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Hello. I am very new here, but I have been reading stories on this website for a long time, and I decided I would finally post one that I've written. It's a diaper dimension story. Those are my favorite. There will be mentions of a robo nanny in the 'first act' but they're not prevalent. This will get sweet. There's cursing. Please enjoy. Chapter One: Exposition Stew We had no glasses to clink together, so we pumped our fists in the air for Mary. In prison, especially a little’s prison, you don’t have much to work with in terms of materials for a makeshift goodbye party. Amazons in prison get more to barter with, more to pass between hands, but you don’t get such a luxury when you’re of the small set. Coco’d been saving up her banana cookies, the chewy kind meant for babies to get used to solid food that you have to buy from the commissary with money your family brought you (should you be so lucky), Double Chin’d squirreled away scrap paper for the ‘decorations’, and I’d managed the feast. The piece de resistance: a burger. Now, was it a good burger? Fuck no, it was one of those little ones made of 90% filler, 5% hopes and dreams, and maybe 5% meat after that, what kind of meat’s anyone’s guess. It was the kind you nuked in a microwave in college, where it got molten hot in the center and the rubbery cheese made it sticky, but for us here, this was gold. This was solid goddamn gold. “Solid” was the real kicker on that. The details of how I got it could be a story in and of itself, but to keep it short, because there’s a lot more of this tale to go that doesn’t hinge on the numerous favors, trades, and acts that might have added years to my sentence that resulted in me getting my hands on a shitty burger: I know a guy. I also pride myself on my ability to orchestrate, but more on that later. Mary’d almost cried when she saw it, and the small ‘cake’ made when Coco stacked up the cookies. She could have been crying at the kindness of the gesture, she could have been crying because it was the last solid food she’d possibly ever know. We didn’t ask which was which. “Thank you, Seenit,” she said to me, wiping away the tears that collected on her long long lashes. “This is so fucking sweet of you, I don’t even know how you managed this.” “Don’t think too hard on it,” I told her with a hearty pat on the back. “Just enjoy. You’ve earned a last supper.” Later today, Mary was going to die. Okay, no, Mary wasn’t going to die, but she was going to get The Full Monty. She was Going Up Front, Headed To The Orphanage, Checking Out, The Big Drool, Headed Nippleward. She was on Crib Row. We had all kinds of names for it here in the pen, but that was because State Mandated Mental Regression wasn’t as nice to say. It was also called the “summer” program, since the acronym (SMMR) kind of looked like it, and we think that the wardens wanted us to call it the Summer Program, but we, at least in my circles, refused out of good old fashioned spite. You could tell who was a newbie via several avenues, but calling it The Summer Program was one of them. After Mary ate her burger, and the cookies, and drank the bottle of the worst formula the State Penitentiary for Criminal Littles could afford - out of a baby bottle of course, you only got a sippy cup if you were extremely good, and none of us had been - she was going to get carried down the long hallway, past our cribs, and regressed to the highest extent of the law. It was rumored that they cut your tendons and take your teeth, but god if we didn’t know. Littles don’t adopt littles, so no one I talked to had experience in The Front Room, where they lay out completely blank slate, empty headed, regressed-to-newborn littles who’d committed a crime so bad that they decided you weren’t able to function even as a toddler, much less an adult, to be adopted. From what we’d all heard, you were completely emptied and physically altered to be nothing more than a bag of mush with a heartbeat and a diaper. Oh, sure, we were already treated sort of like the babies the huge ones saw us as here. None of us had seen a toilet since sentencing, and instead three times a day we were all laid on a conveyor belt and pushed along so that a team of robo nannies could clean up shop downstairs. At the beginning of my six year tenure, this was traumatizing, cold, violating, dehumanizing. Now, it was part of the daily grind. It was what it was. Meals were twice a day with a ‘snack’ in the middle. Various pureed foods were slopped onto our trays and expected to be eaten with rubbery spoons that bent if your spoonful of mush was too big, which it often was until you learned how to portion it, because we are all pretty hungry here. That guaranteed that some eager newbie would spill it down their front and get berated by the guards for being a baby. No bibs here, and if your clothes were dirty then they’d stay dirty until you could get a laundry token. That includes in the case of leaks, too. Blowouts would get you an emergency token, but you’d also get this shit beaten out of you - figuratively and literally - by the guards for making them actually do something. Baby bottles were filled with aforementioned shitty watery formula that tasted like dishwater and, hell, very well might have been. You had your own bottle with your name on it. If you lost it, you’d better fuckin find it. I remember in my second year here I’d lost my bottle, and the ensuing wild goose chase got me the unfortunate nickname of Seenit, because I kept darting in and out of out different cliques in their chatting circles and asking if they’d Seen It. At least I wasn’t Double Chin. You can put together where she got her nickname, and it wasn’t as bad as Rosie Palms, whose name is just as obvious. (Poor Rosie. They do not take kindly to ‘Diaper Touching’ here. Her punishment wound up making her numb between the legs; she can’t feel anything down there, much less pleasure. Suppose that makes the nickname cruel, but prison is a cruel place.) We wore snap-crotch onesies in the warmer months and footed sleepers in winter. Our cribs were grey with blue rubber mattresses, nothing in way of a pillow or a blanket unless it got too cold for them to ignore the inhumanity of it all. Some people found things to use as pillows, and if you had the whole Family Outside thing, you could maybe get them to bring you one. Mary hadn’t had a family. Neither had I, adopted or otherwise. I’d gone 29 years of my life without getting scooped up by an Amazon with dreams of cribbing me and making me suck her tits. 29 years not pissing myself, or making some other kind of blunder that would send me to an etiquette school or at least just kidnapped. Shoplifting, public fighting, vandalism, breaking one of the arbitrary Gotcha rules that Amazons keep in place with hair-thin triggers that’ll make you ripe for the picking, that’s the kind of stuff that gets you into etiquette schools. No, no, to get in the pen, you’ve gotta do something worse. You need to do something that’s illegal for an Amazon to do, too. Thankfully for me, I’d committed fraud, assault with a deadly weapon, and, though I still say this one wasn’t my fault and the goddamn kangaroo court just wanted one more shiny bulb on the big holiday tree of crimes, arson. See, it’s not easy for a little to start a business. You can start one for other littles, but it’s expensive, arduous, and sometimes doomed to fail. The people with the keys, the licences, the pretty papers that say you’re approved, they’re Amazons. And Amazons don’t think littles can do anything. Though even a stopped clock is right twice a day; I’d met one Amazon, Ritchie Mitchell (good old Rich Mitch) who figured out that helping me run my completely legitimate, above board, and absolutely not fraudulent talent agency that interviewed plucky youngsters in hopes of being on runways, catwalks, showing off the latest in Big Oppressor fashion, or of bringing their pretty littles in to have them waggle their diapered butts in front of the camera to be on diaper boxes or in commercials, would net money for his pockets too. As far as they all know I was giving littles and amazons their big breaks. See, what we did was have Ritchie interview the bigs and I’d interview the littles (Amazons don’t want to get career advice from someone they think shouldn’t even know what a job is), and we’d act as their agents. Unfortunately, we’d ‘never quite find work’ for those nice pretty people, but keep charging them the monthly agency fee until they quit to find a new one. Good thing about the fees were that they were strictly non-refundable. Once in a while, just to keep people from getting too mad, we’d call up an actual agency and refer them, have that agency find them a gig, say that we’d found it ourselves, and send them to the tryouts. The best moment of the scam, if I do say so myself, was the fake photoshoot I’d orchestrated from the shadows. We only managed it once, booking a pretty scenic spot on top of a building to shoot some early twenties twelve-footer in swimsuits. I paid my roommate to get her boyfriend to ask his photographer friend to lend me his setup in exchange for a supply of Sprinkles (a designer drug just for littles; don’t even try it, kids), that I had to get from one of the models after I’d ‘caught’ her with it and ‘let slide’ as a favor. Then I got Ritchie to get his husband to pretend to be a photographer. We sold the swimsuit photos to a softcore porn website after I did some pretty handy editing, instead of posting them to an online shopping website just in time for the big summer sale like we’d advertised. The clothing company she was shooting for was a front, too. We paid the model less than what she deserved, really, because to her ‘brown hair with blond highlights’ ‘high cheekbones but big sexy eyes’ ‘nice c-cup tits’ credit, she worked that rooftop. Look, I’m in prison, I don’t know what sort of saintly protagonist you were expecting. We had employees who were varying levels of unawares, including the receptionist who’d called Ritchie up front to talk to the investigative team there. I was in my office, because I always was, basking in the feeling of being a shadowy boss that no one had ever seen but had received friendly emails from. My photo on our website was a stolen image of an Amazon who’d died seven years prior. I hear a commotion because apparently Ritchie got a little jumpy at their line of questioning, so I come down, and, yeah, I lost my cool. Shouldn’t have pulled a gun on them and told them to get out of our business unless they had a warrant, but as you learn from almost three decades in this world of Amazons and littles; Amazons will not listen to you. Bing, bang, boom, we squabbled over rights and expense forms and tax reports, they told me I was under arrest, I shot one of them in the shoulder in my attempt to high-tail it out of there. I was hoping I’d make the forest’s edge and disappear to become some sort of cryptid, but he grabbed me by the ankle and my finger had an itch that only firing that damn gun could scratch. Felt good. Like when you finally get that spot on your back that you couldn’t reach. The arson thing was because in my attempt to get out of there, I knocked over the receptionists lit scented candle. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I’d embezzled enough of that money that I got sentenced to eight years, but I’ve had years shaved off for good behavior. Years off your sentence doesn’t mean you’ll be free. It just means you’ll be put into the orphanage sooner. Mary, who’d done a hit and run, crunched into her cookies under a paper sign that said “GOOD LUCK MARY!” We’d all signed it. She wouldn’t be able to take it with her, but it was the thought that counted. Myself, Coco, and Double Chin all watched her eat, tried to make smalltalk. It was near impossible to be fully happy when you knew that 24 hours from then, Mary was going to be drooling in the adoption hallway, having forgotten this, her hit and run, and everything she was before the first time she opened her eyes once the Amazons were done with her. “I think I’m gonna go lay down,” Mary said, her expression defeated. “You sure?” Double Chin scratched at her elbow. “Don’t you think you’re gonna be layin’ down enough when--” “Dubs!” Coco slapped her, right on her apparently itching elbow. “She knows, dumbass!” “It’s fine,” Mary said, shaking her head and standing. “Night change is at five. You know what time it is, Seenit?” I held up a finger and trundled over to the small alarm clock that sat on the floor under my crib. “3:30.” Mary nodded. “Yeah. I’m going down the hall right after that. They want me clean for the procedure.” It was generally good manners to not point out the state of your fellow inmates undergarments, but even beneath her onesie it was easy to see that Mary was wet. Not that I could take a high ground here. I was in the mind that I had to get a shit out before night change so I didn’t have to sit in one until morning. Coco grimaced. “Well…. Make sure you say goodbye to us before you go, Mary Bear.” Mary always smiled well. She had a pretty face, and long black hair that was in a state of light disrepair from the time she’d been here, but would definitely be cute with a washing, trim, and brushing. I would miss Mary’s smile, and I tried to lock in my mind there the one she gave the three of us before offering up an army salute and toddling over to her crib, about seven or eight down from my own. The robo-nanny sensed her doing the ‘up’ gesture, picked her up under the arms, and deposited her in the crib, locking the top. “Welp,” I said after some time of the three of us watching from where we’d thrown the ‘party’ in the hall in front of our beds, “guess we should clean up here.” “Yep!” Coco’s enthusiasm was false, but she knelt down to brush the crumbs from ‘here’ to ‘there.’ Double Chin pulled down Mary’s sign, but as I was balling up the plastic microwave wrapper from the burger and the bags of banana cookies, I held my hand out to her. “Hey, gimme that.” “Whatcha want it for?” She helped lighten my load by taking the wrappers. “She can’t take it down the hall.” “I know. I just want her to keep it in mind.” There was a final note I needed to give Mary. I’d be sure to slip it between the bars of her crib before night change. See You Soon, Girl. -Seenit. --------------------------------------- I have 4 chapters of this written so far. I will post more tomorrow. I'm very eager to have more of it up! Thank you.