Torn

Chapter 5
Saturday

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Chapter Description: Change is on the way.

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“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

The cadence of her voice came before the vision of her smile, and both were perceptions that wrapped Richard in feelings of warmth and tenderness as he resumed to the realm of the waking. He was mostly on his side, partially on his tummy, his left thumb wrinkled and moist in his mouth, his legs scissored outward beneath the blankets, which came up only enough to cover his waterlogged diaper.

She was on her side, facing him, a knowing and sexy yet somehow motherly smile creasing the face of a head that was propped up on a hand given height by a bent elbow.

“Sleep well?”

“Yeth, mommy.” He giggled softly, and blushed.

“Want breakfast?”

“Maybe,” he sighed, pulling his thumb from his mouth and wiping it off on the top bedsheet. “Just gotta go use the restroom first.”

Marie chuckled. “You’re wearing your restroom, my dear.”

Rick blushed. “Not for this I’m not.” Wetting was one thing—he wasn’t exactly prepared to show all his cards to Marie just yet, if ever.

The man threw off the covers and stretched his muscles as morning strength came to him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose, making note of how professional his secretary’s diapering job had been. Even with the weight of chilling wetness between his thighs, the garment held fast around his waist.

Rick rubbed his eyes as he toddled into the hall and towards the bathroom. Now standing and moving, his tummy was rumbling and his guts had awakened, knots of need moving through him, navigating for egress.

He entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He walked to the toilet and put his hand down to lift the lid. Rick’s fingers slid upward and took nothing with them.

What the hell?

-=--=-

The door opened. “Problem, Ricky?”

“You glued the toilet shut?”

Marie shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.” She had a smile on her face—the same coy smile she’d worn when her boss first called her Mommy.

“Knock it off, Marie. I really gotta go.”

“So go,” she said.

Rick’s heart rate began to climb. “I’m not… um… using my… diaper that way.”

“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky,” Marie tsk-tsked, tooking a few steps toward him. Though she was shorter than him, his being bent over the toilet contributed to the illusion that his was the littler of the pair. “It’s just us here.”

“Marie, would you—”—Rick closed his eyes and grunted as his guts twisted in pain. He felt less in control of his bowels than he had in decades. The toilet was sealed shut, and an expectant, smiling witch-or-whatever stood between him and the doorway.

He was not a dim man. The inevitability of the situation made him feel so helpless. So… little.

“Marie, please…”

But she only stared at him. A crackle in the air, barely audible and accompanied by the vaguest aroma of ozone, signaled something. Rick did not know what.

Until his diaper began to loosen around his waist. Then he knew. How he knew.

Richard Nolan was shrinking. Getting younger.

“Marie, please…”

No response. With the heels of both hands, he pushed upward on the toilet seat. He might was well have been trying to separate bricks sealed with mortar.

Already denuded of hair, the only tenements of masculinity that clued Richard in to his plight were the shrinking of his frame and the smoothing of his skin. The years spun back quickly, bringing the man downward through his thirties and twenties in a matter of seconds.

Still he pushed harder on the toilet seat. His hips were no longer sufficient to hold up his diaper. The saturated garment fell to the floor with a heavy, wet smack.

“Please!” Rick’s voice cracked. He was in adolescence. Smaller, smaller now; shoulders less broad, muscles less defined. He was shorter than Marie and it was not an illusion.

Mommy said nothing. Rick didn’t know whether that was mercy—or the worst part of a bad situation.

“Mommy!” Rick squealed. His voice broke apart, up into soprano, completely. Eleven years old. “Lift this up! I don’t wanna do this!”

He looked down at himself. Humiliation. His wrinkled cock was now a dick, if that… then a little boy’s penis, flopped inelegantly over a duet of grapes—marbles. And his needs were more pressing than ever.

Rick whined pathetically. Nine years old. He was peeing. The line of hot yellow water spilled unabated from his tiny tinker. Most of it fell into the collapsed diaper between his ankles. Some splattered upon the tile of the floor, sounding much louder than it was.

“Unnngh!” Ricky stopped forcing the toilet. It was a lost cause. Now he struggled to keep his intestines in check—to keep from shitting all over the floor. In reflex did his bare hands fly to his spitting penis; his only success was in soaking his palms and causing the spray of his urination to fly laterally from the point of contact.

Five years old. Marie watched. Always watching. She saw a brown turtle head poke out from Ricky’s weakening anus. He grunted again and tensed. The stool sucked back up into him.

He was crying now. He looked up at her pathetically as his piss drooled out from between his fingers.

“Mommy… please!” Four years old.

Marie smiled down at her boss. A turd fell out of his slack asshole and into the seat of the diaper at his feet. Still he grunted, strained, bit his lip, closed his eyes, not once moving his clutches from his itty-bitty pee-pee, even after his bladder had given up its last.

Three years old. Another stool pushed out of him and fell to the growing mess between his feet. He was burning with embarrassment. Crying, ever crying, eyes so shut he hoped they’d never open. He couldn’t imagine setting eyes upon Marie ever again.

With a tearful sigh of defeat, he let it all go. His stool was soft and slid effortlessly, painlessly from him—though, as it hadn’t regressed with his age, the volume of it matched that of his adult self. Marie had to restrain her own giggles as the pile of crap at the boy’s feet piled up into a mound bigger than the two-year-old’s head.

“Wh-wha-whaaaaaahhh!!” cried the toddler, his regression, and evacuation, having ceased.

arie bent over and picked up the child so that he wouldn’t fall, dejected, into his mess. Oh, how Richard cried, even as his secretary took several warmed-up baby wipes and cleaned him—first wiping the pee from his hands and groin, then using many more wipes to tidy up his butt crack and little hole. With enough effort, the sprite in her arms became clean.

Clean and quiet.

Cried out.

-=--=-

Marie cradled her boss in her arms as she left the bathroom. The mess on the floor could wait twenty minutes. She surmised her charge was hungry, and Richard, though he couldn’t deny it, wouldn’t say anything.

She forwent the diaper. Instead, she brought Ricky to the living room, where she sat upon the couch the man had shared with her daughter two nights prior.

At 24 months, Richard Nolan was positively cherubic. To her mind, the best genetics in the universe could not bestow upon Marie a child so delicately beautiful in his innocence and youth. Her motherly instincts, which had not attenuated in the seventeen-years-and-change since Emily’s birth, nevertheless felt refreshed and at their apogee. She felt a love for this tiny man she hadn’t even felt for her husband.

“Hungry, little one? You sure emptied yourself out back there.”

Ricky flushed crimson. And nodded.

At no point letting him slip from the crook of her left arm, Marie undid the buttons on her nightgown and allowed her breasts to come free. Ricky gaped at their perfect roundness with both the desire of a hungry infant and the awe of a lustful adult.

Marie’s eyes glimmered down at him. “I’ve got a waffle-maker too, if you’d rather—”

Ricky laughed, a chopped-up squeal that left him half-lidded and squirming with delight. If he didn’t know any better, he’d thought that he were falling in love.

Miss Darling guided Ricky’s puffy, pink lips to the engorged roundness of her left nipple. Ricky put his mouth around it, sealing his lips to Marie’s yielding flesh, and lapsed into a sucking motion provided to him by instinct rather than memory.

“Mmm,” she said softly, as the milk started to come. It bled from her tit and washed over Ricky’s tiny tongue in warm, creamy spouts.

Ricky breathed through his nose as he suckled from the young woman. Naked, clean, and dry, he felt just perfect in the loving embrace of his colleague. The innermost secrets he had guarded more avidly than his own physical well-being had broken out of arcana and blossomed into the transcendence of Man at once actualized.

More simply, he felt like a little baby, filling his empty tummy with milk from his Mommy, and he was happier than he had been in any quantum of his memory.

“Emily will be coming back in a few hours,” Marie said, managing to avoid breaking the mood as Ricky continued to nurse, “and I talked with her a little bit about you. I asked her if she had any ‘special requests,’ nothing too risqué, and she did have one.”

Ricky opened his eyes, rolling them upward to meet Marie’s gaze, but did not cease suckling.

“She wanted to go out on a date with you tonight.”

Gently, Ricky pulled off Marie’s leaking nipple. A little line of white traced down the curvature of her bosom.

“I’m a little young to be dating,” he peeped. “Romeos don’t poop their pants.”

Marie laughed. “I’d give you a portion of your age back, of course. Another fifteen years to add to the two you’ve got. Even playing field.”

Rick thought for a moment. “She’s like a daughter to me, Mommy.”

“It’s just for a night,” smiled Marie. “And you can skip the goodnight kiss if it doesn’t feel right to you.”

Richard couldn’t help but feel a little taken advantage of. Here he was, hopping from age to age, humiliating himself against his will. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny the sexual thrill of feeling so helpless, of having his most outlandish fantasies come true at the hands of two women he more or less trusted with his life.

He was completely torn. But things could be worse.

“I suppose dinner and dancing couldn’t hurt.”

“You’re wonderful, Richard,” said Marie. “I’ve always thought that.”

Ricky said nothing. Instead, he returned his lips to her tit, and resumed breakfast.

-=--=-

“You look lovely tonight,” said Richard. His smile was quite genuine.

“And you’re as handsome as I ever could have imagined,” said Emily.

At seventeen years old, Rick Nolan stood just shy of six feet and weighed in at about 150, slim and fit. A quick trip to the local department store in the afternoon hours had netted him a fetching outfit of a long-sleeved dark blue button-down, complemented with dark gray slacks and an understated tie that looked more expensive than it was.

Emily had gotten her hair done and wore a green dress that set off her eyes like touchstones and cast her as a stately paragon of intelligence and depth—a far cry from the hoary stereotypes from which high school cheerleaders tended to suffer unjustly.

The synthesized sound of a camera shutter cut through the treacle. Marie Darling had snapped a candid shot of the happy couple from a few feet away.

“Mom!” Emily laughed, holding Rick’s hands in hers. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, I just couldn’t help myself. You look beautiful, hon.”

“Shall we?” said Rick. As queer as he felt jumping from his secretary’s bed to his daughter’s arms in the span of the same day, the man – ever the pragmatist – had talked himself into simply going along for the ride.

Emily grinned. Her teeth, like Richard’s, were as driven snow.

“We shall.”

-=--=-

“Whoo—nice looking date, Em!” hooted a girl holding a Diet Pepsi in highball glass.

“I’ll say! Damn!” said another.

Rick blushed at the attention as the pair made their way to the dance floor. He recognized the girls, Wendy and Lashawna, as fellow cheerleaders on Emily’s squad. Emily, for her part, accepted the attention with gratitude.

Within moments, they were on the dance floor, Rick putting his newfound youth to rigorous rhythm.

“Thank God for the company,” said Emily, “because that food was inedible.”

“Food?” Rick asked in exasperation. “Food’s supposed to be dead. That steak had a bell on it.”

Emily laughed and nestled her forehead into Rick’s shoulder. They were at a local club’s 17-and-over night, enjoying a slow dance that had come as a welcome departure from the disc jockey’s cavalcade of uptempo selections.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” she asked. Her breath was warm against his ear.

“What’s weird?”

“Going on a date with me.”

“In the past 24 hours, I, a 45-year-old white-collar criminal, have been bathed, powdered, diapered, regressed to infancy, breastfed, and made to take a dump on the floor in front of your mother. My threshold for ‘weird’ is quickly going places to which it’s never been.”

“She did all that to you?” asked Emily, pulling away a bit. A slight look of shock marked her face. “Jesus. I… well…”

“What is it?”

“Well, I guess I’m a little… jealous, that’s all.”

“Jealous?”

“I mean, envious. She really put you through the wringer. I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Rick chuckled. “Don’t you mean ‘espionage?’”

Emily returned the side of her head to Rick’s shoulder as they danced, but he could tell that she was bothered.

“Is this really getting to you? I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm.”

Silence.

“Em?”

A slight tingle. The smell of ozone.

Oh… Rick thought. Seriously?

As he moved his feet in time with his date’s, Rick swallowed the lump in his throat and braced himself for the inevitability of the coming minutes. In his teenaged state he began to shrink almost immediately. The boy struggled to keep the pace of the dance as his partner seemed to grow too big for his embrace.

“Emily? Couldn’t we, um… save this for later? For private?”

The girl sighed. “Privacy is Mom’s dominion. She owes me this.”

“I’m not a game piece,” Rick declared as he became a fourteen-year-old, his belted pants barely clinging to his hips. “I’m actually beginning to feel… kinda… used here.”

Emily pulled away, smiled distantly at her date, and gestured towards his erection. It was the only thing keeping his pants up.

“You don’t seem entirely displeased,” she remarked.

“It’s a lot to handle all at once.” His voice cracked. He was thirteen. Finally, his slacks fell around his ankles, leaving his jockey shorts baggy where his buttocks met his legs and tented out in front, pressing into Emily and leaking.

“You’re getting pre-cum on my dress, silly!” Emily squealed. A handful of heads turned.

Rick blushed deeply. “Please… please don’t…”

Emily grinded into her date and nibbled wetly at his earlobe.

“Huuhh—nnnnGHH!!”

Rick’s knees buckled as he began to uncontrollably ejaculate into his underwear. He grasped Emily’s shoulders for purchase, his dwindling height making the motion a trial, as his dick twitched and spat great gouts of pubescent semen against the soft cotton of his jockeys. In moments, the abused jockeys had joined his slacks in the pile on the dance floor, and a few errant lines of hot nut icing flopped against Emily’s dress.

Exhausted, humiliated, and still dribbling cum, Rick fell backwards onto the dance floor inside a rapidly-expanding circle of onlookers. He quivered and whined, his voice climbing in octave, as his penis bled the last of his adulthood onto the floor between his thighs.

Wendy and Lashawna were among the gawkers; but, as Emily had cast a mild ambivalence spell prior to counting herself among the ranks of the dancing, the voyeurs saw the spectacle not as a supernatural horror, but as something purely comical as an overzealous young boy getting hazed into puberty the hard way: with a very public premature ejaculation.

Emily, ever the patient, waited until Ricky had regressed to the same toddlerhood to which her mother had bore witness that very morning. It was amidst a wave of applause that she escorted the tiny boy, cradled in her arms, so sticky and stinking of release, into the ladies’ room.

When she re-emerged, he was diapered… and everybody was enraptured by the sight.

“He’s adorable,” noted Lashawna.

“A real angel,” Wendy smiled.

“Would you like to hold him?” asked Emily, offering the 45-year-old tot forth.

“Oh, God yes,” said Lashawna. She took him in her arms. “He’s so cute, I could just gobble him up.”

And that’s just what she did. Richard’s most conflictingly embarrassing/sultry memory of the evening was the sensation of one of Emily’s fellow cheerleaders holding the top half of his wrinkled left foot in her amused, moist mouth.

--to be continued--

 

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