of his brain that wasn’t hammered thought better of it. Alby had no idea just how sloshed he was. He’d been the first to start drinking, and in his mind, he’d be the last, even if the world was kind of wobbly and it was only ten thirty at night. The air was cold and the people outside the house could see their breath, but it still wasn’t chilly or wet enough for it to snow. Good ugly sweater and heavy jeans weather. There was a large contingent of people gathered around the massive bonfire, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs. Others were just drinking and roasting themselves. Midway out were the smokers and grills Alby had rented and the heaps and heaps of barbecue and burgers still being produced. Easily the biggest expense of the party, but also the most delicious. There had been a steady line of people coming and going buffet style with plates making garlic bread sandwiches. Even further out and in the opposite direction of the bonfire, games of glow in the dark capture the flag had broken out among the younger employees and the older ones’ kids. Meanwhile, the older folks stayed huddled inside the farm house, chatting about whatever boring people talked about. Alby joined none of them and simply flitted about, saying hellos, and being a perfect social butterfly. He was always working after a fashion and had checked in with catering and various guests to make sure they were having a good time. It was Connors’s house, but it was still Alby’s responsibility. That’s why he’d been drinking so much. Work hard, play harder. Dry grass crunched under Alby’s feet while he stumbled around to the front door of Max’s farm house. Without realizing it, the office manager kept stretching out his sweater. He kept tugging downward out of it, paranoid that if he bent over the wrong way or his sweater bunch up, somebody might see a hint of red satin peeking out above his beltline. “Shouldn’t have worn….” he mumbled under his breath. “Or should’ve worn a jacket” Either would’ve been fine. Alby swayed through the propped open front door and felt himself jump when he came face to face with this creepy little right above the fireplace. The twenty-five year old backed slowly away and bumped into Patricia the cheetah from customer service. “Sorry!” He yelped. “Sorry!” He didn’t take his eyes off of the doll until he was a good ten feet away. Damn things were creepy as fuck. Never blinking, always looking like they were looking right at you. What the fuck was Connors’s deal? Just because he lived in his dead grandma’s house or whatever didn’t mean he couldn’t have changed up the decorating a little bit. Shame, too. Guy was kind of hot. Alby stumbled and fumbled past the crowd towards the kitchen where bottle after bottle after bottle of booze had been set up. Now it was the Office Manager’s term to knock him down. A firm and steady paw landed on the doberman’s shoulder, its weight causing the world to. “Careful there, Alby.” A deep, masculine voice said. There was a hint of warning in the voice; something stern, yet gentle. Also a little bit caring; almost paternal. Alby was very familiar with that voice and tone. “Hm? Da-?!” Alby cut himself off and felt his face flush. That wasn’t his father! That was Connors! He certainly looked more impressive than Albert Sr. did in a suit. Alby felt a flush of resentment that the sales rep was so much better dressed than everyone else. Like he was the host or something! “Huh? Oh. Sorry, man. Great party. Jush…needed to get out away from the fire, y’know?” “Maybe you should have a quick sit down,” Connors suggested. “Maybe get some water. That fire looks like it really dehydrated ya.” Both men knew that they weren’t strictly talking about fire. “Yeah,” Alby lied. “That’s why I was headed to the kitchen. Get some water. Get lotsa water. Get hydrated.” The wolf looked down at Alby suspiciously. Alby wasn’t the biggest breed or the biggest dog, but he hated feeling so much smaller. “Alright. Go take care of yourself, bud. Your dad is set to make a speech in about an hour. I’m sure he wants you there.” “Mhm,” Alby rolled his eyes. Dad wouldn’t notice shit. He never noticed shit with his end of the year toasts. As long as there was a vaguely brindle paw holding a champagne glass up towards Albert Sr’s general direction, that would be good enough. “Hey Max, can we get another log in the fireplace?” someone called. Connors turned his head and that was enough for Alby to slink away to the kitchen. Alby filed the condescension away for later. When he was sober enough, he’d find a way to give Connors a little bit of extra responsibility in the New Year. Alby proceeded to follow Connors’s advice…sort of. He started drinking water, yes. But he was trading off cups of water and shots of clear liquor. His confidence and sweater got a break, with him propping himself up against the kitchen sink, thus obscuring his backside and keeping him steady. With everyone else milling around and Alby steadily pacing himself between water and shots, no one had any idea just how completely trashed the doberman was; not even himself. It was eleven fifty-five when everything finally became too much for the pup of a man. His bladder shouted out at him, screaming in sudden protest. He had to pee like one of those Sea Biscuit motherfuckers from accounting. It all came out of nowhere too. One minute he was fine, and the next he was doing a little jig right by the sink. If this had been a different kind of party, he’d have been tempted to use the facilities right then and there because of how urgent the need had suddenly become. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me.” He bobbed and weaved, expertly, no matter how the room was spinning. “Scuse me!” The line at the bathroom by the bottom of the stairs was already two to three people back. Frick! Time for the upstairs. With dainty precision, Alby whisked himself up to the second floor of the creepy old farmhouse. This wasn’t a frat party, surely nobody would be up there. “Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom,” Alby hissed. “Place this big has gotta have an extra bathroom.” He jogged down the upstairs hallway, holding himself, looking for a place to pee. He looked to his right, “Office,” he said to himself and kept moving. He looked to the left. “Guest room no pisser.” Keep moving! “Some kind of storage room.” Where the hell was the other bathroom? The master bedroom! That’d have a toilet most likely! Should have just gone outside and pissed up against a wall or something. But then he remembered his underwear. He needed privacy to get everything out of the way! This made him even more frantic. Alby’s paw found a closed door with no light coming on from inside and felt hope. It was only vaguely diminished when he jiggled the handle and found it locked. Aha! Locked door! Lights off! Master bedroom! The spare toilet had to be in here! Downstairs he heard a chant build up. “TEN! NINE! EIGHT!...” This had two immediate effects on Alby. It both emboldened him to act rashly and also made his urgency greater. The volume and the chanting coming from downstairs and outside would surely cover any noise he’d make breaking open a door. The countdown was also triggering something in him subconsciously; making his need to void his bladder greater with every passing second. “SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!...” Alby rattled the door handle. First with one hand, twisting and turning the knob. Then with both hands. When it wouldn’t budge, he switched back to one hand, using his spare hand to pinch himself off. He wasn’t gonna make it! “FOUR THREE! TWO!...” Alby rammed his shoulder up against the door so hard that both the frame and his innards rattled slightly. A bit of urine leaked out into his nice red panties. Oh god! They’d be ruined! He’d be ruined! He rammed it even harder, hearing the wood crack while reaching for his belt buckle. “ONE!” The door gave way and flung open, with an incredibly drunk Alby tripping over his own feet right behind it. Momentum carried him forward even as the door smacked against something hard and sturdy on the inside and lazily rebounded closed behind him. “AAAAAAH!” Alby screamed, his pants coming loose and falling down to his knees while his eyes tried and failed to take in the dark room around him. His head collided with something terribly hard. His head struck the object- a shelf or chest of drawers of some sort- with such battering ram force that its contents clattered off its various levels around and on top of him. Things that in the darkness looked like little pillows or thick sheets of paper fluttered all around him and several plastic containers landed on the back of his head. It didn’t hurt, not really, the real damage had been done by the shelf itself. “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” If he wasn’t seeing double now from the alcohol, the oncoming concussion was certainly helping things along. A sense of quiet euphoria came over Alby Madden, his pants down past his waist, and surrounded by tiny, smooth plastic backed pillows. He no longer had to go to the bathroom anymore, and the most pleasant warmth was enveloping his loins, causing his member to grow hard even as it spouted more and more of the warm liquid. If his last modicum of sobriety hadn’t been knocked out of him, Alby would know that he was pissing himself. But he didn’t care so much about that. Instead, Alby smiled to himself and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, noticing the fragrant smell of lavender coming from all around him masking the ammonia that he was outputting. “Should allll acquaintance beeeeee forgot…” he mumbled with the crowd downstairs, just a second too late. But then he forgot the rest of the words and fell asleep. The funny part was, that if Alby had just bothered to follow the bend around the hallway, he would have found the spare guest bathroom and the master bedroom and bath that he’d been so desperately searching for. ***************************************************************************************************** It was a good party, all things considered, Max thought. Stuffy of course, but office parties were always a little stuffy. Parties were formed based around commonalities and when the chief commonality was work, things were going to get a bit stilted and stuffy. Still a success, since Max hadn’t heard a single guest talking shop; not even the guys from accounting and shop was all some of those miserable bastards had. It was good barbecue that he didn’t have to cook and decent liquor that he didn’t have to buy. He didn’t have to clean anything up and was keeping the stuff that people hadn’t drunk. He’d definitely had worse events than this; even if the dress code left something to desire. Just for laughs he wore his favorite “Master” attire in lieu of the more office casual ugly sweater bit that most had seemed to opt for. Dress to impress and all that, and stand out so that people know where to find you. It was an office party but it was still Max’s house. Three A.M. came and went before the last of the sober patrons shuffled off to the cars and headed home. At least a dozen vehicles lay abandoned with drunken coworkers hitching rides and calling Ubers with promises to come quietly retrieve their cars when the sun was up. Max graciously said he’d leave the gate open for them and was thankful no one passed out on his couch. With a mighty yawn, he locked all the doors, turned off all the lights, and padded upstairs to his room. All was not well in Max’s world that early New Year’s morning, however. Out of habit and the slightest bit of paranoia, he ran his hand along the hallway wall and gently pushed on the door leading to his special secret room where everything had been locked away. It was nothing more than a tap, just a small way to reassure himself that the door had stayed closed. Nobody would be stupid enough to try and break through a locked door. Imagine his surprise when the door that was supposed to be locked, swung open with a groaning splintering creak, giving easy access to the nursery inside. A moment of intense rage came over Max. Some idiot had busted his door. One of his co-workers had for whatever reason gone snooping and decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. No embarrassment came to the wolf, only an intense sense of violation. He stepped through the threshold and turned on the light, ready to take inventory of what had been done. He’d dust for fingerprints. Look for claw marks. He’d take inventory of what might be missing and start mentally running through everyone who had so much looked at him funny that night.This was clearly someone’s idea of a joke, and Max wasn’t laughing. The light flickered on and Max immediately canceled the search. He found the corporate culprit laying right there, face down with his head next to the changing table, his body surrounded by diapers and his back coated in loose baby powder. “Hello,” Max smirked to himself. When Alby didn’t respond to the sound of his voice, Max’s brow furrowed in concern. “Shit,” he hissed. He stepped closer, not caring that the door to his nursery was wide open. Even if the party was still raging downstairs, Max would have been tempted to call for help. The only reason he didn’t was because no one would hear short of a cell phone. Holding his breath, Max examined the dog’s still frame and realized the dog was still breathing; snoring heavily in fact. “Okay,” the wolf whispered to himself. “Not dead…” At least he didn’t have to worry about that. He ignored the squish of wet carpet beneath his feet as soon as he realized it wasn’t blood. Bodily fluids didn’t bother Max too much; not when there were more immediate concerns. Were it not for the circumstances, Max would have wanted to tease the kid about needing protection. Very quietly and quickly, Max patted down Alby’s body, checking for anything that might be damaged; afraid to move Alby in case something was seriously hurt. As far as he could tell, Junior here had a nasty bump on his head and had way too much to drink, but that was about it. Poor idiot probably got drunk, beat down the door, tripped and bonked his head. Crisis averted, something else finally caught the big wolf’s attention. Alby’s pants were around his knees; a remarkable feat in itself that made Max wonder exactly what the boss’s son was trying to do. More interestingly however, was Alby’s choice of underwear. That made Max’s eyebrows raise more than a little bit! Max wasn’t the only one with a secret it seemed. “Happy new year, Daddy.” Alby mumbled, oblivious to the world around him and still very much in a booze drenched dreamland. Max’s smirk became a wolfish grin. The gears were already starting to turn. “Happy New Year, Alby,” he said. Happy New Year, indeed.

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War. War never changes. On October 23, 2077 the United States and China began and ended the Great War. In the span of two hours, all of human history had cultivated in the sky lighting on fire and the world being turned to cinders. But humanity did not die and join the ashes. Hundreds of Millions perished instantly. Billions died the slow agonizing death of radiation poisoning and starvation from nuclear winter. Thousands lingered on as something else entirely. But thousands more escaped the onset of holocaust by heading deep underground, into isolated and shielded facilities known as “vaults”. What these denizens did not know, could not even conceive of, was that they were merely guinea pigs for a series of unorthodox and highly unethical experiments. Vault-Tec, the company that had anticipated (perhaps even provoked) the Great War created these safe havens to preserve humanity, that is true, but they only endeavored to save what they considered the “best” or the “most necessary” sections of humanity. Everyone else was just fodder. A relative handful of vaults operated as advertised. They provided safety and shelter to those who dwelled inside, re-opened once the radiation had dropped to acceptable levels, and supplied humanity with the tools necessary to rebuild civilization. Every other vault was a grand social experiment meant to operate without concern for the physical and mental well being of its inhabitants. Vault 27 packed in double the intended occupants to see how a random selection of people would deal with dwindling and insufficient resources. Vault 95 consisted entirely of chem addicts and alcoholics who were forced to get clean…just to see what happened five years later when a massive cache was introduced. Vault 11 forced its occupants to sacrifice one of their own each year under threat that they would all die if they did not comply. And then there was Vault 159… ****************************************************************************************** Rebecca woke up early that morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed as Coddlesworth often said. Though she didn’t really understand that expression- her eyes didn’t glow and she didn’t have a tail to wag-but she liked the sound of it. She liked it so much that she decided to play with it in her mouth a little bit while waiting for Coddlesworth to get her up for the day. “Bright eyed,” she said. “Briiiiiiiigh-tuuuuuugh! Eeeeeeyeeeee-duh! Bushy. Buuuuusssssshhhh. Sh-sh-sh-sh! Tail-uh-duh! Tay-tay-tay-tay-tay-tay!” She stopped to make a few spit bubbles and kept on babbling, all while batting at the Nuka-Cola mobile dangling from the head of her crib. Rebecca could have clobbered the dangling soda bottles and rocket ships if she just sat up slightly, but that wasn’t as much fun. It was more amusing to graze them with the very tips of her fingers and make them make the music sound off. What if there was a place with all the zip of Nuka-Cola? Wouldn’t that be the cheer-cheer-cheeriest place in all the world? Where the rivers flow with Quantum and the mountaintops are fizz? With fun and games and rides for all the moms and pops and kids? Played slowly, it was a soothing lullaby to drift off to sleep to after a rousing day of play. Played fast, it was Rebecca’s ideal wake up call to start said day of play. That’s why it was her favorite song. When she was smaller, she’d cried and screamed until Coddlesworth and all the other Mr. Handies and Miss Nannies taught her every single word. What was a ‘mom’, anyway? She assumed that it was another word for soda, like ‘pop’, but she wasn’t sure. “A vacation that refreshes,” she sang quietly to herself. “A trip you won’t forget. A park with every minimum acceptable safety standard met.” She didn’t know what most of the words meant, but that didn’t stop her from saying it. ‘Vacation’ was particularly fun to say. She didn’t know what a ‘bongo-bongo-bongo’ was or a ‘congo’, but liked singing that song, too. Especially the part at the end. “Civilization! I’ll stay right heeeeeeeere!” That was also her favorite song. The door to Rebecca’s nursery whooshed open and Coddlesworth hovered inside. Three hundred years prior, the floating mechanical octopus would have been something terrible to behold; an abomination of science spitting in the face of nature. Approximately, two-hundred years ago, it was an exciting cutting edge piece technology that created so many opportunities and convenience. But Rebecca had known Coddlesworth and his manufactured ilk all of her life, and thus the robots that cared for her and her playmates were natural and normal. Rebecca didn’t even think of Coddlesworth as a ‘robot’. To her, he and every other person who took care of her was a Grown-Up. “Good morning, Miss Rebecca,” Coddlesworth said through his speakers. “Had a restful night’s sleep, I trust?” The Grown-Up wasted no time in going over to Rebecca’s dresser and fetching powder, washcloths, a onesie, and a fresh diaper. All part of the morning routine. “Yuh-huh,” Rebecca nodded and smiled up at the floating ball of chrome. Coddlesworth always made sure to keep at least one retractable eye on her when he was changing her. “Excellent!” Coddlesworth replied. “Then let’s get you changed, shall we?” Rebecca laid still as Coddlesworth lowered the side of her crib and unbuttoned her blue Vault-Tec footie pajamas all the way down starting at the shoulder and slipped them off her legs. The second the first fiber of fabric hit the hamper metallic tendrils and pincers gently attacked the safety pins holding her diaper together. “Oh dear!,” Coddlesworth tutted. “It looks like someone was dreaming of going for a swim!” This was Coddlesworth’s way of emphasizing just how close to leaking Rebecca had been. Rebecca playfully popped her thumb in her mouth and giggled in reply. She sucked and giggled on her digit while her metallic caregiver cleaned her sensitive and delicate areas with a specially warmed washcloth “Thumb out of your mouth, Miss Rebecca,” Coddlesworth said. “That’s what your binky is for, dear.”. “Coddlesworth?” Rebecca asked while her ankles were crossed and her legs were raised for her so that the soaked diaper could be removed. “Am I an educated savage?” “What?” Coddlesworth replied. “Where did you…?” There was a sense of pause in the Mr. Handy’s voice but his mechanical arms had no hesitancy in disposing of the soggy bit diaper and slipping a nice thick clean one beneath the girl. “Oh, that song,” he said. “I really do disagree with the decision to let that so-called radio station be broadcast in the main playroom, but the Overseer saw no reason to object to the entertainment. I prefer a good old fashioned nursery rhyme, don’t you?” Rebecca had kept nibbling on her thumb while her caregiver dusted clean smelling powder on her caramel colored skin. “You didn’t answer my question.” “And you’re still chewing on your thumb, silly girl.” Rebecca pulled her thumb out of her mouth and whined “Coddleswoooooorth!” “Fine, fine,” Coddlesworth said. “No need to get so fussy.” With precision that could best be described as machine driven, Coddlesworth pulled the fresh diaper up between the girl’s legs and started to gently fasten it on with safety pins. “No, Miss Rebecca, you are not an educated savage. Quite the opposite, frankly.” “What am I?” This question Rebecca already knew the answer to, but she loved hearing it. With the dry diaper fastened on, the machine was free to pull Rebecca’s prone form up into a sitting position. “I think the answer should be quite obvious, Miss Rebecca,” Coddlesworth replied. He waited until he pulled the clean Vault-Tech onesie over Rebecca’s head and unbunched the sleek yet breathable waterproof fabric down over her breasts “You are a precious, adorable, baby girl!” “Yaaaaaay!” Rebecca clapped her hands in celebration. “Not just any baby girl either,” Coddlesworth announced. “You’re a birthday girl as well! Congratulations!” A bit of confetti shot up into the air and. Rebecca clapped her hand to her cheeks in delighted surprise. “I am?” She started bouncing on her fluffy bottomed seat. “How old am I? How old am I?” Coddlesworth gathered up Rebecca’s long black hair and started bunching it up together into two bushy pigtails tied in yellow ribbon. “Assuming my internal chronometer is still functioning, and I’m sure that it is, you are twenty-one years old today!” The baby girl grinned with pride. “That’s the oldest I’ve been so far!” “Quite right,” Coddlesworth agreed. “It seems like just yesterday I was playing peekaboo to make you laugh and giving you a nice warm ba-ba before naptime to help you drift off to sleep. “Coddlesworth!” Rebecca laughed. “That was yesterday!” “Oh,” Coddleswroth remarked. “So it was!” Specially designed reinforced metal tendrils cradled the girl and lifted her out of her crib. “Let’s get you some breakfast, birthday girl, then we’ll start our day of play!” ************************************************************************************************ Samantha woke up on the wrong side of the bed. She didn’t know what that meant, because she’d never seen one, but she knew it had something to do with sleep since the Grown-Ups used ‘bed’ and ‘sleep’ interchangeably. Still, it begged the question: How could somebody sleep wrong? The light brown, almost red haired, little girl wasn’t sure, but she felt she’d accomplished the feat of operator error. She’d tossed and turned in her crib all night and no amount of repositioning or rolling over helped her doze off. Some silly stubborn part of her didn’t want to call out for help and cry. It’s not like she’d been sick or had a bad dream. Her toys hadn’t been moving and there weren’t radroaches under her crib. She just couldn’t get comfy. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Poppy cooed down at her. “Did you have a practically perfect visit to slumberland Miss Samantha?” Samantha grumbled something incoherent as Poppy’s warm washcloth bathed her backside. She rubbed her eyes and the first thing that came into focus was her own crossed ankles hoisted high towards the ceiling. “I think someone must have really enjoyed getting their forty winks to sleep so long.” Samantha grumbled a bit more, while the old diaper was swapped out for the new one. “It’s been ages since you’ve slept through your morning change!” Samantha wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but she was literally not in a position to do so. “Poppeeeeeee,” she whined. “Staaaaaaahp!” One prehensile camera-eye lowered itself and stared directly at her bare bottom. “Oh dear, is that the beginnings of a rash I detect? Someone must have made those stinkies late last night in their sleep.” Samantha assumed the Miss Nanny was talking about her. Maybe that’s why she had been having such trouble sleeping, she supposed. She knew there was something uncomfortable keeping her up, but an itchy bottom hadn’t occurred to the girl. There had been a time when she was two or three…maybe four…when Samantha could tell she was making stinkies in her diaper, but that was a distant memory. At the time, she thought she heard the Grown-Ups say something about ‘Poppy Training’ but that didn’t sound right to her. Anyways, that was a long time ago, and like a good baby Samantha’s brain had long forgotten any correlation to how her body felt and how her diaper felt a few minutes later. Samantha winced out of her memory while the egg colored Grown-Up smeared thick white cream up and down her backside. Her nose wrinkled at the gross chemical smell. She hated the smell of diaper rash cream. The smell of a stinky diaper was almost preferable in that at least it was natural. “Poppy?” she asked, “Can you remember to use extra baby powder?” Anything to cover up that unnatural chemical scent. Dutifully, Poppy shook an extra cloud of the sweet smelling stuff all over Samantha’s rashy bottom. “Hmmm,” she said as she lowered Samantha’s hips down to the thick fresh padding. “It seems the irritation isn’t just on your bottom. Were you up late playing naughty games last night, Miss Samantha? Is that why you didn’t cry out?” Samantha blushed all over. Come to think of it, she had been playing the naughty games that the Grown-Ups didn’t want her playing, rubbing between her legs all the way through the layers and layers of jammies and thick diapers. “Maybe…” she admitted. “I was just trying to get to sleep.” That part was true. Samantha always felt good and sleepy after she got to play her naughty games with Mr. Buzzy every two weeks. But it was too late for Mr. Buzzy, so she did it herself and pretended her hands were Mr. Buzzy. “Oh never mind, dear,” Poppy said. From the sound of her voice, and the way her octopus eyes blinked and waggled back and forth, she would have been shaking her head if she were a kid. But Samantha also knew her caregiver would be smiling, too. “Little girls will be little girls.” She finished diapering Samantha, nice and thick so that she probably wouldn’t need a change until at least naptime, and dressed her in her regulation Vault 159 onesie, same as everyday else. “Oh, and I know I’m practically perfect in every way,” Poppy said, putting the finishing touches on Samantha’s hair with a loose and comfortable ponytail. “But lest I forget. Happy birthday, darling!” Samantha woke up, instantly, chasing all the sleepiness and grumpiness away. “It’s my birthday?!” She sat up a little straighter. “Yes darling, you’re a whole year older and none the wiser!” The way she said it made Samantha feel good all over and bubble up. “How old am I?” “It’s been twenty-one years since Mr. Stork delivered you and your little friends to Vault 159!” “Oh my gosh!” Samantha clapped. She was going to have to play extra hard today! Mr. Stork tended to deliver babies in bunches of bundles all at once to Vault 159, so at any given point five to ten different babies all had the same birthday. What none of the babies understood was that this was fairly unusual outside of the vault. What none had any reason to suspect was that Mr. Stork and Mr. Buzzy were very good friends and had an intimate working relationship. ************************************************************************************************************ “HAAAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TOOOOO YOU!” The Grown-Ups finished warbling the birthday song as the last empty breakfast bowl was taken away. All the other kids who didn’t have the pointy birthday hats on clapped and cheered for the ones who did. Rebecca leaned back in her highchair and let out a hearty belch, her matching dark blue bib catching some oatmeal and prune laced spittle. Samantha fiddled with the elastic string under her chin. Other Grown-Ups started releasing kids from their highchairs and shooing them off to play rooms. Those kids, both older and younger than today’s birthday batch, crawled and toddled as their full tummies and (for now) empty diapers allowed them. For Rebecca, Samantha, and their agemates, there were a few more steps to attend to. “Because we want your special day to be extra special,” Coddlesworth said, “we decided to give you your presents early!” “Yes,” Poppy said, her various arms filled with gift wrapped boxes. “Let you have the entire day to enjoy them instead of waiting till after dinner and cake.” “CAKE?!” a cry rose up from over half-a-dozen highchairs. Despite having gone through this ritual over twenty times now, and witnessed it even more, the fact that they got cake AND presents excited the boys and girls just as much as if it were the first. Coddlesworth grabbed a few more boxes. “Oh, I told you not to mention the see-ay-kay-ee.” Neither Rebecca nor Samantha knew what see-ay-kay-ee was, but they would have leapt over their feeding trays if it meant they could get cake. “Oh hush now” Poppy replied. “Everything that can be done should have at least a little bit of fun. You’re being neurotic, dear.” “Well I never! The Overseer will be hearing about thi-” “Not in front of the bee-ay-bee-eye-eez,” Poppy quickly interjected. The babies were already starting to wiggle in their seats. Despite having very full tummies, they were eyeing the gift wrapped boxes like hungry puppies after a bone. Samantha and Rebecca, in particular, were fighting to keep their smiles up. They hated it when the grown-ups argued. Even if Coddlesworth didn’t like new things and Poppy tended to talk down to everyone. “Quite right.” Coddlesworth sighed. “We have more important things to do than to peck at each other like a couple of old hens.” A beat. “LIKE PASS OUT BIRTHDAY PRESENTS!” Another cheer went up and the Grown-Ups started handing out presents. One by one, the gift boxes were passed out to each of the twenty-one year old babies, each one carefully wrapped and done up with a bow. It was hard for Samantha because she was the last in the row to get a gift. It was even harder for Rebecca because she was first. “Remember, dears,” Poppy reminded, “Good little boys and girls wait to open up their gifts until everyone has one.” When finally everyone had a present laying on her tray, Coddlesworth gave the signal.“Three…Two…One,...GO!” Had the falling scene consisted of anything other than wrapping paper and cardboard, it wouldn’t have been appropriate for children of any age. “A dolly!” Rebecca cooed as she pulled the most adorable dolly out of her box. It was the cutest little ragdoll with a blue onesie on it just like hers, and a big puffy diaper pinned on just like hers, and it had beautiful blue. Rebecca fell in love instantly and hugged it so hard that if its tummy were as full of oatmeal and prunes as hers, the dolly would have needed a change right away. “A box?” Samantha said with a frown. Who put a box inside of another box and called it a present? “Coddlesworth! Poppy!” Samantha started to whine. “I think my present is…” The lid of the polished oaken box popped up and Samantha’s face froze. A little blonde boy rose from out of the box, wearing a suit similar to Samantha’s onesie, except it covered his arms and legs too. He sat in front of a black piano, playing it while the pedestal he was on slowly spun in a circle. Both the Vault Boy and the piano were so tiny that its jaunty little tune came out in tiny tinkling chimes. “Ooooooooo!” Samantha gasped, mesmerized. She didn’t know the words to the song, but loved it all the same. In olden days, a glimpse of stocking Was looked on as something shocking But now, God knows… Anything goes. Rebecca knew the words. It was her favorite song. She stared longingly and sang along with the little Vault Boy on his piano. “Good authors too who once knew better words, now only use four-letter words writing prose…anything goes.” Truly, it was her favorite song! Samantha turned her head towards the sound of the singing and gasped. That dolly that Rebecca was squeezing! It had blue button eyes just like Samantha and its yarn hair almost perfectly matched Samantha’s reddish brownish mop! It even had the same dark blue onesie and poofy diaper underneath! It was her but in dolly form, and Samantha fell instantly in love. Neither tot realized their arms were reaching out for the other’s present and that only distance was stopping them from getting what they wanted more than anything in the world. “Alright kiddos!” Coddlesworth announced. “Now that we’ve got all of that present business out of the way, let’s shuffle off to a playroom and party down as they say! Safely and responsibly of course!” he added. Even after the trays from their highchairs were taken away and they were placed down on the kitchen floor, Rebecca and Samantha were too busy staring greedily at one another’s gifts to notice that the group was toddling slowly but surely away from them. “Come along my little ducklings,” Poppy coaxed them back into the present despite their presents presence. “You can play with your birthday gifts as much as you like after we get you all tucked away and out from underfoot.” She gestured with a tendril to the other, less personable Grown-Ups who were already beginning to clean up after the babies; washing dishes, mopping floors, and whatnot. The girls eyed one another’s toys, adjusted their party hats, then each other, and nodded silently. The only thing moving faster than their bare legs were their minds. Rebecca wanted Samantha’s music box. Samantha wanted Rebecca’s dolly. And being twenty-one year old toddlers, neither one even considered trading. War. War never changes… ******************************************************************************************************* “Alright kiddos,” Coddlesworth announced. “Who’s up for a good old-fashioned game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey?” Hands shot in the air immediately and a chittering of “Me-me-me-me-me-me-me!” filled the nursery style play room. “Excellent!” Coddlesworth said. “That’s the spirit lads and lasses! Now which good little birthday boy or girl should I pick first?” Immediately hands went down and every baby sat up as straight as they could, looking positively angelic. “Oh this is going to be very difficult,” Poppy noted, scanning all of the toddlers suddenly on their best possible behavior. “But I think…Rebecca is being particularly good.” Rebecca beamed and cheered for her own good fortune. Immediately, all pretense was abandoned and every other baby hung their heads in disappointment and let out an “Awwwww!’ The sound of a certain best song in the entire universe caused Rebecca’s ears to wiggle. No longer worrying about going first, Samantha had decided to occupy herself by re-opening the delightful music box. Rebecca’s face started to heat up in jealousy and she squeezed her dolly with all her might. Suddenly, she had an idea. “Actually, Poppy,” she said in her best good-girl voice. “Can I give up my turn and give it to Samantha as a present?” Samantha’s mouth opened in honest to goodness surprise. “Really?” she asked. “Really really!” Rebecca promised, crossing her fingers behind her back. Samantha was overjoyed at getting to go first. That is, until she saw Rebecca’s new dolly. That was the present she actually wanted from Rebecca. She’d take what she could get, however, and climbed to her feet. “How do I play?” “It’s very simple, Miss Samantha,” Coddlesworth said, wasting no time in fastening the blindfold over the girl’s eyes. “First we blind fold you like so. Then we spin you around like so until you’re good and dizzy!” Samantha turned and turned with the shiny metal Grown-Up’s guidance again and again until she was so wobbly she might as well have been one of those funny inflatable clowns that she bopped around. “Whoah-whoah-whoah!” All the other boys and girls giggled. “I did it!” “Not quite, luv,” Poppy corrected. Samantha found something long and pointy with a floppy end placed carefully into the palm of her hand. “Now you have to pin the tail on the donkey.” Due to her outfit and general lack of coordination, Samantha was already fairly wobbly. Add in the spinning and blindness, and Samantha might as well be just learning to walk all over again. “Go Sam-Sam!” Rebecca cheered. “You can do it!” “Oh that’s right,” Coddlesworth remembered. “Do cheer her on and give her hints!” “Go Sammy!” “Left! Left!” “No! Your other left! Haha!” “Up! Up! WHOAH! Dooooown!” “Haaaaa! You’re going the wrong way, now! Spin around again!” All of this happy noise was perfect cover for Rebecca’s true goal. With the shouting and laughter filling up everyone’s ears, no one could hear the joyful tune of Samantha's music box. When the Missus Ned McLean, God bless her Can get Russian reds to yes her Then I suppose… Anything goes. Which, of course, meant that no one heard it when Rebecca closed the wooden box, dragged it to herself, and used it as a chair for her dolly. She might have felt bad about the trick, but it was like the song said. Anything goes. “Ooops!” Coddlesworth said. “Terribly sorry, Miss Samantha, but the tail most certainly doesn’t go there!” Samantha lifted up her blindfold and laughed so hard she didn’t notice her diaper getting wetter. How silly! If donkeys had their tails there they wouldn’t need to blink! “Go sit down, dear. Now who else is being a good little birthday boy and girl so that they can try pinning one on!” Zigging and zagging from dizziness, a very giggly girl fell to her knees and crawled the rest of the way back to her spot on the carpet. She wondered if the little Vault Boy on his tiny piano got dizzy from all the spinning. It probably wasn’t fast enough, she knew, but she thought she could get a good idea if she stared at him a little… Where was her music box?! Samantahs lifted her rump and looked underneath her. Then she spread her legs extra wide and looked between them to make sure she hadn’t misplaced it. Her present had been right in front of her before she stood up and then…and then…and then Rebecca… Rebecca! Samantha leaned over and stared at Rebecca, clapping as the next kid got blindfolded and cheering him on. The other girl’s dolly was sitting on a wooden box. Samantha’s wooden box! “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Samantha cried and pointed at the thief. Crocodile tears flowed freely and the little dangly ball in the back of her throat jiggled while she banged. No fair! No fair! Samantha was going to do that too! Rebecca had just thought of it, first! “Oh dear!” Poppy said, hovering up close. “Samantha, darling, what’s wrong!” “BECKY TOOK MY…MY…” “Your what, poppet?” A moment of terrible inspiration struck Samantha. “REBECCA TOOK MY DOLLY!” “What?!” Rebecca gasped, clutching her present even tighter. “It’s not your dolly! It’s mine! I got it as a birthday present!” “Nuh-uh!” Samantha lied. “It’s my dolly! Coddlesworth and Poppy put it in my highchair special! That’s why it looks like me! Her name is Samantha Junior!” “It! Is! Not!” Rebecca gasped. “Her name is…is…I hadn’t named her yet, but she’s still my dolly!” Rebecca cursed her rotten luck. She should have hidden her precious dolly first and started crying like Samantha had stolen the music box. Samantha had just thought of it first… The floating Grown-Ups turned a camera eye on each other, keeping the other on one of the bickering toddlers at any given time. “I don’t remember who I gave what to,” Coddlesworth said. “Do you?” “Goodness no,” Poppy whispered. “Do you know how many birthdays we’ve had in the last two hundred years? My servos have more important things to keep track of.” They both turned their attention to the birthday girls sending death glares each other’s way. “I hate it when they’re going through their terrible twenties.,” Coddlesworth moaned. “Me too,” Poppy agreed. “Let’s just give Samantha the doll and go from there.” “But it’s not hers!” Rebecca objected. “Now, now.” Poppy said. “I won’t have any tantrums on your birthday. Not unless you need a turn on the naughty stool.” The naughty stool wasn’t nearly as fun as the naughty game. Reluctantly, Rebecca gave up her brand new dolly and watched in silent agony when it was given over to Samantha. “Oh Samantha Junior!” Samantha gushed, giving it a cuddle like it was really her dolly. “I missed you so much! Don’t you ever leave me again!” Both girls had gotten the gift they had really wanted. Both of them had done so using misdirection and deceit. That should have settled the matter and they considered it even. But as far as the big babies were concerned, this was war. And war? War never changes. *************************************************************************************** “Ninety-Nine! One hundred!” The boy with his hands covering his face shouted. “Ready or not, here I come!” “Master Brian,” Coddlesworth said. “You’re supposed to count to one-hundred and one-two-skip-a-few doesn’t quite pass muster if you know what I mean.” The boy shook his head and giggled. “Nuh-uh.” “Oh very well,” Coddlesworth said. “We’ll settle for a slow twenty. Now repeat after me.” Pin the tail on the donkey had ended, and a rousing game of Duck-Duck-Goose had followed. Unfortunately, both girls had had the same idea and ran with their ill-gotten presents when it was their turn to dash around the circle. Hide and seek, however, presented new opportunities and both girls, normally the best of playmates, scoured the nursery for not one, but two hiding places. One for them and one for the birthday present that they hadn’t gotten. By the time Brandon reached ten, Rebecca had found the perfect spot for her new music box. Likewise Samantha had found the perfect hiding place for Samantha Junior. “Nineteen,” Coddlesworth said. “Twenty! Alright, now. Off you go!” Thus, while Brian was searching in toy boxes and looking under blankets, Rebecca and Samantha slinked around, searching for each other’s stash. “If I were Rebecca,” Samantha whispered to herself, slinking along the wall, being extra still so that Brian didn’t notice her, “Where would I put my music box.” She frowned. “I mean my music box, not my music box…” her nose wrinkled. She knew what she meant, that was the most important part. She bumped her head against a bookshelf, with an audible “oof!” and then had to hold her breath when Brian whipped his head around. The search might have continued, but bumping the bookshelf had knocked something slightly loose; or rather, open. When Rockefeller still can hoard enough money To let Max Gordon produce his shows… Anything goes “Huh?” Samantha said, peeking around and taking a much closer look at the books on the shelf. Turned on its side and crammed between a copy of ‘You’re S.P.E.C.I.A.L’. and ‘Grognak The Baby Barbarian’ was Samantha’s music box, jostled slightly ajar so that the little Vault Boy inside was playing his piano again. “Got it!” she whispered. At last, her real birthday present was in her grasp. Now all she had to do was sneak back to where she’d left her dolly and hide it there! Everything was going according to plan. Meanwhile, Rebecca was shimmying on the carpet, looking high and low (mostly low) for where Samantha might have hid her dolly. Not her dolly, she reminded herself, but her dolly. “Where is Samantha anyways?” Rebecca asked herself. She covered her face so that Brian would think she was invisible while he passed by, then started carefully scouting the room. Brian was stomping around the room yelling “I found you!” at everything he saw. Amanda was hiding in the toybox. Rachel was disguising herself with a lamp shade. Johnny was being a Stealth Boy with his hands over his face. Samantha was very very small and laying on top of the changing table. “Wait a minute,” Rebecca said to herself. “If that’s Samantha getting a diaper change, why isn’t a Grown-Up helping her?” The realization hit her like a megaton bomb! “That’s not Samantha!” She ran over to the changing table with full speed and snatched the dolly up, giving it a hug. “I’m never losing you again,” she promised. At last, her real birthday present was in her grasp. Now all she had to do was sneak back to where she’d left her music box and hide it there! She might have felt bad for Samantha , but just like her favorite song said: “Into each life some rain must fall.”. “Hey!” A voice called out. “Drop my dolly!” Rebecca spun on her heel. “Your dolly! It’s my…!” Rebecca’s guts started to rumble. Her morning oatmeal was catching up to her. “My…my…my…” Rebecca stopped talking, bent her knees, started grunted, and stared out into the middle distance, barely aware of her surroundings while the back of her diaper expanded and her onesie struggled to contain the oncoming mudslide. “Your what?” Samantha started to ask. Suddenly it dawned on her. With lightning fast hands she snatched the Samantha Junior out of Rebecca’s thieving hands! “Poppy! Coddlesworth!” Samantha crowed. “Rebecca’s making a stinky and needs a change!” Samantha might not have realized when she was straining and adding her own bits of fallout into her pants, but the clever girl easily recognized it when another baby was doing it right in front of her! Music box and dolly acquired, Samantha hurriedly ran away, snickering back over her shoulder. “Oh dear!” Poppy said, patting Rebecca’s mushy backside. “Where do you put it all?” As if awakening from a trance or coming down from a dose of jet, Rebecca blinked and became aware of her surroundings a tad too late. “But..but…but…!” “Yes,” Poppy agreed, leading the girl back over to the changing table she’d just recently visited. “Let’s get yours up on that changing table, young lady. I won’t have you getting a rash.” Rebecca grimaced, picturing having that yucky ointment Poppy loved smeared all over her bum. That and the idea of Samantha getting both of her birthday presents filled her with a rage she hadn’t felt since the last time a Grown-Up had told her no. She slipped the surly bonds of the Grown-Ups metallic appendages and charged straight for her retreating playmate. So sure of her victory was she, that Samantha forgot that she was supposed to be playing hide and seek. “Found you!” Brian pointed and yelled, finally correct in his accusation. “You’re it!” “Am not!” “Are too!” “Am not!” “Are too!” Rebecca caught up to her and grabbed for the dolly. “That’s my dolly!” Rebecca said. “Give it back!” Samantha clutched both toys to her chest. “No! She’s mine! Get your own birthday dolly!” “I’ve got a yo-yo” Brian offered. “Do you wanna play with my yo-yo?” “You stay out of this!” The girls said in unison, sending the boy into a fit of tears.” Rebecca grabbed for the doll, but Samantha, in equal stubbornness held tight; each girl gripping the bit of cloth and fluff with both hands and pulling as hard as they could. “Mine!” “Mine!” “Mine!” “Girls! Girls!” Coddlesworth tried to intervene. “That isn’t very ladylike,” Poppy scolded. But neither twenty-one year old toddler was capable of listening at the moment. The music box fell from Samantha’s grasp, the last chorus of Rebecca’s favorite song tinkling for a precious few notes before crashing onto the ground, the little Vault Boy’s head coming clean off and the music going silent. Now neither would hear that wonderful song again until the next time it played on the playroom radio! “NOOOOOOOO!” They yelled in unison over the loss of one precious present. But neither one was willing to give up their claim on the dolly. If anything, each girl only gripped harder. And so it was with sickening rip that stitches came loose and cotton puffs that were never meant to see open air spilled out into the light of day. Both girls fell backwards, tripping over their own heels and landing onto their thoroughly padded backsides. Rebecca landed and the shock sent her bladder into overdrive, spraying into her thirsty diaper so fast that not even the advanced fabric could soak up the liquid quickly enough, causing her to leak and dribble down her thighs. Samantha landed and kept sliding as her momentum sent her on her back with her legs up in the air. She didn’t know what happened next, only that she felt incredible shock and relief as one-by-one the poppers on her onesie snapped open, the mass her body pushed into her diaper causing it to expand well past the point of no return. The Great War of 2077 lasted two hours. The Great War of 2287 less than two minutes. One resulted in nuclear annihilation. The other ended with two adult babies being put in time-out for five whole minutes. The scope of each conflict couldn’t be more different. But they were still very similar in some respects. Both sides wanted everything and lost it all. And by the end of the hour, both girls had forgotten why they were mad and were cuddling with each other during naptime, not even missing or caring that they’d be without a particular toy until their birthday next year. They’d truly learned nothing. But that’s war. And war? War never changes. But diapers do… (The End?)

Flash Fiction: Patient 18 months Angela sat in the hospital’s examination room. Emotionally, she was numb. Physically, she was cold, hungry, and had to pee. All of this was very understandable. Hospitals were kept chilly and the shirt, jeans, bra and panties, she’d put on this morning had been replaced with a hospital gown. Likewise, she hadn’t eaten anything all day. Peeing? Well… She was emotionally numb as a way to preserve her sanity. A lesser madness to offset the looming greater one. Better to be in denial than to accept the impossible reality. Part of Angela would rather die than accept this as reality. She might be dying, anyways. Hard to say. She might have contracted the first of some kind of deadly life ending virus that was eating away at her insides faster than tapeworm. People weren’t supposed to shrink. The only thing that gave her comfort was the fact that she hadn’t been isolated in a plastic bubble by men in hazmat suits like in the movies. Nobody else seemed that perturbed by her circumstance. Curious? Yes. Bothered by it? No. That gave her hope that whatever she had wasn’t deadly. She shifted her weight, the papery rustle was nails on a chalkboard. She lied to herself and said that it was just the paper cover of the examination table she was on. The nurse stationed with her looked up from her phone. “You okay, hun?” Angela lied and nodded. “Need to lie down and take a nap? Go night night?” Angela blushed and shook her head. “Thirsty? Need some water?” Angela’s gaze got distant. Again she shook her head. No. No more water. Water would lead to something worse. Besides the gown, Angela had also been forced into a Pampers, size 4. That’s why she’d had to pee so badly. The nurse had put it on her after she’d been checked into the emergency room. She’d been told it was the only underwear they’d had in her size. She’d accepted it because the nurse had framed it in such a way as to seem reasonable: She was sick. It was less invasive than a catheter. She’d be less naked. It was the nurse’s job to put one on her. Doctor’s orders and all that. Angela was regretting her consent. Before she’d indicated the need to go to the bathroom, the nurse had talked about using the diaper to measure her urine output. Attempts to negotiate using a medical urinal had been shot down. “Don’t worry about that honey. We’ll just weigh your diaper next time we change you.” That’s why Angela had to pee. She hadn’t gone all day and was mortified to the point of paranoia. When you’re afraid of being forced to pee your pants, your brain hones in on the bladder and hyper focuses to the point of discomfort and distraction. She’d let the bevy of tests distract her from that, and other invasive thoughts. A knock on the door, and the doctor, an Indian man with a thick mustache and a thinning head of hair, came back in. “Hello, Angie,” he said. “I have your test results and I have some good news.” Hope invaded Angela’s heart. “You know what’s wrong with me?” she asked. The doctor nodded. “In a matter of speaking, yes.” He looked at his clipboard and. “According to our tests you are, effectively, a perfectly healthy eighteen month old girl.” He looked up and his smile brightened. “That’s very good! Nothing to worry about.” Angela couldn’t comprehend what was being said. “What are you talking about?” The doctor looked at his clipboard again. “Well, according to all our tests, you are the median height for an eighteen month old, and at the median weight for an eighteen month old. So that’s good.” “But I’m thirty-six!” Angela objected. “Yes, yes.” The doctor waved her off. “I know. I know. That’s what ‘effectively’ means. I know you are not actually eighteen months old. But your height and weight are well within the parameters of an eighteen month old. So you’re healthy.” “Why is that important?!” Angela demanded. “I’m thirty-six! I shouldn’t be this size!” “Well you shouldn’t also be running around like a little jaybird in public, but here we are.” “I shrank out of my clothes!” Angela was so mad she was practically bouncing in her seat. Literally hopping mad! The nurse placed a comparatively enormous hand over Angela’s. A soothing attempt or a quiet warning? Both? Meanwhile, the doctor remained unphased. “You’re more than the height and weight of an eighteen month old, you also have the capabilities of an eighteen month old.” That did not make sense at all. Angela was so confused that she couldn’t even vocalize it. “Remember those tests we did, Angie?” The doctor said, patronizingly. “According to all of them, you’re capable of everything an eighteen month old is. So you’re not behind at all! Isn’t that nice?” “Of course I’m capable! I’m an adult!” The tests had all been simple. Basic shit. “Not according to this test,” the doctor said. “You’re perfectly within the eighteen month range.” The color drained from Angela’s face. “You mean I failed?!” “No,” the doctor repeated himself. “You passed with flying colors! Right where you should be. As soon as I confirmed you were at least as capable as an eighteen month old, testing stopped. I didn’t wish to cause you undue stress by frustrating you.” “BUT ANYBODY CAN DO THAT STUFF!” tears of frustration threatened. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FIND MY LIMITS! NOT GET TO WHERE YOU WANT ME TO BE AND STOP!” The nurse began rubbing Angela’s bare back and shushing her. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.” “Young lady,” the doctor said, firmly. “I have been a pediatrician for more than thirty years. I think I would know the capabilities of someone like you more than you do.” He chuckled as if he said something clever. Then to the nurse he said. “Have we gotten any urine output or a stool sample yet?” The nurse shook her head. “No, doctor. I’m afraid she may be dehydrated or there’s some kind of blockage.” Angela balled up her fists. “I don’t need a diaper!” “Then why are you wearing one?” The doctor smugly replied. Angela pointed up at the nurse. “Because she put one on me!” “Of course she did. You’re the size and developmental capacity of an eighteen month old. We don’t expect you to use the toilet or dress yourself.” “I shrank today!” Angie said pleadingly. “That’s not something that happens! Aren’t you the least bit curious about that?!” The doctor shrugged. “I’m a pediatrician. Shrinking is not my area of expertise.” “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” The doctor clicked his tongue. “You really are proving my point about not wanting to push your limits.” “I want a second opinion, you quack!” Both the nurse and the doctor laughed. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You can get a second opinion. You can tell your mommy all about the mean doctor who wouldn’t let you have your way when she comes to pick you up.” Angela’s eyes widened. “My…mommy?” “Yes. We looked up your emergency contact form and called her. She said she’s happy to know that you’re healthy and safe.” Happy? Why happy? Angela had shrunk! Who could be happy about that? Why was nobody as freaked out about it as her? “She’s on her way,” the doctor went on as if any of this was normal. :”She’ll be a bit. Said she needs to get a car seat, but she’s looking forward to seeing you.” More surreal bullshit that Angela couldn’t understand. She should be going to some top level CDC facility or something. Not back to her Mom’s place wearing a diaper and sitting in a baby seat. “In the meantime,” he said to the nurse, “see if you can get her to produce some urine. I don’t want her checking out until we get at least one wet diaper out of her. Need to make sure everything is moving along. Make sure the shrinking hasn’t adversely affected her.” “Yes, doctor.” The man walked out and closed the door behind him. Angela was left in complete and total shock. The worst, most insane day of her life, a medical marvel and terror, had just been reduced in importance to something mundane and trivial. How was this happening?! And why her?! “Oh Angie,” the nurse cooed, wriggling her fingers. “You better watch oooout!” Her hand came close and closer to Angela’s ribs. “Here. Comes. The. TICKLE MONSTER!” One and a half seconds later, Angie’s diaper was no longer dry. Through the forced laughter and tears, she already knew that the only thing she could look forward to was a dry one after the nurse or her mommy changed her. And that was the only thing she knew for certain. Everything else was too surreal to predict or understand. Or maybe it wasn’t. She wasn’t a doctor.

I love this insight! It's so true. It's cheesy and cliche, but for dialogue, sometimes I like to give characters dialogue reset quirks. Shorthand tricks that cue the audience in to who is speaking even if you don't say who is talking. Cheap Plug: In my story, Unfair, I make deliberate efforts to do this with several characters. Clark: When bitter and angry, his inner monologue is punctuated with "Typical". Like it's a condemnation. Amy: Opens almost every scene she's in by yelling "HI CLARK" And then talking in long rambling sentences like she's turned off her filter or she's waited the intervening weeks to share every random thought she's had since they last met.. Amy info dumps. Hard. Billy: Billy constantly calls the main character, Clark, "Gibson", Clark's last name. Almost never calls him Clark, even refers to him as "Gibson" to his peers. *************************************************************************************************************************************************** Stephen King also does this, too with many of his characters. Many of his characters in Dark Tower have unique ways of speaking. Roland has strange medieval cowboy dialect. Says "ken" instead of "understand" says "palaver" instead of "huddle up and talk". Calls people by the honorific "Sai" and talks of "Ka" (Made up lingo for the setting. Sai is a gender neutral honorific. Ka is like a concept that is both God and Fate) Susanna, a black woman, is written with a slight southern accent (because of where she lives) and when she flips to an alternate personality "Odetta", she goes well...a parody verging on black face. (NOTE: King does NOT excel in writing minority characters; but for this character in particular, the alternate personality and her dialogue is coming from a place of trauma...it's not portrayed as natural or who she "really" is, it's a mental illness response) buuuut, speaking of that it is STILL Distinct. In The Stand, there is an intellectually disabled character who spells everything "moon", and it's a kind of verbal tic and punctuation that something is important to what he's thinking about. Like if things are really bad, he'd be like. "This is bad. Really bad. M-O-O-N, that spells bad." ******************************************************************************************************************************************** Animorphs. This is a masterclass in dialogue ticks. Marco- Everything is "insane". Rachel- If she say "Let's do it", before a mission, balls are about to be to walls, and shit is about to hit the fan Ax-Ax is a semi-telepathic alien. It's not an "Ax scene" if he's not playing with human mouth sounds, referring to Jake as "prince jake", or measuring time by "your minutes". Aka. "We have only 15 of your minutes left before we have to demorph". With Jake of course saying "Don't call me Prince" and also "They're not our minutes, they're everyone's minutes." Visser Three: Visser Three is a classic 90's kid's villain. You KNOW he's talking as soon as you read. "Well, well, well..." Correction: <Well, well, well...> This is the book's visual language for someone speaking telepathically. Also his insistence on calling the Animorphs the <Andalite Bandits>. Don't worry about what that means, but he's the only person in the series that reliably calls them that. Speaking of which... **************************************************************************************************************************************** Dragon Ball Z- You can count on one hand how many times, Vegeta calls Goku, "Goku", and that's only when he's sure people won't know who he's talking about otherwise. Because literally every other time, he calls our protagonist "Kakarot". ************************************************************************************************************************************ On Rick & Morty Rick's most commonly said word is "Morty" Morty's most commonly said words are "Aw geez, Rick." This is because the voice actor made those his reset words to stay in character and keep the proper voice whenever he's riffing and improvising. But you to date, you can't do a proper Rick & Morty impression without doing a big fake belch and going "Morty" or pitching your voice up and going "Awww geez Rick" ************************************************************************************************************************ Simpsons is almost nothing but catch phrases and verbal ticks ********************************************************************************************************** Star Trek: TNG Data does not use contractions when speaking. (There have been slips from writers before it became canon). But it became such a notable part of his dialogue that after a certain point if he does use contractions, the crew know something is off. Usually "That's not really Data". ****************************************************************************************************************** TLDR: Don't be afraid to write your characters in such a way that people could do impressions of them just by citing their dialogue.

Airport Insecurity You’ve never been great at making smart tactical decisions when it comes to your diapers. Years ago, when you told your vanilla friend about your kink and how paranoid you were about getting caught or someone finding your stash, they thought you were being silly. “What’s there to catch? If somebody finds them, just say you have a medical condition or something. Like you’re a bedwetter, or have bladder control problems.” The flush in your cheeks was answered with their eyes slowly widening in increased comprehension. “They have cartoons on them, don’t they…?” The idea that there could be babyish looking diapers sized for grown-ass men and women didn’t even occur to them. Yet it was a relief to you. Ye gods, how awful would it be if you were limited to only what you could piecemeal together and pretend was ‘the real thing’; limited to Depends and whatever outfits looked childish enough? No bonnets. No onesies. No clothes with snaps in them. It’d be like putting a barber’s bowl on your head and calling it a knightly helm only without Don Quixote’s madness. No. Just no. Thank goodness for the internet, niche companies, and discreet shipping. You still trended towards subtlety, naturally. You aren’t looking to force yourself on anyone. It’s just the t-shirt and baggy shorts you have on feel a lot better with a nice cloth backed diaper and a plain white onesie to hold it all together. To one side of your brain, you’re wearing a grown-up disguise so that you can play pretend amongst the ‘real’ adults. To the other side, you are the world’s most discreet and timid exhibitionist; afraid of getting caught and shunned. You just wanna be yourself! What’s so wrong with that? Here in the airport security line, that more anxious side is currently blaring at full volume. Your tongue becomes like sandpaper while you slip your shoes off and put them in a bin with your belt. Your diaper is dry too. You never thought you’d be too nervous to pee, but here you are. This will be fine. There’s no risk of anyone seeing your diaper. To all onlookers, the onesie will just look like you have a basic undershirt that is successfully tucked in. It’s not what you’re wearing that’s making your heart thud in your chest. It’s the bag. It doesn’t look very much like a diaper bag. It’s plain brown with no babyish decorations. It could be a purse, or a laptop bag, or just a satchel. It is a diaper bag, however. That’s what it was marketed as. That’s what you’re using it for. It’s packed with wipes, powder, a (for now) empty baby bottle, and two spare diapers. Also your wallet, cell phone, and keys, but that’s besides the point. You didn’t need to bring the diaper bag along. You aren’t actually incontinent, and even if you were, your diapers are absorbent enough that they probably wouldn’t leak between now and the time your plane touches down. It’s just… You liked the idea of carrying around your very own diaper bag. You romanticized the idea of having an accident before takeoff, and then sitting in for a few hours, perhaps adding to it, and then whisking yourself away to a bathroom to change. There was something lovely about that idea… This is stupid. This whole thing is stupid. You should have just packed these diapers in your suitcase with the rest. The people at the x-ray machine would see your diapers. They’d see how big the diapers were. They’d know that they weren’t small enough to fit an actual baby. They’d know. Everyone would know. You inhale and hold your breath as you put the bag on the conveyor belt. “Any liquids, or large electronics?” The man stationed near the front of the belt asks. You mutely shake your head and wince as they push your bag along the rollers towards the x-ray machine. “We’ve got some pumps and breast milk,” a woman behind you says, putting a large navy blue bag behind your plain brown diaper bag. You glance at her, and the color shoots away from your face and towards your feet. Oh crap! Someone with a real baby! The man behind her with the newborn in a carrier tells you what you already know. “That’s fine,” the guard says. But you know the truth. It is not fine. You’re about to accidentally traumatize a new mother with your fetish. You’re about to be exposed and go from being the world’s most discreet exhibitionist to a full on untouchable. No. You breathe. That’s not what’s going to happen. You temper the extreme paranoia you’re feeling with cold reptilian logic. You’re not going to be outed here. There’s nothing dangerous or suspicious in your bag and the people at the TSA have seen much weirder shit than some big baby diapers. You’ll be forgotten less than thirty seconds after you get through security and nobody but you and the guy looking for bombs and drugs will ever know. “Next!” A guard on the other side of the body scanner calls you. You turn your head in time to see a man step outside of the hollow glass booth and follow in his footsteps. You angle your head down to the floor and shuffle forward, breathing shallowly. You place your socked feet on the yellow footprints and raise your arms above your head before the person running the scanner can instruct you to. “Arms up,” they say calmly, despite you already following their instructions. The vertical bar quickly whooshes past your sight, scanning you in the blink of an eye. You exhale and lower your arms down. No beeps. No boops. No buzzers. That should mean you’re in the clear, or so you think. “Step out and to the side, please.” A guard commands. Out and to the side?! What was wrong? What happened? Did you leave something in your pockets? Is something…bulging unnaturally? You stare down at your crotch and feel as if you have X-Ray vision. Surely, the diaper bulge beneath your onesie and baggy shorts isn’t THAT noticeable, right? Right?! “Come on,” the guard coaxes you, gently. “Out we go!” You step forward out the other side of the body scanner, the papery crinkle of your diaper sounding off in your ears despite the din of the machines and foot traffic all around you. It’s drowned out by the thump-thump-thumping as your heart threatens to leap out of your chest. Out of the corner of your eye you see a guard at the X-ray machine rifling through a plain brown satchel bag; your diaper bag! And he’s taking out everything! Why? Why would he do that? It’s just a wallet, phone, keys, wipes, and some diapers! Big, crinkly, childish looking baby diapers that fit you perfectly so as to bring you incredible joy and comfort in private and drive you to humiliating despair in public. He stacks the two spares you packed on a counter and pulls out the baby powder. He pours some out and reaches for what looks like a chemical testing strip. Oh no! The powder! They’re making sure that it’s not some kind of a bomb! You KNEW you should have packed it in your suitcase, but noooooooooo, you just HAD to live the full fantasy and smell extra babyish when you changed yourself in the airport bathroom. You’re going to purge. You just know it. As soon as this is over, you are getting off that plane and dumping your entire suitcase full of baby clothes and diapers into a fucking dumpster. You freak. You loser. You monster. You look behind you at the lady with the breast pump and realize you haven’t been breathing. She’s smiling and waving at you, gently shooing you forward. A silent prayer: Please don’t let her see what’s in your bag. Please let her and her husband and their kid be at just the right angle so that the x-ray machine and body scanner are blocking their view of your privacy being grievously violated. “Come on!” A strange man chirps and yanks you the rest of the way out of the scanner. “Sorry about this, Dad,” the guard says to the stranger. The way he says it reminds you of when you were a child and people who didn’t know your parent’s names would just call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ as a shorthand. “Daddy?” The word leaps out of your mouth unbidden. You’d only meant to copy what was said, not to add your own infantile twist. “Just hold on a second, baby,” the stranger says quietly. “Just gotta prove that you’re not a terrorist or something.” He shakes his head and laughs to himself while he pulls your pants down, and exposes your onesie. Terrified and overwhelmed, you freeze. Knees and elbows locked. Throat tight. Hard to breathe. The man, Daddy, reaches right between your legs like he’s done it a billion times and unsnaps each button of your onesie. “I’m sorry about this,” the guard says. “It’s just protocol.’ “Yeah,” Daddy says. “I get it.” He lifts up the onesie, exposing your heavy sodden diaper. You have no idea when you stopped holding it, but the wetness line is bright blue “Looks like you caught us before we sprung a leak!” The guard laughs nervously. “Looks like it. Sorry again.” “Not a problem, sir,” Daddy replies. Then he looks to you. “Okay, baby. Why don’t you step out?” He pulls your shorts down past your ankles until they’re just a puddle on the floor. Your legs and brain numb, your body does as instructed, stepping out one foot of a time until you’re left in nothing but your t-shirt, onesie, and socks. “What happened here?” The woman with the baby supplies asks. Your skin alights anew. This shouldn’t be happening! Daddy talks past you. “Body scanner thought a diaper was an explosive device or something.” The woman laughs and moves over to the rollers by the X-Ray machine. “Not unless it’s diarrhea!” she quips. She picks up the bag filled with milk, breast pumps and such. The man who was rifling through your diaper bag has repacked it and handed it back to her. “No pants?” Daddy shrugs. “They need a change anyway, and it’s not that cold.” Without further preamble he grabs your t-shirt and tugs it up over your head. You’re too bamboozled to resist. “Fair enough,” the woman says. She grabs your wrist. “Come on honey bunny. Follow Mommy. Let’s go get changed.” “Mommy?!” Your confused words fall on deaf ears. “You sure, babe?” Daddy asks. “You got the last one.” The conversation has started to move away from the security line. You’re waddling helplessly behind Mommy and Daddy. You look behind you and see that the young man with the baby carrier behind her was with another young lady. “I’d like to nurse before we get on the plane,” Mommy tells Daddy. “Clean bum and full tummy. If we’re lucky they’ll sleep through the flight back home. Keep the bottled stuff as an emergency if they get fussy in mid air.” Daddy slows down. “Good idea. I’ll go to the bathroom too.” The gulf between you is increasing as Mommy leads you towards a clearly marked area designated for breastfeeding and diaper changing. “Take your time,” Mommy calls back to him. “We’ll be awhile.” Everything is happening so fast, that only one word has time to come out before you cross the threshold into the nursing station. “Home?” You were supposed to go on vacation today.

There’s no justice for Littles. Sophia knew that. Every Little did. Experiencing a particular brand of injustice was a lot different than just hearing about it, however. Sophia sat naked in her cell in the JBRC: The Juvenile Behavior Retention Center. She and every other Little there had been tried and convicted in an actual factual Amazon Court of Law of committing actual factual crimes. Her and her fellow dead men and women had committed real crimes; nothing so pedestrian as shoplifting or jaywalking. Nor was it the harder crimes of drug possession with intent to distribute, driving under the influence, burglary, or attempted bribery. They definitely hadn’t committed one of the non-crimes of wetting their pants, losing their jobs, or being the wrong combination of cute and independent at the same time. All of those could be washed away with an excuse about how they weren’t ‘raised right’ and needed to ‘start over’. It was the same thing with white collar crimes. Littles got convicted of embezzlement, blackmail, fraud, and extortion all the time and at a much higher rate than other types of crimes. Communication, information technology, and data manipulations were something of great equalizers as it stood. Whether the Littles convicted of such offenses were guilty of those crimes or just victims of Amazonian and Tweener sabotage was another matter entirely. For anyone who could fit on an Amazon’s hip, becoming a victim of a frame up would be just as bad as doing the deed anyways: poor Little things needed protection from the big scary world all the time. All of those people likely found themselves Adopted or put into an orphanage until their will was sufficiently broken. Guilty or not, Littles didn’t tend to sleep behind bars unless cribs were involved. There was a reason why even small town police stations had overnight nurseries for their smallest offenders. Littles could be criminals, same as everybody else. It’s easy to be a criminal in a world where every law and social norm is stacked against you. Few people become criminals for the fun or thrill of it. People become criminals when the system they live in can’t meet their needs and so they operate outside and against that system. For most Littles what they needed and what non-Littles decided they needed were at complete odds; so crime became inevitable at some level. For example, most Littles weren’t allowed to drive cars that were too big for them or to modify homes that they didn’t own. But most cars and homes weren’t sized for Littles, and the ones that were put a target on their back. Why live in a Little sized apartment or drive in a Little sized car when that just advertises to baby crazy Amazons where you’re sleeping and let them know of the treasure they’ll find inside once they sweet talk your landlord. Littles got strapped into car seats in lieu of speeding tickets. Better to ;live and drive in out of the way places and roads and invest in heavy window tinting. Everything was legal when the cops weren’t around. Cops or not, most Littles didn’t see the inside of a jail or a prison cell. Amazons wouldn’t have it. It hurt their own narrative that Littles were children who didn’t really know any better. Better (for the Amazons) to pretend that the Littles were just naughty children acting out for attention, subconsciously wanting a Mommy or Daddy to take care of them. That’s what made being in an actual JBRC such a grim accomplishment. JBRC’s were a relic of the past- a bygone age when Littles, Tweeners, and Amazons were supposedly equal in adulthood. Littles were still put in padded pants and ended up strapped in strollers, but it was punishment not predestination. Slowly but surely the pendulum had been swinging to a kinder, gentler, and altogether more insidious form of forced regression, but places like these still existed despite polite society not liking to acknowledge it. Along either coast, Maturosis had taken hold of the public consciousness as the primary and ‘acceptable’ reason to kidnap small folk and shove a nipple between their lips. The farther inland one traveled, the flimsier the pretense got and the more the mask of giant society slipped. Amazons wanted to turn Littles into babies so that they always had someone to lord over, dominate, humiliate and punish for the sake of their own projections and insecurities. Some were just more honest about it than others. There were states where being “immature” or “bratty” or “not making boom-booms and tinkles” on command for a stranger in the bathroom were enough of a reason for someone Sophia’s size to get their panties ripped off, bunched up, and tossed away in a diaper pail forever. The cruelty didn’t end there. Sophia couldn’t remember how many times she’d overheard Amazons bragging to each other how many Little boys and girls they’d kidnapped like they were freaking pets or trophies. Or how many times she’d heard lines like “My little Mary Sue is such an angel now that we’ve gotten her all sorted out. She only needs thorough spankings three or four times a week to remind her and otherwise she’s a perfect sweetie.” Deep down, it had all worn on Sophia. Made her numb. Not even afraid anymore. That’s probably why she did what she did. That’s probably why she’d done what she’d done. The Littles here had been convicted of real, actual, violent felonies: The kind of crimes that made normal people shudder and decent people squirm. Terrible shit. Morally inexcusable. The stuff that might get one a documentary played by an A list movie star if only they were more physically imposing or if there were Little actors that didn’t talk to puppets. Whether the other Littles had actually done what they’d been accused of didn’t matter. What Sophia had or hadn’t done didn’t matter, either. The kangaroo courts that had bounced them here were just as swift and awful as any Amazonian Adoption Agency. What mattered was that this last month of her life was one of the only times Sophia could remember that she had felt like an adult. Like an Amazon. Like a threat. She’d confessed, tearless, after a thorough spanking. No amount of thrashings, enemas, mouth soapings, or days spent in dirty diapers without rash relief would get her to change her story that she’d done that awful thing. There was no one-armed Amazon man like in the police and media theories. According to all official documents, she was a monster of the most sadistic and unrepentant kind. She’d stared dead-eyed at her federally mandated foster parents, and said that she would do the same thing to them that she had supposedly done to that poor Tweener and her Little brother. The mittens and the booties with the spikes on the insides didn’t come off until after sentencing and transport. The top bars never came off the crib. Every diaper change and highchair feeding had maximum restraints. Her pacifier bulb only deflated when they were trying to shove something else in her mouth or get her to change her story. Truly, Sophia had never had such a splendid time in all of her short life. To see and hear the looks of fear from people so much bigger than her. To know that her very existence was unnerving to them. If she was going to die, she was going to do it as something anathema to the giants. And she was going to die. She’d been sentenced to full on Ego Death. The Amazons called it something else; a “Reset:” or something, but that was just a nice way of saying they were going to fry her brain. Her body would live on, but she’d stop being herself, stop being Sophia. She’d be nothing more than a bundle of neurons incapable of growth or learning; the perfect Amazon babydoll. She could shit herself for days on end without a change and gum applesauce until her eyes closed for good and she drew her last breath. She could be shaved hairless and be shoved up a rich Amazon’s vagina and forced to undergo unbirth and rebirth. They could give her a stupid name to replace her old one. Fine. Whatever. She wouldn’t know it. She’d be dead in all but name within the week. She’d made her peace with that long before the gavel fell. There’d be no stay of execution. There’d be no appeal. The week was just enough time to select, screen, vet, and prep Amazons who didn’t mind having mind wiped scum under their roof. The waiting list was still disturbingly long as far as Sophia knew. Sophia shook her head and closed her eyes at that thought. It wouldn’t be her problem soon. Nothing would. She’d have no problems. Her body was about to be someone else’s. Her stomach rumbled and she shuffled on bare feet towards the hole in the floor that doubled as a toilet. A pained, but delighted groan came out of her and she dumped her load, letting herself smile ruefully. The food was still laced with laxatives- the giants didn’t want their future babies to get constipated- but the drugs weren’t nearly as strong as some of the products whispered about online. “I hope I get some kind of infection” she whispered to herself, though she didn’t have the courage to do anything unsanitary to ensure it. The cells were padded, monitored and temperature controlled. The prison uniforms could be removed and the interaction with the guards was minimal. There were no other default restraints unless the prisoner showed signs of attempting self-harm; didn’t want any would-be parents to be deprived of their prize. As a result the prisoners were given an unprecedented amount of autonomy. They were allowed to feed themselves, go to the bathroom as they needed, and shout across cells to each other. In the short time she’d been here, she’d seen Littles curse out guards and smear their own shit on the glass dividers between their cells and the main walkway that ran between them. Sophia settled for slowly pacing her cell nude while flicking her bean after lights out. Some of the other damned didn’t wait for that long and actively talked dirty to each other while masturbating. This treatment was all so incredibly unreal to her. The Amazons didn’t want to baby her lest they develop some kind of false sense of security for her to exploit and in doing so gave her arguably more freedom than she’d had in her entire life. They were going to fry her brain and in the lead up were being completely honest with her and allowing her to be completely honest with them. Every Little should get this opportunity. CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK Sophia wiped herself and trotted over to the glass partition. The clicking of plastic wheels on prison tiles was practically a siren alarm. Every Little stopped what they were doing and ran up to see who’s time had come. No one had been here very long, but some form of social inertia had created the protocol of standing at attention and gawking at the person who was about to be ended. She saw a pair of guards pushing the pink umbrella stroller past her cell roll out of view. One of the monsters threw her a wink and drew her attention to the pink diaper bag dangling from the stroller’s back. The Littles in the cells across from her all looked relieved while they turned their heads to look away. That meant that todays’ victim was on Sophia’s side of the aisle. From a guess, Sophia figured it was the girl in the next cell over. Poor Elizabeton. ‘Elizabeton’ wasn’t the prisoner’s actual name. She’d just overheard snippets of conversation about where the girl had come from before here. Weird to think that a Little from all the way out in Elizabeton was shipped here, but it showed how rare JBRC’s were becoming. It also showed how willing the Amazons were to bend their own rules, regardless of jurisdiction. Commit a big enough crime and it didn’t matter what false enlightenment the local Amazons pretended to subscribe to. They’d just ship you somewhere else to kill you softly. Total silence reigned in the hall. Sophia didn’t know if Elizabeton had been gagged yet, or her relative proximity to her neighbor’s padded cell just muted sounds of struggle. Sophia hoped that when it was her turn, she’d maintain the dignity not to struggle. “Oho!” One of the guards crowed. “That was a bad last decision, Little girl! You’re not getting changed until after.” That answered one question, at least. “Hope you feel proud of yourself sitting in your poopy diaper!” There was the meanest edge in one of the guard’s voices. Sophia instantly hated it. “Dumb baby trying to stall. Too bad you can’t stall happiness!” A few minutes and an eternity later, the stroller started rolling back out past Sophia, back to the way it came, back to the door at the end of the hallway. LIttles went in through that door and didn’t come out. That stroller might as well have been a ferry on the River Sticks. Sophia saw her neighbor prisoner. Blonde. Pretty even though her hair shaved incredibly short. Naked save for the extra thick diaper she’d just been taped into. Every Little that had been wheeled through that back door into nowhere had been given only that sliver of modesty with the only variation being that boys were wheeled away in blue strollers and girls were confined to pink. Why? Sophia swallowed, knowing she’d find out soon. Elizabeton was the only remaining Little who in this purgatory from when Sophia had been tossed in her cell. The passing guard, the one who had commented on Elizabeton messing her diaper, threw another wink towards Sophia and mouthed something. Sophia couldn’t read lips but she thought it was “See you tomorrow…” “Hey, Elizabeton!” Sophia called out. The stroller stopped and backed up. “Someone wants to say bye-bye, I think,” the guard taunted. “Okie dokie.” The Little girl turned her head and made eye contact with Sophia. Her mouth was gagged with a pacifier, its bulb likely filling her mouth to the point where her jaw hurt. But her eyes were fierce and tearless, like Sophia’s. “You messed to try and stall?” The condemned woman nodded her head. No point in denying it. “I get it. No shame. It was worth a shot.” “Oh, it wasn’t on purpose,” the lead guard taunted. “Pooping their pants is just what Littles do!” Sophia’s nose wrinkled and her lip curled in disgust. As soon as the Little woman-someone considered a legitimate threat and had been treated as such-had been diapered, the giants put their motherly masks back on. “Fuck you,” Sophia spat. “Go fuck yourself,” the guard spat back. “It’s what you do at night anyways.” To her prisoner and her coworker the guard loudly proclaimed, “Alright, Little girl. Let’s go meet your new life. Time to be happy!” Then she mouthed some same words as before Sophia. “See you tomorrow.” CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK The mechanical sounds of a heavy door opening and closing could be heard and the sound of stroller wheels were no more. But the Littles didn’t return to their own individual confinements. There was one more step to this horror show. A wave of static crackled in the air as ancient speakers switched on. From out of them came the dirge that played every time one of their number was lost. It started with a tick-tock sound, the seconds on a very loud clock calling out to them to remind them what they were all going to lose sooner or later. Then synthetic sounding keyboard joined in to the rhythm, like tiny tear shaped raindrops. “Does anybody know what time it is?” A child’s voice asked. A boy? A girl? It was hard to tell, but it definitely was a real child. “Yes!” came another child’s response. Little? Tweener? Amazon? It was really hard to tell. Enough could be done with technology to pitch voices up and down regardless of the size of the vocal chords. Technically, they could have been two adult Littles whose voices were modified enough to pass for children. “It’s the time to be happy!” Then came the chorus. “The time to be happy is now! And the place to be happy is here! And the way to be happy is to make someone happy And we’ll have a Little Heaven right here!” Every damn time… Sophia had abandoned all hope since she entered this place, but she had one final one: That that creepy ass song wouldn’t be the last one she ever heard before her mind was erased forever. ******************************************************************************************************** Sophia didn’t sleep that night. Guilty or not, who would be able to? When your remaining time as yourself could be measured in hours instead of days, sleep seemed like a waste of time. She’d literally sleep when she was brain dead. That didn’t stop her from quietly masturbating in the dark. There was nothing else that seemed better to do than to plunge her fingers into herself and pretend they belonged to somebody else. In the back of her mind, Sophia knew that she must still be being watched. Night vision cameras and the like monitoring her to make sure she didn’t do anything drastic. That just made her pinch her nipples a tad harder and tease herself, giving her captors a show. Let them be disgusted. Let them. Let… CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK The slight grinding sound of a clear glass partition sliding away made Sophia jump. Too late, she opened her eyes and shook herself to full consciousness. She hadn’t been dreaming or in anything restful enough to label “sleep”, but she had lost track of time. The guard from yesterday was nearly on top of her, bending over with something uncomfortably close to the Little’s face. “Wakey wakey, baby Sophie! It’s time to be haaaaaa-!” Sophia reached out with her hands and lurched forward. The Amazon had been to strong to bat her hand away but as luck and surprise would have it, the stiffness of her arm made it exceedingly easy to grab onto and pull herself up. Sophia bent her head sideways and bit down on the giant woman’s thumb just past the pacifier gag. Sophia clenched her eyes and jaw and didn’t stop until her tongue tasted the coppery flavor of blood. “MOTHER FU-!” The guard yanked her thumb out of Sophia’s mouth hard enough to make the Little’s teeth rattle. An open palmed slap to the face knocked her back prone while a second pair of Amazon hands charged in and squeezed the joints of Sophia’s jaw, forcing it painfully open. “You’re supposed to feed the bite,” the other guard lectured. “I know! I fuckin’ know, goddamn it!” A rubber bulb penetrated Sophia’s mouth and inflated it. The guard didn’t release her grip until Sophia was incapable of spitting the pacifier out. Her jaw was practically unhinged, but from here on out, no sounds would be able to come out of her saved muffled groans and any attempt to spit the offending object out would just look like the gentle suckling of an infant on their favorite binky. “Do you even read the case files?”, the second guard lectured her companion. “This Little bit into her original Mommy’s jugular in the woman’s sleep!” “Yeah, yeah,” the first guard cradled her bitten and bleeding hand. “I know, I know.” Did she? Biting a giant’s jugular was so far off from what Sophia had been accused and convicted of that she genuinely wondered what these women thought they knew. Was this a prison or a lobster tank? Sophia ignored the voices and rising indignation inside her. It didn’t matter anyways. She’d be dead soon. Dead was dead. The pretense why didn’t matter, did it? She stopped struggling and let herself be diapered this one last time. The first guard dug around in the pink diaper bag. The entirety of Sophia’s bite only regarded two band-aids. “Hope you liked the taste of that, baby Sophie,” she chirped venomously. “That’s gonna be the last solid food you ever have! Nothing but baby food and Momma’s milkies from here on out!” Sophia didn’t bother to reply. No sense in giving the bitch a sense of satisfaction. She went full ragdoll as the massive diaper- the last one she would ever realize she was wearing- was slipped under her and fastened on one agonizing tape at a time. This one was the thickest diaper yet. Fuck the restraints, she wouldn’t be able to walk in this with how far her legs were spread apart. She didn’t look around at the other cells to see if the other Littles were watching her. Her eyes were straight forward while she was strapped into the stroller. It was weird how comfortable it all was; how quickly she got re-used to having a thick and crinkly pillow encasing backside. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It was game over for Sophia. It was time. Time to be happy. The massive door opened and groaned like it had every other day; a massive beast roaring for its dinner, ready to consume. The stroller she was in click-click-clicked all the way in- a lamb to the slaughter- until she passed the threshold and the monstrous gates slammed shut behind. How much longer would it take? Seconds? Minutes? Would she hear that awful song one last time, or would it not follow her back into the cradle grave? These were the questions she asked in the darkness of that tunnel, squinting as she was glided out into the blinding light. There was no bright color in the JBRC wing she’d been staying at. Everything had been grays, blacks, and muted dingy greens with just enough fluorescent lighting to cast unpleasant shadows along the walls. The jumpsuit that she hadn’t put on once had looked like something a janitor or sewage worker might wear. It was refreshing, to be honest. Still, it was no surprise that as soon as she could see, Sophia’s senses were assaulted with every color of the rainbow that she’d been deprived of. Floor tiles were bright yellows, reds, and oranges. Walls were sponged over in pinks and blues in sloppy and disorganized patterns. Hot lights like miniature suns dangled overhead. It was like an army of kindergarteners swallowed a bunch of finger paints and then vomited all over an execution chamber. That was as good an explanation as anything in this fucked up world. Sitting somberly in a row of fog hat gray folding chairs, a gathering of strange Amazons sat staring at Sophia in her stroller. Their eyes narrowed and faces struggled contorting into full on scowls. Who the fuck were these people? “Come on baby girl,” the guard with the band-aid on her hand sneered. “Let’s get you set up.” The stroller was wheeled backwards so that Sophia was forced to gaze at the row of dour looking old Amazons until the wheels snapped into place. The stroller was being added to part of a larger apparatus; one that necessitated even more restraints on her arms and limbs. Sophie’s head was held firmly in place while a strap pulled over her forehead. “I can’t wait to look into your eyes,” the guard whispered, as a small metal cylinder was lowered over the Little’s skull. Sophia looked up with her eyes. She couldn’t get a full view, obviously, but from where she was placed, she imagined it kind of looked like a hair dryer that women sat under when they were getting their hair done, only Little sized. Now if only she had a magazine, Sophia thought darkly. The shield of the fake pacifier and her own taut lips concealed the smile. A male, balding Amazon wearing a guard’s uniform stepped in front of Sophia’s view. The man was so fat that he practically blotted out the strange lookie loos there to witness her final moments of coherent thought. “Sophie Lockhart,” he said. “For the crime of Adoptive Fratricide in the first degree, you have been sentenced to undergo a Full Cerebral Reset.” Lockheart? Fratricide? She could forgive the infantilizing of her first name, but who the fuck was Sophie Lockheart? And Fratricide? Hadn’t the guards been talking about her biting out a Mommy’s jugular? Fratricide meant killing one’s father though… Something clicked inside of Sophia! They literally had the wrong Little! She was about to have her brainstem shorted out, and they thought she was someone else entirely! The people serving as witnesses to the execution were an entirely different clan of giants than the ones who had witnessed her sham of a trial, too! They were about to watch her lights get snuffed out and didn’t even realize that she wasn’t who they said she was and she had no way to inform them of their blunder! This really was a lobster tank! Not only that, but just out of sight, Sophia could hear that damn song being played. “The time to be happy is now! And the place to be happy is here! And the way to be happy is to make someone happy And we’ll have a Little Heaven right here!” There was something deeply, darkly, nihilistically funny about all of this that the Little woman started cackling into her pacifier. To the assembled witnesses, it came out as nothing more than the meager and weak groaning of a pathetic baby wanting her milk. “Now.” Sophia’s world erupted in static and bright lights. No more sound. No more vision. She convulsed uncontrollably writhing in the stroller seat and restraints. She couldn’t hear but she could feel body exhaling in screams. No pain, however. She was as far beyond pain as she was beyond control. Any moment, now. Her diaper started warming up as her bladder and bowels confused and released, pushing a mudslide into the seat of her pants. Her jaw convulsed and she unsuccessfully and involuntarily tried to bite through the thick rubber bulb of her gag. Any moment, now… Her chest hurt and her lungs burned, unable to breathe, even while her muscles racked themselves in their restraints, screaming for oxygen. Any moment… Foamy spittle dribbled out her lips and started running out the corners of her mouth, snaking down her chin. Any…! AIR! Sophia started breathing again, her exhales coming out as low grumbling moans. Sophia’s eyes fluttered open and she kept moaning. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sights. She hadn’t moved from her spot in the executioner’s stroller, but the chairs and the witnesses had been removed. The wet and sticky mass in her diaper was still there and had started to cool. Time had definitely passed. But why was Sophia still here? Why was she still thinking of herself as Sophia? Why was she still thinking?! Her eyes kept looking around, probing randomly; a final body part that had yet to stop seizing up. Sophia tried to get them to focus, to slam her lids shut, but her body wouldn’t listen to her. She tried to stop moaning into the gag, but her throat wouldn’t obey her, either. “There we are!” An evil, sinister face popped up in front of Sophia’s eyes. “Where’s the baby?” A blindfold made of the giant’s palm forced Sophia’s eyes closed. Sophia’s body laid still on autopilot. “There she is!” Like a doll, Sophie’s eyes opened on their own. This time, they stayed still. “You in there, baby girl? You in there?” Her eyes seemed to pierce right into Sophia’s, peering deep into her soul Yeeeeeah,” she grinned. “You’re in there.” The remaining fog started to lift from Sophia’s mind. She was still there! She was still herself! But she couldn’t move a muscle. They’d paralyzed her! Trapped her in her own body. Her heartbeat didn’t even speed up. “Run the checklist,” a voice on the outside of Sophia’s periphery ordered. She couldn’t even direct her eyes towards the sound. The guard unbuckled Sophia one strap at a time. “Roger that,” she called. Sophia willed her body to reach out and slap her captor, but her limbs wouldn’t listen. The smallest, weakest glimmer of hope sparked up in her when her right arm came loose, but the naked limb reached out and probed pointlessly and uselessly as if pulled along by aimless invisible strings. Her head lulled uselessly from side to side once it was free and only stilled itself when she was picked up and laid on the cold hard floor. She wouldn’t really need a crib to keep her contained anymore. Sophia couldn’t even roll over. The Little’s inhaling nostrils picked up the rising stench of stale ammonia and cooling feces. The contents of her diaper shifted around and sagged away from her, making her skin start to crawl as the mess half-peeled itself off of her backside. Yet as far as her face was concerned, the Little couldn’t tell the difference between clean and dirty. She wanted to throw up, but her body was incapable of listening to her commands. The moaning, groaning, huffing stopped when the pacifier was deflated and removed. Her body started breathing through its mouth, too, which made the surrounding stench more bearable. There was no time for relief, however. The guard took one pointy finger and started to tickle at the right corner of Sophia’s mouth. “Coohie coochie coo!” Like an automaton, Sophie’s head turned towards the source of the tickling, her mouth opened and her lips puckered like a donkey braying for a carrot. The tickling on her right stopped and switched over to her left. “Coochie coochie coo!” With the same involuntary drive, Sophie’s head changed course towards the teasing tickling feeling just barely on her cheek. Then she did it again. And again. And again. It was a finger now. It would be an Amazon’s nipple later. “Rooting reflex checks out!” The guard said. “Checking suck reflex!” Sophia felt her head turn again, only this time the bait was switched instead of snatched away from her. Her lips touched her own fingers as her hand was nudged into her own mouth. The instant the roof of her mouth felt a stray finger she started suckling uncontrollably. There was no sense of joy or fulfillment; no soothing wave filled her. No itch was being scratched. Her body just continued to suck on the loose digit without cessation. It was like a reflex hammer was tapping her knee cap again and again and again, only the spot was at the top of her mouth. The guard sat back and watched Sophia helplessly chew her fingers. “In a few months you should be limber enough to where you’ll be able to munch on your toes,” she mockingly cooed down at Sophia. “Suck reflex is active!” Sophia was left there on the floor, alone, and sucking on her finger. She saw the shiny black sides of the Amazon’s shoes step away from her and then heard only unintelligible speech garbled by distance. She was unattended, but not alone. “BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!” Sophia’s fingers shot out of her mouth. Her arms and legs splayed out and spasmed in every direction each pulled by a different invisible horse trying to quarter her. Just as quickly, all four of her limbs retracted and pulled in close to her helpless body, futilely and inefficiently curling into a ball of flesh. “WAAAAAAH!” That was the first time Sophia had heard her voice today, and she had no more control of it than anything else. She was screaming, but it was as involuntary as anything else. “Moro reflex is a go!” Next the Little found her head turned to its left side. Without thinking about it, her left arm shot out, her legs went slack and her right arm bent up. Seen from above, she might look as if she were pantomiming a fencing match. Her head was turned to the right, and her arms alternated. “Tonic neck reflex! Check!” “WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” The shortest growl burbled up in the Amazon’s throat. “Tickle-tickle-tickle!” Finger tips dug into Sophia’s ribs. “Hawwwww!” The scream mutated into a pained giggle. “There’s my happy girl!” Inwardly, Sophia was cursing the woman out. Outwardly, her breathing came out in stifled, laughing gasps. The space between her legs warmed up a little more as her bladder continued to dribble out into her diaper. “Let’s check out your fingers and toesies!” The Amazon’s digits started brushing the soles of Sophia’s feet, causing her toes to fan out uncontrollably. Her toes! She couldn’t even control her damn toes! A gigantic finger traveled up to the Little’s palm and Sophia felt herself lightly take hold of it, tiny fingers gently wrapping around the one big one. “That’s a very good grasp reflex, baby Sophie! Your new Mommy and Daddy are gonna think that’s so cute! Like a puppy shaking hands!” Puppies needed a command. Sophia didn’t have that much control going for her. In a much deeper and more professional sounding voice, the guard called back. “Grasp reflex detected!” Looking down at Sophia, she switched to her faux motherese and cooed, “Almost done, sweetie pie!” The world went upright for the first time in a short forever. Sophia was being held up, supported at her waist. Just like with her grasping palms, the second the soles of her feet touched the floor, her legs started to weakly move up and down in alternating fashion. “Look baby girl! Somebody’s dancing! Yes she is!” Lacking the coordination to hold her own head up, Sophia witnessed the phenomenon as if she were outside her own body. If only she were on the outside. She was very much in herself; a prisoner aware of every feeling and sensation, but unable to act on her own desires. She hadn’t expected to exist as herself today; now she was trapped; buried alive in a Sophia shaped tomb. The world went topsy turvy again with her being lifted all the way off the floor and cradled in the Amazon’s arms. The speed of which made her arms flail out and retract again. This was her body’s default fear or surprise reaction it seemed. “WAAAAAAAAH!” “REFLEXES CHECK OUT!” the Amazon bellowed over Sophia’s involuntary wailing. “TRANSPORTING TO VIEWING!” “WAAAAAAAAAH!” A bottle full of milk brushed Sophia’s cheek and her head got to turning so that her mouth could get to sucking. It only took a second for her mouth to work into a steady rhythm of sucking down the warm creamy liquid. “Poor Sophie,” the Amazon guard mocked. “Did you think you’d get to stop thinking you were a big girl after this? Watch some special cartoons? Listen to a special song? Go to a daycare?” Eyes that Sophia couldn’t control honed in on the source of the sound, no matter how badly Sophie wanted them to go away. “That wouldn’t be justice, would it? Those nice things are for good Little boys and girls who just pretended that they were grown-ups for so long that they forgot who they really were!” From underneath her, Sophia felt the guard squeeze the back of her diaper, pressing the muck and mess back up against her skin. Her body didn’t stir, content with the milk and the nice sounding tones, even if the words were getting nastier and nastier. They were moving too, with ceiling lights whizzing by her. “You were bad,” the guard hissed. “You wanted to be an adult so much that you made the worst possible choices.” She leaned in and kissed Sophia on the forehead. Sophia’s body didn’t react. “Choices are like toys. They can be taken away.” Another kiss drove home the point. “So now all of those nasty choices have gone bye bye, and in their place are all those nice, simple, baby behaviors that you thought you’d outgrown.” They stopped just long enough for the guard to open a door. “Now they’re back and they’re never going away.” A door opened and a fresh gust of air smacked Sophia in the face. The ceiling overhead went from the painted over industrial gray to bright and soft lights. Past the bottle of milk, Sophie was able to decipher clean white walls and passing figures wearing scrubs. The name of the prison made a terrible kind of sense now. a Juvenile Behavior Retention Center. Everything that wasn’t a reflex, a behavior that could be predicted and controlled had been removed from her. The only thing that had been ‘retained’ were the basic instincts that newborns came with right out of the womb. A doorway crossed her vision as another threshold was crossed. A light padded surface rose up to greet her nearly paralyzed form. The Little had already been on enough changing tables to know where she was laying. Cool air seeped in between her legs while the giantess quietly changed her diaper, wiping her between her legs and cheeks. It would have been refreshing if it weren’t so violating. More distressing, neither the cream, powder, or fresh diaper being slipped beneath her stopped her body from finishing the bottle. She’d gotten a grip on it that refused to let go. The sucking continued and devolved into sickening slurps. Her body wasn’t stopping just because she was out of milk. The reflex to suck overrode anything else. “You’re a very lucky Little girl,” the guard said. She took the bottle out of Sophia’s mouth and lifted her. “Those diapers can hold a lot. You wouldn’t need a change for another eight whole hours, at least.” Up and then back down again. Sophia was picked up and put back down, her body lightly encased on a semi-flat surface that still cupped her body.. It bobbed at first with her added weight; a strange amalgamation between a hammock and pogo-stick. “But without a clean diaper on,” the Amazon smirked down at her, “it’d be hard to get your exact weight.” A scale! She was on a massive baby scale, getting weighed and measured like she was every bit the newborn her body had been debilitated down to. “It’s very sensitive,” the Amazon said, looking down at the scale. “With even a tiny change in weight, it shifts.” The slightest tickling around Sophia’s belly button made her body start to giggle. “Just like that!” A tiny trickle leaked out into the formerly fresh diaper. Sophia might not have noticed it without the prompting. The Little could still feel her face contort as an all too familiar pressure built up in her tummy from the milk, and only whines came out of the girl’s mouth. “Poor girl’s getting gassy!” her tormentor said, picking the living ragdoll up and draping her over her shoulder. Sophia felt every pat and rub acutely with her increased helplessness. With every burp and belch, the guard chuckled to herself.” “You were a very bad bad girl.” “Urp.” “Don’t worry though,” the Amazon said. “Your new Mommy and Daddy are going to love you very much.” “Urp.” “They’ll give you all the love that you don’t deserve even though it won’t matter a bit.” “Urrrk.” “You’ll get lots of milkies and naps and changes and burpies and cuddles.” “Urp. Eck.” “Maybe a nice playmat where you can accidentally bat around shiny things. Some tummy time just to change things up.” Never before had Sophia hated someone more than she hated the woman talking to her. She really wished she’d committed half of those crimes attributed to her. “URRRRRRK.” The room spun around with more walking. Sophia’s eyes started to droop, her body exhausted and content despite how much screaming her brain was doing. The briefest blink revealed that they weren’t alone. The room they were in had nearly a dozen plastic cots- blue for boys and pink for girls. Each was already filled with a Little, swaddled in blankets, breathing peacefully with their eyes closed no matter how their brains might be begging to be put out of their misery. “You’re really lucky, baby girl,” the Amazon taunted. “Viewing day is tomorrow. Some of these other babies have had to wait for their Mommies and Daddies to come pick them out. But not you!” Pink plastic walls rose up around Sophia. She was laid down on something thick and fleecy. Her weak and uncoordinated body was pinned, and swaddled in a few rapid steps. A matching cap was pulled down over her head. Her eyes closed all the way, her body feeling completely relaxed and comfortable. Another rubber bulb brushed against her lips and her body suckled on it reflexively. Her captors would never need a gag again. Her lips and tongue worked the pacifier ceaselessly and her mind tried to do anything it could to pass out. The guard wouldn’t let her. She just kept taunting her. “If you're lucky, you might make it a full year before you go bye bye from all the boredom. I’ve heard some Littles who get Reset can make it close to five! But don’t worry. You’ll be happy…” Gently, that same damn song was piped in over the hospital air conditioning. “The time to be happy is now! And the place to be happy is here! And the way to be happy is to make someone happy And we’ll have a Little Heaven right here!” Heaven, Sophia thought. Heaven for who? *********************************************************************************************** Sophia woke to the sound of babies crying all around her. It was a good few minutes before she realized she was one of the cries that had so offended their ears. Her body thrashed impotently in the swaddle. The noise had activated her body’s fear response, and she was now screaming while her limbs did everything they could to bundle up against her torso. So it hadn’t been a dream…. Her diaper was wet. She’d continued to dribble throughout the night. Possibly more than wet. She couldn’t tell because she couldn’t move and she couldn’t focus outside of her own body to smell enough. Someone had pooped their diaper in the middle of the night, that part was certain. Diaper changes and bottles were not forthcoming, however. Nothing that even passed for relief was in store for her. More ceiling tiles passed overhead and a semi-familiar click-click-click-clicking sound registered over the din. The cots were being rolled up to a glass window. Peering down at Sophia was a small horde of eager, smiling Amazon faces pressed up against the glass. Fingers tapped on the window. Hands waved, vying for attention. Insane toothy grins on one side of the wall juxtaposed ironically with the open mouthed wails on the other. Now Sophia really was a lobster. These latest intruders were the hungry diners there to decide who they would get the pleasure of devouring. They either couldn’t hear the Littles’ cries or they just didn’t care. Flashes of white caught Sophia’s attention. A nurse, practically a waitress followed hands pointing down and over to Sophia’s caught. Just a moment later, Sophia was picked up and cradled again. Her body calmed at the added warmth and support. Her mouth was forced closed with the addition of a fresh bottle. “Baby gets some brekkie!” the nurse chirped. Sophia’s eyes were drawn again to happy sounding voice. Thank goodness it wasn’t the guard from yesterday. Two new faces came into view. “Mr and Mrs. Olafson? Congratulations. It’s a girl!” “Henry!” A middle aged Amazon woman gushed, snatching Sophia out of the other Amazon’s arms, blanket, bottle and all. “Look at her! She’s perfect!” Then to the nurse she said. “We’ll take her!” This is how it ended. Auctioned off to the first or highest bidder. Nothing more than a pet. A porcelain baby doll to care for an neglect as a couple of fifty somethings saw fit. . A knot formed right in her stomach. Unfortunate that it had nothing to do with the torment she felt. The added milk had woken up something else inside the Little’s body. “She sure is, Harriet!” the giant man agreed with his wife. “Thank you very much.” The nurse gushed back. “Oh don’t thank me. I’m just the stork. It’s my favorite part of the job! Y’all are the real heroes, taking this Little one in!” “What’s her name?” Sophia’s new Mommy asked. “Whatever you want it to be.” “How about Abigail-May? After both of our mothers,” Sophia’s new Daddy suggested. The couple of tyrants looked down at her. “What do you think? The pressure in Sophia’s stomach was increasing and bubbling up rapidly, a balloon that was growing and growing inside her, ready to burst out of her stomach like a horror movie alien. The pressure built and built and built until she involuntarily added more mess to her diaper. “Awww! She’s smiling, honey!” the giant man said. “That means she likes it!” Really it just meant that she had gas. Her body lacked the control and wherewithal for social smiling. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a very happy baby!” The nurse praised them. And poor Sophia lacked any capability to disagree. That was all there was to it. Sophia stayed there in the stranger’s arms, sucking on her bottle while bundled up in a blanket; her wet and messy diaper squishing with every shift. Her husband was handed a clipboard where he signed some forms and then she was whisked away. She never thought she’d see the sun again or feel the fresh air on her face. In a way she wasn’t. Sophia wasn’t the blob in the stranger’s arms. She wasn’t being strapped in the backward facing car seat and having the bottle replaced with a pacifier. Nor was she adding a steady trickle of urine into an already wet diaper. Her body was doing all of that, but not her. Sophia hadn’t done anything since biting that bitch’s hand. She never thought she’d see the outside of prison; not as herself. How wrong she’d been. Instead of erasing her, the Amazons had just shrunken the prison into a perfectly Sophia sized casing while the real Sophia could only cry in despair from behind a wall of preprogrammed responses and instincts. “Look Henry,” her new Mommy said. “In her file they included a CD of children’s songs for her nursery.” “Heh. Well let’s make it official,” the older man behind the wheel said. “Put it in.” “The time to be happy is now! And the place to be happy is here! And the way to be happy is to make someone happy And we’ll have a Little Heaven right here!” Sophia was not now nor ever would be free. But given enough time, one to five years according to that guard, she might be happy.

As of right now. ARArchive.com and diaper-bois.com both have this story and feature table of contents. So does Legitfic.com; would highly recommend it. But the version I got there is a few chapters behind. (It's a new site so I'm staggering my uploads so as not to flood their library.

Unconventional You fall off the spinning disk, giggling like an idiot on the floor, and dizzy as hell. Thirty something rotations! New record! You toss your hands up to the ceiling in celebration and your laughter redoubles in on itself when it hits you that you were actually pointing at the nearest wall. This is the best convention ever! Presently, you’re in the Nursery Playroom, where the littlest of the little ones like to play. That’s you right now. Definitely you. People are playing on rocking horses the size of thoroughbreds, riding around on tricycles that are far too big, and bouncing in walkers that could double as flying saucers. And nobody is hiding their diapers. Not fifteen minutes ago, you found yourself lying beneath a baby gym, in your t-shirt, and wet Alphagatorz, babbling to yourself and smacking around dangling jingly toys. And it felt so gosh darn, wonderfully normal! I belong here. I really belong here. I really do. That’s what you thought. Somehow, it finally feels like you’ve come home. Amazing! But your attention has never been steady at the best of times, so you drifted over to this sick sit and spin and went to town until you could barely stand up straight. A gurgle from your stomach reminds you that you’re not allowed to go full baby. No number two’s allowed in convention spaces. That bodily reminder snaps you right out of headspace. Shouldn’t have had those nachos last night. The spinning didn’t help either. One way or another, something is about to exit you, and it’s probably out the back. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Still dizzy, you stand up on unsteady legs; you’re legs locked while your torso wobbles. You already know what you’re going to do: Waddle to the bathroom, drop the kids off at the pool, wipe, and then come back and play. Minimum interruption! On second thought, maybe you’ll go back to your hotel room for a few minutes. Nothing about the rules says you can’t poop in there. It’d be more practical too, considering you’re already wet. Pooping in a toilet and then pulling up a wet Alphagatorz would feel…weird. You’re not in Pull-Ups, you’re a BABY! (That’s the headspace you’re looking for anyway). As the last of the dizziness recedes, something catches your eye. In the back corner of the play room is an adult sized changing table. Not a repurposed massage table like in the changing rooms, a full on changing table, hand crafted and painted to look just like something a baby might use. You pivot and face it. How long had that been there? You swear you cased the room and examined each and every piece of oversized baby furniture as if it were an art exhibit when you first came in. A wave of sadness washes over you and your knees bend slightly as you start to push. The feeling of your cheeks spreading makes you groan under your breath while you stare enviously at the prop. A prop. That’s all it is. The convention was also quite clear about public nudity. Your next sigh comes out as a grunt. Your feet are still planted, your knees bent more than before. It still hasn’t occurred to your body that you could walk and get a closer look. Attached to the side of the adult sized changing table are several little hooks. Each hook has a diaper bag hanging from it. The shelves beneath the top are likewise packed with diaper bags. It seems the littles who brought diaper bags for quick changes all stowed them there. You wished you’d have brought a diaper bag. Or someone to carry it for you. Another sigh escapes your top, while your bottom feels warmer and your belly feels better. To the right of the table is an unopened pack of Little Kings. Diaper bag be damned, someone just didn’t give a damn. To the left is what appears to be a large diaper genie. Wow. This place goes all out. Morbidly, you wonder if anyone has snuck a used diaper in there. Oh yeah! Used diaper! You shake the cobwebs out of your head and stop sighing wistfully of what you can’t have. Time to… It finally hits you. That grunting and pushing you’ve been quietly doing and the meaning behind it. You’ve been messing this whole time, and inertia and gravity is carrying the last of your mess out of you beyond your control. For the first time in decades, you’ve just pooped your pants. In public. Without realizing it. Your body tenses and you slap your thighs to keep from feeling the back of your diaper. You need to get out of here. Now. If you’re caught like this you’re sure to be banned! You quickly start telling lies to yourself: It’s okay. It’s okay. No problem. You just need to casually walk out of the play room, and find the nearest stairwell, then you’ll just go up five flights of stairs, take out the keycard in your lanyard, and slip into your hotel room for a change…maybe a shower too. Point is that as long as you don’t dawdle or get trapped in a confined space, no one will be the wiser. You pivot around to start walking towards the playroom entrance, quietly tensing with every step. You can feel the mess shifting around. You look down at the floor and stare at the carpet so as not to draw any attention with your uncomfortable facial expressions. This isn’t going to work. This isn’t going to work. You’re going to caught. Caught and banned. You raise your head a little so that you don’t bump into anyone and are forced to stop dead in your tracks. The double doors leading out into the wider convention area are now shut. You don’t remember them closing. Your speed doubles and you power walk to the door. Your heart leaps up into your throat when you grab the handle and find it locked. Why the fuck is it locked? “Oh honey!” A voice calls out. “What are you doing?” You turn around and press your back to the door. “Nothing!” You say instinctively while your mess presses against you more tightly. “Can I please get out?” Coming towards you, is a woman in white sneakers, blue jeans, and a hot pink t-shirt with the conventions name on it. Oh shit! (Poor choice of words!) A staff member! Something seems familiar about her too. Wasn’t she the receptionist at the front desk? You thought the hotel was a separate entity from the convention for purposes of play… “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you have to wait here,” she says. “Why?” you ask. She’s close. Too close. You wish you could just phase through this door, or sink into the center of the earth. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong, baby,” she says soothingly. “Those are just the rules. You get to play here while all the grown-ups play out there.” If it weren’t for the crippling fear you’re currently experiencing, such talk would send you deep deep into headspace. “I need to go to my hotel room!” You yelp. “Awwww,” the stranger replies. “You’ll get to go back to your hotel room, eventually. Don’t worry. Do you want to lie down somewhere? I can make a space that’s nice and quiet for you?” This lady isn’t getting it. She is far too committed to the bit. “I need to go change!” You all but. scream. “Oh?” she says. “Let me see?” Quick and casual as anything she kneels down and squeezes between your legs. You’re too shocked to react while she examines your diaper and sticks her fingers past the leak guards. “Hmmm…you’re wet, but you’re not that wet.” She determines. “Why don’t you let the grown-ups decide whether you need changing?” She stands up and thumbs back over her shoulder. “Go play.” “But…but…but…I want to see the rest of the convention!” You have to get out of here. Noses are sniffing and time is ticking! The staff member waves your concern off. “You don’t want to go out there. It’s all boring grown-up stuff. Stay and play here until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.” The sincerity in her voice throws you off. “What?” “This is a grown-up convention, baby,” she says. “You’re at the convention daycare so that your Mommy or Daddy can go do their grown-up stuff and know that your’e safe.” Was that even a thing? Not the point. “I don’t have a Mommy and Daddy!” You’re single, but saying as much feels like a confession of a crime or an admission of guilt.” “Mmmhmm…” The lady nods, clearly not believing you. “I’m sure. You’re very big.” She drags you out away from the door and swats you on the butt. “Now go play.” You need to regroup. Need to get out and change. Need to avoid getting caught. Too late. “Hold it!” You feel your diaper being pulled back. You freeze and hold your breath. It wasn’t exactly fun while it lasted, but it’s over now. “Hmmmm….guess I was wrong. You do need to be changed.” Your jaw drops open. Her hand clamps down on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being dragged to the back corner. It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving. “Wait. Stop!” you try to say. “What are you doing?” “Changing you,” she says. “You need it!” “Here?” “Yup.”: “Everyone will see.” “It’s okay. No need to be shy. You’re just a baby.” All of your skin is tingling. “No I’m not!” “Okay, honey.” So in command of the situation is she, that she boosts you off the ground and onto the changing table in one fell swoop. Your mess mashes against your backside. “Then let’s change that big kid diaper. Lie down.” Your body lies down. There’s no disobeying. You try to sit up, but a hand on your chest is all that’s needed to keep you pinned while she roots around on the shelves beneath you. She stands back up and looks at your convention name tag dangling from your lanyard. “Rhonda?” she calls.Another woman in a similar uniform jogs up. You’re pretty sure you saw her vacuuming the hallway when you first checked into the hotel. “I can’t find this one’s diaper bag.” “What’s the name?” the other woman asks. Then they say your name. You’re real name. The name you introduce yourself by outside of the scene. You grip and grab at the nametag and read it. It’s your name. Picture too. The badge wasn’t like that before. You’re smiling in the picture. Your eyes look vacant. Rhonda rifles through the bag. “Hmm, I don’t see it either, Debbie” Debbie frowns. “Maybe Mom or Dad forgot to drop it off?” “Maybe,” Rhonda shrugs. “But that’s why we have the emergency spares.” “I’m sorry!” You babble. “There’s been a mistake. I won’t do it again. Please just stop!” Both strangers soften towards you. “Awwww, that’s not what we mean. You’re not in trouble, pumpkin. Your Mommy or Daddy just forgot to drop off your diaper bag.” Rhonda rips open the package of Little Kings. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.” The tapes scritch scratch as your diaper is opened and your soaked genitals and messy bottom is exposed to everyone. You scream and babble while these strangers touch you in ways you haven’t been touched in a long time. “It’ll be alright.” “It’s just a diaper change.” “You’ll feel so much better when it’s over.” “Nothing to be embarrassed or shy about.” “You’ve had these all your life.” “Don’t you want to be a good baby so we can tell your Mommy or Daddy when they get back?” “Just a little more, and then you can go play. Promise.” The other convention goers, the other littles, don’t take much notice. They’re all trapped in their own world of blocks and bead mazes. Right as your bottom is finished being wiped, and the Alphagaztorz is being balled up and tossed away in the very real diaper genie by your feet, you see another little stop crawling and puff their cheeks out while the back of their diaper expands. The fresh new diaper is slid underneath you and a torrent of powder rains down on your back and front. The little you just witnessed shit themselves keeps crawling as if nothing happened. “There we go!” they chirp at you, finishing the change as quickly, efficiently, and sexlessly as one might an actually baby. “All done.” They help you off the changing table. “Go play.” You stumble about in a daze. The fresh diaper is too stiff. They always are at first, but usually you feel more connected to it because you’re the one who put it on. You’re not kicked out. They seem to think you’re a real baby. They know your real name. You don’t know what to do with this information. Just as importantly: Who’s going to pick you up at the end of the day?

Thank you It is posted several different places. What's hard about the format? I have an idea, but I want to confirm before I redirect you.

Thanks!