The Immie

[willnotwill]

Greetings, readers.   I was on a long drive today and had some time to think to myself.   I came up with the germ of a new story...

 

THE IMMIE

It was a warm spring day as my father pulled the family car into the government center parking lot.    It was also my eighteenth birthday.   As with eighteen-year-olds across the country, it was the day of my determination; determination of what my future would be.

You see, it had been drummed into us at school for years that once you came of age in our country, you were classified into one of two categories.    One category was that you were an adult, with all the rights and responsibilities of that.   You could vote, hold office, get a job, make financial decisions, sign contracts, and the like.    Adults often went to college and got jobs with responsibilities.

On the other hand, you could be classified as an “immature adult.”   These not only were excluded from the above rights, but you were treated like a child, only worse.    Immature adults were often referred by the shorter term “immies.”   This was frequently accompanied by a sneer of disapproval.   Those who represented the rights of immature adults, few that they were, preferred the full term “immature adult,” or at least the abbreviation IA.

You were appointed a guardian, usually one of your parents who was an adult.    The guardian was responsible for your care and made all the decisions in your life.   You couldn’t do anything without their approval.     You couldn’t travel or even drive locally without a letter of authorization, a permission slip from the guardian saying it was OK.

You didn’t have money.   If your guardian wanted you to work, you’d get a job with their approval, but the money went to them.   Immie jobs were usually menial, housekeeping, childcare, fast food, janitorial.    Guardianships could be transferred, in many cases sold.    The immie-guardian relationship was much akin to the slave-master relationship of old.

Once the determination was made, it was usually forever.    An adult would only lose that classification in the event of some severe psychiatric event or conviction of a serious crime.    Immies only really had two options to improve their lot.    One was to enter the military. The other was to enroll in an expensive improvement program.   Both required the permission of the guardian to happen.

We had prepared in school for the determination.   There was a set of academic exams, history, civics, grammar, literature, and math.   There were personality tests, home visits, and interviews.   All were used to make the determination.     School provided some of the preparation.   Our parents were expected to provide the rest.   Some parents paid for extra assistance for their children.   Mine didn’t  I had two older sisters, both had become adults.

Carla, the oldest, was seven years older than me.   She had gone to college and law school and now was starting out as an attorney.   Carla had never been overly friendly to her siblings.    I think she resented us for not allowing her to be an only child.

Debbie was the middle child.    We had a much better relationship. She was two years older than me and now in college studying premed.    We bonded together against Carla’s abuse.

So here I was following my parents up the steps of the government center to meet the evaluation board.    Looking at them, I saw the two paths my life might take.   My father was dressed in a business suit.   He was an adult and a financial expert.   He held a good job that supported his family.    My mother, on the other hand, was an immie.    She was dressed in typical immie clothing, a short dress that didn’t entirely extend over the cover that enclosed her diaper.   Since this was a formal occasion, it was one of her nicer ones.    A blue satin fabric with large puffy sleeves, but it was cleary immie.

You see, in addition to all the other restrictions on an immie, society had placed a visual encumbrance to reinforce to an immie that they were considered little more advanced than a toddler.    Immies wore short dresses, or rompers, or balloons, or onesies in public.    They weren’t permitted to use toilet facilities in public places and wore diapers to accommodate those needs.   At home, it was a decision of the guardian.   My father allowed my mother to use the toilet, but she still wore diapers in case she had to go out, and she nearly always wore immie clothes.

I never really saw it bother her.    It wasn’t uncommon when we returned home for her to immediately head off to the bathroom whether it was to relieve what she had been holding or to change out of a soiled diaper.   I never thought she minded the clothing, but one day I saw her browsing a fashion magazine and studying a sleek evening gown.     I guess she was imagining herself wearing a dress like that.    The dream was interrupted with Carla observing what was going on and stating, “That’s a pretty dress, but the lines would be ruined by the bulge of your immie diaper under it.”   I could see the shame well up in my mother.   That was pure Carla.

I entered the cool lobby of the government center.   My father had already found the room number on the directory, and we made our way down the corridor.   There was a reception desk there, and I showed my ID to the woman at the desk and announced I had a 10 AM appointment.    She told me that they would call me shortly.

For the first time in this entire process, I was nervous.   I had butterflies in my stomach.    I have always done well in school, so the testing had never bothered me.   But had I fared well in the other stuff.   I had always been happy go lucky in my attitude.   I never really concentrated on things, nor did it seem I had to.

My name was called, and my parents and I filed into the small hearing room.    The three-panel members sat at a raised table in the front of the room.   It all looked vary official.    A government seal adorned the wall behind them and flags hung from poles on both sides of that.

“Jason Green,” the woman in the center began.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, stepping forward.    I was trying to be on my best behavior, not that I was going to influence the decision at this point.

She opened the file and looked at a sheet of paper.   “Yes, your test scores were quite good,” she began.   I started to relax.    “However, some of your psychological testing was troubling, as was the conditions noted in your home inspections.”   I wondered what it was.   Was my room not tidy enough?  I admit I wasn’t a neat freak.    She pulled out a sheet and examined it and then started with what appeared to be a spiel that she knew by heart without having to read it.

“Jason Green, date of birth April 7, 2001, having appeared before this board on April 7, 2019, is hereby determined to be an immature adult.   Guardianship to be granted to the father, Brian Green.   Thank you, and good luck.”

I was devastated.   Tears started to well up in my eyes, and I fought them.    That would certainly be further demonstration of my immaturity.    I looked toward my father.   He was just shaking his head in disapproval of me.   My mother put her arm around me and guided me out of the room.    My father had made an inquiry at the desk, and they told him to send me to another room.   He remained in the lobby while my mother escorted me to the new room.     A woman inside asked for my ID.   I handed it to her, and she said she would be right back.

“Don’t worry, son,” she said.   “It’s not that bad.    I’ve been an immie for 25 years.”

“It isn’t?” I said.

“All I wanted to be was a good wife and mother.    I think I did that.   Don’t you think?   The fact that I was an immie didn’t affect that.”

I nodded.   She had been a good mother.    We sat there.    I pondered my future.   My father had my guardianship, but for how long.    I thought about my mother.

“Did dad buy you?” I asked.

She smiled.

“Not quite like that.    I didn’t expect not to be an immie.   I hoped I’d have made the grade, but it wasn’t a surprise when I didn’t.   I still moped around a bit after the determination.    I then got a job working as a waitress.   Your father used to eat there, and I tried to flirt with him.    After a few months, it worked, and he asked my father for permission to date me.”

“OK,” I just said.

“Eventually, he asked him I would marry him.   He didn’t have to do that.    He could have just paid my father for my guardianship and taken me, but he said he didn’t want to do that.   He didn’t want me if I didn’t want him.     I immediately said, yes.”

I suddenly had even more respect for my father.

“Your father always treated me as a wife and not an immie.   While I pretty much didn’t have much choice to wear immie clothes all the time, I was always running around with you kids, no time to maintain a separate at home and away wardrobe, your father placed no restrictions on me.     I had pretty broadly written letters of authorization that let me do what I needed to do for the household, and I could use the toilet at home.”

I nodded.

The clerk returned and slid an ID across the table.   It had my name and picture but had a broad red stripe across the top.   “Your driver’s license is still valid, but you will need a letter of authorization to drive anywhere,” she stated.   I picked it up.   She had another sheet of paper.   She looked at my mother.    “Where is the father?”

“He went down to the lobby,” my mother stated.   “He left me to help Jason.”

“Well, dear,” the woman said in a condescending tone.   “I will need to speak to a responsible adult.”   I bristled.   The woman who bore and raised me wasn’t responsible?   The woman was talking like my mother was a three-year-old.

I opened my mouth, but my mother just put her hand on my shoulder and said: “I’ll get him.” And then to me, “I’ll be right back.”

My mother left, and the woman turned to me.  “Do you have any other clothes with you?”   I had no idea what she meant, but I knew the answer was no, and I shook my head.

She went to a cabinet and came out with two items and set them on the table.    My parents returned to the room.   She addressed my father.    “I have some paperwork to go over with you.   First, your son will need to change into this.”   She pushed the two items toward him.   He picked them up and handed them to my mother.

My mother led me to a bench near the wall and told me to please take off what I was wearing.    I hesitated, but she looked firm, so I started unbuttoning my shirt.

I heard the woman talking to my father.   “First, this is the deed of guardianship.  Keep it in a safe place.”   I saw an elaborate document being pushed toward my father.    Ownership papers.   He owned me now.

I kicked my shoes off and started to remove my pants.    I head the woman explain other procedural things to my father.     My mother reached up and pulled down my underwear.    I reddened in the embarrassment of being entirely exposed in front of her, my father, and this strange lady.

My mother had me lie on the bench and then slid something under me.   She pulled it up between my legs and fastened the tape.   It was a diaper.   “I haven’t done this since you were three,” she whispered with a smile.     She then threaded what appeared to be a shirt over my arms and head.    She pulled it down and then snapped it between my legs.   It was a onesie.   While I had seen immies wearing them from time to time, what I immediately thought of was seeing them on babies.    .    So this is what it came down to.

The woman was discussing more paperwork with my father and finally concluded.    My mother folded my clothes and stepped up to my father.   He looked at them and said, “Throw them away.  He’ll not need them anymore.”   Mom dropped them into a large can in the corner.    It hit me at that point.    My former life was over.   My new life, the life of an immie, was beginning.

We walked out of the government center and headed for the car.   A cool breeze blew across my bare legs.   I felt very exposed.   I guess I’d need to get used to this.    A girl I knew from school was walking toward the building with her parents.   I guess we had the same birthday.   I managed a smile and a wave.    She just broke into giggles at the sight of me.    I started to cry.

Mom got into the back seat with me and held me as I cried.   How was I going to get through this?

[Pierry Louys]

Very interesting story!! Hope to see more 

[Txdiapered]

A very nice start to an interesting story line. Please continue!

[willnotwill]

I got home and headed up to my room.   I threw myself on the bed, smashed my face into my pillow, and started to cry for a long time.    I stayed there for a good long time.    In the late afternoon, I heard the front door open.   “I’m home,” I heard Debbie call out.   That lifted my spirits.   She was home from school for a visit.   I bounced down the stairs.

“Happy Birthday,” she called out with a smile until she saw me.   Then her face broke.   She took several steps toward me and hugged me tightly.   “I’m so sorry.    It will be OK.”   She patted my back.   “If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask,” she whispered in my ear.

“Thanks,” I said.    It was good to have her near me.   A moment later, Carla pushed through the door.   She looked at me and clucked.   “I always knew you’d end up an immie,” she said.  That was pure Carla.  Debbie just pulled me close to her.    Mom came out with a  cake blazing with eighteen candles and started singing Happy Birthday.   Everybody joined in.   The cake was cut and passed around.   Carla ate hers and made a hasty exit.   I guess five minutes for her little brother was all she allocated.

I had to pee.   Nobody said anything about me having to use the diaper, so I went to the bathroom.   I unsnapped the crotch of the onesie and wriggled the diaper down.    I did my business and pulled it back up and with only slight difficulty get snapped up.   I returned to the living room.

“So what do you have planned for the rest of the weekend,” Debbie asked.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Well, we better go shopping tomorrow.   He needs a new wardrobe,” my mother said.   I groaned.   This is not the birthday present I had envisioned.    “Other than that, he can just relax.”

“Until Monday,” my father said.

“What happens Monday?” I asked.

“You go back to school.”

“But immies don’t have to go to school,” my mother pointed out.   I thought about that.    I guess there wasn’t much point in it.   It also explained while I didn’t see any immies attending school even though many seniors like me turned eighteen.   They just disappeared.

“They don’t.   But that assumes that they have no use for an education.    Jason might as well get his diploma.   It’s only another month or so.”

And there it was.   I’d be going back to finish the last weeks of school as an immie.

The next morning my mother got me up.   “Dad’s going into the office today,” mom said.   “This gives us time to go shopping together.”   I put the onesie back on, the only immie outfit I had, and we headed out to the car.

“Can I drive?” I asked.   I’ve had my license for a couple of years now.   I even had an old, beater car.

“You can’t,” mom said.   “You father hasn’t written you an LOA for that, yet.   I’ll be sure to remind him to do that.”    I sighed and got into the passenger seat.

We drove to a largish store.     SuperTogs it proclaimed.   It was a place that catered to the immie.   There racks upon racks of toddler clothes.   A whole wall of the store was dedicated to various diapers, disposable and reusable.    Most of the clerks appeared to be immies or at least dressed the part.    One came to help us.

“My son just got his determination yesterday.   We need to get him a whole wardrobe.”

The clerk and my mother pulled various things from the rack and held them up to me.  Some I tried on right there over the onesie.    Soon the clerk had about ten outfits piled up on the counter.   There were rompers, shirt and diaper covers sets, balloon outfits, and another onesie.    As this whole process progressed, I became aware of the pressure in my bladder.    I whispered to my mother, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Mom smiled.   “You can’t here.   You can either try to hold it or just go in the diaper.   They have a nice changing table in the back so let me know, and I’ll clean you up right away.”

I had been holding it for some time.   I needed to go.    I tried, but I couldn’t get it started.   My mom whispered to me, “Close your eyes and imagine you’re standing in front of a toilet.”    I tried that, and soon I felt the relief and the feeling of warm pee soaking into the front of the diaper.  

Mom led me over to the diaper display.   She looked through the packages of diapers and then diaper bags and wipes and other accessories.

“You’ll need these anyway,” and then led me to an alcove in the back of the store.   She spread a sheet of paper she retrieved from a dispenser down on the padded surface and motioned me up on the table.    She quickly untapped my diaper and set to cleaning me up.    She got a new diaper out of the bag and put it on me.   She then picked up one of the bubbles they had picked out for me and put that on me.    I got up while she was washing her hands and looked in the mirror.   I looked like an oversized two-year-old.

Mom and the clerk brought everything up to the counter.   The clerk commenced to right things up.   My mother passed over a credit card, and the clerk swiped it in the register.    She then stopped.   She looked at the screen on the register a minute and then said: “I’ll be right back.”

She returned with a woman dressed in regular adult clothes who looked at the register.

“Is there a problem?” my mother asked.

“I’m afraid there is, little girl,” the woman said with a condescending tone.   The little girl was to drive home my mother’s immie status.   Your LOA doesn’t cover this.

“Doesn’t it say I can buy for the entire household?” mom asked.    She had said that this was how dad had written her LOAs.

“I’m afraid not, dear.   It only covers purchases for yourself, not anybody else.”

“Oh,” she said.   “My son only got his determination yesterday.”

The manager pursed her lips.    “I see.   I guess I can call your guardian for authorization.”

“My husband is at his office,” she said.   She produced one of my father’s business cards.

“He’s your guardian?” the woman asked.

“Yes, of course,” my mother said.

The woman took the card and dialed.    We heard the phone ringing through the speaker.   My father’s voice came on.   “First Financial Services, Brian Green speaking.”

“Mr. Green, this is Mrs. Jacobs at SuperTogs.    We have a girl here, Jessica Green, who is trying to make a purchase for another person.   Is she your ward?”

“She’s my wife,” my father corrected.

“But you do have guardianship of her?”

“Yes, my father said with slight irritation.    She’s buying for my son who just got his IA determination yesterday.   I guess I never anticipated that this would be an issue at SuperTogs.    Most of the other stores have LOAs authorizing my wife to purchase on behalf of the entire household.”

“Well, if you like I can update the LOA on your verbal authority.    May I also assume the boy is also your ward.”

“Yes, I have guardianship of both of them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Green.    I’m sorry to have been a bother.”

She made some keystrokes on the cash register and told the clerk that she could finish the transaction “for the girl. “  She headed back toward her office.

Once she was out of earshot, the immie girl leaned forward and apologized.    Jacobs is nasty.   It’s not SuperTogs policy to be condescending like that to our IA customers.    My mom just nodded but I was seeing another dose of the prejudice doled out to us immies.

[kerry]

This is a very interesting premise and story. 

[Crinkleybutt]

Very interesting premise. I am looking forward to seeing where you take this.

[maly]

This is looking very good so far thanks.

Maly.

[willnotwill]

Monday morning I got ready to go to school.    I had my diaper bag and my homework.    My father had written out an LOA allowing me to drive.    I headed to school.   I sat in the car for five minuets before working up the nerve to get out.   Finally, I drew in a deep breath and launched myself out of the car.   I’d made about four steps when the school resource office bounded up to me.

“Hey, immie,” he called to me.   “You got an LOA for that car?”

I dug it out of my diaper bag and showed it to him.   He looked at it and waved me on.    I heard whispering and giggling as I walked down the hall.     I shoved the diaper bag in my locker and headed for home room.    I quickly took a seat.   After a minute I felt someone tapping me on the back.   I turned to see a girl sitting behind me.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“This is my homeroom,” I said.

“No, why are you here if you are an immie?”

“My father felt that just because I was an IA doesn’t mean I can’t have an education.”

“What’s he point?” she said.   Perhaps she was right.

I went through the motions of attending class.    I got lots of stares.    I guess most immies never came back to school after their determination.  I  got to last period.    A girl I was quite friendly with, Jen, came up to me and said.   “What happened to you?”

“Isn’t it obvious.    Friday was my birthday and I was determined to be immature.” 

“Wow,” she said.   “My birthday isn’t for two more months.   I’d die if it happened to me.”

“Yeah, I’m just barely coping.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you wearing a diaper?”

“Yes.”

“Is it wet now?”

“Yes.”    I had wet it around lunch time.   I was hoping to deal with it when I got home.  Some day, I’d have to inquire about where to change at school.

“Ewww.   Is it stinky?”

“I’ve not pooped in one yet.”

“You haven’t?”

“My dad lets me use the toilet at home.”

“Cool.”

 I struggled through the days.    There was indeed an immie changing area at school.   It was in a nook right by the main office.    It didn’t offer much privacy but the one time I needed to use it, a compassionate teacher gave me a pass during class so I could change while students were not in the halls.
Graduation came.     I was given a cap and gown, but the gown came only to the middle of my buttocks.   A matching satin diaper cover completed the outfit.   I didn’t care.   At least I got the diploma.

Dad broached the subject a few days later.     What was I planning to do with myself now.   I didn’t know.  “Get a job?” I asked not knowing how I’d find one.    Perhaps someone needs a butler or something.
 

[kirababy]

really fascinating world and concept.  Looking forward to more.

[willnotwill]

A few weeks later my mother announced that now that my sister had landed a good job, she had bought a house.     We were all invited to go over and see it.   My father told me to take my own car as we wouldn’t be coming back together.   That was fine by me.   I put the address into the GPS app on my phone and drove out there.     It was a cute little house in an older section of town but it was in good shape.   Carla met us at the door and waid “Welcome to my home.”

We went into the living room and then the kitchen.    Not too shabby.   Not huge, but not a dorm room.   There were three bedrooms.    The first was Carla’s master bedroom.    The second she had done up as an office.    “This is going to take a lot of time to keep clean,” my mother said.    “I thought you said your hours at work were going to be pretty hectic.”

“That’s why I decided to get help,” she said.   She pushed open the third door to show a room with a crib.   Was she expecting to get pregnant, I thought?    “This is for my immie.”

Ah, so that was it.   She was going to get a slave.    I pitied the pour person.    “Do you have it?” she asked my father.    My father pulled out a document and handed it to my sister.

“Signed and notarized,” he said with a smile.   I’ll get the rest of the stuff from the car.    I wasn’t sure what was going on.

Carla walked up to me and unfolded the document.    “Deed of Guardianship,” it said.   Brian Green had granted the guardianship of one Jason Green to Carla Green.

“You’re mine now,” Carla said to me with a smirk.

My father reappeared with a box with my meager possessions and deposited them in the spare bedroom.   Then my parents left.  “I can’t believe this,” I said.

“Look,” Carla began.   “You wanted a job.    I need a housekeeper.    It’s a good solution.”    She opened a drawer and took out some paper.    “Here are your LOAs for the car and to shop for the house.”   She slid across a credit card.   “This will allow you to buy what we need.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Keep the place clean.   Make me dinner when I come home.    I don’t each much breakfast, but you can make coffee in the morning.    When it needs it, you can do some yard work, lawn mowing, and the like.”

“OK,” I guess this was fine.   “You expect me to sleep in the crib?”

“I expect you to behave consistently with your immie station.    You’ll wear the clothes, sleep in the crib, use the diaper.    I don’t want to find your immie butt on my toilet.”

I gulped.   Carla wasn’t going to be as lenient toward me as my dad was to mom.

“Now make us dinner.   There’s some pizza in the freezer.”

I opened the freezer and pulled out the pizza.   I’m no great cook but I could read the instructions on the box.   I set the over to preheat and cut the pizza out of the package.    While I was waiting, I realized I had to pee, and there wasn’t any point in holding it with Carla watching so I just wet myself.    Over the course of the last few weeks I had gotten pretty good at doing that when I needed.

I cooked the pizza and cut it up and served it to my sister.    I ate a plate of my own in the kitchen.   After dinner I picked up the plates and washed them and put them in the dish drainer.   So far so good on being a domestic.

“You should pick up something for dinner tomorrow,” she said and headed off to bed.    I climbed into the crib.
 

[Pierry Louys]

Poor Jason 

[kirababy]

ugh, he is in for it now...looking forward to seeing the struggle between them.

[willnotwill]

I awoke early the next morning and saw bars.   I was disoriented for a minute until I remembered I was in the crib.    I climbed out and put a fresh outfit on.    This one was a balloon.    I went out and started the coffee.   A few minutes later my sister came out and I poured her a cup.   “Do you take anything in it?” I asked.

“Just milk,” she said.   I added the milk and gave it to her.   She took a first sip and then stated “two pieces of toast with that peach jam that’s in the fridge.”   I complied.     She swallowed all that down and headed out the door.   I was left to my own devices.    I was hungry.   I routed through the cabinets and found some cereal and ate that.    I then cleaned up dishes and cleaned up the kitchen.    No sense in giving her anything to gripe about.    I went in and made my bed, my crib.   I looked in her room.  She hadn’t made her bed, so I did a careful job of doing that.

I went back to the kitchen and made an inventory of what was there.   It wasn’t much.    I found a piece of paper and started a list.   I shook the milk carton.   Not much there.   I added that to the list.    I checked the coffee supply.   We were good there.     We’d need more cereal if that was what was what I was going to be eating.    I added that to the list.

What to cook for dinner?  I got an idea.   I called mom.

I explained that I was at a loss for what to cook and how to cook it.   My mom gave me a few hints.   “Steak is always a favorite of your sister.    So is spaghetti with sausage.”    She ran through how to prepare those.     She suggested salads would always be popular with her and discussed variations that would work.    I had the supplies listed that I would need and ideas for a few dinners.    My mom suggested that I might want to browse the cookbook section of the public library. 

I asked about strategies for cleaning.    Mom suggested I divide the house into four segments and task myself into deep cleaning each quarter one day a week in addition to the normal daily stuff.   I thanked her.

My gut rumbled.    Carla was out so I figured I could just use the toilet.    My diaper was already wet from earlier so I removed it and put in the pail.   I went to the toilet and did my business quickly.    I cleaned up carefully so as not to leave traces.     I went back and got a fresh diaper on.     I then set out for the library and shopping.

I walked into the library and was immediately met by a kindly librarian.   “May I help you?” she asked.

“I’d like to find your section on cookbooks.”

“Do you have a library card?”

“Not yet.   Don’t I only need one to check books out?”

“No, dear, I’m afraid we can’t let you in the library without one.    The library card is keyed to whatever restrictions your guardian wants to place on your access.    I can give you an application and you can have your guardian fill it out.”

I sighed, another thing denied to immies.   I took the application and headed off to do the shopping.

I got home and put the groceries away.   I got out a sheet of paper and divided the house up.    Monday would be kitchen day.   Tuesday I’d do the living room and dining room.    Wednesday,

I’d do the rest of the house, and Thursday I’d do the master and bath.

Around six thirty, Carla called and said she’d be home in a half an hour.   I threw the steaks under the broiler and washed and started the potatoes cooking.    In the meantime, I threw together a salad.    As Carla came through the door I dressed the salad and set her a place at the table.   I served her the steak and potatoes and ate mine in the kitchen.    Not bad if you ask me.    After dinner, I cleaned up the dirty dishes and the kitchen.

“Not too bad, Immie,” Carla said.   I beamed a bit.   “But we have a problem.”    

Uh-oh, I thought.

“I told you to keep your butt off my toilet.”    How did she know?    “Come here.”

I approached her not knowing what was going to happen.    She reached over and unsnapped the crotch of my outfit.    She reached up and yanked my diaper off and then pulled me over her lap.    Before I knew what was happening a heavy hand fell on my buttock.    “One,” she cried.
Ouch.   It hurt.   A second stroke hit.   Then another.    She kept it up until I was crying.    Ten strokes in all.     I ran off to my room to get a diaper and spent a minute crying before I called mom.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said.  “But guardians are allowed to do that.”

“Did Dad ever spank you?” I asked

“No, well not on his own.    One time I got stopped for speeding and the officer said if he’d punish me on the stop, he’d forgo the ticket, so he had no real choice but to do it.”

Again, I had a lot more respect for my father in his dealings with immies.
 

[aldl4811]

Super interesting concept, not sure where you are going to take it, but there are a ton of open avenues.

[Little Andrea]

I like the way this is going, please continue.

[willnotwill]

The next morning, I gave Carla the library card application to fill out while she ate breakfast.   After she left I looked at it.   Fortunately, she had written “no restrictions” in the appropriate section of the application.

After cleaning up the morning dishes and making our beds, I needed to poop.     I walked in to Carla’s bathroom and squatted there and loaded my diaper.    If she was watching, I hope she enjoyed that.   I went back to my room and cleaned up.

I went back to the library and the librarian took my application and made me a library card.    “Now, you said cookbooks?”  I nodded and she led me off to that section.     While we walked I explained that I was learning the basics of domestic life and she showed me not only the cookbooks but some other household care and cleaning books.   I thanked her and set down to browse.

I found a basic cookbook that wasn’t too bad that had lots of instructional stuff in it.    I also found a beginners house cleaning book.   I took both to the desk and checked the out.    I went back home and cleaned and vacuumed the appropriate sector of the house and then set down and read the books.    I made notes on a couple of recipes I wanted to try and made up a shopping list.     I prepared the sausages and tomato sauce for tonight’s dinner.   All I needed to do was start the spaghetti when Carla called.

Carla did enjoy that dinner.    Mom was right.    Carla asked if I had been behaving myself.    With the glint in her eye, I suspected she had indeed see me fill my diaper earlier.     I went to bed early.
 

Author's note:   I actually have written more at this point including a conclusion, but given the popularity so far, this is a good time to break and delve more into generic immie life, so the following update will take a few days.

[Sarah Penguin]

Enjoying this hoping for lots more

[willnotwill]

Saturday morning Carla got me up.   “Come on, Immie.   You’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

“Really?” I said in disbelief.

“Yes, Immies need one every year.   Dad left it to me to take care of yours this year.”

I got into a romper, ignoring the fact my diaper was slightly damp.    We drove to an office that proclaimed “Pediatric and Immature Adult Associates.”     I went inside as Carla checked in with the secretary.     Most of the other patients waiting were small children.

My name was called and Carla followed me into the examining room.   The nurse told Carla, “Get him undressed.   Keep the diaper on for now.”   Gee, like I didn’t understand English.   Carla walked over and started unsnapping me.    The nurse then proceeded to way and measure me and take my blood pressure.    She then laid out an absorbant pad on the table and had me up on it.   She unfastened my diaper, like I was going to wet uncontrollably all over the place.

She had me roll over and I felt something being shoved in my rear.    I looked back.    She was taking my temperature there.   “Always use rectal temps on immies,” she told Carla.
The preliminaries out of the way, the nurse told Carla the doctor would be in shortly.   
The doctor was another woman and less condescending.   She did the normal poking and prodding and looking into my ears and mouth.    “So, we have a fairly recent designation?” she said to me.

“My birthday was in April,” I said.

“So, how’s it going.   Any problem with the diapers?”

“I can’t say I like having to poop myself.” I said.

“That’s understandable,” she said.   She poked around the diaper area, spreading my buttocks and otherwise observing.   “You may wish to use a preventative cream.  You’ve got a little dermatitis here.   Anything for babies will work fine.”

Demititis?   I guess that was better than calling it what it was:  diaper rash.

“You may find it easier to just shave him down there,” the nurse said to Carla.

When the exam was over, Carla put a fresh diaper on me.    I got back into my romper.    We headed home but Carla made a brief stop.   We them proceeded home.    She led me to my room and had me get undressed again.     She opened up one package from her purchases and shoved it in my rear.  “I guess I need to practice this,” she did.   After a few minutes the thing beeped and she extracted it.   “Normal.”

She then led me into the bathroom and had me sit in the bath.   After a while she came at me with shave gel.   It smelled feminine.   She then took a disposable razor and removed all traces of hair.   I wanted to protest but w hat was the use.    I had to use diapers like a baby and now I was hairless as a baby.

She then took a tube and slathered it all over me.   Diaper rash ointment no doubt.   It smelled bad.   Finally, I was encased in a diaper and told I could dress.

Sunday, Carla wanted to do some shopping and brought me along just to be the beast of burden I guess, carrying the bags.    I shadowed her around various clothing stores in the mall.   I was hoping this would get over with soon as I was getting to the point where I had to poop.    Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more and filled my diaper.    “I need to change,” I told Carla.   She waved me away.     I followed the signs to the restrooms and found the changing table outside both rooms.    I laid out my changing pad, wipes and a clean diaper and hopped up.     I got the romper unsnapped and pulled up out of the way and then untapped the diaper and slid it down a bit.   I hate to say I was getting good at this.

I was wiping my poop off me when I heard someone say, “Jason?”

“Oh, hi Mark,” I said.    It was an old friend from high school.    “Give me a second to finish changing.”    I stammered this out and quickly got wiped up.   I pulled on the new diaper and snapped the romper.   I hopped off the table and rolled up the dirty diaper and put it in the receptacle and started washing my hands.

“So, Mark.  How’s it going?”  I said.

“Not bad.    I guess I remember you turned into an immie cause you came to school like that at the end.   But I guess it’s embarrassing having to poop yourself like that.”

Not nearly as much as having an old friend see you wiping poop off you, I thought to myself.    I let it pass.    “It is, but I’m getting used to it.   What choice do I have.”

“I guess that’s right.   You’re the only immie I really know,” he admitted.    We made some small talks but I told him I had to get back to Carla.

I returned to carrying bags and Carla decided it was time for lunch.    We sat in a little café and ordered.   Whlie we were waiting a swarmy guy with greasy hair came up and started chatting with Carla.    “Who’s the immie?” he said with disdain.   “My house boy.   He’s also my brother.  My father gave me guardianship.”    They talked a bit.

After he left, I asked, “Who’s the greaseball?”

I immediately realized that was the wrong thing.   Carla got red with rage.    “That ‘greaseball’ may end up being your guardian.    You need to learn respect for adults.   Come here.”   I was powerless to stop what happened next.   Making a scene as an immie would get me nowhere.    Carla had my romper open and my diaper down and gave me five quick swats.     There was actually applause from other adults.    

On Monday, I bid Carla good bye as she headed off to work.   I was happy to have time to myself.   I did my normal cleaning duties and then wandered out and brought in the mail.    There was stuff addressed to Cheryl and occupant and a catalog addressed to “Guardian of Jason Green.”   It was a catalog for IA World.   I opened it up.  There were various immie clothing.   I turned the pages thinking of what I might want.   They even had matching immie-baby outfits.   I wondered if mom ever put me in an outfit that matched hers as a baby.

The next section was all diapering supplies of various types.    Disposable diapers, cloth diapers, diaper bags, wipes, ointments.   There was an inflatable butt plug for those times your immie can’t wear a diaper.

After that came various harnesses and restraints.  Some were little more than leashes for dogs or what some people put on their toddlers.     Some were designed to immoblizie an immie in the home.   I shuddered at Carla putting one of these on me.   I could see her dragging me through the mall on a leash.   Just more sign of her superiority over me.

The last thing in the catalog stopped me cold.   The product was called an Imtron.   It was billed as an IA management system.    A small radio mounts to the immie and delivers three levels of correction:  attention, pain, or immobilization.    A computer allowed the guardian to set the thing off either based on the location of the immie or by pushing buttons on a phone or remote.     I read further.    The electrodes went into the diaper in the picture shown.   Sure enough the text said they mounted to the immie’s genitalia.

I shuddered again.    I tried to imagine what the levels of “correction” felt like.   Pain was clear enough, but immobilization sounded horrifying.    I left the catalog on the coffee table and went to prepare to do the grocery shopping.

Later that week, Carla called and announced she wouldn’t be home for dinner.   She was going out with George.    George?   “You met him at the mall.”    Oh, the greaseball, I thought to myself.    I was happy to have the night to myself.

I decided to go to the mall and just window shop.   I was in the main area when I saw a cute immie girl sitting by herself.    I walked closer to her.   “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said back.  “I’m Kaitlyn.”

“Jason,” I replied.    We started to chat.    She was here with her guardian but he had gone off on his own and left here here to amuse herself until he gets back.   She said she could talk until she got the signal.

“Signal?” I ask.

“He hits the attention button on my Imtron.    It already tells him where I am.”

“What’s that like?”

“Attention?   Sort of a set of three shocks that are a bit more than just a tingle.”

“And the others?”

“The pain signal, well, it’s painful.   Feels like someone jabbed electrical wires into my crotch.    It’s a good thing I’m wearing a diaper.  It almost always makes me pee.”

“Ow,” I thought.  

“Immobilization is worse.   You get hit so hard you can hardly move.   I crap myself in the process.    Fortunately, I avoid doing something that needs that.    My guardian however had to test it on me.”

We talked a bit more and soon she gave a sudden “oooh.”   “That’s the attention signal,” she said.   “We’ll I’ll see you later.    She started to walk away.”

“Wait, can I see you again?  How do I contact you?”

She stopped and turned, “You can’t really.   My guardian wouldn’t let me hang out with another boy, immie or not.”   I was about to ask why.    “He keeps me as his personal toy,” she added.  

All of a sudden she doubled over and let out a yelp.   “That’s the pain signal.   He must be watching us.   I gotta go.”   And she was gone.

[Pierry Louys]

This story is making me angry , how people treat other like lesser beings this carla needs punishment!!!

[willnotwill]

My household skills did indeed get better and I turned out to be a pretty good cook.    I made more and more elaborate means for Carla as the months passed.    One day, I got a call mid-day.   “I’m bringing a friend home for dinner.   Can you manage that?”

“Of, course.”    I was hoping it wasn't the greaseball.

“Make sure the house and you are nice and clean.”

I’m not sure what she meant by that.   The house was always clean.    I double checked everything.    I prepped dinner.   Everything was “mis en place,” as I had learned.     It would be a quick prep once I knew they were coming.    I put a bottle of white wine which would match the food in the fridge.    Carla rarely drank wine when she was alone, but she liked to have some when guests came over.   I had stocked her “cellar” with a dozen or so basics after reading up on it.

The guest was another woman.   I had set the table for the two of them.    I had poured them each wine while I put the finishing touches on dinner.   I served and then retreated to the kitchen.   After dinner, Carla came in and got me.   “Come with me,” she said.

I didn’t know what she was up to, but I complied.   She took me to my room and had me get undressed.    She took somethings out of a bag.   The first was that butt plug I had seen in the catalog.   She squirted some goo on it and quickly pushed it up into my rear end.     I heard her pumping the bulb and felt the thing growing inside me.   “We don’t want you springing a leak,” she said.

The next item she pulled out was a condom.   She tore open the package and rolled it on to my member.  I guess she didn’t want any leaks there, either.    She led me naked across the hall to the guest room and rapped on the door.    She put her hand on the knob and turned to me and said “Take good care of her.”

She pushed me through the door and closed it.    The guest was there, lying on the bed, naked.   “Good care,” I thought.    So this is what it comes to.    Carla was pimping me out to her friends.    Come have Jason cook and screw you.    Well, I guess I needed to do as good a job with this as with dinner.

Now fortunately, I was not a virgin.   A friend, a girl, but not really a girlfriend, and I had decided to experiment with sex even though we weren’t romantically involved.   Still I was nervous performing for some friend of Carla’s.

After a brief interlude holding the friend after sex, she started to get dressed.  I figured that was my cue to leave.    I went back to my room.    I peeled off the condom and fished around behind me to release the air from the butt plug and yank that out.    I got dressed in my diaper and immie suit  in time to see the guest off.

“You did good, Immie,” Carla said after her guest had left.

A few days later, Carla brought another woman friend home.    She just told me to go get myself ready.   I went into my room and put in the butt plug and put on the condom.    I wondered how much immie prostitutes were running on the open market.    Carla had several more friends come visit me.   A few ended up repeat customers.    The last one was one of these.    The was different in that she wore a negligee she brought rather than just being naked.    She was a little more responsive in reacting to me as well.
  

[kerry]

I don't know, Will. At the start I thought this was a truly fascinating idea for a story, but I'm feeling as Pierry Louys said above: too much of the world is making me angry. I try to imagine the logistics of a world like this, where a single decision at age 18 can have this kind of impact on your life, and I guess I am having more and more trouble, at least as it is rendered here. Simple example: a pediatrician? What is the point of designating that as a specialty at all if a pediatrician is expected to treat grown adults? Also: a changing table outside the rest rooms? Why would a society impose a rule that just exposes everyone else to the awkwardness and the smell? And that begs the fundamental question about the diapers themselves: you have not suggested that IAs in any way lose their continence, so who is really benefitting from this restriction? Why would a perfectly continent adult need a butt plug to prevent an accident? Why put either the IA or his guardian through the excessive and invasive use of an anal thermometer (which BTW requires the removal and re-application of the diaper that, for some reason, is mandated)? What does it profit society to be so cruel to IAs, apparently just for the fun of it? 

When Jason lived with his father and mother, I thought you were building a truly interesting dynamic. Here was an IA who was able to get married and have children. There is enough innate contradiction in that alone to fuel a wonderful story. And why would a man who was able to love an IA sign his son over to a cruel, IA-hating older sister anyway? (Begging a new question: being the daughter of an IA and a father who can love one, how did Carla get so hateful anyway?) I definitely can see how in this world a percentage of the people would be like her, lording their superiority over the IAs, but this world is pretty much designed that way, and it makes no sense to me: if an IA cannot be responsible enough to live an adult life, how could one be deemed responsible enough to raise children? How is Jason managing to be responsible enough to keep a house clean, shop by himself, and cook excellent meals? And why would such activities in an IA not trigger a re-evaluation when they clearly indicate responsibility? (BTW: Why allow/demand that he have sex if he is too immature?)

I know: I am seriously over-analyzing a story on a fetish site. I should just accept it as it is. Usually I do, but this one, with an extremely original premise that could even lead to a Diaper Dimension-like portfolio of stories, seems to be focusing on just how much suffering and degrading can be meted out to the IAs whether it is logical or not. I won't stop reading; I am curious about where it will go. But I felt I had to put this out there.

[willnotwill]

Bear with me.   Just trying to generate a little tension for what comes next.

[Pierry Louys]

I hope so because for now this just make me angry and sad to read this , since  immie need love and attention since they immature ! 

2 hours ago, willnotwill said:

Bear with me.   Just trying to generate a little tension for what comes next.

 

[Sarah Penguin]

Hmm poor Jasons.

[willnotwill]

A week later, I came home and there were movers there.    Were we moving?    They were disassembling my crib.   One of the movers turned to me, “You Jason, Immie?”    I nodded and he handed me a slip of paper.     “You’re to go to this address after we’re done here.”   I nodded and watched them.   It was only my few things they were packing up.    Apparently, I was moving, not Carla.

I drove to the new address.     The movers were just finishing their delivery as I entered.

It was the home of the woman who I had been with last.   “I’m Cheryl,” she introduced herself.

“Jason,” I said.

“Yes, I know.”   She led me into the house and sat me down at the dining table.    The apartment was much smaller than Carla’s house.    She slid a document over to me.   It was a deed.  

Carla had sold me to Cheryl.

“I’m a paralegal in the same firm as your sister.   You look surprised.”

“I thought I was doing well with Cheryl.   Besides, I thought she was doing well pimping me out to her friends.”

Cheryl giggled.    “She wasn’t ‘pimping you out.’    She was marketing you.    Those women were just taking you on a test drive.”

“And I guess I passed.”

“You’re an excellent cook and housekeeper, and you’re…,” she hemmed at the words.

“Good in bed?”

“Yes.”   We both laughed.

“I was saving up my money for something else, but when your sister had me look at you I found it hard to turn down.”

“Did she need the money?”

“Far from it, but she’s not going to just give you away for nothing.    The problem is her new boyfriend, George.   He doesn’t like the idea of her having a boy immie in the house, even if it is her brother.”

So the greaseball kicked me out.   Well, I guess it might be for the better.   I had wondered what the going rate for a house boy immie was, but decided not to ask.   Obviously, a paralegal didn’t make the money that Carla had.   This home was much more modest.   “I guess we better go over what you want from me.”

“The same as with Carla, cooking and cleaning.   Occasionally, some fringe benefits.”   She slid over some papers.  “Here are new letters of authorization and a credit card for you.   Your sister prepared them for me, so they should be similar to what you had before.”

I nodded.   “What about house rules?”   

“House rules?”

I explained to her that while immies were expected to dress appropriately and use diapers outside the house, it was up to the guardian to set the rules in the house.    I told her my father allowed me and my mother full use of the bathroom, where as Carla didn’t.   She thought about it for a long moment.

“Can I make an odd request of you?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.   “You own me now.”

“Can I see you in just your diaper?”

I stood up and got out of my immie suit.    I spun around so she could get the 360 view.    She smiled, paused, and then started to speak.  It’s as if she had to work herself up to what she was going to say.

“You can use the toilet when I’m not home,” she started.   That was a good start.   “I would like you to just wear the diaper when home.”

OK, I thought, I was now eye candy for her.

“If you need to go, ask first.”    I smiled.   It was a control game, but I was willing to play it.   What choice did I have.

She showed me around the house.    There wasn’t really much to it.    A combined living room and dining room, a small kitchen, a bathroom.    She showed me the bedroom.   “I had your crib put in here.”  Sure enough there was her bed, my crib, and an elliptical exercise machine jammed in the small bedroom. 

“I’ll sleep in your room?” I asked.

“Why not?    You’ve seen me naked.”