Unfair: A Diaper Dimension Novel (Chapters 115 Uploaded!)

[BabySerenity]

11 minutes ago, Mugi said:

That was one hell of a chapter!

Even if I dislike Beouff for not looking at Clark as a person anymore or less and more of just someone who only has "maturosis" What Clark did was truly awful. A good plan for him but really evil. It was so bad of him to make her breakdown so much and get so sad!

Yes but he was also crying in the end too!! So although, he was like on top of the world so to speak because he broke her it broke him too because it’s lonely at the top he hurt a friend!!

And was sad from the guilt!!

[WBDaddy]

12 minutes ago, Mugi said:

That was one hell of a chapter!

Even if I dislike Beouff for not looking at Clark as a person anymore or less and more of just someone who only has "maturosis" What Clark did was truly awful. A good plan for him but really evil. It was so bad of him to make her breakdown so much and get so sad!

I mean, what you just said encapsulated why he's doing what he's doing. 

"not looking at Clark as a person anymore"

Stop for a minute and think about this.  Think about how you'd respond if someone stripped your entire identity away from you, someone you once called "friend" and "colleague".  Think about being forced to spend five days a week with that person after they did this to you, so there was no escaping, no healing of wounds, no chance to reconcile, just constant reminders, every day, that they did, in fact, take away everything that made you "you" and left you with an existence you hated.  

Now tell me how evil it was that Clark is lashing out at her any way he can under the circumstances.  Wanting her to hurt as much as he does.  Tell me that this isn't perfectly reasonable behavior, considering that these people destroyed his life and left him in what he considers to be a kind of hell. 

[BabySerenity]

Exactly!! Yeah I would be the same way!! That is if it wasn’t something I actually want!! He didn’t ask for it!! It was forced upon him because something was off diaper’s going missing and all of a sudden he messes himself at a parent teacher meeting!! I mean come on!! And now he’s forced to be in this situation with two coworkers one his new Mommy he can’t get away from!! That although loves him and wants to protect him like a Mommy would and a friend would! And the other his new teacher!! Neither see him as mature anymore since the accident first happened! And all he can do is lash out his anger at his situation hoping someone will stop to think and understand but that’s not how they are wired and he is just digging a deeper hole so to speak!!

[YourFNF]

On 2/18/2023 at 9:27 PM, Personalias said:

d won!

I just didn’t understand why I’d started crying too.

 

Because Clark you just put the final nail in the coffin. You knew this relationship was dead but in many regards this feels like the funeral if I had to guess.... And that especially ties into the conversation that was over head. Add in to that would a weird mix of self-grief over your own life and forced guilt from trauma bonding with people with who used to be your friends....

[Personalias]

Part 8: Little Changes 

Chapter 90: Something Kept

The Tuesday after I broke Beouf wasn’t that different from any other Tuesday.  Beouf gathered us up at the bus loop, paraded us to breakfast, corralled us back to her classroom, and so on and so forth.  Completely normal. But I didn’t want it to be.

Like Janet, I could sense that she was keeping up appearances and professionalism as a mask over the hurt.  It was all in the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t looking or didn’t look when she knew I was; how her smile didn’t go all the way to the top of her head.  I didn’t like it.  

Why?  Did I want her to be stronger so I had an excuse to pile on harder?  Would it have been better for me if she’d been more like a sobbing mess like I’d found her Monday afternoon so that I could more easily exalt in my victory?  Who could say?  Certainly not me.

Just like Tuesday, the rest of the class was dropping “Love Bombs” left and right.  I’d lit a particularly potent fuse in my classmates and they were taking it to its most logical extreme.  “I Love You” had become the new “Why?”.   I wanted to tell them to stop; that the joke was old; that we should move on to a new terrible game.  I didn’t, though.

The fuck was wrong with me?

I’d won.  I’d won and slain the dragon.  I’d made Beouf cry real desperate tears as the result of something I’d purposefully set in motion.  Janet’s mood was on an emotional swivel, practically wrapped around my finger in wanting my love and fearing my abuse.  I’d gotten away with my Picture Day Stunt.  I was the Playpen Kingpen to the point where even Ivy was wary of me.  I was probably still going to Little Voices, (very important).  I’d chased away Horsey McDoucheface Mark.

Yeah, ‘Auntie’ Jessica was somehow immune to me through her own warped Amazon privilege and lack of constant exposure to me, but I still had a very good grasp on what I could and could not expect from her.

I. Was. Winning.  There was still so much darkness around, but my thrusts, parries, and ripostes had punched so many twinkling little holes into my universe that starlight was beginning to twinkle through.

I should have been happy. 

I wasn’t.

All that past evening, I was quiet, and it wasn’t even out of spite or a planned attack of some sort.  I was just too much in my own head trying to sort everything out.

The fuck was wrong with me?  Was the baby monitor in the nursery and its subliminal messages taking away more than just my ability to express certain thoughts? Was it slowly and subtly shaping those thoughts? 

No idea. No way of knowing.  One can be honest regarding one’s own thoughts, actions, and motivations, but one cannot be completely objective and unbiased regarding them.

There weren’t even any repercussions.  No additional sit down talks. Bits of humiliation or passive aggression.  I wasn’t even the last to get changed after breakfast.  I’d found a way to punch my ex-best friend and she wasn’t punching back.  That was frustrating.

A queer kind of relief came over me just after snack time.  Sosa and Winters came in and took most of the class around with them to their therapy room.  Being away from Beouf was a much needed distraction; possibly for both of us.  Out of sight. Out of mind. The therapists didn’t bother with line leashes, so we had to do the hand holding method again. 

We were doing a double session. Half of us would be with Sosa. The other half would be with Winters.  Half an hour later the groups would switch.  Me and my crew lost the coin flip and were starting with Sosa. The others were with Winters.  I suspect Jesse was left behind just to give Ivy somebody to play with.

Chaz, Annie, Billy, and I were in Sosa’s Group.  Tommy, Shauna, Mandy, and Sandra Lynn were in the other.  I wasn’t sure why they grouped me up with my disciples, but one should never interrupt the enemy when they’re making a mistake.  It was possible that they’d forgotten; more likely that they’d thought they could handle us all together with both of them in the room and others to act as ‘good influences’.  Amazon hubris: How I loved it when it worked in my favor.

Winters was taking off her group’s shoes and tying on booties with rounded soles on them. The booties instantly made my classmates’ gait off balance. Their stance went wide and their arms flailed out and flapped like birds who hadn’t figured out how to fly just yet. From the way Mandy moved in them the left one might have been heavier than the right.  

At least Winters was leaving their other clothes on.  I was starting to suspect that part of her hidden curriculum was getting Littles comfortable with having Amazons dress and undress them.

The physical therapy half of the room turned into an obstacle course: Not an overly difficult one, but one that would certainly be easier to complete if you crawled or grabbed onto handrails well above your head…like reaching for a Grown-Up’s hand. There were tiny staircases and sloping hills and wobbly bridges, but no tunnels. Nothing to necessitate crawling, but leave it as a good option.

The course zigged and zagged and looped back around on itself so that the finish line was a few steps to the left of the starting point.  The final stretch was a straightaway with nothing to hold onto.  The way it shined and glistened in the daylight was reminiscent of a bowling lane. Everybody was going to have to crawl across the finish.  At least that stupid bell wasn’t in sight.

I wondered if Chaz was going to have to wear those booties.

Over at Sosa’s table were neither beads, nor putty, nor scissors, nor bulky crayons or pencils.  That could mean only one thing.

“Okay, kids,” Sosa said. “Time for a diagnostic.”  Four of those literally impossible puzzle boxes had been toted out and placed in front of us. I’d been hoping she’d forgotten it.  She’d just taken her sweet time.  Twice in sixty days was still technically once a month, though it was certainly down to the wire.  “Do you all remember what you have to do? Or do you need help remembering?”

Chaz beat me to it.  He raised his hand and spouted, “I totally know what we’re supposed to do. But do you, Miss Sosa? Hmmm?”  Cheeky brat.  Good.

Sosa smiled calmly, and gently, just like Beouf had.  “All you have to do is put one hand into the whole on one side of the box, put your other hand in the other hole, and then press the switches inside at the same time. Do you need me to show you?”

“Ye-”

“NO!”  I ran in front and shouted Chaz down. If he’d been closer to my eye level I would have slapped my hand over his mouth.  “No we don’t!” I’d just gotten another brilliant idea.  I faced my minions.  “I hate that stupid robot and we’re not gonna be able to do it anyways so why bother?”

Billy, Annie, and Chaz all quietly signaled that they understood.  They’d seen the look I was giving them enough times to know that I was up to something.  My wild eyes were a dog whistle and my loyal hounds were scenting blood.

“That’s fine,” Sosa said. “Does that mean you want to give up Clark? It’s okay if you’re not ready.” Just like Beouf would have done. So predictable. So obvious. So typical. “I can mark you as unable to participate and let you play with something more appropriate as long as you don’t disturb Miss Winters’s group.”

I snuck in a wink and then put on a snarl.  “Appropriate?” I turned around to face my target. “How are those traps appropriate?”

“They’re appropriate for big kids.”  She shrugged like she wasn’t secretly enjoying putting me in my place.  “The diagnostic is the diagnostic.  Data is data.  It’s not bad or good. It just is.  And it’s okay if it’s too much for you.  There’s nothing wrong with finding your limits.  Very mature, actually.”

The war drum in my chest began to thump.  Yes. Yes!

I stomped dramatically forward and dragged the bulky contraptions one by one over to us.  I whispered to my crew,  “Wait for it.”  Then I turned around.  “Fine.  Can we do it?  Can we start? Can we get this farce over with?”

“Easy there, Clark.”  Winters called from across the room.  I’d gotten louder than I’d intended to and the OT/PT room was still smaller than Beouf’s.  I blanched and she went back to cheering for Shauna and Sandra Lynn who were neck and neck due to Shauna’s stubborn refusal to crawl.

Sosa had already gotten out two gelatin cups and was stirring one around so she could tempt us with spoon feeding.  “Yeah. Go ahead. Start any time.  Have fun.”

Alright then. Game on.  Billy helped me arrange the plastic crates in a rough circle.  I pointed to spots on the floor so that my knight, my rook, and my bishop stood between them.  I made sure to stand at the back of the circle so that Sosa could hear me more easily.

“What are you kids doing?” Sosa asked.  She sounded curious; almost amused.

“Chaz,” I instructed. “Put your left hand in the box nearest to me.”  Chaz followed my directions.  I leaned right and inserted my hand in the same puzzle box.  Just like the last time, the cuff shrunk down over my arm.  It would let me slide in almost as deep as my shoulder and out almost as deep as my wrist, but wouldn’t release me until someone activated the safety release.  

The trick of the so-called diagnostic was that the puzzle box was so bulky though that nobody smaller than a Tweener had long enough arms to reach around both sides and grab both releases at the same time.  And that was the whole point.  Littles were supposed to be cute and helpless and accept outside help constantly and without complaint.  This was literally an exercise in installing learned helplessness.

“Clark, that’s not how you’re supposed to…” Sosa cut herself off.  Amusement was becoming confusion and curiosity was turning into consternation. 

I pressed on. Literally.  “Okay, Chaz. Lean in.” We both jumped in giddy surprise. Our hands brushed against each other.  I twisted my wrist and clasped the palm of his hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Chaz said.

“You too, my good man.” We laughed and fumbled around until we found the releases. ”Ready?”

Sosa was putting the cup down. “You’re doing it wrong.”

No time. “Onetwothreego!”

We felt the click, and the box shivered and vibrated in recognition.  The triumphant “TADA!” chords played from hidden micro-speakers and our hands were released. One point five seconds later the cube was rolling forward into the center of our circle and transforming into a complex break dancing droid.

The glee on our faces was from more than whatever pleasure giving frequency the song gave out.

Winters looked over at our group, plainly bewildered. Sosa was a fish drowning in the air.  We all waited for the robot to do its jig and then transform back into a bulky cube.  “Awesome!” I crowed. “Halfway there! Now Chaz, you lean right into Billy’s and yours box. Billy, you work with Chaz.  Me and Annie will do ours. Then Annie and Billy can finish each other off.”  Dirty innuendo completely intended!

I was loving this. Feeling like myself again and loving the rush.  Malicious compliance at its best! Clark Gibson was back!

“Guys, guys, guys, guys!”  Sosa shuffled into our midst. “Stop! You’re confused! You’re doing it wrong!”

Right on time.  “Naw,” I said. “I don’t think so.  According to what you just told us a minute ago: We put one hand in one side. We put another hand in the other, and we have to press the releases in the middle at the same time.  You never said that we had to do it all by ourselves.”

A twitch in Sosa’s right eye.  Almost there. “Okay. I can see why that miscommunication might occur. But what about your other arm?”

“That’s why we’re taking turns. Me and Chaz did one. Me and Annie are next.”

A malicious twinkle glimmered in Annie’s eye. “It’s a team building game!”

Chaz was already wrist deep in his second puzzle. “Oooooh! That’s why she keeps offering help all the time! It’s a hint! We’re supposed to help each other!”

Billy hadn't locked himself in yet. He added in the final cherry. “Miss Sosa! You’re a genius!” He walked up to and hugged her around one leg.  I love you, Miss Sosa!”

Still keeping her professionality, Sosa gently peeled Billy off of her.  She kept her eyes on me, though.  “That’s very cute, guys, but that’s not what’s happening.  Let’s try it the right way.”

“Nothing we did was against the rules,” I said. I was going to lose this argument.  I knew that going in.  The skill of the arguments only matters if both sides have equal power. It was still fun.  A moral victory and a headache for a giantess was still enough to get my adrenaline going.
“Nothing says a dog can’t play basketball, but that doesn’t mean you let one play.” Sosa’s eyes widened for a second.  She’d laid a trap for herself and knew it.  “You’re right, Clark. I did not explain the rules as well as I could have. I’m sorry.  Let me try again.”

“What does your rubric say?”  I asked.

Sosa pretended she hadn’t heard me. “Hm?” 

“Can I see the rubric? Or whatever form or checklist you use for us?” I leaned to my right and indicated the clipboard on her desk.  “You haven’t filled anything out yet, so it’s not like I’m looking at any data?  Right?  You haven’t predetermined anything? That would be highly unethical.”

She puckered her lips like she’d just sucked on a lemon.  “You know what? Sure. Just a second.”  She stepped out from the middle of us and snapped up her clipboard.  Her hands were where anybody could see them; so that she wasn’t erasing or altering anything.  I could see her eyes going left and right, scanning the form.  There was a very high likelihood that Jasmine Sosa hadn’t seriously read the qualifiers for a high score on her so-called test in a long time.  She almost certainly didn’t know the phrasing word for word.

I could relate.  As a preschool teacher, I’d used diagnostics for my students several times a year, but I would have been hard pressed to tell you what the last few questions of any given test were. Even now, I can only remember that it started with letter and number recognition. 

Diagnostic assessments tend to have a rule for stopping when a student reaches a frustrational point.  There was no point in testing to see if a three or four year old could read a sentence fluently when they were struggling with decoding Consonant-Vowel-Consonant words. It’s amazing what relatively small but vital details people tend to take for granted until pressed.

In a way, I respected that Sosa was double checking her work. My former colleague was still willing to play rules lawyer with me instead of just using her authority like a hammer. “Hmm…” she smiled softly, kneeled down and beckoned me forward.  “Look here, sir.”

Damn. 

I came over and followed her index finger.  Everything but the lowest levels of performance had the keyword ‘independently’ put in the phrasing. All the low scores had “with assistance” or “does not engage.”  I looked down at the rubric and did some quick estimation. No way would our development be rated any higher than a three year old based on the values assigned.

Whomever had designed this bullshit test didn’t have quite as much hubris and I hated it.  “I take it back,” Sosa said.  “You can do it with help.  Good job, kiddo.”  She’d regained her confidence and a trace of smugness  was added on for good measure.  “So I guess you and Chaz are done for now.”

Damn.

My head hung so low that my chin touched my chest. “I guess it does say a dog can’t play basketball,” I muttered.  Whelp, it was worth a shot.

Sosa stood up. “Billy? Annie? Do you want to try it all by yourselves or would you like to help each other?”

Dog? A new thought.  I picked my head up and looked at Winters, now playing the part of cheerleader for her own obstacle course.  Oh. Oh yeah.  I’d almost forgotten.  I’d planted some landmines some time ago.  With Winters, Sosa, and an audience, I could detonate.

“Sorry about that Jasmine.” My voice was loud but not shouting.  Teachers naturally tend to project. Sosa’s eye started twitching again.  “Oh,” I said. “My bad. Jazzie. I meant ‘Jazzie’.”

Winters was starting to cross the room and high step over her own setup.  “Chaz? Clark? Would you two like to come and play on my obstacle course?”

Sosa did not take her eyes off me. “Clark, I know you know not to call me that.” 

“Miss Sosa,” Winters called, almost there. “Would you like it if I took some of your group early?”

My eyes were locked with Sosa. “Why can’t I call you that, Jasmine?”

“You shouldn’t call me that, Clark. It’s disrespectful.” Sosa was ignoring her partner in favor of me. Perfect.

“We shouldn’t have grouped them together like this.” Winters was pretty much talking to herself by this point.  “This was a mistake.” She started massaging her forehead with her thumb and middle finger.  

Gotta love that Amazon hubris.

“Why not?” I asked far louder than I needed to. “Maxine calls you Jazzie. Is she being disrespectful?”  Two sets of giant nostrils flared above me. A pair of knees and a different pair of elbows locked from surprise. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t.  Oh…what the hell? “Or is that like a girlfriend thing?” 

Everyone froze.  The volume lowered to pin drop levels. 

“What are you talking about?” Winters said.  Her voice went up in complete shock, not from surprise, but fear.

I kept jawing like I hadn’t heard. “Hard to tell.  My wife was technically a Cassandra but she’ll always be Cassie to me.  You know how it is.”  I was bold enough to turn my back to the giants and address my peers. “What? Did I forget to tell you guys?  They’re dating.”

A couple of the girls let out an unirnoonic “Awww” and their hands started sliding up toward their hearts.

“Nice…!” Someone hissed.  If you guessed that someone was Billy, you guessed correctly.

I continued the verbal shelling. “They live together. Go grocery shopping. Have pets. Might be married, but I’m not sure. Are you guys married? Why or why not?”

“How did you…?” Winters stammered.

“What? You talk about her all the time! It didn’t take much to figure out who your ‘friend’ was.”  Giggles and whispers picked up in the air. 

“Max…!” Sosa said, sounding betrayed.

“Whoah,” I said loudly. “You’re one to talk, Jazzie. One of you gossips about a ‘friend’ who wants a big drooly dog when you want a Rocaw. The other one complains about how their ‘friend’ wants a loud smelly bird when you want a Cerbernard.” I even made air quotes with my fingers for emphasis. “It’s not rocket science.” 

Giggles grew into chuckles.

Both of them were the strangest shade of red I’d ever seen on a person’s face. It was a beautiful combination of embarrassed and angry that I didn’t know if I’d seen anywhere before that moment.  Did I just invent a new emotion? Should I call it ‘Angbarrassment’ or just “Emger?” These were the very serious questions that snuck their way into my mind while staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun.

Sosa was the first to recover. “What we do in our personal lives is none of your business.”

“Oh shit!” I pretended to gasp. “Was that supposed to be a secret? Like how you faked dog allergies so that you could get your pet but Max couldn’t get hers?”  A complete fabrication on my part. Not that she could disprove it right now. 

Chuckles became full blown laughter.

Sosa was blindsided. “What are you talking about?”

Winters said nothing but her glare was drifting off of me and up to her partner.

“For the record, dog thing aside, I think you two make a very cute couple.”  Truth be told, I was being honest there. I was a manipulative asshole who’d developed more than a few sociopathic tendencies; not a bigot. “Does acting as your couples’ counselor give me a boost in finding my developmental plateau or whatever?  I gotta be at least a middle schooler on that scale now. Right?”

Hysterical laughter ensued. From the looks of things, there was not a dry eye or dry pants to be found among my classmates.

“Max,” Sosa said. She was standing her ground but her body was leaning further and further away, recoiling in shock. “That’s not true. I don’t know where he got that-”

Winters cut her off. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“No no no,” I jumped in. “You guys should talk about it now. You obviously don’t talk to each other enough. Maxine, didn’t you want to prove that you were the more adult or something?”

“That’s where that argument came from?!”

Winters took a step back. “Jasmine. He-...”

“Do you guys need the room?” I thumbed towards the door. “We can all go back to class and you can take a-”

“You’re on thin ice, Mr. Grange.”  Sosa, of course.

Now my eye began to twitch.  I spat,  “Why’s that, Jazzie? I’m just asking questions.”

“Jazzie…” Winters said to herself. “Jazzie...”  Her angbarrassment was turning into contemplation.  She dug into her pocket and looked at her phone. I thought nothing of it, enjoying myself too much.

“You’re doing more than that, and you know it,” Sosa said. She was still flustered and very much emgry. That’s why she was making the fatal classroom management mistake of arguing with a child.  “Maturosis or not, being Little is not the same thing as not knowing any better.”

Winters put her phone down. “Jazzie…Miss Sosa.”

“What?!”  Turned on her girlfriend. “What, Miss Winters?!”

“He stole my phone,” Winters said. “I only ever call you ‘Jazzie’ on my phone. It’s what’s in my contacts.”

A light bulb clicked on in Sosa’s head.  “Didn’t you say groceries? I didn’t tell you anything about groceries.”  She turned her head and addressed Winters.  “Did you mention groceries to him? At all?”

“No.”

The laughter was dying down.

Uh oh.

“You stole our phones. Didn’t you?”

The laughter stopped. In its place was a massive “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Pearls of sweat were forming on my forehead, even though I was in the shade of two very very large, angry women.  “No…?” My mouth was running dry.  “I gave them back, didn’t I? It’s not stealing if you give them back…?”

As one, they closed their eyes, breathed in, and then huffed out a sigh. “I’m taking him back to Beouf.” Winters said firmly.

“No,” Sosa objected. “Mrs. Beouf goes too easy on him. I say what was good for the goose is good for the gander. I’m taking him next door for a few minutes. To Ambrose.”

Eight Little mouths gasped so violently that it made a breeze. “You can’t!” I said. “Beouf doesn’t put anybody in timeout over there anymore. She changed the rules!”

The two Amazons exchanged looks. “I’m not buying it this time.”

“Me neither. Come on, Clark.”  Two massive hands scooped me up.

“No!” Annie yelled. “Clark isn’t lying! We don’t go there anymore! Not since a crying kid was brought into our class for timeout!”

I saw Billy from up on Sosa’s hip. He’d fallen down to his seat and had pulled his knees up to his chest.  He was muttering something to himself and had a far off glance. He wasn’t quite here with us.

“Billy?” I called. “Are you okay?  Billy?”

He snapped his head up and looked at Sosa. “Please don’t send Gibson into Ambrose, ma’am!  Please don’t do that! To any of us!”  Tears were streaming down his face by the end. I knew looking at him that those weren’t crocodile tears.  Billy wasn’t that good of a faker.

“Billy,” Sosa siad.  “Stop. We’re not buying it.”  He wasn’t faking it though.  Billy stopped himself from having a full on panic attack by sucking his thumb and burying his face in his knees.

Tommy pitched into my defense.  “It’s true! We don’t do that anymore! Even if we’re really, really bad! We just miss playtime or go on the naughty stool, or don’t get treats!”

“Or that one time when we had to do stupid exercises!” Mandy piped up.  Everyone else was nodding desperately, pleading my case.  ”We stopped going over to the preschool room as soon as Clark stopped being an adult!”

My judges exchanged another round of suspicious looks with one another. “You heard anything about this?” Sosa asked.

“Not a thing.” Winters answered. “Nothing from Ambrose or Tracy, either.” Of course they were consulting each other over us.  We were just babies and couldn’t be trusted. We were all unreliable narrators; even the good ones  Dumb babies don’t know what they’re talking about half the time.

“Call her!” I pleaded. “Check with Mrs. B!”  I was trembling. My kids had seen enough of me lately.  I didn’t want them to see me anymore than they already did at mealtimes and the bus loop. Especially not as some naughty toddler off in a corner.  Ambrose most certainly wouldn’t have the courtesy to give me a blanket to hide my shame underneath.  

Seeing Billy fighting his own breakdown sent a chill up my spine. That was near the beginning of the school year and we were close to report card time.  Ambrose had hurt him that badly.

The others parroted my pleas:  “Call her!” 

“Yeah!”

“It’s the truth!”

“Please!”

The therapists only trusted each other. “What do you think?” Sosa asked.

I stayed deathly silent.  After a certain point, my pleas would only work against my favor.

Winters ground her teeth and wiggled her jaw.  “Nothing’s in any of their I.E.P.’s.  It’s technically at our discretion, as long as the teacher we’re leaving them with consents. Should we bother Mel?”

“I don’t think so,” Sosa said. “When was the last time either of us had to put a kid in timeout?”
 
“At this school?” Winters said. “Years. Kayden. No after that. Jordan!”

I somehow knew the answer before Sosa had spoken. “No. After that. Amy. It was Amy.” Of course it was.

“Right, “Winters said. “I think we’re good. Go. I’ll watch the others.”

Tremendously long legs sped me out of the classroom.  A cacophony of objections wailed after me. Above them all was a howling Billy breaking down into sobs.  The door opened wide and the sun blinded me. Two tremendous steps later and I was back inside before my pupils had finished contracting.

My brain processed everything rather quickly, somehow faster than my eyes.  We were in my classroom. Except there were no decorations or fun posters. Everything was in a dull black on white palette: alphabet; number line; multiplication tables; classroom rules; and so on. There were no homey touches. No more dolls or toys or games.  Cubbies and shelves were stuffed with books.  The kidney tables as well as the circular and rectangular tables that had been used for group work and centers were nowhere to be found.  The students’ desks were in neat orderly rows where they huddled over worksheets. On the corner of the big heavy teacher’s desk, my old desk, a stack of diapers and a packet of wipes lay in plain view like a headsman's ax in an old tree stump.  

This wasn’t my room at all.  It was what children of all sizes feared school would be like in their worst nightmares. I then fully understood the crying sounds that I had faintly heard over the passing weeks.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your instruction, Ms. Ambrose,” Sosa said in clipped hurried tones. “But can I please leave this student with you for about ten minutes? He needs a time out and I need a break.”

All heads turned to regard me at the back of the room.  Children looked over their shoulders and up at me in quiet curiosity. There was no curiosity in Elmer’s face, however. Only fear.  None of them smiled. They only stared.  Elmer didn’t smile that I could see. His lips were behind a plastic shield guard.  Why was he sucking on a pacifier?

Ambrose did not smile, either, but she looked like an alligator that had just spotted a baby goat with a broken leg.  “Of course. Go ahead and put him down. I’ll take care of him.”  I need her kind of care like I needed to swallow a battery.

I gripped into Sosa’s shirt out of desperation.  She brushed my hands off like it was nothing.. “Thanks,” she said, already sounding relieved. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I just…I just need…”

“Go,” Ambrose waved her away.  “I know how naughty Littles can be. I’ve got this.” It was the closest I’d ever heard her to sounding friendly. The spider always gets chipper when someone drops off a fly into its web.

Sosa didn’t make any attempt to prolong her stay. “Thanks.” She was back out the door.  I was a deer in headlights.  What did I do? What did I say?  My kids were staring at me. And so many of their faces looked exactly like Ambrose’s to me.  No love.  Barely any recognition.  What had that monster done to them?

Where was Tracy?

The massive warthog of a woman somehow made it beside me without me seeing it. It was like she had teleported. “Class. We’re going to stop practicing our handwriting and skip ahead to Science.”  One flabby arm came to rest on my opposite shoulder so that I couldn’t lean away from the beast. It coiled around me like a python and drew me in closer while she took a knee.  She towered over me, massive for even an Amazon.  I felt her breath on my cheek. “What did you put in your mouth this time, you naughty Little thing?” she asked.

“I di-” My words were cut off when Ambrose used her other hand to shove a pacifier into my mouth, and not the one that tended to dangle from my shirt. Her meaty claw twisted a knob on the guard and the rubber bulb ballooned to fill my mouth up almost instantly. She held it up against me until the bulb had fully inflated and lodged itself between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. 

I couldn’t spit it out. I couldn’t even open my jaw wide enough or move my tongue more than a few millimeters. Stupidly, I tried to yank it out by hand and got nothing for it. Tiny, high pitched, mean spirited giggles rang out. Not many.  Only one or two voices out of less than a dozen.  At this age, in my classroom, one or two was too many.  Elmer touched his own pacifier the way one does an old wound and looked away.

“That’ll stop that,” Ambrose said. “Littles just love their pacifiers. Don’t they class?”

“Yes, Miss Ambrose,” came a dull choral response.

“And what’s another word for a Little?”

One student raised her hand. “A baby.” The phrasing didn’t even sound like a question. Not a trace of doubt. Hearing that was like a slap across my face.  

“That’s right,” Ambrose nodded.  “How do we know that Littles are babies? What proof do we have?”  She drew me in closer, keeping me from shaking. I kept moving my jaw, futile hoping that I could muscle the gag out with just my tongue.  From the outside, it likely just looked like I was sucking on it.  My heart started to speed up. 

“They’re small, like babies,” one said.

“And play with dumb baby toys,” said another.

“And he’s wearing a diaper!”  My hands couldn’t cover my front fast enough. I  tried to bend over and press my knees together, make the source of shame seem as small as possible from their angle. Ambrose’s hand remained collapsed around me so that my back was ramrod straight.  

More mocking titters came.  The volume and number of voices hadn’t changed at least. I averted my eyes and stared at the decorations along my waist.  I didn’t want to know which kids were laughing at me.  I didn’t want to have to hate them.

I had to pee too.  I’d been so worked up that I hadn’t noticed the faintly familiar sensation. I started to let out a little and stopped myself.  I fought against my own unpotty training and focused on the unpleasant burning sensation of a full bladder. Not here. I wouldn’t do that here.  All eyes were on me.  

Ambrose continued her lecture.  “Do all Littles wear diapers?”

“No, Miss Ambrose,” came the chorus.

“Should they?

“Yes, Miss Ambrose.”

“Why?”

No one said anything. Asking complex (and fabricated) philosophy questions was a bit too much for three and four year olds.  

A few seconds of silence passed. Ambrose picked me up and tossed me over her shoulder. Her standing up felt like I’d been strapped to a rocket at liftoff.  Her arms pinned mine to the side in a kind of bear hug, and my feet were positioned away from her at an awkward angle so that kicking would do me no good. I found out just how good those pacifier gags were at muting screams, shouts and curse words.

I was effectively blindfolded, too; left staring over the back of Ambrose’s shoulder with nothing but the floor, the ceiling, and the back of my old classroom wall.  It also meant that I couldn’t see my kids’ faces and they were being given a full view of my plastic backed underwear..

“Tracy?” Ambrose called out.  “Do you know why?”

Meek and pathetic, I heard Tracy speak up. “Yes, Miss Ambrose, but I think you could do a much better job of explaining it than me.”  I had no idea where Tracy had come from.  I hadn’t noticed her when I’d been brought in.  I could tell it was her, but it didn’t sound like the ‘Tracy’ I had known, more like the same actress playing a drastically different part.  She was doing what Tweener’s did best, apparently, and going unnoticed while telling others what they wanted to hear.  “I think you know best.”

“Good girl,” Ambrose chuckled.  It is fortunate that I didn’t get to see the smile that that grim laugh produced.  “You see, class. Littles never really grow up. They like to play pretend, but that’s all it is; pretend and luck. Babies don’t wear diapers because they like it.  Babies wear diapers because if they don’t they’ll have an accident all over everything.”  

My body shook violently when I felt her hand slide down and pat my bottom. I screamed too, but it would have been hard to tell how loud it would have been or whether the scream would have been fear or indignation. 

“You can put them on the potty, or let them walk around without a diaper on, but that doesn’t mean they’re not babies. They just get lucky.  Eventually, they will always make a mess. Isn’t that right, class?”

“Yes, Miss Ambrose.”

“And some naughty babies hide their mess.  They have accidents, but they don’t want to stop playing pretend.  So they hide it. All the time. Sometimes, if they’re very lucky, Littles can hide their babyishness for months, even years.  I heard about a Little who hid their accidents from the real Grown-Ups for close to ten years.  But they always get caught, eventually.  Don’t they?”

“Yes, Miss Ambrose.”

My thrashes were nothing more than childish wiggles in her grasp but I had to do something to show that I wasn’t going to just take it.  How dare this monster, this charlatan of a teacher lie about me so fucking brazenly!  The gagged screams and the impotent kicks that didn’t connect to anything only received in her mammoth palm patting the back of my diaper; smacking it not so gently so that I could hear the hollow thumps and feel the impact just enough.  A threat of a spanking.

I slowed down and tried to control my breathing.  Breathing techniques are much harder to do when one of the two main airways is clogged.

“When they do get caught,” Ambrose asked my kids, “what do we do?”

“Spank him?” A tiny voice suggested.

“No,” Ambrose grunted. “Wish we could, but that’s against the rules at school. Only his Mommy or Daddy can spank him or give us permission to spank him.”  The sourness in her tone made me calm down slightly.  No way would Janet give that kind of permission.

I let myself try one more muffled scream, just to be difficult. 

“What we do is we just put them back in diapers like they should be. Then we get them a Mommy or Daddy that’s a real Grown-Up and teach them how to be good babies instead of naughty ones.”  She gave my diaper yet another pat and I shook again, glad at least that I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone.  “And we clean up their messes for them. Literally.”  Tracy,” she snapped. “This baby is wet.  Change him, please”  

The room whipped by and I was left dangling with my arms pinned to my side, staring hatefully at Ambrose’s toad-like face.  She glared right back at me. There was no love lost there because there was none to begin with. 

I felt two smaller hands gingerly grab me by the waist. Ambrose released me and Tracy lowered me safely back down to the carpet. Her hands wafted down gently on my shoulders, resting but not weighing me down like the Amazon’s had.  

Accidentally, I leaned back into her and reoriented myself.  My back was still to the students turned around in their desks.  Ambrose was between me and the classroom’s back wall.  Tracy was between me and the rows of desks leading up to the front of the room. She was using her body to block me from the kids so that they couldn’t quite see what was going on. Caught between a psychotic monster and traitor.  Great.

“He doesn’t look that wet to me, ma’am,” Tracy said. From where I was standing I could only get a look at the bottom of her chin. Tracy wasn’t looking at me.  “Shouldn’t someone wait until he’s really soaked or poopy?  He’s not potty trained, and diapers are expensive. It’d be more responsible to wait, don’t you think?”  My bladder continued to ache, begging me to pee my pants as I had continuously been doing the last several weeks. Holding my bladder was becoming less and less second nature and more like carrying a coffee cup around all day without ever putting it down.  I could probably do it but it felt like having one hand always tied up and required constant concentration. It might happen, but unless I actively thought about it, I was going to slip and put it down somewhere.

Not here, though. Doing that would undermine Tracy’s argument. It worked in my favor so I supported it.

“Change him,” Ambrose growled. “Be mature and follow orders.” She crossed her arms and stepped closer, threateningly.  “Or do you need some help with that, too?” She very softly threatened, “Maybe you picked up some bad habits spending too much time playing pretend with the baby?”

“No ma’am,” Tracy squeaked. Her hands still on my shoulders, she started pivoting me towards the classroom bathroom, past the front row of student desks.  Ambrose stepped around and blocked our path.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To take him to the bathroom…?” Tracy said. Obviously we were going there. It was the only place with some semblance of modesty, just like in Beouf’s room.

Ambrose slowly shook her head.  “He’s a baby with a bad habit of playing pretend. You don’t want him getting confused again, do you?  Change him here.”

Tracy tried to speak my mind. “But I figured he’d want some priva-”

“He’s a baby. He doesn’t need privacy!  And there’s no rules against it.” There were no rules against it, because laws against public indecency were already a thing. Those laws made exceptions for babies, however.  “Change him here on the floor.”

“But-”

“Change. Him. Here.”  Every word was punctuated by Ambrose stabbing her finger down at her feet.

Tracy scooped my legs out from underneath me and laid me down on the floor, feet facing her. “Yes, ma’am.”  She lowered to her knees and looked down at me with pity and fear.

This is exactly what happened to Billy, I knew.  This is what had happened.  Laid down on the floor.  Changed in public. Surrounded by school children who were only a fraction of his age and a giantess overseeing the whole thing.

I remembered reading some bit of trivia that long long ago, before Amazons were completely batshit baby crazy and decided to make Littles their dolls, that things like public punishments were common.  People would be put in cages or left shackled in public or lashed and whipped while onlookers laughed and mocked and threw rotten vegetables at them.

This was the same thing, in principle.  Already the mean spirited childish tittering had started up again.  There were now more than just one or two voices in the mix.

“Come on. Come on. Gather round.”  Ambrose ordered.  My former students got up from their desks and started to circle up around me.  Three hundred and sixty degrees of chubby faces looking down at me with expressions that ranged from worry to curiosity to something Ambrose would very much approve of.  They were about to witness the man who had taught most of them their ABC’s and how to use the toilet get his diaper changed.  

“Don’t be shy,” Ambrose coached them.  “Everyone needs to learn how to change a diaper. Almost all of you will be Mommies and Daddies some day.  It’s perfectly natural.”  Elmer was shoved to the front so that he couldn’t look away. “Just watch out. Sometimes baby boys make a mess and pee everywhere.”

“EWWWWWWW!”

Behind Tracy, Ambrose hovered looking down on me. She’d gone back to her desk and returned with the wipes and the clean diaper that I’d soon be wearing.

I ignored her and stared up at Tracy, feeling nothing but pure white hot anger. No embarrassment whatsoever.  Like literally everyone else still in my life, Tracy had proven herself to be a fair weather friend at best. 

She’d broken her promise to bail me out of Adoption.  She’d broken her promise to look for my wife. She’d barely made a token attempt to spare me a shred of dignity. 

With the pacifier gag in my mouth, it was impossible to make any proper facial expression, but I could still glare at her.  I hoped she felt the absolute depths of this betrayal.  Not that it mattered. Within a minute this would be over. She’d survive. I’d still be trapped. Nothing else would change save the literal.

I knew what I was going to do, just then.  I was going to pee on her. Tracy would rip the tapes off, open the diaper, and then I’d grab myself and pee all over her. Ambrose too if I could manage it.  They wanted me to be a baby boy and pee everywhere. Fine. It’s not like anyone taller than me counted any evidence to the contrary.  I might as well confirm their bias in a way that suited me.  Maybe I could make this batch of kids scared of Littles instead of mocking them or cosset them.  Better feared than loved.

 “Sorry, Boss…” Tracy whispered. Her eyes went south and her fingers gingerly brushed against the tapes of my Monkeez.  Her face scrunched up and she bared her teeth, concentrating like the diaper was a time bomb and she couldn’t quite find the right wire to snip.  She had no idea.

Fuck you, Tracy. I readied my hands and flexed my fingers, a gunslinger in the old west waiting for the count of three.

One…two…

“Oh no I almost forgot!” Tracy yelped.  She jumped to her feet and ran for the back door connecting Ambrose’s room to Beouf’s.  “I need one of his diapers I'll go get one from next door be back in a second!”  Her words spilled over each other like water.

Ambrose started lumbering after her. “Tracy! Where are you going?” One massive foot stepped over me.  I saw a new opportunity. “I’ve got a diaper ri-!”  I reached up for her other foot and pulled down with all of my weight. “ACK!”

I wasn’t anywhere as strong as an Amazon.  Were I to get in a fist fight with my students, and I were to fight remotely fair, the smart money would still be on them due to brute strength.  Just like booties that were strapped to Mandy’s feet, though, it was remarkable what a sudden difference in weight on one foot can do to one’s balance.

The mammoth of a woman flailed and stumbled forward, shrieking in surprise.  The children screamed and scattered. The ground beside me shook and Ambrose came tumbling down to the floor. The only reason I hadn’t been crushed beneath her was that I’d been smart and scared enough to let go the millisecond I felt my back leave the carpet.

The children laughed nervously.  Ambrose picked herself up and retrieved the changing supplies that she’d spilled. Nothing broken or bruised save her pride. A pity.  “Stupid girl,” she spat.  “I’ve got them right here.”  She turned to me and lowered down to where Tracy had been.  “If you want something done right…”  Meaty claws reached down for my waist.

I rolled out of the way.  One, two, three, four rotations.  That hadn’t been part of the plan.

“Hm?” Ambrose sniffed.  She reached down again, and I rolled the other direction. One, two rotations.

More giggles. Not as mean.  “He’s rolling!”

“Hold still,” Ambrose threatened. But what threat was there?  What would happen if I disobeyed? What was she gonna do? Change my diaper?

The ogre widened her grasp. Left wouldn’t work. Neither would right.  I kicked my legs up and rolled backwards over my shoulders, flopping clumsily onto my stomach with a muffled “Ufff”. I pushed myself up and stared up at fuming Ambrose, my eyes wide and smiling.

The kids laughed more. One started clapping.  I was a clown. This was a game. I was winning.
The game didn’t last long.  The monster of a woman leaned forward, grabbed the back of my non-pants and dragged me across the carpet back to her. I tried to move and scream and wriggle away, but all it took was for her to flip me over and slam down one flabby paw on my chest to pin me to the ground.

Back to Plan A. Or was it B?  Not important. My primary target had just gotten a whole lot bigger. I flapped my arms out, ready to snake them back in the moment the diaper came open. Vainly, I imagined that maybe I could grab my penis in such a way that the kids wouldn’t get a good look at me, and that they’d be scared to look once my golden stream started going skyward.  

The ogre flashed an excited sneer.  “Now I’ve gotcha you Little-!”

“Hello, Miss Ambrose!” An almost musical foreign accent rang out into the room.  “I’m so sorry to interrupt your instruction, but I understand you have a child of ours.”  Zoge seemed to glide into the classroom.  “Oh,” she chirped. “There he is. Allow me to help.”  

 Ambrose took her hand off my chest, and released a confused grunt of acknowledgement. “Zoge?”

The Yamatoan took the opportunity to pluck me up off the ground and rest her on her hip. She turned the knob on the pacifier gag and I felt myself exhale as the bulb deflated and she quietly removed it with her free hand.   

“We’ve very sorry for the inconvenience and miscommunication,” she told Ambrose. “Thank you for sending your assistant to Mrs. Beouf’s class so that I could come and retrieve him.”

My heart went pitter patter. Tracy! She hadn’t just run away. She’d gone for help. For me!  She’d told Beouf and Beouf had sent Zoge to save me!

Ambrose wasn’t having any of it. “That Little sonofabitch tripped me,” she exclaimed.

From my perch on Zoge’s hip, I saw my old students wince. Some looked like they wanted to cry but were too afraid to.  

“Yes,” Zoge replied with practiced tranquility. “I’m sure he did. Babies often get underfoot and don’t realize how they might trip someone. We have a Little girl who used to pretend to be a kitty cat and she would rub up against my legs.”

“He did it on purpose!” Ambrose bellowed.

“Possibly,” Zoge said. “Who can know?  Babies sometimes don’t understand the consequences of their actions and hurt people close to them because they do not understand the pain they can cause.”

Ambrose finally found the sense to stand up.  “Little brat was rolling all over the place.”

“It was funny!” A child laughed.  “Mr. G. got all silly.”  Ambrose glowered down at her and the girl stopped.

“Babies are very silly,” Zoge agreed. Her head looked down at the diaper and wipes that had been laid aside.  “That is why we use a changing table in our classroom.  It’s safer. They cannot be silly and roll around.  No one can accidentally step over them and fall.  And we keep ours in the bathroom so we do not distract the other children.”

“He! Tripped! Me!  On purpose!”

Zoge nodded. “Most unfortunate. Once I’ve taken care of Clark, I would be happy to watch your class for you while you go to the nurse’s office.  Do you need a bandage?”

Ambrose had no way out.  She’d just given a lecture on me being a baby and Zoge was turning her own logic against her.  Ambrose held the philosophical belief that people my size were supposed to be treated as infants.  Zoge had come from a land where that belief was an undisputed fact of nature. Zoge’s crazy trumped Ambrose’s.

With me still on her hip, Zoge did something resembling a bow and walked me to the back of the classroom. “Let’s go,” she said.

“Thank you,” I whispered in her ear.

We slipped out the door and into the tiny passageway over to Beouf’s room. “When the others get back, you are going to apologize to Miss Sosa and Miss Winters.” There was no anger behind the words. Like my perpetual infancy, this was a fact to her.

“Why?” I asked.

She stopped us just outside Beouf’s back door. “Because when you hurt someone, you apologize and try to make it right, even if you do not like it.”  Flashbacks of the Yamatoan woman getting on her hands and knees and offering to diaper herself played in my mind’s eye. That had happened only half a year ago or so.

“What’d I do?”  My newly freed mouth was already feeling sore and I started massaging my jaw.

“I do not know,” Zoge said softly. “You going into Miss Ambrose’s room was a mistake, but not an accident.”  She was right, of course.

She opened the door and we were back at home base as it were. The moment we crossed the threshold I saw her toss the pacifier gag into the garbage can and make a face like she had been holding something absolutely vile.

Beouf’s voice was the first I’d heard. She was on the other side of the room talking into her classroom’s phone. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you guys.  It completely slipped my mind.  I forgot you even knew I used to do that with…yeah.  You have no idea how crazy it’s been this year, except yeah you do.” Her laugh was not at all jolly.  “Nuh-uh. Not your fault, hon.  That’s nice of you to say, but no. I don’t think the grouping would have mattered this time.  This one’s on me.  Yeah.  Would you mind telling Skinner if you see her first?  Yeah. Thanks.  No, I’ll keep him.  Okay. Goodbye.”

My mentor hung up the phone and shook her head sadly to herself.  I’d caused her to have to make a lot more phone calls lately.  When she saw me, Zoge put me down and Beouf instantly barreled for me, dropping down and giving me the softest, warmest, gentlest hugs.  “I’m so sorry, baby!”  Her voice cracked with emotion. “That’s my fault.”

I looked around with my eyes.  Jesse and Ivy weren’t there. I rested my chin on Beouf’s shoulder.  There, alone in the classroom, with her enveloping me like a warm blanket, I could almost forget what I looked like from the neck down.

Speaking of neck down, I considered releasing my bladder, but didn’t get the choice.  Somewhere between me getting scooped up onto Zoge’s hips and thinking about my body in Beouf’s embrace.  I’d put down the coffee cup and hadn’t at all noticed.

“He is fine,” Zoge reported. “I got there in time. He is safe.”

“I know,” Beouf said. “I know.”  She was talking to herself more than anything.  She started rubbing my back, holding me like she was afraid to let go. After what I’d almost brought upon myself it felt amazing.  “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

Point of fact: I related so hard to how Beouf was feeling just then.  Beouf had been my mentor and  I’d picked up her passion and sense of perfectionism.  No one’s perfect, however.  I’d made plenty of mistakes through the years. Everyone does.  In life there’s always so many moving parts. You can’t always remember who needs to know what or when you or if you told them something.  Something that doesn’t seem important to you goes unnoticed and a miscommunication happens. 

A kid is going through a rough time at home or a pair of them are fighting, and you get it managed in your own private ecosystem so you forget the world outside it.  Then, out of nowhere, a kid bursts into tears because another adult said something they didn’t know they shouldn’t have or the normally best friends throw everything into chaos.  And it sucks and you feel like the worst teacher in the world because of it.  
It sucks, but it happens.  

Every time it happened to me, I’d tell Melody and she told me that I wouldn’t end up getting Adopted or fired over it and that more importantly I was still a good teacher.

Beouf had forgotten to tell the therapists that her under the table discipline plan that she’d been running for years was null and void and that she hated Ambrose’s guts.  That oversight had almost gotten the memory of her best friend violated directly in front of his own students. 

It was a simple mistake.  She couldn’t have known.  With Brollish breathing down her neck and Ambrose next door, and Forrest likely listening in, and me to deal with, she was putting out fires on a weekly basis. Of course this one detail had slipped her mind.  She was a well meaning madwoman with the self-discipline of a fantastic teacher.  But she wasn’t perfect.

I wanted to tell her all of that, and give her that comfort like she used to give me. I kept that feeling to myself.

Finally, Beouf pulled back from the hug and looked me straight in the eyes.  “Are you okay, baby?”

I set my jaw, glad to have it closed. “Mmmhmm.”

“Good. Go to the naughty stool.” She seemed relieved, and not half as hurt or distant as she’d been that morning. 

“Alright.” I needed rest. The naughty stool would be a nice break. On surprisingly wobbly legs, I walked over to it and sat down, feeling the wet sopping squish all the way underneath me.  How long had I been holding it? I couldn’t be that close to leaking, could I? 

The sounds of childish laughter came out of the baby monitor. I looked back over and saw Tracy creeping out of the nap room.

“Ivy and Jesse are jumping on the bed, but the rail is up so they can’t fall out and they’re having fun.” Our eyes met from across the classroom and I beckoned her closer with my mind. It didn’t work.  “Okay. I gotta get back there. Wish me luck.”  

Zoge leaned over and gave Tracy a quick hug. “Good luck.” She went into the nap room and the monitor picked up her cooing something in Yamatoan.

Beouf gave her a quick hug, too, and whispered something I couldn’t hear.  My former assistant spared me one last look and put her hand on the back exit door knob.

“Tracy! Wait!”

The Tweener let go of the door and approached me cautiously.  “Yeah?” she asked softly.

“Thanks,” I said. “For…you know.”

A thin simper of a smile came to Tracy. “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.  For you know.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

For what? What couldn’t I apologize for? ‘Sorry that maybe I didn’t appreciate you or how hard your life was before and after this whole mess happened’; ‘Sorry that I took you for granted in a lot of different ways’; ‘Sorry that I gave you not one but two impossible tasks that you had no realistic hope at completing’; ‘Sorry that I wasn’t ready to hear you tell me that’;  ‘Sorry that I hated you when you did’?

I averted my eyes and stared at the floor, like the dumb kid I felt like in the moment.  “Please don’t make me say it.”

Tracy leaned forward and ruffled my knots of curly red hair. “Okay, Boss.” she chirped. “I won’t.”

 

[Samriis]

And there it is....

The entire reason Littes, and true children, act up sometimes in truly malicious ways.  Because that is the only way that they can cause an effect when their world that is so tightly controlled that any good or well meaning gesture is ignored.  

"Good behavior" is expected, encouraged, and consumed... but nothing ever comes of it other than the momentary hit of happiness for the Amazons. 

And that is where I really hope this story is going.  Finding that "thing" where Clark can make a positive difference in the lives around him and still feel pride in that accomplishment. 

Even if it doesn't... I'm enjoying the hell outa this story and the journey you're taking us.  

[ozziebee]

Absolutely fantastic writing and story telling.  The story is evolving slowly, but each chapter is crazily intricate in their own storytelling ways.  

Just beautiful stuff.  

One criticism I have, which has frustrated me since knowing of it.  And I totally understand that Patreon is an income stream for you.  It's been said this story on Patreon is over 30 to 40 chapters ahead of the chapters here.  At one chapter per week, that is a year of updates, to get to where Patreon is today.  I'd just love to see chapters here released a tad more frequently.  I'm not expecting here to catch up, but maybe in 6 to 9 months be somewhat close?

[YourFNF]

13 hours ago, Personalias said:

My kids were staring at me. And so many of their faces looked exactly like Ambrose’s to me.  No love.  Barely any recognition.  What had that monster done to them?

I swear I got this instant gut reaction of "grab nearest pointed object and shove through either the carotid or the side of the knee cap". Like full on "Kill Bill" sirens in my head...

[Personalias]

11 hours ago, ozziebee said:

Absolutely fantastic writing and story telling.  The story is evolving slowly, but each chapter is crazily intricate in their own storytelling ways.  

Just beautiful stuff.  

One criticism I have, which has frustrated me since knowing of it.  And I totally understand that Patreon is an income stream for you.  It's been said this story on Patreon is over 30 to 40 chapters ahead of the chapters here.  At one chapter per week, that is a year of updates, to get to where Patreon is today.  I'd just love to see chapters here released a tad more frequently.  I'm not expecting here to catch up, but maybe in 6 to 9 months be somewhat close?

Thank you for the compliment.

On the criticism: I appreciate the enthusiasm and the eagerness to read more of this particular story.  I am very grateful to my patreons as patreon is my primary source of income. 

I release the chapters to the public eventually because I realize not everyone can afford to support me.  So the only price I ask is patience. 

[FloridaKid]

It seems to me I started reading this story a long time ago and I guess at the time I didn’t get the whole DD universe or at least wasn’t reading that type of story. Fast forward a couple of years and some really great reading later, I picked this up again last week. Wow. I almost don’t know where to begin. This story is amazing for so many reasons, but I’ll try to be brief.

I find it easy to relate to Clark and his work because I’m a career educator in PreK-5. Your clear understanding of everything that means is evident in your writing. I’d go further and say that I’m sure you are a truly exceptional educator yourself. I understand him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I like him. You have a gift for teasing emotions out of this reader and flipping them every which way, especially when it comes to Clark. His way-beyond-bratty stunts can only serve to ultimately isolate him from those who care about him in this new lunatic-infused reality.

As a hopeless romantic, I tend to look for the characters who treat others with respect and base their actions on what they believe will bring others happiness and love. That said, I’ve really felt empathy for Janet. Sure, she’s made mistakes, but I believe her heart is in the right place and she’s shown restraint at key points in the story. I believe she really does love Clark and I hope he is able to see it before he totally trashes the relationship. The most recent events give me some degree of hope that he may finally open his eyes (and heart), but you’ve proven adept at turning the tables in a flash. I also love Tracy’s character, the lone Amazon who treats Clark with some degree of respect. The elephant in the room remains who spiked the coffee? I just have the feeling that making that connection will make or break our protagonist.

On another note, and not beat a dead horse, but the pacing here is perfection. The slow burn of character development is worth every word on every page. The insight into otherwise minor characters is providing a plausible setting with great depths. I’m down to two burning questions: what happened to Cassie (I feel as though this will be a major turning point), and who spiked Clark’s coffee.

A truly wonderful roller coaster of emotions!! As much as I’d love to support your Patreon, I can’t seem to find a good way to “fly under the radar” with recurring online purchases, even small ones. There is no doubt you deserve compensation for this tremendous work, but I am currently unable to comply. I hope I’ll be able to eventually find a way around it and support your work.

[BabySerenity]

8 hours ago, FloridaKid said:

It seems to me I started reading this story a long time ago and I guess at the time I didn’t get the whole DD universe or at least wasn’t reading that type of story. Fast forward a couple of years and some really great reading later, I picked this up again last week. Wow. I almost don’t know where to begin. This story is amazing for so many reasons, but I’ll try to be brief.

I find it easy to relate to Clark and his work because I’m a career educator in PreK-5. Your clear understanding of everything that means is evident in your writing. I’d go further and say that I’m sure you are a truly exceptional educator yourself. I understand him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I like him. You have a gift for teasing emotions out of this reader and flipping them every which way, especially when it comes to Clark. His way-beyond-bratty stunts can only serve to ultimately isolate him from those who care about him in this new lunatic-infused reality.

As a hopeless romantic, I tend to look for the characters who treat others with respect and base their actions on what they believe will bring others happiness and love. That said, I’ve really felt empathy for Janet. Sure, she’s made mistakes, but I believe her heart is in the right place and she’s shown restraint at key points in the story. I believe she really does love Clark and I hope he is able to see it before he totally trashes the relationship. The most recent events give me some degree of hope that he may finally open his eyes (and heart), but you’ve proven adept at turning the tables in a flash. I also love Tracy’s character, the lone Amazon who treats Clark with some degree of respect. The elephant in the room remains who spiked the coffee? I just have the feeling that making that connection will make or break our protagonist.

On another note, and not beat a dead horse, but the pacing here is perfection. The slow burn of character development is worth every word on every page. The insight into otherwise minor characters is providing a plausible setting with great depths. I’m down to two burning questions: what happens to Cassie (I feel as though this will be a major turning point), and who spiked Clark’ coffee

A truly wonderful roller coaster of emotions!! As much as I’d love to support your Patreon, I can’t seem to find a good way to “fly under the radar” with recurring online purchases, even small ones. There is no doubt you deserve compensation for this tremendous work, but I am currently unable to comply. I have no doubt I’ll be able to work around it one way or another.

I think the one who spiked his coffee is the new teacher of his class or the director of the school!! So she could get rid of him and replace him with an Amazon instead of a little!! Basically, put him in his place as she seen it!! Now she has a hardcore Amazon in his place that instead of teaching the kids torments them by making them feel smaller and putting diapers on them when they’re supposed to be learning to potty train and get out of them to prepare for the classes on up!!

Clark was always somewhat of a troublemaker when it came to him being a little in an Amazon world but he kept them on their toes and pushed boundaries all along!! And yeah I hope he doesn’t push everyone so far away that he is left alone I think he’s starting to embrace his baby side a bit more and accepting that people actually love and care for him!!

[FloridaKid]

Quick correction to my own comment: I referred to Tracy as an Amazon when she’s a Tweener. Oops. Still love her character…and “Auntie” Jessica is growing on me.

[Personalias]

14 hours ago, FloridaKid said:

It seems to me I started reading this story a long time ago and I guess at the time I didn’t get the whole DD universe or at least wasn’t reading that type of story. Fast forward a couple of years and some really great reading later, I picked this up again last week. Wow. I almost don’t know where to begin. This story is amazing for so many reasons, but I’ll try to be brief.

I find it easy to relate to Clark and his work because I’m a career educator in PreK-5. Your clear understanding of everything that means is evident in your writing. I’d go further and say that I’m sure you are a truly exceptional educator yourself. I understand him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I like him. You have a gift for teasing emotions out of this reader and flipping them every which way, especially when it comes to Clark. His way-beyond-bratty stunts can only serve to ultimately isolate him from those who care about him in this new lunatic-infused reality.

As a hopeless romantic, I tend to look for the characters who treat others with respect and base their actions on what they believe will bring others happiness and love. That said, I’ve really felt empathy for Janet. Sure, she’s made mistakes, but I believe her heart is in the right place and she’s shown restraint at key points in the story. I believe she really does love Clark and I hope he is able to see it before he totally trashes the relationship. The most recent events give me some degree of hope that he may finally open his eyes (and heart), but you’ve proven adept at turning the tables in a flash. I also love Tracy’s character, the lone Amazon who treats Clark with some degree of respect. The elephant in the room remains who spiked the coffee? I just have the feeling that making that connection will make or break our protagonist.

On another note, and not beat a dead horse, but the pacing here is perfection. The slow burn of character development is worth every word on every page. The insight into otherwise minor characters is providing a plausible setting with great depths. I’m down to two burning questions: what happens to Cassie (I feel as though this will be a major turning point), and who spiked Clark’ coffee

A truly wonderful roller coaster of emotions!! As much as I’d love to support your Patreon, I can’t seem to find a good way to “fly under the radar” with recurring online purchases, even small ones. There is no doubt you deserve compensation for this tremendous work, but I am currently unable to comply. I have no doubt I’ll be able to work around it one way or another.

 

5 hours ago, BabySerenity said:

I think the one who spiked his coffee is the new teacher of his class or the director of the school!! So she could get rid of him and replace him with an Amazon instead of a little!! Basically, put him in his place as she seen it!! Now she has a hardcore Amazon in his place that instead of teaching the kids torments them by making them feel smaller and putting diapers on them when they’re supposed to be learning to potty train and get out of them to prepare for the classes on up!!

Clark was always somewhat of a troublemaker when it came to him being a little in an Amazon world but he kept them on their toes and pushed boundaries all along!! And yeah I hope he doesn’t push everyone so far away that he is left alone I think he’s starting to embrace his baby side a bit more and accepting that people actually love and care for him!!

Thank y'all.  The praise helps lift my spirits as does the emotional investment.  

I am being short only because if I'm not, I'm going to start gushing.

[Personalias]

Chapter 91: Blind 

It’s weird how your senses deceive you, or more accurately how your brain filters out sensory input given enough time. I’m no biologist, but I suspect it’s a survival thing balancing itself with a psychological health thing.  New and uncommon sounds can be scary because they represent a potential danger.  Bad smells and tastes warn of poison or disease. Extreme or foreign temperatures might be a warning from without or within.  Flashes of movement in your peripheral vision warn you of upcoming dangers like predators, runaway cars, or Amazons whipping out pacifiers.

Normal things, get tuned out, however.  Over time your brain stops actively registering chirping birds, and you don’t notice the hum of electricity in the lights, the fan, or the heater until the power goes out.  The pizza delivery guy doesn’t smell the overpowering odor of pepperoni in his car after a long night.  You don’t appreciate good food as much as you avoid spoiled food and people who live in a swamp barely notice the heat and humidity most days.  My old morning routine of grabbing a breakfast shake and scootering over to work was all one big blur most days provided nobody ran a red light.

Notice however, that I’m talking about ‘normal’ and not ‘good’ or ‘safe’. Ground up canned meat isn’t half as good as a fresh steak, but stick to it long enough and your tongue acclimates. Somebody with a limp or a trick knee stops noticing the regular ache or the awkward gait. You see the dangling electric wire just above the shower and learn to ignore it because you can’t fix it. Unobservant cat owners never notice what’s wrong with the litter box until the eleventh hour. 

Your brain registers the dip in quality, but it eventually accepts and filters out the data as ‘normal’ and thus stops actively alerting you to it at every opportunity.  Your mind is like “Well…it’s not good…but it’s not an immediate threat and can’t be fixed so… good enough,” and it starts to filter these things out as much as possible.  The battle has been lost, time to focus on things that can still be won.

That’s why after enough time, I stopped noticing the crinkle whenever I or another babied Little moved.  The feeling of a wet diaper stopped being uncomfortable up until I was on the verge of leaking. The smell of stale urine was almost automatically filtered out of my nose, and unless someone went particularly heavy on the baby powder or took a particularly rank dump in their pants it could be easy enough to miss or at least second guess what you were sniffing. 

I stopped noticing the waddle and toddle that we all tended to move with. Full time crawlers like Amy and Chaz still registered as different but not dangerous, so their movement ended up being disregarded.  Unconsciously, I had gone from looking away from a fellow Little’s diapers, to hyper fixating on them, to barely noticing them.  

There was a time when alarm bells would go off on my brain whenever I’d see someone my size padded up.  I’d instantly notice the bulk between their legs, or the bits peeking out above waistbands, below skirts, or out from under onesies and my brain would scream at me, “No! Not me! Never me!” Later followed by “No! Not them, too!”  

There came a point where my brain had decided that certain battles regarding clothing and aesthetics were well lost and that I needed to move on in order to function.  I could neither rest nor escape nor rebel if I was constantly focusing on things that were well out of my control, and that included mine and others’ clothing.  Even that final threshold of my padding on full display had eventually become less bothersome. 

 I had become numb to so many things that had just become ‘normal’, even if they weren’t ‘good’, so I got to a point where my Monkeez or Koddles or Hippobottomuses or whatever could be seen from space and I wouldn’t blush about it. After enough time, emotionally, a new embarrassing outfit was no more exciting or remarkable than someone getting a bad haircut.  If being desensitized was Beouf’s idea of me ‘accepting’ my reduced status, then she was absolutely correct; damn her.

The weather started turning against her, however.  A chill was in the air the morning after my run in with Ambrose; meaning Janet finally felt she had to dress me in something that more completely covered my legs. The weather around Oakshire being what it was, would be back up to scolding by lunch. However, in the early pre-dawn hours, it would have been a faux parenting faux pas to parade me out in the bus loop in anything more revealing than shorts and knee high socks.

I ended up getting better than that. As soon as I’d rubbed the sleep out of my eyes while up on the changing table, Janet set me on my feet wearing nothing but the new diaper she’d just put me in.  A quick trip to the closet and she was kneeling in front of me with piles of denim and cotton folded in her arms. 

“It’s picture retake day,” she told me.  “If I give you something nice to wear, do you promise not to mess it up on purpose?”

I felt my face heat up. No such quarter should have been given or asked for. Be it real or imagined, I should have been ready to dash even the faintest hint of hope that I’d detected in Janet’s voice right onto the rocks.  I held my tongue, however.  Overplaying my hand had caused my close call on Tuesday.  I could not afford another like it so soon.  More to the point, no one had told me the exact date of picture retakes and I’d forgotten to plan anything.

Yesterday had been terrible and my close call with Ambrose still burned and sizzled between my ears. The idea that I might have been exposed on the floor in front of my students made the few remaining hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up on end.  The idea that a handful of my kids were eagerly watching and ready to stare, point, and laugh at me as ‘the baby’ made those hairs prick up like tiny porcupine quills.

With nothing, not even grim pleasure to gain, I nodded my consent and stayed put as she pulled the green polo tee over my head and guided my arms through the sleeves.  The head hole was particularly big with extra buttons in front to make up for the relative dearth of elastic in the collar.  Any aesthetic of propriety or maturity was quickly overshadowed by the overalls she had me step into.  Real adults didn’t have frogs stitched into the bib or the cuffs turned up.  

“Remember,” Janet warned.  “If this gets messed up there’s always the sailor top and hat. No shorts” 

I remained standing while she slipped socks onto my feet that matched the polo in color and light up sneakers that decidedly didn’t.  Looking down so I could keep my balance I felt a queer kind of happiness. It wasn’t quite the inverse of the terrible buzzing feeling I regularly felt on playgrounds or in the fancy store where Jessica had bought these clothes, but its frequency was on a much more positive different wavelength than I was used to feeling.  A hot cheese burger is a steak compared to room temperature cat food.  A three-year-old’s wardrobe feels infinitely more sophisticated when compared to an eighteen month old’s.
This was the first time since my life fell apart that I had any article of clothing come down past my knees.  Not only that, but these particular overalls didn’t have any snaps along the inseam.  It wasn’t much of one, but it was still a step up. Minus the pacifier clip that was added on last, this looked just below what my students’ might wear (though I’d never recommend their parents put them in something as difficult to remove and refasten while potty training) An idea immediately started brewing in my head.  

Janet reached down and took my hand.  “Come on,” she coaxed. “School time.”  She turned out the light to the nursery and together we walked through the mostly dark house, with minute flashes of blue pulsing after every step I took.

We stopped in the kitchen and I looked at the clocks on the stove and microwave. We weren’t leaving nearly early enough for another intervention. I squinted when Janet opened the refrigerator and grabbed an Amazon sized breakfast shake. The refrigerator bulb was a lighthouse beacon by comparison.  

“Can I have one?” I asked. There was no particular reason.  No malice or plan beyond curiosity and simple nostalgia.  Franz Toast sticks and dry cereal were more filling and tasted better, but I just had a craving.  Maybe it was the new clothes.

“No,” Janet said, not unkindly.  “You get breakfast at school, remember?”
 
I passed on the opportunity to turn this into an argument.  It wasn’t worth it.  The fridge door was shut and I remembered there was a carton of goat’s milk.  “Can I have some milk instead?” 

Janet eyed me wearily and let go of my hand. The fact that I was asking for the milk made her instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“Just thirsty,” I half told the truth.  The devious thought of tanking up on liquids had sparked up inside me. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a fun and nasty impulse and the relatively tame nature of it made escalation or retaliation less likely.  After yesterday’s debacle, I just wanted a good bit of malicious compliance; just enough to let my captors know the fight hadn’t quite gone out of me.

Janet gripped the handle. “Hmmm….”  She sounded more hesitant than when I’d floated the idea of the breakfast shake. Not that I blamed her, rationally speaking. It took more milk to make a body puke than cinnamon, but it could be done. 

“Come on!” I whined. “It’s milk. It’s in a baby bottle.  I want to drink it. I thought that’s what you wanted from me.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head.  “I don’t understand you sometimes.”  

The dig was probably unnecessary.  Her hesitation was annoying at worst. Goat’s milk had lost its novelty.  It was nothing special.  I’d just have to tank up on tap water in Beouf’s room, assuming that we got to school with enough time to ask before Ivy and I were harnessed up. 
A glance at the clock told me I’d have enough time if we left now. I reached up for Janet’s hand. “Okay. Sorry. Let’s go.”  

Janet did not take my hand.  “Why do you want it?”  Damn. I’d shaken her. That gave me no small amount of pride.  Even in the darkness of pre-dawn I could feel her wrestling with herself.  Her baby crazy and wanting me to be her perfect Little boy was battling the rational part that just plain knew better.

I took a step back.  Wow. This was certainly unexpected.  So was how I replied:  “If Beouf and Zoge have to change me, it’s gonna be inconvenient for them because of the extra layers of clothing and no snaps.”  Sometimes the truth was the best tool. 

And yes, the crux of that day’s great rebellion was to purposefully turn a thirty to ninety second process into a three to five minute process, and have it happen multiple times; and thus inconvenience the giants.  It was a mean spirited and petty idea; not a silver bullet.  It certainly wasn’t Monday’s ‘Love Bomb’. 

“Really?” Janet sounded confused, maybe even amused or disappointed. “Seriously? That’s it? You want to pee your pants faster to annoy your teachers?”

I shrugged and felt myself blush. Not every idea was gonna be a winner.  ‘Yeah.” 

She put her hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle. “That’s…that’s so you, Clark.”

“So can I have some milk, or not?” I pressed.  I craned my neck and looked at the clock again. This strange battle of wills was dragging out longer than I’d intended.

Janet bowed her head and allowed herself a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”  Instead of opening the refrigerator, she surprised me by leaning left, opening the cabinet, and taking out an empty bottle and top.  Only then did she open up the refrigerator and reach for the purple carton of goat’s milk.

“Janet!” I whined.  “What are you doing?”  I pointed to the pre-filled baby bottle right next to the carton.  A similar one had been stocked last week.  “You’ve already filled one up.  Let’s just take that.”  She was already forgetting the diaper bag on the regular, now pre-filled bottles were escaping her notice.  I was the one being put to bed way too early, but she was the one that was decidedly not a morning person.

My supposed Mommy reached in and froze, her hand hovered between the two containers for a second longer than was comfortable.  “Alright,” she said.  She slipped the baby bottle full of milk into her hand awkwardly beside the overlarge shake.  Then she reached down and took my hand.   “Let’s go. You can drink it in the car.  No spraying it everywhere.”

“Okay…” Crud, I hadn’t even thought of that.

On the way out the door, I noticed something was missing from the hook by the door. “Where’s the diaper bag?” I asked. 

“I already dumped it out, repacked it and put it in the car.”

“Touche,” I told her.  She’d learned a thing or two. 

As promised she strapped me into the car seat and handed me the bottle. As predicted her eyes watched me hungrily while I suckled on it. Typical Amazon.  I no longer tasted the rubber nipple, my tongue had just accepted that as ‘normal’ even if it wasn’t ‘good’. 

I gulped the heavy cream down, not even attempting to savor it.  There’d be a second course of water to add to things as long as Janet didn’t drive terribly slowly.  “Do you like it?”  Janet asked.  In reply I kept chugging just fast enough to not accidentally induce vomiting.  “Yeah,” she said. “You like it.”

Less than halfway through our morning commute I finished the bottle and laid my head back, allowing myself a belch followed by a massive yawn.  I ignored Janet’s “Awwww” and allowed myself to zone out.  

 I felt…strangely tranquil. Not quite drowsy, not quite a food coma. I wasn’t sleepy but it would have been easy enough to allow myself to go to sleep.  I’d never had a major surgery before, but I’d always heard how there are anti-anxiety drugs and light sedatives that make it so that the patient wouldn’t be overly stressed prior to being put under anesthetic.  It was kind of like that.

 “Tired?”  Janet prodded from the driver’s seat.

I drew in a deep breath, causing me to consciously recognize how much my breathing had slowed.  “No.” 

 “Would you like some more at bedtime?” Janet dared to ask.  “Milk helps a lot of people sleep.” Cautious as she was being, she was still enjoying this too much.

The possible implications that Janet had finally figured out how to listen to my nightly hate whispers and was trying to knock me out didn’t come to me until the ride home from school that day when she offered it again.  Feeling incredibly calm I decided to deflect and parry where I once might have simply butted heads.  “If milk makes people sleepy, why do we serve it for breakfast…or lunch?  Aren’t we supposed to be productive or something immediately after?”

“Ha!” Janet replied. “Good point. You’d think we’d push milk as a dessert food instead of part of a balanced breakfast.” A beat. “You’re still going to eat your breakfast, right?”

After downing the milk I wasn’t particularly hungry but felt like I could eat.  “Sure.”

“Good.”

A few minutes later, I toddle walked ahead of Janet, slightly energized by the early caloric intake, and partly because I was in a rush.  Beouf opened the door for me, waiting at the threshold.  “Good morning, Clark.”

I bit my tongue to stop anything untoward from coming out.  The smile I produced was hollow and didn’t reach my eyes. “Good morning, Mrs. Beouf.  How are you?”

Beouf’s didn’t reach hers either. Wonderful.  “I’m well, Clark. I like your new outfit.  You look very handsome”

I gave a stiff, overly formal bow.  “Thank you, ma’am. My Auntie Jessie bought it for me last Friday.”  Beouf’s expression darkened slightly. I’d just told her I’d been rewarded for bad behavior. 

She allowed me to slide past her and I walked into the classroom with the same relative comfort and familiarity that I’d possessed when I would saunter in from the back entrance. I closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the smell of java that still permeated the air. My brain had yet to fully filter that nostalgic scent out. “I hope you enjoyed your morning coffee…”  I needn’t have bothered adding in ‘...without me.’  She heard those last two words inside the silence.

Beouf remained genial, but curt. “I did. Thank you…”

Janet followed up behind me, diaper bag in tow. She dug into the overstuffed thing and pulled out half a dozen diapers. “I haven’t been keeping track but I gotta figure we’re almost out.”

Beouf took the Monkeez from Janet and pivoted to pass the potty pants over my head to Zoge behind me. “This should last for at least two days with what we have left. Maybe till the end of the week.”

“It might not,” Janet said. “I’ll bring you a big box from home just in case.”  I saw Beouf shoot her a slightly confused look, to which Janet replied, “I’ll catch you up on the way up front.” She held the door open for Beouf and the pair slinked off together, leaving me alone with the Zoges.

Speaking of the Yamatoan and her pet, while she busied herself adding Janet’s donation to my personal stack in the bathroom, her so-called daughter kept a respectful distance.  “Hello, Clark.”  Ivy said.  She was dressed in the exact same hoity toity princess outfit she’d worn on Friday.  She gave me a curtsey, same as always. “You look very cute today.”

“Thanks,” I said.  I flinched at my own slip up and kicked myself. ‘Cute’ is not something I wanted to be, but stupid small talk would get me in less trouble than telling her to shove it.  “Why are you wearing that thing?”  I gestured to the outfit.

“My Mommy dressed me in it.”

I kicked myself again. Should’ve seen that response coming.  “Yeah,” I told her. “But why?  You got your picture taken before we all…blergh!”  I mimed a stream of projectile vomit shooting out of my mouth and spilling onto the floor.  “You don’t need to do any retakes.”

Ivy’s eyes refused to blink, instead boring into me and challenging me. “Why do I need a reason to dress pretty?” 

“You just said that you didn’t dress…” I stopped myself.  Ivy had internalized so much of the giants’ circular logic traps over her years of captivity that she could utilize them almost as naturally as they could.  “Nevermind,” I said. I called out, “Mrs. Zoge, I’m thirsty. Can I please get a bottle of water please?”

Zoge came out of the bathroom weilding a faded purple hairbrush. There were three people in my life that could hold an implement like that and I wouldn’t have taken it as a direct or implied threat.  Zoge was one of them, so my brain filtered out the object as nothing more than a curiosity. “The opportunity for second chances is one that is plentiful to children and increasingly rare for adults,” she said.

I chewed on my tongue as the riddle sunk in. “Hmm?” 

“Ivy did not enjoy Picture Day. This is a second chance for her.”  She was answering for her so-called daughter.  Made sense.

“Ah. So about that water…”

My question went unanswered at first.  Zoge took a knee and lightly gripped my shoulder with her free hand. “Hold still.”

I was given no time to question.  The classroom aide took the hairbrush and started dragging it over my scalp. “Ow.  Ow.  Ow.” I flinched and fidgeted as the bristles scratched at my scalp and flattened out my hair. “Why?”

“Your hair is messy and it’s picture day,” Zoge said. “You need a haircut.”

My speech came out in short stuttering bursts in time with the little nips and pinches that came with Zoge trying to untangle my overgrown curly carrot top. “Tell that. Ow. To. Ow. My Mommy.”  Had I been in charge of my own hair, I’d have either cut it at home at least twice already or gelled it flat. Conversely, if I still needed to shave, I’d probably look like a wild animal by now.  The difference in aesthetic between a messy toddler and a homeless person was a matter of stubble. “Ow!” I yelped.  That last pass really stung!  

“Sorry, baby.” Zoge looked over her shoulder.  “Ivy. Can you get me a wipe, please?”

Ivy rushed to obey and got a spare pack from Zoge’s activity table. Zoge paused in scraping my head long enough for me to start patting my face and clothing.  Had my morning milk dribbled onto my clothes or something?  

The wipes, as it turned out, were for the top of my head.  Zoge released my shoulder and started patting my head down with wipes in an attempt to wet it. “Really?” I whined. 

“I’m doing my best,” Zoge said evenly. “Just a few stubborn spots left.”

“Maybe you could spit in his hair?” Ivy suggested. I couldn’t tell if she was saying that to agitate me or whether that was her lack of personal boundaries and hygiene coming into play.

Zoge ignored her and kept pawing at my hair with the brush. I paid closer attention to the brush strokes and made a mental image of how I was starting to look. “At least don’t part it in the middle,” I grunted. “Part it to the left.” 

Oddly enough, she did.  At least there was one thing an Amazon would listen to me about. Zoge lowered the brush to the floor and dangled the pacifier in front of my face.  “Do you want to put this in your pocket or to have it out?”

My face went blank. Something wasn’t computing for me. “Away? Pocket?”

Velcro ripped open on my bib and Zoge placed the binky inside. I looked down in amazement at the strand running from my collar down to the stitched frog on my chest.  Why hadn’t I thought of that?   Granted it wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was an improvement nonetheless. The flap on the bib took up the stop off of the frog’s head, so opening the pocket made the amphibian open its mouth. The red pacifier ribbon running from the bib pocket up to my collar made it kind of look like the cloth frog was licking my neck. I did my best to think of it more like a pocket watch.

“There you go,”  Zoge said. She gave the bib pocket a pat. “Your paci’s not gone. It’s right here if you need it.”

“Thanks,” I heard myself say. 

“Welcome.”

I rattled my head and remembered that I wanted a drink. “Water?”

Zoge stood up and regarded the clock. “Regrettably, we do not have the time, my love. If you are still thirsty after breakfast I shall fill yours up just as Circle Time begins.” Though the patter of her speech remained that gently bubbling brook, the rest of her started picking up speed, snagging the walking leashes.

I ignored another impulse to argue.  Zoge had come and saved me from certain humiliation. In my book, that earned her at least a day of peace. “Yes, ma’am.”  

It didn’t take her very long to click the walking belts in place. Ivy was feeling bold enough to take the spot tethered next to me so that we’d be side by side. Maybe I was becoming her ‘normal-not-good’ too.

The first bell signaling student arrivals toned through the campus speakers when we were less than a dozen steps out the door and kids were getting off the bus, flooding walkways, rounding corners, going to their classrooms or the cafeteria; chatting endlessly to one another; walking and gradually picking up speed as they started an unofficial race and then slowing down as soon as the first adult came into sight.  Half a year ago, I’d be on the lookout for every familiar face, saying good morning and giving gentle reminders; trying to be a good example both as a proper adult Little and as an educator. At present, everyone older than a first grader was just another pair of legs trotting on by.  My brain told me to pay attention to body language and head position so that I didn’t get trampled by an Amazon or Tweener kid looking the wrong way.  Otherwise, I was preoccupied with pondering what fresh hells I’d either create or endure that day.

If there were any remarks or cooing or taunting from former students and former colleagues my ears filtered them out.  They were nothing more than the chirping of birds and croaking of frogs; easily disregarded over the smell of bus diesel and the loud hum of engines.  

Tracy and Ambrose had beaten us out to the loop and were waiting for the pre-K bus to pull around. As usual, Tracy was standing at attention, staring off into the middle distance and looking like a half-sized clone of Ambrose. I tried to throw her a grin or make eye contact; my own subtle way of thanking her in public, but the hope was in vain.  She might as well have been one of those fancy Albienese castle guards with the fuzzy hats; and even I wasn’t fool enough to reach my hand up and wave to her.  That would have been like dangling chum in front of Ambrose’s dead shark eyes.

There was a brief and happy silence for the two minutes before the last buses pulled up, and Ivy and I were corralled around so that we were facing the direction we’d come from. A disadvantage to the line leash system Beouf and Zoge had adopted was that it was more difficult to maneuver us when compared to the old hand holding method.  Worst case scenario with hand holding the back of the line would become the new front.

Out came my classmates carried and then hooked up two by two.  I waited patiently and passively as each pair was unbuckled from their bus seats and set down on the sidewalk.  Being passive was easier that particular morning.  The cold air and full belly was making me chill like a well fed alligator.  I passed the time puffed out air between my lips.  It wasn’t nearly cold enough to see my breath;  Oakshire didn’t get that kind of weather until late December or early January; but it was still mildly amusing to picture it.  Maybe I’d ruffle a few feathers by pretending to smoke one of those days, assuming I hadn’t escaped by then and could afford to draw attention to myself.

“Hey, Gibson,” Billy called three rows back.  “You look cute!”  It was not a compliment the way Billy said it, but it wasn’t anything more serious than semi-friendly teasing.

I looked behind me and called over Tommy and Jesse’s heads  “They’re redoing Picture Day, dude. Mrs. B. washed your clothes. She’ll probably be.dressing you up, too.”  Billy had come off the bus wearing a sky blue long sleeved t-shirt with Albert the cartoon mole on the front and black denim jeans.  Not terrible but not nearly precious enough for a typical Amazon’s baby book.

“Oh,” Billy grunted. “Yeah. Right.”

I twisted myself up doing an about face and gestured to my overalls.  “Check it out! No snaps!” My fingers danced along my inner thighs with a flourish. Then, I ripped open the velcro bib and shut it closed.  “And I’ve got pockets!”

“Pockets?!”  Mandy, Shauna, and Annie gushed in rapid succession; their voices overlapping with one another. Their collective gazes honed in on my chest and their mouths watered with unconcealed envy.

Billy did his best to hide an approving grin and failed. “Dude. Nice.”

“Hmph,”  Ivy whispered beside me.  I clicked my teeth together and saw her jolt a bit. Truly, I was a preschooler among infants.

Turning back around I allowed my eyes to drift further towards Ambrose and Tracy.  The last of what should have been my students were lining up in a single file. They were milling out of the bus, holding the hand railing with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, concentrating on each step as if they feared the tiny stairway might drop out from beneath them at any moment.  

Ambrose, the warthog, stood there with her arms crossed, giving slight nods of approval when each student dismounted onto the pavement and got in line, no hand holding. Tracy stood stock still, not having moved an inch since I’d seen her. 

 My kids were getting off the bus by themselves? This early in the year?  As much as I hated to admit it I was slightly impressed. It wasn’t nearly enough to make up for literally everything else; a sweet tasting poison at best, but it was something.  It was like that myth about King Linkin getting shot in a booth: When the royal guards got to his grieving widow they famously said ‘Other than that, Your Majesty, how was the show?’ 

 Like an old mother hen, I counted them with my eyes.  One-short.  It took me no time at all to know who was missing from the lot. “Elmer,” I mouthed.  Were I that poor sensitive kid’s mother, I’d give him plenty of sick days too.  Thank the school board that preschool wasn’t mandatory and thus there was nothing a pug like Ambrose could do to hold him back. Thank whatever twist of fate that put him in my class at age three last year and that he was quick to pick up toileting.  And pray to whatever goddess, demon, nature spirit, fae, or eldritch horror that Ambrose wouldn’t find a way to set his progress back before Kindergarten.

“Clark,” Zoge gently snapped me back to my own body. “It’s time to go to breakfast.”

She took the front of the leash and led us back the way we came so that we could turn and go into the cafeteria.  Both the preschool bus and the Littles’ bus had unloaded their precious cargo, but the preschool bus in the lead hadn’t left yet.  Looking at Tracy’s growing unease and feeling Ambrose’s quiet aura of malice, I was able to deduce why.

Elmer was still on that bus. Elmer was a four year old Tweener. He was the only student on my caseload that was still shorter and weaker than me. Tracy was a full grown Tweener and she was only slightly bigger stronger than an average Amazon fifth grader.  Most every Amazon would be able to manhandle and bully someone like her halfway through middle school depending on whether or not they were a late bloomer.  There was no possible way that Elmer had the fine motor strength to hit the release on a standard seatbelt. 

The world wasn’t made for Littles.  Tweeners weren’t much better off, especially early on in life.  And Ambrose was letting Elmer feel that gross physical inadequacy.  I mentally took back the sliver of grudging respect I’d felt a moment prior.

As we passed the preschoolers, all standing straight and forward facing like a well trained militia, my assistant started to lean forward.  If I hadn’t been hyperfocused on it, I wouldn’t have picked up on the subtle shift towards the bus or how the backs of her heels were starting to rise.  

“Tracy…”  I heard Ambrose growl.  My assistant stopped before she’d managed to lift a foot.  

I kept looking back over my shoulder, past my classmates to get a glimpse of the morose parade of preschoolers.  When would they get Elmer?  I took three steps and looked back again.  Was Ambrose waiting for him to scream or cry?  Three more steps and I took another peek.  Would she force him to have a bathroom accident?  

“Clark,” Ivy hissed. “Stop.”

Of course, I ignored Ivy and kept walking and looking back behind us, even as the preschoolers vanished further and further on the horizon. Three more steps and another glance.  The hell was wrong Ambrose? Was she going to have the kids miss breakfast and then scapegoat Elmer? 

I half expected Beouf to say something to me about facing forward, but the last time I turned around, I only saw the back of her head.  She was looking back, too.  I started to open my mouth.  I couldn’t say anything, but Beouf could. Screw that!  Beouf should.say something!

“Melony! Go see what’s going on!”  That’s what I would have shouted, anyways. My toe stubbed on an uneven panel of walkway. Combined with my bulky underwear, the rigidity of my brand new shoes and overalls, my body positioning, and just bad luck, I was tripping over my own feet and had earned myself a one way trip to the pavement; pun not intended.  “Meeeh!”   

A hand shot out and grabbed the straps of my overalls.  It yanked me with such force that I risked falling on my ass instead of my face, but it had enough control and precision so that I was able to regain my balance and footing.  “Toldja,” Ivy said. She’d not so much as broken her stride.

The line slowed to a stop at the cafeteria entrance. “Mrs. Beouf,” I heard Zoge call over our heads and point. The front entrance of my old classroom was almost catty-corner to the main cafeteria entrance.  Beouf and I both followed Zoge’s finger to the serving cart positioned right next to the door.  “It looks like Ms. Ambrose’s class will be continuing the routine of taking breakfast in the classroom.”

It’s only in hindsight that I remember how scrunched up and tense Beouf’s shoulders were in that moment or how white her knuckles were gripping Chaz’s stroller.  I didn’t consciously register it because my own body was too busy doing the exact same thing.

Our eyes scanned the horizon. Waiting.

One…two…three…four…five…

Finally, Tracy crested the horizon, holding Elmer’s hand while every other student marched single file behind them.
I turned back around and forced myself to relax. Zoge looked down at me and nodded knowingly. My pulse was throbbing in my ears when she finally opened the door and led us in.

Drinking all the milk I could manage while barely nibbling on dry cereal so that all the liquids would run right through me wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as I’d anticipated.  I was too busy imagining what quiet indignities might be befalling my kids in the torture chamber that used to be my classroom.

********************************************************************************************

The morning rushed by quickly if uneventfully. I’d kept well hydrated and my pants remained soaked throughout. I was getting a pretty good idea of what it was like to be a sprinkler.  Every time I felt the need to pee I released, only to have the need rise up again a minute or so later. My body was processing so many different fluids at once that holding it in was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. A slight need would balloon into total urgency before a center’s timer went off.  Zoge and Beouf kept refilling my bottle, too.

“You know if you leak,” Beouf warned, “I don’t have any pants to swap out.”

“I thought I wasn’t potty trained anymore,” I said. “Is worrying about my pants my responsibility now?”

The teacher pursed her lips. “You’re right, baby.  It isn’t.  I’m sorry.”  That was one of the nastiest things I could remember Beouf ever saying to me.  I reckoned that she was finally showing her true typical colors.

I got changed once during Circle Time and again with snacks.  Because of what I’d done to myself and the extra effort it took to slide the overalls up and down my ankles and untangle the straps, I was wet again within ninety seconds after crossing the threshold.  It didn’t go unnoticed that Zoge patted the turned up cuffs near my ankles along with the bib pocket just in case I’d smuggled something in.  A fringe benefit of all this nonsense was it gave me something to think about beyond this morning.

About forty five minutes before Lunch, Zoge started leading us in Yamatoan nursery rhymes while Beouf put those of us who’d ‘missed out’ on Picture Day back into overly clean, overly showy clothes. I kept holding my breath thinking she might put me back in the sailor top and hat out of spite, but that was the only thing I was holding.  Luckily, that clapback never came.

“Okay boys and girls,” Beouf announced when everyone had been redressed as needed. “The photographer is set up in the media center today.  We’re going to go there to make up our pictures, and then  I want those of us who are getting retakes to be in the front of the line and I want everyone to make good choices and be on their very best behavior.”

I felt more than one set of eyes zero in on me; some in anticipation, others in quiet disapproving dread.  Sitting splay legged on the floor I did an exaggerated shrug. “What?” I said. “I don’t do the same trick twice.”  No one laughed. Not even Chaz or Annie.  It sounded funnier in my head.

I stood up and felt my Monkeez sag down and catch on the crotch of my overwalls. During the course of the nursery rhymes, my pants had progressed from very squishy to terribly swampy. I didn’t need a mirror to notice the thick swollen bulge underneath my semi-mature outfit.

I almost asked for a change and then second guessed myself, deigning to get to the front of the line. My legs were chafing like mad by the time we got to the school library, otherwise known as the library.  Positioned between the cafeteria and the front office -it was technically part of the same building as the front office despite having no direct access to it- the library was never a place I frequented too often.

In some bygone halcyon age of education, going to the school library was a separate scheduled activity on par with Art, Music, and P.E.  Years of steady budget cuts (the kind that keep a death trap bug zapper in the event that a Little has a case of irritable bowels) had long since seen the decline of the library’s prestige. The position of librarian had been reduced to a glorified checkout clerk who also set up fancy book displays instead of canned goods. 

Teachers were encouraged but not required to find time to take their students to the library but in an environment of high stakes testing and zero excuses, most didn’t bother to take the time and just built their own personal classroom libraries from childhood favorites and rummage sale finds.  Better dozens of books to recommend to kids than hundreds of questionable quality; or so the justification went.

To me, the library was the one place big enough to house all the teachers in a single space for staff meetings, and I zoned out for most of those anyway.  As a result, re-entering it as one of Beouf’s ‘students’ was less of a system shock as much as it was passingly familiar.  It wasn’t even that familiar considering that the photography crew had already moved around reading tables and bookshelves in order to make room for tripod cameras, softboxes, lighting, reflectors and a few props..

What did shock me, however, was the sight of my kids. Ambrose had beaten us here and the students were in the middle of getting their pictures taken.  Yet again, they stood in single file like tiny tin soldiers.  On the far side of the setup, Ambrose waited with her hands folded in front of her.  

Closest to her was a lightbox with a prop student desk set in profile to the camera.  It was the old fashioned kind where the top was connected to the seat and the storage space for books laid tucked away beneath it.  Put it on stilts and it would have resembled a highchair. Put wheels on instead and it was almost a stroller.  It was a wonder on par with spontaneous combustion that the design had somehow faded into extinction in Amazon managed school districts. Go figure.

One by one, young Amazons walked up, sat in the prop desk even though their feet dangled, folded their hands neatly on top of the desk portion, and angled their upper bodies towards the camera.  They’d put on a quiet, tight-lipped smile not unlike a certain witch Principal, the photographer would count to three, a flash would go off, and then the child would dismount and stand behind the big boar who had stolen them from me.  Clearly, they’d been practicing for this.

I always hated photos like that.  Who sat that way? It was so unnatural; so fake; so perfectly on brand for the type of childhood that Amazons loved to enforce.  If more Amazons treated their children like children, I pondered, they might not feel the need to infantilize others and make up for missed opportunities.

Just a few steps closer to us was the same giant alphabet block prop that I’d done my impression of a vomit volcano from. It was in its own set up with a separate camera on a tripod pointed straight at it.  The two displays were close enough that someone Beoufs size could stretch out and touch one with their toe while skimming the other with their fingertips, but the magic of photography would make them seem like completely separate venues.

The preschoolers continued filing one at a time and getting their picture taken.  It had all the mechanical precision of a military operation or an assembly line.  Meanwhile Beouf and Zoge quietly unhitched us while constantly whispering for us to be good and hold still.  I squeezed my legs together slightly and reminded myself how soaked I’d made myself.  I should have asked to be changed before we left but I was still wrestling with myself on speaking up.  The presence of my kids wasn’t making it any easier.

The one exception to the flawless and impersonal parade of preschoolers was Elmer. He and Tracy were at the back of the line, with my aide holding the Tweener’s hand.  When their time came up, she escorted him towards the set and veered stage right.  The photographer in his stupid turtleneck and ugly goatee sidestepped to the secondary camera.

My aide lifted Elmer up by the arms and placed him on the prop alphabet block.

Everything about my personal state of dress and hygiene was put on the backburner while red tinged tunnel vision took over. Ambrose was making the one Tweener in her class get his picture taken on the baby prop. That cunt!

Tracy rubbed him gently on the back and whispered something to him. Elmer nodded, sullenly and she cleared out of the shot.   “Okay,” The photographer said. “One…two…three!”  The camera flashed.  Elmer’s empty smile was no different than anyone else’s.  Tracy swooped in and got Elmer off the prop.  She didn’t get far however.

“Tracy…” Ambrose growled.  Tracy released Elmer’s hand and he was allowed to walk back by himself.  Tracy stayed by the baby prop.

My jaw went slack watching Tracy boost herself up onto the block. No. No way. She wasn’t.

Tracy smoothed out her white peasant top and navy blue skirt. She daintily crossed her ankles and placed the flat of her palms onto the edge of the block for balance.  She was.

“One…two…three!”

Tracy flashed her a marvelous yet understated smile that showed the first glimpse of teeth I’d seen since arrival and the camera bulbs flashed. Without further comment, she slid back down to her feet, adjusted the back of her skirt and took her place holding Elmer’s hand at the back of the line.

My face was numb.  It made a twisted kind of sense why the kids were acting like tiny soldiers; Ambrose was on the warpath. She was doing her level best to degrade both Tracy and Elmer.  I wanted to scream. I was genuinely tempted to remove my pacifier and jam it in my mouth so that I could quiet myself.  I settled for gripping the front flap of my bib pocket and opening and closing it a few times. I pretended that the quiet scratching sound of velcro being ripped apart was what it would sound like when I clawed Ambrose’s face off.  I thought I knew what it was to hate an Amazon before and was realizing just how wrong I was.

The preschoolers marched by us. The Amazon kids all turned their heads and regarded us, me specifically.  A few kept their eyes straight ahead. Most smiled and giggled playfully like they were playing a game. Emily, the three year old whose mother had caught me pooping my pants, went so far as to wave to me. Discipline only went so far when someone’s age was measured in double digits.

If the other kids crinkled with padding, I didn’t notice it or my brain attributed it to one of the nine other Littles bunched together with me.  Yet when the Tweeners passed by my ears twitched with recognition.  My eyes darted immediately to the back of Elmer’s pants. His polo-shirt was riding up high on his back and I got visual confirmation of the very edge of the wide elastic waistband common with actual underwear.  I exhaled and unclenched. Just my imagination and raging paranoia.  

“Clark,” Beouf said. “You’re up, kiddo.”

Bowlegged, I walked up to the block.  Beouf set me up and seated me on the prop. A distinct squelch caused me to tense up and I felt the tension rush back into me. The Monkeez was so saturated that any urine would have to splash all the way down my front and somehow defy gravity to travel up my back to the few remaining dry spots.  Had I peed even more and forgotten about it?  I was dangerously close to leaking.

“Okay my dude,” the photographer said. “Smile!”  I did not. Beouf took her place behind the camera and whispered for him to take the picture.  “One…two…three…”  A flash of light and dancing spots later and I was done.  The rest of the retakes went in similar speed and fashion; only slightly less time efficient than Ambrose had been by virtue of us being unable to climb onto a big wooden box with aid.
Beouf looked at a nearby clock and started to hustle us out. “Boys and girls,” she said, “We’re running a little behind schedule, so the kids who got their pictures taken will hold hands on the way to the cafeteria like we used to.  Mrs Zoge will walk with everyone else.

No complaints came, primarily because the people most likely to whine or brat about it were the ones getting the special treatment.  My hands quickly ran down the back of my legs, afraid that I’d feel the same wet half moon patches of a leak.  My fingers came back dry but I was right on the edge.

We walked to the cafeteria with me sopping all the way and my pride wrestling with self-preservation as always.  We made it into the noise and hustle and bustle of the cafeteria with kids shouting to talk in between mouthfuls of mass produced lasagna. “Good thing pictures were before lunch,” Beouf joked back to Zoge.  Zoge nodded appreciatively.

At our quasi-highchair table, I gave in and decided to ask for a change. The white noise of a hundred students, cooks, and aides on cafeteria duty would mask the request, and their own preoccupation with themselves would hide the sight of me being carted off to the restroom with just a diaper and wipes in tow. 

I tugged on Beouf’s pant leg. “Mrs. B.,” I said. “Can you take me to the bathroom? I’m um…afraid to sit down for a long time if you know what I mean.”

The faintest hint of a smug grin tugged at the corner of the Amazon’s mouth but her eyes were half closed like a contented cat. She started to throw my own words back in my face. “I thought worrying about your pa-…” she stopped herself from finishing the thought. Professionalism was winning out over cruelty.  “Okay, hon. Let me take care of it.”  

Discreetly, she bent over and grabbed a spare diaper and wipes from the emergency stash that had become part of the mealtime delivery package. She squatted all the way down so that she could boost me up by the back of my knees instead of my butt and allowed me to wrap my arms around the back of her neck to steady myself.  She held me in her right arm, and pinned the changing supplies to her body with her left, covering them up.  The bathroom doors were left wide open with stoppers this time of day so she wouldn’t need a free hand.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Zoge as she passed.  “Keep setting up. They can eat with their hands if they want.”  Zoge nodded and started loading Littles into bucket seats with all the speed and smoothness of a movie cowboy loading bullets into his revolver.

Positioned as I was, I was looking over Beouf’s shoulder, watching the dining area of the cafeteria get gradually farther away.  If I hadn’t been, or if I’d had the luxury to be looking literally any other direction I wouldn’t have seen what I saw.  

The preschool class had just made it to their lunch table. They’d gotten into the cafeteria ahead of us but still had to go through the lunch line like every other classroom.  Tracy, as usual, was busy opening milk cartons and unwrapping sporks, straws, and napkins bundled up in plastic. Her lips moved in tight little bits; likely saying things like “Here you go,” and “Eat up”.  None of that was out of place either before or after my fall from adulthood.  It’s just what was done. 

 What was out of place was Ambrose. She’d remained in the cafeteria instead of stalking off to the teacher’s lounge or whatever rock lesser evolved lifeforms liked to crawl under. Something new.  Something dangerous.  Something out of routine.  This was not ‘normal’ and I knew deep in my heart of hearts that this couldn’t be ‘good’.

When Tracy had worked her way down an entire side of the table and reached the end, Ambrose glided like a barracuda behind her. I watched in horror as Ambrose took two fingers and hooked them; inching closer and closer to the back of Tracy’s skirt.

A diaper check. In public. And Tracy was completely preoccupied and oblivious.  Flashes of the first time Zoge did it to me took the place of the camera’s leftover flashing spots.  She’d done it to me countless times since then, but there was no shaking that feeling of absolute violation from the first time.  More importantly, I had long since accepted that the first time had been some sort of accident or misunderstanding.  Not so here.

I pushed myself up on Beouf’s shoulders and filled my lungs up. This would not stand.

“MS. AMBROSE!”

The booming voice rang out, but did not silence the ever present dull roar.  A few heads turned and then quickly thought better of it.  The giant startled and backed away from the Tweener. Ambrose’s skin became pallid and her eyes flashed with something resembling something other than predatory hunger or psychotic rage.  I hadn’t been the one to yell out; someone had beaten me to it.  That someone was Mrs. Brollish.

Just a few paces away from the monster, a demon of an entirely different caliber stood with her arms crossed and one fit steadily tapping the floor. The air exited my lungs. I had no idea that Brollish could yell like that.  Lady Death rarely raised her voice beyond what an actor might do to project, and most of the time it was practically a stage whisper.  Ambrose regained some composure and calmly stepped over to her master.

At the same time, Tracy adjusted her skirt again and scurried off to the other end of the table.  Something finally clicked. There was a reason she kept adjusting her clothes. A Tweener had been crinkling, it just wasn’t Elmer.

The cafeteria spun around three hundred and sixty degrees. Beouf had heard it too and spun to see what had happened. Like every other person in sight, she knew better than to get involved. The tables vanished faster and faster while Beouf picked up her pace.

We bolted into the bathroom and Beouf called out “Hello?”  When no one answered she kicked up the door stop with her foot and set me down on my feet so that she could lock the door.  “Let’s get you changed, bubba.”

“Beouf,” I said, my panic rising, “I think Tracy might be wearing a diaper.”

The teacher didn’t make eye contact with me.  She lowered to her knees and set the supplies down so she could focus on unbuckling the straps of my overalls.  “She might be,” Beouf said. “But I don’t think she’s expressing Maturosis. Don’t worry. This is probably a misunderstanding or something.”

The heavy denim fell down on its own, ripping the clip off my shirt and puddling around my ankles. “You don’t understand,” I said. “Ambrose is trying to get back at her! For telling you! For helping me!”

Mel seemed to find my feet incredibly interesting.  “You might be right,” she said. “I do not care for how Miss Ambrose talks or treats a lot of people.”  One at a time she grabbed the heels of my sneaker and pulled down while I stepped out.  “But it looks like Mrs. Brollish is handling it and if there’s anything wrong going on, it will be fixed given enough time.”

There was no way she believed what she was saying.  If I’d still been a peer of hers, we’d both be swearing up a storm and fuming about what we’d both just witnessed. I stepped out of my clothes, not caring that my diaper was a water balloon ready to pop.  “Listen-!” I pleaded.

Beouf picked me up and carried me dangling by the armpits over to the wall mounted changing table.  She strapped me down at the chest and went back to pick up the fresh diaper.  “This is a Grown-Up problem, hon. Grown-Ups will figure it out and handle it.  You just worry about yourself.”

My eyes started to burn. I couldn’t let something happen to Tracy. I couldn’t let her get punished or harassed or suffered because she genuinely wanted to help me and genuinely went out of her way to keep a stupid promise that probably wouldn’t have mattered in the long run.  People helping me and then suffering for it; I couldn’t let that be the story of my life.

I locked eyes with one of my oldest friends and forced my throat to stop closing up. “If you let Ambrose do to her what you did to me,” I threatened, “I’ll never forgive you Melony Beouf.” The words came out crystal clear and echoed around the porcelain cave, giving it a surreal kind of gravity.  “If anything happens to her I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.”

Beouf looked like she wanted to break down crying all over again. It was a good thing she didn’t or I would have too.  I was changed, redressed, taken back into the cafeteria and fed lasagna. If there was talking to be done, announcements to be made, or instructions to be given, Zoge did it for the rest of the day.  Beouf didn’t even hand me back to Janet after the buses pulled out.

The next day we had a substitute.  We were told that our teacher had to stay home and take care of her sick newborn granddaughter.  I knew better.

[YourFNF]

5 hours ago, Personalias said:

It was like that myth about King Linkin getting shot in a booth: When the royal guards got to his grieving widow they famously said ‘Other than that, Your Majesty, how was the show?’ 

It's little bits like this that have me speculating on a fan theory that this timeline is actually post apocalyptic and the Amazon's are a product of some kind of nightmare experiments. Like super mutants but less green.

5 hours ago, Personalias said:

thought I knew what it was to hate an Amazon before and was realizing just how wrong I was.

All I would need theoretically is a pen or pencil. Scissors would be better... My life for taking that hell spawned monstrosity off the board would be a fair trade...

[YourFNF]

5 hours ago, Personalias said:

The next day we had a substitute.  We were told that our teacher had to stay home and take care of her sick newborn granddaughter.  I knew better.

I think Beouf just had her world view shattered... Possibly for the second time.. Or maybe this was the hit that broke it? Gods I feel so bad for Tracy...  Please girl get an online tutoring job... This shit isn't worth it....

[FloridaKid]

11 hours ago, Personalias said:

People helping me and then suffering for it; I couldn’t let that be the story of my life.

Lines like this give me hope for Clark. Tracy definitely deserves better than Ambrose’s BS. I hope Beouf has indeed had her world view shattered and she squashes Ambrose like a bug. Maybe she could take pointers from Clark on how to do it. Nah, but that would be fun. ?

I’ll admit to being an Unfair junkie…thank you for my fix today @Personalias!

[Mugi]

On 2/20/2023 at 3:48 AM, WBDaddy said:

I mean, what you just said encapsulated why he's doing what he's doing. 

"not looking at Clark as a person anymore"

Stop for a minute and think about this.  Think about how you'd respond if someone stripped your entire identity away from you, someone you once called "friend" and "colleague".  Think about being forced to spend five days a week with that person after they did this to you, so there was no escaping, no healing of wounds, no chance to reconcile, just constant reminders, every day, that they did, in fact, take away everything that made you "you" and left you with an existence you hated.  

Now tell me how evil it was that Clark is lashing out at her any way he can under the circumstances.  Wanting her to hurt as much as he does.  Tell me that this isn't perfectly reasonable behavior, considering that these people destroyed his life and left him in what he considers to be a kind of hell. 

Yeah this is true

Perhaps this is one of the things that makes Personalias such a great writer!
I don't know what I do in his position but I'm sure it could possibly be something similar or who knows maybe even worse!? 
And maybe it makes Clark a bit more sort of in a way relatable! Atleast it humanises him!

Can't wait for the next chapter!

[FloridaKid]

Please, sir…could we have another chapter of Unfair? I know we’re supposed to be patient, but it’s so hard when the story is this good. So many loose threads that I’d love to see tied up. ?? Pretty please?

[something101]

Every time we go more than a week without a new chapter I can't help but wonder if some mad scientist finally found out how to send people to another dimension and that personalias ended up in the diaper dimension and can't upload because he was naughty. Don't worry I'm totally not a mad scientist. 

[LittlePanda20]

On 7/18/2020 at 8:05 PM, Personalias said:

Shameless plug.  Just wait till tomorrow on Patreon. 

 

On 7/28/2020 at 7:58 AM, Personalias said:

 

Thank you, both.  Something that my patrons have said that they like about this story thus far are that you really get to know the cast of characters and the world that they live in.  To paraphrase one of them.  "Damn it!  You made me care about these people!  In a DD story!"

Something I've really been trying to work on is giving the reader a sense that they too know this world (or at least my newly constructed corner of it).  Considering the P.O.V. is first person, Clark might not be the most reliable of narrators (any more than a non-scientific or non-historic expert can be unreliable)  but he's very much a Little who has grown up here and wishes to continue to grow up as it were.

On 7/18/2020 at 8:00 PM, Personalias said:

 Unfair

PART 1: The Old Routine

Chapter 1: The Facts of Life.
The world isn’t fair. 

This was typically the first morbid thought that crept into my head every morning as the alarm buzzed me awake from whatever dreams I’d been having only moments before.  The past six to eight hours had been rendered completely moot in a blur of unconsciousness, not counting a trip to the toilet around three A.M. or so.  Today was no different.

 “Snooze,” my wife, Cassie, said, her groggy tone somewhat a hybrid of a plea and a demand.  Almost reflexively, I rolled over and slapped the snooze button, silencing the alarm.  “Thankooo,” Cassie slurred before rolling over and resuming a light session of snoring.  Damn, I loved the sound of her snoring. 

The next nine minutes lasted a short eternity, with me likely drifting off just before the alarm sang out again.  I’ve always wondered how an entire night can go by with a snap of my fingers and the shutting of my eyelids, but nine minutes feels like forever.   The only conclusion I could ever come to was that the world wasn’t fair.

Eyes open, but vision still blurry (it looked like there were two overlapping sets of alarm clocks),  I groped around and actually turned the darn thing off, not just hitting snooze.  It was part of our morning ritual, me and Cassie. Our routine.  I always hit the snooze button once, and only once; just enough to feel like  we were getting away with something. In its own weird little way, it felt like winning.  Little victories.

But today was work.  So no sleeping in.  Time to get up and get out of bed.  If my head hit the pillow again, sleep would win.  Sleep never won. 

Not that I could go back to sleep, anyways.  I had to pee like a racehorse. I’d already woken up once, about an hour ago, but my lethargy outweighed my discomfort, so I’d just rolled over and drifted off again.  Now it was time to get up.  Time to go to work and face the dangers of the world outside my house.  

Time to exist.

Stretching out the first of my morning aches, I walked to the bathroom, whispering “The world isn’t fair,” as I crossed the threshold.  It’s my own personal “memento mori,” but it served a different purpose than the generals of the ancient and mythical land of “Roam.”  Conquering heroes needed to be reminded of their own mortality, lest they become arrogant. 

 My own personal motto reminded me of exactly how lopsided the world was so that I’d stay alert.  Couldn’t get too cocky.  Couldn’t get too comfortable.  When the game’s not fair, you can’t afford to rest easy, and the game started every time I stepped out my front door.

That might have been the reason why I never had the master bathroom refurbished.  Cassie would grab her phone and shamble to the other side of the house and use the guest bathroom.  It made sense, honestly.  The seat there fit her, and neither of us were foolhardy enough to go out and buy a potty adapter. Even Cassie, internet whiz that she’d become, wouldn’t buy something like that online.  That’s how they getcha.

Me?  There was a certain thrill about climbing up the stepladder every morning and pissing into a toilet sized for an Amazon.  Another guilty pleasure.  Getting away with something, again.  Another Little victory.

Oh, yeah.  I guess I should mention in case you haven’t figured it out: I’m a Little.  Capital “L.”  Noun. Not an adjective. 

We lived in an Amazon-sized house. Got it relatively cheap with a good mortgage.  The old Amazon couple that we’d gotten it from actually seemed pleasantly surprised on the day I showed up to sign the papers.   

They’d lost their adopted Little girl to old age and cancer- some things even Amazon tech can’t cure a hundred percent- but had modified the spare bathroom to accommodate someone our size.  They were the rare breed that believed in “potty training” Littles. And yes, please note the quotation marks to indicate eye rolling irony.  You’ll most likely be seeing a lot of them.

Amazons were crazy; they were almost determined to see Littles as babies that never grew up, at best, and their own personal dolls, at worst. But if you didn’t trigger their eccentricities, they were otherwise very reasonable.  I had made sure to remind Cassie of that when I came back from the in-person signing.

In turn, Cassie reminded me if she hadn’t done some careful obfuscation about our stature, (never outright lying, that would have come back to bite us), we wouldn’t have gotten our dream house with such a low mortgage payment.  

Only “grown-ups” could handle such stressful responsibilities like a job and a mortgage.  Littles who fell behind on their payments weren’t allowed to be grown-ups and pay them late. 

We both knew Littles who’d tried to live the dream and had been pressured into signing more than half of their monthly paycheck away.  Some of them were still struggling, working overtime and multiple jobs just to make payments and keep food on their table. 

Others weren’t…

I’m getting off track, though.  This isn’t the story of how my wife and I got our beautiful home.  This is another story entirely.

Still gloriously naked and a little stiff in the legs, a low moan escaped my lips and mingled with the sound of liquid hitting liquid echoing through the master bathroom.  Everything in my house was a high-loft, comparatively speaking.  There was something luxurious about it.  

Once my tank was on empty, I looked down at myself- pale flesh and tiny little red hairs all over- and smiled.  I liked my body hair.  It made me look and feel more manly (though Cassie preferred calling me “fuzzy”).  My body hair wasn’t super bushy or massive, but no one was mistaking me for a toddler, either.  Good.  Good enough, anyway.

Leaning over so as not to fall in, I placed one hand on the tank for balance and then flushed.  After climbing down from the toilet’s step stool, I did my other morning ritual of looking down and clapping my hands on my belly.  

Damn.  I was getting kind of chubby.  Too much candy and late night snacking.  That was no good.  If a Little ever got too fat, one of those giants (sorry Amazon readers, that’s what you look like to us) might see a beer gut and think “baby fat,” and then their maternal instincts would get triggered.  

That’s the curse of getting old.  Your metabolism starts to slow down on its own, but your eating habits don’t. At thirty-one, I was ancient in Little terms.  No, we live just as long as the Amazons and Tweeners, on average.  But in Amazon country, most Littles were lucky to remain free and uncribbed past the age of twenty-eight.  

Amazons were just as likely to “adopt” an eighty year old as an eighteen year old, but if you made it to thirty-five, chances are you’d gotten your shit together enough so that you could make it to eighty.  So yeah, I was gettin’ up there.   Better old than never being allowed to grow up. 

Climbing yet another stepping stool so that I could reach the sink, I grabbed my razor and shaving cream and started to lather up. I promised myself that I’d pop in that yoga DVD again as soon as I got home from work. 

I hated yoga, but having a pre-recorded Amazonian fitness instructor tell me to assume the child’s pose on the yoga mat was better than a real giant telling me to lay down on a changing mat. Jogging as exercise was out, lest some passerby think I was running from something and decide to “protect” me.   

Weights were a no go, too.  A Little with a developed physique was unfortunate, as far as Amazons were concerned.  A Little with rippling musculature was a challenge, a dare, or so I reckoned. 

Yoga was really my best option.

Shaving was another kind of balancing act for me.  My bright red goatee definitely made me look more “distinguished” and less like a toddler, but with it came more responsibilities. Serious, serious responsibilities.  If my chin hair ever got too long or scraggly, someone might think that I didn’t know how to take care of myself, and it’d be all downhill from there.  Same principle if I got a five o’clock shadow anywhere before 5pm. It’s why I shaved twice a day, just in case.  A big ol’ fuck-off grandpa beard was never going to be an option for me, sadly.  

The top of my head was its own balancing act. My own hair had a tendency to grow curly- “adorably” curly, which made me a potential target. However, my paranoia never let me feel comfortable going full buzz cut, either. Bald could be just as dangerous.  Barbers that cut Little hair (and didn’t offer a lollipop after) in this part of the country were rare.  

I was lucky in some respects, though: a curly top was bad, but long, flowing hair was worse.  

You know how I said that Amazons were equally likely to adopt an eighteen year old or an eighty year old?  Admittedly, there’s truth to that.  What I failed to mention, however, is they also tend to prefer our women over men.  There are studies that suggest that as far as “adoptions” go, women outnumber men two to one, closer to three in some locales.  And it’s no big secret that when an Amazon can’t find a Little girl to take...they have a tendency to just “make” their own.  As a precaution, I learned to cut my own hair and make up for talent or style with a ton of hair gel.

I leaned forward and mugged a bit in the mirror.  Flecks of gray were dotting my hair.  Salt and ketchup.  I smiled a little.  A typical Amazon might adopt an eighty year old or an eighteen year old Little, but their special brand of crazy was more likely to be triggered by a cuter, younger, more babyish looking Little. Those flecks of gray and white were practically battle scars.  

“I might just make it to being a silver fox, yet,” I’d think to myself.

Body hair.  Goatee.  Short and neat hair. A penis.  Those were all things that played to my advantage out there in the Big Big Amazonian world.  Even my name was supposed to be a shield.

 Oh yikes.  I almost forgot.  Forgive my manners.

Hi.

I’m Clark.  My last name?  It’s complicated.

My parents gave me the name “Clark” as its own kind of protection.  “Clark” is one of those names that’s just awful for a kid.  Like “Dane” or “Glenn” or “Harlan.”  Hard to imagine a baby with that kind of name.  If you’ve read this far, I think you see my point.

I grew up hearing the story about my poor uncle Thomas on my mother’s side, lost to us before I was born.  He didn’t die.  An Amazon just thought that he looked cute and that “Tommy” was more fitting for him.  As far as anyone in the family knows, he’s still being forced to breastfeed and shit his pants.

A name wasn’t going to stop any of the giants from taking me, but just like everything else about me at that point, it was another layer to prevent any unhealthy interests in me ever taking root.  Just like the carefully ironed dress shirt that I put on everyday, each little piece of my appearance was another button holding everything together.

It wasn’t fair.  I knew this as I pulled up a neatly pressed pair of slacks and went for my belt.  It wasn’t fair that every day I went to work, I was in my own weird way putting myself in a surreal kind of danger.  It wasn’t fair that my custom loafers had lifts in them, in the hopes that I might be able to pass as a short Tweener instead of an average-to-tall Little.  It wasn’t fair that I had to basically prove myself as an adult every single day while other, bigger, taller people got the benefit of the doubt and then some.

It wasn’t fair, but it was fact. 

I finished tying my tie- a risky maneuver if it ever went askew, but it always paid off. 

“Breakfast time,” Cassie said, bringing me my breakfast shake. It was high in protein and had a tendency to constipate me, but that was a bonus as far as I was concerned. Didn’t hurt that it tasted like chocolate, either.

 An artist, Cassie worked from home, never letting anyone know her actual size.  Most people wouldn’t believe a Little could do anything artistic beyond scribbling with crayons, but that’s just propaganda there.  She had an eye for detail and the manual dexterity to make absolutely beautiful and intricate works of art.  She could cook, but neither of us wanted to get up early enough to make or eat breakfast, so we’d developed this little ritual instead. 

I took my shake, peeled off the seal on the bottle and chugged it down.  “Thanks, hon,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“I know, hon,” she yawned.  We never called each other “babe,” always opting for older-sounding terms of endearment. “Love ya.”   A quick peck on the cheek, and then I was out the door and on my way to work.

So here’s the thing: looking back on it, I couldn’t tell you the exact date this happened.  I’ve long forgotten it.  Not because anything made me forget, but that’s because much of my life BEFORE was largely forgettable; blessedly, blessedly forgettable.    If anything, the above sequence of events might not ever have happened exactly the way I described them above, but they all happened at some point.  This was my morning, most Mondays through Fridays, barring summer vacation or the occasional three-day weekend.

Some, I know might criticize or try to discredit me as I write this- call me an unreliable narrator, only with smaller, more patronizing word choices.  Typical Amazons.   What I am is flawed, just like anyone without a computer for a brain.

The mind, especially mine, has a habit of blocking out or blurring the routine together in a jumbled haze, because why would we know every single detail of every single thing that has ever happened to us in our sentient existence?  We’re not robots.  It’s the rough stuff, the emotional stuff, that we remember. The stuff that even thinking about makes us happy cry, ugly cry, curl our fingers in rage, curl our toes in fright, makes us nauseous or aroused: that’s what sticks out in our mind with crystal clarity. 

 This?  This morning could have been any morning. For all intents and purposes, it was my morning, every morning.  In fact, do me a favor:  Get a bookmark or a highlighter and between every chapter, remind yourself that for the longest time, this was my morning.  If, up until a certain point, I talk about “the next day” or talk about any transition in time, a scene very much like what you just read probably unfolded first: a little bit of existential dread and anxiety, a lot of careful preparation, a terrible meal, and then out the door before dawn.

 It wasn’t fair.  But it was normal. Blessedly, blessedly normal.  It was routine.  It was the facts of life.

(If you’d like to read more chapters of this story before they’re released to the public, please visit and support http://patreon.com/personalias.)

First time reader, it was recommend by Baby Sofia. I am excited to read. 

[Personalias]

Chapter 92: Little Voices: “The Talk”

I spent most of the day Thursday in a low key funk.  No, it wasn’t terrible, or traumatic. No great victories or defeats.  No extra signs that my students were hurting more than they already were. No shouts or crying leaking in from my old room.

Tracy wore a perfect poker face. The few times she was in eyesight or earshot I found myself trying to listen for a telltale crinkle or see a bit of thin white plastic peeking out of a waistband, but found nothing. The bus loop and the cafeteria were too loud to hear a diaper rustling and Tracy’s newly developed habit of wearing long flowing skirts and dresses hid any signs of puffy padding. 

I was fixated on it because I was sure she had been diapered yesterday. I didn’t want her to be diapered the next. It was a punishment, obviously, but  was this an official punishment like when Raine had been tricked into crossing a line or a pretense to get rid of Tracy due to Maturosis? Had this Wednesday been a one time thing? A warning to remind her of her place? Or was it part of a larger attempt to drive her out of the school? 

It was so hard to tell. Tweeners had neither the privilege of assumed maturity until proven beyond a reasonable doubt nor the presumed guilt of innocence until proven otherwise. To one side of the road, Amazons were safe because the flow of society went with them. To the other side, Littles could learn to be safe; traffic went against us but we learned to watch for oncoming cars and were encouraged to dive into a ditch as necessary.  Tweeners had to walk in the middle and as such could be squished like grapes if they didn’t learn to look behind and infront of them at all times.

Statistically, there was no way Tracy was getting Adopted. I’d never met the man, but she was married to an Amazon. If someone said she had Maturosis, she’d go into his custody and they could get a second opinion disproving the diagnosis, or just move far away enough.  She wouldn’t spend more than an afternoon sleeping in a crib depending on how long it took Mr…Tracy’s husband…to drive down to the school or wherever she was being kept.

Unless her husband got his own baby crazy activated and decided that he liked her better this way or that she needed his care.

Or he went mad with grief and burned down their house.

Or he just didn’t want her because he had better things to do.

Or there was some obscure Amazon law on the books that made him ineligible to adopt because he was clearly blind to not notice his own wife’s ‘immature tendencies’.

Or they hit her super hard with hypnosis or continence drugs or those messed up soundwaves that messed up coordination and focus while also stimulating pleasure before he rescued her.
Or if her husband didn’t really exist.  Maybe that wedding ring and the brief mentions of him and their weekend plans were tiny bits of protective lies she’d woven over the years to keep giants uninterested. I didn’t even know the man’s first name.

Come to think of it, I’d never properly memorized Tracy’s last name.  I’d asked, but it was hard to pronounce;  something long and Spanic sounding. Mayztepic, maybe?  When my mouth fumbled with the pronunciation, Tracy didn’t laugh. She’d just nodded and said, “Took me a while too, and I married into it. Just call me ‘Tracy’. ‘Miss Tracy’ around the kids.”

Even if everything went right for Tracy in regards to Maturosis; even if she noped out due to harassment, quit, and rode off into the sunset, that would leave no one around to mitigate the harm Ambrose was actively doing to our kids. They’d be even more alone than they were. 

I’d be more alone… 

The more time that passed between my old life and Adoption, the more I was learning how very little I really knew outside of my immediate struggle for survival and recognition. I didn’t actually know what risks versus protections Tracy had to balance and how likely any given outcome was to pass.

I actually told Janet about it that same Wednesday night, and to her credit she promised she’d look into it for me.  Ask Beouf if there were any Union complaints or safeguards or try to find out from Tracy in a way that wouldn’t embarrass her.

That opportunity didn’t come Thursday. Beouf had called in sick, citing her new granddaughter, and Tracy was impossible to pull aside during school hours and before and after school she made herself scarcer than usual.

The substitute in Beouf’s room was an old Amazon woman who could have been anywhere between seventy and ninety by looking at her, and not important enough to remember. She was just a warm body and Zoge ran the room in Beouf’s absence. 

We were all angels that day, too.  No mischief attempted by anyone. I was so preoccupied worrying about Tracy that Billy asked if I was feeling alright.  When Billy asks if you’re okay, something’s wrong. 

 Chaz asked if we should stir the pot by doing another Why Day since it had been a while, but I spun some lie about how Beouf would likely punish us harsher for acting up in her absence- teachers hated and were deeply embarrassed by bad notes left by substitutes. I also spun it that if we were good for Zoge and the warm body, but terrible when Beouf returned, it would agitate her more and make her wonder what she was doing wrong. 

It’s funny how one can tell a lie, hear it, and then realize that it’s actually quite true. So we were good.  All day.  Besides, the old woman was cantankerous enough to very clearly state that she did not change diapers. Take the win where you can find it.

The school day behind me, Janet drove me home and gave me dinner consisting of steamed broccoli and carrots,  as well as cut up peanut butter and natural strawberry jam sandwiches on whole wheat bread. All foods meant to relieve and prevent constipation.  Then she dressed me in a blue and white pinstripe long sleeve romper with the words ‘Little Slugger’ on the front and ‘01’ on the back, as well grippy socks that mimicked baseball cleats. Baby clothes that could double as jammies. This was going to be a long night.  A small bit of comfort was that she didn’t put me in a night time diaper, so I wasn’t completely locked in for the night as it were.

Dinner was early and dressing was fast because Janet was in a rush to get to the Community Center for the Little Voices meeting.  “Why are we going so early?” I asked from the carseat.

“I’m tired of getting there just a few minutes before it starts. I need to spend more time with other Mommies and Daddies. Make friends.  I don’t get playground time at school everyday like you do.  Everybody needs friends.”

That shut me up. I could have retorted or otherwise tried to dissuade her, but it would have served no purpose.  That and she was right.  Everybody did need friends to one degree or another.

Talking to the Amazons at Little Voices would only dunk Janet deeper into the crazy pool and give her more ideas, but talking to Littles more mindfucked than me and getting a feel for each different prison environment and how I could use it to my advantage was crucial on multiple levels. Talking to softer Mommies and Daddies might soften her up, too. Strategically, I needed Janet to keep going to the meetings.  I just hoped that my personal resources and preparations would outpace hers when the time came.

We were among the first there, with only one or two other Little-Amazon pairings. I refused to think of them as ‘families’ even ironically. There was one chubby Little girl who wore a dark blue dress that was almost black with white tights and a red headband over dark brown hair. I had a hunch that someone had just had their own Picture Day at their daycare.  
She sat on the floor, absorbed in play with stacking cups and figuring out.  Mindfucked or just bored?  Who could say without a conversation I didn’t want to have?  

The other girl had short blonde hair and lounged in her Mommy’s lap wearing just a Cherry the cartoon dog t-shirt and socks that went well past her knees in lieu of pants. She chewed on her pacifier rather like a cow on a piece of cud, with bits of red juice dribbling out of the corner of her lips.  She took the pacifier out of her mouth and examined it. It wasn’t a pacifier in the purest sense, but instead had a plastic mesh netting loaded to the brim with sweet looking red berries. Clever.

Janet took a seat next to them in the circle of chairs and unholstered her diaper bag.  She never forgot that damn bag when we went to these meetings.  More social pressure and expectations, I suspected.  Bring your status symbols and cult’s iconography where they mattered most.  

“Do you want to play on the floor?” Janet whispered quietly to me. She was still cautious. Still holding back.  I hadn’t gone out of my way to hurt her this week, but I’d still hurt her and she was smart enough to keep unrealistic expectations in check.

I bit my tongue and shook my head. 

“Okay,”  she said. I wanted to smile at the disappointment. I resisted.

The two makeshift mothers prattled on over us. “So I’ve heard there’s this new subscription box that I’ve been wanting to try.” The Amazon with the Little blonde girl in her lap chattered to her seat neighbor. The age difference between the giant and her bogus baby was negligible.  They could have been work buddies or dating if not for the size difference. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one was just a year or two older than the other.

 “Oh?” the Mommy of the cup stacker said. “I love my subscription to Hiya Crisp.”  Like her manufactured daughter, the Amazon had dark hair, but also had few hints of wrinkles around the eyes and a few parts that just weren’t as perky anymore.  Were I to guess, I would have estimated that they were technically old enough to be mother and child, though the girl on the floor should still be moved out of the house.  Kind of like me and Beouf or more appropriately Zoge and Ivy.

Both wore mom jeans and light sweaters. The Helena Madra look.

“Oh me too,” said the brunette with her Little in her lap.  “It’s so easy for meals for me, Delilah, and Juni.” She gave the Little in her lap a light bob. I guessed that was Juni.  “Anyway, this new one is apparently some sort of toy subscription box. They’ve got a section aimed entirely at Maturosis, you can choose how often you receive new boxes, and they even vary depending on what developmental stage your Little one is at.” 

“Brittany loves toys! Don’t you Brittany?”

The plump Little girl on the floor did not look up from her cups. “Mmm-hmmm.”

“She gets so engrossed, sometimes. New toys would be great, yeah. Save us a shopping trip.” She smirked. “And a tantrum.”  The joke didn’t land. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“The service looks really good.  I did some checking around on different Mommy blogs. They’ve even been endorsed by Dr. Wolf.” Eyebrows were raised. “The Dr. Wolf! The one spreading awareness over there in Albienne.” She hugged the Little in her lap the way I hugged Lion and I worried for the smaller woman.  She didn’t seem bothered, at least.

“Oh wow, that sounds amazing,” the older of the Mommies agreed.   
“Yeah,” her younger compatriot nodded. “I’ll send you the link, I think we’re gonna try it next month for Juni. She’s so picky with toys, and this’ll help keep her mind interested.”

“Mhmmm.  Always important.  Kiddos need stimulation to keep them healthy.”

A few of the regulars I recognized walked hand in hand or were carried in with their fake parents. Mary, the Little with the pink hair came in with both jailors. Neither one had as wild hair as her or her younger-big-sister.  The Middle-Aged Daddy couple, Donald and Carl came in with not only their Little girl but their Tweener daughter, too; Kylie and Joanie respectively (or was it Joanie and Kylie?).  The Tweener was a good ten years older than me if she was a day and looked annoyed and put out to be there. Her black leggings with tie-dye polka dots did a less than serviceable job hiding the slight bulge from her disposable training pants and her hiking down her t-shirt was pointless at preserving modesty. Like a good prisoner she sat down in the chair next to her Papa and her Adopted sister stole her Daddy’s lap.
 
Pockets of conversation and small talk were forming around the circle, slowly gaining momentum as more and more groups trickled in. Amazons conversed and their Littles quietly busied themselves This could have been another reason why Amazons Adopted people smaller than them. Small children get only the hobbies their parents select for them. Parents with similar hobbies get to meet and make friends with each other and force their children to be friends by proximity.  An Amazon with a Little to coddle and cosset would never be short of playgroups and new friends.  We were their socialization tool.

Janet started gently bobbing her knee like she did when she had nothing else to do. The not quite subtle reminder broke me out of my own reverie. I looked up at her from her lap.  “S-s-s-t-o-o-o-p.” I quietly snapped. 

“Sorry.” Janet whispered. “Sorry.”

I ducked my head down. “Gods, I hate you.”  The words came out as just a breath.

“Hm?” Janet asked.

“I hhh–” My breath caught in my throat. Damny monitor. “Nothing.”

Janet wrapped an arm around me and leaned “Would Lion make you feel better?”

He might. “No.”

“Thirsty? Want some milk?”

“No.”

“Giving you some milk would help me. It’d give me a reason to keep my legs still.”
Phrasing a request as a favor. A nice touch. “Still no.”

“Just so we’re clear: Would you like Lion or milk or neither?” I grumbled to myself. “Both.” Both wasn’t an option.

“Both?” Janet put Lion in my arms and sat back up straight.  “Okay,” she sighed heavily as if I’d outsmarted her. “Okay Clark. You win. Both it is.”

She turned me on my seat and laid me back against her arm so that she was cradling me and placed the bottle between my lips. I’d just been played and I knew it.  I crushed Lion’s soft cotton reinforced sternum for what was likely the one-thousand three hundred ninety-seventh time since he’d come into my life.  Thank goodness no one school was there to see me.  Billy would never let me live this slip down.

Slowly, very slowly, I pulled on the nipple with my lips, and sucked down the milk. No chugging this time. Chugging would lead to burping and cooing and stupid gooey praises, and talks about what kind of formula or milk was best. Right now I just needed something to do to dissociate and people watch without anyone talking to me.  Being Janet’s prop for a few minutes seemed like a good choice.

“You know,” Janet spoke up so that the first two giantesses could hear her. “My Clark loves his Lion, but so far not many other toys have really clicked with his developmental plateau.”

I bit the nipple hard and got milk squirted in my mouth for the trouble. My Clark. My Clark!  No. Don’t worry about it. Poor Lion got his neck wrung. I just kept sucking, focusing on the fatty milk and how it contrasted with the sterile rubber teat.  I practiced breathing and swallowing in a slow and steady rhythm so that I wouldn’t have to stop one to do the other.  It was almost like meditation.  

Damn I missed yoga. My tummy had come back in full force. I kept sucking.

“Oh sure, Janet,” the woman who’d started the sales pitch said. “Janet! I’ll be happy to share the link with you too.”

“Thanks.”

“What does he like to do with his lion?” The girl in tights’s Mommy asked. “Is he a cuddler? Or does his lion make funny noises when he squeezes it?”  My right eye twitched. Dumb giant wasn’t saying Lion’s name right. I could hear the lowercase ‘l’ when she said it. I just could. “What does he use his lion for?”

Janet lowered her head. “Do you wanna talk?” she asked.  

I did not. I considered saying something awful or nasty- a zinger about me not so dry humping Lion puffed into the forefront of my brain- but my self-induced meditation was having a calming effect.  Breathe deep. Focus on the task at hand. Get through this moment, Clark. Let it pass onto the next and the next until the one you want arrives.

 “He’s busy,” Janet reported after a decidedly awkward silence.  I could feel her entire body heat up in embarrassment and I let myself untense, melting into her social awkwardness like a snake coiling up on top of a nice warm rock.

The two giants chuckled politely. “How bout you tell us?”

I kept sucking on the nipple. This will pass. This will pass.

“Well,” Janet breathed. “I think he likes to play pretend. I sometimes see him whisper to himself and setting up different toys around his room just so.  Last weekend I think he was setting up his classroom’s Circle Time.”

That earned her (us?) a chorus “Awwwwww!” from the two giants, plus a third who was listening in. “That’s adorable!”

“It…made me happy.” Janet’s body heat turned up a notch. “Kind of.”

I just kept suckling.

The girl who’d been messing with the stacking cups raised her head.  “He’s pretty good at pretending. He was good at playing the heavy feather light feather game and he taught us all about Death Tag.” 

Battle tag, you loon! Battle tag!  I suckled and kept breathing and I swear I felt Janet cool down slightly, just laying there in her lap. The other giants exchanged worried looks.

“It’s like freeze tag but we scream and play dead like in the cartoons,” the girl on the floor said. “It’s fun.”

The Mommies, Janet included, untensed. “Clark is very clever and creative,” Janet said. “He’s really good with kids and impresses me with how he can approach things from a different angle.” 

Damn. Just. Just Damn. No past tense statements like ‘always has been’ or qualifiers like ‘other kids’. For a second there I let myself pretend that she was talking about me-the real me- and not some imaginary baby she’d dolled up.

“Okay,” the Mommy who could have been dating the Little in her lap brightened. “So he’s going to want stuff from the Imagination Vacation line. Stuff that’s a little more freeform that he can decide how he plays with it.”
“Yes!  Exactly!” Janet was so excited she accidentally bobbed me and some milk gurgled down my throat. My lips released the nipple and I started coughing.  Poor Lion was caught in a sleeper hold.  “Oops! Sorry!”  She adjusted me so that I was sitting back upright instead of reclining in a  cradle. 

 I could tell she was doing her best to restrain herself from calling me any stupid pet names like ‘honey’ or ‘baby’.  This was the best of a bad situation at the moment.  I caught my breath and leaned back to take the nipple into my mouth again.

Janet’s body immediately heated up again. “But yes,” she said to the Mommies. “Something like that sounds great.  I think he gets bored easily, so being able to explore at his own pace and have some more control would be really good for him.” 

“I’ll hook you up with the link.”

Great. Janet made a new Mommy friend.  I rolled my eyes and kept sipping and watching the door to the meeting space. More and more semi-familiar faces trickled into the room and started chatting with each other.  The Amazon and Tweener couple with their Adopted Little walked in. The Tweener wife didn’t seem at all disturbed that someone her size was in a Pull-Up and had reverted to playing dumb peekaboo games with her Little ‘sister’ so that she could feel big. The balding man who led the group and his shy Little took their usual spot near the top of the circle.

“Hi Clark!”

For once, Amy Madra didn’t get the jump on me. She screamed it out right when her Mommy carried her through the door. She was also in a long-sleeved romper; a lavender one with a hoodie. I suspected that if she pulled it up over her head she’d look like a teddy bear.  

The pair took a seat on the other side of Janet and Amy wasted no time catching me up. “Hiya Clark how are you I’m good you weren’t here last week you missed the animal parade it was so much fun I got to be the elephant I used a kazoo as the trumpetey noise elephants do I tried to stick it up my nose for biologitical authenticity but it wouldn’t stay and so I had to use my mouth like a fake elephant the kazoo was pretty dusty it hadn’t been used in like forever which was pretty bad but it did also kinda taste like peanut butter which was really interesting so it wasn’t all bad and then in the hallway you wouldn’t believe who was out there- ”

“Amy, baby,” Helena Madra interrupted. “Your friend Clark is drinking his ba-ba right now. Let him enjoy it.”

“Mommy!” Amy scoffed. “Rude!”

“Yes,” Amy’s Mommy redirected, “it is rude to talk to your friend while they're busy eating.”

“No,” Amy said, “I mean that Clark doesn’t like it when people…” Amy stopped. It looked like she caught herself. Then she covered her mouth and burpsed.  “I would like some milk, too, please.”

The pair were right next to Janet but were effectively behind me due to how I was positioned on her lap. I could still make out movements and tones. I heard a velcro flap open, and inferred it was Helena digging out a similar bottle to Janet’s. “Here you go.”

I let go of the bottle and leaned my head all the way back so that I could at least have an upside down view of the exchange.

“No,” Amy whined. “Not from there,” she pointed to the massive bottle in Helena’s hand. “I want it from there.” She reached up and grabbed the Amazon’s breast.  I could feel Janet’s entire body temperature go up at least two degrees. I did not like the ideas that must have been going through her baby crazy head.

“Amy,” Helena clucked, “this milk is the same.”

“Nuh-uh,” Amy replied. “It’s different. It’s a texture and temperature thing.”

“It’s not that different,” Helena said. “You still get Mommy’s milk.”

Amy huffed and puffed. “Have you ever breastfed, Mommy?”

“Yes,” Helena said calmly. 

“How recently? Hm? Did you take notes and surveys? Double-blind random sample?” 

“When I was very small. Like you.”

“So what you’re saying is that you have no recent experience in this field, Mommy.”

Helena tried to pivot. “I didn’t bring a blanket or anything to cover you up while you nurse,” Helena said.

“I’m okay with that.”

“I’m not. I have to consider everyone else’s comfort”

“Mommy!” Amy gasped overdramatically. “Are you ashamed of me?!” 

“Baby girl. Drink.”

“Yes, Mommy.”  She sounded oddly happy, settling for the teat over the tit.  Without further ado, she leaned back in Helena’s arms like I was with Janet, took the bottle and began to nurse from the bottle.

Witnessing the exchange, I felt this weird tonal disconnect. So many of the words sounded like an argument Janet and I might have. Me trying to manipulate her and push her buttons to frustrate her, and her calmly trying to dismantle my argument before giving up trying to argue in anything resembling good faith and just asserting her authority.  So familiar from the outside, yet strange and alien at the same time.  The Mommy-Baby duo’s tone was relaxed throughout; playful even. Not an inch of frustration on either side of the exchange.  Same lyrics but different notes; like a cover song that takes on a completely different meaning just by altering the arrangement and instrumentation. 

I tried not to think about it; or how there had been a time that Amy had been the terror of Oakshire Elementary’s Maturosis and Developmental Plateau Unit. She’d been enough of an obstacle that Beouf had flashbacks and even the therapists remembered her years later. I kept drinking from my bottle and focusing my attention elsewhere. 

Week by week the faces were getting more and more familiar. I honed in on the odd Amazon Tweener couple and focused on the wife. Unlike her peers who tended to put on airs of young, hip, with- it types, this woman dressed closer to the stay at home moms of a bygone era; one that maybe only existed on television. She wore a pearl necklace and earrings with her light brown hair up in a bouffant hairdo, but wore very little makeup otherwise.  She had a floral print dress on that didn’t compliment her shape at all, making her look slightly dumpy, with stockings and heels on her feet. 

Mature and motherly, it was close to what Ambrose tried but failed to imitate, but not what most would consider flirtatious or sexy.  Excellent camouflage for a Tweener; enough to broadcast herself as an adult, but nothing that would make an Amazon Mommy jealous and want to Adopt her out of spite. 

“We’ve had to have Caleb sleeping in our bed for the past three nights,” the Tweener woman who’d maintained her adulthood said to the dark skinned woman who’d wrangled a pair of ‘twins’.  
“That’s nice,” the dark skinned woman said. “Sometimes on the weekends we do one big family cuddle puddle. I get up. Change them but keep them in their jammies, and we all go back to my bed and nap before breakfast.”

“Oh no,” the Tweener woman shook her head. Her pearl earrings jangled and her bouffant styled hair bobbed. “You don’t understand, Charlie. We took Caleb over to the Malkoviches for a playdate. Caleb gets to play with Riannon, Howard and I get some time to ourselves.” She thumbed back to her massive husband and I had a disturbing visualization involving the mechanics of marriage bed when one person is so petite as to be dwarfed by middle schoolers.

The Amazon nodded. “Sure, sure.”

“And it went well enough at first,” the Tweener continued. “But when John went off to cook dinner Alex also went to go work in their sustainable garden. And neither told each other… I think you see where I’m going.”

“Oh dear,” the Amazon looked to her twins protectively.  “Is he okay?”

“John thought Alex was watching the babies. Alex thought John was watching the kiddos. And since it’s Spooky Month on G.U.T.V, John decided to watch a scary movie on his phone.”  The other Mommy sucked in her teeth, already connected the dots.  “However he didn’t realize he pressed the wrong button so that it was automatically being simulcast to the TV in the living room.”

“Didn’t he hear the screams?” 

“Headphones,” the Tweener answered. “So the entirety of dinner preparation time, we’re not sure how long, but probably an hour and a half, they watched an entire scary movie instead of Cherry the dog. They’ve already apologized so much, and I feel even worse for their Little one. I hear they’re taking Riannon to see someone because she won’t go near the bathtub anymore without crying.”

“Bathtub?” 

“Ghosthaunters Two.  The scene with the Mommy getting her Little ready for a bath and…”

“Ooooooh.”

Caleb sat quivering in his Daddy’s lap, fighting sleep and startling himself awake while the big man tried to tenderly nudge him.

“We wanted to stay home,” the Tweener Mommy said. “But Caleb begged us to come. He says it’s safe here.”

“What happens when you try to put him in his crib?”

“If he’s awake he starts screaming about a ‘Ghost Nanny’ coming to get him. And he starts bawling and saying things like ‘Not again’ and ‘I can’t go through it again’.”

“Poor dear.  He must be thinking of that scene in the movie.”

The Tweener nodded. “Little kids have such a hard time separating fact from fiction.”

Idiots or delusional maniacs. I knew that movie.  I’d bet good money that Caleb got snatched up by some grabby Amazon with a carriage.  It’d be the same as me freaking out inside a glass elevator. Poor guy was having flashbacks.  If only I still had money…
“Okay everybody,” the balding man said. “I think it’s about that time. Let’s begin.”

They sang that stupid  ‘We’re All Together Again’ song. Two dozen voices give or take and not one of them could harmonize with any of the others.  I still had about half of my bottle so Janet didn’t bob me up and down.  She just held it to my lips and sang the opening hymn, getting that rush of belonging.

The leader looked around the circle.  “Alright then,” he chuckled. “Welcome everyone. It looks like we have nothing but familiar faces.  Am I wrong?”  No one corrected him.  “Just in case, does anyone want to re-introduce themselves or their Little kiddos?”  

I resisted the temptation to make an ass out of myself. I just had to get through the first half so that the real work of the second half could begin.  I’d use the bottle and Lion to shield myself from tummy tickles and lap bounces and just be a blob in Janet’s lap for however long it took. Simple as that.

“Okay then,” the leader nodded. “We’re going to break with our usual format today.” I stopped suckling.  A break in the usual format was bad. I needed the usual format. Around the circle, Littles on laps or couched between ankles exchanged worried looks.  “Don’t worry, kids, you’ll still get your playtime.  It’s just the first half of tonight is going to be different.”  I relaxed with the rest of my otherwise mindfucked peers.  

“We’ve got a guest speaker tonight. Depending on when you came in you may have seen her waiting in the hallway.”  It was then I noticed that the door was slightly cracked open. “Some of you might remember her from past meetings, she comes two or three times a year to share with us.” I had the worst possible feeling. I kept suckling and pulling the milk into me.  Maybe I could chug it and throw up.  “Some of you kids might remember her because she used to be your teacher.”  That confirmed it. I didn’t need to know that he was looking at me when he said, “Some of you might have her as your teacher right now.  Please welcome, from Oakshire Elementary, Mrs. Melony Beouf.”

The applause of nearly thirty giant hands and their idiot Littles copying them and cheering for Beouf opening the door and speed walking to the front of the room sounded to my ears like shotgun and machine gun rounds being fired into the air and the bleatings of sheep happy to go to the slaughter.

On any given day, Melony Beouf chose function over form.  If she couldn’t bend over, crawl around, get on the floor with or chase a Little while potentially covered in any number of stains, she didn’t wear it.  The only exceptions to this rule were when she had a scheduled teacher observation or if it was the annual Staff Photo (not to be confused for Picture Day).  

Beouf was dressed in teacher formal attire, with makeup and perfume on. Her white blouse with frills up the front went up the front, complemented the lipstick red blazer and skirt as well as the matching flats. Over her shoulder was a tan colored tote bag that I couldn’t see what was inside it.  Sick grandbaby my ass, Melony was here to put on a show. 

The bottle was still between my lips. I plugged the tiny hole in the nipple with my tongue and glared up at Janet. This was the reason why she got us here so early; she didn’t want me seeing Beouf in the hallway.  Janet didn’t smile down at me like a happy idiot who just sprung a pleasant surprise. Nor did she threaten me with talks of ‘good choices’.  She shifted me up off her lap and brought me close to her shoulder like she was about to burp me.  “I made her promise not to make a scene,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.” Also, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Back down into her lap I went, and I crushed Lion all the harder while slowly very slowly, I accepted the bottle and started to drink. Much slower this time. The full feeling in my stomach and the practice I’d given myself still left me relatively calm.  I was angry on an intellectual level more than an emotional or physiological one.  Still, I would spit all over her and then cry my eyes out like it was spit up if Beouf gave me half an excuse.

Beouf took center stage, near the beginning head of the circle. “Before I begin,” she said, “let me please introduce myself.  My name is Melony Beouf and I teach The Maturosis and Developmental Plateau Unit at Oakshire Elementary, otherwise known as ‘The Littles Class’.” A slight and polite chuckle followed. 

“Oakshire Elementary’s unit is one of only two publicly funded programs in the entire county, and based on the number of plaques I have at my home from various county, state, and national Maturosis teaching and research organizations, I am very, very good at my job.”  That earned her some appreciative nods and murmurs. I knew what the other school was and why she didn’t say it.

“I have a Master’s in Early Childhood Education,” she went on. “and a Bachelor’s in Child Psychology with a minor in Maturosis and Developmental Plateaus.” That minor was as valid as the cold stickers that got sent home with my schoolwork. “I’ve been doing this for many many years; I’m not gonna say how long because that’ll just make me feel old.” More polite laughter.  “Let’s just say that looking around the room, when I first started teaching, some of your Little one’s were probably still in diapers the first time around.”  

That got a round of genuine laughter. I looked around and scanned the faces of the other Littles.  A few slight blushes, and hiding behind hands, but those same rosey faces all had bashful grins.  Most seemed completely unphased by the reminder that there was a time when they were adults.  We were in the cult of Little Voices and tonight’s sermon was being given by the Right Good Reverend Melony Beouf.

I knew right then that any attempt I might make would be instantly thwarted and turned back on me.  A small classroom with Littles who hadn’t been completely broken in with two familiar Amazons and a decade worth of quirks, shared experiences, and procedures to exploit was doable.  A meeting of close to fifty or sixty people and the Little to Amazon ratio being close to one to one and no one having a problem with this madness but me?  No chance.

“To put it simply, my job is to help Littles who have experienced full-blown Maturosis come to grips and learn to embrace who they are, as well as to educate their Adoptive parents on what the most up to date research tells us about the condition and the people living with it so that we can meet their needs the best way possible.”  

The Tweener Mommy started clapping…and was the only one. She stopped.  Someone was trying too hard.

Beouf wasn’t thrown. “So in a way, if I’ve worked with your kids, I’ve always worked with you.  And I’m not their teacher, but also your colleague.  As Mr. Clemmons,” she gestured to the balding man who ran the meeting, “already said I am a big supporter of Little Voices and I love their message very much. So I do my part every now and then I come to talk to both Littles and their Mommies and Daddies.  And to be clear, some of the things I’m going to tell you are things that for various different reasons, the school board would rather me not talk about in a classroom setting.  So I am a teacher, but I am here in my capacity as an advocate and someone who participates in research.  Is that clear?”

Silently, everyone that mattered to Beouf nodded their heads.

“I’ll talk to the Grown-Ups more in depth later, but for now, if it’s okay and they feel comfortable, can I have all the Little boys and girls come and sit up front with me?”

My cult narrative took on a more direct comparison. Littles came up in one’s and two's while Beouf coaxed them forward.  “That’s right,” she said in her higher birdlike teacher voice. ”Come on. Don’t be shy.”  It was just like the ‘Children’s Moment’ at so many churches. The Littles started to clump together and crowd into a tight knot.   “Okay, okay. Maybe be a bit shier. Too close, sweety. Okay. That’s right. Yes. Better. Spread out a tiny bit. Give each other some room. Muuuuuch better.”  In the meantime, someone had taken a spare folding chair and passed it so that Beouf had a place to sit.  There was no way she was making it to the floor dressed as she was.  Janet made no attempt to ask or nudge me off her lap.

Beouf placed her tote bag down beside her, and took a seat. “Hello everyone!”  

“Hi Mrs. B!”

“Hello, Caleb!”

“Hi Mrs. Beouf!”

“Hi, Danny!”

“Hello!”

“Good to see you again, Cindy.”

The hi’s and hello’s bubbled up and overlapped each other until Beouf raised both hands.  “Okay okay okay. Hold on, boys and girls. Let me get this out of the way.  Raise your hand if you want me to say hello to you and when I do put your hand down.”  Tiny hands shot skyward.  Beouf took a massive, cartoonishly exaggerated breath.  “Hello, Kylie, Marie, Sammy, Caleb, Brittany, Elisa, Marissa…” she kept listing names off and hands dropped. Littles staying by their parents’ sides also raised their hands. “Hello, Cesily, Bea, Paul, Juni, Amy…”  She rattled off their names without fail.  By the time she was done, only five or six Littles kept their hands raised.  “Now you all I don’t think I’ve met.  Tell me your names and I promise to remember them next time.”  

They did and she greeted them, and reiterated her promise. I knew perfectly well that she’d keep that promise. I had a habit of letting past students fade into memory; most teachers did.  Beouf had such a mind for faces and names that she could have been a politician. Come to think of it, she kind of already was.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Beouf said and got another knowing chuckle from the assembled cultists. “I can teach and remind you about some very important things to keep you safe and happy.  Is that okay?”

That received a resounding “Yeeeeeah!” From the assembled man and woman toddlers.  This was the kind of class Beouf wanted, and by the end of most years, it was close to the class that she got. That made me shudder and some extra milk flowed into my mouth with the spasm.

“First off,” Beouf said, “I’m going to ask what I hope is a silly question.  You know your Mommies and Daddies love you right?”

“Yeah!” Her point was punctuated with some giggles.

“Yes, of course they do,” Beouf agreed. “That’s why they Adopted you and take care of you the way that they do. But not all Grown-Ups want what’s best for you.  Some Grown-Ups think that just because you’re not a Grown-Up anymore, that means they should get to decide how you act and think and feel instead of letting you be yourselves.”  

I silently agreed with her, though obviously not the way she intended.

“That’s silly!” One of the brainwashed masses piped in.

“Yes it is silly,” Beouf replied, “but it can also be very dangerous. What these people will do is they will find things that Little boys and girls like, like cartoons and songs, and hide messages in them.”

“Like a secret?”

Beouf pointed at the Little suck up. “Yes, like a secret.  But it’s such a secret, that you don’t even remember hearing it, but your brain does.”  She tapped her forehead for emphasis.  “And your brain remembers things even if your ears and eyes forget.  And if your brain gets too many of these secrets for too long, it can change you.”  She waited to see if anyone would take the bait and ask how. This time no one did.  “These secret messages will change you so that you forget things, or make it harder to talk or make you can’t talk at all.  Or it might make you laugh when you really wanna cry.  Sometimes they make it so that you can’t say naughty words or think naughty thoughts.”

“Why is that bad?” A parent asked. The glares he got made him slink down a pariah.  “Hypothetically, I mean.”

“I’m glad you asked that, sir.” Beouf saved him. “The answer to that question has two parts. One is that Little, Tweener, and Amazon brains pre-Maturosis are nearly identical, but these hypnotic suggestions affect us all equally, giving rough simulations of Maturosis’s effects. Someone experiencing Maturosis may be falsely diagnosed and given care that they don’t need and that’s unethical.”

There was so much irony here it was beginning to cave Lion’s and my chest in.

My ex-mentor proved that she couldn’t read minds and kept talking. “The allowance of these materials also weakens the argument and research going into Maturosis by promoting a false narrative.  If there are some people who aren’t actually experiencing it but are being exposed to post-hypnotic conditioning, the argument can be made on the entire system, and we know that’s just not true and our Little ones need our help.  The second big reason is that even if a Little has been correctly diagnosed with Maturosis, hypnotic cartoons and songs do more harm than good by implementing knee-jerk uncontrollable behaviors in people as well as blocking what would be otherwise natural and normal responses.”

The message wasn’t quite landing, it seemed.  “Let’s just do words. Imagine having a word taken away from you. Not that you forgot about the word, you just can’t use it.  And every time you try to say the word, you accidentally say another word or you can’t say anything at all.  You can feel the word, you know the word, but there’s a magical wall stopping you from using the word.  Some hypnotic and subliminal programs do this.” She paused for effect. “Some do more and make it so that you can’t think about the word and every time you try it gets replaced with another word that you know is wrong but your brain won’t give you another word and even if someone tells you the right one you can’t use it.  Now imagine it’s more than just one word.  Imagine it’s several words.  Imagine it’s every word that someone else doesn’t think you should be allowed to say…”

The mood chilled with Grown-Ups and Littles alike throwing each other worried yet comprehending looks. The Amazons only conceptualized it and were disturbed.  Some of the Littles no doubt had experienced it first hand.  More amazing was that Beouf and Janet weren’t choking to death on their own blatant hypocrisy. 

Ever the teacher, Beouf looked down at the assembled Littles. “In other words, hypnosis is like spanking your brain, and Little Voices does not support spanking of any kind.” Solemn nods all around the cluster of forever children.

“Fortunately,” her tone became more upbeat, “I always have several students in my class each and every year that let me know all of the words and I am positive their parents don’t use hypnosis or subliminal messaging!”  That got the crowd back. Amazons laughed behind their hands and a small amount of Littles quietly exchanged high fives and fist bumps.

She reached into the tote bag and put some old DVD’s in her lap. “Parents and Littles, the best way to protect yourself and your kids is to update and educate yourself on what does and does not contain subliminal messaging. There is a popular show making a comeback called Carpet Mice. Do not watch it. Ever. It has nothing but hypnotic suggestions in it and neither I nor anyone else have found a clean broadcast of it.  If you go to LittleVoices.com you’ll find an entire list of shows and sometimes even networks to avoid. With all of these streaming services, there’s a lot of bad actors out there.” 

“What about Mint’s Hints?” A Little piped in. “Or Cherry?”   

Beouf smiled and nodded. “Good question.  For the most part, shows like Cherry, Mint’s Hints, Helga Hogg, The Muffet Show or Muffet Littles, are completely safe. They’re made with good intent and safe for children of literally all ages. But,” she added, “you should always be on the lookout if a show has a warning or a disclaimer in the beginning or any part that asks a Grown-Up to leave the room.  If there’s something on T.V. that the people making it don’t want your Mommies and Daddies to see, there’s something wrong with it.”  

“Another way to tell is if you overhear a lot of specific talk about diapers.  Real children’s cartoons don’t worry too much about potty training or diapers. They already assume the child needs them and doesn’t care, or is mature enough not to need them, and doesn’t care. Yes most Littles who experience Maturosis lose their potty training anyways but if there’s one hypnotic command, there’s at least ten more. Be. Aware.”

I’d forgotten what a good speaker Beouf could be. Watching her was hypnotic in its own right. My bottle was now down to the last quarter and I’d barely even noticed because I was so morbidly fascinated with the mix of helpful warnings that every Little parent taught their child and absolute contradictory bullshit.    

She cracked open a DVD case and took out a pair of ear plugs and what looked like flimsy 3-D glasses.  “Some programs even have special ear plugs or glasses that filter out the commands so that a Grown-Up can make a Little feel secure and trick them into watching. A lot of these things people can buy on the internet. A lot of this is still, sadly, legal in many places and where it isn’t people will often look the other way until someone makes a big enough stink about it.” 

Beouf continued her presentation by holding up the two identical DVD cases, both Helga Hogg. “The safest thing to do is to get a DVD of your child’s favorite cartoons and just play that. A streaming service can be compromised or edited. A DVD will be the same every time. Just be sure of the distributor. I got both the ear plugs and the sample glasses from the DVD case in my left hand.”

She returned her attention to the so-called children. “So boys and girls, if a Grown-Up ever wants you to watch a cartoon or listen to a song with them and they put something in their ears or something over their eyes, you need to do everything you can to stop yourself from watching or listening.”  

The Littles, used to being well behaved dolls looked generally confused. “What do we do?”

“Cry. Scream. Yell.” Beouf kept ticking off on her fingers. “Cover your ears and close your eyes.  Throw up if you need to. Try and bop the Grown-Up on the nose.  Anything that makes it so you don’t watch or listen to what they want you to watch or listen to.”

An Amazon politely raised her hand and asked. “But what if it’s a mistake? A babysitter or someone who works at their daycare?”

“I would rather a Grown-Up get their feelings hurt, or get angry and call you to help sort it out than an innocent Little girl or boy have something taken away from them via hypnosis.” She crossed her arms over her chest, giving the statement a note of finality.  I wondered if she was really campaigning so hard against the stuff because more hypnotic suggestions would just put her out of a job.

Quickly, she took out a pair of headphones and held them aloft.  “‘Before we move on, I also just want to mention something called ‘Music Therapy’. This is literally just slapping a pair of headphones with hypnotic suggestions over someone’s head and then leaving them in a trance for a couple of hours.”

“DO IT CUZ MOMMY SAYS SO!”  Bradley screeched in terror on his Mommy’s lap.  “I LIKE TO PEE MY PANTS!”  He was hyperventilating and crying just at the sight of the prop. Beouf had the decency to put them out of sight and the poor ex-New Beginnings inmate calmed down.

“Now that we have that over with,” Beouf said, “that first part was for both the Littles and their parents. This next part is just for the Littles.  Don’t worry, Grown-Ups you can stay.” A few nervously got the joke.  “Who knows what Stranger Danger is?”

All the hands in the room shot up, save mine. I was not participating.

“Okay, Cindy,” Beouf pointed to the pink-haired woman who was probably almost as old as she was. “Tell us.”

“Stranger Danger is when someone who is not your Mommy or Daddy or teacher or family wants to take you away forever because they want to hurt you.”

“That’s right, honey. Good job.”  She leaned out and gave Cindy a high five.  Beouf had taken the day off and was now getting rewarded with her dream class.  “When you were younger, you were probably told that there were strangers who would claim to know your mother and father or get you to come with them by offering candy or asking you for help looking for a puppy and that they wanted to hurt you, right?”

A smattering of ‘yeah’ and ‘uh-uh’ and ‘yes’ came in reply while others mutely bobbed their heads.  

“That can still happen,” Beouf told them. “But other times, strangers will try to trick you by telling you things like you’re really a Grown-Up or that your Mommy and Daddy don’t really love you, and you should come with them to prove that you’re not a baby.” She paused and scanned the floor for signs of dissent or incomplete programming. She found none there and so went on. “Those people are also trying to trick you and take you away from your Mommies and Daddies and you’ll also end up hurting. You’ll hurt not only yourself in the long run but also your Mommies and Daddies.We don’t want to do that, do we?”

The chorus of affirmatives changed course and melted into ‘no’ and ‘nuh-uh’ and the quiet but obedient shaking of heads.  Typical mindfucked dolls.  Someone was curious enough or childish enough to ask “Why?”

“That’s a complicated question that I think has a lot of answers,” Beouf said with all sincerity. “Some of them are bad people, because there’s just bad people in the world.  I think a lot of them though are people who just don’t understand or have been lied to about Maturosis or think they’d be helping you if they kidnapped you and took you away from your family.”  And once again, the pot without a trace of self-awareness deemed the kettle black.

“So unless you know them or they can prove that they know your Mommy or Daddy, don’t go with them and do more of that screaming, and crying stuff.  It’s okay if you’re trying to protect yourself and it’s all you’re able to do. Nobody will be mad, I promise.  Okay?”

“Okay.” most said together.

Melony reached back into her tote bag and pulled out a stack of wooden blocks, no doubt borrowed from her own classroom.  “Don’t get too excited, kids.” She said, “I’m using these as a teaching tool. Not for playing.”

“Can we play with them after?” Amy called from her Mommy’s lap.
Beouf didn’t even have to look up. “Yes Amy, you can if you want.”

“What about Jess-?” The bottle went back into Amy’s mouth so she couldn’t finish and her Mommy quietly shushed her.  I finished draining mine and accidentally let out a tiny yawn.  

Beouf started stacking the blocks one at a time in a single column.  “This next part is both for parents and their Little ones. As with everything else tonight, I’ll talk more in depth with the Grown-Ups after you kids go play, but they deserve to hear part of this too.  It’s going to be a tad uncomfortable for some people hearing what I’m about to tell you, and that’s okay. However it is my professional and personal opinion that everyone needs to hear this talk at least once. More than anything else, this is the part that I’m not supposed to talk about.  I need everyone to be brave and as mature as they can be for what I’m about to discuss.  That goes for you Mommies and Daddies, too.”  The laughter had dialed back down to polite with a touch of nervousness.

I pushed the bottle out of the way and squirmed back up into a sitting position so that I wouldn’t accidentally fall asleep.  What could Beouf need so much warning to talk about? She’d already discussed the topics hypnosis and abduction (including reframing Stranger Danger as a way to prevent Littles from escaping).  What could be more controversial than that?

She pointed to the column of blocks she’d made. The blocks, I noticed, were numbered and in sequential order, bottom to top,  from zero to five. “This is how people grow up,” Beouf said pointing down to the bottom. “First we’re zero, then we’re one, then we’re two.”  Her finger traveled up the column.  “And every year we go up and up and up, and another block goes on the stack.  I’d stack them higher, but I’m not very good at stacking so you’ll have to use your imaginations.”  Her hand rose up to the sky tracking invisible blocks of much higher numbers.

“But the thing is, we never really stop being zero, or one, or two, or three.  It just gets added on to.  Everybody in this room is a one or two or three or four or five.  Their block tower is just a lot taller and they’re on the top.”

“And we’re on the bottom!” A suck up yelled a bit too happily

“Don’t interrupt, Cesily.” Beouf wagged her finger at the lady who I’d seen get dangled gleefully from her ankles at my first meeting.  “Everyone has a tower that they’re mind is on top of, but deep deep down, they’re still zero, and one, and two, and three, and four.  It’s just that when your tower gets really tall, it takes some reeeeeeeally big thoughts and feelings to reach all the way up from the top of the tower to all the way down to the bottom of the tower where the part of you that is zero and one and two and three are.  It’s hard.  But it can happen.  That’s why Grown-Ups can still cry. Or be silly.  Or make bad decisions that if their parents were still around they’d be put in timeout for.”

“Or pee and poop?”

Beouf ignored the comment and kept going.  “When you have Maturosis, it’s different.”

I puffed air out of my nose and readied for her to knock the tower to shambles. I think many of the audience guessed the same thing.  If that’s true, she surprised a lot of us.

Instead of knocking the block tower over, she carefully grabbed the top and bottom of her column, squeezed the tower and flipped it over so that the zero was at the top.  “When you have Maturosis, the tower flips over.” She took a final block, a six, and quickly picked up the tower to slip it under as the new base.  “And new blocks get added to the bottom.  You’re still twenty or thirty or forty or fifty or a hundred.  The tower of who you are still grows and grows and grows.  It’s just that the part of you that is zero and one and two and three is always at the tippy top with you.”

My tongue rolled out of its mouth, unbelieving what I was hearing.

“So when you have Maturosis, you’re always feeling and thinking those thoughts you did when you were a baby-when you were zero and one and two and maybe even three-but the part of you that is twenty and thirty and forty, is still there.  It just takes a looooot of work to get to that part of you.  And sometimes that work is so hard that you just can’t, and that’s okay too.  It starts feeling wrong, just like when it felt wrong to wear diapers before you needed them again.  That’s what we call your Developmental Plateau.”

This. This explained so much. It didn’t make it any better. It didn’t undo anything. But it explained so much about why Beouf acted the way she did. She’d succinctly summarized her own delusions.  She really was a great teacher.

She had more for me.  “The term plateau is misleading however. A plateau is usually a piece of high flat ground.  Your Developmental Plateau isn’t necessarily completely flat. Just like how some people can be very good with math and others are better at reading and writing, a plateau can vary from person to person. Some of you are more shy and need sensory play. Others need different levels of personal interaction.  Some can walk. Some just crawl or like rolling around on the floor.  Some feed yourselves.  Some like to be spoon fed. A lot of you still talk the same as you did before. We’re all different.” 

It made perfect sense if you didn’t stop to think about it. The Amazons, clearly, weren’t thinking about it.  The other Littles had bought in or were completely numb to it by this point.  Why did this part get the warning, though?

“That’s why,” Beouf said, “We need to take a few minutes to talk about romantic feelings and sexual arousal.”

“EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”  Faces scrunched up, mouths fell ajar, pacifiers popped into mouth to cover embarrassment and hands waved and heads shook as if.

“I told you it was gonna be icky,” Beouf laughed, “but this is something you should know about.”  She waved her hands in front to try and regain control.  “Stop. Stop. I’m not going to embarrass anyone or ask any questions.  No hand raising required! All you have to do is listen.”  It certainly didn’t win them over, it got everyone to quiet down.

“You might be living like zero or one or two or three year olds,” she said. “But your bodies and parts of your minds are still adult. So it is very possible, maybe even likely, that at some point since you got Adopted, you’ve looked at somebody or thought about them in your crib, and you started getting funny feelings like you did back when you were a big boy or girl.”

The pacifiers and thumbs were popping in at a record pace. People were doing their best not to die from embarrassment, just from the idea that they might have sexual feelings.

Beouf certainly noticed, but she kept talking anyway. “These feelings might make you want to kiss someone, or hold their hand, or touch their diaper or have them touch yours.”

“EWWWWWWWW!”

“Hold on! Hold on!” Beouf laughed again, her own ease being semi-contagious. “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just stating aloud how some of you might be feeling sometimes, and to tell you…that it’s perfectly natural and okay.  Some of you sometimes might not even be thinking about anyone.  You might just feel a certain way, or like how your diaper feels, or be bored or something. Happens all the time!”  She quickly added, “And if you don’t ever feel that way, that’s okay too.  I’m not telling you how to feel.” 

The silence grew as Beouf took in a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m just saying that if you do feel that way, it’s perfectly natural, and you should talk to your Mommies and Daddies about it.” She looked up and out to the assembled parents, shifting in their seats. I could tell who’d heard a version of this talk before and who hadn’t based on body postures.  Everyone was uncomfortable, but some were distinctly less so than others.  

I think my fellows were more uncomfortable, because it was them that were being talked about.  I suddenly realized how long it had been since I’d had sex, which of course made me think about Cassie, which of course made me feel a level of melancholy that even a full belly and calm breathing couldn’t starve off. Not completely.

“Parents,” Beouf said. “Mommies and Daddies: Believe me. If your Little boy or girl has these urges you need to talk to them about it.  Short of something unethical, there is nothing you can do to prevent it, and babies of any age like to explore their bodies. All these Little ones are doing is rediscovering themselves.  We’re okay with it when it comes to the cute stuff, we have to be okay with it when it comes to the things that aren’t so cute.”

My ears wanted to fall away from the sides of my head out of disbelief.  Beouf was openly encouraging masturbation among Adopted Littles.

“If you don’t talk to them about it and find a way for them to do it safely, they will find a way to do it in a way that will probably embarrass you and cause you problems you never considered when you Adopted. My rookie year of teaching I lost more stuffed animals to nap time humping than I dare admit.” 

Every word was coming out almost like a chant with each one standing straight up and refusing to touch the other, much like the gaggle of Littles on the floor were slowly but steadily spreading out from each other. The collective blood was rushing to every Little’s head, mine included.  Just hearing all this said out loud was awful.  

Sex was normally a touchy enough subject for some of us; anybody really. Reminding us that Littles lost out sexual autonomy was insult enough. Telling everyone that those urges and feelings still continue no matter what was almost cruel.  The Amazons weren’t digging it either. Picturing their so-called babies adding something to their padded underpants that wasn’t urine or feces was distinctly unpleasant.

I think I wanted to talk about sex to Janet all of a sudden…

“You would rather them do something in their crib with the baby monitor off or in the bathtub right before you pull the plug than start rubbing themselves in public or rubbing up against each other at daycare.  I’m not going to name names, but I’ve got at least two students in my class with very strict parents, and if I didn’t pretend not to notice a few things, I’m pretty sure the Little darlings would just explode!”  She added sound effects for levity, and it worked, gaining a few good natured belly laughs from those assembled.

Billy and Annie were such exhibitionists they’d be proud to be called out like this.

One Little was brave enough to raise their hand and ask “How?”

“That I can’t tell you, darling. That’s something you’ve got to talk about with your Mommy or Daddy and figure out what works for all of you. I’ll go into more detail and options with them,” Beouf pulled a phone out of her bag. “But that’s almost my time.  Let’s split up so the kids can play, and I’ll get down to some more specifics and nitty gritty with the adults.”  

She stood up to a rousing round of applause, even greater than when she entered and the Littles all scampered back to their parents, some of them hugging them as if they’d been separated for years and not just a few awkward and tense topics.

Janet stood up and shifted me so that I could ride on her side and still look around.  “I appreciate you,” she said, and left it at that.  I’d been a good Little baby, apparently.

Fuck it.  Whatever. I had real work to do soon.

I was not meant to escape Beouf entirely.  “Hey Janet, hey Clark.” 

“Good talk,” Janet said, because of course she would say that.

“Thanks. We’re not done yet, sister.  You’d be surprised the kind of questions that come up in the second half.”

Janet laughed. “Great. Let me drop Clark off, and I’ll meet you back here.” She bounced me slightly as if I hadn’t been paying attention. “Do you want to say goodbye, Clark?”

I think all three of us knew the answer to that. Sometimes Janet and Beouf could be masochists.

“No,” some of Beouf’s shine left her. “That’s fine. He doesn’t have to.”

 “He’s kind of droopy tonight.”

“Sick?” Beouf asked.

“I don’t think so. Just full”  She held the empty bottle that she hadn’t slipped back into the diaper bag.

More curiosity blossomed over Beouf’s brow. She pointed to the empty container. “Goat’s milk or…?”

“Goat’s milk.” Janet said.  “Goat’s milk.”

“Okay.  Drop him off and come back. We’ll have a chat.”

“Roger!”

Janet walked me to the playroom.  I started doing my best to wake up and get my blood pumping. It was fitting in a way that Beouf was here tonight.  She’d started her indoctrination routine in the first half of the meeting.  Next would come mine.

 

Chapter 93: Little Voices: “Clark Says”

Janet took me into the Community Center’s playroom and put me down. A quick check between my legs and she was satisfied that I was “Good to go”.  She leaned forward to give me a kiss, but hesitated and pulled back.  I must have made some kind of face.  “Bye, Clark. See you in a bit.”

She left while a few of the more sentimental Mommies and Daddies did their own variation of a goodbye ritual- theirs much more affectionate- and then left to go get pro tips from one of the greatest manipulators in the game whose last name didn’t use to be Gibson.  The bottom half of the dividing door was officially closed, locking us all in together.

Of special note, among the playroom guests were the diapered Little Kylie, her Pouty Pull-Upped ‘Big Sister’ of a Tweener, Joanie, and both Daddies, Carl and Donald.  I forgot which one was which, but one was sorting through the enormous bundles of diaper bags that the supervising Grown-Ups toted around, and the other was already busying himself pulling back waistbands, patting bottoms, and generally eyeballing crotches for signs of oversaturated swelling and sagging.

This wasn’t ideal.  I felt a twinge of sympathy when one of them asked the Tweener whether she had to go potty or not. The woman’s cheeks lit up like a searchlight. They only got worse when he went on about how it was okay and accidents happened and they packed diapers “just in case she needed a break”.  

Obviously, the Tweener wasn’t used to being confined to padded underpants.  She was probably being gently punished to remind her of her place in the same way that I’d been disallowed anything that hid my diapers. Either that or ‘her Maturosis was getting more pronounced’ (read: her Daddies were gaslighting themselves and her to the point where she was getting Little levels of mindfucked).  

The decent part of me hoped it was the former. I shouldn’t wish that slow descent into madness on anyone, save perhaps a select few Amazons. Even I got my pants back. The awful part of me quietly rooted for the latter. Watching a Tweener brought down to my level could be darkly satisfying, and it could be useful to have access to a bigger mindfucked baby.
“None of your friends from school or playgroup are here, honey.”  The big man prattled on. “Your sister and her friends won’t care, either. They all need diapers, too. You’ll still be our big gi-”

“Daaaaad!” the Tweener shrieked.  “Staaaahp!”  She gently huffed off to my usual sulking corner far away from the changing table, leaving the big man gently shaking his head like a patient yet frustrated parent. 

He went back to checking Littles, not asking beyond saying “Excuse me, Little fella” “Hold up, babydoll,” or “Juuuuust checking.”

This was not ideal. Two diaper obsessed giants instead of the usual one, and a pouty Tweener squealer. Two and a half times the number of authorities to involve and distract, and neither of the Daddies seemed to be the type to get actively involved with the pretend-children beyond basic maintenance and monitoring. The changing table was right by the door, too. A Grown-Up would only have to turn their head to the right to see someone being too close to the door for comfort.

Definitely not ideal.  The only thing that could have been less ideal was if Janet were present. These circumstances could be good though. If my exit strategy could work around two no-nonsense Daddies and a Tweener that could turn traitor, it could work around anybody.  I hadn’t noticed any pattern or heard anything about a rotation on who got monitor duty, but common sense told me that the Amazons wouldn’t consciously hog or clog up playtime privileges.  Every one of them wanted to be here on some level and frequent repeats would be noticed.  Getting these guys out of the way helped me.

I wasn’t going to get out tonight.  Not even close. I had so many other steps to take and trials to endure.  This was only part one.  Every journey home had to start with a single step.  Every tunnel to freedom started with a single spoonful of dirt.

Showtime.

“Okay everybody!” I yelled out in my best carnival barker impression. “Step, crawl, and roll up! We’re playing ‘Simon Says’.”  In bits and pieces, people turned to see me, curious expressions forming.  Curious, but not taking the bait.

A  handful put down the rental rag dolls and abandoned the ancient Speak-and-Says, but most had pause and disinterest.  Murmurs of “Simon Says” started to make their way around the room. They knew what it was, because of course they did; the real thing is they weren’t in a mood to play it.  Simon Says wasn’t Battle Tag or Light Feather Heavy Feather.  

Time to up the ante.

“Step right up and gather round!” I repeated. “If you don’t want to play you can take a seat and cuddle up with your favorite stuffie and enjoy the show!”  More looks were exchanged. Promises of a show were reeling them in.  Simon Says wasn’t Battle Tag, but like the pudgy girl with the stacking cups said, I’d brought Battle Tag to this place and mastered the art of Heavy and Light.  I was a known asshole and pouter who hadn’t yet accepted their take on the truth, but I could be fun when it suited me. Tonight it suited me.

“If I go ten straight rounds without eliminating someone, I lose!”

“What happens if you lose?” the white haired kid asked.

Damn. They wanted stakes; why wouldn’t they. They weren’t really simple babies. Oh well.  “Good question, Denny.”

“Danny.”

“No, sir, I’m Clark.” I lifted my head and continued to project. “Step right up. If I go ten rounds in a row without eliminating someone, I lose and everybody who beats me can make me say ONE THING EACH!” If cushioned socks and light up sneakers were hooves, the room would have sounded like a stampede. “That’s right, Folks! Anything you want! I will confess to being a big stinky doo-doo head or tell the world that I’m really a pretty pretty princess from fairy land!  I’ll even say naughty words!”

The resulting gasp of surprise and shock sounded like a cheer to me. Meanwhile my heart was thudding in my chest.  I’d said it. I’d actually said it!  The Daddy who’d put himself on diaper checking duty was well within my line of sight.  He didn’t look upset, but he was far from pleased with this announcement.  Oh what a rush.   “Clark…?” He’d never spoken to me and thus didn’t feel confident in saying my name at first; afraid he’d somehow misremembered ramblings from Janet.  “Clark, buddy. I don’t think that’s appropri-”

“You don’t have to say the word yourself!” I yelled over him.  “You can just tell me to say a naughty word and I’ll pick. You’ll be blameless!”

Daddy number two sounded a bit more firm. “Clark. That’s a really bad choice. I think it’d be a good idea to change that last part about the swearing.”  First spoonful of dirt or not, such compromise would not do tonight.  I could have chosen or invented any number of games that the daycare crowd would approve of. For my purposes and needs, Simon Says was important to me. Minimal rule explaining, and it gave me complete control of the narrative.

I spread my arms wide and turned slowly in a circle. “Of course since I’m such a scamp,” I bellowed theatrically, “if I am forbidden from playing the game at least once I shall tantrum like no other and say ALL the naughty words I know. Possibly invent a few by pairing them with funny sounding breakfast dishes!”  I held up an index finger to the second Daddy. “But!” I proclaimed. “If any Grown-Up can defeat me, I will yield and take naughty words off the table.”  

I stood sideways so that each was in my periphery. One Daddy looked at the other. Playful, cocky smiles were exchanged. “You wanna Don?”

“Sure, Carl. Let’s play with the kids.”

 Amazon arrogance at its finest. Real adults didn’t make bets with children. Good thing there were no actual children around. Beouf had had her moment to spew her brand of crazy.  We’d fight tomorrow, I was sure.  Here? Now? I was the ringmaster, this my circus, and I had more monkeys under me than just the ones decorating my underwear. 

“Hi Clark!” I looked down and saw my favorite nutter. 

“Hey Amy,” I said. “You playin?”

She closed her eyes and waggled her head. “Naw. I’m counting.”

I flashed a winning folksy smile, and gave her a thumbs up. It was the same kind of gesture I might give to one of my students or their parents when first meeting them.  Amy and her ilk were much less frustrating when you didn’t expect that much out of them.  “Thanks, friend! Keep me honest!”

“Yup yup.” From her spot on the floor she copied me. “Someone’s gotta.” The hell did that mean?

“You don’t want to get in on the action? Make me say something embarrassing?”

She scooted backwards on her butt while the crowd got in place. “Naw. You kinda do that enough on your own.  No offense.”

“Some taken.”  Her smile was so soft and sincere that I genuinely couldn’t tell if she was fucking with me. Now I had to fuck with her back. I wanted her to play. “Yeah, but you could make me say anything,” I prodded.  “You could make me talk about how I looooove being a baby or that I miss my Mommy whenever she’s out of the room or something.”  I made my voice as silly and mocking as I could to get the pitch across.  That alone got a few who were on the fence about playing in the game.

Again, I couldn’t quite read Amy’s expression. It’s like she had something to say, but thought better of it; not a trait that I’d associate with Amy. What she did say was “If I want I can make a kid give me their prize at least half of them owe me something you’d be surprised what can be found and traded for favors at daycare.” 

I felt myself shudder. Knowing Amy, such treasures were likely dust and lint covered and at one time had been edible.  ‘Fair enough.”

“Also I want to give you a chance to win. I like you, buddy. Good luck.”

I twisted my mouth up and felt my eye twitch but said “Thanks” anyways.  

Unnecessary though it was, I cupped my hands and started my spiel anew. “Okay, listen up everybody! The game is Simon Says. The rules are simple, everybody knows ‘em, but just for review: When we start playing, if I say ‘Simon Says’ and tell you to do something, you do it. If you don’t do it, you’re out.  If I tell you to do something without first saying ‘Simon Says’ and you do it, you’re out, too. If you’re in the game, you stand or crawl or sit here.”  I gestured to the area where everyone already was.  

“If you’re out,” I continued, “you move off to the side and join the audience.  Amy is keeping track of how many rounds I go without eliminating someone. Ten in a row I lose.” I turned my head briefly to the (for now I hoped) gathered Littles that were watching instead of playing.  “Audience, if you catch someone that I miss, call ‘em out on it. Players, if you get called out, be a good sport and join the audience. As fun as this is, it’s still just a game.”

I gestured to myself. “As for me, I’m going to be tricksy, but I’m going to be honest and play square. It is my job to lie to you and misdirect you, but I will never cheat by telling you to do something that you are physically incapable of doing. If I say ‘hop’ but you’re a crawler and can’t hop, you’re safe.  Same with doing something impossible like licking your own elbow.”  Right on cue four or five of my players experimented to find that no, they could not lick their own elbows. 

“I also won’t ask you to do anything to anybody else like lick your neighbor’s elbow.”  That got the appropriate amount of smirks, snickers, and giggles. Even the Daddies hid their smiles behind the palms of their hands.  This was going great.  “Likewise, ‘Simon Says’ only counts for direct commands, not questions.  I can ask a question or say something to you and you’re allowed to talk back.” 

I paused and directed my gaze over to my favorite sulking corner. “Hey big kid!” I shouted. “Do you wanna play?”  Collectively well over a dozen heads looked behind them, turning the poor girl into a deer on the highway.

The Tweener who’d been standing in the corner slunk down and hugged her knees “I’m good…” she said just loud enough for me to hear.

 “Cool!” I regained the class attention. “And if she were playing, she wouldn’t be out. That is unless of course, the last command I had given was ‘Simon Says no talking’.” General head nodding all around. This part wasn’t about explaining rules as much as it was developing a rapport with my newest batch of suckers. I took in the tiny crowd and noticed Amy rubbing her tummy with one hand and patting the other.  “Oh, and yeah, every ‘Simon Says’ cancels out and overrides the ‘Simon Says’ that came before it.  So if I say ‘Simon Says rub your tummy’ and then I say ‘Simon Says pat your head’, you stop rubbing your tummy and start patting your head. But if I say ‘Simon Says pat your head and rub your tummy’ you gotta do both.” I flashed her another thumbs up.  Thanks, Amy.”

“Hmmm?,” she looked mildly startled. “I just wanted to see if I could do both.”

Yeah, that figured.  “Okay, I think that about covers it,” I said. “So with that out of the way, we are now playing Simon Says as soon as I finish this sentence.” I took a quick breath. My throat was dry, both from talking and from nerves. Now or never to see if this strategy might yield fruit.  

“Okay, so everybody understand the rules?”  There was nodding and verbal affirmations.  I swatted at my ears as if their replies were buzzing gnats.  “Whoah whoah whoah! Guys! Sorry! My bad! Too much talking all at once! Let me try it another way.  Raise your hand if you understand the rules.”

Almost half of the hands playing went up.

“OH NO!” Amy laughed. “GOTTEM!”

The wry smile on my face was completely genuine. Too late it dawned that they’d been duped. “Simon didn’t say. Gotcha!”

“Oh gosh,” Daddy number two said. “Carl!”

Carl flopped his head in defeat. The Tweener in the corner’s eyes lit up with surprise and joy. “I’m an idiot,” he growled at himself.  

“Oooooooooooo!”  The Littles cheered and jeered and snickered.  Even ‘idiot’ was a naughty word to these dolls.

I thumbed to the side like a hitchhiker while rambling like an auctioneer. “Outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame!”  The first round of victims walked and toddled to the side. “I can’t believe that worked!” I crowed. “Can you guys?”

Stony silence was my reply.  I played at being exasperated. “Friends! Friends! Guys!  We already established that unless I say ‘Simon Says no talking’, then it’s okay to answer my questions.  So can you believe they fell for that?”

I waited and let the silence work for me.  One…two….three….four…

“No,”

“Yeah. Me neither!”

My smile got even wider. “Outtamygame, outtamygame! I just said ‘Simon Says no talking’.”

“Kylie!” Amy said. “Bea! C’mon!  We’ve practiced for this!”  Two Little girls trudged off my impromptu playing field.

In two moves I’d eliminated half the players. “Simon Says you can talk if you want.” I said. “Pretty tricky, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yessir.”

Oh I needed to hear that more than I’d anticipated.  “Okay, since we’ve already gotten a lot of people out, how about some of you in the back come a little closer to the front?”

“Bradley! Buddy! Nooooooo!”  

The dark haired whipping boy of fate blushed and then waddled off. “Mommy says…Darn it…” He plopped himself down next to Amy and she patted him consolingly on the back. 
I felt kind of bad picking on someone who’d been put through New Beginnings.  At least he was getting some words back.  

Enough false starts. Any more and they’d pay too careful attention and I only had so much time.  

“Simon says touch your head.”  I demonstrated the action, half a second later the Littles and remaining Amazon copied me.  One finger on Amy’s right hand went up.  “Simon says touch your shoulders.”  I modeled. They quickly copied. Two fingers. “Simon says touch your knees.” Again. Third finger.  “Touch your toes.”  I didn’t move. Neither did they.  Four fingers.  “Simon says touch your toes.”  

I modeled. 

They copied. 

Amy had an entire hand unclenched.

“Simon says touch your ears.” Six fingers. Four left.

“Simon says touch your nose.” Seven.

I whipped my hand over to my shoulder.  “Simon says touch your elbow.”

“Don!” Carl laughed. “What are you doing?”  The last remaining Amazon and three other Littles were all touching their shoulders.
My thumb came out. “Outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame! I said Simon says touch your elbow. That’s your shoulder.”

Amy was incredulous.  “You guys! Seriously? You are out of practice.”  Her fingers all curled back into her fists.

Funnily enough, I agreed with her.  Beouf’s daily brainwashing didn’t beat your mind down until submission. Quite the opposite. It sharpened and rewarded it and taught you to talk to yourself as if you were an Amazon. It encouraged you to think outside the box and make arguments that didn’t make sense and accept nonsense as if it were obvious fact.  Beouf didn’t want her Littles hypnotized into submission. She wanted our minds sharpened to the point where we could reject our senses. 

Some of these inmates had never had Beouf, and those who had had long gotten used to activities that assumed you were a baby, instead of exercises designed to trick you into tricking yourself.  Back at school, I could trick Billy and maybe Sandra Lynn. I’d have to work for every other victory. Ivy? I could dupe Ivy once and then her competitive streak would kick in and she’d destroy me. 

To hear Amy’s reactions, I might not even get that one time out of her; not with only ten strikes.

Tonight I had a bunch of toddlerized adults in front of me with not an Ivy among them, and Amy was sitting this one out.

“Now things are getting good!”

Don scoffed and looked like he wanted to say something nasty. The idea that they’d been tricked by someone they considered a baby was hurting the Amazons’ pride. They whispered something to each other that I couldn’t pick out.  They’d also dug themselves a hole by agreeing to play my game. The other cultists might not like it if they agreed they’d let a baby swear. I needed to play it cool or I’d have another Sosa/Winters incident on my hands; on accident no less.

 “Don’t worry Mister Kylie and Joanie’s Daddies,” I boasted. “I’m not gonna lose.” That didn’t go over with them as well as I’d hoped. Two sets of evil eyes were trained on me.

“Hey, Clark?” Amy said loud enough for all assembled to hear. “If you lose, what happens if the Grown-Ups tell the good kids not to make you say a bad word?”

On pure reflex I shrugged. “Nothing I can do about that,” I answered.  I wasn’t going to lose, though, and I didn’t care if I did. The two Daddies turned towards each other, however, and nodded in satisfaction.  Amy had just given all three of us an out.  Funnily enough, I might have been the only one to realize it.  As subtle as I could, I placed my fist by my thigh and flashed her a thumbs up.  She nodded but kept her hands balled up, ready to count up to ten.

Right. The game.

“Simon says give me a clap.”

CLAP!  

We all brought our palms together in unison in a single thunderous clap.

“Simon says two claps.”

CLAP-CLAP!

I build up a rhythm. “Simon says clap”

CLAP!

“Simon says two claps”

CLAP-CLAP!

“Simon says clap.”

CLAP!

“Simone says two claps!”

CLAP-CLAP!

My thumb came out. “Outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame, outtamygame! It’s Simon Says. Not Simone Says. Simone Says doesn’t count.”

More grumbling but shuffling off.  A bare handful left and a crawler among them. “Simon says jump up and down until the next legal command.”

They all hopped up and down on their feet, bouncing like Kangaroos. There was so much movement and crinkling that it sounded like a radio stuck between two different stations.

“Hey,” the white-haired kid called up. “When do we stop?”

“You heard me,” I replied.

“But she’s not jumping,” another Little pointed to the crawler, the blonde girl who’d been munching on  berries in her Mommy’s lap from earlier.
  
“She doesn’t have to,” I said.

“That’s not faaaaair!”

I spread my arms wide and indicated all around. “Who said this was fair?”  The crawler beamed cheekily. I was letting her win for now and she was enjoying it.

“Noooo!” the white haired kid whined. “She’s cheating!”

No. I was.  “How?”

“Juni can walk!” came the reply from the cup stacker girl from the audience. “She’s faking!”

The berry eater stood up.  “Brittany!” she yelped. “I was winning.”  Her diaper visibly resisted coming up with the rest of her.

“She was probably pooping and got stuck,” the white haired boy said. He was still jumping, so the revelation came out in bits and spurts like he was on a galloping horse.  “Juni always gets on her hands and knees and pretends to be really interested in something on the floor when she poops.”

“Danny!” the girl shrieked. “I’m gonna kill you!”  

“What?” Brittany giggled. “That’s why your Mommy was giving you all those berries, wasn’t she?  You probably just started pooping when he was doing rules stuff and finished after he started.”

Juni’s face flushed nearly the same color of pink as the juice that still stained her lips. “Brittany!” I held in my laughter and bit my knuckles. That cheeky bitch! That poor cheeky bitch! She almost got away with it too!

“Outtamygame!”

One of the Daddies, Carl, stepped around behind her and pulled back. “Yup. Let’s go, Juni”  His husband quick-stepped over to the diaper bags while Carl carried an annoyed Juni over to the changing table.

“Okay folks,” I said. “Nothing to see, eyes on me.”  I looked to my contestants who had been bouncing around for the entire exchange.  “Okay guys, my bad. You can stop.”

All but one stopped.

“Out! Of! My! Gaaaaaame!”  One or two tried to start jumping again like I hadn’t seen, but jeers and callouts shamed them into the fold.  Only one remained.
“Okay Derwin,” I said. “Simon says stop jumping.”

He stopped.  “It’s Danny.” His voice was strong. He wasn’t even close to winded. He was focused and had been blending in the whole time. Unblinking. Focused. Ready for any trick. I had one left. Time to wrap this up, and I thought I knew how to do it.

“Simon says touch your nose.” My arm touched my ear. His went to his nose.

One.

“Simon says jump!” He did precisely one. I’d put no modifier.

Two.

“Give me a clap!”   I was the only clapper.

Three.

“Simon says two claps.”

CLAP-CLAP!

Four.

“Simon says clap!”

CLAP!

“Simon says two claps!”

CLAP-CLAP

“Simmons says clap.” Nothing

Five, six, and seven, respectively.

The white haired kid did not smile. He did not sneer. He was in the zone.  I double checked Amy’s fingers.

“Okay. Simon says clap!”

CLAP!

Eight.

“Simon says give me two claps!”

CLAP-CLAP!

Nine.

“Simon says Daryl give me half-a-clap!”

Together our hands started the clap, but froze half way in a fakeout.

“Gotcha!” the kid said. “Half-a-clap! And the name’s Danny!”

I stuck out my thumb and jerked towards Amy. All previously popped fingers were curled back up.  “That’s right. My command was for someone named Daryl. Not you, Danny. Out! Of! My! Game!”

The white haired kid fell down to his knees and yanked at his snowy locks. His screams of anguish drowned out by cheers while I took my bow.  “Well played! Everyone! Well played!  Who wants to go again?”  

The ranks formed up; soldiers ready to attack.  I strolled up to my final patsy. “So, no lie: I’m tired and need a break. Dobson, do you wanna be Simon?”

The white haired kid leapt up and got right in my face. “No!” he barked. “I don’t wanna play stupid Simon says!”  I held my breath and leaned back. Everyone else was frozen.  Even the Grown-Ups, fresh from freshening up Juni looked momentarily stupefied  “But we can play ‘Danny Says’.”

I stuck my hand out. “Deal!”  He shook it, flashed me a cheshire grin like he’d won something and took over.

“Danny Says…”

I took my place in the audience beside Amy. All eyes had been on me. Now they weren’t.

“Outtamygame! Yeah! Danny!”

“Good job, Clark.”

“Thanks Amy. I play a mean game of Simon Says.”

“Yeah. Pretty good,” she agreed. “That’s not what I was talking about, though…”

A terrible thought rampaged through my brain: “Amy?” I whispered. “You haven’t ever tried to break out of a place like this have you?  Or your daycare?  Or Beouf’s? Any place where their job is to treat us like kids?”

Amy ran her tongue between the gap in her teeth while her eyes meandered from side to side.  “No.  Why?”  Her fingers were still managing to keep track of ‘Danny Says’.

“Outtamygame!”

“No reason,” I told her. “Just wondering…”

 

[YourFNF]

3 hours ago, Personalias said:

“So when you have Maturosis, you’re always feeling and thinking those thoughts you did when you were a baby-when you were zero and one and two and maybe even three-but the part of you that is twenty and thirty and forty, is still there.  It just takes a looooot of work to get to that part of you.  And sometimes that work is so hard that you just can’t, and that’s okay too.  It starts feeling wrong, just like when it felt wrong to wear diapers before you needed them again.  That’s what we call your Developmental Plateau.”

This. This explained so much. It didn’t make it any better. It didn’t undo anything. But it explained so much about why Beouf acted the way she did. She’d succinctly summarized her own delusions.  She really was a great teacher.

She had more for me.  “The term plateau is misleading however. A plateau is usually a piece of high flat ground.  Your Developmental Plateau isn’t necessarily completely flat. Just like how some people can be very good with math and others are better at reading and writing, a plateau can vary from person to person. Some of you are more shy and need sensory play. Others need different levels of personal interaction.  Some can walk. Some just crawl or like rolling around on the floor.  Some feed yourselves.  Some like to be spoon fed. A lot of you still talk the same as you did before. We’re all different.” 

Honestly given my dissociative tendencies and strong creative side/imagination I could see this kind of very precise and engineered gaslighting being chillingly effective.... Especially if tried using it like I've suggested before myself to get things I want from the amazons. How long could I use a narrative while compartmentalizing and separating parts of myself before I start to believe? Before I start not caring whether or not it's true. What does living a lie matter if that lie keeps me safe and happy with someone who cares about me in a world without hope? I think that would be a likely breaking point me....

...

And that's why in the timelines where I'm alive I'm probably on the floor in that room with my girlfriend talking with the tweener about how nice it was that mamma let her come stay with us when her maturosis also started showing and how we got to go a movie ourselves this weekened...

[Personalias]

Chapter 94: Naked Truths

Most of Friday was boring.  Beouf didn’t show up to school again. Zoge said that Beouf’s actual factual grandbaby was still sick.  Bullshit.  Beouf was scared of us and how we were destroying her morale and I let everyone who was worth letting listen to me know about it.  

So our class was well behaved that day. Zoge even thanked us as a group before she led us out to the bus loop that afternoon. Monday would be a new battlefield, however.  Mel didn’t have infinite sick days. She’d have to come back.  I’ be waiting

On the bright side, from what few glances I glimpsed of Tracy that day, she seemed more at ease.  Not less cautious, or less focused;  just that something in her could see some sort of finish line at the end of the race. There had to be more than I knew going on, but I felt that she was winning. She had the weekend to look forward to; a luxury I’d lacked.  It made Friday a lot better for me.  It wouldn’t make Beouf’s life any better, however. I was positive she’d had nothing to do with any mercy or respite my Tweener friend found.

Friday night, I sat in warm bathwater in the middle of the tub.  Janet had insisted on pouring bubbles into the mix while water was cascading into the basin.  “Bubbles are soap too,” she insisted. “I won’t have to wash you as much if you just soak in them.”

“Yeah. Sure.  Whatever.”  

That was good enough for her. She stripped me down out of that day’s romper on the bathroom counter while the tub filled up.  Ironically it reminded me of that scene in GhostHaunter’s Two where the bubble bath turns into a massive blob and tries to snatch up the Little right as his Mommy is getting him undressed.  Life imitating art as it were. 

No bath monster this time. Janet stripped me and plopped my naked body down into the rising tide of suds.  Being naked was becoming strange to me; not alien but foreign if that makes sense.  There was a time when in my own home I didn’t have to particularly pay attention to my nakedness.  Cassie and I could have walked around our house bare assed all day if we’d wanted to. That kind of freedom was an unexpected benefit of being a homeowner and an adult.  Privacy meant that I could determine how much or how little I covered myself while in my own house.

I wasn’t in my own house anymore, I had to remind myself. My old house didn’t exist anymore.  I was in Janet’s house, and I had no privacy whatsoever. I was naked from the waist down four to six times a day and almost always covered in something vile when it happened.  I was naked from the waist up only when someone bigger, stronger, and faster than me deemed it permissible or convenient, and I was completely naked only once a day (and sometimes not even once a day). That bit of ‘freedom’ was always measured against factors like how much hot water was left and how close it was to my assigned bedtime. 

Obviously, I was never alone when I was unclothed.  My time unsupervised in Janet’s home felt directly inverse to how much clothing and freedom of movement I was allowed.  Janet bunched up my school clothes and tossed the wet diaper into the wastebasket next to the toilet.  I caught myself looking at the porcelain throne with its seat up and wondering if I could still muscle myself up to the rim and use it. I’d had a stool to climb for this very purpose back in the good old days.  Could I handle having a full bladder, still?  The only consistent time I had one was in the middle of the night or just before sunrise when the need to pee woke me up from a dreamless groggy slumber.  

‘Wee hours of the morning’ had taken on a much more literal meaning to me.

I shook that fantasy out of my head.  I wasn’t unpotty trained, yet. I wasn’t like Billy and Annie and Chaz who could just go in their pants without a second thought and move on.  I wasn’t like Mandy who sometimes whispered the words to herself while she was doing it, or Tommy who could tromp around a playground with his backend loaded and not care as long as he got to play for an extra ten minutes. I wasn’t sure if Sandra Lynn or Ivy noticed anymore.  At least everybody outside of those two asked to be changed, occasionally.

From the tub, I observed Janet dig a fluffy white towel out of the bathroom linen closet and put it on the counter where she’d just undressed me. I couldn’t make out the tune, but she was definitely humming something to herself.  She was getting less and less quiet again; comfortable. Too comfortable.  A cry session with Beof, me asking for a bottle, and choosing to pull a few punches by focusing righteous anger elsewhere was healing her up. Communing with her fellow piecemeal parents, with Beouf to reinforce things, probably improved her attitude, too.

Not great. Not typical, but not great.

None of my work was undone, per se. I wasn’t starting back from square one and my ex-friend was still twice shy now that she’d been bitten a couple of times.  She just didn’t seem particularly unhappy and it bothered me and it didn’t bother me at the same time. And THAT bothered me that it didn’t JUST bother me.  

Emotions are complicated.  

“Do you want a rubber ducky?” Janet asked  In reply I gathered bubble suds around me to act as a screen and glared at her.  Bitch knew better.  “I just noticed that you like to squeeze Lion a lot and was thinking you might want to squeeze something else since you can’t bring him in the tubby.”  

I bit into my tongue to keep myself from growling.  Leave it to an Amazon to see a stress response and completely infantilize it.  If I’d been a wall puncher she’d probably buy me one of those inflatable clowns that never fell down. Actually, that might be kind of cool…

“Same with your pacifier so you don’t have to get a sudzy thumb or chew on your tongue…”

I unclenched my jaw and gave the sides of my tongue a break.  How did she always know?

She plunged her arm into the warm bath water and swished around a washcloth.  She’d already changed out of her work clothes before dinner and into a more casual gray T-shirt and blue jeans. The short sleeves of her shirt were rolled all  the way up to her shoulders that she could dunk her arms in without getting anything else wet.

The shirt was an Oakshire Elementary School Spirit t-shirt. The kind that was given out to staff as an optional casual Friday garb and peddled to children around yearbook time so that they had something to show off in the spring and outgrow over the summer.  I’d have had a few myself, but I’d always opted out even though it would have been free for me.  

It would have been a bad idea as a Little teacher to wear anything that the children were also wearing, lest false equivalencies be made.  I focused on the shirt and pictured myself having to wear one, despite me not planning on being around long enough for this year’s batch to be on sale.

“Please don’t get me one of those shirts,” I blurted out without thinking.

Janet sat down on her knees, finished soaping up the washcloth, and took my arm.  She glided it over from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, applying enough pressure that it felt nice. It was gentle massage pressure, not scrub raw pressure. It took a second for my rambling to register with her.  

She looked down at her chest. “Hm? Why not?”  She was so comfortable she’d forgotten what she was wearing.  Another luxury I’d lost. I almost always knew what I had or lacked around my body.  Impossible snaps and adhesives made it so I had no other choice.  “I thought you’d like something like a regular shirt to wear.”

“I don’t,” I said flatly.

She took my other arm and repeated the process, making sure to get into my armpit and doubling back for the one she’d missed.  “Okay. We’ll see.”  She dunked the washcloth back in the water and re-soaped it.  

‘We’ll see’?  Typical answer. Wrong answer! 

I twisted my torso to the left, leaned the other direction sideways, cupped my hands together, and splashed a comparatively massive amount of water out of the tub and onto the front of Janet’s school t-shirt.

WHUUUUSH!

Janet gasped and looked down at her dripping wet chest. White suds dribbled down her front, the shape and outline of her bra was immediately more visible. Enough of the warm liquid landed in her lap so that if she were a Little, she’d be at risk of someone thinking she’d had an accident.  Her jaw dropped, and shocked little “Ah! Ah!” sounds stumbled out of her throat.

Bathtime over: Time for bad Little boys to get toweled off and put to an even earlier bed while their Mommies went and cried about it.  

“You…” she stammered.   “You Little brat!”  It almost sounded like laughter.  I smirked and crossed my arms over my body, daring her to retaliate, positive she wouldn’t.  

OOOOOOOOOSH!

Lightning quick, two giant palms scooped up water and suds on either side of me and cascaded them towards the middle. Two tiny tidal waves rose up and engulfed me, going over my head and practically dunking me despite my body remaining still.  I was sputtering soapy water and wiping at my eyes.  My now curly ketchup colored hair sagged in my face and over my ears. I must have looked like that cartoon sheepdog who was always having to lift up his hair so that you could see his eyes.

“You…” I shrieked. “You splashed me!”  I started combing the wet mop back away from my eyes.

“You splashed me first,” Janet said. I could barely see, but I could still hear her smile. Was this a fucking game to her?!

“But you splashed me!” I blinked away suds and squinted my eyes. Calling baby soap and shampoo ‘tear free’ was a massive case of there being no truth in advertising whatsoever; just below the idea that adult Littles and Amazon babies were functionally the same thing.

Janet leaned back in the narrow bathroom and snatched the towel from off the counter.  She handed me a corner so I could wipe and dab at my eyes.  “What? Mommies can’t roughhouse in the tub with their Little ones?”

“No!” I said. “They ca-...That’s not the point, Janet!”

“Oh?” she replied. “What is the point, then?”  I wanted to wipe the smugness right off her typical Amazon face. I wanted to hurt her again, but this time I wanted her to hurt because she understood; not because she didn’t.  And if she didn’t, I wanted to be angry about it.  I wanted fuel to scream into the baby monitor that night.

“I said that I didn’t want a shirt,” I answered,  “and you said ‘we’ll see’, instead of just ‘okay’. I can’t have anything unless you approve!”  I felt a meltdown threaten; what Amazons might call a tantrum, and what any sane person would call ‘losing it’.

“Well…yeah.”

“But you won’t let me have anything that wasn’t your idea first!” I accused her. “You won’t even just let me not wear a stupid t-shirt that you haven’t even bought yet unless I throw a tantrum about it!”  I pulled my knees up to my chest, and wrapped my arms around them.  I was turning back into a protective ball. “Now you’re probably thinking about getting me one so that I’ll see that it’s not so bad or something!  I don’t get choices that you don’t think of first!  I shouldn’t have even said anything and just let you wash me.”  That last part I said quietly, as if to myself, but I wanted Janet to hear it.

“Clark that’s not f…!” Janet stopped.  A dawning realization entered her eyes. Her mouth wiggled but no sound came out. Her nostrils flared and she huffed.  Her eyes were closed when she found the words.  “No, you’re right. I’m sorry baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” The acoustics of the bathroom made my impulse screaming sound even louder than usual.

She brought her hand up to her cheek, and opened her eyes. “Not what I meant. Sorry. Really sorry. Just…sorry. You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. That’s… Sorry. How can I make it up to you?”`

An open ended apology?  That was a rare delicacy indeed.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to splash me again and I not splash you back?”

Yes. But also no. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not going to dress you up in that shirt or that onesie I got for your baby shower. Do you want me to let you try washing yourself tonight?”

Yes.  Desperately.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to wear something embarrassing this weekend? We’ve got a doctor’s checkup and shopping to do. Everyone could see me and laugh.  Would that be fair?”

That would be fantastic!  I hated it!  She was supposed to be fighting back! Why wasn’t she fighting back?!

“I don’t know.” I kept sulking. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.  Why do I still have to make a choice right now?”

“You don’t,” she promised. “I’m just….” She bit her lip and looked away so she wasn’t staring at me. “Let’s finish your bath and come back to this. The bubbles in the water should be good enough. Do you want out of the tub now? Or do you want me to keep washing you?  Or do you want me to leave you alone in the tub?  I’m not going to leave you alone, but I can stand in the doorway and look at my phone.  Give you time to soak.  Or any other options you can think of…?”

She was trying. Goddamnit she was really trying. That was what made her so frustrating to deal with.  In some ways I would have had an easier time with someone like Forrest or Ambrose as my Mommy. You could always know where you stood with the intentionally cruel ones.  I just couldn’t stand it

I unclenched my limbs and unwound myself from the ball.  “I just…” Admitting that anything about my current life was enjoyable was it’s own kind of torture.  “Wash me.  Rub my back and shoulders and arms and stuff.” I felt awkward. Really awkward. “Please.”

I could have sworn I saw her eyes get misty. “Okay. Sure. That’s a start.” But the threat of tears didn’t last.

What followed was as close to a spa day as I could remember. Tense muscles were gently massaged while the skin was cleansed.  Quiet instructions and warnings were given about where she’d touch me next, including embarrassing sensitive areas that weren’t normally given any such courtesy when I was only half-naked and lying down.

No humming of lullabies, or motherly mentioning about ‘filth behind my ears’ or a ‘dirt ring around my neck’ that I’d accumulated on the playground that afternoon. No talk of a light rash that might be coming back because the substitute had next to no sense of smell and Zoge was almost constantly on diaper duty with a long queue during the most inconvenient times.  Janet gave gentle, yet concerned hums that coincided when she likely observed these things, or so I assumed.

Commands like “stand up please, I want to wash your legs and penis,” happened. “Turn around so I can clean your back and bottom.  Thank you.”  I went with it and just did my best not to feel too much in the particularly sensitive areas.  No smiling or moaning when a damp but warm washcloth gingerly pressed up against my nethers.  No wincing when that same cloth was rinsed and dabbed between my cheeks, or me hissing through my teeth because yes, it did somehow feel like I was developing a mild sunburn in places where the sun never shined.

“Okay. You can sit down. I’d like to wash your hair, too.”  After her fingers massaged my scalp for an unnecessary (but pleasurable) amount of time, she turned the faucet back on and filled up a rinse cup.  “Close your eyes in three…two…one!”  The clean water fell over me in one big spout.

None of these things were completely novel since my Adoption, but for once I took the time to catalog them and actually appreciate them somewhat.  I’d hate myself for noticing later, I was sure.  In the moment it was alright.

“I think you need a haircut soon,” Janet said. “Curls are just getting tangled.” Surprisingly she included, “And tiny bits of white and gray are showing up again. Let me know when you want to go to the salon and we will.  Maybe after school sometime this week…?”

The warm, lavender scented water and the modicum of respect I was being given made me feel slightly drunk.  “What if I want to keep the grays?”

“Nobody wants to keep the grays.”

“What if I want to?”

I watched her bite her lip again and her eyes darted back and forth in conversation with herself.  “That’s something I’d like to talk about, then.”  That was the most honest answer that the crazy giantess could have given and have me still believe her.

“Alright,” I said. “Later.”  I touched my hair and moved the red clumps of hair on my forehead into my periphery.  Stupidly, I knew none of them would look gray at the tips, but I looked anyway.  A guy could hope though.

“Ready to get out?” she asked.  Her voice was still slightly on eggshells, right where it belonged. Not too baby crazy, not too walled off.

“Yeah.”

She hoisted me out and wrapped the towel around me. The terrible impulse of running away just to inconvenience her jolted into me. I knew how that would look to her, however. Plenty of kids couldn’t stand still long enough to get toweled off.  Just because Amazons saw Little behavior how they wanted to see it, didn’t mean I had to take uncalculated risks.  The urge was there,I’ll admit.  It didn’t feel right unless we were fighting.

There were no surprises for me when I was laid out on the nursery’s changing table, creamed, powdered, and stuffed into a particularly thick nighttime Monkeez.  I was surprised when Janet asked, “Is there anything you want to wear for jammies tonight?”  I eyed her suspiciously. “This doesn’t count for the shirt thing.”

“Nothing.” I said. “I want to wear as little as possible. Diaper only.”  I wanted to be buck naked, but I knew I’d only get so far. Like I said, calculated risks.

Amazingly, Janet didn’t argue.  She barely hesitated.  “Okay.” She picked me up and carried me over to the crib by the armpits so that my newly dried body didn’t press up against her soaked t-shirt.  “It’s getting cold at night. Let me get you some extra blankets just in case.”  

She walked to the closet and came out with a thick comforter folded up in her arms.  She wasn’t dripping wet, so the comforter was in no real danger.  

“No swaddling!”  I blurted out without thinking.

“No swaddling,” she repeated. “Maybe if you’re sick. Or if you just feel you need a really good cuddle. But I don’t think your developmental plateau is at a level where full time swaddling is a thing.”

Just like that she went and ruined it. “Not. Funny. Janet.”

Her own voice cooled to match mine’s heat. “I wasn’t joking, Clark.”  The extra blanket came over the railing. It was a plain beige color that didn’t go with any of the childish bed sheets that regularly decorated my crib.  It kind of reminded me of the sheets that used to be on me and Cassie’s bed.  It certainly didn’t compliment the teddy bears on a playground fitted sheet around my mattress that night. “Lay down. Let me tuck you in.”

I obeyed, never breaking my gaze off of her as she leaned over to pull sheets and blankets over my almost naked form.  Speaking of form, with the t-shirt still clinging to her, I could see more of Janet’s figure.  She tended to prefer flattering, but not overly tight outfits; only skimpy by the standards of centuries past, but not the sexless smocks that Ambrose endorsed and forced Tracy into. I felt my eyes drawn to the near perfect outline of Janet’s chest, the points of her nipples concealed by her bra, and felt something.

It hadn’t yet been a full report card since I’d been adopted, but that’s a long time to go without certain thoughts.  None of the girls in my class were even allowed to wear bras, and there were far too many opportunities for me to see someone’s bare ass or junk on any given day. Be that as it may, certain uncomfortable thoughts were whispering in the back of my brain, even if the whispers weren’t fully formed. Certain questions combined with observations I’d taken for granted came burbling forth; a literal thought from my own stream of consciousness.

“Mo…?” No. This was a sincere question, so I had to address her sincerely. “Janet?” I said. “Why are you always wearing clothes around me?”

Janet stood back up, but kept her hands on the railing.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

I wriggled so that my arms could be over the heavy blankets. “Just…I dunno. You see me naked all the time. Every day.  I think I’ve seen you without a top in just your bra…once, maybe?”

I expected some bit of embarrassment or blush or revulsion or discomfort from my captor.  None of that happened. Curiosity was simply met with curiosity.  “Why do you want to see me naked?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Not necessarily.” I was doing my best to manage myself and not let any number of unhelpful emotions color my train of thought.  “I’m just curious. Like, you’ve handed me off so you can go to the bathroom, but held me till I peed.”

“That was a mistake with Forrest,” Janet said. “I’ve been going before I pick you up from the buses or holding it till we get home. You know that.”  

“Yeah. But like…why?  Why do you and everybody else get to see me like this all the time?”

“I don’t want to say something that will upset you, Clark. I think you know the reason.”

Fatigue and a small amount of goodwill she’d just earned kept the talk from devolving. The fact that I didn’t have school the next day gave her patience, too.  I could delay bedtime and genuinely probe into typical crazy for bonus points.

“I guess that’s not what I’m trying to ask.  I know where you stand on that.”

“Hm…” Janet seemed to take my response in stride. I’d given a diplomatic answer over a defiant or submissive one, and she’d picked up on it. “Is it me that needs to be naked or every other Grown-Up that loves you?  Mrs. Zoge and Mrs. B?”

My brain buzzed with equal parts admiration and indignation at that question. So much to unpack in that sentence and so many assumptions for me to unsuccessfully attempt to dismantle.  I could either take the bait on the implications and derail where my brain wanted to go, or I could not acknowledge the implications- thus giving credit to them- and steer the conversation further. 

Also…Zoge and Beouf naked were things I could have died happy not visualizing. 

“I don’t expect to see a teacher or a doctor or whatever naked,” I said. “That’s not their job.”

“But it’s mine?”

“No!” This was harder than I thought.  I was getting flustered and frustrated. “I hhhh….” I inhaled, kind of glad that the easiest way for me to verbally shoot myself in the foot wasn’t available to me.  I picked up my head just so I could slam the back of it against the pillow the one time.

“I’m a preschool teacher,” I explained. “Early childhood development. And an uncle.” That she didn’t interrupt me or remind me that those were legally past designations was a kindness that I didn’t miss. “I read parenting blogs and research all the time. I don’t know how many parents share way too much information in I.E.P. meetings and teacher conferences because I’ve lost count. Lots of parents go naked around their kids because they’re too young to remember or know the difference. Then they get more strict about clothes because they want to teach modesty and self care.  What do I need modesty anymore for?”

“You’re not too young to remember,” Janet said. “You know the difference.”

She wasn’t getting it.  Neither was I. It’s not that I wanted to see my ex-coworker in her underwear anymore than I wanted her to wipe my own ass for me or tote me around on her hip.  It’s just that, like the whole Maturosis bullshit and the treatment of Littles, there was something inherently wrong about it beyond the obvious, and it was so ingrained that it was totally and irrevocably typical to the point that everyone, Littles included, took it for granted. 

I laid there in silence for what felt like a good five minutes.  Janet didn’t say anything and just kept leaning on the crib’s side, waiting for me to speak up.  “Is this because of the talk Mrs. Beouf had last night?” she asked.

I held my palms out in a massive stop gesture. “NO!  It’s just…it’s…just…”

“Just what?”

“You get to see me at my weakest and most vulnerable every single day. You talk like I’m your baby, like we’re family or something, like we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. But I never see the same kind of vulnerability from you. You want me to be comfortable around you, but you don’t show the same level of comfort around me.  It doesn’t make me feel protected.  It just reminds me of how weak I really am. And that makes me feel angry.” I puffed my cheeks out. “Really really angry.”

For the second time that night, Janet seemed genuinely taken aback instead of hurt. “Clark. That might be the most emotionally mature thing I’ve ever heard from you since…ever!”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know how else to respond.

“I need to think about some things, but I’m not going to forget about this,” she promised. She kissed her fingertips and then pressed them into my forehead. “This is something I want to talk about later.”

She left, the light went out, and I felt oddly proud of myself. So proud of myself that I fell asleep instead of telling her how awful she was through the monitor.  It’d happened before. Good game.

No worries.

******************************************************************************************************

I thought about that oddly intimate conversation that Janet and I’d teased out of each other that Friday night as I laid on a paper covered exam table wearing just a diaper that Saturday morning. The Amazon nurse stripped me down, took my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, while Janet looked on, fretting.  Weight was on a massive scale that I was laid down upon, and it was considered more efficient for me to fall prone and have this random stranger break out measuring tape.  Thank goodness they used forehead scanners for taking temperature.

“Don’t squirm, Clark,” Janet said.  

“It’s alright,” the nurse answered, Janet.  “I’m good at this.” 

I couldn’t help but squirm. My gut had chosen the absolute worst time to start acting up. Janet had doubled down on the moderate to high fiber foods she’d fed me Thursday night, and had kept it going for dinner and breakfast. She’d suckered me in with a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal with cinnamon sugar and prunes.  

I’d only cooperated because she’d provided a massive spoon and a bib. I was allowed to feed myself at my own pace as long as I kept the bib on and used it as a napkin. It was just light enough, but for my size the spoon could have been its own bowl with a handle.  The bib was therefore necessary.

Back in the doctor’s office, I wanted to fart, but feared that might lead to something worse, and the pressure and pangs were building up inside me and I jittered lightly on the table near the end. 

“Okay. I got it.” The nurse said. She tickled my tummy and I tensed up so as not to kick her in the face. “The doctor will see you shortly.” She helped me up onto a sitting position, and Janet was beside me before I was all the way up.

Janet had taken the t-shirt and pants she’d dressed me in after breakfast and carefully folded them in a pile at the foot of the exam table next to my discarded shoes and socks. “Can I get him dressed again?”  She asked.  She eyed me, nervously. “I don’t want him to catch cold.”

It appeared that our talk about vulnerability had stuck with her.

“Leave them off for now. The doctor will want to take a look at him.”  That was all there was to say about that, apparently. She walked to the door and left us to each other.

Janet went to the trouble of propping herself up on the exam table and letting her feet dangle next to mine.   “Do you want to sit in my lap?” she asked. “I could hug you and cover you up until the doctor gets here.”  She wore a black scoop neck top and a billowing lilac patterned skirt that I could have been tangled up in without her showing any skin whatsoever.

A cramp and I fidgeted in place. “No,” I grunted. “I’m fine.” Secretly, I was worried that there’d be enough space on her lap for my body to think I was on a toilet seat or something and start pushing against my will.  I kept my feet dangling over the edge and my rear planted on the flat surface.  I sat up straight so that all the weight was down on my tailbone. There was nothing to grip on or lean forward so I couldn’t accidentally raise my rump.  I was mindful not to lean back, either and fill my Monkeez with my legs raised to the sky. That would have been worse in my opinion.

I was going to poop soon.  That was inevitable. I’d lost count of how many times it’d happened to me, but I noticed every time. Adoption hadn’t left me with much agency in whether or not it happened, but the stitched together tatters of my pride wanted to have as much say in the when and where it happened as possible.

Messing isn’t the same as wetting. Diapers don’t absorb solid mass so quickly that you sometimes lose count of how often your body has failed you. They don’t contain the odor the same, or subtly sag and swell over time. There’s sounds beyond quiet hissing that only you hear so that you can’t ignore or pretend to yourself that didn’t happen.  Diapers never need poop indicators; that’s why eyes, ears, and noses were invented.

Janet positioned herself next to the fairly mature toddler clothing she'd dressed me in. I would have killed for that toddler clothing on my body.   The ‘Run! Francisco Run!’ shirt wasn’t that infantile, all things considered, and the pants were baggy enough that me carrying an extra pound or two in my back non-pocket would be hard to notice without scrutiny.  

Pooping your pants sucks, but any level of obfuscation of the inevitable is preferable to nothing: Baggy clothes that concealed lumps and sagging were lovely.  A quiet alcove to grunt in or a couch to hide behind while the deed was done could have helped. Highchairs and bouncers and such were still merciful because it was still a solid extra layer between your humiliation and somebody else’s eyes. Other Littles would do, sometimes; they could distract teachers and be suspected of dirty deeds themselves. Just not being the only person ‘known to need diapers’ was sometimes enough where dignity was concerned.

Anything to mask my diaper ballooning out the back of me was an unexpected kind of luxury. Anything to stop someone from watching me bend my knees, pop a squat, and remark “Uh oh. I know what that means!”.

Fuck my life that I now had serious opinions and feelings about these things.

“Janet?” I called. I caught her frown before it reached the bottom of her face. We were technically alone, but also technically in public. “Mommy?”

She gently rubbed my back and tried to pull me in for a side hug. I resisted because I felt a not-so-paranoid need to keep all my weight completely centered “Yes, Clark?”

How did I ask this and explain it to her?  ‘Put my pants back on so I can poop them like you want me too?’  No way were those words coming out of my mouth.  “I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh?” Janet felt my forehead even though my temperature had literally been taken less than two minutes prior. “We’re just here for a basic check up, but you can tell the doctor if you’re feeling icky.”

I didn’t have time to glower or sneer at her word choice. 

“Can I…?” I tried not to groan. Maybe I could mess in the carseat on the ride back home or wherever our next stop was.  Doubtful, but maybe.  Did I really want to sit in my own filth for longer than I had to over misplaced dignity?  

“Can you…?” She was interrupted by a disgusting churning sound coming from my belly. My guts growled loud enough that even she heard it.  “Tummy trouble?”  Her hand went up over my shoulders and gently patted bare my knee.  “Do you need to throw up?”

My mouth contorted and my lip pouted out as I shook my head.  

“Oooooh!” She nodded as if she understood. “I get it. Let me know if you can and I’ll change you as soon as you poop.”  I wanted to claw eyes out; mine or hers. “I’ll change you before we go no matter what. That way you won’t have to sit in the car.  Even if we’re waiting in the parking lot.”

My stomach was punching me from the inside out, and my cheeks were trying to spread without my consent.  For Janet, for any Amazon, it was a good deal. Never let an Amazon offer you a good deal if you can get a better one.  “Do they have a bathroom here?”

“Yeah. I think they have changing tables, too.” The hand left my knee and found my waist band. “Nope. Not yet.”  A hidden Amazon skillset must be completely missing hints. 

“Can I…” I whimpered and paused after another jerk from inside me. I hadn’t been terribly constipated but something inside me was really kicking in.  Maybe if I begged, just this once, I could get away with it instead of getting into an argument. It would be okay. No one was here but the two of us.  “Mommy, would it be okay if…if I…?”

Thud-Thud

Two swift knocks at the door and another Amazon poked his head inside. “Hey-hey!”  Dr. Milton said. “How’s my favorite patient?”

Paper lining and plastic backing rustled beneath me as I instinctively sat up straight and clenched my cheeks together.  Old King Quack was here. Broad shouldered, silver haired, but friendly-seeming and confident with a twinkle in his eye, he instantly gave off ‘New Grandpa’ vibes.  In actuality, he was arguably the biggest proponent of whatever theory Maturosis peddled itself as in Oakshire.  Bigger than even Beouf, if such a thing were possible.

Shit.

My vain and distant potty options were instantly flushed down the toilet. Maturosis was a cult, and it would have been foolish to so much as hope that blasphemy would go unchecked around him.  I was definitely going to have an accident here.  Probably in this room.  The only Little with two giants staring right at him.

Shit. 

I folded my hands in my lap and clenched my jaw so tight that my teeth clicked.

“Hello, Doctor.”  Janet stood up and offered her hand out.

Dr. Milton shook hers and then held his hand out to me just like on my first visit. I did not take up the offer to shake it.  “Hmmm?” he said. “Favorite patient bit not working, sir?” He scratched the side of his head. “Oh yeah, I gotta say that you’re my favorite patient named Clark! That’s the part that I missed.”  Cartoonishly he turned around and made to walk away.  “I’ll come back in.”

“Spare me.”  Another tremor shook my gut and I tried to sit up even straighter somehow. I needed to move, but didn’t want a movement. 

“He talks!” The doctor said, “Excellent! Wonderful to see you, sir! I hope you’re well.”

He was unfazed by nasty glares and distant stares alike. He would be.  He turned his back to me and Janet followed him around. “This is just a checkup, right? Nothing too bad going on?”

Janet folded her hands in front of her and shook her head, oddly mirroring me.  “No, Doctor. Not as far as health goes.”

“Good. No sickness or fever other than that one time you emailed me about after the fact?”

“Correct.”

My lips puckered like I’d been sucking a lemon. Mental disgust and internal discomfort were doing a number on me.  I wanted to bite my knuckle to distract myself from the pangs, but that would draw attention. I actually would have killed to have Lion in my lap, something with a nice fluffy brain to crush, but he was stuck with his head poking out of Janet’s diaper bag on the floor.  A pacifier would have made a decent groaning gag, too, and given the sides of my tongue and insides of my cheek a rest.

Fuck my life that these were now my earnest thoughts and options.

“Are all the basic fundamentals happening? He’s still eating, sleeping, burping, peeing, pooping?  Sometimes multiple at once, I bet?” His back was to me but I heard the knowing chuckle and pictured a corny grin all the same.

Janet did a poor job of stifling her own. “Yes, sir.”

Both Amazons were preoccupied with one another.  If I was going to degrade myself here and now, this was going to be the largest amount of privacy I could expect: shitting while they were looking at each other instead of examining me directly.

The thing that gave me pause was that based on my positioning and red alert levels of urgency, I’d probably make it to my hands and knees before things started to empty themselves out. Thursday night with the Little brat who habitually pooped on all fours and how positively irate she’d been at being ratted out came to my imagination’s foregrand. That put a cork in that plan.

“Potty training or potty anxiety?”

“He still gets embarrassed sometimes that he’s lost his potty training,” Janet reported, “but overall I think he’s fine. Sometimes he’ll forget to ask for a change. I had to break out the rash cream last night.”

A big silver haired noggin bobbled in approval. “Good. Good. Not the rash, I mean, that he’s comfortable. We always want to ensure comfort and happiness where we can.”

“Mmmhmmm”

If Janet had been singing, the man would have been preaching to the choir.

“If he’d spent the last two months throwing a complete temper tantrum every time he’d had an accident, or constantly asking to use the toilet, I’d actually recommend potty training.”

“Oh no no no,” Janet said. “I don’t think he needs that.”

I didn’t need clothes to keep warm in that second. Lies. Such utter bullshit lies. If I’d been a steadfast whiner about what went on in my pants daily, I would have gone to time out, or be given impossibly thick diapers and pumped full of diuretics till I couldn’t tell the difference between wet and dry.  

The two instances I’d encountered in my life of a captured Little being allowed to toilet train were the Little who lived in my house before Cassie and I bought it and the one who’d been withdrawn from Beouf’s roster over the summer. 

One was dead, and the other was as good as dead, assuming she was still at New Beginnings.  None of the A.L.L. or any of my other classmates had brought up what led to the girl getting training pants, but her causing a fuss would have surely come up. I was too scared to ask Beouf before and there’s no way she would tell me now.

This so-called doctor based his diagnosis on self-fulfilling prophecies after the fact when he’d already proven himself right. Typical. So, so, typical.

I breathed in and cut it short when an even more intense cramp racked me. My entire belly was on fire for a second. What was I eating that was causing this? I hadn’t felt this level of urgency since before all of my underwear had tapes on it.

How funny would it be, I mused, if this was how I found out my appendix was about to burst?  The pain subsided for a second and I shoved that nugget away from my thoughts; mostly because an even more frightened part of my gray matter dredged up the idea that I’d find my continence surgically undone while someone was rooting around there saving me.

“Breastfeeding yet?” The quack asked.

“No,” Janet and I said in unison. She sounded more embarrassed in her update; an Amazon who hadn’t broken her pet yet. I sounded more steadfast in my refusal and didn’t like that ‘yet’, at all.

His head went down to a clipboard he’d been keeping tucked under his arm. “Then why did you ask to…?”

“The prescription hasn’t kicked in yet,” Janet yelped. 

“Prescription?” I called over. Suddenly my bowels didn’t hurt as much, but my padding was still pristine. Something more sinister sounding was just there to occupy my attention.  “What do you mean ‘prescription’?”

The conversation, along with the Amazons pivoted back over to me. “It’s for me, Clark. He wrote me a prescription a while back. It’s for my mood.”

“It’s true, good sir.” Doctor Milton said. “Not for Littles, but good for women who’ve recently Adopted.  You’d be surprised how much Adoptive parents have in common with biological counterparts.  It’s fascinating.  Helps the Littles indirectly, too.”  He tried giving me a conspiratorial wink. “I’d say something like ‘happy wife happy life’, but I haven’t figured anything out that rhymes with Mommy just yet.”  

Only he laughed at his joke.

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“Oxytocin,” Janet said.  “It helps me get oxytocin.”

I puzzled the word out. Where had I heard it before? It sounded vaguely familiar, but not in a way that came up in conversation.

The old titan plugged his stethoscope into his ears and started giving me the once over. “Let’s just make sure everything looks good on the inside, before we play Twenty Questions, yes?”  He breathed on the cold bit of metal at the end to warm it up and then held it up to my chest.

 “Mmmhmmm.  Mmmmhmmm.”

Then my back.  

“Breathe deep. Thank you.”

Then my stomach.

“Mmmhmmm.  Mmmmhmmm.”

A light shined in my ears, eyes, and throat. “Say ah!”

“Aaaaah.”

“Very good, sir.  Very good.”  And then his focus returned to Janet. “Ms. Grange, Clark seems to be healthy but…”

Fear and concern clogged up Janet’s throat. “But?” 

“I’m worried about his weight. He’s gained more than a little bit in just two months.”  

“He has?” Janet asked. 

I had. 

Embarrassed. I was actually embarrassed. I peered down at my pot belly and frowned. Cafeteria food and baby slop was more caloric than breakfast shakes.  Most of my time was spent stewing and plotting instead of over exercise.  The only time I exercised was when it served a larger, meaner purpose.

I kept staring at my gut. Yet another side effect of having no privacy was that I never had time to explore myself or notice changes that weren’t drastically forced on me. Still… I hadn’t gained that much, had I?  

“Fifteen pounds in just a couple months is worrisome. He’s not in any danger, but I don’t want to see it continue, you understand.” My mouth went dry. I sat motionless as more pain filled my midsection.  

Fifteen pounds? How had I managed that?

Janet looked like a whipped dog. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Littles like sweet and fatty foods, but those experiencing Maturosis lack the impulse control to moderate consumption and the discipline to exercise. His brain might think he’s a baby, but his heart won’t know the difference. He’s all out of growth spurts and his metabolism won’t be speeding up.” 

This was the most uncomfortable I’d seen another Amazon make Janet, and I absolutely hated it. I was being talked about like I was a fat old man and a useless baby at the same time. “Any suggestions, sir?”

“Did you try the at-home yoga like I advised? Or find a class?”

“No, sir. I…it’s been hectic, but that’s no excuse.  I’ll look into some resources.”

A finger pointed at me. “You could, you could.  Or you could just ask him. Can’t be that big a difference between adult yoga and kid’s yoga.  At least start him on the one while you research the other.”

More proof that I would never fully understand Amazons.

Janet continued to nod.  “Okay. Sure. Yeah.” She stopped and considered me. “Would you like that, Clark?”

I stopped jiggling my belly like it was a disgusting science experiment.  “Uh…yeah…?”

“You can do other things if you like,” the quack expounded. “Get a toddler leash and go on walks instead of strolls.  Sign up for Little League T-Ball or a dance class. Get him some playdates on the weekend.”  That prefaced another dirty old man wink. “Half an hour wandering around a playground is good, but it’s not enough.”  

Someone knew Beouf’s class schedule…

“His best friend is a crawler,” Janet said, defensively.

“So?” Dr. Milton replied. “Let him crawl on the floor with his buddy. Crawling burns calories, too.”  He might have a point there. Amy wasn’t fat.  “His best friend doesn’t have to be his only friend,” he added.  “The point is he’s never going to grow up at his age. He’s only going to grow out, and you have to keep that in mind because he can’t do it himself.”

I wanted to contradict him, but it’s hard to argue independence when you’re on the verge of unloading into your pants.  Having better cardio would serve me in the long run, anyways. So why not let Janet help engineer and fine tune my freedom?

“Yes, sir.” Janet said. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Dr Milton leaned up against his exam table. “Very good.  One thing I’ll add is that if I can get a stool sample, I can probably do some analysis.  Figure out if there’s any major deficiencies that need seeing to.  Do you have a dirty diaper like I suggested? Tanked him up on fiber for a few days?”

I locked eyes with Janet and silently begged her not to out me.  “What about a blood sample?” I volunteered. “I can handle a prick on the finger.”  Counterintuitively I stifled a pained moan and tacked on “I’m a big boy….” to taunt the man into proving me wrong.

The bigger giant stroked his chin.  “Maybe. Maybe. Not a big fan of that method, though. Unnecessary pain and not exactly what I’m looking for. You’d be surprised how much information can be found with a stool sample.”

“Sorry,” Janet said. “I forgot. He usually has a bowel movement when he sleeps or first thing in the morning at school. No such luck today.”

Inwardly, I froze. Was Janet actually covering for me? Lying for me? About something objectively trivial, all things considered but of vital import to yours truly? For me?  Another mountain of evidence proving why I would never fully understand the maternal giant folk.

“Ah yes,” Dr. Milton said. “That is the downside of having Little patients.  If we could predict when they’d be able to produce for us, we probably wouldn’t need to have them in diapers to begin with.  Fortunately…”  He spun around and dug his fingers into my sides, an insane wide eyed smile on his wrinkling face. “COOCHIE COOCHIE COO!”

I tensed and fell back, screaming instead of laughing despite the rictus grin forming. My arms tucked in, and infinitely stronger hands took that as a cue to dig into my arm pits, and then dart over to my belly button.

I drew my knees up. That’s all that she wrote for those Monkeez. I started pushing and screaming as the mess made its way out of me far too easily. My diaper ballooned as fecal matter hit the back and kept going, each cramp now just a warning that I wasn’t done pushing.  After the initial lapse, it wasn’t even that I ‘had’ to push; it was just a reflex.  Warmth engulfed me top to bottom and the front of my padding started to discolor and bunch up while I practically bathed in my own urine.

I knew this would happen.  I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.  Knowing it didn’t make it any better.

As long as it felt, the whole terrible process took less than five seconds. My insides felt like they’d been greased and everything slipped right out.  It didn’t feel like diarrhea, just soft. I hadn’t felt this lack of control since I’d been poisoned by the training chocolate. This wasn’t training chocolate, though, because Raine’s goodies at least numbed things so that you couldn’t feel yourself going at times. 

This just felt overwhelmingly natural and I hated it. Both giants were staring right at me while I did it, too.
  
“And there. We. Go.” The old trickster god said.  “Can’t get any fresher than that.”

I stayed laying down on the table with my knees pulled up close to my stomach. I buried my face in my hands and shoved the heel of my right palm over my mouth to stop me from screaming and crying.  

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You’ve cried enough. Don’t let them see you cry.  Fuck them. Be strong. Don’t look! Don’t think!  This is nothing and you’re used to this.

Even though you shouldn’t be…

Janet was shushing me and gently running her fingers through my hair.  “Was that really necessary?”  

I didn’t see the doctor shrug. “His guts were going crazy. I’m a rip the bandaid off kind of guy.”  There was a prolonged silence.  Janet kept stroking my hair and shushing me.  I kept trying not to hyperventilate or scream bloody murder. “You can change him right here if you want. Just ball it up and I’ll have a nurse collect it.”

“If it’s okay with you,” Janet said, “I’d like to change him in the bathroom.” There was a massive edge to her words. “Get him dressed.”

“Sure sure.” He said, nonchalantly.  “If you choose the one right before you get to the checkout counter, you’ll find a cabinet between the changing station and the toilet. If you put the diaper in the cabinet and knock, one of the nurses will take it.”  

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Any time, Ms. Grange. Anytime.  See you both in a couple months.”

I heard the door open and shut. Then I heard her say, “We’ll see…”

The wait was too long for me, while Janet gathered up the diaper bag and my clothes.

“Change me,” I whimpered, pathetically. “Please. Just change me.”  

“I will, baby. Just a second.”  

I was blind back through the halls and to the restroom Janet had been directed to. I felt every shift and step. Nothing shifted in my pants, whatsoever. There was too much sticking to everything and not enough room for it to jostle around in. 

My ears burned on full alert, picking up every footstep, cry, and bit of random dialogue. Things went nearly silent save for squeaky hinges on a wall mounted changing station. “Please,” I begged. “Just get me out of this. I don’t even care about the changing pad.”

The soft comforter-like texture of a changing pad still cushioned me. The familiar sensation of a restraint being threaded under my arms and over my chest followed. “It’s okay,” Janet whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”  I finally took my hands out of my face to clutch Lion and hold onto him for dear life.

Janet was readying diapering supplies like she was a surgeon. “It’s okay. This is nothing. This is nothing. It’s not a big deal.”  

Tapes ripped and the diaper practically forced itself open. Stupidly I looked down myself and saw the disgusting results.  I laid my head back and counted ceiling tiles.  It was a good thing there were no mirrors on this ceiling. Beouf’s room would have killed me just then.

Janet wiped me down, furiously, shushing and whispering sweet nothings as she did. From as many wipes as she used, I'd quietly figured that the putrid stinking stuff had nearly reached my genitals.  

It wasn’t that putrid, though.  It was bad, mind you, still obviously feces, but it had a different stench to it. Less offensive, or so I thought. Everyone likes their own brand, as it were, but Janet showed no sign of irritation, either.  

“Almost done,” Janet promised. She just kept going at it, using wipe after wipe like a squeegee.  “You’re doing good, baby. You’re doing good.”

Lion got a chance to breathe when the last wipe caressed my penis and I finally heard the used diaper get balled up.  I saw the massive ball be toted right by me, and placed in a cabinet with a knock.  Back on the slab, Janet slipped a new diaper and dusted some powder over me.  “You’re doing so good.” Janet whispered. “I’m so proud of you.  I love you.”

“I…” I almost echoed the sentiment but Zoge’s conditioning hadn’t quite gotten a hold of me.  Everything untensed from my head to my tow, when the change was finally finished and I had a nice snug replacement taped over my hips. 

The smile that followed when Janet started threading my legs through the pants was completely genuine. I hadn’t even had to ask or remind her and went so far as to boost my hips up to help.  Socks and shoes followed. Finally, I was allowed to sit up and get my shirt back on.

“Thank you,” I said. For once I buried my head into the nape of her neck and didn’t want to go for the jugular.

“Welcome,” she whispered, and set me down on my own two feet.  Surprised, I reached my hand up for her.  Maybe we were starting on light cardio right away.  

Janet didn’t take my hand.  “Hold on,” she told me. “I gotta go too.”

“Go?”

In answer to my question, she walked over to the single toilet, turned around, and dropped her lilac skirt and matching panties down to her ankles.  “Janet?” my voice bounced off the walls. “Mommy? What are you doing?”

The answer was a tinkling sound of liquid connecting with liquid, and Janet loudly sighing.  More than a hint of scarlet came to her cheeks. Stupidly, I turned around and used Lion to cover my face.  Watching just felt wrong; voyeuristic; gross. I knew exactly why she was doing it, but my brain couldn’t process that this was more than hypothetical.  The sound of tinkling paused and I held my breath, waiting for the flush.  A solid plunk of something solid punctuated the stillness and it actually made me jump.  The shuffling sounds of toilet paper being ripped added to the bathroom symphony and finally a flush.

When I turned back around, she was at the sink, washing her hands.

I gawked right up until the moment that she shouldered the diaper bag and picked me back up.

“What?” she asked, playfully. “You peep and poop in front of me all the time.”

“Yeah, but…but…but…”

“But what?”  Her eyes fluttered at me.  “What, baby?”

I nuzzled back into her. “Thank you,” I repeated myself. “Just…thank you.” 

***********************************************************************************************

“Mommy’s going to take a shower,” Janet declared after she’d cleaned up for dinner. “Do you want to take one with me?”

I looked back over my shoulder towards the television as if maybe she’d been addressing the parents on the Koddles commercial.  “I beg your pardon?”

The rest of that Saturday had been eerily still.  Lovey-dovey baby crazy Janet had taken a back seat to preoccupied and quiet Janet. That had been fine. I’d needed time to process that morning. She’d needed it too.  

I took a bottle of goat’s milk in her lap right after lunch and I didn’t actively seek to antagonize her, but other than that I’d let Janet be.  I was feeling shades of that first not-completely miserable weekend right before I’d learned about Cassie and those parallels gave me all kinds of bad feelings.

Janet had put in a call to Beouf and left a voice message when I wasn’t supposed to be listening in.  Other than that she was on her phone or in her room all day.

She’d disappeared for almost an hour of dinner; giving me free reign of the house and uncharacteristically leaving the dishes in the sink. Presently, just before when she’d normally start trying to put me in bed, the Amazon stood barefoot in front of me with her gorgeous raven hair let down, and wearing nothing but a pink silk bathrobe tied off at the waist.

“Mommy’s going to take a shower,” she said again. “Do you want to take one with me?”

I was still in the toddler play clothes: Loose pants, velcro sneakers, t-shirt. Deduct fifty points for the Monkeez and I was still more dressed than her.  Wow. So this was about to be a thing. This was happening.  “Um…sure?  Yeah.”

“Okay.  Do you want to take a shower in your bathroom, or Mommy’s bathroom?”

Hearing the M-word spoken so frequently in a spot where it should have been forbidden left a bad taste in my ears.  “Janet, why are you-?”

“Clark,” she almost snapped at me. “I need to say this stuff. I need to be able to say these words. Call me whatever you want, but I need to be able to call myself ‘Mommy’ right now. Okay? I need it.”  Speaking of flashbacks, I hadn’t seen Janet like this since the first awful day where our relationship moved out of the friend-zone and into every Little’s worst nightmare. “Just…let me humor myself.”

Wow.  “Okay. Sure.  It’s your house. That’s fine.” She stood there, waiting for me. “Your shower, I guess.”  

Janet likely jerked her head towards her bedroom door and I waddled after her.  Two months Adopted and I’d seen where she slept a bare handful of times. It still had a kind of mysterious quality to me, like I was trespassing into a sorceress’s lair or something. 

The bed was fully made and put together.  A military woman could flip a coin and no wrinkles would form. The fancy headboard with the drinking glasses was dusted, too. The side cot that she’d gotten as an impulse buy had yet to be unpacked, but other than that, the room was bizarrely clean, even for Janet.  

I twisted my head, wondering if she’d shoved old clothes or dropped something under the bed like a normal person, but Janet stopped my instinctive snooping.  “Come on,” she said. “Follow Mommy. We’re gonna get clean together.”  If she were going to hide anything it would have been in the massive closet, anyways.

She brought us into the small bathroom and took a knee on the fluffy floor mat.  Small of course, is a matter of comparison. The white tile was still tall and impressive with a high ceiling, even if including the shower, the space was only twice the size of Beouf’s classroom commode.   “Are you sure you’re not going to get scared?” she asked. “Mommy’s shower is very loud and there’s no bubbles to play with.”

“Janet you don’t need to talk to me like I’m-”

“Clark…” Janet cut me off again. “I’ve been reading those same blogs you told me about and then some all last night and this afternoon. Are you sure?’

I curled my lip and breathed deeply through my nose.  “Yes, Janet.  I’m sure.”  

She closed her eyes and smiled softly. Even without seeing her, I could see it reaching her eyes. This was happening. This was really happening. An Amazon was about to fully listen to me and give up some control.  And she was struggling but strangely okay with it.

“Okay. Arms up.”  She mimed like I didn’t know.  I obeyed.  “Now your shoes.  Now your pants.”  One leg at a time I stepped out.  She was going the extra mile to make it clear that I was still a baby to her and that old Clark Gibson was gone. Funnily enough, this was still one of the easier times that I’d been undressed by her.  I was expecting to have to look up at her from the fluffy bath mat.  “And your diaper.”

My last regular diaper of the day fell down between my ankles, Janet quickly balled it up and cursed. “Crud,” she said. “I forgot to get a new one for after.”

My own contrarian nature betrayed me. “My room is just across the house,” I said. “Even if I’m not potty trained, I think you can make it in time.”  All the struggling was actually helping me.

“True,” she said and stood up. “Good point. Maybe next time.”

Next time?

Janet wasted no further time disrobing. She’d taken Dr. Milton’s sentiment about bandaid ripping to heart, even if she’d been less than thrilled by his methods.  The belt was undone, and the silken thing was off her shoulders almost as fast as my heavy sodden underwear had been.

I could only stand there, awestruck and blushing, fighting myself from turning away. In all my life I’d only seen one woman completely nude; pictures, my imagination, and one mishap with an unlocked door didn’t count.  That made Janet the second.

I wasn’t sure what to say, or do. I’d proposed this- literally asked for it- but in no way did I honestly think on an intellectual or emotional level that Janet would follow through.  I’d been bluffing; playing chicken; and this woman had called my bluff.

I could only stand there, gaping, and trying not to drool.  Did I stare? Did I look away?  Wouldn’t that be against the point of this…whatever this was?  She’d seen me naked literally everyday for months. This was just returning the favor, so to speak.

 Looking for something to latch onto, my eyes started analyzing her the way the killer nanny-bot did in those foreign horror movies Little parents would sometimes let their children watch: I took in the curves of her hips, and her thighs. I gazed at her belly button and the slight tummy that proportionately made my macaroni and cheese gut look bulbous. Her breasts somehow looked bigger without the extra layers, and left me transfixed; a shrew staring at a cobra’s sway.  

My gaze went beneath the belly button and confirmed that Janet didn’t dye her hair.

Looking at the size of Janet’s…everything, and my…everything else… I wondered how there could be any truth to the idea that Tweener’s had mixed ancestry. The physical mechanics alone were baffling.  The desire, however, was understandable; from an academic standpoint, of course.  It was possible to admit that someone was attractive while feeling no physical or emotional attraction whatsoever.

“It’s okay,” Janet said softly to me. “You can look.  I trust you.”  The verbal reminder that Janet was, in fact, a person made my eyes hone onto hers and refuse to look away.  This was about vulnerability, I reminded myself.  This was her trusting me with something.  This was Janet giving up a small sense of privacy in lieu of giving me my own.  It was the closest thing to compromise with a Little that her baby crazy brain could wrap itself around.

“So,” I said, feeling awkward. “What now?”

I was scooped up and propped over her shoulder. “We take a shower, silly. This is what you wanted.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.”

Janet held me with one hand and I wrapped my arms over her shoulder for balance. She used her free hand to open the class door to her shower and turn on the water.  A million focused drops of hot rain poured onto the floor, and she held me there on the precipice, waiting for the temperature to adjust.  

My heart thudded like a jackhammer, and every nerve ending in my body tingled. All tactile sensations felt magnified a thousand fold. I could feel the spaces between Janet’s fingers cupping my ass. I could feel the heat from her body and that her pulse was pounding just as much as mine was. My hands kept gently brushing over patches of skin, taking in the softness and textures of her. I wanted to reach up and pull her hair.

Simultaneously, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about less innocent exploration; the urge to touch both out of curiosity, but also out of an impulse to provoke.  How did Amy do it so casually with her Mommy?  Meanwhile in the back of my mind, I kept worrying about my penis lightly brushing up against her body.  Thinking about it was probably not helping.

I wanted to touch everything.  I dared not touch anything. I was curious about being touched. I feared something happening upon touch.   “Temperature’s good,” Janet announced. Her reach was long enough to where she could test the water without stepping in. “Do you want a feel?” 

“Yes, please.”

Gingerly, the giantess slid across into the shower holding me out like a certain animated feline.  I put my arm forward and jerked it back like I’d been struck.

“Too hot?” Janet asked.

“No,” I half-shouted over cascading water. “Too cold! Warmer please!”

Janet stepped inside, and twisted a dial. She pivoted so that her opposite shoulder was in the oncoming flow.  “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“Nuh-uh. I just like being in hot water.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “That explains a lot.”  We both looked like we didn’t know whether to laugh or not while the steam clouds slowly rose. “How about this?”  She pivoted so I could experiment.

“Much better.”

“Good.”  She turned so that almost all of me was in the gentle torrent.  The water pouring down us felt amazingly therapeutic, tiny water massages pelting me clean instead of a big bubbly blanket that secretly wanted to drown me.  And this time I didn't have to be sick as a dog to get it.  Oddly enough, the extra sensory input of the steam, water, and white noise from the shower helped make other sensations not so extreme as to be worrisome.

It was a tight fit in that shower. Two full grown Amazons probably wouldn’t have had enough room to get clean, (or do much of anything but stand there).  Like with Beouf’s cramped bathroom made even more cramped by a thick changing table, there was just enough room for the two of us together.  

Janet had a hanging shelf with liquid soaps and body washes. Since I was keeping one arm constantly occupied with my body, she would just squirt dabs onto us and gently work it in with her fingers.  Like the night before, she would warn me whenever she was about to touch me or shift me around or switch arms.  It was even better than the last time.

And she developed a kind of gentle swaying motion that took us in and out of the showerhead’s path like a slow waltz.  

The actual bathing part was over far too quickly for me. At least half of the usual bathtime ritual was waiting for the tub to fill and for a moment I worried that it might end after every conceivable part of us had been soaped up and sprayed off. I peered far down below at the drain where the white flecks of soap vanished as soon as they dribbled off our bodies.  

 There were no bath toys to offer, or bubbles to play with, and no place for Janet to sit and stare at me and pretend that I was the Little she’d always dreamed of but would never get.  I didn’t say anything to her when the last of the body wash was gone. She’d held up her end of the bargain and had every right to stop.

She didn’t though. All that happened was that she gave herself greater freedom of movement, and cradled me in both arms, rocking me gently in the same way that we’d danced together.

“My baby takes the morning train,
He works from nine to five and then,
He takes another home again,
To find me waitin’ for him.”

Now cradled, I stared up in a quiet wonder at her. Janet had sung to me before; more times that I care to write down.  But before this moment, her kiddie songs had always had a kind of annoying, cutesy, chirpy, nasally, singing-without-really singing quality.  An adult trying to sing like a child; that is to say ‘poorly’.

“He takes me to a movie or to a restaurant
To go slow dancing, anything I want,
Only when he’s with me, I catch light,
Only when he gives me, makes me feel alright.”

This voice was deeper; throatier; louder and full chested; contralto to the point to where it might have been able to sing baritone, but still undeniably feminine. Undeniably Janet.  And she’d been singing a song I didn’t know, but the way she sang it, it sounded comforting and happy and simple; genuinely something that I might have hummed to myself on my scooter after a long day at work but having enough energy to do something beyond crash and veg out.  

“My baby takes the morning train,
He works from nine to five and then,
He takes another home again,
To find me waiting for him.”

More intriguing, the Amazon was singing a song with ‘baby’ distinctly in the lyrics, but nothing else to indicate that it was about a Little. No talks of maturity, or bottles, or butterfly kisses.  If anything, this ‘baby’ sounded like a partner and provider, over a dependant or a doll.  In the context of the melody, ‘baby’ was a term of affection, not domination or smothering cosseting obsession.  

 “What’s that song?” I called over the pouring water and Janet’s own melody. Why didn’t she sing like that more often?

Janet looked down at me as if she’d forgotten I was there. She’d entranced herself.  “I don’t remember. It’s something I learned in highschool; part of a dumb talent show competition.” A moment passed.  “I like to sing in the shower. Sorry.  I’ll stop.”

“No, no,” I said. “I’m just curious. How’s the rest go?”

“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “Just that one verse and the chorus.”

“Do you want to sing it again?” I offered. Then, I admitted, “I like it.”

Eyes sparkled back and a switch flipped back on. “Really?  You like it when Mommy sings?” 

I balled up a fist and rubbed my eyes so that I wouldn’t roll them. “Yes,  Janet.  I like it when you sing.”

Mercifully, that was enough for her.

She kept swaying and gently rocking me, taking our naked bodies in and out of the stream, singing the same two parts of a mostly forgotten song over and over again. The world outside of our immediate bubble went numb to me and ceased to exist as far as I cared. The only two things that had my attention were Janet’s singing and face gently smiling down on me, and how pleasantly heavy my eyelids were beginning to feel.

“Okay,” Janet said. “I think it’s time to get you to bed, honey.”

“Hmm?” I stirred and startled at the sound of her voice not sinking. I’d genuinely drifted off in the massive woman’s arms. She was blushing like crazy and holding me wrapped up in a towel.  

“Hey!” I whined. “No swaddling!”

The bathroom ceiling shifted to the bedroom ceiling and quickly into the main part of the house.  “Don’t worry,” Janet said. “This is just the quickest way to dry you off, silly.”  She herself was still dripping wet.

I suppressed a groggy snarl.  “Promise?”

“Promise, sweetie. Mommy promises.”

Honey. Silly. Sweetie. All these nicknames were seriously toeing a line, and Janet knew it. I let her call herself ‘Mommy’ and she was already testing new boundaries. I tried to not allow my eyes to close again, not wanting to be so sleepy, no matter how good the experience had been. 

Lightly squirming in Janet’s grasp, I tried to free my arms without her dropping me. There was something so unpleasantly confining about it. How did real babies sleep with their arms bound so tight?  There was probably a reason why it wasn’t common past a certain age. 

Trying to get out of the swaddle while Janet was moving was no easy task. It would have been simpler to trust her to carry me, but all of the baby talk she was piling on deserved at least a physical rebuttal to discourage it.

“Almost there, baby,” Janet said. “Almost to your nursery. Then we’ll put you in a nice dry diaper and some jammies and you can go back to sleep.  How does that sound?”  

Oh enough already!  “It sounds-”  My hand brushed past my penis and I froze. I wasn’t fully erect…yet. When did that happen? It didn’t take a master detective to figure out. A better phrase to describe my condition was ‘I wasn’t fully erect…anymore.’ Janet’s sudden heaping of baby talk was taking on a new context.  She was unsettled, discomforted, and trying to ‘help’ me. 

Beouf giving a pep talk about Adopted Littles maintaining certain urges was fine in theory.  Practice was another matter. For both of us.

“Yes Mommy.” I said. “I think I’m sleepy, yes. Can I please go night-night?”

Janet looked positively relieved. “Of course, baby boy. But first we have to get you ready for bed. Can’t have you going night-night all nakied!” The vocabulary was really doing it for me, by which I meant not doing it at all. As intended.

Completely naked and dripping, Janet got me redressed, all while narrating every single excruciating detail.  

“Now that we’ve had our shower together, let’s slip the fresh diaper underneath you.  We want a nice nighttime diaper, too, so you don’t leak all over your crib.  And you’re still pretty rashy, Clark, so I think some cream on your bum-bum will help you sleep good.  Can’t forget the baby powder. That’ll dry you out and help you feel nice and cool. 

“Here, let Mommy rub it in on your tummy, too.  We’re gonna start feeding you more yummy veggies though so don’t get used to seeing Mr. Tum-Tum!  Almost done, almost done. Let’s count the tapes.  One! Two! Now let’s get your jammies on. Blue’s a good color! Right?  Yes it is! Yes it is!  It’s a pretty color for my precious baby boy!

“Let’s get your arms, head, and legs in there. Good baby! Now let’s count the snaps. One. Two. Three. Four. Five! Wow! You did it!  Oh and here’s your paci in case you need a suckle.  And here’s Lion to keep you company.”

Throughout it, her voice took on the same cooing, whiny, nasally tone it did when she was trying to do any of the Little Voices exercises.  I resisted and complained about absolutely none of it.  Was thankful, for it in fact.  

She gently put me down in the crib and that was alright. She forgot to kiss me in any way shape or form and that was alright, too.  “Night night, Clark. I love you. Mommy’s gonna go dry off.”

I laid there, completely mortified and quivering. In the darkness, I turned my head and looked at Lion. His glassy unmoving eyes stared at me, judging me for any number of things.  

“Shut up!”

[Moon3ye]

I wonder who will lose their mind first.

Janet or Clark.

And what the hell is going on with Beouf?

Just because Clark threatened her about Tracy, she's scared and hiding from Clark?