Personalias's Flash Fictions (Company Time)

[Personalias]

Going to use this thread to share some flash fictions over time. At about the same rate that I release them over on my patreon.  

 

What Dreams May Come

A sound, like rushing water awakens you.

You’re awake.  You’re in a crib. You’re wearing a diaper. It’s soaked and your bladder is empty. This is not surprising. You went to sleep in this crib. It’s no wonder you should wake up in it.  Same for the diaper.  It wasn’t wet when you fell asleep, (not that wet anyways) but it’s present condition is just the natural consequence of the passage of time.

You sit up and yawn away the last of the dream stuff. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if that squish beneath your bottom is poop or not.  It’s so hard to tell first thing in the morning when everything between your legs is wet and squishy.  It’s shocking just how routine this all has become.  There was time when you would have balked at all of this. Now you just accept it.

Mommy comes into the room.  “Good morning, baby!” she coos at you through your crib bars.  “Did you sleep well?  Have pleasant dreams?”

You smile softly, demurely, as you give a pleasant chirp of ‘Yes Mommy!”

“Wonderful!” she says. “Let’s get you changed and ready for the day.”  She lowers the crib bars and you climb out only so that you can climb back onto the changing table.  “Such a good baby!”

You are a good baby. A very good one.  It’s something that you’ve worked hard at. So very hard.  You haven’t had any other choice. It’s not up to you. Nothing is.  You struggled at first, but Mommy made it very clear very quickly that you could fight as much as you wanted, but it wouldn’t stop you from becoming her good baby.

“After we get you dressed for the day,” Mommy says pulling the safety strap over your chest. “We’ll get you some breakfast, and then we’ll go to the park to play.  Maybe Margaret will be there!”

Margaret is your best friend.  Your Mommy and hers had decided it. You didn’t much care for her, to be honest, but you didn’t have much choice in the matter.

You don’t feed yourself.  You don’t dress yourself. You don’t decide where you go, who you spend time with or for how long. The only freedom you have left is in your dreams.  In your dreams you can be anything.  When you’re awake, the only thing you can be is a dumb baby.  Mommy’s working extra hard on unteaching you your FZY’s.  

Mommy is a very good teacher…

Mommy tears open the tapes on your diaper and starts to clean you up.  “Oh wow!” she gushes.  “Such a wet baby!”  She drags the cold wet baby wipe across your front and between your legs.  “I bet someone was dreaming about going for a swim!”

You open your mouth to tell her what you were actually dreaming about.  You can’t remember, though.  It was so vivid, too, you’re sure!  Cold wipes on your bottom and Mommy’s cooing makes it so hard to concentrate!

Just then, Bobby walks in.  Bobby is your big brother, but not so big that you don’t have to share a room together.  Bobby has a big kid bed that looks like a racecar. Sometimes Mommy asks him what he wants to do instead of telling him. Billy can feed himself and dress himself.

Presently, he’s doing just that.  You watch enviously from the changing table while Bobby takes his pajamas off, all by himself. You stare while he strips down and takes out a pair of underwear out of the top drawer of his dresser and steps into it, easy as pie.  

Suddenly you realize the sound that woke you up was the sound of Bobby flushing the toilet, and your blood turns hot. Mommy is busy unfolding a diaper and slipping it underneath your hips.  “Mommy,” you ask. “When will I be ready to use the potty?”

“Oh,” she says, pausing for just a moment. “Probably never.”  She grabs the bottle of baby powder and dusts your privates with it.

“But why?” You ask.

“Because you’re just a baby.” Mommy says. “Babies don’t use the potty, do they?”

Bobby used to be a baby.  You know. You got here first. But for some reason, Bobby’s been allowed to grow up when you haven’t.  Again.  Grow up again. You already grew up once.  It’s weird how you have to remind yourself lately.  So much of your old life before Mommy feels like a dream; an elaborate fanfiction that you wrote yourself.

Everything from before feels less real as Mommy spreads your legs and pulls the fresh, thick, poofy, crinkly diaper that prevents your knees from touching and forces you to walk with a waddle 24/7.  It is only the first of the day. It will not be the last. You can’t remember the last time you got to wear underwear; real underwear; the kind that couldn’t be seen from space.  It was only an academic memory by this point.

You lift your head up to examine the decorations of the diaper Mommy just put you in. It has balloons on the front. The one you woke up in had pictures of sleeping kitty cats.  Depending on what Mommy feels like, you might find yourself in a diaper decorated with nursery rhyme characters or one with fishes swimming.  You don’t even get to decide your diaper decorations!

Meanwhile, Bobby would get to wear those  jungle safari themed undies all day long.

“Oh!” you gasp. “Mommy! I remember what I was dreaming about?”

“Oh?” She chuckles, “What was your dream, baby?”  She undoes the strap and helps you sit up.  Your thoughts suddenly feel as crisp as the new padding wrapped around your hips.

“I was on safari!” you exclaim. “I was hunting big game!”

“That sounds nice,” Mommy says, pulling your sleep shirt up over your head.  “What game? Checkers?”

“No!” You correct her. “Like I was shooting animals and stuff! Lions and tigers and bears!”

“Oh my!” Mommy replies.  “Are you sure you were on safari?  Maybe you were just dreaming about going to the zoo?”

“I’m sure,” you say.  Bobby has already gotten dressed and walked away. You’re still nude except for the padding. “It was awesome!”  Talking about your dreams was one of the few things you could freely do.

“Was I there?” Mommy asked.

“No,” you proudly exclaim. “Just me.”

“But if you were in the jungle hunting animals,” Mommy teases, “who would be there to change your diaper?”

That was the best part about the dream!  About all your dreams!  “I wasn’t…!” Except you were.  You immediately remember the dream.  You picture yourself wearing a helmet. A pith helmet, you think it’s called. And one of those khaki button up shirts that people always wore in the cartoons and movies.  Boots too.  But between the shirt and the boots, was your diaper.  Just your diaper.  No pants. No belt. Nothing.

And right beside you, holding your hand, was Mommy.  Even in your dreams you couldn’t get out of diapers.  Even asleep you were with your Mommy.  There was no escape. No freedom, even in your subconscious.  

A terrible melancholy comes over you.  Were you ever actually an adult?  Or have you just been fooling yourself with your dreams and they’re now finally telling you the truth about yourself.

“So,” Mommy says. “What do you want to wear today?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to sob. “I’m just a baby. You pick, please.”

“Of course, baby,” Mommy smiles. “Of course.”

[ABAlex]

HMMM

So he's an adult, died on safari, and his afterlife is to be constantly treated as a baby forever?

Is this heaven or hell?

[BabyGirlieJess]

This is beautiful. Bravo!

[Personalias]

4 hours ago, ABAlex said:

HMMM

So he's an adult, died on safari, and his afterlife is to be constantly treated as a baby forever?

Is this heaven or hell?

Not necessarily a "he".  Written in 2nd person for a reason.  

Not necessarily dead.  (Yes I know how you got that inference based on the title)

But things are open to interpretation.  Deliberately so.

[ABAlex]

1 hour ago, Personalias said:

Not necessarily a "he".  Written in 2nd person for a reason.  

Not necessarily dead.  (Yes I know how you got that inference based on the title)

But things are open to interpretation.  Deliberately so.

fair enough.

In my case I was interpreting it as male because I am male and the "you" in this case, if you understand what I mean. I do realize it could be otherwise depending on the reader.

If that is the dream to come... I'd give slightly less of a pause

 

[Personalias]

Unconventional

You fall off the spinning disk, giggling like an idiot on the floor, and dizzy as hell.  Thirty something rotations! New record!  You toss your hands up to the ceiling in celebration and your laughter redoubles in on itself when it hits you that you were actually pointing at the nearest wall.

This is the best convention ever!  Presently, you’re in the Nursery Playroom, where the littlest of the little ones like to play. That’s you right now. Definitely you.   People are playing on rocking horses the size of thoroughbreds, riding around on tricycles that are far too big, and bouncing in walkers that could double as flying saucers. And nobody is hiding their diapers.

Not fifteen minutes ago, you found yourself lying beneath a baby gym, in your t-shirt, and wet Alphagatorz, babbling to yourself and smacking around dangling jingly toys.  And it felt so gosh darn, wonderfully normal!

I belong here.  I really belong here.  I really do.

That’s what you thought. Somehow, it finally feels like you’ve come home.  Amazing!  But your attention has never been steady at the best of times, so you drifted over to this sick sit and spin and went to town until you could barely stand up straight.

A gurgle from your stomach reminds you that you’re not allowed to go full baby. No number two’s allowed in convention spaces. That bodily reminder snaps you right out of headspace. Shouldn’t have had those nachos last night. The spinning didn’t help either.  One way or another, something is about to exit you, and it’s probably out the back.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Still dizzy, you stand up on unsteady legs; you’re legs locked while your torso wobbles.  You already know what you’re going to do: Waddle to the bathroom, drop the kids off at the pool, wipe, and then come back and play. Minimum interruption!  

On second thought, maybe you’ll go back to your hotel room for a few minutes.  Nothing about the rules says you can’t poop in there. It’d be more practical too, considering you’re already wet. Pooping in a toilet and then pulling up a wet Alphagatorz would feel…weird.  You’re not in Pull-Ups, you’re a BABY!  (That’s the headspace you’re looking for anyway).

As the last of the dizziness recedes, something catches your eye.  In the back corner of the play room is an adult sized changing table. Not a repurposed massage table like in the changing rooms, a full on changing table, hand crafted and painted to look just like something a baby might use.  

You pivot and face it. How long had that been there?  You swear you cased the room and examined each and every piece of oversized baby furniture as if it were an art exhibit when you first came in.

A wave of sadness washes over you and your knees bend slightly as you start to push. The feeling of your cheeks spreading makes you groan under your breath while you stare enviously at the prop.  A prop. That’s all it is.  The convention was also quite clear about public nudity.

Your next sigh comes out as a grunt.

Your feet are still planted, your knees bent more than before.  It still hasn’t occurred to your body that you could walk and get a closer look.  Attached to the side of the adult sized changing table are several little hooks. Each hook has a diaper bag hanging from it.  The shelves beneath the top are likewise packed with diaper bags.  It seems the littles who brought diaper bags for quick changes all stowed them there.

You wished you’d have brought a diaper bag.  Or someone to carry it for you.  Another sigh escapes your top, while your bottom feels warmer and your belly feels better.

To the right of the table is an unopened pack of Little Kings. Diaper bag be damned, someone just didn’t give a damn.  To the left is what appears to be a large diaper genie.  Wow. This place goes all out. Morbidly, you wonder if anyone has snuck a used diaper in there.

Oh yeah! Used diaper! You shake the cobwebs out of your head and stop sighing wistfully of what you can’t have.  Time to…

It finally hits you. That grunting and pushing you’ve been quietly doing and the meaning behind it. You’ve been messing this whole time, and inertia and gravity is carrying the last of your mess out of you beyond your control.

For the first time in decades, you’ve just pooped your pants.  In public. Without realizing it.

Your body tenses and you slap your thighs to keep from feeling the back of your diaper.  You need to get out of here. Now.  If you’re caught like this you’re sure to be banned!  You quickly start telling lies to yourself: It’s okay. It’s okay. No problem.  You just need to casually walk out of the play room, and find the nearest stairwell, then you’ll just go up five flights of stairs, take out the keycard in your lanyard, and slip into your hotel room for a change…maybe a shower too.  Point is that as long as you don’t dawdle or get trapped in a confined space, no one will be the wiser.

You pivot around to start walking towards the playroom entrance, quietly tensing with every step.  You can feel the mess shifting around. You look down at the floor and stare at the carpet so as not to draw any attention with your uncomfortable facial expressions.

This isn’t going to work. This isn’t going to work. You’re going to caught. Caught and banned.

You raise your head a little so that you don’t bump into anyone and are forced to stop dead in your tracks.  The double doors leading out into the wider convention area are now shut. You don’t remember them closing.  Your speed doubles and you power walk to the door.  Your heart leaps up into your throat when you grab the handle and find it locked.

Why the fuck is it locked?

“Oh honey!” A voice calls out.  “What are you doing?”

You turn around and press your back to the door.  “Nothing!” You say instinctively while your mess presses against you more tightly.  “Can I please get out?”

Coming towards you, is a woman in white sneakers, blue jeans, and a hot pink t-shirt with the conventions name on it.  Oh shit! (Poor choice of words!) A staff member!  Something seems familiar about her too.  Wasn’t she the receptionist at the front desk?  You thought the hotel was a separate entity from the convention for purposes of play…

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but you have to wait here,” she says.

“Why?”  you ask.  She’s close. Too close.  You wish you could just phase through this door, or sink into the center of the earth.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, baby,” she says soothingly.  “Those are just the rules. You get to play here while all the grown-ups play out there.”

If it weren’t for the crippling fear you’re currently experiencing, such talk would send you deep deep into headspace.  “I need to go to my hotel room!” You yelp.

“Awwww,” the stranger replies.  “You’ll get to go back to your hotel room, eventually.  Don’t worry.  Do you want to lie down somewhere?  I can make a space that’s nice and quiet for you?”

This lady isn’t getting it. She is far too committed to the bit.  “I need to go change!” You all but. scream.

“Oh?” she says. “Let me see?” Quick and casual as anything she kneels down and squeezes between your legs. You’re too shocked to react while she examines your diaper and sticks her fingers past the leak guards.  “Hmmm…you’re wet, but you’re not that wet.” She determines.  “Why don’t you let the grown-ups decide whether you need changing?” She stands up and thumbs back over her shoulder.  “Go play.”

“But…but…but…I want to see the rest of the convention!”  You have to get out of here.  Noses are sniffing and time is ticking!

The staff member waves your concern off.  “You don’t want to go out there. It’s all boring grown-up stuff.  Stay and play here until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.”

The sincerity in her voice throws you off.  “What?”

“This is a grown-up convention, baby,” she says. “You’re at the convention daycare so that your Mommy or Daddy can go do their grown-up stuff and know that your’e safe.”

Was that even a thing?  Not the point. “I don’t have a Mommy and Daddy!”  You’re single, but saying as much feels like a confession of a crime or an admission of guilt.”

“Mmmhmm…” The lady nods, clearly not believing you.  “I’m sure. You’re very big.”  She drags you out away from the door and swats you on the butt. “Now go play.”

You need to regroup. Need to get out and change. Need to avoid getting caught.

Too late.  “Hold it!”  You feel your diaper being pulled back. You freeze and hold your breath.  It wasn’t exactly fun while it lasted, but it’s over now.  “Hmmmm….guess I was wrong. You do need to be changed.”

Your jaw drops open.  Her hand clamps down on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being dragged to the back corner. It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving.  “Wait. Stop!” you try to say.  “What are you doing?”

“Changing you,” she says. “You need it!”

“Here?”  

“Yup.”:

“Everyone will see.”

“It’s okay. No need to be shy. You’re just a baby.”

All of your skin is tingling.  “No I’m not!”

“Okay, honey.”  So in command of the situation is she, that she boosts you off the ground and onto the changing table in one fell swoop. Your mess mashes against your backside.  “Then let’s change that big kid diaper.  Lie down.”

Your body lies down. There’s no disobeying. You try to sit up, but a hand on your chest is all that’s needed to keep you pinned while she roots around on the shelves beneath you.  She stands back up and looks at your convention name tag dangling from your lanyard.

“Rhonda?” she calls.Another woman in a similar uniform jogs up. You’re pretty sure you saw her vacuuming the hallway when you first checked into the hotel.   “I can’t find this one’s diaper bag.”
“What’s the name?” the other woman asks.

Then they say your name.  You’re real name.  The name you introduce yourself by outside of the scene.  You grip and grab at the nametag and read it.  It’s your name.  Picture too.  The badge wasn’t like that before.  You’re smiling in the picture. Your eyes look vacant.

Rhonda rifles through the bag.  “Hmm, I don’t see it either, Debbie”

Debbie frowns.  “Maybe Mom or Dad forgot to drop it off?”

“Maybe,” Rhonda shrugs. “But that’s why we have the emergency spares.”

“I’m sorry!” You babble.  “There’s been a mistake. I won’t do it again. Please just stop!”

Both strangers soften towards you.  “Awwww, that’s not what we mean. You’re not in trouble, pumpkin.  Your Mommy or Daddy just forgot to drop off your diaper bag.”  

Rhonda rips open the package of Little Kings.  “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

The tapes scritch scratch as your diaper is opened  and your soaked genitals and messy bottom is exposed to everyone. You scream and babble while these strangers touch you in ways you haven’t been touched in a long time.

“It’ll be alright.”

“It’s just a diaper change.”

“You’ll feel so much better when it’s over.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed or shy about.”

“You’ve had these all your life.”

“Don’t you want to be a good baby so we can tell your Mommy or Daddy when they get back?”

“Just a little more, and then you can go play. Promise.”

The other convention goers, the other littles, don’t take much notice.  They’re all trapped in their own world of blocks and bead mazes.  Right as your bottom is finished being wiped, and the Alphagaztorz is being balled up and tossed away in the very real diaper genie by your feet, you see another little stop crawling and puff their cheeks out while the back of their diaper expands.  

The fresh new diaper is slid underneath you and a torrent of powder rains down on your back and front.  The little you just witnessed shit themselves keeps crawling as if nothing happened.

“There we go!”  they chirp at you, finishing the change as quickly, efficiently, and sexlessly as one might an actually baby.  “All done.”

They help you off the changing table.  “Go play.”

You stumble about in a daze.  The fresh diaper is too stiff.  They always are at first, but usually you feel more connected to it because you’re the one who put it on.

You’re not kicked out.  They seem to think you’re a real baby.  They know your  real name. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Just as importantly:  Who’s going to pick you up at the end of the day?

[Personalias]

Airport Insecurity

You’ve never been great at making smart tactical decisions when it comes to your diapers.  Years ago, when you told your vanilla friend about your kink and how paranoid you were about getting caught or someone finding your stash, they thought you were being silly.

“What’s there to catch? If somebody finds them, just say you have a medical condition or something.  Like you’re a bedwetter, or have bladder control problems.”  The flush in your cheeks was answered with their eyes slowly widening in increased comprehension.  “They have cartoons on them, don’t they…?”  The idea that there could be babyish looking diapers sized for grown-ass men and women didn’t even occur to them.

Yet it was a relief to you. Ye gods, how awful would it be if you were limited to only what you could piecemeal together and pretend was ‘the real thing’; limited to Depends and whatever outfits looked childish enough?  No bonnets. No onesies. No clothes with snaps in them.  It’d be like putting a barber’s bowl on your head and calling it a knightly helm only without Don Quixote’s madness.

No.  Just no.

Thank goodness for the internet, niche companies, and discreet shipping.
You still trended towards subtlety, naturally. You aren’t looking to force yourself on anyone. It’s just the t-shirt and baggy shorts you have on feel a lot better with a nice cloth backed diaper and a plain white onesie to hold it all together.  To one side of your brain, you’re wearing a grown-up disguise so that you can play pretend amongst the ‘real’ adults. To the other side, you are the world’s most discreet and timid exhibitionist; afraid of getting caught and shunned.

You just wanna be yourself! What’s so wrong with that?

Here in the airport security line, that more anxious side is currently blaring at full volume.  Your tongue becomes like sandpaper while you slip your shoes off and put them in a bin with your belt.  Your diaper is dry too.  You never thought you’d be too nervous to pee, but here you are.

This will be fine. There’s no risk of anyone seeing your diaper. To all onlookers, the onesie will just look like you have a basic undershirt that is successfully tucked in.  

It’s not what you’re wearing that’s making your heart thud in your chest.  It’s the bag.

It doesn’t look very much like a diaper bag. It’s plain brown with no babyish decorations.  It could be a purse, or a laptop bag, or just a satchel.

It is a diaper bag, however.  That’s what it was marketed as. That’s what you’re using it for.  It’s packed with wipes, powder, a (for now) empty baby bottle, and two spare diapers. Also your wallet, cell phone, and keys, but that’s besides the point.  

You didn’t need to bring the diaper bag along. You aren’t actually incontinent, and even if you were, your diapers are absorbent enough that they probably wouldn’t leak between now and the time your plane touches down.

It’s just…

You liked the idea of carrying around your very own diaper bag.  You romanticized the idea of having an accident before takeoff, and then sitting in for a few hours, perhaps adding to it, and then whisking yourself away to a bathroom to change.  There was something lovely about that idea…

This is stupid. This whole thing is stupid.  You should have just packed these diapers in your suitcase with the rest. The people at the x-ray machine would see your diapers. They’d see how big the diapers were. They’d know that they weren’t small enough to fit an actual baby.  

They’d know. Everyone would know.

You inhale and hold your breath as you put the bag on the conveyor belt.  “Any liquids, or large electronics?” The man stationed near the front of the belt asks.  You mutely shake your head and wince as they push your bag along the rollers towards the x-ray machine.

“We’ve got some pumps and breast milk,” a woman behind you says, putting a large navy blue bag behind your plain brown diaper bag.   You glance at her, and the color shoots away from your face and towards your feet.  Oh crap! Someone with a real baby!  The man behind her with the newborn in a carrier tells you what you already know.

“That’s fine,” the guard says.

But you know the truth.  It is not fine. You’re about to accidentally traumatize a new mother with your fetish.  You’re about to be exposed and go from being the world’s most discreet exhibitionist to a full on untouchable.

No.  You breathe.  That’s not what’s going to happen.  You temper the extreme paranoia you’re feeling with cold reptilian logic.  You’re not going to be outed here.  There’s nothing dangerous or suspicious in your bag and the people at the TSA have seen much weirder shit than some big baby diapers. You’ll be forgotten less than thirty seconds after you get through security and nobody but you and the guy looking for bombs and drugs will ever know.

“Next!” A guard on the other side of the body scanner calls you. You turn your head in time to see a man step outside of the hollow glass booth and follow in his footsteps.  You angle your head down to the floor and shuffle forward, breathing shallowly. You place your socked feet on the yellow footprints and raise your arms above your head before the person running the scanner can instruct you to.
“Arms up,” they say calmly, despite you already following their instructions.
The vertical bar quickly whooshes past your sight, scanning you in the blink of an eye. You exhale and lower your arms down.  No beeps. No boops. No buzzers. That should mean you’re in the clear, or so you think.

“Step out and to the side, please.” A guard commands.

Out and to the side?! What was wrong? What happened?  Did you leave something in your pockets?  Is something…bulging unnaturally?  You stare down at your crotch and feel as if you have X-Ray vision.  Surely, the diaper bulge beneath your onesie and baggy shorts isn’t THAT noticeable, right?

Right?!

“Come on,” the guard coaxes you, gently. “Out we go!”

You step forward out the other side of the body scanner, the papery crinkle of your diaper sounding off in your ears despite the din of the machines and foot traffic all around you.  It’s drowned out by the thump-thump-thumping as your heart threatens to leap out of your chest.

Out of the corner of your eye you see a guard at the X-ray machine rifling through a plain brown satchel bag; your diaper bag!  And he’s taking out everything!

Why?

Why would he do that? It’s just a wallet, phone, keys, wipes, and some diapers! Big, crinkly, childish looking baby diapers that fit you perfectly so as to bring you incredible joy and comfort in private and drive you to humiliating despair in public.  He stacks the two spares you packed on a counter and pulls out the baby powder. He pours some out and reaches for what looks like a chemical testing strip.

Oh no!  The powder!  They’re making sure that it’s not some kind of a bomb! You KNEW you should have packed it in your suitcase, but noooooooooo, you just HAD to live the full fantasy and smell extra babyish when you changed yourself in the airport bathroom.

You’re going to purge. You just know it. As soon as this is over, you are getting off that plane and dumping your entire suitcase full of baby clothes and diapers into a fucking dumpster.

You freak.

You loser.

You monster.

You look behind you at the lady with the breast pump and realize you haven’t been breathing.  She’s smiling and waving at you, gently shooing you forward.  

A silent prayer: Please don’t let her see what’s in your bag.  Please let her and her husband and their kid be at just the right angle so that the x-ray machine and body scanner are blocking their view of your privacy being grievously violated.

“Come on!” A strange man chirps and yanks you the rest of the way out of the scanner.

“Sorry about this, Dad,” the guard says to the stranger. The way he says it reminds you of when you were a child and people who didn’t know your parent’s names would just call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ as a shorthand.  

“Daddy?”  The word leaps out of your mouth unbidden.  You’d only meant to copy what was said, not to add your own infantile twist.

“Just hold on a second, baby,” the stranger says quietly. “Just gotta prove that you’re not a terrorist or something.”  He shakes his head and laughs to himself while he pulls your pants down, and exposes your onesie.

Terrified and overwhelmed, you freeze. Knees and elbows locked. Throat tight. Hard to breathe.  The man, Daddy, reaches right between your legs like he’s done it a billion times and unsnaps each button of your onesie.  

“I’m sorry about this,” the guard says. “It’s just protocol.’

“Yeah,” Daddy says. “I get it.”  He lifts up the onesie, exposing your heavy sodden diaper. You have no idea when you stopped holding it, but the wetness line is bright blue   “Looks like you caught us before we sprung a leak!”

The guard laughs nervously.  “Looks like it.  Sorry again.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Daddy replies. Then he looks to you.  “Okay, baby. Why don’t you step out?”  He pulls your shorts down past your ankles until they’re just a puddle on the floor.

Your legs and brain numb, your body does as instructed, stepping out one foot of a time until you’re left in nothing but your t-shirt, onesie, and socks.

“What happened here?” The woman with the baby supplies asks.  Your skin alights anew.  This shouldn’t be happening!

Daddy talks past you.  “Body scanner thought a diaper was an explosive device or something.”
The woman laughs and moves over to the rollers by the X-Ray machine.  “Not unless it’s diarrhea!” she quips.  She picks up the bag filled with milk, breast pumps and such.  The man who was rifling through your diaper bag has repacked it and handed it back to her.   “No pants?”

Daddy shrugs.  “They need a change anyway, and it’s not that cold.”  Without further preamble he grabs your t-shirt and tugs it up over your head. You’re too bamboozled to resist.

“Fair enough,” the woman says. She grabs your wrist.  “Come on honey bunny. Follow Mommy.  Let’s go get changed.”

“Mommy?!”  Your confused words fall on deaf ears.

“You sure, babe?” Daddy asks. “You got the last one.”

The conversation has started to move away from the security line.  You’re waddling helplessly behind Mommy and Daddy.  You look behind you and see that the young man with the baby carrier behind her was with another young lady.

“I’d like to nurse before we get on the plane,” Mommy tells Daddy.  “Clean bum and full tummy.  If we’re lucky they’ll sleep through the flight back home.  Keep the bottled stuff as an emergency if they get fussy in mid air.”

Daddy slows down. “Good idea.  I’ll go to the bathroom too.”  The gulf between you is increasing as Mommy leads you towards a clearly marked area designated for breastfeeding and diaper changing.

“Take your time,” Mommy calls back to him.  “We’ll be awhile.”

Everything is happening so fast, that only one word has time to come out before you cross the threshold into the nursing station.  “Home?”

You were supposed to go on vacation today.
 

[Personalias]

Flash Fiction: Patient 18 months

Angela sat in the hospital’s examination room. Emotionally, she was numb. Physically, she was cold, hungry, and had to pee. All of this was very understandable. Hospitals were kept chilly and the shirt, jeans, bra and panties, she’d put on this morning had been replaced with a hospital gown. Likewise, she hadn’t eaten anything all day.  Peeing? Well…

She was emotionally numb as a way to preserve her sanity. A lesser madness to offset the looming greater one.  Better to be in denial than to accept the impossible reality.  Part of Angela would rather die than accept this as reality.  

She might be dying, anyways. Hard to say.  She might have contracted the first of some kind of deadly life ending virus that was eating away at her insides faster than tapeworm.  People weren’t supposed to shrink.

The only thing that gave her comfort was the fact that she hadn’t been isolated in a plastic bubble by men in hazmat suits like in the movies. Nobody else seemed that perturbed by her circumstance.  Curious? Yes.  Bothered by it?  No. That gave her hope that whatever she had wasn’t deadly.

She shifted her weight, the papery rustle was nails on a chalkboard.  She lied to herself and said that it was just the paper cover of the examination table she was on. The nurse stationed with her looked up from her phone.  “You okay, hun?”

Angela lied and nodded.

“Need to lie down and take a nap?  Go night night?”

Angela blushed and shook her head.

“Thirsty?  Need some water?”

Angela’s gaze got distant. Again she shook her head. No. No more water.  Water would lead to something worse.

Besides the gown, Angela had also been forced into a Pampers, size 4. That’s why she’d had to pee so badly. The nurse had put it on her after she’d been checked into the emergency room.  She’d been told it was the only underwear they’d had in her size.  

She’d accepted it because the nurse had framed it in such a way as to seem reasonable:  

She was sick.

It was less invasive than a catheter.

She’d be less naked.

It was the nurse’s job to put one on her. Doctor’s orders and all that.

Angela was regretting her consent.  Before she’d indicated the need to go to the bathroom, the nurse had talked about using the diaper to measure her urine output. Attempts to negotiate using a medical urinal had been shot down.  

“Don’t worry about that honey.  We’ll just weigh your diaper next time we change you.”

That’s why Angela had to pee. She hadn’t gone all day and was mortified to the point of paranoia.  When you’re afraid of being forced to pee your pants, your brain hones in on the bladder and hyper focuses to the point of discomfort and distraction.  

She’d let the bevy of tests distract her from that, and other invasive thoughts.

A knock on the door, and the doctor, an Indian man with a thick mustache and a thinning head of hair, came back in.

“Hello, Angie,” he said. “I have your test results and I have some good news.”

Hope invaded Angela’s heart.  “You know what’s wrong with me?” she asked.

The doctor nodded.  “In a matter of speaking, yes.” He looked at his clipboard and.  “According to our tests you are, effectively, a perfectly healthy eighteen month old girl.” He looked up and his smile brightened. “That’s very good! Nothing to worry about.”

Angela couldn’t comprehend what was being said.  “What are you talking about?”

The doctor looked at his clipboard again.  “Well, according to all our tests, you are the median height for an eighteen month old, and at the median weight for an eighteen month old. So that’s good.”

“But I’m thirty-six!” Angela objected.

“Yes, yes.” The doctor waved her off. “I know. I know. That’s what ‘effectively’ means.  I know you are not actually eighteen months old. But your height and weight are well within the parameters of an eighteen month old. So you’re healthy.”

“Why is that important?!” Angela demanded. “I’m thirty-six! I shouldn’t be this size!”

“Well you shouldn’t also be running around like a little jaybird in public, but here we are.”

“I shrank out of my clothes!” Angela was so mad she was practically bouncing in her seat. Literally hopping mad!

The nurse placed a comparatively enormous hand over Angela’s. A soothing attempt or a quiet warning?  Both?  Meanwhile, the doctor remained unphased.  “You’re more than the height and weight of an eighteen month old, you also have the capabilities of an eighteen month old.”

That did not make sense at all.  Angela was so confused that she couldn’t even vocalize it.

“Remember those tests we did, Angie?” The doctor said, patronizingly.  “According to all of them, you’re capable of everything an eighteen month old is.  So you’re not behind at all! Isn’t that nice?”

“Of course I’m capable!  I’m an adult!”  The tests had all been simple. Basic shit.

“Not according to this test,” the doctor said. “You’re perfectly within the eighteen month range.”

The color drained from Angela’s face. “You mean I failed?!”

“No,” the doctor repeated himself. “You passed with flying colors! Right where you should be. As soon as I confirmed you were at least as capable as an eighteen month old, testing stopped. I didn’t wish to cause you undue stress by frustrating you.”

“BUT ANYBODY CAN DO THAT STUFF!” tears of frustration threatened. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FIND MY LIMITS! NOT GET TO WHERE YOU WANT ME TO BE AND STOP!”

The nurse began rubbing Angela’s bare back and shushing her.  “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

“Young lady,” the doctor said, firmly. “I have been a pediatrician for more than thirty years. I think I would know the capabilities of someone like you more than you do.” He chuckled as if he said something clever.  Then to the nurse he said. “Have we gotten any urine output or a stool sample yet?”

The nurse shook her head. “No, doctor. I’m afraid she may be dehydrated or there’s some kind of blockage.”

Angela balled up her fists. “I don’t need a diaper!”

“Then why are you wearing one?” The doctor smugly replied.

Angela pointed up at the nurse. “Because she put one on me!”

“Of course she did. You’re the size and developmental capacity of an eighteen month old. We don’t expect you to use the toilet or dress yourself.”
“I shrank today!” Angie said pleadingly. “That’s not something that happens! Aren’t you the least bit curious about that?!”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m a pediatrician. Shrinking is not my area of expertise.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

The doctor clicked his tongue. “You really are proving my point about not wanting to push your limits.”

“I want a second opinion, you quack!”

Both the nurse and the doctor laughed.  “Yes, yes,” he said. “You can get a second opinion. You can tell your mommy all about the mean doctor who wouldn’t let you have your way when she comes to pick you up.”

Angela’s eyes widened. “My…mommy?”

“Yes. We looked up your emergency contact form and called her. She said she’s happy to know that you’re healthy and safe.”

Happy? Why happy? Angela had shrunk!  Who could be happy about that?  Why was nobody as freaked out about it as her?

“She’s on her way,” the doctor went on as if any of this was normal. :”She’ll be a bit. Said she needs to get a car seat, but she’s looking forward to seeing you.”  

More surreal bullshit that Angela couldn’t understand. She should be going to some top level CDC facility or something. Not back to her Mom’s place wearing a diaper and sitting in a baby seat.

“In the meantime,” he said to the nurse, “see if you can get her to produce some urine. I don’t want her checking out until we get at least one wet diaper out of her.  Need to make sure everything is moving along. Make sure the shrinking hasn’t adversely affected her.”

“Yes, doctor.”

The man walked out and closed the door behind him.  Angela was left in complete and total shock.  The worst, most insane day of her life, a medical marvel and terror, had just been reduced in importance to something mundane and trivial.  How was this happening?! And why her?!

“Oh Angie,” the nurse cooed, wriggling her fingers. “You better watch oooout!” Her hand came close and closer to Angela’s ribs.  “Here. Comes. The. TICKLE MONSTER!”
One and a half seconds later, Angie’s diaper was no longer dry.  Through the forced laughter and tears, she already knew that the only thing she could look forward to was a dry one after the nurse or her mommy changed her.  And that was the only thing she knew for certain. Everything else was too surreal to predict or understand.  Or maybe it wasn’t.  She wasn’t a doctor.
 

[Personalias]

"No Choice".

You’re in bed.

Making love to Mommy.   

She’s wearing nothing.

Neither are you.

Except for your diaper.

“Faster, baby,” she moans. “Faster.”

You obey, thrusting into her as best as you can.
No penetration.

Pure friction.
The only lubricant you have is the wet, pulpy feeling from your diaper.  

Your dick hasn’t been wet with anything save your own piss since don’t know how long.

Literally.

You don’t know.

You’re not allowed to know.

Mommy moans turn into giggles. “That’s right baby. Just a little longer.  Let Mommy try for her third orgasm, first…”

“Then I can cum?” you ask.

“Then you can cum.”

Your gyrating intensifies. You balance yourself and adjust so that you’re sucking on her tits with her legs wrapped around you, you humping her as best as you can given your compromising condition.  You know she likes it.  You like it too.  You have to.  

You have no choice.

“Awww, someone’s hungry,” Mommy teases.  “It’s okay baby, you’re allowed.”

Mommy used to have a different name.

You used to think of her in so many different ways.

Not anymore.

You’re not allowed.

Only Mommy.

A cramp pushes through you.  Those pills Mommy has you take to make it easier to poop are kicking in.  

You want to ask her to stop; take a break.  

Go potty.

But you’re not allowed.

Despite yourself, you slow down and unlatch from Mommy’s breasts.  

“What’s the matter, honey?” she coos up at you. “Does your tummy hurt?”

You’re allowed to answer questions. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Do you have to make pushies?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Lovingly, she strokes your hair. “It’s okay honey. You’ve got your diaper on.  Your diaper is so that you can do all the important things you need to do and be happy.”

“Yes…Mommy.”  Your eye twitches.  You’re being given permission to make pushies. It’s not the permission you want.  But you’re not allowed to ask for permission, it can only be given.

“Such a good baby.”  In the darkness of the bedroom, Mommy sees your distress.  “Baby? Do you not want Mommy to give you permission to make pushies in your diaper?”

You’re still humping her.  Through the cramps. Through the conversation.  Through the anguish.  You haven’t stopped.  She hasn’t given you permission to.

You’re not allowed to stop.

“Yes Mommy…no Mommy…I…I…”  God you wish you could cum.

She’s still grinding back beneath you.  “It’s okay, sweetie.  Mommy understands. Mommy will take away your pushy permissions.”  Any relief is short lived.  “Tomorrow we’ll let you watch your special video again and then you won’t have to wait to make pushies. You’ll just go as soon as your body tells you it’s time to go.”

Those videos.

It all started there.

Maybe?

It’s so hard to tell.

This could be night one.  

This could be night always.

You could be imagining things.
You don’t know.

You’re not allowed to.

You just know that whenever you watch that special video that you and Mommy got together, you lose something, have it locked away behind a wall that your mind can no longer access.

The first thing was the ability to take off your diaper by yourself.  Or what to call or think of Mommy besides ‘Mommy’.

First thing tomorrow, you’re going to start pooping your diaper like you were never potty trained.

Yay?

Were you into this Mommy/baby stuff before the videos?  Did you wear diapers before?  Did you know Mommy before this?

You don’t know.

Access denied.  Not allowed.

“Tell you what,” Mommy says. “Make pushies on purpose one last time and then you can cum. Okay?”
“Yes Mommy!”

You close your eyes.

You grunt.

You push.

And like someone stepping on a tube of toothpaste the poop.  After the initial seal is broken, your body goes on autopilot, pushing it out.

“That’s right. Baby’s using his diaper for everything now, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Mommy…” you pant, still in the midst of filling your pants.

“Now cum, little mush tush.”

One…

Two…

Three…

That’s how many little bump and grinds you needed to push yourself over the edge. You start spurting cum into the front of your diaper right as your bowels are achingly pushing the last of the mess.  

It used to be so hard cumming into anything but another person or a tissue, now it’s nearly impossible to imagine you ejaculating into anything else.  It’s as natural as peeing your diaper now.  As natural as pooping your diaper will be tomorrow morning after the video.

“MOMMY!” You scream while you go over the edge. “MOMMY!”  Unlike the other two functions of the diaper, you have to announce your climaxes by calling out her name. “MOMMY!”

“Good baby,” she whispers. She rolls you off of her and you collapse into a post orgasmic puddle.  Mommy goes for number orgasm number four by herself.

You lay perfectly still like you’re supposed to, stewing in your mess.  When she’s done, Mommy helps you stand up and roll off the bed.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s get you changed and then Mommy will put you down in your crib.”

If there was ever a time when you and Mommy actually slept in the same  bed, you no longer remember it.  You take her hand and toddle after her into your nursery.

You hop up on your changing table and lay there in a haze while she changes your diaper.  

Wipes you.

Powders you.

Puts a fresh diaper on you.
Then she has you hop off and walk to your crib.  She gives you a kiss good night.  “Sweet dreams, little one.”

She raises the bars.  

You can’t get out.

You close your eyes knowing you’ll most likely wake up wet.

Tomorrow you’ll have a full day of watching your special videos, doing chores around the house, and generally doing anything that Mommy tells you to do… including playing with baby toys, drinking from your bottle, or taking medicine that makes it easier for you to use your diapers.

You’ve never been happier.

You don’t have a choice.

[BabyGirlieJess]

Brilliant work. Bravo!

[Personalias]

Flash Fiction: Advanced

Day 2

You’re wandering around the re-education center’s playroom. You feel the old familiar cramp in your stomach, and the fullness in your bottom.  

You stop.

You pick a spot in the middle distance.

You bend your knees slightly.

You push.

No muss. No fuss.  No crying. No shouting.  A slight groan rattles up from your throat, but that can be forgiven.  You feel your cheeks spread and your anus stretch while you push.  Gravity helps a tiny bit, but the brown squishy mass hits the back of your diaper very quickly.  You’re going to have to push the rest of the way.

This is weird. This is gross.  This is weird and gross.  Just don’t think about it.

Don’t stop!

You keep pushing.  It’s easy.  Your stool is soft and your sphincter muscle’s need to contract and push makes it feel more natural than it is.  Just keep pushing. Don’t think about the mucky warmth.  Don’t reach back and feel the lump that is forming.

You just push and push and push until the pain stops and you unintentionally sigh with relief.  Then, like a good ‘baby, you keep toddling around as if you had no idea what just occurred.  You ignore the body temperature mess or the smell that is starting to invade your nostrils.

“Hold on,” one of the Mommies says.  That’s what the center calls them here:  Every woman is ‘Mommy’.  Every man is ‘Daddy’.  She reaches around and squeezes the front of your diaper without preamble or explanation.  “You’re a little wet, but I don’t think you need a change yet.”  She gives you a tiny swat, right on the lump of protruding out the back of your onesie.  “Okay. Go on.’

So you do.

Three steps like nothing happened,and the same hand that groped you snatches you by the wrist.  “Hold up! Almost forgot!”  That’s a lie, but you’re smart enough to correct her.  You’ve seen what happens to the babies that correct the Mommies and Daddies. A mushy tushy is better than a blisteringly smacked bottom.

She starts patting your backside, practically massaging the lump in your non-pants.  “Oh wow! You really made a big poop!”

A droplet of sweat starts to form on your forehead.

“Good baby!”

She tugs at your wrist and leads you away.  Your spirits are only slightly dampened when you realize she’s not leading you towards the changing tables, but you chastise yourself.  This doesn’t bother you.  It won’t bother you. You refuse.

This Mommy parks herself in a rocking chair and pats her lap.  Without hesitation, you sit down in her lap.  Your face is a mask of comfort as the lumpy mass is flattened and spread out to more of your bum.  You nuzzle her forehead with your own like you’ve seen the other, more successful babies do.

You feel and smell gross, but you remind yourself: You’ve been here forty-eight hours, and in that time you haven’t seen a single baby have to change themselves.  Diapers are only gross when they’re your problem.

You add to that rationalization with a dash of hope. You’ve only been here forty-eight hours.  Someone will rescue you. Your pardon will come. They’ll know you don’t deserve to be treated like this.

Mommy produces a bottle and offers it to you. You take it and start suckling on it while she rocks you both.

“You’re doing so well!” she praises you.  “You’re such a smart baby!” You are. You know what’s up.  “Most babies your age need help and reminders!  But not you!”  She gives you tiny pecks on your cheeks and strokes your hair.  “You must be advanced!”

You’re not advanced.  You’re just not stupid.  Since you’ve been here you’ve seen a boy screaming through his pacifier shaped gag while Daddies held him down and inserted an enema tube up his ass. He needed help pooping.  Another girl asked for a change during naptime, so today they overfilled her bladder, waited until the wetness indicator turned all the way blue, and then chemically sedated her so she got used to laying in nothing but a wet diaper.

Good babies played the part they were given.  Those who didn’t, had things turned up to eleven until being a regular baby didn’t seem so bad.

The room starts spinning and the Mommy hugs you closer so you don’t fall out of her lap.  “Uh oh. I think someone’s getting sleepy,” she coos tauntingly.  “I think someone needs a nap.”

Your lips start to move, to ask about getting changed first.  But your speech is too slurred to comprehend. That wasn’t just milk you’d been chugging.

She bounces you on her lap, making the poop smear and smash up, as if your pants are filled with the foulest smelling playdoh. “Aw, you’re so tuckered out,” Mommy says. “I was gonna change you, but I think the rest is more important.”  

You did everything right, and you’re still getting the extreme treatment.   It’s not fair.  You can’t win.

“Let’s put you down right away, my clever little baby.  Then we’ll change you…if you need it.”

You can’t win.

That’s the lesson.  No matter what you do, you’re going to be a baby and at the whims of whomever isn’t.

That’s the real lesson.

And it didn’t even take you two days.

Maybe you are advanced.

[keith60]

i hope there is more to this story 

[Personalias]

Worst. Playdate. Ever.

“Oh no!” Lindsay cried. “Not again!”

You watch as Lindsay stands there, bow legged on the playground, yanking her skirt down as best she can even as the wetness indicator along her formerly fresh diaper turns blue.  She looks like she’s on the verge of tears…again.

Come on! It’s not that bad!  You keep the thought to herself.  Lindsay has been grieving lately.

“Stop it!” Dave screams. “Stop it!  Nnnnnn…” Dave’s protests are cut off by his Mommy’s nipple entering his mouth.  Lightweight that he is, you know that Dave is going to pass out soon after his Mommy burps him.

So much for that playdate.

“Please!” Monica screams atop the picnic bench.  “I can use the potty! I mean toilet! Toilet!”  Her Daddy ignores her, as grown-ups tend to do and continues to change her diaper, a soft satisfied look on his face.

You see Lindsay’s face wracked in revulsion in seeing Monica get her poopy bottom wiped and re-powdered.  Yours is also contorted, albeit for a completely different reason.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Couldn’t he have at least taken her to a bathroom?”  Lindsay wonders aloud.

“Why would he?” You ask.  “He doesn’t have to go.”

“Yeah…” Lindsay drops her head. “Neither do I, anymore.”  Her laugh is low, bitter, and short. You allow your hope to flicker on.  Maybe she’s finally starting to get used to it!  See the bright side!

“Do you wanna go play or something?” you ask.

Lindsay looks like you just slapped her  “Play? How can we play at a time like this?”

“I..uh..”

“I just pissed myself! Everybody seems to think we’re babies and we still have no idea why! Dave’s getting breastfed over there for gosh sakes!  Why would we play?” 

The beads of sweat you’re breaking out into have little to nothing to do with the heat.  “I dunno. I just thought it could be…fun?”

“Fun?!”  Lindsay shrieked.  “How could any of this be fun?  We’re in friggin diapers!  Dave is getting breast fed!  Monica is being forced to expose herself to everyone! And you…did you just shit yourself?”

Your cheeks flush.  The word ‘just’ was doing a lot of lifting there.  “Yeah…” you whisper.

“Ew!  Go get changed!”  She takes several steps back from you.  Her compassion suddenly kicks in.  “Sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?  You seem to have been um…slipping more these past few days.”

You really have, though maybe not in how Lindsay is using the word.  “Yeah,” he sigh. “I’m okay. It’s just tough.”

“It really is,” she agrees. “It’s like we’re being punished or something.  Like we didn’t appreciate our adult lives and so somebody took them away to teach us a lesson.”

“Yeah…” you half heartedly agree.  

“Do you think we’re getting worse?  Like, if we stay like this, we’ll forget that we’re really adults?”

You shrug and say “Maybe,” to prevent lying.  If only it was so easy.  But if that happened, would they really still be your friends? You wistfully look over at the slide.  Should have gone down that first.  “I should go.”

“Oh yeah,” Lindsay says. “Go ahead and get that taken care of.  Don’t want to get too comfy in a dirty diaper.”

“Nope…” You lie and trudge off to find Daddy.

Lindsay throws her head up to the sky!  “WHY ARE WE LIKE THIS?!”  To all outside observers her existential crisis looks more like a tantrum.

The better question is: ‘Why do they keep choosing to be miserable?’.  All of you were run ragged by your adult lives. Lindsay in particular should have been happy to not have any responsibilities. Her deadbeat boyfriend turned it around too in becoming her Daddy.

But she bitched and cried about her job all the time. The only difference between now and a few days ago is the aesthetic.  

You really thought they’d enjoy it, or at least give up on trying to figure out what turned y’all into babies; maybe give it half a chance.  But two weeks later and their resolve has yet to break.

All you wanted to do was share this side of yourself with them. Treat them to the nostalgia of Sesame Street and nap times.  But they’re still resisting.  To hear them talk, sleeping in a crib is akin to a prison cell.  Being bathed, dressed, and fed by someone else is some kind of torture, and laying down for a diaper change is a fate worse than death.  Yet Heaven forbid you keep playing in a diaper that isn’t perfectly pristine.

Worst. Playdate. Ever.

As you approach Daddy to get his attention, you notice that Lindsay has sat down on the ground and started sulking.  That’s good, at least.  The first time she wet herself she was bawling uncontrollably.  Now she’s up to sitting and pouting while wet.  Probably because her Daddy won’t change her until she actually needs it.  You definitely like her boyfriend better this way.

It’s progress though.  Maybe a few more weeks of this and they’ll come around to the upside of it all.

Then you can stop pretending to struggle, too.

“Awwww,” Daddy coos.  “Do you need a change? Smells like it?”  He picks you up and grabs for the changing supplies.  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up you little stinker.”

“Yes Daddy,” you say.  Then you remember yourself.  “NO! WAIT! STOP! I’M NOT A BABY! I’M NOT A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABY! PLEASE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
 

[Personalias]

Mistake

You said that there had been some kind of mistake.

They said they believed you but that certain protocols had to be followed, just in case.

They promised that the sailor outfit they dressed you in was the most grown-up outfit they had in your size, and you didn't want everyone to see you in just your diaper, did you?

As you watched them write your name on a cubby right next to the changing table and slide a stack of fresh diapers in, they told you it was just a formality and if you told them you needed to use the potty like the grown-ups they'd take you right away.

You proved how big you were by eating and swallowing all of the funny tasting food without complaint, taking each spoonful offered up to you in that highchair with grace and aplomb.  Not fussing and fighting like the real babies were.

You were so good, they praised you and gave you a bottle of chocolate milk.  You almost complained, but then remembered yourself and sucked down the sweet stuff without comment.   Nor did you protest when they patted you on the back until you burped.  You thanked them instead.

You didn't play with the other kids...the kids...not other kids...you weren't a...no...not at all.  In fact you rejected their silly stories about how they too were adults who had woken up here and were now being babied against their will.  How ridiculous!  What an imagination!

There was a close call, admittedly, when your pants warmed up and you thought you might be peeing yourself.  Oh no! How would anyone believe you were a grown-up if you were wearing a wet diaper?!

But when one of the workers checked you, they said "You don't need a change just yet."  What a relief! Still, it felt weird...like the diaper had expanded somehow.  Heavier.  Less crinkly.  And your gait had more of a waddle to it.

That was a while ago. Any minute now the people in charge of this place would realize the mistake they made, give you back your big kid pants, and you'd be on your way home.  According to one of them, it was almost lunch time, and after that would be a nap. Any. Minute.  Now.

You stood up from your little one person huddle (why were you squatting?) and sighed your relief before the sound of a giggle and the feeling of your diaper's waistband being pulled back caused your spine to go ramrod straight.  NOW, they told you, it was time to get changed.

Holding their hand and waddling to keep up, you tried to protest.  There had been a mistake!  You weren't a baby.  You were potty trained!  Honest!  This was just an accident!

The caregiver just laughed and clicked their tongue.  It was no accident, and who would ever potty train you?  You were such a sweet thing and far too little to potty train.    
You rattled off everything about yourself.  Name. Birth date. Occupation. You were too old to be a baby!

"I never said too young," the caregiver clarified. "I said 'too little'."

Now you're on the changing table, the bottom half of your sailor outfit stripped off you, and your soggy and messy diaper on full display for everyone.  Not that anyone cares to look or feels embarrassed for you.  Getting changed here is nothing to write home about.  Commonplace.

You suck on the soother offered to you and brace yourself while someone else's hands go to undo your last bit of privacy. As the sound of ripping tapes fills the air, the last truly adult thought you'll ever have flashes across your mind.  

"Maybe I made the mistake."

Nanny 

“But I’m not a baby!” you hear yourself whine.  Admittedly, the argument doesn’t too sound convincing when you put it that way. It doesn’t sound convincing considering how you look, either.

You’re in a highchair.  “Your highchair”, Nanny said
You’re wearing a bib.  “Your bib”, Nanny said.
And booties.  (Your booties.)
And mittens.   (Your mittens.)

You’re bereft of any other clothing except for of course, “your diaper”.

Add to that the omnipresent smell of baby powder, the globs of mush smeared over your mouth, and the crinkle that happens every time you wriggle in your seat, you don’t look like you’re fit for any other part BUT baby.

It’s been a rough day, so far.

“I’m an adul-” your words are cut off as Nanny forces another spoonful of the hideous mush into your mouth.  It’s a weird tasting mix of pumpkin and chocolate that does NOT go well together.  It’s got a chalky aftertaste that’s laced all to hell with fake sugar.

“I don’t feed grown-ups,” Nanny says before dipping another spoonful into the jar.  “I feed babies.”  She must feed babies ALOT.  You’re already three jars in, the cramps have already started, and   Nanny shows no signs of stopping.  “What are you?”

“I’m an adul-!”  The spoon cuts you off.  

You swallow.  She speaks. “Grown ups don’t need Nannies. You do.”  She won’t even say ‘adult’. It’s always ‘grown up’ this or ‘grown up’ that.

The cramps are getting stronger.  Something about it must show on your face.  “Something wrong, baby?” she asks.  

You grit your teeth.  “Nnnn-nnnn…”  It’s a lie. She knows it.  Another cramp flares up and you squirm. The crinkle reminds you of the alternative.

No-no-no!  You are NOT going to poop your pants!  You are NOT doing that to yourself!  You are NOT a baby no matter what Nanny says!  The next cramp makes it so you have to close your eyes and clench your cheeks.  The pain is traveling all the way down to your legs it's so bad.

Can Nanny help baby?”  you hear.  You’re doing everything you can to hold it in.  It hurts.  Everything hurts.  You’re GOING to poop yourself, part of you knows.  Yet you fight. If you can just keep your padded ass planted against the highchair’s hard wooden seat, nothing will-

You open your eyes just in time to see Nanny press a button on the highchair's side.  You hear a faint click and then feel the bottom drop out beneath you.  You don't fall out. The trap door isn't enough to cause a fall. You didn't fall.  Something else did.

The seat wasn’t there anymore.  And everything that was holding back has just come flooding out into your diaper.  You’re crying, not bawling.  Babies ball.  Adults cry.  Right?  Right.  That’s what you tell yourself.

You look up at her.“Nanny?”  You whimper.  “Can you please change me?”

Nanny folds her arms in front of her.  “I don’t change grown-ups.  I only change babies.”  She looks you in the eye.  “So... what are you?”
 

[Personalias]

Playground Check

"Sweetie! Come here.”

You get off the spring pony and toddle over to Mommy sitting on the bench.  “Yes, Mommy?” you say.

“Let me check you.” She says it nicely enough, but you know it’s not a request.

She slips two fingers into the leg hole of your diaper.  “Sweetie, are you wet?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am.” You say.

“Do big kids go pee pee in their pants?”

You shake your head. “No ma’am”

“Why didn’t you come tell me?”

“I was playin’.”  This is only a half-truth.  It was easier not to think about what you’d done when you kept your mind and body otherwise occupied.

“That doesn’t sound very mature, does it?”

Again you shake your head. “No ma’am.”

“Turn around.”  She makes the little circular motion with her finger as if you don’t understand.

Looking out at the playground with all of the other “babies” playing, you shiver as you feel Mommy slide her finger into the back of your diaper and pull it back, getting look.

“Sweetie,” she says, “are you messy?”

You nod. “Yes ma’am.

“Do big kids go poopie in their pants?”

“No ma’am.”

“Why didn’t you come tell me?”

“I was pwaying.”  You swallow hard.  You hadn’t meant to say it like that!

“That doesn’t sound very mature, does it?”

“No ma’am.”

Hands on your shoulders she turns you around to face her. “ What happens to big kids who go pee-pee and poopie in their pants?”  Your avert your gaze to the mulchy ground beneath you, but her hand is on your chin, tilting it back up so that you have to look her in the eye.

What happens to big kids who go pee-pee and poopie in their pants?” she repeats.

You swallow again. “They get a...a…” You do your best to enunciate. “They get a spankin’.”  At least you didn’t drop the s this time.  Little victories.

“And what happens to babies who go pee-pee and poopie in their diapers?”

“They get a diaper change.”  Your cheeks feel thirty degrees warmer.

“That’s right.  Now, which one are you?”

You hate this part. You love this part. “A...a baby.”

“What was that?”

“I’m a baby…” you say.  “Change me?”

“Okay, sweetie,” Mommy coos.  “Let’s get you changed.”

Like a good baby, you take her hand to go to the big brick restroom by the playground.  There’s a changing station in there.  Mommy doesn’t budge.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she says.  “Mommy doesn’t have to go potty.”  She guides you down to the park bench where she was sitting. “We’ll do it here.”

Panic!  Embarrassment!  Pending humiliation!  “But Mommeeee!” you whine as your back hits the slatted wood.

Mommy’s not listening.  She’s already sliding your changing mat beneath you and fishing out a pack of wipes and a fresh diaper.  You turn your head to the side and see all of your little friends still playing on the playground.  They’ll see!  Everyone will see!

“Your diaper was clean when we got here,” she says.  “If you can go pee-pee and poopie in your diaper in front of your little friends, then you can get it changed in front of them too.” From the diaper bag she takes out a binkie and pops it into your mouth. End of discussion.

You do your best to block out the world, covering your eyes with your hands and sucking on your binkie.  But it’s very hard to ignore Mommy’s wiping down there. “Excuse me,” a very deep, masculine voice says. “I couldn’t help but hear what you were talking about with your baby.”

Mommy doesn't even pause from wiping you down. She’s done this so many times, her arms are practically on autopilot. “Just a little conditioning routine I worked out," she says.  "Good for training."

"Not potty training" the man says.

They both laugh.  You just hide your face.

You peek out from behind your hands.  Standing next to you is a Daddy and his little boy.  The little boy is sucking on a pacifier and does not seem happy to be here.  That makes two of you. “Do you do it every time?” the Daddy asks.

“Mind sharing some of those tricks?” he asks.  No regard for your modesty, the grown-ups start their conversation as Mommy finishes diapering you.  You stand up and give her a hug, yet another ingrained behavior that you can’t quite shake.

You wiggle your hips a little and feel the clean crispness of the new padding on your butt. A smile spreads out over your face.  You don’t want to like it, but you can’t help it.  You literally can’t help it.

Mommy gives you a pat on your fresh diaper and tells you go to play so that she can talk to the nice man.  The Daddy gives his boy a matching pat, sending you two off to play.

“Sorry in advance,” you say to the newcomer.

“About what?” he asks, pacifier still wedged between his lips like a cigar.

“About what my Mommy is gonna tell your Daddy,” you say.  “She’s really good.”  Really good.  Too good, in fact.  So good.

He spits out the pacifier.  “HE'S NOT MY DADDY!” he yells.  “I’ve never even worn this...this...THIS...” he gestures to his pantsless diapered state; just like you.    

You believe him.  You relate to him.  But he doesn't understand yet.  The grown-ups always win in the end.

“Sure sure,” you say, not wanting to get into an argument so close to the grown-ups.   If his daddy is anything like Mommy, this is about to be the new normal for him.  “Let’s go play in the jungle gym.”  

You toddle off, not looking back.  There's no point in looking back...

[Personalias]

Company Time

You love shitting on company time. That’s what you call it most every morning when you go to use the office toilet. Calling it that started out as a way to get over your own public restroom neuroses.  The cramped little room with just a sink, a mirror, and a toilet all surrounded by walls thin enough to make you feel like you were going in front of the whole office would make anybody a little gun shy.  Over the years, the thought has mutated into your own quiet act of rebellion.

With the way the economy is you might never own a house or go on vacation or ever have enough money to retire.  Like everybody else you’re still living paycheck to paycheck since moving out of your parents’ place.  But the thought that the office technically pays for you to sit and zone out on the toilet for five to ten minutes everyday makes you giggle like a toddler. As soon as you thought of it like that your bladder and bowels became a little less nervous; talk about a different sort of potty training.  

The roar of the toilet flushes announces your departure from the bathroom and you do a wide right turn into the office kitchen past Susan by the copy machine.  Barry is leaning against the counter, nursing from a mug. “Coffee?” he moves out of the way so that you can get to the boiling pot beside him.

“No thanks,” you say.  Normally you can’t function without your morning cup of joe. It’s another one of those tiny conveniences that you like to avail yourself of if only to feel like you’re taking advantage of the company.  For whatever reason, you’re just not feeling it today.  Perhaps it’s because you’ve already taken your morning dump, thus the coffee would only serve the purpose of making you more alert.

Dang, you’ve been here too long. You can’t even remember when you started working here.  All the days and faces have just sort of blurred together through the years.  You really need to get out of this place. Quit this job and find someplace else to work.  But then what would you do? Shit on your own time? No thank you.

Nothing in the morning box of donuts looks particularly appetizing, so you grab a bagel and start waddling over to your desk.

Waddling?

You blink, but your eyes stay wide open.  The air itself goes static like the space between channels on a beat up old television. What’s going on?!

On your last exhale you were at your job.  On your next inhale you are somewhere very, very different.

You’re in a place for kids: A daycare. Maybe a preschool.  A giant one. The ceiling is as high as a ballroom. Toys litter the floor and colorful posters with cartoon characters on them encourage you to ‘be a good baby’, ‘forget your troubles’, and ‘obey’. In your hand where the bagel was is the biggest teething ring you’ve ever laid eyes on.

As for yourself, you’re standing barefoot while wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a soft poofy diaper. What’s more, you feel a distinct lump resting in the back of it. You smell it too.

Two giant arms grab you and launch you skyward.  You let out a shriek as an incredibly loud voice proclaims. “Upsy daisy!”  If you had anything in your bladder before, you certainly don’t now.

You’re pivoted around and draped over the giant’s shoulder. You feel the impossibly large hand pat your padded bottom and squish the diaper’s contents up against you.  “Somebody needs a changey!”

You almost call out for help, but when you look out into the pastel colored coliseum all you see are other giants, compared to whom you are a toddler at best, and your coworkers; also dressed in babyish garments and thickly diapered.  The only difference between you and them is they all seem to be having a blast while they babble and drool on the floor. Sharon is chewing on a cardboard book and Barry is nursing from a baby bottle!

A few strides later, you’re staring up at the ceiling while the giant is rummaging around for powder and wipes with one hand and pinning you with the other.  You must be on a changing table of some sort.

“Please! No!” You shout as her hands go for the tapes on your diaper.

She stops, her eyebrow arching in curiosity, but not fear.  “Beg pardon?”.

“I’m not a baby!”  It’s all you can think to say.

“Okay,” she chirps. “Do you still want out of this messy diaper, sweetie?”

Of course you do!  You’re not even supposed to be wearing one of these…things! “Yes!”

SCRITCH-SCRITCH.

That’s enough for her to rip the velcro tabs off and start wiping your privates down. Your protests are drowned out by her cooing while she dusts your bum with sweet smelling powder and slips a fresh diaper beneath you.

“Denise!” the giantess calls while she tapes the infantile undergarment around your waist. “Can I get a fresh bottle?  Someone hasn’t had their ‘morning coffee’ yet!”

A rubber nipple finds its way to your mouth and your lips begin to automatically suckle, as if by reflex.  “That’s right,” the giant praises. “Good baby. Drink it all up!” She giggles to herself.  “Drink it all up and go bye-bye. You’re not a baby. You’re an adult.  It’s not baby time! It’s company time! That’s right! Yes it is! Yes it is! Now go do big important business stuff!”

A few involuntary swallows later and the world blinks again.

You’re sitting at your desk, sipping from a full mug of freshly made coffee.  The scream of existential terror rattles out of your throat, but no one seems to mind it over much despite this being a place of business.

“Ooof,” you hear Barry say. “Somebody’s not a morning person. Sounds like the coffee hasn’t kicked all the way in.”

“I feel the same way,” Sharon agrees. “I really need to get out of here and find a new job.”

“Yup. Now if you excuse me, I got some business to attend to.”

“In the bathroom?”

“If you gotta go, go on company time.”

They both laugh.  You drink more coffee, hoping it will help you forget and ignore the obvious bulk in your pants.