ruby03

Hello. I am back with more of this. There is a brief sexual reference in this, but it is just Seenit making a crude hyperbole. Chapter 7: Twitchy Greg Those mother fuckers stole my tramp stamp. Okay, fine, backing up: yes, I had a prison tattoo, yes it was a tramp stamp, don’t give me shit for this one. Even in a prison that diapers and cribs you, you still bump into people who might request from their resident Person Who Gets Things (namely me-- ah, I was missing that life already) for a needle pilfered from one of the sewing machines that the prison industrial complex uses to make fine cotton pillowcases, and ink taken out of a permanent marker that you got from a girl who got something from a guard, and a few other bits and bobs, in order to make the time honored tradition of prison tattoos stay alive. There was a chick there named Jessica, but given that there were about eight Jessicas there we called this one Inky Jay, who knew how to do stick and pokes. Now, I wasn’t a tattoo person myself. I love seeing them on other people, but could never think of something I wanted permanently emblazoned on my body for the rest of time, and though I did support Inky Jay’s efforts of putting middle fingers on people’s butts when they were about to be sent To The Front so that whoever adopted them would be asked to sit on it and spin when they first changed or bathed them, I wasn’t in line for that same kind of retribution. However, and this isn’t the first time I’ve said this and it won’t be the last: prison is a cruel place. You’ll find that you’re playing cards with someone because they’re the only idiot there who has a deck of cards and you’re bored out of your Pampers, and a few other girls are getting in on it. Betting is everything in prison, because it’s the best way to get stuff unless you went through me, but it’s also a way to get tasty, served hot revenge on someone. Unfortunately for me, Laurie Pierce -- we always called her by her full name, couldn’t tell ya why -- had this grudge on me because I may have stolen some socks out of her crib in my earlier days. May have. Nothing you can prove. But she never forgot it, and hated me every day she was made to be in my presence. She’d sneer at me and go “Ew, did you shit yourself?” Yes, babe, it has come to my attention that I have indeed defecated in my pantaloons, and so did you this morning, and so does every chick in this side of the prison, get a grip. It was just her sophomoric way to act like her own brand didn’t smell like satanic corn chips. Maybe she was insecure about it. Or the socks thing that you can’t prove, whichever. She was thin and blonde and probably looking like someone’s pretty princess in pink frills right about now, since she got sent to the Front about five months before me and I didn’t see her in the nursery. Anyway, I’d been plugging away at this game of prison-rules poker for maybe an hour and a half, having fun, cracking jokes with my usual variety of Seenit Wit, when enough people folded that, as decided by the karmic rules of justice in the universe, it was down to Laurie Pierce and myself. Now, Laurie Pierce didn’t have anyone on the outside, so she didn’t get much in way of shit to barter with, and because she didn’t like me and I am guessing didn’t have much in way of her own hookup because she was a bitch, she was down to betting chewy banana cookies, some junk she’d stolen from someone else, a juicebox, $6.35, and anything else she’d won in previous rounds. The cash was where my eyes had gone. But Laurie Pierce had bigger ideas. “This is all stuff I’m sure you could get yourself, Seenit,” she’d said, “cause you can get anything, right?” “I know my limitations,” I replied, peering over my terrible hand. “Whatever. I think I want to make this more interesting. If I win, I want you to get a tattoo.” Damn me, I was too curious about this prospect to not at least pry for more info. “That seems like a high risk low reward situation for me and mine. What do I get if I win?” “If you win, you get everything I have here,” she gestured to her pile, “plus, I won’t tell a guard you helped Jackie G. make a shank.” “Ah-ah!” I held up a finger, “I have no idea what she was planning to make with those popsicle sticks, plausible deniability. And, what, does that mean if I lose, I have to get a tattoo and you’ll snitch? You know what happens to snitches around here.” “I dunno. Maybe the tattoo will be enough to make me reconsider. Your only guarantee is winning. If you try to back out now, I’ll definitely tell.” Yes, that was a sort of illogical and unfair deal, but I also had Coco and Double Chin cheering me on, along with a mess of other ladies, and dinner was in fifteen minutes and if you miss it you miss it. So I took the bet. And, of course, I subsequently lost the hand. I should have cheated, but I must admit that I’m also not very good at card games and am not entirely sure how one even cheats at poker. Sure, I’m great at having a poker face, great at bluffing, but what was I supposed to do? Have Coco sleight of hand me another ace? So, yeah, my shitty hand lost and got a tattoo right above my asscrack. The tattoo, for the curious, says Chicken Nugget. I had to lay down, diaper pulled to my thighs, while Inky Jay put the words Chicken Nugget on my lower back in what I was told was rather nicely done script font, given the limitations of stick and poke. It hurt like fuck, took like two hours, I peed partway through it and Inky Jay, true professional, with her face right down in the danger zone, said “Are you peeing?” and I had to say that yes, I was, and it was the first time since my first months there that I’d felt openly embarrassed about being an adult in a diaper. She asked me to please not poop and I wanted to sink into the floor. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to look at your own ass, in or out of a diaper, but unless you’ve got a previously unseen neck and spine situation that I’d love to hear about, it’s pretty damn hard to look at your own tramp stamp. But, you know, I’d always known it was there because two hours with someone stabbing a needle into your flesh while being asked to please control your bowels kind of sears the memory in. I think Laurie Pierce chose the words Chicken Nugget because she was hoping it’d replace Seenit as my nickname, which, first of all that’s way too long to be a nickname, and second of all I’d been called Seenit since before she got arrested for shoplifting. Tangent: I kinda wish we’d been friends, I would have liked to have congratulated her on how she did it. Apparently she went with an Amazon who was in on it and had her in slightly too large diaper, and she’d act regressed to the two-or-three range. When she thought no one was looking, she’d slip expensive colognes, makeup palettes, and small clothing items into her diaper, so at best the padding hid it and at worst it looked like she’d had a massive load in there. So the Amazon would go “Oh, Laurie, I think someone poopa-pants!” and she’d cry and fuss in the way Amazon’s like, put up a good act while getting dragged to the changing rooms, where the Amazon would remove security tags and RFID’s under the guise of a diaper change, shove the goods in her purse, and walk out so they could resell the stolen merch for cash. If someone saw her shoving things in her diaper they’d pass it off as her being a stupid baby, tee hee! Man, that’s a good fucking hustle- at least it was until they got caught. What can I say, I admire a quality thief. Unfortunately, Laurie Pierce was a bitch and from that night on I had Chicken Nugget on my lower back. Never stuck as a nickname, never stuck as anything, no one even saw it. If they did, I’m sure they would have commented on it. And that, my friends, is how I know that at some point, likely when they were doing surgery to me to regress me, those motherfuckers stole my Chicken Nugget tattoo. At present, I was up to my stolen boobs in warm water, buck naked, back supported, as Joan dumped a pitcher over my head and said “Weeee! There’s Rini!” She had a special baby bath all lined up for me, but it looked old fashioned in a way that made me think this was a leftover from her Amazon kid. Or maybe she just liked vintage things, which would track with some of the decor in her house. I hadn’t been hanging out with this lady for even an entire day at this point, we were just having a pre-dinner bath because she cooed that I ‘smelled like jail’ which I took only mild offense to, and she wanted me to be ‘so pretty’ for Gregory, but I knew one thing about her: she liked to talk, and she liked to point out the obvious to me. Yes, I am aware that she picked up my hands and said “look at your teeny fingers, you have five little fingers!” because from her perspective this was brand new information to me, but even alone, she enjoyed narrating. And I am positive she would have said something about my Chicken Nugget tattoo, had it been there. I didn’t think about it when she changed me earlier, because I was too busy in The Baby Zone, but now that she was taking a soapy washcloth to my body, I was certain she would have made mention of the stupid thing, or at least laughed at it. Right? Am I crazy? I would have. The thing is, I didn’t even like that damn tattoo, and often forgot I had it, but something about them removing it felt like they’d taken a story from me, an experience. Another part of Seenit, dissolved in Rini’s suckling maw. They’d taken my teeth, my body shape, and from what I could tell, some of my own personality, but I’d sort of had it in my head that I could at least keep something of my prison days, something to mark me as not your average run-of-the-mill ‘regressed’ little. Maybe I was hungry, or worn out from the day of constantly putting on an act, maybe it was Rini, but I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Equal parts angry and exhausted, I slapped the surface of the water a few good times because it was the only way I felt I could get my anger out that wouldn’t also give away my unbabified state as much as shouting choice expletives would. “Watch out, woah!” Joan laughed, retracting to avoid the carnage. I kept splashing, glaring down at the water. They took my fucking tattoo, a tattoo I didn’t even like, and when Joan reached back into the tub I shrugged away from her, pissed off enough to not want to deal with this. I wanted her to be a terrible captive mother and dump me in my crib for the rest of the night so I could finally stop pretending to be a baby, but it seemed like she was really pulling out the stops to earn a “World’s Best Mom” novelty mug, because she shushed me and held my arm firmly, without enough pressure to evoke pain. “I know mama, you’re hungry and tired, I’ll get you your baba in a few minutes,” fuck off, I missed cups so bad I could scream, “you’re cranky because you’ve had such a big day and your tummy’s empty.” Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night. I made the bath hard for her, and maybe later I’d feel bad for that, pushing and whining and kicking, but she took it like a champ, to her credit. It was not nearly as cathartic as it sounds, believe me; I wasn’t up for faking an entire tantrum, but this would have to do, even if it made me feel a degree worse because I was still pretending to be six months old. Whatever. I couldn’t wait until bedtime. I heard the garage door open around the time she was lifting me out of the tub, and Joan called “I’m in here!” to what I assumed was The Alleged Greg while fastening a diaper on me. The diaper, by the way, could kick the ass of the leak-prone prison diapers I’d been wearing. It was thicker, softer, cloth backed, pink on the sides and decorated with cutesy pastel animals everywhere else. Clearly she’d stocked up on diapers for a newborn-aged little, because they were thick to the point of absurdism. No way could anyone even crawl too effectively in this beast of a garment. I wish I could say this was another pin on my massive board of grievances, along with the tattoo thing, but diapers had been my norm for years; I’d kind of stopped caring. I met Gregory while held aloft in Joan’s arms, clad only in the beastly diaper and one of those towels with a hood, complete with bear ears. Gregory, as he stood in the kitchen opening takeout bags, nodded our way and smiled like he was kind of uncomfortable. Average looking, very pale, with short, thin, sandy-colored hair and a pair of glasses. He was shorter than Joan, I could tell from here, and he locked eyes with me only for a moment. “So, erm,” woah, an accent, “is this it, then?” “It?” Joan spoke with trepidation. “Greg, we--” “I know, I know, sorry,” he held up a hand and glanced back down to twitchily open a container of rice, “I was thinking ‘it’ as in ‘the Little’, the-- that ‘it’, her species is the ‘it’.” “I know, I know,” she bounced me. I wasn’t into Greg’s vibe, but I was willing to give him time. He seemed like he’d fall to pieces if I knocked into him hard enough despite me being a fifth of his height, so I had no fucking clue how the man might have managed to handle himself in a court of law. Bastard. “She-- she? You wanted a girl, right.” “Yes, she!” Joan smiled and took my thumb from my mouth, which I hadn’t realized was there and yet immediately missed, as she filled the gap between us and brought me close enough to catch the fine wafts of Greg’s cologne. “Her name is Rini. Say hi, Rini, say hi to daddy!” I had no interest in doing any such thing, but she took my hand and made it wave to him. He, clearly a man of etiquette, winced. “Rini?” “I knooow,” Joan chuckled, and I used the time she’d brushed her hair out of her face to resume my oral fixation, trying to nurse it loud enough to annoy Greg as a form of hazing him. Baby Brain did not have the same reaction to this piece of work that she did to Joan, whose arms I felt, yes, notably content and dreamily happy to be in, but I wasn’t going to count him out just yet. Suck suck suck, my man. Your move. “I’m not really happy with her name right now, but I’m not sure of what to change it to-- oh mama you’re so hungry, let’s get you your formula.” And on that I was being handed, whether either of us liked it or not, to Twitchy Greg. He fumbled only lightly in the exchange, and I yelped, and Baby Brain made me whine and whimper at the loss of Joan’s warmth, so I played it up and tried to reach back for her while Gregory held me with the tree branches he was attempting to pass off as arms. It was an awkward cradling position, he held me too high on his body and about a solid centimeter away. “Is she-- eh-- hi,” he looked down at me and I continued wriggling and sucking my thumb, not even looking at him. “So she’s..." twitching, noncommittal hand gestures that interfered with his hold on me, "regressed?” “Yes,” she said, “but she’s bigger than the rest of them! I think she’s about six months.” “Okay.” Joan was opening a container of formula, brand new from the way she pulled the plastic off. “You said that a newborn was something you weren’t really looking forward to, so, this way our compromise stretches a little further; I still get my baby, but you get one you can play with more, I think she can almost crawl, too!” “Sure.” Joan worked, I shoved my foot against Gregory’s tit in hopes it would make him hold me properly (it did not) and Gregory stood there like the world’s worst tree, until finally Joan had a moment to pause. “Greg, I really appreciate you being open minded about this. I know you’re not a littles-person, but she’s just a baby, and she’s so so sweet.” “She’s kicking me.” “Lyric gave you a fat lip when she was a baby! You bring that up to her all the time!” “Well,” that was the first time I saw him smile, so I toned down the intentionally-loud-nursing bit, “yeah, but she was an actual baby.” “So is she! Does she look like anything but a baby to you? Look at that cutie face!” Glad to hear she thought I was cute, though I would have preferred Rougishly Handsome. Gregory did look down at me while I pretended to play with part of the towel and watch Joan. “She’s an adult,” he spoke on a shaky foundation, like he knew the wrong words would get him into hot water with the wife, I guess, “who has been mentally altered to act like a baby. I am holding an incontinent, brain-damaged grown woman in a diaper in my arms, a complete stranger-- who was a convict, might I add. I’m sorry, but you know littles kind of creep me out like that.” "Honey," Joan turned away from the baby bottle she’d been filling and sighed with the weight of what I assumed must have been a hundred prior discussions. “I know you've got your anxieties. We’ve talked about this. This is just what littles are, and I…,” she looked at me, I locked eyes on her and reached my hand her way just to butter her up and indicate that I thought this guy had douchebag tendencies, “I miss being a mommy, Greg.” The matter-of-fact tone he spoke with made me wish I really was brain-damaged. “Technically,” he spoke like Joan was a fucking idiot, “you still are a mother. Lyric moving out on her own and getting engaged doesn’t mean she’s not our child anymore.” “Oh sure,” her smile was back, “I’ll just go to her apartment and feed her this bottle instead. I know she’ll always be my daughter, I’ll always be her mother, but we have an adult mother-daugter relationship now! I love Lyric to the moon and back three times over, but I miss having a cuddly baby who smiles up at me, I miss feedings, I miss bath times, I miss that calm after the storm when you settle a baby down from crying and you can finally think straight....” “Or Chrysta talked you into thinking you wanted one. You have empty nest syndrome.” “I do!” Joan returned with the bottle and put one arm around Greg so she could kiss his cheek. “Come on, tiger,” ew, come on, not in front of what you think is a baby, “can we make this a happy day for our family?” This was the voice of a woman who is attempting to use her feminine wiles to tug at her man’s heartstrings. “I think you’ll learn to like our new treasure once you get to know her. My daddy didn’t like cats until we got Stella, and by the time I was moving out, that old cat and that old man were inseparable. I think her passing away hit him harder than it hit me! You think you could try that? You were already a great daddy to Lyric.” “Let’s--” he shifted uncomfortably and made a move to hand me back after what seemed like a spell of contemplation. “I don’t want the food to get cold.” Being back in the security of Joan’s company was like laying down in your own bed after weeks of being away, I made sure to coo all cutesy just for her despite my growing mental exhaustion. My eyes closed on their own as she carried me over to the table, settling into a wooden chair with me cradled in her arms. When we were seated I was nearly ready to let Rini drive again when I smelled that damn food. My stomach growled audibly, I hadn’t smelled food that good in six years, and I opened up my eyes again to lock them right on the goods. From my angle I could only see the eco-friendly biodegradable cardboard boxes the food had been picked up in, but the savory scent of meats tickled my nostrils in a way that was damn near arousing. The side of the lacquered box wept with condensation, as if begging me to dive into its contents like a pig in slop. I didn’t pay attention to what Joan had changed the subject to with Gregory, I was too transfixed by her hand squeezing a lime over what lied inside the box (pad thai noodles, maybe?) I was peeing my diaper at that moment but I honest to god felt like I could have come, the scent of cool citrus dancing over to me like cartoon stinkwaves. Fuck it. Babies don’t have table manners. My arm shot out and grasped at the side of the box, scrabbled my fingers to try to gain purchase on it. Yes, I was consciously risking a bunch of hot noodles spilling all over my small body, but honestly that’s the way I want to go out. All I could get ahold of was a nearby napkin, so I made sure to chuck it away and go back for the gold, but by then my window of opportunity had long since been shuttered. “Ohh no,” Joan squeezed me closer, so that I was turned more her way, the way I’d imagine I’d be if she were going to breastfeed me. All I could see was her shirt, “my poor cranky baby, you’re so hungry, huh?” A baby bottle nipple entered my mouth and on trained instinct, I nursed it. I was mad about my inability to be given even one delicious noodle, but the problems were just beginning. The formula that flowed from my suckling was insanely, overpoweringly rich. It was like drinking straight cream compared to what I’d been used to. The flavors were too much, the texture too heavy and immediately filling, and my body’s knee-jerk reaction to the stuff was to gag and cough, sending it sputtering out of the corners of my mouth. “Sshhh slow down, there you go,” my mouth was wiped and I was blamed entirely for the ordeal, but I did cope with the advice and tried to slow down. Being absolutely punishingly hungry did make it harder to obtain such an ideal, but knowing that this was the best I was going to get put the concept into my head. Ugh. It was like drinking directly from the cow’s udder, I was hyper aware of its presence in my gut as I consumed more of it. Joan held it for me, which made Rini happily knead my hands into her shirt. In fact, Baby Brain was a bit too happy, so much so that I’d stopped paying attention to what was around me and just to the joy of being fed by Joan. I coughed and choked several more times, and she was always right there to help clean up despite what I knew was a growing spot on her shirt. Nothing was real, right then, it was all her and I alone in the entire universe. She provided for me, I needed nothing else but Joan, Joan’s hands, the bottle she fed me, the warm aggressively flavorful formula that was like drinking milk-flavored bricks. My stomach hurt, I felt like I needed to poop but upon trying, nothing came. I pulled away from the bottle and pinched my face up, squirming away from its reentry, and Joan seemed to know what I was trying to say. “Poor thing,” she cooed, rocking me as I felt ready to yartz, “was that a little too much?” “I mean,” Greg said grumpily, “she’s been eating prison food.” He emphasized my former diet like it was some sort of derogatory term. “Do we even know what she was arrested for?” God, of all the demeaning things, I was lifted onto a burp cloth I hadn’t noticed and patted somewhat ruthlessly. “I do not know, they said I could find out if I looked in her profile, but I’m choosing not to.” “So, we could have a serial killer in our house, and you’re calling her ‘poor thing’ for spitting up formula--” “Greg!” There was that stern voice again, the one she used on Chrysta the other day, and it made my stomach feel worse. “Babe, come on! It’s not like us getting a prison little was a surprise. Look at her, I have to help her burp. Do you think she’s capable of hurting anyone?” “No,” Greg’s tone was annoyed right back, I really didn’t want to be in the process of being burped while a lover’s quarrel was bubbling up right along with the turmoil in my gut, “but what I do know is that people don’t change just because they’ve been lobotomized, she still has the tendencies of a criminal--” “Oh my god,” Joan stopped patting me but held me in place, which worked out in my favor because I couldn’t help but smile at how right Greg was with the whole tendencies thing, “did the entire, I don’t know, fourth months of conversations we’ve had about this just not exist? Is there a statute of limitations on those, babe? Were you just not listening when we spent three hours looking at stories from that Prison Littles Adopters forum?” I finally burped, and seconds later barfed. We're not talking a bit of spitup, this was a floodgate. It did not feel better at all, which is the least vomiting could do for the little body. “Ohh, poor baby, oh no--” “Joan, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Greg stood up with paper towels, because apparently I’d gotten some on the floor. He went to work cleaning it up and I watched him with vindication, or as much as the body can muster when it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “It’s a lot for me to get used to, I know you’re happy about her and,” he seemed focused on cleaning up before glancing up at Joan, who turned me away from the abhorrent sight so she could watch Greg, I was left with a premium view of the living room, “I’m happy too, this is just an adjustment period for me.” “I know,” she rubbed my back but her gentle tone was for Greg, “I know, honey, but I really think it’d be best if you stopped thinking of her as a little, and went to thinking of her as a baby. That's what she is. Our baby.” “Yeah,” Twitchy Greg said. “Our--our baby.” I heard a sigh, felt his presence get close, and then caught the smak of a kiss. Then another, and then a long kiss in which Greg put his hand on my back too, and I wish I could tell you I felt a sense of familiar togetherness and unity from this gorgeous family portrait, but I didn’t and that’s the end of that. Joan brought me into the nursery before she was finished eating and dressed me in a full footed sleeper, black with white stars, a pattern I couldn’t even disagree with. It was kind of hard to let someone dress me without instinctually helping, knowing that she needs my legs to go here or there and putting them that direction for her benefit, so to play it up I just went completely limp, nursed my pacifier and pretended to clumsily rub my eyes. My stomach really did hurt like a bitch, I knew whatever movement my bowels were looking forward to making was not going to be the most pleasant of my life, and I think if I was ever going to choose a time to attempt to cry and wail, it might have to be when I need out of that mess. For the moment, I laid lazily on the plush changing table and let her button the sleeper up. I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t extremely cozy. Joan settled into a rocking chair I’d missed earlier and that was it. I couldn’t fight the needy little jackass any longer: I let Rini win again as, in the dim light of my new quarters, I let Joan rock me to sleep. -- I will not do this for a while, but I am thinking of perhaps doing an in and out of character Q&A later in the story, or perhaps once it's over. You can ask a question to me, Ruby, that I will answer, or you can ask Seenit about anything that I will answer "in character" as if you have asked her yourself. She likes to talk about herself and has a lot of stories to tell. I do not know if that is a thing authors do here. But I think it would be fun.

Thank you so much, that means a lot to hear. I have considered that. I briefly mentioned a connected women's prison (that Deb the salonist came from) but did not intend for that one to be a prison that babies the inmates too. However, I do not see why that couldn't be a possibility. Amazons seem to have extremely high standards, so to put them back at the bottom would seem like a very high form of punishment. They have to start at the bottom and get back to their proper status. I think there are already stories about people being 'rehabilitated' for a crime by getting the baby treatment. But, I think it would be interesting with Amazons. Like, one has to be in a daycare alongside the littles they used to do the same things to. Karma.

Very happy to have read this. Your writing never disappoints, and I like how short, sweet, and to the point this is. Using therapy sessions as a framing device was clever. We don't see Ciara wetting her bed or getting laughed at, but we believe the circumstances. Wonderfully done.

Yes, it has been a strange time. I am glad to have found my muse again. Thank you so much, please continue to enjoy. Thank you so much. Chapter 7 and 8 are in the works as we speak. ? Glad to hear it. I think after so long not writing I have begun to feel a little less confident. Writers block also made this chapter feel like a mountain to climb over. But if people like it, then I am pleased. More is on the way. Thank you, that is very kind of you to say. Maybe Seenit will get away, or maybe she will get caught. Time will only tell. Please excuse me for taking a moment to chatter. There was actually a story I started writing maybe a year ago. I would write it on my phone, usually if I was having diaper time but not in the AB space yet. I had so many words on it. I believe it was up to 30k. It was not this story, but it was an ABDL one. I damaged that phone and it broke in a way that bent the card thing. The SIM card? I don't know what it's called. But long story short. I could not get my story back. I do not have the heart to start it over from scratch. But some small elements of it live on in Crib Row. Stealing does not count if you are only stealing from yourself -- besides, no one had read even a word of it besides me. I am just rambling heheh. Another chapter will likely come later today. Please continue to enjoy.

Hi. I have been gone for a while, huh. I am sorry. It was a mix of writers block and poor mental health. But I am back. This is not the best chapter, but it is a chapter. Chapter 6: Homecoming I didn’t properly come-to until I was in a rear facing carseat, watching the world rush by me outside. I could tell I was completely together, because my first order of business was to pull the pacifier out of my mouth and work my jaw. This pacifier nipple was huge, and I flipped it over in my hands to look at the shield. It was bedazzled, covered in faux clear gemstones and pearls, along with a tiny pair of angel wings on the center of the button. The handle was bedecked with pastel letters that spelled out ABBY, with wee hearts on either side. Gross. I’d been sucking someone else’s pacifier. Hoped Chrysta washed this thing. Either Abby had a massive pie-hole, or this was meant to be a mild punishment pacifier, because I didn’t think my mouth was supposed to be sore like this. Experimentally I stuffed it back in and sucked, which caused air to leave the bulb and shrink it, and when I stopped it inflated more. I reconsidered my original analysis ("Gross") as I removed it and chucked the thing toward the foot end of my carseat. Germ swapping and jaw soreness however was, at present, the least of my worries. “I don’t know, I just don’t like the name Rini,” Joan said in the front driver seat over the low din of classic rock, “they said I could change it and register it, but I’d like to do it soon. I’m sure she’s used to her current name.” “She’s a baby,” Chrysta said cheerily, and I’d mouthed words in her direction that babies definitely didn’t know just to spite it all, “at worst she’ll be confused for a while.” I would not, but if Joan could hook me up with a name better than Rini, I’d give her exactly one point. Just one, no more, especially not the ones my baby brains seemed so intent on awarding her, because Baby Brain Seenit was a big drooling thumbsucking moron. (Sure, I was being a little unjustly mean to my newly developed baby brain, but I was salty, alright?) But for the moment, I would toss Joan the ball and give her one last shot to score from the free-throw line. “Well…” Joan sucked her teeth and mused, I could hear her nails tapping on the steering wheel, “I like Treasure. That’s what she feels like to me.” Ah, no. Never get your hopes up, kids. That ball didn’t just miss, I think it hit someone in the audience. “Nooo!” Chrysta with the save! “That sounds like a stripper name.” “Chrys!” “I’m being honest! I am being 100% open and honest with you, people are gonna think she was the biggest hoe in town.” “You’re impossible.” You know how, if you try to keep yourself from laughing, it’ll get 100% harder and the laugh will try with all its might to escape you? I clamped my lips shut. This was that moment. “You could name her Sapphire.” “Her eyes would have to be blue.” “They would not! Diamond?” “And you say Treasure was a stripper name…” “Can’t be Ruby, she doesn’t have red hair…,” I heard the seat groan with the sound of Chrysta turning around to look at me. “Hmm--Hi!” Spotted. Oh well. The giggle had subsided so I played with my hands. Her arm snaked over me to collect the pacifier, and I ‘accidentally’ rammed my bare foot into her wrist. Can’t help it! Baby, remember? “Oh she’s feisty, I think someone’s happy to be here! Fiery little girl! Happy baby!” her babytalk tone flipped like a lightswitch when I heard her turn around. “Remind me to sanitize this when we get home.” “Which one of your--Chrys!” Give her hell, Joan, make heads roll. “Is that Abby’s big paci?” “It was the only one I had on hand! I doubt she stopped sucking it, and we had to get her to stop crying somehow!” The bag rustled again as I heard it re-deposited. “If she were in pain, she’d be crying now.” “I don’t want you putting any of those punishment things in my baby’s mouth,” Joan was stern. I’d been yelled at by countless wardens and guards, bullied by a rogues gallery of nasty bitches who wanted to crawl their way up in the prison ranks, and this stern voice was the one that made my stomach turn. “She’s too little to understand what you’d even be punishing her for. And on top of that, she hadn’t even done anything wrong!” “Joan, relax, it’s not even an inflating one.” The prison had been located in the offskirts of the city, both to keep such an unsightly thing from the public landscape, and to make it so that if a prisoner escaped they’d have a long way to go before they made it to civilization. I watched trees pass through the small scope of my world that existed out of the rear window, and like a ton of bricks it hit me: I was free. No, I wasn’t free-free. Sometimes when I was on the inside I’d picture what it was like to come out as an actually free, independent little. I’d get back the blouse and slacks I’d been wearing when I got arrested, but god knows if they’d fit anymore. Food would be priority one, followed by a real bed, maybe sloppy sex, shots. I’d have to re-toilet train myself, but the boredom of prison gives you plenty of time to think about shit and basically my plan would be to schedule bathroom breaks, watch what I drank, try to get my control back, eventually move into pullups. I shifted in my carseat and found myself only slightly damp despite the recent change. There was no chance of that now, unless Joan had big plans. I watched the trees rush by. There was a cloud that stayed in my field of view, as if God himself was here to display what he’d made for my eyes to see for the first time in half a decade. They let us outside once in a while, but not terribly often, and there wasn’t much around to see. The car stopped, presumably at a light, and I watched a bird zip by, busy doing bird things, shitting on statues I assumed, and I considered when the last time I’d even seen a real bird was. I was tuning Joan and Chrysta out at this point and merely marveling at the wonder that was outside. I was free. I wasn’t in fucking prison anymore. I was still wearing the nursery onesie I’d been wearing when Joan changed me, but holy shit, I might actually get to wear something other than white or orange! I wouldn’t get to pick it, but it wouldn’t be a sign of my federal incarceration. The car seat I was in was padded all around; I was suddenly in a world that cared about my comfort and safety. Trees grew fewer as they re-entered the city. I saw the edge of a convenience store, a sight I hadn’t recognized in all these years. I saw light posts, billboards, telephone wires. This was Bridger Street, that’s the commerce building, when did they put that statue up over there? It made me feel almost frightened in a way I didn’t quite wrap my head around to consider that this was only what I could make out from my low vantage point, and that there was even more I wasn’t seeing. I slid my thumb back into my mouth and observed it all, taking in every sight that had once been commonplace but was now wondrous and vivid, alien and yet comfortingly familiar. I was returning to the word as a (supposed) drooling infant, but oh my god: I was returning to the world. Seeing it all was like waking up again. I closed my eyes and pulled my thumb away because even though Rini was eager for the serenity of it, Seenit didn’t suck her thumb and I was eager to train myself out of it, because I wasn’t going to stay Rini forever. I was going to escape, I was going to be a part of this big and marvelous world full of things I haven't seen in so long, and I needed to start planning now. Whenever I escaped, I’d have to be wearing a diaper, because I couldn’t fool myself into thinking I wouldn’t piss immediately and get snatched right back up, but maybe that might at least mark me as a claimed little. However, no one would buy me as a free adult if I couldn’t stop self soothing, so I tucked my thumb under my chin. For all intents and purposes, I seemed to still have control over my legs, but the jury was still out on if I could use them to hold myself up. I assumed I’d have a crib to sleep in, so my plan was to see if I could stand up in it as soon as I wasn’t being watched. I furrowed my brow, considering that Joan might have baby cams. The plan would have to be stalled until I could get a lay of the land, see what I was working with as far as Standard Amazon Home Security went, but my mind was busy with ideas and dreams as the city sights rolled on into suburbs. Ritzy ass suburbs, from the looks of it. My gut sank, knowing damn well that the bougie neighborhoods were the ones with the best security, lest any dirty poor folk try to crack into their garages and steal all of the mineral water they kept in a second fridge that lived out there (as opposed to the ostentatious one that was in the kitchen where company could see it.) “I really did this,” I’d decided to pay attention to the conversation those chicks were having again. Tuning them out seemed to be the best bet - these birds could really go on. Joan spoke now. “I really just… I just had a baby.” “Well, you adopted a baby. A little.” “It might as well be the same,” Joan sounded flustered, “I’ve brought a life into my home, I’m going to be responsible for her for the rest of her life. Oh my god. Chrysta, oh my god, this is really happening.” “Joanie, oh my god, girl…” Chrysta turned in her seat so she could face Joan, “you said you were ready for this, I think you’re just feeling that rush where you totally did a thing and it’s like, aaahhh!” A big fan of expressing herself through controlled screams, this one. “I felt the same way when I got Abby-Kadabbie, and even again when I got my little-bitty-bitsy-boo Cwissy.” I hoped to whatever deities were out there that Crissy was so regressed that she didn’t have to realize someone was talking about her like this. “You kidnapped Abby.” “But when I finally got her to sleep that night, it was like, whoosh, you know,” I could hear clinking statement bracelets that indicated she was gesticulating, “like, I’m a mom now. Did you feel like this when you had Lyric?” A pause. Contemplation. “Yes,” Joan finally admitted, “but I was pregnant with Lyric, and Greg and I’d planned it. We knew we were going to be parents before we even started trying for her. I’d been planning on getting a little for months too…” she followed that with a laugh, soft and breathy, sweet like iced tea on a warm day, “but I think it’s just now settling in! I see her in the rearview and keep thinking: that’s my baby! That’s my little baby, and I’m her mommy! There’s no goin’ back!” Rini felt something at that. I, however, felt something different and much less joyful. “You can go back, technically. Put her back up for adoption if you two don’t click--” “Chrysta! Don’t even start!” Yeah, Chrysta, what’s your damage. “Oh, pull over here real quick,” Chrysta said, backflipping away from that subject with the grace of an Olympian, “I’m gonna get out here and film the car pulling into the garage, and then you getting her carseat out.” Joan obliged silently and a pit the size of a grapefruit grew in my belly. We were home. A noisy garage door swallowed us whole and took away my view of the sky, leaving us in darkness as the car pulled to an easy stop. A door opened and closed, for a split second I was alone in the car, but my time ended when Joan was in the back seat and I was looking up into her sweet, tender expression. “Hi little mama,” she said in a tone that was saccharine with mothering sweetness, “are you ready to come home? Are you ready?” I smiled at her and reached toward her in a way that was absolutely me faking affection and babyishness, and not The Baby Brain wanting to hug her again, no siree, bitch. “Almost, oh almost, we’ll go inside and get you all set up,” I didn’t want to be ‘set up’, but thanks, ma’am. I saw Chrysta filming us from some distance away, the black eye of the cameral catching me in its digital HD gaze, so I moved in a way that I deeply hoped suggested I wasn’t in control of my movements and completely regressed. Look at me, just a cute baby, oh boy! What I could not control was the way I squinted when we entered the stark and near oppressive white of the inside of Joan’s home. We were in a kitchen, I could see, and most everything in it was pristine, polished, rich people white, save for the stove, countertops, and what I could make out of a bowl of fruit. “Here we are,” Joan cooed to me, “welcome home, Rini!” “Augh-wah” I offered stupidly. “Yeah!” Joan set the carseat on a countertop and I squirmed away from the absolute wretched brightness of her overhead lights. “Ohh, it’s so bright, I know, my baby, I know.” Back in her arms, I closed my eyes. I was safe. She was talking to me but her voice was a mere parade of vibrations from her chest that soothed me in catastrophic ways. Her hold was strong enough that I knew I’d never be dropped. Now that I was sucking my thumb again, I was back into the bliss place. No! Cut it out! I jerked my leg, kicked her ineffectively, and lifted my head up. The living room was decorated well. Suspiciously well. I wondered if they’d had an interior decorator set the place up. I concentrated on my surroundings instead of how I wanted Joan to sit on what was maybe an imported suede sofa and rock me until I slept. There was enough interesting art and decorative thingamajigs strewn about in a very decisive, mise-en-place sort of way, to make it seem like she and her husband had an eclectic sense of style, while not looking like complete nuts. Joan had a blog to run, after all. I saw a lack of baby stuff sitting around, but I wondered if that was to be brought out later. “This is the living room,” Joan said, enunciating ‘living room’ as if it was something I’d never even fathomed, like she was explaining the laws of the universe to me. “And look,” she fake gasped as she turned me toward a wall that bore what I decided then would likely be my escape route: a massive set of French doors, leading to a spacious back yard. So spacious it was, that the bitch wasn’t even fenced in. All that lied beyond was a thicket of woods. Jackpot. I did my best impression of babbling and made sure to wiggle in a way that indicated that I didn’t know what would happen if I fell. “Woahh, careful! You like the outside, Ri-ri?” Joan bounced me against her shoulder. “We’ll play out there a little later. Let’s see more of the house.” Oh, we’ll play out there alright. I pretended to be a brainless infant through the rest of the tour. There was a guest room, a dining room off the kitchen, two bathrooms, yadda yadda boring shit, all with that ‘we’re quirky and stylish but not in a way that would make us complete freaks’ rich people impression of being eccentric. They had tons of books, tons of art, they seemed like the sorts of people to do a charcuterie board in complete earnest. Upstairs held a master bedroom that I wasn’t shown, as well as a loft. Here I did see a playpen behind a desk, and a large cabinet that seemed like it might be containing baby things. I pretended to be more interested in Joan’s dark hair. Finally, last stop on the tour, was my prison-away-from-prison: the nursery. It’d been decorated in mostly offwhite, with accents of muted orange, pink, and yellow, with emphasis on yellow. One wall had gold stars painted on it in a way that seemed to have been done by hand, but a hand that knew what it was doing. An abstract wooden mobile hung above a crib that had an inner bumper of striped offwhite, yellow, and pink that matched the shapes on the mobile, and that also matched the fabric on the changing table mat above a well prepared stock of diapers, and all of that matched the soft fuzzy rug. There was a cloth bucket stuffed with plushies, several wooden toys neatly set up on a shelf, and several baby books displayed in an a-framed shelf. A closet took up more of the far wall. The place, for all it stood for, was a palace. For the last six years I’d slept in a dimly lit room with concrete walls, on a rubber mat crib with metal bars, surrounded by dozens of other women, lifted lovingly into that crib by mechanical hands. Was there anything to celebrate in being moved from a shitty prison to a nicer prison? I wasn’t sure. Joan was talking and I decided to play the part and not listen, stuffing my thumb in my mouth. Baby brain forced a whine and protest from me when Joan took my hand away, but I was immediately rewarded with a pacifier. What, was she worried about my teeth getting fucked up? I had five left, for fuck’s sake. Still, I flapped my free hands around and suckled it gratefully as Joan lowered us both to the floor. “There we go, here we are little one.” Chrysta’d left us at some point, and now I was out of Joan’s arms and on my stomach on the floor, and she was settling in next to me to sit cross legged. I pretended to stim my hands against the shag rug. I rolled myself over clumsily onto my back and grabbed my feet so I could roll back and forth while easily looking at the roof. No cameras. It was like they wanted me to break out of here. I smiled around my pacifier. “Do you like your room?” Joan asked, and tickled my belly before I could give her an answer. I giggled and thrashed. Christ, it was getting very tiring to be constantly acting. Even method actors get to clock out at the end of the day. I hadn’t been able to stop pretending to be a wiggly, giggly baby for days, and I was getting creatively burned out. Joan made it a lot easier, to my dismay. Wait, hold on. Maybe we’re onto something here: Joan makes it easier. Testing my theory , I rolled over again and started to squirm-half-crawl toward Joan, slapping my hands on the floor gracelessly and intentionally shoving saliva out of my mouth with my tongue to increase drool output, definitely laying the baby thing on thick. Okay, Baby Brain, you want your Joan? Have her. Up and up, I tried to climb onto Joan’s lap, grasping at her and wanting to be held. Like a shark from the briny deep, I could feel Rini emerging, and, fuck it: I let her take over. Joan said something but I nursed my pacifier and played with the fabric of her shirt as she lifted me into her arms and I further dissolved. It was the safety that Baby Brain loved, I think. Prison makes you run at a constant low burn of awareness, constantly on your toes with the knowledge that shit could go down. Not in her arms, not here where I was surrounded on all sides by softness. Joan cradled me, just north of her breasts, and watched me with a look I can only describe as one of pure adoration. I didn’t pay attention to where she reached as her hand left me, only knowing that when I wasn’t in both of her hands for a moment it was very scary and Bad, but it was soon Okay again because she’d just wrapped me in a chunky knit yellow blanket and resumed our seated cuddle session. “Do you think we’re gonna have a good time together?” She rocked me again and I settled down from BB’s panic. “You’re my second girl, you know, you’re actually a baby sister!” I was loosely swaddled, there wasn’t much I could do with my hands, but letting the regression take over made it easier to study her face and move impulsively. My diaper flooded, warm pee easily overtaking my groin and rushing to the back. At least I was aware of my pissing. It made me feel even smaller, despite it having been my norm for the last six years. Baby Brain reminded me that Joan would change me, not a robot, and I babbled uselessly around my pacifier. “Yeah!” Joan went on. “Your big sister Lyric is living with her boyfriend now, but you’ll meet sissy soon. And your cousins, Abby and Crissy. And daddy, ooh you’ll get to meet daddy!” She adjusted our snuggle so that she could press my cheek against her collarbone again. “But right now, you’re all mine. You’re mommy’s little gumdrop right now, my pretty treasure.” Her treasure. I curled my toes and sighed again. This might be where I was meant to be, right here. We sat there for I don’t know how long. I listened to her heart, and she pet my back, and I think I’d started to fall asleep when I heard Joan quietly give someone permission to come in. “Hiiii,” Chrysta said, and I heard a camera click. Nope, nope, we’re letting Baby Brain drive, no need to get annoyed, just the happy place. “How’s it going in here.” “Oh, this is so much, Chrys,” Joan said, patting my butt. “I might be overwhelmed.” “That’s how it is!” Shuffling indicated that Chrysta was sitting too. “Ohh, I’m getting jealous! I want a cuddly little, can auntie hold her?” “Let me have this,” I could hear the smile in Joan’s voice. “Besides, you have Crissy! I’ve seen her throw a tantrum because you couldn’t snuggle her at the exact moment she wanted!” “She’s cuddly, but you know how she is! There’s a set of lungs on that little and they LOVE to scream. I do need to get home soon, bee-tee-dubs,” I think I might hate Chrysta, “I told the babysitter I’d be home at four, and besides both of the girls will be needing to nurse. Is Greg home?” “He’s on his way. He’s picking up Thai for us.” “Awww!” Chrysta chirped. “Your thing! Look at him, celebrating with you!” “Well, he’s got a new daughter too, not just me. It’s a celebration for both of us.” “You gonna be okay here with the new one by yourself?” “Mmhmm,” her hum felt so nice, and she made the butterflies breakdance when she kissed my head. “Oh, Chrysta, it’s really hitting…” “Real quick, before we go,” Chrysta said, ignoring the tenderness, “so I think I’ve got what we need for today, I’ll send you the files once I’m done editing them and then, do you think you can have the post up by, uhhh, Thursday? Thursday’s usually your cocktail recipe day but I think we’re gonna have to make it baby-post day at least until you can drink again.” “Drink again?” “Aren’t you gonna breastfeed? It’s like, the best way for you guys to bond.” My eyes widened. I’d heard some truly fucked up stuff about what happens to bitches once they started drinking breastmilk on the reg, and I was in no hurry to be Bitches. Apparently it hit all littles differently and came out of all Amazon breasts differently, but turning into a boob-milk zombie would certainly not do my escape plan any favors, and neither would getting addicted to it. My shits were already messed up, so I hoped bowel disturbance would be my only concern, and not further regression. With the way I thought Baby Brain might cry if I was put down now, falling deeper into regression would be the best way for me to stop acting and start actually turning into a fucking baby. Joan, eternally saving my ass, had different plans: “Not right away, no. For starters, I’m not lactating yet, and besides that she has been having prison formula for the last couple of years, and I read that such a sudden switch could make her sick.” “Ohh, okay,” tap tap tap the sound of nails on a phone screen, “make sure you write about that, we could even make a whole post about it-- whatever, you think about it. I’m gonna post the video probably the same day you post the article, but can you send me some voiceover stuff too, and maybe like, see if you can sit and do like a one on one talking head about it?” “Damn, girl! I’m new to having a little,” Joan replied, “but not to my own job, Jesus!” It was sisterly teasing. “I know how to put our content together!” “Woooow, swearing in front of the baby,” Chrysta replied with heavy sarcasm, “I can’t believe this, I’m calling LPS.” “Call ‘em." "I'm calling, I'm doing it." "Call ‘em up. Do it Chrys. I dare you.” “Ring ring hello, LPS, I need you to take this little from this woman immediately. Yes, yes ma’am,” I could feel Joan giggling as Chrysta continued, “she’s making the baby do a huuuge bong rip--” Joan burst out into proper laughter again, and I couldn’t help it: I laughed too. It was funny, alright? I hoped they’d write it off as reactionary laughing, laughing because I heard other people doing it, and Joan pulled away to face me, administering tickles, which confirmed that she just thought I was laughing at the sound of laughter. I was in my second prison, yes, but at least, once in a while, it might be kind of a okay one. From my vantage point, snuggled in these arms in the cushy nursery of a rich person's house, I figured there could be worse midway-prisons. Maybe I’d even miss it once I was a continent away, never to be seen again. -- Thank you everyone. More to come, hopefully sooner than three months from now. (also, the suggestion of Ruby as a name was self referential hehe. but this story is not about me. I could only dream...)

Hi everyone. I will respond to all of your nice comments in time, but I wanted to do a mini update. I had to take a small break from writing due to technical issues. The computer where my files are saved suddenly stopped working. It took several days of saving money from my real job to afford to fix it. It is okay now. It was actually not even as expensive as I thought it would be. That did however throw my writing off track, and I will need to recalibrate and get back into the headspace again. I was already feeling like I was not posting my best content here. So maybe that was a break I needed. I played a lot of animal crossing. See you soon. ?

Hello. The details were meant to be a bit vague and explained deeper in chapter six. But I seem to have made them too vague. Not your fault! I am sorry. Chrysta and Joan are sisters who collaborate on their shared vlog/blog. Chrysta has two littles already. Joan mentioned Lyric, but the reader isn't sure who that is yet. Thank you again Billy. You're right about Joan heehee....

Hello. I must thank everyone again for the kindness you've shown my story. I wasn't expecting to get one comment on it, much less so many wonderfully sweet and complimentary ones. Our protagonist will learn today one of the biggest impacts the regressing she's received has had.... Chapter Five: Self Fulfilling Prophecy I’d been given a few gifts from my main bitch Margaret, most of which manifested during ‘tummy time’, which meant that sometimes I would get to be let out of my box and allowed to lay on a towel on the floor and play with soft blocks, a small set of plastic keys, which was the height of modern entertainment, and a stuffed tiger that sat with a doofy smile in my cot with me. Oh, and she’d put a flowery headband on my head. I didn’t count that among the gifts because it sucked, but I was too polite to ask if she’d kept the receipt. The headband and tiger buddy were meant to indicate that I was a special little angel, different from the other pants fillers, and slightly more aware of my environment than the rest of them. The tiger was a mild balm to the overwhelming boredom that eked its way over every pore of my miserable body for the next two days. Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ dropped it off the side of the cot, which meant someone had to pick it up for me, and that was the most I had besides chewing on him (the oral fixation loved that) and pretending he was a cellmate. I couldn’t talk to him aloud, but sometimes when one of the littles started choking on her own mucous and had to have it suctioned out, I would look at him, all, ‘get a load of this character, am I right?’ I hadn’t named him because I felt like naming him was one step too far over the crib railing, if you get my meaning, so he was just ‘the tiger plush.’ We hadn’t had many potential adopters in the two days I’d spent here, neither of which seemed too interested in me, and only one actually left with a little. They were an old, bookish looking couple, and were toting along another little who looked like he’d seen the devil with his own two eyes and was definitely not regressed, his comically gargantuan diaper shoved into a pair of blue shortalls and a pacifier strapped to his mouth from behind. Margaret hadn’t liked them, I overheard her saying to another orderly as they cleaned up the newly empty cot, but not enough to refuse the adoption of their newest little princess. Escape was seeming to be my best bet, but even at tummy time I was never unsupervised. Someone sat and told me how good I was at pretending to be six months old, only not in those exact words. They’d say ‘ooh, are you having fun with your keys?’ and ‘I bet you’re going to build a big tower!’ Yeah, Shannon, I’ve been speaking to city planning about the erection of a new skyscraper with these three blocks. It was like being in prison, the way I was always watched, but somehow worse: there was no one to commiserate with, and the tiger didn’t fucking count. They even had a night staff, who wore darker blue shirts, and fluttered between the cribs to see to whoever was crying and to administer sponge baths to us. At least in the pen we’d had tubs. Nasty tubs you’d likely catch a fungus and get bruised up by a nanny, but at least you could chat and relax a minute. Time droned on, and not once had I been able to look at a clock. At one point I was waking from a nap, because fuck if sleeping sure did pass the time, thumb in my mouth as always but ready to be popped out, when I heard chatter at the front desk. Typing, the filling out of a form. There was an adoptee here. I wasn’t sure how wonderful and nice I wanted to be, because I couldn’t see or hear them well. I heard a woman’s voice, and another one as well, but that could have been from behind the desk. Oh, no, a third, so maybe a couple of two ladies? “Oh, oh, this one, it’s this one,” I heard a woman say from the other end of the room. “I am in love at first sight, that means it’s a yes.” “Aren’t we here for me, Chrysta?” That was a second voice, deeper and more mature sounding. “If you like this one so much, you adopt her…” “What’s wrong with her?” The voice that was Chrysta said, and I heard her set something down on the carpeting and assumed she was lifting whichever little that was out of her cot. “Helloooo,” she cooed, and the little made unintelligible noises back, “I already have two,” she said cheerfully, “my hands are full, and if I adopted another I’d want to post about the decision first. I’d probably get some nasty comments if I impulse bought, and besides you know how much of a handful both Abby and Little Crissy are, in their own unique ways.” You deserve them, ma’am, if anything for naming one of your littles Little Crissy. I hoped for her sake she was regressed. “I still think this might be a hair impulsive of me,” said the one with the deeper voice, and I agreed silently, hearing them wander like they were shopping for shoes instead of living beings, but still unable to see them. “Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to get a little, just because you project that it’d be good clickbait for the vlog?” Yes? The answer should definitely be yes. “Noooo, no,” there was more bag shuffling as Chrysta yakked on, “oh my god, Joan, sis, we talked about this: you’re not just doing it for the vlog, you’re doing it for you.” “I don’t know…” “We’re already here! Hang on, I’m gonna film a pano of the room, we can put a voiceover or music or something over this. Oh, crap-ola, can we film in here?” One of the teens, who I’d learned was named Lindi, hesitated, before coming up with an answer that I was sure she’d pulled out of her ass. Ugh. Nope, this was going to be a soft pass for me; I didn’t want to be the poster baby for someone’s post about the Top Ten Best Playpen Accessories (Number Four Is Borderline Genius), so I figured that being gross and unruly would get me safely out of this situation. These types seem like they want cute, cuddly, happy babies. I squeezed my stomach and felt a soft mess push between my cheeks with a short, muffled fart, and purposely spit a dribbling of drool out of the corner of my mouth for good measure. Tiger buddy was already wet from my chewing, so I decided to offer up a sample to dear Joan and Chrysta what they’d have to deal with if they took me home by chucking him out of the cot, and then screeching about it. That is right: abandon hope, all ye who enter here, for I am Seenit! The world’s worst little! I didn’t hear anyone say anything, because I was balling my hands into fists and screaming bloody murder. Somewhere in the dirge of my fake ‘don’t adopt me, I suck’ fit, I felt the soft of the tiger go back into my cot. As a reflex, I opened my eyes, which I should have never, ever done. I would count knocking over that stupid candle as a lesser mistake than opening my stupid, idiot eyes. Joan was older, maybe early 40s, but I could only tell as much from the patches of grey hairs among the rest of the deep black that flecked above her ears and led to the high ponytail she wore, and from the general loose aura of having been around the block. She was just this side of heavier set, likely just from life, or from naturally broad shoulders. There was makeup on her pleasant face, but not too much. I was never an excellent judge of such things, but I would venture to say she had nice skin. Maybe it was the dark red tank top she wore, but there was an aura to her of warmth. Regression hypnosis was a hell of a drug, one I’d never recommend. As soon as our eyes met in a second of contact, thoughts imploded into my head that I never would have warranted or approved of otherwise: I wanted this Amazon to hold me. All bets were off, the screaming fit had stopped short when I locked in on her dark brown eyes and grappled with the emotional wrecking ball that was my desire to be held by an Amazon. What the hell was my damage? Well, ‘mental’, I guess, that would be the correct word for my damage. Never in my life had I looked at an Amazon and thought ‘I want them to embrace me’, so the regression cocktail was to blame here. Yeah, of course, when I was a free cat I’d see other littles my age at underground bars, trying to get a decent conversation in over the dulcet tones of wailing guitars and an anguished artist jamming the fuck out about their rage against The Man, and thought that I’d like them to hold me in the way most Amazons don’t think I’d know how to do. Sometimes they had followed up on the request. Missed those days. This wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to be held sexually, it was more like... I just wanted a hug. The soft, tender feeling that this wretched woman who wanted nothing more than to inflate a pacifier in my mouth and put a zap collar on my neck exuded like an over-applied perfume made her seem incredibly satisfying to be held by. It was like seeing an image of a bed online while you’re at work playing the part of the shadowy head boss, but also shopping for duvet covers because you don’t have any more meetings that day, and you think ‘ohh yeah, baby, I wish I was right there on that bed. That bed would treat me real right. Me and this bed would have an agreement.’ Joan grinned in a way that was wonderful, her teeth were white and straight and her smile met her eyes. “Hi, pretty mama,” she said, reaching up to fix my headband from where I’d rage-punched it askew, “there we go. You’re just cranky because you just woke up, huh? Huh?” I could smell her hand cream over the low roil of stale piss, baby powder, and my own brand. What was that? Cucumber melon? Excellent choice. “I’m so sorry,” I heard Maggie’s smooth voice from above my cot, just out of my line of sight, “Rini isn’t usually this crabby, she might be getting restless. Come here,” she hoisted me out of the cot from behind and cradled me, and I was sort of stupid with concern at my own mental state and thus easily flipped around like a proper baby. My thumb went to my mouth. Hand to god: I was dumbfounded. “Please look around, I am going to change this little one.” “Rini?” Joan asked while Chrsyta was still panning her camera over several other littles. “She isn’t a newborn, is she?” “No, she’s six months.” Joan ooohed over this while Maggie bounced me. “Six months,” Maggie added, “and very poopy. Will you please excuse me? I’m going to go clean our little princess up.” “I’ll do it,” Joan blurted out, as timidly as one can blurt something. “I think I’d like to try her out.” I immediately snapped to my senses and objected to the phrase ‘try her out’, like I was a used automobile she’d get a great price on (with credit approval) but she wanted to see how the steering felt first. Of course, what the solid hell was wrong with me? This was an Amazon, she saw me as an accessory. I felt urine flood my diaper again in a long stream that started at the legs and crawled back to where my mess was smattered across my butt and even groin now, and I welcomed it. Encouraged it. I wish I could have thrown up then, too. Was I a bit too vengeful at Amazons as a whole? To that I say: wouldn’t you be? “Yes, of course ma’am,” Maggie’s dripping, honeyed voice said. “Once you’re done, let us know so we can take you and Miss Rini to the bonding room.” I had heard that last couple go into the bonding room, but I was too far away to see what the deal was in there, but I assumed it worked much like pet adoption, they’d let me out of my kennel, she’d pet my head, and I’d bite her. When I was held out to Joan, my arms moved with my heart rather than my head and reached out for her. No, that’s underselling what the regressed part of me -who I’d decided was now my mortal enemy - did at this woman: I made Mother Fucking grabby hands at her. Hello? As soon as I was cradled in her warm, plush, comforting embrace, I stuck one of my hands in my mouth and bit it with extreme prejudice. If you ever made grabby hands at an Amazon as a free little, you were quite literally asking her to stick a big cartoon bonnet on you and bounce you away merrily in a cute stroller to diaperland. The me that went to those bars a thousand years ago would have thought I was crazy. Holy shit, I thought as she took my hand from my mouth and said something I didn’t pay attention to on our way to the changing table that laid in a small inlet hallway, right in front of the actual bathroom that we weren’t given the privilege to use, where I felt like I never wanted her to put me down and if she did I might cry (cry! Are you kidding!): I might be actually fucking real life full-tilt-wacko insane. I was down on the table as I’d been a trillion times in the past six years, the gnarly feeling of poop squashing into my cheeks and up my back, I felt like I’d been robbed of the most comfort I’d ever felt when I was smacked with the cold absence of Joan holding me. She stood to my side, rather than with my legs pointed at her, to change me, and kissed the top of my head in a way that gave me butterflies. “Are you always this friendly,” she asked, unbuttoning the white onesie we all wore here, “or am I special, little mama?” I didn’t know what to say. My thumb back in my mouth was a small degree of comfort. I really had been regressed. I am certainly older than a six month old in my head but there was a nagging new Second Part of me that made my chest tremble with the rise of a cry I didn’t fucking order, thanking you very much. Thankfully it didn’t get further than a cherubic hiccup before I stabbed viciously, but I’d known it, she’d known it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried besides the eye-moisture incident on the diaper conveyor with Green on one side and that other inmate going out of her mind on the other. Now, with Joan’s hands peeling back the tapes of my diaper and me letting her, I was the one going out of my mind. I was a thumbsucker like Betsy, and I was crying during a change like whoever that woman was. They were supposed to be the wackos, not me. “Oh, there there lamb cop, it’s okay,” she opened the front and exposed me to the moderately chilly air of the adoption area, and decided to make this an even colder experience by hitting me with critically unwarmed baby wipes to clean up the frontal regions. Her free hand took my legs and rolled them forward and spread the winter of that wipe to my ass. I hadn’t eaten a single solid thing since getting here, so it was mostly liquid at this point with little substance. “I bet Chrysta woke you up, huh?” With that, Joan leaned down near my face in order to drop to a conspiratory whisper, “she’s a bit of a loudmouth, but don’t tell her I said that.” Don’t worry, it’s safe with me. Snitches get stitches, lady. I considered winking at her, but I felt like we had a good thing going here that I didn’t want to ruin by blowing my own cover, so I flapped one of my arms lazily and smiled loosely around my thumb. The baby brain wanted so badly for her to pick me up again, so I sucked a little harder. It didn’t help. By this time she’d swapped to another wipe and was going between my butt cheeks with it and even at the place where my thighs met my torso. The robots were programmed to clean until things shined, but this was a practiced hand. A warm, soft, cucumber melon scented hand that wiped up to my back and over my belly again too. “Do you have any lotion?” Joan tossed the last dirtied wipe as she called out, wiggling my trapped legs playfully. “I used the last of it,” you spilled the last of it, that’s what you did, Heather, “so we’ve only got powder right now.” “Looks like there’s going to be a blizzard!” Joan found the baby powder and did what I can only describe as her going ‘dingalingalingaling!’ to imitate, I don’t know, snowing? Snow is silent, maybe it was a jingle bell. Good grief. Regardless, she did it while powdering me back and front, and then using the warmth of her hands to rub it gently in. My butt was back onto the plush surface of another diaper, and I made sure to wiggle and kick when she momentarily freed my legs to pull the pillowy front up between them. It was held in place as she settled the tapes over the landing strip, and with a quick hand she tugged my onesie back down and snapped it into place. “There! There we go!” She rubbed my tummy and I felt my thumb drift out of my mouth, and in fearing that Baby Head was going to make grabby hands again I went into overdrive and grabbed my feet instead. Nice save. “You seem much happier now, bunnybutt. I bet you were just cranky and uncomfy, huh? Yes you were, yes you were!” Ugh, I’d never get used to ‘yes you were yes you were.’ Joan lifted me from the table and cradled me, hand supporting my head even though I was able to do it myself, and rocked me on her way back to the front. I couldn’t see where exactly we were going; I was busy staring at her. No one is a supermodel from down here, where you’ve got a premium shot at the inside of their nose, but I was enraptured by every centimeter of her, and nursing my thumb while she held me made my eyes heavy with comfort. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this content and at ease. Her heart was muffled, but I could hear it through her shirt, and even though people were talking around me, Joan’s heart and soft rocking took full control of the world. At least until I was handed over to Maggie, at which point I snapped to my fucking senses and vowed to personally smash all of their regression equipment with a stupidly large hammer as soon as I broke out of whatever crib hell Joan planned to put me in. I looked around and saw that Chrysta had been filming at least some of this ordeal, her brown-but-dyed-blonde hair tugged up into a loose bun that shook when she clapped her hand to her cheek and squealed. “Soooo exciting,” she chirped. I’d pulled my thumb from my mouth and was using it to idly pick at my shirt, but if it wouldn’t have been a giveaway to point at her, look at Maggie, and say ‘is this chick real or did we end up in a teen comedy,’ I would have. “We’ll wait until your sister is done washing up,” Maggie said, bouncing me lightly, “and then we can head into the bonding room.” “I can’t believe it, I told her she’d fall in love at first sight!” She’d slipped the camera back into her bag and extracted a tablet, the thin transparent piece of holographic garbage that I hadn’t so much as looked up directions on in six years. “I think Gregory’s gonna loooove her too.” “Gregory?” Maggie asked. “The hubs,” Chrysta said, and it was then that I noticed Chrysta was wearing a necklace with two stick figure girls on it, each with a different triangular crystal for a dress, and I wondered if this represented the two littles she mentioned earlier. Little Crissy. I could have thrown up in my mouth. “Well, not mine, but Joan’s.” Maggie was deadly serious about the people she adopted out to, which gave me the idea that this Amazon might actually give half a shit about littles and wasn’t just trying to move us along so cots would clear up. At present, she’d been holding me so that I was almost in a seated pose with my legs half dangling around her, one hand supporting my clean-diapered butt and the other at my back. I’d been busy looking at Chrsyta, so I didn’t see Maggie’s face change, but I could feel the temperature drop around her. “Why did Gregory not come with?” When she asked, she patted my rear in the way someone would impatiently tap their foot. “Surely daddy would want to meet his new little, unless he is next door picking out a boy?” “Oh, no, he had to work!” Chrysta, seemingly distracted by her own sentence, bent over to wave at me. “But,” she said, after I stared at her and did not wave back, “he’s, like, so super totally onboard, they’d been planning this for months he is, just,” her hands went up in a burst shape, like fireworks, “stoked.” “Mhm,” the voice of a woman unconvinced; Maggie’s distrust of this man may be my ticket to not getting adopted yet. Whatever sorcery that Joan held over me would only hinder my progress of escaping, and I refused to be the property of vloggers, I would not be used for views. That’s right Maggie, I thought, get his ass. Where is daddy, hmm? ‘He had to work’ a likely story! “Where does the Mister work, I wonder? We are open seven days a week, I would have liked to have met him.” “He’s a lawyer.” I didn’t have to hear any more, a lawyer got me charged with arson for knocking a candle over. Well, alright, first there was a cop involved, and a judge, but whatever. Being the adoptive fake-baby of a mommy vlogger and a lawyer was the best way to never be able to escape your suburban home again. It would be hard enough if every time Joan picked me up I went into a worshipful haze and felt the earth move or whatever. I had to revisit my ‘worst little on earth’ strategy, so I started picking my nose hoping to strike gold and wipe it on someone (which, for the record, not something I make a habit of, but I was desperate) when Maggie shushed me and pulled my hand away. “But don’t worry, Joan and I pull in our own money with the vlog and blog posts,” Chrysta added as if anyone had asked. “We’ve had a few suuuper nice sponsorships, and I think Joanie bringing home a new little will snatch a million views at the very least.” “I see,” Maggie’s voice was careful, “and what sort of things do you vlog and blog about?” Just then, Joan came from the back hall where the bathroom was. “Sorry for taking so long,” she announced, shimmying out of the way as a teen plucked a squawking little from her cot, “I think I’m all ready to head out.” “Oh?” YES! “Going so soon? You seemed so attached to Miss Rini.” Joan reached out to pluck me from Maggie’s slender arms into her soft embrace, where she placed my head on her shoulder and I, limp with the bodily reaction of Rightness that warmed my cheeks and my heart, curled my fingers around the fabric of her shirt again. It was the best hug I’d ever had. I never wanted to be put down again. No, no, the baby brain never wanted to be back again, the baby brain kicked my legs and snuggled into her, smushed my cheek into her shoulder so that a bit of drool leaked between my parted lips and onto the fabric of her tank top. The baby brain sighed and curled my toes when she pet my hair, but it was definitely my brain that bitch-slapped me back to reality when Joan said: “Yes, that’s why I’m ready to go. I don’t think I need the bonding room. I’m adopting this one.” Oh no, oh fuck, I tried to squeeze my stomach to make myself poop but nothing came, I hadn’t been fed since this morning so I wasn’t even wetting. My brain froze, lulled into a sleepy, peaceful state by the full body comfort of Joan swaying with me, one so sluggish and morphed by whatever regression I’d soaked in and the vibration of Joan’s voice in her chest that I couldn’t bring myself to scream or spit. I tried to kick, but it did not phase her in the least. I was at war with myself. The regressed part of me was in bliss, held by this Amazon with her hand supporting my upper back and the other cupping my butt and making me feel (eugh) small. I felt truly tiny in her hold. Maggie was talking, Chrysta was talking, even dumb fuck Heather was talking and I was kneading my hand into Joan’s shirt, but her words pierced through my babyheaded fog. “I don’t know what it is. I was convinced I was going to come in here and leave empty handed. I’d been having second thoughts all day, like that this was impulsive, or rash, or fronted by my emotions rather than my brain. Maybe it is.” She kissed my cheek. My heart pounded. “I saw this little girl and I felt so connected, I felt like if I left her here I’d spend the rest of my life wondering about her.” My chest was tightened with a fear I don’t think I’d ever felt. “I felt the same way about her that I did when they first handed Lyric to me. Like I’d found the most beautiful treasure in the world.” Chrysta was tearing up and gripping Maggie’s shoulder, which Maggie seemed only lightly perturbed by, and I was struck through the heart with ten thousand arrows and, at least in my mind, not the type that naked little angels shoot. The Greek chorus of regressed littles sang of my departure as I was taken to the front counter. I remembered how I wish I’d let my final hours in prison go, with my criminal public cheering for me, and I thought that this was somehow an even worse tradeoff than what I’d gone with. Maggie, I thought, Maggie my main bitch, what about the dad thing? What about Gregory, where is that bastard, huh? When I was laid down on the front counter and footprinted, Baby Brain watered my eyes and made me make grabby hands at Joan again because I wanted her, who took my hand and kissed it, and Seenit inside-outside of me looked on in disgust. I couldn’t fight it, I felt like I was watching myself from eight feet away, handcuffed and in my orange prison onesie, watching Joan fill out paperwork while Chrysta filmed. I sucked my thumb and felt a distant calm. This was a fugue state, my body moved almost wholly without my permission, and made me cry. I sobbed deep in my gut and tried to stretch my hands toward Joan again. Hot tears rolled down my face and into my hair as I lay supine on the desk so they could fingerprint me. I hadn't even cried the first time they fingerprinted me six years ago. “I think she feels the same about you,” Maggie said. “She just arrived the other day, you know. I think she’s our fastest adoption yet.” I was lifted again, sobbing bodily, where Joan shushed and rocked me. “Chrysta, do you have a paci in your bag?” There was a rubber nipple slipped into my mouth. I sucked it like I’d never nursed anything before, like it was the only thing keeping me connected to this plane of existence. Unfortunately, what the constant satisfaction of the pacifier gave Rini, the baby, almost full override. Being held and giving my oral fixation its fix made my eyes flutter closed as I linked one arm around Joan’s neck, breathing in her scent, her warmth, the feeling of her hands and the smoothness of her skin, and the feeling of that low voice vibrating in her chest. --- I realize it may have been incorrect to say "a Greek chorus" since the diaper dimension has different countries and history. Please do not be too mad. What do you think Seenit has in store?

Thank you. If you don't mind my asking, what are your questions? I am curious. You might have thought of something I hadn't Seenit thinks what she needs is a drink. That's not going to happen for her, at least not in the liquid she wants hehe. Thank you for your patience Thank you very much Josh. ? This is incredibly kind and flattering. I must say it made my day. Thank you. Thank you very much Sofia, I am still dazzled to know you've read something I've written. Thank you Billy, that means a lot to me. Rini/Seenit is only six months old to everyone else, but she hasn't been fully regressed. She may be capable of more than we're aware of. Thank you, Sargent. I hope you enjoy the development as it happens.

Off to a fun start. I'm very interested to see what each of them has planned

Hello everyone. I am sorry for being absent. Without further ado: Chapter Four: The Beginning of The Beginning. To my complete and utter surprise, I opened my eyes. To my then continued wonderment, I was completely, glaringly aware of it. It took a minute for me to realize where I was. Everything seemed rather white, like a hospital with a lighting bill that would knock their accountant on his ass, and I blinked. From my head to my toes, my body felt weird and fucked up, and I realized I could think a cuss word, and that I could think plenty of words. Somewhere a little was crying. My eyes were still adjusting, but as things became less pea-soup blurry and more ‘I have sleep gunk in my eyes’ blurry, I realized that there was not a grand deal of real estate available to me to move around in, and the clear plastic box I apparently now called home wasn’t meant for someone old enough to roll around anyway. I squinted and turned my head in the direction of the crying, and saw a little in a white onesie get hoisted up and bounced by a real life human in a blue tee shirt, who cooed and popped a bottle into her mouth, soothing her instantly. Was it over? Had I been regressed? Was I still waiting to be regressed? The chick in the tub (because that’s what it felt like, a clear plastic tub) next to mine was stinky, we’re talking cartoon waves wafting over to punch me in the nostrils levels of rank, and as I wriggled I realized I was too, so that shut me up real quick. A flood of pee entered my diaper again, and I’d known. Couldn’t stop it, but I knew. I watched the same person who’d fed the other little approach the adjacent tub some confusing moments later and raise up that little too. “Who’s a stinky Mary,” she asked, and I saw my former friend, whose only protest was soft gurgles, squirm in her arms, looking like she’d gained twenty pounds and had a haircut and all. She stuck her tongue out, her hands moved unintelligibly, and her eyes barely opened as the orderly carried her away. She was regressed. That other little was regressed. And, I thought as I heard footsteps approaching my tub, I was supposed to be as well. I would forever thank the quick thinking that allowed me to realize one thing: I had to play the part. I unfocused my eyes and moved my arms and legs pointlessly. I couldn’t play off a newborn, but maybe I could make them think I was at least still a baby. I thought about every baby and regressed little I’d ever seen and mimicked that when one of the orderlies, who looked like a teeny-bopper if I’d ever seen one, leaned into my tub too. “Hiiii cutie,” she said, and I didn’t even let my eyes focus on her long, because see? Look! I’m too regressed to even pay attention for more than a few seconds. I let a gurgle leave my throat and kicked my legs. Christ, this was weird and demeaning. “Let’s get your diapy changed, yes we will, yes we will!” To be changed by human hands was an experience; I’d never been diapered by anyone but my own mother back in the days when I actually needed it when I was too young to remember, and this teenager (volunteer?) was not going for the gold with this one. She was hasty and clumsy, she squirted lotion all over my stomach (which I stupidly slapped with my hands and giggled at, kicking and keeping this as squirmy for her as possible), and taped my diaper too tight, but some wiggling in the cot and I could probably get this thing loose enough to be comfy again. The whole time, I’d been craving something, and I didn’t know what, but there was something missing, that was for sure. Upon investigation, those bastards had taken all but five of my teeth, which was weird considering I was supposed to be a newborn like the rest of these idiots, but I wasn’t going to look a gift tooth in the mouth. Back in my cot, I ran my tongue over the gummy flesh, feeling just below the surface that they’d implanted something in there to keep my face shape. Which, I might add, felt chubbier than it’d been before, and I could tell they’d chubbed up my legs and arms. My tits were gone. I was willing to bet they’d given me a hysterectomy too. I couldn’t tell if my tendons in my leg had been cut -what the hell would that even feel like? - but as I stretched, I didn’t feel any different? To keep up appearances as an orderly passed, I stuck my thumb in my mouth, taking a note from Betsy, and oh, okay, that’s what was missing. The thumb felt like it was perfectly made for my mouth, and sucking it hit the craving I had just right, like a druggie getting their fix again. It made me feel relaxed, satisfied, fulfilled. Okay, noted: I had been regressed at least a tiny bit. I’d never had this kind of oral fixation before, so I guessed that some wires in my head had been soldered and dumbed down. Oh well, I would rather be a thubsucker like Thumbsucker than completely unaware of my environment. Maybe that little weirdo was onto something. Thumb in mouth seemed to make my head clear, clear enough to start coming up with a plan. My eyes scanned what they could of the ceiling, but if I tried to get up and get a full read of the area they might know something was up. I didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. As of right now, I wasn’t sure if I was still able to walk. My ankles felt normal as I grabbed both of my feet, theorizing in passing that I hadn’t been this flexible before, pretending to be fascinated by them. My brain conjured an image of myself walking, and yes, I could picture it, but there wasn’t going to be a chance to test it here. If I tried to jailbreak out of this container and discovered that I couldn’t walk, I’d flop onto the floor and be stuck there until someone saw me. Perhaps I could crawl? As fucked as it was, I was beginning to think that being adopted could be my best or worst bet. I could get adopted by some rich motherfucker with nine other littles who stuck me in a nursery and let a nanny (robo or otherwise) deal with us, hauling us out for appearances. Maybe it’d be some punishment-happy wacko who got their kicks smacking me around. I might as well still be in prison. There could be one of those people who’d adopt me to make me a pet for their spoiled rotten kid who’d pull at my hair and draw on me with marker. Now that sounded like hell, but I don’t think newborns who can’t even crawl are the usual choices for that. Granted, I wasn’t at newborn level. At least, I was fairly sure. Though, there was the best cast scenario, which is I got some normal suburban mother who renamed me Makayleigh June and showed me off to her friends at the local Drink And Paint, maybe wore a ‘mommy of the year’ apron and fed me while watching evening reality tv. That sounded terrible, yes, but I’d have a chance or two to try to stand up, drop the baby act, and figure out a plan to escape without her natural born 2.5 children catching me slide past the nice wainscotting and through the sliding glass door into their overly manicured lawn. I’d finally live that old dream of becoming a forest creature. At least I’d be free. For now, I wasn’t going anywhere, but I could at least try to control who adopted me, though that’d be much easier said than done. If I cried and fussed and threw up, I might attract some lunatic who wanted a challenge, but if I made myself too wonderfully appealing, the picture of a perfect daughter, I’d get snatched up fast by the wrong person. Profiling these Amazons would need to be a case by case basis. Plans churned and plotted in my head, I ran rampant with fantasies, an orderly came by and stuck a bottle of formula in my mouth (surprise surprise, it was the same wicked brew from inside the prison, and for once I found that dishwater taste somewhat comforting, or maybe my oral fixation just liked the bottle nipple, the jury is out) which I had to be conscious not to grab and hold on my own, since I didn’t think I’d be “old enough” to do that, and let the steady ichor of boredom creep over me. There wasn’t shit to do here but shit. Plan musing and people watching only took me so far, and fuck me sideways: there was not a clock in here. The orderlies checked their holographic watches, but never at an angle I could see. The big windows outside showed a cloudy day, but that meant I couldn’t even try to start training myself for forest life by learning to tell time via shadows. I got the sick idea in my head that maybe none of the babies here were regressed, we were all laying in these tubs like ‘oh shit’ and trying to play off the part of The Infant, kicking our legs and yawning and bawling at the slightest inconvenience. Surely there had been a mistake: for all intents and purposes, they’d aimed for me to be regressed to nothing, right? Had something gone wrong? Was my brain not wired to the lullabies and drugs they pumped me full of? I remembered detaching at the last minute before my consciousness faded away, and I’d done that just to make it more palatable for myself, but had that actually done something to my… I don’t know, psyche? My brains? I wasn’t a scientist or a doctor or a neurologist, I can never claim to be fully versed on what goes on in my neurons, but I’m almost positive something had gone wrong. My full awareness was not a planned event. Then again, I had these teeth. Newborns don’t get teeth. Just as I was attempting to get all of the red and yellow squares to their correct sides on my mental Rubix cube, someone in an adjacent cot burst into heavy, dramatic tears. Oh, what’s wrong, you got shit in your pants, baby? Me too, you’re not special. That was part of the rub of this godforsaken place: someone was almost always crying, and it served to make me a bit cranky, and to punctuate the monotony of laying in a plastic tub doing fuck all with pure irritation. Mary’s cry was higher than her voice had been; she’d had a low, velvety sort of tone before, but when I heard her cry it sounded like a real baby. Experimentally, I went “Aaaahhg” aloud. Sure enough, I felt pitched up, and my voice was craggly and raw. I hadn’t noticed when I was gurgling and giggling because I thought that was me being pitchy and annoying on purpose. Motherfucker’s had stolen my voice. There goes my promising career in opera. No one could even understand my jokes from here. I picked at my toes, pulled at my onesie, flopped around, pissed, felt my hair (they’d cut it) and sucked my thumb. This was the same level of boredom that I was facing in Intensive, though at least here I could watch the orderlies pass and make sweeping judgments about them, try to write their life stories. They wore name badges, and I tried to catch them as they’d gone by, but I could only see the ones who’d interacted with me in particular. The one who’d changed me was Heather, and I peggeg her as a ‘doing this for the summer credit’ sort of high school student. She was somewhat overeager but never elegantly executed in her actions, so she had the ambition but not quite the talent, at least in little rearing. I wove a narrative of her looking for a career in nursing, maybe she has a boyfriend that she’ll break up with at the beginning of her first turn at university because they totally want different things in life, he’ll do drugs but only the lighter ones, she’ll get hard drunk once and get into a fight with Bethany that they’ll never make up over until like eight or nine years later when Beth contacts her on social media because she wants to sell candles (from a pyramid scheme, of course) to her. Heather’ll get married too soon out of college to her Beau and they’ll make a baby, or adopt one if they can’t make it. It occupied me to think about that, and I tried it with other orderlies, though it was harder to gauge them when they didn’t interact with me. But hey now, I’m the one they’re here for. I can literally ask them for attention. As any theatre kid will tell you, it’s hard to fake crying and have it be convincing, so I wasn’t going to attempt fording that stream until I felt I really had to break out the wah-wah soundboard of ‘trying to sound like a crying baby’, but I could make a damn good noise. “Ahhh mawamhamhabawah!!” The higher voice helped. Some chick who wasn’t Heather was feeding a little three cots down from me, and I saw her look my direction and mouth “Hi!” Yes, you: entertain me, woman. I babbled like an idiot more, smiled like a big huge doofus and slapped my arms around. They had to get the clue that I wasn’t a newborn, but I felt like I wasn’t netting too huge a risk here: I think that was the point. After all, they’d left some of my teeth in. “Maggie, could you check on Rini?” Who’s Rini? Am I Rini? I’m not Rini. I’ll shit on someone’s hand if I have to live out the rest of my days named Rini. Why didn’t they just give me my old name? I had a name coming in here, I left if parked out front, I’ll give you the keys. I missed being Seenit. A woman, older than the teens but still youthful, who was much too pretty to be named Maggie used her slender arms to elevate me from the cot and up into the air where I could really see the place. She was holding me above all to see my kingdom, even the dark shadowy place you must never go. There was a desk, a door set in big windows, a myriad of computers, and about 15 cots. It was hard to get a good lay of the land because she was wiggling me, and I made sure to chew on my fingers, kick my legs, and what luck even a bit of drool got out of my mouth from the intrusion of my hand. Back down in her arms, Maggie gently took my hand from my mouth and poked my stomach, which actually tickled like a motherfucker and through my giggles, I chalked it up to another product of some regression. I’d never been ticklish besides on my feet, but her poking me hither and tither on my stomach was making me lose it like she’d told a knee-slapper of a joke. “Hello, hello little Rini,” her voice was pure honey, with her heavy dark brows on dark skin and a neat, slim jaw. What a woman. I felt bad for making her think I was a gooey baby, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or have me sent back to get actually properly regressed. “I think you’re just bored, aren’t you? Aren’t you? You’re in a bed too tiny for someone like you, and you have nothing to do.” “Too tiny,” asked one of the teens, “what’s that mean? I thought she was in the right height range?” “No no, Rini here is a special project,” Maggie said, and I popped my thumb in my mouth and listened while she bounced me, pretending to be trying to touch her name badge. Her full name was Margaret. “They have made her just a tiny bit older. Regression to complete newborn is the usual dictation for Little Criminals, but the program has room for small shifts. They think it’ll attract more adopters to have a wider brush to paint their adoptive palette with. She’s six months, and too big to be laying around all day with nothing to do.” In more ways than one, lady. She handed me her badge, to my surprise, and I decided that Margaret was officially my favorite. I flapped it around and chewed on it, which she had to have been anticipating. I was supposed to be six months instead of a newborn? That must have been it: they meant to not pump me with as much regression juice and I wound up getting hardly any at all. It was a mistake, a blunder, like someone forgetting to plug in the electric chair. I was hoping that I’d done some great mind bending breaking of the system, some actual ‘use the other 97% of your brain power’ mental acrobatics, but I guess that was fine too. Whatever, I wasn’t even mad about it. Not at all, promise. If I was the first in the system, then surely there’d be others. I had no idea how long it would be until another weeping wonder rolled through the doors, but if they had the same result, they might not be so slick about it, which meant people would investigate, which meant they just might find out that I wasn’t completely emptied, which meant they’d take me back there and do it for real, or worse. The best way around that would be to put some distance between myself and the prison. Either I had to break out… or I had to get adopted. These were the cards I had on the table, the two tarot cards that an old carnival psychic had laid out for me in her smoke and mirrors filled tent. Death, and The Fool. I’d have to choose one, and quick. ---- next chapter will get posted when i wake up. it will be a difficult chapter for our protagonist. i hope you will continue to enjoy the story. For now, ni ni ??

Chapter Three: The Long Walk. I’d let Betsy hang with us whenever I saw her around those following days because she didn’t seem to receive harassment from the guards or other inmates well. No one really did, besides the ones who decided to toughen up and dish it out, or the ones like me who found it best to make nice with almost everyone so no one wanted to give me shit. I still got it, of course, because that was a universal constant, but I cringed at the thought of one of the nastier chicks here giving her a worse time than the guards would. It didn’t take much to set her off, and I figured that was a result of being so new, and of having the frayed nerves of someone who’d been made to be a pretty pampered baby her whole life who was now in the rough hands of the prison system. She’d gone even quieter than she was before. Man, the business of designing littles was fucked. On the day that I knew would end in me drooling and finding jangling keys more amusing than anything else in the world for the foreseeable future until someone adopted me and I laid in their nursery in jumbo megathick night diapers for the rest of my days until I got too old and ugly or I died wandering into traffic, I tried to act normal. I woke up, waited to be let out of my crib, acknowledged that I was leaking and close to a blowout if I’d dropped another load in here, got changed, and ate breakfast with Coco, Double Chin, and quiet Betsy who only nursed her bottle and took a few tiny bites of her food. I’d had a rash from the night before, so any discomfort or melancholy I showed on my face I attributed to that. “I bet you could wheel and deal yourself into some cream,” Levits said as I made my last bracelets. “You know everybody, Seenit.” “You know what, bitch,” I said with a confident smile, pointing at Levits, “I think I will.” And you know what? I did. It wasn't like me to roll around on the ground for half a day, people would think something was up, so I needed to make it seem as if business was still running as usual. I talked to Worthy, who I’d spotted with a tube of cream stuffed into the plush dragon her old Mommy’d given her, and she said she’d administer one good squirt of it for me if I brought her a pair of scissors. “Scissors?” I gaped at her. “Are you out of your mind?” “Nope,” she folded her arms. She was, from the smell of it, literally and figuratively full of shit. “I want a pair of scissors to cut my leg hairs with.” “Why don’t I just get you a razor, idiot.” It would be just as difficult. “Because, I want to cut my way out of this onesie and trim my pubes, too.” “You know - and it’s amazing how technology works these days - razors can do that too.” I didn't even bother bringing up the fact that her cutting off her onesie would absolutely get noticed by someone, but that was her own trouble to get into. “What’s the deal, cunt,” she spat at me “can’t you get anything? Do you want to sit in your dirty diaper rash all day, or do you want the cream?” “Your mommy let you talk like that?” “Jokes on you,” it wasn’t unusual to poke fun at people who had anything but disdain for their adoptive Amazons, but Worthy was a momma’s girl through and through, who got kissed and cuddled and breastfed at every visit, while still being one of the meaner inmates in this joint. It was alleged that she beat, with a baseball bat, an Amazon who was attacking her mommy, but the stories varied and I wasn’t good enough pals with her to set the record straight. “My mommy's going to adopt me again once my time is up.” “You’ll be regressed,” I said, getting annoyed with an exchange I was only enacting for the purposes of keeping up appearances in the first place, “you won’t even remember her!” Worthy glowered, excellently accentuated by her unibrow, and shoved my shoulder. “You want that cream? Or do you want me to give you something that hurts even worse than your rash?” I held my hands up. “No trouble, no trouble, Worthy! If we fight, we’ll both get into hot water. I’ll see what I can do.” There was a salon where they let an Amazon cut our hair, which cost money, of course, and it’s not like I didn’t have any but all the same, the only cuts they’d do were those that would look serviceable on a toddler or younger. I missed the undercut of my free days, but I don’t even think they had buzzers there. “Hi pudding,” the salonist said, reading a magazine. “I’m afraid I can’t change your pants, but I can change your look!” “It’s just me, Deb,” I waved, “you don’t have to do the spiel.” “I do it for everyone! Just because I know you doesn’t mean I can’t afford the same niceties. What can I do for you today?” Deb was on loan from the Amazon prison (identity theft) and took a shuttle across the campus from her jail to ours, since she’d been a children’s/little’s salonist in the old days. She considered herself ‘so so so lucky!’ to be able to work with us, and had dreams of adopting once her sentence was up. I had a feeling she’d be a nice mommy, if not an airheaded one. Deb never struck me as the type of person to punish or mutilate her littles; at worst it seemed like she’d put a diaper on backwards all ‘oops, silly me!’ Must’ve been nice to have a dream for the After. “Well, I’m actually fine in the cuts department,” I fluffed a bit of my hair for emphasis, “but I was wondering if I could get a favor from you?” “Ohh…” she was reasonably, understandably cautious, “what is it, baby?” “Can I borrow a pair of your scissors?” “No! Silly baby!” She put her hand in front of the scissors that sat in an apron around her waist (it was nice to look at someone’s waist and see that they were not wearing a diaper, besides the waists of the guards and wardens) like I lacked object permanence and would forget them when they weren’t in front of me. “You could hurt yourself! Scissors are sharp sharp!” Jesus lord above, I should start getting used to this sort of talk again. I got my fair share of it from errant Amazons outside. The guards here were awful, but they didn’t babytalk us unless it was meant to be demeaning. “I know, I know, but here’s the thing. See there’s this new girl, Betsy?” I lowered my tone down to one more clandestine. “And she’s not adjusting too good, see? I was hoping I could--” “No no,” she wagged her finger, “that’s a bad little girl. I know what you do, Seenit, you’re trying to make a deal with me, and I put up with enough trades over in my own side of the campus. You’re one of my favorite littles, I tell stories about you over there, but I can’t break the rules for you, cause I’ll get in trouble too! What if you fall, and hurt yourself, and die, and then I get charged with murder cause I gave you these scissors.” She held her hands to her face and gazed into the middle distance like she could see it happening before her very eyes, and it was awful. “Alright, well,” who cares, anyway. They’d probably apply cream when they regressed me anyway so I wouldn’t cry when I woke up. I was only doing this so no one would get suspicious. “I guess I could wait until arts and crafts day, they give me baby scissors,” that couldn’t cut through air much less paper or pipe cleaners, but that was beside the point, “so I’ll try to make her card then.” “Good idea! Smart girl!” She bounced with the confidence of someone who’d really done something good. “You know, Seenit, I used to think that I wanted a little who was just like a real baby, who couldn’t talk or walk or nothin’, but sometimes you make me think I want one who’s more…” “Home upstairs?” “What? No, my house only had one story,” Deb wasn’t winning any awards for intellect, but you couldn’t help but be charmed by the lady, “um… not regressed, I guess, I was lookin’ for a prettier word for it. Maybe you can ask them to not regress you and I can adopt you!” On that she knelt down and poked my stomach. “Would you want me for a mommy?” I faked a smile for her, because I was good at that sort of thing, and even forced a giggle. “Well, who knows, but maybe you should put in a good word for me! Ask them to not regress me, huh? Us littles can be pretty good conversation, you know?” If only Deb had that kind of power. -- With scissor-quest no longer a going concern, I sat on the floor near the commissary. Coco was jogging outside, Dubs was taking a nap, and Betsy was, jeeze, somewhere I assumed. Not in the mood to strike up an old or new friendship, I chose my own company. There were a few dollars burning a hole in the mattress of my crib, but I’d sort of intended to leave that for my friends to take, like the world’s most fucked up inheritance. I’d been holding my clock in my hands for a while and decided to see how much time I had. Two hours. I wondered if I’d be in a display case next to Mary. Back down where our cribs were laid out in long connected rows, I shimmied the money I’d accrued out from under my mattress and thumbed through it. Only nine bucks, but that wasn’t nothing. With my massive wealth, I bought a juicebox for a dollar from the commissary, and sat down again on the floor where I’d been earlier to sip it down. Without my consent, the front of my diaper warmed with pee, and I decided to savor that too. No, I can’t control it right now, but I wouldn’t even be aware of this happening this time tomorrow. God, what a depressing train of thought! I wanted to think about anything else besides where I was going. I wondered if they’d give me a last meal, like a real solid food meal like a steak or a burger (I’d shoot another man for a juicy, cheesy, bacony burger, dripping with ketchup and hot sauce and washed down with beer), so my first dump as a proper drooler was the size of a truck. That’ll show ‘em. Maybe someone would adopt me who wasn’t a complete maniac. I’d heard a rumor that we didn’t get a lot of adoptions, because Amazons didn’t exactly look to prisons for their baby needs, and there was a sort of boogy-man style tale of Blake (or Alex, or Jack, or David, depending on who was telling it,) who was a big bodybuilder who stayed buff all through his sentence in the men’s prison and was covered in tattoos so much so that they couldn’t even remove them, and no one wanted to adopt him because of how expensive his procedures would be. They say he’s been in The Front for 15 years and is getting old, fat, and wrinkly, but now no one wanted to adopt him because of that. I think it’s a load, the likes of which belonged in the seat of someone’s pants. I didn’t take stock in it. Welp, I thought, might as well make the rounds. I took my remaining eight dollars and left four in Double Chin’s crib, four in Coco’s. I found my small supply of baby powder and left it on Levit’s seat in the bracelet room. As I was leaving, I saw Betsy. She was watching another group of ladies play cards, idly (loudly) sucking her thumb, and I hoped she’d find her place somewhere here. Apparently, she had gained a nickname: Thumbsucker. I assumed she’d just been avoiding it her first few days out of embarrassment, but since her breakdown the other day she almost always had her thumb in her mouth, constantly seeking the comfort of it. I saw her nursing her empty bottle once, too. Eyes closed and fingers kneading in contentment, the seat of her onesie darkened and her brow knit like she was seeking to ignore the state of it and escape to some Secret Betsy World where she wasn’t in prison in a poopy diaper but was still free to nurse on something (I wonder if her betweener mother had breastfed her?). Poor fucking kid. I hoped at least someone would get this little psycho a pacifier. Prison was, I thought as I watched Rosie Palms pass me in the common area, a cruel place. I watched the seconds pass on my clock, having crawled under my crib, since I didn’t feel like being lifted into it. I hated being this bummed out, and in the last minutes of my freedom, I kind of wish I’d told and made everyone throw me a party, a big blowout shindig where we’d get juice drunk and all fucked up on rice crackers and apple slices, I’d do a stage dive into my adoring public of criminals and then, as they carried me away, I’d flip off the lot of them and say something badass, something they’d tell stories about. Instead, I heard Amazon footsteps and the beep of their tablet, telling this tracker -the one connected to the flesh of my butt - that I was in the area. “Seenit?” I poked my head out from under the crib. “Come back with a warrant.” Samson grimaced. He’d been a buddy to me, he had a little daughter of his own and I heard a tale that he hadn’t regressed her, let her play piano professionally even, sat up on stage in pigtails and a fluffy dress while tickling the ivies with the best of them. Could never be me. “It’s time to go.” -- They carried you down the walk as one final act of demeaning you, and I wished I’d made my last steps more important and cool. No one had seemd to think much of me being carried out of the common area, besides I suppose that I’d been in trouble. My clock was still in my hand, and I wondered if Samson let me carry it until the end as an act of mercy, or if he thought little enough (hah) of littles that he assumed it was a comfort item and I’d cry and make his job harder if he took it. Right then? I guess it was. We passed the psyche office, and I saw a familiar redhead sitting in a chair outside, noisily sucking her thumb. “Betsy!” I called. There was absolutely not enough time for me to unpack why she was in front of the psyche office, but I could connect a dot or two. She looked up at me, but did not cease her self-soothing. I tossed her the clock. It fell to the floor, but since it was meant for babies, it didn’t break. “It’ll help you keep track of time in here! Trust me, it’ll keep you sane!” I was calling over Samson’s shoulder now. She pulled her thumb from her mouth with a trail of drool, collecting the clock with her other hand. “Thank you,” she said, “where you going?” I held my arms out wide, as if to display my many riches. “Straight to the top, baby!” --- I was laid back in a sort-of-chair, my head, legs, chest, and hands clamped down. It was almost like a carseat for the exceptionally cruel. Big headphones were placed over my ears that began playing a melody. Yep, here it goes. This would probably hypnotize me. I wouldn’t tell you a lie, it was kind of relaxing, in a demented way, and I decided to detach. I detached myself from the situation and chose to exist a few feet to the left of my own mind. As the music filled my ears I grew sleepy, but kept my peepers open until I couldn't anymore. I chose to think. Just about anything, really: The business I fraudulently ran what felt like a million years ago, all of the different faces and stories and lives that I'd encountered in my six years on the inside, the taste of a huge burger, the blue sky, grass. I wouldn’t know what it was, but as I closed my eyes, I realized that I’d at least touch the grass again one day. -------- Thank you. Some of you have said that the story could wrap up well here, and since I agree, I'll tell you that you're certainly welcome to accept this as the end of the story. .... However Seenit's not done being our criminal protagnist. I already have chapter four written and edited. Chapter five is about a quarter of the way done, and there will be more after that. This is not the end :).

Thank you, that's a very kind compliment :) ?. I am glad you enjoy my narrator, too! It is fun for me to write her, so it's refreshing to know people enjoy reading her too. Thank you so much. The next chapter will end Seenits time in prison, but that will not be the end of her tale. Thank you very much. I think A Little Legal Issue is one of the few DD stories I haven't read, but I will have to check it out. I'll consider this a recommendation :) Thank you Sofi. There are older littles there based on when they were arrested, and how long their sentences were. I think Betsy, who is 18, is one of the youngest Littles in the prison, while Willow G wasn't arrested until she was in her 40s and has been there for quite a while. Seenit is 35 (arrested at 29 and then served six years) and I made her that age to reflect the middle of that spectrum. Thank you very much, I hope you continue to enjoy it.

Chapter Two - The Beginning Of The End No, I hadn’t told anyone that my Crib Row date was in three days, because I didn’t really want to. It’s not like there was a posted schedule or anything, it’s not like there was some grandstand announcement like “Here ye, here ye! Seenit is going down the hall in a fortnight!” We’d known that Mary was due to leave because she’d told us. She cried. No one’s ever ready to let an Amazon put their brains in a blender, to get adopted. They tell us it’s better, better than being here or being ‘free’ outside. None of us agree that having your intellect and personality wiped and turned into a shitting husk of nothing is better. I'd slipped Mary the note that I'd see her soon, and just had to hope she knew what I meant. “Hey Seenit,” asked Emma Levits, who was sitting next to me as we threaded microbeads into thin wire bracelets the following day, her southern-accented voice full of conversational annoyance, “do you know what time it is, I don’t know how much longer I can wait until lunch change.” I dropped a bead under the table and used that opportunity to kneel underneath it to find my clock, which I’d stashed below. I popped back up with the bead like nothing’d happened. “T-minus ten minutes until lunch change, Levits. Sorry, didn’t know I was that bad.” “Not you, not you,” she tied off her bracelet and tossed it in the pile. Little hands were great for little tasks like this, and who needs regular labor when you had prison labor. “I’ve got a rash goin’ like you wouldn’t believe and it’s making feel like I’m on fire.” “You have any powder?” “Powder?” She grabbed a new wire and started stringing along beads in blues and greens. “We can’t open these things up, they’re alarmed!” “Yeah, but if you need you can pull the bottom down like they do when they’re checking us, and toss just a little bit of powder in. I have some, but I don’t think I could get it for you before lunch.” “And just where’d you get that?” “Well,” I finished off my bracelet too and tossed it into the growing pile, “I got it from Moretz, who wanted hot sauce, and I got the hot sauce from someone who works in the kitchen since they make the Amazon’s food too, and I gave her one of the bracelets we make here.” Levits shushed me. “Seenit, you’ll get into trouble!” I shrugged. Not much time for that now anyway. “‘Scuse me,” said a voice from across the table. From the state of her, that wide eyed look of horror and strained concern, you could tell right away that we had a new fish on our hands. I bet she still had to squat to shit. Bet she still asked to use the toilet. There were no ‘first second third’ chances to maintain potty privileges here. You gave them all up when you got arrested. “Don’t they mean to treat us like babies?” “I mean,” I said, eyes on my work, “isn’t that the goal of every Amazon?” “Well, yeah…” she brushed a lock of dark red hair behind her ear, “but I mean, why do we have to do this? Babies don’t work? I thought they was gonna regress me right away…” “Didja want to get regressed?” Levits asked with no shortage of that same annoyance. We’d had those before. One or two who couldn’t wait to be wiped clean. Weirdos, in my book. “No!” She shook her head and her hair shook with her. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be like this, either.” “Here’s the thing:,” I said, shifting with a faint squish (those ten minutes couldn’t be up soon enough), “they want you to feel sorry about what you did, they want cheap labor, and they want us to feel like we’re getting the better end of the stick by getting regressed. At least you’re making bracelets and not electronics. Amazons are so proud of their tech: who do they think put it together?” New fish looked down at her selection of beads, this must have been a real thinker. “Robots?” “You think robots grow on trees, kid?” She blinked and bit her lip, casting her gaze back down at the bracelets and slowly threading beads on again. Time passes weirdly in a place with no windows, which was why I was glad to have my clock. I’d actually gained it in an exchange, where someone else was going to receive it from me in return for a favor, but she got carried Up Front before I could get that favor. Now it was mine. I consider her to be paid up. It helped, and no one really stopped me from having it, but I tried not to be obvious about it in case I ripped a fart near a guard who was in a particularly bad mood. It was a goofy looking thing, meant for a baby, someone who’d been adopted prior to their sentencing had their ‘mommy’ bring it, but by the time she was Put Up For Adoption it’d fallen into my hands. I wondered if Mary had anything we’d have to redistribute? You tend to gain a small collection of things in jail. It’s hard to have anything that’s really yours here, but the clock was mine. Without looking at the clock, we knew our time was up when a loud buzzer assaulted our ears, prompting a room full of people in soiled diapers to rise and stretch, rub their sore fingers, and start meandering for the changing belts. “Break time,” I said to the newbie as Levits rushed forward at an awkward gait, not wanting to get stuck at the back of the line with her rash. “You getting a change, Robots?” “Robots?” She looked taken aback, “is that supposed to be my prison nickname?” “Until you get a better one. What’s your real name?” “Betsy Girshwhen.” I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked. “BETSY? What are you, a designer little? A little Betsy Wetsy?” I deserved that pit in my stomach that resulted in her sad, embarrassed nod. “Oh, shit,” I tried to let the laugh in my voice lighten the curse of that, “I’m so sorry. Are you really?” I ought to have known by her small tits, huge blue eyes with thick lashes, petite button nose set between just ever so slightly chubby cheeks, and perfect dolly lips, but I make it my business to never make assumptions. Betsy rubbed at her arm. She was thinner than I expected a designer little to be, and more capable of her faculties despite the way she talked. “Yeah…” she bit her lip, “My parents are in-betweeners, and I came out little, so they raised me from birth to get sold for big money.” I saw she had a darling little gap between her white, white teeth. Good god, this bitch was a doll. “They never took me to school or nothin, I was taught to always be cute and nice. I can dance and sing but I dunno how’ta read or write.” Alright, I know it was rude, but I had to ask: “Did they ever potty train you?” Betsy looked up at me with horror. “Real strictly, yes. They made me for a type of buyer who wanted to remove my continence themselfs, so they hadta make sure I was plenty good at using the toilet.” Christ in heaven, she was a doll who was meant to be broken. “Shit. Sorry, Bots. Get it? Like Robots, and Betsy: Bots.” I gauged her reaction, and she just shrugged. I bet they’d trained her to not have a strong opinion about anything but what they wanted her to. “Just a word to the wise, though, even if you haven’t wet, you should try. Did you eat at breakfast?” “Not much...their milkies is yucky and I didn’t like the food.” “Well, first of all, start eating. If they think you’re hunger striking, you’ll get sent to Intensive and hooked up to an auto-feeder. You lay there all day, dirtying your diaper and waiting with a nipple in your mouth for food to come down a chute. It’s torture. Thank your local Amazon for it.” “That sounds bad…did you ever do it?” “Once!” I said it proudly; you could also call me Seenit because if there’s something that could happen in this place, I’ve seen it. “I got into a fight, and the bitch punched me in the stomach, wah-pah!” I mimed the punch into the air. “So I got sent there as punishment. But they’ll do it to people they think are trying to starve themselves out. Like Willow G over there?” I motioned to an older woman who was sagging in more ways than one, her diaper so heavy it was making the crotch of her onesie stretch. “She had to be on it like four times. Don’t talk to Willow G, she doesn’t take well to newbies.” Betsy nodded again, which seemed to be her response to most things, but I figured she was scared. Hard to tell with her big ol’ eyes always in a state of near worry. In line, they checked us and sent the dry ones on their way. I don’t remember the last time I was dry for any change times; six years of pissing yourself tends to build a habit. Even if I orchestrated a grand ‘dig through a wall with a spoon and crawl through the sewers’ escape, I don’t know that I’d ever be able to control anything down there. Even my bowels slipped out without fanfare, I could barely hold in a fart anymore, and most of my food wasn’t solid anyway. I could shit just by tensing my stomach a bit when I felt like I might have to go, but it was, pardon the pun, a crapshoot. At the moment my diaper was full on both ends, and the checker didn’t even pull the onesie down to verify. I knew I stank. Betsy’d stayed dry and left the line. Poor fuckin’ kid. “Hey, Green.” I said as I laid down on the belt and held my arms and legs in the correct position, clock safely in hand, the straps automatically clamping down on my arms and over my chest. Green turned her head and nodded to me from where she lay next to me on the changing belt. “Hey Seenit,” she said. “How come I always feel like I have to sneeze during change?” I couldn’t shrug, so I made a ‘thinking face’. “Maybe it’s the powder?” “Could be. Haven’t seen you in the library in a while.” “Ah,” I said as a pair of robotic arms undid the snaps between my legs and the belt churned onward to get the lady next to me, who seemed to be sobbing softly. “I haven’t really had the time to get into a new book.” “I got a new donation in. It’s about business strategy.” Green was in the same steps of the process as I was, and I watched her diaper get un-taped while feeling it happen to me as we were shuffled down to the next step. Hands undoing buttons, hands opening diapers, hands doing phase one of wiping, hands lifting legs, wiping asses, scanning for solids, replacing diapers, so on and so forth until you were deposited at the end of the line in a clean one, smelling of powder and rubber from the belt. “Business strategy?” I raised my eyebrows. “You mean it’s not about a rebellious little princess who didn’t want her Amazon mommy to treat her like a baby so she had to learn how hard being a queen was, and then decided to be a baby anyway, complete with an ending shot of her nursing? Happy ending for all?” “Sometimes we get books that aren’t for babies,” Green’s glasses were akimbo in the position she was in as both of our legs were lifted at the same time. The lady next to me was fighting it, but the person on her other side seemed to be trying to tell her to chill out. “I know,” I said with a grin, “I think I’ve read all five of them.” “More than five!” She seemed a mite defensive of her collection. “You know it’s more than five!” “Yeah, yeah.” The truth was, I didn’t want to pick up anything new, because I wasn’t sure I’d have the time to finish before I forgot how to read entirely. But that’s exactly why I didn’t tell anyone that my day was coming up. I didn’t want the pity, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, the party like we’d thrown Mary. I didn’t want to start dying days in advance. “Come on by,” Green said as the hands taped her new diaper on. “You used to run a business, right?” “Not like I’m gonna get to run one again!” “I know, but I used to work at a library before I came here.” Laura Green had snapped and committed actual real arson and not bullshit ‘dropped a candle’ arson like I apparently had. “And you kind of run a business; anytime someone needs anything, you know a guy who knows a guy who owes another guy a favor who can get it for you.” Those three days felt like they were coming faster and faster. All cards on the table, I kind of liked it here in prison. No, it wasn’t anything like being a free little, but that was six years ago. Prison was better than what I’d be up to three days from now. I'd have to leave all of my trades, my agency, my status here behind. My eyes moistened. “You okay?” The person next to me was bawling and thrashing, guards had been called, but Green was worried about my moist eyes. “Yeah,” I said, “it’s the powder.” -- I ate snack (which was just lunch, I don't know why they called it snack), sucking down the bottle of milk and consuming - because by all means you couldn’t truly classify this as eating - my pureed chicken and rice slop. “Cooks must be in a good mood,” Double Chin said between bites, “Of all the bad stuff, pureed chicken and rice is the least-worse.” I watched from afar as Betsy ambled about, looking for a place to sit, while Coco scoffed. “This is blatant sweet potato erasure,” she said, popping her bottle in her mouth to punctuate. “Sweet potato feels slimy, like someone threw it up already.” “Hey,” I said, interrupting the important root-vegetable related conversation, “Coco, scootch over. I’m gonna have this new chick sit with us.” This was not a request for Coco’s permission, I was letting Betsy sit with us. I don’t know if I was the actual leader of this group or if that was an illusion of grandeur I put upon myself, but upon my beckoning, Betsy scurried over, her diaper still crinkly-crunchy with un-wetness. “Hi…” her voice was so soft as she sat next to me, she was tiny enough to fit on the bench (but, in fairness, Coco was skinny too and most of my strength was in the upper-body zone.) “Who the fuck is this,” Double Chin asked, a trace of formula still on her lips. “Betsy, the recipient of ‘warmest welcome of the year’ over there is Marta, but we call her Double Chin, and that’s Coco.” “But you can call me Coco,” she added with a smirk. “I’m Betsy.” She said, stirring her food. “Oh, you never told me your name,” she said to me. “Seenit.” “Seenit?” “It’s a nickname. No one calls me by my real name,” I took a small bite, trying to silently demonstrate to her that she needs to eat in small portions, “even the wardens and guards call me Seenit sometimes. I think they think it means I’m gonna be a valuable snitch.” Her gaze went wary. “Does it…?” Coco waggled her eyebrows at her. “You’re gonna have to cause some trouble to find out, aren’tcha, babykins?” “Fuck off,” I playfully reached over Betsy and shoved Coco, who shoved me back. This was just how we joked with each other. “Snitches get stitches, bitches.” “You guys cuss a lot…” Betsy said, scooping food onto her spoon. “It happens.” As soon as the food bent Betsy’s spoon and sent it tumbling down her shirt, a passing guard swatted her on the back of the head. I narrowed my eyes but kept my bottle in my mouth, pretending to be really interested in suckling it down. “OWIE!” She whined, grabbing her head. I heard the faint whizzing of piss into her diaper, even over the chatter of the lunchroom. “Well now! Look at you,” the Amazon guard, a particularly big one who was also named Marta, which was part of why we called our Marta Double Chin, put her hand on Betsy’s head to rattle it about, “you haven’t even taken one bite and you’re dribbling it down your front. We might not even need to regress this one, Samson,” she called to another guard, who shook their head as if someone had just told a slightly off-color joke. “Heey, Marta!” I said brightly, setting my bottle down and opening my arms wide like I’d just noticed her there and was so super happy about it. Distraction was a tactic, even if it was a coward's one. “How’s your kiddo doing?” “Afternoon, Seenit,” Marta was one of the harder guards to befriend, unfortunately my charms could only go so far. “He’s fine. Just out of college now. Might be looking for a little of his own if he and his wife can’t get pregnant.” “Well,” I pointed at her, “looks like you’ve got some advertising to do,” Marta was still gripping Betsy’s head like a grape while Coco and Dubs minded their business. “Tell him to come by the Front! You know those littles personally.” She chuckled at that. “And that’s why I won’t be doing any kind of advertising. Unless maybe this one’s time is up soon.” She 'patted' Betsy on the back, and reached her hand down to feel her diaper. “You just got changed and you’re already wet? You won’t last a minute here, baby dolly.” She ended that with a firm single spank to her butt, and then she was off. After some seconds of terrified, labored breathing where we all thought she was going to cry, Betsy’s thumb shot to her mouth and she sucked that thing furiously, rocking in place. It was right then that I had an idea of how her parents achieved that cutesy gap tooth. “Use your bottle,” I said gently, set in the knowledge that soft, designer little Betsy was in for a long ride. “We only have so long to eat, but your bottle will feed you and give you something to comfort yourself with.” Everyone had their ‘oh my god what am I doing here’ breakdown sometime, but hers seemed like it might extend a few days at least. She kept rocking, her eyes closed as tears leaked out. Coco patted her too and tried to ease her thumb out of her mouth to replace it with the bottle. The nipple seemed to be a fine substitute, because she nursed it with the same ferocity as I heard her pee even more, like maybe she’d been holding in the rest of the stream. “Don’t let any of the guards get to yas,” Double Chin said, “they’re just trying to make you miserable, it’s never personal.” Betsy wasn’t there with us enough to hear our gentle comforting, at least not right now. She was being held against a somber looking Coco, who was holding her bottle for her and rocking the girl who aggressively nursed and cried to herself. Coco’d been a mother once. We tried not to talk about it, but she knew how to handle a baby- a real baby, not what they thought we were. Betsy’d been trained to be a baby, but obviously something had happened to land her in jail; I rubbed her tummy, wondering exactly which events in her ginger head were going so very wrong. As soon as the bottle was empty, she stuck her thumb in her mouth again and sucked on it audibly, like it was her lifeline. The rest of snack was awkward for all of us. We didn’t see her at dinner, but on the way to lights out I heard the distant sound of her nursing her thumb, though I couldn’t tell which way it’d come from, or if it was even her. Two more days. -- Betsy is actually a character on loan from another story I have been thinking about (but haven't written) for a few years, wherin she's still a designer little. Her being in prison is somewhat of a 'bad end' for her. Chapter three later.

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