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(Contains: nudity, sexual themes, strong language and ideologically sensitive material)
Chapter 20: The Wake

   An hour later, Chris laid back in his hospital bed, the sheets pulled up to cover his legs.  He had spent the better part of the hour, planning and plotting his next move in the drama that his life had become.  How to explain this to his family without coming off like a liar or a lunatic:  That was the question, wasn’t it?  Still in the visitor’s chair, holding a “Feel Better Soon” card, was Wubby.  The whole hour long, Chris was tempted to walk over and at least turn the bear around so it wasn’t facing him; but deep down he was certain that Wubby would be turned back around and staring by the time Chris laid back down in the bed.
 Chris was tired, both physically and emotionally but he had eaten the so called “breakfast” of dry toast, orange juice and scrambled “eggs” that the hospital had given him.  Hospital food: the one thing on this planet that might be worse than school cafeteria food.  His dad had joked with him before that the terrible food was an incentive for the patient to get better and get out.  A rare joke from his father, to be sure, and therefore a precious gem of a memory that Chris hoarded to himself.  Chris had the distinct feeling that there would be no jokes told today.
 When the family came in, the room stopped being a patients’ room in a hospital and became more akin to a viewing room at a funeral home, and Chris was the corpse. And whether it was grief or morbid curiosity, everyone wanted to see the corpse at a funeral.  The family came in and talked to him in small trickles, even though he was sure they all came to the Hospital at once.  No one wanted to rouse the madman Chris had become in their eyes by crowding into the tiny room.  Logically, Chris actually assumed that Dr. Gupta had told them to visit in small doses, but this was small comfort compared to the look of worry in their eyes as they came.  Chris would have to use his words to beat that worry into oblivion and hope that it wouldn’t be replaced by something worse, like anger or revulsion, or even doubt.

    Brianna and Samantha were the first to be alone with him.  Sammy immediately took up a station by his bedside, her beanpole frame complimenting the pole holding the I.V. bag that was still tethered to him.  Her eyes were probing him for something, questioning him with a strange fascination, even though her mouth was drawn shut.  
  Bri walked over to the visitor’s chair and regarded Wubby for just a moment, before tossing the stuffed animal on the floor.  She then plopped herself down and fluttered her lips the same way a horse does.  That was Bri for you, the true baby of the family. She was always comfortable in her own skin, and not particularly caring if she pleased anyone; which oddly enough was kind of endearing.  Bri was the first to break the silence.

   “You crazy?” she asked, bluntly.
   Chris guffawed at the directness of the question.  No “How you doing?” or “Are you okay?”, just “You crazy?”

    “I think I might have gone a little crazy,” he told them.  “But I think I’m alright.”  He took a deep breath and was about to start his homespun excuse when-

    “Did they really put you in a diaper in here?” Sammy blurted out.  Chris whirled his head around.  He caught sight of her expression.  He caught a flicker of excitement in her eyes; an ember of hope.  Sammy’s eyes quickly darted toward his crotch.  She was scanning for the tell-tale bulge of a diaper.
    Shit!  Not here too!  Sammy was only supposed to be fascinated by diapers when Chris was the baby, and even then she wasn’t SUPPOSED to be fascinated by diapers.  There had to have been some bleed-over from when this reality reasserted itself over his fantasy one.  Chris made eye contact with Samantha, and both of them started to blush from embarrassment.  

    “So you, uh…heard about that, huh?” Chris sheepishly asked.

    “Sorry,” Sammy whimpered, looking away.  “It’s just kind of funny, that’s all.”  A tiny, forced, fake smile appeared on her face.  She laughed awkwardly through her nose.  It was a fake laugh.  There was nothing funny about this to her.  If anything, Chris could tell, Samantha was actually a little jealous.

     “Why’d you go crazy?” Bri cut in to the awkward moment, seemingly oblivious to her older siblings’ feelings.  Chris could have hugged Bri right then, he was so grateful for the opportunity to slip into the lie he had concocted.

       “You girls know what sleep psychosis is?”  Chris began.  Both his sisters shook their heads.  “Well I haven’t been sleeping well since I got home from school, since before I got home from school, actually,” he paused, waiting to hear them object or provide counter evidence to his lie.  They gave none, and just waited for him to continue.  “Sleep psychosis is when you don’t get enough sleep, and then kind of just go….well…crazy till you get some more.”

     There was silence for a time.  The girls waiting for Chris to elaborate on his lie, and Chris waiting for them to accept it.  Absently, Chris wished that he was on some type of heart monitor or some other piece of equipment that made regular, reassuring beeps to mark the passage of time.

   “So you went nuts,” Bri finally spoke, “because of insomnia?” the look on her face was incredulous, but not necessarily disbelieving.  It was the face of a girl going “Seriously?  That’s weird,” not “Seriously? You expect me to believe that bullshit?”  
  “I think it’s more like insomnia taken up a couple notches,” Chris elaborated on his con.  “I don’t mean I didn’t sleep well, I mean like I didn’t sleep at all, for close to like…two days straight.”  Both sisters nodded.  Good. They were buying it.  Time to wrap it up.

  “At least, that’s what I think happened,” Chris added, sounding like he was correcting himself.  “I guess I’ll know more when the chief psychologist or psychiatrist or whatever tells me what he thinks.  My best guess is I’ll be out in a day or two after they observe me and know that I’m not going to go crazy again.” He saw a shadow of doubt cross their faces.  “Look,” he cut off their concern, “I’m really, really sorry if I scared you guys during my um..err…episode.  I hope you two can forgive me for what happened.”

   Both girls looked as if they were about to melt with the love and pity they felt for their big brother right then.  Of course they forgave him; they were just worried about him and didn’t want anything bad to happen to him.  They told him as much about a second after he was done speaking, but their faces had telegraphed the sentiments long before their voices announced it.

That was the trick to it: top off a big lie with a sprinkling of sincerity. All was forgiven, Chris knew, at least to them, and it was time to move on.  For the girls, that meant not talking about this once he got out of the hospital- for Samantha, anyways- Brianna would likely bring this episode up after enough time had passed where it wouldn’t hurt Chris so much, as much as annoy him so she could rub it in his face.  For Chris, moving on meant that the practice round with his sisters was over and now it was time for the real challenge.  

    He sat up in his bed and opened his arms, and each of his siblings walked over to him in turn and gave him a hug before leaving. Chris glanced over Bri’s shoulder, to see Wubby back in the visitor’s chair, “Feel Better Soon” card still being held, even though Chris was certain that neither Samantha, nor Briana had picked him up off the floor.

    “Who brought in the teddy?” Samantha wondered aloud.

     “You mean Wubby?” Chris waved the question off.  “Oh, I think your mom must have brought him in to make me feel better.”  Chris knew this to be a lie before he even finished the sentence.

   “Kay kay” Sammy accepted the lie as she crossed the threshold.  “By the way,” Sammy added, poking her head back in through the door.  “Why do you keep calling her ‘your mom’?  She might not have given birth to you, but she’s kind of your mom, too.”

   Roxanne came in next, but this time, her jasmine perfume did not accompany her.  She looked tired, like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for several nights.  Chris reasoned that maybe she hadn’t.  Her hair seemed stringy and straight in some places and tangled and curly in other places.  She had no makeup on to conceal the dark bags under her eyes.  Her shoulders slumped a little when she walked, and even her breathing had the not-quite-yawning rhythm of the exhausted.  She may have literally just woken up before driving over to the hospital with Dad and the girls, and Chris would wager that it hadn’t been a very restful sleep.

   “Hey baby,” she whispered as she leaned in and gave her step-son a hug.  She draped her arms over Chris, and he felt the full weight of her slight frame on him.  Just when Chris was wondering if Roxanne had fallen asleep on him, she withdrew and gave him a hug.  She smiled at him, and even her smile seemed exhausted.  

   “Um, you can sit down if you need to,” Chris motioned over to the padded chair.  Roxanne looked behind her at the chair with Wubby and the card.

    “Thank you,” Roxanne said wearily, as she took Wubby’s spot and sat him on her lap.  “Who brought your bear in?”

    “The girls snuck him in for me just a second ago,” Chris lied.  “Look, Roxanne, I just wanted to say”

   “Hold on,” Roxanne held up her hand to signal.  “I’ve got some things I need to ask first.”  Her voice was serious, almost grim.  Chris’s breath caught in his throat.  She looked at him, and Chris could feel as if she was looking through him, as if she knew he was prepared to cover her in lies before he even spoke them.

   “Chris, this thing; this that you’re going through; with you crying and screaming…” every word was becoming measured, like she was afraid to ask it.  Chris thought she might be on the verge of tears.  “Is it, is it because…I mean does it have anything to do with me and your father?”

   Now it was Chris’s turn to look incredulous.  She had been blaming herself and Dad?  How the hell did that come about?  

   “No! Don’t be ridiculous!” Chris blurted out, completely unguarded.

   “Are you sure?” Roxanne half-pleaded, her eyes on the verge of desperate relief.

   Chris turned the question over and over in his head.  In a way, Roxanne was definitely a part of this.  He had the weirdest mix of oedipal crush, childlike adoration, and adult respect for her. Since he had returned home from college he had been getting his fantasy made real in small doses- the good and the bad- and she was part of that fantasy, he could not deny that.  But was she the cause of it?  No.  No she wasn’t.  And was she responsible for all this?  Was this her mess to clean up?  No.  No it wasn’t.

   “I’m sure,” he told her.  “Why, what’s going on?”

   Less of a sigh and more of a gasp of relief flooded out of Roxanne’s throat when Chris absolved her, and she looked up.  “I was so worried about you, Chris.  Do you have any idea?”  Chris had seen Roxanne as an adult, and had gotten used to over the years seeing her slip into “Mommy Mode”, but this may have been the first time he had seen her enter “Mother Mode.”

  “I do now,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”

   “I’m just glad you’re talking again,” Roxanne reassured her step-son.  “You were a mess there, kid, you have no idea; and we’ve all been worried sick.  And when I came into your room that night to check up on you, I knew, I just knew that something was wrong, and a few minutes later…well, do you remember what happened?”  Chris nodded mutely.  “With everything that’s been going on with your father and I, I thought that maybe that’s what had been upsetting you and the stress had pushed you too-“.

   “What’s going on with you and Dad?” Chris interrupted.  Roxanne went silent, and her eyes flashed panic.  She looked worse than the person who accidentally spoiled the ending to your favorite book.

   “You mean you’re father didn’t tell you?”

  “No. What?” Chris asked and the question hung in the air like a balloon.

 “Look, that’s not important,” Roxanne waved the question away.  “What’s important is you getting better and getting back to yourself.” She stood up and walked over to the bed with fresh resolve in her step. Wubby tumbled to the floor out of her lap.  She had the fresh resolve of someone wanting to change the subject.  “Now, honey, has the doctor told you, or do you have any idea about WHY this whole thing happened.” She looked down at him into his eyes.  Ah yes, the old “Look me in the eye” trick,” Page 356 of the parent’s handbook.  It was a variation on it, to be sure, one motivated by love and worry instead of doubt and anger, but it was the same thing.
  Chris winced as he bit down on his tongue.  As much as the little boy in him wanted to tell her the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, the rational adult in him knew that best case scenario she’d think him a liar.  Sometimes the truth was just too fantastical to believe.  The “sleep psychosis,” bit wouldn’t fly here.  

  He quickly struck a compromise with the two parts of himself.  Just as an actor might mourn their character’s dead brother on stage, and produce that sincerity by thinking about how sad they were when their goldfish died; Chris could tell her the truth in feeling, without giving her the truth in fact.

   “I’ve got some ideas,” he answered, “but I’m not really sure.  I just haven’t really felt like myself since I got home from college.”  He was building up steam, he could feel it.  “It’s like one day, I’m regular old me, but something is missing.  And the next day I feel this completely different side of myself, but the old part of me is gone.  It’s like I’m teeter-tottering.”

    Roxanne looked him the eye, and nodded.  He had told her the truth, even if it was only the emotional truth.  Perhaps that’s all that mattered.  She looked into his eyes and brushed his hair off his forehead.  

   “You poor thing,” she said, and let that sentiment just float in the air.  For several minutes they said nothing and just regarded each other.  “Your father’s outside, waiting,” she finally broke the silence.  “He says he wants to talk to you in private about this.”  Chris felt himself go rigid.  Dad?!  Here?!  Nononononono!  Chris jumped as Roxanne rubbed his forearm soothingly.

   “It’ll be okay, hon,” Roxanne comforted Chris.  “He just wants to talk.  He’s just as worried as the rest of us.  But you know how your father is about sharing his emotions.”  Chris did know, better than most.  That slow, dry, dismissive joke the other day while Chris had sat in the highchair was about as jovial as the man got, and unless it was a sporting event, his dad never shouted.  He never had to.  Ever since Chris could remember, his father had used words like a surgeon with a scalpel: slowly, cuttingly, and precise, never using more than necessary to obtain the intended effect.  Chris had definitely taken more after his mother in the personality department, and to an extravert like Chris, his father could be almost alien.

  “Me and the girls are still right outside the door,” she told him.  “Don’t worry.  You’re his favorite, so I don’t think he’ll be too hard on you about this.”  Chris smiled politely at that.  He thanked her and told her that he loved her, and then on something of a whim asked:

  “Oh yeah, how’s Barbara?”

   Roxanne’s expression changed for some reason, and Chris couldn’t quite read it just then. “I wouldn’t know,” was all she said in a flat tone before grabbing the door handle.

   Roxanne opened the door and slipped out, as Chris’s father strode in.  A chill filled the air as Dr. Christopher Cole III walked in.  He was still dressed down in his dark blue button up shirt, black slacks with matching socks and loafers.  His hair, as always, was impeccable and neat enough so that a military man might be envious.   His eyes regarded Chris coldly, and he just stood there.  

    Chris could see that his father hadn’t been sleeping as well.  But where Roxanne looked more beaten and weary for the fatigue, it only made Chris’s father seem fiercer.  His eyes were more sunken in than usual, and his jaw moved back and forth as he ground his teeth together.

 Dr. Cole eyed the door, like a burglar on the lookout for the cops.  Slowly, the man turned around in the room on a pivot and took it all in.  Door, whiteboard, TV, and finally the chair, Wubby newly appeared on it.  His eyes fell on Wubby, and he readjusted his posture so that he was facing the stuffed bear.

  He was staring at the bear, Chris realized, staring into its mismatched twinkling gem eyes.  Perhaps he was entranced by them; or perhaps he was locked in a contest of wills with the plushie, daring it to blink first.

“Dad I-“  but Chris couldn’t finish.  Dr. Cole had whipped his head around and cast the full weight of his gaze on his son.  Chris’s eyes searched the room for something to focus on, he couldn’t bring himself to look his father in the eye right then.  He wanted to be able to look at something, anything, other than his father.  Wubby’s beady eyes had turned back to coal black.  Dr. Cole had won the staring contest.
“I know about the diapers,” Dr. Cole finally spoke up.  His voice was barely above a stage whisper, but it echoed through the little room all the same.  Chris felt his face heat up.  Chris tried to say something, but someone had poured quick drying cement down his vocal chords.

 “At first, I thought it was drugs,” Dr. Cole told him, “but then the toxicology reports came back negative.  So I started looking in your room.  Guess what I found under the sink.”

  “Dad,” Chris began.

  “No,” his dad cut him off, voice still barely whispering.  “I don’t want to hear it.  The girls told me about the sleep psychosis bullshit you just shoveled on them and I already talked to Sherry.  Bed wetting?  Really?  She might be that naïve, but I know.”

   Chris couldn’t feel the thump of his hear anymore.  It had sped up in intensity to a low hum.  Chris had dreaded that this day might come, and now that it was happening, he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a protective ball and die.

  “Dad, I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Chris whispered, trying desperately to keep his composure.  He could feel the salty tears breaking past his eyes and flooding out onto the plains of his face.

“How did you want me to find out you have pedophilic urges?!” Dr. Cole snapped, his voice raised to normal conversation volume, his lips curled back into a snarl.

 “WHAT?!” Chris shrieked.  “I’m not-“

  “Quiet,” Chris’s dad hissed back down to a whisper.  Chris tasted blood in his mouth, he was biting his tongue so hard. “You’re wearing diapers, but you’re not incontinent, you’re lying about it, and you’re searching google for Kiddie Porn” he spat, “with phrases like ‘adult baby’ and ‘autonepiophilia’ and ‘paraphilic infantilism’.  And you’re doing it all in. My. House.  I don’t even begin to know what ay-bee-dee-el is.” His voice had lowered to a whisper now, but his facial features had intensified.  He wasn’t a doctor right now.  He was a prosecutor, and his own son was the accused and guilty until proven innocent.  “You’ve even got a God Damn Teddy Bear!  At your age!  For fuck sakes, I wouldn’t be surprised if you faked this whole breakdown thing just so that you could have someone put a diaper on you.”    
   Dr. Cole stood up and regained his composure.  His breathing slowed, and he hid his rage behind a mask of calm.  This was too much.  Chris had to make it right, but how?  There were no websites or research studies or any evidence at all any more to prove that he wasn’t this…this…Chris couldn’t even bring himself to think it.

    “Dad, pleeeease,” Chris almost to wailed.  “I can expla-“

   “No,” his dad spoke up, firmly.  “No.  Don’t explain it.  I don’t want to know.”  He turned his back to Chris.

   “But Dad,” Chris begged,  “just let me-“

   “No Christopher,” his dad wouldn’t let Chris even finish a thought.  “This is something we are never going to talk about after this.  I don’t know anything, and I don’t want to know anything.”  Chris saw his father visibly exhale like a smoker after taking a long drag.  “Dr. Gupta suspects that your recent outbursts may be nothing more than unchecked bi-polar disorder, and maybe he’s right.”  There was a pause.  

  “But even if he isn’t, Christopher, here’s what’s going to happen:  He’s going to keep you here for observation, and you’re going to be on your best behavior while here.  I’ve pulled some strings already so that you’ll be discharged tomorrow morning.  He’s going to prescribe some medication to you and you’re going to accept that.  I don’t’ really care if you take it or flush it down the toilet.”
    Chris just sat there, feeling more and more numb with each syllable his dad uttered.  The judge was passing sentence on him, and he didn’t even get his defense.  He didn’t even deserve his defense in the court of Dad.

   “Then we’re not going to talk about this again,” Dr. Cole continued, “You can stay at the house for the rest of the summer, because I love you, but as soon as the summer is over, you go back to college and you start applying to med-school.  Then you get your life back on track.  Is that understood?”

   Chris bowed his head.  “Yes sir,” was all he said.

   “A few years down the road, when you’ve completed your residency, if you’re still having these urges, you can save up some of your own money and go on a secret vacation to some South Asian bordello or whatever, where they cater to this kind of shit.”  That last proclamation hurt Chris more than any of the accusations.  “But,” he emphasized,  “we will never talk about it, and you had better take precautions so as not to get caught.”  He turned around to look at Chris’s quivering, crying on the verge of bawling form.  “Do you understand?”

   “Yes sir,” was all Chris could say.  It was the only answer his father would accept.  Dr. Cole walked back to his son’s bedside and put a big hand on his son’s shoulder.  He sniffed the air distastefully.

“You are a Cole,” he growled, “not an invalid. And definitely not a freak.” He added with emphasis.  But that last part didn’t ring true in Chris’s ears.  He knew, as far as his dad was concerned, that he was a freak.


   “YOU HAVE HAD YOUR MOON!” The two voices boomed in the empty field. “NOW CHOOSE!”  Ward stood before the two stones in the field, contemplating his next action.   Later, more civil generations would remember him as a young boy; but for his time he was certainly man enough, even if his voice still cracked on occasion.  That was the reality of life these days.   No matter what, Ward realized on an unconscious level, however, that the reality of the situation didn’t seem to matter.  The stones had seen to that.  His story, if it was ever told, would likely remember him as some gangly youth, just barely off his mother’s tit, -despite the bulging biceps he had built in the smithy- confronted by destiny.

The first stone glowed red like a hot coal on the forge that he had worked only a short time before all this madness.  It was smoothed and polished, like an egg ready to hatch.  In it was a shining, glimmering sword of the purest steel.  Even now, it whispered to him, like a scarlet lady wanting another roll in the hay.

Its brother, the second stone, was as blue as a freshly frostbitten corpse in the dead of winter, and as jagged as the wildest mountain peak.  The dull scythe, a farmer’s tool that had not yet become synonymous with death, embedded in it whispered different promises to the young boy.  They were not, however, promises of happiness.  They were merely the assurances of the sad facts of a common, unremarkable life, much like an old man who predicts the future to a young man by simply recounting his own life.    

   “So what’s it to be?” Ward wondered aloud.  “Arthur the King? Or Wart the Peasant?”  If he chose the sword embedded in the red stone, he’d get to be king, perhaps even the greatest king ever.  Gwen, the noble girl who barely noticed him as a black smith, and who was disgusted with him while he was the dirty peasant, was madly in love with him and devoted when he was Arthur.  

 That high and mighty French tosser, Lance, was his best friend when he was Arthur.  And a true and noble friend he was.  He wasn’t even mad that Ward, or Arthur as they called him during his scarlet days had stolen Gwen’s heart from Lance, because in that version of things, Gwen had never been Lance’s to begin with. She had always been Arthur’s.  

   “But would it mean anything?” The voice of the blue stone whispered to him.  

   Ward knew that if he chose the scythe in the blue stone, that his life would be unremarkable again, but worse off than even before.  Before, he had at least been an apprentice black smith.  During his azure days, he wasn’t even that, but the lowest serf.  Worse yet, he was an orphan, without even the old Blacksmith there to adopt him and apprentice him.  And yet, how enlightening had his azure days been!  How clearly he had seen the world for what it really was when he looked up from the bottom.  He could perhaps make the world a better place, not just for himself, but others as well with what he had learned during his time as Wart.
   “But will you be able to climb from up the bottom?”  The voice of the red stone giggled.  The red one had a point.  But, as the old man, (the wizard, wasn’t it? No, that wasn’t quite right) had told him, regardless of which life he chose, he’d always have the memories of his other life with him.  Perhaps he could choose one stone and use what he learned while under the influence of its brother to make his way.

 One thing was certain though: It was either to be Arthur or Wart.  Ward was dead now, and no one would ever remember to mourn him.  It was the Sword or the Scythe, and there would be no in-between this day.

   “I make my choice,” Ward boomed, “that is no choice at all.”  Ward grabbed the pommel of the sword and with a mighty heave, pulled it from the red stone.

    “My choice is made!” Arthur, King of the Britons roared in triumph.

  And so, that game was played, and Ward, for some time Wart, but now Arthur, would go on to live a life so extraordinary that he is only remembered as legend; his deeds relegated to the realm of the impossible and fairy tales.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: nudity, sexual themes, strong language and ideologically sensitive material)
 Chapter 19: Hospital
  Chris was startled back into consciousness by the crisp rapping on wood of a knock on the door.  His eyes snapped open with a start, just in time to be burned by the flick of a light switch.  The muscles in his corneas ached and retracted as the fluorescent lights buzzed on without warning.  Chri’ss face became a raisin as it crumpled up almost involuntarily.  He tried to shield his eyes with his hand, but he had forgotten that his arms and legs were restrained.  He received barely a quarter inch of movement followed by a sudden halt for his troubles.  
   “Good morning, Chris,” an unfamiliar voice with a dark timbre sang as his eyelids refused to open. “How are we feeling today?” It was a woman’s voice, that much was obvious; but nothing else really stuck out. He was obviously in a hospital of some sort, but Chris had so many questions in his head:   How did he get here?  Why was he strapped down to the bed?  Where was his family?  Why was he still wearing a diaper? How long had he been like this?
    How was he feeling?  Pretty damned confused to say the least.  He was confused enough that he didn’t think to answer the woman’s question.  When his eyes had stopped aching from the rather sudden exposure to light, with no warning he might add, Chris opened his eyes once more.  The woman who had walked in, who had said good morning to him, had been a nurse.
    She was a black woman, in her 30’s or 40’s by the look of her.  She kept her hair up in a bun and wore pink scrubs.  She wasn’t skinny, but Chris wouldn’t say overweight either, and if she was, she carried it well.  “Pleasantly Plump” might be the best word for it, but Chris had never found someone who actually found that phrase flattering.  Chris’s eyes darted around the room where they came to rest upon a whiteboard on the wall facing him.  It said “Your Nurse for Today is:” and the name “Gloria” was written on it in red dry erase marker.  Above it was a digital clock that read 6:13.
   “Well, I bet you would like to get out of that wet incontinence brief, wouldn’t you?” the nurse, Gloria, said.  Chris looked down, and saw the rather obvious bulge of a diaper around his waist.  It was apparent even under the hospital gown that Chris had awoken in.  He averted his eyes, and blushing, nodded his head.  He looked up to her and saw that she wasn’t even looking at him.  She was busying herself with putting some latex gloves on.  It was only then that she turned around to face the young man strapped to the bed.
    “Oh, almost forgot,” Gloria corrected herself before turning and speed-walking out the door, her shoes squeaking with each step.  Two seconds later, she walked back through the door holding something.  It was square cut, and double folded with a line going down the center.  It was purple with a light plastic sheen.  A diaper, Chris recognized, an adult diaper specifically, or rather an incontinence brief, the politically correct medical term.
   Chris’s breathing hastened.  This stranger was going to change him?!  He had been changed by a stranger, Barbara, just yesterday, but then he had been a baby, at least.  Now he was back from being Chris the baby to Christopher Cole IV, pre-med student.  His modesty was viciously reasserting itself.
   The nurse flung the top of his hospital gown back onto his stomach, revealing the adult diaper, its wetness indicator faded after a long night of use.  There were no amusing decorations adorning the landing panel of the diaper, only a pinkish purplish hue, and six little tapes secured the absorbent undergarment to his body instead of the two big ones that he had become accustomed too.
  Chris’s eyes widened in horror as Gloria’s hands reached to undo the first tape of the diaper.  He felt almost as weary of this as when Sammy had been trying to change his diaper, yesterday; though he could do even less about it than before with his hands securely fastened to the bed.  At least this was a medical professional instead of a pre-teen. Truth be told though, really the main reason most people in the hospital don’t mind when a nurse or doctor sees them naked is they are too tired or hurt to care.  Chris was neither and this was getting awkward, fast.
   “Umm…” Chris blurted out, “is this really necessary?”  The nurse froze, looking at Chris as if it were for the first time.  
    “You talked,” she said.  The way she said it made Chris realize that she hadn’t expected him to; perhaps hadn’t expected him to be able to.
  “Yes ma’am,” Chris nodded.  There was silence as Chris and the nurse just stared at each other.
    “Do you know your name?” Gloria asked after much too long.
    “Christopher Cole, the fourth.”
    “Do you know where you are?”
    “Um…a hospital?”
     “How many fingers am I holding up?”
     The nurse looked absolutely flabbergasted.  Apparently holding up three fingers and asking Chris to count had been her trump card.
    “Um…Gloria,” Chris started to say,
   “How did you know my name?” Gloria cut him off, seeming amazed.
   “Uh….I read the whiteboard…?” Chris motioned with his head.  Gloria seemed on edge but nodded.  Apparently she was having a stranger morning than Chris was, or so she thought anyways.  She continued to nod to herself and her lips pouted while she considered.  Chris felt his bladder ache as the fog cleared from his head.  He had wet in the night, but the tank was refilled now.
    “So,” Chris said breaking the silence, “can I please go to the bathroom?”  
   “You need to go?” Gloria asked.  Another stupid question.  Chris did his best not to roll his eyes.  What wasn’t he communicating properly?  Chris just nodded his head quickly, trying to convey urgency.
   “I’ll have to check with the doctor,” Gloria said before standing up,  “can you hold it?”  Chris wasn’t happy, but yes, yes he could.  He told her as such and the nurse shuffled out of the room, taking the adult diaper with her.  Chris grumbled to himself.  As far as he could remember, as of yesterday it was no big deal if he pooped his pants, and today he needed a doctor’s note to take a whiz.
   Chris looked over to the corner, where the plush pleather chair for visitors was located.  Wubby, his teddy bear, was propped up on it, holding a card that had “Feel Better Soon” scrawled on it in crayon.  Chris remembered the last thing he had said, late last night to the bear, while he had lain in his comfy crib.  ‘I’ve overcome the last hurdle you threw at me.  What else you got?’  
“Me and my big mouth.” Chris growled.  It seems that just when he had about given up, Wubby plunged him into some fantasy reality where he was some overgrown infant, and just when he was getting comfortable there, Wubby dragged him out where he would find himself in some God awful situation.  
   Chris was beginning to doubt his own theory that he had the power and that Wubby was just a manifestation of his will.  A world where infantilism didn’t exist….maybe….just maybe. But even in his most self-loathing state, Chris would never will himself into this mess; not even subconsciously.
 The minutes dragged and stretched on.  This was made worse by the fact that he really had to pee and there was nothing to occupy his attention other than his aching bladder and wall mounted clock.  The nurse could have at least turned on a T.V. or something before she left.  It’s not like he could hit the call button either, his hands bound as they were.
   Chris began to assess the situation.  Clearly he was in a hospital, in a diaper and tied to the bed.  They only did that to patients who were a serious risk to others and to themselves.  He glanced at the IV still in his wrist.  Maybe however he got here, the doctors were concerned that he’d try to remove it.  But why the diaper?  Catheters were more efficient overall and less likely in the short term to cause or spread infection.
   Undressing himself so he could look himself over was out of the question at the moment, but some form of emergency surgery seemed unlikely.  Nothing hurt. Period.  At least not the kind of pain you’d associate with going under the knife.  He wriggled his nose and detected no intruders, so no feeding tube; that likely meant that he had been responsive and conscious enough to give food.
  Chris was tempted to just relax his bladder and soak the already used diaper, but some part of him didn’t want to.  He feared that he’d be looked down upon for having an “accident”.  He wouldn’t be some small child to these people, but incompetent and somehow lesser if he did so.  No, he wanted out of this place as soon as possible and the fastest route home likely started with being able to hold his piss in.
  Just as Chris was having second thoughts about the whole to pee or not to pee thing, Gloria the nurse walked back in, a man in a white lab coat, presumably a doctor.  Chris couldn’t get a good look at the doctor as he was almost literally on the nurse’s heals and her head or her shoulder, or a clipboard or a shadow kept obstructing view of his face as he entered.  Chris couldn’t see the face, but he did see the doctor’s pants.  
   His pants were a familiar black with purple pin stripes, clashing entirely with the black and white wingtip shoes.  “Well, Nurse Gloria,” a hauntingly familiar if muddled British accent crashed into Chris’s ear drums, “what seems to be going on here?”  Chris was no longer believing in coincidences. There couldn’t possibly be someone who dressed that ridiculously other than the old man at the mall.  What had his name been again?  He had been magic, Chris remembered that much.  He was some kind of a-

  “Wizard!” Chris yelped.

  “I beg your pardon?” the doctor asked, stepping forward in front of the nurse.  Chris was wrong.  Dead wrong.  Apparently there were at least two people who shopped at the same absurd clothing store.  The man standing before him was at least half a foot shorter than the gangly old carnie out at the mall, clean shaven, and more importantly, Indian.  
 “I said I have to whiz…hard.” Chris bit his lip.

  “Ah, well, I can sympathize,” the doctor said, looking Chris in the eye before going back to whatever chart he had been eyeballing.  “But can you hold it for a few minutes while I ask you some questions?”  Chris groaned inwardly.  He really did have to pee, now that he was thinking about it.  But right now, he felt he was in no position to make demands.

  “Shoot,” Chris said after a long sigh.
  “Do you know what day it is?”
   Chris did some math in his head.  Assuming, time was moving normally for him regardless if people thought he was a baby or not…hmm…He came home from college Friday night, woke up as a giant baby that Saturday, was completely normal on Sunday, and had Sherry walk in on him in the adult diaper (much to his chagrin) that Monday morning.  He had been a baby again all day Tuesday, and the little “playdate” with Angela was yesterday- Wednedsday- so by default, that would make today –
   “Very good,” the doctor nodded.  “And are you aware of how long you’ve been here?”

   “Since Tuesday?”

  “Correct,” the doctor confirmed.  “Now, do you know why you are here?”.  Chris caught site of Wubby, sitting in the guest chair.  The doctor and nurse were half blocking his view so that he could only see half of Wubby.  Wubby’s blue eye glittered in the sunlight.

  Images flashed in Chris’s head.  Before the transformation had happened, he had been in his room, alone, looking desperately for any evidence that his fetish existed.  There had been none.  Zero.  Not even a trace.  Even the so called “sexologists” and researchers that identified it as autonepiophilia, or paraphilic infantilism, didn’t seem to exist anymore, or at least their research didn’t.  Chris had felt at an all-time low; just like he had felt before he had realized that there were others, that here were people like him.  He had taken all of this in in silence and something in him had just…snapped.  

  “Oh….yeah…” Chris whispered.
“I beg your pardon?” the doctor asked.

  “I had a…” Chris gulped, his mouth suddenly becoming dry and scratchy.  “I had a nervous breakdown.”  This wasn’t a question.  It was fact.  He had been wailing and bawling his eyes out.  He had chucked his computer chair across his own wall and probably and had been howling like a maniac.  If Roxanne hadn’t burst in the room in a panic, it may have escalated.  He wasn’t in “fight or flight” mode so much as he was in “destroy everything else or destroy self” mode.  When at the height of his mania, time had frozen and the infantile reality had reasserted itself.  And just as how his family seemed to know nothing of his time as a big baby, and believed he had been doing the sorts of things he would normally do as a young adult, his family was equally unaware when he was treated as a baby that he was ever anything but.

   So when time froze in the midst of his panic attack, a nervous breakdown over a piece of his life disappearing had been downgraded to a wet bed and a leaky diaper.  Even with all the strangeness, the time as a baby had been somewhat cathartic at the very least; therapeutic even.  But just as life went on without him when he was a baby, and vice versa, he supposed his family could not have ignored the giant tantrum he had been throwing right before.

    The terrible to mediocre Adam Sandler movie with the magic remote control came to mind.  While Sandler had been “fast forwarding” through life, his body was left on auto-pilot.  The same principle clearly applied here.  While Chris had been in “baby mode”, his adult-self had gone on doing the same things he had done right before the switch.  This wasn’t so bad before the first change, since all he had been planning on doing was waking up, whiling away a few hours and then going on a date with Sherry; and apparently that’s what everyone had remembered him doing.  But right before the second change he was in the middle of losing his mind…and apparently that’s what everyone had remembered too, now that he was an adult again.
  The thought that he had perhaps really had been going crazy, and just couldn’t settle in his mind.  The last two days had been too vivid, too coherent, too real to just be his imagination.  
Why the transitions though?  Why onto one high followed by a new low? What was the connec-

 “Are you alright, Mr. Cole?” the doctor broke Chris from his own reverie.  Oh yeah, people noticed when he was quiet now and expected him to talk.  How quickly he had almost forgotten.

  “I’m fine, Doctor…?”
   “Gupta,” the Doctor finished.

  “Doctor Gupta,” Chris pleaded, “may we please continue this conversation, after I’ve used the bathroom?”

  “Yes, yes,” Dr. Gupta nodded, “that’s fine.  You do seem quite cognizant right now.”  He turned to Gloria.  “Nurse, if you’d please unfasten Mr. Cole and give him some things to clean up with.”

   The nurse walked to Chris’s bedside, and undid the restraints.  “There are some wet wipes by the toilet,” she instructed, “once you’ve cleaned up, just leave the brief on the floor, and I’ll get it on my way out.”
    Chris nodded briefly as he ran sat up and shuffled, toward the bathroom.

    “Careful!” Doctor Gupta cried in alarm.  “Don’t forget your I.V. bag!”  

   So, Chris was denied complete privacy due to a bag on a pole connected to his wrist.  The bathroom was too small for him to maneuver with the pole holding the I.V. bag, so he had to settle for the door open only a crack.  He unceremoniously ripped off the tabs holding the brief together and was pissing into the toilet bowl before the brief managed to land on the floor with a sodden plop.  Oh, there was something quite gratifying about holding your bladder and then emptying it somewhere other than your pants.  He looked down at himself, and realized that his pubes had been shaved.  The stubble was just beginning to grow back.

    Once the stream stopped, Chris grabbed a couple of adult incontinence wipes and cleaned himself up.  Wiping himself lacked the intimacy and feeling of vulnerability that having someone else do it gave him.  Still, he at least kept something of his dignity.  

     When he was ready, he took a deep breath and then trudged back in the hospital room proper, Doctor Gupta and Nurse Gloria still waiting for him.  He sat down in the bed, positioning his hospital gown so that everything would be covered down there.

  “So…” Chris began, letting the word hang in the open air.

   “So…” Dr. Gupta returned.

    “Psych ward?”


    “What happened?”

     The doctor took a deep breath and then exhaled.  “You were brought here when your family dialed 911.   You were incoherent and flailing on the floor.  You did not respond to speech.  The paramedics had to sedate you to keep you calm.  You’ve more or less been in what is termed a fugue state since this morning.”

      Chris nodded.  That was about where he had left off before his trip into baby land.  “The restraints?”

    “When you were admitted, you resisted any and all attempts to draw blood, or insert a needle into your skin.  We thought it might be an allergic reaction, or drugs.  That and you were thrashing about unless you were chemically or physically restrained.  We didn’t know what was in your system, so we opted for physical restraints, at least at first.  Though we did give you more sedatives so that you wouldn’t thrash too hard.”

   “The diaper?” Chris asked.  “Why not just a catheter?”

   “You began defecating on yourself,” the doctor replied curtly.  An awkward pause followed.  

   “Feeding tube?”

   “Not necessary, actually,” Doctor Gupta explained.  “You took solid foods quite well, provided they were spoon fed in small pieces to you.”  Chris shuddered at that mental image.  That had to have been awkward.  A nurse feeding him as a vegetable conjured a much different mental picture than a mommy feeding a him as a baby.  Now came the hard questions.

  “You know my dad?” Chris looked down in shame.

   “I do,” Doctor Gupta confirmed.  “He’s the head of the Emergency Room, though we don’t cross paths overly much.”

    “Does he know about this?”

    “About you being awake and responsive?  Not yet.” Doctor Gupta told Chris.  “But he is off today, and I promised to call your family if anything changed.  The fact that we’re having this conversation is most definitely a change.”  Before Chris could ask his next question, Doctor Gupta answered it for him.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were here within the hour.”

    “Good,” Chris said in resignation.  That’d give him just enough time to think up some excuse.
Back from Teddy Con!  It was awesome.  Now on to writing more CoC!  Expect Updates this week!
Going to Teddy Con Tomorrow.  Be Back Later.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: nudity, sexual themes, strong language and ideologically sensitive material)
    “What a revolting development this is,” Chris muttered to himself as he sat moping in the tiny chair, his knees close to chest level from how low the chair was to the ground.  He shifted uncomfortably in the plastic seat and heard his own diaper loudly crinkle, probably still dry.
  As this reality of him treated like a baby had stretched on from a few hours to what was at least two days, it was getting harder and harder to tell whether he was wet or dry unless he was in the middle of being changed.  His diapers tended to wick wetness away from the skin, and the feeling of a broken in, but otherwise unused Pampers was becoming nearly indistinguishable to him from the feeling of a wet diaper once the urine cooled down to room temperature.  The sudden rush of air on wet privates, and the crisp dryness of a fresh diaper as it was fastened onto him, however, still managed to be distinct and pleasurable- a fact his penis had advertised to Roxanne this morning as she changed him. Though, to be fair, the intimacy of her motherly cooing and the sharp relief he felt that it was his step-mother and most definitely not his kid sister wiping him down most definitely also contributed to his little soldier standing at attention while he had lain on the changing table.
   No, his diaper wasn’t the problem.  The dress he was wearing was.  Chris stared at his knees, covered in bright, nauseatingly pink cotton, with the skirt of the dress puddling at his feet with frills embroidered around its edge.  His shoulders were bare and exposed except for the frilly ruffles that resembled rosebuds.  The cut of the almost neon pink abomination that hung off his shoulders was very modest and “ladylike”, but the damn thing was at least two sizes too big for him and so the whole ensemble drooped off of him like he was some type of cheap hooker or a last minute prom shopper at a thrift store who didn’t even know how to sew.
  To add insult to injury, there was the plastic tiara, the sides of which sank in behind his ears like a pair of giant novelty sunglasses won from a carnival.  To prevent, the front of the tiara from sliding over his face like the aforementioned sunglasses, his captor had ingeniously used an old birthday party hat- the bright yellow cardboard kind with the elastic string that went around the intended wearer’s chin- to strap the degrading accessory in place and make the whole outfit even more degrading.  To sum up, Christopher Cole IV, pre-med student was currently wearing a diaper that fit him perfectly, a pink ball gown that was too big for him and a plastic tiara strapped to his head by a child’s party hat.  In other words: he looked and felt like a clown-whore.  
    He looked at his fellow captives.  To his left, a Dorra the Explorer doll that had had a bad fight with a permanent marker, and lost…but at least she got to wear shorts and a t-shirt, lucky bitch.  Chris suspected that Dorra’s clothes were sewn on and couldn’t be removed, if the other prisoner was any indication.  To his right, was a naked baby doll, with dirt smudges in uneven splotches on its cloth-like skin; at least he hoped that it was dirt.  Its plastic head, too heavy to be held up by its own stuffed shoulders, drooped in defeat, its spirit broken.
   Sitting directly in front of him across the round, yellow plastic play table, holding a plastic tea pot which she daintily mimed pouring into a miniature plastic tea cup, was his present captor and tormentor: Angela.  This had been the playdate that Roxanne had been talking about.  Even with the two days in between of being treated his age- the incident with Sherry finding him in a wet Depends notwithstanding- Roxanne hadn’t forgotten the encounter at the library with her old friend Barbara and her pre-school daughter, Angela.   They had set up a meeting, Chris remembered, so that Angela could play with a baby, act as a trial run for being a big sister, and remind Barbara what it was like to be mother to a child that required regular ass wipings.  Also, it was an excuse for the two women to gab like when they were sorority sisters, or high school pals, or whatever-the-hell younger age they were when they were best friends and inseparable yada yada yada.
    To be fair, while no detective, Chris had known something was up as he was being dressed for the day.  Roxanne had neglected to dress Chris in anything other than a t-shirt and diaper for the day.  When going out in public with his then infant and toddler sisters, Roxanne had always dressed Sammy and Bri in onesies, shorts, shortalls, or baby dresses with matching diaper covers no less. Basically, they never went out without wearing something that would cover their diapers.
    Chris had asked her why, and Roxanne had replied with “Would you want to be out in public in just your underwear?”  
     Chris had thought to himself, “If the underwear is a diaper and I could get away with it, maybe,” but had instead answered, “But, they don’t care, and I don’t think anyone else would either.”
     “Well I do,” Roxanne had told him, “When you’re a parent and you’re dressing your children, you can decide what they go out in, but till then, my babies, my rules.”
     As he had been buckled into the car seat in what was functionally just his underwear, Chris knew something was up.  Roxanne would have to be extremely comfortable with whomever they were visiting to let them see one of her darling babies in an “indecent” state.  Within fifteen minutes, his conclusion was validated as they pulled up to the one story, pale yellow house that looked tiny compared to Roxanne’s two story brick.  
     Her step-son on her hip and a diaper bag on the opposite shoulder, Roxanne knocked.  The door flung open.
   “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” The two women had said-sung to each other as soon as the front door had swung open.  
    “Come in, come in.” Barbara gestured with a half bow, her short brown hair contrasting against Roxanne’s pale blonde locks.  
    They weren’t five steps inside the house when Chris found himself rump first on the floor looking up at the two women as they hugged like long lost sisters who hadn’t seen each other in ages, never mind the library a few short days ago.
    “It’s been too long,” Barbara said.
   “Ages,” Roxanne smiled back.
    “Uh…library?”  Chris piped in, not caring that he was going to be ignored.
    “Look at us,” Barbara said as she and Roxanne walked over to a nearby tan couch and sat, “we’re Mommy’s now.  The both of us.”
    “Honestly wouldn’t have expected it, myself Babs,” Roxanne had agreed.  “Now I’m doing the baby bit one more time,” she sighed.  “It’s worth it though, and fun,” she added.  Roxanne looked over to Chris, “Isn’t that right my wittle Chrissy?!” Chris felt himself blushing a little as he took in the house.

    This was definitely a house where a small child lived.  Dishes in the sink not yet washed, some toys haphazardly piled in the corner, the hum of an overworked washing machine humming somewhere in the distance and a stressed out middle aged woman on the couch looking at a peer like a visitor from a foreign land.  All the signs were there.

   “Angela!”  Roxanne’s friend called out, “Come out here sweetie, mommy has a playmate for you!”
   And in a blur of tromping feet, there she was. Angela:  Three feet of toddler terror wearing pink light-up shoes, black tights, a polka-dot skirt, a purple Barney T-Shirt and her tow headed hair up in pig tails.  The hell had happened to the quiet little girl, hiding behind her mommy’s legs in the library?  Giggling with excitement, her gaze fell on Chris and her eyes widened.  “Baby!” she gasped in an almost reverential awe.  
   “Yes, Angie, a baby.” Angela’s mother agreed.  “This is, Chris, and he’s only…” she paused, “how old is Chris now, Roxanne?  Eight months?  Nine?”
    “He’s just a baby,” Roxanne said as if that was a legitimate answer.
    “Just a baby,” her friend, Barbara, Angela’s mother, echoed as if she had heard a legitimate answer.   Only the old magician in the mall seemed to be immune to the reality warping properties that Chris had somehow inherited.  
     “Baby,” the little tot echoed.  “Is he my baby?”  Both women chuckled at that.
     “Now, dearheart,” Barbara told her daughter, “he’s Roxie’s baby.  But he’s here to play with you today.  Won’t that be fun?”  Angela nodded her little head so fast, Chris was briefly worried that it might roll off her head.  “Now you two go play in your room for a little while, while Chris’s mommy and I talk, okay?”
     What had happened next was a blur.  Even though he was bigger and had several hundred pounds on her, the four year old was on Chris in an instant, her tiny hands underneath his armpits, and was dragging him across the carpet and down the hall before Chris could even think to do anything about it.
    “Roxaaaa….Momeeeeeee!” Chris shouted instinctively, but he was through the threshold of the little girl’s bedroom before he had finished his cry.
   “Are you sure he’s okay?  I don’t want my Angie to hurt him on accident” Chris had heard a concerned Barbara ask Roxanne.
   “Oh don’t worry about Chris, he might be a baby, but he’s all boy.” Roxanne reassured.
   The irony of that last statement before the door was slammed shut thundered in the room.  Chris may have been “all boy”, but he was about the only thing that was anything boy in the room.  The walls were a nauseating lavender color with flowers stenciled on.  Yuck.  In one corner was a toddler bed with a literal pile of unicorns on it.  A shelf had “My Little Pony” toys prominently displayed.  More girly stuff, blech.  And her closet, doors flung wide open, was filled to the brim with dresses and toy jewelry.  This, gentle readers, was a breeding ground for cooties and it reviled Chris down to the core of his being…perhaps more than it should have.  The only remotely redeeming thing to his setup that Chris could make out was a small stack of pink Pull-Ups on the dresser by her bed.  Apparently, this girl was a bed-wetter, Chris guessed.  So it was still kind of babyish, but otherwise this room was made of the sickeningly sweet “sugar-and-spice-with-everything-nice-boys-are-yucky-let’s-play-with-dolls-and-be-faiyr-princeses-and-play-house,” phase that little girls went through when they reached pre-school age and lasted sometimes till puberty.
   And then the little girl had said words that sent chills down Chris’s spine.  “Let’s. Play. Dress. Up.”  Chris had no choice in the matter.  This little girly girl was faster and stronger than Chris, and had no trouble running to her closet, ripping a dress off a hanger and then pinning Chris down, ripping his shirt off of him and proceeding to dress him in the aforementioned pink garment.  How was Chris supposed to have guessed that the dress and the tiara would pop and expand to scale as this little so-and-so violently tugged it over his head?  Before this moment, every other thing that would normally have been too small for him came pre-enlarged.  Then, quite unceremoniously, Chris found himself plopped down in a chair having the worst tea-party this side of Alice.
  Chris had been stuck like this for either an eternity or under five minutes.  Chris was so repulsed by this day and place that time had begun to lose meaning to him.

   “More tea, Princess Poopy Pants?” Angela said, interrupting Chris’s own miserable reverie on current happenings.  Chris meekly nodded and gently slid the cup forward so that his host could pretend to fill it up.  At least that had been his intent, as the cup tipped over from its saucer and “spilled” onto the table.  
   “Oopsie daisy,” Angela proclaimed.  “Princess Poopy Pants, you really must be more careful.”
   Chris genuinely hadn’t meant to knock over the teacup.  When he was by himself and with his own thoughts, he had the steady and dexterous hands of a future surgeon.  He could independently move and manipulate each digit of his finger with precise accuracy and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine typing on a keyboard and picture each individual keystroke, backspaces included as he typed out his last term paper from memory.  But for some reason, in his current state, every time he tried to use his hands on an outside object, they got a case of the stupids.  They became clumsy, and slow, and fumbling, like a….well, you know.  It was the only reason he hadn’t bothered trying to get this ridiculous outfit off of himself.
  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Chris knew that reality itself, and therefore the thrice damned bear, Wubby, was fucking with him.  He should have known this was coming when the front panel of his Pampers this morning had Abby Cadabby adorning it.  Then again, Chris mused, if Chris really was the chosen-one or whatever title he’d later give himself for being able to alter reality, and Wubby was just an extension of his subconscious desires, didn’t that mean that he was just punishing himself right now?
  “There we are, Princess Poopy Pants,” Angela said, pushing forward a now “full” empty-cup of tea.  God damn, Chris hated tea parties.  He could talk to teddy-bears and play in play pens, but for some reason dolls and tea parties rubbed him the wrong way.  That was odd, though, since Chris couldn’t remember ever having such strong opinions on the matter before.  Could it be that his emotions had begun regressing to a “snips-and-snails-and-puppy-dog-tails-girls-have-cooties-let’s-play-soldier-and-be-monsters-and-play-power-rangers” mentality that so many little boys develop at a young age till they (re)discover boobs?  If so, then sweet-sweet baby-hood and the joyful simplicity of mental existence as an infant wasn’t far behind. That’s how all the stories went, at least.
  “But do you really want that?” A voice whispered in the back of Chris’s mind, and Chris was forced to think about the other life that he had somehow, impossibly, left behind.
  The name “Princess Poopy Pants”, reminded him of another internet author on the Adult Baby sites he frequented, or rather used to frequent until very recently.  Did that author even exist anymore?  Her account and the websites she published on didn’t, that much was certain.  The same was true for every Adult Baby or Age Play site that he knew of, as was every type of product from oversized pacifiers to adult diapers with babyish print on them. The very concept of “Adult Baby” no longer seemed to exist, yet alone websites and products catering to it.  It’s likely, Chris reasoned, that all of his internet friends still existed, but as different people; normal people who didn’t have these interests anymore and as far as they could remember, never had. Now, Chris cornered the market, as far as he knew, on infantilist desires and products.
 Though, maybe, just maybe, he hoped, they were all getting their fantasies, too.  Maybe in some other city, somewhere, there was at least one other Adult Baby who had hit the reality jack pot, and now found themselves in a real-life variation of their deepest wish.  Chris smiled at that thought.  
  The door to Angela’s room opened up a crack.  “You two are awfully quiet in here,” Roxanne said, peeking in.  Then she looked at Chris and her hand shot to her mouth to suppress a hearty guffaw.  “Babs! C’mere! Roxanne called to Angela’s mommy.  “You’ve GOT to see this, it is the cutest thing.”  Chris’s face immediately matched the horrid dress that he had been so rudely imprisoned in.
  “Fuck!” Chris yelped, examining himself.
  “Oh, that is adorable!”  Angela’s mommy beamed as she poked her head in the door.  “Let’s go get our phones!”  
 “FUCK!”  Chris repeated with urgency.
   “Angela, baby,” the little terror’s mother instructed, “you stay right there while Chris’s mommy and I get ready to take a picture.”
“I’m not a baby,” the toddler corrected.  “I’m a big girl.”
   “Babs! Help!” Chris heard Roxanne call from the living room.  “I can’t find my phone.  Could you call it for me?”

“You’re right, Angie, Mommy’s sorry,” Barbara apologized, “now can you keep being a big girl for Mommy and keep your baby friend busy while I help his mommy find her phone?”  Angela nodded and flashed a pumpkin toothed grin before Barbara fled the doorway to help Chris’s step-mom.
   Chris’s heart was thumping out of his chest.  Not now.  Not this.  Not a picture of him in a dress!  That was every little boy’s worst nightmare and the kind of baby-picture blackmail that parents used on their children for decades.  Chris had to get out of this dress and out of this room three seconds ago.
   Chris acted fast.  With all the grace of an 80’s robot toy, Chris clubbed the party hat off his head and heard a satisfying fwap as the elastic string recoiled while the party hat went sailing through the air.  He shook his head rapidly and the tiara flew off his head.  
  “Uh oh,” he heard Angela say.  Now for the dress.
   Chris frantically ripped at his clothes, but to no avail.  He couldn’t make his arms and shoulders cooperate enough to just slip out of the dress and push it down around his waist but he could maybe pull it over his head.  He tried, once. Fail.  Twice. Fail. Three times a failure.  Every time he tugged up, he was stopped short as if something was caught underneath.  It was almost as if he was wearing a onesie. (If only).  Then Chris looked down at his lap.
  “Duh!” Chris realized.  He was sitting down and the dress enveloped his whole body.  He was going to have to stand if he hoped to get this thing off in time and he had only a precious few seconds while the two mommies rifled through their purses to get a picture taking device.
 Chris slammed his hands on the table so he could prop himself up.  Angela began to shake her head and wag her finger.  “No, no, no,” she lectured, “bad baby.  You got ta sit down!”  Chris ignored her and shifted his weight forward on the little table. Maybe he could use it to prop himself up enough and he could coast and half stand long enough to get the dress off before he plopped down.  
   Chris felt something as he leaned forward, though.  He felt his cheeks spreading apart from the very center as he leaned forward.  “Shit!” he hissed quite appropriately, and almost on instinct, kept rolling so that he was sitting on his knees, palms still flat on the table, with the heel of his right foot pressed up to his backside, acting as an impromptu butt plug.
  Bottom line: Chris had to poop and he hadn’t realized it till right then. Now, the only thing stopping the mess from entering the back seat of his Pampers was his foot.  He clenched his teeth and dug his fingernails into the yellow plastic in determination as years of potty training combined with what was left of a young man’s inhibitions to once more do battle with an infant’s physical limitations.  He could feel sweat begin to form on his brow.
  “Here it is!” he heard Roxanne call from the hallway.
  Angela stood up from her chair, her pigtails batting her in the face as she shook her head and said in a very authoritative-for-a-four-year-old tone, “Gotta sit down for the picture, Princess Poopy Pants.”  He was out of time, and defeated because he didn’t want to poop his pants in public again.  Worse yet, it was going to happen anyways as Angela began to carefully round the table so as not to knock over any of the dolls.  The moment she picked him up to put him back in the chair, even it was less than a foot, even if it was only an inch, the whole mess would all come out and he would soil himself in a little girl’s arms.
   Images of the trip to the library, where the seeds of this misadventure had first been planted flashed in front of Chris’s eyes.  He recalled with vivid clarity, the intense feelings of embarrassment as he had pooped himself in the car, grunting as his sisters watched on.  It had been such a blatant invasion of his privacy so beyond his comfort zone, even if as far as everyone else knew, this was something he did on a daily basis.  Now here he was again…only…wait a minute…  Why did he give a crap about this little girl?  This wasn’t someone who he really knew.  This wasn’t someone who had grown up with him as he looked after them with brotherly affection.  This was just some dumb pre-schooler.  This kid was the reason he was about to get his photo taken in a dress! This kid was the cause of his problem! THIS WAS NO TIME TO LET POOPING GET IN THE WAY!
 Time slowed down for Chris then, the same way that reality seems to lose pace when one falls in love, or is about to be hit by a speeding car.  He was immediately and intimately aware as he shifted his weight forward of his butt cheeks unclamping and his anus relaxing.  A soft mass came poking out as he was on his knees.  The mess hit the backing of the diaper and began to spread, making his butt begin to feel like it was covered in warm mud.  The flat of his right foot hit the ground and rude noises blarted out his backside as more of the load rolled out of him.  He pushed with both hands as he tried to balance himself on his feet. While he grunted consciously from the strain his limbs felt, he sighed unconsciously as pressure was released from his bowels.  
   Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw his little jailer wrinkle her nose in disgust as he pushed the last of the mess out of himself and into his awaiting diaper.  Gravity kicked in, and Chris felt the newly formed lump in his diaper begin drooping to the ground.  His diaper was conspiring against him to keep him helpless, in drag, and earthbound.  Desperately seeking balance, Chris bent his waist and spread his upper body on the tiny round tea table.  Plastic dishes scattered everywhere as every synapse in Chris’s body screamed for stability.  This left Chris in the unenviable position of once again having his ass be at a higher altitude than his head.  
  “Noooooooooo……!” little Angela shrieked as her carefully arranged made in China dishes clattered to the carpet.  
   Footsteps thundered outside the.  This was his last chance.  With one last mighty heave, Chris pushed himself up off the table!!!!!!!!!.....and fell.  Like an anti-weeble wobble Chris got less than a full second of viewing the world from a vertical position, before the momentum reversed itself.  His knees shook and buckled and his whole body pitched forward back onto the tea table.
  His hands, useless as usual, flapped at the air as though he might well fly.  His neck stiffened, encased in an invisible brace, so that he could not even turn his head to the side.  Even his eyes betrayed him as they refused to close.  
   Just as quickly as he rose, quicker in fact, he back down onto the little table, face first.  A red-white pain shot through him as his nose impacted with the flat surface.  Somewhere inside him, Chris knew that this must be a little bit like what it must be like to get hit with a folding chair at a wrestling event; save that he was dressed a little less ridiculously.
   His body crumpled to one side and he tumbled off to the side landing on his back, gaining only a millisecond’s respite as he felt the sharp poke of a tea pot’s spout dig into his lower back and the mess in his diaper be spread around.  At the very least, his eyes were closed when the table flipped with him onto his face.
   It was then that time chose to speed up again, sparing him further prolonged agony.
   “Oh my God, Angela what happened?”  Chris heard a voice saying.
   “The baby falled down,” Angela reported.
   Whenever he had read infantilist stories online, there was a certain trope that even Chris rolled his eyes at.  The part where the protagonist cried “from embarrassment”:  Usually this was to explain why they cried as they were spanked, or taunted, or whatever.  Crying was a particularly babyish thing to do, and so the authors of these smut stories tended to put it on the checklist of things to do.  But really, how could anyone actually be so embarrassed, they’d cry?  It just wasn’t done.  Yes, it was okay for adults to cry, and Chris had gone through a terrible episode of it not two days earlier; but he had been on the cusp of an emotional and mental breakdown.  This little “I got an owie”, or “oh my gosh, look what a baby I am”, shit didn’t ever happen.  Not with adults anyway.  Children might not have a great handle on their emotions, but not mother fuckin’ grown-ups, diapers or not.  
    Turns out, Chris was wrong.  It was possible for a person to be so embarrassed, so frustrated, and so otherwise emotionally and physically drained and flabbergasted at the ridiculousness of their situation that their only response is to break down and cry.  For Chris, it was having been man-handled by a four-year-old, forced to wear a dress, then panicking at the results being photographed, only to shit himself as he stood and smack his face on a hard flat surface and go crashing to the floor.  Ta-da!
   Chris let out a long incoherent wail that rattled around the room.  Before he knew it he was bawling into the open air, exposed, and just as quickly he was sobbing into a warm body with a comforting hand rubbing his back while his bum was being supported by the other hand.  He was bobbing up and down and heard a soothing “shhhhhhh” noise flit past his ears.
   “It’s okay, little guy, it’s okay,” Angela’s mom, Barbara, shushed him.  “It was just a little fall.  That’s all.  Thaaaaat’s all.”  Chris’s breathing began to slow.  He slipped his thumb into his mouth and began to suck it as his tears began to dry.  
   “What happened?!” a panicked Roxanne asked as she sprinted from the hallway, panic in her eyes.
  “Chris had a little fall,” Barbara said, still somehow bouncing Chris up and down.  Roxanne peeked over Barbara’s shoulder and saw the room, now in utter disarray from the giant baby’s tumble.
   “You call that little?” Roxanne said in disbelief, though not hostile.  
   “I think he was just shocked,” Barbara replied, still rubbing Chris’s back.  “Weren’t ya, buddy?”  Chris nodded.  “Here, let’s get this dress off of him and check him for bruises.”  Barbara turned around, holding Chris so that he could now see back into the bedroom.  Angela looked like her whole world had been torn apart.  She was no longer the hostess of an elegant tea party, but the victim of a natural disaster: Hurricane Chris.    
   “Mommeeeee,” she whined.  “The baby- “
  “Not now, Angie, honey,” Barbara cut her daughter off, “we have to make sure that the baby’s not hurt.”  Chris saw a flash in the little girl’s eyes.  Chris recognized that emotion at any age: jealousy.  Chris’s brain kicked into overdrive.  The mean, spiteful part of himself surfaced with a vengeance and a glimmer flashed in his eyes as well.
  Meanwhile, the two women peeled the disgusting pink cotton from Chris’s flesh and two pairs of gentle hands inspected him for bumps and bruises.  The dress, meanwhile shrunk back down to its original size, and wafted back down to the ground.
  “Well, he doesn’t look hurt.” Roxanne confirmed with more than a hint of relief.  “I think his little accident just scared him.”   Chris nodded in silent confirmation.    
Crisis averted.  Now, it was time for petty revenge on a small child.
   He heard the women sniff and felt the back of his diaper being pulled back.
   “I think Chris here had more than one kind of accident,” Barbara joked.  
   “Yup,” Roxanne agreed, “he does that from time to time.  Give him here, I’ll take care of it.”  Chris felt Roxanne’s hands grasp his hips to lift him away.  This would normally be a welcome sensation, but a plan was beginning to form in Chris’s mind, and that plan didn’t involve Roxanne holding him.
    Chris clamped down with all of his might, puny it may be and did his best to grapple Barbara.  “Nonononononono,” he whined.  “Me want Bawbawa,” he threw in a babyish speech pattern to hope that the message would come across more clearly.  “Bawbawa take cawe of me.”
  “I think he doesn’t want to let go,” Roxanne stated the obvious.
  “Don’t worry about it, Roxie, I can take care of it.” Barbara told Chris’s step-mother.
  “You sure?” Roxanne asked.
  “Why not?  I said I wanted the practice, anyway, didn’t I?” Barbara chuckled.  “Just get me the supplies and I’ll do the rest.  “I’ll change him here, on Angela’s bed.”  Chris smiled wickedly at that.
    “Momeeee!” whined Angela.
    “Not now sweetie,” Barbara chided, “I gotta take care of the baby’s diaper.”  Chris could see Angela’s face turn several different shades of red.
      Roxanne returned with a diaper and wipes and handed them to Barbara.  Barbara strode into her daughters room and Chris felt himself being lowered onto her bed.  He tucked his legs, almost instinctively so that this whole body could be on the toddler-bed.  He felt the familiar rustling of a plastic sheet just underneath the bed covers.  He turned his head to the side and saw Angela staring daggers at him.    
   As Barbara began to untape Chris’s diaper, Chris eyes darted to the nightstand and saw the stack of pink pullups.  His eyes quickly scanned the little girl’s diaper area.  The tell-tale bulge was missing, and there wasn’t any evidence of riding up and peeking out, so she was probably wearing big kid underwear.  “Bed-wetter,” Chris mused, “big girl, but not quite.”  Then, as Chris’s legs were hoisted into the air so Angela’s mother could wipe his backside, Chris remembered a snippet from their previous encounter.

"I could pretend to be a baby to help you practice." she had said.  Now that Chris thought back on it, had there been a flicker of hope in her voice?  Had Angela been hinting at something instead of naively suggesting?
 Chris had known that gambit.  He had used it and failed as well in his pre-school days.  Was little Angela another AB in the making, like Sammy was turning into?  Was this some side effect of Chris’s condition?  That children around him subconsciously wished to become infants themselves?  Perhaps it was because on some level they realized that he was older than them and were trying to correct the dissonance by becoming infants themselves.  Perhaps…but that didn’t matter so much right now to Chris’s mind.  Getting back at this brat and making her feel like as much of a helpless plaything as she had made him feel, that was what had mattered.  He knew, almost instinctively, what buttons to push.  Priorities.
   “That’s right, Angie,” Chris slowly spat at the little girl.  She might not understand his words, but she would sure as hell understand his tone.  “I’m the baby.”
   “Wuzza wuzza wuzza,” Barbara cooed to Chris while he taunted and mocked her daughter.  Chris turned his head and giggled gleefully at the woman as she wiped his most delicate areas.  But his eyes never left Angela.  
    “I’m the baby, Angela,” he hissed to the little girl.  “I’m the baby and your mommy likes taking care of me because I’m special.” he paused for effect in his own mind.  “You used to be special.  You used to be the baby.  But not anymore.  You’re a big girl, now, and YOU DON’T MATTER!”
    “Oh, that mussa been a cold one,” Barbara chirped as she threw a used wipe into the remains of the dirty diaper and reached for a new one.  The woman honestly had no clue.
    “And you wanna know what the best part is?” Chris grinned maliciously, his adrenaline pumping as he watched the toddler’s fists ball up.  Oh yeah, she got it.  She got it, alright.  Even if she didn’t know what he was saying, she got it. “The best part is,” Chris explained, “is that you’ll NEVER. BE. THE BABY. AGAIN!”  Then he turned his head as to look at Barbara again as she slid a fresh Pampers under his rump.  “I wuv you new Mommy!  You’re the best Mommy in the whooooole world!  Will you be my mommy?”
    “I bet you feel soooo much better now that you’ve got a clean diaper on,” Barbara told Chris.
   “Not yet,” Chris answered with a grin, “but I’m getting’ there.”
   “Who’s a cwean wittle boy?”  she asked.
   “I am!”  he answered.
    “Who’s a cwean wittle boy?!”
   “I am!”
   And both of them giggled, though for entirely different reasons.
   Barbara rolled up the used diaper and walked out of the room to trash it; with Barbara’s diaper genie long likely having fallen into disuse.  
  Chris rolled his head back to Angela.  “So, Angie?” he smirked.  “You jealous yet?”  Angela just stood there, eyeing what to her was the pudgy little invader to her bedspace.   Chris looked at the stack of pull-ups on the nightstand by the bed, and then back up at Angela.  He saw her eyeing the pull-ups as well.  Lazily, Chris reached over and let his fingertips brush against the fabric of the training pants.
   Thwap!  Angela swatted Chris’s hand away.
   “No!  Bad baby!” Angela scolded,  “Those are my diap-….night pants.”
   “Yup,”  he chuckled, as his question was answered.  “They sure are.”
  Barbara came back into the room and picked Chris back up in her arms.  “Come on Angie, let’s go play out in the living room, where Chris’s mommy and I can keep a better eye on you two.”
    Angela stopped and looked around her wrecked room.  “ thank you Mommy,” she said.  “I wanna stay here and clean my room.”
   “Are you sure, honey?” Barbara asked.  “I can always help you clean your room after Chris and his mommy leave.”
   “Are they leaving now?” the little girl queried.
   “Then I’ll clean my room now.”
   “Okay,” Barbara said, not sounding too sure.  “But you can come out and play with the baby anytime you want, alright?”  
   “I know,” Angela replied, her lack of experience revealing more of her emotional state than perhaps the kid had intended.  Chris shivered dramatically, and Barbara began holding him closer and rubbing his back.  
   “Oh, and if you find Chris’s T-shirt, could you bring it out? He’s a little cold.”  Barbara added before leaving out the door.
   Only a hurried slam accompanied for reply.
   Chris found himself back on the floor at the two women’s feet while they sat on the sofa and chatted.
   “So…” Barbara confided, “I think someone’s a little J-E-A-L-O-U-S.”
    “That’s kind of the I-D-E-A.” Chris snarked up at them.  Roxanne reached over and absent mindedly stroked her step-son’s hair so that he knew she was noticing him.  
    “It happens,” Roxanne nodded, “it’s one of the pitfalls about being a second time parent that they don’t tell you about.”
    “Yeah, it wasn’t nearly as bad when Chris was born because the age difference was big enough that it didn’t really affect the girls, but when Brianna was born, woooo” Roxanne hooted, “lemme tell you, there were some fireworks.  Let’s just say that she may be sweet now, but calling it the terrible twos was not false advertising.”
    Chris craned his neck up at that.  He didn’t remember Sammy being particularly bad or bratty at that age.  Was this another alteration caused by the shift?  Was this version of Sammy a bit more of a brat because she was the first born? It was possible, he supposed. But then again, Chris had been going through puberty at the time and had more, ahem, pressing issues on his mind than the behavior of small children that he had no real responsibility for.
     “So how did you get through it?” Barbara asked, leaning in.
     Roxanne shrugged, “Honestly, I gave her what she wanted for a couple of days.”
    “Huh?!” both Chris and Barbara exclaimed.
    “Sammy wasn’t ready to be a big girl, so I let her be a baby.” a thin, knowing, smile crossed Roxanne’s lips.  “Of course, that meant no big girl clothes, and no big girl bed,” she started.
    “Uh-huuuuuh.”  Barbara said which in this context meant “go ooooooon.”
     “And of course, she also wasn’t allowed to watch any big girl TV or play any of her big girl games with the little pieces that babies could choke on.  And only big girls get candy, naturally.”  Both women positively tittered at that last line.  “It took, maybe a day and a half before she was ready to try being a big girl again and she went back to pull-ups and within a month she was in big girl panties, and we didn’t have a problem since.”
      “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Chris snorted.
     “Hiiiiiii Mommeeeee,” a tiny high pitch voice sang out, as she pranced out of the hallway and into the living room.
     “Hiiiii hon-“ Barbara sang back, but then cut herself off.  “Angela!  What do you think you’re doing?”
      Angela now stood before the assembled gathering, but she was no longer wearing her skirt and tights.  In fact she wasn’t wearing any kind of pants at all, but instead had waddled out in a pink pull up.  
     “Angela!” Barbara was on her feet suddenly, “you know those are only for bedtime!  Now get back in your room and change…” once again Barbara stopped herself.  Her daughter had been ignoring her and had begun blatantly sucking her thumb.  Within a few seconds of her mother’s lecture, the little designs on the training pants indicating dryness had begun to fade.
     “Uh oh!” Angela exclaimed, fooling no one.  “I hadda ac-ci-dent! Looks like you’ll have to change me, Mommy.”   Chris could make out the gnashing sounds and the back and forth motion of her jaw as Barbara ground her teeth together.  It’s amazing how the difference of a few perceived years makes people react when you soil yourself, even if it’s into an undergarment that is quite literally meant to be soiled.  Barbara looked over to Roxanne, they shared a look, and Roxanne nodded.
      “You’re absolutely right, Angela,” her mother said with over the top saccharine sweetness dripping from every syllable.  “I do need to change my baby girl.”  She picked her daughter up and carried her into the little girl’s bedroom.  Angela positively beamed.  Roxanne picked Chris up and sat him on her lap.  Chris just sat there, doing his best to listen through the house for sounds of what might be going on.  If he strained, he could just make out what was going on.
       “Let’s get my baby girl changed!” he heard Barbara coo with false sincerity.  “But wait, these aren’t diapers!  These are pull-ups for big girls who still have accidents at night.  You’re not a big girl, are you? Noooooooo, of course you’re not.  Big girls don’t wet themselves in the day time.  Not to worry, we still have some diapers that’ll fit you laying around at the top of your closet.  Good thing Mommy’s such a pack rat, huh?”  There was a solid minute of tense silence till the hum of Barbara’s voice came echoing again.   “Aaaaallll done.  There’s a good baby girl!”  Another pause.  “Now wait a minute.  This doesn’t look like a baby’s room, does it?  Let Mommy fix it up.”
    The door opened up, and Barbara marched out of the room and made a bee-line for the kitchen.  She reached under the sink and grabbed a package of garbage bags before turning around and going back, only stopping to give her co-conspirator parent a wink.  This time she left the door open so it was easier to hear what was going on.
       “Let’s get rid of these pull-ups.  They’re not for babies.” Chris heard the crinkling and rustling of plastic followed by the fwoom of a garbage bag being spread open.  “Now let’s get rid of these panties, they’re definitely not for babies.” Some footsteps and another dramatic pause.  “What’s this?  These aren’t baby clothes!  These are pretty big girl dresses!  Well I guess we’ll have to throw them out.”
    “Mommy!  Nooooooooooo!” Angela could be heard screaming.  “Nooooooooo!”
    “I’m sorry baby, but these dresses aren’t for babies.  They’re so long, they make it hard for Mommy to check and change your diaper.  Oooh!  These toys aren’t really for babies either, are there?  No…they’re not.  A baby will just drool all over the stuffed animals and they could hurt their little gums on the plastic toys.  I’ll have to throw these out too.”
     “Nooooo! Mommy nooooooooo!” Angela wailed before breaking down into incoherent sobs.
     Barbara soon came out toting a bawling Angela, now wearing a size 6 Pampers (as opposed to Chris’s size 32) and cooing at the girl as though she were an infant.
      “Who’s my widdle girl?” she cooed.
      “She is!” Chris yelled triumphantly
       “Who’s my widdle girl?”
       “She is!”
       “Roxie, I hate to trouble you,” Barbara spoke deliberately over her screaming daughter, “but I think my baby is hungry, do you have any bottles you and Chris could spare?”
      “Why of course,” Roxanne answered in an equally scripted tone, “I wouldn’t want any baby to go hungry without a ba-ba.”  Roxanne reached into Chris’s diaper bag and pulled out two bottles, handing one to her friend.  “In fact,” she added, “let’s feed them together, shall we?”
       “Yes, let’s.”
       Chris wasn’t particularly hungry just then, but he couldn’t resist being part of the punishment.  He leaned back into Roxanne as she handed him the bottle. Greedily he took it to his lips and began suckling, as he tilted his head back.   The formula coursed down his throat in sweet milky waves.  He played games with the rubber nipple, batting it around his mouth with his tongue.  It was sweet.  But not as sweet as what was going on beside him.
       Barbara plopped down, with her diapered daughter in her lap, and shoved the bottle in her face.  “Drink up baby.  This is what you wanted.”
    “Nooooo. I’m a big girl.” Angela protested.
    “Not today you’re not.” Barbara laid down the law.  “Big girls don’t pee their pants, do they?  Now drink up, baby.”  Angela opened her mouth to protest and had the rubber nipple of a bottle shoved in her mouth for her trouble.  She had little choice but to suck, and Chris smiled contentedly as the crying child was force to gulp down the simulac, with drops of the stuff coming leaking out the corners of her mouth and mixing with her tears.
    Chris stopped suckling, for he had that leisure, long enough to smile at Angela and say “It’s not as easy being the baby as it looks, is it, kid?”  Regardless of whether or not Chris was actually understood, the child managed to mutely shake her head ‘no’.
    The rest of the morning was much more to Chris’s liking, as Roxanne and Barbara revisited their favorite baby games to Chris’s delight and Angela’s torment.  While Chris was being entertained by Roxanne with such classics as “this little piggy went to market,” “patty cake”, “cootchie coo”, and of course “bounce on the knee,” Angela was being punished by Barbara with such classics as “this little piggy went to market,” “patty cake”, “cootchie coo”, and of course, “bounce on the knee.”  Her spirit broken, Angela did little to fight it yet remained in a sullen pout, the entire visit.
    “Well I think that’s enough excitement for one day,” Roxanne exhaled after about an hour of nursery rhymes and baby-games.  “I gotta get this little guy home and get some lunch into him.”  Chris nodded his agreement.  He’d done enough damage for one day.
    “Momeeee…” Angela whined.  “My tummy feels funny,” and the sound of a gurgling stomach echoed in the living room.  “Can I go potty, now?”
    “Must be the formula,” Barbara said aside to Roxanne before turning to her daughter. “Babies don’t go potty, sweetee.  Just use your diaper, and Mommy will change you.”
   “Noooo,” the little girl moaned, clutching her stomach.
   “Just don’t have too many accidents, sweety, or Mommy will have to take her baby girl out shopping for more diapers. We only have a few, and if we run out before tomorrow, Mommy will have no choice.”
    “Noooo!” and Angela sank to her knees, doubling over from cramps.
   “I’ll walk you out,” Barbara said and she walked Chris and Roxanne to the mom mobile, closing the door to the house behind her.  “Thanks for the catch up, and the help, Roxie,” Barbara told her friend as Chris was being buckled into his giant car seat.  “Little Chris can come and play anytime he wants, as far as I’m concerned.  I can even babysit for you when you and Christopher go out on the town.”
   “That might be good,” Roxanne acknowledged.
  “Buuut,” Barbara conceded, “I think today’s shown me that I’m not quite ready yet for baby number two.”
   “Fair enough,” Roxanne agreed.  Before she walked to the driver side door, Roxanne gave her friend a quizzical look.  “You’re not really going to take her out diaper shopping, are you?  Or throw away all her clothes and toys?”
   Barbara stifled a laugh.  “God no!”
 Roxanne laughed in relief.  “Good.  I gotta admit you had me going there for a minute.”
“And the Academy Award goes to….” Barbara mimed opening an envelope.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”  came a howl that could be heard from the driveway.
 “And I think my little girl just had her big accident.” Barbara shook her head.  “That’s my cue.”  And the two women hugged before parting  
      The victory he had won that day stayed with him through dinner time, bath time, and even.  “Chris sure had a blast at Barbara and Angie’s house.”  Roxanne echoed time and again.  As much as he loved the helpless feeling of being cared for and the intimacy of no inhibitions or social boundaries to worry of, there was still something of power in this new life.  Power that Chris could never remember having, the power of being the coveted and cared for prize.  God did it taste sweet.  Sweeter perhaps than even the breast milk that was now his right and privilege to gulp down.  
   Chris kept replaying the day’s events, the good ones anyways, over and over in his head.  He couldn’t sleep, he felt that good. So as he laid in his crib, wearing a pear of light yellow footie pajamas, he reached over in his crib and grabbed Wubby; its eyes once more sparkling scarlet and sapphire.  
    “So Wubby, old buddy,” Chris smirked, “I overcame that last hurdle you threw at me.  What else you got?”
   On cue, Chris felt, rather than saw, a shimmer in the air.  He felt his arms and face begin to itch.  He sat up scratched at them for several seconds before arm hair burst forth and itchy stubble returned to his once baby-soft chin.  Chris cried out, not from pain, but surprise.  Then, his nursery started melting, literally melting, away.  
   The blue nursery print bled down the walls, leaving only stark white in its wake.  The changing table swelled and bulged like a pimple ready to pop, till a television erupted from its interior and hit the ceiling becoming mounted there.  The table itself oozed back into the floor.  The comfy rocking chair, that Chris was beginning to think of as “Mommy’s” crunched and cracked down on itself with sickening criiiiicks.  Then like a bruise, pleather cushions inflated from the crevices. The homey carpet that lined the floors in all the bedrooms of the Cole residence became brittle and stiff till with a snap like icicles, fell from the floor, leaving only cold, uncaring linoleum where it once was.
    Next, his own crib turned against him, as the bars smacked and pinned him down, thinning out and holding him in place.  One bar narrowed itself at the tip like a stake or a sharpened pencil before jabbing itself into Chris’s arm.  Chris screamed in genuine pain.  The rest of the bar shrank and thinned itself, becoming more of a viper and less of an anaconda till it attached itself to a bag hanging from a metal pole that had just shot up out of the ground.
 Chris cute pajamas came undone with a rip then reformed into a putrid teal hospital gown.  And then reality began to play again. A gentle beep, beep, beeping filled the otherwise silent room. Chris wasn’t in his usual, college age Chris room.  No, he found himself strapped down to a bed, with an IV going into his arm.  It was a room in a hospital, Chris knew from experience.  His dad being a doctor, and Chris being a pre-med student, it took no time at all for him to recognize the layout.
    He couldn’t move his legs very much, as they too were restrained, but he managed to scrunch his thighs together, experimentally, and felt the familiar squish of what could only be a used diaper.  In the corner of the room, sitting in the pleather chair where once the rocker had been, holding a white card that said “Feel Better Soon” in crayon on the cover, was Wubby; its eyes still sparking crimson and azure.
   Suddenly, the room started to spin, and Chris was overcome with lethargy as whatever was attached to him through the IV tube began to take effect on him.
  “Fuuuuuuuuck,” Chris managed to moan before passing out.
  The time on the digital readout in the room read 12:01
    “YOU HAVE HAD YOUR MOON!” The two voices boomed in the Garden. “NOW CHOOSE!” Before Man and Woman, stark naked as the day they were created, floated two fruits.  One was alluring red, like the hearts blood that delivered vital life and breath to all of God’s glorious creations.  It was plump, and round, and pleasing to the eye.  The other was all rigid and impossible angles; a rocky fruit if such a thing ever existed (and it hadn’t, but might yet if one of them so chose).  Its hue was the blue of the veins that ran back to the heart, that carried the used up and dead blood back to the heart to be rejuvenated.  Nothing about it was particularly appealing.  
      “Let us take the red one,” Woman said to Man.  “We have seen what splendors we might have.  That we even know the word splendor is because of what it promises us.”
      “And what of the blue one?” asked Man.
     “What do you remember of the blue?” his mate asked.
    “I remember little of our time with it,” Man admitted.
     “That is because we were but mindless savages!” Woman proclaimed.  “We knew of nothing!  Not good, nor evil.  We were but beasts that walked on two legs!”
    “But what of what the Angel told us?” Man countered, “We may well lose paradise.”
    “What good is paradise if we are too stupid to enjoy it?” Woman asked.  She took a step towards her lover and looked longingly in his eyes.  “Please.  I love you.” She pleaded.  “I want to keep on loving you and make love to you.  Not rut in the dirt with you when I’m in heat.  I want to bear your children, not sling your litter.  I want to be more than just your mate.  Let me be your wife”  She took his face in her hands and tenderly kissed him.  “For me.  For us.  Please.”
     Man turned away from his love, who had literally been created for him.  “It was not always this way,” he growled, “It was not always like this.  Why, only a moon ago- “
   “But that was a moon ago,” Woman stopped the thought.  There was no turning back now.  The moment that they had become aware of the fruits, there had been no turning back.  The Snake was the one that had found her and presented, logically, the best case scenario for each of them.  The Snake was right and all she had to do was convince her other half to know the truth of it.
   Away from the little clearing in the Garden, where the first Game played itself out, the Angel and the Snake made hushed whispers to each other.  The Angel was a giant who had collapsed his infinite form in on itself so that he might walk this Earthly Plane for a time.  He was older than Creation itself, and bound by the strict Word of his Creator.   The snake, was new yet.  Even the fresh ground he slithered upon was older than he.  Yet in him was a hunger, an ambition. He was tiny now, barely a worm, but someday, the Snake knew, he would grow to be a Leviathan.  
    The two of them were on opposite sides of a cosmic war.  They should be attempting to Undo each other right now.  Yet they didn’t really know each other, and each one suspected the other of being more powerful than the other one presented themselves to be.  Besides, it was a young war still, and a civil war at that; so there wasn’t any reason to be uncivil they reasoned.  The war would be over soon enough; maybe a year or two more, and if both of them survived, it’d be good to have a friend, or at least an acquaintance on the winning side.
    “So which one do you think they’ll choose?”  the Angel asked.
    “I’m ssssstill not sure,” hissed the Snake.  “Your masssster made a compelling counter-offer.  The ssssstick was almost as compelling as the carrot.”
     “He’s your master, too,” the Angel chided the Snake.  “Even if you’ve yet to admit it.”
     “Agree to disssssagree,” the Snake replied.
     “Fair enough,” the Angel nodded.  “This was a cunning plan by your leader, I’ll admit.  A good-” he paused then corrected himself, “An effective way to sew dissension on creation.”
     “My leader?” the Snake tilted its head in confusion.  “I thought thisssss was by the Creator’ssssss design.”
    “Then who-” the Angel began, but he never got to finish his thought.  The sky flashed crimson red.  In the distance, two nude forms reached for the red fruit and ate from it, taking a part of it into themselves.
  “Yessssssss!”  The snake exalted.  
   “No!” The Angel cried out.  “How could they?!  They were made in God’s image by His very design!  How could they choose to defy him?!”
   “Perhaps you don’t know as much about your God as you thought?”  the Snake mused as he slithered for cover under the now lightning filled sky.
    And so the first game was played, and has been replayed in one form or another, ever since.


United States
I've been a closet AB/DL my entire life. My parents and close older family members probably suspect from when I was too young and dumb to know to hide my fascination. Then again, it probably got written off as "a phase", as soon as I got older and started not talking about it.

My friends may suspect, but if they do, they're kind enough not to say anything about it. The weird thing is, I have some friends that are open fetishists of different sorts; mostly furs. So yeah, I'm a bit of a coward. Even my name is a reference to that.

I'm not using anything even close to my real name, and anything with "Diaper" or "Baby" in the name was just too cliche. I'm so much more than just my fetish. We all are.

I'm just so paranoid that I'm going to be branded by it. So do I use a persona and change up my writing style and tone to further disguise myself? Live the internet dream by pretending to be someone much cooler than I am?

Or maybe just a simple Alias? Be myself with the exception of my name?

Persona+Alias= personalias

I'm actually scared some of my friends will find this page, and find enough clues to figure out it's me. I console myself with the question: "What the heck were my friends doing looking at AB/DL stories and pics anyways?"

My wonderful wife is the only person in my life who officially knows my secret. It was she who encouraged me to take some of my ideas, write them down and post them online for others to see.

The thing that it's happening. Now that I'm becoming part of the online community. I can't help but wonder why I didn't join sooner.

Thanks for reading this. It was really cathartic.
So I haven't written anything lately.  Laziness, writer's block, and some real-life troubles have made it harder and harder to sit down at the keyboard for a prolonged period of time.

The thing is, I still have lots of ideas.  That might be another problem.  I've got so many ideas, it's hard to prioritize and focus.  I'm also afraid I might forget an idea, AND I have little to no idea which ideas might be good (or at least entertaining) and which one's I should probably stay away from till I refine them.

The best I can do is write them down here and hope the people that watch me and visit my page will give their input and thoughts.  If not, worst case scenario I've got a list of ideas where it will be harder to lose them.  None of these ideas are particularly original and everyone puts their own spin on them anyways...and I'm not getting paid for this so I've got nothing to lose there.

Ideas: Listed in order as they occur to me, not in order of preference.  Purposefully leaving parts vague because I love the enjoyment of writing a surprise or a funny joke.  Definitely leaving out the endings (if any) that I've thought up.  That way I have some wiggle room.

The Bagman-  This is actually a story in progress that I'm writing right now.  It's less of an AB/DL or AR story, but more of a story of revenge and the mafia with elements of AR and AB/DL in it.  A young man is systematically finding ways to assassinate high ranking Mafia heads, and a professional hitman, the Bagman, is on his trail.  What makes it AR is...well there's a reason why no one has ever found a body of the Bagman's victims.

One Hit Wonder- This spawns from my personal neurotic fear that I already hit my creative pique writing Dante's Infanzia.  A has-been Rockstar makes a deal with a demon for fame and fortune.  The catch is, his fame and fortune comes back in the form of a hit reality TV show where he's an Adult Baby...he's not really does he keep up the act and take the fame and fortune unhappily ever after?  Or does he come clean as a fraud but stay true to himself as a person? Loosely based on Faustus in much the same way that Dante's Infanzia was based on the Divine Comedy.

Wrong Address-A short story about a guy who is minding his own business when reality decides to slap him around a little bit.  A babysitter comes to his home, ready to sit for a little tyke that she's never met before.  She's at the wrong house...obviously, but doesn't seem to realize it and assumes that the man is her intended 18 month charge....naturally absurd things happen that proves reality right.

Futurama Fanfic (I need a better title)- A Futurama Fanfic where the Planet Express crew gets stranded on a planet inhabited by an offshoot of the big Amazonian cave-women.  The difference being they assume that anyone smaller than them is a baby.  (actually considering trying to write this to a screen play).

The Power of Dreams-  A typical High School loser buys a magic potion to make his dreams come true.  The problem is, the man selling the potion never said he'd be able to control his dreams...or what he'd dream about.

College or Cribs?- (Or perhaps Diapers or diplomas?).  One of the funny things about being an AB is the desire to be treated like an infant; but there's still a desire and necessity both socially, physically, and psychologically, to be an adult.  So we're pulled between two extremes.  The concept for this story is a college student who is an AB gets the ability to experience his ultimate fantasy of a second infancy; AND he can switch back to being an adult.  The catch is, each time he switches- it gets harder to switch back.  ie:  One of these times, he's either going to be stuck in his grown up reality, or his baby one...forever.  So he has to decide which extreme would be better for him.

The Daycare Job-  Honestly...this one is a lot like Dante's Infanzia, as it's about a place where adults are treated as babies and it's mystically enforced (it's MAGIC...I don't have to explain it!)...just a little darker.  I probably won't write this one anytime soon as I got a lot of that out of my system with Dante's Infanzia.  There are a few differences in mind that would make it different; such as the main character would have their full mind, but be unable to talk, and there'd be more traps and twists to make him babyish.

What does anyone think?  Any advice or thoughts on my priorities?  Meh...either way

P.S.  Just thought of some more story ideas that I forgot to type down.

Stepford Babies- (Working title) Female protagonist moves to a new town for a job.   Something's very odd about the kids there and their parents though.  Not a direct parody of Stepford Wives, but I love that feeling of paranoia of 1 person versus an entire town.  No robots, but there's a neat twist that I am loathe to spoil.

Stranded- (Working Title).  Two space explorers (gender undecided...probably a woman and a man with alternating points of view depending on each chapter.)  crash land on a strange alien world, inhabited by strange alien giants.  To their horror they discover that the humans are treated as babies there.  Too soon, they realize that that species' infants just happen to look like adult humans.  So they're trapped on a world where everyone thinks they're babies...and based on the rituals, traditions and bizarre and painful looking technology...they might not want to admit that they're grown up...better hope this species has a LOOOONG life where their babies stay that way for a LOOOONG time.

Questions- This one is a twist that almost is given away instantly, so I don't mind telling on myself.  So many AB and mental AR stories start with the main character being an adult and goes into their regression and plenty end the story once they're babies.  What if this was the opposite?  What if there was a story where the mental AR has already happened, and it's starting to wear off and little by little the character is coming back to their adult self and remembering/discovering the events that led up to their regression.  This is called Questions because at the beginning the character believe's they're 2ish and is asking simple 2 year old questions like "Why is the sky blue, why is water wet..why why why."  and little by little the questions are getting more complex as he or she is noticing inconsistencies.

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silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2015
Where you at, man? This page is starting to gather dust.
jetg951415 Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2014  Student Artist
Hey, being a coward is better than dealing with my problems. Go read my deviantID bio.
silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2014
Been a month since I last bugged you. Bug, bug, bug, bug, bug. Just doing what you told me to do.
silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2014
Time to bug you. More College or Cribs soon, si vous plait.
Personalias Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2014
silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2014
I'm good with that. :D (Big Grin) 
TwistXL Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2014
Personalias, I'm a big fan of your stories. I start one then end up reading the entire series, you really know how to capture the reader. Thank you for sharing these with us.
Personalias Featured By Owner Jun 6, 2014
Thank you so much for reading them!  Working on more...I promise....I promise.
silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2013
You didn't get into another car wreck, did you?
silverhedgehog-99 Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2013
...Helloooooooo? Anybody home?
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