diaper dimension Crib Row (Chapter 7 Updated Nov. 24th)

[ruby03]

Hello. I am very new here, but I have been reading stories on this website for a long time, and I decided I would finally post one that I've written. It's a diaper dimension story. Those are my favorite. 

There will be mentions of a robo nanny in the 'first act' but they're not prevalent. This will get sweet. There's cursing. 

Please enjoy. 

^{Chapter One: Exposition Stew} 

We had no glasses to clink together, so we pumped our fists in the air for Mary. 

In prison, especially a little’s prison, you don’t have much to work with in terms of materials for a makeshift goodbye party. Amazons in prison get more to barter with, more to pass between hands, but you don’t get such a luxury when you’re of the small set. 

Coco’d been saving up her banana cookies, the chewy kind meant for babies to get used to solid food that you have to buy from the commissary with money your family brought you (should you be so lucky), Double Chin’d squirreled away scrap paper for the ‘decorations’, and I’d managed the feast. The piece de resistance: a burger. 

Now, was it a good burger? Fuck no, it was one of those little ones made of 90% filler, 5% hopes and dreams, and maybe 5% meat after that, what kind of meat’s anyone’s guess. It was the kind you nuked in a microwave in college, where it got molten hot in the center and the rubbery cheese made it sticky, but for us here, this was gold. This was solid goddamn gold. “Solid” was the real kicker on that. 

The details of how I got it could be a story in and of itself, but to keep it short, because there’s a lot more of this tale to go that doesn’t hinge on the numerous favors, trades, and acts that might have added years to my sentence that resulted in me getting my hands on a shitty burger: I know a guy. I also pride myself on my ability to orchestrate, but more on that later. 

Mary’d almost cried when she saw it, and the small ‘cake’ made when Coco stacked up the cookies. She could have been crying at the kindness of the gesture, she could have been crying because it was the last solid food she’d possibly ever know. We didn’t ask which was which. 

“Thank you, Seenit,” she said to me, wiping away the tears that collected on her long long lashes. “This is so fucking sweet of you, I don’t even know how you managed this.” 

“Don’t think too hard on it,” I told her with a hearty pat on the back. “Just enjoy. You’ve earned a last supper.” 

Later today, Mary was going to die. 

Okay, no, Mary wasn’t going to die, but she was going to get The Full Monty. She was Going Up Front, Headed To The Orphanage, Checking Out, The Big Drool, Headed Nippleward. She was on Crib Row. We had all kinds of names for it here in the pen, but that was because State Mandated Mental Regression wasn’t as nice to say. It was also called the “summer” program, since the acronym (SMMR) kind of looked like it, and we think that the wardens wanted us to call it the Summer Program, but we, at least in my circles, refused out of good old fashioned spite. You could tell who was a newbie via several avenues, but calling it The Summer Program was one of them. 

After Mary ate her burger, and the cookies, and drank the bottle of the worst formula the State Penitentiary for Criminal Littles could afford - out of a baby bottle of course, you only got a sippy cup if you were extremely good, and none of us had been - she was going to get carried down the long hallway, past our cribs, and regressed to the highest extent of the law. 

It was rumored that they cut your tendons and take your teeth, but god if we didn’t know. Littles don’t adopt littles, so no one I talked to had experience in The Front Room, where they lay out completely blank slate, empty headed, regressed-to-newborn littles who’d committed a crime so bad that they decided you weren’t able to function even as a toddler, much less an adult, to be adopted. From what we’d all heard, you were completely emptied and physically altered to be nothing more than a bag of mush with a heartbeat and a diaper. 

Oh, sure, we were already treated sort of like the babies the huge ones saw us as here. None of us had seen a toilet since sentencing, and instead three times a day we were all laid on a conveyor belt and pushed along so that a team of robo nannies could clean up shop downstairs. At the beginning of my six year tenure, this was traumatizing, cold, violating, dehumanizing. Now, it was part of the daily grind. It was what it was. Meals were twice a day with a ‘snack’ in the middle. Various pureed foods were slopped onto our trays and expected to be eaten with rubbery spoons that bent if your spoonful of mush was too big, which it often was until you learned how to portion it, because we are all pretty hungry here. That guaranteed that some eager newbie would spill it down their front and get berated by the guards for being a baby. No bibs here, and if your clothes were dirty then they’d stay dirty until you could get a laundry token. That includes in the case of leaks, too. Blowouts would get you an emergency token, but you’d also get this shit beaten out of you - figuratively and literally - by the guards for making them actually do something. 

Baby bottles were filled with aforementioned shitty watery formula that tasted like dishwater and, hell, very well might have been. You had your own bottle with your name on it. If you lost it, you’d better fuckin find it. I remember in my second year here I’d lost my bottle, and the ensuing wild goose chase got me the unfortunate nickname of Seenit, because I kept darting in and out of out different cliques in their chatting circles and asking if they’d Seen It. 

At least I wasn’t Double Chin. You can put together where she got her nickname, and it wasn’t as bad as Rosie Palms, whose name is just as obvious. 

(Poor Rosie. They do not take kindly to ‘Diaper Touching’ here. Her punishment wound up making her numb between the legs; she can’t feel anything down there, much less pleasure. Suppose that makes the nickname cruel, but prison is a cruel place.) 

We wore snap-crotch onesies in the warmer months and footed sleepers in winter. Our cribs were grey with blue rubber mattresses, nothing in way of a pillow or a blanket unless it got too cold for them to ignore the inhumanity of it all. Some people found things to use as pillows, and if you had the whole Family Outside thing, you could maybe get them to bring you one. 

Mary hadn’t had a family. Neither had I, adopted or otherwise. 

I’d gone 29 years of my life without getting scooped up by an Amazon with dreams of cribbing me and making me suck her tits. 29 years not pissing myself, or making some other kind of blunder that would send me to an etiquette school or at least just kidnapped. Shoplifting, public fighting, vandalism, breaking one of the arbitrary Gotcha rules that Amazons keep in place with hair-thin triggers that’ll make you ripe for the picking, that’s the kind of stuff that gets you into etiquette schools. No, no, to get in the pen, you’ve gotta do something worse. You need to do something that’s illegal for an Amazon to do, too. 

Thankfully for me, I’d committed fraud, assault with a deadly weapon, and, though I still say this one wasn’t my fault and the goddamn kangaroo court just wanted one more shiny bulb on the big holiday tree of crimes, arson. 

See, it’s not easy for a little to start a business. You can start one for other littles, but it’s expensive, arduous, and sometimes doomed to fail. The people with the keys, the licences, the pretty papers that say you’re approved, they’re Amazons. And Amazons don’t think littles can do anything. 

Though even a stopped clock is right twice a day; I’d met one Amazon, Ritchie Mitchell (good old Rich Mitch) who figured out that helping me run my completely legitimate, above board, and absolutely not fraudulent talent agency that interviewed plucky youngsters in hopes of being on runways, catwalks, showing off the latest in Big Oppressor fashion, or of bringing their pretty littles in to have them waggle their diapered butts in front of the camera to be on diaper boxes or in commercials, would net money for his pockets too.

As far as they all know I was giving littles and amazons their big breaks. See, what we did was have Ritchie interview the bigs and I’d interview the littles (Amazons don’t want to get career advice from someone they think shouldn’t even know what a job is), and we’d act as their agents. Unfortunately, we’d ‘never quite find work’ for those nice pretty people, but keep charging them the monthly agency fee until they quit to find a new one. Good thing about the fees were that they were strictly non-refundable. 

Once in a while, just to keep people from getting too mad, we’d call up an actual agency and refer them, have that agency find them a gig, say that we’d found it ourselves, and send them to the tryouts. The best moment of the scam, if I do say so myself, was the fake photoshoot I’d orchestrated from the shadows. We only managed it once, booking a pretty scenic spot on top of a building to shoot some early twenties twelve-footer in swimsuits. I paid my roommate to get her boyfriend to ask his photographer friend to lend me his setup in exchange for a supply of Sprinkles (a designer drug just for littles; don’t even try it, kids), that I had to get from one of the models after I’d ‘caught’ her with it and ‘let slide’ as a favor. Then I got Ritchie to get his husband to pretend to be a photographer. 

We sold the swimsuit photos to a softcore porn website after I did some pretty handy editing, instead of posting them to an online shopping website just in time for the big summer sale like we’d advertised. The clothing company she was shooting for was a front, too. We paid the model less than what she deserved, really, because to her ‘brown hair with blond highlights’ ‘high cheekbones but big sexy eyes’ ‘nice c-cup tits’ credit, she worked that rooftop. 

Look, I’m in prison, I don’t know what sort of saintly protagonist you were expecting. 

We had employees who were varying levels of unawares, including the receptionist who’d called Ritchie up front to talk to the investigative team there. I was in my office, because I always was, basking in the feeling of being a shadowy boss that no one had ever seen but had received friendly emails from. My photo on our website was a stolen image of an Amazon who’d died seven years prior. I hear a commotion because apparently Ritchie got a little jumpy at their line of questioning, so I come down, and, yeah, I lost my cool. Shouldn’t have pulled a gun on them and told them to get out of our business unless they had a warrant, but as you learn from almost three decades in this world of Amazons and littles; Amazons will not listen to you. 

Bing, bang, boom, we squabbled over rights and expense forms and tax reports, they told me I was under arrest, I shot one of them in the shoulder in my attempt to high-tail it out of there. I was hoping I’d make the forest’s edge and disappear to become some sort of cryptid, but he grabbed me by the ankle and my finger had an itch that only firing that damn gun could scratch. 

Felt good. Like when you finally get that spot on your back that you couldn’t reach. 

The arson thing was because in my attempt to get out of there, I knocked over the receptionists lit scented candle. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. 

I’d embezzled enough of that money that I got sentenced to eight years, but I’ve had years shaved off for good behavior. Years off your sentence doesn’t mean you’ll be free. It just means you’ll be put into the orphanage sooner. 

Mary, who’d done a hit and run, crunched into her cookies under a paper sign that said “GOOD LUCK MARY!” We’d all signed it. She wouldn’t be able to take it with her, but it was the thought that counted. 

Myself, Coco, and Double Chin all watched her eat, tried to make smalltalk. It was near impossible to be fully happy when you knew that 24 hours from then, Mary was going to be drooling in the adoption hallway, having forgotten this, her hit and run, and everything she was before the first time she opened her eyes once the Amazons were done with her. 

“I think I’m gonna go lay down,” Mary said, her expression defeated. 

“You sure?” Double Chin scratched at her elbow. “Don’t you think you’re gonna be layin’ down enough when--” 

“Dubs!” Coco slapped her, right on her apparently itching elbow. “She knows, dumbass!” 

“It’s fine,” Mary said, shaking her head and standing. “Night change is at five. You know what time it is, Seenit?” 

I held up a finger and trundled over to the small alarm clock that sat on the floor under my crib. “3:30.” 

Mary nodded. “Yeah. I’m going down the hall right after that. They want me clean for the procedure.” 

It was generally good manners to not point out the state of your fellow inmates undergarments, but even beneath her onesie it was easy to see that Mary was wet. Not that I could take a high ground here. I was in the mind that I had to get a shit out before night change so I didn’t have to sit in one until morning. 

Coco grimaced. “Well…. Make sure you say goodbye to us before you go, Mary Bear.” 

Mary always smiled well. She had a pretty face, and long black hair that was in a state of light disrepair from the time she’d been here, but would definitely be cute with a washing, trim, and brushing. I would miss Mary’s smile, and I tried to lock in my mind there the one she gave the three of us before offering up an army salute and toddling over to her crib, about seven or eight down from my own. The robo-nanny sensed her doing the ‘up’ gesture, picked her up under the arms, and deposited her in the crib, locking the top. 

“Welp,” I said after some time of the three of us watching from where we’d thrown the ‘party’ in the hall in front of our beds, “guess we should clean up here.” 

“Yep!” Coco’s enthusiasm was false, but she knelt down to brush the crumbs from ‘here’ to ‘there.’ 

Double Chin pulled down Mary’s sign, but as I was balling up the plastic microwave wrapper from the burger and the bags of banana cookies, I held my hand out to her. “Hey, gimme that.” 

“Whatcha want it for?” She helped lighten my load by taking the wrappers. “She can’t take it down the hall.” 

“I know. I just want her to keep it in mind.” 

There was a final note I needed to give Mary. I’d be sure to slip it between the bars of her crib before night change. 

See You Soon, Girl. 
-Seenit. 
 

---------------------------------------

I have 4 chapters of this written so far. I will post more tomorrow. I'm very eager to have more of it up! 

Thank you. 

 

[BabySofia]

This is an interesting concept, and I'm curious to see where it goes. I assume she's going to have her own trip down to the orphanage soon? Or is this more like the Green Mile? Curious to see!

[Guilend]

Definitely interesting. I'll stay tuned for more.

[ruby03]

3 hours ago, BabySofia said:

This is an interesting concept, and I'm curious to see where it goes. I assume she's going to have her own trip down to the orphanage soon? Or is this more like the Green Mile? Curious to see!

Thank you. Wow ?! I'm very honored to have you comment on something I've written, I apologize for being slightly starstruck. Your questions will be answered pretty soon... 

2 hours ago, Guilend said:

Definitely interesting. I'll stay tuned for more.

Thank you very much ? 

[ruby03]

Chapter Two - The Beginning Of The End 

No, I hadn’t told anyone that my Crib Row date was in three days, because I didn’t really want to. It’s not like there was a posted schedule or anything, it’s not like there was some grandstand announcement like “Here ye, here ye! Seenit is going down the hall in a fortnight!” We’d known that Mary was due to leave because she’d told us. She cried. No one’s ever ready to let an Amazon put their brains in a blender, to get adopted. They tell us it’s better, better than being here or being ‘free’ outside. None of us agree that having your intellect and personality wiped and turned into a shitting husk of nothing is better. 

I'd slipped Mary the note that I'd see her soon, and just had to hope she knew what I meant. 

“Hey Seenit,” asked Emma Levits, who was sitting next to me as we threaded microbeads into thin wire bracelets the following day, her southern-accented voice full of conversational annoyance, “do you know what time it is, I don’t know how much longer I can wait until lunch change.” 

I dropped a bead under the table and used that opportunity to kneel underneath it to find my clock, which I’d stashed below. I popped back up with the bead like nothing’d happened. “T-minus ten minutes until lunch change, Levits. Sorry, didn’t know I was that bad.” 

“Not you, not you,” she tied off her bracelet and tossed it in the pile. Little hands were great for little tasks like this, and who needs regular labor when you had prison labor. “I’ve got a rash goin’ like you wouldn’t believe and it’s making feel like I’m on fire.” 

“You have any powder?” 

“Powder?” She grabbed a new wire and started stringing along beads in blues and greens. “We can’t open these things up, they’re alarmed!” 

“Yeah, but if you need you can pull the bottom down like they do when they’re checking us, and toss just a little bit of powder in. I have some, but I don’t think I could get it for you before lunch.” 

“And just where’d you get that?” 

“Well,” I finished off my bracelet too and tossed it into the growing pile, “I got it from Moretz, who wanted hot sauce, and I got the hot sauce from someone who works in the kitchen since they make the Amazon’s food too, and I gave her one of the bracelets we make here.” 

Levits shushed me. “Seenit, you’ll get into trouble!” 

I shrugged. Not much time for that now anyway. 

“‘Scuse me,” said a voice from across the table. From the state of her, that wide eyed look of horror and strained concern, you could tell right away that we had a new fish on our hands. I bet she still had to squat to shit. Bet she still asked to use the toilet. There were no ‘first second third’ chances to maintain potty privileges here. You gave them all up when you got arrested. “Don’t they mean to treat us like babies?” 

“I mean,” I said, eyes on my work, “isn’t that the goal of every Amazon?” 

“Well, yeah…” she brushed a lock of dark red hair behind her ear, “but I mean, why do we have to do this? Babies don’t work? I thought they was gonna regress me right away…” 

“Didja want to get regressed?” Levits asked with no shortage of that same annoyance. We’d had those before. One or two who couldn’t wait to be wiped clean. Weirdos, in my book.  

“No!” She shook her head and her hair shook with her. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be like this, either.” 

“Here’s the thing:,” I said, shifting with a faint squish (those ten minutes couldn’t be up soon enough), “they want you to feel sorry about what you did, they want cheap labor, and they want us to feel like we’re getting the better end of the stick by getting regressed. At least you’re making bracelets and not electronics. Amazons are so proud of their tech: who do they think put it together?” 

New fish looked down at her selection of beads, this must have been a real thinker. “Robots?” 

“You think robots grow on trees, kid?” 

She blinked and bit her lip, casting her gaze back down at the bracelets and slowly threading beads on again. 

Time passes weirdly in a place with no windows, which was why I was glad to have my clock. I’d actually gained it in an exchange, where someone else was going to receive it from me in return for a favor, but she got carried Up Front before I could get that favor. Now it was mine. I consider her to be paid up. It helped, and no one really stopped me from having it, but I tried not to be obvious about it in case I ripped a fart near a guard who was in a particularly bad mood. It was a goofy looking thing, meant for a baby, someone who’d been adopted prior to their sentencing had their ‘mommy’ bring it, but by the time she was Put Up For Adoption it’d fallen into my hands. 

I wondered if Mary had anything we’d have to redistribute? You tend to gain a small collection of things in jail. It’s hard to have anything that’s really yours here, but the clock was mine. 

Without looking at the clock, we knew our time was up when a loud buzzer assaulted our ears, prompting a room full of people in soiled diapers to rise and stretch, rub their sore fingers, and start meandering for the changing belts. 

“Break time,” I said to the newbie as Levits rushed forward at an awkward gait, not wanting to get stuck at the back of the line with her rash. “You getting a change, Robots?” 

“Robots?” She looked taken aback, “is that supposed to be my prison nickname?” 

“Until you get a better one. What’s your real name?” 

“Betsy Girshwhen.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked. “BETSY? What are you, a designer little? A little Betsy Wetsy?” 

I deserved that pit in my stomach that resulted in her sad, embarrassed nod. “Oh, shit,” I tried to let the laugh in my voice lighten the curse of that, “I’m so sorry. Are you really?” 

I ought to have known by her small tits, huge blue eyes with thick lashes, petite button nose set between just ever so slightly chubby cheeks, and perfect dolly lips, but I make it my business to never make assumptions. Betsy rubbed at her arm. She was thinner than I expected a designer little to be, and more capable of her faculties despite the way she talked. 

“Yeah…” she bit her lip, “My parents are in-betweeners, and I came out little, so they raised me from birth to get sold for big money.” I saw she had a darling little gap between her white, white teeth. Good god, this bitch was a doll. “They never took me to school or nothin, I was taught to always be cute and nice. I can dance and sing but I dunno how’ta read or write.” 

Alright, I know it was rude, but I had to ask: “Did they ever potty train you?” 

Betsy looked up at me with horror. “Real strictly, yes. They made me for a type of buyer who wanted to remove my continence themselfs, so they hadta make sure I was plenty good at using the toilet.” 

Christ in heaven, she was a doll who was meant to be broken. 

“Shit. Sorry, Bots. Get it? Like Robots, and Betsy: Bots.” I gauged her reaction, and she just shrugged. I bet they’d trained her to not have a strong opinion about anything but what they wanted her to. “Just a word to the wise, though, even if you haven’t wet, you should try. Did you eat at breakfast?” 

“Not much...their milkies is yucky and I didn’t like the food.” 

“Well, first of all, start eating. If they think you’re hunger striking, you’ll get sent to Intensive and hooked up to an auto-feeder. You lay there all day, dirtying your diaper and waiting with a nipple in your mouth for food to come down a chute. It’s torture. Thank your local Amazon for it.” 

“That sounds bad…did you ever do it?” 

“Once!” I said it proudly; you could also call me Seenit because if there’s something that could happen in this place, I’ve seen it. “I got into a fight, and the bitch punched me in the stomach, wah-pah!” I mimed the punch into the air. “So I got sent there as punishment. But they’ll do it to people they think are trying to starve themselves out. Like Willow G over there?” I motioned to an older woman who was sagging in more ways than one, her diaper so heavy it was making the crotch of her onesie stretch. “She had to be on it like four times. Don’t talk to Willow G, she doesn’t take well to newbies.” 

Betsy nodded again, which seemed to be her response to most things, but I figured she was scared. Hard to tell with her big ol’ eyes always in a state of near worry. 

In line, they checked us and sent the dry ones on their way. I don’t remember the last time I was dry for any change times; six years of pissing yourself tends to build a habit. Even if I orchestrated a grand ‘dig through a wall with a spoon and crawl through the sewers’ escape, I don’t know that I’d ever be able to control anything down there. Even my bowels slipped out without fanfare, I could barely hold in a fart anymore, and most of my food wasn’t solid anyway. I could shit just by tensing my stomach a bit when I felt like I might have to go, but it was, pardon the pun, a crapshoot. At the moment my diaper was full on both ends, and the checker didn’t even pull the onesie down to verify. I knew I stank. Betsy’d stayed dry and left the line. 

Poor fuckin’ kid. 

“Hey, Green.” I said as I laid down on the belt and held my arms and legs in the correct position, clock safely in hand, the straps automatically clamping down on my arms and over my chest. Green turned her head and nodded to me from where she lay next to me on the changing belt. 

“Hey Seenit,” she said. “How come I always feel like I have to sneeze during change?” 

I couldn’t shrug, so I made a ‘thinking face’. “Maybe it’s the powder?” 

“Could be. Haven’t seen you in the library in a while.” 

“Ah,” I said as a pair of robotic arms undid the snaps between my legs and the belt churned onward to get the lady next to me, who seemed to be sobbing softly. “I haven’t really had the time to get into a new book.” 

“I got a new donation in. It’s about business strategy.” Green was in the same steps of the process as I was, and I watched her diaper get un-taped while feeling it happen to me as we were shuffled down to the next step. Hands undoing buttons, hands opening diapers, hands doing phase one of wiping, hands lifting legs, wiping asses, scanning for solids, replacing diapers, so on and so forth until you were deposited at the end of the line in a clean one, smelling of powder and rubber from the belt. 

“Business strategy?” I raised my eyebrows. “You mean it’s not about a rebellious little princess who didn’t want her Amazon mommy to treat her like a baby so she had to learn how hard being a queen was, and then decided to be a baby anyway, complete with an ending shot of her nursing? Happy ending for all?” 

“Sometimes we get books that aren’t for babies,” Green’s glasses were akimbo in the position she was in as both of our legs were lifted at the same time. The lady next to me was fighting it, but the person on her other side seemed to be trying to tell her to chill out. 

“I know,” I said with a grin, “I think I’ve read all five of them.” 

“More than five!” She seemed a mite defensive of her collection. “You know it’s more than five!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” The truth was, I didn’t want to pick up anything new, because I wasn’t sure I’d have the time to finish before I forgot how to read entirely. 

But that’s exactly why I didn’t tell anyone that my day was coming up. I didn’t want the pity, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, the party like we’d thrown Mary. I didn’t want to start dying days in advance. 

“Come on by,” Green said as the hands taped her new diaper on. “You used to run a business, right?” 

“Not like I’m gonna get to run one again!” 

“I know, but I used to work at a library before I came here.” Laura Green had snapped and committed actual real arson and not bullshit ‘dropped a candle’ arson like I apparently had. “And you kind of run a business; anytime someone needs anything, you know a guy who knows a guy who owes another guy a favor who can get it for you.” 

Those three days felt like they were coming faster and faster. All cards on the table, I kind of liked it here in prison. No, it wasn’t anything like being a free little, but that was six years ago. Prison was better than what I’d be up to three days from now. I'd have to leave all of my trades, my agency, my status here behind. My eyes moistened. 

“You okay?” The person next to me was bawling and thrashing, guards had been called, but Green was worried about my moist eyes. 

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s the powder.” 

-- 

I ate snack (which was just lunch, I don't know why they called it snack), sucking down the bottle of milk and consuming - because by all means you couldn’t truly classify this as eating - my pureed chicken and rice slop. “Cooks must be in a good mood,” Double Chin said between bites, “Of all the bad stuff, pureed chicken and rice is the least-worse.” I watched from afar as Betsy ambled about, looking for a place to sit, while Coco scoffed. 

“This is blatant sweet potato erasure,” she said, popping her bottle in her mouth to punctuate. 

“Sweet potato feels slimy, like someone threw it up already.” 

“Hey,” I said, interrupting the important root-vegetable related conversation, “Coco, scootch over. I’m gonna have this new chick sit with us.” This was not a request for Coco’s permission, I was letting Betsy sit with us. I don’t know if I was the actual leader of this group or if that was an illusion of grandeur I put upon myself, but upon my beckoning, Betsy scurried over, her diaper still crinkly-crunchy with un-wetness. 

“Hi…” her voice was so soft as she sat next to me, she was tiny enough to fit on the bench (but, in fairness, Coco was skinny too and most of my strength was in the upper-body zone.) 

“Who the fuck is this,” Double Chin asked, a trace of formula still on her lips. 

“Betsy, the recipient of ‘warmest welcome of the year’ over there is Marta, but we call her Double Chin, and that’s Coco.” 

“But you can call me Coco,” she added with a smirk. 

“I’m Betsy.” She said, stirring her food. “Oh, you never told me your name,” she said to me. 

“Seenit.” 

“Seenit?” 

“It’s a nickname. No one calls me by my real name,” I took a small bite, trying to silently demonstrate to her that she needs to eat in small portions, “even the wardens and guards call me Seenit sometimes. I think they think it means I’m gonna be a valuable snitch.” 

Her gaze went wary. “Does it…?” 

Coco waggled her eyebrows at her. “You’re gonna have to cause some trouble to find out, aren’tcha, babykins?” 

“Fuck off,” I playfully reached over Betsy and shoved Coco, who shoved me back. This was just how we joked with each other. “Snitches get stitches, bitches.” 

“You guys cuss a lot…” Betsy said, scooping food onto her spoon. 

“It happens.” 

As soon as the food bent Betsy’s spoon and sent it tumbling down her shirt, a passing guard swatted her on the back of the head. I narrowed my eyes but kept my bottle in my mouth, pretending to be really interested in suckling it down. 

“OWIE!” She whined, grabbing her head. I heard the faint whizzing of piss into her diaper, even over the chatter of the lunchroom. 

“Well now! Look at you,” the Amazon guard, a particularly big one who was also named Marta, which was part of why we called our Marta Double Chin, put her hand on Betsy’s head to rattle it about, “you haven’t even taken one bite and you’re dribbling it down your front. We might not even need to regress this one, Samson,” she called to another guard, who shook their head as if someone had just told a slightly off-color joke. 

“Heey, Marta!” I said brightly, setting my bottle down and opening my arms wide like I’d just noticed her there and was so super happy about it. Distraction was a tactic, even if it was a coward's one. “How’s your kiddo doing?” 

“Afternoon, Seenit,” Marta was one of the harder guards to befriend, unfortunately my charms could only go so far. “He’s fine. Just out of college now. Might be looking for a little of his own if he and his wife can’t get pregnant.” 

“Well,” I pointed at her, “looks like you’ve got some advertising to do,” Marta was still gripping Betsy’s head like a grape while Coco and Dubs minded their business. “Tell him to come by the Front! You know those littles personally.” 

She chuckled at that. “And that’s why I won’t be doing any kind of advertising. Unless maybe this one’s time is up soon.” She 'patted' Betsy on the back, and reached her hand down to feel her diaper. “You just got changed and you’re already wet? You won’t last a minute here, baby dolly.” 

She ended that with a firm single spank to her butt, and then she was off. After some seconds of terrified, labored breathing where we all thought she was going to cry, Betsy’s thumb shot to her mouth and she sucked that thing furiously, rocking in place. It was right then that I had an idea of how her parents achieved that cutesy gap tooth. 

“Use your bottle,” I said gently, set in the knowledge that soft, designer little Betsy was in for a long ride. “We only have so long to eat, but your bottle will feed you and give you something to comfort yourself with.” Everyone had their ‘oh my god what am I doing here’ breakdown sometime, but hers seemed like it might extend a few days at least. 

She kept rocking, her eyes closed as tears leaked out. Coco patted her too and tried to ease her thumb out of her mouth to replace it with the bottle. The nipple seemed to be a fine substitute, because she nursed it with the same ferocity as I heard her pee even more, like maybe she’d been holding in the rest of the stream. 

“Don’t let any of the guards get to yas,” Double Chin said, “they’re just trying to make you miserable, it’s never personal.” 

Betsy wasn’t there with us enough to hear our gentle comforting, at least not right now. She was being held against a somber looking Coco, who was holding her bottle for her and rocking the girl who aggressively nursed and cried to herself. Coco’d been a mother once. We tried not to talk about it, but she knew how to handle a baby- a real baby, not what they thought we were. Betsy’d been trained to be a baby, but obviously something had happened to land her in jail; I rubbed her tummy, wondering exactly which events in her ginger head were going so very wrong. 

As soon as the bottle was empty, she stuck her thumb in her mouth again and sucked on it audibly, like it was her lifeline. 

The rest of snack was awkward for all of us. We didn’t see her at dinner, but on the way to lights out I heard the distant sound of her nursing her thumb, though I couldn’t tell which way it’d come from, or if it was even her. 

Two more days. 

-- 

Betsy is actually a character on loan from another story I have been thinking about (but haven't written) for a few years, wherin she's still a designer little. Her being in prison is somewhat of a 'bad end' for her.

Chapter three later. 

[kerry]

I really enjoy your narrator as well as your unusual take on the DD. After Ch 1, I found myself wondering what the point of Little Prison could be, since (of course) any Little who did anything wrong would be infantilized. I was happy to see you address that issue right away in Ch 2, a sign of a writer who has all of their ducks in a row. Looking forward to more. ?

[BabySofia]

You really do have me hooked here. I hope you cover beyond the two days in this story, but I think just the lead-up could be a fine work on its own. I look forward to the next chapter!

[Baby Billy]

I am already hooked on this story, I have read all the DD stories on this site over the years and I agree with Baby Sofia if this end after his last two days in prison it will be a well written tale.  It reminds me of a little legal issue in a way that the end will be the same but the amazons want the little to have to spend time in prison thinking about what they did and what they have waiting for them after they serve their time.  Amazons have a truly mean streak when it comes to a little and it really makes it feel like any little sent to prison is getting a death sentence since getting out seems to mean being turned into a living doll that sucks on their mommies breast, wets, poops and cries.  In a little legal issue they wanted to take the final step and just end her life because some didn't think she should be able to live as a doll even.

[Sofi]

This is very interesting indeed! I wonder if they're kept as labour until someone wants them as a regressed. Since it seems to vary as there is a rather old one there aswell I guess. Oh my so many questions.

[SGTbaby]

Fun story so far! I look forward to more

[ruby03]

On 9/6/2020 at 11:28 AM, kerry said:

I really enjoy your narrator as well as your unusual take on the DD. After Ch 1, I found myself wondering what the point of Little Prison could be, since (of course) any Little who did anything wrong would be infantilized. I was happy to see you address that issue right away in Ch 2, a sign of a writer who has all of their ducks in a row. Looking forward to more. ?

Thank you, that's a very kind compliment :) ?. I am glad you enjoy my narrator, too! It is fun for me to write her, so it's refreshing to know people enjoy reading her too. 

On 9/6/2020 at 12:01 PM, BabySofia said:

You really do have me hooked here. I hope you cover beyond the two days in this story, but I think just the lead-up could be a fine work on its own. I look forward to the next chapter!

Thank you so much. The next chapter will end Seenits time in prison, but that will not be the end of her tale. 

23 hours ago, Baby Billy said:

I am already hooked on this story, I have read all the DD stories on this site over the years and I agree with Baby Sofia if this end after his last two days in prison it will be a well written tale.  It reminds me of a little legal issue in a way that the end will be the same but the amazons want the little to have to spend time in prison thinking about what they did and what they have waiting for them after they serve their time.  Amazons have a truly mean streak when it comes to a little and it really makes it feel like any little sent to prison is getting a death sentence since getting out seems to mean being turned into a living doll that sucks on their mommies breast, wets, poops and cries.  In a little legal issue they wanted to take the final step and just end her life because some didn't think she should be able to live as a doll even.

Thank you very much. I think A Little Legal Issue is one of the few DD stories I haven't read, but I will have to check it out. I'll consider this a recommendation :) 

21 hours ago, Sofi said:

This is very interesting indeed! I wonder if they're kept as labour until someone wants them as a regressed. Since it seems to vary as there is a rather old one there aswell I guess. Oh my so many questions.

Thank you Sofi. There are older littles there based on when they were arrested, and how long their sentences were. I think Betsy, who is 18, is one of the youngest Littles in the prison, while Willow G wasn't arrested until she was in her 40s and has been there for quite a while. Seenit is 35 (arrested at 29 and then served six years) and I made her that age to reflect the middle of that spectrum. 

16 hours ago, SGTbaby said:

Fun story so far! I look forward to more

Thank you very much, I hope you continue to enjoy it. 

[Baby Billy]

I'm surprised you never read it I thought maybe that was what gave you the idea for a prison for littles.  I it a good story only they did not want her in prison the just wanted to execute her, I guess  they would have to have a little prison to go to before that.  It also mention bigs that were turned to mids or littles after prison. 

[ruby03]

Chapter Three: The Long Walk. 

I’d let Betsy hang with us whenever I saw her around those following days because she didn’t seem to receive harassment from the guards or other inmates well. No one really did, besides the ones who decided to toughen up and dish it out, or the ones like me who found it best to make nice with almost everyone so no one wanted to give me shit. I still got it, of course, because that was a universal constant, but I cringed at the thought of one of the nastier chicks here giving her a worse time than the guards would. It didn’t take much to set her off, and I figured that was a result of being so new, and of having the frayed nerves of someone who’d been made to be a pretty pampered baby her whole life who was now in the rough hands of the prison system. She’d gone even quieter than she was before. 

Man, the business of designing littles was fucked. 

On the day that I knew would end in me drooling and finding jangling keys more amusing than anything else in the world for the foreseeable future until someone adopted me and I laid in their nursery in jumbo megathick night diapers for the rest of my days until I got too old and ugly or I died wandering into traffic, I tried to act normal. 

I woke up, waited to be let out of my crib, acknowledged that I was leaking and close to a blowout if I’d dropped another load in here, got changed, and ate breakfast with Coco, Double Chin, and quiet Betsy who only nursed her bottle and took a few tiny bites of her food. I’d had a rash from the night before, so any discomfort or melancholy I showed on my face I attributed to that. 

“I bet you could wheel and deal yourself into some cream,” Levits said as I made my last bracelets. “You know everybody, Seenit.” 

“You know what, bitch,” I said with a confident smile, pointing at Levits, “I think I will.” 

And you know what? I did. It wasn't like me to roll around on the ground for half a day, people would think something was up, so I needed to make it seem as if business was still running as usual. I talked to Worthy, who I’d spotted with a tube of cream stuffed into the plush dragon her old Mommy’d given her, and she said she’d administer one good squirt of it for me if I brought her a pair of scissors. 

“Scissors?” I gaped at her. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“Nope,” she folded her arms. She was, from the smell of it, literally and figuratively full of shit. “I want a pair of scissors to cut my leg hairs with.” 

“Why don’t I just get you a razor, idiot.” It would be just as difficult. 

“Because, I want to cut my way out of this onesie and trim my pubes, too.” 

“You know - and it’s amazing how technology works these days -  razors can do that too.” I didn't even bother bringing up the fact that her cutting off her onesie would absolutely get noticed by someone, but that was her own trouble to get into. 

“What’s the deal, cunt,” she spat at me “can’t you get anything? Do you want to sit in your dirty diaper rash all day, or do you want the cream?” 

“Your mommy let you talk like that?” 

“Jokes on you,” it wasn’t unusual to poke fun at people who had anything but disdain for their adoptive Amazons, but Worthy was a momma’s girl through and through, who got kissed and cuddled and breastfed at every visit, while still being one of the meaner inmates in this joint. It was alleged that she beat, with a baseball bat, an Amazon who was attacking her mommy, but the stories varied and I wasn’t good enough pals with her to set the record straight. “My mommy's going to adopt me again once my time is up.” 

“You’ll be regressed,” I said, getting annoyed with an exchange I was only enacting for the purposes of keeping up appearances in the first place, “you won’t even remember her!” 

Worthy glowered, excellently accentuated by her unibrow, and shoved my shoulder. “You want that cream? Or do you want me to give you something that hurts even worse than your rash?” 

I held my hands up. “No trouble, no trouble, Worthy! If we fight, we’ll both get into hot water. I’ll see what I can do.” 

There was a salon where they let an Amazon cut our hair, which cost money, of course, and it’s not like I didn’t have any but all the same, the only cuts they’d do were those that would look serviceable on a toddler or younger. I missed the undercut of my free days, but I don’t even think they had buzzers there. 

“Hi pudding,” the salonist said, reading a magazine. “I’m afraid I can’t change your pants, but I can change your look!” 

“It’s just me, Deb,” I waved, “you don’t have to do the spiel.” 

“I do it for everyone! Just because I know you doesn’t mean I can’t afford the same niceties. What can I do for you today?” 

Deb was on loan from the Amazon prison (identity theft) and took a shuttle across the campus from her jail to ours, since she’d been a children’s/little’s salonist in the old days. She considered herself ‘so so so lucky!’ to be able to work with us, and had dreams of adopting once her sentence was up. I had a feeling she’d be a nice mommy, if not an airheaded one. Deb never struck me as the type of person to punish or mutilate her littles; at worst it seemed like she’d put a diaper on backwards all ‘oops, silly me!’ 

Must’ve been nice to have a dream for the After. 

“Well, I’m actually fine in the cuts department,” I fluffed a bit of my hair for emphasis, “but I was wondering if I could get a favor from you?” 

“Ohh…” she was reasonably, understandably cautious, “what is it, baby?” 

“Can I borrow a pair of your scissors?”
 
“No! Silly baby!” She put her hand in front of the scissors that sat in an apron around her waist (it was nice to look at someone’s waist and see that they were not wearing a diaper, besides the waists of the guards and wardens) like I lacked object permanence and would forget them when they weren’t in front of me. “You could hurt yourself! Scissors are sharp sharp!” 

Jesus lord above, I should start getting used to this sort of talk again. I got my fair share of it from errant Amazons outside. The guards here were awful, but they didn’t babytalk us unless it was meant to be demeaning. “I know, I know, but here’s the thing. See there’s this new girl, Betsy?” I lowered my tone down to one more clandestine. “And she’s not adjusting too good, see? I was hoping I could--” 

“No no,” she wagged her finger, “that’s a bad little girl. I know what you do, Seenit, you’re trying to make a deal with me, and I put up with enough trades over in my own side of the campus. You’re one of my favorite littles, I tell stories about you over there, but I can’t break the rules for you, cause I’ll get in trouble too! What if you fall, and hurt yourself, and die, and then I get charged with murder cause I gave you these scissors.” She held her hands to her face and gazed into the middle distance like she could see it happening before her very eyes, and it was awful. 

“Alright, well,” who cares, anyway. They’d probably apply cream when they regressed me anyway so I wouldn’t cry when I woke up. I was only doing this so no one would get suspicious. “I guess I could wait until arts and crafts day, they give me baby scissors,” that couldn’t cut through air much less paper or pipe cleaners, but that was beside the point, “so I’ll try to make her card then.” 

“Good idea! Smart girl!” She bounced with the confidence of someone who’d really done something good. “You know, Seenit, I used to think that I wanted a little who was just like a real baby, who couldn’t talk or walk or nothin’, but sometimes you make me think I want one who’s more…” 

“Home upstairs?” 

“What? No, my house only had one story,” Deb wasn’t winning any awards for intellect, but you couldn’t help but be charmed by the lady, “um… not regressed, I guess, I was lookin’ for a prettier word for it. Maybe you can ask them to not regress you and I can adopt you!” On that she knelt down and poked my stomach. “Would you want me for a mommy?” 

I faked a smile for her, because I was good at that sort of thing, and even forced a giggle. “Well, who knows, but maybe you should put in a good word for me! Ask them to not regress me, huh? Us littles can be pretty good conversation, you know?” 

If only Deb had that kind of power. 

-- 

With scissor-quest no longer a going concern, I sat on the floor near the commissary. Coco was jogging outside, Dubs was taking a nap, and Betsy was, jeeze, somewhere I assumed. Not in the mood to strike up an old or new friendship, I chose my own company. There were a few dollars burning a hole in the mattress of my crib, but I’d sort of intended to leave that for my friends to take, like the world’s most fucked up inheritance. I’d been holding my clock in my hands for a while and decided to see how much time I had. 

Two hours. 

I wondered if I’d be in a display case next to Mary. 

Back down where our cribs were laid out in long connected rows, I shimmied the money I’d accrued out from under my mattress and thumbed through it. Only nine bucks, but that wasn’t nothing. With my massive wealth, I bought a juicebox for a dollar from the commissary, and sat down again on the floor where I’d been earlier to sip it down. 

Without my consent, the front of my diaper warmed with pee, and I decided to savor that too. No, I can’t control it right now, but I wouldn’t even be aware of this happening this time tomorrow. 

God, what a depressing train of thought! I wanted to think about anything else besides where I was going. I wondered if they’d give me a last meal, like a real solid food meal like a steak or a burger (I’d shoot another man for a juicy, cheesy, bacony burger, dripping with ketchup and hot sauce and washed down with beer), so my first dump as a proper drooler was the size of a truck. That’ll show ‘em. 

Maybe someone would adopt me who wasn’t a complete maniac. I’d heard a rumor that we didn’t get a lot of adoptions, because Amazons didn’t exactly look to prisons for their baby needs, and there was a sort of boogy-man style tale of Blake (or Alex, or Jack, or David, depending on who was telling it,) who was a big bodybuilder who stayed buff all through his sentence in the men’s prison and was covered in tattoos so much so that they couldn’t even remove them, and no one wanted to adopt him because of how expensive his procedures would be. They say he’s been in The Front for 15 years and is getting old, fat, and wrinkly, but now no one wanted to adopt him because of that. 

I think it’s a load, the likes of which belonged in the seat of someone’s pants. I didn’t take stock in it. 

Welp, I thought, might as well make the rounds. 

I took my remaining eight dollars and left four in Double Chin’s crib, four in Coco’s. I found my small supply of baby powder and left it on Levit’s seat in the bracelet room. As I was leaving, I saw Betsy. She was watching another group of ladies play cards, idly (loudly) sucking her thumb, and I hoped she’d find her place somewhere here. Apparently, she had gained a nickname: Thumbsucker. I assumed she’d just been avoiding it her first few days out of embarrassment, but since her breakdown the other day she almost always had her thumb in her mouth, constantly seeking the comfort of it. I saw her nursing her empty bottle once, too. Eyes closed and fingers kneading in contentment, the seat of her onesie darkened and her brow knit like she was seeking to ignore the state of it and escape to some Secret Betsy World where she wasn’t in prison in a poopy diaper but was still free to nurse on something (I wonder if her betweener mother had breastfed her?). Poor fucking kid. I hoped at least someone would get this little psycho a pacifier. 

Prison was, I thought as I watched Rosie Palms pass me in the common area, a cruel place. 

I watched the seconds pass on my clock, having crawled under my crib, since I didn’t feel like being lifted into it. I hated being this bummed out, and in the last minutes of my freedom, I kind of wish I’d told and made everyone throw me a party, a big blowout shindig where we’d get juice drunk and all fucked up on rice crackers and apple slices, I’d do a stage dive into my adoring public of criminals and then, as they carried me away, I’d flip off the lot of them and say something badass, something they’d tell stories about. Instead, I heard Amazon footsteps and the beep of their tablet, telling this tracker -the one connected to the flesh of my butt - that I was in the area. “Seenit?” 

I poked my head out from under the crib. “Come back with a warrant.” 

Samson grimaced. He’d been a buddy to me, he had a little daughter of his own and I heard a tale that he hadn’t regressed her, let her play piano professionally even, sat up on stage in pigtails and a fluffy dress while tickling the ivies with the best of them. Could never be me. 

“It’s time to go.” 

--

They carried you down the walk as one final act of demeaning you, and I wished I’d made my last steps more important and cool. No one had seemd to think much of me being carried out of the common area, besides I suppose that I’d been in trouble. My clock was still in my hand, and I wondered if Samson let me carry it until the end as an act of mercy, or if he thought little enough (hah) of littles that he assumed it was a comfort item and I’d cry and make his job harder if he took it. Right then? I guess it was. 

We passed the psyche office, and I saw a familiar redhead sitting in a chair outside, noisily sucking her thumb. 

“Betsy!” I called. There was absolutely not enough time for me to unpack why she was in front of the psyche office, but I could connect a dot or two. 

She looked up at me, but did not cease her self-soothing. 

I tossed her the clock. It fell to the floor, but since it was meant for babies, it didn’t break. 

“It’ll help you keep track of time in here! Trust me, it’ll keep you sane!” I was calling over Samson’s shoulder now. 

She pulled her thumb from her mouth with a trail of drool, collecting the clock with her other hand. 

“Thank you,” she said, “where you going?” 

I held my arms out wide, as if to display my many riches. “Straight to the top, baby!” 

--- 

I was laid back in a sort-of-chair, my head, legs, chest, and hands clamped down. It was almost like a carseat for the exceptionally cruel. Big headphones were placed over my ears that began playing a melody. Yep, here it goes. This would probably hypnotize me. I wouldn’t tell you a lie, it was kind of relaxing, in a demented way, and I decided to detach. I detached myself from the situation and chose to exist a few feet to the left of my own mind. As the music filled my ears I grew sleepy, but kept my peepers open until I couldn't anymore. I chose to think. Just about anything, really: The business I fraudulently ran what felt like a million years ago, all of the different faces and stories and lives that I'd encountered in my six years on the inside, the taste of a huge burger, the blue sky, grass. I wouldn’t know what it was, but as I closed my eyes, I realized that I’d at least touch the grass again one day. 

 

 

 

 

--------

Thank you. Some of you have said that the story could wrap up well here, and since I agree, I'll tell you that you're certainly welcome to accept this as the end of the story.

.... However Seenit's not done being our criminal protagnist. I already have chapter four written and edited. Chapter five is about a quarter of the way done, and there will be more after that. This is not the end :). 
 

[Baby Billy]

Oh so good, I was hoping we would hear more about her, I hope they leave something upstairs, maybe the mind of a two year old. I think the worse would be to have something done to you like Bella ( in Exchanged) where you could understand everything but unable to express yourself at all. 

[Baby Billy]

I'm looking forward to how you continue this tale, the first 3 chapters have been written in the first person through Seenit's eyes.

[SGTbaby]

I am glad there is more. Maybe she escapes some of the regressing! Looking forward to more!

[Moon3ye]

7 hours ago, Baby Billy said:

Oh so good, I was hoping we would hear more about her, I hope they leave something upstairs, maybe the mind of a two year old. I think the worse would be to have something done to you like Bella ( in Exchanged) where you could understand everything but unable to express yourself at all. 

I think I'm cruel but if this dimension really existed, I would seriously sell criminals (murderers, rapists, etc.) from our dimension for technology to the government on the other side with exactly this request to end up like Bella (in exchange). Seeing everything but not being able to do anything about it, even as far as the body reacts in the same way as a healthy and happy baby.

[crono]

Love the concept.  The final outcome sounds like a fate worse than death for our prisoners 

[BabySofia]

You're continuing to impress me with this story. Very much enjoying the concept and your writing is very readable! Don't worry about rushing chapters out if you don't have a big backlog. I think I can say all of us can be patient for your next ones! (Just don't let this die - I really think it has a lot of potential!) Can't wait to see what happens to her now!

Part of me is thinking that because she essentially meditated and ignored everything that maybe she won't be as affected by the hypnosis?

 

[kirababy]

enjoying this story, and looking forward to seeing what happens on the other side, and what it takes to get there.

[Baby Billy]

15 hours ago, Moon3ye said:

I think I'm cruel but if this dimension really existed, I would seriously sell criminals (murderers, rapists, etc.) from our dimension for technology to the government on the other side with exactly this request to end up like Bella (in exchange). Seeing everything but not being able to do anything about it, even as far as the body reacts in the same way as a healthy and happy baby.

Yes I think you are cruel, even it did exist the people would not stand for it.  When we send someone to prison most will get out at some point, even those with not chance of getting out ever would just be changing on type of bars for another.  Maybe they could give the ones on death row the option but I don't think many would take it if they knew what would happen.

[Moon3ye]

24 minutes ago, Baby Billy said:

Yes I think you are cruel, even it did exist the people would not stand for it.  When we send someone to prison most will get out at some point, even those with not chance of getting out ever would just be changing on type of bars for another.  Maybe they could give the ones on death row the option but I don't think many would take it if they knew what would happen.

Murderers, rapists and pedophiles who have committed crimes no longer have any human rights in my eyes. Therefore it would be a nice deal after all. Our dimension gets rid of scum and in return we get better technology.

[ruby03]

Hello everyone. I am sorry for being absent. Without further ado: 

Chapter Four: The Beginning of The Beginning.

To my complete and utter surprise, I opened my eyes. To my then continued wonderment, I was completely, glaringly aware of it. 

It took a minute for me to realize where I was. Everything seemed rather white, like a hospital with a lighting bill that would knock their accountant on his ass, and I blinked. From my head to my toes, my body felt weird and fucked up, and I realized I could think a cuss word, and that I could think plenty of words. 

Somewhere a little was crying. My eyes were still adjusting, but as things became less pea-soup blurry and more ‘I have sleep gunk in my eyes’ blurry, I realized that there was not a grand deal of real estate available to me to move around in, and the clear plastic box I apparently now called home wasn’t meant for someone old enough to roll around anyway. I squinted and turned my head in the direction of the crying, and saw a little in a white onesie get hoisted up and bounced by a real life human in a blue tee shirt, who cooed and popped a bottle into her mouth, soothing her instantly. 

Was it over? Had I been regressed? Was I still waiting to be regressed? 

The chick in the tub (because that’s what it felt like, a clear plastic tub) next to mine was stinky, we’re talking cartoon waves wafting over to punch me in the nostrils levels of rank, and as I wriggled I realized I was too, so that shut me up real quick. A flood of pee entered my diaper again, and I’d known. Couldn’t stop it, but I knew. 

I watched the same person who’d fed the other little approach the adjacent tub some confusing moments later and raise up that little too. 

“Who’s a stinky Mary,” she asked, and I saw my former friend, whose only protest was soft gurgles, squirm in her arms, looking like she’d gained twenty pounds and had a haircut and all. She stuck her tongue out, her hands moved unintelligibly, and her eyes barely opened as the orderly carried her away. 

She was regressed. That other little was regressed. And, I thought as I heard footsteps approaching my tub, I was supposed to be as well. 

I would forever thank the quick thinking that allowed me to realize one thing: I had to play the part. I unfocused my eyes and moved my arms and legs pointlessly. I couldn’t play off a newborn, but maybe I could make them think I was at least still a baby. I thought about every baby and regressed little I’d ever seen and mimicked that when one of the orderlies, who looked like a teeny-bopper if I’d ever seen one, leaned into my tub too. 

“Hiiii cutie,” she said, and I didn’t even let my eyes focus on her long, because see? Look! I’m too regressed to even pay attention for more than a few seconds. I let a gurgle leave my throat and kicked my legs. Christ, this was weird and demeaning. “Let’s get your diapy changed, yes we will, yes we will!” 

To be changed by human hands was an experience; I’d never been diapered by anyone but my own mother back in the days when I actually needed it when I was too young to remember, and this teenager (volunteer?) was not going for the gold with this one. She was hasty and clumsy, she squirted lotion all over my stomach (which I stupidly slapped with my hands and giggled at, kicking and keeping this as squirmy for her as possible), and taped my diaper too tight, but some wiggling in the cot and I could probably get this thing loose enough to be comfy again.

The whole time, I’d been craving something, and I didn’t know what, but there was something missing, that was for sure. 

Upon investigation, those bastards had taken all but five of my teeth, which was weird considering I was supposed to be a newborn like the rest of these idiots, but I wasn’t going to look a gift tooth in the mouth. Back in my cot, I ran my tongue over the gummy flesh, feeling just below the surface that they’d implanted something in there to keep my face shape. Which, I might add, felt chubbier than it’d been before, and I could tell they’d chubbed up my legs and arms. My tits were gone. I was willing to bet they’d given me a hysterectomy too. I couldn’t tell if my tendons in my leg had been cut -what the hell would that even feel like? - but as I stretched, I didn’t feel any different? 

To keep up appearances as an orderly passed, I stuck my thumb in my mouth, taking a note from Betsy, and oh, okay, that’s what was missing. The thumb felt like it was perfectly made for my mouth, and sucking it hit the craving I had just right, like a druggie getting their fix again. It made me feel relaxed, satisfied, fulfilled. 

Okay, noted: I had been regressed at least a tiny bit. I’d never had this kind of oral fixation before, so I guessed that some wires in my head had been soldered and dumbed down. Oh well, I would rather be a thubsucker like Thumbsucker than completely unaware of my environment. Maybe that little weirdo was onto something. 

Thumb in mouth seemed to make my head clear, clear enough to start coming up with a plan. My eyes scanned what they could of the ceiling, but if I tried to get up and get a full read of the area they might know something was up. I didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. As of right now, I wasn’t sure if I was still able to walk. My ankles felt normal as I grabbed both of my feet, theorizing in passing that I hadn’t been this flexible before, pretending to be fascinated by them. My brain conjured an image of myself walking, and yes, I could picture it, but there wasn’t going to be a chance to test it here. If I tried to jailbreak out of this container and discovered that I couldn’t walk, I’d flop onto the floor and be stuck there until someone saw me. Perhaps I could crawl? 

As fucked as it was, I was beginning to think that being adopted could be my best or worst bet. 

I could get adopted by some rich motherfucker with nine other littles who stuck me in a nursery and let a nanny (robo or otherwise) deal with us, hauling us out for appearances. Maybe it’d be some punishment-happy wacko who got their kicks smacking me around. I might as well still be in prison. There could be one of those people who’d adopt me to make me a pet for their spoiled rotten kid who’d pull at my hair and draw on me with marker. Now that sounded like hell, but I don’t think newborns who can’t even crawl are the usual choices for that. Granted, I wasn’t at newborn level. At least, I was fairly sure. 

Though, there was the best cast scenario, which is I got some normal suburban mother who renamed me Makayleigh June and showed me off to her friends at the local Drink And Paint, maybe wore a ‘mommy of the year’ apron and fed me while watching evening reality tv. That sounded terrible, yes, but I’d have a chance or two to try to stand up, drop the baby act, and figure out a plan to escape without her natural born 2.5 children catching me slide past the nice wainscotting and through the sliding glass door into their overly manicured lawn. 

I’d finally live that old dream of becoming a forest creature. At least I’d be free. 

For now, I wasn’t going anywhere, but I could at least try to control who adopted me, though that’d be much easier said than done. If I cried and fussed and threw up, I might attract some lunatic who wanted a challenge, but if I made myself too wonderfully appealing, the picture of a perfect daughter, I’d get snatched up fast by the wrong person. Profiling these Amazons would need to be a case by case basis. 

Plans churned and plotted in my head, I ran rampant with fantasies, an orderly came by and stuck a bottle of formula in my mouth (surprise surprise, it was the same wicked brew from inside the prison, and for once I found that dishwater taste somewhat comforting, or maybe my oral fixation just liked the bottle nipple, the jury is out) which I had to be conscious not to grab and hold on my own, since I didn’t think I’d be “old enough” to do that, and let the steady ichor of boredom creep over me. 

There wasn’t shit to do here but shit. Plan musing and people watching only took me so far, and fuck me sideways: there was not a clock in here. The orderlies checked their holographic watches, but never at an angle I could see. The big windows outside showed a cloudy day, but that meant I couldn’t even try to start training myself for forest life by learning to tell time via shadows. I got the sick idea in my head that maybe none of the babies here were regressed, we were all laying in these tubs like ‘oh shit’ and trying to play off the part of The Infant, kicking our legs and yawning and bawling at the slightest inconvenience. 

Surely there had been a mistake: for all intents and purposes, they’d aimed for me to be regressed to nothing, right? Had something gone wrong? Was my brain not wired to the lullabies and drugs they pumped me full of? I remembered detaching at the last minute before my consciousness faded away, and I’d done that just to make it more palatable for myself, but had that actually done something to my… I don’t know, psyche? My brains? I wasn’t a scientist or a doctor or a neurologist, I can never claim to be fully versed on what goes on in my neurons, but I’m almost positive something had gone wrong. My full awareness was not a planned event. 

Then again, I had these teeth. Newborns don’t get teeth. 

Just as I was attempting to get all of the red and yellow squares to their correct sides on my mental Rubix cube, someone in an adjacent cot burst into heavy, dramatic tears. Oh, what’s wrong, you got shit in your pants, baby? Me too, you’re not special. 

That was part of the rub of this godforsaken place: someone was almost always crying, and it served to make me a bit cranky, and to punctuate the monotony of laying in a plastic tub doing fuck all with pure irritation. Mary’s cry was higher than her voice had been; she’d had a low, velvety sort of tone before, but when I heard her cry it sounded like a real baby. 

Experimentally, I went “Aaaahhg” aloud. Sure enough, I felt pitched up, and my voice was craggly and raw. I hadn’t noticed when I was gurgling and giggling because I thought that was me being pitchy and annoying on purpose. Motherfucker’s had stolen my voice. There goes my promising career in opera. 

No one could even understand my jokes from here. 

I picked at my toes, pulled at my onesie, flopped around, pissed, felt my hair (they’d cut it) and sucked my thumb. This was the same level of boredom that I was facing in Intensive, though at least here I could watch the orderlies pass and make sweeping judgments about them, try to write their life stories. 

They wore name badges, and I tried to catch them as they’d gone by, but I could only see the ones who’d interacted with me in particular. The one who’d changed me was Heather, and I peggeg her as a ‘doing this for the summer credit’ sort of high school student. She was somewhat overeager but never elegantly executed in her actions, so she had the ambition but not quite the talent, at least in little rearing. I wove a narrative of her looking for a career in nursing, maybe she has a boyfriend that she’ll break up with at the beginning of her first turn at university because they totally want different things in life, he’ll do drugs but only the lighter ones, she’ll get hard drunk once and get into a fight with Bethany that they’ll never make up over until like eight or nine years later when Beth contacts her on social media because she wants to sell candles (from a pyramid scheme, of course) to her. Heather’ll get married too soon out of college to her Beau and they’ll make a baby, or adopt one if they can’t make it. 

It occupied me to think about that, and I tried it with other orderlies, though it was harder to gauge them when they didn’t interact with me. 

But hey now, I’m the one they’re here for. I can literally ask them for attention. 

As any theatre kid will tell you, it’s hard to fake crying and have it be convincing, so I wasn’t going to attempt fording that stream until I felt I really had to break out the wah-wah soundboard of ‘trying to sound like a crying baby’, but I could make a damn good noise. 

“Ahhh mawamhamhabawah!!” 

The higher voice helped. Some chick who wasn’t Heather was feeding a little three cots down from me, and I saw her look my direction and mouth “Hi!” 

Yes, you: entertain me, woman. 

I babbled like an idiot more, smiled like a big huge doofus and slapped my arms around. They had to get the clue that I wasn’t a newborn, but I felt like I wasn’t netting too huge a risk here: I think that was the point. After all, they’d left some of my teeth in. 

“Maggie, could you check on Rini?” 

Who’s Rini? Am I Rini? I’m not Rini. I’ll shit on someone’s hand if I have to live out the rest of my days named Rini. Why didn’t they just give me my old name? I had a name coming in here, I left if parked out front, I’ll give you the keys. I missed being Seenit. 

A woman, older than the teens but still youthful, who was much too pretty to be named Maggie used her slender arms to elevate me from the cot and up into the air where I could really see the place. She was holding me above all to see my kingdom, even the dark shadowy place you must never go. There was a desk, a door set in big windows, a myriad of computers, and about 15 cots. It was hard to get a good lay of the land because she was wiggling me, and I made sure to chew on my fingers, kick my legs, and what luck even a bit of drool got out of my mouth from the intrusion of my hand. 

Back down in her arms, Maggie gently took my hand from my mouth and poked my stomach, which actually tickled like a motherfucker and through my giggles, I chalked it up to another product of some regression. I’d never been ticklish besides on my feet, but her poking me hither and tither on my stomach was making me lose it like she’d told a knee-slapper of a joke. 

“Hello, hello little Rini,” her voice was pure honey, with her heavy dark brows on dark skin and a neat, slim jaw. What a woman. I felt bad for making her think I was a gooey baby, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or have me sent back to get actually properly regressed. “I think you’re just bored, aren’t you? Aren’t you? You’re in a bed too tiny for someone like you, and you have nothing to do.” 

“Too tiny,” asked one of the teens, “what’s that mean? I thought she was in the right height range?” 

“No no, Rini here is a special project,” Maggie said, and I popped my thumb in my mouth and listened while she bounced me, pretending to be trying to touch her name badge. Her full name was Margaret. “They have made her just a tiny bit older. Regression to complete newborn is the usual dictation for Little Criminals, but the program has room for small shifts. They think it’ll attract more adopters to have a wider brush to paint their adoptive palette with. She’s six months, and too big to be laying around all day with nothing to do.” 

In more ways than one, lady. 

She handed me her badge, to my surprise, and I decided that Margaret was officially my favorite. I flapped it around and chewed on it, which she had to have been anticipating.

I was supposed to be six months instead of a newborn? That must have been it: they meant to not pump me with as much regression juice and I wound up getting hardly any at all. It was a mistake, a blunder, like someone forgetting to plug in the electric chair. I was hoping that I’d done some great mind bending breaking of the system, some actual ‘use the other 97% of your brain power’ mental acrobatics, but I guess that was fine too. Whatever, I wasn’t even mad about it. Not at all, promise. 

If I was the first in the system, then surely there’d be others. I had no idea how long it would be until another weeping wonder rolled through the doors, but if they had the same result, they might not be so slick about it, which meant people would investigate, which meant they just might find out that I wasn’t completely emptied, which meant they’d take me back there and do it for real, or worse. 

The best way around that would be to put some distance between myself and the prison. Either I had to break out… or I had to get adopted. These were the cards I had on the table, the two tarot cards that an old carnival psychic had laid out for me in her smoke and mirrors filled tent. Death, and The Fool. 

I’d have to choose one, and quick. 
 

 

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next chapter will get posted when i wake up. it will be a difficult chapter for our protagonist. i hope you will continue to enjoy the story.

For now, ni ni ??

[kirababy]

nice chapter.   still have questions, but many are answered as this chapter went along

[herezulo]

5 hours ago, ruby03 said:

next chapter will get posted when i wake up. it will be a difficult chapter for our protagonist.

Hopefully that sweetness comes around soon. Poor, poor Seenit needs it.

5 hours ago, ruby03 said:

I am sorry for being absent.

You don't need to be sorry! Take all the time you need.