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Happy new year readers! Welcome to the latest (and I think the penultimate) chapter in the Mike and Sandra and Katie saga. This one presented some difficulties as it turned into an attempt to develop a vaguely plausible path to mental regression while I was writing it. Some of the spicier stuff had to be cut to make room for that, and yet we still don't really know what's going on behind the closed doors of the mysterious Regression Center. Judge for yourselves if I got there with Mike in terms of what he's been going through. As always, all characters are 18+ I'm back. But I don’t have any idea where I am or how I got here. I’m sitting on the floor in a living room near a pile of toys and children’s books that aren’t mine. A few more are scattered here and there across the carpet. It’s nice carpet, but not a color I could live with. The furniture and décor are also unfamiliar and not to my own or Sandra’s taste. A little too spartan really. First home maybe? There are no pictures on the wall or any other clues as to the owner that I can see from my current vantage point. The presence of what I do recognize as my backpack in the corner behind me suggests that I’m meant to be here and therefore likely safe. I’m not really responsible for my backpack, even though it’s “mine”, and even though it goes with me everywhere I go outside the home. Some well meaning adult put it there or sent me here with it. My initial sensation of panic begins to ebb a bit. The mystery location is actually less of a concern in the grand scheme of things than the missing time. I don’t even know what month it is, much less day or date. How long have I been zoned out for? I’m wearing a plain colored tee shirt and matching sweatpants. Holiday neutral and seasonally appropriate for any time of year as long as one is spending most of one’s time inside. No time clues there. The soggy disposable diaper underneath my sweatpants and bottom suggests that enough time has passed to allow for significant progression in my regression. The last I can remember clearly, I was still in training pants. Something akin to a diaper, but not quite. And yet, I can vaguely recall wearing daytime diapers at times too. And being changed at daycare. Or was it playgroup? It’s all so jumbled! I shake my head trying to clear the cobwebs and reflect for a moment on the irony inherent in the concept of progression in regression. But then I have to remind myself that getting lost in thoughts like these is a very risky undertaking. They can trigger more zone outs. The zone outs started subtly. Waking dreams that I slipped into without noticing I’d checked out. Like falling asleep in front of the TV when you are still sort of aware of the show as it plays on, but when you wake up, you have no idea what has happened or how much of it you missed. My first significant zone out actually occurred in front of the TV about three weeks after I started my sessions at the Regression Center. It was like any other lazy Sunday night. I was cuddled up with Sandra on the couch watching some awful family comedy movie she had picked out. I needed to pee, but I was patiently waiting for the next commercial break when all of a sudden, I was jolted back to reality by a shout of surprise from Sandra. A disposable training pants commercial was playing on the TV screen. And my pants were soaked. Sandra had been very nice about it. In fact, after her initial expression of surprise, she had been nonchalant about the whole thing, even though I couldn’t explain to her how or why it happened. As if it were totally normal for a diaper commercial to prompt a full-blown wetting accident in an adult. As if everyone just lost time from time-to-time. I was cleaning up in the shower and feeling very sorry for myself when I heard the bathroom door open. Sandra had slipped into the shower behind me without asking for permission to join. She pulled me into her, her bare breasts pressing firmly against my back. We stood like that in silence for a minute or so, and then she began soaping my back with a soft, baby blue washcloth. I’d never seen her use a washcloth before, but this felt really good. The tension in my shoulders eased a little. She moved closer again, the cloth now working lower on my bottom. As it slipped between my cheeks, she leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “Awwwww is my boy upset because he did a wee wee in his panties?” I let out a small gasp in reply - prompted more to the invasiveness of her work with the washcloth than the sensitivity of the subject. Sandra nodded in sympathy and moved the cloth to the front. The fingers of her left hand now caressed the tip of my penis as she gently worked over my crotch and balls with the right. She whispered again: “It’s OK, Sweetie. Accidents are no big deal. It was bound to happen sometime wasn’t it?” When I didn’t respond immediately, she paused her movements. Her touch felt amazing, and despite my shame, a growing part of me very much wanted this treatment to continue. My voice quivered a little as I replied: “I guess so, but not like this!…I mean I didn’t even know it was happening, and then I was wet, and you shouted, and I felt like I didn’t know where I was or who I was. And I know I said I wanted to go to the regression center, but really I just wanted an excuse to quit my job. I, I didn’t think it would be like…like…this. I didn’t even think it would WORK, and now look I’ve ruined the couch, and I just want to stop going and stay home with you instead…” Sandra interrupted my rambled confession with a gentle “Shhhhhhh!” in my ear. She was stroking me now with the washcloth. “Sweetie, it’s too late to stop treatment now. Or at least, you can’t quit all at once - you know that could cause a serious psychotic break that could leave you permanently baby-brained. You don’t want that do you?” I shook my head “no” even as a soft moan escaped my lips. Sandra’s work with the washcloth was exquisite. I was thrusting a little bit into her hand now, and feeling her match my movements with her own, her smooth pubic area keeping firm pressure against my bottom. “No - you don’t. Let’s just stick with it until Easter and then we can decide what’s best for you. Does that sound good, my sweet boy?” I nodded and moaned again, thrusting harder now. “Besides, I have to tell you that you looked absolutely adorable sitting on the couch, looking up at me with confused puppy dog eyes, and a wet patch on your pants. In fact, if you had put your thumb in your mouth at that moment, I probably would have just ripped your wet pants off and fucked you on the spot.” I didn’t have time to be surprised at that statement because, as soon as she said it, she spun me around and kissed me deeply, my dick throbbing against her smooth lower belly. She grabbed my bottom with one hand, pulling me closer into her, while the other guided my hand down and between her legs. “Feel how wet that makes me, baby”, she whispered in my ear as she pushed two of my fingers inside her. That did it. “Oooooh fuuuuuck!”, I groaned, as I came hard against her belly, my knees buckling and almost giving way. Sandra caught me and held me, slumped and panting into her breasts. “Oh my - two accidents in one night!”, she teased, and then she continued to rock me back and forth under the warm water. Of course not every zone out was as climactic as that first one, but in those early days especially, it did seem like Sandra went out of her way to “reward” me every time I did something particularly babyish while I was out. Getting a blowjob in dirty training pants in the family bathroom at the mall was one of most unexpectedly erotic things that had ever happened to me. There were some triggers I later came to recognize (and to be wary of) in my more lucid moments: baby talk, commercials or other media featuring babies or toddlers, praise for accomplishing simple tasks, and certain smells associated with childhood comforts and care. I’m sure the regression center planted other zone out triggers as well, although it was likely overkill as I was exposed to all of these things on a near constant basis by Sandra and the limited range of other adults I now interacted with regularly. It was next to impossible to avoid zone outs under these circumstances, even when I was aware of the triggers. A momentary slip into a daydream, a warm rush of dopamine, and I might not reawaken for hours, or days. Or as it now seemed, possibly weeks or months. And worse, there is no longer any guarantee that I’ll be “all there” even when I do come back. Sometime in the spring, during one of my still (at that time) frequent moments of clarity, I realized that I’d been operating for the past few hours in a sort of limbo. Not a full on zone out - but somewhere undeniably much closer to baby mode than adult. It’s tough to describe what it’s like being in the “in between”, as I now refer to it. If a zone out is like falling asleep without realizing it, then the in between is like waking from a deep sleep when the boundaries between dreams and reality are still blurred and thoughts and feelings slip easily through your head and then away and out of reach. You’re conscious, but the events unfold in your memories like a surreal slideshow. For instance, I could tell you about how we fed the ducks at the park, and that I had my blue coat and mittens on, but I couldn’t tell you how we got there, or what day it was, or describe why I enjoyed it so much. At the time, this new mental state was quite concerning to me because, unlike during a zone out, I was consciously doing those babyish things, expressing those babyish emotions, thinking those babyish thoughts. And worse, I began to like doing it. Soon after the in between periods started, I also began to notice a distinct rush of warmth and contentment whenever I did something juvenile or was treated like a small child. It wasn’t a subtle feeling either. It was something new and very pleasurable. I first experienced it during a period of lucidity. We were eating dinner together at a restaurant, when Sandra suddenly reached across the table to wipe some food off of my face. That innocuous little mothering movement that we’ve all seen and experienced a thousand times and probably never thought twice about, shot me straight to the moon! My eyes went glassy, my mouth fell open, and I slumped down into my chair with a soft moan. I was vaguely aware that my bladder was letting go, but I didn’t even try to stem the flow. I just sat there gaping and staring into the ether for at least a full minute. The people next to us probably thought I was having a stroke! But Sandra stayed calm, watching me with an expression of amused interest. Eventually, she lent forward and whispered across the table that I was “being such a good boy”, which prompted further waves of pleasure to wash over me. I was way too doped up in that moment to process what had happened, but it became clear in the days that followed that I had entered a new phase of the regression protocol. Those quacks at the regression center had done some serious rewiring in the pleasure centers of my brain. I was immediately hooked. Completely and utterly addicted. I've tried every drug in the book, and nothing, I mean nothing, compares to the intensity and pleasure of that high. And there was no shortage of opportunity to score in my new lifestyle, especially in the in between. As time wore on, the addiction chipped away at even my most basic inhibitions and standards. The more I degraded my adult self, the more intense the high. I found myself choosing to slip into the in between. It was like taking a vacation from my adult self and all my grown up problems. It was just way too easy to let go, and to allow Sandra or the ladies at the daycare or playgroup to do practically everything for me. To treat me like the smallest and most incompetent of children. I stopped caring about the distinctions between adult and child. Between big boy and little boy. I started sucking my thumb more frequently and openly. I no longer got upset about my potty accidents, (even though I would still occasionally deny that they had happened). I spoke in simpler sentences. My coordination deteriorated, and I began having trouble with basic logic and forward planning. In short, I was caught in a vicious, but very pleasant spiral of regression. And the more babyish and helpless I behaved, and the more I let myself slip out of lucidity and into the in between, the more comfortable and content in myself I felt. True, I sometimes had vaguely disconcerting recollections that I had been something else, something possibly more preferable, but it didn't seem important to dwell on those thoughts. Because I was choosing to act this way, and I told myself that I could also choose to stop at any time. Of course the more classic zone outs and episodes of lost time also continued during these times (case in point, this most recent episode of indeterminate duration and origin). God knows what those things are doing to my psyche when starting from such an already vulnerable in between state. It’s possible that one day I’ll just slip away into a permanent zone out - my adult brain permanently cooked, never to return. But I don’t think that’s Sandra’s intention, or how this stuff really works. Sandra likes me being aware of what’s happening. She wants me to retain the memories of lost battles in intimate, gory detail. There’s no fun in this change in status unless I’m aware of it. A permanently zoned out zombie baby is not the desired end state. And yet the zone outs continue, so they must be serving some purpose in pushing this whole process forward. If I had to guess, I’d say the zone outs work on the subconscious level - breaking down any remaining subconscious resistance from my now beleaguered, dopamine addled brain. I expect they’ll stop if and when I surrender completely. But for now, here I am. Wherever and whenever this is. This is the most lucid and just generally with it I've felt in a long time. And it's only in times like these, that I can see just how close I am getting to rock bottom, and just how much I wish I could stop the unending cycle of soggy and squishy bottoms that come with it. The last time I snapped back to something like my adult self was somewhere around Thanksgiving I think, and I was definitely much fuzzier then. Still, I can remember pieces of time from before that, trick or treating for instance, and various other scenes of a familiarly babyish nature that seem to span weeks. Had I really allowed myself to stay in the in between for so long? Unfortunately, I had chosen to waste my previous limited time in adult space by picking a silly fight with Sandra over the color of the shirt I was wearing (like I said, I wasn't thinking perfectly straight). I can't remember anything after that, so I must have been permanently zoned out between then and now. Maybe Sandra triggered a mega zone out to punish me or just to shut me up. It has happened before - or at least I suspect it has. This is one of the more unpleasant thoughts that invades my brain when I'm back. One of the adult problems that I run away from in the in between. Because I suspect that Katie triggered the zone out that ended my last period of true lucidity before this one. The last time I was truly able to see the depth of the spiral I was in. The time when I brought up our deepest, darkest shared secret. In a moment that felt even more intimate and vulnerable than that night years ago. And the possibility of that betrayal hurts - it terrifies me - because I don't think I can get off this train alone. And I think she might be the only person who can help me. To be continued...