Always Read The Fine Print (Confessions of a Maneater)

“CAUTION: MEN TEND TO ACT LIKE CHILDREN AROUND ME.  YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!”

It’s a fairly clear warning, isn’t it?  And yet, it only seems to attract more men, not less!  That’s not to say that I’m complaining.  Ever since I started using dating apps to attract my prey, my “business” has grown exponentially.  Oh, I’m sorry.  My name is…..well, let’s not worry about my name.  I’m not even sure if you can pronounce it in your tongue, anyway.  Let’s just say I’m not exactly your typical woman.  You see, I have certain abilities, honed over the years (well, many, many) years that would be considered “peculiar” by some and “demonically profane” by others.  My clients, however, don’t seem to care to categorize my abilities.  They simply care about results, and results are what they get.

That’s enough pleasantry for now.  I suppose we should move along and get to what my “business” actually is.  Before I go on, let me say that clear, ALL CAPS message you first read is on ALL of my dating profiles.  Any man who matches with me is asked if they actually read my profile and if they saw and understood my warning. 

If they say “yes,” well, they’ve unwittingly put their first foot into my trap.  If they say “no”? Unfortunately, I have to un-match with them.  Those are just the rules, rules made by those uppity Ancients long, long before my time.

Fortunately, the vast majority of men don’t say “no.”  They say “yes,” followed by a series of questions about what the warning means.  That’s when I tell them that they’ll have to meet me in person to find out.  I know what you’re thinking.  “How could every man who sees your profile possibly want to meet you?  You must be stunningly beautiful!”  Well, let’s just say that every man has a “type” and I just happen to be able to become any man’s type.  “What type is that?” you ask?

It depends on which man is looking.

All of this must sound incredibly cryptic, though!  My apologies, I truly don’t mean to come off as evasive.  Hmmm, why don’t I give you a specific example?  It will be much more illustrative than speaking in abstractions.  Let’s talk about one of my recent encounters.  Let’s talk about Matt. 

I matched with Matt a few weeks ago.  He admitted that he had read my warning.  He accepted my invitation to meet at a nearby lounge.  He arrived, on time and approached me as I sat at the bar.

You should know that I can smell weakness from a mile away, in the literal sense.  It excites me.  When I first meet a “date,” I like to lean in to kiss his cheek.  It’s not just a pleasantry, it gives me an opportunity to take a nice, deep smell of his essence.  His fears, his desires.  His worries and vulnerabilities.  I inhale it all and within moments I know exactly how I’m going to break him and transform him into what I know he truly is.  I do the same with Matt.  In his case, I could smell his desperation for my approval.

“You look stunning, even better than in your pictures” he says, taking the seat beside me at the bar.  “You know, I went out and bought this jacket just for tonight.  Do you like it?”

Mmm, there it is.  The first drop of blood in the water never fails to please.

I merely look at him, then the jacket and offer a half-smile. 

“So, why don’t you tell me about yourself, Matt?  Tell me something interesting.  Something worth hearing.”

He noticeably tenses up.  He’s clearly interpreted my request as both a challenge and an indictment of his worthiness.  As with so many others, he tries his hardest to impress me.  I simply sit and listen.  The type of men that match with me love to talk about themselves.  I kid you not, there’s nights where I don’t have to say a single fucking thing.  Not. One. Word.  They simply prattle on about their careers, their expensive toys, or about the last asinine book they’ve read.  Matt proceeds to do all of the above.

If I don’t appear to be impressed by his vain rambling, it’s because I’m not.  He doesn’t realize he’s talking to a woman who has seen more than he could in a hundred lifetimes.  I have encountered power and wealth unimaginable in scale.  I’ve absorbed knowledge so arcane that explaining it to him would be like explaining subtractive sculpting to a woodpecker. It’s just as well.  It’s this obvious lack of interest that serves to further wound his already-shaken ego.  I sit and listen to his self-absorbed soliloquy with my elbow on the bar and my hand on my chin, a look of pronounced ennui painted across my face. 

You might be wondering why he doesn’t just get up and leave.  A fair question.  My body language would, by any measure, be considered “rude.”  Under normal circumstances, these men would likely get up, call me some crude four-letter word and walk out the door.  Ah, but you’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?  Remember what I said about men having a “type?”  When he looks at me, he doesn’t just see an attractive woman.  He sees the most attractive woman.  His perception of what the perfect woman looks like, what she smells like.  How her voice sounds.  He’s had this idealization in his mind’s eye from the day he got his first erection and has been chasing it ever since.  Now it’s right in front of him, and it’s not very impressed.  Imagine how inadequate that must make him feel.  Imagine how desperate he must be to avoid losing what he’s been searching for his entire life.  Well, I don’t need to imagine it.  I can smell it. 

In fact, I can almost taste it. 

After about thirty minutes, he finally tires of talking about himself.  “So, enough about me.  I want to learn more about you”

“No, you don’t” I say, coldly.  “You could care less about me.  You just want to fuck me.”

He looks absolutely stunned.  Why?  I don’t know.  Maybe he’s not used to women speaking to him like that.  Maybe he’s embarrassed that I’ve seen through his bullshit.  Regardless, a pathetic, stammering attempt at damage control follows.

“I…..no, I mean I really want to…..you seem really interesting and……”

“’You seem really interesting?’” I interrupt, mockingly imitating his voice.  “How would you even know?  I haven’t said a fucking word since we’ve sat down.  You’ve been talking nonstop.  How did you arrive at the conclusion that I’m ‘interesting?’”

I wait for him to respond.  After a few more seconds of silence, I gesture towards him with my hand as if to say “Go ahead, speak!” 

“I……what I meant was that…….”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?”

“I…..what?”

“You want to fuck me, right?”

I always find this to be the funniest part.  After all the bullshit, after all of his pathetic attempts at courtship, I’ve finally got him where I want him.  I’ve played with my food long enough.  He’s already mine.  I can smell it.

I can taste it.

He’s still in shock.  He doesn’t know what to say.  I can tell he wants to leave and yet he can’t.  He’s unable to pull himself away from me.

“Look, I’m going to ask you again and you’re going to answer me honestly, is that clear?” I ask in a tone identical to that of a mother scolding a child.

He nods his head, a submissive look on his face.  It’s already happening to him.  The changes are subtle, but I can see them taking place before my eyes. 

“Good.  So, I’ll ask you one more time.  Do you want to fuck me?”

He’s still hesitant.  He’s afraid to say it.  He’s afraid to admit that that’s what he’s wanted from the second his thumb swiped right on his phone.  It’s all he’s been thinking about since he saw me sitting at the bar and yet even when asked as directly as possible he still can’t admit it.  I decide to give him some “encouragement.”

“Matt?  Come closer.  I want to tell you something….” I say, slowly leaning towards him.  I gently grab him by his chin.  He tries to turn his head away, but I hold his gaze to mine.  I slowly draw close to his ear.

“Now, now, Matt.  If you’re a good boy and answer truthfully, I’ll take you back to my place.  We’ll open a bottle of wine and soon the clothes you’re wearing won’t be on your body.  I’ll take care of you, pamper you and then?  Well, let’s just say you won’t want to go on another date for a long, long time.”

Oh, you think I’m being deceptive?  A tease?  Just remember, I simply asked him if he wanted to fuck me.  I never said that I would let him.

Still holding his chin, I discretely move my other hand and place it on his crotch.  He’s rock hard.  He just needs one more little push.

“So…..” I whisper, getting even closer to his ear.  “Do you want to fuck me?”

I can feel his cock throbbing through his pants.  All he has to do is say “yes.”  Just a simple “yes.”  I lick my lips in anticipation.  I’m hungry.

“Yes, I want to fuck you” he finally says in a half-whisper, staring into my eyes.  “I really, really want to fuck you.”

“Good boy” I say, running my fingers through his hair.  “See?  Didn’t that feel good?”  I lean in as if I’m about to kiss him on the lips, then turn my head towards the bartender and signal for the check.  We’ve spent enough time here.  I’m taking my meal to go.

After settling the tab, I take him by the hand and lead him outside.  At no point does he attempt to withdraw his hand from mine.  He’s enjoying being led around like a puppy on a leash.  When we arrive at my car, I open the passenger door for him. 

“Go ahead, get in Matt” I instruct.  He does as he’s told and I help buckle him in.  He’s so compliant, so obedient!

I get into the driver’ seat and start the car.  I turn to give him a once-over before we depart for my home.  He’s changed again.  It’s much more noticeable than before.  His clothes are slightly bunched in some places.  His collar looks loose.  His pants now look slightly baggy.  Matt doesn’t notice any of this, though.  He’s too busy staring at my chest.  I put the car into gear and begin to drive towards the outskirts of the city.

He tries to speak to me, but I simply turn on the radio, put my finger to his lips and return my attention to the road.

After about twenty minutes, I pull into the semi-circular driveway of my home and park in front of the door.  Matt begins to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“No.  Stay” I command and he lets go of the belt buckle.  I get out of the car, walk to the passenger side and open the door.  He’s looking up at me, expectantly.  I undo his seatbelt for him, then take him by the hand and help him out of the car.  As soon as he steps out, his pants fall down past his waist, almost reaching his knees.

“Huh…….how…….” he stammers.

“Shhhh, shh, shh, shh……..” I interrupt.  “Let me fix that for you.”  I slowly lower myself while keeping my gaze locked upon his face.  His youthful, early-20’s face.  He simply stares as I grab his pants by the sides and slowly pull them back up to his waist, then tighten his belt a few notches.

“There we go, all better.  Now, why don’t we go inside and have some wine?”  I take him by the hand and lead him into the house.  Once inside, I take him into the living room.  I tell him to have a seat on the couch.  He does as he’s told, completely oblivious that he’s just crossed the threshold of the rune carved into the hardwood floor.

 I walk to the kitchen and grab a bottle of Cabernet from the wine rack, along with two wine glasses and set them on the kitchen counter.  I watch as he reaches for the book on the coffee table. He opens it and begins to flip through the pages.

“What kind of book is this?” he asks.  “Who are these kids?” 

The book’s placement on the coffee table isn’t accidental.  If you haven’t gathered, I enjoy playing with my food.  As he flips through the pages, he doesn’t realize what he’s looking at.  His blissful ignorance causes me to bite my lip in excitement.  God, I love when they’re helplessly unaware.

“Oh, that’s just a little photo album I like to maintain.  Think of it as a record book of sorts” I explain, pouring some Cabernet into the first glass. 

“A ‘record book?’  For what?  Do you work with children?”  It’s the first time he’s asked me anything about myself.

“You could say that, Matt.  I enjoy my work and like any artist I occasionally like to revisit it” I say, sloshing my wine glass in a circular motion. 

He keeps turning the pages as I pour some wine into his glass.

“Oh, so you must be a photographer?” he concludes.  He’s anxious and unsettled.  He wants his assumption to be correct to quell the alarm bells going off in his head.  He knows something isn’t right.  Hell, he probably knows he’s in some type of danger, but he’s inside my web.  My web engraved on the hardwood floor.  He couldn’t leave if he wanted to.

“You had enough chances to find out about me” I say, walking towards him with our wine glasses.  “Maybe if you’re a good boy, you’ll find out more.”

I take the book from his hands and place it back on the coffee table.  I sit down next to him on the couch, hand him his glass and take a sip from mine.  He’s staring at me lustfully.  He wants to lean in and kiss me, but he’s unsure of himself.  He’s not sure if he’s going to do it right.  He’s not sure if it’s going to impress me.  His sexual inexperience is painfully obvious.

That’s because he’s in his early teens now. 

His expensive clothing hangs from his thin frame like rags on a scarecrow.  He’s slightly shorter than before and his wristwatch is practically sliding off of his arm.  He takes a sip of the wine and makes a scrunched face of disgust.

“What’s the matter, Matt?  You don’t like the wine?  You do enjoy drinking wine, don’t you?” I ask with an exaggerated look of concern on my face. 

“Oh, I totally do!” he says, before visibly struggling to swallow the rest of the wine in his mouth.  “I drink it all the time!  It’s just that I, um….I don’t like the red kind, that’s all!”

I take the glass from his hand and set it on the coffee table.  “Well, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it, darling.  What would you rather have instead?  I have Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc……anything you’d like.”

“Ummm, I don’t want any of those.  Maybe one of the white ones?” he suggests.  I chortle and nearly spit my wine into my glass. 

“Oh, but honey, those are whites.  I thought you told me you liked wine?  Are you lying to me, Matty?”  It’s the first time I’ve infantilized his name.

His face turns bright red.  He knows he’s been caught in a lie.  He knows he’s failed to impress me yet again.  Insecurity is oozing from his aura and I’m enjoying every last bite of it.  I set my glass down on the table next to his.  I straighten my posture so that I’m looking down at him.

“This is so disappointing!  You told me you liked wine!  What do you have to say for yourself?” I scold, arms crossed.

I…..I’m sorry?” he quietly offers.

“Sorry for what, young man?”

“….Sorry for lying to you about…….”

“About what?” I press. 

“…..about…liking wine?”

He’s changed again.  He’s now at the beginning of his adolescent years.  His clothing may as well be a random pile of garments heaped on top of him. 

“Wait a minute, how old are you really, Matty?  Quickly, without thinking about it.  How old, Matty?” 

“Ten!  I’m ten years old!” he blurts out, his voice now high pitched and childish-sounding.

I lean in towards him.  He shrinks back, eyes wide-open. 

“Ten.  Years.  Old.  Unbelievable!  And here I thought I was going to spend a nice evening with a man, not a little boy!”

I can tell that he wants to cry, but he’s able to stave off tears for the moment.  He’s done the worst thing imaginable.  He’s disappointed me.  His sexual lust has now been replaced by the need of a little boy to please a woman that he sees as superior to him, in charge of him.  I know what “M” word you’re thinking of, but we aren’t quite there yet. 

“I mean, look at your clothes, Matty.  Just look at them!”  I say, taking his jacket sleeve in between my thumb and index finger and jiggling it suggestively.  “These clothes are simply too big for you, aren’t they?”

“N-no….they’re….they’re fine!” he retorts, a look of indignation on his face.

“Who dressed you before you came to see me?” I ask, with an eyebrow raised in suspicion.  “You didn’t dress yourself in these clothes, did you?”

He doesn’t know what to say.  He’s stopped trying to defend himself.  His submission is so deep that he no longer considers himself an active participant in the conversation.  His role is to merely stand there and listen as I berate him for his failure to dress himself like a man.

“Stand up, young man.  We’ll see if your clothes really do fit you” I challenge, arms still crossed.

He slowly stands up from the couch.  As soon as he’s upright, his jacket falls off of his back and onto the floor, along with his pants and underwear.  He’s left standing in nothing but his dress shirt and oversized shoes.  He looks like a little boy who got caught playing dress up in Daddy’s closet.

He’s no more than 7 years old. 

“I knew it!” I say, as he stares at the sleeve of his dress shirt in disbelief.  “I knew your clothes were too big for you!”

Again, no response.  No rebuttal.  No explanation.  He merely raises one of his sleeves and uses it wipe his nose.

“Well, we can’t leave you like this, can we?” I ask rhetorically.  He simply shakes his head “no” as his oversized dress shirt slips off of his right shoulder.

“No, we can’t.  You wait here and I’ll bring you some clothes that fit you, ok?” 

I return with his new outfit: a pair of pull-on shorts, a t-shirt featuring a cartoon dinosaur and a pair of white ankle-length socks.  But first, he needs to be put in his new cotton underwear.  I remove the dress shirt (the last item of clothing that’s preserving his modesty) and have him step out of his oversized shoes.  He quickly moves his hands to cover his shrunken manhood, his face bright red in embarrassment.

“But……but only Mommy is allowed to see that……” he whines trepidatiously.  Ah, remember that “M” word we discussed?  Well, this is where I officially claim the title! 

“’Mommy?’  Who is ‘Mommy?’” I ask, setting the underwear on the coffee table.  He continues to stand there with his hands covering his front.  I’ve clearly confused him.  He’s trying to remember who his mother is, but he simply can’t recall.  That’s because I’ve supplanted her.  It doesn’t matter who his Mommy was, it matters who she is.  And who is Mommy now? 

I watch his facial expressions shift as he attempts to wrangle with the inconsistencies that are popping up in his mind.  He knows that he can’t possibly have two Mommies and yet he still remembers a woman whom he used to call just that.  But what of this woman in front of him?  What of this perfect, beautiful lady standing in front of him, offering to cover his naked body in clean clothes?  Isn’t that something a Mommy would do?  Don’t Mommies dress their little boys?  Besides, if he had a Mommy before, where is she now?  Shouldn’t she be with him?  No, no.  That “other woman,” the woman he remembers isn’t his Mommy.  She was never his Mommy.  His real Mommy is right here, right in front of him!

“Y-you’re Mommy” he concludes, looking up at me with hopeful eyes. 

God, that tasted good.  The type of thing I could eat all day!

“That’s right, Matty!” I say, clapping my hands in praise.  “Now, since Mommy is here, why don’t you let her put your undies on, ok?”  His body visibly loses its former tenseness and he slowly shuffles over to me.  I help him into his “big boy undies” and then pull his shorts up to his waist.  I then put his t-shirt on over his head, helping his arms through its short sleeves.  After putting on his socks, I sit him up on the couch.  As I bundle his adult clothes together, I ask him if he’d still like something to drink.

“I want Sprite” he says.  Apparently, his preference for “whites” extends to soda as well. 

“Did we forget to say something?” I ask in a tone of displeasure. 

“Get me Sprite?” he attempts again.

What’s that I smell?  Why, it’s another opportunity to feed!

“Wrong again, Matty.  The word I was looking for was ‘please.’  You should have said ‘Mommy, may I ‘please’ have a Sprite,’ but you didn’t, did you?”

“Mommy, may I ‘please’ have a……..” he begins before I interrupt him.

“I’m afraid not, Matty.  Maybe next time.  Instead, you can have a glass of apple juice” I inform, pouring the juice into a plastic cup and bringing it to the coffee table.  He looks at the cup, then at me and scowls.  Then, he angrily knocks the cup over, spilling the juice all over the coffee table. 

“I said I wanted SPRITE!” he screams, standing up and crossing his arms. 

Oh geez, he’s making this too easy.

“MATTY!  What did you just do?!” I scold, pointing to the expanding puddle of juice.  “Is THIS how you behave when you don’t get your way?”

“I want SPRITE!” he says again, stomping his feet to emphasize his point. 

“Matty, if you don’t apologize and clean that up RIGHT NOW, I’m going to make sure that you’re sorry!  Do you understand me?”

He takes the empty cup and hurls it across the living room.  Time for Matty to be brought down another peg!

Without warning, I grab him by the wrist and lead him to the couch.  I pull his pants and underwear down, take a seat and then pull him over my knee.  He kicks and screams, aware of what’s about to happen to him.  I begin spanking him, one cheek after the other in rapid succession.  His legs flail helplessly as the blows rain on his bare backside.  His angry screams slowly transition to sorrowful cries and, finally, blubbering sobs. 

As I dole out his corporal punishment, I can smell a life of entitlement melting away.  A formerly ironclad notion that he should get his way all the time, every time is slowly giving way to the realization that he’s completely under my control.  He no longer has a say in anything, anymore.  Nobody has to listen to him.  Nobody has to consider what he wants or how he feels about not getting what he wants. 

The death throes of an ego. 

The lamentations of a shattered self-image dissolving into a vast sea of reality. 

I lick my teeth as I deliver the last few swats to his now-red buttocks. 

Delicious.

“Are you sorry for what you did, Matty?” I ask, my hand perched above his sore backside like the Sword of Damocles.

He’s trying to speak, but he can’t yet.  He’s still trying to catch his breath from all of the sobbing he’s been doing.  I wait a few moments, then ask again.

“Y-yes….I’m……I’m s-sorry…..Mommy!” he blubbers, before crying again.  He’s lucky that I’m full, for now. 

I help him off of my lap, pull his underwear and pants back up and point to a spot on the floor.

“Sit, Matty!”

He does as he’s told, whimpering in discomfort as his sore backside contacts the floor.   

“Look at what you did, Matty!  You had a temper tantrum and now Mommy has to clean up your mess!”

He merely sits there and watches as I gather some paper towels from the kitchen and bring them over to the living room.  I start to sop up the apple juice from the coffee table.

“Look at you, sitting there.  You don’t even care that Mommy has to clean up your mess, do you?”

He doesn’t challenge my assertion.  He simply sits and watches in silent acquiescence.  When I finish cleaning up the apple juice spill, I stand above him, hands on my hips. 

“Do you know who else likes to make messes for their Mommies to clean up?  Do you?”

He stares up at me dumbly.  I must look like a giant to him.  I lean down, with my hands on my knees. 

“Babies” I whisper.

“Babies?” he whispers back. 

“That’s right, babies.  Only babies make messes and expect their Mommies to clean it up for them.  Since you just sat there and watched me clean up your mess, you must be a baby, right?”

He’s now around four years old. 

He adamantly shakes his head “no” as he simultaneously puts his thumb in his mouth.  It’s so deliciously pathetic I can’t help but giggle in his face.  That when I notice his other hand grabbing his crotch tightly.

“Matty?  What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing full well what his immediate needs are.

“I need to go potty!” he exclaims, as if he’s suddenly realized the urgency of what he needs to do.  “Where’s the potty?”

I gesture towards the door behind the couch.  “Right in there.  Do you need me to take you?”

He quickly nods his head “yes” and I reach down and take him by the hand towards the bathroom. 

“Hurry, please!” he pleads, still grabbing his crotch as he pulls me towards the bathroom.  By the time we get inside, he’s already started to wet his pants.  I put toilet seat down, sit him on top of it and pull his pants and underwear down to his ankles.  As they slip past his pelvis, I can immediately hear the sound of his tinkle splashing in the water.  All he’s managed to do is get the last third of his urine into the potty.  The rest?  Well, the rest is soaked into his underwear and shorts.  He seems unaware.  That is, until I show him his wet shorts and underwear.

“Matty!” I exclaim, feigning surprise.  “I think you had an accident!”

“N-no!  I made in the potty!” he says, pointing down at the water in the bowl. 

“I don’t think so, honey.  Look!  Look at your underwear!  Look at your shorts!  They’re soaked with pee pee!”

I hold the sodden garments closer to him so that he can see.  I watch as his disbelief turns to realization, then acceptance.  He begins to cry, his legs dangling from the porcelain bowl. 

“Now, now.  Don’t cry.  You just aren’t ready for big boy undies, are you?” I accuse. 

“But me am big boy!” he protests, tears streaming down his cheeks.  I grab a few tissues from the bathroom countertop, then kneel beside him.

I begin to dab the tears from his eyes.  “But honey, clearly you aren’t a big boy.  Big boys don’t have accidents in their big boy pants, do they?”

“I won’t do it again!  I’m a big boy!” he promises. 

He’s right.  He won’t do it again.  He won’t do it again because that was the last time he’ll be wearing big boy underwear for quite a while.

I take a wad of toilet paper and use it to clean his little crotch.  I flush the toilet, then help him off of the bowl. 

It’s time for the nice, slow burn to begin.

“Momma, me have clean undies?” he asks, hopefully.  I frown at him, shaking my head.

“Matty, what good would clean undies do if you’re just going to have another accident in them?  No, honey.  I don’t think we’re going to put clean undies on you.”  I decide to let him arrive at the conclusion as to what his next undergarment will be.  It’s more fun that way.

“….What me gonna wear then?” he asks, as I take him by the hand out of the bathroom in just his dinosaur t-shirt.

“That’s a good question, Matty!  What are we going to put you in if we can’t put you in undies?”

I can tell that he’s actually thinking it through.  I decide to help him along.

“Let’s think, Matty.  What’s something that we can put you in that looks like your big boy panties, but won’t wet your shorts if you have an accident?”

“Thick undies?” he guesses.

“Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea.  They’d have to be a bit thicker than your big boy undies, so that they can hold an accident if you have one.  What else would we want?”

“I can take’em offs if I hafta go potty?”

“Good boy!” I exclaim, clapping.  “So, you’re saying you could pull them down to go potty and then pull them up when you were finished?”

“Yea, then I could still use the potty!” he excitedly concludes. 

“Well, I think I have just the thing for you!  You sit right here like a good little boy while Mommy gets you a change of clothes!”

I leave the living room and then return holding his new outfit: a pair of overalls with a train on the front and a red t-shirt.  As for his “underwear?”  That would be a Pull-Up.

I lay the outfit out on the couch, then take the Pull-Up and hold the legs open in front of him. 

“Go ahead, Matty.  Step into your new undies!” I encourage.  He hesitates.  He recognizes what it is. 

“But….I don’t need a diaper…..” he says, staring contemptuously at the fluffy, padded undergarment.

“It’s not a diaper, Matty.  It’s just like big boy underwear.  It just has some added protection!”

He takes a step back.  He knows that this is a new low of significance.  Putting on the Pull-Up is an admission of his lack of control.  It’s an admission that he really might be a baby.  This is easily remedied, though.  While sticks have been fine to this point, there’s nothing wrong with using a carrot every now and then. 

“Matty, step into your Pull-Up and Mommy will sit with you while you play with the toys she has for you.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”

As soon as he hears the word “toys” and “Mommy” his eyebrows raise.  Not only will he be treated to shiny new distractions, but his favorite woman in the world will be sitting right there with him, watching him enjoy them.  What a stud!

Now my little plaything has a real dilemma.  He can either accept his Pull-Up and play with the toys Mommy has bought for him, or he can face an as-of-yet unknown consequence for refusing to do so.  Given that he received a spanking for his insolence that last time, it’s a fairly simple calculus.  He does, however, have a caveat. 

“I can still use the potty if I hafta, though?” he asks.  What a negotiator!

“Of course you can use the potty if you have to, honey!  In fact, Mommy has a special potty for you to use in case you have to go.  Would you like to see it?”

He eagerly nods his head and I leave to retrieve the plastic training potty stowed under the bathroom sink. 

“Here it is, Matty!  Now, if you’re playing and decide you need to make potty, you can go right here in the living room, ok?”  He nods his head obediently as I place the potty on the edge of the runic circle. 

“Good!  Now, step into your Pull-Up like a good boy!”

He inserts one leg, then the other.  Then, he pulls the up to his waist, proudly looking at me for approval. 

“Wow!  What a good job!  You did that just like a big boy!”

He’s practically bursting with pride.  I help in into his t-shirt and overalls, turn cartoons on Netflix and return with a bucket filled with toy cars (men love them) and Duplo blocks.  Matty digs into the bucket, taking cars out and running them along the floor, making engine noises while doing so. 

“Are you thirsty, Matty?” I ask.

“Yea Mommy…..” he responds absent-mindedly.  Any internal doubt about my matriarchal status has clearly left his mind.  He calls me “Mommy” so effortlessly now. 

I take a sippy cup from the cupboard and fill it with apple juice.  I tighten the lid, then place it next to him.  For the next thirty minutes, Matty lazily sips his juice while playing with his blocks and cars.  He’s having the time of his life without realizing that he’s only continuing the process that’s started since he first sat down next to me at the bar.  I sit beside him the entire time, watching as the last handful of years he has left slowly melt away.

I wait for the next humiliation to take place.  He’s already lost his bladder control.  There’s only one other function left.

It starts subtly at first.  I catch short whiffs of it as he plays.  His little body is working on passing whatever it was he ate today.  A tiny pop here, a quiet toot there.  He doesn’t even realize it’s happening. 

Until he suddenly does.

He’s pushing a dump truck along the floor when he suddenly sits down on his bottom.  He’s waiting for the urge to pass.  He knows what that urge is, yet he’s too engrossed with playing with his toys to care.  He looks over at the plastic potty, then at his dump truck.  In the end, he chooses his dump truck.  He chooses to keep playing instead of walking over to his training potty, taking off his Pull-Up and doing what he has to do.  Just as he has for his entire life, he chooses to continue to pursue his own pleasure, consequences be damned.  Do you see how they practically do my work for me?

Oh, it also doesn’t help that he’s two years old now. 

I watch in bemusement as he repeats the pattern: play, urge, sit, wait for urge to pass, play, urge, sit…..repeat ad infinitum.  Actually, scratch that.  It doesn’t go on forever.  In fact, it comes to an end the third time that he does it.

He gets up to push his truck when suddenly he turns to me, a frantic look on his face.

“Momma!  Momma!  Poo poo!  Poo poo!”

“Oh, my!  Matty has to make a poo poo?” I ask, rising to my feet.  “Well, the training potty is right there!  Let’s go, honey!” 

I remove his overalls as he begins to dance in place, clenching his fists.  I remove his t-shirt, then take him by the hand to the potty.  He walks slowly, clearly afraid to run lest his bowels cut loose.  Instead, he proceeds to the potty in a half-waddle, occasionally stopping in an attempt to re-clench his sphincter.

We make it about ten feet from the potty when I suddenly feel him go limp in my grasp.  I look down and see Matty squatting.  He begins to grunt.  His face is red.  I release his hand and he places it on the ground in front of him, along with his other.  Matty fills his Pull-Up while staring ahead at the training potty that he failed to make it to. 

In moments, the foul smell of that failure rises to my nose.  I kneel down beside him as he continues to grunt and push.  He refuses to look at me.  He’s too embarrassed.

“Oh, Matty” I frown.  “Too little, too late.  From wetting yourself to pooping yourself.  I guess you really are just a baby….”

“No….me no……me no……”  He’s still trying to convince me.  He still wants me to believe that he’s more than just a pathetic little toddler.  I can still smell the desperation (along with the other smell, of course).  I can still taste his need to impress and please me.  It’s still there, just as strongly as it was at the bar.

I respond by turning my back and walking away from him.

“Finish doing your business, Matty” I say, taking his sippy cup away and rinsing it out in the sink.  I walk back towards him, stand him up and pull the rear waistband of his Pull-Up away.  I peer inside, then theatrically wave my hand in front of my nose in disgust.  I then slip two fingers into one of the leggings near his crotch.

“Poopy and wet?” I say, arms folded in front of me.  “You told me you were going to be a big boy and use your training potty if you had to go, didn’t you?”

Tears are streaming down his little face.  He’s on the verge of losing control.  If he does, that means it’s finally over.  One more loss of emotional control and my work is complete.  I run my tongue along my lips, thinking about how I’m going to make the damn burst.  Judging by the way he looks, it won’t take much.  Just one final humiliation.  One final kick to the rotting doorframe holding up the rest of his dilapidated ego.

I reach down and pick him up, holding him at my hip, just as a mother would do with an upset baby boy.  His thumb immediately goes into his mouth and he sucks it as I carry him towards the training potty.  I bend down and pick it up.

“Well, I guess we won’t be needing this anymore.  It’s clear that you just want to play and poop and pee in your pants all day, huh Matty?” 

A faint, whimpering “no” emanates from his mouth as I carry him and the potty towards the bathroom.

“’No?’  I don’t think you mean that.  I think you want to be a baby, don’t you?  That’s what you really are after all, isn’t it?”

Another whimpered “no” as I put the training potty in the bathroom cabinet and shut the door.  I shift him closer to my bosom, then carry him back out to the living room.  I begin to slowly walk him around the room.

“Matty, I’ve come to a conclusion, I’m afraid.  You throw temper tantrums.  You don’t like to clean up after yourself.  You wet yourself.  You’d rather play with your toys and poop your pants instead of pooping on the potty like a big boy……”

He starts to fuss.  He’s so close to breaking down and crying.  I smile, then take one last inhale. 

God, this one was satisfying. 

“When we met at the bar, I thought I was meeting a man.  Once it became clear that you weren’t, I was willing to accept you as a big boy.  But then you disappointed me again!  You aren’t even a big boy!  You’re not even a little boy.  You’re a baby boy!”

A few choked sobs, followed by unintelligible babble. 

“I think I’m done pretending that you’re anything but a baby, Matty.  I think it’s time to treat you like the baby that you are.  That’s why I’m taking you to my nursery.  I’m going to carry you into my nursery, I’m going to lay you on the changing table and I’m going to put a diaper on you!”

Bingo.

Matty begins to shriek and wail.  He kicks, he screams, he cries and drools.  It’s no use, though.  His final outburst has served as the coda to this little performance. 

Matty is now a one-year-old baby boy. 

I carry him towards my nursery.  The same nursery that’s received countless “men” into a second babyhood.  I carry Matty over the runic threshold, which glows in response to his departure. 

His fate is sealed. 

Matty continues to scream and cry as I bring him into the nursery.  In such instances, I merely let them cry it out.  Eventually, they all become too tired to continue carrying on.  In Matty’s case, it takes about twenty minutes to tucker himself out.  The frantic kicks are reduced in frequency.  The loud screams are reduced in volume.  All that remains is a whimpering, mewling infant who just wants to be changed out of his dirty, wet Pull-Up. 

I lay him on the changing table and tear the sides of his Pull-Up away.  I grab Matty by the ankles and then use the front of his Pull-Up to wipe the bulk of his sticky mess from his buttocks.  Afterwards, I grab a few baby wipes and begin to wipe him clean.  The Pull-Up is deposited in the nearby diaper pail.  After being powdered from top to tail, he’s taped into a clean Pamper and dressed in a pair of onesie pajamas. 

By now, he’s almost asleep, exhausted from the trauma he’s underwent.  He’ll surely be confused in the morning, but that’s par for the course.  It doesn’t matter, anyway.  I’ve done my part. 

The client will decide his fate.

She arrives early the next morning.  I let her into the house, then offer her a seat at the kitchen table.  I begin to brew a pot of coffee for her, then take a seat across the table. 

“So, did it work?” she asks.  “Is he…..”

“In the nursery, still sleeping” I interject.  “Tell me, what are your plans for him?”

She stares off into space, deep in thought.

“I haven’t decided.  Maybe when I see him, it will help me decide.  I mean, he hired someone to kill me, you know?”

I nod my head.  What would be a simple decision for me is obviously a difficult one for her.  She takes a deep breath, then continues.

“Mom and Dad left everything to me for a reason.  They knew he couldn’t be trusted with the family’s money.  He has a lot of vices.  Gambling, whores, drugs…..the money would have been gone in a year.  I was there in the lawyer’s office when they told him his money would be put in a trust, administered by me.  The look he gave me….I’ve never experienced anything like that before.  My first thought was ‘holy shit, he wants to kill me.’  I never thought he’d actually try to do it.  And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the police.  Mom and Dad are gone.   This sounds crazy but……..him and I are all that’s left, you know?”

As you might guess, I’m not one for sentimentality.  My clients have their own reasons for employing my services.  I don’t judge them for it.  How could I?  As you’ve seen, my motivations are far from pure.  I’ve been completely honest with you about what I do and what I am.  I’m a being who feeds on humiliation and shame.  I savor weakness and vulnerability.  I take pleasure in breaking men and reducing them to helpless little babes.  And yet there are rare moments, such as this one, where I feel as if I may have accidentally done some good in your world.

Our conversation is interrupted by cries emanating from the baby monitor.  Baby Matty has woken up.

“Would you like to see him now?” I ask. 

She takes a deep breath, sips her coffee and then puts it down on the table.  “Yes, I’m ready”

I get up from the table and walk towards the nursery.  She follows a few feet behind.  I stand in front of the nursery door with my hand on the doorhandle.  She nods her head.  I open the door.

It swings open and there’s Baby Matty, clinging to the bars of his crib and wailing with a soaked diaper sagging between his legs.  He hasn’t seen his sister yet.  I’m blocking his view.  I step to the side and there she is.  Matty immediately stops crying.  He’s absolutely shocked.

“Ewwy?” he finally says.

“Yes, Matt.  It’s me” she says, taking a few steps towards the nursery.  “Do you know why this happened to you?  Do you know why you’ve been turned back into a baby?” she asks, still standing in the doorway of the nursery. 

Matty is completely silent as his sister enters the room, then takes a few steps towards the crib.  She stands there, fighting back tears.  Her lips tremble.  She reaches into her purse and dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.  Then, her lip stiffens and her sorrow transitions almost immediately into anger.

“I know what you tried to do, Matt.  You tried to have me killed.  You tried to have me killed so that my share of the money would pass straight to you!”

She turns towards me. “Can he understand me?  Does he know what I’m saying?” she asks.  I nod my head.  She takes another few steps closer to the crib.  Now she’s standing over it, peering down inside as Baby Matty clings to the bars and stares up at her, eyes wide with fright.

“Even then, I didn’t go to the police.  I didn’t go to anyone.  I decided to deal with you in a way that would keep you out of jail.  Tell me that I wasn’t merciful to you, baby boy!”

Matty lets go of the bars and crawls to the other side of his crib as his sister continues to stare down at him.  There’s nowhere for him to run.  Nowhere for him to hide.

“Look at you.  You got what you deserved, didn’t you?  I don’t need to be scared of you anymore.  I don’t need to be afraid of what you might do.  You can’t hurt me anymore!  I’m in charge now and I’m going to decide what happens to you, do you understand?”

Matty is now sucking his thumb.  He dumbly stares at his sister, unsure of what to say or what to do.  She reaches into the crib and takes him out of it, carrying him to the changing table.  She unzips his onesie pajamas and tosses them to the side, leaving him in just his soaked overnight diaper.  He lays there, completely at her mercy.  He’s too afraid to move.  Too afraid to speak.  Too afraid to do anything.

I can smell it.  I can taste it. 

Elly is quite a good cook, I must admit.

“Let’s see.  What should your little…..ahem, oh that’s right.  What should your big sister Elly do with you now, Matty?”  She begins to change his diaper, removing the tapes and drawing the front down between his legs.  The cold air hits his shriveled privates and a spurt of pee escapes from the tiny button that now serves as his penis.  Elly catches the spurt of urine with the front of the diaper.

“Oh no, poor little Matty is completely incontinent now, isn’t he?” she mocks, taking a baby wipe and cleaning his pea-sized privates.  “And look how small he is!  I doubt any women are going to want to waste their time with this tiny little thing!” she says, holding the tip of his infantile member gently between her thumb and index finger.  Matty whimpers and attempts to hide his face, but Elly isn’t done yet. 

“I wonder what all of my friends would think if they could see you like this, Matty.  Maybe I’ll parade you around at the country club and show you off there!  I’ll just tell them that I decided to adopt you!  Instead of carousing and drunkenly hitting on the pretty women, you can crawl around at their feet as they talk about how cute you look!”  She tosses the sodden diaper into the diaper pail and unfolds a fresh one, sliding it under his bottom and powdering him.

“Yes, that’s what I think I’ll do.  I think I’ll adopt you!  You can become my little baby boy and I’ll be your new Mommy!  Won’t that be nice, Widdle Baby Matty?” 

Matty groans as his sister tapes the clean diaper shut and picks him up, placing him at her hip and carrying him back to the kitchen.

“Do you have a highchair?” she asks. 

“Of course” I answer.

“Good.  Baby Matty needs his breakfast!” she says, holding him in front of her and smiling.

I take the highchair out from the pantry and set it up in front of the table.  Elly places Baby Matty inside. 

“I want baby food.  Whatever you have” she requests.

Moments later, I set down a few jars of baby food on the table.  Elly opens a jar of strained carrots and stirs it with a baby spoon.  Matty looks on in horror, shaking his head “no” at the disgusting food that’s about to be shoveled into his mouth. 

“Open wide, Matty!” she gleefully exclaims, holding the spoon to his mouth.  He doesn’t budge.

“Matty, if you don’t open your mouth and swallow your food, I’m going to spank you!”

The threat causes him to immediately open his mouth.  Elly shoves the spoon in and Matty swallows the gooey contents.   

Elly feeds him for what seems like forever.  Swallowing each spoonful seems like a Herculean task for Matty as he obediently takes spoonful after spoonful.

By the time it’s over, Matty has baby food all over his face.  Elly wipes him clean with a wet wipe, then makes another request. 

“I want to bottle feed him” she says, taking him onto the couch and laying him across her lap. 

“You can do that” I respond, rinsing off the baby spoon.  “Is Enfamil ok?”

She shrugs her shoulders as if to say “Sure, why not?”

I prepare a baby bottle with formula, warm it in a bottle warmer and then hand it to her.  Elly holds the bottle’s nipple to Matty’s mouth.  He tries to turn away, but Elly simply moves his head back towards the bottle.  “Now, now Baby Matty!  Be a good boy and take your ba ba!”

Matty lets out a defeated whimper.  His face is beet red with shame.  He attempts to say something, but Elly merely puts her finger on his mouth, shushing him.  Then, he opens his mouth and accepts the nipple.  It remains motionless in his mouth. 

“Suck the nipple, Matty!  Big Sis Elly wants to see this bottle empty!”  Matty does as he’s told and begins to drink from the baby bottle.  Halfway through, his face turns red and he begins to grunt.  The foul smell of a dirty diaper wafts up to Elly, who waves her hand in front of her nose.

“Phew!  And to think I was scared of you, baby boy!  Kind of hard to be intimidating with a load of shit in your diaper, isn’t it?”

This comment angers Matty, who spits the bottle out.  He makes a pathetic attempt to strike Elly, who easily catches his hand. 

“Nuh uh uh!  Bad, bad baby!” she scolds.  “You just helped me finalize my decision, Mr. Poopy Pants!”

She turns to me and with utter conviction, expresses her desire for her now-younger brother. 

“I want his mind gone.  It’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t try and hurt me again.”

Matty begins to fuss, kicking his legs and shaking his head “no.”  Elly simply holds him tightly in her arms as the front of his diaper begins to turn yellow. 

“Are you sure?” I ask her.  “Once it’s done, it’s done.  He’ll be a blank slate.”

Elly nods her head.  “Yes, I’m sure.  I’ve made my point.  I’ve tasted my revenge.  I want to adopt him.  I want to adopt him and make sure he doesn’t end up a complete fuckup this time around.  I can’t abandon him to an adoption center or to a foster home.  He’s still my brother, even if he did try to kill me.”

“Ewwy!  No! Nooo!!!” Matty screams. 

“Quiet, Matty!  You had your chance and now its time to start over!  I’m going to find a nice Daddy for you and you can grow up all over again, this time with a firm hand!” 

Matty is now screaming in anguish.  He doesn’t want to be raised again.  He doesn’t want a new Daddy.  He wants his adult body back.  He wants his adult life back. 

He wants to try and kill his sister again.

I can taste it. 

I can smell it. 

“Very well, then.  Do you want to change him before we begin?” I ask.  Elly pauses, then looks at her beleaguered younger brother.

“No.  Let his mind go bye bye while he sits in his own mess.  It’s a fitting end to the life he led, I think….”

An angry screech, followed by another futile attempt to strike his sister.  Elly hands him to me and I hold him in front of me.  He’s still kicking and screaming, but once he gazes into my eyes, he suddenly becomes docile. 

I begin to inhale his essence.  Deeply, this time.  With each breath, I take a bit more of him.  I can taste his thoughts as they spring forth from his mind.  I can’t devour them fast enough.  I can see the light in his eyes gradually fading.  I can feel his adult mind slipping away as I slurp it up like a milkshake through a straw.  I continue to suck and slurp until there’s nothing left to suck and slurp.  Within a few moments, Matt is completely gone.  The infant I hold is a blank slate, ready to be re-written by his sister, who will now become his mother.  I hand him back to her and she sits with him on the couch.  She stares at him for a few moments, then speaks to him.

“Hi, baby boy!  Can you say “Momma?” she asks.

The infant merely smiles in return, then utters a slow “Mom----ma!”  Elly returns a warm smile. 

“Does baby need his diaper changed?” she asks, pointing at the yellow crotch of his Pamper.  He merely smiles, a line of drool dangling from his mouth.

Elly carries him to the nursery and begins to change him.  I stand nearby, watching her wipe the filth from her former brother’s behind. 

“So, what will you do now?” I ask.

“Well, for now I’m going to take him home.  Set up a nursery, care for him.  Maybe hire a Nanny while I figure out how I’m going to explain this to everyone.  You don’t just go out and adopt a kid on a whim.  He’s also going to need a new birth certificate, a new name.  It’s going to be complicated.”

“Revenge is always the easy part.  Now that you’ve got it, you need to move forward” I offer, unsure as to whether that’s a comfort to her or not. 

“You’re right.  I have to put that aside, now.  He got what he deserved, but he doesn’t deserve to be abandoned or mistreated anymore.  Matt is dead” she says, tossing his dirty, wet diaper into the diaper pail.

“This little baby laying right here, it isn’t him anymore.  It’s someone who can live a different life.  Have a different outcome.  A better outcome.  Mom and Dad made me promise to take care of him.  That’s what I’m going to do.”  The baby boy looks up at her, cooing gently.  Elly takes a pacifier and inserts it into his mouth.

She finishes diapering him, thanks me and makes her way to the front door.  I offer her a car seat.  When she asks when she can return it, I remind her of our covenant.  She’s not allowed to come back here, ever.  None of my clients are allowed to come back here.  Before she leaves, though I ask her if I can take a photo of her new baby boy.  Then, I watch Elly disappear down the driveway as the morning sun rises overhead. 

Another contract fulfilled.  I walk back inside the house.  Past the bundle of clothes on the floor that used to belong to a man named “Matt.”  Past the threshold of the rune carved into the hardwood floor.  I open up the book on the coffee table, find a blank spot and insert the photo I took of Elly’s baby boy into the page.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.  It’s an alert from one the dating apps.  I have a new message.  Hmmm, let’s see.  Oh.  Oh my……..

This one looks tasty……..